Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Avery Jane
“Once upon a time, there was a rogue,” Dixon said to a group of kids sitting in wheelchairs and on couches in the day room, and some on the floor with their legs crisscrossed.
Dressed in their hospital gowns and robes, sticky footed socks, and various casts and healing implements, their rapt attention stayed focused on him as he spoke in his deep voice.
The day had grown darker. Rain pounded outside, and fat streams of it ran down the window behind Dixon seated in a chair at the back of the room.
All the kids had turned to face him so they could watch as he told a story he was making up on the spot.
They didn’t seem to care that his jeans had been worn through at the knees or that his hair hadn’t seen a pair of scissors for far too long.
“What’s a rogue?” Jarod Keller asked.
He’d been rehabbing from a surgery to correct a severe scoliosis curve in his spine and still had external fixators sticking out of his shirt.
He always wanted to hug me when I visited, but I was afraid to hurt him or mess up his hardware, so instead, with his mom’s permission, I gave him a gentle side hug and a secret piece of chocolate when the other kids weren’t looking.
Dixon cleared his throat. “A rogue was someone in olden times who was dishonest or up to no good, and this particular rogue happened to be the son of a very important man in their little town.”
Sunday Marten raised her hand. “What’s the son’s name?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions,” fourteen-year-old Carter Billings said. “He’ll get to that part if y’all let him tell his story.”
“Thanks, man,” Dixon said to Carter, “but there are no stupid questions. His name was… Augustus. Augustus Quail.” Dixon smiled at Callum, who had leaned against the doorjamb to listen, and went on.
“He was known around his town for stealin’ things.
All the shop owners closed their doors and locked ’em up tight when Augustus was near.
They had all decided he was a good-for-nothin’ teenager.
“He stole food and clothes from the locals, and then he would disappear for a few days. No one knew where he went, but they just figured he’d gone to sell all the things he’d stolen.”
Carter scoffed. “Didn’t they have cops and sheriffs in this town?”
“They did,” Dixon answered, “but the cops weren’t fast enough for Augustus.
He was young and spry and too quick for anyone to catch.
Plus, he was a master woodsman. When he was a little boy, his dad taught him, so he knew the land and could hide like a mountain lion.
Nobody ever saw him runnin’ away, and when he came back after a few days, he didn’t have any of the things he’d stolen, so the cops could never prove it was him who stole all the stuff. ”
“Nobody had a Ring camera?” Sunday asked.
Dixon laughed, and the smile on his face took my breath away. I’d forgotten how happy weaving tales made him, how it lit up his eyes.
“What’s your name?” he asked her.
“Sunday Marten,” she said, smiling up at him, and if I wasn’t wrong, a little bit smitten. “I’m eleven.”
“Naw, Sunday, this was old times. Before the internet and cell phones. No cameras.”
“Um,” Cela winced next to me and nudged my arm with her elbow. Her name tag and the keys hanging from a lanyard around her neck jangled, but she adjusted them. “Do you know where this story’s goin’? ’Cause right now we’re gettin’ dangerously close to teachin’ the kids how to be felons.”
“Have some faith,” I whispered. “All of Dixon’s stories have happy endings. You just have to wait for it.”
“Okay,” she said, but she didn’t sound as sure as I was that Dixon would be teaching the kids some kind of life lesson at the end, or he’d make them howl with laughter.
Whichever he chose, his story would be good for their souls, and they’d tell the tale over and over to their families and the nurses on the night shift.
“Now, Mr. Quail, Augustus’s father, was one of those shop owners.
His wife, Mrs. Quail, made the best bread in all the land.
It was soft and smelled so warm and sweet that people would come from miles away to buy some for their families.
She was always makin’ bread; she baked in the mornin’, in the heat of the day, and at night.
She even woke up at midnight sometimes to bake her bread.
She knew how hungry people could be, and she wanted to be able to feed them.
“But Augustus’s father watched over her carefully and kept track of all her ingredients. He was a miser—”
Sunday made a face. “What’s a miser?”
“A miser,” Dixon said, “is someone who likes to make money but doesn’t share it. Like Scrooge. You know who Mr. Scrooge is, right?”
The kids nodded.
“Good, so Augustus’s dad was a miser, and he didn’t give the bread away to anyone.
People had to pay a pretty penny for it.
But Augustus’s mama was really smart. She knew how greedy her husband had become, and it broke her heart because she knew some people couldn’t afford to buy her bread. So do you know what she did?”
Quiet as mice, the children shook their heads, waiting for Dixon to reveal his secrets.
Clearly but quietly, like he was letting the kids in on the secret, he said, “She dug a hole in the back of her kitchen that led out to the woods, but she hid it behind a window curtain and a wooden bread rack her husband had made for her. So, when Augustus needed to disappear, he had an escape route, and then she changed her recipe. She taught herself how to make even more delicious bread with less ingredients. She could make twice as much as before, and Augustus’s father was none the wiser. ”
Carter rolled his eyes. “But why was he stealin’ bread? And you said he stole clothes too.”
“I did,” Dixon said, a mischievous smile growing behind his eyes. “Augustus stole clothes and shoes, bread and milk. He even stole two chickens once from a local farmer.”
The kids giggled, probably imagining a boy stealing chickens and trying to run away with them.
Dixon straightened in his chair. Here came the crux of his story.
“In the forest, a mile outside of town, there lived a group of people—men and women, old folks, and children with red cheeks, cold from the blowin’ wind, and all of ’em were hungry.
“They were kind and hardworkin’ folks, but they weren’t from Augustus’s town. They weren’t even from the same country, and they didn’t speak a lick of English, so nobody would hire them or help them.
“But Augustus did. He ran into them one day on his way home after school. He couldn’t understand them.
He didn’t even know what language they spoke, but he watched them cut down trees to make shelters for their families and forage nuts and berries from the forest floor, and they weaved beautiful baskets out of tree branches, but there weren’t many options for meat and bread.
And their clothes had so many holes that you could see right through ’em!
“So, for months, Augustus had been stealin’ to feed and clothe the forest people.
They traded with him, and Augustus passed on the beautiful baskets they gave him to all the townsfolk he’d stolen from.
Everyone asked and begged to know where the baskets had come from because they were of the highest quality and so pretty, but no one knew. Augustus never spilled the beans.
“Now, he knew it was wrong to steal. He wasn’t really a rogue.
He was just a boy, but he was a boy who knew right from wrong, and he knew it was wrong to let those people starve when he could do somethin’ to help.
His daddy didn’t remember, but Augustus had asked him to help in the very beginning. You know what his dad said?”
The kids shook their heads.
“Mr. Quail told Augustus that givin’ the foreigners help was a copout, and they needed to work harder to provide for themselves. He wasn’t about to just hand his hard-earned money over to lazy people.”
“Then what happened?” Jarod asked.
“One day, Augustus stole a pair of pants from a local clothes maker, and he ran to his mama’s bakery. He stuffed two loaves of bread in his shirt and climbed down the hole in the floor. But this time, his dad saw and followed him.
“When he got to the end of the tunnel next to a big oak tree, the old man squinted against the bright sunlight, but he saw the path his son had taken and his footprints in the dirt, so he followed again.
“He knew he was close when he heard strange, foreign voices, so he hid behind the base of a wide cedar tree.” Dixon lifted and wove his long arms into the air, and the kids’ eyes followed.
“Branches swayed high in the forest canopy, creakin’ and whooshin’ in the wind.
But then Augustus’s father heard his son’s voice, and he could tell Augustus was scared. ”
I could’ve dropped a thumb tack and every single person in the room would’ve heard its quiet ping on the floor. Even Cela had gone quiet beside me. Callum tossed me a wink and a smile, enjoying watching Dixon tell his story.
Thunder rumbled again outside, and suddenly, Dixon jumped out of his seat, his arms now spread wide, and the kids stared up at him expectantly.
“Mr. Quail leapt out from behind his tree, expectin’ to fight these foreigners and protect his son…
but what he found instead rendered him speechless and made shame course through his heart. ”
Dixon closed his eyes, dropped his arms to his sides, and hung his head, and in unison, every kid in the room begged, “What did he find?”
Dixon nodded, ready to deliver a heartwarming finish, and he looked up solemnly. “Mr. Quail found Augustus holding a small child, skinny as a stick and weak from hunger and cold. The little boy’s mother begged Augustus, but he had no idea what she was askin’ of him.
“But Augustus’s father knew.” Dixon puffed up his chest and deepened his voice. “‘Give me the boy,’ he told his son, ‘and run ahead. Fetch the doctor.’
“Augustus was surprised to see his father in the woods, and even though he was afraid of bein’ punished for stealin’, he hoped his father would show compassion. ‘They can’t pay,’ Augustus told his dad. ‘They have no work. No money.’
“‘That matters not,’ his father said. ‘Go on now, son, and be quick. We won’t be far behind.’
“Augustus ran as fast as he could, but this time, he didn’t take the long and windin’ secret path.
He ran straight through the forest until he hit the town border, then he yelled and called loudly for the doctor.
People in the little village peeked out of their windows at Augustus, and then they began to emerge, gossiping with each other about the unruly teen and what he might be up to this time.
“But after a short while, behind Augustus, his father and the forest people appeared from the thick of the trees, and Mr. Quail commanded, ‘We need clean water and food. Bring everything you have.’
“Well,” Dixon said, “the townsfolk all scurried about, ransackin’ their kitchens for food and fillin’ jugs with water from the town well, because Augustus’s father was a miser, yes, but he loved his town.
He wanted to protect his neighbors and make sure they were fed, just like Augustus, but now he knew he’d made a mistake.
So when Mr. Quail spoke, his neighbors listened, and they could hear the regret in his voice.
“Soon, the town meetin’ hall was filled with the most delicious meats, cheeses, and breads, and everyone’s cups overflowed with fresh water.”
Quietly, Dixon sat, and he crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “The end.”
“What?” Carter blurted. “The end? That’s a crock! What about the sick kid?”
“Did Augustus get in trouble?” Sunday asked.
Dixon smirked, looking around at all the inquisitive faces still focused on him. “You tell me. What do you think happened next?”
“He probably went to jail,” Carter said.
Sunday shook her head definitively. “No, he was the town hero. They wouldn’t put him in jail.
His dad would apologize to Augustus, and he’d tell his son that seein’ the sick boy reminded him that love matters more than money.
The neighbors would have a party for Augustus, and the forest people would all move to town.
They’d build them a big mansion, and everyone would live happily ever after. ”
Dixon just smiled, letting the kids dream up their own ever afters.
“Yeah,” Jarod added. “And the forest people knew how to make different kinds of bread ’cause they were from a different country, so I bet they taught Augustus’s mom how to make their bread, and then the head of the forest people and Augustus’s dad went into business together and became the richest bread kings in all the land. ”
From the back corner of the room, thirteen-year-old Tiffany Eddison raised her voice a little, which was a welcome surprise since she normally spoke in whispers and barely at all. “I think Augustus married the forest people’s princess.”
“He’s a teenager,” Carter pointed out, rolling his eyes.
“So.” Tiffany’s face turned red. “Teenagers fall in love all the time. Haven’t you ever heard of Romeo and Juliet?”
And now Carter was blushing, and he stiffened and turned to stare at a wall.
“Y’all think about it,” Dixon said, “and maybe I’ll stop by soon so you can tell me what you came up with. Write it down so you don’t forget.”
“Okay!” Sunday jumped up from her spot on the floor, and she rushed to Cela and me standing near the door. “Can Mr. Dixon come back next week, Cela?”
“Sure, honey, if he wants to.” Cela looked across the room at Dixon.
He shrugged before he high-fived Jarod. “I’m down.”