The Secret of Rover

by Rachel Wildavsky

  “Man!” David exploded in glee. “Can you believe that?”

  “Shhh! David, what do we do now?”

  “Love makes men stupid.”

  “David, focus! We have, like, about sixty seconds before they’re after us and that’s if we’re lucky. We need a truck or a place to hide or—”

  “I’m buying food.”

  “What!”

  “I’m hungry!”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “I’m very hungry and I just got us ten dollars, no thanks to you.”

  “I—I—you’re on your own.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m not going with you.”

  “What—”

  She was as good as her word. Katie turned on her heel and struck out across the parking lot toward the gas station.

  It was a miracle that they had gotten away. If they got caught again they would be held under lock and key. She didn’t intend to let that happen—not to her. If David followed her, fine. If not—well, she wasn’t looking back to find out.

  But as Katie approached the now familiar station the old panic began again. Why had she decided to go this way? She would immediately be recognized. But then, she couldn’t go to the visitors’ center either. That was where they would look for her the minute they discovered Sanders had let them go. And she could not go near the trucks. Every driver there would surely be talking about the recent excitement over the stowaways.

  It was after five thirty a.m., and day was breaking. They had been all too visible by artificial light. Daylight would not help. Again Katie felt the net closing in. Only moments before it had released them, yet already it threatened to engulf them once more.

  Katie’s desperate eyes roamed from left to right, searching. Just ahead of her at the gas pumps, a man was attempting to fill up a small, battered white truck and swearing as he did so.

  “It won’t take my card!” he cried, to no one in particular. In exasperation he dropped the nozzle and stalked past her, headed for the cashier.

  Katie looked at the side of the truck. It was painted all over with apples and across the top ran the words: fresh to you . . . from the green mountain state.

  The Green Mountain State. That was Vermont!

  Katie did not really want to leave her brother behind. Though she had been very angry, she earnestly hoped he was watching her and would follow her lead. But this was her chance and she meant to take it. She walked straight to the truck, opened the back door, and climbed in.

  Follow me, she thought, willing David to read her mind. Don’t be mad. Please, please be watching. Please, please follow.

  He did. Stunned by her willingness to walk away, David had not gone to the food court after all. An instant later he slipped in after her and Katie closed the door and clicked it shut, sealing them inside.

  This had been their boldest move yet. They had climbed into this truck under the full glare of the lights and with people all around. Both children stood motionless inside the door, afraid to breathe. Together they listened for the shouts of outrage, the angry footsteps. They heard nothing.

  Then the man returned, still muttering. From behind their metal walls they listened as he reinserted the nozzle into the tank. They heard the swoosh of the fuel as it flowed in, filling it.

  In the meantime, though, some kind of commotion seemed to have broken out in the direction of the visitors’ center. From behind the sheltering walls of the truck Katie and David heard one—no, two—sirens speeding that way. Through the cracks of the door they faintly saw flashes of blue light from the bars atop the police cruisers.

  Those lights and sirens—those were for them. Their escape had been discovered.

  Hurry, hurry. And in fact the man was done. He removed the nozzle, sealed the tank with the cap, hopped into his cab, and started the motor. With a jerk that sent them tumbling to the floor, he pulled away from the gas station and onward toward the open road.

  “We don’t know where he’s going,” David protested, worry in his voice. “He’s from Vermont. That doesn’t mean he’s going to Vermont.”

  “Yes, he is,” said Katie, her pulse at last slowing down. “Look,” she added, fishing out her flashlight and turning it on. She shone the thin beam around the interior of the small truck.

  “See? It’s empty.” The sweet perfume of apples flooded the truck, and rattling crates and boxes were piled everywhere, but she was right; there was no fruit in any of them. An unzipped duffel bag containing a jumble of worn laundry lay tossed in a corner. “He’s made his deliveries. He’s been to New York. Now he’s going home.”

  There was a long silence as David took this in. Then a wide smile spread across his face.

  “Yes!” Again David whispered his victory cry and pumped his fist in noiseless jubilation.

  “Not yet!” said Katie.

  “That was, like, out of a movie or something,” said David, still basking.

  “It’s not over,” she cautioned.

  “No, but man, back there? Katie, we did it!” he said. “They caught us, but we got away. We’ve gotten away twice,” he amplified, remembering with pleasure their earlier escape through the cat door. That had been his idea too, if memory served.

  “We lost ’em,” he continued. “We got off track, but now we’re right back to where we were. We’re on our way to Vermont, like we should be.”

  “Yeees, but . . .”

  “But what?” This was very annoying, this “but” so soon after such a triumph.

  “But we’re not just back to where we were. It’s worse now,” Katie said.

  “Because . . . ?”

  “Because now we know they’re looking for us. The Katkajanians, I mean. And of course, now the police are too.”

  It was always so depressing to listen to Katie. “Um, New Hampshire?” said David. “We’re OK, Kat, thanks to me. As soon as the cops let those two clowns go—the guy with the funky nose and the woman with the bad hair—they’ll be headed for the wrong state.”

  “For a while, but not for long.”

  “You just don’t want to admit it. You won’t admit it because that New Hampshire thing was mine—I thought of that.”

  “Give me a break, David.” She sighed. “Look, the New Hampshire idea was good—it was very good. And it’s going to keep them off our trail for a couple of days. But then they’ll figure it out and when they do, they’ll be after us again. And then . . .”

  “And then what?”

  “And then they’ll be really, really mad.”

  “We’re definitely on 91,” Katie repeated impatiently. They had been over this many, many times. “If you’re going to Vermont from Yonkers, that’s your only route. Our problem is, where on 91 will he stop?”

  They were seated on the rattling, bouncing metal floor of the apple truck, peering at their map in the glow of a flashlight. “We know Uncle Alex is just outside Melville, right?” she continued. “And according to this map we can walk to Melville from 91. But it’s a long highway. So it only works if we get out at the right part.”

  “Let me see that.” David reached for the map.

  They had been in the truck for almost five hours. For much of that time they had been trying to guess where they were and how they might slip out somewhere close to their destination. The driver of their truck had stopped a couple of times along their route—for breakfast and coffee, they’d assumed. Each stop caused them to dash behind the empty crates in a panic that he might open the back. Each stop caused them to estimate their rate of speed, check the number of hours they’d been traveling, and take a wild guess about where on the map they might be.

  They figured they were not yet close enough to try to leave the truck. But that was a guess, and they were not sure they were right.

  “I am so incredibly sick of these crackers,” said Katie, looking with disgust at the blue-and-orange box into which she was thrusting her hand. Never would she have imagined that she could be
so hungry and so disgusted by a cheese cracker, both at the same time.

  Wordlessly, David took the box and helped himself to a handful as well.

  “But we should stop eating them,” she added, watching him. “We’re almost out and we don’t have anything else.”

  “We have ten bucks,” said David. “Thanks to me.”

  “That won’t get us very far if we have to walk fifty miles,” she replied. And she patted her pockets, checking them. Her few belongings were all carefully stashed. When you have no idea where you are or when your driver will open the door, it is important to be ready to jump at any time.

  David clicked on the other flashlight and its faint beam lit up the dark interior of the truck. As Katie watched, he scooted over to the duffel bag that lay by the wall, tucked his light under his chin, and began to rummage through it.

  Katie sat up.

  “David Bowden! What on earth are you doing?”

  “I’m seeing if there’s any money in here.” His voice came out funny because the flashlight prevented him from moving his jaws.

  “Because . . . ?”

  “Because if there is, we’re going to need it. You said so yourself. Ten’s not enough.”

  “You’re stealing? Just like that? You’re just going to—”

  “Hello?” David transferred the flashlight to his hand and turned to look at her. “What’s that in your pockets, Katie? We’ve been stealing ever since we left home.”

  “That’s not the same!”

  “Why? Just because it’s from a store or a truck? Stealing’s stealing, Kat”—he made little quote marks in the air with his fingers—“news flash.”

  “It is not. This is much worse.”

  “Why?”

  Katie glared but did not respond.

  “Give me one reason why it’s worse, Katie.” David sighed heavily. “It isn’t worse,” he said, answering his own question. “It isn’t even wrong. None of it is. We’re in an emergency. Look.”

  He rummaged again in the duffel and pulled out a small white card. “I have the guy’s card. It has his address on it. When we get to Uncle Alex’s we can send the money back. That’s more than we can do for King Foods. I don’t think we can repay them, so if you want to get technical, that was actually wor—”

  “What money? Did you find any?”

  “I found four dollars.”

  “Oh! That is so—” But Katie’s words were cut off as the truck braked sharply and took a tight curve upward and to the right. She braced her hands on the floor to avoid toppling over.

  “Exit ramp,” said David tensely.

  “No kidding.” The abruptness of the exit had left Katie slightly carsick.

  “Hide,” her brother ordered. As they had done at previous stops, David rose to a low and unsteady crouch and crept toward the rear of the truck, where he ducked behind a jumble of empty apple crates in case the driver decided to open the back. Hastily Katie followed him and lowered her body next to his in the cramped space.

  And there they waited. But this time the truck did not stop. It was no longer on the interstate but it rumbled on and on over bouncing, ill-paved roads that turned and swooped, this way and that. After a very long while they could feel it turning onto what seemed to be slower and quieter roads.

  It felt like a neighborhood. Was the driver going home?

  Now they slowed way down, swerved sharply to the left, and rolled over a short bump. They crunched over a gravel bed that felt ominously like the driveway of someone’s house. Then suddenly—finally—they stopped. The motor went dead, and with a soft squeal of the pedal the driver set the brake.

  For an instant it was absolutely silent. And then they heard a sound they had never expected but instantly feared: a dog.

  The dog was only a few yards away, and the moment the motor was cut it began to bark in great excitement. The animal’s rapid, light footfalls pelted toward them and it threw itself at the side of the truck, just outside the very spot where they were sitting. The metal walls that encased them banged and rattled wildly with the impact of the creature’s body on the other side.

  The driver’s door flew open. The man spoke. “Hush! Hush up, now!” They heard him leap lightly to the ground, and the barking gave way to glad whimpering as the dog greeted his friend.

  “Katie! I think we’re at his house!” David spoke directly into his sister’s ear and in the lowest possible voice, but the dog’s sensitive ears heard him and it resumed its hysterical barking.

  “I said hush!” There was a light smacking sound and the jingle of a chain as the man jerked the dog’s collar. The animal subsided, whining. “What’s got into you?”

  And then they heard the driver’s footsteps. He was headed for the back of the truck.

  The duffel, thought David with a stab of fear. He’s home now. He’ll be taking out his stuff.

  The dog, thought Katie. It’s already heard us. When he opens the back it’s going to jump in.

  Both children buried their faces in their hands. The door flew open and the midmorning light flooded into the truck. The dog instantly went berserk. With a ferocious, deep-throated yelp it leaped into the truck. Not only would they be discovered, they would be mauled. A scream rose inside Katie’s throat.

  But before her scream could escape, the driver, cursing hoarsely, seized the animal’s collar and jerked it hard. A second jerk pulled the creature back to the ground.

  “Chester, knock it off!” With his one free hand the driver reached into the truck and scooped out his duffel. Then he slammed the door shut, causing the dog again to bark frantically.

  “Man!” the driver exclaimed. “Musta been a squirrel in there yesterday. Can’t go nuts like that, every time you catch a whiffa squirrel!” And he walked off, dragging Chester after him. Both children listened tensely as the man’s mutterings and the animal’s yips and whimpers retreated across the yard. Far away they heard a screen door open.

  Make him go inside, Katie prayed. Put the dog in the house.

  He did. Off in the distance, with a final yelp, the door closed on the truck driver and Chester.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  In less time than it would take to say it, the children unlatched the truck door, jumped to the ground, and slipped into the shrubbery that lined the driveway. Glancing over his shoulder David saw the big, rough form of Chester appear in the living-room window, barking as if his life were on the line.

  But the dog was too late. The Bowden children had reached the safety of the street and were gone.

  Where were they?

  It was steeply hilly and it felt like mountain country. The air itself was different—colder and drier—and the plants and trees were not the same as the ones they knew.

  But where were they? From the apple farmer’s business card, they knew they were in Hawthorne, Vermont. But they did not know what road they were on, and there did not seem to be any street signs.

  They were lost, Katie reflected, and to make matters worse, they were conspicuous. She gazed at her brother. He was a mess. The shrubbery through which they had escaped while fleeing from Chester hadn’t helped. Twigs and debris were caught in his hair. But beneath all that he was showing the effects of the past two nights. No, three, she thought, remembering. Before the night in the dusty old house, with the rats, they had slept on the floor back at home.

  Since then they had caught only snatches of rest on the floors of the two trucks. They had washed only once, at the rest stop in Yonkers, and they had barely eaten. Not surprisingly, David’s eyes were sunken, his face and body were smeared with grime, and his clothes were rumpled and filthy.

  Katie knew how hungry her brother was, because her own hunger was becoming a serious problem. And he stank, too. “What?” he said, seeing her face.

  “Nothing,” she replied. “It’s just that I realized I probably look as bad as you do. That’s all.”

  He surveyed her critically. “Worse,” he said matter-of-factl
y.

  Having no alternative they simply wandered. David was ahead by a few paces, but Katie could tell that their aimlessness was bothering him, too. Still, she was outraged when she saw him stop in front of a bulging mailbox at the edge of someone’s lawn and begin riffling through the contents.

  “David!” Her whisper came out as a furious hiss. It was bad enough that he had brazenly stolen four dollars. Now he was stealing mail, too?

  “Appleton Lane,” he announced, shoving the mail back in and walking on.

  She scuttled to catch up. “What?” she asked.

  “We’re on Appleton Lane.”

  “Oh.” He had checked the address. The anger eased out of Katie. “That was smart,” she admitted somewhat reluctantly.

  Sitting on a low curb at the edge of someone’s lawn, they broke out their map to search for Hawthorne, Vermont. They took care to unfold it only to the size of a magazine. Two ragged kids on a curb, studying a map, would certainly raise eyebrows.

  “With the Hawthorne part, we’re in luck,” said David with relief in his voice. “Look. Hawthorne’s here”—he jabbed his finger at the page—“and Melville’s—”

  “Here.” Katie found it first. “Melville’s here. It’s close.” She began to feel excited. The two dots representing Hawthorne and Melville were really quite near each other. “We’re actually almost there—wow.” But Katie checked her own enthusiasm.

  “We’re not done, though,” she added. “Close on the map can mean a long way on the ground. We could have a long walk ahead of us.”

  “Right.” David returned to the map. “But before we can figure that out, we need to know where in Hawthorne we are. And we don’t. I mean, knowing it’s Appleton Lane is nice, but it doesn’t actually help, since the only Hawthorne road that’s on this map is Route 24. It’s too little a town.” He clutched the fraying edges of the map, eyes roaming.

  Then he rose to his feet, jammed the map into his pocket, and dusted his hands on his shorts. “Route 24’s what we need to find,” he said. “And coincidentally, that’s the road that goes to Melville, too. But of course we have no idea where it is.”