by Kirby Larson
Liberty.
It’d been weeks since Fish had seen her. He hadn’t spoken to Olympia in all that time. She kept popping her head through the fence, but he went inside the minute she did. He wouldn’t even answer the door when she brought over a plate of Miss Zona’s fudge to add to their care packages to Pop and Roy. She couldn’t have left well enough alone when Liberty was in the trap. She had to go and try and pet her.
Fish pulled a pink eraser out of his desk and furiously rubbed out his drawing. Good-bye, Liberty. He hoped someone was taking care of her. Giving her plenty to eat. Keeping her safe.
The bell chimed for the end of the day. Mrs. Francis held up her hands, holding up their exit. “Before you go, students, there is one more thing. I want to know your essay topic before you begin writing. You may tell me in the morning.”
The thought of writing an essay hung over Fish like a dark cloud all the way home. Words were so slippery. He had a hard time getting them from his head to the page. And if he got another D in language arts, Mo would — well, he didn’t know what she might do. But it wouldn’t be good. That much he did know. His step-clomps were slower than ever as he walked and worried.
The mailbox held a bit of blue sky. A postcard from Roy. Nothing from Pop, but they’d gotten a letter a few days back. It was like most all the other letters: “I’ll send more money. Take care. I’m fine. Pop.” Roy, on the other hand, could write. Fish enjoyed the postcards most because they were right there for him to read, too. This latest card was postmarked Tombstone: “You wouldn’t think so, but the desert is beautiful. I feel no bigger than a crawfish when I think about how big this country of ours is. I say we all explore it together when this war is over! Take good care, you two. Love, Roy.” Fish had dug out an old atlas and was tracing Roy’s route, inking a little dot for each place he mentioned. Now Fish added one for Tombstone. He’d already put one at San Diego, where Roy would finish his training. Fish ran his finger between the starting dot and ending dot. A lot of miles. He kept the map in his room; seeing it might only make Mo feel worse.
She had been a low-volume version of herself since Roy shipped out. She and Roy had celebrated his graduation from the Higgins training — Captain McDerby passed him, after all, in spite of all the times he got on Roy — at the Roosevelt Hotel on a Friday night, and by Monday, Roy was on a train to San Diego. After that, Mo still did everything she always did, but with less spark and sparkle. Suppers were lonely with only two plates on the table.
Fish noticed the Blue Star Flag Mo bought as soon as Roy shipped out. It was lying on the counter; she planned to hang it that weekend. He’d surprise her. Hang it right now, next to Pop’s, so she could see it tonight first thing when she got home. That might perk her up.
The hammer and nails were in the shed, on a shelf on the far wall, over the bicycle, which he’d left uncovered. He couldn’t avoid noticing that it was in good condition. Flat tires were fixable. He remembered Nurse Meg and how there was this one therapy exercise where she’d forced his right leg to move around and around. Kind of like pedaling a bike. Maybe he could ride again. Maybe that would help his leg more than his latest exercise contraption, which hadn’t made a noticeable difference at all. Fish wheeled the bike out into the yard so he could work on it after he got the flag up. He tacked the flag to the rail in the middle of the front door window, next to Pop’s, making sure it was hanging straight. Then he returned to the backyard.
Buried under a dozen old coffee cans in the shed, he found a pump and added air to the bike’s tires. Then he leaned the bike against the live oak tree, looking it over. At five, he’d hopped right on his birthday bike. Didn’t think twice about falling, crashing. But both legs had worked fine then.
With the bike still supported by the tree, Fish mounted. Got a feel for the seat. They said a person never forgot how to ride a bicycle. He rocked back and forth, reminding himself how it felt to be balanced over two wheels. When he felt comfortable, he straightened his left arm, pushing himself away from the tree. Without any forward momentum, the bike wobbled wildly. After experimenting, he found that if he rotated his right hip, he could hook his heel at the very edge of the pedal. His left leg would have to do all the work, but with the right foot tucked in like this, he felt more stable. Ready to give it a go. When he pushed again on the pedal with his left leg, his right foot flew off the other side. But he rolled forward. He pushed again with his left leg and covered a little more ground.
He practiced going around the yard a couple times, but it was so small, the sharp turns kicked him off. Without letting himself think about it too much, he pointed the bike toward the banquette in front of the house. And he kept going. Down Fig Street, crossing at Eagle, and up Fig again.
“You look familiar!” Miss Rose called out as he passed Cali’s Market for the third time. She laughed and waved and returned to arranging bananas. Fish waved, too, wobbled, then clamped both hands back on the handlebars. He kept riding up and down the street. Once he got a rhythm going, he began to relax. To breathe. Maybe if he could handle riding a bike, he could handle the essay for Mrs. Francis. He even began to think about a topic. Brainstorming like those engineers at Higgins Industries with his cigar box. His invention had helped them think of something new. Even Mr. Higgins had been impressed.
Mr. Andrew Jackson Higgins. If there was a bigger hero in New Orleans, Fish couldn’t think who it would be. The more he thought about it, the more he thought he had come up with an A+ idea.
He’d need Mo’s help getting an appointment with Mr. Higgins. She’d say yes, of course. It was for school, after all. And she always made the appointments for her boss, so that part should be a cinch.
Fish rolled up to their front walk, hop-hop-hopping along till the bike slowed. Stopped. He was winded but happy. Riding was sure to make a difference for his leg. He whistled as he wheeled the bike into the backyard.
Liberty was curled up under the live oak.
With blood all over her side.
For the third day in a row, Erich listened to the Americans shout out names of other men from the Afrika Korps and watched as those men jumped into trucks and rode off across the desert. Rumor had it they were going to camps in the States, where there was plenty of good food. And not one French guard.
From his vantage point near the fence, as close to the trucks as he could get, Erich took note. German prisoners were called, one after another. They got waved onto trucks. But never once did Erich see anyone request or present identification.
He did not think he had the courage to act on his own. Oskar, sick of the Frogs and their many small but pointed ways of making the prisoners’ lives as miserable as possible, quickly jumped at Erich’s idea. “We all look alike in these rags anyway,” Oskar said. “What’s the worst they could do if they catch you?” He snorted. “Send you to a prison camp?”
It was decided. They would make their move the next day. In the morning, a stocky American sergeant stood at the gate in the wire fence. He called out several dozen names: “Acker, Baumgartner, Fertig, Klein, Metzler, Richter, Volk.” The Professor’s name was called and he made his way stiffly toward the gate, suffering as he did from a shrapnel wound that had not healed properly. Erich signaled Oskar and they hastened to his side, each offering an arm to the older man. Each nodding at the sergeant as they passed through the gate, away from the French, away from the desert, away from Algiers.
The men already seated on the hard plank seats in the truck merely moved over to make room for three more.
Nothing was said. No questions were asked.
Erich allowed himself a smile. The first in a long time.
Whatever awaited him in the United States, he was ready for it.
Fish approached slowly. Liberty lifted her head, brown eyes dull with pain.
“It’s okay, girl. I’m going to help you.” The blood was dried. Crusted. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it looked. He kept talking to her, kept easing closer. At the base of the tree, he st
iffly lowered himself to the ground. She shied away a bit at his clumsy movements, so he rested his hand on her head. “Good girl. Good girl.”
Liberty turned to lick his hand.
Without touching her side, Fish inspected the wound, which was jagged but not deep. Maybe she got caught on some barbed wire. He stroked her head again. She snuffled, tucking her muzzle between her front paws. He didn’t want to leave her. But he needed to get her cleaned up. Maybe put something on the gash.
The sound of the fence board sliding caught the back side of his thoughts. Then, Olympia was next to him, setting down a basin of soapy water. She pulled some rags from her skirt pocket.
He took one of the rags, dipped it in the basin, and gently washed Liberty’s side. She didn’t make a sound, keeping her eyes fixed on him. Trusting him to help her. Trusting him completely.
“Looks like your dog got herself in a fight,” Olympia said.
“Is that what happened, girl? A fight?” It figured there would be dog bullies in the world, just like there were people bullies. “It’s okay now. You’re okay.” Fish rinsed the rag, wringing it out. The water in the basin turned pink. “Do you think we should put something on it? Some ointment?”
“Want me to ask Grandmamma? She’s doctored plenty of people.”
Fish checked Liberty over while Olympia was gone. Aside from being dirty and infested with fleas, it didn’t seem like she was hurt anywhere else. He found one little chunk out of her right ear, but that looked like an old injury. “You’ve had a rough life, haven’t you, girl?” He scratched between her eyes. She huffed, lay her head down, and relaxed.
Olympia wiggled back through the gap in the fence. In one hand, she carried a brown bottle. Mercurochrome. In the other, a jar of some kind of salve. “Grandmamma says after we get it washed off, clean it with this” — she waggled the bottle — “and then slather on some of this.” She held up the jar. “It’s her own special salve. Stinks but it works.”
Fish finished cleaning up the blood. “Maybe I should hold on to her and you put on the Mercurochrome.” He didn’t want to be the one to do anything that might hurt. And he knew from all the skinned knees he got, learning to walk again, how much Mercurochrome could sting.
Olympia dabbed at Liberty’s side with the brown stuff. The dog wiggled a bit, then shifted around, laying her head in Fish’s lap. He thought his heart might crumble. He was never going to let anything bad happen to Liberty again. Ever. He rested his hand on her soft head.
“I think I got it good.” Olympia screwed the top back on the bottle. “Do you want to do this?” She held out the jar of salve.
Fish wanted to, but Liberty seemed so comfortable with her head in his lap. “Naw. I don’t want to move.”
“This is good practice for me.” Olympia patted a layer of goo on Liberty’s side. “I want to be a nurse. Like my auntie, in the Army Nurse Corps.” She wiped her hands off on one of the clean rags. “She’s in England right now. Doing her bit.” Pride washed over Olympia’s words.
“I didn’t know that.” Fish scratched under Liberty’s chin. The dog was now sound asleep. She must’ve been completely worn out. “About your aunt or about you wanting to be a nurse.”
Olympia shrugged. “Probably lots you don’t know about me.”
She was right about that. “Hey, thanks. For doing all this.”
“That’s what neighbors are for.” She began picking up the first-aid supplies. “Grandmamma says we’re just taking up space unless we’re doing unto others.” She started back for the gap in the fence. “Plus, I owe you.”
“I’m going to need some dog supplies,” Fish blurted out. “A collar. A leash. Want to go to Mr. Campbell’s with me later?”
Olympia answered with a smile. “Let’s stop at Cali’s Market and ask for some bones, too.” As she slipped through the fence, he heard her holler. “I’ll be back quick as I can!”
Liberty twitched in her sleep. Maybe she was dreaming about chasing rabbits. He was going to have to read up about dogs. He wanted to be the best master ever. Make Liberty forget she’d ever been lost and alone.
Olympia came back with some scraps from Miss Zona. Liberty woke up and wolfed them down. “You’re just plain starving, aren’t you, baby?” Olympia cooed at Liberty, stroking her ears.
The back door creaked open. “And what is going on here?” Mo asked.
“She’s hurt,” Fish said.
“Who does she belong to?” Mo unpinned her hat.
Fish glanced over at Olympia. She nodded encouragement. He swallowed. “Me, I hope.”
Mo’s mouth opened, then closed. “I cannot process this information without a Coca-Cola.” She held up a finger before disappearing into the house.
“You didn’t tell her about the dog?” Olympia whispered.
“What would I have said?” Dogs were definitely on the Do Not Tell Mo list. “I didn’t know I’d catch Liberty. Not for sure.”
Olympia merely shook her head.
Mo returned, dressed in capris and a sleeveless blouse, holding an icy bottle in her hand. She sat down on the porch, shuffling her bare feet against the steps. “I suppose I’m going to have to loan you money for dog supplies.” She took a sip of her Coke.
“I’ll do extra chores,” Fish offered. “She’s really sweet. Want to come pet her?”
“Not till she’s had a bath. I can see the fleas jumping from here.”
“She’s not so bad.” Fish crossed his fingers behind his back.
Mo stretched out her legs. “Rule number one.” She waggled the bottle for emphasis. “No dogs in the house.”
Olympia dragged over an old washtub from her grandmother’s basement. Using bits of leftover frankfurter, Fish lured Liberty into the tub. She got in but would not sit down. They scooped water up in old coffee cans and poured it over her. Fish hoped Mo would stay on the steps. If she came any closer, she’d see the army of fleas floating in the dirty water.
Fish hated to do it, but he had to tie Liberty up so he could go get some basic canine supplies. Seemed like the bath had worn her out; she curled up and was snoring little doggy snores in no time. Mo hardly grumbled at all as she handed over a couple of dollars, and Fish and Olympia hightailed it to the store.
Mr. Campbell was surprised when Fish put the collar and the leash on the counter. “You got a dog now?” he asked.
Before Fish could even answer, Olympia jumped in. “She’s smart as a whip, too. Name’s Liberty.”
“Good name.” Mr. Campbell nodded his approval. “Seems like you’d best get out to my scrap pile and see if I’ve got enough bits to build your Liberty a doghouse.”
Fish hadn’t even thought about that. He thanked Mr. Campbell, who handed over an issue of Popular Mechanics along with the leash and collar. “You’ll find a dandy set of plans in here.”
After they got back from Mr. Campbell’s, Miss Zona called for Olympia to come on in. She didn’t run home till she gave Liberty a big hug and kiss. “You sleep tight, girl. I’ll bring you some bacon in the morning!”
Fish cleared out a spot in the shed for Liberty to sleep until he got the doghouse built. He provisioned it with food and water and an old blanket. She got a little antsy when he started to close the shed door. “I’ll be back first thing,” he promised. “This is to keep you safe tonight.” He tossed in a Milk-Bone and wrestled the door shut. It didn’t sit right on its hinges. It about broke his heart to hear her scratching to get out. He didn’t blame her for hating to be closed up in there. He’d have to do something about that right away.
He pored over the doghouse plans at the kitchen table. It was going to take him some time to build this. Liberty wouldn’t like being in the shed that long. He’d best come up with a plan B. Mo looked up from the letter she was writing to Roy. “That dog better not interfere with your schoolwork,” she warned.
Schoolwork! He’d almost forgotten about the essay. He needed to tell Mrs. Francis his topic in the morning. “About that,”
he said. “I have an idea for a big assignment, but I need your help.” He asked Mo about interviewing Mr. Higgins.
“Well, he’s pretty busy,” she said. “But I’ll see what I can do. Especially since we don’t want any more notes home from your teacher.” Mo arched her eyebrows at him before pulling a piece of paper from the stack next to her. “Speaking of writing, I bet Pop would like to hear about the newest member of the family.”
Fish usually struggled with what to say to his father. He couldn’t write about sports or anything like that. But he quickly had a page full of words, telling about Liberty and taking care of her and plans for the doghouse. He left out the part about riding the bike. He never liked to say anything that reminded Pop about his leg.
He finished the letter, and signed it with the motto of his dad’s battalion: “Forward, Fish.”
It was twelve blocks down Carrollton to the Nix Branch Library and twelve blocks back, but Fish walked the whole way. He was saving every penny for Liberty, and fourteen cents’ bus fare bought a lot of Pard brand dog food. Just that morning, Mrs. Francis had said that a person could find about anything in a book, which was the reason for the long hike to the neighborhood library for the first time since he’d arrived in New Orleans.
“Pet training would be in the 600s.” The librarian pointed Fish toward the far wall. “When you find what you want, bring it on up here and we’ll get you signed up for a card,” she said. Fish nodded, then step-clomped as quietly as he could across the hardwood floor. He’d been having a heck of a time getting Liberty used to her leash. Sometimes she tugged and pulled, as if it were a snake she needed to get away from. And sometimes she just plunked down and refused to move, as if Fish had hooked her up to a ship’s anchor instead of a thin leather leash.