Bluefish

by Pat Schmatz

  Travis hadn't gone for a walk since they'd moved, unless you counted his runaway from school. That day, he'd been in the same not- thinking place he went in a fight - no planning or figuring or feeling. Sometimes his body just did things on its own.

  Like in the dream, when he shoved Grandpa. The pain and panic of letting Rosco slip away through the crowd had been so real. Not the everyday dull-tooth chewing in his chest, but sharp like the morning cold where the sun hadn't touched yet.

  If only he had taken Rosco with him that morning a few weeks ago. "Stay," he'd said, knowing he was more likely to see the fox pups if Rosco wasn't along.

  Rosco had flopped in the driveway and watched him go, sad- eyed.

  And Travis hadn't even seen the pups, just a few chipmunks and a woodpecker. On his way home, he'd given the high- low whistle, expecting Rosco to come trotting along the path. He hadn't, and when Travis came out of the woods, the truck was gone. That's when his stomach got nervous. Rosco never went anywhere without him or Grandpa. And Grandpa never took Rosco anywhere except to the vet.

  He went inside and shuffleed around the house, looking out windows and waiting. Lunchtime came and went without a phone call. The truck finally pulled up in the driveway late in the afternoon, and Travis ran out to the front porch.

  "Where's Rosco?" he asked as Grandpa got out of the truck.

  "Not with you?"

  "No, I made him stay. He wasn't here when you left?"

  "I thought he was withyou."

  Travis followed Grandpa into the house. Grandpa cracked a beer and slugged it back, his Adam's apple moving under loose skin as he swallowed.

  "That means he's been gone for hours," said Travis.

  "We'd better go look for him."

  Grandpa took another drink, then looked at Travis for the first time.

  "He's an old dog, Trav. Old dogs sometimes go away and don't come back."

  "What do you mean?" Travis's voice cracked high.

  "I mean he might have left for a reason, and we should leave him be."

  Travis walked miles through the woods that afternoon, along the roads and fields until after dark. His throat hurt from calling, and his whistle went dry.

  When he got home, the truck was gone. Maybe Rosco had come back, hurt or sick, and Grandpa had taken him to the vet.

  Travis turned on the TV and stared at it, waiting for the sound of truck tires on the gravel. When it finally came, it pulled Travis out of a deep foggy sleep, and early- morning sun filtered in the window. He jumped off the couch and ran out to the porch.

  Grandpa got out of the truck, unsteady.

  "Where's Rosco?" asked Travis.

  "How should I know?"

  The words shot liquid hot rage surging through

  Travis. Grandpa hadn't been at the vet; he'd gone to the bar. Stayed out all night with Rosco missing, maybe sick or hurt somewhere. Travis stepped forward hard just as Grandpa grabbed the railing. Grandpa flinched, lost his balance, and fell slow- motion off the stair. He landed in a crumple on the gravel.

  The hot liquid inside Travis turned immediately to cold sludge, the way it did every time he blew and someone ended up on the ground. Grandpa stared up as if he'd never seen Travis before. Then he shook his head and awkwardly pushed himself off the gravel. He limped back to the truck without a look or a word. He got in, slammed the door, started the engine, and left.

  Travis spent hours in the woods again, calling, whistling, looking under bushes. His stomach was a wrench of gut juice, and his mind spun with half hammered excuses. I didn't touch you! You fell all by yourself. And over it all: He's an old dog, Trav. Old dogs sometimes go away and don't come back.

  The truck was in the drive when he got home.

  "Rosco?" he called softly as he opened the screen door.

  Grandpa got up from the couch. He looked like he'd been crawling under bushes himself.

  Whitefaced, the skin around his jaw sagging. He picked up his keys from the counter, and his hand shook so much, they clanked together. "I'm going out for a bit."

  "I didn't find him," said Travis. "Don't you even care?"

  Grandpa walked out the door without answering.

  Travis stared at the refrigerator. Did drinking really make it all go away? As if nothing happened, nothing hurt, and you just don't care? Maybe it was worth a try. He pulled the handle and looked in. Milk, eggs, cheese. A few apples.

  Not a single can of beer. He checked the liquor cabinet.

  Completely empty. No wonder Grandpa had to go out.

  The house was creepy- quiet. No doggie snores, no click- click of toenails or thump of scratching, no slurping in the water dish. Quiet in a way Travis had never heard, not as far back as he could remember.

  Grandpa always said a good dog needs work, and the night Travis's mom went to the hospital and didn't come back, Rosco found his job.

  Travis's dad died in an accident three months later, and then Rosco forgot all about being anyone's dog. He became Travis's mom and dad and a couple of brothers thrown in. That's what Grandpa said.

  For almost a month now, Travis had woken up every day with no Rosco. No mom, no dad, no imaginary brothers. Grandpa had given him up from the first day. He didn't even care. What if Travis disappeared? Oh, well, sometimes kids go away and don't come back.

  Travis kicked a beer can. It landed with a dull tink on the road ahead, and a roar exploded from the ditch on the other side of a driveway. Travis jumped straight sideways and came down eyeball- to- eyeball with a snarling, mean-eyed dog. Its lip was curled all the way back to show pink and black gums above sharp white teeth.

  "Ohhhhh, hey, easy now."

  Travis backed away, looking down, sideways, anywhere but directly into those eyes. His body twitched with wanting to run. He forced himself to step slow and willed the dog to stay in its driveway. The dog kept snarling that low- throated growl, its tail pointing straight back. One wrong move and it would start throat ripping. Travis kept talking in a low, easy voice.

  "Sorry, I didn't see your driveway there. I know, you're just doing your job, and woo, you're good at it. Look, I'm leaving, see? Here I go."

  He didn't take a full breath until he was a good fifty feet away. Then he snuck a look over his shoulder. The dog trotted back up the drive, all relaxed, looking like he'd just gone out to get the mail and not like he'd been threatening murder. Travis grinned. He knew how that felt. KaBLOW, snarl, and snap, and then it's over, and hey, did I just bite your leg off ? Sorry - I didn't really mean to.

  A woodpecker hammered nearby, and Travis sucked in a big lungful of crisp air. He stepped into the cornfield, walked down a row far enough that he couldn't see the road, and lay down. The ground under his back was solid, dry, reassuring. The corn enclosed him in green, stalks on either side, the blades forming a shifting ceiling overhead.

  Maybe that was his problem. He'd been raised by a dog, so he didn't know how to act right around people.

  Grandpa was no help - that was for sure. In the days after Rosco left, he was either gone or holed up in his room.

  After a few days of that, he told Travis that he'd been going to Alcoholics Anonymous. And that they were moving.

  "We can't leave! What if Rosco comes back?"

  "Trav, it's been almost a week. He's not coming back."

  "But what about that dog that took months to get from Texas to Alaska? He might be doing something like that."

  "Because Rosco got to Texas how?"

  After that, everything rattled by in an unreal kind of nightmare. Packing up, cleaning the place they'd always lived. At first Travis refused to help.

  What if Rosco came back and they were gone? Grandpa finally called Chuck, the landlord, and asked him to give the new renters their number and keep an eye out for Rosco. He talked at Travis all the time about "one day at a time" and

  "easy does it" and blah blah. He said over and over that it was high time for things to change.

  Well, they'd changed, all right.
Travis pushed himself up off the ground. He emerged from the cornfield and looked back toward the snarling dog's driveway. Next time he went by there, he'd have a little bit of something good to eat in his pocket. He turned the other way and kept walking.

  on SATURDAY

  This day started with reality crawling up my face and jabbing me in the eyeballs before I was even awake. Reminding me it's all no- Calvin weekends.

  Then I remembered: new job.

  Connie sent me to the bakery. She uses cookies and doughnut holes to lure people into the library, and then she hits them over the head with books. I told her I don't read books, and she said, "If you work in my library, you do," and I asked her if she was going to fire me and she shoved a book in my hands.

  Calvin, your friend Connie is a fanatic.

  But she gave me twenty dollars for working and a few doughnut holes, even though I kept running across the street to the Laundromat to punch quarters, because when else am I going to do it? After work, I hid the laundry under a towel and headed home, rattling my little red wagon behind me.

  When I got to the hedges on the library side yard, Travis suddenly apparated in front of me. I spun a round kick to his head, dropped to the ground, and swept his feet out from under, all Crouching Tiger and Hidden Dragon. Or maybe I just shoved him really hard in the chest. I'm not sure

  - I was kinda startled.

  I stood over him and said, "Holy crapoly, man, don't jump out at me like that. I just about killed you with my lethal hands."

  He stood up smiling, like I couldn't have done him a bigger favor than bashing him flat on the cement. I told him I was going to buy him a cowbell so he couldn't sneak up on me, and he lit up so red, you could find your way through a dark tunnel by the glow off his face. I have to say, it's cute, the way he reds up so fast.

  Then he got all nosy, asking what was in my wagon. I told him it was contraband from the crystal- methlab and pointed at the library. He asked what was in there really.

  "Um, llllibrrrarrrreeee," I said, pointing to that big sign in front of the building.

  Talk about sensitive. He flinched like I'd just smacked him twelve days from Tuesday. He walked off without even saying good- bye. So to make up for being sarcastic, I called after him and offered up a doughnut hole. He turned around and stared at that day- old doughnut hole like I'd offered him rat bait from a garbage can, which kinda ouched my feelings because I was just trying to make up for knocking him over and all.

  "Okay, I'm busted," I said. "The doughnut hole is laced with crystal meth. What are you going to do, arrest me here on the sidewalk? Not without a warrant, buddy."

  I shoved the bakery bag back in the wagon and started walking. I got about five steps away when he called out my name, so of course I had to turn around.

  "I'm not really an undercover cop," he said.

  We faced off like gunfighters on Main Street, fifty paces apart, staring at each other. He stood there, hands in his pockets, looking like he wouldn't know how to shoot even if you handed him a .357 snub with PULL THIS written in pink nail polish on the trigger.

  "I'm not really carrying meth," I said. "I'm just taking my laundry home."

  He nodded. I nodded. He gave me one of his little shadow smiles and walked off.

  Here's the other thing about Travis. He has the prettiest eyes. I'm not sure what color they are. Sometimes I think they're green, but then I think maybe they're brown or even dark blue. I can't get a good look because of how he half shades them with his lids or looks away. Someday I hope to get ten seconds or so to have a good stare and call them a color.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Monday morning, Travis had just put the toast in when Grandpa's morning hack- and- spit show started. Then came the flick of the lighter, and smoke crawled under the bedroom door.

  "Don't suppose you made me any." Grandpa stepped into the kitchen, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

  Travis shook his head. He spread butter on his toast.

  "Nope, course not," Grandpa answered himself.

  He closed the bathroom door behind him and up with more gross morning noises. The house was too small, with every door opening onto the kitchen/living room area. You could put two of this house, or maybe three, into their old place.

  By the time Grandpa came out of the bathroom, Travis was at the sink, washing dishes.

  "Why are you up so early, anyway?"

  "Felt like it."

  "You've turned into a fair smart- ass, you know that?

  You get all your homework done this weekend, smart boy?"

  Travis shut off the water and turned around as Grandpa stubbed out the cigarette.

  "Since when do you care about my homework?"

  "Since I quit drinking. You know how many days I got?"

  "Days of what?"

  "Days sober, Travis. Do you notice anything besides yourself around here?"

  Travis opened the front door and let some air in so he wouldn't pass out from secondhand smoke.

  "Thirty days today," said Grandpa. "Thirty days without a drink."

  "Congratulations. When you going to quit smoking?"

  Grandpa shifted his cigarette to his left hand, made a pistol out of his right, squinted down the barrel of his finger at Travis, and shot. Then he blew his fingertip like he thought he was some old- time cowboy and gave a hard grin.

  "Get outta here," he said. "Before you ruin my good day."

  Travis had over an hour before school started, so he grabbed a doughnut and turned right instead of left. He walked fast along the gravel shoulder, trying to warm up. The heavy dew had a whisper of frost, and the sun was high enough to light the treetops but not to put any warm thon the road.

  He slowed as he got close to the dog's driveway and gave a high- low whistle.

  The dog came roaring down the driveway, lip snarled and hair spiking up the back of his neck. Travis stood maybe fifteen feet away from the drive, turned slightly away from the dog. He broke off a chunk of doughnut and tossed it between them. The dog ignored

  it and stood with legs and tail stiff , row wow wow, but his lip wasn't curled quite as high as last time.

  "Hi, dog," said Travis. "Whats a matter, you don't like day- olds?"

  He crossed to the other side of the road, keeping up a low, steady stream of chatter.

  "You want to be more careful, jumping out at people like that. You could end up on your butt on the sidewalk."

  The dog stopped barking, but a growl vibration motored deep in his throat.

  Travis tossed another chunk to the shoulder on the dog's side of the road. The dog glanced down, then locked his gaze back on Travis.

  "I'm leaving, see? Didn't even come close to your drive."

  After a few more steps, he turned to walk backward and caught the dog nosing the doughnut up off the ground. Travis smiled. Not so tough after all.

  He was tempted to step into the cornfield, but everything was wet with dew and he'd be soaked before he got five feet in. He followed the same route he'd taken Saturday, circling into town. He came up to the place where Velveeta had knocked him flat. He'd seen her coming out of the building and panicked, hiding behind the hedge, but then she'd turned that way and he was afraid she'd see him hiding, so he'd stepped out and whomp. Smackdown.

  What a complete and total bluefish. No wonder they all made fun of him in Salisbury. If they started in on him here, it'd be even worse, because there was no place to go.

  Back home, he used to pick up dead branches and whack them on trees as hard as he could, breaking them down to kindling. Or he'd grab the ax and work on the woodpile, slamming into chunks of oak, splitting them clean. With that and Rosco on his side, he could put a cork in it and when the hissing and fssshing started up, just walk away.

  Unless someone touched him. Then it was all over.

  Not Velveeta, though. He grinned and shook his head.

  She had knocked him flat so fast, he hadn't had time to get mad. She bashed him har
der than he'd knocked Joey Nizmanski last November in the boys'

  bathroom, when Joey hit his head on the sink and got himself a concussion and Travis a suspension.

  All Travis got from Velveeta was a bit of road rash on his hands. No name calling, no laughing, not even a halfway eye- rolled glance that said he wasn't worth looking at. No, instead there was the sound of her voice when she said she wasn't carrying meth, just laundry, and the nod that came after. Whatever she'd packed into the words and the nod, it was something Travis had never felt coming his way before. It almost made him look forward to school. He picked up his pace so he wouldn't be late for first period.

  on MONDAY

  I don't get it. I figured Travis and I would be partners for the social- studies project. I had this great idea about a really easy skit we could do, but he kept saying no to everything and then at lunch he went down from six words to two.

  I couldn't even get him to crack his famous tiny almost- smile.

  After our

  Saturday morning sidewalk shootout, I thought we might actually be friends of some kind.

  But what do I know about friends? Everyone loves Velveeta, hahaha. I'm everyone's entertainment monkey, and they all want me to sit with them at lunch or be in their group.

  But how often do they invite me to their birthday parties?

  Remember my ninth birthday? When you got all those goofy stuffed animals from Goodwill and put party hats on them? That was the best birthday of my whole life.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Velveeta ignored Travis all day Tuesday. She didn't jab him in the neck one time during social studies, and when Ms. Gordon said they'd be working on projects the next day, she didn't say a word.

  He'd figured the social studies project would ruin everything, but he wasn't ready for it to happen quite so fast. She didn't look over at him during reading.

  She sat with a bunch of girls at lunch, and he sat alone, with Amber Raleigh at the other end of the table, reading. At least in Salisbury he ate with the other dumb kids, not all by himself.