You Will Call Me Drog (5 page)

“Parker, what on earth are you looking at?”

I closed out as fast as I could and jammed Drog into my pocket. “Um, nothing, Mom.”

She sat down on the edge of my bed. “Parker, I need to talk to you.”

“Sorry, Mom. That was kind of an accident. I won’t watch that stuff again.”

“It’s not that,” she said.

What, then? Mom acted funny. Like she was trying hard not to act funny. She examined her fingernails for a minute.

“I’ve been talking with Mr. Fairweather and Mrs. Belcher. I think I’ve convinced them that you’re not trying to be disruptive. So we made a deal. They’re going to let you sit back in with the class tomorrow, even with the puppet on.”

“Good.” I waited for the “but.” If there was a deal, there had to be a “but.”

“But there’s one condition. You’re going to go see a doctor—Dr. Mann. He’s a child psychologist, a good one.”

My stomach turned, even with nothing left in it. Great. Now everyone thought I was sick. In the head.

“A psychologist? Does he know anything about puppets?”

“I don’t know, but he knows a lot about children.”

Uh-oh. “Do I have to go?”

“No, but I’d like you to.”

Same thing.

The minute she left the room, Drog said, “Order those dancing girls for me. If I’m to be confined to a life of boredom, it’s the least you can do.”

“Forget it, Drog,” I muttered. “I only get five dollars allowance.”

Actually I had lots more money saved in my drawer. But why should I spend it on a puppet-monster who loved to hate me?

Child psychologist. I prayed for appendicitis.

Mom picked me up Friday after school. She still drives the old Taurus that used to be Dad’s car, our family car.

Some of the best fun I had with Dad when I was little was when he drove me places. Just us. I didn’t care where. I thought being an engineer meant he could drive a train, so as soon as we got in the car he’d twist his hat backwards and pretend to toot the whistle. He told me stories while he drove, and I told him some back. We sang camp songs he learned when he was a kid—
Black socks, they never get dirty. The longer you wear ’em, the blacker they get!
—and made up silly new verses. Dad would slap the steering wheel, laughing, and forget all about trying to teach me the right way to do things.

All that was back when I still called him Daddy. For a long time after he left, I didn’t call him anything.

Dad drives a silver Lexus now. Quiet. No crumbs.

My appointment wasn’t until four, but Mom drove straight there. Because you never know, she said, we might get held up at the crossing by one of those endless freight trains and be late. She didn’t usually worry so much about being on time.

We were way early. A man sat on one of the two couches in Dr. Mann’s waiting room, reading
Outdoor Life
and crossing and uncrossing his legs. We sat down on the other couch near a wall of rippley glass bricks. If you looked just right at it, you could see yourself about a thousand times. I flipped through a beat-up copy of
Highlights
with all the puzzle answers filled in.

The door opened, and the doctor came out with a girl about my age who’d been crying. A lot. What went on in there? Dr. Mann smiled and shook hands with the man. Then he turned to me.

“Please come in.”

Mom waved me her you-can-do-it wave, and I went.

The inside of Dr. Mann’s office looked pretty much like the waiting room. It even had one glass-brick wall. Two round wooden tables—one low, with little-kid-sized chairs, and one regular with regular chairs—were the only furniture besides his desk.

Dr. Mann invited me to sit across the regular-sized table from him and told me I could call him Dr. M.

“This is a special place, Parker,” he said. “Usually, whenever we are not alone, we have to be careful what we say. It’s part of getting along together. But in this room, with me, you can say whatever you feel like saying. You won’t shock or hurt anyone. And no one else will know.”

We sat there for a while. I counted my reflections in the glass bricks.

“I understand you have a friend,” Dr. Mann said, finally.

A friend?

“Did you bring him with you?”

Oh, he meant Drog. I showed him my Drog hand.

“He’s not my friend.”

“I see.”

“He’s bossy. And rude. And he’s conceited.” Drog crunched my hand.

Dr. M. nodded. “And a friend would be someone who—”

I thought about Wren. Before.

“—someone you like who likes to do the things you do, someone you trust, someone who believes what you—”

No! I wasn’t going to start bawling right there. I stuck Drog back in my pocket and swallowed hard.

If Dr. Mann noticed, he pretended he didn’t. “Parker, do you think it’s important that Drog is a man?”

I shrugged. I didn’t even want to think about a girl Drog. Yuck.

“Have you ever been in a play?” he said. “At school, maybe?”

“No. I’ve seen some plays, though.”

“Good. When someone acts in a play they pretend they’re somebody else, right?”

I nodded.

He leaned forward and rested his hands on the table. His fingernails were perfect moons.

“Let’s pretend for a minute that you and I are in a play that has two characters: a boy and his father. Why don’t you be the father and I’ll be the boy? What would the father say to the boy?”

“I don’t know. It depends.”

It was starting to feel too warm in the room.

“Well, suppose he hasn’t seen the boy for a while, and he calls him on the telephone.”

That was easy. “Hello, Son.”

“Hello, Dad,” the doctor said. “When are you coming to see me?”

“I don’t think the boy would say that,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because he knows the dad’s not coming.”

“I see. And that’s because—”

Suddenly I started chattering about how my dad moved to Moline when I was seven and how I hated going back and forth between my parents and got sick every time and how after a couple of years they said I could stay home except every other weekend in the summer when I would go to Dad’s. How I used to have this daydream that our house on Prairie Street actually belonged to me and if Mom and Dad couldn’t get along,
they
could take turns coming and going. Or else we could all live in the house, but Dad would have a separate room with an outside door and we could visit back and forth and maybe all have supper together sometimes.

I even told how Dad got married again, and how he and his other wife, who was nice enough but nothing like Mom, had a little baby called Shanna I’d only seen a few times, and how even I had to admit it was all over between Mom and Dad.

I sank back in my chair. “So the boy knows the dad’s not coming.”

That was a sad thing to say out loud, but I felt like a rubber band let go when I said it. And all the time Dr. M. gave me his complete attention.

“It’s natural to blame your father for the divorce,” he said.

“What?” I said. “I mean, what’s divorce got to do with this puppet?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. What do you think?”

“I don’t see how.”

“Maybe you could take Drog off now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s try.”

“He’ll yell at me.”

“But once we get him off, maybe he won’t be able to say anything. Try it?”

I slid my pointer finger inside and pulled, but nothing happened.

“Boy,” Drog said, “let’s get out of here.”

The doctor cleared his throat. “We won’t be much longer, Parker. Here, let me help you.”

He circled my wrist with his thumb and finger and tugged on Drog’s head and hands with his other hand. His grip was gentle.

“Just relax, Parker. Relax your hand.”

“I am. It’s Drog who won’t let go.”

Dr. M. sat back.

“I see. Apparently this is one determined puppet. Well, don’t worry about it. In fact, try not to worry about anything at all. For now, just ignore Drog and do the things you want with or without him, all right? Ah, our time’s up. I’ll see you next week.”

“How’d it go?” Mom asked on the way out.

“He seemed nice,” was all I said. I’d blabbed enough for one day.

“You know what makes your life such a zero, Boy?” Drog said when we got home. “You spend your days with fools.”

“Dr. M.? He was okay. At least he believed me.”

“You think so? ‘Ignore Drog,’ ha! What ignorance! When it’s time to see that Dr. Mann again, you and I will have a previous engagement.”

Friday. What was I going to do for a whole weekend without Wren?

That night wasn’t actually so bad. Mom brought out a video she checked out from the library where she works. She likes movies about other places and times, and I like adventure, so she chose
October Sky
. It’s about this small-town kid named Homer back in the nineteen-fifties who gets all excited after the Russians put up Sputnik, the first satellite, and starts building his own rockets. Some of his friends get into it, too, but he is the leader, and after a couple of impressive blow-ups, he makes terrific rocket. He dreams of becoming a rocket scientist, and his mom is all for it. His dad, though, is counting on him to stay in Coalwood and work in the mine like him and his grandfather.

For a while, I almost forgot about Drog.

Saturday it poured. Way after Mom left for the library, I rolled out of bed and fixed myself some toast, dropping a couple of blobs of jelly on my foot.

“Ah. That would be toe jam, I presume,” Drog said.

Then I just couldn’t get started on anything, because everything needed Wren. It was like when there’s a power failure and you keep forgetting and trying to switch on lights.

I could see nothing but rain out of every window. There were plenty of unfinished projects in the spare room, like the flying saucer I was trying to make out of a model-plane motor and two hubcaps I found. Things I’d built out of Legos, starting with the crocodile I made when I was seven, crammed the shelves where Dad used to keep his engineering notebooks in neat rows.

Maybe I could work on Wren’s and my bird feeder, which was supposed to look like this Japanese castle. We had to buy bags of extra Legos from the thrift shop so we’d have enough whites.

I tried snapping a couple of bricks together, but they slipped and pinched my finger. I probably could do it, but it was hard. Too slow. No fun anymore. I needed two hands. Or a friend.

I wandered back into the living room and rewound the movie from the night before. This time, watching the kids make rockets and set them off just reminded me of all the things I couldn’t do anymore. And Homer’s arguments with his dad made me shut the thing off.

“You’ve got a rocket in your pocket,” Drog said.

Dad. I was going to have to get free from Drog before Dad found out about him, but how? When Dad had a problem he couldn’t solve, he wrote it out, and he always came up with an answer.

I took a pencil and notepad from Mom’s desk and wrote:
I need to get this talking puppet off my hand
. Then I drew little arrows out from the problem the way Dad does, pointing to possible solutions. Arrow:
pull him off
. Arrow coming out of that arrow:
squeezes harder and stays on
. More arrows for cutting and soaking and even
pretend he’s not there
, with arrows coming out of them all leading to “stays on.” Dad’s arrows led to answers, mine just took me back to the problem. I must be stupid. I scribbled a picture of me, cross-eyed.

After studying the phone for a while, I picked it up and called Wren.

Her mom answered.

“I’m sorry, Parker. Wren’s not here right now. She’s at a friend’s house.”

“Oh, that’s right,” I said, making myself feel even dumber. “Thanks.”

A friend’s house.

“You see?” Drog said.

I scuffed into the kitchen. Wren and I always had plans. For the day and for the future. As soon as we were old enough to drive, we were going to put together a whole car from junkyard parts and go on a long trip out west together, exploring towns in the atlas that nobody ever heard of unless they lived close by, towns with names like Hurricane, Utah; Searchlight, Idaho; and, Wren’s favorite, Horse Heaven, Oregon. And of course we’d collect lots of rocks along the way. We were really going to do it. We’d even saved some money.

I made a baloney sandwich and got mustard on my shirt. I don’t especially like baloney, but the only way I was ever going to be able to eat peanut butter again was if somebody spread it for me. Pathetic.

Now what? If Wren wasn’t home, maybe I could at least go over and hang around her dad’s shop, even if I all I could do was watch. I missed the smell of fresh sawdust and turpentine and hot chocolate in the shop, the easy quiet while we worked or figured something out, and the feel of fresh-cut wood.

I wasn’t sure I could face Mr. Rivera, though. He always called Wren “
Mi Corazon
,” his heart. What if he thought I was doing something on purpose to upset her? He’d be mad at me too, and I couldn’t take that.

“So what am I going to do all afternoon?” I said out loud.

“Well, something, I hope,” Drog said, “or I shall scream with boredom.”

“You? Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Whose fault do you think it is that I can’t do anything, anyway?”

“You want me to answer that?”

It was still dripping out, but I couldn’t stand to stay home another minute. I hauled myself upstairs to my room and fished out three dollars from the money jar in my dresser. Then I took out another two.

I wormed into my jacket, tugged the left sleeve down over Drog, and headed for Cheapers downtown. They advertised paperbacks, comics, games, and “1,000 used videos—Great Selection!” Maybe I could at least get something to keep Drog busy so I could feel sorry for myself in peace.

The musty smell of old comics hit my nose the minute I walked into the store.

I glanced around. I was the only one in there except for an old man I didn’t know who was browsing through the comics. Near that section was a roped-off corner lit up with a string of white Christmas-tree lights and a sign saying “Adult Videos.” I glanced at the old man and at the guy behind the counter with the silver rings in his ears. Neither one was paying attention to me, so I made my way over there.

“Oh, looky, looky!” Drog said, checking out the cover pictures.

Plenty of dancers in that section, all right.

“Get me
The Exciting Art of Exotic Dance
,” he said, “Or maybe
Strip Tease to Please
.”

Probably just the thing to make him happy for a while. Darn!

“Drog, they’d never let me buy these. I don’t think I’m even supposed to be looking at them.”

“Ridiculous. Just slip one or two into your pocket No one will know. Good experience for you.”

I watched my hand reach out and actually had to remind myself,
That would be stealing
.

“Hey, dude,” the counter guy said. “Looking for something in particular?”

I pulled my hand back and put Drog away. “Um. A video. On belly dancing.”

The guy laughed. “Belly dancing? Hmmm. I think we’ve got a how-to over here in Exercise.”

I looked it over a minute and shook my head.

“Oh. You don’t want to do it, you want to watch it?”

“I just need a video with dancing girls in it.”

He laughed again. “I bet you do. You crack me up, kid. Now, let me think. Should be plenty of red-hot dancing girls in
Road to Morocco
. Best I can do.” He handed me the tape.

“How much you got?”

“Five dollars.”

“Tell you what,” the guy said. “You can have both videos for five dollars even.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“And come back when you get a little older. I’m sure I can find something interesting for you.”

“It’s not for me, it’s for ... somebody else.”

“Rrrrright.” He wrote out the sales slip and handed me the package. “There you go. Enjoy!”

The Cheapers bag was see-through, so as soon as I got outside, I stuffed it inside my jacket. The last thing I needed was to have to explain to anybody what I was doing downtown with a puppet on my hand, buying belly-dance videos.

I zipped the zipper up to my chin and looked up just in time to see a tall Japanese man coming out of the library. Must be the same guy Wren and I saw moving things into the old furniture store, I thought. I kept on looking at him because of the way he walked down the steps. So easy, like he was riding on an escalator. He didn’t seem to have things nagging his mind like everybody else on the street. Like me.

I wanted more than anything to follow him and see where he went, but my feet stayed velcroed to the spot, and then he was gone. All the way home, I kicked the dried leaves ahead of me on the sidewalk.

“What did you do today. Parker?” Mom asked at supper.

“Not much. Went downtown. Came home.”

“I expected to find you working on something or other in the spare room.”

I frowned and waved Drog at her.

“Oh, Parker, you love to make things. I’d hate to see you give that up.”

I shoved away from the table to go upstairs. Mom started to follow me.

“Parker?”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ve got... a project. Um, Mom, did you happen to see a Japanese man at the library today?”

“What? Oh, not today. I was cataloging in the back. I know the man you mean, though. He comes in often. I always notice him because he’s quiet, the way people used to be in libraries. It’s refreshing.”

I spent a couple of hours copying just the dancing parts from the video onto my computer so I could play them over and over for Drog.

I was dumb if I thought that was going to keep him happy. He watched it once, made a yawning noise, and said, “Mmmm. Like watching soup cool.”

I turned on the TV.

Mom looked in on me to say good night. “You know, your dad used to make things, too. Before he got so busy. You probably don’t remember that little plane....”

I did, though. It was made of real light wood. You turned the propeller and twisted a rubber band, then let go and it flew all over the yard.

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Wonder whatever happened to it?”

“I probably broke it,” I said. But then I remembered. One day a couple of years ago I blew it up with a firecracker. For no particular reason. I just wanted to see something explode.

I had finally figured out how to imagine doing my bedtime wooden shapes routine one-handed, but that night whenever I got something to go together, it blew apart and woke me up.

On Sunday I decided to go to the junkyard without calling Wren and see if maybe she’d just be there. She wasn’t. It was plain cold out, one of those November days that turns everything the color of steel.

Our birdcage was gone, and the junk was all just junk except for one incredible new thing: a whole freight car off its wheels. I wished Wren could see it. The door was open, so I scrambled up inside. It smelled sour in there, like spilled vinegar. A flattened packing box lay on the floor. Someone had slept on it and left. Probably too cold for them. Or too lonely. I tightened the string on my jacket hood and headed back home.

When Dad called that night I knew what to expect. Mom said she had to tell him what was happening. I guessed I could see why.

“Hello, Dad.”

“I understand you’ve been in some trouble at school,” he said in his trying-to-be-patient voice. “Making up stories. Getting sent to the office.”

“I didn’t make anything up.”