Fifteen

As soon as we get rid of Ms. Bean, Popeye tries to calm me down. Finally, he volunteers to drive me to Chicago himself on Saturday. I’m holding him to it.

I stay in my room the rest of the night and let Dakota and Hank take over with the dogs and Blackfire. I want to do it myself, to take care of the dogs. But I don’t even feel like climbing down the stairs when dinner rolls around. Annie brings me a plate of fried chicken, and Kat comes up later with a brownie. I can’t eat any of it.

I have no clue how long I’ve been sitting in the dark when Kat knocks on the door again. “Want me to walk Rex for you?”

I’m sitting on the floor. Rex is stretched out beside me, his head on my knee. I’m not sure, but I guess he’s been with me the whole time. “Yeah. Thanks, Kat.”

“Come on, Rex,” she calls from the doorway.

Rex doesn’t budge.

“Go on. Go for a walk,” I tell him. He doesn’t move, so I raise my voice. “Go!”

Still, he doesn’t move. His head stays stretched over my leg.

“I mean it, Rex.” My head is electric, buzzing like bad phone lines. “Get!” I shake my leg and make his head drop off me.

“Wes, don’t.” Kat walks over and takes Rex by the collar. “Come on, Rex. Come with me.” Still, she has to half drag him out.

I get up and slam the door behind them.

* * *

Thursday moves along without any help from Wes “Mad Dog” Williams. I can’t get my mom out of my head. I want it to be Saturday. I want to see her. Everything will be okay when I see her. I picture her thinking about me, thinking the same thing I am—that if she just sees me, things will be okay. We can still go ahead with our plans.

Once, when we lived above the bar, Mom came home late, crying. Her hair was wild, and she had a black eye. I tried everything I could think of to get her to stop crying. I stood on my head, sang a song she liked. I colored her a picture and glued bottle caps to it. It was summer, but I made her a valentine. Finally, she stopped crying and hugged me. “You’re the only one, Wesley,” she told me. “You’re the only one who can make me stop crying like a baby.”

I wonder if she remembers that. I hope she does.

* * *

“Wes, telephone!” Dakota knocks on my door and hollers again. “Phone, Wes! For you.”

I roll over and check the clock on my bedside table. It’s after 10. I haven’t slept this late since I came to Starlight Animal Rescue. No one has. “Go away.” I pull the pillow over my head.

She knocks again. “It’s Mrs. Coolidge, and she won’t take no for an answer.”

I drag myself out of bed and step on Rex. He jumps up, then sits again, eyes fixed on me. I hope somebody walked him already. I stumble to the door and open it. “Tell her I’m sick.”

Mrs. Coolidge’s voice shoots from the phone in Dakota’s hands. Even that far away, she’s loud and clear. “Bosh! Get on this phone this instant, Wesley!”

Dakota shoves the receiver into my hand. I lift it to my ear. I know what Mrs. Coolidge wants. It’s Friday. We’re supposed to go back to Nice Manor and train the dogs. “Mrs. Coolidge,” I begin, “I don’t feel like—”

“Feel schmeel, banana peel,” she says. “I’ll be by for you and Dakota and all four dogs in one hour. Do not keep me waiting.” Mrs. Coolidge hangs up.

Dakota takes the phone I hold out. She doesn’t ask, but she’s obviously waiting for an answer.

At her feet, the three-legged Lion is play-fighting with the terrier, Moxie. I started this. I have to finish it, no matter how I “feel schmeel.” “Okay,” I say, giving in.

“Cool!” Dakota picks up both dogs. “I’ll get the dogs ready if you’ll get you ready.”

“What?”

“Let’s just say that compared to you, Munch smells like roses.”

I look down, surprised to see that I haven’t changed my clothes in two days.

* * *

Things are so rushed trying to get the dogs ready for this that I don’t get a chance to really talk to Dakota until we’re standing out front, waiting for Mrs. Coolidge. “Thanks for taking the dogs for me the last couple of days,” I say, not looking at her.

“Hank helped,” Dakota says. “These guys are growing on me. They’re good dogs, aren’t they?”

I nod. “All dogs are good dogs until people mess them up. How’s Blackfire? Sorry I dropped the ball on that deal.”

Her grin dissolves. “Well, lucky for you, you’ll still get your chance to help with him. He’s not any better.”

“You’re kidding.”

She shakes her head. “Hank says there’s no infection. But that abscess hasn’t drained at all. It’s still festering in his hoof. I want it to come out so he can start to heal.”

Something inside of me knots up. Festering. It’s a word I’ve never used, but I think I know what it feels like.

As if Dakota can read my mind, she says, “Wes, I wish I could help. Like, I wish I knew a Bible verse to give you for your mom and stuff. Kat could.”

“That’s okay.” I know Kat’s verses have helped Dakota since she’s been here. Dakota never talks about running away anymore, and she’s . . . I don’t know, more peaceful. But that stuff doesn’t work on me. “I’ll be okay when I see my mom.”

She nods, and we wait in silence until Mrs. Coolidge drives up.

Dakota and Mrs. Coolidge talk on the way to Nice Manor, but I tune them out. My mind is locked on my mom. I imagine her sitting in jail, counting down the hours until my visit.

When we pull up to the Manor, Buddy and her archrival, Miss Golf, the activities director, come out to meet us. The two women look like opposing coaches who’ve agreed to put on a united front for the sake of the game. Buddy’s wearing what looks like an official Chicago Bears jersey with her Cubs ball cap. Miss Golf, in a pink jogging suit, reminds me of a pink lemonade Popsicle, like my grandma used to make in her freezer.

“How are you, Carol?” Mrs. Coolidge hollers out the window. “You’re looking in the pink today.” She doesn’t make a move to get out of the car. Instead, she revs the engine, making Dakota and me move faster to get the dogs out.

“I’m just fine, Georgette. And you?” Miss Golf returns, the frost in her voice fitting right in with the Popsicle image. “Let’s get this straight from the get-go: Nice Manor will consider adopting one dog. One. I’m allowing you to bring four so that we can choose one. That is, if any of the dogs work out, which at this point seems like a long shot.”

Finally, I get the last dog out of the car.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Coolidge mutters. Then before Miss Golf has a chance to react, Mrs. Coolidge shouts, “Have fun!” and drives off waving.

Buddy wheels closer. She lifts the cowering terrier onto her lap. “I told Miss Golf she was welcome to spy on our clandestine canine activities today,” she says.

“I’m not spying,” Miss Golf protests. “It’s my responsibility to make sure nothing threatens the—”

“Time out!” Buddy signals, making the classic T with her bony hands. “Let’s kick off this game. Play ball!”

I reach for Moxie, thinking the terrier will be scared with Buddy yelling like an out-of-control ref. But Moxie’s ears perk up, and she tries to lick the old woman’s face.

“You bet, Moxie!” Buddy hollers. “Let’s show ’em what we’re made of!”

The others are waiting for us in the rec room, the same place we brought the dogs Wednesday. They shout greetings as we walk in. Munch, Bag, and even little Lion wag their tails and scurry around, greeting their new pack.

Dakota and I stand up in front. I know everybody’s waiting for me to get things started, but I can’t wrap my mind around what we’re even doing here. It’s like I’m already on my way to Chicago to see Mom.

After a couple of minutes of strained silence, Dakota takes over. “Great to see you guys again.” Her voice is shaky, but she keeps going. I don’t try to stop her. “Okay,” Dakota continues, “where do you think we parked this morning?” She doesn’t wait for the answer. I know the answer. Popeye has told this one a million times. “In the barking lot!” Dakota finishes.

Leon hoots, and Buddy whistles through her teeth.

I get them to sit in twos. April and June. Velva and Rose. Leon and Buddy. “We’re going to work in pairs to get the dogs used to things. Usually a dog’s socialization time comes in the first three or four months of life, but with these guys we need to start over.”

I dole out the dogs, giving Lion to Velva and Rose, and Bag the Blab to April and June. The terrier, Moxie, is still on Buddy’s lap, so that one stays with Buddy and Leon.

That leaves the slobbering Munch, who’s about twice as big as the other dogs. There’s only one solution. “Miss Golf, you and Dakota will need to team up for Munch.”

“Munch?” she repeats.

I scratch Munch’s ears. “This cute little girl.”

Miss Golf’s eyes grow to golf ball–size. “I’m just an observer. Besides, isn’t this the one that spits?”

Dakota takes Munch’s leash and slides onto the seat next to Miss Golf. “Munch is a sweetie,” she promises. “You’ll see.”

“I’m not good with pets,” Velva says, scooting her chair farther away from Rose, her partner. “What if I hurt this poor little one’s leg?”

“Too late for that,” Rose replies. She hugs the Pom, and the wrecked leg sways, as if Lion is waving at Velva.

I get them to do the basic bonding exercises, stroking the dogs’ backs, then their heads, then the ears. “Don’t forget the inside of the ears. Some dogs will do anything for you if they think it will get them a good ear scratching. Same goes for a tummy rub. Whenever you can, get yourself low with your dog. If you’re eye level with a dog, it says that you’re not trying to hurt him or take over his turf.”

Leon gets down on the ground to look into Moxie’s eyes. The terrier wags her tail. “She likes me!” Leon declares. “Just like every woman.”

“Foul! Out of bounds,” Buddy cries.

I want to get caught up in the bonding too. But it feels like I’m watching all of this from the moon. When I tune back in to the voices in the room, I hear April’s baby talk: “That’s a good little Baggie. Ooh, my Bagger Wagger.”

I’ve already told them about sticking to one form of the dog’s name.

Then I hear Dakota: “Munchie, you sweetheart. What a nice Munchster you are! How’s my Baroness von Munchster?”

“Dakota!” I shout. She should know better than that. “What’s the matter with you? Are you crazy?”

The room goes silent. Everyone stares at me.

“What did I do?” Dakota asks.

I hadn’t meant to shout that loud. I take a deep breath and hold in the fury that feels like it could explode. “Don’t forget to call the dogs only by their real names, okay?”

“Oops,” she says, turning back to Munch. “Forgot about that one, didn’t I, Munchie—I mean, Munch.”

I let them go back to the bonding exercises while I pace the room. When I turn around, I almost trip over Buddy’s wheelchair. She’s rolled into my pacing lane. “Is there a problem with Moxie?” I ask her.

She shakes her head. “Is there a problem with you?”

I fake a smile. “’Course not.”

“Sure you don’t want to call it a day? I can round up the team and get them back tomorrow, if you want,” she offers.

“I won’t be here tomorrow.” The answer is too loud, as if she’s just threatened to make me be here tomorrow. I lower my voice and explain. “I’m visiting my mom tomorrow. In Chicago.”

“That right?” she asks.

I nod. “I haven’t seen her for a long time.”

“Her move or yours?” Buddy asks.

“Not mine,” I answer quickly.

“That what’s got you angry as a sacked quarterback on a muddy field?”

The question throws me. “I’m not angry. Not at my mom.”

“Right,” Buddy says. “Well then, you tell her for me that she’s got one fine son.”

Before I can thank her—or argue with her—she wheels back to Leon and the terrier, who are nose-to-nose on the floor.

I finish the session early and get Dakota to call Mrs. Coolidge to pick us up. Then I try to figure out how I’ll get through the rest of the hours before I’m face-to-face with my mother.