1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf Read Free

hero. It just shows you you can't judge kids: like that girl. She could settle down, but she won't ever be a national hero . . . that's for sure."
    "Mitch was wild?"
    Wood finished his drink and gazed unhappily at the empty glass.
    This was a hint, so I took his glass and waved it at the girl, who was resting her breasts on the bar counter and watching us.
    She brought a refill and set it before Wood.
    "That's your second." she said, "and your last." Looking at me, she went on, "He can't carry more than two, so don't tempt him," and she returned to the bar.
    Wood gave me a sly grin.
    "Like I said, the young have no respect for their elders."
    I was asking . . . “was Mitch wild?”
    I had finished the chicken hash, not sorry the meal was over. My jaw felt tired.
    "Wild? That's not the right word. He was a real hellion." Wood sipped his drink. "He was always in trouble with the sheriff. No girl was safe within miles of him. He was a thief and a poacher. I'd hate to tell you how many tomatoes he stole from my farm or how many chickens disappeared or how many frogs vanished from other farmers' frog-barrels. The sheriff knew he was doing the stealing, but Mitch was too smart for him. Then there was this fighting. Mitch was real vicious. He would often come into town in the evening and pick a quarrel. Nothing he liked better than to fight. Once, four young guys who thought they were tough ganged up on him, but they all landed in hospital. I had no time for him. Frankly, he scared me. He even scared the sheriff. The town was glad when he got drafted and we saw the last of him."
    Wood paused to sip his drink. "But one can forgive and forget when a guy wins the Medal of Honor. Right now the town is proud of him. Let bygones be bygones I say." He winked. "Many a girl cried herself to sleep when the news broke that he was dead. He seemed to be able, by just snapping his fingers, for the girls to spread their legs."
    I was absorbing all this with interest.
    "And his father? Was he like his son?"
    "Fred? No. He was a worker and he was honest. Mind you, he was tough, but straight. When he lost his legs, he changed. Before that happened, he would come into town and be good company, but not after losing his legs. He no longer welcomed visitors. He still hunted frogs with the help of Mitch, but he stopped coming to town and anyone who went up there got short shrift. Even now. at his age, he still hunts frogs. Once a week, a truck goes up there and takes his catch. I guess he must live on rabbits and fish. I haven't seen him for a good ten years."
    "How about Mitch's mother? Is she alive?"
    "I wouldn't know. No one around here ever saw her. The story is some woman tourist went up there to take photographs of Fred and the a'gators. That was when he was in his prime. I guess he was like Mitch with women. Anyway, one day, Fred got landed with a baby: left outside his shack. That was Mitch. Mind you, I won't swear to any of this, but that was the story going around Searle. Fred brought him up the hard way, hut he made him attend school. When Fred lost his legs, it was Mitch who saved him. From then on, Mitch looked after his father until Fred could stump around on his thighs. That's the only good thing I can say for Mitch: he sure was fond of Fred: no question about that."
    "Interesting," I said.
    "That's right. It gave the town a lot to talk about. Not every town our size has a national hero. Then there was the grandson."
    I showed mild interest.
    "You mean Mitch's son?"
    "That's right. It was a mystery. Some nine years ago, a kid arrived here. He was around eight years of age. I remember seeing him arrive. He looked like a little bum: as if he had been on the road for days: dirty, long hair, his shoes falling to bits. He had an old battered suitcase, tied up with string. I felt sorry for him. I like kids. I asked him what he was doing here. He spoke well: He said he was looking for Fred Jackson, who was his grandpa. I couldn't have been more