Thirteen

Walking to the nursing home the next afternoon, I ask Mom if we can take the long way there, past St. Anthony’s Church and school. When my dad’s mother was alive, Dad used to take Jim and me to church with her every Sunday morning. I was only four or five years old and really don’t remember much, except for the time I made my father proud.

During the offering, when the collection basket was passed around, Dad urged, “Put the money in the basket, Jo! In the basket!”

But no matter how hard he tried to pry open my chubby hands, I would not let go of the loose change. The Mass was being said in the school gym because the church roof leaked and was under repair. In that very same gym, I had watched probably fifty of Jim’s CYO basketball games, and I knew darn well where the basket was.

The way Jim tells it, I just wound up and let ’em rip. Straight up into the air, I tossed my fistfuls of pennies toward the retracted hoops along the wall.

Coins clattered and rolled all over the wooden floor, the priest scowled, and the dearly devoted ducked or got nailed in the head. Jim remembers Dad beaming at the congregation in pride, his priorities clear, even back then.

“Did ya get a load of my kid’s arm? Future hoop star, with a helluva sense of the basket!” he bragged to everyone within earshot.

We stopped attending soon after Grandma died. Maybe Dad was only going to make her happy anyway. There’s nothing wrong with that, I guess. Still, I wouldn’t mind that, if I decided to say a prayer once in a while, someone, somewhere out there, cared and was really listening.

It doesn’t have to be God. I’m not one of those Jesus fanatics with a WWJD tourniquet wrapped around my wrist. Besides, I don’t exactly have a personal relationship with him. Who I’d like it to be is Gram. I want to believe that she’s watching over me still, cheering me on, sort of like my own spiritual fan club in the sky.

Who knows, maybe that’s all heaven really is, anyway—our wish to remain close to people and animals we loved, despite the nuns insisting, “There’re no pets in heaven!”

Which explains why I like visiting the nursing home on Sundays rather than going to church. Every Sunday, the local animal shelter brings pet carriers filled with rescued kittens and puppies so patients and visitors can cuddle the animals. Every once in a while, an abandoned animal gets lucky and is adopted by someone.

When I first started visiting on Sundays, I used to beg Mom for an orange kitten named Kitty. I spent hours holding her and listening to her purr in my arms. But Michael was allergic and there was no chance that Mom would give in to my tears.

Ben used to visit with me, too, sometimes. His father wouldn’t permit him to have any pets because of the shedding, so Mom would take both of us on Sundays. Ben could play with the beloved golden retrievers he dreamed of owning, while I held Kitty.

*   *   *

Charlotte’s not at the reception desk, so Mom and I sign ourselves in and head upstairs to see Gramps before playing with the animals in the commons room. The bird wind chimes are still hanging from the IV stand, and Gramps is sitting up in bed watching a televangelist.

The preacher claims to cure people’s health problems by whacking them on the forehead with his hand. Supposedly, this chases the demons away, and then he spends the rest of the show selling his prayer cloths and books to the faithful viewers in TV land.

After a few minutes, I grab the remote and change the channel. I’m pretty sure no preacher’s slap on the head is going to heal Gramps. And if I need a laugh, I’d rather watch Sunday-morning cartoons.

When I lean over to kiss Gramps on the cheek, I notice Mrs. Stritch’s goose sitting on the floor in the corner of the room.

“Mom!” I point to it. “Did Gramps…?”

She smiles. “No, Jo. Gramps hasn’t been out of the nursing home. Mrs. Stritch came to visit the other day and gave the goose to him.”

“What?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Mrs. Stritch, who wanted Gramps to do hard time over this very same goose, suddenly decides to give it to him?

“She said that she’s redecorating her front porch this spring and the goose doesn’t fit with her new theme, so Gramps could have it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“She’s promised to visit now and then in order to change the goose’s outfit,” Mom says with a chuckle.

“It’s not funny.” I glare at the stupid plastic goose, which is still dressed in a felt Lincoln beard and stovepipe hat that’s drooping somewhat with wear. “She’s just looking for an excuse to stick her nose in our business!” I pick up the goose and shake it.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking for hidden microphones or recording devices.”

Mom shakes her head. “It’s not like that, Jo.”

“Oh, yes it is,” I insist. “Stritch-witch! That’s what she is.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Mom says. She adjusts Gramps’s covers and pours him a fresh glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand beside his bed.

“Oh, yeah? Then why would Mrs. Stritch, the woman who terrorizes children and chases squirrels off her lawn … why would she give her precious goose to Gramps when he doesn’t know the difference now between a goose and Godzilla?”

Mom snaps, “It’s not for Gramps. It’s for her. It gives her something to do, a place to go, a connection. She’s lonely with no family. No one. Can’t you give her a chance, Jo?”

I open my mouth to respond, but the words are all choked up inside. “I didn’t know. I—” and then I remember all those garden statues, Mrs. Stritch’s substitute family.

*   *   *

When I enter the commons, the first thing I notice is the animal smell and a chorus of barking and meowing. The second thing is the tall guy with the auburn hair, standing next to Franny, holding a golden retriever pup in his arms.

I walk over to them immediately. “What are you doing here?”

“We didn’t get a chance to talk last night.” The puppy wriggles and twists in Ben’s hands.

“Your sling is off. You going to play soon?”

“Yep, doctor thinks maybe this Friday. Hey, don’t change the subject. About last night, I—”

“There’s no problem. Forget it.”

“Why won’t you let me talk?” Ben demands. “You did the same thing the other day after practice.”

“Let him talk, dear,” Franny says as she gently tugs on my arm.

“Sorry, Franny.” I squeeze her hand. “Ben, this is Franny Burton, Valerie’s grandmother.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Burton,” Ben says, leaning down to shake her hand.

Franny beams. “What a polite young man.”

“Thanks,” Ben says, but he looks flustered and quickly turns back to me. “No. No, actually I’m not polite, otherwise I would have apologized earlier. I wanted to make the team so badly, and then when I did, I just wanted … I guess, I wanted to fit in. I’ve never been with the popular crowd—Derek and all those guys. And they were all against you. They really hated you there for a while and I … I was afraid.”

I reach out and pet the wriggling puppy without meeting Ben’s eyes. “But we were friends,” I say softly.

“I know. I … I guess I wasn’t a very good one.”

I take the pup from Ben, scratching behind its silky ears, holding it close to my face, smelling its sweet puppy breath. “I don’t understand what you were afraid of. I mean, I was the one taking the abuse.”

“I know. I can’t explain it.” Ben runs his hands through his hair and looks at me miserably. “It’s like I wanted to stand by you, but then you’d get all fired up and go charging after something, like Derek, and that’s not me. I’d just want to back away and lay low. That’s the way I survive in my own house—avoiding my dad and any conflict.”

I shrug my shoulders. “You know, I was jealous that you liked Valerie.”

“I don’t like Valerie.” He shakes his head.

“Then I was jealous that Taryn liked you.”

“Taryn likes me?”

“Yeah, she told me last night at the dance, but that’s not the point. I finally figured out that I wasn’t upset because I wanted to go out with you or anything. It wasn’t like that. I just wanted you back. You were my best friend, Ben, and if you want to be friends again, well … you’re just going to have to get some courage, moxie, chutzpah, balls, whatever you want to call it, because it really sucks to be dropped when things get tough.”

My tears hit the pup’s fur before I can blink them back. I hand the retriever to Ben and wipe my sleeve across my face. “I don’t want to feel like that again. Friends stand by each other no matter what. It’s just too hard any other way.”

Ben shakes his head. “I know. I’m sorry, Jo.”

“So.” I give him a trembling smile. “Can you stay awhile and help pass out a few puppies?”

“Definitely,” Ben says. “I remember coming here on Sundays, and I’m still an expert puppy-passer-outer. I think I’ve got a sixth sense or something for matching people and pets.”

He gives Franny the golden retriever pup and it plays in her lap, biting the buttons on her expensive birthday sweater. She calls him “little rascal.”

Franny looks up at us and says, “He’s a keeper.”

I hand Ben a sleepy calico kitten and he nestles it next to the baby doll in Rita’s arms.

“Did you know Gramps is upstairs on three?” I ask.

“My mom told me what happened.”

“He’s okay. It’s just that most of the time, I don’t think he knows who I am anymore. He still looks like Gramps and his voice is the same, but his words don’t have any connection to what’s going on around him. It’s weird because it’s Gramps, but not really.”

“Funny, because that’s how I felt about myself lately. Like, I was Ben McCloud on the outside, but inside I was confused and just pretending like nothing was wrong.”

“Gramps isn’t pretending, and Michael doesn’t understand why he can’t come home.”

“What’s Michael up to?” Ben asks.

“You’ll love this. Ever since he saw your arm in a sling, he’s been practicing writing with his left hand, just in case he hurts his right. He still wants to be able to do his homework and drive the Zamboni.”

Ben laughs. “I’ll never forget last summer, when he called time-outs for the Zamboni during our street hockey games, and then he’d ride around on his bicycle dragging a soaking-wet towel tied to the back, pretending to clean the ice.”

“Favorite part of the game,” I laugh.

“How’s your dad?” Ben asks.

“Busy. Taking some classes—anger management. He’s banned from attending any more hockey games this season.”

“That’s too bad.”

“It’s okay. At least he’s trying. And your dad? Still, washin’ and waxin’ the cars?”

He laughs and plays tug-of-war with a rolled-up newspaper and a female Shepherd mix. “Hey, do you think Gramps would like to hold a puppy?”

I scoop the pup up into my arms and she yelps in protest. “Come on, let’s go up and give it a try.”

The elevator door opens. Empty this time. No bridal procession parading through today. I push the button for three, and we feel the floor lift beneath us.

Ben strokes the pup’s head, and it nips playfully at his hand. “Thanks, Jo,” he says.

“What are you thanking me for?”

“I don’t know. For a second chance?”

“Hey!” I laugh as the pup chews and gets her paws caught in my curly hair.

Ben reaches over and tries to help untangle us.

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” I say.