Trouble

by Gary D. Schmidt

  Black Dog shook herself, sniffed at the stump, sniffed at the resort owner, and then meandered to Sanborn to have her ears scratched—which she had to wait for since Sanborn was holding the canoe steady while Henry got out.

  "Is this what you call taking care of someone else's property?" said Mr. Florida Bright Shirt.

  Henry took the clothesline from his hand and tied up the canoe. He stowed the oar inside it.

  "And that fella shouldn't be walking around in his birthday suit," said Mr. Florida Bright Shirt. "This isn't some hippy commune, you know."

  "It's beginning," said Sanborn.

  Henry turned to him.

  "What's beginning?"

  Sanborn pointed high over the lake.

  Henry looked up, and he gasped.

  One by one, the stars were falling out of the sky, streaking to their fiery ends.

  The loon sounded once again—and then was silent under the fire fall.

  18

  THEY DID NOT CRASH the top bunk onto the bottom bunk that night. They did not pull the lamps off the walls, or tear the shower curtain down, or soak the whole deluxe carpet—which looked and smelled as if it had been soaked more than once anyway. When they got up in the morning and went over to the resort office for the Full Continental Breakfast that Sanborn's father's credit card paid for—a frozen muffin, a bowl of corn flakes, plastic cups of warm orange juice stacked on the stained counter—they left Cottage 4 pretty much as they had found it, and left Black Dog to watch over it for them.

  But she was not in Cottage 4 when they finished their Full Continental Breakfast.

  She was waiting for them outside the resort office.

  Henry looked at Black Dog, then at Sanborn. Black Dog looked at Chay and wagged her tail. Chay looked at Henry, and then at Sanborn.

  "She must have thought we were leaving her," said Henry.

  Chay looked over at Cottage 4. "Oh, no," he said.

  Henry was right: Black Dog must have thought they were leaving her—and she did not want to be left behind. And Chay was right, too. In her frenzy to get out, she tore down the curtains by the picture window. She scraped most of the paint off the front door. And when she climbed on top of the kitchenette counter, she pushed over the electric oven, whose shattered front window showed that it was done for.

  Who knows what else she would have done if she hadn't found the vulnerable screen over the top bunk?

  There wasn't much to say as they stood at the cottage doorway, still hungry, Black Dog eating the extra frozen muffin that Henry had carefully filched. And it was hard to blame her much, since she had been trapped in a strange place, and she was so very glad to see them, and the grin on her face as she ate the muffin was so endearing that no human being with a beating heart could help but forgive her—especially hearts that had fought their own fierce battles.

  Chay rehung the curtains, which might hold if no one touched them and no breeze blew through the window. Henry used pages from the old Field & Stream to sweep up the glass from the electric oven window and the paint chips from the front door. Sanborn tried to piece the ripped screen together. And after they did as well as they could, Henry and Sanborn carried their packs out to the pickup. "You didn't bring much along, did you, Chay?" said Sanborn.

  Chay shrugged.

  Sanborn shrugged, too.

  When they finished, they went back in and looked around the Cottage 4 one more time. It wasn't too bad. "He'll charge us for the electric oven and the scraped-up door," said Henry. "And the screen, too."

  "He's got my father's credit-card number. He'll put it on that."

  "And your father won't mind?"

  "He won't even notice," said Sanborn. "He hands it over to his accountant, and everything gets paid without him worrying about it. Remember?"

  They followed Chay to the pickup.

  Henry looked over the lake before he climbed into the cab. The storm the afternoon before had wiped the sky so clean, he felt as if he could reach up and rub the blue pane with his fingers and it would feel like dry and cold glass. And on the other side of the pane there was nothing right up to the edge of the atmosphere, so the sunlight shone through it like Glory and fell happily onto the three of them, mixing with the green and pitchy scent of the pine needles above them and the smell of water—a smell, Henry suddenly realized, that has no word in the language to describe it. Somehow he was glad about that; sometimes, you just have to know without words.

  He took a deep breath.

  Black Dog was not glad to get in the back of the pickup again. She put her front paws on the gate and left her hindquarters on the ground for a long time, and no amount of coaxing by Henry could get her to jump. It took Chay's starting the engine to get her in—probably because she was still worried about being left behind—and when she did, it was pretty clear to Henry that she would rather be in the cab with them than out in the pickup's bed. He decided he wouldn't add the final humiliation of leashing her.

  Mr. Florida Bright Shirt, who had not yet seen what Black Dog had done to Cottage 4, had told them how to get to Katahdin during the Full Continental Breakfast. They should've taken Route 1A out of Stockton Springs, he said, but lots of people make that mistake, and before you know it, you're heading east instead of north and looking for a place to stay overnight. His whole business depended on dumb tourists, he said—which didn't make Henry want to be his best friend. Anyway, since they'd come this far, they should go on to Ellsworth and then take the other Route 1A on up to Bangor. From there they'd see the signs for 95 and they could head straight north again and watch for the Millinocket exit. Or it might be called the Molunkus exit—he never could remember.

  So they headed to Ellsworth, stopping at a diner to get another breakfast. When the waitress came with the bill, Sanborn whipped out his father's credit card. "No more splitting," he said. Afterward, they found Route 1A and headed north, the pines so scented that Henry leaned out of the truck to catch their smell on the breeze—which is what Black Dog was doing, too, which led Sanborn to remark that they looked like they were related, which led Henry to reach over and punch him, which led Sanborn to grab his arm and twist it until Henry hollered.

  At Bangor they got on 95; it looked the same here as it did in Massachusetts and probably as it looked the whole way down to Florida—except for palm trees, of course. They got off at the Millinocket exit—which was the same as the Molunkus exit—and from there, everything changed.

  Because in the distance, they saw the mountain.

  It wasn't like any mountain that Henry had ever seen.

  Katahdin was a bulk, huge even from this distance; it rose out of level lands and spread itself out leisurely in great swoops of slopes and peaks. Most of it looked bald—sheer living rock that lay under the sun for warmth and light, ready to slough off any birches or pines that might try to grab hold. The peak on the south rose highest and most pointed—if it could be called a peak. It was as if the mountain had stretched itself out beyond them toward the west and drawn the peak along with it. As soon as he saw it, Henry knew it was the Knife Edge.

  To the north, the mountain took its time sweeping down in a long, slow line and dropping off into sharp walls. Farther to the north, the mountain rose again, not quite so high, angling to square itself against the horizon. At its very top, the mountain had rubbed itself raw against the sky until it was so scoured that it shone white—or maybe, Henry thought, he was seeing the last of the stubborn snows.

  Chay slowed down, and then pulled over to the side of the road. They were astonishing, this run of peaks, carved so sharply against the bright sky, so bold in jutting out of the land and standing against snow and ice, winter after winter. Henry leaned forward, staring up at the mountain. Cloud shadows rippled across Katahdin's bold face.

  Finally, reluctantly, Chay reached to put the pickup in gear—just as a policeman drove past them, slowing down a little to glance inside their pickup, and then going on toward Millinocket. Before he rounded a stony be
nd, they saw him look into his mirror, back at them.

  Henry looked over at Chay—who was predictably white. "It doesn't mean anything," he said. "He's not going to give you a ticket for stopping on the side of the road to look at a mountain."

  Chay put the truck in gear and drove back onto the road. Very slowly.

  It was almost noon now; the brightness of the day had paled into a lighter blue, and the air had whitened until it held all the promise of a still, savannah heat. Already Henry's back was sweating against the leatherette seat, and he could hear Black Dog panting—which only made things hotter.

  "So is air conditioning only for lazy Americans?" Henry said.

  Chay shook his head. "It doesn't work," he said.

  Henry lowered his window as far as it would go.

  By all rights, Henry thought, there should have been a cool breeze. The road to Millinocket wound past shadowy pines and by stones that led down to blue water on both sides. It seemed made for a cool, breezy drive. But under the noonday sun, the stones were heated and the air beneath the pines was breathless.

  Henry unstuck his back from his seat and sighed.

  There were other cars on the road to Millinocket—all of which were passing them, since Chay was driving slowly so he wouldn't catch up with the policeman. Those cars had their windows wound tightly up, and everyone inside looked cool and fresh. A lot had young kids in them, some with balloons, and more and more of the cars were decorated with red, white, and blue bunting flapping in the hot breezes, flying straight out from antennas, dragging back from rear bumpers.

  "It looks like the Fourth of July," said Sanborn.

  "It is the Fourth of July, you jerk," said Henry.

  "Thank you, Mr. Calendar Man," said Sanborn. "I'll be sure to consult you for all the high holidays."

  "Sanborn, everyone in the country knows it's the Fourth of July except you."

  "Oh, you took a poll this morning?"

  "Quiet," said Chay. A policeman drove past them, going the other direction. The same policeman.

  Chay's hands went white again. His face, too.

  "Keep going," said Henry. "We're just part of the crowd."

  Which they were. In fact, they had to drive more and more slowly as the traffic started to back up, and the bright and brave bunting that had been flying in the breeze from the cars began to go limp. And that was the way it stayed for the next half hour, as Chay rode his brake behind bumpers on into town.

  Millinocket was as decked out for the Fourth of July as any of the cars—even more so. Every building that had a second floor had a flag draped from it. Starred-and-striped bunting leaped across the street from one pole to another. Red, white, and blue balloons held on to anything that they could. The scent of cotton candy and corn dogs and grilled frankfurters filled the air. Henry heard the bright notes of a brass band warming up somewhere.

  Most of the side streets were blocked off with orange cones, and when Henry looked down them, he could see people in bright yellow T-shirts directing cars and floats and bicyclists—all sporting red, white, and blue streamers—and waving their arms at milling trombonists and trumpeters. On the sidewalks along the main street that they were driving on, people were walking with folding chairs and blankets, probably to find the best seat for a parade.

  Henry turned around to see how Black Dog was handling Millinocket. She looked fascinated. She seemed to figure that the streamers were made just for a dog to chase, and she was willing. She watched them all, her ears going down for a moment when they passed one streamer, but then perking up again with the next one. Her mouth was open, and she was drooling in her excitement.

  Then, ahead of them, a police siren wailed suddenly. And a second, and a third.

  The children walking along the road clapped and cheered; some put their hands over their ears and laughed.

  But Chay did not clap or cheer or laugh. He looked around quickly, from side to side, and then in a spasm of panic, he turned the pickup into one of the blocked-off roads, squashing three orange cones and heading toward one of the men in the bright yellow T-shirts—

  "Chay!" said Henry.

  —and stopping abruptly when the man held up his arm.

  "That way," the man in the yellow shirt said, pointing. "Classics are supposed to be two blocks over and one block down." He waved Chay on. "Go down there, and they'll show you."

  Chay went down there, and more people in bright yellow T-shirts showed him. While Henry and Sanborn sank lower and lower in their seats, and while Black Dog began to bark at the more exciting streamers, Chay drove the two blocks, turned left at the waving yellow arm, and then stopped close behind a green DeSoto that looked as if Cleanliness and Purity had descended upon it; it gleamed coolly, even in the hottening sun. Henry peeked behind them. A white DeSoto had closed in.

  "I suppose you know," said Sanborn, who was also looking out behind them, "that we are now a part of the Millinocket Fourth of July parade. And we don't even have any streamers."

  "We can turn off as soon as we get moving," said Henry.

  Chay nodded.

  But since no parade ever gets under way quickly, moving took some time. And there were more than a few people in bright yellow T-shirts who passed them and looked sort of wonderingly at them, until Sanborn finally got out of the car, went over to a fire hydrant that had three red balloons holding on, pulled the strings from the hydrant, and tied the balloons onto the tailgate of Chay's pickup—which Black Dog thought was wonderful.

  When the line of classics did get moving—very, very slowly— Henry and Chay looked for a side street to duck into. But the people with the bright yellow T-shirts lined the route, waving their arms and directing them, so that there was nowhere to go except to follow the green DeSoto in front of them—almost on the DeSoto's bumper, since the yellow-T-shirted people kept hollering that they were supposed to "close ranks," and the white DeSoto was right on them, pushed a little by the large float from the Great Northern Paper Company filled to overflowing with potted pines destined for lumbered forests.

  "We might as well start waving," said Sanborn. So Henry and Sanborn waved as they came onto the main parade route, and everyone lining the street cheered each new classic and waved small paper flags and blew on small plastic horns and shot water pistols up into the air.

  Black Dog could hardly contain herself.

  They crawled along, waving, and Black Dog barked, and the balloons on the tailgate bobbed, and Henry realized that he was starting to melt.

  "Does this classic have anything to get up a breeze?" he said to Chay, and he looked at the temperature controls.

  Chay had turned them up to blow out heat into the cab.

  Henry looked at him. "Are you crazy? It's got to be a hundred degrees in here."

  "A hundred and fifty degrees," said Sanborn.

  Chay pointed to the temperature gauge for the radiator, whose needle was almost, almost touching the red zone that did not mean anything good.

  "So what are we going to do?" said Henry.

  "Overheat," said Chay.

  "Does blowing the hot air in here get it down?"

  "Sometimes."

  Henry looked at the gauge, whose needle was now clearly in the red zone. "What happens if it overheats?"

  "More of that," said Chay, pointing to the front of the pickup, where Henry could see a wisp of white steam escaping from beneath the hood.

  "And what happens if there's a lot more of that?"

  "It means," said Sanborn, "that there's going to be a lot of unhappy parade people behind us."

  19

  WHAT HAPPENED NEXT happened very quickly, and none of it was really anyone's fault, since classics have already given everything that can be expected of them and are bound to complain sometimes. Especially when it is very hot.

  Black Dog was leaning farther and farther out from the pickup's bed—probably to escape the heat coming through the cab window. But whether it was the heat or not, when she saw a red balloon
that was suddenly let go, she barked twice and leaped out. Henry, who was still trying to wave at the crowd even though he was melting, hollered, then opened his door and ran out after her.

  At the same time, the wisp of smoke from under the front hood suddenly turned into a gusher with a surprising volume. Henry heard the hissing of the steam and the "Oohs" of the crowd—who thought it was part of the parade—and then he was gone after Black Dog, who was weaving in and out of the parade route, jumping up anytime the hot air blew the balloon back down, and barking in between times. Henry ran after her, yelling "Black Dog, Black Dog," and no one knew if Henry was warning them or calling to the dog, so they took the safer option and began backing away from a dog that was running wildly and jumping like a lunatic. When she stopped for a moment and thrust her nose into a dropped cone of cotton candy, the frothy pink on her snout looked like the kind of foam anyone who was worried about rabies might be suspicious of, and now the backing away took on a look of panic.

  Meanwhile, the entire parade had stopped, and Henry thought he knew why. The driver for the Great Northern Paper Company's float was standing on one of the potted pines to see what the holdup was. The pilots for the Millinocket Municipal Airport float were clambering up onto their plywood control tower to see. The Millinocket Junior High School Marching Band was playing the theme from The Bridge on the River Kwai and marching in place—until Black Dog ran right through them and knocked the percussion section completely off their rhythm, which got everyone in the band out of step. Then, still pink-snouted, she charged into the Veterans of Foreign Wars and through the Cub Scout troop behind them, and so past the Millinocket fire engine that was spouting a spray of water to cool everyone down, but, since it was now blocked, was simply soaking the same people over and over again.