Scruffy
by Nico Grey
Part I
"Dorian!"
God! I hate it when she does that!
"There's somebody here for you!"
And she had to scream 'Dorian' right in front of them?! I hate her when she does that!
Damned if I knew who'd be dropping by without calling me first. But his timing was terrible. If he had arrived a few minutes earlier, I would have heard him knock before she got home.
I toed on my Sketchers and trotted down the stairs. But I didn't hurry.
"Where is he?"
I considered adding a contemptuous "Dorothy". Instead, I settled for a scornful glance.
"In the car," she gestured over her shoulder.
And that. . . was confusing. Mom didn't often drag my friends all the way out to the house to visit. It certainly wasn't something she ever did on the spur of the moment.
The dog!
Holy crap! She must have found the dog!
I was so relieved that I almost forgot to be annoyed with her, until I burst out through the front door and saw. . . nothing in her car.
"Where is he?" I demanded again.
"Who?"
Mom seemed distracted. But I'm pretty sure that it was just an act.
"The 'somebody' who's here to see me!"
Through gritted teeth. Doing my best not to give her any satisfaction.
"Oh! I said that there's something here for you," she brightened.
But I noticed the self-satisfied smirk on her face.
"They're in the trunk. If you're planning to eat this week, you'd better bring in the groceries."
She tossed her car keys in my direction. The "DKM" monogram fob on her keychain landed face up on the floor. . . right next to the dog's empty dish.
I didn't need that reminder.
It wasn't a great start to my summer.
Nobody was around. Not even the dog. I hadn't felt so lonely since my father died.
And I had just lost a minor skirmish with my mother. But like most of our minor skirmishes, it had felt like a major battle.
It was only mid-June and I already dreaded the next eleven weeks.
I was so bored that I was even ready to hunt up Benjer Frye, despite the trouble it would have caused for me.
But that wasn't possible. Just two months earlier, Benjer's father uprooted his clan and they left town in a hurry. One day Benjer was in school. A week later, the Frye's house was completely deserted, with a "For Sale" sign posted out front. They had even left a thriving business behind.
I suppose that it wasn't a great loss. Benjer and I had hung out together for a couple of years. Since we started high school, really. But we were never close. And it seemed like the more I hung out with him and his friends, the more trouble I got into at school and with my mother.
I still would have liked to spend time with somebody.
Where was that damned dog?
He had been missing for a couple of days. After being my near-constant companion for more than two years. Since just after my dad died.
His absence didn't make any sense. We have predators out here in the sticks. But there's nothing dangerous enough to take on a healthy adult dog; not unless it was driven by complete desperation.
I hadn't seen any evidence that he had been hit by a car. It wasn't like there was much traffic on the town roads out here anyway.
And while I could see him being old enough to find a lady dog or two to keep him company, I didn't think that was likely. Mom had insisted that we get him 'snipped' when he was a puppy.
Snipped. There's a word that would make any sixteen-year-old guy cringe.
I was getting so bored that I actually thought about going out to look for him again.
I couldn't imagine that mom would let me replace him. I'd just get another lecture on how I didn't do enough to take care of what belonged to me, then a cheery assurance that experiences like this would teach me to become a more responsible adult.
That's what finally convinced me to attempt another fruitless search. I couldn't bear the thought of spending a Saturday afternoon trapped in the same house with my mother.
Even if she didn't say a word, just being here with her would be a persistent reminder of every one of my shortcomings. I have heard it all so many times that she was now living inside my head rent-free. Which is kind of ironic, considering the number of times she reminded me that I was living in her house rent-free.
I slipped on my Timberlands and fled the house. I didn't give my mother a chance to ask questions.
It was kind of sad. I had always been my dad's son. But mom and I had a good relationship until I entered high school. That's when the friction started to grow between us.
I don't know whether that was due to stress and recovering from the loss of her husband. She claimed it was because of the poor choices I was making. But personally, I think she was a bit of a biased observer.
I did start to hang around with a different crowd in high school. I finally got my growth spurt over that summer between middle school and high school. People were paying more attention to me. I even went out for the school's freshman soccer team. And I was already starting at the left striker position when we played our first game. It was natural that I'd make new friends.
Mom didn't approve. Not because I was making friends. She didn't approve of the friends I chose.
But maybe they chose me.
In elementary school I had hung around occasionally with Sheldon Corrie. When we both arrived in middle school, we stopped spending any time together. Sheldon became part of Benjer Frye's crowd and we drifted apart.
It hurt losing a friend, even if we hadn't been particularly close. But I hadn't started to grow yet. I was short and skinny. It just felt like the natural order of things that boys who were already beginning to mature wouldn't want me around. And girls didn't even notice me.
Part of the way through my eighth grade year, dad died suddenly. There was no warning. It just happened one morning, before I even got out of bed. I woke to the sounds of commotion in the kitchen and came downstairs to find EMTs working over my father's body.
That was the last time I ever saw him.
Except for the funeral.
For a while, I was desolate. I had lost my best friend. I didn't really have anyone to turn to. Even my mother didn't have a lot of time for me. She was struggling to cope with her own loss and with keeping our household running.
Mom didn't take it very well when my grandparents gave me a dog for my fourteenth birthday. She thought that a new puppy would be too much disruption at a time when we were rebuilding our lives.
But she didn't refuse to let me keep him. I guess she noticed the effect he had. To me, he became a lifeline.
All that spring and summer, we went everywhere together. He distracted me from my loss. Maybe he helped me heal. I even started to grow over that summer.
By the time I began my freshman year in high school, I was starting to feel alive again; like I was connecting to the world around me. I went out for soccer. I made the team. People were noticing me.
Sheldon Corrie. He was an integral part of Benjer's crew by then. He invited me to start hanging out with them. It was an opportunity for inclusion that no fourteen-year-old boy could resist.
That dog had helped pull me through a dark time in my life. I had my soccer. I had friends now. But I still spent a lot of time with the dog.
And now he was gone.
Even after two days, I was missing him. I could feel the emptiness inside that he had filled was starting to grow again. I needed to find him.
In my heart, I worried that something had happened to him. My head told me that he would be fine. What my head couldn't tell me was where he might have gone. Try as I might, I just couldn't think like a dog.
So I picked a direction and wandered. It would have made sense to stick to the road. People lived there who might have seen him. Somebody could have assumed that he was a stray and taken him in.
But we had always loved the time we spent together in the woods. There were a couple of small brooks running through the trees. Beyond the woods lay broad fields.
There was even an abandoned farm out there, past a wide stream that divided a huge open area that might once have been cultivated. I'm no judge, but I figured there must have been a couple hundred acres spread out around the farm buildings.
We spent a lot of time in those fields and hanging around the banks of the stream. He had certainly loved being there. I guess some intuition guided me.
I wandered through the trees calling for that dog. I searched along the brooks there. I figured that if he had been injured, he'd drag himself to a place where he could find water, shelter, and maybe some food.
When I concluded that he wasn't in the woods, I tried the fields. Everything there was green and full of life. Fresh spring grass competed with wildflowers for space to grow and for the attention of wanderers passing by. The fields were alive with insects exploring new life, not yet grown irritable with long stretches of hot, dry weather. Summer's heat hadn't arrived yet to turn grass golden, then brown.
I continued to call as I walked though the field, scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. I was less than a mile from the nearest road, but the surrounding area was as devoid of human life as the surface of the moon.
Across the stream, I could see the house, the barn, and a couple of small outbuildings. I wondered about the people who had once farmed this land and why they had left.
The land seemed fertile, the soil ready to nurture new life. That broad stream ran through the middle of the fields. But the land had been abandoned by man and was being reclaimed by nature. Human activity no longer flourished in a place that appeared to offer every opportunity for it to do so.
After two days of stress, the conclusion was anticlimactic.
I found a shallow spot and waded across the stream. I made a cursory inspection of the north and south bank, but I really didn't expect to find anything there. The abandoned farm seemed a more likely place for the dog to seek shelter.
And in the distance, as I called for him, I heard a faint response. As the farm drew closer, the response became clearer. Barking.
There wasn't anything unusual about the barking. It sounded completely normal. He didn't sound weak. He didn't sound injured. He didn't sound desperate to escape a trap or entanglement.
He sounded perfectly normal. But he didn't come running as he ordinarily would.
I followed the sound of his voice, around the house and into the dooryard between the house and barn. I finally set eyes on him. He looked perfectly normal.
He didn't move until he saw me. He dashed toward me with a few enthusiastic yelps, dancing around me, before turning and racing back to a small cluster of lilacs growing between the house and barn. He started barking excitedly.
As I came closer, I noticed an area in the tall grass next to one of the lilacs. It had been disturbed, trampled down in places, almost like something had built a nest in the grass.
I approached with some trepidation. I couldn't imagine what might be hiding in that disturbed grass. But it did look like a nest in there.
It didn't seem possible, but I still prayed that the dog hadn't fathered a litter of puppies. I sure wasn't ready to be a grandfather yet!
A dirty, old blanket was hidden in the back of the 'nest'. But I didn't see any signs of life. I pulled out the blanket gingerly and discovered an even dirtier pair of pants and a couple of filthy t-shirts behind it.
I didn't want to touch them. I wondered if whatever built the nest had managed to get into the farmhouse and find some old clothes.
The dog was observing me keenly, barking occasionally. Fortunately, they didn't sound like 'proud papa' barks. It sounded more like he was trying to tell me something. I wondered if there was an abandoned well somewhere on the property.
I had found the dog. He was okay. He wasn't a teenaged father. I wasn't a teenaged grandfather.
The important stuff out of the way, I just wanted to get us both back home. After two days on his own, it seemed likely that he might be eager for a home-cooked meal, too.
But when I tried to lead him away, he refused to follow. He stood his ground and started barking again, this time more urgently.
I had examined the nest; short of pulling out that filthy clothing and emptying the pockets, I had. What else could possibly be in there? What else did he expect me to do? I just wanted to get home.
I did the only reasonable thing I could do.
I hadn't thought to bring his leash. I had to maintain my grip on his collar all the way home. More than a mile across fields, over the stream, through woods. At times it was a real struggle.
Eventually he settled down and trotted along patiently at my side. But I had the sense that he kept glancing back over his shoulder.
Mom noted our return absently. She did think to ask where I found him.
"That old, abandoned Crenshaw place? I wonder what he was doing out there."
That appeared to be the extent of her interest. But to be fair, at least she seemed happy to have the dog home. And I didn't get a lecture about responsibility. It could have been worse.
Predictably, it got worse.
Over dinner— that I had hauled in from the trunk of her car! — she fixed me with her 'mom' stare.
"Now that school is out," this wasn't a news flash, "we need to think about what you're doing this summer."
Oh, jeeze! Not even a week to chill out and recover from a year in school and she's already making plans!
"I've decided that a job is just what you need this summer, Dorian."
Why?!
She noticed my anguished expression.
"You're sixteen. You need to start thinking about your future. A job is a great way for you to start figuring out what you want to do with your life."
She added a sweetener.
"And you'll be able to earn some spending money."
Why?! Why 'Dorian'?
"Don't give me that look!"
I didn't realize I was giving her any 'look'.
"Maybe the thing you need to get your head back on straight is some adult responsibility."
Taking my phone wasn't enough? I couldn't help the eye roll.
"I mean it, Dorian!"
What is wrong with her? Why can't she just call me Kyle? Or D.K.? I've asked her to.
Some of my friends even call me Deke. I wouldn't mind that either. But 'Dorian'?!? It sounds like. . . Well, I don't know what it sounds like. But it sure doesn't sound like me!
"You still don't seem to realize how badly you screwed up this year, Dorian."
I just wanted to pound my head on the table.
"You could have ended up in serious legal trouble. You might even have gone to jail!"
It was her 'mom' look again. Trying to make sure I was paying attention, I guess.
"That boy's family could have sued us. Do you think I can afford that?!"
Another pause to make sure the 'lesson' was being driven home.
"And the worst thing of all, Dorian?"
Just kill me now.
"The absolutely worst thing is that your father and I didn't raise you to be a homophobe!"
Homophobe. . .?! I'm no homophobe! What is this crazy lady babbling about? We were just having a little fun with that kid.
"Your father would be so ashamed if he could see you now! Do you hear me, Dorian?!"
I heard her. I shoved my chair back from the table and started running. Out the front door. The dog was right at my heels.
I stopped when I reached our backyard. The dog didn't. He kept on running.
"Sebastian!" I called after him. "Sebastian! Come here!"
But he didn't. He just kept running.
I needed him. He was running away from me.
Somehow, I knew exactly where he was going.
Fuck my life!
I didn't want to go back inside the house.
I considered following after the dog. But it was already twilight. I really didn't feel like picking my way through the trees in the fading light. And if he was going to the Crenshaw place, I'd be out there with him all night. Coming back through the trees after night fell would be too dangerous.
I did the only thing I could do. I stayed in the backyard and sulked.
I had no idea why mom kept bringing up the crap with that Bradford kid. It was over and done with months ago. I had my punishment. I lost my cell phone. I didn't realize that I had also incurred a lifetime of reminders from my mother about my personal inadequacy. If I had known that, I would never have taken the plea bargain.
That whole incident wasn't even a big deal anyway. Bradford enrolled in Silver River High School at the start of the school year. Then we found out that he came to town because he had been caught selling his ass to old men in the town where he used to live. Somebody had posted a video of it online.
Benjer thought it would be funny to make another video of the kid doing his homo thing. He's a pervert. What was the big deal?
So Benjer got me, Sheldon, and Denny Carter together. We only planned to film Bradford blowing Benjer in the locker room.
Then it got out of hand. Bradford's little friend got involved. Bradford tried to bite Benjer's dick off. And Benjer fell all over a changing room bench trying to escape.
The best part was when Benjer shit himself. He actually shit himself! I got that on video, too. I think the whole thing is still out on the 'net. But I lost my phone when that story came out, so I'll never get to see it again.
I lost more than my phone over that deal. My friends scattered to the winds. We don't have anything to do with each other anymore. The Fryes actually left town. And I lost any chance I'll ever have at peace of mind until my mother stops nagging me about what happened. Maybe after she develops Alzheimer's.
The following morning, I left home before the sun was even above the horizon.
It wasn't that I'm ordinarily an early riser. But I went straight to bed as soon as I had to go back inside the house. There really wasn't anything to do except sleep. I knew that the dog doesn't usually start moving around until well after the sun is up. And neither does my mother on a Sunday.
I think that final consideration was probably the main reason I was out the door while the sky was still making up its mind between Saturday and Sunday.
There was just enough light for me to stumble through the woods and across brooks without injuring myself. The sky was a brighter gray by the time I emerged into the open. The sun still wasn't in sight when I slipped into the dooryard of the Crenshaw place.
I heard a muffled 'woof' from the direction of the lilac bushes, so the dog was at least partially awake. His furry muzzle emerged from the foliage as I approached.
"Hey, boy!"
He seemed at least slightly pleased to see me. He padded out into the dooryard, then nuzzled my hand like he was hoping I'd brought him breakfast, or at least a snack.
I almost shit myself when I heard more movement coming from inside the dog's nest. Another shaggy head emerged from the foliage and shook itself, not in a friendly way.
It felt like several seconds had passed before I could identify the beast. On careful inspection, it appeared to be a boy. At least I thought it was a boy. It had to be the filthiest little creature I had ever laid eyes on.
I couldn't tell how old the boy was. He was almost a foot shorter than me, scrawny, and covered in so much filth that I'd expect his own mother to have trouble picking him out of a lineup.
When he noticed me, he seemed startled. But he didn't run.
"Sorry," he mumbled. He wouldn't meet my eye. "I thought this place was abandoned."
"Uh, yeah."
He appeared to be in the process of waking up, but I was less articulate than he was.
"It is. But that's my dog."
I felt like I needed to say something to gain a little leverage.
Through layers of dirt I could see the shock and then disappointment on his face.
"I didn't take him," he insisted.
"I didn't say you did, kid. I just came looking for him."
I thought I was being reasonable. And pretty decent, too. He looked like a runaway. I could have cuffed him, taken him in, and claimed the reward. . . assuming that anyone was offering a reward for the little dirtbag.
"Oh."
Anyone would have recognized the dejection in his body language.
"I didn't know. He's been around here for a few days. I thought maybe he was a stray, too."
Yeah. A runaway.
"Well," I decided that I didn't need the reward. "I'll just take my dog and go."
The boy nodded sullenly. He wiped at his face and turned away.
The dog started to follow him.
"Sebastian! Here boy!"
He just glanced over his shoulder as he kept pace with the boy.
"Sebastian!"
Who did he think was in charge here?
"I said 'come', Sebastian!"
Maybe the boy noticed something in my tone of voice. He stopped, then turned around and led the dog back to me.
I could see tears starting to trickle down his cheeks as he bent over and wrapped his arms around the dog. He held the collar for me.
This time I had thought to bring a leash.
The dog fought the leash for a while as I led him home. A couple of times he came close to breaking free.
I almost sympathized with him. I wasn't looking forward to going home either. But it sure beat living in a bush. Why couldn't he see that?
I wasn't surprised to find myself headed back to the Crenshaw place Monday morning.
The dog woke me during the night, whimpering to go out. Tired or not, I understood my responsibility. I had heard about it often enough. And I sure didn't want to hear about it again if my mother stepped in something unpleasant on her way to the kitchen in the morning.
What I hadn't considered in my semi-comatose state, is that the dog might have wanted out for another reason. I opened the back door and he was gone in an instant! I called from the doorway out of habit. . . and because it was my responsibility. . . but I knew that he wasn't coming back.
So I waited for my mother to leave for work. There was no reason not to sleep in. Then I prepared to set out.
I should have left early. There on the breakfast table, waiting for me, was the local newspaper. It was opened to the 'Help Wanted' section.
There was a note attached.
"Find a job. If you can't find one for yourself this week, I'll find one for you next week."
Talk about inspirational.
I suppose I should have spent the morning perusing the Help Wanted ads. But I had conflicting responsibilities. The dog was mine. And there was always hope that my mother would forget about her threat. It had happened before.
I approached the Crenshaw place openly. Boy and dog were bound to be awake by mid-morning.
I found them playing in the dooryard where I had left the boy. Or perhaps not playing. The boy was sitting on the ground with his head in his hands. The dog was leaning against him, appearing to offer consolation.
"Good morning!"
I thought I was being friendly.
The boy jumped to his feet and started backing away from me in a panic.
"He just showed up during the night!" he insisted.
I kind of enjoyed his reaction. I considered playing him a bit. But I decided that I didn't need to be an asshole.
"I know," I said. "I let him out last night. You know. To do his business. I saw him run off."
"Oh."
He didn't appear to know what to say next. He seemed confused. Unsure of how to react to the unfamiliar social situation.
He was short, scrawny, and he looked completely lost. I didn't have to think about it to understand that I had looked much the same way just two years ago. He reminded me of me. And like the dog had been for me, Sebastian was becoming his lifeline.
Don't go getting any silly ideas. The dog was mine. Besides, there was no way that a runaway could care for him properly. But that didn't mean I couldn't see the similarities between this boy and the boy that I had been.
More unsettling to me, the kid reminded me of someone else, too. It was the same look about him. And his demeanor. He was short. Skinny. Lost. Looking around, both confused and apprehensive, just waiting for the world to take advantage of him. I tried very hard not to think about that third boy.
I had started to escape my younger self. But I could never escape the other boy. The shame would always be with me. Besides, the video was still out there on the internet. I had heard that it was. I believed it.
I spent a couple of hours with dog and boy that morning. The boy wasn't mistrustful, but he was reserved. I guess he had learned that giving other people power over him didn't always end well.
We spent some time exploring the Crenshaw property. It was a solid enough house, for something that had stood empty for as long as I could remember. There was a barn that was looking a little worse for the wear. But both buildings were secure. The doors were solid and locked. Windows were intact.
The only way into either building was to break in. The boy was reluctant to do that. He didn't want to damage anyone's property, even if they weren't living there anymore.
The two small outbuildings were another matter. Locks and hinges on both were decayed and broken. It was easy enough to get inside. But both were also tiny. There was no interior light. They didn't appear to contain anything of value. And it was clear that the boy didn't want to be inside them either.
The only other item of interest near the main building was an ancient farm truck. It was painted a faded green and looked like maybe it was Army surplus. Like house and barn, it was secure.
Our curiosity satisfied, we began to walk the fields. They were mostly overgrown with grass now. But there were a few small areas where rows of green bushes offered promise of a crop of fresh berries in a month or two.
That prompted a question.
"What are you eating?"
Apparently, not much. Somehow he had caught a couple of small trout in the stream over the past week or two. Once he caught a frog. Occasionally he found edible mushrooms in the woods. Dandelion greens were already plentiful. But there really wasn't enough food around yet to sustain even a small boy like this one.
I couldn't imagine what would possibly drive the boy into such a hopeless situation. I didn't get many answers from him.
He did mention that he had lived across the Connecticut River, somewhere south of Claremont, New Hampshire. That had to be at least fifty miles away!
He was closemouthed about how he managed to travel those fifty or sixty miles to Antioch. All he would say is that he had to leave home. He had to leave home and he had kept traveling until he came upon this vacant farm.
He hoped that it would provide what he needed to survive the summer. He hadn't given much thought to what would happen when summer ended.
I hadn't the heart to drag the dog back home with me. I just knew that he would bolt at the first opportunity and make his way back to the farm. But I also couldn't let him stay with the boy forever. It was a dilemma.
When I got home, I did glance through the Help Wanted advertisements. Nothing looked promising. So I went through them again. I was pretty sure that something in there would look promising to my mother. If I had to get a job, I wanted to do it on my own terms.
I thought about other ways I might find work. Antioch really wasn't a large town. There weren't many places hiring anyone, let alone hiring summer help.
By the same token, there weren't many opportunities for even an enterprising young person to find self-employment in the area. And living miles outside of the center of town, with fewer than a couple dozen houses within a mile in either direction, it wasn't like a summer lawn mowing business could provide enough work anyway.
I spent the rest of the afternoon thinking. Nothing remarkable happened. I was still at a complete loss as to what to do when I heard my mother's car arrive in our driveway.
I hadn't given up. But my mind was already half-resigned to whatever slave labor she might dredge up for me. Although I still had hope that she might forget the whole idea before the start of the next week.
No such luck yet.
"Did you apply for any jobs today?"
Those were her first words when she came through the door!
"I've heard that the people who bought Frye's business may be looking for help," Mom suggested. "You can't work on the heavy equipment until you're eighteen, and even then they'll probably want you to go to school for at least a year of training, but maybe they need a young man to clean up or move things around the shop."
Well, if that didn't sound exciting! I tried to appear thoughtful. Enthusiastic definitely wasn't in my emotional range at that moment.
"Don't you worry about it," Mom assured me. "I'll find out who you should call."
Maybe I could just enlist in the Army.
I'm not sure why I did it, but I packed an enormous lunch before I left the house early Tuesday morning. I also brought a couple of bowls and a bag of kibble for the dog.
Somehow or other, I knew that it would be easier to bring food to the dog, rather than try to bring him home. But I also knew that I needed to figure out how to get him back there eventually. If he stayed away too long without explanation, Mom would assume that he was gone and would stop buying food for him.
I arrived at the Crenshaw place not long after sunrise. Dog and boy were already awake and out in the dooryard.
I felt a little sad when I first saw them. The boy still looked lost. Happy for the companionship that the dog provided, but otherwise just marking time until something else happened in his life and forced him to respond to it.
That kid lit up when I started to pull sandwiches out of my pack! They weren't anything special. A few with egg salad or cold cuts. But most were peanut butter and jelly. The sort of food that could survive a day or two without refrigeration. He still acted like we had just stepped inside an air-conditioned McDonalds.
The dog was excited about a bowl of kibble, too. He was pretty good about giving and getting affection. But nothing stoked his fire like a fresh bowl of canine crunchies.
"His name is Sebastian?" the boy asked. He was running the fingers of his left hand through the dog's coat while he fed him bites of egg salad sandwich with his right hand.
"Yeah," I admitted. "I guess I was thinking about Belle and Sebastian when we named him. But I'm not sure he's really a Sebastian."
"I thought they were a band."
The kid seemed perplexed.
"Nope. It was a book," I told him. "Of course the dog in the book was named Belle. The kid was Sebastien. But I couldn't call this boy Belle. Besides, that Belle was a Great Pyrenees."
"What kind of dog is Sebastian?" the boy asked.
"You know, I'm really not sure. He may be a Schnoodle or a Water Spaniel. My grandfather says he looks like a breed called a Barbado da Terceira. Or he may be a little bit of a lot of breeds of dog. He's kind of unique."
"Yeah."
The kid wrapped his arms around the dog's neck and buried his face in the coat.
I wondered briefly if I had ever looked like that.
After a while, the three of us resumed our exploration of the property. The long driveway led down to another town highway. It didn't look familiar to me. When we reached the road, I couldn't see another house in either direction.
The name on the mailbox still read "Crenshaw" despite being unoccupied for perhaps ten or more years. I noticed another sign near the road.
Ball Mountain Realtors. I had heard of them. Occasionally I noticed their signs on property around town. They even had a sign on the Frye's old house. One other thing I had noticed is that whenever their signs went up, the property was often sold the next time we drove by.
The old Crenshaw place was for sale!
I didn't want to say something and risk alarming him, but this presented a potential complication for the boy standing next to me. What if the place sold? New owners probably wouldn't appreciate a runaway living on their property.
I was pretty sure that I could find Ball Mountain Realtors online or in the phone book. But just in case, I memorized the phone number on the sign. The company's internet site didn't even need memorizing. It was a no-brainer dot com.
Then I made a note to add a little more research to my job hunt when I got back home.
Sebastian was talkative as always. Once we became active and began strolling around the property, the boy became more talkative, too.
I didn't press for answers. But I asked the occasional question and left room for him to talk.
He thought he had been living on the Crenshaw place for about two weeks. He had left his home in mid-May, four weeks short of 'graduating' eighth grade. He wanted to last out the school year. But life at home just became too difficult; as in "get out of the house or I'm giving your ass to social services".
That 'request' came from his mother.
You'd think that DCF custody would be preferable to starving on an abandoned farm. But that isn't the sort of calculation a thirteen-year-old makes when threatened with social services. The devil he knew was preferable to the devil he didn't know. And when the devil he knew was no longer an option, uncertainty still won out over the devil he didn't know.
He had heard stories. About DCF. Placements in state custody didn't always go well. And once in the state's power, there really were no good alternatives. At least living on his own gave the kid the choice of throwing himself on the mercy of the state if he discovered that he couldn't cut it without help. But state custody would be the final option, one way or the other.
When he didn't volunteer more, I probed gently. I couldn't imagine any mother throwing her own child out of the home.
He didn't want to talk about it.
He did mention a younger brother and a younger sister. Questions about a father resulted in more avoidance, then stony silence when I tried to approach the question another way.
I don't know why, but I was curious. When he stopped talking, I decided to share a bit about myself. It only seemed fair. And I thought that maybe something I shared might prompt him to share more about himself.
He empathized over my difficult mother, although I get the sense that he really didn't understand what was so difficult about her. I guess my mother had never threatened to put me into state custody. But she was planning to send me to a sweatshop!
I mentioned the death of my father. He seemed conflicted over that. Was it possible that he thought death wasn't the worst paternal outcome?
I talked a bit about my grandparents. Then I told him about growing up in Antioch. That seemed to interest him.
He had also grown up in a small town. He had lived near Claremont, but not in the city. He liked small town life. Finding himself in Antioch had, at least in some respects, felt to him like being back home. I heard a longing in his voice to remain.
Had he intended to come to Antioch?
Not exactly. He just needed to get away from home. He wandered a bit, crossed the river into Vermont, then wandered some more.
"So a lot more than fifty miles!" I concluded. "How did you cover all that distance?"
"Sometimes I walked."
"What else did you do?"
He refused to even talk about that.
Eventually, I had to return home. I hated leaving the dog again. But the boy seemed to need him a lot more than I did. So I left the dog bowls and the bag of kibble.
I was pretty sure I could trust the boy. But I still didn't know much about him. I hoped that he wouldn't leave before I returned. Or worse, take the dog with him.
When I got home, I checked the Help Wanted page again. My mother had helpfully left it open on the breakfast table when she went to work.
There really wasn't anything new there. The job market in the New England area wasn't strong. I had heard that on the evening news. The lack of any new Help Wanted listings seemed to support that conclusion.
I didn't have any trouble finding a telephone number for Ball Mountain Realtors. They were in the phone book and were apparently located just a few miles up the road in East Grange. The lady who answered the phone was helpful, then confused when she realized that I was only a teenager.
She still took the time to explain that the old Crenshaw farm had just been put on the market. Apparently the owners didn't live in New England and had finally realized that they weren't ever likely to do so. They decided to sell the farm.
I guess the real estate market isn't any stronger than the economy. The lady spent several minutes talking with me about the Crenshaw farm. The owners wanted to sell, but they understood that it might not sell quickly. They weren't investing a lot in fixing the place up for sale.
I thanked her for her time. Before I hung up, I had one more thought. I explained my idea to her. She listened politely. She asked a few questions. She agreed to pass along my message.
Wednesday morning, I was out the front door while the sun was just hovering on the eastern horizon.
I'm not sure why I left the house so early. I missed the dog. I wanted to bring food for him and the boy. But they weren't starving.
But I woke with a sense of restless energy. I needed to be doing something. Visiting the dog and his boy were the first thing that came to mind. Besides, I really wasn't eager to play 'twenty questions' with mom over breakfast.
Boy and dog were already out in the dooryard of the Crenshaw place when I arrived. The dog seemed eager to see me. The boy took his cue from the dog.
I brought breakfast with me. Hopefully Mom won't miss a box of granola. I can't imagine that she would. Who eats that stuff anyway?
While they were eating, I took a paper sack of sandwiches and another large baggie of kibble out of my backpack and set it on the ground. I decided that I needed to find some sort of storage box for them soon. A place where they could keep food safe from vermin and scavengers.
Without much conscious thought, I had already made a commitment. I really didn't understand it myself. I just knew that I was starting to worry about the welfare of this kid.
I figured I might get some more information out of the boy while he was eating. His stomach should be feeling good and his mouth was open.
"What's your name?"
That seemed a reasonable enough question, but he chose that moment to fill his mouth with more 'certified 100% organic' twigs and nuts.
"You can call me Kyle," I offered. "That's my name. Kyle Murphy."
He nodded.
"Or Deke. Sometimes people call me D.K. Some of my friends call me Deke."
"Okay, Kyle."
He seemed to ponder for a moment.
"Thank you."
I waited for him to say more.
He continued to ponder.
"Does the 'D' stand for Deacon?"
That didn't make a lot of sense to me. He noticed.
"You said people call you D.K. and Deke. What's the 'D' stand for?"
"You're never going to know!"
I think I grinned. I have no idea why.
"You sure aren't going to find out unless you tell me your name."
He thought about that for a while before coming to a decision.
"Wallace," he muttered.
"Do you prefer to be called Wally?"
I was being polite.
He shook his head disdainfully.
"Wallace is my last name."
"Okay."
I took it patiently. Maybe he was a little slow.
"So what's your first name?"
I waited some more.
"What do people call you?" I enunciated carefully.
He looked resigned.
"Call me Wally," he surrendered.
I thought about his situation for a while.
"I don't know of any Wallaces around here."
"Neither do I," he agreed.
"Oh." I guess that made sense but, "I thought you might have come here looking for relatives."
"I already told you," he explained carefully, "I'm not going anywhere. I'm just running away."
There didn't seem to be much to say to that.
The boy leaned into the dog and closed his eyes. I decided not to disturb them.
I sat and stared into the distance. Somewhere off toward the mountains I noticed jet contrails criss-crossing in the air. I wondered if the Air National Guard was conducting another training flight, preparing for their mission to keep us safe.
While I watched the contrails race across the sky in their interwoven pattern, I heard stirring behind me.
'Wally' was on his feet. The dog stood next to him, waiting expectantly.
The boy appeared to be working out a problem in his head.
"Thanks for the food," he indicated the general direction of the bag I had left. "You don't have to stay here if you have things to do. I can take care of myself."
That was interesting. I didn't get the sense that he was trying to get rid of me. But maybe it was a declaration of independence.
"That's okay," I assured him. "I don't need to be home until after lunch. Besides, I miss my dog."
I grinned at him.
The boy heard another message. He looked embarrassed.
"I'm sorry. He keeps coming back."
He considered the problem for a while.
"I could go somewhere else. But I kind of like it here. And I do need a place that's safe."
I hadn't considered how he'd take my remark. I tried to reassure him.
"Don't worry about it. As long as I get to spend some time with him, I don't mind sharing."
The dog sensed the uncomfortable moment and distracted us. He nosed at a familiar scent in my backpack.
He loved to play soccer.
I pulled out the ball and tapped it in the dog's direction. The boy liked the game, too.
I was already looking forward to playing soccer again when school started in the fall. After starting on Silver River's freshman team, I had moved up to a reserve role on the varsity team during my sophomore year. Now I was looking forward to becoming the starting left striker.
I was strong. I was fairly tall. I was fast.
Wally wasn't very big or strong. But he was quick. And when it came to his moves, the kid was a wizard with the ball.
As I marked him around the dooryard, one minute I knew where we were going, and the next he had crossed the ball between my legs and was already sprinting away from me in a new direction!
Silver River Union High School always had a good soccer program. We played all the best teams around the state. But I had never seen anyone who could handle the ball like this little middle school kid.
We were exhausted and covered with sweat before I realized that the sun was well past its zenith. I needed to get home soon if I expected to accomplish anything before Mom got home from work.
"You and the dog hold onto the ball," I instructed. "I'll be back for it tomorrow."
I couldn't stand to watch the two chase the ball around the dooryard. It reminded me too much of my younger self. So I turned and started for home.
Running around all morning had been hot work. I was tempted to strip off my clothes and dive into the stream as I waded through it. But I figured I'd work up more sweat walking home. Better to wait and take a shower there.
When I got home, I showered and made a cursory inspection of the Help Wanted section that Mom had, again, thoughtfully left open on the breakfast table for me. I was becoming resigned to the conclusion that she wasn't likely to forget about this.
I wasn't surprised to find no new jobs listed. I just hoped that Mom's job search for me wouldn't be any more productive than mine had been.
I planned to do some research. I fired up our home computer.
Because I felt some obligation, and because I knew that Mom regularly checked the browser history, I searched first for jobs in the Antioch area. Success! Nothing.
Then I did a little snooping for my own sake. I was looking for newspapers in the Claremont, New Hampshire area.
There was a paper there called the Claremont Eagle-Times, but it had suddenly stopped publishing in June of last year. That was disappointing.
But when I just searched "Wallace", "soccer", and "Claremont". . .
Well, it wasn't much. But there was a brief article about some awards dinner at a local school in December of 2024. It mentioned a boy named Willy Wallace, then a seventh grader, who was named the outstanding middle school soccer player for their regional athletic conference.
There was even a photograph of several of the award winners at that dinner. Each stood smiling with their proud parents. But 'Willy Wallace' wasn't in the photograph.
There was no way to be sure without a photo, but I wondered if this Willy Wallace wasn't the runaway hiding out at the old Crenshaw place. It seemed like he might be.
I held my new information very close to my vest. I didn't want to let it accidentally slip out that I knew. From the moment I woke up on Thursday, I did everything in my power to not even think the word 'Willy'. But I am a sixteen-year-old boy, so you can imagine how much I struggled with that.
I figured that maybe I could sneak up on the issue later in the day.
First, I fed boy and dog. Both seemed grateful for my concern.
Then I looked both up and down. The dog had been living rough. I really needed to bring him home for a bath and some grooming.
'Wally' appeared to have been living even rougher. When I first encountered him, it took me a minute to be certain that he was human. Now, after four more days, and hours of chasing a soccer ball in heat and dust, his appearance would have horrified his mother. Or it would have horrified a mother who cared at all about the well-being of her boy.
When Wally stood up, the dust didn't stop moving. It seemed to surround him in a haze.
"You need a bath!" The words left my mouth unbidden.
At first he took offense. Then he stopped to consider.
"It could be worse," he concluded with a shrug of his shoulders.
That dislodged the layer of dirt covering him and stirred up a small cloud of dust.
"Look at you!" I said.
He looked at me. Like I might be crazy.
"Do you see a bathtub around here?"
I thought about inviting him home. But there was no way I'd be able to clean the house well enough afterward. Mom would notice. Even if Wally only walked from the front door to my bathroom. And I sure wasn't about to carry him in the state he was in!
We had checked the Crenshaw house. There was no way inside without breaking a lock or a window. And once inside, we might not even find running water.
There might have been a tub or a trough in the barn. But getting inside presented the same problem.
"The stream!" I realized.
I had thought about swimming in it just yesterday.
The idea was a complete no-go.
"It's right out in the open! It's in the middle of a field!"
I tried to point out that there was nobody in sight. He hadn't seen another human being, aside from me, in the weeks he had been here.
Wally was adamant. He wouldn't.
He was a stubborn little shit. But I suppose you'd have to be stubborn to leave home, no matter how bad it was there, if you were only thirteen.
That reminded me of what I had learned yesterday.
There was a trick Mom had played on me when I was younger. If I absolutely refused to cooperate with something she wanted, she'd shift gears and get me to give in about something else that was on her agenda. I don't know why it worked. But it did.
"Okay, Wallace," I said. "No bath. Instead you can give me your name."
"You said you were going to call me Wally!"
It was like he thought I had broken a commandment, or something.
"I changed my mind. I can't have my dog associating with someone who's only known by a street alias. That seems like a sketchy sort of person for him to be hanging around."
He looked a little panicked. But I thought I also detected the ghost of a grin.
"Give it!" I insisted. "If I have to take you to interrogation, you're going to regret it."
"Never! You can't make me talk!"
He seemed to be getting into the spirit of the game.
"Oh yeah, punk? I've cracked tougher men than you!"
I was getting into the spirit of the game, too.
He just looked at me defiantly. He zipped his lips, set the lock, and threw away the key. But his eyes twinkled.
I menaced him with my glare.
He was unimpressed.
" Well," I looked him up and down, "If you won't talk, I guess I could call you. . . Scruffy."
The idea had just occurred to me.
Again, he looked unimpressed.
"I've been called worse."
"Okay," I said, "Scruffy it is. That's your official name in the department now."
He didn't look hurt or angry. Just thoughtful.
"Do I really look that bad?" he asked.
"You don't look good."
He pondered that for a while.
"I guess I do need to get cleaned up."
He gazed off in the direction of the stream thoughtfully.
"It's an awfully open space."
I pointed out a spot where the bank was a bit higher. There was even a small pool below, where the banks had been eroded.
I walked him over and he scouted the area for threats. Then he lowered himself over the top of the bank.
That was weird. He was only thirteen. And he was tiny. But there were no cautions to me about not looking. No hint that he thought I might be a pervert. He just lowered himself over the edge and slid down the bank.
I didn't stick around. I didn't want to give him any ammunition to use against me later. And I figured that a kid his age should know how to wash himself.
I led the dog back to the dooryard. We lay down together on the ground in the shade of that old green truck and waited.
Ten minutes later, I heard the boy returning.
He looked a lot better.
He was carrying all of his clothes.
But I guess that made sense. They were soaked. He must have washed them, too.
It was only when he stopped in front of us that he realized.
"I don't have a towel!"
I didn't know what to do.
Damn! He looked a lot better with his clothes off! But that sure wasn't something I ever wanted to say out loud.
I jumped to my feet, yanked my t-shirt over my head, and handed it to him. Then I lay down next to the dog again.
He looked at the t-shirt, confused, then started to towel himself off.
I was hoping he'd finish quickly. He was standing just five feet away from me. And he was completely naked.
I wished that he wasn't. He reminded me too much of that other boy. The one I wanted to forget about.
I tried to look away. But I couldn't seem to do it. Every few moments, my eyes drifted back to the boy.
He noticed. He looked like he wanted to cover himself. But he tolerated my inspection.
From time-to-time he'd turn, contorting himself to dry one of those hard-to-reach places. When he did, something caught my attention.
The skin on his back didn't look normal. There were areas that were discolored. And on closer inspection, there were patches of red that appeared to be scars.
He must have become aware of my attention and of the sympathy growing in my eyes. The sympathy appeared to upset him more.
He continued drying himself, now carefully avoiding turning his back to me. And that caused another problem. It evoked the memory that I still struggled to suppress.
I closed my eyes and tried to forget. It didn't help.
The stench of stale beer— stale beer and vomit— assaulted my senses. I could hear something electronic whirring away in the background. And male laughter. Adult male laughter. I started to sense movement in my boxers.
I was disgusted with myself.
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