by Karen Wolff
Gram said, “Go on home, Harry, and don’t you dare leave the house. I’ll deal with you later.”
FOR THREE WEEKS I washed dishes, pumped water, swept the floor, and pulled weeds in Gram’s garden. She wouldn’t let me spend time with the other boys in the afternoons, and if I slacked off on the chores, she said she might sell my bike when it came. I earned those two dollars back and then some, but I didn’t complain. I’d done something I wasn’t proud of, and in my heart I wanted to make it right.
Toward the end of August, my ninth birthday came and went without much notice. The leaves had just begun to fall and school would start soon. Granddad came home for dinner one noon and said, “Harry, go outside and sweep the leaves off the porch, will you?”
“I’m hungry, Granddad. Can’t I eat first?”
“No. You go on and do it now.”
I went out, slamming the door, and started to sweep, my head bowed over my work. When I raised my eyes, I froze and couldn’t do anything but stare. A thrill started in my fingers and shot through me until my whole body tingled. Then I let out a holler they could’ve heard in the next state. My bike! Dark green with steel wheels and spokes, shiny handlebars, and a horn. I don’t think I ever ate dinner that day. Granddad came out on the porch to watch me ride and stood proud as a little banty rooster, his felt hat cocked to the side, and a grin spread over his face. Even Gram came outside in her apron to watch. I rode all over town so folks could see that I finally got my bike. I just wished my dad could see it. I think he would have been proud, though its glory was always a little tarnished for me by what I had done to get it.
It didn’t take long for all the boys to hear about it. Every one of them wanted to ride it, to honk the horn, and feel its sleek paint. I let them each have one turn. After that we did trades. A stick of gum was good for three blocks; a nickel for a ride to the school and back. They soon had enough of that and I was glad. I wanted that green beauty for myself.
THE TOWN WHERE I spent my childhood was called Richmond after the man who founded it, and it was an apt name. The land is flat, with deep, black soil left by a millennium of silt deposits from the flooding river; yet just to the north, less than half mile away, stands one of the geographical wonders of the world—the Loess Hills. These high bluffs, overlooking the Sioux and the Missouri rivers all the way to Council Bluffs, are formed of silt and clay and they erode into shelf-like formations of great natural beauty.
According to Aunt Lida, who knew everything there was to know about it, the town had ninety-five houses, one church, one school, and our store. In spite of the town’s name, Granddad liked to say, “Nobody in Richmond is really rich ‘cause nobody has enough money to be rich.” Then he’d cackle at his joke, even if no one else thought it was funny. The great thing about Granddad was that I didn’t have to understand his jokes for him to make me laugh.
I entered the Richmond school that September in the fourth grade. It was a country school and had only two rooms with grades one through four on one side and grades five through eight on the other. A wide hallway separated them. The two teachers left the doors open so they could go back and forth across the hall. Mrs. Sawyer taught reading, spelling, and penmanship. Miss Foster taught arithmetic and geography. They both taught current events. The war was always on everybody’s mind, but even we kids heard talk around town about Prohibition. Miss Foster decided we should learn about it, as she said, the “right way.”
A group called the Women’s Christian Temperance Union invaded our school. I knew what all those words meant except for “temperance,” which I figured related to your temper—being mad about something. These women came in their feathery, flowered hats and took right over. They were mad, all right. They talked about how wicked it was to drink alcohol and how we must never do it and how we must talk to our parents so they wouldn’t do it either. They blabbed on and on, handing out pamphlets for us to take home and looking us right in the eye so we couldn’t escape swearing we’d never taste the stuff. I wondered if they knew we sold beer in our store. They’d have had a conniption if they knew I sometimes served it to customers. You better believe I didn’t say anything about it.
After all that, they invited Gladys Welles, who was an eighth grader, to give a speech about drinking. She’d won an oratory prize at the county contest; so we had to listen to this sappy girl go on. She waved her hands and rolled her eyes. At the end, she pulled a wine glass from her pocket, raised it high, and smashed it on the floor saying, “I’ve never touched a drop, and I never will.” Some of us squirmed, but the feathery ladies clapped and clapped. Wes made the mistake of laughing out loud, so the teachers had him sweep up the broken glass. I was glad I kept quiet.
At home my grandparents talked a lot about Prohibition. Gram said, “There’s a big argument coming. The ‘dries’ want to get rid of alcohol entirely. That Mr. Holsapple up in Mitchell with the Anti-Saloon League wants to close all the saloons. Make South Dakota bone-dry.”
“That’ll be the day,” Granddad said. “What do they want to do? Put me out of business?”
“They think drinking causes too much trouble, Alfie. Men spend all their money on it; their kids go hungry; and all the rest.”
“Aw. A little beer never hurt anyone, Bess.” He was grouchy about it all evening.
Even my Sunday school teacher, Ory Gabel, talked about the evils of drink. I told him I didn’t think he needed to worry much about us. We were only in the fourth grade.
“You’re never too young to take the pledge,” he said.
ONE DAY MRS. Sawyer, whose own boy was in the army, asked how many had family members serving, and I raised my hand proudly along with a couple of others.
“If anyone has letters they’d like to share, please bring them so we can learn more about what it’s like over there.”
I wanted everyone to hear how my dad got wounded. Gram wasn’t so sure Dad would’ve wanted me to have others read it, but I begged and pestered her until she let me take his letter to school. I read it to the class.
Dear Family,
Well my good luck finally came to an end a few days ago. I took a lousy German bullet in my right arm. It didn’t do too much damage, but I can’t shoot, so I’m behind the lines sitting around while it heals, and I can write a little. At least I’m satisfied that I caused the enemy some trouble before I got hit.
So many men were taken in this battle it turns my stomach. But it’s even worse to see the injured fellows. Missing their arms or legs, blood everywhere. The smell is terrible. I’m alive and I suppose I should be grateful for that. Sometimes I don’t know. I just hope this thing ends soon.
Your father,
Calvin Spencer
Somewhere in France
Everyone sat big-eyed and quiet after I read, and Mrs. Sawyer smiled kindly at me. “Your father must be a brave man, Harry. You should be proud of him, making this sacrifice for us.”
I nodded, awed and proud. I wanted my dad home, but his glory had touched me, and I liked the feeling.
DAD HAD BEEN gone nearly nine months when Uncle Lyle surprised us one day by coming to visit. He had a telegram from the army that said dad’s arm wound wasn’t healing right, so they were sending him home. I couldn’t get my head around this big news for a minute, but oh boy, when I did, I could feel the goose bumps come out. Dad was coming home! Now we’d have a house and live together like we used to. We’d talk to him about hunting and fishing, and all the other stuff. I would show him my bike and tell him how I got it. And he would tell us what it was like to fight the Germans. I would be able to play with my brothers. Everything would be all right again.
Gram slicked us up so we could go to the train station. She pulled Polly’s hair back and tied it with a big bow, and she found a necktie for me to wear with my Sunday shirt and pants. Uncle Lyle and Aunt Hazel came with my three brothers, Eddie, the oldest, Gabe, and Ty. We hadn’t seen each other for quite a while, and everyone seemed bigger. I guess we were excited, be
cause we just danced around in the yard, punching each other on the shoulder, so wound up we couldn’t stand still.
“Stop that,” Gram yelled. “You’re going to get your clothes dirty.” But we just couldn’t.
When it was time to go, we piled into the back end of Uncle Lyle’s truck for the ride to Beaverton, shivering with the cold and huddled together for the ten-mile trip.
At the railroad depot all of us jumped out and stood on the brick platform, jabbering while we waited. Uncle Lyle and Aunt Hazel sat on the black iron benches, but we were too excited to sit.
“I bet I see him first,” Ty said.
“No, you won’t. I’m taller,” said Eddie.
Polly thought Dad would get us a house right away. “We’ll need at least three bedrooms, one just for me.”
“You can’t have a room by yourself,” Gabe said. “You’ll just spend all day in there combing your hair.” She pinched him.
We were all grins and happy teasing. At last we heard the train whistle and its mighty roar as it pulled into the station, steam making a cloud around the hot engine and the smell of burning coal coming from the smokestack.
“I’ll bet he’ll try to hug all of us at once, just like he used to,” I said.
The passengers began to step down from the train. First came some women who’d been shopping, and they were all mixed up about whose bags were whose. It took them several long minutes to get everything sorted out. Next came two men in uniforms. My heart gave a jolt, but neither one was Dad. The men’s wives rushed up to them with hugs and kisses, and the other passengers had to wait until that was over. Then there was a tottery old couple who walked like every step took them closer to the grave. Finally they got out of the way, and Dad appeared. He stood on the top step a moment, pale and thin, the last person off. The porter set his bags on the ground, and Dad stepped down and looked around like he wasn’t too sure where he was.
We ran to him yelling, “Dad! Dad! Here we are.”
I thought he’d throw his arms around us. Instead, he put his left arm out straight and laid his hand on my shoulder. The others stopped dead in their tracks, puzzled by this strange behavior. He extended his left hand to each of us in turn and shook our hands. That’s when I noticed that his right sleeve was pinned up.
Eddie said, “Dad, your arm.”
“Gone.” It was the first word he had uttered to us since he went away.
Our aunt and uncle came up to him all smiles.
“Lyle. Hazel.” He nodded soberly to them and extended his hand to Uncle Lyle for that strange handshake. I saw their faces change, their smiles fold up and disappear when they noticed his sleeve.
“My God, Cal. We…we didn’t know about…” Uncle Lyle’s words trailed off. “You should have told us.”
“It got infected.”
Aunt Hazel hesitated a sad minute while she took it in. Finally she reached up and kissed his cheek. “I’m so sorry, Cal. I’m just glad you’re home.”
I stared stunned at Dad’s sleeve. I wondered what was inside. He looked so white and strange, his hair cut off short. I’d never seen him so serious. Uncle Lyle said, “Get his bags, boys,” and motioned for us to leave. Gabe and Eddie raced to grab them, and we headed for the pickup, no one saying a word. I felt like somebody had hit me in the stomach, and I’d gone all hollow and empty inside. I couldn’t figure it out. Dad’s arm was gone, and it seemed like he didn’t care about us anymore.
Once more we got into the truck. Dad rode in the cab with our aunt and uncle. We crowded together and peered through the window. I guess we just wanted to look at him, to see if he was talking to them, and to imagine what he was saying. But we couldn’t tell much.
When we got home, Gram and Granddad greeted us full of smiles and big hellos, but that changed fast when they saw our serious faces and Dad’s arm. Aunt Hazel took Gram aside and whispered to her, and then she helped lay out fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, tender new lettuce dressed with cream and sugar, and rhubarb custard pie, always Dad’s favorite.
Folks tried to talk, but their sentences came out in jerky lumps. Sometimes there were several minutes of silence. They mentioned others from Richmond who were in the army, how the war was going, the weather, crops, anything they could think of, but Dad just sat eating his food with his left hand.
Polly sat next to him. She looked up at him, grinning. “I’m in seventh grade now, Dad.” He just nodded. She flushed and stared at her plate.
Gram said, “Well, Cal. Do you have any idea what you are going to do now?”
He looked up from his food and said, “Maybe I’ll try to find a job, one a cripple can handle, I guess.”
“Do you still have your cut-off arm, Dad?” I blurted out without thinking. Eddie poked my ribs hard.
Dad glared at me. After a long minute he said, “No. Of course not. Why would I?”
My face heated up and my mouth went dry.
He said, “I expect it got dumped onto a pile of body parts with all the others that got shot up.”
I could feel everyone around the table squirm and go silent. I hated myself for asking such a stupid question. I thought he was done talking, but he went on.
“They put the whole mess into a hole in the ground, and they burned them.” He shuddered, laid his fork down and put his hand on his knee.
Gram jumped up and said, “Polly, help me clear the table. Harry, why don’t you show your brothers your bike?”
We stood up and started to go outside. Dad stood too. He reached in his pocket, and silently handed Gram a hundred-dollar bill. I just knew, when I saw it happen, that he was going to leave again, and he wasn’t going to take me with him. Sure enough, he went outside and got into the truck. We boys went to the shed, but grand as my bicycle was, nobody said much.
“What’s going on? What’s going to happen?” I asked Eddie.
“I don’t know.”
“He’s so quiet,” Gabe said.
We stared at my bike. “It looks great,” Ty said. But none of them even felt like riding it. My brothers soon followed Dad to the truck. Aunt Hazel and Uncle Lyle said their goodbyes, and I stood with Gram and Polly and watched them drive away.
“Gram, what’s the matter with him?” I asked. “Why is he acting so strange? I didn’t get to show him my bike. Why couldn’t we go with him? He didn’t even say goodbye.” The tears started and I couldn’t make them stop.
Polly stood sniffling, her eyes still bugged out from the dreadfulness of it all. “Why doesn’t he like us anymore?”
Gram said, “Listen, kids. I think your dad is just plain shell-shocked. He lost his arm and he isn’t over it yet. He’s going to stay with your aunt and uncle for a while ‘cause he needs to rest. Then maybe he’ll seem like himself again.”
“But I want to see him. We could take care of him. I want him to get us a house,” I cried.
MONTHS WENT BY and finally a year, but Dad didn’t get it sorted out. We never got a house, and Polly and I didn’t see him much. I was sick inside for a long time because I wanted him so much. I’d always daydreamed about my mother, imagining her hugging me and telling me I was a fine boy, but I could let go of that because I had a father. Now I didn’t have him either. While he was overseas, I’d told myself everything would be all right when he got back, but nothing was right, and I didn’t know what to do. I longed more than anything for my family. Those feelings of being alone and abandoned are probably the reason I wanted kids and in-laws and all the rest when I got older. I imagined big holiday celebrations and birthday parties with aunts and uncles and cousins to make up for all the lonely times I had as a child. Sometimes the kids at school asked me if I was an orphan. That made me so mad that one time I socked Billy Snyder in the eye. I was mad at my dad too. Why didn’t he act right? Why didn’t he take care of us?
Mrs. Sawyer hauled me in after school for that business with Billy, but she seemed to know how I felt. “Your dad was your hero, wasn’t he, Harry?”
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br /> I nodded. “He used to be. Before the war.”
“You’ll have to be extra strong, Harry, until he gets over his shell shock.”
She was right. Dad had been my hero, and now I didn’t have him anymore. I just wanted him to be like he used to be. I imagined sitting beside him and having him put his good arm around me and telling me things I needed to know. It didn’t matter if he was missing an arm. I thought about him every night when I went to bed and tried my darnedest to stop feeling bad about him. I had to make myself stop thinking about him. It was hard, but I got so I could almost do it. Except that when I least expected it, he would pop into my head, and the hurt would start all over again. It took me a long time to realize that things weren’t going to work out the way I wanted, and that I was going to have to grow up and live my life without him.
Dad stayed on with our uncle and aunt, so Polly and I remained at Gram’s house in Richmond. As a fifth-grader, I moved into the schoolroom with the older students. Polly was in the eighth grade. I had friends at school, but still I was lonely a lot. I was glad we had Buster, a big, brown fellow with those soft black ears. He followed me everywhere. I loved him so much; sometimes he seemed like the best friend I had.
A STRANGE THING happened that year. I don’t know how it started, but I found myself noticing girls. I’d never liked girls at all, and still didn’t, but I began to pay some attention. Polly had gotten tits and her chest pushed out. At first she seemed embarrassed; then I think she started to feel a little proud. She’d sashay up the aisle to the blackboard or the teacher’s desk, and the boys would grin and poke each other. I didn’t like that much, but I noticed some of the other girls were changing too. I looked at them plenty, but didn’t say a word, not even to my buddies.