How to Look for a Lost Dog (6 page)

“You turn the TV off,” I tell him, without moving my hands.

I hear the TV go off. “Now
what
is the problem?”

I uncover my eyes and unplug my ears. “There was too much on the screen.” I try to think how to state my problem clearly.

My father sighs. “What?”

“Three people and two maps. And too much noise.”

“I'll watch the weather later when you're asleep,” my father says at last. Then he asks, “Were you scared about the storm or did you get confused?”

“I wasn't scared,” I say.

He frowns at me and then he grunts.
Unh
. “Look, the storm won't get this far. The weather people just like to make a big fuss so everyone will watch their show. We might get a little wind and rain. That's all.”

“Okay.”

“Why don't you go to bed now?”

“Because it's too early.” My routine calls for walking Rain in 45 minutes, then changing into my pyjamas, and after
that
going to bed.

“Well, don't think about the storm.”

“Okay.”

“I think I'll go out for a while.”

“Okay.”

While my father is back at The Luck of the Irish I think about the superstorm named Hurricane Susan. I wonder how many miles Hatford is from the Atlantic Ocean. I need to see a map, but I don't want to turn on the Weather Channel again. I sit on the couch in our quiet house and pat Rain for a while. Then I remember that there used to be a map in our garage. I put on my sneakers and use a flashlight to shine my way across the yard to the square white garage. Rain comes along, walking so close to me that I can feel her shoulder against my leg.

I turn on the garage light and find the map. It's on my father's workbench and is not folded up properly, the creases going in the wrong directions, which makes the map puffy, not flat. I spread it out on the workbench, fold it back up the right way, then spread it out again. I put my finger on Hatford. All of the state of Massachusetts and a little of the state of New York are between my finger and the Atlantic Ocean. Maybe my father is right. Maybe we live too far inland to be bothered by a hurricane. But why was the newscaster on WMHT warning us about the superstorm?

I refold the map, making sure the creases are in the right directions, and Rain and I leave the garage and walk back to the house. I sit on the couch again. I think about Hud Road and my neighbourhood.

Here are some facts about where I live:

1. The buildings on Hud Road are:

The Luck of the Irish

The J & R Garage

The house where I live with my father and Rain

Our garage.

That is all.

2. Our house is on a little rise of land. The yard slopes from the house down to Hud Road, and Hud Road runs downhill to the J & R Garage and The Luck of the Irish at the bottom.

3. There are eight very tall trees in our yard. Four of them are maples, two are oaks, one is an elm and one is a birch. Behind our house are woods.

4. There are a lot of small streams in our neighbourhood. They do not have names. The biggest of them runs alongside Hud, in between our yard and the road. It flows underneath the little bridge at the bottom of our driveway. I have never seen more than 10.5 inches of water there. The other little streams begin further up Hud Road and feed into the one in front of our house, which rushes down towards the bottom.

These facts are not as interesting as homonyms or prime numbers. They are informative only. But you will need to understand them when you read later chapters, such as “Chapter 19: Rain Doesn't Come When I Call”, which takes place the day after Hurricane Susan.

I finish thinking about Hud Road and our neighbourhood. It's time to walk Rain. Later, when I'm in bed, listening for the sound of my father's car in the driveway, I hug Rain to me. We live inland, I say to myself. This must (mussed) be (bee) good. I say it over and over. We live inland, we live inland, we live inland.

It's Monday when my father says the people on the Weather Channel just like to make a fuss so that everyone will watch their show. On Tuesday he frowns a little and says why can't the Weather Channel people be more specific about the path of the storm? On Wednesday he says
unh
, he doesn't ever remember losing power for more than four days.

Today is Thursday and my father is at home and out in our yard when Uncle Weldon drops me off after school. My father is checking to see if our gas cans are full. Rain is watching him from the couch on the porch.

Her head is resting on her front paws (pause), but her eyes are alert.

“Bye,” I say to my uncle, and because I like him, I lean back into the truck before I close the door, and I look directly into his eyes. “Thank you for the ride,” I say clearly.

Uncle Weldon smiles at me. “You're welcome. I'll see you tomorrow.” Finger crosses, heart touches.

My uncle waves to my father through the windscreen and turns the truck around.

“You're not at work,” I say to my father.

“Nope, not at work. Very observant.”

This might (mite) be (bee) sarcasm, which is like mockery.

Rain jumps off the porch to greet me and my father says, “I'm going into town to get supplies. Do you and Rain want to come with me?”

“Supplies for the superstorm known as Hurricane Susan?”

“Yes. Do you want to come with me?” he says again, and this is my reminder to answer his question.

“Yes, I do,” I say.

I sit beside my father in the cab of our truck. Rain rides in the back. We drive down Hud Road. As we pass the J & R Garage my father waves to Jerry, who's one of the owners. I don't know why my father isn't working today, but I don't ask him any questions.

At the bottom of Hud Road my father turns left without indicating.

“Hey, you didn't—” I cry.

But my father says, “Can it, Rose,” without looking at me.

We drive into Hatford and my father angles the truck into a parking place near the hardware store. The inside of the store is very crowded. So many people are shopping today that it's hard to walk down the aisles.

I wring my hands. “Two, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen,” I chant. I look at the ceiling.

“Stop it, Rose,” says my father.

“Rose/rows, toad/towed, or/ore/oar.”

“Rose, that's
enough
. What's the matter? Are there too many people in here?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need to go back to the truck?”

“I don't know.”

“Because I could use some help.” My father drags me to a quiet corner of the store. “Everyone is out getting supplies and I'd like to get ours now before there's nothing left. So could you just settle down and help me?” He's taken me by the shoulders and is holding them a little too tightly. Also, his face is very, very close to mine. “Rose? Can you give me a hand here, please?”

Please/pleas.

“Okay,” I say.

My father finds a cart and I focus on what we need. Paper plates and paper cups in case our dishwasher doesn't work, paper towels in case our washing machine doesn't work, water in case our water pump doesn't work, AA batteries and C batteries and D batteries for a radio and flashlights and tools.

I help my father carry our supplies to the truck. Then we drive to the grocery store and buy cereal and bread and dog food and canned soup and other things that won't go off if our refrigerator doesn't work.

After the grocery store we drive to the Exxon station and fill up the gas cans.

That night Sam Diamond calls my father at 6.21 p.m. and they decide to go to The Luck of the Irish, so Rain and I are left alone. I realize that I could listen to the Weather Channel without looking at it. With my back to the TV I hear Rex Caprisi say that Hurricane Susan is expected to make landfall in a couple of hours and then travel up the coast.

Up the coast.

We live inland, we live inland.

I think of all the space that was between my finger and the Atlantic Ocean on the improperly folded map of New England. Even so, I turn on WMHT. The newscaster says that Hurricane Susan is an extremely large storm and will reach our area by the next night.

Isn't it funny that
right
has three homonyms and
night
only has one?

I stand in front of the cupboards where my father put away our supplies. I begin to count.

16 rolls of paper towels

24 rolls of toilet paper

2 large packages of napkins

4 packages of paper plates

2 packages of paper cups

I look at our food. I wonder if we have enough supplies for a power outage that lasts two days, four days, a week.

I wonder what will happen if a tree falls on our house.

I sit on the couch with Rain until it's time to walk her and then we go to bed and I put my arms around her and feel her chest rise and fall as she breathes.

I cross my fingers and touch them to Rain's heart.

The next morning my father wakes me up by saying, “You're in luck, Rose. School is closing at noon today.”

This is an unscheduled change. It's not on our school calendar.

I frown and sit up. “Why?”

My father is standing in the doorway, looking at Rain and me in bed. “
Why?
” he repeats. “Because of the storm you've been talking about all week. It's supposed to hit sometime tonight.”

“If it's going to come tonight, why are they closing school today?”

“Geez, Rose, I don't know. So people have time to prepare, I guess. Just go with it. You get half a day off from school, okay?”

Uncle Weldon drives me to Hatford Elementary and Mrs Leibler walks me to my class. Everyone is talking about Hurricane Susan, the superstorm. It has made landfall south of us. Four people are dead. Thousands of others have lost their homes. Towns are flooded. Power lines are down. The storm is headed north and is expected to make an inland turn.

We live inland, we live inland.

Susan is 74, which is not a prime number name, and I haven't thought of a new homonym recently.

After Mrs Kushel takes attendance, she asks our class if we'd like to talk about the storm.

Everyone says yes.

“This is the biggest storm in history,” Josh announces. He sounds pleased.

“People have already died,” says Parvani nervously.

I stand up and shout, “Two, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen!” Before I can say, “Seventeen,” Mrs Leibler is marching me to the hall.

Uncle Weldon pulls into my driveway at 12.17 p.m. Usually he drops me off and goes right back to his job, but today he has special permission to wait with me until my father comes home. Neither of us talks about the note from Mrs Leibler. When my father opens the envelope later he will read about the prime number incident.

At 1.21 p.m. my father returns from the J & R Garage and my uncle leaves. “We'll try to stay in touch,” he says to my father and me. “Hopefully, the storm will miss us. Maybe this is a lot of hype after all.”

“I'll call you tomorrow,” my father replies.

Uncle Weldon heads down the driveway and I hand over the note. My father reads it as we stand on the porch. He shakes his head. “Geez, Rose, why can't you just say those numbers to yourself?”

My father stays at home the rest of the day. He stays at home after dinner too, Rain and my father and I alone in our house with the eight tall trees outside. I can hear wind now, and a little rain.

My father turns on the Weather Channel and I sit across the room with my back to the television.

“We're right in the path,” I hear my father say. “It can't miss us.”

“Morgan broke a rule today,” I tell him, without turning around. “She didn't raise her hand,
and
she interrupted Mrs Kushel.”

My father doesn't answer.

“You know who else broke a rule? Josh. On the very first day of school he yelled, and yelling is against the rules.”

“You want to come over here and watch this like a normal person?”

“And once Anders tripped me. On purpose. And twice Flo butted into the middle of the lunch queue.”

“Rose, I can't hear the television.”

“And also—”

My father stands up fast. He starts to throw the remote control at me, but then I think he remembers that the TV won't work without it, so he puts it down. “Go to your room,” he says.

I back away from him. Rain follows me to my bed. I get out the list of homonyms. I study it and study it and then from the living room I hear the Weather Channel's Rex Caprisi say, “Check out the links posted at the bottom of the screen.”

I jump off my bed. “Rain! ‘Links' and ‘lynx'! A new homonym!”

I run my finger down to the
L
section of the list and see that there isn't space for my new homonym pair. I'll have to rewrite the list, starting with the
L
section.

I haven't gotten any further than lane/lain when I make an
m
instead of an
n
. I throw down my pen.

“Two, three, five!” I shout and scrunch up the paper.

My father is standing in the doorway in an instant. He looks at me and then at the paper. “I've had just about enough,” he says quietly.

Rain edges herself between my father and me.

“If you can't control yourself here, at least control yourself at school. I'm sick of this. I'm sick of the notes. I'm sick of the meetings.”

“But my homonyms list—”

My father stoops down and picks up the crumpled paper. “Not another word about homonyms. Put all this stuff away and go to bed. Right now.”

My father doesn't leave the doorway, so Rain and I have to change our schedule for the second time that day. I slide under the covers with my clothes on. Rain lies warily next to me.