Roland West, Loner

by Theresa Linden

  He arranged the food on the tray and headed for the steps. No one had heard him come down. No one ever heard him on a food raid. Now he’d go upstairs and signal Roland.

  As he neared the foot of the steps, a muffled voice came from one of the rooms.

  He stopped and peered down the hall. A strip of light showed under his parents’ door and under the door to their office. Dad and Mom had gone to their room for the night. Hadn’t they?

  Something in the office bumped. The doorknob jiggled.

  Peter dashed up the stairs, careful to skip the steps that squeaked. He set the tray against the wall, next to his bedroom door, and returned to the top step to sit in the darkness. He couldn’t see the office door from his perch, but if anyone passed he’d see it.

  The office door creaked open and light traveled down the hallway. The door clicked shut. Darkness.

  Peter’s heart drummed against his ribcage.

  Footfalls. Someone crept down the hall. The figure passed the kitchen and the blue glow from the microwave outlined his big penguin form.

  Peter gasped. Mr. Reinhard!

  Mr. Reinhard waddled toward the dining room. Before rounding the corner, he stopped. He turned his head to face the stairs.

  Peter held his breath. Had the penguin seen him?

  He turned his head a little more, as if taking in the hall then the living room. An agonizing moment later, he moved on. The glass door to the guest rooms slid open and shut.

  Peter breathed.

  Thoughts raced through his mind like hungry rats in a strange maze. Who was this man? A thief? A psycho?

  Regaining control of his body, Peter jumped to his feet and burst into his bedroom. He shut the door behind him, leaned his back against the door, and breathed.

  Peter’s heart had barely slowed when something tapped his window.

  Roland! He had almost forgotten. He scrambled to the window, slid it open, and dropped the ladder down.

  Roland held a single stick in one hand and a handful in the other. “It’s about time.” He dropped the sticks and climbed.

  “Man, I wish you were here a few minutes ago.” Peter backed up so Roland could climb in.

  “I was. Where you been?”

  “Remember the penguin? I mean that creepy guest, the big guy? Well, I didn’t tell you, or did I? But over dinner he was asking me all kinds of questions, over dinner, you know, and then . . .” After a breath, he blurted out, “Well, just now, I saw him. He was in our house, in the dark. I mean, he was sneaking around our house.”

  “Slow down. What’re you talking about?” Roland helped pull up the rope ladder. “And what took you so long? I’ve been waiting behind the garage for an hour.”

  “Oh, sorry, man. I had to wait for everyone to settle down for the night.”

  Roland turned the desk chair around, started messing with his hair, and sat down. The desk light went on. One leg of his faded black jeans looked dark and wet up to his knee.

  “What happened to you?” Peter turned to the dresser, wanting something to eat. The tray wasn’t there.

  “Did you know your father drove me home?”

  He must’ve left the tray in the hall. “Dad drove you home? Oh, man. You had to walk all the way back in the dark?”

  “Yeah. And a coyote was chasing me.”

  Peter went to the bedroom door and reached for the knob but didn’t turn it. “Your brothers saw you, huh?”

  “No. A coyote.”

  Peter faced Roland. He’d get the tray later. “A real coyote?”

  “Yeah. I slipped, crossing the stream, trying to outrun it.” Roland still messed with his hair. “Hey, did you tell your father where I live?” He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest, his eyes narrowing.

  “No, I never told him anything about you. Why?” Peter plopped down on his bed.

  “Somehow he knew where I lived. He didn’t ask me anything. Just drove right to my house.”

  “That’s weird. I don’t think Dad even knows your last name.”

  Roland zoned out for a moment then leaned forward. “So what about your strange guest?”

  “His name’s Mr. Reinhard, and he was in my parents’ office. I was on a food raid when I heard something. So I watched from the top of the steps. Then I saw him.”

  “Well, maybe he was talking to your father in his office.” Roland looked at the dresser, probably wondering where the food was. Caitlyn kept bringing him things to eat while they shot cans, but he only ate a sandwich. He had to be hungry.

  “I don’t know. I thought Mom and Dad went to their room for the night.”

  “Why don’t you go check? And . . . can I use your phone?”

  Peter stood up. “Yeah. Come on.”

  “I’m not going down there. If your parents see me . . .” Roland shook his head. “Your father took me home. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. Okay. I’ll be back.”

  Peter hesitated before yanking his bedroom door open. After closing it behind him, he crept down the dark steps. If Dad had been with Mr. Reinhard, maybe he’d still be in the office. He peeked down the hallway.

  Light came from under his parents’ bedroom door but not from the office.

  Okay, if Mr. Reinhard had been with Dad, Dad would’ve come later and locked the sliding glass door.

  Peter decided to check. He pressed his back to the wall in the hall and peered through the kitchen, over the counters, and at the sliding glass doors. They were dark. Someone could even be on the other side for all he could tell.

  He dropped to the floor and crawled behind the cabinets. At the end of the cabinets, he sat frozen for a moment. Taking a deep breath, he peeked around at the glass door.

  Pale gray moonlight shone into the empty breezeway.

  Peter exhaled. He jumped up, darted for the sliding glass door, and gave it a tug.

  It slid open.

  He shivered. Dad hadn’t locked it. He stared through the breezeway to the guests’ side of the house. Then he secured the door, flipped the lock, and went to the kitchen for the phone.

  He climbed the steps by twos, picked up the tray of food, and pushed open his bedroom door.

  Roland’s head jerked up. He still sat on the desk chair, but he held the box from Grandpa. He return it to the desk, knocking a screwdriver to the floor.

  Peter’s jaw tensed.

  Chapter 21

  Roland leaned against the window frame, with the phone pressed to his ear, waiting for someone to pick up. The leaves on the tree outside Peter’s bedroom window shuddered under the moonlight.

  Nanny, answer the phone.

  Peter’s reflection showed in the window. He stood on his bed, stretching to stuff the antique box between pictures and awards on a wall shelf. What made him so possessive over it? Was he afraid Roland might steal it?

  Someone picked up the phone but took a second to answer. “Hello.”

  At the sound of Jarret’s voice, Roland’s heart shuddered like the leaves outside. His hand tensed around the phone, and he wanted to hang up but didn’t.

  “I know it’s you, Roland.”

  “Let me talk to Nanny,” Roland said.

  Peter jumped off the bed and came to stand behind Roland, boldly staring.

  “She can’t come to the phone right now.” Jarret had an impersonal, business-like tone.

  “It’s not that late. Let me talk to her.”

  Jarret didn’t answer.

  Roland sighed into the phone. “Jarret, put her on. I told her I’d call.”

  “Yes, you did, didn’t you? Nanny said you were spending the night at a friend’s. Who’s the friend?”

  “Why do you need to know?”

  “She asked me to find out.” He almost sounded nice.

  He rolled the possibility over in his mind. Would she ask that of Jarret? Maybe she was busy, or out, and told him to find out when Roland called. Or maybe Jarret was lying so he could find out for himself?

  “So, what do you
want me to tell her?” Jarret sounded indifferent.

  “Tell her . . .” What difference would it make if Jarret knew? It wasn’t like he’d run over here and get Roland. “. . . tell her I’m at . . .” Nanny would want to know. She probably did tell Jarret to find out when he called. “I’m at . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  Roland pressed his lips together. He couldn’t say it. Jarret was up to something. “Tell her I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

  “Why don’t you leave your friend’s number? Then, if she wants to call you—”

  “I’m not leaving any number.” Roland fumbled with the phone, looking for the button to end the call. He turned to Peter. “How do you hang this thing up?”

  Peter took the phone and pressed a button. “Ah, this phone’s kind of old.” He stared. “So, who’s Nanny?”

  Roland shook his head. No point in fueling more rumors. Tomorrow half the school would be talking about the rich West boys and their live-in maid.

  Peter kept staring, brows raised and head cocked to one side, nothing but sincerity in his brown eyes.

  It triggered a profound longing in Roland’s soul. He wanted a friend, someone his age, someone he could open up to, someone he could trust and who would trust him. Opening up to one person wouldn’t kill him, would it? Maybe Peter wouldn’t talk about him behind his back.

  Roland took a deep breath. “She lives with us. She cooks and cleans and stuff. And her husband, Mr. Digby, keeps the grounds.” There. He said it. He trusted someone. He’d find out in a few days if it was a mistake.

  “Man.” Peter grinned. “You live in a castle and you’re, like, rich.”

  “Rich? I’m not rich. My father makes a good living.”

  “What’d you say he does, again?”

  ROLAND SAT ACROSS FROM Peter in a booth in the Brandts’ dining room, enjoying the thick aromas of bacon, coffee and syrup that lingered in the air. Peter wolfed down his second plate of pancakes and scrambled eggs. Toby spun like a top in the living room, without bumping anything. It had to be going on three minutes. In the kitchen, Mrs. Brandt clattered plates and scraped food into the garbage disposal. She smiled. It didn’t seem to matter what she did, she always had a little smile.

  Half an hour ago, Roland had snuck down from Peter’s bedroom window and came around to the front of the house. Mrs. Brandt answered the door with a smile that had him longing for his own mother. Peter was lucky to have her. He was lucky to have a nice family. A normal family.

  Why did Mrs. Brandt seem so familiar?

  “You’re staring at my mom again.” Peter stuffed a mound of eggs into his mouth.

  “No, I’m not.” Roland jerked his face back to his own business and pushed a piece of pancake around his plate, making swirls in the syrup.

  “Were too.” Peter grinned.

  A woman’s high voice traveled into the dining room a few seconds before the glass door to the breezeway opened and Mr. and Mrs. Bjorn came through.

  Roland ducked.

  Peter laughed.

  The Bjorns seated themselves in the corner booth.

  Roland shrugged and tried to compose himself. He couldn’t help it the woman made him jumpy. “Your mother reminds me of someone, but I can’t remember who.”

  “Ahh, Mom looks like Betty Crocker, only blonde. Sort of blonde. Is Mom’s hair brown?” He squinted toward the kitchen. “Aunt Lotti sure looks different lately.”

  Peter’s aunt wore a silky flowered top, jeans, and a beaded clip in straight hair that hung down past her shoulders. She smiled a lot, too.

  “She never wears her hair down,” Peter said. “And if I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s got make-up on.”

  “Is that so strange?”

  “She doesn’t wear make-up. And she only wears stretch pants and cotton shirts.” Peter turned his attention to Roland’s shirt. “I see you brought some of your own clothes. Do you only wear black?”

  Roland glanced at his black, long-sleeved, cotton shirt. “No.” He had packed a dark gray shirt, too. Maybe he should’ve packed a few more things. How many days could he stay at Peter’s? “Hey, think I can stay a few nights until my father comes home?”

  “Sure. That’d be awesome. But uh . . .” He leaned forward and whispered, “I wanna know why. It’s time you talked.”

  Roland’s stomach tightened at the thought of explaining his situation. Why do you need to know? almost came out of his mouth.

  Peter stared, unblinking.

  Friends trust each other. “I uh, I’m trying to avoid my brothers. And I don’t want them to know where I am.”

  “I figured that much.” Peter’s eyes narrowed. “So, tell me why.”

  What did he plan to do with this information? Who would he tell? Why did he need to — Roland forced himself to stave off the wall that threatened to close him off from Peter. “We’re not getting along. My brother has a plan against me, and I think he’s trying to set me up.”

  “Why?”

  “I-I’m supposed to go to somewhere with my father when he gets back. But Jarret wants to go. He wants to mess it up for me and go in my place.”

  “Where are you supposed to go?”

  “Italy.”

  Peter straightened. His dark brows disappeared under his messy blond bangs. “What? You’re kidding me. You get to go to—”

  Roland shot him a warning look. “Shhh.”

  “Can I come?”

  “No.”

  “I’m just kidding, man. You can stay here as long as you need. Not a problem. We’ll just do what we’ve been doing.” He mouthed rope ladder and nodded before biting into his toast.

  Roland relaxed a bit. He had a place to stay. Jarret’s plan would fail. And when Papa returned—

  The sound of heavy footfalls in the living room tore him from his thoughts. Before he turned to see who it was, Mr. Brandt bellowed, “Good morning, boys,” and stepped into the dining room.

  He leaned over the counter and gave Mrs. Brandt a kiss.

  “Here you go, Conrad.” She handed him a thermos then they whispered to each other.

  After grabbing a bagel, he sat at the end of the long table—directly across from their booth—unfolded a newspaper, and pulled a pair of glasses from the pocket of his flannel shirt.

  Roland dropped his fork and turned to Peter. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m not done yet. Besides, the bus—”

  “You’re here early, Roland.” Mr. Brandt gave Roland the once-over. Was he suspicious?

  Roland nodded. “Morning.”

  “Would you boys like a ride to school?”

  Roland shot Peter a look, trying to communicate no with his eyes. He didn’t want Mr. Brandt talking to him on the way to school, asking questions he’d have to lie to answer.

  “No thanks, Dad, we’re just gonna take the bus.” Peter slid out of the booth.

  Mr. Brandt peered over his reading glasses. “It’s no problem, Peter. I’d like to take you today.”

  Peter and Roland exchanged troubled glances.

  “Really Dad, we—”

  “I’m taking you.”

  The finality in his tone made Roland’s insides sink.

  “Uh, okay. I’ll go get my books.” Peter stopped halfway across the dining room. “Hey, think I’ll get the key for the box today? From Uncle Harold?”

  Roland scanned the room when Peter mentioned the box. It was just the Bjorns and Peter’s parents. No one else.

  “Today? From California?” Mr. Brandt slid his reading glasses into the pocket of his shirt. “I’d give it a couple of days. Of course, Harold said he had already dropped it in the mail before I called, so you never know.”

  Peter grinned, nodded, and took a few steps backwards. “Hey, he didn’t happen to tell you what was in the box, did he?”

  Roland’s ears perked.

  “I didn’t ask. You’re welcome to give him a call and—”

  “Nah, I’ll know soon enough. But why does Uncle Harold
know and you don’t?”

  Mr. Brandt’s brows lowered, and he rubbed his jaw. “Well, your uncle Harold is eleven years my senior. He grew up with our father, your gramps, in Nebraska. Moved with him when he retired to California. I didn’t have that privilege, you understand. My mother died after I was born . . .”

  Roland’s gaze snapped to Mr. Brandt, his heart twisting.

  “. . . and your gramps didn’t feel capable of caring for a baby, so I grew up with my aunt and uncle here in South Dakota. I’m sure there’s a lot I don’t know. I know Gramps about as well as you do, Peter.”

  Peter’s brows lowered the same way his father’s had. “You and Uncle Harold are eleven years apart? That’s a lot of years. How come you don’t have any other sisters or brothers?”

  “I don’t know, son. That’s just the way it works sometimes. I know our folks prayed hard for children, but God gives his blessings according to his Divine Wisdom. Maybe you should ask Him.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Peter flashed a smile and dashed to the stairs.

  Blessings. Roland shook his head. His brothers felt more like a curse.

  Mr. Brandt’s gaze lingered even after Peter disappeared from view.

  Roland pushed the pancake around on his plate.

  Mr. Brandt sipped his coffee then faced Roland.

  Roland gulped and shoved his plate back. Deciding to wait with Toby in the living room, he slid out of the booth.

  “Sit down a minute, Roland.” Mr. Brandt caught him with his gaze.

  Running a hand through his hair, Roland dropped back into the booth. He knows.

  “Come sit over here.” Mr. Brandt kicked out a seat at the table.

  Roland inhaled and came over.

  Mr. Brandt stared at his bagel with the same look in his eyes that Papa got before he said something fatherly. “Roland.” He paused, waited for eye contact. “Is there trouble at home?” The words came out strangled, as if he couldn’t bear to ask the question.

  Roland glanced around the room, his heart banging against his chest. “No.”

  Mr. Brandt cleared his throat. “I know you’ve been staying here the past two nights. And I don’t mind, really. You’re more than welcome here, but . . .” He waited until Roland met his gaze again. “You really need to let us call home.”