The Good Son by Carolyn Mills (free e reader txt) 📗

when her car pulled up to the curb, before she’d even climbed out, I ran to meet her. “What’s the matter?” she asked, alarm flitting across her face.

“I can’t find Champ,” I said. “He wasn’t here when I came home.”

Mom looked around helplessly. “Did he run away?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “The gate was closed. Maybe someone took him. Who would steal a dog?” And as soon as I said the words, something about my voice, and the panic spreading through my chest, reminded me of Mrs. Nessor on that awful day when I told her that I’d seen her little girl get into a car. I remembered her eyes and the way her hands fluttered at her sides.

“I’m sure no one took him,” Mom said. “He probably got out of the yard somehow and is off exploring. Where would he go if he got out?”

“I don’t know!” I cried. “He could be anywhere! Champ! Champ! Come here, boy.” I was standing on the road beside Mom’s car, scanning the street for any sign of my dog: an excited bark in the distance, a glimpse of his tan-coloured fur streaking toward me. But there was nothing. Just me and my mom, standing beside her open car door, staring around in disbelief.

After too long a pause, Mom reached into her car for the Crock-Pot of chili she had prepared. “Here, plug this in,” she instructed me. “Then we’ll go for a walk and look for Champ. He’ll likely make his own way home as soon as he realizes he’s hungry. I bet he’ll be waiting at the house for us by the time we get back.”

Mom’s practicality made me relax slightly. She was probably right. Then again, Mrs. Nessor had also been soothed by my mother’s calm assurances and that situation hadn’t turned out fine at all. If Champ was hurt, or worse, dead, I would never forgive the person who did it. I would never forgive myself.

We walked down to the park by the river, where I thought Champ would most likely head given the choice, since that’s where we usually went for our walks. It was cool out and Mom wasn’t dressed for being outside. She was wearing a thin coat and I could tell from the way she was hugging herself that she was cold. The ground was littered with leaves and I thought about how just the other day Champ had dug his face into them, snapping his teeth with joy.

“Why don’t you head back?” I suggested. “I want to check a few more places.”

I went everywhere I could think of, calling Champ’s name until I was almost hoarse. All the while, I was harbouring the hope that he was already at home, waiting with Mom for me to return. I trudged up my front walk, listening for his telltale bark, but was met with the same empty silence as before.

“No luck?” Mom said, as I kicked off my shoes.

I shook my head. It was stupid, to be this upset over a dog. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I hadn’t even called the humane society. If anyone had found him out wandering, they probably would have brought him there. “I’m going to call the pound,” I said. “Maybe they have him.”

They didn’t. But after taking his description, they promised to call me if anyone brought him in. I went back to the yard and in the growing dark checked all around the fence. Sure enough, there was a hole near the side of the house. How had I never noticed it before? He must have been digging it for a while.

“I know how he got out,” I told Mom as she filled a bowl for me with chili. “He dug a hole under the fence.”

“Well, that’s better than thinking someone stole him,” she replied. And again, I thought about Amy’s mom spending that first night without her daughter, knowing that little Amy hadn’t simply wandered off, but had been taken.

I ate Mom’s chili standing up at the counter, restless, anxious to be back outside looking for Champ. I’d put a bowl of his food on the front porch, hoping for what? That he’d be hungry enough to smell it and return to me? If he’d been able to come home, he would be here already. I had no doubt about that.

Mom stayed a bit longer while I went out searching again. As the remaining light faded from the sky, my mood became blacker and blacker. I didn’t see how I would be able to sleep knowing Champ was out there in the dark. I couldn’t look at his mat beside my bed. After Mom went home, I stayed out on the front porch, sitting beside Champ’s untouched bowl of food.

Eventually, I went inside. I left the gate to the backyard propped open so that if Champ returned, he could find his way in. I opened my bedroom window, despite how cold it had become, and fell asleep straining for sounds from the street. I woke often. And just as I had when I was younger, I left the lamp beside my bed turned on. I dozed on and off throughout the long, slow night of shifting shadows.

As I lay in the half-dark, wavering fitfully between sleep and wakefulness, I hated my brother with a new ferocity. I could feel my hatred for him burning at the base of my skull, and for the first time in a long time, I wanted to punch somebody. Not just somebody. Ricky. Richard. I wanted to punch my brother until his face turned to pulp. I wanted to rip his limbs, one by one, from his body and listen to him scream.

And I wanted Mom to know why I was doing it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

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THE SATURDAY MORNING AFTER CHAMP went missing, I called Mom. “What did you do with all of Ricky’s stuff?” I asked. No pre-amble, no explanation as to where this was coming from.

“What stuff?” Mom replied. She’d already asked if