“I don't know,” I said to Leo.
“It's flattering,” he said.
“It is,” I said. “But that's not the only reason I like him.”
I thought about the evening we went sledding. The way the boys had offered the joint to Ben, it was clear that was how it usually went with the three of them. But Ben turned it down. Ben turned it down for me. And that was a gesture I recognized, something my own brothers would have done.
“He's nice, too.”
“It's okay,” Leo laughed. “I just want you to know what you're doing, and why. I mean, Evie, you're telling me the guy's in a band, for God's sake. You know how I feel about that.” We laughed again.
“Leo, can we stop for ice cream before we go home?”
One Saturday night, Ben called to ask if I wanted to go to the movies with him. We'd never been anywhere together, really. We saw each other at school, and sometimes at school events in the evening. We'd been sledding that time, and once I met him at Cosimo's for pizza.
I told him yes.
He said, “I'll pick you up. I've got my mom's car.”
“I'll meet you at the end of the driveway” I said.
He paused.
“Just this time,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. “I'll wait for you.”
I hung up and stood at the top of the stairs for a minute. Mom was down in the kitchen. Leo and Teddy were not home.
“Mommy!”
My mother came running. “What's wrong?” she said, in a panic.
“Nothing.”
“You called me Mommy,” said Mom. “I thought someone might have died.”
I laughed and so did Mom.
“Can I go to the movies Mommy?”
“With Ben?”
“Yeah.”
“I … I guess so. Is he picking you up?”
“Um …”
“What'd you do, tell him to meet you at the end of the driveway?” said Mom.
I felt my face burn hot. My mother laughed out loud. She hugged me, and I let her.
“Yes, you can go to the movies, with your boyfriend,” she said. “But you better be home not one minute later than eleven.”
“Okaythanksmom.” I grabbed my jacket.
“And, Evie?” said Mom.
“Yes?”
“Next time,” she said, “next time, he's picking you up at the door. As horrible as the thought may be, young lady. And when he does pick you up at the door, I am going to meet him. Me, not Leo.”
“Okay,” I said.
I could see headlights.
“Bye, Mommy,” I said.
I ran down the dark driveway toward the lights. I knew my mother was standing at the door, peering into the night, trying to see me as I opened the car door and slipped into the front seat.
Next to and I guess he really was my boyfriend.
First Meat
BILL RICHARDSON
My name is Andras Tibor. Until recently, everyone called me Andy even my Hungarian father, who thought up Andras in the first place. When I turned thirteen and understood that I was destined to be a writer, I had to decide which would look better on a book jacket Andy or Andras. Andras, I figured, would suit me better in the long run. I still like Andy, but by the time you're old enough to shave, no one is going to take you seriously if your name rhymes with “candy.”
You have a name too, whoever you are, and I would be glad for you tell me what it is. I would ask, in fact, but what's the point? Even if you holler it into a bullhorn, I'd never hear. You could stand on top of a hill and signal it in semaphore, and I'd never see. How could I? You are where you are, reading, and I am where I am, writing. Whether you're a block away, or whether you're on the other side of the world, makes no difference. We are separated by distance and also by time. I am writing this in my present moment, while you are reading this in your present moment, and my present moment is your future moment and your present moment is my past moment. If you happen to be reading this a hundred years from now, which is unlikely but possible, then I am not only in the past, I am also dead. Unless I've lived to be 113 years old, which is statistically improbable, even with improved health care and cloning and such.
This business of who reads and who writes raises interesting questions of control. The writer does all the talking, but it's the listener the reader, that is who really has the power. Here I am, blah-blah-blahing into your ear whoever and wherever and whenever you might be and you can shut me up simply by closing the book, or by throwing it across the room, or by putting it through the blender.
Which, by the by, I wouldn't recommend. Some objects are not blender friendly, and I should know. When I was five, I tried blending a moose-hide moccasin my grandmother had given me for Christmas. It was the left one (I'd lost the right). You'll want to know why I did such a thing. I plain old wanted to see what would happen. I'll spare you the details, except to say that neglecting to remove my foot from the slipper was a tactical error. Try this only if you're eager to give your doctor practice in the art of toe reattachment.
My name is Andras Tibor and I will tell you briefly of my origins. They are easier to trace than the source of the Nile, though nowhere near as important to an understanding of world civilization. What follows, I should add, will mostly be of interest to those who are good in math. I am not. It's the one subject in which I have a tutor. She's in grade eleven and already does university-level calculus. Her name I am not making this up is Praise-the-Day Chan. Praise-the-Day who is never called Praise or The or Day, for short could solve any of the following problems in her head, in about a nanosecond. Feel free to use a calculator.
Problem One
Andras has a mother. Andras's mother's name is Sandra. Andras has a father. Andras's father's name is Sandor. Sandra and Sandor are Andras's parents. How confusing is that?
Problem Two
When Sandra met Sandor, Sandor was 41. How old was Sandra if she was twelve years younger?
Problem Three
Sandor and Sandra fell in love at first sight. This was inconvenient. Both were married to other people. Also, Sandor was Sandra's psychology professor. Because of the other husband and the other wife, and because the university frowned on teachers falling in love with students, and vice versa, it was three years before Sandor and Sandra could get untangled enough to become tangled up with each other. How old were Sandor and Sandra when they were able to get married?
Problem Four
If Sandra was 32 when she married Sandor which she was and if she wanted to establish her psychology practice before she had a family which she did and if that took eight years, and if it then took another y ear for Sandra to convince Sandor that he wasn't too old to be changing diapers, how old were Sandor and Sandra before they got serious about baby making?
Problem Five
Andras Tibor was born on September 25. If A.T. came along exactly nine months after his conception, what were Sandor and Sandra doing with their old bodies on the previous Christmas Day? You think about it. I'd rather not.
One thing they would have done, apart from unwrapping presents and, apparently, each other was to walk Zaz. Zaz was brand-new to them then, a refugee from the SPCA. How Zaz arrived was one of my favorite bedtime stories. I still like it. This is how Sandra would tell it, in her own words. They might strike you as inappropriate for a five-year-old to hear, but my parents are psychologists. They are big fans of frank speaking.
It was Christmas Eve. I was picking up Sandor at his office. He was working late, marking exams. It was snowing, so I'd left the house early. The driving wasn't as hard as I'd imagined, and it turned out I had some time to kill. I decided to visit the animal shelter. I'd passed by it a hundred times on the way to campus and had never thought about going in. On that day, I felt the urge and I stopped.
They were getting ready to close. I passed through an office and went into a big yard, lined on all sides by kennels. There was a lot of howling. One of the attendants was d
ragging a dog from her cage. That poor, skinny animal all wiry hair, ribs showing through, and long, long legs, like a deer. She was pulling back, using all four paws as brakes, leaving skid marks in the new snow. I must have gasped because she looked up at me. When our eyes met, I felt that I'd known her forever. I realized then that she was the reason I'd paid this visit.
I said, “Is that dog available for adoption?”
The look on that attendant's face! She burst into tears. She said, “God sent you. God sent you.”
It turned out that the dog was at the end of her time. She'd been in the shelter for two months and was being taken away to be put down. If I hadn't come along just then … well, anyway, I did come along, and, of course, I took her. She had a very bad smell.
Sandor was surprised to find a stinking dog sitting in the passenger seat and a little annoyed when I told him we were keeping her. I didn't blame him. We'd never spoken about getting a dog; it was a baby we were after. We'd been working hard for a couple of years on making one. We'd had all the tests and the doctors said there was no reason why we couldn't, but it wasn't happening and the older you get, the less likely it becomes.
Sandor saw the dog. He said, “What on earth?”
I said, “I need this.”
He said, “A. dog is no substitute for …”
We took the long way home. By the time we got there, we had pretty much worked it out. I wanted to call her Judy, but Sandor said no; if we were going to have a dog, it would have a proper Hungarian name. And that's why we called her Zsa-Zsa. And when you came along and found Zsa-Zsa too much of a mouthful, you shortened it to Zaz.
The next part of the story was my favorite bit.
It often happens that couples who can't have a baby will adopt a child and then conceive one of their own right away. It's as though the pressure is off and they relax enough for it to happen. So it was with Zaz. She came, and a few weeks later I realized I was pregnant.
All things considered, I guess I'm lucky I wasn't born a puppy.
Sandor may have won out with making sure the dog and the baby had Hungarian names, but it was Sandra who prevailed when it came to diet. She can't stand the sight or smell of animal flesh. When she and Sandor got together, she insisted that he convert to vegetarianism. He did, but reluctantly. For Hungarians, sausage is a point of national pride. Naturally, I've always been vegetarian, right from the get-go. I went from mother's milk to tofu. That's not so strange. It's the same with half the kids in my class. I don't know anyone else with a vegetarian dog, however. Some people think it's unnatural to keep a dog from meat, but Sandra did her research. She found that it was perfectly possible for a dog to be healthy on a meatfree diet. She was wrong about how the farting would eventually stop and wrong about how Sandor would get used to it. Somehow, though, one day led to the next, and for thirteen years, Zaz got by very nicely on legumes. They didn't keep her from getting old and weak and wheezy, but for the longest time, she was healthy as healthy can be.
I don't know your name and I don't know where you live and I don't know what time of year you are reading this summer, winter, spring, fall. My name is Andras Tibor and I am in my bedroom and this is a hot summer night. Morning, really. A minute ago it was August 10 and now it is August 11. For one second in between, it was the neither here nor there of midnight. I am almost never up this late, but how can I sleep when I've got so much on my mind? There's something I need to do.
Today it is now officially today is the last day of Zaz's life. She has ten hours left to live. We had a family conference this afternoon yesterday afternoon, I mean and then we called the vet to make the appointment. It's time. Zaz can no longer stand up on her long legs. She pees in the house. She is refusing her food. She is over fourteen years old, we figure, which, in dog years, is times seven. You do the math.
Zaz hates going to the vet. If we're in the car and we pass anywhere within five blocks of the place, she'll start to shake. Dr. Hindmarch says lots of dogs are like that and she doesn't take it personally. She's really very nice; when Sandra phoned over, she said that she'd make a house call. We'll take Zaz outside and sit with her under her favorite tree. Dr. Hindmarch will come with her little black bag maybe it's neither little nor black, but that's how I imagine it and she'll give Zaz an injection and it'll be over in a second. She won't feel a thing. Her old heart will just stop. You are lucky you are reading this in your time and place and can't see me in mine. There is snot everywhere.
Sandra and Sandor told me it would be okay if I didn't want to watch, but I think it would be cowardly not to be with Zaz at the end of her life, when she has been there for the whole of mine.
And, it might be an exaggeration to say that her act of heroism saved my life, but for sure she saved my toe. This was on the day of the famous moccasin-blending episode. I repeat, don't try this yourself, with or without adult supervision. Here's what I remember. Sandor and Sandra were having coffee on the porch. I was alone in the kitchen; alone except for Zaz, who was, as usual, asleep in her basket in the corner. I was wearing pj's and my one moccasin. I saw the blender on the counter. I started to wonder, What if? I managed to haul the thing down, put it on the floor, and plug it in. Then I did that thing I did.
Had it not been for Zaz's vegetarian training, I would probably have had to adapt to life without that toe: big toe, left foot. I screamed before I fainted, quite sensibly, and Zaz started carrying on. Sandor and Sandra came running. In all the confusion of bundling me into the car and getting to the hospital emergency room, they didn't pay any attention to Zaz or to what she was doing. They didn't notice that she'd come along for the ride until the orderlies were loading me onto the gurney and Sandor felt a nuzzling at his knee. There was Zaz, with the moccasin in her mouth; she had actually fished it out of the blender. Inside, damaged but still attachable, was the important bit, which neither Sandra nor Sandor, in all the panic, had thought about retrieving.
Two things amaze me about this. One is that Zaz had the instinct to do what she did. The other is that she resisted the instinct to swallow. She had a big mouthful of meat the moose-hide moccasin, the freshly cut toe and she never bit down, never took the opportunity to revert to the diet of her wolf ancestors. Good dog, Zaz. Good dog.
That year, for my fifth birthday, I was given a little red wagon. I used to tie Zaz's leash to the handle, and she'd haul me around, for short distances anyway. It wasn't a game she had much patience for. I can't say I blame her. I used the wagon for a year or two, and then it was stored in the basement. Sandra came across it recently, and decided it was really folk art. Now, it's in the living room, a planter for a philodendron. Zaz will be stretched out beside it. Until a few months ago, when the stairs became too much for her, she slept with me, on my bed.
This afternoon, after Sandra had spoken to Dr. Hindmarch, I helped Zaz outside. I sat with her under the tree where, in a little more than nine hours, her life will end. She hasn't eaten in two days. I tried to tempt her with baby carrots, which she has always loved. She looked away. I ate them myself. We lay there for a long time, the two of us. I told her stories about times we'd spent together, about the adventures we'd had, about how Sandra had saved her life and she had saved mine. It came on to dinnertime. Our neighbor, Mr. Friesen, fired up his barbecue. He began to cook steaks. That's when it happened. Zaz's nostrils twitched. She raised her head. She hauled herself up in a sitting position, which she managed to hold for a full minute. She sucked in the meat-scented air. Then she caved in. Her limbs crumbled. She put her head on the grass. She sighed. She fell asleep.
It is late. Sandor and Sandra, who are old enough to be my grandparents and whose age in dog years I wouldn't want to know, are asleep. It is quiet in the house, except for their snoring. It's a nice sound, really. Fluttery It means they are breathing. It means that their spirits are still in their flesh. One day, that won't be so. But for now, they are living meat, and I am living meat, and Zaz is living meat. For another nine hours, at least.
>
My name is Andras Tibor. I am alive and I am writing and I am thinking about Zaz, about all she has been and will never be again. And I am wondering if dogs are capable of gratitude, wondering if her whole life long she has been thankful that Sandra rescued her and if that was why she never grumbled about enforced vegetarianism, never snuck under the fence to steal a steak from the Friesens' grill, never swallowed my toe.
My name is Andras Tibor. I am hungry and I am awake. I have one last chance to give to Zaz what perhaps she has wanted all these years. Whoever and wherever you are, thank you for spending this time with me. It is an honor to have almost met you. I would be so pleased if you would do this one thing for me. As a favor. A prayer. A charm.
Close your eyes. Imagine a city, the night streets quiet. Listen. The sound of wheels. A boy emerges from the dark, pulling a wagon. In the wagon is an old dog, sleeping. They have walked a long way. In just a few minutes, they'll turn the corner and they will be at their destination. The staff will be surprised. It can't be a usual thing, at nearly two o'clock in the morning, for a boy with a wagon and a dog to turn up at the 24-hour drive-in. But, they are paying customers. The boy has twenty dollars in his pocket, which will surely be enough. All the way there, he's been rehearsing his lines, practicing to make them sound casual and everyday. He will say, “Two burgers, please. Yes, loaded. With the works.”
If it's not too much to ask, could you find it in your heart to imagine a happy ending? Because an ending is what it always comes down to. And that is what this is. This is The End.
The Crow in the Classroom
TIM WYNNE-JONES
First Times Page 10
