Weeds in Bloom by Robert Newton Peck Read Free Book Online Page B

parents, they’d up and disappeared years ago. Few people knew or cared how old Joe Galipo was. Perhaps not even Joe himself. Bone scrawny, he was close to my size; I was coming up ten or eleven.
    Miss Noe, the constable’s sister, would sometimes feed Joe, scrub him, burn or bury his filthy clothes, and supply him with a fresh outfit from the back-room stockpile at the Methodist church. Her brother, whenever he could collar him, escorted Joe to our school. Miss Kelly allowed Joe to sit anywhere he wanted: in winter, near the black upright woodstove, and in spring, close to thedoor. Whenever her back was turned, he ran away.
    Joe lived anywhere and everywhere, surviving any way he could. People claim he stole food, yet few could righteously object.
    He tried to keep out of sight.
    Rarely would he appear on Main Street. His home, if it could be called that, was a back alley. Joe moved in shadows, darting from one hiding place to another. Rather than being a child, he was a stray cat.
    Miss Noe claimed that Joe would talk to her. But on any rare day when he was in school, he never spoke word one.
    Joe was considered simple. People used the word
slow
. Because he was thought to be the village fool, nobody offered to adopt him, or take him inside. Time and again, Joe Galipo was chased out of barns for fear he’d stupidly light a match in the straw. In cold weather, Joe added layers and layers of clothing items around his body. When frightened, he ran, his rags flapping like broken wings.
    A few of our local youngsters were cruel to Joe, cornering him to bully. To them, it was a kind of outdoor sport. Seeing this made me angry, but I was too small to do much about it. Except yell.
    Joe Galipo never talked to me until I started giving him eats. I wouldn’t walk up to Joe and hand him anything. But once I discovered one of theplaces where he slept, behind the boarded-up old Opera House, I’d leave an apple, a raw potato, or a tin can full of fresh milk nearby, where I figured he’d find it.
    Once I found the empty milk can with a penny in it. A silent payment.
    “Thank you, Joe,” I hollered behind the Opera House. “I’m Rob.”
    I sort of guessed, or hoped, he heard me. Soon after, he let me see him and didn’t run away. He just stood in his soiled garb and stared. I smiled at him, raised my hand to a howdy, and Joe smiled back. When I tossed him a cucumber, he dropped it, stooped to retrieve it, and scurried off.
    Perhaps, I reasoned, Joe wasn’t stupid. Just silent. Maybe because he might be deaf. I was wrong. Joe Galipo could hear, and speak. He just didn’t have any cause. When I asked Miss Noe about him, she told me that Joe could talk, and was possible smarter than a lot of our other citizens. But then she explained that Joe didn’t converse with a normal voice. He had a stammer. Miss Noe thought it was because Joe was afraid.
    Joe wasn’t the only Galipo in town.
    We had two families of them, living over by the lead mill, close to the crick. The Galipo kids, both families, weren’t very friendly. And to Joe they were meaner than a sin on Sunday. His worst enemies.Miss Noe claimed they considered Joe an embarrassment, giving any other Galipo a bad name. To them, Joe was just a dirty joke.
    Years passed.
    When I was thirteen, Papa died, and we lost our farm soon after. Then there was only Mama and Aunt Carrie, and me. A good neighbor stopped by with an empty wagon. We loaded what little we had and moved into town, into two tiny rooms above a feed store. Mama found work, taking care of two elderly women. I took odd jobs. Aunt Carrie took sick.
    We squeaked by.
    As often as possible, I still sneaked food to Joe Galipo. We got to be friends. I handled most of our conversations. Joe didn’t have anything to say, but I knew he trusted me. One afternoon, Joe got roughed up by some of our local thugs. I found him in the alley, alone, curled up on the gritty ground and holding his belly like it hurt.
    “I’m your