The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes (12 page)

W
hile waiting for the school day to start, Grace, Luanne, and I discuss Petunia.

“We should send her a get well card,” Luanne says.

“And flowers,” Grace adds. “I've had a lot of fun the past few Fridays; I'm going to miss playing euchre at her house.”

The bell sounds, and Mrs. Delenor claps her hands and tells us all to take our seats.

I wish there were something I could do for Petunia besides sending her a card or giving her flowers. I knew she'd be miserable in the hospital, having all
those strangers taking care of her. She loved her house. She loved being independent. And both those things were taken away from her.

By the end of the school day I have decided on something special I can do for Petunia. I call Rhonda as soon as I get home. I ask about Petunia. And about Amber Rose, too. Both are doing fine. Then I ask for a favor. I can't give Petunia her independence back, but I thought of a way, with Rhonda's help, I could bring a bit of home to her.

 

I stand back and squint, full of pride.

It's the middle of December, and I have been working on my new masterpiece for four weeks straight, getting the colors just exactly right: fluffy chick yellow and a green deeper than grass but lighter than pine tree needles. I studied the framed picture of Petunia's house that Rhonda brought over, and then I studied what I did on the canvas. Early on I wondered if I should attempt drawing and painting in Petunia's father at the side of the
house. I worried if I couldn't do a good job with her father, it would ruin the painting. I decided to go ahead and try and ended up pleased with the results. The scale is perfect. The shading is perfect. Right down to the proud smile on Mr. Parker's face, it's perfect. I replicated the photo. But it's bigger…and in a way, even though the colors are exact, it's more brilliant, lively. All that's left for me to do is let it dry up a bit more and then send it to the rehabilitation center with Rhonda or Barth. They take turns making the hour trip to visit Petunia every day. One stays home with Amber Rose while the other drives to West Townfield. I'll just send the painting up with whoever's going.

At first Mama actually talked about taking me, Luanne, and Grace up for a visit, but when Rhonda mentioned it to Petunia, she said she'd rather not have us see her in her current condition. Mama said we should honor her wishes. I remember how tidy Petunia always looked: hair never messy, coordinated sweaters and skirts, the perfect amount of makeup on. Maybe Mama is right,
though I think I'd still like to see her anyway.

I begin cleaning my brushes with turpentine. Daddy spoke the truth; cleaning up is a pain when it comes to paint with oils. But creating something that has meaning is worth the work.

O
n Christmas morning I'm not exactly full of Christmas cheer. I know there's no way I can get the $125 I need by January 9, my deadline for buying Beauregard.

A few days earlier I asked Mama and Daddy for money instead of a gift for my Christmas present. But Mama said she had already bought my gifts, and she wasn't about to return them. I also asked Daddy for an extension on the payment due date, like Agnes suggested.

“Maybe when Petunia moves back to the house, Rhonda will need me to help,” I said.

But Daddy said, “Sorry. A deal is a deal. If we don't follow through, it won't teach you anything now, will it?”

So I've resigned myself to the fact Daddy will be selling Beauregard. I asked him to at least try to make sure he has a good home this time. “You could put ‘home inspection required' in the ad,” I said. And I told him some questions he should ask when people called.

“Home inspection?” Daddy laughed. “I don't think so. And I'm not going to insult the buyer and ask a bunch of nosy questions. Anyway, I'm sure he'll end up being taken care of just as well as he is here. I wouldn't worry.”

Somehow I didn't find his words very encouraging.

Right now I'm sitting on the floor, in front of the tree, right between Justin Lee and Agnes.

Justin Lee seems to be getting the idea that when you unwrap something, a toy appears. Actually he's getting the idea a little too well, because when he finally runs out of presents to open, he begins to cry.

Daddy grins, swooping him up and tickling him. “What? You think you're the only little boy on Santa's list?”

Agnes is happily surrounded by opened boxes of clothes.

Mama has been clicking away, taking pictures, and she stops for a moment. “Why haven't you opened your gifts yet, Charlotte?” she asks.

“Just enjoying watching everyone else.” I force a grin and grab the biggest box in my pile and start to tear into the green paper decorated with red stars. I sent my gift to Petunia, the painting, with Rhonda a few days ago, and I find myself wondering what her reaction was. I'm more curious about that than I am about the contents of the box I'm opening.

The doorbell rings, and everyone looks up surprised. Who could it be on Christmas morning?

Mama goes over to open the door, and there's Rhonda.

I put my half-opened box down, and thoughts about Petunia getting my painting slip away. Instead I'm wondering if Rhonda has bad news about Petunia. Maybe she had another stroke. Or a heart
attack. Rhonda did say there could be complications because of her age. My heart starts pounding.

“Come on in,” Mama says.

“Oh, I can't stay. Barth and Amber Rose are waiting for me in the car; we're on the way to my sister's to exchange presents. Anyway, we were celebrating Christmas Eve with Petunia last night, and she gave me this to give to Charlotte.” Rhonda holds out a box loosely tied with a silver ribbon.

I jump up and get the box. I slip off the silver ribbon, open the box, and find a check, made out to me. The check is for $125. There's also a note written on red stationery paper. The handwriting is pretty messy, but I'm able to make out the words.

“Petunia absolutely loves the painting,” Rhonda says. “It makes her room look much more cheerful.
It has even made Petunia herself more cheerful. She has it propped up on the dresser across from her bed, where she can always see it. It's really motivating her to work hard to get home.”

“I can't take this,” I say. I try to give the check back to Rhonda, but she refuses to take it.

“If you think I'm about to give this back to her, you've got another thing coming.” Rhonda laughs. “I'm not going to upset her like that.” With that Rhonda waves good-bye to everyone and bustles out the door.

“Why don't you go ahead and open your gifts now?” Mama tells me.

I stuff the check into my bathrobe pocket, go back, sit on the floor, and tear off the remaining wrapping paper from the big box. Seconds later I'm staring at what it contains. Several blank canvases and a sketch pad. I almost start crying. Perfect. I clutch the sketch pad to my chest. “Thanks, Mama. Daddy.”

“Don't thank us.” Daddy grins. “Thank Santa.”

 

Though I'm itching to use either my new sketch pad or canvas, I end up spending most of the rest of the day looking at that check Rhonda dropped off.

The painting was a gift. Somehow I don't feel right accepting money for it. For a while I consider finding the address for the rehabilitation center and sending it back. But then I find myself remembering how Petunia always seemed most at ease when she was being useful. Like when she was getting me cookies and lemonade. Or when she was teaching me, Luanne, and Grace euchre. Or when she learned the money she was paying me was really helping
me
out. There's no doubt in my mind what she intended that check to be used for. It was for the exact amount I needed.

I figure there is no way Petunia could be feeling useful in the rehabilitation center. I'm sure everyone there is concentrating on making her better, helping
her
out. But I could make her feel needed and necessary because in this very instance she is. Both to me and to Beauregard.

I run upstairs to my room and gather up all the
cash I have saved so far. I quickly scribble my name on the back of the check from Petunia and run back downstairs. I hand the cash and the check over to Daddy.

“I'm paid in full,” I tell Daddy. “Killer is mine.”

I
wait until a few days after Christmas to tell Mama and Daddy my plans for Beauregard.

“A rescue group? Killer doesn't need rescued! No one beats him or even raises their voice to him. He's not abused,” Daddy says.

“I know. But he doesn't get much attention. And he loves people, Daddy. He could go to a family that really wants him. A family that won't keep him chained up.”

“I still don't think we need to be giving him to a rescue group,” Daddy says.

Mama crosses her arms and gives Daddy a firm look. “Didn't you tell Charlotte that a deal is a deal when she wanted an extension?”

“Yes, but—”

Mama cuts him off. “Well, Charlotte paid for Killer fair and square. He belongs to her now, and she can do as she pleases with him.”

“Yes, and if you go back on your deal, you wouldn't be teaching me anything now, would you, Daddy?” I say, remembering the lecture he gave me.

Daddy starts to laugh. And I know I won the argument.

Even though I was out earlier to feed and water him, I throw on a hat, coat, and boots to go out back to see Beauregard.

“It's a done deal,” I tell him. “You will be on your way soon to a new family, a new home.” I start clapping my hands and jumping like a maniac, and soon I've got him all excited. He's jumping around and running back and forth.

We're doing a victory dance, Beauregard and I.

The dog days of Charlotte Hayes are drawing to a close.

 

Two days before the New Year, Mama and I take Beauregard to the animal shelter. Kathleen is
surprised to see him. “Did he get loose again?” she asks, remembering how I brought in the same dog back in the fall.

I explain the whole thing to her: how we aren't able to give him a good home and how I've been wanting him to go to Saint Bernard rescue for a while now, and that I went through all sorts of plans to do so because my daddy needed some convincing.

Kathleen puts her arm around my shoulder and gives me a tender pat. “I see. You are doing the right thing for him. I'll make the arrangements for him through the rescue group,” she says. “But first I need your permission to take him.” She goes over to her desk and gets out a form, clipboard, and a pen. “What's his name?” Kathleen asks.

Mama says, “Killer.”

But I say, “No, it's Beauregard,” and that is what Kathleen writes down. After a few more questions Mama signs the bottom of the form to turn him over to the shelter.

I get this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach when I tell Beauregard good-bye. I want to give him
a hug before Kathleen puts him in his cage, but for some reason I can't quite bring myself to. So I hold out my hand and say, “Shake.” He automatically brings his paw up, and I grab it. “It was good knowing you, Beauregard,” I say.

I think I hear him whimpering when we leave the room, but it's hard to tell because the other dogs in the room are barking. I don't look back.

 

Within a week Beauregard is gone. The rescue people came to pick him up on January 3. I know because Kathleen called to let me know. He was headed to a temporary foster home in Ohio.

Since we dropped him off at the shelter, the hardest part for me has been getting used to sleeping in my actual bed and not having Beauregard at my side. I keep on hanging my arm toward the floor, like I used to on the couch, but there is no collar to grasp, no soft dog hair working its way between my fingers.

B
y the beginning of May hot weather has once again arrived in Greater Oaks. I flap the neckline of my T-shirt to create a slight breeze as I walk home from school.

I walk into the front yard, thinking how I should be feeling happy because I don't have to take care of Beauregard like before—no sploshed water on my sneakers, no steaming piles of poop to scoop, no bugs to shoo away while I spend time paying attention to him. I can just go inside and down a can of grape soda. But I still worry about that dog sometimes even though he's not here. I don't know what has happened to him; not all families post their adoption stories on
the rescue site. So I do my best not to think about him, though he somehow creeps into my thoughts, like now.

As soon as I get in the front door, Justin Lee runs up to me. “Char-watt! Char-watt!” His pronunciation has gotten better. I'm no longer Char Char, which I had kind of gotten used to and thought was cute.

Justin Lee holds up his hand. “High fife,” he says.

I reach out to give his hand a swat, but he jerks it away at the last moment and starts laughing his head off. Daddy taught him that trick, the fake out. They share the same sense of humor already.

Mama shakes her head and smiles. She doesn't seem a bit tired-looking anymore even though she should be. There's no problem with Justin Lee sleeping anymore, but he is into
everything
. Climbing, throwing, exploring, all at full speed ahead.

Now he's making a beeline for the stairs. Mama has a baby gate up, but he can climb over it, so she dashes over and grabs him.

“How about a snack, big boy?” she asks.

“Snack!” He nods.

“Charlotte, Kathleen from the animal shelter stopped by. She dropped something off for you. It's on the coffee table,” Mama says, before disappearing into the kitchen with Justin Lee secured on her hip.

It's a letter. When I open it up, a picture flutters to the ground. I pick the picture up, and there is Beauregard with what I assume is his new family. Behind him a man and woman stand, both grinning. Identical twin girls, about my age, are kneeling on either side, hugging him. I quickly read the letter.

 

I study the picture again. I can tell it was taken in a kitchen. The walls are painted a soft yellow. In the bottom corner of the photo I see plaid, a doggy bed. And I'm sure, even though I can't see it, somewhere in the room are food and water bowls printed with his name, just like in my dream.

I can't tell who is happier, Beauregard or those twin girls hugging him. Beauregard's nose is upturned, and I swear all that loose skin hanging from his mouth is gathered into a sloppy smile. The twins are hugging him so hard their inside cheeks are buried in the fur of his neck. I look at both their beaming faces, and something unexpected happens. I start to cry. Hard.

Justin Lee, done with his snack in the kitchen, comes running back to the living room. I quickly choke back my wayward sobs and wipe at my eyes. I fold the letter up and stick it and the picture back in the envelope, placing it on the coffee table.

“High fife,” Justin Lee says, holding up his hand.

I go to smack his hand, fully expecting him to
jerk it away, but he doesn't, and my hand splats onto something slimy.

“Yuck!” I quickly withdraw my hand and look at it as Justin Lee falls, laughing, to the floor.

Though disgusted, I laugh, too.

Mama hurries into the room, a damp washcloth in her hand. “Sorry. Banana,” she tells me, grabbing Justin Lee to clean off the squished banana remaining on his hand.

“Oh.” I head to the bathroom to wash my own hand off.

After I'm done washing off my hand, I give Mama a break by reading a story to Justin Lee. Reading to him is about the only thing that will keep him still. He snuggles into my lap and grins up at me, tiny baby teeth visible.

When I close the book, I hear the back door and voices.

“Look at what Daddy brought home!” I hear Agnes say.

I hear Mama in the kitchen yell, “What on
earth
?”

I rush into the kitchen with Justin Lee still in my arms.

Daddy has a golf bag with clubs slung over his shoulder.

“You don't play golf,” Mama says.

“Not yet. Hank, the accountant at work, got a new set and practically gave these to me. Worth about six hundred dollars. I only paid seventy-five.”

“We can't afford the green fees,” Mama says.

“Hank is a member of West Townfield Country Club. He has five times he can bring a guest for free. He said he can bring me along when he goes, just so I can try it out.” Daddy sets down the clubs, spreads his legs apart, and takes an imaginary swing.

“Okay, Arnold Palmer.” Mama laughs.

The whole family is in the kitchen and grinning and things feel the way they should be.

No dog worries.

No Mama worries.

Back to normal.

Finally.