Dogs

by Allan Stratton

  “You mean sick?”

  “All right, sick. You take some old story, and instead of laughing it off—the normal thing to do—you act as if it’s real, imaging violence and horror instead of enjoying a pleasant lunch in the here and now. It’s disturbing, Cameron.”

  I bang my hand on the table. “See, this is why I never tell you stuff. You promise you won’t freak out and then you do. It’s not my fault I picture things or talk to myself. If I try to keep all the stuff in my head inside, I’ll explode.”

  “Cameron,” Mom says quietly, “please keep your voice down. The woman two tables behind you is staring at you.”

  I turn around. “Hey, was I talking to you?”

  The woman cowers over her coffee like I’m going to attack her with a spoon or something.

  “I’m sorry. He didn’t mean that,” Mom says to the woman and then zeroes back on me. “Cameron, we need to have a serious conversation, but not here, not now. Finish your burger. I have to get back to the office. I’ll see you at five. Don’t be late.”

  26

  I’m at the office at ten to five. Mom finishes up, and we say good-bye to Ken and head home. I tell her I’m sorry about the restaurant stuff, especially being rude to that woman, and she says good, but don’t let it happen again. Then she smiles and tells me she’s pleased I was researching my essay. “That shows real initiative, only next time keep your eye on the clock.”

  I smile and nod and say whatever, but mostly I try not to think about the cemetery. I keep seeing the dog appear out of the mist and wondering about Jacky’s dark, secret hiding place. It’s like that all day. But that’s better than what happens when I go to sleep. Tonight’s nightmare is especially real.

  I dream I wake up and someone’s in my room.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Shhh. It’s okay, Buddy. It’s only me.”

  Dad. I sit bolt upright. “Dad, what are you doing here?”

  “I live here.”

  “Does Mom know?”

  “Your mother’s gone.”

  “Gone? Where?”

  “Guess.” Silence, except for the sound of him breathing. “I have a surprise for you.”

  “What kind of surprise?”

  “You’ll see.” Now Dad’s voice is in the hall. “Follow me, Jacky.”

  “I’m not Jacky. I’m Cameron.”

  “Whatever you say, son.”

  There’s a candle on my bedside table. I light it. Shadows dart around my room. None of the things here are mine. Drawings of dogs are taped to the walls and ceiling. Something tickles my left ear—the tail of the raccoon-skin cap I’m wearing.

  “This way,” Dad calls.

  I take the candle into the hallway. It’s long and dark.

  “This way. Don’t be frightened, Buddy. I won’t hurt you.”

  I follow Dad’s voice down the hall for what seems like forever. At last, I get to the door of the big room over the kitchen and step inside. It’s empty. The trapdoor to the attic is open. There’s a ladder.

  “I’m up here, Buddy.”

  I climb up into the darkness, holding the candle in one hand and steadying myself with the other. As I near the top, Dad reaches down and grabs me under the armpits. He hoists me into the attic and swings me around and around. “Is this fun, Buddy?” My candle goes out.

  “Dad! Stop it!”

  He sets me down. A kerosene lamp flares up; he’s holding it in his hand. Only he’s not Dad. He’s Mr. McTavish. “Surprise.”

  I scream.

  “Your mother didn’t leave you after all.” Mr. McTavish grins.

  “Cameron!” It’s Mom. Her voice is coming from behind me. I whirl around. Only instead of Mom, I see Mrs. McTavish. She’s taped up in plastic, hanging by her neck from a rafter.

  “Cameron!”

  I scream again—because there’s another body, a man’s, hanging next to her.

  “Cameron! Wake up!”

  All of a sudden I’m in my bed. The lights are on. Mom’s shaking me. “Wake up, Cameron! Wake up!”

  “Mom!” I hold her tight.

  “Cameron!” She strokes my hair. “What on earth were you dreaming?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  That’s a lie. I do, only I can’t say: the truth is too scary. What I dreamed was more than a dream. It was a message from Jacky. He was showing me his hiding place. And how he and the others got there.

  27

  By morning things are clearer than ever. Mr. McTavish found out his wife was about to leave him for Matthew Fraser, the cousin of Cody’s great-grandmother. He waited till Jacky was at school, then he made her write the letter saying she’d run off with Mr. Fraser and Jacky. After she wrote it, he killed her.

  When Mr. Fraser came by, Mr. McTavish killed him too. He hid the car in the barn, taped the bodies in plastic and hung them in the attic. When Jacky got home, his father told him his mother had left. From now on, he said, Jacky wasn’t to leave the farm or see anyone, or something bad would happen. Jacky was so scared of his father that he did what he was told. That night Mr. McTavish drove Mr. Fraser’s car to Ramsay, mailed the letter, and was back home by sunrise.

  Two weeks later, Cody’s great-grandmother went bananas. The cops came by to shut her up. They didn’t really investigate because they thought everything was normal. Mr. Fraser had told his boss he was leaving town, and Mr. McTavish had his wife’s letter.

  But Cody’s great-grandmother didn’t let up. Mr. McTavish got guard dogs to keep her away, but by then he must have realized Jacky wouldn’t stay hidden forever. After all, Jacky’s friend Arty lived just one farm over, and kids get nosy. Once Jacky was found, the truth would come out—so Mr. McTavish called Jacky up to the attic, where he killed him too. Seeing his mother and Mr. Fraser’s bodies—that’s the part Jacky won’t talk about, the part he tries to block from his mind.

  Anyway, now Mr. McTavish has three bodies taped up in the attic—Jacky’s dark, secret hiding place where no one can see. He seals the trapdoor with nails and paint. That and the tape and plastic hide the smells of the corpses. Not that he has to worry. He’s always been a loner—even his best friends, the Sinclairs, think he’s strange—and with the guard dogs, nobody comes by.

  Everything’s perfect; Mr. McTavish has gotten away with it. But then one day, the dogs kill him when he opens the door to go outside. By the time he’s discovered, people figure any smell is from what’s left of him. The Sinclairs lock up the house and farm the land. By the time Mr. Sinclair moves in, it’s ten years later and the bodies have all dried up.

  And that’s that. Until I saw Jacky. But who’ll believe me? I could take a hammer and break into the attic to find the bodies, only what if I’m wrong? Mom already thinks I’m crazy. Maybe she’d put me in a mental home for my own good, like what happened to Cody’s great-grandmother.

  No. Before I say anything, I have to be surer than sure. And there’s a way: the man hanging beside Mrs. McTavish in my dream had a broad forehead, a lean jaw, a dark brush cut, and clear blue eyes bugged wide in terror. There were no photographs of Matthew Fraser in the Bugle; the only place I’ve seen him is in my dream. So, if that’s what he looked like, my dream was true.

  And how to find out? By talking to Hannah Murphy, Cody’s great-grandmother, that’s how. Even when old people forget new stuff, they’re supposed to remember things from long ago. Mrs. Murphy was very close to her cousin. She’d remember what he looked like for sure.

  But how do I get to ask her? After all, it’s not like I can just barge into her room at the nursing home. I have an answer for that too: Benjie!

  Monday morning, Cody and his friends bark at me when I get on the bus, but they don’t do much else. Even Cody’s too smart to try something right after a suspension. When Benjie gets on, he asks me how I spent my time off, and I tell him
it was great—nonstop TV and video games. Then I ask about his weekend, knowing he’ll go on about spending another Sunday with his grandpa at the nursing home. Sure enough.

  “I don’t wanna sound harsh, but it was soooo boring and my church pants itched like crazy.”

  I nod and exhale solemnly. The first time I sigh, Benjie doesn’t notice. So I sigh again and again, till you’d think I was trying for an Oscar for Best-Ever Performance of Being Upset.

  “What?” he asks.

  I suck in my breath like I’m hurting inside but being brave about it. “Mom thinks my grandpa can’t take care of himself anymore,” I lie. “She’s been talking about moving him here and getting him put in that home. Only the way you make it sound…”

  “Gee, sorry. Don’t worry. It’s a nice place. Really.”

  I shrug, all gloomy, and look at my shoes. “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “Seriously, check it out.”

  “How?”

  “Are you a dummy or what? Like I told you, I go after school on Wednesdays too and meet up with Dad when he finishes work. If you want, I could bring you with me, show you around. You could get your mom to drive you home after.”

  “Really? You’d bring me with you?”

  “Sure. No prob.”

  Mrs. Murphy, here I come.

  28

  The next couple of days I’m up and down like a toilet seat. Once I’m at the home, how do I ditch Benjie to see Mrs. Murphy? What’ll I say to her? What if she’s not alone? Worse, what if Cody busts in while I’m there?

  I try to talk about it with Jacky. No such luck. He watches me all around the house, but he won’t come out. Like, he’ll be at the door to my room, but when I look up from my desk, he’s gone. Same thing when I’m in front of the TV. He’ll be staring at me from behind the leather armchair in the corner, but when I go over to flush him out, he’s vanished.

  “What’s the deal, Jacky?” I whisper, low enough so Mom won’t hear. “I’m doing this for you, you know. If you didn’t want me to, why did you send me that dream?”

  Maybe I’m being too harsh. Hearing me talk about this stuff must be hard for him, especially if the closest he can get to facing the truth is to send me a dream.

  By Tuesday, Mom’s asking why I’m so jumpy.

  “What do you mean? I’m fine,” I say. As if.

  But time’s weird. Waiting to meet Mrs. Murphy felt like forever, but suddenly it’s after school Wednesday and I’m heading to the nursing home with Benjie. He goes on and on about school and teachers and parents and girls and basically whatever’s passing through his head. He just opens his mouth and words come out. That’s mean, but I wish he’d shut up so I can concentrate on what’s coming.

  At the end of a couple of blocks we get to a large property with a fancy sign that says: Wolf Hollow Haven, A Community of Care.

  “So, this is it,” Benjie says.

  I hesitate. “You think Cody could show up?”

  Benjie sighs. “Relax. Cody mainly comes on weekends with his grandparents, on account of when he’s alone, his great-grandma asks him to take her home with him. I’ve heard her begging in the hall and in the social room. It’s pretty embarrassing. Don’t tell him I told you or he’ll kill me, but it makes him cry.”

  “Cody cries?” Somehow that makes me feel better.

  We walk up the circular drive. The home is more or less modern, meaning it’s not new enough to be fresh or old enough to be haunted. On the left, there’s a gated garden with picnic tables and chairs where families can sit with their relatives when it’s sunny.

  “You have to punch in a code to open the gate, like at all the doors,” Benjie says. “That’s to make sure the crazy ones don’t wander off.”

  “How do you remember the codes?”

  “Easy. They’re posted right near the keypads. When people are demented, they don’t make the connection.”

  I shiver. Will I ever be in a place like this? I can hardly imagine being twenty. What about Mom? What about Grandma and Grandpa?

  Benjie keys in the code. The glass doors slide open and we step into the lobby. Not bad. The ceilings are high. There’s lots of light and potted plants; also a reception counter with a sign-in register, flowers, and a sleeping orange tabby that apparently goes by the name Mr. Muffin.

  “Hi, Brenda,” Benjie says to the receptionist as he signs in.

  “You again,” Brenda teases. “So what’s up at school this week?”

  “Not much. This is my friend Cameron. I’m going to introduce him to Grandpa. His grandpa may want to come here.”

  “He might like to see this,” Brenda says and hands me a brochure.

  “Thanks.” I fold it in two, stick it in my back pocket, and go to sign in while Benjie pets Mr. Muffin. Wait. What if Cody comes by, sees my name, and wonders what I was doing here?

  Like Cody’s really going to read a sign-in register. Don’t be stupid.

  Stupid or not, I scribble my name so no one can read it, then Benjie and I walk down a corridor wide enough for wheelchairs to pass each other, and around people with canes and walkers or who just stand holding the handrail.

  A woman Grandma’s age marches toward us in a polka-dot blouse and track pants. “They’re really something today, aren’t they, but what can you do?” she says and keeps on marching.

  “That’s Margaret,” Benjie whispers. “She thinks she works here.”

  We cross a large open area where old people sit on couches staring into space or at tables playing cards or in front of the TV beside the piano.

  “They have art classes and sing-alongs here,” Benjie says. “Oh, and that’s the door to the dining hall and over there’s the chapel. And here’s Grandpa’s wing. Some people are with it; some aren’t. The wings are mixed, except for Memory Lane, where they put the ones who’ve forgotten how to move or talk.”

  “Creepy.”

  “Yeah, but everything else is nice, huh? I mean, if you’re old. Mom says the best thing is it doesn’t smell of pee.”

  We walk down the hall. Most bedrooms are singles; a few, doubles. Beside each door are the person’s name and a glass case with personal photographs and knickknacks, I guess to help people know which room is theirs. We pass Mrs. Hilda Green. Mr. James Hardy. Mrs. Hannah Murphy.

  Hannah Murphy. My heart skips. There’s a photo of Cody and his parents in her memory case. As we pass, I glance inside at a tiny woman in a robe looking out the window into the courtyard.

  A few more doors and Benjie says, “This is Grandpa’s room.” His memory box has family photos, a plaque from the 4-H Club, and a small brass tractor replica.

  Inside, Benjie’s grandpa is propped upright on one of those adjustable hospital beds with guardrails. Benjie says hi and introduces me, and we pull up a couple of chairs. His grandfather raises his hand a few inches and makes sounds that I think mean, “Benjie, how are you? Good to see you,” but it’s hard to tell.

  Benjie takes his grandfather’s hand and talks to him. I feel totally guilty—guilty about being here pretending to be Benjie’s friend and about the mean things I’ve thought about him. He’s so kind. Would I visit my grandpa twice a week if he was here? I want to think so, but I’m not sure. That makes me feel bad too.

  After a while, even Benjie runs out of things to say. We sit there with him and his grandpa just looking at each other. At last his grandpa makes a sound.

  “TV?” Benjie asks.

  His grandpa raises a finger, which I guess means yes. Benjie takes the remote from the night table and clicks on the TV at the end of the bed.

  Now’s my chance.

  “I think it’s probably time for me to be going,” I say to Benjie. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

  “Sure thing,” Benjie says, switching channels. “Don’t forget to sign out.”

  �
�I won’t.” I turn to his grandfather. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Dalbert.” His grandfather makes a sound. I’m not sure what he’s saying so I just smile and nod. “Bye then.”

  “Yeah, bye. See you tomorrow,” Benjie says, his eyes glued to the sports channel.

  I back out of the room into the empty corridor and walk toward Mrs. Murphy’s room as quickly as I can. At her memory case I get a panic attack. What am I doing? What if anyone finds out?

  Like who? Benjie’s glued to the TV. He’ll be there for the next hour till his dad arrives from work.

  What about staff?

  I’m signed in. If anyone sees me, they’ll think I’m a visitor.

  What if Mrs. Murphy tells?

  Who says she’ll even remember? Anyway, I can give her a fake name.

  But what if Cody shows up?

  What are the odds? Benjie says he only comes on weekends.

  How would Benjie know? It’s not like he’s here every day. Seriously, Cody would kill me. It’s not worth it. Back out.

  No. This is the only way to know Mrs. Murphy’s cousin was in my dream. If he was, the dream was real and there are three dead bodies in the attic. What’s more important than knowing that?

  I knock gently and step into Mrs. Murphy’s room.

  29

  Mrs. Murphy turns in her chair. Her hair is white and her face is covered in lines, but she still has a square jaw and bumps on her forehead like in the Bugle photo.

  “What do you want?” she snaps. A bad temper sure runs in the family.

  “I don’t want anything. I just came to talk.”

  She grips the cane on her lap. “Who says I want to talk?”

  “I’m a friend of your great-grandson Cody,” I lie.

  “Cody.” A light goes on and she’s all smiles. “You’re a friend of Cody?”

  “Yes. I came by to say hello for him.”

  “Oh… Well, come in, come in.” Her hand twitches me to the chair beside hers.