Charlie
Boger came into my classroom. He was 15 and the rest of the class was 11. The schoolyard dramas had no interest to him.
One day,
there was a huge fight in the playground; I headed out as hard as I could to
break it up. It was only about 50 yards away but thank goodness, Charlie had
stopped it. He did not like seeing someone beat up. Eric Lawson was bleeding
from his nose and lip. Paul Smoker’s eyes were blazing.
I sent
Eric to the office first so they could doctor his wounds and call his mother. I
walked Paul there as I took the class in from the playground. About an hour
after recess, 10 minutes before the day was over, they called Charlie Boger to
the office.
I sat at
my desk and graded a set of spelling tests. I wrote pedantic work across
Charlie Boger’s paper. He would find the word in the dictionary every time. I
knew he was putting in his time.
As I
drove home, there was Charlie Boger walking down the highway about four miles
from the school. I pulled over.
”
Charlie, why aren’t you on the bus?”
“Miz
Rogers, Eric turned me over for hitting him in the face.”
“You
didn’t hit him in the face. I saw the whole thing. It was Paul Smoker.”
“That’s
what they say. Anyway, I got to get home.”
“Let me
give you a ride.”
“I live
on a dirt road. Your car won’t stay clean, all that dust and such”.
“They
should have gotten you out for the bus.”
“Expelled.”
“Expelled?”
“It’s a good
thing.”
“Get in
the car.”
He gave
me directions as we wound down a narrow dirt road that followed the path of
Sabbath Creek. He got out of the car and
several younger children were waiting on him.
Charlie,
I plan to get things fixed tomorrow.
He gave
me a regretful look.
“It
doesn’t matter Miz Rogers. I’ll be 16 next month. My last day of school was
due. We got to get the garden in so we can eat. I’m so tired of collard greens.
The taters did sorry this year.”
I knew
his father had died several years ago. I did get the story straight that next
Monday. The school sent a letter to Charlie Boger’s home. He stopped by my room
when he returned his books. He said they
did not usually get mail so no one had checked the mailbox. He asked me if my family was well.
I would
like to say he grew up, prospered and lived a fine life. He drove a log truck
for a while and I taught his younger siblings. Two of them graduated from high
school. Charlie fell asleep driving a
truck they say. He was only nineteen. I wondered how many people besides me
knew he was old man at the funeral.
That's a tough life, and a lot of responsibility at fifteen/sixteen.
ReplyDeleteSome people don't get much of a chance.
ReplyDeletewow, if this is fiction, you are a POWERFUL writer. And it is true, then you are a great story teller. Either way, well done.
ReplyDeletebest,
MOV
Awww... poor little Charlie... sad sad story... but kept me glued till the end. Good work Ann!
ReplyDeletePoignant. Though I didn't quite get the last line...I didn't sleep well either so it may be me:)
ReplyDeleteAnn, I've been reading, and really enjoying The Whistling Season by Ivan Doig. I think your work is very reminiscent of his-and this piece is no exception. I love how you've elevated a normally ordinary, every day setting with such a rich and heartbreaking story line! I agree, well done!!
ReplyDeleteGreat story, Ann. If I read it right, you mean to say that at nineteen he was already an old man. And that's sad. Well told.
ReplyDeleteVery moving. Great story. Reminds me a bit of Walter Cunningham jr., in To Kill a Mockingbird. (RogRites)
ReplyDeleteThat's heartbreaking. :-(
ReplyDeleteRemember to come back and vote at the end, ok?
That's so sad )': He was such a father to his siblings.
ReplyDeletea sad tale. Very well written.
ReplyDeletethat was so sad. no one should have such a lot in life.
ReplyDelete