Slider’s Son

by Rebecca Fjelland Davis

  A low rumble of guffaws started along the bar and dominoed into full-blown laughter from every single man in the tavern. Askil Snortland lifted his Hamm’s beer to Grant then turned back to the bar.

  Slider nodded and moved back to the bar, where his vodka sour sat waiting. There were no empty stools beside Slider’s, and he didn’t motion Grant to join him. He took a tiny sip of the drink and set it back down. He turned back to face Grant. Everybody else pretended to be looking elsewhere, but Grant knew they were all listening to beat the band, and he could see that at least Askil Snortland and Lawrence Messner were trying hard to hide grins.

  “So you can’t say no to a dare, eh?”

  “Guess I couldn’t tonight, sir.”

  “What makes this different than any other night?”

  “I don’t know. I just wanted to prove to Frank that I could shoot when he said I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. He said I could aim a baseball but not a gun, and I . . .” Grant’s excuses died on his lips. Everything sounded perfectly lame-brained.

  Slider nodded. Grant could almost see the wheels turning inside Slider’s head.

  “I reckon . . .” Slider took another sip. “I reckon the thing to do is to pay Reverend Tollefson for the expense of replacing a string of Christmas lights. And for you and Frank to be the ones to climb up there and take the wrecked lights down for him.”

  “Yes, sir,” Grant took his wooly cap off. He felt his ears getting hot. He had no idea where he’d get money to pay for a string of Christmas lights, but this might not be as bad as it could be. And it wouldn’t be just him. Frank would have to pay, too.

  Big Joe stirred, propped himself up on one arm, and then fell flat again.

  “I figured you were old enough to be responsible with a rifle. I guess I misjudged that. That gun’ll have to be off limits until you pay for the lights. Sound fair?”

  Grant looked down. His eyes stung. No rifle. Thanks to listening to lunatic, stuffinghead Frank. And son-of-a-buck Big Joe, for sticking his nose everywhere it didn’t belong and never where it did belong, like taking care of his own family. “Yes, sir. I—I’m sorry I did such a stupid thing.”

  Slider nodded. “You run on home now.”

  “Root beer? For tellin’ the truth? You gotta give him that, Slider,” Grumpy said.

  Grant froze, half hopeful, and he looked at Grumpy with gratitude.

  “No. No root beer tonight. You run on home, son.”

  “Yes, sir.” And he slipped out the door as quietly as he had come. As he closed it, he swore he heard Grumpy say, “That boy is a chip off the old block. You’d a done the same thing at that age and you know it, Slider.”

  Sixteen

  Gotta Pay

  On the way to the train, Grant told Frank that they had to pay for the Christmas lights. And take down the broken ones.

  “Gosh darn. Why can’t that big drunk mind his own beeswax?” Frank said.

  “Ya can’t blame Big Joe for this, Frank. We did it.”

  “He didn’t have to go tattling. Like some little kid. If he’d a minded his own beeswax, we’d a gotten away with it.”

  Grant didn’t answer.

  “Well, we would have. You wouldn’t tell.” Grant could feel Frank’s eyes on him. “Would you? Only a fool would go home and say ‘Golly, Dad, guess what I did wrong tonight.’”

  Grant scuffed along the snow. He couldn’t put a finger on it. “Mom and Dad both already knew.” He looked at Frank. “If they hadn’t, I probably wouldn’t a gone home and said, ‘Guess what I did,’ but Slider would have figured it out, and he woulda asked. Like he’s got a sixth sense or something.”

  “And you coulda just said you know nothin’ about it. Right?”

  Grant didn’t answer.

  “What, you scared to lie to your old man? Slider that scary?”

  “Not scared, Frank. You just don’t lie to Slider. I think it’s ’cause you can bank on him not lying to you.”

  Frank whistled. “You O’Gradys. You’re a strange bunch.”

  They turned along the railroad tracks.

  The next day, pulling their sleds home, Frank came up behind Grant and Little Joe, who were walking side by side, straining with their sleds. “So, Mr. Goody Two Shoes,” Frank said. “How you gonna get the money to pay for the Christmas lights?”

  “I asked Sims if he needed some help after school. Every day before the coal train comes. He said yes. So I can earn it that way.”

  “My dad’ll give me the money,” Frank said, sticking his hands in his pockets. “But I gotta climb the steeple myself. My dad said maybe I’d learn about climbing dangerous places.” He grinned at Grant.

  Seventeen

  December 30, Replacing the Lights

  The afternoon before New Year’s Eve, the temperature rose to thawing, so the boys set up Reverend Tollefson’s ladder against the one-story white Lutheran church roof. They took one of Slider’s ropes and borrowed Grumpy’s rope, and clambered up the slippery shingles on the church roof to take down the splintery red glass and the electric wires holding them together.

  They threw the ropes around the steeple twice, the way Slider had told them, and then looped one end around each of their waists. Just in case they slipped. This roof was steeper than the water tower roof, but at least it wasn’t steel.

  Grant straddled the point of the roof and looked over the town. Lots of kids skated in the park, in spite of the thin film of water that had thawed on top of the ice. A spray of water and shaved ice squirted up behind each skate blade. Two figures raced at top speed around the outside of the rink. Grant smiled when he realized the one winning was Little Joe. He was a natural on the ice. And he had told Grant that he had gone skating at least a little bit every single day. No wonder he was flying along, winning a race.

  Looking over at the ice rink was okay, but looking straight down made his palms sweat, so he pulled the claw hammer out of his belt loop and concentrated on pulling nails from the steeple. He worked hard, and he had almost finished one side of the four-sided steeple when he heard feet on the ladder below him.

  His palms inside his gloves started sweating the second he looked down. Little Joe was climbing up, his skates hanging around his neck by their straps.

  “Joe! What do you think you’re doin’?” Grant called down.

  Frank leaned over from where he had tied himself securely to the steeple’s other side.

  “You batty or what?”

  Little Joe grinned up at them while he climbed. “You’re the one that’s got bats in the belfry, Frank. What in tarnation were you thinking in the first place? You have more hair-brained schemes than half the county.”

  “Well, you got that right,” Grant said. “And we’re in the belfry, that’s for sure.”

  The boys laughed.

  “And you,” Frank said, “looks like you’re aimin’ to be one of the bats right with us.”

  Little Joe climbed higher. When he got to the slanting shingled roof, Grant held his breath until Little Joe reached the peak and straddled it, too. The knees and seat of his pants were a little soggy, probably from a few falls on the skating rink.

  “I figured that my dad half got you into this job, since he told on you, so least I could do was come help or be moral support.”

  “You didn’t have to,” Grant said, but he couldn’t help grinning.

  “Ain’t your fault your dad’s a horse’s hind end,” Frank said.

  “You been huntin’ anymore?” Little Joe asked Grant.

  “Nope. Slider said my gun’s off limits ’til I pay for these lights,” Grant said, pulling the last nail on his side, and shimmying around to the downward side, making sure the rope around his waist was secure.

  Frank yanked at a tough nail that wouldn’t budge. “Gosh darn it,” he said, and ripped harder. It flew out and Frank lost his balance, flailing his arm, and slid down the roof. His hammer went shooting out into space over the churchyard. Grant’s heart lurched just like
it had when Frank went over the edge of the water tower. Frank slid, grabbing at the roof, but this time the rope around his waist held him, and he stopped three feet from where he started. The other end of the rope, around Grant’s waist, tightened but it held. The hammer landed below with a soft thunk in the snow. Frank got his balance and climbed back up to the peak, his face white. “Whew.”

  “Frank, I think you should avoid high places,” Little Joe said. “They don’t agree with you.”

  “I think we’re all bats in this belfry, is what I think,” Grant said. The boys started to laugh so hard, Grant feared losing his balance, even straddling the roof. His palms were slick with the height-fear sweat. “Let’s finish and get the heck down.”

  “I’ll get your hammer for you,” Little Joe said and scooted down the shingles, nimble as a squirrel.

  When he neared the bottom of the ladder, he jumped into a snowdrift, and scampered around the far end of the church building.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” The voice drifted up to Grant and Frank, who looked at each other. Big Joe.

  “That big, drunk son-of-a-gun is everywhere,” Frank whispered.

  They checked their rope knots and crawled along the roof peak to look down.

  Big Joe stood with his foot trapping Frank’s hammer in the snow.

  “Frank dropped his hammer. I’m gettin’ it for him is all,” Little Joe said.

  “The reverend hasn’t got no beef with you,” Big Joe said. “You don’t have to stick your neck out for those two ruffians. You’re a good boy. You didn’t shoot no lights out or set no fire to the steeple. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong. Let ’em get their own hammer. Come on home now, you hear? Git out of them wet clothes before you catch your death.”

  Little Joe looked up at his dad, facing him squarely. “’Cause they’re my friends, Dad, and I’m just gettin’ the hammer. ’Cause it fell.”

  “And I’m your papa, and I’m tellin’ you to git on home and change them wet clothes.”

  “Since when did you care if I caught my death of cold? You don’t even care enough to not drink up your little girls’ Christmas present money. After you promised.”

  Grant held his breath. He didn’t know Little Joe ever stood up to his dad like this.

  Big Joe’s face turned brighter red than when he was drunk. He pulled back a fist.

  “Go ahead!” Little Joe cried. “Hit me! Hit me here in the church yard where everybody can see it. Grant! Frank! You watchin’?”

  Big Joe’s glance shot upward to see Grant and Frank’s heads poking over the edge of the church roof. He smacked his fist into his other hand like he would with a baseball mitt. He jerked his head toward the street. “Git home now. They ain’t real friends to no half-breed. They’re jist using you like a servant to fetch their hammer for ’em. Git. Ya hear?”

  Grant wanted to jump off the roof and throttle Big Joe. He yelled, “We are so friends. Little Joe’s my best friend!”

  Big Joe looked up again. “You good-for-nothin’ little losers. Remember when I taught you acrobatics? You’re ungrateful little sons-of—” That was all Grant could hear because Big Joe bent over and picked up the hammer.

  Little Joe backed up, but didn’t leave. “Dad. Just let me take ’em the hammer. Then I’ll go home. It fell on accident.”

  Big Joe straightened up. “I said, you git on home.” He tossed the hammer and caught it. “Here’s your hammer!” And he tossed it higher and caught it again. “Here ya go!” he said and hurled the hammer up toward the roof. Grant felt it coming straight at them. He stuck out a hand to keep the hammer from hitting him in the head. Frank ducked and covered his head with his hands.

  The hammer hit Grant claw first, square in the elbow. “Oh!” The pain shot up and down his arm. “Oh, criminy!” It hurt so bad, Grant fell back against the roof. The hammer glanced off and bounced down the roof, back into the snow below.

  Grant grabbed his elbow, and tears stung his eyes. Hurt like a son-of-a-gun. Felt smashed, ripped apart, broken. He lay back against the roof, holding it. When he lifted his left hand, his mitten was bright red. He moved his right arm enough to see the elbow of his coat, ripped, with blood already soaking through his coat.

  His pitching elbow.

  Eighteen

  Elbow Grease

  Grant sat in Doctor Connor’s office, his legs dangling from the table, holding his arm, staring alternately at the green walls and the black-and-white checkered tile floor, waiting for the doctor to say something after he had a good look at the elbow.

  Finally, the doctor stood before Grant, arms crossed. “I think we need to get you to Grand Forks for an X-ray. I wouldn’t say that to everybody with this injury. I’d just cast the elbow. But I reckon being able to pitch again is pretty important here. The elbow bone is chipped—broken, for sure, and at least one tendon has been partially cut. I don’t want to be responsible for repairing this.” Dr. Connor looked at Slider. “Can you get him to Grand Forks? They can do an X-ray, and a surgeon will fix up the tendon better than I could do. I can’t promise anything. I’d like to see Grant pitching again this summer, and I’m not sure I can fix it up good enough so he can.”

  He waited for Slider to shrug and nod yes.

  “And, Slider?” Dr. Connor said. “Give him whiskey for the ride.”

  So Grant and his Dad spent New Year’s in the Grand Forks Hospital. A tall, gentle-faced man leaned over him and said with a thick accent, “I am Dr. Bronstein. I’m going to fix up dis arm. Goot as new.”

  The next hours were a hazy blur of white nurses’ uniforms and nurses’ caps, antiseptic smell, lying in a creaky bed with iron springs. Not being able to hold his eyes open, dreaming about being trapped in a house with no windows or doors with Big Joe chasing him and grabbing him by the elbow. Big Joe was crushing his elbow and wouldn’t let go. “No!” Grant woke up to the sound of his own yell. He had yelled himself awake. His arm felt like in the dream, but he was relieved that no Big Joe was squeezing it. It was suspended toward the ceiling, hanging above Grant, weightless but painful. A nurse appeared out of the dark, bent over him, and held out a pill and a cup of water, saying, “This will help you get back to sleep.”

  “Why is my arm up here?”

  “It’s in traction. To hold it in place, to keep you from moving it or putting pressure on it.” Grant swallowed the horse pill medicine, with a gulp of water that was barely enough to wash the pill down, and drifted back into darkness.

  Grant woke without any more dreams that he remembered. He was happy to open his eyes and find Slider sitting beside his bed, reading the newspaper.

  “Morning, son,” Slider said. “How’s it feeling?”

  “Hurts. But better than it was, I guess.”

  “I called your mother last night. She called Will and told him Big Joe had assaulted you with a hammer, and that Will should arrest him.” Slider shook his head.

  “Well, he did. Did Will arrest him?”

  “Can’t prove assault. Big Joe said he was just helping. Said Frank dropped his hammer and he was just helping out. Thought you’d catch it. Said it was a complete accident.”

  “Dad! He threw it hard! No way I could have caught it.”

  Slider nodded. “We know that, and deep down, Joe does too, but Frank did drop the hammer, and Big Joe was returning the hammer.”

  Grant blinked, his eyes burning. “Not fair. He gets off scot-free. And I got this.”

  “I know, son. Not fair at all. But Big Joe didn’t get off scot-free. Will threw him in jail for public drunkenness.”

  When Dr. Bronstein came, he said they had to wait for the swelling to go down so he could put a plaster cast on his arm. Until then, Grant would be in traction. Dr. Bronstein didn’t say how long that would be.

  In the meantime, the slightest movement shot bolts of pain past up Grant’s shoulder and down through his fingers, so he tried hard not to move his arm at all.

  Slider handed sections of the newspaper t
o Grant as he finished with them. Grant found it hard to read the newspaper one-handed, but he managed by propping it against the lump of arm bandages suspended above him, and turned pages with his left hand.

  “Dad, how am I gonna be able to go to school and do my work? Maybe I’ll have to miss the whole spring.”

  Slider set his paper down in his lap. “You’ll manage, son. If you can’t figure out how to do schoolwork with one arm, you sure as shootin’ can’t pitch this spring.”

  Grant sighed and started reading the front page. “What do you know about this Hitler guy in the news in Germany, Dad? Miss Romney talked about him, too. It says here he’s trying to put stores out of business if Jews own them. Why would he do that? Why would it matter if somebody’s Jewish?”

  “He gives a rousing speech. And the German ‘New’ Reich sure loves him.”

  “But what’s wrong with Jews, Dad?”

  “Son, there’s nothing wrong with Jews. There’s something wrong with a man who thinks other men aren’t as good as him because of where they come from or who they are. The Irish got a bad deal for a while in this country, too.”

  “But it sounds in this article like Hitler would like to get all the Jews out of Germany. Why would somebody do that?”

  “He could have picked Irish, you know that son? For some reason, the führer seems to hate Jews. Seems to think his Aryan nation is the only true people of God, not the Jews. As he says, they aren’t even Christian. And he seems to think he should be in charge of Europe.”

  “What’s the Aryan nation?”

  “His people—what he calls a master race—blond, blue-eyed Germans, mostly.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “I know it’s crazy. At first, I thought maybe Adolf Hitler wasn’t so bad. And he signed an anti-communist pact with Japan in November. The whole country thought that meant Hitler was a good man because he would help stop communism. But I think he might be a lunatic. Do you remember the Olympics in the news last summer?”