by Kirby Larson
Fish step-clomped alongside Mo to the corner. Her lips and nails were cherry red and she smelled of Shalimar, too dressed up for the beach. But he said, “You look nice.”
The first streetcar that passed said COLORED ONLY, but another one came along in a few minutes. They paid their seven cents fare, getting transfers from the conductorette. At the end of the streetcar line, they transferred to a bus and soon were mingling with the crowds at Pontchartrain Beach.
The air felt like a damp washcloth on Fish’s face. He looked up. Would it be another one of those days where the skies opened up in the afternoon?
“I want to try on a gas mask,” Mo said. Fish followed her to a line of people waiting to pay a nickel for that pleasure. Fish watched as the lady in front of him gave it a go. He wondered if Pop ever had to wear one. He hoped not. In his last letter to Mo, Pop said that he was safer as a combat engineer than he’d been as a mechanic.
Some news photographer from the Times-Picayune snapped a photo of Mo when it was her turn to try on the gas mask. The reporter tagging along asked for her name and how to spell it. “How’s about a phone number, too, Toots?” The reporter winked.
Mo slipped off the mask, fluffing her hair before handing it to Fish. “Move along,” she told the reporter. “My boyfriend will be here any minute.”
The reporter shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
Mo glared at him. “Just watch me.”
The photographer nudged the reporter. “Let’s get a shot over there.” They wandered off.
“Fresh.” Mo shook her head. “Don’t be like that when you grow up, Fish. Okay?”
Fish had no problem agreeing. That girl-boy stuff gave him the willies. He slipped the mask over his head. It was heavier than he thought it would be. And stuffier. How did people breathe with one of those on? He couldn’t wait to take it off and hand it back to the lady Red Cross volunteer, who said, “The kids in Hawaii have to carry these everywhere. Can you imagine?”
Fish shook his head. He could not imagine. Though he wouldn’t mind if Wally had to wear one. That would make their classroom a lot quieter. “Hey, look over there.” He pointed to a booth that said SEND YOUR SOLDIER A VOICE-O-GRAPH, SPONSORED BY GEM BLADES AND RAZORS.
“You want to do that for Pop?” Mo asked.
Fish watched as a lady went inside the booth. Soon he could hear her singing “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.” Her voice cracked as she repeated the last line of the song and she was wiping her eyes as she stepped out of the booth. Another lady grabbed her in a hug and they stood, sniffling, while waiting for her record to be pressed.
“That guy can go first.” Fish pointed to a man in a seersucker suit. Watching that lady got Fish all choked up. If he sent a message to Pop, he wanted it to be loud and clear. Strong and straight. Just like his leg was going to be.
Whatever the seersucker suit man recorded, Fish couldn’t hear it. So that gave him time to think of what to say to Pop. The sign said the recordings took two minutes. “Do you want to do it with me?” he asked Mo. What if he couldn’t think of two minutes of stuff to talk about?
“The booth looks too small for two people.” Mo handed him the thirty-five cents. “You make a record for Pop. I want to make one for Roy to take with him when he ships out.” Assuming Captain McDerby passed him, Roy would be on his way to San Diego in a few weeks.
The man in the seersucker suit stepped out. “Next!” He smiled at Fish.
The volunteer working the booth shut the door after Fish stepped inside. An instruction sheet was pasted on the wall in front of him, and a money slot sat below a small shelf about waist high. A clipboard was chained to the shelf with a note: IT HELPS TO JOT DOWN YOUR THOUGHTS FIRST! Fish ignored that. Talking was going to be challenging enough. He skimmed the set of instructions pasted on the wall: DROP COINS IN SLOT. WATCH FOR SIGNAL LIGHTS BELOW, THEN TALK INTO MICROPHONE. He stood six inches from the microphone, as the sign instructed. When he slid his dime and quarter into the slot, something clicked and began to whir. The START READING bar lit up. Panicked, Fish backed away from the microphone, bumping into the booth door.
“You okay in there?” Mo called.
“Yeah.” Fish shook himself, then scanned the list of suggestions: SING YOUR FAVORITE SONG. Fish couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. SEND A GREETING TO YOUR RELATION. Okay. “Hey, hello, Pop,” Fish started. He cleared his throat, reading down the suggestion list. TALK ABOUT WHERE YOU ARE, WHO YOU ARE WITH, AND WHAT YOU ARE DOING. “Hi, it’s Fish. Me and Mo are at the beach today. We’re going to see Roy later and get a ride in an LCVP. You know, landing craft, vehicle, personnel.” Swallow. “Are you doing okay, Pop? We are.” Pause. “Guess what? Mo took one of my gadgets to work and it gave the engineers an idea for improving a tank lighter. To make it easier to raise and lower the exit ramp. It was just something I made out of a cigar box and some junk. What do you think about that?”
Fish tried to imagine Pop’s face when he listened to this news. Mo said Pop had a poker face. It was hard to know what he was thinking by watching his expressions. But maybe his eyes would light up like they did when Ted Williams hit a homer, or when Pop laid down a pinochle during a game of cards. Maybe the news would help Pop forget about Fish’s leg. For a little while, at least.
Another bar lit up; thirty seconds left. “Anyway, Pop. We can’t wait till you come home.” Fish paused again. “Forward, Pop! Keep building those bridges. We miss you. Bye for now.”
The STOP RECORDING light blipped on. He’d done it! Fish swiped at his forehead as he stepped out of the booth.
“Warm in there?” Mo asked.
“Yeah.” Warm, but also it was hard work. How did those radio announcers blab away all the time like they did? Fish was glad inventors didn’t have to do a lot of talking.
It took only a few minutes for his record to be pressed. The six-inch vinyl disc was still warm when the volunteer handed it to him. He slipped the record into the cardboard envelope, holding the whole thing very carefully. It had a long way to travel to get to Pop.
The booth door swung open. Mo stepped out, a wistful expression on her face.
“You okay?” Fish asked.
She shrugged. “It just brought it all home. Roy’s really leaving.”
Fish awkwardly patted his sister’s arm, hoping she wasn’t going to start blubbering like that other lady. He couldn’t handle tears. Especially not Mo’s.
Mo took her record from the man at the booth and slid it into an envelope and then into her pocketbook. “Want me to hold on to yours, too?”
Fish handed it over. “Let’s mail it tomorrow.”
“I can do that from the office.” Mo snapped her pocketbook shut. “Time to find Roy.” They shuffled across patches of sand and grass to the lake’s edge. Three LCVPs were lined up on the beach. And all the sailors in the ships looked identical. Fish couldn’t pick Roy out.
“He’s in number 94.” Mo shielded her eyes from the sun to study the numbers painted on the sides of the boats.
“There it is!” Fish led the way to the farthest landing craft, Mo following right behind.
Roy saw them coming and waved his arm like he was the King of Mardi Gras on a float. “Come aboard,” he called out.
The ramp at the bow of the boat had been lowered. Fish and Mo scrambled up, along with some other people. Fish knew that the soldiers didn’t come aboard this way; they clambered up the thick netting of ropes fastened on the side. A few more people meandered up the ramp and then a sailor on the beach held up his hand, making the rest of the folks wait for the next ride. Roy raised the ramp and it groaned to a close, clanking so hard that Fish could feel the vibration in his chest. As the boat backed off the beach, the engineer gave a little spiel, shouting over the engine, wind, and water. They roared out onto the lake. Mo and the other ladies clamped their hats to their heads with one hand and hung on with the other.
“This landing craft was built right here in New Orleans, by a litt
le company called Higgins Industries.” The engineer laughed at his own bad joke. A few of the passengers chuckled, knowing full well that Higgins Industries was anything but small, with two huge plants in New Orleans alone. “It’s built of a mix of oak, pine, and mahogany, protected by steel armor on the hull. This workhorse can carry thirty-six troops, or three tons of vehicles. She’s probably clipping along now at about ten knots, right, Skipper?” He looked over at Roy, who nodded. “But she can top out at twelve knots unloaded, nine knots fully loaded. And it only takes four geniuses to run her: the coxswain there” — he pointed at Roy, then at himself — “an engineer like me, and two crew. Who wants to guess what they do?”
Mo nudged Fish. He could give this talk in his sleep, Mo had told him so much about all the different boats being built at Higgins. “Man the machine guns,” Fish called out.
“That’s right.” The engineer nodded. “Those babies right there.” Some kid tried to climb up to touch the machine guns, but the engineer stopped him. “Those aren’t toys, tiger.” He shooed the kid back to his parents.
Roy and the coxswains of the other two LCVPs — now on the water, too — slowed to form a circle, puttering behind one another. “This is one of our evasive maneuvers,” Roy explained, shouting over the engine noise. “Kind of like the settlers circling their wagons in the Old West.”
As tall as he was, even standing on his toes, Fish couldn’t see over the sides of the landing craft. But he could feel the wind and smell the brackish lake water. That’s what it would be like for the men riding in this boat on their way to a beach landing somewhere. They would be blind to where they were going. What they were headed into. Only the coxswain — and the gunners — would be able to see what the troops were facing. It was warm in the boat, with the sun reflecting off the water, but that thought made Fish shiver as he studied Roy, standing straight and tall in his crisp uniform.
A funny feeling came over Fish. Soon, Roy wouldn’t be doing practice runs or tourist trips on the lake here. He’d be on a ship, maybe heading to the Pacific. Steaming to danger.
Roy caught Fish looking at him and gave a thumbs-up. Fish returned the gesture. Then Roy circled his finger in the air, asking, “Ready to head in?”
Fish shook his head. Out here, the war was at bay. He liked that feeling.
Roy grinned and the engine roared; he pulled out of the circle and cut through the water like a great shark. Fish lost his balance and grabbed on to one of the exposed ribs. The energy of the boat’s thrust pushed him back, but he found a way to lean on his good leg. Wind whipped around his face, making his eyes water, ruffling his hair. He felt like Errol Flynn in one of those pirate movies. He tilted his head back, hollering at a pair of pelicans flying overhead. “Avast, me hearties!” Mo laughed. Too soon, Roy wheeled the boat around. Toward shore.
“Watch him nail this landing,” the engineer shouted in Fish’s ear. “You can tip these things like nobody’s business if you breech ’em even one tiny bit.” He grinned big. “Roy always hits it straight and high.” He whooped. “Ride her in, cowboy!”
The shore barreled at them. Fish steeled himself for a crash. He might have even closed his eyes. With a whoosh and a whump, Roy placed the bow of the craft square on the beach. Everyone cheered. Especially Fish. Roy tipped his hat, then lowered the ramp.
Fish’s legs wobbled as he made his way off the landing craft.
Mo’s eyes sparkled. “Wasn’t that great?”
Fish nodded. It had been. Except for thinking about Roy driving an LCVP in the war, landing it somewhere like Tarawa or Guadalcanal, where there had been big battles. Big casualties. Fish decided he wasn’t going to complain about setting three plates at the table anymore.
“I’m famished!” Mo resettled her hat and smoothed out her flyaway hair. “Roy’s got some more runs to do before he can take us home. How about lunch?”
They ate two hot dogs each and shared a Dr. Nut soda, then strolled to the far end of the beach, where they found a snowball stand to cool off. Mo tried mint, but Fish stuck with grape. They strolled back toward the landing crafts and were finishing their treats when Roy found them. He stopped to buy a hot dog for himself, which he ate on the way to the car.
“A penny for your thoughts?” Roy studied Fish in the rearview mirror as they cruised down Elysian Fields.
“That was great.” Fish leaned back against the seat. “Really great.”
Roy glanced over his shoulder, face serious. “I was glad to do it, Fish.”
Mo fiddled with the car radio. An Andrews Sisters song came on. “I can’t help singing along,” she said. “Even though I’m tone-deaf.”
“You don’t have to tell us!” Roy teased, catching Fish’s eye in the rearview mirror again with a wink.
Mo pretended to pout.
Fish smiled. Maybe boy-girl stuff wasn’t so bad after all. For Mo and Roy.
A slight figure sat, hunched over, on their front porch when they pulled up.
“Hey, Olympia.” Mo and Roy headed inside.
“I’ve got news.” Olympia tugged him around to the backyard. “Look.”
The pie tin was empty.
“She was here and I missed her!” Fish slapped at the cage in frustration. Of all the days for Liberty to eat the food in the trap. Then he stopped for a second. “Why didn’t the door close?” He’d been so sure his plan would work.
Olympia tugged on the braid closest to her face. “That’s the news.”
Fish picked up the pie tin. He’d wash it out and refill it right after supper. “What news?”
“I was only trying to help.” Olympia started tugging on a second braid. “Honest.”
He banged the pie tin against his thigh. “Spit it out, for crying out loud.”
“The good news is that your trap worked fine.” She tried out a smile. “Liberty took the bait like we planned and the door snapped shut.”
Fish leaned against the live oak. “Then why isn’t she in there?”
Olympia hung her head and sighed deeply. “I let her out.”
“Let her —”
“It wasn’t like that.” Olympia perched on a pile of lumber, like a bird poised for flight. “She seemed so scared. I wanted to pet her. Calm her down. Let her know we wouldn’t hurt her.”
Fish picked a bent nail out of the dirt. “And when you opened the door, she got out.” He flipped the nail toward the trash can.
“I was only trying to help.” Olympia wouldn’t even meet Fish’s gaze.
Fish shifted his attention to the empty cage. So close. He turned toward the back steps. “Do me a favor, will you?”
“Anything.” Olympia looked up. “I am so sorry.”
“Don’t help me.” Fish clumped up the first step. “I mean it. I don’t want your help. Anymore.”
When he reached the top, he jerked open the screen door, letting it slam shut behind him. He heard Miss Zona call Olympia home.
Good riddance.
Fish hated math bees. Especially when it was boys against girls. The girls had solved three problems while Wally was at the board. It took all of Fish’s willpower not to shout out the answer. Couldn’t Wally see it?
Lurelle hurried up to the blackboard after Audrey tagged her. Fish dropped his head to his desk. The boys were going to lose. Again.
“Finished!” Lurelle put the chalk in the tray and brushed her hands. “The answer is ninety-seven.”
“Nicely done, ladies.” Mrs. Francis made a tally mark in the far corner of the blackboard. “It looks like the boys are lagging a bit. The score this year is girls 20, boys 16.” She clucked her tongue. “Some of you young men need to spend more time on math facts and less on comic books.”
Wally kicked the back of Fish’s chair. “I thought you were such an egghead.”
“I can’t win all by myself.” Fish scooted his chair forward, out of reach of Wally’s foot.
“Do I hear talking?” Mrs. Francis scoured the room. No one uttered a peep. “Good.�
� She turned her back to the class and began writing on the board. “One of my favorite assignments each year is coming right up.” She wrote Monday May 29, 1944: Memorial Day on the board. “You will write an original essay. The topic is” — she chalked it out in her perfect Palmer Method penmanship — “My Hero.” She faced the class, beaming. “I know you will write some wonderful and heartfelt essays. And here is the best part!”
Fish thought his teacher might faint dead away with pleasure.
“Principal Sellars will select three to read aloud over the school’s public address system, in celebration of the holiday.”
Fish doubted that any of his classmates, except maybe Lurelle, were as overjoyed as Mrs. Francis at this announcement. Sure enough, Lurelle’s hand shot straight up.
“One more thing before I get to your questions.” Mrs. Francis adjusted her bifocals on her nose. “I will need all the essays a week from Friday.”
“I’m going to write about my big brother who’s in the Navy,” Wally called out. “He’s knocking the heil out of Hitler!” Several of the boys laughed.
“Raise your hand before speaking, please, Wallace.”
Wally raised his hand. Mrs. Francis called on him. He repeated what he had just said, except for the heil part.
Ernie flapped his arm around. “Can I write about my cousin? He’s in the Coast Guard.”
Mrs. Francis nodded. “Of course.”
Lurelle’s hand shot up again. “Mrs. Francis, can a hero be a woman?”
“Oh, my, yes.” Mrs. Francis’s eyes got even bigger behind her bifocal lenses. “I know I am going to be so pleased with these essays.”
She patted her palm on her desk top. “I hope to see equal enthusiasm about our vocabulary assignment.” Mrs. Francis motioned to pull out spelling books.
Fish dutifully copied down the week’s list. While Mrs. Francis related “fascinating facts” about the origins of each word, he doodled in the margin of his paper. At first it was just a scribble, but the blip in the center looked like a nose. A dog’s nose. He added two ears, folded down in little triangles, soft as Mo’s cashmere sweater, and big eyes. Big brown eyes.