Between the Roots (7 page)

At the top of the next hour, Mr. Lanton signaled the boys to return to the office. John followed Sammy, holding an envelope containing a few more dollars Walt had collected. "Lively set of folks that came in last," Lanton remarked. "One of them asked me where I found the stale music. He even offered to loan me one of his CDs."

"It looks like they're having fun," Sammy said. He'd noticed the mood change created by the new arrivals. There was a feeling of competition and hurry. They dominated the games with a fresh excitement typical of the nights when Sammy and his friends played.

"Oh, they're having fun all right," he said with some disgust in his voice. "I know it wasn't part of the deal, but do you boys mind sticking around here awhile. I'm a little short-staffed, and this new bunch might be more than I can handle."

"Sure thing, Mr. Lanton. We can stay till nine," Sammy said. Sammy's worst fears had surfaced; mixing resort seniors with town seniors was not a good idea. They had a reckless, almost immature attitude that he couldn't explain.

John added, "Walt's taking his folks home by nine, anyway."

"I appreciate it. Just hang around near the back and keep your eyes open."

Security work. Their job description was getting longer.

The back was Sammy's preferred place; he knew John liked mingling, teasing the old ladies who shared their coupons with him so he could show them how to play the games. Both boys kept busy watching the crowd.

"Get a load of that." John pointed toward the far pinball machine. Two customers were working the pull knob together, hand over hand. "Old Walt's got himself a lady friend."

The thought hadn't occurred to Sammy that Walt might have a date; he might even be married. The old gal holding his hand could actually be his wife.

"There's more spice in this room than in my grandma's chili," John said as he headed onto the open floor. Soon he was shooting wild turkeys and getting pats on the back from one grandma or grandpa after another. Sammy slipped into the men's room. A short, stocky old man from the Colony was leaning against the wall by the wastebasket. Sammy rushed to him, intending to ease him to the floor. The old man hadn't fainted, but was holding a pen, and there were fresh ink marks scribbled on the wall.

"What's going on?" Sammy demanded. The man quickly slipped past him out the door. Sammy was incensed.
What kind of people live at the Colony? Were all those stories about them true?
He followed the culprit, determined to inform Walt, whom he saw at the refreshment stand.

A familiar old lady edged up behind Walt and patted him on the shoulder. She flashed him a very resistible smile, which he ignored; he turned toward Sammy and walked his way. Sammy pitied the lady for a second, until he saw her approach another stranger from the Colony to say, "Hello, my name's Edna."

"Sammy, what's up?" Walt asked.

"What kind of customers did you bring us, Walt?"

"Some of them haven't been out for a while," Walt answered.

"That short, stocky guy was writing on the wall in the bathroom."

"Sorry, Sammy, I'll tell Skeeter to knock it off and clean it up."

"Thanks, I'd hate to have Mr. Lanton find out."
Or anyone else
, Sammy thought as he checked his watch. Time had slowed down considerably.

Sammy had never seen John so frazzled. "What's with these old gals? Three of them have been following me around like I was a magnet and they were wearing iron clothes. It's weird."

"Was one of them named Edna?"

"No, she prefers the older gents. These old ladies were asking me all sorts of questions: Who was my favorite movie star? What was my favorite music? And stuff about school."

Sammy said, "They must be old retired school teachers."

The next time the boys looked at their watches it was ten to nine. Walt was wandering around, tapping people, motioning them toward the door. He waved across the room. There was an obvious difference between the perky Colony group and the tired-looking, refined seniors from town. Within minutes Walt's friends were settled on the flatbed. Sammy and John watched the old truck bunny-hop down the street.

John said, "Letting them loose is like popping corn with the lid off. I'll go call my folks and see if we can get a ride home."

Mr. Lanton joined the two young businessmen. "Well, boys, it was a big success, not that it didn't have its moments." He looked at Sammy. "You wouldn't be tampering with city politics now, would you? Maybe you know something about those Colony folks, huh?"

"They spend their money more freely than most, Mr. Lanton." Sammy smiled.

It was now safe to sit on the curb, and soon John's dad flashed the car headlights, so the boys headed in his direction. Sammy whispered, "I'm not sure, but I felt like I knew some of the old folks from somewhere."

Y
OU'RE WASTING AWAY
, Sammy." John flopped next to him on the bench, stood quickly, and brushed a flattened corn chip off his jeans. "It's like you're shrinking into your face. You gotta stop worrying."

"I've been telling myself the same thing. It's no good. All that work we put into the ticket sales was like a distraction."

"From what?"

"The old man, the secret, the weird feeling that keeps gnawing at me," Sammy answered curtly.

"Maybe you better tell someone, maybe your mom."

"I can't, John, I'm still under Walt's threat no matter how friendly he seems."

"Sammy, how about making me a promise? After the holidays, we blow this thing wide open, march right through that stupid gate and face Walt, tell him we know he was lying and we're going to turn the whole place over to the authorities."

Sammy slammed his fist on the table. Students near his table stopped eating their lunches. Sammy waved them off and leaned closer to John, and whispered, "That's crazy. You sound worse that those weasels from up north."

"So what's next?"

"I'll wait, like you said, until after the holidays. There's just too much going on at home with all the stress Mom's facing."

"Just don't slip away, Sammy. Have you looked in the mirror lately?"

It wasn't just his face, Sammy felt different, tighter, smaller, but he knew it wasn't so. Worry seemed to be messing with his whole body.

* * *

Time seemed to warp for Sammy, squeezing the rest of November right next to the beginning of February. A few days after the senior night Sammy had called Walt to get his impression of the evening.

"They loved it," Walt assured him. "They'd love another outing."

Sammy interrupted him. "Actually, I'm a little busy right now. Could you let the folks know we'll have to wait a few weeks?" There was no answer right away. Sammy raised his voice and began to repeat the question. "I'm a little busy right now. Could you let the folks—"

Walt barked, "Quit that! I can hear you good enough. What do you think I am, deaf?"

Sammy was embarrassed. He had marveled at how sharp Walt's hearing was, just as good as his. "Sorry."

"Truth is, they want an outing, but they can't come back for a while," Walt continued. "We had trouble getting the truck back to the Colony's parking lot."

"No lie? What happened?" Sammy asked.

"You know how steep that main road is into the Colony from the gate?"

"Sure."

"Well, we didn't take it." Sammy wondered why Walt even mentioned it. "There's a back road that swings in below Lone Spring Road. It follows the river below the edge of the forest. It's pretty bumpy because it's sandy and hardly ever maintained. Trouble is, there's some pretty good potholes that catch you by surprise."

Sammy could picture the rest of the story, but he waited patiently for Walt to finish.

"So we chugged along in the dark, and pretty soon we took a flying leap into nowhere and came down in the middle of a huge pothole."

"Geez, did you break an axle?"

"Just stuck, but we had to walk the rest of the way to the cottages. With all those blankets and stuff, it wasn't easy." Sammy visualized the tottering band of old people, swaddled in blankets and trudging along the dark potholed road.

"And the truck?"

"It was dead in the hole, and we were all in trouble for it. So none of us are driving for a long time."

Sammy puzzled over the idea of adults being punished for an accident none of them was responsible for causing, except perhaps the driver. It didn't sound right.

"Who owns the truck?"

"The Colony."

"I don't get it. You'd think they'd be grateful no one was hurt. Walt, why is the Colony bossing you around? Isn't the truck for you to use?"

"Not exactly. Anyway, it's a good idea to hold off on the Senior Night. Maybe in March we can do something again." Walt was feeding Sammy's curiosity. "With any luck, I can still go into town with AnLillie."

Another puzzle, what did AnLillie have to do with Walt's business in town? She's just a kid. It all seemed so strange.

"Say, Walt, where does AnLillie go to school?"

"You kind of like her, don't you? But she's a little out of your age bracket."

The tips of Sammy's ears burned. He was relieved he was on the phone, out of Walt's view. "I was just wondering."

"She's been asking about you, too. Matter of fact, she's in the next room. I'll let you talk to her." Walt seemed to sense Sammy's discomfort.

The thought of talking with Walt's granddaughter brought a paralyzing fear. Sammy ended their conversation. "Gotta go, Walt. Call me sometime."

After hanging up, Sammy thought about the curious bits of information Walt had volunteered. Maybe he should talk to AnLillie. Who were these crazy old people that sneaked around for entertainment? And why was the Colony so fixed on security? Maybe she would tell a fellow kid; she would understand his curiosity. But Sammy could not formulate a plan.

* * *

The holidays were behind them. January slipped into February, leaving a bitter chill that had nothing to do with the weather. The businessmen from upstate laced distrust all over town. Some stores refused the Colony credit in hope of a healthy account from the development company.

Mrs. O'Doul uncovered this information while visiting the oldest business in the town, the railroad. A private history lesson was her reward. Many railroad personnel knew that the Colony had enticed the railroad into the area. The railroad workers had even agreed to extend a short feeder line to the Colony. Keeping it isolated was impossible. With access to transportation by rail and water, the Colony prospered, and the surrounding area grew into a town. Lumber and farming drew more people. The railroad built a large station, and the town boomed. The Colony became more involved with the town, depending less on purchasing from far away.

Now it was Mrs. O'Doul's job to help the town and the Colony restore the harmony they'd enjoyed for so many years. "What does this mean for the railroad?" she asked.

"It's complicated, as you must surely know." The official gave her a confirming nod. "To lose the Colony would mean to lose the railroad. To lose the railroad means to lose the town."

"Is the railroad
that
married to the Colony?" she asked.

"Old promises would be kept. This short line is more than a business arrangement." With that comment he rose from his chair, crossed to the door, opened it, and said, "Mrs. O'Doul, surely you know I can't say any more." She rose to leave.

She drove home: weary from the heavy conversation.

* * *

The fresh dump of February snow was perfect. Ending the weekend with a trip to the mountain was the winter tradition Sammy and his mother enjoyed most. The snow was perfect. As evening approached, Sammy traded skis for snowboarding while his mother retreated to the lodge. He knew she enjoyed watching him through the massive windows in the fire-lit hall overlooking the slopes.

To the side of the main run, several older teens were riding in powder, weaving through the trees. A young man in a ski mask headed toward Sammy. Sammy felt anxious. This was the same young man he had admired all last year, watching him carve turns and hit daring jumps along the tree line. He was still Sammy's hero. At times Sammy even pretended to be his partner, keeping the man's trim form in sight, trying to pick up pointers. Although he had never seen his face, Sammy could easily spot him by his unique performance—he was a real athlete.

When the young man approached the other snowboarders, a couple of them waved him to join them. "So who are they waving to?" the man asked Sammy.

Flustered, Sammy stammered a reply. "You, I guess."

"Shall we join them?" His hero walked past him toward the other snowboarders, motioning him to follow. To be included was a heady experience; Sammy couldn't resist. He grabbed his board and quickened his pace to reach the trio. The lead guys mounted their boards and flew over the first rise, turned abruptly and waited for the young man to take the lead with Sammy close behind. He felt exhilarated as he tried tricky turns and jumps. This was his rare chance to show off, so he took advantage of it.

When he ran the slope for the last time, the masked man slipped alongside him. "You're good, kid. I'll look for you again." And then he was gone.

Sammy reached the lodge, hoping he hadn't taxed his mother's patience. He knew he'd been out longer than usual. He carried his board and climbed the cement steps to the rustic lodge's main room. Always before they had met near the top of the stairs: she with her near-empty coffee mug and her book; he, with his dripping board. But she wasn't there. He waited. Another ten minutes passed. Sammy circled the fireplace and sat on the cold steps. He studied the other late skiers.

Facing the main entrance, he could see the adjoining hall that led to another wing of the lodge. About halfway down the hall, he saw his mother talking with someone. Sammy recognized the athletic build. The young man, his ski mask removed, had his back toward Sammy. His mother was shaking her head as she talked to the man. Sammy watched him pat his mother on the back, and then the man walked down the long hall away from her.