Gemini Summer (10 page)

thirty-two

The veterinarian was Dr. Dennison. In his waiting room, among the potted plants and the magazines, sat a frail old lady with a birdcage, and a budgie that had no tail. She looked toward the door as Mrs. River came in, and then at Danny with the black-and-white dog in his arms.

She had a pointed face, and a beak of a nose. “I hope that dog’s not a bird-eater,” she said, her voice a near twitter. “That’s what happened to my Timothy; a bird-eater got ahold of him. You keep that dog of yours under control, young man.”

“He isn’t my dog,” said Danny.

“He should be on a leash,” she said with a sniff.

“Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, he can barely walk,” said Mrs. River. “So I scarcely think he’ll leap at your silly little bird.”

Mrs. River and Danny sat on a black bench, below a plastic tree. The dog curled between them, resting its chin on Danny’s lap until Danny nudged it away.

They could hear a cat howling in the examining room. With each howl the budgie twitched and the old lady frowned more deeply. Then out from the room came an enormous man with a tiny kitten in his hands. The man was crying.

The bird lady picked up her cage. “Hang on, Timothy,” she told the budgie, and went into the room. Just moments later she came out again, not looking happy at all. Dr. Dennison stood in the doorway, telling her, “Look, I’m sorry, but there’s no such thing as artificial feathers. You’ll see; they’ll grow back soon enough.”

But the old lady didn’t answer, and Dr. Dennison closed his eyes and shook his head. Then he smiled at Danny. “You can bring your dog in now, son.”

“He isn’t mine,” said Danny.

Mrs. River had to carry the dog. She set it down on a metal-topped table, in a room that was white and hospital-smelling. Dr. Dennison patted its head. “What’s your name, buddy?” he asked.

“He doesn’t have a name,” said Mrs. River. “He’s a stray.”

The vet nodded, then beamed at Danny. “He followed you home, did he, son?”

“No, he didn’t,” said Danny. “If he’d tried, I wouldn’t have let him.”

Dr. Dennison’s smile faded. He was wearing a white coat, and he fiddled with the end of a stethoscope that was clipped round his neck. “Well, what seems to be wrong with our little stranger?”

“His feet are worn away,” said Mrs. River.

The vet leaned forward, and the dog lifted a front paw, as though it understood what was happening. Dr. Dennison examined its paws, then felt its belly and its ribs. He listened to its heart through his stethoscope.

“Well, the pads are worn—you’re right—but there’s no infection,” said Dr. Dennison. “He’s thin as a rake, and he needs a good wash, but apart from that he’s in very good shape. He’s young, you know. Not more than three months old. I’d say he’s spent half his life walking.”

“Poor thing,” said Mrs. River.

Dr. Dennison took a biscuit from a box, a brown biscuit shaped like a bone. He put it down in front of the dog, and the dog lay down to eat it. “You might try rubbing Vaseline on the pads,” he said. “But what he needs most is a rest and a bit of love. Look after him, and he’ll be as good as new in a week.”

“What sort of a dog is he?” asked Danny.

“What sort
isn’t
he?” said the veterinarian with a small laugh. “He’s got a bit of everything in him, I’d say. Collie and shepherd; there’s some Lab in him, too. It’s like he’s trying to be whatever you want him to be.”

“But I don’t
want
him,” said Danny.

The dog lay flat, looking sadly at Danny.

“I’ve never met a boy who didn’t want a dog,” said the vet. “But you won’t have any trouble finding this one a home, if that’s what you want. He’s a smart little guy, and he’s going to be a beautiful dog.”

“He’s ugly,” said Danny.

“Oh, you can’t judge him yet. He’ll grow into those ears.” Dr. Dennison tickled the dog’s neck. “Sometimes the ugliest puppies become the most beautiful dogs. It’s the same way with people.”

“I know!” said Mrs. River. “My older boy, Beau, he was born so ugly—” She stopped in midsentence, then looked down at her big Bible-shaped purse. “He had an accident,” she said softly. “Just a while ago.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dr. Dennison. He looked from her to Danny, who had become very quiet and glum, and it seemed that he understood—just as the dog had done—everything that had happened.

“Here, son. Take him.” He picked up the black-and-white dog and held it out for Danny. But Danny turned away.

“Now, it’s all right to love a dog, son,” said Dr. Dennison. “Doesn’t mean you don’t love something else.” He offered the little dog again, but Danny wouldn’t take it. “I think you’d find that if you loved this one, you’d get more in return than you’d ever imagine. Have you noticed that he never takes his eyes off you? He wants to be with you, son.”

“All dogs want to be with Danny,” said Mrs. River.

“Well, I don’t want to be with
him,
” said Danny. “I’ll never own a dog.” He turned and left the room.

He sat in the car, his feet not quite touching the floor. He sat all alone, thinking of Beau. When his mother came out, she was carrying the dog. It settled again into the shallow nest on the backseat.

thirty-three

Danny wanted nothing to do with the little black-and-white dog. But the dog wanted only to be with Danny. It followed him all through the house that day, from the kitchen to the living room, from bedroom to basement.

Danny never fed it, never touched it, never spoke a kindly word, but there it was at his heels, limping on its tender feet. Danny pitched it three times from Beau’s chair and twice from Beau’s bed. “You keep off there!” he shouted. “I can’t wait for you to get better and leave.”

When Old Man River came home, Danny was outside on the porch, and the little dog was on the other side of the door, scratching at the wood, yapping and whining in its voice that was almost like talking.

“What’s that noise?” asked the Old Man, coming up the stairs. “It sounds like a bag of monkeys.”

“It’s a dog,” said Danny. By his tone, he might have said,
It’s a
rat!

Old Man River stopped on the stairs. He gave his cap a tug. “There’s a dog in the house? Does your mother know?”

Danny nodded. “She brought him in.”

“Ho!” laughed the Old Man. “Has hell frozen over?”

He went past Danny. The moment he opened the door the dog came out. It came squeezing through the narrowest space, while the door was still swinging. But it didn’t dash for Danny. It welcomed the Old Man, bouncing up all around him, yelping with a desperate whine. Its paws could reach no higher than the Old Man’s thighs, and they kept slipping off the green coveralls, so the dog stumbled and fell and bounced up again, more frantic than before.

“Down, down,” said the Old Man, though his eyes were shining and his mouth was stretched in a huge smile. “He’s like old Nelson. He’s just like old Nelson,” he said.

Well, Danny had seen the picture of old Nelson, and he didn’t think
that
dog was anything like
this
dog. “He’s stupid,” he said. “I hate him.”

“Then why’s he here?” said the Old Man.

“I think Mom likes him,” said Danny.

“Ho!” barked the Old Man again. “Then you don’t know your mother.” He bent down and patted the dog, and Danny felt a jolt in his heart, though he wasn’t sure why. It was the first time a dog had ever gone to someone else instead of him, and the first time he had seen his father pet one. His father’s big hands came down, and the dog jumped into them, soaring up to wriggle and lick at the Old Man’s neck.

“Yuck!” said Danny.

“The spitting image!” cried the Old Man, grinning past the dog. “Why, it takes me back twenty years to do this, Danny. It takes me right back to Pearl Harbor.”

Danny gaped. His father had never, ever spoken of Pearl Harbor. “Were you there, Dad? Were you really there?” he asked.

“For a while,” said the Old Man. The dog was whining, and he had to raise his voice. “Not the day they attacked. I was there later.”

“Wow!” Danny wasn’t the least disappointed by that. “Did you see the
Arizona,
Dad? Did you see the
Missouri
and—”

“Yes, I saw it all, Danny boy,” said the Old Man. “But there’s nothing to tell you. I didn’t do anything you’d want to hear about.”

“But, Dad—”

“Why are his feet so sticky?” The Old Man—now suddenly the hero of Pearl Harbor—was holding the dog like a baby, upside down in his arms. “Danny, what’s all this on his feet?”

“Vaseline,” said Danny. “His feet were sorta ragged. The vet said he’s been walking half his life.”

The Old Man looked shocked that they’d gone to the vet. He asked how much vets cost; then he took the dog into the house, calling out, “Flo! Where are you?”

Danny stayed on the porch, but he could hear through the door as his parents argued. He heard his father asking why they were spending money on strays, and his mother saying, “It isn’t a stray. Not anymore.”

“What do you mean?” said the Old Man.

“I want to keep him,” she said. “I want Danny to have a dog.”

“But he doesn’t want it,” the Old Man said.

“Oh, fiddle-dee-dee. He wants it more than anything on earth,” she said. “He just doesn’t want to
admit
it.”

thirty-four

The dog came to stay in the old gray house in the Hollow. Mrs. River fed it breakfast and dinner, and the Old Man took it out in the yard after dinner, sitting to watch it as he cleaned his teeth with a toothpick.

But still it was Danny the dog followed around, hobbling on its bruised feet. That was the only time it ever moved, when Danny went from room to room. Otherwise, for the first ten days, all it did was sleep, waking every few hours for a drink of water and a bit of food. As the days went by, the dog and the boy became closer.

There were things that Danny wouldn’t allow—that he would never allow, he thought—like the dog wanting to sleep on Beau’s bed, and the dog’s habit of pulling Beau’s things from closets and shelves.

A hundred times a day he told it, “You can’t touch that,” or “You just leave that alone.” He snatched from its mouth Beau’s model rockets, and Beau’s books and even Beau’s Pez dispenser. He had to put Beau’s letter from Gus Grissom back on its shelf, after the third time he found the dog pulling at it.

There were times, too, when having the dog around nearly broke Danny’s heart. He would be concentrating on something, all his mind on a task—like the balancing of the top story of a card house—and he would hear his mother talking. And for an instant, in a small and secret part of his mind, he would think that Beau was there, that she was talking to Beau. His heart would flutter, and in this tiny instant he would feel so happy, and wonder why it seemed so long since he’d last seen Beau. But then the instant would pass, and he would know it was only the dog out there, only the dog trying to worm its way in, to take the place of Beau. And in those moments, he hated the dog.

There was one time when he hated it so much that he hit it. He was lying on the floor, making a birthday card for the Old Man—it was going to be the Old Man’s birthday—and the dog was lying against his feet. That was always where the dog was now—on the floor by Danny’s feet, or up on the couch by Danny’s feet. Old Man River had made a joke that the dog was like “a big bunny slipper, you know? Those big furry bunnies?”

His mother came in from outside and called from the kitchen, “Where are you, the two of you?” Beside him, the dog woke up, and the sounds and the feeling were like Beau was there. Danny’s heart fluttered.

That instant of joy came and passed in the turning of his head. He saw the little dog, with its huge ears sticking up, and he swung his arm and slapped it.

The dog made no sound. It flinched away and closed its eyes, then blinked three times at Danny.

Danny River had never hit a dog in his life; he had never
dreamed
of hitting a dog. He saw the look of hurt and wonder in its eyes, and he threw down the pencil that he’d been using, twisted around, and hugged the dog in his arms.

Then Mrs. River came into the room and saw him. “Oh, that’s nice,” she said. “That’s nice, Danny.”

He didn’t tell her what had happened, but he told the dog he was sorry. He whispered in one of its giant ears that he was sorry, and that he would never do it again.

thirty-five

On the eighth of July, in the morning, Mrs. River got out her Vaseline and examined the dog’s feet. Every morning she had done that, then rubbed in the jelly. But now she didn’t open the jar. She put it back on the shelf. “He’s healed,” she said. “He’s all better.”

Danny looked down at her from his breakfast chair. The dog was lying on the white tiles, with all four of its legs sticking up.

“So now what, Danny?” asked his mother.

He didn’t know what she meant at first.

“You wanted to take him to the pound as soon as he was better,” she said. “Should I get the car keys now?”

Danny had completely forgotten that they were keeping the dog only until it was well enough to send away. That sick, hollow feeling came into his stomach as he imagined driving up to the pound, carrying the little black-and-white dog out of the car.

“Mom!” he said. “I don’t want to take him back.” He got down on the floor. “Please, I want to keep him.”

He looked up, and she was smiling. “That’s fine, Danny,” she said. “But there’s only one thing.”

For an instant he was terrified that she would tell him, “The city’s no place for a dog.” But all she said was “I’m not keeping a dog that doesn’t have a name.”

“Okay. Okay,” said Danny. It seemed terrible to him now that the dog was still just
the dog
or
that thing
. “I don’t know what to call him,” he said.

“Well, how about Rhett?” she asked. “For Rhett Butler, you know; the handsome fellow?”

“But he’s ugly,” said Danny. Quickly he added, “A little bit ugly.” In truth, the dog didn’t seem half so ugly to him anymore, but he didn’t want to admit it.

“Then how about Yankee?” asked Mrs. River. “Here, I know! Yankee Dog. What about that?”

Danny shook his head. He made a face, as though he’d bitten into a lemon.

“Oh, fiddle-dee-dee. You come up with something,” said Mrs. River. “Why don’t you take him out and think about it?”

She left him alone with the dog—the two of them down there on the floor. Danny hadn’t thought about names for dogs since Beau had his accident, and the long list that he’d kept in his head now seemed old and forgotten, like an ancient book with cobwebs all over it. He remembered Billy Bear but didn’t want that anymore. It reminded him of Billy Bear lying in the ground in the backyard, and that reminded him of Beau lying in the ground, and he hated thinking of that. He wanted a name that would make him happy, not sad, when he said it.

Then he remembered that Beau had made suggestions, and he thought it might please Beau somehow if he chose one of those. Laika; that was one. And Barker. (He remembered how he’d laughed, and wondered if that had hurt Beau’s feelings.) But Barker didn’t fit the little black-and-white dog. Whiner or Yelper, he thought, but those were no good.

Then he heard Beau’s voice, as real as anything, just as he’d heard it in their secret fort on a day that seemed both long ago and only minutes past.
When you get a dog you should call it Rocket. That’s what I’d call a dog
.

He could see Beau leaning back on the wall of the fort, chewing on a long piece of grass, his legs crossed at the knees, with one foot swinging up and down. But Danny wasn’t sure if that was true or just made up. He knew only that the words were right.
Call it Rocket. That’s what I’d call a dog
.

Danny looked at the black-and-white dog. In a fast whisper he said, “Rocket.” The dog didn’t move. “Rocket,” he said again, louder. “Hey, Rocket!” But the dog just lay there, still on its back, with its huge ears spread out like wings.

It occurred to Danny that maybe his dog was deaf. So he clapped his hands loudly, and was pleased to see how it startled to its feet. He stood up himself. “Come on, Rocket,” he said. “Let’s go down to the creek.”

They went out through the back and down through the woods, and the little dog stayed right behind Danny, leaping over small sticks and tiny hummocks of grass, its ears flapping. They didn’t go anywhere near the Colvig house, but the other way instead, down to the pools where Danny had made his dams in the days before the accident. It was the first time that he’d been back there, and he was surprised to see how summer had made the place so tangled with bushes. There were bees all around him, and sparrows in the trees, and Highland Creek was a lazy little trickle.

Danny worked his way downstream, hopping from one bank to the other every time the bushes closed in. Rocket went with him, leap for leap.

When they were under the bridge, where the creek was widest, Danny stopped. Big chestnut trees leaned over the shallow pool where he’d staged his naval battles. He could remember whole fleets of stick boats milling here, and the prickly chestnuts with all their tiny spikes had been his floating mines.

Danny sat down, and Rocket sat beside him. “I used to come here with Beau,” said Danny.

Rocket tipped his head and stared at him. Those big ears turned and quivered.

“That’s Killer Hill over there,” he said, pointing downstream, under the bridge. “We used to go sledding there, me and Beau.”

The dog whined.

“Yeah, it makes me sad,” said Danny. The cars hummed by above them, rumbling on the bridge. Birds pecked and whistled in the branches of the chestnut trees. Down the creek, on the golf course, he could see men moving along, and sometimes the flash of the sun on the shaft of a golf club.

“You want to go swimming?” said Danny. He nodded toward the water.

The dog didn’t move. It just sat and stared at him.

“It’s not too deep. I’ll show you,” said Danny. He took off his shoes. Then he took off his socks and stuffed them into the shoes, and he hiked the legs of his jeans into bundles round his knees. He stood up and waded into the water, feeling the mud ooze between his toes. He walked out to the middle, with the brown creek surging past his legs. The pool was speckled by shadows—from the branches of the chestnut trees, and the streaks of the cars going by.

He turned around to call for the dog, and saw that Rocket was already swimming behind him. The dog paddled along with its ears floating, the tip of its tail poking up like a periscope. “That’s good,” said Danny. He walked backward across the pool, watching his dog, and he could feel in his heart that he was falling in love with Rocket.

They walked farther down the creek that day than Danny had gone in many weeks. They kept in the shallow canyon of the creek, and Danny watched for garter snakes in the tufts of yellow grass. He kept looking back at Rocket, worrying that he was going too far or too quickly. Each time, at the sight of the dog there behind him—
his
dog behind him—he felt happy and proud.

He had gone so often with Beau this way that he imagined Beau was with him. He could almost feel his brother there, as though his ghost was walking with him. He felt that Beau was happy, too.