The Winds of Autumn Page 11

  I knew what the Bible said about enemies—that we are to love them, to do good to them. But, boy, it sure was hard to be nice to Jack Berry. He seemed to spend his nights thinking up mean things to say about me, and his days saying them.

  I tried to ignore the insults but it sure got tough. Even the other fellas were beginning to get on me about the situation. They said I shouldn’t allow Jack to say those things, that I should stand up to him. I tried to shrug it off.

  Willie was the only one who really understood how I was feeling.

  “It’s tough, Josh,” he said. “Doing what you know Jesus would do is really tough sometimes.”

  “Turning the other cheek” was what Willie said the Bible called it. Though he acknowledged that not defending myself was tough, that was exactly what Willie expected a follower of Jesus to do.

  Then one Thursday everything all broke loose.

  I had gone again to Camellia’s house and, after our tea and pastries—which I still didn’t manage too well—we spent some time studying. I would have stuck with it longer, but after a few minutes of working over the geometry text, Camellia started talking about other things.

  She was bright, lively, exciting, and it was fun talking to her. It was easy for me to just let the book slide to the table and listen to the music of her voice. When I finally pulled myself away, gathered up my books and my coat and left her house, I was in a big hurry. I was later than I should have been and I had chores waiting for me at home.

  I was just running by the darkened schoolyard, my breath puffing out ahead of me in cloudy little spurts of frost, when I heard an unexpected shuffling sound. Before I could even turn to look, someone grabbed me and a fist whirled through the air and hit me right in the face.

  I hollered out with surprise and fright and my book went flying through the air and landed somewhere in the dark bushes just beyond me.

  The fist hit me again, and this time pain streaked through my right eye. It made tears stream down my face so I couldn’t even see my assailant.

  I had never fought before in my life, but suddenly I was fighting as if my very life depended upon it—for all I knew, maybe it did.

  As we traded punch for punch, I could tell whoever had jumped me was about my size and weight. I still couldn’t see, so I had to cling to him with one hand and swing with the other. Most of my punches missed, but a few of them were solid hits. The other fella responded in grunts or cries of pain that made me fight even harder.

  It was hard and slippery under foot because of the frozen ground, and as we tussled and pulled at one another, swinging whenever we could get a hand free, our breathing became more and more labored. Once or twice I heard a tearing sound but I didn’t know, nor care, whose clothes were being ripped in the exchange. I was far too busy trying to save myself from who knew what.

  I stopped worrying about who I was fighting and why, just kept on swinging as hard and effectively as I could. And then a solid blow caught me right on the chin, and I felt my knees turn to mush.

  I didn’t realize it at the time, but it would be several weeks until I was able to remember and sort out exactly what happened after that. Reconstructing events later, I recalled I had tried to stay on my feet, but the slippery ground and our tangled legs didn’t help my sense of balance any, and I felt myself slowly going down.

  “That oughta teach ya!” a familiar voice ground out between gasps for air, and I knew that it was Jack Berry who had attacked me.

  A fiery anger went all through me like a knife blade. I tried to force my weak legs to work so they would hold me up long enough for another punch. But I couldn’t stay on my feet. My head hit something solid and everything went black.

  When I came to, I forced my eyes open, wondering where I was and what had happened to me. Darkness had totally taken over our small town. I did not know how long since I had left the Foggelsons. I did know that I hurt. My knuckles hurt, my face hurt, and my head hurt worst of all.

  Realization flooded over me as I lifted my hand to my face. Even that movement made pain shoot all through me. I could feel a damp, sticky substance wetting my fingers. I felt a cut above my eye and knew my nose had been bleeding. Beyond that I didn’t think I was hurt too bad except for my pounding head. If only I could get my legs under me again. But they just wouldn’t co-operate.

  I could feel the chill of the frozen earth beneath me seeping through my school jacket, and I found myself shivering with cold and wishing for my good, old, warm chore coat.

  I should be home, I’m late for my chores. Aunt Lou will be worrying, were my fuzzy thoughts.

  I was still lying there, trying to get my frozen fingers to button my jacket when I heard shuffling feet again. I gathered all my strength in one more effort to get to my feet. Then I heard the unmistakable mutterings of Old Sam. I could tell he was drunk as usual. And then there was a loud hiccup and Old Sam was stumbling over me to end up on the frozen ground.

  He said a few mumbled unrepeatable words, and struggled to get to his feet. His legs didn’t seem to work much better than mine, and he sprawled out on top of me again, banging my aching face with one boney elbow.

  “Ohh,” I groaned. “Watch it, Sam, will ya?”

  “Joshsh?” questioned Sam in the darkness. “Joshsh?” he muttered again. Another hiccup followed. “Joshsh, that you?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  I tried to roll Sam off so I could get to my feet. I couldn’t do either. He made no attempt to help me. Just lay there like a limp sack.

  “Sam,” I implored helplessly, a hint of anger in my voice, “get up, will ya? At least get off me.”

  With a loud “hick” Sam rolled off me, mumbling to himself as he did so. Sam’s mumbling was sort of a town joke. We fellas had never been able to figure out if he was trying to talk or sing.

  Then he was on his knees fumbling around in the darkness, and I knew he must have lost his precious bottle.

  I finally managed to get myself to a sitting position. My head was throbbing and spinning. I still couldn’t pull myself to my feet. In fact, I wasn’t too sure where my feet were.

  Old Sam, still searching for his beloved bottle, muttered something about a “dumb book,” and something clicked in my mind.

  “That’s my book,” I said quickly, afraid Old Sam would throw it away.

  He shoved my book toward me and went on feeling around on his hands and knees. He must have found what he was looking for, for he sighed and mumbled in his funny sing-songy voice, and then I heard him swigging from his bottle again.

  He probably emptied it because he turned his attention back to me.

  “Ya hurt, Joshsh?”

  I thought that was quite apparent, but for someone like Sam who spent a good deal of his time on the ground, perhaps it was a reasonable question.

  “Yeah,” I said, trying to keep the moan from my voice.

  “Yeah, I’m hurt.”

  “What’sh happened?”

  “Guess—guess I hit my head.”

  I hoped Sam would ask no more questions.

  “I’ll help ya home.”

  It made me want to laugh. In his present state, Sam probably didn’t even know which direction my home was.

  “Just help me up,” I told him. “I’ll make it home.”

  That statement was a bit presumptuous. Even with Old Sam’s help I had a hard time getting to my feet, much less putting one foot in front of the other. Of course his wasn’t the steadiest help ever offered. Our first try landed us both back on the ground. But you had to give Old Sam credit for persistence. He kept right on tugging and pulling until somehow we were both on our feet again. I wasn’t sure who was holding up who.

  I found my book and tucked it under my coat and we started off, our arms around one another in some strange way. Shuffling our feet along, we felt our way down the street. The only light to guide us was the anemic splashes from small windows in the town dwellings.

  My body was shaking with cold and sho
ck. Sam did not seem to notice the cold, though the coat Uncle Nat had provided for him was not much warmer than my own.

  We stumbled along together, me confused and aching, and Sam likely wondering where he could find another bottle.

  Then I realized it was snowing. Large, flowery flakes drifted down to cover our head and shoulders. Even in my present state I enjoyed the snow.

  “Almost home,” Old Sam was muttering—and, squinting through the flurries, I could see that we were. Somehow, even in his drunken condition, he had found the way.

  I still remember the flood of yellow lamplight and the rush of warm air when Old Sam pounded on the door with one foot and it opened to us. I remember hearing Aunt Lou’s little cry of “Josh!” But that is all I can recall.

  The next thing I knew Doc was bending over me and I was safely tucked in my own bed, with Aunt Lou and Uncle Nat hovering nearby.

  From the parlor came the snoring sounds I had heard many times before, and I knew Old Sam had been “souped” and “bedded” and would be spending at least this night sheltered from the winter’s cold.

  CHAPTER 15

  Questions and Answers

  I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING with a bad headache. My mouth felt dry and sore and one eye was swollen shut.

  Aunt Lou was stirring about my room and the lamp was still lit on the bedside table. At the time, I couldn’t even think properly to wonder if she had been there all night.

  She moved close to my bed and bent over me. From the next room came the familiar sounds of snoring and someone else, likely Uncle Nat, tending the fire.

  “How’re you feeling?” Aunt Lou asked softly as though the sound of her voice might make me suffer even more.

  I tried to shake my head because I didn’t feel like I would be able to talk, but it hurt too much to move.

  “Can I get you anything?” asked Aunt Lou, and I somehow got the message to her that I would like a drink.

  “Just a sip,” she told me. “Doc says you have a concussion and shouldn’t put much in your stomach in case it won’t stay down.”

  I sipped. The water had barely touched my parched lips when Aunt Lou withdrew the cup. I wanted to protest but the right sounds didn’t come.

  “Doc said that you’ll be just fine in a day or two,” Aunt Lou was assuring me.

  I tried to nod in agreement, but stopped myself.

  “Nat rode out to the farm last night to let them know,” Aunt Lou told me. “They wanted to come right in, but Nat convinced them that Doc was taking good care of you and that it would be fine for them to wait until this morning.”

  “What day is it?” I managed to ask through swollen lips.

  “Don’t you remember? This is Friday.”

  Friday. Then I should be in school. In the afternoon Grandpa would be coming for me. I wasn’t sure if I would be quite ready to go.

  “Nat will stop by the school and tell your teacher that you won’t be in class today,” Aunt Lou was continuing. “We hope that by Monday you’ll be just fine again.”

  Did she mean I would not be going to the farm? That I would spend the entire weekend confined to my bed?

  “What happened?” I mumbled.

  “We were hoping you’d be able to tell us that,” said Aunt Lou. “Don’t you remember anything about it?”

  I tried to shake the fog from my brain.

  Nothing was clear and I didn’t want to try to think. My head hurt me enough with just the effort of laying it on my pillow.

  “Doc left you another pill,” Aunt Lou said. “Let me help you,” and she placed the pill between my swollen lips and lifted my head slightly so I could swallow it with a sip of water.

  I slept again then. When I awoke my head ached a little less. Gramps was sitting in my room holding a book on his lap and looking out the window at the snow gently sifting down.

  I stirred so I could see the snow better and with the movement came sharp pain. I groaned and Gramps was immediately beside my bed.

  “You okay, Joshua?” he asked me, his eyes filled with concern. I gave my head a moment to settle down again.

  “Yeah,” I mumbled. I tried to lick my lips but that stung even more.

  “Have a sip of water,” Gramps offered and he held the cup to my mouth just a second longer than Aunt Lou had.

  From the kitchen I could hear the sound of quiet voices, and I knew the rest of the family were gathered waiting for me to return to wakefulness.

  “You’ve been sleeping for some time, Joshua,” Gramps was saying. “Are you feeling any better?”

  I wasn’t sure. My head still hurt pretty bad but it was tolerable if I held it still.

  “It’s almost time for another tablet,” Gramps went on.

  “It’s snowin’,” I murmured. “How much?”

  Gramps smiled. I think that simple question was a great relief to him.

  “We’ve had about three inches already, Joshua, and it looks like we’re going to get lots more.”

  “Good,” I said. “We can have Christmas.”

  The earlier snow was already rutted, splashed with the dirty stains of shuffling feet and wagon wheels. I had never felt that such snow was fit for Christmas, even though I realized a messy ground would not keep Christmas from coming. But for me a “real” Christmas, Christmas the way it should be, meant white freshness covering our world.

  I guess Gramps understood, for he grinned widely.

  “We sure can, Joshua,” he said. “We sure can.”

  My door opened a crack and Grandpa peeked around it. He probably had done the same thing many times over the last hour. At Gramps’ nod the door opened farther and Grandpa came in.

  He stood looking down at me for a long time, his throat working and his gray mustache twitching slightly. His eyes were shiny with wetness.

  “How are you, Boy?” he finally asked.

  “Okay,” I managed as he reached out a calloused hand and laid it gently on my forehead.

  There was a flash of movement through the door and Pixie bounded up on my bed.

  “Forgot to shut that door,” Grandpa muttered in apology, moving to lift Pixie down from my bed.

  “She’s okay,” I quickly informed him and reached out a hand to fluff the silky fur on her head. Even that movement hurt and I scrunched my eyes tightly against the pain.

  Pixie was in a frenzy of excitement as she licked at my fingers, my hand, and even my battered face.

  Aunt Lou was there then. “How did that dog—?” she started to ask, but Grandpa broke in to explain.

  “Forgot to close the door, and she dashed in and was on the bed quick as a wink.”

  I figured keeping Pixie out of my room must have been quite a chore.

  “How are you, Josh?” Uncle Nat was asking.

  “Okay,” I said again, trying to calm Pixie down by gently stroking her so they wouldn’t take her away.

  “Good,” said Uncle Nat. “You had us worried some. You’ve near slept the day away.”

  “You should have another pill now, Joshua,” said Aunt Lou and lifted my head so I could swallow the tablet and the drink of water.

  Uncle Charlie poked his head in the door. His eyes held his questions but he did not voice them. “Don’t tire ’im,” was all he said.

  They left me then to rest and went back to the kitchen table. I could tell where they were and what they all were doing simply from the sounds in the house.

  I lay quietly and let my hand rest on Pixie’s head. She slept beside me, occasionally lifting her head and licking my fingers with her warm little tongue.

  Soon the medicine began to take effect, but instead of sleeping deeply as I had done before, I began to do some thinking, now that the pain was dulled.

  What happened anyway? Why am I here in bed? I mulled over in my mind.

  Jack Berry, Jack Berry kept flashing through my thoughts but I had no idea why. What did my being in bed have to do with Jack Berry? I couldn’t work my way through the fog to come up with the a
nswer.

  I lifted a hand to my face and felt the bandage on the cut over my eye. I felt my swollen nose and touched my bruised lips with my tongue.

  Jack Berry, Jack Berry pounded through my brain.

  Jack had been pretty nasty lately. Mad because Camellia had invited me instead of him to her house. But no girl in her right mind would invite Jack Berry to tutor her in geometry—or anything else for that matter. Jack was barely making it through his studies himself.

  I tried to settle myself and piece together the events of yesterday. I had gone to school—been teased as usual because the fellas all knew that it was the day I would again go to Camellia’s house. Had I gone? I couldn’t remember.

  Slowly, oh, so slowly, I began to relive the day. Class by class I went over each part of it. I remembered reading—we were working on Dickens’ Christmas Carol, it being near Christmas and all. I remembered spelling, and nearly missing the silent “e” in “maneuver.” I remembered the recess break. We had wanted to play Fox and Goose but there was no clean snow to make a ring. Our whole schoolyard was a mess of trampled snow—we needed a fresh fall to make trails for the game.

  I could remember the rest of my classes, right up to dismissal. I even recalled the chat with Mr. Foggelson. He said I could read the books in his library.

  Did I go to Camellia’s? Yes—it was beginning to take shape for me. We had tea again, as well as funny little pastries with a filling in the middle. I had nearly dropped mine in my lap. Then we studied—but mostly talked. And then I left for home—in a hurry because I was late.

  Was it snowing when I left Camellia’s? I couldn’t remember. I left alone—to run on home—and here I was in bed with the worst headache of my life and a cut, battered face to go with it.

  Jack Berry. Jack Berry.

  I pushed it away. Sure, I was upset with the guy. He had been acting like a jerk lately. But it sure wasn’t worth troubling myself over. I turned my eyes back to the snow and watched it fall like feathery petals. This is great to have the freshness and cleanness for Christmas, I thought sleepily.

  “Are you feeling any better?” came a soft voice and Aunt Lou was back in my room.