The Fires of Spring

  “The Paxsons! Them against Solebury?” She flung her thin arms into the air and rushed at Tom. “You done this! I know it! Fillin’ that boy’s head with big ideas. Makin’ a poorhouse boy so high and mighty.”

  Doggedly Tom insisted, “The boy’s just got to have shoes, Miss Reba.”

  “No!” she screamed. “And if he leaves this place Sunday I’ll beat him till he can’t sit down. Nor lay down, neither!”

  Tom reported Reba’s decision to the long hall. “We’ll figure some other way,” he said, and next morning he and Luther sneaked David and Daniel’s tobacco pouch into Doylestown. They went to Ely’s and said, “We want a pair of pants for this boy.”

  “What size?”

  “You kin see ’im! That size.”

  The clerk studied David and said, “He’s big enough for a suit.”

  “We only want pants,” Tom replied.

  “Here, sonny. Try these on.” The clerk handed David a trim pair of boy’s pants, stiff and clean. David started to take his own off. “Not here!” the man said. He opened a cubicle, and when he saw David’s underwear he gasped.

  “I told him to wear clean ones!” Tom protested, but David blandly reached for the new pants. He could never understand why people worried about underwear. He had two pairs and this pair had been worn for much less than two months. There were walnut stains, ink stains, green stains from leaves, and other odd marks on the cloth. But they weren’t torn.

  “Thank heavens the pants fit!” the clerk said to himself. Aloud he waxed enthusiastic. “Perfect. Turn round in a circle, my little man.” David complied and decided that the view he caught in the mirrors showed a well-dressed chap. The brown pants made his hair look darker, the way he liked it.

  “And how much would some shoes be?” Tom asked.

  “$1.30,” the clerk replied. Tom and Luther retired to count their money.

  “Could I speak to you, please?” Tom asked the clerk.

  The two men went to the back of the store, and pretty soon the clerk blew his nose. Then he wiped his glasses and went to the phone. “Wilmer?” he called. “That you, Wilmer? Is there any more money left in that fund?” There was a long silence and then the clerk whispered something. “OK, Wilmer.” He blew his nose again and said, “First! Some underwear.”

  “What shall I do with the ones I have on?” David asked.

  “Throw them in the corner!” the clerk directed. “No! Don’t! Put them in this bag.” Shoes, stockings, two shirts, a coat to match his pants, four sets of underwear! That’s what Old Daniel’s pouch of dimes and quarters and one bill purchased.

  “A pretty neat little man!” the clerk beamed. When the trio left the store the clerk joked, “Now when you grow up, remember where you bought your first suit!” He winked at David and shook hands with him. When David opened his fist there was a bright dime in it.

  “What can we get for ten cents?” he asked his cronies. Luther, being a Dutchman, was all for saving the dime. Toothless felt that a celebration was in order, so David led the way to a candy store.

  “I like suckers,” Luther said.

  “I like marshmallows,” Toothless reported. But there were some jelly beans left over from Easter and the storekeeper gave David two pounds for ten cents. Luther popped a handful in his mouth and started chewing violently, but Tom said he didn’t care for any. David was about to eat a black one, but he looked up at Tom with childish horror. He had forgotten that Tom had no teeth.

  “I’ll trade ’em back for some marshmallows,” he insisted.

  “I’ll suck one,” Tom said. But to David the candy was sour, and mad Luther ate the whole two pounds.

  On Sunday morning they stationed Luther at the roadside to flag down the Paxson car, lest Aunt Reba see it. Then Tom and the other men dressed David in his new clothes and combed his hair. “Remember!” they said. “If you eat dinner at the Paxsons’, say thank you!”

  The drive to Solebury that Sunday morning was magnificent. David had never before ridden in the rear seat of a good car. Nor had he ever ridden with a primped and pretty girl. The fields of Bucks County were superb, as if they too were in their Sunday best, and birds sang from every tree.

  At the Meeting House the wealthy Quakers of the county stood solemnly on the porch to greet their neighbors. The Paxsons led David and Marcia to a bench and then assumed their own positions as heads of the meeting. Now the spirit of God descended on the place, and there was silence.

  After many minutes a woman rose, a housewife from New Hope, and she spoke words David could not understand. But there was a calm and handsome beauty about her face. When she sat down, no one else spoke.

  As the old men had predicted, the Paxsons invited David to Sunday dinner. Mr. Paxson said, “We have some other guests, too. This man’s a famous painter.”

  “I have a painting on my wall,” David said. “It’s by Rembrandt.”

  “Joe’s no Rembrandt,” Mrs. Paxson laughed.

  “Tell me, son,” the painter said. “How do you like the Rembrandt?”

  “It’s pretty dark,” David said thoughtfully. “Lots of it he didn’t paint, but where he did, the light shines.” Mr. Paxson and the painter nodded.

  Then the painter asked, “How do you like my picture? That one by the fireplace?”

  “Why, that’s the canal!” David cried.

  “Do you know the canal?” the painter asked.

  “I’ve never seen it, but a friend of mine used to work there. He said it was just like that picture!”

  “David!” Marcia cried. “Look out here!”

  The boy turned abruptly and ran into the yard. There was a swing, a pool for fish, a total world for children to play in. At dinner all the men, and David, had two dishes of ice cream.

  On the way home, riding once more in the comfortable car, David tried to recall each joyous moment of the day. Men and women—not old poorhouse people, but men with jobs—had talked with him. There had been a room filled with books. There had been music, and a pond for fish. As the car neared the poorhouse David leaned forward and said, “It was a very nice day. Thank you.”

  “Thee sees, Margaret,” Mr. Paxson whispered to his wife. “The boy’s all right. He doesn’t even know he’s living in a poorhouse.”

  But this time Mr. Paxson was dead wrong. For when David leaned back after his thank-you’s, Marcia Paxson, black haired and deep eyed, had put her hand in David’s and whispered, “Thee can come to lots of parties now. Harry Moomaugh said thee had no good suit. But thee does.”

  Crushed, David did not sneak behind the hedges to escape his aunt. With a great burden of discovery he walked stolidly up the lane where everyone could see him. “A good suit!” he muttered. “Because I didn’t have a good suit I couldn’t go to the parties. Now I have one and I can go!” He thought with overwhelming bitterness of the music and the good food and the fun he had missed.

  “Daywid!” came a strident voice. “Komm here!” He shuffled disconsolately on, ignoring his aunt.

  “Daywid!” came a new command. “I said, ‘Komm here!’ ” The boy looked up as if he had never before seen his aunt and with studied care walked right through the bed of tulips.

  “Och!” his aunt cried. She leaped from her chair and dashed across the lawn, catching her nephew by the hair. “When I say stop, you stop!” She gave him a stiff blow across the face. He stumbled back into the tulips. This infuriated her.

  “Church, is it? Party, is it?” she cried with an angry, hopeless ache in her voice. “And who gave you new shoes, yet?” She struck at him again, for she saw in the brightly dressed boy a symbol of those plans which she feared could never come to fulfillment.

  “A new suit, too?” she bellowed, and reaching out with her bony hands, she ripped the coat down the front. She tore at the shirt. Still unappeased, she slapped David violently, and his nose began to bleed.

  Crazy Luther, seeing this, could stand the scene no longer and grabbed Miss Reba by the waist. “He’s cr
azy!” Aunt Reba screamed in fright, but mad Luther gripped her furiously.

  “Luther!” David shouted. “Put her down!” Impersonally, Luther dropped the frantic woman and went to David.

  “Look what she done to that suit!” the mad Dutchman mumbled.

  “I don’t want it,” David cried, and even though Luther tried to stop him, the boy ripped away the remainder of his coat and threw it among the crushed flowers. When he was gone, Luther salvaged the garment and sneaked it over to Mrs. Krusen.

  “Don’t let the old witch see it!” Luther cautioned.

  “If she says a word,” Mrs. Krusen threatened, “I’ll stab her eyes out with a needle.”

  In three days the coat was back, almost as good as new. David never asked how it got there, for he had no desire to wear it. It was a bloody thing, bought with Old Daniel’s pennies, and David despised it. In his old poorhouse clothes he had walked with kings, fought at Troy, wandered across Arabia, lived in a mill with Rembrandt, and made a dozen friends. It was the new coat that put him in a poorhouse.

  David was convinced that he would have to fight Harry Moomaugh. Harry had said things about him, and that was that. But next day, when he looked at Harry in school, his ardor was considerably diminished. Harry was a big boy. He was two inches taller than David and at least fifteen pounds heavier.

  Nevertheless, David was determined to avenge his honor, and all week he picked on Harry, but Moomaugh, never having lost a fight, had no inner compulsion to hit anyone, so he laughed at David’s arrogance.

  On Sunday David was in a surly mood. Even the minister’s words made him angry: “As I look at you people I have come to call my friends, I see that the finest of you all has gone. I knew Daniel Brisbane as well as one man can know another. He was noble, good in all ways, kind to everyone, jealous of no one, a true servant of the Lord. He was a great comfort to me when I started preaching in Doylestown. When my faith grew weary, I refreshed it at the soul and smile of Daniel Brisbane. He never complained. He spent his worldly goods helping others and refused to call upon them for repayment. He taught the teachers and he ministered to the ministers. He lived with the Lord, and when he died he returned to the Lord. He called on no man for aid. His call was upon God, and God replied by giving him that sweetness of life which is denied so many.”

  At first David wanted to cry as he remembered Old Daniel, but instead he took refuge by laughing at the minister. “A lot he knows!” the boy grunted to himself. “Called upon the Lord, did he? Well, I was there when he died. And he called on Sam Somebody. And when he died he cursed something awful.” David dropped his head and glared at the minister.

  But late that night he considered what the man had said. Had he, this minister, come to the poorhouse for help? That was incredible. To David it had always been the other way around. Mrs. Moomaugh brought things to the poorhouse. So did the other women, at Christmas and Thanksgiving. When the inmates became sick, the nurse phoned their names in to town, and people brought them flowers and baked custard. Suddenly he hated charity: the smirk on women’s faces when they brought things, the smell of another boy’s clothes, and Marcia Paxson. Caught in the bursting realizations of life, he became the impotent slave of his resentment. “I’ll smash Harry Moomaugh in the nose!” he groaned.

  Like every trouble-seeker, David got his chance. He was playing Hold-the-Fort on the school cinder pile, and he gave Harry a tremendous shove, so that the boy spread-eagled across the cinders and cut himself. “You pushed me!” Harry cried.

  “What are you gonna do about it?” David demanded.

  Like a doctor about to perform an operation, Harry took off his jacket and rubbed his hands. David wasn’t quite sure what happened next. There was a flailing of arms, a smashing of fists, and he went down. He sucked in his breath and thought: “He can hit harder than Aunt Reba.” Then he struggled to his feet and tried to land a blow on his swift adversary. But again the windmill arms mowed him down.

  He would have been badly beaten had not those students who enjoy a brawl started screaming, “Fight, fight!” The provocative words reached the principal’s office and he rushed onto the playground and stopped the struggle in time to save David.

  It was the custom in Doylestown for the principal to administer frequent thrashings when his young charges got out of hand. This seemed an appropriate occasion, and he took the two boys into Grade Five and made them bend publicly over the waiting chair. Before he started he asked Harry, “What was this fight about?” Harry, not knowing, remained silent. When David’s turn came the principal said, “You look bad enough already. What was the fight about?” If Harry could keep his mouth shut, so could David. He mustered up enough strength for a schoolboy snarl, and the principal hammered him twenty times.

  When David got back to his seat, he had had enough. He sat very quietly, and when school was over he was glad to hurry home. But Harry Moomaugh stopped him. “What was the fight about, Dave?” Harry asked.

  “You said things about me,” David replied.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you told Marcia Paxson I had to wear your old clothes.”

  Harry looked away and bit his lip. That isn’t what he had said, not at all, but he knew there was no use to argue. “Dave,” he said, “on Saturday I’m giving a party. I want you to come.” Proudly, David shook his head no. Then Harry cut all the ground away from his stubbornness. He said, “We’re going over to the canal.”

  David swallowed and thought: “The canal!” In surrender he said, “Sure,” but then he added defiantly. “I’m gonna wear my old clothes!”

  Harry grinned at his friend. “I don’t care what you wear, Dave. If you want to, you can come naked.”

  When Harry’s party was over, David lay in bed and thought: “I’ll bet that’s the best day I ever lived.” It had started inauspiciously when he dressed in his very best clothes and tried to sneak out to the highway. Aunt Reba caught him.

  “Where are you going to?” she demanded.

  “To a party.”

  “Over to Solebury again?” she whined.

  “To Harry Moomaugh’s.”

  His aunt paused a moment in sullen despair at seeing her nephew slipping out of her grasp. If he went on this way he would be no use to her when he did reach fourteen. “Where did you get the money for the suit?” she whined.

  There was a very tense moment. David had learned that if he started things, he must bear the consequences, and yet he felt a surge of power within himself. He said with great precision, “Daniel gave me the money. He said you had lots of money but wouldn’t give me any.”

  “Daywid!” his aunt bellowed in hurt rage. She grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into her barren room. Standing high above him, she slapped him across the face. David gasped. He had been beaten too much that week. He pulled away and would have left the room, but his aunt was determined to have a final understanding. She struck the boy again and he cried, “Aunt Reba! Don’t you hit me!”

  “Talking back it is!” she stormed.

  Now David was committed to a showdown. He stuck his small face up at her and taunted: “Not only that, but Daniel said you were a dried-up old witch. And you are!”

  His aunt, with rage long repressed for a scene like this, struck her nephew forcefully in the face with her fist. Immediately David could feel his eye begin to swell shut. “And Daniel said why don’t you marry somebody? It would do you good!”

  His withered aunt could stand no more. Swiftly she clapped her hand over David’s mouth and dragged him to a corner. With her body pressed close to his she bent her face forward until her breath was against his face. “When there was no one in the world,” she wailed, “I took care of you. Eight years I been here in the poorhass, taking care of you. Your mother was no good. Your father was worse. You think I like it here in the poorhass? No! Every penny I got for eight years I saved to get us aht of here. Look!” her voice was hollow from some epic despair. Rummaging through her papers, she produce
d a thin book, which she thrust into David’s face.

  “For eight years, Daywid!” she pleaded, “every penny! For me no dresses. For you no clothes. These other ones like the poorhass, but not me. Look here!” she cried hoarsely. Opening the book, she showed him the figures: “Reba Stücke has paid to Crouthamel and Company $2,763.28.” The effort of that scrimping overcame her in retrospect and she sat down. Her voice was agitated and eager like a young girl’s.

  “Pretty soon you get a chob, too. We’ll save every penny, Daywid. When you’re fourteen you don’t have to go to school no more …”

  “I’m going to high school,” David said.

  “No!” his aunt screamed. “Chust like your father. Books! What did it get him? Don’t go to Solebury no more! When you’ll be fourteen you’ll get a nice, steady chob in Sellerswille pants factory …”

  “Daniel said I should go to college,” David persisted in his first great battle.

  “College is it now?” his aunt screamed. Beside herself with the disappointment she had feared, she threw her scrawny fury at him. But when she jumped at him, David saw a ruler on the table. He dodged his aunt and dove for the weapon.

  “Oh, so it’s the ruler?” his aunt screamed. She tried to forestall him, but too late. David clutched the heavy ruler and ran around the other side of the table.

  “Don’t come over here,” he threatened.

  “Daywid!” his aunt shouted, rushing at him.

  He swung the ruler with all his might. It caught his aunt a glancing blow on the shoulder and bounced off against her head. Breathing hoarsely, she made another lunge at the boy. Once more the ruler struck her. She winced and doubled up. David, seeing that she could not hurt him now, threw the ruler onto the floor beside the book with her penurious accounts. When he opened the door, he found that all the poorhouse women had been listening.

  “Run away!” Mrs. Krusen urged, wiping his blackened eye with spit.

  “He hit me!” Aunt Reba cried. “Oh, he hit me!”