by Kirby Larson
“Where are those green beans?” she asked, holding the can in her hand.
Hobie pointed that out to her. Mom pressed the can to her chest. Like she was praying.
June curled up on the sofa, with Kitty shielding her face so no one would see her thumb in her mouth. She hadn’t sucked it since Dad first went off to the war. Seeing that was like getting jabbed with a fishhook, right in the heart. Even Duke could tell how sad June was; he curled up next to her the rest of the afternoon.
Hobie tried to eat the dinner Mom fixed, but mostly he just moved the mashed potatoes around on his plate. June jabbed green beans, one after another, into a mound of potatoes. “I made a porcupine,” she said. “With green quills.”
Instead of giving June a lecture about starving children in China and about not playing with her food, Mom just poured herself another cup of coffee. Her plate went untouched.
“Why can’t this war be over?” June burst out, smashing the “porcupine” with her fork. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Come here, sweetie.” Mom scooted her chair back from the table. June crawled up on Mom’s lap, darkening the front of her blouse with tears.
Hobie cleared the table and fed Duke some of the scraps. He pretended to read his Hardy Boys book until it was time to take Duke out before bed. When they came back in, he could hear Mom and June in June’s room.
“Sleep with me, Mommy?” June asked. The mattress springs creaked a little and then Mom was humming a lullaby.
Hobie flopped across his own bed, his heart as heavy as an anchor. On his dresser was a photo of Dad, Uncle Tryg, and Grandfather Hanson. It was taken before Uncle Tryg got his arm caught in the winch that one fishing season. The three of them were shaking hands with members of another crew, men they’d risked their own lives to rescue in a stormy sea.
Dad had a saying that courage doesn’t always roar. But with the Hanson men, it seemed to roar. Hansons did what was needed. No matter how hard it was.
Hobie tossed and turned all that night, thinking and thinking. When he finally fell asleep, it seemed only five minutes had passed before he heard Mom making her breakfast coffee.
Hobie rolled over on his side, his arm dangling off the mattress edge, his fingers ruffling Duke’s fur. Then he patted the bed. “Up.” Duke stood and stretched, eventually obeying.
Hobie curled up next to his best friend and tried to think about what he was going to say to Mom and June.
When he told them of his decision, over their breakfast of oatmeal, June burst into tears. “No, no! Not Duke!” Then she ran to her room and slammed the door. It took Mom twenty minutes of talking to get her to come out and get ready for school.
There wasn’t much time for Mom to say anything to Hobie. As he headed out the door, she grabbed him in a hug. “It’s like I said,” she told him. “You and your father. Peas in a pod.”
Hobie didn’t feel anything like Dad as he went through the motions of the school day. He jumped in his seat when Max tapped him on the arm. “We’re supposed to exchange spelling tests,” he said.
Hobie blinked. It was as if Max was speaking German. “What?”
Max held up a piece of paper. “You’re supposed to correct my test and I’m supposed to do yours.”
Hobie looked down. His test paper was completely blank. He handed it over, anyway.
Max’s forehead wrinkled. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Maybe you need to go to the nurse?”
“I’m fine,” Hobie lied, taking Max’s test. Scooter would have made some sort of joke to cheer Hobie up, not asked if he wanted to go to the nurse. He might have even done his Mortimer Snerd imitation. That was one of Scooter’s best.
When Hobie got his test back, he saw that Max had written the score at the top. But it was so small, you’d need a magnifying glass to see the zero.
He didn’t feel so bad as he passed his paper forward when Mrs. Thornton called for them. Maybe there was more than one way to cheer a guy up.
As she had on the way to school, June refused to speak to Hobie on the way home. She shut herself up in her bedroom while Mom stood by as he dialed Mr. Rasmussen’s phone number.
On Saturday, Hobie’s stomach felt like it had the first time he went out on the Lily Bess and all he could do was hang over the side, as limp as seaweed. Every time he heard a car on the street, he jumped up and ran to the window. Duke began to whimper and pace.
“What time is it now?” Hobie rubbed Duke’s belly.
“Ten minutes later than the last time you asked.” Mom took another stitch in the sock she was darning for June. “Why don’t you go play fetch?” she said. “It’d be good for the both of you.”
When Duke saw the ball in Hobie’s hand, he jumped straight up and flipped around.
Hobie threw. Duke fetched. He snagged the ball before it hit the ground every single time. Being fast would help keep him safe.
It started to drizzle as a Buick sedan idled to the curb. The quiet after the engine shut off tied another knot in Hobie’s stomach.
Mr. Rasmussen slid out from behind the steering wheel. “There’s our new recruit!”
Duke ran to greet him.
“Off,” Hobie warned. Sometimes, with men, Duke would jump up. Duke obeyed, but wiggled close for a head pat. Mr. Rasmussen obliged.
“Hey, there, buddy,” he said. “Good dog.” He pulled a dog biscuit from his pocket. “May I give him this?”
Hobie nodded.
Duke happily crunched the treat while Mr. Rasmussen reached for a briefcase on the front seat.
Hobie patted his leg and Duke trotted over. They all went inside. Mr. Rasmussen settled on the sofa in the front room. Hobie sat on the footstool next to Mom’s chair, his arm around Duke’s neck. He felt like he was waiting his turn for a shot at the doctor’s office.
June and Kitty sat as far across the room from Mr. Rasmussen as they could. Hobie could see June’s thumb sneaking in and out of her mouth.
The first three times Mom offered, Mr. Rasmussen turned down coffee. But finally he said, “Well, if it’s not too much trouble, I would enjoy a cup.”
Mom carried in a tray with two cups and a plate of cookies. Hobie just wrapped his arm tighter around Duke’s neck when Mom offered him one. June didn’t take a cookie, either.
Mr. Rasmussen praised the cookies and coffee. Then he picked up his briefcase. “Shall we take care of the paperwork?” He unlocked the latches, reaching inside for a form that he held out to Hobie.
Hobie kept his arm around Duke’s neck.
Mr. Rasmussen pulled a pen from his pocket. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”
Yes, Hobie wanted to say. He had changed his mind a million times since they’d talked on the phone.
A thought occurred to Hobie. “What if the Army changes its mind?” he asked. “What if they don’t want Duke?”
“Well, some dogs are rejected because of bad health. But Duke looks to be a perfect specimen.” Mr. Rasmussen pursed his lips, thinking. “And, of course, some dogs aren’t trainable, or have bad habits that can’t be broken.” He patted Hobie’s arm. “Don’t worry. Those instances are very rare.”
Hobie hadn’t been worried. He’d been hopeful. He sighed and took Mr. Rasmussen’s pen. Using his best Palmer Method penmanship, Hobie filled out each line of the form. Breed: German shepherd. Age: Three. Is dog afraid of noise? Storm shy? Gun shy?
Hobie stopped, pointing to the last question. “Why do they ask this? Duke’s going to be a guard dog here. Right?”
Mr. Rasmussen straightened his tie. “That’s up to the Army, not Dogs for Defense. But most dogs will stay in the states.”
Hobie held the pen over the paper. He was tempted to answer that “gun shy” question with a “Yes.” Then Duke might be disqualified. But that would be dishonest. He wrote a shaky No.
The very last section asked, Where should dog be returned after the war? Hobie looked up at Mr. Rasmussen. “Doesn’t everyone want their dog back?” he as
ked.
Mr. Rasmussen brushed cookie crumbs from his suit jacket. “Some people worry that the dogs won’t know them. Or that it’d be too hard to undo the military training. So they let the handlers keep them.”
Hobie sat back. Who would ever write down on this form that they didn’t want their dog back? “Well, Duke is coming home. To me.”
Mr. Rasmussen placed his hands on his thighs and leaned forward. “Son, I’m not going to make a promise I can’t keep.” He looked straight at Hobie. “The Army will do all it can to make sure Duke comes back to you. Absolutely all.”
Hobie felt like he’d walked to the edge of a gangplank. What was Mr. Rasmussen saying? That Duke might not come back? That he might not make it? His stomach felt seasick again.
“Do some of the dogs get … hurt?” Hobie asked.
“It has happened.” Mr. Rasmussen kept Hobie’s gaze. “It might help you to know that, since we’ve been using dogs, more and more soldiers are making it home to their families. Safe and sound.”
That was good, of course, but it had never occurred to Hobie that Duke might be in danger.
Was it too late to change his mind? Hobie looked at June and then Mom and then over at the photo of Dad on the mantel. He was smartly dressed in his uniform, olive drab shirt and tie, with his hat tilted at a slight angle on his head. He looked all business, except for the familiar upward curve at each corner of his mouth. His eyes seemed to be looking directly at Hobie.
Hobie rolled the pen between his forefinger and thumb. More soldiers making it home safe and sound. That’s what Mr. Rasmussen said. Soldiers and pilots. Safe and sound.
Hobie finished filling out the form and handed it back.
Mr. Rasmussen shook his hand. “I’ll personally take Duke to the station.” He smiled sadly. “He and Ludwig will ship out together, on a troop train. That’ll be nice; they’ll have some company. The Army will take good care of Duke, don’t you worry.” He said good-bye to Mom and June and then turned back to Hobie. “Are you ready?”
No, he wasn’t ready. How could he be? But Hobie whistled and Duke followed him outside, to Mr. Rasmussen’s car.
“Wait!” June called. “Kitty wants to say good-bye.” She threw herself at Duke, her face buried in his ruff. Her shoulders bobbed up and down with silent sobbing.
“Okay, honey.” Mom gently pulled her away. “Mr. Rasmussen needs to get going.”
“In, boy.” Hobie pointed to the backseat. Duke leaped right in. A car ride was a treat. He shifted from side to side, his nose making wet prints on the windows. Mr. Rasmussen would have to wash them later.
“Thank you for the coffee and cookies.” Mr. Rasmussen slid onto the front seat and closed the door.
Duke put a paw up on the window. It looked like he was saying, “Hey, aren’t you coming?”
Hobie lifted his hand, palm facing Duke. The command to sit. Duke sat. His brown eyes bored into Hobie’s.
Hobie’s stomach churned. What was he doing? Sending his dog away?
He looked over at Mom. She put her arm around his shoulder. It was for a good cause, right? For Dad.
“You’ll be okay, boy,” Hobie called out in a rusty voice. Duke would be okay. Would be safe.
That’s what Hobie told himself as he stood on the sidewalk and watched Mr. Rasmussen drive away.
Drive away with his dog.
Hobie rolled over, hung his arm off the bed, and reached for Duke.
It took him a moment to remember.
Duke was gone.
He got dressed, then reached under the bed for his sneakers. Duke’s ball was in one of the shoes. Hobie picked it up and bounced it in his hand a few times before putting it in his dresser drawer. He finished tying his shoes. As he walked down the hall to the kitchen, he heard the echoes of Duke’s nails clicking against the linoleum.
“Eat up.” Mom set a bowl of Cream of Wheat in front of him. “You need your strength for that math test.” She buttered a piece of toast for June.
The hot cereal had lumps that not even the raisins and brown sugar could disguise. Hobie swung his leg under the table and bumped only against air. Not against Duke.
And, even though he knew there would be nothing to see in the front room window, he still turned to look over his shoulder as he and June headed to school.
Hobie’s brain was nowhere near his classroom. It was on a train, headed east, with a certain German shepherd. He wasn’t even aware Mrs. Thornton was speaking until he heard Mitch’s voice.
“He’s probably up in the air with that Hop Harrigan.” Mitch managed to make his laugh sound like a sneer.
“As I was saying, Hobie, you’d best get started on your math test.” Mrs. Thornton leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. “Unless you’re not feeling well.”
“Need a pencil?” Max whispered, holding one out to him.
“Sure. Thanks.” Math wasn’t Hobie’s strong suit under the best of circumstances. He hoped Mrs. Thornton didn’t wear out her red pencil correcting his test.
When the recess bell rang, Hobie shuffled to the cloakroom, feeling a bit like one of Dr. Frankenstein’s mistakes. Like he’d been sewn up with something missing inside.
“So, did you do it?” What had Mitch eaten for breakfast? Lutefisk? Hobie took a step back.
“Do what?” asked Catherine. She looked at Hobie.
“Give that dumb mutt away.” Mitch blew a raspberry. “He’s too much of a baby.”
“Dumb mutt?” Max joined in.
“Duke?” Catherine pulled her coat close around her.
“What happened to Duke?” Some other kids gathered around.
Hobie fiddled with the buttons on his jacket. Stared at the floor. “He joined the Army,” he said.
“You did do it!” Mitch exclaimed. “Never thought you had it in you.”
“You gave Duke away?” Catherine scrunched up her face as if Hobie had said a curse word at school.
“I didn’t give him away,” Hobie said. “I loaned him. To the Army.”
“Oh, Dogs for Defense,” Preston Crane said. “I’ve heard of that.”
“Yeah, the K-9 Corps,” added Marty Reed.
“I would have done that, too, if I had a dog.” Mitch was clearly not happy with the turn in the conversation.
“I wouldn’t,” Catherine said. “Give up my Molly? Not even for Uncle Sam.”
Hobie couldn’t read the look she gave him. He’d probably earned one more black mark in her book.
“That must’ve been hard,” Max said. “Your dog.”
Hobie glanced over at him. “Yeah. But it’s for a good cause.”
“That’s right.” Max lifted his jacket off the hook. “A good cause.”
“Most of the dogs stay stateside,” Hobie said, repeating what Mr. Rasmussen had told him.
“My brother’s unit in Italy has messenger dogs,” Mitch reminded Hobie. “And there are other kinds of dogs — mine sniffers, scout dogs —”
“But Hobie’s dog will probably stay here,” Max interrupted. “If most of the dogs stay here.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Right,” said Hobie. At least someone was listening to him. Taking his side. “And when the war’s over, I’ll get him back.”
Mitch cut a look at him. “You wish.”
Those words fluttered in the air, like a moth with an injured wing. Kids stopped fastening coats, grabbing balls, and scuffling feet. The cloakroom was absolutely quiet. It bumped up against Hobie, making him feel even worse than he already did.
After a moment, someone dropped a ball, then shuffled his feet to grab it. Kids unfroze and ran outdoors.
Catherine tucked a big rubber ball under her arm.
“Sure you will,” Catherine said with a confident bob of her head. “Now, come on. Max and I need you on our wall-ball team.”
They convinced Preston to play, too. The four of them creamed Mitch’s team.
As they scrambled inside after recess, smelling of the outdoors a
nd wearing red cheeks and noses, Hobie actually felt good. As light as a balloon filled with helium. Not helium: hope.
The kind of hope that lets you believe that a war like the one the whole world was fighting would actually end and that both your dad and your dog would come home. And soon.
Hobie dropped June off at her Brownie meeting and then headed home, tugging up his jacket collar against the cold. A couple of blocks away, he passed a lady and a little girl. The little girl held one end of a leash. At the other end was a prancing Boston terrier.
“Heel, Suzy,” the girl begged. The dog, Suzy, did everything but heel. She dragged the girl back and forth across the sidewalk until the lady grabbed the leash and snapped it like a whip.
“Bad Suzy,” the lady said.
Hobie jumped as if he’d been snapped. Even when Duke was a puppy, Hobie never jerked him. Never hit him with a rolled-up newspaper. Hobie wouldn’t like to be treated like that; why would Duke?
Duke. Hobie kicked at a rock on the sidewalk. He’d been Hobie’s eighth birthday present, so roly-poly he looked like a stuffed toy. He’d jumped straight out of Dad’s arms into Hobie’s heart. Duke wore a white blaze on his chest and a little old man look on his mostly black face. Even as a pup, he’d been fearless, standing his ground with the neighbor’s grumpy standard poodle. It was hard to remember life before slobbery tennis balls.
A sudden shower sent rivulets of water cascading down Hobie’s neck. He picked up his pace, trying to outrun the rain and the fact that Duke was gone. Where was he? Was the Army treating him okay? Did he miss Hobie as much as Hobie missed him? A hundred questions ricocheted around in Hobie’s aching chest.
He caught up with the rock and kicked it again. Hard.
It landed at the feet of another kid. A skinny kid with glasses and baggy corduroys. Max Klein.
“Sorry,” Hobie called out. “That was an accident.”
Max didn’t seem to hear him. And Hobie quickly saw why.
Mitch.
Hobie stopped in his tracks.