I couldn’t believe what my dad was telling me. All this time and he hadn’t said a thing. “You could have saved McKenzie’s store!”
“How?” Dad countered. “Officer Russo went around telling people it was a schoolboy prank. It didn’t do any good. What would have happened to me if I had actually admitted owning that newspaper? Who would have supported you and Mom and your sisters if I had lost my job?”
I didn’t answer.
“Oh, I shouldn’t have told you,” he said almost to himself. His hands were still shaking as he started drying the glasses. “But I couldn’t let you think I didn’t care!”
My thoughts were spinning. I’d always believed communists were evil, bad people. And my father had associated with them! What did that make him? And did he just say he cared about me after all?
“Tommy, you can’t tell anyone about this. Look at what happened to Mr. McKenzie, and he didn’t even do anything!”
“But it’s not fair that Mr. McKenzie is suffering because of you.”
“No, it’s not,” Dad agreed. “And if you hadn’t put that paper in his store, this would never have happened.”
I picked up one of the clean dry glasses and threw it to the floor. It shattered into a million pieces.
“Just like your mom.” He shook his head. “Not a word to anyone!” Dad threw down his dish towel and stormed out of the room.
I was left in the kitchen alone. I knew I had to clean up the mess before Mom came in, but every shard of glass I picked up made me feel even worse. I was like my mom. I had a bad temper. I threw things when I got angry.
And worst of all, my father was the communist.
34
THE SEAMSTRESS
Sunday after church, I told Mrs. Glazov I wasn’t feeling well and went to the movies. It was mid-January and I hadn’t been to the Tivoli since I’d started giving her reading lessons. Usually I went with Eddie, but he still wasn’t talking to me. I wanted to lose myself in a good film and forget all my problems for a little while.
The movie that day was called Red Planet Mars. It was about two American scientists, a husband and a wife, who started receiving radio messages from Mars. “The whole world is scared,” said the wife. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
She was talking about the Soviets who may—or may not—have been faking the radio messages in an attempt to cause chaos in the American economy. But I could relate. I was scared too. What if someone found out about my dad? Would someone throw a brick through our front window? Draw a hammer and sickle on our car? Would Dad lose his job at Western Electric? My dad wasn’t going to take over the world or redistribute our property or even stop going to church. He wasn’t a bad person. Sure, he sometimes made me mad, but I loved him. Oh, why had he gone to that stupid meeting?!
“We’ve lived on the edge of a volcano all our lives,” the scientist in the movie continued. “One day it has to boil over.”
She could have been describing my life. Sometimes, I felt like a big explosion was coming, but no one would believe me and I had no way to stop it. I left the theater more exhausted than when I had arrived.
My thoughts were still running in circles on Monday morning when I woke up. It was snowing, a heavy, wet snow that would make delivering the papers even harder, but I didn’t care. It matched my mood.
I gobbled down my breakfast as Boots paced the kitchen, impatient to get outside and run. When it was time to go, I realized I’d left my snow boots outside on the back porch. Melting snow had run off the roof and now my boots were sopping wet. Great.
I ran back to my room to pull on my cowboy boots instead. There was something sharp in one of them. It was the silver sheriff’s star from Mary Lou. I put it in my pocket.
Outside, it was still snowing. I placed a big tarp over the papers on the sled, but I knew some of them were still going to get wet. I hoped no one would complain.
The streets were deserted. This was a morning for curling up in bed or drinking a cup of hot chocolate and watching the snow fall from the kitchen window. The only sign of life was at Ma and Pa’s house. They were up early, as usual, and Ma invited me in for some cocoa, but I said, “No, thank you.” I didn’t want to talk to anyone today. I felt so ashamed. As if Son of Communist was branded on my forehead.
Soon as Boots and I got back on the road, we spotted a rooster there, shivering, like he’d gotten out of his coop and couldn’t find his way home. Great. Now I’d have to go back to tell Ma and Pa and—
By my side, Boots growled.
“No,” I yelled, but it was too late.
Boots tore off after the rooster. The bird dashed down the road, crowing like it was already sunrise. I ran after them both. If Boots killed that bird, I’d have to pay Ma and Pa back. ’Course it was probably going to die anyway because of the cold. It was snowing even harder now, and my hat fell off in the wind. I stopped to pick it up and didn’t even notice when a car turned the corner and headed straight for me.
At the last minute, it honked. I glanced up, and jumped out of the way. There was a loud thump as I fell into the snowbank on the side of the road.
The car kept going, the driver not even stopping to see if I was hurt. I’d pulled the sled over when I jumped and the papers were scattered all over the road. I was sore and bruised, but nothing hurt too badly. The papers were ruined. By the time I gathered them all up, I’d probably be late for school. I was cursing my luck when I heard a small whimper.
There was a small, hairy lump lying in the middle of the road.
Boots! The car had hit him, not the sled or me. That was the thump I’d heard. The stupid rooster was still running around in circles, like he’d had his head cut off.
“Boots,” I called. “Are you okay?”
He tried to pick up his head but couldn’t. Ice and snow clung to his dark fur. His tail gave the tiniest flicker of a wag.
I went closer. There was a huge red gash from one end of his belly to the other.
He whimpered again.
I was pretty sure I could see his guts hanging out.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said, knowing I was lying. I pulled the sled upright and threw the rest of the papers off, leaving just one layer of dry ones. Then I ran back to Boots and ever so carefully picked him up and laid him gently on the sled.
“It’s okay, boy,” I said again.
He didn’t even try to wag his tail this time. I pulled the tarp over him and tried to figure out what to do. I couldn’t go home. With all the medical bills, I knew Mom and Dad had no money for a vet. Think, Tommy, think, I said to myself. Boots needed stitches. I knew how to sew a button on, or hem a pant leg if it came undone, but a dog? My dog? There was no way. Boots was going to die and . . .
Then I remembered Mrs. Scully. She was a seamstress. Surely she’d be able to help.
I didn’t allow myself to think about it any more, just ran to her house pulling the sled behind me as gently as possible. It had almost stopped snowing by the time I reached her place. I scooped Boots up in my arms and carried him up the porch steps. He was trembling as I banged on the door.
It seemed like forever before Mrs. Scully came out in her bathrobe. Her hair was a mess and there wasn’t a drop of makeup on her face. She looked young and pretty and a little scared.
“Tommy,” she cried. “What’s wrong?”
“My dog” was all I could choke out.
She touched Boots gently and when she took her hand away there was blood on her fingers. “What happened?”
“He got hit by a car!” I said. “There’s a big gash all down his stomach. I thought—I thought—” I started to cry great big tears that rolled down my cheeks.
Mrs. Scully only nodded. “Bring him inside and we’ll see what we can do.” I expected her to start crying too, but she didn’t. Her eyes were hard and determined, like Grace Kelly’s in High
Noon when she decided to get off that train and start fighting back.
I followed her into the house. There was a clean towel on the kitchen table. She pointed to it. “Put him there. I’ll be right back.” I laid Boots down on the towel. He was still breathing. Barely.
Mrs. Scully strode back into the kitchen, her sewing basket in one hand, a bottle of pills in the other.
“Sleeping pills,” she said, pressing the bottle into my hand. “Give him half of one. Too many pills will kill a dog faster than a gash in the side.”
The pills spilled out all over the counter as I pulled off the lid. I grabbed a knife and cut. There was a jar of peanut butter nearby. I scooped out a spoonful and buried the pill in it.
Boots was practically unconscious anyway, but he opened his eyes when I said his name. “I got a treat for you, boy,” I said, and stuck the peanut butter on his tongue.
Automatically, he swallowed it. And his eyes closed again.
“Don’t you worry,” said Mrs. Scully as she washed her hands. “I grew up on a farm. I’ve sewn up pigs and cows and . . .” She turned to look at me. “I can’t make any promises, but Tommy, I swear I will do my best to save your dog.”
She took a big, curved needle from her kit. My knees felt weak, and I think I wobbled on my feet.
“Get out of here,” said Mrs. Scully, threading the needle.
I nodded. “I got to do the rest of the route.”
“Good,” she said. “Don’t think about it. Just come back in the afternoon and we’ll see how we’re doing then.”
35
THE SHERIFF’S STAR
It took me a long time to do the paper route. There was a lot of snow. I was cold and slow and I had no idea what time it was by the time I finally got back home.
Mom was waiting for me at the front door, the vein on her forehead pulsing like a red worm, the leather belt coiled in her hand. “You missed the bus!” she hissed.
“But I—”
“Now I’ll have to drive you to school. I’ll be late to see Mary Lou. There’s a meeting with her doctors and I promised I’d be there.”
“Boots got—”
“Don’t give me your excuses!”
I tried to push past her, but she grabbed my arm and pulled me into the kitchen. She didn’t even wait for me to pull down my pants this time, just slammed my hands down on the counter and started hitting me.
“Stop it, Mom!” I wailed. “I didn’t do anything!”
I was too terrified to cry. Her blows were wild now, as likely to hit my back or my legs as my buttocks. Panic rose in my throat. What if she didn’t stop? Boots wasn’t there, and neither was Mary Lou. My dad was at work and wouldn’t be home for hours.
I looked back at her. Mom’s face was as red as Sam’s scar, as if she’d been the one burned in a fire. What was I going to do?
“Stop it, Mommy,” cried a tiny voice. “Stop hurting Tommy!”
It was Pinky. She was standing by the back door, tears running down her face.
“Pinky!” I called out, not sure if I was asking for her help or warning her to stay away.
Mom hit me again and I winced.
Pinky ran over and threw her arms around my waist.
The belt flew through the air again.
Pinky gasped. A big welt rose up on her skinny little arm.
“Get out of the way, Pinky!” Mom ordered.
My little sister shook her head.
“Run!” I hollered. “Pinky, run away!”
But Pinky didn’t move.
So Mom hit us again.
Time seemed to slow down. And I thought of Cardinal Mindszenty’s line in Guilty of Treason: “One must take a stand somewhere. One must draw a line past which one will not retreat.” This was my line. Mom could hit me, but I was not going to let her hit Pinky.
I whirled around and grabbed the end of the belt, yanking it out of Mom’s hands. She stumbled and fell against the wall. “Leave us alone!” I screamed.
For the first time, I realized I was almost as tall as she was. I threw the belt to the floor.
“Don’t you dare—” she snapped. She rose to her feet and took a swing at me, but I jumped out of the way. Mom picked up the belt and came after me.
I ran to the front door.
“Come back here!” she screamed.
I kept running. The sidewalk was slippery and I fell down in a snowbank. My left side was instantly wet and cold.
“Tommy! Tommy!” I heard Mom yelling after me.
I scrambled to my feet and ran on. Someone was crying, great big gasping sobs. It took me a minute to realize it was me. I had a stitch in my side and my knee was bleeding, but I kept running.
I slipped on the ice and fell down again. But this time I stayed there, half-frozen in the snow. A train whistle blew; a train was pulling into the station. I’d run clear across Downers Grove, all the way to the center of town. I was lying in a snowbank next to the train station.
I imagined stealing some money. Buying a train ticket and riding out of town into a new life. If I hurried, maybe I could even make the next train.
I scrambled to my feet in the icy slush. My fingers were freezing and I’d left my jacket at home, so I stuck my hands in my pants pockets to warm them up. My fingers hit something sharp. “Ow!” I said aloud, and pulled the item from my pocket.
It was the sheriff’s star from Mary Lou.
I suddenly remembered how Gary Cooper had wanted to flee his problems too. At the beginning of High Noon, he’d gotten in his wagon and ridden away. But he’d turned around. He’d come back.
I longed to be a cowboy. Not a bully. But a cowboy who stands up for others. Who fights for the people he loves, for the town they live in.
Even if I could leave, I wouldn’t leave Mary Lou. It wasn’t right to let Eddie get in trouble for fighting Little Skinny. I couldn’t let Pinky and Susie grow up with Mom and no one to protect them. Sam would need a friend when his mom died. And if I couldn’t save Mr. McKenzie, at least I should help him pack. And Boots. The little dog had never abandoned me. Didn’t he deserve the same?
“All aboard!” the conductor called.
I held the star tightly in my hand, and like Gary Cooper, I watched the train start to pull away. The caboose went by and across the tracks I could finally see what film was showing at the Tivoli.
One week only! the marquee said. Back by popular demand.
High Noon.
36
ROUNDING UP A POSSE
As the train whistled in the distance, I walked over to the station and sat down on a bench. The star was cold in my hand as I touched each of the six points one by one. What was I going to do?
A tall, thin figure walked out from behind one of the columns at the train station. He wore an old tweed suit with a red bow tie and an overcoat that was frayed along the edges. He was clutching a cane in one hand, but not leaning on it to walk. His whiskers were gray and neatly trimmed, though his face was so gaunt, he looked like he could have used a couple of extra sausages at breakfast.
And that was what reminded me that it was actually Mr. Kopecky, otherwise known as Pa, the doctor-turned-chickenfarmer.
“Tommy?” Pa called. “Tommy Wilson? Are you all right?”
I rubbed my eyes angrily, as if that would wipe away the red. “Yes,” I said. “I’m fine.”
He looked pointedly at my ripped pants and the blood on my knee, but he didn’t comment on it. “Oh,” he said. “I just missed my train. The door on the chicken coop is broken and the rooster got out this morning. Took a while to catch him.”
That made me think of Boots. I wondered if he was okay. “Sorry you missed your train,” I said finally.
Pa shrugged. “Not a problem. There’ll be another one soon.”
That was true. The commuter tr
ains ran every half hour.
“Mind if I sit with you while I wait?” he asked.
I shrugged.
He lowered himself slowly onto the bench, laying the cane beside him. “Don’t need the darn thing,” he told me, “but it makes Ma feel better if I take it.”
A weak smile was all I could manage.
Across the street the Tivoli’s marquee flicked on and off, as if someone were testing the lights.
“Where are you going?” I asked. It wasn’t like I really wanted to know. I was just making conversation.
“To Chicago. Once a month I meet up with a bunch of other old men. From Prague, Vienna, Budapest. Some of them are even psychiatrists like me.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A kind of doctor,” he said. “I thought I could help people who were angry. Or sad. Or crying all the time.”
“There are doctors who do that?” I asked.
Pa sighed. “Well, there are doctors who try. But in the end, I’m not sure I did much good. There were so many sad people in Europe after the war.”
Dr. Stanton hadn’t been able to help Mom. Was it possible that Pa could? I remembered how Gary Cooper had gone from person to person in his town asking everyone to stand with him against the villain who was coming on the noon train. And how they’d all turned him down. But he’d asked. And asked. And kept asking. I took a deep breath. “I think my mom needs a doctor like that.”
“Why, Tommy?” he asked, so softly I could barely hear him.
And I started talking about how my mom had always been moody, but how she’d had okay times too. Times when she was fun, and made jokes, and danced around the house. And how that had all started changing when Busia died and Susie was born. I kept talking as another commuter train came and left. Pa didn’t move a muscle, just nodded his head.
So I went on talking, about Mary Lou getting burned and stealing the yo-yos and picking on Sam and planting the paper in Mr. McKenzie’s store. I told him about Mom beating me and the medical bills we couldn’t pay and even about poor Boots and the rooster. “It’s all my fault.” I started shivering.
The Paper Cowboy Page 17