Between the Roots Read Free Page A

phone ringing as he mounted the bike on the large wall hooks.
    He opened the kitchen door and heard his mother's concerned voice trail down the hall from her bedroom. "Give me more time. Even I haven't been inside. You know I'm not ready for this." She paused. "I just know."
    He hesitated in the kitchen, straining to hear. Her voice softened, then disappeared behind the click of a door. This was the second time this week he had overheard a call that disturbed his mother. He remembered her agitated plea, "Why does he need documents? No one will ever ask for them." Were the two calls related? He quickly returned to the garage and noisily reentered the house as she came into the kitchen.
    "Oh, Sammy, you're back! I need a break. How about some ice cream?" Before he had a chance to respond, she grabbed her purse and steered him outside.
    It was a short drive to the Ice Cream Shop. The quaint building was the hub of the community, where friends met friends; even travelers made it a regular stop. Every young child, parent, and grandparent had spent money there. The shop was busy. The unusually warm fall weather was good for business. Customers lined the counter. Sammy and his mother edged along with them. Three teenagers were huddled near the door deep in conversation. A middle-aged man holding two ice cream cones pushed by the waiting customers. Just as he approached the group of teens, the tallest boy rocked forward and back, laughing at a comment made by one of his friends. As if in slow motion, Sammy saw the domino effect, the older man's arm bumped the teen's elbow, one of the cones flipped onto his pressed shirt to fall on the floor.
    "Watch what you're doing!" the man yelled.
    Customers near the action became silent, pulling away from the man.
    "I'm sorry, I didn't see you coming."
    Two of the teens bent to pick up the mess. "Can I get you another one?"
    "The best thing you can do is get out of my way. I've got work to do, unlike some loafers around here." The angry man scowled at the boys, grabbed the door with his free hand, and left the store.
    "Pleasant sort," the woman at the cash register said. She turned to the boys. "You know he'll have it all over town that you guys were causing trouble."
    "We can't help what's not our problem."
    "Well, just don't let him keep you from coming to town." She gave the silent teen a smile. Sammy didn't recognize them. Perhaps they were visitors.
    After placing their orders, Sammy glanced around for a vacant table. His eyes whisked over crowded parlor tables lining the wall. And then, with a start, he saw Walt. The old man was hunched over an enormous bowl of ice cream. Next to him sat a blond curly-haired girl, a little younger than Sammy, eyes framed by glasses. She reached up and tapped the old man's hat, a silent lecture to remove it. He grabbed it quickly from his head and stuffed it in his lap before he returned to his dessert.
    Sammy's heart beat fast with both anxiety and relief to see Walt. The hunt was over—how easy, yet how awkward this could be. How could he talk with the old man without arousing others' curiosity?
    Sammy's mother handed him his cone and motioned him to follow her to the empty table in the back. He noticed the old man's baseball cap had fallen from his lap onto the floor. Sammy smiled at his mother and nodded. "I'll be right there."
    He stepped up to Walt's table, bent down, and picked up the cap. "Excuse me, sir, you dropped this."
    The old man looked at him and gave him a knowing smile.
    "Oh, thanks, kid." He glanced around nervously. "Do you want to join us?" The young girl stopped eating and studied Sammy, looking as if she recognized him.
    "I'm with my mom." Sammy nodded in the direction of their table.
    "Oh, I see. Well, thanks."
    This short encounter reassured Sammy. He called me "kid." Neither one of them could openly admit they had met before. Yet the old man's invitation suggested he wanted to make some kind of contact. If only they could talk a