My Friend, The Opponent: Chapter I

PART 1

Chapter I: Tommy 25 September, 1967

September had been a hot one that year for Widow Williamson of southern Attalla, Alabama. Her crops were beginning to wither away and become like dust, and with the hard work put into farming, she couldn't bear it much longer. Since Mr. Williamson had died three years ago, she was left with farming by herself. Oh, how she longed for company.

         

But that day, a miracle would come to her.

         

It was midday and poor Widow Williamson was out in her fields, tending to her crops when a loud gunshot sounded. She swore under her breath, believing it was her pesky across-the-field hunter for a neighbor shooting away at a deer, so she continued farming. Time flew by, perhaps an hour or so, and Widow Williamson was headed indoors for a break when a tiny boy came running through the fields. Even from a distance, she could see the terrible whites of his eyes. The boy, probably seven years old, ran up to Widow Williamson and hugged her.

         

"What's the matter, son?" the old widow asked.

         

Tears were leaking from the boy's eyes and staining parts of her dress. Widow Williamson took the time to observe the boy. He was mixed and had short black hair; sores dotted his skin and there was a large bruise over one of his eyes.

         

The boy sniffed and looked up at Widow Williamson. His dark eyes were ever so pitiful as he stammered, "M-my momma's d-d-dead."

         

Widow Williamson felt her heart sink in her chest. The gunshot she had heard was what had killed this little boy's mother. She bent down lower and whispered, "What's your name?"

         

The boy sobbed, "Tommy."

         

The old widow beckoned for Tommy to follow her in her house, and he followed obediently, still sniffling and sobbing.

"Do you recall what happened?" asked Widow Williamson. She was sitting in her old rocking chair, hands clasped together neatly, staring straight at Tommy.

         

She observed him. He was clutching his glass of milk she had given him as though he were trying to break it, but was too weak. He was still sniffling , but tears no longer ran down his cheeks. He tried to speak multiple times, yet words never came out. The words finally tumbled out on his fourth try.

         

"Momma and I was only tryin' to escape," he whispered hoarsely.

         

Widow Williamson had a peculiar and mysterious look creep across her face. "Escape from what?"

         

Tommy gulped another swallow of his milk. "Th-the hunters," he whispered. "There was hunters a'followin' us. We was so scared, so we just ran. While hidin' in the corn fields down yonder, Momma got shot. She was shot in the head."

         

"What did you do, Tommy, after that?"

         

"I just kept runnin'. I ran for a long time; I finally lost the hunters a quarter mile back." He jutted his thumb towards the direction of Widow Williamson's crops. "It's what Momma told me to do if she ever got shot."

         

Widow Williamson pursed her lips. "Why were you escapin' in the first place?" she asked solemnly.

         

Tommy slowly shrugged. "Momma got me up early in the mornin' an' said we was runnin'. She never said why." He held his glass out to the old widow; it was empty. He asked, "May I have some more milk?"

         

Widow Williamson murmured a yes and poured more of her cow's fresh milk into the empty glass. The mixed boy had come to watch, peeking over the countertops. At least he was more comfortable in the old widow's home.