to a hospital and get checked out,” the chief called after him.
“I’m okay.” The man walked away from the scene, ignoring the notepad-toting reporter who chased him. His face and hair were caked with soot, and he coughed up a puff of blue smoke. He made no move toward Bobby, but as he passed their eyes locked. This was not the same gangly, smirking boy Bobby had despised, nor the smiling head who filled the TV screen. He seemed transformed, his eyes full of confidence and vindication. He had done something real, and good, erasing his dishonor. Romulus Wayne had won again.
Bobby’s legs betrayed his instinct to run, and he sunk back in his wheelchair, sure he would shortly be hurled to the asphalt. But Romulus went on his way, disappearing behind the hedges bordering the parking lot.
Bystanders bumped into him from all sides, so close he could not maneuver his chair to get free. Eventually he found the space to turn and wheel away from the scene, stopping outside a coffee shop until his heartbeat settled and he could breathe again.
The van was not due for another half-hour, so he slowly rolled down the sidewalk. It took him over an hour to reach his parents’ street. He looked down the row of yards and houses, watching young children ride their bicycles and jump rope in the driveways without fear of cracking their bones on the pavement. He wished he could leave his chair and join them, feel concrete under his feet, run and leap recklessly. His eyes fell on the his parents’ yard, just a few blocks down; he wondered if they would miss him if he never came back, or if it was too late for that. He thought of Abigail Wheat—Abigail Wayne now—dancing in the sprinkler eleven years before, on the day he first fell in love, then watched a nod and a wink crumble it.
He spun his wheels and headed for the dock.
He sat at the river’s edge and stared into the clear, burbling water for a long time. He wondered if Romulus had stood in the same spot, if he’d heard the same sounds, if he thought he might exceed his limits and drown—washed out to the Mississippi and beyond, hopelessly lost in the deep, roiling water. And he wondered if Romulus had thought of Abigail, pictured himself emerging from the river and burying his nose in her soft hair. Maybe that had been enough to save him.
Bobby searched his memory for a similar thought to preserve him. When he had it he shut his eyes tight and refused to let it go—a round face with short-cropped blond hair, a laugh without scorn or sarcasm, purple-tinted lips pressed against his. He would do better by her next time.
He could almost see her face as his wheels reached the edge of the dock and lost contact with the dry, graying wood. The cold-water shock pierced his clothes and he felt the current pull him from his wheelchair, as if he were flying on a moist, icy wind. He had no fear of drowning; the cold river had already begun transforming him. His constant pain was gone, and his legs seemed to move freely again, as if there had been no leap, no fall, no shattered bone. As the chill water carried him along he kept his eyes shut tight, wondering what kind of man would emerge from the dark river once he finally washed onto shore.
Saving Joe Deavers
When news gets round that Joe Deavers has got the devil in him, our first thoughts turn to his wife Minnie. Word is, Joe’s shouting curses in an unearthly voice, talking backwards to himself, hanging by his ankles in the bedroom doorway at night. With all that happening we figure poor Minnie’s probably scared out of her wits. At first it looks hopeless. But when Tom Ross, the mailman, says he’s seen Brother Stewart up there trying to cast the demon out, we gather up baseball bats and ax handles and anything else we can swing, pile in Sam’s old pickup, and
“I’m okay.” The man walked away from the scene, ignoring the notepad-toting reporter who chased him. His face and hair were caked with soot, and he coughed up a puff of blue smoke. He made no move toward Bobby, but as he passed their eyes locked. This was not the same gangly, smirking boy Bobby had despised, nor the smiling head who filled the TV screen. He seemed transformed, his eyes full of confidence and vindication. He had done something real, and good, erasing his dishonor. Romulus Wayne had won again.
Bobby’s legs betrayed his instinct to run, and he sunk back in his wheelchair, sure he would shortly be hurled to the asphalt. But Romulus went on his way, disappearing behind the hedges bordering the parking lot.
Bystanders bumped into him from all sides, so close he could not maneuver his chair to get free. Eventually he found the space to turn and wheel away from the scene, stopping outside a coffee shop until his heartbeat settled and he could breathe again.
The van was not due for another half-hour, so he slowly rolled down the sidewalk. It took him over an hour to reach his parents’ street. He looked down the row of yards and houses, watching young children ride their bicycles and jump rope in the driveways without fear of cracking their bones on the pavement. He wished he could leave his chair and join them, feel concrete under his feet, run and leap recklessly. His eyes fell on the his parents’ yard, just a few blocks down; he wondered if they would miss him if he never came back, or if it was too late for that. He thought of Abigail Wheat—Abigail Wayne now—dancing in the sprinkler eleven years before, on the day he first fell in love, then watched a nod and a wink crumble it.
He spun his wheels and headed for the dock.
He sat at the river’s edge and stared into the clear, burbling water for a long time. He wondered if Romulus had stood in the same spot, if he’d heard the same sounds, if he thought he might exceed his limits and drown—washed out to the Mississippi and beyond, hopelessly lost in the deep, roiling water. And he wondered if Romulus had thought of Abigail, pictured himself emerging from the river and burying his nose in her soft hair. Maybe that had been enough to save him.
Bobby searched his memory for a similar thought to preserve him. When he had it he shut his eyes tight and refused to let it go—a round face with short-cropped blond hair, a laugh without scorn or sarcasm, purple-tinted lips pressed against his. He would do better by her next time.
He could almost see her face as his wheels reached the edge of the dock and lost contact with the dry, graying wood. The cold-water shock pierced his clothes and he felt the current pull him from his wheelchair, as if he were flying on a moist, icy wind. He had no fear of drowning; the cold river had already begun transforming him. His constant pain was gone, and his legs seemed to move freely again, as if there had been no leap, no fall, no shattered bone. As the chill water carried him along he kept his eyes shut tight, wondering what kind of man would emerge from the dark river once he finally washed onto shore.
Saving Joe Deavers
When news gets round that Joe Deavers has got the devil in him, our first thoughts turn to his wife Minnie. Word is, Joe’s shouting curses in an unearthly voice, talking backwards to himself, hanging by his ankles in the bedroom doorway at night. With all that happening we figure poor Minnie’s probably scared out of her wits. At first it looks hopeless. But when Tom Ross, the mailman, says he’s seen Brother Stewart up there trying to cast the demon out, we gather up baseball bats and ax handles and anything else we can swing, pile in Sam’s old pickup, and
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