was the little boy who had burned up in his bed when a bad electrical
connection had thrown a spark, and who now slept on Poulter Hill under a stone
that read Our Loving Son.
“Carl, don’t go!” I shouted.
He glanced back. I caught the white blur of his face, his eyes scared and
glittering with trapped moonlight. I don’t think he ever got to the edge of
the woods. He was just not there anymore.
Rebel began to whine and circle in his pen, the withered leg dragging. He
looked toward the forest, and I could not help but see his longing. I stood at
the pen’s gate. The latch was next to my hand.
He was my dog. My dog.
The back porch light came on. Dad, his eyes squinty from sleep, demanded,
“What’s all this hollerin’ about, Cory?”
I had to make up a story about hearing something rummaging around the
garbage cans. I couldn’t use Lucifer as an excuse, as the second week of
October Lucifer had been shotgunned to nasty pieces by Gabriel “Jazzman”
Jackson, who’d caught the monkey ravaging his wife’s pumpkin patch. I said I
thought it might have been a possum.
At breakfast I didn’t feel like eating. The ham sandwich in my Clutch
Cargo lunchbox remained untouched. At dinner I picked at my hamburger steak.
Mom put her hand against my forehead. “You don’t have a fever,” she said, “but
you do look kind of peaked.” This was pronounced peak-ed, and was Southern for
“sick.” “How do you feel?”
“All right.” I shrugged. “I guess.”
“Everythin’ okay at school?” Dad inquired.
“Yes sir.”
“Those Branlins aren’t botherin’ you anymore, are they?”
“No sir.”
“But somethin’ else is?” Mom asked.
I was silent. They could read me like a fifty-foot SEE ROCK CITY sign.
“Want to talk about it, then?”
“I…” I looked up at them in the comforting kitchen light. Beyond the
windows, the land was dark. A wind sniffed around the eaves, and tonight
clouds covered the moon. “I did wrong,” I said, and before I could stop them
tears came into my eyes. I began to tell my parents how much I regretted
praying Death away from Rebel. I had done wrong, because Rebel had been so
badly hurt he should’ve been allowed to die. I wished I hadn’t prayed. I
wished I could remember Rebel as he had been, bright-eyed and alert, before he
had become a dead body living on the sheer power of my selfishness. I wished,
I wished; but I had done wrong, and I was ashamed.
Dad’s fingers turned his coffee cup around and around. It helped him sort
things out, when there were many things to be considered. “I understand,” he
said, and two words were never more welcome. “You know, no mistake in the
world can’t be fixed. All it takes is wantin’ to fix it. Sometimes it’s hard,
though. Sometimes it hurts to fix a mistake, but you have to do it no matter
what.” His eyes rested on me. “You know what ought to be done, don’t you?”
I nodded. “Take Rebel back to Dr. Lezander.”
“I think so,” Dad said.
We were going to do it the next day. Later that night, as my bedtime
approached, I took a piece of hamburger steak out for Rebel. It was a real
dog’s treat. I hoped he might eat it, but he smelled it and then just stared
at the woods again as if waiting for someone to come for him.
I was no longer his master.
I sat beside him as the chill wind moved around us. Rebel made little
whining noises deep in his throat. He let me pat him, but he was somewhere
else. I remembered him as a puppy, full of boundless energy, enthralled by a
yellow ball with a little bell in it. I remembered the times we had raced each
other, and like a true Southern gentleman he had always let me win. I
remembered when we flew, over the hills of summer. Even if that had only been
in my imagination, it was truer than true. I cried some. More than some.
I stood up, and I turned toward the woods. I said, “Are you there, Carl?”
He didn’t answer, of course. He had always been a shy little boy.
“I’m givin’ Rebel to you, Carl,” I said. “Okay?”
No answer. But he was there. I knew he was.
“Will you come get him, Carl? I don’t want him to be alone very long.”
Just silence. Just the silence, listening.
“He likes to have his ears scratched,” I said. “Carl?” I called. “You’re
not burned up anymore, are you? Will Rebel… be like he used to be?”
The wind was speaking. Only that and nothing more.
“I’m goin’ inside now,” I said. “I won’t come back out.” I looked at
Rebel. His attention was fixed on the woods, and his tail wagged the slightest
bit. I walked into the house, shut the door, and turned off the back porch
light.
Long past midnight, I awakened to the sound of Rebel’s happy bark. I knew
what I would see if I went to the back door. It was best they get to know each
other without me butting in. I turned over, and I went back to sleep.
The next afternoon, at Dr. Lezander’s, Dad and the doctor left me alone
while I said good-bye to Rebel. He licked me with his cold tongue. I stroked
his misshapen head and patted him for a while, and then it was time. Dr.
Lezander had the form ready, and Dad held the pen poised for my final word.
“Dad?” I said. “He’s my dog, isn’t he?”
My father understood. “Yes, he sure is,” he answered, and he gave the pen
to me.
We left the form that said Case #3432 with Dr. Lezander, my name signed
on the dotted line. When we got home again, I walked around in Rebel’s pen. It
seemed so very small. I left the gate open when I went out.
6
Dead Man Driving
TOWARD THE END OF OCTOBER, DAD BOUGHT A WIRE BASKET FOR me to put on Rocket.
At first I thought it was pretty cool, until I realized that now I would be
expected to run all sorts of errands for Mom. It was about this time that she
put up a hand-lettered sign on the bulletin-board at church, announcing that
she was selling pies and other baked goods. A similar sign went up in the
barbershop. A few orders began to come in, and soon Mom was elbow-deep in
floury mixing bowls, eggshells, and boxes of powdered sugar.
The reason for this, I later learned, was that Dad’s hours had been cut
back at the dairy. We were hurting for money, though I never would’ve known
it. There was simply less work for Dad to do at Green Meadows. Some of the
dairy’s oldest customers had canceled their orders. It was because of the new
supermarket in Union Town, which had recently opened its doors to the fanfare
of the Adams Valley High School marching band. The supermarket, called Big
Paul’s Pantry, could’ve swallowed our own little Piggly-Wiggly like a whale
swallows a shrimp. It had a section, it seemed, for everything under a fat
man’s chin. The milk section alone was a whole aisle, and all the milk was in
opaque plastic jugs that didn’t have to be rinsed out and returned. And
because Big Paul stocked so much milk, he could afford to sell it at prices
that knocked the stuffing out of Green Meadows Dairy. So it came to pass that
Dad’s milk route became progressively shorter, if such a thing can be called
progress. People liked the newness of going into a clean, air-conditioned
supermarket and buying their milk in plastic jugs and then throwing those jugs
away without a second thought. Not only that, but Big Paul’s Pantry stayed
open until eight o’clock at night, which was unheard of.
Putting a basket on Rocket was like saddling Seabiscuit with mailbags.
But I did my duty, carrying pies and cakes around to people in the afternoons,
and Rocket stiffened up from time to time in protest but never dropped one
item.
To show thanks to the Lezanders for being so kind to Rebel, Mom decided
to make a pumpkin pie—her best seller—for them free of charge. She put the pie
in a box, tied it up with twine, and I slid the box into Rocket’s basket and
pedaled for Dr. Lezander’s house. On the way, I passed Gotha and Gordo Branlin
on their black bikes. Gotha acknowledged me with a slight lift of his chin,
but Gordo—still wearing bandages that covered oozing sores—sped away like blue
blazes. I got to Dr. Lezander’s house and knocked on the back door, and in a
minute Mrs. Lezander answered.
“Mom baked you and the doctor a pie,” I said, offering her the box. “It’s
pumpkin.”
“Oh, how very nice.” She took it and sniffed around the lid. “Oh dear,”
she said. “Does this have cream in it?”
“Evaporated milk, I think.” I should know. The kitchen was teeming with
Pet Milk cans. “My mom made it this mornin’.”
“It’s very thoughtful of your mother, Cory, but I’m afraid neither of us
can eat cream. We’re both allergic to anything from a cow.” She smiled.
“That’s how we met, all red and blotched at a clinic in Rotterdam.”
“Oh. Gosh. Well, maybe you can give it to somebody else, then. It’s a
real good pie.”
“I’m sure it’s a wonderful pie.” Vunderful, she’d said. “But if I even
kept it in the house, Frans would get into it like a little mouse around
midnight. He has the sweet tooth, you know. Then in two days he would look
like he had the measles and he would itch so much he couldn’t wear clothes.
So, better not to even let Frans smell it, or he’d be walking around like
Vernon Thaxter, yes?”
I laughed at that image. “Yes, ma’am.” I took the pie back. “Maybe Mom
can make you somethin’ else, then.”
“It’s not necessary. Just the thought is kind enough.”
I paused at the door, wondering if I should mention something that had
been on my mind lately.
“Yes?” Mrs. Lezander prodded.
“Can I see the doctor? I’d like to talk to him for a minute.”
“He’s taking a nap right now. He stayed up all night listening to his
radio shows.”
“His radio shows?”
“Yes, he’s got one of those shortwave radios. Sometimes he stays up until
dawn listening to the foreign countries. May I give him a message?”
“Uh… I’ll just talk to him later.” What I wanted to ask was if he needed
some help in the afternoons. After watching Dr. Lezander at work, it seemed to
me that being a veterinarian was a pretty important job. I could be a
veterinarian and a writer at the same time. The world would always need
veterinarians, just like it would always need milkmen. “I’ll come back some
other time,” I said, and I returned the pumpkin pie to Rocket’s basket and
headed for home.
I pedaled leisurely. Rocket acted a little nervous, but I took that to be
his dissatisfaction with the basket, like a greyhound with a leash. The sun
was warm and the hills were blazing yellow. A week from now the leaves would
be brown and tumbling. It was one of those beautiful afternoons when even the
blue shadows are lovely, and you know instinctively to slow down and enjoy
things because they cannot and will not last.
I grinned, thinking of Dr. Lezander walking around as naked as Vernon
Thaxter. That would be a sight, wouldn’t it? I’d heard of people being
allergic to grass, dogs and cats, ragweed, tobacco and dandelions. Grand
Austin was allergic to horses; they made him sneeze until he could hardly
stand, which was why he’d stopped going to the Brandywine Carnival when it
came through town every November. Grandmomma Sarah said the Jaybird was
allergic to work. I supposed people could be allergic to everything under and
including the sun. Just think! Neither of the Lezanders could eat ice cream.
They couldn’t eat banana pudding, or drink a glass of vanilla milk. If I
couldn’t have any of those things, I’d go just as crazy as—
Vernon came to mind.
Vernon, standing in that room with the trains circling little Zephyr.
You know what I believe?
I remembered the lights off, the windows of the tiny houses glowing.
I believe if you find a night owl who doesn’t drink milk, you’ve got your
killer.
I hit the brake. The suddenness of it surprised even Rocket. The bike
skidded to a stop.
He stayed up all night listening to his radio shows, Mrs. Lezander had
said.
I swallowed hard. I might’ve had a Pet Milk can wedged in my throat.
Sometimes he stays up until dawn listening to the foreign countries.
“Oh no,” I whispered. “Oh no, it can’t be Dr. Le—”
A car pulled up beside me, so close it almost skinned my leg, and then it
swerved to block my way. It was a dark blue, low-slung Chevy, its right rear
side smashed in and rust splotched across it like dead poison ivy leaves. A
white rabbit’s head on a black square hung from the rearview mirror. The
Chevy’s engine boomed and popped under the hood, and the whole car trembled
with pent-up power. “Hey, boy!” the man behind the wheel said through the
rolled-down window. The wheel was covered with blue fur. “You’re that little
Mackenson shit!”
His voice was slurred, the lids of his red eyes at half mast. Donny
Blaylock was three sheets to an ill wind. His face was as craggy as rough-cut
rock, a greasy comma hanging down from his dark, slick brilliantined hair. “I
’member you,” he said. “Sim’s house. Little fucker.”
I felt Rocket shiver. The bike suddenly darted forward and banged into
the Chevy, like a terrier attacking a Doberman.
“Been seein’ things you shouldn’t oughta see,” Donny went on. “Been
causin’ us some trouble, ain’t you?”
“No sir,” I said. Rocket backed up and banged into the Chevy again.
“Oh, yes you have. Biggun’s gonna be glad to see you, boy. Gonna have a
talk with you ’bout them big eyes and that big ol’ mouth of yours. Get in.”
If my heart had been pounding any harder, it would’ve pulled up its root
and burst right out of my chest.
“I said, get in. Now.” He raised his right hand.
It gripped a pistol, and the pistol was aimed at me.
Once again Rocket attacked the car. Rocket had saved me from Gordo
Branlin, but against this dirty rat and his gun, Rocket was powerless.
“Shoot your fuckin’ head off in two seconds,” Donny vowed.
I was scared half to death, and the other half was terrified. That gun’s
barrel looked as big as a cannon. It made a convincing argument. In my mind I
could hear Mom screaming as I left Rocket and got into the car, but what
choice did I have? “Goin’ for a ride,” Donny said, and he leaned across me—all
