Slider’s Son

by Rebecca Fjelland Davis

  “Yes, the var is rumbling around da edges of the Third Reich,” Dr. Bronstein said. “Dat Hitler, he gets—vhat dey say—‘too big for his britches.’”

  They shook hands all around, and all eight of them squeezed into Dr. Bronstein’s roadster. Dr. Bronstein bowed slightly when he shook Shirley’s hand. Her face turned bright red.

  Before they pulled out, Dr. Bronstein rolled his window down and looked at Grant. “I’m glad you took my advice. I’m glad to see a young man who does not just hope. You do.” He leaned over and reached into his car’s glove box. “I saved dis for you.” He extended a copy of Time magazine with Bob Feller’s photograph on the cover.

  Grant stared. “Holy mackerel!”

  “Take it, young man. Now I know I vill someday come and see you play in da big league like dis Bob Feller.”

  “Thank you!”

  “I vish you all of da luck.”

  Slider squeezed Grant’s shoulder. Grant hugged the magazine to his chest. They stood and waved as Dr. Bronstein’s roadster pulled onto the road back to Grand Forks.

  Thirty-Four

  What Stinks Back Here?

  Little Joe wore long sleeves to the next baseball pick-up game even though it was hot.

  Between innings, Grant asked, “Bruises? Your dad hit you?”

  “Not much. I told him why I left. That I was so mad at him for taking your honey and for wrecking your elbow, I thought I’d kill him if I stayed. So I left.

  “He got really mad then, and grabbed me and shook me, and said you only got what you deserved and you were a no-good son-of-a-buck who got by with everything ’cause your dad’s the sheriff, and I told him if he kept it up, I’d leave again and never come back ’cause you’re my friend. Then my mom stepped in and he actually calmed down. He hadn’t had so much to drink as sometimes, I guess.”

  “I’m glad you’re back. I can’t pitch right to anybody else like to you.”

  Little Joe nodded. “I figured you might need me, especially if your arm got tired. And ’cause it was my dad, I owed it to ya.”

  “Joe! You don’t owe me nothin’! That’s your dad, that’s not you. But I’m sure glad you showed up. I have never, ever been so glad to see somebody in my whole life.”

  Joe grinned. “We did good, didn’t we?”

  “Sure did. A triple play.” He gave Little Joe a light smack on the shoulder. “Who even heard of a triple play? Now the majors have got to recruit us together.”

  The next weeks were a routine of chores at home early in the morning, then pick-up ball until dinnertime at noon, and more innings if their parents allowed in the early afternoon. They had one Junior League game a week against neighboring towns’ boys’ teams. Grant’s arm cooperated most of the time. They only lost one game until July.

  At the end of their game against Lakota, which they only won 5 to 4, Little Joe said, “I won’t be here all next week. Sorry.”

  “Where you goin’?” Orland asked.

  “To Reservation Lake. To visit Mama’s relatives. Up at Fort Berthold Reservation. Like we always do in July.”

  “Lucky dog. You’ll get to swim every day.”

  The day after the Fourth of July, a sweltering hot morning, the boys trickled onto the ball field for a pick-up game.

  When Sammy crouched into catcher’s position behind home plate, he hollered, “What stinks back here?”

  And that was the day they found Big Joe, dead in the Thorsons’ cellar.

  Part Three

  Thirty-Five

  A Murderer Among Us

  Grant waited for his dad, Mr. Byrne the undertaker, and Will to come back with help to haul Big Joe’s black and maggoty mess of a body out of the cellar. The image of the swollen, purple-and-black dead body crumpled at the bottom of the stairs floated in front of his eyes, no matter where he looked.

  Grant’s stomach kept churning, even when it was empty, but it was full of horror and some other dreadful feeling he didn’t want. Triumph, maybe, like he was finally rid of the man who had done him so much damage? Glee, Grant thought, like he wanted to scream, He only got what he deserved! But it was all too horrible to let himself feel any relief, much less glee. In fact, it felt as if the hatred inside himself was part of the reason Big Joe lay crumpled, murdered and rotting at the bottom of the cellar steps.

  Little Joe wouldn’t have to hide black eyes anymore, and beautiful Mrs. Thorson wouldn’t have to hide bruises when Big Joe had punched her in the face, because he’d never get to hit her again. Nobody would have to get out of the way of Big Joe’s drunken rages. Grant would never have to worry about Big Joe skulking after him around town.

  It didn’t feel like much of a relief.

  Of all the people who hated Big Joe, who had threatened to kill him, who would actually go through with it and shove him down the cellar? And take time and spend the money to put new linoleum in the Thorsons’ kitchen?

  Could hate kill somebody? Could all the collective hate of everybody who had ever said they wanted Big Joe dead actually rise up and kill him and throw him in the cellar to let the maggots eat him?

  When Slider, Will, and Mr. Byrne came back, along with Askil Snortland and Lawrence Messner to help, Grant walked home, lost in thought.

  Thirty-Six

  Empty

  Slider finally came home, late in the afternoon. Grant was outside, sweeping the porch as Mamie had asked.

  “After supper,” Slider said, “I’ve got to drive up to Reservation Lake to get the rest of the Thorsons.”

  “Any idea who did it?”

  Slider ruffled Grant’s hair and didn’t answer. He went inside to talk to Mamie.

  Grant’s stomach wouldn’t unknot itself.

  After they finished eating, Grant sat at the table, playing with his fork, while Shirley started clearing the table. “Some people get out of all the work,” she said.

  “What’re you thinking about, son?” Slider asked.

  “I thought I’d be relieved if Big Joe died. Dad, I wanted him . . . to die. Criminy, Dad, I wanted to kill him. I hated him. I mean, I really hated him. For what he did to Little Joe and the girls, and to Mrs. Thorson, and for what he did to me, wrecking my elbow, and for never leaving me alone. You even threatened to kill him! When he hit Frank, and in the bar that time. I heard you more than once.”

  Mamie shot them each a dark look, but said nothing.

  “You’re right.” Slider took a drink of his coffee. “I absolutely did.”

  Grant got up and carried the rest of the plates to the drainboard for Shirley. “I thought it would make me feel safer—or better—if Big Joe was out of the picture. I wanted him dead. But it only makes everything worse. And scarier. It’s like whatever was wrong just got worse. Way worse.” He sat back down at the table.

  Shirley piped up, “But this way, it’ll be over.”

  Grant and his mom and dad all whipped their heads to stare at Shirley.

  “When the trial for whoever murdered him is over. Big Bad Joe will be dead and gone and will never bother you again.” She turned and faced them, dishrag in hand, dripping soapy water on the floor. “Well,” she said, “He was a big, mean man.”

  “How many times did you meet Big Joe, Shirley?” Mamie asked.

  Grant caught Shirley’s eye, and gave his head a tiny shake, telling her keep quiet about going to the bar together when Mamie was gone.

  Shirley saw that, and she was smart. She just shrugged. “Well, just what he did to Grant. And other stuff I’ve heard.”

  Harley said, “I know! We did when you were gone—” Grant kicked him under the table. “Ouch! Why’d you kick me?”

  Grant glared at Harley, but Harley prattled on anyway, “Well, we did. I stood on top of him to play bill-yards.”

  “What did you say?” Mamie set her coffee cup in its saucer and turned to Grant and Slider. “What was that?”

  Shirley jumped in to try to save the day, “Well, everybody knows Big Joe. When I did see him, he was alwa
ys drunk. And mean. And I think everybody’s glad he’s dead.”

  “Shirley,” Mamie started, “That’s not—”

  “I know, Mother. That’s not proper. That’s not a Christian attitude. That’s not the way we should think. But that’s what everybody’s thinking, what everybody thought should happen, isn’t it? That we’d be better off if Big Joe was dead? Just not that way. Just not being murdered. What, you think? ’Cause I’m a girl, you think I don’t have ears? You think I don’t have a brain or feel what’s going on? Nobody’s sorry Big Joe’s dead. They’re just sorry he got murdered so somebody did it and somebody has to go to trial for it. Who are you all kidding?” And Shirley threw the dishtowel on the drainboard and turned and ran upstairs.

  “Well, I’ll be dad-burned,” Slider said.

  “I’ll go talk to her,” Mamie said.

  “Don’t.” Slider said. He put his hand on Mamie’s arm. “Girl’s got a brilliant mind in that pretty head, and if she took in all that’s been going on around her, it’s no fault of her own. Can’t talk her out of stating the truth. Let her be. Let her go read and have an evening off from dishes for once.” He stood and picked up the dishtowel. “I’ll take up the slack before I head out.”

  “While you do,” Mamie said, “explain to me what Harley was talking about. Playing billiards? Standing on Big Joe?” She went to the sink and plunged her hands into the dishwater. “Start talking.”

  So Slider explained, and Mamie’s jaw clenched, and her face turned white around the mouth and her nostrils, the way it did when she was extra mad.

  “It was my fault,” Grant said. “We wanted to do something instead of just sitting home when you left to go see Grandma.”

  “I can’t believe—” and she dried her hands, put them on her hips. “The man is dead. I’m not saying that he wasn’t mean, and maybe he even deserved it, but I can’t believe you let little Harley stand on that man who was passed out drunk on the floor. That’s—that’s—that’s degrading and it’s low-down behavior.”

  Grant couldn’t help but think of his grandmother, and he wondered if maybe his mother hated low-down, degrading behavior so much because of her.

  “But I could see!” Harley piped up. “I couldn’t see the table before. Grant said I couldn’t play ’cause I couldn’t see. But, Mama, on top of Big Joe, I could see.”

  “See?” Slider couldn’t help a grin creeping over his face. “See, Mamie? Nobody can say Big Joe was good for nothin’.”

  And at that, even Mamie couldn’t help a grin tugging up the corners of her mouth. She shook her head and turned back to the dishwater and muttered, “Disrespectful. You’re scoundrels. The whole pack of you.”

  And when the boys started laughing, Mamie couldn’t help but joining them.

  “Still,” she said, getting her laughter under control, “disrespectful.”

  Slider ran the dishtowel around a plate. “And as for what you said,” and he looked at Grant, “I know what you mean. Seems like Big Joe’s dying would solve half the town’s problems, but it doesn’t, does it? Just makes it worse. A murder is way worse. Two wrongs never make a right. Even when something is justified, doesn’t mean it feels good or is the right thing.”

  Grant got up and pulled another, clean dishtowel out of the sideboard. He better help, too, he guessed.

  Fifteen minutes later, Grant watched Slider get in the big black Plymouth, drive up Church Road, Main Street, turn west, and disappear. Grant felt as empty inside as the rolling wheat fields that bordered Larkin on the south and the glass-flat plains to the west.

  Thirty-Seven

  Investigation

  The next morning, Grant didn’t feel like playing ball, for the first time in his life that he could remember. “When do you think Dad will be home?” he asked Mamie.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Instead of going outside, Grant sat down at the kitchen table with his book, Halliburton’s Glorious Adventure, Racehorse Romney’s recommendation for him during the last week of school. He finally got it from the public library. He needed to see something in his brain besides Big Joe’s crumpled, maggoty body. The story was about following in Odysseus’s footsteps, and lots of people sure died in the Odyssey.

  Mamie brought him a glass of iced tea with a mint leaf in it.

  He got lost in the pages on a boat in the Aegean Sea when a heavy knock sounded on the front door. He jumped up, jerked back from Greece to Larkin. His mom, rolling out piecrust at the kitchen counter, frowned at him.

  Grant went to open the door.

  A man in a black suit with a badge on the lapel stood on the step.

  Grant held the door. “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for . . .” The man glanced at a notebook. “For one Grant O’Grady.”

  Grant’s heart hammered. He’d always hoped he’d get an official knock on the door when a scout for the Cleveland Indians or the Chicago White Sox or maybe even the Washington Senators came looking for him. But this didn’t quite look like a scout for the Cleveland Indians. “Yes?” His voice quavered a bit.

  “Are you Grant O’Grady?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m Oliver Steadwell. From the FBI. I need to ask you to come with me.”

  “The . . . FBI? . . . What? Why?”

  Grant felt his mother behind him, her hand on his shoulder. “What’s this about?” Mamie asked. “And who did you say you are? Show me some identification. The boy’s only thirteen. Who do you think—”

  “Calm down, ma’am. This isn’t anything to get in a tizzy about. We came here to investigate the murder of Joseph Thorson.”

  “My husband’s conducting that investigation. I think you’re out of your jurisdiction, and it has nothing to do with my son.”

  “Your husband would be County Sheriff Alfred O’Grady?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “We were called since an Indian family was involved. And we have eyewitnesses who say Sheriff O’Grady threatened to kill Joe Thorson. We have to follow up on every possible lead. Since your husband is a suspect, ma’am, he’s been removed from the case.”

  “That’s . . . that’s preposterous! He found the body! If Alfred killed Joe, believe me, he would have done it in plain daylight, and wouldn’t have anything to hide. Yes, he threatened to kill him, but it was just to keep the drunken sod in line!”

  “Ma’am, I’m going to ask you to calm down. We understand your concern, and I’m sure we’ll clear this up in no time, but until then, we have to follow every possible lead. And that means we need to ask your son here some questions. And, like it or not, the FBI has taken over the investigation. Grant, I’d like you to come with me.”

  “Not until his father gets back!”

  “It’s okay, Mom. I don’t have anything to hide. Neither does Dad. I can answer questions.” He looked up at her, and her flashing eyes made him glad he wasn’t Oliver Steadwell. Shirley and Harley stood in the doorway to the kitchen, big-eyed.

  Grant’s legs shook as he followed Oliver Steadwell down the steps and into the big, black, sleek car parked in the street. He saw Grandma Beadlie’s head leaning out her door to watch. He wondered what she thought, if maybe she even thought he was being arrested. So much for being “a good one.”

  “First question,” Oliver Steadwell said, as he guided the car up the street. “Where’s your dad? We need to find him.”

  “My dad didn’t kill Big Joe. He went to get Mrs. Thorson and Little Joe and Alice and Emma from Reservation Lake.”

  “You absolutely sure of that, son?”

  Grant swallowed, hard, thinking of how he felt when his dad set Big Joe on the tire fire at Grumpy’s and burned Big Joe’s hind end and then slapped his face, remembering how he had felt horrified and scared and proud all at once. He swallowed again. “I’m sure,” he said, but he didn’t sound convincing, even to himself.

  “He’s been heard to threaten Joe Thorson. Heard by several people. More than one occasion.”


  “I know. Me included. I heard him threaten Big Joe.”

  “So how can you be so sure?”

  “You don’t know my dad,” Grant said. “My dad tells the truth. My friends know you can’t lie to Slider ’cause he’ll never lie to you. It’s just—it’s just the way he is. If somebody needed killing, Slider would do it right in front of everybody and not hide a thing. I’m serious.”

  “That’s what your mother said.”

  “That’s ’cause we know Slider and you don’t.”

  “But he still threatened Joe Thorson’s life.”

  “My dad threatened to kill Joe Thorson, yeah, because he wanted him to quit beating up his wife and his kids. He was trying to scare him into straightening up.”

  Steadwell studied Grant’s face and nodded ever so slightly. “Is that so.”

  “Yes.” Grant stared back at him. “It is.”

  “Why does everybody call him Slider?”

  Grant explained about his dad’s pitching and added, “And I pitch, too.”

  Steadwell listened, but didn’t respond. He pulled up to the courthouse, stopped, and opened the driver’s side car door. “Let’s go inside.”

  Grant followed Oliver Steadwell up the steps. A stone was gathering in Grant’s stomach again. It wasn’t right to be here without his dad. He didn’t like being the one brought to the courthouse. He followed Steadwell down the hall. Right into his dad’s office.

  “What are you doing in here? This is my dad’s office,” Grant said.

  Steadwell smiled. “He’s not here, is he?”

  Grant didn’t like him or his smile. At all.

  “Your father won’t need his office for the time being. He’s been . . . temporarily removed from office pending investigation.”

  Grant stared at Steadwell. “You can’t do that.”

  “I’m the FBI. Yes, I can. And your dad is under investigation. Have a seat.”

  Grant lowered himself onto the edge of the wooden chair across from Slider’s chair. The all-too-familiar stone settled into his gut with him, bigger than it had ever been. And this time, it had almost nothing to do with Big Joe. Except that Big Joe was at the center of all of it, and he had been since New Year’s Eve. But now, instead of shriveling up and blowing away, the hate for Big Joe had sort of transformed, and now, Grant was starting to hate this Steadwell guy besides.