Trouble (17 page)

She got up, and they tried walking out of the kitchen using the leash.

Black Dog didn't make it past the counter. She rolled down and showed her belly again. She drooped her ears and whined.

Henry had to tell her all over again what a good dog she was.

While Black Dog tried to get used to the leash, Henry phoned Sanborn to tell him that they were on their way.

"You're really taking Black Dog?"

"I'm really taking Black Dog."

"Nobody is going to pick up someone who has a dog."

"Yes, they will."

"They'll think the dog is going to attack them or throw up or chew the upholstery or something. Nobody will pick us up."

"People like to pick up hitchhikers with dogs."

"And you know this because of your vast hitchhiking experience?"

"Shut up, Sanborn."

Henry hung up the phone, and then he pulled Black Dog along and out of the kitchen.

Black Dog fell to the floor and showed her belly twice in the hall.

"Listen," said Henry finally. "This is not going to work. It's just a leash, okay? A leash. Every other dog in Massachusetts knows what a leash is, so buck up. Okay?"

Black Dog tried to buck up. She only turned on her belly twice while walking down the driveway—where his father could not see them from the library, or Louisa from her bedroom.

At the road, Henry turned and looked back at his house. Black Dog sat and looked back, too. The timbers of the house were so solid, so heavy, as if they carried well down past the rocky ledges and on into the earth.

"Well," said Henry, "here we go." He hefted his backpack higher and tightened the strap around his waist. Then together, he and Black Dog went out onto the road and into the world.

Black Dog was not happy.

After about half a mile, she finally stopped falling down and turning up her belly. But every time a car drew near, she pulled and whined and got crazier and crazier until it rushed past and she could begin to come out of her desperation—until the next one came along.

Which, when they met Sanborn at his home, Sanborn said was going to drive them both nuts.

"She'll get used to it," said Henry. "Did you leave your parents a note?"

"No, O Devious One."

"No?"

"You have trouble with monosyllables?"

"Did you tell them where you were going?"

"Yes, I did."

"And that was fine with them?"

"I already told you, Henry: That was fine with them."

"Did they ask if you were going with just me?"

"No, they didn't ask if I was going with just you. They didn't ask anything. Okay? They're heading off to Verona or Florence or somewhere like that and they're busy packing. All they needed to know was that I was out of their way while they tested their colognes to see if they clashed. So are we going or what?"

"We're going," said Henry.

So they did, walking quickly onto Main Street, and through town, and then away from Blythbury-by-the-Sea, where Trouble was not supposed to find anyone; they stopped only to reassure Black Dog every time a car went by—she didn't get used to it—and then at a Stop and Go Hamburgers, since they were already hungry and they didn't want to use up the food they had packed. Afterward, full of grease and vanilla milkshake, they headed onto the road again, north, until late in the afternoon. Then, when they were sure that no one who knew them would drive by, they began to walk backward, holding out their thumbs for a ride.

"No one is going to pick up two guys with a dog and big packs," said Sanborn.

"Backpackers will," said Henry. "You'd be surprised."

But Sanborn was not surprised. They took turns holding their thumbs out and walking backward for the rest of the afternoon, and then past supper, and then into dusk, as the light dissolved from the sky and hinted at the purple behind it, and Henry wondered if his parents really believed the note that said he was staying overnight with Sanborn for a few days—which wasn't, technically speaking, a lie. And he wondered, too, if they were going to have to find a place to camp soon before it became dark.

Then, when the purple was more than a hint, a pickup did stop. It paused, moved ahead, slowed, then pulled to the side of the road and waited for them. Sanborn was overjoyed. "Who knows?" he said. "Maybe he's going the whole way!"

Henry ran up with Black Dog, who wasn't shying away from this pickup at all. She pulled him toward it, barking in a frenzy. Maybe, thought Henry, she was pretty tired, too.

They reached the pickup and threw their two packs in the back—which is where Black Dog jumped in without any hesitating. She ran up front to the cab and let the driver know how much she appreciated his stopping for them by slobbering all over the window behind him, and when she wasn't slobbering, she was pawing at the window happily and wagging her tail. She must really have been tired of walking, thought Henry.

Henry climbed into the bed of the pickup and tied Black Dog close to the front so that she would stay in. Then he jumped down—Black Dog was still slobbering and barking—and walked around to the door. By the lowering light, he noticed that the chrome was missing from the side of the pickup. Sanborn had already gotten in, and Henry started to get in the seat beside him. The chrome was missing from the door, too, as though it had been torn off deliberately. He felt that this should mean something to him.

He got in and pulled the door closed. Then leaning past Sanborn, he turned to the driver.

"Thanks," he said—to Chay Chouan.

His father found the volume of Keats. He found what she had written inside. He burned it. "You bring the shame of your past on us. An American girl.
"

"
There is no shame," he said.

"
What do you know of shame? An American girl. Do you think I brought you here to meet one of them? I will not hand what I have built into her hand. And not into yours.
"

So he had given what his father had built, a heat that would not be forgotten. His father let him stay long enough to salvage what remained. And when they had done what could be done, his father told him he should go the next morning. With nothing.

He left that night. With the pickup.

S
ANBORN,
who had not recognized the driver's face, chattered happily. "Yeah. Thanks for stopping," he said.

Chay nodded. He pulled the pickup back onto the highway.

"It was starting to get dark out there, and this jerk"—Sanborn nodded toward Henry—"this jerk figured that we would get picked up, oh, a couple of hours ago."

Chay nodded again. "The dog."

"That's what I said. No one is going to pick up two guys with a dog."

Chay nodded.

"Except for you."

Chay nodded again.

"We're heading up to Maine," said Sanborn.

No nod this time.

"Where are you heading?"

Chay waved his hand out to the open road. "North," he said.

"That's fine. That's where we're heading. North."

"Fine," said Chay.

Fine, thought Henry.

"We figured we could log a hundred miles or so and then find a campground. If you're going north anyway, if it's all right with you, maybe we could just keep going as far as you're heading. Until we get to Millinocket, Maine."

Chay nodded.

"Why don't you just pull over and let us out now?" said Henry.

Silence from Sanborn. The sounds of an old and worn pickup, pushing itself along on old and worn tires. The sounds of Black Dog, barking happily behind them, still wanting to thank the driver for stopping for them.

"Henry," said Sanborn slowly, "why don't you shut up?"

"Sanborn," said Henry, "why don't
you
shut up? Believe me, we don't want to be in this pickup. Because our driver doesn't have a driver's license." He leaned forward. "Do you? And why don't you have a driver's license? Because it got taken away. Because you ran into my brother and killed him."

Black Dog still barking from the back. Sanborn let out a long and troubled breath.

"Sanborn, have you met Chay Chouan? I met him in court. I didn't actually
meet
him, but we were both there. He was the one in the handcuffs. Chay, this is my friend, Sanborn. He's on this trip with me because my brother, Franklin—who I was going to go with—is dead."

Silence again.

"Besides your family," said Chay finally, "no one is sorrier than me about your brother."

"Go to hell," said Henry. "You don't know what it's like to lose a brother like that."

Chay drove.

"He had his whole life in front of him. He was just eighteen. His whole life. And he's dead because of you. I shoveled the dirt in myself. You should hear my mother late at night. You should ... you should hear her. You can't imagine what those sounds are like."

Chay stared ahead. The road was empty, and the two headlights searched the gathering darkness. No stars in the sky yet. No moon.

"Your mother sounds like she is holding your brother, and he is bleeding to death, and she cannot do a thing to stop what is happening," Chay said, almost whispering. "She sounds like all she wants is to die before anything else happens, because already she can't bear to keep on living." Chay ran his hand across his eyes and through his hair.

"Because of you," said Henry.

Chay nodded.

They rode on. It seemed to Henry that a deep pause in his life had fallen abruptly upon him. Outside there was only this growing darkness. Inside there was only this silence, just as dark. Even Black Dog was still now.

"How do you know?" said Henry.

Chay said nothing. He stared straight ahead. His hand across his eyes again.

They drove on. They passed through a small town where a movie was letting out. Pretty soon, people would be heading to the ice cream shop. They'd talk about the movie. About whether they liked it or not. About whether the music was right for it or not. If it dragged in places. They'd wish there was more butterscotch in their shakes.

Henry felt himself fall so deeply into a crater of weariness, so deep, so black, that there was no use even trying to get out.

"This is the turn onto Route 95," said Chay. "To Maine. If you want to get out now, I'll stop."

Henry said nothing. He closed his eyes.

They took the ramp onto the highway. The sounds of the pickup's tires and engine grew steady.

Black Dog scratched at the back window, and when Henry turned and opened it, she stuck her snout in his palm. He stroked the side of her face. She licked his hand, then, satisfied, lay down into a happy heap in the pickup bed, as comfortable as if she had lain back there a hundred times.

"Where are you going?" said Henry.

Chay changed lanes for no particular reason.

"North," he said.

"Just north."

Chay nodded. He changed lanes again—for no particular reason.

"Do you know what you did to our lives?"

"Why do you think I'm heading north?"

"You're not even supposed to be driving."

Chay shrugged.

"What are you going to say if you get pulled over?"

Chay turned, and for the first time he looked full at Henry. "You think that is my biggest problem?" he said.

"I think your biggest problem is that you killed my brother."

"You said that already," said Chay.

"Yeah, I did. I'm going to say it a lot. Because you need to hear it a lot."

Chay shook his head. His hand went up through his hair again. "You keep saying things I already know," he said. "From my parents, I listened. From you ..."

"From me, what?"

Chay said nothing.

"So you want me to tell you something you don't know?" Chay laughed, so bitterly that Henry was startled for a moment. "Yes," he said. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Franklin was ..." But Henry did not finish. He felt himself still in the crater of weariness, and whatever he had been about to say was even lower than he was.

Henry laid his head back against the seat.

They drove on. Still in darkness. Still in silence. The rhythmic sounds of the worn engine and worn tires. In the back, Black Dog was asleep. And Sanborn was asleep, too—the traitor—snoring louder than the engine. Henry looked out his window. The darkened night leveled everything out. Every mile or so, lights flickered, but in the almost-darkness, it was hard to believe that there was anything really beyond what he could see—even though he knew there must be.

He turned back to Chay.

"How do you know how my mother sounds?"

Again, his hand through his hair. "In Cambodia, we lived in a refugee camp for three years."

"So?" said Henry.

Chay looked at him, then back at the road. "The Khmer Rouge came into the camp while all the fathers were in the fields. They lined up all boys over twelve to fight for them. My older brother was taken because he was so big. But he was only ten years. My mother tried to tell them. She begged the soldiers. They would not listen. When she would not let go, a soldier shot my sister. My mother ran to her. The soldiers dragged my brother away. He was screaming for her."

Henry remembered the hearing. "
So, many of your students have had their sisters shot in front of them? Or their brothers taken by force?
" How had he forgotten?

"That is how I know what your mother sounds like," said Chay.

The tires hummed on the road, and Henry turned back to the dark window.

They crossed into New Hampshire, and because Chay was driving at the exact speed limit—which meant that he was being passed by every truck on the road—sixteen minutes later they were crossing the bridge into Maine. Henry had driven across many times when his family was heading up to the resorts of Kennebunkport. But he had never come across at night, when the lights of the industrial plants below were strung like jewels along the water's edges, and all the grittiness and dirt and smoke were hidden.

Henry closed his eyes.

He saw his brother, pale and white on the hospital bed. He saw the tubes stretching into one arm. He saw the stump of the other, and the bandage with blood and gore leaking through. He saw his brother breathing in time with the machine behind him. He saw his mother with her wide, unblinking eyes. He saw his father with his hands up to his face.