For a few days, everything was okay. But when I came back from my paper route the last Saturday in April, Dad and Mom were already arguing again. “I don’t understand why we still need her,” Mom said. “I’m home!”
“What is your objection to Mrs. Glazov?” Dad snapped.
“I don’t like having a stranger in the house.”
“She’s not a stranger,” Dad continued. “Not anymore!”
Mom glanced around the kitchen. “The glasses aren’t in the right cabinet,” she said. “And there’s grease on the stove.”
“Catherine,” Dad said, his voice gravelly, and I could hear the anger in his voice. He’d never really stood up to Mom before. I was kind of impressed.
“What?” she said.
“We’re not even paying her! You can’t criticize—”
Mrs. Glazov cleared her throat. She was standing at the back door. “I here to make breakfast,” she announced. She pushed her way in between my parents and stood with her hands on her hips, looking at both of them.
Mom was going to drive her off, like she had with the women at the dinner party. She wasn’t really going to accept help. And without Mrs. Glazov, Mom would get overwhelmed again and everything she had learned from Pa would go out the window and . . .
But Mrs. Glazov didn’t storm off in a huff. Instead she took my mother’s hand. “What you saying?” she scolded my father. “Of course she need to tell me where things go. A woman’s kitchen is very important. We particular. Right?” She looked at my mom.
Mom was breathing heavily, the vein on her forehead popping in and out. She took two deep breaths and sighed. “Yes. Yes, you’re right. We’re particular.”
“So,” Mrs. Glazov said. “What else I do wrong?”
Mom laughed.
“No, tell me! Want to know.”
Mom shook her head.
“Then I tell you,” Mrs. Glazov said sternly. “You need new teapot.”
“What’s wrong with this one?” Mom asked.
“Makes terrible tea. I show you how!” Mrs. Glazov took the flowered apron off the hook by the back door and started to put it on.
Mom’s eyes narrowed. I knew exactly what she was thinking. That’s my apron. How dare she!
Mrs. Glazov must have seen Mom’s expression too, because she paused and put the apron around my mom’s neck instead. “This is yours,” she said, as formally as if it were a crown.
Mom’s face softened and she smiled as she tied the sash behind her back. They made a funny picture, the short woman and the tall one, sizing each other up, like they were cowboys in a showdown. Finally, Mom went to a cabinet in the corner and rummaged for a bit. She pulled out another apron, this one frilly and pink with white polka dots instead of flowers.
“You can have this one,” Mom said.
Mrs. Glazov took it from her like a sacrament. “Thank you.”
I could hardly believe it. The things Pa had told Mom, about taking a deep breath, thinking before you speak and, most of all, accepting help, had actually worked! In the doorway, Dad was smiling too. He shook his head in amazement.
Mom and Mrs. Glazov started working together, the flowers and the polka dots moving around the room like they’d always been there together. I went out to the garage and found an extra hook in the box of nails and screws. By the time I’d installed a hook for Mrs. Glazov’s apron by the back door, next to Mom’s, the pancakes were ready.
They tasted delicious.
A week or so after the concert, Dad, Mr. Sullivan, Eddie and I went fishing again. It was late April and the sky was blue. The clouds were white and round, like puffs of smoke from a train. All morning we pulled the fish in, one after another, and put them in a large bucket.
“Don’t have room for many more,” I said as I threw in another yellow perch.
The sun was high in the sky and it must have been close to noon. Way off in the distance, I could hear the whistle of a train. The birds were chirping and it was a beautiful day, but Mr. Sullivan wouldn’t stop complaining.
“Can you believe it?” Mr. Sullivan moaned. “Old McKenzie renamed his store and now, just because he called it Sam’s, he expects everyone to forget that he’s a commie!”
“He’s not a communist,” Dad said.
“Yeah, that’s what you say.” Mr. Sullivan took another drink from the thermos he’d brought with him. From the smell, I was pretty sure it wasn’t coffee, like my dad had brought. “And that old Russian lady? One little concert and my wife is nagging me to let her give my son music lessons!”
My dad coughed. “Well, Doug, Tommy has learned a lot from her. And the concert was for Mary Lou. To help pay for her medical bills.” He sounded annoyed, maybe even a little embarrassed.
“Yeah, I heard that,” Mr. Sullivan said. “Why are you taking charity from a commie anyway?”
“She’s not a commie,” I said.
Both dads ignored me.
“Didn’t see you offering me any help,” Dad said crossly.
“I lost my job,” Mr. Sullivan said.
“Sorry about that,” Dad said, “but maybe if you’d quit drinking you’d—”
“You saying it was my fault?” Mr. Sullivan demanded.
My palms were sweating so much, I could barely hold my pole. Next to me, Eddie was trying to put a worm on his hook, but his fingers were trembling so that the bait kept slipping out of them.
“No,” Dad said calmly. “No, Doug, of course I’m not saying that.”
Mr. Sullivan fumed quietly.
“Come on, let’s just fish,” Dad added.
We each cast our lines in a few times, but nothing bit. The tension was so high, I bet the fish could feel it.
“You’re an old friend,” Mr. Sullivan said, “but, Robert, I don’t understand why you continue associating with Mr. McKenzie. And doesn’t it make you nervous living next to that Russian?”
“Dad!” Eddie cried, exasperated. “Stop going on about the commies!”
“There’s one here in town!”
“So what?” Eddie said.
“The commie could be gathering intelligence to feed to the Soviets,” Mr. Sullivan said.
“What could the Soviets possibly want to know about Downers Grove?” Dad asked. “How many people showed up at the Tivoli on Friday night?”
“Yeah,” Eddie added. “Think the Russians care how many fish you caught?”
Mr. Sullivan reached over and slapped Eddie on the cheek. Just like Mom had done to me that day at school. It felt odd, like watching myself in a movie. I knew how angry and scared and embarrassed Eddie must feel. Heck, I could practically feel the sting from the slap on my own face.
“You be respectful, boy,” Mr. Sullivan growled. “Now that they are shutting McCarthy down, we’ll have to root them out ourselves.”
Eddie rolled his eyes. “There’s nothing to ‘root out,’ Dad! We already know where the paper came from.”
Eddie! I wanted to scream. You promised not to tell!
“What?” Mr. Sullivan’s eyes blazed like Mom’s when she was angry.
“I mean . . .” Eddie turned white as the belly of a fish.
“Where’d it come from?” Mr. Sullivan demanded.
“It was just an old newspaper,” my dad said quietly, looking at me. I could feel his disapproval like a weight. He knew I’d told. After I’d promised not to. I’d broken my word. “It doesn’t matter where it came from,” Dad said.
“It does to me!” Mr. Sullivan stood up, grabbed Eddie by the shoulders and shook him hard. “Tell me!”
“Doug,” Dad said, “let the boy go.”
“Tell me!” Mr. Sullivan shook Eddie harder, causing him to drop his pole. Eddie looked at the sky and the ground and the lake, everywhere but at his dad. I was pretty sure he was crying. I bet it hurt being
shaken like that. It had hurt when Mom had hit me. And no one had done a thing to stop her.
“Me,” I said, standing up. “I put the paper in the store.”
Mr. Sullivan let go of Eddie. “You’re the commie?” he asked. His strong arms suddenly seemed scary, like a gorilla’s. He took a step toward me. I backed away, but the dock was narrow. There wasn’t much room.
Dad stood up and stepped between the two of us. “Tommy put the paper in the store,” he said. “But it came from me.”
“You?” Mr. Sullivan barked. “You’re the commie?! My best friend?”
“I’m not a communist,” Dad said slowly. “I just read a newspaper.”
“Oh yeah, college boy? Just a newspaper, huh?” Mr. Sullivan said sarcastically. “While you were at your cushy factory job, I was fighting in Korea! At the Chosin Reservoir it was thirty below. With no good boots, all my toes froze clean off.”
“I’m sorry, Doug,” my dad said. “Let’s just calm down and—”
“It’s why I can’t walk straight now. Because of commies like you!”
He lunged at my dad, but my dad ducked out of the way and Mr. Sullivan fell to the ground. “Think you’re better than me, don’t you?” he said, climbing to his feet.
“No.” Dad put down his fishing pole and stood up to his full six feet.
“I know you’re laughing at me behind my back.” Mr. Sullivan walked over to the bag he’d brought and rummaged through it. He pulled out a handgun and pointed it at my dad’s face.
“Dad!” Eddie sounded terrified.
My father’s face was covered with a thin layer of sweat.
I started shaking.
Dad picked up the knife we used to gut the fish. “Put the gun down.”
“No.” Mr. Sullivan was unsteady on his feet, but his grip on the gun was firm.
They were going to fight. But this wasn’t a movie, and if someone got hurt, they wouldn’t just jump up again when the director yelled “cut.” There had to be a better way. But I couldn’t think. It was like when Mary Lou had caught fire and I hadn’t moved. Mom had had to come smother the flames, even though I’d been closer. No matter what, I couldn’t let that happen again.
Suddenly, I remembered how Mrs. Glazov had handled the situation with Mom in the kitchen. She’d agreed with her. I could do that. I was a good talker. I just needed Eddie to follow my lead.
“Yeah.” I walked over to Mr. Sullivan. “I know why you’re so angry.”
“Tommy?” Dad gave me a confused look.
I ignored him. My heart was galloping like a horse. If this didn’t work, I didn’t know what else to do. I glanced at Eddie. He had to remember. How we stole the yo-yos. One person distracts and charms. The other takes something. I mouthed, Yo-yos, and I could see his eyes clear. He nodded, not so anyone else could see, but I knew he’d understood.
“You know, I had the same reaction,” I said to Mr. Sullivan. “My own father! A communist. It was so embarrassing.” My voice sounded calm, but my legs were trembling.
“Yeah?” said Mr. Sullivan uncertainly. I could smell the whiskey on his breath.
He still had the gun pointed at my dad, but it was a bit lower now.
“I mean, he attended meetings. He should at least lose his job or something!”
“Yeah,” Mr. Sullivan agreed. “Look at me. I lost my job!”
“It’s not fair,” I agreed.
I glanced at Eddie. He nodded.
My dad looked confused and hurt. I winked at him, but I wasn’t sure he understood.
“He’s got to pay,” Mr. Sullivan said.
“Definitely,” I agreed.
Mr. Sullivan raised his gun again. He was really going to do it. He was really going to shoot my father.
This was it. We had to act now. I caught Eddie’s eye and whispered, “Hi-Yo, Silver.”
Eddie and I both jumped onto his father, knocking him to the ground. The gun went off, but the bullet went wild, into the marshy grass.
“What the—?” Mr. Sullivan roared.
Dad put his knee into Mr. Sullivan’s back, holding him down as he flailed and cursed. The gun was lying on the dock, a few inches away. I picked it up and, like I was throwing a baseball bat, hurled it into the pond. It floated for a moment, then sank with a few bubbles into the murky water.
Dad looked at Eddie and me like we were heroes, not just two scared boys with lots of practice stealing things. “Stop it, Doug,” Dad growled, as tough as any cowboy. “You’re drunk. You lost your job because of the drinking. It had nothing to do with me.”
Mr. Sullivan stopped struggling.
“I’m going to let you go now,” Dad said. “Don’t try anything funny.”
Mr. Sullivan stood up slowly. He had dirt on his legs and belly. There was even a big smudge on his cheek, kind of like Sam’s scar.
Dad’s face was angry, and somehow he still had the knife in his hand. For a moment, I was afraid he was going to stab Mr. Sullivan. I touched Dad’s wrist, and slowly he placed the knife on the ground.
Then Dad picked up our canteen of water, pulled out his handkerchief, and handed both to Mr. Sullivan. “Get cleaned up,” he ordered. “We’re going home.”
Slowly we packed our stuff. Mr. Sullivan got in the back of the car, and as soon as it started moving, he fell asleep, snoring softly. Eddie and I sat in the front. I was in the middle, watching my dad drive.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said. “You told me not to tell anyone. I just—”
Dad cut me off. “No need, Tommy. It was bound to come out at some point. And you and Eddie showed a lot more sense than I did. I was going to try to fight him with a knife.”
I thought about that on the way home. The firefight at the end of High Noon had ended with four dead people. Bad people. But still. Four dead people. We had ended without a single one.
When we reached Eddie’s house, Mrs. Sullivan helped Dad drag her husband into the house. Once he was settled, she came back out. “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “If he doesn’t go back to work, we’ll lose the house.”
“Then maybe it’s time to ask for help,” Dad said.
“But who do I ask?” she wailed.
My dad took her hand gently. “Anyone. Maybe the church. Sister Ann. A cousin. Or maybe the people right next door. Downers Grove is a small town, Deborah. You ask, and they will help.”
And I realized that was the difference between our town and Gary Cooper’s in the movie. When he had gone from person to person asking for volunteer deputies to help him stand up to the criminals, everyone had refused to get involved. Refused to help when he needed it.
But our town had helped us. The people of Downers Grove had given my parents money for Mary Lou’s medical bills. And taken my mother in when she needed a break. And sewn up my dog. And helped us make Thanksgiving dinner. And I’d helped Mr. McKenzie and Sam and now Eddie too. I’d fixed Ma and Pa’s chicken coop, made friends with Mrs. Scully and shown everyone that Mrs. Glazov was a wonderful musician. We were a town, a posse, and together, nothing could stop us.
“See you on Monday at school, Eddie?” I asked.
He nodded, but he didn’t look me in the eye. “Yeah.”
I started to get back in the car.
“Hey, Tommy!”
I turned to look at him. Tufts of his blond hair stood on end, parts dyed brown with mud.
“Thanks, ke-mo sah-bee.” He finally met my gaze.
“Hey,” I said. “What are friends for?”
49
THE CEMETERY
The first week in May, Sam came up with the idea of letting the students at St. Joseph’s place orders for sandwiches. This was a big hit, both with the kids (because the sandwiches were delicious) and the parents (because they didn’t have to make lunches). So every morning, along with the bo
ttles of milk from the milkman, came sandwiches from Sam’s shop.
One day during lunch recess when I’d just finished my sandwich, I made my way over to the big elm tree. “Hey, Sam!” I called out, sitting down next to him.
“What?” He gave me a look. He’d played marbles with us once or twice now, but still spent many lunchtimes by himself.
“You’re the one!”
“Tommy, I don’t like it when you—”
“Just go on,” I said kindly. “Ask it, one more time.”
“The one what?” He sighed. But for the first time, there was a hint of a smile on his face as he said it.
“The best darn writer in the whole class.” I slammed his story down on the ground, like a cowboy throwing down a royal flush in a movie.
“You shouldn’t say darn,” said Peter, who’d followed me over. Luke and Eddie were close behind.
“Shut up, Peter,” I said.
“Is it really good?” asked Luke, picking up a corner of the story.
“Better than Kid Colt Outlaw,” I said.
“Can I read Sam’s story?” Eddie asked.
“I had it first,” said Luke.
Sam and I looked at each other and grinned.
“Simmer down, boys.” I leaned over and put my arm around Sam. “He’s got plenty more where that came from. But it’ll cost you. A nickel a story!”
“Tommy,” Sam protested. “They can read them for free.”
“Sam,” I said, elbowing him, “I’m trying to make you some money.”
“I’d rather have the friends,” he said. “A penny a story,” he announced loudly.
Luke nodded. “Sounds fair to me.” The boys dug into their pockets looking for change. I pulled out a penny.
“Keep it,” said Sam. “You read for free.”
I’d always thought it would feel embarrassing to be nice to Sam at school. But it wasn’t. It felt really good. “Come on, Sam,” I said.
“What?”
“We’re going to play kick ball.”
“Nah,” he said. “I don’t know how. Probably wouldn’t be good at it anyway.”
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