The holdup
James Early felt something pointy and sharp in his back.
"It's a knife," a voice said from behind. "Gimme yer money."
"Yeah, sure. In my back pocket."
The cold of December slid up under the back of Early's jacket, along with a hand, a hand that lifted his wallet from his pants pocket.
The back of his jacket fell back into place, and the draft ceased.
"Don't turn 'round," the voice said, but Early did.
"Don't turn 'round, I said."
"Sorry. Hey, I just want to see who's so desperate that they'd stick somebody up on Christmas Eve."
"All right, you seen me, but don't try to stop me. I got my knife."
Early raised his hands, palms outward. "Wouldn't think of it," he said.
The blade flashed in the light from the corner street lamp as the kid backed away. To Early, the knife looked to be a four-incher, probably a switchblade. He preferred not to find out anything more definitive given the circumstances.
A youth, probably. But that was a guess. In this poor light, the kid could be in his twenties, Early thought. Shabbily dressed, that was clear. Jeans and a heavy shirt, and a knit cap pulled down over his ears.
"You're not going to take my jacket?" Early asked.
"Why should I?"
"Well, if I were gonna go around sticking up people on Christmas Eve, I'd at least want to be warm. Here." He shucked himself out of his sheepskin and held it out.
The youth took it, but appeared to be uncertain about what to do next.
"Hard to pull on a jacket when you have a knife in your hand, isn't it?" Early said. "Want me to help you?"
"No."
"Okay. You look a tad hungry, son. When's the last time you had a good meal?"
"What concern is it of yours?"
"None, I s'pose. But the Brass Nickel up the street there, I was about to go in for supper. What say I stake you? I'm alone. I could use the company."
"I got a knife."
"I see that. Let me suggest you put it in your pocket. A knife'd make people in the café a mite nervous."
Early watched, watched the boy hesitate, then fold his knife into its handle. And he watched him slip the knife into his front pants pocket. Early could take him, and he knew it. But that knife, if the boy got it out in the struggle and hit the button, Early'd get cut. Given a choice—and he had one—he'd rather that not happen. Sure spoil a Christmas Eve.
"Just a minute," he said, "I gotta write myself a note, then we'll go get something to eat."
Early took a stub of a pencil and a business card from his shirt pocket. He scribbled on the back of the card. When done, he put the pencil back in his pocket.
"So what do you think you'd like to eat?" Early asked as he struck out for the Brass Nickel, the youth moving along at his side but none too close.
"I don't know," he said. "What they got?"
"Oh, just good home cookin'. I expect the pot roast would taste pretty good."
Early pushed the door open. He stepped inside, into the warmth, into the smells of coffee and cherry pie and meat gravy swirling around. The bell above the door tinkled, and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing "We Three Kings" came from the radio above the pass-through. Before the man at the cash register could say something, Early pressed his card into the man's hand and nodded at it.
"How's business, Arnie?" Early asked.
Arnie Dimble, the owner of the Nickel, read the card. "Slow, Jimmy, it's Christmas Eve. Your usual table for you and your buddy there?"
"Be fine."
Dimble stepped around the counter and limped on, two paper menus tucked under his arm.
"Hurt yourself, Arn?" Early asked.
"Fell on the ice outside the backdoor this morning. Pretty good bump on the rump." Dimble set the menus on a table ready for four and stepped back while Early and the youth sat down. "I can recommend the turkey dinner. Traditional, you know."
"We've been thinking pot roast," Early said. He swept off his cattlemen's hat. Early set it in on a chair to the side and finger-combed his hair.
Dimble scratched at a sideburn. "Pot roast, now you're making me hungry. I slow-cooked that fella, basted it with my secret sauce. It's mighty darn good, I'll tell ya. I'll get you a waitress over here."
Early smiled his appreciation. He leaned forward and pointed a finger at the boy's knit cap.
The boy pulled his cap off. He fiddled with it while Early studied the menu.
"Whatcha readin' that for if you know what you're going to have?" the boy asked.
"Never know what other good things you might find. Says here oyster stew. You ever have that?"
"My folks couldn't never afford anything like that."
"Money tight, huh?"
The boy looked away.
"Where you from, anyway?" Early asked.
The boy glanced down at the floor.
"Let's me guess. I'd say Topeka."
The boy's glance came up, surprise ringing his eyes.
"Just a guess," Early said. "I could see from your smooth hands you aren't a farm kid, so Topeka seemed reasonable. And I'd guess there isn't much of a home there, so you've decided it'd be best to get out. Have I got it about right?"
The boy didn't answer.
Earky went on. "I'd say you bummed a ride west, maybe with a trucker, and he let you out here. But that's just a guess."
A waitress came up, a middle-aged woman, stout, a coffeepot in her hand. She poured Early's cup full. "Evening, Jimmy."
"Mavis."
"Arnie says you and your friend have a longing for our pot roast."
"That and the oyster stew."
"Good choices." She leaned the pot toward the boy's cup. "And what about you? Coffee?"
"I guess."
She filled his cup. "Jimmy, shame on him, didn't introduce us. What's your name?"
"Uhm, Seth."
"A Bible name, I like that. Seth, I'll have that oyster stew for you in just a minute."
Early touched Mavis' arm. "How're the kids?"
"Just the best, Jimmy. Both are traveling in tonight, Beth coming on the bus from Kansas City. And Andy's driving up from Wichita."
"So Christmas is going to be a big day?"
"Just the best. How about you?"
"Me and the baby and Walt and Nadine Estes."
"Oh, that'll be nice. They do like that little girl of yours. Well, I best be getting your order up." With that the waitress turned toward the swinging doors that separated the dining room from the kitchen. She passed through and an elderly man appeared from the other side, in well-wrinkled trousers and an undershirt, his wispy hair waving with the movement of the air. He wiped his hands on a towel as he called out through a gap-toothed grin, "Jimmy, merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, Ed," Early called back and he waved.
The man wiggled his fingers at Early, then disappeared back into the kitchen.
"Who's that?" the boy asked.
"Ed Watson. He's the dishwasher here."
"A dishwasher? And you talk to him?"
"Son, it doesn't cost me a penny to be nice to anyone. And I always figure the nice I give away, it'll come back to me sometime."
"Mister, I don't understand you." He dropped his voice low, almost to a whisper as he continued. "I rob you an' you bring me in for supper."
"Son, there isn't anything to understand."
Mavis came back through the swinging doors, carrying a bowl of stew in each hand. She set one bowl in front of Early and the other in front of the boy. "I went ahead and put some oyster crackers on the top. They're good that way."
"Thank you," Early said as he picked up his spoon.
Mavis went off to clear several tables deserted by diners who had departed. She left Early and the boy eating in silence. When Early finished, he pushed his bowl aside, and there stood Mavis at his elbow with plates laden with pot roast, boiled potatoes, diced rutabagas, carrots, and stewed cabbage.
With his napkin, Early dabbed at the milky remnants of the stew on his mustache. "You don't hardly let one catch his breath," he said.
"The way Seth inhaled that stew, I knew I'd better get here quick with the main course or he'd take to chewing on the tablecloth." Mavis deposited the plates and left. She returned a moment later with a platter of brown bread and a bowl of butter.
Early watched the boy sample his mug of coffee, watched him wince.
"Not used to that, are you?" Early asked.
"Not my first choice."
"You pour in the milk and sugar, and they'll kill the bitter."
The boy dumped in milk from a pitcher, then added three overflowing spoonsfuls of sugar. He stirred and stirred some more. Finally, he sipped at the pale brew. "It's not half-bad now," he said as he set the china mug down.
"You'll get used to it."
Early sawed off a hunk of beef. He tucked it into his mouth, and the boy did the same. As Early chewed, he said, "Your folks going to miss you?"
"No." The boy broke open one of his potatoes. He dashed it with pepper and speared part of the potato into his mouth.
"How's that?" Early asked.
"They're dead."
"Oh."
The boy helped himself to a slice of bread and swabbed it with butter. "Two weeks ago, they were driving downtown. Hit some ice on a bridge, a policeman told me. Car ran off, hit a pole."
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah."
Early tried the cabbage.
"I got 'em buried," the boy said, "and the landlord told me I'd have to pay the rent or get out. We owed a couple months, I didn't know that." With hurt showing from every pore of his face, the boy looked up at Early. "What am I telling you this for?"
"I guess I asked. No other family?"
"Brother in the Navy, shipboard, I don't know where. And an uncle out by Wakeeney. I called him, and he said if I could get myself out there, he'd give me a job on his wheat ranch."
"He didn't come to the funeral?"
"Said he couldn't. Said he lost his crop this year, that he didn't have enough money for the gas to come. Seems he's as up against it like my father was."
"So you're headin' west. And you figured sticking me up might help you get there."
"When that trucker put me out, what else was I to do?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe ask someone for help?"
"Who?"
"That's a tough one, isn't it? So this uncle of yours who's broke is going to hire you."
The boy stuffed his mouth with carrots and worked them around his molars. "Maybe," he said, speaking through the mass, "maybe he can help me get on with someone else."
"There is that." Early cut himself another hunk of beef.
The conversation tailed off to nothing as the two ate. When done, as a final effort Early wiped up the last of the beef juice on his plate with a slice of bread, and he ate that.
Again Mavis appeared at his elbow. "Dessert, Jimmy?"
"I might, but Seth, I don't think he's got time."
"Why's that?"
"He's gotta catch that bus your daughter's coming in on. He's going to Wakeeney."
"Well, glory."
"Suppose you sack him up some cake and a sandwich and a cookie or two he can eat on the way, maybe put in a bottle of milk?"
"I'll just do that," Mavis said. She gathered up the plates and bowls and went to the kitchen.
The boy peered across at Early. "I don't have nothin' for a bus ticket."
"I suppose I can stake you to that."
"But you're already buying me supper."
"No, son, you're buying supper for the both of us. You got my money, remember?"
The boy reached in his pocket. He brought out Early's wallet.
"Go ahead, open it," Early said.
He didn't. He just put the wallet down next to his half-empty coffee cup.
Early gathered in his wallet, the leather worn from long years of use. He took out a five-dollar bill and laid it on the table. "For supper and a very large Christmas tip for Mavis, worth it, don't you think, for taking care of us?"
"I guess."
Early next pulled out a tenner. He held it out to the boy. "For the bus. You know where the station is?"
"I saw it when I got out of the truck."
"If my memory of the schedule's right, you've got about fifteen minutes. That driver doesn't wait." Early took out a one. "This will pay for your call to your uncle when you get to Wakeeney and leave you something for breakfast."
"I don't know how to thank you."
"Did you hear me asking for thanks?"
The boy pushed back. As he stood, he began to strip out of Early's jacket, but Early raised his hand. "Keep it. It's cold out there. You're gonna need it more than me."
"Isn't there anything—"
"Come to think of it, there is."
"What's that?"
"Your knife. That switchblade. You keep that and sometime it's going to get you in real trouble."
"But my brother gave me that and his cap—my cap—when he shipped out."
"Son?" Early waggled his fingers.
The boy chewed on his lip. Then he brought out the knife. He drummed it against his fingers as if he were weighing its future and his own. With much hesitation, he placed the knife in Early's hand. "What you gonna do with it?"
"I don't know, I'll figure something out. Don't look so sad. You've got my jacket."
The boy's hand went to the wool lining. "It's nice," he said.
"You take care of that. Someday you get to feeling good about the world and you got a little money in your pocket, you send me my jacket back. My card's in the pocket."
"I'll do that."
"Yeah. You better go now."
The boy picked up his knit cap from the chair where he'd laid it. He fitted the cap over his disheveled hair, backed up a couple steps and gave a weak, shy wave, and swirled away.
"Just a minute," Mavis said, calling out as she bustled through the swinging doors, toting a paper bag, one hand beneath it, the other gripping the top. "For your trip."
The boy twisted back. He took the bag, mumbled a "thank you," and went on outside.
Dimble came limping away from the cash register to Early's table. He put Early's card down and tapped his index finger on it. "Jimmy, we did what you said here. Didn't call you sheriff. What the heck was this all about?"
"A lost boy," Early said. He caressed the folded switchblade, but only for a moment, then passed it over to Dimble. "Get rid of this for me."
© Jerry Peterson.
