Come Fall

by A. C. E. Bauer

  “Wow!” Lu said.

  Salman grinned, showing off big white teeth.

  “Did ya see that?” someone yelled from the field.

  “He fed him….” “Right on his shoulder….” “Jumped to his whistle….”

  Kids began approaching the bleachers in groups. To Lu, they seemed curious. Admiring, even. But Salman’s shoulders folded forward. His hand clutched his pack. He wanted to run. He was scared.

  Okay. She’d defuse this. Lu caught his panicked eye and gave him a small smile, hoping he’d understand her signal to remain calm. Then she stood, pointed in the direction the crow had flown, and yelled, “Look! It went that way!”

  The kids below turned and started running toward the baseball field.

  “Did you see where it went? …” “Got anything to eat? …” “A big one….”

  It worked! The kids were concentrating on the crow, not Salman.

  “Come on,” she said.

  Salman followed. They climbed down the bleachers, Lu setting the pace—not too slow, not too fast—and headed back into the building.

  “Thanks,” Salman said.

  “No problem,” Lu said.

  They walked toward the practice rooms by the auditorium. That’s when Lu noticed how tall Salman was—taller than most seventh-grade boys. But not the tallest. Boys came in all sizes in junior high. Blos had towered over them all, last year.

  She stopped at the corridor where she needed to turn off. Salman stood and shuffled.

  “How did you know?” he said.

  Something tugged at her—she couldn’t figure out what. She hadn’t expected to see him so vulnerable.

  “No one wants a label,” she said.

  Salman smiled, a bit of his hard polish returning. “Bird Boy.”

  “Something like that.”

  Salman softened once again.

  “Thanks,” he repeated.

  That’s when she sensed the ping. Something hit inside her and vibrated in a good way. She swallowed.

  “Is the crow … your pet?”

  “No. He’s just a friend.”

  What a friend!

  Salman placed a hand on one of his pack’s straps, a signal he wanted to leave. But she could tell he was also hesitating.

  “See ya soon,” she said. “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He had said it as if seeing each other again might be a nice thing. And she thought, as she watched him go, that being Salman’s d.b. might be a nice thing, too.

  4—Salman Page

  The most beautiful flowers on this green earth

  Salman had missed the school bus, so he walked the several miles to the Royals’ trailer on the town line, skirting the woods around the trucking property that cut the Royals off from the rest of town. He spent the walk berating himself. He had let himself be noticed! Rule number one: never be noticed. And why did he tell Lu Zimmer about Bird? Rule number two: the less people knew about him, the better.

  When Salman reached the dirt driveway, Tina Royal was standing on the trailer’s stoop, her form filling the doorway. She wore her gardening pants: enormous overalls with blackened knees and a year of dirt on them.

  “Late today,” she said.

  “Met my designated buddy,” Salman said.

  “Humph!”

  Salman wasn’t sure what she meant.

  “We’re harvesting tomatoes,” she added, “before tomorrow’s rains.”

  Salman nodded. If Tina said it would rain tomorrow, then it would rain.

  “I’ll just drop my pack,” he said.

  As Tina stepped down to let him through, he heard the ka-chunk of an industrial-sized stapler forcing inch-deep staples into wood. The sound came from the garden below the trailer. Ozzy Royal was building his fence.

  “Tired of them deer eating Tina’s produce,” Ozzy had said.

  He had begun the work two weeks ago, at a fever pitch, tirelessly digging holes for posts, sawing wood to proper lengths, propping up chicken wire and stapling it on. But after a day or so, he had slowed down. Now, with the fence three-quarters done, he behaved as if the project wasn’t worth it. He hadn’t put up a new post in a week, and two bales of the wire sat untouched by the side of the driveway. Tina had been after him to fill in the big gap left at the bottom of the garden.

  “I’m waiting,” Tina said.

  Salman jolted himself back to the present.

  “Coming.”

  He rushed into the trailer, threw his pack onto his bed, and rushed out. His stomach growled. He wished he had snagged a snack—dinner was still hours away.

  He grabbed one of the bushel baskets behind the trailer and ran past the chicken coop. The garden had been planted in a wide plot of black earth within a slow bend of the creek at the edge of the property.

  The Royals grew vegetables. A huge, gigantic amount of vegetables. Salman didn’t understand how anyone could plant so many, in such variety, with so much success.

  “The most beautiful flowers on this green earth,” Tina said.

  As each vegetable ripened, Tina canned it—mason jars lined the innumerable shelves in the root cellar.

  Salman knew the root cellar only too well. The day he arrived, he had refused to help in the garden.

  “Now, honey,” Tina had said, “it’s where we get our food.”

  “The state gives you money for my food.”

  Ozzy’s pasty white face turned beet red.

  “Don’t you go worrying about no money! Tina asked you to help out, and you’re going to help out!”

  The large man, the size of a linebacker, loomed over Salman and curled his hand into a fist. Salman shrunk back. Ozzy opened the trailer door and placed his powerful hand on the back of the boy’s neck. He marched Salman to the garden, gave him a bushel basket, and made him pick peas.

  “Faster!” Ozzy yelled.

  He stood over Salman the entire afternoon while Salman picked row after row. The late June sun beat down and Salman grew thirsty, but Ozzy didn’t allow him a break. When the third basket was almost full, Tina showed up with two glasses of water.

  “Drink up, hon. I’ll bring more later.”

  That evening Ozzy locked him up in the root cellar.

  “So you can see where your next meal is coming from.”

  Salman didn’t see anything. There was no light. The root cellar had been dug out of the earth into a rise of land near the woods. Ozzy and Tina had placed beams to hold up the ceiling and a wood frame for the door, and had built shelves throughout. But the walls and floor were packed earth. There were no windows. Once the door was shut, no light peeked through. And it was cool.

  Salman shivered in the dark in his shorts and T-shirt, huddled into a ball, terrified that bugs were crawling over him, that an animal might be snuffling in a corner. He didn’t dare move: in the blackness, he was unable to see his hands or feet and he thought that if he stood up, he might knock over the glass jars, cut himself, and bleed to death.

  He didn’t sleep. He cried some. He had no idea how long he stayed in there.

  When Tina opened the door in the morning, the light framing her bulk hurt his eyes.

  “Best not get Ozzy angry,” she said. “I’ve got a bath and breakfast ready for you.”

  Ozzy wasn’t around when Tina took Salman to the trailer. She showed him his small room and bed. She had a threadbare towel ready for him, and some old clothes.

  “Used to be Ozzy’s. I’ve taken them in a bit.”

  The stitching scratched, but Salman didn’t complain. Much later he learned from his social worker that Ozzy made the state pay for the clothes.

  Over the summer, Salman worked the garden, the one thing about him that seemed to please Ozzy. He learned to weed and water, dig up potatoes, pick peppers, and cut lettuce. To his surprise, he began to enjoy the work. He had no idea what Tina had done to that soil, but each plant bore something remarkable—out of sun, water, and earth grew enormous squash, long cucumbers, succulent c
orn. Every week they ate something new and delicious. He no longer minded spending his time in the sun or rain or even with the bugs. And when Ozzy wasn’t around, Tina was okay company.

  Besides, it was far better than what came next: canning. That meant washing and chopping vegetables, standing over steaming pans and boiling pots, and handling scalding jars, always on hot days.

  When Salman wasn’t in the garden, he cooked, cleaned, raked, did whatever Tina and Ozzy told him. The only chore he wasn’t asked to do around the property was to gather eggs. That was Tina’s department. She always knew where to find them.

  “Them chickens were the best investment we ever made,” she said.

  Salman was never forced to return to the root cellar, at least not as punishment. But Ozzy never let him forget the place, either.

  “Remember where your food comes from,” Ozzy said.

  Salman began picking tomatoes. He filled the basket, gently placing the tomatoes one next to the other, in an array of reds, oranges, and yellows. The fruits were smooth and warm to the touch. He sniffed one, relishing its sweetness.

  Ozzy stared at him from a newly planted fence post.

  “Put the tomato in the basket,” he said. “Don’t waste time.”

  The rebuke cut like a whip. Salman flinched and threw the tomato into the basket. It broke when it landed.

  “Caw!”

  Bird flew onto a tree branch at the edge of the garden. He hopped once and tilted his head. For a second, Salman saw himself as Bird did—a tall, thin boy in worn hand-me-down clothes, crouched among fruit-laden bushes.

  Salman smiled at the crow but kept working. Then from the corner of his eye he saw Ozzy lean over and pick up a pebble.

  Salman called out, “He won’t do any harm.”

  “Don’t like crows near my garden,” Ozzy said.

  The large man threw the rock at the bird. He missed his mark. But Bird stretched his neck and flew off with another caw.

  Anger welled. “Bird’s my friend!” Salman wanted to yell. But he didn’t. Ozzy didn’t care. He only had feelings for Tina—and even then, Salman wasn’t always sure.

  Tina, who had been harvesting a few rows over, stood up at that moment, hands on her lower back. She was a large woman, even larger than Ozzy, and Salman saw her mass shift under the overalls as she straightened. She picked up her basket, now brimming with tomatoes, and walked over to Ozzy.

  She said something Salman couldn’t hear. Ozzy growled something back. Salman recognized the tone—irritation and anger, pulling at the man as if they were beasts on a leash. Ozzy was picking a fight.

  Tina responded in kind, her voice sharp. Salman caught a few words.

  “… help … polite … quiet … extra cash …”

  “He’s underfoot!” Ozzy yelled.

  They were arguing about Salman. He knew that. The cash Salman’s fosterage brought in usually kept Ozzy pacified—that and the fact that Salman did most of Ozzy’s work in the garden. But the man had been brooding lately. Salman wondered how many days he had left.

  His previous placement had lasted a little over a year—the longest since his first, when he had been given his name. But Mr. D had lost his job, and he and Ms. D had decided to move down to North Carolina, where she had family.

  “Wish we could take you,” she had said.

  Salman didn’t believe that she had meant it. No one wanted a teenage boy. Ozzy Royal certainly didn’t. Tina was the one who had signed up with the state. She had told Salman once, “I always wanted a kid of my own.” And she did try to be nice. But ever since Salman arrived, Ozzy had been complaining about him.

  The man threw down the stapler and stomped away. Tina paused a moment before glancing at Salman.

  “Finish up,” she said. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  Salman sighed in relief that Ozzy had left the garden, and in weariness at the afternoon ahead.

  He reached out for the next tomato and stopped. It was a perfect sphere, no bigger than a Ping-Pong ball, hanging from a slender stem.

  Salman plucked the tomato. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he popped it into his mouth. Tasted as sweet as it smelled, he thought.

  He swallowed. Did Lu Zimmer like tomatoes?

  He stood. Where did that thought come from?

  5—Puck

  The loyalty of friendship

  I spied, yes, as Queen Titania demanded. But I would spy as I chose!

  “The crow?” she cried. “You receive news from the crow?”

  I bowed low. ’Twas my role. To bow low.

  “Yes, my queen.”

  “Crows aren’t loyal to us.”

  To the truth, crows were indifferent to us. The queen disliked their dark plumage and cunning ways. But crows and faery were kindred, truly. I did not say this, of course. I saw no reason to increase her ire.

  “He is a friend, milady.”

  “A friend? This crow?”

  “He is indebted to me.”

  That, my queen understood. Debts.

  “How?” she said.

  “I was in search of feathers,” I explained, “for the carnival, for my costume.”

  “Craftwork, Puck.”

  She disdained all handiwork, as it was reserved for those below her. But I found pleasure in craft, when wrought to good purpose. Again, this was not something to tell my queen.

  “Indeed, Your Majesty. But I found the bird beset by an eagle.”

  “An eagle? Why would an eagle bother with a crow?”

  “The murder had harassed her nest. The eagle sought revenge.”

  Revenge was something else my queen understood well. She nodded in approval. I chose my words carefully.

  “I did not intend to interfere.”

  This caused a frown.

  “But you did, Puck.”

  “My appearance startled the birds.”

  Now I had piqued her interest rather than her ire. Good.

  “What did you do?”

  “Naught, milady. Naught. I swear. I simply … appeared.”

  She laughed then, forgiving my trespass.

  “Indeed, Puck. I am sure you did.”

  She paused and collected herself.

  “You are overly fond of dark birds.”

  “But hear, milady. Out of gratitude, the crow offered me the loyalty of friendship.”

  “And you accepted?”

  I nodded. Her smile was cold.

  “Friendship has liabilities of its own, Puck.”

  I bowed again.

  “Yes, milady, but in this case it was wise.”

  “Puck? Wise?”

  I stood a touch straighter.

  “In this it was, milady. For the boy is friendly to crows.”

  She shook her head, unbelieving. “At his birth, I gave him the gift of grace, not the ability to speak to other beasts.”

  “He does not speak the bird’s language, milady. But they understand each other, nonetheless.”

  She seemed pensive at that. “That is a gift of its own.”

  “Indeed, milady. Perhaps it comes from his father.”

  She waved that away. “He was just a man. His mother, more like.”

  I had been curious of the provenance of this child, this thorn in Oberon’s side.

  “She understood birds?” I asked.

  “She tended a garden for her mistress. The place was renowned for its flowers, which attracted all manner of birds and curious insects. I decided to visit it. It was entrancing, which may explain why I allowed my disguise to drop. She saw me and mistook me for a god. She treated me with garlands and sweets. I returned—the place was attractive and the woman faithful and compliant, even as her belly grew. In her way, she understood birds.”

  “As the boy does the crow.”

  She nodded. She was not pleased by the crow, but tolerant. I would need to tread carefully.

  6—Blos Pease

  Nothing out of place

  Blos Pease put his notebook, biology
book, four-color pen, pencil, eraser, ruler, and graph paper on the table. He tore the first sheet of graph paper from the pad, then wedged it into the pad so that it was not obvious that it was loose. The pad went under the notebook. The textbook was on his left. His pen, pencil, eraser, and ruler were lined up above. Nothing was out of place. He had three minutes before the homeroom bell. Mr. Ho walked in.

  “Good morning, Blos.”

  “Do we have a dissection today?” Blos asked.

  Science lab with Mr. Ho came after homeroom.

  Mr. Ho shook his head.

  “Not today, Blos. We’ll be using the microscopes.”

  Blos sighed in relief. Good. He hated dissections. They made him feel queasy inside. Anything that made him feel queasy inside was no fun.

  “Will we be setting the plates,” Blos asked, “like we did last year?”

  “All in good time, Blos. I’ll tell everyone what to do after morning announcements. Why don’t you distribute these for me?”

  Mr. Ho handed Blos a stack of photocopied questions. Blos counted eight questions. Eight questions Blos would have to fit into his report. Eight answers that fit those eight questions that had to fit into the report. The first bell rang. Kids were already dribbling in. Blos jumped and started running around the room distributing a page for each seat.

  “Slow down, Blos,” Mr. Ho said. “There’s no rush.”

  Blos slowed down, but not much. He finished four minutes before the second bell. More students filed in. They took seats all around, none next to Blos.

  Blos concentrated on his notebook. He opened it to the page he had already dated with today’s date.

  “You see that kid yesterday?” Ruthie Ross said.

  “The one on the bleachers?” Walt Cobbler said.

  “Crow,” Rob Puckett said.

  The kids laughed.

  Who was Crow? Blos wondered.

  As the late bell rang, Bethany Addams walked in. Marjorie Howard, who usually saved her a seat, had not arrived.

  “There’s a place beside Blos,” Mr. Ho said.

  Mr. Ho always assigned Blos a partner. Bethany wrinkled her nose. She dropped her pack and sat as far away from Blos as she could.