Crenshaw (10 page)

Together, my dad and the man headed toward a sleek black car. My dad's left foot dragged a little. Sometimes that happens with MS.

They exchanged scraps of paper, talked, and nodded. The skinny man drove off, and I had a feeling that my dad's change of heart had already happened.

 

43

About an hour
later, our landlord came by our apartment. He had an envelope in his hand. He hugged my mom and shook my dad's hand and said he wished things could be different. I knew what the paper was because I could see the words at the top.

It said
FINAL EVICTION NOTICE
. Which meant we had to leave the apartment.

My dad leaned against the wall. There wasn't anywhere to sit anymore.

“Kids,” he said, “looks like we're going to be taking a little drive.”

“To Grandma's?” asked Robin.

“Not exactly,” said my mom. She slammed a cupboard door shut.

My dad knelt down next to Robin. He had to use his cane to keep steady. “We have to move, baby. But it will be fun. You'll see.”

Robin's eyes bored into me. “You told me it would be okay, Jacks,” she said. “You lied.”

“I didn't lie,” I lied.

“This isn't Jackson's fault, Robin,” my mom said. “Don't blame him. Blame us.”

I didn't wait to hear any more. I ran to my room. Crenshaw was lying on my bed.

I sat next to him, and when I buried my head in his fur, he didn't object. He purred loudly.

I cried a little, but not much. There wasn't any point.

Once I read a book called
Why Cats Purr and Other Feline Mysteries.

Turns out nobody knows for sure why cats purr.

It's surprising how much stuff adults don't know.

 

44

At four that
afternoon, Marisol came to the door. She was wearing flip-flops and flowered pajamas. She had the Gouchers' dachshunds, Frank and Beans, with her. “Did you forget?” she asked. “You were supposed to meet me.”

I apologized and took Frank's leash. As we started down the sidewalk, I was surprised to see Crenshaw walking ahead of us. Not as surprised as I might have been a day or two ago. But still. There he was, gliding along on his hind legs, doing the occasional cartwheel or handstand.

I didn't know how to tell Marisol why we were leaving. I'd never told her about our money problems, although she may have guessed by the way I didn't offer her anything to eat when she came over, or by the way my clothes were always a little too small.

I wasn't lying, exactly. It was more that I left out certain facts and focused on others.

I didn't want to do it, of course. I liked facts. And so did Marisol. But sometimes facts were just too hard to share.

I decided to tell Marisol something about a sick relative, about how we had to go take care of him, and how it was an all-of-a-sudden kind of thing. But just as I started to speak, Crenshaw leaned close and whispered in my ear: “The truth, Jackson.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and counted to ten. Slowly.

Ten seconds seemed like the right amount of time for me to stop being crazy.

I opened my eyes. Marisol was smiling at me.

And then I told her everything. I told her about how worried I'd been and how we were hungry sometimes and how afraid I was about what might come next.

We walked toward the school playground. Crenshaw strode ahead and rocketed down the tube slide. When he got to the bottom, he looked at me and nodded approvingly.

And then, I don't know why, I told Marisol one more fact.

I told her about Crenshaw.

 

45

I waited for
her to tell me I was nuts.

“Look.” Marisol knelt down to scratch Beans behind the ear. “We don't know everything. I don't know why my brothers feel the need to burp the alphabet. I don't know why I like to build things. I don't know why there are no rainbow M&M's. Why do you have to understand everything, Jackson? I like not knowing everything. It makes things more interesting.”

“Science is about facts. Life is about facts. Crenshaw is not a fact.” I shrugged. “If you understand how something happens, then you can make it happen again. Or not happen.”

“You want Crenshaw to go away?”

“Yes,” I said loudly. Then, more softly: “No. I don't know.”

She smiled. “I wish I could see him.”

“Black. White. Hairy,” I said. “Extremely tall.”

“What's he doing right now?”

“One-handed push-ups.”

“You're kidding me. I'd love to see that.”

I groaned. “Look, it's okay. Go ahead and call a psychiatrist. Have me committed.”

Marisol punched me in the shoulder. Hard.

“Ow!” I cried. “Hey!”

“You're annoying me,” she said. “Look, if I were worried about you, I'd tell you so. I'm your friend. But I don't think you're going crazy.”

“You think it's normal to have a giant kitty taking bubble baths in your house?”

Marisol puckered her lips like she'd just chewed a lemon. “Remember in second grade when that magician came to the school fair?”

“He was so lame.”

“Remember how you went behind the stage and figured out how he was making that rabbit appear? And then you told everybody?”

I grinned. “Figured it right out.”

“But you took the magic away, Jackson. I liked thinking that little gray bunny appeared in a man's hat. I liked believing it was magic.”

“But it wasn't. He had a hole in the hat, and—”

Marisol covered her ears. “I didn't care!” she cried, punching me again. “And I still don't care!”

“Ow,” I said. “Again.”

“Jackson,” Marisol said, “just enjoy the magic while you can, okay?”

I didn't answer. We walked in silence, following our usual route. Past the little park with the fountain. Past the bike path I'd ridden a zillion times, back when I had a bike. Past the place where I broke my arm popping a wheelie. Past the sign that said
WELCOME TO SWANLAKE VILLAGE
.

“I read that swans stay together for life,” Marisol said.

“Usually,” I said. “Not always.”

“You and I will be friends for life,” Marisol said. She stated it like any nature fact. Like she'd just said “The grass is green.”

“I don't even know where my family's going.”

“Doesn't matter. You can send me postcards. You can e-mail me from the library. You'll find a way.”

I kicked at a stone. “I'm glad I told you about Crenshaw,” I said. “Thank you for not laughing.”

“I can practically see him,” said Marisol. “He's doing backflips on my front lawn.”

“Actually, he's doing the splits on your driveway.”

“I said
practically
see him.” She smiled at me. “Fun fact, Jackson. You can't see sound waves, but you can hear music.”

 

46

That evening, Crenshaw
and I went out to the backyard.

Crenshaw liked night.

He liked the way the stars took their time showing up. He liked the way the grass let go of the sun's warmth. He liked the way crickets changed the music.

But mostly he liked to eat the crickets.

We lay there, me on my back, Crenshaw on his side, with Aretha nearby gnawing on a tennis ball. Every so often she looked up, ears cocked, sniffing the air.

It felt good, talking as the night took over. It almost made me forget that we were leaving the next day. It almost made me stop feeling the anger and sadness weighing me down like invisible anchors.

Crenshaw trapped a cricket under his big paw.

I told him crickets were considered lucky in China.

“Crickets are considered delicious in Thailand,” he replied. His tail looped and snaked like a lasso at a rodeo. “And in cat-land.”

I chewed on a piece of grass. It's a good way to distract yourself when you're hungry. “How do you know that?”

Crenshaw glanced at me. “I know everything you know. That's how imaginary friends operate.”

“Do you know things I don't know?”

“Well, I know what it's like to be an imaginary friend.” Crenshaw slapped at a moth with his other front paw. The moth fluttered over his head like it was laughing at him.

“I hate moths,” he said. “They're butterfly poseurs.”

“I don't know what that means.”

“Butterfly wannabes.”

“If you know everything I know, how come you know words I don't know?”

“It's been three years, Jackson. A cat can do a lot of learning in that time. I read the dictionary four times last month.”

He tried for the moth again and missed.

“You used to be faster,” I pointed out.

“I used to be smaller.” Crenshaw licked his paw.

“I've been meaning to ask you why you're so much bigger. You weren't this big when I was seven.”

“You need a bigger friend now,” said Crenshaw.

My mom walked by with a box of clothing to put in the minivan. “Jackson?” she said. “You okay?”

“Yep.”

“I thought I heard you talking to somebody.”

I cast a look at Crenshaw. “Just talking to myself. You know.”

My mom smiled. “An excellent conversational partner.”

“Do you need any help, Mom?”

“Nope. Not much to pack, when you get right down to it. Thanks, sweetie.”

Crenshaw lifted his paw. The cricket scrambled for freedom. Down went the paw. Not enough to kill the poor bug. Just enough to annoy him.

“Do you ever feel guilty about the way cats torture things? Bugs, mice, flies?” I asked. “I know it's instinct and all. But still.”

“Of course not. It's what we do. It's hunting practice. Survival of the fittest.” He lifted his paw, and this time the cricket made a quick getaway. “Life isn't always fair, Jackson.”

“Yeah,” I said, sighing. “I know.”

“In any case, you're the one who made me a cat.”

“I don't remember deciding that. You just sort of … happened.”

Aretha dropped her ball in front of Crenshaw. He sniffed it disdainfully.

“Cats do not play,” Crenshaw told her. “We do not frolic. We do not gambol. We nap, we kill, and we eat.”

Aretha wagged wildly, still hopeful.

“Fine.” Crenshaw blew on the tennis ball. It rolled a few inches. Aretha nabbed it with her teeth and tossed it in the air.

“That was playful of you,” I said. I plucked a new piece of grass to chew on. “For someone who doesn't play.”

“I fear you may have made me with a hint of dog thrown in.” Crenshaw shuddered. “Sometimes I actually want to … to roll in something stinky. A dead skunk maybe, or some ripe trash.”

“Dogs do that because—”

“I know why. Because they're idiots. I also know you will never, ever catch this fine feline specimen stooping so low.”

I sat up. The moon was thin and yellow. “Anything else I put in the mix?”

“Well, I sometimes worry I have a bit of fish in me. I rather like water.”

I thought back to my first-grade self. “I liked fish a lot when I was seven. I had a goldfish named George.”

“Of course,” said Crenshaw. “You liked a lot of animals back then. Rats, manatees, cheetahs. You name it.” He groaned. “Bats, too. No wonder I like to eat mosquitoes.”

“Sorry,” I said, but I couldn't help smiling.

“At least you worked with animals. I have a friend—nice guy—who was made entirely of ice cream. Hated hot weather.”

“Wait.” I let that sink in. “You mean you know
other
imaginary friends?”

“Of course. Cats are solitary, but we're not completely antisocial.” He yawned. “I've met Marisol's imaginary friend, Whoops. And your dad's.”

“My dad had an imaginary friend?” I cried.

“It's more common than you might think, Jackson.” Crenshaw yawned again. “I feel a snooze coming on.”

“Wait,” I said. “Before you go to sleep, just tell me about my dad's friend.”

Crenshaw closed his eyes. “He plays the guitar, I think.”

“My dad?”

“No. His friend. Plays the trombone, too, if I recall correctly. He's a dog. Scrawny. Not much to look at.”

“What's his name?”

“Starts with an
F
. Unusual name. Franco? Fiji?” Crenshaw snapped his fingers. Which is not something cats generally do. “Finian!” he said. “It's Finian. Nice guy, for a dog.”

“Finian,” I repeated. “Hmm. Where are you, Crenshaw, when you're not with me?”

“You've seen a teachers' lounge, right?”

“I've peeked. We're not allowed in. Mostly I saw a lot of coffee cups and Mr. Destephano napping on a couch.”

“Picture a giant teachers' lounge. Lots of people waiting and snoozing and telling stories about exasperating, amazing children. That's where I stay. That's where I wait, just in case you need me.”

“That's all you do?”

“That's plenty. Imaginary friends are like books. We're created, we're enjoyed, we're dog-eared and creased, and then we're tucked away until we're needed again.”

Crenshaw rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. A good cat fact to know is that they only expose their tummies when they feel safe.

His purr filled the air like a lawn mower.

 

47

I couldn't fall
asleep that night. Sounds echoed off the walls of our empty apartment. Shadows loomed and shrank. A question kept nagging at me: Why did things have to be this way?

Life isn't always fair, Crenshaw had said. His words reminded me of an interesting nature fact Ms. Malone had taught us last year in fourth grade.

Bats, she said, actually share food with each other.