Dogs

by Allan Stratton

  The rooms on the first floor are laid out in a circle. We cut across the kitchen to the bathroom on the far right. C.B. makes a big deal about the iron tub with claw feet and the washer-dryer that means Mom won’t have to do laundry in the basement. He leads us through a door on the opposite wall into the master bedroom.

  “What do you think?” He raises the window blind.

  “Great view,” Mom says. “All those fields and that woods in the distance.”

  C.B. nods. “Great light too.”

  Across the bedroom, on the right, is a door to a second narrow staircase and, beyond that, the living room. Mom likes the second stairs. “It’s good to have more than one escape route…in case of fire,” she adds, but I know what she’s really thinking.

  The living room has a humongous piano and a bunch of old furniture. There’s a funky smell from the sofa cushions. At the end is the archway back into the kitchen; we’ve gone full circle.

  Mom and C.B. finish the tour upstairs while I hang behind in the kitchen. I think Mom’s glad I’ve checked out. When I’m in a bad mood, it shows—or, as Mom likes to put it, “You embarrass me and you embarrass yourself.”

  I stare out the window over the sink. What else can I do?

  Why not check out the basement?

  I open the door and flick on the light switch. The stairs are creaky, the ceiling’s low, and the wall plaster’s crumbling. It’s like going down a passageway into a tomb. I picture a psycho burying a body.

  Mom says I freak myself out because I have an imagination. Guess who I got it from? Anyway, if a psycho killer’s down here, I can call Mom and C.B.

  The basement’s cold and damp and runs under the whole upstairs. I turn on the bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. There are shadows everywhere from the support beams, the furnace pipes, and piles of junk and wobbly cardboard boxes stacked to the ceiling.

  I imagine mutant hoarders peering at me from behind the furnace. Great. Now I have to circle it to prove I’m not a wuss.

  I edge around a rusty stroller and scooch underneath the pipes to the farside, where I see a bolted door. I imagine there’s a skull behind it and a bony hand sticking out of the ground. I take a deep breath, step over a box of china gnomes and a toy chest, and put my hand on the bolt.

  Come on, open it.

  But what if there is a skull behind it?

  Seriously?

  I throw the door open. On the other side there’s a tiny room, all dark and dirty. Maybe it was a coal room.

  My neck prickles. Someone’s watching me from behind.

  “Mom?”

  Silence.

  I turn around slowly. I can’t see anyone. But someone’s down here. I can feel it. “Who’s there?”

  There’s a rustle in the coal room. I whirl back, bolt the door, and race for the stairs, tripping over a tricycle.

  “Cameron?” Mom calls down from the kitchen. “Cameron, what are you doing down there?”

  “Nothing.”

  Suddenly everything’s normal again. The eyes staring at me? All in my head. The sound in the coal room? Maybe a mouse, maybe nothing.

  Mom and C.B. come down the stairs to the basement. “Cameron, what did I say about wandering off? You know better.”

  Nice, Mom. And you think I embarrass you? “Sorry.”

  Mom registers the local dump. “Oh my.” I can tell her fingers are itching for some hand sanitizer.

  C.B. jumps right in: “I’ll get Art to clear this out.”

  “Good.”

  C.B. chuckles. “He’s a character. A confirmed bachelor. I expect some of this stuff has been here since his family got the place.”

  What, since the 1960s? I imagine the basement as a secret chamber of horrors.

  “Cameron,” Mom says, “there are two bedrooms upstairs. You can take your pick.”

  I roll my eyes. “So this really is going to be home?”

  Mom nods. “It’s got character.”

  Right. For a creep house.

  4

  My classes start today, Wednesday.

  I hate first days. It’s like all those nightmares where you’re late for an exam and you can’t find the classroom. Only on first days the nightmares are real. Where is everything? Who is everybody? What am I doing here? Worse, it’s October, so everyone’ll be in their cliques. Actually, around here, I’ll bet they’ve been in their cliques since kindergarten.

  The hardest part of first days, though, is keeping track of my lies. New kids get asked so many questions, but it’s not like I can be honest, what with Mom being paranoid about Dad finding us. My name stays real so my school records can be transferred. Mom says that’s okay because it’s a common name and Dad has no access to my files. Everything else? Fake.

  For starters, I have to remember what I’ve said about Dad. To keep it simple, I always start by saying Dad died, only then I get How did he die? How did you feel? How old were you? If I say he died a while ago, they want to know if I have a stepfather or if my mom has boyfriends. If I say recently, I have to remember not to smile or be happy for months.

  It’s weird pretending Dad’s dead. If I pretend he’s dead and he dies, will I feel guilty, like I made it happen?

  Anyway, I pace at the foot of our lane, going over my story till the school bus arrives. Mom offered to drive me, but no way do I want to start off looking like a wimp.

  Everyone’s curious when I get on. The girls at the front try not to stare, but I hear them whisper after I’ve passed. I’ll bet it’s about the zit on my cheek. The guys in the back row give me attitude. The one in the middle looks pretty tough. I lower my head and make my way toward a couple of empty window seats. The kids on the aisle act like they don’t see me. Maybe they’re saving the seats for their friends. I end up alone a few rows ahead of the gang.

  “Is he from Sinclair’s dump?” the tough guy asks, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “Yeah,” one of his friends says. “The dogs, Cody. Maybe he’s dog food.”

  Cody laughs. “Yeah, he’s dog food, all right.”

  Apparently this is funny.

  Mom says if you ignore stuff, it’ll go away. That’s the stupidest advice in the world. Ignore stuff and it gets worse. Isn’t that what she said about Dad? Anyway, what else can I do? I can hardly start something with a whole gang.

  A chunky kid gets on at the next stop. All those free seats reserved for friends? Well, he isn’t one of them either. He makes his way down the aisle while Cody and his gang make hog calls: “Sooey, sooey, here little piggy.”

  He slumps into the seat next to me smelling of stale sweat and breakfast cereal. I try to settle my nose on my hand without being obvious. “At least no one in my family is crazy,” he mutters. I don’t say anything. He glances my way and blinks. “Hey, you’re new.”

  Actually I’ve been taking this bus since forever, only I have this superpower that makes me invisible. “Yeah.”

  “I’m Benjie. Benjie Dalbert.”

  “Cameron Weaver.” I check a fingernail and hope that’s the end of our conversation. Cody and his gang are still making oink sounds. If they see me acting friendly, they could go after me again.

  Why am I such a coward?

  Coward? I don’t even know the guy. Why should I be nice to him anyway? He stinks. Besides, I got called “dog food” and nobody said anything.

  Right. So I should act like everyone else?

  “So, where you from, Cam?” Benjie asks.

  “Cameron. Boston.” Not.

  Benjie leans in. I can see bits of Cheerios between his teeth. “I have a cousin in Boston. So, like, what part?”

  I try not to breathe. “It’s more like a town outside Boston. I just say Boston because people have heard of it.”

  Stop talking to me, Benjie. Please stop talking to me.
/>
  “Yeah, but where?” He blinks. “Bedford?? Carlisle? My cousin’s in Bedford.”

  “Carlisle.”

  “Cool.” A spitball hits Benjie on the head. The gang laughs. Benjie turns round. “Quit it.”

  “Why, Piggy?” Cody taunts him. “You gonna do something about it, Piggy?”

  Benjie’s cheeks flush. “Jerks,” he whispers. “They think they can run everybody. Cody Murphy, the biggest jerk? He deserves every bad thing that’s ever happened to him. His mom gave him away, you know. Whenever he throws something at me, I remember that and I’m happy.”

  “His mom—what?”

  “Gave him away. Great, huh?” Benjie blinks a couple more times. “He was eight or something. His dad died, and his mom remarried and shipped him from town to his grandparents here in the country.”

  “Harsh.”

  “Not harsh enough.” Benjie grins. “Anyway, what are you doing here? I mean, you weren’t born here. And it’s not like any farms around Wolf Hollow are ever for sale. Did your folks split up? Are you staying with relatives?”

  “Mom’s rented a farmhouse.” I look out the window.

  “You’re in Mr. Sinclair’s old place?”

  “Shh! Keep it down. Yeah. How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve only lived here since forever, and it’s the only house empty on the whole bus route. So, hey, is it haunted?”

  I look back. “Haunted?”

  “It should be,” Benjie says. “He’s weird.”

  “Who?”

  “Sinclair. Who do you think? Don’t ever get alone with him.”

  “How come?”

  “He’s got a sausage maker in his barn. You could end up in a meat pie.”

  “Gimme a break.”

  “It’s what kids say. Anyway, I warned you.”

  Two girls get on the bus and sit at the front with their girlfriends. Cody’s gang catcalls and snickers. For the rest of the ride, I watch the fields go by while Benjie goes on and on about the 4-H Club, which apparently stands for Head, Heart, Hands, Health and has fall fair competitions for teenagers and is really fun, and I should join, and his grandfather was the local leader till he got paralyzed by a stroke and ended up in the town nursing home. Blah, blah, blah. Anyway, it beats him asking me questions about my who, when, where, why.

  The bus pulls into the parking lot. Benjie stays seated, eyes down, letting Cody’s crew get off first. A couple of their gym bags “accidentally” bang against the side of his head. He pretends not to notice.

  We’re the last up the aisle. By the time we’re out, Cody’s gang is having a smoke at the side of the highway.

  “Maybe I’ll see you at lunch?” Benjie asks as we head in the front door.

  “Sure, maybe.” Great, something else to worry about—hurting his feelings or joining the loser crowd on the first day. As if I haven’t already.

  The morning’s a blur of introductions in the office, guidance counseling, and my first two classes. There are way more kids here than I figured. Wolf Hollow may be a hiccup, but students are bused from all over the county. That’s why it’s built on the country side of the bridge to town.

  At lunch I go into the cafeteria, concentrating on my guidance stuff so I can act like I don’t see Benjie waving me over to a table with a bunch of other guys who look like they smell. I sit by myself in a corner, facing away from everyone, and pull a bagged sandwich and Coke out of my backpack.

  The cafeteria’s pretty loud. Chairs squeal as they’re scraped over the cement tiles. Everyone yells over a bunch of announcements on the PA. And somewhere there’s a kid with a laugh so shrieky you’d swear he was on helium. How long will I be putting up with this crap before Mom and I move again?

  All of a sudden, Cody’s gang crowds around me. He and a buddy plunk down on either side and stare, as if daring me to look at them. I do. Not for long, but enough to say I’m not afraid, which I am, and they know it.

  “So, Cam,” Cody says. “Is that your name? Cam?”

  Cameron. “Sure.”

  “So, Cam, how come you’re not with your pal Piggy?”

  I don’t know. How come you’re not with your mother?

  “Why would I be?” I say.

  Cody’s friends snicker.

  “He stinks, huh?” Cody says, testing me.

  “How would I know?”

  “You sat beside him.”

  “He sat beside me.”

  “Either way. Or maybe you don’t smell stink. Is that it? After all, you live in Sinclair’s dump. Right, Cam?”

  I force myself not to shake. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Yeah, doing what?” the buddy on his right echoes.

  “You know.”

  Cody puts his arm around my shoulder. “You’re new. We’re getting acquainted is all. I’m Cody. This here’s Brandon, Mark, Stu, Dave. We’re letting you know who’s who, what’s what.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I nod, like that even makes sense.

  “So anyway, Cam,” Cody says real low, “what we want to know is…late at night, you hear the dogs?”

  “What dogs?”

  “You know. The dogs.”

  “I don’t know.” I swallow hard. “Tell me.”

  “Why? You scared, Cam?”

  His buddies laugh, but not like anything’s funny.

  “No,” I lie. “What’s to be scared of?”

  Cody squeezes my shoulder hard. “You live in Sinclair’s dump. You’ll find out.” He gets to his feet and saunters out of the cafe. His buddies follow, laughing and barking.

  Everyone’s staring at me. Are they laughing too? I dump my trash in the garbage, lock myself in a bathroom stall down the hall, and rest my feet on the edge of the lid so no one will know I’m here.

  Cody. The gang. I feel sick. But forget about them. What’s the deal with Sinclair and the dogs?

  Nothing’s the deal. Cody was just out to freak me out, to show me who’s boss. That’s what guys like him do.

  All the same…

  5

  My phone rings. It’s Mom. “I caught you at lunch?”

  “Yeah. Sort of.”

  “How’s your first day?”

  “Fine. Look, I’m kind of in the can.”

  Mom laughs. “I won’t keep you then. This is just to say I may not be home when you get back. I’ll be with Mr. Armstrong.”

  What’s she doing with Cowboy Boots? “Are we moving someplace different?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. Ken’s offered to show me around town, that’s all.”

  “Ken?” I roll my eyes. “He’s a friend now?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Cameron, he’s just being helpful. You never know who may be hiring, or when. Contacts can make all the difference. I should be home by five.”

  Sure enough, Mom’s car’s still gone when I get back. I go inside to watch some TV, but I get a better idea. With her away, it’s the perfect time to go exploring. At our old place I snooped in her room to see if she had a gun or anything, what with Dad and all, but no, she’s totally boring except for her pills. So instead I decide to go through the boxes in the basement. I’ve already inspected for psychos and mutants, so why not? The boxes won’t be there long, and maybe I’ll find something worth saving.

  I slip downstairs into Shadowland. The air is cool like before. The cobwebs sag from the damp. If I listen to the silence, my mind’ll start to play tricks, so I get to work. First I dig into the boxes of books. They’re all romance novels and issues of Farmers’ Almanac.

  Next I go through the clothes boxes. There’re trousers and long johns; some baby things—a boy’s, I think, because they’re blue; and a mess of wool sweaters full of brown rice. No, wait. That’s not brown rice; that’s mouse poop. I wipe
my hands on my jeans and imagine what would have happened if I’d stuck them into a mouse nest.

  I move on to the toy chest behind the furnace. Inside, I find more boys’ stuff—a chewed-up hockey puck and a ratty baseball. There’s also a yo-yo, a rubber ball attached to a paddle by an elastic string, a little mirror, a magnifying glass, and some marbles.

  I wipe the dust off the magnifying glass and hold it in front of my hand. So there was a kid here, I think, examining my pores. Why didn’t his family move his stuff when they sold the farm? I wonder what happened to him. He’d be as old as Grandpa. Weird.

  “What are you up to?”

  I whirl around. There’s an old man hunched under the pipes staring at me. He’s scrawny, with hair growing out of his nose and ears.

  “Mom!” I scramble back.

  “She’s not here,” he growls.

  I glance at the stairs. If I try to escape, he’ll block me. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “I own the place.”

  “You’re Mr. Sinclair?”

  He grunts. “You’re the kid?”

  He holds out his hand like I’m supposed to shake it. If I do, he could grab me. If I don’t, I’ll look like a coward.

  I shake it. His hand is big and rough. For a second he doesn’t let go. When he does, I fall back. He stares at me. Mom, I need you.

  I try to swallow, but my throat’s too dry. “How did you get in?”

  “I have a key.” He squints. “I knocked.”

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Didn’t hear me come down the stairs neither. You deaf or something?” He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. I picture him knocking me out with ether and dragging me to the meat grinder in his barn.

  “What are you going to do?”

  He horks into the handkerchief and puts it back in his pocket. “I’m going to clear out some of this junk is what I’m going to do. I hear your mother wants it gone.”

  “Where are the movers?”

  “Why pay some fella to do what I can do myself?” Mr. Sinclair gets out from under the furnace pipes and hoists three boxes of books like they’re nothing.

  “There might be mice in those things,” I say.