It Started with a Whisper

by A W Hartoin

“That helps.”

  “Of course it does. Just think about something pleasant.”

  “Like how I’m going to kill Beatrice when I get home.”

  “Puppy!”

  “It’s pleasant,” I said.

  “Think of something else.”

  “Whatever.” But I didn’t stop. I pictured my hands around Beatrice’s long, skinny neck, and Mildred honked as I squeezed her too tight.

  “Stop it,” said Mom.

  “What?”

  “You were thinking about killing Beatrice, weren’t you?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Well, stop it.”

  I rolled my eyes and a fresh set of stars burst in my head, driving thoughts of Beatrice clear out of my mind.

  After the doctor, Mom sequestered me on her porch. Slick curled up on my lap and purred like a buzz saw while Mom encased my head in cool packs for my throbbing headache. Dr. Jobs had only given me an 800-milligram Motrin and a pat on the shoulder. Apparently, a mild concussion didn’t warrant more. I wasn’t allowed to go outside or go to sleep, so Mom decided I’d spend the rest of the day with her. I couldn’t even watch TV. While I was in town getting my head examined, The Pack held batting practice and Caleb knocked the satellite dish on top of the house. It lay in mangled disarray on the lawn, looking as sad and pathetic as I felt.

  “Are you hungry? I’ll fix you a sandwich,” Mom said from over her latest sculpture, a copper piece resembling a pile of mangos.

  “No, I’m not hungry.”

  She didn’t reply, but turned her attention back to her torch. She refined the flame and began heating a small piece of copper. The flame and Mom’s soft murmurs to herself hypnotized me and my eyelids drooped.

  “Don’t go to sleep,” she said. “Read a book.”

  I jumped at the sound of her voice and my cool packs fell off.

  “Don’t move. I’ll get it.” She extinguished the torch and repacked my head.

  Then she lit her torch and the smell of butane filled the porch only to be carried away by the breeze coming up from the creek. The breeze was the only thing coming from the outside. The house and the lawn were unusually quiet. The quiet meant one thing: The Pack was up to something. They could be playing ball or hiking, or more likely launching another attack on Miss Pritchett. They could’ve at least waited until the next day, when I could go out again.

  “Read,” said Mom. “And stop stewing. It’s only one day.”

  I tried to concentrate on the book Aunt Calla gave me. It was about boys at a reform school. Aunt Calla was probably trying to make a point, but I didn’t know what it was. We weren’t going to reform school. We were going to college. People don’t always get what they deserve. Although the boys in the book did deserve it. They were idiots. Our combined IQ of three million was a big factor in our not getting caught for even a fourth of what we did. I fell asleep with the book in my hand.

  When I woke up, the entire Pack surrounded my chair, sunburnt and still smelling like wet dogs.

  “You’re not supposed to be sleeping,” said April, sitting on the edge of the cushion.

  “I’m totally bored. What’d you expect me to do?”

  “You were asleep?” Mom glared at me through her safety googles. “Damn it, Puppy. You heard what the doctor said.”

  “I woke up. What’s the big deal?”

  “You could die. How about that?”

  “I haven’t died yet.”

  Mom rolled her eyes and started on some detail work. In a second she’d forget all about me and my so-called condition. That’s one of the advantages of having an artist for a mother. Mom got so into her own stuff she forgot to worm her way into every moment of my life. That aspect of Mom couldn’t be overrated.

  The Pack waited for Mom to get engrossed before they started talking freely.

  “Dude, you got to get out of here,” said Caleb.

  “She’ll never notice,” said Luke.

  “What’ve you been doing?” I tried to look disinterested, but failed miserably.

  “Nothing good, if that’s what you’re worried about,” said Luke.

  “Where’d you go?”

  “We’ve been looking for Beatrice.”

  “What happened to Beatrice?” I hoped for an out-of-control cement truck or at least a freak drowning.

  “I don’t know. We can’t find her,” said Caleb.

  Mom looked up from her sculpture, surprising us all. “You mean to tell me you still haven’t found her? I bet you’ve been swimming.”

  Cole’s back was to her. He wore the guiltless grin of the perpetually guilty.

  “We did not. We just can’t find her.” Luke’s face was all seriousness, despite its oily shine and ring of Lady Liberty hair.

  “Well, walk the property line and take some carrots with you,” said Mom.

  “We need more than that,” said Luke.

  She increased the flame on her torch and put a hand on her hip. “Like what?”

  “Pup’s the ultimate bait. A thousand carrots aren’t as good as him,” said Luke.

  She looked at her sculpture and ran a finger along the ragged edge. “Fine, but don’t tire him out.” She started to say something else, but we were out the door before it left her lips.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  WE SEARCHED FOR the remainder of the day, walking the entire property, shaking feed buckets and swinging carrots. Beatrice never showed. After a while, I agreed to walk down the path to the pond by myself. I agreed to do it because it seemed the best way to get on to something fun.

  “Beatrice. I’m all alone. I’m happy. Come and make me miserable, you stupid, worthless piece of crap!”

  Nothing. Not a hum. Not a rustle of a tree branch. I sat on the dock and dipped my feet in the water. The ducks and geese glided towards me in hopes of a handout. Mildred wasn’t among them. We’d left her at the vet. Something was wrong with her wing joint and she needed X-rays. The rest of the flock floated calm and subdued without their leader. They accepted the lack of treats without biting or honking. The vet could keep Mildred indefinitely.

  “So no luck, huh?” April dropped down beside me. Frank sat beside April with his hands balled up in his lap.

  “Nope,” I said.

  “Maybe you should go lay down. You do have a concussion,” said April.

  “I’m okay. My head doesn’t hurt much. Besides, we have to find Beatrice.”

  “Do you think something happened to her?”

  “I’m not that lucky.”

  “Come on. Aren’t you just a little worried?” April unbraided her hair and shook her head, letting a shower of gold rain down on her shoulders.

  “I don’t give a shit, but she’ll probably show up,” I said.

  “Well, I’m worried,” said April.

  “Why?”

  April gazed past the pond and into the woods towards Miss Pritchett’s house. “Do you think Greenbow did something to her?” asked Frank.

  “No way. He hunts, but—” I started.

  “Illegally,” interrupted April.

  “Okay, he hunts, illegally, but nobody hunts llamas. Nobody eats llamas,” I said.

  “He didn’t eat the deer. It was just a trophy kill,” said April. “And what about Mildred?”

  “What about her? She’s still at the vet.”

  “The vet called. Somebody shot her, too.”

  “Really? Well, it was probably just an accident. Who would shoot a goose?”

  “Who would shoot a llama? That’s what you think, right?”

  “No, not really. I’m not that lucky,” I said.

  Despite what I said to April and Frank, I was worried, but not because I wanted Beatrice to be okay. A massive stroke or her being hit by a runaway dump truck was fine by me. I was worried because she never left the property. We’d had her every summer for years and she never left. If something happened to her, it happened on Ernest’s land. The thought made my butt cheeks clench together. I didn�
�t want Greenbow near us. I never would’ve expected Ernest to let him on his land in the first place, much less let him fire a gun. Maybe Ernest couldn’t stop him.

  “I guess we better go back and tell the others it didn’t work,” said April.

  I looked at her and Frank. April sat with her back to him. Behind her, Frank wasn’t looking at me or the flock, but at April. At her hair to be exact. The tip of his finger was touching, just barely, a lock of my sister’s hair.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Nothing. What?” Frank jerked his finger back, crammed both fists in his lap.

  “Dude, you are so weird.”

  “What happened?” asked April.

  “Nothing. I didn’t do anything.” Frank inched backward, looking straight-up terrified just like when Miss Pritchett asked him a question in class.

  April patted his shoulder. “Don’t mind, Puppy. Let’s go make something.”

  “Do you have your grandmother’s recipe for bread pudding you were telling me about?”

  “Sure and you like raisins, right, but no nuts.”

  “That’s right. Do you want to do that whiskey cream sauce I found the other day?” asked Frank.

  I yawned. A day of cooking wasn’t what I had in mind. “Why don’t you two go back? I’ll hang here. Maybe she’ll show if I wait a little longer.”

  April bit her lip, but they stood up anyway. She hooked her arm through Frank’s. “Are you sure, Puppy?”

  I nodded and they walked away, heads together discussing whether or not Mom would give up some of her Tullamore Dew in the name of dessert.

  I waited until they disappeared along the path before I got up and walked around the pond towards Miss Pritchett’s house. The ravens swooped around over my head. I kept expecting them to dive-bomb me, but they stayed in the treetops, oddly silent.

  I found my spot behind the blackberry bramble and the ravens landed behind me. They arranged themselves in a half-moon with their wings spread. They tilted their heads and stared at me with their beady eyes, while remaining totally silent. I didn’t even know they could be silent.

  “Just when I think you can’t get any weirder,” I whispered, “you pull this. Go away. I don’t have any food.”

  They didn’t move a feather or start making a racket like they normally would, so I turned back around and started looking for signs of Beatrice. Part of me wanted her bloody carcass nailed to a tree. Another part wanted her safe, because her safety felt like my own, my family’s.

  There was no bloody carcass. No nothing. Miss Pritchett wasn’t in sight, but her car was in the driveway. Greenbow’s car wasn’t there. His lawn chair lay tipped over in the yard and there were a few more beer cans scattered around. Besides that, everything was the same, except for a faint noise coming from the house. I leaned forward, turned my ear towards the noise, but I couldn’t quite place it. Appliance? Cat? Squeaky door?

  I edged around the bramble and crawled across the yard to the familiar and seemingly safe spot under Miss Pritchett’s living room window. The ravens hopped after me, wings still spread and silent.

  The noise flowed out of the window and chilled me instantly. It wasn’t an appliance or a cat, but someone crying. Whimpering, really. A soft, low whimper of someone who’d been hurt so badly they could barely make any noise at all. Shasta appeared in my mind and I almost stood up to look. Instead I merely listened. Shasta had no reason to be there and knew to stay away.

  The whimpering stopped and the person made sharp sounds, like painful inhalations. Then there was a shuffling noise and a door closing. I retreated to hide behind the bramble, followed by the ravens, and waited to see if Miss Pritchett would come out. I told myself I didn’t care, because she deserved whatever was wrong with her, but deep inside I was worried. What could make someone sound that way?

  Miss Pritchett didn’t come outside, neither did anyone else. My head started hurting in a hammer-on-top-of-the-head way, so I left, wondering if I really heard what I thought I heard or if perhaps I’d hit my head a bit harder than I thought.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “GET UP!” YELLED Mom.

  I jerked awake and opened my eyes in time to see Cole fall past my mattress.

  Mom charged across the room and knelt on the floor. I scooted over and looked down at Cole, who lay stunned on the floor in a pair of tightie whities.

  “Come on,” said Mom as she jerked Cole up into a seated position and gave him a sharp whack on the back.

  Cole sucked in a breath and screeched, “Ow! Don’t hit me!”

  “Well, stop falling out of bed,” she said, standing up.

  “It’s not like he wanted to fall out of bed, Mom.”

  “Then why does he keep taking the side rail off?” She stared at Cole with one eyebrow raised.

  “Side rails are for babies,” said Frank from his top bunk across the room. His rail was in place and didn’t stand a chance of removal.

  “You mean babies who fall out of bed?” She turned and walked out yelling, “Luke, Caleb, get up!”

  A loud thump and a yell came from the next room. Mom yelled, “Oh, for Christ’s sake! Put your rail back on! How dumb are you?”

  We laughed as we got dressed and then went to look in on Luke and Caleb. Luke lay on the floor, refusing to move. Caleb was pulling on a pair of cutoff khakis.

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked Frank.

  “Nothing,” said Caleb. “He’s protesting. He thinks Aunt Violet should apologize for calling him dumb.”

  “He is dumb. He falls out of bed all the time,” I said.

  “I’m going to kick your monkey asses after she apologizes,” said Luke.

  “Will that be before or after nuclear annihilation?” Caleb walked out. I followed him with Cole and Frank in tow.

  “I’m going to kick your ass, too,” Luke yelled behind us.

  “The only thing you’re good at kicking is your own ass,” Caleb yelled back.

  We went into the kitchen and got breakfast. Cole decided it was a special occasion and used a bowl. That sucked. I wanted to see Mom’s reaction to Cole’s bowl-less breakfast. She kept finding cereal and milk on the floor, but she couldn’t catch whoever was doing it. There were at least five layers of mess next to the sink. She’d get serious when it got to ten and start staking out the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong with Luke?” Aunt Calla stood in the middle of a puddle of dried milk, chopping a pile of fresh dill.

  “He fell out of bed again,” said Mom.

  “Unbelievable. How can anyone that smart be so consistently stupid?” She looked at me when she asked the question, like I knew.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Is he going to cut his hair?”

  Luke yelled something unintelligible.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is he going to eat before we leave?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Luke yelled again.

  “Is there anything you do know?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Another yell.

  Aunt Calla screeched and tossed down her chef’s knife. She walked to the kitchen door and screamed, “Shut up, Luke, or I’m going to come in there and shave your idiotic head myself!”

  Luke stopped yelling.

  “Here, take him a banana.” She handed me a banana and went back to chopping.

  We arrived at school for the Fourth of July picnic forty-five minutes late. I spent the better part of the drive ignoring Mom and convincing myself she was not even with us, certainly not driving the van wearing a raspberry flapper dress and combat boots. I didn’t really care what she wore, but I cared that other people cared. I don’t know what was wrong with me. I didn’t feel the way they did, but I was supposed to, and it was irritating. If she would just be like the other Moms, I wouldn’t have to deal with it.

  When Mom parked I booked it across the lacrosse field with Frank and Cole. We met the rest o
f The Pack and organized into teams for a soccer game. Ten minutes into the game, I heard familiar snickers from the other players. Laughter like that was usually about my family, but I ignored them until the others stopped playing and stared motionless in the direction of my mom. Zeke Butterfield, a sophomore, doubled over in laughter. I kicked the ball as hard as I could. My aim was true and I nailed Zeke in the side of the head.

  “Hey! What’s your problem?” Zeke yelled.

  “I don’t have a problem, asshole,” I said. “It’s not funny.”

  “Are you crazy? That’s some funny shit.”

  I went at Zeke with a fist. Just before I connected, a girl said, “It’s funny, but he’s still hot.” I pulled to the side at the last second, sailed past Zeke, landing on my face. I rolled over and spit out a blade of grass. Zeke stared and a small crowd gathered.

  “What’s up with you?” Zeke asked.

  “Nothing. Sorry about the ball,” I said.

  “It’s cool,” said Zeke.

  I accepted Zeke’s hand up and turned to see what everyone was looking at. I should have known. Luke stood next to the watermelon table, running his fingers through his oily hair and making it stand on end. His face was dark with embedded oil and with his long, lean body he looked like a grinning sunflower.

  “What happened to your cousin, man?” asked Zeke.

  “He had an accident,” I said.

  “Did he blow something up again?”

  “No. He just fell in some oil.”

  I left Zeke contemplating how one falls face-first into oil, and passed Luke, who told a tale about a runaway tractor. He winked at me and described how he narrowly escaped death, but not an oil facial. I shook my head, but backed Luke’s story to a couple of junior girls admiring Luke from a distance.

  After I escaped Luke’s fans, I got a plate of baked beans and pie and started looking for Miss Pritchett. I figured she’d be in the middle of the games area, trying to ruin everyone’s life, but she wasn’t there. I found Mr. Hubbert instead. He wore a tan and golf clothes. The bags under his eyes were smaller and he had a mint julep in his hand.