Free Welcome to Fred (The Fred Books) by Brad Whittington Page A

had in mind.
    “The special thing, the task you were supposed to do that I saved your life so you could.”
    “This is it?” I held out the clipping, the fluttering paper reminding me of the fluttering dollar Pauline had snatched from my hand the day we met.
    “You saved this Victor guy’s life.”
    “No, that was Pauline. She saved his life. I was grounded at the time, if you will recall.”
    “Yeah, but you saved the life of the witch, and she saved the life of the Victor, probably so the kid would still have his papa.” He presented the chain of logic, if I can use that word, with a flourish. “And I saved your life.”
    “OK, so where does the chain end? You save my life, I save Pauline’s life, she saves Vic’s life, then Vic does what? I mean, what’s the point?” I put the clipping back in the Oscar. “And she’s not a witch. Wasn’t, I mean.”
    “We don’t know where the chain ends, just about the link we touched. And you know what, man? I bet most people don’t know even that much. But we do. At least I know the ‘why’ for my link in the chain. So God owes me one.”
    “OK, so you save my life and now you think God owes you something. What about Pauline? She saved Vic’s life and what did she get? Killed, that’s what. He lives, she dies. If that’s what God is handing out as rewards for saving a life, I wouldn’t be standing in line for favors if I was you!”

    On Saturday we went to the courtyard. Even though Pauline was dead, M was still reluctant to go in. He guarded the bikes while I threaded the gap one last time. The courtyard was just as I had left it the night Pauline lurched out with a knife in her hand. I doubted if even she knew what her mission was when she left, to kill or to save.
    I walked to the box. The red blanket was in there. So were the two blankets I brought, and Dad’s robe. I knelt down and pulled them all out. Further back was the can opener; the aspirin bottle, half empty; and the Bible. I picked up the Bible and sat down on the transmission.
    It fell open to a page with a piece of cardboard in it. Faded ink awarded the “First Prize in Scripture Memory to Pauline Jordan,” dated 1949. It was stuck between the pages at Psalm 51.
    Intrigued, I continued flipping through the pages and found an envelope. It was postmarked in Chicago, Illinois, 1957, and unopened. The address and return address were illegibly smeared from moisture. On the front was stamped “Return to Sender.” On the back in indelible ink with the broad strokes of a fountain pen was written, “You made your choice.”
    I put the envelope back into the Bible unopened and walked out of the courtyard for the last time. But not before I got Mom’s can opener back.

    A month later, school ended. The entire summer lay ahead like a blank slate. But before we could implement our grandiose plans for conquering the world, the camel of reality nosed its unwelcome way into our tent. On the first Sunday of June, Dad got up to deliver his sermon. I got as comfortable as I could on the wooden pew, settling in for a long summer’s nap when Dad’s words jerked me rudely back to consciousness.
    “I have an announcement that may surprise some of you. I have been doing some extensive praying and seeking the Lord, and I feel He has spoken to me and said my work here is done. It is time for us to move on.”
    What?!? Move on! Like, move? Again?
    I looked at Heidi and Hannah and saw an echo of my own shock and dismay. It had been a well-guarded secret.
    I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. We had finally stayed in one house longer than a year. I had been lulled into an illusion of permanence and stability. I had violated my own personal rules of engagement, ignored my instinct for self-preservation, committed the irreversible act of getting attached to the dog that had followed me home. I wasn’t leaning on my elbows now. I was sitting up, staring at the doleful, albeit dumpy, prophet in sackcloth and