Buddy (16 page)

“It's a fine shelter,” Brother James says. “Looks like a fancy resort hotel for dogs.”

Rover jumps and yelps.

“Just catch it!” I yell at him.

“They showed some of the dogs living there. Some of the ones from Katrina.”

I turn to look at him.

He looks at me. “One of those dogs was a black dog—a black dog with three legs.”

“Buddy!” I shout, and jump up. “You saw Buddy on TV!”

Brother James grins real big.

“I wanted you to know he's okay, Li'l T. He made it out. He's safe. He's a California dog now, but he's safe.”

“Daddy,” I say. “Let's go get him.”

31

Right away they start making excuses. We don't know what shelter that is. It's too far away. How are we going to get there? Where are we going to get that kind of money?

“But we can find out what shelter it is, can't we, Brother James?” I'm standing right up close to him. I've got his arm in my two hands. I'm shaking it.

“I guess so,” he says, kind of laughing. “We could probably call the TV station. Somebody there ought to know.”

“How much does it cost to get to California? A hundred dollars?”

They all laugh. “A thousand is more like it,” they say.

“For all of us?”

“For one of us,” Daddy says. “Slow down, Li'l T.” He stands up. “We're not the kind of people who can just pick up and go to California.” He stands there kind of quiet for minute. “I'm sorry, son,” he says. Then he picks up his hammer and he heads back inside.

I can't sleep that night. I'm laying there on my air mattress thinking about Buddy in a cage in California. I'm thinking about how he needs me to tell him stories. How he wants to put his nose in the palm of my hand. I'm wondering what he would think if he knew about Rover. Would he think I forgot him? Would he think I said, “I don't want no piece of a dog. I want me a whole dog”?

I'm thinking we've got money somewhere. Look at that Sheetrock Daddy just piled up in the front room. Look at those shingles he's nailing on the porch roof every day. Where does that stuff come from if we ain't got money?

A thousand dollars. I could earn that much. I could work. Doing odd jobs around. I ain't got no lawn mower anymore but I could do the mowing if somebody had the machine. I could muck out houses. My bicycle's gone, but my legs are strong. I could pick up the trash everywhere. Daddy's going to teach me how to nail Sheetrock. And I know how to saw a board straight. Ain't everybody can do that.

I'm thinking I could even build a new shed with all the junk wood laying around. I could find an old army blanket just like Granpa T's. I could find new bowls and make a new sign. I could fix it all up almost exactly like it was before.

I'm turning back and forth on my air mattress. It's hot in that house with no fans and no air conditioner. I can hear the crickets in the trees and a car or two on a street somewhere far away. I hear Rover snuffling around under the house and settling in to his sleeping place right below my bed.

And I'm laying there, sweating and doing numbers. How long would it take me to earn a thousand dollars? What could I do to get it?

One more time I'm thinking up a plan. One more time I'm figuring out a way. Because there's one thing I know for sure—I'm going to get that money and I'm going to bring my Buddy home.

The next Sunday I go to church with an armload of signs. I stick them up on the bulletin board by the sanctuary. I stick them up on the wall by the Sunday school. I start handing them out to the people as they walk in the door.

Mama shakes her head. Daddy says I'm crazy. I say I want my dog.

BOY FOR HIRE,
my sign says.
WHAT YOU NEED DONE, I'LL DO IT.
That's in big letters. Then it says, “Katrina rescuers took my dog to California. I got to go get him. It costs a thousand dollars to go to California.” Then I put a picture of a dog. I drew it just like Buddy—black with three legs. Then under the picture it says, “Please help me get my dog back. Tyrone Elijah Roberts.”

When I walk in to sit down, I see people looking at me. Mrs. Washington's nephew nods but he don't smile. Mr. Nelson's grinning. A little white boy stands up on his seat just to get an eyeful. I try to act like I know what I'm doing. I try to act like a boy who can do anything.

After church, I go home and wait for the phone to ring.

The first call comes from Brother James. “The church still has a lawn,” he says. “And it's still got a lawn mower.”

“When do you want me to come?”

“Saturday. Just like before.”

The second call comes from Mrs. Washington's nephew. He says his name is Eddie. He says he's doing that house all by himself. He says sometimes he could use a hand.

“When do you want me to come?”

“I'll be at work tomorrow,” he says. “What about the next day?”

A white lady three streets off and around the corner needs somebody to pull out all her dead bushes. She says she's finally tired of looking at them.

I take Rover with me on that one. I figure he's about as good at digging as anybody. I almost fall out laughing when I see those bushes. They're dead as everything else, but that lady took spray paint and sprayed all the leaves green. “It helped for a while,” she says, “but it's time to plant new.”

Everybody I work for tells me, “Good luck with your dog.”

I tell them, “Call me again. And tell your friends to call me, too.”

Daddy catches me one night sitting on my mattress counting my money. I've got the battery lamp lit up beside me and I'm putting the fives in one stack, the tens in another, and my single twenty all by itself.

“How much you got?” Daddy says.

“Sixty bucks.”

“In one week?”

“Pretty good, huh?” I say.

Daddy nods real slow. “How long is it going to take you to get to a thousand?”

I start doing the math in my head. “Sixteen—seventeen weeks.”

Daddy nods again. “About four months.”

We sit and look at the money.

“Buddy was your dog for about four months,” he says.

I look at him again. “What are you saying, Daddy?”

“Nothing,” he says. “I ain't saying nothing at all.”

The second week I earn a hundred bucks and I tell Daddy it's going to go faster than we thought. He says that's all well and good for me to be working for other people during the week but on Saturday the only thing I can do is mow at the church. The rest of the day he needs me at the house. The front room is all wired now. It's time to start hanging that Sheetrock.

Saturday morning when I finish at the church, Brother James comes out with my five dollars and hands me a letter.

“This is some news about Buddy,” he says, and goes on back inside.

I don't wait to get home to read it. I sit right down on the church steps and unfold the paper. It's addressed to Brother James.

“Dear Reverend James,” it says. “Thank you for writing to inquire about the black, amputee, mixed-breed dog featured on the recent television documentary. You are correct. The dog you saw is indeed named Buddy, and our records show that he was rescued from a second-floor bathroom in a house in New Orleans. Because he was never claimed, we put him up for adoption. A local family adopted him about six months ago. We do not provide the names of adoptive families but we have passed on your information to them. It is our policy to leave it up to the adoptive family to decide whether to contact prior owners. Thank you very much for your interest. Sincerely,” and so on.

I fold up that letter real careful. I sit there a while and look at the sidewalk. I ain't never noticed before how that cement's got little black spots and little gray spots and even little red spots all mixed up in it. I bend down to stare at it, and then I sit up and take out the letter and read it again. Then I remember Daddy's waiting for me at home. I fold up the letter and slide it deep into my pocket. I think maybe I'll wait until the end of the day to show it to Daddy. Or maybe I'll wait until tomorrow.

At home, they're setting up to hang that Sheetrock. Eddie's come over to help. When we get going, I'm sure glad he's there, because hanging Sheetrock is the hardest thing I've ever done. That Sheetrock's heavy as a ton of bricks and there ain't nothing for it but to pick it up sometimes and hold it where you need it. Daddy and Eddie do most of the lifting and Mama and me are trying the best we can to help. By the end of the day, I see Mama can't hardly help no more. She's completely worn out. Daddy tells her to go on and check on Tanya and the baby while we finish up. I hear her barely dragging her feet along the floor while Eddie and me are holding up that last piece and Daddy's banging home those nails. When we're done, we step back and take a look and Daddy says, “Whoo-ee,” and I say, “We started. I guess we can finish.” And Eddie laughs and goes on outside to start washing up.

Then I pull the letter out of my pocket and hand it to Daddy. “Brother James gave this to me this morning,” I say.

Daddy's standing there reading it with his arms all covered in Sheetrock dust and his hair powdered over with white.

He looks up at me. “Why you ain't showed me this before?” he says.

“We were busy,” I say.

“So what do you think?” he says.

I shrug.

“Wonder who these people are,” he says, and turns over the letter to look on the back.

“Ain't nothing on the back,” I say. “That's all there is.”

“Buddy's a lucky dog,” Daddy says. “He's got a new home.”

He gives me back the letter.

I fold it up real careful and shove it in my pocket. “It ain't fair,” I say.

“Come on,” Daddy says. “Let's get cleaned up.”

Outside Eddie's washing himself off with the hose. He starts spraying me and then we're spraying each other and then Daddy gets wet and then even Mama joins in. She's squealing like a little girl and we're shooting water all over her and Tanya. Baby Terrell's sitting in a puddle and splashing his hands.

Rover's hopping all around and trying to bite the water out of the air. Then he goes galloping across the yard and knocks Baby Terrell smack over into the puddle. I snatch up Baby Terrell. He's screaming like he's been shot, but all he is is wet. Rover runs off to the corner of the yard. He sits down and looks at us.

I put down Baby Terrell and I grab up a stick and chase after Rover. “Bad dog!” I'm shouting. “You're a bad dog!” I hit him hard on his behind. He yelps. I smack at him again and he runs off. “I'll get you,” I yell, but Rover disappears under the house.

I turn around and Daddy's standing there holding the hose.

“Buddy wouldn't have done that,” I say. “Buddy had better sense!”

Daddy walks over to the spigot and turns off the water. He looks at Mama. “Take Tanya and the baby on home,” Daddy says. He looks at Eddie. “Thank you,” he says. “I guess we're done for the day.” Then he looks at me. “Li'l T, come here with me.”

Daddy takes me inside. He stands in front of me and crosses his arms over his chest.

I'm standing there with water dripping off me. I'm waiting for him to lift his hand.

“That dog don't have any idea what he did wrong.” Daddy waits a minute. “But you do.”

I know he's going to hit me now.

But he don't. He just talks. “You're striking out in anger, son. It don't work. It never will.”

He heaves up a sigh from deep in his chest, then he leans against the door frame and looks up at the ceiling.