Did you ever see a waterwheel? I did once, when we went on a family vacation. I remember watching the motion, steady and smooth, and thinking that it was a serene kind of movement. As long as there was no commotion of any kind, like if the water began to rush faster, or stopped, or changed direction, it would just keep on, peaceful and steady.
That was two summers ago, and I guess you could say my life was like the waterwheel then. It just moved along with nothing ever happening to cause any commotion. No one paid any particular mind to me. Heck, I didn't really pay much mind to myself! I just went along from day to day. I guess I had the idea that it would always be like that. To tell the truth, I didn't think much about it.
When I was diagnosed, the water changed direction. All of a sudden my life wasn't normal anymore. I was different from the people around me. I started to pay attention to things. A lot of attention. And I sort of got a feel for changes.
I had a feeling that meeting Randy was a shift in my life and that it might be important. And I just plain didn't want that feeling to be wrong. Like I said, little things matter to me.
It might seem silly to you for someone to read that much into a thing as simple as someone asking for a book. I said earlier that I was scared in a funny way that he wouldn't like what I took. That was a selfish fear, mind you. I just wanted to have someone, even if it was just for a little while, who would feel what I feel when I read certain books. I guess I sound like a snob or something, but it's not that I think I'm some great intellect or anything. I just see things differently than most of my friends.
I must have looked through my book collection a hundred times between that Monday and Wednesday, when the next meal would be delivered.
Right up to the time that Momma called me to take the hamper that Wednesday I struggled with it. Twice I decided on The Catcher in the Rye only to put it back. And then it struck me. If Randy was the orphan, as I suspected, what would be more perfect to take to him than Oliver Twist? I put aside the notion that it might offend him. After all, it's the seeing of ourselves that reaches us in books.
I took it downstairs and sat it on the end table in the hallway, so Momma wouldn't see me take it. I knew she'd have a cat if she knew I was actually talking to the criminals. Momma's progressive attitude, as she likes to call it, hasn't progressed as far as all that. Then it occurred to me that he might like some blank paper too, just in case he liked to write things down when he was reading, or just thinking about things. I do that a lot and it sort of helps me to keep things straight in my head. So I added a blank notebook and a pen.
The hamper wasn't as heavy that day as it had been the first time I delivered it. I was too anxious to get going to bother asking why, but I found out anyway, on the way to the jail, from Mrs. Morrison.
Mrs. Morrison is a neighbour of ours. She lives alone in a big white house three places away. I like her. When the news of my illness spread around town a lot of people told me not to give up hope, to pray for a miracle and stuff like that. Others just ignored it except for the fact that when I was around they were a little too normal or a lot too jovial. But not Mrs. Morrison. She called me up on her step one day and told me that I shouldn't make too much of it.
"Katherine, my dear," she said (she always uses people's full names), "we will all die at some time or other. It may seem unfair to you that your time is coming at such a young age. But the real tragedy would be if you allowed it to make you bitter and therefore wasted the time you have left. Live each day and close your eyes each night with the knowledge that you've spent the hours well. That's all any of us can do. Don't use fate as a cause to be unhappy, for it was never meant to be that way."
"Yes, ma'am," I said, surprised to hear anyone speak so frankly about death. Even Momma and Daddy kind of avoided talking about it right out like that.
"And, Katherine," she continued, "I want you to know that when your time comes, I shall sincerely miss you. Now, come away in and have a glass of lemonade."
And that was it. She never mentioned it again, but treated me the same way she always had, and that was a big deal to me, though I can't fully explain why.
This day she was sitting on her veranda, motionless in the wooden swing chair. I might not have noticed her at all in my haste to get to the jail, but she called out to me as I passed by.
I turned, almost reluctantly, at the sound of my name. For once, being impatient to hurry on, I didn't feel like visiting with her, but I went up the stairs anyway and greeted her.
"Are you off to the police station, dear?" she asked. "
Yes, ma'am. My momma is sending meals to the prisoners three times a week."
"It's no longer prisoners," she corrected mildly. "One of the young men's family has posted bail."
"Oh, well, I'd better run along and get this there before it gets cold," I stammered. I crossed my fingers as I set off, hoping with all my might that it was Paul who was gone, and not Randy.
When I rounded the corner to the cell and saw him sitting there, shoulders slumped and head bowed, I got this funny feeling in my stomach. I figured it was relief, but then you can't always tell what you're feeling, can you?
He saw movement in the hall and glanced up. He looked like he was going to smile, but kept himself from it.
"Hi, Kate," was all he said as I sat the hamper down and kneeled by it. I felt a burn of resentment for a moment that he hadn't seemed glad to see me, considering that I was bringing him a book. But then I figured maybe he was just feeling extra bad now that he was all alone, locked up in that place.
"Hi yourself," I said, forcing a grin. "I see that Mr. Personality has moved out of the Farrago Hilton."
"Paul's not so bad," he said. "I know he has an attitude, but he hasn't had much of a chance in life. His mom and dad are dead you know."
"Paul's the orphan?" I asked in surprise.
For a moment he just looked at me. Then he put back his head and laughed. I laughed too, because he was laughing in a way that makes you want to join in, even when you don't know what the joke is. I had a sneaking suspicion that it was on me.
"Oh, that's rich," he said, finally getting control of himself. "So you heard one of us was an orphan and had me pegged for it, did you?"
I didn't know what to say to that. I could feel warmth crawling up my neck and hated knowing I was blushing, but that's not the kind of thing you can do much about, is it? A question that came to my mind right then sort of saved me a little, though. If you just stand there and feel stupid, you're bound to blush even worse, but if you distract yourself it's not as bad.
"If Paul has no parents, who posted bail for him?" I asked.
"His uncle," Randy said. "He owns a gravel business back home. Paul had been staying with them for the past year, but his uncle's wife didn't like him around her own kids, so Paul mostly spent his time at my place. I think his uncle felt guilty that they didn't really like Paul, and that's what made him post the bail. But you should have heard the speech he gave when he picked him up."
"Well, robbing an honest man isn't exactly something you'd want to praise a person for," I said. I regretted it as soon as it was out of my mouth, but that's another thing about me. My daddy says I speak first and think later.
"No, it isn't," was all Randy said to that. I imagined I could see him draw into himself, and tried to think of something to undo it.
"I didn't mean to judge you," was all I could come up with. It sounded lame even to me.
Randy sort of half smiled, but there was no humour in it. "It's not a question of judging," he said quietly. "This is a black and white thing. We did something wrong. It's just a plain fact."
"Will your folks be bailing you out?" I asked. "No."
The way he said it kept me from any more questions on that subject, although I had some in me all right.
"Oh! Your supper's going to be cold," I said, suddenly remembering the hamper at my feet. "I think Momma made pork chops today."
"Tell your momma I appreciate the trouble she's going to," he said. There was something sad in his voice, and I wondered if he was thinking of his own mother.
"I remembered to bring a book," I told him as I pushed the food through to the table. "And some paper in case you wanted to write anything."
"That was kind of you. Thanks," Randy said, coming to the opening. "I'd sure be grateful if you could bring an envelope and stamp the next time. I can pay you for it later."
I passed the paper and pen through and stood holding the book. Now that I knew he wasn't the orphan, I regretted my choice. I felt sure he'd know why I'd chosen it, and wondered what his reaction would be, especially considering his amusement earlier.
His eyes were on the book, and they had a look of eagerness that made a strange pain start up inside me. I passed it to him reluctantly.
"Oliver Twist!" he exclaimed with obvious delight. "I love Dickens, Kate. Thank you so much."
"Have you read it already?" I asked.
"Sure. But that doesn't matter. I can read Dickens' books over and over and still enjoy them. I must have read A Tale of Two Cities ten times."
I figured I'd already put my foot in my mouth earlier, and since that was the case I might just as well keep it there. "If you'll pardon me saying so," I blurted, "a person who loves Dickens doesn't seem the type to hold up gas stations."
Randy laughed again. "And what type of person does hold up gas stations?" he inquired.
"Well, bad guys I guess. How can someone who loves books be a bad guy?"
"I don't know, Kate," he said, now solemn, "if I can explain to you what I can't completely explain to myself. I guess all I can say is that there are two sides to everyone, and in this case the bad side of me won over."
"And what makes the bad side of a person win over the good side?" I asked with real interest.
"Circumstances, I imagine," Randy said. "Hard things in a person's life can make them angry enough to stop caring about what's right, and then they just want to get revenge of some sort for what they're feeling." I was silent and after a moment he added, "I don't suppose a little girl like you would know anything about the hard things in life, so it's probably not something you can understand."
I just shrugged at that. It makes me mad when someone thinks they can figure a person out just by looking at them. Everyone has things that go on inside them, and you just never know what those things might be. So it's a mistake to assume you can know what someone else feels, or has been through, ever.
"I'd better get going," was all I said. He thanked me again, and gave a little wave as I was turning the corner out of his sight.
I got over being mad at Randy about halfway home. After all, if you're fourteen and dying, you're bound to have figured out some things that other people haven't.