Viola’s Boys
by Kendra Paredes Hayden
(first appeared in Buffalo Carp)
Viola sat in the kitchen with a sack of potatoes between her knees. As she pulled each potato out of the bag to peel
she could smell the soil they grew in, a rainy green smell. She ran a boarding house in Washington, Indiana, a dot
of a town on the edge of Bible Belt country in Indiana along the southern Illinois border. Keeping a daily breakfast,
dinner and supper on the table for her family and guests was a full-time job, not to mention the housekeeping.
Joseph, her husband, had gone to the general store. No one was home but Viola. All was quiet except for the knock
of the Big Ben clock in the hallway. The house smelled not uncleanly, but of hard working people and of cooking
food. It was summertime in 1925, and usually, her two sons, Hubert and Louis, were by her side and asking when
supper would be ready, a happy time. But they hadn’t made it home from playing, and Betty, her hired help, was
late too. Viola wondered where everyone could be, but she didn’t worry. They’d be along as soon as the food was
ready to eat. She was sure of it.
Finally, Betty came to the back door, and looked at Viola through the screen.
“Mrs. Healy,” Betty said as she wrapped the end of her skirt in her fist. “Ma’am?”
“I was wondering when you’d show up. The potatoes are over here. You take over peeling while I start the water.”
Viola stood up and shook her head as she looked around the kitchen. “I don’t know how I’m going to keep things
going around here if I don’t get some dependable help. What with you coming whenever you feel like it, and
everyone else around here thinking they’re royalty and I was put on this earth to serve them.” She reached in a
cabinet and pulled out a big pot for the potatoes. “Well, are you coming in or not?’
“Mrs. Healy, Ma’am. I. I didn’t come here to work.”
“Tell me something new. No one ever comes here to work. They just show up at meal time.” Viola stopped in front of
the oven to check the roast. Her glasses fogged up when she opened the oven. She wore a cotton dress and
dependable black shoes. Her heavy breasts seemed to get in her way.
“Ma’am. Please. Listen. They sent me here. I ran as fast as I could. There’s been an accident. It’s your boys.”
Viola took the roast out of the oven and placed it on the burners. She took off her mittens and turned to look at
Betty.
“An accident?”
Betty’s voice deepened. “Viola, Honey, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this. One of your boys was hurt bad.”
Viola blinked once before she asked, “Which one?”
“I don’t know if it’s Hubert or Louis.” Betty looked down at her feet.
“Are you saying…?” Viola breathed the question out.
Betty hung her head. “One of them is gone. That’s all I know.”
“Where?” Her heart beat wildly. She already felt the emptiness of a presence. She just didn’t know which one, and
she couldn’t imagine what life would be like without one of her boys.
“The railroad tracks. At the edge of town, north a here,” Betty said.
“That’s about a half mile away if I cut through the corn field.” Viola already had her back to Betty. She was running
toward the front door.
Viola knew about where the boys were. She had told her sons many times to stay away from the tracks, but that’s
what they liked to do for fun - hop a train for a ride across town.
So she ran through her long front yard. Mosquitoes buzzed and whined and stayed close to the grass gnawing at
her ankles. She’d have to cross the deserted country road in front of her house. The tracks could be found on the
other side of the five foot high corn field, which lined the road.
She had never experienced such raw pain at the realization that one of her boys was dead. Her face burned from
the sweat and tears. She already had a pain in her side as she ran, and she could barely catch her breath. She put
her hand on her chest to rest her beating heart.
“I have to get a hold of myself.”
But demons in her mind tried to take over. She saw an image of a funeral. Hubert or Louis? She stopped running
for a moment and ran her hands through her hair. She pulled a chunk on both sides as if she were trying to pull the
idea out of her head. She straightened her back and looked up. A wall of corn stood between her and the railroad
tracks and her boys. She took a deep breath and crashed through the corn pushing the stalks to the side with all
the force she had and taking giant steps. The stalks of corn slapped her face. Bugs crawled on her and stuck to
her sweaty skin and pummeled her cheeks and arms.
Her head spun, and her voice cracked as she prayed out loud. “Please, God. Don’t let it be Hubert. No, God, not
my boy, Hubert.” She choked at the thought and held her throat. “Oh, but please, God. Don’t let it be Louis. My
God. Not my baby.”
For a moment, she wondered if Betty could be wrong. But no. Viola was sure Betty was right.
As quickly as possible, she made her way through the corn field that made her feel isolated and alone. She felt
something on her cheek, and she touched her face.
“Hubert?” She inhaled as she said his name. She felt as if his spirit were entering her chest, filling her lungs and
squeezing her heart.
Hubert was 15 years old. He was her first son. Doctors said she would never have a child, but Hubert was
determined to come to her.
Hubert. Gentle Hubert. Sensitive Hubert. What could life possibly be like without his quiet presence, his kind brown
eyes, his helpful clumsy ways?
“Hubert. Don’t leave,” She said as she held her cheek.
The tears in her eyes altered her perception, distorting, expanding, and diminishing distance. Everything seemed
wavy and undefined like looking out a window during a thunder storm.
The corn stalks rustled and whispered and she thought she heard Louis call. “Mother?”
“Louis, Baby. I’m coming. Wait for me. Please wait.”
She looked around wildly trying to find him, but knowing he couldn’t be there. She lost her balance, steadied
herself, and ran.
Louis was 7 years old. He was born when Viola was 45, a gift that she was almost too tired to accept. He was red-
faced and looking like a monkey when they placed him in her arms. She laughed and tweaked his nose, which
seemed to make him angrier.
“Well, you poor little thing, I hope you learn to control that temper.”
What could life be like without Louis? Quick Louis. Funny Louis. Active Louis. He filled the household with energy
and life.
“I told you both over and over to stay away from those tracks. No one listens to me. Everyone just does as they
please,” she said out loud.
She fell over a stalk of corn, but she was up again ignoring the pain in her knee. Finally, bruised and battered, she
broke through the wall of corn. She could see the tracks a few yards ahead of her. She limped to the tracks and
followed them to where she thought the accident took place.
“Please, God, don’t take my boy, Hubert. Not my boy. Oh, but, please God. Not my Baby. No, not my baby Louis.”
Viola tripped on the track and fell on her knees again. She crawled a few feet and then pulled herself up. Black
cinders cut into her knees and her palms.
About a hundred yards away, she saw a group of people on the tracks. A figure ran toward her, a blotch of ink on
paper.
Joseph, her husband, grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Joseph?”
“Viola,” he said out of breath. She could feel his hands shake as he held her by the shoulders.
“Joseph, oh, God. It’s you. What happened?”
“They were at the end of town. Louis jumped off the train first, but he fell. Hubert reached for him. He fell too.”
“I want to see them, Joe. Where are they?” She fought against the grip he had on her shoulders.
“Baby, I need to tell you something first.”
“I don’t want to hear it. Let me go. I want to see my boys.” Viola was sobbing.
“You have to hear it. You have to know before you get over there.”
She struggled against him.
“Viola, listen to me,” he said as she tore away from his grip.
She ran toward a small figure laying on the tracks. It was too small to be Hubert.
“Little Louis.” She scooped his dead body into her arms and brushed his hair off his forehead.
“Louis, my baby boy. It’s you. Why did it have to be you?”
“I wish it would’ve been me, too, Mama. I was supposed to watch him. I tried to save him.” Hubert blocked the setting
sun and cast a shadow over her.
Viola looked up to see Hubert. He was covered in cinders and crying.
“His face, Mama. He doesn’t even look like himself.” Hubert slumped to the ground.
Still holding Louis in her lap, she twisted her sore body so that she could hug Hubert.
“No, Hubert, No. There. There. That’s not what I meant.” She stroked his hair. “No, that’s not what I meant.”
And she knew she would never be able to make him understand what she’d meant, to explain her thoughts the past
terrible minutes, the agony of knowing that one of her boys was gone, but not knowing which one.
The sunlight dimmed. Cicadas shrilled a pulsing screech near and far. She looked off across the cornfield toward
her house and felt the emptiness of losing both her boys.
by Kendra Paredes Hayden
(first appeared in Buffalo Carp)
Viola sat in the kitchen with a sack of potatoes between her knees. As she pulled each potato out of the bag to peel
she could smell the soil they grew in, a rainy green smell. She ran a boarding house in Washington, Indiana, a dot
of a town on the edge of Bible Belt country in Indiana along the southern Illinois border. Keeping a daily breakfast,
dinner and supper on the table for her family and guests was a full-time job, not to mention the housekeeping.
Joseph, her husband, had gone to the general store. No one was home but Viola. All was quiet except for the knock
of the Big Ben clock in the hallway. The house smelled not uncleanly, but of hard working people and of cooking
food. It was summertime in 1925, and usually, her two sons, Hubert and Louis, were by her side and asking when
supper would be ready, a happy time. But they hadn’t made it home from playing, and Betty, her hired help, was
late too. Viola wondered where everyone could be, but she didn’t worry. They’d be along as soon as the food was
ready to eat. She was sure of it.
Finally, Betty came to the back door, and looked at Viola through the screen.
“Mrs. Healy,” Betty said as she wrapped the end of her skirt in her fist. “Ma’am?”
“I was wondering when you’d show up. The potatoes are over here. You take over peeling while I start the water.”
Viola stood up and shook her head as she looked around the kitchen. “I don’t know how I’m going to keep things
going around here if I don’t get some dependable help. What with you coming whenever you feel like it, and
everyone else around here thinking they’re royalty and I was put on this earth to serve them.” She reached in a
cabinet and pulled out a big pot for the potatoes. “Well, are you coming in or not?’
“Mrs. Healy, Ma’am. I. I didn’t come here to work.”
“Tell me something new. No one ever comes here to work. They just show up at meal time.” Viola stopped in front of
the oven to check the roast. Her glasses fogged up when she opened the oven. She wore a cotton dress and
dependable black shoes. Her heavy breasts seemed to get in her way.
“Ma’am. Please. Listen. They sent me here. I ran as fast as I could. There’s been an accident. It’s your boys.”
Viola took the roast out of the oven and placed it on the burners. She took off her mittens and turned to look at
Betty.
“An accident?”
Betty’s voice deepened. “Viola, Honey, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this. One of your boys was hurt bad.”
Viola blinked once before she asked, “Which one?”
“I don’t know if it’s Hubert or Louis.” Betty looked down at her feet.
“Are you saying…?” Viola breathed the question out.
Betty hung her head. “One of them is gone. That’s all I know.”
“Where?” Her heart beat wildly. She already felt the emptiness of a presence. She just didn’t know which one, and
she couldn’t imagine what life would be like without one of her boys.
“The railroad tracks. At the edge of town, north a here,” Betty said.
“That’s about a half mile away if I cut through the corn field.” Viola already had her back to Betty. She was running
toward the front door.
Viola knew about where the boys were. She had told her sons many times to stay away from the tracks, but that’s
what they liked to do for fun - hop a train for a ride across town.
So she ran through her long front yard. Mosquitoes buzzed and whined and stayed close to the grass gnawing at
her ankles. She’d have to cross the deserted country road in front of her house. The tracks could be found on the
other side of the five foot high corn field, which lined the road.
She had never experienced such raw pain at the realization that one of her boys was dead. Her face burned from
the sweat and tears. She already had a pain in her side as she ran, and she could barely catch her breath. She put
her hand on her chest to rest her beating heart.
“I have to get a hold of myself.”
But demons in her mind tried to take over. She saw an image of a funeral. Hubert or Louis? She stopped running
for a moment and ran her hands through her hair. She pulled a chunk on both sides as if she were trying to pull the
idea out of her head. She straightened her back and looked up. A wall of corn stood between her and the railroad
tracks and her boys. She took a deep breath and crashed through the corn pushing the stalks to the side with all
the force she had and taking giant steps. The stalks of corn slapped her face. Bugs crawled on her and stuck to
her sweaty skin and pummeled her cheeks and arms.
Her head spun, and her voice cracked as she prayed out loud. “Please, God. Don’t let it be Hubert. No, God, not
my boy, Hubert.” She choked at the thought and held her throat. “Oh, but please, God. Don’t let it be Louis. My
God. Not my baby.”
For a moment, she wondered if Betty could be wrong. But no. Viola was sure Betty was right.
As quickly as possible, she made her way through the corn field that made her feel isolated and alone. She felt
something on her cheek, and she touched her face.
“Hubert?” She inhaled as she said his name. She felt as if his spirit were entering her chest, filling her lungs and
squeezing her heart.
Hubert was 15 years old. He was her first son. Doctors said she would never have a child, but Hubert was
determined to come to her.
Hubert. Gentle Hubert. Sensitive Hubert. What could life possibly be like without his quiet presence, his kind brown
eyes, his helpful clumsy ways?
“Hubert. Don’t leave,” She said as she held her cheek.
The tears in her eyes altered her perception, distorting, expanding, and diminishing distance. Everything seemed
wavy and undefined like looking out a window during a thunder storm.
The corn stalks rustled and whispered and she thought she heard Louis call. “Mother?”
“Louis, Baby. I’m coming. Wait for me. Please wait.”
She looked around wildly trying to find him, but knowing he couldn’t be there. She lost her balance, steadied
herself, and ran.
Louis was 7 years old. He was born when Viola was 45, a gift that she was almost too tired to accept. He was red-
faced and looking like a monkey when they placed him in her arms. She laughed and tweaked his nose, which
seemed to make him angrier.
“Well, you poor little thing, I hope you learn to control that temper.”
What could life be like without Louis? Quick Louis. Funny Louis. Active Louis. He filled the household with energy
and life.
“I told you both over and over to stay away from those tracks. No one listens to me. Everyone just does as they
please,” she said out loud.
She fell over a stalk of corn, but she was up again ignoring the pain in her knee. Finally, bruised and battered, she
broke through the wall of corn. She could see the tracks a few yards ahead of her. She limped to the tracks and
followed them to where she thought the accident took place.
“Please, God, don’t take my boy, Hubert. Not my boy. Oh, but, please God. Not my Baby. No, not my baby Louis.”
Viola tripped on the track and fell on her knees again. She crawled a few feet and then pulled herself up. Black
cinders cut into her knees and her palms.
About a hundred yards away, she saw a group of people on the tracks. A figure ran toward her, a blotch of ink on
paper.
Joseph, her husband, grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Joseph?”
“Viola,” he said out of breath. She could feel his hands shake as he held her by the shoulders.
“Joseph, oh, God. It’s you. What happened?”
“They were at the end of town. Louis jumped off the train first, but he fell. Hubert reached for him. He fell too.”
“I want to see them, Joe. Where are they?” She fought against the grip he had on her shoulders.
“Baby, I need to tell you something first.”
“I don’t want to hear it. Let me go. I want to see my boys.” Viola was sobbing.
“You have to hear it. You have to know before you get over there.”
She struggled against him.
“Viola, listen to me,” he said as she tore away from his grip.
She ran toward a small figure laying on the tracks. It was too small to be Hubert.
“Little Louis.” She scooped his dead body into her arms and brushed his hair off his forehead.
“Louis, my baby boy. It’s you. Why did it have to be you?”
“I wish it would’ve been me, too, Mama. I was supposed to watch him. I tried to save him.” Hubert blocked the setting
sun and cast a shadow over her.
Viola looked up to see Hubert. He was covered in cinders and crying.
“His face, Mama. He doesn’t even look like himself.” Hubert slumped to the ground.
Still holding Louis in her lap, she twisted her sore body so that she could hug Hubert.
“No, Hubert, No. There. There. That’s not what I meant.” She stroked his hair. “No, that’s not what I meant.”
And she knew she would never be able to make him understand what she’d meant, to explain her thoughts the past
terrible minutes, the agony of knowing that one of her boys was gone, but not knowing which one.
The sunlight dimmed. Cicadas shrilled a pulsing screech near and far. She looked off across the cornfield toward
her house and felt the emptiness of losing both her boys.
 | |  | |  | |  |