Roland watched her go.
“Did you forgive her yet?” Peter said.
Roland looked amused. “Forgive her? I’m not mad at her. You think I’m mad at everybody.” He sat on the edge of the perfectly-made bed. “Do you have any paper? Let’s figure this thing out.”
“Yeah.”
By the time Peter had found an empty spiral notebook and a pen, Caitlyn and Toby had returned. Roland sat next to Caitlyn on the edge of the bed, both of them munching on pizza. And Toby lay on his belly, pulling a row of eight little die-cast trains around their feet.
“Okay,” Peter said. “Who wants to write down our translations?”
Caitlyn raised her hand and reached for the spiral notebook and pen.
“Since you’ve probably seen more foreign languages than me, your father being a collector and all, you can have the old book and tell me what I need to look up.” He sat on Roland’s other side. “This’ll probably take some time, so let’s do it.”
“I can spend the night,” Roland said.
“Good. Wow. So, you didn’t catch heat for sneaking over here, skipping school, or the cigarettes, or anything?”
Roland gave Caitlyn a look.
“I didn’t tell him,” Caitlyn said.
“I know. I didn’t think you would.” Then to Peter, he said, “I served detention at school and Papa will punish me for the rest later. He didn’t know what to do. I don’t usually do stupid things.”
“Jarret should be in trouble, not you. Did you tell on him?”
“No.”
“Why don’t we start at the beginning?” Caitlyn said.
“Uh . . .” Roland gulped. “Okay. Well, what do you want to know?” He tugged at the neckline of his black t-shirt.
“Aren’t we trying to find out what the old book says?” she said.
Roland exhaled and chuckled. “Yeah.” He flipped open the book and cleared his throat. “Okay. These are obviously dates. See?” He angled the book so Peter could see.
17 Februar 1912 was scrawled in the left corner of the first page.
“Do you think it’s a diary?” Caitlyn said. “Or maybe a journal?” She wrote the date down in the spiral notebook.
“Probably,” Peter said. “The first entry was written February 17th, 1912. Cool, huh?” There were other dates on the page, the months easily identifiable except for one. “What’s Marz?”
“March,” Roland and Caitlyn said together then gazed into each other’s eyes for a full second.
“What’s the first word on the first entry?” Caitlyn said.
Roland squinted at the book. “I can’t make out the first word. But the next ones are clear: Er wurde abgeheilt.” He spelled abgeheilt and nudged Peter. “Look it up.”
Peter flipped through the dictionary, under the A’s. “Abgeheilt...no, it’s not in here.” His heart sank. The notebook was old. Maybe the language was old-fashioned, and they wouldn’t be able to translate it.
“Well, it’s German. Try the rest of the word, geheilt or even heilt.” Roland spoke with confidence, as if he knew what he was talking about. What did he know about the German language?
“Are you going to look it up?” Roland reached for the German/English dictionary.
Peter pulled back. “Okay, okay.” He flipped through the book and found both words. “You’re right,” he said, gazing upon Roland with new respect. “It means heal or healed.”
“Healed,” Caitlyn mumbled and wrote it down.
“I can’t make out the beginning of this next sentence,” Roland said. “But here’s a really big word for you: Sterbewahrscheinlichkeit.” He spelled it out.
“Okay, wait, slow down. Just give me the first letters until I find the page.” Peter flipped through the dictionary to the s-words. “Okay, sterb . . . let me see. There’s like a ton of ‘sterb’ words in here and all of them seem to have to do with . . .” He gulped and scanned a few more words, hoping for a different translation. “. . . uh, dying.”
“Dying? What about the rest of the word?” Caitlyn held the pen poised above the notebook, ready to write.
Peter scanned but couldn’t find the complete word. Considering Roland’s previous advice, he looked up the next part of the word separately. “Wahrscheinlichkeit means probability.”
“Probability of dying?” Caitlyn’s eyes grew wide.
Roland shrugged and nudged Caitlyn. “Write it down.”
Caitlyn obeyed. “Okay. What’s the date for that entry? Same date? Probability of dying?” She turned her sad eyes to Roland. “That sounds awful.”
“Yeah, awful,” Roland said and, another full second later, returned his attention to the book. “There are different names under each entry. See? Adela Redmond.” He held the book so they could both see: Adela Redmond wurde von einer totenkrankheit geheilt, die über ihr mit dem Relikt betet.
“Yeah, and Carl Waldwick,” Peter said. “And something . . . Rudelle Locke and this name Str. Konrad or Konrad von Parzham is in both entries.” He turned the page. “There’s that name again. Konrad. Hey, my dad’s name is Conrad.”
“There’s the word geheilt in this entry,” Cailtyn said, pointing. “Almost like abgeheilt in the first one.”
Roland flipped through the book then stared at the first blank page. “That’s weird.”
“What?” Peter looked again. It wasn’t blank. The page held two letters, initials maybe, and date.
“Different handwriting,” Roland said. “More modern, like it had been added years later.”
“H. R.,” Caitlyn whispered, reading the initials. “And the date . . . it’s only forty-five years ago.”
“Yeah, wow.” Peter leaned in for a closer view when someone knocked on the bedroom door.
The three of them jerked their faces to the door and froze.
The knock came again. “Peter?” Mom’s voice came from the other side.
Peter sighed. “Well, open the door, Mom. What’s up?”
The door opened. “Caitlyn, your mother called. She wants you home now. I’ll drive you.”
Caitlyn moaned and glanced at the dark window. “O-o-kay.” She handed the spiral notebook and pen to Roland and whispered, “Goodbye.”
He nodded.
“Aren’t you gonna tell me goodbye.” Peter grinned.
Caitlyn scooted off the bed, stepped over Toby, and flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Bye, Peter. Tell me what you find out tomorrow.”
“Toby take a ride?” Toby jumped up and followed Caitlyn from the room.
“Roland,” Mom said, “do you want a ride home, too?”
“I, uh . . . Can I spend the night?”
Chapter 46
The morning sun crept into Peter’s bedroom and shattered his dream.
He took a deep breath and threw his arm over his eyes. The book. They had interpreted a good portion of the book. As soon as he could get his body moving, they should show it to Dad. Maybe he’d have some insight. He took another deep breath. “You awake?” he said to Roland.
No answer.
Roland didn’t seem the type to sleep in. Peter rolled over.
The sleeping bag Roland had used lay rolled up in the corner of the room, the pillow stacked on top of it.
Peter bolted upright. “Roland?” His eyes turned by impulse to his desk.
The old book, the German/English dictionary, and the spiral notebook were gone.
His stomach did a flip. Tearing out of bed, he found the window cracked open but no rope ladder.
He exhaled. Roland hadn’t snuck out the window. What was he thinking, anyway? Did he really think Roland would take the book and sneak off? What would he want with it? If anything, he should want the other things in the box.
He gulped. Where was Roland?
Glad he slept in his clothes, Peter dashed from his room.
SATURDAY MORNINGS AT the Forest Gateway stretched out longer than any other morning of the week. Guests lingered in the dining room for hours, grazing on pastries and breakfast
foods, sipping coffee, carrying on pleasant conversations, and reading newspapers. Voices carried through the house.
Peter strolled through the living room, scanning the guests.
Roland sat in the last booth, slouched back but with his leg stuck out as if he intended to get up. He rested one hand on his thigh and the other on his jacket, which lay on the table. He shook his head. Whoever he spoke with was out of view.
Another couple of steps, and Peter’s blood turned to ice.
Mr. Reinhard sat with Roland, leaning toward him, his arms folded on the table. He mumbled something then tapped his index finger, in a threatening way, on the table in front of Roland.
Peter stopped and listened.
“Toby to see book.” Toby hopped from somewhere in the dining room, over to the booth.
Roland slid his jacket across the tabletop, toward himself, and shook his head at Toby.
Toby whined. “See book.”
“Yes, I’d like to see your book, too. Charlotte—that is, Peter’s aunt mentioned Peter received a . . . shall we say inheritance that had once belonged to his grandfather.”
Peter’s breath caught in his throat.
“It interests me. Do you know anything about it? Is the book, perhaps . . .” Mr. Reinhard leaned forward even more.
“I don’t know.” Roland flattened himself against the seatback. He glanced over his shoulder, glanced again, and caught sight of Peter.
Peter stomped over. “Hey, what’s going on?”
“Roland’s book,” Toby said and frowned. He shuffled away, to the bar counter with the arrangement of breakfast food. He said something over the counter to Mom.
Roland pushed his hair off his forehead. Sweat gathered in his hairline. He threw Peter a desperate glance.
“Good morning, Peter. Speak of the devil.” Mr. Reinhard straightened and his arms recoiled back to his own side of the table.
“The devil? That’s funny coming from you.”
Mr. Reinhard chuckled. “I was just asking Roland what the two of you have been up to lately.”
“Yeah. I was kind of wondering the same about you. What’re you up to? How come you aren’t our history teacher anymore?”
“Something more important came up.”
“So, you’ll be leaving?”
Mr. Reinhard’s face turned to stone. “No. I have no intention of leaving until I get what belongs to me.”
“And what’s that?”
Mr. Reinhard almost grinned. His eyes flashed with a piercing blackness. “I don’t know if I should tell you. Some things are better left unsaid, some goals more attainable in secrecy.”
“Uh, okay.” That was weird.
Roland slid out of the booth and smacked into Peter. “I need to get out of here.” He pushed past Peter.
“Where’re you going?” Peter followed Roland to the front door.
“Come on,” Roland whispered, his eyes steeled with purpose. He yanked open the door and shoved the screen.
Peter turned to tell Mom he was leaving. “Mom—”
Toby stood directly behind him. “No shouting.” He covered his ears.
“You can’t come with me,” Peter said to Toby then shouted, “Mom, I’m taking a walk with Roland.”
“What about breakfast?”
“Not hungry.”
They strode across the driveway when Dad’s dark green pick-up pulled in. Dad honked and hopped out of the truck. “Where you boys off to so early?”
“Tell him we’re going to the park downtown,” Roland said. He cradled his jacket as if it were a baby. “See if he can give us a ride.”
“Dad—”
Roland gave Peter a painful jab in the side. “Don’t yell it.” He made a nod toward the house just as the screen door flew open.
“I want to go.” Toby wore plaid pajama bottoms, a big yellow t-shirt, and bare feet. He padded across the front stoop and down the steps.
“Where’re you off to?” Dad came up to Peter and Roland. His hair stood up in tufts, and he had dark streaks on one leg of his jeans, probably ash from burnt wood.
“Can you give us a ride?”
Toby grabbed Dad’s arm and leaned against him. “Toby go bowling.”
“Bowling?” Dad said.
Peter let out an exasperated moan. “Not bowling, and Toby can’t go with us.”
Aunt Lottie’s blue Civic pulled into the driveway at the same time as Mr. Reinhard stepped out onto the stoop. The screen door slammed behind him.
“We need to go now,” Peter said. His face burned. His blood pressure was probably rising to dangerous levels. “If you can’t take us, we’ll walk.”
Roland hugged his bundled jacket and threw furtive glances at Aunt Lotti’s car and at Mr. Reinhard.
Mr. Reinhard descended the steps.
“Toby,” Dad said as he tried detaching Toby’s hands from his arm. “Go see Mommy. We’ll do something later.”
“Bowling.” Toby whined, dragging his feet to the stoop.
“Mr. Brandt.”
A tremor ran through Peter’s body at the sound of Mr. Reinhard’s low bass voice.
Mr. Reinhard floundered back to get out of Toby’s way. “Charlotte and I are going out. We can give the boys a ride.”
Peter’s heart shot into his throat. He gave Dad a wide-eyed mayday signal, the same signal Roland seemed to be giving.
Dad didn’t even look at them. “Thanks for the offer, Mr. Reinhard—”
Peter kicked Dad’s shin . . . harder than he’d meant to.
“Ow.” Dad reached for his shin and shot Peter a glare. “Get in the truck, Peter, Roland.” He waved at Mr. Reinhard. “I gotta run some errands anyway, but thanks for the offer.”
Peter jumped into the truck and collapsed against the seatback.
Roland slid in beside him and slammed the door. “That was close.”
“That’s one creepy dude. What was he saying to you in the booth?”
Roland unfolded his black denim jacket. He had the old book, the spiral notebook, and the dictionary wrapped inside.
“He saw it?”
“I don’t know. I was up early and wanted to go over our notes from last night. Mr. Reinhard came into the dining room, and I threw my jacket over everything. But he might’ve caught a glimpse. He started asking me—”
Dad opened the driver-side door and got in. “So, where you boys headed to?” He cranked the engine to life and backed out of the driveway.
“Can you take us downtown?” Peter turned to Roland. “Why downtown? You want to go to Caitlyn’s house? He can just take us there.”
“No. Father Carston. I think he can help us make sense of this.”
“Yeah. Good idea.” Peter took the spiral notebook from Roland, flipped it open and re-read their translations.
This book holds an account of miracles that occurred through the intercession of Conrad of Parzham and the reverent use of his relics. These miracles occurred between 1912 and 1925 and affected family members or close friends. All written accounts are true.
“Hmm,” Peter said, thinking about it. What about the last entry in the book: H. R.? Why didn’t that entry fall within those dates? Maybe it didn’t refer to a miracle but to something else.
Dad leaned forward and threw Roland a glance past Peter. “Roland, I spoke with your father last night.”
Roland faced the window. “Yeah, I’m sorry I stayed those other nights without asking.”
“I was just going to say we hadn’t spoken in a long time. We talked for an hour or so. We used to be good friends. I didn’t realize how much I missed him.”
Peter gave Dad a narrow-eyed look. “Yeah, okay. Why don’t you tell me about that? How is it that you and Mr. West know each other? And why haven’t you ever mentioned it before? And why don’t we go and visit? Their house is cool.”
Roland gave him a nudge and a friendly glare.
“Well, Peter, your mother and I used to get together with Mr. West and . . .” H
e threw Roland another glance.
“My mother,” Roland said, returning the glance.
“That’s right. I guess our friendship changed as time went on. You understand, children come, jobs come and go, life changes.”
“You stopped being friends after we came along?” Peter gawked at Dad.
“Well, no, not exactly. They had their two boys first. The twins. They were a handful.” He chuckled and shook his head. “A couple years later we had you, and they had Roland. But we still got together.” He stroked his chin.
“Until after my mother died,” Roland said under his breath, still gazing out the window.
“Yes, Roland.” Dad looked past Peter. “Your father took her death pretty hard. We saw a lot less of him then. He sure loved her. She was quite a woman, your mother.”
Chapter 47
The door to St. Michael’s Church closed with a click that made Roland hold his breath. Peter traipsed down the side aisle, but Roland waited a moment as his eyes adjusted. Light streamed in from stained glass windows, throwing colorful patterns on chestnut pews and tiles in the main aisle. Candles flickered before statues of saints at shrines around the back and sides of the church.
A white-haired woman knelt in the last pew, the solitary penitent in the church, the hum of her hearing aid making the only sound.
Roland strode down the side aisle and caught up with Peter.
“What makes you think Father would be in here?” Peter said, in a loud whisper. “It’s not like he lives in the church.”
Roland pointed to the confessionals.
A white light glowed over one carved wood door and a green light over the other.
“Confession probably just ended,” Roland whispered. He’d seen the hours posted outside one day and had never forgotten. “I thought we could catch Father—”
The door with the white light swung open and Father Carston, dressed in a black cassock, stepped out. He flipped a switch high on the wall. The lights over the confessionals shut off. He turned.
His gaze swept over Roland and Peter, and he turned again. He flipped the switch. The lights over the confessionals popped on, and he slipped back inside.
Peter leaned and whispered in Roland’s ear, “What’s he doing? I thought you said confession was over.”
Roland West, Loner Page 23
