Beau, Lee, The Bomb Page 9

“Let’s go see if she’s in the van.”

  But she’s not there. Neither is the van.

  Beau heads off my meltdown.

  “Rusty, I’ve been thinking. I think maybe she’s left.”

  “What? No way! Why?! Where?!” I start venting. But Beau redirects me.

  “Rust! Listen, how many calls were on your phone when you turned it on?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Like a thousand!”

  “I know. I got twenty-three from my mom. Rust, Leo never turned her phone off.”

  We look at each other as his meaning dawns in my mind.

  She didn’t get one call from her mom. Not one . . . all night.

  I am shut down. That would be the one number worse than thirty-nine.

  Zero.

  Poor Leonie! But where would she go? Back to deal with her terrible mom?

  Or something else . . . oh no. Would she go back to Ratskin? The only one to text her. Thinking he was the only one who cared. Or wait—had that tool called her? Or had the other ones, the creeps who call her T? We’d missed it! We’d been at the ocean for over an hour.

  After another hour of discussion, we walk over to a little diner close by. We order eggs and toast and wait and watch the ocean and ponder our predicament. We call and text her.

  Nothing.

  Finally, after drinking so much coffee that we are completely wired, we get up and sprint back to the cabin. It’s noon and it’s checkout time. We gather our stuff up and set it outside of the cabin door.

  We sit down and wonder what to do next—without a van and with a lot of junk to carry. We’re stuck.

  We are discussing how sad/mad we feel when we think of Leo’s life and whether or not Leonie has lost her mind when she pulls up. Fast.

  And, I must say, it is the most wonderful sight in the world.

  She jumps out of the van and comes around to us. We are standing up and shaking the sand off us and the stuff we’ve been sitting on.

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t think it would take so long! I missed the turnoff! Don’t be mad, ’kay?” Her hair looks like she’s seen a ghost. She has sunglasses on the top of her head and is wearing Beau’s black hoodie.

  “Where did you go? Why did you leave? We were so worried!” We are babbling in relief when Leonie shushes us.

  “I got something to show you,” she says mysteriously. Sort of defiantly.

  And then she opens the van side door to reveal the dog.

  I stand frozen in place, jaw unhinged.

  I just knew it.

  And a crappier, more dejected, miserable specimen of a dog you are unlikely to ever see. Scrawny, shaking, flattened ears, flattened-down body—just a terrified little animal. Barely more than a puppy herself.

  She looks up at us and averts her eyes, then licks her chops over and over nervously.

  I got nothing. I just stand there, staring.

  You know what we don’t need right now? What we don’t need right now is a dog. Any dog but especially this dog. Yes, she’s pitiful, so let’s get her away from the monsters and drop her off at the nearest PAWS right now before it gets any worse. They won’t put her down. Then we can go. We’re busy.

  Beau stands there openmouthed for a sec and then goes slowly down on his knees far enough away so that she isn’t freaked out. Speaks to her kindly. Doesn’t move fast. Just waits.

  She pees. Right on the black rubber floor of the van, all flattened down on her stomach; she just cuts loose. Pees everywhere.

  I yell, and she looks away, shaking harder than ever, but can’t stop herself.

  “Rusty, chill! Stop! I’ll clean it up! It’s just pee! Shhhh, it’s okay.” Leonie is sitting down beside her, practically in the pee; she’s petting her and holding her around her neck. The dog just crouches there. Like it’s too scared to move. Shaking and peeing. I jump out of the van.

  Beau comes after me.

  “Hey.”

  I turn around.

  “I know this sounds wrong, but Lee did the right thing. The only thing.”

  “Not the only thing! She could have just stuck to the plan, and we would be on the road by now!” I’m boiling. Now, on top of everything else, we have to think up what to do with Rando, the Pissing Wonder Dog! Freaking great!

  “No, Rust! You know we couldn’t! I know you don’t mean that. You’re just a little riled up right now . . . Rylee. It’s good what she did. It’s an act of kindness. Of greatness, really. It’s okay, Ry. Listen to me: Leo fed the right wolf!”

  “What?!”

  “Leo fed the right wolf! It’s like that saying or whatever!”

  “What are you even talking about?! You mean like a hybrid?! I thought it was a husky or like a Mal—’cuz it better not be a wolf!”

  “No, Rust—you know—that saying or fable or whatever, about the two wolves—”

  “What are you talking about?!” I practically screech.

  “Okay, calm down and let me tell you! Are you listening?”

  I stop yelling. Instead, I try to stare him down. “Yes. Shoot.”

  “So this Indian, I mean Native American, kid goes to his dad and—”

  “Oh, good that he’s Native American. That makes it more profound!” I interject snarkily.

  “Will you just listen?! So the kid says I’m having this dream all the time where these two wolves are fighting, and they fight constantly and one is mean and vicious and a bully and the other is awesome and kind and brave! But they fight and fight all night! So when the kid wakes up, he freaks out and says, ‘What’s going on, Dad?’ And the dad says: ‘Okay, if you’ve seen them, then you’re growing up. There’re these two wolves. They’re inside everyone—one is good and one is evil. It takes us a while to become aware of them, but they’re fighting constantly, inside everyone you know—’ ” Beau pauses to see if I’m listening.

  In spite of myself, I am. Actually riveted. I have never heard this.

  “The dad says, ‘The wolves are fighting for your soul,’ ” Beau continues. “So the kid is, like, horrified and says, ‘But, Dad, which one will win?’ ”

  Beau pauses again, and I try to look at him indifferently. But I’m caught, and he can see that. He really does have my attention. So he draws it out. He smiles at me and puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “And the dad looks at him and says, ‘Son . . .’ ”

  I scowl at Beau impatiently. He gazes at me and says distinctly, “ ‘The one that wins is the one you feed.’ ”

  I remember gasping like I’d been dunked in cold water and standing stock-still as that washed over me. . . .

  Amazement.

  (Okay, I know by now everyone has heard it ten billion times, but remember that shivery feeling? That was how I felt when I heard it for the first time, and for me, hearing it was a paradigm shift, like when you learn something that changes your opinion forever. I thought it was so cool it gave me chills. I remember just standing frozen, freezing . . . gob-smacked, realizing.)

  Till Beau continues:

  “Also, this dog is awesome.”

  At which time I sharply regain focus.

  “This dog’s been abused! It’s messed up! How do we know it’s not going to go sketch on us and tear our arms off?” I’m coming a little unthreaded. The dog’s barely more than a puppy. “Besides, where is her puppy? What, aren’t we going to go steal that too?”

  “No, because I saw the puppy get sold this morning, with my own eyes, and it’s going to be fine,” Leonie says as she jumps out of the van and comes over to where we are.

  “Seriously, Leo?” Beau looks at her intently.

  “Yeah. It’s gonna be okay. He sold it to a little kid, a girl, who carried it like it was a baby. I think it’s probably going to be wearing a lot of doll clothes for a while. I don’t think it will mind though.” Leonie considers the puppy’s prospects thoughtfully.

  I stand in the sand and bellow belligerently.

  “So then, if he can sell her puppies for money, he’s
never gonna shoot her! He was just messing with your minds!” I’m trying to keep them tracking our plan.

  Enraged, I throw sand at the cabin. The wind catches it.

  “Rusty! Let’s listen to her! What happened, Leo?” Beau’s voice is soothing. I stop them.

  “No! You two listen! Lee, go clean up the pee and we’ll get in the van and you can tell us then. Beau, help me put the stuff in there. It’s cold and I want to bounce!”

  They’ve stalled; I’m in gear.

  So we do.

  As we are pulling out, all de-peed and de-sanded, I simmer down enough to remember the tradition. I run back to the trail and find a small round rock on the edge of the path. I put it in my pocket. I will add it to the collection. I bring a pebble from the ocean every time I visit.

  This will be the first one without my dad . . . both pebble and ocean trip.

  “So, Leo, what happened?” I look at her in the rearview. She’s sitting wrapped in the comforter with the pillow and the dog. She’s rubbing the dog’s ears softly.

  “Yeah, Lee, tell us the story,” Beau adds.

  She slowly comes back to the van from wherever her thoughts were.

  “That guy is mean.” Her face is somber.

  “Dude, tell us something we don’t know.” Beau is half turned around to her seat. “He should never have a dog.”

  “Yeah, well, he was a huge poser also, acting really nice to the kid and her dad. Acted like he was all into dogs and patted her on the head . . . the kid, not the dog.” Leonie’s voice is contemptuous. “Then the second they were gone he was all ‘gat-dank dogs’ and spitting chew.”

  “Where were you?”

  “At that place where we ate. ’Member? The waitress said they came in every morning for breakfast.”

  “No, I figured that. Where were you that you could see all this without him seeing you?”

  “I was sitting at our same table. I was wearing this hoodie with the hood up and these dark glasses. Like this. Nobody ever recognizes me without my hair. See?” She demonstrates.

  “Dude, you look like the Unabomber,” I say. Which she did.

  Beau yelps. He thinks I’m funny.

  “Who’s that?” Leonie wants to know.

  “He’s a guy who goes around stealing dogs,” I tell her. Beau snorts again.

  “Oh.” Lee doesn’t even know I’m bagging on her.

  “Leo,” Beau says, still grinning, “Rusty is bagging on you.” He eyeballs me in reprimand, even though he’s laughing too.

  “Oh.” Leo so doesn’t care. She smooches the dog’s head absentmindedly.

  “Then what?” I ask nicely, to make up for teasing her.

  “So the little girl gets the puppy and then he comes back inside, and I see him talking to his friends and then he goes to the bathroom, so that’s when I make my move. I had seen the mom dog in the back of the truck, and when nobody was looking, I just walked out like no big deal and untied her and put her in the van and drove away. Fast. My heart was pounding!”

  We drive in silence for a minute.

  “No one saw you?” Beau asks.

  “I don’t think so. No one yelled or followed me. My hands were trembling! I drove!”

  “Jeez.” I finally sigh heavily. “This is awesome!”

  “It’s fine! It’s good! This dog is the bomb!” Leonie glares at me defensively.

  I frown at her in the rearview.

  “Oh, it’s the bomb, all right! It just came in and blew our plans to smithereens!”

  “Rusty! She’s a ‘her,’ not an ‘it’!” Leonie scowls from the mirror. “It’s not her fault!”

  “Whatever,” I say. “Actually, you’re right. It’s yours.”

  “Rust.” Beau touches my arm. “It’s cool. The poor little thing, right? This dog is the bomb.”

  I look at Beau and then back straight ahead. Two against one. Fine; I’m just driving.

  We leave the beach like we left the woods, heading down 101. The broken yellow line curves out of sight like the road less traveled. We’ll stay on the scenic route and keep the ocean to our right.

  We’re finally en route to the city!

  I drive in silence for a while. Lee and the dog are on the seat behind me, and then the dog gets down and fidgets on the floor, and of course the next thing I smell is stank.

  I cannot believe this. I start to take a really deep breath for calmness—then change my mind quickly and unroll the window.

  I look back in the rearview. Begin to go ballistic but again change my mind.

  “Leonie, uh, I think The Bomb just went off,” I say with cheese grating hilarity.

  Beau looks over at me. His eyes are amused.

  “Um, yeah, so could you start cleaning up the, uh, shrapnel?” Ow, I am just hurting myself! I’m a killer! Rusty on a roll!

  Beau stifles a laugh ’cuz I’m a hoot. Then he turns around to Leo.

  “We’ll pull over and I’ll help you,” he says sweetly.

  As do I. I sing out.

  “Oh yes! Let’s do! I shall pull over now because The Bomb shat! This is all part of the plan! Oh, great day in the morning, yes!” I’m in my own little groove now. “Yup, yup, awesome pup!”

  I elaborately signal to pull over, even though there are no other cars on the road. Leonie jumps out of the car, calls The Bomb, and walks her over to the side of the road, leading her gently by her neck fur flap. Bomb follows her and then pees and dookies everywhere again. Then looks up in wonder when she hears Leo encourage her. Wags her tail once, doubtfully.

  Okay. I guess she really had to go.

  I calm down after they clean the van out again. We smell like a dirty, dank, doggy day care. On wheels.

  I open my door and unroll my window when we are halfway tolerable again and get in. This trip is starting to go completely sideways. We should be past Portlandia by now. Instead, we have left the left coast and are heading inland down 101; we’re halfway through the Quileute reservation, which takes up a lot of the far west of Washington state. It’s not all timber—a huge stretch of the land is scrub, with little pines and sagebrush. We are going toward Aberdeen. It’ll be getting dark by the time we get there because we live in the land of midday night during winter.

  We pass the turnoff for Olympia, our state capital. I feel better. We’re on the move.

  Maybe on the way back we’ll explore Olympia, I tell our crew. There’s a tree there that was a seed on the moon, I think—or orbited it or something . . . Or we’ll come back later, when the rhodies are in bloom. Our state flower is the rhododendron, I explain, which is actually a member of the evergreen family, so that makes it perfect for the Evergreen State. I read somewhere that there’s a huge garden of them at the capitol. All colors. I like the thought of massive, raucous blossoms, waving crazy in the wind, some growing taller than my head.

  They both look about as freaking interested in this as The Bomb does. Fine. Whatever. Knuckleheads.

  We continue driving. The terrain has changed from scrub to greenbelt back to tall trees again as we roll south along 101, then back to scrub, as we head west again toward the ocean.

  I drive in the dark. When I see a rest stop I pull over and we walk The Bomb and then curl up in the van to sleep. It’s only about eight thirty, but we are wiped. I can hear The Bomb snoring as I fade.

  I wake to Leonie singing in the dark.

  “Mommy’s little Bommy loves shortening, shortening, Mommy’s little Bommy loves short-nin bread . . .” It’s a whisper.

  I can see them in the rearview without moving. The Bomb is completely relaxed and blissed out. They are under the comforter, and The Bomb’s paws are flopped over comfortably like fins. I laugh under my breath. So crazed.

  Then I go back to sleep.

  The next day we drive over the Astoria Bridge without hitting any seagulls, which from the looks of it must be a rare feat of skill and luck. The bird bodies are all over the bridge in various states of decay. It’s a huge bridge, over the
wide Columbia River, and about halfway through the sign overhead changes from “Washington” to “Oregon.”

  We have crossed state lines! Woo-hoo! Better later than never! We continue down the coast, far from Portland and its zillion bridges. I remember my dad got lost here once, when he went to look at a fishing boat and brought along Paul and me. My dad was in the navy, and I have learned some epic swears from him.

  That was a day I learned quite a few.

  We’ll stay on the coast and ride 101 down. Let the fast guys take I-5; we’ll be fine with our scenic route.

  I look in the rearview, and Leonie has The Bomb upside down and is holding her like a baby.

  “Lee, you guys look silly. You know that, right?” I smile when I say it. I can’t help it. They also look cute.

  She ignores me and addresses The Bomb.

  “Aunty Wusty is just jealous she doesn’t have the pwettiest doggy in the whirld. She wuvs The Bommy, too! She thinks The Bommy is the sweetest, pwettiest, goodest wittle doggy-woggy-woggy.” The Bomb licks her face. The rest of the information about what I think is lost in The Bomb’s neck fur. The Bomb closes her eyes dreamily.

  “Yup. That is exactly what I was thinking,” I say. “If only there were some more dogs to steal!”

  Beau looks over, laughing.

  “We’ll never go home! We’ll just drive up and down the West Coast, stealing all the sad little dogs and cats, and we’ll keep them in the van and feed them and go for walks on the beach.”

  “And take them to Disneyland!” I add with snarkasm.

  “Yes, we will take them to Disneyland on a Groupon and buy them all mouse hats! It will be the most fun they ever have and we will take their pictures on Splash Mountain so they will remember it forever!” Beau is telling The Bomb this as she is licking his hand.

  “And never make them have puppies! At least not until they are old enough! That sucks—asking a puppy to do a woman’s job!” Leonie suddenly snarls, outraged and ferocious.

  “Dude!” I yell.

  “What? It’s true!” Leo glares at me in the mirror. “She’s not a factory!”

  “Omg! Okay, very true, but don’t say woman! She’s not a woman! She’s a dog, for gawd’s sake! Don’t say woman if you mean female. It’s female. She’s a female. Jeez! Also, technically—she’s a bitch.”