Signal (7 page)

I watch. My opinion of the Dog People is beginning to change. I ask, “Do you ever say no when the shelter calls? I mean, is there a limit to how many dogs you’ll take?”

The Dog People look at each other and burst out laughing. The man says, “We’ve given up on setting limits. Every time we do, a dog comes along who really needs a home.”

“How many do you have?” I can’t help asking.

“Nineteen,” the woman says. “We wanted kids, but
that wasn’t meant to be. So we figure this is what we were put on earth to do instead.”

“Lucky for them,” I say, pointing to the pack.

“Oh, for us, too,” the woman assures me. “They bring us a lot of joy. I can’t imagine the two of us rattling around alone in our big, old house. We live just a quarter mile down the road. We have a small yard, so it’s nice to have this trail nearby. These guys love to run.”

I try to picture their house, and I imagine it looks like them, sort of shabby and messy and comfortable.

“Do you ever give any back?” I ask. “Like if they turn out to be troublemakers or something?”

The man and woman look at each other. “No,” they say together, shaking their heads.

“We get attached,” the woman adds. “And they get attached to us.”

“Nineteen dogs,” I murmur with wonder.

“Of course, there are the cats …” the man says.

“Cats?” I repeat.

The woman lets out a loud hoot. “Only seventeen of
them!
”

I’m revising my opinion again. These two
are
nutcases, the kind of people you see on the news with the police raiding their filthy house, which is filled with animals and animal poop.

“Wow,” is all I can think of to say.

“When the city started tearing down the old
foundry building, they discovered fifteen cats living there. We already had two cats, but if we didn’t take them … well, I don’t have to tell you what would have happened to ’em.”

“Wow,” I say again. “Do they get along okay with the dogs?”

“For the most part,” says the woman. “They seem to work it out.”

“At least cats don’t need to be walked,” I say.

“Good thing for us.”

“Well, we’d better get moving,” says the woman. “These rascals need to work off some energy. We’ll see you soon, Josie, and you, too …”

“Owen,” I say.

“Hi, Owen. Glad to meet you. I’m Charlene.”

“And I’m Ernie,” the man says, holding out his hand.

We shake, and Charlene says, “Might as well be on a first-name basis, since we all seem to be regulars here.”

As Josie and I head off I smile, thinking that it’s nice to know Charlene and Ernie’s names. It’s better than thinking of them as the Dog People. Or the Dog-and-Cat People. Also, it’s good to know they have all those critters because they’re softhearted, not soft in the head.

Well, okay, maybe a little bit of both.

It takes two trips up the hill to carry all the stuff. Cam oohs and aahs and declares that everything is perfect, which makes me feel better about spending more of
my allowance on her, and getting grilled by Mr. Powers.

We take a bag of Tootsie Rolls outside and sit on the edge of the porch, our legs dangling. Josie chases a squirrel up into a big sycamore tree, then comes back and curls up beside me, looking proud of a job well done.

“Good girl,” I tell her. We watch as a breeze rises, making the leaves shudder. Clouds gather and soon block out the sun. After a while I ask Cam, “So now you’ve got to tell me. How is that stuff”—I gesture toward the pile of building materials—“going to make a signal to outer space?”

She laughs. “You’ve heard of crop circles, haven’t you?”

“Of course,” I say. Anybody interested in aliens and interplanetary travel has read about them. They’re designs that mysteriously show up in fields of wheat or barley or oats. The crop is flattened out to make a pattern, which can only be seen from the air.

They’re called crop
circles
even if they aren’t circular. Some of them are made by hoaxers who want to trick people into thinking the circles were made by UFO’s. But there are a lot of people who think that some of the circles really
were
made by spaceships landing and taking off. Others say the designs contain messages left by the alien visitors.

“Wow! Is that what we’re going to make?”

Cam nods.

“How?”

She smiles. “You’ll soon see.”

“This is so cool!” I exclaim.

“I just worry about my parents. I wish they never had to set foot on Earth again.”

This takes me by surprise. And I know it’s dumb, but I feel personally insulted somehow. “Why? What’s the matter with Earth?” I ask.

“Well, for starters, you know what happened when my parents’ ship was spotted.”

“You mean the jeeps and soldiers and guns?”

“The reception wasn’t exactly what you’d call friendly.”

“That’s true,” I admit.

“And just look around you,” Cam says. “Earth has wars, hatred, pollution, greed, cruelty … all sorts of terrible things.”

I frown. “You mean there’s nothing like that on your planet?”

“Imagine a world where people are never cruel to children or”—she stops to kiss Josie’s nose—“animals, or anyone.”

“It sounds great,” I say. “It’s nice to think there’s a place like that. I can see why you want to go back.”

“I want so much for everything to go smoothly,” Cam says, hugging her arms to her chest. “With luck, nobody but my parents will see our crop circle until after we’re gone.”

“What’s it going to look like, anyhow?”

Cam goes inside and comes out with a scrap of paper and a pencil stub. When she’s finished drawing, she passes the picture to me, and to tell the truth, I’m disappointed.

I’d been expecting something intricate and, well,
alien
-looking. This drawing shows a series of circles inside each other, like an archery target. Any little kid could draw it.

“What?” she says, examining my face, where I suppose my feelings must show.

“It’s fine,” I answer quickly. “It’s just not what I imagined.”

“It’s pretty simple,” she says. “But that’s the whole idea. We have to make it in one afternoon, to lessen the chances of it being discovered.”

“Do we just walk around in the field knocking down the wheat stalks in circles?” I ask. “We’re not going to be able to see what we’re doing. How will we know if we’re getting way off course? We could end up sending the wrong signal, like ATTACK EARTH NOW!”

Josie jumps up and barks in alarm when I yell this. I laugh and pat her head.

Cam smiles and says, “It’s okay, Josie. They would never do that, even if we did mess up and tell them to.”

“The heck they wouldn’t!” I exclaim. “That’s what I’ve seen in movies anyway.”

She shakes her head. “You have got a
lot
to learn about my planet.”

“So tell me more,” I challenge.

“Okay.” She pauses for a second, like she’s getting her thoughts together.

Suddenly I hear a car. “Listen!”

Cam freezes, a look of fear in her eyes. “Please,” she whispers. “Don’t let it be Ray.”

“Come on!” I say. “Quick!” I grab the paper and pencil and Josie’s collar and run toward the cornfield. I glance back and see that Cam is following. We duck into the field as a large white SUV with the words
LAKELAND REALTY
on the side comes up the driveway and stops in front of the house. A woman gets out, wearing a gray suit and high heels.

Cam and I exchange a glance of relief. It’s not Ray. But, still, this is not good.

I hang on to Josie, who is trying to wriggle out of my grasp. “Shhh,” I whisper, and clamp my free hand around her muzzle to keep her from barking.

The woman takes small, careful steps across the uneven gravel drive, climbs the stairs onto the porch, and stands for a minute looking at the door, which is wide open. She peers inside, but stays on the porch.

I picture the kitchen as we left it: food strewn across the table, the sweatshirt I’d brought Cam hung over the back of a chair, and the rope, hammer, nails, measuring tape, and board.

“Hello?” The woman’s voice, sounding hesitant, carries across to where Cam, Josie, and I are hiding behind the first row of corn. “Is anybody there?”

She stands on the porch, looking frightened, then closes the door and glances around before heading quickly to her SUV. She gets in, and the instant the door is shut, I hear the sound of the automatic door locks clicking into place. The wheels send up a spray of small stones as the lady backs up and drives away, her cell phone already in her hand.

“I bet she’s calling the county sheriff’s office to tell them someone’s been trespassing out here,” I say. “From the way she ran off, she might even think somebody’s in there now. The cops are going to be here soon, for sure.”

Cam has dropped her face into her hands. At first I think she’s crying, but then I see she’s rubbing her eyes in an effort to concentrate. After a couple seconds, she looks up at me and says, “It would be best to leave everything in the kitchen just the way it is. So if that lady comes back with the sheriff, they’ll think whoever was in the house is long gone, not still hanging around.”

This makes sense, and I nod.

Then Cam looks up with a stricken expression. “But I’ve got to go back in and get the things for making the signal.” She looks up at the sky. Dark clouds are moving in quickly. “Where can I go?” She thinks for a second, then asks, “What about that big abandoned building by the stream, near where I got cleaned up?”

“The mill? No way. People go in there all the time to look around. Kids hang out there and party.”

After another moment she asks, “Do you have a tent?”

“Yeah,” I answer. I know what’s coming, of course. She wants the tent to sleep in tonight. I can’t help being impressed by her calmness and her courage. She doesn’t know where Ray is, or if he’s still looking for her. But she is determined to hang on until the night of the full moon.

And I’m determined to help her.

“Do you think you could go get it while I clear my things out of the house?” she asks.

“Sure. I’ll get the tent, if you want. But—” Thinking of Ray, I hesitate, then plunge ahead and ask again. “Why don’t you just come home with me?”

She looks so alarmed, I quickly add, “I don’t mean we tell my dad or anything. I really can hide you.”

She shakes her head and says very quietly, “No. I can’t take a chance of getting caught now. Not when I’m so close.”

By now I know better than to argue. “Okay. I’ll get the tent. First, I’ll help you get the stuff out of the house. We’ve got to hurry, though. This place is way back off the road, but it’s not all that far from town. The sheriff could get here in twenty minutes, if he wants to.”

Quickly, we walk toward the house. Inside she says, “I’ll just grab my—well,
your
—clothes. Can you get the board? I’ll take the rest of this.” She gathers up the signal-making tools and swipes the bag of Tootsie Rolls
from the table. We take the stuff back to our hiding place in the corn.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I promise. “We’ll find some safe place to set up the tent.”

And I begin yet another trip down the trail.

I
PEDAL ALONG, AND A SUDDEN WIND PICKS UP
, B
IG
, fat raindrops begin to fall, feeling like jelly beans pelting the bare skin of my arms and face. Soon I’m soaked, and even though it’s July, I’m shivering like crazy. When I finally make it home, my teeth are actually chattering.

I look at Josie, whose short, thin coat is no protection from this kind of rain. She’s drenched to the skin and is shaking as much as I am. I towel her off, rubbing hard to make her warm. Then I towel off my own hair and throw on some dry clothes. I get some dry clothes for Cam, too. Remembering that we left the food in the kitchen, I grab some beef jerky, crackers, cheese, and a couple cans of soda.

All the while, I’m picturing Cam huddled in the cornfield, drenched and freezing. I tell myself not to rush so much that I forget something important. I really
don’t want to make another trip back and forth today.

Out in the garage, I find the tent, rolled up in its carrying case. It’s a two-person backpacking tent, very lightweight and compact, thank goodness, since I’ll have to drag it up the hill. Next to it on the shelf is a tarp to use for a ground cloth, and two rolled-up sleeping bags. I take one. Then, thinking it could be a cold, wet night, I take the other as well, along with an old newspaper and a book of matches. I put everything into a big garbage bag and tie the top tight.

I notice that it’s already after six o’clock. There’s a chance Dad will be back before I am, so I scribble a quick note, saying I might be home late and he should eat without me.

Josie watches my every move, as always, and when I put on my rain slicker, she runs to the door, her tail wagging. I don’t really feel like heading back outside, but Josie isn’t about to let a little wet weather stop her.

“You sure you want to come, Josie?” I tease.

She barks and scrabbles her front paws on the floor in eagerness to get going.

“Okay,” I say, laughing, and we step outside. I strap the stuffed garbage bag on my bike, and we head down the drive toward the highway. The wind has stopped, but the rain has settled into a steady downpour.

I pedal along, head bowed to keep the water out of my eyes, with Josie trotting alongside. As we near Mr. Powers’s store, I remember seeing yellow rain ponchos
for sale on a shelf by the door. I check the parking lot for Ray’s car, and when I see no sign of it, I decide to get one for Cam, at the risk of arousing the old man’s curiosity even more. I pull in and park my bike under the roof over the gas pump, and Josie and I go inside.

Mr. Powers looks up from his stool behind the register and turns down the police scanner, which is blaring as usual. He says, “It appears you don’t know enough to stay in out of the rain, son.”

“I’m in now,” I say.

“So you are,” he observes. As usual, he reaches into the jar of Slim Jims, peels one for Josie, and feeds it to her, calling her a “good little hound dog.” He rolls a jawbreaker across the counter to me and says, “People are always complaining about kids today, how they don’t do nothin’ but sit in front of the TV or the computer screen. Far as I can tell, though,
you
don’t hardly ever sit still. Back and forth, back and forth, a couple times every day. Got your bike all loaded up when you go
thataway”
—he jerks his thumb toward the trailhead— “but it’s empty when you come
thisaway”
—he points to the highway heading toward my house. “I ask myself, what’s that boy
doin’?”