Little Klein (4 page)

“He’s going to look like a sissy dog with the painted side facing out,” Matthew argued.

“Luke’s right,” said Mark. “Red would look better on the outside. Turn it around.”

Matthew’s face flushed. His younger brothers were not supposed to disagree with him. He stood up. He tried again. “Inside.”

“Outside.”

“Inside,” Little Klein called.

“Clamp it!” all three Bigs shouted up at him, and then the shoving began. Shoving led to tripping, which led to a hearty wrestle with Little Klein cheering on whoever was on top at the moment and LeRoy barking furiously.

“Nail!” screamed Luke. He held up his arm, a nail protruding from his meaty biceps. LeRoy bounded to the injured boy, only to be swatted away.

“I win!” shouted Mark, who happened to be on top, injury being the automatic end to any match.

“Oh no,” said Matthew, “I had you in a headlock. Little Klein, you call it.”

“Well,” said Little Klein, enjoying his moment of attention, “it depends . . .”

Luke yanked the nail from his arm and held his shirt over the bleeding part. “Ma!” he called, heading inside. “Need a bandage here.”

“You see,” Little Klein continued, “Mark
was
on top, but then Matthew got him in a headlock, and technically —”

“Just call it, Little Klein!” Matthew growled.

“LeRoy, you’re with me, right?” Little Klein coaxed, nodding to LeRoy, who yapped back at him.

“Little Klein!” Matthew stomped toward him.

“Mark,” ruled Little Klein quickly.

“Man alive!” Mark exclaimed. “I beat Matthew!” He held out his hand to Matthew. “Shake?” But Matthew had already turned back to his hammer.

Little Klein had taken one board when the trunk was disassembled. It was the one that read K
lein 1858.
Now that the house was nearly complete, he retrieved it from its hiding place behind the tree.

“You forgot something,” he said. The brothers looked at the doghouse and back at Little Klein.

“Well. What should we do with this?” Little Klein displayed his find.

“We don’t need it,” said Matthew.

“Let’s put it over the door.” Mark took the board from Little Klein. “Or maybe not. It’s bad enough to give the poor dog a people name like LeRoy. Dogs are not supposed to have last names.”

“Aw,” said Luke, returning with his arm patched up. “I like it over the door. It’ll make it look like a real house.”

“We could use one more board for the ceiling, I guess,” said Matthew. “Just put it on inside out. He can read to himself.”

Luke grumbled but laid the board across a hole while Mark whapped a nail in either end.

The boys stood back and studied their work. They looked at one another but shared a rare moment of silence.

Mother Klein came out to inspect. “Well,” she said, “it is house shaped and there is a door . . . . Is this the door?”

“Go on, LeRoy, try it out,” said Little Klein, nudging LeRoy, who backed away, whimpering.

“What is everyone looking all long faced for?” said Luke at last. He stepped over to the structure. “This is a good sturdy house for LeRoy. Just because it won’t win any beauty contests . . .” He leaned against the house, and with a slow creak, the whole shack leaned, too, then crackled, splintered, and crashed to the ground.

“Aw!” moaned Matthew.

“Shucks!” cried Mark and Little Klein.

“Nail!” called Luke from the wreckage, holding up his unbandaged arm.

LeRoy yapped and jumped all over Luke, trying to lick him while the Bigs helped Luke up and Mother Klein produced the iodine and bandages once again.

“Now can he sleep inside?” Little Klein implored.

“Now we start over,” Mark replied.

“Start over?” groaned Matthew and Luke.

“It’s wrecked,” said Little Klein.

“We just need more stuff,” insisted Mark, “more boards, some shingles for the roof. I made that birdhouse for Ma last year. I know more about building than you numbskulls. If you’d just listen to me —”

“Listen to you?” cried Matthew, lunging toward Mark. Luke grabbed Mark and hauled him to the ground.

“Ow!” Luke groaned. “My arms!”

“Matthew,” Mother Klein broke in, ending the hubbub, “go get a dollar out of my purse. Take your brothers down to Wedge Lumber and see what you can get for it. Ask Mr. Wedge if he has any scraps out back, mismatched shingles and whatnot. Take the wagon and bring back only as much as you can haul. Any change comes back to me.”

Mr. Wedge had gone to school with Stanley Klein and was disappointed to hear that Stanley wasn’t around to teach his boys basic building skills. He would not take their money for a wagonload of scrap lumber and some shingles, but he did want the boys to learn how to do the job right.

“You know my boy Richard?” he asked, and they did. Rich Wedge was the only boy to have given Matthew a black eye. This earned him great respect among the Klein Boys.

Mr. Wedge opened a side door and hollered, “Richard! Come on in here!” He turned back to the Kleins as Rich ran in. “I’ll give you the materials on the condition that Rich here comes along to supervise. Be apprentices this time, then we’ll see about having you come back as paying customers. Deal?”

“I did sketch a building plan,” Mark said quietly, but Matthew elbowed him.

“Deal,” echoed the Kleins.

After a large lunch and a wrestle in the backyard, Rich and the Bigs laid out their supplies and started again. They found they liked the noise and industry of saws and hammers and the admiring remarks of Misses Lucy McCrea and Janet Wallace passing by. The Bigs were known for their pranks, and the potential for adding another dimension to their reputation was enticing.

“Yes, LeRoy, old boy,” said Matthew. “You’re going to be living in a palace.”

Little Klein was in charge of managing the supplies and staying clear of swinging hammers. He soon grew bored. “I’d still rather have a tree house,” he said, “and LeRoy can sleep in my bed.”

For his part, LeRoy sauntered off for a late afternoon nap by the river. When he returned, the final nails were being hammered into his structure and this time K
lein 1858
appeared just above the door.

Long after moonrise LeRoy barked at the cooling air. Little Klein climbed out of bed and went outside to LeRoy. He sat on the ground in front of the dog’s house and called him out. LeRoy laid his head on Little’s lap.

“Look at all this yard, LeRoy. We could be growing things. Digging and planting and growing. Corn, like Farmer Filmore. You want to be a farm dog, huh? You’d like corn, wouldn’t you, boy?” Little Klein scratched LeRoy’s ears. “And potatoes for mashed potatoes. And pumpkins. It’s not a very big yard, LeRoy, but we could do it. Couldn’t we, boy? Couldn’t we? I’m not too small for growing things, am I? Think about it, LeRoy. We could sell our harvest to Tim and Tom’s Market. We’d be rich!”

LeRoy howled his agreement, woofed his delight with the moon, his yard, his boy.

“Go back to sleep, LeRoy, and quit barking at the stars. They are not coming down no matter how much you beg.”

Little Klein went back inside and slept soundly until morning.

Everyone was sitting at the table when he padded out to the kitchen. Mother sat down, too.

“Can I plant some things in the backyard?” he asked.

“Gardens are for sissies,” mumbled Luke through his cereal.

“Corn is not —” Little started but then paused when Mother Klein seemed to be considering his plan.

“Hmmm . . .” she said, getting up to turn off the teakettle, “I’ve been thinking about gardening myself. I’m glad you reminded me. I want a flower garden. Flowers to balance all the boyness around here. Cosmos, daisies, zinnias. Roses. It’s a little late to start planting, but why not? I may need a book or two and yes, roses as well. Your father will be home in two weeks and the yard should look fine. That doghouse sticks out as it is. Today’s as good as any to get started. Finish up, boys. You’re going to help me.”

“But . . .” started Little Klein, “I meant . . .” but Mother Klein was already out the door.

She took her teacup and wandered through the yard, pacing it off end to end, side to side. She looked at her square of land as a farmer does in the spring. She saw red and yellow. She saw neighbors stopping to admire. Mother Klein saw herself in a bonnet with a hoe and she saw herself at the state fair with blue ribbons and her name card,
Esther Klein,
paired proudly.

She could bring bouquets to neighbors who would invite her in for lemonade. The women who entered produce, baked goods, and such in the county fair talked all the time and even rode together to the city for the state fair judging. By the time the boys came out for instructions, Mother Klein had a plan.

“We need a ball of string and the croquet set. We need the paper off some sticks of gum and a pencil. Go round up those things, and then you’re going to the library.”

The library? Their eyes widened. They groaned.

“I don’t want to hear another word. I’ll do the dishes while you find everything.”

“But Mother, I wanted . . .” Little Klein tried again.

“Woof,” said LeRoy. “Woof.”

“You can help your brothers or dry the dishes,” said Mother Klein, distracted. Little Klein wandered off to the garage, LeRoy at his heels. What about his corn and potatoes and his pockets heavy with coins?

When the kitchen was clean, Mother Klein stood in front of her curious boys and plucked supplies one by one. First she wandered around the yard, taking long paces and randomly poking croquet hoops into the ground. Then she tied one end of the ball of string to a corner hoop and walked from hoop to hoop, tying one to another until the yard was a grid, a map of little states of different shapes and sizes.

“Don’t ask yet,” she said as she untied and retied until the map met her satisfaction. LeRoy paced the small section that surrounded his house, whimpering and afraid to cross the line.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, haven’t you ever seen string before?” Mother said. “Go on down to the river for your nap, why don’t you.” But LeRoy couldn’t get himself to step over those strings. Finally, she lifted his front legs, then his back legs, and shooed him to the alley, where LeRoy looked forlornly back at her. Where was his calm, singing mistress? Who was this scurrying woman with the sharp voice? When she didn’t answer his cries, LeRoy turned and plodded off to the river, not stopping to enjoy the ripening smells of things in decay.

Back in the yard, Mother Klein chewed on the pencil as she studied her states.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do with that dog when your father comes home,” she muttered. Then “Roses,” she finally declared, and reached for a gum wrapper. R
oses,
she wrote on the wrapper. She gently lifted the leg of a hoop and threaded the paper onto it. She walked to a long skinny state near the house.

“Cosmos,” she said. “Zinnias.” She reached for two more papers and threaded these both on one hoop. The largest state she labeled
daisies
. When mums and heliotrope had also been given statehood, she turned to the boys.

“What do you mean, ‘what we’re going to do with that dog’?” Mark asked.

“Your father’s sensitive to barking,” said Mother. “And he doesn’t like dogs and that’s that.”

“One more,” she said. “Any ideas?” The usually rambunctious boys had been stunned into near lethargy and were watching their mother from under the tree.

“Well?”

“Pickles,” said Little Klein.

“Everyone in agreement?” she asked.

“Can’t grow pickles,” scoffed Luke.

“It all starts with cucumbers,” said Mother Klein, “and cucumbers we can do.” She wrote
pickles
on the last wrapper, then stuck a croquet hoop through it and into the ground.

The most disturbing thing about the library was its lack of sound. To boys used to the continuous racket of their own company, the hush of the library was as frightening as a looming pack of boys was to the librarian. Fragrant summer air swirled in when the boys stumbled through the door. It hung around them for a moment before being absorbed by the somber book air that had lived in the library for the eternity of its existence.