The Tender Years Read Free

Trina, when presented with that argument, had stated flatly that lots of people lost mates. That didn’t mean they had to turn into dirty pigs.
    Virginia had to acknowledge that Mr. Adamson did not care for himself. She had seen him in the same multistained plaid shirt for the last several weeks, and his pants looked stiff with dirt and stains. Were they really too stiff to fall into a normal heap on the floor? Trina suggested that he had to lay them down on their side when he took them off at night—or else lean them up against a wall.
    She looked at the dirty pants now. Damp spring garden soil had been layered over the dirt of the past. The old man seemed totally oblivious to it. He did not further attempt to brush it off. A glance up at his face reminded her that he was still waiting for her answer. She swallowed. The excuse she had for being late now sounded foolish. Even to her own ears. What would her mother have to say about it?
    “I was … with Jenny,” she managed, brown eyes looking down in embarrassment.
    “Jenny? Thet little fire-headed gal who is always gigglin’ over some fool thing?”
    Virginia nodded. That was one way one might describe her friend Jenny.
    “An’ what were the pair of you up to this time?” he asked candidly.
    “We … ah … a couple friends had nickels. We went to The Sweet Shop.”
    He stepped closer and placed his own hands on the pickets. His voice dropped, as though entering into a conspiracy. “Sodas?”
    She nodded again. Her carefully fashioned excuse was crumbling before her very eyes. Her mama would not find sodas a good reason to be late from school. Her mama saw afternoon sodas as a destroyer of supper appetites as well as making one late for after-school chores. Chores that would still need doing. And time was quickly passing. Each moment that she lingered with the elderly man meant another minute ticked off on the large grandfather clock that stood in the hall.
    “Cherry?”
    “No,” she said slowly. “We had chocolate, and Jenny had … had strawberry.”
    He passed a tongue over dry lips. “Vanilla’s always been my favorite. Others like all them fancy flavors, but there ain’t nothing like vanilla. Deep and rich and jest plain.”
    “I should go. Mama will—”
    “Of course. Of course.”
    He waved a dirt-covered hand in the air and turned back to his soggy flower bed. Virginia moved away from the fence. She was really going to be in trouble. The added moments wasted in conversation had made her even later.
    But before leaving she turned to the man once more. “You really shouldn’t be kneeling in the cold,” she cautioned gently. “You’ll not be walking at all if you keep that up.”
    For one moment he seemed to contemplate her warning. Then he waved it aside as he would brush at a pestering fly. “Garden’s the only thing I got,” he told her. “Once they take that from me—won’t be no reason to go on a’tall. Been waiting all winter to git back to the diggin’. See things grow. Look there. See thet little viola. Already bloomin’ and the snow jest melted from off its little face. Brave little souls—violas. Some years they even beat the crocuses.”
    “Well, maybe you could find something to kneel on,” Virginia suggested as she turned reluctantly away from the strange old man. She had to hurry home.
    Fear filled her being, and in spite of her hurrying feet her heart lagged. What would her mother say? It was the latest she had ever been, and she had been scolded before, many times, for tardiness. But this. This was different. It was the first time a boy had ever invited her to share a soda. It would have been unthinkable to turn him down. After all, she was no longer a child. She had turned thirteen on her last birthday and was now moving, though it did seem at times slowly, toward birthday fourteen. Even her papa said that she was growing up. It was only her mama who acted as though she still needed constant parental supervision.