Between the Roots (10 page)

Even in the low light, the middle drawer of the filing cabinet caught Sammy's eye as he walked in front of the counter. It was ajar, too tempting to ignore. Without hesitation, he pulled it wide open, and allowed his hand to slip over the neatly hung folders. His eyes were ill-adjusted to the dark; but he could make out a paper. Sammy lifted it from its pocket. He found the flashlight and aimed the small beam at the death-certificate document. He pushed it back into its folder and dragged his hand to the next file to lift a second paper. "Birth Certificate" was boldly printed across the form. He raced the light over the hanging files as he ruffled them open. The entire drawer was filled with blank important documents.

The clock, visible from the light cast by the blinking VCR, registered "7:25." He lit its face to double-check. A twist of panic propelled him to the door, and he went out. The hall was empty, both directions, no sign of John. He must be at the fence. Sammy raced through the short hall, turned the corner, and ran into someone else. "Walt!" Sammy cried.

He could hear new voices coming from the very direction he had left. He was caught, no use turning back. "Please, let me out!"

"I thought that was you. I saw your feet at the edge of the file cabinet. Quick!" He pointed to the door. "Someone saw a boy running outside."

"It's John. Stall them, Walt! Please." They both hurried to the door.

Walt opened it, peered outside looking both ways, then signaled Sammy out. "Sammy, let's talk. Meet me, meet me . . . "

"At the arcade, tomorrow," Sammy called over his shoulder, heading in the direction of the unexplored side of the building. He thought he could join the path and reach the fence. He was right. The path was awash with light from the windows. Fear propelled him down the path. The dog's barking became louder. It was gaining on him.

The hole, can I get to the hole in time? Is John there? The hole, the dog's doing.
As Sammy raced he remembered how small the hole was.
Poor John, no one was there to help him under the fence. Did he get there in time to squeeze through?

Another bark, Sammy ran faster.
The dog knows where I'm going. The dog set a trap. We fell for it. We uncovered the dog's hole, took his bait, and now I'm going to pay for it.
As his legs carried him closer to the fence, his imagination ran wild. He could feel the seat of his pants being torn to shreds. He could see the dog ripping him into little pieces, spitting out strips of jeans and underpants and chunks of flesh.

The fence loomed in the night.
Poor, poor John.
Sammy veered to the left, where he knew the hole and the helmets waited, his chest heaving, begging for relief.
Poor John had he . . . ?
Just then a brisk whisper cut the air. "Over here, Sammy." John stood at the open gate.

"How'd you do it?" he gasped.

"Heck, the darn thing was open all the time. They don't know how to lock doors around here," John said.

"You mean we didn't have to go under the fence?"

"Nope!"

Sammy and John hurried to retrieve their bikes further up the road.

At that moment the dog hit the fence and attempted to work his way free.

"Yikes, John, he'll be out in no time!" Sammy started racing ahead of his friend toward the bikes.

"What do you think I was doing? Just waiting for you?" John called.

Sammy stopped, "Did you fill it in?"

"You betcha . . . put some big rocks in there too."

The ride along the river used marathon energy. Sammy was in the lead, his headlight eating the road. After a healthy distance he called back to John: "Walt was in the room. Some kid was teaching him."

"Walt, being taught?" John said.

"Something really strange is going on in there."

"No lie."

"Walt says he wants to meet tomorrow night at the arcade. Can you go?"

"Did he say when?"

"Heck, I didn't think to ask."

A
SHRILL RING AWAKENED
him. Sammy eyed the red numbers on his nightstand clock, "1:38 A.M."
Who could be calling at this hour? A tingle of anxiety swept over him. Are the police after me, for breaking and entering? No, just entering. I haven't broken anything. Maybe they would go easy on me for just entering.

Now fully awake, he strained to hear. His door was shut; muffled words filtered through. Sammy tossed his covers aside, slipped across the room, quietly opened his door, and listened to his mother's conversation.

" . . . Why now? Can't it wait another year or two?" She was pleading with someone.

Sammy crawled out of bed to listen by his open door.

"Isn't there anyone else?"

Sammy shifted from one foot to the other; the floor squeaked.

"Hold on, I hear something."

Realizing that he was the "something," Sammy closed his door, scurried back into bed, and pulled the covers over his ears and eyes as he held his breath. He could hear his mother approaching and pausing; a wave of light indicated his door opened, then closed. The footfalls disappeared.

Who would call this late? And who could be upsetting Mom so much? Was she talking to the police?
He was surprised his mother hadn't awakened him to find out his version of the story.
Or was there another story?
He lay awake for a long time.

His sleepy mind knew one thing: he would talk to Walt. He would meet him at The Arcade after school.

That morning there was no mention of the late-night phone call. His mother asked him only one question. "Sammy, is there much talk at school of the boys from the Colony awaiting trial?"

He wished he could say "No," but she wanted the truth.

* * *

As Sammy and John pedaled to The Arcade, the streets were nearly deserted. The threat of a storm always kept people inside. One seemed to be brewing. When they arrived, Walt's car wasn't there.

"Maybe he won't show," John said.

"I think he will. He really looked anxious," Sammy said.

"He was just surprised to see you in the building."

"I think he knows I suspect something."

They chained their bikes to the post in front of The Arcade. A worker with little else to do readjusted a banner in the window and waved at the boys.

"Shall we wait here for him, or go inside?"

"Let's go inside and sit at a table."

Loud music filled the room. Mr. Lanton sat at one of the tables talking to an older gentleman. When he saw the boys, he motioned them to join him. The older gentleman was Walt. "We were waiting for you." He indicated Walt, and briskly shook hands with both Sammy and John, all business.

"Good to see you, Mr. Lanton." Both boys sat down to join them; their surprise went unnoticed.
How had Walt gotten here?

Mr. Lanton said, "I'm trying to convince Walt to do another game night. Sit and talk. I have to get back to work." He stood, gave the table a friendly slap, and walked toward an employee who had signaled him.

"Walt, we didn't think you were here. Where's your car?"

"I walked, left home three hours ago so I'd be sure and be here when you guys came."

"No kidding! That's over six miles!"

"More like seven, I know, and in a few years I'll be running it."

Both Sammy and John looked at each other and smiled; then they laughed, a congenial forced laugh. Walt wasn't laughing. He sat staring at them. Their laughter simmered to hesitant chuckles.

"No, I mean it. In a few years, maybe ten at the most, I'll be running it, round trip."

The boys looked at Walt expecting him to lighten up, crack a smile, wink, but he only looked at them, continuing to wear his solemn expression.

"What's wrong, Walt?" Sammy asked. "Do you know what you're saying?"

"I know exactly what I'm saying. It's time to let you in on my secret."

John wrinkled his brow and lowered his eyes, signaling to Sammy that he was uneasy.

"Oh, give it up, John; I'm not crazy and I'm not going to hurt anyone," Walt said firmly. He pulled a long blue envelope from his jacket pocket, laid it on the table, and covered it with both hands. "What I tell you is between us. Do you understand me?" He looked long and hard at both boys, then continued: "You have to promise on your life and your mother's life that you won't tell anyone what I am about to tell you."

Sammy looked seriously at John, who stared back at him. A sober air fell over all three of them. This was it.

"I mean it. Do you promise, on your life and your mother's?"

"Sure, Walt, whatever you say," Sammy answered.

"Say it. Say you promise."

"I promise I won't tell anyone, on my life, and— Do I have to say my mother's?"

Walt gave him a determined look. Sammy promised. "And you, John, you too."

"Oh, all right." He said in a low monotone. "I promise not to tell on my life, my mom's life, my dog's life." Sammy kicked him under the table. He shut up.

"How old would you say I am?" Walt asked.

Sammy exaggerated on the young side to be polite. "Maybe seventy-five or seventy-six. But you sound lots younger; I mean, the words you use."

Walt smiled, the first break in his serious demeanor since they arrived. "What do you think, John? Be honest now."

John tilted his head to one side, then to the other as he studied the old man. "Well, to be honest, and you said to be honest . . . "

"Right."

"I used to think you were about eighty-five, but now I suppose I'd say about eighty."

"What you guys are really seeing is my projected age. You're seeing the number of years I could probably still live." Walt looked for a reaction.

"What are you talking about? Say that again." Sammy sat upright, staring at Walt.

"This envelope contains the document of my germination, my 'birth certificate' as you call it." Walt carefully lifted the paper from the envelope and unfolded it. Sammy leaned forward and read it carefully, studying the date. The last name was covered, but a picture resembling an older Walt was in the corner of the paper.

"But there's a mistake. It says you were born the same year I was." Sammy was now whispering. He turned nervously to John. "What do you see, John?"

"So you've got a messed up birth certificate. So what?" John challenged.

"What are you trying to tell us, Walt?" Sammy asked.

"I'm telling you something that could get me into serious trouble." He lowered his voice and leaned in toward the boys. "I really am the same age as you. The Colony is a group of genetically age-reversed people. What looks like an old person is really a young person, and those that look young have already lived a long life, growing physically younger each day."

"You're joking us, right?" Sammy couldn't hide the worry in his voice.

"No, I'm not. It's true, every word. All those 'seniors' I brought here last fall are in my class, or a year or two ahead of me. We're all growing younger. Our minds and education are about the same as yours. Only, there are a few differences."

A worker approached their table and asked if they wanted anything from the snack bar. Walt stopped talking, shook his head no, and waited for the intruder to walk away.

"
Your
old people have such poor hearing. We old-looking people have excellent hearing; there hasn't been a chance to damage our ears. But our young-looking people are always having trouble hearing. They can run, jump, swim, you name it, but their hearing seems to be the only thing that ages while the rest of them is growing younger."

John and Sammy listened intently. What could they believe: one simple piece of paper and an old man, an old-looking man, or their reason? This was a crazy story, invented by an overactive mind, well on its way to dementia.

Walt continued, "You don't believe me, I can tell. But it's true. I'm not making up a story. Sammy, remember the body in the woods?"

Sammy felt the surge of fear he was learning to control. "Yes, I can't forget."

"That's Virginia. She's almost six months old now, but she looks younger than me. She germinated with a shorter time clock than me. Remember, Sammy. Think back. Do you remember what the washers said when they uncovered her?"

Sammy didn't want to remember, but he could still hear the words. "Oh, this one's not for long, too bad." Now he knew the meaning of those words. He had been trying to put that living nightmare to rest for several months. Walt's words disturbed him. He knew what Walt was saying made more sense than his earlier explanation.

"She'll only live about sixty years at the most. Me, I germinated, potentially, to about ninety years, unless something gets me first." Walt actually laughed.

"I don't get it," John said bluntly.

"Should I go back to the birds and the bees, sex-education? Would that help?" Walt sounded as if he were making fun of John.

"Yeah, tell me about sex, because the way I understand it, we really didn't come from storks or cabbage plants or holes in the dirt, deep in a forest." John's attitude had taken on a brisk rudeness that Sammy suspected was hiding his fear too.

"Well, babies in our village get made the same way babies in your villages are made. Only . . . "

"Only what?"

"I'm getting to that. Only, after a couple months inside their mother, a deep stirring tells the mother that she must return to the germinal forest. Nursemaids go with her to help dig the shallow pit where she deposits her living baby long before it is ready for the outside world. There is a birth like you know it, like you had, only earlier. Our babies need the richness of the earth where a heavy crust quickly forms around them. For several months, the baby germinates into a full-size person implanted with nature's time clock. When the germination process is complete, the ground around the birthing pod begins to crack. The watchers and washers are responsible for recovering the fully mature pod, digging it up, cleaning and preparing it to enter the outside world. That's our 'birth,' a very happy time."

"Is that what I saw?" Sammy murmured, his face felt flush. He had a misgiving that he might be starting to believe a clever lie.