Jack

“There it is again!” Jack thought to himself miserably as he pulled his blanket tighter around his tiny frame and wore it over his head like a cloak. The high-pitched wailing screamed past the bunkhouse window again. It had been going on for what must have been hours. Jack shut his eyes tight. “It’s only the wind. It’s just the wind,” he repeated to himself silently, his heart pounding.

Before, when things were better, the weather didn’t scare Jack. Nothing scared Jack. He was brave and relentless and the world was his playground. The rules didn’t apply to him and he lived a daring life of adventure. One day he was a pirate, a swashbuckler at sea; the next, a tree-person, swinging from branch to branch like the great apes of the jungle. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, never slowing down.

Except at dinner time. “Be home by 6:00 and not a minute later,” his dad would remind him each day. Jack was never late.

Jack would have given anything to be on time to just one more dinner. He missed his dinners. He missed his dad. The wind shrieked again. He buried his head under his pillow and closed his eyes tighter. He didn’t like being afraid. He took a deep breath, and then another.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Shara, shomeone’s at the door!” Jack yelled across the house through a mouthful of bread.

“So answer it, twerp!” Sara replied.

“I’m not done eating, you ansher it!” Jack shouted back to his older sister. Taking a large drink of water, he finally gulped down the bite that was too big.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

“Why do I have to do everything myself?” Jack grumbled under his breath as the knocking grew louder. He abandoned the rest of his sandwich, pushed back his chair, and made for the door. Sara met him there. Her typically kind eyes glared at him with irritation as she reached for the handle. Standing side-by-side, the children opened the door. A man stood there. Jack didn’t recognize him. He wore mostly boring clothes that were brown. His hat was brown with a wide brim. His coat was brown and long – longer than Jack. His shoes were brown and a little pointy (“No good for climbing trees,” Jack thought to himself). His shirt was white and his tie was black and his glasses were too big. He removed his hat and held it at his waist.

“Hello, children. Is your father’s name Jim Jerand?” he said sadly.

“Yeah, he’s at work. What do you want?” Sara said impatiently.

“My name is Detective Hart. We need to talk. I’m afraid there’s been an accident. I have terrible news.”

The man that said he was a detective brushed past the children blocking the door and helped himself to the sofa. He set his hat down next to him. Jack and Sara followed him. They did not sit down. They stood staring at Detective Hart. Jack was rarely calm or quiet. He stood silent and still. He didn’t know why, but he could feel a tear in his eye. He brushed it away along with some of his curly, blond hair that had fallen out of place.

“Children, I don’t know how else to say this. Your father was walking to work this morning. He never made it. There was an automobile accident, a crazy woman driving on the sidewalk. She wasn’t in her right mind, you understand? She did a lot of damage today on that sidewalk. I’m afraid your father- well, he didn’t make it, he didn’t survive. Your father is dead.”

Jack sat bolt upright, sweat streaming down his face, “your father is dead” still echoing in his head and in his heart. It was still dark. The bunkhouse was silent, like a tomb, except for the fat boy that snored. The wind had stopped. Jack was alone. As alone as he had ever been in his whole life.

He was scared.