How to Look for a Lost Dog (13 page)

“I feel that it's a good idea.”

“I'll call your father tonight.”

“Maybe you should call him in the afternoon,” I say, thinking of all the time my father has been spending at The Luck of the Irish lately. The earlier she talks to him, the less chance there is that he will have had a drink already.

“Deal,” says Mrs Kushel.

Three days later I arrive at school wearing the same dress I wore on school picture day. My hair is brushed and Uncle Weldon tied a ribbon in it.

When it's time for recess, my classmates leave the cafeteria and run to the playground, while Mrs Kushel and I walk back to our room. Waiting there is a woman wearing a blue wool jacket and matching blue wool trousers. Her face looks serious, but when she sees me she smiles.

“Rose,” says Mrs Kushel, “meet Ms Perlman. She's the writer. Ms Perlman, this is Rose Howard.”

Ms Perlman stretches out her hand and I know I'm supposed to shake it, which I do.

“Well,” says my teacher, “shall we get down to business?”

Ms Perlman opens a laptop computer. She starts asking me questions – questions about Rain, about when my father brought her home, about how we lost her and how we found her. And then more questions about what happened after we located her at Happy Tails. I give her a photo of Rain that Uncle Weldon took with his digital camera.

Ms Perlman looks at the photo, looks at me, looks at the photo again, and when she glances at me a second time I think I see tears in her eyes. “This is a very brave and selfless thing you're doing, Rose,” she says. “Giving up the dog you love so that her proper owners can be reunited with her.”

I nod. Maybe I'm supposed to say thank you.

Two, three, five, seven, eleven.

When I say nothing, Ms Perlman says to Mrs Kushel, “At the end of the article we'll include a contact number – a number at the
Hatford Herald
– that people can call if they have any information about Rain or the Hendersons. That way Rose's personal information will remain private.”

Mrs Kushel nods. “I'll explain that to Rose's fa—” She pauses. “I think I'll explain it to her uncle, when he picks her up today.”

Ms Perlman turns to me and smiles. “That about wraps things up. Thank you very much, Rose.”

“You're very welcome, Ms Perlman,” I reply, and stick out my hand so she can shake it again.

We are writing compositions in Mrs Kushel's class.

Christmas and Hanukkah are almost here, but when Mrs Kushel asked what we would like to write about, every single one of us said, “Hurricane Susan”. We are not finished thinking about our ruined homes and wrecked artwork, our washed-away bridges and lost dogs.

I don't know exactly what the subject of Parvani's composition is, but suddenly she shoots her hand in the air and says, “Mrs Kushel? What's that word you taught us that means to tear something down?”

Mrs Kushel puts on her thoughtful face and taps her pencil against her fingers. “Raze?” she suggests after a moment.

“Yes!” exclaims Parvani. And then she can't help herself. She jumps out of her seat, runs to my desk, and cries, “Rose, I thought of a triple homonym – ‘raze', ‘raise' and ‘rays'!”

I have thought of that triple homonym before, but I know this is not the time to mention it. Instead, this is the time for the feeling of friendliness. Since a friend would probably not say, “I already thought of that,” I grin at Parvani and exclaim, “That's a great one!” I put enthusiasm into my voice.

Parvani places her palm in the air. “High-five,” she says.

I give her a high five, and then we go back to our compositions. We are both smiling.

“What is this?” My father is asking the question. (This is not when he makes a mistake with pronouns.) He's holding out a newspaper.

Uncle Weldon has just dropped me off after school, and I'm walking through the front door, Rain at my side because she's been waiting for me on the porch.

“It's a newspaper,” I say.

My father's face is hard and there's no smile on it. “Of course it's a
news
paper,” he replies. He throws it at my feet. “Sam Diamond gave it to me this morning. He said there was something in it that I would want to see. He was right. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

I feel confused, but more than that, I feel frightened.

“No,” I say.

My father picks the paper up and turns the pages so fiercely that they rip in his hands. He turns the pages three times and then he stops and shoves one of them at me. “What is this?”

It's the second time he's asked that question.

I look at the page. I see a picture of Rain. And an article – a long one – titled, “A Girl's Brave Search”. The author of the article is Sheila Perlman.

“It's the article Mrs Kushel called you about,” I tell my father.

“Nobody called me about any article.”

I hand the paper back to him. “Mrs Kushel did.”

My father pauses for a long time and his eyes wander around the room. I know he's suddenly remembering the afternoon when he came home from The Luck of the Irish and the phone rang. He picked it up and said hello, and then he frowned and the next thing he said was, “What did Rose do? Is she in trouble again?” He put his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to me, “It's Mrs Kushel.”

“Okay,” I said.

My father reached for the remote control and aimed it at the television. He pressed the mute button and flicked silently through channels. Every now and then he said “Unh” or “Uh-huh” into the phone. Eventually, he hung up. “What did you tell your teacher about Rain for?” he asked me before he turned the volume back on.

Now my father shakes his head. “This is our private business, Rose. Our private family business. And now it's all over the paper. Everyone in the county will read this. I look like a thief.”

I back away. Rain backs away too. She does not take her eyes off my father. “Talk to Uncle Weldon,” I say. I know my uncle hasn't had time to return to his office yet, but I don't want my father to call Mrs Kushel and yell at her. “I need to take Rain for a walk,” I add. “Let's call Uncle Weldon when I get back.”

I hustle Rain outside and we walk up and down the street until I think Uncle Weldon is at his desk at work. Then we cross the planks into our yard again.

My father is sitting at the kitchen table, doing nothing. I pick up the phone and dial Uncle Weldon's number. I tell him what's happened and he says, “Let me speak to your father, please.”

I feel a little mad at my father now, so I stand by the table, staring at him and listening to his end of the conversation. At first he doesn't say much, but then he shouts, “
Okay!
I won't phone anyone. I won't make any trouble.” He hangs up without saying goodbye to Uncle Weldon. Then he looks at me. “Sit down, Rose.”

I don't want to sit near my father. “Where?” I say.

My father kicks a chair away from the table. “Right there.”

I perch on the edge of the chair.

“Why are you doing this, Rose? Why are you looking for Rain's owners? She was my gift to you. My
gift
. Not to mention that you got her twice. Once from me and once from the shelter. You should count your lucky stars.”

“But if you hadn't let Rain out during a superstorm,” I say, “I wouldn't have had to get her back.” I look down at Rain, then up at my father again. “Why did you let her outside during the storm?”

“Rose, for the love of Pete.” I see colour rising in my father's face.

“But why did you? Rain had never been outside during a storm before. Not by herself.”

When my father speaks again his voice is very low, but not in a gentle way like when Mrs Kushel reads to our class. It's a different kind of low. “You should count your lucky stars and your blessings, Rose. You have your frickin' dog back.”

This is not logical. “I wouldn't have had to get her back if you hadn't let her out. Why did you let her out?”

My father slams his hand down on the table so suddenly and so hard that Rain and I jump. “Look, you little brat. I brought that home for you.” He points to Rain. “I was trying to do something nice.”

“Rain is a ‘she',” I inform him, “not a ‘that'.”

My father gets to his feet and stands over me.

“What did you say?” my father asks.

I shake my head. He's so much bigger than I am. I hadn't noticed. I hadn't noticed how thick and hard his hands are, how wide his shoulders are.

Two, three, five, seven.

“Answer me,” my father says in that same low voice.

I slip off the edge of my chair and sidestep towards my bedroom.

“Come here.”

“No.”

“All right.” My father takes two giant steps towards me, his arm raised, his fingers clenched into a fist. I can see each white knuckle, as hard as a stone.

He's never raised his fist to me. Not once that I remember.

This is because of not wanting to be the kind of father that his father was.

I'm looking from my bedroom door to the front door, trying to decide which one is closer, when a blur of blonde fur hurtles into the air and leaps against my father's chest, growling.

“Rain!” I cry.

She lands on the floor and gets ready to spring again, but before she can, my father lowers his fist. He brings it down on Rain's back and she lurches sideways and crashes into the legs of the table. I hear a crunch, and Rain's yelp of fear and pain.

I turn and fling myself beneath the table so fast I skin my knees on the floorboards. I gather Rain into my arms and slide us under the very centre of the table. My father reaches for us and I scoot us away from his grasp, again and again, like we are targets in a game.

“Don't touch her!” I cry. “Do not touch her, do not hurt her.”

I won't let go of Rain. After a few moments the hand disappears. I hear footsteps crossing the room to the front door. The knob begins to turn, then stops. I slide forward a few inches and peer out from under the table.

“If you say one word about this to anyone, Rose –
one word
—” My father is breathing heavily. He has to pause before he can continue speaking. “If you say one word to Weldon, to Mrs Kushel—” His gaze drifts to Rain who, although she's trembling, has also poked her head out from under the table. He glares at her. He doesn't finish his sentence. He doesn't have to. I slide Rain behind me so that she's out of his sight.

My father grabs his keys and slams the front door behind him. I hold Rain for a long time. We're breathing heavily too. My breath comes in gasps, and Rain pants and drools.

When I hear Sam Diamond's car start up, I crawl out from under the table. I pull Rain after me and we sit on the couch. I pat her whole body, over and over. Nothing seems to hurt her. I make her walk across the floor.

She doesn't limp.

Later I feed Rain her dinner. I walk her earlier than usual, even though this is an unwelcome change in our schedule, and then I close her in my room.

I wonder how I'll be able to protect her when I'm at school.

I'm still up when my father comes home. I'm sitting in the living room with the TV on.

My father stands before me and says, “I'm sorry, Rose. It won't happen again.”

I look into his eyes. I don't know how to read what I see there, so I say nothing.

“Really,” my father continues. “I'm very sorry. Very, very sorry.”

“Okay,” I say.

This may be a sincere apology.

Time passes in school the way it always does. Mrs Kushel changes the bulletin board from
holidays
to
we are all artists!
Some of the snow melts and for a while the playground is muddy and wet instead of snowy and wet. The next holiday will be Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.

On a morning that is dark and rainy and chilly, Mrs Leibler walks me to our classroom as usual. But something that is not usual is that Mrs Kushel takes me to the back of the room as soon as I have hung up my coat and put my things in my desk.

“I want to speak with you privately, Rose,” she says.

I wonder if I have done something that she and Mrs Leibler will write about in the weekly note to my father.

“Okay,” I say, and think about homonyms.
Tied
and
tide
is a new one.

“I wanted to let you know that the newspaper got a call about Rain yesterday.”

Tied, tide. Died, dyed.

“Are you listening to me, Rose?”

“Yes.”

“A man named Jason Henderson phoned. He said someone had just sent him the article and that Rain is his family's dog. The newspaper put him in touch with Happy Tails, and Mrs Caporale is certain that he and his family are Rain's original owners. All their information matches up with the information from Rain's chip. Also, they have lots of photos of themselves with Rain.”

Mrs Kushel pauses and looks at me seriously. “I don't know whether this is good news for you or bad news.”

“The article worked,” I say.

“Yes, it did. Would you like to know how Rain got separated from the Hendersons?”

“Yes.”

“They always took her collar off when she was in the house so that it wouldn't get snagged on anything. One day the Hendersons went out and left Rain at home alone. A neighbour dropped by to leave something in their kitchen and Rain slipped outside without her collar. The neighbour didn't see her leave, so it was several hours before anyone knew she was missing. This happened two days before your father found her, Rose.”