One day, Joe came home more tired than usual. His supper of squash and green bean stew was ready in the pot, but he had to sit down for a while first. Rusty was asleep in the upholstered chair in the dining room, the place where his mother usually sat in the evenings. His bare legs were dirty from where he’d dragged them across the floor.
Joe sat looking at his son’s body.
Then Carol appeared and in a hushed tone said, I didn’t dare help him back upstairs for his nap, Joe, not in my condition.
Carol was now so large that even getting plates in and out of low cupboards was impossible. Within weeks there’d be a new baby in the house.
Joe remained in the chair, his gaze fixed on the sleeping boy.
Rusty could drag himself around the house with some effort, but to go outside the doctor said he’d always need a wheelchair. Carol had given him a little bell because he still needed help in the bathroom, getting on and off the seat.
There’s something I got to do before we eat, Joe said. I’ve been thinking about it, and planning it for awhile and there’s just no reason to put it off no more. Carol watched him get up and leave the room. Then she heard the creak of the basement door and Joe’s feet on the wooden steps.
Rusty blinked and sat up.
Is Daddy in the basement, Momma?
Hmm-hm. I guess there’s something down there he wants, Rusty.
A moment later they heard his ascending thuds, then Joe appeared holding a red bicycle with large training wheels Joe had taken from another bike.
Rusty’s eyes widened into saucers. But Carol was annoyed.
That bicycle is no use to the baby, Joe. And Rusty can’t even sit on a thing like that.
This here bicycle is a tool, Carol, it’s not a toy.
How long’s it been in the basement? Where did it come from?
The hardware store. Where I buy all my tools.
A tool? Carol asked, thinking it cruel to dangle such a pretty thing in front of a child who couldn’t ride it. How can a bicycle be a tool?
Joe put the red machine down, then went and lifted Rusty from the upholstered armchair.
What are you doing, Joe? He can’t ride that.
It hurts me to say it, but we’ve been crazy to let our son carry on in this condition for so long.
It was nothing for Joe to lift Rusty up, even at sixteen years old, and when lowered onto the wide saddle Rusty instinctively put his hands on the grips. Joe took some ribbon from his pocket and began tying the boy’s bare feet to the pedals.
Now just hold on, Rusty, he said. This won’t take but a minute. The frame will hold you up if you don’t lean over too much.
Carol was livid. What in tarnation are you doing to the boy? I think you should stop this right now.
Joe ceased tying the ribbon and faced his wife. I will if you want me to. But have I ever done anything to hurt you, Carol? Tell me, have I?
But, Joe . . .
Have I ever made you feel afraid by words or deeds?
No, you never have . . . but . . .
And have I ever done anything to this boy, who I cherish as my son?
No, you ain’t . . .
Then just wait and see what I’m gonna do, please. ’Cause I been plannin’ this operation for some time now.
Carol stood with her arms crossed. She wanted to shout at her husband but knew she couldn’t. It was one of the biggest challenges of marriage, she had learned, staying quiet when everything your husband did was just plain wrong.
Once Rusty’s feet were secure on the pedals, Joe carried the entire machine with Rusty still on it out to the front sidewalk. Then he took the porch broom and tied it to the bicycle’s frame, underneath the seat.
A for sale sign hung on the front door of Harold and Marjorie’s old house. It had been empty for three months now. Harold was in Lexington after putting in for a transfer to another branch of the bank.
Joe! Carol said. What you fixin’ to do out here in the dark? Let the boy come in and have his supper.
Not until we’ve done our walking for the day. Right, Rusty?
The child was making engine sounds with his mouth. Carry me ’gain!
I ain’t gonna carry you no more, son. A baby is what you carry . . . not a big little fella like you.
Gripping the broom handle, Joe moved forward slowly. The bicycle’s pedals squeaked, turning Rusty’s flimsy legs in slow circles. They had only gone a few inches when the boy screamed in pain.
Joe! Carol shouted. Stop it, you’re hurtin’ him!
But Joe took three more steps forward. Rusty cried out as his crooked legs revolved with the pedals.
Joe! You’re gonna kill him!
We’re just gonna go a few more yards, Carol, then tomorrow, we’ll go farther.
Carol rushed down the steps and grabbed the broom handle. Joe, you’re gonna crack his bones!
But Joe went forward again, pushing the bicycle as he went. Carol was forced to walk with them.
His bones are fine, Carol. I took a day off last month and went to Frankfort on the bus. I met with a new kind of doctor that I’ve been writin’ to about Rusty.
What are you talking about?
It’s his muscles, Carol. They’re weak as string.
Why didn’t you tell me?
Because I didn’t want to get your hopes up. He told me that Rusty could go live at a hospital for children like him—where they would put his legs in braces to get the muscles woken up.
Rusty leave home?
I know. Never in a million years, I said. So I just figured we keep the boy where he belongs and do it ourselves as best we can.
Joe went forward a couple more steps and Rusty yelped in pain.
Carol was in despair. Where are these letters, Joe? I want to see ’em.
After half a block, Rusty screamed out for Joe to stop. They went to the end of the street. Then Joe untied the ribbons and carried Rusty back to the house. Carol wheeled the bicycle.
You did well today, Joe said. I’m proud of you.
But Rusty was crying and red in the face.
He wouldn’t even eat his dinner, nor look at Joe, or even say goodnight to him. Later, the couple stood and listened at the door as he cried bitterly into his pillow, as if trying to cast out some new and ungovernable pain.
Every night for many weeks, Carol watched in horror from the front window. But she did not try to stop her husband again. Fairly soon, everyone who lived on the street knew to expect the sound of a child screaming for five minutes around suppertime.
Someone said they’d heard Rusty three blocks away on Beech Street and run over to see what was going on. Some neighbors flicked back the curtain and shook their heads in condemnation of such a brutal father, forcing his crippled child to use a toy meant for normal children.
But a year later, those same neighbors couldn’t believe it when Rusty and Joe jogged by their windows with baseball mitts on their hands—and Carol, just a few yards behind with their daughter, Alfredia, in a baby carriage trimmed with the lace Marjorie had sewn in those happy, final weeks of her life.