Disclaimer: None of the characters or events present in this work are mine. They all belong to Mildred D. Taylor, which is fine by me.
A/N: I wrote this for school originally, and though I didn't like the book, I liked this little piece I wrote, so I'm posting it here. Please review!
I Couldn't Hold Him
The cold rain drummed against the soggy ground as Stacey watched Mr. Morrison attach the final wheel to the wagon. He watched this because he did not want to have to look at the man sitting in the wagon, leg splinted and head bandaged. His fault, all of this was his fault.
Well, maybe not all his fault, Stacey reflected. Papa being shot in the head hadn't been his fault. There was nothing Stacey could have done to prevent it. Those Wallaces—Stacey was sure it must have been them, even if he hadn't seen their faces—had driven up under the cover of the pounding rain. No one had seen, no one had heard, until that shot from the gun that had grazed Papa's temple.
It was after that that things had started to become Stacey's fault. Stacey shuddered because of the cold, but mostly because of the horrid memory. Hold the reins tight on Jack; that was all he had had to do. But Jack had been skittish because of the storm, and when the gun had gone off, he had reared up. Stacey hadn't been able to hold Jack, so Jack had bounded off, drawing the wagon across Papa's leg and producing a sickening crack. Stacey had failed Papa.
Mr. Morrison's voice brought him out of his dreadful daydream. "Stacey," he said over the sound of the rain, "no need for you to get soaked out here. I'm almost done with the wheel. Go in and be with your father."
It was this that Stacey had been dreading. To come face to face with the man he looked up to so much: his father, whom he had so greatly let down. It was far more terrible than the worst of his nightmares.
"You sure you don't need help with that wheel?" Stacey asked in a hopeful voice.
"Yeah, I'm sure," said Mr. Morrison. "Now get in that wagon before you freeze where you're standing."
Reluctantly, Stacey clambered into the wagon. Lying against one side was his father, splinted and bandaged. Papa shifted, then spoke.
"Don't worry about me, son. I'll be all right."
Stacey's insides turned at the sound of Papa's voice, and he could not bring himself to look the man in the eye.
"You wouldn't have to worry as much about getting better if it wasn't for me," Stacey mumbled in a dejected voice.
"What did you say, boy?" Papa's tone was incredulous. "You blaming this on yourself?" he asked as he gestured at the splinted leg. Stacey nodded.
"Well, then, you're a fool," Papa said, taking Stacey completely by surprise. "Ain't nobody's fault but those damn Wallaces. If it wasn't for their shot, you would have held Jack fine. I don't even trust that I could have held a shying horse." At this comment, Stacey put on a bit of a smile.
"Well," he said, "I suppose it wasn't all my fault, but—"
"Wasn't your fault at all," Papa interjected. "You behaved like a man today, Stacey. A man's got to accept that sometimes, his best won't be enough. But you tried, Stacey. You tried. It was the best you could do, and it made me proud."
Now grinning even wider, Stacey asked, "Do you really mean that?"
Papa let out an exasperated sounding sigh. "If I didn't, do you really think I would waste breath on saying it?" Stacey, now smiling fully, leaned over and, careful not to disturb the splinted leg, gave his father a large hug.