A Season of Dreams

by Gilbert, Morris

  The larger tramp looked down at his companion and, catching the look on his face, he said, “I guess.”

  Bailey moved in quickly and Violet followed apprehensively. “I’m not hungry,” she said. “You eat something if you want, Bailey.”

  “Aw, now,” the big tramp said. “We wouldn’t let a road sister like you go hungry.” He searched around and found an empty can and put some of the stew in it. “You just eat that now.” He handed it to her and his hand fell on her shoulder. He squeezed it, adding, “We don’t see many pretty ladies down this way.”

  Violet pulled back quickly and handed the can to Bailey. “Here, Bailey, I don’t want any.”

  Bailey looked at her, his large eyes wide with surprise. “But you got to eat something!”

  The big tramp said, “You take your stew, big boy, and get on down the road.” He looked at the bulky figure of Bailey and reached down and picked up a walking stick made of hickory. It was a heavy instrument, blunt and lethal. “We’ll take care of your girlfriend.”

  Bailey stared at him, confused. Things were moving too fast for him. And then it happened.

  The small tramp rose to his feet and went over and grabbed Violet, who cried out at once, “Bailey!—”

  “Let her alone!” Bailey said. He was holding the can of stew in his left hand and took a step forward. One of the other tramps rose and went to Violet’s other side, taking her other arm. He had broken teeth and a wolfish look in his eye. “Get out of here before you get your skull broke!”

  When Violet cried out again, Bailey tossed the can to the ground, spilling the stew. “You fellas get away from her!” he said.

  A ragged laugh ran around the other tramps. Two more of them got up and came to form a menacing ring around Bailey and Violet. The big tramp lifted his cudgel and slapped it into his fist. It made a meaty sound and he snarled, “Get out of here, you big ox, or I’ll crush your skull!”

  Despair ran through Violet. She struggled to get away and when the weasel-faced man twisted her arm, she cried aloud.

  For all his size, Bailey moved quickly. He didn’t close his fist, but struck the small man in the chest with a blow that drove a “whoosh!” out of the tramp, who went backward, rolling to the ground.

  Instantly, the hulking tramp raised the cudgel and brought it down across Bailey’s shoulders. It made a thumping sound, but to the amazement of the tramps, the blow was totally ineffective. Bailey seemed not to have felt it. He turned and, reaching out, closed his hand on the fist that held the club. “You shud’na did that, Bo,” he said, almost pleasantly, and then began to squeeze.

  Violet wrenched herself away from the tramp holding her arm and stood speechless. The larger tramp looked almost fragile next to Bailey’s bulk—and something terrible was happening!

  His eyes bulged out and his mouth opened like a fish. A whiny noise issued from him as he tried to pull away, but his hand was buried in solid concrete. “Lemme go! You’re breaking every bone in my hand!” he cried out. He reached out to strike Bailey with the other hand. Bailey, confused, squeezed all the harder. The big tramp reached out and touched Bailey’s hand, screaming mindlessly, a high, frightened cry.

  “Let him go, Bailey! You’re breaking his hand,” Violet said, running to stand beside him and putting her hand on his arm.

  Bailey at once released his grip. The cudgel fell to the ground and he ignored it. The big tramp sank to his knees, cradling his broken fingers with his other hand, making guttural noises in his throat. Bailey looked down at him and said, “Didn’t mean to do that.” He looked around at the other tramps who were staring at him. “You fellers shouldn’t oughter hurt women. It ain’t nice.” He paused to wait for their replies and when there were none, he turned calmly and said, “Come on, Violet, we best be on our way.”

  When they were clear of the hobo camp, Violet tramped along beside Bailey wordlessly. Her heart was still fluttering. She well knew if it hadn’t been for the massive strength of the big man she would have been savaged. She put her hand in his and he looked down at her in surprise, then smiled.

  “Thank you, Bailey,” Violet said finally.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Violet smiled at his brief reply and the two walked along the road holding hands for some time.

  The next week was an education for Violet. She learned how to beg, for one thing. Determined not to be a burden on Bailey, she went from house to house asking for work in exchange for something to eat. Sometimes she received an astonished stare and often a curt refusal. More often, however, she was offered a meal and inevitably she would say, “My brother will do any heavy work you’ve got. We’re both pretty hungry.”

  The first time Bailey heard her say this, he said, “You called me your brother.”

  “Well, I guess you are in a way.”

  “Do you have a real brother?”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve got two.” She’d told Bailey about Ray and described eleven-year-old Clinton to him. Afterward, he wanted to know about the rest of her family. He sat quietly as she spoke. When she was finished, she looked at him, saying, “Well, you know all about me now.”

  “That’s a fine family. You ought’a go home.”

  “I’ve got to get Ray home. We’re very close, Bailey. I’ve got to help him.”

  Bailey hunched himself over the fire. They were camped out in an abandoned barn, one of the best places they had found. The fire crackled and sputtered, and he added another stick to it. They had eaten a good meal—a can of corn, some turnips they had found in a field, and a loaf of bread and a jar of jelly for dessert. A kindly woman had given them half a pound of coffee, and Violet had used it sparingly. Both of them sat there soaking up the warmth of the crackling fire and sipping the pungent brew.

  “I ain’t never had a friend—not really.”

  Violet grinned at him. At times she was able to close out the difficulties that lay behind her, as well as those that lay before her. Now she took another bite of bread mortared with plum jelly and chewed it with pleasure. “It’s good to have friends,” she said.

  “I bet you have a lot of ’em, don’t you, Violet?”

  Violet nodded and said, “Yes, I do—back home.” When he didn’t answer, she saw that there was a sadness in his moon-shaped face. “When we find Ray, you can come home with us, Bailey. There’s lots of work to do on our farm and plenty to eat. And you’d like my family.”

  Bailey gave her an odd look. Her words seemed to trouble him, for he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the watch and looked down. He did this when he was nervous or wanted reassurance, Violet had noticed. Finally, he looked up and said softly, “I don’t reckon I’d like anything better.”

  From far away, the cry of an owl came to them. It was a lonely sound and made both the young man and the young woman feel glad that they were sheltered by the abandoned barn. The fire was warm and cheerful, and when Violet rolled in her blanket and went to sleep, the hulking form of Bailey remained stationary. He stared at the fire for long periods and from time to time, he’d look over at Violet, and at such times his lips would turn up in a smile. He was a lonely human being—a child trapped in the body of a giant, feared by most—and without skills and without a future. He looked at Violet again and whispered, “I reckon I’d like it better than anything!”

  “I’M A STUART!”

  I just got a call from Pete.”

  Amos Stuart came into the kitchen where his wife, Rose, was studying a cookbook. He paused for one moment, abruptly aware of how she’d kept her youthful good looks. Her ash blond hair had a little gray, but her dark blue eyes were sharp and clear as ever.

  “What did Pete say?” Rose asked. Laying the cookbook down, she turned to face him. She was proud of this husband of hers and seldom failed to show it. She wouldn’t have cared if he’d been a ditch digger, but Amos was a celebrity of sorts. His name was at the top of prestigious columns in the Hearst chain of newspapers, and his novel, published the previous year, had
attracted favorable attention. Now, however, she saw that he was concerned. “Is Pete sick?”

  “No, but Leslie is.” Leslie was his brother’s wife. She had not been in good health for some time. Amos frowned, leaning over on the counter. He was wearing a pair of shapeless trousers and a worn white shirt that Rose had tried time and time again to throw away. He cared little about fancy dress, and it was a mammoth struggle to get him into formal attire to attend some of his more important appointments.

  “She’s been sick for over a month, he says, and can hardly get around.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “I don’t know, but it sounds serious. The doctors aren’t too optimistic.”

  “They’re having a hard time, aren’t they? Maybe we can help them out with a little more money.”

  “Maybe so. You’ve been good to help my family.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? They’re my family, too. I’m a Stuart, aren’t I?”

  Amos leaned over and kissed her soundly. “The best-looking one of the Stuarts, I must say.”

  She flushed, for his compliments still had the power to move her. “Be serious, Amos. What can we do?”

  “Well, it’s Stephen and Mona. Pete’s having trouble taking care of them. He can’t work on that wildcat oil rig of his and care for two small children.”

  “Maybe we could afford to hire them some help. You’ll see Pete at the reunion, won’t you?”

  “I don’t know if he’ll be able to come. He doesn’t have a cent.” A line of worry appeared on Amos’s brow and he shook his head dolefully. “That rig he’s running takes every dime he can get his hands on. I wish he could leave it and go to work for a big oil company. But in these times there haven’t been any good offers.”

  Rose took off her apron, folded it, then laid it down. “We’ll see if we can do something.” She reached up and put her hand on his cheek. “As smart as you are, you won’t have any trouble.”

  “The smartest thing I’ve ever done,” he grinned, “was to marry you!”

  “You may be right about that!” she quipped, a saucy light in her eyes. A thought came to her, and she said, “Jerry’s coming over for supper tonight.”

  “You’d better cook enough for a regiment then. I’ve never seen anyone eat as much as he does. What about Maury? She’s been so busy with those suffrage protests I don’t think she’s taken time to eat.” Maury was their daughter. At the age of twenty-nine, she still lived at home, though she came and went with total independence.

  “She’ll be here, too. I thought since we’ll be in Arkansas for Christmas that we would give them their gifts tonight.”

  “Why, it’s a week till Christmas!”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She made a face, adding, “Things are so tight that I didn’t spend much this year on gifts. Anyway, this will be our celebration.”

  Jerry Stuart strode breezily into the room, going over to kiss Maury soundly on the cheek. Stepping back, he studied her carefully. He was a tall man of thirty, with the blackest hair possible, and green eyes. He was wearing a pair of gray slacks and a navy blue coat that set off his athletic figure. He shook his head as he said sadly, “You can find more ways to look ugly than any good-looking woman I ever saw, Maury.”

  Maury had the good looks of the Stuart family. She had red hair, the same green eyes as Jerry, and a shapely figure. She had the temper to go with her red hair, and now it flared. “Don’t you start on my clothes, Jerry!”

  “You look like an undertaker! Why don’t you go see Mae West in that new movie of hers, She Done Him Wrong? Now there’s a gal who knows how to catch a guy’s eye!”

  “She’s nothing but a cheap floozy!”

  “Yeah, but she’s a real curvy eyeful.” Jerry reached out and took the sleeve of Maury’s black dress as if it were a dead worm. “Where’d you get this little number? From the Salvation Army?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with this dress!” Maury snatched her arm back, aware that he was teasing her as he always did. Actually she was aware that her taste in clothing was not good. The dress was an old one, since school teachers could not afford expensive new clothing. Defensively she snapped, “I suppose you want me to wear one of those short skirts like that—that woman you brought here last month?”

  Jerry came over and put his arm around Maury. “Aw, Sis, I’m just kidding.” Squeezing her affectionately, he said, “It’s just that I think you’re the best-looking girl in town and I’d like to see you dress up and primp a little more.”

  “You don’t need a new dress to teach school,” she said gruffly. “And the school doesn’t permit teachers to wear makeup.”

  Jerry reached over and grabbed her. “You don’t need to teach school. I thought you were going to marry ol’ What’s-His-Name?” He knew Clyde Baxter’s name well enough, but had disliked him so intensely he deliberately chose to ignore him. Jerry Stuart was a careless fellow, but if anything worried him more than his own failure to find his place in life, it was Maury’s choice to remain single. At the age of twenty-nine she was still attractive, but had passed up every opportunity to get married.

  “Ol’ What’s-His-Name,” Maury said with distaste, “was about as interesting and fascinating as a bowl of cold oatmeal. Come on into the dining room. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Maury led Jerry into the dining room where he was greeted by his parents. As he sat down, he waited until his father asked the blessing, then began loading up his plate. “I’m a growing boy,” he said, aware of Maury’s incredulous stare. “Got to keep my strength up.”

  “Up for what?” Maury sniffed. “You’re not working, are you?”

  Jerry was not disturbed. He grinned back at his sister and said, “I’ll have you know that I’ve got a respectable job now. I’m a substitute pilot for Royal Airlines.”

  “Will you be flying much?”

  “Not unless one of the regular pilots gets sick.” He put a fork full of mashed potatoes in his mouth, swallowed it, and said slyly, “I would like for one of them to get pleasantly sick.”

  “What do you mean by pleasantly sick?” Maury demanded.

  “I mean, I’d like one of them with no responsibilities and with money in the bank, a fellow who doesn’t need to fly anyhow—I would like for him to get sick enough so he wasn’t able to fly. Then I could fly in his place. Why don’t you pray for that, Mom?”

  “I’ll do no such thing. I wish you’d get a regular job.”

  “Might be a good idea,” Amos shrugged. “The way this depression is going, not many people are going to travel by air.”

  Jerry’s face lengthened for a moment. “That’s a fact. Pilots are a dime a dozen. But it’ll get better. It’s bound to; it can’t get any worse.”

  “Yes it could. We could be hungry and out on the street,” Rose answered quickly. She was distressed that this fine-looking son of hers had so missed his way. He had no profession and though he was an excellent pilot, he’d been too unstable to keep a job. And even worse, he had no feeling for God—so it seemed. She’d stopped long ago saying much to him, and now she had to bite her lip to stop the sermon that leaped to it.

  As they ate, they talked about the family. It was Rose who said, “Your aunt Leslie is ill. We’ve got to do something about it.”

  The conversation turned to Pete, who had always been one of Amos’s favorites. There had been a goodness and steadiness in this brother of his and he had always admired him. “Money is tight, but maybe we can spare a few dollars to hire some help of some kind to take care of the kids.”

  Maury had been stirring her coffee idly. At his words she looked up and said abruptly, “No need of that. I’ll go down and take care of the children for Aunt Leslie.”

  If Jerry had not spoken, her parents might have persuaded her against such a venture. They had been concerned about Maury. She had finished college, floated around with about half a dozen jobs, and had finally settled into a teaching position for which she was ill-suited. Her na
tural good humor had been blunted by the limitations of the work. Amos and Rose had often thought aloud that she would not teach school for long. “But what about your job? You can’t just quit in the middle of the year!” Rose exclaimed.

  But Jerry ran over his mother’s words. “You! Why, you couldn’t keep those hooligans for two days!”

  Maury’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know what I can do? I keep twenty-five hooligans, as you call them, every day.”

  “You don’t do it living in a shack in Oklahoma. I’ve been down there,” Jerry said, shaking his head. He did not stop eating, but spoke around the steak as he mumbled. “It’s terrible the way they live. They don’t even have an inside bathroom.” He looked over at his father and winked. “Can you imagine Maury in an outside privy, Dad?”

  Maury had been only half serious, but Jerry’s words irritated her. “I can stand anything,” she said icily. “Nothing can be worse than putting up with that schoolroom every day!”

  “That’s what you think,” Jerry nodded. He began to outline the hardships of the life that Pete and his family were going through. He’d spent a little time with them on a flight down through Oklahoma and had seen their privations. “I haven’t seen a worse place than that part of Oklahoma,” he ended his speech.

  “Jerry, hush!” Rose said sharply. Turning to Maury, she said, “You’re not serious, are you?”

  Maury had not been particularly serious, but Jerry’s words had fired her. “Yes, I’m serious—and don’t worry about school. My substitute is already convinced that she can do better than I can.” She was an honest girl and grinned abruptly. “And she probably can, too! She loves the little ‘hooligans’!”

  The argument that began at supper lasted for two days. It was on Jerry’s return that he once again warned her that she wouldn’t be able to stand it, and Maury spoke out in anger. “Everyone thinks I’m some kind of a spoiled brat. I’ll admit I’ve had things easy, but I’m a Stuart!”