The Thing at the Edge of Blundertown

by Jane M. Bloom

  Then a notice came through the squeaky mail slot at 12 Hucklepuddy Road. Penelope approached it with suspicion. It smelled identical to the first one that afternoon long ago—a metallic, dirty fragrance, quite offensive to a sniffing connoisseur like herself. And they were the same color. Contrary to popular belief, dogs see more than black-and-white. The two pieces of mail were the same shade, depth, hue, and tint. It was no coincidence, of this she was certain. Something rotten this way comes.

  She huddled with it under the desk and waited for Raelynn. When she finally arrived, Penelope greeted her with drooped ears and the notice in her jaw. Raelyn dropped her backpack. She pulled off her gloves and examined the mauled paper in silence. She sank to her knees. Penny kissed her on the face and the glasses, but there was no T-R-E-A-T today. Suddenly, Rae grabbed the numbered collar and leash. “Penny, we’re going to take a very long, W-A-L—” she stopped.

  She put the leash back down. “The curfew, sorry.” Penny’s tail dropped, and her flews sagged into a frown. She relegated herself to the moping place under the desk and gazed into the floor. All is well, she told herself as she began licking her paws. All is well. Lick, lick, lick, lick.

  Rae hopped on her bike. Round-Up Day was January 25, the notice said. That was tomorrow. Registered dogs would be brought to Daffy County’s canine compound, a newly constructed, temporary housing and training facility on the outskirts of Blundertown. The Blundertown Compound was “necessary to restore safety and cleanliness to our communities; visiting hours to be posted in the immediate future.” In spite of her parents, she would accept Doc Goodman’s offer to hide Penelope. She pedaled in the cold to Chestnut Street, but she was too late. A sign on his office door read Closed Until Further Notice. The large bay window had been replaced, but the waiting room inside was empty. Gone were the fluffy beds, the “Good Dog” treats on the counter, the litter box. Gone were the adorable posters of puppies and the bulletin board stuck with thank-you cards. For some reason she tried the door. To her surprise, it opened. The second door, however, was locked. A small, folded piece of paper was wedged there. . .with her name on it.

  She stuffed it into her pocket, gave a fleeting look around, and rode off, dodging patches of black ice and snow on the sidewalks. She’d gotten her first bike for her sixth birthday and instantly fallen in love with it. When winter came, she refused to stop riding, snow or not. She’d been a year-round cyclist ever since. There was nothing like the freedom of her bike, but now it had become Penelope’s lifeline. After a few blocks, she stopped. A K9 patrol car slowed to a crawl nearby, and she hid against a tree until it passed. She unfolded the note. It read simply, 376 Elmheart Ave. Doc’s residence, she guessed, wondering why he would address it to her. She was certain he lived quite nearby. She had delivered gifts with her parents over the years and attended his wife’s memorial. She had a decent sense of direction.

  Eventually, she recognized the street and the hand-painted ferns on the mailbox. The shades were drawn. She clambored up the porch steps and rang the bell. A frilly basket of plastic violets still hung there, surely another remnant of the wife from years ago. It dawned on her how sad Doc sometimes looked even when he smiled. The window shade parted slightly, and he signaled her to go around to the back.

  In the rear mudroom, he looked ten years older than he had the last time she saw him. His eyes were dull, and the lines around his mouth sagged. He’d been expecting her. He explained that he’d seen her that late night from the kitchen while talking to her parents. She was shocked, but mildly impressed: So he’d known all along that she’d known all along! He offered her tea with honey.

  “But how did you know I’d get the note?”

  “I knew you’d try to find me. I know how much you love Penelope.” He looked down at his stockinged feet. “Unfortunately, Raelyn, I can’t help you now.” His cellar was way over capacity. He had squeezed in one more dog, then another, then another, until he had doubled his intended population. They were under nearly sardine conditions as it was, and their food allotment was barely enough to sustain them. “If there’s any other way I can help you, I will. Just knock twice on the back door.” He saw her out and his eyes became watery. “Again, I’m very sorry.”

  DOC GOODMAN WAS NOT the only risk taker with a big heart in Blundertown. You’d never have guessed which ones they were because they were excellent secret-keepers, too. The Hagans had converted their attic into a clandestine Doggie Dormer suitable for twenty. Twenty beds, twenty water bowls, food bowls, chew toys, and muzzles. Muzzles, because have you ever tried keeping twenty dogs quiet all day and night for months? Mr. Hagan dug a hole in the back yard at four o’clock each morning to dispose of the dog doo and tracked each one with a mini snowman, furtive glances in all directions. Nineteen-year-old Veronica was hiding six pooches and her own Rocky in her walk-in closet. There were false walls and hidden stair cases in homes sprinkled throughout Daffy County.

  There is a commanding knock on Doc’s door. He peeks through the window shade in his bathrobe. It’s Officer Osbourne and his partner, whom he doesn’t know. They have seen his car; they know he’s home. Sweat immediately percolates from his brow, and his heart quickens. As he opens the door, he prays that all his careful planning and carpentry will pay off.

  “May I help you?” he asks in a steady voice.

  “Good evening, Doc.” Officer Osbourne tries to glimpse past him into the interior of the house. “Mind if we look around?”

  “Of course I mind,” Doc says, “unless you have a search warrant.”

  Unfortunately, they do. He swallows hard and lets them in, fingers crossed.

  The partner makes his way upstairs. He peeks under the beds, behind hanging clothes in the closets. Doc follows Officer Oz around the living room, dining room, and kitchen as the chubby officer snoops and inspects.

  “You live alone?” Officer Oz asks.

  “I do.” Doc’s cell phone is playing music to drown out any noise from the basement.

  “Any pets?

  “If you mean dogs, no,” he lies.

  “Of course not, because that would be a crime, wouldn’t it, Doc?”

  “But of course.”

  They’re in the back hallway. It’s dark because Doc unscrewed the light bulbs earlier in the week. The two men are dark, sepia figures standing at the basement door. Officer Oz turns the knob. It’s locked. It’s getting much harder for Doc to swallow. Saliva pools in his mouth, and his urge to spit becomes overwhelming. He has built additional walls and a second door at the bottom of the stairs, but he hopes the officer won’t make it that far.

  “Open the door.”

  He does as instructed. He cranks the music up to high volume—Mozart’s Symphony 41. It’s pitch dark, and Doc explains that the light is burned out in the stairwell, too. The officer fumbles for his flashlight, turns it on, and proceeds a few steps down the rickety staircase. He reaches along the wall, but there is no railing. Suddenly, the step he is on wobbles underfoot and he reaches behind him, making a dive for the landing. He bangs his hand. His flashlight crashes down the steps. “Geezus Pete,” he mumbles.

  “Careful, Officer—I believe there are a couple loose steps somewhere about there,” Doc says. The officer asks for a flashlight, but regrettably, Doc doesn’t have one. Officer Oz engages in a series of blind foot-taps on each step before gingerly placing his full weight on it. It’s a slow process and, as it turns out, not a very reliable one. About half way down, the step he is on partially gives way. He loses his balance, and his arms wind-mill about. He again twists and lunges backward, catching himself to a stop. “Geezus Pete!” he curses.

  “Careful,” Doc says.

  Office Oz claws his way to the top and is now hugging the landing. “How the heck do you ever get down these frigging stairs?”

  “I don’t. I haven’t been down there for over a decade.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  ”I
did. Not. Know. To ask,” he says with foolish fits and starts.

  “Nor did I know, Officer, that you were inviting yourself to an unexpected tour of my home on such a fine evening,” Doc quips.

  The officer wipes the sweat off his face with the rim of his cap. He pauses at the top of the stairs and looks down again into the cavernous stairwell, contemplating whether to make another go of it. When he puts his cap back on, a cobweb teases his nose. He swats at it, spooked, first with his right hand, then his left.

  “Geezus Pete,” he shouts. He backs himself into the hall, off kilter and out of breath. “Is there another door to the basement?”

  Doc tells him about the outside cellar door as he locks this one. From the window, he watches Oz stumble across the icy yard in the dark. At one point, the officer’s boots fly out in front of him and he falls on his padded ass. Doc enjoys the officer’s useless attempts at the frozen metal door. It doesn’t budge, and the padlock is rusted. The officer forgot to ask him for the key.

  Oz’s partner has descended from the second floor and is waiting for him on his return. “Did you check the basement?” he inquires.

  “Yep. All clear, Joe.” Officer Osbourne flashes a threatening glare at Doc to keep quiet to spare him his pride. Doc perfectly complies.

  “Let’s clear out of here, then,” the partner orders. He tips his hat. “Doctor.”

  “Leaving so soon? Do, please, come again unannounced and uninvited at odd hours of the night with a friendly, good natured search warrant.” From his voice, you’d think he is smiling, but he isn’t. He dead-bolts the door behind them.

  Some folks are not as fortunate as Doc Goodman and his thirty clandestine dogs. Some officers are not as incompetent as Oz and Partner. Sometimes the Seekers find the Hiders. On her way home from school, Raelyn watched in horror as two officers escorted a group of dogs from a house, yanking on the leads and shouting. The dogs trotted reluctantly with their heads down. One was a golden retriever puppy. They marched in single file up the ramp and into the K9 patrol car. The puppy was last, his oversized paws (which he’d never grow into) prancing forward, his tail bopping with naïve excitement.

  WE WON’T TALK ABOUT The following morning except to say that Raelyn refused to come out of her bedroom. In the wee hours, she clutched Penelope at the side of her bed, nose to nose, eyes of onyx locked and piercing in the dark. It was a scent Penelope had never smelled before, the pungent odor of defeat.

  “We’re the Rae-and-Penny team. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Always and forever, My Little Raelyn.

  “I’ll visit you. And I promise I’ll somehow bring you home. I promise!”

  To her parents, she promised she would never, ever speak to them again for as long as she lived—and she hoped that wouldn’t be long.

  For days, every moment was a painful reminder. She exited the bus at 12 Huckypuddle Road. She and Angelica still weren’t speaking, and she had no idea what to wear anymore. Her key opened the door, but there were no greetings: no slobbery kisses; no joyful, excited face. At night she lay there with Iggy, staring up into the dark, fifth wall that would entrap her for many nights ahead. She was sealed in a tomb of her own design, determined to shut out the universe. Good-bye, ugly world, been good to know you. She closed her eyes and waited for her much needed, comforting Glitter. She searched the edges of the darkness, the places from which the colorful dust usually appeared. For a long while, there was nothing. Eventually, a small grouping wandered in, dull and uninspiring. Another pale cluster was equally disappointing. She scrunched her face for greater darkness, but the sightings were painfully slim that night. When she needed her Glitter most, it was barely to be found. Perhaps tomorrow night, she tried assuring herself, for she knew it still must be there somewhere. Iggy wiped her face dry.

  She must have drifted, because she awoke. What had begun as a gentle bodily hint had now become an announcement of some urgency. There was no ignoring it or willing it away any longer: She had to use the bathroom. She tossed her blankets aside and opened her reclusive door. Without her glasses, a fuzzy light shone from below. She stood, curious, at the top of the staircase. She descended a few steps and rested her forehead between the spindles of the banister.

  There was her mother, somewhat bleary, sitting on the sofa in her black-and-white flannel nightgown, her slippers propped on the low table. Her hair had fallen over the side of her face, and there was a box of tissues at her hip. Several crumpled tissues were strewn about. “Oh, my,” she mumbled, “I remember that day. . . .” She had the open photo album across her lap and a fresh tissue between her fingers. There she goes, Rae thought, talking to herself again! She covered her mouth to keep from giggling.

  Then out of nowhere, her mother blew like a bugle into the tissue: a bellowing honk! that would raise eyebrows even coming from a grown man. If only Jack were beside her cracking up too, enjoying the covert entertainment with her. Her mother crushed the tissue in her fist and hurled it into the air with the strength of a Superhero. It floated pathetically to the floor. She grabbed another from the box and turned the page. There were more mutterings as she cocked her head back, a tissue across her face. Another mighty throw, roar! She had more quirks than you could count, the kids had always agreed. But as Rae continued to watch the private comedy from her balcony seat, it dawned on her that this was not a comedy at all.

  Her mother was crying.

  She had only seen her cry a few times in real life. Funerals, of course. Jack, of course. And at the movies (not real life), her mother was a complete embarrassment, sobbing over scenes that barely drew a lump to Rae’s throat. Some mothers were like that. But she had never before seen her sniffling and sobbing alone in the glow of the living room. She turned another page and flung another tissue. It fell like a dying butterfly. Her face fell limp in her fists.

  Rae remained riveted to the tortured image of her mother, surrounded by what now seemed a spray of dead flowers plucked mercilessly from their roots. She was mimicking her, fists clutching the railing. For a brief moment, the two of them, together, shared their grief alone. Suddenly an enormous sniffle interrupted them, followed by a cascade of choking sounds from below.

  She didn’t know what to make of her mother this way, but one thing was certain: She didn’t want to see any more of it. Should she go down to her, she wondered, and what would she do when she got there? She took one step, then several more. She reached the top of the stairs. As she was about to turn into her bedroom, she was visited again by the urgency that had forced her out of bed in the first place. She dashed down the hall to the bathroom.

  Despite what she had seen, Rae vowed in the morning to continue to her grave without ever speaking to her parents again. For several days, everyone respected the strained spaces and the impenetrable wall of dark, moody tresses over her face. Gradually, there was a grunt here, a “thank you” there. But on Day Four, out popped a full sentence, complete with comma and question mark: “Mom, can you sign this permission slip for school?” Her Life Goal blown so soon. It was all downhill from here, she told herself.

  “Of course, sweetie. What’s it for?”

  It was for a field trip to Rae’s favorite science museum. In spite of herself, she told her mother all about it.

  CHAPTER 10

  Postcard From Penelope

  I FINALLY MET THE TOOTH FAIRY IN A DREAM. It was after my fourth lost tooth, a proud, vacant window in my grand smile. But I was a bit vexed. “Why didn’t you ever write back?” I demanded.

  “Um,” she began. I studied her beauty, the smooth ebony contours of her face, the sparkly jewels woven through her hair. But the blank stare told me she had no response.

  “Hey,” it dawned on me, “you’re not real, are you?”

  “Busted,” she replied with a wry smile.

  I found myself laughing, curiously satisfied. It all made sense now.

  Dear Family,

  Thank you for your letter(s) and / or gift(s).

>   I am doing very well. I enjoy two excellent meals a day, plus treats. We are bathed and groomed regularly and spend much of the day playing with other dogs in the yard. I’ve made a lot of new friends here.

  See you soon. Woof, woof!

  From your dog

  “Well, see there, Raelyn,” her father said. “All that doom and gloom for nothing. She’s fine! The County is treating them very well.”

  Her mother held the card, her eyes teary with humor. “Isn’t that just the cutest thing?” Rae looked at her, inquiring. “That Daffy County actually sends out these little postcards. It’s adorable!”

  To Rae, it had felt for a month and a half as if she were suffocating in a prickly wool sweater two sizes too small, tugging and scratching and reminding. As she looked at her parents’ reassuring faces and the printed card, the fabric transformed into silk, draping lightly over her shoulders in soothing layers. Penelope was alright, after all. And yes, she had received her letters and gifts and everything. No more of Dad’s teasing, “Our Gloomy Rae of Sunshine.” Things were looking up.

  “Absolutely adorable!” her mother said again. “They’ve thought of everything.”

  (Indeed, they had.)

  What’s more, after all those years the time finally came: Angie invited her to an opera starring her mother. Her timing was odd; they were hardly friends anymore, let alone best friends. They’d been estranged ever since Angie sabotaged the club and dove into her new friendship with Ginnie Harper. The two of them walked armband-in-armband around school—how nauseating—with Cierra and Megan always a step behind them. Rae swapped seats on the bus and sat with a girl named Monique. She learned that there was absolutely nothing wrong with Monique.

  The theater invitation was a lame peace offering—too little, too late. But let’s face it: Rae had always wanted to see for herself “the magic of the opera.”

  The performance was several hours away. They had excellent seats in the third row. She wore one of her only dresses, boring navy blue with a white collar. Angelica’s was a full-skirted rose taffeta with a wide bow in the back and a matching ribbon in her curled hair. How typical. Her father, suit and bow tie, was carrying a huge bundle of red roses on his lap. The lights went out, and hushes hushed the audience.