A Good American
Page 8
Jette’s quiet confessions to Anna gave her the strength to return to her family with her mask of contentment still in place. Her decision to hide her unhappiness from Frederick was not the result of any cooling in their marriage. Quite the opposite: it was her devotion to her husband and children that made her want to protect them from her sadness. Her silence was the greatest gift she could give them.
It was certainly true that Frederick was happier than he had ever been. As the Nick-Nack’s musical reputation grew, business boomed. Frederick built a rudimentary stage in the corner of the room where the piano had lain silent for so long.
There was one problem, however. Dr. Becker was happy to shower Frederick with compliments, but he was reluctant to give him a raise in salary. Frederick was not a greedy man, but he thought it only fair that he should benefit a little from all his hard work. His sense of injustice began to erode the pleasure he took in his job. Finally he confessed his disenchantment to Kliever.
“You need to stop complaining and do something about it,” said Kliever.
“Yes, but what?”
“Do it the American way. Buy the place off him.”
Frederick lay awake for most of that night, staring at the ceiling. Buy the place! The thought had never occurred to him. But this is America, he kept telling himself. Such things were possible here. By the time the early-morning sun crept across the bedroom window, his head was filled with plans. It was that night, with no ceremony or certificate required, that my grandfather finally became a true American.
He began to save every cent he could. Rather than joining his customers in convivial drinks, he pocketed his tips. Here and there he denied himself small pleasures. The pain of forbearance was sweetened by the thought that one day, the Nick-Nack would be his. Money accumulated in a small jar that he hid beneath a floorboard in the bedroom. But too slowly.
“It’s hopeless,” he complained to Kliever one evening as they stood at the end of the pier. “I’ll never save enough money.”
“Of course you won’t,” agreed Kliever. “You’ll be dead long before, the amount Becker pays you.”
Frederick stared out across the Missouri River. “What am I going to do?”
“Have you still got that medal?” asked Kliever after a moment. “The one that belonged to Jette’s grandfather?”
“Of course.”
“Can you get off work this weekend?”
“Why do you ask?”
Kliever buttoned up his fly. “Come by the house first thing on Saturday morning,” he said. “And bring that medal with you.”
At sunrise the following Saturday, Frederick kissed Jette good-bye as she lay sleepily in their bed and walked to the Klievers’ house. The medal was hidden in his pocket. The previous evening he had quietly removed it from the back of the chest of drawers where Jette kept it. He was sure that whatever Johann Kliever had in mind, she would not approve.
Outside the Klievers’ house, a horse stood waiting, attached to a small buggy. Johann was loading bags into the back. He waved as Frederick approached.
“Got the medal?” he asked.
Frederick nodded. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” said Kliever. “Come on.” He climbed up onto the buggy and took the reins. Moments later the horse was trotting through the town’s empty streets.
As they drove south, the sun rose high in the sky, and a haze of heat shimmered on the road ahead of them. Frederick looked out at the passing countryside. Since their arrival in Beatrice, he had rarely left the town. The journey from Hanover had extinguished any appetite he might have had for travel. Now he felt the first stirrings of excitement at the prospect of discovering new places.
By mid-morning, the buggy was bouncing over the bridge that spanned the river at Jefferson City. The capitol building sat in imperial splendor on a bluff overlooking the banks of the Missouri. Kliever drove through the town and brought the horse to a stop in front of a row of shops. “That medal won’t do you any good sitting in a sock underneath your bed,” he said as he tethered the horse to a pole. “You need to make it work for you.” Without another word he turned and pushed open the nearest door and went inside.
Frederick lingered on the sidewalk for a moment, wondering whether he should follow. A wooden screen had been erected in the shop window, obscuring the interior from curious eyes. The door opened and Kliever’s head reappeared. “Come on,” he said, blinking with impatience, and then vanished again. Frederick stepped inside.
The shop was long and narrow. Knotted floorboards ran the length of the room. Two gas lamps glowed dimly from the ceiling. There was a row of glass-fronted cabinets along one wall, each secured by a heavy padlock. Their shelves were crammed with a bewildering assortment of articles. A violin was propped up next to a crystal decanter. An oil painting depicting a hunting scene was flanked by a coiled necklace of tiny emeralds and a gold carriage clock, its hands long since stopped. And there were guns, more guns than Frederick had ever seen in his life.
Frederick made his way past the display cases. Kliever stood at the far end of the room. Behind a counter stood a tall, thin man in a dirty apron.
“So,” said the man, his voice high and sharp, “this is the gentleman with the, ah, famous medal.” His eyes bulged from his long, gaunt face.
“This is him,” agreed Kliever. “Frederick, show this man your medal.”
“Well, you know, it’s not actually mine,” began Frederick.
The man in the apron waved his long, bony hands in front of his face as if to shoo the words away. “I’m no attorney or nothing, but I always live by the principle that possession is nine-tenths of the law. Let’s see what you have.”
Hesitantly Frederick reached into his pocket and laid the medal on the countertop. The shopkeeper bent down to examine it. “And this was awarded by the Kaiser himself?”
Frederick nodded. “My wife’s grandfather was a general, during the war with France.”
The man looked skeptical. “Can you prove it?”
Kliever reached across the countertop and snatched the medal back. “Plenty of other places we can try,” he said.
“All right, all right.” The man wiped his fingers anxiously on his apron. “You can’t blame a man for wanting to establish due provenance. May I see the item again?”
Kliever placed the medal back on the countertop. As the shopkeeper reached for it, Kliever grabbed his fingers. “Offer a fair price,” he said, “or I’ll break every bone in your rotten body.” Before the man could reply, Kliever twisted his hand sharply downward. The shopkeeper fell to his knees with a cry. “How much will you give for it?”
From behind the counter came a muffled moan, half swallowed by fear. The man named a figure so high that Frederick thought he must have misheard.
Kliever’s giant knuckles paled as he tightened his grip. There was a terrified sob. “Please,” said the shopkeeper. “I don’t want no trouble. Take what you—”
“We don’t want to rob you,” said Kliever irritably. “We just want a fair price.” He gave another squeeze of encouragement, which drew another yelp of pain. The man gasped another figure, twice as much as his first offer. Kliever looked at Frederick. “Well?” he said.
The amount and the method that had been employed to arrive at it left Frederick speechless. He gave a helpless shrug. Kliever grunted. “All right, then.” He released his grip. The shopkeeper’s hand slithered off the counter, out of sight. “Get the money,” growled Kliever.
Without saying another word the man retreated into a back room. Moments later he returned with a fistful of notes. As Frederick watched the shopkeeper deal the money onto the countertop, his shock was mutely shuffled away to some distant corner of his consciousness.
He understood what this was.
It was his chance.
“We’re not going home?” said Frederick.
Kliever looked at him. “Do you think I’d drive all this way just to pawn your medal?”
“I have no idea,” admitted Frederick.
“Where we’re going, you need capital to invest,” explained Kliever. “Now you have it.”
“Where are we going, then?”
“You’ll see.”
Frederick sat back and tried not to think about what Jette would say. The banknotes in his pocket crinkled with possibility, but with each whisper of promise came an echo of apprehension.
They headed toward the Ozark Mountains. By late afternoon Kliever had still given no explanation as to where they were going. Finally he pulled the horse off the main road onto a gravel path that they followed for several miles. Despite the remoteness of the location, they suddenly found themselves surrounded by people. Men, ill-shaven and dressed in clothes dirtied by the day’s labor, were engaged in animated debate, all headed in the same direction. Kliever pulled his hat down over his eyes and directed the horse past the ambling crowds.
They arrived in a clearing in which a mass of people had already assembled. The focus of activity was centered beneath the boughs of an enormous oak tree, where two squares had been marked out by rope and wooden stakes, one inside the other. Men were exchanging fistfuls of money for hastily scribbled notes. Most of the crowd were laborers, but Frederick also saw the uniforms of professional men. There were women there, too, and he had lived long enough in a big city to recognize what sort of women they were. He looked at Kliever. “What sort of event brings whores and lawyers out into the middle of the countryside?”
“The manly art,” answered Kliever. He put up his fists and threw a mock punch.
“A prize fight?”
“With excellent odds.”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t worry. I know the right man. Come on.”
Frederick followed Kliever through the crowd. Perched high up in the branches of nearby trees, men gazed down at the ring, waiting for the fight to begin.
“They’ll have the best view,” said Frederick, pointing up.
“They’re not up there to watch the fight,” said Kliever. “They’re keeping a lookout for the police.” He saw Frederick’s expression. “When men fight each other these days, they’re supposed to wear gloves,” he explained.
“This is illegal?”
“In theory.” Kliever looked around him. “But there are several policemen here, I’m sure. They enjoy a good scrap better than most.” He walked through the crowd toward a small, rat-like man in a tweed suit, who was perspiring freely in the warmth of the evening. An ugly smile appeared on his face as he saw Kliever approach.
“Ah, Mr. Kliever,” he said. “You’ll have your usual wager, I presume? Today I can offer you a hundred to forty.” His little eyes glinted. “Very generous, you’ll agree.”
Kliever grunted and produced his own bundle of notes. The bookmaker quickly counted the money and wrote him a receipt. He turned his attention to Frederick.
“And you, sir?” he asked. “Will you have the same?”
Frederick’s fingers curled protectively around the money in his pocket and he silently cursed his stupidity. An unlawful bet! He shook his head. “I am sorry,” he said stiffly. “I cannot wager my money. I do not even know who is fighting.”
The man laughed. “You’re unsure who to back?” he chuckled. “Mr. Kliever, who would you suggest?”
Kliever looked away for a moment, his eyes searching for the boxing ring beneath the oak tree. Then he turned back to Frederick and said, “Me.”
Moments later Frederick was following Kliever toward the ring, clutching the bookmaker’s receipt. He had been so surprised that he handed over all his money without another word of protest.
“This lad today is a local boy, very popular,” Kliever was saying as he marched ahead. “Butcher’s apprentice. He’s strong and quick, but young. He’s not done much fighting yet. Still learning.” There was an unfamiliar steel in his voice. “I’ll teach him a thing or two.”
They arrived at the outer rope of the boxing ring, which was patrolled by a team of burly-looking men. All around them the crowd was raucous, fired up by excitement and the afternoon heat. Kliever took off his hat and threw it over the ropes. When it landed on the beaten-down grass in the inner ring, the crowd erupted, a huge roar in their throats.
Kliever stepped through the ropes and pulled off his shirt. The cries of the men around him were so loaded with venom and hostility that for a moment Frederick forgot about the money that he would never see again; instead he began to fear for his friend’s life. Kliever looked calmly at the baying pack beyond the outer ropes. He produced a red and yellow handkerchief from his pocket and tied it to a corner stake of the inner ring. A moment later, a second hat landed in the ring. The crowd’s attention quickly shifted from Kliever to the newcomer, who was climbing through the ropes, already stripped to the waist. The new arrival was a massive hulk of humanity, a sculpture of rippling muscle and menace. His body seemed designed for violence. His hands were the size of ham hocks. He pulled out his own handkerchief to delirious cries of approval. Kliever watched impassively as his opponent tied his colors to the opposite corner stake.
A third man stepped into the ring. He paraded around the perimeter with his hands in the air until the crowd had subsided into a restless silence.
“Good people,” he cried, “there is nothing finer than the spectacle of two men fighting a bare-knuckled combat.” The crowd murmured its approval. The man held up an imperious finger. “Now, mark my words. There are those among us who believe that they know best how we Americans should comport ourselves. There are those among us who believe that it is their duty to decide what is right and what is wrong, what is good and what is not. There are those among us who seek to eliminate freedoms that are rightfully ours. I speak of those interfering busybodies who malinger in our state’s legislative chambers.” At this there was a chorus of enthusiastic booing. “As you know,” continued the man, his voice rising, “our Congress, which represents no man I know, has outlawed this, our most cherished sport.” The jeers grew louder. “Without ever seeing a punch thrown, the politicians have banned our prize ring,” shouted the man. “Those ignorant idiots have made criminals out of you and me. But we are here. And to that, these precious dandies of so many useless words have no response.”
The man moved to the center of the ring and stretched his arms out toward the corners where the two fighters stood. “Tonight we witness the glorious pugilistic traditions of these United States of America, pitted against the low cunning and devilish subterfuge that infests the prize ring on foreign shores.” The man turned toward Kliever with a dramatic sneer. “Showing colors of red and yellow, known for his slippery German guile—the Hun.”
The crowd howled its disapproval. Kliever stood motionless in his corner, listening impassively to the crescendo of hate. Frederick felt his skin crawl. The announcer allowed the crowd to vent its collective spleen before going on. “Against him, showing the colors of our hometown, a new young master of the fistic arts, our very own Butcher Boy, the still undefeated James McCready.” Kliever’s opponent raised his fists in salute, acknowledging the loud applause.
“We are not interested here in the prettified rules of engagement of that English fop, the Marquis of Queensberry,” the announcer continued. “This fight shall be conducted in accordance with the London Prize Ring rules of 1838, to wit: no head-butting, eye-gouging, hair-pulling, or neck-throttling. The fighters have agreed that Mr. Abe Vanderzee will act as referee.” The man took off his hat. “And now I give you—the Butcher Boy and the Hun.” He clambered o
ut of the inner ring, and Kliever and McCready approached the grassy center of the square. They shook hands amid a cacophony of booing and cheering. The referee, who was watching from the safety of the ropes, called for the contest to begin.
Frederick could barely bring himself to watch. The Butcher Boy came out with his huge fists swinging, two ferocious cyclones of menace. For the first few rounds Kliever weaved and bobbed, dodging the younger man’s attacks with surprising agility. McCready would just need to land one square punch for the fight to be over. But as each round ended without a meaningful blow being landed, the Butcher Boy and his followers began to get restless. Spurred on by the crowd, McCready continued to attack Kliever, but his fists scythed through the air, chasing shadows. As his opponent stepped in close, Kliever began to pick off telling blows as McCready left his upper body undefended. Round after round, Kliever’s punches were beginning to make themselves felt. The sustained ferocity of his initial offensive had exhausted the Butcher Boy. The crowd watched in sullen dejection as Kliever began to assert his superiority. In the seventeenth round his right fist caught McCready on the cheek, an inch below the eye, and opened a jagged wound. Blood began to pour down the young man’s face and onto his chest. His left eye soon swelled into a gruesome blue-black envelope of mottled flesh. Dazed by the pain, the Butcher Boy began to bellow a forlorn lament like a stricken bull. His cries echoed across the field as he charged blindly at Kliever. The crowd watched in silence as Kliever’s fists exacted their due. McCready staggered around the ring, blinded by his own blood. In between rounds his seconds pleaded with him to give up, but he refused, rising unsteadily to take more punishment. After ninety minutes of fighting, Kliever had begun to knock his opponent down at will, but on each occasion the Butcher Boy hauled himself back to his feet, refusing to concede defeat in front of his home crowd. Many in the audience, though, had seen enough. Men began to leave the field, shaking their heads.