The Thing At The Edge of Blundertown: A Young Adult Novel

THIS DREAM WAS ONLY A FEW SECONDS LONG. Earlier that evening we’d carved the annual Devine jack-o’-lantern. It was an artsy composite: my amateur sketch of the mouth, Jack’s drawing of the eyes, Mom’s crest for a nose, and Dad’s squiggly markings suggesting ears. But in my dream, the facial features began to rearrange themselves. I stared as the feral gourd mutated from one face to another, an ever-changing cast of characters on its curved, waxy surface. Next to me, Jack mimicked the expressions—first goofy, then pouty, then sinister. I dove into the safe hollow of his chest.

“Someone’s at the door!” Penelope barked, barreling toward the foyer. “Coming! Be right there!” Rae followed. It was the neighbor, Kelly Davis. Rae greeted her, and Penelope sat angelically at her side, tail sweeping in anticipation. But there was no treat for her. Both Devines knew instantly that something was wrong. “Is your mother or father home?” Her coral lips were pinched.

“No.” Ms. Davis knew that. They were still at work. She rarely appeared at their door except to sell a raffle ticket for some cause or other. But that day her hands were empty, fidgeting to fend off the late November air.

“Well, let them know I stopped by.” Her puffs of breath reminded Rae of a dragon hurling fire. She was winded just from walking up the road.

“Should I tell them what it’s about?”

“Well, your dog pooped in front of my yard,” she reported in a clipped, uncharacteristic tone. Dark roots cut a rigid line on either side of her part. “It’s still there. And I don’t like it.”

Rude much, Rae noted. It was then that she spotted the arm-band on the woman’s jacket. It was wide and orange, with black letters: ON!—short for the Ollie’s Neighborhood watch group, which had become quite popular of late. “Should I go pick it up?”

“If you don’t mind.” Ms. Davis may as well have said, “That’s an order.” A crease appeared above her over-plucked brow. “We can’t afford any trouble, Philip and I. If you know what I mean.” No, Rae didn’t know. “And it was in your yard yesterday, too. It wasn’t leashed.” Her blue powder-puff eyes were icy.

Since when had Ms. Davis called Penny an “it”? She continued her know-it-all, bossy kind of lecture. “As your ON! representative, I could give you a ticket. But instead, I’m offering you a warning. As a courtesy.”

It was no courtesy; it was a threat. This was official business. For the first time in her life, Raelyn took the next-door neighbor seriously. Penny’s tail tucked inward.

The bright coral mouth back-pedaled into a phony smile. “Just a friendly reminder,” Ms. Davis said as she winked at Raelyn.

Eww, why did grown-ups do that? Did they wink when they were kids, or was it a habit they acquired with maturity? she wondered as she and Penelope followed the curve toward the Davis house. The about-face was unnerving. Just a couple weeks before, Ms. Davis had presented a treat from her pocket and patted Penelope on the nose, as she had done for years. Why such ruffling of feathers in their ordinarily superficial neighbor? The families weren’t close—neither the parents nor the children, whose ages and milestones missed each other by years. The clans minded their own business and stayed away from touchy subjects (politics, race, landscaping, finances, religion, fitness, crime, and parenting). So they got along just fine.

Rae searched for the offensive pile, but didn’t see anything. The closer to the Davis house they were, the lower to the ground Penelope sniffed. Getting warmer, she deduced as she followed sharp zig-zags with her nostrils. Warmer, warmer. . . her tail beating behind her. Hot! Hotter! Found it!

There it was: a tiny brown clump on the edge of the sidewalk, not much bigger than a buckeye.

Kelly Davis had come all the way over for this? This is what the neighbors were up in arms about? Raelyn didn’t know whether to laugh or kick the little clump straight to the Davises’ front door. Surely, this could be the product of anyone in the neighborhood. Why pin it on us—why not Boxer, or that yappy terrier with the crooked ear?

Not mine, Penelope concluded. Definitely Boxer.

Raelyn scooped it up with her baggie-gloved hand. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen either of them lately. She hadn’t seen Prince for weeks. She still hadn’t responded to Gil Richmond’s love letter, if you could call it that. Each time she tried, she found herself up against the same dilemma: She couldn’t say yes, and she didn’t want to say no. A “date” (assuming) at the park with their dogs was impossible. Did that cancel his offer? What did he see in her, anyway—not that he did. These thoughts had buzzed around her for five weeks and two days. . .but who was counting?

Jackson’s third clue crossed her mind. All this time she could have been multi-tasking and searching for the answer along with the poop. She studied the front porches along the way, stopping at the foot of each for a better view. The third clue went like this:

Did I see a smile beneath your frown

Even though I’ve let you down?

I wish I knew.

Well, here’s my third clue:

A lady’s fine porch display

For many years and a day

Needs neither sunshine nor water

Whether cold or much hotter—

These blossoms are here to stay.

So far, she’d spotted no flowers. Rae and Penny found themselves at the entrance to Blundertown Park, where the unfortunate sign was still posted. They both looked longingly into the field, the jungle gym, and the lonely baseball diamond. Penelope’s tail wagged.

“No, we can’t go in there, Penny,” she explained.

They stared at each other for a few moments—one set of charcoal eyes steadfast on the other. When nothing happened, Penny barked politely, “I’d like to go in.”

“We can’t go in. I’m sorry.”

“Do let me in, please,” Penelope graciously repeated, then added for extra flair, “this minute.”

“Not today, Penny. Come on,” Rae tugged on the leash.

Penny dug in her heels with poised determination. They continued the push-pull dance for a few moments, but in the end, of course, Raelyn won. That was the way of things in the pack. But she was not pleased.

You see, it wasn’t lost on Penny that they hadn’t been to the park in ages. The stroll always started predictably enough: past her Special Neighbor’s house, the pond where the white creatures floated mysteriously across the surface, past the home of the de-ranged felines. But instead of turning into the park, why, they’d walk straight past it. Eventually, they’d turn toward home, a random one-eighty at Rae’s discretion. It was hardly fair, but again, what could she do? It was all very curious.

She was trotting alongside Raelyn when an ominous tickle spread across her nose. She tried scratching it. She swatted again several times while trying at the same time to keep up. This reduced her to a graceless gait—a humiliating, three-legged hop. The tormenting itch spread across her muzzle, flews, and cheeks. She swatted frantically to no avail.

“What’s the matter, My Lady? C’mon.” Rae scratched all over Penny’s face and coaxed her along.

It was precisely the relief Penelope needed, and she refocused and found her pace. There was always next time. Perhaps then she would meet up with old friends in the park, get all the most recent gossip. She was not nosy, mind you; she was far classier than that. She merely liked to keep current. How she missed the park! It was her most exciting destination most days. One never knew who might be there: her dear friend Prince; or Oscar, Nolia, or Abby; or the people who were so friendly! Even when it was empty, the park was a happening place. She would sniff daintily around her familiar stomping ground—the spilled ice cream spot, the sweaty scents around the baby swings, the leftover specks under the picnic tables. Or discover new signs of old acquaintances, the unique fingerprint of the canine species: No two dogs’ pee smelled exactly alike. This sleuthing activity not only kept the mind sharp and useful, it was one of her favorites. Who’d been at the park of late, whom might she have missed—the proof was in the pee.

She also enjoyed her Matching Game at the park. Over the years, she’d become quite skilled at it. The tiny pebble droppings came from the four-leggeds whose babies wore precious white spots. What a surprise to discover (by acute skill and sensory perception) that the long, squishy specimen came from the graceful water floaters, the runny white stuff from the bickering creatures overhead, and the clumps from those nasty competitor types. Again, the samples she most enjoyed exploring at the park were from her own species—Boxer, Prince, that intolerable, chatty terrier. These samples were a real bonanza, since they were typically scooped up on contact.

It might not seem like much. But she had enjoyed these activities her entire life and she looked forward to them. Now they had been yanked away for no particular reason. And her friends had all but disappeared—not a hint of them anywhere.

Penelope noticed the obvious signs: the darkening world, the deepening chill, the smell of thunder. Just as she had predicted, a few drops of sleet sliced through the sky. Within seconds, the tick-tick-ticking surrounded them. Rae pulled up her coat hood and turned abruptly toward home. Penny followed at her side.

Just ahead, the Millers’ house was long overdue for a painting. A foreclosure sign had been stabbed into the brown lawn. Raelyn eyed the porch for the flower clue. The door opened and out came elderly, cheerless Mildred Miller, shivering in her knitted sweater. “You didn’t take that mutt into the park, did you?” Her thin, menacing voice traveled down the steps and landed, an accusation, at Rae’s feet.

“You better not. Filthy canine, it’s all his fault.” She yanked her cardigan close—a dramatic exclamation point!—and shuttered herself back into her paint-chipped home. Not a hello, isn’t it a lovely day?

Talk about filthy. . .that stinky old sweater probably hadn’t been washed in a hundred years. Old Mrs. Miller always wore it, even on hot summer days. She probably slept in it, too. Gross. Raelyn stuck her tongue out as they passed. Suddenly she was burning to know: why the pudgy, two-faced neighbor and the nasty old sweater lady? Was everyone insane? Why the exclusion of her dear Penelope, posted with twisted wire? Why the cruel laws, the accusations, the offensive math problems? Her rage burned, and the sheets of ice pelted.

As she trudged along, it dawned on her that perhaps she was asking the wrong questions. Perhaps the answerable question was not why, but who: Who was behind all of this? The answer came to her instantly, like Penny’s rubber ball bobbing to the surface of the lake.

Surely, the man behind it all was none other than Mr. Pumpkin Head.

OLLIE JERKINS HAD A PERFECTLY ROUND, red-orange face. His head even had a few ruts like real pumpkins, and his cow-licked hair could be the stem. He was the Chief Executive of Daffy County. Her father occasionally shared stories about him over dinner—all in fun, of course. (“What is said at the dinner table stays at the dinner table,” he’d make them promise). She could picture all the players at the meetings, including the boss who insisted on the title “Chief Jerkins.” But she and Jack had nicknamed him Mr. Pumpkin Head.

Not to mention, Mr. Pumpkin Head was hard to miss these days. Everyone in school knew who he was. He had spoken recently at a pep rally in the gym. By the time he finished, the students had felt a surge of loyalty to their school and community and tremendous self-pride, though they’d barely understood what he said. His voice was booming, his face tomato red. Listening to him, Rae had felt both exhilarated and terrified. But when he shared his life-changing story of his youth, she was decidedly not a fan. He had been bitten by a dog and hated dogs ever since. A tirade had followed about canines being dangerous and dirty, and that kids everywhere deserved cleaner neighborhoods. Then on to the ribbon cutting of the Ollie’s Kids Club, which he was visiting every school to promote. Students had flocked to the table to sign up and grab an orange OK! armband. Angelica had been among them.

“Angie,” Rae had called out, struggling to keep up with her, “what are you doing?” They both were in Chinese flats and faux silk kimonos.

“What? I want one of those arm thingies.”

“Why? Don’t go up there.” But Angie had continued to follow, darting artfully among her peers to reach the table. She’d scribbled her name on the list and, with a triumphant smile, snatched an orange band. Rae had stood speechless a few feet away.

“Yeah, we’ve all heard Ollie’s boyhood trauma,” her father had mused later that evening, his arms spread-eagled behind his neck, his feet on the coffee table. “His embellishments grow every day. Last week he told the Women’s Auxiliary he needed fifty stitches and suffered permanent damage to his right calf. He blamed some dog thirty years ago for not getting a football scholarship in college,” he had laughed. “It was eight stitches. And he’s not athletic, that’s all.”

Her mother had shaken her head, amused. “You’d never guess Ollie was a victim the way he carries on, all fire and brimstone. He’s a persuasive speaker, I’ll give him that.” She turned to the TV, top of the hour. “Quite a dog fetish, that man.”

“Well, I don’t like him,” Rae had announced.

“You don’t have to,” her father had sighed wistfully. “He’s not your boss. Lord knows I wish he weren’t mine.”

RAE AND PENNY CLIMBED THE HILL, the storm chasing at their heels. Newspaper headlines loomed before her, all pointing to Mr. Pumpkin Head. She’d been doing a little research lately. She was only eleven, but the web search was simple: just type in dog and Ollie’s Daily, the local newspaper, formerly known as The People’s Daily. A list of articles instantly appeared, and Mr. Pumpkin Head’s fingerprints were all over them. Six weeks ago, a little article on page 23 read “Dog Terrorizes Child.” According to the story, an eight-year-old boy had been frightened by a Chihuahua on Front Street while walking home from school October 7. The boy hadn’t been injured, and the dog’s owner had quickly secured the pooch and been ticketed, according to Chief Ollie Jerkins. Two weeks later, on page 15, an article called, “County to Lassie: Go Home!” had discussed the municipal park ban:

Our parks are green havens intended for social events and safe play for our youngsters,” says Chief Ollie Jerkins, who supports the ban. “Not as dumping grounds from the bowels of dogs. It’s time to end the filth and terror brought on by growling canines at the expense of our peaceful communities. Dog owners are subject to a $50.00 fine per violation.

So her father’s explanation of the ban—the fiscal need to cut jobs—hadn’t been wholly accurate.

A week later, on page 8, “Dog Curfew in Effect” reported that Chief Jerkins had responded to residents’ complaints of barking with a five o’clock curfew. He directed citizens to call CAN-INES immediately upon the sighting of any dog after hours, or upon suspicion of such a sighting. The next day, on page 4, “Couple Arrested for Violating One Dog Rule” reported that Rick and Rita Smith had been charged with a felony for failing to turn over their “baggage” dog to County Hall. Failure to report a suspected violation was a “misdemeanor.” The terminology sounded dire.

Had Raelyn’s search included the term “canine,” a recent front-page article would have appeared: Wild Pack Of Canines Attacks Innocent Boy On Way Home From School.

The incident had allegedly occurred on October 7 on Front Street—the same time and place as the minor incident previously reported. Somehow, the Chihuahua had evolved into a “wild pack,” and the boy had suffered life-threatening injuries. Other recent news articles would have appeared, as well, with front-page headlines:

INDOORS, PENELOPE SHOOK HERSELF DRY with a flurry of speed and precision. The Alpha Mother whisked slivers of ice from Rae’s jacket. “Goodness, Raelyn,” she exclaimed. “What in heaven’s name are you doing out in this?” She was the boss of the family, the leader of the pack. Allow me to help, Penny offered and dutifully lapped up the frosty chips from the floor in the nick of time, preventing a puddled mess. Alpha ignored her, didn’t even say hello. In the past, she used to scratch her under the chin each day with a cheerful, “Good morning, My Lady!” But not so lately. Sheer rejection. Only after Penelope pestered at her heels would she bend down and say, “Okay, okay,” and give her a mindless flick along the back.

How topsy-turvy Penny’s life had become. It was more than just the park. Her name came up with such frequency that she’d become a household celebrity of sorts. Except that each time it did, Rae cried or carried on so! Her hugs had always been a bit smothering, sweet thing, but now they were a choke hold around the chest and withers. It was as if the girl clung on for dear life. Penelope felt compelled to check on her through the night, stealing upstairs to her post at the side of the bed. Some rules must be broken, you see; the poor dear needed her. The father was the only one who seemed the same. He tossed a stick in the yard with the same speed, distance, and direction and for the same, too-brief period of time. But make no mistake: He was stiffing her on dinner. Did he take her for such a fool that he thought she wouldn’t notice?

Was it something she’d done? she wondered. Had she offended in some way? The list was growing: her Favorite Neighbor, Alpha, Father, Prince, Boxer. They’d all deserted her in some fashion. Even grandmother—don’t think for a minute she hadn’t noticed. She smelled the proof when the family returned the other day: turkey, cinnamon, and cranberry. Penny had always taken such pride in her impeccable manners at Grandmother’s. But this time she hadn’t even been invited, imagine that! Penelope had never been so insulted in her life. Her ears drooped just thinking about it. But who cares about a few petty snubs, anyway? Some people are ever so shallow.

She retreated to her lonely spot under the desk when it occurred to her: The moment when it all began. It was that peculiar morning when the mail came twice. She remembered it all too well. She was tending to her chores in the empty castle. She didn’t work out of the home like the rest of the family, but her job was no less important—even now that she was a respectable old lady. As always, the first thing she did when the family left for the day was tidy up the house. That morning there had been a dot of jelly on the table and a few pieces of cereal on Raelyn’s chair.

That’s when she heard that darn squeaky noise from the front door chute where the mail entered the house each day. How bold, the mail! Such an intrusion into the family’s private sanctuary, one of her daily annoyances. But on that day, it was earlier than usual, and only a single piece of paper rather than the regular bundle. She inspected it most thoroughly. Then, of course, the propane man had come, that brazen intruder who barged across the lawn once a month with his ferocious hose. She threatened him through the window: “Not an inch closer! I’m warning you!” But he’d approached unabashed and smiled right at her. The nerve! Never trust a common trespasser. She had finally settled into her morning beauty rest when those God-awful, squeaky hinges interrupted her again. This time it really had been the mail. Twice in one day. . .strange indeed. A sliver of foreboding had pricked at the back of her neck. The last time the mail came twice, it had been about the boy, Jackson. Shortly afterward, he’d been gone. Who might it be this time? She had felt a sudden, desperate need to rearrange things in the house, something she hadn’t done in ages. And like a frivolous young girl, she had.

Later that day, she and Raelyn had returned from the park for the first time without entering. Things hadn’t been the same since.

THE CHILLY ODORS FROM THE STORM lingered in the kitchen. Penelope was alone. Oh, how she missed her old life and wondered when things would return to normal. Or was this the new normal? Again, her nerves got the best of her, and she searched for something harmless to rearrange. She spotted the kitchen towel over the oven door, the family’s vulgar habit that irked her so. She gently pulled it down, fluffed it up until it was just so, and deposited it in the center of the room. All is well, she assured herself, returning to her spot. Surely, it’s nothing. At times like this, mindless, repetitive activity could be therapeutic. It reduced anxiety simply by redirecting the energy. Paws, she decided—I will lick my paws. She massaged her arms in long caresses, one after another until her fur was silken, wet and relaxed. Still she stroked over and over, over and over. Calm down. All is well.