Dogs (3 page)

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.

“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.

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 mind. 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.

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.