A Foggy Beginning
Chapter 1
“I promise everything is going to be all right.”
Dad’s words were straight and true, but left Marian wanting. They felt as elusive as the cold fog rolling over the Smokies in front of her. No matter how much she tried to catch up and hold on to them, they ran off without her. Soon, they would fade away entire, and then where would she be? Wiping a tear from her cheek, she hoped Esther and Herbert hadn’t noticed.
She sighed and shivered, anxiously waiting for the school bus to arrive and take her and her siblings off to their new school in Happy Valley, Tennessee. A late March chill huddled the girls together for warmth while their little brother counted the steps it took from one end of the block to the other. Waiting on the opposite side of the street was an unfamiliar boy with shabby red-hair, akimbo arms, and lackluster eyes.
“What’s the bus number?” Herbert shouted from the end of the road.
“Herbert, don’t go so far down the street,” reprimanded Marian.
“Fifteen-twelve,” Esther answered him.
Herbert about-faced in the grass and walked next to the street with eyes closed, counting each step aloud.
“Whar’d y’all a-come from?” The boy called, sporting an angry duck on his shirt and Appalachian accent on his tongue.
Marian smiled at him. “We just moved from Cocoa.”
Half the boy’s mouth curled up and his eye squinted. “Whar’s that?”
Marian sweetened her smile, hoping it garnered a better result this time. “It’s in Florida.”
“Flahrida, huh?” The boy turned his gaze down the road nonchalantly and spat. “Mustn’t be a mighty nice town iffen I ain’t aheard it.”
Esther furrowed her brow and tilted her cheeks upward. She loved her hometown. It held the memories of running in orchards and catching grasshoppers, and its name reminded her of hot chocolate on chilly nights by the campfire. She rubbed her hands on her favorite Batgirl tee-shirt and yelled out to Herbert, echoing Marian’s sentiments. “Don’t go so far, Herb!”
Herbert finished counting and opened his eyes. Shoot! Ten steps short.
Marian turned to the boy and again attempted diplomacy. “I’m Marian. And this is my sister Esther, and our little brother Herbert is down the road. What’s your na—”
“Herbie?!” The boy’s eyes grew huge and his mouth opened wide. “What kinda name’s Herbie?”
Marian glanced at her brother. He had dropped his eyes and pursed his lips. “Well, his name is Herbert,” Marian corrected. “And what’s your name?”
“Aarun,” the boy replied, and looked away, disinterested.
Beep!
The Dolor children jumped, turning to see a large black truck aimed at Herbert. Its bright headlights shone in his eyes. He had been standing in someone’s driveway, and that someone was trying to leave for work. He joined his sisters huddled in the grass and waited for the bus to arrive. The boy, Aaron, seemed to have forgotten they were there.
“What’s our bus number?” Herbert asked again.
“Fifteen-twelve,” Esther repeated.
The smell of leather, rubber, and old cloth filled the Dolor children’s noses. The wheels rolled on the asphalt. The brakes squealed at the next stop. Steam rose from under the hood, and a puff of black exhaust exploded from the tailpipe. The accordion door opened. Four more kids entered the bus and found seats. The door shut. A gear scratched and rattled; the bus kicked a step forward, paused, hiccuped, and took off for the next stop. On and on this went, until twenty-five kids were on the bus headed to Carpenters Elem-Middle fifteen minutes away on a straight shot.
The bus was a cacophony of noises, shouts, squeals, and laughter. Herbert sat, quiet, in the middle of the bus with a seat to himself. The girls had left him for the back, making conversation with another young lady named Beth.
The bus stopped again and let on another group.
A shout from the front. “What is that smell?”
Another howl. “It smells terrible!”
A high-pitched shriek from the tantrum. “There’s poop in the aisle!”
In an instant, every boy and girl jumped up and looked. Fingers pointed. Accusations arose. Fights brewed. Everyone wanted to know where it came from and who had done it.
The bus-driver, Mr. Cunningham, stood up and hollered for silence. Each child shot down to their seats while snickering and whispering. The old man looked at the aisle and sure enough, the excrement stamp of a shoe made its way down the bus.
“Everyone stay seated,” Mr. Cunningham ordered with the same tone he had used when he served in the Army for twenty years. He took a step and looked at the feet of the three kids in Seat One and Two. Nothing there.
He took a step and looked at the four in Seat Three and Four. Nothing.
The snickering and whispering grew in volume, and each boy and girl looked at their partner’s foot, pointing false accusations. Herbert glanced at his feet, and to his amazed horror, the brown filth of what once belonged to a dog covered his right sneaker. It must have been that yard! The blood rushed from his face. He looked up. Mr. Cunningham was only a few rows away. On his first day! Clutching his backpack, he pointed his feet away from the aisle. His heart raced, sweat dribbled down his jawline.
Seat Eleven and Twelve. Nothing.
Mr. Cunningham stepped forward.
Herbert’s feet shuffled. The left foot pinned his right to the wall of the bus. His eyes stared blankly ahead at the back of the torn leather seat in front of him, refusing to even glance at Mr. Cunningham.
Mr. Cunningham stepped forward and looked at Herbert’s feet. Then he scanned Seat Twelve. He took a step and continued on to Thirteen and Fourteen.
Herbert closed his eyes and exhaled a prayer of gratitude.
Down the aisle Mr. Cunningham went until he turned from the back of the bus, confused and scratching his shaking head.
“Who is it?!” a boy’s voice hollered.
“Heshup!” Cunningham ordered and quickly raced to the front of the idling bus, tiptoeing around the mess.
The bus kicked into gear. Thrust, stop, hiccup, roll. The boys and girls once again laughed, pointed, and accused, as Herbert melted into indecisive misery.
After a few minutes, the elementary-middle school came into sight. The bus veered into the loop, and fifteen-twelve parked behind twenty-one-oh-four. Every student stood at their seat like packed hens in a coop, and the accordion door swung open. The line of children crawled down the aisle while Herbert watched and waited at his seat for his sisters to meet him.
“Esther!” Herbert whispered in her ear as she approached. She looked away from her new friend and smiled affectionately.
“It’s me,” said he. “Esther, I have the poop-shoe.”
Her eyes grew in disbelief. “Okay,” she whispered. “Stand behind me.”
The chicken line dragged on, and Herbert saw the end draw near. Maybe if he could get off the bus behind Esther, he could hide his feet in the grass quick enough that no one would notice. He’d have to get behind those bushes and clean his shoes. The thought of Mr. Cunningham’s disapproval, the kids laughing—it was too much to bear.
Esther whispered a few words of encouragement. “Just stay behind me.”
Through the passing windows, Herbert saw a group gathering just outside the door. They were jeering, pointing, mocking, imitating the act of defecating on one another’s shoes. Oh, God! They were waiting for him!
Esther stepped down and through the accordion door. Herbert took a breath and raced after her, trying to keep up until he made it to cover. Oh, but why was she rushing off to the right? Didn’t she know he needed to get to that patch of grass and that bush to clean the stuff off of him? Oh, no! It was too late!
“It’s Herbie!” The snide voice of Aaron hollered.
Herbert’s eyes shot back and forth in disbelief. He looked down and saw his foot covered in the excrement, a glistening, hideous, brown stain in the early sunlight. There was no way he would have been able to conceal it. It was everywhere! The group of boys cackled like hyenas, and one fell over in the grass as Aaron bounced like a baboon and mocked. “Herbie! Poopie! Herbie!”
“Herbie stepped in the poop!” they shouted. “Herbie stepped in the poop!”
Tears filled the young boy’s eyes. Esther spun round to help, but he was gone, racing down the lane and diving into a bush to cry and sulk. From the back of the remaining kids on the bus, Marian shoved her way through and burst from the accordion doors. She was three months older and two inches taller than Aaron, and didn’t appreciate the way he danced like a buffoon at her brother’s expense. Aaron, lost in hysterics, didn’t even notice Marian lumbering toward him at a near gallop as she squared him up and dropped him to his knees with her fist. Shocked and taken aback, the group cackled even louder, half of them mocking Aaron and the others jeering him on to strike her back. Scowling and barking, he leapt to his feet to say something ugly.
“Enough!” Mr. Cunningham shouted. “Get to class, all of ya’s!”
Marian sighed in relief, knowing Mr. Cunningham seemed more interested in moving the kids along rather than punishing her for the physical outburst. She and Esther searched for Herbert in the bustling flood of elementary and middle school kids, but could not find him. Pressing against the red brick wall, they waited until a sharp lady with a short black haircut, tight blue skirt, and stern face ordered them away.
“On to class, girls. No lallygagging.”
“But our brother,” Marian argued. “We are waiting—”
“He’ll get to class too. Now, off you go!”
Absent from all the ridiculing faces, Herbert had found a bush to cry inside of. He attempted to clean his shoe in the grass and dirt, but it only smeared the mark up the sides and throughout the rubber lining.
“Stupid! Stupid!” he muttered, angry and pitiful. His chest rose and fell with shaking vibrato. Oh, some was on his hand now! “Stupid Aaron! Stupid dog!”
“Sweetie, are you okay?”
He looked up, gasping, red-faced and sweaty.
A short, kind-faced lady had heard him as she made her way across the walkway to the nurse’s office. He could not speak. He merely motioned to his shoe and blubbered as a toddler.
“It’s okay now,” the woman consoled. “Follow me. We will get that all cleaned up and get you back to class.”
The kids half expected to see each other at lunchtime, but Carpenters Elem-Middle had an odd block scheduling that kept them from one another. This probably hurt little Esther on her first day the most. It didn’t help that she was a full inch shorter than anyone else in Mr. Oulette’s class, but that brat Aaron was in her class, too! Even though he was as old as Marian, he had been held back for bad behavior a year prior. He took the opportunity to tell most of the students about Herbert’s shoe ordeal and pointed out Esther as the poop-boy’s sister.
Outside the cafeteria, she leaned against its cinderblock walls, waiting for her class to enter. Pursing her lips and furrowing her brow, she clutched the three dollars and fifty cents Mrs. Dolor had provided for lunch. A long list of food options, prices, colors, and pictures on the small sign at the end of the line confused her. Why were there so many options? The money shook in her little hand as the line grew shorter and shorter and her turn approached.
“Excuse me,” Esther’s tender voice whispered to the boy in front of her.
He turned and gazed down at her, towering two feet over her.
“Do you know what we should buy for lunch?” she asked, hoping for a shred of congeniality.
The boy’s left eye squinted, and his lip jerked up in a crooked smile. He gawked and looked at his friend. They chuckled together but Esther didn’t understand the joke. “Whatever you want, shrimp.” The boy shrugged and turned away .
Her gaze dropped, and she clutched her money tight. Taking a deep breath, she remembered what Mrs. Dolor had said about bravery and prayer. She nodded her head slowly and pushed back the hurt feelings. Behind her, three girls chatted loudly about another who had kissed a boy for the first time the night before. She faced them, hoping to be invited into the conversation. One’s eye caught Esther, and the group acknowledged her. Esther smiled bravely and waved her hand out, still clutching the three dollars and fifty cents. The nearest girl studied Esther’s Batgirl tee that read: “I’m a Superhero!”, and then slowly drew her eyes back up to Esther’s face.
“You’re not cool,” the girl said icily. The others burst into laughter before they continued their conversation without Esther.
Esther clenched her jaw and her eyes glazed over, ready to cry. But she couldn’t let anyone see. Her eyelids fluttered, her lips sunk between her teeth, and she looked away to the ceiling. Where was she? Why would her parents send her to a place like this? She wanted to be back with her friends so badly. She longed for the halls of Jack London Middle. She missed knowing what was for lunch and being able to pronounce her teacher’s name without looking like a fool. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to curl up and die.
On the bus ride home, the Dolor children sat crammed together in one single seat near the front. Dad had said, “Everything was going to be alright.” But he clearly had not known anything about Carpenters Elementary Middle.
Herbert hadn’t any friends. In fact, he refused to speak a word to anyone in his class. A few of the faces he recognized from that morning’s bus ride, and he saw the side glances and giggles from across the room. How could he ever look Mr. Cunningham in the face again?
No matter how hard Esther tried, she couldn’t push the cutting words out of her head. She was “not cool”.
The sky swirled in rolls of tar paper and blankets of gray cotton. As they stepped off the bus at Bobcat Street, the heavens opened and a deluge of angry, cold rain jettisoned at them and nearly swept Esther down the steep, slippery road. A quarter mile of running furiously through the storm, another eighth of a mile up Bell Branch, and they stamped their feet at the front door of the new, but very old, Dolor farmhouse. As they drenched the old wooden floors, the sky cleared and the rain turned to a light drizzle.
“Well, how do you like that?” Marian said, flinging water from her arms and entering.
Later, Herbert found Esther in the living-room with Mrs. Dolor. Their mother, Anita, was a rare beauty that balanced well the care of her appearance and refusing the expense or discomfort normally afforded it. She lounged on the couch with a history book between her drawn-up knees, as Esther sat uncomfortably nearby, struggling to focus on the adventure book in her lap. Mr. Dolor was away at work late, as had been his custom since taking his new job.
Visibly bored by his mother and sister’s solitude, Herbert lowered his head and peered through the window. “Where’s Marian?”
“I believe she’s upstairs, dear,” Mrs. Dolor answered.
“She’s writing a play,” Esther added, face down.
Herbert’s eyes widened, and he pursed his lips, scrunching them up to the top of his left cheek. He paced around the room like a puppy, searching for nothing apparent. “Esther—,” he began in a childish tone.
“It’s too muddy outside, Herb,” she said, still fixed on the book. Only Esther and Mr. Dolor called him Herb, which he didn’t mind giving the exclusivity of.
The porch door out the back of the kitchen creaked open and slammed shut. Esther finally looked up from her book. Herbert was gone. She returned to the book. Then back to the door. Her mother was watching her.
“How was your first day of school, sweetie?” Mrs. Dolor asked.
Esther shrugged.
“The great swordsman—no, the Pirate, Herbert the Heroic, battles Aaron the Atrocious to the death! A battle of wits and ends!” The boy swung a long stick in the air over his head and thrust it down onto a make-believe enemy. “En garde, you stupid fathead!” The stick hit the side of the sweet chestnut tree in the backyard and shook a dead branch from it.
“It looks like Aaron the Atrocious has no chance,” a friendly voice called from above.
Herbert faltered, tripped on his own feet, and looked up to see Marian dangling her feet from a low branch with a notebook and pen in her hand, smiling.
“Mom said you were upstairs,” said Herbert.
She shrugged. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t scare me,” Herbert retorted, and then lowered his arms and swung his stick through the air again, valiantly. “I’m Herbert the Heroic. I don’t get scared.” He hit the trunk, and Marian went back to her writing. Next thing he knew, a frisbee hit him in the back of the head. He turned round to see Esther giggling with her hands over her mouth.
“Oops,” she snickered. “I didn’t mean to, I promise.”
“Too muddy!” mocked Herbert.
In a moment, the two were running about the tree, while Marian wrote her story from the branch. The yard between the chestnut and porch became an office where they pushed imaginary paper and faxed faux documents; Esther was the boss, and Herbert was behind schedule. The muddy pile of walnut branches became a tar pit surrounding a volcano where a Tyrannosaurus Rex lived; Herbert was the dinosaur, and Esther was the wizard who would zap it to smithereens. And the tree-line was a racetrack, the frisbee a flying saucer; Marian joined in the race as each of them took turns outrunning the alien attack.
The frisbee spiraled on a wild wind and flung itself past the forest line, deep into honeysuckle and rhododendron. Herbert bumbled after it, pushing maple branches from his face and the dark green rhododendron from his body. He snatched the bright red frisbee up, and it scraped something rough and hollow behind the bushes. His lips curled, his eyes flashed, and he cocked his head.
Pulling down a string of honeysuckle wrapped in trumpet vine, he revealed a large wooden gate, framed by rusty wrought iron. Stepping back, he gazed in awe at the black iron spires extending beyond its top, finials eleven-and-a-half feet high. Its sides were flush against rectangular brick pillars, three-and-a-half feet in diameter, joining an old brick wall, covered in lichen and vines, running the entire length of the private wood.
“Come here!” he shouted to his sisters at the edge of the forest.
The girls fought through the dense brush up the slope to find their little brother standing in front of a massive door at the edge of the Smoky Mountains.
“Let’s get it open!” Herbert cheered.
Keith G. Alderman 