Riot (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage)

by Mary Casanova

  With grandparents in Arizona and St. Cloud, Bryan actually felt closest to Grandma Effie and Grandpa Howie, his great-grandparents. He could visit them anytime he wanted to.

  “The strike of 1934,” Grandpa Howie said slowly, the words taking shape on his dry, wrinkled lips, “was part of Teamster history.”

  “It was something,” Grandma Effie said. “We lived in Minneapolis then. Stan was just born—youngest of five.” Her mind was still as quick as her fingers darting the needle in and out of the quilting frame on her lap. “I was down there in the soup kitchens, keeping those men fed day and night, day and night, keeping their spirits up. Oh, and it was a long strike. Not like today. Things are easy today. Then,” she said, pausing to rethread her needle, “men were fighting to earn enough money to feed their families. Some starved right in the streets.”

  “When things got bad,” Grandpa added, “it was hand-to-hand combat.” He swung his left arm to demonstrate. His right arm, which years ago had gotten tangled in a paper machine, was a stub at the elbow beneath his pinned shirtsleeve. After Grandpa’s accident, the union had pushed for safer working conditions. “If we weren’t fighting the police and their billy clubs, then …”

  Grandma jumped in. “And it was bloody, they …”

  “Let me finish,” Grandpa ordered. “If we weren’t fighting the police, then it was the Citizen’s Party. And they were folks, mostly in business, who had it in their heads that forming a union meant joining the Communist Party.”

  “Did it?” Bryan asked.

  “Heck no!” Grandpa said. “But there were plenty of Reds around then …”

  Bryan glanced at Mom. She was staring past Grandpa, her fist pressed against her lips. Usually, she reacted to the word reds—slang for “communists,” but this time it went right past her. Bryan couldn’t see why it mattered anyway. It was only a word.

  Grandpa continued, “… especially in Minnesota, so people were nervous. We were fighting for our families, for our jobs. We worked twelve-to-sixteen-hour days, six days a week, and still we couldn’t support our families. What kind of a life was that? Not much of one, I’ll tell you that!” He leaned forward on his cane, his eyes half closed.

  Bryan sat on Grandma’s gold easy chair. He wished they were at an outside picnic on Labor Day, instead of inside visiting. The windows were closed, locking in stale air. No matter what time of year, Grandma was always afraid of getting chilled and catching pneumonia.

  Bryan yawned.

  Grandpa turned to Dad. “So Stan, how goes the war? What are you guys doing to make sure the paper mill hears you?”

  “We’re out there with picket signs,” Dad said. He looked Grandpa in the eyes. “We’re shaking things up and not letting them forget about us.”

  Mom looked at Dad and crossed her arms. “It’s too much shaking up, if you ask me. People are going to get hurt if this town doesn’t settle down. Personally,” she said in a level voice, “I’ve had enough, thank you.”

  Bryan looked at his parents’ stern faces. The tension was thick as wet cement. A pain jabbed him. He knew of plenty of kids whose parents had divorced. Could this strike break up his parents? He sure hoped not.

  Dad’s eyes met Bryan’s. He nodded slightly, as if to warn Bryan to not mention a word about last night.

  Bryan nodded back and forced a slight smile.

  Grandpa leaned forward onto his knees and picked up his cane. He pounded it on the floor. “Stan, you got to get mad! You’ve never really known what it means to put up a fight.”

  Dad moved his lips, as though ready to speak, then stopped. He stood up and paced in front of the three-tiered plant stand by the window. “Grandpa,” he said, smoothing the air with the flat of his hand, “we’ve got it under control. Trust me.”

  “Under control?” The spider veins in Grandpa’s face grew redder. “You got to get mad and fight!”

  “I disagree,” Mom said. She carefully folded her hands over her crossed knees.

  Grandpa glared at her, as though she didn’t have the right to disagree.

  “That’s the exact attitude I try to correct in my first graders,” Mom continued. “If people always have to fight to solve problems, then what kind of a world is it? Sure, I want Stan to be able to work here. But if things don’t go his way, we’ll get by somehow. If we have to move, then we’ll move.” Her fingers were laced together, her knuckles turning white.

  “I don’t want to move,” Bryan joined, tapping his right heel nervously on the carpet. “Where else could I get on such a good hockey team? Besides, we’re going to have a great peewee season, but we can’t do it without Dad.”

  He hadn’t meant to get involved in the conversation, but it slipped out. Maybe he was getting older after all. He sat up straighter.

  Dad gave him a wink, as if he’d just scored a goal.

  Grandma Effie cleared her throat. “Well, it’s different in some ways. The workers get paid pretty well. Grandpa didn’t buy his new pickup without making some pretty good wages over the years at the mill. Things aren’t as desperate as back then. No, it’s different these days.”

  “Same thing!” Grandpa said, and pounded his cane down once, then twice. The coffee table vibrated.

  “Howard!” said Grandma. “Be careful!”

  “I think Grandpa’s right,” Bryan said, glancing at Dad. Dad had made it clear he didn’t want him too involved, but he hadn’t forbidden him from speaking. “This strike is no different than Grandpa’s strike. We’ve got to fight for our rights now, just like then. Whatever it takes.”

  Mom looked sideways at Bryan and Dad, then slowly shook her head.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next day, after a midmorning breakfast, Bryan combed his hair in the bathroom mirror, brushed his teeth, and put on the deodorant he’d bought for the first time last week. “Mom,” he’d said, “I think my pits stink.” She’d sent him to Kmart with five dollars to buy his own. He’d picked out a green-and-white brand, same kind as Dad’s.

  He went to the piano, sat down, and thumbed through the pages of his greatest hits book, looking for a good song to play. The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it!” Elissa said. She jumped up from her game of Chutes and Ladders on the living-room floor with Josh. They were both still in pajamas. Elissa bounded for the door.

  “No!” Josh said, scrambling to his feet. “I’ll get it!”

  “I called it first!” Elissa screamed, tugging at the back of Josh’s jet-patterned pajama bottoms.

  Josh pulled at the handle and fell back on top of Elissa. They tumbled in a heap. Elissa started crying and slugged Josh in the side.

  Mom’s voice came from the basement. “What’s going on up there?”

  In the open doorway stood Chelsie, in a cream sweater, the morning light softly blanketing her shoulders. Behind her was Cam.

  “Hi,” said Chelsie. She was holding a white box with a red bow.

  Bryan swung his legs over the piano bench, his face growing hot. She was at his door with a gift? This was too much. Wait until Kyle heard about this.

  “Uh, hi,” he said casually, stepping toward the door. He jammed his hands in his jean pockets. “What’s up?”

  “Here. This is for you.”

  Bryan’s mom came up the stairs. “Who’s here? Oh, hi.”

  “Mom,” Bryan said, “uh … this is Chelsie and her brother, um …”

  “Cam,” Chelsie said, glancing at Cam. She flipped her french braid over her shoulder.

  “Yeah, Cam. I met them at the beach yesterday.”

  Chelsie smiled, but Cam’s expression didn’t change. It was blank, impossible to read.

  “From our mom and dad…” Cam said slowly, as if he’d rehearsed the words, “… for savin’ … my life.” His voice was slow and a bit mechanical.

  Mom looked hard at Bryan. “Saving your life? What’s this? I haven’t heard a word.” She looked back at Chelsie. “Tell me … Oh, I’m sorry. We’re making you stand the
re in the door. Come in,” she said, waving her arms toward the kitchen. “Are you kids too old for a Popsicle?”

  Bryan rolled his eyes. If Mom did anything, anything at all to embarrass him now, he’d die.

  “Sounds great,” Chelsie said.

  Cam shook his head.

  “I want grape!” said Elissa.

  “Me, too,” said Josh.

  Before Mom could open the freezer door, Josh beat her to it and grabbed the Popsicle box. “Last grape,” he said, grinning at Elissa.

  Bryan held his breath. He knew this meant war. Couldn’t Josh and Elissa act civilized for once? He glanced over at Chelsie, who was holding back a smile. When her eyes caught his, he quickly looked away.

  “That’s not fair!” Elissa said, her lower lip protruding farther with each second.

  Mom pushed both palms forward. “Stop it,” she said. “You two go to your rooms for forgetting your manners. The grape Popsicle goes back in the freezer. Neither of you gets it.”

  Josh stared at Mom hard and shook his blond head slightly.

  “Go,” Mom said. “I’m not joking.”

  Shoulders sagging, the twins headed down the hallway, whispering to each other. “It’s your fault.”

  “No, it’s your fault.”

  “I got there first.”

  Bryan didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t know this girl or her brother. What was he going to talk about? Did they really want to sit in the kitchen with his mom, each eating a Popsicle?

  “Let’s go out to the deck,” Mom said. “I want to hear this story about my heroic son.”

  After Chelsie and Cam chose their flavors, Bryan picked out a banana Popsicle. He sat in a white deck chair, between Cam and Chelsie.

  Gretsky trotted from the backyard and sat at Chelsie’s feet. He licked her bare knee, rested his head on her denim shorts, and looked up at her.

  “Gretsky,” said Bryan, “maybe she doesn’t like dogs.”

  “I love ’em!” Chelsie said. She pushed her face closer to Gretsky’s. “I’ve always wanted one, but my dad said it wouldn’t be fair to the dog on account of our movin’ so much. I don’t think it’s fair to me.”

  Chelsie scratched under Gretsky’s red collar; Gretsky leaned into her fingers and groaned contentedly. “He’s so adorable.”

  Lucky dog, Bryan thought.

  Chelsie handed the gift to Bryan.

  “Okay,” Mom said. “I know it’s not Bryan’s birthday, so what’s this all about?”

  “Open it,” said Chelsie. Cam’s dark eyes smiled.

  Bryan hesitated, then pulled off the red bow and opened the small white box. Inside, beneath a lining of wax paper, were chocolate candies. This was too much. He was getting chocolates from Chelsie? Well, not really from her—from her parents, her family.

  Cam spoke up. “I fell off … the dock,” he said. “And … I don’t … swim very good.”

  “That’s for sure,” Chelsie said, glancing at Cam. “I learned to swim when I was really young, but Cam never liked the water. Then we were movin’ around so much—every year or so—that he never learned.”

  The smile in Cam’s eyes faded. His stony expression returned.

  “So,” Mom said, circling her hand for more details.

  “Everybody just stood around,” said Chelsie. “I froze up. I didn’t know what to do—but Bryan dove right in after him.”

  Mom leaned forward on her knees. “Yes?”

  “He dove underwater,” Chelsie said excitedly, “and came right back to the surface with him. I don’t know how he did it, because I couldn’t see anything! I thought the water would be crystal clear here, but it’s so dark.”

  “It’s minerals,” Bryan said. He felt the need to defend the water, as if he didn’t have enough battles lately. “Really, the water’s clean.”

  “Wasn’t there a lifeguard there?” Mom asked, looking at Bryan.

  “She was there,” Bryan began, “but she wasn’t coming fast enough.”

  “Guess that makes you a hero,” she said, playing with the opal necklace Dad had given her last Valentine’s Day. “That’s you, Bry. You’re a doer, not just a talker.”

  Bryan didn’t respond. He didn’t like all the attention drawn to himself.

  “When you were little, you used to run outside after a rain and rescue earthworms from robins.”

  Right. Mom made him sound like a knight in shining armor. He felt more like a slug and wished he could slither away. He glanced at his right knee, which was pumping up and down a hundred beats per second, and stopped himself.

  “Are your parents here with the construction project?” Mom asked.

  How could she? How could she come right out and ask it?

  Chelsie and Cam both nodded. Neither spoke.

  Bryan’s stomach muscles contracted. He pressed his thumb against his jaw and stroked his upper lip with his forefinger.

  “Have you had any trouble?” Mom asked. “How are people around here treating you?”

  Chelsie shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Cam’s face didn’t move.

  “You didn’t just fall off the dock, then,” Mom said to Cam. It wasn’t a question, more of a stated fact. She should have been an attorney.

  Cam shook his head of dark hair. “Thrown in … some guys … were calling … me a rat.”

  Bryan wondered how the teenagers knew Cam was a … was from out of town. A number of the out-of-town workers were Hispanic, their skin much darker than Cam’s. At stores, Bryan heard some people using faltering English. It made them moving targets in a nearly all-white community. Then again, in a small town, just being new was enough to make a person stand out.

  “My folks would have driven over here to thank you themselves,” Chelsie said, “but this mornin’ they drove over some tacks on our street.”

  Bryan froze.

  “And someone slit the tires on the neighbor’s car and bashed in their windshield.” Her smile had vanished. She looked blankly at Bryan’s mom. “Why would someone do that?” she asked in a pained whisper.

  Bryan’s tongue turned leathery. His stomach felt queasy. When he looked down at his hands, he saw they were trembling. He eased them under his thighs to keep them still, to hide them.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Mom said. She shook her head back and forth. “I’m so sorry.”

  Bryan stared at the straight boards of the deck. A fire had started underneath him and he was being roasted from his feet up. His chest grew hotter and hotter; then his neck, chin, ears, and forehead burned. Could they tell how much he was holding back? Could they read his mind about what he’d done? It wasn’t against them, really. He wouldn’t have done anything to hurt them.

  “Where do you live, anyway?” Bryan asked, glancing up quickly.

  Chelsie’s eyes met his, held him for a moment, then let him go. He looked down at the ground, trying to act casual, as if her answer didn’t really matter.

  “Three thirty-seven Hastings Street. South end of town.”

  “Oh,” Bryan answered hastily, “I was just wondering.” He and his dad were on Hastings Street. His head spun. How could he have known it was their street?

  The phone rang in the house. Mom jumped up to get it.

  Bryan had to get a grip on himself. He picked up the white box and held it out to Cam and Chelsie. “Here, have some. And thank your parents for me, okay?”

  “Bryan,” Chelsie began, reaching for the box and taking out a chocolate. Her eyes reminded him of a wounded animal. “Do you have any idea who might have …”

  Mom slid open the sliding screen door before she could finish. “Carl Hunter called for you, Bryan.”

  “The sheriff?”

  “He wants you to come down to his office.”

  Bryan tried to swallow. His face tingled. Had someone seen him?

  “Hey, you can relax,” Mom said, her voice tight. “It’s me you have to worry about, Bry, not the police. You left the video camera at
the beach.”

  “Oh,” Bryan said, relieved. He let out a silent breath.

  Mom continued. “I made myself very clear about taking care of that camera. Lucky for you, someone was nice enough to turn it in to the sheriff’s office. Otherwise you would be in deep trouble.” She looked at Chelsie and Cam, then turned to Bryan. “He said you can pick it up anytime.”

  Bryan jumped up. He couldn’t sit there a minute longer and keep up this act. Getting the camera gave him the excuse he needed. “I’ll go get it.”

  Chelsie and Cam stood up and followed Bryan into the house.

  “We better go,” Chelsie said. Stepping out the front door, she turned to Bryan. “You know, you’re a good diver.”

  “What?” He blinked. Her compliment caught him off guard. Then he realized she’d probably only seen his flop. “Oh, a joke,” he said and tried to laugh. “I get it.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I watched your dives from the beach. I meant it.”

  Why couldn’t he even make small talk?

  “Well, you’re not too bad yourself,” he said, sounding like a bad movie script. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “See ya.”

  He closed the front door, leaned against it, and let out a long, heavy breath. Chelsie’s skin, her voice—everything about her—seemed soft. Her unfinished question burrowed deep under his skin. He felt like a chicken, a liar, a hypocrite.

  Do you have any idea who …?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Bryan entered the Koochiching County Law Enforcement Building and, at the front desk, asked about his camera. An officer with a toothpick between his teeth led him down the hall to a door marked SHERIFF CARL HUNTER.

  The sheriff leaned forward in his chair, stretched out his hand in a solid handshake, and nodded toward one of the chairs. He moved his Hardee’s bag off to the side. The sheriff’s eyes were as many shades of blue as a June sky. His face looked as pliable as worn leather, changing quickly from a scowl into a smile.

  “Just finishing lunch. Have a seat, Bryan.”

  “Thanks.” Bryan sat in the wooden chair.

  Carl Hunter’s pale green office was a clutter of papers, manuals, newspapers, and coffee cups. It smelled stale. On the front of his desk was a large red and white NO SMOKING sign. Behind his desk hung a print of a dozen mallards taking off in a marshy bay. “So, how’s it going?” the sheriff asked, his voice warm.