Walking dream The dog lay in a hollow in the dunes not far from our house and his name was Saint Paul, Illinois. That was written with large felt tip marker letters on the inside of his collar. The chain that held him reached to about half a meter from the edge of a little pool. He was black, bony and almost insane with thirst. When I released the clip on his chain he threw himself into the water.
‘We should report this’, my father said.
I asked him if he had lost his mind.
That made him drop the subject; my father is not really interested in animal welfare. Neither is my mother. They do try to show their interest in me and that is why we play family in the weekend. It means we do fun things and then we evaluate and analyse.
All three of us, we thank God for Mondays.
The day we found the dog was supposed to be Catching Up Day. My mother has an urge to catch up every few weeks, which may have something to do with hormones. On Catching Up Days we first do an activity; we go for a walk, ride a bicycle or visit a museum and then my mother asks questions. You can’t actually do an activity, I think, but I don’t go into that. All their friends and colleagues talk that way, so there must be a reason for it. When the activity is done my father says: ‘Time for a treat.’
That’s meant to be a joke - a nice old-fashioned expression - except he does not know how to make jokes due to no sense of humour. My mother is the only one who laughs. Which is sweet in a way.
They are not stingy; I’ll give them that. They let me chose whatever I want when we go to an inn, another one of those words my father likes to use, always triggering the same explanation about the old days and carriages and fresh horses. Every time. When I tell him that things tend to stick after the first time, he answers that you cannot recognise a lesson until later in life. I usually go for pancakes or French fries. Sometimes I can coax them into a Burger King. A little while ago my mother told me that it was a fascinating way for her to meet my peer group.
And I have no shortage of clothes or shoes. They can afford it, my mother’s family is loaded. They don’t care about fashion themselves, but they let me indulge myself. Which is reasonably good of them. Except of course it’s no use, because I look hopeless.
‘Tell me about Merla.’
That is one of her favourite kick off questions on Catching Up Day. I tell about Merla and then we get to Bar and Shana, my two other friends. I tell her how they are doing, how their parents are doing – my mother finds these things important to know. A little while ago I told her that Merla’s parents were going through a divorce and that a judge has ruled that her father can no longer come anywhere near their house. Ever since my mother insists I keep her up to date on what she calls a ‘tragedy for that family’. Sometimes I feel her hand on my hair while I speak. At one point she even held me close.
I don’t have any girl friends, but my parents don’t know that. When my mother thought I needed professional help to learn how to ‘bond’, I made them up, right then and there, with all their family things. As time went by, I managed to convince her that my generation doesn’t really visit. Visiting is something for people her age. She thinks we see each other at school and that we text and chat ourselves silly the rest of the time.
‘He looks like Clarence’, my father said two days later.
I had just formally asked for permission to adopt the dog. My parents appreciate that kind of behaviour. They look at each other with a knowing glance that says: that’s one thing we did right. So there is every reason not to be to extravagant with the gesture, but in this case it seemed to be well spent.
Clarence is the Jamaican greengrocer my mother likes to go to, because she thinks his shop is colourful. She buys black-eyed peas there and Caribbean chilli peppers to put in the vegetable drawer in the bottom of the fridge. As soon as they start to grow grey fluffy stuff she goes out to buy fresh ones. Clarence has lips that smile, just like Saint Paul. So it was an apt description, I have to say.
Therefore I said: ‘Good one, Pete.’ To which my father started moving his arm for a high five and I pretended not to notice.
