The Root Cellar by Janet Lunn Page B

didn’t start anotherbook. Then your grandmother died and your aunt what’s-her-name phoned and said could you come and live with us, and Mom said, yes, of course. She said she couldn’t very well say you could come, then take right off for Florence. So we used the money to fix up the kitchen and some other things—and I was mad. I guess I’ve been really rotten. Yesterday when you threw up in the ditch, first I thought you were awful then I thought, what if it was me? So I started thinking about how mean I’d been to say those things. And anyway, I didn’t mean to say them where you could hear and … well, I’m sorry, that’s all.”
    Rose had never before been the cause of someone having to do without something really important. For her, going to Italy wasn’t anything special, but she could see that for Sam it was a dream. Having been kept for three weeks from going back to Will and Susan, she knew the pain of that kind of disappointment.
    “I can see why you hate me,” she said. “I’d hate me if I really wanted to go some place and I came along and wouldn’t let me.”
    “I don’t hate you. Not anymore anyhow.”
    “It’s all right. I mean, I’m glad if you don’t hate me anymore, but I know you can’t like me either. I don’t mind.”
    “What do you mean? Why can’t I like you?”
    “Nobody does.”
    “That’s dumb. People like you.”
    “No, they don’t.”
    “I do.”
    “No, you don’t.”
    “I don’t?”
    “No. Nobody does. It’s because I don’t belong here.”
    “Don’t belong here? What do you mean?” Sam had got over his awkwardness. He sat down on the stone wall beside Rose.
    “I don’t belong here,” she repeated. “I figured it out a long time ago. I.…” She stopped and looked down at her hands, her fingers nervously entwined. Sam’s sudden, unexpected offer of friendship had filled her with an overpowering rush of gratitude and an immediate urge to confide in him—to give him something in return. “I … Sam, if I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone else?”
    “Sure.”
    “Do you promise?”
    “I promise.”
    Rose told him the story of Mrs. Morrissay, the root cellar, and Susan and Will. Then she showed him the photocopy of Will’s name and took the crumpled song out of her pocket and showed him that.
    Sam got up. He paced back and forth in front of her, his hands first swinging wildly at his sides, then pushing through his hair until it stood on end like the quills of a porcupine.Finally he stopped in front of her. “Okay,” he said, “I admit I thought I saw a ghost that one morning and I admit it did look like an old lady”—he swallowed—“in fact, sort of like the old lady you’re talking about, and it wasn’t just a silhouette. I only said that to steer Mom off. It was a face and everything, but it
could
have been shadows and so could yours. All that other stuff about the root cellar and going back in time—that’s crazy. But even if it were absolutely true, it wouldn’t mean you belonged there. You belong here. You belong with us. You’re our cousin. Even if you are an American.” Sam grinned. “But that’s okay. My mother’s an American too, remember? Your father was my mother’s brother. His name was David Larkin, and there’s a picture of him on my mother’s dresser. I’ll show you when we get home. I don’t know why you think people don’t like you. Why shouldn’t they, unless”—Sam came to a halt in front of Rose—“unless it’s because you don’t like the rest of us very much. You’re not exactly the friendliest person in the world, you know.”
    Sam stopped. Rose said nothing. She was too stunned. David Larkin—she had never thought about her father as a real person, someone who might even be in a photograph, someone other people knew about. She felt a curious sense of shock. “Come on,” she heard Sam saying, “it’sgetting cold. Let’s go find something to eat. How much money