The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes (3 page)

A
s soon as I'm done with Beauregard's bath and come into the kitchen, I find Daddy sticking the meat loaf into the oven. Mama is reading a magazine at the table, and I wonder if she did more supervising of the meat loaf than reading. Since the meat loaf will take a while to cook and there's time before dinner, Daddy announces he's going to hit up a yard sale going on down the street. I ask if I can tag along, and he says, “Sure.”

Usually you think of women sorting through used clothes and jewelry or hunting for antiques, but Daddy loves yard sales more than anyone I know.

Mama just looks at the two of us as we head out the door and shakes her head. Daddy always manages to bring home something interesting when he visits a yard sale. Unfortunately most of the time interesting equals useless, and our closets, cabinets, and garage are bursting at the seams with his “finds.”

“Maybe I should bring Killer?” I say as soon as we get outside. “The walk would help him finish drying off from his bath.”

“He's too big for you to handle,” Daddy says. “He'd end up dragging you or getting away. He could run out in front of a car and get hit.”

“You could take him then,” I say. “He won't get away from you. You're strong.”

“I need my strong arms to carry things home from the yard sale. Who knows what all we'll find?” he says, his voice full of hope.

Daddy puts his arm around my shoulder and hums a silly country song until we reach a house with tables set up outside and stacked high with what looks like junk: paperbacks, pans and skillets, flower pots and vases.

“All the good stuff is probably already gone,” Daddy mumbles. “Should have stopped here during lunch, but I offered to make a grocery run for Mama; we were out of laundry detergent, and she had to do a load. Oh, well.”

Daddy picks up a cordless drill and inspects it. Now Daddy already has a cordless drill, one that works perfectly fine. “Eight dollars,” he says. “Bet I can talk them down to five.”

I take a gander at the stuff on the table behind Daddy. “Hey, look, oil paints!” I say.

Daddy puts down the drill and turns around. “That's interesting,” he says. He picks up one of the tubes of paint and studies the cardboard sign taped to the table:
LEARN TO PAINT FOR
$15.00—
INCLUDES OILS
,
CANVAS
,
AND BOOK
.

“Kind of expensive, though, don't you think?” He puts the tube down and flips through the book like he's still considering purchasing the items but then shrugs and goes back to inspecting the drill again.

Someone moves in next to me, and a woman's voice yells, “Will you look at that, Drew? Oil paints! The
how-to book is atrocious. People call that art? But the oil paints are top-notch and barely used. Plus there is blank canvas, too. You know what I would pay for all that at an art supply store? Over a hundred dollars. Easy! I can't believe they're only asking fifteen!”

Daddy spins around, and I take a good look at who the voice came from. It's a well-dressed woman in a summery, flowing, flowery dress and hat. And the man with her has on dress slacks and a shirt with a fancy emblem. His hair is all slicked back. Out-of-towners, my best guess. The woman is eyeing the items on the table, her chin cupped between a finger and thumb.

With what happens next you'd think Daddy had suddenly donned a Superman cape. He swoops in and grabs the oil paints, canvas, and book as if he's on a mission to snatch a child from the window of a burning building.

The woman starts to sputter but can't quite get her words out she is so shocked.

“Come on, Charlotte, let's go pay for these,” he says, his arms full.

I'm dreadfully embarrassed by Daddy's behavior. My cheeks feel all hot and pink, but at the same time, I can't help smiling a teeny bit. I've always wanted to learn to paint with oils. At school we just have babyish yellow, blue, and red finger paints, or the cheap watercolors that come in a little strip. These are the real deal.

 

After dinner Daddy clears a small empty space in the breezeway, just enough room for a person to stand. There are three empty canvas pieces he purchased, and he props one up on the windowsill, turning it into a makeshift easel. I watch from the doorway, interested but just a little disappointed. I'd sure like to use those paints myself, but apparently he has a creative streak he needs to satisfy, too.

He opens the book and reads for a few minutes. “Supposed to use a palette to mix paint colors.” He frowns. “Heck, there are eight tubes here, and the colors look fine to me. Why would I bother mixing them?”

Daddy thumbs through the book and finally settles on a page. “This looks good,” he says more to
himself than to me. He grabs an old wood chair with a broken-back spindle from the corner of the breezeway and lays the opened book on it.

I walk over to see what he has picked out to paint. Given Daddy's sense of humor, I expect poker-playing dogs. But it is a pretty picture of colorful flowers arranged in a yellow vase.

“Think Mama will like this?” he asks.

I nod.

“She's been saying for a long time that she wants to find something to hang on the wall over the couch.”

“That will look nice,” I say. Since Daddy is doing this for Mama, I force myself to swallow the disappointment I've been feeling over not being able to use the paints myself. With Mama being down in the dumps, I'm all for anything to make her feel better.

“Do me a favor, Charlotte. I need turpentine to clean the brushes, it says. Go out to the garage. I should have a can stored under my workbench. I need an old towel, too.”

I go after the towel first. The linen closet is upstairs, across from the bathroom. Mama is running water for
Justin Lee's bath, while he sits on the floor beside her, chewing on a hard rubber rattle in the shape of a horse.

I poke my head into the bathroom. “Daddy needs an old towel to clean paintbrushes with.”

“Should be a dark green one, has a few holes in it. Give him that one.” Mama puts her fingertips in the water, gauging the temperature. She shakes her head. “I can't believe he bought paints. Of all things.” She doesn't sound too happy.

“He's painting a picture for you,” I say, trying to cheer her up.

But she just stares at me blankly and starts undressing Justin Lee.

Daddy used to make her laugh. Even when he wasn't trying to be funny, she found him amusing. Like when we went to Cousin Bernadette's wedding and half the people there were doing a line dance called the hustle. Daddy was so proud he knew all the steps that he was extra-exuberant in his dancing, but he went left when he should have gone right and ended up starting a chain reaction that knocked a whole row of people down. Mama laughed so hard
she ended up on the ground, too, even though she wasn't in the line that fell over like bowling pins.

Mama has always been firm and strict. But underneath it all she had a sense of humor that somehow always managed to shine through. It's been forever since I've seen a true smile on her face, not just a hint of one. I think the last time was in response to Justin Lee giving his first smile. She was so excited about that. But it was almost like when he began smiling, he stole all her smiles from her. I know Justin Lee is not to blame, though. Agnes told me it has something to do with Mama's hormones after giving birth.

I rifle through the linen closet, looking for the towel. Worrying about Beauregard is bad enough. But I've got Mama on my mind, too. I find the green towel with holes and tuck it under my arm. At least Beauregard shouldn't be a concern much longer. He's clean, shampooed, scented, and ready to go. Pretty soon he'll be living the high life with Grace Walters.

I head for the garage in search of turpentine.

T
he next day Luanne and I sit with Grace again at lunch. I try to get Grace talking, but when I ask her a question, she only gives one-or two-word answers and seems to be hypnotized by her fork. Luanne keeps on looking longingly at our old lunch table, where Roxanne, Madison, and Becca sit gabbing away. I'd rather be sitting there, too, but Beauregard is counting on me.

 

Mrs. Walters happens to be blond and pretty, like Grace, except I notice her teeth are perfectly straight in front. Maybe she had braces like the
ones Grace is going to get. I settle into the leather seat of the green SUV she's driving. It smells fresh and clean and perfumy, and I breathe in deeply. Our car is littered with Justin Lee's Cheerios and smells faintly of cigarettes. Daddy bought the car—for a good deal, of course—from a cousin of his who chain-smokes. Mama tried airing it out by driving with the windows open, but the smell still lingers.

Mrs. Walters keeps the drive from being too quiet by asking me all kinds of things: how long I've lived in Greater Oaks (forever), what my favorite subject is (art, which unfortunately we only have once a week), where my parents work (Mama at home; Daddy at Greater Oaks's only factory, Denmar's ball bearing plant). I mention Daddy's boss's name, and she says how he is a good friend of theirs and how he was the one who told them about the property on Vinton Road for sale. How they wanted to move from Pittsburgh, PA, to a place in the country, and since Grace's dad was some sort of consultant, they were able to
relocate wherever they wanted. Grace just stares out the window through all this. I don't mention Beauregard. Yet.

 

I walk inside the front door and stand under the big gold chandelier, resisting the urge to let a big “wow!” escape.

I've never seen a house like this before. The living room to my right is bigger than the whole first floor of my house. Heavy stuffed furniture in greens and golds and reds fills it up. It's a king-size house fit for a king-size dog, I think happily. Plenty of room for Beauregard.

All at once a huge shaggy black thing comes bounding out of nowhere and nearly knocks me over. I steady myself, and for a moment I get real concerned about my plan. They already have a dog! But then I eye the cavernous dining room to my left. Heck, this place could house a whole passel of dogs, no problem.

Grace kneels and greets the dog. She asks him to sit and shake and he promptly obeys. “He's really smart,” she tells me proudly.

Mrs. Walters bends over and hugs the black dog. He gets all excited and starts jumping around, then stops and leans against her leg. She laughs. “Did you miss me, Figaro? I wasn't gone that long.” She hugs him again.

I take this as good news. Grace and her mom obviously like dogs! All I have to do is give them my sob story about being allergic to Beauregard, and he'll have a new home in no time.

Then it occurs to me. I should be sneezing right now if I'm allergic to dogs, since Figaro is near me. But if I start sneezing because I'm allergic, then I'll have to leave. Which means I won't have a chance to talk to Grace and her mom about Beauregard.

Hmm…maybe instead of
me
being allergic, I can just say that Justin Lee is. That would actually be even better because he is a helpless baby. More sympathy involved.

“Nice dog,” I comment. I really don't want to pet Figaro any more than I want to pet Beauregard, but I do anyway. I smile and do my best to pretend that petting dogs is something I truly enjoy. He
starts leaning against me, like he did with Mrs. Walters earlier.

“We have a dog at home. A purebred Saint Bernard. Very friendly,” I say. “Gentle as can be. And so handsome! It's such a shame we have to sell him.” I shake my head and give my best mournful look.

“Why do you have to sell him?” Mrs. Walters asks, falling right into my trap.

“Oh, my baby brother is deathly allergic to dogs. Doctor said we have to do something right away. We keep the dog outside now, but that isn't enough. Justin Lee still has trouble breathing.”

“Oh, that's so sad,” says Grace. “I'd about die if we had to sell Figaro.”

“You know, I've always loved Saint Bernards,” Mrs. Walters says wistfully.

I smile real big, and it's all I can do to keep from hopping up and down with excitement over how things are working out.

“I'd buy him in a minute, but I'm afraid I'm terribly allergic to dogs, too.”

My heart skips a beat as I try to register the
words I've just heard Grace's mom utter.

Figaro leaves me and goes over to Mrs. Walters, nudging her hand for some more attention. She pats his head. “Figaro, here, is as close to hypoallergenic as a dog can be,” she says. “He's a labradoodle, a cross between a Lab and a standard poodle. If bred right, they don't shed. Maybe if you find a home for your Saint Bernard, I can give your parents information about the breeder we got him from. You do have to be careful with who you buy one from; not all Labradoodles are shed-free.”

I stand there, my mouth gaping open.

“Grace, why don't you be a good hostess and show Charlotte your room?” Mrs. Walters says.

Grace suddenly looks kind of panicky and shy, but she goes ahead and leads me up one side of a double curved stairway with a dark wood banister. When we get to her room, we just stand there staring at each other.

I feel a compulsion to say something, so to my surprise I hurl out the words “Justin Lee doesn't really have an allergy.” My hand flies up to my
mouth. I'm not used to telling lies, I guess.

“Why did you say he did then?” Grace frowns. She doesn't look mad, just confused.

I tell her about my problem with Beauregard. How I have to take care of him when I don't even like dogs. And how he deserves a better life. “He is chained up all the time,” I say. “I think he's horribly lonely.”

“Well, I have a lot in common with Beauregard then. I'm lonely, too,” Grace says. She tells me how much she misses her old friends and how scared she's been that she won't make any new ones here. She says she loved living in Pittsburgh and isn't so sure about the move here. She doesn't sound snotty or stuck-up about it at all, just a little sad.

“Moving would be tough,” I say. “I'd hate to have to say good-bye to Luanne, so I understand what you mean.”

“I was so happy when you and Luanne sat with me at lunch yesterday and today.” Grace leans against the white post of her canopy bed. “But then I froze up. I was afraid I would say something wrong or stupid and then you wouldn't like me, I guess.”

“Well, Luanne and I sometimes say stupid things to each other.” I laugh, sitting on her bed. “And we're still friends. So you have nothing to worry about.”

Before long Grace is sitting on the bed with me, and we are leaning in close and talking and laughing, and there is no room for any silence between us.

When Mama comes to pick me up a couple of hours later, Mrs. Walters takes a few minutes to make small talk. All of a sudden I get worried she might mention Justin Lee's allergies. Mama's big on not telling lies. And Mrs. Walters might wonder what kind of new friend her daughter had if she discovered I told a whopper within minutes of meeting her. But luckily Mama had left the baby home with Agnes, and he was never brought up. As we are leaving and walking down the sidewalk, though, Mrs. Walters calls out, “I'll keep an ear open for someone who wants a Saint Bernard.”

Once we're in the car, Mama just shakes her head. “Charlotte, your daddy isn't about to let go of that dog. And I've got more important things to do than force the issue. You need to drop the subject. Okay?”

I look down at my hands and mutter, “Okay,” not wanting to cause Mama any trouble by arguing with her. But I just told another lie. I'm not about to give up yet. Besides, Mama said before that she wouldn't mind getting rid of Beauregard. If I can find a way to do it without stirring up waves, maybe it will make her happy, too.

When we get home, I rush out back to get Beauregard's water bowl filled. Since I went straight to Grace's house after school, he has had to wait an extralong time for me. After he laps up plenty of fresh water and I give him his expected belly rub, I decide to try to teach him to shake hands, like Grace's dog, Figaro. I figure it will make him more desirable as a pet, so he can get a good home. Just because he can't go live with Grace and her family doesn't mean no one else is out there who would be willing to buy him.

I push his hind end down so he is sitting.

“Shake!” I say. I reach down and grab a huge front paw, pumping it up and down. “Good boy!”

Beauregard cocks his head to the side, like he doesn't
know quite what to make of this new activity.

I repeat the process over and over again.

Finally I try saying, “Shake,” without grabbing his paw, fully expecting him to lift it on his own. But his big old paw stays firmly planted on the ground. He wrinkles his brow, locking eyes with me. “I don't get it,” he seems to be saying.

“Oh, come on now,” I say, disappointed.

I think for a moment, then dash back to the house and into the kitchen. I grab about five gingersnap cookies, Daddy's favorite, from a package in the pantry and beat a quick path back to Beauregard.

I still grab his paw for him when I say, “Shake,” but this time, as soon as I tell him, “Good boy,” I hold out half a gingersnap. The way he wolfs down food in his bowl, I'm half afraid he'll take my fingers with the cookie, but he sniffs it first, then gently curls his lips around it and takes it from my hand. He sticks out his tongue to give his mouth a lick and stares at me like I presented him with the most wondrous treasure in the whole wide world.

By the time I'm on the third gingersnap, he raises
his own paw without me grabbing it. I'm so proud of him I hug him after he gobbles down his treat.

He still smells like his bath, and I linger with my face pressed against his neck for a few moments.

I love the smell of strawberries. Maybe I should start using Agnes's shampoo, too.