Underdog (9 page)

I followed him back to his study and he closed the door behind him. “Do you want to stay there?” he asked me.

I didn’t know how to answer so I said carefully, “1 think Aunt Alice wants me to stay.”

“Only if you’re interested,” said my uncle.

“Oh!” I said.

“Aunt Alice wouldn’t want you to stay if you’re not interested,” said my uncle. “And neither would I.” Both of us were standing. He was taller than my father and more dignified. He stood there, looking down at me, waiting, but I didn’t know for what. Finally, I asked him, “What do you want me to do?”

“That’s not the question,” said my uncle. “The question is what do you want to do?”

I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to go to Mr. Bailey’s store, to his house, or wherever I could find him. I wanted to get the name and address of his cousin and go see Gus. Once I saw him
—well, I didn’t know what I would do then but for now I didn’t want to be sitting with a bunch of women talking about some boring book, or standing with my uncle looking at me as if I was some kind of criminal on the stand.

“What do you want to do?” he was asking me.

Go get Gus! I wanted to tell him but I couldn’t.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You could go to your room,” he said. “There must be lots of things a girl your age likes to do.”

“Oh yes,” I agreed. But I stayed where I was, looking at him.

My uncle said, “Is there something on your mind, Izzy? Something you want to say to me? Is there anything wrong?” He shuffled around a little bit and looked over my head. I could see he was embarrassed so I tried to get a big grin all over my face. “No, no,” I told him. “Everything is fine, Uncle Roger.”

He took a quick look at my grin and he said, very serious, very solemn, “Well, I’m glad to hear that but I want you to know, Izzy, I’m here if you need me. I ... you ... uh ...”

“Uncle Roger,” I said, “I’m glad you were there.”

“Uh, where, Izzy?”

“At the picnic. That day my mother died. You protected Gus. That was the right thing to do.”

“I’m glad you think so, Izzy, but I’m afraid your father

“My father,” I told him. “He didn’t want to kill Gus. He was just upset. But I know he didn’t mean it.”

My uncle nodded his head. Then he said, “Why don’t you stay here awhile with me, Izzy? I have a bunch of papers to go through but if you want to get a book and

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll get a book. I’ll be right back.” I moved carefully around the back of the living room but none of the women noticed me. I picked up a book in the guest room and hurried back to my uncle. He was already deep into the papers on his desk. We didn’t talk much the rest of the evening but it felt good just sitting there.

Chapter 9

Mr. Bailey looked happy to see me.

“Oh, am I glad to see you, uh
—what’s your name anyway?”

“Isabelle Cummings.”

“Well, Isabelle Cummings, you really did me a good turn, yesterday.”

“I did?” I said. “Did your cousin say I could see Gus?”

“Yes, you certainly did. You know how I told you my cousin and I were angry with each other. Well, when I called yesterday, even before I mentioned why, as soon as he heard my voice he said, ‘Henry, is that you?’ ‘Sure, it’s me,’ I told him. ‘Well, I’m a big fool, Henry,’ he said, just like that.’... a big fool and I want to tell you I’m sorry. ‘Well,’ I said, Tm a big fool too and I’m sorry too.’ So now we’re friends again, and tonight I’m going there for dinner, and it’s all thanks to you.”

“I’m glad,” I told him, “but did he say I could see Gus?”

“Oh! The dog! Casper!” Mr. Bailey’s face fell and I held on to the counter.

“Not such good news about him. I feel bad about that especially since you did me such a good turn. I told John
— that’s my cousin—this nice, polite little girl is going to be very disappointed when she hears.”

“Not
...
not dead?” I cried.

“No, no,” said Mr. Bailey. “At least I don’t think so. They told him they wouldn’t.”

“What happened, Mr. Bailey? Please
—what happened?”

“Well, it turns out that my cousin’s daughter
—that’s his youngest, Ellen, was the one who took care of Casper. She went off to college this fall and there wasn’t anybody to look after him. My cousin and his wife both work and now that their last kid is out of the house they wanted a little freedom. Sometimes they wanted to go away for a weekend and it was always a problem what to do with Casper. But they managed until a couple of weeks ago.”

“A couple of weeks?”

“Yes. John said he took Casper out for a walk at night but he didn’t bother putting him on a leash. It was dark and just as they were about to go back inside, this big dog came along and Casper got scared and ran out into the street. I’m sorry to tell you this but
...
”

“He was hit by a car,” I cried.

“Yes, he was. Not killed, no, but his leg was broken and my cousin and his wife decided it was too much trouble, especially since Ellen wasn’t going to be around to look after him.”

“I hate your cousin, Mr. Bailey,” I shouted. “He’s a bad man.”

“He’s stubborn,” Mr. Bailey admitted, “and not always considerate, if you know what I mean, but he’s not a bad man.”

In my mind, I could see Gus lying there in the street, maybe in a pool of blood, lying there in pain and all alone.

“Where is Gus now?” I cried.

“I think
—I hope—at the S.P.C.A. They’re really very nice people down there,” Mr. Bailey said helplessly. “They told John they’d put a cast on his leg and they would try to find another home for him. They said he seemed to be a healthy dog.”

On the bus to the S.P.C.A., I remembered what I had forgotten
—Gus’s number. But how many little black dogs with casts on were there likely to be. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! I wanted to cry out, and kept throwing myself forward to make the bus go faster.

When I got there, I hurried into the shelter but they stopped me at the desk. No, they said, I couldn’t go inside without a grown-up. But nothing was going to stop me from seeing Gus. Not this time. Not ever again.

I went outside and waited. After a while, a woman with three kids got out of a car and I tagged right along behind them. She stopped at the desk and explained that she was looking for a kitten for her children. “A white kitten,” said one of the children, “No, a black one,” said another. I stood behind the woman and hoped nobody at the desk would remember me from before.

Nobody did. We all trooped into the shelter together but when the woman and her kids went off into the rooms with the kittens I separated from them and went looking for the dogs.

There were rooms and rooms of them. Each one had seven or eight cages and there were dogs in most of them, looking for a home. There were big ones and little ones, quiet ones and noisy ones. Some of them jumped up on the bars of their cages as I passed and tried to lick my hands.

It was so sad that I promised myself that one day, when I was a grown-up and a vet, I would live in a big house with lots of dogs. I wouldn’t care how the house smelled or if there were dog hairs on all the furniture. It would be a home, a real home for dogs like the ones I passed, barking and crying in the S.P.C.A.

I finished all the rooms down one long corridor and as I stood, hesitating, a young woman came over to me and said, “Can I help you?”

“Oh
—yes—I—uh—my mother is looking at cats but I wanted to see the dogs. The male dogs. Are there any other rooms with male dogs?”

She led me down another corridor with more rooms. In the second one I found him, in the third cage down, sitting at the back, quiet
—not barking, not whining, just sitting there quietly, licking the top of his cast. The card on his cage said he was seven years old, gentle with children, and that his name was Gasper. But I knew who he really was. My dog. Gus.

“Gus!” I cried. “Gus! It’s me.”

He didn’t move. His ears stood up just a little and he raised his head but he stayed where he was.

I knelt down by his cage and I called him. “Gus! Gus! Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you. I won’t let anybody hurt you ever again.”

Slowly, he pulled himself up and slowly, he limped over to the front of the cage. I put my hand inside the cage but I didn’t touch him. He sniffed at my fingers and I said to him, “It wasn’t my fault, Gus.”

He stood very still, listening. Even when I began stroking his head, he still did not move.

“He’s a quiet one,” said the attendant as she came into the room. “Not a peep out of him. I guess he’s the quietest dog I’ve ever seen here. People complain a lot about a dog who barks but they sure don’t want a quiet one.”

“I want him,” I said. The fur on Gus’s head felt soft and very familiar, like I’d been stroking it for years and years.

“I’m glad,” she said, “because he’s such a gentle dog and I don’t think he’s had a very good time of it. I didn’t honestly think we’d find a home for him. People looking for a dog don’t want a quiet, sad little guy like this one. They want a happy, friendly one the frolics around and looks like fun. This poor dog just sits in his corner all day
— he doesn’t make a good impression.”

“What would have happened to him if I didn’t come along?” I asked her.

The woman said, “We like to find homes for all our healthy animals and we do
—for over 90% of them. But we also have to make room for animals that keep coming in. We never have enough room.”

I knew what she meant. But I had come in time.

She said I couldn’t take him with me. She asked me where my mother was so I had to tell her the whole story. She was very kind to me. She said she would take especially good care of Gus until I returned with a grown-up to sign for him. And she promised that nothing would happen to Gus until I returned
—with the grown-up. I made her promise a couple of times but she also said I shouldn’t wait too long.

I kept thinking and thinking after I left the S.P.C.A. Who? Who? Who? Not my aunt and uncle in their clean white house. Not them. Who in this whole world of millions and millions of people would care enough to rescue one little, quiet, sad dog who nobody ever wanted?

There was only one possibility.

She said no, at first. She said she was too old to go. That she never left her home anymore. It was one thing if people brought animals to her or if cats found their way there but another to expect her to go out herself. When she was younger, yes. Then she could, but not now.

1 pleaded with her for a long time. I begged her and she shook her old head but I could see she didn’t want to say no and I kept on.

“I’ll come every day, Mrs. Firestone. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll go shopping for you and I’ll clean your house.”

“No,” she said. “I wish I could but I’m too old.”

“You’re not too old, Mrs. Firestone. Please, Mrs. Firestone? I’ll take care of all the other animals and I’ll put fresh water in the pool every day for Franklin and Eleanor.”

She kept saying no until I reminded her about how they would kill Gus if she didn’t take him.

“Murderers,” she cried. “That’s what they are
—murderers.”

“The woman at the S.P.C.A. told me herself. Nobody wants Gus. He’s too sad.”

“No wonder,” said Mrs. Firestone, “after what he’s been through. Shame on all those terrible people! Shame on Loretta! Shame on me!”

“They’ll put him to sleep,” I said. “You can’t let that happen, Mrs. Firestone.”

“Yes,” she said finally. “Yes.” And I put my arms around her and smelled her dry old newspaper smell and I loved her at that moment nearly as much as Gus.

It was two o’clock. I hated to leave Gus in the S.P.C.A. one more night but there was no time to go back and get him that day. I told Mrs. Firestone I would return in the morning and I stopped to make a telephone call before getting on the bus home.

Yes, they said at the S.P.C.A., they would expect me tomorrow. Gus would be there, waiting for me, tomorrow.

My uncle didn’t make it home that night for dinner.

“He’s very busy this week, Izzy,” my aunt said, “but he won’t forget the date he has with you Saturday.”

“Saturday?”

“Yes. Isn’t he taking you over to his old neighborhood to see if that old lady who took your dog is still around?”

“Oh
—well—he doesn’t have to.”

“No, he’s looking forward to it. And perhaps later, we can have lunch in Chinatown. Have you ever eaten dim sum?”

“No,” I said, “but I might be busy this weekend.”

“Oh?” she said, and waited.

What was I going to tell her. Nothing about Gus. Not yet. Not until I had him. Not until he was out of the S.P.C.A. and safe. Then I would tell her.

“I
—uh—I have to do a big report.
"

“Oh?” she said again. “What about?”

“Uh
—the Jewish holidays,” I told her.

She nodded her head up and down and looked pleased. “Well, that’s fine and Izzy, if you need to go over to the public library, Gina can take you tomorrow afternoon. Oh
—no! Gina has to leave early tomorrow. She has a class at four.” She looked at me in a worried way. “She might even be gone before you come back from school.”

“No problem, Aunt Alice.”

She really was looking worried. “And then next week,
Izzy,
I have to go out of town for a few days. There’s an Indian potter at Taos whose work our gallery is very interested in. I’ll have to be away for a couple of nights and Uncle Roger will need to go to a meeting on one of those nights.”

“I always stay alone, Aunt Alice. I’m used to it.”

“No.” Again that worried look on her face. “It’s not right for a girl your age to stay alone at night.”

“But my father let me.”

Aunt Alice’s face looked frozen in worry. “You’re too young. I’ll have to find a baby-sitter.”

I wanted to tell her if I had a dog you wouldn’t have to worry about me. But what was the use.