Young Writers Society

“It’s pitch black out here; you know that, right?” Luke’s face is lost in the darkness, no flashlight to light our way. “Then why didn’t you bring a light?”

“You’re the oldest; you’re supposed to think of stuff like that. So I didn’t bother.” I roll my eyes, wishing I could see my foster brother so I could slap him. I pause trying to think of something to say, a witty retort that will leave Luke speechless.

“What are we doing anyway?” he whines, I imagine his face childlike, his lips stuck out stubbornly, like how he gets when he has to take care of the babies.

“Mr. Fillips needs some one to come get the dog from their house. It died yesterday and Jessi’s not supposed to find out.” A stick rolls under foot as my shoe moves forward, a tiny limb sticking into its rubber sole.

“Why do we have to do it?” Luke asks. He walks beside me, hand hitting my leg as his arm shoots forward then back with each stride.

“Because Mama said to,” I can see the light from the moon, bouncing off the tin roof of the Fillips’ big house in the distance.

“I wish I didn’t live here. Then I wouldn’t have to go in the woods at night for a stupid dead dog.”

“Mama owes him; you know that.” I stop. “Luke,” I ask my voice louder than it should be in the dimness, trees caging in the sound. “Why did you have to come live with Mama?” I can hear him kicking twigs beside me; they roll over the dirt, bumping along until a rock stops them in their tracks.

“Dad wasn’t very… good,” Luke says. “I don’t know how to explain it. That was a long time ago. He stopped being good after Mom died. She kept him good. She was the good one.” He is mumbling, words hitting the ground, being absorbed by the dirt instead of my ears. But I hear most of what he says. I can pick out the sadness as his words tumble out, then the small hint of happiness at the end. “You’re good like she was, Lace…”

The corners of my lips try to move, a smile flickers then fades. Good, I think, since when has that been true? I put my arm around his shoulders, feeling his hair under my hand, soft. If I could see it it would be a dull shade of gold in the moonlight. My fingers rustle it, getting buried in the thickness.

“You are too, Luke. You’re nothing like your dad was.” I pause, my hand falling back to my side. The farm house is closer now. Bright lights on the edges of the porch illuminate green shutters that open around dark windows. To the left the Fillips’s barn stands, doors open.

The lights in the barn are the brightest. Cords of lights hang from rafters and lie like orange snakes across the hay that covers the ground. As I walk closer I can see Mr. Fillips sitting on a hay bale, a blue tarp at his feet.

“Oh, my God,” Luke freezes in the doorway, his feet half on the dirt ground outside and half on the hay. I glance back at him, his eyes staring straight at the dog. I shudder as his eyes fill with tears.

“You all right, son?” Mr. Fillips is studying Luke, looking him up and down then back at me. His eyebrows crease, eyes getting lost below them. His lips purse, holding back other questions. I study him, not wanting to look back at the dog whose middle is flattened, ribs stabbing through broken skin. Its skull smashed into the plastic, blood coats its face like a mask. Its tongue licks the air, like it’s trying to get one last drop of life from the breath of the living.

Luke shuffles forward then nods at Mr. Fillips when he stops beside me.

“Didn’t expect Mama Maxwell to send you young’ns out here.” Mr. Fillips stands, stepping in front of the body, shielding our eyes from it. Luke’s hand is cold against my flesh, clammy and wet, slipping down my wrist. His nails dig ditches into my skin, five crescents waning.

“Luke, stop.” I whisper, my voice catches in my throat. Afraid to look at him I pull his fingers apart. My eyes flicker quickly toward Luke and then back to Mr. Fillips who is staring now. He shakes his head then looks back toward the dog. His overalls creak, the buttons straining when he bends over, pulling the blue tarp over the collie’s head. Her dead eyes can’t see us anymore.

Behind us a horse whinnies, scraping its hoofs in the hay. The hay murmurs on the wood, filling up the silence. Luke jolts beside me, his shoes bury into the hay as he scoots jumps forward. I hit his arm to keep him from going any further.

“Y’all just gonna drag it, or what?” Mr. Fillips asks looking at the thing we are being forced to carry back through the trees and darkness, back to where Mama is waiting to try to salvage it. He pulls on the plastic, to see how difficult it will be to carry.

I stare, trying to think of how strong I am, wondering if I will be carrying Luke, too.

“I can drag it,” I say, looking back at Luke. He looks like he is going to pass out. The picture of shattered skull and blood crusted fur is still stuck in the hay that his eyes are trained on. I blink, waiting for his eyes to move, for him to come back to reality, back to this nightmare.

“Y’all gotta hurry. It’s almost light. Jessi’ll be up to feed the animals soon. Don’t want the mutt scarin’ her.” A light flips on, on the lower floor of the house, burning through the curtain. “Here, take this,” Mr. Fillips grabs a flash light that sits, dusty, on a shelf full of oats and an assortment of brushes. He clicks it once, checking to see if the batteries work and then curses. The light sputters, trying to catch the spark of the double A battery’s life and then it slipping through its grasp. It dies and the beam of light it managed to cough out vanishes; the hay turns orange again in the lights that hang from the beams that separate us from the dark sky.

“We can walk back fine,” I look outside where the sunlight is starting to pull down the night. We made it here in the dark, I think, why would you give us a light now? “Luke, are you ready to go?” I shake his arm, trying to get him to look at me. His chin tilts up slightly and his hair moves out of his eyes. A tear falls out of his eyes when he blinks. He nods his head and the tear slips off his cheek, tripping over the air until it hits the hay.

Mr. Fillips is tapping his foot. He keeps staring at the house and I clinch my teeth. I can’t say anything. My tongue flaps hitting my gums, wanting desperately to say something to him. I don’t. I move, my converse leaving a trampled trail where I step until I get to the dog.

It smells. Iron and wet fur. The stench clings to my nose, over powering the reek of manure and horses. I hold my breath until my lungs burn. But it’s long enough to drag the tarp to the barn door. Mr. Fillips is still watching me, waiting for Luke to move, with his hand on the light switch, fingers already pinching the plastic. He wants us out but is too polite to say it out loud. Not polite, just worried. Worried that we would tell Mama and she would stop sending him meat, that his money would stop if Mama knew he said something to us. Not that she cares but it’s just what he thinks will happen.

Luke’s feet shuffle, his legs barely picking them up enough to allow him to walk. He doesn’t make the effort. His hands dig deep into his pockets. I can’t look at him when I start to walk, the dog dragging behind me like a shadow. My hands twist trying to keep the tarp between my fingers, wrists turned out.

Until we get to the edge of the yard the tarp slides, like a child down a plastic slide, nothing keeps it from moving. The trees bridge over us, a gate into the woods and the rocks start. Little at first and then big, sprinkled across the dirt. Behind me Luke walks. His foot hits the tarp, his footstep too broad to avoid it. My arms jerk when the tarp slithers over the rocks.

“Did it have a name?” Luke asks, coming up beside me. He looks straight ahead, hands still in his pockets. He doesn’t even look at me when he asks, just the path in front of us.

“Did what have a name?” I want to stop and rearrange the body but I don’t want Luke to see it again. I don’t want to have to watch him mourn over the dog again.

“Jessi’s dog.”

“Oh.” I try to remember. I haven’t talked to Jessi in ages. Then I see it. In the darkness I can almost see the pictures in my mind.

“It’s in the barn, Jess,” Mr. Fillips said, pulling his daughter down the porch steps. Her foot wobbled, the heel of her shoe mashed in, not actually on her foot. I stood awkwardly, setting the package Mama had me bring for Mr. Fillips on the rocking chair that creaked in the wind when no one was around. Jessi used to tell me that it was a ghost, of some great-great-great-grandmother who was still waiting for her brother to come home. I used to roll my eyes at her. But it still scared me when Jessi wasn’t there to see my fear.

I followed them to the barn where the lights were off and sunlight streamed in from the windows in the loft. Before I could get in the door, Jessi squealed high pitched and childlike. Not something I would expect from a girl who is turning 13. I will never do that when I turn 13, I thought, picturing for a second what my birthday would be like a few months later.

There is nothing to picture. Mama would never do anything special. I’d be lucky to get a card from Luke, signed with his horrible 11 year old handwriting. I stopped thinking. It’s not your birthday, and if it was no one would care. Get over it, I thought, pulling my thoughts back to Jessi.

“Lacie, look! Oh, my God, I can’t believe it!” I looked at Jessi. In her hands she held something. It was black and white, squirming in her hands. It looked at me, staring with big eyes. A puppy with one blue eye and one green.

“His name’s Crab,” Mr. Fillips said, handing Jessi a collar for her present. “He’s named after the dog in a Shakespeare play.” Jessi rolled her eyes. I laughed. I could picture her father’s library that was inside their house, filled with books that no farmer should be able to read. But that never stopped Mr. Fillips. He was smarter than he looked.

“Crab,” I whisper. My hand slips, sweat coating my palm. The plastic falls through my fingers. “Dang it.” I hold the word under my breath, censoring it. The real word swims around my head trying to paddle out through my lips. I turn but it’s too dark to see what I’m doing.

“I’ll get it,” Luke says, reaching for the tarp, trying to get a hold of the side opposite of me. He pulls it upward, and the dog lifts upward. Crab slides down into the curve when I grab the other side. My hands stay behind my back; my heels kick the drooping cocoon as we walk.

Luke keeps his end low to the ground, his arms held low in front of him. I can hear him breathing through his mouth, sucking the air in so it doesn’t get caught in his nose. He is probably crying again.

The sun is peaking through the horizon when we get to the edge of the trees. Fingertips of light push back the blackness and shine through, rays barely strong enough to light our way.

Mama’s in the attic. I can see her silhouette rustling behind the curtain as she preps for the dog. I shiver, my hands shaking, when I think about what she is going to do to this thing that we had to drag back for her.