Ask Anybody (10 page)

Rowena and Betty swayed slightly, clutching each other, struck dumb.

“They'll never believe you,” I said.

“Sure they will. All's I have to do is get the old pickup back to where it was.” She got back in the truck and backed up until it was in pretty much the same spot it had been before.

“Now,” Nell said, “I swear you to secrecy. Nobody's telling nothing, right? On account of they tell, I get it but good.”

Leo's foot tapped a nervous rhythm on the step. He hummed off-key, keeping time with his foot.

“I'm going,” I said. I walked out to look at the old dog. Maybe we were wrong. Maybe he was just resting and he'd be up and away in the morning. Maybe if I covered him with my jacket, he'd stay warm tonight. But looking at him, I knew it was no good. I touched him lightly in the little bony spot between his ears. He didn't stir.

It was no good at all.

“I'll tell you one thing, Nell Foster,” I hollered. Rage made my voice strong. “I'm nothing like you. Not a bit! And don't say I am!”

17

As I cut across the field toward home, the wind pushed at me, trying to get me to turn back. I refused. I wouldn't go back there for anything. The salty air smelled good. So did the kitchen. Tonight my father had promised us a fried potato pigout. I wished I felt more like eating. My stomach wasn't itself. I saw the light in my father's study, which meant he was working. The boys were playing in their room. I could hear them moving furniture around. They are very big on moving their furniture around. My father says he suspects they'll grow up to be moving men.

I wanted to talk to someone about what had happened. There was no one. I had to sort out my feelings, get somebody else's opinion. I felt heavy, as if I'd eaten a huge meal. I sat in the big chair by the many-paned window my father had put in a few years ago—a wonderful spot to keep check on the weather and the wildlife that marches by outside. Once, when I was quite young, I got up very early and watched a whole family of deer, four of them, wander by, taking their time, checking out the joint. It was a thrill I'll never forget. In the winter when the snow is deep and there is a fresh coat of it every morning, the animal tracks left during the night make a weird and wonderful pattern. I have always found it soothing to sit there and look out. It's like a gigantic TV screen, featuring the wild creatures of the forest in living color. Very soothing.

Not today. My head teemed with images: the dog, Nell and her shovel, Leo waving his skinny arms and shouting. Me getting into the truck. Betty and Rowena watching, just watching.

What if the old dog had been a person? I couldn't get that thought out of my head. What if it'd been Leo or me or anyone else who'd been crushed under the truck's wheel? Would Nell have shoveled any one of us out into the road, stuff oozing out of our mouths, eyes fixed blindly on the gray sky? As bad as I felt, I had to give Nell credit. She sure was a quick thinker. That alibi of the hit-run driver had been right at her fingertips. Most people would've gone to pieces if they'd hit and killed a dog. Not her. She'd never lost her cool. And that dog had been her friend.

I heard a car pull up outside. Oh, Lord. I wiped my face on my sleeve and had almost made it out of the room when Pamela came in, hugging herself, saying, “It's cold.” The last person in the world I needed right then was Pamela.

“Hi, Sky,” she said in her usual brittle manner. Then she took one look at me and said, “Something wrong?”

That did it I started to cry and, once started, I couldn't stop. I didn't want to cry in front of her. There was nothing I could do about it The tears kept coming. Silently she handed me a handkerchief and sat down, saying nothing. I did appreciate that. I really did I blew my nose.

Still she said nothing. I think if she'd said, “Can I help?” or “What's wrong?” I would've run and hidden under my bed. But because she had the good sense to keep quiet, I found myself sitting down next to her and telling her what had happened.

I told her the whole story, about how I'd been in the truck with a friend driving—I didn't name any names—and we'd hit the friend's dog and killed him. Then—and this was harder, much harder to say—I told her about the friend getting out, checking the dog to see if he was dead, then pulling him by his leg.

“Then she called to her brother, ‘Go get the shovel,'” I told Pamela, “and they got him onto it and dragged the shovel out to the road and dumped the dog there.” A shudder ran over me. I heard Pamela catch her breath.

“She told us we weren't to tell anyone because if we did she'd get it but good,” I said. “She said if anyone wanted to know what had happened, we were supposed to say the dog must've been killed by a hit-run driver.”

There was a scuffling sound in the hall. I heard Tad say, “It's her!” and then the sound of running feet as they scurried back to move some more furniture.

“And you know something?” I said in a loud voice. Pamela waited quietly for what I would say.

“She never showed any signs of remorse, the way they always say after somebody commits a crime,” I said. “She never even bent down to see if he was alive or dead. She never said, ‘I'm sorry,' or anything. She just loaded him onto that shovel and dragged him out and dumped him like he was a sack of meal. I never saw anything like it. It was like something she did every day of her life. She didn't think twice.”

I got up and went to the kitchen for a paper towel to blow my nose on. I'd used up all the dry spots on Pamela's handkerchief. “The worst of it is,” I said, “is I feel guilty. Maybe if I hadn't been in the truck it never would've happened. If I hadn't said I'd go with her, maybe she wouldn't have gone either. I egged her on. I know I did. So I'm partly responsible.” I hoped Pamela would say, “No, no, of course you're not,” but she didn't. She nodded slightly, and I felt she was agreeing with me. I
was
partly responsible for what had happened.

“I don't know if I should tell on her. Do you think I should?” I asked Pamela. If someone had told me yesterday that today I'd be asking her for advice, I would've told them they had rocks in their head. But now I needed advice.

“Would it do any good to tell on her?” Pamela said. “Would it accomplish anything?”

I thought about that. “I don't know,” I finally said. “Her mother would probably beat the daylights out of her. That's what she said anyway.”

I thought some more. “As far as bringing the dog back or making her promise she'd never do anything like that again, it wouldn't accomplish much, that's for sure. It wouldn't make her sorry for what she'd done. I don't think she'd ever be sorry. Because she doesn't think she did anything wrong.” As soon as the words were out, I realized that was the truth.
Nell didn't think she'd done anything wrong
. Fantastic.

Pamela got up, and I realized she was still wearing her coat. “I'll tell you what,” she said. “Why don't you sleep on what you told me, and tomorrow, if you get a chance, talk it over with your father. See what he thinks. That might be the best thing to do.”

“All right,” I said, glad of any adult advice. “I'll do that.”

Pamela opened the door to the mud room.

“Aren't you staying for supper?” I asked.

“Not tonight. Tonight you'll all do better without me. Maybe tomorrow. Sleep on it, Sky. It's always a good idea to sleep on something like that. Sometimes it helps.”

I ran to the door. She was already halfway down the path.

“Thanks,” I called out. “Thanks a lot.”

She lifted a hand in good-bye and took off down the hill. I went back inside, set the table, and thought about her. So that's Pamela, I said to myself. You were wrong about her. She's not so bad, after all.

18

My mother came home that night. My father was ladling out potatoes when she came. She stood in the doorway, smiling at us.

“Here I am,” she said. She was alone.

For one second the only sound in the room was the fat burbling in the frying pan, making noises like a baby discovering its toes and fingers for the first time. My father stood at the stove. Sidney slid down in his chair and dug his fists into his eyes the way he does when he's overcome. Tad overturned the bottle of ketchup he was holding, and we watched it run out into a widening pool on the table.

I was the first to recover. I ran to her and hugged her. The boys came to life and clambered over my mother as if she were a jungle gym. They grabbed at bits and pieces of her, each trying for the lion's share.

“Stop, stop!” she cried joyfully.

We danced around the room, hopping, skipping, shouting out in pleasure. Only my father stood apart, smiling slightly, holding his plate.

“Why didn't you call?” he said at last in a hoarse voice. “You said you would.”

“I got in earlier than I expected, and there was a rental car someone had just turned in so I took it, and here I am.” She went over to him and brushed his cheek with her lips. “Aren't you glad to see me?”

“Sky,” my father said, “get a plate for your mother. We better eat these while they're hot. We're having a potato pigout, Mary.”

“Perfect. I'm starving.” We all sat down, and for a few minutes nobody said anything. Then we all started talking at once.

“Fill me in on what's been happening here,” my mother said.

“Nothing! Nothing's been happening!” the boys shouted.

“Life went on as usual,” my father said.

“Sky,” my mother said, “you look so pretty.” I flushed. I could feel myself flush. She was being nice because she'd been away and was glad to be back.

The boys stopped climbing on her and sat still, looking at me, studying my face. Sidney screwed up his face so he looked like a little old man. Or a baby chimp is more like it. He tilted his head to one side and said, “Sky looks pretty?” a question mark tacked on the end.

Tad chewed slowly, squinting at me. “'Course,” he said in a grown-up, superior way, “she always looks pretty.”

It was almost more than I could bear.

After a while my mother looked at her watch and said, “It's bedtime, way past bedtime for you two.” She took each boy by his hand.

“Daddy, you come too,” they shouted. “You come too!” They figured if they got enough people together they could have a party and put bedtime off ever further. I know those two. They're operators.

“How about the presents?” Sidney said.

“When I unpack tomorrow, not now,” she answered.

“Not tonight,” my father said. “It's your mother's turn.” I went with her. The room smelled of Tad and Sidney and their unwashed socks, which were hidden around the room like eggs at an Easter egg hunt. They were supposed to put them in the hamper, but I knew if I made a search, I'd find enough dirty socks tucked away in corners to outfit an octopus.

My mother read them a story, a short one. I listened, pretending I was a child again. The boys horsed around some more, and my mother finally said, “That's enough,” in a way that made them know she meant what she said. We tucked them in and went back to the living room. My father stood where we'd left him. He didn't seem to have moved. My father is a true artist at standing still. He does it with such ease, never making small talk or needless gestures. He stands still while others work themselves into a flurry, and presently his stillness takes over. I'd seen it happen, and how it was happening again.

“Well,” my mother said. “It's good to be home.” She put her arm around me. “Did you miss me?” she said.

“A little.” In the morning I'd tell her how much, tell her everything. Right now I was tired. Very tired. My mother yawned.

My father discarded his stillness as if it were a cape. He went to my mother and put his hands on her shoulders.

“I'm glad you made it back safely, Mary,” he said.

She leaned against him for a moment. I saw her. She must be very tired, I thought, to do that Then she reached up to him and kissed him. I saw her. I couldn't believe my eyes. I thought they'd given up kissing. Nobody seemed to be giving me the time of day. I didn't care. I said good night and went to bed. I lay there, wondering what had happened to the great white hunter. And thinking it was a good thing Pamela had left when she had. And I planned what I'd say in the morning. I liked the sound of their voices rising and falling.

I'd tell them in the morning about the old dog. I wanted to get it off my chest now, this minute, but I knew if I did, I might start bawling again, and I didn't want to spoil my mother's homecoming.

19

“The boys are still asleep,” my mother said when I came to breakfast. “They're basket cases after last night. I thought you would be too. What would you like?”

I drank my juice. “Just a piece of toast, please.”

“And some cereal. You need a good breakfast to think straight,” she told me. How many times have I heard her say that? I wish a good breakfast
was
all I needed to make me think straight.

“Tell me about the family in the Johnsons' house,” my mother said, putting the butter on the table. “How's the new girl? Have you made friends with her?”

“She's O.K.,” I said. “Kind of different.”

“Oh?” My mother gave me her full attention. Different people always interested her. “In what way?”

“Crocuses are up,” my father said from where he stood at the window.

“High time.” My mother went to stand next to him, and I noticed she put her hand on his shoulder.

“Something terrible happened yesterday,” I blurted out.

They turned toward me, their faces sympathetic and apprehensive.

“Nell's dog got killed.”

“How?”