The Clearing (7 page)

Amy glanced back toward the path. "I, um, I don't know if—"

"Oh, geez," Henry said, blushing. "No, no. I'm a heel. Forgive me for giving you the wrong idea. I only wanted you to be able to sit awhile and watch the creek. You see, it'l help you take your mind off your troubles."

Amy crossed her arms and looked toward the path. "I should probably go back."

"You can trust me, Amy." Henry paused. "Look, I'l stand right here by the wil ow while you sit on the blanket. I promise."

Amy cautiously took a cross-legged seat on the blanket.

"I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable," Henry insisted, sensing Amy's fear hadn't subsided.

"It's okay," she said. "I get it. It's al right. You're not a jerk or anything." She stared down at the water bubbling over the rocks.

A dragonfly whirred past them and landed on a stone in the creek. Henry leaned back against the tree trunk, feeling its lumpy detail through his shirt.

"Yesiree. The creek is the most peaceful place I've found."

"You can sit down," Amy said, gesturing toward the other side of the blanket.

"No, that's fine," Henry said. "This wil ow is like an easy chair."

Amy al owed herself a smal laugh. "You lie."

"No, I'm serious. And I wouldn't want you to think anything untoward was going on."

Amy shook her head. "Now you're just making fun of me," she said.

"No, I'm not. A boy spreads a blanket on the ground in a place—even a farm boy like me knows that old ploy. Except mine wasn't a ploy."

Amy sighed. "I didn't think you were like that, Henry. It's just ... wel , sit down, okay? And did I mention I have an attack German shepherd over at Mae's?"

"No, you didn't mention that." Henry sank down next to Amy on the blanket. "This is better than the wil ow tree; you were right."

Amy smiled and plucked some blades of grass, tossing them toward the creek. "Yeah."

"You stil feeling dizzy?" Henry asked.

Amy turned her body to face him. "No."

"Are you stil afraid of me?"

Amy laughed again. "Afraid of you? You're the most normal guy I've met in Rockvil e. I don't think I would have come out here with you if I'd felt otherwise."

"So you think I'm normal, huh? Is that a good trait?"

"Wel , normal's not the right word. Most guys I've known, like you said, they'd have brought the blanket out for one thing and one thing only."

"Hmm, but would they have brought these?" Henry untied an embroidered linen napkin fil ed with biscuits. "Sorry I didn't swipe any jam for them."

"Snacks?" Amy's eyes lit up. "You brought us
snacks?
"

"These are left from dinner," Henry said. "Suppertime's a long ways off yet, and I was getting hungry. I figured you might be peckish, too."

Amy took a bite of one of the biscuits. "Holy crap, these are good."

"Holy
crap?
" Henry laughed at Amy's strange expression. "They're just Mom's everyday biscuits," he said, taking a healthy bite.

"Mmm, I think I would weigh a mil ion pounds if I ate these every day," Amy said around a mouthful of biscuit. She laughed, wiping crumbs away with the sleeve of her jacket. "Sorry, I'm rude, talking with my mouth ful ."

Henry grinned and took another bite. He watched Amy's eyes brighten as another dragonfly whizzed by to land on some reeds at the edge of the creek. Her eyes looked brownish gold now in the soft sunlight, like the color of amber. Framed against the blue of the wool blanket and the green of the grass around them, they were stunning. He must have been staring, because Amy stopped in midbite.

"What?" she said. "You look funny."

Henry felt his cheeks get hot. "Sorry. I don't mean to stare."

Amy looked down at the biscuit in her hand.

"You're a real pretty girl, Amy. I don't mean anything by that, except to tel you so you know." Henry busied himself picking crumbs off the blanket so he didn't have to see Amy's reaction.

She touched his hand, stil ing it on the blanket and covering it with her own. "That's a sweet thing to say." Amy's eyes looked glassy, on the edge of tears.

Henry's heart clenched inside his chest.
What did I do?
"I'm sorry," he said, pul ing his hand from hers.

"For what?" Amy said. She wiped at her wet eyes.

"Sometimes I say things I should keep to myself," he said.

Amy chewed her lower lip. "No one real y said that to me before—that I was pretty."

"No one?"

"No one who didn't want anything from me," she said in a quiet voice.

"Oh." It al made sense to Henry now. The blanket. How she's seemed scared to be back here alone with him. It wasn't just Amy being prim.

Some creep had hurt her somehow. He let out a breath, trying to calm the anger building inside him. He wanted to ask Amy more, but it wasn't like him to pry. And truly, Amy didn't know him from Adam. He didn't have the right to ask her anything.

They sat there in silence, the sun shifting slightly overhead. Amy stayed in her cross-legged position, but after a while, Henry lay back on the blanket and searched the clouds for animal shapes. He felt like he could rest there forever, studying the heavens.

After Henry pointed out a few good cows and roosters overhead, Amy leaned back on her hands and looked up.

"Definitely a dragon," she said, pointing at a swirly col ection of clouds to the east.

"Yes, now you've got the idea."

"It's not like I haven't done this before," Amy said, punching him on the arm. "It's just been a long while since I took the time."

Henry rubbed the newly sore spot. "Look over there—it's a mermaid."

"Good one."

"I see a volcano right over top of us," he said, after a moment.

"I don't see it," Amy replied.

"Lean back," Henry said.

Amy lowered herself back on her elbows. Tilting her head back, she let out a deep breath and seemed to relax. "Okay. Now I see it."

Henry was acutely aware of Amy's presence next to him on the blanket. His fingers itched to reach out and take her hand, but he didn't dare move.

Together they lay there, not talking. Minutes and more minutes went by, the only sound the rush of the creek and the breeze rustling through the wil ow's branches. It was like being in a cocoon, Henry thought. Being with Amy was peaceful, more peaceful than the creek, more peaceful than staring at the clouds. Just being with her, his new friend Amy.

At least, he
thought
they were friends now. He dreaded what might happen when he was forced to tel her about his situation. When Amy figured out why he wouldn't show her around his farm. When she discovered he was some kind of half person living a ghost's existence.

Because suddenly that was what Henry's summer felt like—a pale imitation of what once had felt so real.

Amy looked down at her left wrist and sat up. "My watch stopped. I probably should be getting back. I've been gone a long time." She jumped to her feet and shook crumbs and grass off her clothes. "What time is it?"

"I'm not sure, but I should get home to supper." Henry got up and folded the blanket, but Amy was already moving toward the path. "Wait—I'l walk you back," he cal ed.

"I can walk myself. I'l be fine," Amy said over her shoulder.

Henry snatched up the blanket and what was left of the napkin of biscuits, then fol owed her down the path. She was far ahead, running now toward her edge of the clearing—al on her own. Henry felt his heart clench again, felt that Amy needed him. Walking back to the house, he realized he'd never worried like that over a girl before.

There was something about Amy, something that made him want to keep her from harm. Something that made him miss her seconds—or lifetimes—after she'd disappeared beyond the mist.

***

As Henry crossed back through the clearing, darkness was gathering. Darkness that seemed as sudden to Henry as the sound of crickets starting up their serenade. He had been with Amy longer than he'd thought.

"Where in blazes have you been, boy?" Grandpa cal ed from the porch as he approached.

Henry bolted up the steps of the house to meet him. "I'm sorry. I was down at the creek and I lost track of time," he said. "Supper ready?"

His grandfather eyed him sternly. "Supper's come and gone. You're in the doghouse with your mother."

Henry's chest fel . He paused with his hand on the door handle. "I missed supper?"

His grandfather nodded and packed tobacco into his pipe.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Henry had lost track of the day, which he never let himself do. He'd forgotten that sometimes, the clearing had its own sense of time that didn't correspond to his regular day. He'd noticed it once before, when he'd fal en asleep reading near the stump, but this was much worse.

"Mother in the kitchen?" Henry asked.

"
Bedroom.
" His grandfather's voice was icy.

The bedroom was not a good sign. The bedroom was where Mother retreated when she felt faint, or just wanted to sleep away the time.

Normal y, she only napped there, but Henry remembered previous days of this summer when she'd cried in her room for hours. She cried over Robert and his old letters from the spring, letters tel ing of training, and then letters from England as his unit prepared for the invasion. She cried over the loss of Henry's father in a logging accident up on Deer Mountain long, long ago. Crying was something Mother did a lot of.

"You best get in there and apologize," Grandpa said.

"Yes, sir." Henry went inside and mounted the stairs to the upper floor. He knocked lightly on his mother's door but didn't wait for a reply before opening it.

As he feared, Mother lay in the bed, her bottle of pil s next to her on the night table. Henry's heart stil ed. The guilt from his selfish, selfish moments down at the creek formed a pit in his stomach. He moved toward her swiftly.

"Mother, I'm here," he said, taking her hand.

Her eyes fluttered open, and Henry felt a sense of relief.

"I made a chicken fricassee," she said weakly.

"Yes, I'm terribly sorry. I lost track of time."

Mother glanced toward the night table.

Henry fol owed her gaze to the pil s. "What's wrong, Mother? Are you feeling il ?" he said.

She sat up in bed against the pil ows. "I need my medicine, son. Wil you fetch me some more water."

"How many pil s did you take this afternoon?"

She frowned at him, her pretty face taking on a tired, older look.

"Dr. Norris said those are only for your body aches," Henry said. "Did you already take a few pil s?"

"I don't need a lecture on my health, thank you," she said, pul ing up the blankets around her. "I would like you to bring me some water, please."

Henry shook his head. "Mother, there's no reason for you to feel bad on my account. I was rude to miss supper. I'm so very sorry."

"I was worried sick," Mother said, wearily.

"Yes, ma'am."

She closed her eyes. "I couldn't bear to think of something happening to you, Henry. Just couldn't imagine my dear, sweet boy not with me."

"Yes, but I'm fine. See? Everything is fine."

His mother's voice was hushed as she continued. "I was worried when your grandfather couldn't find you. He wandered the farm for a good hour searching. He was so worried."

Henry heard her fear building. "Say, let's go downstairs now, and you'l have your tea and I'l have a big piece of the cold chicken. I'm starving."

His mother reached out to clutch his hand again, squeezing too hard. "Don't you go away on me. I can't lose al my men."

Henry sucked in a breath. Yes, to his mother, even his being missing for a few hours added to the feeling of loss she carried with her. "Shal we go downstairs now?"

Mother final y loosed her grip on Henry's hand. "Be a dear and hand me my slippers."

Henry stood up from the bed and got them, along with her housecoat. Mother swung her legs over the side of the bed and slowly slid into her slippers. Once solid on her feet, she pul ed the coat on over her nightdress.

And, Henry noticed, slid the bottle of pil s into her pocket.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The woods were inky dark, but I wasn't scared. In fact, I almost felt a little cheerful. The time at the creek with Henry had been just what I needed. I skipped up the back steps to Mae's place and went into the house through the back door.

"I'm home," I yel ed. The smel of baked chicken hung deliciously in the air. My stomach growled as I passed through the kitchen, where empty dishes sat on the table, waiting. But Mae was in the living room, watching TV from her recliner, a strange expression on her face.

"What's going on?" I said. "Not hungry?"

"I beg your pardon?" Mae said. She picked up the remote and muted the TV.

"I know I'm late for dinner. You didn't have to wait for me to eat," I said, plunking down onto the couch.

Mae gave me a look. "Amy—it's near ten o'clock."

I gaped at her. "Um, that's impossible. I was just out in the field and then down by the creek. It didn't seem that long."

"Sweetie, I was out there cal ing for you for the last two hours. I had half a mind to cal the neighbors to gather a search party."

"I was just in the field."

Mae shook her head slowly, looking at me with pure disappointment.

I considered tel ing Mae about Henry, but then thought better of it. Even if she didn't know his family, she was the type who might cal his parents and embarrass me and Henry both.

"Why on earth would you go out there to the field where no one could find you?"

"Just wanted to be alone."

"Wel , that'd do it. I never go out that way where the darn fog covers the far meadow. If you want to walk the property, there's other ways round, down the side road that runs by the creek and the old homestead. Not through that mist. You gave me a good scare."

I held up a hand. "Mae, I said I'm sorry—I get it."

"You can't do that to an old woman like me," she continued. "We're in this together, you know. If you go running off, I get nervous."