The Secret Life of Sam

by Kim Ventrella

  “It happened a few weeks back, maybe longer now. You were at school and I was out fishing like always.” Pa settled in, like this was any other day, not a matter of life and death. “Trailed the Colonel down to Mermaid Cove and beyond. I’d tracked him a fair bit in the past, but never this long or this far. He moved in these lazy zigzags, keeping close to the surface, and after a while I decided he was doing it for my benefit. Almost like he wanted me to follow. I told him stories as we went, of all the times I’d tried to find him, and other stories too, and the strange thing was, he seemed to listen.” The Colonel snorted, and Pa gave his snout another scratch. “We were floating and chatting, and the sun was warm, but not too warm, and the shade fell in all the right spots, and it was one of those lazy afternoons you hope might stretch on forever, but it never does. In retrospect, I should have made sure we were alone.”

  The Colonel tensed, showing off his teeth, and the insects in the audience shifted in their seats. “I’d brought a few sandwiches, turkey and Tabasco, nothing special, and I pulled up on that sandy beach over by the red cliffs. You know the one. I thought the Colonel would have gone his merry way by then, and so I was chomping on my sandwiches, enjoying the pretty weather, when I heard the water slosh and there he was. This monstrous shape emerging from the depths—no offense,” he added, nodding down at the Colonel. “Looking like he’d stepped straight out of prehistoric times. And he moseyed on over, like it was no big deal, his face all rutted and weathered and fierce.”

  Sam held his breath, too wrapped up in the story to notice the shadows spilling over the swamp and swallowing up the last hints of sun. “I thought for sure I was a goner. I waited for his massive jaws to chew me to bits, but they didn’t. After a while, I decided he must want to be friends, and so I tossed him one of my turkey-and-Tabasco sandwiches. He snapped it up, licking his lips, and then I fed him a second and a third, before breaking out laughing. It was too darn wild. All this time chasing him, all those stories, and it turned out he wouldn’t hurt a fly. That was when it happened.

  “What I hadn’t noticed, amid all the fear and wonder, was the lone hunter sneaking up behind us through the trees. I didn’t hear the arrow coming till it was already too late, and by then all I could do was get out of the way as the Colonel thrashed.” A moan escaped from the Colonel’s throat, and Sam could taste the ache of it deep down in his gut. “The worst part was, that hunter hadn’t even been looking for the Colonel. Didn’t know the first thing about the legend. He was some nobody out-of-towner planning to sell any gator he could find for spare parts, and he laughed, actually laughed when I told him what he’d done.”

  The insects moved in closer, gathering around the Colonel’s feet, waiting to hear the conclusion of Pa’s story. “By the time he was finished laughing, the Colonel was dead, and I knew one thing for certain. I might not have been able to save him. Heck, maybe I was the reason he was dead, but I’d be damned if that blue jay would be the one to put an end to a legend. I warned him to get away, but his expression turned hard. He thrust his crossbow in my face, threatening to put an arrow between my eyes just like he’d done with the Colonel. I had no choice but to spring into action.”

  Sam leaned closer, hanging on Pa’s every word.

  “He was stronger, that much was clear, but I was quicker on my feet. I grabbed the only weapon I had, my trusty bottle of Tabasco, and shook a hefty helping in his face. While he was busy sputtering and stumbling, I dragged the Colonel back into the swamp and watched his body disappear into the deep, muddy water. I couldn’t save his life, but at least I made sure his killer didn’t take home any trophies.

  “After that, I headed straight for Bobby Joe’s, telling them all about the out-of-towner who was running around the swamps shooting off arrows. Couldn’t hit a tree stump at point-blank range, I told ’em. So when that blue jay came in a few hours later, spouting off about killing the Colonel and me stealing the body, not a single soul believed him. Bobby Joe and the others laughed him right out of town, and so the legend went on. I even talked about spotting the Colonel a few times after that, and the funny thing was, other people saw him too. Like he really was still alive, which I guess ain’t too far from the truth, since his legend lives on.”

  As Pa’s final words faded, two bright lights flared to life, coming from the far side of the swamp. Sam heard the low rumble of a car engine, which meant they must be headlights. The engine’s distinct growl and pop reminded Sam of Pa’s ’68 Sunbird. He glanced over at Pa, but it was like looking at a stranger. The harsh lights brought out the fear on Pa’s face, fear he’d never seen there before, and the Colonel suddenly whipped around, snapping and snarling.

  At the same time, Sam felt the pull behind his belly button. Pa grabbed him with both hands, holding him fast. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you go.” The tugging grew stronger, drawing him toward the hollow, but the tape would hold, he knew it would. It had held to Pa yesterday, hadn’t it? The lights flared, making Sam’s eyes water. His hands began to slip from Pa’s grasp, the tape stretching as he was sucked toward the gaping hole that seemed to be opening wider by the second.

  “It’s too strong!” he said, but then his words were ripped from his throat, and despite Pa’s grip and the tape binding him tight to the tree, an invisible tongue coiled around his middle and jerked him into the darkness.

  The last thing he heard before hitting the ground on the other side was Pa’s voice calling his name.

  15

  THAT NIGHT, DEFEATED AND EXHAUSTED and at a loss for what to do next, Sam found Aunt Jo looking at pictures in the living room with all the lights turned off except for one ugly yellow lamp. He peered over her shoulder at the faded photos with the old-timey white borders.

  “Did he really kick you out, when you went to join the army?”

  She was holding a picture of Pops lounging on the front porch of the yellow house, a beer in one hand and a newspaper in the other. “He wasn’t a mean man, not really, except when he was drinking. But he knew how he wanted people to be.” Aunt Jo sighed, her gaze lost in the photo. “And I never measured up. Couldn’t be his perfect, pretty daughter. And your pa didn’t measure up either, but in his own way. Misfits, the both of us. In the end, we left home and never came back.”

  “But you’re here now,” Sam pointed out.

  “True. Pops passed not long after I lost my leg, and I came back here to settle things. Ended up staying.” She laid down the photo and began to sort the piles she’d made into neat stacks. “Must be hard for you here. I know it’s not much like your old home, but I hope one day that’ll change.”

  Sam didn’t answer. The truth was, this place could feel like home someday, and that’s what scared him. If he let go of Pa, then it would be like turning his back on his memory. It would be the same as saying that Pa wasn’t as important as his new life with Edie and Aunt Jo. But his plan had failed, if you could even call it a plan. What had made him think that taping himself to the tree would work? And where did that leave him now? He couldn’t bring Pa back, and he didn’t see how he could stay.

  He needed more time. There had to be a way he could stay with Pa, and he was going to find it.

  Later, tossing and turning in his bed, he dreamed of the Boy and One-Eye, and something in between, a hybrid grinning cat-boy with a single glowing eye and razor-thin teeth. He dreamed of headlights cutting through the darkness, seizing Pa and the Colonel in their cold, inescapable glare. He dreamed of Mama and Pops and a young Aunt Jo racing Pa across fields of dead grass. And he dreamed of Pa calling his name, and of the Boy, hidden away in the cool emptiness of the tree, reminding him that once the hollow was closed, he could never go back.

  He woke up sweaty and sore, and no closer to finding a way to stay with Pa.

  When he finally managed to get dressed and slump down at the kitchen table the next morning, he felt like a bus had run over his face, then backed up and run over him again. He ate cold pancakes for breakfast, which weren’t
as good as cold pizza, but not as gross as he’d expected.

  He didn’t know what to pack to get ready for his visit to Pa that afternoon, so he stuffed his backpack full of general emergency essentials: duct tape, obviously, plus a multitool, a length of paracord, waterproof matches, and a freeze-dried ice cream sandwich because just in case.

  He was heading for the front door, head aching, when Aunt Jo called him back.

  “Hang on. I almost forgot.” Aunt Jo dug around in her purse for a while and then produced a check written out in big swirly strokes similar to Pa’s. “For the community science fair. Just give it to Mr. Redding; he’ll know where to send it. You two are staying late again today, right?”

  Sam swallowed and took the check. “Right, thanks.”

  “Good for you. Sorry you’re stuck on the bus this morning, but I’m picking up that early shift at the Shop ’n’ Save, and we sure could use the money. Have a good day.”

  “You too.”

  Just then, the bus’s air brakes whooshed outside, and Sam ran for it. When they got to Edie’s stop, she wasn’t there. He wondered if it had anything to do with him blowing her off the day before. No way. It wasn’t like she liked him, not like-liked him. Even if she did, he wasn’t some sexy movie star that girls would skip school over. He was just regular old Sam.

  As proof, he saw Edie running down the street just as the bus pulled away, and he shouted for the driver to stop. And he did stop, after another half a block, which gave everyone on the bus time to stare and snicker as Edie ran to catch up. When she finally made it on, she sank into the seat next to Sam, and this tiny thrill ran through his body, but he ignored it, because how grape soda was that?

  Edie’s hair looked like a nest of wild thistles, probably thanks to the wind, and she was wearing the same clothes as the day they’d met, but with new stripy socks that matched her hair.

  “Rough night?” Sam said. Partly because she looked like she hadn’t slept and partly to cover up all the whispering from the back of the bus. Thankfully, the air brakes did their whoosh thing and the bus started off down the bumpy road, which drowned out most of the laughter.

  Edie nodded. She looked like maybe she was too tired to answer.

  “So I guess your mom’s home again.”

  “Yup.”

  “Where was she?”

  Edie shrugged.

  “Did she bring you anything cool, at least?”

  She snapped the elastic on her new stripy socks.

  “Nice.”

  They sat in silence for a while, listening to the drone of the motor and the crunch of the tires as the bus moved from a paved road to a gravel one.

  “I’m just gonna close my eyes for a bit. I’m still listening, though, in case you want to talk,” Edie said.

  “Okay.”

  She didn’t close her eyes. “We’re actually working on our project after school this time, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You promised.”

  Sam felt the heat creeping into his cheeks, but he forced himself not to look away. “I know. I’ll be there.”

  “All right. Just don’t run off this time.”

  She turned away from him, and then she did close her eyes, and he spent the rest of the ride finishing the homework he hadn’t bothered to do the night before. His answers were mostly chicken scratch because of all the bumping, but at least he wouldn’t get zeroes.

  Edie was still asleep when the bus pulled up to Holler Junior High. Sam nudged her shoulder, and she woke with a start, glasses askew.

  “Sorry. We’re here.”

  She gathered up her stuff, but they had to wait until everybody else got off since the line had already started moving and nobody was in the mood to let them in.

  Class that day was pretty boring. They were done with the owl barf and were talking instead about the Civil War. Usually Sam liked history, since it was basically a bunch of stories, and sometimes they were super gross and bloody. But Mr. Redding had one of those deep voices that makes you want to fall asleep or hit your head on the desk or, at the very least, think about something else, and so Sam spent most of the morning staring out the window thinking about Pa. Who knew how much longer the doorway would stay open? He had to figure something out today.

  Edie was quiet during lunch: gritty hamburgers, tater tots, and a hunk of iceberg lettuce. She said she wasn’t hungry like the day before, but she ate his lettuce and a few of his tater tots, and she made a pickle sandwich from his bottom bun.

  “We don’t have to work on the project today. I mean, if you don’t want to.”

  Those words perked her right up. “You’re not trying to skip out on me again are you?” Her eyes blazed behind her glasses and, even though she was cute, she also looked kind of scary. Of course, he was trying to skip out on her, but not because he didn’t like her, which he didn’t, but still.

  “No. Just if you’re tired or something,” Sam said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look tired.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “I didn’t mean it like . . . oh.”

  Edie gave him a half smile that said she was joking.

  When class started again, Sam went right back to staring out the window until Mr. Redding said three words that got his attention: Abraham Lincoln and ghost.

  “After dying of what we now believe to be typhoid fever at age eleven, Willie Lincoln was embalmed and laid out in the Green Room,” Mr. Redding said, stroking his ugly white mustache. “His mother, Mary Lincoln, was so stricken with grief that she only viewed the body once, refusing to visit the room ever again or attend her son’s funeral.” Mr. Redding paused. The lights in the room seemed to dim. “After his death, Mary held séances, calling out to her dead son and inviting him to return. He seems to have heard the call, as Mary reported regularly waking up to find Willie standing at the foot of her bed.”

  Mr. Redding finished. Complete silence had fallen over the class. “Of course, that story is not exactly what we would consider history.” His wrinkled face broke into a smile. “But Mary Lincoln certainly believed it.”

  Sam raised his hand.

  “Yes, Mr. West. Do you have any thoughts on our friendly specter?”

  Sam had never raised his hand in class before, but what if Mr. Redding had answers? Something that would help him be with Pa. True, Pa wasn’t exactly a ghost, but Sam was getting desperate. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  Every eye returned to Mr. Redding, waiting. He took a moment to smooth out his sweater vest. “Belief is a funny thing, isn’t it?” He turned to look out the window, his gaze drifting toward the hill, now bathed in afternoon sun. “Notice that you didn’t ask me whether ghosts are real, which is a different question altogether, and one I couldn’t answer. You asked do I believe in ghosts. The real question then, the true question, is: Do I want to believe?”

  His milky gaze settled on Sam. Somehow his eyes were sad and happy at the same time. “Belief is just that. A choice. If you were Mary Todd Lincoln, a grieving mother who had just lost her son, who feared that she’d go the rest of her life and never see him again, what would you choose to believe?”

  Mr. Redding waited, like he was expecting an answer. To Sam’s surprise, he was saved by Joey Dunkirk.

  “You’re just avoiding the question. He asked what you believe.”

  Mr. Redding leaned against the edge of his desk, considering. He wore a gold band on one wrinkly finger and he turned it round and round while he decided how to answer. “Quite right, Mr. Dunkirk, so here’s my answer. I want to believe. I really do.” Before anyone could ask what he meant, the bell rang and the sound of scraping chair legs and zipping backpacks filled the space between Sam and Mr. Redding.

  Suddenly, Sam’s heart was beating its way up his throat, and he forgot all about Willie Lincoln’s ghost. Mr. Redding might think ghosts were something people imagined, but Pa was real, and he was waiting.

  Without hesitation, Sam made
his way to the door. He hadn’t come up with any excuse to tell Edie, but if he moved fast enough—

  “And where do you think you’re going?” Edie blocked his path, arms crossed. “And don’t say the bathroom.”

  His brain was working overtime, and for once it surprised him by coming up with a response that wasn’t total grape soda. “I left something in my locker.”

  “All right then, I’ll go with you.”

  Great. “I’ll just be a second.”

  Edie gave him a hard look and then relaxed. “Fine. One second.”

  “Thanks.”

  He ran. Sure, it probably looked suspicious, but his mission was too important, even if it meant that Edie might never talk to him again. He pushed his way through the kids in the hallway and made it to the back door in record time.

  “Hey, you can’t go out that way! Emergency exit!” A janitor called after him, but he was already outside and running for the hill.

  He didn’t hear the door open and close behind him.

  3:47 p.m.

  This time, he didn’t see any sign of dragonflies as he approached the tree, just dry bark and bare grass and dead, rattling leaves. He thrust his hand inside, but his knuckles came out scratched and bleeding.

  No.

  This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be closed up already.

  He squeezed his head into the darkness, but the hollow didn’t stretch around him like before. Splinters scraped his cheek. Before he knew what was happening, someone grabbed his shirt, and he swung around, ready to fight the Boy or the cat or whatever creature was trying to keep him away from Pa, but it was Edie. Her eyes red, probably from the whipping wind.

  “What are you doing out here? You promised.”