35 Spring

Clare and Dante

 

The train screamed like a pig as it rumbled down the track. Oil me, oil me, it seemed to call. Dante and Clare stood astride their bikes, counting the cars of the slow-moving machine. The Woods had offered to buy them new bikes, but they had insisted on keeping these: the faithful two-wheelers that had brought them the great distance to Canada. So the bikes had gotten deluxe makeovers, with new tires and chains and whatever else the kids wanted. Though they would deny it if asked, the Woods spoiled Clare and Dante.

As the weather grew warmer and the days longer, the kids spent more time exploring the rural area that was their temporary new home. When they had first arrived, late last summer, there had been too much going on. Before being placed with the Woods, Clare and Dante had stayed briefly at Firefly ’ s home. Next came the transitional orientation period when they were housed in a special shelter and arrangements were made for them to have a brief and secure contact with their mother.

They had been examined physically and psychologically and had filled out forms to best match them with a host family. T hen they had landed smack dab in the middle of the busy apple season with the Woods. Not to mention Clare and Dante had just spent al together too much time riding bikes and seeing new places. They had been ready to settle in, and settle in they did.

N ow the children shook off winter like a dog shakes off water. All Dante need do was stand at the open door of the Wood s’ old farmhouse; he could smell adventure in the fresh spring air.

“ Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine. ”

At last, the bright yellow caboose. The children pulled their bikes over the tracks, hopped on, and cruised down the lonely road. They turned at a small side road, Clare noting their turns so they wouldn ’ t get lost. Of course Marissa had made sure they brought a tracker with them, but the kids di dn’ t plan to use it. They took no small amount of pride in the fact that they had made it all the way to Derby and then into Canada, mostly on their own.

Soon Clare and Dante were enveloped in orchards of pink flowering trees, immersed in the sweet scent of the blossoms. They rode into the trees, stopped, and dropped their bikes.

“ Oh, Dante, ” Clare said, inhaling deeply, “ it’ s so lovely. ”

He looked around. “ I think these are fruit trees. What kind do you think they are? They can ’ t be apples, because they ’ re not like at home. ”

It hurt Clare a little when he referred to the host farm as home .

“ Or maybe some trees are just a little ahead of other trees, ” he added.

“ Yeah, ” she agreed. Clare was thinking she didn ’ t really care. It was so beautiful. The wave of pink petals up there, brushing against the blue, blue sky. The delectable scent of thousands of tiny blossoms.

“ Hear that? ” Dante asked. “ Listen.”

Clare listened. There wasn ’ t anything—no traffic noise, no voices or loud music. She was about to say this when she realized there was a sound, a sound so uniform, so constant and unvarying, that she hadn ’ t noticed it at first. A low hum.

“ Bees , ” Dante said. “ Like Gruff’ s. These are some pretty happy bees , ” he said, smiling.

The little workers buzzed around them from blossom to blossom, oblivious to the children ’ s existence or anything but the task at hand.

“ Let’ s run! ” Dante took off into the orchard, arms flailing. Clare laughed and ran after him.

After a while both children stopped and lay flat on the moist ground. Petals had started to drop, and though not yet a carpet, the children felt wrapped in a sea of pink.

“ I could never have imagined this, ” Clare said.

“ I could, ” said her brother.

She turned her head, narrowing her eyes at him.

“ What? ” he protested. “ I could have imagined pink trees. ”

Clare’s frown disappeared, and the children ’s happy laughter mingled with the contented buzz of the bees.