The Secret Life of Sam

by Kim Ventrella

  He spun around, half expecting to find a long, thin shadow towering over him. What he found instead was a boy.

  “There you are. I must say, it took you long enough.” Sunlight sizzled in the boy’s eyes, the color of fresh straw, and he fixed Sam with a familiar crooked grin. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten what time it was.” The boy showed off his watch, a Hamilton Aviation watch circa 1942. “Better head over while you still can. The doorway won’t stay open long.”

  He sucked on a blade of grass, drawing it through the gap in his bottom teeth. That was the same gap Pa had gotten from sparring with Bobby Joe’s pet raccoon as a toddler. Sam didn’t move or breathe. Heck, he didn’t even sweat.

  “You’re him.” Sam couldn’t believe what he was saying, but it was true. The Boy looked exactly like Pa from the old pictures in his room, back when he was Sam’s age. “Pa? Is that really you?” Words pounded in Sam’s head, but none of them did justice to the chaos raging in his brain.

  The Boy laughed, tossing the blade of grass into the air, where it arced and caught the light. “Do you like it?” the Boy said, running thin fingers over his face. “I can be anyone I want, of course, but I thought this seemed fitting. Anyway, enough chitchat. Hop in.” He patted the edge of the boat, sending water sloshing up the sides. The wood looked shiny and new, like it had just been polished. “You’ve got a prime opportunity here that most people don’t get. I’d hate to see you waste it on me, when you could be with him. You want to go back home, don’t you?”

  Sam still didn’t move. He couldn’t decide if he was hallucinating or dreaming, but maybe it didn’t matter. He was here, water lapping at his shoes, mosquitoes whispering across his skin. What did it matter if it was real or a dream?

  He climbed in the canoe. The Boy grinned wider, and then he faded away. One second he was there, and the next second his body took on a shimmer, the sunlight cutting in one side and out the other. Then he dropped to the grass, body melting in a cascade of light, and a cat emerged in his place. One-Eye hopped in beside Sam, and the boat lurched suddenly, slicing a smooth path through the sheet of still water.

  The strange part was that he hadn’t found any paddles, yet the canoe moved steadily forward as if guided by an invisible string. But there was no time to wonder about that. Sam’s chest swelled as he drew closer to the familiar dock overlooking the water, and the little white house, and the single can of Orange Crush sitting pristine and untouched, dew drops rolling down the bright orange aluminum.

  “Am I really here?” Sam said, peering down at the cat that wasn’t a cat. One-Eye cocked his head but didn’t answer.

  As they got closer to the dock, another sound mingled with the dancing leaves and the clinking wind chimes: whistling. Pa could whistle most any tune, note for note, as long as it had a good twang and was something worth listening to. His favorite was “Country Roads” by John Denver, because he said it reminded him of Mama. As soon as the whistling reached Sam’s ears, he could barely stop himself from jumping out and swimming the rest of the way, but soon enough the canoe bumped gently against the edge of the dock.

  Excited and confused and shaking something awful, he lifted himself out onto the damp, familiar wood. One-Eye leaped past him, landing like a spider and disappearing around the side of the house.

  Sam followed the sound of whistling, though now the vibrations coming up from his belly were so strong he found it hard to walk without falling over. It had only been one day, but he already missed the creak of the decking under his feet and the smell of wood that only knew one way to be, and that was wet. He missed it all so much his body ached.

  He came around to the front of the house and there, leaning against the porch railing like it was just any ordinary day, was Pa. The real Pa. He was holding the De Havilland bomber in one hand, only now it was shiny and whole, just like the day they’d put the finishing touches on it out in Pa’s workshop. He turned it over in his hands, the fresh paint reflecting back the light. Sam felt in his pocket, but the broken propeller blade was gone.

  Pa looked up and saw Sam, and the whistle died in his throat.

  “There you are. ’Bout time you showed up,” Pa said, and he flashed that familiar crooked smile, except it looked a whole lot better on him than on the other, younger Pa.

  Sam blinked. He didn’t even feel himself moving, but the next thing he knew he was squeezing Pa’s chest, not even caring that his face was smushed into his sweaty armpit. Pa squeezed him back and then finally let go and held Sam out at arm’s length. Sam wiped all the wet off his face and rubbed his eyes so he could get a good look at Pa and make sure he wasn’t dreaming. But he wasn’t, because he could feel Pa and smell him, and so surely that was proof.

  “Something happen after school today?” Pa said. He looked down at Sam’s hands, which were beat-up and bruised from the fight.

  “It was nothing, Pa. Just roughhousing.”

  “Okay, if you say so.” He stared at Sam a while longer, getting that little frown he sometimes got right between his eyes. “Seems like I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  Sam stared, wondering suddenly how much Pa remembered. He chose his words carefully. “No, Pa, everything’s fine. Better than fine, because you’re here.”

  “Where else would I be?” He smiled, but it wasn’t his usual smile, and he kept looking down at One-Eye and then back up at Sam like they were puzzle pieces, only he couldn’t figure out where each one fit. “You sure everything’s okay? You look . . .” Pa didn’t finish.

  “I’m fine, promise.” Sam looked Pa over, his mind still racing and pinging. “How about you? You feel all right?”

  Pa thought on this a while. He rubbed at his forehead, like he was expecting a headache, and then cracked his neck, but finally dropped his hands back down by his side. “Right as a rainstorm, as far as I can tell. Now, come on, let’s go fly your plane a while. It’s about time we tested out that new motor.”

  Sam didn’t know what to say to this, because they’d tested that new motor months ago. Was it possible that Pa didn’t remember? And if he’d forgotten that, then what else had he forgotten?

  “You sure you’re okay?” Pa said. “Because it looks to me like you’re holding in a whole heap of trouble. Anything you need to tell me?”

  Sam thought it over, which wasn’t easy because just then One-Eye decided to start yowling and using Sam’s jeans as a scratching post.

  “Stop that, now. What’s gotten into you?” Pa picked up that scraggly cat and studied him for a while. “Ain’t that an odd one,” he said, and his eyes took on a strange, dreamy quality. “He looks just like . . .” Pa trailed off, and after a while it was like his brain forgot all about being worried, and the next thing Sam knew, Pa was cradling that ugly cat like a baby. One-Eye collapsed into a puddle of jelly in Pa’s arms. His head lolled back in contentment, but the look he gave Sam was still a nasty one.

  “Come on, Pa. Let’s go fly that plane.”

  That afternoon was one of the best of Sam’s life. The shade and the swamp air and the feel of hot grass squishing under bare feet. Pa took off his boots too, and they stood side by side, elbows touching, peering up into the clouds.

  Mostly, they flew.

  The motor worked like a dream, just the way Sam remembered. He held the controller while Pa whooped and hollered, watching the plane soar higher and higher, doing loop-the-loops and death-defying dives. The most exciting part was when Sam got to race a dragonfly, only it wasn’t just any old dragonfly, but one even bigger than his plane, but thankfully not as fast. The De Havilland won with at least an inch to spare, at least that’s the way Pa called it.

  They stopped for a while to cool off, and boy, there was nothing better than sitting in the shade with Pa on a hot Bayou St. George day. Even One-Eye was kind of funny, though he was still creepy too, the way he kept chasing dragonflies, leaping straight up in the air like his butt was on a spring, flailing his skinny legs, spinning and twirling and always
missing by at least a mile. The dragonflies seemed to be having fun too, especially the giant ones, because they kept dive-bombing One-Eye’s bottom, and that old rag of a cat didn’t act the least bit afraid.

  “Can you believe him?” Pa said, laughing so hard he snorted. That made Sam laugh, too, and soon they were both bowled over, clutching their bellies. “And to think, Pops thought he should be put down.”

  One-Eye kept right on leaping and flailing and tumbling down in the grass, but Pa’s laughter died in his throat. “But that was a long time ago now. That was before you were even . . .” He stopped and looked over at Sam, like maybe he was some kind of stranger and not his own son. The clouds shifted and shadows flitted across his eyes. “There’s something wrong with me, ain’t there?”

  Suddenly, Sam’s heart was pounding a million miles an hour in his chest. “No, Pa. Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re just confused.” One-Eye stopped his jumping and settled down in front of Pa, watching him with his cool, silvery gaze.

  “There was a car accident.”

  No, not that. Not now. “You don’t have to worry about that, Pa. Not anymore. Let’s just keep flying, or we could fish a while or—”

  “Yeah, there was an accident. I heard the tires screech up ahead. It was raining, and I was riding my bike home from school. There was a hill, I remember, only it wasn’t here, it was . . .”

  Sam’s mind worked overtime, trying to figure out what Pa was saying. “You mean back in Oklahoma?”

  “That’s right. I pedaled harder after I heard those tires squeal, and when I got to the top of the hill the car sped off, spraying me with gravel. I didn’t see any other cars around, and I was about to head on home what with all the rain, but then I heard another sound. This kind of strangled crying, and I looked over in the grass and saw a smashed-up lump, all gray and covered in blood.” He reached out and touched One-Eye’s face, massaging the spot where his other eye should have been. “That blue-jay driver had run over half his face. I didn’t know what to do, so I bundled him up in my jacket and rode as fast as I could to Doc Barbara’s place.”

  Sam watched Pa’s expression change as he drifted away into the memory. For a moment, he wasn’t Pa anymore, but the boy Sam had seen in the picture on his bedside table, the one wearing dirty overalls and holding One-Eye in his arms, the one who’d greeted him inside the tree and turned into a cat and . . . Sam’s mind started spinning. “She worked all night, stitching and pumping, and by the time the sun came up, that little cat looked like Frankenstein’s monster, only a whole lot uglier.”

  One-Eye melted again, like he was more puddle than cat, and Pa set to rubbing his belly. “I thought for sure he’d never wake up, looking the way he did. I just knew he was dead and gone, and maybe it was my fault for not riding faster. But as soon as the medicine wore off, he blinked his one good eye and yowled something fierce, and then rolled onto his back spread-eagle, like he was asking for a tummy rub. That was the first time I knew that miracles really did happen; I wanted to name him that—Miracle—but everyone else kept calling him One-Eye, and I guess the name just stuck.”

  Once he was finished talking, Pa looked up at Sam. “I told you that story once, when you were little, but you wouldn’t remember. It’s funny, ain’t it?”

  “What, Pa?”

  “The things we remember and the things we choose to forget.” A cool breeze blew in, and Sam saw with a shiver how the sunlight was already disappearing behind the treetops. His brain was still spinning, thinking of One-Eye and the accident and . . . Pa. Did he really not remember that he was dead?

  Pa’s expression grew serious, the smile lines on either side of his mouth settling into deep, stony cracks. “That night, when I was driving home from the feed store and it started to rain . . .” Sam’s heart seized in his chest. This was it. Like his thoughts had somehow triggered the memory in Pa and now his secret world would crumble around him. He wanted to shake Pa, to stop him from saying what came next, but his hands had turned to lead. “I didn’t make it back, did I?”

  “Pa—” Sam started to answer when he felt Pa’s hand heavy on his shoulder.

  “It’s all right. Ever since you came here, I don’t know, it’s like I just woke up from a dream and I can’t remember how I got here or why. I have all these memories rushing through my brain, and I keep trying to latch on, but they’re too slippery, like catfish that keep dodging my hook. But I remember now. This isn’t home, is it?” He watched a giant dragonfly buzz overhead, his wings as loud as car engines.

  “Pa, don’t.” Sam took Pa’s hand and squeezed, like maybe if he squeezed hard enough, Pa would stop talking.

  “It’s some other place, and I’m . . . I’m dead.”

  Sam didn’t speak. He couldn’t speak, so he just nodded and Pa hung his head. One-Eye had stopped wiggling, and now he stood apart, surveying them with his cold, silver glare.

  Slowly, painfully, Pa turned his head to face Sam. “If you’re here, does that mean you’re dead too?”

  “No.” The idea came as such a shock, Sam nearly laughed. “I’m fine, Pa, promise. I found a tree, a doorway, and when I climbed through, here I was.”

  Pa stared at Sam in wonder. He touched Sam’s chin with one rough hand. “Ain’t that something.”

  “Sure is,” Sam agreed.

  Neither knew what else to say or do, considering the gravity of the situation, so finally Pa said, “That’s enough flying for one day. What do you say we go catch some fish?”

  Sam felt the tiny muscles in his jaw relax and his smile came back full force. He ran to the shed to grab the rods and tackle box. Everything looked just the same as before the accident and the big gray dumpster—the dusty shelves packed full of tools, old lures, cans of nails, a gator skull Pa found washed up on the shore, a twenty-four-pack of Orange Crush, Sam’s tricycle from when he was a kid. Even the jar of gator teeth he and Pa had collected together, still whole and intact. It all smelled the same too, like oil and sawdust and wet wood.

  “Got it!” He found Pa around the back of the house, legs dangling over the edge of the dock.

  “’Bout time. Those fish aren’t gonna catch themselves.”

  That was one of the things Pa always said, and Sam’s face relaxed a little more. He dug up a few worms from the mud on the side of the dock, and they prepped their hooks and then cast their lines out into the deepest part of the swamp. They didn’t say anything for a while, just soaking in the wonder of what was happening, but then Pa opened a fresh can of Orange Crush, and that crisp little pop was the best sound Sam had heard all year.

  “Here you go,” Pa said, handing Sam a warm soda.

  Even though he preferred them cold, the syrupy liquid tasted better than he could have imagined. Kind of like drinking a popsicle that had melted in the sun—the sun, which, as they fished, was steadily dropping down behind the trees, casting the swamp and the tiny white house and Pa’s weatherworn face in a soft amber glow.

  “How does it feel?” Sam said after a while. “Being . . .”

  Pa didn’t answer right away. He took his time sipping on his drink and running his tongue between the gap in his front teeth. “Don’t hurt, if that’s what you mean.” That crooked smile. The one that said everything’s right and fine and just the way it should be. But how could it be?

  “How much do you remember?”

  Pa turned his gaze out to face the swamp and the brigades of giant dragonflies patrolling the surface. “Not much. One minute I was headed home from the feed store, next minute the sky opened up and even Noah himself would’ve swore at the sight of all that rain. Big, thick curtains of it battering the Sunbird. Then the hail. It was a miracle the windshield didn’t break. That was a mighty fine car, but it wasn’t made for storm season. Then I tried to pull over, wait it out, but I must’ve picked the wrong spot, because the next thing I knew I was sliding.”

  Sam stopped breathing. He wanted Pa to shut up, to stop talking like he’d driven into a ditch and
died, but the other part of him needed to know.

  “What else do you remember?”

  Pa looked over at Sam, watching him the way he sometimes did with his bright, almost golden eyes. “That’s it. After that, I woke up here. Except, my memory wasn’t so good, so it was more like I’d never left. At first, I remember this glow, like someone parked their car out front in the trees, and they were shining their high beams. After a bit, the lights faded, and I just, I don’t know . . . I was here, but I wasn’t. Time kind of stalled out—until you came, at least.”

  Sam watched Pa’s face in the fading light. He was Pa, no question, but there was something different about him too. Something Sam had never seen before on Pa’s face: fear.

  A rustling came from behind, and One-Eye leaped over Sam’s head and landed atop the post at the edge of the dock. Shadows settled into the harsh folds of his face, and Sam did his best to ignore him. He looked over at Pa and saw that Pa was also watching the cat.

  “He’s not my One-Eye, is he?”

  Sam didn’t know. One-Eye set to licking his sharp claws, and Sam returned his gaze to Pa. In the orangey predusk light, Pa’s body seemed to ripple, like looking at an image reflected in water.

  “Man, it sure is getting dark,” Pa said. “Seems too early for sunset.” He was right. Sam watched the last strands of sun dip below the tupelo trees, only how could it be getting dark this early in the afternoon?

  Something moved out of the corner of Sam’s eye, and he turned toward the cat. Only he wasn’t a cat anymore, but the Boy, the young version of Pa, sitting atop the post with one leg crossed over the other, tapping his Hamilton Aviaton watch.

  “Almost time to go,” the Boy said. He grinned, only this time it didn’t remind him of Pa at all. His mouth was full of small, razor-sharp teeth.

  Pa gaped at the Boy, because it must have been strange staring himself in the face, but then something out in the swamp caught his attention. At this late hour, the swamp had turned to a sheet of black marble, lit only by the occasional passing lightning bug. These were normal size, but they glowed an eerie shade of blue-green. Sam and Pa watched as a ripple broke the surface followed by a pair of glowing yellow eyes.