The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes (8 page)

M
onday morning, after I've fed and taken care of Beauregard and am ready to head off to school, I realize I have forgotten something. Mrs. Delenor's class project. I'm supposed to bring items I've collected for the animal shelter to school today. Only I never did collect anything. I planned on spending time over the weekend gathering things, but after that phone call Saturday morning it totally left my mind.

I rush into the breezeway and find the collar Beauregard wore when Daddy first brought him home. He quickly outgrew it, and it got tossed in
a pile with some other useless items. I then rummage through the kitchen trash can and find four pop cans. It's not much, but at least I'm not coming empty-handed.

When I get to school, I feel a little embarrassed. A lot of kids obviously spent a ton of time and put a great deal of thought into the community service assignment. Grace has a huge box containing five rolls of paper towels, a bag of cat litter, a small bag of dog food, and several new leashes with the price tags still hanging from silver clasps.

Luanne has two garbage bags full of pop cans; early on she went door to door, asking people to save their empty cans, and then on Sunday, when she got back from her grandparents', she and her dad went around and picked them all up. Some kids brought so much stuff they had to have help from their parents to carry it all into the classroom.

I'm glad we are not getting a grade for what we bring in!

We get out our social studies books, and Mrs. Delenor goes over the chapter six questions we had
for homework. Finally, at ten o'clock, she tells us it is time to go on our field trip.

“Gary's father has offered the use of his truck to transport the items you've collected,” she says.

Gary Blankenship is sitting next to me, and he sits up tall in his seat and smiles proudly. His father just got a brand-new red pickup truck, and he had been bragging about it all last week.

“And good thing he has volunteered. You all did such a great job with the service project there's no way we could carry everything you brought to the shelter!”

Well, I actually would have no problem carrying what I brought….

 

It was spitting rain earlier this morning, but fortunately it has cleared up for our walk to the shelter. Gary's father drove ahead in his shiny red truck, once we got everything loaded, and is probably already there, waiting for us.

I'm walking right between Luanne and Grace, and I'm whispering to Grace about what happened over
the weekend: how Daddy tried to sell Beauregard, but I stopped him, and how I need to earn $325 to buy him myself, so I can give him to the rescue group.

“She's come up with a great idea.” Luanne leans forward to tell her. “But she needs our help.”

“Do you think you can come over after school?” I ask.

“I think so,” Grace says slowly. “Now that my mother has met your mother, and she really liked you when you came over, it will probably be okay. I'll ask her when she comes to pick me up.”

“Good.”

“But I don't understand, what do you need
my
help for?” Grace looks confused.

When I tell her, she thinks it's an excellent idea. Luanne thought it was an excellent idea when I told her, too, on Saturday. And I'm sure it won't be long at all until I'm handing over that $325 (plus my birthday money) to Daddy.

 

Everyone's got an armload of stuff, gathered from the back of Gary's father's truck, and we are met
by Kathleen at the front door, the very Kathleen I brought Beauregard to a week ago in my foiled attempt to find him a decent home.

I suddenly get uncomfortable. I try to blend into the middle of the group of kids, while hiding my face behind the pile of shelter donations I'm carrying.

What if she recognizes me and says something about me bringing a Saint Bernard to the shelter? Some of my classmates, besides Luanne and Grace, know my family has a Saint Bernard. If they mention it, Kathleen might put two and two together. What if she asks if I brought in my own dog? Maybe she'd have to tell the police she found the dognapper, and then the police would tell my parents. I'd be in really big trouble. Maybe Mama and Daddy would be so mad they'd go back on their deal to let me buy Beauregard.

Kathleen leads us to their storage area, an old wooden garage type of structure in back of the shelter building. She grabs a handle and lifts up one of the wide doors and has us deposit the items inside, where an open space has been cleared. “I'll sort
through everything later,” she says. “Thank you so much!”

There's still stuff left in the back of Gary's father's truck, so Mrs. Delenor has us go back for a second trip to carry things to the garage. I grab a thirty-pound bag of dog food so it will cover me from the waist up. But soon all the donations are stacked up in the storage garage, and it's time for the tour. And I have nothing to hide behind. I decide my best bet is to stand behind everyone else.

First stop is the reception area and desk. Kathleen shows everyone an adoption form and explains the procedure and fees involved. Next is the cat room. Kids start asking questions, and Kathleen focuses her attention on those who have their hands raised. I start to breathe easier.

After that we go on to the room where new dogs are brought and kept for three days, the room Beauregard never made it out of because my daddy had to go and call the police about his “stolen” dog. There is only one dog in there now, a short-haired tan-and-white dog barking for attention. All the kids crowd around
his kennel cage as Kathleen talks about having the dogs checked for health and behavior issues and how owners have three days to claim a dog that has been brought in. Since she is now behind the flock of kids, I don't feel safe in back of everyone, so I crowd my way into the middle of the group.

Unfortunately the next stop is the dog adoption room, and there are eight dogs occupying a row of cages. My classmates all spread out to visit with different dogs. Grace and Luanne go over to the far side of the room, where there is a small poodleish-looking dog. Kathleen is close to where we entered, standing near a few boys who are sticking their hands into a cage so they can pet a chocolate Lab. I join Grace and Luanne at the far end of the room and pretend to be interested in the tiny, curly-haired mop of a dog. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Kathleen slowly making her way down the row of dogs, getting closer and closer to where I am. She's stopping at each kennel to talk about each dog and answer questions.

I wonder if I should make my way over to the
chocolate Lab, where she has already been. But then I would have to pass her. I decide to remain with Grace and Luanne.

Before Kathleen has even made it down to where we are, I hear a “Hey, I know you girls!”

Grace and Luanne are nodding and grinning beside me. My face is frozen with panic.

Kathleen points at me. “You brought in a dog. And then you came back with your friends because you were worried about him. Well, guess what? His owner's been located!”

I try to look surprised by this news. She did not mention the breed of dog, thank goodness. So at least no one can make a comment about me bringing in the exact same type of dog my family has.

“Isn't that great? Now you won't have to worry about him anymore!” she says.

Oh, if she only knew…

M
rs. Walters gives Grace permission to go to my house after school and is nice enough to give me, Grace, and Luanne a ride there. After being clear most of the day, it has started to rain again, so at least we won't have to face a wet walk home.

I asked Mama last night if Grace and Luanne could come over, so she's not surprised to see all of us tumbling through the front door. She stops folding a peach-colored towel long enough to tell me we are welcome to raid the snack cabinet in the kitchen. She actually smiles. Justin Lee slept through the night again.

Justin Lee squeals and shows off his newfound
talent to my friends: walking. He takes about six steps and then lands smack on his bottom.

“Hey, you didn't tell me he learned to walk,” Luanne says. She claps for him. “What a big boy you are!”

Even though he fell, Justin Lee looks very proud of himself.

I lead Luanne and Grace into the kitchen, get them each a chocolate chip granola bar from the cabinet for an after-school snack, and excuse myself so I can tend to Beauregard. I grab a beige umbrella from the front hall closet and head out the breezeway door. Since it rained earlier this morning and is raining again now, he really doesn't need his water bowl filled up, but he does expect a belly rub. I make a face and kneel, my hand sweeping over damp, dirty fur. I guess one bath doesn't mean he's clean forever.

“Won't be long,” I tell him. “Just hang on for three more months, and you'll get as many belly rubs as you want and you'll be dry and warm when it's cold and cool and comfortable when it's hot. You'll have a real home to live in—not a chain and too small doghouse.”

 

Luanne, Grace, and I are walking down Fenton Street. Gray skies, but only a few little spits of water falling down now. Still, I make Luanne and Grace stay under the beige umbrella. I don't want the moisture ruining their hair. I French-braided Luanne's black hair just exactly as I did before. But I tried something different with Grace's hair. I divided the hair in half and made two French braids, one going down each side of her head. I walk behind them, so I can admire my handiwork, an occasional splat of water hitting my shoulders since I am umbrellaless.

Luanne leans in close to say something to Grace, and the side of her head brushes against the umbrella post.

“Careful!” I call out. I don't want a single stray hair escaping.

Finally we are all three standing in front of Rhonda's Cut and Curl. I open the door, which jingles, take the umbrella from Grace's hand, and usher my two friends in.

Rhonda is busy rolling some lady's short gray hair into tiny pink rollers. “Hey, Charlotte,” she says,
smiling. Another hairdresser I don't recognize is snipping scissors through Dustin Greenfield's mother's hair. Mrs. Greenfield waves to me. I decide, since I'm about to get a job, not to hold a grudge about her son's leaf raking and snow shoveling business, so I wave back.

It's been a while since I've had my hair trimmed up—about six months—and I notice that Rhonda has grown considerably since I saw her last. Well, at least her stomach has. She's pregnant. Very pregnant!

Rhonda says, “I don't remember your name on the books, Charlotte. You don't have an appointment, do you?”

I shake my head no. “I just need to talk to you. But I can wait till you're done.”

Rhonda continues rolling up gray hair while Grace, Luanne, and I sit in the little waiting area. I try to busy myself by looking through some tattered hairstyle magazines.

Ten minutes later Rhonda puts the pink roller lady under a hair dryer and walks over to us.

“What can I do for you?” she asks. “Selling
something for the school? Candy? Magazines?”

“No.” I motion for Grace and Luanne to get up. I spin them around so the backs of their heads are facing Rhonda. “I French-braid hair. I'd like to work here after school.”

Rhonda seems a little startled by this news. It takes a moment for her to find her voice. “Charlotte, honey, your friends look lovely. They truly do. I couldn't do a better braid if I tried, really. But you have to go to school and get a license to work in a beauty shop if you want to do anything to another person's hair. I'm sorry.”

Luanne and Grace drop their heads in disappointment for me. They slowly turn around. I want to burst out crying. I thought for sure I'd have a job here at Rhonda's Cut and Curl. I imagined five or six customers a day as news spread of my braiding skills. And money stuffed in my pockets.

A motion catches the corner of my eye. The other hairdresser is sweeping up clippings from Mrs. Greenfield's freshly cut hair.

“I could sweep!” I say. “I wouldn't need a license for that!”

Rhonda gets this concerned look in her eyes. “Are you having some sort of financial problems at home? Did your daddy get laid off? Or leave?”

Goodness, if I told her Daddy up and left us, she'd probably feel sorry for me and give me a job. But what an awful lie to tell. And finances are tight, but we aren't in dire straits. Besides, the last time I lied to the shelter lady about Beauregard being a stray, things didn't exactly turn out the way I planned.

As it so happens, I don't have to say a thing, though, 'cause Rhonda says real quicklike, “I guess it's none of my business what's going on in your house. That's private. But you do need to earn some money, don't you?”

I nod.

“Listen.” She pats her big belly. “I'm due in a couple of weeks. Julie over there will be filling in for me here for a while. She's a friend of mine from West Townfield, and she just got her beautician's license. But every day at lunch, around one o'clock, I go over to check on my husband's great-aunt. She lives in that huge yellow Victorian across the street.” Rhonda points out the window.

It's the house my mama has always admired. The one she would buy and fix up if she ever won the lottery.

“She's eighty-three and had a stroke a few years ago,” Rhonda tells me. “Has trouble getting around, so I walk down the street to get her mail from the post office; she has a PO box there. I've been telling her to put a mailbox near her front door, but she's quite stubborn. Always had a PO box and doesn't want to change. I also run to the corner store—Grater's—to pick up a few groceries for her if she needs anything. Then I spend a little time visiting with her. Anyway, I live about twenty minutes outside town, so once my little bundle of joy comes along, it will be harder to check on her; it won't be as simple as just walking across the street. Maybe you could do that for me for six weeks or so? After school you could stop by for about an hour and make sure she has her mail and enough to eat and is okay. What do you think? I'd have to talk it over with her first, of course, but I'm thinking maybe she could pay you ten dollars a day. It will only be
Monday through Friday. My husband checks on her during the weekend.”

I stand there dumbfounded. Did she just offer me a job?

Luanne nudges me. Grace is grinning like crazy.

“Sounds good,” I say.

“Stop by here tomorrow after school, and I'll let you know if it's a done deal or not.”

I quickly calculate the numbers in my head. Ten dollars a day, that would make fifty dollars a week. At six weeks, I'd make…three hundred dollars, most of what I need. And I'd have another six weeks or so left to somehow earn the remaining twenty-five.

The door jingles behind us as Grace, Luanne, and I leave Rhonda's Cut and Curl. Me and Beauregard are on easy street now!

I stop for a moment to stare at the big monster of a place across the way. Peeling green gingerbread trim frames much of the house, and even though the wood siding is a faded yellow, it doesn't exactly look cheerful. It has stopped raining altogether, but an unexpected bolt of lightning flashes from behind,
making the place look like some sort of haunted house from a movie. I only hope the occupant isn't as scary-looking. An eighty-three-year-old who has suffered a stroke. What, I suddenly wonder, have I gotten myself into?