Spotted Dog Last Seen (8 page)

“What does it say?” I asked.

Loyola cleared her throat, blushing slightly.

“
Loyola, you are a gifted storyteller. Promise me that you'll keep writing.
”

“Nice comment,” I said. “Is it from a teacher?”

“Yes, back when I was in grade six at Queensview. The teacher was only there for a year, but he was the best one I ever had. I folded the cover into a bookmark and used it for years, until I almost wore it out. Now I just keep it posted here for safekeeping.” She folded and pinned the cover to her bulletin board.

“So, are you still writing?” I asked.

“I try, but with all my studying and part-time work here, I only have time to write in the margins, so to speak.”

I looked again at the bookmark she had re-pinned to the bulletin board. I studied the frayed fold marks.

“How many years ago were you at Queensview?” I asked, following a hunch.

“Let's see. Seven.”

“Seven?”

I remembered what Ms. Albright told us. Trevor Tower sealed his time capsule seven years ago.

Seven years ago exactly.

“Then you must have known Trevor Tower.”

“Trevor Tower? Sure, I knew Trevor. But his family moved away right after grade six.”

I could feel Merrilee stiffen beside me.

“What can you tell us about him?” I asked. I could not believe my luck.

“Let me think. He loved bulldogs. He liked to fly kites. His parents were pilots, so he moved a lot. Oh, and his locker was chosen for the school's time-capsule program.”

I stepped forward in excitement for my next question, but Merrilee secretly tugged the back of my shirt.

I halted and looked at Merrilee, confused.

“We should let Loyola get back to work,” she said, dead calm. “We don't want to get her into
trouble
.”

“I'm done!” Pascal called from the back of the library.

We turned to see him waving us over to the table where he had been working.

We headed back.

“Why don't you want Loyola to know about the secret codes?” I whispered just before we rejoined Pascal.

“No reason,” she said, “other than she's practically a grown-up. And grown-ups always try to interfere whenever kids are trying to solve a mystery. Don't you read?”

“You don't trust her?” I asked, ignoring the insult, which I knew she threw out to try to distract me.

“I don't even trust you,” she replied, but she smiled when she said it.

We stopped to admire Pascal's gravestone, which he held up for better viewing. It featured a theater stage with tasseled curtains opening on each side and a string of star-shaped lights across the top. On stage, a lion stood on its hind legs wearing a cape and taking what appeared to be a final bow. Pascal's epitaph read,
No More Encores
, and underneath he had drawn two trumpets that crossed each other.

“Your final performance,” Merrilee said.

“Very Hollywood,” I said.

“Exactly,” Pascal said proudly.

“Loyola knew Trevor Tower,” I blurted to Pascal. “They were both in the same class back in grade six at Queensview.”

“Oh no! You didn't tell Loyola about the secret codes, did you?” Pascal accused. He turned to Merrilee but pointed to me. “Doesn't he read?”

“Don't worry. I pulled him away in time,” Merrilee said, and before I could defend myself, she sidled over to my drawing.

“Are you done?” she asked.

“Not quite,” I said, picking up my blue colored pencil. “I still have the ocean to fill in.”

I got to work while they watched.

I was happy with my design. A lighthouse flanked by two anchors shone a beacon of light toward the open sea. A dove flew away in the same direction as the beacon of light. My epitaph read,
He set his sails against the gales and went wherever he wanted to go
.

“You're pointing to eternity,” Merrilee observed. “That's lovely.”

“Thanks,” I said, pretty sure that she was being sincere, not spooky.

I was even excited to show my work to Creelman.

When the Brigade returned to the library, they were dripping with rain. They silently studied our gravestones, arms clasped behind their backs as if they were cruising through an art gallery on opening night. Then, as usual, Creelman spoke for the three of them, only this time his words made us puff up like peacocks.

“Good job,” he announced.

The Brigade turned to go.

“See you next Wednesday,” Creelman growled, and they were off.

But we did not see Creelman the next Wednesday.

Instead, the morning after the library, Ms. Albright sent a note to Pascal, Merrilee and me as we sat in class. We left our desks to report to her office.

“Do you think it's about Trevor Tower?” I nervously asked Merrilee and Pascal as we joined each other in the hallway. “Have we done something wrong?”

“We haven't done anything wrong,” Merrilee said grimly. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Then what's happening?” I asked. “This can't be good.”

“No idea,” Merrilee said. “Everyone just keep calm.”

We walked the rest of the way in silence. The three of us said nothing as we formed a tense line in front of Ms. Albright's desk.

My heart was pounding and my hands were sweating.

“I'm afraid I have some very sad news,” she said, removing her glasses and looking into our faces one at a time.

I swallowed as I dared to glance at Merrilee and Pascal.

Trevor Tower. It had to be something about Trevor Tower or his locker.

“It's Mr. Creelman,” Ms. Albright continued. “He died at his home last night.”

Eight

_____

Time Capsule

I WAS THE FIRST
to speak. And I was angry. I could feel my hands clenching.

“What do you mean?” I demanded. “We just saw Mr. Creelman yesterday. In the library. With the Brigade.”

“I'm sorry,” Ms. Albright said, remaining calm, speaking slowly. Then she quietly added, “Mr. Creelman appears to have had a heart attack.”

“See, that's where you're wrong,” I argued, louder than before. “He's a smoker. That's bad for his lungs, but he's trying to quit.”

“I believe that smoking is also linked to heart attacks,” Ms. Albright said softly.

Her words were so hurtful, but she said them in such a kind voice that she confused me. It made me even more angry.

“What am I supposed to do with his book?” I demanded.

“What book is that?” Ms. Albright asked, still speaking with caution.

“He lent me a book about epitaphs. If he's dead, then I can't give it back. I have his book and I can't give it back.”

I was moving from anger to panic. I looked to Merrilee and Pascal for help. Merrilee was silently crying, wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve. Pascal had moved to a chair and sat with his head in his hands. I couldn't see his face, but I was sure he was crying, too, the way his back was going up and down.

“I see,” Ms. Albright said, studying me closely. “Would you like to bring the book in to me? I can arrange to have it returned to Mr. Creelman's family, to his wife perhaps.”

“No!” This time I really did shout. “No, he trusted me with it! And besides, I'm only halfway through!”

Which was true. I was still reading Creelman's book after I woke up from my nightly nightmare, taking note of the epitaphs that could be turned into t-shirt sayings. I was even toying with the idea of making a t-shirt for Creelman, and I had been keeping an eye out for the perfect epitaph. I had pictured myself slipping the t-shirt into a blue bin along with the book, returning it to him that way, the same way he had slipped me the book in the first place.

“I'm sure you can keep it for a while,” Ms. Albright said, as if speaking to a little child. She had gotten up from behind her desk and was walking over to me with her arms open.

“You don't understand,” I shouted, dodging away from her in frustration. I no longer knew why I was even arguing.

I wheeled around to face Merrilee and Pascal, who refused to look my way, lost in their own sad worlds like the figures shown weeping in the library's stained-glass windows.

“This can't be happening. She doesn't know what she's talking about!” I warned them.

I stormed out of the office and back down the hallway where we had just come from. I marched into my classroom and slid behind my desk. I crossed my arms and said nothing until the lunch bell rang moments later. Then I grabbed my knapsack and headed straight for Twillingate Cemetery.

It was not a Wednesday, so I don't know what I was thinking. I just stood at the gate with all the posted warning signs and waited. Nobody came.

Not Pascal.

Not Merrilee.

Not the Brigade with their silly blue bins or clipboards or buckets.

“Derek?”

It was my mom.

And then I started crying.

I remembered snippets of Dennis's funeral — the deep organ music that thumped in my chest, the mix of heavy perfume that made it hard to breathe, the plain dark clothes that everyone wore and how the people around me were crushed together. Mr. Creelman's service was the same except that now I also wore dark clothes.

As my mom and I walked into the church, someone with silver hair and shiny shoes handed us a program with Creelman's photograph on the cover. I almost didn't recognize him because he was so much younger. And smiling.

We sat in a row toward the back. The church was nearly full. People were whispering. Candles were lit. I peered between all the heads in front of me and spotted Creelman's polished casket near the altar. It was closed, and there was a pile of white lilies on the top. Pascal walked by with his grandfather, and they sat closer to the front. He didn't see me. I didn't see Merrilee, but I knew she was there. Somewhere.

I read Creelman's program. There would be prayers and readings and hymns. Would Preeble or Wooster give the eulogy? I almost chuckled at the thought of either of them saying a few words about Creelman, let alone an entire speech in front of this large crowd. Then I felt bad for almost chuckling.

I started to read Creelman's obituary. I was surprised to learn that he had been a projectionist at a planetarium before he retired, that he had worked there for thirty-five years. His obituary went on to mention all the people in his family, a long list of names that I skimmed before turning to the back of the program. It had a picture of a wreath made of thistles.

Creelman was prickly, that's for sure. But I knew what those thistles really meant.

“The thistles are the national flower for Scotland,” I whispered to my mom. “He must have had family roots in that country.”

She had been watching me read the program. She gave my hand a squeeze.

“What do you think this means?” I whispered, pointing to the saying that was printed inside the wreath. It read,
All seats have an equal view of the universe
.

“I'm not sure,” my mom whispered. “Perhaps it has something to do with the planetarium he worked at. Maybe it was something printed on the tickets.”

I thought about him caring for the cemetery week after week. I thought about all the different cultures and religions of the people who were buried there. I thought about the elderly couple who came each year to visit their mother, and I thought about the carved stone lamb where a young child lay. I thought about Enoch's double gravestone with words only on one side, his wife buried somewhere else, perhaps somewhere far away, but still sharing the same view of the universe as Enoch.

And then I understood.

“He's saying that everyone is the same in the end,” I whispered. “I bet this will be the epitaph for his gravestone.”

My mom put her arm around me.

Members of Creelman's family had gathered at the back of the church and were starting to move together up the aisle to the front, where they filled the first two rows that had been saved for them. The organ changed pace, and everyone stood as the priest slowly made his way up the same aisle, followed by two others in robes. The service had begun.

There were songs. We stood to listen to the choir on the balcony with the organist. Songs about shepherds and blackbirds and souls that sing. Songs about peace. Songs about finding the way. I didn't know the words, but the man behind me had a deep singing voice and it felt good to hear him.

There were readings. I didn't really follow them. The words were old-fashioned and not the way people really talk anymore. There was something about a house with many rooms. There was something about a time to be born and a time to die. And troubled hearts. And mountains. And finishing the race.

The priest gave the eulogy. I half expected Wooster and Preeble to get up from wherever they were and stand behind the priest, handing him things on cue, just like the old days with Creelman.

I got a lump in my throat at that thought. What would Wooster and Preeble do without Creelman?

My mom handed me some tissue.

I was glad for the tissue.

And then it was all over.

The crowd made their way out of the church, organ music trumpeting overhead, a fresh spring breeze wafting through the open oak doors. But others made their way to the front of the church and stood before Creelman's casket.

“Merrilee's up there,” I said to my mom, having spotted Merrilee's red plastic jacket with the bunnies-and-carrots print. “She had cemetery duty with me and Pascal.”

“So, Mr. Creelman supervised her, too?”

I nodded.

“Some people like to say goodbye before the burial,” my mom whispered. “It gives them a sense of closure.”

I sat, undecided.

“Do you want to say goodbye?” she asked.

I surprised myself and nodded. I guess I did want to say goodbye.

“Do you want me to come with you?” she asked.

“I'll be all right,” I said.

I stood and crept up the aisle, my eyes fixed on the casket while the pews emptied around me. I slid beside Merrilee in the hushed crowd. She nodded at me, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

After a minute, she took a step forward and placed her hand on the casket. She held it there for longer than I would have dared.

Then she took her hand away.

She turned to me.

“He's not here,” she said.

She sighed.

It was a peaceful sigh.

And somehow, all the songs, all the readings and all the flowers combined did not bring me as much relief as Merrilee's three small words.

Outside, my mom and I stood on the church steps. A bagpipe player had arrived and was playing some tune I had heard before.

“‘Amazing Grace,'” my mom whispered to me.

I studied the crowd.

Some were crying. Some were hugging. A few were telling stories and quietly laughing. Then the crowd parted as the casket was carried outside by the pallbearers. It was then that I spotted Preeble and Wooster, each holding up a corner and walking in formation with the others. They did not look left or right as they helped slide the casket into the long black hearse parked by the front doors of the church.

The hearse slowly drove away while members of Creelman's family got into their own cars and followed, metal doors thumping closed up and down the street.

The bagpiper played on.

“Let's go home,” I said to my mom.

I had not been eating over the past few days. Suddenly, I was starving.

That night, as usual, I woke up from my nightmare, but this one was different. It started the same way.

Dennis and I were kicking the orange rubber ball. The lawnmower was buzzing in the background, the grass smelled sweet, and the sun, low on the horizon, was warm on my face.

We were laughing and laughing, and I kicked the ball extra hard. It bounced to the street. Dennis gave chase. Tires squealed. Dennis sailed through the air. Dennis lay on the pavement. The blood. Me, frozen on the sidewalk. A crowd forming around Dennis.

Then someone put a comforting hand on my shoulder. I turned to look. It was Creelman. He was not scowling. Instead, he tried to speak, but he could only mouth his silent words over and over while sadly shaking his head. It was like watching a movie without the audio.

“What are you saying?” I asked, straining to hear. “I don't understand.”

He mouthed his words over and over, but I couldn't hear a thing.

“What?” I shouted, and my own shouting woke me up.

The door to my bedroom opened.

“Derek,” my mom said. “You're having a nightmare.” She came into the room and sat on my bed. “I'll turn on your lamp.”

I shifted to a sitting position, my pajamas soaked in sweat as my eyes adjusted to the light.

“It was about Dennis,” I said. “Mr. Creelman was in it, too.”

“You've had a bad shock,” my mom said. “This was bound to happen.”

“I've been having nightmares for a while,” I admitted.

“How long?” she asked.

“Months.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“You get too worried. And besides, the last time I complained, we ended up moving to another town.”

“Derek, we didn't move just because of the accident. I was offered another job, remember?”

“No,” I corrected her. “I remember overhearing you and Dad talking about me needing a fresh start.”

My mom was silent.

“Fair enough,” she allowed. “But you were a troubled little boy. You're older now, so tell me what you need.”

I thought for a minute. What had Creelman been trying to say to me? If I could figure that out, maybe it would put an end to my nightmares once and for all. At least, that was what I hoped.

“I think I should stay home tomorrow,” I said, slipping back under the covers. “Just for one day. I'm really tired.”

“Of course,” my mom said.

We both knew the real reason. Tomorrow was Wednesday, but cemetery duty had been cancelled, and the school had not yet figured out what to do with the three of us for the remaining few weeks in the year.

She tucked me in and turned out the light.

When she got to the door, she paused and said, “Promise me one thing.”

“What?” I asked in the dark.

“Promise you'll tell me if things get worse.”

“I promise,” I said.

She quietly shut the door.

That morning, the telephone rang. My mom, who had decided to work from home for the day, answered it.

“Derek! Telephone!” she called.

I picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Why weren't you in school?” Merrilee demanded. “Are you sick?”

“No, just really tired,” I said.

“Are you coming in tomorrow?” she asked.

“Why?”

“Because Pascal and I have compared notes, and we worked out that the best time of the week to open Trevor Tower's locker is tomorrow afternoon. A musician is coming to visit the school, so a bunch of grades will be practicing with her in the music room across from his locker and the class door will be closed. Ideal conditions!”

The time capsule. That was the last thing on my mind.

“Are you still there?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Will you be in tomorrow? The school year is almost over. We're running out of time.”

“Yes,” I said, and I hung up.

“Who was that?” my mom asked from where she lingered in the kitchen, pretending to wipe the counter.

“Merrilee.”

“The girl in the church?”

“Yes.”