beginning.
“The other boys corroborate what you’ve said, so far,” Mister Sharps said. “But you didn’t mention why you ran back into the house.”
“No reason.”
Mister Sharps looked at his fingernails. “Gale, Murph came clean about the food he stole.”
I kept with the story without a lapse from that point. I didn’t leave out how good that cheese smelled, and how sweet those cookies looked with their chocolate morsels. The more I spoke, the sicker Mister Sharp looked. When I was done telling how I got away from Schuckers, and that I just now returned to the Youth Home after walking all those miles, Mister Sharp backed from his desk.
“You understand what you did was wrong?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How was it wrong?”
“I went into the house without Mister Schuckers being there. I was thinking about stealing from him.”
“That’s right. You went in to steal. You were hungry, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mister Sharps walked to the black paddle hanging from a nail on his wall.
“The world is slow to forgive even a hungry thief, Gale,” he said. “Slow indeed.” He pulled a book from a shelf and passed it to me. “I commend your integrity. Your restraint. But you entered the man’s house, and that must be punished.”
I nodded. So far he’d only walked to the paddle and left his arms at his side. I caught a ray of hope from his tone, but I had a whompin’ due.
Mister Sharps lifted the paddle from its nail and said, “Hands on the desk.”
I placed the book on the edge and braced against the side. He stood beside me so close I smelled tobacco smoke on his jacket. I waited and it didn’t come, and then he whapped my backside like to drive that paddle straight through me. Though I was prepared to be a man, I bleated like a lamb.
“Have you learned your lesson from this affair?”
“Yes, sir.” My behind was on fire.
“Then come with me.”
I followed him out of his study. His house was a small thing—smaller than Schuckers’s, but tidy. Mrs. Sharps was a stern old bird who stared into the television as Mister Sharps marched me past her into his kitchen. I knew she knew I’d just been punished and the shame of it burned worse than my backside.
“I’m to understand all you had to eat today was your morning oatmeal and two eggs for lunch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why don’t you take a seat?”
“I didn’t want to be bad,” I said.
When the one who has the right and authority to punish you tells you to take a seat and receive his blessings—my eyes swam in water and my belly opened up and I was so grateful and hungry all I did was stand there with my face dripping until he put his hand on my shoulder.
“You’re a good boy, Gale. You’re a fine young man. Won’t you sit for some supper?”
* * *
I never went to Schuckers’s again. None of us did.
Now I’m in another man’s kitchen looking at food that isn’t mine, holding a candle I found in a cupboard and lit with a match from the hearth. I carry the tiny flame into a closet and behold shelves of soups and staples. If the man who owned the house was here, surely he wouldn’t begrudge me a can of soup? A jar of venison? Some crackers to deaden the salinity? I pile interesting items on the counter. Jars of peaches and apples. Even a five-pound bag of rice.
I open the refrigerator and the stench is instant and breathtaking. Spoiled milk, vegetables, who knows what? I slam the door.
Before sampling my host’s food, I pen a note on paper beside his telephone. “I ate a jar of venison and a jar of peaches.”
I leave plenty of space to record additional items, and sign Gale G’Wain at the bottom.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Eight months and two days after her grandfather died, Guinevere Haudesert lay in bed. Her alarm clock ticked; it was a school night.
Floorboards groaned in the hallway.
The door handle clicked.
A yellow beam from the nightlight down the hall invaded through the door aperture. Burt’s silhouette crossed
“The other boys corroborate what you’ve said, so far,” Mister Sharps said. “But you didn’t mention why you ran back into the house.”
“No reason.”
Mister Sharps looked at his fingernails. “Gale, Murph came clean about the food he stole.”
I kept with the story without a lapse from that point. I didn’t leave out how good that cheese smelled, and how sweet those cookies looked with their chocolate morsels. The more I spoke, the sicker Mister Sharp looked. When I was done telling how I got away from Schuckers, and that I just now returned to the Youth Home after walking all those miles, Mister Sharp backed from his desk.
“You understand what you did was wrong?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How was it wrong?”
“I went into the house without Mister Schuckers being there. I was thinking about stealing from him.”
“That’s right. You went in to steal. You were hungry, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mister Sharps walked to the black paddle hanging from a nail on his wall.
“The world is slow to forgive even a hungry thief, Gale,” he said. “Slow indeed.” He pulled a book from a shelf and passed it to me. “I commend your integrity. Your restraint. But you entered the man’s house, and that must be punished.”
I nodded. So far he’d only walked to the paddle and left his arms at his side. I caught a ray of hope from his tone, but I had a whompin’ due.
Mister Sharps lifted the paddle from its nail and said, “Hands on the desk.”
I placed the book on the edge and braced against the side. He stood beside me so close I smelled tobacco smoke on his jacket. I waited and it didn’t come, and then he whapped my backside like to drive that paddle straight through me. Though I was prepared to be a man, I bleated like a lamb.
“Have you learned your lesson from this affair?”
“Yes, sir.” My behind was on fire.
“Then come with me.”
I followed him out of his study. His house was a small thing—smaller than Schuckers’s, but tidy. Mrs. Sharps was a stern old bird who stared into the television as Mister Sharps marched me past her into his kitchen. I knew she knew I’d just been punished and the shame of it burned worse than my backside.
“I’m to understand all you had to eat today was your morning oatmeal and two eggs for lunch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why don’t you take a seat?”
“I didn’t want to be bad,” I said.
When the one who has the right and authority to punish you tells you to take a seat and receive his blessings—my eyes swam in water and my belly opened up and I was so grateful and hungry all I did was stand there with my face dripping until he put his hand on my shoulder.
“You’re a good boy, Gale. You’re a fine young man. Won’t you sit for some supper?”
* * *
I never went to Schuckers’s again. None of us did.
Now I’m in another man’s kitchen looking at food that isn’t mine, holding a candle I found in a cupboard and lit with a match from the hearth. I carry the tiny flame into a closet and behold shelves of soups and staples. If the man who owned the house was here, surely he wouldn’t begrudge me a can of soup? A jar of venison? Some crackers to deaden the salinity? I pile interesting items on the counter. Jars of peaches and apples. Even a five-pound bag of rice.
I open the refrigerator and the stench is instant and breathtaking. Spoiled milk, vegetables, who knows what? I slam the door.
Before sampling my host’s food, I pen a note on paper beside his telephone. “I ate a jar of venison and a jar of peaches.”
I leave plenty of space to record additional items, and sign Gale G’Wain at the bottom.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Eight months and two days after her grandfather died, Guinevere Haudesert lay in bed. Her alarm clock ticked; it was a school night.
Floorboards groaned in the hallway.
The door handle clicked.
A yellow beam from the nightlight down the hall invaded through the door aperture. Burt’s silhouette crossed
Similar Books
