DAD

 

                                                             

 

 

                                             ADVENTURE

 

     Ed is off again, I guess, if his treasures are missing from the bureau drawer, the arrowheads and preserved beetles and the rocks with the fossils in them.

     Some imagined injustice I suspect but I can’t figure out what. He’ll stand pain, hard work, disappointment, hurt feelings, anything but what he feels is injustice. But what am I thinking? There must be some other reason. Not my fault.

     Somebody will bring him home again, and then what do I do, talk like a father to a son instead of an uncle to a nephew? Or maybe I’ll find out days later what was wrong.

     I like his independence. In many ways we’re alike. In most things we understand each other. I wonder if I could do something more, something less, something better.

      Well, here’s Eddie again. So it’s Patrolman Hardy this time. Last time it was that Miss Grimly, so there was a lot of fuss about proper care and a woman’s touch and a normal home life and good discipline and a lot of other things she doesn’t know anything about. Wonder if it’s some kind of harmless game. Everybody knows his uncle thinks the world of him and takes good care of the boy. He doesn’t look abused, doesn’t even look unhappy. There’s something bright behind those eyes. Makes you think there’s a bigger spirit than such a small body can hold. The bill’s going to be on me.

                                                                       *

     I didn’t get past town, thought Eddie. Somebody always finds me and takes me back. The cop’s a nice guy. This is a nice car but there’s a funny smell. Look at that big gun. The fields are awfully green. It’ll be summer soon and I can play in the fields. Look at that big hawk.

     Uncle Frank will look funny for a while and putter around and then fix supper. He won’t say anything but he’ll show he isn’t mad. After supper he’ll wash the dishes and be careful not to look at me too hard. When it’s time for bed, we’ll walk upstairs and he’ll come into my room after I get undressed and sit on the bed and look half hurt and half proud. He’ll say, “Well, Ed, what was it this time?”

     I’ll want to tell him why I run away sometimes, but how can I tell him when I don’t know? Anyway, I’ll let him know I’m not mad at him. I’ll give him a hug and make him feel good. Before I go to sleep, I hope he tells me another story, about adventure or what it was like when he was a boy. About all the things that are beyond the fields. Big Cities. Trains. Stores. Movies. Airplanes. And the ocean and the ships.

Roy Hill

1966

                                                        

                                         A DESERTED CABIN

 

     It was a small cabin built of logs standing among the trees which attracted my attention as I climbed out of my small motor boat and strolled toward the trees. It was old and deserted. The chimney had fallen in. There. were only fragments of broken glass left in the windows. The door was sagging on its hinges and was slightly open. As I came nearer, I could see a rusty old trap hanging on a pet on the wall which plainly showed that the cabin had once been used by a trapper.

     I walked to the door and looked in. There was an old stove against one wall and two bunks, one above the other on the opposite wall. An old table stood in the middle of the floor and an old chair with one leg broken lay near by. On the wall, there were several nails where many furs had probably hung when the cabin was inhabited.

     Pushing the door further open, I stepped in. Suddenly all the old furniture seemed to come alive and stare at me as if surprised to see a person again, or was it just my imagination which had been wandering since I had stepped into the old house?

     Walking across the room to see what was behind a second door, I made no noise and glancing down to the floor, I saw it was thickly covered with dust as was everything else in the room. 

     Reaching the door, I put my hand on the door knob and slowly turned it and pushed the door open as if expecting something or some one to be in there. But of course, the room was empty. It was a very small room and had probably been used to store food supplies in.

     Seeing that the room was empty, I walked out and closed the door behind me.

     I walked over to the window and looked out. As I stood looking at the scene before me, of the blue sparking lake, the tall pine trees reflected in it, and my little motor boat lying on e shore, and thinking of the old house and of the trapper who must once have lived in it, of the lonely winter nights when the trapper would sit close to the old stove with no one to talk to and nothing to break the silence but the cry of a mountain lion or the howl of a wolf.

     Coming back to the present with a start, I noticed the last rays of e setting sun streaking the western sky.

     Glancing at my wristwatch, I saw that what had seemed a few minutes to me had really been hours.

     Taking one last look around the room which was already getting dark, I hurried out and down to my motor boat leaving only my footprints in the dust on the floor of the old cabin to show that any one had ever been there. 

Esther Genta

1936