Dog Whisperer (16 page)

Wow. “I can barely sing at all,” Emily said. “Or, anyway, not really on key.”

Her mother shrugged. “Just one of those things, I guess.”

Maybe her birth father had been tone-deaf. But, she finally knew something true, and something
real
, about her past.

“Well,” her mother said. “It's a start, right?”

Yes, it definitely was.

*   *   *

During study hall the next day, she told Karen, and her friends Harriet and Florence, about the tiny little nugget of information she had learned about her birth mother. Then, because it was too hard to keep so many secrets—especially from her friends—she told them about everything else that had been going on lately, too, since she could now see
ghosts
, on top of everything else.

“Zack is amazing,” Florence said. “I'm not even sure if Tabitha knows her name.”

Emily laughed, because Florence's dog, who was a flaky little spaniel mix,
did
always seem to have trouble understanding even the most basic things, like “Sit” or “Come.”

“So, okay, if ghosts are real,” Harriet said, “does that mean that vampires are real, too?”

“No,” Emily said, with great authority. “Werewolves and leprechauns are real, but vampires and sprites and monsters are all fake.”

Her friends looked very impressed.

“Wow,” Florence said. “You know that for sure?”

Emily was tempted to play it out, and keep teasing them, but decided that it might be mean. “No,” she said. “I was just kidding around.”

Harriet thought about that. “So, vampires
could
be real.”

Karen shook her head. “I hope not. My mother says that most of the stuff about vampires totally objectifies women and everything.”

Which was one reason why Emily's mother and Karen's mother got along.

“What about female vampires?” Harriet asked logically.

Karen shrugged. “I don't know, I'll have to ask her. Maybe they're okay?”

This was definitely a dumb conversation, and Emily laughed. “If vampires were real, wouldn't they
all
be bad, one way or another? Like, maybe not sexist and stuff, but just plain old
evil
?”

Florence pretended to look stern. “That's very vampirist of you.”

“Totally politically incorrect,” Karen agreed.

Somewhere, there probably
was
a group devoted to protecting the reputations of vampires. “If vampires really existed, we'd have a bunch of people yelling at each other on television all the time about whether they're good, or bad, and how anyone who disagrees with them is even
more
bad,” she said. As a political scientist, her mother was very big on the concept that disagreeing with an idea didn't mean that you had to dislike the
person
who happened to suggest it.

Harriet looked around uneasily. “Well, I hope that Mr. Griswold is the
only
ghost around, and that none of those other things are real. Because if they are real, I'm going to have about seven hundred nightmares tonight.”

If it turned out that there were a whole bunch of werewolves and vampires and monsters hanging around on Earth, looking for trouble, Emily was going to have nightmares, too.

“Are you girls studying?” their teacher asked, from the front of the room.

All four of them nodded innocently, and focused down on their books—none of which were even open.

Florence flipped to the third chapter in their Spanish book, to start doing her homework. “One thing's for sure,” she whispered. “Your life is really
exciting
these days, Emily.”

Boy, was it ever!

 

16

Emily took the bus home after school, and went straight into the Mini-Mart to let Cyril know that she was going home to get Zack first, and would bring him right back with her.

And, mostly, that was exactly what she did. She took the time to put on a fleece sweatshirt, since the air was definitely starting to feel like autumn. She also patted Josephine for a little while, changed the water in her dish, and fed her.

Then, since she was getting nonstop images of Zack's dish
overflowing
with food, she fed him, too. Usually, he only had a couple of dog biscuits when she got home from school, and didn't eat supper until about six, but apparently, he was extra-hungry today.

Of course, once they got down to the Mini-Mart, Cyril was bound to give Zack all sorts of treats, but Emily assumed that he would have no trouble gobbling them down.

Zack barked happily, so she assumed that he knew precisely what she was thinking—and liked the idea. He finished his food, and then went out to stand by the back door.

“Okay,” she said to Josephine, giving her one last pat on the head. “Be a good girl.”

In return, she got a flash of a blur of fur racing through every room in the house, leaving behind a path of total destruction. Shredded sofa cushions and pillows, broken glasses and dishes, silverware strewn across the kitchen floor, books knocked off every shelf of
every
bookcase, framed photos and paintings falling off the walls—the house was pretty much
trashed
.

Then, she could have sworn she heard—or, no,
sensed
—a really high-pitched sound that was apparently cat laughter. Cat
cackling
, actually.

Reading Josephine's mind was always a little bit unsettling.

Zack must have also tuned in, because he barked very, very sharply—and Emily was pretty sure she sensed more gales of cat laughter.

“Maybe you could just like, take a nice nap on the windowsill in the sun,” Emily said.

All she got back was a sound that might be a cat snicker.

Before going outside, Emily checked all of the windows, to make sure that they were closed. Since Josephine was obviously feeling mischievous today, Emily wouldn't put it past her to sneak out and follow them. Granted, Josephine already seemed to be asleep on the couch—but, she might be faking it.

The leaves were starting to turn, and fall was definitely coming. Emily liked fall, for lots of reasons, including the fact that the air smelled extra-clean and sharp. But, it had started raining while she was in the house, and so, she and Zack walked along more quickly than they would have otherwise.

Emily had assumed that she would sit outside at the picnic table, and listen to people's stories for a couple of hours while she was waiting for her father to come and pick her up. But, since it was raining even harder now, that idea seemed much less appealing.

Before opening the front door of the store, Emily pictured Zack shaking energetically, so that he would be a little less wet when they went inside—and he cooperatively did just that. Cyril was waiting for them with an old beach towel, and Emily used it to dry Zack off even more, making sure to spend extra time on his paws, in case someone came in whom he really liked and felt like jumping up to greet.

When she was finished, she hung the towel up neatly on a small coatrack, which was right next to the entrance.

Cyril had set up a card table with a new sketch pad, some pens and colored pencils, a small carton of cold orange juice, a wooden bowl with pretzels, and a dish of M&M's. Seeing all of that made her feel as though maybe she wasn't imposing as much as she had been afraid she might be, since it looked as though he
liked
the idea of babysitting for an afternoon.

So, she sat down, and drew quietly, and sipped juice. Zack slept under the table, sprawled across her feet—which made her sneakers feel even more wet, but she didn't mind at all.

Mostly, she drew the activity in the store—customers coming in and out, people standing in small clumps to chat briefly, Mr. Washburn—who regularly hung out at the store—lounging by the ice cream freezer as he read the latest edition of the
Bailey's Cove Bugle
, and Cyril hustling around to locate obscure items on various shelves, and ringing up people's purchases, while he made a near-constant stream of offbeat comments and observations. Every so often, he would pause to check on her, and she would assure him that she was fine and ask if he needed any help, and he would say, no, no, it's under control.

The steady stream of customers slowed down as the rain outside came down harder.

“What are you drawing?” Cyril asked, after he wiped down various display cases, and straightened a few shelves.

Emily couldn't help feeling shy. She didn't even always show her parents her drawings, especially if they didn't come out very well. “Nothing special. Just, you know,
stuff.
”

“Is it okay if I look?” he asked.

She was afraid that he wouldn't like them, but she handed the sketchbook to him. He sat down across the table from her, and took his time going through the pad, paying close attention to each and every sketch.

“These are
very
good, Emily,” he said.

Well, grown-ups always said things like that, to be nice. She shrugged self-consciously. “Thank you. I was just practicing.”

“They're absolutely
spiffy
,” he said. “Would it be all right if I keep this one?”

She leaned over and saw that he had picked out a sketch she had done of him standing behind the cash register, gesturing with both hands and looking as though he was in the middle of a long and
opinionated
conversation. “Sure,” she said, genuinely surprised. “You, um, like it?”

He nodded, and went down one of the aisles to poke through a shelf. He returned with a new black picture frame.

“I'm going to hang it right up,” he said, “so that everyone will be able to see it, but I want you to sign it, first.”

Oh, dear. “But, it's not finished,” she said uncomfortably. “There's a lot more I should do, to make it better.”

He shook his head. “It's perfect, just the way it is.”

She felt shy, but carefully wrote her name and the date on the bottom right-hand corner of the page.

“There,” he said, looking pleased. “Now, when you're famous someday, I'll already own one of your early works, and everyone will be jealous.”

Not that Emily wanted to be famous, particularly, but the idea of being a professional artist was definitely appealing.

Since she was curious, she decided to ask a sort of personal question. “You like children, sir?” she said. “I mean, you know, except for Bobby.”

“
Bobby
,” Cyril said, and shook his head. “I'm afraid he's a shifty-eyed, squinty little punk.”

Right. Whatever. “Okay, but other than that, you like children?” Emily asked.

Cyril nodded. “My wife and I wanted children more than I can tell you. But then, she got sick, and—” His eyes looked distant and sad. “Well. Things don't always work out the way you hope they will.”

She had never met Cyril's wife, who had died at least twenty years ago, but people in town always said really complimentary things about her. “I've heard she was a really great person,” Emily said, tentatively.

Cyril nodded. “You would have liked her. And pretty as a picture? You bet! I never stopped being thankful that she was willing to marry me.” He sighed, and took out his wallet, to look at a photograph, which he showed her.

“Wow. She was beautiful,” Emily said. And she really
was
. In the photo, she looked like a model.

“I'll never stop missing her,” Cyril said, putting his wallet away. “And it was a great loss for both of us, that we weren't able to have a child. My friend Sam used to drag me along when he took his son fishing, or to ballgames, or I'd go over to the house to have supper, and—well, I enjoyed every minute.”

Sam. Emily sat up straight. “You mean, Mr. Griswold?”

Cyril nodded, looking sad again. “Not a day goes by that I don't miss him, too.” He glanced over. “You know about what happened?”

Boy, did she ever. Emily nodded back.

“Terrible loss,” Cyril said. “I'll never get over that one, either.”

Emily nodded, letting a respectful silence pass. “So, you used to be friends with Mrs. Griswold?” she asked.

Cyril nodded. “You bet. Abigail was always a handful, but she was so full of energy, I figured she'd be governor someday.” He grinned. “Or maybe take over a small country somewhere.”

That had to be a joke, so Emily laughed.

“But, after it happened, she pushed
everyone
away,” he said. “Even Hank, their son. And, after a while—well, people make their choices. Me, I didn't have any patience for it.”

“Do you think the accident was her fault?” Emily asked.

Cyril shook his head. “People say some right foolish things about that night, but, no. There's a reason they call them
accidents
.”

For some reason, that made Emily think of her birth mother—who sang with a glorious voice. She had gotten pregnant
by accident
, and maybe, after that, she had just tried to make the best decisions possible. Maybe she had made some mistakes—but, maybe that was okay.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Cyril looked at her curiously. “What?”

“I was just thinking,” Emily said. Then, she changed the subject. “Are you always going to be mad at Bobby?”

Cyril frowned. “The criminal strain runs deep in his blood.”

Sometimes, Emily thought that his whole attitude towards Bobby—and Bobby's entire family—was a complete put-on, but she wasn't always sure. “I think he's reformed,” she said. “Left his, you know,
bad ways
in the past. Plus, of course, he's my friend, and so, it really matters to me.”

Cyril moved his jaw. “Tell you what,” he said, after a long pause. “I'll move the line he has to stand behind closer to the store.”