by Nancy Allen
A man walked onto the stage and welcomed us. He said this theater had shown Lassie Come Home last summer when it was first released, but so many had asked to see it again, they were replaying it for our viewing pleasure. The audience applauded, and the man walked off the stage.
Johnny looked around to see if anyone from school was there. I did too. Carolyn and Janie sat three rows over. I walked over to ask them if they had seen Spot. They said they hadn’t, but if they did they would let me know. I thanked them and returned to my seat as the lights dimmed. Music played, and a picture appeared on the screen.
I remembered seeing Pinocchio at this same theater, but this was Johnny’s first trip. He sat there and stared at the screen.
The picture show kept reminding me of Spot because the story was about a lost dog. My tummy twisted and turned.
Johnny never made a peep the whole ninety minutes. He drank it all in—the lost dog on the screen, the actors talking, the music, the popcorn and soda pop, whispering in the audience, fancy ceiling and curtains, everything.
I sat there and cried. Lassie was lost, but she made it back home. If Lassie could, maybe Spot could too. I filled my mind with positive thoughts—Spot is smart and knows his way around the area, and he’ll want to get home, so he’ll do his best to return.
We walked out of the theater, and Mom picked us up. On the drive back to Grandma’s, Johnny never stopped talking about the picture show. “Lassie came home,” Johnny told Mom. “Spot will too, don’t you think?” We both looked at Mom for her answer.
“It’s much too early to give up hope on Spot,” Mom said. “Remember, think positive. That’s what Lassie did. She would have not made it back home if she had given up.”
When we pulled up at Grandma’s, I dashed out back to check on Spot. He wasn’t there. I jerked on my play clothes and searched until dark. No Spot.
Chapter 17
Rain and a Rattlesnake
I dozed a little, tossed a lot and stared wide-eyed into the dark most of the night. By morning, I was exhausted but more than ready to go searching for Spot.
Mom called Johnny and me to breakfast.
“Looks like rain,” Grandma said as she looked out the window. She poured herself another cup of tea and walked back to the table.
“Rain?” I said. Irritated, I wondered how we’d ever be able to search for him if it was raining. As the words gushed out of my mouth, raindrops tapped, then pounded, on Grandma’s tin roof. “I’ll wear my raincoat with the hood and my boots.”
“Gracie Girl, you can’t go out in this downpour,” Mom said. Her voice was gentle as Spot’s kiss, but I knew she wouldn’t change her mind.
I cleaned the kitchen and was walking toward my room to make my bed when I heard Mom say, “Come in, Mr. Wick.”
I stopped to listen, but Mom, Mr. Wick and Grandma whispered, so I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Something must be wrong. When I dashed into the parlor, they turned and looked at me.
“Grace, Mr. Wick has some news for you,” Mom said.
My heart beat faster than a hummingbird’s wings as I looked at Mr. Wick’s serious face. “What?”
“Spot,” Mr. Wick answered. “I found him on the hillside behind my house. I went out early looking for blackberries. I heard something whimper. At first, I thought it was my imagination, so I kept on picking. I heard the whimper again, so I followed the sound. Sure as shooting, there was that mutt of yours, all curled up with a bad leg.”
“Where is Spot now?” I asked, trembling inside and out.
He pointed outside. “I brought him home in my wagon.”
I dashed out the door and looked around. Mr. Wick, Mom, Grandma and Johnny followed me out.
“Where’s Spot?” I asked again frantically. “I don’t see your wagon.”
“Follow me,” Mr. Wick said. He darted through the rain to Grandma’s toolshed. Inside, Spot had curled up on a blanket. He didn’t look like he had an ounce of life in him.
“Oh, no!” I cried. “Not my sweet Spot. No! No!” I couldn’t catch my breath as tears blinded me.
“Grace,” Mr. Wick said as he reached out and touched my shoulder, “Spot’s not dead. He’s in a sound sleep. When I found him, his leg was all swelled up from a bite of some kind. Rattlesnake probably.”
I sat beside Spot, brushed a kiss on the top of his head and gently rubbed his shoulder. I looked at his leg bandaged in white. “But will he ever wake up?”
Mr. Wick explained that the injured dog needed sleep. When he had found him earlier that morning and noticed he was hurt, he hauled him to Doc Singleton’s office, where he got medicine for poor Spot. Mr. Wick instructed, “Give him a pill three times a day until the medicine is used up.”
I looked at the medicine and dropped the bottle in my pocket. I didn’t know what to say to Mr. Wick, the man who said he never did care for mutts.
“Your mutt is in bad shape, no doubt about that, but Doc says he will be fine,” Mr. Wick explained.
“I didn’t know Doc Singleton treated animals,” Mom said.
“Oh, he doesn’t,” Mr. Wick said with a laugh, “but I told him if he wanted the gallon of blackberries, he had better take in this patient of mine.”
Spot wiggled a little. I rubbed his shoulder, and he settled back to sleep. I looked at my sweet mutt; then I looked up at Mr. Wick. “Thank you for saving Spot,” I said quietly. I stood up and reached out my hand to shake. He ignored my hand and patted me on the shoulder.
“I never did care much for mutts until I met Spot,” Mr. Wick said. He bent over and patted Spot’s head.
“What do we owe you, Mr. Wick?” I heard Grandma say. “You saved Spot’s life.”
“Not a cent,” Mr. Wick answered. “I had to rescue such a fine specimen of a canine. Besides, he’s Moonglow’s best buddy. If Spot didn’t walk over and talk with Moonglow every day, I’d have to.”
“Mr. Wick, you talk to your mule, don’t you?” I asked. I’d seen him brush Moonglow, and I’d heard him talk to the mule.
“Well, yeah, I reckon I do at that,” he answered. “But I’d have to twice a day if not for Spot. I owe that mutt.”
Grandma walked into her house and came back out with an apple cake. “It’s not much for all the trouble you went to for Spot, but we sure do thank you,” Grandma said as she handed the cake to Mr. Wick.
“Nobody, but nobody, bakes a finer cake than you, Maude Brewer,” he said.
Grandma looked at Mr. Wick and blushed.
I carried Spot’s water and food bowls to the shed and placed them inside the door. The shed was bigger than his doghouse, and he needed a place to stay out of the rain.
I spent most of the afternoon sitting with Spot. He woke up about three hours later. When my sweet mutt saw me, he thumped his tail against the floor. “Spot, I was getting concerned about you,” I said.
Spot looked at me and whimpered. In dog talk that meant, “I was getting concerned about me too.”
“I never expected Mr. Wick to take such good care of you, boy,” I said. “He always said he didn’t care much for mutts.”
Spot whimpered again, and I read his thoughts: “I’m irresistible.”
“You are, for sure,” I told him as I stroked his head with my hand. “Spot, I’ll be honest with you. A time or two I was afraid you might not come home again. I knew you would if you could, but that’s what scared me. I was afraid you couldn’t.”
He whimpered, looking scared.
“You know, Spot, sometimes I feel scared about Daddy. Scared that he can’t make it home. But if you can make it back, maybe he can too.”
That time, Spot didn’t whimper. He wagged his tail. In dog talk that meant, “Think positive. Have gumption.”
“Spot, you are a fine specimen of a canine.”
I handfed Spot a breakfast biscuit I had saved just for him. Spot always gobbled up Grandma’s buttermilk biscuits. I slipped his pill inside a chunk of cheese, and he swallowed it whole. He slep
t a lot the rest of the day, but I could tell he was feeling better.
I felt so good I wrote a letter.
Dear Daddy,
Johnny and I went to the Paramount Theater yesterday. We saw “Lassie Come Home.” It was a sad story about a dog that got sold. The story was especially sad for me because Spot was missing at the same time we watched the picture show. My story has a happy ending too. Spot is home and feeling better. Mr. Wick found Spot and took him to Doc Singleton. The doctor treated him and gave him medicine. Mr. Wick is Grandma’s neighbor who said he never did care for mutts. Now he says that Spot is a fine specimen of a canine.
Johnny liked the theater. He liked the big screen. He liked the popcorn and soda pop. He liked the big cushy seats, too, and so did I. Johnny said he wanted to go to the Paramount Theater every day. He said he would be willing to miss school this fall and go back to the theater if Mom wanted him to. Mom told him she appreciated his willingness to do what she wanted, but for now, she thought school would be better.
At the library, I checked out the book “Lassie Come Home.” Mom reads a chapter, sometimes two, each night to Johnny, and I read a chapter to him each afternoon.
Mom told Johnny and me about your trip to the Kentucky Derby. She said we might go when you get back home. If we do, Johnny wants to enter Moonglow, Mr. Wick’s mule, in the race. Mom told him that a mule wouldn’t stand a chance of winning in the Kentucky Derby against all those Thoroughbreds. Johnny said Moonglow would do as well as Granville, that he couldn’t do worse than last place. That Johnny, he’s a real judge of horseflesh. Mom says he comes by it naturally.
If you squint your eyes tight and use your imagination, my rainbow victory garden looks like a real rainbow. Mom says it tastes as good at it looks.
My pumpkins will make fine jack-o’-lanterns and pies. I hope you can be here for Thanksgiving supper. I know how much you love pumpkin pie, so I’ll save the finest pumpkin in the patch for the occasion. Grandma’s pies are yummy. Apple is still my favorite, but I never turn my nose up at a fine slice of pumpkin pie.
We listen to the wireless every day. Nobody listens more than Grandma. We’ve never heard the newsman say your name, but we keep listening in case he does. Daddy, I hope you get back home soon. So does Spot.
I love you,
Gracie Girl
Chapter 18
Junk Rally
All summer long, Mom worked in the apple orchard Monday through Friday and some Saturdays. Johnny and I walked with Grandma to the Red Cross center every day. I helped Grandma and other volunteers knit socks, mittens and blankets for the troops. Even Grandma’s neighbor James Ryan, a wounded World War II soldier, rolled bandages. He used his big hands to push his wheelchair down the street each morning. He worked at the center all day long. Johnny worked beside him and rolled bandages, too.
One day, Mr. Ryan dropped the bandage he was rolling. He leaned over to pick it up but couldn’t reach it.
I bounded over, grabbed the bandage and handed it to him. “Thanks, Grace Ann,” he said. And he smiled. That was the first smile I’d seen from Mr. Ryan. Grandma said he was in a lot of pain, but he always came to work.
The radio at the center played music, news and sometimes speeches. I was carrying an armful of yarn to Grandma when the newsman replayed part of a speech President Franklin D. Roosevelt had made about a year ago: “One front and one battle where everyone in the United States—every man, woman and child—is in action. The front is right here at home, in our daily lives.”
I thought about the speech, especially the part about every child, and felt proud that I came to the Red Cross center to work, to be “in action.” I wanted to do more, but what?
On the way home that afternoon, I saw a sign: “Junk Rally. A scrap drive to collect junk for factories.”
“What’s a junk rally, Grandma?” I asked.
“The government wants people to collect metal, paper, rubber and other items to send to the factories,” Grandma answered.
“Why would anyone want junk?” Johnny asked as he hopped and skipped along.
“The old metal will be made into new metal equipment the soldiers can use,” Grandma explained. “Rubber mats and shoe soles can be made into tires.”
“I could collect junk,” I told Grandma.
“Yep, we could clean out your side of our room,” Johnny said. “All your stuff is junk.”
“I could start with Johnny’s trucks and cars and his bulldozer,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” Johnny cooed, not scared of my threat.
“You can talk with your mom about it,” Grandma said.
That evening, I told Mom about the speech I heard President Roosevelt give about every child working to help the soldiers. Then I asked about working for the junk rally. “I’ll load it in Johnny’s red wagon and pull it to the building beside the post office where it will be collected,” I explained. “If I help the soldiers, I’d be helping Daddy. I can also work at the Red Cross center with Grandma after I finish.”
“You can collect from the neighbors on Grandma’s street,” Mom answered.
“I want to work on the junk rally too,”Johnny said. “President Roosevelt said ‘every child.’” Johnny looked at me as if he had actually listened to the speech. “So there.” He plopped his hands on his hips.
“Good,” I answered. “I’ll haul you off and dump you into the junk pile. By the time we get there, you’ll be so dirty, you’ll fit right in.”
“Johnny needs to go with you, Gracie Girl,” Mom said before Johnny could say more. “Grandma will be working at the Red Cross center, and I’ll be working in the orchard.”
Mom suggested that we begin a collection at home and asked us to each find something that we owned and donate it. She planned on donating her iron.
“I’ll give you an old pickaxe and a bucket,” Grandma said.
I looked around my room for an item to donate. I had given most of my things away when we moved from Hazard to Ashland. What I hadn’t given away, Johnny had. I found an old lunch box and a belt, both made of metal. Johnny offered me a red top.
“No can do, Rubble Trouble,” I said. “That’s my top that you sneaked in your toys when we packed. It still spins, and you can’t give it away. Now, hand over something that belongs to you, or I’ll pick out something myself.”
“I’ll tell Mom,” he threatened.
“Johnny, what you give could help Daddy,” I said.
Johnny nodded his head as if I had finally said something that sunk in. He looked around the room and found a toy truck. I knew he liked his truck because he played with it all the time. He handed it to me and said, “For Daddy.”
It broke my heart to see Johnny part with his truck. “I don’t think Daddy would want you to give your favorite toy. Find something you don’t play with as much.” Johnny snatched back his truck and handed me a boat.
Johnny, Spot and I headed out the next morning. Spot’s leg improved each day. He played and ran without a limp. His appetite was strong, and he walked up to Moonglow’s barn and spent time with the mule every day. My heart pitter-pattered as I watched my sweet mutt run along beside us.
I pulled Johnny’s red wagon down the path. Our first stop was Mrs. Slone’s house. She handed us two pots and a lid.
As we walked up to Mr. Ryan’s house, he wheeled out the door. “What’s going on?”
“We’re helping out with the junk rally,” Johnny answered.
“I’ll give you about anything but Huldie here.” Mr. Ryan tapped the side of his wheelchair. He rolled back into his house and came out with a stack of old newspapers. “These can be made into boxes and shell casings,” he said.
On our next trip, we stopped at Miss Meryl’s house. She gave us a rolled-up ball of tinfoil candy wrappers and a handful of hairpins. “I’ll pitch in my silk stockings, too,” she said. “They’re used to make parachutes.”
After five hauls, Johnny said, “I’m so hungry I could chew the tires o
ff this wagon.”
We walked to Grandma’s and fixed bologna sandwiches. I ate one. Johnny ate one. Spot ate three.
After lunch, we pulled Johnny’s wagon toward Mr. Wick’s house. Usually, he goes to the Red Cross center, but today he sat on the porch in a rocking chair.
“Hi, Mr. Wick,” I called out.
He kept on rocking and never answered. I didn’t think he heard me, so I yelled louder, “Hi, Mr. Wick!” That time he looked up, lifted his hand and sort of waved.
“Mr. Wick must be sick,” I said.
“Should we go up and check on him?” Johnny asked.
“Maybe so,” I answered.
We left our wagon in the yard. Spot laid beside it in the shade, and Johnny and I trekked up the walkway and steps. “Are you feeling all right, Mr. Wick?” I asked.
He nodded—at least I think it was a nod—and rocked. I looked around to see what Johnny was doing. Johnny had walked over to the swing and sat down. I glanced at the window and saw the “sons in service” flag. The blue star in the middle had been changed to gold. Oh no! A gold star meant that the soldier had died in action. Mr. Wick’s son had been killed.
I walked over to him and put my arm around his shoulder. “I’m sorry about your son,” I whispered in his ear.
He turned his head and looked at me. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He dropped his head and cried into his hands.
“Grace, what did you say to Mr. Wick?” Johnny asked. He still hadn’t noticed the gold star on the flag. Johnny darted over and patted Mr. Wick’s arm. “Grace is sorry she made you cry,” he said.
I didn’t want to make the man feel worse, and I didn’t know what to do or say. Finally, I tapped his shoulder gently and said, “We’ll be on our way now.”
Mr. Wick wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. He pulled off his glasses and looked up. “Thanks for stopping by. I guess I needed the company and didn’t know it. John Mark was a good boy. My only child. When he was about your age, Johnny, a couple of big dogs got in a fight. Neighbor’s dogs, they were. John Mark was little, too little to try to break up a dog fight, but he tried anyway. Well, one of the dogs turned on John Mark and snapped him. Brought the blood. Didn’t do major damage, but it scared me half to death. I never cared much for dogs after that. Never trusted them. He always wanted a dog, but I was afraid one might turn on him, so I never gave in. If I had it to do over, John Mark could have had a dog. I wish he could have had one like Spot. He always said when he grew up he’d get a collie and name it Holly. Holly the Collie. Now, he’ll never have Holly.” Mr. Wick tugged on his glasses, dropped his head again and rocked.