Autumn. Kansas. The Kent Farm.
The screen door squeals as Clark pushes it open and steps out onto the porch. A breeze ruffles his slightly shaggy coal-black curls. Clark doesn’t notice. He just steps to the side and holds the door open for his mother to walk through.
Martha Kent is carrying a folded orange and brown quilt in her arms. The autumn wind tugs at her just-graying hair and she shivers a bit as its fingers run along her neck.
“I said I was sorry, mom.”
Martha’s eyes flash. “And I said no, Clark. You can’t go to Pete’s party. You are still grounded.”
The screen door screeches shut with a snap. “Aw, mom. Can’t I just go for a little while? I promise, I’ll make the time up later.”
Martha closes her eyes and breathes a sigh. “Clark…”
She sits down on one of the wicker porch chairs, blanket in her lap. In the distance, the sun is slowly sinking into the trees. A lone figure leans against the fence watching the day end. Clark steps a little closer to the chair with a plea plain on his eight-year-old face.
“Clark, I know how much the party meant to you. And it’s great that you have friends like Pete. But son, you know what your father and I think of you fighting.”
“We weren’t fighting! It was just a pinecone war. Nobody got hurt.”
Martha’s eyebrows go up. “Oh really? Then why did Tommy Cunningham’s mother call me up and give me an earful? Clark, he’s got a fractured leg! And Mark’s father said his face looks like a cat clawed him.”
Clark glances down and then the fire lights his eyes again. “They were picking on Pete, mom. Phil held him down and Tommy and some others started throwing all their pinecones at him. I just tried to get them to leave him alone. I didn’t even throw that hard…”
Martha’s face softens and she leans forward, placing her hand on her son’s little shoulder. He looks down again and she waits a beat before lifting his chin. His eyes find hers and dart away again like skittish deer.
“Clark, it’s good to stand up for your friend. But you can’t be hurting the other kids to do it. And Pete needs to learn to stand up for himself. You won’t always be there. You’re Pete’s friend, but you’re not his personal guardian angel.” Clark sinks a bit and shuffles his feet.
“Son, do you see your dad out there?” Clark peeks out from under a curtain of hair at the silhouette across the yard. “Do you know why he’s over there? Because he loves you and he feels like he failed you. He’s tried to teach to teach you how to find the right thing to do and here you’ve hurt some people instead, your friends even. And it wasn’t fair, because no matter what, they couldn’t fight back. Not really. Do you understand?”
Clark’s shoulders shake with suppressed sobs and tears drip down his chin. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispers.
Martha wipes the tears away with the corner of her quilt and pulls her son into a quick hug. “Your father and I know we can’t make you do the right thing. Lord knows, nobody can make you do anything.”
She holds him by the shoulders and pushes him back a bit until she can look him in the eyes. He smears the tears from his reddened face.
“But we expect you to do the right thing. So, tomorrow, you will take a pie, which you’ll help me bake, to the Cunninghams and you will apologize. And you’ll call Pete and tell him you’ll be helping your father around the farm tomorrow instead of joining the party.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good,” Martha nods. “Now, you wait here while I get your father and then it’s time to wash up.”
Martha stands up and walks down the porch steps and across the yard. She unfurls the blanket and drapes it across Jonathan’s shoulders. Clark watches from the porch rail as his father stands up straight and tall, half turning to look at Martha as she joins him by the fence. He watches as his dad embraces her in the folds of his make-shift cloak. He sees their shadowed outlines kiss. And as they turn back to regard the sunset, he sees the love a wife and the magic of a setting star turn a tired farmer into a king.
No comments:
Post a Comment