by Bill Dodds
For the next fifteen minutes or so we said the rosary together. I was familiar with all those prayers, of course, and I thought Uncle Peter looked a little relieved when he saw that I knew how to answer.
When we were done praying, Pat said to me, “First you juggle and then you sing.”
“He hurt his hand,” Charlie said. “Something fierce.’ Bout broke it clean off swimming.”
But Pat wasn’t listening. He had gone out into the kitchen. He returned with three red apples.
“His back!” Charlie said. “He hurt his back, too.”
“Well, Michael, it sounds as if you’re falling apart,” Uncle Peter said.
“The show must go on,” I answered and Charlie groaned. Everyone sat down as I took the three apples. I walked over by the piano and I said, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages . . .”
“Just like the circus,” Sean said. “I hope you don’t plan on doing handstands on a horse in here.”
And then—much to almost everyone’s delight, Charlie’s surprise, and Pat’s dismay—I juggled. I did a regular underhand juggle. I did it large. I did it small. I did it over the top. I did two apples with one hand and then switched and did two apples with the other. Then I went back to a regular underhand with three apples and ended up tossing one to Pat, one to Charlie, and one to Sissie. I bowed and they clapped and I felt wonderful.
Sissie immediately began eating hers.
Then I sat down at the piano. It’s funny how things work out. Last winter I had sprained my ankle right in the middle of basketball season and I could only hobble around and so Dad bought me three juggling balls and a book on how to juggle.
I had practiced that because I couldn’t play ball.
And Mom . . . . Ever since I was in second grade Mom had insisted I take piano lessons. At first they were okay; then I hated them; and, recently, with a new teacher, I had learned something besides stuff by Mozart or some other guy who has been dead for a million years.
So I decided to use the same piece I used for the spring talent show at school. I started with Mozart and Uncle Peter and Aunt Mary looked pleased and everyone else looked bored. Then after just a little bit of that, I switched into a rock and roll classic sung by Jerry Lee Lewis: “Great Balls of Fire.”
I couldn’t do it as well as he did, of course, but I could bang it out pretty loud and then I started singing, too, and everyone was clapping and the littlest kids started jumping around.
When I got done, Uncle Peter said, “Goodness!”
Aunt Mary said, “Gracious!”
And all the kids shouted, “Great balls of fire!”
All except Sissie. She was just standing there. She looked as if she wanted to cough but she couldn’t. Her hands were up at her throat. She looked scared. Her eyes fluttered and then she fell to the floor.
Chapter 20
Sissie
“Lord, bless us and save us,” Aunt Mary said as she rushed to Sissie’s side. The little girl wasn’t moving. Her lips were turning blue.
“She’s choking!” Uncle Peter said and he knelt beside her. He put her into a sitting position and began to firmly pound on her upper back. She was like a rag doll. If he hadn’t held her tightly with the other hand, she would have toppled forward.
“Hold her upside down,” Aunt Mary suggested and Uncle Peter stood and easily lifted the little girl by her ankles and started shaking her. By now about thirty seconds had gone by since she had passed out.
Francis, Catherine, and Jerome were crying. I could hear Charlie whispering, “Not like William, not like William, not like William.”
People in the future still choke, I thought.
“Sissie!” Aunt Mary remained on her knees, talking right at her daughter. “Sissie! Come on, Sissie!”
But in the future, I thought, we use the . . .
“Heimlich!” I shouted but no one paid any attention to me.
“The Heimlich maneuver,” I said. “Use the Heimlich maneuver!”
It was on a VCR movie we had had to watch in science class. It was kind of a stupid movie but it did show a person exactly what to do. I remembered the steps because later some of us boys had been kidding around on the playground. Pretending to use it and then seeing who could spit the farthest.
I saw the movie a second time in my Boy Scout first aid class.
“Uncle Peter,” I said, “let me.”
It had been about forty-five seconds now. I couldn’t remember how long a person had to go without breathing before getting permanent brain damage. A couple of minutes at the most, I thought.
“Put her down,” I said. I kind of ordered him.
“Michael,” Aunt Mary said, “this is no time for . . .”
“There isn’t much time,” I said. “Put her down. I know what to do. I learned it in school. Put. Her. Down. Now!”
I heard Brigid gasp. I guess no one ever talked to her dad that way. But there just wasn’t time to be polite or do a lot of explaining.
I bent over and grabbed Sissie around her chest and lifted her up. She didn’t weigh very much. “Let go of her ankles,” I said to Uncle Peter. He did and her legs flopped down.
I spun her around so her back was to me, just like in the VCR movie. Then I joined my hands together in front of her where they were supposed to be and pushed in and up.
Nothing happened.
“Michael,” Aunt Mary said, “for Lord’s sake, let Pa . . .”
I did it again.
Nothing happened.
“Let her go!” Pat screamed at me. “You’re killing her for sure.”
I tried again. A big, wet chunk of something popped out of her mouth and landed on the floor about two feet in front of her. We could all hear the air leaving her lungs and then she took a deep breath. And then another. And then another.
By the time I set Sissie back down on the floor, Aunt Mary was cradling her in her arms. The only sounds in the room were Aunt Mary making little “shushing” sounds and Sissie taking deep gulps of air.
“You saved her,” Charlie said. “You saved her life.”
“I just . . .” I began. “It was just . . .”
“I never heard any boy yell at Pa like that,” Brigid said.
“And not get a tanning,” Sean added.
“Michael,” Uncle Peter said, “you did the right thing for sure. But how did you know how to . . .?”
“I . . . . There was a German in the vaudeville show,” I said. “He showed me.”
“Heinrich?” Brigid asked. “That Heinrich Manhover you mentioned.”
“Right,” I said and smiled. “Heinrich Manhover.”
“I couldn’t breathe, Mama,” Sissie said, tears running down her cheeks that had returned to a beautiful rosy red.
“I know, little lamb,” her mother answered. “But you’re all right now. Cousin Michael saved you.”
“He did?”
“He made that apple pop out of you like a cork out of a bottle of root beer,” Charlie said.
“My throat is sore, Mama,” she said.
“I should think it would be,” Aunt Mary told her. “But you’re fine.”
“And my chest hurts.”
“That’s where cousin Michael squeezed you,” Aunt Mary said.
“So what do you say?” her father prompted Sissie.
“Take smaller bites,” she answered, “and don’t hop around when you’re eating.”
He smiled. “Well, yes,” he said, “but I meant ‘thank you.’”
“Oh. Thank you, cousin Michael.”
“You’re welcome, Sissie,” I said.
“If you hadn’t been here . . . .” Aunt Mary said as she reached up and took my hand. “I just don’t want to think about how this all might have ended.”
She started to cry and so the little kids joined right in.
“I thought it was a happy ending,” Uncle Peter said. “And I think we need more music.” While Catherine finished the rest of Sissie�
�s apple and Brigid cleaned up the chunk on the floor, he pulled out a violin case from behind one of the chairs and soon he was sawing away and everyone was laughing and clapping in time to the music.
Some of the songs sounded like the kind you might hear on the radio on St. Patrick’s Day. Some of the others I recognized, like “Battle Hymn of the Republic” and “O Susannah.” I sang along with those.
Later Aunt Mary and Brigid went out to the summer kitchen and came back with hot popcorn and cool apple cider. After a while the kids went one by one to take their baths but Charlie and I didn’t have to. Instead we made a visit to the outhouse and then came in and washed up. I used a washcloth to brush my teeth. They had tooth powder instead of toothpaste.
That was pretty gross.
We went upstairs and Jerome was already in one of the two double beds in the boys’ room. Charlie loaned me a nightshirt to use for pajamas. I offered to sleep on the floor but he told me to just climb into bed next to Jerome. Then he got in on the other side.
It was dusk out. About nine o’clock, I guessed. Soon the room was dark.
Charlie and Jerome fell asleep but I couldn’t. Too much had happened. Plus I missed my own family. I mean my other family.
I heard someone coming softly up the stairs and into the room. It was Aunt Mary. It was my great-great-grandmother. She walked over to my side of the bed and put the back of her hand up against my cheek.
“God sent you to us, Michael,” she said quietly. “ ‘St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle.’ If you hadn’t been here, Sissie would have died.”
She leaned over and lightly kissed my forehead and then she glided out.
If I hadn’t been here, I thought, Sissie wouldn’t have been eating an apple while she was dancing to “Great Balls of Fire.”
I fell asleep wondering if the next time I had a hand in causing something bad to happen to one of these people, would I be able to fix that, too?
I don’t remember dreaming.
Chapter 21
A Sunday in 1898
It was still dark out when a rooster started crowing. It wasn’t a cute little “cock-a-doodle-do” but a really annoying “err-err-errrr!”
I could see two big bodies getting out of the other bed. That would be Sean and Pat. They silently got dressed and Pat headed out. Sean gave Charlie and Jerome a shake and then he left, too.
“What time is it?” I asked Charlie.
“Time to get up,” he answered.
He gave me an old pair of overalls and a beat-up shirt to wear. After both of us were dressed we went downstairs and out to the barn to feed the three horses.
“How come they have to eat so early?” I asked and he shrugged. “Horses are big,” I said. Scary too, I didn’t add.
“Do you have your own horse?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “We have a . . .” What would they call it? “A car. An automobile. A horseless carriage.”
“Really?” Charlie said. “Don’t you get stuck in the mud a lot?”
“Hope Millie doesn’t mind my cold hands on her bag thing,” Pat interrupted us from a neighboring stall. I could hear liquid hitting a pail.
“Couldn’t he have just tossed some of the hay to the horses?” I whispered.
“That’s my job,” Charlie whispered back. “We’re lucky today is Sunday. Most days right after breakfast I’d have to start hoeing the garden or go out in the fields with Pa.”
“Every day?” I asked
“Well, yeah,” he said, “for a couple of hours at least. There’s always a lot to do on a farm.”
And speaking of being on a farm, I was looking forward to a big “farm” breakfast: bacon, eggs, sausage, hot buttered biscuits. All that good stuff.
“You guys don’t worry about cholesterol, do you?” I asked and he gave me a blank look.
So I was more than a little disappointed when we came inside and sat down to a meal of Post Toasties, bread, and fruit. The milk tasted wrong. Thick and warm. I noticed Uncle Peter and Aunt Mary and the two older kids didn’t have anything to eat or drink.
The sun had been up for a while when all of us got in the wagon and headed for Culver City. We were going to the ten o’clock Mass. It was a little before nine when we left. (I had discovered there was a wind-up clock on a shelf in the kitchen and Uncle Peter had an Ingersoll.)
Uncle Peter held the reins to the team of horses and Aunt Mary and Francis sat up on the seat next to him. The rest of us were sitting in the back.
Pat gave a kick at Charlie when he thought Charlie was crowding him too much. Uncle Peter told them both to stop it.
I was wearing nicer pants, a dress shirt without a collar and some really uncomfortable button-up shoes. Aunt Mary had suggested that maybe my vaudeville “costume” wasn’t appropriate for church. Everyone else was wearing Sunday clothes, too.
We were on the road a long time and I wouldn’t have recognized Culver City when we finally got there if Uncle Peter hadn’t said, “Here we are.” The streets were dirt and the houses all looked old-fashioned but recently built.
“How many people live here?” I asked.
“Almost three thousand now,” Uncle Peter answered. That was less than a tenth of what it would be in my time.
The wooden church looked pretty much the same: small, with a steeple in the front that had a big bell in it. It was painted white. A lot of wagons and buggies and horses were . . . parked . . . around it. People were visiting with one another until the bell rang and then we all headed inside.
I’ve been going to Sunday Mass for as long as I can remember but I had never seen one like this before. The priest had on strange vestments and he didn’t even face the people as he mumbled away in another language. The sermon was in English but that was about it.
At Communion I stood up to go forward and receive the host like I always do and Aunt Mary gave me a funny look. “You’re only twelve and you’ve received your First Holy Communion?” she whispered.
I nodded. In the second grade, I thought.
“But you ate breakfast,” she said. “And drank some water.” I nodded. So? “You broke your fast,” she said. “No food or drink from midnight on.”
Midnight! Fasting meant nothing to eat and nothing to drink except water for an hour before Mass not all night. But I just nodded and knelt down again.
After Mass we went back outside and there was more visiting. I was introduced to a lot of people but I didn’t remember any of their names except for Mr. and Mrs. Meyer. The banker and his wife had four sons: two were old—Matthew and Mark—and two were young—Luke and John. The older ones looked mean.
Before we left we stopped at the cemetery beside the church. It was much smaller than it would be later on. A picket fence surrounded about three dozen headstones and maybe five young trees. All the headstones looked pretty new.
Aunt Mary led the way to one that said “William Farrell.” The grass in front of it still wasn’t as green as the grass in front of most of the others. William’s was next to “Joseph Farrell.” The dates on the stones told me they had died three years apart.
We all knelt down on the ground and said some prayers out loud and Aunt Mary cried just a little bit. She had her arm around Sissie.
When we left there we rode to a farmhouse just outside town. It was where Aunt Mary’s sister Margaret and Margaret’s husband and their four children lived. We had dinner there. Ham and scalloped potatoes and a bunch of other stuff. There were pies for dessert and we made ice cream in a bucket with a crank. It took forever and when I started eating mine too fast I got a headache right in the middle of my forehead.
Aunt Mary told me to take a sip of water and it went away. Then I finished my ice cream. It was the best I had ever tasted even if it was just plain old vanilla.
After dinner the adults sat in chairs on the porch and the kids wandered around, trying to play without getting their good clothes dirty. Pat and his cousin Leon got into a game of horseshoes. Pat was
very good at it.
We didn’t get home until late afternoon. I was really, really tired but everyone had to get changed into old clothes and then do more chores. Or do the same chores again.
That’s why Charlie and I were back in the barn when Brigid started yelling, “FIRE!”