Houston, We Have a Problem

Every Sunday, the pastor's family sat in the second row from the front directly ahead of the Joneses, who sat in the third.

There was Sister Garrett, and there was their littlest, a round and serious two-year-old named Houston, who was just about Andy's age and who had become, over a whole summer of Sundays, just about Andy's favorite person in the entire world.

Now, you have to understand that Andy loved the pastor already on principle.

Andy could spot Pastor Garrett clear across the church and point and holler, Pastor! with his whole heart every single week.

So when it turned out the pastor came with a Houston attached, a person Andy's own size, who loved the same three things Andy loves, namely balls, noise, and running, well, it was very nearly more good fortune than one small boy could be expected to bear.

The two of them conducted their entire friendship over the back of the chairs.

Andy would stand up on his seat and Houston would stand up on his, and the two of them would face each other across that chair back and share a joy that needed no words, which was convenient because between the two of them, they only had about nine words total.

Houston was a serious boy, graver than Andy, with a considering little frown occasionally, and he took the friendship seriously too.

Every service, the moment he and Sister Garrett came in, Houston would turn all the way around in his mother's arms to hunt for Andy, and Andy would light up like somebody had plugged him in.

And Sister Garrett and Mom would trade a look over the tops of the two of them, It was a good thing that friendship, which is what made the next part such a shame.

Their mothers had a system.

A cracker here, a quiet toy there, a firm hand when the joy got too loud.

It worked most services.

It did not work this one.

The trouble, as trouble so often is, was round and red.

Andy had brought his ball to church, the small red one that lived in his fist most days, and Houston saw the ball and wanted the ball, with the sudden and total wanting that only another boy can truly produce.

So he reached over the pew and took it.

Andy was, briefly, too astonished to react.

Then he reacted.

"'Mine,' said Andy, which was one of his very clearest words, and he grabbed the ball back.

Houston grabbed it again.

There was a tug.

There was a whale, possibly two whales, layered in slightly different keys.' and the red ball popped loose and bounced away under the seats, and both boys, having now lost the very thing they'd been fighting over, cried about that instead.

The ball rolled to a stop a few rows back against Brother Thompson's shoe.

He picked it up and passed it quietly to Sister Beverly, who was already halfway out of her seat toward the commotion the way she always was, and she carried it up and set it in Mom's hand with a wink.