Jaybird sat on the powdery limestone floor of the cave catching his breath and watching the curtain of water that covered the entrance to his hideout flow down. The hideout was not actually a cave or at least it didn't seem to be a cave, although Jaybird always thought of it as a cave. It was an area behind the waterfall about 10 feet wide, 10 feet deep, and less than six feet high. At the back, as far away from the water as you could get, where you might have expected to find a cave entrance, was a blank wall. Jaybird emptied his pockets of cigarettes and candy bars, and moved closer to the water intending to clean his bloody toe. The sound of rushing water intensified as the rain continued to fall in torrents. Over the rush of the water he could hear thunder continue to crash. What was he going to do with those cigarettes? He had watched his dad and his uncles puff on those things ever since he could remember, and his curiosity had finally got the better of him. He wanted to find out why they did that, why they puffed on those things, but he wasn't sure how to go about it. He guessed all you had to do was put a match to the cigarette to light it and then puff on it. He had some matches stashed in the hideout so he intended to give it a try. His grampa smoked a pipe and he had seen some of his grampas' customers smoking cigars. Once he had even seen his mother smoke a cigarette although she didn't seem to like it. It was a great puzzle to Jaybird because one thing he knew for sure about burning tobacco was that it smelled bad. He also knew that the smoke made him choke. The only thing he could think of was to try them himself and the only way to do that was to steal the cigarettes as he had done because he was almost sure that if he asked to try a cigarette he would probably get a whipping for his trouble. There were a lot of things about grown-ups that puzzled Jaybird.
Jaybird sat on the edge of a pool behind the waterfall, and extended his foot toward the water.
"I wouldn't do that if I was you, kid." The same hoarse, raspy voice came to him from behind.
Jaybird whirled around to look back into the dark cave. He didn't see anyone. But there had to be somebody there. He stared into the darkness and saw the end of a glowing cigarette.
"You stick your foot into that water and that lightning liable to turn you into a piece of crispy bacon. Ain't you got no sense at all kid?"
Jaybird was fearful and angry at the same time. Fearful that the alien voice came from an unseen presence that for all he knew was part of another world. Angry because the presence appeared to be smoking one of the cigarettes he had worked so hard to steal, and was almost certainly a grown-up who like just about all the other grown-ups he knew thought he had the right to tell a kid what to do. "Who's there?" he called.
The answer came as a puff of smoke drifting out of the darkness.
Jaybird was not sure what to do. He could take off running, but that didn't make a whole lot of sense with that lightning and those hailstones pounding down... I wouldn't do that if I was you, kid, he thought.
"I don't know who you are," he said, "but I don't think it's any of your business whether I got any sense or not."
Jaybird saw the end of the cigarette glow more brightly, and another puff of smoke come drifting out of the darkness. Jaybirds's eyes were becoming adapted to the darkness, and he could make out a dim form surrounding the glowing cigarette. "That's so," said the voice.
"Who said you could smoke my cigarettes?"
"You done stole them smokes, didn't you?"
"What if I did? Ain't none of your business."
"That's so," said the voice.
Jaybird watched as the shape moved forward out of the darkness. A flash of lightning illuminated a hairy face, and soft, friendly eyes. Jaybird was immediately disarmed. The man was of average size, maybe a little thinner than Jaybird's skinny uncle George. He was only a few inches taller than Jaybird who was big for his age, but just tall enough that he couldn't stand up straight in the shelter without bumping his head on the ceiling. He wore a wide-brimmed floppy black hat, and was dressed in dirty blue overalls with a red checkered shirt. He wore high-topped leather shoes that seemed to be too big for his feet.
"Ahm Phil," he said.
Jaybird looked at Phil suspiciously. "What you doin' in my hideout?" he asked.
"Looked like a good place to git in outa the rain," Phil said.
Jaybird wrinkled his brow, he couldn't disagree with that. "That's so," he said.
Phil reached out to hand the lighted cigarette to Jaybird. "We could be friends," he said.
Jaybird took the cigarette. "Maybe we could," he said, hesitantly. Jaybird was not anti-social, but he was happier when he was alone, especially out here in the woods.
"You got a name?" Phil asked.
"Jaybird. My name is Jaybird." Jaybird held the burning cigarette at arm length trying to keep the smoke out of his eyes.
"Well Jaybird," said Phil, "you gonna smoke that thing or ain't ya?"
Jaybird put the cigarette to his lips. He recoiled at the thought of drawing that awful smelling smoke into his mouth. Keeping his eyes on Phil, he blew. Hot ashes sprayed from the end of the cigarette and fell onto his bare leg. "Ouch," he cried, and did a little jump step.
Phil scratched his bearded chin, but did not laugh, although his eyes revealed amusement, and his lips curled slightly in a small hairy smile. He took the cigarette from Jaybird's hand. "Don't worry, kid," he said, "it ain't worth the trouble."
Jaybird tried to mask his embarrassment, but there was no place to hide. He watched Phil take a long drag on the cigarette, hold the smoke in his lungs for a protracted interval then release the smoke through his nose. He had never seen anyone do that before. "How did you do that?" he asked.
Phil smiled. "I could teach you a lot of things," he said.
Jaybird shook his head. "It's summer," he said. "I don't have to learn anything in summer." "Here's what you gotta do," said Phil, once more putting the lighted cigarette to his lips, "... you suck in at the same time you take a deep breath." He demonstrated, once again releasing the smoke through his nose. "You wanta try it?" He offered the cigarette to Jaybird.
Jaybird took the cigarette and quickly did as Phil had instructed. When the smoke hit his lungs he felt like somebody had smacked him right in the chest. His eyes widened, he dropped the cigarette and began to cough violently at the same time holding his hands tightly against his chest. Phil stood by, resisting the temptation to whack the boy on the back. He remembered the first time he had inhaled cigarette smoke. Jaybird coughed and coughed, gasping for fresh air, trying to free himself of what seemed like the devil's own curse, a painful ache that lingered in his chest. At some length, the ordeal eased and Jaybird sat on the floor of the cave gulping air and looking resentfully at Phil.
"Hey kid," said Phil, "it wasn't me who stole them butts."
Jaybird shook his head. It confirmed what he had suspected ... grown-ups were not to be trusted. He looked at Phil who was in the process of putting a match to a fresh Phillip Morris cigarette. "Why?" he asked.
"Come back in 10 years," Phil answered, then added, "these tailor-mades is pretty good, usually I got to roll my own.."
The storm seemed to be lasting longer than usual, and it was getting darker. Jaybird wasn't worried; he had spent the night in his hideout before. But not with a stranger.
"What happened to your dog?" asked Phil.
"He took off after a rabbit," answered Jaybird. Jaybird thought about Rin out there in the storm somewhere. Rin was a young dog, not quite a year old; like Jaybird, he had a lot to learn. Jaybird hoped he would be all right, the thought of Rin being frightened by the lightning and thunder concerned him. "I hope he's okay," he said.
"Dog's can take care of theirselves," said Phil.
Jaybird and Phil sat six feet apart on the powdered limestone floor of the cave entrance hearing the roar of the rushing water and sensing the gathering darkness still punctuated by occasional flashes of lightning. Jaybird was hungry. "Did you eat my candy bars?" he asked.
Phil did not answer, but took the Snickers and Baby Ruth from his shirt pocket and tossed them to Jaybird. Jaybird picked them up and looked at Phil, trying to decide what to make of this odd fellow who had suddenly come into his life. He didn't seem threatening, but he was clearly a grown-up and therefore a person that a kid like himself should be wary of. If Jaybird had learned nothing else in his young life he knew with the certainty of a thunderclap that grown-ups always had a plan for what they wanted kids to do next. But Jaybird needed to find something out about Phil. The way Phil had appeared, like out of thin air, there was the possibility that he was a ghost or something. Jaybird had never actually seen a ghost, but he was pretty sure that ghosts were real. There was that old abandoned house...the old Cooper house ... up on the outside edge of Cottage Farm that Jaybird knew for a fact was haunted.
"You wanta hear a ghost story?" asked Phil.
Jaybird shuddered. Was this guy reading his mind? "You a ghost?" he asked.
Phil did not answer right away. After a long silence he said, "Ah might be." Thunder rumbled in the distance.The rain continued to fall, but more gently. Presently the rain stopped altogether, and the only sound was the rush of the water falling.
"The bombardment is over," said Phil, "them Huns is fixin' to attack ...we got to be ready." He walked bent over into the shadows, and returned with a .22 caliber rifle and a wide-bladed machete. He handed the rifle to Jaybird. "You know what to do with that gun?" He asked.
Jaybird did not lack for imagination and he liked to play war games, but nobody had ever put a real gun into his hands before except that one time uncle George had let him fire a shot at a paper bulls-eye tacked to a tree. "Is it loaded?" He asked.
Phil raised his eyebrows. "You don't think we'd be out here in the trenches with empty guns do you? Be careful where you point that thing."
Jaybird had seen his share of World War movies. He knew what the trenches looked like. He saw Phil get down on his stomach and he did the same. "How soon you think they'll come?" He asked.
"Soon enough," answered Phil, "you scared?"
"Not yet," answered Jaybird.
"It's okay to be scared," said Phil, "just so you don't run away when they come."
"You been here before?" asked Jaybird.
Phil nodded. "I died at Passchendaele," he said.
Jaybird blinked. So Phil was a ghost. Darkness was complete; Jaybird could not see Phil. An owl hooted and was answered by a ghostly call.
"It's a signal," said Phil.
Suddenly Jaybird heard a chilling howl arise from the darkness outside their shelter. He clutched the rifle tightly and raised it to his shoulder, his finger on the trigger. He could see nothing but black night.
"Hold your fire," said Phil, "it may be a trick."
Jaybird's eyes were becoming adapted to the dark, and slowly the inky blackness gave way to the recognition of dim shapes and then the realization that he could see trees and bushes outside the shelter. The storm clouds had passed, and a brilliant half moon glittered in the crystal clear night sky. Jaybird heard a low growl followed quickly by a clamorous racket of yowls, yips, growls, and barks. He saw rocks, pebbles, and branches wildly scattered in a furious swirling mix of flying fur.
"Stay back," said Phil, "one of our patrols has intercepted a Boche scout party."
The battle sounds crescendoed, then began to move away, and finally faded to a barking, howling chase.
Phil grunted. "I think our boys done chased `em off," he said. "Maybe taught `em a lesson."
Jaybird asked, " You think they'll come back?"
"They might," said Phil, "but maybe not for a while. We'll wait."
They waited in silence. A rhythmic chorus of crickets and cicadas began. A blinking firmament of fireflies arose. Jaybird sat with crossed legs, the rifle spread across his lap. He tried to imagine himself in Flanders Fields. "My Grampa thinks the French are to blame for everything," he said, then, leaping ahead in time, added, " the French and Franklin D. Roosevelt."
"What Roosevelt is that?" asked Phil. "Any relation to old Rough and Ready? If we'd elected him instead of Wilson we wouldn't be in this mess."
Jaybird had never heard of either Wilson or old Rough and Ready, and decided not to ask.
"What you goin' to do after the war, Jaybird?" asked Phil.
Jaybird answered without hesitation. "Be a policeman," he said.
"Why's that?" asked Phil.
"So's I don't have to go to jail ... You ever been in jail, Phil?"
"Yeah, I have," said Phil. "They's worse things."
"Not for me," said Jaybird.
"You better ought to stop stealin' stuff then," said Phil.
"But they couldn't put you in jail if you was a policeman could they?"
"I reckon not," said Phil. After a short silence Phil said, "I'll tell you what Jaybird, why don't you catch a little shut-eye and I'll take the first watch, looks like it might be a long night."
Jaybird began to say his prayers, but was asleep before he finished `now I lay me down to sleep.'
Jaybird slept long and well, rolled in a tight ball against the cool night air. Toward morning he dreamed of desperate men raging through impossible curtains of machine gun fire trying to reach him seated on a high throne smoking a giant cigarette, and fending them off with enormous puffs of thick gray smoke. Gradually he became conscious of a soft rhythmic snore and felt the warmth of his dog Rin snuggled close to him. He rolled over onto his side and looked up sleepily. Rin was lying next to him in a deep, noisy sleep. He sat up and looked around to find himself enclosed in a cocoon of early morning fog. He stroked Rin's soft fur. The sound of rushing water was constant and suggestive. He struggled to his feet and walked to the edge of the water to pee, shivering in the early morning dampness. He returned to lie next to Rin, savoring the big dog's warmth. He slept a dreamless sleep.
Something was wrong with Rin. Jaybird knew it when he at last awoke, and realized that it was not normal for his dog to sleep this late into the morning. Jaybird had little sense of time when he was out in the woods, but the sun had burned through the fog telling him that it was a bright sunny day and only a few hours before noon. The dog was exhausted, and when Jaybird examined him closely he saw large areas of raw flesh and gashes on his legs. One ear was hanging down at an odd angle, and was covered with dried blood. He stroked Rin's head. The dog opened one eye, but did not move; he whimpered softly.
Jaybird was alarmed. "What is it, old pal? Where does it hurt?"
Rin raised his chin slightly and looked at Jaybird with soft expressive eyes that said, "Help me."
Jaybird withdrew the soiled handkerchief from his side pocket and after soaking it in the running stream, began to gently wipe the dried blood from around Rin's damaged ear. I have to get him to a doctor he thought; I wonder if he can walk? Jaybird knew that he was not strong enough to carry Rin up the steep slope to where help could be found. That dogfight he had heard last night ... it must have been wolves ... was Rin protecting him from a wolf pack? Phil said it was a German scouting party. Phil? Jaybird suddenly remembered Phil. But there was no Phil, he was alone with Rin. Did he imagine Phil? He walked around searching for evidence that somebody had been with him here in the hideout last night. He found two cigarette stubs on the ground, and a rolled up hiker's pack propped against the side wall. The Philip Morris package was missing.
When Jaybird returned from his search he found Rin standing shakily and looking a little bewildered. The dog took a tentative step toward him. Jaybird waited to see if Rin could walk. He could; but slowly and with a painful limp. Rin took two agonized steps then sank to the floor and lay still, whimpering. Jaybird knew he had to go for help, but what if the wolves returned? And what about eating? He was hungry and he thought Rin must be hungry too. He could eat the Baby Ruth ... he had eaten the Snickers last night ... but what did he have for Rin to eat? Rin must be thirsty. He looked around for a vessel of some sort that could contain water. There was none. He went to the pool underneath the waterfall, and forming a cup with his hands dipped a double handful of water that he brought back for Rin. The dog quickly lapped up the water and four more handfuls before he seemed to have enough.
Jaybird squatted on his haunches next to the stricken dog trying to decide what to do next. It was clear that Rin was in no condition to walk back up the hill and once at the top, the mile or so back to the cottage where Jaybird lived with his mom and dad. It would take him nearly an hour to get there himself even if he ran part of the way, and once there what did he expect them to do about it? There had been a time back when he was little that he believed his mom and dad could do anything, that anytime he had a problem they would take care of it. He didn't believe that anymore. Besides, they were way too busy with the new baby and all to worry about Rin. They probably wouldn't believe him anyway. No, this was something he would have to handle all by himself.
The sound of a .22 caliber rifle firing echoed through the trees followed by the loud complaint of a chorus of Bluejays and Crows. Jaybird stood and walked to the side from under the waterfall to see if he could locate the shooter. He didn't have long to wait. It was Phil. Jaybird first heard loose gravel stir, then he heard the underbrush crackle, and next there was Phil himself striding over the hill, the .22 caliber rifle resting on his right shoulder, holding a dead squirrel in his left hand. When he caught sight of Jaybird he grinned, held up the squirrel and called out, "Lunch." Jaybird grinned back. Maybe he wouldn't have to handle it all by himself after all.
"Rin's hurt," Jaybird said when Phil was close enough to hear.
Phil pushed the floppy black hat to the back of his head, narrowed his eyes and screwed up his mouth in a way that gave Jaybird the impression that the man was actually concerned about this news. "Lemme have a look," he said.
Rin was lying on his side, eyes closed and breathing irregularly when Phil and Jaybird squatted next to him. "Looks like we got our first casualty," Phil said. "Musta been a helluva fight ...this dog should get a medal."
In the light of day, Jaybird was not prepared to continue the game that seemed so right during and after the crashing storm of the night before. Jaybird looked at Phil wondering if he thought the game was still on, or if Phil thought he was really fighting a war. "I think he needs a doctor," Jaybird said, "he may have a broken leg."
Phil shook his head. "I'm the closest thing we got to a medic this close to the front," he said. "That leg ain't broke, just ripped up a little. I'll tell you what, Jaybird ... we goin' to fix this here dog up with a Witch Hazel poultice. Don't you worry, this dog will be back on his feet in no time. You cain't keep a dog like this down for long." He stood up and looked around. "Do you know what a Witch Hazel plant looks like, Jaybird?"
Jaybird shook his head. "No," he said.
"They's some growin' a ways back there along the trail," said Phil, " come on, I'm gonna show you. If you're gonna be out in the woods, you need to know the plants." Before Jaybird could tell him that he knew what a sassafras root looked like, Phil started down the trail at a fast trot; Jaybird followed.
In a few minutes Phil slowed then stopped and pointed to a plant growing out of the hillside. "There she is," he said.
Jaybird looked at a 10 feet high shrub with several crooked branching stems coming from the same root and covered with a smooth gray bark.
"Pay attention to them leaves," said Phil. The serrated leaves were on short petioles branching off the branches which formed alternatively off the stems. Phil picked one and handed it to Jaybird. "Taste it," he said, then took a bite of one himself and began to chew.
Jaybird looked dubiously at the leaf in his hand. Seeing Phil chewing, he followed suit and quickly determined that it did not taste anything like a Baby Ruth. "Phuu," he spat, "bitter."
Phil continued to chew. "Don't give up so soon," he said, "it's kind of sweet once you get used to it. It's an old Indian remedy ... good for what ails you. It'll make your dog feel a lot better, and you can use it for them chigger bites too, Jaybird."
Jaybird's lower legs were dotted with small red blotches, the result of bites from invisible insects that permeated the grass and low shrubs all over Cottage Farm. For all its bucolic innocence, Giessow's Cottage Farm would be remembered by Jaybird, and countless other kids, as a place where a goodly amount of the time was spent scratching in mostly futile attempts to alleviate the near-maddening itch caused by chigger bites.
When they returned to the hideout, their pockets stuffed with Witch Hazel leaves, Phil took a small clay pot and a tinderbox from his pack. He turned to Jaybird and said, "Go get us some sticks, Jaybird we goin' to build a fire so's we can boil some of the juice out of this here Witch Hazel."
Soon they had a nice fire going and the leaves were cooking. Phil ripped one of the the long sleeves off his shirt, much to Jaybird's amazement. "Why you rippin' that sleeve off your shirt?" Jaybird asked.
"We need it for the poultice," said Phil.
Jaybird suddenly had a warm feeling for Phil. "You rippin' up your shirt for my dog? Why you doin' that Phil?" he asked, "You hardly even know my dog."
Phil shrugged. "We got to take care of our scouts," he said casually, then continued, "that dog could probably use somethin' to eat, we got to cook up this here squirrel. How about you, Jaybird? You hungry?"
It was Jaybird's turn to shrug. He looked dubiously at the scrawny squirrel Phil had laid on the ground. "You gonna eat that there squirrel?" he asked, then added, "Don't look like it's got a whole lot of meat on it."
Phil held up the squirrel and turned it around, examining it closely. "You know what, Jaybird? I do believe you is right ... this is one skinny squirrel." He thought a moment, then said, "They's two things we got to do. We got to cook up this here squirrel, and we got to git us some more meat. Did you ever shoot a rabbit or a squirrel, Jaybird?"
Jaybird wanted to say yes ... there was nothing he would like better than to take that .22 caliber rifle and go shoot a rabbit or a squirrel, but the answer to the question was no, and though the temptation was great, the lesson of George Washington was taken with deadly seriousness in his family ... he might steal, but he could not tell a lie. He hesitated and was on the verge of saying yes when he met Phil's eyes waiting for his answer. Phil knew the answer without Jaybird saying anything. "Okay," he said, "did you ever cook up a squirrel?"
Jaybird said, "No but I seen my Mom do it once. She cooked it into a stew."
Phil shook his head. "We got no cook pots," he said, "we gonna roast it over a fire." He went to his pack propped against the back wall and returned with a round loaf of bread and a curved, sharp-bladed 10-inch knife. He cut a generous slice from the loaf and handed it to Jaybird. "You can eat some of this and give the rest to your dog," he said. "I'm gonna go get us some more meat, and Jaybird, here's what I want you to do while I'm gone. Skin and gut that there squirrel, and roast it over that there fire. Can you do that, Jaybird?"
Jaybird had never done any of those things in his entire life. He took a deep breath, threw back his shoulders, looked straight into Phil's muddy eyes while taking the knife from his hand, and said, "Sure I can."
And he did. When Phil returned some time later, carrying a fat rabbit, Jaybird held up the knife with a piece of roasted squirrel meat skewered to the end and said, "It's kinda stringy, you wanta try it?"
Phil put the piece of squirrel meat into his mouth and began to chew. "Squirrel meat is supposed to be stringy," he said. He handed Jaybird the dead rabbit. "Cook this one up too, looks like you got the hang of it."
Jaybird held the rabbit by its hind legs, turning it around to have a good look at it. "My grampa says all the rabbits with cotton tails belong to him."
Phil took a large red-figured bandanna from his side pocket and blew his nose noisily. "I never seen a rabbit without a cotton tail," he said, "you reckon your grampa would mind if we was to eat one of his rabbits?"
Jaybird thought about his grampa Giessow. What he remembered most was seeing his grampa laugh after telling a joke. His grampa loved to imitate Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy. The one about the guy sliding down a banister ... "the guy was goin' sout, and the splinter was goin' nort." Jaybird smiled thinking of his grampa's raspy Charlie McCarthy voice. He also remembered his grampa walking around with a hammer in his hand wearing a carpenter's apron full of nails, and getting ready to climb a ladder so he could bang some more shingles onto the roof of one of his cottages. His grampa always wore a wide-brimmed straw hat when he was up on the roofs of those cottages. Grampa Giessow was a happy man as near as Jaybird could tell ... he didn't think his grampa would mind in the least if they ate one of his rabbits seeing as how there were always so many of them around, and that most people thought of them as nothing more than a big nuisance; his mom always complained about the rabbits eating the lettuce in her garden. "Them rabbits is a big nuisance anyway," he said.
After they finished eating, Phil lighted a cigarette and Jaybird went to soak his feet in the pool. Phil had been right about Rin ... after eating a few bites of roasted squirrel and rabbit meat the dog, his right leg wrapped in a Witch Hazel poultice, felt well enough to join Jaybird by the pool.
Phil surprised Jaybird with a question. "Why you runnin' away from home, Jaybird?"
Phil was right again. Jaybird was running away from home. Again. It was the third time this summer. This time he wasn't going back either, now that he had learned how to roast squirrels and rabbits. Why shouldn't he run away? They didn't care about him anymore, all they wanted him to do was work ... fetch the water, sweep the floor, cut the weeds, go to bed early, speak when you're spoken to. Nobody treated him like a real person ever since his baby sister had come along. His dad used to play checkers with him, and sometimes he got to play knock rummy with the grownups, but no more. When he got spanked for talking back to his mom he decided he had had enough, he was leaving for good. But how did Phil know that? "Who says, I'm runnin' away?" Jaybird kicked his feet in the water and spoke without looking at Phil sitting a few yards behind him.
"Lemme tell you somethin' about runnin' away Jaybird," said Phil, "... it ain't a good idea to run away from home without a shirt."
Jaybird was defiant. The reason he ran away was so he could get away from people telling him what to do. His mom and dad, not to mention his grandma and grandpa, had pounded it into his head a thousand times that kids should be respectful to their elders, but out here in the woods ... in his part of the woods ...Jaybird had put all that behind him. If he wanted to be disrespectful to Phil or anybody else, well then that was exactly what he was going to do, otherwise what was the good of running away? "I got somethin' to tell you too, Phil," he said, turning his head while keeping his feet in the water,"... it ain't a good idea to always be tellin' people what to do."
Phil stood and came to sit next to Jaybird. Jaybird could see that Phil was not pleased. " You're forgettin' something, ain't you?" Phil did not raise his voice. "At the front, you could get shot for talking back to your superiors."
"How come you said you died at Passchendaele?" Jaybird put his hand on Phil's arm. "You don't feel dead to me."
Phil picked up a rock and flipped it into the pool. "My daddy died at Passchendaele," he said quietly.
"Oh," said Jaybird. After a short pause he asked, "Where's Passchendaele?"
"I don't know," answered Phil, "it's somewhere over there."
Phil and Jaybird sat silently next to the pool for a long time, flipping small pebbles into the water, watching the rings expand, thinking about their daddies. With every hushed minute that went by Jaybird's resolution to run away from home faded a little more. It was hard to stay mad at his dad when he thought about what it must be like to not have a dad. Jaybird was about to get up and head for home when Phil spoke again. "I was about the same age as you when he went off to the war ... I never saw him again."
That did it. Jaybird stood up. "I think I'll head for home," he said.
Phil nodded. "Good idea," he said. " ... It's a funny thing about daddies ..."
Jaybird stood with his back to Phil waiting for him to finish his thought about daddies. After a few moments of silence, he turned to see Phil sitting with his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking convulsively. Jaybird could not ever remember seeing a grown man cry. He was confused ... in his young life crying was connected to pain. The last time he cried was when he slashed his wrist with a sickle that time he was cutting weeds near their cottage. On the other hand he had seen men get hurt badly but not cry. One time he saw his dad get hit in the hand with a baseball that broke a finger ... Jaybird remembered his dad screwing up his face in all kinds of crazy ways, and he remembered his dad cutting loose with some really neat cuss words, but he didn't cry. So why was Phil crying when he wasn't hurt? Jaybird was only 10 years old, but the sight of a grown man crying when he wasn't hurt touched him in a funny way. He felt like he ought to do something to make Phil feel better so he wouldn't have to cry, but he wasn't sure what it should be. He sat down next to Phil who was a lot bigger than him, maybe a hundred pounds bigger, maybe more. He reached up and put his arm over Phil's shoulder.
After a few moments, when Phil realized that Jaybird was trying to comfort him, he pulled away and jumped to his feet, staring at Jaybird with wide eyes that Jaybird thought even had a touch of wildness. "What you doin' Jaybird?" he blurted.
Jaybird jumped to his feet also, and stood staring at Phil, surprised and confused by Phil's apparent anger. He had only been trying to help. "What did I do wrong," he asked.
"You was treatin' me like I was a little kid," said Phil.
"I was only tryin' to help."
Phil stalked around the hideout folding and unfolding his fingers into fists. Whatever thoughts had caused him to sit sobbing by the pool were apparently long gone. Suddenly he stopped and stood facing Jaybird. "You want to help? Okay, I can use some help. We need some fish. We goin' down to the river."