The Wind in the Willows

When he found me, I was too weak and too hungry to run. I pushed myself up with trembling arms and slowly got up from the cold concrete floor of the barn and started putting the small towel away I had in my bag, asking him not to call the cops.

The old man approached me from the doorway as a shadow from the early morning light creeping across the sky. He stopped about six feet away from me and slowly placed a tray on the ground. Then he turned and got a hoe from the wall and grabbed a bag of seeds and went back outside. On the tray was a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee, and some corn bread with a side of butter and jam, and a small metal box with a red cross on it.

I sat back down and ate the oatmeal and drank the coffee. I put the cornbread in my mouth and nearly choked because I didn't chew it enough. When I finished eating, I opened the little metal box. On the back of the lid was a small mirror. Inside was some gauze, a small needle and some thread, dressings, ointment, medical tape, and a small brown bottle which read 'iodine'. I looked in the mirror and saw the gash under my eye had grown puffy and swollen. I put some iodine on a dressing and pressed it against my wound and groaned. I dried the gash and put some band-aids on it. I wasn't brave enough to attempt stitching it closed. I promptly laid back down and fell asleep again.

The old man woke me up with a gentle shake of the shoulder. He beckoned me to follow. It was mid-day now. As I followed him outside, I noticed just how old he really was. His wrinkles were deep and his skin sunned. He walked with a forward hunch and his legs moved as if they were two stiff boards. Around me I saw the farm for the first time in the light. It reached all the way up the hill, with a variety of crops here and there. Two of the four barns had caved in, and old tractors sat under a weathered awning, rust seizing nearly every inch of metal on them.

I thanked the old man for feeding me and asked him not to call the police and that I would just be on my way. I don't know if he heard me, or if he could hear anything. He took me to his house and slowly made his way up the stairs. I stayed at the bottom until he got to the top and turned, waving his arm and saying something I didn't hear. His voice was breathy and broken. I made my way up the creaky stairs, past the pictures of a little girl in a yellow dress, a young couple next to a new truck, and a family of three by a willow tree. The old man led me to a small bedroom with a perfectly made bed, a small dresser, a desk, and a mirror. He placed his hand on my shoulder and said: ''Stay''.

The old man carefully made his way back down the stairs one step at a time, his arm shaking as he held the railing. I watched him go back outside to his fields, back to work cutting weeds and laying seeds down. I sat down on the bed and fell asleep almost instantly.

Over the following weeks, I helped the old man with his daily routine. I would get up with him at five o'clock to make coffee and go outside with him. I mostly did things which required heavier lifting and maneuvering. I'd also go and prepare some iced tea or lemonade, the only two things I ever learned to make at home with mom.

In the evenings I tried to talk to him, ask him about his life and farming, and things like that. He groaned a few words from time to time. I asked him if it hurt to talk. He nodded yes. I didn't press him. Every night after I followed him upstairs, he would gingerly tap my shoulder and nod his head approvingly and give a little smile. I went to bed and tried not to think of my father, tried not to dream of him finding me.

Every week, the old man and I would go into town in his old truck. At first I was very nervous and I kept my hoodie up. I didn't want to be recognized. We would go to the bank and the grocery store. After a few months, I started relaxing a little bit more. I was far away from home, far enough, I thought.

As fall approached, I started to gather the crops to sell. In front of the house on the lower part of the hill was a small wooden barn where the old man would sit with his produce. Customers from town would drive up the dirt road to the house and purchase vegetables from him. He had a small basket where he had change and a few bills. I sat with him, helping customers weigh the food and placing it in a plastic bag.

It was around lunchtime on a sunny mid-september day when the red pickup truck roared up the driveway towards us. I sprung out of my chair and ran to the back of the barn and crouched down behind some logs, my instincts kicking in. I held a hand to my mouth and tears rolled down my cheeks.

I heard the truck stop right in front of the barn and the door open.

''Where the fuck is he! Where's that little shit!"

My heart shot up to my throat. The old man was still sitting there. But I was too scared to move. I peeked through a space in between two logs. The old man was standing up with both hands on his cane, his neck crested upwards to my father, who continued to yell.

The old man shook his head and mumbled something I couldn't hear. I watched my father pace with clenched fists to the house and walk in. I heard things crashing to the ground. When he came out, he was holding my bag.

''I know he's here. If you don't tell me where he is, I'm gonna fuck you up old man!''

My father's finger was pointed right between the old man's eyes, just like he used to do to me before the blows came. I closed my eyes and prayed, to who or to what I can't even say. I just prayed.

I heard another car come up the dirt road and stop in front of the barn. I opened my eyes.

''Is this man bothering you Mr. Halloway?'' the police officer said.

There was an exchange between my father and the police officer. My father was calm and composed, cheerful even. Well-practiced. Then the officer went and spoke to the old man, whispering to him with a hand on his shoulder. The old man nodded to a few things the officer said. The officer asked my father to stay for a moment and went to the house. When he came out, he arrested my father. They drove away. I came out from my hiding place and the old man placed his hand on my shoulder and I cried, and I couldn't stop.

One morning in April, the old man didn't come down the stairs for coffee. I went up to his room and found him in his bed, his hands resting one over the other, his face at peace. The lawyer said he had left me the farm in his will.

After the cremation, I walked him up to the willow tree at the top of the hill with a shovel. We sat there a while, overlooking the river and the valley. I dug a small hole at the base of the tree, right below where his name and the name of his wife and daughter had been carved and poured the ashes in before covering it back up. The soft wind caressed the willows and I felt something touch my shoulder.

I went back to the house and got ready for another day.