Every Day After (22 page)

A Friend Is Not Known Till He Is Lost

Mid-June came fast, with less rain and more heat. June had always been my favorite month. I loved it for the long summer evenings: the fireflies, the crickets, the local whip-poor-will whistling its name at dusk. The evenings were peaceful and warm. They soothed away bits and pieces of the sadness I felt about Daddy not showing up on my birthday, but they couldn’t heal me completely.

Over the next month, Ben and I continued to work—me at Hinkle’s, him at Mr. Reed’s. Erin dropped Ben quicker than a hot potato. She couldn’t get over him moving in with us. If she happened to be in town at the same time we were, she’d turn around and hightail it the other way. And she didn’t dare set a toenail in Hinkle’s during my work hours anymore. Ben said he went over one afternoon after work and tried to talk to her, but she wouldn’t even come to the door.

Around the last of June, a family by the name of Wilkins came to board with us—a couple in their mid-twenties
along with their two-year-old daughter, a little girl with white-blond hair named Clara. They took my room and I moved in with Mama. They were kind—both to us and to each other—and they made me think of how me, Mama, and Daddy might’ve been when I was a baby.

Right after Daddy left, watching the Wilkinses would’ve deepened the cut of sadness inside me, but with Mama getting better, and Ben and Mrs. Butler around, the sadness seemed to be scarring over.

By Independence Day, we’d managed to keep the house paid up and the bank off our heels. When we weren’t working or helping our mothers, Ben would give me slingshot lessons or take me over to Mr. Reed’s, and when it was time for Bittersweet’s yearly fireworks, I was invited to watch them with Mr. Reed and Ben. For the first time in our whole lives, Ben and I didn’t watch the show from the curb in front of Powell’s. Instead, we sat out on the grass in Mr. Reed’s clean front yard. You could see everything from up on that hill. We all sat together watching the fireworks burst and sparkle over the town. Ziggy stayed right beside Ben the whole time, barking at every pop and boom like the world was on fire.

“Ziggy, you’d best hush up or I’m gonna put you inside,” Mr. Reed scolded in between cigarette puffs.

Ziggy didn’t hush. Mr. Reed didn’t put him in.

I’d only been visiting Mr. Reed for about two weeks, but already he seemed a different person than what I’d cooked up in my mind. He wasn’t scary or crazy, he’d been
just plain ol’ sad and lonely. He wasn’t quite as sad or lonely anymore. I figured maybe his cut of sadness was scarring over, too.

Two weeks before school was set to start, Mr. Reed came down with a hacking cough. For over a week Ben and I listened to him.

“Let me get Dr. Heimler for you, Mr. Reed. Ain’t no trouble,” Ben said to him during one particularly bad fit.

“No, son, I don’t need no doctor. It’ll pass.”

But it didn’t pass. On Sunday morning, Ben and I went to check on him. He didn’t answer the door. Ben looked at me, the skin under his pale brows reddening.

“Mr. Reed,” he called. “You in there? It’s Ben and Lizzie.”

No answer.

“Mr. Reed?”

No answer.

From outside we could hear Ziggy running through the house, coming to Ben’s voice. He whined and scratched at the door. Ben couldn’t stand it. He stopped waiting on Mr. Reed and just barged right in. Ziggy’s food and water bowls stood empty, and a bowl of untouched oatmeal sat on the table.

“Mr. Reed?” Ben called again. “It’s me and Lizzie. You in here?”

“Let’s go check in his room,” I said. “Something’s wrong.”

We tiptoed back to Mr. Reed’s room. He was there in
his bed, buried beneath a pile of quilts. Ben ran over to him and felt his forehead. “He’s burning up. Go get Dr. Heimler, will ya? Hurry!”

I didn’t think twice. I bolted out the door and down into town. I’d have to go through town and all the way past the Martins’ to get to him. And even then, there was a chance he wouldn’t be home.

“Please, God,” I prayed aloud, my voice jumping as my feet pounded the ground. “Please, let the doctor be home.”

I ran onto his front porch and was about to pound on the door when it flew open. “Mr. Reed” was all I could manage between gasps for air.

“Jump in the car,” Dr. Heimler ordered. “I’ll grab my things.”

I did as I was told. By now, I’d have been glad to never have to ride in a car again. Riding in a sheriff’s car and a doctor’s car weren’t my idea of joyrides. If you saw either one of those coming for you, you weren’t having such a good go of it. Still, I had to admit, there was one good thing about Dr. Heimler’s car: it went a lot faster than I could run, and in a few minutes, we were back at Mr. Reed’s.

Ben had pulled a chair into the bedroom and was sitting beside Mr. Reed’s bed. Ziggy was curled up on the floor at Ben’s feet. He let out a long whine when we entered.

“He’s bad off, Doctor,” Ben said, his voice cracking. “I think it might be pneumonia. I can hear it rattlin’.”

Dr. Heimler checked over Mr. Reed’s frail body, listening here, feeling the pulse there. Finally he spoke. “You’re right, Ben. Pneumonia.” The doctor looked up at me. “Lizzie, you run on home and help your mother and Mrs. Butler. Ben will stay with me in case I need anything.”

“Yes, sir.” I did as I was told without argument, even though what I really wanted to do was stay with Ben. I knew how hard he’d take it if Mr. Reed passed away. A part of me thought it wasn’t fair for God to let Mr. Reed die like this, just a year and a half since Ben had lost his pa.

Ben spent the next three days at Mr. Reed’s with Dr. Heimler. After school each day and work each afternoon, I’d run home and get boxed suppers and take them up to Mr. Reed’s. Dr. Heimler would clean his plate. Ben did good to eat five bites. Mr. Reed ate none.

Mrs. Butler would ask for updates when I returned each evening. My reply was always “The same. No better, no worse.”

“Ben look all right?” she’d ask as she stitched another patch for a quilt. “You wait and see, Lizzie. My boy’s gonna be a doctor someday. Just you wait and see.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I’d answer.

She’d smile and Mama would nod. But then, on Wednesday evening, they didn’t get the chance to smile and nod. I didn’t even get the chance to bring the boxed suppers to Mr. Reed’s. Mrs. Butler was packing it up when the front door opened and clicked shut. The distinct shuffle of Ben’s
boots against the wood floor echoed through the house. The Wilkins couple, who’d been sitting at the kitchen table with Mama, looked at each other and grabbed up little Clara. They headed straight to their room.

In the quiet, it wasn’t just Ben’s boots that could be heard, but something else—something scratching and tapping against the floor and a heavy panting. Then, into the kitchen walked Ben, Ziggy trailing behind.

Ben looked at his ma. His eyes were swollen and red, his cheeks puffy. “Sit, Ziggy,” he spoke. “You gotta mind me, ’cause you’re my dog now.”

Mrs. Butler ran over to Ben and wrapped her arms around him. She squeezed him tight. “It’s all right, Ben. It was just his time, that’s all. Mr. Reed lived a longer life than a lot of us.”

Tears pooled up in my eyes, blurring the room and everybody in it. It was true. It wasn’t fair. Ben shouldn’t have to go through this again. Not Ben. He was too kind. Too good. Why him?

Mrs. Butler let go of Ben and pulled out a kitchen chair. She sat him down. He placed a crumpled piece of paper he’d been holding on the table and smoothed it.

“What’s that?” Mama whispered.

“A poem. He told me to take it.”

I figured a man as old as Mr. Reed had to be pretty wise. I figured if he thought this poem could help Ben, then maybe it could help us all. “Read it,” I said.

Ben wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve and nodded. He cleared his throat, then looked at me and said, “ ‘Wits’ End Corner,’ by Antoinette Wilson.”

I smiled. Ben smiled back. And then he read slowly, softly:

      
“Are you standing at Wits’ End Corner
,

      
Christian, with troubled brow?

      
Are you thinking of what is before you
,

      
And all you are bearing now?

      
Does all the world seem against you
,

      
And you in the battle alone?

      
Remember—at Wits’ End Corner

      
Is just where God’s power is shown
.

      
“Are you standing at Wits’ End Corner
,

      
Blinded with wearying pain
,

      
Feeling you cannot endure it
,

      
You cannot bear the strain
,

      
Bruised through the constant suffering
,

      
Dizzy, and dazed, and numb?

      
Remember—at Wits’ End Corner

      
Is where Jesus loves to come
.

      
“Are you standing at Wits’ End Corner?

      
Your work before you spread
,

      
All lying begun, unfinished
,

      
And pressing on heart and head
,

      
Longing for strength to do it
,

      
Stretching out trembling hands?

      
Remember—at Wits’ End Corner

      
The Burden-Bearer stands
.

      
“Are you standing at Wits’ End Corner?

      
Then you’re just in the very spot

      
To learn the wondrous resources

      
Of Him who faileth not:

      
No doubt to a brighter pathway

      
Your footsteps will soon be moved
,

      
But only at Wits’ End Corner

      
Is the God who is able proved.”

I was right. Mr. Reed
was
wise. Wits’ End Corner was the exact spot we’d all stood over the past year and a half. Mama reached up and took my hand. I looked down at her and I knew, just as Mr. Reed had known, that corner had finally been turned.

 
Twenty-Two
 

Misfortune Is a Good Teacher

Ben and I gathered up our poles and headed back to the house. Mid-September humidity hung heavy in the air, causing the sky to appear white instead of blue. Ol’ One-Eye had eluded me once again, but I didn’t mind. I guess he didn’t like the feel of that hook jabbing through his mouth. Can’t say I blamed him. Though I couldn’t see him beneath the murky water, I saluted him, same as I had the day I caught him. He might’ve been just a slimy old catfish, but he was far smarter than me. It only took once for him to learn his lesson. Probably wasn’t as stubborn as me.

“You can’t catch One-Eye. You can’t outshoot me with your slingshot. You’ve become an all-out loser, Lizzie Hawkins.” Ben nudged me with his shoulder.

I nudged him back harder. “Have not. Least I’m not so ugly my cooties have to close their eyes.”

Ben took a big gasp of air, pretending to be shocked that I’d say something as mean as that. But we both knew
we were teasing. I wasn’t an all-out loser—not yet, anyway. And I couldn’t think of anybody who’d call Ben ugly. I watched him out of the corner of my eye trudging through the tall grass, his boots in his hands knocking against his knees as he went. It was good to have him near.

We’d spent this Sunday the way we’d spent most others since Mr. Reed had died: fishing and practicing with our slingshots. Sunday was the only day we both had the day off—me from Mr. Hinkle, him from Dr. Heimler.

After Mr. Reed passed, Dr. Heimler stopped by our house the very next day to check on Mama and the rest of us. He bragged on and on about Ben, saying he had all the promise in the world of becoming a doctor one day. I thought Mrs. Butler might faint. Next thing I knew, Dr. Heimler was offering Ben a job. He’d get the same pay as he had at Mr. Reed’s, plus hands-on training for the job Mrs. Butler had always believed he’d someday hold. Best of all, when it was time to head to school the next morning, Ben had been with me. Education is mighty important to future doctors. “Dr. Benjamin Butler.” Sounded good to me.