Woof Page 18

  “Maybelline?” said Birdie. “What’s she doing here?”

  We went outside, met Maybelline just as she reached the breezeway. She looked different than the last time we’d seen her. Now she was wearing lots of makeup—makeup being one of the easiest smells out there—although it didn’t quite cover up the smell she’d had before, back in the nursing home, namely the smell of yellowed old newspapers. Also, she was all dressed up, wearing a greenish sort of dress with sparkles on the shoulders, a dress that matched the purse, also greenish and sparkly.

  “Ah,” she said. “Bowser. I was hoping you’d be here.” She opened her purse, took out the biscuit I’d already known was in there, and said, “Sit.” What was that all about, the strange human belief that I preferred to eat from a sitting position? The truth is I have no problem with eating in any position, from standing straight up on my hind legs to rolling around on my back. But I wasn’t going to solve this problem then and there on the breezeway of our place on Gentilly Lane. I sat. Maybelline said, “Good boy,” and held out the biscuit. I snatched it out of her hand in the nicest possible way. Delish.

  Maybelline turned to Birdie. “I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Birdie.”

  “Ah. A nice southern name. Is your grandmother around, Birdie? I’ve come to talk to her.”

  “She’s, uh, in her room,” Birdie said. “Resting.”

  “Resting? That doesn’t sound good. And not like the Claire Gaux I remember. Although it’s been some time since I saw her. Thirty years? Something of the sort.”

  “She got dehydrated,” Birdie said. “The doctor put her on an IV.”

  Maybelline frowned, meaning all the lines on her old face changed direction, now pointed down. “Which of our local sawbones are we referring to?”

  “Dr. Rajatawan.”

  “The only one worth two figs,” Maybelline said. “Born in a hovel by the Ganges and ends up as a graduate of Vanderbilt Medical School—what does that tell you?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, enough chitchat. Take me to her.”

  “She may be asleep.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge.”

  “Um.”

  “I don’t have all day.”

  We entered Grammy’s side of the house, went into her bedroom. Grammy was just how we’d left her, fast asleep in bed, the IV hooked to her arm. The only change? Snoozy was now sleeping, too, slumped in the easy chair with his mouth hanging open, the magazine on his lap.

  Maybelline took in this little scene, her gaze going from Grammy to Snoozy and settling on Grammy again. Her dark eyes—so strangely young in that old, old face—got even darker. She backed out of the room. We moved down the hall and into the kitchen.

  “Might I trouble you for a glass of water?” Maybelline said.

  “No trouble,” said Birdie, going to the sink.

  Meanwhile, Maybelline pulled out a chair, her movements suddenly a bit unsteady, and sat down kind of heavily. Birdie handed her a glass of water.

  “At least thirty years,” Maybelline said. She drank.

  “Dr. Rajatawan says she’ll be fine,” Birdie said. “Considering.”

  “Then I suppose she will be fine. But what if she’s not?”

  Birdie stepped back. “I don’t understand.”

  “Or what if I’m not fine? What happens then?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Birdie said.

  “What terrible timing!” Maybelline took a long look at Birdie and then said something that stunned me: “Sit.”

  She was fixing to feed Birdie a biscuit? When I knew for absolute sure that no biscuits remained in her purse? This was maybe the weirdest moment in my whole life.

  Birdie sat down at the table. No biscuit appeared. I couldn’t have been less surprised. As for Birdie, she was watching Maybelline closely. Poor kid! No biscuits in her immediate future.

  “There’s something important I want your grandmother to know,” Maybelline said. She held up a skinny, crooked finger. “Not because I’m tired of carrying the burden. But because it’s the right thing, even if it’s too late. Why didn’t I do it sooner?” She raised the glass, had a shaky drink. Then she took a deep breath. “My mind is clear today … What was your name again?”

  “Birdie.”

  “You have an honest face, Birdie. And clever at the same time—an unusual combination. Any idea why my mind is so clear today?”

  Birdie shook her head.

  “Because,” Maybelline said, at the same time getting this huge and sort of wicked grin on her face. A yellowish grin on account of her stained old teeth. “I skipped my meds this morning. Hid ’em under my tongue and flushed ’em down the second the nurse turned her back! How do you like them apples?”

  “I … I don’t know,” Birdie said.

  “No, of course you don’t. How old are you?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Eleven! Ha!” Maybelline opened her purse and fished around. “I’ve brought something for your grandmother. Make sure that she gets it.”

  “Okay,” said Birdie.

  “She’ll know what to do,” Maybelline said. She took a folded sheet of paper, kind of torn and grimy, from her purse.

  “What’s that?” Birdie said.

  “Should have done this long ago.” Maybelline gazed down at the folded sheet of paper. “Did I mention Dan Phelps already?”

  “The guy who taught you taxidermy?”

  “Correct. And also my first and only … well, let’s just stay with the taxidermy. Day after Christmas, 1944. That’s when he died. Dan Phelps, I’m talking about. Killed in action in France. Ever heard of the Battle of the Bulge?”

  “No.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The news came January 10, which was a Wednesday. The next day, Thursday, I got a package from him. A package from a dead man. My hands were shaking so much I could barely open it. And inside? The most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, before or since.” She went silent.

  “What was it?” said Birdie.

  Maybelline looked up. “Trouble. With a capital T. We were all poor as church mice in those days, you understand. Dan, Maurice, Frank Straker, everyone from around here. No one could have dreamed of buying what was in that box. I wrapped it back up and stuck it under my bed.”

  Church mice? A kind of mouse? No scent of mouse in the room, not a whiff. I was a bit lost.

  “I’m a bit lost,” Birdie said.

  Me and Birdie! Practically twins! I couldn’t have been happier.

  “So was I,” Maybelline said. “But I started to get an inkling when Frank Straker came back from the war in the spring, out of the army ahead of schedule for some reason or other, and asked whether I’d gotten a package from Dan. I was young and stupid but not so young and stupid to trust the likes of Frank Straker. I told him no. Maurice was a different story, of course. When he got back here after the war, I told him everything.” She unfolded the sheet of paper.

  “What’s that?” Birdie said.

  “Why, the legendary treasure map,” Maybelline said. “Isn’t that what this nonsense is all about?”

  Birdie leaned closer, gazed at the map. All I saw were some squiggly lines in ink. “Is that the swamp?” Birdie said.

  “Most definitely.”

  Birdie pointed. “That looks like Lafitte Creek, where the X is.”

  “I believe so,” Maybelline said. “I didn’t draw this map. Maurice did. X is where he buried the treasure, after several trips to find the exact right spot.”

  “I don’t understand. Is there pirate treasure after all?”

  “Not pirate,” Maybelline said. “But stolen, yes. Stolen in a weak moment. Some of our boys had weak moments overseas, gave in to the temptation of taking what was not their own, like fancy paintings and such.”

  “Dan had a weak moment?” Birdie said.

  “I’m afraid it must have been so.”

  “And the treasure’s a painting?”

  “A nec
klace,” Maybelline said. “The most beautiful in the world, all rubies and emeralds, big as golf balls. Maurice found one like it in a book about Louis XIV, king of France, actually not quite as nice, in my opinion. He thought I should try to return the necklace to the rightful owners. But who were they and how would we find them? That was problem one. Problem two—how to do that without the world knowing that Dan … that Dan had had a weak moment? So in the end we decided to bury the necklace in case we ever discovered the rightful owners, which never happened. What did happen was more nosing around on the part of Frank Straker, asking questions at the post office and such. Maurice believed Frank knew all about the necklace, might even have been in on the … What’s the word?”

  “Heist?”

  “Exactly. The heist. Your great-grandfather took Frank out on his boat to talk it over. They didn’t come back.”

  “What happened?”

  “No one knows. No one will ever know. But treasure rumors started up and they never really died away, not completely. Then there’s the problem of what may or may not have come out of my mouth when the meds were talking.” Maybelline went silent and started fanning her face with her hand. Her face had gotten sweaty and all that makeup was sort of melting, almost like her face was changing shape.

  “But how did you get the map?” Birdie said.

  “Didn’t I cover that? Maurice gave it to me.”

  “I meant how did you get it out of Black Jack?”

  “It was never in Black Jack! That was just a rumor—a rumor I didn’t discourage, or maybe even started myself. Who wants some schemer breaking into their house? But none of that matters. Dan, the war—all so long ago. Now is now. And what can’t happen is for the necklace to fall into the wrong hands. It needs to see the light of day. Then all this nonsense will stop.”

  A car honked on the street. I hurried to the window, just doing my job. A taxi was waiting.

  Leaving the map on the table, Maybelline rose and stumped on her walker toward the door, her movements much more feeble and unsteady now than when she’d come in. Her voice was weaker, too. “No one knows the swamp like your grandmother.”

  “Wait,” Birdie said. “Are you saying you’re the only one alive who’s seen this map?”

  “No,” said Maybelline, opening the door. “There’s also you.”

  I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS, BOWSER,” BIRDIE said. “Not one little bit. Our last nighttime expedition didn’t go so well, if you recall.”

  Nighttime expedition? I searched my memory, came up empty. But the idea of a nighttime expedition sounded brilliant. Had I ever met a smarter person than Birdie? Not even close.

  We were in our bedroom, Birdie’s and mine. She was sort of pacing around, stopping from time to time to peer at the treasure map, unfolded on her desk. As for me, I seemed to be lying on the bed. So nice to kick back once in a while.

  “But one thing for sure—I’ll never sleep till this is over.”

  Never sleep? I didn’t get that at all.

  “Do you think my daddy was the same way?”

  What was this? Her daddy again? He seemed to come up from time to time. I looked forward to meeting him.

  Birdie sat on the bed beside me. “I’m actually pretty lucky,” she said. “He did give me one piece of advice. No loose ends, Birdie.” We sat in silence for some time. I put a paw on Birdie’s knee. Very quietly—so quiet even I could hardly hear—she said, “I want him to be proud of me.”

  Birdie took a deep breath, then rubbed her hands together, the way humans do when they’re gearing up for something. “What did Maybelline say? Now is now.”

  We went over to Grammy’s side of the house, the sky almost dark now except for a purplish glow at one edge. Birdie opened the door to Grammy’s bedroom and we looked in. Same as before, Grammy and Snoozy both zonked out. Birdie turned to me and placed one finger across her lips. That meant what again? “Shh,” she said, very softly. Got it! No one can be quieter than ol’ Bowser when he puts his mind to it. I put my mind to it. We crept up to Grammy’s bedside.

  Grammy still lay on her back but now her face was turned toward us. Her eyes were closed, although her eyelids were so thin you could almost see the eyes underneath them. The skin on the rest of her face looked the same, way too thin, the bones underneath way too apparent. Every once in a while you could see the pulsing of a blue vein in her neck. Had we come to wake Grammy up and have some chitchat? That’s what I’d thought, but it didn’t seem to be happening. Instead, Birdie was just watching Grammy, those fresh blue-sky eyes of hers maybe a little damp. Finally, she leaned over Grammy and kissed her forehead very lightly. Grammy went on sleeping. Birdie gave me a quick head movement that meant Let’s go, and we went.

  The purple was all gone from the sky when we stepped out of the house on our nighttime expedition. Not only that, but clouds covered the whole sky, meaning we had no moon or stars—a very dark night. Fine with me: I can see pretty well in the darkness and, at the same time, I don’t even need to. Skip that part if I’ve mentioned it already.

  I walked beside Birdie, just a shade in front, making it easier for her to find the way. Making things easier for Birdie is just part of my job, and it’s a job I like. She wore shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers, and carried a shovel over one shoulder for some reason she’d explained but wasn’t coming to me at the moment. I myself wore my snappy orange collar from Claymore’s General Store. The snappy orange leash that went with it had been left behind, meaning we were off to a good start.

  We headed down Gentilly Lane, made a turn onto a dirt back alley I didn’t know, and eventually reached the bayou by a route that was new to me. Funny thing about the bayou: Even though the night was black, the bayou itself had a faint glow. No one was around, the whole town quiet. We moved along the bank—the great shadow of old man Straker’s emporium rising on the other side, no lights showing—and came to the dock. It creaked under Birdie’s feet, especially when we got to the sticking-out rickety part closest to Gaux Family Fish and Bait. Our little silver swamp-tour boat was tied up where we’d left it. Birdie turned back to me, her finger across her lips, which was our sign for something or other. She bent down and lowered the shovel into the boat without making a sound. Then she went to the cleat, untied the line, coiled it up, and lowered the coil down into the bow in the same silent way. After that she climbed into the stern and sat on the seat by the motor. She looked at me like she wanted me to do something. I was still trying to remember what the finger-across-the-lips sign was all about.

  “Bowser,” she hissed. “In the bow.”

  Right. That was my place: the bow. I hopped right in, landing with a pleasant-sounding thump on the cool metal deck. That was when the point of the finger-across-the-lips sign came to me. It meant no noise. I’d come so close to remembering in time! Wow! Hard not to feel good about yourself at a moment like that.

  “Bowser!” Birdie hissed again, perhaps not completely happy about something or other, but no one can be happy all the time.

  She pushed off the dock, picked up a small paddle that lay under her seat, and paddled us in a tight curve, away from the bridge. She turned out to be a fine paddler, making no splash at all, just a pleasant bubbling sound. Birdie paddled us some way up the bayou, then glanced back. Behind us, St. Roch still lay dark and quiet. Birdie turned to the motor. She tugged at a small doohickey on the front, squeezed the bulb of a gas tank that lay under the seat—there’s no missing the smell of gas—and then cranked the engine. It made noise, of course, but not a whole lot to my way of thinking, being a smallish engine. Birdie shoved the doohickey back in and hit the throttle. We picked up speed, headed up the bayou.

  I was just about to turn and face forward the way a good bow sailor should when lights flashed on in old man Straker’s emporium, now pretty far behind us. That bothered me, although I couldn’t have told you why. I barked my low rumbly bark, sending a message: Turn around! See what I’m seeing!

  But Birdie did not. “Bowse
r,” she hissed again, and put her finger across her lips. This time I remembered the sign right away and went silent. I faced front: Bowser, good bow dude, reporting for duty. I’d never want to disappoint Birdie.

  Boating is the best—and boating at night is even better! For one thing, the bayou was much more … how to put it? Alive, maybe? Way more smells of living things rose up out of the water than in the daytime, and every now and then a fish jumped right into the air, a twisting shadow in the night. We rounded a bend and Birdie said, “A good night for fishing.” Fine with me, the only problem being that we didn’t seem to have a rod or any of the other fishing gear. Was the shovel meant for fishing? Was the plan to wait for fish to jump out of the water and then clobber them with the shovel? That was as far as I could take it.

  The bayou got narrower, something I felt more than saw. I looked back at Birdie. She was on her feet now, peering ahead, one hand on the steering stick. She slowed us down, and a moment later we bumped, not hard, against one of those trees with knees that rose out of the water, actually hitting the knee part.

  “You all right?” she said, pushing off.

  Never better! We rode on, real slow now, through some twists and turns, and then suddenly we were back on the lake, also something I felt more than saw, mostly from the freshening of the air. Just around then, the clouds thinned a bit, and moonlight leaked through. What a nice sight: the clouds still covering the whole sky, mostly dark but kind of cottony here and there, faint moonlight shining on the lake and glowing on the moss that hung from the trees. Birdie throttled up. We crossed the lake, two nice frothy waves spreading from the bow and the wind in my face, our motor making a low throb-throb-throb. Did I hear another throb-throb-throb, deeper than ours but somewhat distant? I couldn’t be sure. Separating one throb from another’s not always a piece of cake. As for cake, I wanted none. For the first time I could remember I wasn’t hungry. Maybe because we were having so much fun, me and Birdie.