Archie slipped away from the schoolyard the very instant Mr. Whitaker's shadow fell upon the shattered glass. He didn't wait for the showdown, didn't stay to watch the final dissipation of the American Buffalo's mirage of grandeur. In his chest was a strange, two-sided feeling.
On the one hand, a quiet, unseemly joy that Larry had gotten his due. Maybe now he'd leave Mary alone, and that stupid business with the "metal." On the other — a bitter aftertaste. Archie had seen how the other boys looked at Larry — even now, even after the failure. Their eyes held not reproach, but respectful amazement: he'd actually fired! He'd owned a real pistol! And the girls, including Mary, in the first minutes after his triumphant appearance in the yard, had also looked at him with that curiosity reserved only for true heroes or desperate daredevils.
What if she really does start admiring him? — churned relentlessly in Archie's head. He's a hero now. And me? I'm the one who blurted out "metal" during catechism.
He walked home alone, along the familiar path that wound through the damp, withered fields along the Mississippi's bank. Usually, he loved this road: the expanse, the river's roar, the cries of gulls. But today everything seemed gray, flat, colorless. An unpleasant lump sat in his throat, and to his own shame, treacherous tears welled in his eyes. From what? Envy of someone else's, even if idiotic, glory? Resentment over his own humiliation? Or simply because, for the first time in his life, he felt small, unnoticeable, insignificant — a nobody.
When he felt wretched, he always went to his mother. He'd sit on the kitchen bench, take a piece of still-warm cornbread, and she, without asking anything, would stroke his head with her warm, rough palm — and somehow everything would sort itself out, fall into place. But today… What could he tell her? That he envied a boy who'd nearly blown up the school? That he was afraid the girl from the neighboring farm might prefer that very rascal to him? It sounded so stupid, so childishly pathetic, that he couldn't even imagine speaking the words aloud.
So, he had to be silent. Carry it all inside.
He sat down on an old, mossy stump right at the water's edge. The river hummed a steady, low drone, carrying on its broad back fragments of branches and yellowed leaves. The air was saturated with the smells of wet wood, smoke from distant fires, and that special, autumnal dampness that seeps through clothing. Archie closed his eyes.
And then, as if by some malicious design of fate, a familiar, swaying figure appeared on the road. It was Johnny Tucker. He was walking, waving his arms and shouting something into the void, as if conducting a furious argument with an invisible interlocutor.
"Hold it, you scoundrel! Just you wait!" he thundered, addressing now a roadside bush, now a crooked apple tree. "I'll twist your mug sideways! Come here, you coward! I'll bite your ear off, I will, so you'll regret it your whole life!"
Seeing Archie, he abruptly changed direction and, still waving his arms, strode straight toward him.
"Aha! There you are, you low-down robber! Well, you won't get away from me now! Stand still, don't move! I'm gonna give you a beating!"
Archie didn't move. He knew Johnny well; the man was a drunkard, sure, but if you didn't provoke him, he wouldn't hurt a fly. After a few steps, the bell-ringer stopped, swayed, and, squinting his one good eye, stared at the boy.
"Well, I'll be... It's the young master from Fox Creek!" he mumbled, and his voice suddenly lost its belligerence. "What're you doing here, sitting on a stump? Checking the river's in order?"
"Coming from school," Archie said quietly.
"From school!" Johnny perked up. "So our thunder-bringer Whitaker was hurling lightning again? Sure was, bellowed so loud even the glasses rattled over at Jim's tavern! Jim even said to me: 'You ought to go over to the school, Johnny, and crack him over the head with the bell clapper. Else he'll bust from anger, shame to see.'"
Despite all his bitterness, Archie couldn't help but smile. Johnny's speech, drunken and hiccupping, was surprisingly sincere and vivid.
"He didn't bust," he replied.
"And he won't!" Johnny declared confidently, plopping down on the ground beside the stump. "His skin, Whitaker's, is like an old ox that's pulled a yoke for twenty years. My late mother used to say: you could make reins from hide like that — they'd last till the end of the world."
The heavy, oppressive sadness in Archie's heart slowly began to melt. Johnny, for all his perpetual tipsiness, was a character. A ringleader, a joker, a master at wriggling out of any situation. He drank — yes. But he never begged or whined. If he had no money — he'd sell his only pair of boots. If he had no boots — he'd pawn his threadbare jacket. Sometimes he'd come home barefoot, in just a vest, but with his head held so high, you'd think he was leading a victorious army.
Johnny, having sat for a minute, suddenly brightened.
"What're we doing here, sticking out like two scarecrows in a field? It's freezing. Let's get a fire going, warm our bones."
Deftly, despite his swaying, he gathered dry twigs, pulled a flint from some hidden pocket, and soon a small but stubborn fire was crackling to life between them. The flame reflected in the dark water, and the world immediately felt cozier, smaller.
"Here," said Johnny, pulling a flattened flask from an inner pocket. "First medicine for the autumn gloom. Corn ale, my own, that is, preparation. Sometimes a man's got to oil his throat, so his soul don't creak like an unlubricated wagon."
He took a swig, winced with pleasure, and offered the flask to Archie. Archie shook his head, embarrassed.
"Ah, come on, boy!" Johnny snorted. "Why you shaking like a bride at the altar? One sip won't kill you. A real man ought to know what the world is capable of, and what he has to deal with."
Under this pressure, and further encouraged by the approving look from Johnny's single eye, Archie finally relented. He took the flask, took a cautious, tiny sip — and immediately coughed, feeling a fiery, bitter wave with a taste of smoke and something herbal spread down his throat. He swallowed, trying not to grimace.
"That's the way!" Johnny nodded approvingly, taking the flask back. "Good lad. I respect that. Not every boy your age would dare."
Then he pulled out a tobacco pouch, deftly rolled two thick, homely cigarettes, stuck one between his teeth, and offered the other to Archie. But this time Archie refused decisively. Johnny gave an approving smirk, lit his cigarette from an ember, and took a drag.
And so they sat together by the fire on the bank of the great river: a grown man with a guiding star in his one eye not yet knocked out in a drunken brawl, and a boy with a gaze still clear. They drank from the same flask, and Johnny talked — spoke of this and that: about steamboats hooting in the distance, about tobacco prices, about the foolishness of people who pick fights over trifles. He spoke to Archie as an equal, and there was something intoxicating in that, stronger even than the ale. Archie felt a warm, hazy comfort spreading through his body, driving away thoughts of Larry, and shame over his failure, and childish jealousy.
After half an hour and a couple more sips of "medicine," this haze thickened completely. The tongues of flame from the campfire blurred in his vision, turning into a warm, flickering spot. Johnny's head drooped onto his chest, and his snoring merged with the river's hum. Archie, leaning back on the soft, cold earth, no longer fought sleep. He closed his eyes, and the last thing he felt was a strange, bittersweet calm. He was not alone. And even if his companion was a half-drunk bell-ringer — it was better than sitting on that stump and feeling like the most pitiful and lonely creature in the whole wide world.