Smells Like Dog (9 page)

Losing his balance, Homer landed face-first in the stairwell that connected the library’s main floor to its upper floor. No one yelled, “Who’s there?”, which was a huge relief. His face throbbed, but his nose didn’t seem broken. Cautiously, he stood. Then he pulled the flashlight from his pocket and clicked it on.

The moment Homer entered the main room of the Milkydale Public Library, his fear faded. You see, the library was one of the few places where Homer felt completely at ease, where he was supposed to do the exact thing that he loved doing best of all. In a library, people who
don’t
read are considered to be the weird ones.

Anyone who loves books the way Homer does, loves libraries, too. It doesn’t matter if the library has fancy red leather chairs and gold-plated shelves that reach to a vaulted ceiling, or if the library has splintery wooden benches and shelves made of old milk crates. It’s the scent that sets the book lover at ease. It’s better than grandma’s
perfume, or freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, or even toast. It’s a scent derived from paper, mildew, dust, and human endeavors. The oldest books smell best of all, ripened by time like expensive goat cheese.

But there was no time to stand around enjoying the aroma. The coin mystery needed to be solved!

Homer knew exactly where to find books about coins but just as he started across the worn carpet, someone knocked on the front door. He whipped the flashlight around. Carlotta pressed her face against the door’s oval window.

“What are you doing here?” Homer asked after unlocking and opening the door.

“You forgot your dog,” she said, squeezing her way in. Dog followed, his velvety ears swaying with each step. “I was petting him and then you disappeared into the shadows. He started walking around in circles. He looked so sad. What’s the matter with him?”

“He can’t smell. I guess if he can’t see me, he doesn’t know how to find me,” Homer realized. He felt real bad about forgetting Dog. He still wasn’t used to having something to look after. He reached down and patted Dog’s head. Next time they went for a walk, he’d be sure to bring a leash. “Sorry, boy.” Dog wagged his short tail.

“Say, whatcha doing in here?” Carlotta closed the
front door. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here at night. You might get in trouble.”

“Thanks for bringing me my dog. You can go home now.”

“But I want to know what you’re doing.” She raised her eyebrows. “Besides, I don’t want to walk home by myself.”

Homer sighed. It looked like he was stuck with her. “I’ve got some work to do so you’ll have to wait until I’m done. Then I’ll walk you home.”

“Are you working on your report?”

“Uh, yeah,” Homer lied.

He wandered over to the reference section and ran his flashlight’s beam along the shelves. Then he tucked the flashlight under his arm and pulled out an oversize book called
Coins of the World
by I. M. Flump. He sat on the floor, set the heavy book in his lap, and opened to the last section, called “Rare and Unusual,” which seemed like a good place to begin.

“The library’s creepy at night,” Carlotta said, sitting next to him. “I don’t like it. Let’s go home.”

“I gotta find something,” Homer said. Dog pushed his way under the coin book, draping his long body across Homer’s legs. Homer balanced the book on Dog’s back. His gaze flew across page after page, searching for anything that resembled the coin in his pocket.

Something on the upper floor made a creaking noise.

“Do you think this place has ghosts?” Carlotta pressed closer to Homer. A soapy scent drifted from her hair.

“Ghosts?” Homer looked up. Treasures often came with ghostly companions—previous owners who refused to leave their worldly goods behind. Maybe books came with ghosts, too. A tree branch rapped against the window. Both Homer and Carlotta held their breaths. Then, Homer’s flashlight went dark. Carlotta grabbed his arm.

“What happened?” she whispered.

Homer shook the flashlight. “The battery’s dead.” Even though moonlight trickled in through the library windows, it wasn’t enough for Homer to read by. And he needed to read, as quickly as possible, before his parents noticed that he was gone. After sliding Dog off his lap, he hurried to Mr. Silverstein’s desk. The power went out all the time in Milkydale, especially during winter storms, so everyone kept a stash of candles. Sure enough, he found some in the middle drawer, along with a book of matches.

“Homer, are you almost done? My dad’s gonna get real mad if he finds out I’m not looking for screech owls.”

“I’ve got to find something, Carlotta. It’s real important.”

“Okay.” She smiled as Homer sat next to her. “You
know, everyone thinks you’re weird but I think you’re smart.”

“Uh, thanks.”

And so, with Dog repositioned on his lap, and Carlotta Crescent holding the candle by his side, Homer continued his search for the coin. Carlotta talked about her new puppies and her upcoming birthday party and a million other things while Homer focused on the task at hand. Page after page, illustration after illustration, minute after minute, hour after…

It smelled like smoke.

Homer opened his eyes. Not used to staying up so late, he had fallen asleep against the bookcase. Dog was asleep on his lap, snoring loudly. Carlotta was asleep, too, her head on Homer’s shoulder. Why did it smell like smoke and what was that glow?

“Carlotta!” Homer shook her. “It’s on fire. The library’s on fire!”

O
n fire? Oh no!” Carlotta cried. “I must have dropped the candle.”

Sure enough, that’s exactly what had happened. Just after Carlotta had dozed off, the candle had slipped from her hand, rolled across the floor, and found the edge of a dictionary. The flame had climbed the dictionary, then had made its way down the shelf, growing like a fiery serpent as it had fed upon book after book.

It was the most horrific sight Homer had ever seen.

“We have to get out,” Carlotta said. “Mrs. Peepgrass
told us that if we’re ever in a fire, we’re supposed to get out right away.”

“But the books…”

“Homer! Mrs. Peepgrass said that
things
aren’t as important as
lives
.”

Homer, who only heard about one percent of the things Mrs. Peepgrass said, remembered the story of Millicent Smith, an American treasure hunter who died after going back into her blazing house to try to save her bungee cords. “She was the world’s best volcano jumper,” Uncle Drake had told him. “The treasure-hunting community lost her expertise forever. Fire shows no mercy. Remember that.”

Smoke stung Homer’s eyes as he helped Carlotta to her feet. He tucked the coin book under his arm. “Come on, Dog.” They headed toward the front door but didn’t get far as flames leaped off the bookshelf, blocking the way. Carlotta started coughing. Dog barked at the flames.

“The stairs,” Homer said. He grabbed Carlotta’s hand and pulled her toward the stairwell. “Dog!” he called. But Dog stood his ground. The room was quickly filling with smoke. Homer rushed back and tugged on Dog’s collar. “Come on, will ya?” But Dog shook off Homer’s grip and kept barking. Homer couldn’t get a full breath. He dropped the coin book, wrapped his arms under
Dog’s belly, and picked him up. Wobbling beneath Dog’s weight, he carried him into the stairwell.

With a groan, Homer collapsed. Dog tumbled onto the floor. The window was still wide open but too high to reach. Scrambling to his feet, Homer put his hands under one of Carlotta’s slippers and pushed her up the wall. “Help!” Carlotta cried, sticking her head out the window. “HELP!”

Out in the main room, the library’s front windows buckled and shattered. A wailing siren approached. Luckily, the fire truck didn’t have far to go because the fire station stood in the center of town. Headlights lit up the night as members of the Milkydale Volunteer Fire Brigade arrived, most in their pajamas.

“HELP!” Carlotta yelled again and again.

“HELP!” Homer yelled, struggling to push her higher up the wall. Smoke trailed into the stairwell. Dog started barking again.

A pair of big hands reached through the window and pulled Carlotta to safety. Then a ladder slid through and the fire chief landed next to Homer. “Anyone else inside?” he asked.

“No,” Homer said, breathless. The fire chief slung Dog over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and they all made their escape.

Sitting on the grass across from the library, Homer
held tight to Dog and watched as flames shot up the roof. It was the worst thing he’d ever seen and he fought the urge to vomit. Despite the brigade’s valiant efforts, the library could not be saved. Mr. Pudding pulled up in his truck, as did Mr. Crescent and every other farmer within earshot of the siren. As the last timber fell, attention turned to the boy, girl, and dog, each smudged with soot, sitting in the grass.

“It’s my fault,” Carlotta said, teary-eyed. “I dropped the candle.”

“No,” Homer said. “It’s my fault. I—”

“Of course it’s your fault,” Mr. Crescent interrupted. “My Carlotta would never have gone into the library at night on her own.”

“Hold on there, Crescent,” Mr. Pudding said. “Don’t you go blamin’ my boy.”

The fire chief took off his hard hat. “What were you doing in there?” he asked.

Homer looked at his father, whose face had turned as pale as the moon. How could he tell him? The library was supposed to be off limits. Treasure-hunting books were off limits. He’d be so disappointed.

“He burned it down on purpose,” someone yelled. “He’s always been weird.”

“He’s a juvenile delinquent.”

“No,” Carlotta cried. “It’s not Homer’s fault. We fell
asleep and I dropped the candle. And his dog can’t smell so it couldn’t warn us about the smoke.”

“Can’t smell?” Mr. Crescent puffed out his chest. “The Pudding farm’s got a dog that can’t smell? That sounds about right.”

“This is the worst thing that’s ever happened in Milkydale,” someone said.

As people crowded closer, pointing their fingers and shouting accusations, Homer hung his head and closed his eyes, desperately wishing for a book to hide behind. Burning down the best place in Milkydale hadn’t been part of his plan. He’d failed miserably. Maybe his dad was right—maybe he wasn’t cut out for treasure hunting. Maybe his future was back on the farm after all.

“What are you going to do, Pudding?” Mr. Crescent asked. “Your boy burned down the only library in the county.”

“What am I going to do?” Mr. Pudding hollered. “Your girl’s the one who dropped the candle.”

“Yeah? Well your dog’s the one that can’t smell. If it had been one of my champion border collies, there’d have been no fire.”

Then everybody started yelling. Blame and insults were thrown around. Poor Mr. Silverstein, the librarian, arrived in his blue pajamas and started to cry. Homer’s whole body trembled as he sat in the grass, smoke filling
the night sky. He couldn’t bear the pain on Mr. Silverstein’s face. He felt cold all over.

Carlotta jumped to her feet, her yellow bathrobe stained with grass. “Homer saved my life,” she said, but no one paid any attention.

“You’ll have to build a new library,” Mr. Crescent said. “You hear me, Pudding? You’ll have to build us a new one.”

Mr. Pudding shook his cap right in Mr. Crescent’s face. “I’ll build a new one. Don’t you worry, Crescent. I’ll build a right fine library. That’s my promise.”

“Everyone clear out,” the fire chief ordered. “There’s nothing more to see. Take your kids home. We’ll deal with this in the morning.”

Mr. Pudding didn’t say anything on the drive home. Nor did Homer. What could he say?
Sorry
seemed too small a word.

The red truck’s headlights cut through the lingering smoke, which hung foglike along the road. Dog sat in the truck’s bed, his jowls wiggling with each bump in the road. Homer stole a sideways glance at his father, who gripped the steering wheel as if he were afraid it might fly out of his hands. How was he going to build a new library? Where would he get the money or the time?

Everyone hates me
, Homer thought.
Even my own father
.

When they got home, Mrs. Pudding, Squeak, and Gwendolyn were waiting on the front porch, brimming with questions. Homer watched from the truck. “Homer burned down the library,” Mr. Pudding said. “I promised to build a new one.”

“Homer did
what
? You’re gonna
what
?” Mrs. Pudding wrung her hands. “How can we afford that?”

“I gave my word and a man’s only as good as his word.”

That’s when Dog, once again forgotten, threw back his head and howled from the truck bed.

Mr. Pudding spun around. “Crescent’s right,” he said angrily. “A normal dog would have smelled the smoke. Tomorrow morning I’m calling that lawyer’s office and telling them to come and take it away. And that’s my final word!” He stormed into the house, with Squeak and Mrs. Pudding at his heels.

Homer didn’t want to go inside and face the endless string of questions. His mother’s face would be heavy with disappointment and worry. Squeak would cry because Dog was going to be returned. Gwendolyn would tell him that he’d ruined her life. Truth was, he’d ruined all their lives. At least that’s what he told himself as he sat in the truck, trembling.