Peddling a homemade adult-size tricycle with a frame made of white plastic plumbing pipes and fittings, a middle-aged tomboyish woman, Tooly, approached a traffic light in a small town. With all her worldly belongings in a knapsack carried on her back and a bin bolted between the rear wheels of her trike, she came to a stop at the intersection, where she tightened her purple helmet, then rubbed palms on green slacks.
Waiting alone when the walk sign flashed, Tooly plopped sneakers on peddles and looked both ways before entering the crosswalk. A moment later, though, a blaring horn, squealing tires and a driver screaming “idiot” startled Tooly.
Temporarily frozen, Tooly looked through the passenger’s window of the car swerving around her in time to see a raging thirtyish woman behind the steering wheel. Shaken by the close call, Tooly scooted to the sidewalk ahead of her, then calmed herself with a few deep breaths.
Rather than find fault with the driver, who had run a red light, two teenage girls passing on foot made fun of Tooly.
“I guess growing up isn’t for everybody,” teased one of the girls.
“Lookin’ for the nearest loony bin?” taunted the other teen, prompting both girls to giggle.
Long realizing her trike was, for many, a source of ridicule, Tooly ignored the teens. Intent on making her way to the town’s lone rooming house, she continued on her way.
After arriving at her next temporary home, Tooly found the mustard-colored rooming house in disrepair. Taking a few moments to scan the property, she noticed an assortment of birdhouses perched on poles and hanging from tree limbs.
Lacking any semblance of symmetry, each of the lopsided bird sanctuaries had been built by piecing together a mishmash of scrap wood. Further distinguishing one from another, each had been painted a different shade of red, blue or green.
Soon gliding down the front walkway and past a faded sign, Birdie’s Haven: Rooms for Rent, Tooly pushed her trike on the grass and headed for the front steps of the rundown two-story home. Once through the doorway, she noticed several bird houses for sale on the counter between her and an elderly gentleman.
“Hello, sir,” greeted Tooly.
The man stepped toward the counter. “I’m Birdie—the has-been fella who’s nickname came from havin’ a fondness for birds. I own and run the Haven. Rooms are 15 bucks a day and birdhouses are three bucks a piece.”
“My name is Tooly—a nickname that came from having a fondness for fixing things with run of the mill hand tools. I’ll take a room by the day, and I’ll mention your birdhouses at my work stops. Do you ever make squirrel dens?” she asked.
“No need to. The pesky crittas bunk in my attic,” said Birdie.
“Squirrels like to nestle in cozy places. The tree dens would complement your generosity,” noted Tooly.
Birdie was baffled. “What generosity you talkin’ about?” he asked.
“During the quick look I had at your property, I spotted some big oaks, which tells me you’re providing nuts for nearby wildlife. Of course, that’s assuming money problems haven’t required a shake-up in your diet,” kidded Tooly with a grin.
Birdie chuckled. “I’ve had long stretches of peanut butta and jelly sandwiches, but things ain’t come to acorn stew,” he assured.
“Then building homes for squirrels would be another way for you to see yourself be kind,” suggested Tooly.
“I suppose so,” droned the hunched elder before sliding Tooly a registration form. “Gals bunk on the first floor. You’re in room two. Do ya have a vehicle?”
“It’s out front,” answered Tooly as she put cash on the counter, then began to fill out the form she’d been given.
After peering out a window and not seeing a car or truck, Birdie scratched his head. “You said your vehicle was out front.”
“Yes,” assured Tooly.
“All I see is a big three-wheela,” said Birdie.
Expecting to be mocked, Tooly dropped shoulders and exhaled. “That’s my mode of transportation,” she answered.
“Do ya mind if I ask where ya rovin’ from?” asked Birdie, curious rather than critical.
“Collardville,” answered Tooly.
“That’s eight miles east,” said Birdie, squinting puzzlement.
“To avoid traffic, I used Route 71,” noted Tooly.
“That’s an unused road, alright, but it adds a couple of hilly miles,” pointed out Birdie.
“Counting rest stops, it was about a seven hour trip,” detailed Tooly.
“Ya must stick ya feet out when ya glide downhill,” commented Birdie.
“Unlike a two-wheeler, gliding on a trike is dicey. When it gets steep, I climb off and walk,” explained Tooly.
Birdie was impressed. “I bet you got no-flat solid tires,” he noted.
“No tubes, belts, chains or gadgets of any kind. I’m guessing you appreciate sticking with what’s simple,” said Tooly.
“The vehicles on the roads these days are fancy doohickey death traps as far as I can see. Knowin’ there’s somebody not chasin’ the crowd is upliftin’. . . . That’s sayin’ a lot, given how miserable I’ve been,” shared Birdie with a sigh.
“Thanks for the compliment. . . . Sorry you’ve been feeling down,” replied Tooly.
“Park your trike behind the garage,” said Birdie.
“Need any repairing, cleaning or raking done? I work for whatever folks decide is within their means,” offered Tooly.
“Got a reckin’ ball in ya trike’s chest? I’m afraid this place is beyond repairin’. To boot, I’m in one of those peanut butta and jelly sandwich stretches I fessed up to,” shared Birdie.
“Maybe you know someone who needs cheap help,” asked Tooly as she handed Birdie the completed form.
“My shirker of a son flew the coop and left his ex with a big mortgage on a ramshackle small place. Her name is Helen. She’s at 9 Gotch Road—second left headin’ west. Don’t tell her I sent ya. She’s rightly upset about me bein’ unable to get my son to pay child support like he’s supposed to,” said a regretful Birdie.
Feeling sympathetic, Tooly looked down.
“Helen’s retaliatin’ by havin’ my granddaughta, Kee, steer clear of me. It’s been close to a year since I’ve seen Kee,” shared Birdie with moistening eyes. “We had some good times buildin’ bird houses while listen’ to the radio music she likes. I ain’t touched a piece of scrap wood since she stopped commin’,” he grieved while wiping wet cheeks with a sleeve.
“If I get the chance, I’ll let Kee know you miss her. I bet you and her would make some dandy squirrel dens,” suggested Tooly.
“You sure got a yearnin’ to see those dens get made,” said Birdie.
“Traveling the way I do puts roadkill up close. I’d like to see squirrels catch a break for a change. . . . Could I bother you for the time?” asked Tooly, noticing a chain drooping from the pocket of the elder’s vest.
Birdie pulled out his pocket watch and clutched its circular metal casing without popping the cover. “Sorry, my watch stopped workin’,” he replied with eyes again watering. “I carry it around ‘cause Kee gave it to me on a past birthday. I’d say it’s around three.”
Soon ringing the daughter-in-law’s bell, Tooly stepped back when the door opened.
“How can I help you?” curtly asked Helen, keeping her hand on the doorknob as she glanced skeptically at the large tricycle.
Tooly spoke timidly. “I do odd jobs. Though my mode of transportation isn’t typical, it lugs all that’s usually needed to make routine home repairs. My name is Tooly. Thanks for hearing me out.”
“Are you going door to door?” asked Helen.
“Not yet, I was given your name by someone I just met—someone who thought it best if he remained anonymous,” answered Tooly.
Helen folded arms while squinting concern.
“Does knowing I just rented a room on Ramper Street help?” offered Tooly.
“The useless father of my useless ex-husband sent you,” quickly realized Helen.
“Do you want me to leave?” asked Tooly.
Badly needing work done, Helen gruffly sought more information. “I’ve had some slimeball thieves do repairs. What’s your hourly rate?”
“My rate is whatever you decide you can afford,” assured Tooly.
Still suspicious, Helen again made known she was familiar with being scammed. “When it rains, water drips into a pan I keep on the fireplace mantel. Each of the two estimates I’ve received from guys who never got on the roof were around 4500 dollars. When I told them that sounds like a whole new roof, they grinned, then told me they were too busy to bother with makeshift jobs. The bottom line is I’ll struggle to come up with 45 dollars,” complained Helen.
“If the problem is what I think it might be, an inexpensive tube of patching tar and not more than an hour of my time should do the trick. Do I have your permission to get on the roof somehow so that I can come up with a free assessment?”
“Go ahead. My neighbor said I can use the ladder behind his shed,” noted Helen.
“Terrific! I’ll have a report shortly,” assured Tooly.
Ten minutes later, Tooly was at Helen’s back door.
“What’s the bad news?” whined Helen.
“The problem is what I suspected. Shall I get to it?” asked Tooly.
“OK, the timing is perfect. It’s supposed to rain tonight,” relayed Helen.
“Excellent! I’ll be back in awhile. I’ll also show up in the morning to make sure the pan on your mantle is dry, if that’s OK?” asked Tooly.
“That’s fine,” answered Helen.
The following Saturday morning, 13-year-old Kee sprang from bed. While quickly dressing and washing, she had one thing on her mind: If her softball team won today’s game, they’d be playing in the league championship game.
Though prone to whiffing at the plate and flubbing in right field, being on the team was an important way for the awkward teen to connect to her peers. Because her mother managed the team, the slights and snickers that came her way were usually whispered, making it easier for her to overlook them. She was, simply put, grateful just to be a teammate.
Soon aware her mother’s usual Saturday morning routine—sipping coffee and watching TV—wasn’t underway in the kitchen, Kee went to her mother’s bedroom, where something she didn’t expect was happening.
“Why have you put on a skirt and blouse?” Kee asked her mother.
“My boss asked me to cover for someone sick. A part-time office worker, like me, increases her chances of getting hired full-time by helping out. But don’t worry. Tooly agreed to take my place. I’ve given her the starting lineup, and I’ve told her to make sure to put you in right field during the last two innings.”
“Who’s Tooly?” fretted Kee.
“She’s doing some repairs for us. I was reluctant to try her out, because your grandfather sent her over. She’s renting a room from him. Anyway, she’s already fixed the roof. . . . If the team wins, I’ll make sure I don’t miss the championship match-up,” assured the mother.
“But what about going out after the game?” asked Kee.
“I’ve called Mara’s mother. She agreed to take you with them for post-game pizza. I’ll pick you up at their house. Tooly knows about the plans. So, grab some breakfast, then go out back and let her know you’re ready. She’s working on the outdoor faucet,” said the mother before dashing from the house.
After wolfing down a bowl of cereal, Kee tucked her bangs under her ball cap, flung her glove under her arm, then headed out the rear door. “I’m ready,” she called out.
“Hi, OK,” said Tooly as she locked her trike’s bin.
Brought to a halt by the sight of Tooly’s trike, Kee worried that the fill-in manager intended to ride the attention getter to the ball park. “Is that how you get around?” she asked.
“Along with walking,” answered Tooly.
“The field isn’t far. We can walk,” assured Kee.
“Lead the way,” said Tooly.
While heading down Gotch Road, Kee couldn’t stop wondering why an adult would ride a three wheeler. “Is your tricycle how you get around?”
“Yes, everything I own fits in my backpack and the trike’s bin,” answered Tooly.
“Don’t most repair people have a van or truck?” asked Kee.
“That’s true. I’m a hand-tools-only exception. Not using power tools keeps my load light. . . . I understand why someone wouldn’t want to be seen with a quirky adult on a trike,” said Tooly, trying to get along.
“Why not just get a van or truck?” pressed Kee.
“Most people don’t see my answer to that question as satisfactory,” said Tooly.
Unsure what Tooly meant, Kee took offense. “Are you saying I’m probably not smart enough to understand your answer?” she asked.
“No, I’m saying the few who’ve heard my answer found it silly,” shared Tooly, wanting to make her regard for Kee evident. Tooly recalled a fond memory. “When I was a child, my granddad read a story to me that impressed me greatly. Rather than oodles of laws, everyone in the story followed a wise saying that encouraged niceness. Like those in the story, I believe getting around in a way unlikely to do harm is one good way to be a nice person,” noted Tooly.
“That’s screwy! People need more than a wise saying. They need a whole bunch of rules, and they need ways to punish those who break the rules,” insisted Kee.
“Most people agree with you,” assured Tooly.
“Just telling everyone to be nice is screwy,” again scoffed Kee.
“I suppose it’s hard to imagine a world where being nice is what’s most important. . . . The good news is every so often I bump into someone nice, like your granddad, who thinks peddling a trike is a good idea,” said Tooly.
“Mom says he’s wacky—too wacky to make my dad do right by us,” countered Kee.
“Your granddad seemed sharp and caring to me,” replied Tooly.
Uncomfortable with talking about her granddad, Kee again opposed the use of tricycles by adults. “Why don’t you at least use a bicycle?” she asked.
“Soon after giving a two-wheeler a try, I had a close call with a fellow who stepped from behind a parked truck. Though no one was seriously hurt, the face to face look of fright just before our collision still gives me the chills,” recalled Tooly.
“The guy wasn’t careful,” pointed out Kee.
“And I was going too fast. We both fouled up,” admitted Tooly.
“You gotta keep living when bad stuff happens,” said Kee.
“Yep. Just about everyone believes it’s important to carry on as if things have to stay the way they are,” replied Tooly.
Kee smirked. “So, you don’t use a van, truck or bike because you’re afraid you’ll hurt someone.”
Tooly stretched her neck from side to side. “I also don’t use cars, buses, trains and planes,” she revealed.
“That’s pretty weird. Plenty of people don’t freak out after having worse stuff happen than your bicycle crash,” pointed out Kee.
“I guess I have a flair for trying to avoid hurtfulness,” admitted Tooly.
“I’d say it’s a flair for being a fraidy-cat,” ribbed Kee.
“No doubt, that’s true. But doesn’t everybody deep down want niceness?” posed Tooly.
“No! Being nice isn’t the big deal you think it is. Doing what it takes to fit in is what counts,” contended Kee as they crossed the street and headed for the infield of the ballpark.
A softball game that had see-sawed its way to a one run lead for Kee’s team was about to end in dramatic fashion. With the bases loaded and two outs in the last half of the final inning, Kee, who was in right field, pounded the palm of her glove while watching the right-handed batter at home plate. You won’t be getting a chance to mess up; so, just relax, she told herself after the batter swung wildly at a pitch in the dirt for strike two.
Then, the unexpected occurred. Though the next pitch was outside and low, the batter stretched over the plate, swung hard and sent a long line drive to right field.
Despite being startled, Kee jerked to her left. Realizing she was too slow to make a standing catch, she launched her entire body toward the whizzing ball. To her surprise, her extended glove hand snagged the ball as it hit the ground. All eyes watched as, after rolling over, she sprung onto a knee—a position that left her facing the infield with the ball in her glove.
Immediately turning toward home plate, the players, managers and few dozen spectators watched as the heavyset imposing ump, Marge, signaled the batter was out.
Kee was ecstatic. For the first time in her uneventful life, she was the center of attention. Her astounding catch had catapulted her from derided benchwarmer to admired game-winner.
After making her way to the infield, where she received pats, high-fives and hugs from teammates, Kee approached Tooly for more praise.
“That was a fantastic catch, Kee. Good job holding on to the ball,” began Tooly before hesitantly adding something she dreaded saying—something she knew would dismay Kee. “I wish the ball hadn’t skidded off the grass just before you scooped it.”
“The ump said the batter was out!” quickly stressed Kee, not denying she’d trapped the ball.
“The ump’s was mistaken, right?” noted Tooly, dropping to one knee, then tugging on a few blades of grass.
Kee brought hands to hips. “No one goes against the ump unless it’ll help her team,” she declared.
Tooly didn’t disagree. “You’re right. Sadly, even a professional player would never reveal the truth if it meant harming her team’s chances of winning. But what’s the nice thing to do?” she asked.
Kee muffled her anger. “Other than you, who cares?” she questioned.
“You haven’t had a chance to notice the players on the other team. They care, and, just maybe, a part of you cares,” answered Tooly.
After turning toward home plate, Kee saw the other manager and the ump having a heated exchange. Behind their wrangling, the opposing players were shouting their disapproval.
“What the ump sees is what counts,” again argued Kee.
“I’m not sure what’ll happen when we speak up,” said Tooly.
“I am sure! Even teammates who know I didn’t catch the ball for an out will be mad,” insisted Kee.
“Knowing is the big hitch,” said Tooly.
“What do you mean?” asked Kee.
“For me, knowing what happened amounts to knowing what’s fair,” explained Tooly.
Kee shook her head, then looked down. “I’m keeping my mouth shut!”
Tooly took a chest-bulging breath. “OK,” she replied before heading for Marge, who was continuing her toe-to-toe tiff with Tim—the other manager.
Kee didn’t budge. Instead, she folded arms in frustration.
Once within a few feet of the squabbling, Tooly interrupted. “I had an excellent angle on the play—one that let me see the ball hit the ground before it ended up in Kee’s glove. Tim’s team won the game.”
Marge felt ganged up on. “Not you, too! Given you’re a last minute sub, you may not know my ruling is the one that matters.”
“Fairness matters, too, doesn’t it?” asked Tooly.
“The kids need to know without the decision-making power of the umps, the games would become one feud after another!” insisted Marge.
“Shouldn’t the kids, first and foremost, see fairness be valued?” countered Tooly.
While the opposing team stood in amazement, Kee’s teammates became flustered.
“We won fair and square,” said the pitcher for Kee’s team.
Tooly hoped reviewing what had happened would help. “Kee’s fantastic, acrobatic catch and the split second skid of the ball made it possible to think a game-ending out had been made. But that’s not what happened,” she sincerely noted.
“Have the guts to reverse your call, Marge,” goaded Tim.
Marge stepped within a few inches of Tooly, then spoke softly. “The kids expect to be at odds with the ump, not their own manager. Are you sure you want your way?” she checked.
“I want what’s fair,” respectfully said Tooly, looking up at Marge.
“Good thing you’re just a fill-in,” noted Marge before turning to Tim and his team. “I’m reversing my decision. The Bluebirds won!” she announced as she headed for the parking lot.
Tooly turned toward the players of the opposing team. “Congratulations!” she called out.
“This is awful!” fumed the mother taking Kee for pizza.
As Kee marched away in a huff, Tooly tried to be consoling. “Though not an out, it was still a great catch, Kee. No one can take that away from you,” she assured.
Ignoring Tooly, Kee approached Mara—the daughter of the irate mother.
“Why didn’t you tell your mother to ask my mom to take her place?” complained Mara.
Kee curled fingers into fists as she hung her head. “I didn’t think to. My mother should have known an adult who rides a tricycle has to be screwy!” she answered.
Wanting others to hear her, especially Tooly, Mara brashly bellowed her belittling outrage. “We’re missing out on playing in the championship game thanks to tricycle-riding screwball!”
Easily hearing the disparaging remark, Tooly turned away, then trudged across the outfield.
Late that night, Kee and Mara each grabbed a baseball bat, then snuck out of their homes. Soon meeting by a large oak tree on the corner of the rooming house property, they skulked along the length of the lot, pausing behind tree trunks until making their way to the rear of the garage.
“That’s it, right?” asked Mara as they crept to Tooly’s trike.
Needing to take a moment to stifle a sudden twinge, Kee hesitated, then answered. “Yes.”
A moment later, Mara raised her bat and kicked off the planned pummeling by smashing the toolbox on the back of the trike. “Take a swing!” she then gleefully prodded.
Wanting to please Mara and ready to release pent up anger, Kee brought her bat over her head, paused, then drove it downward, chopping the trike’s frame in half.
“My turn,” said Mara, anxious to again swing.
Unknown by the girls, Birdie, who had brought a bag of trash to a bucket at the front of the garage, heard the bashing. After softly putting the bag down, he quietly made his way along the wall of the garage. Soon poking his head around the corner of the building, he saw his granddaughter and her accomplice battering Tooly’s trike. While remaining out of sight, he shouted a warning. “Betta scat fast!”
Silence was immediate. Sure the girls had scampered, Birdie returned to the rooming house to give Tooly the bad news.
Still awake, Tooly sat up in bed when she heard a knock. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Birdie.”
“Hey, Birdie. What’s up?” asked Tooly
“I got shame I gotta share,” he answered with shoulders sagging.
After quickly dressing, Tooly opened the door and watched Birdie turn away to avoid eye contact.
“While dumpin’ trash out back, I heard a racket. After makin’ it to the back corner of the garage, I poked my head around long enough to see two young girls thumpin’ ya trike with bats. Come with me,” he murmured.
Slogging toward the trike with Tooly, Birdie explained his shame. “The moonlight made it possible for me to recognize one of the rampagin’ rascals.”
Guessing the girl Birdie knew was his granddaughter, Kee, Tooly offered reassurance. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”
Remaining mortified, Birdie nodded thanks.
Soon viewing the ravaged trike, Tooly was taken aback by the vengeance that had been exacted. The trike had been reduced to a clump of shattered plastic. Unable to hold back tears, she knelt, then gripped the handlebar.
“Now that ya see the damage, are ya sure you don’t wanna tell the police?” asked Birdie.
“Yes, I’m sure. I also think it’s best if you and I don’t confront the girls,” said Tooly.
“If that’s what ya want,” muttered Birdie.
“It’s what I want. . . . Don’t give up on Kee, Birdie,” requested Tooly.
“Shame don’t fade fast when ya feel ya let a kid down,” said Birdie as he took out his handkerchief and dabbed dampened eyes.
Tooly had a heartfelt question. “Have you thought about making those squirrel dens I mentioned?” she asked.
“How does someone who’s just had her trike smashed get her mind on an old man makin’ homes for crittas?” wondered Birdie.
“My trike is a fixable object. . . . You’re a caring person,” answered Tooly.
“Right now, my mind’s on finding the pipe and fittings I got somewhere,” said Birdie.
“Everything I need is in any usual plumbing isle,” assured Tooly.
While bending to lift the trike’s front wheel and seat, Birdie didn’t notice the watch Kee had given him fall from his vest pocket to the ground. When he straightened and started for the side door of the garage, he also didn’t see Tooly pick up the watch, then slip it into her pocket before grabbing the rear wheels.
“I’ll get a sack for your tools. We’ll lock them and what’s left of your trike in the garage, then get to repairs first thing in the mornin’,” planned Birdie.
“Thanks for your help,” replied Tooly, following behind.
Noon the next day, Kee’s mother went to her daughter’s room holding an envelope. “Please bring Tooly her pay. On my way back from the market, I saw her raking leaves at Jean Nold’s place.
“Can’t you do it?” fussed Kee.
I’ve gotta bring some papers to my boss right away,” explained the mother.
“But I’m busy,” again resisted Kee.
“I made a trip to the supermarket to make sure you had the food you like. The least you can do is make a short delivery,” said the mother as she tossed the envelope on Kee’s bed. “Thank Tooly for me. Tell her I said she was a godsend and to keep in touch.”
After watching her mother hurry off, Kee reluctantly grabbed the envelope, then plodded from her room.
Soon turning down her neighbor’s driveway, Kee saw Tooly hand-shoveling leaves into a large bag. Once at the back side of the house, Kee was surprised to see a replica of Tooly’s trike near the patio. Though the front wheel was missing some spokes, the frame and bin appeared repaired.
Noticing Kee gawk at the recently built trike, Tooly stopped what she was doing. “My old trike took quite a pounding last night. Your granddad and I worked on this one this morning. . . . Whatcha up to?” she asked.
“I’m delivering your pay,” anxiously answered Kee as she handed over the envelope.
Tooly stuffed the delivery in her pants pocket without checking the amount. “Please thank your mother,” she requested.
Who did it?” asked Kee, aware of the tremor in her voice.
“I suspect gals who suffered hurt after something I did,” answered Tooly.
“I don’t understand,” said Kee while kicking some leaves.
“I turned a glorious win into a hurtful loss, remember?” explained Tooly.
“Are you saying players on the softball team wrecked your trike?” asked Kee.
“Just a guess,” said Tooly with a shrug.
Kee became more anxious. “Who have you told?” she asked.
“Your granddad and I don’t intend on telling anyone,” answered Tooly.
That wasn’t what Kee expected to hear. “Don’t you want whoever did it to be punished?” she wondered.
“That’s all being taken care of,” said Tooly.
“Huh?” replied a baffled Kee.
“We’re always present when we’re nice or not nice, aren’t we?” asked Tooly.
“How’s that punishment?” questioned Kee.
“As I see it, people can’t be unkind or unfair without thinking less of themselves. That’s a big punishing loss, isn’t it?” prodded Tooly.
“Not if whoever did it thinks they got back at someone who deserved it,” countered Kee.
“So, you believe it’s OK not to be nice if you think it’s what someone deserves,” noted Tooly.
“It’s getting even that gets people to stop being mean,” snapped Kee.
“But doesn’t payback keep bringing about more payback until someone steps up by backing down?” asked Tooly.
“Backing down is dumb. It’s what wimps do. Everybody knows that!” argued Kee.
Tooly remained calm. “I know this will sound strange, but I consider myself fortunate. Though at first upset by what happened to my trike, I soon found something you said very useful,” she noted.
“What are you talking about?” grumbled Kee.
“Yesterday, after I told you about my bicycle mishap with a fellow, you told me ‘plenty of people don’t freak out after having worse stuff happen.’ Remembering that helped me realize that much of my hurt could be healed by repairing the trike,” shared Tooly.
“Why do you carry on about hurt,” griped Kee.
“I’ve learned ignoring hurt stores it, and storing it turns it into sadness and anger? Isn’t admitting we’re hurt how we get healing underway?” posed Tooly.
Though less sure of herself, Kee continued to disagree. “Maybe the kids who beat on your trike weren’t hurt. Maybe they were just really angry about the game,” she contended.
“But where did all their anger come from? Doesn’t what you said apply. Don’t ‘people have worse stuff happen without them freaking out’?” posed Tooly.
“How many times are you gonna remind me I said that?” asked an irked Kee.
“As I see it, payback is a way for people to pretend they’re healing.” suggested Tooly.
“Adults get back at others all the time, but they only fuss when kids get even,” argued Kee.
“That’s often true,” agreed Tooly.
Kee felt drained. “I’ve gotta go.”
Tooly stepped toward Kee. “Before you go, I have a favor to ask of you,” she noted as she reached into a pocket and pulled out Birdie’s watch. “I have to rush to a job in another town when I finish here; so, I can’t return your granddad’s watch to him. I believe it’s a birthday gift from you. I need someone I trust to bring it to him. Please tell him it only needed a battery,” requested Tooly as she held out the watch.
Though initially caught off guard, Kee resisted a desire to say yes. “I can’t do what you want!” she claimed.
“It would be a very helpful kindness,” persisted Tooly.
Clearly agitated, Kee suddenly blurted something that surprised her. “You shouldn’t trust me!”
“But I do trust you,” assured Tooly.
“I’m not a nice person!” declared Kee.
Tooly continued to hold out the watch. “Seeing your granddad tear up when he shared how much he misses the granddaughter he made birdhouses with makes it impossible for me to believe that. I doubt a day goes by that he doesn’t wish for the chance to patch things up with you. Please give the watch to him,” she pleaded, lifting the watch within inches of Kee’s hand.
Kee turned toward Tooly’s trike while wrapping arms around herself.
“If handing it to him is too hard, you can put it in his mailbox,” suggested Tooly, again trying to get Kee to take the watch.
After fidgeting, Kee finally took the watch, then started to leave.
“Thank your mother for me,” requested Tooly.
As soon as Kee’s mother got home from work, she went to her daughter’s room for a talk. “Did Tooly seem OK with how much I paid her?” she asked.
“She put the envelope in her pocket without opening it. She said to tell you thanks,” relayed Kee.
“She’s the one who deserves to be thanked. You thanked her for me, right?”
“I can’t remember,” said Kee.
“Darn it, Kee,” fussed the mother.
“We talked about other stuff,” shared Kee.
“Did you talk about the game?” asked her mother.
“No. She has her way of seeing it, and I have mine,” answered Kee.
She seems like a good-hearted misfit to me. You’re not still mad at her, are you?” asked the mother.
“It was just a game. I’m over it,” said Kee.
“After thinking more about what happened, I kinda see her point,” continued the mother.
“Why can’t you just stop talking about it?” loudly reacted Kee.
Confused by Kee’s outburst, the mother sought an explanation. “What’s going on with you?”
Kee exploded. “Just leave me alone!” she ordered before rushing from her room and out the front door.
Not long afterwards, Kee was standing on the sidewalk outside the rooming house with her grandfather’s watch in her hand. Feeling unsure, she sighed while gazing at the front door, then turned to her left and stared at a tilted, decrepit birdhouse-shaped mailbox. Tooly would say I’m hiding hurt I need to heal, she told herself.
Spotting his granddaughter at the end of the walkway, Birdie opened his front screen door, shoved hands in pockets and risked having Kee walk away. “A newfound yearnin’ for helpin’ out squirrels got me to gatha a fresh batch of scrap wood for makin’ the crittas homes. . . . While playin’ the radio music ya like, I bet we each could have a none-like-it dandy den made by suppa.”
While looking into her grandfather’s tired, pleading eyes, Kee remembered how safe she had felt around him. “I’d like that, granddad,” she softly replied while starting toward him.
“I’ve missed ya,” said Birdie as tears of happiness dripped down checks.
“I have something for you—something that reminded me how much I’ve missed you. . . . Tooly said it just needed a battery,” said Kee while holding out the pocket watch.
1. Would you walk alongside an adult who rode a tricycle when doing so would be seen by others? Why or why not?
2. Why did or didn’t Tooly have a good reason for refusing to use power tools?
3. Why was or wasn’t the ump’s final decision correct?
4. Why did Birdie feel shame?
5. Why was it hard for Kee to hear about feeling hurt?
6. Why did Tooly say she trusted Kee?