Then we started painting. While we worked, I got him talking about the vote coming up, something Lester called “the School Question.” Oregonians, he said, were being asked to put the Academy and schools like it out of business by voting on whether children should be required to go to public schools only. Some people, Lester said, believed Catholics were a threat to the country, and all the more dangerous when educated in Catholic schools.
“They want to take people like you and me and put us on a boat back home,” he seethed, swiping neat strokes of cream-colored paint on the wall.
Back home? At first, I thought of Baltimore, and marveled at how anything good could come from such hate. Then I realized what he meant. Matuski was my last name, and to the people behind the School Question, any boat they put me on would be headed to Poland, a land as familiar to me as the moon.
“I’m an American,” I said to Lester, sounding as incredulous as I felt. “Born and raised here.”
He let out a bitter laugh. “To them, you’re a Bolshevik plotter, son. All of us are, even the good sisters who run this school.” He gently waved the paintbrush in the air. “Mongrels, they call us.”
It was crazy enough to be laughable. My name, Matuski, might sound foreign, but Lester’s name was Grenton. Sure, it was shortened by some relative he’d never known, but Lester’s parents were born here in America, and so was he. To think of someone like Lester as a “mongrel” and not a true American was beyond comprehension. Nobody would fall for those lies, I thought. They were too outrageous.
After a while, Lester turned and smiled at me. “Don’t you worry about it, son. The sisters have been talking to some people. They’ll make sure the school stays open, no matter what.”
I had to confess, I didn’t really care that much what happened to the school, except I did need the money it paid me. But I didn’t like people thinking poorly of folks like Lester and me just because we were Catholics with foreign-sounding last names. And it seemed wildly unfair to have a deranged lunatic spreading lies about the good sisters just because a bunch of hateful people had a crazy idea about schools that no one in their right mind would be inclined to support.
After we cleaned up, I helped Lester scour the neighborhood for more posted notices advertising “Sister Lucretia’s” talk. We found a good half dozen, and he suggested looking for, and removing, their possible replacements the next day.
By the time I headed home, I realized I’d spent the entire day thinking about this School Question nonsense, and not one second thinking about Adam. I guess every cloud does have a silver lining after all.
I stopped at home before going to meet Gus for my paycheck. As I’d guessed, Adam hadn’t been aware of my absence, and Pete was nowhere to be seen.
After I softly closed the front door, I heard movement upstairs and took the steps two at a time to remind Adam to stay away from the windows, in case Miller was sniffing around.
“I’m hungry,” Adam said. “Does Pete have any eggs?” He stood in the doorway to the room we shared on the second floor.
“Don’t hang around the kitchen, Adam,” I warned. “Miller can see right through the window.” Miller might be searching for Adam elsewhere, but there was no reason for Adam to get careless.
“I gotta eat something. I’m going to be on the run soon.” He scratched his head and stared at me. For the first time, he looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes and a day-old beard shadowing his chin. It made me think to rub my own jaw, where there was only a fine peach-fuzz of growth. I didn’t need to shave half as much as Adam.
“Go shave,” I told Adam. “You look like a bum. I’ll bring you back some food after I meet Gus.”
Without responding, he turned toward the bathroom. I left, feeling troubled and tired. I realized this was the way you felt when you had responsibilities. It was probably the way Adam had felt when he’d taken care of me.
I squared my shoulders. I was up to the task.
Chapter Four
Pete’s place was on the edge of downtown on a short street of houses that had seen better days. Once a bright yellow, it now had a spotted look, with wooden clapboards showing through the paint. The owner next door had wisely painted his home brown so its peeling paint blended in with the wood underneath. Most neighbors’ front yards were tiny and weed-filled, overridden with crabgrass and dandelion roots. The homes were all close to the busy road, which filled with cars and horse-drawn wagons on their way into town every morning. Portland still had a lot of horses—unlike Baltimore, where automobiles greatly outnumbered horse-drawn vehicles, creating a daily parade of fancy new machines.
All the houses in Pete’s neighborhood were alike in style and size, with porches running the width of the homes. During summers, folks lounged about on their porches, catching the cool river breezes and talking to each other. The first summer we were there, Pete introduced us to his neighbors, taking us from porch to porch. There wasn’t a single boy my age—just older folks and small children. In Baltimore, I had my friends from school and a half dozen other kids from the neighborhood. We played stickball in the alley and did pranks on a dare. Adam smoothed over more than one scrape for me, apologizing to a neighbor when Billy and I had tipped over a trash bin, and not telling Ma when I played hooky from school to watch Julian pitch in a baseball game in Patterson Park.
I’ve never made friends like that in Portland. I wasn’t in school long enough to break into the ring of buddies already formed, and working took a toll on how much time I had left for even thinking about fun. Besides, there was no point in getting close to anybody when Adam and I were planning to head back to where my real friends lived.
When Pete showed us around those first months, though, he lingered a bit at the Petrovich household, where a young widow was raising twin daughters, both about nine years old. Sometimes, Pete stopped there after work, which led me to think he was courting Mrs. Petrovich.
A few blocks over from the Petrovich house was the Jasluzek store. It reminded me of home, of the store where Ma had worked. Smelling of cheese and coffee, it had broad planked flooring and shelves of foodstuffs with exotic brand names on the labels. Standing behind the counter in his dirty apron, Mr. Jasluzek always smiled when you came through the door. He saw every visitor as a potential bearer of good news, or at the very least, as a purchaser, which was always good news to him. With bushy black hair and a thick, neat moustache, Jasluzek carried himself as straight and proud as a town mayor.
Jasluzek’s store always evoked in me an odd mixture of contentment and sadness. I’d breathe deep the heady aroma of all that food, close my eyes, and feel back at home—back to a time when I’d stop in the store where Ma worked and she’d slip me a krushiki or peppermint stick, some small treat accompanied by a secret smile. I didn’t worry about anything back then. Not about my next meal. Not about my mother. And certainly not about Adam.
But when I opened my eyes, the reality of the present day would crash in on me as quickly as the returning tide, the ache deeper because of the good memories from home. It was a double-edged sword, Jasluzek’s store.
That afternoon at the store, I figured I’d pick up my papers and pay from Gus, and then head right back to hand the money over to Adam before I began my route. Wouldn’t you know it, though? Today, Gus Winston had other plans.
A short fat man with wavy brown hair that crept down his forehead, Gus was always grinning. But his smile and his friendliness hid a vicious anger. More than once, Gus, without losing the smile, had berated me in the foulest language for not selling my extra papers. Gus gave his paperboys a half-dozen more papers than their routes required. We were expected to sell the extras by standing on street corners and yelling at passers-by to buy them. I hated that part of the job, but if I didn’t sell the papers, Gus would take the money for them out of my pay. I thought Gus treated me worse than the other boys, but I was glad for the job and just shrugged off the “special treatment.”
As I cut the wire bind
ing on my bundle of papers, I looked hopefully at Gus, who reached into the pocket of his dapper flannel trousers. Gus was a good dresser, with new, sharply creased pants and turned-up cuffs, clean shirts with soft collars, and a hat that went well with everything he wore. Today it was a rounded, soft brown derby that matched his tweedy double-breasted jacket. Straightening, I waited for him to hand over my money, but was disappointed when he pulled out a slip of paper instead.
“Here,” he said, handing it to me. “I’ve got a treat for you boys today.” Smiling like someone with a secret, he rocked on his heels, waiting for me to open the folded paper.
Printed inside was an address. Looking up at Gus, confused, I inwardly cursed. I didn’t have time for puzzles. Adam would be waiting.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“It’s the address of the Telegram office, boy! I’ve arranged a tour for all of you—of a big city newsroom! Wait ’til you see it. It’ll put a spring in your step as you do your route. You’ll see what this grand enterprise is all about!” He pointed to the newspapers, the product of the “grand enterprise” he was so proud of. Headlines blared out election news, especially about the school vote coming up. I’d pay more attention to that now.
On any other day, the prospect of visiting the newsroom of one of the city’s biggest newspapers would have filled me with excitement. But today, all I could think about was keeping my brother out of harm’s way. I needed to give him my pay as soon as possible.
Swallowing hard, I looked at Gus and waited for him to hand over my money. But he just stood there, beaming like a well-groomed Santa Claus on Christmas Day, his hands in his pockets and his face pinking up from excitement.
“Gus,” I said, “can I have my pay now?”
Laughing, he shook his head. “That’s part of the treat. You’re going to meet the publisher of the paper, and he’ll be handing you your pay today. It’ll be a great honor. Aren’t you excited?”
Thinking of Adam waiting for me, I wanted to say, “No, I’m not excited.” But I nodded and thanked Gus, promising to meet him at the newsroom entrance.
Once I left, my first thought was to rush home and tell Adam I wasn’t going to get the money until much later. But as I walked away from the store, I caught sight of a police officer. Standing straight and proud in his blue uniform, Officer John Miller looked right at me from under the brim of his cap. He didn’t say a word, but I got the message—he was watching me. If I did anything unusual, like heading home before completing my newspaper route, he’d be on me quicker than a fly on honey. Crap! More than once, I’d thought of giving up this delivery route and looking for other work. Now I wished I’d done it. I was too old for this anyway. Let the young pups take over.
I raced through my paper route, the neighborhood near Pete’s house, that afternoon. I hurled papers onto porches and lawns with hardly a thought as to where they landed. Once, I nearly hit an old grandma, managing to catch myself right before tossing it toward her as she left her home. But I was distracted by Miller, who kept turning up at the end of every block. He even waved to me once and said a few words.
“Working hard, Vladimir?” he asked, with sugar-coated poison in his voice.
I didn’t answer him but went on my way. He followed, ambling a few steps behind.
“Started to convert your newspaper friends yet, Vlad?”
Still I said nothing.
“What’s that? You don’t understand the language, Trotsky?”
“My name’s Carl,” I spat back at him.
“Oh yes. Karl, like that fellow Marx who started all that trouble over in Russia we’re dealing with now.”
Placing his hands on his hips, he stepped in front of me, forcing me to brush his elbow as I passed. He immediately dusted off the spot. “Your brother certainly took Karl Marx’s lessons to heart—stealing from the wealthy Petersons what he wanted for himself. The Petersons are nice folks—good Americans, too.”
My face reddened with anger and my hands balled into fists again. Damn him! He wasn’t worth a word. But still I couldn’t hold back—not after seeing that stupid Sister Lucretia advertisement, and after hearing Lester’s story about the school vote. Who the hell did Miller think he was? Did he have more claim to being here than I did? Than Adam did?
Without looking at him, I grumbled out loud, “He didn’t do nothing wrong. There are lots of other folks who could have taken that stuff.” But my voice sounded thin with rage, not at all like the robust retort I’d imagined when I’d heard it in my mind.
I would have kept going but I heard him laughing behind me, a slow chuckle that told me he thought I was crazy for believing my brother was innocent.
Whirling around to face him, I shifted my webbed paper carrier higher on my aching shoulder.
“You’re just too lazy to find the real thief,” I said, looking him in the eye. Now my voice was stronger. Strong and low.
His smile dropped from his face as he stared hard at me for a few seconds. Let him try to beat me. He’d have to catch me first.
“If I had good evidence someone else did it, I’d follow it in a minute,” he said, reaching over and snapping his finger next to my ear in an explosive pop. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me cringe or rub my ear. I stood tall and still. It felt good. . . but scary, too.
“Why do you care about this stupid burglary anyway?” I asked. “Don’t you have murderers to catch?” My feet were planted solidly on the concrete pavement. I gritted my teeth, waiting for Miller to box my ears or smack me for being “uppity.”
Instead, his mood changed and he sighed so heavily his shoulders sank several inches. “You think this is a stupid burglary, son? Let me ask you something—is your mother alive?”
My eyes widened. “She passed on last year,” I answered. Why had he asked this question? What else did he know?
“She give you anything special before she died?”
Without answering, I glanced over his shoulder, thinking of the rosary the priest had given Adam and he had given me. It never left my pocket. I could feel it there even as I stared at Officer Miller. It was part religious token, part good luck charm, and mostly a piece of family memory. Ma had given Adam our father’s pocket watch. I knew he kept it gleaming and never went anywhere without it.
Officer Miller continued in a deep, quiet voice, “Well, if she did, then you’d know how special those things are. The jewelry stolen from the Petersons was just like that—a gift from their grandmother before she passed away. Mrs. Peterson is in despair over the loss. It was the only thing she had from her mother, because the rest of her mother’s possessions had been destroyed in a fire the year before.”
Now my face warmed, and I couldn’t look at him. I didn’t want him to be right about anything, even something as simple as the Petersons. It was easier to think they deserved their loss, no matter who was responsible for it. It was easier to think they wouldn’t miss a few pieces of jewelry when they had so much. It was easier to think only of Adam’s plight and not their pain. I continued to stare past him at the horizon and didn’t move.
“Son, I know you love your brother,” Miller said.
Still not looking at him, I shifted my weight from one foot to the next. If I didn’t hurry, I’d be late meeting Gus and the others and I’d never get my pay. It was better to think of practical things like that instead of the more complicated feelings now wrapped around the Peterson theft.
“But wrong is wrong,” he said. “And no amount of brotherly love makes it right.” He paused, then the corner of his mouth lifted into something between a smile and a sneer. “Be on your way, Mr. Marx. But I’ll be watching you.”
I waited for him to pass by me down the street, then I sped up to finish my route in record time. As I came to the last home, I immediately started hawking the remaining papers. A jumble of feelings churned up inside, bubbling into a bold effort as I shouted “Paper! Evening Paper!” louder and stronger than I ever had in the past.
I was shouting out everything I felt—confusion, fear, sadness—my voice echoing off walls and bouncing back two-fold. I sold those newspapers in ten minutes. I’d never done it faster.
Finally, I could go. I debated whether to hurry home and tell Adam about the delay. But I was afraid if I did, Miller would follow me and I’d miss the opportunity to get my cash, which was really what my brother needed most of all. I’d focus on that and sort out the rest of my feelings later.
Chapter Five
The Telegram office was on Washington Street, in a big new building with a clock tower looming over its corner entrance like a watchful eye peering into your soul. Not wanting to spring for a trolley fare, I walked and ran the few miles to the building. Out of breath and tired, I arrived at the front doorway just before the appointed hour. About a dozen other boys were waiting. Some were just young kids who knew each other from school and talked about baseball, but many were like me, in long pants, quiet and keeping to themselves, their hands clutched one over the other on the empty webbing of their newspaper carriers. Gus arrived a few seconds later, approaching the door like the ringmaster in a circus act.
“Come in, come in,” he said, waving his hands toward the door.
As we shuffled into the lobby, I looked up at the clock. It was nearly four. Adam had expected me home about an hour ago. How long would Gus’s tour take? I needed to get out of there before Adam started looking for me or before Pete came home. Pete knew Adam was in trouble and had argued with him about it, telling him to “act like a man” and other things that knifed me to hear them. Would Pete go so far as to give Adam up to the police? I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t take the chance.
Inside the lobby, a few men in bowler hats and derbies stood patiently in line at a cashier’s window. Behind a metal grille, a young man with slickly combed brown hair, tweed suit, starched collar, and bowtie stamped papers and looked busy. Otherwise, the area was empty. Gus led us to the elevators, and we all managed to squeeze into one.
The Case Against My Brother Page 3