Standing Strong

by Theresa Linden

  Jarret stood frozen until the sound of Papa’s boots in the hallway trailed off.

  “Wow, that was weird.” Keefe finally moved, turning from the table to Jarret.

  Nanny and Mr. Digby mumbled back and forth, probably discussing Papa’s revelation, saying aloud the questions that Keefe and Jarret only thought.

  Keefe followed Jarret into the kitchen, silverware clanking against the stack of plates he carried. “Hey, can you give me a ride?” He set the dirty dishes on the bar counter while Jarret walked around to the sink.

  “A ride to where?” Jarret ran water over his plate and slid the other dirty ones closer. Ever since returning from Arizona, he’d been forcing himself to help with dishes. Every night he felt less inclined.

  “The Brandts’. I’ll head out to the woods from there.” Keefe played with the clutter on the counter: a napkin holder, a dirty knife, and a cutting board.

  “Yeah, I guess I can.” Jarret opened the dishwasher, releasing the odor of citrus detergent and fishy minerals.

  “You can see me off, walk back there with me.”

  Jarret glanced, wondering if Keefe was serious. “No thanks. You know how I love to be around Peter Brandt.”

  “Aw, come on. He hasn’t done anything to you lately.”

  “It wasn’t that long ago. Every time I get in my car and the odor of Limburger cheese hits me, I smell the need for revenge.” If felt weird admitting weakness. But he still entertained the idea of pummeling Peter as payback. So he needed to keep a healthy distance. What would he do once school started and he saw him in the hall? Any chance he’d have true forgiveness by then?

  “Besides.” Jarret ran water over a messy fork. “I got Kyle and them coming over.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Keefe spun the napkin dispenser in a circle. “I just need a jacket and I’m ready to go.”

  “Don’t you need to pack anything?”

  “Just bringing that.” He nodded to indicate a little canvas tote bag hanging from a hook near the pantry.

  “What’s in it?” Jarret dropped the last of the silverware into the dishwasher and closed it.

  “Water bottle and a loaf of bread.”

  “For forty hours? You’re gonna be hungry.”

  “That’s the point. I’m keeping it simple, praying for discernment. Can’t hurt to fast too, right?”

  Jarret shrugged, not seeing the point of fasting or of a lot of other things Keefe did lately. Stopping at the cupboard on the wall across from the kitchen island, he searched behind the emergency candles on an upper shelf. “At least take this.” He slapped a flashlight into Keefe’s hand.

  Keefe stared at it, as if deciding.

  “If you don’t take it, I won’t give you a ride.”

  Keefe huffed but he said, “Fine.”

  Jarret dug his keys from the front pocket of his jeans. “I want to pick up a few things from the store anyway.”

  CHAPTER 8

  A spark of excitement flared inside Keefe as he strode behind Roland and Peter to his lonely destination. A peaceful blue sky stretched out above, peeking through lush green leaves and branches of ponderosa pines. At least he could count on perfect weather. The rude beep, beep, beep of a red breasted nuthatch rose above the soft trills of the other birds, the tanagers, warblers, and juncos that Keefe had often seen in these woods. Why had God made all of this—every plant, animal, and bird—so unique?

  “So you’ve got nothing to worry about as long as you stay near the waterfall after dark, or better yet, sleep in the cave.” Peter had been blabbing instructions, guidelines, and warnings ever since they set off down the trail behind his house. With a forest ranger for a father, he probably knew his stuff.

  Distracted by the excitement buzzing inside, Keefe tried paying attention, but he wasn’t exactly clueless when it came to hiking alone or camping in the wilderness. His family had plenty of wilderness adventures over the years, some intentional, others accidental.

  Keefe readjusted the canvas bag he carried over his shoulder. His stomach was his biggest worry. He’d never liked skipping a meal, but he’d intentionally eaten a light dinner and passed up dessert. Now he’d have a single loaf of bread to stretch over the next forty hours. Saint Francis went forty days, eating only half a loaf. He could last forty hours.

  “You’ll find a couple of lighters inside the cave. And you know those candles are in there. But you might want to build a fire out on the riverbank. Not in the cave, of course. You’d be smoked out...”

  Roland threw Keefe a concerned glance. Or maybe Peter’s babbling was annoying him. He’d been plodding along with the crutches at a good clip, thumping the crutches down and swinging his body forward, fast enough to win a contest. Thump, swing, thump, swing.

  “Make sure you go back into the cave where the water falls intermittently.”

  “What?” Keefe tuned in to Peter’s ramblings, thinking that last detail might matter.

  “You’ll see. Rain last week made the waterfall heavier than usual for this time of year. But you’ll barely get wet if you go back where I’m telling you. You’ll have to be careful because the cave entrance isn’t exactly there, where less water comes down. That just gets you behind the waterfall. Then you have to take a few steps to the left. Understand?”

  Keefe tried to process and store the information, but just as Peter glanced at him, he’d opened his mouth for a question that never materialized.

  Peter dropped back and slapped his arm. “You’ll be fine. If you go in at the wrong point, you’ll just get a little wet.

  “Did you bring your phone?” Roland slowed and waited for Keefe and Peter to walk alongside him. The path was wide enough here to walk three across.

  “He can’t bring a phone,” Peter whined. “But you should have a watch so you know when to come back.” He swung his arm up and gazed at his bulky outdoor watch with a brown leather band, a birthday gift from his father. It had an altimeter, barometer, compass, thermometer, and whatever else. “He’s got forty hours out here, so this time tomorrow is twenty-four and then you just gotta make it through another night. So at like nine on Sunday morning you can head back.”

  “You should have a phone.” Roland glanced between Keefe and the path ahead, his gray eyes heavy with worry. “You can take mine.”

  “I can’t have a phone, Roland. I’ll be tempted to play games or call someone when I’m bored.” He tried giving Roland a reassuring smile. “No, I’m doing this without a phone. And, no, I don’t have a watch. I can tell when it’s nine o’clock. I like to go riding at that time every morning.” Worry flickering through him, he turned away from Roland and stared wide-eyed at the trail ahead. Who would exercise his horse while he was gone? He hadn’t asked Mr. Digby or Jarret, and Roland couldn’t do it.

  “Don’t worry about your horse.” Roland must’ve read his mind. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Keefe looked at him, ready to ask how.

  Roland shrugged. “Well, not personally. I’ll get Jarret or Mr. Digby to do it.” Then he said through gritted teeth, “Can’t wait until this cast comes off.”

  Keefe took a breath and exhaled to relax. Jarret still felt guilty for the mishap in Arizona that had led to Roland breaking his leg. So he was still doing everything Roland asked. He’d take care of the horse.

  “So this is as far as we go.” Peter stopped in his tracks, grabbing Roland’s arm.

  Roland kept going for a step, following through after planting his crutches. “We can go farther. Are you turning back because of me? I told you my leg feels fine, doesn’t bother me at all. It’s just that this cast is awkward to walk in.” He averted his gaze and mumbled again, “Can’t wait to get it off.”

  Walking a few paces behind them, Keefe stopped too. They’d been walking three wide when the path allowed but it narrowed up here.

  “No, it’s the time.” Peter pointed to his watch and then locked gazes with Keefe. “Your forty hours starts now. You’re on your own. You and God. If you
can survive this—no food other than the bread, no place to lay your head other than what mother nature provides, no one to talk to but God—then you become one of us. The few, the proud, the... uh...” His gaze slid to Roland. “What do you think? The pyromaniacs?”

  “Huh? No. How does that work?”

  “I don’t know. We’re the Fire Starters, right? So the few that go the extra mile need a stronger name. So pyromaniacs.”

  Roland shook his head, turning to Keefe now. “You sure you want to do this?”

  “Of course. I’ll be fine.”

  “Come on.” Peter whacked Roland’s arm. “Let’s get back to the house. I’m hungry for dessert. Mom made three kinds of pies and a coffee cake.”

  “Why would you say that in front of him? He’s got a loaf of bread for the next two days.”

  Peter laughed. “He’ll be fine. He’s tough.” He started walking backwards, back the way they came. “Right, Keefe?”

  Keefe shrugged, but he knew he could last forty hours out here. It wasn’t a big deal. And watching Peter backing up, knowing Roland would soon join him and he’d be left alone, a great feeling of comfort came over him. His private retreat began now. He was ready for this. He would find answers. God would lead him to knowledge. And whatever the answer, Keefe was ready to go all in. Nothing by halves. Nothing held back. He would talk to Papa about becoming a Franciscan or he would give the idea up, content to mentor Jarret for however long Jarret needed it.

  A verse came to mind as he turned away from Roland and Peter. Jesus said to him: No one who puts his hand to the plough and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.

  Keefe strolled away without looking back.

  Peter’s voice faded. The warblers continued to sing and leaves rustled in a comfortable breeze. A squirrel scampered through underbrush somewhere out of view. And the rocky trail welcomed him to his journey.

  CHAPTER 9

  With the driver-side window open, one arm hanging out, and barely tapping the gas pedal, Jarret drove at ease down the long winding driveway toward home. He’d picked up some pop, pretzels, and chips and would get home in plenty of time before his friends came over. The warm breeze ruffled through his hair and made the sleeve of his t-shirt flap. The tension in his chest—a result of seeing Peter step outside onto the front porch when he’d dropped off Keefe—had almost left him.

  “Stay safe,” he’d said as Keefe got out of the car. But Keefe was always cautious, so Jarret had no real worry.

  The Wests’ castle-like house inched into view. Fluffy white clouds and a rich blue sky formed a backdrop, accenting the stone battlements and two turrets. He loved their house inside and out. Never wanted to move.

  As Jarret rounded the last curve, his breath caught. Cars and kids came into view, four cars in the circular drive and about fifteen kids on the porch and in the yard.

  “Fifteen?” Jarret blew a breath out his mouth, regret creeping in. What would Papa have to say about this?

  Half of the kids turned as Jarret pulled into the circular drive. Kyle threw his arms overhead and waved. Everyone flocked toward the car.

  “Hey,” Jarret called, his eyes on Kyle but meaning for everyone to listen. “Jump back in your cars and pull around to the garage. Park side by side in the grass next to the driveway. I’ll let you in through the veranda.”

  “Did he say veranda?” Sherman Maher said, playing with his hair. It framed his face and stuck up in thick dark tufts with blond streaks. He must’ve spent hours styling and staring at it.

  “What’s a veranda?” another kid said.

  “I’ll show you. Get in the car,” Kyle replied.

  Jarret cringed at the noise they made getting back in and starting their cars. The window to Papa’s study was closed so maybe he wouldn’t hear it, but he’d probably seen the cars drive by.

  Jarret parked out front, grabbed the grocery bags, and stomped up the porch steps to the heavy front door. He strode down the front hallway, sneakers thumping along the hardwood floor. The door to Papa’s study was ajar. He could busy himself in there for hours, and hopefully he would. Maybe he taught an evening class. On Friday? Probably not.

  Halfway down the hall, Nanny emerged from her suite at the far end. “Oh, there you are.” She scurried toward him waving her hands, a motherly expression on her face. “I thought it would be nice to make a few snacks for your friends.”

  “Nah, don’t bother.” Jarret lifted one bag. “I picked up some snacks. Besides, we’re just gonna hang out.”

  “It’s no bother. I’ve already made little sandwiches and put some jalapeno poppers in the oven.” She hurried past him, in her element with all the food preparations lately. “I’ll go check on those and bring them...” Her voice trailed off as she rounded the corner.

  Jarret strode to the veranda. Kyle stood on the other side of the door, mouthing something through the window. As soon as Jarret unlocked and opened the door, everyone pushed into the house, some giving a greeting as they passed but others just plowing their way in. Several carried grocery bags. Had they brought snacks too? Cool, they’d be eating good tonight.

  Two kids went to a table at the back of the long veranda. Jocks that had little zeal for football, probably the worst on the team. What were their names? Oh yeah, Trent and Konner. Granted, the veranda had enough tables for everyone and it had a lot of class, what with the windows stretching across one wall and the fancy patio tables and chairs. The slant of the evening light cast long blue shadows across everything. But Jarret had planned on everyone playing pool or darts in the rec room. Of course, he hadn’t planned on fifteen guys raiding his house.

  “Party’s in here,” Jarret hollered to Trent and Konner.

  Konner had already placed a deck of cards and a pile of coins on the table. “Aw, man. Can’t we sit out here?”

  Trent laughed and threw his hands in the air. “Really, Bro, you can trust us. I need to school Konner here at poker.”

  “You school me?” Konner leaned back, tapped his chest, and flung his arms out. “That some kind of joke?”

  Trent, Konner, and C.W. did everything together. The three of them had inferiority complexes and spent half their days trying to prove themselves to each other or to anyone that paid attention. The rest of the time they worked at making others look small. It was strange that C.W. had gone inside with everyone else, instead of staying out here with Konner and Trent.

  Jarret rolled his eyes and left them, following the last of his guests toward the living room.

  The scent of lemon wood polish hung in the air. Open drapes on the back wall brought in enough light to make a person curious about the decor. Dust-free, artistically-placed antiques sat on polished shelves and tables all around the long family room. Most gave a feel for medieval Europe or ancient Rome, Papa’s favorite places and time periods. Jarret, Keefe, and Roland usually favored the far side of the room, watching TV or lounging around. They rarely set foot in the museum-like side.

  Sherman sat cross-legged on the floor a few feet from the TV, which he’d already turned on. The TV flipped from program to program and then to a blue screen. Three other kids stood by the suit of armor in the far corner, one of them messing with the face mask.

  “Hey,” Jarret shouted, all four of them looking. “Don’t mess with that.”

  Jarret checked the rec room, hoping the rest of the gang had gone in there and not somewhere else in the house. A few kids stood around the pool table, racking balls and boasting about their summers. One messed with the sound system in the corner. And Kyle sat on the old couch against the far wall, a paper bag between his feet and a brand-new pack of menthol cigarettes in his hand. He’d never been much of a smoker, even when Jarret had been, and he looked awkward as he opened the pack.

  Was this everyone? Jarret counted fifteen dudes and five plastic grocery bags.

  “Hey, Bro.” Kyle grinned at Jarret. The overhead lighting made his red hair match his freckles. “Cigarette?” He tapped one out an inc
h and offered it to Jarret.

  On impulse, Jarret licked his lips. The cigarette called to him, but he shook his head. He hadn’t had one in a month. No point in starting back up now.

  “Thought you had a fridge in here.” Kyle lit the cigarette and set the pack and lighter on the arm of the couch.

  “No fridge.” Should he tell Kyle not to smoke in the house? What were the chances Papa would come back here? It’s not like Jarret was smoking, but Papa still wouldn’t want teens smoking in his house. Smoking wouldn’t be as bad as... “What’s in the bags?”

  “Can’t have a party without beverages.” A devious glint to his eyes, Kyle stuffed his hand in the bag at his feet and lifted out a six-pack.

  A wave of heat rushed over Jarret. “You brought beer into my house without asking?”

  “Like you’re gonna say no? You know you want one.” Chuckling, he wrestled a can from the plastic ring. He cracked it open, the sound of pressure releasing and striking Jarret somewhere inside.

  “Yeah, I’m gonna say no. You know my father’s home, right?”

  “No.” Kyle’s hazel eyes opened wide, drawing attention to his thick, pale eyelashes. He took a swig of beer and stood. “Hey, bros, don’t bring the beer out in the open. Wait till I get back.”

  “Back from where?” Jarret asked, concern growing.

  “You’ll see.” Kyle handed his lit cigarette to a friend and strutted from the room.

  Bouncy music came on, soft, the way Roland listened to it; then it rose in volume to an ear-thrashing level.

  “Don’t blare it.” Jarret stomped back to the family room.

  The TV still showed a blue screen. Two kids now sat on the floor, Sherman and C.W. fiddling with remotes. C.W. must’ve chosen video games over his buddies Trent and Konner. The other kids had moved behind the couch that divided the extra-long family room. Their raised voices said they disagreed about something. They inched toward and away from each other in the yellow light of the lamps they’d turned on without asking.