Not as It Seems

Not as It Seems

Susan Troutt

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© 2012 Susan Troutt. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 5/23/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-8372-4 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-8373-1 (sc)

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Contents

THE MOTHER

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

THE NEIGHBOR

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

THE FATHER

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tales from the Granite Countertop

Tiptoe into your kitchen and look beyond nature’s design. Yes, there topping the cabinet. Of course, you say, it’s only a countertop. But do not stop there. Look into the countertop. Look right there, boys and girls, right under your fingertips, cold and hard in its swirls, chips, and crystals.

Do you see them? Once you open your eyes, surely you will see the faces. Why, in the right-hand corner alone there is Queenie Ester and Briney McDoogal, the Child Pirate. And look there, just a little lower and see the Child-faced Cat and Ralphie, the friendless boy. Strange creatures, all of them, for they are trapped there in time. They can never come out, but always they are changing, evolving. Each of them can be discovered, and then with merely a swish of a rag, each evolves into something else.

But they are always, always present, for they are each part of a tale from the granite countertop. They have whispered their tales into my imagination, and now I shall share one of their tales with you.

Not as It Seems

The night is black. There are no stars, no moon.

At the edge of the forest the creature lingers, watching. His presence is unknown. He likes it that way. No one can see him, yet he can see everything, everyone.

In a flurry of redness he darts, silent and sly, through the field. Just before leaping over the boundary, he straightens his back and stands upright at the fence post and stretches one leg then the other over the white railing.

His clothing lie on the big rock by the old barrier post where he’s left them. He quickly puts them on. Woodland tangles snarl his hair, yet he fancies himself quite handsome with his toothy grin and his yellow slanted eyes.

The Supreme Master has chosen him for this wonderfully exciting mission. How different things will be once it is carried out! No one else knows of this. No one suspects anything at all. Humans are so very naïve.

The Mother

One

Ralphie Moore lived with his mother in a small town in Ohio. His father worked for the railroad. On Monday mornings, Ralphie’s father walked to the railway station where he caught the train and rode who knew where to work all week on who knew what. On Friday evenings, he arrived back at the same railway station and walked home again.

Ralphie would like to say that he looked forward to the weekend times he and his father spent together. The truth was he didn’t. On weekends, his father was too grumpy and tired to have much interest in Ralphie. Besides his father was old.

When his father came home on weekends, he spent most of his time working on model trains. He had a little room in the house devoted to this hobby. The room was kept locked all week, but on weekends, the door stood wide open. Ralphie’s earliest memory of his father was in that room.

Ralphie had been about five when he’d heard his father humming inside the train room. He peeked inside. There stood his father on a ladder. He towered over a green felt board and hummed as he worked. Happily he coupled a black engine onto a series of train cars at the top of a purple mountain. He smiled and hummed some more.

What a nice place, thought Ralphie, hoping his father would invite him in.

When his father got down from the ladder, he was surprised to see Ralphie in the doorway. He drew in his breath.

Hi, Daddy, said Ralphie.

His father opened and closed his mouth, as if to say something. Then he frowned and slammed the door in Ralphie’s face. Ralphie was crestfallen. His father didn’t want him. His little soul began to crumble.

Ralphie found the door was always closed after that, except when his father was working in the room. Then it was open only enough to allow slivers of air to filter through.

One day, Ralphie hid behind a big overstuffed chair and waited until his father emerged from the train room. When Ralphie was sure no one was looking, he snuck inside his father’s secret lair and closed the door behind him.

There before him was a whole miniature world—not just trains, but houses and trees and roads, and tiny little people too. The board they rested upon wasn’t just green felt either. It had been sprinkled with texture to make it look like real grass. It all looked so real—just like a tiny little village.

By the base of the big purple mountain, Ralphie noticed a black box with wires hanging from its side. On top was a single black switch with the numbers 1, 2, and 3 printed alongside. The switch protruded right at his five-year-old eye level. His pudgy five-year-old fingers itched to touch that switch.

Ralphie looked around. No one was watching. Bravely he nudged the switch to number 1. The display sprang into action. The train chugged mechanically around the track.

He pushed the switch to 2. The train picked up speed. Ralphie couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d made the train go faster!

What would happen if he moved the switch to 3? Go to 3! Now 3! Ralphie’s mind commanded. Ralphie obeyed the command. He pushed the switch to 3. The train zoomed along a straight stretch, it whizzed around a corner then without further ado, it flopped off the track.

Oh, no! Ralphie had broken his father’s train!

Frantically he raced to the overturned cars. He’d been so absorbed in the train that he hadn’t even heard the door open. He looked up. There in the doorway stood his father. His father’s face was fierce. What do you think you’re doing? he demanded.

Ralphie didn’t know what to say. He just stood there with his mouth hanging open, the train dangling from his guilty, little hand like something that had died.

Then came the inevitable crash of train cars disengaging from the engine and clattering to the floor. In one swoop Ralphie looked down at the pile of tiny cars then upward to the revulsion on his father’s face.

Get out! Get out right now! shrieked his father. Don’t you ever come in this room again! This was his train set. He wasn’t about to let a kid ruin what he’d worked so hard for.

Ralphie ran from the room, shaking with fear, and hid behind the overstuffed chair to be spared his father’s wrath. When the train room’s door slammed shut behind him, Ralphie’s world shattered into a million pieces.

He peeked over the top of the chair. With trembling lips, he realized his father was not on this side of the door. He became a little ball behind the big chair. His sobs were small and quiet, but his grief was great. His father didn’t want him.

Ralphie never told anyone about the train incident. In fact, he hoped his father would forget about it as well. But now the door to the train room was always kept locked—even when his father was inside.

One Saturday Ralphie heard his father talking to himself inside the train room. He pressed his ear to the closed door. Not all the words were clear, but he thought he heard his father say, You go here, and you go here, and you, little man, go there. And then he heard his father humming.

Ralphie pulled away from the door. He didn’t know who the you and the little man were, but he wanted to be the one to whom his father was speaking. He wanted to be the little man—or at least a little somebody. He needed to be noticed, and he wanted his father to be the one to do the noticing.

He thought if he waited by the door long enough, his father would come out and acknowledge his presence. He waited and waited. His legs grew tired so he crouched beside the door. Still his father didn’t come. At last, when he was so tired he could bear it no longer, he tumbled over and curled up on the floor.

Several hours passed. Later that evening, when Mr. Moore opened the door, he was shocked to see the boy asleep on the doorsill.

Delores! he hollered.

Ralphie’s eyes popped open. Daddy! he smiled and turned his blonde head to look up at his father.

His father’s mouth was turned down. Delores! he shouted. Come get this child and put him to bed! Then he stepped over Ralphie’s small body and headed toward the living room.

At that moment, a hard little shell, shielding him, offering protection from further disappointment, molded around Ralphie’s core. From inside came tiny moans of sorrow.

His mother scurried in from the kitchen. She dropped to her knees beside him. Ralphie! Ralphie! Are you all right? Tenderly she scooped him up.

Ralphie’s eyes were pools of sadness. His arms