A Dog's Way Home

by Bobbie Pyron

  Fearful, sickening memories flooded Tam: a big man with a long stick in his hand coming toward him. Tam stood beside the crumpled figure on the floor, eyes wide with fear, teeth bared to protect his friend. He growled a warning to the man to go away.

  “Oh good Lord,” Randall said at the sight of his mother on the floor, blood on her face, this dog crouched over her. Randall raised the piece of wood, brandishing it like a club. “Get out of here!” he yelled.

  Tam barked and snapped. Randall started to swing the club down on Tam, then realized he risked hitting his mother too. Instead, he rushed Tam, yelling, pretending to swing.

  Tam bolted past the man into the living room. He whirled and barked furiously. The man threw the piece of wood at Tam, catching the side of his head. Tam yelped in pain. Still he would not leave his friend. He took a step forward and barked the gruffest bark he could muster.

  When the man grabbed a plate from the counter and hurled it, Tam finally fled out the front door and into the woods.

  He circled back and watched the house from the cover of the laurel thicket. He heard the man’s voice, fear-filled, inside the house. He heard the old woman’s voice faint as a spider’s web. He watched as the big man carried her to his car, laid her gently in the backseat, and drove away.

  Nightfall came. The air turned from cold to freezing. The man had not closed the door when he had carried Ivy to his car. Tam poked his head around the door and listened. Quiet.

  Tam ate the last of his dry kibble and drank deeply from the water dish. He sniffed the chair by the fireplace where the woman sat at night. His toenails clicked on the pine floors as he trotted from room to room looking for any signs of the old woman. There were none. He sniffed the square brown package on the floor. If Tam could’ve read, he’d have known the label said Whistler Farm Specialty Fibers.

  He trotted up the stairs to her bedroom and jumped up on the bed. He found a lingering scent of her on the pillow and lay down. But he could not sleep. For the first time, the scent of the old woman felt wrong. He should have been surrounded by the scent of a girl. His girl.

  CHAPTER 29

  Abby

  To: omcbuttars@carolinanet.com

  From: “Abby Whistler”

  Date: Sunday, February 21 11:03 am

  Subject: Hey again

  Hey Olivia,

  I just talked to Meemaw a little bit ago. She said it was snowing to beat the band. Said she hasn’t seen such a snowy winter in a long time. She sure does appreciate all you and your grandpa are doing for her.

  Maybe you’re right. Maybe I haven’t dreamed about Tam because he’s doing okay. He’s safe. At least I hope so. Or maybe you were wrong about me having the Sight like Meemaw.

  Not much going on here to speak of. This is Mama’s weekend to work. Working a weekend sure does make her grumpy. She was in such a bad mood this morning, I said, “Mama, who peed on your Cheerios?” Usually when I say that to her, it at least makes her smile. But not this morning.

  Daddy’s been on the phone all blessed morning with his boss and the guys in his band, setting everything up for the big tour they’re going on. I was hoping me and him could do something together today, just the two of us, like old times. But he just waved me away and said, “Not now, peanut.” Just when IS “not now”? That’s what I want to know.

  I could have gone to the mall with some of the girls from school. They want to shop for clothes and makeup. I’d rather sort lint than shop for clothes. Anybody who knows Abby Whistler knows that. Sometimes I’m not sure who the girl is Madison and Bree think they know.

  Your friend,

  Abby (who hates shopping and always will)

  “Daddy,” I said, planting myself right in front of him and that telephone, “I’m going for a walk.”

  Daddy’s wild red hair shot off in twenty different directions, looking like it was in full agreement about how crazy everything was.

  Daddy nodded and put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Have a good time, sugar.”

  As I pulled on my coat, I heard him say to the person on the phone, “No, sir, I wasn’t calling you sugar. I was just…”

  Poor Daddy.

  I headed down the sidewalk past the little houses on our street. They were all tiny and hunched together like a bunch of wet chickens in the cold. I hardly ever saw kids playing out in the little-bitty yards or riding their bikes. I reckon they were all inside watching TV or playing video games or out shopping at the mall.

  I turned on Edge Hill and cut over to Music Row. I liked that area for all its trees and colorful houses. I saw all kinds of people walking along with guitar cases and such strapped to their backs. I reckon they were all following their north star, just like Daddy.

  Thinking of Daddy and his north star made me think of Tam, my north star. My heart got all heavy and sad.

  Actually, ever since I’d seen that movie Tennessee Home, I’d been kind of down in the dumps. When that girl was sent from the city to live with her family at their home way out in the country, it made me miss my home in the mountains. She didn’t have the great big mountains like I did, but she had lots and lots of green grass under her feet instead of this concrete, and big fields and pastures full of flowers, just like home. I swear, the whole movie I kept expecting to see a red and white sheltie come running across the fields, grinning his sheltie grin.

  A horn honked, and then another. I stopped and looked around. I’d been thinking so hard about Tam and Wild Cat Cove, I hadn’t realized where I was.

  I turned all around and looked. Traffic and people were hurrying every which way. Big, tall buildings climbed up and up. I craned my neck till it about broke off to see the sky. Everywhere I looked there were people, buildings, and cars. In all my thinking, I’d walked smack into downtown Nashville.

  I took a deep breath to calm my hammering heart. I pointed my toes in front of me and followed them down the street. Just about every store I passed had music coming out of it. That and the smell of food. My stomach grumbled.

  I was just about to turn around and find my way home when I spotted a big river. It’d been so long since I’d seen a river or creek or anything, I just had to go pay my respects.

  I trotted down to the end of the sidewalk and crossed First Avenue. I leaned against the railing and drank in the sight of that big ol’ river lumbering along. I closed my eyes and listened for its voice. I knew, even right smack-dab in the middle of this big city, the river would have a voice—just like Clear Creek and the apple trees in our orchard and the big willow down by the creek. I held my breath and listened real hard.

  A crow cawed. A boat horn honked. And then…

  “Oh no!”

  My eyes flew open. This was not what I expected to hear the river say.

  I heard car tires squeal and even more horns honking than usual.

  I turned around to see what all the ruckus was about.

  Right there on the sidewalk, hardly ten feet away, a girl jumped up and down, screaming and waving.

  “Please!” she hollered. “Don’t hit my dog!”

  Dog?

  And sure enough, there it was, a tiny little bit of a thing dashing in and out of traffic.

  The girl darted into traffic too, yelling, “Dusty! Come here, Dusty!” A car swerved to one side, just barely missing the girl. Still, Dusty did what every dog does when someone chases after him: He ran away.

  “Great bucket of gravy!” I dashed over and called to the girl, “His name’s Dusty?”

  She looked over at me. Her face was streaked with tears underneath the bill of her purple baseball cap. “Yes,” she sobbed.

  I looked up the street. The cars at the traffic light were just leaving. I looked down the street. Those cars were still waiting for the light to turn.

  And that crazy little dog, no bigger than a dust bunny, stood right in the middle of that street.

  I grabbed the girl’s arm. I had no doubt what was running throu
gh her head. “Don’t chase him,” I commanded.

  I took one little step toward the dog and whistled. He looked at me and cocked his head to one side.

  The cars from up the street were coming closer.

  I swallowed hard and pitched my voice as high and as excited as I could. I clapped my hands and called, “Here, Dusty! Come see what I got!”

  He took one little step toward me, just the tip of his tail wagging.

  The cars were almost upon us.

  I clapped and called to him again. “Oh, look here, Dusty! Isn’t this fun?”

  And then I took little baby steps, running away from him, clapping and calling, “Come come come, Dusty! Come come come!”

  Now, anybody who knows squat about dogs knows they can’t resist an excited voice and a good game of chase.

  Dusty dashed right after me, yapping his fool little head off about a mile a nanosecond. It was, quite frankly, an annoying yap. But I didn’t care. He’d followed me out of the street, across the plaza, and over to the grass.

  I knelt on the ground and got down as low as I could. “Come here, you little mouse,” I said, laughing. He jumped in my lap and covered my face with kisses as fast as his little pink tongue would go. I couldn’t believe how good it felt to have a dog kissing me again.

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe you rescued him.”

  I squinted up into the sun. For just a split second, I’d kind of forgotten all about him being someone else’s dog.

  I scooped up the little pup with one hand and stood. I brushed my hair, which had gone all scatter-wonky, out of my face, and handed her the dog. “Here you go. I don’t think he’s any worse for wear.”

  The pup was surely excited to see his girl. He licked her face and tried to climb up her neck.

  We both laughed. “He sure is an excitable little guy, isn’t he?” I said. The dog about knocked her hat off her head.

  I froze. I gasped.

  She opened those ice blue eyes of hers and stared down at me.

  “It’s you,” we both said at the exact same moment.

  It was the Queen, Cheyenne Rivers, looking right down her nose at me like I’d dropped out of the sky from an alien spaceship.

  But it wasn’t the Cheyenne Rivers I knew either. Instead of her usual black clothes, she wore an old jacket and jeans. Instead of those big army boots with all those buckles, she had on just a regular pair of sneakers. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup and her ponytail stuck through the back of her baseball cap. I couldn’t believe it. She looked like a regular kid.

  She hugged her little Dusty against her chest and looked away. I figured she was about to tell me to scram, tell me to get out of her city.

  But do you know what? She buried her face in that little dog’s side and said in a voice I could barely hear, “Thank you so much.”

  Well, that about shocked the socks off me. But then she did an even more shocking thing. She started to cry.

  Now, if anybody’d told me the Queen was capable of shedding one tear, I would’ve told them maybe pigs could fly too. But there she was, crying all over her dog.

  I touched her arm. “He’s okay, Cheyenne. Really.”

  Dusty licked at the tears coming down her cheeks, just like Tam used to.

  “I don’t know what I would have done if he’d gotten hurt,” she sobbed.

  Squashed like a bug on a windshield more likely, but I didn’t say that. Instead, I just stood close and patted her arm.

  Finally, she scrubbed her sleeve across her face and looked at me. I tried out a smile on her. She laughed.

  I took a step back and got ready for whatever insults she was going to throw at me. Instead she said, “Anybody’d think we called each other this morning.”

  I shook my head. I had no idea what she was talking about.

  With her free hand, she motioned to my jeans, my shoes. “We’re dressed just alike,” she said chuckling.

  And do you know what? She was right! Jeans, old flannel shirts, ratty jackets, and sneakers.

  I laughed and pointed. “You look like a hillbilly!”

  Her face turned red. “Sorry about that. I didn’t really mean it in a bad way.”

  I smiled. “That’s okay. In my head, I call you the Queen.”

  She let out a big belly laugh. “Oh my gosh, that’s what I call my mother.”

  It was pretty funny.

  “Do you live around here?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “I live over by Music Row. I got bored and decided to go for a walk and—” I looked around at the river and tall buildings. “Here I am.”

  “Wow,” she said. “That’s kind of a long walk, isn’t it?”

  I shrugged. “What about you?” I asked. “Do you and Dusty live around here?”

  She sighed. “No, we live out in Belle Meade.” When I shrugged, she said, “It’s kind of a long ways from here. I got bored too, though.”

  “You walked too?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Took the bus.”

  My eyes popped open. “They let dogs on the bus here?”

  She laughed and pointed to the big canvas bag on the ground. “Dusty rode in that.”

  I’d seen pictures in magazines of famous movie stars and such carrying their little dogs in purses. “Wow, you’ve got a dog purse.”

  “Yep,” she said. “That way, he can go with me just about everywhere.” She stroked the little dog’s ears. “He’s my best friend.”

  I nodded. I knew just how that was. All of a sudden, I found myself liking Cheyenne Rivers.

  She dug around in that big canvas sack and pulled out a soda. “Want it?” She held the can out to me.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’m not allowed to drink Cokes. My mama says they’ll eat the enamel off my teeth.”

  She put a hand on her hip and cocked her head. “Do you see your mama around here?”

  I laughed and took the can. She took another one out of that bag and popped the top. She also pulled out a bag of Cheetos, the crispy kind, which are my favorite. And then—I couldn’t believe it—she pulled a tiny little dish and a water bottle out of that bottomless bag and poured Dusty a drink!

  We sat on the grass enjoying our Cokes and Cheetos, not saying much. But it was a good not-saying-much, a comfortable, smiling together not-saying-much.

  And then it started to rain. It was like someone flipped a switch and the rain came pouring down.

  We gathered up all our stuff and ran to a shelter by the river. Cheyenne watched the rain and said, “So much for Camelot.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Camelot,” she repeated. “You know, the perfect place where King Arthur and Sir Lancelot and Guinevere lived?”

  I nodded. “I think my friend Olivia told me about that place.”

  She rooted around in her bag again and pulled out a red, sparkly cell phone. “Let’s go to my house,” she said.

  She punched some numbers into her phone. “Hi, Richard, it’s me. Can you come pick me up?” She smiled. “And a friend too. We’re down at Riverfront Park across from First Avenue.”

  She snapped her cell phone shut. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “Is Richard your brother or something?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “My driver.”

  As the long black limousine purred down the interstate, I tried to act like I rode in limos all the time. I tried not to gawk too much at the TVs and tiny refrigerator and computer. There were all kinds of secret cabinets and drawers. I about wet my pants.

  We pulled into a huge, semicircular driveway. Richard opened the door for us.

  “Thanks a lot,” I said. “You drive real good.”

  We went up about a million marble stairs. A woman in an apron opened the biggest doors I’ve ever seen. I figured it was Cheyenne’s mama.

  Wrong again. “Welcome back, Miss Rivers,” the woman said in an annoyed kind of way.

  “Thanks, Eudora,” Cheyenne said. “We’re hung
ry. Could you fix my friend and me some sandwiches and bring them up to my room?”

  And without even waiting for an answer, Cheyenne said, “My room’s up here, Abby.”

  Let me tell you, that whole upstairs of their house could have held our entire house in Wild Cat Cove. I’ve never seen so many hallways and doors leading to lord knows where. Seemed like every other door, she’d point and say, “There’s a bathroom if you need it.”

  Loud thump, thump, thumping came from behind one door. If the carpet hadn’t been so thick, you could have felt the floor vibrating beneath your feet. Cheyenne pushed open the door and yelled, “Hey, Harley.” The music coming from the room about knocked me backward.

  A big, tall boy turned from the computer on his desk. “What’s up?”

  Cheyenne pushed me forward. “This is my friend Abby. Abby, this is my brother, Harley.”

  Harley bobbed his head in my general direction. “Cool.”

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Where’s the Momster?” Cheyenne asked.

  “At the club, where she usually is,” Harley said.

  Cheyenne rolled her eyes. “Totally.”

  “Totally,” Harley agreed, and turned back to his computer.

  Cheyenne led me down the hall to the last closed door. She pulled it open, and I stepped into another universe. Cheyenne didn’t seem to think there was anything unusual about the fact that she had not only a bathroom in her bedroom, but a small kitchen and fireplace! Her bed sat in the middle of the huge room like an island amid a sea of clothes strewn across the floor.

  But once I got used to her room, I felt like I was with Olivia in her room. We sprawled across her bed and talked and talked and talked. She told me how much she hated living in the city, how much she missed the farm they’d lived on in Leipers Fork.

  “Hey,” I said, “isn’t that where some of that Tennessee Home movie was filmed?”