Whispers in the Wind
by
C. E. Lemieux Jr.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Lemieux Jr., C.E.
https://www.lemieuxbooks.com
For Julie, Kaleb, Josh, Logan, and Megan
PROLOGUE
A tingle descends upon his skin; the hairs on his arms dancing in the gentle breeze. Goosebumps emerge as familiar feelings stir within him. Giggles and laughter cut into his thoughts; his focus returns to his grandson. Warm sun reflecting off of wispy blonde hair, chubby cheeks, eyes large; with tentative steps, the small boy examines a dandelion. Tiny fingers reach out, coming together in a grasp that snatches the stem from its roots. With excitement growing on his face, he glances back at his grandfather. The old man nods. On wings of young breath the cottony seeds take flight into the air. A smile crosses his youthful, innocent lips; his eyes filled with wonder; his gaze follows the tiny seeds as they begin their journey. They lift and twirl and climb. The breeze lifts ever so slightly; the seeds rise as the clatter and clap of the heart shaped leaves of the tall Cottonwood applaud from above. The old man lifts his eyes and tilts his head. A gentle and knowing smile creases his face. He listens. He hears them gently calling. He hears the whispers in the wind.
CHAPTER ONE
Clouds of cotton floated across a clear blue background, their giant shadows creeping along the ground beneath them. The sun’s soft, warm rays peeking around them, and penetrating through them, blanketed the earth, sending relaxing tingles up my neck. It was early fall; a beautiful day, and the leaves were just considering their annual change of color.
A gentle breeze caused the screen door in front of me to tap, tap, tap, like a message coming across a telegraph. Muffled sounds of conversation came from within. Unsure whether or not I should disturb them, I timidly knocked. The loose fit of the screen door allowed it to bounce against its frame, shouting back at me as if I had angrily pounded my fist against it, adding to my apprehension.
Peering through the screen, the house seemed dark and hollow. Only the sunlight streaming in from the open doors offered any evidence of life in the large living room. In a yellow beam piercing through the door on the south side, I saw dust particles swimming around, held aloft by whispering currents of air. The house had a large, wrap-around porch, and the front door faced the east. There was another door on the south, and, when opened, it allowed the breeze to flow through the house. I felt the cool air against my face as it escaped from inside.
Floating through the wire mesh of the screen was an ever-increasing hint of cinnamon. It was a delicious smell. I inhaled deeply and a vision of steam exiting the freshly pierced crust of a homemade apple pie forced a rumble from my belly. Mrs. Newburn was known all over Beaver County for her baked goods. She was the hands down favorite for the blue ribbon at the county fair each year.
I knocked again.
She appeared at the door, a smile upon her face, potholder in hand, and her gingham dress nearly hidden behind a frilly apron. Her dark hair was, as usual, drawn back and held behind her ears with tortoiseshell-colored combs. She was always pleasant and welcoming. She made me feel special; she never spoke down to me, and she always treated me like a little lady, despite my reputation as the resident tomboy.
“Well, hello, Abby Lynn,” she greeted.
Most people around town called me Abby Lynn. My real name is Abigail, but not too many people knew that. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the name Abigail. Momma always said Abigail was a formal name, and she only used it on special occasions, or when I was in trouble. I heard it most often when she yelled, “Abigail McAllister, you get in here!” It is small wonder I never felt comfortable using it. Somewhere in my subconscious, I must have related my proper name to conflict.
Momma always said she thought Abby Lynn was friendlier, and more descriptive of my nature. At that age, trouble was more descriptive of my nature. For whatever reason, psychological or practical, the name Abigail remained largely unused most of my life.
When I answered Mrs. Newburn’s greeting, my voice came out in a whisper.
“Can Henry come out?”
As often as I visited, I always felt a bit awkward asking after Henry. Once I had been at their house for just a little while, all the shyness in me seemed to disappear, but I sort of had to warm up to it. The look on her face told me she wanted to say, “Yes,” but she couldn’t. And I knew the reason even before she told me.
“He has to finish his homework first, dear. Would you like to wait for him on the swing?”
I nodded.
I was pretty used to waiting on Henry. I did it almost every day. It wasn’t that he couldn’t do the schoolwork; in fact, he was quite bright. The real reason was Henry just didn’t hurry about much of anything. He took his time, often rewriting his problems because he thought they were too messy or because he didn’t like the spacing. Sometimes he wasted time by paying too much attention to what everyone else was doing around him. Other times he’d simply sit at the table, tapping his pencil against its surface. That was the reason he had been held back in first grade, but even that didn’t seem to change Henry much. I suppose it’s possible he had some kind of learning disability, but back then folks considered him undisciplined.
Mrs. Newburn turned back inside, paused, and then peered back through the screen.
“I just took an apple pie out of the oven. Would you care for a piece?”
I was sure she must have seen my stomach jump when she asked. I nodded in reply.
“Your momma won’t be upset if you eat it before supper, will she?”
I shook my head. At home I would have been expected to say “Yes, ma’am” or “No, ma’am,” and I knew I should there as well. It was the proper thing to do, but as I’ve mentioned, for some reason my voice seemed to escape me until I had settled in a bit.
She pointed toward the swing and said, “I’ll be right back.”
Moments later she kept her promise, and returned with a piece of hot apple pie, and a scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream. It was delicious from top crust to bottom crust.
The heat from the pie was making the ice cream melt quickly, so I focused on that first. I loved my momma’s cooking, but she couldn’t hold a candle to Mrs. Newburn’s apple pie.
While I sat on the swing enjoying the perfect blend of hot and cold treats, J.B. sat down beside me. J.B. was Henry’s little brother. His whole name was Jonathon Berkley Newburn, but that had proven to be quite a mouthful for him, and for everyone else for that matter. To make it easier, his folks called him J.B. and it had stuck with him from there. That’s what everyone still calls him to this day. I doubt if many of his friends even know his real name.
J.B. usually kept me company while I waited for Henry. Sometimes we sat quietly together, other times we talked about everything under the sun.
“Whatcha doin’ Abby Lynn?”
“Just waiting on Henry.” I replied before shoveling another spoonful into my mouth.
“You always have to wait on Henry.” He said as he messed with the buckles on his overalls.
“I know.”
“We could go out back and play at the fort while you wait.”
“No, I don’t feel like it J.B. Besides, Henry will be along soon. He only had spelling today.”
“It’ll take him all day to figure out them words.” He scoffed. “He ain’t real bright about things like that.”
“Now, J.B., he is too bright. He just don’t hurry.”
“What’s the use in being bright if
people think you’re stupid?”
“That isn’t very nice. He isn’t stupid and you know it. How’d you like it if I called you stupid because you still use the word ain’t all the time?”
“I don’t guess I’d like it much, but that don’t mean I’m stupid.”
“Well, just because he’s slow at his work doesn’t mean he’s stupid. He just doesn’t get in a hurry about things.”
“It’s ‘cause he don’t care.”
“He does too care.” I defended.
“No he don’t. He tells Momma he don’t care all the time. Whenever she tells him he’s gonna fail if he don’t get his homework done, he says, ‘I don’t care.’ I heard him time after time.”
“Well, he don’t mean it. He only says it because he’s mad.” I paused. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Okay, I caught a toad yesterday. Want to see him?” He said with great satisfaction.
“No, I’m not interested in a toad. J.B., when are you gonna grow up, and quit messing with bugs and reptiles?”
“A toad is an amphibian, not a reptile. Besides, what’s so bad about them? They eat ‘skeeters.”
“I’m not saying they’re bad. I’m just not interested in them.”
“Well, you used to be. We used to catch them together all the time.”
“Well, I guess I grew out of that phase. When you get older some things don’t interest you anymore.” I advised.
“You’re not that much older.” He responded. “What’s so interesting to you now?”
I got a mischievous thought, and couldn’t help but follow it.
“Well, I heard something interesting. I heard you kissed Stacy Kellerman at the picture show last Saturday.”
His eyes grew big as silver dollars, nearly popping out of his head. His face tensed up, and his ears got beet red.
“That’s a darned lie! I ain’t never done any such thing. Who told you that? I’m gonna rip their eyes out.”
I struggled to suppress a laugh. It was a lie, but it had the desired effect. I loved nothing more than to get under his skin.
“Well, I can’t be revealing my sources on things like this, J.B. It’s important to protect the confidence of others, but I do believe this person was there, and gave me a first-hand account.”
“It’s a bald faced lie, I tell ya! I ain’t never kissed no girl.”
“Now, J.B., it won’t tarnish your reputation with me if you tell the truth.”
I couldn’t hold it in any longer, and my laughter gave the secret away.
“Abby Lynn, that wasn’t funny. You made that all up. Why do you do that? Getting me all twisted up for nothing.”
He didn’t hide his disappointment in me. It almost made me feel ashamed to have found humor at his expense. Almost.
“You deserved it for talking bad about Henry like you did.”
“I didn’t talk bad about Henry. He don’t care. He don’t care about anything. He stumbles around without a care in his head.”
I didn’t argue. I could see his mood was changed.
“I’m sorry J.B. I didn’t mean to make you mad. You won’t stay mad at me will you?”
Despite my assault on his dignity, he smiled.
“Aw, Abby, you know I can’t stay mad at you.”
I was glad. I always enjoyed talking to J.B. Conversation with him was comfortable. When I wasn’t teasing him, we talked about school, baseball, and nature. Every once in a while he got up enough nerve to ask about girls. When he did, I couldn’t miss the chance to stick it to him. I knew I shouldn’t, it tortured him so deeply, and I knew he was trusting of me, exposing his weaknesses, but it was so much fun to see him squirm.
J.B. was only eight months younger than me, but he was in the grade below me in school. They had decided to start him late because he was kind of small for his age, and because of the trouble they’d had with Henry. Even though he was small, he was tough. The kids around town learned early, no body messed with J.B. Newburn. He was a real scrapper.
A near opposite of Henry in a lot of ways, he was quiet until you got to know him. Once he got started, however, he loved to talk. His wit was so quick he could make me laugh until my side ached. He was bright and imaginative. He was an excellent student, reading nearly anything that came across in front of him. I swear he absorbed things like a sponge, and once he learned about it, it was stored in his memory indelibly. I suppose it was because of his eagerness to learn that he didn’t dawdle at his homework like Henry. And since he got his homework done so quickly, he got to play longer than Henry. That was something which irritated Henry to no end, even though it wasn’t really J.B.’s fault.
J.B. wasn’t ever as popular as Henry, but that didn’t seem to concern him much. He was independent, and sometimes I got the impression he could care less who liked him, and who didn’t. He kind of did his own thing, and didn’t care to spend his time trying to impress anyone. If he wasn’t interested in something, there was no way you were going to change his mind; he was that stubborn. If he felt like someone was trying force him to do something, he’d do the opposite of what they wanted him to do.
We sat on the swing nearly an hour talking and carrying on before Henry finally finished his homework. When he did finish, he came flying out of the house, allowing the screen door to slam shut with a “whack.” He jumped on his bike and called after me.
“Come on, Abby Lynn, time’s a wasting.”
We left J.B. there on the porch swing. I always felt bad spending time with him, to simply run off and leave him, but Henry didn’t usually like J.B. tagging along. Somehow, though, it never seemed to bother J.B. that much. He’d go off on his own, collecting bugs or climbing trees. Nope, nothing seemed to faze J.B. very much, even at that age.
Henry was my best friend. We rode our bikes together almost every day; unless, of course, he didn’t get his homework finished in time. We played baseball together too. He even convinced the other boys to let me play with them. It wasn’t like they had a real team, anyway. They played out in McGregor’s field.
“Aw, come on guys. It’s just Abby Lynn; she ain’t like the other girls. Besides, she can pitch a curve ball that’ll spin you around and untie your shoelaces.”
My daddy was a minister, but he cut his teeth on a baseball. He had me out playing catch when I was three years old. By the time I was seven, he’d taught me to throw a knuckleball, a slider, and a curve. I was the best pitcher in the bunch, and Henry knew it.
As far as I was concerned, Henry was the nicest boy in the fifth grade, at least to everyone besides J.B., and I guess he wasn’t really all that mean to him. It was mostly the tag along thing. It never seemed to bother him to have me hanging around. I guess it was because we had grown up together. We had known each other since we were little kids.
Henry had blonde hair and blue eyes. He was cute even back then, but that’s not why I liked him. In fact, at that point I hadn’t really acquired much interest in boys at all. We were just good friends. We were like a couple of buddies, and that’s what I liked about him. He didn’t treat me any different merely because I had pigtails.
Henry had a big smile, and he seemed to be friends with nearly everybody in town. Even the older folks easily carried on conversations with him. He never seemed to let anything really get him down. Oh, he got mad or upset like everyone else, but he never let it last. In a few minutes, it was like it never happened, and pretty soon he was smiling again. His laugh was nearly infectious. Once he got started giggling and laughing, it was hard for him to stop, and if he went on very long, everyone around him would end up laughing, too. He had the kind of personality that seemed to warm people up quickly. I don’t think he ever had a problem with making friends.
We rode our bikes down to Coldwater’s Hardware; where we went nearly every day. Most of the kids in town went down to the Triple A Drug store after school. They served fountain drinks down there, but we preferred Coldwater’s. Coldwater’s had a cold s
oda machine with the little bottles of Coke. They always kept a barrel full of salted peanuts which they sold by the pound. If we found enough bottles along the way, we could cash them in for the deposit, and pay for what we bought.
We bought a sack of nuts, and a couple of sodas; then rode over to the park. We climbed up on top of the old jailhouse where we could watch the cars go by down on Main Street.
The jailhouse wasn’t what most people would think of when they are considering a law-enforcement establishment. It had been in use sometime in Forgan’s roaring past, but had long since been abandoned, except for some assorted junk the city stored inside. It was a little brick building about ten feet square with bars on the windows. The door had fallen off of its hinges at some point, and made it a natural hideout. There was a big old safe inside, and we always liked to pretend there was some long lost treasure locked up inside. Of course, it had been there so long I don’t think anybody around would have known the combination. When they finally tore down the building years later, the safe was busted open and all they found was some old city paperwork.
The jailhouse stood on the corner of the city park directly under the water tower. The roof of the building was flat, and it made a perfect perch for us to watch the goings on in town. We could see people driving up and down Main Street, and we made note of who went into the Triple A with whom, and other such things. I suppose if we had been brave enough at that age, and willing to accept the wrath of our parents or whoever might have caught us, we would have seen much more of the town from the top of the water tower than we did on top of that jail, but we never could dare ourselves into climbing it. So, we settled for climbing the walls of the jailhouse instead.
It was from up there we devoured our peanuts, and drank our Cokes; engaging in conversation which ranged from fifth grade politics to town gossip, and everything in between. Often the conversation would begin with Henry’s critique of my eating habits.
One of the things which usually drew Henry’s criticism was the way I drank my pop. I enjoyed peanuts in my pop. I loved to crack them open and put a handful of the kernels into my cola. It was something I had done with my grandpa when I was little. Henry, however, seemed to find my delicacy rather disgusting. As much as I encouraged him to give it a try, he wouldn’t. He said he couldn’t stand seeing the skins of the peanuts floating in his pop. He was kind of particular about things like that. Whenever he saw me doing it he scrunched up his nose.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that. Every time you do, it just about makes me sick to my stomach.”
“Mind your own business then.” I snapped. He knew it wouldn’t do any good to argue with me.
“So, what did you and J.B. talk about,” he asked.
“Oh, we just talked about the things we always talk about. You know school and stuff. I think I made him a little mad, though. I started teasing him about Stacy Kellerman, and he didn’t seem to take it very well.”
Henry looked up.
“What about Stacy Kellerman?”
“Nothing really. I was making it up. It’s fun to get him riled. I like to watch his ears turn red.”
J.B.’s ears were always a good indicator of his emotion. If he was mad or embarrassed, his ears took to blushing with red faster than anyone I ever knew.
“What’d you say?”
“Oh, I told him I heard he kissed her at the picture show last weekend.”
Henry was taking a drink about the same time I delivered my comment and I surprised him so much it caused him to blow his pop out of his nose. When he recovered he looked at me in amazement.
“You told J.B. you heard he kissed Stacy Kellerman?”
“You should have seen his face.”
“He must have been worked up enough to spit fire. Other than you, he wouldn’t get close enough to talk to a girl. There ain’t no way he kissed one, especially not the best looking girl in his class. Where’d you hear it?”
“I told you, I made it up. He was kind of mad. Those ears of his turned near blood red, until he realized I was teasing.”
I paused in thought a moment, thinking about what Henry had said. Henry had never seemed to show an interest in other girls before.
“So, you think Stacy Kellerman is the best looking girl in his class. Do you like her?”
“Yeah, she’s okay, but I don’t like her that way.”
I could tell there was more to what he was saying.
“So, who do you like?” I asked. I had no way of knowing how his answer would affect me.
“I kind of like Sally Thompson, but don’t go telling anyone. I only told you because you’re my best friend.”
He said it like I was one of the guys. Of course, that’s how he thought of me, and that’s how I had always wanted him to think of me, but something had suddenly changed. Inside of me there was this little feeling I couldn’t describe.
“Oh, I won’t tell,” I said, and I think I really meant it. But at the same time, I knew I had lied to my best friend. How could I keep something that big, that earth-shattering a secret?
Just as quickly as it had started, our conversation changed, and we went on to other subjects. We continued to talk and watch cars go by until the sun was low on the horizon. We’d finished off our bag of peanuts and both sodas, when Henry finally said he had to go home. They were expecting some company that evening, and his momma had told him to get back home and clean up.
That night as I lay in bed, I thought about Henry, and his secret interest in Sally Thompson. It gave me the same unfamiliar feeling all over again. I knew I had promised not to reveal it, but something inside made me want to tell. I guess, in a way, I was hurt, and didn’t really understand the feelings. Being a tomboy, I had officially sworn off of any emotional feelings towards boys, especially Henry. It was kind of a tomboy code: to be accepted by the boys, you couldn’t act like one of the girls. Besides, he was my best friend. Regardless of the reason, I broke my promise a few days later.
It was out on the playground. We were arguing, and Henry started teasing me about some of the boys in the class. I let his little secret slip. It wasn’t something I planned; it just came out in anger, but it came out loud and clear.
“Oh, yeah, well at least I ain’t pining after them boys like you been over Sally Thompson’s little brown curls!”
Sally wasn’t even there at the time, but it made its way around to her the same as if she had been. I could tell I had embarrassed him, and broken a trust with him. He didn’t say anything more to me; he simply walked away.
He didn’t talk to me for a week after that. The next Saturday, I saw him going into the drug store with Sally Thompson. That wasn’t exactly how I had imagined it would work out. On Monday, he was back to his usual self. We were friends again, and he never brought up the fact that I had let his secret out. I guess, in a way, he figured I had helped him out.
That day marked a change in my relationship with Henry. We still walked home together after school, but sometimes Sally walked with us too. I still had to wait on him to get his homework done, but sometimes Sally waited as well. When she wasn’t there, I still talked to J.B. while I waited for Henry. Henry and I still went down to Coldwater’s for pop and peanuts, but something had changed. He continued to recognize me as his best friend--for a girl, while I started seeing him in a little different way.
Whispers in the Wind Page 1
