Riot (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage)

by Mary Casanova

  The camera buzzed in the ground, the lens in the dirt. Hands shaking, Bryan picked it up and brushed away dirt particles and bits of dried grass. He lifted it and refocused, but he couldn’t find his father anywhere.

  Flames burst skyward from the mobile home his father had torched, and from a dozen other homes in the camp. Smoke, gray and wispy, rose, slithering into the sky. It billowed into a dark pillar, fed by dozens of smaller fires, until it towered ominous and black above the whole town.

  In the distance, sirens screamed, building to a deafening high pitch. Fire trucks sped around the corner from the west and zoomed toward the site. One fireman climbed out and stared. Then he raced with a hose toward the fire hydrant.

  Within the camp, a dozen men approached an olivegreen car. The car began moving. Men pelted the car with rocks as it increased speed and screeched through the open gate, its driver wide-eyed. In the passenger seat, the housing camp guard was slumped forward, hands pressed to his bloody forehead.

  If they hadn’t escaped, they would have been killed. Bryan knew it. If the Badgett workers had been there, many would have died. He shivered and flattened himself to the ground, the damp earth chilling his skin.

  Small groups of men melded back into an amoeba again, into a mob, and flowed out of the camp through the downed fence. Bryan held his breath. He didn’t move. If they decided to cross the field now, he’d be dead.

  Finally, when voices and footsteps faded, Bryan lifted his head. He rose to cramped, stiff knees and unclenched his hands.

  The amoeba moved away without anyone guiding it, moving slowly down the street to the west, then onto the highway. The mob grew smaller as it moved down the highway, between the community college and the Holiday Inn, with three police cars following slowly behind, as if they were at the tail of a parade.

  Some parade.

  When the mob continued on, not stopping at the Holiday Inn, but flowing toward the center of town, toward the mill, Bryan let out a shaky groan. All through his body and head, he felt badly bruised.

  A fire engine roared from the east toward the camp, sirens shrieking. Beneath the black mushroom cloud, firefighters shot white arcs of water into smoke and flames.

  On wobbly legs, Bryan stood up. His mouth hung open, dry and dusty, and the morning sun beat down on his head.

  “Dad …,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Hand over hand, Bryan shimmied up the weathered rope to his old tree house. He couldn’t go home yet. He needed time to be alone, time to think. Besides, how could he begin to talk, to act normal after what he’d seen?

  He hoisted himself through the square opening and pulled himself up onto the wood floor. Crawling on his hands and knees toward the window, he took off his backpack and rolled onto his back.

  An aspen branch sprouting yellow and green leaves poked through the crack in the corner, pushing apart the adjoining walls. The fort had taken two weekends to build with Dad’s help. Now it was falling apart.

  Flecks of gray rope fiber clung to Bryan’s hands. He rubbed his palms lightly together over his chest, then stared at the flat ceiling.

  A small black spider with a gray pouch crawled directly above him. Unflinching, Bryan watched it. Heck, what was a spider compared to a swarm of angry men? The spider flattened itself, motionless for a few seconds, then crawled slowly across the ceiling to a hairline crack and disappeared outside.

  Through the window, morning light drew golden rectangles on the walls.

  Bryan curled his legs up toward his belly, rolled onto his side, and tucked his head down. His eyes grew hot. He felt like a steam roller had crushed his ribs. From deep in his chest, a sob rose. He let it come, muffling his sounds with his knees.

  Finally, when he felt like a wrung-out towel, he slept.

  “Bryan?”

  “Mmm …” Bryan opened his eyes and looked at the wood shelves he once hammered together, still holding some of his old paperbacks. Maybe the whole thing had been a bad dream.

  “Bryan?” Kyle poked his bird’s nest of blond hair through the opening. “Good, you’re here. When your mom called to ask about you, I figured I better check here.” He climbed up onto the floor. “She didn’t sound too happy.”

  Bryan rubbed his eyes. If they were red, it didn’t matter. “Did you hear what happened at the housing camp?”

  Kyle nodded. “Who hasn’t? The mayor was on the radio telling everyone to stay home. I saw smoke from my house! It was really incredible! I just biked by—what a mess! The place is destroyed.”

  “I watched the mob,” Bryan said, his voice flat. “I saw everything.”

  “Yeah?” Kyle sat down, cross-legged, excitement in his voice. “And I heard those men went out to an apartment building where a family of a dozen nonunion workers lived. Somebody said a woman with a rifle kept them away, shouting at them in Spanish.” Kyle shook his head. “Can you believe it? In our town?”

  Bryan ran his hand over his backpack, feeling the edges of his video camera. If Kyle knew that Dad had been there, he probably wouldn’t think much of his hockey coach anymore.

  Kyle leaned forward. “My dad said the police escorted two busloads of men from town. Most of those guys were from out of state, so the town should be safe now.”

  “Yeah,” Bryan said, not looking at him. It wasn’t only men from out of town. He remembered Sheriff Hunter pacing behind the fence, trying to keep peace—and how he’d asked for Bryan’s help earlier in his office. Bryan couldn’t just let those men leave town without some sort of justice, not after what they’d done. He swallowed hard. “I got it all on videotape.”

  “You’re kidding.” Kyle’s eyes grew wide. “Really? Let’s go watch it.”

  Bryan crossed his arms over his chest and sighed shakily. “I’m in a mess.”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “Kyle,” Bryan said, “my dad … he was there.”

  Kyle winced and shook his head. “Boy … not good, huh?”

  “I should turn the tape in to the sheriff, but if I do, I’ll be turning my dad in at the same time.” Bryan groaned.

  “So … what are you gonna do?” Kyle asked.

  Burrs covered Bryan’s shoelaces and socks, brown puffs with a zillion feathery barbs. How could he turn in his own father? Dad was doing what he probably thought was right. But what if workers had been there, sleeping? Isn’t that what the men had hoped? How far would Dad have gotten involved—to the point of blood? Standing up for the rights of the union workers was fine, but destroying property, hurting others, didn’t make any sense at all. Bryan picked off a burr and tossed it down the tree house hole.

  Maybe he would toss the tape into the woods and pretend he’d never seen any of it. He remembered the shouts, “No cameras!” Of course they didn’t want cameras! In large numbers, there was no way to identify them—except, perhaps, from the tape.

  “Kyle,” Bryan said. “Last year, when my parents went away for their anniversary, I watched a movie at my grandpa and grandma’s. It was about Russia, following World War Two, when Stalin sent thousands of the Russian people to labor camps.”

  “Stalin? Who’s he?”

  “Like Hitler. Only in Russia. Anyway, children were encouraged to turn in their parents. Stalin didn’t trust anybody—not even his own people. If children turned in their parents, the reds would … “He caught himself. “… the communists would praise the children.”

  “So?” Kyle screwed up his face. “I don’t get your point. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Bryan rubbed his forefinger above his lips, then clenched his hand into a fist. “Oh … don’t you see? I can’t turn in the tape. I’d be turning in my own dad!”

  For another hour, they talked. When shadows filled the tree house, Bryan grabbed his backpack and pushed his arms through the straps. “Kyle,” he said. “It’s getting late. I better get going.” He shimmied down the rope, Kyle following.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  B
ryan parked his bike in the garage next to his dad’s truck and stepped over a small puddle of oil. What was he going to say to his father? How could he ever talk to him? He stopped by the door. Heart racing, he walked over the dirty welcome mat and stepped inside.

  “Bryan?” Mom walked into the kitchen, a textbook in hand, her eyelids puffy. “Bryan … you didn’t call. I’ve been worried sick.”

  Bryan kicked off his shoes and put them next to his father’s boots. The television hummed downstairs.

  “Where’s Dad?” he whispered.

  Mom’s lips drew a pencil-straight line. Beneath her gray sweatshirt, her chest rose slowly and fell. “Well… he came home about an hour ago,” she said, her voice wielding a steel edge. “He’s sleeping now.” She walked to the kitchen window. “Where’s that stupid dog?! I let him out and now he’s gone!”

  It wasn’t like Mom to call Gretsky stupid.

  Bryan glanced at the clock on the stove. “Dad’s sleeping? But it’s only 5:30.”

  “He was exhausted,” she said, not looking at Bryan. “I don’t think he’s slept in days.”

  “Where are the twins?” Bryan asked. His stomach grumbled as he reached for the blue-speckled cookie jar. He lifted the lid and looked inside. Empty.

  “They’re staying overnight at Grandpa and Grandma’s. I just didn’t know what to expect around here. I’m sure by now you’ve heard about the town and …”

  A high-pitched yelp came from the backyard.

  Bryan started, then sprang to the sliding doors just in time to see a black-and-white-striped creature, its fluffy tail flagged high, waddle slowly away from Gretsky and disappear into the aspen woods. Gretsky dropped to his forelegs. With his head to the ground, he batted at his snout, yelping.

  “Gretsky got sprayed by a skunk!” Bryan shouted.

  “Skunk? Oh great!” Mom said, looking out the window above the kitchen sink.

  Bryan thrust open the sliding door. A pungent, putrid blast of air covered him like a sheet of heavy oil, filling his eyes, his nose, and his stomach. He wanted to throw up. Gretsky ran circles in the grass, stopping every few feet to paw his muzzle. Bryan wanted to help him, but what could he do? He stood there.

  “Bryan! Close that door!” Mom yelled, her voice piercing. “Now the house reeks! If that stupid dog had listened, this wouldn’t have happened!! A skunk! Terrific. That’s just terrific!” Mom turned from the window. “He’s out of this house for good! I’ve had it!”

  “Mom, but it’s not his fault!” Bryan shouted back, his eyes watering. “He didn’t know better! He probably thought it was one of the twins’ stuffed animals.”

  Gretsky scratched at the glass door. Bryan glanced down at the dark, round, pleading eyes. “Look at him. He’s miserable!”

  He suddenly stopped yelling. His shoulders slumped. “Mom,” he said quietly, facing her. His voice cracked. “Why are you being so mean?”

  Mom scrunched her eyes shut and let out a shaky breath. “Ohhhhh.…” She shook her head slowly, stepped closer, and put her hands on Bryan’s shoulders.

  “I hate skunks, but it’s not really about that. It’s everything lately.” She rubbed her forehead with her fist. “You see what just happened? I blew up at you and what good did it do? One person explodes, then the other explodes. All anger does is breed more anger.”

  Scenes of the riot, anger boiling over like a pot of scalding water, filled Bryan’s mind. He looked at his mother’s eyes, which had lost the craziness he’d seen just a second earlier.

  “Anger is a choice,” she stated, her palms up.

  There was so much he didn’t understand. Was anger really a choice? Or was it something that controlled a person, like instinct? From the other side of the glass, Gretsky whined. Bryan looked at him. Maybe Gretsky had acted out of instinct, going after the skunk, but if he had any brains in his head at all, he wouldn’t go after another. Bryan swallowed, tasting the skunk’s offensive odor.

  Mom glanced at Gretsky and shook her head. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with him,” she said, walking back toward the kitchen and grabbing her jacket from the peg by the door.

  “Right now, I can’t handle it. It’s time for me to take a walk.” Her voice wavered. “I need to burn off some of this stress.”

  “Mom?” Bryan asked.

  She turned.

  “Got any tomato juice? That’s what the Sheenans used on their dog last fall.”

  “Downstairs,” she said, “in the pantry. Flush his eyes with water, too. Thanks, Bry. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” For a second, the corners of her mouth lifted. Then she was gone.

  Bryan put on the blue rainsuit he’d used only once for fishing and then went to rescue Gretsky, who now sat with his nose against the sliding glass door, whining. It was worse than the smell of the mill, worse than anything he could remember. “Here goes,” he muttered.

  Gretsky wagged his stub tail. Aroo-woo-wooooo! he moaned, as Bryan slid open the door.

  “You really, really, really stink!” He held his breath and scooped Gretsky’s sausage body under his arm. When his lungs started to burn, he let out his air in a blast, then inhaled deeply. “C’mon, brainless,” he said. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Gagging and choking, Bryan carried Gretsky quickly, down to the basement and set him in the white laundry tub. He wet Gretsky down with warm water, lathered him in tomato sauce, and scrubbed him until he was completely red, except for his black button nose. Did Dad have a choice about anger? Could he have decided to stay home this morning?

  As Gretsky licked the tomato juice, Bryan sank his fingers into the dog’s coat, working the cool red liquid through the dense gray fur down to the dog’s skin.

  The picture of his father torching the curtain, the flames jumping out of control, haunted him. How could he?

  How could his father actually destroy someone else’s home? It went against everything he’d ever taught Bryan about good and bad, right and wrong. He’d also taught Bryan to stand up for himself, to make decisions, to be a leader. So now what was Bryan supposed to do? If he didn’t turn in the videotape, there might not be any evidence against the other men. If he turned it in, he’d be going against his own father. His stomach twisted. It would never be the same between them again.

  Gretsky suddenly shook his coat, splattering tomato juice all over Bryan’s rainsuit.

  “Thanks,” Bryan rasped. “I doubt Chelsie would call you ‘adorable’ now.”

  Gretsky’s swollen eyes streamed. He whined.

  From above the sink, Bryan grabbed an orange plastic cup and filled it with cool water. He held the dog’s muzzle firmly upward, then carefully poured a gentle trickle of water into Gretsky’s eyes. The schnauzer blinked and struggled. “Hold still,” Bryan said. “I’m only trying to help.”

  If Dad had a choice about anger, about getting involved, then he probably should have made it long before the riot ever started.

  “I know one thing, Gretsky,” Bryan said, his nostrils pinched painfully by the odor. “Going after that skunk was a real bad choice.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  After soaping, rinsing, and blow-drying Gretsky, Bryan blockaded him in the laundry room with the safety gate. The wooden frame and white plastic mesh of the gate made him remember when the twins were small and Mom penned them with her in the laundry room, the dryer whirring, the air warm and lemon-scented. He used to play peekaboo through the gate, making the twins giggle while Mom folded clothes. It seemed so long ago.

  He scratched Gretsky between the ears, left him, and walked slowly up the stairs. He suddenly felt afraid. If Dad woke up and they started talking, maybe Dad would fly out of control. After today, after what Dad had done at the housing camp, how could Bryan ever trust him?

  Tiptoeing quietly across the kitchen floor and down the hallway, Bryan passed his parents’ bedroom. Through the shut door, he heard Dad’s breathing. He was asleep.

  Bryan went back to the kitchen, ladele
d a bowl of stew from the stove, and ate. Though it was still early, he was exhausted.

  He walked to his bedroom, set his backpack at the foot of the top bunk, and climbed up. With his clothes on, he crawled under the covers and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to come and cover up his confusion. For nearly an hour, he tossed and turned, opening his eyes and glancing at his backpack, then shutting them again.

  In his mind, the men’s shouting and swearing filled the air. He pictured them with their bats stretched high—then their bats turned to stones. Crack! Ting! He remembered his own stones, flung with a solid aim at the guardhouse. Why did he think he was any better than the rest of them? His actions had been wrong, too.

  Last Sunday, the scripture reading had been about the crowd that gathered in the dusty streets, shouting, “Stone her! Stone her!” at the weeping woman who lay crumpled on the ground. The shouts grew louder and louder. Suddenly, the crowd quieted. Nearby, drawing in the dust with a stick, was Jesus. The men held their stones high, waiting for him to speak. Finally, he rose to his feet and faced the angry crowd. “Whoever is without sin,” he said, “throw the first stone.” The men lowered their arms and dropped their stones. One by one, they slipped away.

  Maybe some things weren’t for kids or adults. Maybe this whole union battle wasn’t about winning or losing, but about loving your neighbor, about simply dropping the stones.

  Dad, if only you’d walked away. Things could have been different.

  When the kitchen door opened and Mom’s feet softly swept the hallway, Bryan closed his eyes again and tried to sleep.

  When he climbed down his bunk ladder the next morning, Bryan’s legs trembled and his stomach growled. What day was it? Sunday? It seemed impossible that only one day had passed since yesterday morning.