The Whistling Season by Ivan Doig

Author:Ivan Doig [Doig, Ivan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

13

"THIS HAD BETTER NOT HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH FIST-fighting or horse racing," Father warned as I sidled into the kitchen with Morrie close behind me.

Obviously he'd had an earful of report from Toby or Damon or more likely the duet of them, even though they had no more idea than he did about what my offense might have been. The one other time I had ever been kept after school was the first day in the second grade, for a raging argument with Carnelia over the territorial division of our desk. Now, with Father giving me a look that would have put a blind person on notice, I had some tall explaining to do again. Was it going to make sense to anyone besides Morrie and me? All the long way home with Morrie riding in bouncy dude fashion next to me, as he rehearsed the case to be made on my behalf I sat in my saddle like a zombie. What if Morrie's enthusiasm was wildly misplaced? What if I was getting in over my head? What if Father said no?

"Father, I—" The faces of the waiting audience there in the kitchen outdid my expressive ability. Father was stuck at the stove stirring beans and ham hocks that were more hock than ham, but the distance across the room did not temper the ominous gaze he had fastened on me. Parked front and center at the table were the twin heralds of my detention, Toby owl-eyed, Damon about to faint from curiosity. "Morrie, you tell them."

"Goodness, you two." Rose popped in through the doorway, untying her apron to go home but obviously not before she had her say. "Paul of all people. Morrie, really, you are going too far with this. When boys behave some way that doesn't suit you, can't you make them wash windows or some such rather than keeping them in after? That's what I would do."

Yielding to the trend of things, Father suspended cooking for the time being and drew a chair up for Rose. He shifted Toby into sharing half of Damon's chair and indicated the vacated seat to Morrie, then gravely sat down at his cup-worn spot at the head of the table. I took my place, uneasy with the fact that my case had escalated into a conference. Even Houdini padded in from the other room as if taking an interest.

Palms of his hands flat on the oilcloth, as if a seance were about to start, Morrie squarely faced Father at the far end of the table. "Unaccustomed as I am to this particular kind of excess in a student," he began, alarming me, but then in reasonably short fashion brought the matter down to how far ahead I was in my studies.

Father looked relieved, but puzzled. Rose nodded diagnostically, as though she had always figured blindsight led to something like this.

"You're the doctor," Father granted Morrie. "But can't you just—forgive me this, Paul—pile more homework on him? Even if he does it in class, it'll keep him occupied.

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