Authors: M. Ruth Myers
She jerked upright at the sound of his voice and he saw she was crying. Shaking her head in embarrassment, she fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief.
"I'm perfectly fine." Her voice said otherwise. "It's Woody." She pressed her eyelids to stop the tears, which wouldn't quit welling. "He heard my wretched uncle say if he gets any bigger he'll be too heavy for the dumbwaiter, so he hasn't been eating because he doesn't want to leave here. He's already much too frail—"
"Who are you and why did you make Katie cry?" a clear voice demanded above them.
Joe had expected to be immune to this pale little boy who, though he might be ill and crippled, had nonetheless had the advantage of doctors and toys. Now the earnestness with which he gripped his less-than-skillfully-made toy sword, protecting his sister as best he knew how, nudged Joe's heart.
"It's all right, Woody." Kate held up a hand.
Joe moved past her and dropped to his knees on the lawn. He picked up a fallen branch of half-dead privet.
"I am Joseph, knight errant, come to challenge Prince Woody, who is known far and wide as a formidable swordsman."
Delight touched the boy's face and he glanced at Kate.
"Varlet, my sword and I have slain hundreds braver than you!" he cried.
He rolled his wheelchair back from the stairs, a procedure complicated by his determination to keep the sword in his right hand. Joe waited patiently and then pretended ferocious attack with his weapon of privet. The little boy giggled. Privet leaves fluttered off as they flailed at each other. Finally, still on his knees, Joe fell back a step and flung down his branch.
"Take my life or let me live it as your liegeman, sire, for truly the world has never seen a swordsman such as you."
Woody's thin features were flushed with happiness. "I could make you a knight," he said eagerly. "That would be proper. Wouldn't it, Kate?"
She was laughing.
"And then you must bring us all cookies to seal the pledge," Joe said. "That's a fierce looking sword. Did you make it?"
"Kate helped. The handle wobbles, though." The boy was studying Joe avidly, taking in his height and muscular frame.
When he left for the cookies, Kate smoothed her skirt. The practical tweed accented her seriousness but was less than successful at making her plain.
"I don't know if I ever thanked you for... everything the night we came back."
Joe returned to the stairs and sat a few steps below her. A soft breeze blew off the water. He listened to the familiar music of gulls.
"Scared me plenty, I'll tell you." He clasped his hands around his knees. "Part of me was sure you weren't hurt too badly. The other part had visions of you not making it."
"So did I." Her laugh was shaky. "I ought to thank your aunts. In person, I mean."
"They'd love it. But it's probably not a good idea."
She accepted it. There'd be too many questions. Joe handed her an envelope with the bank draft for her share of the money. She slipped it into her sweater pocket.
"We can't make another trip, Kate. You know that."
"What are you talking about?"
"It's dangerous."
"We knew it would be! That's why you and Clovis took rifles."
"I didn't count on you getting shot."
"If it had been you or Clovis who got shot, would that make a difference?"
"I don't know."
She sat in furious silence. "Would you go if I stayed behind? Let you hire another man?"
"Sure."
"Well, I don't intend to! It's
my
boat,
my
undertaking. And it's just starting to pay full rate—"
She began to rise. Joe's hand jerked her down again. For once he felt unaccountably angry with her.
"Listen to me, Kate. Most people don't get everything they want in life. With what you've made so far, you could buy your family a different house. Not as big, maybe, but fine. You'd get something from selling this one, too, I expect. You could all be comfortable for life — and no more risks."
Kate pulled her arm away.
"Size doesn't matter! This is our
home
! It's where we set up Christmas trees and Pa read stories to us around the fire." Her eyes had the look of a winter sky in a blizzard. "You wouldn't expect me to give up if I were a man."
"But you're not a man. You're a woman. And not one made for as hard a life as you've taken on, either." His anger already was gone. He wanted to reason with her.
"If you won't go, I'll find someone else."
He let his breath out between his teeth. She would. He had no doubt of it. Her sense of purpose was one of the things which set her apart from all the other girls he'd known. "You're going to need warmer clothes than you've been wearing," he said finally. "A coat. Boots instead of those canvas things. Thicker trousers. And you and Billy go into the hold at the first sign of trouble. Agreed?"
He rose and held a hand down to her and froze. Kate's mother, coming toward them, saw him and halted. Joe wondered if he'd been recognized, and guessed by Kate's immobility that she was wondering the same. But he was freshly barbered today, and wearing a cap and jacket of a quality the aunties approved. He bore no resemblance to the riffraff who'd carried Kate into the house more than a week ago and spun a tale about her twisting her ankle. Mrs. Hinshaw noted him with nothing more than mild curiosity.
"Mama, this is Mr. Santayna," Kate said nervously. "He... looks after the boat."
Joe tipped his cap. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hinshaw."
She nodded politely. Although she must be near the age of Aunt Irene, she looked ten years younger.
"Woody told you the wonderful news?" she asked Kate. "Uncle Finney's here to take us to dinner, so bring him in soon."
"Mrs. Hinshaw," Joe said as she started to turn. "Woody says his uncle believes he'll soon weigh too much for the dumbwaiter. Most are built to lift close to two hundred pounds. I can check it sometime if it would put your mind at ease."
The little boy was making his way down the ramp from the back door. Mrs. Hinshaw glanced at him in dismay.
"Oh, Woody! I never...."
"Honest, Joe?" the boy appealed wheeling toward them.
"Honest."
"I — thank you." Kate's mother fled.
"I like fighting the bushes," Woody confided passing the cookies. "And feeding Mr. P. And if we had to live somewhere else, I wouldn't have either, and you can't do
anything
when you're in a wheelchair." His chin quivered traitorously. "I can't even go to school."
Joe was the one caught off guard now. "I expect you will some day," he said awkwardly. "People do all sorts of things when they set their minds to it. Do you know the story about Moby Dick?"
"And Captain Ahab?"
"That's the one. Did you know the man who wrote it was blind? And Mr. Prescott. He was too. But he wrote histories of the great Indian empires down in South America that give you the willies."
He tried to think what else he might say to a little boy who'd never walk, who needed meat on his bones, and who might just possibly suffer from having too many women around him. "It occurs to me, my liege, that while you're a skillful swordsman, you need more muscle in your arms to keep from being unseated," Joe said.
Woody looked dubious. "I don't know how to get muscles."
"Well, I expect you could do the same exercises we did in the army, only you'd do them in your chair. You'd lift your sword up and down over your head.... " Joe demonstrated. "And you'd reach down and try to touch your toes. And you'd put your hands on the arms of your chair and push down like you were going to raise yourself up. It doesn't matter if you can't; it's trying that counts.
"Do each of those five times in the morning and again before supper. Then when you can do them all without getting tired, add five more to each, and then another five, until you get to thirty or so."
Woody looked at him in awe.
Twenty-two
Why Uncle Finney insisted on taking them out that night, and why he spent so lavishly, Kate couldn't determine. His exaggerated cheer at the bank's change of heart rang false in view of how he'd hounded them to sell — and of his underhandedness. He worked feverishly to keep them all entertained, though from time to time he touched his handkerchief to his forehead and surreptitiously consulted his watch. She endured it to make sure Woody wasn't victimized again by their uncle's maneuvering. Uncle Finney was up to something, but she didn't know what.
It continued to prey on her Saturday morning as she returned from the library. She slipped up the back stairs, avoiding Mrs. Cass and Mrs. Forsythe who had come to call.
Down the hall she heard a muffled sound of youthful glee. Mrs. Cass' son Rupert, no doubt, playing with Woody. He was practically the only playmate her brother had. Another sound crept in, a half-sob that made her frown. Woody seldom cried. It was how he tried to compensate for not being physically strong. When she heard it a second time, she set her books on a table and walked up the hall to see what was wrong.
"Squeal on me and I won't come back to play with you, 'fraidy cat. Now pay me the nickel, or I'll let it smash," Rupert was saying.
The door to her brother's room was ajar. Rupert dangled a bottle from one outstretched arm. Inside the bottle was a wooden brigantine Pa had carved. It was one of Woody's dearest treasures. Silent as a wraith Kate stepped in and seized the bottle securely. With her other hand, she yanked Rupert's free arm up behind his back until he yelped.
"Let go of it, you little beast."
"He does it all the time, and makes me pay him a nickel." Woody's misery burst out in a rush.
"Don't either!" Rupert whined rubbing his shoulder. He was one year older than Woody and a pulled out chair told how he'd reached the shelves above Woody's desk. "He's just a bad sport because he's a cripple."
"You're the bad sport 'cause you lost at Parcheesi! You cheat, too!"
Kate's voice was deadly quiet. "Don't you dare ever bully my brother again or I'll snap your finger in two and swear you fell on it picking your nose."