Читать книгу Of Man and Animals - Thomas R. Hauff - Страница 11

Wooster McDowel opened the screen door and carefully made his way to the old rocking chair that sat out on the porch. As usual, his slow progress meant that the screen bumped him as he went by, and as usual, he spilled some of his black coffee on the old porch boards. He hardly noticed anymore. There was a time when he used to try to stop the door from hitting him. And before that, he could get by easily enough without it touching him at all. But those days were long gone. Now that he was past eighty, he moved too slowly to side step the spring that pulled the screen shut. Ah well, that’s life.

Wooster turned his back on the chair, bent his legs as far as they would bend nowadays, and reached back with his left hand to find the arm. Once, he had thought he was gonna sit down, and found he had not been close enough to the chair. He spilled a lot of coffee that day! Funny how he always thought of that when he was sitting down now. His daughter had heard about it and given him a good tongue lashing about “now that you’re older you’ve got to be more careful!” and “you could have laid there for hours with a broken hip!” It seemed like her biggest fear was no longer the bogey man he used to clear out of her closets when she was little. Now it was “the broken hip.” A tight smile crossed Wooster’s face as he envisioned a leg, shrouded in a black cloak, hopping along with that Bela Lugosi music playing in the background!

Finding the arm of the rocker, Wooster settled back and finally plopped the last few inches into the chair. Ahhhhh. He’d been sitting in this chair for sixty years if it was a day. He had to have it rebuilt a couple times. The kids busted it up some when they played on it. That was years ago. They were grown with kids of their own and broken furniture in their houses now.

Wooster’s bright and very sky-blue eyes traveled up and down the street as he sipped his cup o’ joe. Since his Emma had died, he usually drank his coffee out on the stoop. They used to talk in the morning. They’d sit inside at the table in the kitchen and listen to the radio or TV, commenting on issues. They were very current for septuagenarians. She died of the cancer about four years ago. It was a blessing in Wooster’s mind. She’d been sick a long time. He mumbled softly to himself, “I just keep on goin’ though.” He’d sit out on the stoop and watch the street because it was nice to see people. He could sit inside, but he figured if an old man like him were ever gonna see people, he’d have to go out and do it, “‘cause they weren’t gonna come to him.” And since it was hard to get out a lot, sitting on the stoop was the next best thing.

He’d wave at Don Reynolds as he came out for work. Good man, Don. He’d been at the mill for years till it shut down. That would have broke a lot of men. Some had a hard time changin’ once they got settled into a job. But Don took it in stride, got some training, and was now working with computers. Wooster didn’t really know much about the field. He did actually have a computer, though. He got email with it. Don showed him how to use it. He set it up too. Wooster pretty much just checked mail. The rest was not of any concern.

Often he’d see the kids on their way to school. Some were brats. He chuckled. He was a brat when he was a kid. But most were good kids—like his own grandkids. “Living large” in the world, as the younger people said.

There was another good reason to sit on the stoop in the morning. It had nothing to do with people. It was for protection! He had to protect his strawberries! Although he was pretty stiff, and it was difficult, he still liked to plant strawberries and flowers in the front garden. Unfortunately, he couldn’t just leave ‘em to grow. The problem was those starlings. Darn starlings. He couldn’t think of any use for that bird. They were actually an import from Europe, he’d heard. He wished they’d have stayed put!

The starlings would fly about in big flocks. They’d hang out on the wires like a gang of dark feathered ne’er-do-wells. They’d be watching the plants growing all over the neighborhood. And when the time came, they’d come and settle on his strawberries just like a bunch of ruffians would take to a single man in a dark alley! They usually worked his berries in the morning. They liked to feed in the morning he figured. Anyway, Wooster put a small scarecrow up, and sat on his porch in the summer to keep an eye on those starlings. Stupid starlings.

While Wooster scanned the street, as though on cue, a small flock of starlings flew in over his house and settled down the block a bit on Mavis’s front lawn. “Well and good,” thought Wooster, “just keep to her lawn, and leave my strawberries be!”

It was a Saturday morning; about eight or so. Wooster slurped another bit of coffee, and watched as Paul Compton’s garage door swung up. Paul had one of those electric garage door openers. Used to be when a garage door swung up, there was someone there to greet ‘cause they swung it up by hand. Now it just opened, and maybe someone was there, maybe not. Paul was there. He spied Wooster sitting on the porch and smiled at him, accompanied by a small wave. Wooster smiled back, and held his cup up. Paul nodded and set his tools down. He walked back into the garage and disappeared for a moment. He returned holding a cup. He strolled down his drive, looked both ways, and crossed to Wooster’s white picket gate. “Morning Wooster.”

“Well good morning to you Paul. Have a cup?”

Paul opened the gate saying, “You know I will.” He hefted the cup he had retrieved from his kitchen. It was a gift from Wooster a few Christmases back. Paul said it felt good in his hand and he’d use it when they had coffee. He really did that every time too!

Paul was about forty or so, Wooster thought. He was a nice young man—had a good wife, Loreen, and good kids too. The kids didn’t spend much time with Wooster. Most kids had too much energy to spend time with Wooster. He didn’t mind. They tired him out just as much as he thought he must bore them! The Comptons had gotten to know Wooster the day they moved in. It was a Saturday, and Wooster had been on the porch watching, as usual, when the moving truck arrived. Their little one, at the time, had wandered over and sat down on Wooster’s porch while the adults were busy moving in. Wooster had chatted for a good fifteen minutes with the boy before his mom and dad had noticed he had disappeared. They came a runnin’ when they saw him. It gave them all a chance to meet, and they’d been friends ever since. The Comptons had Wooster over for dinner every couple weeks since. They were a nice family. Wooster knew he was an old man, and they were young and had lives. He appreciated their generosity.

Paul came out from the kitchen where he had gotten some coffee for his cup. He pulled the other rocker up a little and plunked down, groaning a little as he did. Wooster looked over at him and said, “So what’s on the agenda today? Looks like you were planning some work.”

Paul slurped some coffee, then said, “Yeah, that little fir there on the corner of the lot,” he pointed by swinging his cup gently at the tree, “I’m taking her out. Loreen doesn’t like it.” He didn’t take the tone that said, “I wish Loreen would let it be.” Wooster had heard men moan and groan about their wives’ yard wishes before. Paul didn’t do that. His wife ran a nursery. She knew plants and landscaping, and Paul knew that she had some plan. He often said she was the brains of the operation and he was the brawn. Wooster knew that Paul had brains too, but just used them in other areas.

“I saw you up late last night” said Paul.

“Yeah, couldn’t sleep. You must have been up late too to notice, eh?” replied Wooster. Wooster couldn’t sleep too well anymore. His doctor had said when you get older you sleep less. “Great,” thought Wooster. “I’ve slept crummy all my life. Now I get to sleep even crummier!”

Paul shrugged, “Naw, I just woke up a little hungry, so I came down for a snack. I saw your light on. Nothing wrong?”

Wooster shook his head, sipped some coffee, then said, “Naw. Nothing special. So how you taking that tree out?”

“I thought I’d first take the branches off, then cut her down to about three feet, then dig the stump out.”

Wooster nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Yeah. I better get on it too. I want to catch the game at one. You watching?”

Wooster and Paul sometimes watched baseball on Saturday afternoons. Wooster shook his head, “I think I’ll pass today if you don’t mind. I’m pretty sure I’ll need a nap and I don’t want to nod off on you.” Of course, it would not have been the first time he’d nodded off on Paul. But that was not intentional. He was pretty sure he would need a good hour or so of sleep this afternoon.

Paul nodded and said, “Ok, but if you decide different, just let me know. I’ll bring the chips.” He grinned at Wooster and drained the last of his coffee. “Ok, I’m on it!” And with that he stood and headed back across the street. Loreen came out into the garage as he crossed to their driveway. She smiled at him, then waved to Wooster and yelled, “Hey Wooster! Good morning!” Wooster raised his cup to her and grinned. She was a nice gal.

It was about 8:45 by the time Paul had assembled his tools. The tree wasn’t big, so he was gonna use a bow saw to cut the limbs off and to cut the trunk down to about three feet. Course, size would make no difference to his tool selection. He didn’t have much at the house anyway. He began and was about half way through the limbs when Wooster heard Ronnie Waldron coming up the side of the house. Ronnie lived next door. He would come out his back door and crawl under the hedge to get to Wooster’s. They often sat in the back and drank lemonade together.

Ronnie was a nice kid, and he was Wooster’s speed too. Ronnie was retarded. He had other friends, but most kids (not intending to be mean or anything) just were in a different league than Ronnie. Ronnie was unable to keep up. He didn’t speak well. He was uncoordinated. He was slow to think and act. It was like a station wagon at the Indy 500. The cars were all good, but the wagon just didn’t fit in well.

Ronnie rounded the corner and flashed a huge smile at Wooster. “Hi Mr. McDowel!” he shouted enthusiastically. He was enthusiastic every time he saw Wooster; like he found a long lost friend anew each day.

Wooster grinned at him and said, “Hey Ronnie! Sit yourself down!” The two fit well at this point in life for one reason. Wooster was a quiet man, and sat a lot on his porch. Ronnie was a quiet kid, who didn’t mind sitting on the porch. They were perfect company. “Have a cup?” Wooster prodded with a grin. It was a ritual. Wooster would ask Ronnie if he’d like some coffee, and Ronnie would say, “No. Mom says I can’t have coffee.”

With a grin to match Wooster’s, Ronnie answered, “No, Mom says I can’t have coffee ‘cause I’m too little.” His eyes sparkled, for he knew Wooster was just teasing him.

Wooster nodded and said, “Well, moms know best.”

Ronnie came onto the porch and sat down in the rocker left vacant by Paul. He settled back into it, and this left his feet not quite touching the ground. But if he stretched real hard, and pointed his toes, he could make the rocker rock. And he liked that. So the two sat side by side listening to the soft squeak of Ronnie’s rocker.

After a bit, Wooster said, “I think I’ll get another cup. Would you like some milk, Ronnie?”

Ronnie nodded his head and continued to rock. Wooster ambled past him, got in the door and got back with a cup of coffee and a small glass of milk. He hardly spilled any as the screen bumped him! He handed Ronnie the glass and said, “Now careful not to spill.” Ronnie almost always spilled, but Wooster treated him as any other kid. He got the “don’t spill” command just like Wooster’s kids had when they were little. It didn’t mean you wouldn’t spill, it just meant, “I love you and don’t want you to spill.” After all, they were on the porch and heaven knows Wooster had spilled enough milk and coffee out here to fill a bathtub!

When Wooster was seated, and Ronnie had the first coat of milk mustache on his face, Wooster pointed over at Paul and said, “I’m watching Mr. Compton pull that tree out. Mrs. Compton says it doesn’t fit there.”

That was one thing that tipped you off about Ronnie and his retardation. He didn’t respond like you would expect a kid to. Were Wooster to say that to a regular kid, he would probably be regaled with questions like, “Why does Mrs. Compton want the tree gone?” or, “Why doesn’t it fit there?” Ronnie didn’t ask anything. He just nodded seriously, and stared at Paul. He stopped rocking too. He just sat back, sipped at his milk and watched as Paul worked.

Wooster watched Ronnie for a few minutes. He was a good boy. It hurt Wooster to see Ronnie missing so much. But Ronnie didn’t seem to notice very often that he missed things. At least he rarely indicated that he noticed. Now and again he would look . . . wistful (at least that is what Wooster thought) . . . as though he longed for something that he knew he couldn’t get. But mostly he just matter-of-factly said things like, “I can’t do that because I can’t run fast,” or, “I’m not strong enough to do that,” or, “I’m not smart like that.” He knew his limitations, and just worked inside them. It was pretty mature for a kid branded “retarded,” thought Wooster.

The two sat and rocked and watched Paul in silence. And actually, though Wooster doubted he could convince most people, it was a pretty good show! Clearly, Paul was not a gardener. He may know how to invest money (he was a stock broker), but it was obvious he did not know about how to take a tree down. His saw seemed completely dull as far as Wooster could ascertain. And often, Paul just didn’t position himself correctly to place the optimum force on the blade as he worked. Consequently, he would misfire when trying to stroke the blade along the bark. Or he would bend the saw. It was rather hilarious to watch, and Wooster found himself grinning at the misfortune of his friend. He looked over and saw that Ronnie was looking at him and grinning too. He doubted that Ronnie knew what he was grinning about, but if Wooster was happy, Ronnie was happy.

Wooster winked and said, “This should be good when he gets to digging that stump out eh?”

Ronnie grinned a huge grin and answered, “Yeah.”

It was probably ten o’clock by the time the branches were off the tree. Late enough in the morning that Wooster could break out the licorice. Ronnie loved the red licorice. His folks had said to Wooster that it was all right to give it to him too. Ronnie was interesting in that he was very controlled about food. A lot of kids just eat and eat until they are over stuffed. Even the very smart ones would do that sometimes. But Ronnie never did. Wooster could open one of those big ol’ tubs of licorice, set it down between them, and know for a fact that Ronnie would not eat more than five pieces. Oh now and then he’d have more. But just as often he’d have less. He just ate till he felt it was enough, and it was never gluttonous. Again, pretty mature for a kid with some mental problems, noted Wooster.

Wooster looked at Ronnie. Ronnie looked back and smiled. Wooster clicked his tongue and said, “You feel like some licorice?”

Ronnie’s eyes brightened and he said, “Yeah.”

Wooster said, “You know where it is right?” He asked this question every time. Most times Ronnie did know. But now and then he would stare back blankly as though he’d never gotten the tub himself. Wooster just chalked it up to a quirk in his brain that made him forget now and then. This morning Ronnie nodded and said, “I remember.” He slid off the rocker and stood there watching Wooster, waiting for the cue.

Wooster would not have minded if Ronnie had scampered off into his house and rummaged around in the kitchen on his own. But Ronnie never did. He would always wait until Wooster gave him the go ahead. He nodded to the boy and said, “Why don’t you fetch it for us? Go ahead.”

Ronnie smiled and walked to the screen door. He fumbled with it for a second, then disappeared into the house. A minute later he returned carrying the tub of licorice like it was a gold statue from an Egyptian tomb. He treated everything he touched with great care. Wooster thought the boy had probably broken things in the past and after a scolding or two took it upon himself to be diligent with everything he touched. Even plastic tubs.

Ronnie didn’t set the tub down. He brought it over to Wooster and stood there waiting for him to take it. Wooster did, and Ronnie turned and crawled back into his rocker. He showed no rush or extraordinary eagerness other than a smile and the fact that his eyes followed Wooster as he opened the tub. Wooster then set it down between them, and pulled a few pieces from it. He handed a couple to Ronnie, and kept one for himself.

Ronnie took them. He folded one over and jammed it into his pocket. The other he began to eat slowly as Wooster did.

The first time Ronnie had gotten licorice from Wooster, he had eaten it down pretty fast. Wooster didn’t say anything, knowing that most kids did that. But after Ronnie finished wolfing his pieces down, he watched Wooster eat. Wooster coddled his licorice. He’d suck it a bit to soften it. Then he’d chew a bit. He just savored it as his one vice. He’d had a sweet tooth for red licorice for years.

After that, Ronnie never wolfed his licorice again. Ever. He would eat it like Wooster. At first it was funny. The boy seemed to actually be trying to imitate just what Wooster did. But after a while he just ate it slowly, as though he liked it that way. And why not? It made your five pieces last longer!

The two sat and ate their licorice slowly as Paul began to saw at the trunk of the tree with his dull bow saw. It was comical! The trunk was about seven inches in diameter where Paul was sawing it; about three feet off the ground. A bow saw is just not the right tool for the task though. It kept twisting on him. And the trunk would squeeze down on the blade harder and harder the farther Paul got into the wood, until he had to tug it loose and try sawing in a different place, lining up the cuts so they would meet somewhere in the middle. That, of course, almost never worked just right. Wooster had been there, done that. Even with a chain saw it often didn’t work.

Paul was one of those talkers. Some men work silently. They just do their work. Wooster’s dad was that way, sort of. He would make noises from time to time. Grunts and sighs, whistles, and quick in-drawn breaths. But he never actually talked much. His thing was his tongue. He’d stick it out when the work got hard. You could tell it was not a good time to interrupt dad when the tongue was out. He’d probably yell at you! Some men need to talk though. They usually talk at whatever they’re working on. Asking questions of the project, stating philosophical truths. It could be funny to Wooster. It was like they expected inanimate objects to answer back!

Paul was talking now. Talking to the tree, “C’mon you. Why are you doing this? Why won’t you cut through? C’mon! C’mon!”

Wooster was smiling when he said to Ronnie, “Sounds like Mr. Compton is having a few troubles doesn’t it? That tree has a mind of its own.” Wooster never talked down to Ronnie. He just talked to him like he would anyone else. If the boy understood the subtleties of the conversation, well and good. If he didn’t, then maybe he would learn something. Wooster wasn’t going to act differently with Ronnie just because he was retarded. Wooster figured Ronnie was like everyone else: He’d understand what he could, and either ask about or ignore the rest. It worked fine for them both. Sometimes Ronnie asked a question, sometimes he just sat.

Ronnie nodded at Wooster and said, “It sure does.” Wooster didn’t know if Ronnie knew what the troubles were or not. Ronnie didn’t ask anything this time.

“You dang tree! C’mon!” Paul snarled it.

Wooster openly giggled. He was not mocking Paul. It was more in sympathy. He’d been in the same type of situation many times in his life. Maddening situations where you wanted something to go a certain way, and it seemed to fight you on every step. It was easy to laugh about when you weren’t the one fighting the tree. Still, that was life. Sometimes you were the laugher, sometimes you were the one fighting the tree. Wooster and Ronnie got the good side of the coin this day.

Ronnie said, “What’s funny?”

Wooster turned to him and said, “Nothing. I was just thinking.” He didn’t want the boy to think it was good to laugh at an adult.

Ronnie nodded and said, “I think it’s kinda funny when Mr. Compton talks to the tree.”

Wooster smiled and said, “Yeah, that is funny, isn’t it? They grinned at one another, and Ronnie pulled the bent licorice from his pocket and began on it. Wooster reached down and pulled another piece from the tub. It was good.

Paul was getting more frustrated by the moment. He stepped back from the tree for a minute, leaving the saw hanging in the latest cut he had inflicted on the trunk. He said out loud to himself, “I think I’ll pick these branches up.” He then began to stack the branches up near the drive so he could later take the whole mess to the dump. It was a good way to step back from his frustrations for a bit. After he had finished picking up the branches, he raked the lawn around the tree, dumping all the twigs and such in his trash can.

“Ok, now I’m ready again,” he said to the wind. And with that he began to push the bow saw back and forth again. It tried to twist and bind on him again, but he was getting the hang of it. He found that if he pressed on the top portion of the trunk, it split the cut wider and allowed the saw to move more freely. So there he worked while Wooster and Ronnie watched. His body leaned into his left hand up above the cut he was making in the trunk, and his right hand did the sawing. He got pretty far through this time before he could no longer move the blade. Of course, when he tried to remove the saw from the trunk, he found it took all his strength. But no matter; he got it out.

Paul figured one more cut on the opposite side and he’d have the top of the trunk off. He set to it after a short breather, during which he looked at the ground around the tree. He was thinking it had to be easier to dig the roots out than it was cutting through the trunk with a bow saw!

Ronnie reached down for his last piece of red licorice while asking, “What’s Mr. Compton doing standing there like that?”

Wooster said casually, “He’s just taking a breath and deciding where to cut next. A man’s gotta plan his work out y’know. Like you planning on where to go through the hedge. You can’t just dive in anywhere.”

Ronnie regarded Wooster for a moment, then said, “Hmmmm.”

Paul went back to work on the trunk, and in twenty minutes or so he was rocking the top back and forth trying to break the last vestiges of pulp holding the pieces together. With a powerful shove, the top came away and teetered off onto the lawn. Ronnie jumped off the rocker and clapped his hands, yelling to Paul, “It’s off!”

Paul looked across the street at the noise and grinned at the boy, taking small bows as though he were in front of an appreciative opera audience screaming “Bravo!”

Wooster, smiling, watched Ronnie clap his hands. At first he wasn’t sure Ronnie was all that excited about watching the cutting of the tree, but apparently he was enjoying the spectacle very much. Wooster shook his head at himself and grinned along with Ronnie. Here he was, eighty plus, and here was Ronnie, ten minus. And there they were cheering for a tree cutting like they were at a World Series game! It tickled Wooster.

Paul sauntered across the street and up onto Wooster’s porch. He nabbed himself a piece of licorice, and settled onto the porch next to Ronnie, smiling a wide grin of triumph. It was nice to see his buffoonery with the tree was getting rave reviews somewhere! He winked at Wooster and said to Ronnie, “So you’re impressed with my lumberjack expertise, eh Ronnie?”

Ronnie gave him a blank stare.

Paul said, “You know what a lumberjack is, Ronnie?”

Ronnie shook his head.

“It’s a man who cuts down trees for a living. Your dad sells furniture for a living, and a lumberjack cuts the trees to get the wood to make the furniture. I’m being a lumberjack this morning.” He gave Ronnie a broad grin and tapped his leg.

Ronnie grinned back and said, “You cut that tree pretty good Mr. Compton.”

Wooster kicked in, “You sure did Paul!” He winked at his friend. They both had done jobs with the wrong kind of tools in their lives and knew the comical outcomes that could be achieved by amateur homeowners!

Paul said, “Well thanks men. I’m thinking of going into the logging business if the stock market plunges.”

Ronnie just nodded as though it was worth considering. Wooster and Paul chuckled at the thought of Paul with a chainsaw. That line from the movie Apocalypse Now ran through Paul’s mind: “The horror. The horror!” He barked a laugh.

“Ok men, I need to proceed to the stump,” said Paul after snagging one more piece of licorice.

As he headed down the walk Wooster called after him, still grinning, “Give ‘em hell boy!” Paul waved a hand without turning.

Ronnie looked at Wooster and said, “My mom says you shouldn’t say bad words Mr. McDowel.”

Wooster nodded and said, “That’s right. I’m sorry Ronnie.”

Ronnie looked at him and said, “Ok.” He then fixed his attention back on Paul and the formidable stump.

The trunk now was but three feet high. Paul figured he could cut a ring around the base in the ground and chop any roots running out from the tree. Then digging a hole around the tree, he could get to the tap root about a foot underground and chop it off. His main implements for this process were going to be one square head spade, one pointed spade, and a hatchet. He mumbled to himself about having a stone ax out here next. Wooster and Ronnie didn’t hear that one.

Loreen came out of the garage just as Paul was beginning to dig the hole around the tree. She glanced across the street and saw Ronnie sitting with Wooster and she shouted, “Hey Ronnie! Are you visiting?” She saw Ronnie sitting with Wooster often.

Ronnie waved back at her and shouted, “Yes! We’re having licorice!” He waggled the remaining half of his last piece at her to prove it.

Loreen shouted back, “Great!” Then she turned to Paul and said, “This is coming right along.” She’d brought a cup of coffee to him, and she handed it over. Working in a nursery she had done plenty of work with trees. But Paul never expected her to do the work at home. He figured it would be overkill to have to do your job at home and at work too. She always argued that he handled their investments and that was his line of work. But he just put his foot down and said, “Well, you handle a lot with the kids too, so it won’t hurt me to do this little bit.” She let him, but wished he’d let her just have some employees at her store do the work. After all, she was the boss. Loreen thought that it was Paul’s upbringing that made him want to handle the yard work. His dad had always done so, or had his boys do it. And they just expected to do it at their own houses. Even if they were not experts. She let it be after a while.

As Paul drank his coffee he said to her, “I think this will go pretty quick.”

Loreen eyed his little hatchet and the spades. She giggled and said, “We’ll see.”

Paul looked at her with mock indignation in his eyes. He said, “Be gone woman! I can see your doubt!” He slapped her butt and pushed her away.

Ronnie giggled and said, “He smacked her bottom, Mr. McDowel.”

Wooster said, “Yep, he sure did. She must have gotten fresh, huh?” He grinned at Ronnie.

Ronnie answered, “My dad does that when I’m really bad. Not very often though. He says I’m a good boy.”

Wooster nodded and said, “That you are Ronnie.” They both went silent then.

Loreen laughed and took Paul’s cup when he finished. She left him to his work and went in to do her chores.

Paul dug the hole down around the tree. He exposed a number of roots and realized he could cut many just by driving the spade through them. Some of the larger ones he had to get down on his knees and cut with the hatchet though. That was difficult at times because he found he could not get a good swing with the little thing. He also saw that he was dulling it quickly every time he smacked it into the dirt trying to cut a root.

He also found that for a little tree, it sure had some good sized roots! He finally ended up using a hand trowel to scoop dirt from around roots. Then he’d whack at them, then dig, then whack. It was tedious! Soon Wooster and Ronnie could hear, “C’mon you stupid root!” and, “Arrrrg!” coming from Paul as he kneeled by the tree.

Ronnie turned to Wooster and said, “It sounds like Mr. Compton is having trouble again.”

Wooster wasn’t really paying attention just then to the stump. He was watching a small flock of starlings circling down the block. They wouldn’t land here with he and Ronnie on the porch. They savaged Mrs. Baker’s yard instead. At least it looked that way. They flew over her house and disappeared. Wooster knew she had a nice garden in the back yard. The starlings may not get all they want at once, but they were tenacious. You had to watch them. What they couldn’t get one day, they’d come back for on another.

Ronnie slipped from his chair, reached over to Wooster and tugged on his arm. He repeated, “I think Mr. Compton is having trouble again.”

Wooster returned from his mental rabbit trail and smiled at Ronnie. Then, hearing another grunt from Paul he said, “It sure does!”

Paul was getting hot, and dirty, and mad. The roots of a tree were nothing like the trunk and branches. They were springy and elastic. They didn’t cut so much as chip. They seemed to bounce the blade of the hatchet off rather than split under it. After an hour of grubbing around he had gotten perhaps three quarters the way around the tree. That left a large root on one side, and the tap root itself. He groaned as he got to his feet, his face and upper body covered with dirt. He put his hand on the trunk to lean against it and found that it swayed back a little. Perhaps he could loosen the dirt around the remaining roots by rocking the stump back and forth some. He set his other hand on it and pushed. Then he pulled. The trunk rocked almost not at all.

Wooster watched as Paul tried to push and pull the trunk. He said to Ronnie, “Maybe Mr. Compton is gonna pull the trunk out by hand.”

Ronnie looked with wide eyes as though thinking of spider man hefting a truck up or something. He got back into his chair and renewed his surveillance of Mr. Compton’s work.

Paul decided that he’d have to get down and cut those last roots some to get the tree out. He sighed and once again kneeled in the dirt. He worked his hands down and started scooping dirt from around the tap root. He probably wasn’t going to be able to swing his hatchet at it, but he had a little hand saw too. He could maybe slide that in next to it. As he worked he noticed little white dots coming out with the dirt he was scooping. He was pondering what they were when the first ant bit him. He jerked his hand back and blurted, “Ouch!” It was a second before another bit, and another. Paul jerked back away from the tree and began to slap at his forearms, trying to knock any more ants from his flesh. The white dots were apparently eggs.

Wooster watched Paul bound back away from the tree and he wondered what was up.

Ronnie said, “What’s he doing? It looks like he’s dancing.”

Wooster answered, “I don’t know. Maybe he found some bugs.”

Ronnie yelled out, “What’re you doing Mr. Compton!”

Paul looked up and laughed when he realized how he must look. He shouted back to Ronnie, “Beating off wild ants!”

Wooster laughed and shouted, “You get ‘em Paul! You teach ‘em!”

Paul gave Wooster a stern look and yelled, “Never you mind, old man!” They both grinned at one another.

Ronnie said, “Mr. Compton said you were old.”

Wooster replied, “Yeah, and I am. But he was just funnin’ with me. He didn’t mean anything by it.”

Ronnie nodded and said, “Yeah, you are old I guess.” He sat back down and kept on watching.

Having beaten the ants off himself, Paul went into his garage and got a can of Raid. Like all men he applied Raid with the motto, “The more Raid, the more dead bugs!” He enveloped the hole around the tree with a dizzying mist of Raid, undoubtedly drowning most of the ants long before the insecticide could take effect and kill them the way it was intended. He stepped back from the killer haze, coughing and sneezing himself.

Wooster yelled, “Atta boy Paul!”

Paul yelled back, “I think they have one designed for old men too!”

Wooster chuckled for a good few minutes over that. That Paul was a quick one. That’s for sure!

When the dust had settled over the killing zone, Paul kneeled back in and started to scoop the rest of the dirt out. He pursed his lips and nodded in satisfaction at the carnage he had reaped on his tormentors. Another line from Shakespeare drifted through his head, “Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!” In this case the “Can of war.”

With enough room, he sawed away at the tap root until it was almost cut through. Then he worked away on the other main root that was left. He hoped the stump would break off now. He whistled over to Ronnie and Wooster and yelled, “Watch me now men!” Then he put his hands to the trunk to get an idea of how it felt. He pushed and it moved a good deal. He set both hands to it, firmed his shoulders and flung his body hard against the stump. It gave the slightest resistance, and then suddenly snapped back away from him and crashed to the ground. Paul never saw it coming. He hurled after the trunk and tumble to the ground on top of it in a dirty heap.

Ronnie bolted from his rocker and shrieked at the top of his lungs, “All right Mr. Compton!”

Wooster heard him and laughed so hard he almost fell out of his chair. Then he too stood and began to applaud.

When Paul finally sorted himself out, and stood, both Ronnie and Wooster were laughing all out and clapping. Wooster called out between guffaws, “Well done Paul! You showed it!” It wasn’t just teasing. He really was glad Paul accomplished his task.

Ronnie clapped hard and kept saying, “You did it Mr. Compton. You did it!” Something had definitely tickled him about the tree-cutting affair.

Paul began to laugh himself, and again took some bows.

Loreen came out of the garage, hearing the noise and started giggling at the sight of Wooster the eighty year old and little Ronnie Waldron standing together clapping and laughing while Paul took bows next to his hole and broken tree. She began to clap along with them as though some monumental task had been achieved. She thought to herself, “What a bunch of goof balls I live with!” And she grinned all the more.

Paul chopped the last vestiges of the roots away and pulled the stump over to the pile of branches he had made earlier. He cleaned up his tools and washed up at the utility sink. He then headed over to Wooster’s porch. As he once again sat down by the two trouble makers he said, “So I’ve been a source of enjoyment for you two this morning huh?” He gave them both a mock stern look.

Wooster said, “You’re better than TV, Paul. We were mesmerized waiting to see who’d win, right Ronnie?”

Ronnie nodded and said, “You did it Mr. Compton. You cut that tree down.”

Paul nodded his head at the boy, mussed his hair and said, “I sure did Ronnie. Couldn’t have done it without all your support either.”

Ronnie blushed a little and said, “Yeah.”

It was near twelve and after they sat for a moment, Ronnie’s mom called out the front door, “Ronnie! Lunch time!” Ronnie slid from his chair and said, “I have to go eat lunch now. Bye Mr. McDowel. Bye Mr. Compton.” He turned and headed off the porch. He said no more to either man. It was the way Ronnie was. You could get more from him, but it was in little bits. Today he just said, “Bye.” Another day he’d say, “I had fun.” Now and then he’d even say, “I love you.”

Wooster and Paul chorused after him, “Bye Ronnie.”

When he was gone, Paul settled into the empty rocker. “He’s a good boy,” he said. Mostly just saying it out loud.

Wooster nodded and said, “Yeah. He is a good boy.”

They looked at one another and smiled. This scene, with variations had been played out time and again, and would be time and again in the future. The two men understood how it was with Ronnie. They knew that what they wouldn’t get from him one day, they’d get another day. Both knew that sometimes you just had to be tenacious about the ones you love.