Timbuktu (14 page)

The girl came next, running across the lawn with the doll in her arms and calling out to the woman behind her. “Look, Mama,” she said. “Look what Tiger found.” Even as the boy went on hugging him, a wave of alarm passed through Mr. Bones’s body. Where was this tiger she was talking about— and how could a tiger be prowling around out here where people lived? Willy had taken him to a zoo once, and he knew all about those big striped jungle cats. They were even bigger than lions, and if you ever met up with one of those sharp-fanged babies, you could kiss your future good-bye. A tiger would rip you to shreds in about twelve seconds, and whatever bits of you he didn’t feel like eating would be fine stuff for the vultures and worms.

Still, Mr. Bones didn’t run away. He continued to let his new friend cling to him, patiently bearing the brunt of the tyke’s phenomenal strength, and hoped that his ears had been playing tricks on him, that he’d simply misheard what the girl had said. The sagging diaper was loaded with urine, and mingled in with the sharp ammonia scent he could detect traces of carrots, bananas, and milk. Then the girl was crouching down beside them, peering into Mr. Bones’s face with her blue, magnified eyes, and the mystery was suddenly cleared up. “Tiger,” she said to the boy, “let go of him. You’ll choke him to death.”

“My buddy,” Tiger said, tightening his grip even more, and although Mr. Bones was gratified to discover that he wasn’t about to be devoured by a wild beast, the pressure on his throat was becoming severe enough to make him squirm now. The boy might not have been a real tiger, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. In his own little way, he was more of an animal than Mr. Bones was.

Fortunately, the woman arrived just then and grabbed hold of the boy’s arm, pulling him off Mr. Bones before more damage could be done. “Careful, Tiger,” she said. “We don’t know if he’s a nice dog or not.”

“Oh, he’s nice,” the girl said, gently patting Mr. Bones on his crown. “All you have to do is look into his eyes. He’s real nice, Mama. I’d say he’s about the nicest dog I’ve ever seen.”

Mr. Bones was stunned by the girl’s extraordinary statement, and just to show what a good sport he was, that he was indeed a dog who didn’t bear grudges, he began licking Tiger’s face in a great burst of slobbering affection. The little fellow howled with laughter, and even though the thrust of Mr. Bones’s tongue eventually made him lose his balance, the rough-and-tumble Tiger thought it was the funniest thing that had ever happened to him, and he went on laughing under the barrage of the dog’s kisses even as he thudded to the ground on his wet bottom.

“Well, at least he’s friendly,” the woman said to her daughter, as if conceding an important point. “But what an unholy mess. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dirtier, scruffier, more dilapidated creature than this one.”

“There’s nothing wrong with him that a little soap and water can’t fix,” the girl said. “Just look at him, Mama. He’s not just nice, he’s smart, too.”

The woman laughed. “How can you know that, Alice? He hasn’t done a thing but lick your brother’s face.”

Alice squatted down in front of Mr. Bones and cupped his jowls in her hands. “Show us how smart you are, old boy,” she said. “Do a trick or something, okay? You know, like rolling over or standing up on your hind legs. Show Mama that I’m right.”

These were hardly difficult tasks for a dog of his mettle, and Mr. Bones promptly set about to demonstrate what he could do. First, he rolled over on the grass—not once but three times—and then he arched his back, lifted his front paws up to his face, and slowly rose up on his hind legs. It had been years since he had tried this last stunt, but even though his joints ached and he tottered more than he would have liked, he managed to hold the position for three or four seconds.

“See, Mama? What did I tell you?” Alice said. “He’s the smartest dog that ever was.”

The woman crouched down to Mr. Bones’s level for the first time and looked into his eyes, and even though she was wearing sunglasses and still had the straw hat on her head, he could see that she was ever so pretty, with wisps of blond hair curling down the back of her neck and a full, expressive mouth. Something shuddered inside him when she spoke to him in her slow, drawling southern voice, and when she began patting his head with her right hand, Mr. Bones felt that surely his heart would break into a thousand pieces.

“You understand what we’re saying to you, don’t you, old dog?” she said. “You’re a special one, aren’t you? And you’re tired and beat-up, and you need something to put in your belly. That’s it, old-timer, isn’t it? You’re lost and alone, and every inch of you is tuckered out.”

Had a poor mutt ever been luckier than Mr. Bones was that afternoon? Without any further discussion, and without any further need to charm them or prove what a good soul he was, the weary dog was led from the yard into the sanctum of the family house. There, in a radiant white kitchen, surrounded by freshly painted cabinets and shining metal utensils and an air of opulence he had never even imagined could exist on earth, Mr. Bones ate his fill, gorging himself on leftover slices of roast beef, a bowl of macaroni and cheese, two cans of tuna fish, and three uncooked hot dogs, not to mention lapping up two and a half bowls of water in between courses as well. He had wanted to hold back, to show them that he was a dog of modest appetites, really no trouble to take care of, but once the food was set down in front of him his hunger was simply too overpowering, and he forgot the vow he had made.

None of this seemed to bother his hosts. They were good-hearted people, and they knew a hungry dog when they saw one, and if Mr. Bones was that famished, then they were perfectly happy to provide for him until he wasn’t. He ate in a trance of contentment, oblivious to everything but the food going into his mouth and sliding down his throat. When the meal was finally over and he looked up to check on what the others were doing, he saw that the woman had removed her hat and sunglasses. As she bent down near him to lift the bowls from the floor, he caught a glimpse of her gray-blue eyes and understood that she was in fact a great beauty, one of those women who made men stop breathing the moment they walked into a room.

“Well, old dog,” she said, running her palm over the top of his head, “feeling better?”

Mr. Bones let out a small belch of appreciation, and then he started licking her hand. Tiger, whom he had all but forgotten by then, suddenly came rushing toward him. Drawn by the sound of the belch, which had greatly amused him, the boy leaned forward into Mr. Bones’s face and let out a pretend belch of his own, which amused him even more. It was shaping up into another wild barroom scene, but before the situation could get out of hand, his mother swept him into her arms and stood up. She looked over at Alice, who was leaning against a counter and scrutinizing Mr. Bones with her serious, watchful eyes. “What are we going to do with him, baby?” the woman said.

“I think we should keep him,” Alice answered.

“We can’t do that. He probably belongs to somebody. If we kept him, it would be just like stealing.”

“I don’t think he has a friend in the world. Just look at him. He’s probably walked a thousand miles. If we don’t take him in, he’s going to die. Do you want that on your conscience, Mama?”

This girl certainly had the gift, all right. She knew just what to say and when to say it, and as Mr. Bones stood there listening to her talk to her mother, he wondered if Willy hadn’t underestimated the power of some children. Alice might not have been the boss, and she might not have made the decisions, but her words cut straight to the truth, and that was bound to have an effect, to steer things in one direction rather than another.

“Check his collar, sweetheart,” the woman said. “Maybe there’s a name or an address on it or something.”

Mr. Bones knew full well that there wasn’t, since Willy had never bothered with such things as licenses or registrations or fancy metal name tags. Alice knelt down beside him and began turning the collar around his neck, searching for signs of his identity or ownership, and because he already knew what the answer would be, he took advantage of the moment to enjoy the warmth of her breath as it fluttered against the back of his right ear.

“No, Mama,” she said at last. “It’s just a plain old ratty collar.”

For the first time in the short while he had known her, the dog saw the woman hesitate, and a certain confusion and sadness crept into her eyes. “It’s okay by me, Alice,” she said. “But I can’t give the thumbs-up until we’ve talked to your father. You know how he hates surprises. We’ll wait until he comes home this evening, and then we’ll all decide together. Okay?”

“Okay,” Alice said, somewhat deflated by this inconclusive response. “But it’s three against one, even if he says no. And fair is fair, right? We’ve just got to keep him, Mama. I’ll get down on my knees and pray to Jesus for the rest of the day if it’ll make Daddy say yes.”

“You don’t have to do that,” the woman said. “If you really want to help, you’ll open the door and let the dog outside so he can do his business. And then we’ll see if we can’t clean him up a bit. That’s the only way this thing is ever going to work. He’s got to make a good first impression.”

The door opened for Mr. Bones not a moment too soon. After three days of privation, of eating no more than thimblefuls of scraps and garbage, of rooting around for whatever noxious edibles he could find, the richness of the meal he had just consumed hit his stomach with the force of a trauma, and with his digestive juices in full operation again, working double and even triple overtime to accommodate the recent onslaught, it was all he could do not to foul the kitchen floor and be banished into permanent exile. He trotted off behind a clump of bushes, trying to keep himself out of sight, but Alice followed him over, and to his never-ending shame and embarrassment, she was there to witness the dreadful explosion of brackish liquid that roared out of his bunghole and splattered onto the foliage beneath him. She let out a brief gasp of disgust when it happened, and he felt so mortified at offending her that for a moment or two he wished that he could shrivel up and die. But Alice was no ordinary person, and even though he thoroughly understood that by now, he never would have thought it possible for her to say what she said next. “Poor dog,” she muttered, in a doleful, pitying voice. “You’re awfully sick, aren’t you?” That was the entire statement— just two short sentences—but when Mr. Bones heard Alice say those words, he realized that Willy G. Christmas was not the only two-leg in the world who could be trusted. It turned out that there were others, and some of them were very small.

The rest of the afternoon rolled by in a blur of pleasures. They washed him down with the garden hose, lathering his fur into a mountainous pile of white suds, and as the six hands of his new companions rubbed away at his back and chest and head, he couldn’t help remembering how the day had begun—and what an odd and mysterious thing it was that it should end like this. Then they rinsed him off, and after he shook himself dry and ran around the yard for a few minutes, peeing on various bushes and trees along the perimeter of the property, the woman sat with him for what seemed like the longest time, searching his body for ticks. She explained to Alice that her father had taught her how to do this in North Carolina when she was a girl and that the only foolproof method was to use your fingernails and pinch out the critters by the tops of their heads. Once you had them, you couldn’t just flick them to the side, and you couldn’t just crush them underfoot. You had to burn them, and while she was in no way encouraging Alice to play with matches, would she be so kind as to run into the kitchen and fetch the box of Ohio Blue Tips in the top drawer to the right of the stove? Alice did as she was asked, and for the next little while she and her mother combed through Mr. Bones’s fur together, plucking out a succession of blood-swollen ticks and incinerating the culprits in little blazes of bright, phosphorescent heat. How not to be grateful for that? How not to rejoice at having this scourge of agonizing itches and sores removed from his person? Mr. Bones was so relieved by what they were doing for him that he even let Alice’s next remark pass by without protest. He knew the insult was unintentional, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t hurt by it.

“I don’t want to get your hopes up too high,” the woman said to her, “but it might not be such a bad idea to give this dog a name before your daddy gets home. It’ll make him seem more like part of the family, and that might give us a psychological edge. You understand what I’m saying, honey?”

“I already know his name,” Alice said. “I knew it the moment I saw him.” The girl paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. “Remember that book you used to read to me when I was little? The red one with the pictures in it and all those stories about animals? There was a dog in there that looked just like this one. He rescued a baby from a burning building and could count up to ten. Remember, Mama? I used to love that dog. When I saw Tiger hugging this one by the bushes a little while ago, it was like a dream come true.”

“What was his name?”

“Sparky. His name was Sparky the Dog.”

“All right, then. We’ll call this one Sparky, too.”

When Mr. Bones heard the woman go along with this absurd choice, he felt stung. It had been bad enough trying to get used to
Cal,
but this was pushing things a little too far. He had suffered too much to be burdened with this cutesy, infantile nickname, this simpering diminutive inspired by a picture book for toddlers, and even if he lived as long again as he had lived so far, he knew that a dog of his melancholic temperament would never adjust to it, that he would cringe every time he heard it for the rest of his days.