Alpha Dog (9 page)

What kind of creep would leave him there like that? I could only conjure images of a withered, haglike woman or a twisted gnome of a man. A creature so evil its body had warped grotesquely.

Why do people do that?
I wondered.
Why do they
say they love you and then drop you at the first sign of a
problem?

I wondered how Seamus handled his rejection. Had he been glad to get away from those people, even if he was scared? Or had it broken his heart?

“Poor guy,” I said aloud. “You can’t help it, can you?”

Seamus stopped running and regarded me for a moment. He tilted his head sideways and studied me intently, looking as if he might pull out a tiny easel and render me in watercolors. Then he trotted forward, jumped on my lap and began sniffing my face, nudging me with his cold wet nose. “Stop,” I said, giggling as his bristly fur tickled my cheeks. But Seamus kept on slurping away, stabbing me with his sharp little toenails.

After a while I grabbed his forelegs and held him an inch or so away from me. “I promise,” I said, staring into his mournful eyes, “I will never ever abandon you.”

A feeling of calm came over me as we held each other’s gaze. It was one of those sweetly powerful moments. The kind I would write about in a journal—if I kept a journal. The kind you see in movies accompanied by swelling violin music and the muffled sobs of tenderhearted audience members.

The kind of moment that gives your life meaning.

The rest of the day I spent chasing after Seamus, walking Seamus, or sitting on the balcony with Seamus. After a while, I was getting sort of lonely for human contact.

I had hoped to spend more time getting to know Christine, but all she wanted to do was hang out with Robot. For long hours they remained camped on the living room sofa with their limbs intertwined. They seemed really close—the sort of couple that finishes each other’s sentences and had pet names for each other (in their case, he called her “Christini-bopper” and she called him “Beer-breath”). The sort of couple I’d hoped Chuck and I would become.

Just being in the living room made me feel like a pathetic third wheel. And Seamus was forever being banished for barking or chewing or running around like a rubber-room escapee. I tried hanging out in my bedroom with him, but it was too cramped and boring, and he kept knocking things over and gnawing on stuff. So while Christine and Robot lounged about, watching cable and eating junk food, I could only watch them from the patio like some sniveling peon gazing through the palace windows.

Even the balcony—the thing I’d loved best about the condo—was starting to lose its charm. My butt hurt from sitting on the concrete so much, and apparently the balcony stood downwind from the building’s Dumpster—something I hadn’t noticed the day before. Whenever the breeze picked up, an awful smell spiked the air, especially in the heat of the afternoon.

At dinnertime I left Seamus on the patio and ate my microwave meal at the bar, trying to ignore Christine and Robot’s love chatter. In the middle of my low-cal penne with pesto, the phone started ringing. Christine and Robot made no move to get off the couch, so I slid from my stool and picked it up.

“Hello?” I said through a mouthful of pasta.

“Katie? It’s Mom again.”

“Oh, hi.” I swallowed hard. That morning I had been determined to adopt Seamus no matter what Mom might say. But now as I listened to her voice, my confidence drained away and guilt automatically burbled to the surface.

What was I thinking? How was I ever going to tell her about Seamus?

I decided not to say anything—at least for a while. I just needed to buy some time and figure out what to do.

“You sound like you’re eating,” she said. “I hope it’s something good for you?”

“Some noodle dish with vegetables.”

“Very good. I forgot to ask you earlier, have you called Aunt Bitsy to see about getting together with Aaron?”

“Not yet.” I shut my eyes, bracing for impact.

“Well, why not?” she asked, her voice rising slightly.

“I’ve just been too busy.”

“Busy? Doing what? Classes don’t start for four more days.”

“Just, you know, getting settled and stuff.” I paced around in a small circle, biting my left thumbnail.

“Uh-huh.” She sounded doubtful. “You’re mumbling. Are you biting your nails?”

“No,” I lied.

She heaved a great sigh. “I hope you’re not planning to throw yourself at the wrong sorts of boys just because I’m not there.”

“Of course not!” Why did she assume that just because she wasn’t around to boss me, I would automatically end up in a
Girls Gone Wild
video?

“I just don’t understand you. All I’m asking is that you spend a little time with a very nice, very handsome boy, and you aren’t the least bit interested. Are you just trying to be difficult?”

“Mom, I just . . .” I paused. How could I tell her the real reason? If she didn’t know he was gay, that meant his mother didn’t know. And I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to out him. “I just don’t think I’m his type.”

“Why, of course you are!” she said in a reassuring voice. “You’re very pretty and sweet. You may not be as outgoing or self-assured or artistically talented as he is, but I’m sure that doesn’t matter. Who knows, maybe he could be a positive influence on you.”

By now instead of just biting my nail, I was chomping the first knuckle of my index finger.

“You need to meet some nice, hardworking young people who can teach you some responsibility,” she continued. “People like Aaron. And Christine.”

I bit down harder, resisting the urge to tell her that Christine was currently drinking a beer and painting her rocker boyfriend’s fingernails black.

“That reminds me, why don’t I speak with Christine.”

“What? But you talked to her this morning,” I protested.

“I only want to ask her a couple of questions. Why must you oppose me on everything?”

“Fine,” I grumbled. I took a step toward the sofa. “My mom wants to talk to you, Christine.”

“Again?” she mouthed, making a face. Robot chuckled softly.

I shrugged helplessly and pressed the receiver tightly to my chest. “Please don’t tell her about Seamus,” I said in an urgent whisper.

“Okay, whatever,” she grunted, snatching up the phone. “Hello again, Mrs. McAllister,” she crooned. “How are you? . . . Today? Let’s see. . . . We organized the condo, and then Katie helped me bag groceries at the local food pantry. It was very rewarding. . . . Why yes, I suppose it will look good on her college application. . . . Boys? No, Mrs. McAllister. . . . No, I haven’t seen her flirting. . . . Yes. . . . All right. . . . Goodbye.”

She covered the receiver and handed it back to me. “I didn’t say a word,” she muttered, her tough-broad attitude back in place.

“Thanks.” I flashed her a grateful smile and pressed the phone to my ear. “Feel better?”

“No need to get snide, Katie. You know I’m only trying to take care of you,” she said in an injured voice.

“Is Dad there?”

“Yes. Hang on, let me see if he has anything to tell you.”

In the background I heard my dad’s voice call out, “Tell her she missed the world’s greatest brisket the other night.”

I smiled. Dad and his barbecuing. In the summertime he was always grilling something. He’d stand outside and pour beer on the meat, then pour some down his throat, then a little more on the meat, then a lot more down his throat. By the time we ate he’d be hiccupping and pronouncing it the best goddamn thing he’d ever cooked. I never had the heart to say it was usually too tough.

I could hear my mom scolding him. “Is that all you’re going to say to her?” She sighed loudly and got back on the line. “He misses you, sweetie. We both do.”

“Me too,” I mumbled, surprised to feel a flicker of homesickness in the midst of my exasperation. “Bye, Mom.”

“Bye, honey. Don’t do anything a McAllister wouldn’t do.”

I hung up and stood there for a moment, staring through the glass at Seamus scampering on the patio.

Too late for that, Mom.

That night I made a little doggie bed out of some of the towels Mom bought for me. I arranged them into a circular pattern like a bright purple nest and plopped Seamus right in the middle.

He immediately got up and sprang onto my bed, trying to lick my face.

“No!” I said, laughing. “This is my bed. This”—I stood and deposited him back on the towels—“is
your
bed.”

I tried to position his body so that he would be lying curled among the folds of the towels, but the best I could do with his stocky little frame was set him stiffly on his side. Each time I let go, however, he would immediately leap to his feet, panting excitedly.

“Come on,” I begged, pushing down on his rear end. “I’m not playing.”

Seamus licked my ear.

I forced him into a lying-down position again. This time, I decided to keep him there until he relaxed. “It’s okay. Calm down and rest,” I said, stroking his thick wavy fur with one hand while holding him down with the other. Gradually I could feel him grow less rigid. His muscles softened and his body flattened until, finally, he settled back and laid his head on the towels.

“Good boy,” I whispered, tiptoeing backward to my bed. I smiled as I slipped beneath the covers, congratulating myself on my little triumph.

Just as I was reaching for the lamp switch, Seamus leaped to his feet. He ran over to the side of the bed, crouched down and barked.

“No,” I pleaded. “Go back to—” Too late. Seamus had already jumped onto the covers and was dancing around my legs, panting and wagging his tail merrily.

I lay back with a frustrated grunt and put my pillow over my head. The events of the day had left me feeling incredibly tired. My limbs felt heavy and floppy and my yawns were so big, each one seemed to widen my mouth about a half inch. Plus there was a weird dull throbbing behind my eyes, as if some small creature were trying to claw itself out of my sinus cavity. How could I make Seamus understand that I had to get to sleep?

I pulled off the pillow and rose up onto my elbows. Seamus was sitting to my left, watching me.

“What am I going to do with you?” I asked. His tail began to drum against the mattress, causing the whole bed to shimmy. He scooted up closer and snuffled around my face, making a rattling whiny noise in his throat.

“Okay. Okay!” I said, gently pushing away his snout. “You can sleep up here. But you’ve got to go to sleep. No more playing.”

I knew I was totally giving up, but I couldn’t help it. I was zonked. Besides, I figured it probably wouldn’t hurt anything. After all, it would only be for one night.

5

S
eamus snored all night. The first time that it woke me, I was in a groggy rage at the idiot operating electric power tools nearby. I couldn’t believe so much noise could come out of such a small dog. I shook his back, and he immediately flipped onto his feet. “Please be quiet,” I rasped. For the next few minutes I could feel him wriggle and snuffle beside me until he finally fell still. After a while, I relaxed and began fluttering back off to sleep, only to hear Seamus’s snores start up all over again.

And so on and so on until Scooby began his high-pitched bleeping. At the first beep, Seamus jumped upright. A crooked line of fur rose up along his back and he reversed down the mattress, growling and barking at the alarm clock until he fell off the bed.

Great,
I thought, fumbling with the clock until I finally switched it off.
Now I have two dogs that won’t let
me sleep.

“Come on,” I said to Seamus, who was still whining and barking. I scooped him up and padded out into the living room. Pushing aside the dusty blinds, I opened the patio door and set him onto the concrete. “There you go.” I shut the door and watched as he trotted over to the railing, staring out at the birds that were busily twittering and flying about the treetops.

“Hi there.”

Waaagh!
I spun around at the nasal sound. Just like the morning before, there was a guy lying on the couch. Only this guy wasn’t Robot. This guy was shorter and his head was completely shaved. “Who . . . What . . . ?” I stammered.
Just how many boyfriends did Christine
have?

“Man, sorry if I scared you. I’m Lyle.”

He said his name as if it would explain everything.
Oh yes, Lyle. By all means, make yourself at home. Care
for some Froot Loops?

I stated the obvious. “I have no idea who you are.”

“I’m the drummer.” He rummaged around the coffee table, picked up a small, pocket-sized paper bag of french fries and began to eat them. “Want one?” he asked, holding out a limp fry.

“No thanks,” I said, shuddering.

Just then I heard the toilet flush and the door to the bathroom banged open. Out walked another strange guy. Tall and pimply, with a shock of super curly brown hair that extended the circumference of his head by two inches in every direction.

He trudged into the room, scratching his scalp with one hand and hiking up his drawstring pants with the other. As soon as he saw me, he stopped in his tracks. “Whoa,” he said, with a slow, dippy-sounding chuckle. “A girl.”

“And that’s Kinky,” Lyle said to me, gesturing with his thumb. “Bass player.”

Kinky restarted his slow stride, heading for the yellow armchair as he continued to look me over. “Is this the roomie Robot talked about?” he asked. “He’s right. She’s cute.”

I blinked back at him, my systems jammed by competing emotions. On the one hand I was pissed off that our condo was fast becoming a halfway house for wayward wannabe rock stars. But I was also mindful of the fact that I couldn’t make a big stink about it. Plus I had to admit, even though my attraction to Kinky was in the negative range, it still felt good to hear someone call me cute.

Lyle groped around on the coffee table until he found a pair of yellow-tinted, round-framed John Lennon glasses. He put them on and stared at me.

I began to feel incredibly self-conscious. My sleep apparel for the previous night had consisted of nothing but an oversized Dallas Cowboys shirt that used to belong to Chuck and a pair of mismatched athletic socks. I yanked down on the hem of the shirt and sidled along the wall, afraid the strong morning sunlight might have infiltrated the thin material, revealing everything underneath as clearly as an X-ray.

Again, I decided to ask the obvious. “Why are you guys here?”

“We played a gig last night,” Lyle replied.

“Yeah. It ended real late,” Kinky added. “So Robot said we might as well sleep over.”

“Ohhh.
Robot
invited you to stay,” I muttered. “How nice of him.”

“Oh, yeah,” Kinky said, nodding. “Robot’s great.”

“Excuse me.” I scurried off to my room, sat down on the bed and took deep breaths until I didn’t feel like screaming anymore. Then I threw on a pair of shorts and halter, and pulled my hair into a sloppy ponytail. When I returned, Kinky and Lyle were standing side by side at the French doors, peering out onto the patio.

“What is that?” I heard Kinky ask.

“I think it’s a dog,” said Lyle.

“It is,” I said. “He’s my dog.”

Kinky chuckled—a series of short exhales through his beak nose. “He’s funny-looking. Kind of reminds me of my science teacher’s toupee, only messier.”

“You should talk, frizz-head,” Lyle quipped.

By now Seamus had seen them and was barking and twirling about.

“What’s wrong with him?” Lyle asked.

“Nothing,” I said, my voice whiny and defensive. “He just needs to go for a walk.”

“Right.” Kinky nodded, his frizzy mane bouncing up and down. “Probably has to go to the bathroom. Do you use a scooper? Or do you just leave it there?”

“Man! I hate it when people just leave it,” Lyle whined. “I always step in it.”

“No,” I said hastily. “I pick it up.” But a nagging thought was screeching through my mind. It suddenly occurred to me that I actually hadn’t picked up anything since I got Seamus.
Because Seamus hadn’t made
anything for me to pick up!

I was, without a doubt, the lamest of all dog owners. No wonder he’d been acting a little batty. The poor guy was about to bust!

Twenty minutes later we were wandering around the park. I’d expected Seamus to really let loose once we got there, but other than watering a couple of trees, he didn’t do anything.

“Come on,” I urged. I was all set with several plastic grocery bags. I’d seen our neighbor back home, Mr. Floyd, use them while walking his Pomeranian. He’d slip a couple of them over his hand like gloves, pick up his dog’s droppings, and pull his hand out backward, sealing the mess inside. Then he’d tie up the ends and toss the whole thing into the nearest garbage can.

Only Seamus wasn’t giving me anything to scoop up. Instead he yanked me this way and that as he barked at squirrels, sniffed out various odors and then rolled in the grass, making a variety of throaty grunts and whines.

“Quit playing, Seamus,” I begged. “I’m starving.”

I should have been paying better attention, but I hadn’t had my coffee yet and I was daffy from lack of sleep. Apparently the pool opened early on Saturdays, and as we staggered down the sidewalk, Seamus’s ears pricked at the sounds of splashing and the giddy squeals of little kids. The next thing I knew, the leash had slipped out of my grasp again.

“Seamus!”

I gasped in terror as he raced toward the pool like a furry cannonball. Seamus shot past the open gate and then launched himself into the air. He sailed magnificently over the water for a split second before descending with a loud splash.

At that point the entire scene picked up volume and tempo. Children shrieked with delight. The lifeguard began blowing his whistle and shouting. Several onlookers burst out laughing. Meanwhile Seamus swam about happily and oblivious, his little paws briskly treading the surface as if he were an oversized windup toy.

“Seamus!” I ran through the gate and over to the side of the pool. “Seamus, come here!”

“Is that your dog?” growled an incredibly buff, mean-looking lifeguard.

“Yes,” I replied with a sigh. “Sorry.”

“Get him out of there!”

“Okay, but—” I glanced down at my clothes. Did he expect me to dive in there myself?

“Now!” the lifeguard added. “He’s scaring the kids.”

From what I could see, the kids were moving
toward
him, crowding about so they could pat his head or wave pool toys in his face in the hopes that he might play fetch.

Something wet poked my foot. I glanced down and saw the boy I’d met in the park the day before. He grinned at me and pointed toward Seamus. “Can I play with William?” he asked.

“Actually his name is—”
Oh, what the hell.
“Sure,” I said. “Only William isn’t allowed in the pool. Could you help bring him over here so I can pull him out?”

“Yeah!” he said, hopping up and down. “I’m a good swimmer.”

“Well, don’t go where it’s too deep,” I cautioned. “Just try to make him swim this way.”

He dog-paddled a few feet over to Seamus and called to him. “Come on, William,” he said. “Come this way.”

It worked. Slowly and steadily, Seamus followed the boy toward the side of the pool. As soon as he got close enough, I reached in with both arms and pulled him up. He was all wet and thrashing, and it hurt my lower back to lift him out of the water, but eventually I was staggering upright, pressing his wriggling frame to my chest.

“Thanks,” I said to the boy. “You really are a good swimmer.”

His little chest puffed proudly. “Can we do that again?”

I didn’t want to take a chance on Seamus slipping away again, so I carried him all the way back to the condo. As we stepped into the building, I could hear the familiar rattle and squeak of the service elevator. I turned the corner in time to see the door sliding shut.

“Wait! Hold the door, please!” I called out.

A hand poked through the opening and the doors reversed themselves.

“Thanks,” I said, stepping inside.

My face flushed as I saw the owner of the hand. The same guy from the day before stood leaning against another stack of boxes.

“Hey,” he said with a nod. His eyes passed over Seamus in all his soggy, reeking glory before swiveling up to the number display.

He didn’t glance at us again for the rest of the ride—which seemed to take a few archaeological eras. Seamus kept writhing about in my arms trying to sniff the guy, but I held him tight in my arms. By the time the elevator squealed to a stop, I was light-headed from wet doggie aroma.

The doors parted and I stepped out onto the landing, taking a deep breath of cleaner air. The guy began hurriedly moving his boxes out of the lift.

“You want me to hold the door for you?” I asked.

“No thanks, I got it,” he said, without looking at me.

Fine. Be that way,
I thought as I marched toward my door. What was that guy’s problem, anyway? I could tell he wasn’t crazy about Seamus (and considering Seamus’s present state, I couldn’t exactly blame him), but he didn’t have to be rude.

I was hoping to give Seamus an immediate bath, but Christine was holed up in the bathroom with a radio going. Lyle, Kinky and Robot were sitting around the living room watching MTV and eating cold Pop-Tarts.

“Hey!” Lyle called, waving a half-eaten chocolate tart at me. “Want one?”

They’re mine, you hairless, bug-eyed cretin.
“No thanks,” I mumbled, struggling to keep a grip on Seamus, who was twisting his lower body like a champion hula hoop artist.

I knocked on the bathroom door. “Um, Christine? Are you going to be a while?”

There was no answer. All I could hear was the rushing of shower water and Christine trying to warble along with Franz Ferdinand.