Saving Winslow Read online

  “The donkey is a cute fella, I’ll give you that, but the noise he makes gives me a migraine—right here—behind my eyes.”

  “I think he’s practicing a warning,” Louie said, “when a stranger is around.”

  “You mean a stranger like the mailman? A deliveryman? A cat? A squirrel?”

  “Sometimes he seems to be, uh, singing,” one neighbor said.

  “I’ve noticed that,” Louie agreed.

  “But it’s awful singing. If that’s singing, then he needs lessons.”

  Most annoyed was Mrs. Tooley, who lived next door, on the opposite side of Mack and his family. Mrs. Tooley had never been friendly, so it was not a surprise that she would complain. When Louie’s mother had taken a pot of soup to her one day, Mrs. Tooley said, “No, thank you. I don’t like neighbor stuff.” There was never a sign of a Mr. Tooley, and only rarely were there other visitors.

  In the fall, when Louie had offered to rake the leaves from her yard, she said, “Leaves, schmeaves, let them be.”

  In the winter, when Louie had finished shoveling their own sidewalk, he carried on shoveling Mrs. Tooley’s. She opened the door and said, “I’m not paying you.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “So stop it.”

  Now Mrs. Tooley complained about Winslow. She would fling open the kitchen window and shout, “That donkey wakes up the baby! Make it stop that noise!”

  Mack’s family did not complain, but Mack did mention that Winslow might prefer living with other animals. “What about your Uncle Pete’s farm? Isn’t that where the donkey came from in the first place?”

  Louie could not bear the thought of Winslow leaving. Who would look after him as well as he did? What if Winslow got sick again? What if Winslow thought Louie was abandoning him?

  At night, Louie looked over at Gus’s empty bed and thought, First Gus goes. Now Winslow?

  “Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go,” Louie whispered into his pillow.

  25

  Winslow was curious

  Winslow was increasingly curious, testing his curiosity most often with his mouth. He ate through two power cords (fortunately unplugged) and nibbled plastic buckets, newspapers, and jackets. He licked an oil spill on the garage floor, munched on the doorframe, and chomped on an old tarp.

  Winslow trotted from one thing to another, smelling and tasting. Every few minutes he returned to Louie and bumped him with his head, as if to say, “I am still here. Are you?”

  “He’s like a little lamb,” Mack said. “He follows you everywhere. He probably thinks you’re his mother.”

  “What?”

  “Well, think about it. You’re the only parent he has known. He doesn’t even know what another donkey is. He doesn’t even know that he is a donkey! He probably thinks he’s a human, like you.”

  That night Louie dreamed that his own parents were donkeys. In his dream, he thought, Then I must be a donkey, too!

  Winslow brayed, as if in response.

  That sound: maybe it came from outside, and maybe it was in his dream. Louie could not be sure, for he was still in his dream.

  26

  Winslow! Winslow!

  One morning, when Louie went out to the pen to feed Winslow before going to school, the pen was empty and the gate was open.

  Did I forget to close it? Louie wondered. I’m sure I closed it. I’m nearly certain I did. Did I?

  He dashed down the street and through backyards calling for the donkey.

  “Winslow! Winslow?”

  His parents and Mack joined in the search. All along the street were calls of “Winslow! Winslow!” as they ducked in and out of driveways and poked in bushes.

  No Winslow. No sign of him, no sound of him.

  “I can’t go to school,” Louie told his parents.

  “But we have to go to work—”

  “Fine, but I have to stay and look for Winslow.”

  Mack said, “I’ll stay, too. Louie and I can both look for Winslow, and if we find him—”

  “When we find him—” Louie corrected.

  “Okay, when we find him, then we’ll go to school.”

  They returned to the pen to see if the donkey had left a trail of any kind, but other than the normal patches of scuffed earth where Winslow and Louie frequently walked, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  “I hope he didn’t wander into the road,” Mack said.

  “Don’t think it. Maybe he’s asleep in someone’s garden.”

  And so they searched, up and down the street, up and down driveways, crossing backyards and front yards, their calls for Winslow bringing neighbors to their windows and doors.

  “You lose your donkey?”

  “Haven’t seen any donkey around today.”

  “Who’s Winslow?”

  “Is Winslow your dog?”

  Louie ran to the next block and the next and the next. He called for Winslow, louder and louder. Drivers asked if he was okay. Grandmothers came to their doors, peering out at this boy running through the neighborhood.

  “Must’ve lost his dog.”

  “My dog used to get out all the time. I bet he’s got a dog like that.”

  Louie felt increasingly desperate. He begged the air, “Please, please, Winslow, please, where are you?”

  He tried to imagine where Winslow might go. He could be wandering around, lost and afraid. Louie had a sudden image of sledding down the hill with Winslow and being tickled by his ears.

  The sledding hill? The snow would be long gone, the hill would be grassy, but maybe—maybe—Winslow had wandered that far.

  And so Louie went in that direction. He was tired now. He could barely breathe, his insides so full of fear and worry and pain. He could not imagine losing Winslow. He did not want to let his thoughts go there.

  He rounded the corner of the road and something caught his eye as he glanced up to the top of the hill. Something or someone was up there. The sun was behind it, and in the glare, all Louie could see was an odd, lumpy shape.

  27

  The bear

  Once, when Louie was four or five years old, he had an encounter with a bear. He was outside in the yard when he spotted the bear lurking beside the oak tree near the garage.

  He wanted to scream but could not. No sound would come out of his mouth. He wanted to run but could not. His legs were numb; his arms were numb. He could not move.

  It was windy. Branches were whipping back and forth, twigs snapping.

  The bear moved closer to the tree.

  Help! Louie tried to shout. Help! But he could only hear the scream in his head. Maybe if I play dead, the bear will leave me alone. Maybe it will go away.

  Louie slowly lowered himself to the ground and curled into a ball. He held as still as he could. His arm itched, but he could not scratch it. He needed to cough but dared not.

  The wind blew and the bear was still there, inching closer to the tree.

  Louie lay still for a long time, so long that he fell asleep.

  He was awakened by the bear pawing at his shoulder.

  “No!” Louie shouted. “No, please, no!” And this time, the words came out of his mouth, and when he opened his eyes, he saw—not the bear—but his brother, Gus, nudging him.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Gus asked. “It’s only me. You fall asleep out here?”

  Louie looked around, searching for the bear.

  “There!” he shouted. “Watch out, there’s a bear—”

  Gus followed Louie’s stare and then slowly moved toward the bear.

  “No, Gus, don’t, don’t—” As Gus continued across the yard, Louie grabbed his arm and tried to pull him back. “Gus, don’t—”

  But Gus kept going and when he reached the bear, he lifted it up and turned to face Louie.

  “This? Is this your bear?”

  He was holding a puffy brown jacket.

  “It’s probably Mack’s,” Gus said. “He’s always leaving his stuff here.”

>   Louie was so relieved that he thought he would faint, but he was also embarrassed. He’d been afraid of a jacket.

  “Don’t tell Mom or Dad,” Louie said.

  “I won’t,” Gus agreed. “One time I was afraid of a moth.”

  28

  Shh, he’s sleeping

  The memory of the jacket-bear surfaced as Louie stared up the hill at the lumpy shape at the top. He was out of breath from his search for Winslow, and he was worried and frightened. He wished Mack were with him, but Mack had gone in another direction.

  Louie slowly moved up the hill. He was ap-proaching from the back side, not the sledding side, and the sun was in his eyes. He thought he heard humming.

  Coming up the last stretch, he was able to see more clearly.

  “Nora?”

  She turned abruptly, putting her finger to her mouth. “Shh.”

  Nora was seated cross-legged on the grass, with Winslow beside her.

  “Winslow! We’ve been searching—”

  “Shh, he’s sleeping. Very tired.”

  It was a maddening thing about Nora, and about most people who did not say much. Louie rarely knew what they were thinking or even if they were thinking. Sometimes he wanted to bore a hole in their heads and peer around inside. He felt as if he’d then be able to see what they were thinking. Maybe the words would be written across a large screen in their brains.

  People who talked too much were also maddening to Louie. All those words pouring out of their mouths in gushing torrents: “blah blah blah blah blah blah Did you know blah blah blah did you hear blah blah blah I felt blah blah blah I saw blah blah blah.” When he encountered someone like that, he wanted to put his fingers to his ears to shut out the noise, and at those times, he wished the talkers were more like the quiet people. Maybe he would rather know less, not more.

  On the hill, when Nora said, “Shh, he’s sleeping. Very tired,” Louie wanted to know so much more, but he was grateful that she offered at least those few words, and he was grateful—so relieved and so very grateful—to find Winslow.

  29

  Questions

  Louie crouched beside Nora and gently stroked Winslow’s head, relieved when Winslow’s ears twitched. He was alive and he was safe.

  “Thank you,” Louie whispered.

  “For what?”

  “For finding him, for saving him. I was so worried.”

  “Shh. Why?”

  “Why? Because he was missing and I thought he was lost or hurt—he could’ve been run over—or fallen in the creek—or—”

  “Shh.”

  All the while, Nora sat completely still, gazing down the hill. She was wearing a bright red sweater and her hair was piled on top of her head in a topknot, and she reminded Louie of a tomato.

  “I have to take him home, Nora. We have to get to school.” Winslow woke, blinked, turned from Nora to Louie, and flapped his lips.

  “You woke him up.”

  “We can’t sit here all day.”

  “I guess not. Here, then, you’ll want this—” She handed Winslow’s leash to Louie and raced off, running home.

  It wasn’t until Louie reached his own house, opened Winslow’s pen, removed his leash, and went to hang it on its hook that he thought, How did Nora get Winslow’s leash?

  Louie was eager to see Nora at school and find out where and when she had found Winslow, but she was not in the cafeteria at lunchtime, and he did not see her among the crowds of students leaving after school.

  When he arrived home, Mack was kneeling in Winslow’s pen, talking to him, but as soon as Winslow sensed Louie approaching, he waggled his ears and let out a loud, gurgling eeee-urp-awe. Winslow buried his muzzle in Louie’s stomach and munched on his sweater.

  “I wonder when and how he got out,” Mack said.

  “I’m not sure when,” Louie said, “but I think I left the gate unlatched. I must have.” He was too embarrassed to admit he’d probably also left Winslow’s leash attached.

  “You ought to get a lock on this gate,” Mack said. “Anyone could come along and take him or let him out to run away.”

  “But he’d raise such a ruckus! He’d scare a stranger away.”

  It bothered Louie that Winslow had run away.

  30

  Gus fan club

  Saturday morning was gloomy, with fog blanketing the house and yard. Louie rummaged in his closet until he found one of Gus’s sweatshirts. It was thick and warm and still smelled of Gus.

  When he entered the kitchen, his mother said, “Great minds think alike.” She, too, was wearing one of Gus’s sweatshirts. “Wait till you see your dad.”

  Before he could ask why, Louie’s father emerged from the basement. He was wearing Gus’s varsity football jacket.

  “See what I mean?” his mother said. “Look at us. We’re a Gus fan club.”

  “Miss that boy,” his father said. “Can’t help worrying about him.”

  A faint knock at the front door startled them. Perhaps they were each thinking or hoping: Gus! Could it be Gus? Or worse, Is it bad news about Gus?

  It was Nora, huddled in a bright yellow rain jacket with the hood pulled up over her hair. Her face was so small within.

  “I was just walking,” she said.

  “Oh. Do you want to come in?”

  “No. Well. I don’t know.”

  “We’re eating breakfast. Want some?”

  “I ate.” Nora looked left and right and up and down. “Maybe I’ll go check on Winslow. That okay?”

  “I’ll come with you, show you where his food is. You can feed him if you want.”

  Winslow hopped onto a hay bale and then into the air and flung himself against Nora and Louie, hopping and wagging his tail and flicking his ears. He nibbled their sleeves.

  “He’s the funniest thing, isn’t he?” Louie said.

  Winslow’s muzzle was pure white now and his coat pale gray. Down his spine was a darker stripe, and across his shoulders lay another dark stripe, making it seem as if he were wearing a cross. He wiggled and wobbled and darted here and there, between their legs, up onto the hay bale, leaping down again.

  “I didn’t see you at school yesterday,” Louie said.

  “Oh.”

  “I wanted to ask you—about finding Winslow—you had his leash—?”

  “You didn’t want him walking around these roads without it, did you?”

  “No, but—how did you get his leash in the first place?”

  “You silly. It was right there on that hook in the pen.”

  31

  Hey, there!

  Uncle Pete’s blue truck rumbled into the driveway, stopping near the pen.

  Agitated by this stranger, Winslow brayed loudly and insistently, a combination of honks and gurgles and screeches.

  “Hey, there!” Uncle Pete called.

  Nora retreated behind Louie. “Who is that?”

  “That’s Uncle Pete. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  The imposing form of Uncle Pete, clad in a blue plaid shirt, overalls, and rubber boots covered in muck, did not reassure Nora.

  “He’s so big,” she whispered.

  “Hey, there,” Uncle Pete repeated. “Who’s your friend, Louie? How’s the donkey? He sure has grown. I never thought he’d make it.”

  Eeee-urp-awe-honk!

  Winslow backed up, shielding Louie and Nora from this big creature approaching.

  “This is Nora. She found Winslow the other day when he got lost.”

  Uncle Pete put his hands on his hips. “Lost?”

  “He didn’t get lost,” Nora said.

  Eeee-urp-urp-awe-honk! Honk!

  “What?” Louie said.

  “He didn’t get lost.”

  “But—”

  “You kids. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Uncle Pete said. “Your parents up yet, Louie?” He didn’t wait for an answer, though. He tapped at the door and walked on in, calling out, “Hey, there! Got coffee?”

  3
2

  I’m confused

  “Nora, what did you mean: You found Winslow’s leash on the hook here in the pen? He wasn’t wearing it when you found him?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “So you heard Winslow was missing and came to get his leash?”

  “No.”

  “I’m confused. And what did you mean, ‘He didn’t get lost’?”

  Nora stroked Winslow, her fingers tracing the dark strip along his back.

  “Sometimes I get up really early.”

  Louie wished Nora had a key on the back of her head so that he could wind it and make her talk faster.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “When I get up early, sometimes I go for a walk.”

  “Great.”

  “Sometimes I come over and check on Winslow.”

  “You do? I’ve never seen you in the mornings.”

  “Early, really early. You’re all still asleep probably.”

  “Nora—did you leave the gate unlatched yesterday?”

  “Me? I don’t know. Maybe.”

  It was still foggy in the yard, and for a moment, Louie thought that Nora resembled a phantom in her yellow raincoat with the hood over her head. Winslow was chewing on her sleeve.

  “We have to be more careful,” Louie said. “If he gets out again and wanders off—well, he could get hurt.”

  “He didn’t wander off. We went for a walk.”

  “You what? You went for a walk? All that time I was so worried—you were out for a walk?”

  “He looked so lonely in his pen. I thought a walk might cheer him up.”

  Louie hardly knew what to say, his head such a tangle of thoughts. He watched as Nora stroked Winslow’s neck, the tips of her fingers sliding along so gently, her yellow sleeve against Winslow’s gray coat. He couldn’t be mad at her.

  “Next time, Nora, leave me a note, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  33

  We need to talk

  When Uncle Pete emerged from Louie’s house with Louie’s father, Winslow seemed to accept that Uncle Pete was no longer a threat. He did not flinch when Uncle Pete patted his sides and peered into his eyes and ears.