The Slippery Road

By L. M. Bollers

A FAMILY WHOSE DREAMS ARE INTERTWINED, SOMETIMES PLACED ON HOLD BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN.

A mother's unwavering love for her family while struggling to maintain her faith in her God, through battling views driven by a male dominated world. A young man's quest to rise above the political climate in a developing country. To cross the barriers of

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Jan 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685155209

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Charleston, SC

www.PalmettoPublishing.com

The Slippery Road

Copyright © 2021 by L.M. Bollers

All rights reserved

No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted in any form by any means–electronic,

mechanical, photocopy, recording, or other–except for brief

quotations in printed reviews, without prior permission of the author.

First Edition

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-68515-563-6

CONTENTS

Mother

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Wife

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Friend

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

MOTHER

A

LWAYS THE FIRST TO RISE, THOUGH THE LAST ONE TO BED, SHE TRUDGES to the kitchen on bare feet, pulling the thin loose, nightdress closer. She hastily strikes a match and, bending, places it beneath the kindling in the big iron stove. Then, blowing softly while willing the small flame to grow, she quickly adds wood. As the warmth touches her face and neck, she straightens and slowly turns around a couple of times as the increasing warmth slowly pushes away the early-morning chill. She places two pots of water over the open flame and pours two scoops of coffee beans into one. Then she moves to the bedrooms, gently urging, Wake up, wake up, sleepyheads. It's a school day today. She examines the bed where her last three slept, grateful that she awoke during the night to take each one to the bathroom and have them pee into the night bucket, saving herself the added task of having to wash pee on bedding.

Flour porridge! she says to her brood as they sit around the table. There is no milk, but at least we have sugar. She adds cheerfully, Be sure you walk with your cups so you can have milk and biscuits in school.

But porridge don’t taste good without milk, Mom, cries a little one, as she always does.

Shut up and be grateful. Some people have much less than we do is her usual response.

Placing a load of dirty clothing into the large wooden tub almost filled with water, she thinks of lunch. There is rice, a dried coconut, and salt, and she can get some thyme and peppers form her garden. There is no meat, but she can make a fairly tasty pot without it, and the children have learned to accept that. Some days there is plenty and some days not enough. This is one of those lean days.

She feeds her children as they come home for lunch and hopes that her husband will bring home some money for a better meal tomorrow. She washes the tub of clothes, and after placing the clothes on several wire lines in the yard to dry, she settles into her rocking chair by the window in her living room, resting her tired body for an hour or so before the kids return from school.

It is her quiet time, when her thoughts wander between dozing, seeing each face of the nine she carried and birthed, laughing, crying, pleading at different times, and once again wondering what went wrong. What changed since the times when there was always meat on the table, when her husband had a steady job, when they laughed more and danced with their children? Then she asks the same question she asks almost daily: What can I do, Lord? How can I better the lives of my family?

CHAPTER 1

I

WAS BORN IN 1946 IN THE CITY OF GEORGETOWN IN THE COLONY OF British Guyana, the seventh of nine children parented by Ewart and Elizabeth Bollers. Their firstborn was Rupert, followed by Norma, Lancelot, Joyce, Lynette, Barbara, Monty, Alicia, and Kenrick. My father, a Black man, worked as a civil engineer with the city's Public Works Department. We were a middle-class family and lived comfortably, owning our own home. Daddy also owned an Austin Minor car and a Royal Enfield motorcycle. He was a snappy dresser—very flamboyant, a lady's man, and he loved cricket.

I have often wondered about my father's reasons for marrying my mother. Mom, being a poor country girl of East Indian descent, was quiet and soft spoken. She did not consume alcohol or smoke, and she never cared for partying of any kind. My father, on the other hand, was a drinker, a smoker, and, as I mentioned before, a lady's man and most times the life of the party. In those days it was far from common practice for people to marry outside their own ethnic group. Daddy also had three children from previous relationships, namely Alfred, Neal, and Olive.

Whenever my older siblings would talk of the good old days, they never failed to remind me that all the bad luck came after I was born. They said it all started when after more than twelve years on the job, Daddy was fired on the grounds of insubordination and poor job performance. Stating that he was wrongly accused because of the prejudice of his department superior an Englishman, my father hired a lawyer, took Public Works to court, where the claims for his termination were proven false, and he was reinstated. But the matter did not end there, and for the next eighteen months, Daddy was underbid on most of his projects and resigned out of sheer frustration. My father was a good construction engineer. Houses, culverts, bridges, roads—he could build them all. But most large projects were government controlled, and work in the private sector took a lot of hustle. There were always two or more contractors vying for the same job, and sometimes one had to find ways to cut costs to get a contract. My father had the reputation of being an honest man who did good work, so most of the time he had a job. But the glory days were gone, and rarely could he find large projects that paid him the kind of money that he once commanded.

My mother took all this in stride. She was a silently strong woman with a great love for her family, she was always there for Daddy, and even on the nights he chose to hang out with the guys, she would sit patiently waiting for him, keeping his dinner warm on the stove, and listen while he went over the day's events, offering consolation to whatever problems he might choose to tell her about.

Life had changed a whole lot for her family. And her husband, though he maintained that he hated no one, had become a little more resentful of the White man, for he rightfully felt that the Black man deserved a better standard of living for his vast contribution to the country and to the English economy as a whole, and more so now with his anger at the White man from Public Works. But he thanked his late mother for her long hours of toil to ensure that he had a proper education and the skills that afforded him a better life than most.

Still, there had been a downward shift in their lifestyle and a severe dent in her household allowances, but she had learned to do without little luxuries she had grown accustomed to and cut back on whatever help she had once afforded her siblings. But most of all, she missed Muriel.

When my father worked at Public Works, he hired a servant to help Mom with housecleaning and washing. Mistress and servant hit it off from the start, and soon Muriel, who was the same age as Mom, became part of the family.

At that time, Daddy always kept a fair amount of money in his trunk, a large English chest at the foot of his bed. He was always putting in and taking out money, and he never knew quite how much he had. Mom, being a generous person, always sharing with friends and neighbors, would recall stories of the many times when Muriel would excitedly tell her of some lovely dress material she had seen at one of the leading stores the night before. Mom, who was an excellent seamstress who loved sewing dresses for herself and my sisters, would go to Daddy's trunk, take out some money, and say to Muriel, Here, girl. Tomorrow before you come in, stop and get two dress lengths, one for you and one for me. And my father, upon seeing Mom or one of my sisters in a new dress, would always think that it had come from the household money and at times even praised Mom for her thriftiness. This went on for a while, until Mom realized that almost every time when Muriel saw a nice dress material or a nice purse, it was when she had an upcoming party or some social gathering to attend.

One morning when she came in, Muriel started. Mavis, I just got to tell you, girl. Last night I was passing by Booker's store, and I saw—

Mom stopped her right there. Muriel, the things that you see in the store every other week—if I should continue to buy them, especially buying for both of us, and that man of mine should find out, he would kick my ass right out into the streets, and you would be out of a job also.

But Mom had few friends, and none of her siblings lived close by, so she looked forward to seeing Muriel, who seemed to know all the juicy stories taking place in the city. Muriel thrived on gossip. It seemed to give her extra energy, and Mom always knew when some tasty bit of news was in the air.

On such mornings Muriel would come bouncing in, a big smile on her face. Good morning, Mavis. How are you this morning? Are the children OK? Has Mr. B. gone to work? All this in one breath, and without waiting for an answer, she would walk over to the stove, where she knew that hot coffee was in the large enamel mug; pour herself a cup; and sit at the table. I tell you, Mavis, I don’t know where this world is going. Man ain’t got no fear of God, and I tell you, girl, I ain’t going to no little clap-hand church like some that seem to be springing up all over this town.

Then, taking a sip of coffee, she would continue. All of them are alike, from the pastor right down. All they care about is how big an offering you give and sleeping with the church sisters. Just this morning my girlfriend who I sometimes ride the bus with told me that there is a big scandal at the Baptist church there on Second Street. One church sister—who is a married woman at that—is pregnant, and who do you think got her like that? Not her husband. He already kicked her out. The father of the child is none other than Pastor Duke, the pastor of that church.

Muriel, where do you get these stories from, girl?

Mom would laugh, and Muriel, with an expression of hurt on her face, would reply, Mavis, I swear, my girlfriend is a member, and she said she would never go to that church again.

CHAPTER 2

J

UST BEFORE MY SECOND BIRTHDAY AND A FEW MONTHS BEFORE MY sister Alicia was born, we moved to our new property at McDoom Village, which is on the east bank of the Demerara River and two miles outside the city limits of Georgetown. Daddy was told of this property being up for sale by Mr. Saddar, an old friend who also lived at McDoom. So Daddy paid a visit, inspected the property, and liked what he saw. It was a large lot with two houses on it, both in need of repairs. But there was enough space at the front of the property for a third house, and Daddy decided there and then that he would build a house of his own design like no other building in the area. Also, the asking price for this property was far below the price he knew he could get for our present property in the city. So my father did not hesitate. He made a deal with the owner and sold our house in Georgetown, and within a few months, we moved to our new home at McDoom.

Mom was about to have her eighth child, and though my older sisters would help with the household work when they came in from school, it was very tough on her. In those days there was no indoor plumbing in the rural areas, so Daddy got a fifty-five-gallon oil drum, burned the inside, coated it with tar, and when it dried, he sat it in the kitchen. It was the duty of my two older brothers, Rupert and Lance, to ensure that the drum was filled with water, which they brought up in buckets from the standing pipe on the main road, giving Mom enough water for the day's chores of washing, cooking, and cleaning. Each of my older siblings had their own chores each day, but still, Mom had it rough taking care of her young ones—and every other year a newborn. So it was my grandmother who suggested I live with my Aunt Carmen and Uncle Freddie, who had no children. All agreed to take me to live with them.

Just after my fourth birthday, Mom gave birth to her last child. She had borne nine children in fourteen years, and the pressures of running a home while taking care of such a large family had a profound effect on her psyche. Mom became stressed, which led to her becoming moody and at times easily aggravated.

Mama, as Mom and her sisters called my grandmother, started spending her days off at my mother's house and helped with cooking and laundry. She was an excellent cook, having worked from an early age as a domestic servant for some wealthy family. On such days she would take me with her, much to my delight, for this gave me a chance to spend time with my family, especially my little sister, Alicia, and new baby brother, Kenrick.

Life in the country was beautiful. There was lots of land to run around on and lots of fruit trees, some of which I would try to climb while my older brothers laughingly urged me on. It seemed that each time I went back to the city, I had some new bruise or bump to show from my adventures.

On one of my visits to my parents, Daddy had bought a goat's skin from the butcher, intending to make a rug. We lived in the upper flat of our house, and Daddy leaned out of one living room window and tacked the skin to the outer wall for it to be dried by the sun. Later that afternoon when no one was around, I pulled a chair to the window, climbed up onto it, and looked out the window to see the skin. It was about eighteen inches below the windowsill. I reached over and stretched out my hand to touch and run my fingers through the hairy skin. It was farther than I thought, so I stretched some more. My feet left the chair, and suddenly I felt myself sliding forward. I screamed as my body went through the window and fell all of sixteen feet to the ground. Mrs. Maxwell, who lived below us, was washing clothes in the big soaking tub at the back of the house, and hearing my scream, she came running to the side where I had fallen. Seeing me lying motionless on the ground, she scooped me up, at the same time shouting to my mother that I had fallen out of the window. She dashed back to the tub and dumped me into the soapy wash water.

As the water hit me, I came out of my shock and started screaming again. Mrs. Maxwell grabbed a soaking shirt from the tub and started sapping my head, neck, and back as Mom came rushing down the stairs, followed by Granny and others. Oh my God, Mrs. Maxwell. What happened to Monty? He was just upstairs. Tears started running down her face.

He fell out the window, Mrs. Maxwell said, squeezing water from the wet shirt onto my head. Then she looked up. It's that stupid goat skin. I am sure it's the goat skin that Mr. B nailed to the wall this child was trying to touch.

Mom picked me up out of the tub, hugged me to her bosom as she sobbed, and hurried back up the stairs.

In the kitchen Mom sat in a chair and started taking off my wet clothes. Then she asked, Anybody know where Bolo went to? Bolo was her pet name for my father. We’ve got to take this boy to the hospital.

Everyone nodded their heads in agreement except Granny. Mavis, calm down and give the boy to me, Granny said sternly, taking me from my mother. She then took me to the bedroom, laid me on the bed, and started going over my body. I had almost stopped crying, only making a gasping sound every two seconds or so.

Granny started gently squeezing my head while at the same time running her fingers through my thick hair feeling my scalp for any lumps. Each time she squeezed, she would ask me, Does this hurt? I would shake my head no. Then, What about here? And here? And each time I shook my head no. She did this until she had covered the entire front of my body, then she turned me over unto my stomach and examined my back. When she was satisfied with her checkup, Granny told my sister Lynette to get the coconut oil and told my sister Joyce, You get a small cup of warm water and put some sugar in it. Make it sweet, and bring it to me.

Granny took the coconut oil and rubbed it all over my body, massaging me with her fingers. She then sat me up, took the cup of sweet sugared water from Joyce, and made me drink it all.

Then she turned to Mom, who was silently watching. The boy will be all right, Mavis. It is a miracle, but nothing seems to be broken. Then she turned back to me. You don’t leave this bed for the remainder of the afternoon, you hear me? If I see you out of this bed, I myself will clap two lashes on your bare backside. You understand what I’m saying?

I nodded solemnly.

When Daddy came home and heard what had happened, he was terribly upset, blaming everyone for being negligent. Mom explained that she and Granny had been in the kitchen preparing dinner, and the kids had all been in the bedroom doing their homework. But my father would not accept that, saying that they were all idle in failing to keep an eye on me, until Granny intervened. Now wait a minute Bolo, Granny said. I remember Mavis asking you a long time ago to put bars on these windows because of this boy. And if you had done what you were supposed to do, none of this would have happened. So don’t you go pointing fingers.

My father stared at Granny. He hated having this little woman talk back to him, but he knew that she was right. Mom had asked him to put bars on the windows months before, but he had refused. You want to have our home looking like a jailhouse? he had asked her, to which she did not reply, and the matter was left there.

The very next day, Daddy brought home some wooden laths, and with the help of my brother Rupert, he cut and nailed them firmly to every window that I had access to. I sat in a chair watching them work, and occasionally, my father would glance over at me and slowly shake his head from side to side.

CHAPTER 3

I

N 1952 MY FATHER STARTED WORK ON HIS DREAM HOUSE ON THE FRONT section of our property at McDoom Village. Shortly before this, Daddy had been given a large contract to build the roads in the huge compound of the Colonial Development Corporation, an English firm in the business of exporting hard woods like greenheart, purpleheart, and cedar from the vast jungles of Guyana.

This lumber yard was supposed to be the largest and most modern in the country. It housed two large mills, export sheds, houses for the English managers and their families, a powerhouse, and a large office. When completed, CDC was expected to employ a few hundred employees, which was great news to residents for miles around, for most of them up to that point depended on the Houston sugar plantation for work as cane cutters and field hands, and there was never enough work to go around.

During the latter stages of the work at CDC, Daddy's left leg was broken when a huge plank that he was trying to move with the help of another man slipped and pinned his leg to the ground. He spent a few days in the hospital and came home with his leg in a plaster cast, and it was said that he had discharged himself against the advice of the doctor. He then insisted that my brother Rupert, who worked with him, take him to the work site each morning, much to the dismay of my mother. Why can’t you stay at home and give your leg a chance to heal? she pleaded.

Woman, I have a job to take care of. Are you going to do it for me?

But Bolo, you have a foreman, and he can take care of things, she said.

Daddy shook his head. Mavis, the people spending the money expect to see me there. We have a deadline to meet, and if I ain’t there, I know that we’re not going to meet it, so I can’t allow this damn leg to keep me back.

On the work site, my father conducted business from his little office, which was built on wheels. This office which doubled as a tool storehouse would be moved every few days or so, keeping abreast with the work's progress. The front of this office had a door and a large push-out window held up by a stout stick, and there Daddy sat, his leg propped up on a stool, shouting instructions to his foreman and everyone else, keeping them all on their toes.

My father was a very stern parent who demanded absolute obedience from his children. We were brought up under colonial rule, and Daddy strongly believed in the British adage Spare the rod and spoil the child. For this reason, all of us children tried awfully hard to do as we were told and do it properly, or the strap would be laid across our backs regardless of age.

I can clearly remember one incident when Norma, then seventeen years old, and Joyce, fifteen, asked his permission to attend a friend's sweet sixteen birthday party. At first he said no, but Mom intervened. Come on, Bolo, she pleaded. The girls are getting older, and they need to go out occasionally, and I see no harm in them going to this party. Though he hated to have my mother override his decision, he realized that she was right and reluctantly gave his consent.

On the night of the party, after my sisters had gotten dressed and were about to leave the house, my father said to them, I want you both home by eleven o’clock sharp.

But Daddy, the party finishes at midnight, said Norma, who was always very bold.

I said eleven o’clock, my father repeated sternly as Norma sullenly opened the door and walked down the stairs with Joyce on her heels.

At eleven o’clock Mom was sitting by a window watching for the girls. Daddy was laid back in the Berbice chair, a recliner he had built, with his left leg still in its cast, resting on one of the swing-out arms of the chair. At eleven fifteen there was still no sign of the girls, and Mom looked nervously at my father lying there with his eyes closed and hoped that he was asleep.

Then, at eleven thirty, Norma and Joyce appeared, and Mom with a sigh of relief pushed her hand through the open window and motioned the girls to the back stairs of the house. Moving quietly, she hurried to open the back door, and as the girls entered, she rushed them to their room. Get undressed and into your nightgowns, whispered Mom anxiously. Do you know what time it is? It is after eleven thirty.

Ah, Mommy, answered Norma. The party was so nice, and everybody wanted to know why we had to leave.

Oh, Mom, Joyce said, slipping into her nightdress. We had such a good time.

A few minutes later, the bedroom door was pushed open. My father stood there, his cane in his left hand supporting his bad leg and the leather strap in his right. When I gave an order in this house, I expect it to be obeyed, he said, advancing into the room.

Bolo, no. Please don’t hit the children.

Norma threw herself onto the bed and tried to roll to the other side, distancing herself from Daddy, but he brought the strap down hard and caught her across her back. Norma screamed but did manage to get to the other side of the bed.

Daddy then turned his attention to Joyce, who did not attempt to run. He struck her once, twice, and then, as Mom grabbed his arm, he pushed her onto the bed. Woman, get out of my way, he said angrily.

Norma, seeing his distraction, raced for the door. Daddy saw her and tried to turn, with Mom still clinging to his right arm. He raised his cane and swung it at Norma.

The cane missed her, but the force of the swing turned Daddy partially around, and at the same time, his right hand slipped out of Mom's grasp. Not having two good legs to stand on, he lost his balance and fell heavily to the floor.

As he was falling, he let go of the cane, pushed his arms out, and was able to break his fall. But the thump as he hit the floor shook him.

Mom rushed over to him. Bolo, are you all right? she asked.

Daddy slowly got to his hands and knees, and Mom helped him to his feet. He took the cane, which Mom had retrieved, and glared angrily at her. Then he slowly limped out of the room and went to his bed.

Our new house was a large two-story flat. The upper flat, which we occupied, had four bedrooms, a large living room, and a gallery. The front stairs were enclosed in a tower rising eight feet higher than the rest of the house. The kitchen was spacious, with the bathroom and toilet off to one side. We used our buckets of water carried up from the public standpipe for our baths, and in our bathroom, we had a commode, which was like an enclosed seatless chair with a slop bucket in its center.

During the day we all used the latrine or outhouse located at the back of the yard, but at night we used the commode. It was my sister Lynette's job each morning to take the bucket to the latrine, empty it, and wash it with water and disinfectant. This was a chore she hated, and she got a few lashes when it was not done on the pretext that she had forgotten, or when she was late for school.

Daddy bought Mom a Doberman stove, a large woodburning stove made of iron. It was a four-burner with an iron cover for each hole when not in use. It also had an oven for baking and a chimney made of aluminum, which went up and through a hole in the outer wall for the smoke to escape. Our house was the largest and most modern in the area at that time and was the pride and joy of our family.

CHAPTER 4

T

HE GREATEST FEAR OF PARENTS, ESPECIALLY THOSE IN THE COUNTRY areas, was that a child would wander too close to one of the many canals that crisscrossed the landscape and fall into the water. Occasionally, I did hear the adults talking about some child, especially in the sugar plantation areas, who had accidentally fall in and drowned.

If a mother had to go to the market, she simply called out to one of her neighbors, asking them to keep an eye on her children, and off she went, knowing full well that her children would be protected. It was not unusual for a child to be given a spanking by a neighbor or friend of the family for misbehaving or straying too far from home. At that time also, there was not a lot of motor traffic on the road, and most motor vehicles were concentrated in the Georgetown area.

At McDoom Village, where my parents lived, a car would pass by every ten minutes or so, with the main mode of transportation for most residents of the east bank being the big blue Bedford buses with huge trays built around their tops for carrying cargo. These buses ran at one-hour intervals between Georgetown and Soesdyke twenty-two miles away, and every early morning you could see them pass by with their top trays laden with huge bunches of plantains and bananas and huge baskets of cassavas, yams, eddoes, and other produce, headed for the markets at La Penitence and Stabroek.

Though the younger children were told not to cross the road unless accompanied by an adult or older child, because of the lack of traffic, this rule was not always adhered to, and young children could always be seen scampering across the road alone.

Alicia was six years old when one morning my brother Lance, about to chop wood for our stove, realized that the ax was missing. He found out that Mrs. Jackman, who lived obliquely across the road from our house, had borrowed it, and he sent Alicia to get it. Alicia stood in the grass at the edge of the road and looked both ways. She could see clearly for several hundred yards in both directions, and there was only one car in sight approaching from the right, the same side on which she was standing. She was waiting for the car to pass when suddenly a dog being chased by other dogs came bounding out of the alley adjoining Mrs. Jackman's property and raced across the road. The driver of the oncoming car, seeing the dog rushing into his path, panicked. He swerved to his left to avoid the dog, then, seeing my sister, tried to swing back to the right—but too late. The left front of the car struck Alicia and sent her flying.

A neighbor whom we called Uncle Nathan saw the accident unfold. He screamed as he raced toward my sister's tiny body lying motionless on the side of the road. Several other people who had seen the accident from various distances started running toward the scene, and neighbors who had heard the screeching brakes of the car and Uncle Nathan's scream started popping their heads through their windows.

Upon reaching Alicia's body, Uncle Nathan, recognizing the still form on the grass, shouted, Somebody call Mrs. Bollers. It's her little girl.

But Mom, hearing the commotion, had rushed to the window, with my little brother Ken tailing behind her. Someone saw her and shouted, Mrs. Bollers, your daughter—your little girl got hit by the car.

Mom screamed in panic as she rushed down the stairs to the roadside where Alicia lay. She dropped to her knees beside her child, sobbing uncontrollably. Oh God, not my baby. Please don’t take my baby from me.

Lance rushed up and dropped down beside Mom, and as tears ran down his cheeks, he moaned, Oh, Mom, it's me. It's all my fault. I sent her to Mrs. Jackman for the ax.

Uncle Nathan, kneeling beside my mother, put a hand on her shoulder and said softly, She's breathing, Mrs. Bollers. The child is breathing. Then he turned and shouted to no one in particular, Somebody get a car. We got to get this child to the hospital.

Meanwhile, the driver of the car that had hit Alicia was standing pinned to his car by two men. Blood was running down the side of his mouth, and he was crying. Upon hearing that a car was needed, one of the men shouted, Let us use this car, Nathan. This son of a bitch is responsible. He turned and slapped the car driver hard on his cheek.

The car and driver got to stay here until the police arrive, said Uncle Nathan. And stop hitting the man. It was an accident. I saw the whole thing.

Mrs. Paterson, who owned the cake shop and property next to the Jackmans, turned to a young man standing beside her. Boy, run to the McDooms, tell them what happened, and see if one of the sons would be willing to use their car and get this child to the hospital, she said, referring to the family after whom the village was named.

The boy went off at a fast trot, but before any of the McDooms could arrive, Mr. Bacchus, who lived a short distance away, drove up in his car and stopped. He was on his way to the city, and knowing our family very well, he offered to take my sister to the hospital. Mom got into the back seat of the car, clad only in a housedress and a pair of slippers. Uncle Nathan and another man gently lifted Alicia and placed her on the seat with her head resting on Mom's lap, and Mr. Bacchus rushed them to the hospital.

Daddy got the news on his job and raced to the hospital. He was terribly angry when he heard that Lance had sent Alicia to cross the road by herself and blamed him for being careless.

Mom sat silently, head bowed, not looking at my father, just hoping that his anger would pass and praying that her child would be all right.

When they arrived at the hospital, Alicia was placed on a stretcher and rushed to the emergency room, and though only a couple of hours had passed, to Mom it seemed so much longer. She was only partially aware of the bustle in the crowded waiting room. Every few minutes the tears would start again, and she would whisper under her breath, Please God, dear God, please save my baby.

After what seemed an eternity, a nurse called out, Bollers! Any Bollers here? Daddy raised his hand, and she beckoned to them. This way, please. The doctor will see you now.

In the doctor's office, Dr. Singh offered them a seat. Your child has been seriously injured, and the next twenty-four hours will be crucial, he explained. Right now she is heavily sedated, and I will not permit you to see her. He paused to think, then added, Both of her legs are broken. The right leg is broken at the hip and the left one at the knee.

Mom started sobbing again, and as if to console her, Dr. Singh went on softly. "Apart from the legs and a few bruises, I could find no other injury. Of course,