Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 3)
Chapter 1 continued
Cindy Bradford
When the whistle blew signaling time was up, the boys formed a line, each team dropping their findings on the ground in front of them. As the judging began, it looked promising for Patrick and Mikey until they saw two other boys who also had everything on the list; their arrowhead, though a little larger, looked to be in about the same crooked shape as Patrick and Mikey’s.
“We have a tie, boys. We only have two prizes so you’ll have to vote,” said Father Andrew. He was tall, athletic and muscular, and looked to be in his late twenties. Of all the priests, he was Patrick’s favorite. Smiling, he pointed to a long table, “We’re going to place all the treasures for both teams over there, and then you will have to choose which team has the overall best finds. Everything is basically the same between the two teams so your decision will probably depend on the arrowheads and feathers.”
Patrick looked at Mikey wiggling with excitement and was afraid he was going to wet his pants. Both boys chewed their fingernails as the line of boys passed by the piles of twigs, rocks, flowers and feathers. Patrick watched, shifting his weight back and forth, as he did when he was nervous.
“Okay, this is it boys. Let’s see a show of hands,” Father Andrew called, first holding up the arrowhead and long gray feather belonging to Mark and Javier. When he lifted the other arrowhead and crimson feather, Patrick began counting the raised hands.
“The red feather wins!” shouted Father Andrew as Patrick and Mikey whooped and hollered, jumping up and down. “Come forward and get your prizes.”
They walked erect, chests puffed out, straining to look taller than they really were to the front of the group where the priest stood smiling, reaching to hand them their prize.
Patrick slowly opened a wooden box to find a small gold cross on a tiny chain. Like a bolt of lightning, the night before came crashing back as he remembered the shiny, gold cross hanging from Father Michael’s neck.
Trying to hide his anguish, Patrick managed a smile and a mumbled “Thank you,” as he crushed the box into his pocket and started to walk away until Stephen hit him hard on the back.
“Good job! What did you do to Mikey? His eyes are all puffed up.” Patrick turned to look and saw Mikey rubbing his eyes, now red and swollen.
Patrick couldn’t help but smile as he looked over at the wild flowers lying wilted in a heap by Mikey’s feet. “Guess, Mikey has allergies too. Poor guy, he can’t win for losing.”
“Who wants to try archery?” Father Robert asked, picking up a bow and demonstrating how to position it. As he let the arrow fly it missed the bull’s eye by half an inch, tempting the boys to try. Each boy claimed a bow and quiver of arrows and ran to the practice targets. Arrow after arrow flew, the swishing sounds reverberating in the open setting, but no one hit the bull’s eye. When the scores were tallied a short squat boy named Jack from Millsport Parish won the contest, narrowly edging out Patrick who had competed vigorously. Though disappointed, he quickly rebounded when swimming was announced. From the sound of the whoops of the boys, this appeared to be the favorite activity for everyone except Mikey.
Today, like yesterday, he sat on the bank, but this time he was clutching the crimson feather. Watching him, Patrick thought, well, at least something good happened to Mikey today.
Although there was a shallow part of the lake where Mikey could stand, his mother had told him not to go in. Patrick had heard her repeat to Father Michael at least four times, “Do not let Mikey go near the water, and be sure that he has on his cap. I don’t want him to get too much sun.” Mikey’s skin looked so translucent that Patrick wondered if she ever let him play outside, plus his cap was shaped funny, the beak too long, making his head look lopsided. Why couldn’t he just wear a normal baseball cap? Patrick wondered, knowing that Mikey’s mother probably picked it out. Feeling a little sorry for Mikey, he almost stopped, but wanting so badly to swim, he jumped in instead. “Yikes,” he yelled, gulping and spitting water as he came to the top. “Man, this water is like ice.”
Joey Sinclair, who had leaped in first, was bobbing up and down. “You’ll get used to it; don’t you remember yesterday?” he asked, sarcastically. Joey was a year older than Patrick and liked to act tough. Although their dads were both cops and friends, Patrick didn’t really like Joey.
Boys crowded the diving platform like ants. When Patrick’s turn came, he flung his body as high as he could and grabbed his bent legs beneath him, “Cannon ball,” he yelled, right before his face hit the water. When his head popped out of the water, his skin was still stinging. He rubbed his eyes and looked at a group of boys clapping and yelling.
“Let’s see that again. I dare you to start back there and run,” a skinny kid shouted, pointing to a tree more than ten feet from the board. Without hesitation, Patrick pulled himself up on the rickety wooden ladder and raced to the spot, touched the tree and ran back, this time, bounding off the board on one leg, flying high until…splat! His body cut through the water and back up in seconds. Head bobbling, he caught his breath, grinned and glanced over to the bank. Immediately he saw Mikey, watching earnestly but forlornly at the action in the lake. Patrick swam over and asked, “Are you okay?”
“I guess,” Mikey answered in a pitiful voice.
“Hey, at least put your legs in the water,” Patrick encouraged, pulling himself out of the water and standing up said, “You surely can’t drown doing that.”
Mikey smiled meekly, and complied by gingerly dipping first one and then his other foot into the water, obviously glad that someone was talking to him. Then, Patrick moved to stand as close to Mikey’s body as he could, and jumped in, splashing water everywhere and soaking Mikey’s clothes. Seeing him drenched, Patrick laughed so hard he could barely stay afloat.
Grinning and reaching down to the water to splash at Patrick, Mikey lost his balance and fell in. When he came to the surface, he began slapping the water hysterically and screamed as soon as he caught his breath.
Patrick yelled for help and cautioned Mikey, “Be calm and you’ll be okay,” trying to hold onto him with one hand and to the bank with the other. Now, Mikey was jerking his arms and fighting so hard that Patrick lost his grip and thought both of them might drown. Finally, two boys ran over, reached out and caught Mikey as Patrick pushed him toward them. Once they had dragged him up he sat on the hard dirt of the lake’s edge looking paler than ever and sobbing uncontrollably. So much for Mikey’s already poor image, Patrick thought. Feeling a little responsible, but tired from the effort, he dog paddled out into the middle of the lake and floated, trying to clear his head.
When the whistle blew for time out, Patrick swam to the shore, pulled himself out and dried off. Back at the camp, he dressed and sat on one of the benches by the campfire, trying to find warmth. Although it was summer the air was cool when the sun started to set and a light breeze added more chill. Hungry, Patrick walked over to Father Robert, “How much longer until dinner?”
“About thirty minutes, but it will be worth the wait,” Father Robert replied, stoking the coals and blowing into his palms.
Patrick looked at the aluminum foil shapes nestled among the grayish-white coals. The menu, written on a weathered, thin piece of poster-board tacked to a blue spruce, read: Roasted Potatoes, Roasted Corn and Brisket. Without that it would be hard to tell what was hidden in the belly of the fire-pit.
“Those look like something that fell off a space capsule,” Patrick said to the group of boys huddled around the smoking pit.
“Yeah, maybe we’ve been invaded by aliens,” Randy chimed.
“Hey, look at the sky. I think I see something,” Mikey added excitedly.
“You dope, that’s an airplane,” Joey exclaimed, rolling his eyes and moving to be further away from Mikey.
“You don’t know that for sure,” Patrick said, defensively.
“Okay boys, grab your plates. We’re just about ready,” Father Robert announced.
Quickly forgetting about their argument, the boys jumped up pushing and shoving, to be first in line. Patrick reached over to the rusted metal cooler, and dug in the ice until he found a Dr. Pepper. Then popping the top, he flicked the pudgy kid in front of him with the cold water on his hand.
“Hey, watch it,” he said, grinning.
“Watch what?” Patrick answered, feigning surprise and innocence.