Immortal Max (8 page)

“Well, I don't remember him much, either. And you're the one who brought Max home, so
you
haul stuff back here.”

“We tried that, remember? He only responded to you. Not me. Not Mom. Nobody except
you
. And you've done a great job with him all these years.” She pauses. “Besides, I'm handling two jobs as it is. And remember, I'm rearranging my schedule so you can work, too.”

“Yeah, well . . . it still sucks.”

Her eyes narrow to slits. “Look, if you don't take care of Max properly, I'll tell Mom and she won't let you take that job.” She walks toward the house, talking over her shoulder. “Twice a day—
fresh
food and water twice a day.”

“That's blackmail.”

“Yep. And that bird could use some water, too. Grab that old birdbath out of the shed.” She stops, looking at the wild raspberry bushes next to Mom's garden. “She's close to food, plenty of earthworms in the grass, but she needs water.”

“I have to babysit a dog—and a bird?” I look at the robin, sitting in a mud-and-stick nest inside a fortress of evergreen branches. “How long does it take to hatch eggs?”

“Couple of weeks, but we don't know when she started sitting. Could be shorter. Maybe a week?”

“Oh. Well, a week's not too bad.”

“After that, she'll take care of the hatchlings another couple weeks until they're strong enough to fly. Fend for themselves.”

“Two to three weeks? No way Max will hang around
that
long.”

“I'll take that bet.” Beth grins. “And shake it! Supper will be on the table in five minutes.”

Beth disappears, leaving me with Max. He thumps his tail on the ground and gives me a shaggy grin. His breath smells like squashed bugs. Bittersweet, like sauerkraut. Since he hasn't been to the house, I decide he probably did eat some. Hot-weather insects are thick. Grasshoppers in the grass. Cicadas buzzing through trees. June bugs chewing on bushes. He'll eat anything.

On the long trudge to the back porch, I wonder how a day that started out so good could end up so bad. Just as I got a job that would fix everything, Max had to adopt a bird. Which means I now have
two
new jobs. Since there's no water spigot at the barn, I'll have to bucket water twice a day—for a dog and a bird—and haul down Dog Chow.

I feel like wringing Max's neck.

Rosie's, too.

And Beth's—
especially
Beth's.

It's a conspiracy.

“Sammy, are you still up?” Mom calls from the bottom of the stairs. “What are you doing? It's getting late.”

The clock on my nightstand says 10:06. “Working on something. I'll be done in a minute.”

“Working on something . . . like what?”

“You know, getting ready for tomorrow. I have to go to CountryWood in the morning.”

“Well, don't stay up too much longer.”

“Almost done.”

I go back to working on my ad for the CountryWood
newsletter. I've been studying ads in the
Services/Businesses
section of the want ads, trying to figure out the important things to say. Like, the job I'm looking for. And why I'd be good to hire. And how much I charge. And how to contact me.

I read what I've written.

I pause, wondering if phone numbers count as words. If I count the number as one word, I have thirty-four words. If two, thirty-five. I decide it counts as one, but it's still too many. And I haven't mentioned cost yet.

I study the want ads in the paper some more. A few minutes later, I rewrite my ad and count the words again.

“Aw, man. Thirty-two words!”

I notice none of the ads in the newspaper mention names and decide not to mention mine. Fifteen minutes later, I've worn out the eraser on my pencil, but the ad includes all the really important things. Now, if only it's short enough.

Fifteen words
exactly
.

Exhausted, I turn off the light. Who knew writing fewer words would be harder than writing a lot? But now it's done. And since Yee and Anise are meeting me tomorrow morning at CountryWood, everything else will be a snap.

Monday, 8
AM
. My stomach is crawling with roaches. Hard-backed bugs with stiff antennas. Yee and Anise called at seven to say they couldn't meet me today because of cheer practice. I have to interview with the chief of security and the woman who does the newsletter by myself. An outsider, crashing the gates at CountryWood.

I can't do it. I might mess up. They might not like me. . . .

Then I think of my grandpa and feel ashamed. He never let anything stop him. Broken water line. Rusted-out muffler. New pump for the well.
Let's roll up our sleeves and get this done, Sam
, he'd say.
Time's wasting
. If he were alive, he would be proud because I'm interviewing for my first job. My first
real
job. And I'm doing it on my own.

The roaches in my stomach morph to balloons. I'm floating. And to top it off, I get to see the mysterious land of CountryWood.

Because fashion expert Bailey says first impressions are important, I shower, rub deodorant in my armpits, and dress in good clothes. Camo cargo shorts. Blue short-sleeve tee. Crew socks with a matching blue stripe around the top. I
really
want to make a good impression.

What Beth said about CountryWood is what I've heard, too. Rich people live there. Big fancy houses. Private lake for boating. Boats with 100-hp motors. They water-ski and fish, play bocce ball and tennis. Swim in the private pool. Have laptop computers and flat-screen TVs in every room. People with money to burn.

Not like us. Our TV is the old kind with a cathode-ray display that snows perpetually in one corner. We joke about being the only people on the planet to see blizzards in places like Death Valley and the Sahara Desert. Our computer's the old kind, too. A big tower with monster speakers, a fat display.

I strap on my bike helmet. Stretch a bungee cord around my scrapbook. Push off. At the end of the driveway, I meet up with Bailey. She's on her bike, too, ponytail sticking out the back of a pink Razor sports helmet. Her bike is pointed in the opposite direction. We live about three miles from the school in one direction, three miles from CountryWood in the other.

“Where you going?” Spotting the scrapbook, she gets all bouncy. “
Oh
, to see Sid and George. Let's ride together.” The smile slides off her face. She's noticed I'm pointed in the opposite direction.

“Uh, I'm not going any place special.” Is that a lie? “Where are you going?” A dumb question. She's wearing her cheerleading outfit. Green shirt, purple shorts. Pom-poms in the bike basket.

She doesn't answer. Her eyes are glued on the scrapbook strapped to the rear rack of my bike.

“Hey, gotta go.” Rounding the corner toward CountryWood, I look over my shoulder. Bailey's still sitting in the middle of the road, watching me. I wave. She doesn't wave back. I feel like a traitor, but I don't have time to go back and unlie.

I pedal fast, flying past corn and soybean, oat and alfalfa fields. The countryside is a giant chessboard with barns and silos as chessmen. Oak and ash trees mingle overhead, a green umbrella. Sunshine squirms through the leaves, stippling the road. Yellow freckles on blue asphalt. Pollen floats around me, minuscule gliders riding airwaves. Blue jays and cardinals dart through tree limbs; blackbirds and doves line up on power lines.

I put on the brake to slow down. Dark evergreens, stiff and bristly, signal that I've arrived at CountryWood. Planted before the houses were built, they're monsters now. Sentries guarding
the entrance. A long white PVC fence stretching along either side guards the rest. The castle wall.

I look at my watch. Right on time. I pull into line behind trucks and vans at the gate waiting to enter. Carpet cleaners. Plumbers. Utility repairmen. Security people inside a small building interrogate drivers, talking through sliding glass panels. Long yellow gate arms raise and lower like magic, permitting entry to those who pass muster.

The outsiders.

To one side of the security hut is another gate. I figure out it's a special one for cars with green stickers on the windshields. Drivers wave a plastic card over an electronic eye and the gate arm raises for them. No security guard. No interrogation. No having to pass muster.

The insiders.

Finally, I reach the front of the line. “Yeah, hey. I'm Sammy Smith and I have an appointment with Mr. Beaumont.”

“It's
Chief
Beaumont.” A white-haired woman wearing thick glasses scrutinizes my bike. Then me. “You from town?”

“No—yes—I mean, I live in between. Halfway between town and here.”

“Anyone lives outside this gate is a Townie.” She hands me a piece of orange paper, the size of an index card. A strip of Scotch tape is stuck to the top. “Put this temporary pass somewhere so it's visible. Usually that's on the windshield.”

I stick the temporary pass on the handlebar post. “How's that?”

“Make sure you don't lose it,” she says, eyes skeptical. “You have to turn it in when you leave.” She points a finger at a door and a sign that says
SECURITY
. “Can't park your bike on the sidewalk or the grass. Leave it in the parking lot.”

Geez, even bikes have to follow rules.

I knock on the door that says
SECURITY
. A reedy voice bellows, “It's open.”

Chief Beaumont could be a blocker for the Green Bay
Packers. He's big.
Really
big. A supersized pretzel folded up in an office chair. His skin's the color of milk chocolate. His uniform is khaki brown. A dark-green design is stitched on one pocket, the silhouette of a tree. A badge pinned to his other pocket says
CHIEF
. He wears a ball cap with the same stitched design above the bill.

I get it. The design represents woods in the country. CountryWood.

I introduce myself. He points me to a chair in front of his desk. I sit. Clutch my scrapbook. Watch as he pulls a piece of paper from a desk drawer.

“Fill out this employment form.” He looks at my hands. “That the book Anise and Yee told me about?”

“Yes, sir.” We exchange scrapbook and application form. I write in my name, address, and phone number, stop at the line for Social Security number. I pull my wallet out of my pocket, remove my card, and notice he's looking at me. “Um, I haven't learned my Social Security number yet. This is my first time to use it.”

The bassoon voice rumbles, “Still have a hard time remembering mine.” He continues to turn pages, looking at dogs.

In the place for references, I put down Yee's and Anise's names. For purpose of business, I write,
To walk dogs
.

“Don't have dogs ourselves.” Chief Beaumont closes my scrapbook. We exchange it and the employment form again. “Wife keeps two cats, though. Siamese. Independent little buggers, but smart.”

I nod. Some of Rosie's cats are part Siamese. Monday and Thursday, the ones Max stopped from eating Birdie.

“Okay.” He straightens glasses that look like aviator goggles. The wraparound kind with an elastic strap that goes around your head. “Here are the rules.”

I learn that dogs are to be kept on a leash at all times. Are not supposed to bark continuously, as this is considered a disturbance. Are not allowed on the beach or inside the pool area, as their hair clogs up drains. Most importantly, they are not to leave “their business” anywhere.

“Carry plastic bags with you to pick up after them. You know how to do that?”

I nod. He demonstrates anyway. Putting his hand into a plastic bag, he picks up a tennis ball, inverts the bag so the ball's inside, knots the bag so the ball is tied at the end.

“You see how it's done?”

I grin. “Not a problem. I've heard most of the dogs out here are little.” I point at the plastic bag in his hand. “Peanuts, not tennis balls.”

He lets out a rumbling laugh.
Har-har-har
. The corners of his eyes wrinkle up like bird tracks. I decide he's okay and relax.

“There's bag holders every couple blocks,” he says. ”Look like birdhouses on short posts but they're filled with recycled plastic bags. Have to carry the bag back to the dog owner's house, throw it away there. And you can't walk the dogs anywhere but on the right-of-way.” He pauses, eyeing me. “You know what a right-of-way is?”