The Dog in the Freezer (12 page)

Mr. Kleiner was standing by the doorman's station. The bag was on the desk. Jake tried to fade away. He wanted to sink into the wall.

“You, boy!” Mr. Kleiner pointed a thick, paralyzing finger at him. “You have trouble remembering things, don't you?” He picked up the SU bag and held it like a football. “Here,” he said, and sent it spiraling across the lobby.

Jake caught it, wrapped both arms around it, and ran for the door. Five yards. Ten yards. Not exactly a touchdown, but his father would have been proud of him.

On the street Jake kept looking back, half expecting to see Mr. Kleiner coming after him. They were on a side street, out of sight of their building, a quiet street with not much traffic. Trees grew out of squares of dirt cut in the concrete. Some had tiny fences around them that said
KEEP OUT.
All he wanted was to dig a little hole and put the dog in and cover it over. But where? There were warning signs everywhere.
CURB YOUR DOG…SCHOOL ZONE…NO PARKING…TOW AWAY ZONE
…No sign that said
BURY YOUR DOG HERE
.

There had to be a place to bury a dog. The best thing
would be somewhere close, a place he could pass and know that Big Boy was there.

“How many animals do you think live in the city?” Connie said. They were standing at the corner waiting for the light. “Just start by counting the animals in our building,” she said. “Not even the little things people keep in cages like mice, gerbils, and canaries. Just dogs and cats. Give me your best estimate.”

“Fifty.”

“Not enough. On our floor alone”—she counted off on her fingers—“there's Nelson, and next-door Pal, and Mrs. Bernstein's two miniature bulldogs, and Casey, the Doberman in 5A. There are twelve apartments on each floor, and I bet at least six of them have dogs or cats.”

“That's true.” But he wasn't really listening. Where to bury the dog? Everywhere he looked, all he saw was concrete and cement.

“Okay?” Connie held him by his shirt. “Let's say ten dogs and cats on every floor. I'm not counting fish, snakes, turtles, and I still get about two hundred animals. Are you with me, Jake? If there are two hundred animals in our building, and the same number approximately in every other building—”

“The point?”

“The point is, there're a lot of animals in the city. Living animals and dead animals. Did you ever think about it?”

She had her face in his. Big glasses and two unblinking,
chocolate brown eyes. He got it. She didn't have to give him a lecture. Too many people. Too many animals. Too little space. Overpopulation. Blah, blah, blah. What he wanted wasn't that complicated. He just wanted to put a little dog in a little hole and cover him over.

Give Big Boy his own little place where he could sleep peacefully. Eternal sleep—that's what some people said dying was. But others thought it was just temporary. And who could say who was right? If there really was reincarnation like Lucy said, maybe Big Boy would have a better chance of coming back if he wasn't burned up into nothing in an incinerator.

A corner lot where two streets came together caught Jake's eye. It was just a fenced wedge of dirt. Nobody could ever do anything with it. It was nice loose dirt. It wouldn't be hard to dig a hole. He found a place to squeeze through between a wall and the end of the fence.

Connie worried. “A fence means stay out. It means private property.”

“I know what fences mean.” Fences were just something in the way to get over, around, or through. He was almost all the way in when he got stuck. Connie tried to pull him back.

“No, push me in,” he said.

“What if you get in and you can't get out?”

A woman across the street, behind the window of a little restaurant, banged on the glass, yelling something Jake couldn't hear. She wore a white apron and an orange cap.

“Pull me out,” he said.

Connie pulled. She was breathing hard.

Now, there was a man next to the woman. He wore a white apron and an orange cap, too. He came running out, holding a stick. “Private,” he yelled. “Private! Private!”

“Pull!” Jake said.

Connie grunted, pulled, and he came free like a cork coming out of a bottle. They both fell down.

The man was still yelling. Jake held up his father's sports bag. “No problem,” he yelled back, “no problem. Mistake, mistake. Sorry.” He walked away fast.

“You guys want a free dog?” Connie said to a couple of boys walking by.

The boys went wide around her with a look that said,
Nobody gives anything away for free in this city.

“Lost the chance of a lifetime,” Connie called after them.

“Cut it out,” Jake said.

“What?”

“I don't want you to say anything about the dog.”

“Who are you to tell me what to say?”

“The dog's not a joke.”

“Who says he is?”

“You do. You're always making jokes.”

“Well—that's true, I do joke a lot. I can't help it.”

A loaded dump truck shedding dirt and bricks came slowly up the block. “I thought you loved dogs so much,” he said. He followed the truck, kept it in sight.

“You know I'm sorry the dog died, Jake, but dogs are dying all the time.”

“Don't start that again.”

“That's me—I never know when to stop. I know how you feel. I'll cry about Nelson if he ever dies. But it is sort of funny when you think about it. My father says everything's got a funny side.”

A yellow crane was stretched out along the sidewalk next to a big construction site. In the pit, diesel shovels were scooping up dirt and bricks and loading waiting trucks. The air was filled with dust and noise. Men in yellow helmets were everywhere. “This is it,” he said. “It's perfect.”

“Too many yellow helmets,” Connie said.

“We can come back when they're gone.”

“What if there's a watchman?”

He'd figure out something. He watched a driver climb up on the cab of his truck to direct the shovel operator. They signaled back and forth like a couple of ballplayers. The driver raised both arms, and the shovel operator released a bucket of rubble into the back of the truck. The truck shook. A cloud of dust rose.

The driver jumped down into the cab and drove slowly up the incline. Jake waved as he came by, and the
driver waved back. Jake hopped on the running board and hooked his hand through the open window. “Hi.”

“How you doing, kid? No rides. Sorry, company rules. How about a doughnut?” There was a box of glazed doughnuts on the seat.

“No thanks,” Jake said. He looked at the driver. “I need some advice. I have a dog.”

“What kind?”

“Mixed breed, I guess.”

“That's the best kind of dog to have. What's his name?”

“Big Boy.”

“Oh, a big one.”

“No, he was little. He died.”

The driver shifted gears. “Well, don't worry about it. Take a doughnut. Go on, take one. You feel bad now, but the good part is, you get another dog, and you're going to like that one just as much.” He released his brakes. “Gotta go. I see my boss coming. Hop off, kid. Quick!”

Walking along the street, Jake shared the doughnut with Connie. “That place wouldn't have worked anyway,” he said. “Even if I buried him there, they'd just dig him up tomorrow. I'd never know where he was.”

Jake was hungry as a bear. It was the pizza smell, and the smell from the bagel shop next to it. Plus the Japanese takeout, and the bakery with trays of giant golden muffins in the window.

“Peach muffins—ummm,” Connie hummed.

Pizza or muffins? Which one? He couldn't make up his mind.

“Whichever way I point when I open my eyes,” Connie said, “that's what we get.” She spun around.

“What's she doing?” a woman carrying two shopping bags asked Jake. Connie fell against the woman. “Watch it, buster,” the woman said.

Connie buried her face in Jake's shoulder. “Pizza,” she whispered. They went in and ordered. “I'll pay,” Jake said when the slices came. Jake, the workingman, had money in his pocket. But as he reached for it, he realized he'd left the bag on the street. “The bag!” He'd done it again. “It's gone.”

“Gone,” she said. She bit off the drippy end of her pizza. A smile started to form on her face. “That's awful.”

He ran out and saw two little kids walking away with the bag. “Hey,” he yelled. He caught up to them. “That's my bag.”

“We found it,” one said.

“Oh, yeah?” Jake gave them a fierce look.

“Yeah,” the kid said, but he dropped the bag.

When Jake returned, Connie was holding his pizza for him. “You got it back.” There was a joke coming on her face. “Too bad. I was just going to call into the six o'clock news. Headline! ‘Kid Dognappers Snatch Dead Dog, Demand Huge Ransom.' ” She gave him a sideways glance. “Oops, sorry, Jake. Bad joke.”

•  •  •

They passed a man sitting on a stoop. There was an open can in a paper bag on the step beside him. “How you kids doing?” He had a blue bandanna around his neck. “You kids from around here?”

Connie kept going—kids weren't supposed to talk to strangers. But Jake stopped.

“What you got in the bag?” the man said. He had a gray, bristly chin and dark, bulgy eyes.

“Nothing. It's a dog.”

The man took a sip from his can. “Your dog. Now that's cool. You got your dog in a zipper bag.” He rubbed his golf ball eyes.

Connie sat down a couple of stoops over.

“How come you got your dog in a zipper bag all zipped up?” the man said. “How's he supposed to breathe?”

“He's dead.”

“A dead dog. Mmmmm. You got a dead dog in the bag.” He looked down the street. “That young lady know you got this dead dog in the bag?”

Connie nodded. She took off her glasses and cleaned them on her shirt.

“Dog dies, that's always sad news. Your dog's number got called. Every dog gets issued a number when it's born. People, too. You never know when your number's going to be called. It could be tomorrow, it could be next week, it could be a hundred years from now. But when your number is called, then you win the giant lotto in the sky. What's your name, boy?”

“Jake.”

“Jake, that's great. My name is Bo. Bo,” he repeated. He hummed it. “Bo—see what a good sound it makes. Bo… here comes Bo flying low.” He swung his arms around like a bird. “Did you see that, boy? That was Big Bo the flying crow. What you going to do with your dead dog, Jake?”

“Bury him.”

“Dead dog dies, bury him, that's the way. Don't leave no dog lying in the gutter, looks so ugly it makes you shudder.”

The man closed his eyes. They bulged like marbles, under his lids. “Dead dog covered with flies. It's
ugly
. I'm glad you're burying your dog. You are doing good. You're helping the people. People feel bad to see a dead dog. You like to see a dog lively.”

“I need a shovel and a place to dig,” Jake said. He was hoping the man would help him.

“You have a good spot picked out and everything?”

Jake pointed to a nearby lot, empty except for some abandoned cars and trucks.

“Not there,” the man said. “Bad place. See that sign?” He pointed to the side of an old truck with four flat tires. A hand-painted sign said
ABSOLUTELY NO TRESPASSING
. “You like that word? Tres…passing. French word. Do you know you have French words in English? Spanish words. African words. You don't want to bury your dog here. The landlord is too ugly. I recommend you go to the park, the one by the river. Dogs like it there.”

Connie was gesturing to Jake to hurry up.

“You find yourself some bushes,” the man said, “keep your head down low, then you dig a hole, and you put your dog in it. Then you say the holy words. Holy, holy, holy. ‘Rest in Peace.' Then you cover it over. That's all there is to it.” He took a swallow from the can beside him.

The man began to sing. “Dead dog diddly. . . ,” he sang. “Ooooohhhhh!”

It was a howl, a dog's howl. It echoed in Jake's head like the chords he sometimes struck on the violin. Harsh, scratchy sounds that made his head hurt.

The man had his head back. “Dead dog day, ooooohhhhhh. What's the dead dog say? Oooohhhhh! Dead dogs tell no tales. They don't wag no tails. They don't run, they don't play. Don't do nothing but be dead all day. Ooooohhhhhhhh!”

“Well, thanks,” Jake said, moving away. Connie was farther down the street. “It's been nice meeting you.”

The man slapped his knee. “Jake, you're a triple-play threat. Good-looking boy, a burying party, and super-polite. You get my vote for the all-American, all-star team, for sure.”

Jake and Connie walked toward the river with the bag suspended between them on a broomstick they found in the street. The dog had begun to smell. The bag slid one way and then the other. When it got near Connie, she sent it shooting back toward Jake. He didn't think the smell was
that
bad.

“Ooooohhhhh!” The song lingered in his head. He imagined that Big Boy's spirit, the dog spirit, hovered nearby, waiting to see where they were going to put its body.

A group of tourists with cameras and maps crowded them off the sidewalk. The river came into view, bridges
and tugboats, everything flat and glittery all the way to the other shore.

“Let's go down to the water,” Connie said.