“A tip. Money you give someone like a waiter,” my mom said. “When we were young, your dad and I used to be street performers, before we had regular gigs. Lots of musicians do it.”
“I’ve got this down to a science,” said my dad. “First off, you need a cardboard sign. Then you need a busy intersection. The best corners have long stoplights.”
“It might not hurt to take Aretha,” my mom said.
“People love dogs,” I told my dad. “I bet you’ll make a lot more money with a dog.”
“Can I borrow a marker, Jackson?” my dad asked.
I handed him my blue marker. “That guy on the corner by Target? He has a puppy.”
My dad studied a cardboard rectangle. “No prop puppies.”
“Write ‘God Bless,’ at least,” said my mom. “Everybody writes ‘God Bless.’”
“Nope. As it happens, I have no idea what God is up to.”
My mom sighed.
My dad scribbled something on the cardboard, like he was in a hurry to be somewhere else. He held up the sign and asked what we thought.
I didn’t answer right away. In second grade, my dad got a D in penmanship, which is how you make your letters. He did not improve with age.
“What’s it say?” I asked.
“‘THANK YOU.’”
“Looks a lot like ‘THINK YOU.’”
He shrugged. “Even better.”
25
We drove to a busy corner and parked next to a Starbucks. It was a cool-and-rainy kind of day.
“Are you sure about this?” my mom asked. “Let me join you.”
“Won’t be the first time I’ve played an outdoor concert,” my dad said. “And you can’t come with me. Someone needs to stay with the kids.”
We waited in the minivan, watching him as he crossed the street. He had his sign and his guitar, but no Aretha.
My dad stood on the lane divider by the left-hand turn signal. He propped his THANK YOU sign against his open guitar case. We couldn’t hear him singing. There was too much traffic.
“He needs to make eye contact,” my mom said.
The light turned red and a line of cars formed next to my dad. Someone beeped his horn, and my dad looked over. A driver in a taxi passed him some money.
The next time the light was red, a driver in a pickup truck gave my dad coins. When the light turned green, people mostly just passed by, their eyes on the road ahead. But a few smiled or nodded.
Red. Green. Red. Green. The hour wore on. When he climbed back into our van, my dad smelled like car exhaust. He passed my mom a handful of wadded-up bills and some coins. “Seven lousy bucks and change.”
“It’s really starting to come down,” my mom said. “People don’t like to open their windows when it rains.” She gazed at the wet dollars. “We could try up by the mall. Maybe it’s just a bad corner.”
My dad shook his head. “Maybe it’s a bad idea.”
“We need the rain,” I said. “Because of the drought and all.”
“Good point,” said my dad. “Let’s look on Jackson’s bright side.”
After a while, the rain slowed to a drizzle. We drove to a park so my mom and Robin could get some fresh air. She said Robin was going stir-crazy.
“How about you come, too, Jackson?” my mom asked as she undid Robin’s car seat straps.
“Nah. Too wet,” I said.
“You’re both gonna get wet,” my dad warned.
“Robin’s getting antsy,” my mom said. “We can dry our clothes on top of the car when the sun comes out.”
“Day just gets better and better.”
My mom leaned across the seat and kissed my dad’s cheek, which was kind of stubbly. “Good times,” she said.
I stayed in our minivan with my dad. Aretha, who smelled a little ripe, was sleeping in the back.
I decided to draw a new sign for my dad. A better one, like the one my mom had made for our bathroom door.
I tore some cardboard off the end of my sleeping box. Then I made a smiling fish, sitting in a canoe. He was holding a fishing pole and wearing a floppy hat.
In big letters I wrote: ID RATHIR BE FISHING.
My dad was dozing in the driver’s seat. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t snoring. So I knew he wasn’t serious.
I poked him with my sign.
“Try this next time, Dad.”
He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and took the sign from me. For a long time, he just stared at it.
“Great job,” he finally said. “I like the mustache on the trout. Nice touch. Just FYI, RATHER has an E. And ID … oh, never mind. It’s great, kiddo. Thanks.”
“If it gets wet, we can grab some more cardboard, and I’ll make a new one.”
My dad set the sign down gently on the passenger seat. Then he opened the door and stepped outside. It was misty. Leaves were shiny and dripping.
Mom says she’s only seen my dad cry three times. When they got married, and when Robin and I were born.
I watched my dad lean against the hood of our car and cover his eyes with his hand.
His face was damp, but I told myself it was probably just the rain.
26
During the afternoon rush hour the next day, my dad returned to the same corner with his new sign. It was drizzling again, and gray clouds hung low in the sky. I waited in the car with my mom and Robin and Aretha.
My mom had just gotten off work at Rite Aid. She said two people were out sick, which meant she was the only cashier. People in line were grumpy, she said. Why didn’t they just read the Enquirer and wait their turns?
A driver in a red SUV rolled down his window. He smiled and said something to my dad. They both nodded. My dad tucked the sign under his arm and held out his hands till they were about two feet apart.
“I’ll bet Dad’s telling him about that trout at the lake,” I said to my mom.
She smiled. “And exaggerating.”
“Is that the same as lying?” I asked.
“Not when it’s fish-related,” said my mom.
When the light changed, the driver handed my dad money and waved as he pulled away. After about an hour, he’d collected a bunch of dollar bills. Also a big cup of coffee and a sack with two slices of lemon pound cake in it.
My sign was a soggy mess.
My mom flattened the bills on her lap. “Fifty-six dollars,” she announced.
“And eighty-three cents,” my dad added.
My parents shared the coffee. I split the pound cake with Robin. Then I climbed to the back. Aretha was tail-thumping hopefully.
When no one was looking, I gave her my whole piece.
It was windy and cold, and the rain had come back hard. We listened to the radio as tiny rivers zigged and zagged down the glass.
A new man went to stand on the corner. His sign said VET—GOD BLESS. A small, poodley-looking dog was nestled in his half-zipped jacket.
“I still think you should take Aretha with you next time, Dad,” I said. “I’ll bet we’ll make even more money.”
He didn’t answer. I figured he was listening to the radio announcer. She was warning that the chance of rain was 80 percent, so it was a good night to stay inside.
A summer-day-camp bus stopped at the light. Its windows were fogged up. I saw some kids and hunched down in case I knew them.
Someone had drawn a smiley face with a word by it. Hello! I decided, but it was hard to tell. I was on the outside, so everything was backward.
Aretha licked my sticky hand.
“Next time,” my mom said, leaning her head on my dad’s shoulder, “I’ll do it.”
“No,” he answered, so softly I almost couldn’t hear him. “No, you won’t.”
27
The next evening, Crenshaw appeared. All of him. Not just his tail.
We were at a rest stop off Highway 101, sitting at a picnic table.