Mystery at the Hot Pond

by David DeVowe

  Mrs. Johnson’s eyes bulged from her bright-red face. I knew she spoke about Lawrence Blankenshine, the one who’s always walking the roads. Folks say he was a great kid until he drank a bad brew some years back, and now he talks to poles and waves at trees. Most of the time I can’t tell what he’s saying.

  “No one would have missed them after their shift since they live together,” Mrs. Johnson continued. “How they both could have drowned is beyond me. Oh, Lord, have mercy!”

  Dad leaned hard against the wall. “It doesn’t sound like coincidence,” he contemplated. “We’ve had plenty fall in, but never a drowning.”

  “Are you suggesting someone…? Oh, heaven forbid!” Mrs. Johnson exclaimed.

  Dietrich and Gunther were log rollers at the mill. After the chaser dropped logs from the train into the mill pond, one of the Stueck boys rode them on foot, pushing them from the mill pond into the hot pond with a pole. In the hot pond, the Stuecks pushed one log at a time onto the bull chain that yanked ‘em out of the water and up onto the cutting cradle. The Stuecks were good. I never saw them fall, but Gunther had wet pants a couple times. That made me try rolling logs. I was under the biting cold water in a hurry. I should have rolled in the hot pond but would have been sure to get caught by the rearing crew.

  Dad suddenly went to the other room, came back in his work clothes, and then slammed the door as he left the house.

  I didn’t sleep much then. Thinking about Dietrich and Gunther and what happened at the hot pond. It was deep in the night when Dad got home. I could make out angry words through the floor vent as Dad spoke rapidly to Mama downstairs. Dad had never sounded that way to me. I spent the rest of the night hearing tree toads and Ricky’s snoring. Neither of which knew what had just happened.

  Oscar was surprised by me being up so early the next morning. He wagged lazily and slobbered my big toe. I was sitting at the kitchen table when Dad came through.

  He sighed heavily as he sat down in his chair. “Those were some good boys,” Dad said as he stared into his cup. “A couple of real good boys . . .” his voice drifted off. Dad kissed Mama above the eye that day but his coffee went untouched. He was awfully quiet after that for nigh two weeks.

  And so the parade was different last summer. Most everyone brought their long faces. Even the county sheriff. I had only seen the sheriff once before, when INO’s bar got robbed. So having him at the parade, opposite our family, arms folded across the tight shirt over his belly, pistol on his hip; that made for a different independence. I hardly noticed the Gustaf’s red ribbon draped clear ‘round their wagon. Or Mrs. Hawthorne’s yellow hat.

  4

  A Box Called Home

  By the time MaryAnne had messed up the school year there was little talk of the Stueck brothers. Brady insisted that Dietrich fell in, hit his head, and Gunther died trying to rescue him. Nobody was going to argue with Brady Fister. Dad said that didn’t explain Gunther being found at the other end of the pond. All of Stoney Creek was split on it, but most sided with the Hawthornes who were very saddened by the tragedy at the mill. Dad said Mr. Hawthorne spared no expense with the funeral, and the sheriff recorded it as an accident.

  Seven months had passed. February dumped the kinda snow that makes winter fun. I had set four weasel traps near some of the old barns on the outer edge of Red Town. Not too far out, else I would have a long hike on snowshoes. Red Town was a bunch of houses up on the hill overlooking Stoney Creek. We called it Red Town ‘cause, except for the Hawthorne’s place, all of the houses were red. Same as the barns. Must have been all the paint they had. Checking my traps made the end of the school day that much better, even though I only had two weasels so far.

  The beginning of school was better, too—now that I figured out when to walk to school when MaryAnne wasn’t. I also kept my distance at recess. One blustery afternoon, Mrs. LeMarche let us out early. I headed straight for home and Oscar. And a shovel. The weasels could wait, ‘cause me and Oscar were going to make a fort. In no time I covered the road between the schoolhouse and the depot while covering one side of my face with a mitten to save me from the wind. Then a voice pierced through the gusts: “Shoesth! Hey, Shoesth! Wait for me!”

  No mistaking MaryAnne. I kept fighting the wind.

  “Shoesth, why didn’t you wait?” MaryAnne said as she caught up.

  “I’m not a pair of shoes,” I stated firmly, still hiding my face. “My name is Shoe.”

  “I know,” she replied.

  I pulled my mitten away to glare inside her hood.

  She looked back with a half-smile, squinted her eyes and said, “I like Shoesth better.”

  I blocked the wind and MaryAnne with my mitten again. MaryAnne was another reason Oscar was my best friend. Oscar with his long brown hair, floppy ears, and eager tail, never called me names and never talked back. When I got home, he would be happy to see me, bounding for joy at the sight of the shovel and another chance to leap at snow flying through the air. Oscar loves making forts.

  “What are you going to do when you get home?” MaryAnne pried.

  “Make a snow fort with Oscar.”

  “Oh fun! Who’s Oscar? Is he your friend?”

  “My best friend,” I answered selectively. MaryAnne had a way of asking more than one question at a time. I simply picked the one I wanted.

  “How come I don’t know him?” she pondered, while I waited for the next question. “Can I help?”

  MaryAnne wasn’t making many friends I guessed. That’s why she kept after me. She began to wear on me like Ernie standing in the corner during class. Eventually I felt sorry for him, and now I felt sorry for her. I was sure Oscar wouldn’t mind. And who would know, in a blizzard like this, that a girl helped dig a fort?

  “Yeah,” I said.

  That’s all she needed. “Oh good! I know your house. I’ll run home to tell Dad and I’ll be back in a jiffy!”

  She wasn’t kiddin’. I was still shoveling the walk, with Oscar leaping at every toss, when MaryAnne came around the corner. I dangled the garden shovel at her before she got too close. It was the only other shovel we had. One for snow. One for dirt. I found it hanging in the shed with dirt froze on it from digging spuds last fall. “We’re going to dig a hole in that bank right there,” I instructed.

  I finished shoveling the walk, then went over to MaryAnne to help. MaryAnne hadn’t done much. I paused for emphasis, looking at the snowbank while scratching Oscar’s ear.

  “Where’s Oscar?” MaryAnne asked as she scraped the snowbank with her shovel.

  I looked down at my dog, pressing his head into the side of my leg.

  “Oscar is a dog!?”

  “Yup, he’s a dog all right.”

  MaryAnne shook her head and frowned. “You told me he was your friend.”

  “My best friend.”

  MaryAnne thought for a moment as she scowled at Oscar. “I have a question.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I murmured as I heaved on a large block of snow.

  “Why is your name Shoe? Why don’t they call you Arthur—that’s your real name?”

  MaryAnne always pried, wanting to know personal stuff—like my name. Why couldn’t she just leave well enough alone—like folks do at Stoney Creek? Oscar panted puffs of steam in my eyes while I bent over on the next scoop. “You really want to know?” I asked, figuring it to be a dumb question.

  “Yes, I do. Shoe is a funny name. I mean not funny-funny, actually I like it, but I want to know how you got a name like that.”

  I contemplated what I should tell her. “Well . . . I was little when I was born,” I started carefully. “Ma said I came too early and just fit into the palm of Doc’s hand. He said I’d be dead by morning. Mama didn’t believe it, so she kept me warm all night. The next day I was still livin’. After a time, Mama put me in an old shoe box on the floor beside the wood stove where it was warm. Mama said that was my home for three weeks. She did her chores and cooking and things, and f
ed me every hour, set on proving the doctor wrong. Well, she done it. And here I am, smaller than most, but bigger than the box Mama nursed me in. Someone started callin’ me Shoe and the name stuck.” MaryAnne looked at me like I just dropped in from Wisconsin. “Now are you going to shovel or just stand there with eyes like saucers?” I demanded, attempting to jar her from her stupor.

  “Wow,” MaryAnne sighed as she gazed into a white blanket of snow. “God must have a special plan for you, Shoesth. You don’t mind that I call you Shoesth, do you? I mean, God must have a very big plan for you to be living. He has a reason for all of us, you know. Do you know what yours is yet?”

  I didn’t find any question to answer in that. Insisting on calling me Shoes. Asking about God. Instead, I ventured one back at her, “Why did you come to Stoney Creek smack in the middle of the school year?”

  “Oh, because my dad got transferred,” MaryAnne offered without hesitation. “His new job was here and it started right after Christmas. We move around a lot. I don’t mind, I guess. Then I get to meet new people—like you.”

  “My dad has stacked lumber at the mill ever since I can remember. What’s your dad do that you have to move all the time?” I wondered out loud.

  MaryAnne actually started digging in the bank and continued her conversation. “He has a paperwork job doing insurance or something. I don’t know exactly,” she said, and then stopped shoveling again to look back at me. “But it sounds really boring!” she emphasized with one eyebrow.

  Suddenly a call came down the alley beyond the woodshed, “MaryAnne! MaryAnne!”

  “Oh, it’s Daddy,” said MaryAnne with a hint of disappointment. “Must be time to be fixing supper.” MaryAnne dropped the shovel where she stood, then turned to run off.

  “About my name,” I interjected.

  “Gotta go! See you tomorrow, Shoesth!”

  5

  The Worst Day of My Life

  The wind howled well into the night, piling snow to the screen on the door. I could barely push it open to make my way out to the privy the next morning. Ricky trudged closely behind in the narrow cut I had made through the snow.

  The sun was rising and Mama was stoking a fire in the range when we kicked off our boots for breakfast. “Good morning, boys. Wash your hands,” she said as she always did when we came in. “Shoe, looks like you’ve got a lot of shoveling to do before school this morning.”

  Mama was sure to remind me what I knew I should do. She reveled in morning words.

  “How was your visit with the DuPree girl yesterday?” Mama asked with a tinge of expectation.

  “It wasn’t a visit, Mama. MaryAnne just wanted to build a snow fort,” I said, hoping to clear that up before it went any further.

  “She seems like a nice girl,” said Mama. “I saw her mother again yesterday. We had a nice visit. She’s very sophisticated but very friendly, too. Shoe, be sure to treat her little girl like a lady, okay?”

  “Yes, Ma,” I said. Mama often reminded me to treat girls like a lady. Dad did that for Mama most of the time, and I guess Mama figured all girls should have the same treatment.

  I wolfed down pancakes, then did my shoveling. Steam rose from the front of my open jacket as I trudged a fresh trail all the way to school. The plow hadn’t gotten out yet. But like Dad always said, “The wagon’s stuck now—but legs never need a plow.” My eyes were nearly swelled shut by the time I got to the schoolhouse on account of squinting at the bright white blanketing everything. When I slumped into my desk I was still stewing that MaryAnne thought she owned the privilege of giving me a new name.

  MaryAnne lighted on her seat a moment later but not before whispering, “Good morning, Shoesth.”

  I ignored her. It wasn’t easy with her blocking my view. MaryAnne’s deep-red braids were as branches gripping both sides of her head. The hair bound together like the trunk of a cedar at the back of her neck, then reached down past the front edge of my desk.

  Reminded me of the tree I built my fort in down at the creek—which I planned on finishing once the snow melted. Just a few more slabs from the mill for a roof and a good ladder. Two of the steps broke last spring before I ran out of no mosquitoes. The best time for a tree fort is when there’s no mosquitoes. That’s when I would make me a real ladder.

  Teacher rustled papers up front as I scraped around my desk cubby for something to write with. I pulled out my sharpest yellow #2 when a couple of pencil stubs dropped to the floor by my boot. I had ground them down to where they were too short to use. Good little ladder rungs, I imagined as I gathered them off the floor. Three pencils, three steps on the ladder, I surmised, being careful not to let anyone see the smirk taking hold of my face.

  Sliding a pencil through MaryAnne’s thick braid of hair was easier than I thought. Perhaps it was the soap that made her hair so slippery. I slowly wiggled the shortest pencil in near the bottom. She hadn’t noticed. The second went toward the middle, easier than the first. My newest pencil, being the longest, had to be the last step, in the thick part.

  Just as I snuck it in about halfway teacher said, “MaryAnne, please come pass out paper for this morning’s assignment.”

  MaryAnne moved to attention so I had to let go. The pencil held, hanging precariously out the side of her braid like a broken step to my fort. I froze, wishing it wouldn’t fall, and wishing that no one would notice my pencils making their way to the front of the room. As MaryAnne passed the row near teacher’s desk, a couple of girls snickered near me. I tensed, hoping MaryAnne hadn’t heard.

  Then Buffalo Alice announced the spectacle to all, “NICE HAIR, missy! What do you call that? Jacob’s ladder?”

  Buffalo Alice was probably jealous. Her coarse brown hair doubled as baling wire in a pinch. The mass was glued down on both sides with something, then gathered at the back into a permanent wedge. It was clear that Mrs. Hawthorne kept it short for one less problem.

  At the sound of Buffalo’s attack, MaryAnne twirled to see what was the matter, sending my good pencil through the air like an arrow hunting for its mark. That’s when time stopped.

  I wished the day had never started. MaryAnne was about to find out what was wrong with her braid. Buffalo Alice would be in trouble for blurting out in class. Everyone would know whose pencils had adorned MaryAnne’s hair. And I would be dead. It would have been better if I had spent the night in my snow fort and froze to death. But I never had that kinda luck.

  The sharp tip of my best pencil found its mark on Buffalo Alice’s forehead. It seemed to stick for a moment before Buffalo slapped her face as to bring death to a mosquito. She rose with such ferocity that her desk came with her. (Buffalo had to carefully slide sideways out of her seat if she didn’t want her desk to follow.) But this time, all four iron legs left the floor as she swung wildly at the air.

  “How dare you make a mockery of me!” she yelled.

  Buffalo Alice couldn’t hold herself and the desk up for more than a moment. The whole assembly crashed down with such force that both windows rattled. Boys were laughing. Girls were stunned. MaryAnne had a look of horror on her face as Buffalo, now able to slide out of her seat, stood up in the aisle.

  “Go back to where you came from, Shorty!” Buffalo said. “You don’t belong here!”

  The entire class had gone stone silent, waiting for the opening round. Only Ernie had his head down, pretending nothing was in play. It was the only way Ernie could keep from landing in the corner.

  By this time Mrs. LeMarche had intercepted the space between MaryAnne and Buffalo. “Sit back down, Alice!” she said.

  Buffalo didn’t obey. I could see from here that her face had turned as red as the Hawthorne’s car.

  Mrs. LeMarche twirled her beads, cinching them into a knot. She stood her ground. I watched the lump on her throat slide down as she swallowed hard. “I said sit down, young lady.”

  Buffalo Alice stomped one foot then glared past teacher to MaryAnne. “You haven’t heard the last of
this from me!” she snarled. Then she wedged herself back into her desk.

  Teacher twisted her necklace faster now, scanning the room. “Everyone, get out your readers and read silently from where we left off yesterday.”

  Some of us did. Most sat stunned. I couldn’t move if I’d wanted.

  Teacher turned toward MaryAnne for the cross-examination. “Who did this to your hair?” she asked, twirling her beads now with mighty force.

  MaryAnne glanced toward me. I opened my eyes wide, shaking my head ever so slightly.

  “I don’t know, ma’am,” MaryAnne said politely.

  Teacher’s necklace suddenly burst. White beads pinged the floor, breaking the silence, bouncing in every direction.

  “Oh, my!” teacher exclaimed.

  In seconds, kids were down on their knees chasing treasure rolling by at top speed. Some of the beads had made their way back to me. There was a commotion not seen in class since the first school began. Someone yelled, “I got five!” Others were shouting out their loot, laughing in great fun.

  Buffalo Alice rose and stormed out the door. As she passed my desk I caught a glimpse of a peculiar black dot on her forehead, just off center.

  Teacher looked as if she might cry. Then she marched straight back to me, grabbed me by the ear, and without a word dragged me directly to the principal’s office. He wasn’t there so I had some time to nurse my ear before the sentence was handed down.

  Only a few minutes passed when he returned. “Arthur, I’ve heard all of what happened in Mrs. LeMarche’s class this morning,” he said. “It seems you’ve been in trouble more than once. I want you to learn a lesson. You are suspended from school for the next two weeks. That will give you time to think about how you might want to behave when you return.”

  Suspended! That was a word only heard of in stories or when we talked about Terry Nuchols’ one day in class. Principal let me go. “Be back here in two weeks, Mr. Makinen,” he said.