Trouble

by Gary D. Schmidt

  But when that time came three nights later and he told them about Katahdin, things didn't go any better than they had with Louisa—maybe because it wasn't marinated flank steak. It was just plain fried chicken.

  "Are you out of your mind?" was the first thing that Henry's father said.

  "When there's all this Trouble?" was the first thing that Henry's mother said.

  "It's what Franklin and I planned to do. You know that."

  "That's the point," said Henry's mother. "It's what Franklin and you planned to do."

  "It matters to me," said Henry. "A lot."

  "We know it matters to you, Henry," said his father. "But not now."

  "And you certainly can't go by yourself," said his mother.

  "I'm not going by myself," said Henry.

  His father looked at him. "Who were you planning to go with?"

  Henry thought wildly. "Sanborn," he said.

  "Sanborn's planning to go with you?" said his mother.

  "Yes. Sanborn. And Black Dog, too."

  "And you two have this already planned this out?"

  "Yes."

  "Then I'm sorry, Henry," said his mother. "But you'll have to unplan it. It's not the time for us to be splitting apart."

  Henry did not say what came into his mind right away: We are already splitting apart.

  Henry looked down at Black Dog. How could he explain to his parents that there was something about climbing Katahdin that was important? That it was so important, that it was the last word that Franklin had cried out before the darkness in his brain fell over him? That it was so important, that fire burned in his guts?

  "Katahdin," whispered Henry.

  And Black Dog barked.

  It startled them all—a quick, loud, cutting bark. Once. Then she sat and looked at them with bright eyes and thumping tail. They stared at her, and she rolled over onto her back and arched her belly up to be scratched.

  And that ended it. Henry leaned down to scratch her, and his parents turned back to clean up the remains of the fried chicken, and there was no more talk of Katahdin. Outside, the wind picked up, sweeping from the north, carrying on its back fullblown clouds that had scratched their billows over Katahdin's peaks.

  That night, Sanborn called.

  "So," he said, "you told your parents that I was going with you."

  "I guess my mother must have called your mother."

  "I guess she must have. So when are we going?"

  "Your parents would let you go?"

  "They don't care."

  "Sanborn ..."

  "A mile in six minutes and twenty-three seconds, kiddo. I'll make it."

  "Listen, Sanborn, this was supposed to be between me and my—"

  "Yeah, I know it was. I'm just coming along to make sure that you don't get busted up in some ravine. You know, part of that mountain is called—"

  "The Knife Edge, and you know exactly how high it is and how thin the trail is and how exposed we'll be and how many people have fallen thousands of feet to their doom."

  "As a matter of fact, I do know all that. So when are we going?"

  Black Dog stood. She cocked her head and stared at Henry.

  The wind from the north swept by his window. It was full dark, so he did not see the scoured clouds running over the wreck and above the house.

  "You are such a jerk, you know that, Sanborn? And we leave the second of July."

  "Ah, the second of July, the third full week of summer break—not the first, but the third, when all suspicions will be allayed, and we'll naturally be gone all day anyway. Deceptive and devious, Henry. Ingenious, even."

  "Shut up, Sanborn."

  The Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Preparatory High School graduation ceremonies were held outside on the school's grassy common, instead of in Adams. Policemen ringed the crowd, and not just the two policemen from Blythbury-by-the-Sea. Henry had never before been someplace where he was being guarded by state troopers with rifles. Very big state troopers with very big rifles.

  The Smith family was at the graduation by special invitation of Longfellow Prep. Henry and his mother attended. Henry's father did not come. Louisa did not come. And the two boys arrested in Merton could not come. Two empty chairs among the graduates heralded their absence. Someone had placed the school's torn banners across them.

  Henry sat with the graduates in the chair that Franklin would have occupied. He watched Franklin's friends and worshipers and fellow rugby players graduate and head on to new Ivy League life—the life that Franklin would have headed toward after he had graduated. When it came time for his row, Henry stood with the other graduates—he was easy to pick out, since he was the only one without a blue-and-yellow robe—and he processed to the podium, paused while Franklin's name was read, and then walked across to take the diploma and shake a trustee's hand—all to the hearty applause of the standing audience.

  Henry's mother, who was in the front row, was weeping.

  ***

  The morning of the Katahdin trip dawned clear; it was warm already by seven thirty, when Henry's father—shaved and dressed—went out to the BMW to try to leave for Boston but then came back inside and went in to the library instead. It was hot by ten, when Henry's mother left for a meeting with Mr. Churchill. It was steamy by eleven, when Mrs. Lodge from the historical society came by to have some papers signed by Henry's father, who did not sign them because he couldn't see anyone just now.

  After Mrs. Lodge left, Henry filled two water bottles. He left a note for his parents. He took out the leash he had bought for Black Dog and tried it on her. She thought that she was being punished and immediately fell to the floor and showed her belly. "No, Black Dog. Good dog. Good, good dog. It's fine. Get up. Good dog."

  She got up, and they tried walking out of the kitchen using the leash.

  Black Dog didn't make it past the counter. She rolled down and showed her belly again. She drooped her ears and whined.

  Henry had to tell her all over again what a good dog she was.

  While Black Dog tried to get used to the leash, Henry phoned Sanborn to tell him that they were on their way.

  "You're really taking Black Dog?"

  "I'm really taking Black Dog."

  "Nobody is going to pick up someone who has a dog."

  "Yes, they will."

  "They'll think the dog is going to attack them or throw up or chew the upholstery or something. Nobody will pick us up."

  "People like to pick up hitchhikers with dogs."

  "And you know this because of your vast hitchhiking experience?"

  "Shut up, Sanborn."

  Henry hung up the phone, and then he pulled Black Dog along and out of the kitchen.

  Black Dog fell to the floor and showed her belly twice in the hall.

  "Listen," said Henry finally. "This is not going to work. It's just a leash, okay? A leash. Every other dog in Massachusetts knows what a leash is, so buck up. Okay?"

  Black Dog tried to buck up. She only turned on her belly twice while walking down the driveway—where his father could not see them from the library, or Louisa from her bedroom.

  At the road, Henry turned and looked back at his house. Black Dog sat and looked back, too. The timbers of the house were so solid, so heavy, as if they carried well down past the rocky ledges and on into the earth.

  "Well," said Henry, "here we go." He hefted his backpack higher and tightened the strap around his waist. Then together, he and Black Dog went out onto the road and into the world.

  Black Dog was not happy.

  After about half a mile, she finally stopped falling down and turning up her belly. But every time a car drew near, she pulled and whined and got crazier and crazier until it rushed past and she could begin to come out of her desperation—until the next one came along.

  Which, when they met Sanborn at his home, Sanborn said was going to drive them both nuts.

  "She'll get used to it," said Henry. "Did you leave your parents a note?"


  "No, O Devious One."

  "No?"

  "You have trouble with monosyllables?"

  "Did you tell them where you were going?"

  "Yes, I did."

  "And that was fine with them?"

  "I already told you, Henry: That was fine with them."

  "Did they ask if you were going with just me?"

  "No, they didn't ask if I was going with just you. They didn't ask anything. Okay? They're heading off to Verona or Florence or somewhere like that and they're busy packing. All they needed to know was that I was out of their way while they tested their colognes to see if they clashed. So are we going or what?"

  "We're going," said Henry.

  So they did, walking quickly onto Main Street, and through town, and then away from Blythbury-by-the-Sea, where Trouble was not supposed to find anyone; they stopped only to reassure Black Dog every time a car went by—she didn't get used to it—and then at a Stop and Go Hamburgers, since they were already hungry and they didn't want to use up the food they had packed. Afterward, full of grease and vanilla milkshake, they headed onto the road again, north, until late in the afternoon. Then, when they were sure that no one who knew them would drive by, they began to walk backward, holding out their thumbs for a ride.

  "No one is going to pick up two guys with a dog and big packs," said Sanborn.

  "Backpackers will," said Henry. "You'd be surprised."

  But Sanborn was not surprised. They took turns holding their thumbs out and walking backward for the rest of the afternoon, and then past supper, and then into dusk, as the light dissolved from the sky and hinted at the purple behind it, and Henry wondered if his parents really believed the note that said he was staying overnight with Sanborn for a few days—which wasn't, technically speaking, a lie. And he wondered, too, if they were going to have to find a place to camp soon before it became dark.

  Then, when the purple was more than a hint, a pickup did stop. It paused, moved ahead, slowed, then pulled to the side of the road and waited for them. Sanborn was overjoyed. "Who knows?" he said. "Maybe he's going the whole way!"

  Henry ran up with Black Dog, who wasn't shying away from this pickup at all. She pulled him toward it, barking in a frenzy. Maybe, thought Henry, she was pretty tired, too.

  They reached the pickup and threw their two packs in the back—which is where Black Dog jumped in without any hesitating. She ran up front to the cab and let the driver know how much she appreciated his stopping for them by slobbering all over the window behind him, and when she wasn't slobbering, she was pawing at the window happily and wagging her tail. She must really have been tired of walking, thought Henry.

  Henry climbed into the bed of the pickup and tied Black Dog close to the front so that she would stay in. Then he jumped down—Black Dog was still slobbering and barking—and walked around to the door. By the lowering light, he noticed that the chrome was missing from the side of the pickup. Sanborn had already gotten in, and Henry started to get in the seat beside him. The chrome was missing from the door, too, as though it had been torn off deliberately. He felt that this should mean something to him.

  He got in and pulled the door closed. Then leaning past Sanborn, he turned to the driver.

  "Thanks," he said—to Chay Chouan.

  His father found the volume of Keats. He found what she had written inside. He burned it. "You bring the shame of your past on us. An American girl."

  "There is no shame," he said.

  "What do you know of shame? An American girl. Do you think I brought you here to meet one of them? I will not hand what I have built into her hand. And not into yours."

  So he had given what his father had built, a heat that would not be forgotten. His father let him stay long enough to salvage what remained. And when they had done what could be done, his father told him he should go the next morning. With nothing.

  He left that night. With the pickup.

  12

  SANBORN, who had not recognized the driver's face, chattered happily. "Yeah. Thanks for stopping," he said.

  Chay nodded. He pulled the pickup back onto the highway.

  "It was starting to get dark out there, and this jerk"—Sanborn nodded toward Henry—"this jerk figured that we would get picked up, oh, a couple of hours ago."

  Chay nodded again. "The dog."

  "That's what I said. No one is going to pick up two guys with a dog."

  Chay nodded.

  "Except for you."

  Chay nodded again.

  "We're heading up to Maine," said Sanborn.

  No nod this time.

  "Where are you heading?"

  Chay waved his hand out to the open road. "North," he said.

  "That's fine. That's where we're heading. North."

  "Fine," said Chay.

  Fine, thought Henry.

  "We figured we could log a hundred miles or so and then find a campground. If you're going north anyway, if it's all right with you, maybe we could just keep going as far as you're heading. Until we get to Millinocket, Maine."

  Chay nodded.

  "Why don't you just pull over and let us out now?" said Henry.

  Silence from Sanborn. The sounds of an old and worn pickup, pushing itself along on old and worn tires. The sounds of Black Dog, barking happily behind them, still wanting to thank the driver for stopping for them.

  "Henry," said Sanborn slowly, "why don't you shut up?"

  "Sanborn," said Henry, "why don't you shut up? Believe me, we don't want to be in this pickup. Because our driver doesn't have a driver's license." He leaned forward. "Do you? And why don't you have a driver's license? Because it got taken away. Because you ran into my brother and killed him."

  Black Dog still barking from the back. Sanborn let out a long and troubled breath.

  "Sanborn, have you met Chay Chouan? I met him in court. I didn't actually meet him, but we were both there. He was the one in the handcuffs. Chay, this is my friend, Sanborn. He's on this trip with me because my brother, Franklin—who I was going to go with—is dead."

  Silence again.

  "Besides your family," said Chay finally, "no one is sorrier than me about your brother."

  "Go to hell," said Henry. "You don't know what it's like to lose a brother like that."

  Chay drove.

  "He had his whole life in front of him. He was just eighteen. His whole life. And he's dead because of you. I shoveled the dirt in myself. You should hear my mother late at night. You should ... you should hear her. You can't imagine what those sounds are like."

  Chay stared ahead. The road was empty, and the two headlights searched the gathering darkness. No stars in the sky yet. No moon.

  "Your mother sounds like she is holding your brother, and he is bleeding to death, and she cannot do a thing to stop what is happening," Chay said, almost whispering. "She sounds like all she wants is to die before anything else happens, because already she can't bear to keep on living." Chay ran his hand across his eyes and through his hair.

  "Because of you," said Henry.

  Chay nodded.

  They rode on. It seemed to Henry that a deep pause in his life had fallen abruptly upon him. Outside there was only this growing darkness. Inside there was only this silence, just as dark. Even Black Dog was still now.

  "How do you know?" said Henry.

  Chay said nothing. He stared straight ahead. His hand across his eyes again.

  They drove on. They passed through a small town where a movie was letting out. Pretty soon, people would be heading to the ice cream shop. They'd talk about the movie. About whether they liked it or not. About whether the music was right for it or not. If it dragged in places. They'd wish there was more butterscotch in their shakes.

  Henry felt himself fall so deeply into a crater of weariness, so deep, so black, that there was no use even trying to get out.

  "This is the turn onto Route 95," said Chay. "To Maine. If you want to get out now, I'll stop."

  Henry said nothin
g. He closed his eyes.

  They took the ramp onto the highway. The sounds of the pickup's tires and engine grew steady.

  Black Dog scratched at the back window, and when Henry turned and opened it, she stuck her snout in his palm. He stroked the side of her face. She licked his hand, then, satisfied, lay down into a happy heap in the pickup bed, as comfortable as if she had lain back there a hundred times.

  "Where are you going?" said Henry.

  Chay changed lanes for no particular reason.

  "North," he said.

  "Just north."

  Chay nodded. He changed lanes again—for no particular reason.

  "Do you know what you did to our lives?"

  "Why do you think I'm heading north?"

  "You're not even supposed to be driving."

  Chay shrugged.

  "What are you going to say if you get pulled over?"

  Chay turned, and for the first time he looked full at Henry. "You think that is my biggest problem?" he said.

  "I think your biggest problem is that you killed my brother."

  "You said that already," said Chay.

  "Yeah, I did. I'm going to say it a lot. Because you need to hear it a lot."

  Chay shook his head. His hand went up through his hair again. "You keep saying things I already know," he said. "From my parents, I listened. From you ..."

  "From me, what?"

  Chay said nothing.

  "So you want me to tell you something you don't know?" Chay laughed, so bitterly that Henry was startled for a moment. "Yes," he said. "Tell me something I don't know."

  "Franklin was ..." But Henry did not finish. He felt himself still in the crater of weariness, and whatever he had been about to say was even lower than he was.

  Henry laid his head back against the seat.

  They drove on. Still in darkness. Still in silence. The rhythmic sounds of the worn engine and worn tires. In the back, Black Dog was asleep. And Sanborn was asleep, too—the traitor—snoring louder than the engine. Henry looked out his window. The darkened night leveled everything out. Every mile or so, lights flickered, but in the almost-darkness, it was hard to believe that there was anything really beyond what he could see—even though he knew there must be.