A Difficult Boy Read online

  “You mean, he didn’t—didn’t hurt you?”

  Daniel gingerly touched his mouth, then his ribs. His cheek twitched when his fingers probed his side. “Well, not as much as he thinks he did.” He took Ethan’s arm and led him toward the window. “How ’bout you?” Turning Ethan’s face toward the fading light, his long fingers probed the red mark on Ethan’s cheek. “Not bad,” Daniel said. “Prob’ly won’t even bruise.” He gave Ethan a push toward the little table. “Put some cold water on it and it’ll be fine. Least we didn’t get a switching.”

  “S-switching?”

  Daniel raised an eyebrow. “You never been switched?”

  Ethan shook his head. “Pa mostly gives me extra chores. He says he might as well get some good out’a me being bad, and hitting never got any kindling chopped.” Ethan took one of the rags from the table and sloshed some water onto it. “Why’n’t you just tell him I did it?” He held the rag to his face. The cool moisture eased his throbbing cheekbone.

  Daniel soaked a cloth and held it to his mouth. “Wouldn’a mattered. I’d’a just got thrashed for lying, too.” Daniel’s eyes narrowed over the rag. “How come you told him you done it?”

  “I—I don’t know.” An hour ago, Ethan would have sworn that nothing would have given him greater joy than to see Daniel on his knees, his face blooming bright with blood. Instead, he’d only felt sick to his stomach. “It was the truth,” he said, although he hadn’t told the truth for its own sake. All he’d wanted was to make Mr. Lyman stop. He sat down on a fat warty squash that was nearly as big as he was. “Does he—is he like that all the time?”

  “Not if you do your work proper and keep your mouth shut and mind your manners and stay out of his way. And don’t be dropping anything. And don’t be making him angry. And—”

  “It’s not right.”

  “I never said it was. That’s just the way it is.” Daniel’s voice was as matter-of-fact as his words.

  “Aren’t you afraid of him?”

  “Nah. He’ll only knock me about a bit, then let me be. Why waste your time fearing something that can’t kill you?” Daniel put his rag aside and dug through his pockets. “Besides, every now and then when he’s not looking, I settle up with him.” He drew out a handful of broken tea cakes and offered them to Ethan. “Here. I’ll eat the bloody ones if you’re squeamish.” He picked out a few pink-smudged cakes and kept them for himself.

  Ethan gasped. “Wha—”

  “’S’all right. There’s no broken crockery in ’em.” Daniel’s mouth twisted into something that was almost, but not quite, a smile. He blew a little dirt and pocket lint from a bit of tea cake and popped it in his mouth. “No sense throwing all Lizzie’s good baking to the chickens, eh?”

  Ethan twisted the button on his shirt cuff until it couldn’t turn any more. He released it and watched it twirl back into place. Strange how something so small could cause so much trouble.

  Mr. Lyman cleared his throat. “Well, boy, there’s no need to look so timid. I’m not going to bite you. I only want to talk to you about last night.”

  Getting bitten was the least of Ethan’s worries. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hanging back out of Mr. Lyman’s reach. “I’m sorry, sir. I won’t do it again, I promise,” he blurted, although he wasn’t sure what he was promising not to do.

  Mr. Lyman smiled and nodded. Seated at his tall secretary, he looked like a benevolent judge, with no trace of the fierce disciplinarian of last evening. “I’m sure you mean that now, but a bad influence is hard to fight off.”

  “Sir?”

  Mr. Lyman’s face grew serious and thoughtful. “You may think I was rather . . . severe . . . with you boys last night. But you must understand that while you’re in my care, I’m responsible for keeping you on the right track. For making sure you’re . . . well disciplined. Do you understand?” His words were steady and even, with no sign of temper.

  “Sir?”

  “Discipline.” Mr. Lyman seemed to savor the word like a sweet on his tongue. “Discipline is the key to raising a boy. It’s why your father sent you here. Did you know that?” His chair squeaked as he shifted his weight toward Ethan.

  “No, sir.” Pa hadn’t said anything about discipline.

  “Your father is a kind man. Indulgent. It does no harm to indulge a girl. But a boy . . .” Mr. Lyman shook his head. “Discipline,” he repeated. “A well-disciplined boy makes a successful young man. Look at Silas. How many men do you think would have the management of three hundred acres at twenty-two years old? But he didn’t get that way by himself. Discipline was the key.” Mr. Lyman pointed a finger, as if the word hovered in the air before him. “And a well-disciplined boy has to be careful of whom he looks to for an example.” The finger turned on Ethan. “Do you understand?”

  “An example?”

  “Do you think your father would be pleased if he learned you were picking up bad habits from a liar and a thief?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No, indeed.” Mr. Lyman’s sigh sounded heavy with weariness.

  Ethan dropped his head and began worrying at the button again. Would Mr. Lyman tell Pa that Ethan had turned into a thief and a liar not a week after leaving home? Would Mr. Lyman send him back in disgrace?

  Mr. Lyman continued. “Paddy has always been . . . difficult. Of course, he can’t help it; it’s his nature. You don’t know how I’ve struggled to curb his temper, his willfulness, his stubbornness. But he’s still a difficult boy: unruly, clumsy, full of mischief. He could lead an unwary boy down the wrong path, and we don’t want that, do we?”

  “I—I don’t suppose so, sir.” Ethan twirled the button, drawing up a little twist of cloth at his wrist. The cuff dug into his skin.

  “If Paddy tries to lead you astray, you come and tell me, and I’ll set him right.”

  “Right?” Ethan gave the button another twist. His pulse thudded against the twisted cuff, an uncertain rhythm under his fingers.

  “You can help me make sure he’s headed down the right path. You want to help Paddy, don’t you, boy?”

  Ethan nodded as if he understood. It seemed important to Mr. Lyman that he understand, almost as if it would make the storekeeper sad rather than angry if he didn’t.

  Mr. Lyman settled back into his chair, resting his hands on his knees. “I don’t know what’s to become of that boy when he leaves here. A man needs intelligence and discipline, but Paddy . . .” He sighed as if he’d suddenly grown weary. “His birth deprived him of the first, but I thought I could give him the second. If the boy’s fit to do no more than serve, at least he could serve well.”

  “Serve, sir?”

  Mr. Lyman raised his head. “Yes, of course. It’s the way the world works. Some are fit to rule and some are fit only to serve. Do you understand?”

  “I—I think so, sir.” Ethan wondered which Mr. Lyman thought he was. He twisted his button one more time.

  “That’s a good boy.” Mr. Lyman hooked a thumb into his vest pocket. “So you just remember to come to me when you see him going wrong. Can you do that?”

  Ethan chewed his lip. He wasn’t sure he wanted Daniel set right if it meant more bloody lips and bruised ribs. But he had to give Mr. Lyman an answer. “I understand, sir,” he said.

  “Good. That’s settled, then.” Mr. Lyman opened a small black ledger and dipped his pen in the inkwell. “Now, on to business. You’ll have to pay the cost of the breakage. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Me?” Ethan’s voice squeaked.

  “Well, your father, of course. I’ll add it to what he already owes. You’ll pay it off in time.” Mr. Lyman blotted the notation and closed the book. He leaned forward. “I’m glad we had this little talk. I trust you’ll give me no further trouble.”

  “No, sir. I’ll try, sir.”

  “Good, good. After all, we don’t want your father hearing you’ve been a difficult boy, do we?”

  “No, sir.” Ethan twisted his butt
on again. He felt a snap, and it came away in his fingers.

  Chapter Five

  “Why is Ethan sad?” Ruth asked from her perch on Silas’s shoulders.

  Ethan wondered how Silas put up with his littlest sister. They’d barely left the meetinghouse when Ruth had demanded to ride home on Silas’s back. Now she sat drumming on her brother’s tall hat and surveying the lumps of newly plowed and planted earth like a queen viewing her realm from her coach.

  Silas cupped Ruth’s shoes in his hands to keep her from swinging her muddy feet against his chest and dirtying his black tailcoat. His Sabbath clothes made him look very elegant, accentuating his broad shoulders and trim waist. Only his callused, square-fingered hands marked him as a farmer rather than a lawyer or a minister or a storekeeper. He shushed Ruth’s question, but Zeloda had already latched on to it.

  “Ethan’s sad because his mama and papa don’t want him no more.”

  “Zeloda!” Silas snapped.

  Ethan dug his fists deeper into his pockets, bending his head so that his hat brim would hide his reddening face. He focused on walking a narrow line along the straggling border of tufted weeds at the edge of the road. If he concentrated very hard on keeping to the line, he couldn’t possibly hear anything Zeloda said.

  “That’s a horrible thing to say,” Florella said. “They’re probably just sick. That’s why they didn’t come to meeting today.” Her tone of studied kindness stung Ethan harder than Zeloda’s tease.

  Ethan stared back toward the center of town. It was half an hour’s walk back to the common, then another three home. If Pa or Ma were sick . . .

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Silas said. “It’s a long walk from Stackpole’s Mountain, especially after a week of planting. And with the way the roads are today—” He shook a glob of sticky mud from his shoe.

  Silas was right, Ethan thought. With so much work to be done in the spring, Pa and Ma rarely went to church in April or May. As often as not, Pa spent the Sabbath breaking it: doing those little bits of jobs that took fifteen minutes or half an hour here and there; little jobs that Pa said the Lord surely wouldn’t credit as work. He shook his head. He’d known from the start that it might be weeks before he’d see Pa and Ma again. It would have been foolish to expect to see them at church this morning. Still, it would have been nice if they’d come. If they’d come, he could have asked Pa if Mr. Lyman was right about discipline and all that.

  Silas shook his finger at his younger sister. “As for you, Zeloda, you need to mind your manners.”

  “I don’t need manners around him.” Zeloda jutted her chin in Ethan’s direction. “He’s only here ’cause his papa doesn’t pay his bills and can’t afford to keep him.”

  Ethan clenched his fists inside his pockets. He wished Zeloda were a boy so he could knock her down.

  “You shouldn’t talk about Mr. Root like that,” Florella said. “It isn’t Christian to mock the poor.” She gave Ethan a prissy little smile.

  “We’re not poor!” Ethan cast a despairing glance at Silas.

  Silas stepped between Ethan and the girls. “It isn’t Christian to mock anybody,” he said. He swung Ruth down from his shoulders. “Girls, take Ruth and get along home.”

  Ethan looked away from the girls. It was all a lie. Pa and Ma weren’t poor. They were just having a little trouble, as Pa said. They did want Ethan. They hadn’t sent him to Mr. Lyman’s just to get rid of him. But if they weren’t poor, if they did want him, why had they sent him away? Something tugged at his sleeve.

  Ruth’s cold-reddened lips puffed out in a sympathetic knot. “Don’t worry, Ethan,” she said. “If your mama and papa don’t want you, you can stay with us. Just like Paddy.”

  Just like Paddy. Ethan closed his eyes and wished he could sink into the mud and never rise up again. He barely felt Ruth’s hand squeeze his, then let go. He didn’t notice the larger hand resting on his shoulder until Silas gave him a little shake.

  “Don’t mind them. Ruth and Florella mean well. They just don’t know how to say it. And Zeloda . . .” Silas took a deep breath. “She’s her mother’s daughter.” He patted Ethan’s shoulder and nudged him forward. “Don’t worry. Maybe your parents will come next week. Or the week after.”

  Ethan’s face brightened. “Or maybe even this afternoon. Maybe they’ll go to the afternoon service. D’you think so, Silas?”

  Silas hesitated a moment before answering. “Maybe.” He nudged Ethan again, and they started back to the Lymans’.

  By the time Ethan and Silas arrived, Mrs. Lyman and her daughters were laying out dinner: a chicken pie and bread and cakes and puddings baked yesterday, and the usual complement of pickles and preserves.

  Silas rubbed his hands together and stooped in front of the fire. It crackled brightly after the chilly service and the cold walk. Ethan hovered near Silas, basking in the heat radiating from the black iron fire frame.

  Heavy footsteps announced Mr. Lyman’s arrival. Ethan slipped behind Silas and hunkered down in his jacket, his head bowed, his shoulders rounded. Already he’d learned Daniel’s trick of making himself small and inconspicuous when his master was around.

  Mr. Lyman stalked into the room and surveyed the table. The line between his eyes deepened, and his mouth curved downward into a scowl.

  The room grew quiet when Mrs. Lyman and her daughters noticed Mr. Lyman’s expression.

  The storekeeper turned to his wife. “Mrs. Lyman, is Lizzie here to dinner today?”

  “No. She went home after milking.” Mrs. Lyman’s dark eyes narrowed as she, too, spotted the flaw.

  Ethan shivered in spite of the fire. He couldn’t see the point of Mr. Lyman’s questions, but he knew they meant trouble for somebody.

  “Are we expecting a guest?”

  “No, dear.”

  Mr. Lyman tugged the front of his tailcoat straight and rubbed his hands together. “That’s what I thought. Where’s Paddy?”

  “He went to wash up,” Florella said.

  Mr. Lyman raised his chin and shouted toward the kitchen. “Paddy! Come in here!”

  Daniel’s face, pink and shiny, peeked through the doorway. “Sir?” His wet hair was combed flat against his head, but already little tufts had strayed from their place and stuck out however they pleased. He tied his cravat around a damp, drooping collar.

  “I said, come here.”

  Ethan’s stomach writhed at Mr. Lyman’s tone. Whatever was coming, he didn’t want to see it.

  Daniel entered the parlor slowly, keeping the table between himself and Mr. Lyman.

  “Come here!” Mr. Lyman pointed to the carpet directly in front of him.

  Daniel edged around the table and stopped at the spot indicated.

  “Have you forgotten how to count, you Irish idiot?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why are there too many chairs around this table?”

  Ethan did a quick mental inventory. There was Mr. Lyman’s big chair with the arms, then the four yellow painted chairs, Daniel’s swaybacked rush-seated chair, and one of the ladder-backs that the hired men usually sat on. One chair too many.

  Daniel frowned at the errant seat as if it had walked into the parlor on its own. Mr. Lyman’s hand across Daniel’s mouth directed the boy’s attention back to his master.

  Mr. Lyman’s toe tapped out a muffled rhythm on the carpet. “Well? I’m waiting for an answer.”

  “I—well, sir, I remembered you let me sit to dine on the Sabbath when I first come, so I thought you’d be wanting Ethan to do the same. I thought he could have me chair, and I could—”

  Mr. Lyman’s other hand came up this time. Daniel staggered at the blow. He would have fallen into the table if Mr. Lyman hadn’t grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pivoted him away. He shook the boy hard and shoved him against the wall. Ethan winced when Daniel’s head met the edge of the mantel.

  “You thought? You’re not here to think, boy. You’re here to do what you’re told. No less an
d no more. If there are to be any more chairs set out, Mrs. Lyman or I will tell you, understand?”

  “Yessir,” Daniel said mechanically, his eyes blank. A tendril of blood trickled down his chin.

  “B-b-b—” Ethan felt words trying to come out of his mouth. He wasn’t sure what he could say that would do any good, but it didn’t feel right not to say anything. Silas’s fingertips dug into his shoulder. Ethan glanced up. Silas moved his head slightly from side to side.

  Mr. Lyman whirled toward Ethan. “Do you have something to say, boy?”

  Ethan looked past Mr. Lyman at Daniel, still suspended in Mr. Lyman’s grip. Daniel moved his head from one side to the other, just once, as Silas had done.

  “N-n-no, sir,” Ethan said.

  “I hope not.” Mr. Lyman relaxed his grip on Daniel. “Now take those chairs away, both of you, and get out of here.” He shoved Daniel against the wall and stepped aside.

  Daniel wiped his mouth on his sleeve, took a broad step around Mr. Lyman, and picked up the offending chair.

  Silas released Ethan’s shoulder and gave him a little push forward. Ethan picked up Daniel’s chair and followed him into the kitchen. As he passed Zeloda, she crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. Florella hissed at Zeloda and pinched her elbow.

  Daniel stood by the kitchen fireplace, dabbing his lip with his shirt cuff. He spat a mouthful of blood into the fire, then explored his mouth with his fingers, as though counting his teeth. “And they tell me I’m no Christian,” he mumbled, his mouth still full of fingers. “You’d think he’d be giving his arm a rest of a Sunday, wouldn’t you? More fool me for believing he might.” He spat again.

  “Are you—are you hurt very bad?”