Mountain Dog (3 page)

in mud or dust?

That night, when Tío asks me

about my first day of school, I don't

say much, so he takes me outdoors

in the darkness

to stargaze.

Without any traffic or streetlights,

the forest seems ancient.

I feel like a time traveler

in a distant land

where I don't know

the language

of star shapes.

Constellations.

Pictures in the sky.

Myths. Stories. Directions.

A way to find north or south

by following a path

made of light years.

Soon, the night-gazing spell is broken.

In bed, beside Gabe, ferocious dreams

grab me and shake me, biting, piercing,

spilling blood. By morning,

I feel wounded

instead of restful.

Gabe nuzzles my face, but I can't tell

if he's really trying to comfort me,

or does he just wish he could somehow

understand humans?

The next school day is oddly awkward

and friendly at the same time.

The loud girl is nosy, asking questions,

demanding answers: Who am I, where

do I come from? Am I Latino? Am I legal?

Do I like to write?

Essays? Stories? Poems?

I fall quiet. I plan to keep the answers

to myself. I haven't had to fight

at this school. My only battle

is against

my own past.

So far, there are no gangster bullies

with knives or guns. Just the nosy girl's

bossy voice. Her name is Gracie,

and she knows everyone.

She talks to other kids about me,

and she chatters to me about them.

Pretty soon, I'll probably end up

with all their names stuck in my mind,

even though I don't want to remember

anything that I'll soon have to try

to forget.

The dizzy mountain bus ride

back to Tío's cabin feels endless.

Three more days until the weekend.

All I have to do is avoid Gracie

and nosiness

and friendliness

and math.

Nightmares come and go.

Should I tell Tío? Would he know

how to stop them? Would he care?

What if he just lets me stay here

because he has to? Is there a law

that says great-uncles have to help

their relatives' kids?

By the time Saturday arrives,

sun and warmth have melted

most of the snow. Tío invites me

to climb into the truck

and go exploring with Gabe.

We glide up to high slopes,

to a snow-patched campground

where ragged hikers lounge,

leaning on grubby backpacks.

There's a trading post, with corrals

for pack animals—horses, mules,

and even a few long-necked llamas,

strange, woolly creatures

that make the day seem

like a daydreamed

adventure.

Suddenly, my other life—

my pit-bull life—starts to feel

unreal.

Catching Gabe's excitement,

I push uneasy thoughts of the past

as far away as I can. This is real.

The llamas, the wildness, the peaks.

All I want is a chance to pay attention.

Giant burgers sizzling on a campfire.

Hikers chatting in foreign languages.

The camp is a rest stop for trekkers

from all over the world: Iceland,

Australia, France, Japan.

Tío explains that people who walk

all the way from Mexico to Canada

on the Pacific Crest Trail

are called thru-hikers. The trail

is 2,650 miles long and passes through

unimaginably rugged

wilderness.

In some parts, there's no water.

In others, no warmth.

Hikers talk to me in broken English

about all the mountains they've seen,

the Alps, the Andes, the Himalayas.

I listen in wonder, trying to imagine

the size of the world.

No wonder I feel

so small.

Wild words are added

to my vocabulary when Tío gives me

my first wilderness tour.

Trail angels—the phrase Gracie used—

turn out to be dedicated professionals

like Tío, who works for free on weekends

and evenings, as a volunteer,

along with other people

whose jobs have nothing to do

with the wilderness. They just

volunteer because they love to help

by stocking food and water in caches—

bear-proof cans placed on remote paths,

just in case a weary thru-hiker

runs low on supplies, and suffers

from hunger or thirst.

Help from a stranger is called trail magic.

Food. Water. Rescue.

There are trail names, too, brave names

chosen by hikers. Explorer, Sky Walker,

Wolf Man. All the thru-hikers I meet

have trail names that sound

adventurous.

My wilderness tour

is both scary and exciting.

Sheer cliffs, tumbled boulders,

the singing

sighing

wind.

Gazing around, I imagine

how lonely it would feel

to stray from the trail

and get lost way out here,

just waiting for Tío

and a search dog

like Gabe.…

No wonder the hikers

call my uncle's friendly dog

a four-footed trail angel.

That night, next to Gabe,

I listen to his slow breath,

with its peaceful rhythm

like soothing music.

No nightmares.

Just sleep.

In the morning, when Gabe stares

into my eyes, I feel like I can see

his dog thoughts, his memories.…

Before he was adopted by Tío,

he was a stray, lost and lonely,

but now he finds lost people,

saving their lives.

Some things in life actually do

make sense.

So why can't I understand Mom?

The pit-bull fights were like

horror movies.

I didn't know how to make

the pain stop.

No wonder I have mean dreams.

Scary men. Scary dogs. I was the one

who had to patch wounds

and touch scars.

I was also in charge of the money,

the numbers, the bets.

That's why I still think of math

as a battle.

Now, when Gabe grins

and wags his tail, I feel like he's

inviting me to leave the past far behind

and play dog games—tag, tug-of-war,

victory dance!

Then it's time for Cowboy Church,

a swirl of people, horses, dogs,

all howling through songs

and prayers.

Loud Gracie trots up to me

on a spotted mare. She smiles

and waves from the height

of her perch on the horse.

By now I know that her parents

are away for a year, studying

elephants in India. So she lives

with her grandma, a retired

wildlife biologist she calls B.B.

because B.B. studies black bears

and is beautifully brave.

In a shy, quiet way

that catches me by surprise,

Gracie asks if I've checked out

the school's online newspaper.

I haven't, and I don't plan to.

I don't want to hear Gracie's

gossip.

But later, back at the cabin,

curiosity grips me.

I borrow Tío's laptop.

There it is: My name

in a story about city kids

who have to adjust to small

mountain schools.

Gracie's casually written words

make it sound so easy, but that's

because she doesn't know

that in a couple

of hours

I'll be heading

downhill

 

down

down

down

to the flatlands

to the visiting room

to the loneliness

of Valley State

Prison for Women.

 

6

GABE THE DOG

ROUNDNESS

Togetherness in the truck, on the way back from a flat place with high fences and sadness. Tony is quiet. Is he dreaming again? Is he wishing? Why does he act so lost in aloneness? I'm here. Right here. Does the boy know how much I love to study him? I watch his eyes, listen to his voice, smell his shoes, follow his hands with my nose. I need to understand this boy-silence!

Leo is the first to speak. He notices how I stare at the boy, and he calls me a professor of human behavior. He says I could teach other dogs. This gets Tony's attention. Teach
me
, the boy thinks, leaning close to press my ear with his nose as he tries to sniff my dog thoughts. Teach
me
, Tony begs with his silent-sad scent. Show
me
how to understand a prisoner-Mom who refuses to come into the visiting room, even though she knows her own son is waiting there with an eager social worker, waiting, waiting, waiting.…

Teach
me
, Tony's scent pleads, but I can't. There's a human strangeness, a mystery that I don't know how to inhale.

At twilight, on the way back uphill, we stop at a little park. The grass is dry and weedy, but everything smells delicious, like a name that rhymes with good or food.

Leo tosses a ball for me to chase! I show Tony how to smell, taste, hear, see, and touch the ball's rhyming, rolling, racing roundness. Chasing a ball right beside me, how can Tony still feel that human aloneness? He doesn't! He understands this togetherness chase-game. He quickly learns to share my hunger for roundness!

Spherical objects dazzle me. Tennis balls, oranges, apples, even my water bowl—any roundness will do. Roll, bounce, squeak!

If I could chase the moon across the sky, I would,

but every time I try, it flies too far,

so I point my nose

and sing.

Watch out, moon!

 

7

TONY THE BOY

INVISIBLE CLUES

The visiting room at the prison

looked like a cafeteria, but to reach it

I had to pass through metal detectors

and a massive

scary

sliding

snap-shut

gate.

Mom left me waiting there

with Leo and the social worker.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Like waiting in a nightmare.

So I looked around for something

good to remember. Anything

good. Just a glimpse.

All I saw was women

in blue uniforms, mostly young,

some with tattoos on their arms

and faces, playing board games

with quiet little kids

and sad-looking grandmas.

It looked almost normal,

except for the silence

of the children.

So I had to peer farther

for something worthy of memory.

I gazed out a window and found

a view of a green lawn.

Clusters of women in blue

walked in big circles,

while others kneeled

or stood

with open mouths,

singing.

A few waved sticks of incense.

Others had scarves on their heads.

The social worker pointed out

different groups—Catholics, Hindus,

Protestants, Muslims.… Prison,

she said, is open to all.

I wondered what crimes

the women had committed

and how long it had taken

before they started wanting

to sing.

Mom never showed up,

so I asked to leave, and now,

on the way back uphill, after

the park, after a ball-chasing,

moon-howling, hilarious

moment of relief with Gabe,

I start to hope there might be

enough funny memories

to balance

the sad

mad

abandoned

ones.

The note Mom sent

to the social worker said

she wanted to watch a movie

in the recreation room.

She even named the actor she

couldn't stand to miss.

I like movies too, but I'd rather

have a family.

The social worker tried to be

cheerful, but Tío was realistic.

He told me he was furious.

He said Mom must be ashamed

to let me see her in prison.

He also said the real shame

was her worrying about her image

instead of my feelings.

Now, halfway up the mountain,

his phone rings, so he pulls over

and listens, nodding, agreeing

to show up right away.…

Pretty soon we're headed

to a search in the foothills,

a real-live mystery search

for a missing girl only three

tiny years old—she's

the daughter of migrant

farm workers, and she