How I Got a Life and a Dog

by Art Corriveau

  She laughs. She pulls the Frisbee out of her locker. “We might even be able to squeeze in a quick game of Ultimate.”

  I feel my face go red. “I completely suck at Frisbee,” I say.

  “Not for long, dude,” Rita says, spinning the Frisbee on her finger. “All you need is a few pointers, and the doctor is in.”

  “If it’s all the same to you,” I say, “I’d rather you show me after school one day. And not on this playground. I’m having a hard enough time fitting in around here.”

  “So we’ll sneak over to Monument Square,” Rita says. “It’s got great grass.”

  I still haven’t apologized to Sal and Floyd and Mickey for the Frisbee incident. “Signs all over the place say keep off the grass,” I tell her.

  “So? A bunch of old guys are always playing bocce up there,” she says.

  I tell her we’d better think of someplace closer. Lunch recess is half over. We end up sneaking onto the front lawn of a church around the corner. It’s perfect. The grass there is super-green and cushy—much better, actually, than Monument Square. First Rita shows me what she calls the basic jam, which is the right way to hold a Frisbee, the right motion of the arm, and the right time to release it. When I get that down, she shows me the backhand, the two-finger side-arm, and the thumber. Before long, I’m throwing like a pro. Well, maybe not like a pro. But a heck of a lot better than before. Rita’s awesome, though. She can even do some of the tricks you see on those extreme sports shows: the flamingo, the triple fake, even the bad attitude.

  On the walk back to school, Rita tells me about her baby brother. Her mom had to take him to a specialist because of his ears. At first they thought it was just an infection. But now they think there might be something wrong with his hearing. He may need an operation to keep from going deaf.

  “Where’s your dad?” I say, out of the blue.

  “Don’t have one,” she says.

  “Oh,” I say. “Sorry.”

  “Why?” she says. “Some kids don’t have moms. Others, like you, don’t have any brothers or sisters. You just deal with what you’re handed, right?”

  I tell Rita I have a dog. His name is Reggie, I say, and he’s a shepherd. I tell her I really want to teach him how to fetch a Frisbee one day. She takes a pen out of her pocket and writes her cell phone number on my wrist. She says, anytime. If she’s not babysitting, let’s do it. Dogs who catch Frisbees on the fly are awesome.

  stroll right up to Sal and the other old guys with Reggie. I scan the grass. The Frisbee isn’t there anymore. Just bocce balls. Somebody must have picked up the pieces.

  “So I lost my cool the other day,” I say. “I admit it.”

  “Forget about it,” Sal says.

  “You got quite a little temper on you,” Floyd says.

  “Runs in the family, I guess,” Mickey says.

  Mickey and Floyd both chuckle.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I say.

  “Never mind,” Sal says.

  “Let’s just say the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree,” Mickey says, winking at the other two.

  They all chuckle this time. Sal reaches in his pocket for his wallet. He pulls out a twenty-dollar bill and hands it to me. “Here,” he says. “Go get yourself another one.”

  “I can’t take your money,” I say. Frisbees don’t cost twenty dollars—even I know that.

  “Go on,” he says. “All is forgotten.”

  I say no to the twenty again, but he insists. What else does he have to spend his money on, he says, besides scratch cards? Eventually I take it and shove it in the front pocket of my jeans.

  “Bowl a few games with us,” Sal says. “You can be Mickey’s partner.”

  “I really need to be getting home,” I say.

  “Tell your granddad we said hi,” Sal says.

  “Tell him Mickey said the apple didn’t fall very far from the tree,” Mickey says. “He’ll know what I mean.”

  I say See you tomorrow and command Reggie forward. I’ve just had this great idea! If I swing by Mrs. Strazzulo’s on my way to Noyes Place, I can totally use the twenty to pay off the meat I bought on account—and no one will be the wiser!

  Mrs. Strazzulo is shooting the breeze with that mailman when I get there. She spots me through the window before I can get Reggie stopped and turned around. She waves and smiles, and I have no choice but to lead us into the shop.

  “This is that grandson of Mr. Santorello’s I keep telling you about,” Mrs. Strazzulo says to the mailman.

  “Funny, I’ve never seen you around Noyes Place,” the mailman says. “I deliver there practically every afternoon.”

  Steady, Nicky. Keep your cool. You don’t want to blow this. Not when things are finally starting to turn around. “School,” I say. “Then I walk Reggie.”

  “Such a nice boy,” Mrs. Strazzulo says. “He’s taking his nono back to California to live with him.”

  “California?” the mailman says. “Really? I put a mail-forwarding request through for Alfredo Santorello just yesterday. But it wasn’t to anywhere in California. It was to that home for vets, right over in Charlestown.”

  Oh crap! That’s where Sal and Floyd and Mickey live. They’re all going to bowl a doubles game of bocce and put two and two together. The jig’ll be up then. Then there’ll be hell to pay. I’ll never be able to show my face around Monument Square again.

  “That’s just temporary,” I blurt out. Shut up, Nicky! Don’t make things worse! Get out of there! “Just until my dad finishes building an addition onto our house in California for Nono and Reggie.”

  “Oh,” the mailman says. “Anyway, it’s a pity I didn’t see him around today, or I’d’ve said my good-byes. Guess you and your mom are headed home tomorrow, seeing how that’s when the mail forwarding starts.”

  Double crap!

  “Um, yeah. Our flight’s sometime tomorrow afternoon,” I say. “Mom booked the tickets online.”

  Shut up! Shut up!

  “I’d better give you that total on your nono’s account,” Mrs. Strazzulo says. She rummages around in her register and then hands me a slip of paper. It’s way more than twenty dollars. Who knew veal cutlets and a couple of pork chops could cost so much? “You can bring the check by first thing in the morning,” she says. “That way I won’t have to say good-bye to you now.”

  I nod and shove the bill into my pocket. When I don’t turn up with a check, she’ll call the home for vets. Old Alf will tell her he’s never heard of me, and then she’s going to put two and two together, too. I’ll never be able to come back to Hanover Street either. Crap! Crap! Crap!

  “I guess I’d better get going,” I say. “Mom and Nono need my help packing.” I tell Mrs. Strazzulo I’ll see her bright and early in the morning. I tell the mailman it was nice to finally meet him. Not! I tell Reggie to go forward.

  My only hope is to hoof it over to Noyes Place right now and explain to Old Alf it was all a big misunderstanding about me being his grandson. Hopefully he’ll laugh, take the twenty, and work something out with me about the rest of the meat.

  As usual, Reggie stops dead in his tracks a few feet away from the stoop.

  “Forward!” I say.

  He doesn’t budge. Classic example of intelligent disobedience. Well, screw the official guide-dog commands. This is an emergency. I drag Reggie, skidding, over to the front steps. He digs his toenails in and refuses to go up. I can’t budge eighty pounds of disobedient German shepherd, so I tie him to the railing. Then I march up to the door and ring the bell. I wait. I wait. I wait. No answer. I peek in the letterbox, to see if Old Alf has picked up his mail yet—the mailman said he’d been by. There’s still a letter there. I take it out. It’s addressed to Alfredo Santorello, all right. The return address says it’s from an organization for the blind, with Braille bumps under it.

  “Mr. Santorello?”

  I peek into the nearest window, but the shade is pulled. All the shades are pulled. I rin
g the bell again. Reggie flinches. His ears go flat.

  “Not a peep,” I tell him.

  Still no answer. I try the doorknob. It isn’t locked.

  Reggie begins to growl, really softly.

  “Shh—” I say, “or heel, or whatever.”

  I look around. I don’t see anyone in the street, so I open the door a crack to peek inside.

  An old man in big black sunglasses is standing right there.

  I holler and jump back.

  Reggie barks.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Alf Santorello says, pointing his long white cane at me. “This is private property and you’re trespassing. I’ll call the cops!” He’s wearing a long black coat and a felt hat, and there are two suitcases on the floor next to the leg with the big plaster walking cast.

  “It’s OK,” I say. “I have your mail.” Dumb, I know. But it’s the first thing I can think of to get him to stop swinging that cane.

  “I don’t know you,” he says. “Where’s the regular mailman?”

  It doesn’t look like Old Alf has shaved for a while, and his clothes are all stained and rumpled. Plus he smells like pee. I peek past him into his house. It’s kind of a mess. Takeout boxes and styrofoam cups are all over the place. That gross smell of rotten food.

  “I’m Nicky, Reggie’s new master,” I say. “We were in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d stop by to introduce myself.”

  “That dog is here?” Old Alf says. “You keep that dog away from me.” He steps forward, out onto the stoop. I step back. I don’t want him to poke me with his cane. Plus he smells like pee.

  Reggie growls louder and bares his teeth. It’s that same Don’t mess with me growl he used with those Townie teenagers. His hackles go straight up like when Mom and me were high-fiving at the Esplanade.

  “That dog better not come any closer,” Old Alf says, raising his cane and swiping the air like a sword. “Not if he knows what’s good for him.”

  Reggie yelps. He crouches with his tail between his legs, trembling.

  A yellow cab pulls up to the curb and honks three times.

  Old Alf lowers his cane. “That’s for me,” he says. “Now get lost, both of you. And don’t ever come back here.”

  Reggie’s on his feet again, and barking like crazy. He looks like he might break his leash. I shove the letter I’m holding into Old Alf’s free hand, then scramble down the steps and unhook Reggie from the railing. I don’t need to tell him to go forward. We both dash across the street and duck behind a couple of parked cars. Reggie starts to whine, so I clamp my hand over his muzzle. I watch as the cabbie stows Old Alf’s bags in the trunk. I watch as Old Alf locks the door and taps his way down the front steps and over to the cab. I watch as the cabbie offers to help him into the backseat and Old Alf jerks his arm away. The cab roars off.

  Not only did I not get the chance to explain to Old Alf how I was his grandson, but I never even got to ask him what the real story was between him and Reggie. Obviously there’re some pretty hard feelings on both sides. Now I’ll never know.

  I start running again, with Reggie tight to my heels. We don’t stop till we get all the way back to Charlestown.

  Some detective I turned out to be.

  e’re eating our dinner in front of the TV—or at least pretending to, in my case. I am so totally not hungry. In fact I’m just about to hand my whole plate over to Reggie, who is lying at my feet, when Mom says, “What’s the matter? You usually love mac and cheese.”

  We’re half watching a nature show about the habits of wolves. But there’s something wrong with the cable signal, and the picture keeps melting.

  “Dad call about this weekend?” I say.

  She nods. “He said he has some big presentation to make for his boss on Monday. Said he needs to work all weekend. I told him to call you here after four. Didn’t he?”

  “We’ve got to move,” I blurt out of nowhere.

  “Move?” Mom says, standing to fiddle with the remote. “What do you mean, move? You told me yesterday afternoon that you were finally beginning to like it here. We flew kites and everything.”

  “I told you I liked Reggie. I didn’t say I liked Charlestown.”

  I lose it then. I just can’t help it.

  “I hate it here,” I say. “This apartment sucks. Charlestown sucks. My school sucks. Dr. Holkke sucks. The Ambulance Chasers suck. Everything sucks!”

  Mom and Reggie both stare at me, surprised.

  “I want to move back to Littleton!” I say.

  “We discussed this when I put the house on the market,” Mom says. “I explained to you how important it was for me to put some distance between me and your father. I explained to you that I needed a fresh new start.”

  “I don’t get why you had to break up with Dad at all!” I say.

  “Yes you do,” she says.

  Suddenly there’s this picture in my head. I’m back in our old kitchen in Littleton, pretending to read a Dr. Ice comic book at the table while Mom grills pork chops at the stove. Dad storms in from his den with a credit-card statement.

  —Your spending is totally out of control, he says to Mom. What’s this charge for $175 from the plant nursery?

  —It’s that new dwarf maple in the front yard, Mom says, taking a sip of wine from the glass perched on the counter next to her.

  —The tree that’s dead? Dad says.

  —It’s not dead, Mom says. Just a little traumatized from replanting. It’ll come back in the spring.

  —Do you think I like working twelve-hour days and most weekends so you can plant two-hundred-dollar dead trees in the yard? Dad says. You’re driving us to the poorhouse!

  —Please don’t start yelling tonight, Mom says. Look, I’m making your favorite dinner.

  Dad runs his hand through his hair. He picks a jar of mustard up off the counter.

  —Twelve dollars? he says, looking at the sticker. Since when does mustard cost twelve dollars?

  —It’s from France, Mom says.

  —Are you out of your mind? Dad yells.

  I blink away the tears, snapping my attention back to the TV’s pixelated wolves. Both Mom and Reggie are waiting for me to say something. “I bet if you apologized to Dad and really meant it, he’d take you back,” I whisper.

  “I don’t want him to take me back,” Mom says.

  “Can’t you see you’ve ruined my life?” I say. “Don’t you even care?”

  Mom takes a deep breath. “This whole thing has been really hard on you,” she says. “I totally hear that. But, Nicky, I still believe what I did was for the best. For all of us. I need you to try and understand.”

  I stand up to hit the side of the TV. The pixels disappear. Mom lays a hand on my arm.

  “Yesterday, in the car, you told me what your needs were. But you never asked me what I needed.”

  I don’t say anything. I can’t.

  “I need to feel supported too. By you,” she says. “Even if you don’t agree with every decision I make. It would help to know you’re on my side.”

  When did this conversation get so twisted around?

  “So how about a high-five?” Mom says. She raises her hand.

  Reggie leaps to his feet. He bares his teeth. His hackles go up.

  Mom grabs my arm to pull me to safety.

  Reggie goes totally mental.

  It all happens in a split second. But it’s sort of like time goes into slow motion. Reggie leaps up and knocks Mom over. They both hit the coffee table on the way down. One of the macaroni-and-cheese plates breaks into a million pieces. What’s left of my fruit punch glass rolls under the TV, dribbling purple all the way. Mom’s wineglass smashes. Next thing I know, Reggie is pinning Mom to the carpet. He’s got her wrist in his mouth. He’s isn’t biting her, but he isn’t letting go either. He’s just growling that really quiet, really scary warning growl.

  The landlord pounds on his ceiling.

  All I can think is: There goes the secur
ity deposit.

  Time speeds back up. I shout at Reggie to get off her. He lets go and sulks over to the corner. I ask Mom if she’s OK. She nods. I help her up. I check her wrist. Reggie hasn’t left any teeth marks, just a slimy bracelet of slobber. He whines and then takes a few steps toward us.

  That’s when Mom freaks out.

  She pushes me behind her. She grabs her broken wineglass from the mess on the floor. “Stay away!” she shouts. “Bad dog! Really bad dog!”

  Reggie knows he’s blown it. Big-time. He backs away. He lies down with his head between his paws. His ears go flat. He sees he’s in big-time trouble. He looks really, really sorry.

  I take the broken glass out of Mom’s hand. She’s shaking. I tell her he didn’t mean anything by it. It was just a misunderstanding.

  “Don’t go near him,” she says.

  “I’m sure it was a mistake,” I say. “Reggie just thought he was protecting me. He doesn’t like it when people raise their hands, not even to high-five.”

  “No,” she says. “I knew there was something strange about that dog.”

  “I swear it’s only because he thought you were going to hit me.”

  “No,” she says. “It’s in a dog’s nature to attack, just like those wolves on TV.”

  The screen’s melting down all over again.

  I tell Mom to chill, everything’s fine. She says she will not calm down. She has had enough. She is the parent, not me, and for once in my life I am going to stop arguing and do exactly as she says. She tells me to put some food in Reggie’s dish and set it next to the toilet. After that she wants me to call Reggie over and, as soon as he’s eating, lock him in the bathroom for the rest of the night. Above all, I am not to touch him. Do I understand?

  I beg her to listen. I start to explain about Alf Santorello and the Pendletons and Reggie’s career change but she cuts me off. She says to please, please, button it and do as I’m told.

  It’s been a while since I’ve seen her like this—not since that awful mustard night before the Fourth of July—but I know better than to push her any further. I fill Reggie’s food and water bowls in the kitchen and then lock Reggie in the bathroom with them. By the time I get back, Mom has cleaned up most of the macaroni mess. “What was I thinking?” she says to herself, scrubbing at the carpet with a sponge. “Look at this place. Look at your clothes. Look at your hair! What the hell could I have been thinking?”