Bird Lake Moon (8 page)

Spencer heard something or someone else approaching from the driveway.

“It's my grandson,” said Mr. Burden.

“It's my dog!” said Spencer.

The world had been out of order, and now, for the moment, it was right again.

He took his grandfather's rarely used bicycle from the garage—with its nearly flat tires and loose, squeaky seat—and rode off without a real plan. He pedaled hard and fast in the direction that Jasper had gone. He yelled Jasper's name a few times but became too self-conscious and decided to search silently.

He wished that he could simply ride and ride and ride and not talk to another person or need anything or anyone again. Ever. Ride and ride and ride until despair had lost its hold.

Not long into his search, he heard a dog barking. He followed the sound, swerving sharply onto a narrow, winding dirt road that led to the lake. His front tire caught in a rut and he fell, scraping his leg on a rock and getting dirt in his mouth. But he lost little time, rising quickly and running down the road, gripping the handlebars with a vengeance, pulling the bicycle along with him as if he and the bike were one.

In a clearing, he saw a girl perched atop an overturned rowboat. A dog was sitting tall beside her.

Jasper! he thought. He threw down the bicycle and approached the girl warily.

“He's mine,” said Mitch, tipping his head at the dog. It surprised him how easily the lie had slid off his tongue.

“Prove it,” said the girl.

A panicky feeling melted his knees, “Jasper. Come, Jasper,” he said, bending slightly and slapping his thighs the way he remembered the intruder son doing.

Mitch's gentle command brought the dog from the girl to him in a flash. He coiled the long leash and held it so tightly that his fingernails dug into his palm. He would not let go. “Stay?” he whispered tentatively.

The girl jumped off the rowboat. She frowned at Mitch, then placed her hands on her hips and shot him an exaggerated, pouty expression. “Okay,” she said, walking toward him. “You win. He's obviously yours.”

“Sorry.” He noticed that her eyes were shiny with tears.

“I even thought of throwing his tags into the lake,” she confessed. “Never to be seen again.”

Mitch hadn't read Jasper's tags. If the girl had tested him on Jasper's address, he would have failed. He would have had to come up with a story of some sort quickly.

“Can I pet him one more time?” asked the girl.

“Yeah. Sure.”

She came forward and lowered her head to the height of Jasper's and let him cover her face with licks. She scratched him behind his ears. “I would have changed his name,” she told Mitch. “I would have called him Kernel. With a K, as in popcorn. Not Colonel with a C, as in the army or navy or whatever. Cute, don't you think?”

Mitch shrugged.

“My parents won't let me have a dog, and it's all I want. You are so lucky.”

If you only knew, thought Mitch. “I've got to go,” he said. He turned to leave.

“You are so lucky,” she repeated loudly as he walked away.

Her words were so ironic they stung, like stones hurled at his back.

It took some getting used to—riding a bike and holding on to a dog at the same time—but Mitch found a rhythm and Jasper loped along easily. If he slowed down, all Mitch needed to do was to make a clicking sound and say, “Come on, Jasper,” and Jasper picked up speed.

Mitch had wanted to get away from the girl as fast as he could, but he'd taken a moment to check Jasper's tags before he'd mounted the bike. The intruders lived in Madison. On a street Mitch didn't know.

He hoped that the intruders were still far out on the lake and that he could put Jasper back where he'd found him. No questions asked. What he'd do if this weren't the case, he could barely consider. Please, please, please, don't be home, he mouthed silently.

Other concerns, scant in comparison, but still concerns: Jasper was wet, had burrs and shredded leaves stuck all over him, and smelled funny, as if he'd gotten into something nasty like a dead fish or someone's garbage.

What would the intruders think? Each problem solved just led to another unsolved one, thought Mitch.

As he neared his grandparents' and the intruders' houses, he felt something—flickers of fear. But something else, too—one tiny glimmer of hope, hope that everything would turn out all right.

Suddenly Jasper charged forward with a burst of energy. Mitch's arm jerked; he was pulled like a rag doll. He thought that a stray cat or a squirrel must be ahead, hidden by bushes or behind a tree or lying low in the ditch at the side of the road. “Whoa, Jasper. Take it easy,” he said.

And then Mitch heard whistling. And one mournful “Jasper!” followed by quiet.

Mitch didn't know what to do. Everything was happening too fast. Turning around or taking a break to think it all through was not an option, seeing as Jasper was not to be stopped. Unhooking Jasper or letting go of the leash didn't seem right. Mitch was guilty enough already. Like a twig caught in a river current, Mitch felt he was being carried along, with no control whatsoever over where he was going, with no idea exactly to what he was being taken.

The dog led the boy. On a short, clear, speedy path to some unknown outcome. Up one last stretch of road to the intruders' house, and then down their driveway into their yard, right to the intruders, standing in a tight knot with Papa Carl.

The sight of his grandfather was disorienting to Mitch. His heart rose up, then seized. What was going on?

Now he let go of the leash.

What he would remember most about that moment was a feeling of pure, intense relief. What he wouldn't remember was who spoke first or what he or she said.

When Mitch began his explanation, there were remnants of fear in his voice, and his voice was modest, but it soon changed. It became almost giddy. “I was out riding my grandpa's bike and I saw this dog sort of running loose,” he told them. “I recognized him from seeing him in your yard. So I, you know, thought I should bring him home to you.”

Nothing he'd said yet was an outright lie, although it seemed to part of him that lying was precisely what he was doing.

“He let me get close enough to see that the name on his tag was Jasper, and so I just called him and he came with me.” He paused briefly, then blurted out, “And he's
fast
! I barely pedaled some of the way back, he was running so hard. He seems like a great dog. A really great dog . . .”

“Slow down,” said Papa Carl, straightening his bent shoulders and moving his hands about as if he were shooing a low-flying bug or waving at his feet.

Mitch shook his head and blinked. He was exhausted—physically and emotionally.

The intruder father said thank you and said that his name was Peter and said what his wife's and children's names were and extended his hand to shake Mitch's and said thank you once more.

All the intruders thanked him. But it was the girl, Lolly, who thanked him the most.

“It was my fault Jasper got away,” said Lolly.

“Yeah, look,” said the boy named Spencer. “The hook works just fine.” He held up the latch at the end of the leash, nearly touching Lolly's nose.

He opened and closed the latch, probably a dozen times.

“Don't rub it in,” she said to her brother behind a cupped hand, but loud enough for Mitch to hear. “I forgot to hook Jasper to the tree rightly,” she explained, turning toward Mitch. “So you saved my life. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Her eyes gleamed. She rushed toward Mitch and hugged him.

“It's okay,” he said, shrinking away from her. “I didn't really do anything.” But he
had
done something. And he felt guilty that Lolly had been blamed for that something. He tried, and managed, to push the heavy feeling aside, though, because everyone was being so nice to him, so welcoming. Already he felt pulled—from one life into another.

“Do you want to stay for lunch?” asked Spencer. “If it's okay.”

“It's okay,” said his mother.

“We have to wash Jasper first,” said Lolly. “He stinks.”

Mitch looked to Papa Carl.

Papa Carl nodded.

“We can swim after we eat,” said Spencer.

“Or play one of those old board games in the closet,” said Lolly. “Or play with our long-lost dog.”

“Okay,” Mitch replied, smiling. “Yes.”

It was toward the bright middle of the day, and for the first time in a long, long while, Mitch was happy.

They washed the dog and ate lunch outside and played an old board game and swam. Mitch and Spencer tossed Mitch's football back and forth and threw rocks into the lake and swam again.

Lolly was either right with the boys or close by, watching, listening. Jasper was always nearby, too.

The air around Mitch—the world—had softened. Gone were the sharp edges and pointy corners of the past weeks.

How long would it last?

“He's a charming young man,” said Lolly. “Absolutely charming.” She scurried across the kitchen and daintily put her dirty breakfast dishes in the sink. “His name is Mitch Sinclair. He's twelve years old. He's got the blackest hair I ever saw.”

She seemed to Spencer as if she were an actress on a stage giving a performance as Birdy Lake—or was it Mrs. Mincebottom?—speaking not to any one real person, but to an invisible audience, a full house. And because he was in such a good mood, she wasn't annoying him at all. Spencer was happy because he'd made a new friend.

It was two days after Mitch Sinclair had found Jasper and returned him. Spencer and Mitch had spent that afternoon together, and the next day, yesterday, as well.

He and Mitch had no plan for today, other than that expressed in their parting words the night before. “See you tomorrow,” Spencer had said. “I'll come over as early as I can,” Mitch had replied.

Spencer looked out the window toward Mitch's grandparents' house. He squinted at the lilacs, trying to see through them. No sign of Mitch.

Heavy gray clouds were blotting out the sun. There was a distinct feel and smell to the morning. He guessed that rain would soon set in.

Lolly continued to babble as she rearranged the cereal boxes on the counter. “We had a perfectly delightful time yesterday.”

Yesterday. Mitch had been with Spencer's family nearly every waking moment. Most of the day had been taken up with swimming and just hanging out.

When Spencer and Mitch played catch with Mitch's football, Spencer was impressed with how hard Mitch could throw. A couple of passes in particular were so like bullets they stung, and there was no way Spencer could hold on to them.

“I hope I can throw like you someday,” Spencer had yelled. He took his time chasing down the missed balls, stalling to shake the pain out of his hand.

“Sorry,” Mitch would shout. He eased up after a while, tossing soft, high-arcing lobs more than anything else.

When Spencer had caught several in a row, Mitch said, “Good job!”

Spencer smiled confidently. “Thanks!”

They talked about going fishing but never got around to it. They discussed building a raft; they never got around to this, either.

They climbed the maple tree in Spencer's yard, which made Spencer think of Jasper. “I'm really glad you found Jasper,” he said as he settled into a nice, comfortable crook.

“Yeah. No problem,” Mitch replied quickly and sharply. Surprisingly, and for no apparent reason, he jumped down from the tree right then, landing with a solid thud, even though they'd just climbed up. He started walking away.

Spencer was confused. Mitch had reacted almost as if his, Spencer's, comment had been some sort of slight or insult, rather than an expression of gratitude. Spencer hung from the lowest branch and dropped to the ground. He jogged to catch up with Mitch. “You all right?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Mitch grunted. “Of course. Let's swim some more.”

“Okay. I have to tell my mom, though.”

“Why do you always have to tell your mom if you go in the lake?”

Spencer hesitated. He had been feeling more grown-up and important than usual; being with a twelve-year-old had done this to him. But Mitch's question was draining him of the feeling. At home, his best friends were mostly nine or ten, and the twelve-year-olds he knew in the neighborhood were too cool for him, barely noticed him any longer. “Oh, she's just a worrier,” he decided to say, in as offhand a manner as possible.

At one point in the afternoon, when they were swimming, a round of Marco Polo that included Lolly morphed into a loud, silly romp, complete with splashing and dunking of one another and theatrical flailing about.

“Careful!” Spencer's mother cautioned from the shore. Her voice carried easily across the water and seemed to have come from a loudspeaker. She was always there, a constant, keeping tabs on anyone in the lake.

The one-word warning put a damper on their rowdiness. The three of them grew quiet. Their arms returned to their sides like umbrellas closing.

Spencer slapped at the water, then trailed his fingers through it. He fastened his eyes on the snakelike ripples he'd created, wondering what to say.

“My brother drowned,” said Lolly. “A long, long time ago, before I was even born.” She said this with some importance, but in her own voice.

Spencer nodded. “I was two. He was four. I don't even remember it.”

Mitch offered a jerky tip of his head. “Oh,” he said softly. “Sorry.” His eyes traveled around. Water. Sky. Hands. Sky. Water.

“That's why my mom's watching us,” said Spencer. He needed to say this, and felt better having done so.

A sympathetic “mmm . . . mmm” escaped from Mitch's closed lips. And then he said, “My parents are getting divorced.” He shrugged.