The Clearing (11 page)

"Why, I haven't the time for that foolishness at the moment," the old man answered, with a wave of his hand.

"Just one game," Henry said. Even if he did know al of Grandpa's moves, checkers was one way to pass the time and, hopeful y, not think of Amy.

"Tonight after supper, perhaps," Grandpa said. "Not now. We've got more peas to pick."

"Yes, sir."

Henry walked out into the garden, through the rows and rows of trel ised peas, but his eyes were on the path to the clearing. He picked bushel after bushel of the pods. He picked until his hands were dirty and sticky and the sun was high, and then he turned to weeding the potato hil s.

He put off the mowing, unable to stand the idea of being disappointed by Amy's not coming to see him. When the cal came for dinner, he was glad.

After the ham, potato salad, and fresh greens, Henry was nearly stuffed. He forced himself to lift a last bite of leftover birthday cake to his mouth. Vanil a icebox melted on his tongue, the fluffy frosting light and sweet—cloyingly sweet.

"Those were some good groceries," Grandpa said with a nod to Mother. "And now, if you'l please excuse me, folks, the porch is cal ing."

"Thank you, Mother. That dinner was fine," Henry said, breaking the silence that fel at the table.

Mother studied Henry, taking a sip of tea and leaning back in her chair. She gave him an encouraging smile. "Are you going to tel me, son?

Who was she?"

Henry dropped his fork. It glanced off his plate and clattered to the ground. He fumbled for it. "What do you mean?"

"The girl with you the other day in the yard. Strange girl. I was half asleep in my chair. Thought she was a dream at first. I meant to ask you, but it slipped my mind."

Henry stared down at his plate. It was the everyday china, the set with blue flowers. He studied the intricate petals, the twining greenery. His mind raced as he realized that not only had Mother seen Amy—she'd also remembered her.

"Beautiful little gal," his mother continued. "Is she visiting family here?"

Of course Mother would ask that. Al of her life she'd lived here in the val ey, and for people like Mother, the world started and ended in these Cascade foothil s, at the river's headwaters. Here in the val ey they had everything they needed. It was a world unto itself.

People talked the same, cooked the same food, lived the same hard-working lives. To them, there was nothing outside the val ey, and no reason for an outsider to appear, other than to visit a relative. And that was how Henry had thought, too—until Amy.

"She's a new girl," he said, not wanting to lie to his mother.

Her forehead wrinkled and her blue eyes widened with interest. "She's staying with kin up here? Do we know them, son?"

He shook his head. "Moved up with her aunt," he said, "but she's new around here, too." He touched his napkin to his lips and then set it next to his empty plate.

"You know, son, the poor dear could use some new clothes," his mother said. "Maybe the pastor's wife and I could put together a basket of things for the family next Sunday."

Henry tried not to show alarm. "No, no. That's an awful y nice thought, Mother, but it's not necessary," he said in a gentle voice.

"Wel , a girl that pretty can't go through life looking like a ragamuffin."

Henry just nodded.

"Wil you tel me why you didn't ask her to stay for supper?" she said. She poured herself another cup of tea and reached for the honey jar.

"Thought I raised you better than that, Henry."

"Mother, she couldn't stay. She's shy, anyway."

"I only meant it would be nice for you to have a friend's company, son."

"I just saw Leon when school let out," he said, wincing with the memory of his long-lost best friend. Long lost because school was a lifetime ago. He knew he wouldn't see Leon again.

"Wel , perhaps I meant a young lady friend," his mother said, adding a little smile. "It's been a while since we've seen you with anyone."

Henry's cheeks pinked up. He'd been pretty popular with the girls at school, never been at a loss when it came to finding a date to the dances. The girls at school, though, had seemed too preoccupied with dreaming up their future lives together. The last girl he'd liked—Margaret Hil man—had fil ed pages of her science notebook writing "Mrs. Henry Briggs" over and over, but hadn't been much fun to talk with. Henry didn't miss the companionship of those girls. He hadn't thought about them in ages.

But Amy was a different matter. What he wouldn't give to see her again.

"She seemed like a nice girl," Mother continued. "You should bring her round again. Maybe she's just the girl for you."

Henry smoothed the napkin on the table and was tempted to refold it. "Mother, I'm afraid that's not possible."

"You never know," she replied, taking a sip of tea.

"No offense, Mother, but this time I do know. She's not for me," he said. "She's from far, far away."

His mother's blue eyes fil ed with concern. "You must real y be sweet on her," she said after a moment. "You've never been bashful about bringing a gal around the farm before."

"Yes, I do like her," Henry said, "but she won't be back to see us."

Mother set down her teacup. "Why on earth not?"

"Half the town's gone to war or down in the shipyards. The mil 's running at ful capacity. No one's coming around visiting, Mother."

"She was here. Don't tel me no one's coming round."

Henry felt a tingling feeling in his bones, as if this were the moment when Mother would final y understand what they were living. The moment when she'd grasp the situation and he wouldn't be alone with the truth anymore. "She's not supposed to be here, Mother. She's from the future."

Mother nodded, her face drawn. "Yes, of course, how foolish of me not to notice," she said in a tired voice.

"I am tel ing you the truth. Why won't you believe me?" Exasperation seized Henry. He spoke very slowly. Deliberately. "Every day is summer. Every day, Mother. Haven't you noticed? Aren't you awake? Can't you see what's going on here? Don't you miss the fal —or winter? We haven't seen rain or snow in ages."

"I see you've been reading those science fiction comic books again."

Henry knew it was pointless to keep going, but the frustration in him wel ed beyond control. "That girl you saw doesn't exist yet. I told you—

she is living in the future. That is why she can't come to dinner with us, because if she does, maybe al of this would col apse!"

Mother's mouth was set in a hard line, her eyes fil ing with tears. "Henry, I've never known you to tel me such rubbish. What has got into you?

Why would you say these strange things to me?"

Henry's stomach felt queasy. He steadied himself against the chair. "Yes, Mother. I know it sounds crazy." He paused, letting the wave of emotion leave him. He saw the confusion and hurt on his mother's face, her hunched posture worsened by the fight, her resolve weakened. Her pale light dimming ever so slightly. "Forgive me," he murmured.

"What the devil is going on here?" his grandfather said, coming into the room, the smel of pipe smoke fol owing him. "Why are you raising your voice, Henry?"

"I was only..." he began. "I'm sorry. Please forget what I said, Mother." Silently he added,
You will, anyway.

His mother stood up from the table, stacking the teacups and dessert dishes. "I accept your apology, however graceless."

"What was this al about?" Grandpa asked.

"A friend of Henry's stopped by to visit the farm a few days ago," Mother said, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. "I simply thought perhaps Henry would like to invite
the young lady
over for supper sometime."

"Wel , that explains al the lunacy," said Grandpa. He shook his head and reached for the pile of dishes. "Girls."

Henry, frustrated, silent, went out the front door to the porch and plunked down into his mother's rocking chair. In the distance the mist was thick. And beyond it was Amy. He wondered if she'd come to see him again, after the way he'd explained everything. She probably thought he was some kind of ghost, some kind of liar.

Thinking about Amy, Henry wondered about the future, something he'd never al owed himself to do. It felt selfish. And it felt good. But merely for a moment, and then the familiar ache returned.

Henry rocked in the chair, missing his brother, and missing the person his mother used to be, back before everything had worn her down.

He felt the burden of days heavier than ever. What would have happened to his family if he hadn't intervened that night? What would happen if time moved forward and he went away to war, only to face a fate similar to his brother's? Those fearsome thoughts had tempered everything since the endless summer began. But he'd held them off, storing them in the very back of his mind in favor of keeping everything the same as it was—as
safe
as it was.

The breeze started up, tickling the leaves on the trees and rustling through the laundry on the line. The now-familiar news report for this day drifted out from Mother's radio as his afternoon began unfolding in perfect synchronicity. Sighing, Henry forced himself back inside the house. Back inside the only life he knew.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It's a party for the football team. Matt and I push through all the streamers and make our way to the kitchen. We're drinking from red plastic cups.

Loud, loud music shakes the house. But then, things go crazy. Cop sirens wail. Kids run and suddenly, the basement seems to be the only safe
place.

Matt and I smush into a closet with a bunch of other people. The hiding place reeks of beer breath and sweat and cologne. It's packed in
there and Matt faces me. While we wait in the dark for the sirens to end and the noise upstairs to stop, Matt puts his hands on my stomach. In
the sliver of light coming from the crack of the door, I can see Matt glance down at where he's touching me.

I start to say something, but Matt covers my mouth with one of his hands. "Shhh," he says, hushing me because of the cops, I guess. But
then his other hand moves lower and I start to get nervous. I reach down and try to push it away, try to move back, but Matt holds me where I am.

Matt's hand stays there, too. He's moving his fingers, trying to touch me through my jeans.

Someone behind us giggles like they know. I feel my cheeks get hot and scratchy. Matt keeps touching me. The cops are still upstairs,
and I don't want to scream. I don't dare bite Matt's fingers over my mouth. I'm embarrassed. I start to breathe through my nose, sure I will pass
out any second.

***

"Amy? Wake up, sweetie."

My eyes adjusted to the darkness of my room. The familiar smel of the trailer greeted me, the cracked-open window letting in damp air and blue-black night. I felt sticky, sweaty, and my heart was pounding.

Aunt Mae sat down next to me on the bed. She patted my clammy hand. "Nightmare. Katie woke me up whining to tel me about you."

I wiped my brow with the sleeve of my T-shirt and sat up against the pil ows. "I was dreaming."

"You were crying out in your sleep," Mae said. She switched on the lamp next to my bed.

I took a deep breath. "Bad dream about before," I said. "About Matt."

"Bound to be some of those left in you. Let's go have a cup of tea."

"No, it's cool. I don't need anything," I said, hugging a pil ow to my chest. I just wanted to go back to sleep, forget the dream, forget the parts of it that were true, the parts that made me feel used and dirty.

"My house, my rules," Mae said sternly.

Wiping my wet cheeks, I got up and fol owed her down the hal to the kitchen, knowing ful wel that tea wouldn't cure anything.

"I'l make us some chamomile," Mae said.

I sat down at the table, which was covered with books and boxes. Mae had been scrapbooking or something after I'd gone to bed.

"What's al this junk?"

Mae returned from putting on the kettle. "You got me thinking about the old place," she said. "I pul ed out al my old photo albums." She got out her reading glasses and began flipping through dusty pages of a leather-bound book.

I saw a photo of the trailer—brand-new, with Mae next to it. She looked slightly younger, but she stil wore her traditional overal s and her hair swept up into a loose bun.

"Look at me. Wasn't so long ago," Mae said, letting out a sigh. She flipped some more pages. "Oh, here's Dusty, my shepherd before Katie."

I took a look at the dog in the picture, a ringer for the one snoring on the floor near our feet.

Mae turned another page. "Okay, here's your haunted house. Very few pictures escaped the fire."

I peered at a much older photograph, black-and-white with scal oped edges. A run-down farmhouse. Henry's farmhouse. Paint peeling, sagging porch, a dark moss seeming to cover every slat of siding. It wasn't anything like what I had seen. The ghost house Henry inhabited was perfect, clean white, beautiful. But it was somehow the same house.

"That was the old Briggs place before we moved in," Mae said.

I felt goose bumps rise on my arms. "I know," I said. "I saw the house."

"You imagined it?" Mae cracked a smile. "Sweetie, I don't think places can be ghosts. Only people."

"Do you have any pictures of the family?"

Mae shook her head. "I don't have any pictures of them, sweetie." The teakettle whistled. "'Scuse me."

While Mae went off to get our tea, I flipped through more of the scrapbook, looking for more pictures of the house.

Mae came back to the table with two mugs of tea.

"I hate to tel you this—but I think your property is total y haunted by the Briggs family," I said, floating the truth.

"Wonderful," Mae said with a smile. "Years I complain about no one visiting me, and I had a whole passel of friends out back." She lifted her mug and blew on the hot tea.

"I knew you'd think I was nuts," I said.