Chapter Five
Five
When we get home, Miguel strips down to his underwear and pours himself a bowl of Lucky Charms. It was Amelia’s favorite cereal, but she never would’ve had it for dinner.
Miguel used to cook all sorts of things for her—Japanese curry, empanadillas, spaghetti squash with shrimp, and whatever else he felt like whipping up.
It wasn’t all good (there was a particularly unfortunate incident with sea scallops and maple syrup), but they were real meals, effort, love.
Now it’s just marshmallows and milk, day after night after day.
I stare up at Miguel, hoping to remind him that I, too, need to be fed, and more than just his leftovers. When that doesn’t work, I push my metal bowl to make it bang against the wall.
“Sorry, Harold,” he says wearily as he gives me a scoop.
Moments later, it’s gone. This is the drill: I inhale the contents of my bowl, then we go for a walk.
Otherwise, my stomach does weird things; sometimes I even upchuck whole kibble onto the rug, which every dog knows is the best place to barf.
But there will be no walking tonight. Instead, he sends me into the yard to speed my digestion, then turns off the lights and crawls into bed. I hate to see him like this, so I lie on the floor next to him, just in case.
I let him sleep in the next morning, too, because I know he needs a break. But his snoring goes on so long that eventually I nose him to tell him the sun’s been up for a good long time—as have I—and it’s his turn to rise.
“Go away,” he mumbles.
I most certainly will not. I whimper, and when he pulls a pillow over his head, I have no choice but to jump onto the bed.
“Harold!” he grouses, but I won’t be dissuaded. While I may not know how to help him find a new partner or keep the bookstore open, I’m certain he’ll accomplish neither feat between filthy sheets. So I stand over him, and when he doesn’t move, I bark—just once, but sharply.
“All right, Cujo, I’ll feed you,” he says, tossing the pillow at me. “After all, it’s not your fault humans are the worst.”
Woof.
He stops in the bathroom briefly, then lets me out.
When I trot back inside, I find him in the living room—curtains drawn, thank goodness, as he’s clearly in no rush to get dressed.
He’s hunched over the coffee table, muttering at his computer.
It’s wired to the wall but is still much smaller than the one at the store and somehow folds in half.
He jiggles it, then smacks it with his palm because this, apparently, is how machines do their best work.
After a moment, the thing starts to hum and glow.
Miguel leans in toward the screen and types frantically, pausing to shake his head every so often.
Eventually he looks at me. “Nothing. Not a peep from JMB or his agent, and no updates from his assistant, either. I’m not sure what to do next. You have any ideas, Harold?”
He never used to talk to me like this; I was just a dog to him.
I almost miss his blissfully ignorant days.
I cock my head to indicate I’m thinking, which gets a tiny smile out of him.
But then his lips tighten into a straight line.
“I’ll have to keep brainstorming, and in the meantime come up with some cash.
At this point, I doubt I could get a banker to lend me so much as a pen, but maybe I can sell the house,” he says, glancing around.
“But then I’d have to find a rental that’d take you.
Besides, I wouldn’t be able to sell by September—and how would I box up Amelia’s things when I can barely make myself go into her office? ”
We both sigh.
Now, I like our house. I do. It’s a lovely little place with tiger-striped wood trim and a narrow staircase on the second floor that leads up to the attic, which Amelia turned into her writing space.
Miguel joked it was a jungle because she had so many plants.
But…like him, I don’t go up there anymore.
I can’t. And the rest of the place feels cold and empty with her gone.
I swear I’m not trying to, but I must be giving him puppy dog eyes because he leans down and hugs me. “Sorry, Harold, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll always take care of you—promise.”
He’s going to take care of me? That’s cute.
Before I can come up with some way to make it clear that his worries are misdirected, the phone rings from the kitchen. I don’t expect him to answer, but he clearly thinks it’s JMB because he sprints across the house to get it.
“?Ay, bendito! You finally picked up!” Miguel’s hit a button on the phone that sends his sister’s voice fluttering into the air.
Miriam lives in Bayamón, which is apparently somewhere in Puerto Rico and not a place a dog can get to easily.
She flew in for the funeral and wanted to bring him back with her for a couple weeks.
But Miguel refused—told her he couldn’t visit anytime soon because he needed to stay home to take care of me.
For beings with such big brains, humans can be awfully dumb.
“What’s this ‘finally’?” he scoffs. “I didn’t know you called.”
“Which time? I’ve tried you three times in the past two days!”
“Lo siento. I haven’t been listening to my messages.”
“Listening to what? Your voicemail’s been full since last year. Welcome to the twenty-first century, Miguelito—turn on your cellphone and take it with you like the rest of the world. No answering machine required.”
“I only got that stupid thing because Amelia made me. Y sabes que yo lo odio.”
“Love it or loathe it, it might be useful when I have an emergency and need to contact you.”
Miguel straightens his spine. “?Qué pasó? ?Es Titi Ceci?” Their aunt raised them after their mom died when Miriam was nine and he was twelve, but now she’s in a nursing home and doesn’t always remember them.
“No, she’s fine. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Hmph,” he says, but I know he’s happy to hear from her. Then he tells her about the event. “Between the rent increase and Jonathan not showing up, I’m out of cash and almost out of options.”
“Listen, this is just a setback—not the end. You remember what happened after Mami passed?”
“Not really. Which is probably my brain trying to save me from myself.”
Miriam snorts. “Lucky for you, your sister has a mind like a steel trap. Remember how we didn’t want to ask Titi for cash because we felt bad that she was already grieving about Mami?”
“Hmm.”
“And you knew my sneakers had holes in them. So instead of telling her, you marched over to the comic book place and somehow convinced the owner to let you sell copies outside of school for however much you wanted to charge. Remember?”
Miguel’s expression is slowly changing, but I can’t tell if he’s about to smile or cry.
“And damned if you didn’t convince every other kid at St. Mary’s to spend their lunch money on the latest New Mutants.
It was like, what, a week before I had a brand-new pair of kicks?
But instead of pocketing the leftover money, you gave it to Titi for groceries.
I’ve never seen anyone with more hustle and heart. ”
“That was then, Miriam. I’m not that person anymore,” he says gruffly.
“Sure you are,” she coos. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but that fighter’s still in there, Miguelito. If anyone can figure this out, it’s you.”
He sniffs. “What if I don’t want to figure it out?”
Her voice lowers. “That’s okay, too—just keep putting one foot in front of the other. And if you can’t, you call me, and I’ll pull you along until you can walk again.”
He wipes his eyes and swallows hard. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay—promise. Te quiero.”
“Te quiero también. Besito.”
After he hangs up, he rubs his lids with his knuckles, then turns to me. “My sister should be a motivational speaker, Harold. I have no idea how we’re going to pull this off—but somehow, you and I are going to have to find a way.”