Flowers in the Snow by Danielle Stewart Page B

Betty pushed her way right in and shoved Simpson into a kitchen chair as Winnie came barreling around the corner. “Betty, what in God’s name are you doing here? And who is this?”
    “His name’s Simpson. He’s my friend, and he’s hurt bad. He’ll bleed to death unless we fix up his arm. I couldn’t get him all the way back home, and I didn’t know what else to do. You ain’t gonna turn us out like this are you?” Betty made her face fierce and determined as Winnie’s eyes danced between her and Simpson.
    “You’re gonna be the death of me, child,” Winnie sighed. “Alma, come on out here. You need to fetch Cynthia. Tell her there’s a boy here who needs stiches.”
    When Alma rounded the corner she gasped and hid behind her mother. “That’s the boy who chased me with the bat,” she cried, clutching her mother’s apron.
    “He’s hurt bad,” Betty argued. “He doesn’t have a bat now. He couldn’t do anything to you. He can barely stand.”
    Winnie reached a hand back to comfort Alma who was shaking with fear. “You brought the boy who tried to hurt my daughter into my house, Betty? In what world does that sound like something you should do?”
    “In the world where we don’t let people die alone in the woods. Simpson told us where the other boys were that day and gave us a chance to run. He saved us both, really.” Betty looked down at Simpson, whose color was fading away, and implored him with angry eyes to speak up.
    “I wasn’t gonna hit you. I saw you there, and I chased you in a different direction away from the group I was with. I was trying to get you back over to this side of town before they had a chance to catch up. You don’t want to know what would’ve happened if you crossed their path.” Simpson’s words came slowly as he tried to muster his strength. “I couldn’t hit no little girl with a bat. There’s a lot I can’t do, just ask my pa. He’ll tell you. It’s why he beat me like this.”
    “My great grandmamma used to say the way people treat their kids is a reflection of how they feel about themselves,” Winnie offered, as she seemed to give the boy more thought.
    “If that’s true my daddy hates himself,” Simpson muttered.
    “Go on and get Cynthia,” Winnie insisted as she shook Alma off her and shoved her toward the door. “Tell her to come alone.”
    “But Mama,” Alma protested angrily.
    “He’ll be the least of your worries if you disobey me right now. Go on,” Winnie snapped, raising a threatening brow at her daughter.
    Betty used her free hand to tilt Simpson’s head back and examine the cut over his eye. “Why’d you come all this way through the woods? Why not just go to Dr. Peters? You know he’d have fixed you up.”
    “I just wanted to go out in the woods and walk and lie down.” Simpson closed his eyes and bit at his bloody lip.
    “That ain’t no plan. Lie down and what?” Betty asked, assuming he must have some kind of brain damage to be talking so dumb.
    Simpson’s stare was blank and unemotional as he explained. “Lie down and die. I just wanted to walk where no one would be looking for me and put my head on a pile of leaves and sleep forever.”
    “Simpson, that’s stupid. Why would you wanna die?” Betty let go of his arm and moved her hands angrily but remembered quickly the blood squirting from his wrist.
    “Pull some clean towels in from the clothes line,” Winnie ordered as she used her hip to bump Betty aside. She gripped the towel and held it in place, putting pressure on it.
    Betty hustled outside, yanked the towels from the line, and bolted back through the door. She didn’t want to be seen outside, and she didn’t want to miss Simpson’s explanation, because as far as she was concerned there couldn’t be one.
    “I’m gonna die anyway,” Simpson proclaimed, staring Winnie dead in the eye. “That’s how it is now. I’m either with them, or I’m against them, and if I’m against them, I’m dead. I