Part one

Six year old Joshua Beldon threw the covers back and slid off the bed, his bare feet soundlessly striking the wood floor. Making his way to his door, he slowly turned the doorknob. He pulled the door open slightly. The dim light from the hallway entered the small opening, flowing across Josh’s bare left foot.

He could just make out a voice from the radio downstairs, “And in the news tonight….”

Josh tiptoed to the stairway and stood there, his left hand resting on the polished wood of the banister. He turned to go back to his bedroom, stopped, turned again, then slowly went down the steps. Halfway down he stopped. He could see his grandfather Rubal, his feet propped on a thickly stuffed footstool and his body buried in his favorite easy-chair, listening intently to a news broadcast.

Suddenly, his grandfather turned his head looking up at Josh.

“What are you doing up?”

“I can’t sleep, Grandpa,” said Josh slowly descending three more steps.

“Would you like for me to tell you a bedtime story?”

“Please, Grandpa?”

“Well, all right. But you have to be quiet. Your mom and dad are sound asleep, so we don’t want to wake them. They both worked hard today; had to get that hay in before the rain started.”

Josh’s grandpa carefully slid his legs off the footstool, his weathered face grimacing. He then grabbed the armrests of the big chair and pulled himself forward. As he stood up, he gripped the curved handle of a nearby cane with his right hand and started toward the staircase. With each step, he leaned onto the curved handle of the cane to help support his weight.

Josh patiently waited for his grandfather to climb the steps, taking hold of his grandpa’s left hand and walking alongside. The two made their way to the top of the landing and then to Joshua’s bedroom, one long and one short shadow floating along the floor in front of them. Joshua’s index finger found the light switch and flipped it up. The single hanging lightbulb emitted a yellow light, displaying a cluttered bedroom floor; a slingshot with a broken black rubber sling; a BB rifle with the wood forearm cracked; small plastic military figurines lying near olive drab trucks. Josh ran past these, pulled at his bedding and gave a lunge, then rolled over on his back. He pulled the thick covers under his chin as his thick reddish brown hair settled into a large white pillow. His green eyes watched his grandfather as he pulled a wicker chair near the side of the bed then lowered himself onto the cushion covering its seat.

“I’m running out of stories to tell you Josh. Let me think… Ah yes. How about the one I call ‘the fifty-cent cure,” said his grandpa, running his arthritic fingers through his thin gray hair.

Josh nodded his approval, turning on his right side and propping his head with his right hand.

“Well, let’s see, where should I begin? I guess it’s best to start at the beginning,” said Grandpa, as he slowly leaned back.

“Long before you were born, a traveling salesman came to town. He wasn’t your usual salesman, no, he sold all kinds of stuff. Pots, pans, rolls of cloth, hats for the women and tobacco for the men. He also sold medicine.”

Part two

“Another one of those shysters!” Grumbled old man Grady, the owner of Grady’s Mercantile, to Sam Olsen, one of his regular customers.

“Oh he’s harmless,” said Sam, pursing his lips around the stem of his briarwood pipe. Taking in a lung full of the aromatic smoke, he held it for a second and then slowly exhaled. The bluish smoke vanished quickly as a gust of wind caught it. “He’ll sell a couple of trinkets and move on.”

“Well, he better,” huffed Grady, placing a metal washtub against the front of his store before going back inside.

The salesman, a tall lean figure, parked his faded red stake-bed truck in an empty lot across from the town’s water tower. He then rolled out a weathered tarp awning on the side and put support posts at either end. Setting up long wooden tables he carefully placed his goods on each.

The salesman’s face was clean shaven with remarkably well-preserved skin, something that was not common in the area with its farmers and their weather-beaten sun-baked features. His blue eyes danced with energy and he whistled an old Dixie lyric.

The salesman arrived at midday and by 2:00 p.m. was already getting curiosity seekers, as a few local women checked out the cooking utensils, brooms, and hats of course. Later, a group of men stopped by to see what special blends of tobacco he had.

That evening a group of ten or so citizens made their way to his little encampment where a few ask about the dark colored bottles of’ ‘The fifty-cent Cure’ displayed on a table.

“That’s my special fifty-cent Cure,” the salesman said, picking up a bottle and handing it to an aged farmer standing near the front of the group.

“So, what does it cure?” The old farmer asked skeptically.

“Everything,” the salesman simply countered.

“When I was a young boy, we had a salesman like you come by. He was selling all sorts of ‘get well’ cures. None of them worked,” the old farmer said, sneering and then spitting a large glob of brown goo onto the dusty ground.

A young sandy-haired boy pushed his way to the front of the group.

“Hey mister, would that medicine cure my dog? He’s old and got rheumatism so bad, all he does is sit on our front porch and howls if he’s made to move.”

The salesman looked pensively at the boy for a moment. His thin lips then opened, showing a row of perfect white teeth. He smiled, saying, “If you give your dog my fifty-cent cure you’ll be amazed how soon he, or she, will feel better.”

Without hesitation the boy dug into his worn denim trouser pocket, bringing out fifty cents.

“Here ya go then, I’ll take a bottle,” the boy said, stepping forward and handing the salesman his money.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, taking that poor kid’s money and getting his hopes up on saving his dog,” said the old farmer.

The salesman acted as though he’d not heard the chastisement. He took one bottle of ‘The fifty-cent Cure’ off the table and handed it to the boy. The boy looked at the bottle, his brown eyes brightening with hope. He smiled, shook it a couple of times and then removed the cap. Placing his nose close to bottle’s thick opening, he cautiously took a whiff. “Whew,” he said, snapping his head back and putting the cap back on as if trying to prevent an evil genie from escaping. “That smells terrible!”

A laugh swept through the group of potential customers.

“Most medicine does, boy,” said the salesman, struggling to contain his mirth.

The salesman then took a second bottle off the table. “Here son, take another in case you should ever need it.”

“Thanks mister,” the boy said.

The boy then turned and made his way through the townspeople. He then ran as fast as his ten-year-old legs could carry him toward home. When he arrived, he found his dog lying on the front porch, nearly unable to raise his head.

“I got something for you. It smells terrible, but it’ll make you feel better.”

The boy unscrewed the metal cap, laid it on the porch and then gently opened the dog’s mouth and poured the liquid in. The dog seemed to realize his master was trying to help him and allowed the liquid to slide down his throat.

“There, that should make you feel better soon. I’ll take this second bottle out to the shed and put it on the shelf in case we need some more.”

Part three

Josh stared at his grandfather for a moment, patiently waiting for the end of the story. When his grandfather offered to go no further, he asked, “So what happened, Grandpa? Did the medicine work?”

“Well, sure it did,” said his grandfather, rubbing his right knee with his gnarled fingers.

Josh’s grandpa smiled, pursed his lips and softly whistled. Seconds later a beautiful German shepherd bound into the room. First it went to the side of Josh’s bed and licked his face as he leaned over the side. The dog then went to Josh’s grandpa and laid its head on his knee.

“That’s a good boy, Bear,” Josh’s grandfather said, patting the top of the dog’s head.

Josh’s eyes widened. “You mean… You were the boy… And Bear?”

“That’s right, Josh.”

Josh grinned. Then with an inquisitive look asked, “But Grandpa, didn’t anyone else buy a bottle?”

“No. No one believed it would work, except for me. The next morning I went down to tell the salesman my dog was much better, but he was already gone. I’ve never seen him again.”

“What happened to the second bottle?”

“A few days after I’d put it on the shelf in the shed, we had a fire and the building burned down. I never found that bottle. My father pushed all the wood into a pile on the ‘back-forty.’ I guess it got broke and ended in the middle of that woodpile.”

Josh’s grandfather then got up, pulled the covers up around Josh’s chest and said, “Now you get some sleep young man.”

He slowly made his way to Josh’s door, Bear at his side.

The next morning found Josh up as soon as the sun rose.

“What are you doing up so early?” asked Grandpa, as he finished a plate of scrambled eggs.

Josh poured himself a glass of fresh milk, courtesy of one of the six milk cows the family owned.

Josh took a long drink of the cold milk, wiped his mouth on his forearm and said, “I want to go over to Mr. Okum’s pond and catch some perch for supper.”

“Well, you get permission first and be sure to let your mom and dad know where you’re going. They’re out in the barn now getting baskets together for the pickers’ to help harvest those pickles.”

“I will, Grandpa,” said Josh as he placed his empty glass on the sink and headed for the door.

Josh’s grandpa shook his head, saying, “Wished I had that kind of energy again.” He then painfully raised himself from the kitchen chair, grabbed his cane and shuffled toward his easy chair.

Josh sat with his legs hanging over the wooden dock, his fishing pole held loosely in his right hand. Bear, having just reappeared from a thick set of ‘cattails’ near the water, bound up to where Josh sat and nosed at the four perch linked by a fishing line and lying near Josh’s back. Josh reached back and placed his hand on Bear’s head.

“Think we better go now?” He looked skyward. “Must be about 3:00. By the time we get back and clean these fish, it’ll be 5:00.”

Bear licked Josh’s face and ran back to the entrance to the dock, turned and looked at Josh as if to say, “Yeah, let’s go.”

Josh pulled his line from the water, picked up the string of fish and started home. He softly whistled as he made his way through a mown field. He slapped at a deerfly that had landed on his arm and was preparing to bite. When he removed his hand, the deerfly tumbled to the brown stubble below.

He was nearing the ‘back-forty’ of his parent’s farm now and Bear was several hundred feet ahead of him. A rabbit jumped from a bush near a fence line and Bear bound after it. Josh watched as the rabbit zigzagged toward a pile of old wood, then disappeared underneath. Bear stood at the edge of the pile of old lumber and barked, digging at the soft earth.

Josh made his way to the woodpile and said, “You’ll never get that rabbit out of there Bear.”

Bear paid no attention and kept digging.

Josh put the string of fish and his pole down. “All right, I’ll help you. But it’s no use. That rabbit is never coming out.”

Josh carefully made his way to the top of the lumber pile. Several of the pieces of wood snapped under his weight, their burned surfaces weakened further by time. Josh jumped up and down a couple of times. Bear continued digging, a mound of earth forming under his belly. Josh jumped once more. Suddenly a rabbit sprang from the opposite side of the woodpile. Bear was off in a flash, barking and zigzagging but losing ground to the fleet-footed rabbit.

Josh slowly made his way off the woodpile, watching Bear. He looked at the spot where Bear had dug. A dark-brown glass surface caught his eye. Kneeling down his scraped away some of the earth that still held the object in place. It was a bottle with the metal cap still intact. He pulled it loose from the soft earth and started to throw it. Stopping, he shook it. It seemed to have some liquid in it. He again started to toss it. His brow furrowed. He looked at the woodpile. His grandpa’s words came back to him, “I put it on a shelf in the shed.”

The shed burned down. The burned remnants were pushed to the ‘back-forty.’

“Holy cow!” Josh said, whistling for Bear, then grabbing his fish, but leaving his pole on the ground.
He ran for home, his legs pumping like pistons, the fields falling behind him. Bear lost his chase with the rabbit and was now running to catch up to Josh.

At home, Josh’s grandpa was grasping at his chest; his face contorted from the terrible pain now radiating out. Josh’s excited yells came drifting in the screen door, with the Sun’s bright summer rays. The screen door burst open, Josh and Bear rushing through.

“Grandpa, I think I found it!” Josh yelled.

Suddenly, the large grin Josh held turned to a pinched look as he looked at his grandpa.

“What’s wrong Grandpa?”

Josh’s grandpa used every ounce of strength to pull back the pain and answer, “Oh, nothing, just a little indigestion I guess.”

Josh’s worried look dissipated and he ran to his grandfather. “Look, Grandpa, I found a bottle down at the old woodpile, the one you said used to be a shed.”

His grandpa reached out for the bottle, his hand shaking. Closing his fingers around it, he brought it close to his face. There was no label on it, but Grandpa’s eyes brightened.

“You don’t suppose …?”

“I think it’s The Fifty Cent Cure,” said Josh.

Grandpa shook the bottle.

“It still has something in it. I guess there is only one way to find out.”

Grandpa tried to remove the cap, but his weak fingers were no match for it.

Josh ran for a nearby closet, returning with a pair of adjustable pliers. “Here, try this grandpa.”

Grandpa grasped the top of the bottle with the pliers and turned. The cap came loose. Removing it, he cautiously brought the top of the bottle to his nose.

“Whew! It’s ‘The Cure’ all right. There is no mistaking that smell, not even after all these years.”

“Drink some,” said Josh. “Maybe it’ll help your knees and fingers, and your back too.”

Grandpa stared into the bottle.

“Oh, I don’t know Josh. It’s been so long. It’s probably no good anymore.”

Josh’s face turned saddened. “You want me to throw it away?”

Grandpa stared at the bottle as another sharp spasm crossed under his ribs. Without further hesitation, he said, “What the heck, all it can do is kill me.”

He quickly raised the bottle to his lips, pinched his nose and drained the liquid. Bear licked at his fingers as he lowered the bottle to his lap.

“Feel anything?” Josh asked, his eyes wide.

“Yeah, I feel like I’m going to throw up. That is the worst tasting stuff I’ve ever drank.”

Grandpa looked at Bear. “You poor thing. It’s a good thing you were so sick that day. Otherwise, I’d never have gotten that stuff down you.”

Bear wagged his tail.

“I’ll go get you a cold glass of water, Grandpa, something to wash it down with.”

Josh returned a few minutes later to find his grandpa standing in front of the easy chair: without his cane.

“Wow Grandpa, you look better already,” said Josh. When his grandpa took the glass from his hand, it was with straightened fingers.

Chugging the cold clear well water down, he said, “That’s better.”

When Josh’s parents returned from their day’s work, they found grandpa and Josh playing ‘catch.’ Grandpa’s cane lay next to his chair inside. Next to it was an empty dark-brown glass bottle.