The Thing at the Edge of Blundertown

by Jane M. Bloom

  Was it something she’d done? she wondered. Had she offended in some way? The list was growing: her Favorite Neighbor, Alpha, Father, Prince, Boxer. They’d all deserted her in some fashion. Even grandmother—don’t think for a minute she hadn’t noticed. She smelled the proof when the family returned the other day: turkey, cinnamon, and cranberry. Penny had always taken such pride in her impeccable manners at Grandmother’s. But this time she hadn’t even been invited, imagine that! Penelope had never been so insulted in her life. Her ears drooped just thinking about it. But who cares about a few petty snubs, anyway? Some people are ever so shallow.

  She retreated to her lonely spot under the desk when it occurred to her: The moment when it all began. It was that peculiar morning when the mail came twice. She remembered it all too well. She was tending to her chores in the empty castle. She didn’t work out of the home like the rest of the family, but her job was no less important—even now that she was a respectable old lady. As always, the first thing she did when the family left for the day was tidy up the house. That morning there had been a dot of jelly on the table and a few pieces of cereal on Raelyn’s chair.

  That’s when she heard that darn squeaky noise from the front door chute where the mail entered the house each day. How bold, the mail! Such an intrusion into the family’s private sanctuary, one of her daily annoyances. But on that day, it was earlier than usual, and only a single piece of paper rather than the regular bundle. She inspected it most thoroughly. Then, of course, the propane man had come, that brazen intruder who barged across the lawn once a month with his ferocious hose. She threatened him through the window: “Not an inch closer! I’m warning you!” But he’d approached unabashed and smiled right at her. The nerve! Never trust a common trespasser. She had finally settled into her morning beauty rest when those God-awful, squeaky hinges interrupted her again. This time it really had been the mail. Twice in one day. . .strange indeed. A sliver of foreboding had pricked at the back of her neck. The last time the mail came twice, it had been about the boy, Jackson. Shortly afterward, he’d been gone. Who might it be this time? She had felt a sudden, desperate need to rearrange things in the house, something she hadn’t done in ages. And like a frivolous young girl, she had.

  Later that day, she and Raelyn had returned from the park for the first time without entering. Things hadn’t been the same since.

  THE CHILLY ODORS FROM THE STORM lingered in the kitchen. Penelope was alone. Oh, how she missed her old life and wondered when things would return to normal. Or was this the new normal? Again, her nerves got the best of her, and she searched for something harmless to rearrange. She spotted the kitchen towel over the oven door, the family’s vulgar habit that irked her so. She gently pulled it down, fluffed it up until it was just so, and deposited it in the center of the room. All is well, she assured herself, returning to her spot. Surely, it’s nothing. At times like this, mindless, repetitive activity could be therapeutic. It reduced anxiety simply by redirecting the energy. Paws, she decided—I will lick my paws. She massaged her arms in long caresses, one after another until her fur was silken, wet and relaxed. Still she stroked over and over, over and over. Calm down. All is well.

  Suddenly, Alpha clip-clopped into the kitchen. “Damn it, Penelope. Again?” She whisked the towel off the floor and flicked it in Penny’s face.

  CHAPTER 6

  A Single Vote

  I DREAMED I WAS WALKING into our living room and found both my parents on the sofa. But it was only their heads—nothing appeared below their necks. They were chatting away as if everything was normal.

  “Mommy! Daddy!” I screamed. “Your bodies are missing!” They smiled at me, unfazed. “You’re just talking Bobble Heads!” I cried in disbelief. They acknowledged they knew this. In a way, it was funny to see their expressive heads chattering about, turning and cocking the way heads attached to bodies typically do. But in another way, it wasn’t funny at all.

  THERE WAS MUCH ABOUT MR. PUMPKIN HEAD that even Raelyn’s father didn’t know.

  How Ollie Jerkins became Chief Executive was a wonder to everyone except himself. No superior intellect, skill, wealth, or family connection explained it. To the contrary, up to this point in his life, he had been a complete failure. He flunked out of college and ran several small businesses into the ground. He was terribly uncoordinated, never kept a girlfriend, had no rhythm, and couldn’t carry a tune. In the beginning, his peculiar hatred for dogs earned him names like crackpot, maniac, and wacko. He distributed a pathetic, rambling poem degrading all canines, which people folded into paper airplanes and aimed back at his head on the streets. He was the butt of countless jokes.

  But never say never, because Ollie kept at it. His presence at the right place and time was uncanny. And most importantly, he had an obsessive passion, no matter how absurd. Once he developed his craft and talking points, he spewed his crazy talk non-stop. He hooked enough voters to get him elected to his first political position, the new mayor of Blundertown.

  At first, he was nothing more than that—small peanuts, small town. But in practice, both visibly and behind the scenes, he was an influential player in Daffy County politics, and a rising star. This gathering of clout between his broad shoulders had been four years in the works. There was no end in sight. Sure, there were discussions in basements with the lights low: How do we get rid of this guy? Whom can we groom, prep, and promote to beat him in the next election? There had been a few unsuccessful attempts; those candidates had been lucky to leave unscathed for fresh starts in distant towns.

  Then one day, the front page of the People’s Daily (it wasn’t Ollie’s Daily yet) announced in bold letters: “Mayor Jerkins Becomes New County Executive.” His predecessor was an elderly man who had long lost his stomach for this kind of politics. He passed the baton to the ruddy-faced bully without a fight. And that is how Ollie became the head honcho of Daffy County, his hand in every pot, his signature on every dotted line.

  But it still wasn’t enough for him.

  One of the things Raelyn’s father never shared at the dinner table was the recent, secret vote on the Emergency Act. The Act would confer virtually unlimited powers on Chief Jerkins in the event of a so-called emergency. The Chief had given a fervent speech to the legislature on why it was necessary to pass the Act by a majority vote. The County was in the throes of deep crisis, he bellowed. His spittle reached the far side of the table when he spoke.

  He wasn’t a large man, but he could dominate a room. He sat at the helm of the long conference table with five council members on one side and four on the other. No one took the side opposite him. He knew he had it made when a roomful of people laughed at his jokes even he knew weren’t funny. These were people he could make sweat (Rae’s father, Vigil Devine, included). He could trigger nightmares that left no memorable trace in the morning. It was silly, they knew. After all, they were adults living in the USA, not in some dreadful place without elections and free speech. Yet these primitive power dynamics never really go away no matter where you are or how old you have become.

  You may have heard of back-stabbing politicians: set-ups, deceit, nasty rumors, some of which are untrue. Local politics could be brutal, but not in Blundertown, where folks all got along, slapped each other’s backs, and worked in harmony. And of course they laughed at Ollie’s jokes—comic relief. On nearly all matters prior to this one, the vote would have been unanimous. They’d all go home with an evening respectably spent and a pittance well earned.

  But the Emergency Act was different. When Chief Jerkins opened the floor for discussion, no one wanted to be the one to disagree. It was a challenging feat—how to praise and flatter but at the same time suggest that his ideas were crazy. It simply couldn’t be done. Passing the Emergency Act would mean that Ollie, alone, could thereafter make any rule at all during an emergency. Yet the definition of emergency remained dangerously vague. In practice, couldn’t anything be deemed an emergency? This went too far, even for some of the
cowardly legislators. Naturally, no one said so.

  However, when it came to voting, two “nays” were muttered almost instantly. Half way around the table, the vote was split: two “ayes” in favor and two “nays” against. The room was still. Every stomach churned. Vigil Devine studied the flushed faces of his colleagues who had already cast their votes. Then he studied the ghostlike faces of those who were next. He would be last, but his time was coming.

  Three more votes tipped the balance in favor of the “nays.” You could almost see the smoke coming out of Ollie’s ears. The next vote tied it, four to four.

  And then it was Vigil Devine’s turn. His vote would seal the matter one way or the other. If he voted “aye,” we had a dictator. If he voted “nay,” we didn’t, but his own troubles would be just beginning. He could be his daughter’s age right now, sitting in the sterile courtroom before the judge. He was expected to cast his vote for one, but not the other, of his divorcing parents. The helpless echo in his ears was the same. The hollows in his gut were the same. He never could do it then, and he wasn’t sure he had it in him now. He swallowed hard. All eyes were diverted elsewhere except for Mr. Pumpkin Head’s, who drilled their way into Vigil’s dark, uneasy stare.

  “I abstain,” Vigil declared.

  “You what?” Chief Jerkins boomed.

  Vigil said, a little louder, “I choose not to vote. I abstain.”

  There were rustled exchanges around the table. Then Ollie’s lips curled upward and his left dimple appeared. He pulled out the Legislative Procedure Manual from his inside jacket pocket. Who knew he kept it there? He thumb-flipped through the pages until he located what he was looking for, and read aloud: “In the event of a tie vote, the County Executive breaks the tie.”

  Congratulations. Vigil had created a dictator.

  IT TOOK A WEEK FOR HIM TO CONFIDE IN HIS WIFE. (He did so only partially.) It was nighttime, the time for adult discussions. He was distraught and rambling, elbows propped on the low table, chin in hands. “How can Ollie get away with this? We’re not in Communist Russia. We live in the Sweet Land of Liberty, for Thee I Sing. Purple mountain majesties, checks and balances, the whole nine yards. He can’t just strip the legislature of its power like this.” But his last words rang hollow. He knew that he and his fellow council members had set the stage long before the Emergency Act. His forehead pounded his fists. “Joan, what do I do?”

  “Well, dear, I think you’re overreacting.” Always the calm voice of reason. “Remember, we are in a state of emergency. I’m sure whatever Ollie does, it’s to protect us all—the community.” She stroked the dark curls above his ear. “Besides, once the emergency is under control, things will go back to normal.”

  “I hope you’re right. I just feel like I ought to tell someone, file a. . .complaint or something.” He paused. “I mean, people are being apprehended for things now that would never before—”

  “Go over your boss’s head? Lose your job? Over something as silly as this?” she said with a wave of her hand through the air. “That’s your Grand Plan for the family?”

  By then, Raelyn was straining to hear near the top of the stairs.

  “I suppose you’re right.” Her father sat back, a hand on each giant knee. He gave a robust sigh as if blowing out candles. “We did follow the procedural manual.” The pressure in his chest began to lift. “I suppose I should sleep on it, huh?”

  Her mother smiled. “How did you know that’s what I was going to say?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, just a hunch?”

  “In the morning, this mountain will shrink back to the tiny ant hill that it is. Look,” she said, her head peck-peck-pecking as she spoke, emphasizing select words, “all I want is to keep our family safe. To teach our children to be good human beings. Is that too much to ask?” He put his arm around her. Her lecture continued. “Choose your battles, Vigil. What’s important is our family.”

  “Our family, Mom?” She was two-thirds down the staircase.

  “Raelyn!” Her mother was startled. “What are you doing up?” (meaning, “How long have you been listening?”)

  “Look at our family albums. Penelope’s everywhere. There’s a whole photo album just of her,” Rae’s voice was rising. “How do we sign our New Year’s cards? ‘Peace. Vigil, Joan, Jackson, Raelyn—” here she shouted—“and Penelope Devine, ‘Woof-woof!’” Her nightgown formed a mini-tornado as she spun around and stomped back upstairs. A loud thud! followed as she tripped and banged her knee. “Ow!” she howled. “Don’t laugh!” She slammed her bedroom door.

  Penelope watched all of this unnoticed from her perch at the foot of the stairs. There she was again, the subject of another turbulent episode without the faintest idea why. All her life, she had prided herself in her ability to read the signs, interpret the clues, figure things out. Her skills were quite superior. She could tell, for instance, when her father was sad from the smell of the liquid in his glass, when Alpha was anxious from the increased pace of her footsteps around the kitchen. She could tell when her sister was keeping another secret from her extra glances when no one else was looking. Back when the dear boy was home (so fond of him—hadn’t seen him in ages!), she alone foresaw trouble from the trail of subtle odors that followed him from the front door. Her two-legged family, wonderful though they were, had glaring deficiencies in the sensory department. They couldn’t smell things the way she could, couldn’t feel the vibrations or read between the lines. They were last to know a storm was approaching and rarely knew what time it was.

  But now she was baffled, out of her league. The ways of the world, the rules of the road, everything had changed in some undefined way she couldn’t grasp. The only things she knew for certain were: one, things were changing at an alarming rate and didn’t look good for her; and two, Raelyn was in distress. She definitely would check on her again tonight.

  CHAPTER 7

  Doc Goodman’s Frightful Night

  THE NIGHT AFTER MY THIRD-GRADE field trip to a glass- blowing exposition, I dreamed of the beautiful, molten-hot liquid expanding before me. Whether liquid or solid, glass could hurt you. At 1,800 degrees, it could burn a hole right through your heart; as a solid, it could slice you into pieces. Suddenly, the glowing mound exploded before my eyes into a solid burst of silver daggers. I huddled with Penelope in the corner as the particles came down like rain.

  WHEN RAELYN WAS NINE, Doc Goodman had dark wavy hair. When she was eleven, it had gone all white, a thick coat of snow on his tall head. He was quickly aging, but he was still the best veterinarian in Daffy County. He’d been named Best Vet for eight of the last ten years. If I were a dog, she thought, and had to be poked and pricked, prodded and restrained, if I had to be subjected to someone shoving a sharp instrument up my tush and inspecting my privates, I’d want that person to be Doc Goodman.

  Penelope would agree. She had a love-hate relationship with her doctor, his staff, his waiting room, and the parking lot outside his office. She knew as soon as the car made the right-hand turn onto Chestnut Street. At nine, she had relieved herself the instant she entered the waiting room, surprised again by the power he still had over her after all these years. When she was a puppy, what an ignorant fool she’d been! He would play with her ears, paws, tail—what a fine friend! Only to learn it was all a ruse. Out of nowhere, among the frolicking, a poke and a yelping pinch right on the rump! Not a hint of playfulness anymore, but a stern expression behind the wire-framed glasses. “Good Girl,” he praised. Oh, those pesky annual shots.

  Passersby often stopped at the large bay window overlooking the street to admire Atlas, Doc’s silver Weimaraner. Atlas spent business hours lounging on his plush, monogrammed bed in the window, his translucent velvet coat on full display. He wasn’t the only one treated like royalty. No waiting room was more inviting. When you opened the front door, you were greeted with the lovely voice of Patty Paige singing the old, “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?” The recording was motion-sensored, so Do
c and Atlas heard this endearing tune dozens of times a day. They never tired of it. Rae especially adored the part when the puppy chimed in “Woof, woof!’ There were dog and kitty beds next to each chair, a basket of toys, and a jar of treats on the counter.

  It was after nine o’clock and long dark outside. The light in the waiting area had been turned off and the door locked. Doc was finishing up a busy day. Both his vet technician and his receptionist had recently resigned after nearly twenty years with him. The field of veterinary medicine had become oppressive, to say the least. They’d left when Doc was handed a paint brush and ordered by Chief Jerkins to paint the sign on his door. It had read Doc’s Place. In front of a crowd of gawkers and a gun-toting officer, he’d added a brush stroke to the letter “C” to convert it to a “G”, so that the door read Dog’s Place. Dog had become the number two dirty word on the street, second only to canine. The two loyal employees had fled in tears. Without his staff, he had his hands full handling all aspects of his practice, which had shrunk by about thirty percent in the last month. Some dogs had moved out of Daffy County; others were keeping a low profile.

  “Come, Atlas. I need your help,” he called. Atlas jumped from his bed in the window and galloped through the swinging door to the back office. Doc grabbed the broom from the utility closet and swept the floor. He hung his white doctor’s coat on a closet hook and buttoned his winter jacket, car keys in hand.