Free No Promises in the Wind by Irene Hunt

piano, and this one, junk though it might be, looked good to me. My fingers felt stiff at first, and it took me a little while to get going. It wasn’t long, though, until I began to feel at home again, almost as if Howie were beside me and Miss Crowne were listening from her office. My confidence began to return, and I played for Lonnie and the waitress, the cook and two or three customers with all the skill I could rediscover, with all the spirit left in me.
    As music it wasn’t very much, but they liked it. They had all crowded inside the door and had stood there in the cold, listening while I played. They clapped when I was through, and they said that surely there must be a job someplace for a kid who could play like that. Joey was beaming. I could see that he felt our troubles were almost over.
    While we were eating, the waitress came over and gave Lonnie a slip of paper with a name and address written on it. “Lonnie, this man, Pete Harris, is a cousin of mine,” she explained. “He grew up here in Nebraska; we went to school together. He’s been down South for fifteen, maybe twenty years now, but he always keeps in touch. Reason I’m tellin’ you this is that Pete has a carnival down near Baton Rouge—not much of a carnival, I guess. He’s operatin’ on a shoestring, he told us, but I know he hires piano players sometimes. He might, he just might, have a place for this boy. Will you be anywhere near Baton Rouge on your way down?”
    â€œI can make it a point to be there,” Lonnie answered.
    â€œPete’s a pretty good sort of fellow. He’ll go out of his way to help someone down on his luck; I’ve got reason to know that. He’s always been a showman; even when he was a kid, he was forever puttin’ on some kind of show. That’s been his life, and that’s all he’ll ever do. He’ll never get rich at it, though; he’s the sort of guy who looks after the other fellow before himself.”
    â€œNot many of that breed left,” Lonnie said thoughtfully.
    â€œYou’re plenty right there ain’t. Now, of course, I don’t know Pete’s circumstances, but I know that if he has a place or can make one for this boy, hell do it.” She nodded at me. “Tell him Bessie Jenkins recommended you—hell like doin’ me a favor.”
    The waitress was not a pretty woman, and her voice was not as pleasant as I liked women’s voices to be, but she looked and sounded wonderful to me that snowy evening. I tried to tell her how much I appreciated her interest in me.
    We slept in the back of the truck that night, wedged in between the big cartons packed there, but well wrapped in the blankets Lonnie carried with him. Cold and hunger had kept me awake many times, but this night it was excitement that kept sleep from me. I stared up in the darkness for hour after hour and tried to think of the future. Nothing was very clear—my goal was vague and undefined. I guess the possibility for survival was all I asked.
    I thought the other two were sound asleep, but after a long time Lonnie’s voice came out of the dark from the other side of the truck. He seemed to know that I was awake.
    â€œYou don’t forgive easily, do you, Josh?”
    I knew he was thinking of Dad. “No,” I said, “I guess I don’t.”
    â€œHaven’t you ever made any mistakes yourself?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œBut you somehow got the idea that men have no right to make mistakes? That it’s just a privilege of kids?”
    I didn’t answer. He was quiet for a long time, and I thought he wasn’t going to say anything more which was all right with me. After a while, however, he spoke again.
    â€œEveryone makes mistakes. I made one once, and it’s nearly driven me out of my mind at times. My boy—I told you he died five years ago—well, he complained of a bad bellyache one night. His