Roland West, Loner

by Theresa Linden

  “So?”

  “So, you live close to us. It’s strange we’ve never run across each other. You ever go out in the forest? You know, our backyard borders it.”

  Roland shook his head. “I never go over there.”

  “Yeah, well, you have your own woods.” He smiled knowingly. “But we’ve got caves, waterfalls, and rock formations back there. No one seems to know about them places, except us. None as cool as yours. I mean, your rock formation looks like ancient ruins or something, and that secret door—”

  “What do you mean by us?” Hating that Peter knew about the secret entrance, Roland changed the subject to Peter. “You said no one seems to know except us.”

  “Us. That would be me, Dad, Toby, and a couple of friends.”

  Roland’s eyelids flickered at the word friends, so he turned his gaze to what was left of his pie. Having no friends to speak of, the word always gave him a sick and lonely feeling. When Peter said friends, he probably meant the gossipy wheelchair kid. Roland shouldn’t have been talking so freely to Peter. He shouldn’t have been talking to him at all.

  Peter stared. Roland didn’t have to look up to know it. He had stopped eating, stopped talking, and was flat out staring.

  Without lifting his head, Roland peered up at him. “You got a problem?”

  “Problem?” Peter shifted his position and brushed the front of his shirt.

  “You’re staring at me.”

  “Oh.” He grabbed the other plate of pie. “I’m not staring. I was just thinking. Did you know my dad’s a forest ranger? He helps with the bed-and-breakfast, you know, the Forest Gateway, but that’s mostly Mom and Aunt Lotti’s thing. Dad’s out in the forest all day. We should go sometime. I’ll show you what I’m talking about.”

  Not sure that Peter really meant it, Roland shrugged.

  “So, being new to school . . .” Peter spoke slowly. “. . . you probably don’t have many friends. Wanna meet some of mine?”

  Roland met Peter’s gaze. “I don’t know.” Which friends? The gossips? No, Roland didn’t want to meet them.

  “Well, tomorrow’s Sunday. We go to St. Michael’s. I always see one or two of them there. Want to come?”

  Scraping the last traces of cherry pie, Roland shook his head. He hadn’t been to Mass in so long . . . A twinge of guilt ripped through him, but he steeled himself to the emotion. No, he couldn’t go.

  “It’s the last Mass of the day. So, it’s not like we have to get up early.”

  Roland met his gaze. “No.”

  “Okay.” Peter grinned and let out a nervous laugh. “It’s not like I’m trying to convert you or anything. I’ve just got this friend I think you’d like. I don’t even know if you’re Christian.”

  Roland glared. It was none of Peter’s business.

  “For all I know you belong to some strange cult that forbids you from entering Christian churches.” Peter’s grin grew. He was staring again, not even touching his pie, just watching Roland and enjoying himself.

  Roland went to the dresser, set the plate down, and shot him a wicked glare over his shoulder. Peter was up to something. He knew things about Roland now, about his father, about his brothers and how they hated Roland, about their house and the secret entrance to it. Peter had a friend he wanted Roland to meet? Why? So they could get more for the rumor mill at school?

  Peter raised a hand, laughing. “Chill, man. Never mind. Forget I offered.” He took a bite of pie and spoke with a full mouth. “So, is your dad on an archaeological dig or something?”

  “No.” Roland was done answering questions. He had said enough.

  Chapter 13

  Peter’s breaths came long and loud, with an occasional low snore.

  Roland shifted in the sleeping bag and sat up.

  The clock’s glowing red numbers reflected in the dresser mirror in an otherwise pitch-black room. A quarter after one.

  Roland combed his fingers through his hair. Nanny would be worried because he hadn’t come home. It wasn’t like him. She probably tried to call Papa. Roland should’ve called her. He should’ve asked permission to stay at Peter’s.

  Jarret’s face popped into his mind, a crooked grin, sneering eyes . . .

  Roland sneered back. He wasn’t about to let Jarret know where he was staying. Whatever his plan was, Roland would not fall victim to it.

  Nanny’s face pushed Jarret’s out of the way, a trembling hand covering her mouth, teary eyes.

  Roland exhaled, feeling regret. He’d have to talk to her, at least to tell her where he was staying. Maybe she wouldn’t tell Jarret.

  Crawling out of the sleeping bag and toward the window, Roland felt around for the blind. It made a scraping noise when he tugged it, but he needed some light.

  Peter hadn’t moved, and his breathing remained steady.

  With a hint of light, Roland picked his way through the shadowy boxes and clutter in the room. Over the years, he’d honed his skill of sneaking in the dark. He could come and go without notice. Of course, their house had no clutter.

  Roland opened the door without a sound and crept to the stairs. When his foot landed on the top step, wetness soaked through his sock. It was like the stairs had been flooded. Weird.

  A few other steps creaked on his way down. His heart thumped in his ears. Not wanting to get caught and explain himself, he hoped Peter’s parents slept hard.

  Roland passed the open bedroom door at the foot of the steps. Toby lay curled up on the bed, under the soft gray light from a TV, a fishing pole by his side, and blankets in a heap on the floor.

  Light from the microwave glowed in the kitchen, giving the clean appliances, chrome faucet, and countertops a bluish shine. The smell of flowery dish soap hung in the air.

  Roland reached for the phone on the wall and dialed home. The phone rang once, twice . . . five times. He started to hang up when someone answered.

  “Hello.” Jarret’s voice was rough. He had probably bolted from bed and tore down the stairs to get the phone before Nanny woke.

  Heart thumping in his throat, the advice of the girl at the park came to mind. You could try talking to him on the phone. Maybe he should. Maybe it would help to talk to Jarret without being near him. Maybe Jarret would actually listen and some sense would creep into his thick skull.

  “Hello?” Jarret breathed into the phone. “I know it’s you, Roland. Where are you?”

  Roland tried to form a sentence in his mind. Listen Jarret, I had to leave because you’re acting like an idiot . . . That wouldn’t help. Those were fighting words. Jarret, try to understand things from Papa’s point of view . . .

  “Roland.” Jarret spoke louder. “Did you call just to hear my voice? I’m touched. But say something. Where are you?” More breathing. “You know Nanny’s worried sick.”

  Nanny’s teary eyes flashed in Roland’s mind. She didn’t need to worry. But he really should’ve called her. He should’ve told her he was spending the night somewhere. She wouldn’t have cared. He found himself saying, “Is she still up?”

  “Where are you?” His tone hardened.

  “Is Nanny up? Can I talk to her?”

  No answer.

  “Well, tell her not to worry.”

  “I’m not telling her anything. Where are you?” Jarret waited, as if he thought he’d get an answer. “Nanny thinks you’re taking advantage of Papa being gone.”

  “Why would she think that?”

  Jarret didn’t answer right away. Then his words came slow, his tone sinister. “Because that’s what I made her think.”

  Blood rushed to Roland’s head and pulsed behind his eyes. He slammed the phone down. What made him think he could have a conversation with Jarret anyway?

  Chapter 14

  Peter lay face down in his bed, his whole body as relaxed and loose as a blob of Silly Putty. A high-pitch screechy voice pulled him from deep sleep, but it could’ve been a dream. No point in moving until he was sure. He’d give it another minute befo
re—

  “Peter!”

  The voice shot up the stairs and smacked him wide awake. Mom sounded angry. What could she be upset over so early in the morning? He forced his eyelids up.

  Sunlight blasted through his window.

  He peeked through narrow eye-slits. He must’ve forgotten to pull the blind down last night. Last night! Roland stayed the night.

  “Come on down here,” Mom yelled. “Right this minute. You’ve got a visitor.”

  Peter threw the blankets back and got up.

  Roland was gone. The sleeping bag sat in the corner, all rolled up like it had never been used, a folded stack of black clothes next to it. The rope ladder was gone, too.

  He looked again.

  It wasn’t gone. It was attached to the hooks and hanging out the window. Roland must’ve snuck out before—

  His eyes popped, and he gasped. The box. He bounded for his desk but immediately caught sight of the box, still sitting there. He exhaled. Why should he worry about the box? Roland wouldn’t take it. He was strange, but it didn’t mean he was a thief. Talk about paranoid.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  Peter went to the bedroom door. “All right already.” He yanked it open.

  Mom—wearing a dark blue dress and heels—climbed the last step and propped her hands on her hips. “You’ve got a visitor.” As soon as she saw Peter, she turned around and started back downstairs.

  “Well, who is it? And why are you all dressed up?” With heavy feet, he followed her down the steps.

  “It’s Sunday. We leave for Mass in ten minutes.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He followed her into the living room and stopped, stunned.

  There stood Roland. All dressed up. With hair out of a men’s magazine—discretely combed over the cut on his forehead, of course—a gray button-front shirt, hands in the front pockets of his dress pants, and black, waterproof dress shoes.

  Peter, circling Roland, did a double take at the shoes. “Hey, those are my—”

  Roland gave him a shove and a warning look. “I thought maybe I could ride to church with you.”

  “Church?” Peter grinned. Perfect. He’d meet Caitlyn. “I thought you didn’t want to go.”

  Roland shrugged.

  “Better get dressed, Peter,” Mom said from the kitchen, “unless you plan to wear sweat pants.”

  “Can I?”

  “Get. Dressed.”

  Peter gave his gray button-front shirt, dress pants, and shoes another look before heading for the stairs. Toby darted out of his room and thundered upstairs ahead of him.

  “Hey!” Peter shouted. “You’re not allowed in my room!”

  Chapter 15

  Roland sat in a pew in the back of the church and tried to pay attention as Father Carston preached. Bathed in red and gold light from a stained-glass window, Father stood at an ornately carved pulpit on the “Mary side” of the church. He said something about seeing Christ in others and miracles and little acts of kindness.

  Roland’s gaze kept straying to what had been his family’s regular pew: third row from the front, left side. People packed the church, so he couldn’t get a good look, but he went there in his mind.

  As a child, he had liked going to St. Michael’s, mostly because it meant they were home—at least for the weekend—and not living out of the motorhome at some mine or archaeological dig site. He could almost hear Mama’s voice. She sang like an angel and always held his hand or rubbed his back. Jarret used to kick Roland’s shoes and pinch his thigh. Roland hated sitting so close to the front. He felt like everyone was staring at them. The Digbys probably still sat up there during the early Mass.

  Father’s preaching went on. He said something about being a good example, and a millstone, and turning from sin.

  “Father sign cross,” Toby said in a loud voice, hands to his ears. “Ring bells, ring bells.”

  “Shhh,” Mrs. Brandt said, “not yet.”

  Toby squeezed past Peter and plopped down next to Roland.

  Peter’s face turned beet red. He tugged Toby’s arm. “You can’t sit there. Go back by Mom,” he whispered, loud enough for half the church to hear.

  Roland leaned to speak over Toby. “I don’t care. He can sit by me.”

  “No, he’s trying to leave,” Peter said, still tugging.

  As soon as everyone stood to pray, Toby crawled along the pew and jumped into the aisle.

  Peter groaned. While the Profession of Faith began, Peter squeezed past Roland.

  Roland turned to watch.

  Toby ran to the back of the church, to the statue of St. Anne. He took one of the long sticks used for lighting candles. Peter snatched it from him. “No fire.”

  Toby whined.

  “Come on.” Peter no longer whispered.

  Roland turned back to see how many of the faithful watched the spectacle. Not one. Maybe they were used to it.

  The ushers came around for the collection and people in the pews before Roland shifted, some to the left, others to the right, the congregation parting like the Red Sea. And he saw her.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  The girl he met at the park stood in the front row, between two little girls, on his side of the church. She wore a pale, flowery dress, a frilly hat, and a ribbon twisted around the red curls that fell down her back. Then the people shifted and hid her from view.

  Peter and Toby returned to the pew, and the rest of the Mass flew by, sitting, standing, kneeling. Roland kept trying to catch another glimpse of her. Then at Communion time, people leaned and moved, and there she was again.

  She turned and their eyes met, at least he thought they did. She smiled. Then she mouthed something.

  Roland nearly combusted. What did she say? Was she really talking to him?

  He glanced at Peter.

  Peter glanced at him. “You’re not going up, are you?”

  Roland shook his head and tried to play it cool.

  When Mass ended, Roland decided to remain in the pew for a few minutes to avoid the exit commotion. The Brandts filed out of the church with the rest of the congregation. Whispering voices grew louder as people neared the doors.

  Roland meant to keep an eye out for the girl, to get another look at her, but God tugged at his heart again, the way He had yesterday on the church steps. He needed to make things right, maybe go to confession, start going to Mass again.

  Bowing his head and resting his arms on his thighs, Roland opened his heart.

  The voices faded to a muffled sound. The church doors closed. Silence.

  A feeling like a dove gliding on a breeze began in Roland’s soul. He surrendered to it. Then, with a sudden shift, he felt himself sinking in a vast sea. Was God trying to tell him something? Warn him of something? God wanted him to know—

  The church doors flew open and jerked Roland from prayer.

  Peter plopped down beside him. “Oh, sorry. Are you really praying?”

  Roland stood. “Is your family waiting on me?”

  “No, they’re all hanging around outside. I wanted you to meet my friend, the one I told you about yesterday.”

  Maybe she’d be out there, too. Roland touched the cut on his forehead and pulled a few hairs over it. “Hey, can you see my cut?”

  Peter gave a comical look. “No. I don’t know. Who cares?”

  FATHER CARSTON STOOD on the top of the great steps, nodding his head, throwing out greetings, and shaking hands with parishioners, his green chasuble billowing in the wind. His sharp eyes, snow-white hair, and a beard over a tan, youthful face gave him a sage-like quality that commanded respect.

  As Roland and Peter passed, Father’s gaze locked onto Roland. He nodded.

  Roland returned the greeting and dropped his gaze.

  Peter hurried down the steps, disappearing into a group of people gathered by a tree on the church lawn. Peter’s parents spoke with a couple holding a baby and a little boy.

  Where was the redheaded girl?
/>   Peter showed up by his mother but didn’t pay her any attention. He turned in every direction, probably looking for someone. He glanced as Roland came over. “I don’t know where she—”

  “Ah ha!” A girl jumped out from behind the tree and poked Peter in the sides.

  He gasped and spun around.

  Roland stopped in his tracks. It was her! She knew Peter?

  “You didn’t scare me,” Peter said to her. “I knew you were back there.”

  “You were scared. Admit it,” she said, giving him a sly look. Then her green eyes swiveled to Roland. She did a double take and froze with her mouth hanging open, as if she hadn’t just seen him in church.

  Roland’s cheeks warmed. Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she had only seen Peter. Maybe she had mouthed something to Peter.

  “Hey, I want you to meet my friend,” Peter said to her. “You’ve probably seen him at school.” Then he lowered his voice. “Or at least heard about him. This is Roland West.”

  She closed her mouth and gave Roland a shy smile. She hadn’t seemed shy the day before. “I’m Caitlyn. Caitlyn Summer.” She stuck out her hand.

  Roland hesitated then slid his hand into hers.

  Her gaze didn’t break from his eyes. Rather than shake hands, they sort of held hands for a couple of seconds until she pulled hers away.

  “Roland West,” she whispered, staring.

  “Yeah,” Roland said.

  Then she tilted her head and batted her eyes at Peter. “Are you going to invite him over?”

  “Where? You mean to your house,” Peter said. “Why would I invite him over?”

  Her cheeks reddened. “Well, if he’s hanging out with you . . .”

  “You want to hang out?” Turning his back on Caitlyn, Peter faced Roland. “Sundays have turned into this big nightmare. My family goes to her family’s house after Mass, then they come over to ours later. If you want to come—”

  “That’s awful, Peter.” Caitlyn shoved him so hard he staggered to the side. “Don’t say it like that.”