So that’s it. Mom ratted me out. I should have guessed ol’ Gilmore didn’t put two and two together on his own.
“It would be better if you waited for your classmates to catch up to you,” he says. “That way you can all read together as a group. When it comes to English, discussion is an important part of the learning process.”
“Yeah well, sitting around and staring out the window is pretty much what’s making me bored,” I say. Why not call a spade a shovel here, as long as Gilmore brought it up?
Gilmore laughs again. “That’s not what I meant,” he says. “Maybe you could work on an independent study project during English period—just for the next couple of weeks or so.”
“What’s that?” I say.
“A book report,” he says, “only more in-depth.”
He tells me I could pick a topic that interests me, research it in the library, take lots of notes, and then write a paper on it. The project could be about anything I want.
“Anything?” I say.
“Sure,” he says. “Got something in mind?”
“Maybe.”
“Like what?”
“Seeing-eye dogs,” I say, all casual. May as well get a little work done on my detective case, right? Two birds, one stone.
“Oh,” he says. He looks confused, like I was supposed to say baseball or race cars or something.
“You know, like how they get trained,” I say, “what they do all day, why most of them are German shepherds, why some of them end up getting fired by their masters—stuff like that.”
“Oh,” he says. “OK, Nicky. Write me a ten-page report on the life of seeing-eye dogs. I’ll make you out a pass tomorrow afternoon so you can start spending English period in the library doing the research. That OK with you?”
“No,” I say.
“Why not?” he says.
“Tomorrow’s Wednesday. I always take off early on Wednesdays on account of—you know—my weekly appointment.”
“That’s right,” he says. “I forgot. Thursday, then.”
He waits for me to say something else, but I don’t know what, so I tell him I better get going. He says fine, he’ll see me tomorrow. I pack up my knapsack and get the heck out of there before he changes his mind.
eggie and I are standing at the edge of the footpath that crosses the bridge to the North End. We’ve skipped visiting with the old guys today. Instead of heading up to Monument Square, we’ve made a beeline straight here so there’s plenty of time to do a little sleuthing before dark.
“It’s OK, boy,” I say. “Show me where you’d normally go if I were Old Alf and you were on duty.”
As usual, he doesn’t need to be asked twice.
As soon as we step off the other side of the bridge, Reggie takes a left onto Commercial, then a quick right onto Prince. He knows exactly where he’s going. It’s a good thing too, because I wouldn’t have a clue. Especially since, so far, the North End looks exactly like Charlestown—grungy red-brick town houses with high stoops—except that all the storefronts seem to be Italian restaurants instead of Irish pubs. Reggie takes a sharp right at Hanover Street. There’s a lot more hustle and bustle here. I wonder if Mom knows about this part of town. It’s got a really cool mix of bakeries and shops. We pass a café where little old ladies are out front playing dominoes. We pass a health food store and a bookshop and a yoga studio—all the kinds of places Mom used to like to go to. Reggie stops outside Strazzulo’s, an old-fashioned butcher shop with big links of sausage and gross dead rabbits hanging in the window. Reggie scratches at the door until the woman behind the counter comes and opens it for him. He walks straight inside like he owns the place. I follow along—what else can I do?—and stand beside him at the meat counter. The woman fetches a small, oily package out of the glass case and hands it to me. “I was just about to throw this out,” she says. “You running errands for Mr. Santorello now?”
I nod. “I’m his grandson,” I say. I can’t believe how easy the words come sliding out of my mouth.
“That’s a nice boy,” she says. “I heard all about your poor nono’s accident—how he fell right outside his house and broke his ankle.”
Aha! No wonder Old Alf hasn’t been walking across the bridge to the monument. It’s my first real break in the case. I try my best to play it cool, though. I say, “It was a shock to everybody.”
“You got a name?” she says.
“Nicky.”
“You got a list?”
I shake my head no.
“Didn’t he tell you what he wants?” she says.
I shake my head no again.
“Just stopping by to pick up Reggie’s bones, eh?” she says. “Good. They seem to be working. He’s not limping today. You got to watch those hips with shepherds, I keep telling your nono. Shepherds need plenty of calcium, I tell him. Let him know Mrs. Strazzulo’s got some nice cutlets in this week. Tell him I can put it on account for him, if he’s worried about you carrying around a lot of money.”
I nod and tug at Reggie’s leash. He’s out the door like a shot, thank God. In fact, I barely have time to wave good-bye to Mrs. Strazzulo, let alone buy cutlets off her. We continue hoofing it down Hanover Street, past a used record shop and a post office and a hardware store. Next Reggie hangs a right onto Parmenter Street. It’s a little more quiet here, with lots of pretty old town houses in better shape than on Prince Street. At Bartlett Place, Reggie leads me over to a stoop, where there’s a lady about Mom’s age tending to a window box of asters. Supposedly the flowers are called that because of their star shape. You know, like asterisk—that little star on keyboards and cell phones? Mom used to plant asters in the fall too. Asters and mums and I don’t remember what all else. I told her at the Supa-Sava the other day that she should get a window box for the apartment. They had them on sale. She just said, Yeah, maybe. She won’t do it, though. Not after what happened with the philodendron.
“How’s my favorite neighborhood dog?” the lady calls over to Reggie. But she doesn’t come over to pet him, which is what I would do if he were my favorite neighborhood dog. Maybe it’s because she’s surprised to see me at the other end of the leash. I tell her I’m Alf Santorello’s grandson. I’m just out giving Reggie a little exercise, I say, since my nono broke his ankle. She says she’s sorry to hear that, but it’s nice to meet me—and nice, finally, to learn Reggie’s name. “I’m Jenny,” she says. But she still doesn’t come over.
“Nicky,” I say. “Nicky Santorello.”
I should just leave well enough alone. But for some reason I can’t. I tell this Jenny person I’m only visiting Boston for a short while. I tell her my mom and I are actually from California. (Isn’t that where the old guys at the monument told me Old Alf had a daughter?) I tell her we’ll be headed back to the beach as soon as Nono’s up on his feet. Suddenly I get this really crafty, undercover-type idea, one Dr. Ice would be proud of—if he actually existed. I admit to Jenny that, since I’m not really used to the neighborhood yet, I’m a little turned around. I ask her if she can give me directions back to my grandpa’s house.
“Sorry,” she says. “I’m new to the neighborhood myself. I’ve only owned this house a few months.”
“Oh,” I say. Rats. But at least that explains why she’s less friendly with Reggie than, say, Sal or Mrs. Strazzulo.
Jenny tells me it’s good to see Reggie’s not limping today. I hold up the oily package. That’s on account of the bones Mrs. Strazzulo down at the butcher shop saves him, I tell her. Shepherds need the extra calcium. You got to watch those hips with shepherds. Jenny says she’d better get back to her window boxes, it’ll be getting dark soon. We say Nice meeting you and I give Reggie’s leash a little shake. We’re off.
The houses start getting run-down again by the time we’re on Salem Street, passing by Baldwin Place. By Noyes Place it’s definitely transitional. I feel safe enough, though. Who’s going to mess with an eighty-pound shepherd?
Reggie comes s
kidding to a stop in front of the most run-down town house on the block, one that looks a little haunted, if you believe in that sort of thing.
“Now what?” I say. His ears have gone all flat. He’s, like, frozen to the spot. I tug on his leash—we’ve really got to be getting back, it’s starting to get dark—but Reggie refuses to budge. I look around. At the next corner there’s a sign for Prince Street. So we must have done a big loop. “We gotta go,” I say to Reggie. “Mom’s probably going mental.”
He doesn’t budge.
I yank harder on the leash. Finally he moves. But it’s not forward. He crosses the street and tiptoes along the sidewalk on the other side. After a half a block, though, he crosses back and carries on like nothing happened. Suddenly he’s making a left onto Prince Street and a beeline for supper.
Highly suspicious behavior, if you’d ask me.
About halfway across the bridge, I try to get Reggie to slow down. I’m out of breath, plus there’s a really cool view of Old Ironsides, an old-fashioned warship, off to the right. I know for a fact it’s the last stop on the Freedom Trail. I’ve actually stood on its decks with my dad. Supposedly, Old Ironsides is the oldest warship still in use by the U.S. Navy—since the seventeen hundreds. The naval officer who gave Dad and me our tour told us the ship’s real name is the USS Constitution. Old Ironsides is only the nickname its crew gave it during the War of 1812, because British cannonballs seemed to bounce off it, thanks to the copper— not iron—armor Paul Revere had made for its sides.
Dad and I did the Freedom Trail the same day we went to the All-Star Wrestling Extravaganza at Boston Garden, over on the other side of the bridge. One of the best days of my life. One of the few. But that story’s still going to have to wait for some other time. Right now we’d better get our butts back to Eden Street before we blow our cover.
t smells like spaghetti as I’m unlocking the front door. I wonder, for a split second, if I’m in the right place. Yup. Same old furniture. Same weird-colored carpet, now spotted with a few greenish-brown stains. But Mom isn’t slumped in front of the TV as usual. I can hear her in the kitchen chopping up something on the cutting board. Pardon my surprise, but it’s been a while since we’ve had anything around here that wasn’t from a takeout box.
So maybe it’s going to be a good night.
Back in Littleton, it used to smell like cooking all the time. When I got home from school, I always knew what we were having for supper the second I walked through the door: spaghetti or macaroni and cheese if Mom was making one of my favorites, Thai beef salad or seafood crêpes if she was treating herself, pork chops or roast chicken with all the fixings if she was trying to make Dad—
Well, anyway, the rest of the time.
“We’re back,” I say, unhooking Reggie’s leash. He sniffs the air. You can practically see that big cartoon question mark over his head. I pat him just to let him know everything’s OK. I hope.
“Where have you been?” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
I don’t answer. I poke my head in there to see what’s up. Reggie cranes his neck around my leg.
“What’s that?” she says, pointing her wooden spoon at the greasy package from the butcher shop.
Think quick, Nicky. “Some lady down the street gave me a bag of bones for Reggie,” I say.
Mom frowns. “What lady?” she says.
“She’s OK,” I say. “She’s about a thousand years old. She doesn’t have anybody to give bones to since her own dog died.” Not the total truth, technically speaking, but I’m undercover.
Mom doesn’t say anything. I can tell by the too-fast way she’s stirring the pot of sauce that she’s not convinced.
“They’re good for Reggie’s hips,” I say. “The lady told me she used to have a shepherd herself. That’s why she stopped to chat. I haven’t even waved hello to anybody else in the neighborhood.” That seems to do the trick. Mom stops stirring and smiles. “We’re having spaghetti tonight,” she says.
Obviously.
“What’s the occasion?” I say.
“Do I need a reason to make dinner?” she says.
I don’t go there.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” she says. “Set the table.”
“Let me just give Reggie one of these,” I say. I open the butcher’s paper. Inside are three big bones with little shreds of red meat still clinging to them. I don’t even want to guess what part of which animal they’re from. “Gross,” I say, taking out one.
We both laugh.
Reggie doesn’t think they’re gross, though. He’s licking his chops. Good thing. There’s hardly any dog food left for his supper. Again.
“Make him eat that in here on the linoleum,” Mom says. “The living room can’t really take any more of his decorating.”
Let it go, Nicky.
I hand Reggie the bone. He takes it over to his favorite corner by the fridge, lies down, and begins gnawing. His teeth clacking against the bone reminds me of the old guys’ bocce balls smacking into each other up at the monument. I don’t say this to Mom. No need to go opening that can of worms. I just set the table in the other room.
“Isn’t this nice?” Mom says when we sit down to eat. She raises her wineglass for a toast. I clink with her—except my glass has fruit punch in it—and we dig in. It is nice. We’ve laid out the antique tablecloth Mom got from her grandmother. We’re using the good china. We’ve lit candles.
“What’s put you in such a good mood?” I say.
“It’s our one-month anniversary here,” she says, sipping her wine. “It’s just time to settle in, that’s all. Time to get things, you know, back to normal.”
Settling into this dump is NOT getting things back to normal. But I don’t say that to her. I’m just letting things go tonight. I twirl a big wad of spaghetti onto my fork and shove it into my mouth.
“So tell me about your day,” she says.
I point to my full mouth. She waits. “Not much to tell,” I say—when it’s clear she expects me to, you know, talk with her. “Same old, same old.”
“Did you and Mr. Gilmore have a little chat?” she says.
“When did you call him?” I say.
“I was overdue for a teacher-parent conference anyway. So I brought up how unchallenged you were. He said he had a few ideas about how he could fix that. But I insisted he talk the situation over with you directly. Did he?”
Another mark against her in the mental log. Of course that’s not how it went. She totally called him as soon as she got to the Ambulance Chasers this morning. And the two of them cooked up this whole independent study thing together. “Yeah,” I say.
“Oh good,” she says. “I was hoping you guys could work something out man-to-man.”
I take another big mouthful of spaghetti.
Man-to-man. She’s got this thing, lately, where she’s constantly saying stuff like: I need you to be a little man about it or You’re the man of the house now. As if! I won’t even be a teenager for, like, another year and three months.
“What’s wrong?” she says. “Your face is all red.”
I swallow hard. “Nothing.”
“So what did you and Mr. Gilmore decide?”
“Book report.”
“About what?”
“Can’t we just have a normal dinner?” I say.
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” she says. “You converse at a family dinner. You share the events of your day. You communicate your feelings.”
“Well, that approach hasn’t exactly worked so hot in the past, has it?” I say.
I swear it slips out before I can bite my tongue.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mom says.
“Nothing, forget it,” I say.
“No, tell me what you meant.”
Why isn’t she letting this go? I shove more spaghetti into my mouth, but it’s getting cold now, and when I try to swallow, it gets stuck in the back of my throat. I take
a sip of punch to force it down.
“You’re referring to that night with your dad, aren’t you?” Mom says, taking a sip of wine. “Good. Let’s talk about it, then. Let’s finally get everything out in the open. It’ll be good for both of us.”
I’m never going to drink wine—ever. It makes people say all sorts of stupid things they never should have said and only end up regretting afterward.
“No it won’t,” I say.
“Yes it will,” she says.
Suddenly all I can see is our kitchen back in Littleton. Mom’s standing there speechless. There’s a gigantic splash of mustard on the wall over her shoulder, shaped like a big, yellow sun.
I try to shove another forkful of spaghetti into my mouth. It won’t go down this time. A glob of something gets stuck in my windpipe. I begin to cough.
“Are you OK?” Mom says. “Take a sip of something.”
I take another gulp of fruit punch, but this time it doesn’t help. I spray red liquid and little brown chunks of meatball all over the tablecloth.
“Stand up, Nicky!” Mom says.
I try, but I still can’t catch my breath. There’s a pounding in my ears, like the pounding on my old bedroom door after I’ve locked myself inside, after I’ve told them both to go away—I don’t care if it was all a big misunderstanding.
Maybe it’s just the landlord pounding on his ceiling with a broom.
Mom comes around behind me, jams her thumbs into my chest, and squeezes me with her arms. Whatever is stuck pops free.
“Can you breathe now?” she says.
I nod. Her grandmother’s tablecloth is ruined, and there’s spaghetti chunks all over the carpet.
“Oh Nicky,” Mom says in that watery voice that means she’s close to tears.
“I’d better get the sponge mop,” I say. “This hasn’t been a very good week for the security deposit, has it?”
“Oh Nicky!” Mom says again, this time in a whisper.
How I Got a Life and a Dog Page 5
