Wish (8 page)

 

Thirteen

And so my life in Colby, North Carolina, marched on. Rumbling down the mountain on the school bus beside Howard. Ignoring those hillbilly kids who wouldn't give me the time of day. Playing Bible Detective at church. Waiting for Wishbone to eat hot dogs from the pie tin. Gazing up at the stars on the porch with Gus and Bertha. Making my wish every day.

Jackie called every once in a while to tell me about her happy life back in Raleigh. She was going to the prom with that boy Arlo. She and Carol Lee might work at the Waffle House this summer. She got a fake tattoo of a butterfly on her ankle.

I told her about Wishbone and how he was going to be mine and she asked me if I really thought that was a good idea. I told her, yes, it was a very good idea and that was that.

I'd seen Wishbone three more times. Sniffing at trash in the parking lot of the Dairy Freeze. Trotting along Highway 14 in the rain. Eating something out of a paper bag under a picnic table beside Brushy Creek.

Twice I'd found the pie tin in the trap empty but I hadn't seen him anywhere nearby. Luckily, there were only two more weeks of school left and then I would have my days free to spend more time by the trap, but I was beginning to worry that Wishbone was never going to be mine. Maybe I was wasting my time even thinking about it.

“I heard Wishbone barking last night,” Howard said one day while we sat on the old couch on his front porch eating Popsicles.

“How do you know it was him?” I asked, watching Cotton jumping onto a milk crate in the yard with orange Popsicle juice running down his chin and onto his bare stomach.

“I just know,” Howard said.

“We're never gonna catch him,” I said. “Gus was right. He likes being a stray.”

“Don't be a quitter,” Howard said.

“I'm not a quitter.”

“Yes, you are.”

I stamped my foot. “I am not!”

Howard licked melted Popsicle off the side of his hand and said, “Pineapple.”

I flopped back against the sofa and hurled my Popsicle stick out into the yard. That pineapple plan of his was starting to get on my nerves.

“Oh, good gravy, Charlie,” he said. “Don't be a baby.”

“I'm not a baby!” I hollered.

Howard shrugged. “You sure are acting like one,” he said.

Just then Mrs. Odom came out on the porch, wiping her hands on a dish towel. But my temper had a hold on me and I could
not
shake it. I also could not stop myself from yelling, “Well, at least I'm not a squirrel-eating hillbilly like you.”

Then I stomped down the steps, marched across the yard, climbed on Lenny's bike, and raced up the road toward Gus and Bertha's. When I got there, I dropped the bike in the yard and headed for the house. But as I reached the front door, I heard something over by the trap. I turned to look and couldn't believe my eyes. Wishbone was in there gobbling up meat loaf and french fries.

I didn't waste one more second. I raced across the yard and slammed the door of the trap shut with a bang. Wishbone let out a yelp and jumped clear up off the ground. Then he slinked back into the corner and hung his head, dragging his ears on the ground. He looked so scared it like to broke my heart.

“Hey, Wishbone,” I whispered.

He pushed against that chicken wire so hard I was afraid he might bust right through it.

“I got more meat loaf,” I said.

He cocked his head.

“Wait right here,” I said. “I'll be back.”

I closed the latch on the door of the trap and hurried inside the house, calling for Bertha. We nearly collided when I darted into the kitchen.

She clutched her heart and said, “Charlie! Lordy! You scared the dickens out of me.”

“I got him!” I hollered. “I got Wishbone!”

I yanked the refrigerator door open and took out a foil-wrapped slice of meat loaf and ran back out to the yard. Bertha ran after me, calling, “I knew it! I knew my meat loaf would do the trick.”

When we got to the trap, Wishbone was digging at the ground beside the wire like he was trying to dig a hole clear through to China. Dirt and pebbles flew out behind him. When he saw us, he stopped and backed up into the far corner of the trap again.

I unwrapped the foil. “I brought you more meat loaf,” I said.

He let out a little whine, soft and pitiful. I could hear Bertha telling me to be careful and don't stick my fingers through the chicken wire and stuff like that. But I kept my eyes on Wishbone and told him not to be scared. Then I stuck a piece of meat loaf through the wire near him and waited.

His nose twitched as the meat loaf smell drifted his way. He stood up and sniffed some more.

“Come on, Wishbone,” I said. “It's for you.”

He took one step forward, keeping his eyes on the meat loaf. He took another step and then another till he was right at my hand. Then he snatched that meat loaf, swallowed it in one gulp, and wagged his tail.

Wag.

Wag.

Wag.

Three tiny wags like he was thanking me.

I turned to Bertha. “Did you see that?” I asked.

Bertha nodded. “I sure did. I confess I thought you were going to lose a finger or two.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out two saltine crackers. “Give him these,” she said.

I gave Wishbone the crackers, and after he gobbled them up, he looked at me and wagged his tail again.

Then Bertha helped me look for the collar Gus had made from an old leather belt of his. We got rope from the garden shed and tied it to the collar. I ran back inside and got more food. Some cereal. A piece of raisin bread. A couple of slices of bologna.

Then I raced back out to the trap with Bertha not far behind, calling, “Wait for me!”

 

Fourteen

Wishbone didn't like that collar one bit. He bucked like a bronco when I put it on him, flinging his head this way and that. Then he sat down and dug his feet in like a mule when I pulled on the rope to get him out of the trap. But after leaving a trail of bologna like Hansel and Gretel's bread crumbs, I managed to get him to follow me, step by step, to the house. Once we were inside, Bertha locked the screen door and I untied the rope. Then we sat on the sofa and watched him.

He sniffed everything that was worth sniffing in that house. The shaggy green rug by the front door. Gus's easy chair. Bertha's basket of yarn. Then he made his way cautiously through the rest of the house, inspecting the coatrack by the back door, licking crumbs off the linoleum floor under the kitchen table. When he spied one of the cats up on the windowsill, he let out a bark. The cat arched his back and hissed. I was relieved when Wishbone just walked away. Bertha had been worried that he was going to chase the cats, and I have to admit I had worried about that a little bit, too.

After a while, he got tired of sniffing and laid down next to the sofa and went to sleep. I tiptoed over and sat beside him, stroking his fur and whispering his name. I couldn't hardly believe I had my very own dog.

When Gus got home that night, he seemed pleased as punch to see Wishbone sitting there in the kitchen while Bertha cooked chicken fried steak and black-eyed peas.

“Well, don't that beat all?” he said.

I couldn't keep my hands off of Wishbone. I petted his head and stroked his ears and scratched his belly.

“Isn't he something?” I said.

Gus nodded. “He sure is.”

“He smells like something, too,” Bertha said, making a face. “You're gonna have to give him a good bath out in the yard tomorrow.”

“I will.”

Tomorrow was Saturday, so I had all day to spend with him. I'd bathe him and walk him. Maybe I'd teach him a trick, like to sit or lay down. I might even take him to Howard's house if I decided not to be mad at him anymore for calling me a quitter and a baby. And then I remembered calling him a squirrel-eating hillbilly with Mrs. Odom standing right there on the porch. My stomach squeezed up and my face burned just thinking about that. I knew Howard wouldn't be mad 'cause that was his way. But I bet Mrs. Odom hated me now. I bet she wouldn't want me in her house messing up their goodness with my hateful words.

That night, I took Wishbone out on the porch with us. Every now and then, he perked his ears up at the sound of a rabbit or something rustling down in the woods. But eventually, he laid down and rested his chin right on top of my foot. He didn't even pay any mind to the cats strolling around him.

“I think you got yourself a good one, Charlie,” Gus said.

I smiled down at Wishbone. “I bet he'll be as good as Skeeter,” I said.

Gus nodded. “I bet he will.”

“You know what I like best about dogs?” Bertha said.

Gus and I waited.

“They love you no matter what.” Bertha smiled down at Wishbone. “Shoot, I know folks who are cranky or stuck up or bold-faced liars and their dogs love 'em like they're saints or something. Know what I mean?”

Gus nodded and said, “Yep.”

“I hate to admit it,” Bertha went on, “but I bet half these cats of mine would run off and never look back if somebody came along with a can of sardines.”

I leaned down and ran my hand down Wishbone's side. His fur was soft and warm and he snored real soft while he slept. Then I gazed up at the starry sky and had a feeling I hadn't had in a long time. Thankful. I felt thankful that I had my very own dog who would love me no matter what.

When I woke up the next morning, the first thing I did was look for Wishbone to make sure I hadn't just dreamed he was mine. Sure enough, there he was, curled up on the floor beside me. I'd put one of my pillows there for him and he hadn't wasted one minute flopping down on it.

I spent the morning bathing him and combing him and picking burrs out of his tail and ticks off of his ears. I knew he didn't like it much but he let me do it. When I was done, he looked so handsome and smelled so good that Bertha kept making a fuss over him and running back into the house to get him another chicken liver. He was so skinny you could count his ribs right through his fur.

“We need to fatten him up,” Bertha said.

After lunch, I practiced walking him with the rope tied to his collar. At first, he'd made it clear that he didn't like it. He'd jerk his head this way and that or sit down and refuse to budge. But I kept a plastic bag full of tiny pieces of cheese and bacon and stuff to lure him along, and after a while, he was trotting right beside me. Around the yard. Through the garden. Up the driveway and back.

I let him take a nap tied up in the shade of the big oak tree on the steep slope by the back porch. Bertha brought a tablecloth outside and spread it on the ground next to him. Then the two of us had pimiento cheese sandwiches and sweet tea for lunch. Bertha told me a story about some old man named Cooter who used to be the mayor of Colby.

“He carried a gun,” she said. “And if anybody parked in front of Town Hall where they weren't supposed to, he'd shoot their tires out.”

“Really?”

“Really. And his wife used to wash her underpants and hang 'em on the antenna of her car and then drive around town till they were dry.”

I wrinkled my nose and said, “Eww.”

Bertha laughed. “I know! That big ole underwear looked like the national flag of the Land of Big Behinds flapping in the breeze like that.”

Me and Bertha had a good laugh over that. Every now and then, Wishbone's feet jerked and he let out a little yip while he slept. I wondered if he was dreaming about running free again without a rope tied to him. I hoped not.

I took a gulp of sweet tea and watched the honeybees flitting over the clover beside us.

Clover! Maybe I could find a four-leaf clover. So while Bertha told me about how Cooter and his wife bought a gold mine in Nevada and moved away, I searched and searched. Sure enough, I found one. But I didn't pick it. If you pick it, it will bring you good luck, but if you leave it growing there, you can make a wish, which is exactly what I did.

After lunch I decided I wasn't mad at Howard anymore, so I tied Wishbone's rope-leash to the handlebars of Lenny's bike and pedaled down the road to the Odoms'. Wishbone seemed to love that, racing along beside me with his ears flapping and his tongue hanging out.

When I got to Howard's, he and Dwight and Cotton were in the front yard playing some game that involved throwing tin cans and punching each other.

“Hey, y'all!” I called. “Look what I got!”

They raced over and gathered around Wishbone, stroking his back and patting his head.

“Wow, Charlie,” Howard said. “You did it!”

I couldn't stop myself from beaming at him. “I know!” I said. “And isn't he great?”

Howard scratched behind Wishbone's ears. “Looks like he's got some beagle in him,” he said. “I like his ears.”

While the Odom boys made a fuss over him, Wishbone sat there with his eyes closed and a doggy smile on his face.

We played with him the whole afternoon. Cotton kept tossing popcorn for him to catch and Dwight led him across the yard on the leash and got him to jump up onto an old cooler and sit. Howard even taught him to shake hands in no time flat.

“He's smart!” Howard said, and we all nodded in agreement.

“Let's show Mama his tricks,” Howard said, hurrying to the porch in his up-down way.

With everybody making such a fuss over Wishbone, I'd forgotten about what I'd said yesterday when my Scrappy temper had grabbed hold of me. But when Mrs. Odom came out to the yard to see Wishbone, I remembered. My face burned and I couldn't even look at her.

Howard showed her how Wishbone could sit on the cooler and shake hands.

“Ain't he smart?” he said.

“He is smart, for sure,” Mrs. Odom said. “And lucky he's found such a fine friend as Charlie.”

I felt relief wash over me. Maybe Mrs. Odom wasn't mad at me, after all.