The Clearing (10 page)

"Yeah, right." Amy winked at him.

"Now, don't do anything rash," he warned.

"Just try and stop me!" she said, laughing.

And then she did it—she ran toward the farmhouse, bursting through the heavy air and tumbling out into Henry's homestead ahead of him.

She yelped as she jumped onto the grass. Henry's heartbeat stuttered in his chest. Terrified that someone would hear, he looked toward the backyard, but he didn't see his grandfather.

And then, Amy was on her feet again, far out in front of him, turning to see how far behind he was and laughing as she ran down the path to the house. Boy, she was fast. Henry caught up with her as she reached the front steps. But he didn't need to stop her.

She was stuck in her tracks, staring at the porch where Mother sat, eyes closed, in her rocking chair.

In her blue housedress with the red and white flowered apron, Mother looked pale as always. The news report was ending and orchestra music drifted from the wireless in the living room. Mother rocked in time to the music, a wistful smile on her lips. Amy was frozen in place, watching her.

And Henry was frozen—watching Amy's strange expression and praying that his mother was not going to open her eyes while they stood there. After a moment of stil ness, Henry reached for Amy's hand, breaking the trance.

"Please ... fol ow me," he whispered.

When they got to the path and were out of sight of the porch, she said, "Your mom, she looks old-fashioned, too." Amy's face was colorless.

"And the man on the radio sounded al crackly. Before the music, he was talking about the war. About the USO dance in Seattle. About the bombing in Germany."

Henry nodded.

"We're not at war with Germany," Amy said. "There hasn't been a war there since the 1940s. That was, like, eons ago."

Henry nodded again. "Yes, we're at war. My brother Robert ... he's ... he's over there."

"What's going on here?" Amy crossed her arms over her chest and glanced back at the farmhouse, at the shiny truck in the driveway. "That's a new truck, isn't it? That's not a classic."

"Yes."

"And the apple tree—and the summer days..." Amy's eyes clouded with emotion.

"Wel —" Henry began.

"Great," Amy muttered, on the edge of tears. "Just great. If you're a ghost, then why can I touch you?" She punched his arm.

"Cut it out. I'm not a ghost."

"Uh-huh." Fear dawned on Amy's face as she stepped away from him, as if she were seeking distance for protection.

"Amy, let me explain. There's no reason to be afraid."

"You're not from here," she murmured.

"Yes, I am."

"No. No. It can't be. This isn't possible." Amy backed away from him, backed al the way through the empty field, watching him while she vanished into the mist like a ghost.

CHAPTER NINE

Running never seemed so right. My lungs burning, I broke through the mist, ignoring the buzzing around me as I charged out into the field. I fought my way through the woodlot until I was in sight of the house, and Katie, barking up a storm, came loping out to greet me and accompany me on my escape run.

I col apsed onto the back porch, sucking wind. The air was crisp, cool, and smel ed of the fire in the wood stove. I could feel the wet Astro Turf-carpeted stairs beneath me and could hear Katie lapping from her water bowl. Yet nothing seemed real or concrete. I put my head between my knees. There was something weird about the clearing, al right. Either I'd been hal ucinating, or I'd just had a run-in with freaking ghosts. There was no other explanation.

An incredible sadness fil ed me for the loss of the friend Henry could have been for me. But wait a second—I'd
felt
him. I'd punched him on the arm, and he was as real as anything. He'd fed me at the creek. And I'd hugged him.

No—he'd
held
me. I'd smel ed the soap and sweat on his skin. I'd heard his heart beating. But he wasn't real. He didn't exist. He was a ghost.

While I didn't even believe in ghosts in the traditional sense, I did believe in the other kind, those people you couldn't let go. Those feelings that haunt you until you feel like you're living something over and over. Those ghosts I knew were real. But I wasn't so sure about a ghost who'd held me in his arms. A ghost who'd given me his handkerchief.
Wait.

My heart pounding, I reached into my pocket and pul ed out the bal ed-up hankie. There it was—the embroidered cloth Henry had given me, stil wet with my tears.

The back door swung open. "Sweetie, what on earth are you doin' out here?" Mae said. "It's nearly time for dinner. I was about to send out another search party." She let Katie into the trailer.

I didn't move. "Do you believe in the afterlife?" I asked.

Mae stepped out onto the porch and plunked down into one of the chairs. "Wel ," she said with a tired laugh, "that explains it—you're out here thinking about life's big questions."

"No. I mean, wel , kinda," I said. Mae was gonna think I was nuts if I went too far down this road, and I didn't want to be any trouble to her.

"But for real, do you believe there's life after death?"

"I believe in heaven." She patted the chair next to her.

"But do you believe that people hang around after they die?"

"Like ghosts?"

"Yeah." I stuffed the handkerchief back in my pocket and took a seat by Mae.

"Wel ," Mae said, her brow wrinkled, "sometimes I miss the ones I loved who've passed on, and I think I feel their presence."

"Are they friendly?"

"Wel , yes, of course." Mae laughed. "They're my loved ones, after al . Though I guess you can watch al kinds of ghost shows that claim unfriendly spirits are real, too. What happened on your walk to bring al this up? You think you saw a ghost?"

"I don't know what I saw."

"Wel , this'd be a good val ey for a haunting. There have been al kinds of strange things reported out here. Old haunted mining camps up at Crystal Creek. An occasional Bigfoot sighting."

"How about haunted houses?"

"I think haunted houses are
sad,
not haunted. When a house is abandoned, it loses its good feelings. Without people, it's got no love. Used to be a few abandoned houses around here. When my daddy bought this property and its run-down farmhouse, everyone swore it was haunted."

Goose bumps prickled my skin. "A farmhouse? What happened to the people who lived there?"

"Not too sure," Mae said. "Just up and left their homestead, and their relatives sold off the property to my daddy. We moved in to that sad house, but it burned down a few years later. My mom and daddy moved back to the city for work, and I moved this trailer onto this end of the property eventual y."

"This end of the property? Where was the house?"

"Down the road to the west. That's the only way to get to it. Otherwise, you run into fog and trees. It's just empty land now, but if you walk down the road, you can stil see the homestead's old chimney bricks stacked in a heap."

"What if the ghosts from that haunted house stayed?"

"Ghosts only stay if you let them." Mae sighed. "I don't pretend to have al the answers, sweetie. But I think you've had bigger troubles than ghosts, so don't worry yourself about it."

"Right." I nodded.

"Now let's go inside and make some popcorn," Mae said, easing out of her chair.

I fol owed Mae inside, but not without another glance toward the clearing.
Goodbye, Henry. Goodbye, ghost boy from the past.

***

"The indirect object would be...?" Ms. Mil s paused by my desk.

Everyone paged through their English text, looking for the answer. I raised my hand, bored by the lesson as much as the Monday unfolding in front of me. "It's the suitcase," I said.

The bel rang and books slammed closed.

"Yes. Good, Amy. See you tomorrow, class."

Jackson walked over to my desk, shouldering his backpack. "You're quite the grammar queen," he said.

"Yeah." I shoved my stuff in my bag and we walked out into the packed hal way.

"You doin' okay, Amy?" Jackson asked. "You seem off today."

Off.
Now that was a word. There were ghosts in the back of Aunt Mae's property. I was haunted by the kindest boy I'd ever met. He'd brought me biscuits, held me, and offered me his handkerchief. And it was al unreal. I had to be sick or something—maybe crazy.

"Amy?" Jackson tugged at my hand. "Space-case? Are you al right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." I headed out the door, but Jackson was on my heels.

"Did you have fun at Lori's party?"

"I think you had more fun than I did," I said, giving him a pointed look.

"Yeah, it was a good thing you had me check on Lori—she passed out about a half hour after you left."

I nodded. "Wel , I'm glad you were there." I spun my combination and threw open the door of my locker. Jackson stood there, looking like he had more to say.

"Yeah?" I said.

"Oh, I was going to ask if you wanted to—"

I stiffened.

"Be on the homecoming committee," Jackson said slowly. "You okay? You look like I just asked you to join a cult."

"No, no," I said. I had to remember that Jackson was cool. He was just a friend and not some guy after me. "Sorry. Yeah, homecoming committee, sounds like a load of fun."

He shrugged. "I know it's kinda lame, but being involved in school activities always helps for scholarship applications. Anyway, I volunteered to co-chair it with Lori. If we leave it to the same old people, it'l suck as usual."

"What? Who?" As we walked, I stopped to wave at Lori, who was al the way down the hal .

"The same old people," Jackson continued. "You know, Melanie and her crowd. You should have seen her face when Mr. Planter announced me and Lori as co-chairs in leadership class." We stopped by his locker.

"I never knew a guy who cared about homecoming."

He gave me a hurt look and opened his locker. "Thanks."

"I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"I know," he said. "But I'm not Mr. Footbal . And I'm more organized than most of those airheads, anyway." He threw his English book into his locker and grabbed his physics and calculus texts.

"Um, wel —"

"Seriously, Amy," he said, shutting the locker with a bang, "you don't have to do it. I just thought it might be fun and that you could meet some people. I mean besides the ones at Lori's lame party."

I felt like a jerk. "Wel , I guess I'l think about it."

"Real y?"

I noticed how blue-green Jackson's eyes were, how they were rimmed with navy and the centers were golden. Had I never even noticed the color of his eyes before?

In my silence, he turned to leave.

I grabbed his arm. "Wait. I appreciate this, Jackson. You're trying to help me get involved. I get it. I'm just not used to people being so nice to me."

"Your friends should be nice," Jackson said. "Isn't that why you're friends with them?"

"I've never had guy friends," I admitted.

Jackson raised an eyebrow. "Maybe that's the problem."

"I mean, I had a boyfriend, but I didn't have someone I could count on."

"You couldn't count on your boyfriend?"

I felt smal and weak in the hal way, and suddenly aware of the crush of people around us, of the smel of half-finished lunches and mint gum, of cologne covering gym sweat and nervousness. "No, I couldn't count on him. Or on anyone."

"That stinks," Jackson said.

I couldn't help but giggle at the word. "Yeah, it stinks al right."

"Wel , I'm just talking about the homecoming committee. Nothing major—not brain surgery. So what do you say?"

"Sure," I said. The bel rang and we moved down the hal .

Jackson paused before peeling off toward physics. "And just for the record, you can count on me," he said.

I nodded at Jackson, feeling that he meant wel —and that he probably was a good guy. Maybe, since the only other friend I'd made wasn't even real, I should give him a chance. "Thanks," I said.

Jackson smiled and walked away down the hal . I swear he seemed to walk a little tal er. I wasn't sure what to make of that.

CHAPTER TEN

It was two days later, two days of Henry waking to a bright morning. And then his waking blended with the farm chores, and the mowing, the sleeping in the hammock, and the same old conversations with his mother and grandfather:
Yes, the haying would be busy at the end of summer.

Yes, the apple trees were thick with fruit this year. No, it didn't smell like rain.
And it never did. Day after day, the sun hung overhead, as gold as a fresh egg yolk.

Besides the sun, though, there was a newer constant of this particular summer—Amy. Or at least there had been. Since Henry had met her, she came to his mind often, as much a fixture of his world as anything else. And she hadn't been to see him since the other day. He knew he'd scared her off.

He had half a mind to cross the clearing—just to peek over into Amy's place—but the familiar fear returned to his stomach. He could imagine al this disappearing, vanishing because he didn't want to preserve it badly enough anymore. Henry didn't want to think about what would become of his mother.

But, boy, he missed Amy.

He rocked on the back porch, recal ing the delight on her face as she'd final y relaxed at the creek and had let herself see the shapes in the clouds. He got the feeling that she didn't let herself relax very often. The guardedness in her eyes haunted him. Deep brown eyes, framed by sparkly eye powder and something deeper, something painful that shaded them from within, and yet made them al the more beautiful.

"You out here dreaming again?" Grandfather's voice cut into his reverie.

"No, sir." Henry sat up, drawn instantly into the bright, bright summer day in front of him.

Grandfather shook his head. "We have work to do before your mother cal s us for dinner."

"Yes, sir."

The old man turned to go, muttering to himself.

"Grandpa?" Henry fol owed him down the steps. "What about a game of checkers?"