Dogs (17 page)

Monday morning, Mom drives me to school. I'm totally messed up about Cody spying on me, but mainly about how to break the news to Dad that we can't talk anymore. I don't want to hurt his feelings, what with him so excited, but sneaking around on Mom isn't right. How do I let him down gently?

At lunchtime, I take my phone and calling card into the guidance conference room and dial his number.

Two rings and he picks up. “Buddy?”

“Yeah.”

“I've practically sat on this phone since Friday. If it was an egg, it would've hatched.”

I try to laugh, but it sticks in my throat.

“What's up, Buddy?”

“Well…Dad…there's a couple of things on my mind…”

“Such as?”

“Such as…Dad, you know I've missed you, right?”

“Right. I've missed you too.”

“And it's really meant a lot to talk to you. You've been great. And I wish we could talk more. We will…”

Dad's voice clouds over. “I hear a pretty big ‘but' coming up.”

“Yeah. See, the thing is, right now isn't such a great time for us to be talking.”

“Says who?”

“Me, I guess. We need to take a break.”

Silence.

“Dad? Dad, are you there?”

“I'm here,” he says quietly.

“Good. Anyway, Dad, I want you to know it's nothing you've done. It's me. I feel weird going behind Mom's back.”

“So your mother's the reason. I knew it. Don't let her push you around, Buddy. She does that. She makes people do things they regret.”

“No. It's not Mom. The sneaking just makes me feel creepy. In a few years, when I'm on my own, calling again would be great. Seeing you would be even better.”

“But for now,” Dad says, all cold, “it's just toss your dad off a cliff. Is that what I'm hearing? Because that's what it sounds like. You want to kick me into the ditch because you don't have the balls to stand up for yourself. To say, ‘Mom, I have a dad. I want to see him.'”

“No! It's not like that!”

“Sure it is, Buddy. She has you wrapped around her little finger.”

“She doesn't. There's other things, lots of other things. I'm really confused right now. I need space.”

“Space from your dad? I'm your friend, Buddy. You have a problem, you tell me and I'll help.”

“You can't. Remember that Cody guy at my school?”

“What did he do this time?”

“Him and his gang—I think they're spying on me. I'm not positive, but it sure feels like it.”

“That's serious,” Dad says slowly. “Do you have a dog? Maybe a dog pack?”

“A dog pack?” My stomach churns.

“They'd bark if there were strangers around.”

“Why are you talking about dog packs?”

“Settle down, Buddy. It was advice, that's all. You know how your mother talks about me? I'm actually surprised she doesn't have a pack of dogs to keep me away.”

I start to sweat. Dad knows things. I don't know how, but he does. I have to do something.
“
Actually, Mom
did
get us a dog,” I lie. “A guard dog. He's vicious with strangers. Like, if anybody came around, he'd tear them apart.”

“Oh?” Dad sounds amused. “What's his name?”

“Rex. He's a Rottweiler.”

“You sure about that?”

“Of course I'm sure. He's my dog.”

“They let dogs in your building?”

“Yes.” My heart races. “Up to two. Mom says we should maybe get another to keep him company.”

“So you live in a building, not a house.”

“Y-yes,” I stammer.

“Strange your dog doesn't bark when Cody's around. Sounds like a useless guard dog.”

“We trained him to be quiet. We also have neighbors who watch out for us.”

Dad chuckles.

“What's so funny?”

“You are. You sound so serious.”

“I
am
serious. Anyway, like I said, I can't call anymore.”

“You mean, you
won't
,” Dad says.

“Right. Look, I have to go.”

“Well, Buddy, you have to do what you have to do. So do I.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I said.” His voice is low. “I don't have much to live for without my Buddy.”

Oh no, is he going to kill himself? “Dad, don't be like that. I said I'd call when I'm older.”

“Right.”

“Dad, promise you won't do something stupid.”

“We all do stupid things, Buddy, things that can't be fixed. Things like running away and breaking up a family. Things like lying to the people who love us.”

“Dad—”

“Say good-bye, son. Don't worry. We'll talk again. I'm just a phone call away.”

The line goes dead.

I leave guidance without eating lunch. The halls are packed with people heading to afternoon classes. I stop for a drink at the fountain. When I straighten up, I practically walk into Cody.

“Boo.”

I jump back.

“You spooked, Dog Boy? Only brave when you're stalking old women.”

I look him in the eye. “I know what you're doing, Cody.”

“What's that?” Cody smirks.

“Hiding in the barn. Spying on me.”

“Have you gone wacko?”

“Stay off our property. I'm warning you. We're getting dogs. Guard dogs.”

“Like that crazy farmer?” Cody taunts. “Oooh, I am, like, so scared.”

“Screw you.”

Cody's eyes narrow. “What did you say?”

“Boys?” It's Ms. Adams. “Get going. You'll be late for class.”

Cody gives me the finger and slouches away. I take off in the opposite direction.

Somehow I make it to the end of the day without throwing up. I wait for Mom in the office. Why are office benches so hard? To make kids uncomfortable before they see the VP? I don't care so much these days. The weather's been so cold I've been wearing my winter coat.

“Cameron, five o'clock,” the head secretary says. “We're closing up. Can you let your mother know?”

“Sure.”

I text her:
School closed. Come get me?

She texts back:
Right away.

The custodian lets me stand in the foyer till he goes to the back of the school to wash the gym floor, then he locks me outside. After all, can't leave a loony alone in the halls.

The sun's down, and it's starting to snow. The parking lot's empty, except for the custodian's Corolla. I think about Cody. His gang.
Where's Mom?

The wind whips up. The snow stings my cheeks. Enough of this crap.

I send Mom another text:
I'm outside freezing. Where are you?

She gets back right away:
Sorry. Held up. Ken's on his way.

The next five minutes feels like forever. At last I see Ken's car. Whew. He stops at the side of the road. I jog out. He rolls down his window. Only it's not Ken.

“Hi, Buddy.”

“Dad.”

Dad smiles. “Hop in.”

“Dad, what are you doing here?”

“Why, I've been at the motel next door since Saturday morning. Drove nonstop since our call on Friday. The room's not bad, but the coffee's crap.”

I start to shake. “And Ken—what are you doing in Ken's car?”

“Ken? Don't I even get a ‘Hi' first? You hurt my feelings.”

“Okay, hi. So where's Ken?”

“Hop in and I'll tell you.”

I think about running back to the school. For what? The doors are locked. Everyone's gone except the custodian, off in the gym.

Dad keeps smiling, but his voice is stone cold. “I said, ‘Hop in,' Cameron.”

I step back from the car, stick my hand in my pocket, and fumble for my phone.

I speed-dial Mom.

There's a ring in Dad's jacket pocket. He pulls out Mom's phone and talks into it. “Hello, Cameron? Is that you? I'm afraid your mom can't come to the phone right now. She's held up. Remember?”

I stand there frozen.

Dad flips the phone shut. “If you want to see your mother again, Buddy, give me your phone and get in the car.”

My brain jams. I can't think. I hand Dad my phone and get in the car, like he's a zombie puppet master.
Is
this
real? Am I breathing?

“That's my boy,” Dad says, all friendly again. “You should unzip that coat. I've got the heat up.”

I unzip my coat. “Mom.” I can hardly get the words out. “Where's Mom? Ken?”

“Why do you care about Lover Boy?”

“Tell me.”

“Fine,” Dad sighs, disappointed. “Your mom's at the farmhouse. She's had a nasty tumble into the basement, but she's all right. You know the coal room? She's locked in there for her own good. You know how she likes to run. After a fall, that wouldn't be good.”

Silence. Dad starts to drive. He's heading to the farm. I feel sick.

Dad sings, “I had a dog, his name was Rover.” Only Dad sings “Rex.” “You lied to me, Buddy. About the dog, the apartment building. You think I can't tell when you're lying? When your mother was lying?”

“Ken,” I blurt out. “Where's Ken? What did you do to him? Why won't you say?”

Dad grips the wheel like he used to squeeze my arm. “As a matter of fact, Lover Boy is in the trunk,” he says, super controlled. “Don't you remember anything? I texted:
Ken's on his way.
And he was. I've never lied to you. You and your mom, you've lied to me, but I've never lied to you.”

Dad turns on the windshield wipers to brush back the snow.

“How did you find us?”

“There are lots of ways to find people, Buddy. No one can hide forever, not if someone wants to find them hard enough. You and your mom, you've been my hobby. You're all I've thought about. Your mom, she took everything from me. I lost my job, my savings, you. Finding you is all that's kept me going.”

“But how did you find us this time?”

“Well, that's an interesting story.” He settles back into his car seat. “I've had a Google alert on your name from the beginning. Every so often I thought I was wasting my time. Do you have any idea how many Cameron Weavers there are? How many have wedding and birth announcements, obituaries, and awards that get mentioned in local papers? No wonder your mom never changed your name. But I kept at it. Like I said, I've had time. And a couple of weeks ago it paid off.”

“Huh? I wasn't in the papers.”

“Maybe not, but you sure ticked off some kids at your school. Imagine my surprise when my Google alert spits out your name at this new blog: “Cameron Weaver Is a Dickhead.” It's got photos too, and a comment section. This Cody Murphy, did you really stalk his great-granny? Like father, like son, huh?” He chuckles. “Someone said you deserved to be ripped apart by dogs, like the guy who used to live at your place. Kids can be cruel, huh?”

Oh my God. If I hadn't gone to the nursing home, none of this would be happening.
Mom, Ken, I'm sorry.

“I don't get the feeling this Cody kid is all that bright, but I guess it doesn't take much to put up a blog these days. Just energy or hate. Me, I have energy; I never hate. But your mom—not a word against her, but hate's her middle name.” He reaches over to Ken's iPod dock. “Want some music?”

“No,” I whisper.

“Suit yourself.” Dad turns up the windshield wipers. “You know, at first I wasn't sure that Cameron Weaver the Dickhead was you. I thought I might be heading off on a wild-goose chase, almost didn't come. I mean, this place is the farside of nowhere. But then you phoned. It was like a sign from God. I took a chance and mentioned the name Cody. The way you reacted, well, I knew I'd hit the jackpot.”

My
fault. This is all my fault.
I can't see for all the snow in the headlights. Or is it my eyes filling? “How did you get Mom and Ken? You would've had to fight.”

“Buddy, I never fight. I defend myself—that's different.” He pauses. “To answer your question, I watched your mom drop you off this morning from the motel parking lot. I followed her to that real estate office, saw Lover Boy going in and out. I googled the office, sent him an email, said I was new in town, staying at the motel, and could he show me some properties. Sure enough, he picked me up. I got in the car and, well, he didn't say much when I showed him my gun.”

A
gun. Dad has a gun.

“I had Lover Boy drive to a country lane,” Dad continues, “then I hog-tied him in the trunk. He kicked around a bit, but a whack to the head knocked some sense into him. Back in town, I parked by the rear door to the office. There was no one inside but your mom. When I said I had you, she did what I wanted, meek as a lamb. So sweet. Reminded me of when we met.”

“You said you had me? So you
do
lie.”

“Buddy, why so harsh? I didn't have you then, but I have you now, don't I? I was just off by an hour.”

I see our farmhouse in the distance.

“You were in the barn, weren't you? Why didn't you get us Saturday night?”

“I'm not stupid, Buddy. You're on one floor, your mom and Lover Boy are on another; you all have phones. Come on, give me some credit.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

“Your mom's always made me do things I don't want to do. She'll never come back to me. And she won't let me have you. It isn't fair, is it? So what can I do? I don't have a choice.”

I'm too scared to shake. “You're going to kill us?”

“A family needs to be together, Buddy. Lover Boy needs to pay. Once he pays, it'll be just the three of us.”

Our farm's getting closer. I see the entrance to our lane.

Dad gets this sick smile. “Your mom will be crying, begging, no question. She's always tried to make me feel bad. Always tried to shift the blame.”

“Leave Mom alone. I won't see you hurt Mom.”

“Don't worry. I don't think a boy should see his mom die either. It isn't right. So instead I'll have you stand in front of her, and after you've said your good-byes, I'll make her watch what she's done. Then your mom and I will have a final talk. It may be painful—she always made it painful—but once it's over we'll be together forever.”