Life wasn't easy for the seven Bradcox children and their three young cousins, who were a part of the family. The mother, worn out and over burdened, had left them for her heavenly home. Their father, hearing of his wife's departure from this life, made the decision to do what he could for the children he had deserted ten years before. Disguised as a tramp, he went home and talked David, the oldest, into letting him live in the shed and work for his board. Uncle Pete, as the father came to be called, made life much easier for David and Rachel, who had both made commitments to the mother to keep the children together and raise them. When the Ford family moved in across the road, romance developed, and problems arose which Uncle Pete couldn't seem to solve.

The Prodigal Father

By Hazel Norris

AUTHORHOUSE

Copyright © 2008 Hazel Norris
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4389-1328-5

Chapter One

The tramp rocked back on his heels and wiped the smoke from his eyes. He realized it would do no good to move. The breeze would be blowing the smoke away in a minute. He shifted his weight to spare his bad leg and stared into the fire, deep in thought. The fish he had caught for his breakfast sizzled and sputtered in the frying pan. He stood to get the salt, before he remembered he had used the last of it yesterday. Well, maybe the bacon grease he was using to fry the fish would make it edible, but then he realized that was the last of the bacon grease. The last! Actually, he seemed to have used the last of everything. "Maybe," he thought to himself, "just maybe, it's better that way."

He stepped to the mouth of the cave he had been calling "home" for the past several months and brought out his pack. Slowly he took out the contents one by one and laid them on the flat rock he used for a table. His other shirt, worn threadbare and missing several buttons, but clean; a water jug; an old rag he used for washcloth, towel, dishcloth, and dishtowel; his bar of soap, nearly gone; a well worn map; a small mirror; a stub of a pencil - that was all.

He replaced the things in the pack and emptied his pockets. His gun? He laid it aside. He wouldn't be needing it anymore. His knife? He had had it always. Would it be safe to keep it? He decided it would. No one would remember it. His wallet had gone the way of hard use and had been replaced by an envelope. The envelope contained not a cent of money but several cards, papers, and one picture. He looked them over carefully and returned them to the envelope. The only other things his pockets contained were two papers he had found on his trip to town yesterday. He seldom did trash cans, for this tramp's taste was usually to a higher mode of living, but yesterday he had been so hungry and going down an alley he had sniffed the most delicious aroma of frying ham and fresh-baked bread. The next trashcan he came to surely must contain a scrap of something, so he decided to investigate. The first thing he pulled out was a newspaper wrapped wine bottle. The wine bottle was as dry as October's leaves, but his eye caught on the newspaper. A Springfield paper! Away out here! Now how did that - but then he saw something that made him forget everything else.

Funeral Notices

Mary Solomon Bradcox, 38, succumbed, April 20 Funeral at Steeman's Funeral Home, Tuesday 1:00 PM

The tramp had clutched the paper in his hand and stumbled on down the alley. Back at his cave he had carefully cut the notice from the paper and put it into his pocket. Now he looked at it again. Mary! Dear Mary! Dead! He slipped the clipping into the envelope with the other papers and sat holding it a moment. Then carefully he licked the envelope and sealed it. He took the stub of pencil from his pack and wrote on the envelope. Pete's identity. Do not open until after Pete's death. Then he picked up the one last paper and re-read it. It was only a child's Sunday School paper that had blown across his way. He had picked it up just for something to read. It was the story of the Prodigal Son. Now as he re-read it, the words seemed to catch in his throat and tears formed in his eyes.

I will arise and go to my father and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son; make me as one of thy hired servants. (Luke 15:18-19)

He laid the paper on top of the dying fire and ate his breakfast. Then he sat back again, deep in thought. Could he do it? Could he go back home without being recognized? Ten years he had been gone. He had been a handsome man in his youth. He took his little mirror from his pack and stared at his reflection. He had changed a lot in ten years, but had he changed enough? His dark brown hair had fallen out above his forehead and what was left had turned to gray. Strangely enough, as it turned gray, it had become wavy. His nose was much larger, due to a collision with someone's fist in a drunken brawl. He ran his fingers over his three-week growth of beard. He had always hated a beard and had had a shave every time he could beg or steal one. Now, he decided, he would just let it grow. It would cover a lot by the time he reached home.

The tramp had always heard a man was most easily recognized by his voice and his walk. He decided he would practice a lower voice all the way home. By the time he arrived there, it should be a habit. Then, too, he had no intention of spending much time in the company of anyone who would recognize his voice. He was sure his walk wouldn't be a problem, after that accident (or was it an accident?) two years ago when he fell (or was he pushed?) off a cliff. The mountaineer who had picked him up and cared for him had said he would never walk again, but soon he was hobbling around with the aid of two homemade crutches and before two months had gone by he had been able to sneak away in the night, accompanied by a goodly amount of the mountaineer's possessions. Yet, after two years he was certain his walk would scarcely resemble his walk of former days.

He replaced the mirror in his pack and said aloud in his deepest voice, "Might as well get moving. Time doesn't stand still and wait for a man." He picked up the knife and dropped it into his pocket. Then he stood looking at the gun. Should he or shouldn't he? "No," he decided. "If I am going back home I better leave the life of the last ten years out here." He considered leaving it in the cave, but no, it might fall into the wrong hands. He had best just put it in the bottom of the river. He slipped it into his pocket, took his rag of all uses, wiped out his frying pan, and put it into his pack. Then he stood looking around. Not a thing here to let anyone know Pete ever lived here. "It's better that way," he thought. "It's been that way for ten years. Go where I please, but leave no tracks." He slung his pack on his back and started down the trail leading east.

Chapter Two

The nine Bradcox children huddled in a group in the corner of Pastor Parker's conference room. No one dared sit down even though there were plenty of places available. They all loved Pastor Parker, except Billy Bob, of course. Everything ever to be said of the Bradcox children was said, "except Billy Bob," but their love of Pastor Parker didn't outweigh their anxiety as to why they were here.

Eleven-year-old Darlene pulled on David's sleeve and whispered, "Why are we here, David? Did we do something wrong?"

"I don't know, Honey," was David's reply.

"I suppose he found out about Billy Bob putting the frog in Mr. Peters' mailbox," ventured Nathan.

"No," Rachel answered, "if it had been that he would have called just Billy Bob or Billy Bob and David."

Now Darlene whispered to David, "Billy Bob is meddling in Pastor Parker's desk."

At this David caught the aforementioned Billy Bob by the shirt collar, and sat him down hard in a chair. "Can't you behave yourself five minutes?" he asked.

"Aw, you leave me alone, I wasn't touching anything. Honest," answered the sullen Billy Bob.

"I wonder why he doesn't want the little ones," Rachel mused.

David answered, "It's probably business. The little ones don't understand business."

"No," Rachel returned, "the triplets don't understand business either and they are here. Actually, if it's business, I don't see why anyone...