“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.”
She considered. “Okay.”
From downstairs came a muffled groan, followed by the thump of crutches. Pete tracked the sound into the kitchen, where Dad would sit down, light a cigarette, and blow the smoke out the back door. This would cause the furnace to run, and what the furnace burned, according to their mother, was not oil but dollar bills.
“Are they gonna get divorced, do you think?”
Pete was doubly shocked: first by the question, then by the adult matter-of-factness of it. He started to say No, course not, then thought how much he disliked movies where adults lied to children, which was like all movies.
“I don’t know. Not tonight, anyway. The courts are closed.”
She giggled. That was probably good. He waited for her to say something else. She didn’t. Pete’s thoughts turned to the trunk buried in the embankment, beneath that tree. He had managed to keep those thoughts at arm’s length while he did his homework, but . . .
No, I didn’t. Those thoughts were there all the time.
“Teens? You better not go to sleep.”
“I’m not . . .” But damn close, from the sound.
“What would you do if you found a treasure? A buried treasure chest full of jewels and gold doubloons?”
“What are doubloons?”
“Coins from olden days.”
“I’d give it to Daddy and Mommy. So they wouldn’t fight anymore. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Pete said. “Now go back to your own bed, before I have to carry you.”
???
Under his insurance plan, Tom Saubers only qualified for therapy twice a week now. A special van came for him every Monday and Friday at nine o’clock and brought him back at four in the afternoon, after hydrotherapy and a meeting where people with long-term injuries and chronic pain sat around in a circle and talked about their problems. All of which meant that the house was empty for seven hours on those days.
On Thursday night, Pete went to bed complaining of a sore throat. The next morning he woke up saying it was still sore, and now he thought he had a fever, too.
“You’re hot, all right,” Linda said after putting the inside of her wrist to his brow. Pete certainly hoped so, after holding his face two inches from his bedside lamp before going downstairs. “If you’re not better tomorrow, you probably should see the doctor.”
“Good idea!” Tom exclaimed from his side of the table, where he was pushing around some scrambled eggs. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. “A specialist, maybe! Just let me call Shorty the Chauffeur. Tina’s got dibs on the Rolls for her tennis lesson at the country club, but I think the Town Car is available.”
Tina giggled. Linda gave Tom a hard look, but before she could respond, Pete said he didn’t feel all that bad, a day at home would probably fix him up. If that didn’t, the weekend would.
“I suppose.” She sighed. “Do you want something to eat?”
Pete did, but thought it unwise to say so, since he was supposed to have a sore throat. He cupped his hand in front of his mouth and created a cough. “Maybe just some juice. Then I guess I’ll go upstairs and try to get some more sleep.”
???
Tina left the house first, bopping down to the corner where she and Ellen would discuss whatever weirdo stuff nine-year-olds discussed while waiting for the schoolbus. Then Mom for her school, in the Focus. Last of all Dad, who made his way down the walk on his crutches to the waiting van. Pete watched him go from his bedroom window, thinking that his father seemed smaller now. The hair sticking out around his Groundhogs cap had started to turn gray.
When the van was gone, Pete threw on some clothes, grabbed one of the reusable grocery shopping bags Mom kept in the pantry, and went out to the garage. From his father’s toolbox he selected a hammer and chisel, which he dumped into the bag. He grabbed the spade, started out, then came back and took the crowbar as well. He had never been a Boy Scout, but believed in being prepared.
???
The morning was cold enough for him to see his breath, but by the time Pete dug enough of the trunk free to feel he had a chance of pulling it out, the air had warmed up to well above freezing and he was sweating under his coat. He draped it over a low branch and peered around to make sure he was still alone here by the stream (he had done this several times). Reassured, he got some dirt and rubbed his palms with it, like a batter getting ready to hit. He grasped the handle at the end of the trunk, reminding himself to be ready if it broke. The last thing he wanted to do was tumble down the embankment ass over teapot. If he fell into the stream, he really might get sick.
Probably nothing in there but a bunch of moldy old clothes, anyway . . . except why would anyone bury a trunk filled with old clothes? Why not just burn them, or take them to the Goodwill?
Only one way to find out.
Pete took a deep breath, locked it down in his chest, and pulled. The trunk stayed put, and the old handle creaked warningly, but Pete was encouraged. He found he could now shift the trunk from side to side a little. This made him think of Dad tying a thread around one of Tina’s baby teeth and giving a brisk yank when it wouldn’t come out on its own.
He dropped to his knees (reminding himself he would do well to either wash these jeans later on or bury them deep in his closet) and peered into the hole. He saw a root had closed around the rear of the trunk like a grasping arm. He grabbed the spade, choked up on the handle, and chopped at it. The root was thick and he had to rest several times, but finally he cut all the way through. He laid the spade aside and grabbed the handle again. The trunk was looser now, almost ready to come out. He glanced at his watch. Quarter past ten. He thought of Mom calling home on her break to see how he was doing. Not a big problem, when he didn’t answer she’d just think he was sleeping, but he reminded himself to check the answering machine when he got back. He grabbed the spade and began to dig around the trunk, loosening the dirt and cutting a few smaller roots. Then he took hold of the handle again.
“This time, you mother,” he told it. “This time for sure.”