Smells Like Dog (11 page)

“Dog?”

“Careful, kid,” the conductor said. “The light’s not working back there.”

“Dog?” Homer pulled out his flashlight and hurried to the back of the car. In the last row of seats he found Dog lying on his back, rolling from side to side on the
floor. Then Dog flipped onto his feet and started pawing at something.

Homer crouched and aimed his flashlight at Dog’s paws. “Hey, you found it,” he said as the light bounced off the edge of the coin. But no matter how desperately Dog dug, he couldn’t free it.

For the coin was trapped beneath the largest black boot Homer had ever seen.

I
t’s not nice to make fun of people just because they have big feet. There are many smart, nice, talented people who happen to have feet like dinosaurs. And it causes them great embarrassment when their feet keep elevator doors from closing, or when they have to stand sideways on the escalator, or stick their legs out the sunroof.

Dog whimpered and scratched at the massive boot. Flakes of dried mud fell onto the floor. Homer, still crouching, thought that he might be able to slide the
coin free with his Swiss army knife, before the boot’s owner even noticed. But just when he reached into his pocket, a hissing noise issued from somewhere overhead. He squinted as a lantern lit up the row of seats.

“Do you like sitting on the floor?” a baritone voice asked. “I sit on the floor when I’m feeling too sad to sit on the couch. When I’m extra sad I take long walks. Nighttime is the best time for a long sad walk.”

Homer tilted all the way back to get a full view of the speaker. Up, up, up she went—an expanse of black cape that ended near the ceiling where her head happened to be. Homer cleared his throat and said loudly, so that she could hear him all the way up there, “I’m sorry to bother you but that’s mine.” He pointed.

The woman set the lantern on the seat beside her. Then she leaned forward. Her long silver hair tickled Homer’s face. “This?” Dog stopped scratching as she lifted her boot and picked up the coin with fingers the size of hotdogs. She looked at one side, then the other. Without any sort of expression, she returned the coin to Homer.

“Thank you.” He clutched it in his sweaty palm, silently swearing to never lose it again.

The woman stared at Homer. Homer stared at the woman. Dog stared at a cockroach as it scurried past. Then he ate it.

“Hey, you still owe ten dollars,” the conductor said, walking to the back row. “If you don’t pay, I’ll have to deposit you at the next station.”

The woman titled her head, studying Homer as if he were a brine shrimp in a petri dish. “Do you wish to be deposited at the next station?” She raised her oversize eyebrows.

Homer shook his head. He’d never met a woman with such a low voice. She sounded like Mr. Fitzwaller, who sang in the very back row of the Milkydale Community Choir.

“The next station is a dreary place, indeed.” The woman sat up straight and reached into a black purse. “Conductor, this boy does not wish to be deposited at the next station so I shall pay the amount due.” She handed a ten-dollar bill to the conductor. In return he handed three tickets to Homer, then walked to the next car.

Homer peered down the aisle. Gwendolyn, who was busy sorting through her duffel bag, trying to figure out which of her animals would most impress Madame la Directeur, had forgotten all about her brother.

Homer shoved the tickets into a pocket. “Thanks again.” Then a question slipped out of his mouth. “Are you from Iceland?” He had every reason to believe the woman was Icelandic because, on his eighth birthday, Uncle Drake had given him a book called
Long Forgotten
Lands
. The inset maps were gloriously painted in rich sepia tones. His favorite was titled “The Land of Giants.” According to that chapter, a race of very tall people had once inhabited Iceland. There, deep beneath the volcanoes, they had mined for emeralds, sapphires, and rubies.

The woman folded her gargantuan hands. “I am not from Iceland. Are you from Iceland?”

Homer’s neck had started to cramp so he moved into the seat across from the woman. “I’m from Milkydale. I thought you were from Iceland because you’re…” He hesitated, not wanting to insult her.

“Ah, I see where you’re going with this.” She pulled her cape around her shoulders. “You believe that I am a giant. Well, I am, but not the kind to which you refer. I was born with a condition that made me grow very fast. In the same way that your dog was born with a condition that kept him from growing.”

“He’s got a
condition
?”

“His breed has a form of dwarfism. That’s why his legs are disproportionate to his body.”

Dog walked in a circle, then lay at Homer’s feet. “His legs
are
kind of short,” Homer said. “Hey, do you like dogs? This one’s real nice and he needs a home. My dad won’t let me keep him.”

She frowned. “I do not keep animals. I tend to sit on
them. Not on purpose, of course. That dog is a fine-looking hound. I’m sure someone will want him.”

“I hope so.” Homer reached down and patted Dog’s head. “I might have trouble finding him a place. He can’t smell.”

“We all have things we cannot do.” She gazed out the top of the window. Darkness whooshed past. “I cannot ride a Ferris wheel. I do not fit, you see.” A tear sparkled in her right eye.

Homer imagined the Ferris wheel at the Milkydale County Fair, with its bright lights and tin-can music. Sitting at the very top of the wheel was the closest he’d ever come to flying.

“Ferris wheels aren’t that great,” he lied.

“Thank you for attempting to make me feel better, but I still feel as sad as always.” The tear wiggled, then fell onto her wide cheek. “There are so many things I cannot do. I cannot ride a horse. I cannot thread a needle or fit into an elevator. I cannot sneak up on anyone.”

Homer felt very sorry for this woman. Her sadness reached across the space between their seats and tugged at him. “I can’t play football,” he said. “I’m not fast enough, so I always get tackled. And I can’t do oral reports because my heart starts pounding so loud that I can’t hear my own voice. And I can’t go to the library because I got in trouble and Dad said I couldn’t go.” He
bit his lower lip. He was about to confide something to a total stranger, but he felt as if she’d understand. “The library burned down.” His stomach lurched as the blaze ignited, fresh and furious in his mind. “It was an accident but it was my fault.”

“That’s a terrible thing, burning down a library.” The tall woman continued to stare out the window. “I, too, have done terrible things. Unspeakable things. But I cannot call them
accidents
.” She whipped her head around so quickly that Homer jumped in his seat. “You should keep that coin in a safe place. The City is full of thieves.” She reached into her bag again and pulled out a matchbook. “If you tuck your coin into this, it will be safe. No thief would want to steal a matchbook.”

Homer smiled nervously, then took the matchbook. It read:
ZELDA’S TRINKET SHOP
. As the lady watched, he tucked the coin into the matchbook, then stuck it in his pocket. It seemed like a good idea. Not as brilliant as hiding it beneath a fold of sagging basset hound skin, but good nonetheless. A whistle blew and the train slowed.

“Gloomy Moor,” the conductor announced from the doorway. “All off for Gloomy Moor.” Brakes squealed as the train came to a full stop.

“This is my destination.” The tall woman collected her bag and lantern, then raised herself from the seat,
bending to keep from bumping her head. “It was nice to meet you, Homer Pudding.”

“It was nice to meet you, too,” he said.

Once the woman had departed, Homer returned to his sister’s row. Dog followed, eating a piece of discarded bubble gum along the way. “Did you find your coin?” Gwendolyn asked, dusting off one of her stuffed rats.

“Yeah.”

“Did you give it to the conductor?”

“No. But the tickets are paid for, so don’t worry.” Homer shuffled his feet. “Hey, Gwendolyn. Could you not tell anyone about the coin? I mean, that it was from Uncle Drake?”

Gwendolyn shrugged. “I don’t care about your stupid coin.”

Homer took the window seat opposite his sister. Outside, at the edge of the Gloomy Moor station, the woman raised her lantern and looked back at Homer. Then she waved. He politely waved back. With a swirl of her black cape, she disappeared into a cloud of steam. It had been nice of her to pay the fare. But he wondered, as the train pulled away, what kind of terrible, unspeakable things she had done. And then a shiver darted down his backside.

She’d called him Homer Pudding.

He didn’t recall mentioning his name.

H
omer.”

Homer rubbed his eyes. A bad dream evaporated until only its edges could be remembered—flames, sirens wailing, more flames. Dog lay across Homer’s lap. With the armrest pushed out of the way, Dog took up two seats. His drool had seeped through Homer’s jacket sleeve. “What’s going on?” Homer asked.

“We’re here,” Gwendolyn said.

Homer pressed his sleepy face to the window. Tall
buildings whizzed past, illuminated by streetlights and the first rays of morning. Block after block of bricks and cement, iron and steel, colorless, cold and rigid. Home, with its dappled hills and shady trees, seemed a world away.

The conductor hurried through the car. “Next stop The City. All off for The City.” A nervous flutter tickled Homer’s stomach. He had a lot to accomplish, but wasn’t sure where exactly to begin.

The train screeched to a stop. After tying Dog to the rope leash, Homer followed Gwendolyn into the station. Frantic people swarmed every inch of the building. Coming and going, lugging suitcases and backpacks, they pushed around Homer, while a few tripped over Dog. The front of the station proved louder, with honking trucks, shouting vendors, and roaring engines. The noise hit Homer square on, like a box to the ears. A blast of stink collided with his face, thanks to a row of taxicabs that sat idling at the curb, their tailpipes spitting out snakes of exhaust. “Yuck,” Gwendolyn said, plugging her nose.

Because Milkydale’s air was always sweet with fruit blossoms and freshly mowed grass at this time of the year, taking a deep breath was an enjoyable activity. Homer didn’t realize that if you took a deep breath in The City at this time of year, or at any time of year for
that matter, you stood a good chance of inhaling one of those exhaust snakes and dying from a fit of coughing.

“Homer, stop coughing, you’re embarrassing me.” Gwendolyn slung her duffel bag over her shoulder. “Excuse me,” she said to a passing man in a checkered suit. “Which way is it to the Museum of Natural History?”

“Twenty-seven blocks that way,” he replied with a tilt of his head.

Twenty-seven blocks? Homer had no idea The City was so vast. A delivery truck drove past. Homer’s eyes watered as he broke into another coughing fit. By the time his vision cleared, Gwendolyn was a half block ahead.

“Come on,” he urged, tugging on the rope. But the going was slow because Dog decided that it was absolutely necessary to stop and pee on
everything
. He lifted his short leg on an iron fence, a fire hydrant, and a garbage can. “Gwendolyn!” Homer cried. “GWENDOLYN!” She stopped and waited. “I don’t want to go to the museum yet,” he said when they finally reached her. “I need to find a library.”

“Too bad.” She wrapped her arms around her duffel. As they crossed a busy intersection, a bunch of cars honked.

“But I need to do some research,” Homer insisted.

“Whatever. Do it later.”

“I need to do it now, before…”
Before the man named Ajitabh finds me.
“Before Mom and Dad come to get us.”

“Dad won’t come to get us. He’ll never set foot in The City. And Mom has to stay home and take care of Squeak.”

“But I need to…”

Gwendolyn’s hair soared as she whipped around. “This is the most important day of my life, Homer, and you’re trying to ruin it. I’m not missing that party. Do you hear me? I’m not missing it just so you can go to the library.”

Homer was used to Gwendolyn getting her way. He usually didn’t care when she got the bathroom first or when she got to choose which movie they were going to watch. Trying to win an argument with Gwendolyn was like trying to find treasure in your backyard. But more was at stake than a full bladder or a boring time at the theater. “The party’s not until ten o’clock tonight.”

“So?”

“So we have lots of time.”

“And what if we get lost? Or what if we get caught by a policeman who wants to know why we’re not in school?” Gwendolyn set the duffel on the sidewalk, then put her hands on her hips. “It’s too risky. We’ll go straight to the museum and wait for the party.”

Homer clenched his fists. “I’ll be there. Don’t worry. I promise.”

She bit her lip. What could she do? She needed him. His name was on the VIP invitation. “FINE! Go do your stupid research, but you’d better meet me at the museum before ten o’clock or…” She leaned real close and lowered her voice. “Or I’ll tell Dad that you went into another library.”