Slider’s Son

by Rebecca Fjelland Davis

  He felt his ears burning. Why did she make him feel like this? And she was nothing but a little slip of a girl, and she was only ten, but she could look him in the eye and give him what-for any day of the week.

  “What are you about? What brings you to the store?”

  She held up her list. “My mum sent me. Want to help?”

  “Sure!”

  At that moment, the train whistle blasted through the open back door of the store.

  “Oh, criminy! I have to get to the train. Suzy, I’m sorry I can’t help you. I have to run! I’m almost late. I’m sorry!” And he was. He bolted out the back door, grabbed the handle of his wagon, and ran down the road and up the railroad ditch, as fast as he could go hauling the wagon.

  Twenty-Seven

  The Curse of the Honey Jar

  The whistle blasted and the smoke billowed. The brakes screeched. By the time Grant came puffing up alongside the railroad tracks, the train was already engulfed in the steam cloud. Only then did Grant look down and realize he still held the jar of honey in his right hand. He had stolen a jar of honey from Mr. Sims.

  He’d never be able to carry the honey and haul his wagon. Even with his bum arm, he needed both arms to haul the heavy load. He had stolen it. Maybe it was no big deal. He could nestle the jar into his wagonload of lignite and take it back on his way home. He’d bring it back to Sims, and Sims would understand that it was an accident. Maybe.

  That didn’t erase the fact that he’d stolen it.

  Grant parked his wagon next to the train track and looked down at the golden mass in the jar. Normally, it would make his mouth water, but the fact that he’d stolen it gave him a knot in his belly, just like shooting the Christmas lights. Maybe he could get in plenty of trouble all by himself without Frank. He stuffed the jar in the tall grass by the base of a water tower strut and turned to the train.

  He didn’t mean to steal it. He didn’t even know he was still carrying it when he ran. Maybe Sims would even laugh. Maybe.

  What if he got accused of stealing? And what if somebody went to the sheriff to tell on him? Oh, criminy, he had to get this taken care of before Sims noticed it was missing.

  The brakeman, scampering from coal car to coal car, grinned down at him, his teeth white against his coal-dusted face. He looked like he was made of tar except for his teeth. “Halloo there, sonny. You the only kid with enough gumption to come out for coal when the sun’s a-shinin’?”

  “Guess so, sir,” Grant responded. “Nobody needs as much heat these days.”

  “Well, good enough fer you.” The brakeman gave a slab of lignite a kick. “Then, here ya go, son.” The lignite cracked against the ground and splintered into enough chunks of coal to half-fill Grant’s wagon. “Watch out now,” the brakeman said again, and kicked two more slabs off the side of the car. “There ya go, son. For havin’ the gumption to come when it’s not to keep yourself warm!”

  “Thank you, sir!” Grant cried. He wouldn’t have to climb the coal cars at all tonight, with this much lignite already on the ground.

  “What’s your name, son?” the man hollered down.

  Grant hesitated. Did he want to arrest him? In spite of the fact that the brakemen always turned a blind eye to the boys “stealing” lignite off the trains or even helped like now, it was still illegal. Everybody just took for granted that it would happen, and this brakeman was his partner in crime.

  He looked up at the blue eyes in the coal-blackened face. “Grant.”

  “Grant? That it? Grant what?”

  “Grant O’Grady, sir.”

  “O’Grady! You related to that pitcher? Sheriff Slider O’Grady they got in this county?”

  Grant nodded. “Yessir! He’s my dad.”

  The brakeman nodded. “Good man, your daddy. Ever-body knows better’n to commit a crime in Larkin County. You play ball, too?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And I bet Slider’s right proud of you.”

  Grant looked up. “I hope so, sir.”

  “Good boy. You run on home with that coal and tell Sheriff Slider it’s a present from Harold Tyler. Ya hear?” He kicked one more slab off for good measure. Grant jumped back when it landed almost on his toes.

  “Thank you, Mr. Tyler,” Grant said. He scrambled to scoop the broken lignite chunks into the wagon.

  I bet he’s right proud of you. The words echoed in Grant’s brain. Proud. It made him swell a little. He was proud to be Slider’s son. He piled lignite faster.

  He had to make quite a pile to get all the lignite on the wagon. He couldn’t even fit it all on the wagon. He hadn’t had such a load since early February.

  “You stay safe, there, son of Slider O’Grady.”

  “Thank you, sir!” And he turned in the direction of home and stopped.

  The honey. He’d forgotten, with the scurrying to get the coal, with talking to Harold Tyler. The honey. The stolen honey. I bet he’s right proud of you. Nope, his dad wouldn’t be right proud of a son that stole anything.

  And now there was certainly no place for the honey on the wagon. It was already piled so high that some of the coal would fall off on the bumps of the road going home. And his mom said she needed a good load tonight. The jar was too big for his pocket, and he needed both hands to hold the handle of the wagon with such a heavy load, especially with his bum arm. He’d have to come back for the honey. He stuffed some more dead grass around the jar so no one would see it.

  Then he trudged toward home, pulling for all he was worth, worrying the whole way about the honey jar packed at the bottom of the water tower. What if someone found it? What is someone found it and ate it? Then that person would be the thief, stealing from Grant. No, if someone found honey out by the railroad tracks, that person would just think he’d found a pot of gold. At least a jar of gold. He wouldn’t know he was stealing the honey from anybody. Only he, Grant O’Grady, had taken it from Sims’s Mercantile. It had been a careless, stupid mistake. But it was still stealing.

  He tried to hurry. Pulling such a heaping load hurt his elbow, but he figured pulling like this, straightening out his arm, was good for it. He had to get the coal unloaded and get back for the honey. Maybe he could even return the jar before Sims closed up. Besides, the temperature still dropped below freezing most nights, and if it froze, the honey would crystallize and Sims couldn’t take it back. His debt for the Chirstmas lights was paid, but now he’d have to work for honey.

  On the way home, the wagon got stuck four times in the muddy ruts just starting to freeze. He pushed from the back end and got it out twice, but the third time, it mired almost down to the axles. He had to find two flat rocks to wedge it out.

  He looked at Mrs. Beadlie’s on the way past. A plume of smoke rose from her chimney, so she wasn’t out of coal. He’d bring her some next time, he promised himself.

  When Grant finally pulled the wagon up to the coal chute at home, he was sweating and tired. He unloaded the lignite chunks, listening to them clatter down the chute, parked his wagon in the shed, and headed back at a trot toward the railroad tracks for the honey.

  “Grant!” his mother yelled out the door. “Where you think you’re headed?”

  “Gotta run back to the store! Sims needs help with one more thing.”

  “I need you to go trot this to Grandma Beadlie. Now. Then go run your errand. Be home in half an hour for supper now, you hear? There’s a storm rolling in, so don’t be late. I can smell it, and I could hear it by the way the train sounded.”

  Grant sighed and grabbed the basket. He peeked under the checked cloth. Freshly canned jars of beef, part of the quarter steer Slider bought from Siebolts. And he never could figure out how his mom could hear a storm in how the train sounded. But she was never, ever wrong about it.

  Grandma Beadlie took forever to come to her door.

  “Why, Granty. What have you got there?”

  “Mamie said to bring you this, pronto.”

  She peeked under the checke
d cloth, too. “Oh, that mother of yours. Come in, Granty.”

  “I can’t, Grandma. I’m sorry. I’ve got to run back to Sims’s to help him. I promised. I’m sorry.” He was just compounding his lies. Hopefully nobody would see him at the railroad tracks. “And I’ll bring you some more coal tomorrow. I ran out of time today.”

  “Bless you, Granty.”

  When Grandma Beadlie’s door finally closed behind him, Grant sprinted toward the water tower. He had to retrieve that jar of honey before he could be classified as a real thief.

  He ran around the corner, down Meadowlark Street all the way to South Road, so there was less chance of being seen. When he crossed the ditch over to the railroad tracks, dusk was descending. He slowed to a trot. Clouds had moved in and there was no sunset glow to light up the tracks. He tripped on a rut and sprawled on the cinders, and pain shot through his elbow. His hands stung from the cinders digging in. He wiped them, flexed his elbow, rubbed it.

  He finally reached the base of the water tower. The cloudy sky masked any light from the moon or stars, and Grant had to feel around in the grass for the glass jar. Lightning cracked across the western sky. Something hissed, and he jumped back. A big ol’ mangy tomcat jumped out of the weeds and sprinted toward town.

  Heart pounding, Grant finally felt his fingers on the cold honey jar. He picked it up and hugged it to his chest.

  “And what d’ya know, it’s our star pitcher.”

  The voice, right behind him, made Grant jump almost right out of his skin. The jar slid out of his hands and smacked against the dirt and weeds.

  “What might he be doin’ out here, skulkin’ by the tracks at this hour?”

  He whirled. Big Joe. Outlined against the bleak, dark sky, Big Joe towered over him.

  “What you got there, boy? Hiding something?” He leaned around Grant to see what he’d dropped.

  Grant thought of explaining, and if it were any other adult from town who he trusted, he might have. But not Big Joe. Big Joe found Grant whenever he was in trouble, like a magnet found iron. Big Joe was worse than a tattle-tale at school—the bad kid who wanted to get somebody else in trouble, to make himself look better.

  “Nothing.”

  Big Joe pushed Grant to the side with one hand and picked up the honey jar. “Nothin’? I reckon you don’t come out here digging around for nothin’. I think you’re just a little thieving son-of-a-gun who tried to hide his loot.”

  “Listen, Big Joe, it’s none of your business, and what makes you think I stole something? I couldn’t carry it with my wagon is all . . .” And suddenly, the ache in his arm made him hate Big Joe with all his might. “And I could have carried it if I still had a good arm! You did this to me, and you probably wrecked my pitching arm. Leave me alone!” Grant grabbed for the jar, but Big Joe held it up, high and out of reach.

  “You did it to yourself. You shouldn’t have shot the Christmas lights.”

  “I know how stupid that was. I’ve paid for the lights, and I’ve paid and paid and paid for doing such a stupid thing.”

  “So why would you be hiding honey unless you stole it? Pretend to work for Sims so you can steal from him behind his back, that what you’re doing?”

  “What are you talking about? Just because you don’t take care of your own family doesn’t mean everybody else is doing everything wrong! Why don’t you mind your own business instead of bugging everybody else! You drink up your kids’ Christmas money and you come out following me around? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Shut up, you little—”

  “And you wrecked my life already! You—you threw a hammer at me. And now I might never be able to pitch again. I can replace Christmas lights. You can’t replace my elbow. And you can’t replace your kids! I—I—hate you!”

  “Wait!” Big Joe yelled. “You think you’re such hot stuff. It takes you down a notch to not get to be the star pitcher, doesn’t it?”

  But Grant took off running. The honey didn’t matter. Big Joe could take it. He’d go to Sims at the crack of dawn and tell him what happened, and work until the honey was paid for. He couldn’t stand to look at Big Joe for one more minute. He stumbled, and kept running. He tripped and sprawled on the dark ground, and his hands stung and his elbow throbbed, but he got up and kept running.

  “Wait!” Big Joe yelled. “You little hooligan!”

  Grant ran faster, and Big Joe didn’t follow.

  Hating could make his heart shrivel up to the size of a pea, his mother had said. He could almost feel his heart shrinking, but he didn’t care. All he could feel was how much he hated Big Joe, and he couldn’t stop it.

  Grant ran all the way home. He stopped on Church Street and wiped his face. He realized that tears were streaming down his face. He rubbed his eyes. He pulled up leftover grass from last year until he had a handful, and he blew his nose in it.

  He went out in the back yard and sat down on the cold stoop. He flexed his fingers. It was two days until he was supposed to try throwing, but he couldn’t stand it. He moved his arm in the pitching motion. It hurt like a son-of-a-gun. He did it again. The elbow made a cracking sound. He did it again. It hurt so bad the tears sprang back in his eyes. He pitched air again, and again, and again, and again. It hurt more with each pass, but he couldn’t stop. He forced his arm into the straight-out follow through, and his elbow felt about as bad as it had the moment the hammer hit it. “Big Joe, I hate you,” he kept saying. “You’re not gonna wreck my life. You’re not gonna wreck my pitching career.”

  Grant threw air balls until he hurt so bad and was so tired from the pain that he crumpled up on the step. And cried and cried. And curled up, hugging his legs around the stone of worry in his middle that had turned into a solid rock of hate.

  He didn’t know how long he sat and slept in a ball on the step, but he woke up in the dark when the front door opened and closed on the opposite side of the house. He forgot where he was for a moment, but his arm ached like all get-out, and when he moved it, it hung like a wet noodle. Then he remembered Big Joe and the honey, and he knew he had arithmetic homework to do that he hadn’t started, and he forgot all about supper, and it must be really late and his mom had told him to be home in half an hour. That had to be a long time ago.

  He heard voices inside. Slider was home. It must be really late. He stood up. His right leg was asleep, so he stomped his foot. His elbow throbbed worse than it had since he broke it.

  He wiped his face. He went to the cistern and gave it a pump. And another. He cranked furiously and a trickle of water came out. Grant splashed his face with the icy water and shook it off like a dog, wiped it dry with his sleeve, went around the house, and walked up the front steps.

  He opened the door to see both Slider and Mamie standing in the kitchen, not sitting and reading like always. Uh-oh.

  “Young man, where have you been?” Mamie was way scarier than Slider at moments like this.

  Grant swiped his sleeve at his eyes, but he knew he couldn’t hide the tear streaks on his cheeks or his puffy eyes. Slider looked him in the eye. Mamie stared.

  Grant looked at his dad, trying to avoid his mom’s eyes. “I need to go to bed.”

  “Young man, you are thirteen years old, and I had no idea where you were. You need to give us some sort of explanation. I was worried sick.” Mamie’s voice had no loopholes for nonsense.

  “What’s the matter, son?” Slider’s voice was gentler.

  “I just want to go to—” His voice cracked. He didn’t want to cry in front of them. He didn’t want to be like a little girl. He didn’t want to be a baby, of all things, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I can’t pitch. My elbow’s wrecked. And Big Joe keeps bothering me. I hate him. I hate him!”

  Mamie stared. Slider sat down in a kitchen chair and patted the chair beside him. Grant slid onto it. He sniffed hard, but a tear leaked out. They sat quietly for a minute.

  “What’s Big Joe doing?”

  “He just keeps showing up. All
over the place. And bugs me, like he wants to get me in trouble. Any little tiny thing, and he accuses me of stuff. It’s like he’s following me around town. And he scares the bejesus out of me.”

  His parents were quiet, waiting.

  Grant wiped his face on his sleeve again. “Sorry I cried. But I hate Big Joe. I hate him.”

  Slider leaned over and slipped an arm around Grant and pulled him close. “You know, son, hating takes an awfully lot of energy.”

  He nodded against his dad’s chest, and then pulled away. “I know. I sure don’t want to hate him. He’s Little Joe’s dad. But I do. I’m so mad about my arm. It hurts so bad.” He touched his elbow. “And I hate that he smacks Little Joe and his mom . . . and that he was so drunk he never brought home food or presents at Christmas. I hate him.”

  Slider nodded. “Mamie, you got some aspirin for the boy to help him sleep?”

  She went to the kitchen cabinet, reached in for a small glass bottle. She shook out two white tablets. “Here.” She dropped them into his hand. “You going to tell us where you were?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just went back to the water tower. I dropped something.”

  “What—” his mom started in.

  “Let him be tonight,” Slider said. “Son, just go to bed. After this, let us know where you are if it’s going to be late. Hear me?”

  “Yes, Dad. Night, Mom.”

  Grant stared at the ceiling for what seemed like hours. His stomach growled, but it was his own fault he’d missed supper. He tried to suck his stomach in tight against his backbone so it wouldn’t feel so empty, but that didn’t help enough. The wind howled outside, and the storm his mom had heard in the train rolled in, beating the house with rain, then crystals of ice. Finally, Grant fell asleep thinking about the honey and wondering if Big Joe took it home or left it to freeze by the train tracks.

  Twenty-Eight

  Sims, Honey, and Little Joe

  When Grant opened his eyes, the storm had stopped. He slid to his feet and looked out the window. A slick sheet of ice blanketed everything and the world glowed a faint silvery gray. He slid into his clothes. It was early. He tiptoed downstairs. Mamie was stoking the stove, but she hadn’t even cooked coffee yet.