BECAUSE AUSTRALIA HAD NO TREES, the Australia in his mind. No forests to plunder, no old growth to diminish into pulp. Australia had no winter fist.
Jake tried to blow on the didgeridoo and made a noise like a fart. They laughed. Ben tried and made a bigger fart, they laughed and laughed, fart fart. But the spooky, beautiful sounds the instrument could make played like a soundtrack over Ben’s imaginings: the lonely distance, the lightness of his body traveling on foot over red earth, Jake beside him, like ancient people, the first people, father and son, upon a clean and wide land, they could begin again, the whole human race, just start again.
Because Frank, because Frank could not.
Because he and Frank had kidnapped an overweight dachshund named Otto who belonged to a couple from Braintree, Massachusetts. It had been Frank’s idea, after seeing the ‘Lost Dog’ posters in White’s. “Reward offered.” How difficult could it be to kidnap a dog? It made so much more sense than kidnapping people, who were big and made a lot of noise and could talk to cops.
They stole the aging Volvo from Old Lady MacDonough. She was in for a hip replacement and had left the keys in the car, an invitation—it could be considered—to the varmint foster kids next door. He and Frank kept to the backroads. They were outlaws, though they kept to the speed limit and ate M&M’s, and Otto sat between them, bright and happy for the car ride. When they got to the cabin, Otto jumped out and raced toward the lake—he was enjoying his day out. He waded into the lake, which wasn’t far given the shortness of his legs. “Good boy,” Frank said, crouching down to give him a pat. Otto barked.
That night was the happiest Ben had ever been; he and Frank eating gummy bears and potato chips for supper, roasting a pack of hot dogs on the fire. They even drank two beers, lifted from their foster parents. They lay on the grass with Otto, looking up at the night sky, and Frank said there were kids in cities who didn’t know the sky had stars. He told of this one kid at his school who was from New York City and he thought a cow was the size of a dog because he’d only ever seen a cow in a picture by itself. The kid’d had no way to reference the size. Ben and Frank laughed and laughed, imagining little cows the size of Otto and how you’d milk them by pinching your fingers, squeet, squeet, squeet. And Otto certainly appreciated his hot-dog supper.
By the light of the kerosene lamp, they wrote Otto’s ransom note. “$1,000 to see Otto again! Do not call the cops! Put money in UN-MARKED $100 bills in a plain brown paper bag on the SE corner of Tunny Hill Road and Wiley View at 9:15am, August 4.” They’d only have to do this nine more times and they’d have enough money for Australia. This suddenly seemed like a lot of dogs. They discussed and agreed they’d do it only five times. Five grand would be enough.
“Maybe we can just take Otto to Australia with us,” Frank pondered. The dog was snoring softly, his velvet ears cast across Ben’s lap.
In the morning, they shut Otto in the cabin and went for a swim. The water was cold and they gasped, striking out for the center of the lake with ferocity. They were all the way out when they saw a truck pull up to the cabin.
“Who’s that?” Ben asked.
Frank didn’t answer. His face didn’t change. There was water in his hair dripping down into his eyes but he didn’t blink or wipe it away. Frank didn’t answer right away, and Ben had an animal sense of dread.
“My dad,” Frank said.
“I didn’t know you had a dad.”
At the foster home no one discussed their parents. It would have been like playing Top Trumps: least able to provide food, biggest consumption of alcohol, most likely to pass out from a heroin overdose, most frequent sexual predator, most violent abuser.
It was a beautiful morning, the hills around them glimmering with green, the promise of a true, hot summer day. But Ben now felt heavy, as if his limbs were water-logged. The air was suddenly cold against his skin as he rose from the water and followed Frank. Frank walked up to the cabin, he didn’t hesitate. There was no point in delay. Frank’s dad was sitting inside, smiling, Otto on his lap. The ransom note was on the table. “Cute little fellow, ain’t he.”
Then this strange dad swiveled his head toward Ben. “Who’s the circus freak?”
“Ben,” Frank said.
“Hi,” Ben offered his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Frank’s dad laughed. The uninitiated, like Ben, might think the laugh jovial and embracing. He was petting Otto, stroking his long, soft ears, and Otto appeared to be enjoying the attention. This was how Ben learned that dogs have no instinct; they’ll take affection from anyone. Evil isn’t a smell, or a taste or a tone of voice, and it sure as shit isn’t a pat on the head. Dogs are stupid that way.
“I like what ya’ve done with the place,” father spoke to son.
“It’s mine. So is the house.”
“Yer mother.” He smirked, rubbed his grizzled beard. Then he gestured to the ransom note on the table. “This yer idea?”
Frank nodded.
“I like it—very, ah, what’s the word, cunning.”
“We’ll give you half.”
“Half?” Frank’s dad scratched Otto’s chin and the dog closed his eyes. “I don’t need the money. Why do ya need the money?”
“Ben’s saving up to buy a car.”
“He’s 13. A little young. Mind, I can see yer already motorized.”
Ben stepped forward. He wanted to help Frank. “Completely my idea, sir. My mother taught me to drive because sometimes she couldn’t. I’ve been driving since I was nine, sir.”
“Sir?” Both boys were standing in their wet underwear. Frank’s dad scanned Ben from head to toe. It felt like an appraisal, the way judges looked at beef cattle at the county fair. He lingered on Ben’s face, and Ben felt every pimple erupt and seep, his blackheads cluster like fungi. “I like ‘sir,’” the man said. “Very respectful. Yer skin is giving ya some trouble.”
“Dad, please.”
His father shifted his gaze back to Frank, a thinner boy, smaller-boned, shivering in his wet underpants. “If this goes wrong, if the cops trace ya shitstains, this’ll come down on me. I’m the adult, the parent. Ya think I want cops snooping around?”
“No. Sorry.”
“We’ll have to sort this out my way.”
“Sorry. Dad. Please. Dad. Sorry.”
Ben did not understand. The words were familiar, the conversation made sense, a parent to a son; but there was another level, below the soil. Ben had a sense of what was moving down there, toiling. But he could not see it.
“Come on, little doggie.” Frank’s dad shifted Otto so the dog was under his arm.
“Dad. We’ll just take him back, we’ll take him back right now.” Frank’s voice rose to an awkward adolescent squeak.
“Someone might see ya, son. They might have already seen ya.”
“We were careful. No one was there. No one saw us.”
“A coupla 13-year-olds driving a Volvo? One with poison ivy all over his face.”
“It’s acne,” Ben corrected. “Sir.”
Frank’s dad examined Ben’s face. “It’s almost offensive.”
Frank stepped forward. “Dad. Dad. I’ll take the dog.”
His father stood.
“Please. We’ll leave him somewhere, outside the dog pound, outside the feed store. Someone’ll find him and take him back.”
But his father ignored him, moved deliberately toward the door. Otto now had a sense that all was not well. Perhaps he smelled Frank, for even Ben could scent his friend’s fear sweat. Otto began to wriggle in the man’s grasp.
Frank held out his hands. “Dad, Dad, I’ll do it. Okay, I’ll do it.”
Ben merely watched, as if this was TV, he was seeing it through a screen, these were people he did not know. Frank took Otto and walked out, down the path to the lake. He held the dog against him, cradling him gently, speaking softly. And Frank’s father watched, impassive as he waded out into the deep water with the dog.