Dogs

by Allan Stratton

  “That’s not true. They wouldn’t.”

  Jacky’s cheeks flush. “Are you calling Father a liar? You’re the liar.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” I wait till Jacky calms down. “So then what happened?”

  “Father took the shovel from the back shed and said he’d be working in the barn for the rest of the day and I wasn’t to disturb him. ‘You stay inside,’ he said.”

  “Did you?”

  Jacky looks away. “I was supposed to.”

  “But did you?”

  He shakes his head. “An hour later I looked out the kitchen window and saw Arty crossing his field to the woods. It was early spring; everything was in the ground. I wanted to tell him not to worry if he didn’t see me, that I was okay.”

  “So you went to the clearing?”

  “I made him swear to keep my secret or I’d be in big trouble. He did too. I could always count on Arty.”

  “Did anything else strange happen that day?”

  “Late at night Father stuck his head in my room. I pretended to be asleep. A few minutes later he went outside. I heard a car. I peeked out my window and saw a car coming out of the barn. I didn’t know whose it was. It drove away. Father was gone. I didn’t understand. I was scared. But he was back by morning.”

  I think a bit. “Do you remember any people visiting the house after that?”

  Jacky shivers. “A couple of weeks after Mother left, Father saw the police coming from down the road. He called for me to run to the barn and hide in the loft while they looked around. I buried myself in the hay. It was itchy. I thought I’d sneeze. But they were in and out of the barn in no time and everything was fine.”

  “But it wasn’t fine, was it, Jacky?”

  His eyes well. “Father got the dogs to keep people away. To keep us safe. But the dogs…the dogs…” He sobs. “It was my fault. All my fault.”

  “What was your fault?”

  There’s a knock on the door. “Cameron?” It’s Ken.

  Jacky disappears.

  “Everything’s fine.” I get up and open the door. “I was just waking up to pee.”

  “Okay then.” I can tell Ken doesn’t believe me, but he goes back to bed, while I head to the washroom.

  I know so much more now. Jacky definitely didn’t leave with his mother. That’s proof that the letter she wrote about him being with her was fake. There goes Mr. McTavish’s alibi. He killed her and Matthew Fraser while Jacky was curled up in the attic hope chest.

  But what did he do with the bodies?

  Duh. Jacky said he took a shovel to the barn. He buried them in the dirt floor of the stalls, the one place where the ground was warm enough not to be frozen. The cows plodding back and forth packed the earth hard and stopped the stench—that and the hay bedding full of pee and cow pies. Add cops who didn’t think there was a crime to begin with, and Mr. McTavish dug graves to last forever.

  Only what about Jacky? What happened to him? Why does he say he’s to blame for his dad and the dogs?

  Until I find out about Jacky and the dogs, I can’t say a word to anyone. Even then, who’ll believe me after what happened in the attic? I wish I could go digging on my own, but there are more than a dozen stalls, and Mom and Ken would catch me before I got anywhere. Gee, that’d look good.

  So what do I do?

  35

  What I do is stay up all night. Mom drives me to school. We arrive before the buses so I don’t have to see anyone. The principal tells us I’m officially an “at risk” student—not at risk of getting beaten up, but for being “troubled.” He lays down the law about me being in the guidance office when I’m not in class and sends me to English after the announcements.

  There are a few snickers when I walk in. Mr. Bradley tells everyone to settle down. I’m guessing he knows what’s going on. The principal probably sent a memo to the whole staff, or else they heard about it over the weekend. After all, it’s not like anything’s secret in this town, except murders.

  Mr. Bradley has me sit in the front row to keep an eye on me. Then he has us turn to chapter six of To Kill a Mockingbird and asks a few questions about Scout’s character, and life goes on.

  Only it doesn’t. Everyone’s staring at the back of my head. They’re passing notes about me. I can feel it, just like I feel the odd spitball when Mr. Bradley’s back is turned.

  It’s like that all day. At lunch, kids watch me through the window of the guidance office like I’m an animal at the zoo. I don’t see Cody, but his buddies wander by on his behalf. One points at his eyes and then at me, and mouths, “You’re dead.” I see Benjie too. He’s the only one who doesn’t look in, just walks straight down the corridor like I don’t exist.

  After school, when the guidance office is locked up, I wait on the bench in the main office till Mom arrives to pick me up. I’m going crazy thinking about what Jacky told me and about the bodies buried in the barn, but mostly about Cody and his gang. They’re going to get me. But when? Where?

  It’s been like that ever since. Two weeks of being a nutbar nobody talks to, but everybody talks about. Two weeks of Cody’s friends tripping me on the stairs, elbowing me into lockers, and muttering in my ear about how I’m going to get it one day when no one’s around. Oh yeah, and someone scribbled “Cameron Weaver Is a Dickhead” on my locker with a Sharpie. The custodians got some of it off, but enough’s left for everyone to see and laugh at.

  There’ve only been two changeups in the routine. Kids don’t bother making crazy signs at me in the halls anymore. They just move against the lockers on either side when I go by. I’m like Moses in that Sunday school story and they’re the waters parting. Also, Ms. Adams, the guidance counselor, makes me eat lunch in her conference room. She says she felt bad, me being on display by the main window, but it’s really to make it easy to lock me inside if I start “acting out.”

  Waiting for Mom after school is a bit better. So many kids are bused that the place is deserted, except for a few sports going on in the gym. It’s boring though, and if Mom’s late, the school’s closed and I’m locked outside alone, freezing my butt off. I’ve told Mom about the threats from Cody’s gang, but she says he wouldn’t be stupid enough to try anything on school property. “Besides, you have me on speed dial,” she says.

  “Like that’s going to help if Cody drives up and they haul me away in a car.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she sighs. “Cody’s too young to drive.”

  “You think he cares?”

  “He’s not about to get himself arrested. That’s crazy talk.”

  So it’s normal for her to think Dad wants to kill us, but it’s nuts for me to think Cody could drive a car. Who’s crazy?

  Anyway, before history one day I try talking to Benjie.

  “Go away. I’ve got nothing to say to you. You lied to me. You used me. You got me in trouble.” He walks off so fast you’d swear he was in a foot race.

  “Please, I’m sorry,” I say, keeping up.

  “Too bad. Stop following me. I don’t want anyone to see us talking. It’s bad enough I sat beside you on the bus.”

  Home is no better. Jacky’s back to hiding, too freaked by what he told me, I guess. I wish I could figure out his hiding place. That leaves Mom and Ken as the ones who’ll talk to me—oh, and Grandma and Grandpa on our weekly happy calls, which are too weird to count as talking.

  Ken tries to keep things light, but Mom watches me like a hawk. I’m surprised she doesn’t make me use a plastic knife and fork in case I try to stab them, or wear foam padding for if I toss myself out a window.

  Speaking of Ken, the only time he’s been away was the weekend he drove the two hundred miles to see his kids. Is Mom really that scared to be alone with me?

  “Kimberley’s dance recital was amazing. I’ll show you the video,” he said when he got back. �
��Patrick’s just started Cub Scouts, and he’s already got badges for knots and walking the balance beam.” Right, like they should be in The Guinness Book of World Records or the Olympics or something. Then he got quiet and sad, and Mom went all sympathetic.

  I wonder if Mom wishes I were Patrick or Kimberley. I mean, they’re obviously superhuman wonder-kids, and I’m a psycho nut-job who needs to have an unofficial guard around, since I’ll obviously be too much for Mom to handle when I try to burn down the barn or start devil-worshipping in the basement.

  Seriously, how long is Ken staying here? I mean, he’s a nice guy and all, but it’s not like I can trust him. And the longer he stays, the more it seems like Mom really is afraid of me.

  “I’m worried he’s turning into his father.” I’ll never forget her saying that to Ken. I know she’s thought it once in a while, but to actually say it to someone besides me…

  Dad. What if I am turning into him? Would that be so bad? Really? Once upon a time Mom loved him so much she married him. So how could he be that bad? Okay, maybe he messed up, and maybe I don’t know all of it. But everyone messes up, don’t they? I sure have. Mom has too, I’ll bet. Or maybe Mom’s God. She’s sure been acting like it.

  Besides, Mom doesn’t know what Dad’s like now. People change. That’s what she’s always told me: “It’s never too late to change.” At that government place, Dad said he’d stopped drinking. And drinking was when the trouble happened. Okay, maybe not all of it, but most of it—at least the worst of it, the stuff I saw. That’s what I remember anyway.

  Ken’s not perfect either. If he was, why did his wife get rid of him? Maybe it was just a bad match—but maybe that’s all it was with Mom and Dad too. At least Patrick and Kimberley get to see Ken. Their mom doesn’t hide them away and make them think their dad’s a monster.

  Dad. I lie in bed and stare at the framed picture on my night table, with the shot of him hidden underneath. Dad, what would you say about all of this? Would you act like I’m a psych case? You sure couldn’t treat me worse than everybody else does.

  All of a sudden, I get this need. I grab the picture frame and twist the clips on the back. The cardboard backing slides out—and there it is—the photo of Dad and me at the beach. We’ve made a sand castle—a pretty good one, with a moat and a wall—and he has his arm around me.

  My heart races. I remember that day. It was one of our best days ever. Mom read on a beach blanket while Dad and I buried each other in sand. Then we all had soft ice-cream cones dipped in chocolate, and I got to try flippers and a snorkel mask.

  Dad. He’s laughing. So am I. We’re happy. I flip the picture over. There’s his number. He’s a call away.

  No. I can’t.

  Why not? I get that I can’t see him. And I get that I can’t let him know where I am. But just to hear his voice. To know he cares about me. Even just to know he’s still alive. And to let him know I haven’t forgotten about him. What’s wrong with that?

  I mean, there’s got to be someone I can talk to. Who else? I can’t talk to Mom. I can’t talk to Ken. I can’t talk to anyone at school. I can’t even talk to my grandparents, not about real stuff. As for old friends, do I have any? It’s not like I know them anymore. That leaves the shrink I’m supposed to meet, but no way I’m telling a stranger stuff I’m afraid to tell myself. No. Besides Mom, the only person in the whole world who really knows me is Dad.

  Dad. I have to talk to Dad. I mean, if I can’t talk to my own dad—I gulp for air. My skin tingles. I pull out my phone.

  No. Stop. Talking to Dad’s not that easy.

  Why not? I have an unlisted number. Mom’s made sure it doesn’t show up when I call out.

  But she pays the phone bill. She won’t look at local calls, but long distance? To Dad’s number?

  By the time the bill comes, it’ll be too late. We’ll have already talked.

  So? She’ll know. Think she’s upset now? Just wait.

  Okay. So what do I do? Borrow one?

  From who? No one’ll lend me a phone for long distance. I can’t use a pay phone either. Dad would see the number and track down the area code. Besides, Mom and the school watch me twenty-four seven except in my room.

  Wait. I’ve thought of a way.

  The next day, I see Benjie in the halls. “I need a favor.”

  “Not from me.”

  “Yes, from you, and I’m getting it.”

  “No way.” He takes off on his speed walk.

  I stay on his ear. “You ratted me out at the nursing home. But I didn’t rat you to Cody.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He beat on me because I didn’t tell him you were the one that told me about his great-grandmother.”

  Benjie ducks into the boys’ washroom. I follow. We’re alone.

  “Look,” he says, all pale, “I hardly said anything.”

  “What about her plowing into the church and leaving her car on the highway and almost burning down the house? You were laughing your ass off. What did you call her? Demento. A total whack job.”

  “That’s not how I meant it.”

  “Think Cody will care?” I give Benjie ten bucks. “At lunch you’re going into town to the drugstore. Get me a calling card for anywhere in North America. Slip it to me in math. If I don’t get it, don’t blame me if Cody taps on your shoulder.”

  36

  After dinner I go upstairs while Mom and Ken watch some stupid TV show. I take out my phone and the photo of Dad and me, and stare at his number and the code on the calling card Benjie got me. The minutes will count as local. If Mom checks the bill and gets nosy, I can say I used the card to phone a kid I used to know.

  I hold my finger over the keypad. I freeze. What’s wrong with me? Dad is a touch tone away. What am I scared of?

  I dial. The phone rings. Not just any phone. Dad’s phone. After five rings I get worried that maybe he’s changed numbers, but on the sixth he picks up. “Hello?” It’s his voice, just like I remember it.

  “Hello?” Dad says again, like he’s wondering if there’s been a wrong number and the other person’s hung up.

  Say something.

  What?

  Something. Anything. “Hey, Dad” or “Hi, Dad”—something simple like that.

  “Is anybody there?” Dad asks.

  I picture him frowning. I go to say hi, but the word sticks in my throat.

  I hang up.

  Great. Just great.

  No big deal, I’ll try again. Hearing Dad’s voice—I was stunned is all. It’s the first time I’ve heard it in years.

  I dial. Dad picks up after four rings.

  “Yeah?” Not so friendly, but not pissed off either.

  “Uh…uh…” Say it. Say it. “Hi.”

  “Who is this?” It’s like he thinks he should know but isn’t sure. Why would he be? Last time he heard me, I was little. My voice was high and chirpy.

  “It’s…”

  “Cameron?” Mom calls from the foot of the stairs.

  “I gotta go,” I tell Dad and shove my phone in my pocket like I’ve been caught at a crime scene. I go to my door. “What?”

  “Ken’s brought some dominoes. Want to play?”

  “No, thanks. I’m going to bed.”

  “So early?”

  “Yeah. I’m kind of tired. The pills.”

  “Suit yourself.” I hear her wander off, saying something to Ken.

  I close my door and pull out my phone. Should I call again? Dad may think I’m a crank. Or, next time, Mom may catch me.

  Relax. Mom and Ken are playing dominoes, probably at the kitchen table, other end of the house. And if Dad doesn’t pick up, I can call tomorrow.

  I go for it. This time Dad’s there on the first ring.

  “Buddy?”

  Did he hear Mom call my
name? Did he guess? Whatever, he knows. It’s like he can see me, my room, everything. I go sweaty. This is it.

  “Buddy, is that you?” Dad sounds like he wants it to be, but he’s afraid to hope. “Buddy. Don’t hang up. Please. I’m here. It’s you, right?”

  I swallow. Can he hear my breathing? “Yeah. It’s me.”

  “Cameron! Buddy!” Suddenly his voice is bright and clear.

  I flash on when I was maybe two, playing peekaboo. I had the covers over my head and Dad was going, “Where’s Cameron? Where’s my buddy Cameron?” I pulled the covers off my face, and he clapped his hands and went, “Cameron! Buddy!” like I’d appeared by magic. Which, now, I sort of have.

  “I always knew you’d call, Buddy.” He chokes up a bit. “I didn’t know when, but I knew. You and me, we were always pals. Best pals. You were the greatest kid in the world. Still are. I love you, Buddy.”

  “Dad…I’m sorry it took so long.”

  “No. It’s okay. You’re on the phone now. Where are you?” He catches himself. “No, don’t tell me. You’ll get in trouble.”

  “I know, I—”

  “It’s okay. I love your mom. I won’t say a word against her. But she has these strange ideas, you know? She thinks all sorts of things. Never mind. Not your fault. Nobody’s fault. How are you? You doing great?”

  “Uh, I guess.”

  “I guess? ‘I guess’ doesn’t sound great.”

  “It’s not. Things are, well…” My voice wobbles. “You know.”

  “Sure,” he says gently. “I know. Sometimes life sucks, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So is that why you’re calling? Something’s wrong?”

  “Maybe.” Do I tell him? This is so hard. “You’ll think I’m nuts.”

  “Don’t tell me what I’ll think. I’d never think that.”

  “Everyone else does.”