The Clearing

by Heather Davis

  "Oh, my dear Amy, I should have warned you," Grandpa said, handing her a glass parfait dish and a spoon. "I've done my darnedest to raise a gentleman, but it looks like my lessons didn't take."

  Henry rol ed his eyes and reached for a dish of dessert. He real y wanted to keep speaking with Amy, but strawberries would have to do for now. He couldn't imagine what was on her mind, but he feared she'd final y decided that she wouldn't come back, couldn't. If that was the case, he was glad of the interruption.

  "No, he's being a gentleman," Amy said.

  "Hmm. Wel then, if you're not the cause of Amy's long face, I apologize, Henry. And Amy dear, have some strawberries; they ought to cheer you up." Grandpa saluted them both with his spoon, and then the three of them dug into the parfaits.

  "I meant to compliment you on how lovely you look tonight, Amy," Grandpa said. "I asked Alma, that's Henry's mother, to come out and say hel o. She's resting in the parlor now, but she said she'd like to visit with you. She's lonely for a woman's company," he added.

  "She doesn't have many friends out here?" Amy asked.

  Grandpa nodded. "Used to have quite a few, but recently, wel , al summer, the folks just seem to stay away. Caught up with the war effort and their own families, I reckon." He took another bite of strawberries and gave Henry a pointed look.

  Henry raised his eyebrows at his grandfather. "How is your parfait, Amy?"

  She clinked her spoon back into the nearly empty dish. "Very good."

  "Mine, too," Grandpa said. "I'l go see if Alma can come on out."

  "Oh, that's okay," Amy said. "Just tel her hel o from me."

  Grandpa col ected the dishes. "Henry, you behave out here," he said, carrying the tray off to the kitchen.

  Amy turned to Henry. "Walk me to the clearing," she said.

  ***

  "So your grandpa and mom don't know what's going on, right?" Amy said. "So why did your grandpa say that thing about no one coming around?"

  Henry slowed on the path, stopping at the apple tree. "He's changing, Amy. He and my mother, both. Al these summers, al these days, we've lived them the same and they've never questioned it. In fact, they didn't believe me when I told them what was happening."

  "Isn't that a good thing, then, that they're final y getting what's going on?"

  "I don't think so," Henry said slowly, watching Amy's face in the faint light.

  "Why not? I don't get it."

  "I always felt that this was fragile," Henry said. "At any moment the bubble could burst and everything bad would unfold—al of it."

  "But you don't know that everything bad unfolds."

  "Oh, yes—I know," Henry said. "I don't want to live through that night with my mother again. She couldn't take the bad news about my brother."

  Amy studied him, and Henry was glad she didn't ask questions about what had happened. He didn't know if he could bear to think about it, let alone repeat it al out loud. He closed his eyes and smel ed the sweetness of the apple tree on the breeze, the warm scent of earth coming up from the garden. Music from the house drifted out over the backyard—Glenn Mil er playing "Stardust"—the strains of the orchestra floating al around him in the dark.

  "So you're holding al this together with a prayer."

  "I was, I mean, I am," Henry said. "It's been different for me lately. Different since you came along." He opened his eyes and found Amy looking at him with a serious expression, her mouth a thin line.

  Amy glanced back toward the house. "Don't you ever wonder what would happen if you went forward? Don't you think people have the ability to change—to choose different outcomes?"

  "If I went forward..." Henry repeated. The breeze rustled the leaves on the tree, and goose bumps pricked on his forearms. "If we went forward, nothing good would come of it."

  "What if you went through the clearing to my time?" Amy asked, her voice softening. "I mean, what if you came into my world? Al of this is wonderful, but if I can come through to see you, can you come through to my side?"

  Henry gave her a smal smile. "I don't think crossing the clearing would be a good idea, though. I don't know for certain it would work for me.

  What if I couldn't get back? What if something happened to Mother or Grandpa over here, and I was stuck? I can't risk that."

  "Are you going to tel me what's so awful about reaching the end of the summer? What is so terrible that you would stop everything from happening?" She looked about to say something else, but held it back.

  Henry's jaw clenched. "My mother, Amy—she's not wel ." He wanted to tel her more, but he worried that if Amy did come back, she might say something in front of Mother, something about Robert, and that would push Mother over the edge again.

  "And to keep her wel , you'd deny yourself the opportunity to move forward with your life. I mean, don't you want to go off to col ege, have a great career, get married, have a family someday?"

  Henry's heart clenched in his chest. He did wish for those things—had found himself wishing for them more than ever since he'd known Amy.

  But there were other things keeping him from realizing those wishes, other things holding him back. "Amy, I'l most likely be drafted this summer."

  "So," she said softly, "you'l be shipped overseas to who knows where."

  Henry nodded. "Our boys took Normandy. I imagine it wil be Europe."

  "Or the Pacific," Amy said.

  Henry shrugged.

  "So you'd stay this way—here—eighteen your whole life, not experience anything, not see the world."

  "I have the people I love with me."

  "But you don't get a chance to love anyone else," Amy said.

  Henry said, "Wel , maybe yes, maybe no."

  Amy didn't say anything for a moment, and Henry wished he could take back his bold comment. He didn't know what right he thought he had to presume this was love, or if Amy would even love him back. And obviously, he'd made her uncomfortable. She wouldn't look at him.

  "What if al this disappears with a change of your prayer? Then what good was it?" Amy said, final y breaking the torturous silence.

  "Loving someone is never a waste, Amy." He reached for her hand.

  "What if the truth makes this al go away?"

  "What kind of truth could do that?" Henry pul ed Amy into his arms and final y said what he'd been holding back. "What did you come here to talk to me about, anyway? Are you going to tel me you're not coming back?"

  "I don't want to tel you anything. I don't want any of this to end."

  "Are you going to tel me something happened with Matt? Because I don't care about that. I don't care about whatever happened before; I just want to be with you."

  "But if you can't cross over and be with me in my lifetime, then we can't be together, can we? I mean, you plan to go on living this way forever, and I have to move on. I have to go to school tomorrow, and grow up, and move away to somewhere eventual y. I can't come to the field forever, can I?"

  Henry kissed her. Kissed her to shut her up because he couldn't take any more of the what ifs. Couldn't take any more thoughts of Amy's not being there with him.

  "No," Amy said, pul ing away, her eyes fierce. "You can't just kiss me and think al of these questions and problems disappear."

  "Why not?" he asked, reaching up to stroke her cheek. "You make me forget everything, and it's lovely," he said. "Being with you is the first different thing in my life. Before you, I didn't think about anything other than this summer. I didn't want anything else..."

  "Henry. Seriously."

  "You wrecked al this for me."

  "Yeah, that's what I do best, wreck things," Amy said.

  "I didn't mean it that way," he said. "I think you know that."

  "Do I? And what if I knew something that would really wreck things—al of this? Do I just keep it to myself? 'Cause when I cross that clearing, when I go back to the super fabulous trailer on the other side, al I think about is you. That's the awful truth, Henry. That's more awful than anything."


  Amy walked off toward the clearing, leaving Henry standing there stunned. He didn't—nearly couldn't—move. The prospect that Amy could be having the same feelings as he was weakened him.

  "Amy!" Henry cal ed after her. In seconds he was beside her in the mist, pul ing her into his arms. "Don't say something like that and run off,"

  he said, kissing her forehead. "Don't."

  "It's going to be too hard." Amy looked up at him, and Henry saw she'd been crying again.

  "No, no—none of that," Henry said, stroking the tears away with his fingers.

  Her eyes were half closed and she was shaking her head slowly. "This is al going to go away and it's going to be real y hard for me to deal."

  "Then don't make it go away," Henry said. He kissed her cheeks, then her lips. Amy kissed him back, and Henry felt such a swel in his heart. Strands of her wavy hair escaped her ponytail, tickling Henry's face as the kiss deepened, and then she let out the faintest of sighs.

  Henry forced himself to pul back. He stood there, barely able to catch his breath, just looking at Amy in the darkness of the mist around them. She was pretty, even with the smudges of lipstick on her mouth, and her hair loose from the ponytail and mussed. As he studied her, memorizing her beauty, she moved to him and kissed him again.

  Henry felt a deep stirring inside him. This girl. Amy. Her mouth on his. She was kissing him and he was trying to keep pace. They sank to the ground, until they were lying in the tal grass and Amy was on top of him.

  Suddenly, for Henry this was more than some fumbling around at the school dance, or awkward necking at the movie house with some girl from school. He wanted Amy in a way he'd never wanted any girl. Wanted to possess her. Take her right there in the field, and he'd never done anything like that before, though he'd certainly thought about things like that alone in his room in the dark.

  Thankful y, when Henry almost couldn't take it anymore, Amy broke away. Rol ing to one side, she locked gazes with him. "This isn't ... I mean, I shouldn't be doing this," she said, her breath ragged. "It's not right."

  "I'm sorry. It's my fault," Henry said. He reached up to move a strand of Amy's hair from across her beautiful brown eyes. "But it doesn't feel wrong to me. Being with you could never feel wrong. But I'l try to be a gentleman."

  "I don't want you to be," Amy said, breathlessly. "That's what I can't handle."

  Henry smoothed another strand of Amy's hair. "As much as I want you, I wouldn't be pushy or try anything untoward in a field. You deserve a white wedding."

  Amy let out a deep breath. "Won't be having one of those, anyway," she said softly.

  Henry tried to remain calm, but his blood was racing. He shut out the mental image of Amy with anyone else—anyone but himself—and reached for her hand. "Sorry, I didn't know. That Matt character?"

  Amy nodded. "There's a lot you don't know about me."

  "It doesn't matter to me," he said, kissing her softly on the cheek. "Nothing you could say would make me change the way I feel about you."

  "I didn't love him. I mean, I thought I did, but I don't think that's what it was." Her voice was smal . "And so, white weddings aren't real y—wel it's not, you know, such a big deal in my time to uh, hook up with a guy."

  "Hmm," Henry said. "I don't know if that's a good or bad thing."

  "I wanted my first time to be special. It wasn't. Not at al ," she said quietly. "So you, uh, never did it?"

  " It? " Henry shook his head. "No."

  "It's not that great," Amy said.

  "If you don't love the person, I don't see how it could be," Henry said, squeezing her hand. "When you care deeply, truly, about someone, I imagine it would be wonderful." He leaned back in the grass, looking up at the whiteness that drifted across the night sky overhead.

  "Yeah, I guess so," Amy said, sounding far away.

  They were both quiet for a moment. Then Henry said, "If we could see the stars better, I'd look for a shooting one and make a wish."

  "I don't think you need to be doing any more of that," Amy said with a smal laugh.

  "A wish and a prayer are like apples and oranges," Henry said. "They aren't the same thing at al ."

  "Yeah," Amy murmured. "Man, it real y is dark. Crap." She sat up, fixing her ponytail and smoothing her dress.

  "Sure, it's probably late," Henry said, raising himself to his elbows.

  Amy stood up, brushing stray grass from her clothes. "I gotta go."

  "When can I see you again? Promise me you'l return, Amy."

  "Of course. I have a homecoming meeting after school tomorrow. So later that night, 'kay?" Amy bent down and kissed him on the cheek.

  And then she was gone, a distant figure vanishing in the mist.

  "'Kay," Henry echoed, trying out Amy's slang, and then he lay back in the grass for a minute more, contemplating what had just happened.

  Amy's not saving herself for marriage didn't real y bother him as much as it could have, he guessed. In her time, things were obviously different, though he did have a friend or two who'd had some experience with girls who weren't afraid of a boy making love to them. What bothered him was that Amy's first time had been with someone who didn't care about her, obviously. He would never have done that to her.

  He let himself imagine Amy in his arms again, reliving each moment so he knew it had actual y happened. He'd never expected to experience that kind of feeling. Love. Was that what this was? Or was it the most wonderful dream? In that case, he might as wel be in heaven. And now he had to wait a whole day before he could see her again. That seemed like a lifetime.

  "You've got it bad, chump," he said, shaking his head. He got up, dusted off his trousers and shirt, and walked slowly back toward the house.

  As the house came into view, Henry could see his grandfather stil on the porch, rocking slowly in his chair. Henry mounted the stairs, and his grandfather lifted his pipe in salute, then went back to rocking. But his gaze was on Henry.

  They sat there in silence and together watched the ghostly pipe smoke twirl its way toward what Henry was beginning to see as the big, fake summer moon.

  It didn't feel real anymore—nothing did without Amy.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I crossed the clearing and nearly skipped down the dark path through the woodlot. My heart was stil pounding and my lips were warm. Henry. His name echoed in my brain, and I could smel the faintest smel of his soap on the col ar of my dress. I bounded through the trees, not caring about the drizzle fal ing through the canopy of branches.

  There was magic humming in my body—a tingling I was sure had everything to do with how I felt about Henry. My cheeks heated up when I thought about how much I'd wanted him to kiss me, how I rol ed him onto the grass. I hadn't done that before—I mean, I hadn't been the one doing the rol ing. It terrified and thril ed me.

  I shivered in the cool night air and slowed my run as I neared the trailer. Things with Henry hadn't exactly gone as planned. There was the problem of me chickening out. The things I hadn't said to Henry. It wasn't exactly a mission accomplished. But I sensed he wasn't ready to hear the truth about what happened to Robert. He wasn't ready to hear that al of his efforts were for nothing. Was it so selfish to want someone to stay where they were? To stay with you forever?

  I stopped at the foot of the porch stairs, feeling my exhilaration crash down to earth. Henry wasn't mine. He couldn't be. We couldn't be.

  There was no forever that included me. I had to tel him—tomorrow night I'd tel him.

  Katie-dog was sleeping near the door, ears cocked my way as I approached.

  "Hey, girl, locked out?"

  She eased herself up to a standing position and wagged her tail, whining. I reached down to pet her and she was al over me, sniffing and snorting.

  "Easy," I said, pushing her down.

  She whined but stayed off me, and I let us into the house. I heard light snoring coming from Mae's room, which was a relief. As I got a glass of water, I glimpsed myself in the o
ven door's reflection—hair messed up, red lipstick smeared on my mouth. I grabbed a paper towel, dampened it in the sink, and rubbed the scarlet stain off my lips. I changed out of the dress, careful y hanging it in the closet. And then, clad in pajamas and listening to Radiohead through my earbuds, I tried to sleep.

  But nothing could force Henry from my mind. Nothing.

  ***

  "We real y need to meet again next week?" I asked, as Jackson, Lori, and I left Mr. Planter's room the next day. "It seems like al that's left is to make the punch."

  Lori gave me a pitying look. "There's so much more to it than that. I mean, no offense, Amy, but thank goodness you're not in charge." She playful y shoved my shoulder, nearly knocking me into Jackson.

  "Easy," Jackson said, reaching out both hands to steady me. "Who's in for Hal's? I think we need to ponder our plan over fries."

  "Yeah, my mom's making some kind of gross chili-mac casserole, so count me in," Lori said.

  We reached Jackson's truck. "Amy?"

  "Um, I guess," I said, glancing down at my watch.

  "You guess about french fries?" Lori said as she climbed into Jackson's truck and slid over to the middle seat.

  "Wel , it's just that I have something later." Something was right. Al day, I'd been thinking about Henry, about getting back out to the clearing like I'd promised.

  "That's cool if you don't want to come with," Jackson said. "Want me to run you home first?"

  I hesitated long enough to see the disappointed look on Lori's face. "No," I said. Forget it. It's fine. Let's go have some fries."

  "And talk about the outfits," Lori said. "This is a working dinner."

  "Oh, brother," Jackson said. He threw the truck in reverse and backed out of the parking spot.

  "I don't get it—are they giving out a prize for best dressed, or something? Did I miss that part of the meeting?" I said.

  "No," Lori said with a sigh. "I just, wel , it's stupid. Never mind."

  "Okay, we wil ," Jackson said, winking over at me, before he pul ed out of the lot and onto the road to town.

  "No, we won't. C'mon, what's the deal?" I reached over and pinched Jackson.