Come Fall

by A. C. E. Bauer

  Blos thought about it. “Okay.”

  Salman and Lu eyed each other, then stood at arm’s length. Lu pushed her glasses up her nose. Salman ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Ready?” Blos asked.

  Salman smiled. Lu smiled, too.

  “Great,” Blos said. “Perfect. Do you want to see it?”

  “No, thank you,” Lu said.

  Salman shook his head.

  “I will print it,” Blos said. “It will be even better.”

  Salman watched Lu. Her gaze was following the watercourse downstream.

  “You’re heading home?” he asked.

  Salman’s question had been meant for Lu, but Blos answered it.

  “Yes. Then I can print it.”

  Blos tucked his camera into its case and slung it over his shoulder.

  “I will show you the picture when it is printed,” he said, “at the meeting, tomorrow.”

  “Okay, Blos. Bye,” Salman said.

  As Blos left them, Lu said, “Bye.” She stepped in the opposite direction, following the stream’s path. After a second’s hesitation, Salman stepped with her.

  “Was this the way you came?” he asked.

  She nodded. They walked in silence.

  They reached an eddy in the stream, with a large boulder at one end. Lu climbed the boulder and sat down. Salman wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted to stay with her, but did she want him to? She might not appreciate his following her around.

  “There’s enough room,” Lu said.

  That small part of him inside fluttered.

  The rock was craggy and poked at him through his jeans. But there was space for two on top. The brightness of the day had begun to fade, and the breeze felt cooler. Salman hugged his knees to keep warm. Lu hugged hers, too.

  An uncomfortable silence settled between them. Salman turned his head to look at Lu, but she was looking away. She seemed so shy, or embarrassed, he wasn’t sure which.

  Then Bird flew down with a caw, startling them. He landed next to the stream and eyed the water carefully. Lu shook her head.

  “The frogs won’t come out,” she told the crow, “not if they can see you.”

  How did Lu know Bird was fishing for frogs?

  “He might be after minnows,” Salman said.

  Lu shrugged, but Salman caught the hint of a smile.

  To prove them both wrong, Bird flew up and perched himself on Salman’s knees. Salman hoped the crow wouldn’t rip his pants. Bird eyed Salman and Lu, each in turn.

  Lu stretched out a hand and hesitated. Salman saw her face open with curiosity.

  “Do you think he’d let me pet him?” she whispered.

  “You can try,” Salman said.

  Slowly, steadily, Lu reached over. She touched Bird’s chest. The crow half shut his eyes, as if with pleasure. The base of Salman’s throat tingled. He swallowed.

  “He’s so big,” Lu said.

  Bird cocked his head, hopped off Salman’s knees onto the boulder, and pecked at a shiny spot in one of the crags. Then, after one last look at them, he flew up into a tree branch and cawed a few more times.

  “I think Bird likes you,” Salman said.

  “I like him, too.”

  She sounded breathless. Salman’s mood soared.

  The crow settled down onto the branch, his head sunk between his shoulders. The pose reminded Salman of the first time he’d seen Bird: Salman’s second day at the Royals’ trailer. Salman had just finished drying the breakfast dishes when Tina shooed him outside. She hadn’t been mean, but she was firm.

  “I like my coffee in peace. We’ll work the garden when I’m done.”

  Not having had much by way of sleep, Salman felt too tired to explore. He walked down to the chicken coop, looking for a clear patch of grass to lie down in, when he came to the huge maple at the edge of the forest. One of its branches stuck straight out before curving up, like an arm beckoning. The branch was low and solid, and Salman climbed onto it without much difficulty. He leaned back into the trunk, where he fit into a smooth hollow, as if it had been made for him. He shut his eyes.

  He must have dozed off because he never did hear the crow land. Tina’s call jolted him awake.

  “Salman Page. Where are you? I want you in the garden—now!”

  The crow sat hunched in front of him. It opened one eye.

  “Coming,” Salman said, but not too loud.

  Salman had always liked crows. They were smart. They were funny. And they always seemed to like him back.

  The crow straightened and hopped sideways, away from Salman.

  “Wait, bird, don’t go,” Salman whispered.

  The crow cocked its head.

  “I’m waiting!” Tina yelled.

  Salman glanced toward the garden.

  “Be right there,” he said.

  The crow hopped sideways again. But he didn’t fly off, even when Salman scrambled down. At the foot of the tree, Salman whispered, “If you come back later, bird, I’ll have something for you.”

  The crow seemed to nod before he flew off.

  That morning Tina made Salman tie tomato plants to stakes. They used pieces of thin silver wire cut from a spool. As they finished with the last few plants, an old pickup pulled up in front of the trailer.

  “That’ll be Ozzy,” Tina said.

  She dusted her hands on her overalls.

  “Do this last one, then come back to the trailer. I’ll have some lunch ready.”

  Salman watched her walk back to the trailer. When she was out of sight, he leaned over and cut a length of wire to loop around the plant, then a second one that he slipped into a pocket.

  Later that afternoon Tina had him lay hay around young vines.

  “Those’ll turn into pumpkins,” she said. “Want ’em to grow big.”

  Ozzy brought the hay over in a wheelbarrow while Salman grabbed armfuls and tucked it around the plants. She let Salman quit by midafternoon.

  “Come in later,” she said. “You can help with dinner.”

  “There’s more to do,” growled Ozzy.

  “We’re out of hay,” Tina said. “You need to pick up more.”

  Ozzy glared at Salman as if it was his fault and stomped away.

  Salman returned to the maple tree. He was so tired, he almost didn’t make it up to the branch. He nestled into the hollow, but even before he could shut his eyes, the crow landed in front of him with a rustling of feathers and a loud caw.

  Salman smiled.

  “Bird, you are eager.”

  The crow bobbed its head. Salman laughed. It wasn’t much of a laugh, but it was Salman’s first since he had left Mr. and Ms. D. It felt kind of nice.

  The crow cocked his head once again. Salman fished into his pocket.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” he said.

  He leaned forward, the wire between his fingers, twisting it so that it twinkled in the sunlight. The crow jumped forward and nabbed it.

  Salman grinned. The bird flew off. Salman cupped his hand over his forehead to watch the crow’s flight.

  “Come back again,” he whispered.

  And Bird had returned, every day, even on days when Salman had no more shiny things to offer, bringing him a snippet of happiness—like today, on this rock with Lu.

  “Will Bird spend the night here?” Lu asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Salman said. “He usually perches near the trailer.”

  “That’s where you live,” Lu said.

  “For now.”

  Lu rested the side of her head on her knees, letting her glasses slide down.

  “Why ‘for now’?”

  “It’s a foster home. A temporary placement.”

  “You’re going to move?”

  Salman shrugged.

  “Sometime.”

  “Are your foster parents okay?”

  “As long as I do my chores.”

  Salman wasn’t sure how much he wanted to reveal. After all, he wasn’t
entirely certain Lu wanted him there with her. But she had started talking—and asking some pretty personal questions.

  “Why were you hiding before?” he said.

  Lu didn’t answer right away. Her grip on her knees tightened and she squinted down at the stream.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “When Blos showed me the picture, I was curious about the garden, and before I could stop him, we were there. And then I saw you, and well, it was like we were spying or something….”

  “And you thought I’d be pissed off.”

  Lu nodded.

  Salman put a hand on hers, just long enough to feel her warmth before he pulled his away. A thrill went up his arm.

  “I’m glad you came,” he said.

  He meant it. Lu looked up at him. Her eyes were shiny. She seemed so relieved.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  She took a deep breath and jumped down from the boulder.

  “I’d better head home,” she said. “I have a huge amount of homework waiting.”

  “Can I walk with you?”

  “Sure!”

  She led them down a barely visible path away from the stream. Salman was uncertain about where they were headed, but Lu didn’t hesitate. They passed under branches, around stumps.

  “You know your way around,” Salman said.

  “I used to walk here all the time,” Lu replied.

  “I’ve never spent much time in woods.”

  Lu stopped at a tree that had fallen over and was blocking the path.

  “I guess you must know Bridgeport better.”

  Salman stood next to her.

  “Not really. I left when I was five.”

  What was safe to tell her? When he was a few hours old, he had been wrapped in a bloody sheet and left next to a Dumpster near a Bridgeport hospital. A sanitation worker had found him, blue from exposure. Salman had spent months in a hospital, five years with the kindest woman in the world, then years shipped from one foster home to the next.

  “I don’t have any family,” he said.

  Lu didn’t seem to believe him.

  “No family? At all?”

  “Nope.”

  He turned away and climbed over the tree trunk. He didn’t want to talk about this.

  He was a foundling. No one had ever wanted him. Except maybe for Emolia Brown, his first foster mother. But she was private.

  Lu followed him over the log and led him farther down the woods. He heard a rustle overhead: Bird was following them, too. In another ten minutes, they reached an opening, and Salman saw the rear of Lu’s house across a long yard.

  Lu stopped.

  “You know,” she said, “I came here to be alone.”

  Something sank inside Salman. “Sorry—”

  “No, no,” she interrupted. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m really glad I wasn’t.”

  All of a sudden, Salman’s heart began to sing. He grinned.

  “I’m glad I wasn’t, also.”

  This time Lu smiled.

  16—Blos Pease

  Picture after picture

  Blos connected the camera to the computer. He clicked on the photo program. “Save to C drive?” Yes. The computer whirred. One thumbnail appeared. Then another. Picture after picture formed on his screen. His house. His path. The trees. The stream. The garden. The boulder. The pool. Salman. Lu. Both of them.

  “Download complete.”

  Blos disconnected the camera. Folded the wire into a box. Stored the camera in its case. Placed the case on the shelf—on the back of the shelf.

  “You don’t want to drop it,” his mother had said.

  No. He would keep it safe.

  He returned to the computer. A window had appeared.

  “View pictures?”

  He clicked “Yes.”

  The first photo came up.

  The picture of Mom was okay. No red eye. The one of the house was pretty good, too. He had taken it from the street. A street he had lived on all his life. A street that was safe. A dead end.

  “There’s no through traffic,” his mother had said.

  When he was nine she taught him to ride a bicycle up and down their street.

  “Helmet first,” she said. “Stay on the right side. Watch for people and cars.”

  That was hard, watching for people and cars, and keeping his balance, and pedaling forward, and staying on the right side. For weeks she coaxed him, running beside him. Then one Sunday, she brought him to the parking lot behind Springfalls Elementary School. No one was there.

  “Just stay on the bike and pedal,” she said.

  He did. He pedaled and pedaled. He rode onto the grass and fell down. That hurt. But he laughed because he had kept his balance the whole way.

  Mom laughed, too.

  He got back on and pedaled some more.

  For a month Mom brought him there every Sunday, and he was able to do it! He kept his balance. He pedaled forward. Mom asked him to go along the edges, make circles in the middle, cross back and forth. And he did it. Over and over.

  “Ready to try it on our street?” she asked.

  Blos nodded. He was ready. He pedaled up and down their street. He watched for people and cars. He was safe.

  The next photo was the path.

  It started at the bottom of the cul-de-sac, behind the tiny neighborhood playground where he had played every day when he was little. That’s how he had discovered the path.

  “We can walk there, if you want,” his mom had said.

  But Blos was scared. The trees were big. The bushes were prickly. And there was a stream. He might get wet. When he was four or five, he took his mother’s hand and followed her a few steps into the woods. She pointed out flowers. She picked up pebbles. Blos held on tight. They turned back around.

  At five he started school. During recess he went down the slide in the school playground, over and over. Sometimes kids came up to him and said strange things. Mean things. Every afternoon, when it wasn’t raining, he went back to the little playground at the end of the street. He was safe there. The neighbors knew him. They left him alone. But by fourth grade the swings began getting too small. The slide, too short. And the path did not look so scary anymore.

  He placed pebbles in the stream. He watched the ripples move around the stones in wonderful strange patterns. He placed piles of stones in circles. In squares. In triangles.

  In fifth grade he went down the path to the bend, just far enough so that he could still see the opening to the playground, but deep enough so he could not hear the kids playing there. He built little dams across the stream with fallen sticks and rocks. In sixth grade he set out to build a bridge. A little bridge over a shallow spot—just strong enough to hold him up. Every afternoon after school, when it was not too cold or wet, he tied branches together with string. He lined them up. One next to the other. Like a board. He got more string and tied those together. And then he made a pile of rocks on the stream’s edge. A neat pile. Flat at the center. And a second pile across the stream. It took him two weeks. When he laid the plank of branches across—he had a bridge!

  He was so proud! He told Mom. He had her come and see it. Saturday morning.

  But when they got there, the plank was broken. The piles of rocks had been pushed down.

  “Oh, Blos!” Mom said.

  Blos cried. He cried and cried.

  He did not build another bridge. But he did go deeper along the path. Away from the playground. Away from the people who broke his bridge.

  The next photo showed trees. Then the stream. Then the garden.

  The garden had a lot of plants. Not like the flower bed in front of their house. Mom kept that neat and small and organized. Blos watered it every day in the summer. He took out the can. The one with the big spout and lots of little holes. He filled it with the hose. He sprinkled the water over each plant, like a rain shower, one at a time, until the can was empty. Then he refilled the can and sprinkled some more.

  Y
ou could not do that in Salman’s garden.

  The boulder. The pool. Salman.

  Salman. Lu was Salman’s d.b. Did d.b.s visit their assigned students in their gardens? Elaine Egger, his d.b., never visited him in his garden. No one did. Ever.

  Lu.

  And there was the crow. On a branch. Just above her. Was that Salman’s crow? He was not sure. Crows all looked the same to him.

  Lu and Salman.

  And the crow. Yes, he was pretty sure that was the same crow.

  The picture was good. He had gotten both Lu and Salman clearly. From head to toe. And the tree framed them.

  Mom had told him about framing when she gave him his first camera.

  “The lens is like a box. You only get to see what’s inside the box. You want to make sure that what you want to see is where you want it in the box.”

  He liked putting things in a box. You took a messy landscape, with no beginning and no edges, and you decided: this part I am going to keep. You put it in a box. He was good at putting things in boxes.

  He learned that sometimes framing happened inside the picture. Objects made edges, just like a box, and you could photograph them so that the edges made it look like a box within a box.

  The tree made a line between Salman and Lu, and the branches above, another one. The crow sat on one of the branches, in its own box.

  Blos liked it. Three boxes in one picture.

  He took the photo paper from the drawer. Mom called from the kitchen. “Found a good photo?”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Okay.”

  This was a very good photo. For the school paper. He would bring it in to show Ms. R. And Salman. And Lu.

  17—Salman Page

  Lost

  As Salman walked through the woods, he replayed his conversation with Lu over and over. She had been embarrassed to be caught spying but was glad to be with him. When she had smiled saying goodbye, her whole body had smiled—from her pretty eyes behind her glasses to her long, graceful fingers. She had been happy that she was going to see him tomorrow.

  What a strange sensation, Salman thought, that he was happy because Lu wanted to be with him.

  He stopped. He had been walking for a while. Lu had told him to look for the stream.

  “It’ll lead you back to the trailer,” she had said.