The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes (6 page)

D
espite not having a restful night's sleep, I wake up early on Friday morning, before I usually do, and find Daddy standing in front of the bathroom mirror, shaving.

I stand in the doorway, still in my nightgown. “If you sell Killer, how are we going to make sure he ends up in a good home?”

Daddy's razor pauses its up-and-down scratching motion.

“Why wouldn't he end up in a good home? I don't think it's anything to worry about.”

“Some people are mean.”

“Most aren't.”

“But what if—”

Agnes staggers out of her room. “You almost done, Daddy? I need to take my shower.”

“Almost. Listen, Charlotte, I'll just go with my gut instincts. I'm pretty good at reading people. I have a fifth sense about those things.”

“You mean sixth sense, Daddy,” Agnes says, rolling her eyes.

“That's it.” Daddy takes one more swipe and rinses the foam from his face.

I start to say something, but Agnes interrupts me again. “Mama's still coming tonight to the homecoming game, isn't she?”

Daddy grabs a hand towel and pats his chin. “Of course. Why wouldn't she?” He stares at Agnes for a moment.

“'Cause she—” Agnes catches herself and gives me a quick look.

We aren't supposed to know anything is wrong.

“'Cause I heard the weather might be bad.”

“That wouldn't stop her. Tonight's your big night; she'll be there.”

Daddy smiles and walks out of the bathroom while Agnes rushes in, reassured by what he has just said about Mama. But I'm not reassured at all by what Daddy said about Beauregard. I don't quite trust that he can tell a good home from a bad one for Beauregard.

I head for the downstairs half bath since Agnes will be awhile, I'm sure.

 

That night Agnes comes swooping down the stairs in her new blue dress. She visited Rhonda's Cut and Curl after school today, and her hair is all fluffed out and sprayed stiff. Mama has some makeup on, the first time I've seen any on her in months, and she's putting on her good wool coat. She looks like the mama I remember. Even Daddy looks spiffed up with a nice flannel shirt on and dark jeans.

“Are you sure you're going to be okay?” Mama asks me.

I nod, shifting Justin Lee on my hip.

Tonight is my first baby-sitting job. I'll be taking care of Justin Lee while Mama and Daddy watch
Agnes as she sits with the queen's court at the homecoming game.

Originally we were all going to go, but it started to drizzle and the temperature fell to the low forties, so Mama didn't think it would be healthy for Justin Lee to be outside in the bad weather. I'm sort of sorry to be missing Agnes's big night, especially since Luanne and Grace were planning on going to the game too, but I'm glad to be helping Mama so she can go out and maybe have a good time.

“Mrs. Strickland next door is home if you need her. And Daddy's got the cell phone if you have any questions. Okay?” Mama looks a little worried.

Agnes rolls her eyes when the cell phone is mentioned. It's a sore subject with her. We have only one cell phone in the family, which we all share; whoever needs it the most gets it, and that's usually Daddy. Agnes thinks it's truly awful. She's been begging for one of her own. But Daddy says she has to wait until she starts driving. Then he'll get her one.

“Okay?” Mama says again, staring me down.

“Okay,” I reply.

“She'll be fine,” Daddy says, giving me a wink. He puts his arm around Mama, dwarfing her. “Charlotte will be twelve next week; that's the same age Agnes was when she started baby-sitting some of the neighbor kids.”

“I know…,” Mama's voice trails off. She frowns at me, and I can tell she's worried since this will be my first time baby-sitting.

Mama, Daddy, and Agnes start walking toward the front door.

“Hope you have fun, Agnes,” I say. “You look real nice.”

Agnes gingerly touches her stiff hair and smiles at me. “Thanks.”

“Lock up after us,” Mama tells me.

“I will.”

After locking the door, I look at Justin Lee, and he looks at me. Now what? I think. Mama has already given him his bath and fed him, and it's another hour until his bedtime.

Justin Lee grins at me. I grin back. He says some gobbledygook. I gobbledygook back at him. He starts
to get heavy, so I put him down. Then he crawls over to a basket of baby toys Mama keeps next to the television set. I get out a plastic mailbox with plastic letters, and he gets busy putting the colorful rectangles into a slot. When he gets tired of that, I grab some board books and read to him on the couch. He pats the thick pages and slobbers and sputters some sounds out. I haven't a clue what he is saying, but by his expression he seems to think he is quite eloquent. I look at the clock on the wall. Only ten minutes have passed since Mama, Daddy, and Agnes left. I sigh.

Justin Lee sighs, copying me, and he's got the most serious look on his face.

I start laughing. Then he starts laughing. We're sharing a moment, Justin Lee and me. Just when I think this might actually be kind of fun, my brother starts wailing. I have no idea what has upset him. Mama has three of his pacifiers lined up on the coffee table, so I grab one and stick it in his mouth. This quiets him down. We visit the toy basket again, read some more books, have a few more laughs, a few more crying spells, and finally, after what seems
like an eternity, I am able to tuck him into his crib upstairs. No wonder Mama seems so tired all the time! I'm exhausted. But I'm proud of myself, too. I think I've done a good job for my first time baby-sitting.

I go downstairs and flop on the couch. Flip through some channels, but nothing looks interesting. I think about reading a book I checked out at the library. I'm on the third chapter, but I'm having a hard time getting into it, and it doesn't seem worth the trip upstairs to fetch it. So I find a small notepad used for writing down telephone messages and doodle for a while on it. I draw funny faces, a pretty princess, and a hairy monster with sharp teeth. I wish I had a nice big sketchbook, but I usually make do with whatever scraps of paper I can find. After I fill up a few pages, I try to think of something else to occupy the remaining time.

Over in the corner is a desk set up with our family computer, another one of Daddy's bargains. A couple of years ago his boss upgraded and sold his old computer to Daddy for a hundred dollars. There's an
arcade site that I sometimes log on to that has some fun games. But once I get situated in front of the screen, I notice it isn't drizzling outside anymore. It's pouring down rain. I know it's cold outside, too. But instead of feeling bad about Agnes's new hairdo flattening out as she sits, shivering, under an umbrella, in a metal folding chair on the sidelines with the other homecoming royalty, I think of Beauregard.

I run to the breezeway and look out. There he is, stuffed as well as he can be into his too small doghouse. Even though it's dark, I can see the shadow of his big head sticking out. He's resting it on his paws, as the rain pelts down.

If only I could find something to shelter him a bit better. I glance around the breezeway and notice Daddy's painting sitting on its windowsill easel. Daddy started painting again after the excitement of Beauregard being missing, then found. It's about halfway done now and taking shape. You can actually tell it's a bouquet of flowers in a vase and not just swirls on top of a yellow blob. Maybe I got my artistic talent from him. Who'd have thought? Next
to the painting stuff I find a big plastic storage container where Mama keeps rolls of wrapping paper, ribbons, and tissue paper. I pop the lid off and run outside with it.

In a few seconds I'm drenched, but I prop the lid against the front of the doghouse and it makes a little roof for Beauregard. I'd ask Daddy to at least make him a new doghouse that fits, but with Daddy talking yesterday about selling him, I know he wouldn't bother.

After drying off and changing into a cozy pair of pajamas, I go back and sit in front of the computer again. But instead of logging on to the arcade site, I bring up Google.

Then, for some reason, even though I know it won't help, I type in “Saint Bernard Breed Rescue.”

I
click on saintrescue.org. At the top of the page is a logo of a cute little girl with an armband and stethoscope listening to a Saint Bernard's heart. Near the logo it says in big red letters “Saint Bernard Rescue Foundation, Inc.”

I pull up the adoption form people can fill out if they want a Saint Bernard. It asks what other dogs you have and if the dogs are up-to-date on their shots. How many adults and children are in the family and who will be caring for the adopted dog. If anyone has allergies and how many hours the dog might be left alone during the day. Where the
dog will sleep and if a fenced-in yard will be provided and, if so, a description of the fence. It asks if you will agree to a home check and if you would be willing to housebreak the dog. The questions go on and on. They seem to really want to make sure the dog will go to a good home.

I sigh, wishing Daddy had never called the police when Beauregard went missing. There is no way Daddy will be as thorough when it comes to checking out prospective owners. Not when he thinks he can depend on his “fifth” sense. I mean, what is he going to do, sniff the people coming to buy Beauregard? I laugh at that image, despite being worried. Maybe tomorrow, though, I can suggest to Daddy some of the requirements the Saint Bernard rescue group uses. He can put them in his ad.

I look at the listings for last year and am amazed to find out 591 dogs were rescued and adopted out last year. This group found homes for 591 dogs just like Beauregard! Each dog has a picture, description, and date adopted. I spend a while studying each listing, then settle in and read adoption
stories, where new owners write in to tell how they are doing.

There's Hercules, who didn't look like a Hercules at all at first, according to the person who adopted him. He was skinny, fifty pounds underweight. But with love, care, and a good appetite, he grew strong, and finally his name fit. In fact the woman who adopted him developed health problems—she had trouble with balance and getting up—so she took him to mobility training, and he became her therapy dog.

Then there was Matilda. A breeder no longer had any use for her, so she was transported from Florida all the way to a new home in Alaska, of all places. And Hank, whose owner reports his favorite place to go is Dairy Queen; he is especially fond of butterscotch sundaes. And Reba, who visits a nursing home every week with her owner and causes traffic jams in the hallways 'cause all the residents are so glad to see her. And Jezebel, who thinks she is a tiny little lapdog; her owner has to warn people who visit about the possibility of 230 pounds of
love smothering them once they sit down. I get lost in the stories of happy owners and pictures of their happy dogs. There are Saint Bernards pictured reclining on comfy couches, Saint Bernards with kids climbing on them, Saint Bernards with big rawhide bones or prized balls in their mouths.

Suddenly there is the sound of keys in the front door. I quickly close the saintrescue.org window and jump up.

As soon as Mama steps in, she asks how things went.

“Fine. Justin Lee was good, and he went right off to sleep.”

Daddy shakes off his umbrella before stepping inside. “Holy cow, it was miserable out there.”

Agnes follows him in, looking upset. Her hair is an odd combination of frizzy and flat. “Of all the nights to rain.” She frowns.

“Aw, you looked mighty pretty down there anyway,” Daddy says, trying to cheer her up.

“I don't think anyone could see me at all through the rain. But it's just as well; I probably looked
like a drowned rat. They should have canceled the game.”

“No lightning or thunder. Rules say you gotta play, sweetheart,” Daddy tells her.

“Well, they should have made an exception for homecoming.”

All three of them look wet from the knees down, where an umbrella couldn't protect them, and they kick off soggy shoes. An hour from now they will be dry and snug under the covers, though.

I think how if it weren't for me, Beauregard would have had raindrops falling on his head all night long. Still, a propped-up plastic container top doesn't exactly take care of all his problems. I think of all the lucky dogs adopted through the Saint Bernard rescue group. None of them having to be left out in the rain.

“I'm going to go upstairs to check on Justin Lee,” Mama says.

“Oh, he's okay. Charlotte took good care of him,” Daddy says, ruffling my hair. “Besides, honey, you might wake him if you go into his room.”

Mama shakes her head and trudges up the stairs. “He'll be awake and crying in a few hours anyway.”

Entertaining Justin Lee was hard enough for the short time I cared for him. I can't imagine being responsible for him all the time. No wonder Mama's running shoes stay in the closet!

N
ext morning Mama is shoving spoonfuls of oatmeal into Justin Lee's mouth. He has mastered finger food but can't handle a spoon yet. Mama has a grin on her face, and she is humming.

I grab a cereal box out of the cabinet and wonder why she is in such a good mood. I don't have to wonder long, though.

“Guess what?” she says.

“What?”

“Justin Lee slept through the night! Whatever you did last night, when you were baby-sitting, must have worked some magic on him. What did you do? Let
him crawl up the stairs a million times so he got all tuckered out?” Mama asked.

“Nope. Just read to him, and he played with his toys in the basket. That's all.”

Mama puts down the spoon, wipes a glob of oatmeal off Justin Lee's face with a napkin, and picks up the spoon again.

Justin Lee grabs the spoon away from Mama and pounds his high chair tray with it.

Mama looks at me. “I really hope this isn't just a fluke and that he sleeps through the night from now on.”

I pour my cereal into a bowl and sit down with Mama and Justin Lee.

The phone rings, and Mama asks me to get it, as she is busy trying to wrangle the spoon back from Justin Lee. His bowl of oatmeal still has a bit left in the bottom, and Mama's determined that he finish it.

I dash over to the phone. “Hello?”

A gruff voice greets me; the returned “hello” through the receiver kind of reminds me of Darth
Vader. There're a few raspy breaths; then whoever it is says, “I'm calling about the Saint Bernard for sale.”

Oh, Lord. Daddy must have already put an ad in the paper. He just mentioned it two days ago! I thought I'd have more time to talk things over with him.

There's another raspy breath. No way I'm letting someone who sounds like Darth Vader buy Beauregard.

“You must have the wrong phone number,” I say.

There is an abrupt “sorry,” then a click.

I hang up the phone.

“What was that about?” Mama asks.

I shrug. “Some guy asking for someone named Mary.” I say a silent prayer Darth Vader doesn't call back.

The
Greater Oaks Record
is lying on the kitchen table. I busy myself with reading the funnies until Mama and Justin Lee leave the room. Then I flip through the pages until I find the classifieds. I follow my finger up and down through columns of tiny print until I come across the pet section. And
there it is. Daddy's ad. It simply says: “Saint Bernard $350.00 or best offer.” Underneath it is an ad for a golden retriever. It says: “Great disposition, loves children, needs a large yard, good home only, references required.” I close the paper wishing Daddy would have at least mentioned “good home only” just like the other ad. “Or best offer” sounds like he is trying to sell a car. Who knows who else will be calling besides Darth Vader? Maybe the Wicked Witch of the West; she wasn't exactly kind to Toto.

 

I spend the next hour hanging out in the kitchen by myself. It's boring just sitting at the table—I finished my cereal long ago and every article in the paper, too—but I want to reach the phone before anyone else can, just in case it happens to ring again. But there has been nothing but silence.

I find a pencil in our kitchen junk drawer so I can draw on the borders of the comic page. I sit back at the table and create little pictures of Snoopy, Beetle Bailey, Garfield, and Hagar the Horrible. Soon there is no white space left. I begin wondering if I should
run upstairs to grab my library book, even though I can't seem to get past the third chapter. At least it would be more interesting than the city council meeting notes I read earlier. I'm desperate for anything to pass the time—

A shrill sound makes me nearly jump out of my skin.

The phone. I stumble to my feet and make a mad dash for it, but Agnes whips around the corner, out of nowhere, and grabs it before me.

“Hello?” she says, all breathless and hopeful.

I'm standing next to her, staring, my heart pounding.

She frowns at me and cups her hand over the receiver. “It's Tom,” she says. “Go away.”

I figure she will be on the phone for a while, so I slip upstairs for my book.

After Agnes finally finishes talking to her true love (at least for the moment), I settle in at the kitchen table, open my book, and before long I finally get sucked into the story. It's turning out to be a good book after all. Maddie, the main character, who is
selfish and has always had servants taking care of her, has become lost in the woods. It's starting to get cold and dark. She's hungry. And she needs to use the bathroom—

Uh-oh, I suddenly realize I need to use the bathroom, too.

I stare at the phone and try to wait it out, but after ten minutes I can't stand it. I bolt for the downstairs half bath, and the second I'm sitting on the toilet with my jeans below my knees the phone rings. I mutter a word my mama wouldn't approve of and jump up, pulling my jeans back to my waist. I fling the door open, but it's too late. I hear Daddy's voice booming “hello.”