The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes (11 page)

W
hen the alarm goes off, it takes a moment for me to realize I am not in my room. As soon as I remember why I'm on the couch, I panic, but then I feel Beauregard's fur wound around my fingers. He obviously didn't go roaming around the house in the middle of the night. I peer over the side of the couch at Beauregard. He has his head on his front paws, and he is in such a deep sleep I can barely notice him breathing.

“Come on, sleeping beauty,” I whisper, nudging him awake. He clambers to his feet, and I steer him through the living room to the kitchen. His nails click across the linoleum floor, but I'm hoping everyone
upstairs is still sleeping soundly and won't notice. Once outside, I find the wind has died down, and it no longer feels so bitterly cold. I chain Beauregard up again, go back inside, gather my pillow and alarm clock from the couch, check for any drool that needs wiping up, and steal back up to my room.

 

Later that day, when I show up on Petunia's porch, I'm not by myself. I've got Luanne and Grace with me. They've walked here with me after school, and then at four-thirty they'll walk back home with me so I can take care of Beauregard. After that, Mrs. Walters will pick us up, and we'll have our Friday night sleepover at Grace's house.

Last night, after dinner, when I called Grace to make all the arrangements, Mrs. Walters had to get on the phone and ask a bunch of questions. When I explained that Petunia was an eighty-three-year-old who had had a stroke, Mrs. Walters finally figured Grace would be safe. Of course I didn't mention anything about the murder mysteries Petunia loves to read. Still, once Mrs. Walters was done talking to me,
she asked to speak to Mama just to make sure everything would be all right.

While we wait for Petunia to answer the door, Luanne sticks her finger out to give the bell a second ring. I push her hand away. “It takes her a while,” I say. “She'll open the door. Just wait.”

A few seconds later the door does open. And Petunia is so surprised to see Grace and Luanne she just stares at them, speechless.

“These are my friends,” I say. “We're here to learn how to play euchre.”

E
uchre, we find out, is played in pairs. Me and Petunia partner up against Grace and Luanne. It takes a while to get the hang of it, but once I figure it out, it's really fun.

So we snack on oatmeal raisin cookies, drink lemonade, and play euchre.

And we talk. Even Petunia talks. She started to open up a tiny bit yesterday, but there's something about playing cards that loosens her up.

Luanne ends up asking Petunia what kind of job she had.

Petunia stares at her hand of cards, trying to decide
which one to play. “Well, my father was the founder and president of the Greater Oaks Community Bank. I wanted to follow in his footsteps, so I went to business school, got my master's degree, and went to work in the bank here when I graduated. Worked there fifteen years and knew how to run things inside and out. When my father died, I assumed I would take over the reins of the business. But the board of directors thought differently. They didn't want a woman president.” Petunia lays down her cards, withdraws the one she has chosen, and places it at the center of the table. Then she scoops the rest of her hand up again.

“That's terrible,” says Grace.

“Well, things were different back then, but I didn't let it hold me back. I up and quit the bank my father founded and went to work as a vice-president for a bank in New York City. Eventually they made me president. So everything worked out well for me after all. I had a wonderful career, and then I retired and came back here to live; I had never sold the house.”

“New York,” Grace says. She throws down her
card and wins the trick, so she gathers up the pile of played cards. “Oh, I love New York. My family has visited several times. So much to do.”

“Oh, I had a grand time. Broadway shows, the opera, ballet, museums. And I had quite a few beaux, you know.”

“Beaux?” Luanne asks. She looks up from her cards.

“Boyfriends,” Petunia says. “Was even proposed to several times. But I declined.”

“Why?” I ask.

“I guess what it boiled down to was I liked living by myself,” she replies. “I was set in my ways. Still am.” She gives a lopsided grin.

As the game goes on, we learn that Petunia's mother ran off to become an actress when she was only two. Her mother landed a few roles but never became famous and never returned home.

“I think that is why I was so close to my father,” she says.

Before long I end up telling her the whole story of Beauregard and how I am going to use the money I'm earning to help buy him from my father. “After I'm
done working for you, I'll only need to earn twenty-five dollars more. Then I'm going to give him to a rescue group,” I say.

“When I lived in New York, one of my boyfriends had a Saint Bernard named Clyde. Can you imagine a Saint Bernard in an apartment? But it worked. They lived near Central Park and went out for long daily romps. Oh, how I adored Clyde. In fact I almost married that young man for his dog!” Petunia ends up taking the next trick and gathers up the small pile of cards. “You know I'd buy your Beauregard in a minute, but I'm in no shape to take care of a dog, I'm afraid. Anyway, I'm glad I'm able to help in some way. If you have trouble coming up with the remaining twenty-five dollars after your job is done here, let me know. I'm sure I can find something for you to do around here to help earn the rest of the money.”

“Thanks,” I tell her. “That would be great.”

Between the talking and Petunia reminding us about euchre rules, we get only one game in by four-thirty. Grace and Luanne are declared the winners, since they reached ten points first.

And it is decided that Fridays will be euchre day from now on. Even when Rhonda gets back to work and doesn't need me anymore, we will meet at Petunia's to play euchre every Friday afternoon.

 

We have just finished watching a movie about a figure skater at Grace's house and are on our way up to her room. We have stomachs full of popcorn and are in our pj's already even though it's still early in the evening. It is a sleepover after all. Figaro decided to keep me company during the movie; he lay right by my side, and it wasn't until the credits were rolling that I realized I had absently stroked him through most of the movie.

“You sure you're not a dog person?” Grace asks.

“Hey, I can't help it if your dog likes me best,” I say as we tramp up the stairs. “What should we do next?” I ask.

“You can braid our hair,” Luanne says.

And so, as I'm sitting on Grace's big canopy bed, weaving Luanne's hair, we talk about our day with Petunia.

“She's nice,” Luanne says. “I don't see why you thought it was difficult spending time with her at first.”

“Well, she doesn't warm up easy. But then neither did Grace when we first met her,” I say, grinning.

Grace laughs. “I was so scared when I started school here. I kind of froze up like a window mannequin.”

“Do you think Petunia was kind of scared when you started going over to her house?” Luanne asks. “Do you think that's why she didn't talk much?”

I stop braiding for a few seconds. “In a way. She's very independent. I mean, just think, she was a bank president. And now she has to depend on a twelve-year-old to get her mail and groceries. I think she's used to taking care of things, not being taken care of.”

“Maybe that's why she was able to enjoy herself today,” Grace says. “'Cause she was teaching
us
something.”

“I think you're right.”

Outside Grace's bedroom window shines an almost full moon in a clear sky. No rain or snow. Not too cold either. Beauregard should be okay in his
too small doghouse tonight, so I should be able to relax and enjoy myself, too. Heck, I don't even have to worry about the twenty-five dollars I thought I'd need to make after Rhonda gets back to checking in on Petunia, since Petunia said she'd come up with something else for me to do to earn it.

I think in the helping-out department Petunia has me beat.

I
n the middle of November I ring Petunia's doorbell, thinking what a difference a month can make. A month ago I started my job with Petunia and we barely spoke to each other. Now I'm her friend—and Grace and Luanne, too! A month ago Beauregard slept outside. Now he sleeps snug and warm and cozy on the living room floor. I usually stay up reading until midnight, using a flashlight under the covers so my parents won't know, then sneak him in. It's a pain because I have to get up early every morning, too, to put him back outside before anyone gets up, but I know it's a temporary situation. Soon he'll have a new home. I've already earned $200 of the $325 I need!

Also, a month ago Mama still wasn't quite herself, but now she's doing great; she even manages to run at least a couple of mornings a week. A month ago Agnes was dating Tom, but now she has a new boyfriend named Hunter. A month ago Justin Lee used his hands to eat. Now he can use a spoon. Well, sort of. And Daddy went from artist to nonartist. And me? Well, I've picked up the painting thing where Daddy left off. In fact I just finished my first painting last night. It's a picture of our dogwood tree out back and the blue doghouse. I took my time, unlike Daddy, and really studied the how-to book before starting.

I sketched out each stage of the picture. I experimented with mixing colors until I got the perfect shades I wanted. I used layers, starting with the background and slowly adding details. In the end it turned out terrific. Everyone says so. Daddy did ask me why Beauregard isn't in the picture. I just shrugged and said he'd be too hard to paint. But I actually painted what I hope will be a scene from the future. Only two more weeks to go, and I'll have most of the money it will take to buy Beauregard.

I shuffle in the cold and wait a few more minutes, resisting the urge to ring the doorbell again. Petunia seems to be taking longer than usual. I pull my cap down, so it covers the bottom of my ears. My breath comes out in steamy puffs. Hope she comes to the door soon. I peer into the side window panel.

And there is Petunia sprawled out on the floor at the foot of the stairs, looking like one of the murdered bodies on the covers of the books she reads.

I open my mouth to scream, but no noise comes out.

I
run as fast as my feet can carry me over to Rhonda's Cut and Curl. I throw open the door with such force that I startle Julie, and she nearly clips a huge hunk out of some poor man's hair.

“Sorry,” she says to him. She frowns at me.

I gasp for air. “It's Rhonda's aunt. Petunia. I think—I think she's dead.”

Julie drops the scissors, races to the phone, and dials 911.

And then I start bawling.

Knowing an ambulance is on the way, I sprint back over to Petunia's, tears streaming down my face. I peek
in and pound furiously at the door, screaming her name over and over again. That's when I see her raise her head up ever so slightly. But all I can see is a twist of white-gray hair, since her face is pointed toward the stairs.

“Help is on the way,” I shout, hoping she can hear my voice through the door. I think I see her nod.

I just stand there, helpless, straining my ears for the sound of a siren.

When the ambulance finally comes, I stand on the front porch, making sure not to get in the way but also trying to see what is going on through the busted-open front door.

Petunia is moaning, unable to talk. Suddenly Barth, Rhonda's husband, is at my side.

“Julie called. Got here as soon as I could, drove like a madman. Is she okay?” he asks.

“Don't know.”

Barth yells to the man and woman hovering over Petunia. “Gus, Shelly, it's Barth. What happened?”

“Broken hip as far as we can tell. Looks like your aunt took a spill down the last few steps, maybe,” the woman says, glancing toward him.

Minutes later Petunia is carried out on a gurney and loaded into the back of the ambulance. Barth is allowed to climb into the front, next to the driver, to make the trip with her.

I watch the ambulance until it disappears down the street, wondering if I will ever get to see Petunia again.

 

As soon as I get home, I call Grace and Luanne to let them know what has happened to Petunia. Both come over to my house to wait for news of how she is doing. Finally Rhonda calls around five-thirty to thank me for getting help and to give an update on Petunia's condition. She tells me Petunia is in a hospital in West Townfield and will be there for a while; after that she will go into a rehabilitation center. She did break her hip but seems fine otherwise. Still, with her age, dangerous complications can set in, Rhonda says, and even if they don't, it will take months for her to recover well enough to be able to live at home again.

Grace and Luanne are just as relieved as I am that
Petunia will be okay. Mama orders pizza, and they both stay for dinner before going home.

I end up being so preoccupied about Petunia and what happened that it doesn't hit me until I'm on my way out to sneak Beauregard in for the night: I don't have a job anymore. That means I will be $125 short of buying Beauregard. Every time I think something is going to work, it takes a turn for the worse.

Maybe Beauregard and me are cursed.

I lie on the couch in the still, dark house, dangling my arm off the side and stroking the back of Beauregard's neck. “I'm sorry,” I whisper.

Beauregard lifts his head and places his chin on the couch cushion. He stares at me as if to say, “I know. It's okay.”

Then he sighs and closes his eyes.

All of a sudden I hear a creak on the stairs. I bolt upright. There is enough light coming in through the windows that I can see Agnes at the foot of the stairs.

“What are you doing down here?” she asks in a voice loud enough I'm worried Mama or Daddy may hear.

“Shhh!” I wave her over to where I am so I can whisper to her instead of talking normally.

Once she reaches the couch, she sees Beauregard. “You are going to be in such trouble,” she says in a hushed voice. “You know Mama and Daddy don't want that dog in the house.” She sits down beside me.

“It's cold outside. I felt sorry for him. You won't tell, will you?”

Beauregard lays his head on her lap. She scratches behind his ear. “No, I won't tell,” she says.

“What are you doing up?” I ask.

“Couldn't sleep. Thought a glass of milk would help.” She gets up and rubs at her nightgown. “Eww, he drooled on me.” She turns toward the kitchen, then turns back to me. “I'm glad you're buying Killer from Daddy so we can keep him. I know I don't spend much time with him, but I do like him. He's a nice dog,” she says, “even if he does drool.”

“I don't think I'm going to be able to buy Killer,” I tell her. “With Petunia in the hospital, I won't be able to pay Daddy by the deadline. He's gonna sell Killer, I just know it.” I pause. “Can you keep another secret?” I ask.

“Sure.”

“I really wasn't buying Killer so we could keep him. I was going to give him to a rescue group.”

“You were?”

I nod. “He deserves a better life. And I'm tired of having to take care of him.”

Agnes bends down to pat Beauregard's head. “I always thought you enjoyed being around Killer.”

I shrug. “Not really.” I pat Beauregard on the head, too. “Still, I'm worried. What if Killer ends up in an even worse home if Daddy sells him?”

“Maybe Daddy won't have to sell him. Maybe you can find another job. Or maybe you can ask Daddy for an extension on the deadline; you've already earned most of the money, haven't you?”

I doubt if I could find another job in the amount of time I have left. It was difficult enough finding the one with Petunia. But maybe Daddy would give me an extension on my deadline. “Thanks, Agnes,” I say, and I feel better after talking to her.