Roland West, Loner

by Theresa Linden

  Finally. Better late than never.

  The Lexus no sooner came to a stop, than the front and back passenger-side doors swung open simultaneously and the twins got out. With smug looks on their faces, they swaggered down the sidewalk in no obvious hurry. They both wore their hair pulled back in a ponytail. The one who rode in the front wore a dark purple hoodie and baggy jeans. The less-flashy twin wore a brown jacket over a white shirt and carried a big artist’s canvas at his side.

  No one else got out of the car. The Lexus pulled away.

  Peter’s heart sank. Where was Roland?

  Chapter 34

  I cry with my voice to the Lord,

  With my voice I make supplication to the Lord,

  I pour out my complaint before him,

  I tell my trouble before him,

  When my spirit is faint, though knowest my way.

  In the path where I walk they have hidden a trap for me.

  I look to the right and watch,

  But there is none who takes notice of me;

  No refuge remains to me, no man cares for me.

  I cry to thee, O Lord;

  I say, Thou art my refuge, my portion in the land of the living.

  Give heed to my cry; for I am brought very low.

  Deliver me from my persecutors; for they are too strong for me.

  Bring me out of prison that I may give thanks to thy name.

  ~Psalm 142

  Mama’s Bible lay open on a low table.

  Sitting on the edge of the couch, Roland hunched over it. His heart ached from missing her. She made life bearable. She loved him.

  He ran a hand across the yellowed and crinkled page of the Psalm she, no doubt, had read countless times. Holy cards had marked other pages, too, but this one showed the most wear. The verse fit Roland’s mood completely. When had Mama felt like this?

  After Mama died, Roland had asked for her Bible. Papa reluctantly gave it to him. He hated to part with anything of hers.

  Over the years, Roland had made a sort of shrine in the turret over his bedroom, his present prison. A crucifix hung on the wall. Mama’s picture and a statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe, her patron saint, sat on the table along with the Bible. The turret hadn’t room for much else than a table and a small couch. When he felt like getting away from everyone, he needed nothing more.

  Light streamed through a high window in the curved stone wall of the turret. Blue sky and clouds looked down on Roland, oblivious to his misery.

  If only he could see out. Had Nanny and Mr. Digby left to run errands already? It was Thursday, so they wouldn’t return until three. What time was it? How long ago had Keefe tricked him into going up into the turret?

  Roland sneered, his whole body tensing.

  He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. What’s done was done. He’d already tried banging on the door, then he thought he popped a vein in his forehead when he tried pushing it open. If he were stronger, maybe he could’ve busted the lock.

  Roland got up and stretched.

  He had never felt so alone. With Papa away and Nanny buying Jarret’s lies, he had no one who cared for him, no friend at all.

  Even Caitlyn had betrayed him. Why had he trusted her? It had felt good opening up to her. She hadn’t seemed like one of the gossipers. She seemed to pay no attention to the rumors, seemed as if she hadn’t even heard them.

  Her sparkling, green angel-eyes played in his mind. To get them out, he stared at the bright window above until spots showed in his eyelids whenever he blinked.

  He still had one friend. Peter said they were friends. Peter even trusted him with the old notebook.

  A wave of nausea washed over Roland. He had left the book in his jacket pocket, on his bed. Jarret could’ve taken it.

  Roland gazed at the crucifix on the wall. This morning had started out like any other school day.

  He had been dressing for school when the phone rang in Papa’s bedroom down the hall. Hurried footsteps sounded in the hallway, probably Jarret’s. Papa’s door creaked open. A couple minutes later, the door closed, more footfalls and another door opened, probably Keefe’s. A muffled conversation began, but soon it sounded like an argument. Jarret would win. He always did.

  Then everything got quiet.

  Roland zipped his jeans, put on a black, button-front shirt and stared at himself in the mirror. He combed his hair back, fluffed it a little at the top, and pulled bangs over the scab on his forehead. When he picked up his black denim jacket, he remembered having left the old notebook in the pocket. For safe-keeping, he should put it in the drawer of his—

  A light knocking sounded on his bedroom door.

  He tossed the jacket onto the bed and went to see who wanted him.

  Keefe turned to face him as soon as the door opened. His eyelids flickered the way they did whenever he intended to do something he would regret. “Hey, Roland.”

  With a sigh, Roland backed up to let him in. He hated when Jarret manipulated Keefe into carrying out his evil bidding.

  As Keefe shuffled to the window, he glanced over his shoulder, through the open door.

  “So, Keefe, what’s up?”

  Keefe cleared his throat. “Um.” He pressed his lips together and glanced at the turret door. “Do you still have Mama’s Bible?”

  “Yeah.” Keefe knew the answer. Why did he ask?

  “Do you think I could borrow it, just for a couple minutes?” Keefe stroked a lock of his hair then rubbed his brow.

  “What do you need it for?”

  He shook his head, eyes downcast. “Come on, Roland. I don’t ever ask you for things.”

  “All right. I’ll go get it.” Roland started to the turret door. “But don’t let anything happen to it. I mean, don’t move the holy cards in the pages or anything.”

  Keefe shook his head and rolled his eyes. “I won’t. Go get it.”

  As Roland ascended the winding steps, whispering voices sounded from his bedroom. Then the door to the turret slammed shut with a bang.

  Roland’s body jerked at the sound. “Keefe?” He snatched the Bible and dashed down the steps. The knob turned, but the door wouldn’t open. They must’ve slid the cast-iron lock pins in place. “Keefe?”

  Blood boiling, Roland rammed a shoulder into the door. “Keefe, open the door.”

  “I’ll open it later,” Jarret said from the other side, his voice smooth. “Don’t worry about Mr. Digby thinking you need a ride to school. I told him you wanted to ride the bus, that you walked to the bus stop.”

  “You’re such a liar. Let me out of here.”

  “Just be glad you aren’t in the basement.” He laughed. “Have a nice skip-day. I’ll see you after school.”

  Points of light flashed before Roland’s eyes. He banged the door repeatedly, until it felt like a vein popped in his forehead. Tired and defeated, he climbed the steps.

  Chapter 35

  Anxiety chewed at Peter’s innards like a dog with a bone. He tried to push the worries from his mind and focus on helping Caitlyn with her algebra. Hunching over her textbook, he tapped his pencil on the problem: 60x² + 317X - 161 = 0. What would be the simplest way to explain this to her?

  “Okay. First off . . .” He glanced.

  She nodded.

  “. . . you can’t let algebra scare you. I see you freeze up whenever you so much as look at the problems.”

  She shifted in the booth then folded her arms. “I don’t freeze up. The numbers all bounce around in my head like a hundred beads that slid off a string. I can’t help it.”

  “Really, it’s not as hard as it seems. Trust me. Watch. First, you gotta plug these numbers into the quadratic formula like this . . .” He scribbled the numbers down and turned the paper so she could see.

  She wasn’t even looking. She gazed at Toby on the floor.

  “Man, you begged for my help with this. Are you gonna pay attention?”

  “Peter play traaain,” Toby said mournfully. “Peter play traaain.”
Laying on his stomach with his cheek to the floor, he pulled several little die-cast train engines around Peter’s and Caitlyn’s feet.

  Caitlyn watched Toby, the hint of a smile on her face. “You should play trains with Toby. He looks so sad.”

  “Play with him? No way. He’s lucky I let him play at my feet.”

  “You’re horrible.” Her eyebrows crinkled, and her eyes flashed. “You’re a horrible, horrible person. I don’t know why I think of you as a friend.”

  “I am not horrible. You should’ve seen what he did yesterday. He’s probably the reason Roland didn’t show up at school.” Peter’s stomach churned. He needed to learn more about Roland. Some of the rumors almost seemed credible now.

  “Why would Toby be the reason?” she said. “He doesn’t even go to our school.”

  Not intending to answer her, he shook his head and resumed working the algebra problem. He had accidentally messed up the quadratic equation.

  “What’d Toby do? Did he really do something to Roland?”

  He met her questing gaze with his own confident look. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, he did.” He squinted at the problem, realizing he had to erase the last step.

  “Well, aren’t you going to tell me?”

  “No. You can ask him. He was pretty ruffled over it. No, not ruffled, maybe peeved, burned . . . Anyway, he left without a word. And I don’t think he’d want me to tell anyone about it.”

  “Hmm.” She twirled a lock of her red hair. “I thought he didn’t show up at school because of me. I feel just awful about telling his secret. Did you hear about it yet?”

  Peter glanced, grinning. “You mean about his mother dying in jail? I can’t believe you said that. Did he really tell you that? What was she in jail for?”

  She dropped her head and red curls fell onto the table and over the algebra book, resembling a dumped bowl of spaghetti. She moaned. “No, he never said that. I never said that. It got all twisted around.” She lifted her head a bit. “Did you tell him I was sorry?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I think I brought it up. I don’t think he wanted to talk about it.”

  She dumped her hair onto the table again, with another moan. “He’ll probably quit school and get another tutor,” she said to the table.

  “A tutor? He better not. Not before he gives me my book back.”

  She lifted her head again. “Your book?”

  “Yeah, it was in that old box. I got the key. We opened it yesterday. There was an old notebook in it, had all kinds of writing on the pages but in a different language. Roland said his dad could tell us what language it’s in. So he has the book.” His stomach tightened. “And he’d better give it back. Dominic thinks his family buys and sells illegal artifacts. Did Roland say anything to you about that?”

  “Illegal artifacts? Why would Dominic think that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a rumor. Someone said someone heard it from the principal or someone. Whether it’s true or not, I want my book back. The rest of my . . . inheritance is safe in the hiding place, and I’ve got the key.” He tapped his pocket but didn’t feel the key. He rubbed his pocket. Nothing. He shoved his hand inside it. “The key? What’d I do with the key?” His eyes popped as he remembered.

  “Oh no! Mom said she’s doing my laundry today. I must’ve left it in the pocket of my wet jeans.”

  He jumped up from the booth, tripped on Toby’s arm, and dashed for the laundry room.

  The room smelled hot and damp but springtime fresh. A basket of dirty, dark-colored clothes waited on the floor by a chugging washing machine. A pile of folded jeans and shirts sat on top of a humming dryer.

  Peter rifled through the dirty jeans in the basket. Finding nothing, he started on the folded jeans. Any chance the key could’ve stayed in the pocket through the entire washing and drying?

  “Did you find it?” Caitlyn stood in the doorway.

  “No, it’s not in any of them.” He looked for the little ceramic dish Mom used to hold pocket findings.

  Before he found the dish, Caitlyn—dressed in a long beige skirt— stretched out, face down on the floor. For a girl who only wore dresses and skirts, she had never seemed very lady-like, but this was ridiculous.

  “What’re you doing?” he said, sounding disgusted.

  “Maybe it fell.” She peeked under the dryer. “Wow, there’s a lot of stuff under here.” She tried to stick her hand under, but it only went half way. “Do you have a broom or mop in here?”

  “Yeah, but they’re not gonna fit under there.”

  The mop, dust mop, broom, and a fishing pole leaned in the corner behind the door. Behind all that— ah yes, that would work —the yellow yardstick they got at the county fair last year.

  “Here try this.” He handed it to her.

  A moment later, she lay before a pile of lint, some change, a marble, a fishing lure, and a fancy fountain pen.

  “That’s all.” She stood and brushed the front of her skirt. “No key.”

  Peter snatched the pen. “I wonder whose this is.”

  “Probably your dad’s. Let’s go check your bedroom. I bet the key fell into one of your boxes of junk.” She left the laundry room.

  He followed. “No way does Dad have a pen like this.”

  The fountain pen was shaped like a cigar and the color of smoky topaz. It had a gold clip and a gold band around the middle. Definitely a designer pen. Dad only used pens that came in packs of ten.

  Caitlyn crossed the landing and pushed open Peter’s bedroom door. “Maybe the pen belongs to one of the guests.”

  “What would it be doing in our laundry room?” He slipped the pen into the chest pocket of his shirt.

  Caitlyn dropped to the floor by the bed. “Maybe it got tangled up in someone’s sheets. Don’t they wash the sheets from the guest rooms in your laundry room?”

  “Yeah, I guess. You’re spending an awful lot of time on the floor. What’re you doing?”

  She scrunched up her face. “Aren’t we looking for the key? It could’ve disappeared under your bed . . .” She lifted the hanging sheet and peered underneath. “. . . to remain hidden forever under dirty old socks and underwear and whatever else lives under here.” Using her foot, she dragged things out from under the bed: a few socks, a book, a screwdriver . . .

  Peter set to searching the boxes against the wall. “I think I’ll have Mom or Aunt Lotti ask the guests about the pen.” He gave a determined nod of his head. “Yeah, Aunt Lotti can ask Mr. Reinhard, since they’re so tight. You think they’re dating?”

  The thought brought a sneer to his face. Could Aunt Lotti be so desperate?

  “I hope Roland doesn’t stay mad at me. He seems so nice, but shy, but nice, really nice.” She sat up and blew her hair out of her face. Beside her lay a pile of dirty clothes, a book, silverware, a baseball mitt, and a few tools. “What’s up with the mound of rope under your bed, in the corner?”

  Peter jumped. “Oh. Why don’t you get up? I’m sure the key’s not under there.”

  “You really ought to think about cleaning your room someday.” She stood and brushed off her skirt, obviously unaware of the red smear on the side of it. Cherry pie filling?

  “Can we call Roland?” she said. “Let’s ask him why he didn’t come to school today.”

  “I don’t have his phone number.”

  “Didn’t you say he lives on the other side of the river?”

  “Uh, yeah, but—”

  “Let’s go over there. Let’s just drop by. I can tell him I’m sorry about sharing his secrets, and you can apologize for Toby.” She clasped her hands together and smiled. “And you can get your book back.” She bounced on her toes.

  “I don’t know. What if he doesn’t like drop-ins?”

  She seized his hand and headed for the door. “Come on. I’ll call home and tell Mom I’m going to be late.”

  He yanked his hand free. “What about the key?”

  “I’m sure it’ll turn up
. Maybe your mom found it in the laundry. Maybe she has it. If not, we’ll search later. Or you could clean.”

  He snagged the nearest dirty sock and whipped it at her. “Stop nagging.”

  She dodged the sock and sprinted from the room.

  “What if Roland’s not even home?” he called after her. “What if his brothers have him locked up in the basement again?” he said to himself and sighed.

  By the time Peter reached the foot of the stairs, Caitlyn and Dad carried on a lively conversation in the kitchen.

  “Hello there, Peter.” Dad poured a cup of coffee. He had dirt all down his left pant leg and a tear on the sleeve of his blue flannel shirt. “Caitlyn says you’re going to visit Roland.”

  Peter rolled his eyes. “Maybe we should just talk to him at school tomorrow.”

  Caitlyn shook her head. She pressed the phone to her ear. “Mom?” She turned her back to Peter and mumbled into the phone.

  “Did Roland invite you over?” Dad said.

  “Not exactly. But he has something of mine, and I’m kind-a worried about it.” He grabbed a banana muffin from the basket next to the coffee pot.

  “Why are you worried about it? You mean you don’t trust Roland? I thought he was your friend.” Dad grabbed a muffin and inspected it before taking a bite.

  “Yeah, well, he wasn’t at school today, and I happened to hear something about him . . . about his family. We got that box open yesterday, and he’s got something that was in it, something old. Maybe it’s valuable. I don’t know.”

  “So, you heard something about his family and now you don’t trust him?” One of Dad’s brows lowered. “That doesn’t sound right. You’re making a judgment about someone based on a rumor.”

  Peter shrugged and glanced at the front door. “We’re gonna go now. We’ll try to be back by dinner.”

  Caitlyn hung up the phone and followed him to the door.

  “Okay, but I think you ought to give Roland a chance. High school can be pretty rough on a new kid.”

  “Yeah. Sure, Dad.”