Passing through Perfect (Wyattsville #3)(52)

Isaac squashed himself close to Benjamin, so he wouldn’t press against Paul’s arm or leg but there seemed to be no comfortable position for anyone. When the old truck bounced over even the smallest bump, Paul winced.

Benjamin understood the pain the boy felt, so he struck up a conversation to keep him from dwelling on it. When they thumped across the railroad tracks he asked, “How long you lived in this Wyattsville?”

“Almost two years. Me and my kid sister live with an aunt and uncle.” Paul wriggled his right arm onto the armrest then said, “We’re kind of adopted.”

“Kinda ad-opt-ed?” Isaac echoed. “What’s that mean?”

Paul gave a painful little laugh. “It means the Klaussners took us in, but they aren’t really blood relatives. They’re just good people with big hearts.”

Benjamin smiled despite his aching leg. “Them is the best kind.”

By the time they approached the outskirts of town it was past eight-thirty. In trying to keep the boy from thinking about his pain, Benjamin had gathered bits and pieces about how Paul and his sister had left West Virginia and traveled to Wyattsville.

“Your Aunt Carmella’s a mighty big woman to take two strangers in,” he said. “Ain’t many what would do that.”

He pulled up in front of the big house and climbed out of the truck. “Wait here, I’ll ask your uncle to lend a hand.” He started up the walkway. Instead of stepping onto the front porch, he circled around the pathway and headed for the back door.

Paul saw this and turned to Isaac. “Where’s he going?”

“Back door,” Isaac answered.

“That’s the long way around.”

Isaac gave a look of incredulity as if to indicate the boy was asking something he should have known. “We ain’t allowed to the front.”

“Not allowed to knock on the front door?” Paul asked. “Who told you a dumb thing like that?

“Ain’t nobody telled me.” Isaac shrugged. “It jest is.”





Carmella Klaussner had been keeping the remainder of her beef stew warm on the back burner for almost three hours. She’d expected Paul home by five, five-thirty at the latest. It was a Friday night and after a week of rising early for of school Jubilee was ready for an early bedtime, so shortly after the clock sounded six Carmella served dinner. When Paul did arrive home, she reasoned, there’d be plenty of stew still in the pot.

But when six turned into six-thirty and ultimately into seven, Carmella grew increasingly worried. It could happen that Paul would be a little late, but he was never this late. As the clock stuck nine, she felt an icy cold panic grab hold of her heart and at that very moment a knock at the back door sounded. She yanked the door open and gasped. “Please don’t tell me!”

“Don’t tell you what?” Benjamin asked.

“Don’t tell me something’s happened to my boy!”

In the short span of little more than a year, Paul had gone from being a lad suspected of shooting Sidney to becoming Carmella’s boy.

“If Mister Paul is your boy,” Benjamin replied, “then I’m real sorry to say this, but he done had an accident and got busted up.”

“Oh, my God!” Carmella wailed.

Not waiting for more of what looked to be the onset of hysterics, Benjamin said, “He’s gonna be okay, it’s just a broke arm ’n maybe leg.”

“Oh, my God!” Carmella wailed again. “Is he in the hospital?”

“No, ma’am. He’s out front, sitting in my truck. I got a bum knee, ’n I come to ask if Mister Paul’s uncle could lend a hand to carry him in.”

“Sid…neeeey!” Carmella screamed. “Get down here right now!”

Hearing the urgency in Carmella’s call Sidney dashed down the stairs, taking two and three steps at a time. Red-faced and wheezing, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Paul, he’s been hurt!”

“He ain’t bad hurt, just a broke arm and maybe leg,” Benjamin repeated. “But I’m hoping you can lend a hand carrying him in.”

“Of course I will,” Sid said. “Where is he?”

“Out front in my truck.”

When Benjamin turned and started back down the walkway, Sidney followed. Carmella was right behind them saying back-to-back “Our Fathers” and asking God to please let Paul be okay. When they reached the truck Benjamin pulled the right door open and there sat Paul, his face tight with pain and his arm tucked in a loop of still-damp towels.

“Oh, my God!” Carmella wailed again.





Benjamin





I know bringing Paul home is the Christian thing to do, and I’m not looking for pay for doing it. But I surely hope his uncle comes through with putting gasoline in the truck. The truth is I’m running mighty low, and we ain’t got money enough for much more.

If I run out of gas before we get to Maryland, it’s gonna be a lot harder to find day work. Judging by all those “No Coloreds” signs I seen Virginia folk ain’t gonna take kindly to me knocking at their door and asking for work, no matter how much their trees need trimming.

I can’t say nothing out loud, because I don’t want Isaac to know how bad off we are. The boy’s got heartache enough. I keep trying to make light of the situation, because right now that’s all I can do.