Between the Roots Page 2

  "Walt," he called softly. "Mr. Walt, are you there?" Again he called softly, "Mr. Walt, Mr. Walt, it's me, Sammy." He called as loudly as he dared. No answer followed. He would have to return home, his trip a waste.

  Going home without answers was depressing. His promise to Walt was heavy. The more tired he became, the more difficult it got to separate fact from fantasy. Did I see a body being lifted from its grave? Had it been tortured and dug up to be tortured again? Maybe the hooded people weren't murderers or torturers; maybe they were rescuers. He desperately wanted to talk to someone about his strange adventure. If he could get a reassuring explanation, then, maybe, he could sleep.

  He knew he would return and try to find the old man soon. He dreaded the thought; it took so much energy being brave. So he reminded himself, It wouldn't take long—a short visit with the old man is all I need—maybe tomorrow I'll see him.

  Sammy vigorously pedaled along the quiet road as he mapped out his plans to return. Easing into his driveway he waved to Mrs. West, who looked over the low hedge that separated their property.

  "So, Sammy, I thought you'd be up in the mountains on this beautiful day," she called out. Her ample form dwarfed the bird feeder she was cleaning. Sammy's mom said her attention to outside chores gave her a good excuse to keep a close eye on the neighborhood. Nothing went unnoticed.

  "I'm waiting for snow, Mrs. West." A tiny falsehood, he knew. Sammy walked his bike through the side garage door. He could hear the phone ringing as he mounted the bike on the large wall hooks.

  He opened the kitchen door and heard his mother's concerned voice trail down the hall from her bedroom. "Give me more time. Even I haven't been inside. You know I'm not ready for this." She paused. "I just know."

  He hesitated in the kitchen, straining to hear. Her voice softened, then disappeared behind the click of a door. This was the second time this week he had overheard a call that disturbed his mother. He remembered her agitated plea, "Why does he need documents? No one will ever ask for them." Were the two calls related? He quickly returned to the garage and noisily reentered the house as she came into the kitchen.

  "Oh, Sammy, you're back! I need a break. How about some ice cream?" Before he had a chance to respond, she grabbed her purse and steered him outside.

  It was a short drive to the Ice Cream Shop. The quaint building was the hub of the community, where friends met friends; even travelers made it a regular stop. Every young child, parent, and grandparent had spent money there. The shop was busy. The unusually warm fall weather was good for business. Customers lined the counter. Sammy and his mother edged along with them. Three teenagers were huddled near the door deep in conversation. A middle-aged man holding two ice cream cones pushed by the waiting customers. Just as he approached the group of teens, the tallest boy rocked forward and back, laughing at a comment made by one of his friends. As if in slow motion, Sammy saw the domino effect, the older man's arm bumped the teen's elbow, one of the cones flipped onto his pressed shirt to fall on the floor.

  "Watch what you're doing!" the man yelled.

  Customers near the action became silent, pulling away from the man.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't see you coming."

  Two of the teens bent to pick up the mess. "Can I get you another one?"

  "The best thing you can do is get out of my way. I've got work to do, unlike some loafers around here." The angry man scowled at the boys, grabbed the door with his free hand, and left the store.

  "Pleasant sort," the woman at the cash register said. She turned to the boys. "You know he'll have it all over town that you guys were causing trouble."

  "We can't help what's not our problem."

  "Well, just don't let him keep you from coming to town." She gave the silent teen a smile. Sammy didn't recognize them. Perhaps they were visitors.

  After placing their orders, Sammy glanced around for a vacant table. His eyes whisked over crowded parlor tables lining the wall. And then, with a start, he saw Walt. The old man was hunched over an enormous bowl of ice cream. Next to him sat a blond curly-haired girl, a little younger than Sammy, eyes framed by glasses. She reached up and tapped the old man's hat, a silent lecture to remove it. He grabbed it quickly from his head and stuffed it in his lap before he returned to his dessert.

  Sammy's heart beat fast with both anxiety and relief to see Walt. The hunt was over—how easy, yet how awkward this could be. How could he talk with the old man without arousing others' curiosity?

  Sammy's mother handed him his cone and motioned him to follow her to the empty table in the back. He noticed the old man's baseball cap had fallen from his lap onto the floor. Sammy smiled at his mother and nodded. "I'll be right there."

  He stepped up to Walt's table, bent down, and picked up the cap. "Excuse me, sir, you dropped this."

  The old man looked at him and gave him a knowing smile.

  "Oh, thanks, kid." He glanced around nervously. "Do you want to join us?" The young girl stopped eating and studied Sammy, looking as if she recognized him.

  "I'm with my mom." Sammy nodded in the direction of their table.

  "Oh, I see. Well, thanks."

  This short encounter reassured Sammy. He called me "kid." Neither one of them could openly admit they had met before. Yet the old man's invitation suggested he wanted to make some kind of contact. If only they could talk a few minutes, alone.

  Sammy joined his mother at the back of the room, not the best location to observe the old man and the girl. Probably his granddaughter, Sammy thought.

  "That was a kind gesture, Sammy," his mother said. "Especially after that circus show Mr. Wade put on. For a minute I thought I'd brought my work with me."

  "Yeah, what was bugging that guy?"

  "He's one of the new developers that keeps coming into City Hall. He's an agitator, wants to condemn the old Colony, build a vacation Mecca, pump money back into the town, but more likely into his pocket. Don't get me started. I get enough of it at work."

  As he licked the dripping cone, Sammy tried to watch the old man. Several times he readjusted himself to get a better view of Walt's table.

  "She is cute, but a little young for you, Sammy," his mother teased.

  "What are you talking about?" Sammy tried to appear bored. He hadn't even thought to really look at the girl. Pretending to check out the rest of the small parlor, he glanced once again in Walt's direction. He was gone! His table was already being occupied. Then he saw them standing just outside the door. Walt turned toward the ice cream shop.

  Sammy wanted to yell, Wait, stop! I have to know about the walled forest. Don't leave. He wanted to get up from his table and chase after them. Wait, I need to know where to find you. I need to talk. I want to sleep. He sat there staring after them, saturated with disappointment.

  His mother reached across the table and patted his arm. "So, my son is growing up!"

  "Yep, she was a real looker, Mom!"

  Chapter Three: Breaking the Promise

  AN EXHAUSTED SAMMY greeted Monday with doubt about his own memory. The robed people from the forest and their mysterious activity began to acquire a dream-like quality: hands floating through swirls of mist, trees swaying to a haunting rhythm while birds and deer closed in about him, trying to drive him closer to the dark figures that held the weed-draped body of an old woman. The scene pulsed in his mind, alternating vivid and dark colors that confused him all the more. Even his return to the walled forest seemed unreal. Lack of sleep was robbing him of self-trust. Had he really met a man named Walt, and seen him at the ice cream shop?

  He knew he must tell someone the incredible story. Deciding whom to confide in was easy. His buddy, John, had been his best friend since first grade. But how would he keep John quiet? They had more incriminating stories on each other than sidewalks had cracks. An outrageous list: egging houses, placing ketchup and mustard packets under toilet seats — even putting a dead frog in a box and secretly mailing it to John's grandma.

  Feeling n
auseated with tiredness, Sammy forced himself to remember one outrageous story he could hold over John. There were a couple gems he recalled for the perfect occasion. No one else knew that John had put watered honey in the shampoo bottle and pretended to drink it in front of his baby sister, telling her how yummy it was just before switching bottles to the real thing. John guiltily confessed to Sammy after his sister had been taken to the hospital. Fortunately, the shampoo had not been toxic.

  John's parents had very different parenting styles. His mother would have let John off with a reprimand; his dad wouldn't. John's mother was soft-hearted and devoted all her time to her children. Whenever possible she turned chores into games, usually races against the clock: how many things can you pick up in a minute, how many songs does it take to do the dishes, or beat the stranger from snatching misplaced toys? John's younger siblings fell for her silliness. And then there was his father, an ogre, a man who didn't believe in second chances. He said a job was a job, not a game to coax good behavior. So around his father, John learned discipline.

  To tell John his secret, he needed to blackmail him into keeping it. He needed to think of something he knew that would enrage John's father even more than the shampoo incident.

  During P.E. Sammy motioned John to join him in right field, far away from the other boys. He scuffed his heel in the dried grass as he pretended to search for something.

  "So what's up?" John said.

  "John, you remember the time you burned the interior of your dad's boss's BMW with a bottle rocket?"

  "So?" John squinted his eyes and rubbed both hands through his thick black hair. He stood firmly and a little too closely in front of Sammy, as he puffed out his chest, arms crossed, looking tough against Sammy's coming threat.

  Sammy knew he was in dangerous territory. He squatted in John's shadow and slowly picked at the bristling turf. As if to hold back a cough, Sammy put his fist to his mouth, but then even under John's huffy stance Sammy broke into laughter.

  "There you were, with your nose pressed against the driver's door, watching the leather smolder and car fill up with smoke."

  "How was I to know he'd parked his dumb car behind those bushes?" John inched even closer to Sammy, poking his toes against Sammy's heels. "He should'a known better than to leave a sun roof open."

  "Yeah, yeah, we know, it wasn't even that hot. And you played fireman with some cans of pop."

  "It woulda worked."

  "Sure, maybe if you'd opened them."

  John started shifting from side to side, backing away from Sammy. "So what's up with you?"

  Sammy knew his timing was right. The rest of the class had cleared the field; he'd have to hurry to make his point. "What would your dad's boss do if he ever found out?"

  "Hey, you promised, Sammy."

  "I got a story to tell you, John, but you got to swear not to tell anyone."

  "It must be a good one."

  "I guarantee you, it's worth it. But I'm warning you, I'll tell your old man everything I know about that car if you ever breathe a word of it."

  The between-class warning bell rang. Both boys eyed each other like gunslingers in a shoot-out.

  "I'm good. Your story better be, too." John's voice sounded relieved.

  "So think about it. If you still want to know, I'll tell you on the bus after school."

  They stepped apart, walked backward, eyes locked, then turned and raced toward the gym. "Beat you, wuss!" John yelled over his shoulder as Sammy held back, in a gift of victory to smooth over the threat he'd made.

  At the end of the obnoxiously long school day the boys raced to the bus. Sammy reached it first. He leaped the steps, pulling himself along the handrail, and headed to the back. John slugged along, his weighty backpack over one shoulder.

  "Rats, the buggers got it." Both back seats were filled with the eighth-grade crowd.

  Sammy figured the next best option was the middle of the bus, away from big ears. There was an informal hierarchy in school-bus seating. The highest-ranking eighth graders dominated the rear of the bus. A few popular seventh graders occasionally slipped into the same prize seats. John's notoriously witty remarks gave him that privilege. And Sammy, another clever agent, enjoyed the same rights.

  He heaved his backpack to the floor of a middle seat and plopped next to the window, pulled his knees up tight, and hunkered down. John followed.

  "So what's the story?"

  "You gotta swear to God not to tell."

  John said, "I promise."

  "Done." The boys burrowed their heads together, cap to cap. "I'm not supposed to say anything, but I gotta tell someone . . . " Sammy began his story backward, starting with the old man he had seen in the woods. "We both saw something that was really weird, and I know he doesn't want anyone to know he saw it, but I don't know why."

  "What did you see?" John matched his friend's whisper.

  "Strange people digging up a body."

  John squinted, turned to look his pal in the eyes. "No way!"

  "Yes, man, I really saw it, either that or I'm going crazy." As the bus lurched along, breaking its grinding rhythm with the habitual "stop, start, door-open, door-closed" routine, he unfolded the story to his friend. Sammy found no need to embellish it. Told exactly as he remembered, it was colorful enough.

  "What are you gonna do, Sammy? Go to the police?"

  "No, I'm not gonna go to the police. They wouldn't believe me, and when the Colony found out I'd told, I'm afraid of what they might do. First off, I gotta find the old man."

  "So you want me to help."

  "Right!" Sammy saw John hesitate. "Any chance you can go to town with me and kind of hang out around the Ice Cream Store? That's where I last saw him."

  "Does it include ice cream?"

  "I suppose."

  John eagerly snapped his reply. "Soon as I get my chores done, I'm free until dinner."

  "Great, I'll help you with them. Mom's got another one of those meetings tonight. I'll just tell Mrs. West I'm going to your house."

  "Does she still babysit you?"

  Sammy snapped John's arm. "She's more like a watchdog. And, yes, ice cream's included."

  John flashed a sly, wishful smile. "We might have to do this for several days. You never know how long it will be before the old guy gets a craving for ice cream."

  "Don't press your luck, John." But Sammy knew he was right. Staking out the Ice Cream Shop, even for a few days, might be the best way to find Walt. What a sweet dilemma. He knew it would be impossible for John to wait around that vicinity without indulging in the merchandise. Sammy would have to dip into his allowance to satisfy each of their sweet tooths.

  By four o'clock, two serious boys were planted on the Ice Cream Shop steps.

  Two men in suits drove slowly by, paused, and pointed at the boys, then continued around the block. Within minutes the same car returned; this time it stopped. The passenger hurriedly jotted something on a pad before driving away.

  "Do you suppose we look too obvious?" John asked.

  "It's not like we're wearing guns or anything."

  "Yeah, I know, but what if the old guy sees us sitting here and decides not to come in?" John turned to look at a customer coming out of the store holding a double-scoop fudge ice cream cone.

  "So what do you think we should do?"

  "We'd better go inside. No use scaring the customers away."

  "Guess you're right. And I suppose we ought to order a cone so we don't look so conspicuous." He had come prepared with coins in his pocket. Buying would ease his conscience for the blackmail and also keep John cooperative during a prolonged stakeout.

  Sammy set the limit, one scoop, then made the purchase. Buying two cones a day until the old man showed up could do major damage to his savings.

  Sitting at the back table gave them a view of the large windows on either side of the entry. Few customers were in the store, typical for the dinner hours. The clerk left the counter to pick up the dirty glasses and c
rumpled napkins from one of the tables. He wiped the small round table and rearranged the iron scroll-backed chairs. The boys watched him unload his tray, then go to another table, wipe it clean, collect the pile of change left for a tip, and return to the counter.

  "Do you like working here?" John called over to the clerk.

  "It's okay."

  "You get all the ice cream you want, don't you?" John persisted.

  The young man kept busy behind the counter. "Guess so, but I don't even like the stuff."

  John rolled his eyes and leaned close to Sammy. "That's a waste!"

  Sammy replied, "That's probably why he got the job. Smart boss."

  Several minutes passed. Their ice cream disappeared below the level of the sugar cone. "Eat slower, John."

  For the next half hour they occupied themselves talking about the important things in life. John made another trip to the counter, picked up two straws and returned. The clerk watched him. Sammy knew if Walt didn't show pretty soon, they'd have to leave.

  "Look at the worm, Sam." John forced the straw's paper sleeve to the table, making a tight accordion, and then used the bare straw to collect a few drops of drinking water. He dropped the water onto the crumpled covering. It slowly swelled, twisting and growing on the table.

  "Yeah, neat. I don't think he's coming today."

  "Who?"

  "The President, who did you think?" Sammy flicked the worm onto John's hand.

  "You never know about those old guys. My grandpa hardly ever eats ice cream. Gives him a headache. Maybe two days in a row is too much. Maybe tomorrow."

  It was five-forty. The store closed at six during the week.

  "You kids need anything else?" The clerk was preparing to close shop. He again made the rounds of the tables, wiping them down, swatting the crumbs off the chair seats.

  Both boys took the hint and stood to leave. "Thanks, we gotta be going," said John.

  Sammy wanted to keep their presence favorable, so he left ten cents under the water glass.