Where I Belong (8 page)

By the time the security cops arrive, blowing whistles and shouting, Sean and his friends are gone. I hear the jewelry store man telling the cops they had a gun, they took all the money in the cash register, broke the glass in the display case, grabbed watches, necklaces, and rings. “It all happened so fast,” he stammers. “I thought I was a dead man.”

The real police arrive. “Did anybody see what happened?” one asks.

A few shoppers step forward, eager to answer questions. I keep my head down. I saw nothing. I heard nothing. I know nothing. Nothing at all.

Mrs. Clancy looks out the door of the card shop. “Brendan, come here.”

Avoiding the police, who are still talking to witnesses, I'm glad to disappear into the store.

“What's going on?” Mrs. Clancy asks.

“Somebody robbed the jewelry store.”

“Oh, good grief. Why does the mall waste good money paying security guards if they can't prevent things like this?”

I shake my head, glad she doesn't notice I'm trembling. T.J. saw me, he recognized me, one of them has a gun. They already hate me because of the motorcycle. What if they think I'll tell the cops?

“Did you see them?” Mrs. Clancy asks.

I shake my head. “I was reading.”

“Reading. Give you a book, and terrorists could blow up the mall. You wouldn't know what hit you.”

She pulls down the security gate and we leave by the back door. She looks around the huge, mostly empty parking lot. A few cars here and there but not a person in sight. We hurry to the car as if danger was hiding in every shadow.

S
UNDAY I'M DOWN IN THE WOODS
by myself, drawing a picture of the Green Man with a circle of animals, deer and rabbits and squirrels, gathered around him. I can't get the deer to look right. I've erased and redrawn them so much that I've almost made a hole in the paper.

The thing is, I can't concentrate on my drawing. The mall robbery was on the front page of this morning's paper. The cops have some suspects but not enough evidence to make any arrests. The jewelry store is offering a thousand-dollar reward. A mall spokesman assures the public that the mall is a safe place to shop. Security has been doubled.

Mall security won't help me if Sean decides to make sure I don't inform the cops. What if they find me here in the woods? If Shea could follow me, they could follow me.

Every noise, every bird call startles me. I peer down from my tree house and look for intruders, study the underbrush, watch for movement among the trees. I think about the gun. My collection of weapons—wooden swords and buckets of stones—is pathetic. I have no way to defend myself against those three, even if I leave the gun out of the equation. If they come after me, I'm done for.

I hear a branch snap. A flock of crows rises from a nearby tree, cawing as if to warn me of danger. Shaking with fear, I lie flat on my belly and look down. The bushes part, and the Green Man steps into the clearing and smiles up at me. His faded clothes blend in with the dappled shadows of the trees. He's almost invisible.

“Hello, young Brendan,” he calls.

Relief surges through me. I climb down, bringing a bag of sandwiches with me. I want to hug him but I'm not sure he'd like that. Instead I tell him how glad I am to see him.

“Is something bothering you?” He's looking at me closely, his eyes probing mine. “You seem nervous, upset.”

Swearing him to secrecy, I tell him about the motorcycle and Sean and T.J. and Gene. I tell him how they treated me, I tell him about the mall and seeing T.J. and how scared I am that they'll get me. Once I've started talking, I can't stop. When I've told him everything, my mouth is dry and my knees feel weak, but I have a strange feeling of a burden lifting. I've told my secret to the one person I trust the most, even more than I trust Shea.

He sits beside me quietly and listens, one big hand on my shoulder. He says nothing right away, but I can tell he's thinking about what I've said.

“This Sean,” he says slowly. “Is he a redhead, sharp-featured, tattoos on his arms?”

I nod. “Do you know him?”

“I know who he is,” he says. “His friends, too. They're a bad lot, Brendan. Whatever you do, stay away from them.”

The Green Man sounds worried, and I assure him I have no intention of going near them. “Have you seen them here, in the woods?”

“I came upon them shooting squirrels for fun and accosted them. I told them a decent person respects the lives of animals and doesn't hurt or kill them for sport.” He sighs and strokes his beard, something he does when he's thinking.

“What happened?”

“Unfortunately I angered them,” he says. “They called me a stupid old man. Sean pointed his gun at me and said maybe he should shoot me instead of squirrels. They all laughed. Then one of them shoved me hard enough to knock me down. They told me to mind my own business—it wasn't against the law to shoot tree rats.”

“I can't believe anyone would treat you that way. Don't they know who you are?”

“Apparently not.” The Green Man gives me a sad smile. “Louts like them always pick on those they perceive as weak and unable to defend themselves.”

It scares me to think that Sean, T.J., and Gene could treat the Green Man as if he were just another weak old man like the sad homeless men in the park. “Why didn't you tell them who you are and smite them with lightning?”

“Believe me, Brendan, I would have liked to do that very much, but the laws of the Green Wood prevent me from meeting violence with violence. I go in peace in the forest and leave punishment to a higher authority.”

I try to understand, but I wish the Green Man were allowed to punish Sean and his gang of miscreants.

The Green Man leans over and gives me a gentle nudge. “Now to speak of more mundane matters, my belly is hoping you've brought food with you.”

I pull a lunch out of my backpack and solemnly divide it between us. He wolfs his sandwich down so fast, I give him half of mine.

After he's eaten, he lies back on the mossy ground and sighs in contentment. “Nothing like a full belly.”

He looks as if he's about to drift into one of his long naps, but instead he props himself up on one elbow and stares into the bushes as if he's looking for someone. “Where is my little princess of the woodland?”

“She's never here on weekends,” I tell him, trying to keep the envy out of my voice. “Her parents take her places—the beach, the mountains, all sorts of places I've never been.” I pick up a stick and scratch lines in the dirt. Maybe I'll draw a house. Or no—a castle might be better. With a moat and high walls and a dungeon where they keep the dragon.

“Last Saturday, they went to Kings Dominion.” I concentrate on my castle while I tell him. “Shea rode the Rebel Yell five times. Today she's going white-water rafting on the Shenandoah River, near Harpers Ferry.”

“I suppose you'd like to do that.”

I shrug. “I might be scared.”

“I wouldn't care for it,” the Green Man says. “An inner tube is safer. You float along slowly. Just you and the river and the birds singing in the woods.”

“Shea says the river has rapids. And waterfalls. People drown sometimes.”

He frowns. “I hope she's careful.”

“Me too.” I picture Shea spinning down a river, heading straight for a huge waterfall. I see myself rescuing her. Perhaps I'd swing down on a rope from a tree and snatch her from the very brink of destruction. I'd be her hero.

In the back of my mind, Mrs. Clancy says,
The very idea—a boy like you rescuing someone? Don't make me laugh. You're the one who needs rescuing
.

I swat a mosquito. Where did that come from? I don't need rescuing. Or do I?
Do I?

Suddenly the woods seem to gather around me. The air is heavy, hot and thick with humidity. Mosquitoes swarm around my head. Gnats nibble at my ears.

Nothing bothers the Green Man. He's fallen asleep and begun to snore, probably exhausted from his journey. His chest rises and falls under his old shirt. His beard is littered with cookie crumbs. I wonder how old he is. Hundreds of years, maybe. Thousands, even. He's been guarding the woods since the age of druids and knights.

I lean back against a tree. The leaves move and rustle high over my head, hiding the sky. The sun splashes down through the spaces that open and shut every time the breeze shifts. My eyelids grow heavy. It's easier to sleep than to stay awake.

When I wake up, the Green Man is gone and the shadows are long. They creep across the ground toward me. The sun's rays are parallel with the ground. It's dinnertime. I pack up my drawing supplies and head back to the other world, real to some but not to me.

T
HE NEXT WEEK
, Shea and I take some boards from a construction site and drag them into the woods. I rig up the pulley and Shea helps me get the boards into the tree. With her help, the work goes faster, but it takes two or three days of hoisting and hammering to build a platform for Shea just below mine. She decorates it with a mirror she found in somebody's trash, a plastic tub with a tight lid, and a slightly crooked beach chair found by the side of the road. We take a few more milk crates from the convenience store so Shea can have her own place to keep stuff.

While we're arranging Shea's things, a familiar voice calls hello. I look down, and there he is, the Green Man himself, grinning up at us. “My word,” he says, “you've built an addition just for my lady!”

Shea and I scramble down from the tree, skinning our elbows and knees and sending the spiders scurrying.

“Is it okay—do you approve?” I ask, suddenly fearful he might object to more nails being driven into his tree.

“It's lovely,” he says. “Lady Shea needs some space of her own.”

I want to hug him, but I hang back and watch Shea fling her arms around him and almost knock him down. “We missed you!” she cries.

“Whoa,” he laughs. “Have pity on an old man.” He looks at me. “Any food, Master Doyle?”

“I didn't know you'd be here,” I say. “Shea and I were going to walk to the convenience store and buy lunch.”

“Ah, that's fine, then.”

The three us walk through the woods and follow the train tracks to Route 22. There's a 7-Eleven a block down the road. An old, dingy one. Not the kind people from town use. A beat-up dump truck sits in the parking lot. Its owner is inside buying cigarettes and a six-pack of beer. As he walks out the door, I see the Green Man's hand dart out as swift and smooth as a snake and lift a bottle from the six-pack. It disappears into his pocket without one jiggle or clink.

The dump truck driver doesn't notice, and neither does Shea. She's already in the candy aisle looking for Kit Kats, her favorite. The Green Man strolls around the store, looking innocent. He doesn't know I saw.

I turn it over and over in my mind. The Green Man stole a bottle of beer. Why did he do it? He lives in the Green Wood. There's nothing to buy there. Maybe he doesn't understand how things are done outside the woods. After all, this isn't his reality. Money doesn't exist in his world.

I take a deep breath. It's okay. I won't worry about it. The Green Man is not a thief. He can't be. His laws are different from ours, that's all.

I show him the sandwiches in the refrigerated case. He picks ham and cheese. Shea chooses tuna salad. I take egg salad. Since Shea gets an allowance, she pays for the sandwiches, three cans of soda, and a big Kit Kat chocolate bar.

The skinny guy at the cash register has been watching all of us since we came in. Maybe he saw the Green Man pocket the beer. He takes Shea's money, but he doesn't speak to us. Not even a “Thank you” or a “Have a nice day.”

I look back as we leave. He's still watching us, his eyes narrow in his long, pale face.

We trudge along the tracks, crunching cinders with every step. Shea hops on the rail and walks ahead like she's dancing on a tightrope. The neck of the beer bottle sticks out of the Green Man's pocket. I turn my eyes away. No matter what I tell myself, the sight of it disturbs me.

“What's it like to live in the woods?” I ask.

“Cold in the winter, hot in the summer,” he says. “But better than being cooped up inside.”

He follows the path into the woods. His back is broad, his shoulders wide but rounded, kind of slumped as if he's tired. I hurry to catch up with him, to walk by his side. Shea is still ahead, darting through the woods like a bird that can't fly.

“Where were you while you were gone?” I ask. “Did you follow the Appalachian Trail down through North Carolina and into Georgia?”

“Oh, yes,” he says softly. “It was a good journey.”

I keep quiet, hoping he'll tell me what he's done and what he's seen, but he says no more until we're sitting under the tree, eating our lunch.

He leans back against the tree and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he unscrews the top of his beer bottle and begins to drink.

Shea stares at him. “Where did you get that?”

“The beer?” The Green Man holds the bottle up to the light and squints at it as if he has no idea where it came from. “I believe the gentleman in the store gave it to me. Or would have if he'd thought of it.” He winks at us. “Sometimes generosity must be prompted.”

“You stole it?” Shea stares at him, shocked.

“
Stole
—that's a mighty strong word.” The Green Man finishes the beer and wipes his mouth again. “A fellow like him can spare one miserable bottle of beer.”

With that, he lies on his back and shuts his eyes. “Naptime,” he murmurs.

Shea and I watch him drift off to sleep. Soon he's snoring.

“No matter what he says, he
stole
that beer,” Shea whispers.