The Summer of Riley (8 page)

For a minute I didn’t know whether he was talking about Riley, or all those dead lambs, but then he said, “Is it okay if I stand behind you with this?” I realized he was for us, and I nodded. “Sure, help yourself.”

Main Street was lined with cars. Kids from school stopped by to talk to us. “Man! That Ellis Porter! He’s such a toad! Gimme your petition and I’ll sign it.”

I had a feeling the signers had to be registered voters or at least over eighteen, but I was happy to take every name I could get.

A man stopped and asked me if I knew about red pepper. “Put it on your dog’s nose every time he looks at another animal and he’ll not go near it,” he said.

“Really?”

He nodded. “Try it when you get him back.”

I held on to those words, saying them over and over to myself. “When I get him back.”

We cycled home for peanut butter toast and cherries and a rest on the porch. Riley used to lie there on the step, snapping at flies. Sometimes he’d rest his head on the big roll of butyl liner. Where was he lying now?

“I’m tired,” Grace said.

“Me too.”

We sat in the cool for a while, drinking iced tea. It comes from a package, but Mom puts lemon slices and mint leaves in it and it’s delicious. I could hear her in the kitchen, working on the computer.

Grace pushed lazily in the glider. “Sure would be
nice to take the afternoon off.”

“I’m not going to.”

After a minute, she said, “I’m not either.”

We picked up our bikes and wheeled back down the driveway, past Peachie’s house. She was nowhere to be seen, but the Sultan was peacefully grazing over by the barn. Peachie’s roses were in bloom against the fence. Would she bring bunches of them to us this year? Mom loves them so much. “They smell like summer,” she says.

I felt this awful suffocating sadness, as if everything in the world were wrong and nothing would ever be the same again. “Sweet William,” Peachie used to call me, and I had this faraway memory of when I was very small and Peachie would call out to me, “Over here, Sweet William.”

I reached inside me for that cold anger I’d felt against her, and I had trouble finding it. She’d done it, though. She’d told on Riley. Never mind the Sweet William thing. I pedaled harder.

There were still lots of people on the sidewalks. I figured some of them had gone home for peanut butter toast and iced tea of their own and come back, though I wasn’t sure if they were the same ones who’d been around in the morning. I turned to offer
a yellow flyer to a woman in jeans and a striped T-shirt who was passing, and suddenly realized it was Peachie. My heart gave a frightened jump. What would I say to her?

“Oh … er …” I pulled my hand back, holding the bunch of flyers against my chest. “Hello, Peachie.”

“William!”

“How … how is the Sultan?” I stammered. “I saw him when I went past your house. I waved to him.” I tried for a grin. “But he didn’t wave back.”

I was trying to think what I could say next and wishing Peachie would just go on into the bank, or wherever she was planning on going, when a woman with the spikiest hair I’d ever seen in my life pushed her face real close to mine. She was so close I could see the black stuff clumped in her eyelashes. Tarantula eyes, I thought. In her hand was a microphone.

“William Halston?” she asked with this totally bogus smile.

“Yes,” I said uncertainly.

Behind her was a skinny guy carrying a camera about as big as he was.

“Awesome,” Tarantula Eyes said. “I’m Trixie
Allen,
What’s Going On,
seven
P.M.,
Channel Three, Portland. You’ve probably seen my program?”

I shook my head.

“This is Boots, my cameraman.” She pulled the skinny guy forward, jostling Peachie to the side.

“Peachie?” I began.

“Peachie?” Tarantula’s tarantula eyes widened. She stole a quick glance down at the notebook she held. “Would that be Mrs. Peachwood, the, shall we say, instigator of this whole affair?”

I was frantically waving Grace over.

“What luck!” Tarantula Eyes smiled a satisfied tarantula smile. She wedged the microphone under her arm and grabbed Peachie’s hand. “We planned on calling you…. I have a cell phone in my pocket here, never travel without it….” Again that bogus smile.
“I
hoped to come over to your house right after my interview with William. This is even better, getting the two of you together like this.”

Peachie had not said a word and neither had I, but Grace, who’d come over, blurted out, “Is Riley going to be on TV? How cool.” Her grin went ear to ear, and she nudged me so hard with her shoulder, I almost fell off the curb.

“Hi, Peachie,” she said, and then, realizing that
Peachie wouldn’t be thrilled to have Riley on TV, she muttered, “Peachie, this is Trixie Allen of Channel Three,” and waved her flyers as if she were introducing them.

“We’ve met,” Peachie said.

Boots was doing something businesslike with his

camera. Trixie slithered her smile at Grace. “Are you William’s little girlfriend?”

“No,” Grace said. “I’m his partner in trying to save Riley. It’s great that you’re going to do a story on him.”

“Good, fine.” Trixie consulted her notebook. “Well, now, William and Mrs. Peachwood … I’m just going to ask you both a few questions. Can you fill me in? Mrs. Peachwood, as I understand it, your horse …”

“I’m sorry, Miss Allen.” Peachie’s voice was low and absolutely polite. “I don’t intend to answer any questions or be interviewed either.”

“But I bet you’re mad at each other, you and William?” The tarantula smile was back. “Won’t you at least …”

“I’m not at all mad at William,” Peachie said. “William is my good friend. He’s looking out for his dog is all. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

A little crowd had gathered, spilling onto the street. We watched as Peachie edged through the people and through the doors into the bank.

Miss Allen shrugged. “No problem. William? Why don’t
you
just fill our viewers in on the story?”

Boots held up his hand, and Trixie said, “Just a second … we’re having a little problem here with the picture.”

The crowd around us was getting bigger. Grace took my pile of flyers so I’d have my hands free, I wasn’t sure for what. I tucked my T-shirt tighter into my jeans.

“She’s not Rosie or Oprah,” Grace whispered. “But this is fabulous. Too bad we don’t have the big photograph of Riley yet.”

The man with the Thou Shalt Not Kill banner had moved so he was right behind me. He crouched to make sure he’d be in the picture.

“Ready, William?” Trixie asked.

I nodded.

“Do good,” Grace whispered.

“Well,” I began, “Riley was the most perfect dog … I mean,
is
the most perfect dog. It was just …”

I went on and on explaining, not being mean
about Peachie, trying to be fair, just saying how much we all loved the Sultan. Trixie kept nodding and smiling, and now and then butting in with a question. Grace kept giving me thumbs up, and I was just going into how everybody could help save Riley and how if he lived, I’d never have him back here. Not ever, he’d be far away, in the middle of a city maybe, and never chase anything again …

“Except maybe his tail,” Trixie Allen said humorously, and I nodded.

“He liked to chase his tail. He was funny because he’d catch it and fall over himself.” I stopped. How awful if I cried on TV.

And then I turned a little, and for the first time I saw Ellis Porter and Duane Smith on the edge of the crowd. Oh, no. Faster than fast, I moved to block them from Trixie, in case she knew who they were, and then I talked even faster to keep her attention on me.

But, unfortunately, Trixie knew her stuff and had read up on everything before coming here. Her program wasn’t called
What’s Going On
for nothing.

After I wound down, not able to think of a single other thing to say, she thanked me graciously, then said, “And now we will hear from Mr. Ellis Porter and
Mr. Duane Smith, who have taken up arms on behalf of the old racehorse, the Sultan of Kaboor. I had hoped to bring the Sultan’s owner to you this evening, too, but apparently she is too upset over what happened to make a television appearance. Here, again, to speak for her, and for her horse, are Ellis Porter and Duane Smith.”

And the awful thing was, there was a little scattering of applause as the crowd made way for them.

Grace said afterward the applause was for me, for how good I’d been presenting Riley’s case.

But I didn’t think so.

T
here’s a saying, “Be careful what you wish for … you might get it.” That must be among the truest sayings in the whole world. Grace and I had wished we could get our story of Riley on TV. And that had happened. But … Ellis and Duane had had a chance to tell the other side of the story, too.

That night, Mom and Grace and Grace’s mom and dad and her two little brothers, Sam and Colin, and I watched Trixie Allen’s program. Ordinarily, if I’d been on TV, Peachie would have been on the couch beside me. Not that ordinarily I would have been on TV. But Peachie used to come over for anything important, like a space shuttle shot, or the night the magician told all the secrets of how the tricks were done. Peachie and Mom and I didn’t like him. “He’s a spoiler,” Peachie said. I tried to sort out
the muddle of my Peachie feelings. Of course I was still mad. But I couldn’t help remembering good things.

If this had been three months ago, my grandpa would have been here next to me, too. Three years ago, my dad would have been here. Two weeks ago, Riley would have been lying next to me, one paw in my lap, though he and I would have been watching an old
Leave It to Beaver
, not watching about him maybe having to die.

Everything was disappearing from me. It was scary. I felt emptied out.

“Here, William, have a lemon square.” Grace passed me the plate. “You were far better than Ellis. You’ll see.”

That’s the best thing about a best friend. She knows when you need cheering up.

We watched. First there was a story about a new bookstore opening in Portland, and Trixie interviewing a Portland woman who’s written a children’s book, I guess.

And then Grace’s mom said, “Everybody shush. Here it is.” And I was on.

It’s weird listening to yourself. It’s weird seeing yourself. I thought I looked real shifty-eyed.

Everybody made comments. Everybody was delighted with me. I couldn’t believe how interested Trixie was in my every word, especially when I knew for a fact that once she’d examined her eyelashes in an itty-bitty mirror when the camera was on me, not on her. That photographer must have woven in some good fake-attention shots. It just goes to show you, I thought.

And then we listened to Ellis, who sounded a lot nicer and kinder than he really is. The program cut to a hardware store commercial, and Grace muttered, “At least he didn’t talk about his cat.”

Sam stopped licking the sticky lemon off his fingers. “What about his cat?”

“Oh.” Grace stumbled a bit trying to figure out how much to tell him. “Some mean dogs beat up on his cat, that’s all.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “If some mean dogs did that to our kitty, I’d … I’d do something really bad to them.”

“Ellis is trying. In a misdirected way,” Grace said.

“Why don’t you just say the same words other people say, Gracie,” Colin complained. “That way we’d understand.”

Grace was scowling. “I’m really mad. You said
things to Trixie that she didn’t report. She just cut items out. She made your time shorter than theirs. That’s not fair. She …” Grace stopped talking because Trixie was on again.

“Well, that’s all for now,” she said. “Be sure to follow this saga of Riley, the condemned dog. Call those commissioners and let them know how you vote. Here’s the number again. And hey, call us too. We’re going to be taking a poll ourselves because, as you know, we’re interested in what’s going on in your world today.”

“Vote?” I said. My voice quavered. “Polls? This is not a stupid election. This is about my dog.”

Grace’s dad clapped me on the shoulder. “It’s okay. That’s just TV talk. You did super well, William.”

“Thanks.” I truthfully knew I’d done all right in the interview. But nobody was saying what I also knew. Ellis Porter had done all right, too.

“Why didn’t you say something, Gracie?” Sam asked.

“Because Miss Trixie wasn’t talking to me, dork,” Grace snapped.

“I’m proud of you, hon,” Mom said. “I’m proud of you for fighting so hard for what you think is right.”

Everyone chimed in and it was pretty nice. I didn’t feel so emptied out anymore.

I was surprised the next day at how many viewers Trixie had. Mr. Rodriguez from down the road called in the morning, and so did Mrs. Carter, my math teacher, and the box girl in the market, and a bunch of others.

And my dad.

“Well done, son.” I imagined him sitting elegantly in his elegant chair in his apartment—which was probably elegant, too.

“Thanks. Somebody has to do something,” I said meaningfully. “I mean, apart from pulling Riley down the stairs and shoving him out to the animal-control guys.”

“That’s not fair, William, and you know it,” Dad said. “I hope you succeed.”

“Right,” I said.

Mom usually acts as if she doesn’t hear my kitchen phone conversations, which is pretty hard when we’re both in the same room. But this time she didn’t pretend. She watched me with a serious face, and as soon as I hung up, she nodded toward the chair at the table, opposite her.

I sat.

“What your dad did with Riley, he did for you. And for me. Riley had to go. Your father didn’t want either of us to get into anything with the animal- control people. He knew it would make a bad situation worse. I’m glad he was here. Now let go of the anger you have for him, William. Just let it go.”

I drifted a little salt from the shaker onto the table and made a finger design in it, not looking at her.

“It’s not just the dog,” I began.

“I know it’s not just the dog. William … people change. Your dad and I parted for good reasons. To tell the truth, we were both miserable. I
tried
to hold on …” I sensed her shrug, though I was so busy making my salt into a small pyramid that kept sliding down that I didn’t lift my head.