by Kirby Larson
The other man, Pie, shook his head. “Naw. Nothing good here.”
“Shoot. And after all the trouble I went to.” LaVache ran his hand over his mouth. “I’ve got grits cooking. You feel like some eggs? I’ll take care of them puppies later.” He tossed the sack over the wire.
Erich wrapped his hands around the back of his neck. He felt hopeless. As sick at heart as he had been the day they were captured. There was nothing he could do. He whispered soft comforts to the dog in German.
But there is no comfort for a mother who would be robbed of her babies.
Mo had the radio on while she made their breakfast. “And now for this news from the Pacific … ” intoned the announcer. Mo turned up the volume. “Fighting on Peleliu continues to be static as Marines are slowly pushing the enemy toward the north end of the island. About three-fourths of this island in the Palaus is now in our hands … ” Fish chewed his cornflakes as quietly as possible to listen to the report.
“Seated with me today is Commander Powell of the US Navy, who is one of the very first eyewitnesses back from the Palaus. Commander —”
Mo clicked the radio off. “I can’t stand to listen.” She took a shaky sip of coffee. “Sorry, Fish. Sometimes it just gets to me.”
“It’s okay.” Fish had been jittery, too, from the moment he first opened his eyes that morning. A change of topic would do them both good. “How’s the studying going?”
“Mr. Haddock is not making it easy for me, that’s for sure.” Mo managed a small smile. “But he actually said ‘fine’ to my drawings yesterday. His fine is someone else’s fabulous.”
“Pop’s going to be so proud of you when he finds out.” Fish poked at the last of the flakes in his bowl. Mo had talked Mr. Haddock into teaching her how to make engineering drawings. She’d got it in her head to go to college. After the war. She hadn’t even told Pop yet.
“And of you, too,” she said.
“Me?” Fish shook his head. “Why?”
“Too many reasons to name.” Mo finished her coffee and stood up. “You’re a chip off the old block.” She washed her breakfast dishes, then untied the apron she’d been wearing over her work clothes. “You should’ve seen all the gizmos he worked on when I was a kid.”
“Pop?” Fish picked up his breakfast dishes.
“Pop.” Mo pinned her hat on. “And he was always a sucker for a stray dog. Just like someone else I know. Mr. Disappearing Scraps from the Icebox.”
Fish nearly dropped his cereal bowl. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”
Mo opened her compact to apply her lipstick. “At least someone appreciates my cooking. Even if that someone gets around on four legs.” She blotted her lips on a tissue, threw it in the trash, and snapped her compact shut. “You better skedaddle to school. I’ll see you tonight.”
Fish washed out his breakfast bowl and set it on a tea towel to dry, thinking about Pop. It was like Mo had one father, and he had another. Pop with Mom. Pop after Mom. The Pop he knew only grumbled about the mess Fish made with his inventions. And he’d never once offered to let Fish get a dog. Fish didn’t even know that Pop liked them. He would’ve liked Liberty, if he’d had the chance to meet her. If Fish had been more careful, Liberty would still be his.
As Fish tied his shoes, he remembered that it was current events day. Luckily, yesterday’s newspaper was on top of the garbage. He gingerly lifted it out, brushed off some coffee grounds, and grabbed a pair of scissors. Maybe there was something about the battle on that island. What was it? Peleliu? The kitchen clock tick-tick-ticked as he scanned the front page. There! In the fourth column. The article carried over to the next section. He clipped both selections and read them as fast as he could. He grabbed his books, checking the time. He’d be tardy if he didn’t get a move on. Which meant there wouldn’t be time to check on Liberty on his way to school.
Unless he rode his bike.
He peglegged down the back steps and grabbed the Schwinn, propelling himself out of the yard, down the street, toward Mr. LaVache’s. The Army truck was already there, parked on the opposite side of the street from Mr. LaVache’s old beater. Fish wobbled into a sharp turn, making for the next corner, planning to ride down the road at the back. He ditched the bike, and looked for Erich.
Erich spotted him, easing away from the work detail to meet up with Fish behind the far chicken coop.
“The puppies were born, sometime yesterday,” Erich said.
“It must’ve been after I left!” Fish couldn’t believe he’d missed that. “Is she okay?”
“From what I can tell, yes.” Erich cleared his throat. “He spoke with a friend. A friend with a strange name.”
“Pie,” Fish filled in. “Pie DuFour. He thinks he’s a dog expert. Can tell if the pups are worth —” The words got stuck. Fish couldn’t say them. “What do they look like to you?”
Erich shrugged. “Little butterballs. Two marked like Mama. Three all red.”
“Do they look like hunters?”
“They are brand-new. Helpless as chicks. More helpless.” Erich shook his head.
“I have to find out what Pie says.” Fish started forward.
Erich held him back. He couldn’t bear to tell this boy what he had heard. But he must. “This man says the puppies are no good for hunting.”
Fish’s stomach cramped, threatening to upchuck cornflakes right there. “Is he really going to do it?” When Erich didn’t answer, Fish thought perhaps he didn’t understand the question. “Is he … taking the puppies?”
Erich stared at the toes of his boots. “I saw him with a large cloth sack.”
At that moment, two men emerged from Mr. LaVache’s house. Pie climbed in his truck and drove away. Mr. LaVache walked over to the dog pen, grabbed a large burlap sack off the fencing, whistling as if what he had planned was a picnic in the park.
“It’s not going to happen.” Even though his legs felt as limp as steamed okra, Fish began to move. Away from Erich, away from the chicken coop, away from the horrible scene. “Keep an eye on Liberty!” he shouted. He threw himself on the bike and slid and skidded his way to the front of the street. At that moment, Mr. LaVache tossed a burlap sack into the bed of his truck. A wiggling burlap sack. He hopped into the truck’s cab and the engine rattled to life.
Fish pedaled with all of his might after that old junker. It clunked along, stalling out at every other stop sign, but Fish never stopped moving. He stayed with the truck all the way to the New Basin Canal. At a low spot in the road, Mr. LaVache parked the truck and stepped out. Hitching up his pants, he strolled around to the rear of the truck. He hefted the burlap sack, holding it away from him as if it were filled with manure, not Liberty’s puppies.
The front wheel of his bike slipped on the gravel and Fish went down. A sharp rock jabbed into his lower back and the bike chain chewed up his pant leg. He scrabbled and pushed, wrestling the bike off him as if it were an octopus. He got to his feet just as Mr. LaVache swung his arm back. It snapped forward. He let go.
The bag landed with a splash.
Mr. LaVache climbed back in his truck.
Fish ran to the edge of the canal. He could see the bag barely afloat. He didn’t stop to think. He dived in.
It was cold. Colder than a snowball. He gasped, sucking in the dark water slick with boat fuel and oil and who knew what else. He bobbed up, coughing and gagging, eyes stinging from the filthy water. The bag! Where was it?
Nurse Meg’s voice filled his head. “You’re quite the fish. A very strong swimmer.” This was no therapy pool, but Fish kicked his legs — both of them — and stroked at the water with all his might. He threw his arms in front of him, reaching out, reaching for the bag that was sinking lower and lower. His fingers brushed against something soggy and rough. Burlap. He grabbed for it, and missed, misjudging how far away it was. His lungs felt like they were going to explode. The bag drifted lower. He willed his legs to kick and he torpedoed closer, snagged the bag by the very edge. He
shot up, up to the slimy surface of the canal, yanking the bag to safety, holding it above his head.
Water or tears or both ran down his face. He flipped the bag so it was on his back as he kicked and pulled and kicked and pulled to the canal’s edge. When his fingers touched concrete, he grabbed hold, dragging himself and his parcel up and over the lip, falling face-first on the shoulder. Gravel scraped his knees as he knelt, heaving, forcing the tainted water out of his gut.
He gathered himself together and untied the sack. Inside, four wet pups coughed and trembled and mewled. The fifth lay deathly still. Fish lifted it out, tenderly rubbing its round belly. A tiny sound — baby bird–like — escaped from its mouth and then it moved, too. “You’ll be okay. I’m going to take care of you. You’ll be okay.” He repeated the words over and over, trying to convince himself as much as the puppies.
The only way he could figure out how to get them home was to keep them in the sack. He balanced it on his lap as he rode, shivering and wet. Halfway there, he realized he needed help. He couldn’t take care of the puppies and rescue Liberty, too. And they needed their mother. Pronto.
Miss Zona’s face was pure surprise when she opened the door to Fish’s knock. But she quickly took over. “I’ll get them warm. But they need their mama,” she said.
“I know. I’m going after her.”
Miss Zona dumped sewing scraps out of a large basket and placed the puppies, one at a time, inside. “That man’s pure misery. I know his wife left him when their boy passed, but that’s no excuse for his meanness.” She lifted the basket in her arms. “You be careful, Fish.”
“I will.” Fish had no idea what his next step would be, besides changing out of his wet clothes.
He ran home and threw on a dry shirt and pants. Then he tore out the front door.
There, ready to knock, was the telegram delivery boy.
If Fish hadn’t already emptied his stomach at the canal, he might have again.
“Miss Mo Elliott?” The delivery boy shifted to look over Fish’s head into the house. “Is she here?”
“No.” Fish couldn’t hold his hand steady. “I’ll take it.”
“You eighteen?” the boy asked. “Can’t hand it over unless you’re eighteen. That’s the rules.”
“Can you leave it with my neighbor, then?” Fish pointed to Miss Zona’s. “She’s way older than that.”
“Nope.” The kid tapped the envelope on his hand. “Can you telephone Miss Elliott?”
Fish was tempted to snatch the telegram from the kid’s hand. Memories of seeing Mrs. DeSoto that day flooded his thoughts. “Wait here.”
He dashed inside and dialed the phone, so shaky he missed the hole on the first turn of the dial. At the sound of Mo’s voice, all he managed was a croak.
“Hello?” Mo paused. “Is someone there?”
Fish could almost see her on the other end, ready to hang up.
“Mo.” He forced her name out.
“Fish?” Her voice dipped. “What’s wrong? Are you calling from school?”
School seemed so far away that it almost sounded like a foreign word to Fish. He’d completely forgotten that was where he was supposed be. “No. No. Uh. Mo, you better come home.” He didn’t know how much to say.
“What’s going on?”
He had to practice the word in his mind before he could spit it out. “Telegram.”
“I’m on my way.” The receiver clunked in his ear.
Fish grabbed his shoes as he returned to the front porch. He sat on the glider; it took two tries to get the laces tied. Maybe it wasn’t bad news. Then he could ride over to Mr. LaVache’s the second Mo got home. Time was running out. Unless he stopped somewhere on the way home, Mr. LaVache had to be back from the canal already.
“She’ll be here soon,” Fish told the delivery boy. He noticed trickles of sweat creeping down from under the kid’s hat, along each side of his face. “You want something to drink?”
“That’d be nice.” The kid leaned against the porch rail.
Fish brought him a Dr. Nut soda. The kid took a long, deep drink.
“This was my brother’s job.” He exhaled. “Then he enlisted and I took over.” The kid held the bottle to his lips. “I hate it. Nothing but bad news.” He shot a glance at Fish. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s okay.” Fish couldn’t keep his legs still as he sat on the glider. They swung back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Staring down the street didn’t seem to make Mo come faster. The delivery boy didn’t say anything else. Just sipped at his soda.
Fish had been watching for Mo to come from the streetcar stop, but now a sedan bumped up to the curb, the passenger door flew open before the car even came to a stop, and Mo flew out, too. She ran up to Fish, grabbing his hand. Mr. Haddock slid out of the car, but stayed down on the banquette.
“Mo Elliott?” The delivery boy held out the envelope when Mo nodded. “Thanks for the drink,” he said to Fish. Then he leaped down the stairs to his bike, and rode away.
Mo took a seat on the glider. She tore open the envelope, skimming across the words. She sucked in a breath, as if it hurt to breathe. “It’s Roy.” She cleared her throat. “He was, was injured at Peleliu.” Her hands, still holding the telegram, fell to her lap. Fish sat next to her, unsure of what to do. Mr. Haddock made his way up the steps.
“Can I be of assistance?” He turned his fedora around in his hands.
Mo shook her head. “Oh, wait. Will you tell Mr. Higgins I won’t be in the rest of the day?” Her voice was tight, controlled.
“Sure thing.” Mr. Haddock put his hat back on. “Take tomorrow off if you need to.”
From the glider, Fish and Mo watched Mr. Haddock get in his sedan and drive off. Fish’s insides were twisted like snarled shoelaces. He knew he should stay with Mo, but the longer he sat here, the less chance he had of saving Liberty. Saving her pups.
Mo had been staring off into space. She blinked, wiped her eyes, and focused on Fish. “Why aren’t you in school?” she asked. “And why is your hair all wet?”
Fish wasn’t sure how she’d react. But he told her what had happened.
“You jumped in the canal?” Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh my gosh, Fish. What if something had happened to you?” She crumpled the telegram in her lap. “It’s too much. Too much.”
“Those puppies need their mom,” he said. “Which means I have to save Liberty.”
“No.” Mo slapped her hand against her leg. “It’s crazy. You can’t.”
Fish stood up, remembering Mr. Higgins’s words. “The only thing I can’t do is give up.” Something had happened to him in the canal. Miss Zona once tried to talk him into getting baptized. “The water washes the old self away,” she’d said. That’s how he felt since rescuing the pups. Like a new Fish had emerged from that water. As if his true self had worked its way out of the wood, like Erich’s carvings. And this Fish wasn’t going to let Liberty or her puppies down.
Fish turned away from his sister.
Mo stood, too. “Then I’m coming with you.”
Fish shook his head. “Only room for one on my bike. One person, anyway.”
“All right, then. I’ll go help Miss Zona with the puppies.” Mo’s smile was watery. “You go get your dog.”
Fish pedaled for all he was worth. He didn’t even ride to the back of Mr. LaVache’s this time. He barreled into the front yard. Right up to Liberty’s pen.
It was empty.
Their work finished, Sergeant Tucker ordered the prisoners into the truck for the return to camp. Erich dawdled. He had to see what happened. He’d postponed his escape because of the dog. The boy. So much like Friedrich, ready to tilt at windmills. This sad world needed more like them. Such good hearts would find the way to a better future. Erich ignored Sergeant Tucker’s second instruction to finish up. He put away his tools one by one.
As if on cue, the boy barreled down the road, left leg pumping the pedals, sti
ff right leg acting as ballast. His hair was soaking wet. But his face told the important part of the story. He had saved the puppies. And now he was back to save the dog. He careened from the street, straight for the pen. He nearly crashed into it, he was that out of control.
“Liberty!” Fish screamed the word. He threw the bike down, gripping the mesh around the pen, shaking it in frustration. His white face swung toward Erich, exhaustion mixed with disbelief. “Where is she?” Sweat or perhaps tears left muddy tracks on his cheeks.
Erich glanced away at a noise. LaVache’s truck. Time was running out. He put his finger to his lips, motioned Fish close to the Army truck. From inside, one of the other prisoners handed out a pair of coveralls rolled into a bundle. A large bundle that sprouted a tail.
Erich so wished he could have taken a photograph of the boy’s face. The look of astonishment. Admiration. Gratitude.
The boy reached out for the coveralls.
Erich gave it a final pat. “She is in good hands now, yes?”
The boy was apparently too overwhelmed to speak. He merely nodded.
“You must go. Hurry.” Erich picked up the bike and put it in the truck. “We will drop this off on the next corner. You can get it later.”
The boy rearranged the bundle in his arms and began to run. It was stiff-legged, but it was a run. Erich smiled. The boy would be all right.
So would the dog.
He saluted them as they made their way to freedom.
Fish sat on the floor, Liberty next to him, with the puppies tumbling around in his lap while Mo read the letter from Roy. “Don’t worry about me. I’m healing up just fine,” he wrote. “Should be able to get back to the ship in another week. This will probably get censored, but if I were a betting man, I’d bet that we’ll all be together again in the new year. Now I have a favor. Could you pass the enclosed on to Captain McDerby? I don’t mind if you read it. In fact, please do.” Mo paused, pulled another sheet of paper out of the envelope and began to read: