Twelve-year-old Randy was lying on the kitchen floor, shuddering and flailing, his eyes rolled back in his head. It was supposed to be a case of petit mal epilepsy—Randy had a mild one—but as Mama Ruth gazed down in horror, she realized this was something more.
Nervously, she glanced out the kitchen window. The snowflakes were as big as teacups. The wind was picking up; a blizzard was brewing. And Randy, oblivious in his seizure, kept flailing.
Somewhere, Mama Ruth had heard of a home remedy for such emergencies: a thimbleful of laundry bluing. She spilled the blue liquid into the boy's mouth, but there was no result. She turned to eight-year-old James, clutching him by the shoulders. This was very important; she told him as calmly as she could. He must put on his snowshoes and run to Mr. Fortelka’s store and ask somebody to call the doctor.
James’s eyes wide, he nodded quickly and scrambled for the door, glancing back at Randy. He could see the blue liquid trickling from his lips. A moment later, James was gone, dashing out across the farm fields through knee-deep snow, praying that Randy would be all right. The two had been reared as brothers; no one was closer to James than Randy. And now, for all the little boy knew, he was the only thing that stood between his best friend and death.
It was a mile to Mr. Fortelka’s store. When James got there, he tried to explain that Randy was sick, maybe even dying—that he needed a doctor right away. He tried, but the words would not come out. All that would emerge from James was a straining sound, as though the words were piling up behind a locked door, trying to batter their way out. But they could not.
Mr. Fortelka, bewildered, nonetheless understood the matter. James was a stutterer. He had stuttered ever since the family moved to Michigan; in fact, he had begun to withdraw on account of his impediment and had been all but completely mute for years. At school, the teachers accommodated him, and his classmates, remarkably tolerant, did not even laugh.
But meanwhile, on that snowy evening at Mr. Fortelka’s store, a war was waging inside James himself—a battle between what he knew he must say and whatever it was that prevented him from saying it.
And then, finally, the words won. Painfully, one at a time, they struggled into the light, combining to comprise the all-important message: “R-R-Randy is c-c-alling a d-d-doctor.”
They called the doctor. Randy got the right medicine, and he did recover.
But for James, the stutter stayed. Even after emerging from his cocoon of virtual silence several years later, he continued to speak with great difficulty. And unless he is cautious in his utterances, he stutters to this day—although you would never imagine such a thing. For the child who spent his childhood at a loss for words one day was to earn his living with them.
And thus, did he make the world forget that interminable time when mere talking was all but impossible. For you know the man once tied in tongue as an articulate and precise machine, accompanied by a gold and inimitable voice—a sorcerer conjuring all manner of imagery with immaculate diction. A magnificent instrument which for four decades has brought everything from Shakespeare to Darth Vader to life for its master.
The master of words.
The master, you know, is James Earl Jones.
Only now, you know the rest of the story.
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