“What do you want, Reade? I just got out of the fucking shower and I’m dripping all over the floor.”
“Ooo,” I said in a high falsetto, “is the Yellow Peril naked?”
“Very funny, you racist fuck. What do you want?”
“Something important.”
“What’s up?” Sounding serious now.
“Look, I’m at the Highball outside town. You know the Highball, right?”
Of course he did. It was a truck stop with the best assortment of video games in Sentry. We’d cram into some licensed driver’s car—or take the bus, if no one with a license happened to be handy—and play until the money ran out. Or until we got kicked out.
“What are you doing there? It’s a school day.”
“I’ve got the dog. The one that scared you so bad when we were kids? She’s not doing so well, and there’s someone in Chicago who’s supposed to be able to help old dogs. Kind of rejuvenate them.”
“It’s a scam,” Andy said flatly. “Gotta be. Don’t be stupid, Charles. When dogs get old, they get old, end of stor—”
“Will you shut up and listen? This guy’s giving me and Rades a ride in his van for thirty bucks—”
“Thirty—”
“I have to go right now or he’s gonna leave without us. I need you to lock up the house.”
“You forgot to lock your—”
“No, no, Mr. Bowditch’s! I forgot!”
“How did you get out to the Highba—”
“I’m going to lose my ride if you don’t shut up! Lock the house, will you? I left the keys on the kitchen table.” Then, as if it were an afterthought: “And lock the shed out back, too. The padlock’s hanging on the door.”
“I’ll have to ride my bike to school instead of taking the bus. How much will you pay me?”
“Andy, come on!”
“I’m kidding, Reade, I won’t even ask you to blow me. But if anyone asks—”
“They won’t. If they do, tell them the truth, I went to Chicago. I don’t want you to get in trouble, just lock up the house for me. And the shed. I’ll get the keys from you when we get back.”
“Yeah, I can do that. Are you staying overnight or—”
“Probably. Maybe even two nights. I gotta go. Thanks, Andy. I owe you one.”
I ended the call, shouldered my backpack, and grabbed the leash. I dropped Mr. Bowditch’s keyring on the table and hooked Radar up. At the foot of the back steps I stopped, looking across the grass to the shed. Did I really mean to get her down those narrow winding steps （of varying heights） on a leash? Bad idea. For both of us.
It wasn’t too late to call it off. I could hit Andy back and tell him either I’d changed my mind at the last minute or the fictional van driver had left without me. I could walk Radar home, tear up the letter on the kitchen table, and trash the email that was waiting to go out to Mrs. Silvius. Andy was right: when dogs got old, they got old, end of story. That didn’t mean I couldn’t still explore the other place; I’d just have to wait.
Until she died.
I unhooked her leash and started walking toward the shed. Halfway there I looked back. She was still sitting where I’d left her. I thought about calling her, the urge was strong, but I didn’t. I kept walking. At the door to the shed I looked back again. She was still sitting at the foot of the back steps. I felt the sourness of disappointment that all my preparation—especially my inspiration about the padlock—had gone to waste, but there was no way I was going to leave her sitting there.
I was about to start back when Radar got to her feet and walked hesitantly across the backyard to where I stood in the open doorway. She hesitated, sniffing. I didn’t turn on the battery lights because with her nose she didn’t need them. She looked at the pile of magazines I’d stacked over whatever remained of the big cockroach, and I could see that educated nose of hers vibrating rapidly. Then she looked at the boards covering the well, and something amazing happened. She trotted to the well and started pawing at the boards, making little yipping sounds of excitement.
She remembers, I thought. And the memories must be good, because she wants to go again.
I hung the padlock over the latch and pulled the door partway closed, leaving enough light so I could see my way to the well. “Radar, gotta be quiet now. Hush.”
The yipping stopped, but not the pawing at the boards. Her eagerness to go down there made me feel better about what was at the end of the underground corridor. And really, why would I feel bad about it? The poppies were beautiful and smelled even better. There was no harm in the shoe-woman; she had welcomed me, had comforted me when I broke down, and I wanted to see her again.