An Ocean in Iowa

by Peter Hedges

  “He’s been looking forward to this. Scotty, zip up your coat.”

  But Scotty wasn’t listening. He grabbed his overnight bag, said, “Bye, Dad.”

  “And Scotty, remember what I told you.”

  Scotty hadn’t listened at all during the drive across town. The Judge went over the proper behavior for an overnight guest. Scotty had never slept over anywhere before, and the Judge expected the typical first-night-away-from-home jitters. Claire and Maggie both cried at some point during their first overnights and called home. The Judge assumed Scotty would do the same.

  That night, the Judge watched television while Claire did homework and Maggie painted her finger nails a bright pink. The Judge expected the phone to ring with Scotty on the other line, sobbing, wanting to come home, missing him.

  But that call never came.

  ***

  The Myerlys lived in a single-story house on Hillside Avenue, on the other side of the elementary school. Because of his work, Mr. Myerly often traveled, even on weekends. That weekend he was in Omaha at a convention.

  “It’s so good,” Sheila Myerly said as Scotty stepped inside, “to have another man in the house.”

  Sheila Myerly had planned a whole series of games and activities.

  That afternoon Scotty attended his first play. At the Des Moines Community Playhouse, Mrs. Myerly sat between her boys: Scotty sat next to Tim. Scotty’s favorite part of the play was when an igloo descended on wires, and a woman in a bear suit kept talking about how cold she was. She got the audience to say “Brrrr” with her, and Scotty thought that was funny, how she talked to them and how she made them talk.

  After the play, she drove the boys to McDonald’s for dinner, dessert at Baskin-Robbins, then a night spent playing games in their basement. The boys followed carefully constructed clues, which led to a plastic treasure chest filled with gold-wrapped milk chocolate coins hidden under the basement stairs. Also Sheila Myerly got down on her knees and played a game of Nerf basketball. She and Scotty were a team. They lost, but losing had never seemed so nice.

  Later, while Tim, Jeff, and Scotty made various faces with a Mr. Potato Head, Scotty took a break, went upstairs, and wandered the house looking for the bathroom. He spied Mrs. Myerly in the kitchen, her shirt lifted, her baby Elizabeth in her arms.

  She noticed Scotty and said, “What do you need, Scotty?”

  He shrugged, then mumbled, “Bathroom.”

  “Oh. Down the hall, to the right.”

  Scotty didn’t move. He said, “Tim’s Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m feeding my baby.”

  “Oh.”

  “There’s milk in my breasts. And Elizabeth is drinking the milk.”

  “Milk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  “Your mother did the same for you.”

  “No.”

  “I’m sure she did.”

  “No.”

  Tim’s mom held baby Elizabeth up in the air, patted lightly on the baby’s back. Then Mrs. Sheila Myerly looked up at Scotty. “You better get ready for bed.”

  And Scotty did as she said.

  ***

  The trundle bed pulled out from under the bottom bunk. Scotty was to sleep next to Jeff, while Tim Myerly had the top bunk. When Mrs. Myerly tucked in the boys, she gave them each a kiss on the cheek. Scotty got an identical kiss. She looked back at them and, as she turned off the light, said, “Sleep tight.”

  But Scotty couldn’t sleep. Across the boys’ bedroom, a night-light glowed. The night-light was the face of a clown, and it was close enough to the bedroom door that it could guide Scotty. In the hall, another night-light—clownless—showed Scotty the way.

  Mrs. Myerly’s bedroom door was open and the room was mostly dark except for moonlight, which streamed in through lace curtains, casting snowflakes of light.

  Scotty could see her shape lying in the bed, the covers barely disturbed, for Mrs. Myerly was small and thin, and it appeared as if she’d barely lifted the covers and slid under them.

  For a long time Scotty stood staring at her. He held out his arms and studied the patterns of light on his skin. He curled up on her bedroom carpet and fell asleep.

  Sometime during his sleep, he crawled under Mrs. Myerly’s quilt and wiggled his way close to her. He found her hands, and under the covers, kissed her fingers and the inside of her wrist. His little lips moved up her arm, past her elbow until he felt the chiffon of her nightgown.

  “Who is under there?”

  Scotty knew it was time to give himself away.

  “Tim? Jeff?”

  Scotty imagined the surprise. He threw off the covers, sat up on his knees, and went, “Boo.”

  Scotty couldn’t make out her complete expression, but her voice—the tone—was firm and tight.

  “Scotty, you shouldn’t be here.”

  He was confused. She didn’t seem like the same person who a few hours earlier had kissed him on the cheek.

  ***

  At breakfast, Mrs. Myerly still wasn’t her usual self.

  Scotty used his fork to pick at his sunny-side up egg. The yoke split in two and he watched as the egg ran toward his toast. “No,” Scotty said, as if trying to tell the egg to turn back.

  “Just eat it,” Mrs. Myerly said.

  ***

  That Saturday morning, Claire and Maggie were surprised to see Scotty walk in the door. They had enjoyed the quiet while he’d been away.

  “You’re back early,” Claire said from the sofa.

  Scotty dropped his bag on the floor in the hallway.

  Maggie, who was stretched out on the carpet, said, “Did you do something wrong?”

  Scotty didn’t answer, but he was beginning to realize he had.

  (15)

  The last snowfall of the year came in late March, the day before Easter, and that was the one and only time Scotty helped Andrew on his paper route. Encompassing Pleasant Street, Center Street, Twenty-first Street, Twentieth Place, Twentieth Street, and Nineteenth Street, the route consisted of sixty-one houses. And Scotty, dressed in three layers of clothing, barely able to move, went along with Andrew Crow.

  Because of the early hour, the Judge followed in the Dodge at a safe distance. Claire had insisted the Judge go along. “Scotty is too young to be out at that hour,” she argued. And while she didn’t say it, Claire didn’t trust Andrew Crow.

  The Judge knew she was right: It was too early for a seven-year-old.

  ***

  “Do the first three houses. Skip the next two; do the last one,” Andrew had said only minutes earlier.

  With four papers, Scotty ran as fast as he could. He opened the screen door of the first house and folded the paper as Andrew had instructed, dividing it into thirds, then tucking one end inside the other. Andrew Crow could fold the papers as he walked. But Scotty had to set the other papers down, kneel, and struggle to get the paper to Andrew’s specifications.

  “It took me a while to get the hang of it,” Andrew would later say. “And I’m in the seventh grade.”

  When Scotty got the paper folded in the best manner he could (after repeated tries), he walked up to the house, but the paper slipped from under his arm and fell onto the snow-covered porch. When it landed, the paper flopped open.

  Scotty turned to see if Andrew had noticed but he’d already gone on to the next block.

  It was dark and cold; snow covered every yard. While he stood motionless in his boots, his breathing became pained, his little shoulders rising and falling, Scotty called out, “Andrew? Andrew?”

  A breeze blew through the ice-covered trees, and Scotty hurried to the next house. When he saw the name on the mailbox, he suddenly stopped. It said Fowler. The Fowler house. Inside the Fowler family was sleeping, dreaming. Maybe Bev was dreaming about Mrs. Fowler.

  It would be impossible to explain later what he felt then, but standing in front of him—seeing her w
ithout seeing her—near an evergreen tree, Scotty felt her, Mrs. Fowler, whom he could remember only vaguely (except for her thick glasses, she was a blur in his memory)—Bev Fowler’s dead mom stood before him.

  “Hello, Scotty,” he thought she said.

  The Judge’s car with its headlights on was idling at the bottom of the hill. Scotty didn’t have far to run, but he couldn’t move.

  Bev Fowler’s mom swayed in the wind the way the trees and bushes swayed.

  Gusts of wind snapped his face in bursts. Scotty couldn’t keep the warm tears from escaping—they rolled partway down his cheek. They rolled until they froze.

  He listened as she spoke to him. Then he ran, almost falling, down the hill toward the Judge’s car. He was out of breath when he opened the passenger door. He tried to talk. He moved his hands, talking with them, making jerky gestures, as he struggled to describe what he had seen.

  “You saw what… her ghost?”

  Scotty didn’t know, but yes, he thought he had.

  “Well, Scotty,” the Judge said. “Not many people see ghosts.”

  Scotty spoke quickly, breathing in the middle of thoughts, rushing to say it all. He told of how Mrs. Fowler was standing in front of the Fowler house, as if protecting it.

  “What did she tell you?”

  “She’s watching. Keeping guard. Making sure that her family is safe.”

  Scotty finished his report, and in finishing, he had to sit through a long silence from the Judge. The silence gave Scotty the time to panic with this thought: Surely his father would yell at him, or, worse, laugh. Scotty had left himself wide open. He had lied about the death penalty, he’d disrupted school, he couldn’t even tie his shoes. Having destroyed all credibility, he would certainly be sent to where the kids with giant heads filled with water lie around all the time.

  And in that moment, as Scotty clenched his teeth and his heart punched against his ribs, the Judge said simply, “That sounds like something Mrs. Fowler would do.”

  Andrew appeared in the glare of the headlights. Rolling down the side window, the Judge explained that Scotty was too young to be a paper boy, so he was taking him home. And anticipating the next question, he said, “And yes, Andrew, you can keep your seventy-five cents.”

  Then the Judge drove Scotty home.

  ***

  The following morning Scotty woke to find a basket full of chocolate eggs, jelly beans, speckled malted milk balls, and a chocolate bunny with a red bow.

  He brought the Easter basket to his bed, dug around in the green plastic grass, and by breakfast he’d eaten half of his candy.

  At church, the Oceans took their regular place.

  Behind them, a few rows back, Mrs. Myerly sat between her two boys. She had an Easter lily pinned to her pink dress. Scotty turned and waited for her to make eye contact, but she stayed focused on the minister. Scotty even waved.

  “Scotty,” Claire whispered, “behave.”

  He turned around, faced front, and thought, I guess she didn’t see me.

  THE WRONG CROWD

  (1)

  In the first days of spring, Scotty Ocean abandoned his quest for another mother. Not because he didn’t want one, but by mid-April, he had a more pressing concern.

  The group of fourth grade boys, the same ones who built the volcano out of chicken wire, set their sights on Scotty the April day he drank, in their opinion, too much water from the water fountain as they waited in line.

  They told him they would be waiting for him after school.

  In Mrs. Boyden’s classroom, while he sat dreading the end of the school day, Scotty looked around at the kids in his class. He had never felt so unpopular. He had a sometime friend in Tom Conway, but even Carole Staley had turned her attentions elsewhere, having taken a fancy to Craig Hunt and the new way he combed his hair (a part in the middle).

  ***

  That day he walked home with Maggie, who stayed two steps ahead of him. She liked the distance between them. It served her, because she didn’t want anyone to think she was talking to her brother, especially the group of fourth grade boys who stood with their bikes just outside the Clover Hills Elementary entrance.

  Scotty didn’t look at any of them. He stayed as close to Maggie as he could get, walking with his head down. He tried to appear unafraid by concentrating on avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk.

  Occasionally one of the boys would pedal up to where Scotty was walking behind Maggie, suddenly slam on his brakes, leaving a fishtail skid mark on the street. Mostly they kept their distance. Maggie Ocean was a popular girl. And as long as Scotty stayed near her, he would not be hurt.

  While walking, Maggie gave Scotty a pep talk. She shared her own personal experience. “You can’t figure out popularity,” she said. She told of a girl in the fifth grade who had been the teacher’s favorite in third. “In third grade everybody liked her.”

  Scotty asked, “Who?”

  Maggie said, “Jodi Jerard.”

  Scotty went, “She’s a dud.”

  “So you see my point.”

  Scotty nodded even though he wasn’t putting it together. All he knew was Jodi Jerard was more of a dud than he was. He looked back to where the fourth grade boys—Cam Sweney, Bob Fowler (Bev’s brother), and others circled on their bikes. He wondered if Maggie knew they were being followed.

  Maggie was aware of them, but she thought they were trailing her. She continued with her popularity theories explaining how she, too, once upon a time had been unpopular. “Jodi Jerard had third grade and look where she is now. Fourth grade was more Becky Elder and Leann Stonebrook. Fifth grade is mine.” Maggie Ocean ruled fifth grade.

  Scotty shrugged. He only understood what was being said in terms of him. And it wasn’t so much what was being said but rather the tone in which it was said. Maggie’s tone had a conflicted quality. Most of her sounded comforting but there was a warble, a kind of raspy bite to her voice that seemed to say, “I love watching you suffer, Scotty Ocean.”

  As they walked, Scotty ran a stick along the Orvises’ white picket fence. He stopped listening to his sister and started listening to himself. Scotty felt loved and despised at the same time. The disparity of such feelings did not trouble him, for that is how he usually felt. And even though his television heroes—Jody on Family Affair, Little Joe on Bonanza, and Ernie on My Three Sons—seemed to escape such mixed-up emotions, they did have troubles of their own. Jody broke a vase once, Ernie lost his glasses, and that Sunday night, Scotty watched as Little Joe’s heart broke when the woman he loved turned out to be a liar, a cheat. Little Joe felt like crying but he didn’t cry because he’s not a crier. And when Little Joe gets sad, Scotty noted, he climbs on his horse and rides into town or sits at home at the Ponderosa and eats a good meal, and waits for everything to work out, which for Little Joe Cartwright, it always did.

  “So Scotty,” Maggie concluded as they stepped up onto the porch of their house. “What do you think?”

  “Uhm.”

  “You didn’t listen, did you?”

  “Yeah, I…”

  “I just told you the secret of being popular. And you didn’t listen.” Maggie let the screen door slam. “Do you know how many people want to know the secret of being popular?”

  Scotty stood on the porch for a moment, then looked back up the street two houses to where the pack of fourth grade boys stood, straddling their bikes. He had survived the day.

  (2)

  April birthdays included Mrs. Boyden, who asked the kids to sing “Happy Birthday” to her, which they did. She wouldn’t reveal her age, but she said that it was her greatest hope that all of the students would live as long as she had. “May you be so lucky.”

  Ruth Rethman, whose actual birthday wasn’t until the end of June, had elected to celebrate hers on April 23.

  Years earlier, Mrs. Boyden had realized there was an injustice being done to the students with summer birthdays. Since school would not be in session, she thought it only fa
ir to let each kid with a summer birthday designate a day as theirs.

  In the weeks to come, Shari Tussey and the Hammer twins would have their own parties, which weren’t parties really, but opportunities for mothers or fathers to bring treats for the entire class and for the honored student to wear the cone-shaped birthday hat for the entire day.

  “Scotty,” Mrs. Boyden said, “you need to pick a date for your party.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you want a party?”

  Scotty shook his head.

  Mrs. Boyden had never had a student who didn’t want a party. “Of course you do. Everyone wants a party.”

  “No,” Scotty said as he wandered out to recess. Anyway, he thought, doesn’t she get it? I’m not turning eight.

  (3)

  Scotty’s alliance with Tom Conway was made out of necessity.

  Tom had gone through an unpopular phase early in the year. He’d been beaten up by a group of boys from Sacred Heart, the Catholic school, but he hadn’t cried enough to make doing it again worth anybody’s while. So older boys left him alone. And he knew secret routes home, where a hole in a fence could allow for a quick getaway; he knew about strategy and outsmarting the older, dumber boys. Best of all, he had a secret weapon, and whenever Scotty heard it clunk around in Tom’s lunch pail, Scotty felt safe. How great, he thought, to have such power. He believed this had kept them safe, and this is why he made sure to walk home with Tom every day he could.

  But, in truth, boys from the third through fifth grades had been assigned to their Little League teams. After school, on most days, these boys rode off to baseball practice. They had lost interest in beating up Scotty.

  Tom must have known he had the upper hand in their relationship. “You pussy willow,” he liked to say. “Scotty is such a pussy willow.”

  Scotty smiled at these words.

  “You’re a dog face, a cat lick,” Conway ranted. “You’re a Q-tip—you’re a fart maker.”

  Sometimes Scotty fell on his knees he laughed so hard. Or he rolled on his back in the new grass, cackling, his legs kicking at the sky above him.

  And for a time things were fine.

  ***