The Glory Wind Read online

  I lifted my left hand and took the blows without reacting at all.

  “Take your seat, Luke,” Miss Prutko said. She went then to the front wall and tugged at the rope, ringing the bell to call the others in from recess.

  They spilled and crowded through the doorway, their excited chatter dying down as they plunked into their seats. A few glanced at me but it seemed most of them had already forgotten the scene outside.

  Not Gracie, of course. I felt her eyes on me all afternoon, and at the end of the day, when the bus delivered us to our stop, she made a sort of speech, which I could tell she’d been rehearsing in her head.

  “I saw it all through the window, Luke. I know you took a strapping, and I know why,” she told me. “You could have got out of it if you’d told Miss Prutko what happened. And I know why you didn’t: so you wouldn’t have to repeat those—those horrid lies to her.”

  She reached out then, and took my hand. “Thank you, Luke.”

  “Forget it,” I said, red-faced. The only thing I wanted to do was get out of there so I wouldn’t have to look at her shining, grateful eyes.

  I’d have rather taken a hundred strappings than feel the way I did right then—with her thanking me for something I didn’t even do. I’d wanted to stand up for her all right, but the truth was I hadn’t opened my mouth until Patty Dempsey brought up my father.

  There was no way I could tell Gracie I’d actually been protecting myself.

  Chapter Twelve

  My father isn’t a coward—I want to state that right off. I’ve seen him stand up to much bigger men on those occasions when one of the farmhands we hire at harvest gets a little drink in him and turns mean. And one year, when there was a fire in the barn, he went in there six times to get the horses out, even though there were burning chunks of wood falling and the smoke was thick enough to cut.

  These are things I’ve seen for myself. It’s harder to explain something you haven’t seen, something you’ve only heard about. All you have then are other people’s ideas and memories and words. You can’t trust any of that the same way you can trust your own eyes and ears.

  We were at war from the time I was a little kid and I accepted it like I did any other normal part of my life. I guess that was because it went back to all of my earliest memories—talk of the war threading its way through so many conversations.

  I hadn’t thought much about why some men were gone off to fight while others were still around. Others like my father.

  That changed at our yearly Sunday School picnic the year I was eight. The picnic was something that created as much excitement in Junction as a carnival would in bigger places. We had pony rides and relay races and a scavenger hunt, and games like Simon Says and ring toss and hot potato. There were games for the adults too: tug-of-war and horseshoes—mostly for the men. And, of course, there were all sorts of good things to eat.

  I won a bright blue yo-yo for being the last one out at hot potato, and that was when the trouble started. Terry Stafford decided he wanted that yo-yo.

  Terry was a couple of years older and a whole lot bigger than me. He came over and stood almost nose-to-nose and gave me an imitation of a smile.

  “Hey! Want to trade?” he asked, offering me a paperback book of some sort. It already had a crease bent in the cover, no doubt from his careless handling.

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t.” I slipped the loop of string over my finger and clenched the yo-yo in my hand. I’d seen Terry make “trades” before.

  He looked angry. I could see it growing in him, could see him thinking, deciding what to do next. I took a quick glance toward the group of women, where my mother was. They were laughing and talking as they organized the food for lunch. My ma was chatting with the others, oblivious to the problem that was starting up for me.

  I willed her to look my way, but she didn’t. She would have heard me if I’d called to her, but that was out of the question. It’s one thing if your mother comes along and butts in on something and takes up for you on her own. You can act like you’re embarrassed and put out over it, even if you’re secretly relieved. You’ll get ribbed and called a momma’s boy, but as long as everyone saw it wasn’t your fault, that will hardly last out the day. It’s another story altogether if you ask your mother to help. The brand you’d get for that could last for years.

  So I stayed quiet and waited. I didn’t have to wait long, because Terry took a step forward, pulling my full attention back to him. His jaw was thrust out a little and there was an angry blaze in his eyes.

  “Luke thinks he’s some kind of hot shot because he has a stupid yo-yo,” he said, turning to the kids who were standing around, waiting for the next game to begin.

  “Do not,” I said. I hated the way my voice sounded shaky and small.

  The slap came so suddenly that I had no time to defend myself. It stung my cheek and sent me reeling backwards. I half stumbled but caught myself and stayed on my feet.

  “I guess he’s like his father,” Terry said. “Acts big and all, when he’s really nothing but a yellow-bellied coward.”

  “My father is not a coward!” I cried.

  “Oh, no? So, how come he’s not over there fighting in the war like most of the men from these parts?”

  “He couldn’t go,” I said. “He got hurt.”

  Terry forced out a short, sharp laugh. “He got hurt,” he repeated. He shook his head like he’d never heard anything quite so funny. “That’s a real laugh, boy.”

  “He did get hurt,” I insisted.

  “You think anybody around here believes that?” Terry snorted. “Your daddy busted up his own leg on purpose, the day before he was supposed to ship out. He did it because he wasn’t man enough to go and fight.”

  I lunged at him, fists flying. Fury blurred my vision as I swung wildly, calling him a dirty liar and demanding that he take it back.

  Of course, as soon as I’d lost the advantage of surprise, Terry’s superior weight and strength took over. He slammed his fist into my midsection with enough force to drive me to the ground. I landed on my back with a thud that I could actually hear, and that drove the breath from me. I was still too angry to think rationally, so I gulped in some air and yelled a few more insults. He kicked me in the side a couple of times and might have gone on kicking, except the women had rushed over and pulled him away.

  His mother caught him as he lurched unsteadily, off balance from being yanked back. She was a tall, thin woman with a pointed face and tight, thin lips. Taking hold of Terry’s ear, she yelled, “What do you mean by picking on a kid half your size? You oughta be ashamed of yourself! Now, you apologize to Luke—and his mother too!”

  “He came at me,” Terry grumbled, forgetting that he’d slapped me first. He tugged and rubbed at his ear sullenly. “I never hit him at the start.”

  “He said my father hurt himself on purpose because he was scared to fight in the war!” I shouted as the women turned to look at me.

  The silence was instant, like a switch had been thrown to turn off the sound. It was my mother who broke it.

  “I wonder where your boy might have heard such a thing,” she said in a calm, quiet voice. She didn’t seem shocked at all by what I’d just said.

  “Now, Alice, surely you don’t think…that I…” Mrs. Stafford started, but then it was like she ran out of words because her mouth kept moving with nothing coming out.

  “Of course not,” Ma said smoothly. “I wouldn’t dream of making an accusation unless I knew all the facts. Unless I knew them for certain.”

  Then it seemed that no one was looking at me or Ma, or even each other. I was on my feet again and Ma had me pulled against her, facing out, like I was a shield of some sort, though I don’t think that was her intention. Her hands had settled on my shoulders in a firm grasp but she needn’t have worried about me trying to get away. My sides and stomach were both aching from the blows they’d received, and I was perfec
tly content to lean against my mother and know I was safe.

  I stayed there while she stood them down, waiting until they’d all turned and begun to shuffle off. Not one of them had a thing to say.

  I asked my ma about it later, when we were back home. Exactly what had happened to my father’s leg. I knew he walked with a limp, but it had always been there in my recollection and I’d never thought to wonder about it.

  “Folks around here just love to talk,” she said after a bit of a pause. “I suppose it looked bad, his injury coming right at that time, but people will talk no matter when a thing happens. They need to point fingers and judge others so they don’t have to look too close at themselves.”

  “But he didn’t do it on purpose like Terry said, right Ma?”

  “I don’t believe a man’s honour should need defending in his own home, do you?” she said. “Now, not another word about it.”

  I managed to stay cross at my ma for the next few weeks for not telling me out-and-out that it wasn’t true. I’m sure she felt my anger running just under the surface, making me pull back ever so slightly when she combed my hair or touched me for any reason. But she bore it without comment or question while it worked its way through and out of me.

  It was years before it occurred to me that my father really was the only person in the whole world who knew the truth for sure.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The shunning of Gracie began almost immediately after that day in the school playground. At first, it was like she had become invisible, for all the mind anyone paid to her. For the rest of that week, the other girls walked right past her with their heads lifted, careful not to let their eyes drift toward her.

  It was strangely fascinating to watch friendships shift and move, rearranging themselves as seamlessly as if Gracie had never been included among them. The circle that had opened and taken her in, pushed her out and closed behind her just as efficiently. Instead of new friends, Gracie was surrounded by empty space.

  It got worse the next week.

  Gracie had been sharing a double desk with Ursula Bjarki, a dull, square-faced girl with a habit of chewing on the tips of her braided hair.

  But on Monday of the week after the stories started, when Gracie reached the desk, she found a stack of books piled where she would normally sit. She asked Ursula to please move them. Ursula gave her a haughty look.

  “My mother doesn’t want me to sit next to you,” Ursula said with obvious satisfaction.

  “But where will I sit then?” Gracie asked. She seemed less concerned with the snub than with the matter of where she was to do her work. “There aren’t any extra places.”

  She remained there for the next few moments, until Miss Prutko came along and told her to sit down.

  “I can’t, ma’am. Ursula’s mother doesn’t want me to sit with her anymore, and there are no empty seats.”

  “My mother sent a note for you, Miss Prutko,” Ursula said at once. “She said she was sure you’d understand perfectly well why I shouldn’t have to sit by a—”

  “Where is this note?” Miss Prutko asked before Ursula could finish. She frowned as she unfolded and read the square of paper Ursula produced. After a slight pause, she instructed Sharon Goldrick to go and sit with Ursula, and Gracie was sent to join Mira Anderson in Sharon’s vacated spot.

  The next morning, Mira had a note from her mother. Gracie was moved a second time and she remained at that desk until Friday, when yet another note was produced.

  Through this shuffling of seats, Gracie seemed to be unaffected by the snubs and letters and rejections. She took each slight with so little reaction that you’d have thought her wholly indifferent.

  I knew the truth.

  “Can you believe it, Luke? They were all my friends before, and now they’re so horrid! It’s like they hate me, but I haven’t done anything!” The comment burst from her as though it had been building all day. We’d just gotten off the bus—it was on Friday, after the third time a parent’s note had forced Miss Prutko to move Gracie.

  “I don’t think they hate you...not really,” I said. I searched my head for something else to tell her, but just then Gracie tossed her head.

  “Anyway, why should I care if they do?” she declared. “I don’t care, that’s what!”

  That let me off the hook, which was a relief since I had no idea what else I was supposed to say. I thought she might bring it up again, but the weekend passed without a mention.

  And then it was Monday, and we arrived at school to find something new in the classroom. It was a desk, not unlike the others but made for one person instead of two, and while our desks were plain wood, it was painted white. In place of the benches we all sat on, there was a matching white chair with a small pink cushion on it.

  The girls gathered around it with little admiring comments, each of them pretending to hope it was for a friend. Anyone could see that every last one of them was really longing for it for herself.

  Only Gracie made no move toward it, although I saw her glancing at it from the side of the room. She was to sit with Evelyn Hamm that morning, but Evelyn had warned her on their way in that she needn’t bother trying to take the seat.

  I took in the scene around me—the girls giggling and chattering, Gracie standing alone by the wall—and a strange feeling grew in my chest. I wanted that desk to be for Gracie—wanted it more than I’d ever wanted anything before. It came over me so powerfully I could hardly keep from shouting that the desk must be for Gracie.

  Another moment and it might have burst out of me, but thankfully, Miss Prutko had finished what she was doing at the board, and she turned and looked about the room until her eyes rested on Gracie.

  “Gracie,” Miss Prutko said, pointing to the new white desk and chair. “This will be your desk for the rest of the year.”

  Of course, a murmur of protest rippled over the girls’ side of the room at once. Shocked and angry whispers rose but were quickly quashed when Miss Prutko said, quite sharply, “Class!”

  I could have laughed with joy as Gracie made her way to the desk, her eyes shining. She leaned over and pressed her hand into the pink cushion and then watched it rise back into shape before she turned slightly and settled herself onto it.

  “Why should she get to sit there?” mumbled Mira, unable to contain her outrage.

  “Was there something you wanted to say, Mira?” Miss Prutko asked. Her voice was calm and quiet, but there was a dangerous undertone in it, and Mira was wise enough to hold her tongue after that.

  I know Miss Prutko was just trying to stand up for Gracie. She prettied up the desk and chair as a way to make up for the cruel way the other girls had been treating her. She could have left them plain and nothing would have come of it. In fact, it might have been a good thing. Gracie would have had somewhere to sit and no one could have kicked up any sort of fuss about not wanting to be next to her.

  I wonder sometimes, if she had to do it all over again, whether Miss Prutko would have painted that desk and chair. That was what caused all the trouble—something as simple as a coat of white paint and a little pink cushion.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In telling this, I’m surprised to find that I’m still learning things about the truth. I started to tell you how Gracie’s belief that I had stood up to Patty Dempsey on her account had worked on my conscience and nudged me to do the right thing. But I can see that I was giving myself more credit than I deserved.

  Not that my conscience, nagging away at me, didn’t have a lot to do with it, but I can now see that Miss Prutko played a big part too. It was her example that gave me the last push I needed.

  Things were getting worse for Gracie with each day that passed. The classroom was bad enough, but the playground was worse. Miss Prutko’s presence kept things under control inside, but once we were in the yard, there wasn’t a lot of supervision. She checked on us, but only now and then, and not nearly enough to prevent the meanness that just kept growing.


  Most of it was words, and believe me, there were plenty of those. A lot of kids walked straight up to Gracie and said things right to her face. Mean things. It wasn’t like she was bothering anybody or giving them any reason to act that way, but they didn’t seem to need a reason.

  “You have no father, Gracie Moor!”

  “You’re a liar, Gracie Moor!”

  They called her things like “dirty” and “smelly” and told her to get away from them, even though they had approached her.

  I don’t know which was worse, the words they shouted into her face or the ones that were delivered in loud whispers. You knew when it was coming, the way their eyes followed her to watch her reaction—to make sure she heard the things they said behind their hands.

  Perhaps the cruelest of all were the mocking imitations of Gracie. “My daddy loved my curly hair! Oh, wait! I just remembered—I don’t have a daddy!”

  It took Miss Prutko and the white desk to make me cross the line. I’d been sitting in class that morning, watching Gracie at her desk, her small shoulders hunched over her work. I noticed that she wasn’t pushing her hair back, as was her habit—tossing it over her shoulder or tucking it behind her ear.

  That morning, her hair had fallen down around her face but she had just left it there. All of a sudden, I knew that Gracie was hiding, protecting herself the best way she could from the stares and sniggers around her.

  Something about her bowed head and hunched shoulders forced me to look away.

  But at lunchtime, after our paper bags had been folded and returned to our knapsacks and we’d all made our way back to the yard, I could feel her aloneness as she stood by herself and waited for the noon break to be over with. It was like an invisible line had been drawn around Gracie and no one could go past it.

  I found myself crossing to where she stood.

  She looked up at me, surprised and a little fearful. Her face didn’t relax until I offered a weak smile. Even then, it remained solemn.