Between the Roots (3 page)

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 crumpled 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.

"Good thinking, Sammy, and it looks bigger under the glass, too."

"Yeah, I'm sure he'll think it's a quarter."

* * *

Another long, sleepless night lay ahead of Sammy. His thoughts were scattered like water running downhill, making rivulets in all directions. Eight years he'd lived in this house, slept in this bed. He remembered the first year he and his mother had moved here. They were both sad, and this new home was a chance to forget the pain. His mother was his only family, unless you counted Mrs. West, a spunky adopted grandma. Now, when his mother attended those important meetings that she said she would soon tell him about, he'd report to Mrs. West's house just to keep her company. Kind of a reversal of roles, Sammy told himself.

His mother had kept his father's memory alive all these years. When he was old enough to read, he'd discovered the account of the accident in a folded, yellowing newspaper clipping tucked inside a family album. The picture showed a powerful tow cable anchored to a car extended over a river pool where the water cut deep into its bank. Tire marks cut through tall grass running down the steep hill. The words told of the dangerous curve that had claimed other vehicles on other foggy nights. At first they thought it was a stolen car, but the license plate and the brown leather shoe bobbing on the water's surface turned out to be his dad's. They dragged the pool bottom and miles down the river but no body was found. His mother told him the rest, all about the memorial, the waves of well-meaning friends. But to a four-year-old nothing made sense.

Even now Sammy felt confused when he thought of his dad. Of all the pictures in the family album, there were only two of his father. Both pictures were taken the year his father and mother were married. His father seemed older than his mother, something that didn't fit his vague memories. The newspaper clipping was a powerful link that Sammy often thought about during times of loneliness. He dwelt on the image of the drowned car rising from a murky grave to reveal the license plate. And he thought of the brown leather shoe.

There were times he wished his mother would get on with her life, even find him a new father, not as strict as John's, but one who could be a part of his activities, go skiing with him, play ball, and perhaps even listen to a troubling story about a walled forest. But work, and meetings she'd tell him about "someday," kept her busy. The recent rumors spread by the Proper Land Use Committee about the Colony had a direct impact on their lives. She had even more meetings to attend.

Tuesday was better. Sammy had slept after all. The boys again made plans to go to the Ice Cream Shop. They met on the corner of First and Main near the candy-cane-painted street sign marking the busy intersection. They leaned against the pole, pretended to ignore one another, and then checked their watches while people walked by.

"He might have sneaked past us," John said.

"You're right. It's time to go in. Remember, one scoop." Sammy plunged his hand into his pocket and fingered the stakeout money, the rest of this week's allowance. If Walt didn't show today, he'd have to tap into his savings, ten dollars and eighty-two cents stuffed in a thick ski sock next to his underwear.

The clerk recognized them. "A scoop of strawberry on a sugar cone, right?" He pointed to John. John smiled.

"I'll have chocolate, please," Sammy said. He hadn't realized they left such a lasting impression.

"It's two scoops for the price of one today. Lucky day for you big spenders."

Sammy knew he should have left a bigger tip last night. But between John's appetite and not knowing how long this hunt would last, he decided to err on the side of stingy.

The back table was free again, so the boys proceeded to "their" table. A group of older girls from school entered the store, took one look at the boys, and started giggling.

"What'd I do, forget to put on clothes?" John asked Sammy.

"Naw, they're just looking at your muscles."

"Wrong, they were looking at the one between your ears." Sammy punched his friend on the arm.

John leaned forward again, this time whispering: "Look who's coming in the door? Is that the old fossil, Sammy?"

The bent figure leaned on a cane with one hand, while a middle-aged woman supported his other arm. They shuffled to the counter in unison.

"No. That's not him. And your times a-comin', John. You'd better watch your tongue."

Other customers began to fill the store. It was busier than yesterday: two-for-one temptation. Sammy realized this was a double bonus for them as well. If Walt knew anything about the special, he might take advantage of it. Another wave of customers moved in, all of them elderly but none of them Walt.

"This has got to be the day. All those old guys like discounts." John sounded disappointed with his insight. His cone was fast disappearing.

"It's getting crowded. Let's go outside and sit on the sidewalk," Sammy said. "John, did you notice anything strange in there?"

"What are you getting at?"

"I recognized most of those people, especially the kids."

"So?"

"So, where are the Colony folks?"

Although the sun was beginning to set behind the town's tallest buildings, there was still heat radiating from the sidewalk. The cement soon lost its warmth. It was hard and uncomfortable. Sammy, discouraged, stood to leave.