The Root Cellar (12 page)

“I don’t belong here,” she repeated. “I figured it out a long time ago. I.…” She stopped and looked down at her hands, her fingers nervously entwined. Sam’s sudden, unexpected offer of friendship had filled her with an overpowering rush of gratitude and an immediate urge to confide in him—to give him something in return. “I … Sam, if I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone else?”

“Sure.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

Rose told him the story of Mrs. Morrissay, the root cellar, and Susan and Will. Then she showed him the photocopy of Will’s name and took the crumpled song out of her pocket and showed him that.

Sam got up. He paced back and forth in front of her, his hands first swinging wildly at his sides, then pushing through his hair until it stood on end like the quills of a porcupine.
Finally he stopped in front of her. “Okay,” he said, “I admit I thought I saw a ghost that one morning and I admit it did look like an old lady”—he swallowed—“in fact, sort of like the old lady you’re talking about, and it wasn’t just a silhouette. I only said that to steer Mom off. It was a face and everything, but it
could
have been shadows and so could yours. All that other stuff about the root cellar and going back in time—that’s crazy. But even if it were absolutely true, it wouldn’t mean you belonged there. You belong here. You belong with us. You’re our cousin. Even if you are an American.” Sam grinned. “But that’s okay. My mother’s an American too, remember? Your father was my mother’s brother. His name was David Larkin, and there’s a picture of him on my mother’s dresser. I’ll show you when we get home. I don’t know why you think people don’t like you. Why shouldn’t they, unless”—Sam came to a halt in front of Rose—“unless it’s because you don’t like the rest of us very much. You’re not exactly the friendliest person in the world, you know.”

Sam stopped. Rose said nothing. She was too stunned. David Larkin—she had never thought about her father as a real person, someone who might even be in a photograph, someone other people knew about. She felt a curious sense of shock. “Come on,” she heard Sam saying, “it’s
getting cold. Let’s go find something to eat. How much money have you got?”

Rose searched her pockets and found a couple of dollars and some change. She got up from the wall and together they walked down the hill. Sam asked if she would show him Will’s song, and he played it on his harmonica as they walked.

Prickles stood out on the back of Rose’s neck and along her arms, listening to Sam play Will’s song. She stopped and closed her eyes and put her hands tightly to her face, trying to hold the world still, so swiftly did it seem to spin and whirl. Through the notes Rose heard again in her head the sharp, sweet tones of the wood thrush. Sam stopped and looked at her in alarm. “Your face is white as paper. Are you okay?”

“Yes.” Rose clenched and unclenched her hands in her pockets, and in a moment she felt better. After a few minutes she began to hum the song, thinking about Will and about her unknown father.

Eventually they found themselves on what looked to be an old street that ran along the water. It was lined with weathered buildings, most of them crooked and leaning against each other as though seeking comfort against the wind that even on this balmy day carried with it a chill from the lake. There were shops along one side, and a cheerful-looking restaurant with a geranium in the window invited them to come
inside. They ate muffins and drank cider together. Sam told Rose what he knew of her father, which was only that Aunt Nan had loved him very much. Rose listened, bemused. Then she tried to explain to him about her own life in great cities around the world.

“No wonder you think nobody likes you,” said Sam after a while, “if the only people you know are those aunts and uncles. You don’t know any people, not kids, not ordinary people. You’re just lucky your father had a sister and she had kids and they’re us.”

“I guess so,” said Rose, but she was too confused in her mind to think clearly about that or any of what Sam had said that afternoon. It had upset everything she’d always thought true, and it was rather wonderful but she didn’t trust it. In fact, she didn’t really believe that Sam didn’t hate her.

But all the way home the next day, Rose thought about what Sam had said, and she felt the beginning of a warm feeling inside her.

When they arrived, Aunt Nan was waiting for them.

The Accident

T
he car had hardly stopped in the driveway before Aunt Nan was out through the kitchen door and across the yard. Rose got out to meet her, knowing she was going to be scolded. She was not prepared for the hurt and rage that greeted her.

Aunt Nan’s face was white and her eyes were red and swollen. She was in a greater state of disarray than Rose had ever seen her. Her hair looked like an owl’s nest, her skirt was hanging way down at the back where she had not done it up properly, and her sweater was on inside out.

“You must be the most difficult child the world has ever known,” she said in low, angry, carefully measured tones. “You’re ungrateful, inconsiderate, selfish, and cruel. After your Uncle Bob phoned on Thursday I could hardly believe my ears. You knew it was a special outing. I told you so myself. Are you so used to
doing absolutely everything you want that you had to go skulking in the back of the station wagon to ruin the trip for Sam and George and Uncle Bob? And all you left me was this. I would never have found it if I hadn’t started to feel sorry for you. I went upstairs this morning to get your dirty laundry and there it was!”

There were tears in Aunt Nan’s eyes by this time, and she shoved a piece of paper under Rose’s nose that Rose recognized as her monogrammed stationery—the letter she had written to Aunt Millicent and never sent. She had forgotten all about it.

“Can you imagine how I felt?” Aunt Nan had lost her careful control and her voice was rising with every word. “Can you just imagine? Well, Miss Rose Larkin, I’ll tell you what I did. I went straight to the phone and called your Aunt Millicent and she was very upset. She said she couldn’t imagine what had gotten into you. She said she didn’t know what to do. She’d have to talk to Arnold and Stella and phone me back. I don’t know what to do with you. I’ve never been so upset in my whole life. But you can just be sure someone will find you a nice orphanage
somewhere!
”

Aunt Nan had run out of steam. Tears were pouring down her face and she was gripping Rose’s arm as though Rose were a wild animal fighting to get loose. But Rose stood still,
utterly shaken. She hardly felt the pain of Aunt Nan’s frenzied grip. She couldn’t speak.

“Nan, Nan, what’s this all about?” demanded Uncle Bob. “Let me see that paper.” He loosened Aunt Nan’s fingers from the now crumpled, tear-soaked paper. The boys stood in awed silence. Aunt Nan let go of Rose’s arm and reached for her handkerchief. Rose thought she was going to hit her and leaped back in fright. She slipped, fell, picked herself up and in a panic started to run toward the back of the house. All she could think of was the safety of the root cellar.

“No, you don’t,” cried Aunt Nan. “You’re not running off. You can just stay right here and face the music, you little coward”—and she lunged after her. She ran a few steps, slid on a patch of wet leaves, her feet went out from under her, and she fell flat on her back. For a moment nobody moved. Then Uncle Bob was kneeling beside her. “Rose,” murmured Aunt Nan and fainted.

“Call the doctor,” barked Uncle Bob. White-faced, Sam ran into the house. Aunt Nan opened her eyes.

“Thank God,” said Uncle Bob. “Now lie absolutely still. I don’t think you should move until Dr. Best gets here.”

The twins had started to cry and George was angrily telling them to shut up. Rose,
halfway to the corner of the house, had turned and in anguish watched the scene as though it were happening at a great distance. George turned to glare murderously at her, but otherwise no one paid her any attention.

Dr. Best was not long getting there. She looked Aunt Nan over carefully, felt for broken bones, got her to stand up, and with Uncle Bob’s help led her into the house.

After she had gone George turned on Rose. “Are you crazy or something?” he yelled. “You could’ve killed Mom. You’re the most selfish person in the whole world!”

The twins stared from Rose to George and back again, their faces solemn, their eyes big and round and frightened. Sam came out through the door.

“Come on, you guys,” he said to the twins. “Mom’s okay. The doctor’s in there talking to her and I heard them laughing. You want to play race cars? You come too.” He turned toward Rose.

“No,” said Rose hoarsely.

“Come on,” he said, coming over to her. “It wasn’t your fault. Mom gets like that sometimes. She goes hairy. That’s all this is. The doctor says she’s okay. Come on.”

“No.”

“Well, all right, but—all right.” Sam went inside the house. With one withering look, George followed them.

“She’s going to die,” Rose whispered to herself. “She’s going to die and the baby’s going to die and it’s my fault.” She had not moved from where she had stopped half an hour before, when Aunt Nan had fallen. She could not move, her legs would not carry her. The scene replayed itself in her mind—the shouts and shrieks, her breaking loose from Aunt Nan’s clutch, Aunt Nan running after her and the fall, over and over again, the fall.

The doctor came out of the house. At last Rose moved.

“Please,” she said, “is Aunt Nan going to die?”

“Oh, no, of course not,” said Dr. Best. She was a small, sturdy woman who in her brisk movements exuded a sense of confidence. “No, she’s going to be fine, the baby’s going to be fine. The only problem is that she’s wrenched her back and she’s going to have to stay in bed for at least a month. As long as she’s careful she’ll be fine. You’ll all have to help. Don’t you worry.”

“Thank you, thank you very much,” said Rose, and without stopping to say good-bye she ran around the corner of the house and threw herself to the ground beside the root cellar doors.

“I don’t care,” she said again and again to herself. “She’s all right and I didn’t kill her.
She hates me, but she’s going to be all right. I didn’t kill her. Sam’s wrong. I don’t belong here. I don’t.”

She was so consumed by her own misery that she almost let the shadow of the thorn tree slip past the opening between the doors. Just in time she jumped up and ran down the steps.

When the Wind Comes Up

R
ose sniffed the summer air hungrily. But she didn’t have the strength of spirit to go looking for Susan. Instead, she sat down and clasped her hands tightly around her knees and put her head down. The words still pounded in her head: “ungrateful, inconsiderate, selfish, cruel.” “You could’ve killed Mom.” Then she heard again Sam’s voice: “Not exactly the friendliest person in the world, you know.” She shuddered and tried to push the voices out of her mind but still they hammered at her. “I didn’t kill her,” she whispered. “I’m not going back there ever, if I get to be three hundred and seventy-five years old. Never!”

“Rose?” said Susan’s soft voice. “Rose, are you sick?”

Rose looked up. “Oh, Susan,” she said and, for the first time she could ever remember, she burst into tears. “I did something really awful
and Aunt Nan almost died.” Through her tears she told Susan what had happened.

When she had finished there was a silence that to Rose seemed filled with her shame and unkindness. Then Susan said, “Well, I don’t see you been so terrible bad. I don’t suppose you ought to have stowed away in the cart, but it ain’t such a terrible thing. The letter was too bad. You wrote it when you was mad. You can see how it would be a hard thing to come across. And besides, your aunt’s pregnant and sometimes that makes a person chancy. Even cats and cows when they’re pregnant can be some upset. Not that you have to be pregnant to have a chancy temper. I guess you ain’t used to hearing people get riled like that. From what you say, your gran never did.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Well, it seems to me your aunt is one who does. You’ll get used to it. When you go back there you’ll feel lots better.”