Fouling Out (13 page)
It is clear to me why Archie is such a must-have companion for Tom. For a moment, I wonder if I can keep Archie in the garage forever and tell Tom that I wasn't able to free Archie from the Hanrahan compound. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's dog, my conscience tells me, and I refocus on my mission of making Tom's hard up life more tolerable.
I peek out of the garage as the sky lightens. I have to hop back in bed before anyone catches me. All this sneaky stuff is hard to maintain. I'm a bit surprised Mr. Hanrahan hasn't paid us another visit, but I guess the police intervention from last time is enough to make him think better of accusing the Trilosky clan again. I look over to Archie. He's moved over slightly to take over my spot on the cardboard boxes. He's already sleeping again, his snore dulled just a little bit. I hope he can stay quiet for the day while I'm at school and then for one more night. I drift over and explain the plan to him as his eyes half open. If only he understood, he'd be sure to cooperate.
Being a Friday, Mom isn't around during the day. She has a Red Cross gig in the morning, followed by a Meals on Wheels run. The afternoon might leave an hour or two open, but she mentioned something about some historical society that wants to save a tree or signpost or something. I cross my fingers that the big meeting is this afternoon. To be safe, I comment at breakfast about how they don't make trees or signposts like they used to. There, Mom, I'm behind you. Save the signposts!
When I go to school, my sleep-deprived body falls into my seat and my head bonds with the desktop. Although I am five minutes early, I don't have to make any effort to chat with classmates. Taryn hadn't shown up along the route to school, and I didn't dare knock on her door. As I'd approached the portable, I saw her on the steps with Erin and Tracey. They were happily yakking and giggling. Taryn didn't even acknowledge my “Excuse me” as I tried to step around them to get in the classroom. Inside, Keith and Mark exchange a flurry of comments in Chinese. Mindy has her head in what looks like a two-thousand-page book, give or take a few hundred pages. Despite all the dramatic flare-ups, the social rungs of seventh grade are always restored.
Miss Chang begins math four seconds after the final bell, and I struggle to raise my head off the desk as she asks Cam Stilwell for the answer to the first homework question. I become more alert as I remember I've done only the first six questions of the thirty that were assigned. I have enough sense to get my hand up to answer questions two through six, but Miss Chang waits until number eight before calling on me. Busted! My school day will be extended half an hour, which wouldn't have mattered if Archie weren't hidden in the garage.
Recess and lunch pass without a single sign of recognition from Taryn. Apparently, she is too busy basking in her return to popularity. I spend the last half of lunch at my desk rewriting my persuasive essay. I even use a dictionary to check a couple of words.
Ten minutes into our writing period, I shock Miss Chang by presenting a completed second draft. She underlines several words as she wades through it and grins widely when she comes to the end. To be honest, I'm not even mildly surprised by her reaction. I feel strongly about my topic and am proud of how I've argued my points. Her only criticismâhey, teachers have to throw in some pointers or they'll be out of a jobâis I need to use a thesaurus to punch up the words she's underlined. A thesaurus! A year ago, I'd struggled with where a simple period went and now I've leapfrogged ahead to using a thesaurus. If teachers got paid for their successes, Miss Chang would be moving into a mansion by June.
I
fit in an extra run after school, not by choice but due to the fact that I am late and I want to beat Mom home before she discovers Archie. I am sore from yesterday's injuries and stiff from sitting at a desk all day, but I cope pretty well after the first couple of minutes.
Thankfully, the driveway is empty as I sprint to the finish line. Without a cool-down, I go straight for the garage. I know Archie will pounce on me as soon as I open the door, so I swiftly slip in and lean against the wall.
Once again, the dog takes me by surprise. It isn't his leaping or his licking or his barking. It is his complete lack of reaction. I scan the garage to see if he's curled up behind a crate or under my dad's workbench. Cold sweat oozes from my armpits and trickles down my forehead as my survey turns up nothing. Archie is gone.
Trying not to panic, I wonder if Tom has jimmied the lock and broken in to get his dog a day early. My sweat glands go into overdrive as Mr. Hanrahan appears on my suspect list. If he has taken Archie, surely he'll be back to pulverize me until I spit out Tom's whereabouts. Even then, he might decide to finish me off just for fun.
“Looking for the dog?” Okay, I scream like a girl. Having totally spooked myself, Mom's surprise entrance puts me over the edge. “Your friend's dog needs leash training,” she adds as I try to pull my heart down from the ceiling.
“Did you take him back?” I sputter.
“Oh, no. That's your job. He's in the car. I just drove him to McDonald Beach and tried to take him for a walk.”
Strangely, there is no mud on Mom's pants. No rips or tears. No facial scratches. But there is no time to dwell on her apparent mastery of doggy discipline. I am stuck on the “job” she's assigned me. To the rest of the world, my mom is Florence Nightingale. But now she is asking for front row tickets to her only son's execution.
“Do you know whose dog he is?” I ask, setting the stage to begin some serious begging.
“Of course I do. And there's no way we can keep him. I don't want that man coming anywhere near our house again.”
“Then you know I can't return him. Don't you remember how demented Tom's dad is? I spit in his face, Mom. He'll beat me beyond recognition. I only need to keep Archie here until the morning.”
“Absolutely not! I'll drive you and the dog back as soon as I check to see if your father has phoned.” She leaves the garage, and I desperately try to come up with a way to convince my mom that returning Archie is totally out of the question. I can't think. Panic has overpowered my brain cells. I crouch down and bury my head in Archie's fur.
Mom is back in no time. She stands in the doorway, hands on her hips, looking mighty peeved. I go back to hugging Archie. She'll have to drag us both to the car.
“Come,” she calls. Archie tugs away from me and bounds over to her. The dog doesn't know she's against us. “Craig, get up. I don't have time for this nonsense. I'll be in the car the whole time. Everything will be fine.”
“Do you really believe that?” I yell. Okay, it's not the best way to begin a negotiation, but my frustration and fear are raw. “Returning Archie to the Hanrahans would be the biggest mistake ever. No one cares about him. Can't you see how much he craves a little attention?”
“Craig, I can't go around protecting every animal that needs a better home.”
“Why not? That's what you do. You help everyone. Right now, Archie needs us.”
“I don't break the law, son. And I'm not about to start.”
I break down. I spill everything I know about Tom and the Hanrahans. Although I know Tom would be furious, I mention his past stint in foster care, Jerry's warning that Tom can't go back home and even the time when I saw Mr. Hanrahan go after Tom. I spare no details. This time it's my mom who sits on the floor and hugs Archie. I talk about how much Tom needs Archie. I describe how pathetic things looked when I visited Archie last weekend.
Mom wipes away a few tears of her own, but I go on. “Don't you see? Tom stood up for me. When he took all the blame for the squirrel incident, his life completely changed. Me, I'm grounded, but he's got nothing. No home, no family, no food, nothing. Archie belongs to him. Tom deserves that much. If I hadn't gone with Tom to the park that day, none of this would've happened.”
Mom breaks. She starts to cry and comes over to hug me. We're both a complete mess. Archie senses the urgency and gets in the group hug. “This isn't your fault,” my mother says through her sobs. “Sometimes it's not a matter of
if
something is going to happen, but
when.
That incident was just the tipping point.”
“I have to do what I can to make things right,” I plead.
She hugs me harder and whispers, “Okay.”
Neither of us has the energy to say anything else.
M
y mom has proven to people of all ages, abilities and income levels that she is a caring soul, but I hadn't seen how well she can talk to the animals until Archie came along. Maybe she's always been careful not to fawn all over people's pets so my precious sister won't feel guilty about her allergies, and I won't start pressing for a pet of my own.
With Archie, she finally lets down her guard. Mom hauls in a space heater to warm up the garage, followed by an old beanbag chair from the basement so I can be more comfortable. She even serves my dinner (an attempt at turkey sausage lasagna I hope she doesn't try again) in the garage and brings a couple of cooked burgers for Archie. If she hadn't stayed to pat and hug Archie as he gobbled down the patties, I would have gladly traded meals with him.
A short while later, she barges in with a box of dog treats. She sits on the concrete, marveling time and time again how well the pooch can shake a paw, lie down and, to her greatest amusement, play dead.
In the middle of Archie's eleventh or twelfth command performance of
playing
dead, we hear the
walking
dead come moaning and grunting up the driveway. Before Mom can finish her standard “Good heavens!”, I'm out the door and staring at what looks like an extra from a horror movie. While I stand there gawking like an idiot, Mom runs directly to the shivering, soaking wet figure and rushes to get Tom into the house. Mom's body engulfs Tom's as they shuffle to the front door. As awkward as it looks, they move at a pace that would overtake the average high school track star. Tom doesn't speak; I'm not sure he is able to.
“CRAIG! THE DOOR!” Her words knock me out of my stupor. I run past them and push the door open, allowing them to hobble into the living room without even a moment's setback.
The next five minutes is a flurry of activity that would be the envy of every emergency room in the country. Doctor Mom barks out orders as I scramble to keep pace: “GET BLANKETS!” Stat! “GRAB SOME OF YOUR CLOTHES!” Stat! “GET THE THERMOMETER FROM THE MEDICINE CABINET!” Stat! “BOIL SOME WATER!” Stat! “RUN ACROSS THE STREET AND GET DR. KALMUS. TELL HIM IT'S PROBABLY HYPOTHERMIA!” Stat!
When my mom talks to Tom, she speaks in a gentle whisper as she quizzes him about his name, age and the date; he mutters incomprehensible syllables in reply. By the time I return with our neighbor, Dr. Kalmus, Tom is shrouded in layers of blankets while Mom holds a mug to his mouth and forces sips of hot tea through his whitish blue lips. Feeling totally useless, I attend to Tom's bike, which has been abandoned in the middle of the driveway. I prop it against the back steps, out of sight from passersby.
When I return to gaze at the medical unit in motion, my mother directs me to bring Archie in to see Tom. Somehow I'd managed to tune out the dog's persistent barking.
Archie bolts from the garage and begins making wide circling sweeps of our front lawn, frantically sniffing the ground and looking for his owner. Barking becomes high-pitched whimpering. I can't catch him as he zigzags every which way. Calling his name proves useless. All I can do is stand and wait. Finally convinced that Tom is not outside, Archie stops, looks up at me and trots to the door. As I open the door, I block Archie's entry, afraid that the dog will pounce on Tom and hurt him. I grab the fur on the back of his neck and attempt to guide him slowly to the living room.
That works for a millisecond. One sniff, and Arch is out of my grasp, darting to the sofa. Mom looks as if she is about to scream at me but, remarkably, the dog slows on approach, seeming to sense his master's fragile condition. He gently nudges the blankets that warm Tom's legs, all excitement shifting to his tail, which swiftly sweeps the air. Tom's face, smooshed against a back pillow, attempts a smile, an action that appears to cause intense discomfort. The rest of his body lies motionless as he tries to say the dog's name. “Arrrr” is enough to cause the dog to lean a little more into Tom's body.
“You're doing fine, Tom,” Dr. Kalmus declares as he inserts a thermometer between Tom's lips. “Let's just see how quickly you're warming up.”
“I think he's getting some color in his cheeks,” my mom comments. Dr. Kalmus makes a humming noise and nods his head ever so slightly as he peeks at his watch before removing the thermometer.
“Yep. You're already up point five. That's good news, Tom. A degree or two colder and we'd have had to cart you off to the hospital. You're in good hands here.” Dr. Kalmus smiles and gives a quiet chuckle as if to show there is nothing to worry about. He rises from the sofa to put on his coat. As he heads to the door, he mumbles a few directions to my mother. She thanks him profusely; the doctor deflects all praise, saying, “Heck, I gotta do something to earn your special Christmas baking, Kate.” He chuckles again and is on his way.
I continue to stand about eight feet from the couch. As my mother goes back to tending to Tom, I feel utterly useless. Each time I glance at Tom, I feel I am gawking, so I gaze at the family portraits on our mantel until I feel guilty for having a family that is relatively normal. My eyes look down and zoom in on a small carpet stain that is a faint remnant of a grape Popsicle mishap from last August. My mom startles me as she touches my shoulder and says, “He'll be fine. Maybe some painful blisters from the cold, but nothing more. Now go call your sister at Theresa Abagon's house and see if she can spend the night there. The number's on the fridge. This dog's staying in tonight.”