got a raise.
Mark’s mother ran a hand over the bristle
of his brown hair.
“What do you want with a dog park, anyway?”
she asked,
her voice soft.
“You don’t have a dog.”
But that was the point, wasn’t it?
It was because Mark didn’t have
a dog
of his own
that he needed
a dog park.
Mark got onto his bike
and rode
down the middle
of Walnut Street,
being careful
to hit every pothole
dead center.
A teenage boy
was mowing the lawn
in front of the library,
and the fragrance of cut grass
hung in the air,
heavy and sweet.
The smell made Mark think
of horses
munching.
It made him think
of dogs
running free
in a dog park.
Grown-ups used money
as an excuse
for anything
they didn’t want to do.
If his mother
wanted a dog park,
she could find a way.
Mark rode up and down Walnut Street
three times,
until his teeth ached
from clacking together
when he hit the potholes.
Then he rode to the town park,
leaned his bike against a tree,
and sat
on a rusty swing.
A bee buzzed past
in the honeyed sunlight.
A woodpecker rat-a-tat-tat-ted
in a tree.
Squirrels chittered
and threw themselves
from branch
to branch
to branch.
Mark looked around.
This park was fine,
but they couldn’t use it
to let dogs run free.
There was no fence.
And besides,
old people and little kids
hung out here.
Still . . .
there had to be a way.
Mark sat,
thinking,
twisting the swing
back and forth,
scraping his heels
in the dust.
And that was when
he remembered
something he’d seen on the news
once.
A rally.
He wasn’t sure what the people
had been rallying for,
but they had made a great commotion:
chants,
signs,
speeches . . .
the works.
They had made such a commotion,
in fact,
that even the president
of the whole United States
had had to listen
to what they wanted.
What if Mark and his friends
put on a rally?
What if they demanded
a dog park
in Erthly?
They could make up chants,
signs,
speeches.
This was Wednesday.
The town council was meeting
on Thursday.
Tomorrow evening he and his friends (could) march
down the middle of Walnut Street
and right to the basement
of the Catholic Church,
where the mayor
and the town council met.
The town council
would have to listen.
His mom would too.
That was the mayor’s job,
to listen.
She always said so.
Mark climbed back onto his bike
and headed out
again.
He knew exactly what to do.
He’d call a meeting.
His friends would love the idea
of a dog park.
They’d love the idea of a rally,
too.
They could meet
beneath the big oak tree
in the middle of town
to make plans.
No one ever hung out there
beneath that old tree.
It would be the perfect place
to make plans.
They could decide on signs
and chants.
They could choose someone
to lead the parade.
They could decide
who would make a speech
to the council
too!
But they had to get moving.
They didn’t have much time.
Shall I tell you more
about the town of Erthly,
where Mark
was planning a rally?
It was a small town,
as I’ve already said.
Too small—
according to the mayor, anyway—
for a dog park,
too big to let the dogs run free.
Like all towns,
Erthly had good folks,
and ornery ones too.
(There were even good folks
who were sometimes ornery
and ornery ones
who were sometimes good.)
No one knew how the town had come
to be named
Erthly.
Some said the first person
who’d ever built a house
beneath the arching trees,
along the rambling river,
had been named Erthly.
But no one remembered ever meeting
a person with such a name.
Others said
the town was named Erthly
because it was
the exact center of the earth,
at least for the folks
who lived there.
But no one was sure of that,
either.
Sometimes one of the ornery folks
would say
that the town was named Erthly
for no earthly reason
and that the whole question was silly
anyway.
And after that was said,
the discussion about the town’s name
always ended.
However the name Erthly had come about,
it was a small town.
No skyscrapers.
No big public buildings
with marble floors
and statues on the lawn.
Not even a traffic light.
Nonetheless,
Erthly had a school
and three churches,
a grocery store,
a library,
a post office,
a hardware store,
a bank,
Misty’s hair salon
(Misty did nails, too),
a drugstore,
a café,
and two gas stations
right across the street from each other.
It also had a park with rusty swings,
potholes along the length of Walnut Street,
and a sheriff who needed a raise
because his wife had recently had a baby.
But those things you already know . . .
except about the baby.
There is something else I haven’t told you,
however.
At the exact center
of Erthly
stood a very large house.
You might even call it a mansion.
It had a round tower
with a roof
like a witch’s hat.
It also had
big double doors with
lion’s-head knockers
,
the kind where the knockers
pass through the lions’ noses.
(An odd concept,
if you think about it.)
Stained-glass windows
flanked the big double doors.
And to reach the doors
or knockers
or stained-glass windows,
you passed
between fat white columns
and crossed a broad porch.
An expanse of lawn
surrounded the house.
A tall iron fence
enclosed the lawn.
The fence had spikes
at frequent intervals,
so even the most daring boys
rarely climbed it
to investigate the lawn
or to tiptoe
across the broad porch
and pluck at
a lion’s nose
or to peek
through the stained-glass windows.
And I mustn’t forget to mention
the enormous oak tree
just outside
the fence.
It was the oldest,
the tallest,
the grandest
tree in town,
but folks rarely paused there
beneath its branches.
Perhaps that had something to do
with the mansion,
the lion’s-head knockers,
and the tall iron fence
with spikes.
Or maybe it had to do
with Charles Larue,
the old caretaker
who had lived alone
in the house
for many years.
He had stayed on
after the lady who’d owned the house
had gone missing.
Neither the good folks in town
nor the ornery ones
could agree
about what had happened
to the lady.
Some thought she had moved to Hawaii,
where the weather was always warm
and whales
frolicked in the sea.
Others said she had gone
to a nursing home
in a town nearby.
Some were sure she had died.
The last time they’d seen her,
she’d been very old,
after all.
Though Charles Larue
still lived in the mansion
in the exact center of Erthly,
no one had ever asked him
about his lady.
Maybe they were afraid
to talk to a man
who lived in a mansion.
Or perhaps they didn’t speak
because Charles Larue
was the quietest man
any of them had ever known . . .
or not known,
as the case may be.
He was so quiet
that folks were certain
he was snooty . . .
or perhaps even mean.
He lived in a mansion,
didn’t he—
while the rest of them lived
in ordinary houses?
Surely that was proof of something!
Charles Larue was a small man,
no one to be afraid of,
really.
Unless you were afraid
of the great bush of his white eyebrows
or the great beak of his nose.
But to be afraid of those,
you had to ignore
the sweet, sad eyes
between eyebrows and nose,
eyes as blue as a Caribbean sea.
And you had to forget
the way Charles Larue walked
when he emerged from the house,
hands thrust deep into his pockets,
head bowed
as though against a bitter wind
even on the sunniest summer day.
And you had to pretend
you didn’t notice
the shy way he glanced up
and then away again
when anyone came near.
It’s amazing,
though,
what folks can ignore,
forget,
pretend.
So every Saturday morning
when Charles Larue
unlocked the gate
in the iron fence
with spikes
and walked up Walnut Street
to Stanley’s Grocery Store,
everyone in Erthly watched,
but no one spoke
and no one came near.
Thus in silence
Charles Larue selected his groceries
and set them
in front of Mrs. Stanley,
the grocer:
a dozen eggs,
bread,
peanut butter,
an apple or two,
several cans of baked beans,
and one large Milky Way candy bar.
He paid with wrinkled bills
pulled from deep inside his pocket,
along with a smattering of coins.
And, carrying his bag of groceries,
he walked back
up the street,
pushed through the gate in the iron fence with spikes,
locked it again,
and disappeared
into the mansion
for another week.
Every Saturday the grown-ups watched.
The boys and girls watched.
Even the dogs watched,
tugging at the ends of their leashes,
wanting to check out
this Charles Larue.
Sometimes folks spoke
to one another
after Charles Larue had passed.
“There is something odd
about that man,”
they said.
And,
“No one who keeps to himself so much
can be trusted.”
Whoever heard
“There’s something odd
about that man”
or
“No one who keeps to himself so much
can be trusted”
would nod in solemn agreement.
Except the mayor.
The mayor
didn’t put up with gossip
any more than she put up with puppies,
and she always said,
“Charles Larue is a citizen
of this town.
He has never caused
a single problem.
He pays the taxes
on that big house
twice a year
What more is there
to say?”
The good citizens of Erthly,
and the ornery ones too,
always decided
there was,
indeed,
nothing more to say . . .
at least not
in front of the mayor.
But Charles Larue?
No one knew a single true thing
about him.
They didn’t know
what he might long for
beyond bread
and peanut butter,
apples
and baked beans
and a large Milky Way candy bar.
They didn’t know
that he had served his lady
with quiet joy
for nearly fifty years.
And they certainly didn’t know
that he had once
been in love
with the redheaded waitress
in the Erthly Café,
who’d served him coffee and pie
every week
on his afternoon off.
They didn’t know,
because the redheaded waitress
herself
had never known.
Shy Charles Larue had never spoken
his love,
and she’d left Erthly
years before,
convinced
that love must lie
elsewhere.
So Charles Larue had stayed on
in the enormous house
even after his lady was gone.
And the town folks knew as little
about Charles Larue
as they had ever known
about his lady.
So many stories hidden
in even the smallest town.
So many stories
waiting
to be revealed.
Buddy barely ate.
She didn’t play at all.
The woman didn’t seem to know
how to play, anyway . . .
at least not with a dog.
She never threw Buddy’s ball.
She didn’t pick up
the orange-marmalade stuffed cat
and pretend she was going to run off with it.
She didn’t take Buddy’s pointy face
between her hands
and kiss her on the lips.
She did feed Buddy.
She let her out into the yard
and picked up what Buddy left there.
And sometimes she patted
the top of Buddy’s head
with the flat of her hand,
as though she were bouncing
a ball.
“Good dog,” she would say.
“You’re a good dog.”
But she sounded uncertain,
which made Buddy uncertain too.
Was she still a good dog?
Buddy slept.
She ate some of the kibble the woman put down,
but not very much.
She went out into the backyard
and did what a dog does
on the grass.
And she gazed through the fence,
waiting for her boy
to come back.
Then she slept some more.
Sometimes Buddy woke in the night
feeling so alone
in the world
that she pointed her muzzle
toward the darkness
where the ceiling lived during the day
and howled.
“Quiet, Buddy!”
the woman would call
from behind the door
she closed
when she went to bed.
“Please, be quiet!”
she’d say again
if Buddy didn’t obey.
And finally,
if Buddy’s cries
went on,
filling the darkness,
the behind-the-door voice
would shout,
“BUDDY,
SHUT UP!”
Buddy
always
shut
up.
But that didn’t keep
her heart
from howling.
Mark and his friends
gathered
beneath the enormous old oak
and talked and talked,
their voices clambering
over one another.
Mark had been right.
Everyone loved the idea of a dog park.
And they loved
the idea of a rally
to bring a dog park
to Erthly.
Nearly all the plans
were in place.