“My father was McTavish’s executor. He paid the taxes on the farm and worked it. He said he was keeping it for when Mrs. McTavish or Jacky would come back to claim it. We thought they would too, in the beginning. By the time you wonder if maybe no one’s ever coming back, things are the way they are, and life goes on. McTavish had no other kin. We had squatter’s rights to the farm, so why think the worst, even if it’s true? Better to imagine happy endings.
“I moved out of my parents’ home and into here in my twenties. I moved everything on the first two floors into the basement. It was all junk by then, but in my head I was still saving it for Jacky, and I’m a hoarder at the best of times.” Mr. Sinclair glances at me. “I don’t believe in ghosts. Never have, never will. But I don’t mind saying now that I had dreams about Jacky too. He wanted us to play, and I’d wake up thinking of our times in the clearing, and him and that damned fool cap I’d given him.
“When I was thirty-two there was a storm. Some shingles blew off, and I knew it was time to do the roof or there’d be more leaks than there already were. So for the first time I went up to the attic to check out the damage from the inside. At the end of the attic, there was a hope chest—his mother’s, I figured. I opened it to see what was inside, expecting maybe some blankets. And there he was: Jacky, wearing the clothes he always wore and that Davy Crockett cap. Poor little tyke. I’m guessing he crawled inside to get away from the dogs and the lock fell shut and he couldn’t get out.
“For the first few weeks after I found him, I didn’t know what to do. I’d go up to the attic every night and stare at little Jacky in his hope chest. I knew if I didn’t do something, I’d go crazy. One morning I made my decision. I brought him and the chest downstairs and sealed up the attic.” Mr. Sinclair exhales. “It’s my fault. If only I hadn’t kept that stupid promise, if only I’d told the truth, that Jacky didn’t go with his mother, that her letter was a lie, he might be alive today.”
There’s a long silence.
“What did you do with the body?” I ask quietly. “I mean, there wasn’t a problem with you farming the land. You wouldn’t have been in trouble, so why didn’t you just report it?”
Mr. Sinclair wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “I was afraid he’d end up buried in his family’s plot. I knew since Evelyn’s letter was wrong that McTavish had killed her. How could I see Jacky trapped forever with the monster who’d murdered his mother and made their lives a living hell?” He pauses. “Jacky had been dead over twenty years. No one was looking for him. Nobody cared. Well, I cared. I buried him in his mother’s hope chest in the clearing by the boulders, the one place where he’d been happy.”
My shoulders start to shake. Mom puts her arm around me.
“You may not have known everything you thought you knew,” Mr. Sinclair tells me gently, “but you’re a pretty good guesser.”
“I suppose the only thing we’ll never know is where Frank McTavish disposed of the bodies,” says the thin cop.
“He buried them in the cow stalls,” I say.
The cops share a here-we-go-again look. But I keep going, strong and clear: “Mr. McTavish knew he had to bury them. If their bodies or bones showed up, he’d be the first suspect. But it was March. The ground was still frozen. Only a backhoe could break it—and that would’ve drawn attention and made the graves obvious. The one place warm enough where he could dig in secret, where the bodies would never be found by accident, was the dirt floor inside his barn.”
When the cops were here before, they wanted to scare me. Tonight, so far, they’ve tried to comfort me. Now, for the first time, they look at me with respect.
“That sure could be a possibility,” the thin cop says, tapping his knee with his pen. “Brian, what do you say we get the team to investigate?”
46
Mom, Ken, and I get checked out at the hospital. We’re all okay, but they keep us overnight for observation. When we get home, workers are already excavating the cow stalls, and others have a backhoe in the clearing. Mr. Sinclair is showing them where to dig. By late afternoon, they have the bodies and send them to the coroner for an official cause of death.
“What’ll happen to Jacky now?” I ask Ken.
“We’ll have to see,” he says.
At dinner, Mom’s in another world. She waits till we’re ready to leave the table, then says calmly, “I’ve called your aunt Lorraine.”
I’ve heard about Aunt Lorraine, but we’ve never met. She’s Dad’s younger sister, the last of his family. They stopped speaking to each other before I was born. Dad always said she was crazy, like he said about Mom.
“She’s making arrangements for your father. He’ll be prepared here and transported to a funeral home near her the day after tomorrow. There won’t be a service. I don’t want to upset you, but I need to ask… Did you want to see him before he goes?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think about it. Whatever you decide is fine.”
We clear the dishes like Mom hasn’t said anything. Then I go to my room and torture myself.
I can’t see him.
I have to.
Why?
He was my dad.
My forehead tingles. It’s like he’s staring at me. I turn around and see the framed photograph of Mom and me and my grandparents on my bedside table, the one with the snapshot of him hidden underneath. I undo the frame, take out Dad’s photo, and stare back at it.
In the picture, Dad and I are sitting cross-legged on the beach, where we’ve just made a sand castle. He has his arm around my shoulder; I’m holding up my plastic shovel like I’m a castle warrior. We look happy. Were we?
I look deep into Dad’s eyes. What was he thinking? Who was he? I imagine him talking to me out of the picture. “Buddy, it’s me, Dad. You have me all wrong.”
I rip the picture to bits. My heart beats like crazy. It’s the only picture of Dad I have. What if I want to see him again? I won’t. I should flush the pieces down the toilet or burn them on the gas stove, but I’d feel too guilty. Instead I seal them in an envelope, take them to the basement, and lock them in the coal room. It’s all I can think to do.
Next morning at breakfast, I tell Mom, “I don’t want to see him.” My face goes funny. I can hardly breathe. “I’m not like him. Please tell me I’m not like him.”
“Cameron, you’ll never be like that. You have feelings. You care about people.”
I cry.
Mom says I can stay home from school until I feel ready to go back. She’ll get homework from my teachers. Good. No way do I want people all around, asking me questions.
Grandma and Grandpa arrive in the middle of the morning. They drove all night. It’s weird seeing them in person again. All the happy feelings I used to have when I’d see them come flooding back. Grandpa’s whiskers still tickle when he rubs his chin on my forehead—which is kind of embarrassing now. Grandma still smells of apples and cinnamon.
They’ll be here for a few days. Mom’s put them in the big room down the hall from me; Ken’s staying in her room. My grandparents like Ken a lot. He’s been part of our last few calls. They tease him with the kind of jokes that old people think are funny.
For the next couple of days Grandma and Grandpa sit with me at a card table working on jigsaw puzzles. They brought a ton. I always thought jigsaws were stupid, but it’s nice to be with them, thinking about nothing except separating the corner and outside pieces and figuring out what goes where.
Friday, Ken brings home this week’s Bugle. The front-page headline is: “Local Boy Solves Murders.” The story has my picture and the cops calling me “a brilliant young detective” and other stuff that makes Mom proud.
Just below, there’s a write-up of how Dad wanted to kill us, and how I fought him off and he was killed in a coyote attack. “Sniffer dogs didn’t turn up anything,” their handler says. �
��They ran in circles like they were chasing ghosts.” The head of animal control says that although coyote attacks are extremely rare, “for the time being joggers should stick to main trails.”
Inside the paper, there’s an article headlined: “Fifty Years Later, Hannah Murphy Vindicated.” Cody and his family are pictured with his great-grandmother at the nursing home; he’s holding her hand. Cody’s grandfather says how much they all want to thank me for clearing her name and reputation. Once the coroner’s work is finished, they’ll be burying Matthew Fraser with his family.
The other news of the day comes from Mr. Sinclair.
“I’ve finally seen a lawyer about the farm,” he tells us. “Seeing as my family tended it and paid the taxes for fifty years, he says there won’t be a problem with the claim. I knew that. Still, it’s a load off. There’s nothing like having things certain.”
By the end of the weekend, I’m getting restless and tell Mom I want to go back to school. It’s strange going through the front door. It’s not like I had friends before, but I’m happy to just see people.
As it turns out, they’re happy to see me too. Everyone knows about the Bugle articles, not to mention that the story was on local TV and radio. All that, plus the public thank-you from Cody’s family, get me back into class. In the cafeteria, kids I don’t even know stare at me in awe. A few girls even hang around my locker. One of them asks for my autograph: “You’re, like, a hero.” As if. Still, apart from blushing, I feel pretty cool signing my name.
Benjie comes up to me. “I’m sorry I was mean to you.”
“Don’t be. I was the one who was mean. I lied and got you in trouble. Friends shouldn’t do that.”
“Friends?” Benjie blinks twice. “You mean we’re friends?”
“Sure.”
Benjie stinks and he’s kind of irritating. All the same, he was nice to me when everybody else treated me like dirt. That counts for a lot. And if one of the girls who’s hanging around my locker talks to him because he’s a friend, well, I owe him. Also, it might get him to brush his teeth.
I know Cody’s grateful about his great-grandmother, but he doesn’t say much. I didn’t expect him to. Still, he and his gang give me that tough-guy “You’re okay” nod in the halls. To tell the truth, I’m glad he doesn’t try to buddy up. Who needs a jerk in their life? It’s enough to know I won’t be getting spitballs anymore.
The other one who doesn’t say anything is Jacky. Will I see him again? I don’t know. He comes and goes when he wants. Now that his secrets are out, maybe he’s happy to stay in the clearing with the dogs.
Secrets have such a weight. When they’re off, you’re lighter than air. Maybe that’s it. Maybe Jacky’s free in the air.
47
Today I meet Dr. Harrison, the psychiatrist in Ramsay. When I first got referred I didn’t want to go, but now, even when I’m awake, I get flashes of Dad. Like, on our way to Dr. Harrison’s office, we pass the bus station and I see the sign: “Elm Street.” There’s a guy getting out of his car. For a second I imagine it’s Dad getting out of Matthew Fraser’s Pontiac.
Dr. Harrison has a homey office in the Ramsay Medical Clinic. She’s older than Mom, with a bony face and long fingernails. I thought I’d have to lie on a couch, but she points me to a leather armchair. She sits on the one opposite and picks up a pen and notepad from a side table.
“So, what would you like to talk about?” She smiles and waits for me to answer.
I shrug and sit there, hoping she’ll say something else. She doesn’t. Eventually the silence gets too weird so I say, “I guess you heard about what happened with my dad.”
I know she must have, but she doesn’t let on. “Would you like to tell me?”
“Not really.”
More silence. I look at her desk lamp, the box of Kleenex beside my chair, and the medical degrees on her wall.
“Well…he’d been after Mom and me since we ran away,” I say at last. I finger the tiny cracks in the leather of the right armrest. Then, bit by bit, I start telling her, including random stuff I’d forgotten until I hear myself saying it. Before I know it, the words are a flood. I can’t stop, but I have to—the hour is over.
I’m seeing her tomorrow and the next day, and then twice a week for as long as I need.
“How was it?” Mom asks when I get back in the car.
“Fine.”
“What all did you talk about?”
“Not much.” I smile. “Nothing about you, if that’s what you mean.”
Mom blushes. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
All the way back to the farm, I look at the fields and think about the session. Today all I talked about was Dad. Pretty soon though, I’d like to talk about Jacky. The coroner’s report has just come out. Like we figured, he died of suffocation. The coroner said his bones had five healed fractures.
Jacky.
I love Mom, but there are things I think I could say to Dr. Harrison that I’d never be able say to her. At least not yet.
Mr. Sinclair drops by midevening. He’s been in a great mood since seeing about the farm, but tonight he’s clicking his tongue more than normal. “I’ve just come from a meeting of the town council. They’ve agreed that Jacky can be reburied in the clearing.”
“That’s fantastic.”
“A couple of councilors squawked how they didn’t like burials on private land, but I argued that the township has no laws against it. Besides, Jacky’d already been there thirty years, and the clearing is out of sight and mind. So in the end they decided to leave things be.”
“Jacky would be so happy.”
Mr. Sinclair nods. “Something else that would make him happy too: the council gave permission for his mother to be buried beside him. All things considered, it’s only right—the two of them together, resting peacefully forever.”
Mom asks Mr. Sinclair to sit down and brings out some food. “We have some news too. Would you like to tell him, Cameron?”
“You bet.” And I do.
My news is the best news ever, even if it’s not really a surprise.
I mean, I’ve always kind of known that Mom watches me when I’m smiling at Ken. A couple of times she’s said, “You and Ken seem to be getting along better than in the beginning.”
When she fishes like that, I roll my eyes, sigh, and say, “Mom,” or “Sure, why not?” because, come on, who talks about stuff like that? But it’s true and she knows it. I’ve teased them about how they’re getting on too: “Are you guys going to get married?” Which makes Ken grin and Mom flick her napkin at me. “I’ve had one marriage too many, don’t you think?”
All the same, we all know Ken wouldn’t still be here or have ever stayed in her room if they weren’t serious. So this morning at breakfast, when they asked if I’d mind us moving into Ken’s place, I was more than ready.
“Mind? I’ve been packed for weeks.”
I still don’t know if Mom and Ken will ever get married. What I do know is, whatever they decide, from now on we’re a family. I hear them talk about our future all the time. It makes me happier than I ever thought was possible.
Ken’s a great guy. I never knew what a real dad was before. I do now. A real dad is someone who loves your mom and treats her right, and cares about you more than anything.
My bags are packed and ready to go. I’m in the clearing. There’s a carpet of fresh crisp snow halfway up my boots.
“I’m leaving,” I tell Jacky. “I’ve come to say good-bye.”
If this was a story, I’d say that the sun comes out from behind a cloud—Jacky’s way of saying he’s happy for me. But I know Jacky’s happy without that. His spirit is smiling inside me. Next time the wind is up and I hear the dogs, I won’t be scared. They won’t hurt me. He won’t let them.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Graha
m Mahood and Roger Gallibois for advice on wills and real estate; my editors Charlie Sheppard and Diane Kerner for some of the best notes ever; and Daniel Legault, Louise and Christine Baldacchino, Vickie Stewart, Alan King, Susan Izumi, and Elva Mai Hoover for being The Dogs’s first eyes and ears.
About the Author
Allan Stratton is the internationally acclaimed author of the Michael L. Printz Honor Book Chanda’s Secrets: it was made into the award-winning Cannes Film Festival hit, Life, Above All. His novels Leslie’s Journal and Borderline were American Library Association Best Books for Young Adults; Chanda’s Wars and The Grave Robber’s Apprentice were Junior Library Guild selections. His current novel, The Dogs, is being published in thirteen countries.
Allan has gone on photographic safaris in Africa, hiked the Great Wall of China, explored pyramids in Egypt, and flown over Cappadocia in a balloon. In addition to travel, he loves animals, especially his four cats, who sit on his lap and help him write. You can see a full list of Allan’s awards as well as reviews, book trailers and video interviews, by visiting him at his website: www.allanstratton.com.
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