The Thing at the Edge of Blundertown

by Jane M. Bloom

  Suddenly, a tremendous crash came from the front room. He nearly fell backward. Atlas immediately obeyed Doc’s cue to remain quiet. It was an identifiable sound though Doc had never heard it before, the way you know it’s a bear without ever before having heard a live growl.

  He regained steadiness when he heard a second crash just as jarring as the first. It left him with no doubt: He was under attack. He waved Atlas into the closet with him and turned off the lights. He gripped Atlas at the nape and held his breath.

  Someone was pounding on the front door, which flew open. Patty Paige’s sweet voice floated out, singing “How Much Is That Doggie In The Window?"

  “Woof, woof,” barked the puppy. The innocence of the music, a child’s carefree melody, had suddenly become eerily out of place. Heavy footsteps assaulted Patty and her little pup and barged through the swinging door into the back office, a mere arm’s length away. Doc remained crouched in a tight ball, Atlas’ silver head buried in his jacket—sitting ducks at the mercy of the intruders. There were sounds of opening cabinets, spilling paper, tossing books. Laughter and whoops came from a deep voice and from another only halfway to manhood. Within moments, the footsteps rumbled back into the waiting room and out the front door.

  Then, utter silence. Neither of them moved. After a few tense moments, Doc pulled himself up and cracked open the closet door. The clock ticked, and the oil burner hissed gently. He didn’t dare turn on the light, but he could see through the darkness that he had been ransacked. Papers and books cluttered the floor. His financial records were scattered, his appointment book gone.

  As much as he dreaded it, he inched the swinging door open. A gust of frigid air engulfed him, and he knew his instincts had been right. The large bay window had been shattered. A few sharp daggers of glass remained intact, jutting out at violent angles. Atlas’ fancy bed sparkled in a pool of broken glass reflecting off the street light. Silicate shards and debris blanketed the floor and covered the beds and chairs.

  Doc let out a single cry, keys still clutched in his fist. He knelt on the shattered remains of twenty-five years of his career. Something trickled down his face, and he wondered if he’d been hit by a maverick shard. But when he wiped his cheek, it was not blood that he saw. It was tears.

  He would be cleaning meticulously through the night. But first he swept only a small area in the center of the room and a path for Atlas. He turned on the music. It was a jazzy tune, one of Violet’s favorites. He began to hum along in the aching, streetlit shadows. “Atlas,” he asked, “do you want to dance?” The Weimaraner pranced toward him, his front paws nearly reaching Doc’s chest. Doc held him so that Atlas was standing majestic and tall.

  They danced. Doc lead the way, the two making slow, careful rotations the way he and his wife, Violet, had on her last good morning. By then, only a few wispy strands had been left of her hair, and darkness had circled her eyes. It had been five years, but it felt like yesterday. On the morning before hospice took over, it was this song they had danced to. Her arms had been limp in his, with Doc humming in her ear.

  THE BAND OF ROGUE CITIZENS FANNED OUT, shouting and bellowing through the business sections of Blundertown and the surrounding villages. They carried out a wild spree leaving a sickening trail of destruction and glass behind them. They were a team of thugs emboldened by their numbers and by the night, when no one was present to defend their businesses—neither the pet stores nor the veterinarians, the groomers, the boarders. At each business the glass was left strewn on the sidewalks, the interiors ransacked and looted. The officer on duty sat idly by, chewing her gum in a marked car at the curb, watching. She was following instructions.

  What a mess the streets were the next morning! The officer took a report from Doc straight away. He pulled out his note pad and began to write as Doc described the incident. But before he was finished telling his account of what happened, the officer ripped the top page from his pad and handed it to him.

  “What’s this?”

  “A citation,” the officer said matter-of-factly. “As the business owner of these premises, you’re responsible for maintaining the public sidewalk in front here. You’ve got twenty-four hours to clean it up.” He didn’t look at Doc when he said it. Had he, he would have seen a crushed man behind the wire-framed lenses. And if he had looked more closely still, he would have seen a small flame of anger, stoked and raging, burning through the glass.

  CHAPTER 8

  Lifespan Of A Club

  MY FAMILY WAS GOING OUT on a frigid Sunday morning. Mother wore a black fur coat, fuzzy hat, and gloves. Daddy’s fists made bulges in his coat pockets, and Jack wore oversized mittens. They were walking away from our house, snow all around them. Delicate white lines traced the barren trees.

  I wasn’t with them. I was standing alone in the side yard, but there it was springtime. Everything was in full, vibrant color. Pink-white blossoms burst from our magnolia tree. Penny rested on the lawn, a sliver of sunshine emanating through each shoot, and the air was warm and fragrant. I felt Iggy wiggle in my arms, and I realized she had become a real iguana! She leaped from me and skittered among the tulips—bold purple, red, and yellow—twitching and nibbling the way real iguanas do. Penny joined her.

  At the edge of the lawn, a dividing line separated me from my family, still walking away in wool and fur. “Hey! Mommy!” I called out. No one heard me. “Hey! Guys!” I shouted louder.

  My father smiled at me, mildly curious that I wasn’t with them. My brother waved his giant mitten, his silver braces flashing. Mother seemed to look right through me. “Look! It’s springtime over here! Come over here!”

  My father scooped up some snow with his bare hands. Brr. Then he hurled something across the invisible line to me. A snowball landed at my feet. I picked it up and wiped away the layers. In my hand was a large seed, a compact bundle of potential the size of a walnut. Penelope dug a small hole and I planted the seed there, covering it with a blanket of dirt as my family receded into the distance.

  RAELYN WAS WELL ACQUAINTED with the United Front. It was the unified position her folks took on parenting matters, whether they actually agreed or not. A United Front made for good parents with well-adjusted, capable children who would one day be good parents with United Fronts themselves. Disagreements between them happened behind closed doors; never let your children see the crack in the United Front, or they’ll dive in for the kill like sharks—hungrily, no holds barred. Children were intuitively good at this, and Rae was no exception. It’s just that she rarely got the chance. The Devine Front was impenetrable, especially when Jack wasn’t around to poke holes in it.

  On the evening after Doc Goodman’s frightful night, her mother was at work and Raelyn tested the waters over dinner. “Dad, who were those people who did those things?”

  “What things?”

  She looked at the newspaper squarely in front of him. The headline read Corrupt Canine Businesses Pay Price, with a photograph beneath it of a smashed store window. “The things right in front of you. You know, Doc Goodman.”

  “Oh, those things.”

  “Yeah, those things.”

  “Well, no one knows.”

  “Someone knows. The people who did it know. The cops must know.”

  “Well, not exactly. The police aren’t involved.”

  “Didn’t anyone get arrested?”

  “Not the folks who did it.”

  “But people get arrested all the time for a whole lot less.” She was referring to her brother, of course, and the increasing number of detainments.

  Her father squirmed in his chair. Truth was, Chief Jerkins had ordered the police to sit out the events the previous night, and he knew it: alas, those emergency powers. “Raelyn, sometimes I don’t like what I see, either,” he began. “Some things—there’s not a lot we can do about.”

  “But there must be something we can do.” Pause. “Dad.” She waved an invisible screen in front of his face and smiled. “Hellooooo.”
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  “Well, you know how your mother feels about all of this.”

  Aha! There it was: a crack. She might get somewhere. It was the first time she could recall her father framing anything that way, singling out your mother instead of the all-inclusive, untouchable We. She sat higher in her chair. “Yeah. You don’t have to like it, but it’s the law. Every battle is not yours to fight.”

  He cleared his throat. “She’s right, you know. I pretty much agree with her on some of this.” But his voice wavered.

  “Well, I don’t. And I’m going to do something.” It sounded defiant. Never mind that she had no idea what she was talking about; it was merely a test for him to pass.

  “Like what?” He’d passed. His voice was curious and calm.

  “Like. . .I don’t know.”

  Penelope cocked her head and looked up at her. What do you mean, you don’t know?

  Rae reached down and massaged her velvety ears. How could she? How could she use Penelope as a cheap ploy to get a reaction from Dad? Of course she meant it. She really would do something. Penelope, don’t you worry.

  Another pause. “What about your friends? What do they think?”

  This was an unexpected question—her father asking about sixth-graders’ views on such a serious adult topic. She didn’t know the answer. She was just as silent among her peers as the grownups were about the Canine Problem (as it came to be known). Troubling images jumped out at her: the math problems and strange civics lessons, armies of walking armbands in the halls, the Student-of-the-Month Award to the OK! Club president, Ginnie Harper. A seventh-grader had been suspended when his parents were accused of Ration Fraud to buy extra dog food. He was instantly un-friended en masse. The Canine Problem was alive and well at school.

  She told her father all of these things. Instead of cutting her off (“that’s enough, Raelyn”), he sat and listened even after she stopped speaking. Then he scratched behind his ear and took a bite from his plate. Then another. On the third, he finally spoke. “So how do you know if others feel the same way you do?”

  “Gee, I can’t go around school interviewing people.” She made a microphone with her fist. “Are you against smashing windows?” Penny cocked her head at the question. “Is the ration too small?” Her head tilted opposite, awaiting answers.

  “I suppose not.” Yet another delay. “Something to think about, anyway.”

  Later that evening, Raelyn wrestled with his words. She lay in her sleeping bag on the living room floor with Penny on the outside. It was their ritual Friday-night sleepover. What had her father meant? He was telling her to think. She stroked Penny’s long, soothing back, the fur thick and deep between her fingers. She and her father seemed to share an unspoken understanding. There must be others like her with the will to do something. But it wouldn’t be him; he was not the man-of-action type. Penelope transcended into quiet, rhythmic snoring, probably dreaming of happier times. Raelyn would be dreaming soon, too, after watching her stunning Glitterfest. It seemed that her next chapter was written. The gentle, go-ahead wink from her father—his blessing—was all she had needed.

  The following Monday at school, colors of everything appeared a shade brighter. Hidden good luck charms nestled in clandestine places. As she zigzagged through the crowds, she noticed how many students were not wearing armbands rather than how many were. She was immersed in a sea of potential allies, confidantes, people with whom she could only communicate by code and signal. It was like having the lead role in a spy movie. Calling all sane people, wink, wink.

  She had never made an appointment with Guidance before, but she knew who Mr. Esperanza was. Every sixth-grade girl did, and many (she wasn’t telling) had a crush on him. He had a scrubbed-clean appearance and didn’t look much older than the boys at Jackson’s place. His office smelled of manly cologne. He offered her a Tootsie Roll. As soon as she bit off a chunk, she wished she hadn’t. Talking wasn’t easy while eating a Tootsie Roll, and her teeth were coated with dark, gooey chocolate. With her mouth closed, all the syllables that eked through sounded more or less the same.

  “So, Raelyn, are you in any sports?”

  “Yuh.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Sshuf-vull” (translation: softball; not true until spring).

  “How do you like it?”

  “Guhd” (didn’t know yet).

  “What’s your favorite class?”

  “Sshunce” (translation: science).

  “Really. Why science?”

  “Uh dunnuh” (she liked the logic and proof, the method to the madness).

  By the time he asked the real question, her Tootsie Roll was gone. “So, Raelyn, what brings you here?”

  “I want to form a new club.” It sounded surprisingly self-assured. A poster on his wall showed a winding path leading toward a bright blue castle in the clouds: The Impossible Dream. . .isn’t.

  Mr. Esperanza leaned toward her with hands in prayer position, chin resting on the fingertips. “Oh? About what?”

  The sun filtered through the blinds and created stripes on her. The slightest wrong move made her squint, and she fidgeted for the perfect position. She looked again at the grand fortress on the wall. Jackson’s fourth clue materialized as she stared at the poster:

  Somewhere in school

  You’ll find a life rule:

  A vision unattainable, absurd

  Summed up in a four-letter word.

  She followed the winding path into the clouds, traced the broad loops of the calligraphy. The Impossible Dream. . . .

  “Isn’t,” she murmured.

  “What’s that?” Mr. E’s forehead wrinkled.

  She smiled, victorious. “Four letters. The impossible dream. It’s ‘Isn’t’, isn’t it?”

  “It is!” Mr. Esperanza broke into a wide, perfect grin.

  “Wait.” She was confused, “It’s ‘is’?”

  “Exactly!”

  “Isn’t it ‘isn’t’?”

  “Yes. It’s ‘isn’t’.”

  Finally, she was getting somewhere. She now had G, E, I, __, __, __.

  “The impossible dream isn’t impossible,” he explained. “Nothing is impossible, so anything is possible!” He flung his arms wide. “So, about your club.”

  IEG, GIE, EGI.

  “Raelyn?”

  She snapped out of her thoughts. “Oh, right. Something about. . .something important to kids, like. . .” Mr. E had returned to quasi-prayer posture and was listening intently. “Their pets, I don’t know.” There. She’d said it, sort of.

  “Ah!” His hands opened again, like half of a clap, and his face lit up. “A pet-owners club! That’s a terrific idea.”

  This was a promising reaction, but she remained guarded. “Yeah. Like cats. Fish, turtles.” She tried to keep her voice the same. “Dogs.”

  Mr. E leaned forward again, his expression more serious. “Do you know how a school club is formed?” She did not. “By an idea. It just takes an idea!” His voice was whispery and excited. “And if others share that idea, and you have the principal’s permission, you have a club.”

  The Pet Lover’s Club was thus born. Rae made posters announcing the first meeting, to be held the following Wednesday after school. Angelica helped her post them with tape from the main office. When she and Mr. E (the club advisor) met again before the meeting, she confided in him. What had motivated her was the Canine Problem. If other students were interested, who knew? Perhaps they could build a private park where dogs could play, or bake doggie treats for the upcoming holidays. Or hold a fundraiser to help business owners like Doc Goodman fix their windows. As she rattled off ideas, she felt a fledgling optimism and maturity she had never recognized before. She had taken a definitive step from a child to a near teenager, the vibrant castle floating majestically in the clouds.

  “See you at the club after school,” she said to Angie, both in coordinated head bands, miniskirts, and wool tights. They were parting ways at the intersection of Corri
dors B and C.

  “Oh,” Angie called, “I can’t.” A river of students had already seeped into the space between them. “My mom’s coming home today!” Rae was swept away by the current.

  Really? Her best friend had just told her now? She stomped into the locker room and switched into sneakers, the laces cutting into her fingers. Angie’s mother was coming home from somewhere all the time, it’s what she did.

  No, the reason was that Angie knew her too well and didn’t support the club. Period. But to lie about it! She shouldn’t have been surprised; the Quinns had never been dog people. They had two cats. And Angie knew the club was all-inclusive. Raelyn threw her boots in the locker. She tossed the headband in the garbage. You know what, Angie? So long, it’s been good to know you.

  THE FINAL BELL BUZZED. She walked briskly down the hall toward Room 310 and was put at ease by the sight of Mr. Esperanza. Her notebook read Pet Lover’s Club—Agenda and had the date. She watched the blur of adolescence whiz by. Eventually, a seventh-grade girl entered the room, followed by another named Nori. Several more students came—three boys (one named Dawson) and a girl, then her friends Megan and Cierra and two eighth-graders. And one of them was Gil Richmond. When he saw her, he stopped in the doorway and turned to leave. Then he faced the room again, sauntered in, and slouched into a desk in the very back of the classroom. His lips made a sarcastic move directly at her.

  Rae’s legs weakened, and a cave formed in her belly. She was mortified—exactly what he would want. Surely, he thought her a snob, never answering. But he had it all wrong. She was just clumsily inert due to circumstances beyond her control. What was a girl to do? One thing was clear right now: To make it through the meeting, she had to convince herself he wasn’t there. She hid behind her curtain of black curls.

  On the other hand, perhaps he was here for Prince. It was the Pet Lover’s Club, after all.