T H E K I N G ' S B U S I N E S S
December, 1938
Christmas Prodigal A Story By PAUL HUTCHENS Illustrations b y Ransom D. Marvin
Jerry Ranger leaned forward, p u s h e d hard a g a i n s t t h e storm, held his mittened hands in front of his face to keep the s n o w f r o m bl i ndi ng him. O n l y t h r e e more miles and he w o u l d be there—be home E -h o m e f o r Christmas.
now. It was dated last year and addressed to him at the Reformatory. “Remember, Jerry,” he had read, “we are counting the days until you can come home.” W e! That meant Mother only. No letter or word of sympathy had ever come from Father. Al ways, there was the burning memory: "Get ou t and sta y out! You're no son o f m ine!" He’d vowed he'd never go back until Father sent for him. And he had kept that vow, too, until last week when he couldn’t stay away any longer. And now he was going back, humbled and broken— "I w ill arise and g o to m y fa ther!" He strode with long, quick steps along the snow-swept road. The bitter words echoed in his mind: "Get ou t . . ./” It wasn’t going to be easy to face Father, harder still to ask forgiveness for something for which he was not to blame. There wasn’t anything in the world harder to bear than being misunderstood, unless it w as, being homeless and friendless at Christmas time. And he had lost Faye Bernard! After all, it was having her lose confidence in him, never writing to him or telling him she cared, that hurt more than anything else. But then, what could he expect when she was Larson’s own niece, his nearest living rel ative? With everything seemingly against him, maybe God Himself didn’t care. Jerry slapped his mittened hands together, pulled, his cap down lower over his ears and forehead, and pushed on into the storm. He was going home! A great lump came in to his throat; tears stung his eyes. H om e! He began to run. “O God,” he breathed, "make Father forgive me! Make everything all right!” * * * * ★ * He hadn’t intended to go through Main Street, where he might be recognized, but the walking was better there, he decided. Perhaps no one would notice him anyway. It was too stormy for many shoppers to be in town, even on the day before Christmas. He passed Larson’s grocery without look ing up. W hy should he feel so ashamed when he wasn’t guilty? W hy couldn’t he walk right in with head erect, eyes alight with confidence and self-respect, and say, “Good afternoon, Mr. Larson”? Why? He knew why: It was because Mr. Larson and
the whole town and community believed he was a thief, a ne'er-do-well. Scum! From a store window on the opposite side of the street, two clerks saw him go hurrying by, head down, cap pulled low, wool collar of his cossack high about his ears, eyes straight ahead. One man turned to the other and said, “There he goes now. Speakin’ of angels——.” And his companion replied laconically, “Now that the old man is dead, he isn’t afraid to come home, eh? Bad pennies always come back, they say. Better lock everything up good and tight tonight. Listen to that wind, would you! I’d sure hate to be buried on a day like this. Won der what good the minister’ll find to say about the grumpy old tight-wad.” Jerry, oblivious to their thoughts, pushed on. He was wondering what Faye would think when he passed her home. He did not care now if she did see him. What right had he to be proud any more? A girl like Faye would not lack for suitors. She prob ably would be married by this time. Every window of the big house where she lived was like an accusing eye glaring at him. Only once did he allow himself to look. But he did not see the quick movement of the curtain at an upstairs window. Nor did he know of a rather reckless resolve on the part of the young woman who had seen him struggling against the storm. A mile out in the country, he passed the graveyard and the Maple Creek church which he had attended as a boy. A high mound at a newly dug grave was covered with artificial grass. Tom Rill, the care taker, was sweeping the snow off and filling the grave. There had been a funeral today, perhaps. Some home was going to have a sad Christmas this year, Jerry reflected. But his own sorrow and anxiety gripped his heart. “O God, make everything all right. Make Father forgive me!” He quickened his pace. Perhaps his trip home would be like the prodigal son’s re turn, with Father eager to welcome him, maybe seeing him coming even in the storm and running up the road to meet him—or out to the gate like he used to do when everything was all right between the two of them.
Today, December 24, after two years of being away, he was going back, memories tugging at his heart. There was something about the Christmas season that made even world-hardened Jerry Ranger homesick. Last year, when he was behind the bars at the State Reformatory, he had felt this same gnawing in his breast; but he couldn’t have gone home then, even if he had been free to—not with memories of Father's face, livid with wrath, still fresh in his mind, and Father’s searing words burning into his soul: ‘‘Get out, Jerry Ranger, and sta y out! You’re no son of mine!” He hadn’t done anything—he hadn’t broken into Larson’s grocery and taken the money from the cash register. The gang of young ruffians with whom he had been as sociating had, and circumstantial evidence had been enough to convict him. Jerry Ranger hadn’t reformed. He hadn’t needed to reform; but he had had a job at least and had earned his board and room, such as it was. When the year was up and he had walked out a free man, he was ashamed to go home, afraid to, so he had run away—gone into the north woods and worked in a lumber camp. No, he wasn’t free, he told himself this morning; he never would be entirely free again. There would always be the stigma of the past, like the brand made by the branding iron on slaves and criminals in days long ago. The world would always think of him as being a black sheep, he reflected grimly—every one who knew or heard of him, except, maybe, his mother. He had a letter from Mother in his pocket
Made with FlippingBook - Online magazine maker