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Rigby volunteered at the Red Cross-sponsored Jeep House one day each week, usually on a Wednesday that summer. Most of the time he was sent out to work in somebody’s Victory Garden as part of what they called the “weed brigade.” Now that school had started, he was only able to work on Saturdays. This day he was sent to an upscale neighborhood just off old River Road. He parked his bike and went to the back door of the big, brick home.
A white-haired woman opened the door, and he told her who he was and that Jeep House had sent him to pull weeds for her.
“Wonderful, wonderful,” she said, clapping her hands. ‘My yardman just plain disappeared.”
She led him to a small shed and handed him a long-handed hoe. “It’s more hoeing that pulling weeds now, this late in the season.” He followed her to the garden at the back of the wide lawn. It was a big one, about fifty feet wide and probably seventy or eighty feet long. There were trellises supporting many bean vines on one end and a stand of corn on the other. Leafy vegetable grew on the right and there were rows of other things such as carrots and beets on the left.
“Now,” she said with a smile, “you just go down each row and chop away at whatever you find, loosen the soil. Don’t worry about the weeds in there between things. I’ll bring you some water and check on what you’re doing after a while.” She patted his back and shuffled back toward her home.
Down each row Rigby dug and chopped, turning the hoe slightly on an angle. His hands were soon sore and his back and shoulders ached. The soil was hard, and he was sweating. He had finished about half the big garden when the old lady appeared with a glass of water and a small towel. “Looks fine,” she said as he drank. “Now I want you to get down and pick under those dratted squash plants. Things grow in there overnight, get big as hams. There a bushel basket over yonder. Put them all in there.”
Rigby crawled through the rows pulling out big green squashes and long-necked yellow ones from under the huge leaves. He soon had the basket full. He carried the basket to the back door and knocked.
“Wonderful, wonderful,” she said, “look at that. If I get down to pick, I can’t get up. I can get at the beans just fine.”
“Yes’m, anything else?” Rigby asked.
“Well, you could finish your hoeing, OK?” She smiled and pushed the basket inside with her foot.
A half-hour later she came out with another glass of water. “You’ve done a good job. Can you come back next week?”
“No ma’am, but someone will, maybe me. You just call and ask.” He handed her back the empty glass.
“I understand. Now I’ve got a bag of squash for you to take home to your mother. It’s by your bike and here, this is for you. You don’t have to tell them about it. You earned it.”
“But, but, you shouldn’t,” Rigby started and the old lady smiled and headed for her back door. It was a two-dollar bill, and he put it in his pocket.
.----.
When Rigby paid the Star distributor on the first of October, he asked, “What happened to the girl?” There was now a white-haired man making up the bundles and tossing them out of the truck.
“Joined the army, that what she did. She’s now a WAC, works over in the Pentagon, `cross the river. Comes home on weekends sometimes.” He smiled. “Got something for you.” He held out two white cards. “For doing the job for a year, a reward.”
“Thanks,” Rigby said, sticking them in his back pocket. When he finished his route and got home, he fished out the cards and saw he had two passes to a Senators’ ballgame, general admission the cards said.
At supper he asked his father if he wanted to go to a game. “Aren’t many left,” he said. “Star man gave me some passes.”
“Wouldn’t you rather take a friend?”
Rigby smiled and shook his head. “You can afford a hot dogs and stuff.”
His father laughed. “Sure, how about Saturday. We can take the bus over to Silver Spring and go right down Georgia.”
“Why not drive. It wouldn’t take much gas.”
“It’s illegal. We might get in trouble. Pleasure driving, remember?”
----.
Sunday, as he and his mother were walking home from church, Rigby said, “I think I’d like to be an altar boy.”
“You might be too old,” said his mother.
“Some high school guys do the job. We’ve seen them.”
“That’s true. I guess you could ask about it. You might have to get up early. What brought that on?”
“I don’t know, but it’s a neat job, doing stuff up there, hauling things around, and ringing those bells, wearing cassocks and stuff.”
“I think they call them chimes.”
Rigby nodded.
“And I think you’d have to learn some Latin prayers,” his mother said.
Rigby nodded again. He hadn’t thought of that, Latin. Except for the epistle and gospel readings, the whole Mass was said in Latin. But after lunch, he walked over to the old, turreted house that was used as a rectory and rang the bell. An elderly woman answered, which surprised him. She let him in and told him to wait in the parlor. The place smelled of cabbage, incense and furniture polish.
Rigby looked around at the dark furniture and the pictures of the Sacred Heart, Pope Pius and the Last Supper. The room was rather gloomy with heavy drapes at the windows. Father Sweeny came in, buttoning his vest and shook Rigby’s hand and said he was glad to see him.
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