Notes from the Dog (7 page)

A ton of Johanna’s friends and relatives showed up. It didn’t seem to bother them that they’d never met my dad before. Everyone threw their arms around him in bear hugs, told him “Good job” and then set a covered dish or plate on the table. Fernanda, I noticed, hugged him a little longer than the others.

Everyone was very cool about keeping the party indoors, too, even though it got kind of warm in the house. Johanna must have explained that we couldn’t take the celebration outside because of the state of the yard.

Auntie Bean brought the biggest cake I’d ever seen and Grandpa did a perfect double take when he saw her. Johanna caught the look and walked him over to make introductions.

Dylan trotted by with a hot dog in his mouth.

Music blared through the house—Bob Dylan, of course, since it was my dad’s party. When “Visions of Johanna” played, I caught Johanna’s eye and we smiled. Someone set up a chocolate fountain on the kitchen table; Matthew and Johanna’s grandfather were cutting up bananas and skewering strawberries and chunks of angel food cake on wooden sticks to dip in the melted chocolate.

After a couple of hours, my dad handed me a wrinkled paper bag. “I asked everyone to contribute to your cause as they came in.”

“You did this for me?”

“I’m proud of you, son. Real proud.”

I looked over at Johanna, sitting cross-legged on the coffee table, surrounded by more people than we’d had in our house cumulatively in the entire time we’d lived there. She was balancing a spoon on her nose and reciting something. Maybe it was Shakespeare: “O for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention …”

It was nice. And it was a change. And it was all thanks to Johanna.

I went up to my bedroom and grabbed the book I was reading. I opened it and pulled out the bookmark I’d been using. I unfolded the piece of paper and read:

I saw in my mind the big guy with the yellow hard hat and the bigger guy with the nose ring from the construction site. And Ruby from Grandpa’s assisted-living facility and the old lady who’d given me her bingo money. And all the people in my living room and kitchen.

I ripped the list up, let the pieces drop into my wastepaper basket and went back downstairs to the party.

“What’s this?” I asked. Johanna had thrust a fistful of papers into my face.

Grandpa and I were in the backyard late one afternoon. He was “trying out the new hammock,” meaning he was sound asleep in the shade.

“These aren’t more additions to the binder, are they? Because—”

“No,” she interrupted me, “the university’s arboretum is offering a gardening seminar this weekend. I want you to register.”

“The what?”

She looked at the papers. “An arboretum is a living collection of primarily woody plants intended at least partly for scientific study.”

“A plant laboratory?

“Sure.”

“Never heard of it. Where is it?”

“Across town. If Matthew wants to go, I’ll drop you guys off Saturday morning and pick you up Sunday after breakfast. You get to sleep
in
the arboretum.”

“Uh, well, er … don’t you think we’re too old for … um, sleepovers?” I saw her fight back a smile. “The whole thing sounds kind of girly.”

“Think of it as camping. More manly, right?”

“Uh …”

Johanna pulled another brochure from her backpack and handed it to me. “See,” she said, “the program just screams Finn.”

I read aloud. “‘Spend a weekend sharing the wonders of nature. Designed especially for the serious gardener.’ Are you trying to tell me I need help with the garden? I got the stench under control and the mud dried out. Things have been going really well lately. And the front and side yards look good. Anyone would say so.”

“Not help so much as inspiration. You seemed a little dispirited by the stench and mud drama,” Johanna said.

Grandpa came over and kissed Johanna on the cheek. She handed him a brochure.

I read the schedule:

Hiking. Sleeping in a tent. Peeing … I wasn’t going to think about that now but it was probably outside. Breakout sessions—just another way of saying classes. Homework, probably, or tests.

“How … um, did you find out about this?”

“Auntie Bean is working the conference.”

“I’ll go with you, my boy,” Grandpa said. “Sounds fascinating.”

Sounds like someone wants to spend more time with Auntie Bean, I thought.

“What’s fascinating?” Matthew had come around the corner of the house.

“Spending the weekend with Finn and Mr. Duffy at the arboretum.” Johanna handed him some papers.

Johanna and Grandpa started putting together a list of supplies and gear. Matthew was reading a brochure. He looked up, studied the yard and then stared at Johanna. He set the papers down and walked away to find Dylan’s tennis ball to throw. I picked up the brochure, scanning the front flap:

I shrugged and put it back. What had captured Matthew’s attention?

Matthew decided to come along, probably because of the pictures of girls in one of the brochures—high school cheerleaders did community service at the arboretum. Grandpa picked us up early Saturday morning and took us out to breakfast and we ate so many pancakes that I was ready to explode maple syrup. At the arboretum, we hustled over to the line at the registration table.

Grandpa spotted Auntie Bean handing out information packets and went to stand by her.

We chose our courses: It was a no-brainer that I had to go with the gardening offerings.

Matthew grunted, “Trees.”

“How come?”

“’Cause.”

I looked over and saw Kari Kelley, a girl from school, standing in the tree group, smiling at Matthew.

Grandpa, I knew, would head straight for “The Art of Nature: Sketching, Painting, Sculpting and Photography.” He’d say it was because it would help him draw plants. But I couldn’t help noticing that Auntie Bean was the group leader.

The rest of the day was a blur. I took notes until I thought my hand would cramp up and fall off.

During the first session, I learned to observe and identify a variety of trees, shrubs, perennials and wild-flowers, which was cool because they gave us a handy little booklet with pictures.

The second session made my skin crawl—and I’m not kidding, because we discussed common pests. They tried to talk me into believing there was such a thing as a beneficial insect, but I wasn’t buying it.

The afternoon was very helpful, even if I did sweat my guts out. They had us follow the groundskeepers around to help them pull weeds and deadhead the flowers and trim edges.

Standing there in the beds with plants and flowers all around me, I swear I got an inkling of the whole design thing and how texture and height and color worked together.

Johanna’s binder had, of course, covered all this,
but I finally understood what she’d been going on about. Plus it was nice to see purple and orange and white and pink and red and green instead of my garden, which was nothing more than dirt and wilted grass.

I ran off to catch up with Matthew and Grandpa for dinner. Well, Matthew anyway; Grandpa said his bones were too old to sleep in a tent and that Auntie Bean was driving him home. After they stopped for dinner, of course.

Matthew and I looked at each other. Of course.

We tried to help with the grilling, but after we each dropped about a pound of hot dogs in the coals, we wound up pouring lemonade.

We scarfed our food. Matthew couldn’t wait to hit the hiking trails. He wanted to take a quick hike and then be back in time for the campfire and a seat next to Kari.

At first it was really nice. Quiet. Pretty. Peaceful. Matthew had the map so I just followed him and didn’t pay much attention to where we were headed. He said we’d get a better sense of the place if we avoided the marked paths and trails. And, like the moron I sometimes am, I didn’t question him.

Until we’d walked about seven hundred miles.

“It’s getting dark, Matthew.”

“That’s why it’s called a twilight hike.”

“Do you know where we are?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“That I know we are somewhere on the seventeen hundred acres of arboretum property. I also know that it is completely fenced in, so, worst-case scenario, we walk until a fence stops us and then follow it to a gate.”

“Then can we go home?”

He stopped, studied the map, looked around, peered at the map again. “Ah, I see; we’re not far from the marsh/slough/swamp/wetland area.”

The next step I took filled my hiking boots with slushy ooze.

“I think we’re already there.”

“Oh, good, then we take a left.”

“A left?”

“According to the map—no, wait, it was upside down. Okay, left is out, right is in. We go right. We definitely go right and we’ll hit the path that leads us to the maze. And then the children’s garden, the conifer walk and the lake. We head toward Visitor Station Four and follow Meadow Trail back to our campsite.”

“There’s not a shortcut?”

“That
is
the shortcut.”

“Sounds like we may die before it’s over.”

“Nah. We’re practically at the tent already.”

“Hey—a bear!”

“It’s a tree.”

“We’ve been walking for two hours.”

“Two and three-quarters.”

“Do you suppose a rescue team might come get us if they notice we’re not back at camp?”

“Your dad signed a waiver of responsibility so no one’s going to worry about us.”

“Are those vampire bats in the branches up there?”

“Sparrows.”

“Eww … did I just step in—”

“Scat. Yes. Leave it to you that the only sign of wildlife you actually do find is poop.”

“What kind, do you think?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not,” I sighed.

We hiked. Then we just walked. Finally we plodded. When I was about to throw myself on the ground and crawl, we stumbled onto the tent site.

Pitch-black and dead silent. We’d been gone so long, we’d missed the campfire and the storytelling and the S’mores. And Matthew’s chance with Kari. I was too tired to be bummed. We pried our boots off our swollen feet and fell asleep.

“Rise and shine, monkey butt!”

I swear I’d only just lain down and closed my eyes when Matthew bellowed at me. I pried my eyes open.

“What time is it?”

“Five-forty-five.”

“In the morning?”

“No, in Namibia. C’mon. Sunrise hike!”

“You’re kidding. We just got back from the twilight hike and you want to go out there again?”

“Get up!
Kari’s already talking to the leader.”

I sucked wind pulling my boots back on over my feet, which looked like bread dough, and I almost peed when I shoved my right heel down. Even Matthew had tears in his eyes when he tightened the laces on his boots.

My feet hurt so bad that my memory of the sunrise hike is a swirly loud orange pounding buzz in my head. I trailed really far behind. I also sat a lot and made sure I never lost sight of the tents.

Matthew perked up as soon as he joined Kari for the hike. The last I saw of them, they were headed into the woods and he was making her laugh.

At breakfast, I lay on the ground and put my feet up on the bench of the picnic table. I’d heard once that elevation was good for injuries that involved swelling. And probably for feet that kind of squished and gushed with each step. Matthew dropped a piece of toast on my chest as he walked by to take Kari more orange juice.

When Grandpa picked us up, I crawled to the car.

Monday morning, I went out to the backyard and bellowed. Matthew came running downstairs and out into the yard.