Bluefish

by Pat Schmatz

  The wind picked up, blowing hail and rain onto the porch.

  Grandpa opened the door.

  "Come in here."

  "No."

  "You're half- dressed and barefoot."

  Travis kept feeling the thump, the gravel, the blood.

  The mud lump rose in his throat, and he tried to swallow it.

  "I'd never hurt Rosco," Grandpa said through the screen. "Rather run over myself."

  Why couldn't he stop, just quit talking, stop it? When Travis grabbed the door handle, Grandpa stepped aside and let him pass. He went directly to his room to get a shirt. Grandpa followed, standing in the doorway.

  "Stormed like this the night your mama got sick. They left you alone in the house when they went to the hospital. Called me to babysit, said you were sound asleep."

  Travis grabbed a pair of socks, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled them on.

  He had to get out of there, storm or not.

  "You weren't in your bed when I got there. Rosco found you hiding in your mama's closet. You latched right on to him. Squeezed his big long ear, and he didn't yipe or say a word. From that day on, he was your dog, not mine. You think I'd take that away from you? What kind of sonuva bitch do you think I am?"

  Every word felt like a punch to Travis's chest, opening up the places he kept sealed off and secret. He couldn't remember the things Grandpa was saying, but he could feel them. He yanked his shoes on.

  "When I hear you whimpering in your sleep, it always reminds me of that night."

  Travis grabbed a sweatshirt and slammed through the kitchen and out the front door. The second he got outside, the mud ball in his throat broke loose for the first time in years. The hail had turned to rain, and he walked into it, fast and hard. The water from the sky mixed with the water on his face. The raindrops dove into puddles like bullets.

  In that dark closet, reaching out for Rosco, the only thing he had. . . . Only Rosco wasn't there. Travis almost doubled over with the pain of it, sobs jerking him so hard he could barely walk.

  He stopped at the bridge and grabbed the railing. His breath shook its way in, raggedy, and came out in sobs.

  The rain pulled, heavy and cold, on his sweatshirt. A passing car sprayed up water, soaking him from behind. He shivered as the cold crawled under his clothes, under his skin, all the way inside. He gulped in a bite of air, and another, but he couldn't stop the sobbing. He leaned over the water, hair dripping in his face.

  Finally his chest stopped heaving. That was almost worse. Hollow and freezing cold. He hurried through town and into the school building, sloshing in his shoes.

  Down the stairs to the locker room. He landed on a bench and dropped his head into his hands. The tears rolled again, and his whole body shook with each breath. Those long soft ears. They felt like safe. Like not alone. Th- thud, blood. Did Grandpa run over his head?

  He shivered harder.

  "Travis?"

  He almost jumped out of his goose- bumped skin.

  "Are you okay?"

  Bradley sat on a roll of wrestling mats in the corner by the showers. Travis hadn't even looked that way when he'd walked in, never thought anyone would be there so early. He wiped his hand over his face.

  "Fine."

  He cleared his throat to cover the quaver in his voice and pulled his sweatshirt over his head. It sucked and clung to him, hard to get off. If only he could hide in there forever. He took it into the shower area and wrung it out, his hands still shaking. He dumped the water out of his shoes, took off his socks, and wrung those, too.

  "Here." Bradley appeared in the entryway with a towel. "You can use this."

  Travis took the towel and rubbed his hair dry, wishing Bradley would go away.

  When he finally pulled the towel away from his face, Bradley was perched back on the wrestling mats. Travis took off his clammy T- shirt, full of cold rain and heat from his skin. He scrubbed the towel over his arms and back and chest, trying to rub in some warmth.

  He wrung the T- shirt as dry as he could get it, and then pulled it back on.

  That made him cold all over again.

  His jeans were still dripping. He pulled on his wet socks and forced his feet into his shoes. He dried his face one more time and came out of the shower, tossing the towel to Bradley.

  "You okay?" Bradley asked again.

  Bradley had seen him sitting on the bench, must have heard those chokey noises coughing up his throat. Knew he'd been crying. Travis glanced at the clock.

  "You look like you swam here," said Bradley.

  Travis turned up one corner of his mouth and shrugged, the closest he could get to saying thanks. He left the locker room and ran upstairs to McQueen's office.

  "Not an umbrella user, Mr. Roberts?" McQueen said when he showed up in the doorway.

  "No, and I forgot to bring the book." Another cold shudder ran through him.

  "How far do you live from here?"

  "Not far."

  "Here - here's a tardy pass." McQueen scribbled on a pad. "Go home and get some dry clothes on. You can't sit in school like that. We'll work on Haunt Fox fourth period. You won't miss anything."

  on WEDNESDAY

  It's lunchtime and I'm in the girls' bathroom. Everything sucks so bad. This morning I snuck checked Calvin's doorknob and it's locked and me with no key. My scarves are in there, What if I can't get them back?

  I walked to school in the pouring- down rain. First person I saw was Bradley.

  He held up this little sign in front of his face: SAY YES. At first I couldn't figure out what it meant, but then I remembered about the stupid dance. I will not be saying yes.

  Travis was absent. What if he really does have leukemia and now he's dying?

  What if our fight in the library pushed away his will to live?

  Fourth period, I met with McQueen. I asked him how Travis was doing, and he said it was none of my business.

  Can you believe that? He one- trick- ponied me into helping and then says it's not my business and we're here to talk about me, not Travis, and Travis is turning his life around and what about me? He said, "Word on the street is you're not doing any homework." I told him we don't have streets in Russet. We only have roads. Then his social- worker starey eyes pounded me into a corner, and he said it's time to decide while I still have choices and I lose a choice or two every day I don't do homework.

  I told him my only choices are which bar I waitress at.

  He asked if I was trying to make that be so.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  By the time Travis passed the farm where Grandpa had stopped him on the first day of school, the sun peeked between the layers of gray, and a cool breeze had come up. His hair was almost dry, but his feet were still soggy.

  McQueen's tardy pass was soaked in the pocket of his wet jeans.

  Lenski's cornfield. He should be able to get there before nightfall. It'd be easier if he had some water. Or money, so he could buy something when he passed through Salisbury. His stomach was hollow, and his mouth dry.

  The sun climbed the layers of clouds, and big holes of blue opened in the sky.

  Travis peeled off his damp sweatshirt and tied it around his waist. A couple of potato trucks passed, loaded to the top. He'd just passed the county line when the pickup pulled over on the opposite shoulder.

  "Get in," Grandpa called out the window.

  Travis kept walking.

  "You've got maybe fourteen miles to go. Give or take.

  And you'll never find it if I don't show you. Get in."

  Grandpa puttered along in the gravel, matching his speed.

  "God, you're a stubborn shit."

  He stopped, got out, slammed the truck door, and crossed the road. He didn't light up. He just walked alongside, keeping pace, even though Travis was going at a good clip.

  "Look, I know I knocked you off your pins this morning. I'm sorry."

  Travis had never heard those words out of Grandpa's mouth.

 
"Get in the truck and I'll take you there, right now."

  Travis's feet hurt, especially his right heel. He felt like the skin might rot off if he didn't get it dry.

  "Please? Get in the truck? I brought a sandwich along in case I found you."

  Please? He'd never heard that word before, either.

  Travis made a sharp right, cutting Grandpa off. He crossed the road and walked back toward the truck. The lighter flicked behind him as Grandpa lit up. Travis got in the truck, took off his shoes, and peeled off his wet socks. The muscles in his legs twitched and quivered.

  Grandpa came along, walking slowly now, dragging on his cigarette. Finally he got in and started the engine without a word. Travis grabbed the peanut-butter sandwich. Rammed it down and wished for some water, but not enough to say anything out loud. No sound in the truck but the tires on the road and sometimes the blinker.

  Everything sparkled from the rain. That storm had washed out the last of summer, and now it was really fall.

  The leaves showed patches and runs of color. Sharp reds and bright yellows, breathing through the green.

  The roads started to turn familiar, the ones Travis had ridden on the school bus for eight years. A couple of miles from the old place, Grandpa turned onto a dirt two- track with a line of trees on one side and a cornfield on the other.

  The corn had been cut, and the chopped- off stalks poked up out of the dirt, stretching in a wide pattern of yellow and brown. All dead. Grandpa stopped the truck.

  "Look," he said. "You know I loved that hound, right?

  You don't really think I did that on purpose."

  One time when Travis got up in the night, Grandpa had been sitting on the floor with his arms around Rosco, saying how much he loved him. He was sloppy drunk, but still. He never said that to Travis, drunk or sober. And as much as Rosco had loved Travis, it was Grandpa he obeyed.

  Travis put his shoes back on with no socks, pulled on his sweatshirt, and got out of the truck. The birch and aspen alongside the field were on their way to yellow, and the patch of sumac had gone completely red. The leaves rustled and rattled in the wind.

  "There's the spot." Grandpa pointed.

  The dirt was still in clods, not settled. No grass growing. A big rock sat in the middle of the fresh dirt. Big enough that Travis wasn't sure he could lift it.

  Must have been hard for Grandpa to move.

  Travis walked over to the grave.

  "You want some time alone here?" asked Grandpa.

  He nodded, and Grandpa got in the truck and backed out the two- track. Travis didn't have any more tears in him, just the big empty hole.

  Somewhere under the rock and the dirt were those long, soft ears. Travis used to put them across his face, the way Velveeta did with her scarves.

  He missed the smell, the dog hair on his clothes, and Rosco's deep row- wow bark. Most of all, he missed the way Rosco acted every day when he got home.

  Like nothing better in the world than Travis Roberts could come out of that school bus.

  He knelt down and drew in the dirt. He outlined a hound like the one at the beginning of chapter two.

  "I miss you, buddy," he said. "So much."

  He'd been there just long enough to get chilly when the truck came bouncing back. The sad was all over

  Travis, inside and out, and it drowned out any mad he had left. Grandpa came over and sat down on the other side of the grave.

  "Funny how this goose egg makes me feel better," he said after a while, touching his jaw. "Guess I felt like I needed to be whupped for what I did. I thought you were going to do it that day on the steps."

  "I didn't touch you that day."

  "Maybe not, but it felt that way. Lying there in the dirt, I had that AA moment of clarity thing. The one where you know the jig is up. Quitting time."

  So that was it. That's why everything started changing that day. AA meetings and moving. If Travis had known Rosco was dead, the moving would have been different. If he'd known Grandpa did it ... Well, who knows?

  "It's harder than I thought," said Grandpa. "I figured once I detoxed, it'd be cake, but then it got harder in a different way. Guess I started feeling sorry for myself, and that's poison in the head. I'd be drinking now if you hadn't clobbered me."

  "That's not why I did it," said Travis.

  "I know. Doesn't matter. Same result. Travis, I swear to Christ Jesus I want to do right by you. Better than I did with your dad, anyway."

  Grandpa's face sagged into tired wrinkles. Like an upside- down clown face.

  "Did he drive into that tree on purpose?" Travis asked.

  "I don't know. I've asked myself that a few times."

  "Because of me?"

  "Good God, is that what you think?" said Grandpa.

  "You're the only thing that mattered to him after your mama died. Never saw anyone love a kid like he loved you."

  "Not enough to stay."

  The words hung out there, vibrating. The breeze came through and knocked a few yellow leaves down.

  "It's not that," said Grandpa finally. "The booze had him by the throat, same as me. It twists everything. Makes it all somebody else's fault."

  Travis rolled a sharp pebble against his thumb, pressing hard so it hurt.

  "Rosco's my fault," he said. "If I'd taken him, he wouldn't be dead."

  "No!" Grandpa barked. "Shut up with that. Not your fault."

  Travis rolled the pebble harder, making a dent- trail in his skin.

  "This is, though." Grandpa tapped his chin. "Lucky I don't have a glass jaw, or you'd've shattered me all over the kitchen floor. You can't go around hitting people like that."

  "I know," said Travis.

  "I mean, if you have to, it's okay. But you can't just do it because you feel like it."

  "I know."

  Travis poked the pebble into the dirt on the edge of the grave, pressing it in deep. The wind came colder through the cornstalks, and the sun dipped behind a cloud.

  "Okay." Grandpa pushed himself up. "I gotta move before my knees rust so bad I can't get up again."

  Travis waited until Grandpa was in the truck with the door closed. He ran his palm across the grave, smoothing over the hound drawing and the pebble hole.

  Then he stood and walked back to the truck. He hunched against the wind, his hands jammed in his pockets. Rosco was under there, under the dirt.

  Never coming back.

  Everything was different now.

  Banished on WEDNESDAY

  After school I told Connie about getting banished, and the way she looked at me, my eyes got wet. Especially when I told her my scarves were in there. She handed me a Kleenex and said I should ask for them and maybe I could apologize for trespassing.

  I told her Sylvia would kill me and stuff my body in a rental truck, and then she'd have to get a new library lackey.

  On the way home, I practiced saying I was sorry and please give me the scarves.

  Sylvia opened the door just as I put my foot on the bottom step and everything I'd practiced saying melted out of my brain. I just stood there on the doorstep, half chokey and pathetic. I thought I might throw up. She stepped back and told me to come in. I didn't want to, but I wanted the scarves.

  We stood there toetotoe in your kitchen, and she started slugging lawyer questions at me like we were in a courtroom, only there wasn't anyone on my side to object.

  "What did you have to do withmy father?"

  "He kind of watched out for me."

  "He was your babysitter?"

  "Nobody paid him."

  "Did you know he had a daughter?"

  "Yes."

  "What did he say about me?"

  "Th at he was a bad dad and you won't forgive him for it."

  "He said that?"

  "More than once."

  "He was."

  "Not to me."

  She almost rocked over backward when I said that, like I'd smacked her hard.

  But she came back with her voice sli
cey- sharp.

  "I think you should go now. Where do you live?"

  "Next door. I come here sometimes because I miss him."

  She leaned against the wall then, staring at me. I stared back. I figured if it was a stare- down, I'm good at that. I stared and she stared and neither of us blinked for a long time.

  "What is it that you want from me?"

  "I want the scarves. He gave them to me - they're mine."

  "Why would he give you my mother's scarves?"

  I stared at her without any words like I was Travis. She turned her back on me and looked out the window like I wasn't worth beating in a stare down.

  "Go home."

  "What about my scarves?"

  "He didn't put anything in writing. You could be lying for all I know."

  "But I'm not. He was right when he said you've got a mean streak."

  "Get out of here before I call the cops."

  I hate her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  A few kids were scattered around the lunchroom, eating breakfast, but Velveeta wasn't there. Travis wandered past her locker a few times.

  Maybe she was still mad at him for walking out on her at the library Monday.

  That seemed so long ago now.

  She didn't show up first period, either. Where could she be? Something must be wrong. He kept Haunt Fox tucked inside one of his textbooks and worked on it all morning. He went over and over the words he knew and circled the unknown ones farther ahead.

  "Hey, Travis." Bradley came up behind him in the lunch line. "Where's Velveeta?"

  "How should I know?" Travis pulled away. "Ask her yourself."

  "I can' t - she's not here."

  Travis got his food and sat at the usual table, kitty-corner from Amber and her book. He pulled out Haunt Fox. Amber's eyes roved back and forth over the pages quickly, and she flipped a page. Travis tried to move his eyes fast over the first line, but he lost words.

  He was headed back to his locker after lunch when Chad Cormick shouldered up next to him.

  "Hey, Roberts, want to fight me?" he asked.

  He nudged Travis, then danced back, both fists up, grinning.