Spotted Dog Last Seen (12 page)

Why? Why?

Why did that little boy run in front of his car?

He briefly looked up. Across the street, jammed under a parked car, was an orange rubber ball.

And beside him, standing alone, not with the crowd, was another little boy about the same age, stiff and motionless, staring at the teacher. That other little boy hardly blinked, his arms hung at his sides. He said nothing. He was so pale, like a ghost. And then that boy's mother rushed to him, scooped up her small son and carried him inside their house.

“Derek?”

I looked up from my bed. My mom stood at my bedroom door.

“What are you still doing up? You have school tomorrow.”

“I'm almost done my book,” I said. “Just a few more pages.”

She hesitated.

“Is everything okay?”

I looked at her, but who I saw was a younger version of my mom, my mom who had hugged me so hard after the accident that I thought she'd never let me go.

“Just a few more pages,” I assured her.

She closed my door. I went back to where I had left off. The last chapter.

After the police investigation, which ruled the little boy's death an accident, the teacher could not get past his grief. He had trouble leaving his apartment, he ate very little, and he cried several times a day. Letters and bills piled up, and the thought of going back to his old school in the fall to teach made him feel sick to his stomach.

Finally, someone from his school board paid him a visit. After he reluctantly agreed to let her in, he told her he was stuck. He could not move forward. He could not get past the accident. He could barely leave his apartment with all the curtains drawn shut.

She handed him a letter of transfer, which meant he could move to a nearby town, teach at a new school and start over where no one knew about the accident.

After she left, the teacher sat at his kitchen table for a very long time. He struggled to remember what it felt like to be in front of a classroom. He started to remember fleeting bits and pieces. A couple of times, he remembered moments of joy. The questions students asked with their hands up. The smell of new books. The school buzzer calling everyone in from recess.

He got up and made himself a sandwich. He opened his living-room curtains and stood at the window while he chewed. He realized that he loved teaching, and he was good at it.

The teacher signed the letter of transfer. And then, while he was settling in his new town, while he got to know his new students and while he made room for a lost spotted dog who loved movie scripts, he wrote it all down.

I looked at the clock on my night table. It was 1:14 a.m. I put
The Spotted Dog Last Seen
into my knapsack and pulled out Creelman's book about rockets. I studied the crayon marks on the cover and the uneven scissor cuts inside.

The work of a four-year-old. The work of Dennis.

I slid that book beside my treasured journal of t-shirt sayings on the bookshelf above my desk. Then I crawled back into bed and turned out the light. I lay there, piecing together everything I knew.

Dennis.

Mr. Creelman.

Murray Easton.

Loyola Louden.

The mystery novel code.

Trevor Tower's time capsule.

The Spotted Dog Last Seen
.

The pile of letters.

I knew then what was in those letters. The first ones were by Mr. Easton's former students. Just like Murray Easton, they had written about their own tragedies, their own sadness, their own disappointments as a way to get unstuck, as a way to move forward. The later ones, the ones on top of the pile, were from others who had discovered the locker before us and who had also read
The Spotted Dog Last Seen
. Having found a safe place for their own painful stories, they had kept Mr. Easton's assignment going.

Trevor Tower did keep secrets after all.

When I woke up in the morning, something was different. I should have been tired from the late night, but I wasn't. In fact, I had slept well.

“Where's Dad?” I asked at breakfast.

“He had to leave early for a meeting,” my mom said, pouring milk on my cereal. “Did you finish your book?”

“Yes,” I said, and took a couple of crunchy mouthfuls. “Mom, can I ask you something?”

“Sure you can,” she said, sitting down with her coffee and toast.

“It's about Dennis,” I said.

She froze.

“Is this about your nightmares?”

“Actually, I didn't have one last night. But I'm curious. Do you remember anything about the driver who hit him?”

My mom set down her piece of toast with only one bite gone.

“I don't remember seeing him at the time of the accident. I brought you inside as soon as I found you on the lawn. You were in shock.”

“So, you don't know who the driver was?”

She thought some more.

“I remember that there was a police investigation. The driver was found to be not at fault. The police decided that Dennis's death was an accident. It was in the newspaper.”

“There was an article in the newspaper?” I asked.

“I have the article,” she said quietly, studying my face.

“You do?”

“Yes. Our family doctor back in Ferndale told me to keep it, in case you wanted to know more when you got older.”

“Can I see it now?” I asked, trying very hard to steady my voice so as not to alarm her.

“Okay,” she said.

She stood and went upstairs. I could hear her open a closet door, followed by some rummaging sounds.

My thoughts turned frantic. What if she had lost the article after all these years? Having finally come so close to the truth about that terrible day, would it now slip away forever?

“Here,” she said, handing me a yellowed newspaper clipping, its yellowness reminding me of Creelman's notes on our first day of cemetery duty.

I studied the photograph at the top of the article. It was Murray Easton, head down, leaving Ferndale's law court building. He was all alone. The caption below read, “Child's death by local teacher ruled accidental.”

Twelve

_____

Ferndale

WHEN I GOT TO
school that Thursday, I waited on the front steps for Pascal and Merrilee. Pascal was the first to arrive.

“Wait with me for Merrilee,” I said. “I've got something to tell you both.”

“Something about our case?” he asked eagerly.

“You could say that,” I said, my knapsack weighing heavily at my feet. My head was swirling with the truth.

“What's up?” Merrilee said when she arrived moments later.

I led them inside the school to a quiet part of the hallway where a table with year end lost-and-found items were on display: scarves from last winter, one rubber boot, calculators, skipping ropes, a mountain of school uniform parts and a harmonica.

“Oh, that's where it went,” Merrilee said, pocketing the harmonica. “I thought I'd lost it the last time I practiced at the cemetery.”

She turned her attention to me as if she'd said nothing peculiar at all.

“I read the book,” I confessed. “
The Spotted Dog Last Seen
.”

“Already?” Merrilee and Pascal asked at the same time.

“Yes. The whole thing.”

“How did you read it so quickly?” Merrilee asked incredulously.

“I took the copy from the locker right after we broke in. I've been reading it ever since.”

Merrilee's jaw dropped.

“So much for teamwork,” Pascal muttered.

“Loyola was right,” I said, ignoring Pascal. “You'll both need to read Murray Easton's book over the weekend if you want to complete the last assignment before the school closes on Monday.”

“Complete the last assignment?” Pascal repeated. “Sounds like work! And school's almost over. You said it yourself.”

“You'll see. You'll want to complete the last assignment like the others,” I insisted.

Merrilee and Pascal just stood there.

Like Wooster and Preeble.

Perhaps it was my sober no-nonsense tone that confused them. I must have sounded like Creelman.

I turned and walked away.

That weekend, my mom and I drove to Ferndale. My dad stayed home, inspired by the spring weather to clean up his workshop. He waved to us from his wide-open garage door, then turned to face the contents.

“Good grief!” I heard him say as we got into the car.

On the way there, my mom made small talk.

“I can't believe you're almost done grade six,” she said.

“It's no big deal,” I replied, staring out the side window, a canvas bag of art supplies at my feet.

“It
is
a big deal. You'll be leaving Queensview Elementary behind. You'll be saying goodbye to all your old teachers. You'll be going to a brand-new school — junior high! — and meeting new friends this fall. You're growing up so fast.”

Her voice got all choky as she gripped the steering wheel.

I looked down at my t-shirt. It read,
Every great achievement was once thought impossible
.

“We had the time-capsule ceremony on Friday,” I said to lighten the mood.

“Whose locker was chosen?”

“Marcus Papadopoulos.”

“What did he put in?”

“The usual stuff. His gym socks, which I don't think he washed the entire year. An Egyptian pharaoh mask he made in art class. His dad's old toy model of the Batmobile. His sex education book. And an empty ant farm he made for the science fair.”

“When will his time capsule be reopened?” she asked.

“Fifty years,” I said.

My mom whistled.

“That's a long time,” she said.

“I'll be old by then,” I added.

“I certainly hope so,” she said, almost to herself.

We drove in silence as we entered Ferndale. When she pulled up to the cemetery gate and parked the car, she turned to me.

“Are you sure about this?”

I paused. Only a few months ago, cemeteries gave me the creeps. But I had come to understand the special kind of silence that surrounded them. It was a silence created by countless untold stories, and it blanketed the gravestones like a homemade patchwork quilt.

“Yes,” I said, grabbing my bag of art supplies. “You called and got permission, right?”

“I did,” she said, putting the car keys in her purse.

Ferndale's Bellevue Cemetery was much like Twillingate. It was surrounded by a black iron fence with a large swinging gate that was locked up with chains at night. We wandered through the oldest section nearest to the gate. It was crammed with teetering gravestones made of slate or sandstone mixed in with the wolf stones, marbles and obelisks in the middle distance. We even passed some white wooden crosses poking up from the lumpy ground.

Everything faced west.

The inscriptions were eroding.

But the sky was surprisingly blue.

If it had been any other day, if we had not been on a mission, I would have pointed out some things to my mom. Like what the skulls and crossbones really meant. Like how different types of stone weathered at different rates. Like how to tell an eroded number 1 from a number 4 by using a simple mirror trick.

Instead, we worked our way past the old-timers into the newest section of the cemetery, where granite blocks stood perfectly upright and gleamed in the spring-almost-summer sunshine.

There were so many.

So many.

“Do you remember where?” I asked.

My mom stopped and looked around uncertainly.

“I'm not sure. It was such a sad day.”

“I remember a stone lamb,” I said.

She stared at me.

“That's right. A lamb. An innocent lamb. I remember that, too.”

So we picked our way up and down the rows in search of Dennis's lamb.

Up and down.

Up and down.

Up and down.

“Derek,” my mom called.

I caught up to her.

We stood in front of Dennis's gravestone.

Such a small thing. Just his name. The short time between his date of birth and his death. And the words deeply etched in stone beneath the dates that read,
How much sorrow, how much joy is buried with our darling boy
.

I walked up to the carved stone lamb that was resting on top of Dennis's gravestone, its head turned slightly toward passersby. I placed my hand on its little head and was surprised to feel its warmth.

I reached into my bag and pulled out Creelman's book of epitaphs,
Famous Last Words
, along with my note to Dennis's mom tucked between the covers. My note read,
I will always remember your son and your father. Sincerely, Derek Knowles-Collier
.

I had placed the book in a plastic bag with a sealed top, for protection from the weather. I was about to lay it at the base of Dennis's gravestone, when I discovered a small toy rocket leaning against the back of the stone. There was a tag tied to it with a ribbon. I bent down to read the tag.

Your grandfather faltered by the wayside, and the angels took him home. Now he can teach you all about the twinkly stars.

“What does it say?” my mom asked.

But there was no way I could read
those
words out loud. My throat was squeezed too tight. Instead, I shook my head, laid Creelman's book at the base and handed her the toy. Then I busied myself by digging out my art supplies.

I followed Creelman's instructions perfectly. I made a beautiful rubbing of Dennis's epitaph while my mom sat on the grass and quietly watched, cradling the little rocket on her lap.

When I was done, I carefully folded the rubbing into a square and packed up my supplies.

We put the little rocket back where we found it, next to Creelman's book.

“All set?” my mom asked, her arm around my shoulders.

But I knew what she really meant.

“I'm okay,” I said, and I gave her an extra long hug to prove it.

It was late when we got home, having stopped along the way for supper. Tomorrow was the last day of school, only a half day, really, because we would be let out at noon. But I still had a few things to do before I went to bed.

Back in my room, I found a large envelope and slid the folded rubbing of Dennis's gravestone inside. Then I added the yellowed newspaper article about Murray Easton, all according to my plan. But there was something missing. I lay down on my bed to think.

Dennis's death was not my fault. I knew that now with undeniable relief. I also knew that it wasn't Murray Easton's fault. And it wasn't Dennis's fault, either. So I wanted to add something to the envelope that would free us all from that terrible day.

Some kindly act.

Some words of comfort.

Something.

But what?

That night, I had the nightmare one last time. It started the exact same way as it always did.

I am sitting on the front steps eating a popsicle, checking out a scab on my knee. The cement is warm beneath me. I can smell the fresh grass. The lawn has just been cut, and my dad rolls his mower to the backyard. A screen door squeaks, and it's my friend, Dennis, from the brick house beside us. I wave. He's holding an orange rubber ball.

Dennis cuts across the newly mown grass. He kicks the ball to me. I try to kick it back, but I miss. He laughs. I laugh, too, as I scramble to get the ball. I kick it to him. He misses. We laugh.

The sun is warm.

The grass is sweet.

The orange ball is tricky.

We are the only ones playing outside on our little street, with the young trees just planted and the houses brand-new. It is too hot for most people, and there is no shade. They stay indoors where it is cool. My mom is on the couch with a headache, a bag of ice around her neck. We are the only ones outside, except for my dad, who is cutting the lawn in the backyard, and Murray Easton, who is driving his car with all the windows down along our street, searching for an address.

I miss again. The ball rolls under a bush by our front steps. When I crawl over to get it, I bump the scab on my knee and it starts bleeding. When I stand, bits of freshly cut grass are sticking to my legs.

It is so hot out. There is no shade. The sun is coming down, and it is right in my face whenever I look over to where Dennis is. I cannot see him because of the sun, but I hear him laughing.

I put the orange rubber ball down in front of me. I stand back. Then I take a run at the ball and kick it as hard as I can.

Bam! Perfect hit. It soars over my lawn and Dennis's lawn, too. It soars over the sidewalk. It soars onto the street.

I look for Dennis, but the sun is still in the way. Dennis turns to chase the ball, and now the sun is in his way. And because of the lawnmower, he does not hear the car. Murray Easton's car.

Dennis runs.

Brakes squeal.

Dennis flies backwards into the air, his arms reaching out to the driver who has just hit him, his legs dangling. He crumples to the ground.

I hear sounds of a car door opening.

Murray Easton yells for help.

The lawnmower stops.

Screen doors creak open along both sides of my street.

I make myself walk to the curb. My legs do not work well.

Dennis is lying on the road. His eyes are open, but he is not moving.

His head is in a puddle of blood. The puddle is spreading.

Someone pushes me aside as she rushes by.

Dennis's mom.

Then my dad.

Now a crowd surrounds Dennis.

Murray Easton collapses onto our lawn. He groans as he rocks back and forth, his head in his hands.

I hear sirens.

Someone puts his hand on my shoulder. I turn to look.

It is you.

You say to me, “All seats have an equal view of the universe.”

I can hear you perfectly. I nod. I understand.

Then you walk over to Murray Easton who is still on the lawn, rocking, rocking.

“All seats have an equal view of the universe,” you say to him. You hold out your hand and help Murray Easton slowly to his feet.

I woke up with a sense of total calm. It was still dark outside, but just before dawn. I found a blank t-shirt in my cupboard and started cutting out letters from my iron-on stencil kit. I grabbed my mom's iron from the laundry room and heated it up. I laid a towel on the floor, then the t-shirt with the arranged letters, and I ironed the letters. I held up the t-shirt to admire my work.

All seats have an equal view of the universe.

I put it on and slipped outside. The sun was not yet up, but the stars were softly fading. I lay down on my back, eyes closed. I could smell the grass as I listened through the silence for the untold stories above me. I listened until I could hear laughter. Just laughter. Dennis's laughter.

Back upstairs, I took off the t-shirt and folded it. I tucked the t-shirt into the envelope along with the gravestone rubbing and the newspaper article. Then I sealed the envelope and wrote the name
Mr. Easton
in my best penmanship.

The sun had started to rise.

I did not come across Merrilee or Pascal on my last day of school. Merrilee skipped the day so that she could go to the airport to meet her grandmother who was visiting for the summer from Japan.

And Pascal? I'm not sure where he was. But he left a note on my locker. It read,
Here's a t-shirt saying for you — Zombies eat brains. You're safe.
And then, in smaller letters, he wrote,
My birthday's in a few weeks. Pool party. Hope you can make it.

I lingered in the hallway well after the last student charged out the front doors at the noon-hour bell. Even the teachers didn't seem to be around.

After I cleaned out my own locker and stuffed everything into my knapsack, I looked one last time at the empty space inside, the space that had held so much of my life this past year, the space now filled with dead air. I could feel sadness edging toward me, so I quickly turned away and headed upstairs, leaving the door ajar for someone new to fill the locker.