Almost Home

by Joan Bauer

  “I walk mine.” I cough. “Not all that well, but I walk him.”

  “Think you could handle two? I can’t walk him anymore.”

  “I don’t know. I could try.”

  He throws a chewed-up leash to me. I put it around Merlin’s neck. “Come on,” I say.

  Merlin looks at me like Shush does.

  “Does he heel?” I ask the old man.

  He chuckles. “Obviously not.”

  I’m getting sick of dogs not obeying me, since I’ve got the brainpower in the relationship. I yank Shush and Merlin’s leashes at the same time. “We’re going.”

  Merlin walks forward a little.

  “Good dog.” I look at Shush, who’s decided to lie down. “Your turn.”

  Shush starts purring.

  “Nice try.” I give his leash a quick tug and he’s up now. Merlin heads down the steps.

  Don’t make me look bad, you guys. We head down the block. The problem with walking two dogs is when one stops, the other one wants to keep going. I must look like a real case, but we get to the end of the block and come back in front of the old man’s house.

  “We didn’t get too far,” I admit.

  “I haven’t gotten him that far in years. You come by tomorrow this time and do the same thing. There’s money in it for you.”

  “Yessir!”

  “I’m T. A. Cockburn.”

  “Sugar Mae Cole.”

  Merlin looks exhausted, like he’s just run a race. He lies back down in the exact same spot and closes his eyes.

  Mr. Cockburn smiles like he knows a good secret. “Old Merlin here, he keeps the monsters away.” He winks at me. “You know?”

  More than you know, Mr. Cockburn.

  x x x

  I walk/carry Shush as far as Saint Mary’s Catholic Church, three blocks away. A big bus rumbles by. That does Shush in—he’s whining and shaking.

  “You want a break?”

  I put my green bag down, make the click click sound, and he crawls in.

  “I think you should feel good about getting this far.”

  The church door has a sign, ALL ARE WELCOME. I’m going to take them at their word.

  “We’re not Catholic,” I say to Shush, “but we’ll try not to let it show.”

  I head up the stone steps and open the heavy door.

  It’s so quiet in here, like the rush and noise of the city disappeared. I stand by a stained-glass window, soaking up the quiet. An angel statue hangs on the wall. I look up at this angel’s pretty, peaceful face.

  Between you and me, I’d rather have an angel look like Iron Man.

  I walk over to a table with little candles. I pick a long match, light a small candle in the back of the table. The flame shoots up for just a second.

  Dear God, please show the doctors how to help Reba. Make her strong like she used to be.

  A few of the candles are smoking, but Reba’s flame looks strong.

  There’s a box, FOR THE POOR.

  I’m poor, but I put a quarter in anyway.

  There’s an old woman sitting on a bench praying. Her head is bowed. She seems to know what she’s doing. I go over and tap her on the shoulder.

  “Would you pray for my mom?” I ask.

  She looks up. “¿Qué dijo?”

  I should have paid better attention in Spanish class.

  “Um,” I begin. “Mi, uh, mi madre es . . .”

  “Enferma . . . ?”

  That’s close enough. “Gracias, señor,” I say. “I mean, señorita.”

  She smiles. “No señorita—señora.”

  She bows her head and gets back to praying.

  I walk out of the church, feel Shush at peace in the bag.

  I wonder why Lexie takes in kids like me.

  I wonder how long I can stay with her and Mac.

  I wish when Reba gets out, she could stay at Lexie’s, too. But that’s not how it works. When Reba gets out, it’s not going to be easy. She’s going to have to live in a shelter, that’s what Dana Wood said.

  I’m not sure how to be with that.

  27

  THIS WAY TO THE WOOZ

  Those words are on yellow paper taped to a tree on Lexie’s street.

  THE WOOZ IS IN

  That’s in front of a house with a broken-down porch. A fat cat sits in the window. I am walking, or more like dragging Merlin and Shush for their walk. I think by the time this is over my arms are going to be much longer.

  Shush is pulling on the leash to get across the street to Lexie’s, back to his safe spot. Merlin is pulling the opposite way, toward his house.

  “Heel,” I say in my best alpha female voice, and both dogs look at me, like, You’re kidding, right?

  A girl about my age comes out on the broken-down porch. She’s got straight strawberry blonde hair and a nose so small it hardly matters. “Your dog doesn’t like the street, does he?”

  “No.” Shush is yanking so hard, I’m worried about his neck. “Sit!” I shout.

  This girl sits. Shush does, too.

  “I hope he’s paying you enough,” she says.

  Me, too.

  Shush is looking across the street to Lexie’s like it’s the only place on earth without a monster.

  “My little brother’s like that, too, except he’s not on a leash. At least, not yet.” She sits there thinking. The fat cat in the window seems to be thinking, too. “You’re staying with Lexie, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know,” she says.

  I’m not sure what that means.

  “It’s okay,” she says.

  I look down.

  “We’ve all got stuff,” she adds.

  I don’t ask about her stuff.

  “I’m Joonie.”

  “Sugar.” I wait for her to laugh. She doesn’t.

  “So, I bet everybody remembers you, right?”

  “Right.” Merlin now is fixated on a squirrel and Shush is yanking me toward a bush. “Sit!” I scream.

  She laughs. “I’m sitting.”

  I’m close to getting pulled apart. I drag Merlin back. “You’re old,” I tell him. “You’re supposed to be weak.”

  I look at the yellow paper on the tree: THE WOOZ IS IN. “Is that your tree?”

  She nods. Shush pees on the tree.

  I’m trying to get a breath.

  “So, what’s a wooz?”

  She motions me over. “Have you heard about the land of Ziddo, Sugar? Of course you haven’t. I just created it last week.”

  I’m trying to follow this. Shush has stopped pulling. He’s sitting, watching this girl. Merlin moves closer to the squirrel.

  “On the planet Ziddo all children can trust their parents, because all parents have gone to PE class—that’s parent education. They have to get at least a C-plus or they have to repeat the class again.”

  I picture Mr. Leeland flunking and repeating.

  “PE,” she continues, “includes, but is not limited to . . . love, continuing care, financial accountability, compassion, and just new in the brochure, anger management. My dad failed big-time at that.” She waits.

  “You made this up?”

  She nods. “Last summer I went to gifted-and-talented camp. My mom can’t afford to send me this year, so she’s unleashing me on an unsuspecting public.” She holds out her hand to Shush, and he sniffs it.

  She still didn’t answer my question. “What’s a wooz?”

  “There’s only one, the Wise One Of Ziddo.”

  “That’s you?”

  She smiles; her braces shine in the light. “You can ask Lexie about me. I’m weird, but I mean well.” She hea
ds inside.

  I get Merlin to Mr. Cockburn’s house three doors down. He’s waiting for us.

  “Was that fun?” he asks his old dog.

  Merlin sighs and Mr. Cockburn hands me ten dollars.

  Now, that’s fun!

  28

  FUN HASN’T VISITED Reba in a long time.

  The walls in this new place she’s at are muddy green, two old beds are in the corners, a sign on the wall says TODAY IS A NEW DAY, which seems kind of obvious. I lay Reba’s shoes against the wall as she sits on the bed like she’s been in an accident. They were crazy to let her out of the hospital—she’s not ready.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her, but it’s not okay. It’s another shelter, better than Grace Place, but still . . .

  “We’ve got to be strong,” I tell Reba. And I read from page twenty-seven of Upon These Truths I Stand.

  My daddy always told me that weakness isn’t something to be ashamed of. I didn’t know what he was talking about until I was older and had had my share of weak moments and mess-ups. The thing you’ve got to avoid like an army of wasps flying straight to get you, is giving up. You can’t do it, you can’t allow it in your heart. You’ve got to push past your feeling, push past what things look like, push past all your fear, and say, no sir. I’m getting up on my feet. It’s a new day,

  When I played football, I’d get hit and fall down plenty of times, and the word that came into my head every time was rise. You rise up, boy. You get on your feet and face the thing that knocked you down.

  Remember—you heard it here first.

  Reba keeps sitting there, but I get up on my feet and unpack the rest of her stuff and fold it nice and put it in a scratched chest of drawers.

  There’s a knock on the door. Dana Wood comes in. I smile at Reba. “You want me to copy down what I just read to you?”

  She shakes her head.

  “It’s no bother.”

  She doesn’t want it.

  You’ve got to hold on to something, Reba.

  She grabs my hand. And now my bag is moving.

  Dana Wood stares at me. “You didn’t.”

  Well, actually . . .

  I put down my green bag and Shush jumps out. Reba’s face breaks into joy like a little kid’s. Shush runs right to her, leaps onto her lap, and licks her chin.

  “Little one,” she says, and buries her face in his soft fur.

  Dana Wood crosses her arms, superstrict.

  “He’s going to be a helper dog,” I remind her, and point to Reba, who’s laughing, which didn’t happen, I bet, at the hospital for emotions with all those experts in charge. “He’s going to be one of the great ones,” I add, and Shush starts purring.

  Sometimes the best thing that can happen to a person is to have a puppy lick your face. Remember, you heard it here first.

  x x x

  Reba’s first assignment at the shelter is to get a part-time job. She says she isn’t ready. I think she’s right.

  “Maybe you could work two days a week,” I mention.

  She seems scared of the world, like Shush. I’m not proud of this, but sometimes when I visit her, I can’t wait to leave and get back to my good life.

  I mention this to Joonie, who says, “You can’t be in charge of your mother.”

  “I know that!”

  “If she doesn’t get a job, it’s not your fault. It doesn’t mean you failed her.”

  “I know that!”

  Sort of.

  Dear Sugar,

  I have to tell you—I really miss reading your writing. For the last week of school I gave an assignment to the class:

  Write about a dream you have. It can be one you had while you were asleep or a dream you had about something you want to achieve.

  Now, a teacher stalking you with homework after you’ve moved is terribly unfair, I know, but would you like to write something for me on this?

  I would love to read it. Claus and I await your reply.

  Mr. B

  I write him back.

  Mr. B, I don’t know if I can.

  He writes me back.

  TRY.

  He signs it T.G.B.K.A. (The Great B Knows All).

  I visit Reba the next day at the shelter and show her the e-mail.

  “Did you write it?” she asks.

  Her roommate Henrietta blows her nose. “Of course she did.”

  And I read them my poem.

  Sometimes at night here, I don’t want to go to sleep.

  I want to memorize every part of the pink bedroom I’m staying in,

  Every bit of how the soft sheet feels.

  I want to keep it all in my heart for when I have to leave.

  I know it’s not forever here.

  I want a forever place to be.

  I wonder if that’s a place with walls and a garden,

  Or if it’s a place that I always carry in my heart.

  I dream of singing happy songs.

  I dream of running and not stopping.

  I dream of omelettes with too much cheese,

  Too many cookies cooling on a counter,

  Too many people I love all in the same place—

  Even the ones who have left—they are back with me again.

  I want my mother to remember who she is.

  I want to find my voice in the world.

  And when I do, I want to come back to the people who have lost their voices

  And help them.

  I can carry a lot in my pack.

  The best thing about dreams is they’re not heavy.

  I carry them on my shoulders

  And in my heart

  And balance them on my head.

  I let them follow me around, sniffing at my feet, climbing in my lap and licking my face.

  You know, like the best dogs do.

  I stand there holding the dream poem. Henrietta is smiling, Reba’s eyes are wet.

  “That’s beautiful, my girl.”

  I look down, smiling.

  “I want you to trust me again,” she says softly.

  I’m not sure what to say except, “I trust you.”

  She shakes her head. “I want you to know that I can take care of you. I can stay on my feet. I can turn this thing around. I am determined to do that.”

  Henrietta’s eyes are wet now. “How did you learn to write like that, Sugar?”

  “Reba taught me.”

  She shakes her head. “I did not.”

  “Yes you did. You were always writing thank-you cards to people, always looking for just the right words to say what was in your heart.” I hand her the poem. “You taught me.”

  x x x

  It’s written on plain white paper, and she apologized for that.

  But the envelope with the pretty handwriting shows up at Lexie’s two days later, addressed to me.

  Dear Sugar,

  I am amazed at your grace and your courage.

  I am blessed by how you go through the world.

  I don’t know what I did to deserve a daughter like you, but I’m not going to question it, I’m just going to enjoy the gift. I would imagine that your brand of moxie, smarts, and talent is going to turn a portion of this sour old world on its ear.

  Sugar Mae Cole, you embody the best kind of sweetness.

  I intend to be the kind of mother you deserve. And when I have one of those days where I’m not doing anybody much good, you have my permission to shove this letter in my face and remind me of what I promised.

  Watch this space, girl, because I’m coming back!

  With love,

  Reba

  I sit with the letter. I have plastic wrap to cove
r it, but I don’t want to cover it just yet. I want to soak up all that it says.

  29

  WE HEREBY DECLARE THE FIRST LAWS OF ZIDDO:

  CREATURES ARE TO BE GIVEN RIGHT OF WAY.

  ALL BEINGS ARE ENCOURAGED TO LIVE IN HARMONY.

  VIOLENCE AND MEANNESS ARE SO NOT TOLERATED.

  WE HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR VISIT HERE.

  AND, YES, YOU ARE BEING WATCHED BY THE CREATURE WITH FORTY-SEVEN DAGGERS WHO IS EASILY IRRITATED.

  THIS MESSAGE IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY

  THE WOOZ (WISE ONE OF ZIDDO) AND COMPANY

  I am sitting on Joonie’s front steps when the fattest cat I’ve ever seen waddles up.

  “Butterbutt,” Joonie says, “this is Sugar.”

  I laugh. “Butterbutt?”

  “He sat on a stick of butter when he was little, and it took forever to clean him up.”

  Butterbutt looks at me, not impressed.

  The feeling is mutual.

  A lady walks out, miserable. “Tell me I can go into my office and work effectively even though I am working at home. Tell me I can do this without eating half a bag of cookies.”

  “What kind of cookies?” Joonie asks.

  “The almond butter ones.”

  Joonie stands up. “Don’t eat them, Helen!”

  “I really prefer it when you call me Mom. Maybe I’ll go get coffee.” She shakes my hand. “Welcome to our porch.”

  “You can go into your office and work effectively even though you’re working at home,” Joonie tells her.

  “You’re lying.” Helen walks down the street.

  “The Wooz does not lie.” Joonie looks down. “Helen has more courage than she knows.”

  “My mom does, too.”

  She reaches out to pet Butterbutt, who steps back. “I sense you and I have things in common, Sugar. Fatherwise, I mean.”

  I’m not sure if I should ask. “What did your dad do?”

  Joonie stretches out her arms to the sky and leans back. “Ah, my father, Hargrove Merman the Third, well, he did many things. He cheated on my mother, he made Illinois’ list of top deadbeat dads, and his face was on television.”