The Luck of the Buttons

by Anne Ylvisaker

  Today it was toothpicks (Mr. Everett) and tiny tin soldiers (Mr. Jackson). Granddaddy would love to get his hands on those tiny tin soldiers, Tugs was certain. He’d never get them with a spoon. She pulled all five pennies from her pocket and laid them on the table.

  Granddaddy flashed his loose teeth around the table. He sat up tall and set up the red chips proudly. “All right, boys, who thinks they can take the loot?”

  Tugs watched them get started, then slipped out the door. They’d be busy for an hour if she was lucky.

  Tugs stepped around Harvey Moore, who had cornered Al outside his luncheonette. She walked down to Pepper’s and stood in front of the window. There was a display of the newest Brownie cameras and a poster with an image of a girl about her age taking a picture of a squirrel running up a tree. Tugs scoffed. If she had a camera, she’d certainly photograph something more interesting than a squirrel.

  She tried the door, but it was locked. She cupped her hands around her face and pressed her nose against the glass. The store was empty, save for the dozens of camera eyes gazing around the shop.

  “Now you’ve gone and smudged my window!”

  Tugs turned. Mr. Pepper had pulled up to the curb and was trying to get an unwieldy box out of his Ford.

  “I was . . . the door was . . .” she started, but Mr. Pepper interrupted.

  “Never mind. Grab the keys off the front seat, will you? Unlock the door and hold it open for me.” Tugs did as she was told and stood holding the door while Mr. Pepper wrestled the box into the store.

  “Now, take this rag and go wipe your nose juice off the window.”

  “I . . .” she started, but Mr. Pepper was already rooting through a drawer and muttering to himself about scissors and numbskulls and the dearth of good help in this country.

  Tugs scrubbed at the window of the front door. She couldn’t see any smudges, but she wiped anyhow. When she had wiped the outside of the door, she came inside and wiped the inside, too, for good measure.

  “Help me out here, would you?” barked Mr. Pepper. He was pulling smaller boxes out of the large box.

  “Line these up on the counter as I hand them to you. We have to count them and sort them into types. Have to make sure the distributor didn’t short me. These are the most popular items Kodak makes right now, and I’m just a little store in the middle of Nowheresville, Iowa, and even though the people of small-town America deserve cameras as much as the rest of the world, the little guy often gets overlooked. Don’t you forget that, young lady.”

  “I won’t forget,” said Tugs, lining the boxes up as neatly as she could. Tall as she was and being a girl, she’d never be the little guy. “Did you hear about the newspaper starting up?” Tugs asked.

  “Oh, sure. Now, that’s what I’m talking about. There’s a man with vision. Foresight. In fact, he was in here yesterday, and I don’t mind telling you, he asked me to be his photographic consultant. Says he’ll buy a camera from this very shop when the paper gets under way. Not going to send away to Chicago, to some fancy schmancy store. No. That man knows quality when he sees it. I paid him for six months of advertising in advance. Might have to hire someone on, all the business I’m going to get in here.”

  “You gave him money already?” said Tugs. “But there’s no paper yet.”

  “Humph. I can’t expect you to know how business works. Of course I gave him money in advance. How else is he going to get the paper up and running? Now, pay attention to what you’re doing, young lady.”

  Tugs handled the boxes gingerly, wishing she were taking one home with her.

  The count came out just as the invoice directed, which made Mr. Pepper pleased at last.

  “Well,” he said, leaning against the counter. “There we go, then.” He sighed heavily and nearly smiled at Tugs. “I guess you’ve been quite a help.” He reached under the counter and brought out a string of five raffle tickets. “Got a few left. Here you go. For your efforts. Write your name on the back and drop them in that box at the end of the counter. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  “Really?” Tugs grinned. “Swell. I mean, great. I mean, thanks, and where’s a pencil?” Mr. Pepper handed her a pencil and she got busy printing her name as clearly as possible.

  “Hurry up, then. You’re not writing a novel there.”

  “I’m putting my whole name on. Just in case,” she said.

  Mr. Pepper craned his neck to see her name.

  “I shouldn’t think there would be too many Tugs Buttons that weren’t you,” he said.

  “Never know,” she said as she finished the last ticket and dropped it in the box. She looked into the narrow slot. “Awful lot of tickets in there.”

  “Each one has as good a chance as any other,” said Mr. Pepper. “Kid, adult, never can tell.”

  “Who picks the winners?”

  “The president of the art guild. This year that’s me.”

  Tugs started toward the door, then turned back.

  “Can I look into one?” she asked.

  “Well, sure, then. I guess that wouldn’t hurt.”

  Mr. Pepper pulled a Brownie from the display case and handed it to her. “Now, hold it down. . . . Yes, that’s it.”

  The camera had a pleasing weight in her hands as she studied the small image of Mr. Pepper in the box.

  “Click,” she said, then handed it back. “It’s the best raffle prize ever, if you ask me.” Tugs took one more long look at the case of cameras, then remembered Granddaddy and ran out the door, counting as she ran, one, two, one, two.

  Burglars could have a fine day of it in Goodhue on the Fourth of July, with the whole population emptied into the town park, like so many checkers swept off a winning board. But the unscrupulous elements typically found more business in the heart of the celebration, the occasional out-of-town pickpocket making suspects of everyone’s visiting cousin or uncle.

  After the All Join In Parade, eating was the primary occupation, with families and neighbors joining together to make huge smorgasbord picnics and kids roaming from one blanket to the next to find the best fare.

  This year the Buttons got to the park late and had to squeeze themselves between the Floyds and the Novaks on the outer edge, nearly on top of the railroad tracks. There were advantages to this spot — they’d feel the ground rumble if a train were approaching, and the rise of the hill gave them a good view of the goings-on.

  Tugs pushed her potato salad around her plate with her fork. Her stomach was tight with dread. She had to tell Ned, but not here, with their mothers listening.

  Tugs saw a Panama bob through the crowd, pausing for a minute here, a minute there, and covering the grounds like a bee collecting nectar from a field of daffodils.

  “Come on, Ned,” Tugs said. She set her plate on the ground, where the Floyds’ three-legged dog, Lulu, could clean it for her.

  “Where are we going?” asked Ned, jogging to keep up with her. “I don’t want to get worn out before the race.”

  “We’re going to see what Harvey Moore is up to.”

  “Why?”

  “We just are.”

  “But the race is going to start soon.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  As they drew up behind Harvey, Tugs slowed and held out her arm to stop Ned.

  “Let’s just follow him for a little ways.”

  “But . . .” said Ned.

  “Shhh.”

  Harvey was unaware of his shadows. He and the Perkins were engrossed in conversation.

  “And all we need to bring this venture to Goodhue is one hundred prepaid annual subscribers and thirty advertising commitments. I have a line on a used press that the seller will part with for a modest down payment and throw in the paper to boot. Prominent on the front page of the first issue will be the names of each of the founding subscribers.” Harvey painted a swath in the air with his hand.

  “Franklin and Evelyn Perkins,” he said grandly. “Imagine it. Bold print. Fourteen-point sans serif
type. In fact, if you are one of the first twenty-five subscribers to the Goodhue Progress, I could make that eighteen-point and put your name at the top of the list.”

  Mrs. Perkins clapped her hands. “Franklin!” she exclaimed. “Fancy what Wilma will say when she sees our name in the paper. I always told her I’d be somebody, and she didn’t believe me. Thinks she’s so high-class, living over there in Iowa City. Imagine. A daily. Right here in Goodhue. With our names on it.”

  “Well, Mother,” said Mr. Perkins. Even though their children were grown, he still called his wife Mother. “I don’t know that we’ve got enough news for a daily, but I suppose a few dollars to impress Wilma . . . I don’t have that much cash on me at the moment, as you can imagine, but I could bring it . . .”

  “No, no,” said Harvey. “I’ll come to you. Just write your address here next to your commitment signature, and if you have any cash for down payment . . .”

  “Progress,” said Mr. Perkins as he wrote. “Now, that’s a name.” He dug in his pocket and handed Harvey a bill.

  “Thank you, Mr. Perkins. Mrs. Perkins,” said Harvey. “You’re investing in Goodhue. You’re investing in progress.” He shook both their hands before moving on.

  “See?” whispered Ned. “Mr. Moore is for progress. And he said he’d help me with catching and tossing. So leave him alone.”

  “I guess,” said Tugs. “It’s just that progress seems to cost an awful lot.”

  Tugs saw Aggie just then and turned to Ned.

  “Meet me back at the blanket, OK? I have something to do.”

  Ned wove his way back to the Buttons as Tugs dodged toddlers and mothers and found her way to Aggie.

  “Tugs!” cried Aggie. “I’ve been looking all over for you. It’s nearly time for the three-legged.”

  “I haven’t told Ned yet,” Tugs confessed.

  “You haven’t?”

  “I tried, but . . .”

  “Come on, then,” said Aggie briskly. “Let’s find him a partner.” Aggie dragged Tugs by the arm over to the sprawl of the Stump gathering, under the center oak with the low-hanging branches. A jumble of squat Stump children tumbled from the tree and landed in a pile.

  “Which one of you is in Ned Button’s grade?” Aggie demanded.

  “Ralph,” said Tugs, marveling at Aggie’s ability to unravel a knot, while Tugs herself had spent days letting this dilemma pick at her.

  Ralph popped up from the bottom of the pile.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “You’re racing the three-legged with Ned,” said Aggie. “Come on, it’s nearly time.” Aggie’s tone was commanding, and despite himself, Ralph Stump followed the girls.

  “I ask Ned every year and he always says he has a partner,” whined Ralph. “He’s not going to want to race with me.”

  “Sure he wants to race with you,” said Tugs, catching Aggie’s enthusiasm. “He just thinks you’re too fast and he wouldn’t have a chance to keep up with you. Ask him again.”

  “But —” Ralph panted, trying to keep up with the long-legged girls, but they had sprinted away and were already at the blanket, prepping Ned.

  “Ned, Ralph Stump really wants to race with you,” Aggie said. “So I said I’d race with Tugs.”

  Ned stared. Aggie Millhouse knew his name. Aggie Millhouse was talking to him. He grinned.

  “W-w-what?” he stammered.

  Tugs rolled her eyes. “Aggie said she’d race with me so you can race with Ralph.”

  Ralph caught up then. He was breathing too hard to talk and just raised his hand to Ned before flopping on the ground.

  They heard Mr. Floyd’s trumpet blast announcing the start of the afternoon’s events.

  Aggie grabbed Ralph’s arm and pulled him up. “Do you two want to miss the race altogether?”

  The boys didn’t have a chance to consider their new partnership. They set off after the girls.

  Aggie and Tugs elbowed their way to the coveted outside edge of the start line, where they would be less likely to be bumped off course. Ned and Ralph nudged their way in next to Aggie and Tugs. The high-school track team was in charge of organizing the races for the younger children. The middle Floyd girl walked down the line with a box of fabric strips for tying legs together, while Lester Ward made sure that no one put so much as a toe on the field before the whistle was blown.

  “On your mark!” called Lester, but there was a hubbub at the line when three teams on the other end fell onto the field. The track team hurried to stand them upright and move them behind the start line, but then toward the middle of the line, another team went sprawling onto the field.

  Tugs craned her neck to see what was going on. It was the Rowdies, slipping behind the runners, knocking random pairs to the ground. G.O. was with them. Teams were stepping out of formation, turning to see if they were going to be next.

  “Get set!” Lester called.

  G.O. spotted Tugs just then and started toward her.

  “Just keep your head down and count,” Aggie urged. “Inside leg first.”

  “Go!” Lester hollered as the whistle blared.

  “One!” called Aggie and Tugs together. They launched their inside feet across the start line just as the Rowdies melted back into the crowd, leaving G.O. standing in the field of runners. The rest of the teams, startled into starting before they were ready, stumbled, fell, got up, tried again, bumped into one another, jostled, and generally clumped along. G.O. got knocked down in the fray. Tugs and Aggie kept their heads down and simply walked steadily, chanting one, two, one, two, crossing the line still standing.

  “We won!” Aggie cried, grabbing Tugs in a hug.

  “We did?” said Tugs. She looked around. Sure enough, they were standing at the bandstand. The Floyd girl thrust blue ribbons into their hands before hurrying off to help the other teams as they straggled in.

  Tugs rubbed the smooth surface of her ribbon between her fingers, marveling at the royalness of the blue, as Aggie untied their legs.

  Tugs’s reverie was interrupted by G.O. shouting, “Let me go! I didn’t do nothing.” Lester Ward had collared him and was dragging him away.

  “Look,” said Aggie. “He got G.O.”

  Feeling brave and magnanimous with a ribbon in her hand, Tugs shouted, “Let him go, Lester Ward! It was the Rowdies, not G.O.!”

  Lester looked back sharply to see who was hollering at him, and G.O. slipped out of his grip and ran away.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Aggie hissed, grabbing Tugs’s arm. They darted away, laughing at their own bravery and stupidity.

  Then they heard Mr. Floyd’s trumpet. People were drifting toward the bandstand.

  “Come on,” said Aggie.

  The sight of Harvey Moore standing next to the mayor on the podium dampened Tugs’s spirit. Harvey Moore was everywhere. There was a red-white-and-blue ribbon tied around his hat, and aside from the mayor and Mr. Millhouse, he was the only man wearing a suit to the Independence Day picnic.

  “Let’s watch from back here,” said Tugs. Could she confess her suspicions about Harvey Moore to Aggie? Would Aggie believe her? She glanced over at Aggie.

  “Aggie, I got to tell you something important,” she started, but she was interrupted by Harvey Moore himself, who pulled mayor Corbett’s megaphone from his hand and bellowed, “Good afternoon!”

  The crowd did not simmer down.

  Harvey tried again, drawing out his words like a caller at the track. “Gooood afternoon, Goooodhue! How about this day?”

  A few people clapped.

  “That’s the man from Chicago,” Tugs heard a woman behind her say.

  “I wonder if there’s a Mrs. Chicago,” said another. “Or if he’d like one.”

  “I heard he’s the nephew of the governor,” the first woman said.

  “Really? I heard he is a railroad baron, come to invest in Goodhue.”

  “Lovely people of Goodhue!” Harvey continued, undaunted by the hubbub. “Your fine mayor
here has asked me to say a few words before the announcement of the patriotic essay awards.” The crowd began to settle.

  “Look at this crowd. This is patriotism, people. An entire town gathered to celebrate the birth of our nation. And what a nation it is. Goodhue represents the best of what makes this country great. Why, a virtual stranger can enter this place and find unmatched hospitality — thank you to the Dostals for taking me in, by the by — hello out there, Dostals!” Harvey waved in the general direction of the Dostals’ blanket. There was a smattering of applause.

  “Yes, a fellow can come to this town with an idea for progress. An idea that will give your dear children a chance at living in a town of substance. A wild idea? Maybe. A bold idea? Probably. An idea that citizens of other towns have not been brave enough to believe in? Absolutely.

  “Did the people of this town, the people of Goodhue, Iowa, snuff that idea out? No! The people of this town are opening their minds and pocketbooks and saying yes to progress.

  “The Dostals said yes to progress. The Perkinses said yes to progress. The esteemed William Millhouse the Third said yes to progress. The only question that remains is this.” Harvey paused. The crowd went silent, hanging on his every word.

  “The question remains: will you say yes to progress?” Harvey let a long beat go by as the crowd considered his question.

  “What is progress, you ask? Bear with me a moment. One of Goodhue’s own sons, Lester Ward, is leaving the nest soon. Not only is Lester going to be an Iowa Hawkeye; he’s going to be an Iowa Hawkeye football player.” The crowd cheered. Harvey raised his hand.

  “Now, how will you get news of Lester’s glory? His parents, sure. Some of you will go to the games, no doubt. Others will listen on the radio. But what about the story of the game? The story that lists the name of one of your own in its pages? The one you can snip out and paste in a scrapbook? Will they feed you that story in the Cedar Rapids Tribune? No, sir. I am here, ladies and gentlemen, to bring the newspaper back to Goodhue. The Goodhue Progress. With your help, we can bring progress to Goodhue. Find me after the announcements here, and put your down payment on progress.