The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes (7 page)

“Y
es,” I hear Daddy say, “he's a purebred. I have his AKC papers.”

I run full speed over to him, never minding my still-full bladder, and tug on his sleeve. “Daddy,” I blurt out, “there's already a buyer for Killer.”

Daddy's eyebrows shoot up. “There is?”

I nod.

Daddy tells the person on the line, “Excuse me for a minute.” He cups his hand over the receiver. “How much are they going to pay for him?” he asks.

“Four hundred dollars,” I say—more than the ad asked for.

Daddy frowns for a moment in thought. Finally he takes his hand off the receiver. “I've already got an offer of four hundred for him. Would you be willing to top that?” There is a pause. Then Daddy says, “Oh, I see.” He hangs up the phone. “A breeder from West Townfield,” he tells me. “She was only willing to pay three hundred for him. Now, who's buying my dog?”

I stare at my feet and bite my lip.

“Who's buying the dog, Charlotte?”

I dare a peek at Daddy. He's got his hands on his hips, and he's staring at me like he's all of a sudden afraid I'm up to no good.

“Uh…I am?” The words just pop out, but as soon as they're said, I realize maybe I have accidentally stumbled onto a brilliant solution.

Daddy's red face grows redder. “I just lost a sale because of you. Didn't even get the woman's number, so I can't call her back.” I can tell Daddy is real mad, but then he does what he always does when me or Agnes gets in trouble: he yells for Mama.

She comes into the kitchen, looking annoyed. She's got Justin Lee in her arms, and he's fussing
over something; his face is all scrunched up, and he's making growling noises. It's pretty obvious she isn't too happy either; not only does she have to deal with a grumpy baby, but an unhappy husband as well. “What?” she says.

“I had someone interested in Killer, and Charlotte went and ruined it for me.”

“Mama.” I cross my legs. “I really have to use the bathroom. Could you please punish me after I'm done?”

Daddy sees my crossed legs, and he can't help himself. He starts laughing.

Justin Lee struggles to be put down, and Mama stands him on the floor, clasping his hands. “Go do your business first,” Mama says.

“Thanks.” I uncross my legs, and then something incredible happens. Justin Lee shakes his hands free of Mama's and takes five wobbly steps over to me.

“Char Char,” he says, grinning, reaching up.

I forget my uncomfortable bladder for a moment and scoop him up.

Mama's hand flies up to her mouth. “His first steps
and his first word,” she gasps. “And he just turned ten months old!”

“Put him down; see if he'll walk to me,” Daddy says. He kneels, stretching out his arms. “Come on, buddy!”

I place Justin Lee's feet on the floor, and he stumbles toward Daddy like he's had one too many, but he doesn't fall and makes it safely to his outstretched arms. Daddy picks him up and twirls him around. “That's my boy!”

While Mama's busy clapping, I make a beeline to the bathroom.

W
e are all seated in the living room, Daddy and Mama on the couch and me in the chair across from them. Justin Lee partly crawled, partly walked over to the basket, got out one of his board books, and brought it back to me. Now he's snuggled in my lap, and I'm using him as a shield of sorts. Mama and Daddy are looking at me, but since their one and only son just took his first steps a few minutes ago, the proud expressions on their faces do a good job of masking whatever anger they might have at me.

I give Justin Lee a gentle squeeze. I owe him. Big time.

“Why?” Mama finally asks. “Why did you lie to your father?”

“I didn't really.” While relieving myself in the bathroom, I finalized my hastily come-up-with plan. “Listen, that woman wasn't going to pay Daddy what he wants for Killer. And I'm going to pay Daddy four hundred dollars for him.”

“For crying out loud, Charlotte, weren't you the one who wanted me to get rid of Killer? Just last month you were pestering me to give him away. This isn't making any sense!” Daddy growls at me.

“Not to mention you don't have four hundred dollars anyway,” Mama says.

“Well, see, I guess I suddenly realized how attached I've gotten to Killer.” I lie. “I just can't bear to see him go.” I sniff like I'm about to cry. “Mama, you haven't gotten my birthday present yet, have you?”

“Not yet. But I certainly wasn't going to spend four hundred dollars on you!”

“I know, but whatever you were planning to spend you could apply toward the four hundred. Couldn't you?” I wipe away an imaginary tear.

“Honey, that would only be about forty dollars,” Mama says.

“But Grandma June and Grandpa Harry always send a card with a twenty in it. And Aunt Renee always gives me fifteen.”

Daddy adds the numbers up. “So that's seventy-five dollars. You'd still have a balance then of three hundred twenty-five. Where's that coming from, may I ask?”

“I'll get a job.”

Daddy snorts, then grins. “You're only eleven years old!”

“I'll be twelve next week,” I tell him.

Justin Lee takes the board book and, tired of waiting for me to read it, thumps me on the head with it. “Char Char,” he says.

“I did a good job of baby-sitting for Justin Lee,” I tell Mama. “He slept through the night, and now he's walking and talking.”

“It's truly astounding. But I think Justin Lee deserves most of the credit,” Mama says. “He was just ready.”

“But I did do a good job baby-sitting him,” I say.

“Yes, you did.” Mama nods.

“So I was thinking, maybe I could watch Justin Lee for you on a regular basis. That could be my job, and you could get a break from him and maybe get some things done or go somewhere.”

“Charlotte, I can't afford to pay you on a regular basis. Besides, he's your brother, and I shouldn't have to pay you at all. It's called being a part of the family and helping out.”

“Oh.” I didn't think that was quite fair, but I didn't want to start an argument with Beauregard's welfare at stake. I was already in enough trouble as it was. “Well, I'll find something else to do to earn the money. I promise I will.” I take the book from Justin Lee, open it, and start reading to him, acting like I'm finally in the clear. “Ball,” I say, pointing to the picture.

“How long should we give her?” Mama asks.

“Three months. Not a day more,” Daddy says. “Miss Charlotte?”

I look up from the book about balls, bears, bees, and other
B
words.

“You have three months to pay me my four hundred dollars. Today's October ninth. If I don't have the money in full by January ninth, I will put another ad in the paper and sell Killer.”

“Okay.” I point at a new picture in the book. “Baby,” I say. “Just like you!” I poke Justin Lee in his chubby little tummy. I think about asking Mama and Daddy not to get me a Christmas gift either, but it would seem a little sad not having something to open up on Christmas morning. Since I already gave up a birthday gift, I don't mention it. I'm sacrificing enough for that dog. I figure I should already have Beauregard paid off by then anyway.

“She must really love that dog if she's willing to pay four hundred dollars to keep him,” Daddy tells Mama.

“Well, after she's done paying for him, she should be responsible for buying his bags of dog food, too.” Mama says.

“If I can come up with the four hundred dollars, I should be able to come up with the money to feed him, too.” I don't move my eyes from the book.
“Blanket,” I say. This time Justin Lee points to the picture. I think he tries to say the word
blanket
, but it doesn't sound like it at all.

Of course I don't want to keep Beauregard. After he's paid in full, I'm going to give him to the rescue group I read about on the Internet. I figure I'll just let Mama and Daddy know all the details when the time comes. If I tell them now, they might change their minds about the whole thing. I have a feeling Daddy might get insulted with the idea that Beauregard needs to be rescued from our home.

I
don't waste any time. As soon as I'm done reading Justin Lee his
B
book, I head next door to Mrs. Strickland's. She's a nurse, and her husband's in the army. He's stationed overseas right now and won't be back until spring, so I figure she might need some help raking leaves this fall. She has a couple of big old trees in her front yard, and a few leaves have already started to drift down. Then this winter I could offer to shovel her sidewalks and driveway.

I ring the doorbell and wait a few moments, trying to rehearse what I should say; I need to sound mature and professional, after all, if I expect
to get paid for a job. I get it sounding right in my head, but no one opens the door. Maybe she is at work? Just as I start to trot down the steps, I hear the door open behind me.

“Hi, Charlotte. You caught me taking cookies out of the oven. Sorry I didn't get to the door sooner.”

“That's okay. I'm trying to earn money for a—a special project. And I was wondering if maybe I could rake leaves this fall and then shovel snow this winter for you.”

Mrs. Strickland steps out onto the porch. “Sweetie, I'm sorry. Dustin Greenfield from down the street is already lined up to do that for me. And before you go door to door asking anyone else, it seems he has pretty much captured the market for raking and shoveling in this neighborhood. He gave me a list of references; I guess he's been doing it for a few years now.”

“Oh.” I can feel my face sinking in disappointment. Dustin Greenfield is a high school kid, the same age as Agnes. He lives about four doors down. Even though he seems perfectly nice, I sense a grudge
coming on. Next time he zips by my house on his bike, you won't catch me waving to him. And he zips by our house quite often. I think he has a bit of a crush on Agnes.

Mrs. Strickland, in an effort to cheer me up, asks if I want a warm, freshly baked chocolate chip cookie.

Even though it doesn't make up for the lost job opportunity, I go ahead and say, “Sure.”

Munching on the warm cookie Mrs. Strickland has given me, which I have to admit is delicious, I make the short trip to my own backyard to check on Beauregard's water bowl. It's half full.

Beauregard eyes the half-eaten cookie in my hand like it is the most interesting thing he has ever seen. I crack off a piece that doesn't have melted chocolate oozing out (I remember Luanne saying that dogs are allergic to chocolate) and extend it toward him. Just like with the gingersnaps, instead of lunging for it and snapping it away, Beauregard daintily gathers it into his mouth. Then he licks his lips and stares a thank-you at me.

I laugh, pat his head, stuff the rest of the cookie
into my mouth, then trudge off to fill up his water bowl. He is such a gentle giant with perfect manners. Whoever gets him from Saint Bernard rescue will be very lucky. But I've got to find a job first. Struck out with paid baby-sitting. Struck out with raking leaves and shoveling snow, thanks to Dustin Greenfield. What else can an almost twelve-year-old do?

I decide to go over to Luanne's house. Maybe she will come up with something.

 

“Why don't you baby-sit kids other than Justin Lee?” Luanne asks after I explain what has happened. The two of us are sitting on her bed, and Luanne's holding a sleeping Jester in her lap. His legs twitch in dreamland, and his mouth is clamped around his yellow stuffed duck toy.

“Everyone already calls Agnes if they need a sitter,” I say. “She's been doing it for two years now, so she's got the market all wrapped up.”

“How about cocktail waitress?” Luanne says, grabbing a purple ruffled pillow and throwing it at me. “You get good tips.”

I let the pillow hit me in the head, and it bounces to the floor. Jester stretches and yawns, dropping the doggy toy from his mouth.

“Get serious.” I lean over and rest my chin in my hand. “If I can't come up with the money in time, he might end up in a worse situation than he has now. He could be abused, not just neglected. I can't stand the thought of that happening.”

“Okay.” Luanne squints in thought and taps her fingers to her cheek. “Hmm…”

Before she can come up with anything, her mom enters the room. When I saw her earlier, she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. But now she has on a snug long black skirt and a lime green blouse.

“You look nice, Mom,” Luanne says.

I nod in agreement. Luanne has a really pretty mom anyway, but right now she looks like a movie star.

“Mom and Dad's anniversary is today.” Luanne explains the reason for her mom being all dolled up. “They are going to drop me off with my grandparents; I'm spending the night so they can have a
rooooomantic dinner and evening together.”

Mrs. Beckler smiles and rolls her eyes.

“Maybe now would be a good time to mention that baby sister I want,” Luanne whispers to me, but loud enough for her mother to hear.

Mrs. Beckler blushes and shakes her head. “Luanne!” She turns her attention to me. “I love what you did to Luanne's hair the other day—the French braid. Do you think you could fix my hair like that, too? It's not lying right, and I'm tired of messing with it.”

“Sure.”

Minutes later Mrs. Beckler is sitting in a kitchen chair, and I'm behind her, strips of dark hair between my fingers, twisting and weaving. And right when I'm not thinking about jobs and making money, an idea pops into my head.