Dogs

by Allan Stratton

  “Wouldn’t be s’prised.” He hauls the boxes up the stairs.

  I feel kind of stupid standing around. “You want me to help?”

  “If you’ve a mind to,” he hollers without looking back.

  For the next half hour I help him load the back of his pickup truck. He’s a strange guy, like C.B. says. His face is all tanned and weather-beaten, but when he pulls off his cap to fan himself, his scalp is bald and pinky-white. Long gray strands from over his left ear are plastered across the top. Also, he clicks his tongue a lot.

  “So, are there any dogs around here?” I ask as we head upstairs with some broken lawn chairs.

  “Dogs? There’s dogs most places.”

  “I know, but I mean… I don’t know what I mean. It’s just, at school, they said there were dogs. The way they said it, well…”

  Mr. Sinclair kicks open the back shed door. “People say lots of things.”

  Mom’s car drives up the lane. Mr. Sinclair goes over and introduces himself. When Mom looks at me, I can tell the first thing she sees is the dirt on my shirt.

  “Your boy’s been helping me clear that junk out of the basement,” Mr. Sinclair says.

  “Oh…good,” Mom says. No way she can complain now.

  “Got a good load here. There’s more’n I remembered. I’ll be back tomorrow or the next day for the rest.”

  “No rush,” Mom says, but it’s clear she wants it gone the day before yesterday. “Cameron, can you help me in with these groceries?”

  I bring in three of the bags. While Mom starts dinner, I go back for the rest. Mr. Sinclair’s about to leave.

  “Mr. Sinclair, can I ask you something else?”

  “You can ask. Doesn’t mean I gotta answer.”

  I stick my hands in my pockets. “Did you know the boy?”

  “What boy?”

  “Didn’t a boy live here before your father bought the farm? I guessed because of all the kid stuff in the basement. Not that it matters. It’s just, I’ve moved around and had to leave a lot of things behind. That got me wondering why his things were left, and who he was and stuff.”

  Mr. Sinclair scratches his nose. “You wonder too much.”

  “That’s what everyone says.” I blush. “Anyway, I thought since you grew up on the next farm, maybe you’d know.”

  “Did you now?”

  “Yes, and, well, do you?”

  “You sure ask a lot of questions.” Mr. Sinclair snorts a crusty chuckle, gets in his truck, and drives off.

  6

  Why didn’t Mr. Sinclair answer? What’s the big mystery?

  Who says there’s a mystery? Maybe Mr. Sinclair didn’t like the kid and just won’t talk about him. Or maybe there wasn’t a boy. Maybe the stuff is from when the owner was little and he went to a nursing home and it just got left.

  I think about maybes and what-ifs for I don’t know how long, then go inside.

  “Did you get lost?” Mom asks, laughing. She’s already frying burgers and boiling mixed veggies. “Uh, about the rest of the groceries?”

  “Sorry.” This always happens when I think about things: my brain flies out the window. I go back to the car and bring in the last few bags.

  Mom ladles out the food as I set the table. “So, how was your first day?”

  “Great,” I lie.

  “Wonderful.” Mom brings over our plates. “Could you give me some examples of what made it great?”

  I sigh. “Great classes. Great locker. Great cafeteria.”

  “And the kids?”

  “Great.”

  Mom waits for me to say something else, but I just start eating. She gives her amused smile, the one that says, You’re funny when you get like this. “On the subject of great, I had a pretty great day myself.”

  “You made lots of contacts?”

  “Even better. I got a job.”

  I practically choke. “What?”

  “At least for now.” Mom beams. “Ken’s receptionist is having a baby. She’s been working till he could find someone to take over. I said I had office experience, and, well, I’m shadowing her till the end of the week and taking over Monday.”

  “You’ll be working for that real estate guy?”

  “Don’t frown. You’ll give yourself wrinkles.”

  I slump into my chair. Cowboy Boots. Every day I’ll be hearing about Cowboy Boots.

  Mom reads my mind. “It’s a job, Cameron. And he didn’t ask for references.”

  References are a killer for Mom. She’s scared that if a company checks her past, people at her old place will know where she’s working now and Dad’ll find out. Besides, who hires someone with a history of suddenly quitting?

  “Terrific, then. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” Mom’s smile goes into overdrive. “I don’t want to ‘ruin your reputation,’ but that offer of a ride to school is open. I can drop you off on my way to work and pick you up after five on my way home. You’d have time to join a club, finish your homework in the library.”

  Five? If I take the bus after school, that means I’ll be here alone—and Mr. Sinclair has a key. But if Mom drives me, the gang on the bus will think I’m scared of them. I picture them crowding me at my locker: Hey, Cammy, you scared, Cammy? Where’s your mommy, Cammy?

  “The bus is good.” I chew and swallow, but I don’t taste anything. I’m underwater, hardly able to hear Mom when she asks me what’s wrong. I stop eating and stare at my plate. Mom asks again.

  “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine. It’s great.”

  Mom tilts her head. “Cameron, it’s not. I can tell. What is it?”

  I shrug. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “I can listen.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t have anything to say.”

  “Is it about my new job?”

  “No. I’m glad about that. Really.”

  We sit for a while, not saying a word, then Mom clears my plate and brings me a bowl of ice cream for dessert. “Don’t worry,” she says quietly. “It’ll get better. The first day at a new school is always hard. I remember when…”

  I zone out while she tells me the story about what it was like for her when Grandpa and Grandma moved when she was little. One girl made her life miserable, but by the end of the year they were best friends. This story is supposed to let me know she understands what I’m going through, but it doesn’t. It just makes me feel stupid, because apparently I don’t know what I’m feeling. Also—hello, Mom—having a gang that can beat me up whenever it feels like it isn’t like you having some girl who made fun of your sweater.

  Besides, I’m not even thinking about school. I’m thinking about Mr. Sinclair and whether I should tell Mom he has a key and he let himself into the house. I mean, he could do that in the middle of the night while we’re sleeping. I picture him standing at the foot of my bed, staring at me.

  Stop it, that’s crazy.

  Is it? Anyway, if I tell, so what? Mom’ll freak, but then she’ll say, “Every landlord has a key, and I did ask him to clear things out, so it’s my fault. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to him about limits.” And Mr. Sinclair’ll say, “Sorry,” and Mom will act like everything’s fine. Only it won’t be. Mr. Sinclair will know I’m scared, and he’ll still have the key.

  “…And by the end of the year, Marcia and I were best friends.” Mom reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. “Trust me, honey, things will get better. Things always get better.”

  “Oh yeah?” I pull my hand away, so mad I can’t think. “Things always get better? Like with Dad?” Mom turns white. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  Mom gets up and takes our dishes to the sink. She braces herself against the counter.

  “Mom, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

  “Never m
ind. Go do your homework.”

  “Mom—”

  She raises her hand, not mad or anything, just like it’s on a string. And I know that’s it. Nothing I say can make it better.

  7

  I go up to my bedroom. It’s at the top of the living room stairs, next to a small bathroom and near the big room over the kitchen. That’s the room Mom thought I’d pick, and I would have, except for the trapdoor in the ceiling. It’s sealed up with nails and paint. When I saw it, I asked Mom what she thought was up there.

  “An attic.”

  “Yeah, but what’s in it?” I pictured a dried-up body, half eaten by mice. I mean, who seals up an empty attic? Anyway, that’s why I didn’t choose the big room. If I don’t see the hatch, it’s easier not to think about what’s on the other side.

  The bedroom I picked came with an oak desk, a wooden chair, a night table with a lamp, and a metal-frame bed. The mattress is new, unlike the wallpaper, which is stained and peeling along the seams near the window. Under the peels are layers of older wallpaper, one with little orange canaries on it.

  The window over my desk is the one good thing about my room. Looking out, I can see the barn with the fields all around and the woods in the distance. At night, the stars and the glow of the porch-lamp light up bits of the barn and the first row of cornstalks.

  I start to do my homework. Pretty soon, though, I’m looking out the window, watching the stars come out and trying to forget my life. I wonder who all are staring up at the moon right now. Are they wondering the same thing?

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch something moving by the barn. When I look, it disappears. Wait. There it is again, at the cornfield. Some movement, some thing.

  I count to twenty. Nothing. I relax. Then—did that stalk move? I turn off my light so whatever’s out there can’t see in.

  It’s probably just a breeze.

  Or Mr. Sinclair. Or Cody and his gang.

  Don’t be nuts. If it’s anything, it’s an animal. A coyote or a dog.

  The dogs. I close my curtains. If I don’t look out, whatever’s there will go away. But I can’t not look. I sneak a peek. Nothing. Wait. By the barn. Is that a boy?

  I blink. The boy is gone.

  My eyes scan the barn. There’s a missing board up in the loft area. The more I stare, the more I think I see the boy staring back at me from the shadows behind the hole. He’s maybe ten, very pale, and he’s wearing one of those old Davy Crockett hats with the raccoon tail hanging from the back. Are those freckles on his cheeks?

  Don’t be crazy. The barn’s too far away to see stuff like that.

  The face disappears. I stare till I see double. The face swims back into view.

  This is too weird. I close my eyes and try to clear my head by thinking about the bus and the Cheerios between Benjie’s teeth. When I open my eyes, everything’s normal. There’s no face. Nothing. Just the night.

  And that’s how it stays.

  I close my curtains, get ready for bed, and crawl under the covers. I hate the way I scare myself. It’s always the same and it’s always stupid. And the scared-er I get, the more I talk to myself, which is even stupider.

  Besides, even if there was a boy in the barn, what’s scary about that? Maybe he just likes exploring places like I do. Still, it’s weird he’s on our property, especially so late. I wonder where he lives.

  Who says he lives anywhere? Who says he’s real? What parents let a kid that young wander around at night?

  Mom knocks on my door. “Cameron?”

  “Yeah?”

  “May I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  I know she wants to give me a good-night hug, but I told her to stop it when I was twelve, so she just stands in the doorway. “I know you didn’t mean anything. You’ve had a hard day. I’m sorry I overreacted.”

  I hate it when she’s all understanding. It makes me feel like an even bigger jerk. “That’s okay. Mom, I really am sorry.”

  “I know.” She pauses. “’Night, then. I love you.”

  I want to say the l-word back, but I feel dumb, so I just say, “You too.”

  Mom closes the door. I go to turn off my lamp and get flashes of Mr. Sinclair and the dogs and the kid I maybe saw in the barn. What’s out there in the dark, circling the house when we’re asleep? What could be out there?

  I leave the light on.

  8

  Thursday is pretty much like Wednesday. I get on the bus and I take my place near the back, Cody’s gang barking me down the aisle. A few minutes later, Benjie gets on and it’s Oink City. I offer him a Tic Tac for his egg breath, but he doesn’t take the hint. At lunch I hole up in the can and worry about everything. Then school’s out and I’m back on the bus. I get off at the end of my lane.

  It’s cold and cloudy. The breeze makes it sound as if the cornfields are whispering. I kick a stone up the lane. Past the stalks, I see Mr. Sinclair’s truck poking out from behind the house. He must be clearing the rest of the garbage.

  I don’t exactly feel like being alone with him again, so I slip into the cornfield and follow the rows along the yard and down the side of the house till I reach the rail fence by the barn. I’m totally hidden, but I can see out between the stalks like a spy.

  The shed door at the back of the house swings open. Mr. Sinclair comes out with some boxes. He carries them to his pickup, tosses them on the cargo bed, and goes back inside.

  Corn tassels tickle my nose; leaves wave in front of my face. I need a better lookout. I glance at the barn. That hole up where I thought I saw the kid would be perfect. I break from the field, hop the fence, and sprint to the barn. It’s dark inside except for a few shafts of light from the cracks between the boards. There are wooden stairs ahead on a concrete pad set on the dirt floor. I can also make out cow stalls.

  I climb to the hayloft, testing each step in case it’s loose or rotten. It’s empty except for an overturned pail and the birds lining the rafters. Where there’s birds, there’s bird crap. Guess I won’t be sitting down.

  I crouch by the hole. There’s no sign of Mr. Sinclair. He must still be inside. I glance at my bedroom window. If my curtains were open, I could see right in. I picture night stalkers lurking around up here, watching me.

  The curtains move. Mr. Sinclair’s the only one in the house. What’s he doing in my room?

  Mr. Sinclair comes out of the shed with two cartons. That’s impossible. He can’t be outside and in my room at the same time. Then who’s there? Mr. Sinclair heaves the cartons in the cargo bed, gets in his truck, and starts the engine.

  “Mr. Sinclair! Wait! Don’t leave. There’s someone in my room!”

  Not hearing me, he drives to the lane. I barrel down and race to the door. Too late. He’s gone. What do I do now? I pull out my phone to call Mom.

  Wait. If I tell her a stranger’s in the house, she’ll call the police—and what if I’m wrong? Maybe I just saw a cloud shadow cross the window.

  But what if I’m right?

  Calm down. I’m scaring myself for nothing. Who’d be inside? One look at this dump and a thief would know there’s nothing to steal. And what random guy’s going to break into a house in the middle of nowhere?

  What if the guy isn’t random? What if it’s Dad? He could’ve parked at the next crossroad and walked back easily.

  Stop thinking like Mom.

  Why? There’s always news about some guy who goes nuts and kills his family.

  Dad wouldn’t do that. Would he?

  I try to think of everything and anything except the last night we lived together. No use.

  I was eight. It was after supper. I can’t remember how it started, but Mom and Dad were fighting again. Their fighting was supposed to be a secret. There were lots of secrets with Dad. Like the secret about him teaching me how to swim and holding my head underw
ater till I thought I was drowning. “It’s training, Buddy.”

  This last fight, Dad started smashing stuff.

  “Not in front of Cameron,” Mom said.

  I ran upstairs like I always did, hid under the covers, stuck my fingers in my ears, and prayed I wouldn’t wet the bed like I used to do when they’d fight. I’d be so ashamed. “Don’t tell Dad,” I’d say, and Mom would hug me and promise.

  Anyway, the fight was so bad I could still hear them. Dad yelled the kind of stuff he always did: “Who is it? What’s his name?”

  “There is no ‘he.’ There’s nobody,” Mom yelled back.

  “You think I’m stupid? It’s that guy at the drugstore, isn’t it? Don’t lie to me. I’ve seen the way you look at each other. I know.”

  The screaming went on and on. I sang songs to myself to block it out, and then the police came. They drove me to a shelter where a woman put me in a room and gave me a teddy. I was way too old for it, but I didn’t care.

  “Where’s Mom?” I asked. “Where’s Dad?”

  All they said was, “Your mom’s okay.” Someone kept checking in on me until Grandma and Grandpa arrived the next day.

  “Don’t worry,” Grandma said. “We love you. Everything’s fine.” They said Mom had had an accident and was in the hospital, and Dad was away on business. Then they took me to an apartment where we stayed for a month till Mom got better. They wouldn’t let me see her. When I asked why not, Grandma would tear up and leave the room.

  “When’s Dad getting back?” I’d ask, and when I was braver: “Why were there police?”

  “Let’s not think about that,” Grandpa said. “Let’s think happy thoughts.”

  But at night, when they thought I was asleep, I heard Grandma say, “He’s a monster. She can’t go back. Next time she could be dead.”

  Next time. Were there other times? When? Was it on those days Mom stayed in bed with the lights off? She’d say she had a headache or the flu. Dad was always nice those days. He’d bring home flowers and toys and order in pizza or Chinese takeout, and we’d watch TV together.