“We’re going to take the dog down to the lake before we have to take Mingo home.” Cody makes this a statement, not a question, and is out the office door before her mother can register an objection. She really needs to have a few minutes with Mingo alone. She needs to talk to him about what happened today at McDonald’s. She needs to thank him. Besides, she knows that he wants a last few minutes with the dog, because it may be the last time he ever sees him. And if that’s the case, it’s likely the last time she’ll see Mingo. It may be that she’s done Mingo no favors by getting him back together with his dog if he’s just going to be denied access to him after all. She really can’t read the cards on this one. Mr. March is clearly not in favor of the idea, and her mother isn’t giving a clue as to how persuadable she is. Usually, Skye tips her hand with a softening of expression, that defeated look she gets when Cody gets her way. This time, it’s different: Skye is remote, having kept busy in the office all the while the three of them worked on the dog run.
An hour ago, Mr. March left to get dinner, leaving Cody and Mingo to finish up the job. He’d called his dog to follow him, quietly letting Dawg stay with Mingo. Dawg didn’t even notice when Mr. March left with Chance. He’d had his eyes on Mingo the whole time, as if afraid that if he looked away, his boy would disappear again.
“Want to head down to the lake for a bit? Take Dawg for a walk?”
“I ain’t got a leash.”
“He’s fine without one around here.”
“A-ite.”
They head down the slope, the dog running ahead of them to clear away any squirrels showing bad judgment. The lake is a flat nickel color in the early-evening light, its depths darkening to pewter in the center. A faint breeze tickles soft pine branches into movement. Pulling off their shoes, Cody and Mingo walk around the edges, letting their toes sink into the lush leaf mold fringing the lake. Although the water is still too cold for swimming, the shallow places are warm. Dawg plants his legs up to his belly and laps at the water, at one with his feral side.
“Hey, umm, you know, like, thanks.” Cody doesn’t look at Mingo. Picks up a rock, tosses it into the water.
“Your mom hired me.”
“No. I mean about today, at McDonald’s. Those kids.”
“S’okay. Felt kind of good.”
“Yeah, but what if, like, the cops had been around and you’d gotten in more trouble?”
“I’d deal with it.” He rolls his shoulders back, puffs his chest a little. “You sometimes just gotta do right.”
Cody shoves her glasses up her nose, hopes he doesn’t see the flush rising to her cheeks. She’s touched by this rough boy’s words, but more than that, she wonders what it would feel like to give up the Secret, to do right, as Mingo puts it, to finger the man who killed her father. She’s got to keep the Secret. She is doing right—by protecting her mother and herself with her silence.
Mingo flings a handful of little stones into the still lake, scattering a covey of ducks. “Ain’t right. Him takin’ Dawg. It’s like he be stealin’ from me, right in front of my face. Disrespectin’ me.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I really thought that he’d see that the dog should be with you. But, Mingo, really. What would happen if you took the dog? Where would you keep him? Isn’t he better off—”
“No. What kinda man you think I am, lettin’ him get away with it? He ain’t gonna think about it; he gonna give my dog away.”
“I won’t let that happen.”
“What you gonna do about it?” Mingo straightens up, gives her a look that makes her take a step back, out of the water, to the safety of shore.
Cody can see the anger in him, the heartbreak. She knows so little about how he ended up where he is, but however it happened, it’s made him tough. He was so gallant, knocking Ryan down, defending her; and now he’s intimidating her, he’s scary. Suddenly, he’s one of those dudes you’d see coming and cross the street to avoid. Bigger somehow, dangerous. “I don’t know.”
“I do.” Mingo whistles and Dawg splashes over to him. “You comin’ wi’ me, boy.” Mingo grabs his sneakers off the bank and slips them on over wet feet. He unhooks the chain attached to his belt loop, unclips it from his wallet, then attaches the short chain to the dog’s collar. He straightens up and looks at her. His face is a degree less hostile. “Cody, look. Thanks for tryin’. I know you meant to be helpful.” He slings his backpack over one shoulder, flips the hood of his sweatshirt up.
“What are you doing?”
“What I shoulda done long time ago. Beatin’ it.” Boy and dog walk away, following the trail that will lead to the parking lot of the state park.
“You can’t! Mom will kill me! You’re going to be in such trouble!”
Mingo doesn’t turn around, doesn’t react to her at all, and she realizes that trouble isn’t anything he is afraid of. He is unfettered by the fear of punishment. She’s a bit envious. Cody knows she’s going to be the one to have to face her mother, who is going to go ballistic. To say nothing of Mr. March. Despite the good intentions, she’s going to be the one in big trouble.
* * *
The sun is down, and in the fading light, the boy and the dog are barely visible. It is only the quick glitter of the reflective trim on his crisp white sneakers that alerts me to the boy and dog on the side of the road, walking with their backs to traffic. I pull up beside Mingo, scroll down the window. I really have no hope that he’ll get in the car, and fully expect that he’ll book it and disappear into the night; but he does get in beside me, holding the chunky dog in his lap.
“Seat belt.”
Mingo manages to buckle the strap despite the bulk of the dog in his lap.
“Thank you, Mingo.”
“A-ite.”
“I’m taking you back, you know. I took a chance on you, at Cody’s insistence, against my better judgment. And if you hadn’t gotten into this car, I would be on the phone to the police, and I don’t think that you would be happy with that.”
“I want my dog.”
“I understand that, Mingo. I really do. But you can’t run away and blow off all the good that you’ve done—learning a trade, getting sober—just for the dog. If he were a human, would he want that?”
“No.” He says it exactly as Cody says it when she’s been on the losing end of an argument. The no of adolescent capitulation.
My purse is between us, lodged in the console. I reach in and pull out five twenty-dollar bills. “Besides, you didn’t get paid.” I hold out the money.
“Dawg, you get in back.” The dog seems to understand and hops into the backseat. Mingo takes the cash. Folding it, he slips it into his pocket. “Thank you.”
“A hundred bucks is a lot of money to walk away from.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Word.”
“Word up.” I catch the suggestion of a smile on the boy’s face. “Cody hates it when I use slang; she thinks I’m trying to be hip and I’m not acting my age.”
“Lotsa grown folks are hip. You never too old to be hip.” He glances away, then back. “Not sayin’ that you’re old. You cool.”
I take that as high praise indeed.
Mingo pulls out his phone and a set of earbuds.
I feel a little excluded, a little bit shut out. I know I should try to engage him, not let him get away with shielding himself with thuggish bumped-up base. Then I recognize the maternal reaction; it feels exactly as it does with Cody half of the time. An audio wall of music shutting out any chance of a meaningful conversation. I plunge in. “Who’s your favorite artist?”
Mingo shrugs. “Old-school, mostly. Fifty Cent, Dr. Dre. Not much into Kanye. Like Jay Z.”
I nod, as if I’m familiar with these rappers’ work and the relative merits of each. I give myself props for at least knowing who they are. “What about female artists?”
Mingo thinks for a moment. “I’m okay with Nicki Minaj. Missy Elliott, she’s good.” He doesn’t move to put the earbud back. “Actually, I’m good with Alicia Keys. She does something for me.”
“Me, too.” I point to the glove compartment. “You might find one of her CDs in there.”
The kid pulls out the four or five jewel boxes I’ve tossed in the glove compartment along with my secret stash of Radiohead, Sting, and Johnny Cash. He finds the Alicia Keys disc and plugs it into the slot. Mingo Ayala sits beside me, his long fingers tapping out a rhythm against his knees, bobbing his head in time with the music. I don’t know anything about him, or why Cody has taken up his cause. Maybe it’s a genetic predisposition to being attracted to misfits. This boy is enough like Randy that I worry that a version of the old adage—like mother, like daughter—is being played out here in front of me. He’s handsome, a bit charming, a drug addict, and probably a thief. And, if Adam is right, he’s a Michael Vick in training.
I won’t be like my mother. I won’t object to Cody’s friendship with this kid. I won’t be like my mother, whose dislike for Randy effectively threw me into his arms. Cody is such a contrarian that the more I like Mingo, the quicker she’s likely to abandon her advocacy of him, a sad thought that makes me wonder why every interaction with Cody has to be strategized. Nothing is ever simple.