out the window. I expect he was feeling bad about the fire too. And about Samuel.
“I guess we’ll have to do chores before long,” Katie said quietly as I entered the kitchen.
“Yes,” I acknowledged. “And I would appreciate your help. But Harry, you ought to get some sleep. Go up to Robert’s room. He won’t mind.”
“Just don’t send Franky up,” he said coldly. “I bet Robert would mind that. He’s real upset with him on account of Mr. Wortham.”
“Mr. Wortham is going to be just fine,” I answered a little too curtly. “And I’ll have to have another talk with Robert when he gets back.”
“Maybe you oughta talk to Pa too,” Harry said in a softer voice. “He’s even madder than Robert.”
Harry went upstairs then, and Katie went to feed the chickens and gather eggs. I knew she had a hard time milking, so I wouldn’t ask her to do that. Or Sarah either. I would just do it myself.
As I headed out the door with a milk pail in my hands, I looked around for Franky. If his father was as upset as Harry said, he’d probably railed on the boy some before sending him over here. Poor Franky. He would’ve felt bad enough even without being scolded.
I looked but didn’t see him anywhere. I’d expected him to be under the apple tree like last night, but he wasn’t. For the first time it occurred to me that that was the same spot Samuel chose when he just had to think. But where else might Franky be?
The woodshop. That was Franky’s favorite place. Samuel’s too, sometimes. They’d made so many beautiful things there. Kitchen chairs. Cedar chests. So many nice things to remember.
And sad things too. Seven winters past, they’d made two caskets. One for Emma Graham and one for Franky’s mother. Samuel had expected to do the work alone, but as young as he was, Franky had wanted to help. And ever since then, Franky and Samuel had been very close. Close enough to ignite Robert’s jealousy at times.
I opened the door slowly, leaving the milk pail outside. Franky was sitting in the corner at one end of their homemade workbench. He didn’t look up.
“Franky? Aren’t you tired? We’ll make you a bed where you can get some sleep.”
“No. I wanna stay out here.”
“He’ll be all right. It wasn’t your fault.”
He looked at me then. “Are you sure?”
I wasn’t certain what he was asking me. “Franky—”
“If he was doin’ real good, there wouldn’t be no hurry goin’ for the doctor. Bert ain’t that bad. An’ the baby’s all right or you woulda sent Sam or somebody over to Mcleansboro earlier. I can tell you’re worryin’, Mrs. Wortham. I can tell somethin’ ain’t right.”
“But it’s not your fault, no matter what happened.”
“I know.” He sighed. “I just don’t know if anybody else’ll ever know. They won’t listen to me.”
I stood for a moment. “Franky, what do you mean?”
“I didn’t start no fire. Don’t know how it started. But they won’t listen to me.”
I stared at him for a minute. Why on earth would his father blame him then? Why would Robert blame him?
“I guess people’ll think what they want to,” he said. “Can’t change that. But it was botherin’ me, you thinkin’ it too. I wanted to ask you ’bout Mr. Wortham. I wanted to know if there’s anythin’ I can do, but I didn’t wanna . . . I didn’t wanna bother you if you thought . . .”
“Oh, Franky.” I leaned forward to give him a hug. He started to draw back, but I wouldn’t let him. I just held him for a minute. He shook a little in my arms, and when he pulled away, he had to lower his head and wipe at his eyes.
“Is he gonna die?”
“No.” I wanted to tell him of course not and why. I wanted to assure him with plenty of confident words, but right then I couldn’t find any.
“I was awful scared, Mrs. Wortham. I don’ know what we’d do without Mr. Wortham. Pa always needs him. Awful worse now, even. But that ain’t all. He’s just . . . he’s
“I guess we’ll have to do chores before long,” Katie said quietly as I entered the kitchen.
“Yes,” I acknowledged. “And I would appreciate your help. But Harry, you ought to get some sleep. Go up to Robert’s room. He won’t mind.”
“Just don’t send Franky up,” he said coldly. “I bet Robert would mind that. He’s real upset with him on account of Mr. Wortham.”
“Mr. Wortham is going to be just fine,” I answered a little too curtly. “And I’ll have to have another talk with Robert when he gets back.”
“Maybe you oughta talk to Pa too,” Harry said in a softer voice. “He’s even madder than Robert.”
Harry went upstairs then, and Katie went to feed the chickens and gather eggs. I knew she had a hard time milking, so I wouldn’t ask her to do that. Or Sarah either. I would just do it myself.
As I headed out the door with a milk pail in my hands, I looked around for Franky. If his father was as upset as Harry said, he’d probably railed on the boy some before sending him over here. Poor Franky. He would’ve felt bad enough even without being scolded.
I looked but didn’t see him anywhere. I’d expected him to be under the apple tree like last night, but he wasn’t. For the first time it occurred to me that that was the same spot Samuel chose when he just had to think. But where else might Franky be?
The woodshop. That was Franky’s favorite place. Samuel’s too, sometimes. They’d made so many beautiful things there. Kitchen chairs. Cedar chests. So many nice things to remember.
And sad things too. Seven winters past, they’d made two caskets. One for Emma Graham and one for Franky’s mother. Samuel had expected to do the work alone, but as young as he was, Franky had wanted to help. And ever since then, Franky and Samuel had been very close. Close enough to ignite Robert’s jealousy at times.
I opened the door slowly, leaving the milk pail outside. Franky was sitting in the corner at one end of their homemade workbench. He didn’t look up.
“Franky? Aren’t you tired? We’ll make you a bed where you can get some sleep.”
“No. I wanna stay out here.”
“He’ll be all right. It wasn’t your fault.”
He looked at me then. “Are you sure?”
I wasn’t certain what he was asking me. “Franky—”
“If he was doin’ real good, there wouldn’t be no hurry goin’ for the doctor. Bert ain’t that bad. An’ the baby’s all right or you woulda sent Sam or somebody over to Mcleansboro earlier. I can tell you’re worryin’, Mrs. Wortham. I can tell somethin’ ain’t right.”
“But it’s not your fault, no matter what happened.”
“I know.” He sighed. “I just don’t know if anybody else’ll ever know. They won’t listen to me.”
I stood for a moment. “Franky, what do you mean?”
“I didn’t start no fire. Don’t know how it started. But they won’t listen to me.”
I stared at him for a minute. Why on earth would his father blame him then? Why would Robert blame him?
“I guess people’ll think what they want to,” he said. “Can’t change that. But it was botherin’ me, you thinkin’ it too. I wanted to ask you ’bout Mr. Wortham. I wanted to know if there’s anythin’ I can do, but I didn’t wanna . . . I didn’t wanna bother you if you thought . . .”
“Oh, Franky.” I leaned forward to give him a hug. He started to draw back, but I wouldn’t let him. I just held him for a minute. He shook a little in my arms, and when he pulled away, he had to lower his head and wipe at his eyes.
“Is he gonna die?”
“No.” I wanted to tell him of course not and why. I wanted to assure him with plenty of confident words, but right then I couldn’t find any.
“I was awful scared, Mrs. Wortham. I don’ know what we’d do without Mr. Wortham. Pa always needs him. Awful worse now, even. But that ain’t all. He’s just . . . he’s
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