Beware the Wild (20 page)

“Heath,” he says in his most authoritative of voices. “Sterling.” But he saved the bulk of his disapproval for me.

“I know I was speeding, sir,” says Heath, offering his license and registration without being asked. “I apologize. It won't happen again.”

“No, I ‘spect it won't.”

He could let him go. We couldn't have been going that fast. I know for a fact the sheriff's not big on unnecessary fines when they can be avoided, but Darold starts writing a ticket.

“Darold, please, can't you just give him a warning?”

Darold doesn't break his stride to answer. “Sterling, go wait in the car, please.”

I sit utterly still. Stunned.

This is not the way things are supposed to go. Darold never tells me what to do. We're polite to each other, but the deepest conversation we ever had was when he first came into Mama's life and told me he wouldn't try to replace my dad. I told him that if he'd said anything other than that I'd have pulled every one of his teeth while he slept. He laughed, and that was that. He's never tried to be anything other than the guy who loves my mama, but he's breaking the rules. Again.

“Sterling.” Darold stops writing and looks at me. “Go wait in the car.”

“Fine.”

I slam the door and go sit in the musty air of his cruiser while he intimidates Heath. I twist all the dials I can find, set the heat to maximum so the next time he turns it on he gets a real treat, then put my feet on his otherwise spotless dash. It feels like ages before he opens the door and slides in. Heath signals and drives away like he knows we're watching, or like he knows Darold is waiting for him to make another mistake. Darold lets him get ahead before following.

Neither of us speaks. It isn't until he's driven back to the house and parked in the driveway that he gets his words together. They're exactly what I expected.

“I want you to steer clear of that boy,” he says.

“
Heath
,” I all but shout, “is my friend and I won't stay away from him.”

“He's careless and troubled and you
will
stay away. This is for your own good.”

“Will I?” I slam the door of the cruiser and head for the house. “Good luck with that. Shouldn't you be doing something useful like repairing the fence and ignoring what's on the other side? Do me a favor and stick to that.”

That struck gold. He flinches under the accusation.

“You know there's something wrong with the swamp,” I press, thinking of the conversation I overheard between him and Sheriff Felder the day Phin went missing. “Why won't you say it? Heath isn't the problem, the swamp is!”

“I know the swamp's dangerous, Sterling, don't you think I know that!” His shout is an eruption. “That's exactly why I want you to stay away from him. He's more mixed up with that place than anyone and I don't want you anywhere near it!” He swipes his hat against his thigh, squinting at the sun. “Please, do as I ask.”

“No!” Anger weakens my voice, but not my resolve. “I won't. Not unless you know something about him I don't. And don't think just because you didn't tell Mama about my date I
owe
you anything!”

“Sterling, I swear to God!”

“You swear what, Dad?!”

I stop. He does, too, and for a moment, we stare at each other in surprise because for a moment, we changed.

He makes the first sound.

“I—” His mouth gapes like fish. “The point is I stopped a reckless boy for speeding today and you were with him. That's inexcusable. You're grounded. All weekend.”

That does the trick. Resentment flares to life, pushing that awkward moment firmly to the side.

“Fine!” I shout, and go lock myself in my bedroom.

In the quiet that follows, my own words echo in my head:
You swear what, Dad?!
I've never used that word for Darold. I swore I never would. Not because he hasn't been good to us, but because I ground that word to dust the day Dad left. It was tainted and ugly and never to be used.

But I did and even though I'm pissed as a rattlesnake in a tin can, I can't help but be glad. The swamp's taken my brother and one of my best friends, but in some twisted way it's given me the dad I didn't know I was ready for.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

D
INNER COMES WITH A HEALTHY
portion of tension. Mama, of course, supports Darold's edict that I be grounded for the entire weekend. But when she says, “What are you thinking hanging with a boy like that?” I get right to my feet and say, “He's not a boy
like that
. He's my
friend
.” Lenora May comes to my aid, defending Heath's honor in her eloquent way.

The clock
tick-tick-tick
s before Mama nods and flutters a hand like she didn't mean to suggest I shouldn't spend time with Heath. Darold doesn't press the issue. I think he can see there's a fight in my eye because instead he compliments me and Lenora May on our finely baked tarts. An awkward bit of praise to accept, but I make it to my room without too much trouble.

Outside, the swamp's glowing bright again. All that Shine moving in its strange seaweed dance, skidding up to the fence and away, up to the fence and away. It's peaceful and hypnotic, but I think it's pretending to be sweet.

It's late when I finally catch Heath on the phone.

“I found a few options,” he says, skipping the events of the afternoon and getting right to business. “The closest orchard is a few hours' drive, but at least we'd be able to pick our own peaches and know for sure where they came from.”

He emails me an address and I load it on my ancient joke of a laptop. The website is as country as it could be, with every spare inch trussed up in gingham print and dancing berries. The name
POP'S PEACHES AND PRETTY FINE PRODUCE
curves over the top like a rainbow. Briefly, we discussed running into the Winn-Dixie for a bag of apples or kiwis or something else that definitely didn't come from Sticks, but decided that nothing magical ever came out of a Winn-Dixie, and if we only have one shot at this, we'd better
be sure no one had touched the fruit but us. Peaches seemed a fine tribute to Grandpa Harlan's original effort.

Pop's Peaches is in one of the northern parishes, a solid two-and-a-half-hour drive away, and not near any of Louisiana's swampy lands.

“This looks perfect.”

“When should I pick you up?” he asks.

“Are you sure you can go? I don't want to get you into any more trouble.”

There's a pause and I'm sure he's going to say no. He probably should say no. I'll be the equivalent of a wanted criminal when I sneak out of my house tomorrow.

“I'm in trouble, Sterling.
We
are in trouble.” I can hear blankets rustle as he gets up to pace. “I know this is hard for you, but stop thinking I'm going to disappear. Please, trust that I'm here. I'm not going to run away when things get hard. I'm going to meet you tomorrow, get those peaches, and then I'm going inside the swamp with you to help find your brother and Nathan.”

“Heath,” I say, remorseful and grateful all at once.

Our relationship started backward, with all the important things coming first and all the silly, inconsequential details shrouded in mystery. I don't even know if he has a favorite color or what he likes in his coffee. Everything I know about Heath I've gathered by accident, from the floor of his truck or simply by existing in the same small town all our lives.

Maybe it's easier to not know the little things. They're what hurt the most when they're gone. What does it matter that Phin loves old cars and painted that '68 Chevelle red because it's my favorite color? It doesn't matter a damn, but looking at that car in the driveway is a knife in the stomach: the guts of my relationship with Phin all cut open and rotting in the sun. I don't want to feel this way about someone else. I don't want to get so close that losing them means losing a piece of myself. But I ask anyway.

“What's your favorite color?”

He makes a noise of confusion.

“It's important. I mean, not really, but I need to know because I know all of these really serious things about you and none of the little things. So what's your favorite color? Food? Sport?”

He takes a quick second to think. “It used to be orange, but this week it's blue. I can eat twice my weight in catfish. I think you probably knew that one. And baseball, which is also probably obvious. You?”

“Red, broccoli, and volleyball. Okay,” I say, breathing a little easier. “It says the orchard opens at ten, but my parents won't be gone until nine so be here at nine thirty. I
mean, be down the street. Just in case. And I'm paying for gas.”

He laughs, but agrees, and before we hang up asks, “What I said before, do you believe me?”

I don't know why I hesitate. I've trusted Heath with so much. Why is it so hard to believe he'd want to help me? I know he does, but I can't say the words.

“Sure,” I say, and then, “Good night.”

My parents don't disappoint. Darold's off promptly by eight and Mama comes to check on me once before leaving to meet Mrs. Tilly. I lock my door and slip through the window. If anyone beats me home this afternoon, hopefully they'll assume I'm enjoying my internment with a nap. Or that I'm just being willful.

Heath and I pass the first hour in silence, both of us lost in our own heads, sipping the coffee Heath so kindly thought to provide. As a rule, I try not to trust facial expressions before coffee, but I find myself analyzing every movement his face makes. Is he upset about yesterday? Did he even notice my lack of commitment? Is he irritated at being on the road this early on his first day of summer? I decide to check and lift his coffee to my lips for an unfortunate taste.

“Why bother with the coffee at all?” I ask, rushing to sip my own, mercifully unadulterated cup as Heath breaks into a laugh. “Lord. May as well drink straight-up milk and sugar.”

I wear a disgusted face when Heath laughs again, but make a note should I ever have occasion to dress his coffee for him.

We take Highway 15 straight up Louisiana's side, slowing for towns with more churches than houses and more liquor stores than churches, all of them bigger than Sticks thanks to the highway. Fields open and close around copses of old oak trees and miles of pine saplings drowning in kudzu vines. The farther north we get, the more the land rolls and relents to being tamed. It's early yet for most crops, but cotton and soybeans and corn are already reaching up in thirsty green.

To find Pop's Peaches we have to turn off the main roads. I spend the second hour directing Heath down a series of increasingly smaller streets. The Ford heaves in all directions, proving there's nothing like a country road to test the willpower of a seat belt. By the end, the truck looks like something the dirt road hacked up.

We pull into a small haphazard lot and park in front of a sign proclaiming,
POP
'
S PEACHES ARE PRETTY FINE
!
PICK YOUR OWN
,
THEY
'
RE ALL DIVINE
! There's a single-story brick house squatting in a field to the right. To the left, is a produce stand made to look like a traditional red barn with dusty, white trim all the way around. Behind the barn, peach
trees run away in neat rows.

The only person around is the barely twelve-year-old boy watching the shop from a nearby tree fort. He races to greet us with a curious “Y'all here for peaches?”

When we say that we are, he carefully explains that there's not much ready for picking, but we're welcome to try. Thanking him, we grab a basket and follow the bright green arrows leading to the trees with the ripest fruit. Up close, the trees aren't as tall as they appeared from the car. They're low, bushy things with long, scratchy branches. But even if they're not much to look at, the air in the orchard smells green and sweet as syrup.

It takes ten minutes to reach the first tree with a blue ribbon marking it as prime for picking. By that time, my legs and arms are so full of itches it demands all my willpower to keep from scratching.

Peaches cluster around each of the unruly branches, every one yellow or pink as a sunset. I leave the paler fruit alone and reach for one that's turned so dark, pink doesn't describe it. Neither does red—it's a between color that makes my mouth water. I give it a firm twist, and it releases with a sigh.

“Looks perfect,” Heath says, holding branches wide to keep them from assaulting me.

I bring the fruit to my nose and inhale. “It smells so good.”

Again, the branches shiver. I hear the
snap
as the tree releases another peach. Following my lead, Heath inhales the scent of fruit he's holding. His eyes close for a moment and he smiles.