Mad Dog (8 page)

“Stop this riot at once!” she screams. She turns to Dakota and me. “What do you people think you’re doing here?”

“I . . . we . . .” I can’t get words out fast enough.

The bulldog charges the door and jumps on the woman, knocking her back a step. She shoves the dog with one hand and points to the door with the other. “Get out of here right this minute, or I’m calling the cops!”

Fourteen

Dakota and I are ushered out of the room, along with all the dogs. We’re both sputtering explanations and excuses.

“We weren’t hurting anybody,” Dakota mutters.

“We’re supposed to be here to—” I try.

“Not today, you weren’t. Now shoo!” The woman acts like she’s shooing flies from a picnic.

“Mrs. Coolidge sent us,” Dakota says.

The woman stops in the entryway. Maybe Dakota’s said the magic words:
Mrs. Coolidge
.

“Mrs. Coolidge sent you?” the woman repeats. “She did, did she?”

We nod. But I’m not feeling the magic.

“Well, you can tell Georgette Coolidge for me that she’s way out of line this time. She’s gone too far. That woman is going to get all of us shut down by the state boards. Is that what she wants?”

Dakota tries to answer. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to—”

“
I’m
the one who has to talk to the licensing board,” the woman says. “And who has to face state officials who don’t approve of pets in assisted-living facilities? Not Georgette Coolidge.
Me
. Poor Miss Golf, the lowly activities director.”

I was pretty sure that’s who she was. Whatever history she and Mrs. Coolidge have can’t have been good.

“Didn’t you agree to try Mrs. Coolidge’s pilot pet project?” Dakota insists. “Mrs. Coolidge said the Manor was behind it. Our job was just to get dogs for the residents. So we—”

“
Dog!
Not
dogs
!” Miss Golf interrupts. “Georgette and I have been all through this. I said I’d try out
a dog
. Who do you think’s going to end up taking care of a pet around here? Anybody else look ready to walk a dog come winter?”

“But I can train the dogs to—”

She won’t let me finish. “
Dog!
And now that I’ve seen you people in action, I don’t think even one dog will work out. I’ve got enough to do without all this bother and noise. No. I’m sorry. This isn’t going to work. I’m sure you meant well.”

“Wait,” Dakota pleads. “You can’t quit without giving us a chance.”

Miss Golf leads us to the entryway. “Tell Mrs. Coolidge I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”

Dakota picks up the terrier. That’s when I see it. The dog’s so scared she’s left a puddle in the entrance.

The director stares down at the dog puddle as if it’s toxic. “That’s just great. Do you have any idea what the state would do if the inspector walked in right now?”

“I’ll clean it up,” I offer.

“Never mind,” she says. “Good-bye. And you can tell Georgette Coolidge that she needs to learn to go through proper channels.” She shuts the door, leaving Dakota and me and our dogs outside.

Dakota sighs. “Well, that went well, wouldn’t you say?” She digs into her pocket for her cell. “I’ll call Mrs. C. to come get us.”

I feel stupid standing on the front step, so I walk Munch and Bag up the sidewalk.

From behind a tree comes a flash of sunlight. It takes me a second to realize the sun’s reflecting off a silver wheelchair. Buddy rolls out in front of me. “You left without saying good-bye.”

“Yeah, well . . .” What does she expect? “Anyway, I’m really sorry things didn’t work out.” But mostly, I’m sorry for the dogs. It’s not going to be easy finding homes for these dogs.

“Don’t be daft,” Buddy says. “Didn’t you ever hear of a comeback?” She tips her ball cap and wheels her chair toward the Manor again. “See you Friday!”

I shout after her, “They told us we can’t come back.”

“Bosh!” Buddy shouts, not looking back at us. “Leave everything to Buddy. See you on Friday!”

* * *

Inside Mrs. Coolidge’s sedan, Dakota and I take turns filling Mrs. Coolidge in on our failure. We have to shout because the dogs won’t stop barking.

“That woman, Miss Golf, threatened to call the cops,” I tell her.

“Buddy is so cool, though,” Dakota says. “She followed us outside and told us she’d see us on Friday. I’d like to go back and visit all of them. But I don’t see how we can go there again, with or without the dogs.”

“No kidding,” I mutter.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Coolidge argues. “If Buddy says to go back on Friday, we go back on Friday.”

“But what about the activities lady? She said she’d call the police.” No way I’m getting into trouble with the police just when my mom’s getting out of it.

“Mercy,” Mrs. Coolidge says. “Carolyn Golf is no match for Buddy.” She turns onto the country road that takes us to the farm. “Didn’t Miss Golf send a message for me?”

Dakota and I exchange glances. I’m not about to deliver the activities director’s messages.

“Well?” Mrs. Coolidge demands.

I wait it out, and Dakota breaks. “She did send a couple of messages,” she admits. When Mrs. Coolidge drums the steering wheel and sighs, Dakota tells her about “dog” instead of “dogs” and about the state inspectors checking up. She leaves out the part about going through proper channels.

“Why don’t we go back Saturday?” Mrs. Coolidge suggests. “I think that’s Carol’s day off.”

“I can’t go Saturday,” I say quickly.

“Wes is going to Chicago to see his mom,” Dakota explains.

“Ah.” Mrs. Coolidge glances at me, but she doesn’t ask. “Friday it is then. I’ll pick you up first thing.” She almost misses the turn into the drive. She swerves left, then right. The dogs start barking.

“Look!” Dakota shouts over the loud barking. “Somebody’s here.”

A small red car is parked crooked by the house. I recognize it. “It’s Ms. Bean.”

“The social worker?” Mrs. Coolidge asks.

“What’s she doing here?” Dakota demands.

I get a weird chill, like something electric running through me. “Probably checking up on you, Dakota.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. Popeye and Annie are sending you back. Didn’t they tell you?”

Dakota punches me, and Mrs. Coolidge chuckles.

But the chill inside of me doesn’t go away.

Mrs. Coolidge pulls up her sedan behind Ms. Bean’s beater. The car’s empty except for the usual water bottles, food wrappers, and notebooks.

Popeye comes out of the house with Ms. Bean. I start unloading the dogs. I snap on leashes and open kennels, all without looking up.

Behind me, Mrs. Coolidge and Dakota exchange greetings with Ms. Bean. Still, I won’t look at them. If I don’t look, then she won’t talk to me. She won’t have news—bad news—for me.

Ms. Bean says something too soft for me to hear. The others grow quiet. I lift the Pom, Lion, out of the car. I don’t want to let him go, even though he’s squirming to get down with the others.

Footsteps—Ms. Bean’s footsteps—come closer. “Wes?”

My throat feels like something’s stuck in it, which must be why my words come out thin and broken. “Hey . . . Ms. . . . Bean.”

“Could I talk to you a minute, Wes?” she asks.

I shrug. “I’m kinda busy.”

Dakota appears and reaches for Lion. I don’t want to hand him over, but I do. Dakota’s biting her bottom lip, and her eyes look wet. Maybe
she’s
the one Ms. Bean’s here for, after all.

“I’ll walk the dogs,” Dakota says. “No sweat.” She scoops up Lion and whisks away the other dogs.

“Thanks, Dakota,” Popeye says. He steps toward me and Ms. Bean. “Wes, Ms. Bean needs to talk with you about your mother. Do you want me to leave you two alone?”

I shake my head hard. I’m not sure why, but I don’t want him to leave. I want
her
to leave. I want Ms. Bean to go back to Chicago, to take her news with her, to talk about anything except my mother.

Popeye leads us back to the house. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hank jogging from the barn to help Dakota with the dogs. Rex trots out with Hank, sees me, and comes racing, tail wagging. He doesn’t stop until he’s beside me. His head slides under my hand for an automatic pat.

We go inside and settle at the table, with Ms. Bean on the end and Popeye across from me. Rex lies down by my chair.

“What?” It’s the only word I can get out. My head is trying to move past the blockades I’ve set there, the things I never want to think about. The possibilities. This is about my mother, and it isn’t good.

“Wes,” Ms. Bean says, sneaking a glance at Popeye first, “your mother signed herself out of rehab yesterday.”

I wait. Is that it? “So what?” I ask, relief spreading like melted snow in my chest. “She’s getting out on Saturday anyway. What’s the big deal?”

“Part of her agreement with the county court was that she’d stay in rehab,” Ms. Bean says. “She broke that agreement.”

“She was in that place almost 90 days!” I shout. Rex starts barking. I pet him, but he won’t stop. “So she left a few days early? Maybe she wanted to start looking for a place to live.” I wish she’d called me, though. She should have called. I could have come up early. I could have helped. “Why are they making such a big deal out of this?” I demand.

“Take it easy, Wes,” Popeye says. “Ms. Bean isn’t the problem here.”

But my heart is beating too hard to stop my words. “This isn’t fair! Why don’t they leave her alone?”

“There’s another problem,” Ms. Bean continues. “A bigger problem. The police picked her up today—”

“No way!” I get to my feet. My chair scoots back, ramming into Rex. But I can’t help it. “The cops have it in for her! What do they want? How do they expect her to make a fresh start? Or
us
to make a fresh start?”

Popeye motions for me to sit down. “Wes, you have to listen. Your mother was picked up for using again. They found drugs on her. She was in pretty bad shape.”

I sit, but my head is still spinning. This can’t be happening. She promised. She promised she wouldn’t do this again. “There’s some mistake. You’ll see. I need to talk to her. I want to hear what
she
says. I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of this.”

Ms. Bean folds her hands on the table. Her hands are smooth, with long fingernails painted pink. Not like my mother’s hands. My mother’s hands never looked like that. “I’m pretty sure they’re going to send her back to rehab. That’s good. This is her third offense. Things could be a lot worse for her.”

I don’t want to hear how much worse things could be. “Where is she now?” Rex starts barking again. Or maybe he’s been barking the whole time, and now he’s turning up the volume. I don’t know which. “Is she okay?”

I catch the look Ms. Bean exchanges with Popeye, a flash of eyes filled with sympathy and pity. I hate that look.

“Where is she?” I demand.

“Your mother is being held in county,” Ms. Bean explains. “She’ll be there over the weekend. But I’m working with her public defender to get her back into rehab as soon as possible.”

Ms. Bean doesn’t say the word
jail
. Nobody uses that word around me. But that’s what it is.

“Wes?” She moves closer. “Did you hear me? I’m hoping to get your mother back into rehab in a few days. As soon as she’s settled in again, I’ll arrange for another visit.”

My head snaps up. “I don’t want another visit. I’m visiting my mom on Saturday.
This
Saturday.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Ms. Bean says.

But she’s wrong. She’s wrong about everything. And she’s dead wrong about this. “I get to see my mom on Saturday. You said you’d take me. You promised!” I shout. I have to because Rex is barking so loud I can’t hear myself think.

“Please try to understand,” Ms. Bean pleads. She looks so sad, so flustered, that I could almost feel sorry for her. But I
don’t
feel sorry for her. I don’t have enough “sorry” left for her.

“I understand, all right.” My fingernails dig into my palms. But my nails are as short as Ms. Bean’s are long, and even that makes me mad.

“Wes, I’m sorry. The plan was for me to drive you to the rehab facility for an arranged visit. That’s no longer possible.”

This time I jump up from the table so fast my chair crashes to the floor. Rex scurries out of the way. The barking stops. “My mom is expecting me to come! I’m not going to let her down. I’m going to see her!” I shout. I picture Mom, crossing off calendar days like I have been. She almost made it. Almost. She really tried. I know she tried. And I’m not going to punish her like everybody else. I’m not breaking my promise.

“Wes,” Ms. Bean says, trying to reason with me, “this is county lockup we’re talking about. Wouldn’t it be better for you to wait until she’s back in rehab and you can sit next to her instead of looking through glass and talking on a two-way phone?”

What does she know about what’s better for me?

My chest is heaving. I feel like I could throw up. “I’m seeing my mom on Saturday if I have to walk to Chicago.”

Fifteen

As soon as we get rid of Ms. Bean, Popeye tries to calm me down. Finally, he volunteers to drive me to Chicago himself on Saturday. I’m holding him to it.

I stay in my room the rest of the night and let Dakota and Hank take over with the dogs and Blackfire. I want to do it myself, to take care of the dogs. But I don’t even feel like climbing down the stairs when dinner rolls around. Annie brings me a plate of fried chicken, and Kat comes up later with a brownie. I can’t eat any of it.

I have no clue how long I’ve been sitting in the dark when Kat knocks on the door again. “Want me to walk Rex for you?”

I’m sitting on the floor. Rex is stretched out beside me, his head on my knee. I’m not sure, but I guess he’s been with me the whole time. “Yeah. Thanks, Kat.”

“Come on, Rex,” she calls from the doorway.

Rex doesn’t budge.

“Go on. Go for a walk,” I tell him. He doesn’t move, so I raise my voice. “Go!”

Still, he doesn’t move. His head stays stretched over my leg.

“I mean it, Rex.” My head is electric, buzzing like bad phone lines. “Get!” I shake my leg and make his head drop off me.

“Wes, don’t.” Kat walks over and takes Rex by the collar. “Come on, Rex. Come with me.” Still, she has to half drag him out.

I get up and slam the door behind them.

* * *

Thursday moves along without any help from Wes “Mad Dog” Williams. I can’t get my mom out of my head. I want it to be Saturday. I want to see her. Everything will be okay when I see her. I picture her thinking about me, thinking the same thing I am—that if she just sees me, things will be okay. We can still go ahead with our plans.

Once, when we lived above the bar, Mom came home late, crying. Her hair was wild, and she had a black eye. I tried everything I could think of to get her to stop crying. I stood on my head, sang a song she liked. I colored her a picture and glued bottle caps to it. It was summer, but I made her a valentine. Finally, she stopped crying and hugged me. “You’re the only one, Wesley,” she told me. “You’re the only one who can make me stop crying like a baby.”

I wonder if she remembers that. I hope she does.

* * *

“Wes, telephone!” Dakota knocks on my door and hollers again. “Phone, Wes! For you.”

I roll over and check the clock on my bedside table. It’s after 10. I haven’t slept this late since I came to Starlight Animal Rescue. No one has. “Go away.” I pull the pillow over my head.

She knocks again. “It’s Mrs. Coolidge, and she won’t take no for an answer.”

I drag myself out of bed and step on Rex. He jumps up, then sits again, eyes fixed on me. I hope somebody walked him already. I stumble to the door and open it. “Tell her I’m sick.”

Mrs. Coolidge’s voice shoots from the phone in Dakota’s hands. Even that far away, she’s loud and clear. “Bosh! Get on this phone this instant, Wesley!”

Dakota shoves the receiver into my hand. I lift it to my ear. I know what Mrs. Coolidge wants. It’s Friday. We’re supposed to go back to Nice Manor and train the dogs. “Mrs. Coolidge,” I begin, “I don’t feel like—”

“Feel schmeel, banana peel,” she says. “I’ll be by for you and Dakota and all four dogs in one hour. Do
not
keep me waiting.” Mrs. Coolidge hangs up.

Dakota takes the phone I hold out. She doesn’t ask, but she’s obviously waiting for an answer.

At her feet, the three-legged Lion is play-fighting with the terrier, Moxie. I started this. I have to finish it, no matter how I “feel schmeel.” “Okay,” I say, giving in.

“Cool!” Dakota picks up both dogs. “I’ll get the dogs ready if you’ll get
you
ready.”

“What?”

“Let’s just say that compared to you, Munch smells like roses.”

I look down, surprised to see that I haven’t changed my clothes in two days.

* * *

Things are so rushed trying to get the dogs ready for this that I don’t get a chance to really talk to Dakota until we’re standing out front, waiting for Mrs. Coolidge. “Thanks for taking the dogs for me the last couple of days,” I say, not looking at her.

“Hank helped,” Dakota says. “These guys are growing on me. They’re good dogs, aren’t they?”

I nod. “All dogs are good dogs until people mess them up. How’s Blackfire? Sorry I dropped the ball on that deal.”

Her grin dissolves. “Well, lucky for you, you’ll still get your chance to help with him. He’s not any better.”

“You’re kidding.”

She shakes her head. “Hank says there’s no infection. But that abscess hasn’t drained at all. It’s still festering in his hoof. I want it to come out so he can start to heal.”

Something inside of me knots up.
Festering
. It’s a word I’ve never used, but I think I know what it feels like.

As if Dakota can read my mind, she says, “Wes, I wish I could help. Like, I wish I knew a Bible verse to give you for your mom and stuff. Kat could.”

“That’s okay.” I know Kat’s verses have helped Dakota since she’s been here. Dakota never talks about running away anymore, and she’s . . . I don’t know, more peaceful. But that stuff doesn’t work on me. “I’ll be okay when I see my mom.”

She nods, and we wait in silence until Mrs. Coolidge drives up.

Dakota and Mrs. Coolidge talk on the way to Nice Manor, but I tune them out. My mind is locked on my mom. I imagine her sitting in jail, counting down the hours until my visit.

When we pull up to the Manor, Buddy and her archrival, Miss Golf, the activities director, come out to meet us. The two women look like opposing coaches who’ve agreed to put on a united front for the sake of the game. Buddy’s wearing what looks like an official Chicago Bears jersey with her Cubs ball cap. Miss Golf, in a pink jogging suit, reminds me of a pink lemonade Popsicle, like my grandma used to make in her freezer.

“How are you, Carol?” Mrs. Coolidge hollers out the window. “You’re looking in the pink today.” She doesn’t make a move to get out of the car. Instead, she revs the engine, making Dakota and me move faster to get the dogs out.

“I’m just fine, Georgette. And you?” Miss Golf returns, the frost in her voice fitting right in with the Popsicle image. “Let’s get this straight from the get-go: Nice Manor will consider adopting one dog.
One
. I’m allowing you to bring four so that we can choose one. That is,
if
any of the dogs work out, which at this point seems like a long shot.”

Finally, I get the last dog out of the car.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Coolidge mutters. Then before Miss Golf has a chance to react, Mrs. Coolidge shouts, “Have fun!” and drives off waving.

Buddy wheels closer. She lifts the cowering terrier onto her lap. “I told Miss Golf she was welcome to spy on our clandestine canine activities today,” she says.

“I’m not spying,” Miss Golf protests. “It’s my responsibility to make sure nothing threatens the—”

“Time out!” Buddy signals, making the classic T with her bony hands. “Let’s kick off this game. Play ball!”

I reach for Moxie, thinking the terrier will be scared with Buddy yelling like an out-of-control ref. But Moxie’s ears perk up, and she tries to lick the old woman’s face.

“You bet, Moxie!” Buddy hollers. “Let’s show ’em what we’re made of!”

The others are waiting for us in the rec room, the same place we brought the dogs Wednesday. They shout greetings as we walk in. Munch, Bag, and even little Lion wag their tails and scurry around, greeting their new pack.

Dakota and I stand up in front. I know everybody’s waiting for me to get things started, but I can’t wrap my mind around what we’re even doing here. It’s like I’m already on my way to Chicago to see Mom.

After a couple of minutes of strained silence, Dakota takes over. “Great to see you guys again.” Her voice is shaky, but she keeps going. I don’t try to stop her. “Okay,” Dakota continues, “where do you think we parked this morning?” She doesn’t wait for the answer. I know the answer. Popeye has told this one a million times. “In the
barking
lot!” Dakota finishes.

Leon hoots, and Buddy whistles through her teeth.

I get them to sit in twos. April and June. Velva and Rose. Leon and Buddy. “We’re going to work in pairs to get the dogs used to things. Usually a dog’s socialization time comes in the first three or four months of life, but with these guys we need to start over.”

I dole out the dogs, giving Lion to Velva and Rose, and Bag the Blab to April and June. The terrier, Moxie, is still on Buddy’s lap, so that one stays with Buddy and Leon.

That leaves the slobbering Munch, who’s about twice as big as the other dogs. There’s only one solution. “Miss Golf, you and Dakota will need to team up for Munch.”

“Munch?” she repeats.

I scratch Munch’s ears. “This cute little girl.”

Miss Golf’s eyes grow to golf ball–size. “I’m just an observer. Besides, isn’t this the one that spits?”

Dakota takes Munch’s leash and slides onto the seat next to Miss Golf. “Munch is a sweetie,” she promises. “You’ll see.”

“I’m not good with pets,” Velva says, scooting her chair farther away from Rose, her partner. “What if I hurt this poor little one’s leg?”

“Too late for that,” Rose replies. She hugs the Pom, and the wrecked leg sways, as if Lion is waving at Velva.

I get them to do the basic bonding exercises, stroking the dogs’ backs, then their heads, then the ears. “Don’t forget the inside of the ears. Some dogs will do anything for you if they think it will get them a good ear scratching. Same goes for a tummy rub. Whenever you can, get yourself low with your dog. If you’re eye level with a dog, it says that you’re not trying to hurt him or take over his turf.”

Leon gets down on the ground to look into Moxie’s eyes. The terrier wags her tail. “She likes me!” Leon declares. “Just like every woman.”

“Foul! Out of bounds,” Buddy cries.

I want to get caught up in the bonding too. But it feels like I’m watching all of this from the moon. When I tune back in to the voices in the room, I hear April’s baby talk: “That’s a good little Baggie. Ooh, my Bagger Wagger.”

I’ve already told them about sticking to one form of the dog’s name.

Then I hear Dakota: “Munchie, you sweetheart. What a nice Munchster you are! How’s my Baroness von Munchster?”

“Dakota!” I shout. She should know better than that. “What’s the matter with you? Are you crazy?”

The room goes silent. Everyone stares at me.

“What did I do?” Dakota asks.

I hadn’t meant to shout that loud. I take a deep breath and hold in the fury that feels like it could explode. “Don’t forget to call the dogs only by their real names, okay?”

“Oops,” she says, turning back to Munch. “Forgot about that one, didn’t I, Munchie—I mean, Munch.”

I let them go back to the bonding exercises while I pace the room. When I turn around, I almost trip over Buddy’s wheelchair. She’s rolled into my pacing lane. “Is there a problem with Moxie?” I ask her.

She shakes her head. “Is there a problem with you?”

I fake a smile. “’Course not.”

“Sure you don’t want to call it a day? I can round up the team and get them back tomorrow, if you want,” she offers.

“I won’t be here tomorrow.” The answer is too loud, as if she’s just threatened to
make
me be here tomorrow. I lower my voice and explain. “I’m visiting my mom tomorrow. In Chicago.”

“That right?” she asks.

I nod. “I haven’t seen her for a long time.”

“Her move or yours?” Buddy asks.

“Not mine,” I answer quickly.

“That what’s got you angry as a sacked quarterback on a muddy field?”

The question throws me. “I’m not angry. Not at my mom.”

“Right,” Buddy says. “Well then, you tell her for me that she’s got one fine son.”

Before I can thank her—or argue with her—she wheels back to Leon and the terrier, who are nose-to-nose on the floor.

I finish the session early and get Dakota to call Mrs. Coolidge to pick us up. Then I try to figure out how I’ll get through the rest of the hours before I’m face-to-face with my mother.