Where I Belong

by Mary Downing Hahn

  “Well,” I say, “I call him the Green Man because he’s . . . he’s—well, he just is.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mrs. Clancy shakes her head. “The only green men I ever heard of are Martians. Aliens flying around in spaceships. Surely you don’t believe that old man came from outer space?”

  “No, of course not. The Green Man is the ancient spirit of the woods. He protects the trees and the forest creatures. And Mr. Calhoun, well, he’s like him, that’s all.” The expression on her face makes me stammer to a stop.

  “Excuse my ignorance, Brendan, but you’ve lost me. Why would you think Mr. Calhoun is like an ancient spirit?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” Now I’m embarrassed. Why did I think she’d understand? “He knows the forest. He can tell you the names of trees and birds and plants. He can even identify a bird by its song. And he moves through the trees without making a sound. You know how all of a sudden deer are there and then they’re gone and if you weren’t looking, you wouldn’t know they were there? That’s how he is.”

  Mrs. Clancy nods as if she’s trying to figure this out. “Well, it sounds pretty far-fetched to me. It must be all those books you read and that imagination of yours. Me, all I see is what’s real.” She tapped the coffee table. “Solid. Nothing mystical about it. Just a table.”

  She heaves herself up and heads for the kitchen. “Time to think about dinner.”

  The next morning, I set out for summer school. Mrs. Clancy doesn’t drive me there any longer. She trusts me. It’s almost over now anyway. No reason not to finish and go on to middle school with Shea.

  I cut through the park. A little out of the way, but it’s early and I have plenty of time. Near the fountain, I see George, Charlie, and Joe huddled together on a bench. Sean, Gene, and T.J. are flicking lit matches at them and laughing.

  “We looked for you last night, but you weren’t here,” T.J. says to them. “Scared you might get beat up like your buddy?” He makes a fist as if he plans to hit George.

  “You ought to be locked up for what you did to Ed,” he says in a low voice.

  “Nobody saw us but you,” Sean says, “and who’s going to believe an old drunk?”

  “Nobody cares what happens to bums like you.” Gene leans over George, his face inches away, almost nose-to-nose with him. “Your breath stinks like cheap wine.”

  While this is going on, Charlie and Joe shrink into themselves. They don’t say a word in George’s defense. They don’t look at Sean. They sit there like scarecrows.

  A cop walks toward us. Before he notices anything, Sean and his friends saunter away, laughing.

  “Okay, boys, move on,” the cop tells the men on the bench. “I’ve told you before not to loiter in the park. You give the place a bad name.”

  My heart pounds, but I step out of the shade and say, “Officer, those guys, the ones who just walked away, they were threatening these men.”

  The cop stares at me. “I didn’t see them do anything.”

  I come closer. I run my hand over the stubble on my head. “The same guys beat me really badly a few weeks ago.” My voice shakes and my knees tremble. “They cut my hair off with a knife. I had cuts and bruises all over me. You can still see the scabs.”

  “Why didn’t you report it?”

  “They said I’d be sorry if I told anyone.” I glance at the men on the bench. All three are watching the cop and me. “They beat Mr. Calhoun to death.”

  The cop frowns and stares hard at me. “Wait a minute. Do you know that for a fact?”

  “Ask George,” I say. “He saw the whole thing.”

  George gets up, ready to run. “Oh, now, Brendan, don’t drag me into this. I didn’t see anything.”

  The cop turns from me to George and grabs his arm to keep him from disappearing into the park. “Ed was your pal,” he says. “If you know something about his death, you owe it to him to tell me.”

  “They’ll kill me, too,” George mutters.

  The cop scowls. “Not if they’re in jail.”

  So instead of going to summer school, I go to the police station with George, Charlie, and Joe. The cop turns us over to a team of detectives. Detective Gifford takes me to his office and calls Mrs. Clancy.

  I cringe when he tells her he has me in the station and he needs her presence because I’m a juvenile. “No, Brendan’s not in trouble,” he says. “He’s here to report a beating.” A pause. “No, no, not another one. He’s finally ready to identify the boys who attacked him.”

  While we wait for Mrs. Clancy, Detective Gifford treats me to a soda and asks me the usual questions about myself. Favorite subject in school—art. Favorite sport—none. He raises his eyebrows slightly. “What do you do when you’re not in school?” Read, draw. He asks what my favorite book is. I tell him The Lord of the Rings. He’s read that, so we talk about Middle-earth and hobbits and elves and wizards and magic. We discuss the movies and agree Gollum was amazingly well done, all pretty true to the book, and wouldn’t it be great to go to New Zealand and see where the movies were filmed.

  Just as we’re about to exhaust the subject, Mrs. Clancy walks in, dressed for the occasion in her best slacks and a pale blue blouse.

  “Why aren’t you in school?” is the first thing she says. “This is the last week, Brendan. Don’t let me down now.”

  For a minute, I think the old Mrs. Clancy is back and she’s going to tell the detective what a lazy, unreliable, irresponsible boy I am.

  “I cut through the park and the guys who beat me were harassing Mr. Calhoun’s friends and then a cop came along and I told him those guys—Sean and Gene and T.J.—beat me up and cut off my hair and I was pretty sure they beat Mr. Calhoun, too.”

  Mrs. Clancy sits down. She clasps her big, shiny purse as if it’s a life preserver. “Brendan was badly beaten,” she tells Mr. Gifford, “but he never told me who did it. He said he didn’t know their names, they were strangers. He thought they didn’t like his hair or something. It was long then, past his shoulders, and I wanted him to get it cut, but oh, no, he wouldn’t go to the barber. Kids teased him about it all the time.”

  She pauses, out of breath, I think. “He’s a good boy,” she adds. “Not a mean bone in his body. But he doesn’t have any sense and he’s stubborn as all get-out.”

  I slide down in my chair. A good boy, I think. She’s never said that before. I steal a look at her and she actually smiles.

  “Tell the detective exactly what happened,” she prompts me. “I want those monsters put in jail for what they did to you. And to that poor old man.”

  So while Mrs. Clancy listens, I tell Detective Gifford I saw T.J. running away from the jewelry store in the mall the night it was robbed, and T.J. thought I told the police. He and his friends cut my hair off and beat me black and blue.

  “Then Sean held a knife to my throat and said if I told anyone about what happened, I’d be sorry. The Green Man—Mr. Calhoun, I mean—told me they roughed him up when he tried to stop them from shooting squirrels, and George can tell you they beat Mr. Calhoun the night he was taken to the hospital.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Detective Gifford looks at me, his face troubled. “I wish you’d reported this right away.”

  “He wouldn’t even tell me,” Mrs. Clancy puts in.

  “I was scared.”

  Detective Gifford rubs his chin. “Yes, I know. I understand that.” He goes through some papers on his desk. “The boys have a record,” he says. “Theft, robbery, break-ins, drugs, simple assault. Unfortunately, we can’t use any of that against them when they go to court.”

  “Why in the world not?” Mrs. Clancy is outraged. “The jury needs to know what kind of boys they’re dealing with.”

  Detective Gifford spreads his hands as if to say he understands but he can’t do anything about it. “They’ve been charged and punished for their past offenses. Knowing their record would prejudice the jury.”

  Mrs. Clancy shakes her head. “No wond
er we have so many criminals walking the streets.”

  “Don’t worry,” Detective Gifford tells her. “We have enough here to put them away for a while—simple assault, aggravated assault.”

  Mrs. Clancy leans toward the detective and asks, “Are you going to put out an all-points bulletin to pick them up?”

  Detective Gifford smiles as if he knows Mrs. Clancy watches cop shows on TV. “It’s already been done.”

  I write a statement and sign it. Mrs. Clancy gives her consent for me to press charges against Sean, Gene, and T.J. Then we’re free to go.

  Outside in the blinding summer sunlight, Mrs. Clancy says, “I wish you hadn’t missed school to do this, but it’s good you finally reported it.” She opens the car door and lets out a wave of trapped heat.

  “I’ll never understand why the jury shouldn’t be prejudiced,” she says to herself as she starts the engine and turns on the air conditioner. “Those boys should be sent to jail for life.”

  NINETEEN

  AT THE END OF THE WEEK, we have a little ceremony. Most of us receive certificates to go on to the seventh grade at Long View Middle School. All the parents clap hard, but Mrs. Clancy claps the hardest.

  Mr. Hailey takes me aside and gives me his personal congratulations. “See what you can do when you try, Brendan? Straight A’s. Promise me you’ll keep this up in middle school.”

  He holds out his hand and I shake it. “I wish you could always be my teacher.”

  “Maybe I will be,” he says. “I teach math at Long View, you know.”

  “That’s great.” I wave goodbye and join Shea at the refreshment table.

  “The punch is pukey,” she warns me. “But the cupcakes are delicious, especially the chocolate ones.”

  Since she has chocolate all over her mouth, I figure she’s sampled a few already.

  While we eat, Shea and I talk about what middle school will be like.

  “We won’t have just one teacher,” she tells me. “We’ll have someone different for each subject.”

  That’s good, I think. I won’t be stuck all day every day with someone like Mrs. Funkhauser.

  “And we’ll change classrooms,” Shea goes on.

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Carmel told me.”

  “Who’s Carmel?”

  “She lives in the apartments across the street from me. She’s in the eighth grade, but you’d think she was in high school. She’s got boobs bigger than her head and she wears tons of makeup, but she’s actually very nice. Not too smart, though.”

  When I don’t say anything, Shea adds, “And you know what? If anybody tries to pick on me, she’ll beat them up. She’s promised to be my bodyguard.”

  I wonder if she’ll be my bodyguard too, but I’m ashamed to admit I might need one.

  “Do you think you and I will be in the same homeroom?” I ask.

  “I hope so.” She chews on her thumbnail and looks me over. “Your hair’s growing back. Are you going to keep it short or let it grow?”

  “Mrs. Clancy wants to take me to the barber for a trim before school starts, but I’m letting it grow. It’s my hair and I like it long.”

  Shea grins. “You and me—nobody tells us what to do. Carmel says I should wear makeup, at least lipstick, and get a padded bra, but I’m not doing either. My mother’s on Carmel’s side but my stepfather’s totally against it.” She laughs. “I never thought he’d be on my side.”

  It embarrasses me to think about Shea wearing a bra, so I don’t say anything. I’m glad she’s not going to start using lipstick and girly stuff.

  Mrs. Clancy comes over to tell me it’s time to leave. Shea wipes her mouth with a napkin and says hello.

  Mrs. Clancy actually smiles at her. “Congratulations on passing summer school,” she says. “Did you know Brendan got straight A’s?”

  She grins and nods. “I did too. We’re the stars of our class.”

  “Well, isn’t that nice. I hope both of you get straight A’s in middle school.”

  “Don’t worry,” Shea says, “we will. Right, Brendan?”

  I shove my hands in my pockets and say, “Maybe.”

  Mrs. Clancy cuffs me lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t be so modest, Brendan.”

  The next day, Shea and I go down to the woods to start our search for the perfect tree to build a new tree house. We pass the grove where our tree lies on the ground. The sun is hot for September, especially with no tree to shade us. Wildflowers have grown up around the stump, and butterflies and bees flit from one blossom to the next, never staying long in one place.

  “We’ll never find another tree like this,” Shea says. “It must have been a thousand years old. Maybe more.”

  “Even if we did,” I say, “it wouldn’t be the same.”

  We walk along the trunk from its huge root ball until we lose our way in a forest of small branches. Shea pats a place for me to sit beside her. The trunk’s so big that our feet dangle above the ground.

  I catch sight of three deer moving slowly through the trees, their backs dappled with sunlight. They stop and stare at Shea and me with big brown eyes, their ears erect.

  “If you squint and make them blurry, they could be unicorns,” Shea says.

  “But they’re not,” I say.

  Shea sighs. “Well, even if they are just deer, they’re still beautiful and kind of magical. Don’t you think so?”

  I lean forward and study the deer. They stand so still, their heads up, their ears perked, their eyes focused on us as if they want to know who we are and if they can trust us. The trees encircle them and I feel the power of those trees. As silent and motionless as the deer, the trees watch us, too. If we make one wrong move, the deer will disappear into the woods without a sound. But the trees will stay where they are, held fast by their roots but vigilant.

  I glance at Shea. Her eyes fixed on the three does, she’s as still as the deer and the trees. Will she understand if I tell her about the trees and their magic? Or will she think I’m out of my mind?

  While I hesitate, the deer walk slowly toward us, crossing the clearing step by step, never taking their eyes off us. Behind them, a breeze moves through the leaves, and I imagine I hear the Green Man’s voice telling the deer we won’t harm them.

  The deer stop about two feet away, too far to touch them but close enough to see our reflections in their eyes. They smell like the woods, mossy and fresh. It’s as if time has stopped and anything might happen. I realize I’m holding my breath and I let it out slowly. One deer lowers its head and makes a whuffing sort of sound.

  In the softest voice I’ve ever heard, Shea whispers hello to the deer. The smallest of the three stretches its neck toward Shea and makes the whuffing sound again. If Shea raised her hand, she could touch the deer’s soft nose, but she doesn’t move. Neither do I.

  Then, as if on signal, their white tails shoot up and they leap away. In an instant, they’re gone, swallowed up by the woods.

  Shea turns to me. “Do you think the Green Man sent them?”

  I stare at the wall of green that hides the deer. “He might have. It’s what he’d do if—”

  We look at each other, still wanting to believe. The trees stir, the leaves whisper, a crow cries, its harsh voice filled with the dark wisdom of the forest. In my mind’s eye, I see the Green Man at the edge of the woods. He raises a hand to wave, then vanishes into shadows.

  In the distance, a train whistle blows. I slide off the tree trunk and Shea drops down beside me. Silently, we walk through the woods, toward home.

  One

  “TAKE GOOD CARE OF THIS GIRL,” Miss Beatty told the coachman. “She’s an orphan, you know, and never set foot out of London. Make sure she gets where she’s going safely.”

  After turning to me, Miss Beatty smoothed my hair and checked the note she’d pinned to my coat: “Mistress Florence Crutchfield,” it read. “Bound for Crutchfield Hall, near Lower Bolton.”

  “Now, you behave your
self,” she warned me. “Don’t talk to strangers, no matter how nice they seem, sit still, and don’t daydream. Keep your mind on what you’re doing and where you’re going.” She paused and dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief.

  “And when you get to your uncle’s house . . .” She sniffed and went on, “Be a good girl. Do as you’re bid. None of your mischief, or he’ll be sending you back here.”

  Unable to restrain myself, I threw my arms around her. “I’ll miss you.”

  Miss Beatty stiffened a moment, as if unaccustomed to being embraced. Certainly I’d never had the nerve to do so before.

  “Now, now—no tears.” She gave me a quick hug, then stepped back as if she’d done something wrong. Affection of any sort was not encouraged at Miss Medleycoate’s Home for Orphan Girls. “Remember your manners, Florence. Always say please and thank you, and don’t slurp your soup.”

  “Is that girl coming with us or not?” the coachman asked.

  “Go along then, Florence.” Miss Beatty gave me a gentle push toward the coach. As a passenger held out his hand to assist me, she said softly, “I pray you’ll be happy in your new home.”

  Once inside the coach, I looked out the window just in time to glimpse Miss Beatty’s broad back vanish into the crowd in the coach yard. The last I saw of her was the big yellow flower on her hat. She was the only grownup at Miss Medleycoate’s Home for Orphan Girls who’d treated me—or any of us—with kindness.

  On his rooftop seat, the coachman cracked his whip, and away we went, bouncing over cobbled streets and rattling through parts of London I’d never seen. I glimpsed the Tower, the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and mazes of twisting alleyways. Then we hurtled across Tower Bridge and into the narrow streets of Southwark, crowded with coaches, wagons, and people, all doing their best to move onward at the expense of everyone else.

  In the crowded coach, I was squashed between a large redheaded woman and an even larger gentleman with a beard that threatened to scratch my cheek if I was jostled too close to him.