Dogs (12 page)

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.

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.

I look around at her stuff—a lifetime in a room. A small coffee table, all covered with framed family photos; the quilt on the wall (did she make it?); the painting of a farm (was it hers?); and the old knit lamb doll on her pillow.

Mrs. Murphy squints at me like she's trying to remember who I said I was and why I'm here, but is embarrassed to ask.

“So, yeah,” I say, helping her out. “I'm here to say hi for Cody.”

“Cody. That's nice. He's a very special boy, isn't he? My little Cody.”

“I like that picture you have of Cody in the hall. I'll bet he's in some of these other family pictures too.”

“Oh, yes, I have lots of pictures of Cody.”

“Can I see at a few?”

She nods, and I check the frames up close, pretending to see Cody while searching for the face I saw in my dream, the face of her cousin Matthew Fraser. He could be in one of those grainy, washed-out color shots from the early sixties or in a black-and-white photo from when he was a kid, maybe in a group of kids and cousins at a family picnic. Either way, it'll be hard to spot him.

“Those are great pictures,” I say, sitting down again. “I really like the ones of you and your parents, kids, and grandkids.” I have no idea if those shots are there, but it's a pretty safe bet. Also a safe bet that she won't disagree in case I'm right.

“So many children.” Mrs. Murphy nods happily. “So many children.”

“With all those children, you must have had a lot of cousins.”

“Oh yes.”

“Can you point them out to me?”

She thinks a bit. “I'm afraid my eyes aren't so good anymore.”

I have another way to fish. “I have a favorite cousin,” I say casually. “Did you have a favorite cousin?”

“I expect so.”

“My favorite cousin is Aaron. Can you tell me yours?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Mrs. Murphy pauses. “Oh, you know.” She winks as if she's told me a joke and looks at me like it's my turn to say something. Why doesn't she say Matthew's name? Maybe she can't remember and doesn't want to let on.

I throw her a clue: “I hear you had a really great cousin called Matthew.”

“Matthew.” Her eyes cloud over.

“Yes, Matthew Fraser.”

Mrs. Murphy puts her finger to her lips. “Reg says I'm coming home next week. I mustn't talk about Matthew.”

Reg. The name of her husband in the
Bugle
. But I'm pretty sure he's dead. Does Mrs. Murphy think she's in the county sanatorium?

“Reg is right. We shouldn't talk about Matthew.” I nod seriously. “But I'm pretty sure it's okay to say what he looked like.”

“Well, Matthew looked like Matthew.”

“I know. But could you describe him?”

Mrs. Murphy stiffens. “Why?”

“No reason.” Time for a happy thought. “I know your great-grandson Cody. Your farm is just a bit farther from town than ours.”

“You're on a farm near ours?”

“Yes. The one beside the Sinclairs.”

“The McTavish farm!” Mrs. Murphy bangs her cane on the floor. “Frank McTavish killed Matthew!”

“Shhh. Please, Mrs. Murphy. Shh!”

She lurches to her feet and raises the cane. “Don't tell me to shush!” she yells. “I know what I know!”

I jump up and raise my hands. “It's okay, Mrs. Murphy. I know.”

“Don't lie to me! Do you think I've lost my wits? I'm not crazy!”

“Mrs. Murphy, please!”

“Who are you anyway?” She takes a step toward me. “You're not a doctor!”

I back up. “I'm a friend of your great-grandson Cody.”

“Liar!” She swings her cane. “Cody's a baby!”

“Mrs. Murphy, please. I'm just a kid who lives on the farm.”

“Jacky's the only boy on that farm! He's dead! They're all dead!”
She swings again. Her cane knocks the framed photos off her tea cart. They crash to the floor, and glass shatters.
“Who are you? Who sent you?”

“Nobody!”

Mrs. Murphy charges toward me. I race into the corridor. To my right, Benjie is staring out of his grandpa's room, mouth wide open. Nurses and workers run down the hall from behind him. Others run up from my left. They pour past me into Mrs. Murphy's room.

The last one grabs my arm. “What were you doing in there?”

“Nothing!”

I shake free, and she falls as I bolt to the social room, cross it, and dash down the hall to the front doors by the reception desk.

“Don't forget to sign out,” Brenda says cheerily.

No time. The nurse who fell is back on her feet and barreling toward me. I see the code by the door, tap the keypad, and escape as she bursts into the foyer.

“Stop. Come back.”

Are
you
kidding?

I make it to Ken's office in no time.

“What are you doing here?” Mom asks.

“Didn't want to take the school bus. Thought I'd come by to say hi to Ken.”

The idea I'd want to see Ken makes Mom so happy she forgets to ask why I'm sweating. “He's out showing a property, but he should be back soon.” She thinks a sec, like she's wondering if the moment is right, then goes for it. “What would you say if we asked Ken for dinner? Nothing special. I could pick up some KFC and take a pie out of the freezer.”

“Sure. Great.”

It is too. If anyone calls about what just happened, Mom won't yell at me till Ken's gone. By then, she'll have had time to settle and I can give her a good story. Like, I went to visit Benjie's grandpa to be nice and ended up in Mrs. Murphy's room by mistake.

Stop
freaking. No one's calling. Our landline is unlisted on account of Dad, and anyway, the way I scribbled my name, who could read it? Even if Benjie rats to the home, by tomorrow things will have blown over.

All the same, my stomach keeps churning. I try to forget what happened by pretending it was just a bad dream.

Ken's back at five to close up. As for dinner? “That'd be great,” he says, like he's been waiting for this since forever. “I'll bring a bottle of wine.”

We sit down to eat at six thirty. Soon it's seven thirty. Then seven thirty becomes eight. The more time passes, the more I relax. Okay, I shouldn't have been in Mrs. Murphy's room, but what did I do? Nothing. Just talked to her. Since when is talking to someone a crime? I mean, I'm not the one who smashed up her room.

I start to enjoy Ken's stories. He's not talking big or acting cool like he was at the beginning. He's more like when we were looking at that photo of his kids.

He tells a story about camping with his kids a few years back. It was his first time in a tent since Scout camp—he's not really into outdoor stuff—but he thought they'd like it. Anyway, he couldn't get the campfire going, so they ate a few cold hot dogs and marshmallows and went to bed. Only he forgot to put away the leftovers, not to mention the hamburger meat, and in the middle of the night some coyotes dropped by for a meal. So there he is, terrified they're going to come into the tent and eat his kids, and all he has to bash them with is his daughter's teddy bear.

“So how scared were you?” I grin.

“Let's just say it was a good thing I brought along an extra pair of underwear,” Ken jokes. “I can't believe I was such an idiot. Not just to leave food out, but to worry about a few coyotes. Like I said before, coyotes are scared of people. I've been in the area fifteen years and only seen one a few times. But boy, that night I kept imagining the headline in the
Bugle
: ‘Local family swallowed by coyotes.'”

We roar with laughter. I think,
You
know, Mom could do worse
.

Out of nowhere, a car drives up to the house. Its lights are low.

“Expecting someone?” Ken asks.

Mom goes pale. She shakes her head. “Maybe it's Mr. Sinclair.” But I know what she's thinking. Dad.

There's a knock on the door.

“Let me answer it,” Ken says. His fist tightens, not much but enough in case there's trouble.

Mom nods. Ken opens the door. Two cops are standing outside. One's chunky, the other thin. Ken knows them. “Brian, George, what's up?”

“May we come in?”

“Of course,” Mom says, scared and confused. “I'm Katherine Weaver.” She shakes their hands. “Is this about my ex-husband? Is it about Mike?”

“No,” says the heavy cop. “I'm afraid it's about your son.”

I want to throw up.

“Cameron? Cameron, what did you do?”

“Nothing. I can explain.”

“What do you mean, you can explain?”

“Perhaps if we could sit down?” the other cop asks.

Mom shows us into the living room. She sits between me and Ken on the couch. He squeezes her hand. The cops sit opposite us on the leather armchairs. The heavier one does the talking.

“We understand your son was suspended from school last week because of a fight with Cody Murphy,” he says to Mom.

“I wasn't fighting. He was beating me up.”

“Cameron!” Mom's glare shuts me up.

“This afternoon, Cameron went to the Wolf Hollow Haven nursing home. He was seen leaving the room of Mrs. Hannah Murphy, Cody's great-grandmother. Mrs. Murphy was visibly upset and needed restraint, in the course of which she received some bruises. Several of her framed photographs were smashed. When a nurse tried to detain Cameron, he knocked her to the ground. She twisted her ankle.”

“Cameron?” Mom's eyes are wide in horror.

“It's not what it looks like.”

“Does Cameron need a lawyer?” Ken interrupts.

“That's for you to decide,” the thin cop says. “This is simply a warning visit. At this point, we don't believe there will be charges.”

“Look,” I say, “I was at the nursing home with my friend Benjie to see his grandfather. On my way out, I ended up in Mrs. Murphy's room by mistake. She went nuts on me, swinging her cane and knocking over her pictures. When the nurse grabbed me, I panicked and ran. I didn't mean for her to fall.”

Silence.

The heavy cop looks right through me. “According to Benjie, you went to the home to check it out as a place for your grandfather.”

“What?” Mom says. “Dad's in perfect shape.”

“Benjie says you left him and his grandfather five or ten minutes before the incident,” the cop continues. “That's an awfully long time to be in someone else's room by mistake. It's also a strange coincidence that it was the room of Cody Murphy's great-grandmother—Cody Murphy, the boy with whom you had the fight. We understand it started when you taunted him about his family.”

“No. That's not how it happened.”

The heavy cop turns to Mom. “It's no secret in town that Cody's had a rough go since his father died. The past few years, he's lived with his paternal grandparents and great-grandmother. He's very close to her. Last year she went to the nursing home. He's taken it hard.”

“The poor boy,” Mom says.

“Cody? Poor boy?” I exclaim. “He bullies everybody, and we're supposed to feel sorry for him? It's not fair!”

“The police aren't here because of anything Cody did,” Mom snaps. “They're here because of you.”

The thin cop takes out a notepad and points at me with his pen. “The nurse who twisted her ankle could have charged you with assault. Cody's family could have you charged on any number of counts. You could end up in juvenile detention. Luckily for you, none of them wants that. What they want is the truth. What were you doing in that room?”

What do I say? When I open my mouth this strange sound comes out, all gasping and choking at the same time. “I wanted to find out what her cousin looked like—Matthew Fraser. The man she said was murdered by Mr. McTavish, the owner of this farm in the sixties.”

“Oh no,” Mom says quietly. “Is this about your history project?” She turns to the cops. “He's been researching a history project about the farm.”

“In the
Bugle
,” I say. “It's all in the
Weekly
Bugle
. Except Matthew Fraser's picture.”

The cops exchange glances. “It's an old story,” the thin cop tells Mom. “Back in the day, Mrs. Murphy claimed Frank McTavish killed his wife, his son, and Mrs. Murphy's cousin here on the farm. It turned out to be nothing more than a wife who ran off with her son and boyfriend.”

“That's not true,” I blurt out. “Mrs. Murphy was right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. McTavish killed them. Their bodies are in the attic.”