A Dog Called Jack

by Ivy Pembroke

  “But it turns out that I don’t want to stay home. It’s just that . . . I always feel stretched too thin. Like there’s too much to do and I never get to see you or Emilia. And then I went tonight to see Diya and I realized that . . . she feels the same way. That there’s always something else that could be done, and it occurred to me that maybe what I need to do is . . . ignore the things that could be done. For just a little while. I got caught up, but I miss you, and do you think that—”

  She was cut off by Marcel leaning forward and kissing her fiercely.

  He drew back briefly and said, “Yes.”

  And she found herself giggling, trying futilely to balance her tea, while the cats, yowling, fled off the bed. “You didn’t even hear my question.”

  “The answer’s yes, Anna. The answer’s always yes to you, Anna. You never even have to ask,” said Marcel.

  And Anna put her tea aside.

  Chapter 14

  LOCAL DOG TRACKS DOWN MISSING CHILD!

  “The turkey says it’s done already,” said Sam, peering suspiciously at the bird itself, still settled in his stove.

  “Then it’s probably done,” said Ellen with a shrug, pouring herself a glass of wine.

  “It seems too fast,” said Sam, and closed the oven door. “I don’t believe it.”

  “You’ve decided not to believe a dead turkey.” Ellen pointed at him with her wineglass. “You have trust issues.”

  “When it comes to food I’m cooking, yes, I have massive trust issues—it never does anything it’s supposed to do.”

  “You know what else isn’t doing what it’s supposed to be doing?” asked Sophie, as she drifted into the kitchen, followed by her sister. “This spike.” She held up what looked to Sam like a stumpy papier mâché rhinoceros horn. Sophie had walked in with it and had immediately disappeared into the lounge with Evie, and Sam hadn’t asked questions because he assumed it was best not to when it came to his teenage nieces.

  But now he decided it was time to ask. “Yeah, what is that?”

  “The spike for your ceiling,” answered Sophie.

  “We made a prototype,” added Evie. “But it’s not working the way we predicted.”

  “It may be back to the drawing board,” finished Sophie.

  Sam said, “It really isn’t necessary for you girls to add spikes to my ceiling.”

  Sophie and Evie both gave him the teenaged-girl equivalent of Teddy’s how thick can you be.

  Sophie said, “Your lounge is tragic, Uncle Sam.”

  “Tragic,” agreed Evie.

  Sam looked at Ellen. “I thought it wasn’t that bad.”

  “Don’t argue with their taste,” replied Ellen. “It’s impeccable.”

  Sophie and Evie gave him looks that said, So there!, and then drifted back into the lounge.

  Sam said to Ellen, “I am rethinking the blanket decorating permission I granted earlier.”

  “Too late,” Ellen responded blithely. “You’ll just have to take your schoolteacher into a house with spikes coming from the ceiling.”

  “She isn’t ‘my’ schoolteacher,” said Sam. “She’s her own schoolteacher.”

  “No, she’s your son’s schoolteacher.”

  “Okay, that is more accurate,” admitted Sam.

  “Well, I for one cannot wait to meet her.”

  “You’re going to behave yourself, right?”

  Ellen looked offended. “I always behave myself.”

  * * *

  Teddy and Pari were playing Double Fetch with Jack, which was a game Pari had invented that allowed both of them to play equally with Jack and have limited arguments between them, which Dad had said was always a good thing.

  Pen Cheever came out of her house carrying a box and waved to them. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she called cheerfully to Teddy.

  “Thanks.” Teddy smiled widely. It was nice to have it be Thanksgiving. It felt like a special, out-of-the-ordinary day, and to have everyone coming over for Thanksgiving was pretty awesome, as Dad had never done Thanksgiving on his own before.

  “I have an apple pie here,” said Pen. “That’s traditional, right?”

  Teddy nodded happily and, as Pen walked off toward Teddy’s house, looked at Pari. “We are going to have so much good food.”

  Pari said, “I hope so. Mum made all of my favorites.”

  “Teddy!” Dad called from down the street, his head sticking out the door. “Check to make sure Mr. Hammersley’s coming to dinner!”

  “Got it!” Teddy called back, and then he and Pari agreed to race each other to Mr. Hammersley’s door.

  Jack won, of course. He was pretty fast. He was even faster than his own legs sometimes.

  Mr. Hammersley answered very grumbly but he was always like that, so Teddy didn’t mind him.

  “Are you coming to dinner, Mr. Hammersley?” asked Teddy.

  “What does it look like?” retorted Mr. Hammersley.

  He was wearing a tie, so Teddy supposed that meant yes.

  “Even though it’s a rubbish American holiday,” continued Mr. Hammersley sulkily.

  Teddy squared his shoulders and said staunchly, “It isn’t rubbish. It’s important. Dad says it has sketchy beginnings but it’s a nice opportunity to think about what we’re grateful for.”

  Mr. Hammersley was still grumbling but he did step out of his door and close it behind him, locking it.

  Pari said, “What about the fact that Jack’s a proper hero now, Mr. Hammersley?”

  “Jack was always a hero,” replied Mr. Hammersley dismissively.

  “Right, but now he’s a real hero,” said Teddy. “He found Pari. That’s pretty cool and amazing, right?”

  “She was only a few streets away,” said Mr. Hammersley.

  As they reached Teddy’s house, Pari’s front door opened and her mum and dad stepped out.

  Pari and Teddy both waved.

  Teddy called, “Happy Thanksgiving!”

  Jack went bounding over to them to also say “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  Sai came out of the house, following Mr. and Mrs. Basak, and Teddy said, “I can beat Sai at video games again.”

  Sai grinned at him. “I’ve been practicing.”

  “We can’t play video games all day,” said Pari. “You told me we were going to get to decorate your tree.”

  “Oh!” said Teddy. “That’s right! Dad and I already put the lights on; it’s ready to go!”

  “I’m not decorating a tree,” said Mr. Hammersley.

  * * *

  Mr. Hammersley was helping to decorate the tree. Mostly by telling all of the younger set what they were doing wrong. Diya was also giving directions. Sometimes their directions clashed. Teddy and Pari were ignoring all of the directions anyway, so that didn’t really matter to them, and Sophie, Evie, Sai, and Emilia were between them all only putting one or two ornaments on the tree every ten minutes, so they clearly weren’t very receptive to the directions either. Arthur seemed to be the only person vaguely paying attention to the directions, and getting frustrated when he was being given contradictory ones. Even Anna and Marcel, who were also helping, seemed wrapped up in their own little world together. Pen was sitting on the floor between Diya and Mr. Hammersley, looking vastly amused by the entire operation, and Jack was curled up with his head in her lap, also watching the tree-trimming.

  Ellen and Max were standing off to the side watching the proceedings as well and drinking wine.

  Sam said, “Don’t you two want to go and help?”

  “You would have to pay me money to get involved in that,” said Max pleasantly, gesturing to the tree tableau.

  “Amen,” said Ellen, and clinked her glass against Max’s.

  “That is not the true Christmas spirit,” Sam berated them lightly, and then the doorbell rang.

  “Is that your teacher?” asked Ellen.

  “Not my teacher,” Sam reminded her.

  “Oh, have you met her yet?” said Max. “She’s lovely.”


  “Have you met her?” asked Ellen with interest.

  Max shook his head. “Just spotted her from across the way. If I went for women, I would have swooped in and stolen her from Sam.”

  Sam rolled his eyes and moved off to the door and opened it on Libby.

  Libby . . . who was decked out today in winter white and carrying a small, gaily wrapped box, which she held out to Sam. “Hi,” she said, with one of her dimpled smiles. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “You don’t give gifts on Thanksgiving,” Sam said, amused, accepting the box.

  “Oh,” said Libby innocently. “I had no idea; it’s not my holiday.”

  “Come in,” said Sam, “but please brace yourself for all of the horrible people I know.”

  Libby laughed, and Sam stepped aside to let her in.

  At the time that he had invited Libby to Thanksgiving, it had seemed like a brilliant idea. Their date had gone incredibly well, they exchanged increasingly cheeky texts with each other, and it seemed odd for Sam to be hosting a party and excluding her from it. It had, in fact, seemed only natural to invite Libby along. Sam wanted to take the opportunity to spend every moment he could with Libby, and this was a lovely long day with her, decorating the Christmas tree together. In Sam’s head, it was going to be a day full of bonhomie and merriment. Now he was just hoping Libby didn’t get teased too badly.

  But she really didn’t. Pari and Teddy called, “Hi, Miss Quinn!” but were both far too interested in how they were arranging the mouse ornaments on the tree in the most effective formation to really be paying attention. Sam introduced Libby around, and everyone was very polite to her, including Mr. Hammersley, who was surprisingly gracious and almost charming to her in a very old-fashioned way.

  And Ellen—darling, amazing, wonderful Ellen—just hugged Libby and said, “I’ve heard so very much about you, and it’s so nice to meet you.”

  Libby said, in that playful way people responded to that, “All good, I hope.”

  “So good that I couldn’t wait to meet you.”

  And Libby smiled.

  And then she said something that should have been totally innocent but that ended up being the beginning of All Bad Things.

  She said, “And is this the famous Jack?” because Jack had come up to say hello to her, tail wagging. She scratched behind his ears.

  “The famous Jack,” Sam confirmed.

  “Yeah, who should be in our play!” shouted Pari, suddenly paying attention to the grown-ups again.

  “He really should be,” Teddy said. “We should take a vote. Who thinks Jack should be in our school play, Jesus and the Climate Change Manger? Raise your hand.”

  “Jesus and the Climate Change Manger?” repeated Ellen.

  “That’s the name we’ve decided on,” said Teddy.

  “It’s a Christmas play,” Pari added, as if that explained everything.

  “It stars an insurance agent,” said Max.

  “I wouldn’t say that’s the star,” said Pari.

  “Jack should be the star,” said Teddy.

  “Well, I do admit I’m finding myself less able to resist adding Jack to our play, given that now he’s basically a local celebrity,” said Libby.

  Sam looked at Libby in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I read about him online, didn’t I? ‘Local Dog Tracks Down Missing Child.’ ”

  Everyone was now looking at Libby, even the teenagers.

  “It was online?” Diya said. “A story about Pari?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I assumed it must be him. How many dogs called Jack live on Christmas Street?”

  “But . . . how did anyone know about this?” Diya asked, sounding confused. “I didn’t give any interviews to anyone. Did anyone talk to anyone about this?” Diya looked all around the room.

  Libby said, “I think it was on a blog or something . . . ?”

  Pen said in a small voice, “Oh, no,” and then all attention was on her.

  “What ‘oh, no’?” asked Diya, eyes narrowing.

  “So.” Pen scratched her head and said slowly, “You know how I’m a writer?”

  No one said anything, because there was no need to answer that question.

  “I’ve been keeping a blog,” said Pen. “A blog . . . about the street.”

  And now there were responses. Lots of responses. Spilling all over each other.

  “What, about us?” said Diya.

  “What about us?” asked Anna.

  “I knew it!” said Mr. Hammersley.

  Max looked at him. “You knew Pen was keeping a blog?” Sam was equally surprised; he would have said that Mr. Hammersley didn’t know what a blog was.

  “No, but I knew that you can’t trust anyone,” said Mr. Hammersley.

  “Look, it’s no big thing,” Pen said, although she sounded a little desperate. “It was a way for me to procrastinate what I was working on. I was just noticing what was going on around the street and I just . . . wrote about it. I actually gave it up, but the thing with Jack and Diya was so amazing, I just had to use it for an epilogue—I didn’t use your names or anything.”

  “What’s the address?” asked Arthur, with his phone out.

  Pen, sounding miserable, gave the URL, and everyone whipped their phones out.

  Anna suddenly screeched. “What is this! What is this that you’re writing about my marriage! Right here where anybody can see it! About my life!” She held the phone up.

  “Wait, what is this!” screeched Diya, and then looked up at Emilia and demanded, “Are you dating my son?!”

  Emilia, looking startled, blinked and started stammering a response.

  But Anna jumped into the fray by exclaiming, “What? You’re dating him?”

  “Mum, it’s not—” Emilia began.

  “We just like each other,” Sai finished.

  “Not another word out of you, young man. How many times have we talked about how important it is for you to focus on your studies?”

  “But, Mum—” Sai began.

  “Hang on,” Anna interrupted hotly. “What’s wrong with my daughter? You think she would automatically make him bad at school?”

  “Oh, don’t pretend you’re happy to have her dating my son,” Diya snapped. “You know you’ve always hated me.”

  “I don’t hate you,” Anna retorted.

  Jack, alarmed by all the shouting, started circling the two women, barking.

  “Maybe we should all just calm down,” suggested Sam, trying to step between Anna and Diya.

  Anna turned to Marcel, saying, “Marcel, do you believe—” and then gasping and exclaiming, “Wait, you knew about this!”

  Marcel looked sheepish. “Well, I knew Emilia was dating Sai.”

  “You’ve been reading this blog?” said Anna. “And didn’t say anything?”

  Marcel shook his head. “No, I didn’t know about the blog. I just knew Emilia was dating Sai.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  Sam tried again, “Why don’t we—”

  “She told you?” Anna said, and her voice sounded so small and raw and hurt that Sam felt like he ought to usher everyone out of the house. She turned to look at Emilia, who was still standing rather stunned. “You told him? And not me?”

  Emilia looked helplessly to her father.

  Marcel said, “I figured it out for myself. When I saw the two of them together. At Bonfire Night. You would have realized it, too, if you’d gone to Bonfire Night.”

  “So you found out and you kept it a secret from me?” said Anna.

  “You kept it a secret from everyone,” added Diya.

  Anna turned abruptly and mumbled some sort of excuse and ran out of the house, followed by Marcel calling her name. Emilia turned to Sai and made some sort of explanatory gesture before also running out of the house.

  Diya announced, “Come on. We’re going.”

  “Mum—” Pari began to protest.

  “We are all going,” com
manded Diya, in a terrifying tone of voice that made her whole family fall in line.

  Sam said, “But really, you don’t need to—there’s a whole turkey dinner—”

  “Good-bye,” said Diya brusquely, and led her family out of the house.

  Sam looked at the remainder of his guests, including Pen, who looked crushed.

  “I didn’t mean to—it was just—”

  “It’s okay,” said Sam, seeking desperately to salvage something from his party. “Let’s focus on something exciting and positive. Something to be grateful for. Arthur! Max! Tell us all about the new baby!”

  Max looked up so quickly, with such alarm in his eyes, that Sam immediately wished he’d never got out of bed that morning. He should have just canceled the entire occasion of Thanksgiving.

  Arthur said, “What baby?” and looked over at Max, who instantly looked so guilty that Sam actually cringed in sympathy.

  Max said, “Er.”

  Arthur said slowly, not taking his eyes off Max, “Maybe we should also go.”

  “Yes.” Max nodded, and then glared at Sam.

  Sam mouthed, Sorry? Although he knew it wasn’t nearly good enough for breaking Max’s confidence so utterly.

  Pen said bitterly, “I guess that was one thing going wrong that I can’t be blamed for.”

  “I’m going, too,” announced Mr. Hammersley, standing.

  “What?” said Sam. “No. Please don’t. Stay. We’ll still—”

  “I need some peace and quiet,” Mr. Hammersley said, and waved his hand around as if that indicated peace and quiet, and walked out of the house, followed by Jack.

  Pen said, “I hope you don’t mind, Sam, but I’m going to go, too.”

  “Pen—” Sam began.

  Pen said, “No, really, as you might imagine, I am definitely not in the mood to pretend to be grateful for things.”

  “Pen, you shouldn’t—” Sam was cut off by the smoke detector suddenly blaring. Swearing, he raced back into the kitchen, where smoke poured out of the oven as soon as he opened it and pulled out a fairly charred turkey and stared at it. He had been trying to give Teddy a perfect Thanksgiving dinner, and look at it. “Damn it,” he exclaimed with feeling.

  Libby said cautiously, “Is there anything I can do to help?”