Donutheart (14 page)

For the sake of convenience, I’d memorized the lengthy code of “Riding Rules.” It would be easy to refrain from using alcohol or other illegal substances; using obscene, threatening, inciting, or insulting language or gestures; spitting, littering, or picking trash from receptacles; vandalizing; fighting, mock fighting, or roughhousing; standing, sitting, or walking in a way that inconveniences other passengers; loitering, pan-handling, or soliciting; or using a radio, CD player, or other sound-producing device without headphones.

But if Gammy Donuthead could have her knitting needles confiscated on her most recent flight to Florida, could not Sarah Kervick’s recently sharpened skate be cause for concern?

I was thinking I would just have to risk it when I saw—as if in a dream—Glynnis Powell running toward me across the asphalt. She was wearing a loose-fitting pair of slacks with a belted cardigan. One hand kept a beret atop her head. I squinted. Could it be a mirage? No, there was Bernie Lepner, bringing up the rear and trying to hold on to an enormous German shepherd clad in two canvas bags and a harness.

“Franklin!” Glynnis came to a stop directly in front of me, looking quite disheveled. She pressed a hand to her heart. With the other, she straightened her little hat and combed a few loose hairs behind her ear.

“I…” But she was too out of breath to continue.

“We made it!” Bernie had managed to keep hold of the animal that now sat, barely winded, and gazed up at Glynnis with adoration. The lettering on his harness read:
PAWS WITH A PURPOSE. I AM IN TRAINING
.

“Franklin, I…” Her eyes met mine and she faltered again. Only this time, she wasn’t out of breath. I saw her perfect mouth form a little O of embarrassment, and she blushed deeply.

“I told Glynnis where you were going, and she wanted to help,” Bernie said.

Glynnis put her hand on the dog’s head. “I brought you Bartleby,” she said.

“Bartleby?” I repeated. “As in…”

Glynnis smiled and looked at the ground. “The Scrivener.”

I sighed. Hardly anybody our age reads Melville. Glynnis really was a reader.

“Is he…yours?” Somehow, I’d never pictured Glynnis with a dog before. She seemed too…well, too neat.

She nodded again. “My stepfather is Trevor Thompson.”

“He’s the one on TV,” Bernie said, oh so helpfully. “You know, Thompson Treats, TrevorTime dog and cat food, T & T Hairball Remover…”

“I’m familiar with the product line, Bernie,” I replied, hoping to silence him. I wanted just a moment to absorb the scene in front of me, zooming in on Glynnis and cropping Bernie and the dog from the picture.

“Your real father?” I asked her.

“My parents are divorced.”

“Is it strange…? I mean, I might be getting a stepfather…someday.”

“It’s a little strange,” she said. Her gaze had come up to my chest. She combed the same hair behind her ears. “Well…” She exhaled sharply. “A lot strange if you really want to know.”

“Here’s the bus!” Bernie shouted, far louder than was necessary.

“Oh!” Glynnis seemed to recall why she had come in the first place. “He’s not really in training. He’s a personal-protection dog. But they let dogs go on the bus like this. Just hang on to the handles, Franklin, and he’ll protect you.”

“Oh, I don’t think a dog—”

“It’s a jungle out there, Franklin,” Bernie said. “Two years ago, my aunt and uncle got their disability check stolen.”

“I guess you neglected to tell me
that,
didn’t you?”

The bus door whooshed open.

Glynnis kneeled down in front of the dog. She put her hands on his ears and stroked them.

“Say good-bye, Barty.”

What I saw next pains me even to repeat. Glynnis allowed that dog—that dog whose mouth may have come into contact with toilet water, its own reproductive organs, even day-old Dumpster trash—to lick her on the mouth.

I took a step back in shock. I felt sick to my stomach.

She leaned forward to whisper: “Unless you’re in hot water, don’t say the state motto. It’s his signal to attack. Good luck, Franklin.”

“Need some help there?” the driver shouted. “We’re on a schedule, pal.”

Still incredulous, I took the handle on the dog’s harness and pulled slightly. Bartleby’s head swiveled back and forth between me and Glynnis. Her eyes were on him, urging him forward. She made a gesture with her hand.

I didn’t know dogs could sigh. But Bartleby let out a long one before trotting up the steps with me.

“Handi-dogs in front,” the driver said. She was what the weight charts call “morbidly obese,” with iron-gray hair that didn’t quite cover her head. And she was chewing gum. With her mouth open.

I sat down in the front row of seats, the ones that face each other rather than forward.
HANDICAPPED ACCESSIBLE
, the sign read.
SECUREMENTS AVAILABLE BENEATH THE BENCH
. Bartleby and I looked at each other for a long moment before he chose a spot half under and half extending out into the aisle. This would clearly be a problem, as it blocked the aisle for future passengers. I knew what would make him attack—the state motto. I knew various other dog words, such as
come, sit,
and
stay
. But I did not know how to communicate:
Can you please scoot back a little so you’re not blocking the aisle?

The bus lurched to life, and I looked out the window at Glynnis and Bernie, standing side by side, waving at the retreating bus. I could not shake the image of Bartleby licking Glynnis. Talk about bursting my Ivory-soap bubble. The distressing thought occurred to me that there might be other things about Glynnis that—when I discovered them—would tarnish my image of her perfection.

And yet, there were Glynnis and Bernie, growing smaller by the moment. What would they do now? I wondered. Go over our geography assignment? Conjugate a few Spanish verbs? Whatever pleasant activities their day held, my course was set. I was heading for Grand River, the eighth largest metropolis in the Midwest, heading to the heart of the city, to deliver one figure skate to its rightful owner.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Saved by a Pleasant Peninsula

The ride from Pelican View to the outskirts of the city was, for the most part, uneventful. I attempted to get the bus driver to share the secret of the securements…. Were these actually seatbelts? I asked her politely.

“We use those for the paralytics,” she told me.

“So I shouldn’t—”

“Not unless you’re a paralytic.”

Bartleby, it seemed, shared Mr. Spansky’s deficiency in being able to contain saliva in his mouth. I found it necessary to shift my feet around in a regular pattern to avoid the spot directly beneath his muzzle. The bus driver, whose open mouth I glimpsed regularly in the rearview mirror, seemed to alternate between blowing her nose and getting the heavy-lidded expression that comes before falling asleep.

After what seemed like many hours, but was actually two hours and forty-seven minutes, we arrived from the west, cresting the hill and viewing the cityscape spread out below us. The rolling curve of the central bus depot was part of the skyline. I’d seen this exact view on the Web site. The occasional field and neatly clipped expanse of lawn gave way to brick and clapboard houses and storefronts pushed together in haphazard confusion.

As we drove closer to the heart of town, the city’s unfortunates seemed magnetically attracted to our bus. A hefty sort with a bulging belly and a daisy chain made out of neckties boarded the bus and dropped his coins into the change meter.

Instead of proceeding in an orderly fashion down the aisle, he stopped in front of me, scratching his belly, and sat down across from us.

“I’m thinking if Jesus wore pants, he’d put them on one leg at a time,” he said. “What’s your opinion?”

“I have no opinion,” I said, pushing up against the back of my seat.

“Fillmore Avenue and Gentian,” the bus driver called.

“Everybody’s got an opinion,” he said, fumbling in his shirt pocket for a pack of gum. “Leastwise, everybody’s got an opinion about Jesus….”

This fascinating conversation was interrupted by yet another stop. Several people in business attire boarded the bus. A teenager who did not have the benefit of the “flour baby” assignment lugged a car seat holding an infant to the back. A hoodlum with a pair of headphones and a pierced nose shuffled to the first seat in the “regular” row. Bartleby strained to give him an olfactory inspection.

I tugged on his harness. “You’re in training, remember?”

He made a noise that sounded like a growl, reminding me that while he might seem to the world to be a “handi-dog,” he was really a vicious personal-protection dog on loan from Glynnis. A dog that attacked upon hearing our state motto. What
was
our state motto anyway?
Looking all around you…
No, that wasn’t it.
If you’re looking for a pleasant state…
I knew it had something to do with geography. How effective was a protection dog if I didn’t even know the order for attack?

Not that my lifelong principles of pacifism would allow me to use such an order. But it would be a comfort to know it.

An old woman had boarded the bus and was rummaging through her crochet bag for her bus pass.

“I know it’s here,” she said, taking the closest seat to the driver. “Lily will just have a peek.” She continued searching. I noticed that hair sprouted from underneath her chin. Abandoning the search in her purse, Lily took advantage of the moment the bus driver leaned over to adjust the side-view mirror to reach out and snatch a paper soft-drink cup from the garbage. This was a clear violation of the riding rules. Lily sucked on the straw, extracting the last of the liquid.

“Cherry Coke,” she said. “My favorite.”

I now know it is not possible to die from being in the presence of disgusting behavior, because I am still alive.

All Transit Authority buses begin and end at the central bus depot, just south of Plimpton on Main. As our bus pulled in, the able-bodied among us rose in their seats. Bartleby looked up at me. The bus stopped with a hiss.

“Come,” I said. It worked. Bartleby got to his feet.

“Central depot!” the bus driver shouted before heaving herself to a standing position. She was off the bus before most of the customers, which did not seem at all like proper procedure. Without the driver present, Lily began rummaging through the garbage in earnest.

I realized that soon, I would have to board another bus and be exposed to yet another set of questionable characters. It made me tired just thinking about it.

Bartleby and I enjoyed a quick walk around the concrete deck of the bus depot. It occurred to me that he might have to “do his business.” I glanced around for a likely spot and, finding no grass in the vicinity, took him over to a couple of bushes surrounded by gravel.

“Here, boy,” I said, pointing to the bush and trying to concoct an interspecies sign to indicate that going to the bathroom was acceptable. Bartleby cocked his head and looked up at me. I continued my ridiculous pantomime until the driver once again appeared from the depot. If Bartleby was going to do something, it would have to be fast. I towed him inside and went up to the information booth.

“Excuse me,” I said to the woman behind the counter. “Do you have a dog-relief area in the vicinity?”

She looked at me as if no one had ever asked this question before. Then she slid open the window that separated us and leaned out over the counter to get a look at Bartleby. He rewarded her with a friendly bark.

“You’re supposed to bring your own pad. You know that,” she said severely, and lowered the window once again.

My own pad? Whatever could she be talking about? Some sort of canine diaper? I looked at Bartleby, who did not seem to be suffering any discomfort. I shrugged.
Welcome to my world, boy.

Back on the deck, I quickly located the Number 13 Staunton Westbound.

Come
still worked its magic, and Bartleby and I were soon aboard our last bus. I inserted a dollar fifty into the fare box and received my ticket.

Somehow, we made it to the corner of Penzey and Algernon, and the bus left us in a cloud of exhaust. I looked around. This was not the sort of place I would frequently inhabit, and yet it didn’t have the deserted, back-alley flavor I’d feared. People obviously lived and worked here. Kids rode their bicycles. I drew my coat around me, took a deep breath, and told myself to attend to the business at hand.

I’d been let out at Mike’s Party Store. Several youth burst out with sodas and bags of jalapeño Cheetos and streamed around us, leaving a respectful space for Bartleby. I patted him on the head. Glynnis was right. Despite my natural aversion to animals, it was comforting to have Bartleby along.

We headed north as per the map I’d consulted on the bus. The cross streets had creative names like Summer and Winter. Having exhausted the seasons, we moved on to flowers. I’d crossed Pansy, Daffodil, and Trillium when I began to wonder how much farther we had to go. The map at the bus station did not make the trip seem so far. Surely, another city bus route would have been indicated if this was the case.

At least, Bartleby didn’t mind. He trotted along beside me quite happily, though I did notice that between Trillium and Poppy his tongue began dangling from his mouth. Was he overheating? Thirsty?

“Hey, what’s this?” A gangly boy in jeans and an extra-large T-shirt launched himself over the porch railing of a house that could only be described as a fixer-upper. He whistled through his teeth, and two other boys appeared in the doorway.

“Scrub, this is one them handi-dogs I was telling you about.”

Scrub, who was shorter and thicker than the first boy, kneeled down in front of Bartleby and scratched under his chin. Bartleby sat down and tilted his head upward. Obviously, he was hoping to stay awhile.

“What can he do?” Scrub asked me.

“Well, uh…he’s just in training, as you can see….” I cast around for something that sounded authentic. “By the time we’re through with him, he’ll be able to…turn off light switches, fetch the telephone, and, um…press the buttons on the microwave with his nose. Say, would you gentlemen know where I can find Lee Street?”

A third boy pulled on a sweat jacket and lumbered down the stairs toward us.

“’Bout two miles that way, I’d say. Can I pet your dog, too?”

“Well, you’re not supposed to pet the dog while he’s in training, actually.”

Bartleby was now letting all the boys scratch his side.

“Hey, this would be a great dog for Granddad, Pete,” the tall boy said. He looked up at me. “Our granddad had a stroke. Now he can’t move on one side.”

“Well, those are the kind of people we’re looking for,” I said, trying to be friendly. The boys were on all sides of us now, and I started to get that tingly feeling in my fingers and toes, the one that signals either danger or Miss Mathews in a sundress. “But there’s quite a waiting list down at the handicapped training center.”

The first boy had now moved to Bartleby’s ears. Pete was rubbing his hindquarters. The dog seemed to enjoy this very much. I wondered if he would change allegiances for some boys with a good scratching technique.

“Nick. Let’s take him inside and show Granddad.”

“Good idea,” Nick said. “That’ll cheer him up. Hey, kid, wanna go inside?”

I most certainly did not. Going into the homes of strangers was strictly limited to characters in books. Hansel and Gretel come to mind. And look where it got them! I cast around for some assistance. I was beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic. The street appeared to be empty. Perhaps Bartleby and I could make a dash for Mike’s Party Store. But then, for all I knew, these boys held him up on weekends. I heard a car turn the corner. If I threw myself into the street…

“C’mon,” Nick said, growing impatient. He began to tug at Bartleby’s harness. “It’ll cheer him up. Just for a minute.”

Mr. Herman’s techniques flashed through my mind, but how could I push the heel of my hand into Nick’s nose when I couldn’t even reach it. And he was just one of this pack. We hadn’t covered multiple attackers! I tried to remain calm. We weren’t being attacked. We were on a public sidewalk. All we had to do was walk away and things would be fine.

“Here, pup.” Scrub stood up, too, and snapped his fingers.

Bartleby stood up, looking first at me, then at the other boys. He took a step in their direction. All they really wanted was the dog, I told myself, before taking a giant step backward.

What was I thinking? This was Glynnis’ beloved pet!

Mr. Herman was right. I was a shrimp, one who’d neglected to grow a hard outer shell. There is a moment—I can say this now with some authority—when you are cornered, the jig is up, your time is cut short. At this moment, you are—at first—completely drained of thought. But then one idea floats up to you through the numbing darkness: one card to play, one last roll of the dice, so to speak.

“Franklin Delano Roosevelt.”

“Huh?”

Of course. My namesake. What matter that he’d been dead for half a century? Standing in front of these boys, hopelessly outnumbered, I felt the words from FDR’s inspirational speeches flow through me:
There are many ways of going forward, but only one way of standing still.
And
It isn’t sufficient just to want—you’ve got to ask yourself what you are going to do to get the things you want.
And
We cannot always build the future for our youth, but we can build our youth for the future.
And even
There is nothing I love as much as a good fight.

I was like a boy possessed. The words of FDR poured into me like spinach from Popeye’s can. I swear I felt myself transforming into our late, great president—before his wheelchair days, of course.

“Will ya look at that? He’s twitching.” Scrub took a step backward.

“Step aside, Scrub, Nicholas,” I said. “And remember, you are just an extra in everyone else’s play.”

“What?”

“I do not believe in communism any more than you do, but there is nothing wrong with communists in this country.”

“He’s just
trying
to act crazy so we leave him alone,” Nick said. “Have at it, kid. It’s the dog we want.”

Pete elbowed Scrub. “Go get that hamburger in the fridge. I bet he’ll come inside when he gets a whiff of that.”

“When you see a rattlesnake poised to strike, you do not wait until he has struck before you crush him,” I said sternly, pressing on Bartleby’s side. “Time to be off, boy.”

“Hey, where do you think you’re goin’?”

I began to walk backward. The ruffians followed. I sped up. So did they. I stumbled. What happened next can only be described by the legal term “temporary insanity,” for I, Franklin Delano Donuthead, am a lifelong pacifist.

History has shown us, however, that Franklin Delano Roosevelt was not.

Being possessed of the spirit of our late, great thirty-second president is the only way to explain how the words
If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look around you
came out of my mouth.

I cannot accurately report what happened next, though I can reconstruct it from an eyewitness account. Bartleby jumped to attention. There was furious barking and gnashing of teeth; the ruffians beat it to the safety of the porch; I fell backward, cracking my head on the curb; and a passenger emerged from the car that was idling at the corner, watching us. She snagged her patterned nylons on the door panel and cursed before rushing to my aid as fast as her high-heeled pumps would allow.

Gloria, it turns out, is a bit of a fashion plate.

Snap out of it, Franklin
were the first words I recognized. I was dreaming that we were on the phone together and Gloria had just related some particularly fascinating statistics with regard to longevity.

“Gloria?” I said, trying to make the picture before me come into focus.

“Yes?”

“Gloria?” I propped myself up on my elbows, taking in Gloria from head to toe. “This does come as a shock! I pictured you—”

“I’m black, Franklin. That’s the common term. But I can pass for white on the phone.”

“No, it’s not that. I pictured you in sensible shoes, Gloria. You could turn an ankle in those things.”