“Hmm,” Mary said, leaning back and looking up. “Why not, indeed? Let’s see, where do I start?” She adopted a pensive look, compressed her lips and took a deep breath through her nose, letting it out slowly. “Why don’t we start with the fact that he didn’t have the nerve to ask me directly? Heck,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, “he didn’t even ask you directly. He had to go through two people.”
“Well,” Gwenda started to say in a half-hearted way, but Mary cut her off.
“Oh, I know. The King is just too grand to be asking girls out in person. That simply won’t do for someone of his prominence. But let’s set that aside,” she continued, “and talk about what’s really important. The fact of the matter is Vernon King has got to be the most mean, arrogant, self-absorbed, inconsiderate…” She paused, searching for words.
“Puerile?” suggested Sam.
“Yes, good,” Mary said. “Honestly, I would sooner poke my eyes out with a knitting needle than go the dance with that ape.”
There was a look of shock on Gwenda’s face now. Shock coupled with something almost akin to fear. She looked to Sam for help, but Sam merely shook her head.
“What do I tell Billy?” Gwenda asked.
“Tell him I already have a date,” Mary replied.
Sam started. “You do?”
“No,” Mary said. “I would have told you, of course.” Turning to Gwenda, she said, “But he doesn’t have to know that.”
“Won’t it be obvious it’s not true when you show up at the dance without an escort?”
Mary made a noncommittal sound, then said, “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
Gwenda again looked at Sam, then back at Mary. She puffed out her cheeks and expelled a big breath of air. “Ok,” she said, uncertainly. “I’ll tell him.” She hesitated a second, then rose, and walked back into the building.
Sam watched her go, then turned her attention to Mary. “Seriously, are you going to tell me what’s gotten into you?”
“What? Because I don’t want to go to the dance with Vernon?”
“No, I get that. But there’s something else going on, right?”
Mary looked away, and Sam waited patiently. When Mary turned back, there was a new look in her eyes. “What do you think of the new boy, Jon?”
Sam shrugged. “He’s Jewish?”
“Apparently,” Mary said, with a touch of sarcasm. “Either that, or someone got pretty worked up for nothing. But that’s not what I’m talking about. What do you think of him?”
Sam looked at Mary, who stared back with an expectant expression.
And then it finally hit her. It had only taken Mary sixteen years to become interested in a boy, but it had actually happened. Sam took a deep breath. “Well it’s about time,” she said.
#
Walt Gallagher was in high spirits when he opened the store on Saturday morning. He had gotten used to having Jon around, and, when Jon started school, Walt found himself missing his company during the day and anticipating the late afternoon hours when Jon would join him at the store. Today, Jon would be working most of the day.
He set his knapsack on the floor behind the counter and pulled out the book Jon had given to him. He’d finished the first chapter and was looking forward to talking to Jon about it.
Things got busy for the first hour or so, and there was no opportunity for them to speak. As the morning rush died down and the last of several customers walked out, Walt settled himself on his stool, reached for the book and set it down on the counter. He tapped it with a finger and looked at Jon. “I read the first chapter,” he said proudly.
“And?”
“The guy gave away his wife and his daughter. How could he do that?” He fixed Jon with a serious look. “So, is he gonna get ‘em back?”
Jon arched his eyebrows and looked from Walt to the book and back.
“Oh, I know what you’re sayin’. I gotta read the book. And I’m gonna, ‘cause I wanna know what happens. But…”
The front door opened and Mr. Dahlgren came in. He glanced briefly in their direction, but said nothing.
“Hey boss,” Walt called out. Mr. Dahlgren did not reply. He made straight for the stairway and ascended the steps.
Walt made a face. “I don’t think the boss is in a good mood today.”
Mr. Dahlgren was back in less than two minutes with an envelope in his hand. He walked directly up to the counter, set the envelope down in front of Jon, and said, “Here’s your pay for the week. I even included an amount for the entire day today. I’m letting you go.”
Walt experienced a sensation, like a fluttering. Thinking that he had misunderstood what Mr. Dahlgren had said, he looked quickly at Jon, then at Mr. Dahlgren. Jon’s face had a bewildered expression. Mr. Dahlgren’s was stern and resolute, and he was staring intently at Jon.
“No, wait,” Walt blurted.
“You stay out of this, Walt,” Mr. Dahlgren said, his focus still on Jon. “This is none of your concern.”
Jon blinked. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again.
Mr. Dahlgren pointed to Jon’s books, which Jon had set on the side of the counter when he’d come in that morning. “Gather your things and go now.”
Jon looked at his books, then at the envelope on the counter. A few seconds passed. Then, wordlessly, Jon slid off the stool and collected his books. He started to turn, stopped, and reached out to pick up the envelope. Walt could see there was a tremor in Jon’s hand. Jon tucked the envelope inside one of the books, stepped around the counter and walked to the door.
“One more thing,” Mr. Dahlgren said. Jon stopped and turned.
“I want you to stay away from Mary. You leave her alone. Do you understand?”
Jon hesitated, then nodded, silently. He looked past Mr. Dahlgren and met Walt’s gaze. There was a deep sadness in his eyes. Then he turned and walked out the door.
Walt stared at Mr. Dahlgren’s back, waiting for him to turn around. When he finally did, Walt asked, plaintively, “Why boss?”
Mr. Dahlgren took a deep breath. “Walt, I had to do that.”
“But why?”
“You probably didn’t know this. I just learned it myself. Turns out Jon is a Jew.”
“No he’s not,” Walt said, quickly. “He’s a good guy. He’s honest and he’s a hard worker.”
Mr. Dahlgren gave Walt a puzzled look. Then, as if a light were coming on, he nodded. “I don’t mean it that way, Walt. When I say he’s a Jew, I mean he’s a member of the Jewish race. I’m not saying he’s a bad person, I’m saying he comes from a group of people that others don’t want to have anything to do with.”
“Because they’re bad people?”
“Well,” Mr. Dahlgren started to reply, then stopped. After a long moment, he made as if to speak, then stopped again. Finally, he said, “It’s complicated. Let’s just leave it at that.”
Mr. Dahlgren turned and headed toward the stairs.
Walt started to make a response, but bit it back. He had never, ever crossed Mr. Dahlgren. Involuntarily, his mouth opened. Before any sound came out, however, he clamped it shut. He cursed himself. Mr. Dahlgren had reached the bottom of the stairs. Walt balled his hand into a fist and punched himself in the leg. He opened his mouth again to speak, and again he froze. Mr. Dahlgren was climbing the stairs. He shut his eyes and squeezed them tight.
“Boss!”
Mr. Dahlgren stopped. Stepping backwards, he descended to a point where, bending down and leaning out, he could look at Walt.
“Boss, you know I always agree with you. And that’s because you’re always right. Every time.”
Mr. Dahlgren looked at him, but said nothing.
“Every time,” Walt repeated. “Except now.”
Speaking rapidly, Walt continued. “I don’t know about this Jewish race thing, but I know this. Jon is not a bad person. He’s not. He’s actually a good guy. A really good guy. He’s good for the
store, too. The customers like him. A lot. And he’s smart. He’s really, really smart. But he doesn’t make you feel bad about that. And, he’s fun to work with. And… and…”
And he had run out of things to say.
Mr. Dahlgren was silent for a few seconds. Then he leaned closer, squinted and asked, “Are you crying Walt?”
Walt rubbed a sleeve across his face. “No boss.”
Mr. Dahlgren tapped the handrail absently. “Well,” he said, after a moment, “like I told you, it’s complicated.” Then he straightened and resumed climbing the stairs.
#
Mary had given this a great deal of thought. Thursday afternoon had been too unplanned, too unstructured. She did not want a repeat of that. She had mapped out a strategy. She knew her lines. She had responses ready, including options, depending on his responses. Victory would be Jon’s invitation to her to accompany him to the dance. Partial victory would be his accepting her invitation to join the group. The latter was a little risqué, she knew, but she didn’t care.
At the front of the hardware store, she took a deep breath. Then she pushed the door open and stepped in.
Walt was sitting behind the counter, but there was no sign of Jon. Fortunately, there was no sign of her father, either. That was a complication she was prepared for, but she was happy to avoid it. She walked confidently up to the counter, a bright smile on her face. As she did so, out of the corners of her eyes, she checked the aisles. Still no sign of Jon.
Walt gave her a desultory wave of his hand. “Hi, Mary.”
Mary looked at Walt carefully. His face was drawn, and his shoulders were hunched. He looked back at her through bloodshot eyes. She had known Walt all her life. He was invariably cheerful and talkative. She had never seen him like this.
“Walt, what’s wrong?”
“I’m not too happy with your father right now.”
“Why? What did he do?”
Walt sighed heavily. “He fired Jon.”
“He what?” She reflexively looked over her shoulder in the direction of the stairway, then back at Walt. “Why?”
“Something about the Jewish race. I don’t get it.” He shrugged. “It’s supposed to be complicated.”
Mary set her jaw. She tilted her head up and looked at the ceiling. “Is he here?”
Walt nodded.
“Well, we’ll see about that.” She whirled, marched to the stairs and climbed to the top, where she paused briefly in front of her father’s office door.
She was tempted to barge in, but she decided against it and knocked instead. She heard the muffled voice of her father calling out. She turned the knob and stepped into the room.
Her father had the telephone receiver to his ear. He motioned Mary to one of the chairs in front of his desk. She sat down heavily, folded her hands and stared at him.
He looked back at her with one eyebrow raised. “Sounds good,” he said to whomever was on the other line. “Listen, Burt, something’s come up here that I need to attend to. Will you be around later this afternoon?” He listened for a moment. “Ok, I’ll call you then.”
He set down the receiver and folded his own hands in front of him on the desk.
“Why did you fire Jon Meyer?” she asked, without preamble.
“It’s good to see you, too, Mary”
She would not be deterred. “Why did you fire Jon Meyer?”
He looked away for a moment, sniffed, then turned back to her. “It’s complicated.”
“Oh, no. That might work on Walt. Actually, I’m not sure it is working on Walt. But it’s not going to do it for me.”
“No, honey, it really is complicated. Let me explain, ok?”
She shrugged her shoulders angrily, but nodded.
“I haven’t told you this, because I didn’t want to trouble you prematurely. I’m planning to run for Congress next fall. And I have some very strong backing. The gentleman I was just on the phone with works for General Wood, the president of the America First Committee. They’re going to sponsor me.
“There are certain people,” he continued, “who are opposed to the AFC, people who want to see this country enter the war. One of the most powerful groups among them is the Jews, and the AFC has drawn a line in the sand. The Jews are on one side, we’re on the other. That’s just a political reality.”
“So what are you saying,” she interjected, “Jon’s the enemy?”
He shook his head. “No, that’s not it at all. It really has nothing to do with Jon personally. He’s sort of a, I don’t know,” he searched for the word, “a casualty, if you will. It’s the group of people he represents. And,” he raised a finger as she was about to interrupt. “And it’s about how others view that group of people. If I thought I could continue to employ Jon and not have it affect my campaign, I would. But I know I can’t. The AFC has done some polling, and a candidate who takes a firm stance against the influence of Jewish groups on the media and the government will likely win next fall. Like it or not, I have to be seen as that candidate.”
“Well, I don’t like it,” she said, angrily. “Come on, Dad, you don’t have to do this.” She pointed to the telephone. “Call them right now and tell them to get someone else.”
He took a deep breath. She could see his entire demeanor change. “This is something I need to do. I’ll never have another opportunity, and I am not going to pass this one up. You’re going to have to accept that.”
Suddenly, she felt very small, very helpless. It was as if she were six years old again. Her mother was gone. She was all alone, except for her father. And her father… what?
Her father didn’t care.
“Now,” he was speaking again, “I’m pretty sure you’re not going to like this either. But you’re going to listen to me, and you’re going to obey me.”
He fixed her with a stern look. “You will not have anything to do with Jon Meyer. I can’t afford a scandal. And, I’m sorry, but if my daughter were dating a Jew, I’d be dead before I started. That’s also a political reality. So you’ll leave that boy alone. And he’ll leave you alone.”
She started to say something, but he cut her off. “That’s not open to discussion. He’s already agreed to it.”
She sat back, stunned.
“Look,” he said, in a placating tone. “There are plenty of other fish in the sea. You’ll find a boy in due time. It just won’t be this one. So,” he continued, “do we have an understanding?”
She had an overwhelming sensation of being lost, as if she had fallen into a deep hole, with smooth, steep sides. The top was a long distance away, represented by a tiny circle of light. She couldn’t climb out. She couldn’t call for help. No one would hear her.
Slowly, she nodded.
#
Jon sat on the edge of his bed, disoriented, adrift. How long he had been sitting there he couldn’t really say. He barely remembered the walk home from the hardware store. His grandmother had not been at the house when he’d arrived, and he was grateful for that. He had not wanted to face her just then. The embarrassment was too great.
What, he asked himself, would he do now? Without the income from the store, he couldn’t contribute to the cost of his overhead. His grandmother would be upset. And it was happening just when she had started to treat him like something other than a deadweight.
He buried his head in his hands.
As bad as that was, it wasn’t even the worst part. Not by a long stretch. No, the worst part—the thing that was causing the ache in his stomach—was losing Mary. And even that thought made him feel foolish. How can you lose something you never had?
He had honestly believed, though, that there was a spark between them. She had given signals that she was interested in him, hadn’t she? Hadn’t she? And, even with the awful things happening at the school, he had held out hope that maybe…
What was he thinking?
But to be fired? Hadn’t he been doing a good job? Mr. Dahlgren had seemed pleased with
his work. What had changed?
Mr. Dahlgren had seen him with Mary at the store. Had she told him about… well, about… the awful things?
Was that what this was about?
Was she laughing at him now?
He raised his head and looked around at the bare walls in his small room. He so desperately missed his home. He and his brother, Sandy, lying on their beds, with the old radio between them, listening to the broadcast of the Dodger game. His mother and father in the kitchen, talking about the day, sharing a laugh.
Suddenly, he had to get out, get away, go anywhere. He couldn’t stay in this place. Without thinking about it, he was up, down the back steps, at the door to the work shed. Then, before he knew it, he was on his bike, trees and fence posts a blur on either side of him, wind and tears stinging his eyes.
6
It was a Thursday, and, though it was still early, the weak afternoon sun was losing its battle with the coming night chill. The trees by the side of the road cast long shadows across Jon’s path. It was a reminder that, as October drew to a close, the days were getting shorter. He would have to start back soon, but he didn’t want to let go of his freedom just yet.
Over the past month, his rides in the countryside had become his refuge, an escape from the claustrophobic existence that awaited him back in town. As he formed that thought, though, he realized, with a little rueful self-deprecation, that it was perhaps a bit of an exaggeration. While his grandmother still maintained her distance, at least the hostility was gone. He had been pleasantly surprised when she had made no mention of the fact that his pay from the hardware store had stopped. She’d just never brought it up. Better still, even without the money, she was not treating him like a complete inconvenience.
School, however, was a different story. From the day word had gotten out that he was Jewish, Jon had been subjected to an insidious isolation. Apparently, members of the basketball team, led by Vernon, had decided Jon needed to be shunned. One day, shortly after the locker incident, he had tried to strike up a conversation with Doug Larson. Doug had been frank and to the point.
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