Read Online The Boy Orator by Tracy Daugherty - Free Book Online

man wasn’t tall but the sunlight above and behind him swelled his frame.
    â€œYou’re right,” Harry said. “It’s none of your business.”
    Avram nodded but wouldn’t let go. “I know you’re afraid. There’s reason to be.”
    â€œI’m not afraid,” Harry said. Who was this man to judge him, this funny-looking man? “They hate me at school. It’s getting better—” He caught himself. Now he was baring his secrets. He wanted to run away.
    â€œYou’re special, that’s why.”
    Harry cocked his head.
    â€œYour mother’s convinced. I trust her. A smart, solid woman, your mother. A prudent buyer.”
    â€œShe said that? About me?”
    â€œShe says you have a gift.”
    â€œReally?” Pleased and embarrassed, he twisted the flask in his hands. They’d arrived at a blacksmith’s shop. Avram dropped the wheel. “Here we are,” he said. “I hope I haven’t overstepped my bounds. Thank you again for your help.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.”
    â€œWill you pardon an old man’s concerns?”
    Harry smiled and looked away. How old was he? Who could tell?
    â€œMy people,” Avram said, scratching his beard, “have been chased and silenced all over the world. But still we persist.” He offered his hand again, then disappeared inside the shop, which smelled of ashes and lye, a hot, stabbing odor, and clattered with the chilly pings of hammers.
    Avram was probably a decent sort, after all, Harry decided, but still he felt relieved to get away from the peculiar eyes and wiry beard. His distrust of the man shamed him.
    As he turned to go, he noticed a poster tacked to the blacksmith’s door. Kate O’Hare was speaking tomorrow in Waurika. His heart jumped. Kate O’Hare!
    Recently, his father had told him about this woman. She’d come from Kansas, the daughter of a farmer who’d lost his savings in the drought of ‘87. A former machinist, trade unionist, and now a committed Socialist, she was praised as one of the finest speakers of the cause. Harry longed to hear her, to learn her inflections and gestures. He could almost taste the road again, in the sweetness of the lemonade, the dust on his lips from the street.
    He stuffed Avram’s flask in a back pocket and ran for the barbershop where his dad said he’d find Warren Stargell. His mother said he had a gift!—the thought made him smile (she was so hard to read) but then he felt sorry, running off like this without her okay. All week he’d schemed without her knowing, practicing remarks in Patrick Nagle’s pen: “Sir, we need your help on a mission of mercy.” “Could I trouble you, sir, with an urgent request?” His mother thought he was doing his chores. His belly hurt when he imagined her face; maybe he should cancel his secret task.
    Just then, though, Warren Stargell glimpsed him through the barbershop window. “Well lookee here, if it ain’t the Boy Orator,” he yelled, stepping into the open doorway. He held a blank brown domino. “How’s your pappy, Harry?”
    Harry was startled. He’d forgotten the lines he’d perfected. “He needs …” He remembered his father’s words. “He needs a touch of medicine. From Zeke Cash.”
    Warren Stargell roared. His belly, big as a coal sack, swayed above his belt. “Good. Sounds like he’s getting his dander back up. You tell him no problem. I’m riding to Lawton on Monday. I’ll stop by early next week with the cure.” He ruffled Harry’s hair.
    The barber shook a bottle of tonic; it hiccuped. The man in the chair, waiting for a shave, chuckled over something. Dark curls sailed in the air. On the wall, the razor strap, twisting in a breeze from the door, bumped a coppery mirror. Harry felt bad about his mother again, standing here in this world of men. Like