Dogs (9 page)

Everyone has secrets, like Mr. Sinclair said. Mom, Dad, me. What are Mr. Sinclair's secrets? And Jacky's? Back at the house I ask Jacky, “Why didn't your mother take you with her like Mom took me?”

I know he's listening. I can feel him all around, peeking at me from behind furniture, hiding in closets, under the bed, but he won't come out. Is he playing a game? What's his story?

I take out his drawings and look for clues I might have missed the first time. There's a black shape in some of the drawings. Is it a hole or a cave or the coal room? Maybe it's just a scribble. And what about the picture of his mother on the ground? Is she sleeping? Dead? There are things in the drawings that could give me nightmares too—ordinary things like his father's shovel, ax, and pitchfork.

As I stare at the pictures, the room disappears. I feel the present in the past, the past in the present. Jacky walked on these floorboards, touched these doorknobs and handrails like I do. He used the same sink, bathtub, and desk. Jacky's everywhere. He's in the air I breathe.

I imagine him moving around up here and find myself in the big room over the kitchen, staring up at the trapdoor to the attic. Why is it sealed shut? I could chisel away the caked paint and claw out the nails, but I'd make a mess. Mom would freak.
What's in the attic, Jacky? What's its secret?

“Cameron?” Mom's voice is coming from the kitchen.

“I'm upstairs,” I call down in a super cheery voice.
How
long
has
Mom
been
home? Did she hear me talking to mysel
f
?

“I've got us pizza,” Mom calls back, in a super cheery voice of her own. “Double cheese, pepperoni, and mushroom. It just needs a minute in the microwave.”

If Mom heard me, she's pretending she didn't. Good. Let's pretend together.

“Great. Thanks. I'll be right down.”

Mom smiles as I sit down at the table. “How was your day?” You'd never guess we had a fight last night. Mom doesn't forget fights, but she's good at packing them away. They're like Christmas decorations—hidden from view but easily pulled from storage.

“My day? Pretty good.” I pick up a slice of pizza. “I did a lot of homework.”

“Good.” Mom pauses. “Would you like to come into town with me tomorrow?”

“Huh?”

“After two days here alone, you must be getting a bit stir-crazy.”

“What would I do?”

“There's a library, a recreation center. Or don't come. Stay here and be bored. It's up to you.”

“No, it could be good.” It could be too.

The rest of dinner is okay. We stick to safe topics, like where we'll meet up for lunch. Luckily the high school's on the country side of the bridge, so it's not like any of the guys will see us.

“By the way, I didn't forget about your project,” Mom says when we finish eating. She brings me a thick package from the counter. “The sales history of the farm.”

“Thanks.”

“Ken's the one you should thank. He says if you need anything else, just ask.”

I give her a look. “Didn't we talk about me and
Ken
?”

“I told him about your project
before
our conversation. He said he was going to the registry office today and could check about the farm while he was there.”

“Fine. Just so I don't owe him anything.”

“You don't, except a thank-you.”

“I don't want
you
to owe him anything either.”

“Cameron.” Mom sighs. “Sometimes people do favors without wanting anything. It's called being nice.”

Mom's pretty smart, but she sure doesn't know guys.

I take the package upstairs, sit cross-legged on my bed, and empty it. There's tons of stuff. No way this is a “no big deal” favor. This is a “Hey, Katherine, see what a great guy I am, getting all this stuff for your son? How about dinner?” favor.

There's a note from C.B. on company stationery that has his picture at the top. I take a pen, black out a couple of teeth, and give him a unibrow.

Hey Cameron,

Heard about your history project. Glad to help.

I asked Arlene Cooper at the registry office to print out some survey maps, the sales history, and the yearly tax statements. Most farms around here are passed down to sons, so the tax statements are actually more useful than the sales history for knowing who owned the place.

Your mother says you're especially interested if there was ever a murder or suicide on your farm. Wish I could say yes to juice up your essay, but nothing came up. There was once a farmer who was killed by his dogs though. Maybe that's just as good?

Let me know if you have any other questions. Also, let me know if you'd like to toss a baseball, shoot some hoops.

Ken

Toss
a
baseball? Shoot some hoops? Gag me.

The most important thing is, C.B. says there wasn't a murder. So what happened to Jacky? If he didn't leave with his mom, wouldn't he have been found after the dogs killed his father?

I look at the maps. Interesting. The one of the county in 1825 shows the rail line that used to run through Wolf Hollow. The 1838 township survey has half the area as woods.

The sheaf of tax assessments underneath is an inch thick. I almost fall asleep just looking at it. I toss it aside and glance at the one-page summary of the farm's sales history.

Weird. The first owner, Silas Henning, bought the farm in 1839. It stayed in his family till 1924, when it was sold to Henry McTavish. And that's it. The farm was never sold again.
That
can't be right. What about the sale to the Sinclairs?

I grab the tax assessments. The name Henry McTavish changes to Frank McTavish in 1952. That would be when Jacky's father took over. Mr. McTavish's name is on the assessments up to this year.

That means Mr. Sinclair doesn't own the farm. It's still owned by Jacky's father. A dead man. What's Mr. Sinclair hiding—about the farm, about Jacky, about everything?

I show Mom that Mr. McTavish still owns the farm.

“My, that's curious, isn't it?” She tries not to smile. “I'm not a real estate agent, so I'm afraid I don't have an answer to the mystery, but I know someone who
is
a real estate agent, and I'm sure he'd love to clear it up for you.”

Nice
one, Mom.

But she's right. C.B.
is
the one I need to talk to. Damn.

Next morning, the sun has a harder time getting up than I do. As we drive to town, fog drifts across the harvested fields.

We slow down as we near the school; a couple of buses are turning into the parking lot. I slide low in my seat so no one will see me. A few seconds later, we're driving past the motel where we stayed our first night and over the old iron bridge into town.

I look down at the river ravine running under the bridge—the hollow in Wolf Hollow. The heaviest part of the fog is settling in the gully. It's like we're driving over clouds. I imagine the old days, with wolves coming up through the mist.

After the bridge, the highway turns into the main drag, a.k.a. Main Street. There's only maybe ten streets that cut across and seven or eight that run parallel on either side. We pass a soft ice-cream drive-through that's closed till spring, a tiny strip mall with a burger joint, 7-Eleven, a gas station, and the post office. After that, a bunch of two-story buildings, with stores and restaurants on the main floor and people living above: the Knotty Pine Inn; Mindy's Fine Dining; Walker's Ladies' and Men's Apparel, with clothes for people who apparently lived a century ago; the Shamrock Bar, with shuttered windows; Lucille's Nail Emporium; Lucky Laundromat; two drugstores; and Wolf Hollow's one and only movie theater, the Capital, which only has two screens.

In the middle of Main Street, things get respectable again with the town hall, the registry office, the police station, the library, and the
Weekly
Bugle
offices. Then there's a house covered in shingles with painted wooden butterflies nailed on the walls and a homemade sign that says Kelly's Krafts; Huntley Memorials with a front yard covered in tombstones; and another small strip mall, home to a dollar store, Minnie's Mini-Mart, and Ken Armstrong Realty. Finally, a gas station for anyone who forgot to fill up at the other end of town, and then back to farms.

We pull up in front of the agency at eight thirty. C.B. hasn't arrived.

“Not to worry, he'll be here any minute,” Mom says. “Then you can solve your mystery, have your swim at the rec center, and meet me here at noon for lunch. The Knotty Pine Inn has great fries. And homemade fruit pies. You'll love it.”

I sling my backpack over my shoulder and follow Mom inside, where I leave C.B.'s package on her desk. Then I go back out and pass the time looking at the pictures of homes for sale in the front window, all of them better than our place.

I hear an electric drill at Huntley Memorials. Through the fog I see a stumpy, middle-aged man in overalls, work boots, goggles, and a baseball cap engraving a granite stone resting on a picnic table. A long, orange extension cord runs from his chisel into a cinder-block garage.

I walk over for a look-see. The guy has the roughest hands I've ever seen. Scraggy hair sticks out from under his cap and runs down the back of his neck. He turns off his chisel and looks up. “Can I help you?”

“Not really. I'm just waiting for Mr. Armstrong. Uh, Ken Armstrong Realty? My mom works for him. I saw you working and, well, I've never seen anybody carving a gravestone.”

“Oh.”

The way he says it, I'm not sure if I'm supposed to leave or say something else. I nod at the stone. “Did that guy just die?”

“Month ago.”

“Oh.” Awkward pause. “Was he a friend?”
Did
I
just
say
that? What's wrong with me?

“No. Why?”

“No reason.”
Leave. Leave now
. “So, like, what happens if you spell a name wrong?”

“I don't. Anything else?”

Suddenly I have a brainstorm. Mr. McTavish got his dogs right after his wife disappeared; they killed him a few months after. If I know when he died, I can figure the in-between time when Cody's great-grandmother accused him of murder and check what she said at the
Bugle
.

I clear my throat. “Does your family do all the gravestones around here?”

“Pretty much.” He tosses his chin at his sign: Huntley Memorials. Established 1926.

“So your family would've done the stone for Frank McTavish?”

The man pauses. “Who?”

“He was the farmer who got ripped apart by his dogs, sometime in the sixties.”

“Oh, that guy.”

“Yeah. I need the date he died. It'd be on his stone, right?”

“Sure, but you're talking fifty years ago. We don't keep records back that far. And we sure don't keep track of inscriptions.”

Why
not? What's the matter with you?

The guy leans over the stone and gets back to work. “If you really want to know, try the cemetery. Two blocks over, turn right, end of the road, just before the lake. They'll have a map of who's buried where. Check his grave.”

The cemetery. I'm on my way.

Before I can take off, C.B. wheels up in his car and leaps out like the buddy sidekick on some cop show. “Cameron, my man, what's up?” He raises his hand like he actually expects me to high-five him.

I give him a half-assed wave and put my hands in my pockets. “It's about the package you sent me, the stuff about the farm. There's something weird. Mom said you might be able to explain it.”

“Sure thing.” He waves me into the agency.

Mom's on the phone. She gives me a
Be
good
look and mouths, “Coffee, please,” to C.B. He winks a
You
betcha
, and pushes a button on the coffee machine.

“You want a cappuccino?” he asks me.

“Sure.”

Mom raises an eyebrow. She knows I hate coffee. I shoot her a
Don't embarrass me
look.

C.B. hands Mom the first one, and they banter till ours are ready. I put four packs of sugar in mine, retrieve the package from Mom's desk, and follow C.B. to his private office. It's a beige room with sheer curtains that cover a barred window facing the rear alley. The walls are covered in frames: his college degree, his real estate license, cheesy slogans like “If Not Now, When?” and pictures of a girl and boy around four or five. I stop at the one where the kids are squeezed together on the top step of a porch eating ice-cream cones.

C.B. comes over. “Patrick and Kimberley.”

“Your kids?”

“They're seven and eight now,” he says, nodding. “Live with their mother a few hundred miles away. I don't get to see them so much.”

“You're divorced?”

“Pretty much. There's still some paperwork. But yeah.” For a second he doesn't sound like a TV ad; he's like a guy who just misses his kids.

C.B. sits in the leather chair behind his desk and motions me to the one opposite. He breathes in his cappuccino. I take a sip and try not to make a face.

“I can't wait to hear your questions. Your mom says you're always thinking. A real brain. I gotta tell you, I'm not. But you're smart enough to already know that, right?” Is he trying to get me to like him? Is he saying he knows I don't?

“I'm not so bright.”

“Don't kid a kidder,” he says, laughing. “Luckily I'm good at real estate. Luckier still, I like it. Anyway, something I sent you needs explaining?”

“Yeah.” I hand him the package. “According to the sales page, the Sinclairs never bought the farm, and taxes are still made out to Frank McTavish, the guy who was killed by the dogs.”

“What?”

“You didn't know?”

“No.” C.B. frowns, pulls out the material, and scans it. “I told Arlene what I wanted. She did the printouts and I passed them straight on.” He checks back and forth between the pages. “Wow.”

“‘Wow' is right. I mean, how is this even possible?”

“Good question.” C.B. leans back in his chair. He told me to ask him anything, but he's stumped by my first question. I watch the pressure build on his forehead. It's almost enough to make me feel sorry for him.

“Okay,” he says at last, “but this is only a guess. If I recall the story, McTavish's wife left with their son a short time before he died. His will would likely have named his son to inherit the farm.”

“But if the son was missing…”

“…and McTavish had no other family to claim it, the farm would have sat there. Unpaid taxes would have piled up and the county would've taken it to settle the debts.”

“Unless somebody
paid
the taxes,” I say, “in which case the county would be happy?”

“Sure. Nobody'd want to step in if there was a son who might come back someday.”

“So if Mr. Sinclair's family paid the taxes, they'd be able to use the land for free until the son returned.”

“Your mom's right. You're smart.”

“But the son, Jacky,
never
came back,” I exclaim, the thoughts coming as fast as I can say them. “Nobody cared though, because the taxes were being paid, and eventually so much time passed that nobody thought about it anymore. It was just the way things were.”

“Sure is a possibility.”

“Is that legal?”

“Well, it's not
i
l
legal. Especially if McTavish had named Art Sinclair's father as his executor—the guy taking care of his will.”

“Mr. Sinclair said his dad and Mr. McTavish were best friends.”

“There you are, then.” C.B. drums his fingers on his desk. “Art's father could easily have said he was looking after the farm till McTavish's son was found. And there'd be nothing and no one to make him sell it.”

“And then Mr. Sinclair's father dies, and Mr. Sinclair just keeps paying the taxes like his family's done since forever, and he gets to make money off a farm he never paid for.”

C.B.'s eyes flicker. He knows where I'm headed, and where I'm headed is trouble. “Remember, that's just a guess, Cameron. Even if we're right, at this point Mr. Sinclair could likely claim squatter's rights. If I were him, I'd go to court and make it official.”

“But there's a chance he could lose. So maybe he thinks, why risk it?”

C.B. laughs. “More likely, knowing Art, he's just never gotten around to it. Personally, I'd have it at the top of my to-do list. I hate uncertainty.”

“Me too.”

We share a look.

“What?” he asks with a smile.

“What do you mean, what?”

“You want to ask me something.”

“How do you know?”

“The way you're sitting.”

“You're a pretty good guesser.”

“Sales.” C.B. taps his temple.

“Okay.” I hesitate. “If this is too personal just say so, but…what's it like not seeing your kids so much?”

He looks me straight in the eye. “It's a bit like dying. They're my kids. But they'll never live with me again. And they're doing things I'm not part of. Creating memories I'll never share. It kills me. Yeah. It kills me.”

Does
Dad
miss
me
like
that? Is that why he still tries to find me?

“How often do you see them?”

“One weekend a month. A week at Christmas. Two weeks in the summer. It's not like you and your dad.”

I freeze. “How much did Mom tell you?” It comes out sounding mad, but that's not how I mean it. I don't know
how
I mean it. All Mom did was talk to a friend. And it's not like he's as bad as I thought.

“Cameron,” he says, like his eyes are seeing into my brain, like his voice is giving me a hug, “whatever is between you and your mom and your dad—that's between the three of you. It's none of my business.”

“Right.” I can feel my face doing everything not to crumple up.

“Another thing: I know you already have a dad, and he's not me, and I'll never be him. I'll never try to be either. I promise. I'll only ever be me. Ken. Talk to me, don't talk to me, it's up to you. Just know I'm here.”

“Okay.”

We both seem to know the conversation is over. It's weird how that happens. We go see Mom at the front.

“Did you work out the ownership question?” Mom asks.

“We worked out a lot of things,” Ken says.

Mom turns to me. “So, it's nine o'clock. You'll be back here at noon after your swim?”

“Sure.” If there's a swimming pool at the cemetery. “See you.” I swing my backpack over my shoulder and head out the door with them calling, “Have fun,” after me.

I don't look back. I don't want to know if he puts his hand on her shoulder. For now, all I know is that I'm not going to call him C.B. anymore. From now on, he's Ken.