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  “Bud, fetch a pick and two shovels from the tool shed,” Simone ordered as she threw down her towel.

  “What we doin?” he growled back.

  “Burial.”

  Four sets of eyes focused on Laird and he drew himself up to full height. I won’t let them see me cry!

  “Ug.” Patsy sneered. “Your ma die?” she said with not a shred of sympathy.

  To Laird’s surprise, her father put one hand on her shoulder and the other on Cherry’s back and shoved the two of them out the front door after Bud. Then, he held out a hand to Laird. “Sorry to hear, boy.” The man’s expression hadn’t changed but there was a trace of compassion in the words. He turned and followed the girls.

  “Don’t mind him,” Simone said. “He al’ays looks mean. He’s not so bad.”

  If you say so. Not daring to voice his thoughts aloud, Laird and Byron trailed after her.

  Chapter 3

  Life was different with Simone and Laird often felt as if he couldn’t tolerate it. Byron seemed content, however, and Laird wouldn’t leave him.

  “Simone orders us around too much!” he grumbled to his younger brother as together they hefted a big can of hot water off the wheelbarrow and into one of the outside rinse tubs.

  “I don’t care,” Byron muttered back. “The food’s good and we don’t have to run and hide all the time.” The boy swung the empty water can into the wheelbarrow and picked up the handles to return for another full one. “Why can’t you just relax?” He slewed his head in different directions as they stepped into the hall, spotted Cherry leaning insolently against the far wall, and lowered his voice even more. “Even they have to work.”

  “Yeah. Work!” Laird shot the girl a glare and ignored her rude gesture in return. “They take clothes from the washing machine and put them in the dryer. Some work.” He rapped the empty can with a knuckle, sending a metallic clang down the hallway. “I’ve yet to see Cherry pick up anything heavier than a tunic.”

  “She is a girl, and her and Patsy are the owner’s daughters,” Byron said reasonably. “I’m surprised they have to do anything at all.”

  “As hard as Simone works, I’d think she’d make them do more.” Laird stopped moving and whacked Byron across the back of the head. “And you should say, ‘she and Patsy’ not ‘her and Patsy.’”

  Byron stopped, straightened, and glared at his brother. “Stop doing that. No one cares what I say but you!”

  “Mother would care,” Laird snapped in a nasty tone. “You forget her that easily?” He’d been looking toward the door to the heat room and didn’t see Byron launch himself over the wheelbarrow. He went down hard, Byron’s heavier body smashing him sideways into the stone floor.

  Struggling to get his hands free from where they were pinned under Byron’s thighs, he flung his head to the side in an effort to avoid the boy’s pummeling fists. The younger one screamed; tears streamed from his eyes as he punched and shoved. Then, he went flying backward and Laird saw him dangling like a limp rag from Simone’s huge right hand.

  “Don’t hurt him,” Laird pleaded. “He didn’t mean anything by it.” Hardly knowing what he was saying, Laird scrambled up and knelt before Simone, staring fearfully as his brother sagged in Simone’s grip, his entire face flushed red with anger.

  “I ain’t hurting him. He’s holdin’ his breath.” She shook her arm and Byron’s mouth burst open. He gasped, then inhaled deeply and clamped his mouth shut again as his tears flowed freely.

  “No more o’ that.” Simone shook him harder and Byron had to give in and breathe. The angry red drained from his cheeks, but he started to turn deathly pale. He hung limply from her grasp, struggling to catch a breath as his blubbering increased. Laird heard his nose rasping—he’d always clogged up when crying.

  “Simone, please put him down,” Laird pleaded. “He can’t breathe.”

  She looked at the boy’s face, then gently laid him on the floor. “Here!” she snapped. “Help him!”

  Laird crawled to Byron and began stroking the heaving back and shoulders. “He’ll calm down in a moment,” he said.

  “Wimp.” The voice dripped with scorn. Cherry leaned over Laird’s shoulder and spat on the back of Byron’s head.

  “Get back to your place.” Simone actually clouted the girl, who snarled, then turned and sauntered back toward the dryers.

  Laird felt the fierce stare the woman had focused on his back but he didn’t change the rhythm or gentleness of his touch. “Just a few more minutes, I promise, Simone. And we’ll be right back at work.” She harrumphed; he heard her stomping away.

  “Byron, settle down,” Laird crooned. “We have work to do. I need you to stop this heaving and control your breathing.” Byron did, more rapidly than Laird had ever seen him come out of one of his hyperventilation fits.

  The older boy scowled. “What was that about? Why’d you attack me?” He rose and extended a hand to his brother to help him to his feet.

  Byron ignored the hand. His eyes squinting almost shut, he hissed, “I will never forget Mama. Don’t you ever say that again!” He stretched his body tall; Laird realized he was at least two inches taller than himself.

  “But you ain’t her,” Byron snapped, “and I’ll say what I want. You ain’t the boss of me.”

  Surprised by Byron’s vehemence, Laird raised his hands and backed away.

  “And I ain’t puttin’ up with you smacking me in the head whenever you want to.” He spun on his heel and hurried into the heat room. Laird followed and found him already filling the rinse tin with hot water. Without a word, Laird helped, then took the wheelbarrow handles to truck the huge can back out to the tubs.

  They never spoke again about how their mother would want them to talk, nor did they discuss the incident where Byron blew up and attacked Laird. Laird decided his baby brother wasn’t a baby anymore and shouldn’t be treated like one. They worked well as a team, and they did their best to keep Simone happy.

  **

  The day had been especially hot for Sepry and Laird flopped down on his bed after supper, exhausted. Byron entered their shared room moments later. “Simone wants us in the storage room,” he said wearily. “Get up.” He kicked the side board of the low bed and Laird groaned.

  “Now?”

  “Yeah, now.”

  He reluctantly rolled to his feet, unwilling to leave the mattress although it wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the one they’d shared with their mother. Byron was already out the door; Laird followed. Doesn’t seem like a year already. Byron kept meticulous track of the days—Laird wouldn’t have. It had been one whole year since their mother’s death. He sighed as he made his way to the storage room wondering what further chore Simone would demand of them.

  He entered and glanced around—he’d never get over checking any enclosed space without identifying possible dangers and exits. He already knew there was no other way out of that room. And he didn’t much like the looks of the occupants. Byron was buzzing with tension beside him.

  Simone sat in a big chair. She has to be exhausted, too, he thought. She looked it. Next to her stood a young man, clean-cut, well dressed, holding a satchel under his left arm. A few years older and he’d have been one of our marks. Laird eyed him suspiciously, leery of the satchel and the gleam in the man’s eye that looked like amusement. Behind Simone’s chair, her three children lounged against the wall as if totally bored.

  “Good, you be here, then,” Simone said in her loud voice. She never softened it, even when in a small space such as this one. “This here be Bonami Jeffs. His mother used ta work for me and he went and won his way to University. Struggl’n to make ends meet.” To Laird’s surprise, Simone seemed very proud of the young man. She’d smiled at him with a decided twinkle in her eye as she introduced him.

  She turned back to Laird and Byron. “He’s a gonna teach you boys for me. Read, numbers, history. All the stuff these sluggards of mine get at school.”

  Laird stared, disco
ncerted, and she must have guessed at his confusion. “I cain’t send ya to school. They demand to know who ya be. They won’t let me keep ya if’n I cain’t tell ‘em.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Ya don’t want to go with them government fellas, do ya?”

  “No, ma’am,” Byron answered instantly.

  Laird thought a quick moment, then mimicked his brother. “But, Simone,” he went on, reluctant to make her angry but wanting to make sure she understood, “Mama taught us to read and do our numbers.”

  “I know’d she did—but there’s more ya need to be successful like she’da wanted. Bonami here will teach ya. Work hard and do what he tells ya. Ya’ll stop work at the laundry at five every eve’n, meet with Bonami til supper—he’ll be stayin’ for that—an then work on learnin til lights out. Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Simone,” the boys said in unison.

  Lessons began the next night. “Bon,” he’d told them to call him, was a right one to Laird’s thinking. Despite his fancy clothes and well-educated speech, he didn’t act condescending toward him or Byron like Simone’s kids did. He admitted to being eighteen years old, just entering University, and determined to study law and graduate at the top of his class. He was careful to let Laird know that he’d grown up in much the same manner as Laird and Byron, only his mother hadn’t died until the year before. His father was still living, drunk all the time, and never came around.

  Simone had helped him stay in school; he’d graduated with top honors and won the scholarship to the University—all school expenses paid. However, he had no place to live nor any way to earn money for food. Thus, he’d made the arrangement with Simone to provide a high school education for two orphan boys.

  ”Ones,” he said, “I can already tell are sharp as all get out and likely to benefit from my efforts more than Simone's own children.” He’d shrugged and leaned forward to whisper, “I’m so glad I don’t have to try to teach them!”

  Byron developed instant hero-worship and worked hard to mold himself to Bon’s liking. Laird held himself more aloof, but soon had to admit there was not much he could teach Bon about getting around in the markets, the back alleys, the gardens, and the parks of their city. He struggled to understand why the young man had set his sights on higher education instead of applying his skills as Laird intended to do when he got older.

  Chapter 4

  Lessons were totally different than what their mother had taught and conducted in a manner that challenged Laird to strive to match Bonami Jeffs’ knowledge. Every day at five, the boys quit work, washed up, and were shortly ready for their teacher to arrive with books for Laird and Byron to read to each other—stories that covered the history of their city, Bonn, and the state of the same name. After dinner, Jeffs would pelt them with questions taken from the day’s readings. Laird studied the technique and within a week, was forming questions to try to show up his instructor on something he should have known but didn’t. He rarely caught Jeffs unprepared, which only made him work harder and crow louder when he managed to stump the young man.

  They soon branched out to the other city-states of Gareeth, read histories involving interactions between the various leaders, and worked with maps to trace rivers, lakes, mountain ranges, and boundary lines. Laird had never thought beyond the small neighborhood of Bonn that he knew so well, and one day, he asked why they had to learn about the whole world.

  “Are you content to live forever here in this comfortable corner of one city?” Bon asked. “I’m not. I plan to travel and learn everything I can so I’ll never be caught short of understanding.” He reached out a hand and ruffled Laird’s hair. “Like you try to do to me all the time,” he added with a chuckle. At the time, they were strolling along the main thoroughfare of the city as he explained the various statues of heads of Bonn statesmen that stood proudly at intersections.

  Bon had talked Simone into allowing the boys a half day a week off work so he could teach them visually about the city. Cherry had heard about their first planned excursion and demanded to go with them. After one hour in the Grand Library where Laird and Byron dashed mesmerized from one huge rack of books to another, Cherry flounced away with the single comment, “Boring,” drawn out until she was gone from sight.

  They toured the government buildings, several manufacturing businesses, and Bon even got them into a short tour of the President’s mansion. For that, they got new-used clothes, especially fitted, washed, and ironed by Simone herself. “Cain’t have President Preston see these boys as scruffy urchins,” she exclaimed as she slicked Laird’s unruly hair back to his head with a handful of sticky gel.

  “President Preston’s not much to look at,” Laird whispered after they’d caught a glimpse of the man in his huge, ornate office.

  “Exactly,” Bon answered. “Even you could be President, if you’re not a slouch at learning!”

  **

  Their teacher celebrated the first year of Byron’s and Laird’s education by arriving in a car—an honest to goodness car—to take the boys and Simone to a nice restaurant.

  Simone protested. Looking over the vehicle as if she planned to buy it, she said, “I don’t belong in such a fancy contrapsion. And I ain’t goin’ to no smashy eat’n house. You three go on with ya, and have a good time.”

  She was turning away when Cherry, Patsy, and Bud came running out of the house, shouting to go for a ride. Simone frowned at them. “Whot’s yer school reports, like, heh?” The grins on all three faces vanished.

  “Wait, Simone,” Laird said, his wide eyes seemingly innocent as they twinkled at Bon. “You can take them for a ride down to Punchy’s and back, can’t you? We’ll wait.”

  “I can do that.” Bon opened the front passenger door. “Cherry, as the oldest, you may ride in the front seat. Bud and Patsy, climb in back.” The three whooped with glee and dove into the car.

  Simone eyed Laird with suspicion. “Whot’s that about? You being nice to Cherry?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe she’ll be nicer to us in return.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Byron whispered, just loud enough for Laird to hear.

  “I won’t,” Laird mouthed back.

  **

  At the restaurant, not only did they have odd—“snazzy” Laird called it—food but had to learn the proper use of each piece of ceramic, glass, and cutlery on the table.

  “Folks don’t really eat like this, do they?” Byron asked as he studied the three different forks placed next to his plate. “Not every day!” His voice conveyed his contempt of such foolishness. “Who washes all this stuff?”

  “No, you are right. Most people don’t eat like this.” Bon pointed at the smallest fork of the trio. “Use that one for the appetizer. Someday, you never know when, you might have to attend some ball or formal dinner for royalty. Then, you would have to know how to eat properly.” He grinned at the frown on Byron’s face. “No knowledge…”

  “…is ever wasted,” Laird and Byron chimed in.

  **

  The next year, Laird and Byron grew like weeds. Either could lift the heavy hot water jugs into the tubs without the other’s help, and Simone’s business increased. She often complained that the three boys, including Bud, were eating her out of house and home, but then she’d say in the same sentence that she appreciated their efforts. Bud had started working harder, jealous of the special attention lavished on the brothers by Simone and the various washwomen and girls. Besides, they’d both gotten taller and stronger than him. He knew well their muscles came from the hard work in the laundry and declared loudly they weren’t going to out-shine him.

  Privately, Laird and Byron laughed at him. It was easy to out-shine Bud, any day of the week.

  Cherry became insufferable as young men started visiting. Laird had to admit she was a looker, but she’d remained as sullen and lazy as she’d ever been, at least around him. He and Byron avoided being anywhere near her when she was “primping” for her next caller. Although Simone wanted her to make a marria
ge that would help advance her business, even she hid when young men came to “have tea,” as Cherry called it, aping the richer set.

  Patsy, homelier than the beauteous Cherry, still dressed to compete when the boys called. Laird often thought he’d liked her better when she wasn’t trying to excel in Cherry’s arena. He shrugged away the thought—none of his business. One day, he’d never have to see any of them again.

  Pa—neither he nor Byron had ever heard the siblings’ father’s name—disappeared altogether. No one spoke of him, and Laird sure wasn’t going to ask Simone about him. She never acted sad, as if she missed his presence, so Laird buried his curiosity and went about the chores she’d assign.

  **

  Another two years flew by and Bon’ teaching became less hands-on and more assignments delivered for Byron and Laird to complete. They knew his workload at the University was staggering, especially as he’d been asked by the Dean to provide tutoring for some of the well-known names attending classes but struggling with the course work. He no longer came for dinners, and with the tutoring fees, he’d been able to move into his own apartment with two other law students.

  However, he always appeared on Samday, sometimes just to quiz the boys or, infrequently, to take them to visit a new business he thought they should learn about.

  One day, after Cherry’s advantageous wedding and departure from the house, Bon arrived for the afternoon outing announcing that they’d take the bus rather than walk the way they usually did. They rode for a full hour, the boys craning their necks to take in the far north part of Bonn, which they’d never visited. The city buildings, two- and three-story houses, shops with living quarters above, and markets they were used to disappeared. All around the bus route they saw large warehouses and manufacturing plants. Steam, or maybe smoke, rose in curlicues above tall brick stacks. Workers in this part of town dressed in heavy shirts and pants, mostly dark blue or brown, not clean but obviously tough and well made. Some men stood around smoking. Others sat and ate lunches from metal boxes.