Free No Promises in the Wind by Irene Hunt Page A

mother wanted to call a doctor, but I thought that it was just a case of a kid eating a little too much or getting hold of something that didn’t agree with him. I made him take a big dose of castor oil. My mother had given me that remedy many a time, and I’d always gotten better in a few hours. But it wasn’t right for Davy. He had appendicitis. It killed him.”
    It wasn’t easy to find words. I tried to tell him I was sorry, but I stumbled miserably. I don’t think he was paying much attention to what I said anyway. He kind of muttered the next words to himself. He said, “If I met your dad tonight, I’d shake hands with him. And I’d say, ‘Brother, I know just how you feel.’
    I could hear him turn so that he was facing the outside of the truck. Neither of us said anything more.

5
    Lonnie became more and more our friend as the days and long evenings passed. He talked a lot about the possibility of my finding a job. “If this Pete Harris doesn’t come through with work for you, we’ll see if we can’t hit someone else. I know some people down in New Orleans who may be able to give us a lead. Folks are great for music down there—I think we have a pretty good chance of finding something for you.”
    When I stopped to think about it, I was surprised at how much I needed the confidence and assurance that Lonnie gave us. I had considered myself pretty well grown up; I was proud that in spite of our hardships I had been able to take care of Joey, had been able to find food to sustain his life and mine. Now, all at once I was conscious of a sense of security that had not been mine since we left home and for many months before; the confidence of having an adult take the position of a father. Not only was the pinch of winter leaving our bodies, allowing us to relax as we left the snow and icy roads of Nebraska, but the worries and tensions that had plagued every waking moment were leaving our minds. All at once, Joey at ten and I at fifteen, had the right to be boys again. It was Lonnie who made the correct turns on the long road; it was Lonnie who was taking the responsibility of finding Pete Harris and the carnival for us; it was Lonnie who said, “Toast and three eggs, over easy, please. Milk for the boys, coffee for me,” when we stopped for breakfast, a decently cooked breakfast unspoiled by begging.
    I had not, however, sluffed off all responsibility. On a crumpled piece of paper I carefully set down the amount of money which Lonnie paid for our food at each meal. He asked me once what I was doing, and I told him.
    â€œI’m not worried over the cost of an egg or two and a few hamburgers, Josh,” he said.
    â€œI know you’re not. But I’ll feel better if I can get a job and pay you back for what you’re spending on us.”
    He agreed with me. “I think maybe you’re right,” he said. “Don’t feel you’re being pressed, though. Take care of the kid before you start sending money to me.”
    I liked the way he spoke of my sending money as if the probability of my getting a job and earning money to pay my debts was a very real one. It was a boost to my wavering optimism.
    The first day that we hit warm weather we were on a road down in Texas close to the Arkansas border. Lonnie bought bread and cheese and a bottle of milk, and we ate our noon meal on the grass under a clump of trees. Joey breathed great lungfuls of the soft air with delight; he and Lonnie ran together up the road and back, laughing and panting as they sat down to the picnic lunch I had spread out beside the truck.
    When we had eaten, Joey practiced a little on the banjo and Lonnie sang a few songs that were currently being heard on the radio, encouraging Joey to find the right chords for an accompaniment. I listened to them for a while, and then, being well-fed and comfortable in the warm air, I hid my face in the grass and went to