Dog Gone

by Cynthia Chapman Willis

  “Hey, you two.” G.D., looking like a skinny scarecrow in his baggy overalls and the floppy white hat that some sailor in South Carolina had given him, waves a twig arm at us from the garden.

  I wave back, forcing a stiff smile and heading toward him. Cub stays close.

  “Hotter than the devil’s workshop today,” G.D. says when we get near to him. He wobbles out through the opening in the wire fencing and comes around the garden, heading toward us. When his cowboy boots hit the yard, he focuses on me while pulling a white cotton handkerchief from his pocket. He pats his glistening face. “Any sign of our dog out in the neighborhood?”

  Even though I half expected this question, it still flattens me like a steamroller. Because I don’t know what to do with it.

  Cub takes a big step out in front of me and squares his shoulders. “We did find him, Sir. But he took off again.”

  G.D.’s smile fades. The knobby knuckles of his hand, the skin stretched like plastic wrap over bones and blue veins, tightens on the cane top. He grumbles something about how he should have known the dog would take off. “Horses will sprout wings before he’ll stay home again. That’s a wanderer for you.” And then G.D. looks right at me. “Hope no one confuses him with that yellow sheep-killing dog you talked about, Dill.”

  Of course my lie would come back to bite me in the butt. “Me, too,” I mumble.

  G.D. sighs, and grips his cane tight. “I’ve been thinking, girl.”

  I glance at Cub, who looks about ready to bust open and spill what happened to the poor groundhog.

  “There’s a shelter in Utah that I know of,” G.D continues.

  “Shelter?” Cub goes as white as bleached sheets.

  I stand stunned and silent.

  G.D. lifts a thin hand in a stop signal. “This shelter’s different than most. It’s got acres of land. No healthy animals ever get put to sleep.” He blinks, his blue eyes becoming moist. “Dead End would be safe there, wouldn’t get confused with another dog and accused of anything. Only problem is, the place is clear across the country. But maybe we can find someone going out that way.”

  “NO! He’s a part of our family!” I whine, hating this sound. “It’s wrong to give family members away like old clothes.”

  “I’d give my brothers away,” Cub mutters.

  But G.D. keeps staring at me. “Give my idea some thought, Dill. Even if our dog is as innocent as a newborn pup, he could be accused, tried, and convicted simply because he hasn’t been home during times of trouble.”

  He’ll be home again soon, I don’t say. He has to be, so that everything will be great again.

  CHAPTER 7

  SECRETS AND LIES

  After dinner, my bike tires skid to a stop on the gravel parking lot, smack in front of the blue sign with white letters that announce MACGREGOR’S FEED AND FARM STORE. Knowing that Mom carefully painted those letters and that blue background when Lyon first opened his store makes the old wood sign special—now.

  I hop off my bike and grab the brown bag from the basket that Cub has wired to my handlebars. Then I suck in a deep breath and head toward the old house that Mom and Lyon converted into the store—their baby before I came along. Mom had found it, had helped Lyon to fix it up, and had worked with him to start the business. Lyon always swore that putting her home-baked pies, cookies, and muffins on the front porch brought in the customers like fish to bait. G.D. said Mom’s warm-as-sunshine smile and down-to-earth kindness kept them coming back.

  For as far back as I can remember, I’ve helped Lyon in this store. Doing whatever he needed, sometimes just sweeping up and keeping him company. That changed though as Mom got weak and I didn’t want to leave her. And then, as G.D. started tending to her more and more, I spent more time at the stable, to get away. Now, I wouldn’t mind going back to the store, if Lyon wanted me to, if it didn’t seem like he’d rather be left alone.

  “My plan is to get Lyon to come home more by cooking his favorite dishes,” I tell Cub. The way Mom did. “Tonight, I’m bringing him this garlic-fried chicken to show him that my cooking is getting better.” More like Mom’s cooking, I should have said.

  “It sure smells good.” Cub hums with appreciation the way he used to do whenever Mom fed him some of her home cooking. “Hope your plan works, Dill.” But Cub doesn’t sound hopeful as he climbs off the rusty bike that once belonged to Donny and has been passed down through Danny, Tommy, Timmy, and Jimmy.

  The bell tied around the doorknob jingles as I yank the door open. Cub stuffs the hem of his bleach-faded T-shirt into his shorts, then stomps dirt off his unlaced work boots. I flick road dust from my freshly cleaned shirt, pulled from a basket of laundry I’d finished over a week ago. Since clean clothes don’t lure Lyon home, I don’t do a lot of regular washing and even less folding and putting away.

  I’ve also put on flip-flops and brushed out my hair. Mom always insisted that we clean up for dinner. She’d bathe and dab on gardenia perfume. Lyon would change into a clean shirt. I’d shed my riding boots and scrub.

  Standing behind the old register, Lyon lifts his head and peers at us from over the top of his drugstore reading glasses. Scattered papers, folders, a calculator, a mug stained from black coffee, and a small glass filled with toothpicks clutter the counter. Lyon still hasn’t bought a computer. He says he doesn’t trust technology as far as he can throw it.

  “This is a surprise.” Lyon sounds worn out. A toothpick pokes out from the right corner of his mouth. His face struggles to lift with one of those prepackaged smiles that he’s been giving to his customers lately, free of charge. This isn’t the bright-eyed Lyon who would greet everyone with big enthusiasm. That Lyon disappeared with the guy who used to sit at the kitchen table after dinner and strum his guitar.

  “We brought you dinner.” I hold up the crinkled, brown paper bag, the grease stain like a birthmark. I force a quivering smile, wondering if he’ll figure out that I’m trying to get him to come home more, wondering if this will annoy him.

  “How nice.” Cement has more enthusiasm. But when he turns his attention to Cub, Lyon seems to ease some. “How’s the family, son?”

  “Still too big, Sir.”

  “Big families can be tough,” Lyon says in his the customer is always right tone.

  I roll my eyes. Nothing could be tougher than the cold loneliness of an empty house. Lyon should know this. And since when does he think big families are rough? He and Mom had talked about me having brothers and sisters as if a dozen were on order. But they never arrived. And every time I tried to ask why, Mom’s eyes got red and misty. Lyon ran here, to work more.

  When Mom got sick a year ago, we repeated this don’t-talk-about-trouble routine, like dance steps we’d learned by heart. Mom liked things this way. She never could take being the center of attention. But as she got thin and pale, I couldn’t always keep the topic tucked away. When will you get better? I’d whisper as her soft hands stroked my hair. She’d tell me not to worry and then insist that I go riding or find Cub.

  “Everything good at home, Dill?” Lyon pulls his glasses from his face. “G.D. okay?”

  “Fine. But we missed you at dinner again. I made garlic fried chicken.” The words come out stiff and awkward. I lift the grease-stained bag as I watch Lyon’s expression. While I cooked this meal, I kept imagining his face getting bright when I presented it to him. I kept picturing him thanking me, maybe even hooking his arm around my shoulders and telling me that he’s proud of how I’m cooking Mom’s recipes.

  Instead, Lyon sighs, glances at the clock on the wall. The toothpick slides across his mouth as he looks back at the bag in my hands. “G.D. had you bring dinner here?” The question is tight, tense.

  I suck in a big breath. “The delivery was my idea.” I focus on the counter now to keep from seeing any irritation on Lyon’s face. I push papers aside, and drop the bag on the counter. “Dinners at home, with family, are important.” Mom’s words. She’d always insisted that we eat togethe
r at the table every night.

  Lyon jumps as if startled, but then he pulls the bag closer. “Okay. You’re right. I shouldn’t have missed your fine meal, Dill.” The lines in his sagging face seem to go deeper.

  “Come home now.” My voice comes out a whisper, sounding too hopeful.

  He hesitates, pushes at folders. “Too much to do here.”

  I think about offering to help him, the way I used to do, but this feels like intruding.

  Cub shifts, fidgets, kicks at the floor. “Think I’ll go check out the pet stuff.”

  When Lyon starts unpacking the dinner without looking at me, I go after Cub. He stops near the basket of rawhide bones.

  “Stay with Lyon,” he spits at me in a whisper. “Tell him you need that dog, even if he is being bad.”

  “No! Lyon doesn’t care. Didn’t you just see his face? He doesn’t care about anything but this stupid store. He’ll get rid of Dead End the way he gave away the others.” Your mama’s animals remind your pop of her, G.D. had tried to explain to me when I fussed about losing the rabbits, Romeo and Juliet, Seymour the goat, and the cats.

  Cub squeezes his lips together the way he does when trying not to lecture me. He kicks at the floor, reaches into the basket, and pulls out a bone that could have been the thighbone of a rawhide dinosaur. “This is worthy of your dog. Tell Lyon you’re taking it, and then tell him about Dead End.”

  I stare at the bone, thinking that even though the rawhide he’s got is big enough to choke a horse, it will take Dead End less than a day to make a slimy knot out of it, once he comes home. So I yank the bone from Cub’s hands and storm back to the register.

  Lyon pops the top on the plastic container that holds his dinner. The smells of garlic fried chicken and mashed potatoes mix with the store smells of grain and sawdust—scents Lyon wears like cologne. “G.D. tells me we got to get Dead End registered and photographed. Don’t know when I’ll find the time to do that.” He sounds used up.

  I place the bone on the counter with a thud. What would happen if we didn’t get the pooch registered? I almost ask.

  Lyon closes his eyes, inhales. “Mmmm. Your mom’s fried chicken.”

  “The whole ranch smells of it,” I say because Lyon always loved the way her cooking filled our home. An hour ago, the garlic and chicken had almost sent me looking for her in the family room, half expecting to find her curled around a novel, waiting for Lyon and me to clean up for dinner.

  Lyon stares into the plastic container. “Did G.D. eat?”

  “Lots,” I say to keep Lyon from calling Doc Kerring.

  Cub’s jaw drops open as he stomps up beside me, staring into my face as if I’ve lost my mind.

  Doing my best to ignore him, I watch Lyon put down his dinner to stuff the bone into a brown paper bag.

  “I got to go,” Cub says kind of suddenly. “There’s a church thing the minister expects me to be at.” The minute I glance his way, Cub glares at me. “If it’s a talk about the trouble secrets and lies cause, I’ll call you, Dill.” Cub holds his accusing stare, being about as subtle as an elephant in an elevator.

  “Say hello to your parents and brothers for me, Cub.” Lyon forces another smile.

  Cub stomps to the door, and pulls it open. “Yes, Sir.”

  When the door slaps closed, I grab the bagged bone and go after him. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Lyon.

  When I get to Cub at the bikes, he glances at the brown bag. “Hiding the truth is as bad as lying. What if one of your dad’s customers pegs Dead End as a sheep killer? Lyon will look real bad.” Cub climbs onto his rusty bike. “If you want him to be a father again, you’ve got to be his daughter again. Tell him the truth about the dog before it’s too late.”

  Back inside the store, Cub’s words chew on me, partly because Mom would agree with them.

  Lyon, a chicken leg held to his face, is chewing slowly with his eyes closed as I return to the counter. “Thanks for dinner. You make fine chicken, Dill.” He opens his eyes and offers me a weary smile the way I’d offered him the garlic chicken—to take, if I want it. “It’s about as good as your mother’s.” The weight of the sadness in his voice turns me cold. My cooking the way Mom did isn’t supposed to make him more miserable.

  Cub’s nagging echoes in my ears like a berserk gnat.

  I clear my throat, then pull at the ends of my hair. “Lyon, can I tell you something?”

  “As long as it’s not another problem.” He seems to try harder to smile.

  I must go chalk-white, because his smile slides off his face as if greased. “I’m kidding, Dill. You can talk to me about anything, anytime, as always. Don’t let my mood bother you. I’m wound up about that new store. The Farmer’s Outlet. It’s everything a farmer could want: the latest technology, fancy merchandise, tons of stock, and low prices. Don’t know how this little store will compete, especially now that folks are feeling threatened by a pack of dogs. Why shouldn’t farmers go to a bigger store that offers guns and traps and more?” He sighs, sounding like a man loaded down with trouble as heavy as rocks.

  Could I, should I, give Lyon another problem to carry around—a boulder with Dead End’s name on it? Words stick in my throat like wads of peanut butter. “Your customers are loyal,” I finally choke out, trying to convince myself more than Lyon. “They won’t go to any new store.”

  Before Lyon can argue, the screen door swings open, the old hinges squealing. “Evening, Dill, Lyon.” Sniff. Mr. Kryer, short and thick and sturdy as a stump, steps inside, wiping a dirt-stained knuckle under his nose. “You closed, Lyon?”

  “If I’m here, the store is open, Bob,” Lyon says in a strained, my only concern is the customer voice. The natural, relaxed tone he’d had with friends went away with Mom.

  “How are you doing, Dill?” Mr. Kryer’s face takes on the same dopey-eyed concern that I’m getting real sick of seeing on the adults around town.

  I clear my throat. “Fine, thanks,” I answer, my words cardboard.

  The man sneezes so hard that he nearly blows me across the store.

  Lyon grabs a box of tissues and pushes them at Mr. Kryer. I step back, ready to dive for cover if his nose explodes again.

  Lyon sticks the toothpick back between his lips and slides it to one side of his mouth. “You eat dinner? Dill made some fine chicken.”

  I scowl. If Lyon gives away the dinner that I’d made for him, I’ll be spitting mad.

  “I’m sure it’s great.” Sniff. “But I got to stop by a few more places, talk to some folks before I can head home to Mrs. Kryer’s stew.” Mr. Kryer pats what could be a watermelon under his plaid, button-down shirt. “That woman puts together a mean stew.” He grins only a moment. “But I’m not here to talk about cooking. I’m here to spread the word about a big problem.” He sighs then. “This is the part I’ve been dreading.” He looks at Lyon. “Tell me your dog has been home safe and sound.”

  “What? Sure, I guess.” Lyon glances at me. “Dead End has been home, right, Dill?”

  “I wouldn’t bother you with this, knowing what your family has been through,” Mr. Kryer puts in quick. “But we’ve got a problem with some dogs. A pack of them are running wild. They attacked one of Jim Wilson’s sheep.” Sniff. “Killed it. And well, someone thought he saw a yellow husky type, like your dog.”

  My heartbeat speeds up. I should have guessed that Mr. Kryer, our ex-mayor, would warn folks about the dogs. The man has a gift for getting people fired up over a cause. Every year, he organizes the county fair and the holiday toy drive for underprivileged kids, and manages to get folks excited about livestock and dolls.

  “Sheriff Hawks is as angry as a wet hornet and has signed some of us up as assistant deputies to help him track down the bloodthirsty mutts and their irresponsible owners.” Mr. Kryer puffs himself up, looking something like a rooster with a beer belly. “I’m bringing the farmers together for shooting lessons. I got Fred Barley, who’s a real good shot, lined up to teach us a thing or two
about hitting targets.”

  The thought of farmers shooting at dogs makes me gasp. But Lyon and Mr. Kryer ignore me as if I’m part of the woodwork.

  “Sheriff Hawks has asked some of us to get the word out about the dogs.” Sniff. Mr. Kryer pulls a page from his back pocket. “Can you hang this in your store, Lyon?”

  “Of course.” The page crinkles as he takes it, unfolds it, and then scans it.

  I lean toward him, stretching my neck to see the writing. Bold, black, no-nonsense letters scream WARNING! Dog pack seen on Wilson farm. BLACK LABRADOR, GERMAN SHEPHERD, and BLOND HUSKY seen chasing sheep. Husky killed one sheep. Call Sheriff Hawks with any information.

  My heart beats hard enough to bust a rib. Blond husky? No wonder Mr. Kryer asked about Dead End. This page might as well be an F.B.I. ten most wanted list with Dead End’s name on it. The whole town will see it if Lyon hangs the thing in his store.

  Mr. Kryer grunts as he turns to the door, wiping his nose with the back of his hand again. “Hard enough making a living off of a farm these days without having to worry about people’s pets attacking livestock.”

  Lyon’s head bobs in agreement. He places Mr. Kryer’s page on the counter, then follows the farmer to the door.

  “You tell Hawks that I’ll do anything I can to help,” Lyon says as they move out to the parking lot. “Dogs that go after livestock should be destroyed.”

  That comment freezes me. I stand stunned until a truck door slams. And then, almost without thinking, I snatch Mr. Kryer’s paper with shaking hands. I stuff it into my back pocket and head for the door.

  “I got to get home,” I tell Lyon as I hop onto my bike. “G.D.’s waiting.”

  Lyon’s expression crinkles with questions, but I take off before he can say a word.

  * * *

  Clutching Mr. Kryer’s warning, I drop the bag with the rawhide bone onto Dead End’s dog bed, and then shoot across the ranch to my room.

  Where can I hide the warning? I drop to my belly and peer under my bed. Dust balls remind me that I’m not keeping the ranch as eat-off-the-floor clean as Mom did.