Jack's Black Book (4 page)

I stared down at the paper. I couldn't even understand the directions. It was a fill-in-the-blanks Latin test so I knew immediately I was sunk. Here we go again, I thought. I could just picture Mr. Ploof saying, “Don't worry, kid, you'll make something really spectacular in wood shop.”

“Look,” I said, “I'll be honest with you. I don't know Latin. But I'm a smart kid and I'm hiding from the shop teacher, and I promise to learn it if you just let me hide out here.”

“You take shop?” the president said with disgust. “That automatically disqualifies you. Nobody in the Latin club takes shop.”

“Your sign said all-invited,” I reminded him.

“Read between the lines,” one of the Shermans shot back. “All
smart
kids invited. Not some woodblock.”

“Some woodchip,” said another.

“Woodpile,” added a third.

“Woodrot.” The fourth member opened the door and I stepped out into Mr. Gilette's shadow.

“Don't worry, kid,” he said, and grabbed the collar of my shirt. “Everyone tries to escape to the Latin Club at least once while they're at Sunrise. Now come on back to the shop and I'll show you a trick on how to stack a thousand perfect toothpicks into one tiny box.”

There is just no place for me here, I thought, as Mr.
Gilette steered me forward. I'm not a shop jock, or some Latin nerd, but somewhere in between. According to the old writers' magazine I read, all writers are misfits who have to make their own private place in the world. I had no idea where that private place might be, but I desperately wanted to find it.

When I finally returned home from school after detention BeauBeau was waiting for me. He had been busy all day digging holes and as I walked up the street he ran circles around the house barking and springing through the air with dumb doggy joy. Maybe he didn't have a brain, but he was having a great life.

“Be right with you,” I called to him. After I changed into my work clothes I went outside through the sliding glass door and picked up my shovel. According to Mr. Ploof it was the perfect tool for me. I'd never have to work with a pen, a scalpel, a telephone, a firehose, or anything that took some brains to operate. For me it was just a good old-fashioned back-breaking round-faced shovel.

Since BeauBeau was Betsy's dog she was responsible for his deranged behavior. But she didn't want to fill in the holes he dug so she was paying me a nickel for each hole
filled. It wasn't a lot of money, but it was steady work. BeauBeau and I were a team. All day he'd dig 'em, and when I returned from school I'd fill 'em. It was the kind of assembly-line work that Mr. Ploof had suggested.

One of the main differences I could find between myself and BeauBeau was that after he finished a hole he was so excited he ran about ten circles around the house. He barked and announced to all the other dogs in the neighborhood, “Hey, I dug a hole. Look at me. I dug a hole. I'm great. Hey! Come see the hole I dug.” Then after he calmed down he'd dig another hole right next to the old hole. On the other hand, once I filled in a hole I'd just add one more nickel to the total, take a self-pitying deep breath, and start filling in another. I had nothing to cheer about, and that is what tipped me off that something was wrong. If I was so dumb, then why was I so unhappy? It was because the tests were wrong. If I was as dumb as they said, then I'd be like BeauBeau. Each time I'd fill in a hole I'd run around the house, waving my shovel overhead and shouting with mindless joy. But filling holes was boring, dumb, brainless work and it was a waste of my time. I didn't need to be a genius to know that.

I threw down my shovel, dropped onto one knee, and looked up into the air with my eyes closed. “Come on, muse,” I whispered, “I need you now more than ever. Give me some novel-writing inspiration. I'm ready. I'm waiting. And I'm willing.”

I bowed my head and waited for fresh words to flood my brain. But it was a repeat of what I'd heard before.
Idiot. Moron. What makes you think you can write a novel?
I quickly hopped up and walked off the sting of those words. With each step I was beginning to smarten up. This muse business can't be right, I thought, as I paced back and forth. Only an idiot like me would believe that a muse might come down from the sky and whisper brilliant words into my ear.

I looked at BeauBeau. He was in a hole digging as if he had found a dinosaur bone. He may have had a dog-sized brain but he was smart enough to know exactly what he liked to do. He wasn't waiting for a dog muse to tell him to dig holes.

I didn't have to be real bright to know that if I wanted to accomplish anything I shouldn't magically expect it to just happen. Waiting for a muse was like begging for a handout, or looking for a free ride. Writing was probably nothing more than plain old hard work. And that's why more people didn't write. They took the easy way out and dug holes.

“BeauBeau, you're too dumb to know it but you're a genius. Now, hurry up and dig,” I said, spurring him on. “A few more nickels and we can go to the public library for a good book on writing, and a Slim Jim.”

The promise of a Slim Jim really got him going, and in ten minutes he had a huge hole so long and wide he could turn around in it without hitting the sides.

“Good dog,” I cheered. “You just made me another nickel. In fact, that is a two-nickel double-thick Slim Jim crater.”

He jumped out of the hole and was thrilled. He ran around me barking wildly, throwing his head back and yapping with abandon. The pre-Slim Jim saliva ran down the sides of his mouth. He stood up and pranced around his hole on his hind legs with his front paws paddling the air.

“Go, BeauBeau, go,” I shouted. “Do that hole-diggin' dance.”

He barked, then tore off running around the house, and with each circle he picked up speed like a tornado.

“Faster,” I hollered and waved him forward. “Faster.” His ears pressed back against his head. His tongue stuck out. He kicked up dirt as he sprinted past me, then turned the corner and was out of sight. But in a moment he reappeared around the far corner.

“Do it, BeauBeau. Go for the Slim Jim gold!” I shouted.

He must have gotten a little dizzy from circling the house because he began to stumble as he adjusted his balance. Then he lost his equilibrium altogether and darted full speed off to one side and plunged head-first into his double-sized hole. I heard an awful snap, and a yelp, and that was all.

I threw down my shovel and ran over to him. His head was bent back against his shoulder. “BeauBeau!” I hollered, and grabbed him under his belly and lifted him out. I laid him out on his side and straightened out his head. Somehow I knew he was dead, but I couldn't believe it. Maybe he was just unconscious.

I ran into the house and pounded on Betsy's closed
door. “BeauBeau fell into a hole and I think he broke his neck,” I blurted out all in one breath.

“He's French,” she replied from the other side. “They faint if they have an ingrown toenail. Just tell him the Germans are invading and he'll jump up and start running.”

“He's not acting,” I cried. “He busted his neck. I heard it snap.”

Suddenly she whipped her door open real fast and as I yelled, “Look out,” it flew off its hinges and crashed to the floor.

“You are worse than stupid,” she said angrily and punched me in the chest, knocking the wind out of me. “You're criminal.”

She ran down the hall and out the back door.

I fought to catch my breath as I crawled down to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of ammonia from under the sink. I unscrewed the cap and took a deep whiff and my breath came roaring right back. Good stuff, I thought. If he was just unconscious, then this would bring him around.

When I caught up to Betsy she was kneeling by BeauBeau's side with her ear pressed against his chest. Pete was leaning over her and Dad was coming around the corner. After a minute Betsy said, “No heartbeat.” She held his neck just under his jaw. “No pulse. We better get him to the vet.”

I threw the ammonia to one side and the plastic bottle hit Pete in the head. He fell in the hole. I thought he might have broken his neck but I didn't have time to do anything about it. BeauBeau was my main concern.

Betsy grabbed BeauBeau's chest and I grabbed his rear, and we carried him to the car.

“Don't put him on the seat,” Dad hollered. “Put him over the front fender, like a deer. When you croak your bladder lets loose.”

“Thanks for the real-life detail,” Betsy snapped. “But we're trying to save a life here.”

We lifted BeauBeau into the trunk. I climbed in and curled up next to him, then quickly ducked as Betsy slammed down the top.

Dad seemed to hit every bump, and I kept saying, “Don't worry. I'll take care of you. If you live, you can have a Slim Jim as long as the Alaska pipeline.” I patted him on the neck, but then jerked my hand back. “Sorry,” I said.

After Dad parked he unlocked the trunk. I hopped out and we hustled BeauBeau into the pet emergency room and laid him out on a metal table.

“He's definitely dead,” the vet declared. He swung BeauBeau's head back and forth as if it were a rag doll's. “Broken neck.”

Betsy sighed dramatically. “It's always the brilliant ones that die young,” she said, then pointed to me. “That's why you'll live forever.”

I turned away from her because I could feel the tears well up in my eyes, and I wasn't ready to fight back. I put a hand on BeauBeau's side. “Sorry, buddy,” I said. “I won't forget you. I promise. You were an inspiration to me.”

“What do you want me to do with him?” the vet asked.

“Whatever you do to the rest,” Dad replied. “As long as it's free.”

“Cremation,” the vet replied.

“Can we get the ashes?” I asked. I could keep them in my piggy bank.

“Sorry,” he said. “They all get mixed together—cats, dogs, squirrels, weasels, whatever.”

On the way back to the car I was struck with an idea. At first I thought my muse had finally woke up, but then I realized it was just a brilliant idea that I had thought of on my own. I turned and went back into the vet's office. His assistant was struggling to slide BeauBeau into a plastic trash bag. The poor guy had already begun to stiffen up.

“Can you just freeze him?” I asked her. “You know, keep him on ice until I scrape up some money for a proper burial?”

I didn't know what a proper burial meant for a dog, but it sounded respectful.

“Sure,” the nurse said. “We can keep him for a week.”

“Thanks,” I replied.

I went back to the car.

“What was that all about?” Dad asked.

“A private goodbye,” I said. If I told him what else was on my mind he'd give
me
a proper burial.

The next day, as Mr. Gilette called roll, everyone announced what he was going to make for his final wood-shop project. Mr. Gilette had been instructing us for weeks to come up with something “brilliant and useful,” but not until BeauBeau died was I inspired with the perfect idea.

“Allston,” hollered Mr. Gilette.

“Here,” Allston replied. “Gun rack.”

“Campbell?”

“Yo. Canoe.”

“Henry?”

“Present. Dog coffin.”

“Excuse me,” Mr. Gilette said, and peered up over his roll book. “Did I hear ‘dog coffin'?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

“A dog coffin is not an acceptable project,” he proclaimed. “Dogs don't need coffins. They just need a
hole and some dirt.” Behind me the class began to laugh.

But I stood my ground and said, “I think a dog deserves as much respect as a person.”

“Look,” Mr. Gilette explained, “from my point of view most humans don't deserve coffins. And the whole idea of the final project is to make something that you could actually sell. Something that you could start a business with, like gun racks or shoeshine kits, or canoes. But not dog coffins.”

“Well, I think it's an exceptional business idea,” I continued. “You can only use it once and then you have to buy a new one. It's the American way.”

The class cracked up. I could sense they were shifting to my side and that encouraged me. Once I got it out of my mind that I was supposed to be dumb, I actually felt pretty smart.

And then Mr. Gilette did what teachers love to do when they find their power slipping. He polled the class. “Okay, wise guys,” he shouted. “How many of you think a dog coffin is about the most stupid business idea ever cooked up? Raise your hand.”

The hands went up as if he had pulled a machine gun on them.

I didn't even bother to count.

“Bury that idea, Mr. Henry,” he concluded. “And come up with a new project tomorrow.”

But I didn't. The next day he asked again, and again I replied, “Dog coffin.”

The class went wild.

“If you persist in making that coffin,” Mr. Gilette said, “I guarantee that you'll fail this class.”

“But I'm making something worthwhile.”

“Worthless is more like it,” he cracked. “Why don't you just make a nice bookshelf? A pair of crutches?”

“Dog coffin,” I said, standing firm.

“Then don't be surprised when you have to repeat seventh grade,” he stated.

I didn't take him seriously. Nobody was stupid enough to fail shop. Even me.

For three days Mr. Gilette encouraged me to work on a different project, and each day I worked on my coffin. For once, I enjoyed the work and thought Dad was right when he said that working with your hands was a useful skill.

I hadn't measured BeauBeau, so when I drew out my plans I figured three feet was long enough. I made the coffin a foot high and made two handles, one for the front and one for the back. On the top I carved, To B
EAU
B
EAU
III, M
Y
I
NSPIRATION.
At the end of the week I carried it home on the bus.