~ by M. C. Pehrson
Trouble began as soon as Emma and Susan went into the tipi and closed the door flap. Left outside with Uncle Lars, Tommy let out a wail. “No fair! I want to play Indians, too! I helped build it!”
Because Tommy had hauled a few pieces of bamboo, he felt strongly about his rights and refused to give up. If Emma and Susan sent him away, Tommy would sneak back later and do mischief to the camp. Mrs. Kester saw no reason why they couldn’t all play Indians together, but Emma did not want a four-year-old tagging along.
One fateful day at the farm, Mrs. Kester scolded Emma and Susan right in front of Papa. “Stop calling Tommy a pest,” she said in a very firm voice. “He’s a little boy with feelings just like yours. Either let him play, or that tipi is coming down.”
Susan was silent. But when Emma began to argue, Papa sternly cut her off. “That’s enough, Emma! You’re being selfish.”
Emma’s eyes stung with sudden tears. Turning, she ran out of the farmhouse and stopped on the porch only long enough to throw off her Indian headband and necklace. As luck would have it, Tommy was standing by the pink geraniums that grew alongside the house. Holding an old softball in one hand, he watched Emma charge down the gravel driveway.
In an instant, he was running after her. “Emma, where are you goin’? I wanna come, too!”
She turned on him fiercely. “No, you can’t! Stay home, carrot-top!”
The insult stopped red-haired Tommy, but only for a moment. As Emma ran toward the boulevard, she could hear his small feet pattering along behind her.
“Emma! Emma, wait for me!”
She reached the sidewalk, fully intending to head home alone, no matter the consequences. One last time, she glanced at Tommy. “Go back! Get away from me! You are a pest, and I hate you!”
Stung by the words, he halted at the end of the driveway. Emma ran on. Out in the boulevard, cars were rushing by. The sudden blaring of a horn startled her. Tires squealed, and there was a tremendous crash.
Emma spun around and saw that the traffic had stopped. Two cars were smashed, and as she stared at them, an old scuffed softball slowly rolled toward the curb.
Emma’s heart froze. Car doors were opening, and people rushed into the street, bending low, peering at something underneath one of the damaged automobiles. Emma thought she saw blood on the pavement. Pain slashed through her chest. Whirling, she ran for the farmhouse, hoping against hope to find Tommy along the way.
Papa and Mrs. Kester came striding toward her as if they, too, had heard the crash. Papa’s dark eyes were anxious. He caught Emma by the shoulders, and his fingers dug in. “Where’s Tommy!” he demanded.
Emma began to sob. “I don’t know…he was right there…right at the end of the driveway…and now he’s gone…”
He glanced at the boulevard and gave her a little shake. “Get in the house with Susan — and stay there.”
She did as she was told, slowly walking backward, watching the scene unfold. She saw Papa and Mrs. Kester go into the street, heard the stricken cry of a grieving mother. Then sirens were wailing.
***
Tommy was alive, but his left leg was badly hurt, struck hard by a car bumper when he chased his ball into the street after hurling it at Emma. When he fell, the front wheel of the car rolled over the same leg. Emma had not meant for it to happen, but she knew it was her fault. She would have given anything to start the day over, to erase her cruel words, and let Tommy join in her games.
The days passed in an unhappy blur. Emma stayed with Susan and Uncle Lars while Mrs. Kester and Papa took turns at the hospital with Tommy. For two solid weeks, Papa neglected his after-school science experiments. There was a new sadness in his face that tore at Emma’s heart because she knew that she alone had put it there.
Tommy underwent two surgeries — one to try and save his lower leg, and one to remove it below the knee. Thin and pallid, he came home to the farmhouse in a wheelchair, with the stump of his little leg tightly wrapped. Emma took a good long look at Tommy’s stump, at his scrapes and bruises, at the missing patch of hair where his head had been shaved and stitched. Though Papa had tried to prepare her for the sight, she backed away from Tommy and ran outdoors.
Papa found her on the porch steps, crying. Sitting down beside her, he said, “Tommy’s crying, too. He has the silly idea that you don’t like him.”
Emma’s throat ached. “I do like him, Papa. I do. It… it’s just that I feel so awful.”
“Honeybee.” Papa gently put an arm around her. “No one’s blaming you for what happened.”
She felt the tears coming harder and buried her face in his chest. “But I am to blame! I was acting selfish! Then I got mad and took off without your permission. Tommy only wanted to come along.” As Papa stroked her hair, she sobbed. “I was so mean to him…and now…and now everything’s ruined.”
Holding her close, Papa sighed. “Listen to me. We all had a part in what happened. Christina and I weren’t very understanding about your Indian camp. If any one of us — even Sue — had gone after you when you ran out, Tommy would never have chased his ball into the street. And as for Tommy, he knew better.” Papa sighed again. “Our Aunt Daisy would say, ‘What’s done is done,’ and she’d be right. Look at me, Honeybee.”
Quieting, she wiped the tears from her face. Papa’s steady, loving gaze touched her where she was hurting, deep inside.
Gently he said, “We need to start off from here with a clean slate. You mustn’t be afraid of Tommy. He’s the same boy as ever, and if we treat him naturally, he’ll do just fine.”
“But, his leg!” Emma replied – as if Papa needed to be reminded.
“Yes, the leg is gone,” he told her, “but before long, he’ll be fitted with a prosthesis — an artificial leg. And you’ll see, he’ll be running around as if nothing ever happened.”
***
Tommy’s recovery was not as quick or easy as Papa had led Emma to expect. It was difficult for an active little boy to suddenly find himself confined to a wheelchair. Everyone had to be very careful of his leg while it was healing, and sometimes Tommy cried from “phantom” pain in the missing limb.
When Emma decided to tear down the Indian camp, Mrs. Kester stopped her. “Emma, what good would that do?” she gently asked. “Wouldn’t it be better to share it with Tommy, just like he always wanted?”
Emma knew Mrs. Kester was right. Together with Susan, she wheeled Tommy to the camp on sunny afternoons. Adorned in a feathered war-bonnet, Chief Sitting Boy held council or beat a drum while his two braves danced. Eagle Eye and Red Deer led war parties, seeking the evil villain who had taken the chief’s leg in battle.
One day in the tipi, Tommy winced from the strange invisible pain. He kept insisting, “My left foot hurts — honest, I can feel it!” As Emma did her best to comfort him, he said, “I know I’m getting a fake leg soon, but when do I get my new one — a real leg like I had before?”
Silence filled the tipi. Turning, Emma met Susan’s wide-open eyes. They had thought that Tommy knew all about his handicap, but maybe he was just too young to understand.
Suddenly, in a quavering voice, Tommy answered his own question. “I ain’t getting a real leg, am I? Not ever.”
Emma felt queasy and took a deep breath. That was when the inspiration struck. “No, Tommy, it’s not true. Someday you will have a real leg again — in heaven!”
Susan quickly agreed. “That’s right, in heaven! Just wait and see.”
At that, Chief Sitting Boy smiled.
Hope, even during times like we are living.