The Summer of Riley (3 page)

Riley opened his eyes and closed them again.

“Don’t kick him,” I said sharply. “He didn’t know.”

“I’m not kicking him. But I’d like to,” Grace said.

“William, you and I’ve got to go over there right now,” Mom said. “Grace, will you stay till we come back? And will you make sure Riley doesn’t get out?”

Grace nodded and gave me an angry look.

I didn’t want to go to Peachie’s. What if the Sultan had a broken leg or something? Well, he couldn’t have. Grace said he had gotten up. He could have hurt something else, though. Something inside of him.

But I had to go.

Peachie stood next to the Sultan in the field. He was up, but I could see his skinny old legs shaking. “Is he … is he okay?” Mom put her hand on

Peachie’s shoulder. “I can’t tell you how sorry we are.”

Peachie’s voice was so low I could hardly hear her. She didn’t turn to face us, just stood there stroking the Sultan’s neck.

“I was remembering the day he raced for us at Del Mar. He was so beautiful, his mane flying, the jockey low on his neck. Brad Falcon was riding him that day. Del Mar is so beautiful. All that green, green grass.” Her voice was dreamy. “The air so soft. The palm trees. And the whole stand alive with people on their feet, shouting his name. It was like thunder. ‘Sultan! Sultan of Kaboor!’ And Woodie just beside himself.”

Woodie was Mr. Peachwood, Peachie’s husband. I never knew him. I guess he died before I was even born. Peachie and Woodie.

“Woodie loved the Sultan.” Still that dreamy voice. “You can have twenty, thirty horses in your lifetime, but there’s always one that’s special. Like your first love.”

The Sultan of Kaboor stood blinking as if the light hurt his poor old eyes, while Peachie’s hand
soothed his neck, soothed and soothed.

I swallowed hard. This was even worse than I’d imagined.

“He deserves a peaceful old age,” Peachie said, turning to look at us for the first time. “And I’m going to see that he gets it. This can never happen again. Never.”

“No,” Mom said in a choky sort of way. “It never will. I promise you, Peachie.”

“I’d like you to go now,” Peachie told us. Our Peachie. This stranger with the cold, cold face. Our dear old friend. She sounded as if she hated us. Probably she did.

We met Doc Webb hurrying through the gate.

“Bad business,” he said. “Whose dog was it, anyway?”

“Ours,” Mom said grimly, and marched grimly on.

We had a meeting around the kitchen table, Mom and Grace and I. Riley was a silent partner, not at the table but under it.

“So, what are we going to do, William?” Mom asked.

“Well, I’ll hold him real tight when we’re out. The thing was, I wasn’t expecting him to do what he
did. I’ll be on my guard now. He won’t get away from me.”

“He’s a big, strong dog,” Mom said.

“I’ll … I’ll never take him past Peachie’s yard.”

Mom shook her head. “That would be impossible, William. If we take him out of the yard at all, we’re going to pass Peachie’s. You mean you’ll never take him down to the river? Or into the trees?”

“I won’t; I don’t have to. I can go the other way.”

“You won’t stick with that,” Grace said. “You should make a rule right now to never let that dog out of your yard.” Grace’s eyes were puffy from crying and she kept getting up to see if Doc’s truck was still there, or if she could catch a glimpse of the Sultan, and then she’d look down at Riley with that mean, unforgiving look.

“But why did he do it?” Mom asked. “I keep coming back to that.”

“I think it was a onetime thing,” I said quickly. “You know, he just got this idea in his head. Maybe the Sultan reminded him of a horse he knew once that he didn’t like. I bet he never does it again.”

It was Grace who spotted Doc Webb crossing Peachie’s field on his way to his truck. She and Mom and I ran out to catch him before he left,
and the most awful thing happened. Riley bounded out behind me, but I didn’t see him until Grace shouted, “Riley!” I had to grab his collar and trail him back in.

“See?” Grace said.

“I—I’m just not used to having to be careful yet,” I stammered. “He won’t get past me next time.”

There was that furious Grace-look again.

We surrounded Doc Webb.

“He’s real shaken up,” the Doc said. “Far as I can tell, nothing’s broken, but he’s hurting and he has a ruptured tendon on the right foreleg. He’s resting in the barn.” He opened the door of his truck and threw his black bag on the passenger seat. “Trouble is, with an old horse like that, you can’t take chances. If this happens again, it could be real bad.”

Mom slumped against the truck. “I can’t believe this happened.”

“I’ve left Peachie a tranquilizer for him,” the Doc said. “And I’ve wrapped his leg with a support bandage. I’ll be keeping an eye on him.”

We watched him drive away.

Back in the kitchen, we took up our conversation where we’d left off.

“I’ve got a bad feeling,” Mom said. “Do you think
this could be why the last owners took Riley to the pound?”

“It was so vicious the way he—” Grace began.

I slapped my fist on the table. “Give it a rest, Grace. We’ve been over all that.”

“William! Don’t you talk to Grace like that!” Mom said.

Grace pushed her chair back. “You know what, William? I like Riley a lot. But I like the Sultan, too.”

“You’re not very loyal,” I began. “Riley didn’t—”

“He was horrible to the Sultan. Just admit it, William.” The screen door banged behind her and she was gone.

Mom reached over and took my hand. “I called Dad,” she said. “I left him a message about … what happened.”

“Good luck,” I muttered.

Mom’s eyes were soft. “You know something, sweetheart? Maybe Riley isn’t the dog for us. If we took him back, we could get you another dog.” She smiled a fake smile. “A middle-sized dog. The kind you wanted in the first place.”

I wriggled my hand out of hers.

“It’s just too big a chance to take,” she went on.

“What if Riley gets to poor old Sultan again? And what if next time Sultan doesn’t make it? How will we feel then?”

“It won’t happen,” I said. “It won’t. It won’t.”

T
he day seemed longer by far than a normal day. I kept waiting for something, I didn’t know what. It would have been nice if Grace had called to say she was sorry for being so mean about Riley, but she didn’t. She was probably sitting at her computer not even thinking about me or Riley. Well, I wouldn’t think about her either, except some bad thoughts.

After lunch, Mom baked brownies for Peachie from one of her mixes. Mom has boxes and packages for everything. Even I can make Rice-a-Roni, the San Francisco treat, or Tuna Dinner, nothing to add but the tuna. She says she’s a hopeless cook, but I don’t know. Everything tastes great.

“I hope Peachie opens the door to me,” Mom said grimly, as she marched off.

I took Riley out in the yard, and for the first time
I kept his leash on. It was too easy to remember the way he had jumped over Peachie’s fence with all those inches to spare. He kept looking at me as if he couldn’t understand why he wasn’t as free as a bird, and I kept telling him, “It’s because you did that bad thing to the Sultan. You have to earn our trust again.” Maybe some of it went into his dog brain.

When Mom came back, she said she thought Peachie liked the brownies, and they’d taken one out to the Sultan, who definitely had not lost his appetite. She said that actually Peachie looked more shaken up than the Sultan did.

I took my dog and my comic books and went upstairs to lie on my bed and listen to my stereo. I turned the volume up really loud. Usually listening to my CDs takes my mind off my troubles. But today it didn’t. My thoughts wouldn’t let go. If I couldn’t take Riley out into the yard and let him run free, then he’d have to be tied up. I went to the window and looked down. If we tied him to the porch rail, he could get shade if it was hot and shelter when it rained. With a long rope, he could go in a sort of semicircle down to the gate. But it would still be awful for him. Awful. Cruel to chain a dog up like that. I wanted to cry.

From here I could see over the slant of our back porch roof. I stared down into Peachie’s yard. There was the barn with its half door closed. The Sultan would be inside, being careful not to put his weight on his poor sore leg. “Bad dog,” I told Riley, and then hugged him hard because I felt so sorry for him, too, sorry for all of us. “Stay!” I told him. I closed him in and went down the corridor to Grandpa’s room.

As soon as I opened the door, my heart began to pump. My chest was suffocating me. I sat on the edge of Grandpa’s bed and looked down at my feet in my dirty socks. It was so stuffy in here. Stuffy, as if the room had died, too. “Grandpa,” I whispered. “I miss you. If you were here, you’d help. You always gave me good advice.”

I was still sitting there when I heard Dad’s car in the driveway. I know the sound of his car by heart. Twice in one week, I thought. We’re honored. And then I thought, what if he’s brought horrible Phoebe, and I ran to the window. He was by himself.

I left Riley closed up in my room and went to my eavesdropping corner of the stairs.

“So, what is this big problem he’s had with the dog?” Dad asked Mom.

I listened as she told him.

“Humm!” Dad was considering. I imagined him sitting at the table, head tilted, that interested look on his face. Dad could really pay attention when he wanted to. “Well, the dog has to go back,” he said at last. “You don’t want a lawsuit. And believe me, Peachie may be a good friend, but she’s not going to put up with this sort of thing.”

“I know. We could try obedience training or …” Mom paused. “Is there such a thing as a dog psychiatrist?” Mom asked. “I’d pay for it. I wouldn’t care. William already loves this dog so much. You know, with his grandpa dying … that was such a blow for him. And then not having you around….”

“Give me a break, Dorothy.” I could feel his anger. “It’s been three years.”

I slithered back to my room.

Riley wagged his tail, happy to see me.

My window was closed, and I opened it and leaned out, letting the nice cool air fan my skin. The sun was going down and the sky was striped pink. When it looks like that, it reminds me of streaky bacon, only prettier. The Sultan’s head was poking out over the half door of his barn, and I waved to him to show how friendly I was. Riley came and put his paws on the windowsill beside me.

“I expect Dad will come up here any minute,” I said. “Probably he won’t tell us about Phoebe today because … Well, in the first place he’s probably chicken, and then there’s the problem with you. ‘Problem!’ That’s what he called it. More like a … prank. Yeah, you were having fun and it changed into something else. I’ll explain.”

I turned to look at Riley, to check that he was listening, and suddenly there was this frantic scramble beside me, the force of a big body shoving me to the side, back claws scraping on my windowsill, a jump and he was on the roof of the back porch, another jump and he was off the roof and onto the gravel driveway.

“Riley!” I screamed. “NO!” Because I knew right away where he was headed. “Peachie!” I screamed. “Help!”

I saw him jump the fence, fly over it, and I rushed for my door, half falling down the stairs, screaming, “Mom! Mom! Riley’s out!”

Their shocked faces shimmered in front of me, and then I was running past them, hearing them behind me. I couldn’t jump the fence, no way. I raced like mad down the driveway, through the open gate, hearing the Sultan’s loud, terrified whinny,
remembering that half door to the barn. Riley could clear it easily. Now I was at Peachie’s gate, Mom and Dad at my heels, and I stopped.

Peachie stood in front of the barn door, her arms outstretched, and Riley was crouched in front of her, not threatening at all, kind of friendly looking, his tail wagging, watching her.

“Go home!” Peachie screamed. “Get away!”

But Riley still stood, hopeful, as if waiting for a treat. I ran as fast as I could and grabbed his collar, and Mom was saying, “Oh, Peachie, are you all right? Oh, Peachie!” and Dad was shouting at Riley, “Scat! Scat! William! Get him out of here.”

I had his collar. He didn’t want to come, but I tugged him away. His paws took him forward with me, but his head kept turning back.

I pulled him into the house and back up to my room, closed the window and bolted it, then closed the bedroom door. It was about five minutes before Mom and Dad came back, Dad with his arm around Mom’s shoulders and her leaning against him, which is a sight that would have cheered me at any other time.

“Sit down, Dorothy,” Dad said gently. “I’ll make you some tea. Do you still take sugar? Do you still
keep it in the same place?”

The kitchen was filled with the nasty smell of burning lasagna.

“Mom?” I said. “Riley was trying to be friendly. He’s not out to get the Sultan. He likes him. Don’t you see? He was wagging his tail.”

We watched in silence as Dad made the tea—heated the pot, got out the good china cups with the forget-me-nots on them, put the tea cozy on the pot.

“Have to let it draw, right?” he asked Mom with a faint smile. “I remember.”

“You were the one who taught me,” Mom said in a tight, teary voice.

The doorbell rang.

“Oh, no!” Mom said, all panicky. “It’s Peachie.”

“It’s not,” Dad said. “It’s okay, Dorothy. Peachie’s not going to come over here. Relax.”

“Maybe it’s Grace,” I said, like Grace ever comes to the front door or rings the bell.

Dad smoothed his hair and went to open the door.

He was right. It wasn’t Peachie. And it wasn’t Grace either.

I
Looked past Dad to the man and woman standing on the porch. They were in uniform—brown pants and lighter brown shirts. I knew the woman, and I felt like reaching out and slamming the door so the two of them couldn’t get in. The woman’s name was Mrs. Zemach, Officer Zemach, I guess. Her daughter Yvonne goes to our school. Grace says Yvonne picks her nose, but I’ve never seen her do it. Officer Zemach came to school to speak to us on Career Day. She wore the same uniform then. Mrs. Zemach is an animal-control officer.