Immortal Max by Lutricia Clifton Page B

excitable.
    A mental picture emerges. Chief Beaumont issuing me another citation for disturbing the peace.
    I notice a bunch of dog toys on one end of the sofa and pick up a tennis ball. Immediately, Buddy and Baby are in front of me, ears alert. I toss it across the room, and they make a dash for it. One of them returns it, and I toss it again. They’re both gone in a flash.
    Mrs. Callahan returns with a tray holding two bowls and a glass of milk. “Oh, you found their weak spot. They both love to chase tennis balls.”
    One of the dogs brings the ball back to me, covered in slime. I toss the ball again, wipe my hands on my shorts, and take the bowl she hands me.
    â€œWhat else does it say?” Mrs. Callahan has noticed I’ve been doing more reading.
    I don’t answer because I’m looking at what’s in the bowl. Vanilla ice cream scooped onto something resembling melted candle wax. Lumpy, mucus-colored candle wax.
    She notices my hesitation. “I thought a hot day like today would be perfect for jelly and ice cream. It’s a traditional Irish dessert. That’s what I am, you know. Irish. I get Granny Smith apples at the orchard—organic, so no sprays—and make the jelly myself.” Beaming her smile, she says, “Organic means it’s good for you, Sammy.”
    â€œYes, ma’am. My grandma used to make her own jelly, too.”
    It’s my first time for jelly with ice cream topping, but the first bite tells me it’s good.
Very
good. I eat fast before the ice cream can melt and use my hand to blot a milky drop off something stuck between my legs. The clipping on peekapoos.
    â€œLook.” I hold up the clipping like it’s a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. “This says the peekapoo is a hybrid dog that originated in the United States in the 1950s.”
    â€œOh.”
Mrs. Callahan claps her hands together. “That’s when I grew up. I had a felt skirt with a pink poodle on it and wore saddle oxfords and bobby socks. Now I have to wear these clunky orthopedic shoes.”
    I look at Mrs. Callahan’s feet. Before she mentioned them, all I saw was her smile.
    She points to the clipping. “Go on.
Please
go on.”
    â€œYes, ma’am. It says now-a-days some breeders are crossing peekapoos with toy poodles, making an even smaller dog.” I glance at Buddy and Baby and estimate their weight at five or six pounds each. A little bigger than Mr. P’s Yorkie, Apollo.
    â€œThat’s exactly what Baby and Buddy are,” Mrs. Callahan says. “My
toys
.” Her face glows when she looks at the two “dignified” pooches. She hands me the bag of dog biscuits. “Here, Sammy. Now that you’ve finished
your
treat, you can give Buddy and Baby a cookie. They
love
anyone who gives them cookies.”
    I give Buddy and Baby three dog biscuits each. I want them to love me a lot. As they sit down in front of me, I notice that one dog’s ear ribbon has come loose, so I retie it in a double knot.
    â€œWhy, that’s very good,” Mrs. Callahan says. “Where did you learn to do that?”
    â€œI have a little sister—her name is Rosie. I watch her whenMom’s working and have to tie her hair up all the time.” When Mrs. Callahan smiles, I know I’ve got the job.
    â€œAre you walking other dogs?” Mrs. Callahan asks as I’m bribing her “toys” with more cookies.
    â€œYes, ma’am. One for Mr. P and a dog for Mr. Muller.”
    â€œI talk to them at the office sometimes. They seem like very nice men.”
    â€œI’ve already talked to Mr. P. I start walking Apollo tomorrow.”
    â€œOh?” Suddenly, summer turns to winter. Mrs. Callahan’s face becomes a pasty-colored sack filled with flabby mouth, eyes, jaws. Sagging flaps for a neck. “And just how much are you charging to walk Apollo?”
    â€œFive dollars, three