How I Got a Life and a Dog

by Art Corriveau

  He stood back up, determined to make the twins take the tour.

  They had vanished.

  Tony peered around the cobbled street; they were usually pretty easy to spot. Nope, they were definitely gone. Had they gotten swallowed up in the hordes of afternoon tourists? Or had they just ditched him—as he had pretty much predicted they would—because they hated his guts? He saw no choice but to set off along the Freedom Trail, hoping to catch up. A little ways down North Street, though, the red line took a sharp right onto Richmond Street. He stumbled along the uneven sidewalk for a block, until it suddenly disappeared at Hanover Street—obviously the North End’s main drag. Tony swore he could be in Italy. Skinned rabbits hung in the front window of a nearby butcher shop. Grannies dressed all in black dipped their fingertips in holy water and crossed themselves as they exited a church. Old men argued in Italian over dominoes at tables set up on the sidewalk. In the middle of it all, a blind man played “That’s Amore” on an accordion.

  Tony decided he’d better ask somebody where the Freedom Trail went. He turned to the shop directly behind him. In the display window was a dusty jumble of furniture, vases, antique clothes, and framed maps. He glanced up at the purple-striped awning overhead: YE OLDE CURIOSITY SHOPPE, MILDRED PICKLES, PROPESS.

  A tiny bell jangled as he passed through the front door. He gave his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the gloom. The store was crammed full of old machines and mysterious mechanical devices; Buddhas and Madonnas and Shiva-the-Destroyers; rickshaws and telescopes and red-lacquered chests with dozens of puzzlelike drawers; a gilded glass case full of crystals and geodes; carved elephant tusks and a stuffed mongoose entwined with a snake. On the right, there was an entire wall of dusty leather-bound books. On the left—

  Tony did a double take. Standing behind a counter of rough-hewn slate was a girl a couple of years older than him. She wore a long purple dress, a white apron, and a gathered white cap, though she also had punked-out black hair and a nose ring. Tony made his way over. Carved into the top of the counter was an odd spiral. Hanging overhead was a very old American flag. As for the Colonial Maid Goth Chick, she didn’t bother to look up from the book she was reading—Astrophysics for Dummies—until Tony cleared his throat. That was when he noticed her eyes. Not blue, and not brown. Violet. He’d never seen anyone with purple irises before. She curtly informed him the video shop was a few doors down, just past the hardware store.

  “I’m guessing you’re not Mildred Pickles?” Tony said. “The proprietress.”

  “Course not,” she said, then went back to her book.

  Tony had every intention of asking her for directions, of course. But that wasn’t what came out of his mouth next. “You don’t see many of Francis Hopkinson’s quincuncial layouts these days,” he said, “outside of museums.” He was referring to the Stars and Stripes above her head.

  That caught Colonial Maid Goth Chick’s attention. “Most people think it’s a Betsy Ross,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly scratchy and low, like Peppermint Patty’s in a classic Peanuts cartoon.

  “Betsy Ross arranged the stars in a circle,” Tony said, cribbing from Michael’s lecture on flags during their last family trip to the Smithsonian in Washington, D. C. “But she was just copying someone else as a seamstress. We don’t know who created her circular design. All we really know for sure is that Congress adopted Hopkinson’s straight-across layout as the official American flag in 1777.”

  “Dude, did you want something?” Colonial Maid Goth Chick said. But she was obviously impressed.

  “Too bad the first star in the fourth row is missing,” Tony said. “If it’s real, your flag would be worth a lot more money.”

  “It’s real. But it’s not for sale,” she said. “Mildred’s great-great-great-plus-grandmother Abigail plucked the star off when she was a girl—the ninth star represented the new state of Massachusetts—though, technically speaking, Massachusetts isn’t a state, it’s a commonwealth. But no one knows why, or what she did with it.”

  “So there is a real Mildred Pickles,” Tony said.

  “Who said there wasn’t?” she said.

  “You got any Freedom Trail maps?” Tony said.

  “Nope.”

  “Can I ask you something else?” he said.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Does Mildred Pickles make you dress like that to work here?”

  “I don’t work here,” she said.

  She didn’t elaborate.

  Okeydokey, then. Tony turned and made for the door.

  “Try the hardware,” she called after him. “They have all sorts of tourist crap.”

  Tony was now drenched in sweat and totally out of breath. But he had finally found the right cul-de-sac. He’d been circling the neighborhood for a half hour—just like Julia had done with the car that morning—trying to get back to Hangmen Court. He’d given up on the Freedom Trail when the hardware store didn’t sell maps either. The twins were still MIA. They had probably gorged their way from one end of that food court to the other. Meanwhile, he hadn’t had a single snack since his hummus sandwich at lunch. Strangely, he hadn’t thought once about a Snickers bar. Though now, of course, he was wondering if there were any left in the secret-stash pocket of his backpack, up in his so-called room.

  “You there, boy!”

  A distinguished-looking gentleman beckoned Tony over to the manicured front lawn of No. 15, where he was pruning a trellis of roses with a pair of hedge clippers. It was the same old guy who had stared out the window when the DiMarcos had first arrived.

  “Hi,” Tony said, extending his hand over the front gate. “I guess we’re neighbors.”

  The old guy just frowned. “I know who you are,” he said. “You’re the one who owns Number Thirteen.”

  “Well, no, not personally,” Tony said, pulling his hand back. “My dad inherited the house from his uncle, Angelo DiMarco. Did you know him?”

  “Half uncle,” the man scowled. “Your father isn’t a full-blood relation.”

  “Sure he is,” Tony said. “Our name is DiMarco, just like Zio Angelo’s.”

  “That was his adopted name,” the man said. “His real name was Saporiti.”

  “And you are?” Tony said, not sure where to go with that.

  “The name is Benedict Hagmann. Double ‘n’ at the end. I was Angelo’s oldest and dearest childhood friend. So there’s no point in trying to pull the wool over my eyes. I know a lot more than you think about the whole situation.”

  “What situation?” Tony said. But he edged away from the gate, just in case Old Man Hagmann—double n at the end—suddenly got a little wild with those clippers.

  “Angelo’s bizarre decision to bequeath Number Thirteen to you,” Old Man Hagmann said, “a distant relative by marriage—a child he barely knew—as the result of an utterly unexpected and not entirely welcome visit from your father. A visit that took place, I might add, on the very morning of Angelo’s sudden and quite mysterious death.”

  “What are you saying?” Tony stammered.

  “I’ve already said more than I should.” Old Man Hagmann sniffed, lopping a couple of withered roses off the trellis. “But it’s all highly suspicious.”

  “I’m, um, late for dinner,” Tony said. Then he hightailed it up the front stoop to No. 13.

  Crazy old fart.

  Hopefully.

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