Usually.
I lowered my arm, stared at my friends for a couple of seconds longer, then turned and hurried down the dirt road.
I ran, but not all-out. Not the way you run with a dog on your tail, but the way you do it when you’ve got a long distance to cover. A pretty good clip, but not a sprint.
Every so often, I had an urge to turn back.
But I told myself they’d be fine. Up on the roof, they were safe from the dog. And if strangers should come along-like some punks or a wino or The Traveling Vampire Show—Rusty and Slim could lie down flat and nobody would even know they were there.
Besides, if I returned, we’d all be on the roof again a couple of miles from home and no way to get there without Slim bleeding all over the place.
Going for a car was the only sensible thing to do.
That’s what I told myself.
But the farther away from Janks Field I ran, the more I wished I’d stayed. A couple of times, I actually stopped, turned around and gazed up the dirt road to where it vanished in the woods.
And thought about running back.
Maybe I would’ve done it, too, except for the dog. I hated the idea of facing it again.
First, I felt sort of guilty about trying to kill it. Which made no sense. The damn thing had attacked Slim—it had hurt her and tried to rip her apart. For that, it deserved to die. Clearly. Without a doubt. But all that aside, I felt rotten about jumping off the roof to murder it. Part of me was glad it had scooted out of the way.
Second, the dog was sure to attack me if I returned to Janks Field on foot. It would try to maul me and I’d try to kill it again.
But I hope the dog wasn’t the reason I decided to keep going. I hope it wasn’t for anything selfish like that.
But you never know about these things.
The real whys.
And even if you could somehow sort out the whys and find the truth, maybe it’s better if you don’t.
Better to believe what you want to believe.
If you can.
Anyway, I didn’t go back. I kept on running up the gloomy dirt road, huffing, sweating so hard that my jeans were sticking to my legs.
I met no one else. The road, all the way from Janks Field to Route 3, was empty except for me.
When I came to the highway, I stopped running. I needed to catch my breath and rest a little, but I also didn’t want anyone driving by to get the wrong idea.
Or the right idea.
With Grandville only a couple of miles away, some of the people in cars going by were sure to recognize me. They might not pay much attention if I’m simply strolling along the roadside. But if they see me running, they’ll figure something is wrong. They’ll either stop to offer help or tell everyone what they saw.
Golly, Mavis, I was out on Route 3 this morning ’n who should I see but Frank and Lacy’s boy, Dwight, all by himself over near the Janks Field turnoff, running like he had the Devil itself chasing after him. Seemed real strange.
Spose he was up to some sorta mischief?
Can’t say, Mavis. He ain’t never been in much trouble. Always a first time, though.
I wonder if you oughta tell his folks how you saw him out there.
I better. If he was my boy, I’d wanta know.
And so it would go. In Grandville, not only does everyone know everyone, but they figure your business is their business. Nowdays, you hear talk that “It takes a village to raise a child.” You ask me, it takes a village to wreck a child for life.
In Grandville, you felt like you were living in a nest of spies. One wrong move and everyone would know about it. Including your parents.
After giving the matter some thought, I decided I didn’t want to be seen on Route 3 by anyone. So every time I heard a car coming, I hurried off and hid in the trees until it was out of sight.
I hid, but I kept my eyes on the road. If something that looked like a Traveling Vampire Show should go by, I wanted to know about it. I planned to call off my mission to town and run back to Janks Field.
When I wasn’t busy dodging off to hide from cars, I wondered how best to get my hands on one.
My first thought had been to borrow Mom’s car. But on second thought, she never let me take it without asking where I wanted to go. Janks Field was supposed to be off limits. She would be very angry (and disappointed in me) if I told her my true destination. Lying to her, however, would be even worse. “Once people lie to you,” she’d told me, “you can never really believe them again about anything.”
Very true. I knew it then and I know it now.
So I couldn’t lie to her.
Which meant I couldn’t borrow her car.