“What about your pension? What about our health insurance?”
“Look at you, Sarah: thinking about tomorrow all of a sudden.”
“I’m thinking about Joel. He needs to see someone. I don’t care if you think he’s just a kid, or that it’s just a headache. I want to take him back to Dr. Drake—”
“Because you think Joel is nuts.”
“And you think I’m nuts.”
“I think you’re overreacting.”
Joel retreats to a hiding spot in the hallway behind the potted oleander; no way he can go in there now. What would he say? That he made up the headache but what’s true, what’s actually aching, is his heart, and that’s because Zack Fowler killed Felis Catus? Zack Fowler, the same boy who’s calling about math homework? Then Joel’s dad would think he’s nuts—What’s a Felis Catus?—and his mom would think his dad is nuts—How can you be so insensitive? Do something!—and then they’d decide to ask McKenna for the truth and wouldn’t that melt everybody’s brain?
Mike would have to lie, of course, and then Joel would have to be nuts, just to put the Murphy world back in order. And Zack Fowler, who is on the phone with his sister right now—not talking about math but certainly calculating Joel’s doom—would get off scot-free.
Joel imagines his parents sitting there: his mom curled up at the far end of the couch, her face splotchy like it gets after drinking wine, one finger bookmarking her Sibling Grief paperback as she tries to think what to say. And his dad in the chair opposite the TV, newspaper clutched, the rest of him calm. He’s stripped down to a white V-neck, sweat rings at his armpits dried crisp, in stages, and he still wears his boots and pants, ready to go at a phone call. Joel tries to remember the last time he was home.
He can’t remember the last time his mom was happy.
Joel wishes he could go in there and admit that his head didn’t really hurt tonight. The headaches have worried her. Over the summer, they worried her enough to get Joel an appointment with an eye doctor, who said he could see 20/20, and a regular doctor, who said he had growing pains.
The whole train ride home from the regular doctor, Joel stared out the window while he imagined his head was growing instantaneously, like one of those capsules that expands in water to make a sponge dinosaur, or a seahorse. Except unlike the sponge, when his head grew full he was sure it wouldn’t float at all; it would be too heavy. It would break his neck.
As soon as he got home he looked up growing pains, a term defined as “neuralgic pains attributed to growth.” Neuralgic wasn’t in the dictionary but there was a whole page of other neuro- words that made him think that whatever growing pains were, they were all in his head, which made sense since that’s what always hurt. Most times on the right side, in the front. Sometimes so bad he would feel like throwing up. And one time worse than that, when he did throw up.
Throwing up got him an appointment with Dr. Drake. The specialist. Joel was nervous but she seemed nice and she brought him into a nice room where they sat in beanbags and she asked him about things like chewing gum, and Butchie, and about his dad being a policeman. Joel thought they were having a real good time. She didn’t ask about the headaches, but Joel told her anyway because he thought that’s what she really wanted to know. When they were finished she took him back to the waiting room, where another boy must have been really nervous because he was in the middle of a big tantrum, rocking back and forth and crying and doing this weird hiccupping thing. Joel’s mom was watching and when Dr. Drake asked if she’d join them in the office she wasn’t listening, because she said, “Thank you,” and took Joel’s hand and led him out the way they came in.
On that train ride home, she was the one staring out the window, and when Joel asked if she was okay she wasn’t listening again because she said, “You’ll be okay.” That was the last time anybody mentioned the specialist. Until today.
In the family room, someone turns on the TV and a lady says, “We’re talking about reasonable doubt, sir.”
Sir says, “Your emphasis is on doubt. I’m trying to put it on reasonable.”
Joel recognizes the voices from one of the courtroom shows his mom watches while she also reads nonfiction books she says are “depressing.” He hears the rustle of his dad’s paper again, too—the Tribune—which he says is “goddamn depressing.”
“We’re done talking?” his dad asks.
“Is that what we were doing?” his mom asks.
The hurt and hurting Joel hears in their voices make the actors sound thick and silly. And they make Joel feel terrible, because this is his fault. He has made his parents this way. Not because he has headaches, but because he causes them.
He starts to get out from behind the oleander—he’ll sneak back to his room and bury Felis Catus in his memory, deep as he can—when his mom mutes the TV. He knows it’s his mom because she always mutes the TV when she decides to say something and she wants everybody to listen. And what she says is: “Are you going to let McKenna talk all night?”
“You want her off the phone, you go tell her.”
“I don’t know this boy. Zack Fowler.”
Joel stays where he is; maybe his parents will be able to put things back in order on their own.
“For fuck’s sake.”
Or not.
“Give her some rope, will you?” his dad says. “She’s a smart kid. She knows her limits. Anyway why are you worried about her? She’s not the one you think I’ve damaged.”
“Do you hear yourself?” His mom’s voice is steely now; the wine does that, too. “Joel is suspended. I mean, seriously.”
“Do you ever mean it any other way?”
His mom’s answer is to turn the sound on again.
Seriously is right, though: Joel didn’t know they suspended him. But this story, he can tell, and he’ll say Bob Schnapper asked for it today.
And if he has to tell it, he’ll admit he should have seen it coming. Last week in social studies, they started a lesson on ancient civilizations, and Mrs. Hinkle asked the class to split into teams. Nobody picked Joel and nobody picked Bob, either, so she stuck them both in Rome. From there, they had to choose solo projects. Joel got dibs on the clay map; Bob got stuck writing a speech about the republic.
Joel worked on the map all week and had just finished shaping Corsica when Mrs. Hinkle asked him to help Kristy Munson, the girl who picked daily Roman life, with her toga. She has big front teeth that are really cute.
So, while Joel scissored the fitted corners off a bedsheet, Kristy started telling him about how the common people collected urine to clean the royalty’s clothing. The reason, she said, was something called ammonia. Joel didn’t believe it so he went to look up ammonia in the dictionary, which is why he didn’t notice when Bob Schnapper got fed up with the Senate, made like Caesar, and destroyed his map.
Joel wanted to punch Bob in the face but he’s half Bob’s size and couldn’t reach that high so instead he called Bob a name or two and went over and took Rome back. Bob just sat there rolling a wad of clay into a coil, the snake.
While Joel sat there looking over the devastation—Gaul flattened, Carthage sacked—Kristy Munson stepped up next to his desk in her toga and said, “You must be pissed,” which is what gave Joel the idea.
After social studies, he followed Bob to the locker room. He waited until everybody changed to go outside and capture the flag, and then—
“There he is—” his mom interrupts from the family room.
And a TV announcer says, “Tonight at ten, Ja’Kobe White speaks out—”
“Turn it off.”
“I was jus’ standing there when the officer’s dog attacked me—”
“I said turn it off.”
White says, “And Murphy, he know me—” before the TV goes silent.
Joel waits, listens, feels like his heart is coming out of his ears.
Then his mom says, “Here we go again.”
Joel has no idea where they’re going or why they’re go
ing again and he doesn’t care. What he cares about is if Butchie’s okay.
He isn’t even quiet as he goes back down the hall, across the kitchen and out the back door. He jumps down from the top step, crosses the yard, and turns the corner to the dog run.
Butchie must’ve known Joel was coming, because he’s sitting at the front of the cage, and at perfect attention—except for the tip of his snout and the end of his tail, which move in time, one confirming the other’s excitement.
“Hi, Black-and-tan,” Joel says, feeling better just seeing him there. He tries a handful of gate codes before he figures out tonight’s; his dad is real specific about that, to keep Butchie safe. His dad means to keep them all safe, certainly. He wonders what that man White was talking about on TV, and if his mom meant they’re going to have to move again.
Butchie stands on all fours and then turns circles, panting. Joel unlatches the lock and pushes the door open, says, “Hello there, Lieutenant Commander,” and when he kneels down to scratch behind the dog’s radar-ears, the scabs on his knees don’t bother him at all. His hands are small and awkward and his nails are down to the quick so he can’t scratch, really, but Butchie doesn’t mind about things like that. His eyes are set on Joel, hard-candy caramels.
“I missed you, Big Feet,” Joel says, burying his face in the thick scruff of his neck. He has a bunch of different names for the dog, and every one suits him. Not like his own nickname, Jo Jo, which his mom says makes sense because his middle name is Jarlath, after his grandpa. The name’s pronounced YAHR-leh, though, so “Jo” isn’t right. But still, he doesn’t mind the name, when his mom says it. It’s better than Joely.
“Did you catch a bad guy today?” Joel asks Butchie. “I bet that nose of yours tracked Mr. White and I bet no matter what he says, he’s sorry for the very first thing he did wrong.”
Butchie says, “Euu-nerff,” and the wag that started in his tail takes over his whole body, pushing Joel off balance and onto the pavement. Butchie follows, his cold nose interested in Joel’s ticklish neck.
“That’s good, puppy,” Joel says, cheeks dimpled by the best dog-induced smile.
Then, like a response to something Joel can’t sense, Butchie turns and looks out at the darkness, past the cage wires’ quick fade to black. He wags his tail and says, bothered, “Hurmm.”
Butchie is trained to find illegal drugs and track criminals and also to sniff out danger, and all of those sudden possibilities give Joel the pink spiders. Especially because he’s only human, and can’t see or hear or smell what Butchie’s worried about. And really especially because of the news on TV. He backs into the corner of the cage, against the garage wall.
He whispers, “What is it, boy?”
Butchie comes over and sits in front of Joel. He tilts his head, ears half cocked like when he thinks he’s in trouble. His sweet eyes are so sorry.
“What’s wrong, Butch?” Joel wishes they could understand each other.
Butchie edges forward and then gives his certain answer: a big wet tongue to the face.
“Aw, dog germs!” Joel says, the victim of a sneak attack. He wipes his cheeks; it’s only then that he realizes the dog was licking tears, and what’s wrong is that Butchie does understand. In fact, he might be the only one who does.
Above them, in the garage window, a light goes on. Joel didn’t hear the roll-up door or the side door, either, but somebody must’ve gone inside, tripped the motion detector.
“Butchie, platz!”
The dog obeys the German command immediately, his underside grounded all the way to his chin, eyes the only things raised, waiting for the next cue.
“Bleib,” Joel whispers, and Butchie stays put as Joel climbs up the side of the cage and over the top to look through the window.
In there, on the other side of the squad, he sees the back of McKenna’s head: she’s at the workbench, but Joel can’t see what she’s up to.
She’s definitely up to something, though, because she’s not the kind of girl who fixes things.
Joel dismounts and goes around to wait for her at the side door, which is cracked open, key in the lock, the motion light casting a thin shining line across the yard.
When the light goes out—it’s on a timer—he hears McKenna say, “Fuck!” but without the usual spirit. She fumbles at the door, hiking up her pajama pants so the bottoms won’t drag while also trying to get the garage locked.
Joel smells her perfume and he remembers when she just smelled like McKenna and maybe soap and she didn’t use all that scented lotion and fruity lip gloss and he wonders if that’s the way her brain is now, too, complicated by a million extra things.
It must be. Because once she locks the door she turns and runs up to the house and she never notices Joel even though he’s standing right there.
Like he said, it happens a lot.
He could call after her—and scare the bejesus out of her, because for at least a second, she’d think she was caught—but then she’d be mad at him. She’d want to know what he was doing out here. And even though he wasn’t doing anything and she was definitely doing something, she’d accuse him of spying, and she’d turn it all around on him the way girls do, and who knows if she’d turn it over to the authorities in the house. A single satisfying gotcha doesn’t outweigh that risk.
Besides, when Joel heard her talking to Zack, it sounded like she knew about Felis Catus. And she tried to sound like she didn’t care. If she wants to be like that—and to become a girl people only talk about—then there really isn’t much left to say.
As McKenna mouses back into the house, Joel goes back around to the run, and Butchie is still waiting for his next command, his tail the only thing going.
“Aw, Mr. O’Hare,” Joel says, crawling back into the cage, “you’re a good boy. Braver hund.”
Behind Butchie, what used to be Joel’s fleece blanket and what used to resemble a dog bed have been worn down, slept and slobbered on, clawed around to the dog’s comfort.
Joel says, “C’mon, puppy,” and scoots back to curl up on the blanket. It smells like Butchie’s feet do sometimes—like a vacuum cleaner bag—kind of dusty, and rubbery, and somehow warm.
Butchie sniffs his way toward Joel, then circles to flank him lengthwise, sharing his body heat and also expecting to get his butt scratched.
“Okay, boy. Okay.”
Lying there, petting him, Joel notices a buzz in the air. It could be right overhead or coming from blocks away: a constant back-and-forth of cars, or the long flight path of a plane. Or maybe just the earth on its slow, massive turn.
He’s sure Butchie hears the same buzz, his superdog ears splayed back. He probably knows exactly what it is. He probably knows a lot of things exactly; Joel’s reminded of the fortune he got in his cookie the last time they had Chinese takeout: Those who do not speak know better. He gave Butchie the cookie.
Joel feels a chill, pulls the edge of the blanket over his legs. Butchie gets up and turns around, settling on his side, his head above Joel’s. He raises a paw, an invitation to snuggle up to his warm belly.
Joel nestles there and his head goes up and down with the dog’s breaths and after a while he says, “Hey, Butchie, did I ever tell you about Felis Catus?”
“Hurmm.” Butchie stretches his hind legs, and then he lets Joel tell him everything.
5
Pete wakes up a few minutes after noon, his internal clock gone cuckoo. He’s adjusted to working overnights, but he still can’t get a decent day’s sleep. Maybe his eyelids aren’t thick enough, but trying for a solid six hours while the sun is up is about like napping during a Cubs game, a base hit enough to rouse an eyeball.
He throws his legs over the side of the bed and sits up, wipes the gunk caked in the corners of his eyes. He flips through his mental day-planner, remembers tonight’s side job at Metro, and then realizes the rest of the calendar has been wiped clean: he and Butch are on hold until Finn calls and after that, they’ll probably
be off the books indefinitely.
Soured, he gets dressed and goes downstairs to look for some eggs. No eggs. Somebody left out the milk, so he pours a splash into his cracked blue coffee cup, gets a pot going, and barefoots it outside to feed Butch.
“Hey, boy,” he says, the dog waiting on hind legs. It’s colder today: a dry wind scares up leaves here and there. He works the cage lock, the pins fixed the same as he left them. The dog approaches, wants out.
“Go on,” Pete tells him, opening the gate.
Butch goes, finds a place to go.
Pete lets himself into the garage, drops a cup of kibble in Butch’s dish. When Butch comes back he scarfs the food and then Pete takes him out to the alley and throws the ball a bunch of times while he checks his voice mail.
The first message is from the attorney’s office, 8:00 A.M. “Mr. Murphy, this is Jill Martinak, from Dykema? I have Ann Marie Byers on the line. Will you please call at your earliest convenience? Thank you.” Ann Marie must be representing him.
The second call is from the station, nine thirty. “Murphy? Finn. Listen, Ann Marie Byers from Dykema is going to call you. Talk to her and then talk to me, okay? But don’t come down here. I’ve got reporters smearing their greasy faces against the fucking windows already. Jesus.”
The last call is from a private number. Noon. No message, just the sound of a landline hang-up. It could be anybody, though Pete thinks of Kitty. She never leaves voice mail; when she speaks, she wants to know there’s someone listening.
He pockets his phone and throws the ball to Butch some more, loose debris from a couple of newly cold-patched potholes making fetch a challenge, the dog’s footing unsure.
Why did Kitty call last night? Sure, White is the stated why. But calling Pete at home? And Sarah, the one to listen? Kitty promised: she said no matter what happened, she wouldn’t complicate things.
Which means either she figures the White arrest warranted a call or she knows something about the case—something important enough to call and not tell Sarah—essentially, leaving Pete another blank message.
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