The Tent in the Gymnasium

by Brian S. Wheeler

Chapter 2 - Sweet Orange Sodas...

  “That’s it, Hudson. Take a breath. Go slow and follow the line. I’ll help you start the cut.”

  Hudson’s hand trembled, but he took a breath and felt his Uncle Mark’s hand cover his own on the circular saw’s handle. Dressed in his uncle’s old, green army jacket and plastic safety goggles, Hudson helped Uncle Mark all morning long in the construction of a tea house for his cousins Mallory and Mandy. Hudson’s uncle taught him a trick to driving a nail with a hammer. His uncle showed him how to unroll a tape measure and explained to him what fractions corresponded to all of the tape’s small hashes. His uncle demonstrated to him where to place the level, and he listened as Hudson told him when the bubble found its proper place between the lines.

  Hudson’s morning was about to culminate in the operation of the circular saw. Though his mother told him his imagination had no practical bounds, Hudson had not dreamed that Uncle Mark would let him operate a power tool like that circular saw. Hudson would’ve been too terrified touch that tool had his uncle not promised that the squealing blade would not devour any of his fingers. Hudson thought his mother would faint if she saw him now, lining up a straight cut across a two-by-four with a circular saw about to hum in his hand.

  “Just press the button when you’re ready, Hudson. Remind yourself that the saw is not so loud.”

  Hudson pressed against the handle and felt the blade whirl to life. For a moment, Hudson’s courage wavered. But his uncle’s hand steadied him, and Hudson carefully pushed the blur of that blade into the lumber. The ease with which the saw bit into the wood surprised Hudson, and with the guidance of his uncle’s hand, Hudson finished the cut and calmly held the saw safely away from his body as its blade spun to a stop. The cut took little more than a moment, but Hudson’s spirit soared long after that blade turned quiet.

  Uncle Mark winked. “That cut is no more crooked than any of my own, Hudson.”

  Hudson embraced his uncle and couldn’t resist crying a little as he buried his head into Mark’s arm.

  “People don’t very often tell you that you can do things, do they Hudson?”

  Hudson shook his head.

  Uncle Mark grinned. “Put my saw on top of my workbench and grab us a couple of orange sodas from the garage’s old fridge. Then you come back here and tell me about what happened in school.”

  Hudson suspected his mother had said something to Aunt Margie concerning how he had panicked after taking a first step into the tent raised in his school’s gymnasium. Hudson supposed Uncle Mark had accidentally overheard his mother lamenting once more about her son’s overactive imagination. Hudson had himself overheard Aunt Margie tell his mother of the terrible dreams that Uncle Mark brought back from the war. Hudson only wished that his mother could do less to remind him of his struggles. Hudson wondered if Uncle Mark felt the same way towards Aunt Margie.

  “Come on, Hudson. Open up. You’ll just explode sooner or later if you keep everything bubbling up inside of you.”

  Hudson sipped at the cool, orange soda and felt the carbonation tickle his tongue. “Like a hot can of soda does when you throw it against a brick wall.”

  Uncle Mark chuckled. “Exactly.”

  Hudson found a perch on the garage freezer and considered how best to start. “I ran away from the tent festival this week at school. I got scared when I stepped into the tent. I just ran away. Everyone made fun of me for the rest of the week.”

  Uncle Mark brushed sawdust from his forearms. “People get frightened all the time, Hudson. Don’t let anyone ever try to tell you any different. What was it you were scared of?”

  “I don’t even know,” Hudson sighed.

  “That just makes the fear even worse. Do you best to try to tell me. Your mother said you’d been looking forward to the tent festival all week, that you were so excited about it coming to school. She’s real worried about you, Hudson.”

  “I just felt something hovering over that tent, something none of the performers, or the teachers, or my mom could see,” Hudson replied. “Everyone tells me that the tent doesn’t really go anywhere at all. Everyone knows that the tent doesn’t really rocket into space, that it doesn’t really float across the ocean. Mom always says that I let my imagination get the best of me. Tells me I need to concentrate more on my schoolwork. Says I need to pay less attention to stories and monsters, that I need to focus better on the real world.”

  Uncle Mark did not chuckle. “Are there monsters out there, Hudson? Are you having a hard time with any of the older students? Is there anyone at school that makes you feel uncomfortable?”

  “What I felt in the tent was different,” Hudson answered. “I couldn’t even tell you what they looked like. Only that they were out there somewhere. Sometimes, I think I sense them in my dreams.”

  “Hudson, you don’t ever pay attention to anyone who claims your fear makes you weak.” Uncle Mark strode to one of his tall, red tool cabinets and rummaged through a drawer to the sound of clanking wrenches and sockets. “Monsters are no less frightening because they’re in your dreams.”

  “Are they any less real?

  Uncle Mark’s hesitance to answer surprised Hudson.

  “I wish I knew, Hudson. I wish I could tell you for certain that there’s nothing to fear when it comes to the monsters in your dreams.” Uncle Mark pulled whatever he had been searching for out of the tool cabinet and faced Hudson. “The best I think any of us can do is to try to be prepared to face whatever monsters we feel lurking out there. I want you to have something. I think you’re old enough for it.”

  Hudson failed to immediately recognize the item Uncle Mark set into his palm. He turned the plastic, black case in his hand, and a flash of a gleam caught his attention. Hudson’s eyes narrowed, and with a gasp, he recognized what Uncle Mark offered him. Hudson had not thought the morning could hold more wonder. What he held was a thing Hudson never dared dream to possess, and he wondered if he was as ready to call such a thing his own as Uncle Mark claimed.

  “There’s a small mechanism on the handle that unlocks the blade,” nodded Uncle Mark. “You can pull the blade out after your press that mechanism. Press that mechanism again when you want to fold the blade back into its case.”

  Hudson grinned. “A pocketknife.”

  “Your pocketknife, Hudson. Go ahead. Press that mechanism and pull the blade out real slow.”

  Hudson revealed the blade without slicing any of his fingers. He turned the blade and wondered if he gripped the handle properly, of what uses he might find for a pocketknife.

  “It’s only got that single blade,” said Uncle Mark. “It doesn’t have all those gizmos like a can-opener, or a corkscrew, or a compass. All a good pocketknife needs is a nice, dependable blade, and that knife has a real good one.”

  “I don’t know if I’m old enough for a pocketknife.”

  Uncle Mark pinched Hudson’s arm. “You’re not too young. I was your age when my dad gave me my first pocketknife. He used to carve the most incredible owls, and horses and elephants out of a bar of soap with a pocketknife like the one you have in your hand. There’s all kinds of useful things you can do with a pocketknife.”

  “Why give it to me?”

  “Because someone, something, needs to expect better out of you Hudson. I know your mother would disagree with me, but I don’t think there’s any reason why you can’t handle a knife like that. There’s no reason why you can’t learn how to care for it.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “First thing, Hudson, always know exactly where that knife is if it’s not in your hand. It belongs only to you, and so you’re responsible for however it’s used, no matter whoever might get their hands on it.” Uncle Mark stared at Hudson. “It’s a tool, and it has to be cared for. See that the blade doesn’t rust. Never use the handle like a hammer. Keep the blade sharp, and I’ll show you how to do that.”

  “Thank you,” grinned Hudson, “but what do I tell my mom when she finds out?
”

  “You have to keep that knife a secret,” Uncle Mark whispered. “Your mom loves you more than anything, but she has to give you more space to grow. She has to trust you. She has to let you learn how to be responsible. She has to let you learn how to be prepared.”

  Hudson thought of what Uncle Mark had said concerning monsters. “The knife is also a weapon, isn’t it? It’s a weapon that might protect me from monsters.”

  “It sure is,” Uncle Mark’s words carried the weight of stones. “Remember that it’s a man’s tool, and that you can’t think like a boy if you want to keep it.”

  Hudson pressed the mechanism and, with a click, carefully folded the blade back into its handle. He could not remember a time when he had been happier. He could not remember when he had felt so proud. He placed the folded pocketknife into his front pocket and taxed his imagination to think of all the uses he might find for that knife. The orange soda never tasted so cool and so sweet.

  “I promise I won’t lose it.”

  “I believe you.” Uncle Mark chuckled. “Maybe that blade will help you feel better prepared for whatever fear creeps behind you. I can’t promise you, Hudson, that the monsters you dream don’t exist, but I can at least give you that knife.”

  Hudson and Uncle Mark assembled Mallory and Mandy’s tea house before lunch. They painted all the wooden siding and shutters before the end of the afternoon. Hudson’s efforts made him proud, and he thought Mallory and Mandy very wealthy. Hudson took no offense when Mallory promptly forbid him from ever stepping into the tea house no matter the part he played in its construction. Even Hudson’s mother commented upon her son’s surprising happiness in the face of Mallory’s scorn. Yet she refrained from pushing too deeply into Hudson’s joy, never thinking for a moment that her boy might have hidden a thing as dangerous as a pocketknife in his pocket.

  It was enough for her that Hudson was happy, with his attention centered upon the real world.

  * * * * *