Intertwine Page 3

  “Harry! Harry!” Paul shouted, “Where are you?”

  “We are your friends now,” continued John. “Please talk to us if you can.”

  “It’s okay,” replied Harry in a calm voice. “I don’t know what you did, but I think the evil side of me has now gone, I feel at ease. I don’t feel angry or bad towards people anymore.” John and Paul felt absolute relief at hearing Harry’s voice.

  John and Paul discussed the evidence. They concluded that the arsonist’s spirit was still earth-bound and resentful of his untimely death, which is why he made Harry behave badly. The investigators, seeing this spirit, proving his spirit existence, made him accept his future, his future of his belonging to another “place” and time, away from our Earthly plane, hence his spirit headed in that direction.

  Would it reach its correct destination? We hope and pray that is has, but who knows for sure?

  Explaining all of this to Harry the house, the friends told Harry that they would like to restore him. Harry was thrilled. “What!” he said. “Make me all nice again? I’d love that. Will both of you be here? Or will you come and visit me?”

  The friends enjoyed hearing the excitement in Harry’s voice. They remembered him saying how happy he used to be, and decided that they would do whatever it took to make him feel really good about himself again.

  THE END

  True Character

  The only way Ron would walk a mile was in PE class. He disliked structured exercise. It was boring. His grandmother told him his weight problem was genetic. She was heavy, too. Kids teased him for being overweight, resulting in withdrawal and more weight gain. Sweating profusely, he regretted this exertion as he approached the only Quick-Stop in town, but he craved a soda, something excluded from his diet. Walking up to the store, it didn’t look good. Three Native American kids were bunched up at the far end of the building staring at him. Ron hated moving, being uprooted, and leaving friends, and then having to make new ones, but such was life in the Forest Service with his mom. He waived his hand from chest high. He could read their minds, “So, who’s the fat kid?”

  “Hey,” one his age and build called out in greeting.

  “Hey,” Ron replied, trying not to sound nervous.

  “You goin’ in there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You Blackfeet?”

  Ron looked bewildered, answering, “No. I washed this morning.”

  From their laughter he’d apparently made a joke.

  “Whites from the mill are in there. Best wait ‘till they leave,” the kid advised.

  “Why?”

  “Easier that way.”

  “Oh. I won’t bother them.”

  The kid shrugged his shoulders as Ron stepped inside and surveyed the store. Two teens were by the candy shelf. One had just stuffed something into his pocket. Two others hung near the soda cooler. They glared as he walked to the cooler, started to grab a Coke, hesitated, heaved a silent sigh and steered for a Diet Coke. The cashier watched like a buzzard over something about to die.

  “Whata ya doin’ in here?” an older kid asked stepping toward the counter as Ron approached.

  “Buying a Coke.”

  “New around here, ain’t ya?”

  “Yeah. Just moved here.”

  “You ain’t the one that moved into the Ranger Station?” another asked.

  “Yes. My mom’s the Timber Spec.”

  “Ah, jeez! A stinkin’ greenie,” a third decried.

  Ron handed the cashier a dollar, received his change and stepped out. The kids followed.

  “Hey, you,” the first called out.

  Ron ignored him until feeling a hand on his shoulder that spun him around knocking the soda to the ground.

  “You look at me when I talk to you.”

  “I really don’t think you have anything I want to hear,” Ron replied.

  “We don’t like greenies and we don’t like brownies,” he snarled, grabbing the front of Ron’s shirt.

  “Benson,” the clerk called out from the door, “that’s enough. Ponte, that’s a buck for the candy bar.”

  “A buck!”

  “Yeah, seventy-five for the bar and twenty-five for me havin’ to come out here to collect it.”

  Ron watched as the four boys swaggered down the road. The Native Americans sauntered over to him.

  “I’m Percy Little-Bird. What tribe are you from?”

  “I’m not Indian.”

  “You look Indian,” Percy said, handing him the unopened Coke.

  “My dad was part Japanese. Mom says she’s an American mutt. I’m Ron Elam,” he answered, extending his hand.

  Percy hesitated, then reached out to shake Ron’s hand.

  “Grandmother don’t like whites.”

  “Why?”

  “The way they treated us, stole our land, and stuff.”

  “You hold that against me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s dumb.”

  “Yeah. Whites don’t like Indians. Indians don’t like whites. Mostly it’s about color.”

  “So white kids go around trying to turn their skin brown? Do Indians try to turn white?”

  “Indian can’t change outside. Always brown. Some try to change inside, but when it don’t work they get drunk to forget. Your ol’ man work for the Forest Service?”

  “I don’t have a dad.”

  “Everybody’s got a ol’ man.”

  “I don’t,” Ron replied defensively.

  “How’d you get here? A bird dropped you out of the sky?” Percy had a mischievous grin.

  Ron chuckled as he loosened up. “No, a bird didn’t drop me out of the sky. Took off when I was a baby.”

  “Haven’t seen my ol’ man for a long time, either. Last time he showed up drunk, beat my mother, and took some money. Some say he’s in jail, some say he drank himself to death. Stomach says it’s time to eat. Let’s go to my place and scare up some food.”

  “Is your grandmother there?”

  “Yeah, but we’ll say you’re Indian. She can’t see so well. It’s hard to tell you’re not Indian anyway,” he said, waving goodbye to his friends.

  Ron was edgy as a rooster perched next to a chicken hawk as they walked to the rear of Percy’s house, a fairly new, concrete block structure. His grandmother was busy kneading a lump of dough on a table next to a dome-shaped oven stoked with burning cedar wood.

  “I need more kindling,” she said huffing between thrusts into the dough. “Who’s that?”

  “Ron Elam. Just moved here.”

  “Guess you’re here to eat, too.”

  “I don’t want to be any trouble,” Ron stuttered.

  “You Indian?”

  “Doesn’t he look Indian, grandmother?’ Percy answered.

  She squinted and thrust her nose toward Ron.

  “Yes, but too polite. Sounds like a white man.”

  “I’ve lived among white people all my life.”

  “Too bad. Bread is on the table, beans in the pot.”

  After retrieving firewood for the oven, Ron sat at a wood table with six, round loaves of bread cooling at one end. Slapping dollops of refried beans on plates, they opened a loaf. After eating, Percy tossed off his plaid, cotton shirt, took up an ax, and began splitting firewood. Ron had always been self-conscious about removing his shirt because of his build, but after ten minutes of stacking kindling in the hot sun he tossed the wet shirt aside. Besides, Percy was overweight, too, so he didn’t feel out of place. Sharing turns with the ax they quickly had more wood than grandmother expected.

  “You’re a good boy. You come around again,” grandmother said as the two left.

  That evening, as Percy joined the Elam’s for dinner Ron asked, “Mom, do we have any Indian ancestors?”

  “Yes. A grandmother way back was the daughter of Thomas Rolfe, the only child of John Rolfe and Pocahontas. Why?”

  “Just wondering, some jerks in town took me for an Indi
an.”

  A little sad Ron took no notice of the connection she made a mental note to fill him in on the family history later. “Well, you could be taken for Native American I suppose.”

  The two boys were still talking when the phone rang at 4 a.m. Ron’s heart sank. His mom was being sent to a fire in Colorado. Although he could take care of himself, he hated the loneliness, but as she drove off he glanced toward Percy. He wasn’t alone this time.

  “You want to stay here?” Percy’s grandmother asked unexpectedly during lunch the next day.

  “I’ll have to tell our neighbor so she knows where I’m at.”

  “The phone’s inside. What tribe are you from?”

  “Mom says we are from the Virginia Algonquin nation,” he replied, having looked up the connection.

  “Hello, Percy. Thought I’d stop by to see how you are coming along,” a tall, thin man said coming into the yard.

  “Hello, Uncle Marshall,” Percy answered, bowing his head.

  “He’s done nothing,” grandmother reported reprovingly, “except chop wood, thanks to Ron.”

  “The Pow-Wow’s three weeks off. Have you decided to not participate?”

  “I don’t know,” Percy replied, not looking up and squirming.

  “A Pow-Wow! A real Pow-Wow?” Ron asked. “I’ve never seen one.”

  “We all go and so will Percy. You should come, too,” grandmother admonished.

  “Do you dance?” his Uncle asked Ron.

  “Not very well.”

  “He means Indian dance,” Percy mumbled.

  “I’ve never done that.”

  “Want to learn?”

  Percy glared at his uncle knowing what he was up to.

  “I’ve got two left feet,” Ron admitted.

  “Then I will teach you a dance for two left feet,” Uncle Marshall laughed.

  Ron was surprised how quickly the steps came. Three days following the Pow-Wow his mom returned, excited to be home and see her son, but he was not the boy she left six weeks before. Dragging her to the fireplace was a slimmer, slightly taller young man.

  “Best Team Dancers, Sheridan Pow-Wow, 2001,” she read the trophy on the mantle. “Where’d ...?”

  “Percy’s uncle taught us a really old war dance. We blew them away.”

  Their triumph went unheralded among the general population, which they preferred. As school started, low-key meant less trouble from the loggers’ kids who were prejudiced against Native Americans and the Forest Service. However, Ron’s life had changed. As a fat kid with the athletic ability and strength of a worm he backed away from trouble. Over the summer he had changed physically and mentally, so that when the sawmill owner’s ninth grade son strutted around spouting self-proclaimed superiority he found an unexpected roadblock. Ron was totally uninterested in the whole charade and walked away. With teachers present Tory Benson couldn’t press the point, leaving his honor dented until accosting Ron as he walked home alone.

  Again, Ron snubbed the challenge. Benson swung a fist and missed. A second roundhouse garnered more air. Frustrated, he charged like an enraged bull intent on taking his victim to the ground. Benson was successful, except as Ron rolled backward his foot slipped into the bully’s hip and propelled him upward and over to land flat on his back. Picking himself up Benson charged again. Ron took one step back, grabbed Benson’s shirt and pivoted, flipping him over a hip to slam into the ground expelling air like a tire suddenly gone flat. Ron waited patiently while Benson wheezed and gasped before breathing regularly again. When he came at Ron a third time it was with a broken tree limb. Ron easily side-stepped two swings, vaguely aware of the deep whoosh each made as they passed, and then shot a fist into Benson’s chest, followed by a left jab bloodying his nose, and snapping his head back. A right hook stung Ron’s hand, but drove Benson to his knees. His friends faltered when Percy appeared at Ron’s side.

  “You boys shouldn’t be playing this close to the road. Sets the little kids a bad example,” the mustachioed Forest cop, Steve Keller, called out from his pickup. “Ron, you and your friend jump in. I’ll give you a lift home.”

  As the two circled toward the passenger side of the truck, Benson pointed a finger at them and shouted, “This ain’t over!”

  Keller slid out of the truck and squared his feet toward the gang. “Yes, it is, Tory Benson, ‘cause the only way you could beat Ron is to gang jump him. Anything like that happens I’ll be all over you like snot on a sneeze and that goes for the rest of you punks.” Turning back to the truck Percy was standing by the open door. “Getting in?” Steve asked.

  “You give rides to Indians?”

  “Are you Indian? Heck! I thought you were Ron’s brother.”

  “He is,” Ron said from inside the truck with a huge grin.

  “Handled yourself pretty good back there,” Steve said as they drove off.

  “Mom’s had me taking Judo and Karate lessons for years to loose weight.”

  As Steve drove into the Forest Service compound they saw Ron’s mom fueling her truck at the garage. Steve looked at his gauge. It was nearly full.

  “Guess I better gas up, too,” he said.

  Teenagers are not as unobservant and naive as adults credit them. Lydia Elam and Steve Keller had gotten into a habit of going out of their way to meet. Ron liked Steve a lot, so took matters into his own hands. Extending an invitation to dinner he had both adults on the ropes until they verbally fumbled to an agreement.

  With homemade spaghetti sauce in the slow cooker, this was a meal Ron could handle while his mom and Steve sat in the living room. The affair came off well until just after desert. They heard the slide of tires on the gravel parking lot. It was Torry Benson’s dad and a pounding summons for a knock indicated this was not a social call.

  “Elam, your son beat up my boy Tory. I’ve called the Sheriff. That boy’s going to jail,” he bellowed, wagging a finger at Ron standing behind her.

  She was aghast and speechless as Steve stepped onto the porch. “Simmer down, Benson,” he said. “Tory started the fight and got what he had coming, then attacked Ron with a tree branch. Your kid just hasn’t got sense to know when he’s been bested. If you want to pursue this with the Sheriff, it will be Tory going to jail for assault with a weapon; that I guarantee.”

  Benson sputtered, realizing he was dealing with someone who carried more weight with the Sheriff than he did. He also knew his son and turned toward the boy standing behind him, heaved his massive shoulders, and screamed, “You try to hit that kid with a club?”

  Tory melted, the answer painfully etched on his face. Benson raised a thick arm intent on slapping his son, but found it held in check by Steve.

  “You hit him in my presence and you’ll be facing a judge for child abuse. Now, chill out,” Steve warned, a cold edge to his words.

  Benson knew better than to resist. He’d seen Steve arrest a felon the year before in front of his office. As his pickup roared away the Sheriff’s truck entered the compound. Exchanging a few words with Steve, the deputy smiled, and waved at Lydia before driving off.

  “Thank you, Steve. I don’t know what I would have done.”

  “I’ll talk to Benson when he’s cooled down. Don’t be hard on Ron, he really was defending himself. If he were mean, he could have really hurt Tory. I respect his restraint.”

  No longer overweight couch potatoes, Ron and Percy had become more self-confident and popular. Tory Benson’s usual victims clustered around the boys like chicks avoiding a coyote as girls considered them the sexiest things around to the point where the two felt stalked. This pushed Benson further into isolation. When Percy demonstrated political savvy by declining to take any one girl to the spring dance, so as not to hurt the others, but instead dancing with all of them, his defeat of Tory for Class President was assured. When Ron won a seat on the Student Council their antagonist became more morose. Still, Ron and Percy remained sensitive enough to refrain from saying or acting pretentiously.

/>   The first Saturday of summer recess, Steve, Lydia, Ron and Percy spent the day at a secluded lake picnicking, hiking and fishing to exhaustion. The boys were grateful church wasn’t until noon that next day. Having slept late they hurried their normally long showers and dressed in white shirts. Ron was just knotting a tie when the elder Benson’s voice could be heard at the front door. He sounded frightened.

  “Mrs. Elam, I need to find Keller.”

  “I haven’t seen him since we got home last night. Have you tried his cabin?”

  “He’s not there.”

  “Let me try the radio. He’s probably checking the campgrounds. Oh, wait, there he is,” she said, pointing to Steve’s truck turning into the compound.

  Benson fidgeted as he spoke. “Keller, I need your help. Tory and some boys went up to Prospector Lake last night. They came back early this morning saying Tory wandered off. Me and a bunch of the boys went up there but we can’t find him.”

  “It’s hard to believe Tory would get lost. He’s grown up in this area,” Steve replied. “I’ll drive up and take a look.”

  “Can we help?” Ron asked, coming onto the porch.

  “You boys’d do that?”

  “Yes,” Percy answered flatly.

  “Better change your clothes,” Lydia said.

  As his truck snaked the twelve miles up to the lake, Steve didn’t say much except, “There’s more to this than anyone’s saying.”

  A cold drizzle that had moved in during the night continued giving the day a dreary cast. Huddled around a small, smoky fire in the campground were Tory’s friends, Tinsdale, Gruber, Ponte, and Banner. Steve headed straight for them.

  “Okay, what happened?” There was an uneasy silence as the four looked at each other pensively. “Gruber, you go first,” Steve said, sounding sterner.

  “Well, Tory got up about four to take a whiz. That’s the last we seen him.”

  “When did you start looking?”

  “Six or so,” he answered receiving affirmative nods from the others.

  “You waited two hours before getting concerned?”

  “Tory’s Tory. He . . .”

  “How much beer’d he drink?” The four looked at each other, panicked. “You look at me and answer now,” Steve challenged sternly.

  “I don’t know. He brought a couple cases with him.”