The Acolytes of Crane (Theodore Crane, #1)(25)

‘Well, that is too bad. I get sad after I go anyway. Things are good right now,’ I told her, but I suspected something was going on. She sighed, as if troubled. I decided not to ask.

‘Goodnight, granny,’ I said.

She flipped the light switch and said, ‘Goodnight, Theodore.’

That night, the sky reminded us of its power with a thunderstorm that ripped through our neighborhood. Gusty winds pounded the walls and rattled the windows. My grandparents, who had survived times of war and economic depression, slept through the fierce storm. In contrast, I watched through my window briefly as the storm rocked the trees at mid-trunk.

The bolts of lightning streaked across on the tumultuous sky canvas, instantly dabbing the edges of the otherwise lead-granite colored clouds with brilliant flashes of cream, illuminating the ground below.

My astonishment turned to fear, after a bolt of lightning split the picturesque window scene in front of me. The jagged sword of lightning splintered the elder tree in our front yard, leaving it a smoldering wreck.

The proximity of the blast forced me back; the boom had taken my breath away. I retreated to my covers, because I was shaking from the bolt's impact on that tree.

That tree spent nearly sixty years reaching for the sun, only to be destroyed in a millisecond.

I tried to sleep for the remainder of the morning, but I was left tossing and turning. It seemed the days were becoming chronically weird.

My grandma read the paper bright and early before my grandpa at around four in the morning. She preferred to read the paper before Marv, because he usually left it in a state of disorder after pulling out his favorite sections.

Typically, I was the final person to read whatever was left of the paper, because during the summer, I was the last to wake up.

That morning after that huge storm, my grandparents were out instructing the workers where to put all of the excess wood from the tree. The sounds of the worker's chainsaws and chatter pulled me out of bed.

My grandmother left some food out for me on the stove. I grabbed a few bites and walked toward the living room. The taste of scrambled eggs still fresh in my mouth, I grabbed the paper. Typically, I could bypass all local news if it didn’t interest me, and I would cut straight to the comics.


I sat in my granny’s chair and kicked up my feet on the tiny ottoman that sat next to it. Usually, when I sat on that chair, I felt like I became my grandma, as if I was looking through her perspective: a cold drop of tea in the bottom of a cup, a pen laying atop the day’s crosswords, and a pair of soft and stinky slippers. I slipped them on and gazed at the folded stack of papers.

My heart stopped.

There was a clean, rectangular hole on the first sheet of the newspaper section on top of the pile. Where the crossword puzzle usually was. But my shock was not from the fact that my grandpa must have cut out the crossword puzzle for himself.

Peering through the cut-out hole, as if a ghost, the face of my sworn enemy leapt out at me.

In bold print, underneath the photo, the caption read, Travis Jackson, 2001-2016.

I blinked. This must be a mistake.

I snatched the page where the photo was and threw aside the cut-out crossword page. It was the obituary section.

But this was no mistake. The blurry black-and-white photo of Travis, sullen, looked out at me again. He looked a bit older than the last time I saw him. But that forlorn expression still dominated. He didn’t look happy.

I read on, my heart pounding. It was Travis’ obituary.

Apparently, Travis was camping at Taylors Falls with his dad, and he disappeared. His father reported him missing, and there was an ongoing investigation. Now, he was presumed dead.

The paper’s columnist questioned Travis’ affiliation with Jason’s death, and presumed that Travis may have thrown himself from the cliff into the river.

In shock, I breathed deeply, unsure what to think.

Was this a clue left behind by The Intervention? I had to do some detective work to further my understanding of the unknown force, starting with the cliff that potentially stole the life of two kids. Did Taylors Falls hold the meaning to my amulet? After all, it had glowed there too.

I didn’t mention anything about what I read from the paper to my guardians, and I had good reason. I had a plan.

I sat on the three-season porch taking in the smell of the moist cherry wood. I sat in a white wicker chair that left imprints on my arms where they rested on the surface. I noticed these creases on my skin as I pulled away from the chair to grab some cookies.

My grandma sat on a chair by the wooden kitchen table, sipping some Earl Grey. She would always ask me if I wanted tea, and I would say yes. After all, tea and cookies was quite the combo. ‘What is eating you, Theodore?’ she said while looking at me with an inquisitive squint, ‘I know there is something bothering you, Ted.’

I started crying. I cried so hard and dreadfully long; I was hysterical. My body shook with sobs. My grandmother held me and ran her fingers through my hair. My sadness was always transformed into anger and motivation to do more—to enjoy life better. I wanted to make good of what I could do and the time that I had with her.

‘Theodore, you are special. I am not saying that because I have to, I am saying it because you have proven how strong you really are. You don’t have to be tough and hold in all of your sorrow. It helps to belt it out and shed some tears from time to time,’ Grandma Laverne said, ‘There is something else. Well, I think I will wait for your grandfather to come home to tell you.’