On My Honor

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Dedicated to my parents, Pastor and Mrs. Albert Parker, who were faithful stewards for His kingdom.

Moreover, it is required in stewards, that a man be found faithful.

                                             I Corinthians 4:2

They sought to honor and obey the Lord and His Word.

With appreciation to my sons: Daniel, David, Jonathan, Timothy and Philip, and to my son-in-law, James, for their patience, technological support and loving-kindness.

Chapter One

1923 - 1928

Lila McMahon dropped into the old pine rocker with a heartfelt sigh. It seemed like she wanted to sit more these days. She glanced briefly around the comfortable and familiar room. A thick, multi-colored, patchwork quilt covered the ancient horsehair settee, which was flanked on either side by brown, overstuffed chairs brightened with floral, knitted afghans. A huge, mahogany dish cupboard lined with blue willow dishes covered half the west wall. A crewel-worked chair stood in front of the left corner where there was a huge gouge dug by one of the few violent boys the father of all scouts, Troop-master McMahon, had brought home. Late afternoon butter-yellow sun slanted through the two tall, narrow windows that filled most of the east wall.

Lila’s quick, light blue eyes fell with mixed emotions on the various pictures of Boy Scout troops in varying degrees of repair or disrepair. All the faces shone with soap and water scrubbings and slicked back hair above them. Several citations inscribed to Ryan McMahon from the local and national Boy Scout councils stood on knick-knack shelves in places of honor.

In between the two windows was a large piece of navy blue felt, upon which Lila had, in painstaking detail, embroidered twenty insignia or badges of the Boy Scouts. This had been her gift to Ryan on the occasion of his tenth full year as a regional director.

There are a lot of memories in this room, she thought as she took her knitting from a crewel-worked carpetbag, which always stood next to her rocker. Her fingers moved deftly as she knitted a green sweater for Carlos, the sixteen-year-old her husband had brought home three weeks earlier.

The events of that night scrolled before her. She remembered watching Ryan as he took off his uniform, methodically preparing for bed. The other members of the household were already sleeping. There were three at the moment: Grandpa McMahon, Dougal, their only natural son who was paying them a brief visit, and the unknown Carlos.

She used to wonder whether they would all be murdered in their beds by these boys her husband brought home—or by one of their relatives or former cohorts. There had been about a dozen over the years. Some of them stayed a week or more; some for several months; one or two for two or three years. Sometimes the parents were ill or in prison, or still in the old country,—or, worse yet—there were no parents.

The plague, you know—or the potato famine, they were told. But she had long since realized that Troop-master McMahon and Officer Riley had a second sight about the boys that could be helped. There had only been one real disaster, in which a large, simple boy had to be taken away to the mental institute because he kept strangling small animals—puppies, kittens, bunnies—and even a lamb. Even now, she occasionally awakened, hearing the lamb’s pitiful bleating and seeing its lifeless body hanging over the barbed-wire fence. He was the one who had dug the hole in the dish cabinet. He had been under the illusion that he was digging a hole for the lamb.

Sometimes I think you’re under the illusion that you’re William D. Boyd himself. You promised me…NO MORE BOYS! We might as well have raised Tom and Fred and Calvin, to say nothing of all the scouts in and out. Never any peace. It’s no wonder Nola left! Her tones were clipped as she sat ramrod straight on her side of the bed. The crackling of her long, thick, graying, black hair seemed to emphasize her words.

Ryan McMahon took off his size ten shoe, wriggling his toes, delighting in the freedom from confinement. Deliberately, he put it in the shoe bag on the back of the closet door. The second one joined it, its patina gleaming in the glow of the kerosene lamps on the chifferobe and the table next to the carved oak bed.

How many times I gotta tell you, Ma? It was Bill Boyce that started the Scouts in the states. A limey Scout bumped into Boyce in a London peasouper and helped him find his way. I told you a thousand times, he drawled without rancor.

And how am I supposed to remember, what with you bringing home the president of the Massachusetts Council—or some boy trying to be a Moon Scout?

Star, he corrected imperturbably, taking his pajama bottoms from under the pillow and putting them on.

But she continued as though he had not interrupted, Or some waif with no parents or place to live. You promised me no more, Pa!

She pulled the brush through her hair one more time and placed it on the table with a vigorous thump.

You’ve still got quite a head of hair, Ma. He looked admiringly at her as he slid his arm into the striped pajama top. They were going to put him in a place where he would be working twelve hours a day. You wouldn’t want anyone to do that, Ma. What if he was Dougal? He’s just a lad.

Almost seventeen, she sputtered half-heartedly, the fire instantly dampened as she though of the woeful conditions in the factories where children labored with very little to eat. Pa had showed her hollow-eyed pictures from a magazine, or she would have though he was exaggerating—she wouldn’t put it past him, so she’d say they could keep whatever boy he’d brought home over the years. And don’t sweet talk me, old man! But her once lovely mouth had softened, as it always did at the mention of Dougal or Nola, their two children.

As Ryan turned out the lamps, he said, The kid’s parents died right after they got here from Portugal. He’s been mainly on the streets ever since. You wouldn’t send him back out on the streets of Boston again, would you, Lila?

That was the end of the discussion, as he had known it would be.

Lila recalled the dark eyes that had met hers belligerently, but with a hint of desperation. She had known that Carlos would have a hot temper by the flash in his eyes. Subsequent events proved her right, but she also found that he was quick to repent.

He was not, however, quick to learn to pick up after himself. She tried all the tricks that had worked with the other children. And perhaps that was the problem—he was not a child. At any rate, there was a gray sock partially under the china cabinet. She wouldn’t get up for it now—she’d wait ‘til she got up to fry the fish for dinner. Pa had promised no company tonight. They’d have a nice quiet Friday night. Maybe!

The August sun shone through the window beside her, the faded rose chintz curtains ineffectual in keeping out the heat. Lila began to feel drowsy and in a few moments, the needles and half-knitted sweater slid into the spare lap.

Father Hannigan was offering mass. The morning sun radiated through the stained glass window, outlining the Blessed Virgin. Old Abby Nolan dozed across the aisle, next to her son Patrick, with her many chins resting on her ample bosom.

In their own pew, Lila, less conspicuously than her wriggling brother Corin, cast discreet glances towards a strange young man with tawny hair. His well-shaped mouth was appropriately serious, but he clearly closed one eye in a wink.

Lila flushed scarlet, turned her head sharply, and spent the remainder of the service wondering whether she had imagined that wink or not.

That had been her first sight of Ryan McMahon, whose family had just moved to Saugus from Boston. They didn’t like living in the city. Ryan had given her a wide smile as his family came up behind hers when they were all leaving the church. Two weeks later, Corin introduced them outside the post office at Ryan’s request. Six months later, Ryan and Lila were engaged, despite much protest from Pa. Thank God that Ma had a way with Pa!

And now she and Troop-master Ryan McMahon had been married almost twenty years. It had been a good marriage, despite the fact that her easygoing, good-looking scoutmaster husband had brought home stray animals and boys.

Ma, are you sick? Nola’s unexpected and anxious voice awakened Lila, who jerked upward and out of the chair, her knitting falling to the floor. Your face is so red! And napping in the daytime! That’s not like you!

Lila’s arms went around her daughter, even as she noted that she seemed thinner and that her eyes were shadowed. Where did you come from, you blessed child? I guess I did doze off. I was dreaming of the time I met your Pa at church years ago.

Nola put her face close to her mother’s, smelling the fragrance of pine soap that always clung to her, as she always kept a bar in the drawer where she kept her underwear. Ma, you smell like home.

I hope so, Lila said briskly, holding her daughter away from her to meet the blue eyes so like her own. Why didn’t you let us know you were coming? Where’s Henry? Nola was eighteen and had been married eight months before to a young man from Maine, who had spent the previous summer with his aunt and uncle in Lynn. He and Nola had met at the movies when she had gone with her cousin. Pa didn’t like him. Ma tried to.

And now here she was and no sign of Henry. You’re the one who looks sick. What are you doing here?

Nola’s features crumpled, but before she could speak, Carlos burst into the room. Ma McMahon, you ain’t sick, are you? I don’t smell supper cookin’.

What’s all this talk about me bein’ sick? Can’t a woman take a little catnap without the world fallin’ apart? Supper will be ready in a jiffy. She looked from Carlos’ dark, anxious face to Nola’s bewildered, and then resigned expression.

Don’t tell me! Pa brought him home! How long ago? Did he rob a store? she said with mock exasperation as her eyes took in his tall and slim, but muscular frame, his dark eyes, and his curly, black hair. She was relieved to have the discussion she had to have with her mother postponed—hopefully until Pa got home.

Ma was much more excitable—although Pa would probably show a bit of excitement at her news, too.

Three weeks ago. You must be Nola. His eyes were frankly admiring.

Lila compressed her lips then said repressively, Yes, this is our daughter, Nola—Mrs. Henry Manton. She emphasized the Mrs.

They live in Maine. She turned to Nola, And this is Carlos Velasquez. Lila noted that Nola looked directly at Carlos with a hint of a smile.

She had changed. She had always been a shy girl. Carlos was smiling widely. I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Manton, he said with an exaggerated politeness.

The smile disappeared and Nola turned back to her mother, Thought Pa was done bringing home kids, with only a slight emphasis on the word kids. She was not as pleased as she thought she would be when a dark red stained his cheeks.

Then Lila surprised her daughter—and herself. She bristled, Carlos is not just any kid. He’s almost seventeen. He’s workin’ with your Pa. He’s taken a big load off his shoulders. There was something about the boys Pa brought home. They snuck up on you and became a part of your life—a part of your family.

Nola, baby, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Where’s Henry? Pa brought an outdoor woodsy smell with him. His uniform was a bit rumpled. He turned to a very small boy who was carrying a box almost as big as he was. Thanks, Amos—I mean, Dan. I appreciate your help. You’d better get home right quick.

Lila drew a long breath as he said these last words. She’d thought for a moment that Pa had brought home another boy. And she never would have been able to turn away this one. Such big, dark eyes. So tiny. Surely not big enough to be a Cub Scout.

Amos Daniel Weiss grinned admiringly at his scoutmaster, Yes, sir. He put the box down carefully and went out, slamming the door behind him.

Thought for a minute Carlos was going to have a roommate, Nola echoed her mother’s thoughts with a semi-exasperated expression as she met her father’s keen gaze.

She is definitely different, thought Lila. Come help me get dinner, Nola. Carlos, you probably want to get ready to go to the movies.

I’m ready, he replied, his eyes on Nola.

Ma and I want to talk with Nola in private, Carlos, if you’ll excuse us. We’ll be eating in about a half an hour. When Pa spoke in that tone of voice, no one argued with him—not even Ma. And he didn’t sound cross, either.

Carlos looked mutinous, but after a moment he left the room and clattered up the stairs. Before Pa or Ma could speak, Nola spoke, I’ve left Henry. And don’t try to send me back, because I won’t go. There was the same finality in her tones as had been in Pa’s.

Lila had read about people wringing their hands in the serials in the Ladies Home Companions. For the first time, she understood how they felt.

Pa said, Nola, all couples quarrel sometimes. You can stay overnight and I’ll drive you back tomorrow. Probably Henry will come after you tomorrow. He did not sound as worried as Lila knew he must feel. His only daughter—his pride and joy—running away from her husband. And how had she gotten here? Her soft, straw-colored hair was escaping its pompadour in curling tendrils. Her blue eyes were stubborn—so like her mother’s—and yet looked as though they could swim with tears momentarily.

He won’t come after me. I tell you, he won’t! Her voice was rising.

Pa, she could stay for a few days, Ma was conciliating. Something was terribly wrong. This was not their sweet, shy Nola. Maybe Henry had hurt her. But it was hard to imagine the medium-height, soft-spoken Henry raising a hand against anyone.

I’m never going back. Never! and now the tears were flowing. There’s something wrong with Henry. He never hugs or kisses me or comes near me. Her soft, rosy lips trembled, but she raised her chin with determination. Or there’s something wrong with me.

There was a silence in the room. They were all still standing. The grandfather clock chimed half past four. Lila thought it was like that scene from the play at the theater in Lynn they had gone to in June. Pa took a turn about the room, his eyebrows drawn together. Ma smoothed her apron, looked at Pa and waited for him to speak.

Finally, Ma said, Let’s get supper on the table. I’ve still got to fry the trout. Carlos is going to the movies right after supper with Joe and Charlie. You remember them, Nola—you went to school with them. Joe’s working at the dock and Charlie’s working with your father and Carlos. She sounded like she was talking to a stranger.

Pa went into the little room he used for his office and closed the door. Ma and Nola worked quietly preparing supper. Ma didn’t know what to say.

A half hour later they ate a rather solemn meal with only Carlos making conversation. He was clearly relieved to leave for the movies.

Not another word was said about Nola returning to Henry—at least that anyone knew about. They never even asked her how she had gotten home, which was a blessing, because she had ridden with an acquaintance of Henry’s who was delivering a load of furniture for someone in his family who was moving to the Boston area. Thankfully, he hadn’t tried anything, either.

Nola had never gone back to Henry Manton and he had never written or come to find her.

**********

Dan Weiss ran home as fast as he could go. He felt warmed and his heart was full of determination and eagerness. The family and all the kids might call him puny and small fry, but he was a Webelo, and he was going to earn the Arrow of Lights Award and be a Boy Scout. He was only ten, but he could be a Boy Scout. Troop-master McMahon said so, and he was about as high up in Scouts as you could get. He was more than just a Troop-master. He was on the council for the whole state of Massachusetts. He traveled everywhere.

Dan wiped his brow. Dimly, he heard a bell jingle—the ice cream man. An ice cream cup would sure taste good. He felt in his pocket for the change Mr. McMahon had given him. He never spent the money he earned—he put it in the jar at home in the kitchen for flour, oatmeal and milk. It was a jar that he had to hide from the old man—that is, Papa. Sometimes Papa gave him money, but mostly he drank it all. Mr. McMahon said that he drank because Mama died. Try not to hold it against him. He loved her very much.

Dan wanted to say, I loved her, too. In the night, he felt her loving touch—he heard her voice. Then he would awaken and she was not there. He wanted to cry. He wanted to swear, but Mr. McMahon said it wasn’t manly—that it wasn’t doing his best. So he would say the Cub Scout motto as fast as he could: I, Amos Daniel Weiss… (That was the only time he called himself Amos—or Daniel, for that matter—so it would be official. He hated the name Amos. It sounded like a man with a yamaka and a long, gray beard). …Promise to do my best to do my duty to God and country, to help other people, and to obey the Law of the Pack.

The ice cream man was only a stone’s throw away. I’ll get a Hoodsie cup to celebrate finishing my twentieth activity! he said defiantly as he joined the group around the jovial, round-faced ice cream man. He recognized most of the kids holding out their pennies.

Olivia Carson—twelve years old and a year ahead of him in school. He’d skipped a grade, because he had to get educated as fast as he could. Olivia was sister to Allen, who was a friend of his sixteen-year-old brother, Ben—and to that skinny, solemn looking boy with glasses that he always saw running in the morning.

Dan asked him one time where he was going. The slight, fourteen year-old had stopped short and looked at him like an owl blinking, Going? I’m not going anywhere. I’m just running. His face got beet red and he began running again. Dan thought he was very strange.

Papa was sober that night and at home. What do you suppose makes that Carson boy run so much, Papa?

Papa looked up from the newspaper, What’s that, Boy? He looked as though he hadn’t really seen Dan for a while.

You know—that Allen Carson that goes to the movies with Ben sometimes. He has a brother with glasses. Everyone calls him ‘four eyes’. He runs a lot. I guess he’s strange.

Papa sat forward in the old leather chair, which Dan had heard Molly say was a relict of better days when the missus were alive.

Don’t ever let me hear you talking like that! Don’t you get picked on for your size? Don’t you get called ‘Jew-boy’? Papa Weiss’ eyes snapped fire at his diminutive son. I think I heard Allen tell Ben that Bert is kind of a body builder—trying to be like Charles Atlas. Reuben Weiss held the paper in front of his face once more so Dan knew there would be no more talking that night. But at least he wasn’t drinking.

Olivia sure was pretty—much better looking than four–er, Bert. But why was she buying ice cream when her father made ice cream for the Bryant Ice Cream Company? Papa said it was the best ice cream in the East—pure cream and natural flavors—fresh strawberries and everything.

Someday, he, Mr. Amos Daniel Weiss, would have the best restaurant with the best food in the East. Mr. McMahon said you could do anything if you worked hard and persevered. He’d sell Bryant Ice Cream at his restaurant.

Olivia walked away just then with Sadie O’Meara, carrying a peach ice cream cone. Sadie’s black, tousled curls bounced as she jumped along beside her older, more staid friend, her giggles filling the air.

Sadie lived on the same side of the tracks as Dan, but Olivia didn’t seem to care. Funny, but none of the Carsons seemed to care. They all had friends on both sides of the tracks. They weren’t like a lot of the kids in Saugus. There was a boy younger than Olivia and Bert; he had lots of curly, blonde hair. Andrew was his name. He looked like a sissy, but Dan saw him fighting a bigger boy one day who had picked on Olivia. That Andrew got worked over pretty good, but he sure wasn’t a sissy.

Hey, pipsqueak, you gonna stand there all day moonin’ over Livy, or you gonna get ice cream? You better run home and take care of that café!

A thickset boy with an unruly shock of sandy hair and a belligerent expression was addressing him, My old man says your old man is drinking up all the profits.

Shut up, Lanny! What about YOUR old man? All he does is sit around in front of the barbershop. He doesn’t even work! Dan’s brown eyes flashed at his tormentor. He clenched one small fist at the end of his toothpick arm and aimed it at the other boy’s face.

Lanny (no one knew what his real name was) astonished the onlookers, who were anticipating a short-lived fight, by laughing, Y’ got spunk, kid. You’re right about my Pa, but HE don’t claim to be nobody, neither.

Oh, leave the runt alone. We’re goin’ skinny dippin’, ain’t we? Charlie looked disdainfully at the cocky little boy. He jabbed Lanny in the ribs and rolled his eyes toward the retreating backs of a group of girls.

Dan felt like swearing and spitting. Someday he’d show ‘em. Lanny hadn’t got past sixth grade. Charlie was OK sometimes. After all, didn’t someone say his last name had once been Greenbaum?

The ice cream man grinned widely at Dan as he asked, Strawberry Hoodsie? And as Dan nodded, he said, not without understanding, Y’ gotta take things as they come, Kid, or y’ll bust your gut.

Dan didn’t answer the kindly words. He liked Eph Hollister, but he was too mad to talk right now. Besides, the fun had gone out of the ice cream and he’d wasted a lot of time. He’d better get back to the diner. Who knew what was happening!

Rapidly spooning the confection with the little wooden spoon, he wiped his mouth and tossed the container into the trashcan Eph provided. At the diner they only had a container of vanilla and chocolate and he couldn’t eat it, because who knew when they’d get more and they had to have it for what few customers remained.

He pounded the remaining blocks past the neat, white houses with trees, past the tired houses needing paint, and past the yards littered with debris, ‘til he came to the Two By Two Diner. That was one thing he agreed with Papa about—it was a dumb name for a diner. It was a dumb name for anything, but he knew Mama had chosen it. He heard Papa muttering about it when he was drunk.

You were wrong, Nanette. They don’t come in two by two like the animals in the ark. They come in one by one—or one or two a day. You were right about one thing, though—they come in like animals, and they go out like animals.

The yard in front of the diner was neat. Dan mowed it and kept geraniums in the window boxes his mother had put outside the small windows. Pushing the door open, he wished his sweet-faced mother were still there. Everything was so different when she was here. Her red-gold hair shone and little curls always came loose around her face. Her eyes were soft and blue. There were always customers and lots of laughter when she was there. No wonder Papa had married her even though Grandpa and Grandma Weiss had kicked him out of the house because she was not Jewish. That was why they came from Poland to America. There were