Aces Wild (6 page)

“Oh,” I said.

As we pulled into the parking lot the next week, I decided to do what my math teacher, Mr. Tortoni, always did before we’d start a new unit. He’d put on this ridiculous hat with the letters
R
and
E
written on it, which he called his RE-cap. Then he’d summarize the entire lesson to make sure we understood all the material we’d covered. Even without a hat, I figured it might be a good idea before we went inside to summarize for Ace what I had talked about the whole way there.

“Tonight’s class is called the Name Game, remember?” I said. “I practiced with Ace and got him ready. So all you have to do is stay in your chair while I do the class with him. You don’t participate.”

“RIGHT! SIT. STAY. GOT IT.”

“Good,” I said, almost slipping and saying
Good boy
.

Think positive
, I thought. Me. My class. Ace on the side,
watching, listening if he wanted, but, above all, behaving himself.

Unlike last week.

It sounded too good to be true. But, like my dad said, old dogs could sometimes learn new tricks … right? Of course, the only actual old dog I knew well was Bridget, the beagle that belonged to the Stanleys, our next-door neighbors. Poor old Bridgie had to be about a hundred in dog years. She couldn’t see or hear very well, but she was still the best-trained dog I knew. She could walk politely on a leash, sit at any opportunity, lie down if you even thought about asking her to, and roll over for a tummy scratch. But these were old tricks for her. Could Bridget learn new tricks? I wasn’t so sure.

We walked into class just before it was scheduled to start. Ace pulled out his
New York Times
crossword puzzle, and I felt a huge wave of relief. This wasn’t a new trick for him. But if he succeeded at the more challenging task of not participating at all—not commenting loudly on the proceedings or getting into the middle of them—he could have all the treats in my treat sack. Which, tonight, contained cut-up pieces of Hebrew National salami—one of Ace’s favorites. One of Ace-the-grandpa’s favorites too.

Mrs. Wright started us off in a circle, standing with our dogs. One at a time, she called people into the center, instructing them to let out the leash and allow their dogs to wander before calling their names. A lady with a schnauzer went first. Her dog took a few steps in the direction of the circle, and Mrs. Wright nodded.

“Mika!” said the lady. The dog turned immediately and looked back at her.

“Good, great, mark it!” ordered Mrs. Wright. “Who’d like to go next?”

The man with the Great Dane got up to try. His puppy seemed thrilled at the opportunity to stretch her long legs and galloped away from him the moment he let out her leash.

“Lady? Lady!” he tried. The dog’s ears perked up, but she didn’t turn. You could almost see her thinking through it like a math problem.
Name equals treat, maybe, but treat equals sitting down and not romping. Hmmmm …
She took another couple of giant steps in the direction of Ace, who was pulling determinedly on his leash to meet her halfway.

“Ace, stop it,” I said.

“WHAT?” came from behind me.

“Not you,” I said, feeling my face get hot as I tried to push Ace’s wiggling bottom down into a sitting position.

“Quiet, everyone!” called Mrs. Wright. “Let’s try again. This time, show the treat first, then pocket it. Let your dog know there’s something in it for her but she’s gotta pay attention to you.”

The man did as he was told, and it seemed to work. The dog’s head moved, following his hand as he repocketed the treat. But when he tried again, the same thing happened as before.

“I know their names mean something to you,” said Mrs. Wright, “but you have to remember that to your dogs they’re just words until you teach them otherwise. Let me show you
something.” She turned to me. “Sweetie, do you mind if I borrow Ace for a minute?”

“Oh, um, no, go ahead.” I held out the leash to her. Instead of taking it, she walked past me.

“Would you mind helping us with a little demonstration?” she asked.

Ace-the-grandpa looked up, startled. Perhaps he had even been dozing. I saw him doing the math, just like the Great Dane had.
Request from teacher equals participation and attention, but earlier request from grandchild equals no participation and …

“WHY NOT?” said Ace.

The two of them conferred briefly. Then, to my surprise, Ace followed Mrs. Wright into the center of the circle.
What could she possibly want with Ace?
I wondered. The only one who seemed more unhappy about this arrangement than me was Rosie, Mrs. Wright’s Pomeranian. Rosie was either the world’s laziest dog or even better trained than Bridget. She usually spent the entire class lying next to Mrs. Wright’s purse and watching, but when Ace-the-grandpa entered the ring, Rosie sprang to her feet and began to fidget.

“Rosie, down,” said Mrs. Wright coolly.

Instantly, Rosie crumpled to the floor and resumed her usual posture. But her eyes never left Mrs. Wright.

“Now, for this demonstration,” said Mrs. Wright, “I’m going to need a volunteer. Let’s see.… How about you, Zelly?”

This was a classic teacher trick, often used by Mr. Tortoni: call on the one person not raising her hand.

“Your neighbor can watch your dog,” added Mrs. Wright. “This will just take a moment.”

Since it didn’t seem like I had a choice, I handed Ace’s leash to the lady standing next to me and walked to the center of the circle to join Ace and Mrs. Wright.

“Okay, go ahead,” said Mrs. Wright to Ace.

“SCHLEMIEL!” said Ace in his booming voice. Several people laughed.

“Sorry?” I said.

“SCHLEMIEL,” repeated Ace, smiling.

“Grandpa, stop it,” I whispered. I was pretty sure a schlemiel was a weirdo or a loser, but I didn’t know why he was saying it again and again. Especially in front of all these people.

“SCHLEMIEL!” insisted Ace. He reached into his pocket and pulled out half a roll of butterscotch Life Savers. Holding the candy, he walked over and gestured to a folding chair Mrs. Wright had just set up. “SCHLEMIEL, SCHLEMIEL!” he said emphatically.

“Okay, well, schlemiel to you too,” I said, suddenly understanding. I sat down in the chair.

“MAZEL TOV!” said Ace. I looked up and saw that Ace’s hand was right in front of my face, holding a somewhat linty Life Saver.

“No thanks,” I said.

“TAKE IT. I’M MARKING YOU.”

“Fine.” I took the Life Saver, but I didn’t eat it.

“Great job, Zelly!” said Mrs. Wright, beaming. “Let’s all give Zelly and Ace a big round of applause.”

Ace flapped his hand modestly, like this was unnecessary. But he didn’t return to his seat. Instead, he started lecturing the group.

“I USED YIDDISH TO MAKE A POINT,” he announced. “TO A DOG, ENGLISH, YIDDISH—IT’S ALL THE SAME. IT’S GIBBERISH!”

“Exactly,” said Mrs. Wright.

“HE DOESN’T KNOW A
HEEL
FROM A
SCHLEMIEL
.”

“Precisely,” she added.

“HE’S IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY. DOESN’T KNOW THE LANGUAGE. HE’S THE NEW KID.”

Like I was
, I thought, looking down at Ace. He was wagging his tail and smiling expectantly, as if he hoped some scrumptious morsel might magically materialize. New was good by him. Tasty, even! Clearly, Ace-the-dog was the Jeremy kind of new kid.

“BEFORE THE DOG CAN LEARN, THE MASTER HAS TO.”

“I love that,” said Mrs. Wright. “That’s it exactly! So, now let’s all try playing the Name Game. But as you are calling your dog, try to put yourself in his shoes. Er, so to speak.”

“IT’S JUST FASCINATING,” said Ace as we left class.

“What?”

“THE EVOLUTION OF ATTITUDES,” said Ace. “WHEN I WAS A LITTLE PISHER, DISCIPLINE—OF CHILDREN, MUCH LESS ANIMALS—INVOLVED A STERN VOICE AND A STEADY HAND.”

I had never thought about Ace being a kid. He had been a grandpa my whole life. “Were you ever the new kid?” I asked.

“SURE,” he said. “WHEN I FIRST CAME OVER. AND AGAIN WHEN MY FAMILY MOVED FROM THE LOWER EAST SIDE TO BROOKLYN. BUT YOU KNOW WHEN I REALLY FELT LIKE THE NEW KID? WHEN YOUR GRANDMOTHER AND I MOVED TO VERMONT.”

I had to laugh at that. “But, Grandpa, you were, like,
old
,” I said.

“WATCH IT, KID!” protested Ace.

“I mean you were a grown-up,” I explained. I remembered seeing the movers put their things in a truck when I was little. At the time, I thought they were going to live in the truck. I was jealous because it had a ramp up the back. I thought it would make a great slide, and I wished I could live in their new “house” too.

“YOUR GRANDMOTHER WANTED TO MOVE HERE, NOT ME,” said Ace. “I WOULD HAVE BEEN PERFECTLY HAPPY STAYING IN BROOKLYN, WHERE I KNEW WHERE TO GET EVERYTHING I LIKED.”

“Dad says he’s found a place to get bagels here that are acceptable,” I told him.

“PFFFT!”
Ace made a face to express his strong disagreement with my dad’s optimism on the bagel front. “YOU WANT TO TALK UNACCEPTABLE, YOU SHOULD SEE WHAT PASSES FOR CHINESE FOOD HERE. FEH! BUT YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR GRANDMOTHER SAID?”

“What?”

“SHE SAID, ‘DON’T BE AFRAID OF CHANGE.’ AND
SHE WAS RIGHT. IT’S HARD, BUT IT JUST TAKES TIME.”

I nodded. My mom said something like that when we moved. But half a year had gone by already, and I still felt like the new kid.
How much time?
I wanted to ask.

“SHE WOULD’VE FOUND THIS DOG-TRAINING BUSINESS INTERESTING. SHE HAD A REAL THING FOR ANIMALS.”

“Bubbles?” I asked, surprised. “I don’t remember you guys ever having any pets.”

Ace shook his head. “NOT PETS. SHE DIDN’T BELIEVE IN KEEPING ANIMALS. SAID IT WOULD BREAK THEIR SPIRITS. BUT YOU REMEMBER HERMAN?”

“No … Wait, yes,” I said as a whisper of a memory drifted back to me. “Behind The Farm?” I asked, picturing the house where Bubbles and Ace had lived when Bubbles was still alive.

“EXACTLY,” he said. “THERE HAD TO BE A DOZEN OF THEM, ALL LIVING OFF FIELD MICE BEFORE YOUR GRANDMOTHER AND I MOVED IN. ALL OF THEM STARTED SHOWING UP, NIGHT AFTER NIGHT, GETTING FED BETTER AT THE BACK GATE THAN I WAS AT THE TABLE! ‘IT’S JUST ONE CAT’ IS WHAT SHE’D SAY. SHE WAS A SMART COOKIE, YOUR GRANDMOTHER.” Ace smiled proudly. “HOW COULD I BEGRUDGE HER FEEDING ONE STRAY CAT?”

“I almost forgot about Herman,” I told Ace. All of the cats had some white parts and some spots, so they seemed like brothers and sisters, which they probably were. When I
would visit Ace and Bubbles, I would chase them, but I never got close enough to pet them, much less catch them. Bubbles could, though, so she’d occasionally fetch “Herman” and hold him or her still for me. A memory swam back to me just then: me feeding tuna fish out of a can to one, while Bubbles beamed down at me and petted my hair like
I
was a cat. I liked this idea so much that I got on all fours and ate some tuna fish myself, right alongside the real cat. Bubbles laughed but she didn’t stop me. She just stroked my hair and called me her favorite kitty of all.

The surprise of the memory felt like finding money under your pillow even though you didn’t remember losing a tooth. And then poking your tongue around your mouth and discovering the hole. It made me happy and sad and scared all at once. In time, would I lose everything I had of Bubbles? Ace hadn’t, which was good, but he had known her longer. Was a little over eleven years—some of which didn’t even count because I was just a baby—enough time to seal up those memories forever, like those prehistoric bugs trapped in amber they have at the natural history museum in Manhattan?

Just then, I remembered something I had been wanting to ask Ace. “Who said that thing?”

“WHAT THING?”

“You know, the thing you said in class. About how before the dog can learn, the master has to.”

“OH,
THAT
THING.” Ace looked surprised, then pleased. “I DID,” he said proudly.

“Ace … Ace … ACE!”

“Ace … Come on, Acey.”

“A-ACE! Hey, Ace!”

“Ace! Attaboy! Good boy!”

For two days, I practiced the Name Game with Ace. He was excellent at responding to his name inside the house, especially in the kitchen, where he knew the snacks were readily available. He was pretty good on the sidewalk or in the backyard. And he was downright terrible if another dog—or a cat, squirrel, or tennis ball—was anywhere in the vicinity.