Tommytown

By Robert Saunders

This family was dirt poor and the author made no effort to give me the impression that I would not be paying a visit to the home of the Beaver Cleaver's family. Still, the author sprinkled a bit of humor here and there because it kept the story from being so depressing.
Travel back to the year 1955 and become part of Helen Foreman's world. Be with this 35-year-old mother with eight children.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Saunders
• Release date: Dec 28, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458069467

Robert Saunders

Robert Saunders is a retired US Navy officer with thirty years of active duty experience in six warships and a variety of stateside and international shore-duty stations. Robert’s military career began as an enlisted sailor where he advanced through the ranks and ultimately earned an officer’s commission. Robert earned a bachelor’s degree from Excelsior University and a graduate degree from the University of Oklahoma. He lives in Westminster, Colorado, with his wife, Sandy, and has seven children, two of whom are adopted.

Book preview

Tommytown

Published by Robert L. Saunders

Smashwords edition

© Copyright 1996, by Robert L. Saunders

All rights reserved.

ISBN 1-4196-5144-7

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Although the story is based on true characters, the characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

Tommytown

Robert L. Saunders

PRAISE FOR Tommytown

You could really feel the emotions and reality of the life of these children. - B. Easterday

The author weaves words that created scenes that make for a compelling story. His crisp, concise prose produces an easy read. - Frederick News Post

ENTERTAINING, SATISFYING, …. If you want to read a tribute to Mothers, this is the book for you. Skillfully written and plotted with an eye for light-hearted humor. Helen is a treasure. - M. Carter.

SAUNDERS DOES A TERRIFIC JOB. The author moves this story with action and authentic dialogue. His characters are multi-dimensional and are well drawn. - Peter Langton, literary agent.

AN EXCITING READ RIGHT UP TO THE END……With startling fine writing and plotting, Saunders tells a refreshing and entrancing tale… - Larry DeMarco.

Novels by Robert L. Saunders

Tommytown

The Monopoly Factor

Tommytown 2:  Helen’s Song

Gathering of Cans

John Paul Jones: Finding the Forgotten Patriot

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all the poor children in the 7th and 8th grades, 1958-1959, who longed to have their beauty accepted, only to find that they had to endure the constant snickering and rejection by those classmates that had never really known want.

Prologue

Hear ye, ole’ guardians of the youth. Be vigilant in

your duty to protect their pure innocence; else

their sorrows will rise up to haunt your last breath

R.L. Saunders

Chapter 1

Geographically, Pennsylvania is a fairly large and diverse state. The winters can be harsh and severe. The people are hard working, friendly, trustful, and harbor a prideful affection toward this state in which they live.

However, there are few citizens that live outside this fine state who really care about what trees grow there or the regional flora. What mass of sedimentary rock lies beneath the earth; or the location of the anthracite coal veins? To talk to these folks about the characteristics of the land, you would first need to bring a grenade and roll it nearby for their attention. They have no interest in the name of each mountain that abounds in the landscape or whether the terrain ran uphill, downhill, or sideways. What does concern these people is satisfying their inquisitive nature for direction and places of interest. Which way is Pittsburgh? Where might I find that Liberty Bell? Is there a highway close by? And, by the way, do they allow motor boats on the Erie Canal? (Needless to say these folks are in the wrong state). With this limited inquisitiveness into the topography of this state, the marching orders for descriptive prudence are cast in stone.

Therefore, the brief features of the state’s landscape are as follows; there are vast mountain ranges to the West; the wide Cumberland Valley spreads out through most of the middle; and to the East, one would find plateaus and rolling hills with a sprinkling of the Atlantic shoreline thrown in for good measure.

It is a brutally hot July afternoon and the year is 1955. Let’s suppose that you are standing on a ledge looking down into the section of the  Cumberland Valley that borders the southern end of the state, about 50 miles from the Maryland state line. In this sleepy rural county, you would see the results of the taming of this land by many generations of dairy farmers. But what would strike your senses would be the smell of earth, air, and wind. It would not be hard for you to imagine that throughout the valley, the smell of dairy farming clings to the heavy summer air. And that this unique aroma penetrates every house, every lawn, every road…..just about every nook and cranny. In the hollow of the rolling fields, freshly cut hay lays in the open fields emitting its sweet, musty odor. The summer mask of slender spikes of green wheat is dipping in the open acres of this unspoiled world.

Crows loiter and squawk in the sky. Herds of Holstein and Guernsey cattle dot the landscape. They linger under the cool shade of trees, waiting to be called by the farmer for their evening milking. The pungent scent of sweat seeping from their coarse hides creeps past the barbed wire fences and hangs low to the ground like an invisible cloud.

The valley with its enormous variety of smells stretches southward, bounded by green, rounded hills. Sweet winds blow from the far mountains, and small waves sputter on the green fields of tall corn stalks and grasses. They flow back and forth through the uneven valley. Their swaying movements make it seem like the whole valley is floating on a checkerboard of dark and limey green. The bright green stretches without break from hills to vast meadows beyond, wipes out any pretense of a barren land. Green is everywhere.

If you were to look closer, you would see freshly plowed fields still emitting their soft, gray steam from this resting land and then your attention would be drawn to a small boy.

His eyes were just beginning to grow large with excitement. His short thin legs straddled the long wooden pole that Barry Foreman, eleven, pretended was his pony. The small fingers of his hand held tightly to the makeshift cloth rein tied to the end of the pole. His skin was bare except for his gray shorts. He had always loved the sensation of the summer wind over his naked skin. A red knotted handkerchief hung loosely around his throat and his face was tanned and radiant.

Barry savored the rhythm of his bare feet as they pounded the earth, blazing a path through the barren dirt yard. He found it fascinating to watch the small clouds of dust puff into the air as he called out to the stick pony to move faster and faster. He spent almost every waking moment outside. It was his favorite place to be. He not only loved the outdoors, he appreciated it endlessly, every day of the year. It was the great emptiness of the place he loved, for it seemed to match something within himself, as if he had finally found a place there to escape the one within. Here, outside he could shield himself from the hardships of living in severe poverty. Outside, it was clean and uncluttered and full of the wonderful sunshine. He could ride his stick pony forever.

Here he could hide from his father. Outside playing, he did not have the idle time to dwell on the latest punishment his father had given him with the leather belt. Here, he could pretend and force himself to block out memories of that punishment and the cruel infliction on his body. Being outside helped him to heal his heartaches.

Only his special dream of pretending to be a cowboy gave him satisfaction. He knew all about cowboys. He had read every comic book he could get his hands on. Just last week after he had finished helping farmer Snyder with the planting of his corn, his mother took him to the general store and with the fifty cents he had left over from the money Snyder had paid him, he bought a bottle of pop and three comic books. Actually, he had made three whole dollars, but his father had kept two dollars and fifty cents of it. He claimed that a boy should learn to pay for his keep. He knew that his father was lying, but he was just happy that his mom had forced his father to give him the fifty cents.

He loved his comic books, especially the westerns. His favorite heroes were Lash LaRue, Gene Autry, The Lone Ranger, The Cisco Kid, and Hopalong Cassidy. But at the top of his list was Roy Rogers. He was fascinated by the images drawn on the pages with their bold, bright colors and spellbinding scenes. He thought it was amazing that an artist and storyteller could create a story with such a mixed vivid imagination so that his heroes almost seemed as if they would jump right off the page and grab hold of his arm and tell him to come and join in on the fun. Sometimes he would even get so engrossed in the stories that through the pages he would shout out warnings to his heroes; Watch out, Roy, Oh, my God, there he is! Look out! There’s a knife hidden in the side of his boot! Do you see it?

The stories always seemed to be told in a flash. One of his favorite stories was The Rocky Mountain Ambush. The snarling bandits are holding six-shooters and they are hidden behind large boulders. They always seemed to wear either old dirty, lumpy, or raggedy hats; not the kind of hats like his heroes wore which were new and clean, and crisp and very neat. Some of their hats even looked like a buzzard had gotten a hold of it and gnawed on it for a day or two, because there were so many pieces missing from it. These bandits were the worst of the bad men ... yes sireee, horse thieves, killers, and bank robbers. They hid like rats and waited for Roy Rogers and Trigger to round the curve of the steep, narrow trail that hugged the side of the mountain. Roy guided Trigger every so slowly, then the bandits started shooting. Trigger reared up on his hind hooves while trying desperately to maintain his footing. Then Roy lost his grip and fell backwards off the saddle. Oh, it was terrible! Down the side of the cliff Roy went flying; hurtling through the air upside down, his mouth opened in a scream, his hand clutching his gun. Two pages later, he would recover and seek out his revenge on the bandits.

Barry would stare long and hard at the page showing the demented, snarling face of one of the bandits with a long scar on his cheek and his bad teeth. All of the bandits would try to struggle free from the clutches of Roy Rogers, but they could never escape. Never. Roy was always way too smart for them.

In his dream world as a cowboy, he rose above his handicaps and became a new boy. He was now a grown man on a golden Palomino horse with a new cowboy suit, wearing a bright tin star on a black vest that reads: SHERIFF. His imagination told him that he was out West, riding a real horse on the dirt street of a western town.

In his dream world, he solved the town's problems; all the difficulties of protecting this town from the evil men that plagued it. There was no task too small for him. He captured the bank robbers and stopped fistfights in the town’s saloons. He would even find time to capture cattle rustlers, especially those who tried to fool him by changing the brands on the cattle’s hide. Like the time he had caught a gang of rustlers changing a Rocking A brand to a Circle A brand. He did it all. Outside, pretending to be a cowboy rewarded him through all four seasons.

With a whoop and yahoo Barry and the stick pony turned the corner of his front porch. Without stopping, he stretched his head to the rear and watched the dust fly from the end as it scraped across the earth. Pulling hard on the cloth rein, he commanded boldly, Whoa, Trigger. Whoa, boy.

Stopping, he reached up with his left arm and pushed his small fingers through his thick, sandy hair. He repeated this motion absently, but all the while his imaginative mind was consumed with thoughts of scanning the area for a bank robber that might be lurking in the bushes. His green eyes could almost see the robber hiding, wearing a black mask, somewhere behind one of the many white-flowered bushes in front of him. He had convinced himself that the lone robber would be lying on the ground; gun held tightly, waiting; ready to ambush him. He could feel the excitement build in him as his heart started pounding against his chest.

Suddenly his ears caught a sound. Startled by the sound of a real human voice, he jerked his head to the left, in the direction of the sound and listened closer. He sensed that the tone was troubled and that it was a female's voice.

The sun was beating down on the top of his blond hair as he stood quite still, his body now covered with sweat. Face alive with curiosity; he wracked his brain trying to figure out whose voice it was. Why was it so high pitched? He frantically searched the yard in front of him. His mind tried to identify the voice, while at the same time his eyes started scanning the open lawn. Suddenly, his eyes stopped.

In the distance, a figure appeared from behind the white, limestone milk house. It was his older sister, by two years, Karen, and she was running fast, faster than he had ever seen her run before. Down the dirt lane she came, passing the large dairy barn.

Karen's flowered sack dress flowed wildly into the air as her slim legs stretched and her bare feet dug into the dirt road. The whites of her eyes looked like two large eggs coming toward him when he noticed how fast both of her arms were pumping up and down. She roared past an idle hay wagon, then she picked up speed and headed toward the porch, and from there to her final destination; inside the house.

Karen turned her head quickly, frantically searching the area behind her. Her blond hair flew in every direction, as she screamed into the hot, summer air, Mom! Mom!

Onward she ran, faster and faster toward the porch.

Barry's pupils grew large as he watched her race toward him. He listened to her high pitched voice as she kept calling, Mom! Mom! Closer and closer she came, quickly closing the distance between them. When she was within ten yards of him, Barry looked at her face and he became frightened by the look he saw there. He had seen that look before when his father had grabbed her once. It was fear. He could feel a lump swelling in his throat. As if in a trance; his eyes locked on her face as she screamed, Mom! Bunky's going to hit me!

The mention of his older brother's name alerted Barry. His eyes strained harder, searching the dirt lane behind Karen for Bunky. Soon he saw Bunky and he, too, was running fast. With his bare chest thumping; heaving in and out; his black boots slammed hard on the dirt surface as he stormed down the lane in pursuit of his sister.

The look on Bunky's face told Barry that his brother had changed. It was not his normal look, which had always been pleasant and humorous. The look he saw that day was mean and frightening. It was a look he had never seen before on his 16-year-old brother’s face.

Come back here, girl, and help me with the milkin'!  Bunky bellowed as he increased his speed, racing closer toward her. His young voice was deep and harsh as it cracked through the hot summer air, like ice cubes hitting a hot stove.

No, I won’t! Karen yelled back boldly, when her one foot hit the ground. At that same moment the corner of her left eye caught Bunky's body movements and she made a quick, distance calculation.

He's gaining on me maybe only twenty feet behind me now. She locked her jaws tightly and forced herself to gather more strength and picked up her pace. If I can make it through the front door and find Mom, then I'll be safe. Mom will save me. Bunky would never take on Mom. Not Mom. Never. I’ve seen Mom whip Bunky before, just for thinkin' about raising his hand toward her.

She shot a quick look again at how close Bunky was to her as she repeated to herself, over and over, Mom will save me. Mom will save me. Mom will ....

Gaining ground, his voice grew louder, You will milk them cows when I catch up to you, girl!

At that very second, Maggie, Karen's older sister by three years, was sitting on a wooden stool in the kitchen, peeling peaches with her mother.

The large kitchen smelled faintly of brewed coffee. It was a well used room that was halfway between tidy and untidy.

Leaning forward, her shoulder length brown hair was tangling in the air. Maggie’s mind was drifting in the daydream of a boy she had met last month in school. It wasn't really a meeting, but a slight passing notice from his eyes. She wondered if she had made a fool of herself by staring at him, but she couldn't help herself. She found herself dreaming of selecting exactly the right new dress; having her hair styled correctly, if by chance they went out on a date. Sighing, she told herself, I can't have a new dress and I have no clothes good enough to wear on a date.

Maggie, you’re peeling those peaches too thick.

The sound of her mother's voice caused Maggie to blink herself back to reality. Without thinking she asked dreamily, What did you say?

I said you’re peeling those peaches too thick. You know what my grandma always told me.

"I know Mom. I heard it at least a hundred times. ‘You should be able to see through the peels.’"

Helen smiled at her. That’s right and that’s good advice.

Well, I still think it’s pretty hard to do.

Me too.

They both laughed then Helen looked at her seriously. Shhhhhh, who’s that yellin’ outside? Her mind was trying to identify the voice.

Maggie cocked her head and listened closer. It sounds like Karen, Mom.

Bunky's strong legs had propelled him faster than Karen had expected. Praying not to stumble, Karen leaped up on the step, ignoring Barry as he stood clutching his stick-pony’s reins. Just as she approached the front door, she heard Bunky’s boot hit the gravel stones; two feet from the bottom step.

Don't go in there!  Bunky demanded as he drew his arm backward; fist formed and tight. He was mentally preparing himself to launch his fist forward once he caught up with Karen and hoping to hit her squarely in the middle of her back.

Go to hell! Karen's voice rang out; her nostrils flaring, as Bunky's foot hit the bottom step.

Alerted, Helen strained her ears; listening closer to the tone of the voice. She asked herself, Is it serious or just another exaggerated cry from a child for attention? Straining harder, she heard the word, Mom and the tone was frightening. She instinctively grew tense. Dropping her knife, she rose from her stool, and cocked her head toward the front door.

Do you think something's wrong? Maggie asked.

Raising her finger in the air, Helen said cautiously, Shush!

Maggie watched her mother intently.

Short of breath, Karen still managed to scream, I ain't helping you! You're too mean.

She pushed hard on the front door. Excitedly, she burst through its opening.

At that same instant; one step behind Karen, Bunky felt an unknown hatred for her. Why, he didn't know, but he did know he didn't like her calling him mean. He let go with all the force he could muster and slammed forward with his already drawn fist. Rage had consumed his normally docile personality as he rammed his fist forward at the partially closed door, all the while focusing all his energy on his mark; Karen's upper back.

His fist rammed itself toward its mark but at the same time, his ears heard the sound of the door that Karen had just slammed shut, leaving only the full glass pane between his fist and her back.

Crash! Instantly, he knew that he was in trouble as soon as he heard the shattering of the glass, but it was too late to halt the movement of his arm. His traveling fist had penetrated the glass, shattering it. The force of that impact caused the fragile glass to send stress breaks throughout the large pane. Cracks began to form, and then spread rapidly, like long worms.

Bunky's arm continued on its path; through the glass; extending to the other side; but it fell short of Karen's back. Snap! At that instant a single, large slice of glass succumbed to the pressure of the cracks; falling down hard onto his arm. The thin, razor sharp wedge struck deep to the bone and instantly blood began to spew from his arm.

He began to feel something that was not unknown to him; pain. Immediately, his eyes spotted the bright red blood and they grew large with fear. Without thinking, he pulled his arm backwards, but in the process, he caught the underside of his arm on the sharp, pointed edge of another piece of glass that was still attached to the lower part of the pane. The glass edge ripped open the flesh. The six-inch gash quickly covered his entire arm with bright, red blood.

Staggering backwards, Bunky screamed in terror, Howwww! Howwwww....

He knew instinctively that he was hurt badly. The pain was too great for him to run away so he could hide his tears from his sister. Quickly, he covered his face with his one good arm, trying desperately to hide them.

Hearing Bunky's scream of agony caused Karen to stop dead in her tracks. She swung her body around quickly, then scurried to the door and looked through the broken glass. Her eyes bulged from their sockets as she gasped in horror at him where he stood with his head hung, holding his blood soaked arm.

Oh, my God! Mom, come here! Bunky's been hurt! she called, her voice unsteady.

Barry stood frozen, not able to move. As he watched in horror, the tragic events unfolded before him.

Pressing Karen's shoulder from behind, Helen said in a commanding voice, Move aside, Karen, let me through.

Without hesitation, Karen obeyed. She felt a lump in her throat as she spoke, I'm sorry, Bunky ... I’m really sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you ... I didn't mean to.

Chest heaving, and holding his arm, Bunky looked at Karen for a long second. Hearing the genuine plea in his sister's voice caused his tight lips to soften a little.

Swallowing hard, it was all Helen could do to keep herself from vomiting. Her eyes darted back, but she told herself that she dare not look too long at the wounds; else she would surely get sick.

Don’t get sick and don’t cry. Think.

She shook her head to break the thoughts. Blood continued to seep from Bunky’s arm; now streaming down his tanned chest. She bent over and touched his shoulder.

Standing helplessly, face full of pain, Bunky's shoulders drooped. Mom, I don't feel so good. I think I'm going to pass out.

She stared closer at him then jerked her head around and shouted, Maggie!  Bring me a clean dish towel out of the cupboard next to the sink!

Time seemed to stand still. Her heart was banging against her chest. The salty water flowed from her eyelids and touched her lips. The panic in her was gone; now she was completely calm as if another part of her mind had taken over. Hand still on his shoulder, she pointed down with her finger toward the porch, Bunky, I want you to sit down.... Do you hear me?

He shifted his body and began focusing his eyes on her face. He nodded and tried to ease his body down, but his knees became weak and buckled under the weight of his body. He sank hard onto a kneeling position. He could feel his stomach churning, doing flip flops over and over again. Trying to keep his mind off his pain, he bit his lower lip, then closed his eyes and mentally counted to ten.

Standing off to the side, her face alive with sorrow, Karen spoke hoarsely, Bunky, I'm sorry...I didn’t mean to. I promise, I'll help you do the milkin' next time....really, I will.

His strength draining, Bunky caught a glimpse of Karen. He could see and feel the hot blood working its way down to his fingertips.

Eyebrows tight, Helen glared at Karen. Is that what this is all about, who's going to milk the cows?

The way their mother took charge spooled all of them backward in time. Bunky and Karen, and Maggie shrank back to skinny kids; waiting for the matriarch to issue the next command to be obeyed.

Karen shook her head faintly. I was going to help Bunky; really I was, Mom, but not right then when he wanted me to…..I didn't mean to slam the door on his arm. She cocked her head, giving him a pleading look. Bunky, I really didn't mean to hurt you like that. Please believe me.

Helen quickly interjected another command, Maggie, I need that cloth, now! Her eyes flicked past Karen, then rested on Bunky’s head. She stroked his hair, hair she'd always loved, thick and blond and wavy. Of course you didn't. She wanted to wait for the right moment for his grief to subside, so she could speak to him, but now wasn’t the time.

Bunky’s eyes grew heavy and the world around him started to move back and forth like a swaying lifeboat at sea. He leaned his head backwards. His breathing was heavier and his voice crusty as he forced himself to speak, Mom, I really don't feel good at all.

Alerted by the desperate tone in Bunky's voice, Helen roared into the air, Maggie, hurry up and get out here with that towel! I've got to stop this bleeding!

Stunned by the force in her mother's tone, Maggie picked up her pace and moved quickly through the living room, then opened the front door. Quickly, she handed Helen the towel. Her eyes caught the blood on Bunky's arm and chest. She was horrified, and a cold chill came over her as she stood there.

She wanted to do something to help. Her mind raced frantically; trying to give her direction, but her body had other ideas. Immediately a sick nauseous fluid surged up her throat and she instantly doubled over. Placing a hand across her mouth she caught the vomit. She pivoted, and made a dash back to the kitchen. Finding the sink, she let the vomit flow from her mouth.

Ignoring Maggie's sudden departure, Helen proceeded to quickly wrap her son's upper arm with the towel. She kept vigilance on his face for any telltale signs of shock. Resolving to herself that Maggie would not be able to give her any further assistance, she glanced up at Karen. In a commanding voice, she said, Karen, this towel is not enough. I need more cloth to stop this bleeding. Rip off a piece of your dress so I can wrap the rest of his arm.

Karen stood, staring at her mother in a trance like state.

Karen! her mother repeated.

Karen heard her mother speak but was afraid to respond. Afraid she would also be sick like Maggie or she might utter something irrational, she remained motionless.

Helen began to stand, thinking to move toward Karen, when she felt a light touch on shoulder. I'll do it, Mom, Barry said softly, but with confidence in his voice. Then without waiting for his mother's approval, he turned and moved toward Karen.

As she watched Barry approach Karen, Helen felt a burst of pride for her small son. It was in moments like these that she always felt like calling him by his proper name: Barrington, rather than Barry. But at this moment, she could only watch him with pride.

Without speaking, Barry wrapped the bottom part of Karen's dress around his small strong hand. Holding a portion of the hem of her dress with one hand, he pulled upward with the other. The dress ripped open before Karen could object to Barry destroying it. He then reached up and pulled down tearing a wide section from the lower portion of her dress, exposing one of her bare legs.

With the torn cloth held tightly in his outstretched hand, Barry turned and offered the piece of dress to his mother.

Helen's eyes darted back to Bunky then at Barry. She saw the determined look in Barry's tanned face. His feet were bare, his small lips remained tight, his face lifeless. It was a look she had noticed before on him several times. It was an old look affixed to a young boy's face. He was growing up faster than he should, much faster than she wanted. He was losing the innocence of his childhood before he had a chance to enjoy those happy dreams that awaited him.

She knew then what she had to do. She had to get herself and all seven of her children off this farm if they were ever going to have a chance to live life as they should.

Retrieving the piece of cloth from Barry's hand, she quickly wrapped the cloth around Bunky's lower arm.