Not possible, none of it.
Yet the well was there. And the steps. And that horrible fucking bug. I had seen those things.
Radar lowered her hindquarters in that delicate way of hers, then came to me, looking for a treat. I gave her half a Bonz and led her back inside. I’d read late, and my dad had gone to bed. It was time for me to do the same. Mr. Bowditch’s dog—my dog—plopped down with a sigh and a fart, no more than a tweet, really. I turned off the light and stared up into the dark.
Tell Dad everything. Take him out to the shed. The bug Mr. Bowditch shot will still be there—some of it, anyway—and even if it was gone, the well will be there. This is heavy, so share the load.
Would my father keep the secret? Much as I loved him, I didn’t trust that he would. Or could. There are a thousand slogans and mottos in AA, and one of them is you’re only as sick as your secrets. Might he confide to Lindy? Or a trusted friend at work? His brother, my Uncle Bob?
Then I remembered something from school, way back in sixth or seventh grade. American History, Miss Greenfield. It was a quote from Benjamin Franklin: Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.
Can you imagine what would happen if people found out there is another world down there?
That had been Mr. Bowditch’s question, and I thought I knew the answer. It would be taken over. Co-opted, my hippy-dippy history teacher would have said. The house at 1 Sycamore Street would become a top-secret government installation. For all I knew the whole neighborhood would be cleared. And yes, then the exploitation would begin, and if Mr. Bowditch was right, the consequences could be terrible.
I finally went to sleep, but dreamed I was awake and something was moving under the bed. I knew, in the way of dreams, what it was. A giant roach. One that bit. I awoke in a small hour of the morning, convinced it was true. But Radar would have barked and she was deeply asleep, whuffling her way through some unknowable dream of her own.
3
On Sunday I went up to Mr. Bowditch’s house to do what I had meant to do the day before: start cleaning the place up. There were some things I couldn’t do, of course; the torn cushions and slashed wallpaper would have to wait. There was plenty of other stuff, but I had to take care of it in two separate shifts, because the first time I brought Radar, and that was a mistake.
She went from room to room downstairs, looking for Mr. Bowditch. She didn’t seem to be upset by the vandalism but barked furiously at the couch, only pausing to look at me every now and then as if to ask if I was stupid. Couldn’t I see what was wrong? Her master’s bed had disappeared.
I got her to follow me into the kitchen and told her to down, but she wouldn’t, only kept looking toward the living room. I offered her a chicken chip, her favorite snack, but she dropped it onto the linoleum. I decided I’d have to take her back home and leave her with Dad, but when she saw the leash she ran （very limberly） through the living room and up the stairs. I found her in Mr. Bowditch’s bedroom curled up in front of the closet, on a makeshift bed of clothes that had been torn off their hangers. She seemed okay there, so I went back downstairs and made things as much better as I could.
Around eleven o’clock I heard the click of her nails on the stairs. Seeing her hurt my heart. She wasn’t limping, but she moved slowly with her head down and her tail drooping. She looked at me with an expression as clear as words: Where is he?
“Come on, girl,” I said. “Let’s get you out of here.”
That time she didn’t protest the leash.
4
In the afternoon I did what I could with the upstairs. The little man in the White Sox cap and corduroy pants （assuming it was him, which I did） hadn’t done any damage on the third floor, at least that I could see. I thought he’d concentrated his attention on the second floor… and on the safe, once he found it. He’d have been keeping an eye on the time, too, knowing that funeral services only last so long.
I gathered up my clothes and put them in a little pile at the head of the stairs, meaning to take them home. Then I went to work on Mr. Bowditch’s bedroom, righting the bed （which had been turned over）， re-hanging his clothes （tucking in pockets as I went）， and picking up stuffing from the pillows. I was angry at Mr. Right-O Ha-Ha for what seemed almost like a desecration of the dead, but I couldn’t help thinking of some of the sorry crap I’d pulled with Bertie Bird—dogshit on windshields, firecrackers in mailboxes, full garbage cans overturned, JESUS JERKS OFF spraypainted on the signboard of Grace Methodist Church. We had never been caught, and yet I had. Looking at the mess Mr. Ha-Ha had left behind and hating it, I realized I had caught myself. Back then I’d been as bad as the little man with the funny way of walking and talking. Worse, in some ways. The little man at least had a motive; he’d been looking for gold. The Bird Man and I had just been a couple of kids fucking off and fucking up.