Avery Jane
“Once upon a time, there was a rogue,”Dixon said to a group of kids sitting in wheelchairs and on couches in the day room, and some on the floor with their legs crisscrossed.Dressed in their hospital gowns and robes, sticky footed socks, and various casts and healing implements, their rapt attention stayed focused on him as he spoke in his deep voice.
The day had grown darker.Rain pounded outside, and fat streams of it ran down the window behind Dixon seated in a chair at the back of the room.All the kids had turned to face him so they could watch as he told a story he was making up on the spot.They didn’t seem to care that his jeans had been worn through at the knees or that his hair hadn’t seen a pair of scissors for far too long.
“What’s a rogue?”Jarod Keller asked.
He’d been rehabbing from a surgery to correct a severe scoliosis curve in his spine and still had external fixators sticking out of his shirt.He always wanted to hug me when I visited, but I was afraid to hurt him or mess up his hardware, so instead, with his mom’s permission, I gave him a gentle side hug and a secret piece of chocolate when the other kids weren’t looking.
Dixon cleared his throat.“A rogue was someone in olden times who was dishonest or up to no good, and this particular rogue happened to be the son of a very important man in their little town.”
Sunday Marten raised her hand.“What’s the son’s name?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions,” fourteen-year-old Carter Billings said.“He’ll get to that part if y’all let him tell his story.”
“Thanks, man,” Dixon said to Carter, “but there are no stupid questions.His name was… Augustus.Augustus Quail.”Dixon smiled at Callum, who had leaned against the doorjamb to listen, and went on.“He was known around his town for stealin’ things.All the shop owners closed their doors and locked ’em up tight when Augustus was near.They had all decided he was a good-for-nothin’ teenager.
“He stole food and clothes from the locals, and then he would disappear for a few days.No one knew where he went, but they just figured he’d gone to sell all the things he’d stolen.”
Carter scoffed.“Didn’t they have cops and sheriffs in this town?”
“They did,” Dixon answered, “but the cops weren’t fast enough for Augustus.He was young and spry and too quick for anyone to catch.Plus, he was a master woodsman.When he was a little boy, his dad taught him, so he knew the land and could hide like a mountain lion.Nobody ever saw him runnin’ away, and when he came back after a few days, he didn’t have any of the things he’d stolen, so the cops could never prove it was him who stole all the stuff.”
“Nobody had a Ring camera?”Sunday asked.
Dixon laughed, and the smile on his face took my breath away.I’d forgotten how happy weaving tales made him, how it lit up his eyes.
“What’s your name?”he asked her.
“Sunday Marten,” she said, smiling up at him, and if I wasn’t wrong, a little bit smitten.“I’m eleven.”
“Naw, Sunday, this was old times.Before the internet and cell phones.No cameras.”
“Um,” Cela winced next to me and nudged my arm with her elbow.Her name tag and the keys hanging from a lanyard around her neck jangled, but she adjusted them.“Do you know where this story’s goin’?’Cause right now we’re gettin’ dangerously close to teachin’ the kids how to be felons.”
“Have some faith,” I whispered.“All of Dixon’s stories have happy endings.You just have to wait for it.”
“Okay,” she said, but she didn’t sound as sure as I was that Dixon would be teaching the kids some kind of life lesson at the end, or he’d make them howl with laughter.Whichever he chose, his story would be good for their souls, and they’d tell the tale over and over to their families and the nurses on the night shift.
“Now, Mr.Quail, Augustus’s father, was one of those shop owners.His wife, Mrs.Quail, made the best bread in all the land.It was soft and smelled so warm and sweet that people would come from miles away to buy some for their families.She was always makin’ bread; she baked in the mornin’, in the heat of the day, and at night.She even woke up at midnight sometimes to bake her bread.She knew how hungry people could be, and she wanted to be able to feed them.
“But Augustus’s father watched over her carefully and kept track of all her ingredients.He was a miser?—”
Sunday made a face.“What’s a miser?”
“A miser,” Dixon said, “is someone who likes to make money but doesn’t share it.Like Scrooge.You know who Mr.Scrooge is, right?”
The kids nodded.
“Good, so Augustus’s dad was a miser, and he didn’t give the bread away to anyone.People had to pay a pretty penny for it.But Augustus’s mama was really smart.She knew how greedy her husband had become, and it broke her heart because she knew some people couldn’t afford to buy her bread.So do you know what she did?”
Quiet as mice, the children shook their heads, waiting for Dixon to reveal his secrets.
Clearly but quietly, like he was letting the kids in on the secret, he said, “She dug a hole in the back of her kitchen that led out to the woods, but she hid it behind a window curtain and a wooden bread rack her husband had made for her.So, when Augustus needed to disappear, he had an escape route, and then she changed her recipe.She taught herself how to make even more delicious bread with less ingredients.She could make twice as much as before, and Augustus’s father was none the wiser.”
Carter rolled his eyes.“Butwhywas he stealin’ bread?And you said he stole clothes too.”
“I did,” Dixon said, a mischievous smile growing behind his eyes.“Augustus stole clothes and shoes, bread and milk.He even stole two chickens once from a local farmer.”
