Timmy’s father was home a few minutes, and already the shouting had started again. Just as his mother told him, Timmy slipped out through the back door. He took slow, deliberate steps. He didn’t want to disobey her.
At school, his fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Kuhlhammer, huffed and puffed when the class did something bad. Then names were put on board and checks added and even the infamous, “I swear, if you don’t knock it off, I’m going to send every one of you to the office,” might echo through the hallways. Sometimes the boys dared each other to throw spitballs in Lisa’s hair or steal all the chalk from the blackboard ledge. Timmy always accepted this challenge at school, but he behaved himself at home. His mother had enough trouble.
He walked the familiar path to the shed, unlatched the door, and stepped inside. The warm air hugged his body. Timmy closed his eyes and held his breath. He could still hear the voices in the house. Last night, as he lay in bed, he once again asked Jesus to make everything better. It was only a matter of time. “Be patient,” his mother always told him. But why was it taking so long?
He looked around the shed. Except for his bike, it was full of his father’s stuff. The lawnmower and the big green wheelbarrow filled most of the space. The weed whacker hung on the wall. The remaining room held gas tanks, shovels, rakes, electric cords, buckets, fishing poles, gloves, old newspapers, an orange plastic helmet. There were other things, as well, to which the boy couldn’t put a name or purpose. In the corner, though, his eyes spotted something the darkness almost kept hidden—his father’s axe.
Last summer, he watched his father sharpen the blade. They were chopping firewood. He remembered his father swinging the axe high in the air and the thump as it struck the logs. Sometimes the wood went flying. Then the boy would gather the pieces in the wheelbarrow and haul the wood into the backyard.
“When you get bigger,” his father promised, “I’ll let you swing the axe.”
Timmy didn’t want to chop wood. And he didn’t want to help his father. He looked at the axe. In the distance, he heard what sounded like a baby crying. He would have liked to fool himself.
Earlier that day, the school held an assembly for Fire Prevention Week. Every year the fire trucks came and the students filled the gym. The firemen talked about escape plans. They made everyone shout, “Stop, drop, and roll!” This year a fireman wore his yellow uniform, including boots, jacket, helmet, and facemask. He carried an axe and told them about breaking through doors to rescue people. They watched a movie of a firefighter saving a woman from her burning house. They even had a chance to try on the jacket.
Timmy looked at the axe in the corner. He thought one day he’d like to be a firefighter.
The boy stepped through the shed and stopped in front of the axe. He placed his right hand on the handle and lifted. The axe came away from the floor for a few seconds, but its heavy weight told him that he was still too small to swing it. “Be patient,” his mother always told him. “Good things come to those who wait.” He walked through the mess and back to his bike. He’d have to wait a little longer.
