Pete walked to the tree, grabbed one of its leafless branches, and bent for a better look. There was something there, all right, and it looked pretty big. The end of a box, maybe?
He worked his way down the bank, creating makeshift steps by digging the heels of his boots into the muddy earth. Once he was below the site of the little landspill, he squatted. He saw cracked black leather and metal strips with rivets in them. There was a handle the size of a saddle-stirrup on the end. It was a trunk. Someone had buried a trunk here.
Excited now as well as curious, Pete grabbed the handle and yanked. The trunk didn’t budge. It was socked in good and tight. Pete gave another tug, but just for form’s sake. He wasn’t going to get it out. Not without tools.
He hunkered with his hands dangling between his thighs, as his father often used to do before his hunkering days came to an end. Just staring at the trunk jutting out of the black, root-snarled earth. It was probably crazy to be thinking of Treasure Island (also ‘The Gold Bug,’ a story they’d read in English the year before), but he was thinking of it. And was it crazy? Was it really? As well as telling them that knowledge was power, Mr Jacoby stressed the importance of logical thinking. Wasn’t it logical to think that someone wouldn’t bury a trunk in the woods unless there was something valuable inside?
It had been there for awhile, too. You could tell just looking at it. The leather was cracked, and gray in places instead of black. Pete had an idea that if he pulled on the handle with all his might and kept pulling, it might break. The metal binding-strips were dull and lacy with rust.
He came to a decision and pelted back up the path to the house. He let himself in through the gate, went to the kitchen door, listened. There were no voices and the TV was off. His father had probably gone into the bedroom (the one on the first floor, Mom and Dad had to sleep there even though it was small, because Dad couldn’t climb stairs very well now) to take a nap. Mom might have gone in with him, they sometimes made up that way, but more likely she was in the laundry room that doubled as her study, working on her résumé and applying for jobs online. His dad might have given up (and Pete had to admit he had his reasons), but his mom hadn’t. She wanted to go back to teaching full-time, and not just for the money.
There was a little detached garage, but his mom never put the Focus in it unless there was going to be a snowstorm. It was full of stuff from the old house that they had no room for in this smaller rented place. His dad’s toolbox was in there (Tom had listed the tools on craigslist or something, but hadn’t been able to get what he considered a fair price for them), and some of Tina’s and his old toys, and the tub of salt with its scoop, and a few lawn-and-garden implements leaning against the back wall. Pete selected a spade and ran back down the path, holding it in front of him like a soldier with his rifle at high port.
He eased his way almost all the way down to the stream, using the steps he’d made, and went to work on the little landslide that had revealed the trunk. He shoveled as much of the fallen earth as he could back into the hole under the tree. He wasn’t able to fill it all the way to the gnarled roots, but he was able to cover the end of the trunk, which was all he wanted.
For now.
There was some arking and barking at dinner, not too much, and Tina didn’t seem to mind, but she came into Pete’s room just as he was finishing his homework. She was wearing her footy pajamas and dragging Mrs Beasley, her last and most important comfort-doll. It was as if she had returned to the age of five.
‘Can I get in your bed for awhile, Petie? I had a bad dream.’
He considered making her go back, then decided (thoughts of the buried trunk flickering in his mind) that to do so might be bad luck. It would also be mean, considering the dark hollows under her pretty eyes.
‘Yeah, okay, for awhile. But we’re not going to make a practice of it.’ One of their mom’s favorite phrases.
Tina scooted across the bed until she was against the wall – her sleeping position of choice, as if she planned to spend the night. Pete closed his Earth Science book, sat down beside her, and winced.
‘Doll warning, Teens. Mrs Beasley’s head is halfway up my butt.’
‘I’ll scrunch her down by my feet. There. Is that better?’
‘What if she smothers?’
‘She doesn’t breathe, stupid. She’s just a doll and Ellen says pretty soon I’ll get tired of her.’
‘Ellen’s a doofus.’
‘She’s my friend.’ Pete realized with some amusement that this wasn’t exactly disagreeing. ‘But she’s probably right. People grow up.’
‘Not you. You’ll always be my little sister. And don’t go to sleep. You’re going back to your room in like five minutes.’
‘Ten.’
‘Six.’