The Greyhound (2 page)

MAY

“I’M HOME!”

Jack’s voice boomed through the house. The budgie, Yellow Bird, chattered in the kitchen. Rosemary was outside hanging laundry and Danny was in his parent’s washroom. He opened the medicine chest and looked at the small line-up of little bottles of prescription medicines that his father took — that he knew his father
had to take
now — though Danny was never told much about whatever it was that made his father grow a little more tired each day.
Must be old age
, he thought to himself.

He’d spent a chunk of his afternoon with his bedroom door closed, working on his computer, surfing the Internet for information on a school project. He wanted to go back to his room, but his father’s voice was insistent — “Hey, where is everyone?” — and he changed his mind. Jack’s voice sounded cheerier, healthier, which give Danny an odd little lift; he sensed that somehow, something was different. For months Jack had been quiet, more serious than ever before. He seemed to be focusing on some distant task or point in time, as if he were working off a debt.

Danny quickly went to his room and glanced at the computer screen. He saved the information he was looking for — on
The Old Man and the Sea
— and then switched it off. Dad was still talking in the hallway; his voice had gotten softer and more mellow, almost soothing. It wasn’t the way he usually spoke to Rosemary, and anyway, his mom was still outside, but Jack was talking to someone, and Susan was still out.

Then he heard a small, thin whine, like a garden gate opening. It was a dog; a dog that was anxious or uncertain. Then he heard his father’s low, even voice. “That’s okay, girl, that’s okay.” He sounded honey-sweet and warm.

Danny ran out of his room. There, by the front door, was a tall, brindle greyhound, Jack firmly holding its leash. It turned its long nose to Danny and wagged its tail slightly. Dark, moist eyes looked at him, but also into him, like this skinny dog knew all of Danny’s secrets.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” Jack asked of no one in particular. The screen door from the backyard swung shut with a slam and Rosemary came in carrying an empty laundry basket. The clothespin she held between her lips fell with a clatter into the basket.

“Jack, what did I tell you about getting a dog?” she said. They’d obviously talked about it before, but Danny hadn’t been privy to it.

“I said I was going to get a dog, I just didn’t say what kind of dog,” Jack answered. He reached down and scruffled the dogs ears. “Sit, girl.” The dog sat. Her head reached almost to Jack’s hip and she pushed her long nose against his hand. “See? She’s already at home. What do you think of her?
I think
she’s a beauty!”

Danny held back. He thought she was an ugly dog, scrawny and bony, and her skinny face reminded him of a rat. Her long skinny paws were like a rabbit’s feet. He didn’t understand why Dad would like this dog so much.

Mom was first with the questions.

“Where did you get her?”

“Tom Hill over in Mission House works with these dogs.” Tom was an accountant, Dad had known him for a few years. “He has two himself. They’re retired race dogs. They run for a couple of years, then they go to adoption agencies and they’re placed in good homes.”

Good homes
, Danny thought.
Our home’s a good home?
He looked around at the green wallpaper, the brown couch, and the way-too-small television (everyone else he knew had big, flat-screen TVs). He couldn’t help but feel a little lift, though. The dog was looking right at him, straining her bony muzzle in his direction.

“See, she wants a friend. She’s looking at you, pal.”

“Does the dog have a name?” Rosemary asked.

“I’ll leave that to Danny. When she was racing, her name was Long Shot. What do you think, Danno?”

“How about just ‘Long?’” Danny said. “Like, so long, dog, gotta go, you loser.”

“Come on, son, give her a chance. Every dog has a tail to wag and a tale to tell.” He paused. Danny knew a story was coming. His father paused that way every time there was a story to tell.

“This dog reminds me of my time in Florida.” They moved to the kitchen, and the dog moved quietly just behind Jack, as if she were looking forward to another of his long-winded stories. Long Shot sat at Jack’s feet, then, got up and quietly moved over and put her head on Danny’s leg, resting her chin on his thigh. Her dark eyes looked up at him searchingly.

* * *

Danny opened his diary the usual way:

Dear Craphead:

I don’t get it about Dad. He is too quiet and too calm. He should be feeling like crap, but he seems to have his head together about stuff. He seems serene and it’s creeping me out. He goes to his AA meetings and comes home and reads his John Irving book and talks to me like nothing happened. But we lost our house because of him! Dr. Feinman says I have to get over it, to forgive my father and recognize that I have to take control of my own life. Stop blaming people. I’m trying to do that, but why am I so angry?

The dog Dad got was ugly! Scrawny, and ribs poking out, and she has kind of a skinny face like a rat. I call her Ratface, but not when Mom and Dad are around.

* * *

Danny was in a rush. It was almost 7:00 a.m. and he had promised himself that he would be out running before seven. It was a cool morning, and the air smelled of dampness that could settle easily into one’s bones. He finished eating his energy bar, gulped down some Gatorade, and bent down to lace up his shoes. He was so focused on getting ready to run that he didn’t notice his mom standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Have you ever thought that you might be pushing yourself a little hard?” she asked. “We’ve only just moved here. You might want to relax a little more.”

The remark irritated Danny, and his face showed it. “Mom, you don’t have to be a social worker with me. You know I have to get back into a routine. There’s a whole list of judo tournaments coming up and then a big tournament in a few months. I need to be ready.” He pulled a piece of paper and a stubby pencil out of the pocket of his hoodie. He added a note to his list. “I have running to do, then weights, then breakfast, then school,” he said as much to himself as to his mother.

“Just don’t push yourself too hard.” Rosemary’s soft voice had already trailed off, lost in the wind, in the early morning twittering of birds and a lone dog barking on another street. Danny was already running up the street. He pushed the ear buds in as he jogged along the road, his thumb spinning the dial to find his favourite song. He veered slightly on the road, his shoes grinding on the finely crushed gravel as he moved to avoid tripping over a fat cat that lived two houses down. The cat was crouched by the curb, its ears laid back, watching a robin on a front lawn. The robin danced around the lawn, bobbing its head, listening for worms, and the cat was engrossed, watching it. Danny narrowly missed the cat’s tail, earning a warning hiss.
What’s with these cats around here?
he thought.
They act like they own the whole neighbourhood
.

Danny passed an old rail fence along one property. Grey squirrels chased each other along the top, doing acrobatic leaps into the bushes that ran parallel to the fence. One of the squirrels, its tail twitching like a battery-operated toy, chattered nervously as Danny ran by, perhaps warning him away from the nest it was building in the nearby maple tree. The houses in this neighbourhood were old, but not so old that they were falling apart. They stretched along the road like senior citizens enjoying a rare bit of November sunshine before bracing themselves for the icy blast of winter.

As he listened to his music, Danny thought about the goals he had set for himself: become a better judoka; learn to garden like his great-grandfather; get control of his temper, which seemed to be explosive at times; and forgive his father. He settled into a strong, rhythmic pace. Some of his goals would be harder to accomplish, but nothing seemed to be easy. They were all vague, cagey ghosts that taunted him.

* * *

Danny’s new school was clean and antiseptic, its walls and floors were whitewashed and smelled of toilet-bowl cleaner and Windex. The lockers stretched forever, in long sections painted in primary colours. Every few lockers, one was decorated for someone’s birthday. And the student-of-the-month would have their locker painted in swirls of blue, red, orange, green, yellow.

Here I am, in my old man’s old high school
, Danny thought. The walls of the hallway that stretched from the cafetorium (it was both a cafeteria and an auditorium) to the gymnasium, were hung with photographs of the school’s best and brightest, the jocks and scholars who had won awards or who were otherwise recognized for their achievements. There were signs announcing the school’s upcoming Frantically Funny concert and show, a combination of dancing, sketch comedy, and especially music, under the direction of the black-bearded and scowlingly bombastic Mr. Harkness. He was an old hippie who, for thirty years, had guided the talented and less-than-talented music students through the intricacies of coaxing music from oboes, clarinets, saxophones, and other instruments, and who never once winced at the scratching or squealing of an ill-played note. This was one of those stereotypical schools, where the teaching faculty was comprised of old hippies and draft dodgers — all corduroy pants, lumberjack shirts, corduroy pants, rimless glasses, and grey beards. There was also a sprinkling of young teachers, fresh out of teachers’ college.

Danny wandered down the hallway, trying to avoid bumping into other students while looking for his father’s photograph along the way. He couldn’t find it. Jack had won a handful of gold medals in swimming. He rarely spoke about it — only when he was trying to gently persuade Danny to set some realistic goals for himself — but Danny knew he was proud of his achievements. (What Danny didn’t know was that his father’s photograph was lost in a fire in a supply room many years before.)

Schools all have the same theme
, he wrote in his journal.
The geeks and jocks and brains, lined up smiling for generation after generation to see
. The school was set up as a series of blocks, different buildings connected by glass-enclosed breezeways. It was designed so that every room received natural sunlight.
Like big clear giant Lego blocks. You can’t hide, you can’t run. You are caught in a transparent cube, with the other rats
. The students moved from class to class in groups of two or three, some alone, like Danny, shifty-eyed and moving quickly through the crowds, trying to be transparent.

Danny was relieved to see Ben (though he didn’t act it) after second period one day; to see Ben’s familiar face in a wave of students, moving easily through the crowd. They fell into a pattern of meeting each other in the hallway and heading to third period together. The teachers were a mixed lot, most old and dusty, like books left on the shelf too long, but occasionally an oldster would be bright. Mr. Jackson, the history teacher, for instance.
It’s like he’s still a young person. Like his brain hasn’t aged
, Danny thought.
Jackson is cool. He just seems to get what students are thinking about, what they need to know. History is being created today, he told us. You are creating your own personal history. That history is part of who we are as a society. You would do well to think about carving out a place for yourself, making the most of what you have, and making a contribution to our shared history.

THE DOJO

Danny was uncertain about going to a new judo club, but there was no sense asking his parents to drive him to his old club — it was just too far away. And his parents certainly weren’t putting any pressure on him to continue practising; in fact, he’d even been wavering for a while about continuing. But when he met the head of the club, a man who called himself only “Sensei Bob,” any fears he may have had began to evaporate.

“See? How could you not like this guy?” Jack would say later. He had met Bob at the community centre and they’d talked about Danny joining the club.

Sensei Bob was a man of average height and build. There was nothing in the way he carried himself of the sense of raw brute power that Danny had seen in other judo practitioners. In other places, Danny had seen
judokus
who always behaved with a sense of power, arrogance, and superiority, hefting it the way a father carries a growing child: with a self-indulgent knowledge of his own strength. Bob was not like that.

Sensei Bob was quiet, but confident, with strong hands, and a firm grip as he grabbed hold of a student’s
gi
in a training, talking through all of the movements of tossing an opponent to get his point across. Round spectacles perched on an imperfect nose, he had a scrubby soul patch below his lower lip, and his shock of dark hair was in disarray, making him look like an aging student, someone who was always learning.

Danny’s father spoke highly of Bob. “Bob is the kind of teacher all good teachers want to be,” he’d said. “He gets people to do things that they wouldn’t normally want to do, working them hard in a way that makes them glad to have done that hard work.” Bob had drew pupils from all over town, and some came from even farther away to learn from him. Several students would drive two hours just for an hour and a half of practise with Bob.

“The dojo is fairly quiet this time of day,” Sensei Bob told Danny. “Most of our students come in the evening. But it’s good to have students here right after school. We like to make full use of the facility.” He smiled crookedly. “After the judo students are gone some old ladies come in to do yoga.” He laughed. “They love to come and do some stretching. Happy old folk. In the summer we have a big festival, and all of the people who come here, young and old, get together. Eat tea fondants and drink lemonade and iced tea. It’s a very nice time.