A Grateful Heart (ONC 2023; manxman)✅

Chapter 13

If this was 2023, I would have texted a family member if I was stuck in the ER with a broken arm, but there were no cell phones and I didn't think to use a payphone. Understandably, the McDonoughs were worried when Teddy and I didn't come home for dinner. Slightly inebriated, I staggered into the house. Teddy held my waist, steadying me.

At first, Mrs. McDonough didn't notice my arm. She frowned, shaking her head with her hands on her hips. "I can see you boys have been having fun at the Worthen again. Do you know what time it is?"

"Eric broke his arm," Teddy said. "He tripped over a log."

"So the remedy for a broken arm is whiskey?"

"Relax, Mom. He was in pain."

"Well, you might as well sit down and have some soup. You boys must be hungry."

Teddy and I sat at the table while Mrs. McDonough ladled soup into two bowls. She placed them in front of us, along with crusty pieces of bread. I hadn't noticed Mr. McDonough enter the kitchen. He poured whiskey into a glass and slammed it on the table. "Here ya go! It looks like you need it."

"I don't know about that," Mrs. McDonough said. "He looks like he's already had a few."

"One more won't hurt."

Millie ran into the kitchen, gasping at my casted arm. "What happened?"

"He tripped and fell, okay?" Teddy snapped, annoyed with all the questioning. "And it didn't happen on the ice."

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"He can't feel anything right now," Teddy said.

"It doesn't hurt too much," I said, dipping the bread into the minestrone soup. "At least it's not my right arm." I'd never broken a bone before, and I picked the worst time to do it.

"Why?" Millie asked innocently.

"Because I'm left-handed."

"Miss Hoover says left-handed people work for the devil."

I laughed so hard I spit out my soup. My intoxication fueled my laughter. I'd forgotten the stigma of being left-handed. Left handed children were taught how to write with their right hands. My great uncle Bob, who attended Catholic school until the eighth grade, told me that nuns whacked children's knuckles with a ruler if they attempted to write with their left hand. He was left handed.

After dinner and a few more shots of whiskey, Teddy practically carried me up the stairs. I was never much of a heavy drinker. I occasionally enjoyed a beer or a cocktail.

Teddy stood behind me, his hands at my waist, guiding me up the ladder to the attic. He draped my arm over his shoulder, dragging me to the bed. As I lay with my face buried in the pillow, Teddy pulled off my socks and helped me out of my clothes. My limbs were like jelly. Lying beside me, he brought the covers over us. His gentle touch sent shivers down my spine as his fingertips trailed across the back of my head.

"Whatever happens, Eric, you'll always be in my heart," he said. "Every time I read Virginia Woolf and Ernest Hemingway, I'll think of you."

Teddy squeezed my shoulder, kissing my mouth. Within minutes, I was asleep.

Each day, I worked on my letter, writing a sentence or two. Teddy had already finished his letter and put it in my briefcase. He gripped my left wrist, looking hard into my eyes. "Promise me you won't read the letter until you get home."

"I promise. I'd say the same to you, but I haven't finished it yet."

"Well, you better get going. Time's running out."