Dogs (4 page)

Thursday is pretty much like Wednesday. I get on the bus and I take my place near the back, Cody's gang barking me down the aisle. A few minutes later, Benjie gets on and it's Oink City. I offer him a Tic Tac for his egg breath, but he doesn't take the hint. At lunch I hole up in the can and worry about everything. Then school's out and I'm back on the bus. I get off at the end of my lane.

It's cold and cloudy. The breeze makes it sound as if the cornfields are whispering. I kick a stone up the lane. Past the stalks, I see Mr. Sinclair's truck poking out from behind the house. He must be clearing the rest of the garbage.

I don't exactly feel like being alone with him again, so I slip into the cornfield and follow the rows along the yard and down the side of the house till I reach the rail fence by the barn. I'm totally hidden, but I can see out between the stalks like a spy.

The shed door at the back of the house swings open. Mr. Sinclair comes out with some boxes. He carries them to his pickup, tosses them on the cargo bed, and goes back inside.

Corn tassels tickle my nose; leaves wave in front of my face. I need a better lookout. I glance at the barn. That hole up where I thought I saw the kid would be perfect. I break from the field, hop the fence, and sprint to the barn. It's dark inside except for a few shafts of light from the cracks between the boards. There are wooden stairs ahead on a concrete pad set on the dirt floor. I can also make out cow stalls.

I climb to the hayloft, testing each step in case it's loose or rotten. It's empty except for an overturned pail and the birds lining the rafters. Where there's birds, there's bird crap. Guess I won't be sitting down.

I crouch by the hole. There's no sign of Mr. Sinclair. He must still be inside. I glance at my bedroom window. If my curtains were open, I could see right in. I picture night stalkers lurking around up here, watching me.

The curtains move. Mr. Sinclair's the only one in the house. What's he doing in my room?

Mr. Sinclair comes out of the shed with two cartons. That's impossible. He can't be outside and in my room at the same time. Then who's there? Mr. Sinclair heaves the cartons in the cargo bed, gets in his truck, and starts the engine.

“Mr. Sinclair! Wait! Don't leave. There's someone in my room!”

Not hearing me, he drives to the lane. I barrel down and race to the door. Too late. He's gone. What do I do now? I pull out my phone to call Mom.

Wait. If I tell her a stranger's in the house, she'll call the police—and what if I'm wrong? Maybe I just saw a cloud shadow cross the window.

But what if I'm right?

Calm
down. I'm scaring myself for nothing. Who'd be inside? One look at this dump and a thief would know there's nothing to steal. And what random guy's going to break into a house in the middle of nowhere?

What if the guy isn't random? What if it's Dad? He could've parked at the next crossroad and walked back easily.

Stop
thinking
like
Mom.

Why? There's always news about some guy who goes nuts and kills his family.

Dad
wouldn't do that. Would he?

I try to think of everything and anything except the last night we lived together. No use.

I was eight. It was after supper. I can't remember how it started, but Mom and Dad were fighting again. Their fighting was supposed to be a secret. There were lots of secrets with Dad. Like the secret about him teaching me how to swim and holding my head underwater till I thought I was drowning. “It's training, Buddy.”

This last fight, Dad started smashing stuff.

“Not in front of Cameron,” Mom said.

I ran upstairs like I always did, hid under the covers, stuck my fingers in my ears, and prayed I wouldn't wet the bed like I used to do when they'd fight. I'd be so ashamed. “Don't tell Dad,” I'd say, and Mom would hug me and promise.

Anyway, the fight was so bad I could still hear them. Dad yelled the kind of stuff he always did: “Who is it? What's his name?”

“There is no ‘he.' There's nobody,” Mom yelled back.

“You think I'm stupid? It's that guy at the drugstore, isn't it? Don't lie to me. I've seen the way you look at each other. I know.”

The screaming went on and on. I sang songs to myself to block it out, and then the police came. They drove me to a shelter where a woman put me in a room and gave me a teddy. I was way too old for it, but I didn't care.

“Where's Mom?” I asked. “Where's Dad?”

All they said was, “Your mom's okay.” Someone kept checking in on me until Grandma and Grandpa arrived the next day.

“Don't worry,” Grandma said. “We love you. Everything's fine.” They said Mom had had an accident and was in the hospital, and Dad was away on business. Then they took me to an apartment where we stayed for a month till Mom got better. They wouldn't let me see her. When I asked why not, Grandma would tear up and leave the room.

“When's Dad getting back?” I'd ask, and when I was braver: “Why were there police?”

“Let's not think about that,” Grandpa said. “Let's think happy thoughts.”

But at night, when they thought I was asleep, I heard Grandma say, “He's a monster. She can't go back. Next time she could be dead.”

Next time. Were there other times? When? Was it on those days Mom stayed in bed with the lights off? She'd say she had a headache or the flu. Dad was always nice those days. He'd bring home flowers and toys and order in pizza or Chinese takeout, and we'd watch TV together.

I never saw Dad again, except on supervised visits at that government building. I remember the blue walls and the plate of cookies and the cameras and the social worker in the corner.

I was scared seeing him at first. I figured there must be a reason we couldn't be alone, but he was always gentle, and when I'd back away from him, his face would crumple up and I'd feel mean. I remember when I finally let him lift me onto his lap. He put his arm around me, and I cried into his shoulder. I didn't care who saw.

Dad rocked me. “It's okay, Buddy. Don't be scared. Sometimes people say things about other people that aren't true. Just so you know, I love you and your mom, and I'd never do anything bad to either of you.”

“But what about that night?”

“Sometimes your mother did things behind my back and we'd get mad at each other. That night, she was so mad she stormed up the stairs, tripped, and fell. She hurt herself by accident, promise.”

“Then why aren't we together?”

Dad got very quiet. “Your grandma and grandpa don't like me. They say all kinds of things, don't they, Buddy? You know how people can put ideas in other people's heads?”

I nodded.

He tousled my hair. “Here's something else. Since that night I haven't had a drink. Not one. You can tell your mom. Maybe she won't believe me, but it's true.”

I remember my last visit with Dad, before Mom and I started running. Dad had this weird look in his eyes. He waited till the social worker's back was turned. Then he slipped me a photo of him and me at the beach.

“Don't let anyone see this,” he whispered. “Your mom would take it away. She doesn't want you thinking about any of the good times we had. But you and me, we remember, don't we, Buddy?”

“Sure.”

“Shh. My new address and cell number are on the back. Our secret? Cross your heart and hope to die?”

I nodded and slipped the photo into my pocket. I was scared about hiding it, but Dad was right. Mom would be mad if she saw it. Back home, I put it behind the picture of Mom and me with my grandparents that sits on my bedside table.

The weird thing is, I've never looked at the photo since. I'm afraid if I take it out I'll see Dad's number and have this overwhelming need to call him. And I can't. Not ever. I've thought of getting rid of it so I won't get tempted, but I can't do that either. What if I want it someday to remember what he looked like? So there it is beside my bed, the secret photo: Dad, hidden out of sight but always on my mind, like in life.

After I put the photo in my pocket, Dad hugged me for the last time. “I love you. I love your mom too. If I didn't love her so much, the things she did wouldn't have made me so mad. Trust me: there are things you'll know when you're older.”

That's exactly what Mom says: “There are things you'll know when you're older.” Well, guess what? I can't wait till I'm older. There's things I need to know
now
.

I peek through the hole in the barn wall and stare at the house. Dad
couldn't
have stalked us here already.

Oh
yeah? When we split, he might have been parked around the corner. Or hired a detective. Or slipped a GPS chip under Mom's car at the mall or at work.

No, I'm just scaring myself. Dad's far away, all lonely and missing me, not knowing where I am. Maybe. I just have to go inside and prove it.

Don't be stupid. Remember those movies where the babysitter hears something in the attic and checks it out? Everyone always says, “That's crazy, who'd ever do that?”

This is different. If there's nobody there, I won't have scared Mom for nothing. And if it
is
Dad, well,
then
I can warn Mom. I have a phone, after all. Besides, I'm not in danger; he never did anything to me.

He
did.

Not much and hardly
ever
, and maybe I dreamed it. Anyway, I have to do this. For Mom.

I walk to the house, eyes forward, shoulders back like I'm not afraid of anything. I open the back door and step inside.

“Hello,” I call out super loud. “Is anybody there?”

Silence.

“If anybody's there, I live here, okay? So I'm going to walk through the house now. If you're a thief or something, I'll be going up the living room stairs, so you can run down from the big room and escape through the kitchen and I won't even see you. Okay?”

Great. I sound like a dork.

I go from the kitchen through the downstairs bathroom into Mom's room. I look under her bed—nobody—and in her closet—nobody. I stick my head into the living room—nobody—and stand at the foot of the stairs.

“This is your last chance,” I shout. “If you don't go now, Mom'll be here any minute, and I have a phone so you better not try anything. I mean it. Okay? Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you. Here I come!”

I climb the stairs, look in the small bathroom—nobody—and inspect my bedroom—nobody. I pause at the door to the big room over the kitchen, then throw it open. The room's empty; the trapdoor to the attic is sealed as always. The only thing left to check is the basement.

I go back down to the kitchen. The door to the basement is open. Was it open when I came in? I can't remember. But hey, who'd leave the door open if they were trying to hide?

The
only
way
to
know
is
to
go
down.

I get a flashlight from the drawer to the right of the sink. It's hardly a great weapon, but at least it's something if anyone tries to jump me. Also, I won't have to worry about the overhead light going out, like in those movies.

I flick the light switch. “Dad? Dad, are you down there? If you are, please let me know, because you're scaring me. Also, because I want to see you. I've missed you.”

Silence.

I remember when I was two or three. Dad drove me out to the middle of nowhere, a forest or something. No one was around and he hid behind a tree. I thought he'd left me, abandoned me with no one anywhere. I didn't know what to do. I cried and cried. Dad watched the whole time. He thought it was funny.

The stairwell looks more like a tomb than ever. I try to stay calm by counting to ten over and over. Before I know it, I'm at the bottom.

The place is cleared out except for the furnace. Once I circle it, I'll know everything's okay. I duck under the pipes real fast so if anyone's hiding, they won't have time to run around and get me from behind.

There's nobody there.

What
about
inside
the
coal
room?

I stare at the little door. “Dad?”

Silence.

I turn on the flashlight, throw open the door, and jump back like I'm expecting something to pop out. Nothing does. I shine the light inside. Except for some pieces of coal in the corners, it's empty. Mission accomplished. Home secure. Phantom army destroyed.

I'm about to close the door when I see something scratched on the left wall. I lean in for a better look. There's three groups of four short lines with a fifth line crossing them, plus two extra lines.

Was
somebody
locked
in
here, counting days?

I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. My light hits a dusty cardboard folder propped against the inside wall to the left of the door. No wonder I didn't see it before. Who would? It could've been hidden here since forever.

I pick it up and smell mold. A chill shoots through my body. I imagine corpse fingers squeezing my bones. I run up to the kitchen and everything's fine again—except my hands are smudged with soot from the folder. When Mom sees the tiniest bit of dirt on my shoes, she goes wacko: “You're tracking
mud
through the
whole
house
!” If I spread coal dust, I'll be dead.

I put the folder in a plastic bag from under the sink and wash my hands. Then I grab some paper towels and take the bag up to my room. After I cover my desk with the towels, I open the folder flap and pull out the stuff inside. There's a pile of kids' drawings, some crayon and pencil stubs, and a black-and-white wedding photo in a cardboard frame.

The bride and groom have strange, dead eyes. On the back, there's fancy handwriting:

Mr. and Mrs. Frank McTavish. May the Lord bless thee and keep thee. May the Lord be gracious unto thee. May the Lord lift up the light of His countenance upon thee and give thee peace.

August 1, 1948

Someone else has put an arrow beside “Mrs. Frank McTavish” and written “Evelyn née Cartwright.”

At the bottom, a kid has printed “Mother and Father.” He must be the boy who made the drawings and whose things were in the basement. He's printed his first name in the bottom right corner of all the pictures: “Jacky.” So he's Jacky McTavish.

The top drawings are mostly of Jacky and his mother and father at the farm. His father is huge—even bigger than the barn. He has enormous black eyes, without any whites, and a mouth of yellow teeth. Plus he almost always has a pitchfork, a hammer, or a saw. Jacky and his mother are way smaller and mostly off to the side holding hands. Her eyes are empty circles; sometimes she doesn't have a mouth.

But what give me goose bumps are the pictures of Jacky. He's wearing a Davy Crockett cap.

He
was
the
kid
in
the
barn
last
night.

No. There was no kid in the barn last night. If there was, I imagined the cap. It was too dark to see.

Really?

Really. Anyway, if a kid with a Davy Crockett cap was trespassing last night, it wasn't this kid. He'd be old by now.

I concentrate on the drawings. Mixed in with the family pictures are a few drawings of two boys climbing trees and playing on boulders in the middle of a clearing. I'll bet they're in the woods at the back of the field. I recognize Jacky because of the cap, but who's the other one?

Mr. Sinclair?

That would make sense; he lived on the next farm over.

But
if
Mr. Sinclair played with Jacky, why won't he talk about him?

Questions, questions. If I'm not careful, I'll be as paranoid as Mom.

I work my way through the rest of the pile. Jacky's mother's disappeared. Jacky's father was still around though. In some drawings, lightning shoots out of his head, like in comics where some crazy super-villain's going nuts. In others, he holds Jacky over his head with one hand like he's a doll. Jacky's hands are in the air. It's hard to tell if he's waving or trying to get help.

Finally I get to the drawings at the bottom of the pile. My heart stops.

Dogs. Packs of dogs. Their teeth are jagged. Their tails are like whips. And everywhere there's scribbles of purple and black and red.