“Arthur?”
Did I detect a sort of extra firmness in Harmony’s voice? Not harsh or angry: nothing like that ever came my way from Harmony. But firmness? Yes, I felt it. We rolled.
Although we were rolling, side by side in a nice, companionable way, hardly bumping into each other at all—“For god’s sake, Arthur!”—it couldn’t be said that we were rolling fast. The trail soon got much too steep for speed, winding up and up through trees so thick it was almost dark down below. Plus the trail itself was now very hard to pick out. But Harmony seemed to have no problem, just strode ahead, not panting at all. In fact, there was hardly any panting going on from anybody! We were pros at hiking, Harmony and me.
She slowed down when a little tower of stones appeared. “Good thing someone blazed the trail, Arthur. Otherwise we’d be lost.”
What was this? Someone had built the little tower? Had we passed others kind of like it? I searched my mind, had faint memories of that. I had much stronger memories of Bertha’s sausage as it came spinning through the air. That memory grew bigger and bigger until there was no room for others.
Soon we came to a small frozen waterfall, a strange and beautiful sight.
“Arthur! Don’t lick that. You’ll get your tongue stuck.”
Uh-oh. Was I licking at the bottom of the frozen waterfall? Maybe. But my tongue didn’t get stuck. Instead I lapped up icy drops of water. Delicious! Maybe the best water I’d ever tasted. I promised myself to come back here often—which I changed to never the moment it hit me that getting to this lovely water was such a huge production. There’s something to be said for the water in my kitchen bowl at home, even when it’s stale and has a dead fly or two floating on the surface.
I was still thinking about those flies—funny how the mind works!—as we left the frozen waterfall behind, worked our way across a steep ridge, and suddenly found ourselves on much flatter ground, like a tiny, snowy meadow, with a strange tangle of branches and a fallen tree or two on the other side, like a sort of roof over a hidden, shadowy space.
Harmony came to a stop. “What a beautiful place! And so quiet. Can you hear anything, Arthur?”
Where to start? With the plane flying high above, beyond the clouds? Or the squirrel scurrying through the woods? What about a clump of snow plopping down from— But I left my little list right there, distracted by a smell that meant something to me, although I couldn’t think what. Not a strong smell, like when Bertha opens the oven and pulls out a roast beef, for example. This was much weaker, but I had no trouble identifying it: the smell of human earwax of the male kind. That smell seemed important to me, although I couldn’t have explained why. I followed it over to the side and into the woods.
“Arthur? What are you doing?”
Following earwax smell, that’s what. It seemed like the most important thing in the world. My tail was going real fast, totally out of control. No time at that moment to remember how to slow it down. I rounded a spiky bush, the earwax smell getting stronger, and sort of trapped under the spikiest part, almost totally hidden, I found something.
A sheet of paper? Paper that was quite thick and bigger than the normal paper you see, when Mom’s doing the bills, for example. This particular paper reminded me of something, something like a … map. A map? A map! And not just any map, but the map I’d first seen in Mr. LeMaire’s room, when he was putting a red circle on it. And sure enough, I spotted a red circle, over toward one edge of the map. Wasn’t this Mr. LeMaire’s map? Weren’t we searching for Mr. LeMaire? I started to get pretty excited! Me, Arthur! What a good good boy! I could almost hear Harmony saying that. No almost! I could hear them all—Harmony, Bro, Mom, Elrod, Bertha, Mr. Salming, even Foster Mahovlich—all of them lined up and cheering their heads off! Arthur! Arthur! What a good good boy!
Meanwhile I had just about freed the map—what was left of it—from under the bush. And soon I’d be laying it at Harmony’s feet. I trotted back to the clearing, the map in my mouth. I couldn’t help noticing that this particular map turned out to be tasty. Chewing on paper can be surprisingly pleasant, in case you didn’t know that already. It gets wetter and slobbier the more you chew it and then all at once you realize it’s gone! Wow! I entered the clearing and raced toward Harmony, head down, ears straight back in the breeze.
“Arthur?”
Yes, it was me, Arthur, coming to save the day! In fact, coming so fast that my paws lost their grip and I actually ended up … rolling! Harmony had said roll and here I was rolling right up to her and laying a wonderful trophy at her feet.
“What have you got there?”
Harmony squatted down and picked up a small sort of whitish blob. Her eyes narrowed. “Is this some kind of … ?”
She took off her mittens and tried to spread out the blob and make it flat. That didn’t turn out to be so easy, the flattened-out blob kind of shredding itself in a wet way and somehow shrinking in her hands.
Harmony squinted at what was left of the thing. “Is that a red circle? Don’t tell me this is the … ?” Yes! A circle! I was right. Was this the best moment of my life or what? Harmony tried to smooth out the red circle part, her fingers moving so carefully and her tongue sticking out a bit, which meant this was as careful as a human could be. But! Oh, no! Nothingness! The whole soggy mess, red circle and all, just sort of slid off her hands, came apart, and vanished, leaving not a trace in the snow. Harmony peered down, laid her hand on the snow—a beautiful hand, by the way, squarish and strong. Her face darkened. Then, slowly, she looked up at me. Her face was still dark but her voice was gentle.
“Good boy,” she said, taking a long, slow breath, maybe the kind called a sigh. “You done good.”
Yes! Yes! Yes!
“Hey! Cool it!”
Cool what? Licking Harmony’s face? Nothing else came to mind. I ramped it down. But I’d done good! You don’t forget things like that.
Harmony rose. “Now show me where you found it, Arthur.”
Right! No problem. I trotted away, made a turn, then another, and another, and another, round and round the clearing, and—
“Arthur! You’re going in circles!”
Whoa! That couldn’t be good. I came to a stop—and just in time, since all this trotting had a tiring effect.
“The map, Arthur. Where did you find it?”
The map? I remembered the map, but the truth was I’d forgotten where I’d found it. I sniffed the air, always a good move at a time like this. And then came a surprising scent. Not the human earwax smell, although I picked up traces of it. But there was another smell mixed in, much stronger, the kind that gets your attention: the smell of bear.
“Arthur? You’re pointing all of a sudden? You know how to point?”
I didn’t understand the question. I just kept on doing what I was doing, standing still with one of my front paws raised and my nose in the air. After not too long, my nose—which is actually very smart—figured out where the bear smell was coming from, namely that shadowy space under the roof of the fallen trees and branches. I headed that way.
Harmony followed me across the clearing. When we got close, she said, “Arthur! That could be a lair!”
Lair? A new one on me.
“Where a bear hibernates for the winter—and they don’t like to be disturbed. Stop!”
And maybe I would have, but now there was another new smell, mixed in with bear and earwax. This something new made all the hairs on the neck of my thick coat rise up. I kept going, right up to this sort of hole or cave or whatever it was, and poked my head inside. It was too dark to see very well, but my nose already knew. I barked, a high-pitched sort of bark that didn’t even sound like me.
“Arthur?”
Then Harmony was crouching beside me. We peered into the dark space. Way at the back, someone seemed to be lying down. This someone was not bear-sized or bear-shaped, but my nose already knew all that, even knew who this was.
“It’s not a bear, is it?” said Harmony, her
voice very quiet and also a bit shaky.
I didn’t like hearing that shakiness from Harmony. It was time for old Arthur to step up. I moved forward. Harmony followed.
“It’s a man,” she whispered. And when we got closer: “It’s … it’s Mr. LeMaire!”
We got down in front of him. He lay on his back.
“Mr. LeMaire? Are you asleep?”
But his eyes were open.
Harmony put her hand on his shoulder, gave it a little squeeze. “Mr. LeMaire.”
He did not move, or reply, or do anything. Harmony reached up and shifted some branches. A narrow beam of light shone through from above, falling on Mr. LeMaire’s still and waxy face. Harmony lowered her own face very close to his, almost touching his nose.
“He’s not breathing, Arthur.”
Well, I knew that.
“But I don’t see anything that—” Very gently, she got her hands under him and tried to roll him onto his side. That didn’t turn out to be so easy. At last she got him shifted a little bit. His head flopped forward and we saw the back of it.
“Oh, no.”
Harmony let him go and shrank back real fast. The back of Mr. LeMaire’s head was all bashed in. The next thing we knew we were out of that horrible dark space, back in the clearing and breathing nice fresh air. Harmony’s face was as white as the snow. I could hear her heart beating, way way too fast.
“No bear did that, Arthur. Did he fall? But if he fell, then how did he get into that place?” Then with no warning, she leaned forward and puked. Poor Harmony! Puking’s no big deal for me and my kind, but I know it’s different for humans. I stood beside her, wondering whether licking up the puke would be a good move.
When the puking was all over, Harmony straightened up, hands on her hips, taking deep breaths. That was when a short but powerfully built man stepped out of the woods on the other side of the clearing, snowshoes on his feet and an ax over his shoulder. It was Matty! Always nice to see him. Especially now. He looked at us in surprise.
“Harmony?” he said.
“Matty? What … what are you doing here?”
“Clearing trails after the storm,” Matty said. He gave Harmony a close look. “And you?”
“Oh, Matty—something terrible has happened.”
SO MR. MAHOVLICH WAS TELLING THE truth?” Mom said. “You really broke Foster’s nose?”
“But, Mom!” Bro said. “He tried to hurt her! There’s no bodychecking till next year.”
Mom held up her hand. This discussion of hockey practice had been going on and on. I don’t care for hockey or any other sport. Sports all involve human movement, which I don’t find all that graceful, certainly not in comparison with other creatures I could name. But back to the front hall, with Mom behind the desk, Bro sitting in the rocker near the grandfather clock, and me on my command post up on top.
“I don’t want to hear that word ever again,” Mom said.
“What word?” said Bro.
“Bodychecking.”
“How come?”
“Because I don’t like euphemisms.”
“Huh?”
“Putting a pretty word on something ugly. Body-checking! Sounds harmless, like checkers, but it means creaming the other guy.”
“Yeah, but there are, like, rules. No elbows and you can’t—”
“Zip it. I don’t want to talk about hockey.”
“So are we done? Can I go up to my room?”
Mom gazed at Bro. He’d been rocking, but now he stopped, the rocker going still, as though Mom had put the brakes on it with her eyes.
“Was it a sucker punch?” she said at last.
“No way!” said Bro. “I told you and told you.”
“Tell me again.”
“It wasn’t a sucker punch. We dropped our helmets, Mom! That’s the signal in hockey.”
“Signal for what?”
“Throwing down.”
Mom went on gazing at Bro, then finally nodded. “We don’t sucker punch in this family.”
“I know that, Mom.”
She pointed her finger at him. “And we don’t punch at all, except in the most extreme circumstances.”
“Like what?” Bro said.
“Like today,” said Mom.
A smile spread slowly across Bro’s face. “Thanks, Mom.” Bro jumped up.
“Not so fast,” Mom said. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Upstairs.”
Mom shook her head. “You’re going outside to get your sister.”
“But I told you—she took Arthur for a walk.”
“It’s been an hour,” Mom said. “That’s enough walking.”
Bro went to the front door, opened it, and yelled, “Har-mon-y! Har-mon-y! Har—”
He stopped when he noticed what I had seen the moment he’d opened the door. A woman wearing a short leather jacket and jeans was coming up the walk. Behind her in our circular drive, a man at the wheel of a parked car was watching. He had a trimmed, reddish beard. Beards are whiskers, unless I’m mistaken, and don’t put your money on that. I’ve got whiskers, too, of course, but mine are adorable.
Bro backed away. The woman came in. She wore shiny high-heeled boots. Lots of women in these parts wear boots, but not the high-heeled kind. She glanced around, her eyes—almost lost in all that makeup—sweeping over Bro and not even coming near me—how strange!—and finally falling on Mom.
“Is this the Blueberry Hill Inn?” the woman said.
“Blackberry,” said Mom.
“Whatever,” the woman said. “I’m picking up Sasha’s stuff.”
“I’m sorry?” Mom said.
“Didn’t you get the text? Sasha LeMaire? His stuff? Suitcase? Et cetera?”
“Ah,” said Mom. “His first name is Alex in the register.”
“So? Sasha’s a nickname for Alex. Is that news out here?”
“Out here?”
“In the boonies.”
Mom smiled. She has several smiles, all nice to look at, although this one, where her eyes don’t join in, sends a cold message. Mom’s cold smile—never directed at me, of course—is a rare sight that I always enjoy.
“You learn something every day,” Mom said. She wheeled Mr. LeMaire’s suitcase out from behind the desk. “I’ll just need to see some ID.”
“Excuse me?” said the woman.
And here was Mom’s cold smile again. What an entertaining day we were having so far! “Can’t release guest property to a third party without an ID.”
“Third party?”
“The inn being party one, and Mr. Alex ‘Sasha’ LeMaire party two.”
“What the—didn’t you get the—his text?”
“No problem there,” Mom said. “So let’s get the ID step taken care of and you’ll be on your way back to civilization.”
Was it possible that this woman didn’t like Mom? What an odd stance to take in life, but I got that impression from the look on her face. She muttered something that sounded like, “It’s in the car,” then turned and walked out, closing the door firmly behind her.
“What’s goin’ on?” Bro said.
“Bad manners,” said Mom.
They waited. I waited in a different way, due to the fact that from my command post I could see through the fanlight window over the door right out to the circular drive. The driver-side window was down and the red-bearded man and the woman in the high-heeled boots were having a conversation; snapping at each other, in fact, although I couldn’t make out the words. Finally the man took out a stack of card-like things, rifled through them, and handed one to the woman. She headed back our way and moments later flipped the card-like thing onto the desk.
“Thank you, Ms.”—Mom read the name on the card—“Jones.” She copied the card in the copy machine, handed it to Ms. Jones, and rolled the suitcase to her. “Enjoy the day.”
“Sure,” said Ms. Jones, and left again, with another firm closing of the door.
Mom took a sh
eet of paper from the copier and read out loud: “Ms. Mary A. Jones, 419B Zither Street, Brooklyn, New York.”
“Ever been to New York, Mom?” Bro said.
“Once,” said Mom. “I’ll tell you all about it after you come back.”
“From what?”
“Getting Harmony. Now scoot.”
“Can I eat something first? I’m starving.”
“Take a snack with you. Move.”
Bro headed for the kitchen. Through the fantail light, I saw that Ms. Jones hadn’t left yet. She was standing by the car, where the red-bearded man had the suitcase open on the trunk and was going through the contents. Then they snapped at each other some more, and Ms. Jones came our way again. Humans snap at each other from time to time, some more than others. I prefer those who keep a lid on it. Meanwhile the man stuck the suitcase in the trunk and got back in the car. He put on one of those hats with big earflaps, the kind that hides most of the face when they’re fastened. He fastened them.
Ms. Jones entered.
“You’re back?” Mom said.
Ms. Jones gave us her smile for the first time. And now her voice changed, suddenly turning kind of sweet. It was like a new person. I decided I liked the old one better, but neither of them very much.
“Sorry to keep bothering you,” she said, “but are you sure there was nothing else?” Ms. Jones did something with her eyelashes, called batting her eyes, if I recall. We don’t see it often out here in the boonies, just another one of our pleasant features. “In Sasha’s luggage, I mean?”
“Like what?” Mom said.
Bro returned, eating one of Bertha’s famous mocha brownies, famous at least here at the Blackberry Hill Inn.
“Oh, nothing important,” said Ms. Jones. “Just a small thing. It might look like some folded-up paper or document.”
Mom started to shake her head, but at that moment Bro got involved. He could be unpredictable at times. “Thrmm proombard,” he said.
“Please don’t speak with your mouth full,” Mom said.
Bro got totally involved in chewing. It must have been a very big chunk of brownie because a long time seemed to go by before he said, “Don’t forget about the postcard, Mom.”
Ruff vs. Fluff Page 6
