How I Got a Life and a Dog

by Art Corriveau

  Man does that set them off!

  I get an earful about long marches in the rain, trench foot, wormy food rations, and watching their best buddies go down all around them in surprise attacks by the Chinese. I also learn that Sal and Alf grew up in the North End of Boston, where the Italian families lived, that Floyd grew up in the South End, where the blacks lived, and that Mickey grew up right here in Charlestown, where the Irish lived. Sal says they all got thrown together into the same platoon when they got drafted, even though Boston was segregated at the time, and that they would never have met each other otherwise. They tell me that Alf Santorello lost his eyesight during the Battle of Pork Chop Hill, when a mortar shell exploded next to him and shrapnel flew into his eyes. The army shipped him home, and the VA—whatever that is—retrained him to be a dispatcher for a cab company. According to Sal, Old Alf’s been living in the house where he grew up in the North End ever since. Unfortunately, I can’t ask where in the North End because, supposedly, I’m staying with him there.

  I tell the old guys I’d better be getting a move on.

  At the bottom of Monument Ave, Reggie tries as usual to go left instead of right. I check my watch. Mom will be getting back from the Ambulance Chasers soon. She’ll go mental if I’m not there. But I can’t resist. I’m dying to know where else in the neighborhood Reggie would lead me if he were out on an afternoon walk with Old Alf instead of me.

  So I let Reggie turn left.

  We hoof it down Warren past a bunch of stores and a really old-looking tavern until we take a right onto Park, which dumps us back out on Main Street at City Square. Directly in front of us is an old iron bridge that crosses the Charles River. On the opposite side, there’s a bunch of brick buildings. To the right, there’s a brand-new park. Beyond it is downtown and Boston Garden, which isn’t a plant store like it sounds but a gigantic stadium. (I’ve actually been there, to see the All-Star Wrestling Extravaganza. But that’s a story for another time.) On the left, the Charles opens out into a fancy boat marina. Reggie is all raring to take the footpath across the bridge—to the North End?—but I pull back hard on his leash. The sun is starting to set now, and if we don’t get back to Eden Street ASAP, we’ll both get grounded.

  “Hey, kid!” somebody shouts. “Hey, you with the dog! Hold up!”

  A bunch of teenagers are coming toward me from the park. I pretend I don’t hear them and steer Reggie in the direction of Main Street—the nearest getaway—which must eventually end up back at Eden Street.

  “I said hang on a second!”

  I stop and wait for the teenagers to catch up. Reggie gives me an anxious little whine and tugs at his leash. But I have to stand my ground. It’ll be much worse if I run. Reggie hugs my leg. I give his head a little pat. I should never have let him take that left at Monument Ave.

  “You got a cigarette, kid?” one of the teenagers says. He looks just like Timmy Burns, only older. Maybe it’s Timmy’s Townie brother.

  “I don’t smoke,” I say.

  I can feel Reggie’s whole body tensing up. The hair on the back of his neck starts to bristle.

  “Got any money for cigarettes?” the Townie says, getting right up in my face.

  Reggie lets off this low, warning growl.

  The guy steps back. “Whoa,” he says. “Nice doggy.”

  Reggie bares his teeth. This time his growl means business.

  “He’s my guard dog,” I say. “He’s trained to protect me to the death.”

  “His or mine?” the guy says.

  “That’s your call,” I say.

  Reggie half barks, half snaps at the guy.

  The Townie takes another step back. “You have a safe walk home now,” he says.

  The teens all back away and start laughing.

  “Nice bluff,” I whisper to Reggie, scratching him behind the ears.

  He licks my hand.

  “Home, boy,” I say. He may be a lousy guide dog, but I’ve got to admit, he actually is a pretty good guard dog—even if he isn’t mine, technically speaking. “Let’s just keep this between you and me,” I say.

  But of course Reggie won’t say anything to Mom. He’s just a dog.

  ot even a whiff of supper cooking. Again. “We’re back,” I say, unhooking Reggie’s leash.

  No answer.

  I wander over to the sofa, where Mom is parked in front of the TV. “We’re back,” I say again. “Sorry it’s almost dark.”

  “Oh good,” she says, without even looking over. Instead she takes a sip of vino.

  Glass half full or half empty?

  “I’m hungry,” I say.

  “Takeout menus are on the coffee table,” she says. “Order whatever you want. I’m kind of wrapped up in this.” It’s some eighties rerun about really rich people who live in a gigantic house with nothing better to do all day than be mean to each other. At the moment, two ladies wearing too much makeup are rolling around on the floor trying to tear each other’s hair out.

  I take Reggie’s bowl into the kitchen and fix him what’s left from the can of dog food I opened this morning. For some reason, Mom only ever buys one can at a time. I set his bowl on the floor and watch him eat.

  “Bring the bottle of wine with you when you come back!” Mom calls from the living room. “It’s in the door of the fridge.”

  Obviously.

  I reach for the phone on the wall. I know the number of the pizza place in the strip mall by heart. But I don’t dial it. Instead I pretend to dial 911. “You gotta help me,” I say to the dial tone. “I can’t take it anymore! This apartment totally sucks and I don’t even have my own room. Plus there’s never any food in the house. Plus she’s driving me crazy with all this moping around!” But then I feel kind of stupid and hang up. This time I dial the pizza place for real and order the usual: a large pie with half pepperoni and extra cheese, half veggie-the-works-no-olives. I pour myself a glass of fruit punch from the pitcher I’ve always got going in the fridge and head back into the living room. Reggie’s so into his food he doesn’t even look up.

  I take a seat on the sofa next to Mom.

  “Where’s the wine?” she says.

  “Oops,” I say.

  “Who were you talking to in there?” she says.

  “Pizza guy,” I say.

  “No, before that,” she says. “You were on the phone with somebody.”

  Oh great. I can’t get her to pay attention to me for love nor money when I’m actually in the same room. But as soon as I get a little privacy, she’s got better ears than Reggie. “You must have heard the landlord downstairs,” I say, shrugging. “You know how thin these walls are.”

  She frowns.

  “You reserve that steam cleaner yet?” I say.

  She shrugs, a total grown-up kind of answer.

  I sip my fruit punch. She drains her wineglass.

  Soon a new show starts. This one’s about a detective who has to go undercover and assume the identity of a missing business tycoon’s dead twin brother to figure out what happened. It gets me thinking: What if I kept pretending to be Old Alf’s grandson—just for a little while—to solve the mystery of how Reggie ended up at the pound? Maybe it wasn’t Reggie’s fault after all. I mean, let’s face it: Old Alf is the one who seems to have just up and disappeared, not Reggie. Tell me there isn’t something fishy about that. Besides, I’m already keeping a Dr. Ice mental log of Mom’s criminal activity—and I’m not getting anywhere on that front. So I may as well see if I can crack this case at the same time. Plus I haven’t got anything better to do.

  At the next commercial, Mom grabs the remote to switch the channel.

  “Hey, I was watching that,” I say.

  “This show’s way too mature for you,” she says. “When he’s not killing people, he’s making out with them.”

  “He also solves crimes,” I say.

  “Do your homework,” she says.

  “I don’t have any,” I say.

  “Of course you do,
” she says. “You’re in junior high. You must have some reading to do for English or something.”

  “I already read the book we’re doing for English period last year.”

  “Did you tell your teacher that?”

  “What for?” I say. “He’s got, like, thirty other kids to worry about—all of them reading below grade level. Besides, I bet he couldn’t pick me out of a lineup of ten sixth graders.”

  She gives me this weird look, like she’s just waking up from a nap.

  “I thought you liked your new school,” she says.

  “Are you kidding?” I say. “You have to pass through a freaking metal detector to get into the building.”

  “It’s not that bad,” she says.

  “Whatever you say,” I say. But she’s right: I am exaggerating—a little.

  We both go back to watching the detective show until the pizza guy finally rings the doorbell. “Don’t forget my wine,” Mom says. Which means I’m answering the door, I guess. I grab Mom’s wallet out of her purse and pay the pizza guy, making sure to tip him a couple of bucks like you’re supposed to. I bring the box and the jug of wine from the fridge into the living room and set them on the coffee table. We don’t usually bother with plates on pizza night. We just eat out of the box, and shove whatever’s leftover into the fridge. No fuss, no mess. We even keep a roll of paper towels next to the TV because it works better with greasy fingers than napkins.

  I bite into my first slice—I’m starving—but Mom doesn’t touch her side, which is veggie-the-works. She just tops up her glass and stares at me.

  “What?” I say. “I swear I told them no olives. You can pick them off.”

  “Is your school really that bad?” she says, taking a sip.

  “It’s pretty bad,” I say. I finish my slice and take another before the pizza gets cold.

  “But you like living in Boston, right?” she says.

  “We live in Charlestown,” I say. “Boston’s over there.”

  “We couldn’t afford Back Bay or Beacon Hill. You know that. The rents were ridiculous.”

  “We could if you’d just let Grandpa pay the rent,” I say. “He told you he’d be happy to help out with a decent-size two-bedroom.” Oops. I’m not supposed to know that. It just slipped out.

  “That was a private conversation!” Mom says. “Were you eavesdropping again?”

  “I couldn’t help it!” I say. “We’re never more than ten feet from each other in this place.”

  Mom takes a slice of pizza and begins picking the olives off it.

  “I need you to try and understand how important it is for me to do this on my own,” Mom says. “Without Grandpa’s help, or anybody else’s.”

  “Well, what do you do with the money Dad gives you every month?” I say.

  She stops olive plucking to give me a good, long stare.

  “Were you speaking with your father just now?” she says. “In the kitchen?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?” she says.

  One of the S words that makes a sh sound.

  “I don’t even have his new number!” I say. “You haven’t let me speak to him since we moved here.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “It’s been at least three weeks.”

  “I can’t help it if he only ever calls me at work!” she says.

  I scoop up my half of the pizza and stomp into the kitchen, slamming the door behind me, which causes the landlord to rap on his ceiling. Reggie, who’s standing over by the fridge, has this really concerned look on his face, one that would make me laugh if I wasn’t so mad. I see that he’s licked his dish totally clean. So I offer him a slice of pizza. “It’s OK,” I say. “Everything’s under control.” Reggie takes the slice, keeping one eye on me. I set the rest of my half on the counter and tell Reggie to shove over. I hunker down next to him on the warm linoleum. He sticks his tongue in my ear. I tell him to quit it. He does it again, and I scratch his neck while he laps the grease off his paws and gets back to work on his slice.

  “It’s true, though,” I say. Reggie looks up. “About not knowing Dad’s new number. Or his new address. It’s pretty obvious Mom doesn’t want Dad to call me here at the apartment. The only reason I know he finally checked out of that motel and moved into a real apartment somewhere in Littleton is because I overheard her telling one of her friends that on the phone.”

  Reggie licks my hand.

  I try to calm myself the way I usually do—by pretending to pack my knapsack with everything I’ll need: Swiss Army knife, flashlight, rain poncho, deck of cards.

  Pretty soon my thoughts drift to what I’ll say to Mom when she follows me in here to make up. I hoist myself off the linoleum and add DOG FOOD in magic marker to the magnetized memo board on the fridge, where we write the weekly grocery list. I underline it three times.

  sit in an empty swing on the playground—otherwise known as the school parking lot—to eat my sandwich. There’s no big surprise waiting for me when I open the paper bag, since I make my lunch myself: a peanut butter and jelly with potato chips crunched on top, an individually wrapped stick of beef jerky, a single-serving thingy of chocolate pudding, and a box of fruit punch. All the basic food groups. My old school in Littleton had a cafeteria, and I got the hot lunch every day. But here there’s only a lunchroom, which is basically the basement with fold-up tables. So you have to bring your own food. That’s why, if the weather’s decent, they let us eat in the yard.

  I watch a bunch of the boys from my homeroom play kickball. Timmy Burns is the pitcher for the Townie team. He’s pretty good, I have to admit. He gets a lot of people to pop out. He must put some sort of spin on the ball. We used to play kickball at my old school too. I was really good. Well, pretty good. I never got picked last when we were choosing up sides.

  “Yo, bro!”

  I turn around. Oh great. It’s Rita, that girl with the pink puppy cell phone.

  “I thought that was you,” Rita says, plunking herself down in the next swing over. “What’s shaking, dude?”

  I shrug and take a bite out of my sandwich.

  “PB and J?” she says. “Classic! I’m packing tuna fish today. South of the Border–style. I make it with jalapeños. Want to trade halfsies?”

  “Just how Latino are you?” I say.

  “Latina,” she says. “I was born, like, three blocks from here. How about you?”

  “Irish, mostly.”

  “No, I mean where’re you from?”

  “Littleton.”

  “Ooh, check you out,” she says. “What’s a rich kid from the suburbs doing this far downtown?”

  “We’re definitely not rich,” I say. “It’s a long story.”

  “Lay it on me,” she says, taking a big bite of tuna.

  Someone pops a foul ball in our direction. Rita leaps out of her swing and shoves her sandwich into my lap. She makes a dive for the ball and catches it just before it lands in the sandbox. Dirt goes flying everywhere. We all stare at her. The skirt she’s wearing bunches up around her waist and you can totally see her underpants, which have ladybugs all over them. She’s not even that embarrassed when she stands up and tugs it all down. She just tosses the ball back to Timmy and says, “How about letting me and my friend in on the game?”

  “No girls allowed,” he says. “Townie rules.”

  “That’s so old-school,” Rita says. “And hello! Instant replay? Did you not see the major-league save I just made, like, two seconds ago?”

  “Buzz off, Ladybug. Go play with your boyfriend Brownie,” Timmy says. Everyone laughs.

  It’s all I can do to keep myself from standing up and shouting: I’m not a brownnose! And she’s not my girlfriend! I don’t even know her! I’m just an innocent bystander! But that would make me look even more like a freak.

  “Your loss,” Rita says, shrugging. “I’ll just let you get back to playing with your boyfriends.” She turns and comes trotting back to the swing set, wiping
the sand off her knees.

  “I can’t believe you just did that,” I say.

  “Aw, that was nothing,” she says. “You should see me at Ultimate Frisbee.”

  I stand. I hand her back her sandwich.

  “Brownie, huh?” Rita says. “Cool name for a blond kid. That short for something?”

  I head for the main doors.

  Where the heck is that recess bell when you need it?

  r. Gilmore tells me he’d like me to hang back at my desk for a few minutes so we can have a little chat. I sit down while everybody else packs up their English books and things. No doubt he’s going to chew me out about showing up late for homeroom the second day in a row. Timmy Burns passes by on my left. “You’re hosed now, Brownie,” he says, punching me really hard in the arm. Oh great. It’s official. The most popular guy in school now hates me.

  I watch Gilmore erase the rest of the chalkboard. He’s taking his sweet time—the usual teacher power-trip stuff. Finally he strolls over, jingling the change in his pockets. He sits on top of the desk in front of mine, all casual, as if he just wants to shoot the breeze.

  I wait for him to get to the point.

  “You’re a very bright young man, Nicky,” Gilmore says.

  This throws me for a loop. I was expecting him to make me do lines on the blackboard, something like: I promise never to be late for homeroom ever again. “I wasn’t that smart at my old school,” I say.

  He laughs. He asks me where I’m from. I tell him. He nods, probably thinking: Rich kid, just like Rita. “You must be really bored here,” he says.

  Of course I’m bored! Alert the media! As if school isn’t supposed to be boring. “Oh, I’m OK,” I say.

  “Listen,” he says, “I thought about moving you ahead a grade. But I decided against that. You’ve already had to make a whole new group of friends this year because of your big move.”

  Why do grown-ups always think kids make, like, instant friends?

  “It’s cool by me if you want to skip ahead in your math book,” he says. “But that’s not going to solve the fact that you’ve already read the novel we’re doing in English.”