The Fires of Spring by James A. Michener Read Free Book Online Page A

preaching.
    When Mr. Krusen and the unpleasant young man came out into the hall, David was lounging by Door 8. “What’s he doin’ here?” the young man snapped. “He ought to be in some decent home.” And the way he said those words, “decent home,” made David hope that he never got forced into such a place.
    In the driveway below, the black car waited. Mr. Krusen hurried to it and quickly sneaked into the back seat, where he hid himself in a corner. Erma sat grimly in front, staring straight ahead. Her jaw stuck out and she was dressed in black. The engine started and David realized to his horror that Mrs. Krusen was being left behind.
    At this moment the old woman banged open the screendoor of the women’s building and rushed over to the black car. “Jonas!” she cried. “You mustn’t go away like this.”
    Her husband hid lower in the back. The driver leaned out and snarled, “Watch aht, there!” He jammed the car into reverse and continued to shout, “Watch aht!”
    “Jonas!” Mrs. Krusen implored. “Don’t let them do this!”
    “I’m comin’ for’erd!” the driver warned.
    “They don’t love you,” Mrs. Krusen wailed. “You’ll die with them. They’ll kill you, Jonas.”
    “Stahnd clear!” the driver bellowed. Three old men came forward and took Mrs. Krusen by the arms. The car gained speed and started toward the road. Erma looked straight ahead.
    In wild energy, Mrs. Krusen burst free of her reluctant captors and dashed into the roadway. Her old skirts flashed in the dust, and she seemed to fall ever forward toward the retreating car. “Jonas, Jonas!” she pleaded.
    As the car made its last turn before it was free of the wailing woman, Erma leaned out, her neck swathed in black, and hissed justification of herself: “She ain’t one of us. Dirty old whore.”
    David had not heard this word before, but the manner in which it struck across the faces of the poorhouse people lived with him for many days. But to Mrs. Krusen not even the word mattered. She made a last effort to reach the car and stumbled finally to the roadway, covered in dust.
    Luther Detwiler picked her up. David saw that even in the Dutchman’s strong arms the woman struggled and wept. Luther carried her over to the women’s porch, where Aunt Reba was waiting. “Lay her dahn!” Reba commanded with bitter contempt. Luther did so, and three old women gathered about their stricken friend, but Aunt Reba was relentless. “Let her be!” she warned. “She wasn’t married to him.”
    That night it became apparent to the men on the long hall that Old Daniel was dying. The pains that racked him had become so frequent that no man of seventy could long resist them. David, having yet had no real experience of death, could not interpret the signs, but he noticed that from the day Mrs. Krusen was left behind, Old Daniel lived and spoke with a sense of great urgency.
    When David asked, “Why was Aunt Reba so mad at Mrs. Krusen?” he replied. “Your aunt’s not a bad woman, David. It’s just that she wants to be good. And she doesn’t know how.”
    “But why does her wanting to be good make her mad at Mrs. Krusen?”
    The old man became quite eager in his explanation, and he explained the anomaly this way: “You must talk to Mrs. Krusen some time. Tell you what, David! You get up real early tomorrow morning and pick the biggest bunch of flowers you can find. Then you take them up to Mrs. Krusen’s room.”
    “Aunt Reba would beat me,” David protested.
    “So what does that matter?” the frail old man asked. “David, it’s important to you and to Mrs. Krusen both.”
    “How could it be important to me?” the boy asked, and then something in the thin face staring at him warned David that he must ask no more questions.
    Early in the morning he rose and sneaked out of the long hall. In the damp woods he collected a large bouquet of spring flowers. Joe-pye weed and violets and lilies-of-the-valley filled his arms