Keeping Holiday (8 page)

show all due respect to the Founder of Holiday;

rejoice in the very fullest way possible.

Dylan sat for a moment, grunted, “Hm,” then got up to return the flyer to the box.

“Don’t you think we should hang on to it?” Clare suggested.

“I guess so,” Dylan answered, folding the paper and putting it in his shirt pocket. Then he began to walk on down the path.

Just as the tree had said, now that Dylan and Clare were inside the gate, they found themselves in the narrow streets and dirty sidewalks of a not-so-nice part of what seemed a not-so-nice town. Concrete covered almost everything, resulting in a dull gray sameness wherever one looked. Passers- by had scrawled their names and other words in large, painted letters on the dirty buildings. In spite of the occasional trash barrel, wrappers, bottles, and cups littered the ground.

“The tree was certainly right about one thing,” Dylan said. “I
don’t
like this part of town. But following the widest path is easy enough, and hopefully that park’s not too far off.”

“But let’s hurry,” said Clare. “The sun will be going down soon. I really don’t want to get caught here in the dark.”

The two quickened their steps. Some of the people on the sidewalks also walked with quick steps. These people seemed preoccupied with business of their own and paid little attention to anyone else. For the most part, they walked alone. Occasionally, two of them hurried along together, but without speaking to each other. A man in a business suit almost collided with Dylan, but Dylan jumped aside. “No, tomorrow’s not good enough!” the man growled into a cell phone that he held in one hand. His other hand, curled into a fist, struck the air angrily. “It’s today or you can just forget it!” The man went on his way. He did not seem to have even noticed Dylan.

Some people wandered about in small groups, apparently with no destination, or stood slouching in the road. They laughed and made inaudible comments to one another while staring boldly at strangers passing by. These people seemed to feel a need for excitement, and Clare felt their need would only be met by
doing some kind of mischief.From behind her, Clare heard a crash and the tinkling of broken glass. She jumped and turned around. Dylan did too. Two boys ran, laughing, from a storefront window with a hole in it. An old man in an apron was coming out of the door of the store, shaking his fist. “You punks!” he called. “You’ll laugh in the back of a police car!” No sooner had the old man said this than a police car tore around the corner and squealed to a halt in front of the boys, blocking their path. Two uniformed men jumped from the car, seized the startled boys by the arms, clubbed them over the head with sticks several times, then forced them into the car. The car drove away.

“What was that?” Dylan asked.

“I don’t know who to feel sorry for,” Clare said, “the old man or the boys! Aren’t policemen supposed to read people their rights, or something?”

“Maybe those rules don’t apply here,” Dylan suggested.“Let’s keep moving. I’m with you that the sooner we’re out of here, the better.”

Dylan and Clare went on. At one point, their path led them right between two of the groups of slouching loafers. The two groups stood on opposite sidewalks. They eyed one another across the street and smiled mocking, dangerous smiles. Dylan and Clare hurried past, not wanting to be there when the storm that seemed to be brewing in these loiterers should break.

Still following the widest path, the cousins turned a corner. The scenery changed abruptly. “This is better,” said Clare, relieved. This street led past green well-kept lawns where large houses flaunted impressive doors and large, imposing windows.

Fences, some wrought iron, some made of stone, others wooden, enclosed every house. Each fence had at least one sign reading, “PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT.” Some fences also had signs reading, “KEEP OFF THE GRASS” or “NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.”

“Or maybe it’s not so much better,” Clare added. “Something’s wrong with this neighborhood.”

“It’s loud, for one thing,” Dylan said. “You’d expect a neighborhood that looks like this one to be quiet and peaceful.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t!” said Clare. And it certainly wasn’t. From some houses, televisions and stereos blared at highest volume. From many houses, angry voices could be heard. From one open window, Dylan and Clare heard the raised voices of a man and woman.

“Who asked you anyway?” the man’s voice roared. “I didn’t marry you so you could boss me around.”

“Yeah?” shrilled back a woman’s voice. “What did you marry me for, then? Because for the life of me, I can’t imagine what
I
was thinking when I married
you
!” At that, a curse word rang out, along with the sound of something being smashed. The children hurried on down the sidewalk.

“Look out!” Dylan cried in a sharp tone.

Clare jumped back so that the flashy sports car just missed her. Its driver was backing at top speed out of his driveway, which crossed the sidewalk. His eye caught Clare and, instead of stopping to apologize, as the children expected, the driver leaned from the window of his car and yelled, “Watch where you’re goin’!”

“One thing I think we can say for sure,” Dylan said. “These people are certainly not part of Holiday’s authorized personnel! Remember that list of requirements?” And he pulled it from his pocket and read, “‘Do, speak, and think only what is kind; keep tempers, emotions, and mouths under control at all times.’ Wherever this is, it must not be part of Holiday.”

The sidewalk led past a park, where two groups of boys with bats were choosing teams. Dylan heard a clear voice snap, “I don’t want
him
on my team; he can’t even hit the ball!” Dylan whipped his head around to see the speaker because something sounded so familiar. Of course, Dylan did not recognize the boy who had spoken, but when he looked at him, the boy looked back at Dylan and held his gaze for a moment. Suddenly, Dylan realized what it was that he had heard before. It was not the speaker’s voice; it was what he had said. The last time Dylan had played baseball with his friends, he had said those exact same words about Sam Parker. Was that how
he
had sounded? But Sam had never hit a ball in his life; why did he always want to play with the guys when they got together for baseball?

The houses looked a little less expensive now, although they still had the fences and the “Keep Out” signs. Dylan and Clare came up to a red light and stopped to wait for the “Walk” signal. Across from them, an old man in a motorized wheelchair and a teenage boy walking toward Dylan and Clare waited to cross as well. The light turned green, and Dylan and Clare stepped into the crosswalk. On the other side, the elderly man started first in his wheelchair, forcing the teenager to walk behind him until they had passed Dylan and Clare. “Come on, old man, could you go any
slower
?” the teenager called out.

Dylan’s first reaction was one of shock that someone would say such a thing to an elderly man. Then, with an even greater shock, Dylan recognized the teenager’s words as the very words he himself had said, not even a week ago! Oh, he had only muttered them under his breath, and the old man in question had not heard them, but they had been the exact same words. “Come on, old man, could you go any
slower
?” Even though the old man had not heard Dylan at the time, his friend Danny, who was with him, had heard and had laughed—which was just what Dylan had hoped for. Then Dylan got his third shock. The old man was just at the point of passing Dylan and Clare, so Dylan could clearly see the spiteful grin that spread across his face at the teenager’s words.

“I’ll take all the time I want, kid, and I don’t care who has to wait!” the old man said.

“Nice place,” Clare muttered, but Dylan did not answer. He was too stunned by the way two strangers in a row had said the exact words he remembered saying himself. For one thing, the coincidence was just too weird; but for another thing, hearing these things said right out loud by other people made him see how nasty they really sounded. And then it happened again. They passed a church whose doors were open, with well-dressed people entering. A mom, a dad, and their son were coming from the parking lot, and the son was complaining, for all the world to hear. “Why do you always make me come?” he groused. “I hate coming! It’s boring!” And once again, Dylan recognized himself. That was what he thought almost every Sunday.

The widest road, the one the tree had said to keep to, turned again, and Dylan and Clare were back in the part of town that was dirtier and run-down. Little groups of slouching people still loafed there, pointing at passersby and whispering. Shadows were growing long as the afternoon drew to a close. The cousins hurried.

When they first heard feet coming after them, they walked faster and tried to ignore them. The footsteps began to run, then, so they whirled around to see who followed. “Oh, it’s just him,” Clare said, as they both recognized the pleasant-faced man who had such an odd way of turning up wherever they went.

“It
is
you,” Mr. Smith beamed. “I thought so, but it was hard to tell from the back. Bad part of town, this, isn’t it?” he said, shaking his head. “Bet you’re glad
you
don’t live here and that
you’re
not like these people.” As always, the man’s voice was friendly enough, but Dylan felt that the look Mr. Smith fixed on him was somehow accusing and mocking at the same time—as though he realized what shameful things Dylan kept hearing people say and realized, too, that Dylan had said or thought them all himself. Mr. Smith shook his head again. “This is what we get when we go looking for a real Holiday,” he said. “There
is
no such thing. The best we can do is just enjoy our vacations in Holiday once a year and hold on to the memories. What you see here is just what people are, everywhere, all the rest of the time.”

“Oh, no!” Clare countered. “People in the real Holiday aren’t like this—Dylan, show him your list,”
and Dylan reached, reluctant, for the flyer in his pocket.

The man waved his hand. “Oh, no, save yourself the trouble,” he smiled. “I’ve seen the list—always kind, always keeping one’s temper and mouth under control, thinking of other people, not just yourself—isn’t that how it goes? Where are you possibly going to find people like that to live in such a place?” He winked at Dylan. “Do you think
you’ll
get authorized?” He chuckled softly, then gave a friendly wave. “Maybe I’ll see you again,” and he went on ahead of Dylan and Clare.

“The nerve of that guy!” Clare said. “He was insulting you!” Dylan didn’t answer. He was too unhappy. He had been thinking the very things Mr. Smith had implied—if, in order to be authorized for Holiday a person had to fit the requirements on the flyer in his pocket, it did not look like he, Dylan, would qualify. Would it be possible to convince the Founder—if he ever met him—that Dylan could see now how ugly some of his past actions and attitudes had been and that he was truly sorry? Would the Founder believe him if he promised he would never be like that again and would prove to be a credit to Holiday? Dylan hoped so with all his heart and moved on, Clare following, in the same direction the little man had gone.