Underdog Page 8

  She nodded her head up and down and looked pleased. “Well, that’s fine and Izzy, if you need to go over to the public library, Gina can take you tomorrow afternoon. Oh —no! Gina has to leave early tomorrow. She has a class at four.” She looked at me in a worried way. “She might even be gone before you come back from school.”

  “No problem, Aunt Alice.”

  She really was looking worried. “And then next week, Izzy, I have to go out of town for a few days. There’s an Indian potter at Taos whose work our gallery is very interested in. I’ll have to be away for a couple of nights and Uncle Roger will need to go to a meeting on one of those nights.”

  “I always stay alone, Aunt Alice. I’m used to it.”

  “No.” Again that worried look on her face. “It’s not right for a girl your age to stay alone at night.”

  “But my father let me.”

  Aunt Alice’s face looked frozen in worry. “You’re too young. I’ll have to find a baby-sitter.”

  I wanted to tell her if I had a dog you wouldn’t have to worry about me. But what was the use.

  I told her I should start work on my report and I went into the guest room and took the picture of Gus out of the drawer and looked at it. Gus. Tonight he was all alone in his narrow cage at the S.P.C.A. He was sitting there in a corner, sad and lonely, but tomorrow he would have me and I would make it up to him for all those miserable years.

  I looked at the way his tail was wagging in the picture so hard you could hardly see it and it came back to me suddenly how Gus used to go scampering around the house so fast he’d slide on the wood floors. I remembered how I heard him sliding on the floors, first thing in the morning when I woke up, and I remembered hearing something else—the sound of my mother laughing.

  It was scary but suddenly I remembered her. I remembered how I used to sit in her lap and how Gus would come flying up to sit in my lap at the same time I was sitting in hers. It made me angry because if my mother hadn’t died, none of this would have happened. We would have stayed in San Francisco and every morning when I woke up I’d hear Gus sliding on the wood floors and the sound of her laughing.

  “Izzy, do you want a glass of milk?” my aunt asked, poking her head in the guest room.

  “No thanks, Aunt Alice.”

  She looked at me, sitting there with the picture in my hand, and she asked, “How is the report going?”

  “Oh, just fine. Just fine. I finished working on it for tonight.”

  “Well, I’ll say good night then. Your uncle will probably be home late. I hope you’re not a light sleeper.”

  “No,” I told her. “I’m not.”

  I heard him. I must have been sleeping very lightly. I remember tossing around a lot and waking up and wishing morning would come and I could go and get Gus. I dreamed funny dreams and a couple of times I woke up waiting for something that didn’t happen.

  I heard my uncle or I should say I smelled him. I smelled fried potatoes and I jumped out of bed and hurried into the kitchen. It was 2:30 and my uncle, still in a suit and tie, looking very dignified but guilty when he saw me, was frying potatoes. “I’m sorry, Izzy,” he said. “I was hoping I wouldn’t disturb you.”

  “I remembered my mother,” I told him. “I remembered her tonight. She laughed a lot and she loved Gus.”

  “Yes, she did,” he said, shaking the french fries in the strainer. “And you too. She loved you too.”

  “He used to slide on the floors,” I said. “He was happy then. He barked a lot and he used to wag his tail all the time.”

  “Have some potatoes,” my uncle said.

  The potatoes were wonderful—crisp and golden and greasy.

  “Did you ever have a dog?” I asked.

  “Why sure,” he said. “Your father and I, we had three while we were growing up—Buster, Cookie, and Leo. Leo was a beagle and your father liked him the best.” He looked at me and said quickly, “It was easy in the old neighborhood. We had a yard and there was a park close by. A dog needs room to run around.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “That would be a good place for a dog.”

  He told me about Buster, Cookie, and Leo while we ate our potatoes. Buster ran away and Cookie chewed gum and Leo would howl whenever my father played a harmonica. After we finished, I helped my uncle clean up. We scoured the pan and cleaned every tiny drop of grease off the stove. When we finished, the kitchen looked spotless again and only the smell of fried potatoes remained.

  “Good night, Izzy,” my uncle said. He put his hand on my shoulder and hesitated.

  “Good night, Uncle Roger,” I said, and stood a second or two before going back to the guest room.

  I fell into a deep, comfortable sleep and woke up happy the next morning. It was time to go get Gus.

  Chapter 10

  Something is sure to go wrong, I told myself all the way over to Mrs. Firestone’s house. Maybe she’s forgotten or maybe she’s changed her mind or maybe—she’s so old— maybe she died in the night.

  When I got off the bus I started running and I was out of breath when I arrived at her house. The cats were arranged all over her yard and Franklin and Eleanor stuck out their necks and hissed at me as I rushed up the stairs.

  Mrs. Firestone had not forgotten. She had even dressed up for the occasion and was wearing a funny old hat, a glittery red one with a torn black veil, and was holding a stained white straw purse with big wooden beads.

  On the bus, she acted like a little kid. Look at this. Look at that. It had been so long since she’d been out of the neighborhood that she kept pointing out all the changes that had taken place. I listened, agreed, and worried.

  Money? I should have enough. I needed $13.25 to get Gus out of the S.P.C.A. and I had brought $43.87 with me, all the money I had. It should be enough to get Gus and buy food for him and maybe pay off some of the debt Mrs. Firestone owed Mr. Holland. So I didn’t have to worry about money.

  I was worrying about Gus. Would he still be there? They promised me he would, but would he?

  He was, sitting there in his corner.

  “Okay, fellow,” said the attendant, opening his cage, “your friends are here.”

  Gus blinked at us but remained in his corner.

  “Come on, now,” the attendant said, “you’re going to your new home.”

  Gus stood up and limped slowly across the cage. He didn’t seem happy or excited. Bewildered maybe but not happy.

  “Can I pick him up?” I asked.

  “Sure,” said the attendant. “You don’t have to worry about him biting.”

  I picked him up and held him against me. “Gus,” I whispered, “it’s going to be okay. From now on, I’m going to take care of you. It’s going to be okay.”

  He was trembling and he didn’t stop until we were back on the bus again.

  “No wonder,” said Mrs. Firestone. “That terrible place scares them. They know.”

  I felt so happy with Gus in my arms. I put my face down against him and, suddenly, he raised his head and licked my nose.

  “Mrs. Firestone,” I cried, “he just licked my face. He knows me, Mrs. Firestone.”

  “Of course he knows you,” she said. “Animals know a lot more than people think they know. And they behave better too. I’ve been disappointed in my life lots of times I can tell you by all kinds of people but animals—I never knew an animal who called me names or threw rocks at me.”

  She bent over and peered at Gus. “He certainly looks older. Well, that’s not his fault. We all get older. Can’t help that.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Firestone,” I said to her. “You’ve been wonderful. I’ll never forget it.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, Izzy. I’m very happy for you and him.”

  “He won’t be any trouble, I promise you. I’ll come every day.”

  “They’re none of them any trouble,” said Mrs. Firestone. “It’s the people who make the trouble.”

  I carried Gus all the way back to Mrs. Firestone’s ho
use and as we walked through the gate, the animals there stood like statues watching us.

  “Here’s your new brother,” said Mrs. Firestone. “Clark, Norma, Errol, Theda, Eleanor, Franklin ... make him welcome.” Poor little Gus began trembling again and Mrs. Firestone said, “He’ll get used to them but let’s go inside for now. I’ll give him some sardines and maybe that will make him feel better.”

  “But suppose he doesn’t like sardines?”

  “We’ll find something for him to eat, don’t worry. I had a cat once who only ate blue cheese.”

  “I can go shopping, Mrs. Firestone. I have plenty of money to buy him some dog food and maybe I should get him a bed.”

  “No bed,” said Mrs. Firestone. “I’ll fix up something for him, don’t you worry.”

  We went into the kitchen and old Spencer stood up unsteadily and started barking.

  “Now you stop it, Spencer,” said Mrs. Firestone. “I expect you to behave like a gentleman. And you too, Rudolph,” she said to the large brown dog who had followed us in. I sat down with Gus in my lap and Rudolph came over to sniff. He didn’t seem to find anything wrong because he rested his head, just for a second, in my lap, next to Gus’s, let me pat his head, and then moved off, following Mrs. Firestone to the refrigerator.

  She put a plate of sardines down on the floor in front of Spencer and a plate of bologna pieces in front of Rudolph. She watched them proudly as they ate. “They’re just like people,” she said. “Some things they like and some things they don’t. You have to respect their tastes.”

  When I tried to set Gus down on the floor he just collapsed. So I picked him up again and Mrs. Firestone brought a dish of sardines over to him. She held it up to his nose and crooned, “There now, Gus. Try some of these delicious sardines. Build up your strength, dear.” A little of the sardine juice spilled on my lap but Gus turned away his face and refused to eat.

  “Just be patient, Izzy,” said Mrs. Firestone. “You’ll see, he’ll get used to us.”

  For a while, it seemed as if she was going to be right. At first, Gus sat in my lap,, watching. Then he began stirring. I could feel it and I even was able to set him down on the floor. The other two dogs inched their way over toward him and the sniffing introductions began. Spencer suddenly began wagging his old tail.

  “See,” said Mrs. Firestone, “he remembers Gus. See how smart he is.”

  Gus stood still as the other dogs checked him over and then, as they moved off, he seemed almost ready to follow them and to survey his new surroundings.

  It was not to be. Through the open door at the back a large, furious cat came charging into the room. She flew over to Gus, arching her back, and screaming at him. Gus turned and leaped into my lap. I could feel his little body trembling and then, from out of his throat came the saddest sound I had ever heard in my whole life—a despairing, defeated howl of terror.

  “Oh dear,” said Mrs. Firestone. “I forgot all about Loretta.”

  But Gus had not and there was no way to make him forget. Mrs. Firestone locked Loretta out of the house. She tried to coax Gus out of my lap with tidbits of bologna and pieces of doughnuts. Gus refused to budge. He stayed trembling in my lap, his head buried against me.

  “He’ll be all right,” Mrs. Firestone said. “This time I’ll really give Loretta a good talking to. You just leave him here, Izzy, and I’m sure it will work out.”

  But I knew I could not leave him, not ever again.

  Nobody was home when I returned at four o’clock. Gina had already left for her class and the house looked even whiter and cleaner than usual.

  I carried Gus into the guest room and held him in my lap and I told him what had happened to me in the past seven years since they had separated us.

  My aunt found us there. I heard her as she came through the front door. “Izzy,” she called, “Izzy, are you home?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I’m home.”

  I could hear the sound of her steps coming closer and I held on to Gus and waited.

  “Izzy,” she said, smiling as she came through the door of the guest room, “I wanted to ask you if ...”

  She never asked me. Instead, she froze in place when she saw him. “Oh, my God,” she said, “who is that?”

  “It’s Gus,” I told her. “My dog, Gus.”

  She looked around the clean white guest room, at the white bedspread, at the pigeon-dropping painting, and she said, “He can’t stay here.”

  “I know,” I told her. “And neither can I.”

  Then I began crying. Now, I’m generally pretty careful when I cry. I like to do it when nobody’s there to see. And I like to throw a few things around, things I can pick up later and put back in place, like towels or pillows. I don’t like to cry in front of other people, but this time I didn’t care.

  “You’re not going to separate us,” I told her, hugging Gus against me. “Not anymore. You can send me anywhere you like but he’s got to go with me.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, backing away from me. “Where did he come from?”

  “I found him,” I said. “In the S.P.C.A. They would have killed him if I didn’t take him. Because nobody wants him. Nobody ever wanted him.”

  I was crying so hard I guess it wasn’t clear exactly what I was saying. She said, “Izzy, Izzy ...” and I looked at her in her spotless beige-and-white suit and it made me so angry I yelled, “It’s not okay, this time. And I’ll say okay as much as I like. It’s not okay. You can’t make me stop saying okay even if it’s not okay.”

  “Now, Izzy, just calm down!” said my aunt.

  But then Gus began whimpering too—not that terrible, scared howl back in Mrs. Firestone’s house—but a sort of sympathetic whimper for me. Because he felt sorry for me. He licked my face again and I began crying buckets. I tried to tell Aunt Alice that I would start packing immediately but suddenly she turned around and hurried out of the room. I knew she was going to telephone my uncle so it didn’t surprise me when he came flying into my room, all out of breath, maybe a half hour later. I wasn’t sitting on the bed anymore. I was packing my clothes and Gus was down on the floor, watching me. When my uncle came charging into the room, Gus hurled himself against me and I picked him up and stood there, still crying.

  “What’s going on here?” my uncle said sternly. “I was right in the middle of an important meeting and I had to drop everything and rush home.”

  “It won’t happen again,” I told him, “because I’m not going to be living here anymore. I’m going away with Gus.”

  “Where did this dog come from?” my uncle asked angrily.

  “Oh, I’ll tell you,” I said. I was angry too. Even though I was crying, I was angry—at him, at Aunt Alice, at my father, my mother, at Loretta, Mrs. Firestone, the Kaplans, at Sandy, Karen, Mr. Bailey, Jeremy, Mrs. Doyle, and the singer who lived upstairs. I was angry at everybody in the whole world except for Gus.

  I was shaking all the time I was talking. And sometimes I was crying so hard my words came out all wet and fuzzy. “Calm down, Izzy,” my uncle kept saying and “Pull yourself together.” But I didn’t stop.

  I told him what I thought of him and Aunt Alice and their clean white house and this big world with all its people who had no place for Gus.

  When I was finished my uncle said, “Do I understand from what you have said that you have not been at school all this week?”

  “Yes,” I said. “No, I have not been at school.”

  “That you have played hooky from school these past four days?”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” I shouted.

  “That you have deceived your aunt and myself and gone traipsing all over the city and talked to all kinds of strangers knowing that we would never have approved.”

  “Yes,” I said. “You never would have approved.”

  “And you also knew, Izzy,” said my uncle, “that I would have taken you over to see Mrs. Firestone on Saturday. You knew that I planned on helping you in your search. It
wasn’t as if I said no.”

  I hugged Gus hard against me. My tears were bouncing off his head. “Saturday would have been too late,” I yelled, beginning to hiccup too. “By Saturday he would have been dead.”

  My uncle moved a little closer. He looked at me standing there, holding Gus, hiccupping, and crying, and you could see he was disgusted. “You know, Izzy,” he said, “you deceived us. You acted so meek and mild, like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. We thought you were a quiet, obedient child—maybe even too obedient.”

  “Not anymore,” I told him. “I don’t have to be that way anymore because nobody wants me either. And Gus doesn’t have to be that way. Now that he’s got me he can be himself. I know what he’s really like. I remember. He likes to play and jump around and make a lot of noise. That’s what he’s really like and now that I found him, he’ll be like that again. You’ll see. No—you won’t see because we won’t be here anymore. But don’t try to separate us, Uncle Roger. It won’t work. He’s my dog and I won’t let us be separated ever again.”

  “I think ... ,” my aunt murmured, putting a hand on my uncle’s arm.

  “You really had us fooled,” said my uncle, “but for the time being, until we decide what would be best ...”

  “I’ve already decided,” I told him. “Nobody will ever take Gus away from me again.”

  “I think ... ,” said my Aunt Alice.

  My uncle stopped looking at me and began looking at Gus.

  “So don’t try!” I yelled. “Just leave Gus alone.”

  “But,” said my uncle, “that isn’t Gus.”

  Chapter 11

  “I remember,” said my uncle. “Just take one look at the picture if you don’t believe me. Gus had floppy ears like a cocker spaniel.”

  The little dog nestled in my arms had small, pointy ears like a scotty.

  “I don’t know where the picture is,” I told my uncle.

  “It’s not Gus,” he insisted. “You have the wrong dog.”

  “No, I don’t,” I said. “It’s the right dog. Mrs. Firestone said so. And he was afraid of Loretta just like he was when he was a puppy. It’s Gus.”