I sat reading in my recliner in front of the fire. Well, I wasn’t really reading. I’d dozed off as I listened to the rain falling on my roof.
My house had been built in 1801 by my great-grandfather. He had also built the barn behind it. Now the house had settled some, and the interior doors no longer remained reliably closed. They flew open on occasion with no apparent cause. But in most ways it was a sturdy home, and it had served generations of my family well. What would become of it when I died, I didn’t know, nor did I much care.
Something woke me. At first I thought it was just the rain, which by then was pounding down. Then I heard it again-a knock on my door. Before I awoke enough to react, my front door opened and closed. Still half asleep and with my eyes closed I wondered who that could be out on such a terrible night.
I opened my eyes and saw standing just inside the door a small, barefoot, drenched child in a nightgown.
“You’d better come in before you freeze or drown,” I said.
The child-at that point I was unsure if it was a boy or a girl-stumbled into the room and I motioned towards the fireplace.
The child couldn’t have been more than five. Whoever they might be was soaking wet and shivering. I thought they might be crying, but I couldn’t tell, for the tears would have blended in with the rain. Now that the child stood closer to me, I could see by the firelight that they had long, light brown hair, blue eyes, and a full mouth that tended to turn upwards.
“You need to get out of that soaking nightgown,” I said. “If you don’t take it off, you’ll probably get pneumonia.”
Hesitantly, he slid the nightgown over his head and dropped it on the floor, standing naked before me. Ah, I thought, a boy with hair too long to be stylish. I picked up the nightgown, telling him I was going to hang it up to dry. Looking at it, I decided it was a little less than the length of one of my shirts. Saying I’d be right back, I hung up his nightgown then went to my bedroom and fished a flannel shirt out of the dresser before grabbing a towel from the bathroom. Returning to the living room, I dried him as thoroughly as I could.
He was nothing but skin and bones. His ribs were showing, and his arms and legs were nothing but sticks. It was clear that he was undernourished.
I held up the shirt, telling him to lift his arms up. I slipped it over his head, getting his little arms in the sleeves of the shirt. I had to laugh to myself. The shirt was too long and his arms disappeared in the sleeves. I rolled up the sleeves as well as I could before saying, “We need to have a talk.” I invited him to climb into my lap, which he did quickly. Holding him so that I could see his face, I asked, “Who are you and why are you here?”
“I’m Russell; I’m called Rusty,” he answered.
I wondered at the nickname but then asked, “Rusty who?”
“Dennett.”
Okay, that clarified one thing for me. My house was right on the edge of town. The Dennett place was about half a mile down the road. It was a farm, but I’d observed that it wasn’t at all successful. I gathered that Mr. Dennett didn’t know a thing about farming.
“So, Rusty, why are you out on this terrible night?”
He looked at me with eyes as wide as saucers and said, “I think my mother and father are dead.” Then he started sobbing.
I rubbed his back gently, whispering “Shhh. Shhh.”
“Can you tell me what happened?” I asked.
He began speaking slowly, only a few words coming from his mouth at a time.
“I was asleep… in my room… I heard a… a gun… I ran to my… my parents’ room… My father was holding a g… g… gun. He put it… put it in his mouth and… and pulled the trigger.” The sobs came again.
It seemed to me that his conversation was much more mature than his size. His sobbing continued for a while before finally quieting down.
I didn’t dare ask him about his mother. When he calmed down again, I told him that I had to make a phone call. Leaving him in the chair, I went into the kitchen where my phone was mounted on the wall. He didn’t stay in the chair but padded along right behind me.
I was on a party line, and when I picked up the receiver, I heard two ladies chatting away. I thought for a moment and then said, “Ladies, this is Abraham Phillips. I have an emergency and I need to call the police.” They quickly ended their call. I heard one of them hang up, but not the other. Apparently, she wanted to hear what the emergency was. Great, I thought. By morning everyone in town will know.
The town had two part-time police officers. I called Officer Wesley at his home. When he answered the phone, it was with a groggy, “Hello?” Taking care of what I said because of the little ears standing beside me, I told him what I had just heard, spelling the most awful words. I suggested that he should check it out. He groaned but I knew he’d go to the Dennett farm. He was a very reliable man. I told him that I had the boy and suggested that he come by in the morning and tell me what he found. He agreed and hung up. Then I heard another phone hang up. I was right, I thought. Now she’ll call all of her friends, who will call all of their friends. Well, they’d all find out pretty soon no matter what.
Back in the living room, I sat in the chair again with Rusty on my lap. He was almost asleep. We sat for a while before I took him into the bathroom and got him awake enough to pee. Then I carried him into the spare bedroom, laid him down on the high double bed, and covered him with a quilt. He looked around sleepily and asked, “Where are you gonna sleep?”
“Right across the hall.”
“Can I sleep with you?”
I sighed, picked him up, and took him to my room, where I laid him down in my bed, also a double. While I had no desire to sleep with him in my bed, I understood that he didn’t want to be alone.
I climbed in beside him and lay awake for a time, thinking about what he had told me. No child, I thought, should have to see what he had that night.
Rusty’s screaming woke me. He was beside me. His eyes were wide open, and he was making the most god-awful sound I’d ever heard. Then I felt something wet and warm on my nightgown. Oh, no, I thought.
By the time I’d cleaned us both off and changed his shirt and my sheets, he was wide awake. The clock said it was 5:20, and I knew I’d get no more sleep that night. I dressed and went into the living room. It was cold in the house, so I stoked the embers in the fireplace and added more wood. Then I went into the kitchen and lit a fire in the stove. Rusty followed me everywhere with his thumb in his mouth, shivering. I put a chair near the stove so he could sit and warm up.
The rain had stopped, and it promised to be a clear, sunny day.
When the stove was hot, I started the coffee and took some eggs from the ice box. While I was making toast, I scrambled up a batch of eggs big enough for both of us. Even though the eggs came from my own chickens, they were an extravagance. It was 1933 and the country was still in a terrible depression.
“What are those?” Rusty asked.
“Eggs,” I replied.
He looked at them, his mouth forming a big O. “We don’t have eggs at my house,” he said.
Then, apparently remembering what had happened the night before, a look of horror flashed on his face, and he began to sob again.
While he cried, I put a plate of eggs and toast on the table in front of him.
Fortunately, the aroma of the food soon lured him back to his breakfast, as he dried his eyes on the arm of his shirt.
“What do you have for breakfast?” I asked.
“Sometimes Father was able to find some berries in the woods, so that’s what we had.”
I asked him how he had come by the nickname of Rusty, but he simply shrugged his shoulders.
Just as we finished eating, there was a knock on my door. Opening it, I saw Officer Wesley standing on the porch. Again, Rusty had followed me and was standing right beside me. Telling him I needed to talk to the officer in private for a bit, I went outside and closed the door behind me.
“You were right,” he began. “They’re quite dead. It looks like a murder and a suicide.”
Then he handed me a piece of paper and suggested I read it.
I read:
To whoever is readin this I’m givin up. Im a failur as a farmer as a husbin and as a fathur. I have no munny and I cant provide fer my famly. The bank is takin my farm and we ar starvin. Im sory.
Walter Dennett
PS I was gonna tak Rusty with us but wen I saw him lyin in bed aslepe he luked so inicent I cudnt do it. I pra that whuever finds him wil tak care of him bettur than I cud.
I just shook my head, trying to fathom his deep depression and hopelessness. Handing the paper back to Officer Wesley, I said quietly, “I’ll take care of the boy for the present. He seems to have attached himself to me, and he needs all the stability he can get right now.” Changing the subject a little, I asked, “Can I go into his house and get his belongings? He has nothing here to wear.”
The officer told me that the bodies had been removed but I should stay out of their bedroom. He warned me that the smell in the house was quite bad. Then he left.
Going inside, I found Rusty right by the door. “Rusty,” I said. “I’m going over to your house to get your clothes and things.” He nodded, but as I left he tagged right along with me. The rain had stopped but the grass was wet, so we went on the road, avoiding the puddles. He was still barefoot but that didn’t seem to bother him.
Remembering what the officer had said about the smell, I told Rusty to wait for me on the steps. He sat and I went inside. The stench was awful, a combination of feces, urine, sweat, and God knows what else. I did my best to breathe through my mouth. I located Rusty’s room and looked in his dresser. I found two old shirts and two old pairs of shorts. No underwear; no socks; no shoes. There was a little stuffed bear on his bed, so I added that to the collection. In other parts of the house I searched for laundry, hoping there might be more of his clothes there, but I didn’t find any. Going outside, I sat on the porch with him. I handed him the bear, which he clutched to his scrawny chest.
“What’s your bear’s name?” I asked.
“Bear,” he replied.
“Rusty, don’t you have any shoes?”
He shook his head.
“What do you do in the winter?”
“Stay inside.”
“Do you have a jacket or raincoat?”
Again he shook his head.
I showed him all that I had found and asked him if he had more clothes somewhere.
For the third time, he shook his head.
Sighing, I stood and walked the half mile back to my house with Rusty tagging along right beside me. There, I removed the shirt he was wearing and handed him one of his shirts and a pair of shorts. When he put them on, it was clear they were too small for him.
I told him I was going up in the attic, but he should stay in the living room. I climbed the narrow stairs to the attic and switched on the single light. I knew my mother never threw anything away, so I searched around and found boxes of my old clothes, some of which I thought might fit him. I even found a pair of shoes, some boots, and a winter jacket. I didn’t find any underwear or socks, but I didn’t really expect to. I tossed all of my finds down the stairs and then searched some more until I discovered an old trunk which held some children’s books and toys. Taking a few of those, I turned off the light and went down the stairs to the living room.
I asked Rusty to stand up while I sat, and then I held some of the clothes up to him. Some were still too big, but others seemed about right. I was in luck with the shoes, which seemed to fit. The boots were a little big, but I thought he’d grow into them. All the time I was doing that, he just stood still and looked at me.
I removed what he was wearing and helped him put on one of the new shirts and shorts. He looked at me questioningly.
“These are for you,” I said. “Someday I’ll get you some new clothes, but these should work for now.”
I showed him a toy horse and suggested that he pull it. When he did, the horse’s legs moved and it appeared to be walking. For a time he pulled it all around the living room.
Then, saying nothing, he climbed into my lap and hugged me. We stayed like that for a few moments before I asked, “Would you like to hear a story?”
He nodded, so I took one of the books and read to him the story of Goldilocks while he and Bear sat and listened. He seemed to want more, so I read the story of the three bears. He was sitting so he could look at the book while I read and we talked about the pictures together.
After lunch I asked him what he wanted to do. He shrugged his shoulders. “Should we take a walk?” I asked. He nodded, so we walked into town. I didn’t put his shoes on him because I thought he’d need some socks and he’d have to get used to the shoes a little at a time.
As we walked, he took my hand, clutching Bear to his chest. We went into the general store and were greeted by the owner, Ted Norris. I’d known Ted for years as I was the postmaster in the post office which was in the store. I’d worked there for a long time-still did-and had no thoughts of stopping. There were labeled boxes into which I sorted people’s mail. Residents came in to get their mail and occasionally to buy a stamp.
“Well, who have we here?” Ted asked, looking at Rusty.
I introduced him and told him that Rusty would be staying with me, at least for the present. He nodded his head, having clearly already heard the news about Rusty’s parents.
Rusty and I looked around the store a bit. I only planned to buy him some socks and underwear. Like most people that year, I was on a very limited budget, but he found a book. Looking at it, he held it up to me with pleading eyes. Of course I bought it for him.
While we were in the store, I put a sign on the post office window saying that it was closed until Monday but would open then for a few hours beginning at 10 o’clock.
We walked back to my house, Rusty clutching both his book and Bear. In the living room, we sat in the recliner and looked at his new book. “Read it,” he said, so I did. It was a little old for him perhaps, but it was about animals on a farm, and he was entranced.
When I finished he asked, “Do you have any animals?”
“Only chickens,” I replied. “This isn’t really a farm.”
“Can I see them?” he asked.
We went out the back door to the chicken coop, where the chickens were clucking around in a fenced yard looking for something to eat. The fence was more to keep skunks and foxes out than to keep the chickens in. I scattered a handful of seeds on the ground, so Rusty could watch as they fought each other for the food.
As we turned to go back in the house, he looked over at my garden. While I was correct in saying that I didn’t live on a farm, in addition to my barn I did have a large plot where I grew vegetables. He walked over to it and I followed him. Standing at the edge, he asked, “Can I go in?”
I assured him that he could but had to walk between the rows of plants. By then I had harvested and canned most of the vegetables, but there were still some squashes and pumpkins left.
Looking at the squashes and pumpkins, Rusty asked, “Why couldn’t my father grow these?”
“He didn’t know how,” I answered, “and I guess he was too proud to ask for help.” I was feeling guilty for not having offered to help his father, but we New Englanders tend to keep to ourselves unless asked.
“Maybe on Monday you could help me in the garden. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” he answered, and for the first time I saw the beginnings of a little smile.