Jack

Sometime around 1850 or so, in one of the larger cities of
Massachusetts or New York there lived a boy named Jack. He
didn’t have a last name, or a middle name. Just the one single
name, “Jack” scrawled on a wrinkled scrap of newspaper pinned to
his clean but worn baby dress. No one knew who his parents were,
where they came from or where they went to. Jack just showed up
one day, a tiny baby wrapped in an old torn blanket and lying in
a cheap wicker laundry basket on the steps of the orphanage.

Jack was a quiet baby, not given to much crying. He tried hard
to listen to the grown ups who told him what to do, and he
always followed the rules as much as he could. When he was nine
he had chocolate brown wavy hair and eyes to match. He didn’t
grow very big because there wasn’t much food to be had in the
orphanage. All the bills were paid and food bought with
donations from kind and generous townspeople, who weren’t as
kind and generous as they could have been. It didn’t help much
that the orphanage was surrounded by six foot gray stone walls
and none of the townspeople’s consciences could be pricked by
the sight of the boys’ ragged clothes and shoes tied together
with twine. So the boys in the orphanage went without more often
than not, and grew resigned to the constant gnawing in their
empty bellies.

In the winter, when the snow was thick upon the ground, the
stone walls of the orphanage felt like ice to the touch. The
boys shivered throughout the day as they did their chores, sat
in their classes, played in the dirt in the walled-in yard, or
waited in line for their meager portions of porridge at
breakfast and thin soup and black bread at dinner, and each one
shivered through the night under his single scratchy wool
blanket in the unheated dorm room. There just wasn’t enough
money to pay for extra fuel.

When December rolled around their stomach growls and shivering
grew less as the townspeople began to feel the Christmas spirit
and remember the poor, parentless boys behind those tall gray
walls. And on Christmas morning, a very special, very exciting
treat appeared at breakfast. An orange! Jack and the other boys
waited eagerly all year for this day, for this most rare of all
gifts. In fact, it was the only gift any of them had ever
received. It was prized above all things, cherished, caressed
and gazed upon with wide and sparkling eyes. Each boy saved his
single orange as long as possible, lovingly running a hand over
the smooth outer skin, feasting on its beautiful glowing color,
the one sun-bright spot in their gray lives. They each
anticipated its sweet, tangy, juicy taste for days, until the
skin began to wrinkle and dry out. Then, and only then, was the
orange peeled and each delicious bite savored to its fullest.

Jack’s quiet and gentle personality had won him many friends in
the orphanage by the time he was nine years old. They played
their own form of baseball every chance they could using a
fallen tree limb and a rock with a rag tied around it. They drew
bases in the dirt with a stick, and Jack and his buddies played
even after the snow fell. They just pushed as much of it as they
could against the walls and played anyway. The teams, the
Pirates and the Cowboys, each had ten boys, and Jack was captain
of the Cowboys. He had picked the name because he planned when
he got old enough to travel out west and become a cowboy, with
his own horse and saddle, and no one else had any better ideas
for a team name.

It was Christmas Eve on this fateful day, and the championship
game was at the bottom of its last inning. Jack and his Cowboys
were down one run. The Pirates had already made two outs on
them. It was Jack’s turn up at bat. He grabbed the tree limb
where it was leaning against the wall and sauntered up to the
plate. He tested the swing of the “bat” a few times as he let
his eyes scan the bases, trying his best to ignore the Pirate’s
catcalls and derisive comments. Every boy in the orphanage was
standing on the sidelines, their eyes riveted to Jack. The
orphanage windows winked in the sunlight above their heads. He
swallowed one last time and stepped into the batter’s box, and
nodded to the pitcher. The boy on the pitcher’s mound looked to
one side, then the other, and started his wind up. Jack kept his
eye on the pitcher’s right hand as it came around, and felt a
shiver rush through his body that had nothing whatsoever to do
with the icy wind slipping through the holes of his sweater. His
eye followed the rock-ball as it came hurtling toward him, and
he swung that bat as hard and as evenly as he could, his face
grimacing with effort. Crack! The ball soared high above the
third baseman’s head, up and up until it flew past the left
fielder. Jack pumped his legs as fast as he could. He rounded
first and headed for second at top speed, his eye trying to
follow the course of the ball. His steps slowed as he projected
the ball’s trajectory, and his heart stopped beating as he
realized what was about to happen.

The ball sailed right through a second story window. The
precious, expensive glass shattered, and shards cascaded to the
snow on the ground, like drops of fire from the sun overhead.
Not a sound was heard except the tiny tinkle of glass. Every boy
stood like a statue, immobile and incredulous. Jack stood stock
still between second and third, and beads of sweat and fear
popped out on his forehead. One by one the boys turned and
looked at him, their mouths hanging open. Jack looked from one
to the other, hardly believing what had just happened. He was
afraid to think. Every head turned as the orphanage’s front door
opened and the austere headmaster charged through and came
barreling toward them. It didn’t take him long to figure out who
was responsible for the broken window, and he hauled Jack off by
the ear, dragging him up the steps and inside. Just then the
bell was rung and all the boys silently filed into the gray
stone building.

The next day was Christmas morning. All the boys woke even
before the bell summoned them, thrilled to their toes to find
the coveted orange at the foot of their beds. All the boys,
except Jack. There was no bright shiny orange on Jack’s bed.
Just an empty gray hollow. He looked around the cavernous room
and saw the sunny round fruit cradled in each boy’s hands. The
other boys, even his best friends, his fellow Cowboys, avoided
his gaze, and talked only amongst themselves. Jack tried to
ignore their silence, tried to keep his eyes off their oranges,
but it was very hard. It seemed so unfair that this was to be
his punishment for yesterday’s broken window. It had been an
accident after all. But nothing he could say yesterday had
softened the headmaster’s heart. And so, orangeless, he dragged
through the day. He did his chores in silence, for no one would
speak to him. He walked to chapel alone, for no one would walk
by his side. He stood by himself in the yard, for no one would
play with him. Jack had never felt so miserable in his entire
life. He could endure the scant food, the thin clothing, the
snow that got in through the holes in his shoes. But he could
not bear to be without his friends. It was the greatest
punishment of all. And oh! How he wanted his orange! He could
just imagine the sweet, cold nectar slipping down his throat.
But it was not to be. Not this year.

Finally the endless, empty Christmas was over, and Jack went
alone to his bed. He hoped in his heart that he could die before
morning, so he would never have to endure such a day as this had
been. He just couldn’t face seeing all the other boys with their
precious oranges, laughing among themselves and ignoring him
even one more day. With his head buried beneath his pillow,
Jacks’ little body shook with sobs.

A soft hand on his shoulder startled Jack and he sat up. A
strange, moist object was shoved into his hands, the giver
quickly running down the aisle between the beds into the dark.
Jack felt the odd roundness of the object. It took him a moment
to figure out what it was. Not a regular, run-of-the-mill orange
was now cradled in his palms. Rather, a very special one, pieced
together from segments of nine other oranges, highly prized by
his Cowboys teammates that would now, of necessity, be eaten
this night instead of several days hence.