The Wonder of Lost Causes, page 24
Whistler nudges me, checks in with a “Now you’ve gone and done it” stare, while Mom slides out of the rearview reflection, deflating like a punctured bouncy castle. I can’t get a read on her reaction, but there’s definitely some sniffling going on.
Eventually she comes back with, “You said ‘we,’ what we go through.”
“So?”
Her ninja grip on the steering wheel eases up but her voice sounds sad and small. “I love you to pieces, Jasper. I love that it’s you and me, in this together. But . . .”
She’d best not make me sound like a total momma’s boy.
“You’re almost a teenager. It’s normal to want to distance yourself from me. I, we, can never give up, but one way or another, CF will hold you back, and when it does you’re going to lash out. You’ll blame me. Getting angry with your parents is what teenagers do. It’s what I did with my mom and now look at us.”
I play dumb. Better to zip it than say, “I don’t want us to end up like you and Grandma.”
“So, two things: first—stop listening in on me and Auntie Gwen. Everyone’s allowed a bad day now and then; second—guilt is just another way for me to worry about you. It’s my problem, not yours.”
“Okay,” I say, “but I won’t be a teenager for . . . like . . . twenty-two months, so in the meantime, what have you got to lose?”
No answer.
“Look,” I say, “Ms. Sexton is always going on about telling the truth, ’cause when you lie, you make a choice, you actually have to go out of your way to make stuff up. Like when you knew you were lying about Santa. Not that I’m complaining.”
No response. She’s still slumped in her seat.
“Me understanding dogs is totally different because even if I don’t know how it happens or what it is, one thing is for certain, and I need you to look at me now, Mom.”
Finally she sits up, puffy eyes filling the mirror, definitely crying.
“Good.”
I reach my arm around Whistler’s head, and press it next to mine, the two of us staring back, deadly serious, passport photo serious (not that I’ve got one).
“Give me your best polygraph stare. The scary one. Yeah, that one. Now, read our faces. Nothing to see, right? ’Cause no matter what, we are not lying.”
Two empty seconds pass and then Mom cracks up, laughter turning on her tears, and in the hunt for a tissue she avoids giving me an answer.
THERE’S STILL NOTHING to look at out the window. Way back there was this billboard that said, “Don’t Mess with Texas. We enjoy gunfights. If you kill someone, we will kill you back.”
“You want me to find something on the radio?”
I shake my head. Time to get Mom out of her comfort zone—say nothing, stare at nothing, stay cool. Oh, and don’t look into her mirror eyes.
“You going to miss him?”
See, there it is, she cracked. Now I have to take my time. Like Grandpa used to say back when he was obsessed with fishing and not golf, “Don’t reel in too soon.”
Sad slow nod with no eye contact.
Then she goes and tricks me by saying, “Me too,” and the surprise makes me look in the mirror. She’s back to smiling, and I hope it’s because she means it.
“What if we could keep him for longer?” I ask.
Mirror glance. “Life is full of what-ifs. What if you’d never met him? Would that have been better or worse?”
“Worse,” I shout, earning a slow lick on the cheek like I need to calm down.
“Then that’s good. Even if Whistler wasn’t around for long enough, it was better than nothing.”
I scratch his muzzle scars and we press heads.
“Mom, do you think humans should learn to live more like dogs?”
She laughs. “Where’s this coming from?”
I don’t know what to say. I definitely don’t know how to explain it. Ever since Whistler turned up, certain things have started clicking inside my head, falling into place, making total sense, feeling obvious, like when Ms. Sexton showed me how to do fractions in math, and when I got it I couldn’t understand what took so long. Only Whistler teaches a much better subject.
“You mean sniff each other’s butts, pee on lampposts, attack mailmen?”
“I’m being serious, Mom.”
She straightens and pulls her shoulders back. I can’t see her face so she might be pretending.
“Think about any dog from the shelter,” I say, “any dog that gets adopted. Think about the way they live their life.”
“What about it?”
“See, I reckon dogs don’t just show up. I reckon they live, like dogs really live, doing everything to the max.” I need examples. “Remember the other day, when we went to the beach to rescue Whistler?”
Back of the head nod.
“As soon as all the dogs got off leash they went crazy, running around like their butts were on fire. They don’t stretch or warm up or pace themselves or worry who sees their white legs. They just do it, all or nothing, because they want to have fun. They’re all about fun. I mean, when was the last time you saw a dog do grumpy or whiny or embarrassed? If we ate the exact same meal, day in, day out, we’d go nuts, we’d go on a hunger strike. Not dogs. They jump up and down, tail set to crazy time, snarfing down their kibble like it’s prime rib. And, and, and even when they sleep, they give it everything, out for the count, able to flop down anywhere. I mean, when was the last time you saw a dog chugging on a bottle of NyQuil?”
Forget the mirror, this earns me a quick, direct, over the shoulder glare.
“Two hands on the wheel, eyes on the road,” I shout. I’ve heard my cousin Tawd use this line when Auntie Gwen tries to text and drive.
Mom laughs and I try to get a read on Whistler, hoping for sad about saying goodbye but prepared for nervous or excited about a new home. Instead I get nothing except pins and needles in one of my legs.
“You still want to be a veterinarian, right?”
“Hopefully.”
“Well, there’s a big problem with your idea of being able to directly communicate with an animal.”
“There is?”
“Of course. I mean, there’d be no need for X-rays or blood work or lots of other tests if an animal could just tell us where it hurts. We’d go out of business.”
I think about this.
“Human doctors can talk to their patients and they don’t go out of business.”
That makes Mom go quiet.
I ask, “Do you think Whistler is too old to work?”
“I don’t know. But I do know he has a unique gift and if he can still use it, he probably should.”
I wait a few seconds. Ms. Sexton does the same thing in class after screaming someone’s name. She calls it “dramatic effect.”
“Mom, do you think dogs go to heaven?”
“Of course,” she says, without a pause, without even thinking. Sometimes I just don’t get grown-ups. “Do you?” she asks.
“I hope so,” I say, “but I also think dogs don’t take any chances.”
Curious mirror eyes.
“I know I haven’t been around dogs for as long as you, but everything I see tells me they live their lives like this is heaven, as good as it gets, like if we only get one go around, they’re not going to miss a thing.”
Eyes disappear and she slowly shakes her head. “Why don’t you make yourself useful.” She tosses her cell phone onto the back seat. “I need to pee. If this is working, find out how far to the next rest stop.”
I get bars and while I’m scrolling on Google Maps Whistler pushes his way up front by placing both front paws on the center console.
“Service station in about twenty—”
And suddenly Mom’s braking, hard and fast, and we’re veering over and something whips past the glass on my right.
“I hope I don’t regret this,” says Mom, powering down the passenger-side window, twisting around in her seat to look directly at me.
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but then I notice Whistler, checking over my shoulder, tail drumming the leather. That’s when I recognize the hitchhiker, the one we passed way back, with the “Go Buffs” on the back of his sweatshirt. Mom’s stopped for him, only, as he loosens the drawstrings on his hoodie, turns out it’s a she and not a he.
“Where you headed?” asks Mom.
The girl dips down and leans in. I’m not good at guessing ages, but she’s got bad skin and no wrinkles so she might be in high school. Maybe she’s on vacation like me.
“Boulder, Colorado. But anywhere near Denver’s fine.”
“We’re not going that far,” says Mom. “But I can drop you off at the next rest stop, if that helps?”
The girl doesn’t answer, just opens the door and gets in. Whistler wants to say hello, sniffing and rooting, making it hard for her to put on her seat belt. She makes no effort to pet him.
“Sorry,” says Mom. “Whistler, get in the back. I’m Kate, and this is my son, Jasper.”
I smile but she doesn’t look my way.
“How far to the next stop?” she asks.
“According to Google Maps, twenty miles,” I say.
She doesn’t reply, just finds the controls to ease back her seat and closes her eyes like she’s going to take a nap.
Mom sneaks a side-glance meant for me in the mirror. I shrug my shoulders. Whistler chooses to sit rather than lay, like he doesn’t want to miss a thing. I can’t tell whether he approves of this girl or just the idea that we picked up a person in need.
Mom pulls back onto the highway and I begin to wonder if this girl’s silence is a bit like my Jedi mind game with Mom.
“We saw you yesterday,” I say, “trying to hitch a ride.”
I get a grunt and a sleepy “What?”
“I recognized your sweatshirt.”
She snaps open her eyes. “But you never thought to stop.” She’s speaking to me while staring straight at Mom.
“Didn’t realize you were . . . female,” says Mom.
“Right, that makes sense,” says the girl, shaking her head before flopping back into her seat.
“So what are Buffs?” I ask. “Your sweatshirt? ‘Go Buffs.’”
“What? Oh, University of Colorado, some mascot . . . thing.”
“You a college student?” asks Mom, sounding way too hopeful.
The girl digs her elbow into the armrest and cups her left cheek in her hand, mumbling a “No.”
“Then what takes you to Boulder?”
The girl sniffs, sits up, and comes this close to rolling her eyes like she wants Mom to back off and let her go to sleep.
I’m with Mom on this one. If you’re getting a free ride, the least you can do is be polite, and better still, entertain us.
“Look, my name is Cotton, I’m eighteen, and I’m visiting a friend in Colorado. I don’t have money for a Greyhound so I figured why not hitch. Cool?”
Mom nods but not in a “that makes perfect sense” kind of way. More like a “you picked the wrong person to mess with” nod.
“Must be a bit scary—on your own?”
I can see through to the passenger side foot space and notice the way Cotton nudges her backpack with the toe of her sneakers. I hope Mom doesn’t ask if she’s “packing heat.” Then again, what if she is?
“I’m a big girl. I can look after myself.”
Judging by her grubby sweatshirt, smudgy eye makeup, and greasy hair, I’m not so sure.
Cotton leans forward, pulls her backpack onto her lap, reaches a hand inside, and begins rooting around. Forget about oncoming traffic, Mom can’t take her eyes off the girl and what she’s searching for, like she’s convinced she’s about to be staring down the wrong end of a Glock 9.
“Borrow your charger?” says Cotton, whipping out her iPhone and hooking up to the dangling adaptor in the console without waiting for a reply.
Mom lets out a breath, pretending to be cool as we veer back into our lane. She’s tapping the steering wheel with her right hand. It’s the driving equivalent of the left-eye twitch.
“Someone you need to call?” asks Mom. “Let them know you’re okay?”
“I’m not a runaway,” snaps Cotton.
“Never said you were,” says Mom, her comeback just as snappy.
“Sorry,” says Cotton, “what was your name again?”
“Kate.”
“And I’m Jasper and this is Whistler.”
“You’re only a runaway if you’re underage. I’m old enough to choose, and I choose not to live anywhere near my mom’s boyfriend.”
Then Mom asks, “Would it be helpful to talk to the police?”
Whoa. What’s going on? Suddenly this conversation has turned totally serious. Did I miss a clue? Is Cotton’s mom’s boyfriend a murderer or something?
“Look, forget I said anything. It’s fine. I got a job lined up, waitressing. My friend says I can sleep on her couch. It’s all good.”
Mom’s mirror eyes check in and it’s obvious she’s not happy. This makes me feel bad because I’m the one who made Mom feel guilty for not picking up a hitchhiker and now she’s stressing her out.
Whistler hasn’t budged even though Cotton refuses to offer him a single scratch, pat, or rub. It’s like he’s invisible to her but—here’s the weird part—he’s not upset. Why would he be pleased that Mom was stopping to give her a ride? She doesn’t seem very nice or grateful, but if he’s cool with her, I’m guessing she’s okay.
“My dog likes you,” I say. “Actually he’s not my dog. We’re returning him to a place that trains service dogs in Lincoln Peak, New Mexico.”
“Service dogs?” Cotton leans right, squints, but barely looks at Whistler.
“There’s a graduation ceremony and we’re getting a reward.”
That makes her sit up.
“What sort of a reward?”
“My son exaggerates. It’s just a certificate, a formal thank-you. Jasper, are you sure there was a rest stop in twenty miles?”
“Yes I am, and it’s not just a certificate. I’m getting a big fat check because he’s a very special dog. We’ve come all the way from Cape Cod, Massachusetts. That’s how much they want him back.”
Cotton slips off her sneakers and folds one foot under her other thigh in order to twist around and talk to Whistler and me. I hope she’s interested for the right reasons. I try not to notice how her socks are dirty and they don’t match.
“What can he do?” asks Cotton, reaching out to touch his zebra stripes.
“Mainly he tells people if they’re about to have a seizure, but he can do lots of things if you ask him in the right way.”
“You mean tricks, or stuff like sniffing for bombs or drugs?”
Mom’s eyes definitely flick down to the backpack in the foot space. “Finally,” says Mom, her voice bigger than necessary, “I thought we’d never get here.”
Up in the distance a big sign towers over the highway—Toot’n Totum. They’re weird out here.
Cotton begins to pull on her sneakers as Mom pulls the Tahoe off the road and rolls into a parking space.
“Nice meeting you,” says Mom, forcing Cotton into a weird in-car handshake.
We get out, I clip the leash on Whistler’s collar, and the four of us start following a trail of people headed for a big convenience store.
“Maybe they have some paper or cardboard,” says Mom, “so you could make a sign, let people know where you want to go.”
Cotton’s “Really?” expression is ten times better than mine.
“Mom, I need to pee as well.”
We’re nearly at the entrance. Why is Cotton still hanging out with us? I tug on Mom’s sleeve because I only want her to hear, “real bad.”
For some time Mom and me and public toilets have had a problem. When you’re really little it’s bad enough, and I know, bad people hang out in toilets, ready to kidnap kids, but anything is better than the shame of following your mom into the ladies room at my age.
“Let me watch the dog,” says Cotton. “You guys go. We’ll wait right here.”
Mom goes to say something but stops herself. Maybe she spotted the NO DOGS ALLOWED sign on the door. Maybe she’s mad because I left Whistler’s fake service dog jacket back in the Tahoe.
“Okay, Cotton,” says Mom, leaning in real close, unleashing the total eye contact, “I’m going to trust you on this one. Please, don’t let us down.”
Mom takes Whistler’s leash out of my hand and places it in hers.
“Let’s go,” I hiss, trying not to focus on a nearby water fountain or the poster of a waterfall, grabbing Mom’s sleeve and shoving her through the front door.
There’s a big red digital clock over the gas pumps, flicking between the time and the temperature. It takes us exactly six minutes, but when we get back, Whistler and Cotton are not where we left them.
I look around, thinking they’ve wandered off—Whistler hunting for a pee spot of his own—until the high-pitched screech of tires makes me stare at the gas pumps. And that’s when I hear a woman starting to scream.
51
Kate
OF COURSE SHE’S gone. And taken Whistler with her.
We’re on the sidewalk where we left them, and I’m spinning three-sixties, desperate for a glimpse of grubby sweatshirt or black fur, and I don’t know what’s worse, the anger at my naivete, or the fear of losing Whistler.
I’m sure Jasper’s innocence—mentioning the reward—planted the seed, but it was me who handed the leash to a complete stranger (I don’t even know her last name) like I was giving away twenty-five grand in cash, no questions asked, with a five-minute head start in case I change my mind.
