Three Wishes

Chapter 1

That
evening, the last traces of a crimson sunset glowed behind a gloomy
setting, only to be blotted out by a fresh snowfall. The Peters’
house was up for sale, and they were moving. A petty affair it seemed
– this was West Springfield, Massachusetts. People were happy
here. This was New England; this was the United States. Nothing bad
would happen; it was just that Mr. Peters’ job required him to
do a little traveling. It was only to Arkansas. Nothing bad would
happen. They were not poor, at least.

But, oh, how it rent
their hearts to see their little green house (“second ugliest
on the street,” said Mrs. Peters) standing there so lonely and
frightened. The “For Sale” sign seemed like a cruel
sentence of death. The little family shivered in the cold. Strange
that snow was falling – white, fluffy powder – on this,
the first day of spring. But it had happened last year, too.

Vicious fate bound
them to just such coldness there in the North, but the promise of a
warm spring in Arkansas seemed hollow and dull. And so it was that
the four of them, Mr. Peters, Mrs. Peters, eleven-year-old Archie,
and their youngest, Justin; along with their little white dog Missy,
climbed into the warmth of their red Geo Prism and drove off through
the falling snow and off of Field Street forever.

Mr. Peters’
forehead began furrowing and his lips were pursed in valiantly
withheld grief. Mrs. Peters sighed and held her face in her hands,
but tears trickled down her cheeks. Archie was making every effort to
restrain buckets of tears and sobs from gushing out of his very soul,
but worriedly (and perhaps because, in temporary, blissful ignorance,
he did not entirely understand what was going on), little Justin
looked about wide-eyed and frequently asked “Why are you
crying, Mom?” or more often, “What are we doing?”
or most of all, “Where are we…moving…to?”

The rest of the
drive there got sadder and gloomier, till finally, a jolt of the car
silenced all outer grief as they stopped at the airport. The four got
out and Mr. Peters put Missy in her traveling crate. Archie was too
sad to pay attention to any of his parents’ brief conversation
with the airline agents at the ticket counter, not that there was
anything important to him. For all he cared, he was dead. Never again
would he see his friends, the ones at church, or the ones on the
street – Jack, Martin, Timmy, Jonathan, or Alex. Never, ever,
would he see Chloe – but oh, Chloe. She? His friend? Yes, his
friend, but he not hers. Politely elusive Chloe, who dispatched all
of his attempted conversation with her elegant grace for which he
sought her: how belittled he felt, and bitterly condescending she
seemed almost to him.

Minute failures in
social life he could handle, but this transfer to Arkansas would be a
cruel blow – death to all joy. But no, how could he think that?
He was still a servant of God, and his Lord’s grace would be
sufficient for him. Yes, Chloe was gone, no more to return into his
life, and if a fleeting glimpse of her somehow caught his eye while
he lived on earth he would be stricken, die, and go to Heaven. That
was enough for him. If no joy in anyone but his Lord, and then
eternal joy with Him in heaven were for Archie, then amen; so be it.

But oh, the years of
suffering in the South, away from home and happiness. He would be an
outcast, a shrouded, pitiful corpse of a boy, and then a skulking
teen, and then a weary old man. No joy in the South, where he had
been raised till he was seven years old. No joy in the South,
where people were friendly and cheerful. Archie could not face the
fact that he didn’t remember how to be nice in a Texan way.
Massachusetts had hardened him, toughened his skin, and embittered
him against friendliness. He felt like a bloodsucking heathen
parasite, being ripped off of his new homeland, breaking the social
shell and returning to his family’s old life; practically that
of a nomad’s.

By now they were
sitting in their seats aboard their plane. At least here was some joy
before they moved to Arkansas – Archie like flying in planes
very much. If only Martin were on board; Martin wanted to be a pilot
when he grew up. Or if only Timmy were aboard; he was so fun to talk
to – or Jack, his good friend; Jack, with whom he shared so
many secrets. But now the brightness of the formations of lights
below seemed dim, the darkness seemed foreboding, and the snow seemed
a merciful veil to blot out his vision of all that he loved. Alas!
Sadness, gloom, and despair hung over all, real sadness, not casual
disappointment at not getting one’s way.