said.
“How do you know?” Under her watchful eye, I blew my nose and took another tissue.
“Because I happen to know your Sam, and if he didn’t get in touch, he must’ve had a good reason.” Her blue eyes sparkled with humor. Was this woman teasing me?
“Do you know where Sam is? Will you help me find him?” I had to sit on my hands to keep from vaulting over the desk. “Are you sure it’s the same one?”
She stood and adjusted a window blind, inspected a cactus plant on the shelf below. “In the first place, Sam’s only a nickname, a combination of initials. But then, I imagine you knew that.”
“Not until Mr. Mac mentioned it. We always just called him Sam.” Was I going to be denied because I didn’t have the correct information? I had an awful feeling I’d failed the exam. “We were sort of like a family then; I guess last names weren’t important.” Oh, please tell me where he is! I would beg if I had to.
“If you’d come by this morning, you’d have found him right down the road. Sam volunteers his time several mornings a week at Camp Summerwood.” She looked at the clock. “I expect he’s left by now, but we can call if you like.”
Now that I knew where I could find him, a spell of shyness came over me. What if Sam didn’t want to see me? What if he’d changed? I took a couple of steps backward. “That’s all right … don’t want to trouble you. I’ll try to get in touch tomorrow if you’ll just give me a number where I can reach him.”
But Mrs. Thompson wasn’t letting me off the hook that easily. With a hand at my elbow, she propelled me out the door and down the hall. “Nonsense. No trouble at all! We can use the phone in the office. Maybe we’ll catch him if we hurry!”
And hurry we did, but Sam, we were told, had left for the day. His former teacher seemed as disappointed as I was relieved. What was the matter with me?
For future reference, Mrs. Thompson told me, Sam’s full name was Solomon Abel Maguire, and he left her class in March of his fifth grade year to live with his father who was in the military.
“As I understand it, when the boy’s mother died, his father just wasn’t financially or emotionally prepared to assume full-time care,” the teacher said. “But as soon as he felt he could look after Sam, his dad came back for him.”
She walked me to the door of the school where years before we’d lined up to wait for the bright yellow bus. The children from Summerwood always sat together.
“I knew several days before Sam did that his father was coming for him, but I was told not to say anything.” Geraldine Thompson gave me a slip of paper with my old friend’s name and address. “As happy as I was for Sam, I hated to lose him. Such curiosity! And he was never, never bored.” She sighed. “You can’t say that about many.”
“Where did he go? Did you hear from him after he left?”
“Somewhere out West—California, I think. His dad had arranged for a housekeeper to help look after him. And no, I didn’t see or hear from Sam again until a couple of years ago. Came by here right after Summerwood burned. Of course I had no idea who he was at first.” Mrs. Thompson smiled. “He’s a teacher himself now. Junior high over near Salisbury. Biology.”
“That figures,” I said, and told her about the turtle named Imogene, the lightning-bug stunt. “I wonder if that’s who we—I—saw in the garden at Summerwood this morning.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised. He’s over there a good bit, and I doubt if they pay him a cent.” She shook her head. “Good idea, that camp. I’ve helped out over there a few times myself, but it’s going to take more than the little trickle they’ve got coming in to keep it going. Too many Indians, and not enough chiefs—if you know what I mean.”
Augusta sat on a bench in the shade of a sycamore with her face toward the road and didn’t look up as I approached.
“I’ve found him!” I
“How do you know?” Under her watchful eye, I blew my nose and took another tissue.
“Because I happen to know your Sam, and if he didn’t get in touch, he must’ve had a good reason.” Her blue eyes sparkled with humor. Was this woman teasing me?
“Do you know where Sam is? Will you help me find him?” I had to sit on my hands to keep from vaulting over the desk. “Are you sure it’s the same one?”
She stood and adjusted a window blind, inspected a cactus plant on the shelf below. “In the first place, Sam’s only a nickname, a combination of initials. But then, I imagine you knew that.”
“Not until Mr. Mac mentioned it. We always just called him Sam.” Was I going to be denied because I didn’t have the correct information? I had an awful feeling I’d failed the exam. “We were sort of like a family then; I guess last names weren’t important.” Oh, please tell me where he is! I would beg if I had to.
“If you’d come by this morning, you’d have found him right down the road. Sam volunteers his time several mornings a week at Camp Summerwood.” She looked at the clock. “I expect he’s left by now, but we can call if you like.”
Now that I knew where I could find him, a spell of shyness came over me. What if Sam didn’t want to see me? What if he’d changed? I took a couple of steps backward. “That’s all right … don’t want to trouble you. I’ll try to get in touch tomorrow if you’ll just give me a number where I can reach him.”
But Mrs. Thompson wasn’t letting me off the hook that easily. With a hand at my elbow, she propelled me out the door and down the hall. “Nonsense. No trouble at all! We can use the phone in the office. Maybe we’ll catch him if we hurry!”
And hurry we did, but Sam, we were told, had left for the day. His former teacher seemed as disappointed as I was relieved. What was the matter with me?
For future reference, Mrs. Thompson told me, Sam’s full name was Solomon Abel Maguire, and he left her class in March of his fifth grade year to live with his father who was in the military.
“As I understand it, when the boy’s mother died, his father just wasn’t financially or emotionally prepared to assume full-time care,” the teacher said. “But as soon as he felt he could look after Sam, his dad came back for him.”
She walked me to the door of the school where years before we’d lined up to wait for the bright yellow bus. The children from Summerwood always sat together.
“I knew several days before Sam did that his father was coming for him, but I was told not to say anything.” Geraldine Thompson gave me a slip of paper with my old friend’s name and address. “As happy as I was for Sam, I hated to lose him. Such curiosity! And he was never, never bored.” She sighed. “You can’t say that about many.”
“Where did he go? Did you hear from him after he left?”
“Somewhere out West—California, I think. His dad had arranged for a housekeeper to help look after him. And no, I didn’t see or hear from Sam again until a couple of years ago. Came by here right after Summerwood burned. Of course I had no idea who he was at first.” Mrs. Thompson smiled. “He’s a teacher himself now. Junior high over near Salisbury. Biology.”
“That figures,” I said, and told her about the turtle named Imogene, the lightning-bug stunt. “I wonder if that’s who we—I—saw in the garden at Summerwood this morning.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised. He’s over there a good bit, and I doubt if they pay him a cent.” She shook her head. “Good idea, that camp. I’ve helped out over there a few times myself, but it’s going to take more than the little trickle they’ve got coming in to keep it going. Too many Indians, and not enough chiefs—if you know what I mean.”
Augusta sat on a bench in the shade of a sycamore with her face toward the road and didn’t look up as I approached.
“I’ve found him!” I
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