Read Online The Turtle Warrior by Mary Relindes Ellis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Relindes Ellis
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his brother and his brother’s buddies Rick and Marv. The whistling filled his head. He smiled. “My baby does the hanky panky.” His face burned, and he stopped smiling. He tried to think of a prayer. But the formal prayers of the church didn’t mean anything to him. Then it came to him. He whispered the only thing he could think to say. “Come home, come home, come home, come home—”
“Billy, did you have to light all of them?”
He lifted his head, his face flushed red from the heat of the candles, the eternal flame of forty-eight candles blurred in his eyes. “Pray for me,” his brother had said.
“Yes,” he answered, the s trailing through his teeth like a snake.
The snowflakes skipped and skidded across the watery blue hood of the car on the way home. The sky was an ancient pearly gray, and Bill felt strangely happy. His mother drove, not saying a word, but he could sense that she too felt the same as her small son. They had stopped at the drugstore in Olina before driving back out to the farm. She bought him a new shirt and a pair of jeans and a giant solid chocolate Santa. It was as though she had read his mind when she gave the druggist, Bogey Johnson, a radiant smile and said, “Mr. Johnson, my son would like one of those Santas. Do you think we can oblige him?”
His mother hummed to herself. Bill bit into the fat arm of his Santa and watched the snow-covered fields and woods go slowly by as the car crunched over the new snow. Just as the chocolate elbow was melting into the roof of his mouth and they were nearing the farm, his mother braked the car in a series of small jerks and finally stopped it on the shoulder of the road right after they’d cleared the curve. She pulled the packet of letters out of her Wrigley’s Doublemint-perfumed purse and laid them on the seat between herself and Bill. The chocolate trickled down the back of his throat.
“Thank you, sweetheart, for letting me read those,” she said. She shifted in the car seat so that she faced him. Her face sparkled like the new snow, and for the first time that day he noticed that she had taken her pink rollers out. Her black hair was brushed and sprayed into full curls around her face. She could be, Bill realized, staring dumbfounded at his mother, very pretty.
“You know somethin’,” she said matter-of-factly. “Jimmy is gonna come home. I feel it.” She placed a clenched hand against her chest and repeated, “I feel it. ”
“You know somethin’ else,” she said almost gleefully, huddling down in the seat to look Bill in the face.
He shook his head, his eyes fixed on his illuminated mother. He absently bit off the tassel on his Santa’s hat.
“Things —” she emphasized the word confidently—“are gonna get better. Lord, they can’t get much worse. But you and me and Jimmy can run this farm and make it go. Don’t you think so?”
Bill couldn’t answer and quietly pushed his bitten-up Santa back into the bag. He cautiously looked back up at his mother. She didn’t seem to notice his lack of response and had shifted forward in the car seat again. But her face was no longer jubilant; it was sad, and tears ran down her face.
“You know I love you boys ... very much. But,” she said softly, looking through the windshield at their house in the distance nestled among the red pines, “if I’d have had wings, I would’ve been gone a long time ago.”
Dec-67
Dear Bill,
I know this letter is coming pretty fast right after the last one, but Lt. Miller said there would be a special pickup for holiday mail. It’s raining, and I’m writing this inside a bunker. Remember how much I used to love the sound of rain on the roof? Except Beans always howled like he was dying or something when it rained. I’m sorry that I threw my boot at him that time and hit him in the head. Then he really started howling, remember? Anyway, it rains like it’s going to flood here. Listening to it makes me kind of
“Billy, did you have to light all of them?”
He lifted his head, his face flushed red from the heat of the candles, the eternal flame of forty-eight candles blurred in his eyes. “Pray for me,” his brother had said.
“Yes,” he answered, the s trailing through his teeth like a snake.
The snowflakes skipped and skidded across the watery blue hood of the car on the way home. The sky was an ancient pearly gray, and Bill felt strangely happy. His mother drove, not saying a word, but he could sense that she too felt the same as her small son. They had stopped at the drugstore in Olina before driving back out to the farm. She bought him a new shirt and a pair of jeans and a giant solid chocolate Santa. It was as though she had read his mind when she gave the druggist, Bogey Johnson, a radiant smile and said, “Mr. Johnson, my son would like one of those Santas. Do you think we can oblige him?”
His mother hummed to herself. Bill bit into the fat arm of his Santa and watched the snow-covered fields and woods go slowly by as the car crunched over the new snow. Just as the chocolate elbow was melting into the roof of his mouth and they were nearing the farm, his mother braked the car in a series of small jerks and finally stopped it on the shoulder of the road right after they’d cleared the curve. She pulled the packet of letters out of her Wrigley’s Doublemint-perfumed purse and laid them on the seat between herself and Bill. The chocolate trickled down the back of his throat.
“Thank you, sweetheart, for letting me read those,” she said. She shifted in the car seat so that she faced him. Her face sparkled like the new snow, and for the first time that day he noticed that she had taken her pink rollers out. Her black hair was brushed and sprayed into full curls around her face. She could be, Bill realized, staring dumbfounded at his mother, very pretty.
“You know somethin’,” she said matter-of-factly. “Jimmy is gonna come home. I feel it.” She placed a clenched hand against her chest and repeated, “I feel it. ”
“You know somethin’ else,” she said almost gleefully, huddling down in the seat to look Bill in the face.
He shook his head, his eyes fixed on his illuminated mother. He absently bit off the tassel on his Santa’s hat.
“Things —” she emphasized the word confidently—“are gonna get better. Lord, they can’t get much worse. But you and me and Jimmy can run this farm and make it go. Don’t you think so?”
Bill couldn’t answer and quietly pushed his bitten-up Santa back into the bag. He cautiously looked back up at his mother. She didn’t seem to notice his lack of response and had shifted forward in the car seat again. But her face was no longer jubilant; it was sad, and tears ran down her face.
“You know I love you boys ... very much. But,” she said softly, looking through the windshield at their house in the distance nestled among the red pines, “if I’d have had wings, I would’ve been gone a long time ago.”
Dec-67
Dear Bill,
I know this letter is coming pretty fast right after the last one, but Lt. Miller said there would be a special pickup for holiday mail. It’s raining, and I’m writing this inside a bunker. Remember how much I used to love the sound of rain on the roof? Except Beans always howled like he was dying or something when it rained. I’m sorry that I threw my boot at him that time and hit him in the head. Then he really started howling, remember? Anyway, it rains like it’s going to flood here. Listening to it makes me kind of
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