r. Holkke can barely wait until I’m settled into my chair before he starts asking me how things are going this week.
Where do I begin? On the one hand, I got Timmy Burns thinking I’m the class brownie. On the other, I got Rita de la Cruz—thinking my name is Brownie—following me around like a dog, making things worse. Then I got a real dog with the name Reggie who refuses to follow me at all, but drags me all over the neighborhood like I’m blind. And then I got a mom who can’t see what’s plain in front of her face: that things are not back to normal living in a crummy one-bedroom apartment in Charlestown.
“Fine,” I say.
“Really?” Dr. Holkke says. “Everything’s fine? That surprises me. I know how hard settling into a completely new life can be for a kid.”
As if! When was the last time he was a kid? He’s, like, way over thirty. Plus he’s not even an American. Supposedly he’s from Sweden, which, according to my social studies book, is one of the Scandinavian countries, along with Norway and Denmark, where the Vikings came from. It was the Vikings, supposedly, and not Columbus who really discovered America.
Dr. Holkke is always reminding me to call him by his first name, which is Hákan. In Sweden, you pronounce the A-on-a-keychain like an O. I always say, Sure, whatever, but I don’t call him anything.
“You must at least miss your dad,” Dr. Holkke says.
“I’m doing OK,” I say. And then I just sit there.
After a while, Dr. Holkke clears his throat and asks me what I’m thinking about.
“Nothing much,” I say.
“You’re not thinking about anything?” he says.
“Not really,” I say. But here’s what’s actually going through my mind: that when you say his name backward—Holkke Hákan—it sounds like the most famous professional wrestler of all time. I don’t tell him that, though. I’m sure he has no clue.
“Let’s do a role-play,” Dr. Holkke says. “Do you know what a role-play is?”
“Like acting?” I say.
“A little,” he says. “Only you’ll still play the part of you, Nicky, and I’ll play the part of someone else. Then we’ll think up an interesting situation and act it out.”
“Why?” I say.
“To get us talking. The role-play could be about almost anything, really. But how about if we pretend, say, that I’m your dad and that you’ve just called me up to tell me all about your new life in Boston.”
See, what did I tell you? He’s obsessed with my dad.
“Why?” I say again.
“Why not?” he says.
My dad knocking on my bedroom door the morning after the mustard thing, asking me to open up and let him in. Him standing there with two suitcases explaining how it was all just a big misunderstanding, how he’s moving into a motel for a few days while he works things out with Mom. Me saying, But Fourth of July weekend is coming right up—what about our trip to Cape Cod? Him saying, We’ll just have to see. Meantime he promises to call me every day to check on how I’m doing.
“It’s kind of a sore subject with me,” I tell Dr. Holkke.
“That’s what makes it a good role-play,” Dr. Holkke says. “Sometimes it’s helpful to act out difficult conversations you cannot have with people in real life.”
“I don’t see how,” I say.
More silence.
“You don’t really care for me, do you?” Dr. Holkke says.
I shrug.
“Can I ask you why not?”
“You’re always trying to push my buttons,” I say.
He chuckles. “That’s sort of my job,” he says.
“Well, if it were my job, I’d be looking in the want ads,” I say.
He chuckles again, but this time I can tell he doesn’t think it’s so funny.
Then we sit there, just like that, staring at each other, until it’s almost time for Mom to take her turn—when I’m sure ol’ Holkke Hákan’ll get an earful about last night’s little dinner party. Dr. Holkke clears his throat. “You know,” he says, “some people actually look forward to their visits with me. They find it really helpful to talk about things that are bothering them.”
Like your stupid name, for example?
“It’s a sort of release for them,” he says.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” I say.
“See you next week,” he says.
ey, we need to stop by the Supa-Sava,” I say to Mom. She hasn’t taken the turn lane for the strip mall.
“I’ll go tomorrow after work,” she says—her first words to me since leaving Dr. Holkke’s office.
“But Reggie’s out of food,” I say. Again.
“He can have leftover spaghetti,” she says. “Just like the rest of us.”
Truth is, I don’t feel like leftover spaghetti myself, not after last night. But I don’t push it. I turn on the radio and we listen to the news the rest of the way back to Eden Street. As soon as I step through the door, I grab Reggie’s leash and hook it onto his collar.
“Make your bed first,” Mom says, pointing at the sleeper sofa. “You’re supposed to do it before you leave for school.”
“I’ll do it the second I get back,” I say. “Reggie’s been cooped up inside all day.”
“Please don’t start with me,” Mom says with a sigh.
Start what? Reggie’s probably bursting for a pee. I don’t say anything, though. It was her good lace tablecloth. I just drop Reggie’s leash, rip all the bedding off the foldout mattress, and shove it into the linen closet. I stow the mattress, toss the seat cushions back on top, and slide the coffee table into place.
Mom slumps onto the sofa. “There’s dog hair all over this,” she says, plucking at one of the cushions. “God, there’s dog hair all over everything.” Her voice is flat and lifeless, like a computer error message.
“No there’s not,” I say. But there totally is, plain as day.
“What was I thinking?” Mom says. “This apartment is way too small for such a big dog. Plus he’s one big fat expense we don’t need right now. Plus the landlord will probably evict us as soon as he sees that poor carpet. Maybe I should take Reggie back at the end of his trial period.”
My stomach flips over. “What trial period?” I say.
“Didn’t I tell you?” she says. “The pound gave me a month to decide whether or not it’s working out. So far Reggie’s been nothing but trouble with a capital T. Look at that carpet. Look at my philodendron. And Granny’s poor tablecloth! Anyway, there’s something not quite right about that dog, something strange I can’t put my finger on. Why else would his first master get rid of him?”
“Oh, he’s not so bad,” I say. “Besides, the tablecloth was my fault.”
“He’s a lot more work than I expected,” Mom says.
As if! She hasn’t lifted a finger for Reggie since we got him. I’m the one who feeds him and walks him every day! “I’ll vacuum up just as soon as we get back from our walk, OK?” I say.
She sighs and shakes her head.
“I don’t mind walking Reggie, honest,” I say. I know he’s absolutely dancing for a pee right now, but I’ve got to nip this conversation in the bud.
“Dr. Holkke worries that Reggie may be tying us down too much, preventing us from making new friends,” Mom says.
Totally not true, at least not for me. The only reason I know anybody at all in Charlestown is thanks to Reggie: Sal and Floyd and Mickey up at the monument, Mrs. Strazzulo and Jenny in the North End. Too bad I can’t tell Mom that.
“Let’s just give it to the end of the month, OK?”
She doesn’t say anything. She stares at the blank TV screen.
“It was really nice of you to make spaghetti last night,” I say.
Her eyes well up with tears. She nods.
I swear to her I’ll be right back to vacuum, and then I lead Reggie out the door and down the stoop. I take him over to his favorite hydrant so he can do his business.
Now I’ve got to step up
my investigation. I’m officially on a deadline. I’ve got a little over three weeks to find out why Old Alf took Reggie to the pound. Before, I was just keeping a mental log of any clues to pass the time. Now I actually need cold, hard evidence to clear his name. I need to prove to Mom that it wasn’t Reggie’s fault, that there’s nothing really wrong with Reggie apart from a slightly rocky start with us. That after breaking his ankle, Old Alf probably just couldn’t take care of Reggie.
I sure hope that’s all it was. Call it detective’s intuition, but I’ve got this funny feeling the more I dig into the past, the more I’m going to find.
pretend I just happen to be running into Sal and Floyd and Mickey. But as long as I’m here, I say, I’ve got a question for them: Have they ever noticed Reggie acting a little strange?
They all give each other this look.
“Oh no,” Sal says. “Reggie’s never looked better.”
“He’s not limping, for one,” Floyd says.
“Plus that dog really seems to like you,” Mickey says.
This sets all three of them to chuckling.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say. “Doesn’t Reggie like Grandpa Alf?”
“Ever hear the expression You can’t teach an old dog new tricks?” Mickey says, winking to the others.
“Sure, everybody has,” I say.
“That’s enough now, Mickey,” Sal says.
“What?” I say.
“Let’s just say that expression applied to both Reggie and Old Alf when it came to this guide-dog business,” Sal says.
“Your granddad was a lot more used to a cane,” Floyd says.
Mickey starts chuckling again. I ask him to let me in on the joke, but Sal says Mickey’s already said quite enough for one day. Mickey pipes up that they still need a fourth for their afternoon bocce. Did my granddad ever tell me why he doesn’t come around to the monument anymore?
Think quick, Nicky.
I tell them they may as well have the whole story—since we’re all friends now. The reason they haven’t seen Old Alf, I say, is because he’s been laid up with a broken ankle. He took a fall right outside his house in the North End. And though I don’t have all the details, I say—you know how grown-ups are around kids—my mom and I took the first flight out from California to look after him while he was in a cast.
“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Mickey says.
“Oh, we understand,” Sal says, winking. “You did the right thing by not broadcasting your granddad’s private business all over Charlestown.”
“Is Old Alf going to be OK?” Floyd says. “It ain’t so easy to heal your bones when you’re his age.”
“I’ll keep you posted,” I say. “Meantime, Grandpa Alf gave me the responsibility of making sure Reggie stays in tip-top condition.” I tell them I’ve got to hoof it over to the North End before Mrs. Strazzulo closes up for the day. I explain how she’s saving all the spare bones for Reggie’s hip. They all nod their heads and give Reggie’s right haunch a couple of extra strokes before we take off for the Charlestown Bridge.
Mrs. Strazzulo is just starting to roll up the striped awning outside her butcher shop when we finally get to Hanover Street. I ask her if she has any bones. She nods and hands me the metal crank. She warns me not to turn it too tight at the end or the awning will get stuck. She goes inside while Reggie and I crank up the rest of the awning. People smile at me as they’re passing by, and I smile back—pretending for a minute that I work for Mrs. Strazzulo after school and this is all part of the job. She comes back with the same kind of greasy package as before.
“Did you ask your nono if he wants any meat from Strazzulo’s?”
I hesitate a second. Then, before I quite know why, I blurt, “Nono said he’ll take the cutlets.”
“How many?” she says.
“Four,” I say. “One for each of us—Nono, Mom, me, and Reggie—if you can put that on account for him, that is.” What the heck am I saying?
Just be cool, Nicky. You’re undercover.
“Don’t just stand there,” she says. “You’ll let the flies in.”
Reggie and I follow her into the shop.
“Your nono must have buried the hatchet with Reggie,” she says. “To treat him to his own piece of veal.”
“What hatchet?” I say.
“None of my business,” she says, weighing up four veal cutlets, while I try not to freak out about how much they cost a pound. “But I’m surprised he decided to hang on to that dog.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Way I hear it, the accident was all Reggie’s fault,” she says. She takes the package of bones from me and puts it in a bag with the cutlets. “Mailman told me it was Reggie’s job to make sure your nono didn’t step into the street if there was any danger. But he did, and one of those crazy bike messengers sideswiped him, right in front of his house, without even looking back. Your nono lay there with a broken ankle for I don’t know how long before the mailman finally came across him on his daily rounds. According to the mailman, Reggie was just sitting there panting like nothing was wrong. He was sure your nono was going to get rid of Reggie after that. In fact he was really surprised when I told him Mr. Santorello’s grandson was still coming by here with the dog to pick up bones.”
“Well, thanks for the meat,” I say. Because I can’t think of anything else.
“None of my business,” Mrs. Strazzulo says. “Now get out of here. I got rabbits to skin.”
I give Reggie a good, long stare as soon as we’re safely on Parmenter Street. Sorry, but he just doesn’t look like the type who would deliberately harm his master. Plus he totally protected me against those Townies on Monday. More likely, Old Alf just didn’t understand the right guide-dog commands. Floyd said himself Old Alf was better with a cane.
Jenny is out on her front steps reading the Boston Globe when Reggie and I get to Bartlett Place. I wave hello. She waves back. “How’s your grandfather doing?” she calls over. She’s still keeping her distance.
“About the same,” I say. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” she says.
“How come you don’t pet Reggie? Did he ever do something to make you afraid of him?”
“Honestly?” she says. She gets up and wanders over to the iron fence that runs along the sidewalk where we’re standing. “Your granddad got kind of upset with me the first time I tried. He told me Reggie’s not a pet so I shouldn’t make a fuss over him. I guess you’re not supposed to pet guide dogs when they’re on duty. Anyway, I apologized and I stopped.”
Very interesting. I add this to my mental log.
“Well, Reggie’s not on duty now,” I say.
Jenny smiles. She stoops down and gives Reggie a good, long scratch behind his ears. I tell her I’d better get going, since I’ve got dinner. I hold up the bag with the cutlets. She laughs. We both say See you soon. Then Reggie and I shove off. Halfway across the Charlestown Bridge, I open the bag and feed Reggie all the cutlets. It’s only fair since there isn’t any canned food for him tonight.
Boston Garden is all lit up. While Reggie wolfs down his veal, I think of that other story for another time. We made a whole day of it, Dad and me. We went into the city on the commuter train, we walked the Freedom Trail, and we saw nearly every sight there was to see. We went out for pizza afterward, and then we went to Boston Garden for the All-Star Wrestling Extravaganza. Our seats were just three rows back from the ring. We watched the most famous wrestlers in the world slam each other around, right in front of us. And even though we could both see it was kind of fake—most of the time they were only pretending to hit each other—we both shouted and clapped like crazy, cheering all the good guys to victory and booing all the villains to defeat.
Reggie tugs on his leash. I need to figure out whether he was a bad guide dog like Mrs. Strazzulo says, or whether Old Alf and Reggie just couldn’t get it together as a team, like Mickey says. The only way I�
�ll know for sure is to learn as much as possible about the job of a seeing-eye. So it’s a good thing I start my independent study tomorrow afternoon. I can hardly wait to hit the books in the library.
First, though, I’ve got all this vacuuming to do before leftover spaghetti.
r. Gilmore hands me a pass for the library just like he said. He tells me to take my coat and stuff with me. I don’t have to come back to homeroom after the final bell.
“Wait a second,” Timmy Burns says. “Why does Brownie get to skip class?”
“His name’s Nicky, not Brownie,” Gilmore says. “And the matter doesn’t concern you, Timmy.”
“My name’s Tim, not Timmy.”
Everybody laughs at this.
“As a matter of fact, I want all of you to take out your English books,” Gilmore says, “and turn to page one fifty-six.”
I gather up my stuff. Everybody but Timmy turns to page one fifty-six. He just sits there with his arms crossed.
“Is there a problem?” Gilmore says to him.
“It’s not fair,” Timmy says. “I’m going to tell my dad about this. He’s on the PTA.”
“While you’re at it, be sure to remind him what you got on your last Robert Frost quiz,” Gilmore says.
Everybody laughs. Oh great.
I head for the door. Gilmore winks at me all buddy-buddy and says, “See you tomorrow, Nicky.”
I know he thinks he’s helping me out, but he isn’t. Now I’m hosed with Timmy Burns and his posse for, like, the rest of my life.
I show my pass to the librarian, Ms. Klee. She’s this really pretty black woman who either wears her hair in cornrows or wraps it all up in a high, colorful turban, even though she’s American, not African. Well, she’s probably originally from Africa, like I’m originally from Ireland. Nobody’s originally from America, not even the Native Americans. Supposedly, they crossed over here from Asia a gazillion years ago on that tail of Alaska when it was still hooked up to Russia. Anyway, Ms. Klee tells me she’s been expecting me. She says she’s glad for the company, and it’s true, the library is pretty empty. She takes me over to a carrel by the window.
How I Got a Life and a Dog Page 6
