The Summer of Riley (4 page)

She saw me and said, “Hello, William.”

“Hi.” I glanced past her to the truck, the kind with the mesh in back, parked in our driveway.

“I’m Officer Dobbs and this is Officer Zemach,” the man said. “We’re from animal control. May we come in?”

“Please.” Dad moved aside.

They stepped into the living room.

“Thanks.” They followed Mom and Dad to the kitchen, and I trailed behind.

“How’s it going, young man?” Officer Dobbs asked over his shoulder.

“Fine,” I muttered, which is what you say even when things are as bad as they can possibly be. Like now.

As soon as we went into the kitchen, Officer Zemach said, “Uh-oh, something’s burning.” But Mom didn’t seem to hear.

Dad took two extra cups from the cupboard.

“I suppose it’s about the dog?” he asked, and Officer Dobbs nodded.

“‘Fraid so.” He jerked his head in the direction of Peachie’s house, as if Dad might not know exactly what he was talking about. “Mrs. Peachwood has lodged a complaint. Seems like your dog’s been after her horse.” He stroked his skinny little mustache with one finger.

“My word,” Dad said. “She didn’t waste much time.”

“We happened to be in Monk’s Hill when we got the call.” Officer Dobbs sounded apologetic for getting here so fast.

“Do you want to check that oven, Mrs. Halston?” Officer Zemach said in a low voice to Mom. “Smells like the whole house could go up in flames any minute.”

Mom walked across the kitchen and turned the knob on the oven, but she didn’t take out whatever was in there.

“What exactly is it you want us to do about the dog?” Dad asked. “The Humane Society people should have told my son about this problem before they sold it to him.” He sounded very aristocratic.

“Probably they didn’t know,” Officer Zemach said mildly.

“We thought he was the perfect dog,” Mom whispered.

Upstairs Riley whined and scratched at my bedroom door.

Officer Dobbs stroked his mustache some more. “It’s not what we
want
to do about the dog, Mr. Halston. It’s what we have to do after that kind of complaint.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, son. You haven’t had him that long, have you?”

“Long enough,” I muttered.

“That’s just as well,” he said.

That suffocating feeling was in my chest again, as
if somebody were sitting on me, squeezing my air out.

“We have to take him,” the officer said.

I wet my lips. “Where?”

“Back to Portland. To the animal shelter.”

“You mean, return him?” It sounded like Christmas when you get something too big or too small or too disgusting and you have to take it back for an exchange. But I didn’t want an exchange.

“That’s right. Return him.”

It was Dad who asked the next question. I guess it’s always better to know. That’s what they say, but I’m never sure. I might have been able to imagine Riley there, being taken care of, given to somebody who lived far away from horses, maybe somebody in Portland, right in the middle of the city. “What will they do with him?” Dad asked.

“Well.” The two officers exchanged glances. “We’ll have to wait and see. There’s a law, you know. I’m afraid he might have to be put to sleep.”

“Killed.”
The word blasted out of me. “No! You don’t mean that!”

Officer Zemach’s eyes were kind. “I’m sorry, William. A dog that chases livestock in this state— well, he has to be destroyed. That’s the law, and there’s no getting away from it.”

“We were planning on taking him to obedience school or finding a dog psychiatrist,” Mom said faintly. “Couldn’t we give that a try? We could watch him every minute and then see if dog classes or a psychiatrist could help him. He’s such a nice dog in every other way.”

The two officers looked at each other. “I’m afraid we have to take him right now.”

All kinds of thoughts jumped through my head. No way. I wouldn’t let them take him. He was my dog. I’d stand in front of my door the way Peachie had stood in front of the barn. Or I’d go right now, and pretend to get him and we’d both jump out of the window, drop onto the roof. We’d run. We’d hide. Grace would help us. She liked Riley even if she was mad at him. She wouldn’t want him killed.

“I’ll get him,” Dad said. “I don’t want my son to have to bring him down. Where’s his leash, William?”

“No place!” I shouted.

“It’s by the door,” Mom said in a defeated kind of way.

“You can’t have him,” I told Dad. “You don’t even know him. He’s mine. I’m—”

“William,” Dad said. “There’s no argument about this. I wish there were.”

I blocked the bottom of the stairs. “You’re not my dad anymore. You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Move, son. The dog has to go.”

He pushed past me and I went up after him, dragging on the back of his shirt. “Please, Dad. Please, no.”

He opened the bedroom door and Riley came bounding out, crazy with joy, rushing past Dad to me, almost knocking me backward down the stairs, he was so happy to see me.

I grabbed him around the neck and tried not to let Dad clip the leash onto his collar. “No. No.” I kept pushing his hand away.

“Stop it, William.” Dad was angry now.

Officer Dobbs was coming up the stairs with Mom behind him. “Easy, son,” he said. “Easy.”

“Doesn’t he even get a trial?” I shouted. “This is supposed to be America.”

I rushed into my room, banged the door, locked it, and crawled under my bed. I was crying in big, noisy gulps.

Even though I put my hands over my ears, I heard Riley whine. I heard the doors of the truck slam, heard the wheels crunch down the driveway. I didn’t hear our creaky gate close. They’d left it open. Well, we didn’t need to worry about that anymore.

M
om came up and knocked on my door. “Come down, sweetie, and eat with us,” she called. “Dad has to go pretty soon.”

When she came up the second time, I called, “Okay. Okay. I’m coming.”

I put a clean T-shirt on and went down.

Mom had fixed a salad and macaroni and cheese, the expensive kind you fix in the oven that has real Parmesan in the package.

Dad sat in the chair that used to be his and I sat in mine. I tried not to think of Riley not being on the rug beside me. I let my arm droop down. That’s what I did when he was there, and he’d lick my hand and lick and lick.

I swallowed and pushed my plate away.

“I’m wondering,” Mom said. “Could we appeal? Legally, I mean. Should we get a lawyer?”

I sat straight up. “Appeal? That’s a great idea.”

“After all,” Mom said, “Riley didn’t bite the Sultan. Surely he doesn’t have to be put to sleep for that. Shouldn’t it be only if he attacks?”

I nodded hard. “And he didn’t attack. We should definitely appeal.”

Dad wasn’t eating much either. Maybe he’d meant it when he said he was sorry. Or maybe Phoebe’s some great cook and he doesn’t like Mom’s kind of macaroni and cheese anymore.

“The law in Oregon says chasing is enough,” he said.

“But that’s unfair. That’s a rotten unfair law.” I tried to hold it back, but a big sob just burped right out of me.

Mom touched my glass. “At least drink your milk, William,” she said gently.

I took a sip. “What if Peachie took back her complaint? What if she’s sorry now?” I crumpled my napkin and stood up. “I bet she is. Wouldn’t it be a good idea if I went over and talked to her? If she took away her complaint, they’d probably let him come home.”

“I don’t know,” Mom said. “But it’s worth a. try.”

“Do you want us to come with you?” Dad asked. “It won’t be easy, you know, William. She must have
been awfully angry to call the animal-control people. And she probably still is.”

“I’ll go myself,” I said. “Riley’s my dog. I’m the one who let him get away.”

I ran upstairs to get my shoes, which I’d kicked off. There was that awful window. If only I hadn’t opened it.

It was while I was tying my laces that I had a great idea. I opened my keeper box and took out my most recent bank statement, the kind I get once a month. I’ve been putting birthday money and chore money in the Monk’s Hill Savings and Loan for ages, and the statement said I had $348.75. What if …?

I folded the statement small and put it in the pocket of my jeans.

At the bend of the stairs I slowed, then stopped as I heard the angry voices.

“Just think it through,” Dad was saying in that unfriendly way he has sometimes with Mom. I’ve noticed Dad and Mom talk to each other nicer when I’m around. It’s a kind of playacting. But when it’s just them, it’s totally different.

“You shouldn’t be encouraging him on this,” Dad was saying. “An appeal isn’t going to work. And even if it did, what then? You’d get the dog and you’d have
the same problem all over again. This is just something William has to accept.”

“He’s had to accept too much lately,” Mom said. “And hope is good.”

“Not false hope,” Dad said in his snooty way.

I heard her draw in a deep breath. “No, not false hope. I’ve had plenty of that myself.”

I knew she was talking about Dad at the beginning, and how she’d hoped they’d get back together.

And now, with Phoebe, I guess neither of us even had false hope.

“How long do you think they’ll keep the dog before …?” Mom was asking Dad.

“Five days,” Dad said. “I asked them.”

I held tight to the banister. Five days! I had to get Peachie to stop this.

I called her first from Mom’s bedroom phone so they wouldn’t hear.

“Peachie? This is William. May I come over and talk to you?”

There was a pause on the other end. I could hear
Jeopardy
on her TV. “If you’re coming to ask me to drop those charges, William, you’re wasting your time. I’m sorry. I did what I had to do.”

“May I come anyway?”

Another pause.

“They broke Roger Maris’s record for the most home runs in a single season,” the
Jeopardy
guy was saying.

I knew the question. Peachie would, too. She loves baseball.

The silence stretched and stretched.

“All right,” she said at last. “But don’t expect too much of me.”

“I won’t.” Which, of course, was a lie.

“I called Peachie,” I told Mom. “And it’s okay for me to go.”

It was just the time between day and dark.

A big, empty logging truck blasted its horn as it roared by on its way home.

I smoothed my hair the way Dad does and rang Peachie’s doorbell.

“It’s open. Come on in, William,” Peachie called.

She switched off the TV and we sat together on her couch. There are so many horse pictures and framed awards and blue ribbons hanging on her living room wall that you can hardly see the faded flowered wallpaper. There’s a picture of her and Woodie with the Sultan in between them. There’s a huge oil
painting of the Sultan—just his head. He was looking right at us as we sat, with his long shy face and soft eyes, a wreath of flowers around his neck. Peachie had told me once that it was painted from a photo of him after he won at Del Mar. The Sultan didn’t look stuck on himself at all. Anybody would love that horse.

I asked about him.

“He’s all right. Nervous. If your dog had gotten into the barn with him today, I’d have a dead horse out there.”

“Peachie,” I began. My voice was so gravelly I had to stop and give a little cough. “Peachie, I’m awfully sorry about what Riley did. But I want to tell you honestly, and I’m not just saying this because Riley is my dog … I mean was …” I needed another small cough before I could go on. “I don’t think Riley wanted to hurt the Sultan.” I held one of her couch cushions against my stomach to help me stop shaking. It was a needlepoint pillow, and I glanced down at it and quickly put it back on the couch beside me. In red and blue stitches it said, “Who says a dog is a man’s best friend?” There were two needlepointed horses’ heads under the words. Maybe Peachie had even made it.

Everything I’d planned to say leaped right out of my head.

“Go get yourself a glass of water, William,” Peachie said.

I thought maybe I’d just go home, but I couldn’t. This was for Riley.

I started again. “The thing is, Peachie, I think Riley wanted to play. You saw the way he looked at the barn door, with his tail wagging and everything. Maybe back sometime when he was a puppy, he had a friend who had a horse. And maybe they ran races together and played tag, stuff like that.”

Peachie watched me from the couch and the picture of the Sultan of Kaboor watched me from the wall. I poked my finger in and out of a hole in the knee of my jeans, hoping for some kind of inspiration. Peachie had pushed her rollaway table to the side. There was an empty plate and glass on it and another plate that held Mom’s brownies. She reached over and offered the brownie plate to me.

“They’re very good,” she said.

“I know. Betty Crocker double chocolate chocolate chip,” I said. I took a bite, managed to swallow it, and said, “I bet if we got Riley back and really … really introduced him to the Sultan and let the
Sultan see what a nice dog he is …” I stopped because Peachie was shaking her head.

“I’m sorry, William. A dog that chases livestock is not welcome in this neighborhood. Do you remember what happened to that poor man from Riverton up at Points Pass?”

I remembered, but I just hung my head. A dog had gotten into a pasture and chased a cow. The cow ran right through a barbed-wire fence onto the road, and a man in a Cadillac saw it coming, but too late. He tried to swerve, but hit the cow and then a tree, and by the time the paramedics got to them, the cow and the driver were both dead.

“Riley’s not like that,” I said. I was desperate. “He’s really, really …” I fished in my pocket. “Look, Peachie. I want to show you this. I’ve got all this money in the bank and I want you to have it … I’ll ride in and take it all out tomorrow. It’s for your pain and suffering. And for Doctor Webb’s visit. Also, I’m having a birthday in October and I’ll have another fifty dollars….”

Peachie touched my cheek with her fingers. “Sweet William,” she said. “Remember how I used to call you that when you were little?”