Dogs (8 page)

Mom's back at five. She calls me to the kitchen table. I sit like a prisoner waiting to be executed. Will it be the “I'm disappointed” speech or the “I love you” speech? I know she loves me. I know she's disappointed. Why does she have to say it?

Mom reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. “Cameron,” she says softly, “I want to apologize.”

What? I stare down at our hands. Mom still wears her wedding ring. She says it's to keep men away, but it reminds me of Dad. I wonder if it reminds her.

“I should never have said what I said yesterday about a fight being the beginning,” Mom says. “You are not your father. You are you. And who you are is a good, kind, bright young man who cares about people.”

My insides quiver.
I'm not good. I'm not kind. I think mean thoughts about people. I go behind your back. I lie. I make things up. I'm a horrible person. I'm…

“Cameron?”

I wipe the corner of my eye. “It's okay.”

Mom hands me a Kleenex. Somehow she always has a Kleenex. “I want you to know that what's been happening with you these past few weeks, what you've been going through, isn't your fault.”

Is
this
about
me
being
picked
on
at
school? Eating lunch alone in a bathroom stall? Did I say Jacky's name in my sleep?

“I don't know exactly what's going on in your head”—what a relief—“but I see the signs. The nightmares. The talking to yourself.”

I want to crawl in a hole.

“It's all right, Cameron. I understand.”
You
don't.
“It's been like this ever since you were a child. Whenever you have a problem, you go off into your own world. I can be talking to you, others can, but it's like you don't hear us. Since this last move it's gotten worse.”

I'm afraid to ask, but I have to. “What about my lips?”

Mom squeezes my hand. “I know you try hard to keep them from moving. And when that doesn't work, you try to cover your mouth. You're so good about that. But yes, they've been moving. Not always, but sometimes.”

“Am I loud?”

“No, no. Very quiet, sometimes no sound at all.”

Am
I
like
that
at
school? Who else has seen me?

“I don't know who you're talking to, but it can be pretty intense.”

“Myself. I'm just talking to myself. Lots of people do.”

“I know. But lately…lately I watch you, and you don't even notice me watching. It's a worry.”

“Why?” As if I don't know the answer.

“Because it's not normal, Cameron. It's not just the talking to yourself either. You frown all the time. You don't communicate. Sometimes you hit yourself.”

“When?”

“Different times. Not often. It doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me. If I was hitting myself, I think I'd know about it.”

“I'd hope so,” Mom says carefully. “And then there are the nightmares. You wake up drenched in sweat, and even though you know I'm there, it's like you're in another world.”

I swallow hard. “You think I'm crazy.”

“No. But I think you have problems. You're troubled.”

I go to say something, but there's nothing to say.

“Cameron, it's nothing to be ashamed of. You've gone through such terrible things. But you're not alone. I want to help.”

You
can't.

“Please let me.”

How?

Mom takes a breath. “I was talking to Ken.”

Cowboy Boots? “You talked about me to
him
?”

“I didn't say much.”

“He's a jerk. A phony.”

“Cameron, he's a nice man who's given me work—work that puts a roof over our heads and food on the table.”

“That gives him a right to hear about my private life?”

“No. All I said is, you're at an age when you might want a man to talk to. Most boys have a father.”

My stomach churns. “So do I. Only you won't let me see him.”

“That isn't fair.”

“What, that I have a father I can't see? No, it
isn't
fair.” I pull my hand away.

Mom tries not to look upset. “You don't have to talk to Ken if you don't want to, but he'd be happy to talk to you.”

I look her in the eye. “Are you going out with him?”

“What?”

“Is this your way of introducing ‘the kid'?”

“Cameron, that's out of line.”

“So I'm right.”

“No. You're
wrong
.”

“Because no way will that jerk ever be my father. I have a father. And if I ever need to talk to a man who
isn't
my father, I'll talk to Mr. Sinclair.”

“Fine.”

“So can I go now?”

“You can go.”

I push my chair back, get up, and head up the stairs.

“Cameron,” she calls after me, “I love you.”

“Right.” I don't turn back. No way she's going to see me cry.

All night I worry about Mom thinking I'm crazy. She thinks Dad's crazy too. Is she right? Are we both nuts? I also stress about Jacky. Mr. Sinclair says he left with his mom. Jacky says he didn't, that Mr. Sinclair saw him after she was gone. Who's telling the truth? Why would either of them lie?

How
can
anyone
know
anything
about
anyone? How can anyone be sure even about themselves?

Only one thing's certain: Jacky's a secret I can't tell anybody.

Mom's gone by the time I get up. I make myself toast and jam, take a tub of ice cream to the kitchen window, and look out at the woods behind the corn. The sun is bright, the sky is clear—what a perfect day to explore. If I hadn't been suspended, I'd be on the bus right now, taunted by Cody's gang, smelling Benjie's breath, and worried about today's science test. I should get suspended more often.

I bundle up and head out to the field. My view of the woods is blocked by the corn—it's way taller than I am—but if I walk straight forward I can't help but bump into it. After the first few rows it gets hard to see anything, what with the leaves. It's tougher to move than I figured too. The worst part is the cobs hitting my face and the tassels going up my nose. On the plus side, there's the smell of the corn, so sweet and fresh I can taste it.

I wade forward, but it takes, like, forever. It's got to be fifteen minutes since I started. Shouldn't I at least be seeing the treetops over the stalks? Maybe I should head back.

No, that's dumb. For all I know, I'm almost there. Besides, quitting's for losers.

I keep going. Still no sign of the woods. Am I heading in the right direction? Have I gotten turned around?

An engine revs over at Mr. Sinclair's. I'm so busy keeping tassels out of my eyes that it takes me a while to realize the sound is getting louder. Make that closer. Why would an engine be getting closer?

Oh
my
God, it's not any old engine. It's Mr. Sinclair's combine. He's harvesting the field. And I'm in the middle of it.

I picture blades slicing through stalks—and
me
! I have to get out of here. But where to? Where am I? Which way do I go?

Don't panic. Figure out where Mr. Sinclair's headed and go someplace else.

How? I can't see him. The corn's too high.

So? If he gets close, jump out of the way.

Jump? I can hardly walk.

Then
yell. He'll hear you.

Over the noise?

I try to run. The more I try, the more the corn gets in my way. I force the stalks aside with both arms like I'm doing the breaststroke. It doesn't matter. I'm not getting anywhere. I gasp for breath. Leaves and tassels hit my face, get in my nose and mouth. I'm flailing, drowning. “Help!”

It's all right.

Jacky? Is that you?

Breathe.

The engine's deafening.

“Mr. Sinclair! Stop!” I wave my arms.

He
can't see or hear you. Breathe
.

“I can't.”

You
can
.
You're almost at the woods. Look ahead to the right.

Out of nowhere, I spot a trail between the corn rows. Why didn't I see it before? I can't hear myself think—just the voice in my head yelling,
Now! Run!

I push through to the trail. See treetops over the stalks. Break through them and race from the field, out of danger. I did it. I'm at the woods.

I drop to my knees. “Jacky, you saved my life.” He doesn't say anything. “Jacky?” He's gone.

I catch my breath. I can't believe I'm alive. I get up and brush myself off. Guess I'm stuck here till Mr. Sinclair takes a break.

I look up and down the tree line. The woods run across the back of five farms, but I don't know how deep they go. I should stay near the edge so I don't get lost. Last thing I need is Mom calling a search party while I'm suspended.

Still, it can't be a forest or anything. I mean there are farms all around, and Jacky and Mr. Sinclair played here. Besides, past the bushes, the trees are fairly spaced out. Some look good for climbing. That could be fun—scrambling up to the top to look back at the house or to spy on Mr. Sinclair harvesting. I think of Jacky's drawings of the two of them in the treetops. I wonder what they saw.

Before I climb any trees though, I want to check out the clearing. It's not far—a big swath of sunlight. Dead branches lie scattered along the way, like deer antlers. There are a few fallen trees too, rotten and covered in moss. One's really long with big roots pointing up to the sky.

When Jacky made his drawings, a lot of these trees wouldn't have been around. The fallen ones would've been healthy, and the ones that were rotting then are long gone now, with nothing to show they existed. Trees are like people. We're alive, then we're memories, then we're not even that.

Mom says that kind of talk is morbid, but it's true. I have no idea what my great-grandparents looked or sounded like, or the great-greats before them, back to caveman days. It's weird to think they were like me once, goofing with friends, mad at their parents, brave, scared, everything. But now they're gone and all the people and things that mattered to them are gone too, and nobody knows or cares. So why do I make myself miserable over things that years from now no one will even care about? If I knew that, maybe I could be happy.

When I hit the clearing, the gloom disappears in a blaze of sunshine. The leaves are turning orange and red, and there are patches of berry bushes. There's an outcrop of rock too, and in the center—my heart skips—the boulders from Jacky's pictures.

I imagine Jacky and Mr. Sinclair pretending the boulders are their fort. Then I see Jacky, alone, hiding in the treetops, pretending his father doesn't exist.

A bird chirps. I stand still, hoping to glimpse it. Everything's quiet. How come I don't hear the combine? I get a creepy feeling someone's watching me. I glance over my shoulder.

Mr. Sinclair's at the edge of the clearing. “What are you doing crossing a field mid-harvest? You want to get yourself killed?”

“Sorry. I was already halfway before you started. How did you know I was here?”

“I saw the stalks move. Good thing too. I figured it was you; came to bring you home. Don't want your mother getting back and me having to explain how come you're mashed up in my corn cobs.” He snorts. “Or maybe I could just grind you up and have her think you ran away.”

I laugh like this is a joke, but he just stares at me. I think about Jacky and his mother disappearing. I stop laughing.

“Why aren't you in school anyway?” Mr. Sinclair says.

“I got suspended. It wasn't my fault.”

“If I had a dollar for every time something wasn't someone's fault…” Mr. Sinclair's voice trails off. “So you thought you'd check out the woods. What did you think you'd find?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to see where you and Jacky played.”

“Who says we played here?”

“I guessed.”

“So you're a guesser, are you? What kind of guesser? A guesser who guesses he knows, or a guesser who knows he guesses?”

“I guess I don't know.”

Mr. Sinclair cracks a smile. “You're not as stupid as you look.” He nods at the boulders. “I used to leave things there for Jacky to find. A magnifying glass. A bag of marbles. Things I didn't want anymore. I told him elves left them. He knew it was me, but it was more fun to pretend.” Mr. Sinclair's eyes soften.

“Do you ever wonder what happened to him?”

His eyes narrow. “Why would I?”

“I don't know; you were friends. I think about
my
friends, the ones I've left behind. I hope they think about me.”

“I wouldn't count on it. Nobody thinks about anybody these days. By the time you're my age, you can't even remember how many friends have disappeared.”

“Like Jacky?”

Mr. Sinclair grunts. “He was like you. Disappeared with his mother.”

Not
according
to
Jacky.

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“Nobody thinks nothing.”

“Okay… I was just wondering if Jacky ever talked about his father.”

“Why would he do that? Do you talk about yours?”

“That's different.”

“Is it?” Mr. Sinclair watches me squirm. “You're not the only guesser around here. Everybody has secrets. It's best to leave them alone. Come along now. I'll drive you back to the house. I have work to do.”