Buddy (2 page)

2

I started up wanting a dog the day after I was born. At least, that's what I always tell people. We were living in a double, and my best friend Jamilla and her aunt were living on the other side. For extra money, Mama was making pralines to sell out of the house and watching Jamilla while Jamilla's aunt was at work. We played on the front porch every day, and I remember every single dog that ever walked by. And there were a lot.

When I was about five or six, a boy down the street named Melvin had a yellow dog that chased a ball. Every day when Jamilla and me got home from school, we watched him walk out with that dog and head to the park. We asked if we could come but he said we were too little. I told Jamilla I wanted a dog just like that. She drew me one on a piece of paper and said, “Here.” Mama stuck it up on my wall and said, “That dog almost looks alive.” I was thinking it was a good picture but it wasn't
that
good.

When I was seven years old, I told my daddy I wanted a dog.

Mama was walking round with a great big stomach, and Daddy said, “We can't have a dog. We're going to have a baby.”

I said, “I want a dog, not a baby.”

Daddy said, “You don't get to choose.”

When I was nine years old, I told my daddy I still wanted a dog, and he said, “We got a toddler baby now. We ain't got room for a dog.”

When I was ten years old, we moved down the street to live with Granpa T. He said he had a big old empty house and couldn't work anymore because of his heart trouble, and what were we doing paying rent anyway. Mama had started cooking up lunches to sell, too, so she could use a bigger kitchen. And to tell the truth, Granpa T wasn't as strong as he ought to be. Jamilla's drawing got all ripped up when we took it off the wall. She said she would do another one, but I said, “Don't worry about it. We got a yard now—even though there ain't hardly no grass.”

So I told my daddy we had enough room now and I still wanted a dog. But he said times were hard and he didn't have the money to feed a dog.

When Mama's stomach got big again, I knew there wasn't no point saying I wanted a dog. We were going to have another baby, and there wasn't no more money than there was before.

And since Christmas, there ain't even been as much. Jamilla and her aunt just up and moved. One day when the aunt came by after work to get Jamilla, Mama started up showing off the little plastic bags she had just bought to put her pralines in. Each bag was just big enough for one praline and each one said
mama's pralines
in this pinky-red color Mama took about two hours to pick out. She had just bought boxes and boxes of them plus two rolls of ribbon to tie them shut. The aunt was standing there nodding and saying how nice that was going to look. Then all a sudden she stopped nodding and she said, “I need to tell y'all something. We're moving to Chicago. I got a better job. It'll be a better school. We're leaving this weekend.”

We were just standing there staring at her and then she said, “Y'all have been good to Jamilla for ten years, and you're like family. But we have to go.” Just before Jamilla walked out the door, she turned around and waved. “I'll write you a letter, Li'l T,” she said, “and then you can write me back.” And that's the last time I ever talked to her.

So then there was nobody to ride the bus with and nobody to do my homework with and nobody to keep Tanya off when I wanted to play my Game Boy. Mama had spent all her money on those little plastic bags and she didn't have anybody extra to babysit, just Tanya and Terrell, and you don't get money for babysitting your own children. I knew there wasn't no way in the world they were ever going to let me have a dog of my own. Then Melvin's yellow dog from down the street ran off, and I didn't even have somebody else's dog to look at anymore. I went in my room and laid down on my bed and didn't move for about a week. I just stared at the ceiling and thought that I should have let Jamilla draw me one more picture because then at least I'd have that instead of nothing at all.

So now I'm walking on past the Tomato Man down the street toward the church. I'm thinking about how it's been over three months and Jamilla still ain't wrote me a letter. I'm getting sweaty in my Sunday clothes and my shoes are getting dusty.

And then I start thinking about how that dog put his nose in the palm of my hand. I start thinking about his big old eyes looking up at me. I start thinking about his broke leg and the way his ribs were sticking up when he was laying on his side. I hold my hand up to my face and I smell his smell all over again. Dog sweat, dry dust, and old, wet leaves.

Then I remember how the preacher always says nobody knows what God's plan might be, so I decide right then and there I'd better make a plan of my own.

I look up at the sky—just once—and then I get busy.

I walk in at the church when they're singing. They're singing loud and they're swaying. The choir starts clapping their hands and everybody joins in. I walk down the aisle to where my family's standing. They're singing with the rest of them. When they see me, Granpa T leans over to Mama and says, “Told you,” but she don't look too happy about it.

I squeeze in beside Daddy, and Tanya leans around and looks up at me and smiles real big. That girl sure is all teeth when she grins.

When the song is done, we all sit down and the preacher starts talking about the meetings and committees and who's supposed to do what, but I'm thinking about the dog and wondering where he is. I poke Daddy and whisper in his ear. Daddy points and then I see him. He's laying up against the wall at the end of the aisle. Somebody's put a bowl of water by him but now his head is down and he looks like he's asleep. I start to get up, but Daddy puts his hand on my arm and makes me stay put.

While I'm looking at that dog, he lifts up his head and sees me. I swear I see his tail go
thump
.

Then we come to the time when the preacher asks us to share our problems. Mrs. Washington is still worried about her nephew in Iraq and we all pray for him. Mr. Boudreaux says his daddy is down in his back. He can't work, and all he does now is sit in his dark room watching TV and saying nobody needs him anymore. So we all pray for Mr. Boudreaux's daddy. One little girl stands up and says she's worried about her cat because it ain't come home in three days. We pray for the cat.

Then I poke Daddy. He points to Granpa T who's already standing up. Granpa T says he's got a story to tell but he don't know how it ends. He says that's where he needs the help.He says we're driving in the car to church this morning and the family is all squeezed in because the car's too small and we can't buy another one. We ain't got the money.

And the people say, “Uh-huh,” or “I know all about that!”

“Then,” Granpa T says, “we hit a dog—
wham
!” And he claps his hands together so loud Tanya jumps.

The people suck in their breath and say, “Mercy!”

Granpa T's standing there looking at his feet and shaking his head. He says this story would be over if that dog had died, but that dog didn't die.

“Praise God,” somebody says.

“That dog is laying right over there,” Granpa T says, and he points.

All the heads turn.

That dog lifts up his head and looks back at the people. I swear he looks like he's about to cry.

Granpa T says the dog's got a broke leg. He says it's in pain. He says it's hungry.

The dog puts his head back down. He closes his eyes. He turns his face toward the wall.

“That dog is one of God's creatures,” Granpa T says. “We hurt him, and we don't have the money to help him. So how's this story going to end? How are we going to help that dog—like the good Lord says we ought to?”

“Sweet Jesus,” somebody sings out in the back.

The preacher says, “How are we going to help Brother Roberts?”

And Mr. Nelson from the country stands up and he says his daughter works for a veterinarian and he'll help us get the dog there in his truck. And Mrs. Washington with the nephew in Iraq stands up and she says she can give a dollar to help pay. And then other people stand up and say they can, too, and before you know it, somebody's passing a plate and the dollar bills are rolling in and we're all singing again and I'm thinking maybe God does make his own plan, but so far it looks pretty much the same as mine.

3

After church, Mr. Nelson carries the dog off in his truck, but just before he drives away, I get a chance to whisper in that dog's ear not to worry because I got a plan. Of course I don't tell anybody else about my plan. I just lay in bed that night while Tanya's singing herself to sleep and cross my fingers and try to figure out what to do next.

In the morning, I head off to school as usual. I get tired of going to school, especially toward the end of the year. They got the Jazz Fest going on out at the racetrack. They got the flowers blooming all over the yards. They got that breeze coming straight off the river and drifting all over the house when we open up the windows. You can hear the ships blowing their horns and the birds singing in the trees. To tell the truth, that just ain't the time to be sitting in a little bitty desk. That's the time to be outside.

We're all sitting there after lunch trying to pay attention, and it ain't working. That boy Rusty two seats over is falling asleep. His eyes are half shut and his mouth is drooping open. Somebody accidentally-on-purpose drops a book. Everybody jumps and the girls scream. Finally the teacher says, “Okay, enough of that,” and starts to hand out paper to draw on.

I feel like making an airplane and flying it straight out the window—with me on it.

But I don't do that. I wait.

Then he says, “This is free drawing time. Draw something you love.”

And I think,
If it's free, why do we have to draw something we love? Why can't we draw something we hate?
But I don't say that. I pick up my pencil, and I get ready to draw but I've got some problems.

The first problem is I ain't a good drawer. Jamilla was a good drawer but she's gone. If she were here, she would get me started on whatever it is I'm going to draw—which is the second problem.

What am I going to draw?

J-Boy is sitting next to me like always. He's too old for this class but here he is anyway.

“What are you going to draw?” I whisper.

“I ain't drawing nothing,” he says.

“You're a lazy fool,” I say.

He shrugs up his shoulders.

“I'm going to draw a dog,” I say.

“So you love dogs?”

“I love
my
dog.”

“You ain't got a dog.”

“I'm going to get one.”

“How?”

“I got a plan.”

“Who's the fool now?” he says, and puts his head down on his desk.

That afternoon, we go visit the dog at the vet's but the vet won't let us see him. He says the dog is pretty bad off. He's getting him ready for surgery. He says that dog's leg is broke so bad he can't save it. He says he's got to cut it off.

Tanya's sitting there with her eyes all big and round, and when he says, “Cut it off,” tears swell up like an overflowing gutter and come rolling all down her cheeks.

Mama looks at her and says, “Don't take on, now. It's for the best.”

When we get home, Granpa T's sitting in the front room with the baby riding up and down on his knee and the TV going.

Mama says, “I told you he needed a nap.”

Granpa T says, “He ain't sleepy.”

Mama snatches up the baby and stomps off up the stairs.

Granpa T looks at Daddy and says, “What's wrong with that woman?”

Daddy says, “It's the dog. He's got to have his leg cut off.”

Granpa T says, “Whoo-ee,” and shakes his head. “How is a dog going to manage with only three legs?”

I sit down and open my book bag. I pull out my picture. I'm looking at it and looking at it. I think I did a pretty good job even if I did do it all by myself. It don't look alive but anybody can see it's a dog. There's only one thing wrong with it. It's got four legs.

We go back two days later and that big old dog is laying in a wire cage with a big blue plastic cone around his neck, his half-leg all wrapped up in bandages, and his ribs still looking like a piece of black corduroy cloth laid over a frame.

When we walk in, he lifts up his head and cocks it to one side like he's thinking to himself,
I've seen
that boy before.

“What's that blue thing around his neck?” I say.

“It's a collar,” the doctor says, “to keep him from worrying his wound.”

“Why would he want to do that?”

“He's a dog. That's what dogs do.”

“Why is he all penned up?”

“To keep him resting,” the doctor says. “Just for a day or two.”

Daddy's standing in the door watching us. “What happens then?” he asks.

“Then he needs a home,” the doctor says.

“He ain't a little dog,” Daddy says. “He needs a home with a big yard.”

“We don't have too many of those in the city,” the doctor says. “He'll have to make do with something else.”

“We're all making do,” Daddy says. He heaves a sigh, and I know he's thinking about the car that's making a funny noise and that stack of letters I saw by the telephone and the lady at school who said I need glasses if I'm going to do my best next year.

I'm standing there beside the cage. That dog pokes his nose at the wires and starts whining. I reach through and rub his head real soft. He quiets right down and closes his eyes.

“Is he ever going to get well?” I say.

The doctor nods. “He's weak because he's old and he hasn't been eating right, but once he stands up and starts getting around, he'll be okay.”

“How is he going to manage with only three legs?”

“He'll be fine. He just needs somebody to look after him while he heals and to love him when he's well.”

“And to feed him,” Daddy says. “And take him on walks and clean up his business.”

“That's true,” the doctor says.

“That's money,” Daddy says. “Come on, son. We've got to go.”

When I take my hand off the dog, his eyes pop open and he lifts up his head. He's watching us the whole way down the hall and when I raise my hand to wave good-bye, I swear I see his tail go
thump
again.

That night Granpa T's sitting on the porch drinking a beer, and when I finish up my homework, I go out and I sit down beside him.

“That dog's getting better,” I say. “The vet says he's going to be able to get around on three legs just fine.”

Granpa T don't say nothing. The streetlight flips on and starts buzzing.

“He's going to need a home soon. Somebody's got to look after him while he heals. Somebody's got to help him learn to walk again. Got to take care of him extra good because he's a special dog.”

Granpa T takes another sip.

“I want a dog,” I say. “A real dog. Not just a picture.”

Granpa T sets down the can and looks out at the street. It's pretty dark so there ain't much for him to see.

“I want a dog,” I say again, “but Daddy says a dog costs too much to feed.”

“What about a chicken?” Granpa T says. “I had a chicken once. When the new ones hatched, my mama pointed and said, ‘You want a pet? That one's yours.' I named it Henny Penny and I raised it up from a ball of yellow fluff. I talked to it. It clucked back. It used to scratch around the back steps. It came wobbling out when I called.”

Granpa T takes another sip and looks down at me. “So what do you say to a chicken?”

“I don't want a chicken. I want a dog. I want that dog.”

Granpa T sets down the can and shakes his head. “That ain't a little dog. He eats a lot.”

“I'll sell my Game Boy.”

Granpa T picks up the can and takes a long drink.

“I've already talked to J-Boy down the street,” I say.

“Is he that big boy who used to come sniffing around when Jamilla was staying here after school?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“You still play with him sometimes?”

“We don't play,” I say. “We just pass the time.”

Granpa T looks at me and then he nods. “That's what I meant,” he says.

“J-Boy says he'll buy it. He says he's got the money already. He says he'll buy all the games, too.”

“You'd really do that?” Granpa T says. He's shaking the beer can. It's empty. “You'd sell that Game Boy?”

I take a deep breath. “I already did it.” I reach in my pocket and I pull out money. A lot of money.

“Today,” I say, “in school.”

We're sitting there looking at my hand all stuffed full of money.

“I want a dog,” I say. “I want that dog.”

Granpa T stands up. Way up high in the trees, the frogs are screaming. Across the street, the lady's air conditioner comes roaring on.

“I plan on naming him Buddy,” I say, “because that's what he'll be, my buddy.”

I shove the money back in my pocket. I look up and there's Granpa T looking down at me in the dark evening. Behind him is the big old sky all full of stars. I cross my fingers.

“I'll go talk to your daddy,” Granpa T says, and eases on inside.