“Oops! Mrs. Johnston at ten o’clock,” Rita whispers. “Gotta go! Meet you on the playground at the final bell.”
She hangs up.
“Gracias, amiga,” I say, even though I know she’s not there.
scan the second-floor windows, trying to figure out which window is my window, the one I look out of from the library. My carrel still has all of my books and papers and stuff in it. Mr. Gilmore made me do an outline for my independent study, and that’s there too. It’s what I’d be working on this very minute, if things hadn’t gotten so out of hand.
The final bell goes off. Kids start streaming out the doors.
“Hey!” someone shouts. I look over. It’s not Rita. It’s Timmy Burns. He’s pointing at me. Behind him are Chris McDuff and Johnny Hedges.
Should have figured his sense of humor would wear off.
“Run!” I say to Reggie, forgetting the official command.
We run as fast as we can. I don’t look back till we’re safely around the corner of the next block. While I catch my breath, I keep an eye peeled, in case they’re following us. They’re not. But they’re probably lurking around the playground, waiting for me to come back so they can finally beat me up—which I totally don’t need right now. So much for meeting Rita. I could really have used whatever money she might have scrounged up from Lulu McFadden.
Now I don’t have much choice. I have to try and patch things back together between Reggie and Mom. May as well go back to the apartment and wait for her to get back from the Ambulance Chasers.
“Forward!” I say. “Take us home.” Reggie sets off in the direction of Eden Street. He’s already learned that “home” means the apartment in Charlestown, not Alf Santorello’s house in the North End. That makes me feel sad. He doesn’t even realize Charlestown isn’t home for me. At the moment, there’s no such thing as home.
h-oh.
A police cruiser is double-parked in front of our building. Two officers stand at the bottom of our stoop with Mom. She’s talking the ear off one of the cops—showing him how tall and wide something dog-size is with her hands—while the other one reads the note I slipped under her bedroom door last night.
“Stop!” I say to Reggie. “About-face.” We head in the opposite direction before any of them looks up. Time for Plan C, I guess. Mom must really have it out for Reggie if she’s getting the cops involved.
Now we really are running from the law.
ack to crawling through the open front window of Old Alf’s empty house. (We’ve hung around the neighborhood for what seems like ages—until most of the neighbors have gotten home and settled into their suppers.) As soon as I land with a thump inside, though, I realize something’s different. The blinds are up, so I can see pretty well. All the pizza boxes and styrofoam containers are gone. The floors are spotless. The whole place smells like pine cleaner.
“Is anybody there?” I say. All I hear is the echo of my own voice. Whoever cleaned up has come and gone. Then I remember that that’s what you do when you’re selling your house. You make it seem like nobody has ever lived there.
Reggie scratches at the front door.
I unlock it and let him in. I kneel down to have a word with him. “Don’t worry,” I say. “We won’t be here long. We’re just lying low for an hour or two while I figure out what to do.”
He sticks his tongue in my ear.
“Gross,” I say, but it makes me feel a little better. Because I feel totally weird breaking back into Old Alf’s house now that I’ve yelled at him.
“So where’s the bathroom in this joint?” I say to Reggie. “I gotta pee again.”
I open the first door down the hall leading off the entryway. Reggie follows tight at my heels. It looks like a little office. I try the next door. A bathroom—psyched! I don’t usually leave the bathroom door open, but Reggie doesn’t seem to want to leave my side. It creeps me out a little that he’s watching me lift the lid and do my business. Then again, I watch him go all the time. When I’m done, I flush. The whoosh seems really loud—like, loud enough for the neighbors to hear—which freaks me out—maybe I should have just left it. Or maybe flushing is always that loud and I’ve never noticed before. I don’t wash my hands at the sink, just in case. Instead I peek in the medicine cabinet. Empty. That makes me want to check the cabinet under the sink. Also empty, except for a few cleaning products. No towels on the rack, no toilet paper in the dispenser, no soap in the dish. There is a bathroom scale beside the toilet, though. I stand on it.
“Eighty-two pounds,” says a computer voice.
I jump back, trying not to laugh. I step just one foot back on.
“Forty-four pounds,” it says.
I wonder what other gizmos Old Alf left behind.
I go back to the little office. Every drawer and shelf and cupboard is marked with a Braille strip, and there’s even a Braille calendar on the desk. Way in the back of the top drawer, I find a plastic wallet with individual sleeves for keeping all the different kinds of bills separate. No money, though. I also find a deck of Braille playing cards and, best of all, a talking compass. I stuff these last two things into my knapsack, just in case.
At the end of the hall there’s an old I Love Lucy kitchen. Reggie scoots past me to the back door and scratches at it. I raise the shade and peek out. A small yard surrounded by a high wooden fence. On the right side, there’s a gate opening onto an alleyway that must lead to the street. Old Alf couldn’t have been much of a gardener. There aren’t any nice trees or bushes or flowers back there. In fact, there’s barely any grass. Just mounds and mounds of dried-up dog poop. Poor ol’ Reggie. No wonder he likes Monument Square so much. He whines and scratches again. Fair’s fair, I guess. I open the door just enough for him to squeeze through. “Be quick about it,” I say. He sniffs twice around the yard before he finds a fresh spot. As soon as he does his business, he comes back. Good boy.
All the knobs and buttons on the stove have Braille stickers. Each of the cooking rings has a funny-looking guardrail around it—so you don’t burn your hand by mistake, I guess. Every cabinet door is also labeled with a plastic Braille strip. I open them all up. The plates and cups and silverware are still there and they’re all normal. But the food cabinets have been emptied out, except for crumbs and a few toothpicks.
There’s a set of five canisters on the counter. I peek inside one. Nothing. Then I notice the lids all have two buttons labeled in Braille: one big black one and a smaller red one beside it. I press a black button.
“Tea bags,” the canister says—not in a computer voice, but in a real man’s voice—Alf Santorello’s voice.
Reggie starts barking.
I drop the lid. I wheel around and clamp my hand over his muzzle. “Shh!” I say. “Are you crazy?” He backs away, grumbling. I let him go. I’m dying to press all the other buttons, but I’m afraid Reggie will go mental. I pick up the lid I’ve dropped and press the little red button. Nothing happens, except a hissing noise. I try again. Nothing.
Then I get it.
I press the little red button again and I say, “Reggie.” I wait a second, and press the big black button.
“Reggie,” the canister says in my voice.
Reggie looks up and cocks his head.
Awesome.
I reset all five canisters so that when you press the black buttons in order they say, “Nicky. And. Reggie. Were. Here.” Hopefully, we’ll be long gone before anyone figures it out. But it will be kind of cool when they do.
Suddenly I spy a phone on the wall. Why didn’t I notice it before? It has gigantic buttons, and each of the numbers is also written in Braille dots. I go over and take the receiver off the hook to listen. The phone company hasn’t shut it off yet!
From off my hand, I dial Rita’s number.
“It’s me, Nicky,” I say when she picks up.
“Dude, where were you? I waited for you for, like, an hour.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Complications. Plus my mom
called the police. They were swarming our apartment when we went by. They must be after Reggie.”
“Are you sure they’re not looking for you?” Rita says. “The school principal went around to every class this afternoon asking whether anyone had seen you.”
I explain the whole story about how Reggie misunderstood Mom’s lame attempt at a high-five and tackled her, thinking he was protecting me. I tell her how freaked-out Mom was and how she made me lock him in the bathroom. I tell her I’m pretty sure Mom won’t have Reggie back in the house for love nor money, but as far as I’m concerned, it has to be a package deal.
“Well, what are you going to do?” Rita says.
“Go live with my dad,” I say. It just pops out of my mouth. But once it does, it makes total sense, because it’ll kill two birds with one stone: save Reggie from the pound, and get me out of the mess I’ve made. Mom said he was working all weekend but I don’t know that for sure. She lies. And so what if he is? Reggie and I can just hang out and play video games at his new place till he gets home from the office.
“Where does your dad live?” Rita says.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “An apartment somewhere in Littleton. Mom hasn’t really let us see each other since we moved to Boston—even though he’s supposed to get me two weekends a month. She keeps telling me he’s busy.”
“Why?”
“It’s her way of getting back at him, I guess.”
“You sure he’s not just busy?” Rita says. “My mom would welcome a couple of weekends off from me every month. But, hey, it’s your life. If you want, I can go online as soon as my mom gets off the computer and search the electronic White Pages in Littleton for your dad’s address and phone number. What’s his first name?”
I can’t believe I never thought of that myself.
“Nicholas,” I say. “Like mine: Nicholas Flynn.”
“I’ll call you right back,” Rita says. “What’s the number there?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s in Braille.”
“Where the heck are you?” she says.
“It’s a long story,” I say. “I’ll just call you in half an hour, OK?”
There’s this big, long pause. “Nicky, I gotta tell ya, I really think you should try and work things out with your mom. I mean, she can’t be all that bad, can she? There’s got to be some reason you’re living with her and not with your dad.”
“Gotta go,” I say. “I’ll call you in thirty minutes.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” she says.
We hang up.
I stand there at the phone. For a second, I consider taking Rita’s advice. I consider dialing our apartment on Eden Street. But in the end, I don’t. In the end I dial the number of our old house back in Littleton. A recorded voice tells me the number has been disconnected, please hang up and dial again. I don’t. I wait for the rapid beeping to stop. And into the dead silence I say, “Hello? Dad? It’s me, Nicky. Oh, I’m OK. Long time no see. I was walking the Freedom Trail today and thought of you. Hey, I finally got that dog I always wanted. He’s a shepherd. His name is Reggie. Listen, Dad, I know you’re a little busy this weekend. But Reggie and I are in kind of a tight spot. I was wondering if you could come into Boston and pick us up? We’re over at Noyes Place in the North End. No, we’re both OK. It’s just a little misunderstanding. I’ll explain everything when you get here.”
I hang up. Role-playing is definitely overrated.
on’t be fooled by old Westerns. Hiding out from the law is no fun. All you do is sit around wondering if you’re going to get caught. There’s still ten minutes to go before I can call Rita back. I’m sitting at the coffee table in the living room, losing at a game of Solitaire with Old Alf’s deck of Braille cards. Reggie is snoring at my feet. I mean, literally. He sounds just like Mom when she dozes in front of the TV. But I don’t poke Reggie with my toe to make him stop. He probably didn’t get much shut-eye standing guard over me last night.
I can’t stop thinking about Old Alf.
As anyone with cable TV knows, the evidence in a Dr. Ice case can sometimes suggest more than one possible outcome. I’m worried I may have jumped to a few too many conclusions. What if Alf Santorello is actually a nice enough old guy who is way into the latest gadgets. What if he’s tried his best not to let his blindness get him down by leading a normal life, chatting and playing bocce with his old platoon buddies, buying cutlets at the local butcher shop. What if that’s why he got Reggie in the first place—because a guide dog is way better than a cane for getting around. But what if Old Alf can’t help but be a little cranky now and then, especially when cab drivers grab his arm—just like the duck boat driver did with me when I was pretending to be blind—or when nice neighbors like Jenny pet Reggie, even though he’s clearly working. What if, with all he goes through each and every day, the intelligent disobedience clause of Reggie’s contract just slipped Old Alf’s mind. And what if, when he stepped out into the street with his mind on his troubles—even if Reggie tried to block the way—a bike messenger accidentally hit him?
“This is the place!” a loud voice outside says. “Just follow me!”
Reggie is up on his feet in a flash. He bounds over to the window to check out the situation.
“I’m not going to lie to you,” says the voice. “She’s been a little neglected lately. But underneath she has all her original charm.”
I creep across the floor to peek through the blinds. It’s dark out now, but from the orange glow of the streetlamps I can make out a man in a suit leaning against his car, talking to a young couple. He’s bald and has nerdy glasses. He’s carrying a clipboard in one hand, pointing with his pen at the house with the other. The three of them start walking toward the stoop.
“A real bargain for someone with a little vision and the handyman spirit.”
“Time to make tracks!” I whisper to Reggie.
I scoop up the cards and stuff them into my knapsack. We both hightail it for the kitchen. I can hear them coming up the stoop. The real-estate guy tells the couple the place is being sold as is. If they don’t want any of the furniture, arrangements can easily be made with Goodwill. That makes me feel a little better about taking the cards and compass and harness. Reggie and I slip out the back door just as the realestate guy is opening the front one. We make a break for it down the little side alleyway as soon as they all step inside.
“Time for Plan D,” I say to Reggie. “Or whichever one we’re on now.”
When we get to Prince Street, we don’t turn toward Charlestown. Instead we cross it and keep heading up Salem. Before you know it, we’re at the Old North Church, where Paul Revere saw the two lanterns the night of his midnight ride. The iron gate is locked up tight. Rats! But wait, I know for a fact there’s a graveyard a little ways down Hull Street. It’s called Copp’s Hill Burying Ground. Dad and I shared a soda there the day we did the Freedom Trail. I’m not so thrilled about the fact that I’m about to break into a misty old graveyard. But no one would ever find us there. And as soon as the gate is opened tomorrow, we could just sneak out. Unfortunately, all these thoughts of white patriot ghosts suddenly start popping into my head. I shove them aside as best I can. I’m too pooped, frankly, to find someplace less haunted.
I case the graveyard, just like on TV. The whole front side is fenced off. I don’t remember if the fence runs all the way around or not. So I take Reggie down a side street called Snow Hill Avenue to find out. Near the end I spy a huge green construction dumpster leaning up against the fence. Whoever is fixing up their house across the street has parked their Cadillac beside the dumpster. “Come on, boy,” I say, climbing up onto the hood. Reggie hesitates. “Forward!” I say in my best command voice. He whines, but obeys me and jumps up. The metal buckles a little under our weight and Reggie’s toenails make a scratching sound that goes right through me. When I climb onto the Caddy’s roof, though, Reggie follows me up the windshield without giving me a hard time. From there it’s
easy enough to hoist myself onto the top of the dumpster. Thank God it’s closed!
I size up the iron fence. It has one of those spiky tops to keep out the riffraff. It’s a little farther away from the dumpster than I thought, but I decide to jump over anyway. I command Reggie to sit, and I unhook his leash. I stuff it into my knapsack, then toss it into the graveyard. There’s a loud glass-breaking sound when it hits the ground. Oops, forgot about the cereal bowl. Hope the talking compass is OK.
Sitting at the edge of the dumpster, I lower myself feet-first onto the top rail, placing my sneakers in between the spikes. I hold my breath and push off. For a second, I’m balanced on top of the fence, which feels really scary and kind of cool at the same time. Then I half jump, half fall into the graveyard. Well, mostly fall. I land pretty hard on my hands and knees. Luckily the grass is soft and wet. I scramble to my feet, wiping my hands on my pant legs.
Reggie whines from the top of the dumpster.
“Come on, boy,” I say.
He looks down at me. He whines again.
“Come!” I say.
He crouches to jump. But he doesn’t quite dare.
“Good boy,” I say. “Really good boy.”
He jumps then. He jumps clear over the fence. It’s almost like he’s flying for a few seconds—a phantom flying dog in the moonlight—and it’s sort of beautiful to watch. He lands on his front paws first. But when his hind legs hit the ground, his right hip buckles beneath him. He squeals and struggles onto all fours. His bum leg! I totally forgot! It wobbles at first, but that doesn’t stop ol’ Reggie. He limps over to me and licks my hand.
I tell him to heel. I try rubbing his hind leg, like a massage, but he cries when I touch it. I look around for a place where we can rest. The pickings are pretty slim. So I lead him over to a long, flat tombstone the size of a human body—totally creepy, I know, but it’s dry, at least. I stretch out on it, using my knapsack as a pillow. I pat the spot next to me. Reggie hobbles up, circles once or twice, and then settles onto his good hip with a groan. It’s freezing out here, and I can see my breath. I wrap my arms around Reggie for warmth. “Sorry, boy,” I whisper into his ear. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
How I Got a Life and a Dog Page 14
