Smells Like Dog (2 page)

“Rumpold Smeller,” Homer corrected, suddenly interested in the conversation. “Duke Rumpold Smeller of Estonia became a very famous pirate. His treasure has never been found. Uncle Drake wants to be the first person to find it.”

Mr. Pudding groaned. Gwendolyn rolled her eyes.

“Eat your porridge, Homer,” Mrs. Pudding said, setting an overflowing bowl in front of him. Then she planted a smooch on the top of his curly-haired head.

Mr. Pudding motioned to his wife. Though she bent close to him and though he whispered in her ear, everyone
at the table could hear. “Why’d you give him so much? Don’t you think he’s getting kind of…
chunky
?”

She put her hands on her hips. “He’s a growing boy. He needs to eat.” Then she smiled sweetly at Homer.

Now, Mrs. Pudding loved all three of her children equally, like any good mother. But love can be expressed in different ways. For instance, Mrs. Pudding knew that her eldest child had a mind of her own, so she gave Gwendolyn lots of room to be an individual. Mrs. Pudding knew that her youngest child wanted to be helpful, so she gave Squeak lots of encouragement and praise. And Mrs. Pudding knew, and it broke her heart to know, that her middle child was friendless, so she gave Homer extra helpings of food and more kisses than anyone else in the house.

“Growing boy,” Mr. Pudding grumbled. “How’s he ever gonna fit in if he can’t run as fast as the other boys? If all he talks about is treasure hunting? It’s my brother’s fault, filling his head with all that nonsense.”

It’s not nonsense,
Homer thought, shoveling porridge into his mouth. So what if he didn’t fit in with the other boys? All they cared about was fighting and getting into trouble. He pulled the bowl closer. And so what if he was chunky? A true treasure hunter would never pass up the chance to eat a warm breakfast. Near starvation while
stranded on a deserted island had forced more than a few treasure hunters to eat their own toes.

“I like twesure,” Squeak said, porridge dribbling down his chin.

“I like treasure, too,” Homer said.

Mr. Pudding drummed his calloused fingers on the table. “Could we go just one meal without talking about finding treasure? Or stuffing dead animals? I don’t know where I went wrong with you children.”

Mrs. Pudding poured herself a cup of coffee, then added a ladle of fresh milk. “There’s nothing wrong with having
interests
.”

“
Interests?
” Mr. Pudding scratched the back of his weathered neck. “Stuffing dead animals and finding lost treasure—what kind of interests are those? Why can’t they be interested in goat farming? Is that too much to ask? Who’s gonna run this farm when I’m too old to run it?”

“Me,” Squeak said. “I like goats.”

As sweet as that sounded, it gave Mr. Pudding no peace of mind. Squeak was only five years old. Yesterday he had wanted to be a dragon-slayer.

“Goat farming’s honest, solid work,” Mr. Pudding said, dumping brown sugar on his porridge. “You children don’t understand the importance of honest, solid work.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes again. Then she sank deeper, until her bottom was hanging off the edge of her chair. Homer was bored by the conversation again. He tried to dig a hole in his porridge but the sides kept caving in—like trying to dig for treasure in mud.

Now, Mr. Pudding loved all three of his children equally, like any good father. But he didn’t believe that giving them extra room to be individuals, or giving extra encouragement or extra food and kisses, did much good. Solid work meant a solid life, which in turn meant a roof, and a bed, and food on the table. What could be more important than that?

Mr. Pudding pushed his empty bowl aside, then unrolled the Sunday
City Paper
. “Wouldn’t surprise me one bit if I started reading and found out that my brother had been robbed or had fallen into a manhole. I’m sure something terrible’s gonna happen to him. The City’s a terrible place.”

As he read, muttering and shaking his head, the children finished their breakfast. Gwendolyn carried her bowl to the sink, as did Homer.

“Mom, when I’m done cleaning the stalls, can I go read my new map?” Homer asked.

“Of course.” Mrs. Pudding kissed Homer’s soft cheek, then whispered in his ear. “I believe in you, Homer. I know you’ll find treasure one day.”

Homer looked into his mother’s brown eyes with their
big flecks of gold—like coins half-buried in the sand. When he became a famous treasure hunter, he’d give all the jewels to her so she could wear a different necklace every day and buy new dresses and shoes. And one of those fancy crowns that beauty queens wear.

But chores came first. He started for the kitchen door when Mr. Pudding waved the newspaper and hollered, “I knew it! I knew something terrible would happen to him!”

M
r. Pudding’s hands shook so violently that the paper slipped from his grip. “Page three,” he said. “It’s on page three.”

Mrs. Pudding found the alarming article and read it to her family. The article is included here. You may need to read it six or seven times before the horror fully sinks in.

Mrs. Pudding set the newspaper on the table. Choking silence filled the kitchen. Homer couldn’t breathe. He stood stunned, watching as a fat tear rolled down his father’s cheek.

“I told him not to go,” Mr. Pudding muttered.

Between her own tears, Mrs. Pudding tried to comfort her husband. Squeak started crying too, even though he didn’t understand what had happened.

Gwendolyn grabbed the newspaper. She stared at the
article. “That doesn’t make one bit of sense. Tortoises don’t eat people. That can’t be true.”

“Of course it’s true,” Mr. Pudding said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “It’s in the paper.”

“Poor, poor Drake,” Mrs. Pudding said. “He was such a nice man.”

Mr. Pudding’s sorrow swelled into outrage. “He was a dreamer. Searching all the time for things that aren’t real. Look where it got him.” He turned his reddened face to Homer. “Do you see, Homer? This is what happens to people who waste their lives looking for treasure. He’d be right fine if he’d stayed on the farm like he was supposed to. Do you see?”

But Homer didn’t see. The kitchen had turned blurry. Blackness closed in, bubbling and churning like the inside of a tortoise’s stomach. Homer backed into the corner. Uncle Drake was dead. DEAD. There’d be no more late nights talking about Egyptian tombs or Babylonian temples. No more trips to the map store to search through dusty boxes. No more decoder rings or metal detectors or titanium shovels under the Christmas tree. Homer slid down the wall and sat on the cold kitchen floor.
Why?
his mind cried.
Why, why, why?

“This is a terrible shock,” Mrs. Pudding told her husband, leading him toward the stairway. “You should go lie down. I’ll bring you some tea.”

“I don’t want any more talk about treasure,” Mr. Pudding said.

“Yes, dear.”

“No one in this family is going to become a treasure hunter. I won’t allow it. It’s too dangerous.”

“Yes, dear. Go lie down. Gwendolyn and Squeak will take care of the goats and the chickens.”

For the first time since anyone could remember, Mr. Pudding did not finish his morning chores. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, mumbling with each sad step.

“Mom,” Gwendolyn said. “Something’s not right. Tortoises don’t eat people. I know because there’s a picture of a stuffed tortoise in the Museum of Natural History’s guidebook and it says that it ate bugs and water plants.”

“We can talk about that later.” Mrs. Pudding pulled Squeak’s jacket off its hook and handed it to Gwendolyn. “Go feed the chickens and let the goats into the pasture. And keep an eye on your little brother.”

After the front door closed, Mrs. Pudding knelt beside Homer. Of all the people who would be saddened by Drake Pudding’s death, her middle child would grieve hardest. “I know,” she whispered, hugging Homer to her chest. “I know, I know, I know,” she cooed. “You loved your uncle with all your heart. And he loved you most of all.”

He had. Everyone knew that.

Homer may not have looked anything like his tall, athletic uncle. He may not have been a rugged outdoorsman or a born risk-taker. But in Homer, Uncle Drake had found a kindred soul—a dreamer who preferred the world of myths and mysteries to the real world.

Homer buried his face in his mother’s apron. “Why?” he asked. “Why did he have to die?”

Mrs. Pudding tightened her hug. “I don’t know, sweetie. I wish I knew. I wish I could make it go away, but I can’t. We’ll all just have to feel sad for a while. For a long while.”

And that’s when someone pounded on the kitchen door.

W
hen Mrs. Pudding opened the door, she found a short man dressed in a gray pinstriped suit standing on her porch. The man removed his black hat, revealing a shiny shaved head. “Good morning. My name is Mr. Twaddle. I have a delivery for the Pudding family. Are you Mrs. Pudding?”

“Yes. What sort of delivery?”

“This will explain everything, ma’am.” His face was taut with seriousness as he handed her a white envelope.

Mrs. Pudding opened the envelope and pulled out a letter. Then she read it aloud so Homer could hear.

“Here you go,” Mr. Twaddle said, holding out a pair of brown loafers.

Homer crept toward the door as his mother took the shoes. “What are these?” she asked.

“Drake Pudding’s worldly possessions.”

“A pair of shoes?”

“Yes. They were pulled off his feet before…” He grimaced. “Well, anyway, they are the only items that he left behind.” Mr. Twaddle plunked his hat on his head, then held out a clipboard. “If you would be so kind as to sign on the dotted line then I can be on my way. I’m very
busy, you see. And I’m sure you’d like some privacy on this sad occasion.” He tapped his two-toned shoe.

“Surely my brother-in-law left more than a pair of shoes? What about clothes or furniture? What about a bicycle or some dishes?”

“What about his maps and books?” Homer asked. He stood close to his mother. A faint scent of leather rose from his uncle’s shoes.

“I’m sorry to say he didn’t even leave his body. Just the shoes.” Mr. Twaddle pulled a shiny fountain pen from his jacket. “I have other Snooty and Snooty business to attend to. If you’ll sign, ma’am.”

Homer held back tears as the words
didn’t even leave his body
echoed off the kitchen walls. He stared at the loafers. They had no laces or ankle support or leech protection—definitely not the type of shoes his uncle would wear while hunting for treasure. He must have been out for a casual stroll in the park. Who would have thought that such a horrid thing could happen during a casual stroll?