Little Klein

by Anne Ylvisaker

  Little Klein had taken one board when the trunk was disassembled. It was the one that read Klein 1858. Now that the house was nearly complete, he retrieved it from its hiding place behind the tree.

  “You forgot something,” he said. The brothers looked at the doghouse and back at Little Klein.

  “Well. What should we do with this?” Little Klein displayed his find.

  “We don’t need it,” said Matthew.

  “Let’s put it over the door.” Mark took the board from Little Klein. “Or maybe not. It’s bad enough to give the poor dog a people name like LeRoy. Dogs are not supposed to have last names.”

  “Aw,” said Luke, returning with his arm patched up. “I like it over the door. It’ll make it look like a real house.”

  “We could use one more board for the ceiling, I guess,” said Matthew. “Just put it on inside out. He can read to himself.”

  Luke grumbled but laid the board across a hole while Mark whapped a nail in either end.

  The boys stood back and studied their work. They looked at one another but shared a rare moment of silence.

  Mother Klein came out to inspect. “Well,” she said, “it is house shaped and there is a door . . . . Is this the door?”

  “Go on, LeRoy, try it out,” said Little Klein, nudging LeRoy, who backed away, whimpering.

  “What is everyone looking all long faced for?” said Luke at last. He stepped over to the structure. “This is a good sturdy house for LeRoy. Just because it won’t win any beauty contests . . .” He leaned against the house, and with a slow creak, the whole shack leaned, too, then crackled, splintered, and crashed to the ground.

  “Aw!” moaned Matthew.

  “Shucks!” cried Mark and Little Klein.

  “Nail!” called Luke from the wreckage, holding up his unbandaged arm.

  LeRoy yapped and jumped all over Luke, trying to lick him while the Bigs helped Luke up and Mother Klein produced the iodine and bandages once again.

  “Now can he sleep inside?” Little Klein implored.

  “Now we start over,” Mark replied.

  “Start over?” groaned Matthew and Luke.

  “It’s wrecked,” said Little Klein.

  “We just need more stuff,” insisted Mark, “more boards, some shingles for the roof. I made that birdhouse for Ma last year. I know more about building than you numbskulls. If you’d just listen to me —”

  “Listen to you?” cried Matthew, lunging toward Mark. Luke grabbed Mark and hauled him to the ground.

  “Ow!” Luke groaned. “My arms!”

  “Matthew,” Mother Klein broke in, ending the hubbub, “go get a dollar out of my purse. Take your brothers down to Wedge Lumber and see what you can get for it. Ask Mr. Wedge if he has any scraps out back, mismatched shingles and whatnot. Take the wagon and bring back only as much as you can haul. Any change comes back to me.”

  Mr. Wedge had gone to school with Stanley Klein and was disappointed to hear that Stanley wasn’t around to teach his boys basic building skills. He would not take their money for a wagonload of scrap lumber and some shingles, but he did want the boys to learn how to do the job right.

  “You know my boy Richard?” he asked, and they did. Rich Wedge was the only boy to have given Matthew a black eye. This earned him great respect among the Klein Boys.

  Mr. Wedge opened a side door and hollered, “Richard! Come on in here!” He turned back to the Kleins as Rich ran in. “I’ll give you the materials on the condition that Rich here comes along to supervise. Be apprentices this time, then we’ll see about having you come back as paying customers. Deal?”

  “I did sketch a building plan,” Mark said quietly, but Matthew elbowed him.

  “Deal,” echoed the Kleins.

  After a large lunch and a wrestle in the backyard, Rich and the Bigs laid out their supplies and started again. They found they liked the noise and industry of saws and hammers and the admiring remarks of Misses Lucy McCrea and Janet Wallace passing by. The Bigs were known for their pranks, and the potential for adding another dimension to their reputation was enticing.

  “Yes, LeRoy, old boy,” said Matthew. “You’re going to be living in a palace.”

  Little Klein was in charge of managing the supplies and staying clear of swinging hammers. He soon grew bored. “I’d still rather have a tree house,” he said, “and LeRoy can sleep in my bed.”

  For his part, LeRoy sauntered off for a late afternoon nap by the river. When he returned, the final nails were being hammered into his structure and this time Klein 1858 appeared just above the door.

  Long after moonrise LeRoy barked at the cooling air. Little Klein climbed out of bed and went outside to LeRoy. He sat on the ground in front of the dog’s house and called him out. LeRoy laid his head on Little’s lap.

  “Look at all this yard, LeRoy. We could be growing things. Digging and planting and growing. Corn, like Farmer Filmore. You want to be a farm dog, huh? You’d like corn, wouldn’t you, boy?” Little Klein scratched LeRoy’s ears. “And potatoes for mashed potatoes. And pumpkins. It’s not a very big yard, LeRoy, but we could do it. Couldn’t we, boy? Couldn’t we? I’m not too small for growing things, am I? Think about it, LeRoy. We could sell our harvest to Tim and Tom’s Market. We’d be rich!”

  LeRoy howled his agreement, woofed his delight with the moon, his yard, his boy.

  “Go back to sleep, LeRoy, and quit barking at the stars. They are not coming down no matter how much you beg.”

  Little Klein went back inside and slept soundly until morning.

  Everyone was sitting at the table when he padded out to the kitchen. Mother sat down, too.

  “Can I plant some things in the backyard?” he asked.

  “Gardens are for sissies,” mumbled Luke through his cereal.

  “Corn is not —” Little started but then paused when Mother Klein seemed to be considering his plan.

  “Hmmm . . .” she said, getting up to turn off the teakettle, “I’ve been thinking about gardening myself. I’m glad you reminded me. I want a flower garden. Flowers to balance all the boyness around here. Cosmos, daisies, zinnias. Roses. It’s a little late to start planting, but why not? I may need a book or two and yes, roses as well. Your father will be home in two weeks and the yard should look fine. That doghouse sticks out as it is. Today’s as good as any to get started. Finish up, boys. You’re going to help me.”

  “But . . .” started Little Klein, “I meant . . .” but Mother Klein was already out the door.

  She took her teacup and wandered through the yard, pacing it off end to end, side to side. She looked at her square of land as a farmer does in the spring. She saw red and yellow. She saw neighbors stopping to admire. Mother Klein saw herself in a bonnet with a hoe and she saw herself at the state fair with blue ribbons and her name card, Esther Klein, paired proudly.

  She could bring bouquets to neighbors who would invite her in for lemonade. The women who entered produce, baked goods, and such in the county fair talked all the time and even rode together to the city for the state fair judging. By the time the boys came out for instructions, Mother Klein had a plan.

  “We need a ball of string and the croquet set. We need the paper off some sticks of gum and a pencil. Go round up those things, and then you’re going to the library.”

  The library? Their eyes widened. They groaned.

  “I don’t want to hear another word. I’ll do the dishes while you find everything.”

  “But Mother, I wanted . . .” Little Klein tried again.

  “Woof,” said LeRoy. “Woof.”

  “You can help your brothers or dry the dishes,” said Mother Klein, distracted. Little Klein wandered off to the garage, LeRoy at his heels. What about his corn and potatoes and his pockets heavy with coins?

  When the kitchen was clean, Mother Klein stood in front of her curious boys and plucked supplies one by one. First she wandered around the yard, taking long paces and randomly poking croquet hoops into the gr
ound. Then she tied one end of the ball of string to a corner hoop and walked from hoop to hoop, tying one to another until the yard was a grid, a map of little states of different shapes and sizes.

  “Don’t ask yet,” she said as she untied and retied until the map met her satisfaction. LeRoy paced the small section that surrounded his house, whimpering and afraid to cross the line.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, haven’t you ever seen string before?” Mother said. “Go on down to the river for your nap, why don’t you.” But LeRoy couldn’t get himself to step over those strings. Finally, she lifted his front legs, then his back legs, and shooed him to the alley, where LeRoy looked forlornly back at her. Where was his calm, singing mistress? Who was this scurrying woman with the sharp voice? When she didn’t answer his cries, LeRoy turned and plodded off to the river, not stopping to enjoy the ripening smells of things in decay.

  Back in the yard, Mother Klein chewed on the pencil as she studied her states.

  “I don’t know what we’re going to do with that dog when your father comes home,” she muttered. Then “Roses,” she finally declared, and reached for a gum wrapper. Roses, she wrote on the wrapper. She gently lifted the leg of a hoop and threaded the paper onto it. She walked to a long skinny state near the house.

  “Cosmos,” she said. “Zinnias.” She reached for two more papers and threaded these both on one hoop. The largest state she labeled daisies. When mums and heliotrope had also been given statehood, she turned to the boys.

  “What do you mean, ‘what we’re going to do with that dog’?” Mark asked.

  “Your father’s sensitive to barking,” said Mother. “And he doesn’t like dogs and that’s that.”

  “One more,” she said. “Any ideas?” The usually rambunctious boys had been stunned into near lethargy and were watching their mother from under the tree.

  “Well?”

  “Pickles,” said Little Klein.

  “Everyone in agreement?” she asked.

  “Can’t grow pickles,” scoffed Luke.

  “It all starts with cucumbers,” said Mother Klein, “and cucumbers we can do.” She wrote pickles on the last wrapper, then stuck a croquet hoop through it and into the ground.

  The most disturbing thing about the library was its lack of sound. To boys used to the continuous racket of their own company, the hush of the library was as frightening as a looming pack of boys was to the librarian. Fragrant summer air swirled in when the boys stumbled through the door. It hung around them for a moment before being absorbed by the somber book air that had lived in the library for the eternity of its existence.

  Miss Muriel glanced up from the card catalog where she was helping Janet Wallace find a book on bees. Mr. Olafson paused over the Farmer’s Almanac. Reverend Clambush looked up from a stack of gardening books from which he was gathering metaphors for his sermon, and The Reverend Missus Clambush lowered the book she was using to disguise her interest in the activities of Widow Flom, who was perusing the fiction section. LeRoy’s barks floated through the open window.

  “Let’s ask her,” said Little Klein in his outdoor voice, pointing a dirt-crusted finger at The Reverend Missus Clambush, whose trim hat and suit gave an official air.

  “SHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhh,” said everyone at once as Cornelia Clambush guiltily dropped her book and looked behind her to discover at whom these ruffians were pointing.

  “No,” said Luke in what he supposed was a whisper. “That’s her over there.” He pointed his own crusty claw at Muriel, who shut the card drawer on her finger. As the gang of Kleins tromped the fourteen paces to the reference checkout desk, no one went back to their reading.

  Miss Muriel looked at the Reverend, trying to send him a signal to pray for her. The sight of three broad and scruffy boys was not tempered by the scrawny one at their side. While Muriel had weathered any number of unusual patron requests in her three-week tenure as a professional librarian and even a storm that blew out the west window, she had not yet faced imminent bodily harm from a pack of hoodlums.

  She grabbed the dictionary, held it in front of her face, and, when the biggest asked, “Ummm?” she whimpered, “Take anything. There’s no money in the building, but take anything else you want, only please don’t hurt me. And please leave Jane Eyre as it is my favorite.”

  The boys shuffled from foot to foot, not sure how to respond to her request, until Widow Flom laughed. Out loud.

  “Muriel,” she screeched in between guffaws, “Muriel, may I introduce the Klein Boys. Boys, this is Miss Muriel, our new librarian.” That was as far as she could get before she had to flop down in a chair with her handkerchief and let the fit take her over. The sound of Widow Flom’s laughter was like a drug wherever she used it, and soon the entire patronage of Lena Library was giggling, hiccing, tittering, and out-and-out laughing. The Klein Boys joined in, too, imagining themselves stars in some grand joke they hadn’t known they’d planned but would take the credit for nonetheless.

  “Muriel,” Widow Flom finally continued, “your job is to serve. Won’t you ask these gentlemen what they need?”

  Muriel, who had allowed herself a few self-conscious titters, lowered her dictionary and asked in as librarianish a voice as she could muster, “May I help you, Misters Klein?”

  “Yes, please. Our mother sent us here to check out some books. She is planting flowers in our yard, and we need to know . . .” Mark held out his hand to Little Klein, who gave him a piece of paper and a library card. “We need to know, ‘How far apart do you plant zinnia seeds? How much sun do cosmos require? What does one feed roses and which ones grow best in northern climates?’ And, um, what is a heliotrope?”

  “And allergies,” added Little Klein hastily. “We need a book about allergies.”

  The Reverend Missus Clambush could be silent no longer. “A garden!” she exclaimed. “Why, you can’t learn gardening from a BOOK! No offense, Muriel, but BOYS! Where do you LIVE? Now, PEOPLE!” this addressed to the patrons who had not returned to their reading material, “The mother of these boys is in NEED. Put down your BOOKS and follow ME.”

  Cornelia Clambush thrust her book at Muriel and with a sweeping motion gathered the entire Saturday population of Lena Library into a reluctant huddle around the Klein Boys. “We are being CALLED to SERVICE this day. BOYS, lead us home.”

  Muriel hastily produced Gardening Basics but had to stay at the library to cover the desk.

  “No!” the boys cried at once.

  “Well!” huffed Cornelia.

  “What we mean is, that’s okay, Mrs. Clambush,” said Matthew as politely as he could manage. “We’ll take it from here.”

  Cornelia Clambush did not accompany them home that day, but she soon found occasion to be in the Klein neighborhood.

  “Boys!” she sang in two syllables as they tossed a football in the street. “Is your mother at home? I divided my hostas and must find someone with space in their garden. You can go get them and bring them here. We’ll go ask her now, shall we?”

  While his brothers trudged off to the parsonage, Little Klein watched from the tree, LeRoy keeping guard underneath as Mother and The Reverend Missus toured the garden. When they got to the PICKLES sign, Cornelia paused. “You can’t grow pickles, dear.”

  Mother Klein bit back her instinctual reply, breathed deeply, and said simply, “It’s cucumbers, of course, but my youngest wanted a garden, too, so I let him choose something.”

  “Oh yes, you’re wise to encourage their ambitions. Why, my Barbara is the toast of Owatonna with her elegant dinner parties. Don’t you know I encouraged her from the start, letting her set the table when we had guests, fill the glasses, all kinds of grown-up responsibilities. I believe my Barbara owes a great deal of her prowess in the kitchen to childhood observation and prodding. Now, Esther, you’ve got a fine start here, but if I could offer some suggestions . . .”

  Little Klein dropped from the tree, whispered “Stay” to LeRoy, and attempted to cross to the house un
noticed. If there was one thing that put his mother in a bad mood, it was unsolicited advice.

  “There’s the cherub!” trilled Cornelia Clambush. “Come here and let me have a look at the little farmer.”

  Little Klein approached her slowly, glancing at the street, willing his brothers’ return.

  “I was just showing The Reverend Missus . . .” his mother was saying.

  “My Land! There’s no call for such formality! Call me Mrs. Clambush, dear.”

  Mother Klein started again. “Mrs. Clambush and I were just admiring the progress in your pickle garden.”

  “Thank you,” said Little Klein, seizing the opportunity to use a previous lesson on making polite conversation. “Corn would be nice, too. I was really hoping to grow corn.”

  Mother Klein smiled too widely and gave Little Klein the That’s enough eye. “Guess he was born to be a country boy. I was hoping you’d tell me more about your Barbara —”

  “Corn?” interrupted Mrs. Clambush. “Why, Mrs. Klein, you don’t need to plant an acre for the boy. One stalk here in this sunny spot will do. I’ll send the Reverend over tomorrow to help him get started.”

  LeRoy bounded over to Little Klein. “Shhh, boy,” he said as he looked from his mother to Mrs. Clambush, cautious in his hope for his own corn.

  “The boy can poke a hole in the dirt by himself just fine, thanks just the same,” said Mother Klein, the angry vein on her neck popping out as a warning no one but her boys could read. While Cornelia Clambush paused, deciding whether or not to be offended, Mother Klein recovered her decorum.

  “Of course, you and the Reverend are welcome to stop by anytime to check in on progress. Or for any other reason. I am Lutheran, though I have slipped in attendance and sometimes go over to the Methodists. Have you heard their new preacher? Really, I am a Conversationalist, one who converses with the Higher Up. I certainly have nothing but respect for you Episcopalians.” Mother Klein wiped her forehead with her sleeve.