Three Wishes for Jamie

by Charles O'Neal

  At midmorning, near the end of April, a large wagon crowded with young boys drew up in front of the Haircut-ting Emporium. Talbot was alone inside in the act of shaving. “Hell’s afire,” he swore, “I hope they ain’t comin’ here.”

  Talbot was no lover of children, either professionally or socially. For a moment he considered drawing the window shade and announcing the shop was closed. It was too late. The driver of the wagon had spied the new sign.

  “Here be a place. Shall we give it a try?” he called.

  The children shouted assent. They ranged in ages from six to twelve, and while badly in need of haircuts, their faces were lively and scrubbed clean. When the wagon halted, they scrambled to the ground with the wild exuberance of hounds on the trail of a fox. “Quiet now,” the driver ordered. “Once inside the shop you’re not to speak unless you’re spoken to. Is that clear?”

  Peering through the grimy, fly-specked window, Talbot studied the face of the man in charge of the children. “Now where’n hell have I seen that feller?” he muttered. Then his eyes widened with recognition. “O m’gawd,” he exclaimed.

  Jamie led his flock into the small shop and the children expanded noisily into every corner. “Could you be cutting the little ones’ hair while I’m in town?” he inquired pleasantly, his attention taken with the boys’ antics.

  Talbot viewed the throng sourly. “All of ’em?”

  “All of them … and a neat job done on every one,” Jamie replied. “Oh, ’tis you, Oran Talbot! Well now—and back at the barbering trade?”

  “I am,” Talbot replied sourly, “thanks to you.”

  “Sure you’re that welcome,” Jamie assured him, blandly enjoying the encounter. “You’ll be more happy in a shop. The mule trade is not for a man as soft as yourself.”

  He laughed and Talbot’s rage rose in his throat until it threatened to choke him. When he could speak he shifted the subject back to the children.

  “Lotsa wool on them sheep and I ain’t got but one chair. Take me at least two hours.”

  “Take it, man. All the time you want. But I want a fine job done all around. This is a very special occasion,” Jamie warned him jovially.

  “One of the kids gettin’ married?” Talbot sniggered.

  Jamie gave him a look that erased the grin from Talbot’s face. “One of the lads is being confirmed this Sunday. Hop up in the chair, Kevin.”

  Jamie launched into detail as to how he wanted Kevin’s hair trimmed. “Take quite a bit off the back and sides and around his ears … but not too much off the top. Part it in the middle … let me see, about here … and make it stay down with oil or grease or something.”

  “You act like the boy’s mother,” Talbot said sourly. “Is he your kid?”

  “That he is,” Jamie responded proudly, “so see that you do a fine job.”

  When Jamie had left the shop, Talbot began methodically to snip away at Kevin’s mass of blond curls with the clippers.

  “So you’re Jamie McRuin’s kid?” he asked Kevin.

  Talbot could feel the child tense beneath the folds of the apron. “Whatsa matter? Cat got your tongue?”

  Kevin shook his head. “Well then, what’s your name?” the barber persisted.

  “Kevin Roe Callahan McRuin,” one of the older boys volunteered.

  “That’s a lot of name for a little squirt like you,” Talbot said, and again felt the child’s tensed reaction. “So you’re gonna be confirmed this Sunday, eh?” he queried. “That must be pretty important to a kid.”

  “It’s more important to our parents,” the older boys confided. “That’s why we gotta look our best.”

  “You do, eh?” Talbot’s mind spun a web to ensnare possibilities but trapped nothing. “Must be some way to git even,” he pondered.

  So absorbed was he in futile scheming that he forgot what he was about. “Look what you’re doing,” one of the children shouted.

  The clippers had rambled high up on the side of Kevin’s head. When they came away, a deep swatch of yellow hair came with them. The gap left the appearance of a mower run amuck in a field of ripened wheat. Over Talbot’s smirking face stole a look of gleeful cunning.

  “Now ain’t that too bad … but I got an idea how to fix it … fix it just fine. Son, you’re gonna git Oran Talbot’s summer special.” He chuckled as he plowed the clippers through the mass of Kevin’s yellow curls.

  When Jamie pulled up before the barbershop, he could hear the children inside screaming with laughter. “Och, the boys do be making a fine time of it,” he grinned to himself.

  As he entered the shop, the last boy was just climbing from the chair. He was grinning from ear to ear. Jamie stared about him, aghast at the sight that greeted him. The heads of every boy in the shop had been shorn absolutely clean.

  Without their hair they looked disconcertingly alike. In one corner stood Kevin, his head as bare as the rest.

  “In the name of the saints, what’s been going on here?” Jamie demanded.

  The children’s laughter ceased. “That’s the way the kids wanted it,” Talbot said, with bland innocence. “Great for hot weather.”

  “Sure and whose idea was it?” Jamie’s eyes moved angrily from face to face, seeking an explanation.

  “Kevin had his this way … so we all wanted it,” the oldest boy confessed.

  “Wait outside in the wagon,” Jamie motioned the youngsters from the shop. They filed out, chastened.

  “Tell me now again—whose idea was this?” he turned to Talbot.

  The barber shifted uncomfortably. “Why, your kid’s … Kevin’s. He was first.”

  “Kevin asked you to shave the head of him?”

  “Sure he did. You don’t think I’d do a thing like that on my own?” Talbot protested.

  Jamie’s eyes turned an ominous slate-blue, and he moved closer to Talbot.

  “Look, Jamie, if you don’t like the job I done … well … you don’t have to pay me. That’s fair, ain’t it?” The barber moved away as he spoke.

  “Sure I wouldn’t think of going away without paying you, Mister Talbot,” Jamie said grimly.

  Quietly he turned and locked the door, then drew the battered green shade over the window. Talbot was thoroughly frightened now. “I tell you them kids wanted their hair cut like that,” he whined.

  “And I’ll tell you a something,” Jamie said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You’ve just witnessed a miracle, Mister Talbot. The lad who asked you to shave his head … has never spoken a word in his life. He’s dumb.”

  Talbot’s mouth began to tremble and his face turned gray-yellow in the gloom of the shop. “It was all in fun, Jamie,” he pleaded. “Can’t you take a joke?”

  “I be laughing,” Jamie said, moving toward the cowering barber. “I want you to join me as soon as I fix your face so you can laugh on the other side of it.”

  A small crowd had gathered outside the shop when Jamie came out. They drew aside nervously to let him pass. “What’s goin’ on in there?” one man inquired.

  “Go in and see,” Jamie replied affably, climbing into the wagon.

  Inside the shop the crowd half expected to find the place swimming in blood. Instead everything was in surprising good order—except for the floor, which was ankle-deep in a wide assortment of hair. Sitting in the barber’s chair was Oran Talbot, his eyes fixed dully upon his reflection in the mirror. Gone was his shock of wavy hair of which he had been quite vain. Thoroughly stripped, his head shone naked and white in the half-gloom of the shop.

  “Are you all right, Oran?” a man asked.

  Slowly Talbot slid his hand across the sandpaper surface of his close-clipped scalp. “That two-legged devil! He’s ruint me. I’ll never be the same again,” he whimpered.

  The “Monday haircutting” he had given Oran Talbot left Jamie in high good humor. As the wagon rolled toward the camp, he laughed and sang with the children. “I’ll be telling your parents ’twas all the barber’s fault,” he promis
ed. “Don’t go saying you saw Kevin’s head looking like the side of a white rock and begged for some of the same. If you do, there’ll be holly growing out of your hips from the lickings you’ll get this night.”

  He ran his head affectionately over Kevin’s prickly scalp, sensing the child’s embarrassment at his freakish appearance. “Maybe we’ll postpone the confirming ’till some of the hair grows a bit,” he suggested.

  Beside him on the seat, the boy smiled gratefully. Sure, he has the smile of an angel, Jamie thought.

  A warm and wonderful relationship had developed between them in the months since Tavish had died. The homeless boy had occupied the empty room in Jamie’s heart. He wouldn’t close a deal without Kevin’s approval.

  “Give me the nod, lad, and it’s a deal,” he would say. “Sure the boy has an eye for animals,” he bragged to the other traders. “The Church is in the way of getting a fine livestock man.”

  He and Maeve spoke confidently of Kevin’s coming priesthood, but in their hearts they were not so sure. No Traveler had ever taken holy orders; besides, there was Kevin’s handicap to overcome. They had spoken earnestly with Father Kerrigan about schools and special teachers, but the priest had urged them to go slowly.

  “You’ve only just won the boy’s heart. Don’t shake his confidence by shoving him off with this teacher and that. If he has been called, sure God will find a way—with or without speech.”

  As for Kevin, good food and camp life had made him strong and rosy. The memory of Tavish, which had been the furniture of his young life, had at last retired into a small, secret closet. The first few weeks after the old man had died, he had wanted to die, too. The loneliness was too much to bear. The Speaker had been the great oak around which his timorous spirit had wrapped itself, and when the tree fell there seemed nowhere to climb. Then one night Tavish had appeared in a wonderfully vivid dream.

  “You’ve no cause to grieve, Kevin lad,” the old man had chided. “There’s Jamie and Maeve to cling to. They need you as much as you need them. Besides, you’ve but to call me and I’ll be beside you like lightning through a gooseberry bush.”

  “But how can I call you when I can’t talk?” Kevin had asked in his dream.

  “Now what sort of nonsense is that?” Tavish had scoffed. “You’re talking now, aren’t you? Sure there’s no more to it than that. Open your mouth and let your heart speak the words.”

  In the dream it had all seemed quite plausible. Tavish often appeared after that. He was like an unseen playmate to Kevin. They held long conversations together, the old man responding to the boy’s eager questions with wonderful descriptions of the underwater-land of Moo, where children who had died went to live out their lives. “’Tis their story-teller, I am,” he assured Kevin, “a very important post.”

  “How many children dwell in the Land of Moo?” Kevin had asked.

  “Let me see,” said Tavish. “Add the number of stars in the heavens to the sands of the sea; the raindrops in a winter rain to all the heartbeats since time began; all these and twelve hundred more besides and you’ll have the number of children in the Land of Moo.”

  “And you tell stories to all of them?” said Kevin, awed.

  “Aye … I tell stories to every one.”

  In his dream, Kevin had asked Owen Roe Tavish the one question that was nearest his heart. “Will I ever be able to speak when I’m awake as I do in my dreams?”

  “That’s something beyond a poor shanachie’s power of knowing or telling,” Tavish had answered. “But I’ll tell you a very important secret. I learned this as a boy at home. There’s a time of petition—one instant in all the twenty-four of the day. Any prayer presented on that instant will be answered, phfft … just like that. I’ll snoop around and find out just when ’twill be … and then when the time comes that you need it most—at the most important moment of your life—sure I’ll have it for you.”

  When Jamie turned off the main road toward the camp, he noticed a strange buggy and surrey tied up at the edge of the woods. “Keep out of sight, you little bald-headed eagles,” he called to the children in the wagon. “Sure it looks like we be having visitors.”

  As he drove toward the camp, Jamie could see that something was wrong. Father Kerrigan was standing with Maeve, facing four men. At first glance the men had all appeared to be strangers, but as Jamie halted the team at the edge of the clearing he recognized Travis Bunn. A second and longer look confirmed it.

  The man was completely changed. A haunting fire glowed in his dark eyes. Hatred had consumed him, stripping the weight from his strong frame, and leaving him little more than a skeleton. “The man is truly hate-crazed,” Jamie muttered. “Stay out of sight in the wagon,” he instructed Kevin, who had remained beside him on the seat. “I’ll see what this is all about.”

  Maeve was the first to glimpse him striding across the clearing and she hurried to meet him. “Kevin’s father is here with the sheriff and a deputy. He wants the boy back,” she whispered.

  Jamie slipped his arm about Maeve’s waist. The Travelers seldom showed public affection for their women, but Jamie sensed the terrible strain his wife was undergoing. She loved Kevin as if he were her own son. To lose him now would destroy her.

  “He’ll not have him. He’s ours. And tell me—what’s Travis Bunn to do with all this?”

  Maeve shook her head. “I’m not sure. He was with them when they went to Father Kerrigan.”

  “Then he’s behind the whole thing; ’tis plain enough,” Jamie said angrily.

  “God salute you, Father,” he said to the priest.

  The sheriff strolled toward Jamie. He was a solidly built man, with a square, granite face, but a quiet, easy way of speaking. “You Mister McRuin?” he said.

  Jamie nodded warily. “I’m Jack Haynes … sheriff of Fulton County. Jess Proddy here says you got his boy.”

  Father Kerrigan stepped forward. “I told you, Sheriff, Proddy was only too glad to give the child away when his wife died. He took a two-hundred-dollar mule in payment.” The priest’s face was grim with anger.

  “Things is different now,” Jesse whined. “All my kids done run off. I need somebody to help me work the farm. I been to a lawyer … the boy’s lawfully mine and I mean to have him.”

  “You’ll not have him,” Jamie said hoarsely. “You gave him to us and we’re going to keep him.”

  “Don’t try to obstruct justice,” the sheriff warned. “If you got Proddy’s son, the law says he’s entitled to have him back.”

  Maeve had stood silent because it wasn’t a woman’s place to speak in such matters. Now she spoke carefully, striving to conceal her feelings. “We’ve clothed and fed and cared for the boy. He loves us. Does that mean nothing?” she asked.

  Sheriff Haynes shrugged. “That’s up to Proddy. If he wants to pay you something for feeding the kid.…”

  “Sure … I’ll pay ’em somethin’ … anything,” Jesse agreed.

  “We’re not asking for pay,” Maeve retorted. “We’re asking for the child.”

  Father Kerrigan turned to Proddy. “Where do you propose to get the money to pay for two years’ keep?” he demanded.

  The farmer was taken aback. “Why … I reckon I’ll … well … as soon as I git the young’un …” he stammered to a halt.

  “Is it just possible you’ve heard that the child has a trust fund established by Jamie, here, from money left him by Owen Roe Tavish?” the priest continued.

  “Well … if there’s money … he’s my kid,” Jesse said lamely.

  “You’ve hit the nail with a nine-pound hammer, Father,” said Jamie, “and I think I be knowing the man who told him.” He glared at Travis Bunn, who stared ferret-eyed but said nothing.

  “Don’t see what difference it makes,” the sheriff interposed. “If the boy is Proddy’s, he’s his, rich or poor.”

  “That’s right,” Jesse snapped. “Now you just trot little Number Seven out here.”

  “’Tis ove
r my dead body you’ll be taking him,” Jamie said through clenched teeth.

  “We’re with you, Jamie,” shouted Big Tom.

  The other horse traders echoed his cry. They had stood grimly apart as silent observers, but now they changed positions, surrounding the two police officers and Proddy and Bunn.

  The deputy shifted his holster, squaring away for trouble. “You’ll get nowhere resisting the law,” Haynes warned.

  “You’ve got no warrant for the boy,” Me-Dennis challenged. “By the time you get back with one, we’ll be out of the county.”

  “Then you’ll be charged with kidnaping,” retorted Haynes. “Bring out the child.”

  “Never,” said Jamie.

  The horse traders tightened their loop about the four men. Nervously, the deputy drew his revolver, a heavy Colt with a long, sinister barrel. For a moment violence lurked dangerously above their heads. A word or a move could set it off.

  Father Kerrigan crossed to the side of the sheriff and faced the traders. “There’s nought to be gained by fighting. The child and you will be the losers. We will fight in the courts.”

  “What chance have we there?” Jamie cried. “None! The place to fight is here and now.”

  The men of the camp shouted their approval of Jamie’s stand. Father Kerrigan shook his head. “We’ve no choice but the courts … and I promise you a fight to the bitter end. We’re not beaten yet.”

  “Och, Father, you lie finer than truth. If the boy leaves this camp, we’ve lost … it’s written on your face and the face of everyone here,” Jamie pleaded. “It’s not Maeve or myself I’m thinking of—not entirely. It’s the little one. He was only just beginning to find a bit of kindness in the world …” his voice broke.

  There was a long silence. The sheriff shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said to Maeve. “Everybody knows Jesse Proddy ain’t much good—but it’s the law.”