Boy's Best Friend (6 page)

“Hey,” cried Lester. “Wait for me.” Lester took a deep breath. He could smell the sea wafting his way.

“Something stinks,” he said. “It's not you, Bill Gates. Or me, I hope.” Lester was reminded of how people couldn't really tell when they smelled bad. Everybody seemed to like their own odor. That was funny. Lester guessed it was kind of the same way that everybody liked their own city—like he liked Denver.

Lester's cheeks began to feel damp. A wave of fog had drifted in suddenly, billowing around him, blurring his vision. It was kind of spooky. Overhead, a bird screeched and Lester jumped backward, sinking into the mud.

Lester looked down at his feet. “This place should be called the mush, not the marsh,” he said. That got Lester thinking about marshmallows. Lester loved marshmallows. But how could anyone love the marsh? What was so special about wet, spongy earth? Then Lester remembered that he hadn't always liked marshmallows. They'd just sort of grown on him.

Lester stepped back onto solid ground. He picked up a stick and tossed it. “Fetch,” he cried. Bill Gates raced ahead, retrieved the stick, and brought it back to Lester.

“Good boy,” cried Lester.

Lester stopped to watch the birds dip and dive across the sky. He spread his arms and pretended to be one of them. He could almost imagine how it must be to fly. For a moment he thought he might even take off.

Lester repeated his mantra. “Moving is fun,” he said. “Change can be positive.”

“I wonder if the marsh might grow on us,” Lester said to Bill Gates as they walked home. “I doubt it.”

When Lester neared his house he spotted his neighbor hurrying alongside the hedge with a parcel in her arms. Lester moved closer, squinting through the foliage. She ducked into the toolshed just like she had the day before. Lester could hear her voice wafting his way. “Ssh, sshh, that's a good boy.”

Bill Gates barked once, then sat waiting for Lester.

Lester allowed his imagination to get the better of him. “Maybe she's a kidnapper.” Lester wondered what the crime rate was on Cape Cod. In Denver they didn't have much crime at all.

Bill Gates sat patiently for several minutes but then became restless. He nudged Lester forward.

“How was the marsh?” asked Lester's mother when they got home.

“Mushy,” said Lester. “It reminds me of marshmallows.”

“You love marshmallows,” Lester's mother said.

“Yup,” said Lester, opening a cupboard. “Do we have any?” Lester reached into the back and pulled out a plastic bag. There was one marshmallow left. He popped it into his mouth. “I think our neighbor, the old lady, is hiding someone or something in her toolshed,” he said. “Do you think she could be a criminal?”

Lester's mother laughed. “You mean Mrs. Robarts?” she said. “A criminal? Why, she seems like a sweet old woman.”

“Things aren't always what they seem,” said Lester. His friend Bernie back in Denver used to say that all the time. Lester thought it sounded good, but he hadn't really stopped to think about what it meant. “And,” he added, “she has the word ‘rob' in her name.” That had just occurred to him.

“Hmm,” hummed his mother, but she didn't seem to be listening.

*   *   *

Just as Lester was arriving home, Bart was following George around the back of the house, toward the marsh. When they'd first gotten Bart, Zac had promised to share the walks, but now he claimed to be too busy. George guessed that happened when you turned fifteen. Anyway, the walks fell to him, but he didn't mind. He always had a good chat with Bart.

George picked up a piece of driftwood and tossed it. He thought it was neat how things were taken out to sea, swept up in its maelstrom, and returned to shore in never-ending cycles—one day a starfish, the next a sea sponge or a horse mussel. It made him think of the boomerang Kyra had given him when she left.

“To remind you that I'll be back,” she'd said. “If only just to visit.”

Bart ran ahead, retrieved the driftwood, and dropped it at George's feet.

“Good boy,” said George, giving Bart a pat.

Bart scampered through the sea lavender and marsh mallow. His ears stiffened as he registered a distant cry. The birds were returning to the marsh after the long winter, nesting in colonies dug in the tops of steep banks. A great blue heron had taken up residence in an abandoned beaver dam. Kyra had taught George the names of the marsh birds. She knew them all by heart.

George squinted into the distance toward a weathered outbuilding that leaned into the breeze. That was where Kyra's father had kept his pigeon loft. But he'd dismantled the loft when they'd left.

One of the pigeons had been Kyra's. Alabaster was her name. She'd flown off one morning and never returned. After Kyra left, there had been moments when George could picture Kyra and Alabaster as clearly as if they were really there. But as time passed, the feeling had dissipated.

“It's funny how feelings evaporate,” George said, catching up to Bart. “Kind of like water.” Bart tilted his head and looked at George with his chocolate-colored eyes in a way that made George feel that he understood everything he said. George suspected that he might. He was convinced that sometimes Bart listened to him more attentively than even his own parents did.

George sighed, leaning into a tree that seemed to shiver in the breeze. He lifted his arms and shivered too. Then he lowered his arms back down. He thought about his conversation with Vivien and how he had wondered if you could feel someone's presence after they'd left.

As they followed the path home, Lester popped into George's head. George was remembering something Lester had said. “Bart rhymes with heart,” he said aloud.

Dear Dr. Sheldrake,

I'd like to ask you a question that's not about dogs or animals—unless you consider people animals. Do you? But it's a question that has something to do with telepathy. Do you think you can feel someone's presence when they are no longer there? How is this possible? Sometimes I feel the presence of people who have left, and it seems like they are almost there.

Sincerely,

George Masson

P.S. Did you know there's a bird called a sheldrake?

Dear George,

We share many common traits with animals, such as sensory perceptions, habits, reproduction (and I guess names too!). And we are part of the natural order and affect it. So yes, I think we are animals.

I suppose whenever we remember somebody, in some way they are there, but of course we know it's a memory. But if you feel someone's presence when they've gone away is it more than memory? I don't really know.

Rather mysteriously, this sometimes happens when people have died. When people have been married for a long time, of course they know each other very well. Studies in Britain of people who have lost a husband or wife showed that about half of them felt the presence of the person who had died at least once after their death. Sometimes they even saw them or heard their voice. But was this due to memory? Or might it have been the dead person trying to come back to say that they were all right? No one really knows. But the fact that you feel the presence of someone who's gone away certainly shows that you have a connection of some kind. Whether or not that person can feel your thoughts about them is another question.

I do know that “sheldrake” is a bird name, like many other names in the English language.

Best regards,

Rupert Sheldrake

 

12

On Monday Ms. Clover reviewed the work they'd done on prehistoric man.

“Neanderthal man was physically more robust than modern man and had a larger head,” she said.

George looked to his left, at Charlotte Peacock's head. Her long, silky black hair swung from side to side in one big sheet when she moved. It reminded George of a paintbrush. George continued to stare but Charlotte didn't turn around. Charlotte never turned around no matter how long George kept his eyes on her. George wondered why that was. Nearly everyone else seemed to turn around.

Suddenly George asked himself why he couldn't have a bird for a last name. He tried to imagine how he would feel as George Eagle or George Hawk. The idea made him laugh.

Charlotte turned to George. “What are you laughing at?” she said.

“Nothing,” said George. He hoped she couldn't read his thoughts.

“Does anyone have any questions?” asked Ms. Clover.

George had lots of questions.
How can all my thoughts fit into my head? Do thoughts take up space? Did Neanderthal men have more thoughts because they had bigger heads?

Suddenly George looked across the arc of seats to where Lester was sitting and fixed his eyes on the side of Lester's head, on his curly blond hair. When Lester turned around, George shifted his attention to the illustrations of Neanderthal man on a work sheet in front of him. He wondered if Neanderthal men knew when they were being looked at. He thought they must have when they were hunting. They must have known when they were being watched by wild animals.

George began folding a piece of scrap paper. He had no idea what he would make, but slowly the paper took the form of a small jet. George wanted to see if Ms. Clover would turn around. Sure enough she did.

“George,” she said. “Put the plane away, please. They didn't have airplanes 350,000 years ago.” George put away the plane. He wondered if teachers had a special kind of telepathy. They always seemed to know when there was trouble. It was like they had eyes in the back of their heads. Maybe people in certain professions developed telepathic capacities because it helped them in their work and allowed them to do a better job. George wondered if Rupert Sheldrake would agree.

*   *   *

After school George bumped into Lester playing hopscotch next to the bike rack.

“My teacher in Denver had eyes in back of her head too,” said Lester.

George paused. Had Lester read his mind? “I think all teachers do,” he said.

“And mothers,” added Lester.

George looked down at Lester's feet. They looked funny. His shoelaces were too long so he'd wrapped them around his ankles and tied them in the front so he wouldn't trip.

“Where's your bike?” asked George. The last slot in the rack was empty. There were no colored spokes.

“I'm giving Bill Gates the ol' slip again today,” said Lester. “I'm walking home a different way so I'll get there at a different time.”

“How's the experiment going, anyway?” asked George.

“So far so good I guess,” said Lester. “Bill Gates has been waiting for me three days out of four. What about Bart?”

“He's been waiting every day,” said George, hopping on his bike. “But today I'm stopping at the bike store so I won't get home until later.”

“I bet Bart will be waiting anyway,” said Lester as George spun off.

George pulled into Manny's Cycle Center. Manny was opening a delivery of new tires. George breathed in the smell of rubber. “I was wondering if you have any colored bike spokes,” he said.

“'Fraid n't,” said Manny, swallowing his vowels. He was Irish and spoke with an accent that George liked.

“Thanks anyway,” said George. “I think I'll just have a look around.” He wandered up and down the aisles eyeing the cycling accessories—lights, water bottles, fenders, rain gear. Fifteen minutes later he looked at his watch and started home.

When George got there, Bart wasn't waiting on the porch steps.

“Hey, where's Bart?” George asked.

“He came out 8 minutes ago,” said George's mother. “But three minutes later, he spotted a mole and ran after it.”

George whistled and Bart came running.

“Thinking about moles instead of me,” said George. He gave Bart a pat, then followed his mother into the kitchen.

George took a swipe at a bowl of icing with his finger.

“George,” scolded his mother without even turning around. George guessed that Lester was right. Mothers had eyes in the back of their heads too.

George went up to his room and looked at his logbook. During the first week of his experiment with Bart he had varied his routine every day, sometimes coming home earlier, sometimes later, occasionally at the usual time. He'd been careful to check his watch and record the time when he'd actually set off for home. So far Bart had gone out to the steps within minutes of his arrival. It seemed perfectly obvious to George that Bart knew when he was coming home, but how that worked was less clear.

George went downstairs to the back door, where Bart was waiting for a walk.

“Ssh,” whispered Vivien. She was crouched down, her big blueberry eyes drilling into Boots the cat, who was asleep on the chair.

“What are you doing?” asked George.

Vivien put her finger to her lips. “I'm seeing if Boots will wake up if I stare at her,” she whispered. “Just like you said.”

Boots's ears wiggled several times, but she didn't wake up. Vivien sighed. “Maybe Boots and I aren't connected,” she said.

“You don't even know what that means,” said George.

Vivien stood up, took a step backward, and put her hands on her hips. “What does it mean?” she asked.

What did it mean? George had to think about that. “Being connected means knowing how someone else feels or thinks,” he said at last.

Vivien looked relieved. “Well, I know how Boots feels,” she said. “And Boots knows how I feel. Or else she wouldn't come to me when I'm sad.”

“See? Then you're connected,” said George. “You don't need to prove it with an experiment.”

“Then why are you always proving things with experiments?” asked Vivien.

George shrugged. He didn't really know. Why did people do experiments, anyway? He guessed that science and experiments were there to find out what was true, or at least what was more true than wasn't, because even things that people knew to be true sometimes changed, like when people thought the world was flat and then found out it was round.