Between the Roots (2 page)

G
OING WITHOUT SLEEP
for two nights was taking its toll. Every time he tried to sleep, he recalled the image of the old woman's body covered in muck. If it weren't for his promise, he would definitely tell his mother. She thought the Colony was harmless and unfairly picked on, and he would have agreed with her until now.

He wondered whether the newly organized citizens group called The Proper Land Use Committee wasn't right, after all. They'd suggested the Colony was behind recent trouble in town. Park benches had been vandalized, houses burglarized. The Committee had openly questioned why the Colony people led secret lives apart from the town. The Colony had their own school, medical facility, and churches, and mingled with townspeople only to buy necessities. The Committee had posted fliers all over the place, even in the small city hall: "Groups of Teens Threaten Our Streets," "Store Owner Plagued by Unschooled Youth," "Teens Plotting Harm," "Lawless Colony to Overtake Our Civil Town," "Colony Built on Public Waterway." The Committee also fueled the town with suspicion through newsletters and gossip.

Political pot-stirring was nothing new, but now its effects went beyond City Hall, where Sammy's mother had worked since their arrival eight years ago. Recently, accusations churned like a rumor-mill in City Hall. People sympathetic to the "Old Colony" were fewer. Hungry developers and curious, narrow-minded power seekers openly questioned the validity of the old community.

Sammy wondered through two sleepless nights about these stories and the event in the forest. Eventually, he returned again and again to the same thought:
Maybe Walt will tell me what was happening in the woods. I have to go back and find him.

One powerful image dominated his imagination, the sight of the hand lifting, begging.
Why didn't I do something? Why haven't I told anyone?

Sammy knew the answer to both questions. He was scared and confused. The old man was so convincing. He said he, too, "would be in trouble" if he were discovered. It hadn't occurred to Sammy before that even old people had problems. Young and old, both affected by rules. He couldn't break his promise to the old man. He would remain quiet for now, but he needed answers.

* * *

During breakfast Sammy drooped over his plate.

"You look tired, Sammy. Didn't you sleep well last night?"

"Not really." He watched his mother clear her coffee cup. "Mom, I've been thinking about what you asked me the other day about the Colony."

"Is that what's bothering you?"

"Folks in town are beginning to harass kids in school for just walking around. They think they're from the Colony."

"Sammy, there are some very ignorant people out there, and land-hungry, dirty connivers who would do anything to get that prime riverfront property."

"So, what is the Colony about?" Sammy asked.

His mother said, "According to the records at City Hall, it's been here far longer than the town. It needs to be left alone. Enough said." She turned her back as if to say, "Discussion closed."

The tension between them was a new thing.

Changing the subject, she said, "Sammy, did you pick up the mail?"

"It was junk mail. Are you expecting something?"

"I wouldn't want to leave mail in the box." Awkward silence filled the room, and both of them ate for a while. She hesitated then added, "How would you like to go to the mountain and take a hike into Bear Lake?" Her suggestion seemed like she was offering a truce; she knew how much he loved the high country. He really wished they could go snowboarding, but it was too early for snow.

"A hike might do us good," she said.

Today he needed to contact Walt. The mountains would have to wait. "Could we go another time? I had some plans."

"Of course," she replied but looked a little upset. Sammy knew she tried to make up for his not having a dad. Sammy's dad had died in a car accident eight years ago, so he and his mom found entertainment together: skiing, a movie, even the arcades. But lately she'd been so busy.

"Are you okay with that, Mom?"

"Sammy, it's fine. See—" she pointed at the laundry piled on the kitchen table—"the mountain has come to me. I'll plan ahead when we're both free."

He flashed her a thankful smile.

* * *

The ride into the country seemed shorter this morning. The closer he got to his destination, the more anxious he became. All of his self-talk, trying to convince himself that the hooded people were nothing to be afraid of, wasn't working. Too soon the gray wall appeared ahead.
What if Walt is nowhere around? What if no one is by the gate to tell Walt that he has a visitor? What if the group of strangers come after me?

The absurdity of his ride struck him. What were the chances that the old man would be waiting here for him to come back?

Sammy halted outside the gate, a foot still on a pedal so he could make a getaway. He kicked his foot against the gate, imagining it would swing freely open, inviting him to enter. But it held firm. No one was in sight. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, up his neck, beating on his eardrum. He leaned his forehead against the gate.

"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!"

A
N 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 nauseated 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.