by Kathryn Umbarger

“That one’s going to be a toughie, Derek,” Martha said, nodding toward the boy in the corner.

I was helping Martha set out the craft, but we were talking about Norman. When Norman wasn’t ignoring people, his favorite activity was snatching and throwing things. No matter who had it first: Snatch-and-Smash was Norman’s game.

My game, while my mother worked mornings as the shelter’s volunteer coordinator, was to try to make the homeless kids smile. I was pretty good at it, so I didn’t mind giving up some of my spring break to help out.

“Just give me some time,” I said with my usual confident attitude.

“His mom’s looking for a job,” Martha said, “so they’ll stay at least a month. Longer, maybe.”

A month will be plenty, I thought.

I’d start by getting to know him.

Eye-to-Eye

Norman puttered on the rug in the corner with his back to the table where the other kids cut and pasted. I eased myself closer, to see what he was doing.

He must have sensed my approach, because he suddenly smacked his creation, sending a stack of miniature logs flying. Then he got up and took three stiff steps to look into my face. I expected defiant, flashing eyes. Instead I saw two deep blue pools—empty, yet full at the same time. They took my breath away.

They confused me.

They haunted me.

Over the next few days as I led games and read stories to the other kids, my usual clowning seemed fake. My afternoons at home dragged. It felt as though all my cheerfulness had drowned in the pools of Norman’s eyes.

I turned to woodcarving. My favorite hobby had cheered me up before. I chose a block of balsa wood—light, soft and easy to carve. It felt good to guide the blade, and I quickly detailed a small figure. Somehow I wasn’t surprised when it looked like Norman.

I decided to give it to him.

He turned away when I approached, so I set it near him. “This is for you, Norman.”

He whirled, snatched it and threw it across the room. It bounced, unbroken. Later I saw it had been snapped in two.

“Too bad,” Martha said, “because I’ve seen what he does with the logs.”

“What?”

“Makes houses. Different sizes, different shapes. He uses Popsicle sticks for people. Just two.”

“Him and his mom?” I asked.

“I guess. Each time, he gently puts the sticks back in his pocket. Then—whap!—he knocks the house apart.”

“Why?”

“Because they lost their home, maybe? Or because nothing lasts for him? Who knows?”

I didn’t. But that’s when I decided how I’d get Norman to smile. As I helped Martha, I felt my old self return. I laughed with the little kids, teased and joked, and did puppet plays with their teddy bears.

Cabin Fervor

After lunch I went by the square to sketch our town’s historic Peace Cabin. I drew it from all sides and paced off its measurements. Near its door was the Historical Society’s plastic display box. Today it held a stack of yellow flyers about an auction. At the top was a photo of the Peace Cabin—just what I needed.

I went home and ran to the basement where I kept Grandpa’s old wood scraps and tools. Grandpa had been a furniture maker. I picked through a pile of oak dowels and chunks. Oak is a hardwood. “Meant to last,” Grandpa used to say.

I planned to build something to last: oak figures and an oak log cabin. A cabin Norman could build and rebuild, a scale model of the Peace Cabin.

They don’t call oak a hardwood for nothing. Just roughing out the figures gave me a blister, so I switched to log-making. From my sketch I measured and cut several dowels. Then I chiseled notches, so they’d stack like the little logs at the shelter. Finally I sanded the rough edges.

It was slow going. I worried that Norman and his mother might leave before I finished, so I confided my plan to Martha.

“Plenty of time,” she said. “That little scalawag’s mom got a job right here at the shelter.”

One by one, the logs piled up and the figures took shape. School had started again, but I wanted the cabin done right, which meant taking time.

When I visited the shelter, I discovered myself relaxing toward Norman. I quit trying little antics to get his attention, and I no longer pushed him to join the others. He still never spoke, and he continued to throw things—though not as often or as hard as before.

I hoped Norman would smile when I gave him the cabin, but I decided it would be enough if he just didn’t throw my hard work across the room. Norman’s eyes no longer haunted me. They inspired me to do my very best work. I thought about him as I oiled, rubbed and finished each piece.

At last I’d done everything but the faces of the two figures. I took a long time deciding what expressions to put on them.

It was a Saturday morning when I assembled the cabin on a piece of cardboard in Mom’s office, then carried it to Norman’s corner of the rec room.

Norman pretended a lot of things, such as he wasn’t smart or didn’t like stories or that he didn’t hear me coming, which was ridiculous because six noisy little monkeys surrounded me, chattering questions. They fell silent when I set it near him. I stood the figures in front, mother and son: on their faces, determination and hope.

“I made this for you, Norman,” I said. “You can do whatever you want with it.”

He glanced over and back, but he didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. I went to help Martha.

The cabin sat, untouched, when I left after lunch.

Something to Last

But Tuesday afternoon, the cabin was gone. Martha shrugged when I mentioned it. I felt she was hiding something.

The next day, and the next . . . nothing! Not even from Norman’s mother who now worked in the office next to Mom’s. Nobody said anything. Had he smashed it to smithereens? I could deal with that.

The week dragged.

Saturday, I poured my cereal into a bowl, dreading another day of not knowing. I felt everyone was avoiding me. I wished it were Sunday so I could avoid them, too. I was furious. All that work, all those afternoons and evenings. All I wanted was for Norman to smile. And now—nothing!

I rarely read the newspaper, but for some reason I read the headline: Historical Society Auction Raises $11,690.

I unfolded the page and saw the photo below it, a picture of a model Peace Cabin—my cabin! I read the caption. “Top seller in last night’s auction, netting $3,167, an oak scale model of the Peace Cabin made by local youth.”

What?? I thought. That cabin was supposed to be for Norman!

“Mom!” I hollered at the top of my lungs. But she’d left early, as usual.

I almost crashed my bike, I was pedaling so fast. I burst into the shelter out of breath and sweaty, and pounded down the hall toward Mom’s office.

Passing the rec room, I stopped short.

It was jammed with people. A banner hung from the ceiling, saying, “Thank You, Derek.” Everybody cheered. Martha walked out with a cake, even though it was only 9 in the morning. I was totally confused.

“Martha arranged it all for Norman,” Mom explained when I quit blubbering questions at her. “The Society got one-third of the money. Two-thirds went to Norman. Your little cabin really brought $9,500.”

My knees went all rubbery, and I struggled to find my voice. “For my little cabin? Who would pay that?”

“John Christopher Peace IV, that’s who,” Martha said. “His great-grandfather built the cabin, then died leaving a widow and young son. She started this town—”

“Norman gets how much?” I interrupted, still stunned.

“Enough to buy that little trailer over on Nickel Street,” a quiet voice spoke behind me. Norman’s mother shyly held out her hand to shake mine. “Thank you, Derek.”

I found Norman in his corner.

“Cool, Norman,” I said. “You bought your mom a house.”

For the second time our eyes locked. Fleetingly, I thought I saw the tiniest spark and at the corners of his mouth, the barest hint of a smile.

	Q: Why did the football coach walk into the telephone store? A: He needed a receiver. Jessica S., 10, Texas Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe