Chasing AllieCat

by Rebecca Fjelland Davis

  When Megan and I got down to the riverbank, Peapod grinned up at us over the rippling surface of the water and splashed some more. He fished in the shallows, stalking minnows or bullheads and pouncing on them, paws down, nose up. He didn’t catch anything, but Megan said, “He caught a crawdad once. He’s been a fisherdog ever since.”

  Megan took my hand and we walked along the trail by the river. Peapod followed us in the water, pouncing at regular intervals. We stepped around bottles, a fender, chunks of Plexiglass, tires, and a ragged T-shirt among the weeds and scrubby fir trees. Another curve, and dead in front of us was a big tagboard sign, hand-written and nailed to a tree:

  Whoever took my chain saw you better

  bring it back or I will find you and

  fuck you up Steve Olsen 386-0014

  I stopped and stared at the thing. The magic-marker letters were crooked, and ran downhill on each line. And who with half a brain would write a note like that and sign his name? And leave a phone number?

  “What does it say?” Megan asked. She started to read aloud, “Who-ever took my—what’s that?”

  “Chain saw,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

  “Wait! I want to read it.”

  She finished aloud. “F—uck. Fuck!? It says fuck on a sign? That’s bad, bad word, Mommy says.”

  “It’s a bad sign, Megan,” I said. “It gives me the creeps. Let’s get out of here. Peapod, come on.”

  Peapod came bounding and shook dirty river water all over us.

  “Ick!” Megan squealed. “Stop it, stupid Peapod!”

  We followed Peapod uphill. Each wag of his tail sent arcs of dirty water at us. Again, he paused every now and then to check that we were right behind him, as well as to shake.

  When we reached Scout’s, Megan said, “Daddy sprays him off when he’s been in the river.” So we hosed him down and toweled him off with shop rags from the garage. Peapod gave me happy slurps through the whole process.

  “He misses Dad,” Megan said. “But he likes you lots.”

  I nodded. If I was going to be Peapod’s substitute favorite human while Scout was in jail, that was okay with me.

  We didn’t tell Aunt Susan about the chain-saw sign.

  Seven

  AllieCat

  June 1, continued

  I helped Aunt Susan feed the kids peanut butter sandwiches and peaches for lunch, clear the table, and stack the dishwasher. Then I said, “I’m going to go for a ride, okay?”

  She sighed. A big sigh. “I suppose.”

  I ran to my CCC closet to get ready before she could change her mind.

  I was wheeling my Giant out the garage door when Allie came sailing around the corner of the Last Chance and skidded to a stop six inches from my front tire.

  “Good timing,” she said. “I was just wondering if you wanted to ride. I cruised by here once and didn’t see anybody.”

  “Man, am I glad to see you. I gotta get out of there.”

  “I hear ya.”

  “You gotta give me your phone number, so we can plan this instead of just wondering.”

  She jerked her head over her shoulder. “Let’s go this way. I want to show you Mount Kato.” And she took off.

  I stared at her back, and barely had time to wonder why she didn’t answer about her phone number as I threw my leg over my bike, clipped in, and followed.

  Allie stood in her pedals and looked back at me. “So why are you here, Sadie Lester?” She grinned. “I mean, why are you staying at your uncle’s place?”

  “My mom’s gone for the summer. So she sorta dumped me and my brother with Uncle Scout.”

  “Isn’t he in jail? That’s what I heard.”

  I felt like scum of the earth having to answer, “Yeah.”

  “’S’okay,” she said. “I’ve known people in jail.”

  “You have?”

  “Let’s go,” she said. And turned up the pace so all I could do was pedal.

  We followed the road for a ways, then Allie ducked onto a doubletrack trail in the ditch where four-wheelers had worn the grass down to the dirt. At the intersection, we hopped on the paved bike trail for about two miles to Mount Kato.

  “This is where they have races,” she said. “Mountain bike races. It’s a ski hill all winter, but it’s full of bike trails in the back. You gotta get a pass. Then we can ride those trails. Get you ready for the race.”

  “Race?”

  “Fourth of July. You’re doing it. I already told Mike to sign you up.”

  “Mike?”

  “The bike shop owner. A-1 Bike. He’s putting the race on.”

  “When were you gonna tell me that you signed me up?”

  “I just did.” Allie grinned. “It’s only twenty bucks. You can swing that, can’t you? You said you were chicken, so I thought I’d give you a little push. Come on!” And she was off again, cranking uphill this time, away from the mountain biking and ski hill. And I was chasing her wheel again.

  We left a gravel road and followed more doubletrack trail through woods. Allie guided her tires down a short, steep slope into a stream, between the rocks and through the water. I missed following her line by about an inch and hit a minor boulder instead of smooth creekbed. My rear tire came up and the water rushed at me. After the first shock, the water felt good.

  She stopped to wait for me. “Wish I had a camera.”

  I sat up, water swirling around my rear end and my ankles, and pushed to my feet. “How come you always land on your feet—on your wheels?”

  “Not always.”

  “I don’t believe you.” I stepped out of the creek. Water ran from my shorts.

  “Look.” Allie set her bike down and came over to me. “Look. And look.” She pointed to scars on her legs and elbows and one shoulder, healed and embedded in her deep tan. I hadn’t noticed. “Times I didn’t land on my wheels. This is not a sport for beauty queens.” She lifted the edge of her bike short to remind me of our funny bikers’ tan lines.

  “But now, you always land rubber-side down,” I said. “You’re like an alley cat.”

  She laughed. “You’re not the first person to call me that. Some of the guys that race call me AllieCat.”

  “And here I thought I was being so creative.” I rescued my bike and squeezed more water out of the rear end of my shorts.

  “Too bad,” she said. “They beat ya to it. And Sadie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The only people who aren’t chicken are a little stupid. You just gotta ride anyway. Ride through the chicken, you might say. Come on.”

  Allie and I rode out of the woods, me still squishy-wet, over gravel roads and hills and bridges. I dried some from the heat and sun, but mostly I got too sweaty to notice. We got chased by two farm dogs and a crazed-looking old woman under a yellow-brimmed hat who gunned her John Deere garden tractor in our direction. “You nincompoops!” she screamed. “You’re gonna scare my goats!” We rode away as fast as we could.

  At the top of the next hill, we spun slowly to catch our breath. “You nincompoops!” Allie said, laughing. “You think she’d have mowed us down if she caught us?”

  From here, we could see some of Mankato. “Look,” Allie said. “There’s Father Malcolm’s church.”

  “What?”

  She slowed, almost to a stop. “The church by the courthouse. See it?”

  “Not really. I can see three churches. Who’s Father Malcolm?”

  “Just a priest I know. The bronzy-colored steeple. See?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You surprised I know a priest?”

  “Not really. Why would I be?”

  She was already picking up speed on a long gravel descent, and she shot out of hearing range.

>   We pulled into the Last Chance parking lot after three hours of riding. “Can you ride tomorrow?” Allie asked.

  “Yeah. I work until eleven thirty.”

  “I work ’til noon.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “A bakery. Meet ya at one o’clock in front of the Last Chance.” And she was gone.

  My legs were so tired they shook while I leaned against the wall in the shower.

  Eight

  Stitches

  June 2

  The next day at 12:59, Allie sailed up to the Last Chance steps and skidded sideways to a stop in the gravel.

  Peapod rose from his cool spot in the shade and wagged over to her without barking. Allie let him sniff her hand. “You smell my dog, don’t you?”

  “What kind of dog you got?” I asked.

  “Mutt. German shepherd, mostly.” She rubbed behind Peapod’s ears. “What’s this guy’s name?” she asked.

  “Peapod.”

  “Peapod! What kind of name is that for a big bruiser Lab like you?” she asked him. She got off her bike, sat on the step, and rubbed him until he spilled over on his back for her to rub his tummy. “Why’d Scout name him Peapod?”

  “When he was a puppy,” I explained, “he looked like a golden peapod when he slept, Scout said. It stuck.”

  Peapod licked her hand. He would have purred if a dog could purr. Finally I said, “Should we go?”

  “Okay.” Allie took Peapod’s face in both hands, looked him in the eyes and said, “Peapod, you’re a good hound. I wonder what you and Siren would think of each other.”

  “Siren? Your dog is Siren?”

  “Yeah, he howls like one.”

  I laughed.

  “Plus, he lets me know when trouble’s coming.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Yup.” She shrugged and grabbed her bike. “Let’s ride.”

  I followed her rear wheel, trying to imagine what kind of trouble would chase her.

  Two hours later, covered with sweat and dust—the mixture turning to mud on our arms and legs and faces—we climbed toward the top of the highest hill in the county, according to Allie. I was standing in my lowest gear, creeping pedal over pedal. If I went any slower, I’d fall over.

  “They call this ‘Embolism Hill,’” she said.

  I couldn’t breathe enough to say anything in return.

  We were close to the top, maybe only a hundred meters from the crest, when my back tire spun out. We were going up at such an angle, and the gravel was so loose, my tread wouldn’t catch and I thought I’d go over but I stayed up. “Allie!” I said in gasps, “I’m dyin’ here.”

  “No you’re not. You can do this. You just think you’re dyin’. Get more weight over the back tire. Center yourself. Breathe. You can do this. Remember … ” She was panting, too.

  Thank Christ, at least it was hard work for her. My chest was cracking open and my legs were jelly. If this was easy for her, I might have wanted to stab her if I could have, but I couldn’t even breathe, much less wield a weapon.

  “Remember, if it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger. Somebody said that.” Sadie didn’t turn to look at me. She kept her head down, pumping her bike forward. “Ride through the chicken.”

  “This … is gonna … kill me,” I huffed.

  “No it’s not... It’s makin’ … you strong. Shut up … ” she panted, “ … and ride.”

  And she cranked her bike side to side and rode away from me to the crest of the hill.

  A long half minute later, I made it to the top. We spun a quarter mile, letting our legs recover, and then we unclipped, flung ourselves into the grass in the shade of some birch trees, and sat overlooking the Le Sueur River and its valley, sucking on our water bottles and glad for cool grass and shade. We flopped back into the grass and stared through the leaves at the sky, feeling our tired muscles relax and sink toward the center of the earth. The clouds were wisps, free, light on the wind like wild horse tails.

  “So, why are you staying with your uncle this summer?” Allie asked.

  “My parents are in Egypt.”

  “Egypt?” She sat up to look at me.

  “Yup. Dad’s an anthropology professor. An Egyptologist. At the University of Minnesota. He’s doing research on Nefertiti.”

  “Nefer—who?”

  I slapped a mosquito. “Nefertiti. Wife of Akhenaten, a pharaoh of Egypt.” I looked at her for signs of recognition. She’d obviously never heard of Nefertiti, but she was still listening, so I went on. “My dad has this theory that Akhenaten might have really been Moses in the Bible because he promoted monotheism—belief in one god—in Egypt and then disappeared. They never found his grave. But then they think they found Nefertiti, his wife, so it might blow his theory out of the water.” I shrugged. “Who knows.” I quit talking. Nothing worse than the kid of a researcher who thinks she knows something.

  Allie flopped back in the grass. “Wow. A professor’s kid—you’re rich and all that. The perfect life.”

  “Not quite. It’s not like that.”

  “Then how is it?” She half sat, resting on her elbows, staring at me.

  I sat up. “My parents are divorced … and Dad had a girlfriend but they broke up, so he invited Mom to come do research with him this summer. So they’re both in Egypt.”

  “Your mom a professor, too?”

  “No, she teaches high school history.”

  “Perfect life, like I said. You have no clue how good you have it,” Allie said.

  “I don’t know how they’re getting along over there. They won’t talk about that on the phone,” I said. “Not perfect.”

  Allie lay back, pulled a long stem of foxtail grass, and stuck it between her teeth. “Huh. Half the world’s divorced. Big deal. You think your dad would want you hanging out with a convict’s daughter?”

  “A—what did you say?”

  “My dad’s in prison,” she said into the green and blue and white above us, avoiding my eyes.

  I absorbed that for a second. “Wh—Where?”

  “Stillwater.”

  “Prison? What for?”

  “Breaking the law,” she said. “What else?”

  I frowned at her. “Yeah, and Scout’s in jail for breaking a bunch of laws.” I remembered her shrugging that off, saying she knew people who had been in jail. I stared at her, trying to let all this soak in.

  She stared back. “You really think that’s the same thing?”

  “I don’t know. You haven’t told me what your dad did.”

  “Whatever.” She snorted. She lifted one leg in the air, then the other, wiping salty grime from her shins. Then she propped one ankle on her knee and ran her fingers up the inside of her right calf muscle. “Look,” she said. “This is where I sewed myself up.”

  “You what?”

  “Sewed it up myself. Went over the handlebars in a race. Chainring landed here. Ripped it wide open. White fat comin’ out the cut. Blood everywhere. Grease, too. When I got home, nobody was around to take me to the doctor, and we don’t have health insurance, so Mom probably wouldn’t have taken me anyway. So I sewed it up. Poured alcohol in ’til most of the grease came out, then I sewed it up.”

  I felt my mouth hanging open. She grinned at me. “I finished the race first, though,” she said, “bleeding all over the place. I won, too.”

  The scar was thick and white, bordered with white dots from the needle holes.

  “Hurt like hell,” she said. “Not sure I could do it again, if you want to know.”

  “What did you sew it with?”

  “A big curved needle and fine fishing line.”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t think of what to say, and I couldn’t help looking at all t
he holes in her ear and her face, too.

  She saw what I was thinking. “I know. I’m full of holes. You can tell your dad the professor that you have a holy friend, daughter of a convict.”

  “Yeah, great,” I said. “I’ll do that.”

  She jumped up, grabbed her bike. “Let’s go.”

  That was all the talking we did that day.

  Nine

  Aunt Susan’s Nephew

  June 6

  A few days later when I got back from the Blue Ox, Aunt Susan was frying bacon for BLTs. “Sadie, will you make toast, please? And slice tomatoes, too?”

  I nodded, washed my hands, and started toasting.

  Aunt Susan pulled her hand back from the splattering grease. “Ouch. Oh, Sadie. Guess what. One more body to cram into the house.” In her yellowed tank top and stringy hair that needed a wash, she looked more like wilted celery than ever, if that were possible.

  “Who? Why? You’re already overcrowded, aren’t you?”

  “Your cousin Joseph is coming to stay here, too.”

  “My cousin? I don’t have a cousin Joseph. Do I?”

  “Not really. My sister’s son. Joe is the brother of the kid who died last year. Remember when Scout and I flew to Arizona for a funeral? And dropped the kids off at your place? That kid’s twin brother. My sister said he needs to get away for a while.”

  “How old?” I asked, dropping more bread into the four-slice toaster. “And what happened?—I mean, how did he die?”

  “Seventeen. Horrible accident.”

  I waited for more details, but she sealed her lips and shook her head. Obviously an off-limits topic.

  “Seventeen? Great. S’pose I have to give up CCC.”

  Aunt Susan threw me a look over her shoulder and sighed. “I think we’ll put a cot in Scout’s study. Joe’ll be here next week.”

  I spread mayo on toast. “Why’d you say yes?”

  “’Cause I couldn’t say no. It’s not all my fault I’m running a homeless shelter here.”