Return of the Jed (7 page)

“If we had a larger budget, we’d have made the waiting room a bit nicer, maybe added a few plants, installed air conditioning,” the officer said. “The hallway could use softer lighting as well. But we don’t work in the waiting room or the hallway. We work in our offices, and that’s what should be inviting to our country’s guests.”

He stood. “If you did not notice the nameplate on my desk,” (I had not) “or the college diploma behind me.” (I had not) “I am Antonio Aguilera, Republic of Mexico customs. Welcome to our amazing country.”

Dad stood as well and gripped Officer Aguilera’s hand. “I’m Harry Rivers, and that is my son Jed—” I raised my hand— “and his friend Luke.” Luke waved.

“Please, take a seat,” Officer Aguilera said. He opened the folder in front of him, brought the top page close to his eyes. “I understand we found in your possession a, hold on …”

He reached into a side drawer and slid on a pair of wire-framed glasses. He stared again at the paper. “I am sure this can’t be right. But let’s start simply. You had an animal in your vehicle.”

“Tread,” I said.

“You had an animal in your tread?”

“No. The animal is not an animal. He’s Tread. My dog. Our dog.”

“A dog,” Officer Aguilera said. “Yes, that makes much more sense.”

“More sense than what,” Dad asked.

“I am sorry, but sometimes our agents get a little carried away,” Officer Aguilera said. “Bay leaves become marijuana. Baking soda is cocaine. It says here that—Tread, is it? —Tread is a chupacabra.”

“No, he’s a dog,” I said.

“Good, because we do have a very strict policy regarding chupacabras, even more strict than for fruits and vegetables.”

“You don’t believe Tread—”

“Of course not, do you think me a fool?” Officer Aguilera interrupted. “Chupacabras are hairless with sharp fangs and long claws, and they stink of goats.”

I knew Tread gave off an unpleasant odor, but at least it wasn’t of goats.

“And your dog smelled more of rotting meat than goats,” Aguilera continued.

Yeah, that was it, especially when he was nervous or frightened. I Oozed, he stank.

“He’s needed a bath for a while,” I admitted.

“Yeah, for about a year,” Luke said.

“Thanks,” I muttered.

Officer Aguilera put the paper on his desk and smoothed it out. He switched his gaze from Dad to Luke before settling on me, “It is not his smell I worry about.”

“You should,” Luke said.

“Shut it,” I said, maintaining eye contact with Officer Aguilera.

“You seem nervous,” he said. “You are sweating profusely.”

That’s not sweat, I wanted to say. “No, everything’s good. So what are you worried about?”

He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “I’m sorry to tell you your dog had a slight accident. His lost his tail after we put him in a holding kennel.”

“He WHAT!” I screamed, working up as much fake anger as I possibly could, my acting falling short of an Oscar, but better than a People’s Choice Award. Maybe Golden Globe-ish. “How could you possibly let that happen?”

Officer Aguilera had no idea how much Tread loved to take off his tail and chew on it for a while. One of the benefits of being a zombie dog, having your favorite bone attached to you.

“We let nothing happen. He’d been in a kennel for thirty minutes or so, and when we went to check on him, his tail no longer was in place.”

“You have to take him to a vet!”

“We thought of that, but he refused to give us his tail. He was gnawing on it. Like a bone. As if this was nothing new. He didn’t seem to be in any pain.”

“That’s no excuse, he needs treatment,” I said, the urgency in my voice falling off a cliff.

“This is what we’re going to do… ” Officer Aguilera straightened his arms and leaned forward. “We are going to keep your dog for a while. His, let us say, ‘unnaturalness’ concerns us. And if he proves to be the threat I think he is, he will be destroyed.”

“No, you can’t—”

“We most certainly can. You have the right to appeal to your U.S. consulate, which might be very interested in seeing the dog in question. They could have even more questions than I have. You have a decision to make.”

He stood. “You are free to go. We have all your contact information from your forms and will be in touch as to our final determination.”

Dad opened the door and walked out as if everything had come to an end.

But it hadn’t. Not by a long shot.

I was sitting on bird poop, but I didn’t care. I promised Dad I’d stay in the light and within sight of our hotel room, and that limited my options to the bench just off the parking lot under a streetlamp that obviously was a very popular rest stop for the local winged community.

Convincing Dad I needed some time alone was easy. He’d always been sympathetic, like the time Mom forced me to take off the
Night of the Living Dead
T-shirt I wanted to wear to sixth-grade graduation.

“Just because you’re undead is no reason to flaunt it, especially at such an important occasion,” Mom had said.

“Important occasion?” I argued. “I’m going from sixth to seventh grade. It’s like we’re celebrating basic math with cake and phony diplomas.”

Dad stepped in. “Hon, he’s right. I can understand teachers marking the moment, since it means they’re getting rid of another bunch of attitude-filled sixth graders. But it is not so momentous that our child should not celebrate his heritage.”

“Yeah,” I said, “my
heritage
,” emphasizing the last word even though I was not sure what it meant in the scheme of things. But it sounded important.

And Dad showed up a few hours later when I was kicked out for wearing an inappropriate shirt, and I had a big smile on my face when I handed him my sixth-grade diploma.

That was the part of my dad that agreed to get a hotel for a night, to visit customs the next day and plead our case. Luke was on board, since he equated “hotel” with “food delivered right to your room, and you can eat on the bed because someone else is going to clean the sheets.”

Convincing Luke I needed to be alone took a call to room service. I slipped out when the tray was delivered, since all I’d ordered was fries, knowing how happy Luke would be.

I sat alone with my thoughts. I didn’t count the million moths flitting in the lamp, filtering the light until it became a muddy gray by the time it reached the ground. Every now and then a car went by, and it only reminded me how much Tread loved to go for rides, sticking his head out the window, and I would take off his ears so they wouldn’t blow away, stuffing them in my pocket to reattach them later.

I’d gone through a fire for Tread, risking my life (sort of) to get him out of the burning cafetorium. He returned the favor (sort of) by rescuing one of the kids who had worked so hard to make my life miserable. But what that kid was unable to do in a year, Mexico had done in just a few hours.

Why did I ever agree to come? And why hadn’t I done more to keep Tread out of dog jail? Various escape fantasies ran through my head, most starting with distraction (pretty easy when you can easily sever your own limbs) and ending with a heroic dash into the desert where we would meet friendly English-speaking guides happy to escort us home.

As I refined the one where I hurled my arm like a boomerang, knocking out a row of guards, my pocket buzzed.

I took out my phone and did the impossible. I smiled, seeing the name on the screen.

“Hey, Anna,” I said, masking my mood to the best of my abilities.

“Jed, what’s wrong?” she said across the miles.

“Either you are really good at reading me, or I totally suck at hiding how I’m feeling right now.”

“I’d love to say it’s the first, but Luke called me. Said you guys were facing some tough times with Tread.”

Just when I thought my best two-legged friend cared more about French fries than just about anything else, Luke actually did something sympathetic and caring. Pretty cool, even if he must have been abducted by aliens and replaced with a double who expressed emotions and needs not limited to hunger.

“The customs agents confiscated him,” I said. “Seems they frown on beasts known to eat goats, suck souls, and steal children.”

“But Tread eats kibble, sucks at staying in one piece, and steals hearts. Mine, at least.”

That last part was the sweetest thing I’d heard in a long time. Anna always knew the right thing to say, even if I was too much of a guy sometimes to admit it.

“So he’s in prison while we try to figure out what we need to do to get him out,” I said. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Start by telling me what happened,” Anna said. “Don’t leave anything out.”

I filled her in, from the moment the officer spotted Tread to the conversation we’d had with Officer Aguilera. “And we had to wait in this room that smelled like the boys’ locker room for almost two hours. Cruel and inhumane, if you ask me.”

“That does seem like a long time. Maybe they were just backed up.”

“Or they were checking out Tread, thinking maybe he wasn’t a chupacabra. Tread didn’t help at all by losing his tail.”

“Possibly, but Jed, no way they’re going to figure out his real condition?”

“Condition?” I said, an edge to my voice. The C-word always set me off, because zombie-ness was the heart and soul of who I was. It was not a “condition.”

“Not what I meant and you know it,” Anna said. “I used the word as a shortcut, but should have known better. Sorry.”

“No worries. Sorry for the short fuse.”

“If you lost your limbs as often as your temper over that word, we’d need a wagon to take you anywhere.”

“Just as long as I don’t lose my head, right?”

“Exactly. And you’re the only guy I know where it literally could happen.”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought of that,” I said, smiling again. It felt good.

“Jed, this will work itself out somehow, I just know it. You need to hang in there.”

The sound of footsteps drew my gaze to the left. A shadow approached, becoming clearer as it entered the light. Cowboy boots. Jeans. A belt buckle that shone as if under a spotlight.

“Anna, it’s getting late, I’ve got to go. Thanks for calling, I really appreciate it.”

“Jed, remember, this too shall pass, OK? Take care of yourself.”

I hung up before too many feelings showed through, focusing on the man who didn’t seem to be out for a casual stroll on a very warm evening.

The light revealed a plaid shirt and Stetson, fitting every known cowboy stereotype but one.

“Howdy, podner,” he said, completing the stereotype. “Mind if I take a load off?”

My heart beat once, twice, my nerves on edge as this stranger plopped next to me before I could answer.

“Howdy,” I choked out, hoping he might accept me if I spoke his language.

“I don’t want to alarm you,” he said, even though it was already too late. “But if you just give me a few minutes, I think I can help you out of your little dilemma.”

“My dilemma?” I said.

“First, let’s exchange pleasantries as society demands,” he said, sticking out his hand. “I’m James O’Sullivan, and I’m as pleased as an elderly highway-crossing armadillo to meet you.”

I shook his hand, no longer sure I spoke his language because I had no idea what he’d just said.

“Jed,” I offered.

“I can tell you’re nervous, and I don’t blame you, seeing a man appearing out the darkness like a greased possum coming out of knee-high corn.”

“What?”

“Let’s not stand on formalities. No need to call me Mr. O’Sullivan—”

I wasn’t going to.

“—‘cause most people call me Spike. Because I prefer it. Wish I had a story to go with it, but I don’t. Just like the name. Spike. Short and sweet. Just like me.”

Unlike getting to the point
, I thought.

“But let’s get down to particulars, because you seem to be as jumpy as a bullfrog at a cricket race, if you know what I mean.”

I didn’t.

“What would you say if I told you a way you could get your chupacabra back?”

As desperate as I was, I knew the best thing to do was stand up and walk away. But I didn’t.

“Go on.”