Dandelions in a Jelly Jar by Traci DePree

Author:Traci DePree [DePree, Traci]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-72933-0
Publisher: The Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2004-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

David heard Peter shut the door as he went out to the machine shed to finish work on the tractor in preparation for plowing and planting come April. A warm March breeze beckoned him as it floated through the slightly opened window of his bedroom. A symphony of birds chirped and twittered in the windbreak. A flock of blackbirds in formal attire covered the front lawn, a sea of spectators. He gazed at the dark shapes, a reminder of his view from the stage. Turning, he clicked the On button of the CD player, and the sounds of an orchestra—his orchestra—filled the room with a Strauss waltz. His body swayed in time to the music as it carried him to another time, another place. He was simply David Morgan playing in three-four time. He unconsciously lifted his hands in the motions of playing. And then stopped and gazed at his fingers. They were hurting again.

So much hurt.

Through the kitchen window, Bert watched his brother and mother drive up in the big old tan Ford Fairlane. Even from this distance he could tell that Fred was a boiler about to blow. Lillian’s mouth moved while Fred kept time with each nod of his head, a glazed expression on his red face.

When they came in the back door, Bert had to ask, “How’d it go?”

“That big-shot doctor says my ankle isn’t healing right,” Lillian said. “I have to wear this stupid thing for six more weeks. Help me get this coat off, Fred.”

Fred gave Bert the get-me-away-from-her-before-I-kill-her look as he moved behind his mother and held one crutch, then the other, as Lillian slipped her arms out of the long quilted coat. She held it out to Fred and gestured for him to hang it on one of the hooks in the mud room. Fred’s nostrils flared.

“Mom, do you want me to help you to your La-Z-Boy?” Bert asked.

Lillian shook her head. “Leave me alone. I can manage.” It was almost a shout. She hoisted her heavy frame across the kitchen floor, pivoting on the crutches at every step.

Fred stomped up the stairs. Bert heard the door to his room slam a moment later and then blaring country music.

“So did the doctor say why it isn’t healing?” Bert followed behind as his mother settled on the couch.

“I saw that x-ray. You ask me, it was the same x-ray from when I first broke it. Doctors! He said that older people’s bones take longer to heal. My ankle is killing me. Hand me that knitting needle.” She pointed to a basket on the floor with balls of yarn and an assortment of knitting accouterment.

“Which one?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Bert reached for one. “No,” Lillian said, “the plastic one.”

He handed her the long stick, and she pushed it into the top of her cast and moved it up and down. “I’ve been dying to do that,” Lillian said. She handed the needle back to Bert. He shoved it back into a ball of yarn.

“You need anything else, Mom?” Bert asked.

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