Badge

By Edward Reed

Badge is a poignant story of the enduring friendship between a child and a dog, Sam and Badge. Sam, twelve years old, faces hardships, fears, and the harsh realities of being abandoned in a small backwoods town and confronted by the best and worst a childhood has to offer. Painful memories, school bullies and something sinister lurking in the swamp just outside Sams window are all part of a bigger story of hope and faith and love. A story that promises to touch the heart of the child in all of us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524604769

Edward Reed

Edward Reed, author of Strayaway Child, resides in rural southeastern North Carolina where he teaches high school mathematics and writes in his spare time. His other works include The Whipping Boyfriend, Badge, A Prayer for Christmas, The Sound of Heartbeats, and Joseph’s Wings and Other Little Stories.

Book preview

Prologue

T oday on my way home, I saw a dog standing in the twilight and tall highway grass. Like a memory, he stood in a raggedy, tired sort of way. Old and beat up with little interest in the fast cars passing by, he stood waiting. Waiting to make his way from where he was to where he was going; from the shadows of a swamp thick with brambles from which he had come and into the memory of a twelve-year-old—a twelve-year-old going on fifty.

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A s I peered out the window of my bedroom through the darkest night I had ever known, I remember thinking, If I was at my grandpa’s, I wouldn’t be afraid. If I was at Grandpa’s, I would have my shotgun, it would be loaded, and I would be ready as I searched through shadows that gathered for their nightly dance at the edge of the swamp. The swamp that was forever reaching out for the tired old house my mama had found for us to stay in until we could get back on our feet. There was something out there. There was always something out there, except on the nights Mama was off work or it rained really hard and those nights didn’t happen often.

Probably ain’t nothin’ but coon or possum, Mama told me anytime I mentioned whatever that thing was that stirred around in the thicket along the swamp behind the house. She always reminded me of what Mr. Fesperman, the old man who’d rented us what was left of his childhood home, said.

I remember, Ma. ‘The swamp’s more alive in the dark than it is in the daylight,’ I answered, trying to sound like Mr. Fesperman.

Don’t go making fun of that old man, she said, cutting her eyes at me. Mr. Fesperman had a hole in his throat and talked through something that made his voice sound as if it had passed in and out of one of those big fans old folks used to bring out when the summer heat became unbearable.

That ain’t a possum, and it ain’t no coon, I remember thinking to myself as I wiped my eyes, and looked even harder into the darkness, both wanting and not wanting to see what was rustling around in the night.

Quiet, boy, I whispered into the pricked-up ears of the best friend a kid could have, especially when there was something prowling around outside. I still remember sitting there, my heart racing, holding the collar of that big dog and finding comfort in the low, rumbling growl building deep inside of him. It was a growl which always spilled out no matter how many times I whispered for him to be quiet.

Quiet, boy. You’re gonna give away our position, I explained to Badge, the old dog who had adopted me. I sounded like a soldier from one of those afternoon combat shows we managed to pick up with the old television that had been left behind by whoever had lived in the house before us.

Giving away our position didn’t seem to matter to Badge, and it was all I could do to hold him. Badge was a big dog and I was small for my age. I would hold his as long as I could and when whatever was in the woods seemed to be as close as it was going to get I would let Badge go. Sic ’em, boy! I would whisper, and sic ’em he would. Through the window Badge would go and out into the darkness as I disappeared into the corner of my bedroom and then into the closet. It was in that old closet where I hid along with my brother Larkin who was a baby and somehow was able to sleep through everything.

With the closet door pulled to I would listen as Badge barked and growled and snarled for a good long time before growing quiet. It was always the quiet time when I was most afraid. I dared not open the door of the closet until I heard the sound of the early morning train roaring past the old house as it made its way through the marshy lowlands. Then I knew the sun was up, and whatever was in the swamp had drifted back into the long shadows cast by the tall and ghostly cypress trees bearded with Spanish moss and wisteria.

Known as the Hummingbird by the locals, the early morning train never failed to startle me. This was partly because it was as loud as thunder, and partly because by the time it came rumbling past, I almost always had drifted off to sleep. Waking, I would push open the closet door and peek around its corner, along the floor, and under the bed in the direction of the open window. There laying sprawled out full length under the window with his back to me would be Badge, who never failed to turn his head and look back at me. Then I would know that the coast was clear and we were safe.

After gathering up Larkin from the pallet I had made for him on the floor of the closet, I would slip him into the crib that my mama had bought at a yard sale. Before Mama found the crib, Larkin slept with me on the little bed someone had left behind in the back room of the old house.

With Larkin in his crib, I would wiggle my quilt and pillow around, making my bed look slept in, snatch on my school clothes, and dig something out of the kitchen cabinet for breakfast. Then I would watch through the window for the red-and-white checkers of my mama’s uniform to show up as she made her way up the long driveway. As soon as she reached the porch, I would kiss her on the cheek and then hurry to meet the school bus. And somewhere in all that hurrying, I would manage to get Badge out of the house. That was one of my mama’s rules: no dogs in the house.

On the bus, I would peek into the brown paper bag Mama always handed me when I had kissed her. Sometimes it was a sandwich, and sometimes it was a doughnut or a cinnamon roll, but it was always something I liked. Mama made sure of that.

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L ooking back, Munro Junior High School wasn’t such