*
Lucas was sure he couldn’t remember a day that was worse than today. He was late for school, caught by Principal Lemon, he lost his desk, was worried about losing Sloane, and he had been blindsided by the new kid, double M, or double X Maxx… what-ever his name was! On top of all that, he was afraid that Lenny had a new recruit for his bully crowd.
He wandered home from school slower than usual. On the other side of the woods the sidewalks were empty. The houses nearby were lonely. When he finally got home he was drained and sweaty. This time of day, his mother would be in the kitchen churning out her latest award winning recipe.
The hallway smelled fishy. He hoped it wasn’t salmon. If it was, Felix was sure to be close by with his nose hunting down stray morsels. He loved it.
“Hi mom.” Lucas came slumping into the room.
His mother was there in her starched apron. She had a bowl of salmon on the counter and two small mountains of chopped celery and onions ready to toss in.
Lucas’s nose poked up. “What are you making?” he asked, already knowing.
“I’m making salmon patties for dinner,” she answered.
“Oh,” was all he said. It seemed that dinner wasn’t going to change his mood either.
“How was your day at school?” his mother asked.
“It was the worst day ever,” he told her with everything still fresh in his mind.
Mrs. Warbuck frowned and stopped mixing. She dried her hands on a crisp ruffle on her apron. Lucas told his story. He listed off everything except the part about being late for school. He figured the rest was bad enough.
Mrs. Warbuck handed her son an icy glass with lemon pulp and sugar crystals twirling like a snow-globe. The story stretched out between slurps.
Lucas’s mom talked about the bright side of things. Maybe this new boy was an opportunity to have a new friend, she told Lucas, reminding him that didn’t happen in Target very often. Maybe it was the sweetness of the lemonade, and maybe it was the sweetness of his mother, but Lucas felt better.
“Mom, have you seen Felix anywhere?” Lucas changed the subject. He was eyeing the salmon.
“He’s right there on the chair,” his mother answered, glancing at a kitchen chair by the doorway before turning back to her cooking.
Lucas looked at the chair. What was she talking about he wondered? He looked around again, then he knew.
“That’s not Felix. That’s your orange purse!” he cried. Then shaking his head in disbelief, “Sheesh,” he exclaimed.
“Oh…,” Mrs. Warbuck giggled. “Out of the corner of my eye I thought it was Felix curled up there. Haha! It’s not the first time that’s happened.” She laughed again.
Lucas rolled his eyes. “Gee mom, your imagination is nearly as good as mine.” He left the kitchen to hunt down the cat.
“I doubt that!” His mom called, smiling. She dropped the spatula she’d been working through some cookie dough and raced after him in a playful chase-down in the hall. Lucas squealed knowing what was next. She caught and twirled him by the shoulder into a bear-hug and left a quick peck on the top of his head. Each time she thought it might be the last. He was growing up.
“Awe mom, cut it out!” Lucas cried.
Martha Warbuck beamed. She loved that boy with all her heart.
“Save some salmon for Felix,” Lucas yelled.
After dinner the kitchen switched from smelling like a fisherman’s wharf to a chocolate factory. Lucas grabbed a warm cookie off a tray. His mom was washing up the dishes.
“What kind are these?” he asked.
“They’re mud cookies,” she smiled big. She knew Lucas would think she was just kidding around. The look on his face said she was right.
“Yes, they’re called Mud Cookies,” she said with a giggle. “I got the recipe from Mrs. Wilson,” she told him.
“That’s funny,” Lucas laughed. “He pushed the last piece of one cookie into his mouth and grabbed one to go. “These are really good!” he said over his shoulder.
The screen door banged shut and Martha War-buck cringed. “When will that man fix that door?” she mumbled.
Lucas was outside cooling off in the shade. The sun was still belting out the heat. He sat down on the ground and shimmied between the bare roots that gave the tree long legs and feet.
The ancient oak tree in the back yard was a giant. It was the kind of tree you couldn’t ever imagine not being there. The kind that you knew laughed with you and cried with you, and was strong when you were weak. Lucas felt like it was his friend. He thought that sometimes it even talked to him.
“I think that oak tree was talkin’ to me mom,” he told his mother one day.
“Oh Lucas, you know trees don’t talk,” she laughed. “Tell me, what did it say to you?” She went on, not waiting for an answer. “You have such an imagination. One of these days your imagination is going to get you into trouble and maybe us too,” she said.
“Well, I don’t really know what it said,” Lucas answered slowly, “but I’m pretty sure that it said something.”
And maybe that old tree did talk. It sure did put up a fight when whopping winds tried to blow the tree fort down. The oak tree’s branches pumped up like a muscle man. On the outside it went into a boxing rampage, on the inside it cradled that tree fort like a baby.
The tree fort had been there for so long the two had become intertwined to where it was hard to tell where the tree and the fort weren’t one. It was like the old tree had a heart. You could feel it. Maybe you could see it too right where some of the oldest gnarly limbs came together in a large twisty knot near the split of the trunk.
Whether the days were bright and sunny or dark and stormy the tree stood strong, faithfully keeping watch from its place in the center of the back yard. There had been other boys before Lucas, but none like him. Even the old tree knew he was a different sort of boy. It had listened to his dreams and kept his secrets safe.
And maybe that old tree even had secrets of its own…. Secrets it was willing to share if someone was daring enough to look higher than their nose. And now, finally… here was a boy with promise; a boy with a spark in his eye and he was quick-witted too… a boy who wasn’t content in being a Middling. Well maybe some of those dreams of his would become something. Much of the time the old oak tree just stood there silently, waiting on the boy. Waiting and hoping. Hoping and listening. When the wind rushed past, it seized the chance to cheer him on with the rustling of its leaves.
“Look up,” the tree whispered. “Look up… there’s so much more to see.”
Lucas stopped what he was doing and looked up.
“Hey! What did you say?” he said.