A LOST BOY
Screen 1 of 3"Wake up, Chester; wake up." My mother's crisp voice cut through the deep sleep I had been in for over two hours.
"What's the matter," I replied, only half awake. "Why must I wake up?"
"Will Gooch is not home, and it's after eleven o'clock," she said with a look of some concern, as she peered through the small window at the falling snow. "As you know, he usually finishes his paper route by seven o'clock and gets home by seven-thirty or eight at the latest."
My older brother delivered the Louisville Times newspaper in Bowling Green, Kentucky, every afternoon except Sunday. He would pick up the papers near the railroad station about four o'clock, fold them, put them in a canvass sack he carried over his shoulder, and then deliver them on foot over a route near the center of town. And, as Mother said, he would usually get back to our small frame house in Cherryton Village--a student-faculty community on the edge of the college campus where my mother taught--between seven-thirty and eight o'clock for a late and most often a very light supper.
But this night he was late--very late; and my mother was worried. We both knew the heavy snow would delay him, but certainly not as much as three hours, we thought.
I, too, looked out at the falling snow and wondered where Will Gooch could possibly be. By the time Mother woke me a little after eleven, there must have been a foot of snow already on the ground, and large flakes were still being driven by the swirling wind to add steadily to this silent white cover.
Since we had no telephone, Will Gooch could not have called. Neither could anyone else have sent us a telephone message about him. So we could either wait at home, or start out on foot to search for him. Even before she spoke again, I felt quite sure that Mother would wait no longer for him. My brother was a brave and enterprising boy, quite able in most circumstances to take care of himself, but he was barely eleven years old and without the experience necessary to cope with a snowstorm at midnight in strange surroundings. I realized he was not even adequately dressed for such a night, when I saw his galoshes in the corner of our small bedroom.
"We must go find him," my mother said decisively. I was only nine and owned no boots or galoshes, but I was not at all surprised to hear her say, "we." She expected me to go with her to look for my brother, and of course I would go.
At times like this, I never argued about or even questioned plans outlined by my mother, for at least two reasons. In the first place, she would not have countenanced such a discussion. But more important, I had learned in my nine short years that her experience as the breadwinner and decision maker of our home usually led to very sound judgment--especially in emergencies.
"We must leave at once," Mother declared, as she began putting on her coat.
"I'll be ready," I drawled sleepily, "as soon as I dress."
"There is no time for that," she retorted. "Just put your overcoat on over your pajamas. Of course, you must wear your shoes and rubbers." ("Rubbers" in our household meant low overshoes no higher than low?topped shoes.)
"May I wear Gooch's galoshes instead?" I asked. "They are right here on the floor."
"Yes, of course," she answered, "but bring along your own rubbers, so that you will both have some when we find Will Gooch (I was relieved to hear her say "when"; for I was already beginning to wonder "if" we would find him.)
Within minutes we were out the front door, leaving it unlocked as usual, and trudging on foot through the deep snow, with those big snowflakes hitting us full in the face. Our progress was slow--very slow, and despite our gloves and overshoes we soon became uncomfortably cold.
After walking for about a mile, we reached the place in the center of Bowling Green where my brother's paper route began. We then very slowly and carefully covered that route, block by block. It was quite familiar to me, even the customers who received papers, since I had substituted for Gooch several times. But all this was to no avail; we could not find him. Even his tracks had been covered up by the falling snow, if indeed he had ever completed the route that night. The only helpful information came from one of his subscribers whose light was still on when we came to his house. He said his paper had been delivered several hours earlier, but he added that he had not seen my brother.
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