Untouchable (25 page)

His dad was looking at him, waiting for the answer to a question. The Kid cupped his ear so his dad would repeat it.

“What do you think we should call him?” his dad said. “They didn’t give him a name at the pound.”

The Kid looked at the dog sitting at the top of the steps, staring out at the pickup, still unsure, still afraid. The Kid figured this dog needed a good name, a strong name that would make him less afraid, that might even make him brave, might get rid of his scared look. The Kid thought that maybe this dog needed a secret identity like The Kid had. A name where he could be scared sometimes and another name where he didn’t have to be so scared.

Steve Rogers
, The Kid wrote.

“Steve Rogers?”

The Kid nodded.

“Dogs don’t have last names.”

This one should.

“Who’s Steve Rogers?”

Captain America’s secret identity.

“Why don’t we just name him Captain?”

You don’t have to use his last name if you don’t want to.

His dad looked unconvinced. He stuck his head out the window, called to the dog.

“Steve. Steve Rogers.”

The dog didn’t move, didn’t change expression.

“He’s not into it, Kid.”

Give him time
, The Kid wrote.
Give him time to get used to it.

His dad got out of the pickup, walked up to the porch, held his hand out, half a foot from the dog’s nose.

“Steve?” his dad said. “Steve Rogers?”

The dog didn’t move. The Kid imagined the dog grabbing his dad’s hand, biting down, taking two or three fingers off into his mouth. The Kid imagined the dog lunging, straining to the end of the leash, grabbing his dad’s throat, tearing the skin in a fast red spray.

The dog didn’t move. He looked at The Kid’s dad, looked at his dad’s hand. His dad turned back to The Kid, shrugged.

“Maybe he’s the kind of dog that needs to get used to having a last name.”

In his dream he’s standing at the pay phone on Alvarado Street, talking to Lucy. He can see her in her parent’s dining room, the phone cord wrapped around her fingers. In her other hand she’s holding the picture she’d taken on their first date, Darby in his lucky banana yellow shirt, tired-eyed, a little drunk, smiling because he’d made her smile, because he’d heard the sound of her laughter fifteen or twenty times by then and was getting used to it, it was becoming a sound he knew.

In his dream he’s trying to talk to her on the pay phone but she won’t listen. She’s looking at the picture in her hand and shaking her head and not listening. The picture scares him, the fact that she’s holding the picture, because it means she took it with her when she left and he doesn’t know what else she might have taken, what else might be missing from the house.

She’s not listening and then the football player is there, the student who carried Lucy from her classroom. He’s lifting her up, effortlessly, and she drops the phone and the picture and turns her head to his chest, his crisp white shirt. Darby strains to hear if she says something to him, if she confides something, he strains to see the student’s face, but it’s a blur, the dining room is going dark, and then Darby bolts awake in the pickup, wet with sweat, the late morning heat pressing against the windows, a man on a radio call-in show saying,
The Feds should just nuke it. The whole compound. They should just nuke it and be done with it.

The dog sat on the porch, watching Darby, looking out into the street. He had been in that same spot the night before when Darby put The Kid to bed; had been there in the morning when Darby woke in the pickup. He didn’t seem to have slept,. At some point he had eaten the food in his dish. Darby had given the dish to The Kid to fill and The Kid had come back out onto the porch with an enormous mound of food,
Steve Rogers
written along the side of the dish in black magic marker.

The dog was a good idea. The dog would forget the sewer, forget the pound, and then the dog would be fine, friendly and fine. Trainable. The dog would gain some weight, get healthier, learn to trust them. The dog would protect The Kid when Darby was out at a job. Darby wouldn’t have to worry so much about the locks, the doors, the windows, the graffiti creeping down the street, shadows approaching the house in the night. This immense thing, loyal to him and The Kid. The dog. The dog was a good idea.

He’d called Bob from the cell phone, but Aunt Rhoda said Bob was watching the news on TV, didn’t want to be disturbed. He tried not to think about Bob in the closet in Inglewood. He tried not to think about the apartment in Chinatown, the carved wooden rabbit, the unfinished room.

He sat on the steps, held out one of the giant dog biscuits he’d bought at the pet store. Steve Rogers sniffed at the air, but didn’t leave his corner. Darby broke the biscuit in half, set one half on the step beside him, slid the other half toward Steve Rogers. Turned back out to watch the street. Heard nothing but sniffing for a while. Then, finally, the sound of the dog rising to his feet, nails clacking on the porch as he walked slowly toward the first half-biscuit. More sniffing, then a loud crunching as the dog devoured the biscuit, grinding it between his teeth. Darby wondered if he should turn, face the dog. He could feel its great size just a few feet behind him. He wasn’t so keen on sitting with his back to the thing, but he decided not to move. He just sat still, looking out at the street. He heard the dog licking its chops, then the clacking nails again, slowly, unsteadily, one heavy paw at a time, getting closer. That loud sniffing. He could see the dog’s massive black snout in his periphery, darting in and out toward the half-biscuit by Darby’s thigh, the snout moving warily, getting closer each time but ready to retreat at any sudden movement on Darby’s part. Darby kept still, watched the street. There was silence for a few seconds, half a minute, no sign of the dog’s snout. He could feel Steve Rogers standing a step behind, a step to his right. Then the nose darted in, grabbed the biscuit and scrambled backwards on the porch, nails clacking, the sound of the dog stumbling in his haste, legs flailing, then righting himself and settling back to his corner. The crunch of those jaws grinding the biscuit to dust. Darby turned, looked at the dog. Steve Rogers swallowed the rest of his biscuit, licked his chops.

“Good boy,” Darby said.

There was a small corner of paper poking up between the boards of the porch beside him. He tugged until it came up and out. Two newspaper clippings, each a quarter page or so, curled at the edges. Both dated from the previous September. The first was a student receiving a citizenship award from a business group, the girl beaming at the camera, holding a framed certificate. The second was from an interior page of the Sports section, football scores from the local high schools. A headline halfway down read,
Greene Goes the Distance
. Underneath was a black and white photo of a player in motion, running along the sideline toward the end zone, blurred by his own speed, an opposing player close behind but reaching futilely, grasping at air. The name emblazoned across the chest of Greene’s uniform was the high school where Lucy taught, the familiar soaring eagle mascot on the side of his helmet. There was no article, just the photo and four word caption.

Lucy had kept a wall of fame at the front of her classroom, newspaper clippings and items from the school announcements, public recognition of her students’ accomplishments. She must have intended these clippings for the board, but had lost them somehow. Darby could picture her sitting in the living room after an episode of
It’s That Kid!
, after The Kid had gone to bed, carefully cutting the photos from the paper. He could picture them in her hand as she sat on the steps of the porch and drank her tea, hoping the herbs would do the trick that night, allow her a good night’s sleep, even half of a good night’s sleep. Could picture her setting them down on the porch to take a sip, the clippings sliding into the narrow space between the boards.

Greene Goes the Distance.

He turned on the light above Lucy’s desk, looked at the bulletin board. He read through her class lists from that last year. Fourth period,
Greene, D.
Last seat in the middle row. The time of the fourth period class was right. Late morning, the time the two cops on the porch had told him it had happened.

Darby looked at the newspaper photo, the blurred figure running. Greene, D. He tried to imagine her in his arms, tried to picture the player without the helmet, tried to see a face, to see him in street clothes, the white game-day dress shirt, carrying Lucy down the hallway to the nurse’s office.

The dog’s barking cracked like a gunfight, six loud, quick shots turning Darby around, pulling him out onto the porch. The mail was there, a small rubber-banded bundle. The mailman’s straw hat hustled by on the other side of the hedges, spooked by the dog. Darby picked up the mail. Bills, sale circulars, wrong names and addresses. Another envelope with Mrs. Fowler’s handwriting. Inside was a smaller envelope addressed to
The Shave Head Technician With Blue Eyes.
The return address was that of the beach hotel they had just worked.

Steve Rogers sat on the other side of the porch, watched Darby open the envelope. A notecard with the hotel’s crest on the front. Darby thought of the room covered in plastic garbage bags, thought of the pictures set all around the room. He thought of the cleaning woman, Stella, taking a picture from the box, lifting it carefully and holding it to her breast. He thought of the snow globe hidden away in his bucket while he watched her, thought of the snow globe hidden away in the drawer in the garage.

Inside the card was a single line of looping handwriting, dark purple ink.

Do not worry
, it said.
No one ever notices such things
.

The Kid remembered.

He thought of weekend series at Dodger Stadium, Friday night, Saturday afternoon, Sunday afternoon, games against the St. Louis Cardinals, against the Houston Astros, the whole three days just a sweet blur of baseball. The drive from their house to the ballpark after school on Friday, the slow line of traffic on Sunset, he and his mom and dad sitting in the left field bleachers until his dad said he’d had enough of all the knuckleheads out there and they moved to seats up on the loge level, back behind third base. His mom keeping score, watching the game out on the field and then watching the game in her blue binder. The night getting cold as the game settled into the seventh inning, the eighth inning, his mom breaking out the sweatshirts from her canvas shopping bag, both The Kid and his dad glad she hadn’t listened when they’d said they wouldn’t need them. Dodgers win, Dodgers lose, the Pittsburgh Pirates, the Atlanta Braves, the drive back through the dark streets, home to bed and then awake to pile into the pickup again and head back down Sunset to the stadium. His mom slathering sunscreen on his arms and legs and cheeks, slathering the back of his dad’s neck as he drove, waiting in the line of cars crawling up the hill into the parking lot. The second game, more cheering and yelling, another meal of hot dogs and nachos and soft pretzels and Cokes, his mom and dad with big plastic cups of yellow beer, The Kid sticking his finger into the foam heads when they weren’t looking, licking his finger while his dad yelled out to the umpire a mile away,
Come on, Blue, open your eyes
, licking his finger while his mom filled a frame in her scorecard. Dodgers win, Dodgers lose, the Florida Marlins, the Philadelphia Phillies. The drive home in the dusk, knees and cheeks burned red, the sunscreen not 100% effective, the pickup inching back up Sunset in the post-game traffic, The Kid falling asleep with his head on his mom’s lap, her thighs still hot from the sun. The pickup quiet except for the radio, a Country music station. His dad singing along softly with the old warblers, knowing all the words somehow, The Kid amazed at all the things his dad knew. His mom gently pulling away his ball cap, stroking The Kid’s hat-matted hair. Drifting into sleep, waking back in his own bed, the cool sheets, the night air through his window, his dad’s snoring from the bedroom downstairs, his mom in her pajamas standing in The Kid’s doorway watching The Kid dreaming, maybe, or half-dreaming. His mom’s sad smile in the dark, her whisper. Go back to sleep, baby. Get some sleep, get some rest, and tomorrow we’ll do it all again.

He drew along the walls of the living room in the burned house, the last light of the day coming through the window holes, the hole in the ceiling. He’d have to get home soon, make up a story for his dad about how he’d been over at Matthew’s working on the comic book, but for now he drew, using the rest of the chalk from the floor and then chalk from boxes he’d bought at
Gift 2000
on his way over, finishing the woodcut waves around the pirate ship and rowboat, then starting a new drawing on the opposite wall, copying pictures from his notebook, drawings of the streets on the way to school, the city mural from under the bridge, crooked light poles, telephone wires hanging over saggy buildings, gang tags on the bus stop shelter, birds in the sky. He drew the hill sloping down from Sunset, the strip mall, the new
Gift 2000
sign. He was bringing the red-haired woman news from the outside world. He thought that maybe she’d like to see the rest of the neighborhood again, thought she’d like to see all the familiar things she was missing, all the new developments, the cardboard box with the sleeping feet sticking out, The Kid’s own house with the security bars, the big black dog sitting on the front porch.

These were things his mom was missing as well. The Kid knew this, knew he was drawing for the red-haired woman but also that he was drawing for his mom, hoping maybe she could see this somehow. He was keeping them both up-to-date, helping them to feel less alone.