Turning Point

​Red walls, the hue of Valentine hearts, no, more saturated red, the color of blood, the old barn marks a turn in my path from school to home.
 
“Hurry Billy or you’ll be late for school.” Ma smiles and smooths her white apron. Beth is monogrammed above the right pocket. She hands me a lunch bucket decorated with Donald Duck. “I’m proud of you. A third-grader, able to walk to school alone. Come right home after school.” She points to a Milwaukee Journal calendar. Friday, September 7, 1956, is circled in red. “Today is papa’s birthday. We’ll have an early supper. Follow the road to school. Don’t walk through the field past the old barn. It’s too dangerous.” Ma pats my shoulder and nudges me out the door.

​I take the road to school but follow the shorter route home. Eager to watch the TV spaceman, Flash Gordon, I head toward the barn. When Flash Gordon faces danger, like Ming the Merciless, I will too.
 
Mowed lawns yield to waist-high prairie grass. To clear the way with my right hand, I grip Donald Duck in my left. Sharp-edged grasses bloody my hand. Oh, to have a machete like Jungle Jim. I see the barn on a hill, two doors ajar. An iron beam projects above a hayloft entrance. A tattered rope hangs from a rusty pulley, a metal hook at the end.
 
My hands tremble in warm afternoon sun. Will the farmer be at work near the barn? Is he the danger Ma warned of? I veer away from the barn, down the hill.
 
Two voices, indistinct at first, slow my progress. Two men dressed in blue overalls and work boots sit beside a fire. One man, older than the other, roasts a small animal. He smokes a cigarette. Men’s magazines, like Argosy or Esquire, the kind I’m not allowed to read, lay by the fire next to a bottle of brandy.
 
“Hey, kid, want a drink?” The younger man waves a chipped white, ceramic-coated metal cup.
“Squirrel will be done in a few minutes.” The older man turns the roast. The creature’s eyes, red like the coals beneath him, stare at me. “Come sit with us while he cooks. We’ll have some fun.”
 
The younger man chuckles.
 
I run down the gully toward the creek. Tears blur my vision. I stumble, fall, and skin my knee. Prairie grass thins to willows at water’s edge. Sapling roots project from a steep bank on the far side of the creek. I climb with both hands. Donald Duck tumbles behind me. Fingers search for the next hand hold. I lose my grip and slide backward, slowly at first then faster until I’m no longer able to see the top of the bank nor the creek.
 
I slip into a tube of darkness. Night-time stars surround me. Seconds seem like minutes. I fall out of the end of the tube into the creek. Daylight reappears. Cold water seeps into my tennis shoes.
 
I turn and retrace my path up the gully. The men are gone. No evidence of fire or their presence remains. I run past the old barn, through prairie grass to mowed lawn, find the road, race home, and burst into the kitchen.

“Billy, what happened?” Mama wraps me in her arms. She wears her white apron. Emma is monogrammed above the right pocket. “Where’s your lunch bucket?”
 
Later…
 
“Hurry Billy or you’ll be late for school.” Mama smiles and smooths her white apron. Emma is monogrammed above the right pocket. She hands me a lunch bucket decorated with Mickey Mouse. She points to a calendar. Friday, September 7, 1956, is circled in red. “Today is papa’s birthday.”
 
I take the road to school but follow the shorter route home. I see the barn on a hill. My hands tremble. I veer away from the barn, down the hill. Two voices slow my progress. Upper classmates Davy and Linda lie in front of me.
 
“Davy, get off of me.” She struggles in the grass beneath him.
 
“Come on, Linda, I’ll be your boyfriend.” He presses her wrists above her head.
 
“Get off her, Davy.” I wave my arms.
 
“Hey, Billy, get out of here.” He grins.
 
I run down the gully toward the creek. Prairie grass thins to willows at water’s edge. Sapling roots project from a steep bank on the far side of the creek. I climb with both hands. Mickey Mouse tumbles behind me. I lose my grip and slide backward. I slip into a tube of darkness. Night-time stars surround me. I fall out of the end of the tube into the creek. Cold water seeps into my tennis shoes.
 
I turn and retrace my path up the gully. Davy and Linda are gone. No evidence of their presence remains. I run past the old barn, race home, and burst into the kitchen.
 
“Billy, what happened?” Mommy wraps me in her arms. She wears her white apron. Helen is monogrammed above the right pocket. “Where’s your lunch bucket?”
 
Later…
 
“Hurry Billy or you’ll be late for school.” Mommy smiles and smooths her white apron. Helen is monogrammed above the right pocket. She hands me a lunch bucket decorated with Porky Pig. She points to a calendar. Friday, September 7, 1956, is circled in red. “Today is papa’s birthday.”
 
I take the road to school but follow the shorter route home. I veer away from the barn, down the hill. Two voices slow my progress. I turn, and retrace my path. I run past the old barn, race home, and burst into the kitchen.
 
“Billy, what happened?” Mommy wraps me in her arms. She wears her white apron. Helen is monogrammed above the right pocket. “Put Porky Pig in the sink.”
 
Red walls, the hue of Valentine hearts, no, more saturated red, the color of blood, the old barn marks a turn in my life.
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