Chapter TWELVE
“I don’t know what time I’ll be home tonight. They’re lighting a bonfire, for Homecoming.” Jamison pecked his mom on the cheek and headed for the door.
“Okay, I’ll try not to worry. Don’t get too close.”
Jamison froze. “To whom?”
His mom laughed. “To the fire. Don’t get too close to the bonfire.” She set down her coffee cup, frowning. “What about Daddy? He missed you last night.”
It was so weird, hearing her call him Daddy again, after all these years.
“I’ll be over to see him, I promise. There might be plenty of stuff going on later and I didn’t want you waiting up for me, you know?”
“Fine. I’ll probably stay late and watch TV with him. You know, like we would at home.” She got up and grabbed a tissue. “Go.”
“Loveyoubye!” He pecked her on the cheek again and tried not to think that it might be the last chance he’d ever have. Who knew what kind of hell he’d have to pay for what he was planning to do.
So much to do, so little time.
Jamison tried to look casual and bored as he walked into English class. He didn't want Skye to think it was anything other than a normal day.
Morning announcements were hard to hear over the chaos in the room; Mr. Evans was late.
“Everyone please come,” the kid on the PA pled. “The bonfire will be lit in the field to the West of the auditorium. And then we'll be watching a movie inside right after.”
Jamison looked at Skye and forced a smile. She looked relieved and smiled back. Since few other students were in their seats, he stood and moved to the back of the room and when he leaned against the wall, Skye turned in her seat, to face him.
“You are coming tonight, aren't you? To the bonfire?” He slid down the wall to sit on the floor. To most of the class it would just look like Skye was facing the empty rear of the classroom. “Please say you're coming.”
“I'll think about it.” Skye fidgeted with the tassel of her scarf.
“Oh, don't tell me you won't be allowed to come.” He leaned forward and grabbed her scarf, pulling it slowly from around her neck while looking into her eyes, daring her to stop him, daring her to say she'd come.
“I'm allowed.” She blushed, probably trying to think of everything else she was allowed to do. But surely, if the Somerleds condoned blowing people up, they'd condone just about anything.
“Good. Can you meet me there? I have to drive Granddad's truck over, with some old barn wood for the fire.”
“Yes. I'll meet you there.”
“Going to the Recovery Center today?”
“Yeah. I need to.”
“Me too. Maybe I'll see you there.” Jamison rolled up the scarf and tucked it into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. “I'll give it back if you come tonight.” Then he winked at her and made his way back to his seat.
Step one: get her scarf.
Step two: get her to come to the bonfire.
Check and check.
***
Mr. Evans walked in as the announcements wrapped up.
The kid behind Jamison poked him in the back and leaned forward.
“I heard he got called into Mr. Forbes's office this morning. He's busted. Been dating a student, if you know what I mean.”
“If that were true, he wouldn't be here this morning, would he?” Jamison rolled his eyes at the kid and turned forward again.
Rumors like that were never true. Some chick might have complained about Mr. Evans because he was too rude, or made her look stupid in front of her friends, but if she wanted to be believed, she should have come up with something else. The guy was 55 or 60. Students who dated teachers went for the young ones, not fossils with all white hair.
“Children? I hope you at least reviewed the notes of Jamison's friend, Cliff. Use as many pages as you'd like, and capitalizing on the rest of the class period, please write an essay explaining how old you expect to be when you decide wisdom, or something similar, will become more important to you than passion.
“And I don't mean only physical passion, Miss Phillips. I mean passion for life, passion for your dreams, passion for business, perhaps. Passion of any kind. Poetry. Art. Music. Science. There are some among you who might have a passion for mathematics, or gambling.
“Just how long do you see yourself holding on? How bad must your arthritis get before you choose a pain-free day over picking up your violin? How many months or years might go by without you noticing the passion is gone? Will you even care? Maybe you've already let something go, Mr. Shaw.”
He winked and Jamison and continued his rant.
“If sacrifice is giving up something good for something better, when do you think the balance will shift? When will that pain-free day sound better than the music?
“I can see Mr. Cloward getting his hopes up. Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm done talking. Start writing. Don't forget to tie in our beloved novel, Lost Horizon. Compare your prediction with what you have learned about Mr. Conrad or Mr. Mallinson.”
For Jamison it was fairly easy; he wrote about Granddad. That man was born with wisdom; he didn't need to give up his passions for it. He wouldn't have stayed in Shangri-La, he would have fought hard to get back home to his wife, his daughter and his grandson. He wouldn't have accepted any substitute for family. Kenneth Jamison was the fear and fight kind. He would have never cowered in Texas, no matter what he'd faced. He’d been John Freaking Wayne; he'd have found a way to fight.
For the first time, Jamison wrote about what happened deep in the heart of the Yellow Rose State. It didn't matter if it earned him a better grade or not, he just had to write it.
He dragged his feet, letting the rest of the class file out before he turned in his paper.
“Mr. Evans?”
“Mr. Shaw?”
“I can't give you my paper unless you promise to give it back. And you have to promise to keep what I've written to yourself. No one can be helped by it, and a few can be hurt.”
Mr. Evans's brows came together. “I'm sure it's not my place to stick my nose where it doesn't belong.”
“Thank you.” He stapled the pages together and handed them over.
“And Jamison?”
“Yeah?”
“If I can't...if I can't return it personally, I'll destroy it. All right with you?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“You have my word.”
Jamison nodded and left. That guy was friggin' weird.
Attend first period. Check.
***
Second period Jamison drove home. He hauled a pallet and some long ropes from the old shed and headed for the tree house. He was whistling the Irish Washerwoman's song, his granddad’s favorite, so it took some time to realize someone was calling out to him.
“Ho! Young Kenneth!”
Jamison took a deep breath and turned. Lucas was standing on something on the other side of the fence, the top of the boards hitting him around the waist of his white work clothes.
Jamison smiled a neighborly smile and didn't allow himself to think a hostile thought. “Oh, hello.”
“Good morning, young Kenneth.”
“Actually, I go by Jamison. I leave 'Kenneth' for my grandfather.”
“Well, then, hello young Jamison.”
“Hello. You Marcus?”
“No. Marcus moved to another farm. I'm called Lucas.”
“Nice to meet you.” Jamison took his hand off the ropes on his shoulder and gave a little wave before turning away.
“Is there something I could help you do, young Jamison?”
He turned, smiling. Shrugging the rope-ladden shoulder, he lifted that Ken Jamison eyebrow. “I guess I could use a little help, but can you spare the time?”
“I'm between projects, you could say.” Lucas jumped the fence and his large body landed lightly on odd leather boots. “What is it you mean to do with all this?”
“Well, this may sound silly, but I was thinking that old tree house might be a little too dangerous to have around. I can't quite bring myself to tear it down, but I thought if I boarded it up kids won't be tempted to climb up, you know?”
“That doesn't sound silly a'tall. What do we do first?”
“Well, there's all this wood, from the old pig shed. I thought I should haul up what I'll need into the clubhouse, then I can take the rest of it to the bonfire at the school tonight. Then I can get credit for cleaning up the pile of wood.”
“A sound plan. And maybe some money in your pocket?”
Jamison grinned. “Absolutely.”
An hour went by swiftly with Jamison keeping his mind clear of anything but the task at hand. If he could pull off being this close to Lucas without arousing suspicion, the rest of his plans would be do-able.
With a pallet, a pulley, and the help of a man obviously gifted in the strength department, Jamison was able to get plenty of wood up into the tree house. No mention of school was made until lunchtime arrived.
“Would you like to come inside and I'll make us some lunch?” He turned toward the house.
Lucas took off his work gloves and dusted off his still-white pants. “No, but thank you. My lunch will be waiting for me at home. How is it, young Jamison, that you are not in school today?”
“Oh, that. Well, I went to English, to take a test, but they cut me some slack so I could collect wood for the bonfire.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Yeah, anything for Homecoming.”
“And how is your grandfather?”
The need for smiles disappeared.
“He's not doing too good right now. They’re going to decide whether or not to try a different treatment. The last thing they did didn't work.”
“And what do you think?”
“I don't want him in pain, but I can't stand to see him stop fighting. Lots of people beat cancer, right? So why not him?”
“Yes, why not indeed.” Lucas started to walk toward the road, to walk around the end of the fence. “I think he's lucky to have you, son. I'm very glad you and your mother came back.”
After lunch it was quick work to nail boards across all the windows of the clubhouse. The drop door was a little tricky; he pounded old gray boards across the door without actually nailing the door shut. From the ground, however, it screamed “no access.”
With a chainsaw, starting at the top, he cut the center out of all the ladder rungs while trying not to give the old trunk new wounds. About six or eight inches of wood still surrounded each railroad spike. If asked, he would explain that to take the spikes out would be not only difficult, but would shock the tree. But with the greater portion of each rung missing, it would take a rock climber to get to the tree house, and then they couldn't get in.
Step 4. Check.