A Question of Manhood

by Robin Reardon

  Dad sat there a minute, gazing toward his dinner plate and shaking his head. “It was uncanny, I tell you. That dog settled right down. It’s like so much of his attention went to carrying this load that he was easier to control.”

  Dad picked up his fork and stabbed something, but he didn’t put it into his mouth. He wasn’t quite done with his story. “He had a job to do. The dog. That’s what JJ gave him. And the guy?” Dad chuckled. “He was nearly weeping, falling over himself thanking JJ.” He ate the food from his fork without seeming to realize it, swallowed, and said, “You know, I think I’m gonna have to see if I can find some of those things already made. Or maybe I can commission someone to make them.”

  Mom asked, “Did JJ let him keep the…whatever?”

  “He did. The guy wanted to pay him, and JJ said no. He said to make a donation to an animal shelter instead. Can you believe it?”

  I was gritting my teeth so hard it was difficult to eat my dinner. It was everything I could do not to fall on my knees, genuflect, and shout Praise the Lord! I kind of tuned out after that, not really caring to hear Dad complain about today’s proceeds coming up noticeably short again, like had been happening from time to time.

  On Monday, my one day of the week off, it rained. I wanted to sleep in, but my folks were having some intense conversation in the kitchen. So I stood at the top of the stairs, listening. Mom was saying, “I could talk to him and find out how he put it together. Maybe he even has a pattern, or instructions or something.”

  “That would be fantastic, Irene. You could even go and talk to him today. He’s in the store.”

  Somehow I knew what they were talking about. Mom was gonna make JJ’s doggie packs. She said, “Today? Didn’t he work all week?”

  “Yup. Said he wanted to be there on Sunday because it might be a day when folks would bring their dogs in. He’s right, too. I’ll try to get him to take a day off during the week.”

  Try to get him to?

  As I told Marty and Kevin later that afternoon, hanging out at the Burger King, this kid was turning out to be a sort of King of the Canines. “He won’t get mad at me even when I try to make him. He won’t take money for something he bought the materials for and made himself. He wants to work all the time.” I shoved a fistful of fries into my mouth and chewed furiously.

  Kevin was intrigued. “So he’s some kind of dog messiah, right? What’s he like with other animals?”

  I shrugged. “He talks about cat behavior, but we don’t sell dogs or cats, and people don’t bring cats in very often. But he did say he wanted to learn more about amphibians.”

  “That’s not much help.” Kevin took a bite of cheeseburger and then talked around it. “What’s his story, d’you think? Maybe his folks beat him and he just wants to be out of the house or something. Maybe they know he’s a fag and he stays away ’cause he knows they hate him.”

  Marty was being too quiet. It worried me. I wanted to be able to gripe about JJ without having to hold Marty back from doing something like what he’d done to Anthony. What we’d done to Anthony. We sat there contemplating Kevin’s theories for a minute, and then Marty said, “Well, unless he’s Jesus Fucking Christ Almighty, he’ll have a weak spot. Besides being queer, I mean. Or maybe related.” He turned to me. “He’s not afraid of the dogs, you say?”

  “Not a bit. Shoved a ferocious, struggling shepherd mix right down onto the ground and held it there.”

  Marty nodded. “We’ll see. We’ll just see.”

  When I got home, Mom was at the kitchen table working with paper and scissors and a pencil. She was so intent on her project she barely acknowledged me when I spoke. “What’s that?” I had time to pull a soda out of the fridge, pop it open, take a swig or two before she finally answered.

  “I’m making a pattern for that dog pack JJ invented.”

  Terrific. I headed up to my room to listen to some music and sulk.

  Tuesday it was still rainy, which for some reason tends to make people not go shopping. It was Dave’s day off, like he deserved one. So it was Carol, Alice, me, and Dad in the store. Oh, and JJ, who evidently still wasn’t taking a day off.

  Sometime around eleven or so, Dad made me go with him into the stockroom to do some inventory and make a list of supplies to order. Choke collars would be at the top of the list, I knew already. We were done with cat food and had started hamster supplies when Dad realized he’d left some info he needed in a folder in the office. He was in the middle of counting something, so he sent me to get it. Kind of automatically I glanced around the store as I walked; almost no customers at the moment. Once I was in the office, though, Carol wasn’t there, and the folder wasn’t where Dad’d said it would be, so I had to paw through a couple of drawers. One of them contained personnel files.

  I stood there looking down at the tabs, the white stickers with dark green borders standing out from the plain manila color. It took only a couple of seconds for my fingers to find the one on which “O’Neil” was written in Carol’s neat script. I pushed the folder covers apart so I could read what was on the first paper in there. Head turned sideways, my eyes scoured the page for the field “Full Name.” In it was hand-printed José Jesus O’Neil.

  Holy shit. Jesus! Kevin’s going to love this. Messiah, indeed. I pushed the drawer shut and opened another, where I found the folder Dad wanted. Just outside the office door I was about to turn right toward the stockroom when something on my left caught my attention. It was Kevin, standing not far from the front door, looking toward me. With his body toward the store, he shielded his right hand so Alice at the register wouldn’t see, and he pointed my attention farther to my left. JJ was bent over, examining supplies for snakes or something, and behind him stood Marty. There was just enough noise coming from the air conditioning and the equipment needed to maintain the right environment for the amphibians nearby that JJ probably didn’t know Marty was there.

  In his hand, Marty held a small plastic container, the kind we use to hold the rose hair tarantulas when we need to get them in or out of their glass case. He was tipping it toward JJ’s shoulder.

  I froze. What the fuck was I supposed to do now? If I let the spider get lost or hurt, and especially if it was because of Marty, I’d catch hell. If I did anything to interfere with Marty’s plan, it would be a different kind of hell, but it would still be hell. I snapped my head toward the stockroom; no sign of Dad. I stood where I could escape fully into the office and fake ignorance if all hell broke loose out there, and watched.

  If you don’t know anything about these tarantulas, they can’t kill someone like JJ, unless he’s allergic. Make him a little sick, maybe, and the bite is painful. But they move pretty slow most of the time; they’re practically blind and feel their way along.

  JJ was wearing a light blue shirt. I couldn’t see him real well from there, but I could tell that the spider had crawled obligingly onto his back. Marty, looking crazed with silent hysterics, backed away on tiptoes. He set the plastic case on a shelf and went to where Kevin stood, both of them leaning over to watch JJ but also ready to split for the door in a microsecond.

  JJ seemed oblivious at first, but after a few seconds, the spider had moved up toward the right side of his neck, and he must have felt something through the cloth. The spider’s hairs are real prickly. Anyway, he started to straighten up. He turned his head a little toward the spider and then he froze. I expected a scream. Marty and Kevin no doubt expected a scream.

  There was no scream. Maybe three seconds went by, and then JJ reached his left hand out for something I couldn’t quite see, bent over a little, and the next thing I saw was the edge of a stiff spec sheet, maybe one on green lizards or something, that JJ was holding in front of the spider. Gently he poked at one hairy leg with the edge, and at first the spider retreated. But JJ just stood there, stiff paper resting on his shoulder, waiting.

  Now, I’ve gotten used to these creatures. Over the years. It took a while, and even though I know they
can’t really hurt me and aren’t likely to leap onto my head or anything…if that had been me? Surprised like that? I’d have been shaking like a leaf, and that sheet would have knocked the spider onto the floor. Then the spider would be sure to escape, and we’d have a tarantula loose. Not great for PR, in case there’s any doubt about that.

  But here’s JJ, not particularly familiar with tarantulas, faced with finding one suddenly appearing on his back right near his head, and he’s just as calm as he’d been with the dogs. He kept bending farther over until the spec sheet was the easiest place for the spider to go, and it went.

  Several things happened in quick succession. JJ stood up, spider held on this makeshift platform in his left hand, and turned around, almost certainly to see what he could use to recapture the thing. I’m sure he heard Marty and Kevin cackling right before they shot out the front door. I stepped out of the office toward JJ, knowing where the plastic holder was, and Dad came out of the stockroom. I looked at Dad, he looked first at me and then at JJ, and then at the spider. He made a beeline toward JJ.

  “What’s going on here?”

  There was nothing I felt safe saying, so I just headed for the plastic holder. But JJ knew what to say. “It seems the rose hair has found its way out of the spider tank.”

  “Stand still,” I told him, setting down the folder I’d retrieved from the office. “Here’s the container.” Doing my best not to shudder, I planted the plastic cup over the ugly spider where it sat on the spec sheet, waving a front leg in the air. JJ put his hand over the cover before I’d got mine completely away and we touched, but there was no jerking away this time; the spider had all my attention.

  Dad said, “Where’s the other half of the container?”

  I didn’t know, so I started scouring the area. Dad and JJ went to the spider tank. I heard Dad say, “This is the only one of these we have at the moment, so it can go into the tank without the smaller container for now.”

  Finally I found the other half where Marty must have set it down before I’d seen him, and I picked up the folder again. As I walked toward the spider tank, Dad said, “Paul, how did that spider get out?”

  “I didn’t see how it got out. I had nothing to do with it.” Which was true enough, technically, if not quite the whole story. “I didn’t see it until it was on JJ, and he was coaxing it onto the paper.”

  Dad turned to JJ, but his eyes stayed on me for a second like he wasn’t convinced. Before he could say anything else, JJ said, “I think I mentioned that I wanted to know more about amphibians and the other non-mammals. I had lifted the spider out in its container to get a closer look at it. Maybe I forgot to put it back.”

  Dad stepped away from both of us at this point. JJ’s story was almost but not quite plausible. All Dad could say was, “Do you boys have any idea how bad it would be if customers thought there was a tarantula loose in the store? Do I need to remind you how important it is to treat all the animals with care?”

  “No, sir,” JJ said, hanging his head. “I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  Dad turned to me. It was everything I could do not to shout, I told you I had nothing to do with this! But all I said was, “No, sir.”

  I could tell Dad was still sure he didn’t have the truth, but there wasn’t much he could do about it without calling JJ a liar. Maybe if it had been my lie, he would have pounced on it. He snatched the folder out of my hand and stormed off toward the stockroom. I knew he expected me to follow, but I turned to look at JJ. His face unreadable, he said, “You do know how that happened, right?”

  “Yeah.” I wanted to fake ignorance, but he’d just saved my neck.

  “I don’t like lying to your father. I don’t like lying to anyone.”

  “No. I’m sure you don’t.”

  “I won’t do it again.” And he turned and left me standing there.

  Still putting off going into the stockroom, I headed outside to see if Marty and Kevin were hanging around hoping for amusement from whatever fallout their little prank might have caused. I’d just stepped outside, still under the overhang where I wouldn’t get rained on, when I heard an engine rev and saw Marty’s Mustang coming my way. Kevin’s side was to me, and when the car was close he rolled his window down.

  “Hey, Paul! What’s that guy made of, stone?”

  I took a deep breath, looked around me for some reason I’m not sure of, and walked through the drizzle to the car. “Look,” I said, trying to sound stern, expecting Marty to ridicule me for it, “you guys have got to stop pulling these stunts. I’m already in deep shit here, and you’re making it worse.”

  Marty leaned in my direction. “I suppose the kid squealed.”

  “You suppose wrong. He took the blame himself, though Dad seems to know better, and he suspects me of being involved somehow. Just knock if off, will you?” I slapped the side of the car door for emphasis and loped back to the store before either of them could say anything. But I heard Marty’s sarcastic scorn in the sound of his tires as he peeled off.

  Back in the storeroom, helping Dad again in that over-lit room that just emphasized how gloomy it was outside today, I realized almost with a shock that I wasn’t going to tell Kevin or Marty what “JJ” stood for.

  Chapter 10

  Thursday, after JJ was convinced to take Wednesday off, everyone was back, and Dad had JJ and me back at the fish tanks. JJ could work without supervision now, so it went twice as fast as when I did it alone. I decided to try to break some of the conversational ice I’d put in place.

  “JJ, um, about Tuesday. Just to be clear, I didn’t know they were gonna do that. With the spider.”

  “Okay. I believe you.”

  Well, that was fine, as far as it went. But it wasn’t very satisfying. So I added, “I’m sorry they did it. I mean, they’re my friends and all. I told them to knock it off.”

  “Thanks.”

  Okay, so now there were some shards of ice chipped off the surface, but I wanted at least to see some of the freezing water underneath. Something moving. “Could I ask you something about the dog stuff?”

  He stood up straight, stretched, and glanced at me. “Dog stuff?”

  “Yeah. What you were doing on Saturday. When Dad came out he sent me back into the store, and Mrs. Thomas and Mozart were watching with me for a bit. She said he dragged her around when she tried to walk him. So I tried to do what you’d done with Lulu, and he followed me a little, but then he just sat down and wouldn’t budge.”

  JJ went back to scouring a tank. “Were you holding the leash way down near his head, and was it high up right behind his ears?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Were you relaxed and assertive?”

  Was I? “I can’t remember.”

  “Dogs won’t follow you just because you want them to. They need to respect you first. And if you don’t take charge in a way that’s clear to them, they aren’t going to follow you the way you want.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Do what? Be relaxed and assertive?”

  “Yeah. Where does that come from?”

  He glanced at me and then back at the tank. “Inside you.”

  Inside me? Oh, I don’t think so. That isn’t likely. But it made sense that JJ had it inside him. All I had to do was remember how he’d acted when he realized the tarantula was almost in his ear. This seemed like a dead-end line of questioning. So I waited awhile and then tried another. “Do you mind if I ask what your initials stand for?” I already knew, of course. Maybe I wanted to know if he would lie to me.

  He stopped moving. Frozen, like when he’d seen my sneaker beside him on his first day. “Why?”

  Whoa. Hit a nerve or something. I shrugged. “No reason. Just curious.”

  After about a minute and a half of scouring in silence, he said, “JJ stands for José Jesus.” Only he said it like it was pronounced something like Hossay Hayssoos. “But nobody around here seems to pronounce José correctly, so I shortened it years
ago.”

  “Hozay,” I ventured.

  “No. You need to make the ‘h’ sound a little harder, and there’s no ‘z’ sound. It’s more like a double ‘s.’ Plus you’re adding a diphthong to the o and the e that shouldn’t be there.”

  I tried again, and it sound even funnier. JJ smiled, though it looked like he was trying not to. He said, “Just stick to ‘JJ.’ It’s better all around.”

  Tempted to say “Wunderkind” the way Anthony had said it when he corrected Marty, I opted instead for, “What is that? Spanish?”

  “Sort of. Mexican. My mother is from Mexico.”

  So that’s why he seems a little exotic. “So, is Jesus a name the Mexicans use a lot?”

  “It’s not uncommon. And I suppose the fact that it’s almost unheard of around here is another reason I went to JJ. Not that anyone gets called by their middle name, necessarily. Unless someone who’s cruel finds out what it is and abuses it.”

  Well, that sounded like a warning. I nearly replied, What d’you think, I would do that? But then I remembered that the moment I’d found out, I’d thought about telling Kevin. I wouldn’t. Not now. I was on the verge of doing something really stupid and asking him if he was gay, when suddenly there was this woman beside him.

  “Hello,” she said, “are you JJ?”

  He stopped working, wiped his hands off on a towel, and extended his right hand to her. Very grown-up. Very professional. “Yes, ma’am. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Mrs. Denneghy. My friend brought her dog here last Saturday, and she said you worked wonders. She has that mixed breed that’s possessive about toys.”

  “Ah, yes. Tucker. I think we got your friend onto the right track, anyway. It’s going to take some work.”

  “I have a Dalmatian that’s almost two years old. He was a wonderful puppy, but for a few months now he’s been getting more and more aggressive. I was afraid to bring him to the clinic, because he’s really awful around other dogs. Do you think you could help him?”