The Glass Village

“Mr. Kowalczyk,” Hube Hemus began a second time. “As First Selectman of Shinn Corners, I’m speakin’ for the whole community.” He swallowed. Then he went on in a rush. “I expect, Mr. Kowalczyk, we used you hard. Made a mistake.” Hemus’s jaws ground futilely. “Bad mistake,” he acknowledged.

And he stopped again.

Kowalczyk said nothing.

Hemus cried suddenly, “We’re a law-abidin’ community! Don’t ever think we ain’t! Town’s got a right to protect itself. That’s how we figgered.” Then his narrow shoulders slumped. “But I guess we went off half-cocked... went about it the wrong way. Seemed so open and shut...”

Hube Hemus stopped once more, bitterly.

Kowalczyk’s lips tightened.

“I go Cudb’ry,” he said.

“Wait!” Hemus sounded panicky. He brought his concealed hand around and thrust it at Kowalczyk. It held a purple-stained pint berry basket. ‘We’re askin’ you to accept this, Mr. Kowalczyk,” he said rapidly. “Here.”

Josef Kowalczyk stared into the basket. It was full of bills and coins.

“Here,” Hube Hemus said again, urgently.

Kowalczyk took it.

And Hemus turned away at once, and as he turned away the people of the town turned away, too. Men, women, and children went quickly back into the road, and some climbed into cars, and the Isbels climbed into the wagon behind the horses tethered at the trough, and some walked across the intersection, and soon they were all gone.

“I’ll give you your text for your sermon Sunday, Mr. Sheare,” said Judge Shinn dryly. “‘The wicked flee when no man pursueth.’”

Samuel Sheare shook his head, smiling. “Josef, don’t stand here gawpin’ at it. It’s their way of makin’ amends. A conscience offerin’.”

But Kowalczyk eyed the money sullenly.

“It’s all right, Joe,” said Johnny. “It’s an old American custom. Kick a man between the legs and then get up a collection to buy him a truss.”

A grin spread over the bearded face. Kowalczyk pressed the basket into Mr. Sheare’s astonished hand.

“You take,” he said.

And he turned and shuffled rapidly down the parsonage walk as if he were afraid the minister might come running after. He hurried up Four Corners Road and around the horse trough into Shinn Road, putting on Mr. Sheare’s hat with a sort of fussy enjoyment as he went.

“Now that’s nice,” said the minister slowly, looking down at the basket. “That’s real nice.”

They went to the intersection. Kowalczyk was already passing Fanny Adams’s house. He did not glance at it, but they noticed his steps quicken.

He began the long climb up the sun-drenched hill.

“What am I thinking of? Kowalczyk, wait!” shouted Judge Shinn. “Don’t you want me to get somebody to drive you to Cudbury?”

But Josef Kowalczyk only walked the faster. They watched him until he was a speck against the blazing eastern sky.

As he topped the rise and disappeared over Holy Hill, two cars came rushing past him and bore down the hill toward the village. They were taxicabs from Cudbury.

“What did I tell you?” chuckled the Judge. “Out-of-town reporters, and they never even looked his way.”

“What’s a tramp?” said Johnny.

“Indeed, indeed,” said the Judge absently. “Well, Mr. Sheare. Who was it remarked that only the poor know the luxury of giving?”

“A wise man,” Mr. Sheare murmured, “I’m sure. I think — yes! — I’ll use this money to keep fresh flowers on Fanny Adams’s grave. She was real fond of flowers.”

And the minister hurried smiling back across the parsonage lawn to tell his wife.

The Judge and Johnny sauntered over to the Shinn lawn and up the porch steps. They sat down in the rockers to wait for the newsmen.

“Ah, me,” said the Judge. “Fine, fine day in the making, Johnny.”

Johnny looked at the houses and the roads and the fields and the blue blue sky, and he breathed in with real pleasure.

“I’ve seen worse,” conceded Johnny Shinn.