No More Bullies Read Free Page A

metal toolbox. It was only about eighteen inches long, ten inches wide, and about twelve inches deep, but it was rugged and strong. He pulled the box from the trunk and set it next to the bumper of the car, his gloves sticking to the metal in the cold.
    Now to get that post out of the ground. The storm and the snowplows had piled the snow waist-deep around it. Gene pushed his way through, and then he dropped to his knees and dug the snow away with his gloved hands. The ground beneath was hard and crystalline with ice. He attacked it with the tire iron, gouging and chipping, scooping up the loose chunks with his hands. He dug and dug, the knees of his pants soaking through, his eyes watering, his nose running, the frost forming on his eyebrows, sweat pouring down his face despite the bitter cold. How deep does the highway department put these poles, anyhow? He stood up and wrestled with the post. It wiggled!
    Gene dropped to his knees again, digging faster, gouging harder, his breath turning to ice in the car’s headlights. He stood and slammed into the post with his shoulder, so focused on the task and so cold, he barely noticed the resulting bruise. He went to the other side and rammed it the other way. He slammed into it a few more times, back and forth. More digging and gouging, then some shaking, pulling, heaving one direction then the other. It had to come out. It couldn’t be much deeper. Got to keep—
    The sign tipped over.
    With a desperate heave, Gene pulled the signpost off the ground and dragged it over the snow to the front left side of the car. His toolbox, his fulcrum, was ready. He pushed the part of the post that had been in the ground under the car’s bumper and positioned the center of the post on top of the metal toolbox. The road sign at the other end lay flat, about fifteen inches off the ground. With the lever and fulcrum in place, he shoved the spare tire up against the wheel well. If he could raise the car just enough, long enough . . . if he could get the wheel on the lugs quickly enough. If. He might only get one chance at this.
    He tried the makeshift lever. He could make the car rock upward, lifting the axle and brake drum off the ground, but he couldn’t lift it far enough to get the wheel on. He needed more weight on the road sign. Gene looked around in the darkness, hoping that he might find a few rocks that he could pile on the sign, or maybe a heavy log. No such luck.
    There was only one thing to do. He looked through the window at his young wife. Ordinarily, she was a small, petite woman, but with the extra weight she had been carrying through the pregnancy, she could barely waddle from place to place. Gene breathed a silent prayer of thanks for Joyce’s extra pounds. Her weight, combined with his effort, might be their only hope.
    Gene opened the car door. “Joyce! I need your help!”
    The cold air shocked her awake. “What do you want me to do?”
    â€œI need you to get out of the car. Wrap up warm. And please don’t make any sudden moves. Just very carefully slide out of the car. Here, take my hand. I’ll help you.”
    Joyce reluctantly tightened her scarf around her neck, buttoned her coat, and put on her gloves. She moved her right leg toward the door, while Gene held both of her hands. Slowly, carefully, she slid her leg out and placed her foot awkwardly in the snow.
    â€œYou’re doin’ fine, Joyce. Just go slow. Take it easy. I’ve got a good hold on you, so don’t worry; you won’t fall.”
    Joyce struggled to pull herself toward the doorway, getting colder with every moment. Finally, her left foot pushed down into the snow, and she eased upward, Gene’s strong hands and arms there to steady her. The moment she was standing, another contraction wracked her body, and she nearly tumbled over in pain. “Oh! Oh, Gene!”
    Gene held her tightly until the spasm passed, and then he slowly released his