Roland West, Loner

by Theresa Linden

  He slammed the last drawer and felt like pounding his fists on the vanity.

  Why did Jarret have to be such a self-serving, controlling freak! Why couldn’t he just talk about things like real brothers did? Why did everything have to be his way?

  “Hey.” Peter popped his head into the bathroom and waved a black t-shirt—still in the cellophane bag. “Look what I found. Never been worn. Eh?”

  Roland snatched it from him. “Fine.”

  “Hey, there’re Band-Aids in the bottom drawer.” He disappeared again.

  Roland pulled the shirt on and tried to fix his hair, combing it down over the Band-Aid. Then he went to find Peter.

  Peter sat on his bed. He dragged the blade of a screwdriver down the tape on a shoebox-sized package.

  “Oh hey,” Peter said, glancing. “Sorry about the mess.”

  Boxes, books, and piles of clothes filled Roland’s peripheral vision, but he tried to ignore them. Instead, he focused on the package Peter was opening. Maybe Peter was a hoarder. There were worse problems in the world. There was Jarret.

  “This came yesterday.” Peter indicated the package. “I was thinking it was parts for my transmitter, but . . .” He drew several layers of tissue paper from the package, stared at whatever was inside, then glanced at the address label. “Hisperia, California?” He twisted his mouth to one side. “Must be from my uncle.” He lifted a box from the package.

  Roland’s gaze snapped to it. Old and ornate, the dark, wooden box called to him. He stepped nearer, wanting to examine it. “Your uncle gave you that?”

  “Uh, yeah.” He put his thumb to the latch. It didn’t open. He set the box on the bed and grabbed the packing box it came in. “My grandfather died. My uncle said he had something for me.” He dug in the packing box. “Oh, here we go.”

  Roland glanced—Peter held a yellow slip of paper—but he only wanted to look at the box. About the size of a rectangular tissue box, it had black metal corners and a black locking latch. Carvings decorated the top and sides.

  “Dear Peter,” Peter read, “I wanted to speak with you at the funeral parlor, but I barely had a chance to breathe between condolences from friends and family. My father, your grandfather, wanted you to have this, his prized possession. He specifically mentioned it in his last days.” Peter swallowed hard and read the rest to himself.

  Roland’s curiosity piqued. “What else does it say? Do you have the key?”

  “It doesn’t say anything.” Peter handed him the note and peered in the packing box again.

  Roland read to himself, picking up where Peter left off.

  “Your grandfather always regretted being unable to raise your father. This had been a source of sadness to him. However, he cherished the memories of getting to know him in later years and of the visits made in his retirement. He had grown especially fond of you and Toby. He felt certain that you would know how to use this gift more than anyone else in the family. Best wishes, Uncle Harold.”

  He turned the paper over. The back was blank.

  Peter tossed the packing box to the floor and smirked. “Wouldn’t you know it? There’s no key. It’s just an old, locked box. What am I gonna do with that?”

  Peter stood and swung around to a cluttered desk at the foot of the bed. An electronics project took up most of the desk space. Peter pushed aside the cord to a soldering iron and dug through a mess of tools, coming up with a coil of wire.

  “At the funeral parlor, Uncle Harold told me he had something for me, an inheritance, he said. So I’m, like, picturing money, rare coins, an expensive gold watch, maybe even an old car.” He nodded at the box. “Kind of a let-down, wouldn’t you say?”

  “No.” Roland took Peter’s rejection of the old box as permission to pick it up.

  The smooth dark wood made his fingers tingle and struck that chord deep inside him. He had the strangest impression that the box wanted him to hold it, wanted him to discover something. It had happened before. Other antiques had given him this feeling. It had driven him to discover a particular antique’s story. This antique spoke louder than others.

  Roland ran his finger over the cross shapes on the sides and the interlaced circles along the top edges. Each corner of the box displayed a different symbol. In the middle of the lid, a robed figure stood holding a branch.

  “That keyhole looks small.” Peter yanked open a desk drawer. “But I bet I can open it.”

  “You don’t want to ruin it.” Roland bristled. Peter’s lack of appreciation for the box pricked his protective instinct. He recognized the style and could almost guess its age and value. “Do you know what you have here?”

  Peter darted to Roland’s side and snatched the box. After shaking it close to his ear, he grinned. “There’s something inside. Maybe that’s what Gramps wanted me to have, whatever’s inside.” He turned away, box in hand, and stepped up on his bed. “I wonder what it could be.” He wobbled across the mattress, to the wall. “It’s not very heavy.”

  “Let me see it again.” Roland wanted it back, needed it back.

  Peter placed it on a high wall shelf, between a dusty picture of a five-year-old boy, probably Peter, and a science fair award. “I’ll try to open it later. Maybe I can use a sturdy piece of wire or a thin file.”

  Roland cringed. “Why don’t you see if there’s a key instead? Maybe your uncle—”

  “Dinner!” a woman called from downstairs.

  “Yeah, maybe Uncle Harold’s still got the key. Come on. Let’s go eat.” Peter jumped off the bed.

  Roland gave the box one last glance, snatched a black and yellow plaid shirt from the closet, and followed Peter downstairs.

  ROLAND HAD NEVER BEEN to a bed-and-breakfast.

  The Brandts’ dining room resembled a family restaurant, with a long table in the middle of the room and three booths against the far wall, under windows. Silk flowers in glass vases decorated the tables. Savory aromas filled the air. Two women zipped around, preparing food and placing dishes on the bar counter between the dining room and kitchen.

  A phone on the wall in the kitchen rang. One of the women grabbed it before it rang twice.

  A sandy-haired, rugged man in a plaid, flannel shirt sat at the far end of the long table, peering through reading glasses at a magazine. A middle-aged couple sat in one of the booths, leaving the other two booths empty. One of the women in the kitchen said something about getting Toby then strode down the hall.

  Avoiding eye contact, Roland followed Peter to the kitchen counter. Ham, green beans, scalloped potatoes, a cake . . . It all smelled so good. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since last night.

  “Hey, Mom.” Peter spoke to her over the counter. “This is my friend Roland. Can he stay for dinner?”

  Roland’s heart did a funny little flip at the word ‘friend.’ He glanced at Peter’s mother, ready to make the obligatory greeting.

  With a dark-blonde bob, kind eyes, and a sincere smile, Mrs. Brandt looked thirty-something. She wore a red beaded necklace and a plain white summer dress. Something about her seemed familiar.

  Roland reached over the food to shake her outstretched hand. “Ma’am.” As his painted nails reflected the kitchen light, he hated Jarret with renewed passion.

  “Roland. Ho w nice. Please stay for dinner.” She stared at his face way too long, like a person studying a painting. Maybe the cut had started bleeding through the Band-Aid, or maybe he seemed familiar to her, the way she did to him.

  Roland’s face warmed and probably reddened, so he turned away. Then he caught the man at the table peering at him over his reading glasses.

  The woman at the booth got up and pranced over, an eager grin on her chubby face. “Is this your other son?” She also studied Roland.

  “No, no. This one.” Mrs. Brandt reached over the counter and mussed Peter’s hair. “This is Toby’s older brother, Peter. Peter, this is Mrs. Bjorn, one of our guests for the weekend.”

  “Hi.” Peter spar
ed the woman a glance then gave Roland a wide-eyed look, as if to communicate his pain.

  Roland turned away to hide a grin he couldn’t control.

  The man at the table still stared.

  Suddenly, the strange woman’s hand was up in Roland’s face.

  Roland jerked back.

  “Oh, you’re bleeding,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Was the cut really dripping again? His heart thumped against his ribs, and he wished he were home . . . except for Jarret being there.

  Peter shoved a paper napkin into his hand. “Let’s get some grub. I’m starved.”

  Roland loaded more food onto his plate than he could possibly eat and sat in the corner booth. Everything smelled so good that his stomach growled loud enough to hear. At home, they ate the same old things. Nanny had gotten herself into a rut, making beef stew or chicken pot pie whenever Papa was gone, which was often.

  Peter shoved a forkful of food into his mouth. “That’s my dad.” With a dinner roll, he pointed at the rugged man in the flannel shirt. “That’s my Aunt Lotti, my mom’s sister.” He pointed at the woman who had been scurrying around the kitchen. She now sat with Toby at Mr. Brandt’s end of the table. She resembled his mother, only shorter, heavier, and plainer.

  Mrs. Brandt leaned toward Mr. Brandt and whispered. Mr. Brandt glanced over his shoulder, directly at Roland.

  Roland whispered to Peter, “Why are your parents staring at me?”

  “Huh?” Peter looked.

  Mr. Brandt grabbed Toby’s hand and said something to him. Toby gave his father a blank look. Mr. Brandt spoke again and Toby laughed.

  Peter faced Roland, grinning. “You aren’t paranoid, are you?”

  Roland shook his head, annoyed, then dropped his gaze to his plate and stabbed a few green beans. Maybe he was paranoid.

  A minute later, his gaze had traveled back to the Brandts. They spoke to each other like regular people. They laughed. They all seemed to like each other.

  “Why are you staring at my parents?” Peter grinned and chewed.

  “What? Oh, I don’t know.” Roland pushed mashed potatoes around on his plate. “You’ve got a nice family. A nice house.”

  “I’ve got a nice house?” Peter dropped his fork. “You live in a castle. I mean, that’s what it looks like.”

  “Yeah, well, it looks better on the outside.”

  “What’s it like on the inside?”

  “Big, cold, and empty.”

  “You going back there tonight?”

  Roland shook his head. He wasn’t sure what he would do, but he wasn’t going home.

  “Well, where you gonna stay?” Peter scraped up the last of his food.

  Roland shrugged and pushed his plate away. His stomach felt like a knotted rag. Where was he going to stay?

  “Wanna stay here?”

  “Yeah, that’d be cool.” Roland glanced at Peter’s parents. “What about them? Would they care?”

  “Hey, Mom!” Peter shouted. Everyone looked.

  Roland slumped down in the seat.

  “Can Roland stay the night?”

  The Brandts exchanged glances. “Sure,” Mrs. Brandt said. “That would be nice. Let me call his father to let him know.” She pushed her chair out.

  A wave of heat washed over Roland. He slid out of the booth and stood up. “No. You can’t call him.”

  Mrs. Brandt’s mouth fell open.

  Roland wished his voice hadn’t sounded harsh, like gravel on ice. “I can’t stay. I’ve got stuff to do.” He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and backed from the dining room. Eyes to the floor, he said, “Thanks for dinner. It was good,” then he turned and bolted.

  “Roland!” Peter caught up with him on the front stoop, the screen door slamming behind him. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t think about Mom calling. She always calls. She’s like a patrol guard, you know, making sure everybody’s where they’re supposed to be. But don’t leave yet. We can shoot cans in the backyard. Besides, where you gonna go?”

  “I don’t know.” Roland’s gaze traveled across the Brandts’ long front lawn and the scattering of dandelions, across Forest Road where a blue car sped by, and into the woods where two miles back his cold, dark house loomed. He would not go there. Nanny would be wondering why he skipped out on dinner. Jarret would be fuming over the empty basement. And Keefe would be defending himself saying: I didn’t let Roland out, honest. Jarret wouldn’t believe him, but he wouldn’t hurt Keefe.

  Peter glanced at the woods across Forest Road. “Well, if you don’t have anywhere, come back later. Throw a stick at my bedroom window. I’ve got a rope ladder. No one has to know.”

  Roland nodded and took off across the lawn, heading for Forest Road. A warm breeze blew. It would be a good evening for a walk.

  Chapter 10

  The houses on Peter’s end of Forest Road were set a good distance apart, but as Roland neared town, they came closer together.

  Roland glanced over his shoulder. For the fifty-seventh time. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Jarret would find him. Of course, knowing Roland was something of a loner, Jarret might limit his search to their own land.

  Passing a gas station and a Dairy Mart, Roland came to a little strip mall where he bought nail polish remover and a box of tissues. Then he turned off Forest Road and strolled deeper into town, cutting through a residential neighborhood. At the end of the street, he would have to decide: left for the school or right for the church. He could sit on a picnic table behind the school, clean his nails, and watch the sun go down over farmland. On the other hand, he could sit on the big steps outside the church, clean his fingernails, and check out the cars driving by and the people walking through the park across the street.

  Flipping a coin in his mind, he turned right at the end of the road.

  A mile or so later, he came to the town square and St. Michael’s Church. One of the original town buildings, the church had been built with dark, granite stones mined locally. The founding members hand-made the stained glass windows and the tall steeple. Wide front steps, which seemed bigger than the church, angled out to the street, welcoming passers-by.

  The Digbys came here every Sunday. Roland and his family stopped attending after Mama died. He could hardly think of the church without remembering the light from stained glass windows shining on Mama’s long black hair when she knelt to pray, the angelic sound of her voice as she sang, the way she whispered to explain some part of the Mass . . .

  His heart ached, making him force the memories deeper. He did like the church. It was old, and it spoke to him.

  Climbing halfway up the steps, he sat in the shadow of the church and dumped the nail polish remover and tissue from the bag.

  Cars drove by. Grade-school boys rode their bikes around the shady, well-kept park across the street. A few couples and a group of girls strolled by. One girl walked alone. She stomped more than walked.

  Roland twisted open the polish remover and scraped the plastic safety seal, but it wouldn’t peel back.

  During the trek from Peter’s house, he had wanted to think about Jarret and Papa and the trip to Italy. He wanted a way to make everyone happy. But he couldn’t hold a thought down. Even now, he could only think about the stupidity of putting a safety seal on nail polish remover.

  Finally peeling it open, he spent the next five minutes removing Jarret’s handiwork and gazing at the setting sun. White clouds resembling marshmallow pillows floated and twisted, forming animals and angels in the sky. They drifted in front of the sun, and rays of light streamed down, sending Heaven’s message that God still sent blessings to earth.

  Something tugged at Roland’s heart . . . sadness, loneliness, emptiness.

  A car drove by, blaring rap music. A gray-haired couple strolled through the park with a short-legged terrier. The sun would set in an hour or so.

  Roland wouldn’t go back home. Jarret. His jaw clenched, and the word hate crept into his
mind. Hate seemed too severe, like wishing death on someone. He didn’t hate Jarret. He didn’t hate anyone. But there had to be a word stronger than dislike. To say he didn’t like Jarret wasn’t strong enough. Detest, loathe, despise . . . Yes, he deeply despised Jarret. He could say that.

  A bald man walked a greyhound, passing the girl who walked alone. She turned and headed back the way she came. Then she folded her arms and started talking to herself, scowling.

  Maybe he should try talking to himself. He smiled, picturing it. No one seemed to notice her. People passed by, minding their own business. If Roland were to do it, cars would stop. Total strangers would start talking about him, sizing him up, making up what they didn’t understand. The way kids at school did.

  The girl stopped walking, dropped her arms to her sides, and tipped her head back as if something beckoned her from above. She stood under a sunbeam, and the tresses hanging down her back blazed like polished copper. Her frilly beige dress, her fiery curls, her beauty . . .

  Roland blinked but couldn’t look away. She was an angel pleading with God for the salvation of a mortal.

  After a long moment, she lowered her head. Deep in prayer?

  Two bikers raced down the sidewalk, toward her.

  She turned, lifted her head, flung her arms out and—

  Roland sucked in a breath and jumped up.

  One of the bikers collided with the girl. She fell back, into the grass. The biker’s BMX hit the sidewalk, but he jumped free and landed on his feet.

  Roland bolted down the steps.

  As he righted his bike, the biker shouted at the girl.

  Roland dashed across the street. A car honked. Brakes squeaked. The two bikers took off.

  Swerving past a couple, Roland skidded to a stop. Then he stood there, staring down at the angel with mahogany hair.

  She gazed up at him through the most beautiful sea-green eyes he had ever seen. “Hi,” she said, pushing herself up to sit.

  Roland crouched, not sure whether to say hi or to ask if she was okay. She seemed okay, so he didn’t say anything.