Archie slipped away from the schoolyard the very moment Mr. Whitaker's shadow fell upon the shattered glass. He didn't wait for the fallout, didn't stay to watch the final dissipation of the American Bison's mirage of greatness. In his chest was a strange, double-edged feeling.
On one hand, a quiet, unseemly joy that Larry had gotten his comeuppance. Maybe now he'd leave Mary alone, and this idiotic "metal" business too. On the other—a bitter aftertaste. Archie had seen how the other boys looked at Larry—even now, even after the fiasco. In their eyes was not reproach, but awestruck wonder: He actually fired a shot! He had a real pistol! And the girls, including Mary, in the first minutes after his triumphant appearance in the yard, had also looked at him with that kind of curiosity reserved for real heroes or reckless daredevils.
What if she really starts admiring him? The thought spun relentlessly in Archie's head. He's a hero now. And me? I'm the one who blurted "metal" in catechism.
He walked home alone, along the familiar path winding through the damp, withered fields along the Mississippi's bank. Usually, he loved this road: the expanse, the river's roar, the cries of gulls. But today everything seemed gray, flat, colorless. An unpleasant lump sat in his throat, and to his own shame, treacherous tears welled in his eyes. Why? From envy of another's, albeit foolish, glory? From hurt over his own humiliation? Or simply because for the first time in his life, he felt small, unnoticed, insignificant—a nobody.
When he felt low, he always went to his mother. He'd sit on the kitchen bench, take a piece of still-warm cornbread, and she, without asking a thing, would stroke his head with her warm, rough palm—and somehow everything would just settle, fall into place. But today… What could he tell her? That he was jealous of a boy who'd nearly blown up the school? That he was afraid a girl from the neighboring farm might prefer that very scamp to him? It sounded so stupid, so childishly pathetic, that he couldn't even imagine speaking the words aloud.
So, he had to be silent. Carry it all inside.
He sat down on an old, mossy stump right at the water's edge. The river hummed with a steady, low drone, carrying broken branches and yellowed leaves on its broad back. The air was thick with the smells of wet wood, smoke from distant fires, and that special, autumnal dampness that seeps through clothing. Archie closed his eyes.
And then, as if by the malicious design of fate, a familiar, swaying figure appeared on the road. It was Johnny Tucker. He was walking, waving his arms and shouting into the void, as if engaged in a furious argument with an invisible companion.
"Hold there, you scoundrel! Just you wait!" he thundered, addressing a roadside bush one moment, a crooked apple tree the next. "I'll twist your mug sideways! Come here, you coward! I'll bite your ear off, you'll regret it for the rest of your days!"
Spotting Archie, he abruptly changed course and, still waving his arms, strode straight for him.
"Aha! There you are, you vile brigand! Now you won't escape me! Stand still! I'm gonna give you a lickin' right now!"
Archie didn't move. He knew Johnny well; the man might be a drunk, but he wouldn't hurt a fly if you left him alone. After a few steps, the bell-ringer stopped, swayed, and squinting his one good eye, stared at the boy.
"Well I'll be… If it ain't the young master from Fox Creek!" he mumbled, his voice suddenly losing its belligerence. "What you doin' out here, holdin' court on a stump? Inspectin' the state of the river?"
"Just comin' from school," Archie said quietly.
"From school!" Johnny perked up. "So our thunder-maker Whitaker was hurlin' lightning again? I'll bet he roared so loud even the glasses rattled at Jim's tavern! Jim told me himself: 'You oughta go to that school, Johnny, and whack him on the noggin with your bell-clapper. He'll burst from rage one day, shame it'd be.'"
Despite all his bitterness, Archie couldn't help but smile. Johnny's speech, drunken and hiccup-laced, was surprisingly sincere and vivid.
"He didn't burst," he replied.
"And he won't!" Johnny declared confidently, plopping down on the ground beside the stump. "That Whitaker, his hide's like an old ox that's pulled a yoke for twenty years. My late mother used to say: you could make reins from skin like that, they'd last 'til Judgement Day."
The heavy, oppressive sadness in Archie's heart began to melt a little. Johnny, for all his perpetual tipsiness, was a character. A ringleader, a joker, a master at wriggling out of any scrape. He drank—yes. But he never begged or whined. No money? He'd sell his only pair of boots. No boots? He'd pawn his tattered jacket. He'd sometimes come home barefoot, in just a vest, but with his head held so high it was as if he were leading a victorious army.
Johnny, having sat for a minute, suddenly grew animated.
"What are we doin' sittin' here like two scarecrows in a field? Freezin' our bones. Let's get a fire goin', warm ourselves up."
With surprising dexterity despite his swaying, he gathered dry twigs, pulled a flint and steel from some hidden pocket, and soon a small but stubborn fire was crackling to life between them. The flames reflected in the dark water, and the world instantly felt cozier, smaller.
"Here," said Johnny, pulling a flattened flask from an inner pocket. "First medicine for autumn gloom. Corn ale, my own, you might say, preparation. Gotta grease the throat now and then, lest the soul creak like an unlubricated wagon."
He took a swig, grimaced with pleasure, and offered the flask to Archie. The boy shook his head, embarrassed.
"Oh, come on, lad!" Johnny snorted. "What are you shakin' for, like a bride at the altar? One sip won't kill you. A real man oughta know what the world's made of, what he's got to deal with."
Under this pressure, and the approving gaze of Johnny's single eye, Archie gave in. He took the flask, took a cautious, tiny sip—and immediately coughed, feeling a fiery, bitter wave with a smoky, herbal aftertaste spread down his throat. He swallowed hard, trying not to grimace.
"There you go!" Johnny nodded approvingly, taking the flask back. "Good lad. I respect that. Not every boy your age'd dare."
Then he pulled out a tobacco pouch, deftly rolled two thick, homely cigarettes, stuck one between his teeth, and held the other out to Archie. The boy tried to refuse again, but Johnny was already pressing the roll into his fingers.
"Light up. Gotta be friends with fire."
Archie, mimicking his motions, lit it from an ember and took a drag. The smoke hit his lungs with a caustic, tickling wave, and this time he coughed so hard tears sprang to his eyes. But he clenched his teeth and made no sound, pretending everything was fine. It seemed to him that this was how grown, serious men behaved—they endured, didn't flinch, accepted the bitter as their due.
And so they sat together by the fire on the bank of the great river: a grown man with a guiding star in his one good eye, not yet knocked out in a drunken brawl, and a boy whose gaze was still clear. They drank from the same flask, smoked, and Johnny talked—spoke of this and that: about the steamboats hooting in the distance, about tobacco prices, about the foolishness of people who fought over trifles. He spoke to Archie as an equal, and there was something intoxicating in that, stronger than the ale. Archie felt a warm, foggy comfort spreading through his body, chasing away thoughts of Larry, the shame of his failure, and childish jealousy.
After half an hour, a second cigarette, and a couple more sips of "medicine," the fog thickened. The tongues of flame in the campfire blurred in his vision, becoming a warm, flickering spot. Johnny's head drooped onto his chest, and his snoring merged with the river's hum. Archie, leaning back on the soft, cold earth, no longer fought sleep. He closed his eyes, and the last thing he felt was a strange, bittersweet calm. He was not alone. And even if his companion was a half-drunk bell-ringer—it was better than sitting on that stump and feeling like the most pitiful, lonely creature in all the wide world.