Trouble

by Gary D. Schmidt

  Henry started to stack with Chay while Sanborn tormented a piece of wood for about ten minutes or so until he finally got the knack of it—sort of. They worked that way for an hour, and then another hour, sweating in the growing heat of the bright day. Mike stopped them a couple of times with some sour lemonade, and once he split while they drank, splitting in a few minutes about as much as Sanborn had split in an hour. Then he handed the maul back to Sanborn. "Don't aim at the top," he said. "Aim at the block and go through the wood." Understanding dawned on Sanborn's face as if he had just figured out that the world is round and not flat. After that, the splitting went better.

  And maybe it helped too that three more of Mike's kids came first to watch and then to help, which slowed things down considerably but which made splitting and stacking a lot more fun. Even Chay smiled.

  By noontime, when the kids were called back up to the house and Sanborn announced that his four-egg omelet had worn off and that Mike had better have something good to eat for them soon, Chay and Henry had stacked almost two-thirds of the woodpile in rows as neat as anyone could ever want them. If it hadn't been for crew practices, Henry figured, his hands would have been all blisters. As it was, he felt as though he had gone through a couple of workouts. He watched Chay for a moment, turning the pieces bark-side-up on the top of the stack. His black hair was as wet as if he had dumped a pitcher of water over himself. So was Franklin's rugby shirt.

  Henry handed a piece up to him and Chay turned to stack it—neatly. "So," said Henry without looking at him, "how come you didn't fight back this morning?"

  Chay took the next two pieces from Henry's arms. He fitted those two as well.

  "Suppose I had hurt you?" he said.

  And Henry felt that he really was what Sanborn had been telling him all along—a jerk. Of course he couldn't fight back. How could Chay have won?

  They walked together to the woodpile—which was a whole lot smaller now.

  "Maybe a graveyard wasn't the best place to settle things," Henry said.

  "The graveyard," said Chay. He began to take a load of wood into his arms, piece by piece. Henry did the same, throwing out some pine. "My family has nothing like that. I do not even know where they took my sister. They buried her in the refugee camp, but I don't know where. No place. A refugee camp is no place." He laughed his unhappy laugh. "That's where I'm heading now," he said. "No place."

  They finished loading up their arms and walked back to stack the wood.

  Henry thought of the cold stone brooding over his brother's grave: . He thought of Franklin's empty room with no light turned on. He thought of the late-night dark of his own room, and of the wide emptiness of a cold sea.

  "What happened to your brother after the soldiers took him?" Henry asked.

  Chay stood still.

  There was no need for any words. A heart that has lost knows every other heart that has lost. Late and soon, loss is all the same.

  They stacked the wood in their arms neatly, and then went back together to pick up another load, Chay looking up at Mike's house the whole time.

  16

  WHEN MIKE CALLED THEM IN for lunch, he had thick chicken salad sandwiches with mayonnaise and onions and tomatoes and sweet pickles, mugs of clam chowder that were swearing hot, and tall lemonades that were frosty cold all ready for them. Chay studied the clam chowder, testing it with a spoon and pulling up the potatoes and clams.

  "You don't eat it by looking at it," said Mike.

  So Chay tried to eat it by tasting it, which went pretty well, probably because he was so hungry from stacking wood.

  Henry finished first, and he left Mike's warm apple crisp with spiced whipped cream on the table so that he could run Black Dog; this was not an easy decision, but she had been crying outside the whole time they had been eating the chicken salad sandwiches inside. Sanborn finished his own warm apple crisp, considered for a moment, and then ate Henry's, too. Henry noticed this when he came back in, and as he later told Sanborn, there would have been blood on the floor if Mike hadn't come with another warm apple crisp. And Mike brought another one for Chay, too.

  Afterward, Mike's kids came running back down, screaming with joy that there was still more stacking to do. For the afternoon work, Mike showed Chay how to do the splitting—which Sanborn was glad about since he was getting blisters every place on his hands that could get blisters—even between his fingers. Mike and Chay spent a lot of time over it, and when Chay got the stroke right for the first time and sent the maul cleanly through some straight oak, he laughed aloud—a happy laugh—and turned to Mike with a smile—a real smile—crossing his whole face. It was almost as big as Mike's.

  Mike's kids clapped and cheered.

  The splitting went quickly after that, and when Chay had finished all the thick pieces, he helped Henry and Sanborn and Mike's three kids with the rest of the stacking. They were done by midafternoon.

  Mike came and looked appreciatively at the neat wood. "You're good people. I guess I'd hire you again," he said. He turned to his kids. "You looking for a job?" he asked.

  "C'mon, Dad," said the oldest—about seven.

  "Well, I guess not." He looked at Henry and Sanborn and Chay. "Any of you three ever looking for a job, you come back. We'll be here." He handed them each twenty-five dollars and a heavy brown bag—"So you have something to put on your bones for supper."

  Henry shook his hand. "We can't—"

  "Take it," he said. He looked at Chay's cheek. "Let's go in and clean that up one more time. It could stand a new bandage." They went inside together—Mike's kids, too, so that they could see the terrible wound—and when they came out, the bandage was new and white. Two of the kids were holding onto Chay's hands.

  Chay knelt down, and he kissed each of the kids on the top of their heads. "Goodbye, Little Mike. Bye, Ernie. Bye, Petey. Bye, Freddy." Then he got into the pickup—Henry and Sanborn were already waiting inside, and Black Dog was tied up in the back—and they all waved their blistered hands, and Mike's kids waved, and Mike wiped his hands on his apron and he waved, too. He looked at Chay. "Remember what I said. You got a job here whenever you want." Then he stepped back into the crowd of kids and waved again. Chay turned on the ignition, but he didn't drive away. He stared at Mike and Mike's Eats for a long time, and Henry wondered what was going on in his heart.

  "Are we going to head out or not?" said Sanborn.

  Chay put the car in gear and they headed out.

  "Goodbye! Goodbye! Goodbye!" from the kids.

  They headed out slowly. Going north. Mike's kids waved behind them.

  Sanborn fell asleep almost immediately, his head back, his mouth open wide to let out snorting snores. "He can turn himself on and off," said Henry.

  Chay shrugged.

  Black Dog did not fall asleep. She sat upright in the pickup bed, her ears held high, looking out toward the west. Every so often her ears would flatten down and she would whine loudly enough for them to hear, and when Henry would reach back through the panel window to stroke her, she would show that she was very, very concerned—but Henry had no idea what about. "She's upset about something," he said.

  Chay looked quickly back at her. "She hears thunder," he said.

  "I don't hear any thunder," Henry said.

  Chay shrugged again.

  Henry slouched down. He was achy from the day of lifting and stacking and thought how nice a very hot shower would feel; then he figured it would be a while before he had one. He looked out his window and watched the pines grow taller and darker and thicker. Then he looked over at Chay and looked at the bandage tight against the side of his face. Only a tiny stain of blood showed.

  "How's the cut?" he said.

  "Okay."

  "I shouldn't have hit you. It doesn't change anything."

  "You needed to do something," he said.

  "So what would you do, if you needed to do something?"

  Chay fingered the steering wheel.

  "You didn
't fight back. So what would you do?"

  "I'd burn down Merton Masonry and Stonework," Chay said.

  Henry sat up. "You burned down Merton Masonry and Stonework?"

  Chay fingered the steering wheel again.

  "You burned it down?"

  Chay nodded.

  Henry looked at him. "You burned down your parents' business?"

  "It was partly mine, too."

  "You know, everyone on the whole east coast of Massachusetts thinks that it was someone from Blythbury that did that."

  "They're wrong."

  "You should let people know."

  "Why?"

  "Because people should know."

  "What people?"

  "People."

  "It's not their business."

  "You should let your parents know, at least, so they don't blame someone else."

  Chay looked over at him. "They never did blame someone else," he said.

  Out to the west, a dark and roiling purple streak had cut across the bottom of the sky, and now it was bloating itself up, puffier and puffier, swirling and then, suddenly, crackling with lightning. Henry counted seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven seconds before the rumbling came, deep and low.

  "You burned down Merton Masonry," Henry said again. He whistled.

  Chay didn't say anything.

  "How come?"

  Chay shook his head.

  "How come, Chay?"

  Chay changed lanes around a slow dump truck. "It has to do with my family," he said.

  "I guess so, since you burned down the family business."

  Chay nodded.

  "So probably it wasn't about the music you listen to."

  Chay shook his head.

  "Or a curfew."

  Another shake of Chay's head.

  "A girl?"

  Chay's hands tightened on the wheel. "Enough," he said.

  Another deep and low rumbling. Henry counted ten seconds.

  Black Dog whined. Chay pulled over, and Henry went back to untie her and bring her into the cab. When he opened the door, she clambered up onto the seat and tried to climb in Chay's lap, but he pushed her back over to Henry and she settled for him, even though she might have been able to tell that Henry was a little irked.

  Sanborn was still asleep. Of course.

  Henry scratched Black Dog behind the ears, but still she wouldn't settle down. She squirmed in his lap, looking out the window, whining, perking up her ears and lowering them.

  "Did you ever have a dog?" Henry said.

  Chay sighed. "Do you need to know everything?"

  "Not everything. Did you ever have a dog?"

  Chay looked at Black Dog, then back to the road. "Once," he said.

  "What happened to her?"

  "Cambodian sons don't need dogs. Dogs are for American boys who don't work hard for their families." He looked at Black Dog again.

  "That sounds like it's from a poster," said Henry. "Cambodian sons good, American sons bad. Cambodian sons don't need dogs, American sons do."

  Chay nodded.

  "So what happened to her?" said Henry.

  A long minute passed. The asphalt whirred beneath the pickup's tires.

  "My father penned her up. He didn't give her any food. He made me watch when he beat her—to make me strong and independent. Then he took her someplace and drowned her."

  Another crackle of light in the west, and Henry counted three seconds. The clouds were all big-bellied now, and the purple had spread over half the sky. When Henry looked to the east, he saw that the yellow air of the July day looked like a patient with a deep fever.

  Chay reached out and put his hand over Black Dog's head. Black Dog reached her snout up to Chay's hand, and slowly he lowered it so that she could lick it. Then Chay let his hand come down on the top of Black Dog's head. Black Dog laid her ears down, and Chay scratched behind them. Black Dog closed her eyes with pleasure.

  Another sharp crackle of lightning; this time, the thunder was right on its back. And then the rain hit, sudden and shocking, so hard against the windows of the pickup that Sanborn woke up. The windshield weltered into a waterfall of white water and Chay slowed, flipped on the wipers, and leaned forward to peer through the cascade.

  "A little damp out," said Sanborn.

  "Have a good sleep?" said Henry.

  "I always have a good sleep. Are we there yet, or did we drive into the ocean?"

  That was about how it looked. The rain plummeted so fast that the wipers splashed hopelessly into the sheets of water. The torrent on the roof and sides of the pickup sounded as if someone was rattling chains against them. Black Dog tried to make herself as small as possible on Henry's lap as the thunder and lightning came on, shattering the darkness—again and again and again. It was as if an entire range of purple clouds had slipped down from the mountains in New Hampshire, picking up friction as they went. And then, full of momentum from their sliding, they had rolled on into Maine and were taking it out on the coastal lowlands.

  Chay finally pulled off to the side of the road and set his flashers on because he couldn't see a thing in this midnight of a storm, and they all waited, saying nothing, feeling the pickup rock back and forth with the winds that began now to buck up, the rain still so loud that Black Dog looked as if she wanted to put her paws over her ears—which Henry finally helped her do.

  "No storm is forever," Henry said to her. And he was right. No storm is forever. And so the lightning began to come a little less often, and the thunder to seem a little farther away, and the winds stopped wanting to flip the pickup over and began to wheeze—though the rain kept on just as hard as ever. Finally, the sky paled toward the west, and then paled more and more quickly. Chay drove back onto the road and headed north again, and the late-afternoon sun came out, lower than before, and sparkled the trees, the grass, every leaf, every particle of air.

  Henry turned and looked at Chay.

  His hands—both hands—were tight on the wheel, his knuckles mostly white.

  And he was crying.

  One thin, shining line cut down his face and ended in a drop glistening at his chin. Nothing else in his face gave it away. His mouth was set, his eyes unblinking. But there was this tear, and one tiny beam from the new sun shone on it, one tiny beam that had crossed millions and millions of miles of dark, cold, lifeless space just so that it could shine on this tear on Chay Chouan's chin.

  Black Dog saw it, too. She leaned over, puzzling, and leaned over some more, until she crossed over Sanborn—"Hey," he said—and craned her neck up to Chay's chin, and licked.

  Henry turned and looked out his window.

  Henry's father had told him that if they built their house far enough away from Trouble, then Trouble would never find them.

  But Trouble had found them. More than Henry could ever have imagined.

  They stopped at a gas station and bought three root beers—not Admiral Ames root beer, because they were too far from Portland now. They all three chipped in for gas, and then they were on the road again—which is where they ate the suppers that Mike had packed for them. Black Dog showed more than a little interest in these—so much interest that she snatched all three of the dollops of apple crisp that Mike had put in.

  The sky was trying to decide it if wanted to be a deep gold or blush into something redder when Sanborn finally asked what they were all thinking: "Do you guys know where we're going?"

  "To Katahdin, Sanborn. Remember?" said Henry.

  "Thank you, Albert Einstein. I meant what you know I meant: Do we know how to get there, or even how far away it is, or even if we're going to get there before dark?"

  Henry had to admit that he had no idea. He had been planning on leaving that part up to Franklin.

  "Franklin isn't here, Henry," said Sanborn—as if Henry had forgotten. As if Henry could ever forget.

  "So we need to stop somewhere overnight and get directions in the morning," said Sanborn.

  "We can sleep in the truck again,"
said Henry.

  "No," said Sanborn, "we're not going to sleep in the truck again. You guys didn't sleep with a dog on top of you—so we're not going to sleep in the truck again. Find someplace that has real beds and real pillows. And showers. And a real bathroom where things flush. And did I say showers? I've got my father's credit card."

  "It'll have to be a place where we can take in Black Dog," said Henry.

  "Of course," said Sanborn. "It was my top priority. It has to be a place that will take in Black Dog."

  "You have your father's credit card?"

  "Don't you?"

  "No."

  "I do."

  "How come you have your father's credit card?"

  "So I can get what I want without having to ask him. It saves a whole lot of trouble."

  Henry thought about what his father would say if he asked him for the credit card. Somehow, all he could imagine his father doing, if he asked, was shaking his head and walking into the library to be alone. Henry rubbed his palm against the side of his leg.

  The sky had decided on the deep gold. It gilded all the sharp edges of the red pines, and the straight granite rock faces cut out along the road, and the wispy clouds still being pulled in long streamers after the storm front. The air itself was dashed with flecks of gold, and they drove through a shining haze—though they could hardly see it. The shining seemed always just off to the side, almost invisible, but there. And it was while trying to catch hold of it somehow—to fix it in focus—that Henry first saw the lake that lay between two dark green hills.