Spotted Dog Last Seen

by Jessica Scott Kerrin

  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.

  Some of the classroom windows had been left open, and I felt a soft breeze on the back of my neck as I stood in front of Trevor Tower’s locker.

  Twenty-eight. Thirty-four. Eighteen.

  When I opened the locker, I returned Murray Easton’s book to the shelf, exactly as we had found it. I picked up two new envelopes at the top of the stack on the floor of the locker. Both were addressed to Mr. Easton. I recognized Pascal’s and Merrilee’s penmanship. But their envelopes were sealed like all the others beneath, each one containing its own secret.

  Then, on a hunch, I pulled out the envelope at the very bottom of the stack. It, too, was addressed to Mr. Easton, but in Loyola Louden’s handwriting with the hooded a. I wondered if she had written about not believing the senior citizen who had lost his spotted dog. And if so, I wondered if she had been able to forgive herself for doubting the elderly man’s story.

  I like to think that she had.

  I put the envelopes back the way they were, then laid my own envelope on top of the pile. I closed the door and spun the dial, an act so final, I knew I would never be back.

  But even as I walked outside and down the vacant steps toward the cemetery to visit the granites lined up with precision, I knew that Trevor Tower’s time capsule, the keeper of secrets, had endless patience. Like the past, the locker I had just locked would not stay locked for long.

  A locker unlocked.

  Untold stories told.

  The buried remembered.

  Again.

  And again.

  Acknowledgments

  I AM INDEBTED to many people who helped me during this project, or inspired me in some way or another that worked its way into the details.

  Thank you, Maura Gair, instructor at Fountain Academy of the Sacred Heart School in Halifax. You taught the boys about the importance of community service. Having watched the news story about the students working in my neighborhood cemetery during which you and Sean Mullally were interviewed, I was inspired to detour into Halifax’s Old Burying Ground on my way home from work. There I came across a slate double marker with an epitaph on only one side, and I was inspired to fill in the blank by writing this novel.

  Thank you, Bill Druker and D.J. DeCoste. Murray Easton is meant to showcase the exceptional teaching qualities you both demonstrate as faculty members of Fountain Academy.

  Thank you, Nancy Zinck. You were an especially enthusiastic writing student of mine. You faithfully recorded my lectures, bought all my early books and had me sign them to send to your relatives out west, and then during the last class, presented me with a homemade knitted red scarf. I learned through my writer’s association newsletter that you died shortly after. Merrilee’s charming red plastic jacket with the bunnies-and-carrots pattern is in memory of you.

  Thank you, Access Copyright Foundation. You supported my research by contributing to the costs of attending the annual conference of the Association of Gravestone Studies in New Jersey, where I presented my work to a large room of mostly archaeologists. There I secured a number of readers for this manuscript as well as learned about the fine art of cemetery care.

  Thank you to my manuscript readers: Siobhan Lavelle and your nephew, David Lavelle, Judith Trainor, Cheryle Caputo, Kathleen Mannino, Gwen Enos, Susan Acampora, Louis deSalle, Sandhya Srivastava, Jack Wooldridge and Trevor Fowler (who also keeps me supplied with interesting names). You all provided helpful feedback, and I tried to make the changes you suggested. If there are any additional errors, they are my own.

  Thank you, Judith Trainor, for making space for me in your over-enrolled workshop on how to make a foil impression of a gravestone carving. You patiently encouraged me to finish my first attempt — an angel kneeling beside an anchor, the symbol of hope — despit
e all the foil wrinkles I couldn’t smooth out. Derek chooses this symbol for his own gravestone in chapter 7.

  Thank you, Debra McNabb. I plucked a tapestry of sighs from one of many elegantly written emails I received from you in which you reflect on some heritage-related issue. Inspired by that phrase, I wrote my epitaph to the fire-station mascot in chapter 9.

  Thank you, Bill Greenlaw and David Ross. You’ve shown kind interest in my writing during moments between the pressing issues of the day. Also, thank you to Kevin Barrett and Laura Bennett, two dedicated heritage specialists who work to protect my province’s cemeteries, even the abandoned ones. You both have all kinds of stories to tell.

  Thank you, Rhonda Walker, for pulling over so that I could stomp around particularly interesting cemeteries with my camera. You wouldn’t get out of the car, but still. You continue to indulge my efforts to better understand whatever subject matter is at hand.

  Thank you, Elliott Kerrin. You renewed my fascination with stars and planetariums when you shared your astronomy notes and photographs from Queen’s University with me. Creelman’s career as a planetarium projectionist is a nod to our conversations. And even though we now live in separate provinces, I’m comforted that we still share an equal view of the universe.

  Thank you, Peter Kerrin. You’re like Derek’s dad in several ways — your sporting good nature that allows you to don a t-shirt with a slogan that Elliott made up and proudly wear it to the gym; the organizational approach you apply to your workshop in the basement, which is crammed with home projects in various states; and your love of peanut butter and jam sandwiches. You’re a great dad.

  And thank you, thank you, Sheila Barry. When I was feeling lost and searching for a publisher, you offered a home for this book along with your expert editorial support. In that regard, I am the spotted dog.

  About the Author

  JESSICA SCOTT KERRIN is the author of the newly launched Lobster Chronicles trilogy and the bestselling Martin Bridge series. Martin Bridge: Ready for Takeoff was chosen by the Horn Book and the New York Public Library as one of the best books of 2005.

  Born and raised in Alberta, Jessica moved to Nova Scotia to study at the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design. Surrounded by shipyards, fog and historic cemeteries, she remains in downtown Halifax, where she lives with her family and pet tortoise, and continues to build her writing career.

  About the Publisher

  Groundwood Books, established in 1978, is dedicated to the production of children’s books for all ages, including fiction, picture books and non-fiction. We publish in Canada, the United States and Latin America. Our books aim to be of the highest possible quality in both language and illustration. Our primary focus has been on works by Canadians, though we sometimes also buy outstanding books from other countries.

  Many of our books tell the stories of people whose voices are not always heard in this age of global publishing by media conglomerates. Books by the First Peoples of this hemisphere have always been a special interest, as have those of others who through circumstance have been marginalized and whose contribution to our society is not always visible. Since 1998 we have been publishing works by people of Latin American origin living in the Americas both in English and in Spanish under our Libros Tigrillo imprint.

  We believe that by reflecting intensely individual experiences, our books are of universal interest. The fact that our authors are published around the world attests to this and to their quality. Even more important, our books are read and loved by children all over the globe.