THE NEXT WEEK, Shea and I take some boards from a construction site and drag them into the woods. I rig up the pulley and Shea helps me get the boards into the tree. With her help, the work goes faster, but it takes two or three days of hoisting and hammering to build a platform for Shea just below mine. She decorates it with a mirror she found in somebody’s trash, a plastic tub with a tight lid, and a slightly crooked beach chair found by the side of the road. We take a few more milk crates from the convenience store so Shea can have her own place to keep stuff.
While we’re arranging Shea’s things, a familiar voice calls hello. I look down, and there he is, the Green Man himself, grinning up at us. “My word,” he says, “you’ve built an addition just for my lady!”
Shea and I scramble down from the tree, skinning our elbows and knees and sending the spiders scurrying.
“Is it okay—do you approve?” I ask, suddenly fearful he might object to more nails being driven into his tree.
“It’s lovely,” he says. “Lady Shea needs some space of her own.”
I want to hug him, but I hang back and watch Shea fling her arms around him and almost knock him down. “We missed you!” she cries.
“Whoa,” he laughs. “Have pity on an old man.” He looks at me. “Any food, Master Doyle?”
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I say. “Shea and I were going to walk to the convenience store and buy lunch.”
“Ah, that’s fine, then.”
The three us walk through the woods and follow the train tracks to Route 22. There’s a 7-Eleven a block down the road. An old, dingy one. Not the kind people from town use. A beat-up dump truck sits in the parking lot. Its owner is inside buying cigarettes and a six-pack of beer. As he walks out the door, I see the Green Man’s hand dart out as swift and smooth as a snake and lift a bottle from the six-pack. It disappears into his pocket without one jiggle or clink.
The dump truck driver doesn’t notice, and neither does Shea. She’s already in the candy aisle looking for Kit Kats, her favorite. The Green Man strolls around the store, looking innocent. He doesn’t know I saw.
I turn it over and over in my mind. The Green Man stole a bottle of beer. Why did he do it? He lives in the Green Wood. There’s nothing to buy there. Maybe he doesn’t understand how things are done outside the woods. After all, this isn’t his reality. Money doesn’t exist in his world.
I take a deep breath. It’s okay. I won’t worry about it. The Green Man is not a thief. He can’t be. His laws are different from ours, that’s all.
I show him the sandwiches in the refrigerated case. He picks ham and cheese. Shea chooses tuna salad. I take egg salad. Since Shea gets an allowance, she pays for the sandwiches, three cans of soda, and a big Kit Kat chocolate bar.
The skinny guy at the cash register has been watching all of us since we came in. Maybe he saw the Green Man pocket the beer. He takes Shea’s money, but he doesn’t speak to us. Not even a “Thank you” or a “Have a nice day.”
I look back as we leave. He’s still watching us, his eyes narrow in his long, pale face.
We trudge along the tracks, crunching cinders with every step. Shea hops on the rail and walks ahead like she’s dancing on a tightrope. The neck of the beer bottle sticks out of the Green Man’s pocket. I turn my eyes away. No matter what I tell myself, the sight of it disturbs me.
“What’s it like to live in the woods?” I ask.
“Cold in the winter, hot in the summer,” he says. “But better than being cooped up inside.”
He follows the path into the woods. His back is broad, his shoulders wide but rounded, kind of slumped as if he’s tired. I hurry to catch up with him, to walk by his side. Shea is still ahead, darting through the woods like a bird that can’t fly.
“Where were you while you were gone?” I ask. “Did you follow the Appalachian Trail down through North Carolina and into Georgia?”
“Oh, yes,” he says softly. “It was a good journey.”
I keep quiet, hoping he’ll tell me what he’s done and what he’s seen, but he says no more until we’re sitting under the tree, eating our lunch.
He leans back against the tree and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he unscrews the top of his beer bottle and begins to drink.
Shea stares at him. “Where did you get that?”
“The beer?” The Green Man holds the bottle up to the light and squints at it as if he has no idea where it came from. “I believe the gentleman in the store gave it to me. Or would have if he’d thought of it.” He winks at us. “Sometimes generosity must be prompted.”
“You stole it?” Shea stares at him, shocked.
“Stole—that’s a mighty strong word.” The Green Man finishes the beer and wipes his mouth again. “A fellow like him can spare one miserable bottle of beer.”
With that, he lies on his back and shuts his eyes. “Naptime,” he murmurs.
Shea and I watch him drift off to sleep. Soon he’s snoring.
“No matter what he says, he stole that beer,” Shea whispers.
I shrug and swat at the gnats circling my head, tiny buzzing things that bite my ears and my scalp and get in my eyes. “His world has different rules,” I say. “They don’t have money there.”
Shea frowns. “What if he’s not who you think he is?” she asks. “What if he’s just an old bum?”
Before I can stop myself, my fist flies out and I punch her arm. She pulls back, surprised. “Never say that again,” I hiss at her. “Never!”
“You hit me! Nobody hits me!” Shea jumps up, her face red.
I get up too, but she’s already running into the woods, her back dappled with splashes of sunlight. “Come back,” I call after her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hit you hard, it couldn’t have hurt.”
But she’s already gone. I hear the faint sound of bushes rustling as she crashes through them and then nothing. I glance at the Green Man. He has one eye open, watching me.
“What happened, Brendan? Where did Shea go?”
I’m so ashamed that I turn away, unable to look at him while I tell him. “I hit her—I didn’t mean to, and it wasn’t a hard hit, just a sort of punch. But she ran off.”
The Green Man sits up. A leaf falls out of his hair. “Why on earth did you hit her?”
“She said something that made me mad. Now she hates me.”
“No, no, no.” The Green Man pats my shoulder. “She’ll get over it. She’s not the sort to hate anyone. Nor is she the sort to stay mad long. Wait and see. She’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I say. “She’ll be gone all weekend with her family.”
“Where’s she going this time?”
“To Deep Creek Lake. Her father bought a kayak. She showed me a picture in the L.L. Bean catalog. It’s red. She’s going to learn how to paddle it.”
The Green Man strokes his beard. “Lucky Shea.”
“Yes,” I say.
“Have you ever met Shea’s family?” the Green Man asks.
“I’ve never even been to her house,” I admit.
“Why not?”
I shrug and swat a mosquito making a meal of my blood. “She’s never invited me.”
“But she’s your best friend.”
“Well, she’s never been to my house either.”
“And why ever not?”
“Because Mrs. Clancy doesn’t allow me to bring kids over when she’s not there, and she’s not home very much because she works at the card shop at the mall. Besides, she’s grumpy. She probably wouldn’t like Shea.”
I hesitate. “Plus I told Shea I live with my mother just like an ordinary kid.”
The Green Man scratches his belly and gazes into the woods, his face sad. “Why did you lie?” he asks slowly, as if he isn’t sure he should pry into my life.
“Everybody thinks there’s something wrong with foster kids. They have bad blood or something. I heard one of Mrs. Clancy’s friends say that.”
He shakes his head and puts an arm around my shoulder. “The world is full of small-minded people,” he says. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Brendan. You’re fine.”
I lean against him. He’s big and solid and I feel safe with him. “You and Shea are the only friends I have,” I say. “And now maybe I’m down to just you.”
“It’s late,” he says after a while. “When does Mrs. Clancy come home?”
“Around seven,” I tell him.
“Must be almost that now.”
The Green Man and I walk together through the woods. I feel the animals gathering near us, deer and rabbits, foxes and squirrels, raccoons. I can’t see them or hear them, but they hide in the underbrush and watch me walk by with the Green Man, the king of the forest. He’s protecting me the way he protects them.
A train is coming, so we stop beside the tracks and watch it thunder past, shaking the rails with its weight, boxcars bouncing and swaying. When it’s gone, the Green Man says goodbye and walks back into the woods.
In a second, he’s gone. No twig snaps. No leaf rustles.
I think of what Shea said, and I know she’s wrong. Only a true Green Man could vanish into the woods without a sound. He’s magic. He is.
He must be.