Shepherd's Watch

by Angie Counios

  “I’m grateful for what you and Charles did. But I need to know that nothing bad is going to happen to you.”

  Holy shit, I think Gekas just thanked us and gave a damn about our well-being.

  “Do you understand? Whatever you boys are up to, you need to stop.”

  “Okay.”

  “You have to give me your word, Anthony.”

  Crap. I know Charlie, and promising Gekas that he’ll drop the search for Terry won’t mean a thing.

  “Anthony?”

  “Yes. I give you my word.”

  “Thank you. Say hello to your parents from me.”

  “I will.”

  “Goodbye.”

  I hear the be-boop of the hands-free system disconnect, and I let out a long sigh.

  chapter 48

  I’m almost at our cabin, but first I take the quick detour over to Diane’s. Getting rid of some of the illegal stuff I’m carrying around before the horrible task of telling my folks that Charlie’s in jail is the first step to getting out of this mess.

  I climb out of the car, baggie in hand, and make for the raccoon statue. I’m almost there when—

  “Anthony?”

  Oh, man. I don’t have time for this.

  Diane’s coming around from the back of her cabin. Her skin has been cooked by the sun and her unkempt, white hippy hair is tied up, though it flops down like a mop. Her long denim dress swishes through grass and pinecones as she approaches.

  “It’s been you?” She seems surprised.

  “No, not really. My friend, Charlie…”

  “Oh, the young gentleman from the other day?”

  I don’t think he’s ever been described in those words. “Yes, he thought you could…” What? Smoke a bowl? Toke up? Ugh… get me out of this.

  “Well, tell him thanks.”

  “I will.”

  She flexes her hand in and out of a fist. “When it’s warm, it doesn’t hurt as much. But when the cold arrives, it hurts like a hell dog.”

  “Charlie said your… medication helped.”

  “Indeed. Last week’s rain made me feel like someone was yanking at my bones, and with Terry gone, I had no way to stop it.”

  Wait. What? Hearing his name come out of her mouth is a shock. “Terry?”

  “Such a worry that he’s missing.”

  “You knew him?”

  “I was his elementary school teacher,” she says, smiling. “He was always in trouble. Always a follower. But he had a good heart. Used to like staying around and cleaning the chalk brushes after school.” She pulls herself up straight and I see the pain and stiffness of her back in her face. “Your friend is like that too. Good, but I see the trouble in him.”

  The thought of Charlie in jail makes me tense and my mind goes back to work on how I’m going to explain it to my parents.

  “Well, I should be going,” I say, then realize I haven’t handed over the little baggie of pot in my hand. I cross over to her, holding my closed fist close to my side. She senses my awkwardness and takes it from me, much more cavalier about the exchange than I am, not worrying who sees us.

  “Tell your friend thank you and that I hope he finds what he’s searching for.”

  Huh? Find what? What does she know that I don’t?

  She nods to her atv and says, “And if you boys ever want to take it out for a spin, you let me know. I’m not riding much these days.”

  Are you kidding? After I talk to my folks, we’ll never be allowed out of the house again.

  chapter 49

  I pull into the driveway and Ollie greets me at the car. He’s always accepting—and at least I know he won’t judge me over what’s about to happen. I give him an appreciative head scratch before I step onto the deck and go around the corner.

  Mom and Dad are stretched out on the outdoor couch, each with a mug of coffee, their feet tangled together. Dad’s reading a book while Mom’s playing solitaire on a tablet. They’re clearly relaxing in the sunshine. And I’m about to throw a grenade into the middle of it all.

  “Good day exploring?” Mom asks.

  You don’t know the half of it. “Sort of.”

  Dad gazes up from his book. “Well that doesn’t sound very good.”

  “No,” I say, steeling myself, “not exactly.”

  “Did Charles not get his wallet?” Mom moves her gaze from her tablet to where Charlie should be standing next to me. “Wait, where is Charles?”

  Here we go.

  “That’s a great question, Mom.”

  They both shift in their seats and stare at me, no longer playing footsies.

  I hang back, deciding what to say next. “You see, here’s the thing—” I start.

  “Did he run off again?” Mom asks, a note of concern in her voice.

  I shake my head.

  “So he’s still here?” She seems puzzled.

  “Yes.”

  “Is he hurt?” Mom’s questions are increasingly intense and I’m not sure how to deflect them.

  Dad takes Mom’s hand. “Let him talk, Keya.”

  Mom gives Dad a frown that I’ve seen a few times before, but she soon softens.

  “Charlie’s fine,” I say. I take a seat across from them. My leg is sweating against the plastic bag of money I now wish I’d found a hiding place for before coming out here. Only way out of this mess is through. “He’s in jail.”

  Their calm vanishes. “What?!” they say in chorus.

  “We were hanging out in town and—”

  The screen door of the cabin swings open and Heather steps out. “Did you say Charlie’s in jail?”

  I try to interrupt her interruption, “I’m trying to explain—”

  “This I’ve got to hear.” Heather plunks herself down right between Mom and Dad.

  “Like I was trying to say, we were in town, hanging out…”

  As I do my best to explain, the three of them stare at me. I’m pretty sure they’re not believing any of my story.

  “See, Charlie met a couple of girls yesterday…” I shrug like this should be self-explanatory, but their expressions tell me it isn’t. “And he got their numbers and wanted to call them today”—the hole I’m digging is getting bigger—“but it turns out the numbers they gave were fake. So then we were checking out their neighbourhood.”

  “Their neighbourhood?”

  I realize I’m stumbling. “Uh, yeah, we dropped them off the other day.”

  Mom nods, but I know she’s not buying it. I need to change things up and fast.

  “Okay, it’s all a lie.”

  Heather leans back, looking vindicated, and I wonder just how deep her suspicions run.

  “I— We—” I struggle to find a balance between the truth and fiction. “Charlie was smoking—”

  Mom’s eyes narrow and I dread finishing the sentence, though I do anyway.

  “—a joint. He was smoking pot and he tossed it. He thought it was out. I guess he was wrong.”

  I figure a lie that makes Charlie out to be a troublemaker is more believable than one that makes us look like idiots.

  “It, uh, started a fire,” I say, breaking the silence, “and when we saw the smoke, we freaked out and ran and two cops stopped us.”

  Mom crosses her arms. Oh, we’re in so much trouble.

  I don’t stop talking, hoping if I say enough she’ll quit glaring at me. “Charlie stepped up and took the blame. He didn’t tell the whole truth—he told them he was just smoking a cigarette—but he didn’t want to get me into trouble.” I reach into my pocket and hand the cop’s business card to Dad, who seems to be the only one not ready to explode. “The officer gave me this. He asked you to give him a call.”

  Mom doesn’t move at all. “Ben, why don’t you go in and find out what happened?”<
br />
  Dad takes the card from me and reads it, flipping it from front to back, before heading into the cabin.

  Heather shakes her head. “I knew he’d do something like this.”

  Mom doesn’t take her eyes off me and I hold her gaze despite how awful I feel. I try to look apologetic—it’s not hard; I feel terrible for lying—and remind myself to stop talking now. Charlie’s right: I might just be the worst liar in the world. I find myself counting backwards in my head, but I can’t tell if I’m counting down the seconds until Dad comes out of the cabin or if it’s my mind totally lagging in this situation.

  When Dad comes out he speaks directly to Mom, the woman who holds my future in her small and mighty hands. “I spoke to Constable Brandon and he repeated what Anthony just told us. There was a small fire and Charlie has taken responsibility for starting it. Charlie will have to spend the night, given his history, but they also need to confirm that his legal guardian will release him to me.”

  This seems to distract Mom from her anger. She appears to be thinking about it.

  I may yet live.

  “Mom, I know Charlie’s not a saint, but he’s also not a bad guy. He does a lot of dumb stuff, but I trust him. I think he cares.”

  Dad sits down across from Mom. “Keya, I know this isn’t what we expected when we agreed Charlie could stay with us, but perhaps we can look at this as an opportunity to help him. We could send him back to the city, but I think we should make a different choice.”

  My parents are both good people, analytical and strong. Maybe it will be okay. She studies him, knowing what he wants.

  Finally, she leans forward on the couch and takes my hand. “Do you trust him?”

  “Completely,” I say, realizing I mean it.

  “And there’s nothing else going on?”

  I know the right answer. I know I should tell her about Terry and at least some of what we’ve been up to. Hopefully Terry will be found soon and we won’t have to lie anymore.

  I shake my head and say, “No. Nothing else.”

  Mom doesn’t let go of my hand and I know she’s trying to read me and decide whether or not I’m telling the truth. All I can think is that I’m a terrible liar. And a terrible son for lying to her.

  I force myself to hold her stare and stay neutral. It must be enough because she nods and releases her mind-meld on me, but there’s something in her eyes when she says, “Go in, clean up, and help your father with supper.”

  “Okay.” I stand and walk toward to the deck door.

  “Anthony?”

  I turn back. Mom’s sitting on the edge of her chair, an apprehensive look on her face.

  “I know that you and Charlie bonded over the tragedy last fall. I get that. And I don’t want to stand in the way of your friendship. I think you’re a good influence for him. But we also want you to be safe.”

  “Okay.”

  She seems to have come to a decision—I can see it in her face—but all she says is, “Go on inside now.”

  As I go into the cabin to wash up before joining Dad in the kitchen, I think about how lucky I am. Charlie and I could’ve been caught coming out of the house, the fire could have been bigger, I could’ve been taken in with Charlie, and now my parents aren’t freaking out as badly as I expected.

  I’d like to hold on to this lucky streak and not jinx it—but I’m pretty sure Mom hasn’t believed anything I just told her.

  chapter 50

  In the morning, Mom and Dad are up early. I smell the coffee and toast from my bedroom, so I don’t procrastinate but get up and go straight to the kitchen.

  “Good morning,” Mom says, her tone neither chipper nor grumpy.

  “Morning.”

  “Toast?” Dad offers.

  “Sure.”

  He puts two slices in the toaster and turns back to his coffee. We don’t say much. The toast pops. I butter it, eat it, and wash it down with a glass of orange juice.

  “We’re leaving in a few minutes to deal with Charlie,” Mom says.

  “I’m coming.” I bite my lip after it comes out. “I mean, would it be okay if I came?”

  Dad and Mom do that thing where they just give each other a blink and it’s a whole sentence.

  “Sure, you can ride along.”

  I rush to the bedroom to change my shirt and spot the suitcase I jammed the bag of money into last night. I’m worried Heather will snoop while we’re out, so I quickly assess the options. I’ve never really had to hide anything before. Knowing I don’t have much time, I slide out the bottom drawer of the dresser and push the money to the back before pushing the drawer back in.

  Moving quickly, I wash my face and brush my teeth, then hustle out to the car.

  chapter 51

  I sit in the back seat and we drive in silence. It occurs to me that today is Wednesday, the last Wednesday of the month, in fact, and I’m five hundred kilometres away from Sheri’s grave. I hate not being there to remember her, but I feel worse for having forgotten amid the buzzing rush of the past few days.

  “Hey, Dad, how about some music…?” I ask, hoping for a distraction from my thoughts.

  Mom stops him. “You know, I’m enjoying the silence.”

  Dad glances at me in the mirror. “Me too.”

  This is terrible—I’d rather be doing chores. It’s a new sort of torture, leaving me alone with my thoughts and worry as I watch the countryside fly by.

  Finally, I can stand no more. “Are you going to send Charlie home? He’s really not a bad guy, despite this.”

  Silence.

  “I think being out here in nature may be really good for him,” I try again.

  Nothing.

  “Okay. Well, just my opinion.”

  I give up and shut up. I should know better than anyone that once they’ve decided on something, it’s unlikely they’ll change their minds.

  The rest of the trip feels like forever and when at last we pull up to the police station, I’m grateful. But Mom and Dad just sit there, not leaving the car. It’s the first time they’ve ever had to pick someone up from jail—I’m guessing that even at her worst, Jodi never did anything like this.

  Then Dad takes Mom’s hand and she flashes him a brief smile before opening her door.

  I start to open my door too, but Mom quickly shuts me down. “Nope. You’re staying here.”

  I know not to mess with her when she’s using that tone. “Okay.” No point in pushing my luck. I’m just happy that they’re even willing to help Charlie out.

  They walk across the street and into the police station, and again I wait for what feels like an eternity.

  When they finally come out with Charlie by their side, he seems fine, like they’ve just picked him up from summer camp. He doesn’t look like someone who’s just spent the night in jail. He squints in the sun, but he’s smiling and talking like he’s trying to tell them a story.

  Mom’s not having it, but Dad listens and responds.

  They cross the street and pile into the car. Charlie scoots into the back seat beside me.

  He leans forward. “I don’t suppose we could grab a coffee?”

  “No,” Mom answers curtly.

  “I can pay?”

  “Charles, I said no.”

  He settles back into his seat. “Fair enough, Mrs. S.”

  Dad pulls out and we head for home.

  Charlie looks over at me. “Hey.”

  I smile weakly. “Sleep well?”

  “Not my greatest ever, but I’m not going to complain.”

  Mom turns on the radio—opera—and she cranks it loud, drowning out any conversation we might have. Even this doesn’t appear to faze Charlie; he merely closes his eyes and listens, his eyebrows moving in harmony with the highs and lows of the woman’s plaintive cry. Between songs, he even
has the balls to say, “This is fantastic, Mrs. S. That’s Maria Callas, right?”

  When she doesn’t answer, he listens some more then nods to himself. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s Maria Callas.”

  And that’s Charlie Wolfe: punk-ass, petty criminal, opera lover, and thorn in my mother’s side.

  chapter 52

  Charlie talks all the way home. No one picks up the other end of the conversation, but it doesn’t stop him. He covers every subject that comes to his mind: how the internet is similar to a forest’s ecosystem, what he noticed in his second reading of Infinite Jest, or most surprisingly, how he believes the local police service need more officers and funding.

  Mom stares out the passenger-side window and Dad keeps watching me in the rearview mirror, so I purposefully keep my eyes forward. I can’t tell if Charlie’s oblivious to the tension in the car or whether he’s doing all of this intentionally, but he seems determined to share his every thought.

  When we arrive home, Heather’s tanning in a chair, Ollie’s at her feet. He sees us and sits up but doesn’t come over. Even he knows something’s about to go down.

  Mom gets out of the car and walks to the house. “Charles and Anthony,” she says over her shoulder, “can you come inside, please?” She holds the door and waits for us.

  Dad goes to the stove and sets the kettle to boil while Mom takes a seat at the table. She motions us over and indicates that we should sit too. Uh oh. Tea time.

  I’m aware of what’s about to happen, but when Charlie raises an eyebrow of curiosity, I just shrug.

  Dad brings over four cups and a selection of tea and puts it all down on the table.

  Charlie pushes his away. “No, thanks.”

  Mom pushes it back. “Actually, you will.”

  Charlie’s brow furrows. He isn’t used to this.

  “I’m really more of a coffee person—” he tries.

  “I understand that, Charles, but right now, I’m offering you tea. Do you have any allergies?”

  “Not that I know of,” he answers.

  “Let’s see,” she says, slowly going through all the choices. “Something relaxing. A nice chamomile.” She nods her approval. “Have you ever had this?”