Summary: In the final entry of three short stories, can the Cartwright hayloft provide poor Hoss with the comfort and understanding he needs to deal with the humiliation and shame he feels after being teased by unkind classmates?

Rating: K/G (3,401 words)

THE LOFT  #3

Fais dodo, Joseph, mon p’tit frère
Fais dodo, t’auras du lolo
Maman est en haut
Qui fait du gâteau
Papa est en bas
Qui fait du chocolat
Fais dodo, Joseph, mon p’tit frère
Fais dodo, t’auras du lolo

Marie Cartwright sang softly as her four-year-old shifted uncomfortably in bed, suffering from the stuffy-nosed miseries of a late summer cold. Her cool hand soothed his hot cheek, and finally, mouth dropped open in order to breathe, her little man, her poor sweet petit Joseph, dozed off for a late afternoon nap.  Smiling in relief, the tired mother rose to her feet, glancing out the window at the slanting sunbeams.  It was very late, she frowned.  Where was Hoss?

She quietly slipped out of Joe’s room leaving the door ajar and quietly padded down the stairs to the great room, listening for the sound of her middle son’s voice. By this time of day, Hoss, ten years old, should have been home from school, dropped off his books, and visited the kitchen for Hop Sing, the Cartwright factotum, to provide his afternoon snack of milk and cookies before heading out to do his afternoon chores.  But while she’d heard his horse enter the yard when calming a fussy and feverish Little Joe, Marie never heard the door open, nor his voice with his usual “Mama!  I’m home!” And it was easily an hour since she’d heard him arrive in the yard.

She entered the kitchen to see the plate of cookies and glass of milk still waiting on the table.  Eyebrow raised, she glanced at Hop Sing who looked back at her meaningfully.

“L’il boy no come in.  No have milk.  No have cookies.  Think him sick, too?” he asked quietly.

“I do not know, Hop Sing,” she answered, a little worriedly.

“I pour milk back in jug… stay fresh.”  The Chinese man glanced toward the door.  “Must be in barn.”

She nodded, biting her lip as she thought of her little one upstairs.  Then she firmed her lips.  Hoss was her little one, too, and something clearly was wrong.  “I have left Joseph asleep upstairs.  Will you please listen for him? I must see to Hoss.”

The man’s eyes widened, looking at her dress. “You go barn in pretty frock?”

‘ “I go barn’ to see my son,” she said grimly, grabbing her shawl from the hook and left by the kitchen door.

There had been no need to open the great, creaking barn doors as Hoss had left them ajar when he walked his pony in. Marie was so tiny, she was able to slip through the open space with barely a sound.  Hoss’ mount, Calico, was untacked and in his stall, so he’d not been so out of sorts as to not care for his animal, something Marie couldn’t imagine the boy doing unless he was dropping from a mortal wound.

But there was a wound.  She could hear the piteous sobbing, above her.  The hayloft.  She closed her eyes in sadness.  She’d hoped today would be better for her poor boy, but clearly it had not been.

This was Hoss’ first year of attending school without his big brother and champion there to support him.  Now a tall, strapping young man of nearly seventeen, Adam worked alongside his father and the rest of the hands on the ranch while doing some solitary evening study in the classics in preparation to compete for a scholarship to an eastern university.  He had every hope of being able to head east the following fall to begin study.  As long as Adam had been there with Hoss, he had been able to provide something of a buffer between some of the more thoughtless and unkind children and his gentle, sweet-tempered little brother.  For there was a grave and marked difference between the two older Cartwright boys. School had been an exciting adventure for Adam.  For Hoss, it was a brutal trial.

For anyone who didn’t bother to take the time to get to know and understand him, one could perceive Erik “Hoss” Cartwright – big, gentle and sunny-natured – as being deficient in some way.  But he was not. His father knew his middle boy had a capable mind, could problem-solve, and had a remarkable grasp of the natural world.  But the world inside a classroom could have been a foreign country as far as Hoss was concerned, just as alien and unnavigable.

In his very first year of school, the youngster had struggled with his letters and numbers, often having trouble recognizing the shapes of letters and numbers, reversing their orientation, or their positions, making reading a struggle, and arithmetic an even greater challenge. As he grew older, he had trouble retaining things he’d read just moments before but could recall perfectly a story he’d heard years ago.  It had taken some pretty earnest entreaties on Adam’s part to make his father understand that it wasn’t true that Hoss was ‘just not trying hard enough!’

“Mr. Rathburn said there just are some people who have trouble with learning, the same way Hoss does,” Adam had insisted, willing to risk his father’s ire on behalf of his little brother.  “Pa, he’s truly trying as hard as he can.  And when we all read to him he does better, you know he does.  Hearing things seems to help him… I don’t know, organize things in his head better. School is just never going to be either easy or fun for Hoss like it was for me.”

After some serious heart-to-hearts with the boy, as well as a chat with the schoolmaster, Edward Rathburn, a somewhat chastened Ben had realized the truth of Adam’s words. He and Marie did some serious talking and made the decision that as long as Hoss did his very best, they wouldn’t fuss at him about his grades.

“We’ll give you all the help we possibly can, but I expect you to do your own work and to do your best, son,” said Ben gently, but firmly, as he sat in his chair, a worried and scared Hoss standing between his knees, fearing he’d be punished for his poor grades.  Ben tipped up Hoss’ chin, making the little boy look him straight in the eye.  “Mr. Rathburn tells me he sees that you’re trying hard, and if you continue to put in the effort, you should be able to move on to the next group at the end of the school year. I don’t care if your scores are higher or lower than anyone else’s.  I care if my boy is giving it all he’s got.  If you are, then we’ll say no more.  Agreed?”

Hoss’ face had crumpled then, and he had thrown his arms around his father’s neck, shuddering in relief, making Marie wince in pain for him. Ben, too, looked at her sadly while held him close, stroking his son’s back in reassurance and comfort.

These first few days at school without his older brother had been terribly hard for the boy.  Ben and Marie watched their sunny, cheerful little fellow turn into a withdrawn, unhappy boy.  And now this…whatever this was, Marie thought.

Marie glanced at the ladder leading to the loft and bit her lip.  She knew that the loft was a sacrosanct place to the boys.  For Adam, it had been his haven, his bolt hole, when disagreements with the family or worries and concerns made him need solitude.

But this was Hoss.

Making up her mind, Marie nodded her head grimly and with her skirt gripped in one hand, began the ascent up to the platform.

Sure enough, the little boy was sprawled on the hay, face down, his face buried in his crossed arms, and crying, more softly now.  “Go ‘way.”

“Ah, tss tss, mon fils, do not tell Mama to go away, for I will not.” It could have been a scolding, but her words were spoken so tenderly.  Arranging her skirts around her, she sat beside him and stroked his hair and then his back in slow, soothing circles.

For a while she simply comforted him, waiting patiently for him to cry himself out.  Finally, hiccupping, the little fellow miserably dragged himself to sit up.

“I love you, mon petit,” she said gently, cuddling him closer to her.

“Don’ know why,” he mourned softly. “Ain’t nothin’ to love.”

Marie winced.  “This is a sad thing to say, my Hoss.  Who has said this to you?”

The boy merely shook his head, wearily leaning into her side.

“Mama, why did God make me so big, slow an’ stupid?”

This she could not permit.  She firmly sat up and pulled him to sit upright as well.  “Erik Cartwright!  You are not slow and stupid!”

Two fat tears welled in his beautiful blue eyes. “Mama, I can’t keep up with the other kids at school.  They make fun o’ me and they’re right!  I’m stupid!” he cried, angrily.

“Are you?” she demanded. “This is the little boy who stopped me from gathering a fungus with the poison in it for the kitchen! I, a grown woman and an accomplished gourmet, came this close to making the whole family very ill.” She held her right thumb and forefinger almost touching together, an eyebrow arched at him. “Am I stupid, then, mon fils?”

“No, Mama, o’ course not!” Hoss protested, aghast. “You just didn’t know!”

“Oui, exactement!  But you did.” she nodded emphatically, then reached over gently and tickled his tummy, making him giggle. “And this boy in front of me.  He is so stupid … how then is it that he knows exactly what to do when son petit frère cuts his hand while the Papa and Mama are away and the older brother, too, is working in the barn? Eight years old, and knows exactly how to both calm an injured two-year-old and what do to for the cut until help could arrive? Stupide?! Bah!”

Startled, he stared at her.

Tenderly, she cupped his cheek and gazed into his big blue eyes.  “Oh, my darling son… you are not stupid.  You are wise beyond your years in knowing the natural world.  Your Papa, he has said to me that you now, at ten years of age, know weather sign as well or better than he does.  Ten!  And you know what must be done at each time of the year here on the ranch in order for the year to be a good one. What to plant.  What jobs must be done when.  Moi, so much I have to learn!  But you? Already you know!”

Hoss sat back a moment, thinking about that.

“And slow? Oui, you are slow.” Her bell-like laughter rang through the loft at his expression of betrayal, and leaned forward and touched a finger to his nose.  “Oui… you are slow to anger.  You are slow to hate.  You are slow to judge other people.  Non, mon fils,” she smiled, stroking his hair, “ you are neither stupid nor slow.”

“I sure am big and clumsy, though,” he sighed dejectedly.

Marie pondered that.  “Clumsy? Oh, mais non, Hoss!  I have seen you ever so gently cup a tiny puppy in your hands and never harm them!  The clumsy, it only happens when you are feeling mal à l’aise.” At his look of confusion, she frowned struggling for the words in English.  “Self… self-conscious! That is it.  When you are nervous and not at ease with yourself, that is the only time you are clumsy, my Hoss.  And that is very normal for the young boy growing up.  Do you remember a few years ago, when Adam turned perhaps thirteen or fourteen, and suddenly, ou la la! His hands and feet, they grew so much, and his arms and legs grew so long and he was so awkward and clumsy? Like the young colt, oui?”

Hoss thought about it and nodded. He remembered the usually graceful Adam spending a lot of time tripping over his own feet, knocking things over, accidentally breaking things and getting upset with himself and frustrated.  But Pa seemed more patient than usual, just putting an arm around his shoulders and telling him, real calm, to just take a deep breath and relax, and slow down.

“These are normal times in a young man’s life.  You will outgrow it, I promise you.  And as far as being so big…”  She bit her lip.  “Well, Joseph is smaller.  It is likely he will never be as tall as Adam, much less you.  Perhaps … Perhaps God meant for you to be there to help him as he grows to find himself?”

This was a novel idea to the little boy and he thought about that, being there to balance out his little brother’s size.  Then he remembered the name calling and teasing of today once more and he sighed.

“Why can everyone else learn faster’n better’n me?” he asked sadly, bringing his sleeve across his damp eyes.

“Because le bon Dieu, He did not make everyone the same, chère.”  She tipped her head to the side.  “I imagine you believe it would be much easier to be like everyone else.  But I am glad you are not.  I would miss my gentle, kind Hoss. And I certainly would not like you to be like these children who say such hurtful things to you.  It is other children, oui?”

He nodded glumly.

She narrowed her eyes, and then sighed.  “These children… they did not dare to say these things when Adam was there, did they?  They are a little older?”

“Yes’m. They said ’em, but not if they thought he’d hear,” Hoss muttered.

She nodded then and reached for both of his hands and clasped them. “I am so very sorry you are being bullied, mon petit.  I wish it were not so.  But we, all of us, have hard things we must bear in this life.  I think… perhaps you might want to think about what it is they feel they must bear?”

Frowning, he tipped his head to the side.  “What’cha mean, Mama?”

“They must be very unhappy children if they feel they must be cruel and unkind to someone else into order to feel better themselves, I think.”

Hoss sat back, thinking.  Marcella Witherspoon and Jake Bond were­­­ the worst two of his tormentors and he knew Marcella’s Ma had died last year, and her Pa wasn’t home much, leavin’ her to have to care for her little sisters.  She’d also set her cap for Adam, and he didn’t pay her the least never mind, and that made her mad.  As for Jake… Hoss knew for a fact that Mr. Bond tended to come down much harder on his three boys — of whom Jake was the oldest — than Pa tended to on him and his brothers, an’ that was sayin’ something.

“Yes’m, mebbe so,” he said quietly, suddenly seeing his tormentors in a very different light.  “So, whaddo I do when they pick on me?  I know I ain’t supposed to fight ‘em…”

“Oui, that is so. The fighting, it is not acceptable,” Marie agreed sitting beside him and thinking.  “You might ask them why they are feeling so hateful.  It might do nothing. It may not help at all.  But perhaps, just perhaps, you might make a friend.”

“You know,” she said gently, tipping his chin up and making him meet her eyes, “your Papa and I are so proud of how hard you have been working.  There is nothing wrong with making mistakes, mon enfant.  In fact, that is what childhood is for.  It is how we learn.  With every mistake we make we come closer and closer to getting better at what we wish to learn. After all, no one goes to school already knowing everything, do they?”

‘Cept maybe Adam, Hoss sighed to himself. “Mebbe not, Mama, but it sure feels like ever’body else knows more’n me.”

She tipped her head to the side.  Lying to him would do him no favor.  She sighed and nodded. “On some things, perhaps so.  But you know more than they do about things as well.  You know how to help a colicky baby, do you not?  Do they?” she teased.

Surprised, he looked up at her and offered his sweet gap-toothed grin.  It was true.  When poor Little Joe was a newborn, he went through an awful period of screaming his head off in the late afternoons with bellyache, and Pa, Mama and Adam were at their wits’ end to make him comfortable. One evening they let Hoss sit on the settee to hold him. He had heard Pa tell Adam that Doc Martin said Little Joe suffered from colic.  Hoss remembered Pa saying that colic in horses was about bellyache, so he’d tried resting Joe across his lap on his tummy, gently jiggling his knees and patting his tiny, diapered bottom.  Somehow, the six-year-old had hit on exactly the right way to ease the poor little mite’s misery, making him belch like a drunken miner down at Dutch Pete’s. The screams immediately calmed to whimpers, and Joe tiredly dropped off to sleep much to the others’ astonishment.

She stroked his cheek, grateful to see a smile on his face again.  “While this time is very hard for you, mon fils, I am also proud that you will be able to show your baby brother what it means to not give up.”

Hoss’ chin came up then, firmed.  “Cartwrights never give up,” he said stoutly.

“Oui, c’est vrai,” she nodded.  “But with Adam gone to college, you will be the big brother.  It will be your task to show Joseph how to be a Cartwright, n’est-ce pas?”

In wonder, Hoss thought about that.  You will be the big brother.   But how can I ever be as good a big brother as Adam?  he worried.

Marie saw the look and kissed him.  “Non, Hoss.  You do not have to be Adam, for Joseph will have him as well.  He will need his big brother Hoss,” she said, astutely guessing what troubled him.  “You just need to be you, my sweet boy.  You are enough.  You are so special, and you love your baby brother very much.  You will be an excellent big brother for Joseph.  I believe this with all of my heart.”

“I don’t… I don’t always wanna be a disa- disappointment,” he muttered, but feeling a little better already.

“Oh, mon fils,” she said gently, her arm around him. “What is it your Papa always tells you boys, hein?”

Hoss pulled in a deep breath and could hear his Pa’s deep rumbly voice…

“Son, we don’t expect you to be perfect.  Just do your best.”

He smiled up at her and nodded.

They sat together quietly for a few moments, then Marie remembered her little one.  “Do you feel enough better to come inside and have your milk and cookies?  Hop Sing, he has been worried.”

Hoss sighed.  “I guess so, Mama,” he acknowledged putting on a brave smile… and nearly broke her heart.

“Bon.  I am so proud of you, my Hoss.  I know these are hard times, but you are a wonderful, amazing person.  A boy, a son, in whom your Papa and I are very, very proud. Always.”

They both got to their feet and approached the ladder to climb down, when suddenly Marie’s barn-inappropriate shoes slipped on the hay, her feet flying out from under her. She landed hard on her bottom, her legs shooting out, connecting violently with the top rung of the ladder knocking it away from the loft platform.

“Mama!” cried Hoss, swiftly darting forward; in one smooth movement he grabbed her arm tightly and pulled her back from the edge.

“Nom d’un nom!” she exclaimed, then shrieked in dismay as she and Hoss both watched the ladder sway out from the loft platform, seem to hover totally upright, each of them with a hand outstretched, hardly daring to breathe, wondering which way the ladder would tilt next… then watched it topple over to the barn floor.

Both Marie and Hoss groaned, then looked at each other.

“Voila!” she sighed, her eyes wide and her head tipped to the side as she extended her hands and offered a very Gallic shrug.  “So, mon fils, who is the clumsy one now?!”

Hoss ducked his head with a bashful grin and giggled.

Author’s Notes:

“Fais Dodo” is a traditional French/Creole lullabye… the lyric is traditionally “Fais dodo Colas” rather than Joseph, with Colas likely a diminutive for Nicholas, but any child’s name is usually substituted in. 🙂

My deep gratitude to AC1830 for kindly agreeing to serve to as beta.

The Loft – #1

The Loft – #2