Light at the Rat Pond
by
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PROLOGUE
He waited. He watched. He wished he didn’t - sometimes.
He wondered why he must struggle. Hadn’t he done good? Yes. Hadn’t he done bad? Much. He knew good was right and bad was wrong, so why did he struggle with it? He felt good when he did right. And when he did bad . . . well, sometimes it felt so very good.
One thing he knew for certain, if he had a magic lamp with a genie inside who would grant only one wish, he wouldn’t wish for riches or fame or power. No, he would wish away The Bad he liked to do. But he often lied to himself.
He waited and watched, not knowing what he would do. But that was a lie.
CHAPTER 1
Before the time of Will, the Icks had already endured the cancellation of Johnny Quest in 1968, which made us furious fourth graders, so we swore off cartoons forever.
“It ain’t fair,” Stink had said.
Kenny, sullen and peeved, added, “They take off all the good ones.”
Tex, Dwight and I nodded agreement.
“We don’t need their crumby cartoons,” I said.
Defiance gleamed in the eyes of my fellow Icks. There was a collective, “Yeah!”
“I’d rather be outside anyway,” said Dwight. “Cruisin’.”
Kenny stood a little taller. “Pure quill, Dwight.”
“Racing!” Tex exclaimed.
“Double pure quill,” said Stink.
The Icks were outdoor dogs. Neither the hottest summer day or coldest winter one kept us inside - unless parents, against their saner judgment, made us stay inside.
In 1970, the year Will arrived, the ongoing war in Vietnam haunted me almost as much as Cus Lappin did. I told my mom, “I don’t want to fight in the jungle. I’m no sissy (in our 1970 Ick world a sissy was a very bad thing), but I don’t like jungle fighting.”
Mom, sipping her coffee, raised a brow, said, “You have experience fighting in the jungle?”
“No - you know what I mean. It’d be hard to see in the jungle. I could see the enemy better in a desert. Wouldn’t be as easy to sneak up on me.”
“Try not to fret about it, Jack. You’re only ten.”
“Almost eleven.” Though getting older put me closer to the draft and inevitable jungle warfare, it also put me closer to big-time freedom. And I didn’t want Mom to forget her promise of allowing me to ride on the hard road when I turned eleven.
She frowned, then brightened. “You know, you’re right. I almost forgot how old you are. Where’s my mind? I guess it would be best for you to enlist now, rather than wait to get drafted. I certainly don’t want the neighbors thinking my son is a sissy, do you?” She smiled big, blinked rapidly as she widened her green eyes. She gave me the doofus look whenever I talked or acted like one. My mom’s quirky, sometimes sarcastic, humor was a wonderful part of Katherine Hobbs.
“I’ll drive you to town right after lunch. I need to pick up some shelf paper at Kresge anyway.”
I grinned.
She held my hand, looked in my eyes. “Quit worrying about Vietnam, Jack Andrew Hobbs. It will be over before you’re out of grade school.”
I trusted Mom’s words, for she was wise enough to know when to speak the plain truth as she knew it. I know she protected me from some things, but her straightforward approach to matters, her willingness to meet controversy, worked best. “You think so?”
“Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” She knew how to zap my anxiety. She then added, “Of course by the time you’re eligible for the draft we’ll probably be fighting in a desert somewhere. So you’ll be fine.”
“Mom!”
She smiled.
“Don’t forget you said when I’m eleven I get to ride on the hard road.”
“Do you think I’m slipping into senility?”
“I don’t know. What is it?”
She tilted her head and laughed.
We lived in east central Illinois outside the city limits of Doverville, a town of fifty thousand people in 1970. My dad, Andrew Hobbs, was killed in 1961 by Floyd Lappin; I was two. Dad’s life insurance provided for most of our household expenses, but Mom still had to, and liked to, work. She taught piano, which wasn’t work to her, and had a steady flow of students. She also filled in at Son-Ray Dry Cleaners, which was a short walk across Route 150, whenever Melba Flowers’s pain was too much.
In 1970 America still made things; that’s why the Corben family moved north to Doverville from Oxley, Arkansas in May, and that’s when I met their oldest son Will. Thus began the time of Will.
Before summer’s end in 1970 the Corbens and many of us in our neighborhood would have our worlds changed forever.
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About the Book
Can the Icks’ friendship survive the unique new boy from Arkansas? How does Kate Hobbs tell her son she’s responsible for his father’s murder? Will the watching evil destroy the Icks and Kate?
In May of 1970, the world of ten-soon-to-be-eleven-year-old Jack Hobbs and his fellow Icks is about to be changed forever by the arrival of “pure quill” Will Corben, a boy unlike any they’ve ever met. Will’s steadfast, genuine faith in God makes an indelible impression upon all who meet him. From adventures at the Rat Pond, Hoboland, and the railroad tracks, to cruising the alley and baseball games at Harper’s field, Will’s presence changes things; some of the Icks don’t like the change. And nearby, evil hides. He watches. He waits. By the end of summer, that evil will have terrorized the Icks.
While the Icks are engulfed in a thrilling summer, the guilt of Kate’s haunting past taunts her, and now someone stalks her. Imminent peril looms because of what Kate’s mother calls Kate’s “deplorable indiscretion.” Kate doesn’t want to tell Jack she is responsible for his father’s murder, so she hides the truth and prepares for what’s coming alone. But no matter the cost to her, Kate will protect Jack from a relentless danger.
About the Author
Richard Newberry is a sales consultant, Bible teacher, and serves in the chaplain ministry at a St. Louis, Missouri hospital. He and his wife, Nancy, live in St. Louis, and they have four children and seven grandchildren—so far. Light at the Rat Pond is Richard’s first novel.