Shiloh (5 page)

Now as I study the darkness in the room around me, I'm thinking about lies again. I
hadn't
lied to Judd Travers when I said I hadn't seen his dog in the yard today. That was the honest-to-God truth, because Shiloh hadn't been anywhere near our yard. But I also know that you can lie not only by what you say but what you don't say. Nothing I'd told Judd was an outright lie, but what I'd kept inside myself made him think that I hadn't seen his dog at all.

“Jesus,” I whisper finally, “which you want me to do? Be one hundred percent honest and carry that dog back to Judd so that one of your creatures can be kicked and starved all over again, or keep him here and fatten him up to glorify your creation?”

The question seemed to answer itself, and I'm pretty proud of that prayer. Repeat it to myself so's to remember it in case I need to use it again. If Jesus is anything like the story cards from Sunday school make him out to be, he ain't the kind to want a thin, little beagle to be hurt.

The problem's more mixed-up than that, though. I'm lying to my folks as well. I'm
not
eating the leftover meat loaf I've put away. Every
bit of food saved is money saved that could go to buy Dara Lynn a new pair of sneakers so Ma won't have to cut open the tops of her old ones to give her toes more room. Every little bit of food wasted is money wasted. If we ever have the least little bit of money to spare that doesn't have to go for the care of Grandma Preston, first thing we all want is a telephone so we don't have to ride down to Doc Murphy's to use his. But the way I figure, if it's food from my own plate I would have eaten myself but don't, what's the harm in that?

Next morning when I get up to see Shiloh, I put the rope on his collar and lead him to the other side of the hill again, out of sight of all but God. Then I let him go, and we race and tumble and laugh and roll, stopping now and then just to lie in the clover, me on my back, Shiloh on his stomach, both of us panting and nuzzling each other.

Don't know if Shiloh's gettin' more human or I'm gettin' to be more dog. If Jesus ever comes back to earth again, I'm thinking, he'll come as a dog, because there isn't anything as humble or patient or loving or loyal as the dog I have in my arms right now.

We eat our Sunday meal, but by late afternoon, storm clouds roll in, and the rain beats down on the tin roof of our house, streaming down the window glass, making a small pond in the side yard.

I can't help staring out the window at the far hill. Will Shiloh—
can
he, even—leap that fence to try and go somewhere it's more dry? Is he smart enough to go under that lean-to I'd made for him? Have I built it right, away from the wind? What if he gets to howling?

In twenty minutes the rain stops, though, the sun comes out, the birds start to sing again—all those worms oozing up through the wet mud. Shiloh's stayed where he was, trusting me that where I put him was best. Being quiet, like he knows his life depends on it.

“Marty,” Dad says, going outside with a rag to wipe off his Jeep. “I saw Mrs. Howard yesterday and she said David was back from Tennessee, wanting to know when you boys could get together. She said David would like to come up here someday next week.”

I like David Howard fine, but I sure don't want him up here. David likes the hill; always wants to play there. He's not afraid of snakes the way Dara Lynn is. David, in fact, likes to go to the very top of that hill and then go running lickety-split down it, racing to see who's first to the fence at the bottom. Likes to climb the trees up there, too, and play lookout.

“Well, I'll go down to David's tomorrow,” I say. “I'd rather do that.”

“Why not do both?” Ma says, coming out to
throw some mash to the hens. “You've hardly seen any friends all summer, Marty. Why don't you go down to Friendly one afternoon and ask David to come up here another?”

“There's nothing much to do up here,” I say, not knowing how else to answer.

It was the wrong answer. Both Ma and Dad were looking at me now.

“You said just the other day you had plenty to do here,” Dad tells me, wringing out his rag at the pump.

“Lots for me to do, but not much for David Howard,” I say. A
lie
. That's a flat-out lie. Funny how one lie leads to another and before you know it, your whole life can be a lie.

I sit on the porch swing later, not even bothering to push it, and listen to the table being set inside.

“What you figure is wrong with that boy, Lou?” Dad's voice.

“Just being eleven, I guess,” Ma tells him. “Eleven's a moody age. Was for me, anyways.”

“You think that's all it is?”

“What pleases you one day don't please you at all the next. What more do
you
think it is?”

“Don't think he's got that dog on his mind still, do you?”

“Eleven's got about everything on its mind,” Ma answers. And then the evening news comes
on, and Dara Lynn and Becky come out to the porch, leaving the TV to Daddy.

Dara Lynn's got the devil in her tonight—little bit bored with summer, but not quite ready for school to start. Just for devilment, she plunks herself down beside me in that swing and starts doin' everything I do. I sigh, she sighs. I rest my arms on my head, she does the same. Gits Becky doin' it, too, both of 'em laughin' to beat the band.

When I have my fill of this nonsense, I decide to go up the hill and see how Shiloh's doin', but as I go down off the porch, Dara Lynn gits up and makes as if to follow me.

I stop. “I'm lookin' to find me a snake stick,” I say as if to myself.

“I'm lookin' to find me a snake stick,” Dara Lynn says.

I don't pay her no mind at all. Just start walkin' along the edge of the yard, picking up a stick here, a stick there, Dara Lynn tagging along behind.

“It's got to have the longest handle and a good strong fork on the end,” I say, “because that was the biggest, meanest snake I ever saw in my life.”

Dara Lynn stops dead still. She couldn't say all that right if she tried, but she's not interested anymore in trying. “
What
snake?” she says.

“Snake I saw up on the hill this mornin',” I
tell her. “Must have been four, five feet long, just lookin' for somebody's leg to wrap itself around.”

Dara Lynn don't go a step farther. Becky don't even come down off the porch.

“What you going to do when you find it?” Dara Lynn asks.

“Try to keep it from bitin' me, first. Pick it up with my stick, second, put it in a sack, and carry it clear on up past the Shiloh schoolhouse, let it out in the woods there. Won't kill it unless I have to.”

“Kill it!” says Dara Lynn. “Git your gun and blow its head off.”

“You been watchin' too much stuff on TV, Dara Lynn,” I tell her. “Even snakes got the right to live.” I'm thinking how if I ever become a vet's helper, I got to take care of pet snakes, too.

Next day, to head off David Howard from riding up from Friendly on his bike, I go down to see him. I'd tended to Shiloh first, taking a fistful of scrambled eggs left over from breakfast, a bit of bacon, and a half slice of whole wheat toast that I stuck in my jeans pocket. It's not enough for the dog, I know, but probably more than he'd get from Judd.

It's not enough for me, either. Sneaking off half my breakfast, lunch, and dinner for Shiloh like I'm doing means me going half hungry all the time, but if I eat extra, then it means Shiloh's costing us money we can't afford. I fill my pockets
with wormy peaches before I set out for Friendly, biting off each piece, spitting it out in my hand, and picking out the worms before I put it back in my mouth.

It pleased me that Shiloh was sleepin' in his lean-to when I'd gone up that morning. The ground was dry under there, and I'd brought up some old gunnysacks from the shed for him to lie on, made it seem more like a bed to him, more like a home.

The walk to Friendly takes a good long time unless I hitch a ride. I'm not allowed to get in a car with somebody I don't know, but Dad being the mail carrier for this part of the county, I know most everybody who goes by. The first person to come along this day, though, is Judd Travers.

When I hear the sound of a motor and turn to see his truck slowin' down, I turn forward again and keep on walkin', but he pulls up beside me.

“Want a lift?” he sings out.

“No, thanks,” I say. “Almost there.”

“Where you goin'?”

I couldn't think fast enough to lie. “David Howard's.”

“Hell, boy, you ain't even halfway. Hop in.”

I know I don't have to unless I want, but if he's already suspicious about me, that'll only make it worse. So I get in.

“See my dog yet?” First thing out of his mouth.

“I been lookin' over all the roads,” I tell him in answer. “No beagle.”

“Well, I don't think he'd stick to roads,” Judd says. “Not a dog as shy as him. Shy as a field mouse, 'cept when he's around rabbits. That's what the man said who sold him to me, and he sure was right about that.”

“How much did you pay for him?” I ask.

“Got him cheap 'cause he's shy. Thirty-five dollars. Worth a lot more'n that as a hunting dog, if I could just keep that damned animal home.”

“You got to treat a dog good if you want him to stick around,” I say, bold as brass.

“What you know about it?” Judd jerks his head in my direction, then turns the other way and spits his tobacco out the window. “You never even had a dog, did you?”

“I figure a dog's the same as a kid. You don't treat a kid right, he'll run off first chance he gets, too.”

Judd laughs. “Well, if that was true, I would have run away when I was four. Far back as I can remember, Pa took the belt to me—big old welts on my back so raw I could hardly pull my shirt on. I stuck around. Didn't have anyplace else to go. I turned out, didn't I?”

“Turned out how?” The boldness in my chest is growing, taking up all the air.

Now Judd sounds mad. “You tryin' to be smart with me, boy?”

“No. Just asking how you turned out, somebody who was beat since he was four. I feel sorry, is what I feel.”

Judd's real quiet a moment. The big old wad of tobacco in his cheek bobs up and down. “Well, don't go wasting your sorry on me,” he says. “Nobody ever felt sorry for me, and I never felt sorry for nobody else. Sorry's something I can do without.”

I don't say anything at all.

We reach the road where David Howard lives, and the truck slows down.

“I can walk from here,” I tell him. “Thanks.” I get out.

But as I come around the truck to cross the street, Judd leans out the window. “Like I said, that dog's a shy one. Don't think you'll see much of him near the road, but you keep your eye out for him in the fields. That's where he'll be, more'n likely. You see him, all you got to do is whistle. That's what I teach him. I whistle and he comes to me, he gits fed. But he does somethin' I don't like, I kick him clear to China. You see him, just whistle, then hang on to him and I'll come pick him up. You hear?”

“I hear,” I tell him, and keep walking.

D
avid Howard's house is about twice as big as ours for about half as many people. Only him and his ma and dad. Mr. Howard works for the
Tyler Star-News
in Sistersville, and David's ma is a teacher. They're always glad to have me come down to visit, partly because David and I are best friends, and partly, I think, because their old house is so big, the three of 'em get lost in it.

It's got two floors—three counting the basement and four counting the attic. Has four bedrooms upstairs: one for David, one for his folks, one just for company, and one for his father's books, with a computer in it. Downstairs
there's a big kitchen, a dining room with a fancy light hanging over the table, a parlor, and a side room with lots of windows just for plants, plus a porch that runs along three sides of the house. I told Ma once the Howards had a room just for company, a room just for books, and a room just for plants, and she said that was three rooms too many. First time I ever saw any envy in my ma.

David says the house used to belong to his great-granddaddy, so I figure it'll get to be David's someday. Like maybe our little house and the hill and meadow and the far woods will belong to me and Shiloh, except I'd probably have to share it with Dara Lynn and Becky and whoever they marry, and that's a whole lot of people for four rooms.

“Marty!” Mrs. Howard says when I ring their doorbell that sounds like church chimes. “We're
so
glad to see you! Come on in!”

She always means it, too. It's as though she thinks about me even when I'm not there. Then David comes whooping downstairs, carrying the helicopter that flies when you pull a string, and pretty soon we're out in the backyard, chasing around after the helicopter and telling each other what we've been doing the six weeks since school let out. I got to bite my tongue not to let on about Shiloh.

We sit on David's back steps and eat Popsicles
his ma makes out of pineapple juice. I tell David about the fox I saw with a gray body and a red head, and he tells me about his aunt's Siamese cat that yowls just for the pure joy of making noise. Then I tell him about Judd Travers and how mean he is to his dogs, not mentioning Shiloh, of course, and then David says he's got this surprise to show me.

We go upstairs to his room and David says he got a pet and asks do I want to hold it.

“Sure!” I tell him. “What is it?”

“Sit down and close your eyes and hold out your hands,” says David.

I sit down on the edge of his bed and close my eyes and hold out my hands. I expect something warm and wiggly and furry to plop into my arms. Instead I feel something cold and round and plastic, and when I look, it's a fishbowl with sand in it and a hermit crab, scurrying around with a shell on its back. This is a
pet?