Fouling Out (12 page)

A
t dinner, I poke at the lemon-herb chicken and vegetable medley that cover my plate and fill my mind with trivial questions. Why is it called a vegetable medley? Are my carrots going to sing some sort of oldie followed by a raise-the-roof showstopper by the Green Pea Choir? When will Mom ever get tired of lemon-herb chicken? Is this really what I deserve as a proper send-off before risking capture in the Hanrahans' yard by a man who is bound to remember how my saliva shellacked his nose? Why is my sister back at the dinner table? She's showing no gratitude for being released from solitary. Why are there little toadstools outlined in yellow on our paper napkins? Did Mom buy them for the pattern or were they marked down because toadstools have fallen out of fashion?

After my sister leaves the table and my mother begins her nightly counter-washing ritual, I continue to sit and stare at the three remaining peas on my plate. As long as I have a morsel to push around with my fork, I can delay facing possible death at the hands of Mr. Hanrahan. How demeaning that my last meal should include green peas! Then again, if Mr. Hanrahan does punch my guts out, I can be mildly satisfied knowing his face will be sprayed with green slime.

“What in the world are you doing, Craig?” My mother sounds irked. Not the kind of behavior you expect from a mom whose son is facing extermination in an hour or so. “Stop playing hockey with your food. I want to run the dishwasher.” She unceremoniously snatches up the plate, swishes the little green guys down the garbage disposal and completes her urgent task.

Lacking any other ideas for a last-minute reprieve, I get up and grab my jacket. I turn to see my mother with a scoop of dishwashing powder in one hand; the other hand has found its familiar resting place on her hip. Her face tells me she is still thoroughly peeved. “And where do you think you're going? This is a school night. I'm sure you've got a lot of homework to do. You can't just walk out of—”

I exit mid-tirade. There will be a price to pay when I return, but I will be happy to face it if, in fact, I do return. Life in prison beats the death penalty. If I had let my mother finish, I could have stayed safe at home and blamed everything on parental authority, but I couldn't let down Tom, not to mention poor Archie.

Walking to the Hanrahans', I think about how my life has started to look up since Tom disappeared. With all my training, I might do well in long distance running at the spring track meet. Taryn McCloskey has decided I am worthy enough to walk and talk with. I am on my way to getting a few grades above my standard C and C-minus this term. I've even earned a B and an A on a couple of writing assignments. But now I am off to face the scariest man I've ever met. There is a chance I can get in and out of the Hanrahans' yard undetected, but an expanding knot in my stomach tells me that won't likely be the case. It just goes to show you can never sit back and enjoy your own accomplishments, however slight they may be.

On the way over, my legs remain strong. Each stride is a normal span even though my mind urges me to take mini-steps. My knees bend as knees normally do and my calf muscles feel no tension whatsoever. Unfortunately, my upper half isn't nearly so composed. I've already gnawed down two fingernails; the third is a work in progress. My hands are shaky and my heartbeat matches the speed and sound of a jackhammer. My heart might very well leap out and go for the world's long jump record.

My thoughts would shame even the Cowardly Lion as I try to convince myself that dogs can live just fine tethered to a chain, day in and day out, starved of attention, food and water. I try to commend myself for offloading leftovers on Tom. Plus I've served as a messenger between Jerry and Tom. I even spat in the face of the enemy. Surely, I've done enough, right?

But for all the “Don't do it”s and “Turn back now”s, a louder voice inside me—one that takes on Tom's tone and expression—shouts, “Do it, you wimp! Have some guts and do what you have to!” I wish the voice would shut up.

I walk down the back alley and edge toward the wooden fence that encloses the Hanrahans' backyard. If I can just sneak in and snatch Archie, everything will be fine. Despite all my worries of being caught and thrashed by Mr. Hanrahan, this should be an easy mission—steal family dog, run home, hand over dog, get on with life.

Faint lighting from the house on the other side of the alley helps me make out the gate. I pull the string to undo the latch, and nothing happens. Access denied. Someone has padlocked the gate. I can only get to Archie by passing through the carport at the front. Oh, why do I have to go with Plan B? So long to all calm, rational thought. My heart and mind start racing once again. I picture Mr. Hanrahan perched on the back steps, gun in hand, ready for a little target practice.

I wobble out of the lane and toward the front of the block, my lower half now as tense as my upper body. Lights are on in the house and, even worse, Mr. Hanrahan's truck is parked in the driveway. My lip starts to quiver. I am suddenly three and a half again, having stubbed my toe on the sidewalk, craving a hug followed up by some milk and cookies—Mommy's Medicine, she called it. I want Woofie, my ear-bitten childhood teddy. I think of simple pleasures like running through the sprinkler or licking the icing off the beaters while Mom bakes.

A distant siren snaps the toddler out of me. Great. The ambulance service is busy. If I take a bullet, I'll have to wait for medical attention. I start to whimper. If only I hadn't thought of the gun. Is it still at police headquarters? If so, wouldn't Mr. Hanrahan have pulled out an assortment of guns from the attic, ready for attack? What if he's given up guns and now sports a freshly sharpened machete?

Okay, the knife thing is over the top. The whole image of being slashed to death by a drunken maniac makes me turn and sprint for home. A block and a half into my getaway, I stop and turn back. I don't do it for Tom. No way. In my mind, I can hear him laughing at me for being a sissy. No, I do it for Archie—a starving, neglected animal that needs to be rescued. Like it or not, I am Archie's only hope. My nerves don't calm any, but I trudge forward.

The adrenaline starts bubbling, giving my legs a kick-start, and I am soon heading up the driveway and through the carport. The phrase
life or death
jumps into my mind, taunting me and distracting me so that I brush against the sideview mirror of the pickup. There's no escaping the reality that Mr. Hanrahan is home. I slog on. After turning to see no one seated on the back steps, I walk right up to the doghouse. Archie is fast asleep, lying on his side, head and forepaws spilling out of the doghouse. My quick approach causes him to jerk his head up and launch into a chorus of watchdog barks. Please, no! It's an alarm that no one on the block can ignore. Mid-heist, it's all or nothing.
Life or death.

Archie pulls himself up and out of the shelter and lunges at me. Rather than pull back beyond the chain's reach, I quietly call Archie's name and he instantly goes from vicious beast to tongue-slathering pooch. His front paws rise in excitement to meet my shoulders. If I didn't have other things on my mind, I'd be more prepared, but I lose my footing, stumble to the ground and surrender once more to the saliva bath.

I look over my shoulder to see if all the commotion has caused a stir from the household. I see shadows behind the curtains, but no movement. I convince myself the shadows are furniture, not
him.
As I jerk my head to escape the tongue and the overwhelming gusts of dog breath, I roll out from under Archie, get to my knees and pet him as he frantically wags his tail and nudges his rear up against me. I wonder if he's had any attention since my last visit. Two empty bowls beside the doghouse affirm that I, Craig Trilosky, accomplice to the attempted murder of a squirrel and now neighborhood prowler and dognapper, am definitely performing an act of honor and—thoughts of Woofie notwithstanding—courage.

Although my head is telling me to unchain the dog and get out of here, I am a sucker for Archie's plea for a tummy rub. There he is on his back, impatiently snaking his body from side to side with legs bent. He tenses up for a second when I begin to scratch his belly and then lets out what I swear is a sigh as I move my fingers through his matted fur.

A hand on my shoulder abruptly closes the petting zoo. I freeze, fingers in mid-scratch, head rigidly tilted to the right—away from the intruding digits. Oh, God, this is it!
Life or…
I can't even finish the thought.

Twenty-five

I
brace for a blow to the back of my head or a second hand closing around my neck. I am glad I can't see him. I'd rather have old Archie as my last vision than a close-up of Mr. Hanrahan's face.

“I figured you'd show up here at some point, Craig.” My right ear eases off my right shoulder, my eyes pop back into their sockets, and I slowly turn to face Tom's mom. She smiles. Up until now, I didn't even know she had teeth. The hand on my shoulder, only moments ago a sign of imminent death, is now a source of comfort.

“Are you taking the dog?”

I nod.

“Well, you'd better hurry it up 'cuz my husband will be yelling for me any second. You don't want him seeing you here.”

Okay…so comfort's a fleeting thing. I hustle to my feet and start to unhook Archie's chain.

“No!” If you can imagine a whispered yell, that's exactly how her voice sounds. She looks right in my eyes and continues, “If the whole chain's gone, he'll know somebody took him. He'll go straight to you. It needs to look like the dog broke away. I think there's an old leash under the steps.”

She runs in that direction as I nervously pet Archie, who is now lying on his belly, obliviously licking his left paw. I glance back to the curtained living room window. My eyes zero in on a tall shadow. Is it a floor lamp? Or could it be Mr. Hanrahan, watching and waiting? Is the gun loaded? What's he waiting for? I quickly look away and my eyes dart back to Tom's mom. She is heading toward me with what looks more like a rope than a leash. She swiftly switches Archie's chain with the rope and hands the other end to me.

“Go. I'll tell him I must've left the front gate open and the neighbors saw the dog on the loose down the street. That'll keep him off you for a day at least. Go! And tell Tom I'm praying for him.”

That's it. Archie and I are off, increasing our lead on all competitors. Maybe this is what all my training was really about. I don't need any gold medal or grand ceremony at the end. I am just relieved and surprised to be alive.

At the pace we're going, we could make it to my house in record time, but I don't have any say in which way we are going. Arch is alpha and I am definitely omega. Thanks to my eager guide dog, I tour a few blocks that I didn't even know existed. I guess
tour
isn't the word for it since I have no time to sightsee. The immediate challenge is to move my legs in time with his. I fall once and, remarkably, Archie turns around to retrieve me. Out of breath, I slowly rise and try to get my bearings. The streetlights seem to morph into floodlights as they call attention to a pickup truck heading my way. As it nears, I know the game's over. I don't move. What's the point? I'm busted. I close my eyes. Just hit me and get it over with.

The truck races past. Archie nudges my leg, confused by the delay. We resume the race. Twenty minutes into the ride, Archie lets up enough for me to catch my breath, look around and steer us in the direction of home. Still, it isn't a straight path: Archie explores a few driveways and plows right through a mailbox. (Add a bruised hip to my med chart.)

Once we get to my driveway, it takes three tries before I can pull him up it. I guess when you don't know when your next walk will be, you prolong the one you're on as long as possible.

Thankfully, Mom isn't waiting at the top of the driveway, arms akimbo, lecture ready. Archie enters the garage without incident and inhales the crackers I scatter over some flattened boxes that I lay out as his temporary home. He laps at the pail of water and does a bunch of circles, clockwise and counterclockwise, before curling up for what I hope will be a quiet night's rest.

As soon as I have one foot in the house, Mom bounds into the kitchen, spouts off a variation of her standard, “Respect Your Parents” tirade and announces that time will be tacked onto my current sentence. The precise terms are to be decided, as always, “when your father gets home.” I do my best to look remorseful, eyes fixed on a renegade pea that had rolled under the cabinet overhang. There is no point in putting up a defense as she rants about how disappointed she is. That will only rewind the speech to the beginning. With the best “I'm sorry” I can muster, I head to my room.

I shove my untouched math and science homework off the bed and, feeling very much like the squished bug (which I can't seem to locate on the ceiling), I close my eyes and drift off.

Twenty-six

A
howling wolf awakens me at
1
:
26
in the morning. A wolf? In Richmond? Archie! The screaming in my left knee and whining in my right hip bring me to full alert. Why do a few hours of rest always make an injury feel worse? I hobble downstairs and manage to suppress the urge to mutter a few middle-of-the-night curse words I could say I learned from Dad.

When I get in the garage, Archie leaps at me, and I wisely lean against the garage door to prevent yet another fall. Ouch! I don't fall, but I am foolish enough to have positioned myself so the bruise on my hip receives the brunt of Archie's greeting. I collapse on Archie's bed, eyes fixed on the door, expecting it to open any second. As Archie follows me and sputters a few final woofs, I keep drawing blanks about how to explain what he is doing in our garage.

For some reason—maybe she's invested in some earplugs—Mom doesn't turn up, and I nod off. When I wake, hours have passed. Although it is a cold night, I am relatively warm since Archie has nudged his furry body against me. His snoring, rather than the chill, is what awakens me. Sleeping, Archie looks perfectly content. By curling up against me, he not only keeps warm but he also gets human attention. I'm not Tom, but I guess it isn't a time to get picky. Maybe he is also trying to thank me for all my efforts.