Cry for the Strangers Page 0,23

Jimmy challenged him.

Robby shook his head, saying nothing.

“You’re chicken,” Jimmy said.

“He is not!” Missy snapped, leaping to her brother’s defense.

“Don’t say anything, Missy,” Robby told his sister. “Just act like he isn’t there.”

Jimmy Phipps reddened. “Your daddy’s a queer,” he shouted.

Robby wasn’t sure what the word meant but felt called upon to deny the charge.

“My daddy’s an artist!” he declared.

“And my dad says all artists are queers,” Jimmy replied. “My dad says your parents are commies and bums and you should go back where you came from.”

Robby glared at the bigger boy, his eyes blazing with anger. He knew he shouldn’t swing at him—his parents wouldn’t approve. But how else could he defend himself from Jimmy Phipps’s taunts? He took a step forward and saw three other boys line themselves up behind Jimmy.

“Get him, Jimmy,” Joe Taylor urged. “Rub his face in the dirt.”

“I don’t want to fight,” Robby said in a final effort to avoid a fracas.

“That’s ’cause you’re chicken!” Jimmy cried. His friends urging him on, he leaped on Robby, his fists pummeling the smaller boy.

Robby fought back and managed, somehow, to get on top of Jimmy, but then the other boys crowded in, grabbing Robby and holding him while Jimmy Phipps recovered himself.

“Let go of him!” Missy screamed. “You let go of my brother!”

She aimed a kick at one of the boys, but Robby stopped her, telling her to stay out of it. Then he jerked suddenly, struggled free, and threw a punch at Joe Taylor. Joe’s nose started to bleed immediately and he ran off toward the schoolhouse, howling in pain and clutching his injured face. The other boys looked on in surprise. Jimmy Phipps, about to leap on Robby again, stopped and stared, suddenly unsure of himself. Robby, though small, apparently packed a wallop.

“You leave me alone,” Robby said. “And you take back what you said.”

“All right,” Jimmy Phipps said. “You’re not chicken. But your daddy’s still a commie queer. My dad says so.”

Robby jumped on the bigger boy, but the fight was suddenly stopped when their teacher appeared, grabbing each of the boys by the shoulder and separating them by pure force.

“That will be enough,” she said. “What’s this all about?”

“It’s Robby’s fault, Miss Peters! He gave Joe Taylor a bloody nose and jumped on Jimmy Phipps!”

Miss Peters had been teaching at the Clark’s Harbor school for thirty years. She was sure there was more to the story than that, but she had learned long ago that getting the whole truth out of half a dozen ten-year-olds is harder than undoing the Gordian Knot. The most effective way to deal with a situation like this was to listen to no one at all.

“I don’t care what happened,” she said. “Robby, your clothes are filthy and it looks like you’re going to have a black eye. Go home for the rest of the day.” Jimmy Phipps grinned maliciously but Miss Peters put a quick end to his triumph.

“As for you, James, you can spend this afternoon cleaning the school, and the rest of you can help him!” She took Missy by the hand and started back inside.

Robby stood glowering at his tormentors for a moment, then started toward the schoolyard gate. Behind him, Jimmy Phipps couldn’t resist a parting shot.

“We’ll get you for this!” he shouted. “You’ll wish you never came to Clark’s Harbor!”

Robby Palmer, his eye beginning to swell, burst into tears and began running home.

Rebecca gave the pottery wheel a final kick, gently molded the clay between the fingers of her right hand and the palm of the left, then wiped the dampness from her hands while the wheel coasted to a stop. She surveyed her work with a critical eye. The rim of the vase should be a little thinner, perhaps a shade more fluted. Then, with a sigh, she decided to leave well enough alone. Heavy, chunky pottery was her style—the fact that it was easier for her to execute was a bonus—and why take a risk she didn’t have to take? She brushed a strand of long dark hair away from one eye, then carefully removed the nearly finished vase from the wheel.

She left the old tool shed that had been converted into a makeshift pottery and walked slowly toward the cabin to check on her bread dough. To her right the beach arched invitingly away to the south, white sands glistening, and for a moment she was tempted to go off beachcombing, looking for items that could eventually be