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Authors: Patrick Quentin
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edge of the meadow he saw the kids’ bicycles piled against the rough stone boundary wall and, as he climbed over the wall into the knee-high weeds, he could hear their voices shouting down by the creek. The sound, high and clear, brought him a great relaxation of nerves, a feeling almost of security.
Except for Leroy, they were all there and all in the brook, their skin flashing, oiled with water—like seals. Emily, of course, saw him first while he was only half-way down the slope through the wild apple trees, the pine saplings, the clusters of choke cherry which, in a few years, would have swallowed up the pastureland again as if it had never been cleared. She climbed up on to the bank and came running to him.
“John, you came. I knew you’d come.”
She grabbed his hand and started running with him back to the creek. Soon he was in the water too. Frustrated father! He remembered Linda’s crack, but it had no sting any more. If he were a frustrated father, all the kids, in one way or another, were frustrated of parental love—the fatherless Emily and Angel with their harassed mother at the post office all day; Timmie, a victim of the Morelands’ thinly-veiled indifference; Buck, a pawn in his parents’ constant quarrels. Leroy’s parents loved him, but, working as servants in someone else’s house, they had little time for him. Yes, they all needed him as much as he needed them.
Just after eleven Leroy ran down through the meadow, stripping off his clothes, and jumped into the creek too. He was triumphant about his fishing expedition. He had caught three bass and Vickie had only caught one.
“And we were up at dawn. And I rowed. And … you should have seen the fish I almost caught. You could see it in the water. Boy, it was three feet long, I bet.”
As the other children crowded around him, wide-eyed and impressed, the sense of peace enlarged in John.
It was later, almost when it was time for him to leave, that it all went bad. Emily and Angel were lying with him in the sun on the creek bank. Emily suddenly said, “I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to tell John the secret.”
“No,” cried Angel. “No, no, you’re not.” She hurled herself with savage fury at her older sister, beating at her with her fists. “It’s my secret. It’s my secret first.”
“It isn’t either.”
“It is. It is.”
The other kids all came out of the water and stood tensely around. John pulled the little girl off her sister. She struggled wildly in his arms. Her face, round and puffy with anger, glared up at him.
“You’re not—you’re not going to know the secret. You’re mean and wicked. You hit your wife.”
“Angel!” Emily had jumped up and was trying to grab at her sister again in John’s arms. “Don’t you dare … Don’t you dare …”
“He did,” screamed Angel. “He hit his wife. He beats his wife up. Timmie said so. Timmie saw. She came into the room with a great big beat-up eye and she said so. My husband hit me, she said, and Timmie …”
Bleakly thinking: So it’s got to the children now, John put her down. He glanced at Timmie. Timmie was squirming in agonized embarrassment. Suddenly he twisted round and started running away from them through the tall weeds.
Emily, John’s passionate advocate, was crying, “It isn’t true. I hate them. I hate Timmie. I hate Angel …” John went after Timmie. He found him behind a pine tree, lying on his face in the grass, sobbing. He knelt down by the boy’s side and put his hand on his shoulder.
“It’s all right, Timmie.”
“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to tell them. Then I thought maybe if I told Angel a secret she’d tell me hers and I asked her and she said maybe if I told mine first. And I told and she wouldn’t tell me anyway. And I didn’t mean to …”
“Okay, Timmie. Let’s forget it. Come on.”
But the boy wouldn’t come. Lost in some child’s nightmare of
Except for Leroy, they were all there and all in the brook, their skin flashing, oiled with water—like seals. Emily, of course, saw him first while he was only half-way down the slope through the wild apple trees, the pine saplings, the clusters of choke cherry which, in a few years, would have swallowed up the pastureland again as if it had never been cleared. She climbed up on to the bank and came running to him.
“John, you came. I knew you’d come.”
She grabbed his hand and started running with him back to the creek. Soon he was in the water too. Frustrated father! He remembered Linda’s crack, but it had no sting any more. If he were a frustrated father, all the kids, in one way or another, were frustrated of parental love—the fatherless Emily and Angel with their harassed mother at the post office all day; Timmie, a victim of the Morelands’ thinly-veiled indifference; Buck, a pawn in his parents’ constant quarrels. Leroy’s parents loved him, but, working as servants in someone else’s house, they had little time for him. Yes, they all needed him as much as he needed them.
Just after eleven Leroy ran down through the meadow, stripping off his clothes, and jumped into the creek too. He was triumphant about his fishing expedition. He had caught three bass and Vickie had only caught one.
“And we were up at dawn. And I rowed. And … you should have seen the fish I almost caught. You could see it in the water. Boy, it was three feet long, I bet.”
As the other children crowded around him, wide-eyed and impressed, the sense of peace enlarged in John.
It was later, almost when it was time for him to leave, that it all went bad. Emily and Angel were lying with him in the sun on the creek bank. Emily suddenly said, “I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to tell John the secret.”
“No,” cried Angel. “No, no, you’re not.” She hurled herself with savage fury at her older sister, beating at her with her fists. “It’s my secret. It’s my secret first.”
“It isn’t either.”
“It is. It is.”
The other kids all came out of the water and stood tensely around. John pulled the little girl off her sister. She struggled wildly in his arms. Her face, round and puffy with anger, glared up at him.
“You’re not—you’re not going to know the secret. You’re mean and wicked. You hit your wife.”
“Angel!” Emily had jumped up and was trying to grab at her sister again in John’s arms. “Don’t you dare … Don’t you dare …”
“He did,” screamed Angel. “He hit his wife. He beats his wife up. Timmie said so. Timmie saw. She came into the room with a great big beat-up eye and she said so. My husband hit me, she said, and Timmie …”
Bleakly thinking: So it’s got to the children now, John put her down. He glanced at Timmie. Timmie was squirming in agonized embarrassment. Suddenly he twisted round and started running away from them through the tall weeds.
Emily, John’s passionate advocate, was crying, “It isn’t true. I hate them. I hate Timmie. I hate Angel …” John went after Timmie. He found him behind a pine tree, lying on his face in the grass, sobbing. He knelt down by the boy’s side and put his hand on his shoulder.
“It’s all right, Timmie.”
“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to tell them. Then I thought maybe if I told Angel a secret she’d tell me hers and I asked her and she said maybe if I told mine first. And I told and she wouldn’t tell me anyway. And I didn’t mean to …”
“Okay, Timmie. Let’s forget it. Come on.”
But the boy wouldn’t come. Lost in some child’s nightmare of
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