Rescue

by
Larry Eugene Meredith

The wind got stronger at twilight. It rattled through the narrow end of the canyon, howling up from the black abyss at his feet. Art Wright shivered. The air was cold, although warmth was still visible in the pink western sky where color tinted low hanging clouds in a postcard sunset. This section of the country was famous for its sunsets, that was one of the tourist attractions, and one of the things Chuck had talked about all the way down in the car. Chuck was a camera buff and had come as much to photograph the famous sunsets as Art had come to hike the many trails.

Art stopped looking at the sky. The glow was too far to give him any heat. Instead, he looked to his right and left. In the distance to his left, beyond where the wall made a sudden broad turn, was a darker patch of evening shadow. Art guessed this was an indenture in the rock, perhaps a cave. If he could edge there along the ledge it would give him some protection from the wind, but the path to the dark spot was narrow, and he didn’t know how thick the rock was. If it were too thin to support his weight it would collapse and drop him into the chasm. He decided it would be wiser to remain where he was and not take any chances.

He took a deep breath and pressed his back against the cool rock. From where he stood, he could see a line of trees running above the ridge of the wall across the canyon. That cliff was not as high as the one behind him. It would be possible for a man to stand where he stood and lasso one of the trees and swing across to the other side, provided the man had enough room to swing the rope and enough strength to throw it that far. Art had neither. Besides he didn’t have any rope either. He imagined what would happen if he had the rope and the room and managed to lasso a branch of one of the distant trees. He would swing across the canyon, but on the other side only slam into the face of the cliff. Such a force could easily knock him right into the depth.

He took another deep breath and waited; putting all wild dreams of escape from his mind, knowing his best hope was rescue. The difficulty would be to not think about it.

The moon was climbing in the navy-blue sky. It was a big round moon, jagged and yellow. Art looked at it and watched it rise, studying the face that had been pointed out to him when he was a very small boy by his mother.

“Look, Arthur, do you see the face? That’s the Man-in-the-Moon who watches over sleeping children during the night.”

He squinted at the bright circle. It had dark spots, mountains on the moon. If they were looked at that way there was no face to be seen. The image was all in the mind. But the light of the moon was real and it fell into the open gorge onto the rocks jutting from the cliff sides. The pale light twisted the rock into shapes and it was very beautiful inside the canyon.

Art sighed. His right leg pained. He shifted weight to the other leg, which eased the hurt. In a short time his left leg began to pain more than he could bear. He inched down, pressing against the wall, and got to a seated position with his feet dangling over the edge. He swung his feet back and touched the hard wall beneath him. He could tell from this touch that it was very solid and he smiled briefly. This meant there was less danger of another cave-in.

He shut his eyes. The noisy scene crashed back in his mind; the sudden cracking, the tumbling rock bouncing against the peaked boulders below and the tearing of the path from the wall, chunk by chunk, coming in his direction, stopping just short of where he stood wide-eyed. Inches, a few last inches between his life and his death. He had watched it go, broken stones and pieces of gravel, falling into the crevice. Rocks flying into the river, forming rings and subtle splashes that were quickly washed smooth. Another few inches and it would have carried him with it. The thought was cold and he shivered.

The aches in his legs abated as he sat. For a while his legs were numb. After time passed they regained feeling and it felt strange having them dangle in space. Art squirmed harder against the wall. Having nothing to set his feet upon made him uncomfortable. How would he get back up without falling? The longer he pondered this, the more he had to get back on his feet to prove he still could. But the fear to try grew. He was gnawed by indecision. He placed his palms on the path along side his body. Perspiring, he straightened his arms and pressed down with his hands and pulled one leg up, placing the foot on the side of the ledge. He tried to push upward. Some of the gravel moved and a piece of the ridge broke beneath his heel. His foot slid off and he fell the two inches back onto the ledge.

"God, my God my God, I can’t get up.”

Sweat ran into his eyes, but he wouldn’t raise a hand to wipe it out. He blinked, which only made the salt go under the lids and sting. He sat still, shutting his eyes tightly. He blinked again. The stinging was bad. He pressed his eyes shut, blinked again and then his eyes were all right, although he saw red spots now.

With a deep breath he tried rising again. He lifted his body with his hands and raised his foot. His teeth nibbling at his lower lip, he inched up the wall until he was standing. He shut his eyes and a heavy breath hissed from his mouth. Holding the wall with the palm of a hand, he raised the other and wiped around his eyes with his sleeve.

The moon was high. There were many stars above, but none to the south. He could see haze out in that direction. He watched the haze for a long time. It was moving his way. He could see the sky disappear into it. He got tired of it and stopped watching.

He turned his head a little further and saw that the moonlight lit the nest. It was a large nest built in some brush that grew out of a crevice. Deep in the center were two large eggs. There was no sign of the bird that had laid them.

Art had seen the eggs earlier when he walked along the top of the cliff. Camp had been completely set up and the duties decided upon. They split the meals between them. Chuck had breakfasts, Art had lunches and Dobson had suppers to prepare. It was late in the day and they were through clearing the area and pegging up the tent and getting their air mattresses blown up and the beds ready. They had gathered a large supply of firewood and dug a drainage ditch around the tent and a latrine off in a distant clump of trees. Dobson opened the supply kit and started the fire while Chuck and Art finished stringing the mosquito netting and hanging the food and water on the side of a tree.

They ate their first meal. The three of them were hungry and Dobson was forced to prepare a second helping. After the meal Dobson gathered the plates and pans and went down to a stream to wash them. Chuck began to putter about with his camera and Art went for a walk and bit of sightseeing while it was still daylight. He left sight of the camp and went through the woods. When he came to the canyon, not uncommon around this part of the country, he followed it until he saw the nest and the eggs.

They were going to be his trophies. There were notches that ran down from the top of the cliff almost like a stairway to a ledge that led right to the nest. It was not a difficult climb down. He never considered any danger. He was going to take one egg home and find out what kind of bird had laid it. It must be a very large bird, perhaps some kind of eagle. He laughed as he began his climb down to the ledge. He would take it home to his mother and say, “Mom, look at the eggs these southwestern chickens lay.” She would laugh at that, she had been complaining lately about the small eggs found in the local stores.

Thinking of his mother made him frown. He had promised his folks to be extra careful if they allowed him to go on this trek. They were reluctant to let him. They feared he would drown in some strange river or get sick in the high country and not be able to get to a doctor. They gave in when he promised to be extra careful and reminded them that Dobson was an expert camper.

Dobson was his high school biology teacher and had promised to take his two best pupils that term on a camping trip out west, if their parents approved. Each student was to bring a paper signed by his parents giving permission. Art had no trouble getting his parents to sign originally because they didn’t believe he would win, but when he did, they were worried and reluctant. In the end, though, they let him go.

His eyes felt wet and he didn’t want to cry. It took an effort to stop the tears. He bit his lip until it hurt enough to take his mind from the tears. I’ll be okay, he though, nothing will happen. I’ll be missed and Dobson’ll find me. He’s an expert about these kinds of problems. I’ll bet he can track like an Indian. He’ll find me with no trouble at all. Why should I cry? Nothing to be afraid of.

After midnight, the haze from the south moved nearer. It was touching the edge of the moon. Art watched it swallowing the moon. A burst of bright streaks broke from the haze followed by a gigantic handclap. Art jumped and began shaking. He could hear a far-off whisking meaning it was raining in the haze. The rain was coming to him.

Art leaned his head back so he could look straight up at the top of the cliff. It wasn’t far away. Perhaps twenty feet, but it was smooth rock, no chance of climbing it. While looking up, he saw a shadow move near the edge of rock against the dark sky.

“Hey, Mister Dobson. Is that you, Mister Dobson?”

He waited, but there wasn’t any answer. The shadow moved the other way and he saw it was a bush growing near the edge blowing in the stiff wind howling around him. Even though he knew it was only a bush, he still held onto his hopes it was a rescue effort.

“Chuck. Is that you up there? Hey, Chuck Calvert?”

He waited, but no one answered.

The staring straight up made him dizzy and he could not take it any longer. He looked forward. He coughed. Nausea overtook him. He wavered forward, caught himself, fell back against the rock. He rested and breathed deeply. The sick-stomach left him.

His right leg was hurting again. He tried rubbing it, but this did not ease the pain. Finally he raised the foot off the rock and balanced on one leg, his arms spread out and tight against the wall for extra support. This stopped the pain.

An hour later the rain caught him. It fell heavily, the wind blowing it in sweeps against the cliff. The rain got down the neck of his shirt, running in streams down the hollow of his back. His face was sore from the violence of drops blown against it. His clothes became water soaked. He felt weak and heavy.

He closed his eyes, turned his head to the side and burrowed his chin into his shoulder. There was a clash of thunder overhead. Art snapped around. The canyon fired with light. His eyes widened and the sight paralyzed him. One of the tall trees on the other side had been struck by lightning and was falling over.

It seemed to fall in slow motion, tumbling straight down toward the canyon. It fell for a long time. He was certain it was going to fall across the chasm and strike him. It had bark splitting from it; branches broke and flew off in several directions and the tree itself bounced against the cliff wall several yards from Art then toppled down into the dark. He heard it slam against the rocks, breaking up. He heard pieces falling into the river. He wanted to scream when he thought it was going to hit him and couldn’t. Now his voice worked again.

“Mary, help me, help me pray. Mary, help me, help me pray, help me in all care and sorrow, Mary, help me, help me pray, Mary, help me, help me pray, Mary...”

He breathed deeply and closed his eyes.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for we sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

He stopped praying. It would be better if he turned around and put his face toward the protective wall of the cliff. He could stand the slashing rain against his back, but it was too much to bear striking his face.

He turned his feet, slowly moving his body against the wall away from the edge. He was almost around when his foot slipped on a wet spot and he fell to one knee. His kneecap landed with the entire weight of this body atop it. Pain shot up his body. It was the worse he had known. The tears he had tried to keep in would no longer hold. He lost his will over them and they came down his cheeks, warm, unlike the raindrops.

He gripped the cliff wall, kneeling on one leg, too much pained to move.

He pulled himself up, slamming against the wall, striking his forehead on a small sharp rock and cutting the skin. He continued to cry, his body out of his control. He turned his head and threw up. The rain quickly washed it away. The pain in his knee was like the stabbing of a blade.

Art got control of his crying. He leaned into the rock and prayed over and over. The rain rolled off him; his shirt and pants were slick against him and would hold no more water.

The downpour did not last long. It was blown from the area by the wind. But the wind did not stop blowing and it was very cold on his wet clothing. Art shook.

He looked up at the clearing sky, wondering when Dobson was coming to rescue him. He wondered what time it was. It was sometime in the early morning. He had been here the entire night. Why hadn’t they come for him?

The rain had been heavy and he knew it would be dangerous walking around in a strange area at night. Dobson and Chuck probably stayed in the tent to wait it out. He wondered if Dobson would be able to track him since the storm. He feared all traces would be washed away.

It was so cold. He pictured warm objects, but imaging his blankets or hot coffee or the campfire made him feel alone and did not ease the cold. He had never felt this lonely in his life. He looked at the still hazy sky. There was nothing around alive except him. Even the bird that had laid the eggs had not returned.

Art wondered about the bird. The eggs were so unprotected in the nest, yet had survived the storm intact. It might be the bird had been killed, shot by hunters. Hawk and eagle were some of the prey they had planned to find. He had looked forward to it. He had never before thought about their nest or if they had any eggs.

He saw a star, a faraway star in the black sky. The storm was leaving. He could hear thunder, but it was soft and eerie. The rain was gone. The wind was even beginning to die. He felt forsaken.

“Mister Dobson,” he shouted at the star, like a wish. “Mister Dobson, are you out there? Do you hear me? Mister Dobson. Chuck?”

The night remained silent, except for a lingering breeze, which had found some dead leaves on the ground above the cliff and was twirling them with its fingers.

Art lowered his head and sighed. Gee, what a story I’ll have to tell back at school. The guys will be jealous when I say, ‘Hey, you know what happened to me? I was trapped on a cliff overnight, down on a ledge of rock. Naw, I wasn’t scared. I knew Mister Dobson would get me off of it.’"

He shifted his weight and yelled with the pain from his kneecap. Tears welled, but he fought them back.

“I’m not gonna die,” he shouted to the star. Then he bowed his head and mumbled, “I’m not gonna die.”

He heard a twig snap above. He listened for another sound, but there was none. Then there came a shout, not words, just a shout.

“Mister Dobson,” he screamed, “Mister Dobson, Mister Dobson.”

He heard, “Chuck, over here.”

Art sighed and looked up at the eyes looking down the cliff side at him. A flashlight beam lit his face. “You all right, Art?” Mister Dobson asked.

“Yes, yes, I’m okay.”

“Is that blood on your forehead?”

“I cut myself on some rock...and I think my kneecap is shattered or something. I fell on it and its paining something fierce.”

“Can you hold on awhile longer? I sent Chuck back to camp for some rope.”

“Yeah, I’m fine now.”

“Boy, I guess your parents will be ready to skin me alive when I get you home.”

Chuck was a long time coming. At last he came with some new rope, very strong. Mister Dobson tied it to a tree trunk and lowered it over the cliff until it was extended in front of Art. Art reached out with his hand and grabbed it. He pulled it close and took it with both hands.

Mister Dobson and Chuck Calvert took hold of the rope prepared to pull him up. “You got it, Art.”

“I got it.”

“I want you to tie it around your chest, under the arms.”

“That’s okay. I can hold on. Just get me up.”

“Tie it around yourself first.”

“Okay.”

Art wrapped the rope around his waist once, made a tie and pulled it tight. It cut into him and pinched. He undid the loop.

“”You got it tied yet?” yelled Mister Dobson.

"Just a second,” he said.

He tied a small loop at the end of the rope and slipped it over the toe of his uninjured leg. Then he grasped the length above his head with both hands. “I’m ready,” he called.

Mister Dobson and Chuck began to pull. Art’s feet lifted from the ledge and he began to be drawn up the face of the cliff. His foot slipped from the loop. Sweat popped out of the skin on his forehead. His hands were moist. His left hand slipped an inch and hit his right hand.

Mister Dobson rolled the tent and tied it to the top of the pack. Chuck silently took care of the fire. Mister Dodson wiped his forehead and picked up a thin book. There was an illustration on the cover and the title “Knots and How to tie them”. He dropped the book in Art’s pack.

The fire was out. Chuck swung his pack onto his back. He picked up the coiled rope and looped it around his shoulder. Mister Dobson hefted his own pack over one shoulder and Art’s over the other. Walking single file, they climbed a hill through the woods with their heads bowed watching the path. They had nothing much to say to each other.

___________________________________________________________________________

I wrote this for Mrs. Ruth Pennypacker, my tenth grade English teacher at NORCO High. It was fall of 1956. I was 15 years old. My favorite authors at that time were Robert Lewis Stevenson, Edgar Allen Poe and Jack London. Perhaps London inspired me to write some "adventure" tales. More likely it came from other interests, such as hiking and camping. I was always walking up into the woods with my friend, Ronald Tipton, exploring. I had been in the Boy Scouts and did a lot of hiking and camping with the troop, but we moved from Downingtown that summer and I had to quit Scouts. I never found myself trapped on a cliff ledge; in fact, I was afraid of heights. Maybe this fear helped me write this tale, like a nightmare I might have. I included this story in my second collection of short stories, Acts of the Fathers.

Mother Carey's Chickens

by
Larry Eugene Meredith

Mrs. Carey led. She was well to the front with her chicks strung out down the street behind.

On the way between town proper and the junior high school was a large field with a few cows. A single strand of thick-gauge wire supported by far-flung posts surrounded it.

“I wonder how they keep the cows in?” asked Frank March.

“Sheer terror.” said Ruben Rayzel, known to his friends as Ray and Ru to all others

“What’s that ‘posed to mean?”

“You don’t know? I’ll show you.”

Ruben grabbed Frank’s wrist tugging him off the sidewalk. Frank was as thin as Ruben was heavy. It was like a cup tugging a spoon as they shuffled toward the wire. Roger Walters laughed to see such a sight.

Roger was walking a bit apart from his friends, but now he moved nearer chuckling. Frank, reaching for help, grabbed his arm just as Ruben dropped a hand on the fence.

Roger screeched, stood bolt upright before stooping toward the ground. He began hopping up and down as Ruben slid his hand along the wire. When the pasture ended, Ruben broke contact and Roger fell panting to the ground.

Ruben looked at Frank. “See, sheer terror.”

“You 'maphrodite,” yelled Roger getting back to his feet.

“What’s that mean?” snapped Ruben.

“If you don’t know, you’ll have to show us,” said Roger.

Ruben glanced at Frank with a shrug.

 “He’s sayin’ you’re a hermaphrodite,” explained Frank. “It means you...it means…”

“It means what?”

“It means you’re a perfect person.”

Ruben pumped a fist in the air. “I’m a ‘maphrodite,” he yelled, “I’m a ‘maphrodite.”

Nearby students heard and heads began turning down the line toward the school. At any moment Mrs. Carey would hear and come fluttering back clucking, demanding to know where Ruben heard such a word.

Frank waved a hand in the air, “No, no, not that kind of perfect. Like a plant, you know, like a flower.”

Ruben gawked at him.

“Perfect, y’know…both male and female.”

Ruben’s fist lower, and then shot forward to smack Roger on the shoulder.

“Know-it-all,” Roger hissed at Frank.

Mrs. Carey led her flock across a quadrangle of walks, through a side entry and down a corridor, through another door into the gymnasium. Waiting beneath the basketball hoop was another gathering of kids, behind which waited a small cluster of adults. They were the West Warders and their chaperones. Mrs. Carey joined these adults leaving her East Warders facing across at their sixth grade counterparts from the “bad side of town”. A moment passed in silence before a thin man slipped from the adult pack waving his arms for attention.

The man gave a brief smile, unused or uncomfortable doing so. His arms still waved, pulling his jacket up a little on his neck. He had a long nose, gray hair and slightly lopsided mouth.

Somebody giggled.

A teacher went, “shhh!”

“Good morning.” said the man. “My name is Mr. Maxilla. I will be your principal next year. I welcome you here. I expect in the three coming years, in fact am certain, you will bring to us much honor, much credit to Wilmillar Junior High. Meanwhile, I wish to make perfectly clear why you are here today.

“As you have probably heard, the school board, with my full agreement by the way, has long felt the transition from grade school, with its one teacher, one classroom tradition, to junior high school, with its many teachers, many classrooms technique, can be traumatic.

“Therefore, it is felt, and I agree, make no mistake about that, a gradual withdrawal from the elementary milieu is best. This visit allows you to obtain knowledge of your future and thus be better prepared to conduct yourselves with honor and dignity when you arrive full time next September.

“Now I must be about the important business of a principal. I leave you to your guides. Thank you for your attention, and good luck.”

With a nod, he rushed from the gym. In the next minutes, they counted off into groups of three. Each group was assigned to a seventh grader to guide them through the labyrinth of junior high. Frank March, Larry Brown and a west warder, one,  Cary John Masters had a guide named Doug Virgilson, a skinny, freckled youngster with floppy brown hair and sleepy eyes.

“The first thing, y’know,” said Doug, “is to see the locker set-up, y’know, and get my books, y’know.”

The lockers lined the corridors, great gray metal cabinets with combination locks. They were a foot wide and five foot high. Inside were bookshelves and clothes hooks. Doug had his books stacked on the locker floor.

“The thing is, y’know, is you sixth graders gotta carry my books, y’know.”

“Which ones?’ asked Frank, looking at the dozen or so stacked in the locker.

“Which ones?” said Doug. “All of them, y'know.”

There were twelve books and a notepad. Doug picked up the notepad. Divided between the three sixth-graders it was not too difficult to carry the load, but Frank wondered about next year when each would have their own twelve-book burden.

“Do you always haffa take all your books?” he asked.

“Hurry up,” said Doug. “Y’know, before the bell rings.”

Frank stooped and grabbed four books, handing them to Larry Brown. It was a lot easier in Sixth Grade where all books were kept in your desk. When you needed one you reached in and grabbed it. Frank picked up the next four to hand to the West Warder, but when Frank turned he saw Doug, Larry and Cary had gone down the corridor and left him alone at the locker.

A bell was ringing.

“C'mon,” called Doug, “if the second bell rings, you’ll be late, y’know.”

“Cary,” Frank called, offering the books to the air.

Cary waved a hand. “Next time,” he said disappearing around a corner.

“C’mon, man,” yelled Doug, and he too went around the corner.

Another bell was ringing as Frank clasped the remaining eight books against his chest. He banged shut the locker door with his foot. From the side of his head he saw Larry Brown waiting down the hall. There was a final flutter and rush of students and when Frank spun around he stepped into the flight path of a tall girl. Her elbow catching his chest was like a pin erupting a balloon. Frank exploded into the air, books flying in every direction. The girl never paused. She skipped on, moaning a bit beneath her breath, but never looking back at the wreckage upon the floor.

Larry came to help retrieve the scattered books. Quickly they scooped up the fallen library. When the last volume was plucked from behind a water cooler they found themselves in a very empty hallway. Every door was closed.

“Where did Doug go?” asked Frank.

“I don’t know. They went around the corner. I didn’t see what room.”

They hurried down the hall, peeking through tiny windows in each door. Each time every face in the room swiveled toward them, but none of the faces was Doug. In one room was Ruben, in another Roger – who waved at them. In a final room there was such a crowd of students they could not see to the rear. They had to press their cheeks against the glass and strain to see the back row of desks. They still did not see Doug, but they plainly saw the heavy woman looking at them. She wore rimless glasses and held a pointer before a map of Europe in 1848. She made a motion with her free index finger that they should enter the room.

They entered.

“Are you looking for someone of consequence?” she asked.

“We lost our guide,” said Larry.

“Oh, I see. Well, do you see your guide here?”

They looked. Doug was in the last desk by the inner wall. Cary sat before him.

“There he is,” said Larry, pointing.

She looked at Doug. The entire classroom looked at Doug. Frank looked at the class. They appeared unreal to him. They had turned pale and did not seem to breathe during this entire interrogation between the teacher and Larry. Frank became aware that he was not breathing either.

“Douglas James Virgilson,” said the teacher, her voice slowly fondled each syllable of his name, “I might have known. How you ever were selected as a guide is beyond me.”

She turned to Frank and Larry. “Has Douglas explained the bell system to you?”

Larry shook his head. Frank simply listened.

“That is to be expected from Douglas James Junior. It is a family trait. I had Douglas James Senior for a pupil many years ago. We must forgive Douglas some of his lapses for the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Doug slid down on his seat, no expression on his face.

“But surely you boys understand you must never be late for class. We frown on such immature behavior at Wilmillar Junior High School, do we not Douglas James?

Doug said nothing.

She looked his way and smacked the pointer across her other palm. “Do we, Mr. Virgilson, Junior?”

“No.”

“What?”

“No, ma’am,” said Doug in a whisper.

The woman nodded, turning her attention back to Frank and Larry. “Please find a seat somewhere while I get my attendance book.”

A few desks were empty near the front of the room. They rushed into them.

She produced a small black notebook from her desk. She sat setting her pointer near at hand and picking up a pencil. Carefully she flipped the notebook open to an empty space.

“I would like your names, please,” she said. Looking at Larry, she tapped her pencil. “Suppose we have your name first.”

“Lar…”

“Stand up, please.”

He stood. “Larry Brown,” he said.

She peered over her spectacles at him.

“Your full name, please.”

“Larry Wilson Brown.”

She took a deep breath, laid down her pencil and interlaced her fingers.

“Your full name. Please.”

Larry blinked. He had no other name to give. He glanced at Frank, who shrugged.

“Larry Wilson Brown,” he repeated with a gulp.

Her jowls quivered. “It is the standard at Wilmillar Junior High School that we use our proper given name. Your proper given name is Lawrence, is it not?”

“Not. It’s Larry.”

One eyebrow danced above her spectacles.

“I understand,” she said in measured tones, “that you prefer ‘Larry’ in the company of your friends, but school is not your friend. Education is quite serious business. Here we have important, ernest rules, which must be obeyed without question. Remember, obeying the rules is the first and most important aspect of education. So in here you will be called Lawrence. Your parents gave you that name and you should be proud of it.”

“But they didn’t. They named me Larry.”

She rose from behind the desk, her large bottom flipping back her chair, which hit the wall with a bang. Spittle sprouted on her mouth.

Sweat embraced Larry’s upper lip.

“No intelligent parent would give their child a name ending in ‘y’. The ‘y’ is a diminutive meaning ‘little’. Such a child would go through life as Little Bill or Little Joe.” She glared at Larry. “You are not Little Lar, are you? It is Lawrence, and enough of that. We must return to the revolts of 1848.”

With the bell ending the period, Frank realized his own name would not be taken. He was glad to escape the fate of Larry, who ran pass him out of the room in tears. Frank did not see Larry the rest of that day. Larry threw up in the Lavatory and had to be taken home.

“My books, y’know,” said Doug as he passed Frank.

Frank turned to the tall pile. Cary stood nearby watching.

“Well?” Frank asked.

 Cary punched him on the arm. “Next time,” he said.

“Hey, come back here.” But too late, Cary was gone.

Frank picked up the twelve books and stumbled to the hall. Cary met him at the door and punched him in the arm again.

“Doug went ahead,” Cary said. “We’re due in Room 109,” and he punched Frank’s arm a third time.

Every few steps, Cary punched Frank. He would laugh, punch, laugh, punch, laugh, punch, a piston of annoyance. Room 109 was the length of the building from the room they had left. All the way Cary punched and laughed.

The corridor was full of hustle-bustle as kids ran the mid-bell gauntlet and Cary’s punches sent Frank stumbling into oncoming throngs. His burden of books would jab his ribs after every jolt to his flesh. When rounding a corner a vicious punch sent Frank into a flying wedge of giggling girls. The books scattered beneath their feet to be trampled and kicked down the hall. The final straw was broken.

Frank spun toward Cary, startling his tormentor in such a way that Cary covered his head with both arms in fear.

Frank hit him in the stomach.

Frank laughed when his fist sank deep into soft flesh, hearing the explosion of air, feeling the warm whoosh on his face. Cary bent over and fell backward into the lockers with a bang and a shout, his howl echoing down the halls. Holding his pained anatomy, Cary staggered off into a nearby classroom.

Frank began retrieving books. He had nearly completed this task when someone grabbed his upper arm. Guessing that Cary had recovered, Frank came up swinging, but his fist dropped limply to his side when he discovered a beefy, pig-faced man clutched him. The man had a brush haircut and wore a baggy suit.

“What homeroom are you in?” asked the man.

“N-none.

“You have to be in one.”

“I...I don’t go here yet.”

“You’re one of the visiting sixth graders?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what you do at your grade school, but don’t expect getting away with this rowdy behavior here. We do not punch people at Wilmillar Junior High School.”

“No, sir.” But where were you when I was being pummeled?

“I’m glad you understand, young man. However, just to be certain you do remember, I shall report this incident to your principal. Which Ward do you attend?” He pulled a pen and pad from his coat pocket.

“Uh...West Ward,” Frank mumbled with head down.

“West Ward?”

“Yes.”

“Then your principal is Mr. Dreiblebist, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And what is your name?”

Frank peered up from the floor briefly and glanced about. The hall was clear except for him and this man. He lowered his head again. “Cary. Cary John Masters.”

"Spell that.”

“M-A-S-T-E-R-S.”

“All right, Cary, you may go. But don’t think for a moment you will go unpunished. I shall report this matter to Mr. Dreiblebist, and I understand Mr. Dreiblebist is a very strict disciplinarian.”

Frank had heard before that Mr. Dreiblebist was a strict disciplinarian, even mean. It was rumored the kids at West Ward lived in sheer terror of his wrath. Every kid at East Ward was glad not to be at West Ward. Mister Dreiblebist would indeed act upon this pig-faced man’s report

Frank smiled at Cary as he entered Room 109. Cary smiled weakly back. Cary took this to mean all was forgiven between them for after the period he grabbed his share of the books, and did again after the third class.

After third period was lunch, and then the Sixth Graders were to attend an assembly.

Lunch was served in the basement cafeteria. Doug showed Frank and Cary where to store the books. They all got into one of the two great lines looping around the sides of the room. Being guests, the Sixth Graders were entitled to a free meal. Frank was not hungry. There was too much noise, confusion and shoving about him. The seating area was chaotic. Conversations buzzed about his ears like angry bees. Occasional words would sting him and leave an itchy impression. He saw the West Ward principal seated at a table and Cary said, “I see Mr. Dribblepiss is here.

At the table, bread flew pass Frank’s nose as food flew from kid to kid.

“Hey, Frank,” shouted Doug above the ruckus.

“What?”

“My friends here, y’know,” Doug point to two leering boys with thin cases of acme sitting at the next table. “They was wonderin’, y’know, what you did, y’know, when you were home alone, y’know? Play with yerself?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“You mean you play with yerself?”

“Sure, when I can’t find anyone else to play with.”

The two other boys laughed, bending to grasp their sides. Doug smirked. Frank didn’t see anything funny. What was the joke? Something evil about their snickers told him he was being made the fool. He had no appetite. He got up and found his way outside. In the parking lot behind the building he saw Ruben sitting on the fender of a pickup truck.

“Hey Frank,” Ruben called, “how’s it goin’?”

“Okay.”

“Did you have some lady named Hurle?”

“I don’t know. What did she look like?”

“Like a witch, with a B. She was fat and wore rimless glasses half down her nose.”

“I think I had her. I didn’t like her.”

“Yech! I hope we don’t get her for anything next year.” Ruben sighed. “Maybe we could find out where she lives. Then we’ll go there at midnight and kidnap her and tie her to the electric fence.”

“You better be careful somebody doesn’t tie you to that fence after this morning. You shouldn’t have done that. Somebody could have gotten hurt.”

“Ah, Frank, you gonna start that stuff again? You’re gettin’ to be a real bird of bad omen.”

“I’m not startin’ anything. I’m just givin’ fair warning. Things even out in life. You bring trouble on your own head when you do a friend dirty. And I think when we get to this place next year, we’re gonna need our friends.”

“Roger wasn’t hurt. It was just a little joke. A little thing like that you can bet God kept no record.”

Ruben jumped down from the fender accompanied by a concert of ripping cloth. He looked at Frank wide-eyed.

“I think my pants tore on something. Look and see if they ripped.”

Ruben turned around. There was a great gap down the seam with little hope of closing. A bell rang. Those loitering about the lot began drifting into the building. Ruben backed against the truck.

“What’ll I do?” he looked at Frank.

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t go inside like this.”

“I’ll find Mrs. Carey and tell her.”

Frank hurried into the building. He saw Doug waiting by the bookracks.

“Hey, there you are. I though I’d have to carry my books myself, y’know.”

“Where’s Cary?”

“Don’t know, man. He disappeared, y’know.”

“I’m not carrying all those books," said Frank.

“No?”

“No. Why should I? I haven’t noticed anyone else I know toting books. Why should I carry yours?”

Doug grabbed Frank’s shirtfront and cocked a fist. He pulled the smaller boy close. “Need I show you why, y’know?”

“No,” said Frank.

Frank silently trailed behind Doug to the auditorium. Outside the doors was another bookrack where he piled his load. A crush of students was shoving its way through the doors. Frank decided to wait awhile. As he waited he finally saw Mrs. Carey, but before he could move, a woman stopped her. The woman took Mrs. Carey aside and gestured toward the Nurse’s Office. Frank saw Ruben waiting by the door, a great towel wrapped about his waist. He looked glum.

“I’ll drive him home,” said the woman as she left Mrs. Carey.

Frank waved as Ruben was led away, but received no wave back. Frank was certain Ruben saw him. He had looked directly into Frank’s eyes for a moment, but then looked down, studying the floor.

The crowd had thinned. Frank went into the auditorium. His East Ward classmates were seated together on one side with their guides. Frank had to take a seat directly in front of Doug, who was busy whispering with his friends. Mr. Maxilla stood center stage ready to lead the flag salute and singing of the National Anthem. After singing, he motioned the audience to sit.

Frank was a bit slow.

There was an explosion beneath him, a terrible cracking, splintering of wood. He leaped to his feet. Every eye turned to watch him, except for Doug, who had his head down giggling. Frank saw Doug’s feet jammed between his seat and the chair back. Doug looked up, bowed his head mockingly and slowly removed his feet. Frank sat and seethed.

Mr. Maxilla’s speech rambled. Frank’s attention waned and wandered. He examined the stage, the walls and the ceiling. There was handwriting on the walls, words carved in the border beneath the ceiling.

JUSTICE IS THE CONSTANT DESIRE AND EFFORT TO RENDER TO EVERY MAN HIS DUE.

“And we look forward to your coming back next fall for a longer visit,” concluded Mr. Maxilla. There were a few chuckles from the teachers present. “Now is the time for you to take leave of us today. The West Warders will leave to the left and the East Warders to the right.”

The East Warders gathered in the hall while Mrs. Carey counted noses. Ruben and Larry were missing, but accounted for. Mrs. Carey marched the group out to the sidewalk. Frank slipped to the rear of the parade and joined Roger. They passed the cow pasture in silence.

Frank knew now how they kept the cows in – sheer terror. He understood everything that had happened today and what it meant for tomorrow. He was deep in thought about survival when Roger tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey,” said Roger, “where did you get all the books?”

“What?” Frank glanced down, suddenly aware of the weight tucked under both arms. He had carried them so often he had automatically picked them up from the bookrack as he left the auditorium. He took a glance at Roger and then stepped off the sidewalk to carefully pile the books on the ground. He shoved them as far as he could to the other side of the electric fence.

There were clouds darkening the sky.

“It’s going to rain,” said Roger. “They’ll get wet.”

“Yes,” said Frank.

It had started to drizzle.

Frank found a stick and used it to knock the pile of books over. They scattered across the grass, loose papers blowing out of the pages and across the meadow.

Roger looked at him.

“Thus it is written, ‘every man his due’” said Frank.

Roger said nothing.

“Don’t dawdle, children,” called Mrs. Carey, “hurry before the rain gets worse. You have no resources.”

And Frank smiled.

___________________________________________________________________________

I wrote this story in 1954. I was 13 years old at the time. Though slightly fictionalized, this tale is basically true. I am represented by two characters in the story, Frank March and Larry Brown. Frank March would become my alter ego in my writing. Larry Brown was created because in real life I was the Larry the teacher attacked for my name. The other characters were based on real life people. I even used a real name for one, Mr. Dreiblebist, who was the principal as West Ward in Downingtown, the place Wilmillar represents. 

The background for this story was each year the sixth graders were taken for a day at the Junior High School they would be attending for seventh grade. The idea was to acquaint us with the difference between elementary school and junior high. We East Warders were marched across town, about a mile, by our sixth grade teacher, who was also the East Ward principal, to a day at the junior high. The incidences described all did occur, although not all on that one day. Some happened, such as Cary punching me down the hall, during the coming year. I compressed time for dramic effect.

The photograph is of "Mrs. Carey's Chickens", taken in 1953. "Mrs. Carey" stands before the blackboards on the left side. I sit not too far from her in the second row of desks, the second boy from the rear. I didn't wear glasses yet in sixth grade.