Delinquency Report (2 page)

“We have ways,” she said, and I thought I saw a twinkle in her otherwise accusing eyes.

Jimmy had ratted to his mother! I vowed to get even. But at the moment I had more important issues to deal with.

“Could you just give me a spanking instead?” I asked. But she had already left the room.

In light of my situation, I expected little in the way of gifts that Christmas. So I was pleasantly surprised when I awoke to find the BB gun I had asked for under the tree. Furthermore, the Roy Rogers cowboy boots were sitting next to it. I vowed then and there to become a better person. Considering the person I had been up to that point, it was a vow that could easily be kept. I had learned the value of honesty and forthrightness. Besides, my mother was a woman of her word and I had no desire to test her resolve.

Several years ago I revisited my old hometown. Not much had changed. Main Street looked the same. Woolworth’s was gone, replaced by a fast food joint. But Svensen’s grocery was still there, looking much the same as it did in 1941. The semicircular window over the front door looked out over the porch. A fresh coat of paint, the same color as the old, covered the frame building. I fully expected Svensen’s lame old dog to be curled up under the metal table by the door.

I walked up the same brick steps that I had run down with the stolen apple years before. With Olive Jameson’s cries still ringing in my ears, I pushed through the front door, slightly disappointed not to hear the tinkle of the bell that once had announced the arrival of a customer. Inside, the counter had been replaced and the shelves were now open to the shoppers. A scanner and computerized cash register sat where the old hand-operated one had been. The apple barrel, of course, was gone. But the apples were still there, piled high in a bin in the produce section. I eyed them longingly, then looked away. Let’s not start that again.

A man was stocking shelves in the far corner. I approached him.

“Are you the owner?”

He peered at me over half glasses, a trace of caution on his face. Strangers were rare in town.

“I am,” he said finally.

“Any relation to Lars and Ingrid Svensen?”

“I’m their grandson. Did you know them?”

I nodded. Taking out my wallet, I extracted a twenty dollar bill and handed it to him. He looked at me questioningly.

“Take it,” I said pressing it in his hand.

He looked from me to the twenty and back again.

“What’s this for?” he asked.

I handed him a list and turned to go.

He started reading out loud. “Ten apples. Three ginger...what does this mean?”

“Just settling an old debt,” I said.

I left him staring at the list and scratching his head. At the top of the stairs I looked out over the street into the town square. The chirping of the birds reached my ears in a song I had never heard before. The fresh air held the sweetest fragrance I had ever known. There was a bounce in my step as I walked to my car. Taking one last look at Svensen’s General Store, I started the engine and drove away.

The surviving member of the Archie and Jug gang was free at last.

And for that, thanks Mom. I owe you.