Stand Tall (12 page)

“You’re certainly looking handsome today, Leo.” Grandpa had his walker close to Fred’s cage. “Go ahead, bird, say it.”

Fred looked back.

They were getting used to each other.

Grandpa tried again. “You’re certainly looking handsome today, Leo.”

Nothing from the bird.

“That’ll get you a whole lot farther in the world than ‘Back off, Buster.’”

“Back off, Buster,” Fred announced.

Grandpa sighed, headed back to the couch.

The white oak stood like a skeleton covered with snow. It was hard to look at it and remember how full and lush it had been in the spring, how its leaves had turned to wine in the fall. That’s the thing about winter—it’s so easy to forget the other seasons—it never seems like it will end.

Tree stood in front of the leafless white oak. He could see every branch, all the textures of the gray bark.

Tree wanted it to be spring, but dealt with the reality.

He picked up an acorn. It was so small, so compact—the seed of a new tree just waiting to be released in the earth.

With his boot, he dug a little hole in the cold ground, put the acorn in it, covered it with dirt and snow.

He liked the idea of planting a new tree.

He thought about his grandpa’s new prosthetic leg, which was going to be coming soon. Mona Arnold said Grandpa was going to have to learn to walk a whole new way and it wasn’t going to be easy.

They’d gotten through Christmas.

Curtis and Larry were back at college.

It was January now.

And Tree still hated his mother’s house and the teeny rooms, he still hated the frozenness he felt sometimes as the fresh divorce kept coming at him in the strangest ways.

Like at night, when he would suddenly get a bad stomachache and feel scared for no reason.

Like at Eli’s house, when he felt so sad when Eli’s dad kissed Eli’s mother.

Like at school, when Sophie told him she’d call him as soon as she got home. She said
home
like it was permanent condition.

“Where are you this week?” she asked.

The every-other-week color-coded schedule had started again.

“My mom’s.”

“You’ve gotta stop saying it that way. You’ve got two houses. There are worse things.” Sophie mentioned living with six cats who all had their own kitty-litter beds.

“I think the stress is getting to Lassie. She’s not crawling on her branch as much. She used to go crazy when I’d play ‘The Ash Grove’ on my flute, but now it’s just another song. I’m getting worried.”

Bradley was getting slower, too.

Tree tried drawing pictures of happy dogs running and jumping, but Bradley just looked at the pictures, sighed, and took a nap.

He was napping a lot these days.

Then Bradley started pooping on the hall rug.

Tree would clean the mess up as best as he could. But Bradley kept having accidents.

“We’re going to have to do something about this, Tree,” his dad said. “Bradley’s getting old, too old maybe to have a decent, productive life.”

Tree’s whole body went cold. He remembered when Sully had his dog put down.

“I’m a good guy,” Dad added. “I try to give everybody a break, but Grandpa can’t get around the way he used to and you’re only here every other week.”

“I’ll teach him to do better, Dad,
I swear.
”

Tree was on his knees, patting the back half of Bradley. Patting as much life into him as he could.

Dad grabbed his pounding head. Went to the basement to do his laundry. He’d been recycling dirty socks all week.

Tree cleaned up the mess.

“
Bradley, this is serious.
”

Tree took paper, drew a rug with dog turds on it, put an X through it, held it up.

“
This rug is a no-poop zone.
”

Bradley listened intently.

“You poop outside.” Tree drew a porch with steps and the
big evergreen in the front lawn with a pile of turds under it.

“
Got it?
”

Bradley cocked his head. He liked being talked to.

Tree wasn’t a great artist, but he could get an idea across.

Tree was in his ski jacket, sitting on the front steps with Bradley. He looked at his old dog—half sleeping, breathing deep.

A squirrel scurried by. Not so long ago, Bradley would have chased it.

“It would help if you chased something, especially when Dad’s watching.” Tree drew a so-so squirrel being chased by a dog. Held it up. “It looks like a mouse, but it’s a squirrel.”

He had showed Dr. Billings, the veterinarian, his method, but the vet said dogs don’t learn that way.

Dr. Billings was a good vet, but not too creative.

The front door opened.

Dad stood on the cold porch. “What I said about Bradley . . . I know that scared you. I’m sorry.”

A loud car honk sounded. Bradley didn’t move. He used to bark when those things happened.

“We just have to figure out what’s best for him.”

Tree nodded.

McAllister, Mrs. Clitter’s ugly cat, was slinking across the lawn.

Bradley opened one eye.

He didn’t like McAllister. No one did, except Mrs. Clitter.

McAllister crept closer.

Closer.

Too close.

The old dog barked, rose to his feet.

Tore after McAllister.

Bradley trotted back when McAllister was off the property. Lay back down on the porch.

Tree’s father shook his head, laughing.

“
Yes!
” Tree shouted.

There was life in that old dog yet.

“
Awright, Pit Bulls!
” Coach Glummer shouted from the sidelines. “
Let’s come alive out there!
” He clapped his hands. “
Let’s see some mad-dog hustle!
”

But it’s hard to find energy and hustle when the scoreboard reads

VIKINGS 43
PIT BULLS 4

That score stood stark like a tree without leaves.

Halftime. Coach Glummer clinging to hope.

“Forget the first half. Forget that all but two of you played like sheep. The past is gone!”

The Pit Bulls weren’t sure what that meant.

“Think of yourselves as blank sheets of paper, and write on that paper a winner’s story!”

In the bleachers, Tree’s dad leaned forward.

“That huge kid’s a joke.” A father sitting a row back said it to another father. “All that height, not a clue how to use it.”

Furious, Tree’s dad stood up, applauding. “
Let’s go out there!
”

Back on the court. Tree tried to think of himself as a winner.

Not missing a shot.

Awesome in power.

I am a tree.

He stepped in front of an average-size Viking, held his huge arms out. Snarled briefly.

The Viking looked for a way to pass the ball, but this is hard to do when a tree is in front of you.

The ball dropped.

Tree grabbed it. Felt a sureness as he dribbled down the court.

Tree’s dad cheering him on.

Coach Glummer shrieked, “
Give me the slam dunk of a winner!
”

Tree aimed.

Missed.

Jeremy Liggins got the ball on a rebound.

Made the basket.

“Now, that kid’s got the moves,” the father a row back said.

Just one basket
, Dad thought.
Let him get one lousy basket.

Liggins made six more points before the game was over.

Tree never scored.

But somehow, Tree felt pretty good.

Almost like a winner.

But you know how it is with coaches.

They want the win, not the concept.

“I’m sick of most of you guys not trying,” Coach Glummer snarled in the locker room. Looked at Tree when he said it.

Tree got so angry at that.

Jeremy Liggins sauntered up to Tree: “You’re a joke out there.”

But something in Tree rose up.

“No, I’m not.” He squared his shoulders and looked down at Liggins, who looked away first.

February brought bad weather.

The temperature shot up and the rains came with a fury.

February brought more business travel for Tree’s mom. She had less time at home, which meant Tree only stayed with her a few days every other week.

He was glad to spend the extra time with Bradley and Grandpa.

He checked heymom.com every day, though.

Clicked on
What We’re About
to read reminiscences of him and his brothers growing up.

Clicked on
The Road Ahead
for at-a-glance thoughts on how divorced families heal and grow (
Trust + Time = Tenderness
).

He never clicked on
Just Between Us
or
Hugs.

The computer can take you just so far with your mother.

But one kid’s snack is another kid’s dinner.

He showed Sophie the website. She scrolled down the page, amazed.

“Your mother does all this for you? You don’t know how good you’ve got it.”

“You’re a genius.”

Bradley cocked his head as Grandpa looked at Fred the parrot, who looked back.

“You’re a genius. Say it, Fred. Come on.”

Grandpa had given up on Fred ever saying, “You’re certainly looking handsome today, Leo.” Tree’s dad suggested that Grandpa could call Mrs. Clitter, and she’d come over and say he was handsome.

He needed the bird’s respect.

“You’re a genius,” Grandpa tried again. “Say it, Fred. Make me glad you’re here.”

Fred ruffled his emerald feathers and squawked.