The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree

The jam jar hit him right square between the eyes. He stood stock-still for a moment, eyes wide-open and slightly crossed. Then his knees crumpled and he pitched forward, knocking the table over, the eggs and ham and grits and coffee cascading onto the floor. The convict fell facedown into the mess and lay there unmoving.

And then Lucy did an entirely unexpected thing. Instead of flinging her arms around Ophelia and crying, “Oh, thank you, Opie! Thank you for saving my life!” she shrieked “Oh, no! Oh, my God, Opie, you’ve killed him!” Frantically, she ran to the man’s side, knelt down, trying to roll him over.

“I certainly hope so,” Ophelia said defensively. “He was holding you hostage, wasn’t he? Why, the man could have raped you!” A horrifying thought struck her and she felt her knees go wobbly. “He didn’t, did he?” she asked, in a trembling voice. “The kids are all right, aren’t they?”

Then another thought. She forced herself to be brave, to take more bold action. “Quick, Lucy, we need some rope! We have to tie his hands and his feet before he comes to.”

“We do not need rope,” Lucy said, in a scathing tone. “The kids are in school, and no, he didn’t rape me or hurt them.” She made a disgusted noise. “Look at him, Opie, for crying out loud. He’s only a boy. He’s barely fifteen.” She scrambled to her feet and went to the white enamel water bucket on the shelf beside the door. She grabbed a towel, the dipper, and the bucket and carried them back to the man. “Help me roll him over.”

“A boy?” Ophelia asked uncertainly. She knelt beside Lucy and together they rolled him onto his back. The jam jar had left a three-inch gash on his forehead. It was oozing blood, but he was beginning to open his eyes.

To Ophelia’s dismay, she saw that Lucy was right. She had not knocked down a towering Goliath but a slight, pale boy, not much older than her own son, Sam. No beard yet, his features as shapely and delicate as a girl’s.

Lucy dipped the dipper into the pail and splashed cold water on his face. “Come on, Joey,” she commanded urgently. “Wake up. Wake up, please!”

“Joey?” Ophelia swallowed. “You ... You know his name?”

“Of course I know his name, you goose. He’s been living here with us. Hiding out. He’s been so sick. Really sick, I mean. Once or twice, I actually thought he was going to die.” She wrung out the towel in the bucket and folded it across his forehead. The gash was beginning to swell. “Joey,” she crooned. “Come on, Joey, wake up!”

Ophelia sat back on her heels, trying to come to terms with what she was seeing and hearing. He had been living here? Hiding out? And there was Lucy, speaking as gently to this escaped convict as she would to one of Ralph’s boys. What was going on here?

It took a few moments, but at last the convict—Joey—was sitting up, taking little sips of water from the dipper Lucy held to his lips, and trying not to cry. With Lucy’s arm around him, he looked even younger than fifteen. Twelve, maybe.

“Sit tight, Joey,” Lucy said, getting to her feet. “I’ll fetch the iodine.” She was back in a moment, iodine bottle in her hand. She doctored the gash as he winced.

“It hurts,” he whimpered. His voice squeaked, and he ducked his head, embarrassed.

“Of course it hurts, silly,” Lucy said warmly. “Iodine is supposed to hurt. Kills the germs that way. You don’t want to get infected, do you?” She finished with the iodine. “Now, let’s get you off to bed. I don’t think you ought to try to eat right now, with your head like that. Okay?” She frowned at Ophelia. “Well, don’t just stand there, Opie, help me!”

“Oh, sorry,” Ophelia muttered, already beginning to wish that she hadn’t been so quick to act. Obviously, she had walked into something that was entirely different from what she had thought it was.

Between the two of them, they got the boy to his feet, his arms over their shoulders. He was tall, yes, taller than Ophelia, but much lighter than she would have guessed, almost skin and bones. Ophelia thought he must have been sick, to have lost so much weight.

Or maybe they didn’t feed them very well at the prison farm. She’d heard that the farm raised its own food, but that the best of it—the meat, especially, and the freshest vegetables—went to the guards and the higher-ups and their families. Of course. That was just the way things worked. The prisoners would always come last. They probably didn’t get any milk, either. And she had heard horror stories about the prison doctor who tended the prisoners when they got sick—not somebody you’d want to look after somebody you loved.

They put the boy to bed in one of the kids’ beds. Lucy covered him lightly and smoothed his gashed forehead with a tender hand. “He doesn’t have a fever anymore, thank goodness,” she said, half to herself. More loudly, she said, “You have a nice rest now, Joey. I’ll fix you something else to eat when you’re awake.” She glanced at Ophelia. “And then we’re going to do what we talked about. Remember what that was?”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Today?” he asked eagerly.