First Payment for Doubt's Benefit

Summary:
From the book, "Break Out: Finding Freedom When You Don't Quite Fit The Mold," a modern literary memoir of 51 short stories about what it means to be presumed different.

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"There is the greatest practical benefit in making a few failures early in life."
Thomas Henry Huxley
On Medical Education

"How much are the pumpkins?" she asked in a velvety voice. Her long skirt whipped gently in the brisk fall breeze. Her innocent face and quick smile overcame the cold eyes I still remember 40 years later.

"Twenty five cents for the big ones and 15 cents for the small ones," I recited breathlessly, recalling how Eddie, my 12-year-old house brother, told those who stopped along our edge-of-town farm to buy pumpkins that October.

To my surprise, she seemed to understand the words I managed to squeeze out as the adrenaline raced through my body. I had gotten my feet to track quickly enough to go down five steps and open the front door before she had decided no one was home.

"Can I go and look at them?" she asked cheerfully.

"Sure," I replied, glad I could stay at the glass storm door and watch her pick out her pumpkins without going outside and stumbling behind her in an uneasy gait that is often one of the marks of cerebral palsy.

I was the only one home, but I didn't want Eddie to lose a sale just because he wasn't there. It was his project, and I didn't understand why he was not yet home from school. At 5:30, he was usually adding new pumpkins from the field out back to the sidewalk that led from the driveway to the house. My house mother, Pat, usually home by the time I returned from school, was shopping, and Ted, my house father, was still at work.

The breeze swirled golden leaves across the sidewalk as I watched the lady walk back and forth along the row of pumpkins. I remembered Eddie's cash box was on the kitchen table and quickly traced the steps in my mind I would have to take, without falling, if I would have to make change. She then came back to the house.

"I'll take those two," said the woman, as I reopened the door. She pointed to one larger pumpkin and one small pumpkin along the sidewalk.

"That'll be 40 cents," I said abruptly, trying to quickly show I knew what I was doing. But, I garbled the "f" sound, stuttering so badly in the rush that what came out of my mouth sounded unintelligible even to me.

"Pardon?" the woman asked briskly. Her cold, gray eyes suddenly complemented the frown on her forehead. She didn't understand.

Don't blow this, I told myself. After all, I was also 12 years old. If Eddie could sell pumpkins, I could, too. I was again short of breath.

"That'll be f-o-r-t-y cents," I repeated slowly in another choppy, breathless sentence that came out more clearly.

"Yes," she agreed. She understood and concurred. My confidence again began to bounce back from its deficit. She opened her purse.

"Do you have change?" she asked in a pleasant but strangely staccato manner.

"Yes," I answered, again imagining how long it would take for me to climb up the steps to the kitchen and come back with a fist full of change.

She handed me what I thought was a five-dollar bill. It felt crisp and new, as though it had never been folded before.

"I'll be right back," I assured her. I would be back. She need not worry. It would take some time. But, I would be back.

With the bill between my left thumb and forefinger, I climbed the five steps up to the kitchen on my hands and knees and pulled myself up to a standing position. I looked back and saw her glancing at me through the storm door.

I threw the woman's bill on the table and opened Eddie's cash box. The bills in the box, stacked neatly in a loose bundle, popped up as I opened the lid. I quickly scattered them on the table to see what he had. Lots of ones. Some fives. Some tens.

I counted out four ones, retrieved two quarters and a dime from the box and stuffed them tightly into my right fist so I could use my left hand to gingerly paw the railing as I descended the stairs to the front door, one step at a time.

My first sale. Eddie would be so proud, I thought, as I again reached the front door

I opened the storm door and, instead of counting out the bills one by one, handed her the change in one sweaty wad.

"That's four dollars and 60 cents," I managed to get out in a voice that was again short of breath.

She fingered through the bills and looked puzzled. "I gave you a 10-dollar bill," she said with authority. "I need another five."

"Oh ... I thought you gave me a five," I said with an unsure, apologetic quiver. "Let me check."

I bounced back up the steps again, asking myself how I could mistake a ten for a five. As I pulled myself up from my kneeling position at the top of the stairs, I again saw Eddie's cash scattered across the table, just as I had left it. I gathered up the fives, four in all. They were all crisp, and I couldn't recall how many there were when I took them out of the cash box.

I began to panic. You're taking too long, I told myself. She'll wonder if you're ever coming back to the front door.

I counted out three tens. Two were well worn, but one was crisp. Was that the one she had given me? It was crumpled. How could I make such a mistake?

I wished Eddie was home. He would know what to do. He would know how much cash he had on hand. I looked for a slip of paper or a note in the box to show a current total for cash on hand. Nothing.

She must be right, I told myself. I grabbed a five, scooted down the steps and threw myself off balance with my contortions upon reaching the landing. In what seemed like a fall in slow motion, I desperately reached for the storm door and caught it with my right hand knuckles just in time to avoid a belly flop in front of the lady.

"Here's your five," I heard myself say, more aware of the temporary ache in my knuckles than the lady at the door.

"Thank you, young man," she replied with a faint smile as she put the bill in her purse. She slung her purse over her shoulder and took the pumpkins -- one by one -- to her car, as I watched from the door.

I took a deep breath as she drove out of the yard -- relieved, excited and proud about making my first pumpkin sale. Though next time, I promised myself, I would pay closer attention to the business of making change.

I went back to the kitchen table, counted out the bills and change and put the money neatly back into the box with a note, which read, "October 14, 1955: $61,75."

When Eddie returned home that evening, I eagerly told him I had sold two more of his pumpkins. But, when he recounted the money in his cash box, he found himself short of what he had the night before by five dollars.

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