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JUMPING THE GUN

Allie Markwell was odd. At least, we thought so. It wasn't that she looked all that unusual. Allie was tall and skinny, but no taller and skinnier than Cindy Cotter or Amy Mars. Allie had several galaxies of freckles on her nose, but not as many as Billy Tyler. No, it wasn't her looks that made her odd.

But Allie Markwell was different. Of that, we were sure.

Most of the neighborhood kids spilled out onto the street every night after supper for kickball, stickball or a block-wide round of hide and seek.

Not Allie.

Eventually, we quit knocking on the Markwells' front door. Although both their cars were parked in the driveway each evening, no one ever answered at their house.

Allie lived next door, but we were not friends. I never understood why.

The odd thing was, we sort of started out as friends. At least, I thought so. When we were in third grade, Mrs. Kingsmyer seated us in the same row.

About the third week of school, I shared a sleeve of saltine crackers with Allie. The only reason I remember this is because we munched about a dozen saltines each and then tried to whistle. But we couldn't. Instead, we both spewed crunchy crumbs all over the classroom floor around our desks. Mrs. Kingsmyer made me and Allie stay after school and smack erasers together for nearly an hour.

The next morning, I stopped my bike outside the Markwells' house to wait for Allie, but she didn't come out.

In fact, Allie didn't show up for school that day at all. Or that whole week.

The following Monday, Allie's mother drove her to school after lunch. Allie slid behind her desk and said nothing for the rest of the afternoon.

When the afternoon recess bell rang, I invited Allie to play four-square with me and some of the other girls. She shook her head and looked away.

"She's just weird," Doris Mallock said.

"Yeah, right," Jilly Tomkins added. "Let's go."

I should have said something, but I had no idea what to say.

During Thanksgiving break, a sign appeared in the Markwells' front yard. Their house was for sale. By Christmas, they were gone. Someone said they moved into the city to be closer to their family.

Pretty soon, my friends and I forgot about Allie and the Markwells.

Decades passed. All of the neighborhood kids grew up and moved on. Probably, none of us thought of Allie again.

Then I discovered the secret of Allie Markwell.

That day in third grade, when we stayed after school for our crumbly cracker episode, Allie returned home to find her parents fighting in the kitchen. Apparently Allie's mother had screamed and thrown a china soup plate at her husband, Allie's father. With a bleeding forehead, he had escaped to the bedroom and unpacked a pistol. He returned to the kitchen and pointed the gun at his wife. They wrestled a bit, and the gun was fired. Allie's father was dead.

Nine-year-old Allie saw the whole thing.

As an adult and even a parent, hearing this story so many years later truly troubled me. How might we have treated Allie differently, if we had known what had happened in her home?

When Allie seemed to reject our friendship, why couldn't we realize how badly she must have needed it?

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Although this story is based on truth, all of the names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved. Any resemblance to real people is unintentional.

Learn more about this author, Linda Ann Nickerson.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.

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