Ira Whel A Short Story

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Ira Whelan. And yours?”

The despondency in his brow grew deeper. For a long time neither man spoke.

Finally the man sighed and said, “It doesn’t matter.”

But to Ira it did matter. This man puzzled him, and where he came from, Ira couldn’t put his finger on. He had the manners of a field hand or Yankee, but the look of a gentleman. Despite his blackened face, his hair was combed and his hands were smooth and callused, unlike the rifle-bearing hands of soldiers. It brought back memories of the old days, when only field hands and trashy people were callused, and rough hands were a significant problem. Ira wondered how a man in the south had no obvious connections or feelings for people could look so dejected, even for just a

Ambrose Clery stood over him, and although he was over three feet away the whiskey on his breath was strong. He grabbed Ira by the scruff of his neck and hastily tossed him to his feet. In his eyes there was a hint of sorrow. This is all so odd, Ira thought. Last night he discovered that Clery was indeed an admirable man, even if he hadn’t fought in the war. Although his words were as smooth as honey, and he was as deceiving as a snake, perhaps there was some kindness in his heart, for how else would he willingly house a member of the Confederacy. With irritation, Ira stomped to the door and waited for it to slam behind him. For a while he stood paused. However, the door did not close, and he turned his head and saw Clery standing in the door staring at him. A single tear ran down his cheek, and down his thick neck. The drunken look was gone from his eyes. Ira stood gaping for an instant. Clery opened his mouth as if to speak, but then shut it quickly. Quietly he said, “Don’t go back home.”

Ira was puzzled and frustrated. Why would this man suddenly take an interest in his affairs? “Why do you say that,