I
t was silly to hasten her footsteps now. She was already so late getting home from school that quickening her pace on the final half-block toward the big white house on the corner would avail nothing. Still, she could not hold back the agitation that now sent her rushing headlong toward home.
“Late again, missie?” came a raspy voice from beyond the picket fence to her right.
Her steps faltered. Her head began to nod in agreement even before her eyes picked out old Mr. Adamson in the shadows of his gnarled apple tree. Often her gaze found him rocking gently in the chair on his front porch.
She couldn’t just hurry on by. That would be rude. She turned toward his fence and watched as the old gentleman brushed at his soiled pants with a dirt-stained hand and creaked to an upright position. His faded eyes peered at her from beneath his sweat-rimmed hat.
She placed two hands on the pickets and drew closer to the yard.
“Should you be out in your yard yet, Mr. Adamson?” A frown drew her feather-light brows together. “The ground is still near frozen. You’ll ruin your gimpy knees for sure kneeling in the cold. Look there. Still snow where it’s drifted in.”
Her gentle scolding only brought a smile to the old man, showing stained teeth where teeth still remained. But a twinkle gave life to the tired eyes.
“Sound jest like yer mama,” he responded good-naturedly. “Ya gonna be a nurse when you grow up, too?”
She shook her head, and light brown curls tumbled over her shoulders. No. She had no plans to be a nurse. Nursing was too, too filled with bad things. Bad smells. Bad pain. Bad duties. If she was going to be anything—anything in medicine, that is—she’d rather be a doctor like her uncle Luke. A doctor got to give the nastiest jobs to the nurse. Doc Luke got to fix broken limbs and take out tonsils and give out medicines. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be a doctor.
But she quickly dismissed that idea, as well. She didn’t think she’d care to be a doctor, either.
The elderly man straightened bent shoulders as far as they could be forced and worked his mouth. She knew he was getting prepared to switch the conversation. He always worked his mouth that way before words actually came out.
“So—what you gonna tell yer mama this time?” he finally asked in a hushed, conspiratorial tone.
She hesitated. She could not help but wonder again how he knew so much about her. How he seemed to even read her inner thoughts. Trina Hughes, a schoolmate from down their street, said the old man was spooky. She also said that he was the filthiest person in town. Trina did not stop and talk to him, even if he was a neighbor. “It’s disgusting!” exclaimed Trina. “That’s what it is. How could one go from being well-kept and proper to living like a hermit? I don’t think he ever bathes or washes his clothes.”
Virginia thought of Trina’s words now as she looked at their old neighbor. She knew he was different since Mrs. Adamson had died. Her mama said the poor old fellow was desperately lonely. But Trina, when presented with that argument, had stated flatly that lots of people lost mates. That didn’t mean they had to turn into dirty pigs.
Virginia had to acknowledge that Mr. Adamson did not care for himself. She had seen him in the same multistained plaid shirt for the last several weeks, and his pants looked stiff with dirt and stains. Were they really too stiff to fall into a normal heap on the floor? Trina suggested that he had to lay them down on their side when he took them off at night—or else lean them up against a wall.
She looked at the dirty pants now. Damp spring garden soil had been layered over the dirt of the past. The old man seemed totally oblivious to it. He did not further attempt to brush it off. A glance up at his face reminded her that he was still waiting for her answer. She swallowed. The excuse she had for being late now sounded foolish. Even to her own ears. What would her mother have to say about it?
“I was … with Jenny,” she managed, brown eyes looking down in embarrassment.
“Jenny? Thet little fire-headed gal who is always gigglin’ over some fool thing?”
Virginia nodded. That was one way one might describe her friend Jenny.
“An’ what were the pair of you up to this time?” he asked candidly.
“We … ah … a couple friends had nickels. We went to The Sweet Shop.”
He stepped closer and placed his own hands on the pickets. His voice dropped, as though entering into a conspiracy. “Sodas?”
She nodded again. Her carefully fashioned excuse was crumbling before her very eyes. Her mama would not find sodas a good reason to be late from school. Her mama saw afternoon sodas as a destroyer of supper appetites as well as making one late for after-school chores. Chores that would still need doing. And time was quickly passing. Each moment that she lingered with the elderly man meant another minute ticked off on the large grandfather clock that stood in the hall.
“Cherry?”
“No,” she said slowly. “We had chocolate, and Jenny had … had strawberry.”
He passed a tongue over dry lips. “Vanilla’s always been my favorite. Others like all them fancy flavors, but there ain’t nothing like vanilla. Deep and rich and jest plain.”
“I should go. Mama will—”
“Of course. Of course.”
He waved a dirt-covered hand in the air and turned back to his soggy flower bed. Virginia moved away from the fence. She was really going to be in trouble. The added moments wasted in conversation had made her even later.
But before leaving she turned to the man once more. “You really shouldn’t be kneeling in the cold,” she cautioned gently. “You’ll not be walking at all if you keep that up.”
For one moment he seemed to contemplate her warning. Then he waved it aside as he would brush at a pestering fly. “Garden’s the only thing I got,” he told her. “Once they take that from me—won’t be no reason to go on a’tall. Been waiting all winter to git back to the diggin’. See things grow. Look there. See thet little viola. Already bloomin’ and the snow jest melted from off its little face. Brave little souls—violas. Some years they even beat the crocuses.”
“Well, maybe you could find something to kneel on,” Virginia suggested as she turned reluctantly away from the strange old man. She had to hurry home.
Fear filled her being, and in spite of her hurrying feet her heart lagged. What would her mother say? It was the latest she had ever been, and she had been scolded before, many times, for tardiness. But this. This was different. It was the first time a boy had ever invited her to share a soda. It would have been
unthinkable
to turn him down. After all, she was no longer a child. She had turned thirteen on her last birthday and was now moving, though it did seem at times slowly, toward birthday fourteen. Even her papa said that she was growing up. It was only her mama who acted as though she still needed constant parental supervision. Surely she should be able to do something on her own. Surely she didn’t need to account for every waking moment.
She was almost to the gate before she thought of her old neighbor again. Her mama did not view Mr. Adamson as did the snobbish Trina. Her mama was always kind, gentle, and neighborly with the old man. If she, Virginia, forgot about the soda excuse and just said that she had been visiting with Mr. Adamson, might her mama be more forgiving? The very idea took a little of the slump from her shoulders. It would not be a lie. She
had
visited with Mr. Adamson. But it wouldn’t be all of the truth, either—and her mama and papa were sticklers for the truth. What if she said she was late because she was visiting Mr. Adamson, and then someone else, like nosy Mrs. Parker, were to inform her mother that she had seen her with Freddie Crell in The Bright Side Sweet Shop sharing a soda? Then there would
really
be trouble.
No, it was best to be up-front and honest from the very beginning. Besides, even if she did get away with it with Mama, and she doubted that she would, there was still the matter of her own conscience to deal with. Virginia knew she would have a difficult time living with deceit.
As she entered the yard and swung around the walk to the back door, her shoulders slumped again and her steps lagged. Were boys really worth it, she began to wonder, when one had to pay such a price for their company and attention? But they’d had fun. They had laughed at silly jokes. Mostly, Jenny had laughed. Giggled, Mr. Adamson had called it. She, Virginia, had tried to sound a little bit like Jenny with her high-pitched, boisterous laughter.
And Freddie had said that Virginia had cute freckles. How could one have cute freckles? But that’s exactly what Freddie had said. It made her face flush again just thinking about it. And they had talked about school. Even leaned close together and whispered some
unnice
things about the teacher and laughed because no one had caught them and scolded them for the comments. It had been fun. But now—she was in trouble. She knew that before she even opened the back door.
The inner door to the kitchen was open, only the screen door was snugly in place. For a moment her hand rested on the handle. She could smell the pleasing aroma of fresh-baked cookies. Likely Clara had been at it again. It seemed to Virginia that all Clara liked to do was bake. Bake and make eyes at Troy Dunworthy. She hoped with all her heart that she would not meet Clara in the kitchen. Meeting Clara would be even worse than meeting her mama. Clara could be so bossy. So nosey. For the umpteenth time she wished that Clara would just up and marry her Troy and get her own house. It was not easy living with Clara.
She peered through the screen door. The kitchen was empty. The counter was spread with cooling cookies. They smelled rich and inviting, and even though Virginia had already spoiled her supper with the soda, she was reminded that there was still plenty of room for cookies.
Slowly, noiselessly, she pulled open the screen door and eased it shut without a sound. If she could just make it down the back hall to her room, she could spread out her books on the small desk and be busily engaged with homework when she was called to set the table for supper. Who would know how long she had been there?
“Shut the door,” called a voice from somewhere within the house.
Clara.
She glanced heavenward. Her whole plan had just been destroyed. It both frustrated and angered her. “I
did
,” she answered, her voice agitated.
“Tight. I don’t want flies getting in.”
She turned and gave the door a sharp tug to set it firmly into place. The latch clicked. Clara had been right. It hadn’t been fully closed.
She had taken two steps when Clara called again. “And leave the cookies alone. You’ll spoil your supper.”
She made a face toward the part of the house from which the voice came and started toward her bedroom.
She had barely entered the room when a new irritation surfaced.
“Where ya been? You’re late.”
Without even turning to give her younger sister a glance, she responded over her shoulder, “I have homework. Shut the door on your way out.”
But Francine would not be dismissed so easily. She followed Virginia into her room and stood, feet planted apart, blue eyes shining with open curiosity. “Where ya been?” she asked again. “Mama said for Clara to assign you your chores. Ya didn’t come. Clara had to do them herself so you wouldn’t get in trouble. Where ya been?”
Virginia let her bag of books flop onto the desk and stood eying her younger sister. A bit of the anger at being caught began to seep away. She knew that much of her feeling was not justified. Clara was not really unreasonably bossy. She was just a big sister.
Still … still it was not an enviable position to be in the middle of a family of five. Clara was her mama’s
right hand
. Her papa’s oft mentioned
firstborn
. Rodney, who came next in line, was her papa’s first son and her mother’s pride because of his intellect and his gentle reverence toward his God. Rodney was almost too
perfect
, Virginia reasoned. How could anyone ever live up to a big sister like Clara, who was always sweet, always busy, always rushing to help Mama, and a big brother who was so smart and so good? It was an impossible position.
And then, after her, there was Daniel. Daniel with his dreamy eyes and his tender heart. Danny, who always brought home stray dogs that limped and cats with torn ears or birds with broken wings. And Mama was always right there to help with the mending, and Papa was always hammering together another coop or cage to hold the new patient while healing took place.
And if that wasn’t bad enough—there was Francine. Francine with the big blue eyes that looked, innocently, right into your soul. Francine, who laughed and clowned and teased her way into her father’s heart. Francine, who had arrived after the loss of another child and filled her mother’s soul with renewed singing, her papa’s world with laughter. Francine, who forever would be the family’s baby.
It didn’t seem fair to Virginia that she had been planted right in the middle. She—the only one in the family who didn’t have some redeeming trait. The only one who questioned, appealed, argued for reason, and longed for some special acceptance at the same time as a right to freely choose. It wasn’t fair. Not fair at all.
“Where ya been?” Francine was not going to give up. Her blue eyes were fastened on Virginia’s face. They clouded. “Will Mama be cross with you again?” There was such honest concern in the spoken words, in the straightforward look, that Virginia spun away.
“Why don’t you just mind your own business?” she asked crossly.
“I can’t,” came the wavering answer.
Virginia turned to give her younger sister a stern look. Francine’s chin was quivering, large droplets were tugging at her dark lashes. “Why?” she demanded.
“I’m scared. Scared Mama will scold you again. Make you stay in your room—or do the dishes.”
“Well—don’t be. I can take care of myself. It’s none of your business.”
The teardrops fell, making shiny wet tracks down the silken cheeks.
“I don’t like it when you’re scolded,” Francine sobbed.
“What’s it to you What—?”