"Samuel Long! Stop starin' out the window and eat your dinner!"

I silently shift my gaze over from the trees to the shriveled up chicken soaked in mashed potatoes. My mother's thin lips tighten and the creases in her forehead deepen as she looks at me. I avoid her stare and poke the oil spots in the soupy residue on my plate. From the amount of time my ma glares at me like that, I swear she was born with a frown. I'm practically a man now-- I'm eighteen: old enough to make my own decisions but not old enough to be taken seriously...so no one ever does. The chairs screech as my mother and I step away from the table, our mush untouched. We throw our plates in the sink and return to our normal spots: hers the couch and mine out the door. I gingerly walk to the back creek and look behind my shoulder through the screen door. Ma is slouched on the couch, rubbing her temples as usual. She is always stressed-- stressed about work, stressed about Pop, stressed about me. Pop died in a car crash about two years ago, and she thinks he’s coming back. "Someday soon", she says. "He'll pull right on in that driveway and everything will be back to normal, you'll see. He’s comin' back, you'll see."

I know she doesn't actually believe that, but after that much pain, I can see why she would just shut down and stop thinking about it. The crash was one of those freak accidents that really had nothing leading up to it but happened anyways. We don't talk about it much-- we both know it happened and we both know it hurts; we just handle the situation differently. The sound of trickling water tells me I'm close to the creek. I push aside some severed branches and see the water rushing under the twisted roots of a tree. This place always calms me down. I remember one time, shortly before my father died, I was real upset about something. I'm not sure what it was but I remember running and I remember falling. I fell face first into the dry grass and just laid there punching the ground, as if it were the reason I was hurt. My father walked over to me and took me to this creek. He directed me to a nook between two roots then sat himself down on the biggest root. I swore the creek was magic, because I had felt so peaceful, I had forgotten why I was even upset.

"If you’re ever sad, come to the woods. The trees are good listeners." After that, I went to the creek every day for two years.

He dipped his feet in the water and grinned when I complained about the sun's reflection being so bright on the water it hurt my eyes. Now I wish the sun still shined as bright as it used to. I take my place in the nook and stare at the sun until my eyes get blurry with tears. My eyes start to sting; I rub my sockets with my fist but I don't turn away. I had a good life with Pop; he wouldn't want me crying over him while staring at a television screen like Ma. The next morning, I went into town. I live in a small city that no one has ever heard of before. There isn't much to see in the busy parts to it 'cept the stores and some other old houses. The other kids my age live on farms pretty far away from my lot and the town; so it’s mostly just me, my thoughts, and the peace of my backyard. Even if those boys and girls lived in my own backyard, I still wouldn’t talk to them. The deepest conversation I could have with them would be about trucks, farming, or the latest keg party they went to. Today was Monday; expectantly, I should be in school. None of the people my age go to school anymore. To the greatest of our knowledge, college is just the name of a basketball team. I’ll be first to admit—ironically, I think I’m too smart for the school in this town. The teachers tell me I’m what they call, mentally undeveloped. Though I can’t tell the difference between a parabola and pancake, I can tell you the things I think matter more in life. I know how to comfort and how to listen. I can sense when a person is lying, when they are sad, or if they shouldn’t be trusted. I realize there is a right time to speak and a wrong time to speak. Society knows about their problems and their needs, but they never stop to think about what they are missing out on. I lug my rusty bike to the market to pick up some things for supper. I overhear two women jabbering in the isle next to me.

“Margret, have you heard about Jack yet?”

“Yes! Do you think he did it?”

“I think he’s guilty. He killed that poor little girl! It’s a tragedy.”

I had heard about Jack Boone. Supposedly, he killed an eight year old girl named Laura three years ago. I didn’t understand it at the time, but my parents told me I wouldn’t be seeing Laura in school anymore and started to lock the back door more often. Rumors say the town’s judge made a bad call because they didn’t know for sure it was him; claims the whole thing might have been a mistake. I’m sure it won’t be nearly as big of deal as the townspeople usually think things are. I come home at dark after a little while in town; my mother has the lights off but left the television set flickering in the living room. I see her hunched shadow on the wall, in the same spot it was when I left.

“Investigators confirm that the city jail made a mistake in the Jack Boone case. Boone may or may not have been guilty for the crimes of...”

“Samuel? I…is that you?”

“Yeah, Ma, don’t worry. It’s just me.”

I lay in bed for a while. I didn’t think I cared about news or rumors, but this one seemed important—like it related to me somehow. The strange accusations run through my head for about an hour until I convince myself to ignore it and sleep. I gasp as my eyes snap open; the sun peeked through my curtains. I groan and look down over my bed to see the sheets bunched up on the floor—I must have kicked them off last night. I dreamt of Jack Boone. His face was blurry and I couldn’t see who he was, but I called his name. He started to run away, seemingly mocking me, so I chased him. We ran until I was left frantically looking around for the faceless man, pleading him to come back. I’m not usually one to believe in these sorts of things, but I think that was a sign. I decided to wait at the back creek, but for what, a friendly conversation with a criminal about the weather? It’s hopeless, but I sit between the roots under the shady branches, keeping one eye in a book and the other in the trees. Nobody came. I did this for a full week until I started to convince myself that I should face reality and stop looking for another adventure, one like in the books I read. Perhaps that was why I wanted to see Jack Boone—to have a little excitement or at least some conversation.

“You know”, a gentle voice calls out “I always like to think that man was responsible for making such beautiful things like the river.”

I nearly fall into the water, startled from the voice that came out from the forest. I scan my surroundings, but can’t spot the voice’s owner.

“I thank you God for this most amazing day, for the leaping greenly spirits of trees, and for the blue dream of sky and for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes. Wonderful passage by E.E. Cummings.”

A man dressed in raggedy jeans and a purple sweater steps out from behind a tree. I say nothing and lean in closer to the tree cradling me above the water. The peculiar man scratches his white beard and slinks down next to me, making himself comfortable on the largest root of the tree—my father’s largest root of the tree. I glance up at his cold stare, the muscles in my shoulders tense and I shift nervously in my seat. I was scared but his eyes were soft and the corners drooped down as if they were tired from all they have seen.

“So what’s your name, son?”

I don’t answer.

“You better have a good reason for sitting in my tree.”

I reply with a few confused blinks and a strange gurgle in the back of my throat, as if I wanted to say something but couldn’t.

“I haven’t been here in about three years. Guess you took over for me.” He had tan, leathered skin that caved in at his cheekbones. He catches me staring and I feel my face get hot and I turn away. I sense him looking at me, examining me the same way I was to him. We sat together on the roots for what seemed like the longest time of my life. Every ten minutes or so he would tell me the name of a bird he saw me looking at or started humming a monotonous tune that sounded neither happy nor sad. Near sunset, we parted and I see him slowly walk away. I wonder where he goes at nights. I hear a noise in a bush so I sprint the last few feet to my house, feeling like a child afraid of the dark. I collapse on my bed, trying to decipher what just happened. That was Jack Boone, I know it was. If anybody found out that I saw him, I’d be in big trouble. Everybody hates him for what he has done…how could that same gentle man in a purple sweater kill a little girl? I told myself I shouldn’t ever see him again, but his words intrigued me, pulled me in, tempted me to learn more. His thoughts were like mine, I could tell. I couldn't relate to my mother or the simple minded ideas of the townspeople. How could a criminal-- a murderer-- be just like me?

I decided to make it a habit to sit at the creek and wait for the old man; what have I got to lose? Most days he came, but on some he didn’t show up. I liked his talks, so I found myself missing the company on those days. Today he came. He was here first this time, so I walked up to him. I tried to suppress my grin, but he chuckled and nodded at me. I sharply nod back and stumble onto the roots. “How are we this evening?” Another few nods. “I used to sit by this creek every day from when I was your age to…well, you know, before I.” I give him a concerned look. “You doubt me, don’t you? I didn’t do it.”

“Huh?”

He glances at me, impressed at the first word I have said to him, as if he thought I was mute. “So you do speak. I was beginning to think you couldn’t hear me, and I was merely talking to myself!” He grunts and shifts his position, stretching his legs. “I’m an old man, going on fifty. You’re what, twenty, twenty four and spending his prime on a tree with an old convict.”

“Eighteen” I reply “and why can’t I, Jack? You sat here all your life.”

Baffled, he says “Well yes, I suppose; but look how I turned out. An old convict hated by his whole town.”

“Would you stop calling yourself that? Did you kill her or not?”

“No.” he says sternly.

“Then why are you sitting around? You should be out there trying to prove yourself innocent! Everyone still thinks you’re guilty and hate you for it. Don’t you know this town’s penalty for murder? It’s death, Jack! The court can change their mind at any time and decide you’re guilty.”

Jack looks at me with a harsh frown and says “You just don’t understand.” And got up and left.

“Yeah, just give up!” I call after him “See if I care!” I look around the woods, breathing heavily. That night at dinner I asked my mom if she had heard about the court case.

“Why you wanna know about that stuff, anyways?” she questions with her mouth full.

“Just curious.” I bluffed.




“Well, they were wrong, and it only took ‘em three years to finally figure it out. Turns out the girl’s parents confessed to lying, said they needed the money, so they blamed Jack Boone for killin’ their already sick n dyin’ daughter. Guess he died for nothing, then.”

“Died, what do you mean? He’s still here; they just let him out of jail, didn’t they?”

“Samuel, I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but I wouldn’t advise listening to them no more. Have you ever heard of a murderer getting ‘let out’? Boone lost his trial and immediately got the death penalty three years ago.”

Breathlessly, I whisper “I’ve gotta go.” I fly out the door, frantically running to the creek. “Jack, get out here! Who are you, Jack?” I collapse on the ground, screaming his name. I hear footsteps over my cries, he had heard me.

“Shut up! Someone will hear you! Quick, in here.” I am dragged from the ground to a shed hidden deep in the woods.

“What is this place? And can you please, for the love of God, tell me what is going on?”

“This is my home.” he quietly confessed. “I’ve lived here for three years, in hiding. This whole town thinks I’m dead. The court made a mistake in my trial…they sentenced me to death by the chair, but I survived. I survived, god damn it, and I’ve got the scars to prove it. They agreed to let me go, because they knew I was innocent but only if I agreed to keep my mouth shut; they threatened to kill me if I ever got caught. Said it’d ruin them if everybody knew they gave the death penalty to an innocent man.” I stare at the old man, my mouth open. “I know it’s hard to comprehend, but it’s crucial that you don’t tell anyo...”

“Why not?” I interrupt. “You want to live like this forever, scared and alone?”

“You don’t understand they’ll kill me if…”

“The whole town already knows! Investigators found out about the court case and now it’s all over the news.”

“I…I don’t own a television set.” Jack twiddles his fingers and peers out the window. It was all too much for me; I slowly lean towards the door then bolt out. I run out to the town; I had to tell someone. Jack was like a father to me now, and I wasn’t going to let him do this to himself. I run to the police, explaining the very unconvincing story to them. They knew the trial was wrong, but they doubted Boone survived. I try to plead for them to come with me to the shack, pulling on their jackets and ignoring their laughs. After a few minutes of persistence, one of them gave in and decided to see what I had to show him. We walk into the shed to find the infamous Jack Boone curled in a corner, trembling and afraid. The police stood there with his eyes wide, fixed on the old man. He slides his thumb down to a button on his radio and mumbles something like “the truth....get down here.” In a matter of minutes, the woods are filled with photographers, reporters, and policemen. I glance around and spot Jack’s blank face in the center of the crowd. I run over and offer him a place to stay at my house; he slowly nods, wincing at the camera flashes. “What’s your name, boy? I never asked.”

“Samuel…Samuel Long.”