Following Timmy’s advice, I gathered empty soda bottles all week from around the neighborhood and turned them at the Weis Market store. I sold more mint to the Sycamore Inn Restaurant, but I still needed more money.
Later that week I took the pink slip of paper and five dollars for the book to Mrs. Corcoran. She looked at me and smiled. “Thank you, Davey. Do you have any new stories for me?”
I was a little shocked that she would ask me that question. “No, Mrs. Corcoran, I thought you were mad at me and didn’t want to read any more of my stories.”
“Davey, sit down. We need to talk again.” We walked over to the reading table as she sat down across from me. “I’m not mad at you, Davey,” she began. “I was disappointed, yes… because I expected more of you.” She stopped for the briefest of moments, not sure of what to say. “Never stop writing, write what you know and when you come to a mental roadblock… just pick up a good book and read. It works wonders. You will be a great writer someday, but you have to keep at it every day. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. That’s my boy. Now, to show you I’m not mad, I have a new book for you to read, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I think you will really like it.”
“And I’ll be real careful with it Mrs. Corcoran, I promise.”
“I know you will. Just remember what I said, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I loved to read my latest friend, Sherlock Holmes and I thought about what she had told me. A few days later, I spent all day Saturday with my dad, just him and me. We went for a long drive out to the “country.” I loved it. It was a perfect day. Just me and my dad.
When we got back home that day I remembered what Mrs. Corcoran had told me, “Write what you know Davey. Write a good story about what moves you. Nothing fancy, just put it down on paper.” I opened my journal and began to write.
Saturdays with My Dad
The days I look forward to the most are the “special” Saturdays I get to spend with my dad. Just him and me. I love the special Saturdays with my dad. Last Saturday was one of those days.
We have a big family, which includes my mom and dad and five kids. One would think that you would get lost in the crowd they always made sure that they spent good quality time with each of us. My time with my dad was usually Saturdays.
I remember sitting on the floor next to my dad’s chair as we watched the Gillette Friday Night Fights. This was only one of three TV shows he would watch other than My Little Margie starring Gale Storm and 77 Sunset Strip with Efrem Zimbalist Jr. I liked Margie better, but I sat next to my dad hoping that he would say the magical words, “Want to go to the country tomorrow?”
The “country” was about an hour or two west from where we live. It was filled with tall hills, running streams, lots of trees and very few houses. You could drive for hours and not see anyone on Wild Horse Creek Road, the main road through the valley. It was very different from our home in the suburbs with their lush green manicured lawns and trimmed bushes and long wide driveways.
When he asked the question I looked at him and said, “You bet!”
At six A.M., the next morning I questioned the wisdom of my decision. I heard a voice say, “Davey?” Minutes later, my dad gently nudged me on the shoulder saying, “Davey, come on, time to get up. Come on. Let’s go to the country.”
I loved to sleep more than anything else in the world. I crawled out of bed and tried to see how far I could walk with my eyes closed without bumping into something. I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and threw on my old Marine t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Dad wore his old blue cotton dress shirt, which was frayed around the collar, along with a beige sweater with the smallest of holes at the seams around his neck and a pair of well-worn khakis and sneakers.
Then I helped my dad load up the car. We filled the trunk with everything we would need; boxes, shovels, gloves, buckets, old newspaper and soon we were on our way. He drove down the still darkened roads with his headlights on as I snuggled next to the front door and went back to sleep.
A short while later, I heard him say, “I guess you’re too sleepy for an ice cold glass of milk and some fresh Krispy Kreme donuts? Huh? Well, I’ll just have to go inside by myself.” But he waited until I sat up and propped open my eyes as we both followed the noise of my now growling stomach.
Once inside, he ordered a cup of coffee for himself and a large frothy glass of milk for me, accompanied by a fresh-from-the-oven chocolate covered crème filled donut. All mine. I savored every morsel. I glanced at him and the server brought me another, then another at which point he ordered another cup of coffee and his favorite, a French glazed donut. After three donuts, not only was I full, but also wide-awake.
We left the donut shop waving goodbye to the manager, old-timer Mr. Marley behind the counter and we began our journey in earnest. Dad drove west, away from the city, away from the suburbs, away from the traffic towards the elusive ‘country’. The streets became less congested and narrower as we drove along the main western thoroughfare. He turned off the rural main street onto a two-lane road, which wound through the countryside away from the nearby meandering Missouri river. We drove along the bottomlands. In the springtime, I remember seeing the deep dark black river bottom soil turned over for planting where corn now grew as high as a house in every field.
My dad drove slow and pointed out the different birds we would see along the way. “Look there’s a cardinal! Davey, there—an indigo bunting on top of the telephone wires?” he shouted as a fellow explorer. “Watch the kingfisher on top of the tree dive for his meal into the stream!”
The country road narrowed, and we had to move far to the right shoulder to let an oncoming farmer’s oversized columbine or tractor pass us by.
The forest was coming alive with activity. He slowed to let a red fox then later a possum pass in front of our car. The possum, stopped, glanced at us and continued on his way. The ever-present railroad tracks kept us company along the left side of the road until the river and we crossed over them as we turned away and headed up the hills high above us. The road seemed to go straight up from the valley floor and soon we saw the mighty Missouri River in all of its majesty down below us slowly winding its way south.
After an hour of driving my dad pulled over near some wild woods, opened the trunk of the car, and pointed to his target. I smiled and nodded in agreement, as I spied the big hickory tree just off the side of the road and admired the treasured bark it was hoarding.
It looked like the bark from the old hickory tree would simply pop off at the slightest tug. But it took much more pulling and yanking then one might expect to make it give up its prize. We gathered nearby hickory nuts from the ground and low-lying branches and loaded them into one of the buckets we brought with us. Later at home, my dad would soak the bark and nuts in a bucket of water. Then, when he was barbecuing chicken or steaks on the grill, he placed them over hot charcoal, which would produce a thick nutty smoke, giving them that special hickory flavor.
When the buckets were full, we loaded up the car and continued our drive and our talk. Dad didn’t ask me about school or girls or anything like that but instead asked what I thought about politics and religion and such. He asked about the wars our country fought and if I thought it was just and how I would go about ending it if I was the president.
He continued to drive higher and higher into the hills. It was sunny and warm. We passed some old abandoned houses where we saw wildflowers blooming in the woods. After he stopped the car, I pulled out our hand shovels and then we carefully dug the flowering treasures from their locale before they became dessert for hungry deer. He knelt down and carefully dug around the roots and then reached under the plant with his hands pushing underneath the black, warm cool earth. He always looked like he said a prayer over the plants as if he were apologizing for disturbing them.
We placed the wildflowers inside the cardboard boxes for my mom to plant these treasures in our backyard to join the other wildflowers in our garden at home. In the woods, they didn’t last long because of the deer, but in our backyard, they spread like wildfire, big and healthy. When the patches of them would grow too large or unruly we knew it was time to replant them back in the woods to help them spread and prosper.
Eventually, my dad asked me, “Hungry?”
“Always. I’m starvin’.”
We drove back down the mountain to the small roadside tavern along the railroad tracks and sat down to order lunch.
“Hi James, hi Davey” the friendly bar owner greeted us as we entered the empty tavern. As always he was wiping down the wooden bar top with an old rag. My dad was always James, never Jim or Jimmy just James. He always said that his name was the first thing his parents gave him and he never wanted to shortchange them or show them any lack of respect by altering his name. I always admired that about my dad.
Dad ordered two huge corned beef sandwiches on rye with mustard, pickles, and potato chips then he got a beer and ordered me a root beer. While we waited for our sandwiches, we played shuffleboard on a long elegant table, which ran the entire length of the bar. The windows above it let in the cool light of day. The shiny wooden table deck was dusted with sawdust to make the surface glide smooth. I beat him, as usual, but I always think he let me win.
After lunch, we walked down the railroad tracks for hours. This was his private time and we never talked until we turned around and were walking back to the car. I respected his time as much as he respected mine. Afterwards in the car, we drove past one of the fast moving creeks and we stopped to go crawfishing.
I grabbed the bucket from the trunk and followed my dad’s instructions exactly. I put the bucket on the rocky shore, rolled up my jeans, waded into the cold water without stirring up the sandy bottom, and began my hunt. When I saw a good size crawfish, one the size of my thumb or larger, I curved one hand in the form of a scoop in front of the wily creature and the other hand behind it. As my right hand closed in on him, he would shoot backwards like a bullet into my waiting left hand then I immediately tossed him into the waiting bucket of water on the shore. Sometimes I was not fast enough and felt the sharp pinch of the crawfish claws. I learned quickly not to have the bucket too far away.
Dad said, “If you fill up the bucket halfway with crawfish, I’ll have mom make us some wonderful Cajun crawfish chowder.” I never got that many; perhaps a dozen or so then we released them back into the creek. Thinking about it, I probably caught the same ones month after month. But I loved it.
Later, came the best part of the day. We played a game we called “Get Lost.” Dad would drive the car back up the mountain and I would tell him which way to go.
“Make a left, then a right,” I said. “Now another right, now left, go straight for two miles now left, then right, then left and another right.” This would go on for hours until we were totally lost.
“You really did it this time Davey,” he told me. “Whew. We’re really lost and we’ll never get home.” I knew he was joking. Only once did I ever see a look of concern on his face as he drove the curvy back roads of Missouri, but eventually he drove into a familiar driveway with the mailbox marked, The Saint-Enges Farm. They sold everything including fresh dairy and farm goods. I would smile and he would not look at me at first, then he laughed. “That was a close one there, Davey boy.”
A nice, elderly French couple lived there. They were always so nice and they raised chickens, pigs, cows, and turkeys on their farm. I looked forward to taking a drink of fresh ice-cold spring water from their well after I primed the hand pump. The water was always cold and tasted so sweet.
My dad bought dozens of farm fresh eggs, some newly churned butter, fresh cream, homemade sausage and fresh-baked bread. I knew my mom would cook it up the next morning for breakfast before we went to church. Delicious and so fresh! Those Saturdays were always the best.
Looking back, only once were we rained out on a Saturday. A tremendous rainstorm flooded the back roads, and they closed the roads. We turned around and headed for home. But dad didn’t give up, he made it an adventure. He set up our old barbecue grill in the garage out behind the house, turned on the radio and we listened to the baseball game while it continued to rain outside.
While he barbecued we listened to Harry Carey give us a play by play from Busch Stadium. My dad would stop what he was doing when Stan Musial, the greatest Cardinal baseball player of all time, came to home plate. You could hear the crack of the bat over the radio and Harry Carey shout: “It might be, it could be, it is—a home run by Stan the Man! Holy cow!”
I would run inside and get him a cold beer to pour over the chicken. When it was done, the chicken was so moist and sweet when you picked up a piece the meat would fall off the bone. It was the best.
I loved those Saturdays.
A couple of days later I took my journal to the library and gave it to Mrs. Corcoran so she could read my latest story. I went to the bookshelves for some more books but looked over at her to see her lost in reading my journal. A few minutes later she sat back in her chair, smiling. She waved for me to join her.
“Wonderful story, David. You’re a good writer. Keep writing. But for now I would like you to write something about your mom, and bring it to me as soon as you finish it, okay? Can you do that for me?”
“Sure, Mrs. Corcoran. But what should I write about?”
“Whatever you want. Just have it to me as soon as possible, okay?
“Sure,” I said, my mind already thinking about my next story. I nearly ran home. She liked my story, and thought I was a good writer. I was walking on air.
Two days later, I handed in my next story.
Camera
My mom loves to take pictures of the family. A few years earlier, my father gave my mom a 35-mm Kodak motion picture camera and a portable screen to show her films. My dad would set up the screen in the living room and make popcorn and we would watch our family antics again and again. Mom would take pictures of us on Fourth of July, Memorial Day, Easter, all the birthdays, Thanksgiving, and of course Christmas.
Every Easter the pictures would be the same. My sisters would dress up in their latest Easter outfits and would walk down the backyard steps carrying their Easter baskets. We would then search the yard for Easter eggs and whoever found the egg covered in aluminum foil got the large chocolate Easter bunny all to themselves.
Thanksgiving at the Malloy house was always about food. My mom took motion pictures of the family eating Thanksgiving dinner, which always included turkey, stuffing, sauerkraut, cranberry, olives, lima beans, mashed potatoes, and gravy. And of course my mother always made two or three deserts. There was always the inevitable picture of someone holding up the largest turkey leg for all to see, it was usually me. Everybody helped with the meal including setting the table, carrying in the serving dishes, breadbaskets, and all the other food. Then we helped with the cleanup with taking out the trash, picking up the dirty plates and silverware, washing and putting away the dishes. It was always a great time. I love Thanksgiving. What was not to like? No school, lots of good food and the family all together. A fire in the fireplace. Perfect.
Then there was Christmas. Everybody in the family had their traditional “spot” year after year where their Christmas presents were piled together waiting for them on Christmas morning. My spot was underneath the front window by the Christmas tree next to my brother Jack’s usual spot. My sister Jane had the place underneath the side table next to the sofa. Christmas music played in the background, playing’ Little Drummer Boy,’
‘Jingle Bells,’ and ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas.’ I always wanted to be a drummer in a band and admired people who could play a musical instrument. A special talent I always wished I could master. Everybody joined in the singing as we opened our gifts.
My mom loved to take home movies of all of us in the snow but usually it was of me and my sister Joanie and Jane making angels in the fresh powdered snow. Then there was always the inevitable snowball fight with me and my brothers and sister against one another. Jack served as the mediator. Dad always joined in with the fun, taking no sides. Afterwards, Mom would serve up a fresh batch of cocoa and homemade chocolate chip cookies for us to help us warm up.
Every year Dad took me and my brothers to a tree farm in the country and we would fight over which tree would look the best in our front room. Once my father decided, we would then cut it down and carry it back to the car. The whole family would spend the night decorating it accompanied by nonstop Christmas music while drinking cocoa. We got to stay up late on Christmas Eve waiting for the carolers to come by. They would stop in front of our house and sing Christmas carols. My mom handed out mugs of cocoa to keep them warm. I loved it. And my mother loved it. My mom was special.
I never referred to my mother as “she.” I once remember saying to my father, “She told me to go outside.” Before the words had even left my lips my father stood tall, his face all contorted and red as he stood glaring over me.
“She?” He bellowed in no uncertain terms to let me know he was not to be trifled with and that I should definitely pay attention to what he was about to say. “She,” he said again walking towards me, straightening out his six-foot-five frame but looking more like a mountain at that moment. “She? The woman who carried you in her belly for nine months? The unselfish woman who nursed you through scarlet fever for weeks on end? The one person on God’s good earth who makes sure that you eat and drink before she ever does. Is that the SHE you are referring to?”
“Yes,” I managed to whisper, suddenly near tears. “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Don’t apologize to me… apologize to your mother. Then go to your room.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said, now with tears streaming down my cheeks. I couldn’t stop crying.
She pulled me close and held me while she ran her fingers through my hair.
“I’m sorry,” I kept saying repeatedly. “I didn’t really mean it like that, I’m sorry.”
She came into my room later that night and hugged me then I felt her kiss my head, her hand once again running through my hair. “Hmm, I think you need a haircut, Davey boy. Tomorrow. We’ll get to it tomorrow. Goodnight, Davey. I love you. “
“I love you too, Mom.”
I couldn’t be sure but I think Mrs. Corcoran had a tear in her eye when she finished reading and turned to me. “This is a wonderful story, and you should be proud of it.”
Two weekends in a row, I washed Mr. Jost’s car and earned two dollars. He didn’t give me any cash money, just a credit towards what I owed him on my radio. He always said it helped build character. I now owed him fifteen dollars.
My brother Jack asked me to help him out and take care of one of his lawn customers, Miss Viola. He was busy at school. I think he did it just to help me make some money. Once a year she had Jack come to her yard to pull out weeds and cut the lawn.
I spent two days working for the widow, who lived six blocks away from our house. First, I washed her late husband’s black Cadillac, which was still parked in the garage the same as it always had been for the last ten years. She never drove it but said she would pay me a dollar to wash it for her. She always said that’s the way her Harold would have wanted it. I told her to keep her money, and I washed it for free. She was such a nice lady.
The old woman lived by herself in a big dark brown brick house and had a lawn of lush green zoysia grass. A double lot just like Mr. and Mrs. Jost. It felt like a carpet under my feet when I walked on it but when weeds cropped up throughout the lawn she always said it looked terrible.
She paid me two dollars to pull out the weeds and another two dollars to cut her double lawn, trim, and sweep the sidewalks. At lunchtime, she brought me a sandwich, some apples and poured me some fresh squeezed lemonade. I sat under a huge oak tree to have lunch. It all tasted so good. The next day after doing all of her yard work my back was so sore I could hardly move. I now owed Mr. Jost ten dollars for the radio.
Later, I took more soda bottles to Weis grocery store. I had found them alongside the road while doing my daily search for soda bottles on Midland Avenue. When I was leaving, I saw a neighbor, Mrs. Arnsberg, carrying home two bags of grocery. She lived behind us on Baroda Avenue. “Can I help you with those bags, Mrs. Arnsberg?” I asked.
“Oh that would be lovely, Davey. Thank you so much.” When we got to her house, she gave me a quarter for helping her. I stayed at the store all day and made another seventy-five cents. I still needed a lot of money to pay for the radio so every penny helped.
At the end of the day, Mark Weis, the store owner’s son, came outside as I was leaving. “I’ve noticed you around here, and you seem to be a pretty industrious boy there, Davey Malloy. Would you like to earn some money and do some work for me?”
“Sure, Mr. Weis.”
“Well, we had a couple thousand of sales circulars printed up for our big annual summer sale, and I need some boys to take them around the neighborhood and put them into mailboxes. It will take the whole day, but I can pay you three dollars. What’d ya’ say?”
“Three dollars? Sounds great. Sure.”
“Just be here early on Saturday, eight o’clock sharp, and a truck will take you and a couple of other boys around and drop you off in different neighborhoods. If you know anyone else who can help I’ll pay them the same amount.”
“Gee thanks, Mr. Weis. I’ll ask some of my friends.”
I called Timmy when I got home. “Yeah man, I can use the three bucks.”
That Saturday the truck picked us up at the store and drove us a couple of miles away. They dropped off stacks of circulars along the route and said for us to work our way back to the store and then come in for our money. Timmy took one side of the street, and I took the other. The Murphy brothers stayed on the truck and worked in a different neighborhood.
When I reached each pile, I cut the twine holding them together with my Swiss Army pocketknife and began to deliver the circulars. I saw Timmy on the other side of the street racing me, putting them in doors, mailboxes, and newspaper holders. But as the day wore on I saw him blocks up the road and soon he was out of sight. It was hot that day, one of the hottest days of the summer. I brought my Army canteen and wanted to drink from the cool water. I sat for a while under a big oak tree on Brown Road to cool down for a few minutes. I sure don’t know how Timmy finished so fast.
At five o’clock, I was finally done, and I was the last one to show up at the rear of the grocery store. Mr. Weis was there waiting with the two Murphy brothers, Jimmy, Mark sitting with Timmy. Mr. Weis looked angry, but he didn’t say a word as I walked up to join the crowd.
“I’m all done,” I told the young Mr. Weis. I was covered in sweat and my hands and t-shirt were the color of the flyers—red, black and blue from handling so many circulars. I was tired, but it was worth it—three whole bucks.
“Did you deliver all your circulars, Davey?”
“Yes sir, I did,” I said proudly.
“Well somebody didn’t. Somebody here tossed piles of our sales circulars down sewer pipes and scattered them around some backyards trying to hide them. I need to know who did it?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Weis. It wasn’t me. Can I have my three dollars now?” Then looking at my watch said, “I have to go home for dinner.”
He glared at me and the others, “We spent a lot of money printing those circulars and now one of you threw them all around neighborhoods. I had to send two of my stock boys to pick them all up. It took them a couple of hours. I’m not paying anybody until somebody comes forward and tells me who did it.” I could tell he was angry.
I was hungry, and I wanted my money. “It wasn’t me,” I told him, almost pleading holding out my hand. I had done my work and now I wanted to be paid.
“It wasn’t me,” Timmy chimed in. “I don’t know these other boys you hired but you know us, Davey and me. We want our money.”
“I’m not payin’ anybody, any money until I find out who did this. So you boys talk amongst yourselves and let me know who did it, then I’ll be happy to pay you what I promised you. But I need to know I can trust you, so I need you to tell me who did this.” He turned around and walked away back into the store. Nobody said anything other than blaming somebody else.
“I don’t think that creep ever intended to pay any of us,” proclaimed Timmy. “I’m goin’ home. With that, I saw my three dollars disappear. All that hard work. Timmy and I walked home together, but he didn’t say a word. All he said was “See ya,” as he walked towards his house. I stopped him at the steps.
“Tim… did you do this? Throw the circulars away? I know you finished faster than me.”
“You’re just a slowpoke Davey, that’s all. See ya later.”
I never was paid for delivering the circulars. Later that night, somebody threw a brick through the Weis store’s plate glass front window. They never caught who did it, but I think I knew who did it.
Three days later Timmy joined me outside the store as they were putting in the new glass in the front window, and I waited to carry groceries home for some neighbors. The older women usually gave me a quarter for carrying their groceries home.
“Here this is for you, Davey,” he told me handing me a Coke and sitting down next to me on the top of the concrete retaining wall. Big deal. The Coke was cold, but I would have rather had my three dollars. He reached inside his jeans and pulled out a pile of crumpled one-dollar bills—three of them and handed them to me.
“What’s this for?”
“Ah don’t make a big deal about it; it’s for the money that jerk Weis didn’t pay you.”
“How’d you get…?”
“Our lawn needed cutting and my dad’s car needed washing. And I promised my mom I’d be home early for supper for a week. I figured what the hell… here, just take it. You can use it more than I can.” His eyes narrowed, “And don’t go telling anybody about this, okay?”
“Okay,” I said with a smile. Three dollars! Wow! I would add it to the pile of money I owed for my new radio- just seven more dollars. I looked up and saw Mrs. Arnsberg leaving the grocery store carrying two large bags.
“Can you help me with my groceries, Davey?” she asked. I jumped up just as Mrs. Schmidt came outside to join her. She lived two houses away from Mrs. Arnsberg. I whispered to Timmy, “If she likes you she’ll pay you a quarter to carry her groceries home for her.”
“Yeah?” Timmy said in surprise. “To her home?”
“Yeah, just be nice and real polite.” He had just given me three dollars he had made for the circulars and now was willing to help a neighborhood widow home with her groceries. He was always surprising me. He grabbed the two bags from the older woman, smiled an engaging smile and walked beside her smiling and laughing. They walked behind Mrs. Arnsberg and me.
When we got to her home, Mr. Arnsberg gave me a quarter for helping her. Then I walked with Timmy and Mrs. Schmidt to her house.
“Boys, why don’t you come inside? It’s cool there. I have some cold lemonade inside. I just made it before I went to the store,” she said with a slight German accent. I liked Mrs. Schmidt because she gave us cookies and some pennies and nickels in our candy bags on Halloween. She had lived in the neighborhood for a long time and had a rooster and some chickens living in a shed at the back of her house. I would hear the rooster crow every morning letting everybody know the sun was about to rise. My mom and dad hated the noise, but they never really complained.
Her house was old and smelled of sauerkraut and sausage. Old frayed curtains hung from the windows. Holy cards clung to her icebox held tightly by faded Saint Joseph and Jesus magnets.
She handed Timmy and me a glass of lemonade and offered him a quarter for helping her with her groceries.
“No thank you Mrs. Schmidt,” he said in a most unusual well-mannered refrain. “I was happy to do it for you, for free, anytime. But if I could use your bathroom I would really appreciate it,” he asked politely.
“Why of course, Timmy. It’s right through here, on the left,” she said pointing down a long narrow hallway towards the rear of the house.
As Timmy disappeared into the bathroom, Mrs. Schmidt said aloud, “He’s such a nice young man. And he wouldn’t take any money from me, so honest.” She smiled for me, but I knew that if he was around I could no longer make any money carrying groceries for neighbors to help pay for my radio.
Tim continued hauling groceries for weeks until one day I said to him as he was leaving Mrs. Schmidt’s house, “I’m real proud of you helping her out and not taking any money for it. I now sometimes carry them for free, like you, when I’m coming home, but you do it all the time for free.”
He made a face at me. “Don’t be a chump. I don’t do anything free. See.” He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a bandana filled with a dozen various-colored pills.
“I don’t understand.”
“Dummy. I grab a couple of pills from each bottle in their medicine cabinet then I take these pills to the pool hall and sell them for a buck apiece. Wanna try one?”
“No, are you crazy? You don’t even know what those pills are used for.”
“Doesn’t matter. I still get a buck a pill.”
“Hey man, you can’t do that. She needs her medicines, and they cost her a lot of money. Take them back,” I said standing in front of him, grabbing him by the arm and blocking his path. “Tell her you need to use her bathroom again and then put them back. Now!”
“You’re really serious about this aren’t you?
“You bet I am. Now take ’em back!” I said my voice rising in anger. I had visions of poor Mrs. Schmidt lying on floor one morning without her medicine. But Timmy didn’t care.
“Get real man. No way in hell I’m taking these back. They’re mine now,” he said as he shoved me aside and started to walk home.
I stood there looking at him in disbelief as he walked away. I could not believe it. Same old Timmy, he’ll never change.
That night after dinner everybody in the neighborhood brought jars with holes poked in the top to catch lightning bugs. My sister Joanie would catch them and then get some of the flashing light stuff on her hands and run home to wash it off. When it got dark, she was always the one elected to count to twenty on a tree while we all hid and we played hide and go seek. I had a special hiding place, in a deep grassy ditch by the road where nobody could see me. I hid in my ditch and watched everybody else running around looking for a place while I waited for her to finish counting. All of a sudden, somebody landed on top of me. It was Sunny.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in surprised. “This is my hiding spot.”
“It’s mine too.”
“I was here first. You’ve got to find somewhere else to hide. Quick! There’s not enough room here for both of us.”
“Shhhh, don’t move, or she’ll see us,” she whispered.
My sister shined a flashlight at the bushes then across the shallow ditch where we were hiding and she bent over and looked but she did not see us.
“Shhhh,” Sunny repeated. She leaned in and pressed close to me so my sister would not see us. I could feel her heart beating against me as her arms wrapped around me tighter and tighter. What was she doing? I could feel her breasts pressing into me.
“Sunny, I don’t…” I whispered to her.
“I see you both there.” My sister Joanie hollered. “Come on out. I caught you,” she said with a squeal at having heard me as she ran and touched the tree according to the rules.
It was hard standing, and I was glad it was dark so nobody could see my embarrassment. Sunny looked at me and smiled.
“Everything okay, Davey?”
“Yeah sure, everything is fine.” What do I do now? She’s my best friend.