by Kirby Larson
“Kitty and I do!” June said.
“I was hoping to go over to Max’s,” Hobie said. “I mean, if you’re feeling good enough for me to go.”
“It was just a headache, honey.” She hugged him. “Thanks for being such a trooper,” she said.
“Can I go to Max’s house, too?” June jumped up and down. “Please?” When he had discovered how much she loved them, Opa Klein had taken to keeping a small coffee can of butterscotch drops for June in his shop. “More licorice for me,” he’d teased.
Mom made a pretend frowny face. “I thought you and Kitty were coming with me!”
“We can do both,” June said. “Can’t we, Kitty?”
“I don’t know,” Mom started. “Hobie’s had to take care of you all morning.”
“I don’t mind,” Hobie said. The more the merrier to celebrate the good news about Pepper.
Mom glanced around the kitchen. “Where has the real Hobie gone?” she asked. She smiled. “Okay, you two can be off. Just remember —”
“Use your company manners,” said June.
“And don’t overstay your welcome,” added Hobie.
“I guess you do listen to what I say,” Mom said. “At least every once in a while.”
Mr. Gilbert’s cat was stretched across the sidewalk in front of his house and wouldn’t budge from his sunning spot. Hobie and June stepped over him.
They were still a few blocks from Max’s house when they saw Max, hurrying their way. As he got closer, Hobie could see he was wearing a canvas bag slung across his back.
Hobie waved and hollered. “Are you going to Lee’s?” he asked.
“I have a penny in my shoe,” June offered. “We could buy some bubble gum.”
Max trotted closer. “What did you say?”
Hobie pointed to the bag. “Going to get some groceries?”
“No.” Max chomped on a wad of Black Jack gum. “I’ve got good news.”
“Me, too,” Hobie said.
Max stopped. “You’ve heard more about your dad?”
“No. Not that.” Hobie tapped his heel on the sidewalk.
“When the Red Cross finds him,” June said, “I’m going to send him some cookies. Two kinds.”
“Well, you go first, then,” said Max.
“I’ve found the perfect place for Pepper!” Hobie was about ready to explode. “I called Mr. Rasmussen and it’s all set.”
“Who’s Mr. Rasmussen?” Max asked. “Pepper’s not his, is she?” His face looked panicky.
“No,” said Hobie. “But he does look for dogs.”
“I don’t get it,” Max said.
June tugged on Hobie’s T-shirt sleeve and pointed to her untied sneaker.
“He’s the man who works with Dogs for Defense.” Hobie bent down to tie June’s shoe. “Since no one’s claimed Pepper, he’ll take her. For the Army.”
Max’s face fell. “You gave away my dog?”
Hobie stammered. “Y-your dog?”
“That’s my good news. Ma said I could keep her if I paid for food.” Max tugged at the canvas sack. “I got a paper route.”
“But I didn’t know —” Hobie pressed his hand to his head. He was getting Mom’s headache. “I’ve promised Mr. Rasmussen.”
“Something doesn’t add up here,” Max said. “Why were you so quick to call him?”
“Quick?” Hobie said. “It’s been a couple of weeks. You were running out of time.”
“But why him?” Max asked.
“The Army needs dogs,” Hobie began.
“No!” Max shouted so loud that June jumped. “No. You need your dog. And you thought you could make a trade. Pepper for Duke.”
“Pepper’s going away?” June asked. She sat on the ground and pulled her Windbreaker over her head.
“It wasn’t like that.” Hobie stopped. That wasn’t true. It was like that. But he’d only been looking at things through his eyes. Not Max’s. “I thought —”
“I know what you thought.” Max slapped Hobie’s explanation away. “Well, I thought you were my friend.” He stared hard at Hobie. “I should’ve known better. It was just because of Pepper. You were never really my friend. You never took my side against Mitch.”
June’s cries turned to sobs. “I like Pepper,” she said, raising a wet face to Hobie.
“I’m sorry —”
“And then you went to Marty’s house and left me standing there.” Max’s voice was cold and flat.
Hobie took June’s hand and lifted her up. “I helped you with the lost dog signs. Brought you dog food.”
Max tugged on the canvas strap over his shoulder. “That was because of Pepper. Not me.” Max stormed off.
“Why is Max so mad?” June wiped her eyes with her sleeves.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Hobie started for home. But he did know.
“Wait up!” June called, scampering after him.
The way Max told it, it did seem kind of crummy of Hobie. Like being a halfway friend. He didn’t mean to treat Max badly. He just didn’t think about what he was doing.
Hobie kicked the curb. He had messed up big time.
June tugged on the hem of his shirt. “So does Max get to keep Pepper now?” she asked.
“Yep.” Hobie sighed. He was glad for Max, really. If anyone knew what it meant to have a dog, it was Hobie. His throat tightened and it was hard to swallow. He thought about how Duke could catch that darned ball no matter how far Hobie threw it. How his soft breathing helped Hobie get back to sleep after a bad dream. And how he’d jumped on Mitch that day, trying to save him.
Hobie reached the front door before June. He opened it and let her go through.
Just like he had to face the fact that he’d messed up with Max, he also had to face the fact that he wasn’t going to get Duke back before the war was over. And if he couldn’t get him back, he owed it to him to keep him safe.
Before he dialed up Mr. Rasmussen, Hobie did something he should have done a long time ago. He pulled out a piece of paper and started a letter to Pfc. Corff.
Dear Pfc. Corff, he wrote. There is something I forgot to tell you. If Duke’s ears perk up, watch out. That means trouble is near. I’m telling you this because I want you both to get home safe.
Over and out,
Hobie Hanson
Hobie rode back from Mrs. Lee’s with Mom’s groceries. Down the block, he saw Max, a satchel full of newspapers on his back. Pepper tagged along, right next to Max’s bike. Like Duke used to. He was too far away for Hobie to call out. In six days, they’d be back at school. In the same classroom. It was going to be a long year.
“Hey, Hobie!” Catherine roller-skated down the street toward him. “We’ve missed you at the baseball games.”
Hobie braked to a stop. “I’ve been helping my uncle,” he explained. “On his fishing boat.”
“That sounds fun.” Catherine looped around Hobie’s bike. “Are you working on Saturday?”
“I don’t think so.” Mom had a back-to-school shopping trip planned. She’d saved enough shoe ration points for new shoes for both Hobie and June.
“Well, we’re getting together for one last game before school starts next week. It’d be great if you could come.” Catherine skated backward. On one foot.
“I’ll try,” Hobie said.
“And ask Max,” Catherine added. “He hasn’t been around much, either.”
“Well, he’s got that paper route.” Hobie shifted the groceries on his back.
Catherine did another turn before skating away. “See you Saturday,” she called.
Mom was getting the mail as Hobie rode up.
“Anything good?” Hobie called.
She pulled out a tiny piece of mail. “It’s from Dad!” she said.
Hobie ran up the steps. It was a postcard. Or Postkarte.
Hobie learned another German word, too. Kriegsgefangenen. Prisoner of War. That’s what was printed across the front of the card.
Mom read it to
them right away.
Dear Ruthie,
I am a P. of W. at Stalag Luft 1, in Barth, Germany. This is a camp for officers. Most of us are pilots. I am not hurt and am being treated fairly. My return address is on the front of this card. Get in touch with the local Red Cross agent and find out the details about sending letters, packages, etc. Tell Hobie I’ve learned some new jokes. Tell Junebug that I’m learning to whittle and I’m making a friend for Kitty. Don’t worry about me. Aim, fly, fight! And write!
Love,
Palmer
Dad was okay! Hobie had to sit down, he was so relieved. He wasn’t hurt. And he was with other pilots.
“Oh,” Mom said. “I need to hear that again.” And she read it one more time.
Hobie pulled the atlas off the bookshelf. It took him a while, but he found Barth.
“That’s pretty far north,” Mom said when he showed her. “We better add some woolens to Dad’s first care package.”
“I want to draw him a picture!” June said. “Of me and Kitty.”
“Good idea,” Mom said. “Why don’t you work on that while I phone Uncle Tryg?” Mom gave June some paper. “Then I’m going to dial up the Red Cross and find out how to get that picture to your father.”
“What do you think Daddy’s making for Kitty?” June asked Hobie.
“I don’t know.” Hobie took one of the pieces of paper Mom brought out.
He picked up a pencil. He put it back down. It had never been hard to write a letter to Dad before. But he had never been a prisoner of war before. Dad said he wasn’t hurt. But Hobie knew that there were hurts that didn’t cause bruises. Like the mix-up with Max.
Hobie picked up the pencil again. Dad was Dad, right? No matter where he was or what had happened. That thought gave Hobie the confidence to start writing.
Dear Dad,
I looked in the atlas. Barth is almost to Denmark. And right on the sea. Mom said it could be cold there in winter. So she’s going to knit you a sweater. Navy blue. She says maybe having that sweater will work like carrying an umbrella so that it won’t rain.
I am really glad you aren’t hurt. Uncle Tryg said you could land a cardboard box in a hurricane. I feel bad about the Lily Bess, Too, but good that you are safe. And with other pilots. That way you have lots to talk about.
I love you,
Hobie
Uncle Tryg’s family came over that night and everyone pitched in to put together a care package. Mom tucked in wool socks, Aunt Ellen brought some candy bars, and Uncle Tryg threw in several tins of sardines. Emil and Erik added a deck of cards. June drew a picture. And Hobie tucked in his best joke book.
They got the package taped shut and addressed the way the Red Cross said to.
“I’ll take it to the post office tomorrow,” Uncle Tryg offered.
“I hope he gets it.” Mom sighed. “It’s a long ways from here to there and lots of chances for it to get lost.”
“Or for someone else to take it,” added Aunt Ellen.
“Wait!” June jumped up and ran to the kitchen. She came out carrying a bottle of milk. “Everybody needs a glass of magic milk,” she said. “So that Daddy will for sure get this package.”
“Magic milk?” Emil snickered.
Hobie felt his face get hot.
“I don’t know where she gets these ideas,” Mom said. But she helped June bring in a glass for everyone.
“Make a wish with your first swallow,” June commanded.
“I wish —” started Uncle Tryg.
“No! No!” June waved her hand, sloshing a little milk. “You can’t say your wish out loud.”
Emil rolled his eyes. “But we’ll all be making the same wish.”
“Not out loud,” insisted June.
Aunt Ellen raised her eyebrow at Emil.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to make my wish now.” He scrunched his eyes tight. He swallowed loudly. “There,” he said.
June watched anxiously as each person drank their magic milk. Then she closed her eyes and drank.
She opened her eyes. “Now Daddy will get his package.”
Aunt Ellen wrapped June in a hug. “You better believe it.”
June skipped along on the way to her first day of second grade. “I’m going to be the only top speller this year,” she said. She winked at Hobie. “Magic milk — remember?”
Hobie wasn’t too worried about that particular magic spell coming true. June was a whiz when it came to words. He just hoped the other wishing worked. That Dad had gotten his care package. They hadn’t heard any more since the postcard.
Hobie dropped June off at her classroom and went on to his new sixth-grade class. He bumped into Catherine in the cloakroom.
“How’s that bruise?” she asked.
A ball he’d gone after had taken a bad bounce during their Saturday game. “I’ll live,” he said, rubbing his shin.
“Too bad Max couldn’t play,” Catherine said. “That darn paper route.”
“Yeah.” Hobie got his things and headed into the classroom before she could say anything more about Max. He found a desk with his name on it.
As soon as the final bell rang, Mr. Case began taking roll. “Miss Bunch?”
You could hardly hear her, but Dorine did answer, “Here.”
“Mr. Crane?” Mr. Case continued.
“Here,” said Preston.
Mr. Case went through the entire classroom, all the way to Mr. Zyskowski, who almost didn’t answer because no one ever called him anything but Spud.
Mr. Case and Mrs. Thornton might both be teachers, but that’s where the similarity ended. And it wasn’t just calling them Miss and Mister. In Mr. Case’s class, “young ladies and gentlemen” would be Mastering Mathematics. And Volumizing Vocabulary. And doing Friday Fives.
Hobie liked the sound of Friday Fives because of the extra credit for bringing in some current events newspaper article and talking about it for five minutes. Hobie was pretty sure he was going to need every bit of help he could get in Mr. Case’s class.
“Attention, scholars.” Mr. Case pulled the cord to roll up the world map at the front of the room. On the chalkboard, underneath the map, was written a poem.
“May I have a volunteer reader?” he asked.
“Poetry?” Mitch muttered. “Spare me.”
“Thank you, Mr. —” Mr. Case consulted the seating chart. “Mr. Mitchell.”
Mitch looked up to the heavens. “‘Autumn,’” he read.
“Stand to recite, please.” Mr. Case motioned Mitch up.
Hobie coughed so he wouldn’t laugh.
Mitch stood. “‘Autumn,’” he repeated in a monotone. “By T. E. Hulme. ‘A touch of cold in the Autumn night — I walked abroad, and saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge.’” He stopped reading. “What’s ‘ruddy’?”
“Brilliant question, my young scholar.” Mr. Case slapped his hands together. “How might you answer it?”
Mitch rubbed his nose. “By asking you?”
“Any other guesses?” Mr. Case scanned the room. “Miss Small?”
“Look it up in the dictionary?” Catherine suggested.
“Smashing. Simply smashing.”
A few of the girls giggled. Mr. Case ignored them, focusing again on the seating chart. “Mr. Klein, you are closest to the dictionary. Would you do the honors?”
Max flipped pages and then ran his finger down the page. “Ruddy. The first definition is ‘having a healthy reddish color.’” He closed the dictionary.
“So the moon is?” Mr. Case pressed.
“Red!” Dorine blurted out. Twenty-four heads snapped in her direction. Dorine never blurted out. She rarely spoke.
“Nicely done, Miss Bunch.” Mr. Case waved at Mitch. “Carry on.”
Anyone taking one look at Mitch’s face would know he did not want to carry on. But he did.
“‘And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge. Like a red-faced farmer. I did not stop to speak, but nodded, and round about w
ere the wistful stars with white faces like town children.’”
“Thank you. You may sit down,” the teacher said to Mitch. “Any comments about this poem?”
Catherine raised her hand. “It makes a picture in my mind. Like a photograph.”
“Good. Anyone else?”
“It’s short?” Marty offered hesitantly.
“That it is.” Mr. Case swung his arms as if directing an orchestra. “Which will make it all the easier for you scholars to memorize.” He smiled from ear to ear. “By Monday.”
The mutterings were drowned out by the lunch bell.
“Eat, drink, and be merry,” Mr. Case said, waving them off to the cafeteria.
“This year’s certainly going to be interesting,” Catherine said as she pulled her lunch pail out of the cubby.
“You said it,” Hobie agreed. While he waited his turn for hot lunch, that line about the stars with faces like town children came back to him. It made sense even if he didn’t know exactly what it meant.
The cafeteria ladies filled his plate, and he handed over his coins at the cash register, noting that Marty had plunked down next to Max. Hobie took a free seat at the other end of the boys’ table. Unfortunately, Mitch took the seat directly across.
“So, Hobie.” Mitch took a loud slurp of milk. “My mom told me about your old man. Prisoner of war camp. That’s tough.”
Hobie felt like he was walking into some kind of trap. Mitch Mitchell being nice?
“I have a question.” Mitch’s tone reminded Hobie of the vacuum cleaner salesman who’d stopped at their house a while back.
Hobie squeezed some ketchup on his meat loaf. “Okay.”
“Well, say you were in the Army Air Force, and some lousy Nazis captured you and stuck you in some camp, wouldn’t you try to escape?” he asked. “My brother’s a regular old GI, and that’s what he says he’d do.”
Mitch leaned across the table, so close Hobie could smell his milky breath. “That’s what any true blue American would do.” He emphasized the word “American.” “Don’t you think?”