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Chapter Text

October, 1949

“Templeton, put that down!” ordered John, BA under one arm and HM under the other. “I mean it, Templeton! Do you want to wear your new shirt to school? Because if you don’t put down my gun, you can’t wear it.”

“I’m gonna shoot,” said Templeton, staggering a bit under the weight of the rifle.

“Templeton!” shrieked John, not in sternness but from straight fear. He set BA and HM down and raced across the living room, snatching the rifle from the five-year-old boy. “Okay, listen up, kid. You can’t touch my stuff. How did you…I locked this in a cabinet?”

“I picked the lock!” explained Templeton, proudly.

John sat back on his heels, staring at the little boy. Templeton never ceased to surprise him, though, at this point, he ought to be used to it.

“BA, give it back!” yelled HM, followed by an immediate onslaught of tears.

John jumped to his feet, the rifle in one hand, and Templeton balanced on his left hip and hurried back across the room just in time for BA to give a mighty shove to HM, sending the four-year-old tumbling backward to the ground.

John set Templeton on the ground and his gun on the desk and knelt beside HM, “Alright, little man, up you go. You’re okay.” He turned to BA and put on his stern face, “Now, BA, was that very nice, young man? What did you take from HM?”

BA glared at John but slowly held up a toy airplane. “It’s my turn to play with it,” he whined.

“Now, is stealing the toy and pushing HM over the correct way to handle the situation?” asked John, giving the four-year-old a very pointed look.

“He’s a fool!” snapped BA.

John raised an eyebrow, “What? Where did you learn that word? That’s not a very nice thing to say, BA. You need to tell HM you’re sorry and give him back the plane. Go on.” He nudged BA forward.

Still scowling, BA shoved the toy towards the sniffling HM and said, “I’m sorry.” John pulled HM into a hug, but the brave little man had already stifled the remaining tears.

“Good, boy,” John said to BA. “Okay, now we need to get HM and BA ready for daycare and Temp ready for kindergarten. Upstairs, boys!” John sighed as he watched the three little boys troop up the stairs, chattering back and forth about planes and cars and other subjects of interests to children their age. Somedays, he really couldn’t believe he was raising these three hoodlums. He was only twenty-two, for goodness sakes!

The minute John’s four years in the army were up, he had returned home, fully intending to go into work as an actor or something along the lines. Instead, he found himself just in time to meet the little rascals that would change his life forever. He smiled, remembering the day clearly…

Chapter Text

October, 1948

  “Thank you so much, John, for helping me deliver this stuff,” said John’s soldier pal. “My mom has been knitting up a storm for the orphanage, and I don’t think I could have carried it all in one trip.”

  “Anytime,” smiled John, watching the little children running happily around the yard of the orphanage.

  “Hey, John, I’ll be right back. I’m going to go talk to Father Magill for a minute.” John’s friend hurried off, and John stood alone, watching a game of hopscotch take place on the nearby walkway. He jumped when something brushed his leg and looked down to see a little boy staring up at him.

  “Are you a man?” asked the little fellow.

  John was taken back by the question, unsure of how on earth to answer such a thing. He smiled and nodded, “Uh, yeah, kid. I’m a man.”

  “Wow,” said the blonde tyke, a mop of hair hanging in his eyes. “Someday, I’m gonna be a man. Do you like me?”

  John glanced at his friend, who was engrossed in conversation with the priest who ran the orphanage. The child tugged on his pant leg. John smiled down at him, “Uh, sure, kid. You seem like a stand-up guy.”

  “My name is Templeton Arthur Peck, and I am four-years-old,” said the boy. “What’s your name?”

  “You’re four?” asked John. “I didn’t think four-year-old kids could talk. And my name is John Smith.”

  “I talk pretty goodly,” said Templeton, puffing his chest out proudly.

  John smirked, unexplainably finding himself drawn to the tiny human, “Ha. Yeah, you sure do, pal.” Typically children weren’t his forte, but Templeton seemed to have something unignorable about him.

  “So you’ll probably need to take me home with you,” said Templeton, crossing his arms very pragmatically. “I don’t have parents, and you seem like you need someone to look out for you. So I guess just take me home with you, and that’ll be good.”

  John’s eyes widened, and he knelt, positioning Templeton, so they were eye-to-eye, “Say, what, sport? You say you want to come home with me? And what does that mean, I need someone to look out for me?”

  “Cause you don’t have someone to tell you about your shirt missing a button,” said Templeton, pointing to the top of John’s shirt where a button had fallen off. “And I’m good at knowing that stuff, so you should be my daddy.”

  John glanced nervously back at his friend and took a deep breath, “Eh, look, Templeton. It’s really an honor that you would like to come home with me, but I can’t be your daddy. I don’t know anything about kids.”

  “That’s not true,” said Templeton, his lower lip coming out. “You know my name is Templeton and that I’m four, and that’s about a kid.”

  “Okay, you got me there,” chuckled John. “But it takes a lot more than that to be a good dad. I don’t even have a wife to be your mother.”

  “Aw, I don’t need a mother,” said Templeton, reaching up with a tiny hand to brush his hair out of his eyes. “I guess mothers aren’t so bad, but I’d like a daddy just as much even if there isn’t a mommy, too. I wish I had somebody to love me.”

  Reaching up to run his fingers through his hair, John took an intense breath and thought hard. He certainly didn’t want to hurt this kid’s feelings, but he also had no intention of adopting a child on a delivery run. “Well, Templeton,” said John, his mind racing on how to tell this cute four-year-old that he had no intention of becoming his father, “the truth is…” John stopped and gave a nervous smile, “…ha, uh, the – the truth is…”

  Templeton stood there staring up, his blue eyes glinting with something John couldn’t quite put his finger on. Mischief? No. Determination? Perhaps. Was it – it couldn’t be that? This little person was barely old enough to run without falling over. There was no way his eyes held a streak of trickery. Was it even possible for eyes to hold trickery? John narrowed his gaze and gave Templeton a stern look.

  “Say, pal, you wouldn’t be conning me, would you?” he asked.

  Templeton’s mouth formed a little o, and he stared at John in surprise.

  “What? People don’t normally catch on to your little tales?” smirked John, secretly admiring the kid’s smooth-talking.

  “Hey, how’d you know?” asked Templeton, crossing his arms. “I’m a good tricker. Everyone says so.”

  “Oh, do they?” chuckled John, immensely amused by the whole situation. He was about to say something about Templeton tricking someone else into taking him home when he saw the child’s eyes fill with tears and the little head drop.

  “It’s okay,” whimpered Templeton. “I’m good at it. I can make someone else love me. I’ll get adopted someday.”

  John’s heart instantly shattered. He was no good with kids. Kids made absolutely no sense to him. Kids made life more challenging and required avoidance at all costs, and if dealing with one was necessary, one should handle the situation maturely and quickly and move on. But, gosh darn, if this tiny human hadn’t just wormed his way into John’s life and left a considerable imprint whether John wanted it or not. “Oh, come on, sport, don’t cry,” soothed John, pulling Templeton close and giving him a reassuring hug. “I swear it isn’t like that. It’s just that I wouldn’t make a good father at all, and you deserve someone who will take care of you and give you the best life you can have.”

  “You’d take care of me,” sobbed Templeton, his tiny fists gripping John’s shirt. “You’re awful nice!”

  “He’s playing with you, John,” thought John. “Don’t give in to the little scamp. He’s just giving you a story. The tears aren’t real; the tears aren’t real; the tears aren’t real.”

  “Well, now, what seems to be the problem?” asked the priest, approaching with John’s friend and kneeling. “Is Mr. Peck alright?”

  Instead of answering, Templeton just held even tighter to John, sobbing quite uncontrollably. John gave an awkward grin to Father Magill and nodded. “Uh, yes, sir, Father. Everything is fine. Templeton just got himself a little worked up.”

  “Oh, now, Templeton, it’s alright,” smiled the priest, laying a reassuring hand on the little boy’s back.

  “No, Father Magill!” cried Templeton, his voice muffled in John’s shirt. “No one loves me!”

  “Hey, now, that isn’t true!” spoke up John, surprised to hear himself sputter. “A cute little fellow like you? Take a crazy person not to love everything about you, sport.”

  The tears instantly stopped, and Templeton lifted his face from John’s shirt, a wide grin stretching across his face, “I knew it! You do wanna be my daddy! Father Magill, I’ve got a daddy!” He threw his arms back around John, who looked in shock at Father Magill.

  “Oh, boy,” he whispered. The tears had been fake—what a little conman.

  “A daddy?” laughed John’s friend, slapping his shoulder. “Geez, John, I only wanted you to deliver some blankets with me. Didn’t expect you to get yourself a kid!”

***

  “So, it’ll be just like a trial run?” asked John, nervously running his fingers over the wood grain of his chair.

   “Well, I wouldn’t call it that,” chuckled the priest. “But in a sense, yes. It’s highly unusual, but the little fellow seems to have taken quite a liking to you, and I would rather see him happy than stuck here until he’s eighteen. Your record checks out quite nicely, and I see no reason why our Templeton can’t go home with you.”

  “I really don’t think I am qualified to raise a kid,” said John, his leg bouncing nervously. Oh, how he wished he had a cigarette. They calmed him. Smoking! Can’t smoke around a kid.

  “Is anyone, Mr. Smith?” asked the priest, an amused look etched across his face. “Again, give it a try. You’ll never know what could happen. Maybe you’ll find you’re more fit to be a father than you ever could have imagined.”

  John breathed deeply and nodded, “Yeah, I guess you never know. But I’m still…” before he could finish his sentence, the door flew open, and Templeton raced across the room, throwing himself onto John’s lap.

  “I’m all ready!” he shrieked. “Everything is packed! Bosco Albert and Henry Maximillian are ready, too!”

  “Oh, Templeton,” sighed Father Magill.

  “Who are Bosco, Albert, Henry, and Maximillian?” asked John, raising an eyebrow as he settled Templeton on his lap. The little boy fit so perfectly it was as if he belonged there.

  “No, not like that!” laughed Templeton. “Bosco Albert is one, and Henry Maximillian is the other. My best friends! They are ready, too!”

  Father Magill stood and came around his desk, placing a hand on Templeton’s shoulder, “Ah, my dear, I’m sorry to inform you that Bosco and Henry will not be accompanying you to Mr. Smith’s home. He can’t take all the little boys, you know.”

   “But – but…” Templeton’s lower lip began to tremble, and he pointed towards the doorway.

  John and Father Magill turned and found themselves looking at two small children, holding hands and looking expectantly at the two men.

  “Hello, boys,” smiled Father Magill.

  “Hi,” nodded the larger of the two, a boy with deep brown eyes and a serious expression on his face.

  “Hi!” yelled the second boy, surprising the first with his outburst. “I’m Henry Maximillian! Do you like planes? Yay! Planes!” He released the bigger boy’s hand and threw himself on the floor, beginning to roll and make a buzzing sound.

  “Um, what is he doing?” asked John, staring at Henry.

  “He’s a plane,” answered Templeton matter-of-factly. “Bosco Albert thinks Henry is silly, but he doesn’t say it out loud. Bosco Albert has a hard time saying most words. He’s only three, but I’m four, so I can say lots of words. Henry Maximillian says made-up words. He likes to make things up. Look, Bosco Albert and Henry Maximillian, look! I told you he was a real man! He even said he was a man and his name is John Smith!”

  “Oh, dear,” chuckled Father Magill.

  “Uh, Father,” said John, standing and setting Templeton gently down on the chair. He took the priest’s arm and led him a few feet away. “Look, Father,” whispered John, “I’m not even sure I’m ready to take one kid, much less three! You have to talk Templeton out of this. I can’t care for all these kids! I’m twenty-one, for goodness sake! I’m barely an adult!”

  “You are very much an adult to these little children,” smiled Father Magill. “And you are more apt to fatherhood than you give yourself credit. I saw the way you held Templeton so tenderly just now.”

  “Holding a kid tenderly and raising three children are two completely different things,” said John, hands on his hips. “Look, Father, you gotta talk to these guys. There is no way I’m taking three little kids home with me! I came here to deliver blankets!”

***

  “Are we gonna live with you forever and ever?” cooed Templeton, snuggling close against John’s side.

  “Um, well, you’re going to live with right now, at least,” nodded John. “Hey, scoot back over so I can drive, pal. You can have all the hugs you want once we get to my place.”

  “A plane!” yelled little Henry from the back seat, scrambling to his feet and pressing his face against the window.

  John glanced back and felt his heart rate pick up, “Hey, kid! Sit back down! You can’t stand up while I’m driving. That’s a rule, everyone. No standing while I’m driving.” He still couldn’t believe it. He’d taken all three kids. Three kids. Three living, breathing children.

  Henry immediately dropped down and giggled, “No stand.” He began making the buzzing sound again, kicking his feet hard and fast, so they pounded against the back of Templeton’s seat.

  “Hey, Daddy! Henry Maximillian is kicking my seat!” whined Templeton, his lower lip popping out.

  John glanced down at Templeton and chuckled nervously, “Oh, uh, well, remember, Templeton, I’m not really your daddy. I’m just taking care of you for a little while. And, um, Henry, don’t kick Templeton’s seat, please. Rule number two in the car, we can’t kick seats.”

   “Well, daddy’s take care of kids, and you take care of us now, so you’re our daddy,” mused Templeton. “And his name isn’t Henry. It’s Henry Maximillian.”

 “Henry Maximillian is a lot of name for a little guy,” said John, glancing in his rearview mirror to make sure Bosco was alright. The child didn’t say very much but seemed to be content to sit and ride. “How about we give him a nickname? How about HM. The H is for Henry, and the M is for Maximillian.”

  “HM?” asked Templeton. “Henry Maximillian, is your name HM?”

  “Yes!” shouted Henry. “I’m HM. HM! HM!”

  “Okay, that’s settled,” nodded John. “And I suppose you want me to say Bosco Albert, too.”

  “Yeah, his name is Bosco Albert,” nodded Templeton.

  John whistled, “That’s a lot of name, too. How about BA? B for Bosco. A for Albert?”

  “BA,” hummed Templeton. “Bosco Albert, is your name BA?”

  Bosco didn’t reply; his thumb stuck firmly in his mouth.

  “Bosco Alboht!” yelled HM. “Bosco Alboht! You BA!”

  Bosco, previously very interested in sucking on his thumb, removed the digit from his mouth and smiled, “Otay.” He giggled, finding the whole scenario quite fun.

  “Bosco Alboht is BA!” shrieked HM, throwing himself across the seat and onto BA.

  “Hey!” exclaimed John. “No screaming in the car, HM! And remember rule number two! Stay in your seat!”

  Templeton crawled back across the seat and tugged on John’s sleeve. “Daddy, you forgot. Rule number two was no kicking seats. Rule number one is no standing while you’re driving.”

  John blushed and subconsciously reached for a cigarette, his hand stopping when he felt his empty pocket. Good thing, too. He needed to stop smoking now that he had these children. Children. He had children. It took all his will-power to keep from slamming his foot on the brakes and taking the three of them right back to the orphanage. What on earth did he think he was doing? He couldn’t raise three kids! He didn’t even know what kids ate for supper, much less how to give them a good life!

  “I love you, Daddy,” giggled Templeton, burying himself in John’s side again. “You’re the best daddy I ever has had.”

  “Oh, right,” thought John. “That’s why. My stupid heart won’t stop melting.”

  John sat up straight and held himself erect. If he was going to do this thing, he was going to do it right. He lay a hand on Templeton’s blonde head and smiled, “Thanks, bud. I love you, too.”

Chapter Text

October, 1949

  “HM, let me put your shirt on,” said John, pulling a tiny outfit out of the dresser drawer and laying it out on the floor.

  “Wear this!” yelled HM, spinning in circles with his toy plane.

  John pulled open the sock drawer and shook his head, “No, sir, little mister. You can’t wear pajamas to school. Come over here, Captain.”

  HM raced across the room and tripped, falling face first in front of John. He looked up and giggled, assuring John that he was alright. John chuckled and knelt, helping the child stand. HM buzzed and waved his plane through the air, “Imma pilot, Dada!”

  “Yes, you’re a pilot,” nodded John, unbuttoning the footed onesie his little boy was wearing. His peripheral vision warned John that BA was attempting to climb the curtains. “BA!” said John sternly. “You let go of that curtain right now, young man. If you put your weight on it, they’ll come down on your head and hurt you.”

  BA released the curtain and popped his thumb in his mouth, kicking a stack of blocks on the floor.  

  “Good boy,” nodded John.

  Content that BA would leave the curtains alone, John turned his attention back to HM, who was wriggling around on the floor, trying to remove his onesie with one hand and fly his plane with the other. “Let me help you, Cap,” said John, pulling the little legs out of the pajamas. “Okay, bud, let’s get your shirt on.” As soon as HM’s shirt and overalls were on, John set him free to fly the plane and called BA over. “Come on, BA!” he said. “Time to get dressed.”

  BA pounded over, letting his solid body fall against John’s chest. Unlike HM, BA wasn’t one to be described as light on his feet. None of the boys were particularly graceful, but they each had very identifiable gaits that alerted John as to who was running through the house even if he were in a different room. BA certainly had the heaviest steps.

  John smiled and hugged his little boy, kissing the top of his head, “Okay, BA. Let’s get these pajamas off and get you ready for daycare.” He helped BA remove the onesie he was wearing and then dressed him in a collared shirt and red pants. “You look swell, champ,” grinned John, tickling BA’s round tummy. The little boy was not exactly chubby, but he was far more solid than either of his brothers. BA giggled, rolling under John’s hands.

  “Ah, no! Daddy!” he shrieked, kicking his little legs. John caught one foot and picked up a sock.

  “Come back here, HM,” he called. “Sock time.”

  HM raced over and lay down beside BA, so the four feet were in a row, ready for their socks. John put them on, followed by shoes, with surprising ease. Typically there was a lot of kicking and giggling going on during this part of the dressing process.

  “Alright, you two,” sighed John. “All dressed. Let’s go see how Templeton is making do.”

  HM and BA shared a bedroom. They had bunk beds, and HM loved the top bunk, saying it was his treehouse up in the sky, and BA preferred the bottom, hanging a blanket over the side to create a cave-like experience. The two boys often shared toys and enjoyed building towers and houses out of their wooden blocks. While the two were more apt to fight than any other combination of the boys, they also seemed to have the closest relationship.

  Templeton refused to share a room with his brothers. John had considered forcing him to, merely to cut down on the number of places he had to tidy up, but it seemed a losing battle to argue with the well-thought-out reasonings of the five-year-old charmer. Thankfully, Templeton tended to be much neater than BA and HM and kept his toys and books in order. He also insisted on dressing himself every morning, and John had to admit the kid had an eye for fashion.

  “Temp, time for school!” hollered HM, racing from the bedroom and across the hall. “Temp! Temp!”

  “You don’t need to yell, HM,” admonished Templeton, always the little grown-up.

  “All dressed, sport?” asked John, entering his oldest boy’s room. He smiled when he found Templeton wearing a button-down shirt, dress shorts, and jacket. “Little fancy for school, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s just right,” said Templeton, tying a knot in his left shoelace.

  John smirked and knelt, “How about I tie these for you, Templeton?”

  “I did tie them,” insisted Templeton, his lower lip forming a pout.

  “You knotted them,” replied John. “I promise to teach you how to tie your shoes this evening. Right now, I’ll take care of it. Good try, though. I like it when you are independent.” While John did enjoy the boys getting older and gaining the ability to care for themselves, he had to admit a little part of him missed their utter reliance on him that had been there when he first took them in.

  After watching his father tie his shoes, Templeton scrambled to his feet and ran from the room. “I need to comb my hair!” he hollered, barreling into the bathroom.

  “I want to comb my hair!” yelled HM, wanting to do whatever his big brother did.

  “Okay, we’ll comb our hair,” nodded John, following his boys to the bathroom they all shared. Templeton was standing on a stool, carefully running a black comb through his blonde locks. HM crawled up beside his brother and watched Templeton in the mirror.

  “My turn!” he cried, trying to grab the comb.

  “No!” yelled Templeton, shoving HM. The little boy teetered and tipped backward, almost falling until John’s strong hands slid under the boy’s arms and righted him.

  John glared down at his oldest, “Templeton Arthur, you apologize to HM. We do not push our brothers.”

  “Sorry, HM,” mumbled Templeton.

  “And, HM,” said John, “tell Templeton you’re sorry for grabbing the comb.”

  “Sorry, Temp,” said HM, throwing his arms around his big brother.

  “Okay, Templeton, let HM use the comb now,” said John. BA tapped his father’s leg and held his arms up. John smiled and picked the boy up, cuddling him against his chest. Unlike HM, BA didn’t seem worried about copying everything Templeton did. He was also the aptest to cuddle anytime, anywhere. Templeton needed cuddling often, but it was always under his terms and when his little brothers weren’t watching him be ‘a silly baby,’ as he put it. HM loved snuggling, but it only lasted for a few seconds before his energetic little body needed to race around the room at top speed. John relished all the hugs his boys gave, but BA’s tended to be the warmest.

  “School time!” yelled Templeton as HM finished combing his hair into a wild mess.

  “Yes, school time,” nodded John, setting BA back down. He used his hands to smooth HM’s brown waves down and ushered the boys out of the bathroom. They all tumbled down the stairs, HM babbling about something regarding lizards, BA carefully making sure he didn’t trip over his own feet, and Templeton calling up to John about the little girl he intended to hold hands with during recess. John smiled, following the small team down the staircase. His boys were dressed and ready to face the day. He was so proud of each one of them. He hated to leave them at their respective places for the day and go to work, but it would all be worth it when they were together again that afternoon.

Chapter Text

July, 1950  

  “I have three kids!” roared John, slamming his fist against the table. “I am a single father! This is insanity!”

  “John, stop,” begged the middle-aged woman sitting beside him, resting a calming hand on the young man’s arm. “You’ll wake the boys.”

  John growled and stood, kicking his chair entirely over. He began to pace the dining room, punching his fist into the palm of his hand.

  The woman sighed, “Johnny. Darling, please.”

  “Ma, can you be quiet? I’m trying to think!” snapped John. He froze and looked sheepishly at her, “Sorry, Ma. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

  The pretty, gentle-looking woman smiled, and she nodded, “I know, dear. You’re hurting. You have the same look that your father did during the Second World War. He was pacing and pounding his fist just like you are. He couldn’t imagine leaving his little boy behind. Do you remember? You were much older than the boys are now.” Myrna Smith looked lovingly at her son and fought back the tears that threatened her eyes. She could see the pain he was going through. John was her only child, and she could never stand to see him hurting.

  “Yes, I remember,” sighed John, bending over and grabbing the chair he had kicked. “I was almost thirteen when Pop got drafted.” Saying the word pierced John’s heart, and he visibly winced. He glared at the paper on the table, wishing he could burn it and sweep the ashes away and forget about it forever.

  “We missed him every second that he was gone,” said Myrna, relaxing her muscles as John settled back into his chair. “Remember how excited we were when his letters would come?”

  “Yeah,” mumbled John, burying his face in his hands, elbows propped against the table.

  Myrna leaned forward, picking up the paper John had cast aside. “Order to report for induction,” she whispered, reading the words printed across the top. “You don’t think you can talk them out of it?”

  “Not as long as I have you,” moaned John. “You’re capable of taking the boys, so I have to do whatever they say. Why, Ma, why? Aren’t there other guys out there?”

  “You have a beautiful record, John,” smiled Myrna, trying to stay courageous for her son. “Not many boys have the skills you possess. I don’t blame the army for needing you back.”

  “They don’t need me back, they want me back,” growled John, pounding the table again. “The only people that need me are the three little boys upstairs.”

  Myrna sighed, her stoic façade breaking as tears gathered in her eyes. John was in agony. She could see the anguish etched across his face and the heart-wrenching fear in his blue eyes. Her motherly intuition told her exactly what her boy was thinking. What if he went to Korea and didn’t come back? What would happen to his children? The children that only a few months before had finally become legally his own. The adoption process had been long and tedious, but it was complete, and Templeton, BA, and HM were officially John’s sons. And now, the same government that had granted him the honor of being the little trio’s father was dragging him away to fight a war in a country across the globe. It was only natural for John to feel heartbreak and anger. But it wasn’t going to do him any good. He was a brilliant soldier, and his four years in the army had solidified that. The conscription paper outlined the military’s need for particular work regarding his skillset. The fact that he was a single father was not going to get him out of this draft.

  “You’ll take good care of them, won’t you, Ma?” whispered John, staring across the room at nothing in particular. “You won’t let HM make up words on his homework? And you’ll make sure BA doesn’t drink all the milk before the others get any? And you won’t let Templeton act all grown up when you know he just needs a hug? You’ll do it, won’t you, Ma? Oh, Ma!” John slumped down onto the table, head buried in his arms, and sobbed.

  Myrna reacted instantly, rising from her chair and enveloping her son in a tender embrace, comforting the heartbroken man. “Yes, dear. It’s alright to cry. I just might join you.” She hadn’t seen John cry in a very long time. From the time he was a young boy John had been macho and tough, relying on his wit and pure bull-headedness to beat his emotions far away from surfacing. The thought of leaving his children was too much, though. It was the first time John had cried since the night his father had left for training, and he’d sobbed alone into his pillow after everyone had gone to bed.

 They stayed that way for the better part of an hour: mother holding son. The minutes ticked away. The house fell silent as John’s tears subsided, and all was still. And in the quiet of the night, a deep dread filled John like a wave through his entire body. In the morning, he would have to tell his sons. Tomorrow was the day he had to break his little boys’ hearts with the news no child wanted to hear. Daddy was going to war.

Chapter Text

September, 1950

  Templeton would never admit it to Grandma, but he was anxious. His teacher, Mrs. Crane, told him ‘anxious’ was far too big of a word for a six-year-old boy to be using. She said he was just missing his father. But Templeton knew better.

  HM and BA were sad that Daddy was gone, but most of the time they played with each other, laughed and talked like nothing had changed. There was a photo on the coffee table of Daddy and all three boys sitting in a pile of fallen leaves a few weeks after they’d first come to live with him, and sometimes HM would see it when he was running by. He’d drop down onto the floor and cry until Grandma came to cuddle him, but after a few minutes, he would be chattering on about something he did in school that day or his toy planes. BA would sometimes stare at the photo for a long time, blinking back some quiet tears, then he would see HM building with the wooden blocks and excitedly join in.

  Templeton knew his brothers were sad. But he was positive he was anxious. Nothing was enjoyable anymore. Every time he saw the big boys playing baseball after school, he would think of how much fun it had been to play catch with Daddy in the backyard. When Templeton would pass the park on his way home, he would remember the day their little family had a picnic, and Daddy showed them all how to throw a football. Templeton used to love playing cowboys, but now his hat and toy pistol only reminded him of Thursday nights when Daddy would let them watch The Lone Ranger on television. They hadn’t watched it since Daddy left. Templeton didn’t want to anyway.

  On top of that, he dreaded going to bed because he could never fall asleep. When he did sleep, nightmares plagued his dreams. HM and BA were always hungry, but Templeton only ate when Grandma made him. He had no interest in playing with his friends and brothers, and he found himself getting angry over silly things.

  Templeton remembered one of the orphanage volunteers talking about anxiety. She had been a doctor, and she seemed to know what she was talking about as she explained it to her friends one afternoon over tea. Templeton had been listening from the other room while the little group discussed the taboo subject of anxiety in orphans, and he had remembered everything he heard. While he wasn’t sure if children his age could catch anxiety, or if it even was contagious, Templeton knew he had all the symptoms the doctor had mentioned. Telling Mrs. Crane had been a snap decision when Templeton had felt like crying during science, his favorite class of the day. Her reaction had scared him when she explained that anxiety was not for little boys, and he should get that idea out of his head. Telling Grandma was definitely out of the question. What if she got upset like Mrs. Crane had?

  All of this was running through Templeton’s head while he sat on the front steps, chin resting in his hands and shoe tapping steadily on the ground. His marbles were sitting on the porch beside him, and the new cat's eye marble Grandma had bought him sat perched on the top of the bag. He had been examining it, considering going down the street to play marbles with the boys at the park, but he couldn’t make himself. Templeton wished he could show Daddy the marble. He had written all about it but adding the letter to the stack in the kitchen just wasn’t the same. Daddy had promised to write every week, but he’d been gone for seven weeks, and they’d only received one letter from the camp where Daddy had trained. He had written, asking them to wait to send their messages until they heard from him again with his new address. Another letter never came.

  Grandma enthusiastically promised every night, as she tucked Templeton into bed, that tomorrow could very well be the day the letter arrived. Templeton would only turn on his side and bury himself under the blanket, wishing Grandma would go away. He loved her, but she could never replace Daddy.

  “Templeton!” The door banged open, and HM ran out, dropping down to sit beside his brother. “Hey, Templeton. Can I play with your police hat? BA and I are pretending to be sheriffs.”

  “No,” snapped Templeton instantaneously, glaring at HM. He felt his anger melt immediately, though, when HM’s face fell. Templeton sat upright and breathed out hard, “I mean okay. You can wear it, HM.”

  HM grinned, jumping to his feet. “Yay, I’m a policeman!” He raced back inside but reappeared a second later, bending over to see Templeton’s face. “Do you wanna play, Temp? You can be the richest sheriff!”

  “Richest sheriff?” asked Templeton.

  “The best sheriff is the richest,” explained HM. “BA says so. I guess he’s right. The richest sheriff can buy the most jails. Wanna play?”

  “No, thanks,” sighed Templeton, dropping his head back into his hands. 

  HM shrugged, too excited to read the sadness in his brother’s posture, “Okay. Thanks for the hat!” And then he was gone, the door slamming closed behind him.

  A tear slid down Templeton’s cheek before he could stop it, and a sob escaped his lips. He couldn’t think of anything but the day Daddy had walked in, dropping the police cap on his head. “Hey, sport,” Daddy had said, “thought you might like this.”

  A friendly sounding whistle brought Templeton out of his reminiscing, and he lifted his head to see the mailman strolling down the sidewalk, thumbing through a stack of mail.

  “Hi, kid!” greeted the man, barely looking up and not registering the tear-streaked face. “Got some mail for ya. It looks like it’s marked overseas. You have a daddy in the war? It seems to be from Korea.”

  “Korea!” exclaimed Templeton, leaping to his feet and meeting the mailman half-way down the front walk. “Say, thanks!” He grabbed the stack of letters, tied together with string, and spun on his heel to race into the house. He only made it two steps across the living room before he barreled straight into BA,  sending both boys sprawling to the ground. Templeton scrambled to his feet, barely aware of the collision. “BA, it’s letters from Daddy!” he cried, tearing into the kitchen to find Grandma. “Grandma! Grandma! Letters from Daddy!” It only took seconds for the three of them to be gathered around Grandma as she knelt right in the middle of the kitchen, her shaking hands untying the bundle of letters.

  “Alright, alright,” she soothed as HM’s little fingers tried to grab a letter. “Hold your horses, HM. We’ll start with the earliest one. This one seems time-stamped six weeks ago. We’ll start there.”

  Templeton sat back on his heels, staring across the room as Grandma read. He knew it was his grandmother’s voice he was hearing, but it sounded like Daddy himself as the words filled the room. Stories of training and watery soup and hot nights and strange bugs and soldiers and how Daddy fell asleep every night thinking about his boys brought joy to Templeton’s heart. It was the first time he had been truly happy in weeks. When the last letter had been read and carefully slid back into the envelope, all three boys insisted they start at the beginning and reread them all. Grandma smiled and nodded. They read them a second time, and a third, and a fourth. Grandma said they had to stop then, or dinner would boil over on the stove. She promised to read again before bed that night. Taking up the boys’ stack of letters on the counter, Grandma gave Templeton a pen and told him to address them all to the place Daddy had directed them to write.

  Templeton spent the next twenty minutes using his best handwriting to address all fourteen letters to a place called Seoul, Korea. When he finished, Grandma carefully tied them together and promised to take them to the post office in the morning for mailing. All three boys insisted on writing another note to add to the stacks and answer any questions Daddy may have asked in his letters. By the time they finished, Grandma had dinner ready, and they all excitedly ate bean and beef pie and discussed all the things Daddy had written in his letters. BA was particularly interested in the special tank Daddy and his friends had fixed up after finding it abandoned and rusted over. HM couldn’t stop talking about the helicopter Daddy had ridden in. Templeton was excited to discuss anything; he was just relieved the letters had finally come.

  After they cleaned up dinner and the boys had taken their bath, Grandma went to put HM and BA to bed while Templeton finished his homework in the dining room. He completed it before Grandma came down, so he trooped upstairs just in time to hear her finish the last letter for BA and HM’s bedtime reading. He watched as she kissed them both good night and then met him at the doorway.

  “Did you finish your homework, Templeton?” she smiled, placing a hand on his head.

  “Yes, ma’am,” nodded Templeton, eyeing the letters in her hand.

  She chuckled, “Come on and get ready for bed then, and I’ll read these to you.”

  “Oh, thank you, Grandma!” exclaimed Templeton, giving her a quick squeeze before racing across the hall to his room. Grandma sat on the chair beside Templeton’s bed while he lay out clothes for school and stacked his books nicely on the cedar chest under the window. She was on letter four by the time Templeton settled into bed, and he listened attentively as she finished the rest. As Grandma folded the last one, Templeton sighed contentedly and pushed himself up onto his elbows, “Thanks, Grandma. I’m so happy.”

  “I know you are, Templeton,” smiled Grandma, gently cupping his cheek. “You have color back in your cheeks, and you seemed hungry tonight.”

  Templeton nodded, “I was hungry.”

  “We were all sad, dear,” sighed Grandma, brushing her fingers tenderly over the letters. “But I could tell you were hurting, especially deep. Templeton, promise me that if you ever need to talk, you’ll come to me.”

  Templeton blushed, lowering his eyes, “I was okay, Grandma. I’m just as strong and brave as BA and HM.”

  “I know you are, dear,” nodded Grandma. “But having a nervous feeling in your tummy and feeling sad and worried doesn’t make us any less strong or brave. It makes us human.”

  “Human?” asked Templeton. “Aren’t we human anyway?”

  “Well, yes, darling, but what I mean is, it is perfectly natural to feel anxious and down when someone you love very much goes away from you,” explained Grandma. “HM and BA are very sad, too, but they are younger than you, and it hasn’t affected them as deeply. You’re the oldest and, with your father gone, the man of the house. You have a lot on your shoulders, and I have to say you have done an outstanding job of being a caring big brother. I’m sure your father will be proud when he hears how helpful you have been to me for the past few weeks. But don’t feel like you’ve done something wrong if you have times when you are sad and upset. I have those times, too. Do you know what those feelings mean, Templeton?”

  “That I’m filled with anxiety,” sighed Templeton, dropping his head back onto the pillow.

  “What? Oh, heavens, dear, where did you learn that word?” asked Grandma, setting the letters on the side table.

  Templeton shrugged, “I heard a lady explain it once. Everything she said is how I’ve felt since Daddy left.”

  “Well,” sighed Grandma, “that’s a big idea for a little boy. But I know what you mean, dear. I’ve seen how you’ve been, and I must admit I’ve felt much the same. Though that wasn’t how I was going to explain it.”

  Templeton rolled onto his side, propping his head upon his hand so he could see Grandma. He was a little surprised to hear her say she had also been anxious. Maybe it was contagious, and he gave it to her. Hopefully, little kids like HM and BA couldn’t catch it! He felt very relieved that Grandma hadn’t been upset with him as Mrs. Crane had been. Maybe Mrs. Crane was just worried she was going to catch anxiousness from Templeton. “What were you going to say, Grandma?” he asked.

  “That the reason we have these sad feelings is because we have so much to be thankful for,” smiled Grandma. “Imagine if you had a terribly mean daddy who never played with you or took care of you. But you don’t. You have a wonderful father who loves you and spends time with you, and will never forget about you no matter how far away he is. Aren’t we blessed to have someone we love so much that it makes us sad when they are away?”

  Templeton wrinkled his nose. He certainly hadn’t thought about it that way before. He was fortunate to have such a wonderful daddy. A little bit of warmth began to tickle his belly, and Templeton cracked a smile, his eyes resting on the stack of letters beside him. “I guess you’re right, Grandma,” he nodded. “I’d much rather have a good daddy that I can miss than a terrible daddy that I don’t. But I still wish he wasn’t gone at all.”

  “And that’s alright, too, Templeton,” assured Grandma. “And with every week that passes and we miss John – Daddy, we are that much closer to the day he comes home. How about we try something new? Just you and me.”

  “Okay,” nodded Templeton, scooting up to a sitting position.

  “Every Saturday,” said Grandma, “we’ll make a little mark on the calendar and think about how wonderful it is that we are one Saturday closer to the day that Daddy comes home.”

  “Can I make the mark?” asked Templeton eagerly. That sounded like a fascinating thing to look forward to each week.

  Grandma smiled and nodded, taking Templeton’s hand and squeezing it tightly, “Yes, of course, dear.”

  “Oh, boy, Grandma, thanks!” giggled Templeton, falling into his grandmother’s loving embrace. “I like that idea. We will be one Saturday closer to when Daddy comes home.”

  Grandma kissed him goodnight and left the room, taking the stack of letters to write her reply, and Templeton snuggled under his blankets, his heart full. Suddenly, the sad feelings, though still there, didn’t feel so terrible and wrong. He had forgotten to ask Grandma if anxiousness was contagious, but from the way she had explained it, it didn’t seem like it was. It also didn’t seem like something to be ashamed of, like how the doctor at the orphanage had explained it, or Mrs. Crane had tried to avoid the subject. Templeton smiled. He was a fortunate boy. Not only did he have a wonderful daddy to take care of him, but he also had a loving grandma who understood just what he was feeling and made him feel better about his confusing emotions.

  Tomorrow would probably be the same as usual, but it would also be one day closer to Daddy coming home. And that was something about which Templeton felt anything but anxious. In fact, he felt a little excited. Templeton drifted off, imagining all the exciting things Daddy had written about and wondering what interesting adventures he must be having in Korea. For the first time in weeks, Templeton’s dreams were void of nightmares and filled instead with Daddy, HM, BA, and baseball in the park.

Chapter Text

December, 1950 

“It hasn’t been that long,” said BA, rolling his ball across the sidewalk to HM. “Two weeks isn’t that long.”

  “It is long!” huffed HM grabbing the ball and bouncing it hard against the walk. It came down beside Templeton and rolled into the snowy bank that Templeton had shoveled that morning.

  The six-year-old scrambled to his feet and retrieved the ball, brushing the snow from it. “Careful, HM,” he warned. “You almost hit the snowman.”

  “He’s gonna melt soon, anyway,” said HM, crossing his arms and falling backward into the snowbank, staring up at the sky. It was a lovely winter day. The sun was shining bright and warm, making the snow perfect for packing. Three snowball fights had already taken place that morning, and the snowman in the front yard was an edition to four more in the back. Templeton was cautious to keep all the walks and steps shoveled so that Grandma and any visitors could easily access the house. The job was usually Daddy’s, but Templeton had taken it upon himself to keep everything clean as the man of the house.

  Templeton tossed the ball to BA and sat back in the snow to pack more fortification on his fort wall. “The snowman’ll last a while longer,” he said. “And two weeks isn’t that long. Remember when it was almost two months before we got any letters?”

  BA tossed the ball into the air and caught it, rolling it between his gloved fingers. “Do you think Daddy will have a good Christmas?”

  The boys all stopped, the air between them suddenly thick with tension. Christmas. None of them had dared mention it until this very moment. Having Christmas in the house without Daddy seemed entirely out of the question.

  The last two Christmases had been the best any of the boys had ever experienced. It all began when they would go pick out a tree, combing a nearby farm until all three children could agree on the perfect one. Daddy would cut it down, and they’d strap it to the car, arguing about who could put the star on top. When they’d finally get it set up inside, Daddy would trim it, and then it was a free-for-all as everyone threw tinsel and unstrung popcorn over the branches. After some warm milk with chocolate and hectic, splashing baths, the boys would go to bed, and the next morning, magically, the tree would appear beautifully decorated. HM and BA said Santa’s elves did it, but Templeton was fairly sure Daddy stayed up late and made it look pretty. Templeton knew that Santa was far too busy to spare any elves for tree decorating so close to Christmas.

  Daddy always took each boy on a shopping trip all by themselves to pick out gifts for the other two. Whenever Daddy was outside shoveling or chopping wood, the boys would burrow away in their bedrooms and work on special presents to give him on Christmas morning. HM’s included lots of paste and crayons marks that didn’t look like much of anything but mirrored his love. BA’s were always well thought out and more dimensional than his brothers. Last Christmas, he had managed to create a papier-mâché snowman that he insisted was named John Junior. Templeton liked to create elaborate paper stories for Daddy, which consisted of very few words and a lot of pictures. On Christmas morning, as he opened each one, Daddy would take the respective boy on his lap and tell them how perfect and beautiful their gift was. It made the boys happier than unwrapping their presents.

  The bedtime stories…the cookies…being forced into bed by Daddy who insisted Santa wouldn’t come if little boys weren’t sleeping…waking up and finding that Santa had left a sled and new winter hats under the tree…all three brothers knew it wouldn’t be the same this year. Daddy was in Korea, and they would have Christmas without him.

  BA tossed the ball to HM, who was still lying on the ground. It hit the little boy in the arm, and he scrambled to his feet, clenching his fists. “Hey! I wasn’t ready!” he said, stomping towards BA. He was a lot smaller than his brother, but his big personality was a match for anyone.

  “Well, we were playing catch, fool!” said BA, using his height to try and intimidate HM.

  “Daddy said not to call anyone that!” admonished Templeton, packing some snow onto the left wall of his fort.

  “Daddy isn’t here!” yelled HM, kicking the ball hard. He pushed past BA and ran into the house, not even bothering to remove his snowy clothes on the front porch.

  BA trudged into the quiet street to retrieve the ball before a car ran it over, and Templeton stared at the house, wishing he could do something to make his brothers happy. He heard a familiar whistle and looked up to see BA running across the road to greet the mailman, who was waving a letter in the air. A happy feeling burst into Templeton’s stomach, and he grinned, scrambling over the walls of his fort. It had to be from Daddy. It had to be. He stopped when he saw BA excitedly read the front only to have his smile drop.

  “BA?” called Templeton, shielding his eyes against the sun.

  BA ran back across the street, ball under one arm, and letter clenched in his fist. “It’s from a bank,” he shrugged, heading towards the house. “I’ll give it to Grandma.”

  Templeton raised an eyebrow, remembering a conversation he overheard Grandma having on the phone the other day. She had said something about dreading a letter from the bank. This must be it. He followed BA onto the porch, both boys carefully removing their snowy clothes before entering the house. Templeton saw HM sitting in the corner of the living room where the Christmas tree usually sat, knees pulled up to his chest and face buried in his arms. Droplets of water trailed from the doorway to the little five-year-old. A puddle was forming around him as the snow melted from HM’s coat and boots.

  “HM?” asked Templeton, stepping around the water so his socks wouldn’t get wet. “It’s okay to be sad that Daddy is gone.” Templeton wracked his brain, trying to remember the comforting words Grandma had shared with him several months before. “Being sad doesn’t make us weak. It makes us, um, normal.”

  “He wasn’t here for the famous four-day turkey eating experience!” yelled HM, his voice muffled in his coat. “We always have Daddy’s famous four-day turkey eating experience!”

  “But we still had Thanksgiving with Grandma,” said Templeton, kneeling beside his brother. “And we had lots to be thankful for. We can be thankful for Daddy even if he isn’t here.”

  “Well, I don’t need to be thankful for anything,” said HM. “It isn’t Thanksgiving anymore. It’s Christmas. I can’t be Christmas for Daddy. That doesn’t make sense. My birthday was last week. I couldn’t be birthday for Daddy.”

  “Uh…” said Templeton, unsure of what his brother was getting at, “I guess not. But what I mean is we can still have Christmas without Daddy just like we had Thanksgiving. And we can be happy we have a good Daddy.” He sighed. He wasn’t explaining this nearly as well as Grandma had.

  “No!” insisted HM, turning away from Templeton and burying more in-depth into the ball his body was forming.

  Templeton groaned as the snow melting from HM seeped into his socks. He stood up, pulling them off and frowned, “You know, HM, you should talk to Grandma. She’s good at making people feel better.

  “Don’t wanna talk to no one,” insisted HM, leaning against the wall. “Go away, Templeton. No more Templeton here. No more.” He threw an arm out to push his brother away but hit a lamp instead. Templeton moved to catch it, but it fell too fast and hit the ground hard, the bulb and shade breaking instantly.

  “HM!” yelled Templeton, starting to move forward but stopping when he remembered he was barefoot. HM jumped to his feet and stared at the lamp, breathing hard and sweating from the heavy layers he was still wearing.

  “Boys!” Grandma came rushing into the room, alerted by the sound of the crash. “Oh, dear. Now both of you sit tight. I’ll clear away the glass and broken pieces, so you don’t get cut. BA, darling,” she said, looking down as BA ran to her side from the kitchen, “will you please bring me a small wastebasket and the broom?”

  BA hurried off to do as asked, and Grandma began to collect the larger pieces of glass from the shade. Templeton glanced at HM and saw tear streaks on his brother’s flushed face. He debated telling Grandma but decided HM should do that on his own. Templeton crossed his arms, growing impatient, stuck in the corner surrounded by glass. He watched as Grandma worked, and it suddenly occurred to him that HM wasn’t the only one that had been crying. Tears were also visible on Grandma’s cheeks, and she brushed one away every few seconds.

  “Grandma?” whispered Templeton.

  BA came in with the wastebasket and broom and stepped back as Grandma continued cleaning the larger pieces. HM began explaining what had happened, talking so fast no one could decipher what he was saying. BA grew annoyed and huffed loudly, stomping his foot.

  “Stop talking, HM!” he insisted. “You make no sense!”

  “You make no sense!” yelled HM.

   Grandma sighed, dropping a handful of glass into the basket. “Boys, please,” she begged, “don’t argue.”

  “Don’t argue,” echoed Templeton, hearing the strain in his grandmother’s voice. He saw a paper in the pocket of her apron and recognized a word across the top. Bank. The letter from the bank. It must be what was making Grandma cry. What on earth could a bank be telling Grandma that made her sad?

  “I have to argue!” yelled HM, his voice growing even louder. “BA isn’t always right!”

  “But you never make sense!” bellowed BA, balling his fists.

   “No, you don’t!” shouted HM, stepping forward and crunching some glass beneath his boot.

  “HM, don’t move!” ordered Grandma, putting out her hand to stop her grandson.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Oh, dear,” sighed Grandma, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear and slowly rising to her feet. “Boys, no one move. We don’t need any cut little feet. Templeton, come here.” She lifted the small boy over the glass and set him beside BA. HM crunched through the glass to his brothers before Grandma could stop him. “HM – oh, well…” she sighed again, smoothing her apron. “Please refrain from shouting while I see who is visiting us.” Before she could go to the door, it flew open, and a small blast of snow swirled in from the light breeze outside. Heavy boots stomped themselves free of snow on the porch, and a tall, bundled form stepped into the house, a large pack thudding to the ground from the person’s back.

  “My boys,” whispered the person, his voice hoarse and breaking.

  Caught off guard and temperamental, it took the three little boys a moment to realize who the thin, pale man standing in their living room was.

  Templeton recognized him first. “Daddy!” he shrieked, dashing across the room and practically climbing up John’s body to wrap his arms around the man’s neck.

  John responded with a low sob, overcome with emotion to have his boy back in his arms for the first time in five months. BA and HM took a few more seconds to understand what was happening, and then they were both wrapped around one of their father’s legs, BA crying into John’s pants and HM clinging as tightly as he could.

  “John,” gasped Grandma, her voice catching. “Oh, John.”

  “Okay, Temp!” yelled HM, his voice shrill and considerably more joyful than he had sounded moments before. “Okay! I’m thankful! My daddy’s home! My daddy’s home!”

Chapter Text

December, 1950 

 The scene that greeted John when he stepped through his front door was not exactly what he expected. Part of him had been sure he would walk in on his sons decorating a Christmas tree while his mother was knitting a sweater by a crackling fire, or perhaps the boys drinking hot chocolate after a day of playing in the snow. He had not expected to see the shattered glass, a concerned and barefoot Templeton, a soaking wet, sweaty HM, BA looking like he could punch someone, and his mother in tears. However, whatever was taking place was instantly forgotten when Templeton cried, “Daddy!” and John’s arms were full of three ecstatic little boys.

  The next few minutes were a blur to John, who couldn’t seem to stop crying. His mother managed to pull HM and BA free long enough for John to drop into a chair, and then the weight of all three boys was on him again, everyone wanting their arms around their daddy’s neck at once. John felt dampness soaking through his clothes, and his left hand felt over HM’s wriggling body, realizing how drenched his youngest appeared to be. He began to chuckle through his tears, patting HM’s back.

  “Hey, HM,” John said, “why are you all wet?”

  HM launched backward, landing on the floor and jumping up and down. “Temp said that I had to be Christmas for you, and my birthday happened, but I wasn’t even happy you weren’t here at Thanksgiving, but now you are home!” he yelled, a crunching sound alerting the adults that there was glass under HM’s boots.

  “Oh, dear,” sighed Myrna, resting a hand on her son’s shoulder and feeling a joyful warmth at the long-awaited physical touch of her child. “HM, dear, I need to finish cleaning up this glass.”

  “Ma,” said John, standing and setting Templeton and BA safely on the chair away from the glass. “Ma.” He pulled his mother against his chest, wrapping his strong arms around her.

  “Oh, Johnny,” sobbed Myrna, returning the hug. She was shocked at how thin her son was. The solid, strapping boy she had hugged goodbye five months before had been reduced to a malnourished, gaunt figure whose clothes hung loose and baggy. His grip was still firm, but his body seemed to slump against hers in exhaustion. John was only twenty-three-years-old, yet he had seen more and done more than most people ever would. He was tired, and her motherly intuition told Myrna that John needed sleep and a lot of it. It was going to be hard to tear the boys apart from him, and vice versa. “John, you need to rest,” she whispered, burying her face in his shoulder.

  “Huh? Oh, I’m fine,” said John, reaching down to ruffle HM’s hair with one hand. “Being home is enough to give me more energy than I’ve had in weeks.”

  “How are you home, Daddy?” asked Templeton, standing on the chair. “You didn’t write! Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I did write,” said John, giving Templeton a confused look. “Two weeks ago.”

  “We didn’t receive any letter,” said Myrna, pushing back from her son and wiping her tears away.

  John blinked, “Oh, gee, Ma, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to catch you all by surprise like that.”

  “I’m glad you surprised us!” spoke up BA. “A Christmas surprise!”

  “Christmas surprise!” shrieked HM, beginning to jump up and down. Glass crunched loudly.

  “Oh, dear, oh, dear,” sighed Myrna, fishing a handkerchief from her apron pocket and dabbing at her eyes. “I need to clear away this glass. John, take the boys into the kitchen so that they won’t get cut.”

  John could tell something was wrong. His mother was emotional from the shock of his return, certainly, but there were worry and fear etched across her face, too. As exhausted as he was, he longed to talk with her. But right now, he needed to give some loving to his little sons—five months' worth, to be exact. “Come on, Templeton. BA.” He scooped the shoeless kids into his arms and carried them into the kitchen, HM following behind, singing a mindless melody consisting of the words “Daddy’s home, Daddy’s home, it’s Christmas and Daddy’s home” as he hopped along.

  “Tell us everything, Daddy,” begged Templeton as John set him down on the kitchen floor.

  John chuckled and sank into a chair at the kitchen table, resting BA on his knee. “Tell you everything, huh?” he asked. “That’s an awful lot of telling to do. How about HM tell me why he’s wearing his outdoor’s clothes.”

  “I was playing outside!” giggled HM, bending over John’s left knee, so his legs dangled behind him, arms wrapped around John’s calf.

  “Oh, is that so?” said John, rubbing HM’s back. “That explains the snowman and forts in the front yard. HM, how about you take this heavy coat off? And your hat and boots. You are all sweaty.”

  “Yes, yes, off,” nodded HM, sliding off of John’s knee and yanking his knit hat off. He threw it down and began unbuttoning his coat, though his mittened fingers couldn’t quite grasp the buttons.

  John set BA down and reached out, “Here, buddy, let me help you.” Once HM was free of his bulky clothes, John held out his arms, and all three boys barreled into him, each wanting to feel the warmth and love they had missed for so long. John laughed, kissing the top of each head, “I love you, boys. I’ve missed you all so much.”

  “We missed you, Daddy,” said Templeton, voice muffled in John’s shoulder.

  Myrna entered the room, setting the wastebasket down on the counter and leaning the broom against the wall. “Oh, HM,” she sighed, scooping up the wet clothes, “that is not the place for your snow clothes.”

  “Sorry, Ma,” said John, reading the tension in his mother’s face. “I dropped them there. I’ll take care of them.”

  “No,” said Myrna, her voice tight, “HM knows better than that.”

  “Ma, it’s okay,” said John, gently breaking free of his boys and standing. He put his arms around his mother and held her close. “It’s alright. I’m here. Everything will be fine.”

  “Oh, John,” said Myrna, and then she was crying again. Tears were indeed in abundance in the Smith home.

  John pulled the coat and hat away from her and handed them to Templeton. “Boys, can you take care of your wet things and, Temp, help HM take his boots off?”

  “Sure, Daddy,” nodded Templeton, immediately understanding that the adults needed to talk.

  “No!” wailed HM, grabbing John’s leg. “No, I want to stay with Daddy!”

  “HM, Daddy is home now!” said Templeton, grabbing his brother’s arm. “We have lots of time to be with him. Let Grandma talk to him first.” Templeton’s mind flew to the bank letter, and he wondered if his grandmother’s tears had anything to do with it.

  Myrna drew back from her son, dabbing at her tears with her handkerchief. “No, John, it’s alright,” she said, her voice shaking. “Let the boys stay. It’s nothing. I’m just surprised to see you, is all.”

  John knew she was lying, but he nodded and did as his mother said. “Alright, Ma,” he said. “How about you sit down? You look tired.” He held a chair for Myrna, who sank gratefully into it, and then all three boys were back in their father’s arms.

  HM, sitting practically on John’s shoulders, noticed something white sticking out from under the counter, and he scrambled down to grab it. “Bank?” he said, reading the paper. “Why does this say bank? What is a trusty sale?” He was not learning to read or write in school yet, as the little kindergarten he and BA attended didn’t go much further than the alphabet with children, but John had begun teaching the boys their letters and numbers just weeks after he brought them into his home. HM could stumble through most words reasonably well despite being only five-years-old.

  “Trustee sale?” questioned John, leaning forward suddenly and almost dropping Templeton.

  “John, no, not now!” said Myrna, standing and quickly taking the paper from HM. “Thank you, HM, dear; I must have dropped it when I took out my handkerchief.”

  “Is that the bank letter?” asked Templeton, twisting in his father’s arms. “Grandma seemed sad about it. What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Myrna shook her head, forcing a smile, “Nothing, Templeton. You boys just enjoy your father, and I’ll start some dinner. John, you look famished. When is the last time you ate, son?”

  “Ma, wait,” said John. He sighed and set BA and Templeton down, “I’m sorry, boys. I do need to talk with Grandma.”

  “It’s okay, Daddy,” said Templeton. “I’ll entertain BA and HM.”

  John fought back the urge to chuckle, knowing Templeton thought of himself as the small team’s leader. “Yes, you do that, Temp,” he said, patting his eldest’s head. “BA and HM, can you be good boys and go play with Templeton for a few minutes?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” said two little voices as they got in a final hug before following their brother into the living room.

  Myrna visibly loosened, her brave mask for the boys slipping away as she was finally left alone with her son. She unfolded the notice with shaky hands and shook her head. “Oh, John,” whimpered Myrna, handing him the letter. “I didn’t know what to do. There just wasn’t any money left. I knew this was coming, but today of all days…”

  “Ma, it’s not your fault,” said John, scanning the letter. He was quiet for a moment as he read, trying to absorb the information into his emotional, exhausted brain. “It isn’t so bad. We just need to make up the last few payments on the house. I’ve got money in savings. I should have told you about it. I think it’s enough to cover this. We won’t have anything left over for Christmas, though.”

  “I’m sorry, darling,” said Myrna, shaking her head. “I tried everything I could think of. I took in washing and sold some baked goods and even did some part-time work while the boys were in school. It just wasn’t enough.”

  John groaned, running his fingers through his long, blonde hair. The army had cut it short, but now it practically hung over his eyes, making him appear even thinner than he was. “That wasn’t your burden to bear, Ma,” he said, sitting back down. His shoulders slouched, and Myrna could tell her son was weak. He shook his head, “I should have left you with enough to make the payments each month.”

  “You did!” insisted Myrna. “How could you know the bank would raise the price. It’s the war, you know. Everything is more expensive now. It will be as long as this lasts. John, why are you…” she trailed off. She didn’t want to know the answer. Why was John home? He shouldn’t be. Everyone knew the war was long from over. Something must be wrong, and Myrna realized she did not want to know what that something was.

  “It’s nothing, Ma,” said John, rereading the notice from the bank. His brow was knit, and his eyes scanned, making sure he understood the letter entirely. “Nothing. I’m just grateful to be home. I don’t know how long. But I’m home.”

  “They don’t send soldiers home for Christmas because they want to,” said Myrna, laying a hand over her son’s. “John, what’s wrong.”

  John dropped the letter onto the table and glanced at his mother, his bright blue eyes void of the shine they once had. “I took a bullet, Ma,” he said, his voice low so that the boys wouldn’t overhear.

  “What!” gasped Myrna, rising slightly from her seat.

  “No, no,” soothed John, patting her hand. “Don’t start. I don’t want the boys to know. It isn’t that bad.”

  “They wouldn’t have sent you home if it wasn’t bad!” exclaimed Myrna.

  John shook his head, leaning back in his chair. He closed his eyes and let his body sink, the tension in his muscles begging for release. He was tired. So tired. All the soldiers were exhausted, yet for some reason, they sent him home. He really should be back in Korea, but the commanding officer had insisted, claiming that John was far too bull-headed and erratic to do them any good. They had very conflicting personalities, John and the lieutenant colonel. John saw opportunities and took them no matter how bizarre or insane they seemed. The lieutenant colonel was far more orderly and slow about things. When John took a bullet in his left shoulder, that had been reason enough for the commanding officer to ship him off. The wound was hardly worth the hospital trip, but an excuse was an excuse. Because of the holidays, the army had decided they hadn’t the time to reassign Sergeant Major Smith and opted for the easy route of sending him home until they could get their plans laid out for the new year. It was a freak accident at just the right time mixed with a wild stroke of luck that sent John home. And it felt so very wrong to him.

  He should be with the others. The other men had families, too. Almost all his buddies had wives and children alone during Christmas. Being home felt like desertion.

  “Ma, listen,” said John. “It’s fine. Hardly a scratch. You saw the boys climbing all over me, and I promise you, it didn’t hurt a bit. It’s just here, on my shoulder. Nothing more than a bandage right now. The army is busy, that’s all. They didn’t take the time to reassign me. I’m sure I’ll hear from them before long. Early next year, more than likely.” John smirked and thought, “or whenever they decide what to do with a psychotic maniac, as the colonel called me.”

  “I thought they absolutely needed you?” insisted Myrna, longing to examine the wound but respecting John’s privacy. “Isn’t that why they took you in the first place?”

  John nodded, “Yeah, and they did. I’ve…” he chuckled, “I’ve done a lot, Ma. Too much to explain. It’s been hard. But to tell the truth, I’ve done the work of six men.” John inhaled sharply and thought, “all of us have. Every man I left behind is doing more work than any of us thought possible. They deserve a break, too. I can’t let Ma know. Can’t let her worry about my officers – worry about me.”

  Myrna’s face seemed to change, and a proud glow warmed her cheeks, “Have you? Oh, Johnny, I’m so proud of you.”

  “I know, Ma,” smiled John, taking her hand and squeezing it tightly in his own. “Alright, look. It’s still early. You start supper, and I’ll go on down to the bank and clear this all up. Then we’ll have all evening with nothing on our minds. How does that sound?”

  “No, Johnny,” said Myrna, firmly. “You are far too tired. You are going to march right upstairs and take a bath and then straight to bed with you for a nap before supper.”

  John frowned, picking up the bank notice and glancing it over again, “I know you’re worried about me, but this needs clearing up. I’d rather it be over and done with.”

  “John Smith, you will take yourself straight upstairs and draw a warm bath this minute,” ordered Myrna, standing and grabbing the notice from her son, swatting his arm with it. “I mean it, young man. You are visibly exhausted, and I won’t have you going downtown and fainting in the middle of the bank. The last thing I need is a call from the hospital telling me to come to pick up my sickly looking, unconscious son.”

  “Sickly looking?” asked John, fighting a smile as Myrna’s motherly intuition began kicking into high gear.

  “You look like you haven’t eaten a solid meal in months,” said Myrna. “And you probably haven’t, at that. Now you heard me, John. Straight upstairs this minute. I won’t hear another word about it. I have a roast that I’ve been saving, and we’ll have that tonight. You need some meat back on your bones.” She was already bustling about the kitchen, retying her apron and pulling out pots and pans.

  John chuckled, eyeing the bank notice that had found its way safely back into Myrna’s apron pocket. “Alright, Ma, if you insist,” he said. “A bath would be nice.” He would forgo the nap, but no need to wire Myrna up with that announcement right now.

  As he left the kitchen and caught sight of his little sons, hunched over a fortress they had built with their blocks and chattering excitedly about their Daddy being home, John’s heart felt so full. He was endlessly grateful for his mother and her sacrifice to watch the boys while he was away. He was thankful for his children and how grown-up they all seemed. Templeton was acting like a mini-father, caring for his brothers and running the little unit that the three had formed. It’s was incredible how much a child could grow and change when you were away from them for a few months. John was also grateful to the army, though it felt wrong to feel that way. Being home for Christmas was a blessing more extraordinary than any he could imagine, but every time he thought of his pals back in Korea, a twinge of guilt gnawed at his stomach. John knew he shouldn’t let it. It wasn’t his fault he was home. “Remember that,” John thought to himself as he caught Templeton’s eye, and the little boy jumped to his feet, running towards him. “It’s not your fault you left them. It was some weird fluke. A real miracle, if anything. I’m home. I’ve got my little guys. It’s Christmas. And I’m going to make it the best one we’ve ever had.”

Chapter Text

 July, 1953

  BA was mad. What had started as a simple football game had become much more when Templeton started using his long legs to outdistance his younger brothers time after time. Besides that, he would tackle BA with unnecessary force every time he had the ball. Templeton was always rougher with BA than with HM. BA knew it was because his body was far stockier and tough than HM’s, but he still didn’t like being slammed into the grass every few minutes.

  This time, he was going to show Templeton what it meant to tackle hard.

  The ball landed in Templeton’s hand, and the tall, gangly nine-year-old tore down the field towards the two trees that outlined his end zone. BA had stationed himself halfway down the field since he knew outrunning Templeton from the center was impossible. He used his new vantage point and flew at his brother with all his strength, catching the bigger boy around the chest and steamrolling him to the ground. Both boys hit the ground with a hard thud, and Templeton cried out, unharmed but caught off guard.

  “There!” said BA, scrambling to his feet. “Now you know what it feels like, sucka!”

  “Daddy says not to use those words!” yelled HM, sliding to a stop beside Templeton, the toes of his high tops digging into the soft earth.

  “Oh, HM,” moaned Templeton, pushing himself up onto his elbows, “don’t call him that. You sound like a baby. If the other guys heard you saying ‘Daddy,’ they’d never stop teasing you.”

  “Well, the other guys aren’t here,” pouted HM, crossing his arms and letting his lower lip protrude. “What’s wrong with calling him what he is?”

  “It’s for little kids,” said Templeton, examining a bruise on his left shin from the day before. “Stupid bike,” he muttered. “Chain’s always slipping. Making me fall.”

  “I told you I could fix it,” said BA, feeling a twinge of sympathy when he saw the ugly bruise.

  “I can fix my bike, thanks,” assured Templeton, squinting his eyes against the sun as he looked up at BA.

  “I’m gonna tell Daddy you said that word again,” said HM, steering the conversation back towards BA’s insult towards Templeton.

   “You do, and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t!” snapped BA, balling his fists.

  Templeton rose to his feet, brushing bits of dirt from the seat of his pants and letting out a rather unnecessary and dramatic groan. “Oh, HM,” he sighed, “let it go. When Pop’s not around, we can say whatever we want.”

  “That’s not true!” shouted HM. “He trusts us to be good even when we’re alone!”

  BA and Face shared a glance, knowing their brother was right but not in the mood to be obedient little boys, and Face blew out a long, lung-full of air.

  “What?” asked HM, hands on his hips. “You know I’m right!”

  “Oh, can it, HM,” said Face, scooping up the football and spinning it between his hands. “Are we gonna do another run?”

  “No,” whispered HM. He pointed across the park field, and BA and Templeton followed his finger.

  The Lupo boys. Jack, Paul, and Dean Lupo lived two blocks over from the Smith’s, and they were the meanest boys in the neighborhood. Their father was a crude, tough man that muscled his way through the local road construction crew until he was one of the managers, ordering his employees around and keeping more money than he should. He cared little about his children, and the three brothers ran wild during the summer months, causing chaos among the other neighborhood children.

  “Here comes trouble,” mumbled Templeton.

  “Let’s fight ‘em,” growled BA, slamming a fist into his palm.

  “I want Daddy,” whimpered HM, lingering behind Templeton. 

  “Hey, Smith freaks!” shouted the biggest of the Lupo’s. Jack was twelve and far taller and more robust than any of the Smith boys. If it were only Paul and Dean, the fight would have been unremarkable. But with Jack involved, fists flying was a scary thought to the Smith boys. The Lupo’s came to a stop a few feet from the Smith’s, and Jack gave them a twisted grin. “Lemme have that ball, Tempy,” he ordered.

  “Don’t call me that,” said Templeton, holding the football tightly and glaring down the bully.

  “Aw, is Tempy sad that he has such a stupid name?” asked Paul, play-acting rubbing tears out of his eyes. “Aw, poor Tempy!”

  “You want a punch to the nose?” shouted BA, drawing himself to full height and stepping up to Paul. Paul was Templeton’s age, but on the short side, and he and BA stood eye-to-eye.

  “BA, no!” cried HM, peering around Templeton’s shoulder.

  Jack put a hand on Paul’s shoulder and chuckled, “Aw, you guys are so cute. Looking out for each other. Making sure Tempy doesn’t feel bad, and BA doesn’t get hurt.”

  “BA wouldn’t get hurt!” yelled HM, courage bubbling in his little heart. “He’d beat all of you with one hand! My brother is the strongest guy I know!”

  Jack threw his head back and laughed, slapping his chest. “Your brother!” he giggled. “You and Tempy are always claiming that BA is your brother. That’s not true. Anyone can see you two aren’t related to him in away way at all. It’s a wonder the school even lets him in. If your dad weren’t such good friends with Mr. Wilson, BA would be good for nothing more than delivering the newspaper.”

  The feeling that washed over Templeton hit him faster than any anger he had experienced before. It started in his ears, almost deafening him, and exploded through his chest and stomach, his vision practically white with rage. The football dropped from his grip, and in seconds, he was sitting on top of Jack, hammering his fists into the bigger boy’s face. The very idea of someone telling him that BA wasn’t his brother was enough to make Templeton go feral, and he had knocked Jack to the ground before anyone could grasp what was happening.

  That was all it took for BA to smash his fist into Paul’s face, and, not wanting to be outdone by his big brothers, HM threw himself full force into Dean.

  BA and Paul were severely unevenly matched, and BA had brought the Lupo boy to tears in only a few punches. He abandoned him, Paul sobbing uncontrollably, to assist Templeton. HM and Dean weren’t fighting as much as they were rolling over one-another, grunting and kicking at nothing in particular.

  A stiff, right hook from Jack’s fist caught Templeton in the eye, and the oldest Smith boy fell backward off of Jack, hitting the ground hard. Jack’s chest wasn’t free long before BA was sitting on him, replacing Templeton, and bashing his fists into Jack’s shoulders and face.

  “Hey, there!” came a deep voice, and then strong hands were pulling the boys apart, holding them at arm's length.

  It took a minute for the fighters to wrap their heads around what was happening, but it was Paul Lupo who gasped and shouted, “Gee whiz, it’s the cops!” He spun on his heel, dashing across the grass with little Dean close behind.

  “What’s going on here?” asked the policeman who held BA and Jack apart. Another officer stood nearby, pulling HM off the ground by the shirt collar.

 “Please, sir!” cried Templeton, running towards the officer holding BA. “It wasn’t our fault! My brothers and I were playing football, and Jack and the two that just ran away came after us.”

  “Not true!” shouted Jack. “He hit me first!”

 “Alright, alright!” said the cop, raising his voice above the shouting boys. “I know how kids think, and if we do it this way, we’ll be going around all day pointing fingers. I don’t care who started it or what happened. I want you-” he released BA to point at Templeton, “-and you-” he shook Jack, “-to shake hands and apologize.”

  Templeton glared at Jack but stepped closer, waiting for the bigger boy to speak first. It was Jack’s fault, after all, that the fight had occurred.

  “Go on, son,” said the policeman, giving Jack a nudge forward.

  Jack glared at the officer but turned to Templeton and stuck his hand on, “Sorry, Smith.” It was a grumble and insincere.

  “Sorry, Jack,” said Templeton, shaking the boy’s hand.

  “Alright, let’s not have any more of that, shall we?” said the policeman, crossing his arms sternly.

  “We won’t, sir,” promised Templeton. Jack just shrugged.

  “Alright, kid, go on,” said the cop, looking directly at Jack. “Go tell your brothers they better watch themselves.”

 Jack grumbled something under his breath and then took off, chasing down his younger brothers.

  The policeman who had first pulled apart Jack and BA knelt and looked BA directly in the eye. “Are you alright, son?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” nodded BA, rubbing his arm awkwardly.

  The policeman smiled and slapped his hand on BA’s shoulder, “You got some smart moves there, kid. You’re a good fighter. Just make sure you don’t use your fists unless absolutely necessary, huh?”

  “Yes, sir,” nodded BA, smiling gratefully at the officer.

  The man stood, and his partner sauntered over, grinning at the boys as HM joined his brothers. “You kids can really hold your own,” he said. “But like Joe here says, never fight unless necessary. But, uh, off the record, you all did very well.”

  “Thank you, sir,” nodded Templeton, a bit confused but grateful for an end to the fight.

  “Alright, boys,” said the officer named Joe, “have a good day. Try to stay away from those other fellas, huh?”

  The Smith boys nodded and waved goodbye as the policemen left to continue their stroll around the park.

  “Hey, they were nice,” piped HM, scooping up the football.

  “Yeah, they were,” nodded Templeton, staring after the cops. He was a bit surprised by their reaction. Generally, adults never took BA’s side. It was something the young brothers had become painfully aware of the older they got. To them, BA was their equal in every way (except strength, where BA had the advantage), but many people didn’t view it that way. A few years before, John had sat them all down and explained the horrible concept that was racism. It had shocked all three. So far, they had all been treated the same in their young lives and had similar opportunities. But when signing BA up for first grade became a bit of an ordeal, John had decided it was time to explain things to the boys.

  “I hate those Lupo boys!” snapped BA, frowning.

  “Yeah, me, too,” sighed Templeton. “Let’s go home. It’s almost lunchtime. Pop will be back from work, and we should make sandwiches to have ready.”

  “That’s a good idea!” said HM, still a little shaken from the fight and anxious to do something he found fun. Making lunch for Daddy was always fun.

  “Yeah, okay,” mumbled BA, stomping along beside his brothers, still steaming over the event.

***

  “Poor kids,” sighed Officer Joe Simms, shaking his head.

  “Which ones?” chuckled Office Ralph Lewis.

  Joe sighed, “The Smith boys.”

  “Oh, is that who they were?” asked Ralph, ducking under a low-hanging branch.

  Joe nodded, “Yeah. I served in Korea with John. He’s had an awful lot of trouble with that middle boy. BA they call him. The little guy is a nice fella, but you know how people are.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Ralph, shaking his head. “Racism is rampant in this town.”

  “Everywhere, Ralph,” said Joe. “And, by the way, when I said poor kids, I meant both sets. Those other kids are Ted Lupo’s boys.”

  “Oh, geez,” grunted Ralph, rolling his eyes. “Ted Lupo. Resident jail occupier.”

  “Imagine being raised in that household,” said Joe, shaking his head. “The kids didn’t have a chance—terrible what fate can deal a child. I take it that fight started over BA, and how can you blame the Lupo kids? They echo what they hear their father say. It's an awful situation, Ralph. Thankfully, unlike our friend Ted Lupo, John Smith certainly gave his three little boys a real shot at life when he adopted them. Not many men can square up against John Smith when it comes to the heart.”

***

  “Peanut butter?” grinned John, dropping into his seat at the head of the table and eyeing the feast laid before him.

  “Peanut butter! And apple slices! I cut them! And milk! And leftover biscuits from dinner last night!” HM was shouting, his preferred method of vocality, and hopping from foot-to-foot.

  “I see that,” chuckled John, catching HM around the waist and pulling his youngest onto his lap, tickling the squirming boy.

  Templeton and BA took their seats and exchanged knowing looks, having agreed not to tell their father about the park's incident. HM broke free and ran to his chair, face flushed and giggling wildly.

  “What did you three get up to this morning?” asked John, eyeing the peanut butter sandwich thoughtfully as he saw something purple sticking out from between the slices of bread. He was reasonably sure it was an onion.

  “Aw, we just played in the park,” shrugged Templeton, staring at his plate.

  BA and HM were suddenly very interested in their sandwiches. John raised an eyebrow, instantly aware that the three were hiding something, and it was going to take some digging to learn what. Templeton’s blackened eye provided him clue enough for a solid guess, but he let it go unless one of the boys wanted to discuss it. John considered his options for worming the story out when BA yelled and spat out the bite he had just taken. “What is this?” he growled. “Onions? HM, you…” he stopped, catching himself before using a word of which his father would surely disapprove.

  “What?” pouted HM, crossing his arms. “Peanut butter and onions. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Oh, HM, I told you no onions!” whined Templeton, pulling his sandwich apart. “Why didn’t you listen?”

  “I did listen,” said HM. “But my insuffishun told me to go ahead and do it.”

  John choked out a laugh around a mouthful of milk and swallowed hard, “Sorry, HM, your what?”

  “My insuffishun!” insisted HM. “It said we needed onions!”

  “Intuition?” laughed John. “Well, HM, I must say that you often have excellent intuition, but this is not one of those times.” He began pulling the onion from his sandwich, his grin wide and loving.

  “Hmph,” said HM, crossing his arms and glaring at his father and brothers. “Well, I think it’s delishish.”

  “Delicious,” corrected Templeton. “And if it’s so good, take a bite.”

  HM sat upright and slapped his palms down on the table, “I plan to!” He scooped up the sandwich and took a huge bite, chewing fiercely. He only lasted a few seconds before his face twisted, and he coughed, spitting out the food and grabbing his milk, downing the glass in a few gulps.

  John, Templeton, and BA burst into laughter, watching their crazy youngest family member suffer through the unappealing taste and textures.

  HM set his glass down, his lip foamy white, and sighed. “Ugh,” he said. “I gotta get some better insuffishun. Mine is just not reliable.”

Chapter Text

 August 1952

   “Five dollars,” whispered Templeton, running his finger over the bold letters printed across the bottom section of the newspaper. “That’s an awful lot of money, isn’t it?”

  “Why are we whispering?” whispered back HM, though it was more of a throaty yell an octave lower than he usually spoke in.

  “I’m whispering because Pop told us to be quiet,” responded Templeton, continuing to read the advertisement as he placed a hand over HM’s mouth. “Hey!” shrieked the eight-year-old, wrenching his arm back after HM licked his palm.

  “Temp!” came John’s voice from the kitchen.

  “Sorry!” called Templeton.

  HM stood up for the mere reason of spinning in a circle three times before dropping back down beside his brother. “Why do we have to whisper?” he asked in a full-volume voice.

  Templeton furrowed his brow, studying the advertisement, “Cause he’s helping BA with homework. Hush, Henry Maximillian. I’m reading the paper.” Garfield’s Garage is giving out a five-dollar prize to whoever can come up with the best slogan for Rick to paint on the sign above the shop. It was written by Rick Garfield, the local mechanic, who wasn’t exactly the kind of man described as a poet. He had a big heart, though, and the advertisement said something about a fun contest for the community. Templeton sighed, “Five dollars.”

  “I’ve got an important ‘nouncement,” whispered HM, though he chose to do it directly in Templeton’s ear and with plenty of spit.

  “HM!” shouted Templeton, flinging his arm around and smacking HM’s chest.

  “No hitting!” shrieked HM, rolling onto his back and kicking his feet at Templeton as hard as he could. “I had an ‘nouncement is all! No hitting!”

  Strong hands grasped each boy and lifted them, holding the boys apart as HM continued to swing his arms and kick. “Hey, hey, hey!” said John, releasing Templeton to get a better grip on his youngest. “HM, what is the problem?”

  “I had a secret ‘nouncement to tell Temp, and he hit me!” yelled HM, sticking out his lower lip.

  John sighed, glancing back towards the kitchen, and groaned, dropping into the chair behind him and pulling HM onto his lap. “Okay, sport, what’s the big announcement?” he asked, squeezing his boy tightly.

  HM hugged him back, but only for a second before breaking free and leaping to his feet. “My ‘nouncement is that I have to go to the bathroom!” he yelled. “And it’s through the kitchen, and we couldn’t go in there because BA is doing homework, and we have to be quiet!”

  “Oh, HM, good grief, buddy, you can go to the bathroom,” chuckled John, ruffling the little boy’s dark hair. 

  “Gee, thanks, Daddy!” cried HM, spinning on his heel and racing out of the room.

  “Dad!” came BA’s voice from the kitchen. “I need help!”

  “Yes, son!” called John. “I’m coming. Templeton, there was no need to hit your brother, was there?”

  “No, sir,” shrugged Templeton. “Sorry. He can be annoying sometimes.”

  John grinned, “He’s got a lot of energy. Hey, pal, what are ya reading?”

  “A contest, Pop!” grinned Templeton, looking up brightly at his father. “Can I enter? You write a slogan, and maybe Mr. Garfield will paint it above the shop!”

  John stood up, heading back towards the kitchen to help BA, “Yeah, Temp. Sounds like a neat idea. You have an idea for a slogan?” He paused in the doorway, turning to face his oldest boy.

  Templeton shrugged, picking up the newspaper, “I dunno. I’ll think of something, Pop.”

  “Alright, well, try not to fight with HM until after BA has finished his homework, huh?” winked John, grinning at Templeton.

  “Yeah, sure, Pop,” nodded Templeton, staring at the paper, deep in thought as words flew through his head. “Car…on par. Fix your brakes…while you take a break? No, that’s stupid. Uh….” he closed his eyes, leaning against John’s chair and thinking hard. Writing a slogan was more challenging than it had seemed five minutes ago. “We do it all. From brakes to…what rhymes with all?” Templeton sighed. Maybe this wasn’t a good plan. He had just gone through three whole ideas, and none of them were going to work. Perhaps if he went down to the garage, it would inspire him. Templeton hurried upstairs and rummaged through the top drawer of his dresser, finding his notepad and a pencil. He pulled on his cap and bounded back down the stairs and out the front door with John’s voice echoing behind him to stop pounding.

  A few minutes' hard bike ride brought the eight-year-old into view of Garfield’s Garage. A car occupied the single gas pump, and Ricky Garfield, Jr. pumped the gas. The high-school senior waved to Templeton as the little boy brought his bike to a stop.

  “Hi, kid,” smiled Ricky, taking money from the driver and stepped aside as the car pulled away. “Need some air in your tires?”

  “Naw,” shrugged Templeton. “I saw your dad’s advertisement.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Ricky, his smile broadening into a grin. “You gonna enter?”

  Templeton nodded, his gaze drawing to the section over the garage door. “Is that where he’ll paint it? The winning entry?” he asked, pointing.

  Ricky shrugged, following Templeton’s finger, “Yeah, I guess. It was all his idea. Trying to drum up some business. I mean, we’re doing fine, but Dad’s always the businessman. You have an idea? For a slogan?”

  Templeton sighed, tilting his head as he studied the space, “I came here for inspiration. Can I look at it for a while?”

  “Uh, yeah, sure,” said Ricky, giving Templeton’s a funny look. “If you wanna stand here staring at an old garage, knock yourself out, kid. I gotta go clean up some oil. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thanks,” nodded Templeton, letting his bike drop over and sitting beside it, flipping his notepad open on his lap. “Hm,” he thought, “Garfield’s Garage. The Best Service for Your Car.”

***

  “BA?” asked Templeton, staring at Mr. and Mrs. Garfield. The couple stood before him on the Smith’s front porch, smiling broadly and dressed in their Sunday best. “Uh, are you sure it’s BA you are looking for?”

  “Yes, is he at home?” smiled Mrs. Garfield.

  “Um, yes,” nodded Templeton. “Uh, please come inside. I’ll go find him.” The Garfield’s entered the house, taking seats and heaping sincere thanks on Templeton for being a fine host. The young boy ran to find his family in the backyard, his mind swirling with questions. “Daddy!” he called, slamming the kitchen door open. He had stopped saying ‘Daddy’ that summer, believing it was childish, but he was a little flustered, and the name slipped out. “Mr. and Mrs. Garfield are here for BA!”

  John looked up from where he sat in the grass, helping HM fix his roller skates. He climbed up, handing HM the skate, as BA ran across the yard with his ball, having heard his name.

  “Rick Garfield?” asked John. “BA, what is this about, buddy?”

  “I dunno, Daddy,” said BA, tucking his ball under his arm.

  “Well,” said John, putting his arm around his middle boy, “let’s go find out. Where are they, Temp?”

  “Living room, Pop,” said Templeton, giving BA a suspicious look. The thought was tingling in the back of his mind that maybe, just maybe, BA had also entered the slogan contest behind his back, and now the Garfield’s were here to announce BA the winner. Templeton glared. Would his little brother do that to him? No, BA wouldn’t do something that rotten. BA could get angry, which always terrified Templeton slightly even though he was bigger, but BA would never do something purposefully nasty. He took a deep breath and followed his father and brother inside, leaving HM to attempt roller-skating across the grass.

  “There he is!” came Mrs. Garfield’s voice from the living room. “BA Smith, come here, young man. We are so excited to see you!”

  Templeton entered the living room just in time to see Mrs. Garfield pinching BA’s cheeks and pulling him tightly against her generous figure, squeezing him tightly.

  “John, how are ya,” grinned Rick Garfield, vigorously shaking John’s hand. “Haven’t seen you in a few weeks. How are things down at the lumber yard?”

  “Hopping,” said John, landing a friendly slap on Rick’s shoulder. “I’m delivering from eight in the morning until closing. Business is good.”

  Rick turned his attention to BA and shook the boy’s hand, though BA found it a bit awkward still pressed against Mrs. Garfield’s mid-section.

  “Oh, Hedda, let the boy go,” said Rick. “Kid can’t breathe.”

  “Hush, Rick,” said Mrs. Garfield, giving her husband a stern look, though she released her grip on BA.

  “Well, young man,” said Rick, reaching into his breast pocket, “you have been chosen as the winner of the slogan contest for my garage.”

  Templeton’s mouth dropped.

  BA raised an eyebrow.

  John had a confused smile on his face.

  “Me?” asked BA.

  “BA?” asked Templeton.

  “BA,” nodded Rick, pulling out a five-dollar bill and placing it in BA’s hand. “This fine young man stopped by to get air for his tires, and he and Rick, Jr. were discussing the slogan contest. BA came up with one right on the spot, and it was so good, Rick, Jr. shared it with us at supper that night. I decided it was the winner right then and there. Congratulations, BA, we’ll be painting it on the garage this Saturday, if you want to come and watch!” Rick held out his hand to John for a farewell shake and nodded, “Well, I’ll be seeing you, John. Fine boy you’re raising here.” And then the Garfield’s were bustling out the door, Mrs. Garfield admonishing her husband for hurrying her too quickly and Rick muttering under his breath about how slow she was.

  Once the door shut, and the Smith’s were alone again, John turned to face his son and smiled broadly, “How about that, BA? What was the slogan, son?”

  “Um,” BA stared at the money in his hand, “I – I don’t remember exactly. I think it was something about being a nice town and having good service.”

  “What?” snapped Templeton, a mixture of anger and sadness bubbling in his chest. “You don’t even remember what it was?”

  John crossed the room, standing behind his oldest and putting his hands on the boy’s shoulders, “Alright, Temp, calm down.”

  “How can you not remember it?” demanded Templeton, crossing his arms.

  “I do,” said BA. “I think it was ‘little town feel…big time service?’ Yeah, that was it.”

  John raised an eyebrow. That was quite the well-thought-out idea from an almost seven-year-old. He wondered what had prompted those words to pop into BA’s mind.

  “That’s what won?” cried Templeton, his body beginning to shake under his father’s grip. “That’s stupid!” He broke free of John’s hands and raced across the room to pound up the stairs. His bedroom door slammed so hard, the framed cross-stitch hanging on the stairwell shook.

  BA looked at the money and then up at his father, “I didn’t mean to win. Templeton wanted to win. I wanted him to win.”

  John smiled, beckoning for BA to come closer. He dropped into his chair and let his son crawl onto his lap. “I know, BA,” he said. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt Templeton. But listen, you had the slogan that Mr. Garfield liked the best. You won fair and square. Templeton was very excited about this contest, so he’s upset now. But that isn’t your fault, okay? And, hey, I’m proud of you! How did you think up that slogan? It sounds very grown-up.”

  “I was just talking with Ricky, and I just said it,” shrugged BA, resting his head against John’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to sound grown-up. Did it really sound grown-up? You know, I’ll be seven next month, Daddy. Seven is almost grown-up.”

  “Seven is very grown-up,” smiled John, enjoying the snuggle with his son. The boys were not as interested in cuddling as they used to be, so he relished the rare hugs. “And it is also very grown-up to have five dollars. What are you going to do with it?”

  “Something special for Templeton,” replied BA instantly. “Cause he would have won if I hadn’t. His slogan was ‘we value your car,’ and that seems like a pretty good one. Do you think he would have won, Daddy?” BA sat upright, his hands on John’s chest, eye-to-eye with his father.

  John smiled and shrugged, “I don’t know for sure, BA. And I don’t want you to feel like you’re in debt to Templeton, either. But if you would like to spend your money on your brother, that’s your choice. And it would be very kind and thoughtful of you.”

  “I like to be kind and thoughtful,” said BA. “You told us we should always be kind and thoughtful.”

  John’s heart swelled, pride for his little boy filling him to the brim, “That’s right, BA. I’m so proud of you for how maturely you are handling this.”

  “Uh, okay,” said BA, unsure how to respond to his father’s praise. “Daddy, can I go talk to Temp?”

  John glanced at the stairwell and then back at BA, “How about you let me talk to Templeton first. You run and tell HM all about what happened, hm?”

  This idea seemed to excite BA, and he grinned, nodding, “Oh, yeah! I’ll go tell HM!” He climbed down from John’s lap, the money clutched tightly in his fist, and raced off to find his little brother.

 John sighed, looking up at the ceiling. Comforting Templeton was not going to be an easy job. He pushed off the armrests of his chair to stand and groaned as the weight of his body pulled his shoulder, a streak of pain shooting down his neck from the previous year’s bullet wound. Rubbing his shoulder, John climbing the stairs, trying to think of something helpful to say to the fuming, upset Templeton. At twenty-five-years-old, John in no way considered himself a wise, learned man. If anything, he thought of himself as hardly capable of caring for these three rascals, though he loved them with every part of his being, and to lose them would be worse than losing his own life. He tried his best every day, but most nights found him tossing and turning in bed, berating himself for an unnecessary snap at HM or for reading the paper instead of playing with BA in the backyard. Fatherhood was so hard, but loving his little sons came naturally. John stopped outside Templeton’s door and composed himself. Love. He would go in there and hope he would have the right words to comfort the child and give Templeton the love he needed.

  He opened the door and saw Templeton, sitting in the corner with his knees pulled tightly against his chest, crying. John sighed. When the boys cried, it broke him every time.

  “Hey, Temp,” he said, sinking to the floor beside his son. “Can we talk, bud?”

  “Don’t wanna talk!” came the muffled shout.

  John tipped his head back, focusing his eyes on the picture of a police car that Templeton had cut out of a magazine and taped to the wall, “Alright, I’ll talk. Now, I know you’re upset. You were very excited about the contest, and there is nothing wrong with that. You tried your best and gave it a lot of thought, and I am very proud of you for that. Mr. Garfield liked BA’s slogan, and that is his choice. It had nothing to do with the person who said it. I’m sure Mr. Garfield liked your slogan, too, but he had to choose just one.”

  “But BA wasn’t even really entered!” yelled Templeton, his voice still muffled in his arms.

  “Well, I suppose there were never actual rules for how to enter,” said John. “It was Mr. Garfield’s contest, and he ran it the way he saw best. Now, I know you’re upset, and it’s okay to feel a little sad, but anger is not okay. You’re angry at BA when he didn’t even do anything wrong. So, for now, I want you to stay here in your room until you think you can come downstairs without yelling or being upset. Because if you are angry with BA, it will hurt his feelings, and he already feels bad enough about this whole thing. So, I’m going to go back down now and give you a little space. Do you want a hug before I go?”

  “No!” snapped Templeton, shaking his head.

  “Alright,” said John, standing back up and heading towards the door. He stopped, looking back at Templeton, “You stay here and take all the time you need. If you don’t come down by supper, I’ll be back up to make sure you’re alright. I love you, Templeton Arthur Smith.” John stepped outside, shut the door softly, and let his head rest against the wall. Well, he had ruined that. There had to be a better way of handling the situation, and now Templeton probably felt abandoned, angry, and sad all at once. Should he go back in? Should he yell at Templeton? No, no, that wasn’t the answer. Should he try and talk more with the boy? Should he call his mom? Yes, yes, he should definitely contact her. Mothers always had the best answers, and since his little boys didn’t have a mother, grandma would have to do. “Okay, call Ma,” he whispered, turning to go back down the stairs, but before he got very far, Templeton’s door creaked open, and a little face appeared in the crack.

  “Daddy,” whispered the eight-year-old, “can you come back in for a minute?”

  “Yeah, sure, son,” nodded John, opening the door far enough to slip inside. He only just made it into the room before Templeton barreled forward, wrapping himself around John’s body, his frame shaking with sobs. “Hey, hey, hey,” soothed John, bending down and picking Templeton up, holding him close. “It’s alright, Temp.” John crossed the room, sat down on Templeton’s bed, and embraced his son tightly as the little boy cried.

  They stayed that way for a solid ten minutes until Templeton was all cried out and had regained control of his composure. After a moment of awkward silence as Templeton traced the outline of a button on John’s shirt and John landed a few soft kisses on the boy’s hair, Templeton looked up and said, “Does BA really feel bad?”

  John nodded, “Yes. He didn’t mean to enter the contest. He thinks you should have won.”

  Templeton blinked hard, processing the information, and sniffed, “Hm. I guess I should go down and tell him I’m not angry at him.”

  John smiled, fatherly pride yet again swelling in his chest, “That would be a very nice thing for you to do, Temp.”

  “And I am very happy he won the money,” continued Templeton. “If it weren’t going to be me, I’d much rather it be someone from this family so we could all be proud of them. BA’s awful smart to come up with a good slogan like that, isn’t he, Pop?”

  John grinned. Pop. Templeton seemed to be back to normal and yet again too old to use ‘Daddy.’ “Yeah, BA’s pretty smart. He learns a lot from looking up to his big brother, you know.”

  “Aw, gee, Pop,” said Templeton, his cheeks blushing even redder from the color they had turned during his cry. “I do what I can, I guess.”

  John held back a laugh and nodded, “Yes, son, and you do a great job.”

  “Well,” said Templeton, pulling away from his father and standing up, “guess I’ll go on down. Say, Pop, do you think BA has a future in writing?”

  The laugh broke free, and John shook his head, “Whose to say, Temp? Could be.”

  Templeton smiled and turned to go but swung back, giving John a sheepish look, “Uh, Pop, I’m sorry about how I acted like a baby a few minutes ago. I guess it was dumb of me to be angry over something like this.”

  If John got any prouder today, his heart was going to explode. He stood up, offering a hand to Templeton to shake. “All forgiven, sport,” he said. “And I don’t think a baby would be acting like the young man I see before me. I’m proud of you, Templeton.”

  “Aw, heck, Pop,” said Templeton, hiding a grin. “I’ll see ya later. I’m gonna go find BA.” He dashed across the room, pulling the door open, but stopped in the hall, looking back. “Uh, I love you, Pop.” And then he was gone, pounding down the stairs and calling for his brother.

  That did it. The pride bubbled over and exploded out of every pore, and a single tear slid down John’s cheek. Darn those boys. They could make a grown man cry. And John wouldn’t trade it for the world.  

***

Chapter Text

November, 1949

*** 

 “BA, come here!” John pulled off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack, stretching his sore muscles. He had unloaded enough lumber for an entire barn that day to a customer of the lumber mill outside of town, and he was looking forward to a cup of coffee and relaxing in his chair. But first, some time with his son.

  “Daddy!” came the cheerful little voice, followed by the pounding of feet. BA appeared around the corner, running to John and leaping into his arms. “Miss you.” BA rested his head on John’s shoulder, and the man chuckled, holding his son close.

  “Hello, John,” smiled a young woman, rounding the corner with a baby on her hip. “He was a little angel all afternoon, I assure you.”

  “Thank you so much, Paula,” said John, letting out a deep sigh. “You don’t know how much it means to me.”

  “Of course, John,” grinned Paula, setting her baby on John’s chair so she could pull her coat on. John quickly set down BA to help her, gathering the young woman’s purse and gloves while Paula donned her hat. “I’ll pick BA up from Mrs. Callaway’s tomorrow afternoon. Have you heard from your mother?”

  John handed Paula her gloves, tipping slightly to the left as BA wrapped his arms around his father’s legs. “Uh, yes,” he chuckled, patting the little boy’s head. “Ma says Templeton and HM are doing quite well. I imagine they’ll be well within a few days.”

  Paula picked up the baby and took her purse from John, “Do you remember when we had chickenpox? It was the fourth grade.”

  John scooped up BA, tossing him slightly into the air, and nodded, “I remember that well. I’m glad BA already had them when he was younger. I can’t imagine missing all three of my boys.” He grinned, tickling his giggling boy’s stomach.

  Templeton and HM had first gotten the spots a few days before, and after a doctor’s visit and much discussion, John and his mother had decided it would be best for the boys to stay with grandma. BA would continue going to kindergarten, and John’s school acquaintance, Mrs. Paula Varjak, would take care of him for the few hours between school’s end and John’s return from work. John missed his oldest and youngest very much, but he was grateful to have one of his boys with him, and he had been enjoying the one-on-one time with BA. BA tended to be the quietest, most reserved of the boys, and while he was the aptest to cuddle, his presence was often overwhelmed by Templeton’s natural drive to be the center of attention and HM’s loud and mischievous antics. The time alone had been a good bonding experience for both father and son.

  John and BA waved goodbye as Paula left with her baby, and then John shut the door against the cold autumn air and pulled down a package he had placed on the shelf above the coat rack. “BA, come here, buddy,” he grinned, going to the center of the living room and kneeling.

  BA ran across the floor, giggling as he tripped and tumbled into his father’s arms. John laughed, pulling him close. “Hi, Daddy,” said BA, wrapping his arms around John’s neck. “I learned to do the shapes today.”

  “The shapes?” inquired John, pulling the package around in front of him.

  “Yeah, circle,” said BA, tracing a circle in the air with his finger. “Like a wheel! Vroom, on a car!”

  “Speaking of that,” said John, tapping the package, “how would you like to open this interesting looking box?”

  “Oh, is it a present?” cried BA, grabbing the box with both hands. “For me?”

  “Yes! Open it!” encouraged John, his heart filled with joy to see the excitement on his little boy’s face.

  The brown paper disappeared from the box, and BA’s little hands rested on a red, pressed steel dump truck, complete with an operating lever and stenciled name on the doors. “Oh!” gasped BA, his fingers exploring the vehicle though his body sat still and in awe. “Oh! A truck! Daddy, it’s a truck!”

  John grinned, pulling aside the cardboard box and brown paper, nodding, “Yes, buddy! It’s for you.” The paper would be treasured by HM for drawing and Templeton would love decorating the box as a police car.

  The truck was several years old, and the red paint along the left side had chipped. The lever had rust near the base, suggesting the last owner had left it outside, but all of this went unnoticed by the little four-year-old who stared in awe at his new treasure.

 John had spotted it while walking home, the front tires peeking up over the edge of a dumpster. Part of him had felt worthless when he lifted it out, examining it for any apparent malfunctions or breaks. What kind of father was he, pulling toys out of the trash for his children? No self-respecting person would do something that low. He had turned it over in his hands, operating the lever and spinning the wheels. The thought of BA playing with it flashed through his mind, and he grinned, remembering how excited the little boy was every time a truck drove past the house. John thought of the dollar bill tucked in his pocket. The only money he currently had to his name. His paycheck would come that Friday, and it would immediately go to the mortgage, savings, and food for the week. He couldn’t even drive the car to and from work. Gas was far too rich of a luxury. John shifted the toy’s weight in his hands and had to admit the truck felt sturdy and well built. BA would love it. If it was unwanted, was there really any shame in giving it a good home?

  John tucked the truck under his arm and continued on his way home, trying not to think about money and just how poor a man had to be to rescue toys from the trash. He often considered halting his dedication toward saving, but worst hadn’t come to worst yet. For now, two dollars deposited weekly even if it meant John went without lunch. The dollar currently sitting in his pocket was a tip from a customer he had unloaded lumber for who had handed him the money, insisting he buy himself a beer. Of course, that was the last thing John intended to do with the bill. Milk. He would buy milk, and he and BA would have it for the next few days if they were careful how much they drank. Maybe they would even have some left for when Templeton and HM recovered.

  “John!” The voice had sounded from behind him, and John had stopped, turning to see who was calling him. It was the butcher, Tommy Banacek, who had been several grades ahead of John in school. “How’s it going?” grinned the friendly man, shaking hands with John.

  “Oh, fine, Tommy, good to see ya,” nodded John, chuckling at Tommy’s hard, enthusiastic handshake. Tommy had always been a strong, loud, easy-to-like man, and his handshake tended to shake the receiver’s entire body.

  “Yours?” he laughed, pointing to the truck.

  “Oh, it’s a present for BA,” smiled John. “Figured he might like a little something to play with.”

  “You just going to hand it to him like that?” asked Tommy, pulling the truck out of John’s hand and walking back towards the brightly lit shop, a beacon in the dark November evening. “Come on, Johnny, let’s get this wrapped properly for the little fella.”

  John shook his head, knowing there was no stopping Tommy once he got rolling. He followed the butcher inside the shop and watched as Tommy dropped it into a box and wrapped it in brown paper, tying it securely with string. “Thanks, Tom,” nodded John, leaning against the counter. “That will be special for BA to unwrap. The only toys they have now are some wooden blocks, a little airplane, and a baseball. BA loves vehicles.”

 “Times hard, Johnny?” asked Tommy, a knowing glance passing between the two young men.

  John sighed, shrugging, “Same as the rest of the world, I guess. We’re doing fine. How’s the business for you and your old man, Tommy?”

  The butcher finished a simple bow on top of the box and pushed it toward John, “Meat is meat. People want their meat. We get along pretty well. You have supper planned? Take some beef, John. It’ll go bad if I keep it around.”

  John knew his friend was lying to get him to take the meat, and he shook his head. “No, Tommy,” he said, shaking hands with the man and scooping up the box. “You won’t get me that way. You’re a good friend. Thanks for making BA’s night extra special.” He tapped the box.

  Tommy shrugged, grinning broadly, “We do what we can, eh, Johnny? See you around.”

  “Yeah, see you around, Tom,” nodded John, giving a light salute and stepping back out into the cold autumn air.

  And now here John was, watching his little boy roll the truck across the floor and clap his hands in delight at the new toy he could call his own. BA was in his own little world, pretending the truck was full of gravel needing to be delivered across town, the town being the living room floor. John patted BA’s head and stood up, gathering the paper and box. “I’m going to start dinner, bud,” he said.

  “Mrs. Varak made it,” said BA, tapping the left wheel. Varjak was still a bit too complicated for his little self to pronounce. “In the ‘fridgator.”

   John went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator to find a salad and cold chicken waiting on a plate. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten a fresh salad. Paula must have brought it over from the harvest her garden had produced that summer. The chicken was leftover from last night and would give him and BA a fine supper. “Come on, little buddy!” called John, pulling out the food and setting it on the table. “Time to eat! A truck driver needs his supper so he can drive all night without getting tired.”

  “Okay!” called BA, and the sound of wheels and heavy feet told John BA was running behind his truck, pushing it into the dining room. “Can I eat with the truck?” asked BA, picking it up and setting it on his chair.

  “I don’t think trucks like chicken and salad,” said John, taking down two plates from a cupboard and fishing forks from the silverware drawer. “I’d say that model you have there prefers diesel.”

  “It's okay; this truck likes salad, I guess,” said BA, moving to sit in HM’s seat so the truck could have the place of honor, as BA considered his own chair the best in the house.

  “Okay, if you say so,” grinned John, setting the table. “Oh, I have another surprise, BA!” John hurried out onto the porch, where he had left the two bottles of milk he’d bought on the way home. Forty-three cents still rested in his pocket, enough to buy more tomorrow.

  “Milk!” cheered BA when John returned to the kitchen. John chuckled, pouring two glasses, and they sat down to enjoy their feast.

  The evening passed quickly; BA entirely focused on his truck and John relaxing in his chair, reading the paper. He really should have been chopping some firewood or fixing the broken hinge on the back screen door, but his muscles ached, and he was content to watch his little boy play. When the clock struck seven-thirty, John sighed and folded his paper, “Okay, there, Scooter, time to go to bed.”

  “Scooter?” giggled BA, piling some of his blocks into the back of the truck.

  “Yeah, you’ve been scooting that truck around all night,” said John, tossing his paper aside and standing up. “Ready to turn in?”

  “Not tired,” said BA, rolling truck to the quarry he had created out of a pillow and blocks.

  “Well, Daddy is,” said John, “so let’s hit the sack. Bring the truck, so it doesn’t get lonely down here all night.”

  “Oh, good idea,” nodded BA, hurriedly unloading the blocks and holding the truck tightly against his chest. It was a bit large and heavy for him, so John picked up both boy and truck and carried them upstairs to BA and HM’s shared bedroom.

  A few minutes later, BA’s pajamas were on, his face washed, teeth brushed, and he was tucked into bed, the truck sitting beside him. John read BA’s favorite story, Babar the Elephant, which they had read every night since HM and Templeton left.

  “Daddy was in Paris like Babar,” stated BA, poking his finger through the front window of his truck.

  John nodded, “Yes, Daddy was in Paris before you were born.”

  “Tell the Paris story about school,” begged BA, giving John a pouty look more expected from HM or Templeton.

  John smiled, kissing BA’s forehead, “Not today, bud. Tomorrow night. Now it’s time to get some sleep. Your truck is probably all tired out from playing all evening.”

  John went to the doorway and clicked off the light switch. The light from the hallway flooded in, providing enough illumination to see BA, his arms wrapped around the truck in what must have been a very uncomfortable position. His eyes squeezed tightly shut, trying to show his daddy he was going to sleep. John grinned and shook his head – how he loved that little boy. He closed the door and started back downstairs, content that he had made the right decision rescuing the treasured truck from the trash.

***

Chapter Text

 July 1955

HM baited his hook and let the line drop into the water, his eyes following the dozens of little fish darting back and forth. He leaned forward for a better view, only to have John grab him by the seat of his pants and pull him back.

  “Ho, there, boy!” laughed John. “You practically went in.”

  “How come all those fish swim around in circles down there, and none of them have the inkling to nibble at my bait?” he pouted, letting his sneakers dip into the puddles of muddy water along the bank.

  John shrugged, tipping his hat back and stretching his shoulder muscles, “I dunno, bud. Maybe they are full of all that bread you tossed in earlier.”

  “I was just trying to lure them over,” said HM, glaring at the water. “I didn’t think they’d gorge themselves and not want any of this leftover ham.”

  John jerked on his line and began reeling in, pulling up a fine-sized bass, twisting and flipping on the end of his line.

  HM scrambled to his feet, his line left forgotten, and began hopping up and down, “Oh, a fish! Oh, gee, you got one! Say, you got one, Dad!”

  “A pretty decent sized one, too,” grinned John, grasping the fish tightly so he could remove the hook. “Get the basket, HM. This fella will be for our dinner.”

  “Yes, yes!” cried HM, scrambling up the bank to retrieve the creel. “BA and Templeton are gonna be sure jealous they didn’t come with us.”

  John dropped the fish into the basket and rebaited his hook, glancing down at HM’s forgotten pole, “Somehow, I don’t think Templeton would rather be here than with that girl he took to the movies. And as absorbed as BA seemed in the engine he was fixing, tells me he didn’t particularly care to come to sit on a muddy pond bank all day. And for someone who seems to be having the time of their life fishing, you aren’t paying particularly good attention to the fish dragging your pole into the water.”

  HM yelped and dove for his pole, covering himself in mud and reeling hard as a massive, thrashing fish fought to free itself from his hook. “Get in here, you slippery pond creature. You can’t defeat me!”

  “Play him in, HM!” encouraged John, forcing himself to keep his hands off of HM’s pole and let the boy do the work himself. “You almost got him!”

  “There you are!” shrieked HM, dragging the massive bass onto the bank and pouncing, wrapping his hands around the wriggling fish. “Oh, you’ll do more than feed us! We’ll have leftovers! Gee whiz, Daddy, we won’t need to catch anymore after this one!”

  John chuckled, helping HM unhook the fish. It had been a long time since his little man had called him ‘Daddy’ due to Templeton and BA pushing their little brother into feeling self-conscious over the term. But when the father and son were alone, HM often slipped back into his comfort zone and showcased some of the childish tendencies that John rather missed from his growing sons. He knew it wouldn’t be much longer before HM also ‘grew up,’ as Templeton and BA claimed to have done, and he relished these sweet moments with his baby.

  “Oh, Temp’ll be jealous,” said HM, staring at his prize. “He ain’t never caught one so big!”

  John tossed his line back out, making himself comfortable in the grass again, “No, I don’t suppose he has. Well done, HM. You sure have bragging rights over that catch.”

  “Man, oh gee,” mumbled HM, partly talking to himself, somewhat to his father, and mostly to the fish. “Biggest catch of my life. We oughtta get this sucker taxidermized and put it up in the living room. Ain’t never seen a fish this big. Everyone who came into our house would see it and say, ‘why I bet that youngest Smith boy caught that fine fish, and I suppose his father is prouder of him than a rooster.’ I bet that’s what they’d say.”

  “Well, are you going to try for an even bigger one?” encouraged John, grinning at his son. “I bet you can’t catch that fish’s daddy.”

  “Sure, I can!” cried HM, spinning in a circle and grabbing his fishing pole from where he had tossed it moments before. “Give me some more ham! I’ll catch the granddaddy fish! I’ll catch a fish so big it’ll make you give up fishing for good! They don’t call me Captain HM for nothing!”

  “Captain HM?” laughed John.

  “Captain of the Fishing Vessel!” explained HM, casting his line and excitedly staring out at the water. “Only the best fisherman can be the captain!”

  “Oh, I see,” nodded John. “Well, aye-aye, Captain. Let’s see your best work.”

  HM, too wound up to sit still, began hopping back and forth, his eyes trained on his line. “Guess what, guess what?”

  “Mm, what?” asked John, resigning himself to the fact that his peaceful fishing afternoon with HM had been a foolish fantasy, not that he would have the energetic boy act any other way.

  “I’ve decided to be a pilot!” HM announced, reeling his line in a few feet. “A real pilot! I’ll fly planes and jets and choppers and hang gliders and everything!”

  “And that’s news?” asked John, teasing his son. “I thought you’ve been saying that for years.”

  “No, it isn’t different,” said HM. “Just for real. See, I have this journal that I keep. And this morning, I wrote down: I, Henry Maximillian Smith, do solemnly swear that I will become a licensed pilot at my earliest convenience and spend my days soaring through the air like an A2-D Skyshark or a bald eagle. And then I signed it real official, so now it’s a fact. I’ll be a pilot or bust. The minute I’m old enough, I’m taking flying lessons, and then I’m gonna join the Army and be a fighter pilot, and I’m gonna pilot commercial airlines and take people from China to Brazil, and I’m gonna give tourism guides through Alaska in a helicopter. The second I’m old enough to be legal, I’ll be the youngest person ever to fly the Atlantic Ocean!”

  “Well, that’s all well and good, but maybe you better reel in that fish first,” said John, watching as HM’s line twisting and pulled.

  “HOLY MACKEREL!” shrieked HM, reeling as hard as he could.

  John shook his head. How they managed to catch a single fish with all the noise HM made was beyond him. He grinned as he watched his youngest. HM’s attention was suddenly wrenched from airplanes and focused solely on the fish he was reeling in. The boy’s eyes positively sparkled with excitement, and his vast grin solidified that fishing had been an excellent suggestion on John’s part that morning. It was such a joy to watch the nine-year-old grow and learn; his interests never wavering but never failing to expand. HM was a fascinating, extraordinary person, and John couldn’t believe how blessed he was to be this child’s father.

  “Got ‘im!” yelled HM, pulling another massive bass onto the shore. “Heyo, heyo! I’m the best angler of them all! We’ll be eating good tonight!”

  “We sure will, son,” grinned John, ruffling HM’s hair as the boy released his hook.

  Suddenly, HM dropped the fish and dove forward, wrapping his arms tightly around John’s chest. “Thank you for taking me fishing, Daddy! It’s the best thing ever! I love you.”

  John, feeling a tug at his pole, laughed and patted his son’s back, “I love you, too, little buddy, but you gotta let go. I’ve got a whopper on my line!”

  “Get ‘im, Daddy!” screamed HM, releasing his father, thought hurting the man’s ears with his yell. “We’ll get all the kings in this pond today! Reel ‘im in! Oh, boy! We’re the captains of this pond!”

  And so they fished all afternoon, father and son. And it was a lovely day, indeed.

Chapter Text

September 1949 

 The screaming took a minute to drag John out of his sleep. At first, his exhausted brain thought it was a train whistle, but after remembering there was no train near his home, he opened his eyes and blinked, seeing nothing in the pitch-black room—another scream.

  John sat upright. “HM,” he whispered.

  It took John approximately two seconds to cross his bedroom, where he promptly barreled straight into his door, forgetting he had closed it. After banging his fist against the wall to bury the curse word pressing against his lips, John pulled the door open and dashed through the first floor to the staircase.

  HM screamed again.

  “HM!” called John, taking the stairs three at a time. He hurried into the boys’ bedroom and propelled himself up onto the top of the bunkbed, searching through the dark for his baby boy. A nightlight across the room provided just enough light to see HM buried under the blankets, his legs resting on the pillow and his head beneath the covers facing the end of the bed.

  He screamed for the fourth time.

  “HM!” John pulled the blanket off of his son and gathered the little boy into his arms. “Buddy, what’s wrong? HM? Are you hurt? HM?”

  “No!” shrieked HM, beginning to hit John with all the strength his little three-year-old self could exert. “No, let go! Me no want you!” HM began to scream again, twisting and fighting against John’s loving arms.

  “Henry, wake up!” urged John, understanding that his child seemed to be having a nightmare. He had positively no idea how to deal with a child experiencing a nightmare. Were you supposed to wake them up? John had a faint memory of someone telling him not to wake anyone out of a dream, but he couldn’t be sure. For now, he needed to be certain HM wasn’t hurt. He shook his little boy. “Henry, wake up, please, son.”

  “Daddy!” came BA’s sobbing voice from below. He sounded tired and disoriented.

  “Shh, BA, it’s alright,” soothed John. “HM is having a bad dream. Go to sleep, little man. Don’t worry.”

  Despite his father’s calming voice, BA began to cry, and John groaned. This parenting adventure was going to be a lot longer of an ordeal than simply quieting HM. Turning his youngest around, John gently patted HM’s face, trying to wake him up.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing, HM, work with me,” muttered John, feeling suddenly very overwhelmed. The boys had been surprisingly easy to raise thus far. Every parenting book he had read warned of toddler tantrums and parental mishaps, but he had experienced little of the horrors of which others parents had warned him. His sons were truly well-behaved little boys. But nightmares were not a path they had trod yet, and John was completely unprepared for handling the situation.

  “Daddy!” cried BA again, sobbing harder. “Daddy! I want Daddy!”

  “Bad! Bad!” shrieked HM, thrashing in John’s arms. His eyes were open, but he was staring past John at some invisible threat invading his sleepy mind. HM punched John hard in the chest, and the latter moaned, his breath momentarily catching.

  “HM,” groaned John, wincing from the pain and wondering how such a little boy could hit so hard, “please wake up, son. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “You can’t take me!” screamed HM, trying to stand up but succeeding only in smacking his head on the ceiling. “Don’t hit me! Me got a real daddy! No more orn-phage! Orn-phage is for boys with no daddy! Me has a daddy! Go back! Back, white coat man, back!”

  “Henry, it’s me,” soothed John, brushing back his son’s sweaty hair and pulling the boy close, kissing HM’s head where he had hit the ceiling. “I’m Daddy.”

  Almost instantly, HM’s entire body crumpled, resting heavily against John in a slump.

  “HM!” cried John, terrified at the boy’s sudden still. “HM, wake up!”

  HM opened his eyes sleepily and looked up at John. He rubbed his eyes and blinked hard, half-smiling and half-gritting his teeth as his body stretched. “Mm, Daddy,” he mumbled. “G’mornin’.”

  “No, son, it isn’t morning,” said John, gently running his fingers through HM’s hair. “Are you okay, buddy?” John felt his breathing slowing as he realized HM was finally free of the nightmare.

  “Is not morning, Daddy,” mumbled HM, yawning. “Is dark still. Me head hurt.” HM touched the spot where his head had smacked against the ceiling.

  “Yes, dear, go back to sleep,” soothed John, kissing HM’s forehead. “You just got a little bump, is all.” That little bump would undoubtedly be a bruise by morning.

  “Night,” whispered HM, drifting back off almost instantly.

  John wanted to stay and make sure the little boy didn’t dream again, but BA’s sobs tore him away from the family's baby, and he climbed back down to the floor, crawling underneath BA’s blanket fort. “BA,” he said, pulling the crying boy into his arms. “It’s alright, buddy. HM just had a bad dream, but he’s okay now.”

  “I’m scared!” cried BA, his hands gripping John’s pajama top so tightly that John thought it might tear. “No more screaming!”

  “No, HM won’t scream anymore,” said John, hoping his assurance was truthful. He rubbed BA’s back, rocking back and forth. “Don’t worry, BA, everyone is safe.”

  BA whimpered, his grip on John’s shirt loosening slightly. He took a shaky breath, sniffing, and snuggled closer to his father, his head pressed against John’s stomach. “Daddy,” he whispered.

  “Yes, BA,” replied John softly, caressing the boy’s head.

  “Mm,” said BA, closing his eyes and letting his tense muscles relax.

  John found he was in a rather uncomfortable position, and he didn’t want to leave BA until the boy had fallen back asleep. John shifted so that his back was against the wall and rested BA mostly on the bed beside him so he could smoothly leave once the little one had drifted back off. “Go to sleep, buddy,” whispered John, trailing his fingers lightly over BA’s cheeks and forehead. “It’s okay, go to sleep.” John began to hum barely audibly, but it was enough to lull BA back to sleep, and within five minutes, the little chest was rising and falling in a steady pattern. John sighed. “Thank goodness,” he whispered.

 The next twenty seconds included attempting to stand up without waking BA, pulling the blanket fort down, or hitting the top bunk and scaring HM. It was a tricky ordeal, but John made it out with no mishaps.

  Once free, John crept across the room and slipped out, letting the door pull half-shut behind him. He made it partway down the stairs before something tapped against his brain, and he decided to check on Templeton. Odd that the five-year-old hadn’t awoken during the loud ordeal.

  John opened Templeton’s door and peeked into the room, expecting to see a small lump on the bed. Instead, the covers hung haphazardly across the end frame, and Templeton was nowhere in sight. “Temp?” said John, his heart rate picking up again. “Temp, where are you, sport?” John threw the door open and flew across the room, dropping to his knees to look beneath the bed.

  There he was.

  Templeton lay on the floor, head resting on his hands, flashlight clutched in his little fist, staring fearfully at John with tear-filled eyes. Templeton flicked the flashlight on, illuminating his face, and his lip shook a little as he fought back a sob.

  “Daddy,” he whispered.

  “Oh, Temp,” said John, his heart almost breaking at the sight of the terrified boy. “Come here, buddy. Come out.”

  Templeton slowly crawled out from under the bed, but once free, he lost no time in launching himself into John’s arms, latching his arms around his father’s neck.

  “It’s alright, Temp,” soothed John, turning so that his back rested against the end frame of the bed. He pulled Templeton close, rocking the boy back and forth as he had done with BA moments before. “Did HM wake you up?”

  “I thought maybe the white coat man was here,” whimpered Templeton. “I know he isn’t. The white coat man won’t get past you. But I was scared anyway. I got the flashlight and hid under my bed so I could blind him if he came in here. But that was not very brave. I shoulda gone and rescued HM cause he’s the one really scared of the white coat man. Daddy, did I do a bad thing? I’m s’posed to protect the babies. I’m the big brother.”

  “Absolutely not, Templeton,” said John, pulling the boy so close that Templeton moaned uncomfortably. John immediately loosened his grip but still clutched Templeton securely. “You did nothing wrong. I think it is so wonderful of you to even think about protecting your little brother. That was a truly kind thought. But hearing HM scream was scary, and I don’t blame you at all for hiding. Are you alright now?”

  “Yeah, uh-huh,” nodded Templeton, putting a hand on John’s cheek and leaving it there. John almost felt as if the boy were making sure John was real. “Yeah, I’m good. You’ll keep me safe.”

  Something about hearing the trust in Templeton’s words pricked John’s heart, and he chuckled in an attempt to hide the threatening tears. “Well, I’m glad you feel that way, Templeton,” said John. “Because it is my job to protect all my boys. Temp, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but who is the white coat man?” HM had yelled about that in his nightmare, but John had written it off as imagination.

  “A bad man that killed HM’s real mommy and daddy,” said Templeton, his voice back to its normal, steady tone. This sad story was not his own, and to the five-year-old, he was merely stating unemotional facts. “HM doesn’t know the white coat man, but he remembers seeing him, and the man told HM that his mommy and daddy were asleep forever, which meant dead. But that’s a nice way of saying dead. The white coat man was very scary. We don’t like him. I told HM I’d protect him. The man was at the orphanage when HM got there, and HM screamed and yelled until the white coat man left. The nuns said it was a different white coat man, but I guess HM would know. I’ve seen him, too, but he never killed my parents. I’m only scared now because I have you, and I don’t want him killing you.”

 John stared down at Templeton, so lost that he didn’t even know how to respond. Templeton was calm and matter-of-fact in his explanation, but John had no idea what the boy was trying to convey. “White coat…” John blinked, racking his brain for an answer. The priest at the orphanage told him that HM’s parents had died of influenza…John sighed. Of course. The white coat man. A doctor. “I understand, Templeton,” whispered John, holding his son tight. “I understand what you mean. Are you tired, little man?” The ‘white coat man’ was a conversation that certainly needed having with all three boys. And it was a conversation John was in no way prepared to conduct, nor did he intend to until he had consulted the wisdom of his mother.

  “Mmhmm, sleepy,” nodded Templeton. “No white coat man is here, though. I’ll go back to bed…with the flashlight.” Templeton scrambled up from John’s lap and crawled into his bed, struggling to tug the heavy blanket back up and over him. John helped him, tucking his oldest in and brushing back the boy’s blonde hair to kiss his forehead. “Sleep well, Temp,” he said. He knew his son had calmed down, but the flashlight still clutched in the little boy’s hand told John that Templeton was slightly afraid. “I’ll be right downstairs if you need me, okay?”

  “Okay, Daddy,” nodded Templeton. “I’m brave, though. Goodnight.” He closed his eyes tightly, showing John he was going to go back to sleep.

  John grinned, an unidentifiable emotion crashing over him as he watched the adorable boy who had first claimed him as a father. “Goodnight, champ,” he said.

  John took one last look into BA and HM’s bedroom and was happy to hear two sets of steady breathing. He gently descended the stairs, avoiding the creaky parts, and stumbled back to his bedroom, exhaustion suddenly overwhelming him that had gone previously unnoticed in his anxiety for the boys. Finally, in his room, John left the door open to hear any little voices and slumped over his bed, pulling a pillow against his chest and letting one leg dangle over the edge of his mattress. He had almost drifted off to sleep when a creaking floorboard outside his door stirred him. “Mm?” asked John, looking toward the hallway. A little body ran across the room and tunneled underneath the covers before John could even react.

   “Sleep here?” asked Templeton, switching on his flashlight and letting it bathe his face in a warm glow.

  John smiled and nodded, “Yeah. Sleep here.”

  Templeton turned the flashlight off and buried his face in John’s chest, sighing contentedly. John could feel the tenseness in Templeton’s muscles and knew his son was still uneasy. He pulled the boy close, rubbing his back.

  “You’re safe here, Temp,” he whispered. “You’re always safe here.”

  “G’night, Daddy,” said Templeton, his voice muffled.

  “G’night, Temp,” sighed John, closing his eyes. “Don’t touch me with your cold feet, or I’ll make you sleep on the roof.”

  Templeton giggled, and John felt the small body relax. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too, Temp.”

Chapter Text

June 1951  

  Templeton dangled the medal in front of the window, letting the sun hit the brass at the perfect angle to bounce directly into BA’s eyes.

  “Hey!” yelled BA, squeezing his eyes shut and rolling off the chair he occupied. “Not nice!”

  “Temp, stop teasing,” said John, looking over the top of the Sunday paper. HM was cuddled close on his lap, pretending to read along with his father but mainly just staring at the pictures.

  “Bored,” mumbled Templeton, dropping the medal onto the windowsill and leaning his forehead against the glass.

  “Templeton Arthur!” snapped HM, standing on his father’s lap and using John’s head to balance himself, “You pick that medal up this instant! Daddy won that for being killed, and you are just throwing it around like a toy!”

  “Buddy, my leg is not exactly designed for little boys to stand on,” winced John, pulling HM back down. “And I’m not killed, and I didn’t win the medal.”

  “Sure you did, Daddy,” said BA, running over and leaning against the side of the chair. “You won it for being killed.”

  “Do I look killed to you?” asked John, folding the paper and raising an eyebrow.

  “That’s what the medal’s for,” said HM. “Being killed. Killed in war.”

  “No, stupid,” sighed Templeton, picking up the medal and carrying it to the mantlepiece where it usually sat, “it’s for being killed or wounded in the war. No one killed Daddy. He’s sitting right there.”

  “What’s killed?” asked BA.

  “Dead,” said Templeton.

  “Daddy is winded,” said HM. “Winded in war.”

  John burst out laughing and covered his eyes as his chest heaved, his high giggles and sudden outburst causing all three boys to stare at him.

  “Daddy, you okay?” asked BA.

  John nodded, his laugh fading to a chuckle as he squeezed HM close, “Yes, I’m okay. HM, say ‘wounded.’ Make the ‘oo’ sound.”

  “Wounded,” repeated HM. “Daddy was wounded in the war.”

  “There you go,” said John, giggling again. “Oh, you boys make me laugh.”

  “What was funny, Daddy?” asked Templeton, crawling onto the other side of his father’s lap. “HM said it wrong. HM, you always get things wrong.”

  “No, I don’t!” yelled HM, sticking his lower lip out.

  “Hey!” said John, his tone growing serious. “Templeton, I told you to stop teasing your brothers. I mean it, young man. What did we hear in church today? Treat others as you want them to treat you. Which reminds me, please don’t call your brothers stupid anymore.”

  Templeton hadn’t exactly been listening in church. BA had been rolling a paper ball back and forth down the wooden pew to a little boy at the other end, and Templeton had taken it upon himself to be anxious and worry about it for the entire service. He couldn’t remember a single word the preacher had said, but he did know the rule about treating others the way he wanted them to treat him. He sighed deeply and slumped back against John, “Sorry, Daddy.”

  “Tell HM you’re sorry,” urged John.

  “Sorry, Henry Maximillian,” mumbled Templeton.

  “It’s okay,” said HM. “The preacher also said to forgive other people when they apologize.”

  John raised his eyebrows in surprise, pleased his five-year-old had seemed to pay attention that morning. “Good job listening,” praised John, kissing the side of HM’s head. He was glad the boys had forgotten about the war conversation. It was not a memory he enjoyed recollecting.

  “I listened, too!” said BA, crawling up to sit in the middle of John’s lap.

  “Oh, okay!” groaned John, shifting uncomfortably. BA had started showing signs of growing into a solid little boy, and all three children on John’s lap were not as comfortable as it had been the year before. “Let’s all go outside and play catch! How does that sound?”

  “Yay!” screamed HM, shoving BA down and scrambling to the floor. HM dropped to his back and began rolling toward the front door, singing one of the hymns they had heard in church that morning.

  BA, unphased, thudded across the room to pull on his shoes. Templeton slowly crawled down but lingered by John as the man stood up. “Daddy,” said Templeton, slipping his hand into John’s, “why did you get wounded?”

  John looked down and smiled, “Do you know what wounded means, Temp?”

  “No,” said Templeton, his head tipped back so he could look up at his father.

  “Hurt,” explained John. “They gave me that medal because I was hurt.”

  “Your shoulder, you mean?” asked Templeton. He knew John’s shoulder had been hurting him since he came home at Christmas time, but no one ever said anything about what had caused it.

  “Yes, my shoulder,” nodded John. “But I’m feeling much better now, so we don’t need to worry about it.”

  “Is that why you didn’t go back to fight?” asked Templeton, still holding John’s hand as they headed for the front door to join BA and HM, who were already tossing a baseball back and forth in the front lawn.

  John nodded, stopping to grab his ball cap, “Yes, partly.” How do you explain to a seven-year-old that you were too wild and insubordinate? How do you explain that the military decided even though your military genius was beyond compare, they were going to station you stateside to work on strategy and planning from the comfort of your own home? John sighed, watching as Templeton struggled to pull his shoes on without untying them. This was his life. Normal and simple. A medal on his hearth for a bullet wound that had barely caused him pain and friends in Korea without an award to their name suffering mentally and physically in ways John felt he could never imagine. What was fate? What was destiny? Sometimes life just made so little sense to him.

  “Come on, Daddy!” yelled HM from outside. “I’m Yogi Berra! Throw it, BA!”

  John stepped outside, letting the warm sun soak into his skin and soothe his troubled mind. He grinned as BA’s throw slammed into HM’s glove, knocking the little boy onto his backside. “Nice arm, BA!” he chuckled.

  “Not very nice at all,” whined HM, frowning, unhurt but unhappy.

  “Okay, let’s get a pattern going,” urged John, crossing the yard to stand near the sidewalk. “BA and HM, you stand across from each other. Temp, you stand opposite me. Then we can throw it back and forth.”

  “I don’t wanna throw to HM,” complained BA.

  “You just did, though,” shot back Temp.

  John crossed his arms, waiting for his boys to finish arguing and remember that they wanted to play catch. As he stood there, trying to focus on a beautiful day and get his mind off of Korea, he heard a soft voice behind him that nearly made him jump.

  “Hello, John.”

  John spun around, his hand automatically going to his hair to push it back with his fingers. He knew that voice. He smiled, his heart rate instantly speeding up, “Oh, hello, Mandy. How are you today?”

  “Fine,” replied Mandy. She smiled at John, and he felt like a lightning bolt jolted through his body. Mandy nodded toward the boys, “And how are your three little angels?” She wasn’t sarcastic. She was genuinely interested in his kids. Everything about her was so pure and beautiful. John thought he might pass out.

  “Uh, the boys – yeah, the boys are swell,” he nodded.

  Mandy gestured down the sidewalk, “I was just out for a stroll. It’s such a lovely day. I thought perhaps you and the boys would like to join me?”

  John was sure if it were at all physically possible, his entire body would have just erupted in flames. “Join you?” he said, glancing at the three little boys currently tussling on the lawn behind him. “Um, well, sure! Thanks, Mandy. That’s very thoughtful of you. Let me just tear these little wrestlers apart.”

  Mandy laughed softly, stepping onto the lawn. She was wearing pants and sneakers, which was very unusual for a young lady to appear in on a Sunday afternoon, but it made it much more helpful to round up young children and take a walk on a hot day. “Let me help you, John,” she offered, gliding gracefully toward the boys.

  Never before had such a perfect girl existed. John whimpered involuntarily. He had been staring nervously at Mandy Wilder for four months now, trying to work up the courage to ask the lovely lady out on a date, but for some reason, something held him back. Well, what held him back was Jack Harmon. Jack claimed that Mandy was his girl, and even though the two weren’t dating, John didn’t want to intrude on whatever relationship they seemed to have. But now, here was Mandy, sitting on his lawn and laughing and talking with his sons. And she wanted them all to go on a walk together. John let out a heavy breath. He wasn’t too proud to admit that he had a considerable interest in Mandy Wilder.

  “Daddy, Miss Mandy wants to go for a walk with us!” yelled HM, dashing across the lawn and wrapping his arms around John’s leg. “Can we, Daddy?”

  “We sure can,” nodded John, trying to look natural and appear the opposite of the nervous, anxious feelings that were tearing through his body. “It was very nice of her to ask.”

  “Can I hold your hand while we walk?” asked BA, looking up at Mandy with a sweet smile.

  John tilted his head. BA rarely talked to grownups. He seemed a little shy around people he didn’t know.

  “Of course, darling,” said Mandy, instantly taking BA’s hand in hers and squeezing it. “But my other hand is for your father.”

  John wasn’t about to argue that. He seized the opportunity and gently took Mandy’s hand into his own. “And it is a pleasure to hold it,” he said, smiling as he gazed into her beautiful dark eyes.

  “I get Daddy’s other hand!” yelled HM, wrapping both his tiny hands around John’s big one and letting himself dangle, so John was supporting his weight.

  The little group stepped onto the sidewalk and began to walk as Templeton trudged along beside them. “As usual, I’m left out,” he said, being his typical, grumbling self.

  “No, you aren’t!” said HM, looking at his brother, “you can hold my other hand, Temp!”

  Templeton rolled his eyes and moved to walk by BA instead, secretly hoping for a chance to hold Miss Mandy’s hand himself.

***

  “But, Daddy, you’re going to be gone all night?” whined HM, climbing so that his upper-half hung down John’s back with his legs wrapped around his father’s neck.

  “HM, what on earth are you doing,” said John, grabbing his little boy’s legs before they could choke him.

  “All night is past my bedtime! Who is gonna read me George tonight?” yelled HM as John swung him around and lowered him gently to the ground.

  “Why are you yelling, young fella?” asked John, dropping to his knees and positioning himself over HM so he could tickle the boy.

  “Ah! Daddy!” shrieked HM, giggling and kicking as he tried to escape his father’s hands.

  “I’ll read it,” said Templeton, sitting on his father’s chair with his arms crossed. “I’ll read George to HM tonight.”

  “Well, that is very nice of you, Temp,” smiled John, reaching a hand up to tickle his oldest son.

  “No! Dad!” shrieked Templeton, laughing and curling himself into a ball.

  The doorbell rang, and John chuckled, ruffling each little boys’ hair as he rose to his feet. “Well, that’ll be the babysitter,” he said. “Now, remember what I told you.”

  “No fightin’, bein’ naughty, or yellin’,” replied HM.

  “The yelling part is for you,” said BA, coming from the corner where he had been playing with his truck. “You’re the one that always yells.”

  “Do not!” yelled HM, sticking his tongue out.

  “And, HM,” said John, his hand on the doorknob, “what’s the last rule?”

  HM blushed and looked down at his shoes, “Aw, Daddy.”

  “HM,” said Templeton sternly, crossing his arms.

  “Temp, let me handle it,” said John. “HM, what’s the rule?”

  “No licking the babysitter’s cheek,” mumbled HM, crossing his arms. “It’s not a good rule. What’s wrong with licking?” John implemented that rule after HM’s sudden habit of licking the cheek of whomever he happened to be with at the moment became a bit excessive. John, Templeton, and BA had all been on the receiving end, and they could all testify that no stranger was a feeling than a cold tongue suddenly making contact with the warm skin of one’s face.

  John pointed sternly at his boys, though a smile played at his lips, before opening the door and grinning broadly. “Hello, Rod, come on in,” he said, stepping to the side.

  Roderick Decker was the fifteen-year-old son of John’s high school math teacher, and upon John voicing his search for a babysitter to her in the grocery store that morning, Mrs. Decker had instantly offered her son’s services.

  Rod was a tall, thin boy with a somber look on his face, and he didn’t even crack a smile when he laid eyes on the three Smith boys. Templeton walked over and stuck his hand out, “Hello, I’m Templeton Smith. I’m seven. I’ll be eight in February because that is the month I was born. HM is not allowed to lick anyone.”

  Rod shook the boy’s hand and nodded, “Hello, Templeton. I’m Roderick. You may call me Rod if you wish.”

  “And these two rascals are HM and BA,” said John, pointing to each boy, respectively. “Alright, well, I’m already late picking up Mandy, so I’ll leave you all for now. Boys, hug me goodnight. I won’t be back until after bedtime.”

  “Good night, Daddy!” said BA, racing across the floor and into his father’s arms. HM was close behind him, and Templeton joined in on the family embrace.

  “I love you all,” grinned John. “And remember, HM, no yelling.”

  “Love you, Daddy!” chorused the little voices as their father waved goodbye and stepped outside.

  Rod shut the door and looked around the room, squinting his eyes slightly, “Well, alright. Your father told my mother I was to feed you supper and put you to bed. I suppose we should get started. Where is your kitchen?”

  Templeton crossed his arms, “Kitchen? We don’t eat dinner now. It’s four-thirty, silly. Daddy only left this early because he wants to take Miss Mandy for a walk before they go to the restaurant. Did it confuse you? Did you think because he was leaving now that we were supposed to eat dinner, too?” Templeton looked Rod over, shaking his head. For a teenager, this guy didn’t seem to be all that smart. It occurred to Templeton that maybe Rod was a little dumb because he didn’t have as smart a daddy as Templeton did to teach him things. Yes, that must be it.

 Rod blinked, looking down blankly at Templeton, and shook his head, “No. I wasn’t confused. But my mother only told me to feed you and put you to bed. I don’t know what time you normally do things or at what time babies are supposed to settle in for the night.”

  “Babies!” cried Templeton, his jaw dropping. “Say, don’t you remember when you came in, and I told you I was going to be eight in February? Babies aren’t eight!”

  “You aren’t eight yet, Templeton,” replied Rod, stepping around him and striding across the living room, giving the little home a look over. “I’m in charge this evening, and you boys need to obey me. Did your father give you any rules?”

  “See, he wasn’t listening,” said Templeton, grabbing a fistful of his hair and shaking his head in a mimic of the motion he had seen John do when stressed. “I supifically told him that HM was not allowed to lick anyone.”

  “The word you are looking for is ‘specifically.’ And I was listening,” said Rod. “I heard you say that. I chose not to reply or make a comment since it is a clear rule. No one will be licking anyone. What a vile concept.”

  “The other rules are that we can’t fight or yell or be naughty,” piped up BA, glancing at his truck in the corner and hoping Rod didn’t want to play with it. BA was a little possessive about his vehicle, and Rod was standing awfully close to it at the moment.

  Rod nodded and hooked his thumbs under his belt, “All excellent rules. I’ll make sure they are followed to the line this evening. Now, if you insist that it is too early for supper, what do you propose we do?”

  “Play hide-and-seek!” cried Templeton, clapping his hands. “Daddy always plays that with us at night. HM always hides in the cupboard under the kitchen sink, but you have to pretend you don’t know he’s there for a while. Look for me and BA first, okay? Count to twenty! Well? Close your eyes, Rod!”

  “Hide-and-seek is a little childish for someone of my age,” said Rod, crossing his arms.

  “Well, it isn’t too childish for my daddy,” replied Templeton. “Would you like to hide? I can count, and you can hide. I can count to one hundred!”

  “No, no,” sighed Rod, letting out a deep sigh. “I’ll count to twenty.”

  Templeton scrambled up the stairs to the second story, and HM sped directly to the kitchen. BA started for the front door but stopped and pointed at Rod, “Close your eyes and no peeking!”

***

  The afternoon passed reasonably well with no significant problems. Rod found all three boys instantly and then insisted they do something a little more mature. This proposition ended with the brothers playing tag on the lawn while Rod sat on the porch and watched. At promptly five-thirty, he announced it was time for supper and herded the boys inside with orders to go directly to the bathroom and wash up.

  The boys joined Rod in the kitchen after scrubbing their hands and faces and found him setting the table quite formally while a pot sat over the flame on the stove.

  “What are you baking, Rod?” asked BA, his stomach growling loudly in anticipation.

  “He isn’t baking, BA,” said Templeton. “He’s cooking. What are you cooking, Rod?”

  “I am heating stew for supper,” replied Rod, placing a bowl at HM’s seat.

  “Yeah, that’s what we normally have,” nodded Templeton. “Daddy don’t know how to make much of anything else but stew and soup. But he normally has some meat and vegetables, too.”

  “This stew has all of those things in it,” replied Rod. “It is beef and vegetable stew. My mother sent it over.”

  “You didn’t have it when you came in,” observed Templeton.

  “Templeton, please put these glasses beside each bowl,” said Rod, handing the boy two water glasses. “No, the stew was in a jar in the basket of my bicycle. BA, would you please take these glasses and place them beside the bowls Templeton does not get? What is the little one’s name?” He nodded to HM.

  “HM,” said Templeton.

  “Why doesn’t he speak?” asked Rod, ladling up some stew to check the warmth.

  Templeton set down the second glass and scrunched his nose, looking at HM, “I dunno. I mean, he does speak. I dunno why he hasn’t speaked tonight.”

  “Spoken,” corrected Rod. “So you mean he normally does?”

  “Yeah,” nodded Templeton. “Hey, HM, say something.”

  HM looked at Rod blankly and didn’t move. The teenager shrugged and turned off the stove. “Well, HM can make his own choices, I suppose,” he said. “Everyone, take your seats at the table. Templeton, would you please carry this pitcher of water over? Careful, don’t spill it. I’ll get the stew.”

  Dinner went as well as could be expected, and the four of them worked together to do the dishes and take care of the leftover stew when everyone had eaten their fill. It was nearly six-thirty, and Rod nodded in agreement when Templeton and BA begged to watch The Lone Ranger before bedtime. The little group trooped into the living room, and Templeton switched on the television. He and BA sank to the floor before it, but HM hung back as Rod settled into their father’s chair.

  “Well?” asked Rod, looking at HM, “Aren’t you going to watch the television program with your older brothers?”

  HM stared at him, placing one hand on the arm of his father’s chair and the other on his hip.

  Rod shifted and sighed, “I don’t think I’m wrong in guessing that you enjoy this program. Most young boys do. It is an entertaining show, and I enjoyed it myself when it first aired on television. Why don’t you go and sit with the others instead of lingering next to me all evening?”

  HM reached out rather suddenly and placed the palm of his tiny hand on Rod’s cheek. The teenager instantly stiffened and backed up, scrunching up against the far side of the chair. “What on earth are you doing, HM?” he asked.

  “Don’t mind him,” said Templeton, turning slightly but not taking his eyes off the screen. “He’s a little weird, but it’s mostly harmless as long as his tongue stays in his mouth.”

  “Yes, the no licking rule,” nodded Rod, suddenly coming to terms with the fact that perhaps that rule was a little more necessary than he had initially anticipated. “Remember that, HM, no licking.”

  HM came around and patted Rod’s left knee, looking still rather blankly up at the teen.

  “What?” asked Rod. “Do you want to sit on my lap?”

  “Henry Maximillian always sits on Daddy’s lap when we watch The Lone Ranger until the exciting parts come on, and then he yells and runs around the room,” said Templeton, not even bothering to turn this time as he stared at the screen.

  “Who is Henry Maximillian?” asked Rod, pressing against the back of the chair in discomfort as HM had left his hand resting on Rod’s knee, and it was somewhat disconcerting to the older boy.

  “HM,” said BA and Templeton in unison.

  “Oh, I see,” nodded Rod. “HM is your initials. Well, I suppose you can sit on my lap. Come on.” He lifted HM and settled him down, letting his left arm droop over the little boy’s shoulder. “Is that alright?” he asked.

  HM snuggled close, draping one leg over the edge of the chair while pressing his back against Rod’s side. Rod assumed HM was comfortable enough since the boy provided no other answer, and all four boys turned their attention to the cowboys thundering across the screen.

  Apart from Templeton's dramatic monologues during the program's cliché moments, the half-hour was silent as everyone sat entranced in the script's magic. But what no one noticed was that HM managed to move himself inch by inch until he was eventually kneeling beside Rod on the oversized chair, his face parallel to the older boy’s. Rod, who would never admit that a television program enamored him, hardly noticed HM’s slight movements. The episode was in its last moments now, and the final few lines delivered when without warning, HM leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Rod’s neck, pressing a wet, full-mouth kiss against the teenager’s left cheek.

  “Hey!” yelled Rod, wanting to move but finding himself frozen in place. “What is he doing? Templeton!”

  Templeton spun around and groaned, “HM! Get off of him. Daddy said no licking!”

  “I weren’t licking!” yelled HM, leaning back and climbing down from the chair. “I didn’t even touch him with my tongue!”

  “Why…what…why would you…” Rod scrambled to his feet, naturally wanting to rub the moisture from his cheek but hating the thought of touching it with his hands. “Excuse me!” he said, dashing toward the kitchen to wash his face.

  “HM, why’d you do that?” moaned Templeton, slapping his forehead. “Daddy said you weren’t to lick.”

  “I said I didn’t lick!” yelled HM, jumping up and down. “I kissed! I kissed!”

  “Daddy said no yelling,” said BA, leaning forward to switch off the television and then rising to his feet and turning to face his little brother.

  “Ain’t yelling!” yelled HM. “Ain’t licking and ain’t yelling! I’m just egernizing!”

  “Egernizing?” said Templeton, wrinkling his nose. “Energy? You have energy?”

  “Lots!” shrieked HM, suddenly breaking into a heavy run and dashing across the room, stopping inches from the door merely to spin in a circle and tear toward the opposite wall. It was a wild, speeding HM that Rod grabbed by the shirt as he returned from the kitchen, a look of horror and sternness on his face.

  “We will have no running, young man!” he said, his voice deep and matter-of-fact. “I think we will all be going upstairs now and preparing for bed.”

  “Will you read George!” yelled HM, wrapping his arms around Rod’s leg and sliding down, so he sat on the teen’s foot.

  “HM, stand up right now and walk up the stairs like the young man you are,” ordered Rod. “Read you what?”

  “George,” said Templeton. “George is a monkey. His name is Curious. Daddy reads it every night.”

  “How can his name be George and Curious?” asked Rod. “I know what book you mean. His name is George, and he is curious about things. Hence ‘Curious George.’”

  “Yeah,” nodded Templeton, starting up the stairs. “See, you just said it. His name is Curious George. Come on, BA and HM. We gotta brush our teeth.”

  BA and HM took each other’s hands and started up the stairs behind their big brother, talking amongst themselves about how silly Rod was for not knowing George’s name was Curious. It was an irritated and impatient babysitter that followed close behind.

  Bedtime went surprisingly well, with only a short incident of HM trying to put on BA’s nightshirt while BA was wearing it. But after reading Curious George and tucking each boy in, Rod finally let out a sigh of relief and turned off the second story lights before heading down to await John’s return.

  The teenager was sitting on the porch when John came up the front walk, whistling a happy tune and a noticeable spring in his step. It had been a long time since he’d kissed a pretty girl goodnight, and to say Mandy was the one who initiated the kiss was an understatement. He’d barely opened her front door for her before her arms were around his neck, and they were locked in a passionate kiss. John grinned and leaped onto the porch, forgoing the steps all together. Yes, he certainly felt good tonight.

  “Hiya, Roddy, how’d it go, pal?” he asked, slapping the boy’s shoulder.

  “Yes, well,” nodded Rod, rising to his feet and offering his hand to shake John’s. “The evening went fairly smoothly. They are all in bed now. Nothing brought itself about that I couldn’t handle. The youngest is a bit odd, isn’t he?”

  “HM?” asked John. “Oh, he’s not odd. He’s fantastic. Say, Rod, thanks again for watching them tonight. Here ya go, bud.” He slid a dollar into Rod’s left hand while shaking his right. “Say, I’ll see you around, kid. Tell your mom I said thanks for the offer! Goodnight, Rod!” And with that, John strode into the house, whistling quietly so as not to wake the boys.

  Rod stood staring at the dollar in his hand and slowly letting the realization wash over him that he was free to go home now and escape this hellhole that was babysitting little children. “I don’t know why,” he said out loud to no one in particular, “but I have the horrible feeling that I’m never going to escape the shadow of this family. I can’t explain it, but something tells me they are going to be a thorn in my side for a long, long time.”

Chapter Text

   October 1949

“We need vinegar and – uh, sour cream.”

  “HM, don’t be silly. We don’t need vinegar and sour cream for cookies. Haven’t you ever baked cookies before?” asked Templeton, setting a mixing spoon on the counter.

  “No,” replied HM. “I’m fwee.”

  “I baked cookies when I was three,” replied Templeton smugly.

  “Did you really, Temp?” asked John, setting a mixing bowl and flour beside the spoon.

  “I don’t know,” shrugged Templeton, distracted as he observed BA carry the basket of eggs to the counter. “Why did BA get to get the eggs out? I wanted to.”

  “You can put them away,” promised John, putting a small pot on the stove. “We can melt the butter in this.” John picked up HM and set him on the counter beside the mixing bowl, “Are you excited to bake some cookies, buddy?”

  “Stevie is gonna bake cookies,” said HM, picking up the mixing spoon and tapping it against his head.

   John chuckled, “And who is Stevie?” He was used to HM’s make-believe friends, but Stevie was a new one.

  “Stevie,” said HM, pointing at Templeton.

 “I’m not Stevie!” said Templeton, looking very put-out. “I’m Templeton.”

  “Stevie Templeton,” HM whispered, just loud enough for Templeton to hear.

  “Daddy!” whined Templeton, looking very stressed and anxious over HM’s innocent teasing.

  “Alright, HM,” chuckled John, “let’s call Temp by his real name, okay? Would you like to help me put the flour into the bowl?”

  This venture concluded with HM wholly covered in flour and not an inch of the counter or floor clean. “Snow angel!” laughed HM, lying backward on the counter and moving his arms up and down. BA and Templeton laughed, jumping up and down in the flour covering the ground, and John focused on saving the three cups that had made it to the bowl from spilling.

  The rest of the ingredients managed to make it into the bowl, though BA ate more than a handful of chocolate chips along the way, and then the cookies were in the oven, baking to a golden brown.

  “Alright, we have got a mess to clean up,” giggled John, setting HM on the floor and stepping back to survey the kitchen. Not only did flour cover every open surface, but an egg that HM had dropped was dripping down a cabinet. There were chocolate chips under the base cupboards, and someone had managed to cover their hands in butter and make handprints on the refrigerator.

  “Bath time?” asked BA.

  “Bath time,” confirmed John.

  Flour footprints appeared through the house and up the stairs, and then all three little boys were splashing and laughing in the tub, blowing handfuls of bubbles at their father and splashing as much water as they could onto the floor.

  “Alright, everyone tries to wash their hair while I go take the cookies out of the oven,” ordered John, handing a bar of soap to Templeton.

  John left, and Templeton began to rub the soap against his hair, creating a lather. “We gotta make ourselves all clean, so Daddy is proud,” he said. The soap slipped from his hands and splashed into the water. “Oh, no!” he said. All three boys began feeling through the water for the soap, and as they searched, water sloshed over the edge of the tub flooding the floor and mixing with the flour to create a pasty mess.

  “I’m back!” announced John, appearing a few minutes later. “Did everyone get all cle…oh, boy. Well, the kitchen is clean. Guess we might as well deal with the bathroom while we’re at it. Here, let’s finish washing you three up, and then I can deal with this flood.”

  “I washed my hair, Daddy,” said HM, grinning broadly. Blotches of wet flour dotted his tangled hair, and some dripped down his face.

  John laughed, “Good job, HM. I’ll just finish it up for you.”

  So, bath time finished up, and John told three clean little boys to sit on the floor in HM and BA’s room, wrapped in towels, while he dried out the bathroom. The cookies downstairs were tempting to the little trio, but they were obedient and sat still, shivering as they waited for their father. As soon as the bathroom was clean, John dressed the boys, and then they all trooped downstairs to enjoy some warm cookies.

  As they sat at the table, dipping their treats into glasses of milk, HM said, “Stevie would love a cookie.”

  “There is no Stevie,” snapped Templeton.

  “Don’t say that,” hissed HM. “Daddy will give another cookie if he thinks Stevie wants one!”

  John, placing the rest of the cookies into a jar in the kitchen, watched with amusement as the boys talked in low tones across the room.

  Templeton seemed to consider this for a minute, then he sighed, “Okay, I’ll be Stevie for a cookie.”

  “Daddy!” screeched HM. “Stevie wants a cookie!”

  John chuckled, “How about one more cookie for each Smith boy, and Stevie can have a cookie some other time.”

  “Yeah, good plan,” nodded Templeton.

  “And more milk,” said BA, setting down his now empty glass.

  “We should make cookies evewy day,” said HM, licking his milk mustache. “It’s fun.”

  “And exhausting,” sighed John, handing each boy a cookie and settling onto a chair. “But you’re right, HM, it is fun. You boys make it fun.”

  “Mostly Stevie,” said HM, pointing at Templeton.

  “I’m not Stevie!” yelled Templeton, kicking his foot against the table.

   John leaned back, sighing deeply and then breaking into a light chuckle as the boys argued. Another day, another exciting adventure with his boys. He wouldn’t change it for the world.