The Tender Years by Janette Oke Page A

chicken that settled on every plate. Clara would take breast meat, Rodney a thigh, Danny a drumstick, and Francine her wishbone. Her papa would take two wings and a drumstick. Some white, some dark meat. And her mother would take the neck, or the back, insisting that they were her favorite pieces, when all the while the family knew that she was simply cleaning up the ones no one else was interested in.
    The other piece of breast meat should have been Virginia’s. It made her mouth water just thinking about it. And the steaming mashed potatoes and rich gravy did not help, either. Nor did the thought of the whipped turnips, seasoned with parsley and smoothed with cream.
    Without comment her mother slipped the piece of chicken breast on Virginia’s plate as the serving dish went around. Virginia thought about ignoring it, but she could not. Her mother also served her a helping of potatoes, gravy, and turnips, all the while chatting easily with the family. As usual her parents were discovering the highlights from each one’s day. Virginia hoped they would not get to her. She had little to say.
    There was high-meringued lemon pie for dessert. Virginia was just cleaning up the last bite when there was a sound of running and a loud thumping on the back door.
    Before her father could even reach it to admit their caller, they heard a shout. “There’s trouble at the crik.”
    Her father flung the door open and faced an excited Jedd Marlow. The young lad looked ready to plunge on again before even delivering his full message. Virginia’s father reached out and grasped his shoulder.
    “What is it, son?”
    “Doc Luke wants Mrs. Simpson. Some kids went down in the crik. They’re hurt.”
    Virginia felt her world whirling. Her stomach heaved. She wondered if she was going to be able to keep down her fried chicken.

    It seemed forever before her mother returned. Clara had taken over the family, sending the younger ones off to bed. But Virginia could not sleep. She paced back and forth in her room, waiting for the sound of the door, her mother’s step across the kitchen.
    What had happened? Who was hurt? How badly? What if she had stayed with them? The questions hung heavy upon her mind. She could not dismiss them. Her frantic thoughts would not let her rest.
    The hall clock had already announced the midnight hour before the door finally opened. Virginia, hearing voices, crept from her bed and ventured toward the kitchen. Her mama was seated at the kitchen table looking weary and sad. Her father was pouring two cups of steaming tea. “You look exhausted,” Virginia heard him say to her mother. “Are they going to be okay?”
    Her mother shook her head as she drew off her gloves and laid them aside on the corner of the table. “We don’t know yet. The one boy is in rather bad condition. If it hadn’t been for Rett Marshall, he’d be gone for sure.”
    “What happened?”
    “No one is too sure. Seems they were rafting on the—” Her mother looked up and saw Virginia clinging to the door? frame of the kitchen. She extended her hand without comment. Virginia moved forward. She knew her face must reveal her state of mind.
    “It was some of your school friends, Virginia.”
    Virginia nodded mutely. As much as she needed to know, she could not even ask about them.
    Virginia felt her mother’s arm slip about her waist. “They had an accident on the creek. Seems they were rafting.”
    Virginia nodded again.
    “One of the boys—the Boycie boy—made it to shore with no problem. He clung to an overhanging tree limb, he said. He also helped one of the girls—the Riant girl—to hang on until help came.”
    Her mother accepted the cup of tea and turned back to her father. “The Booth boy—George, isn’t it?—got a bad gash on his head. Needed a good deal of stitching. That’s why Luke wanted me. And the other boy—the Crell’s son—he was in the water the longest. We still don’t know if he’ll make it, and if he