Mr. Was (11 page)

I stopped shoveling and stuck the pitchfork in the wheelbarrow full of dung, conscious of my grimy overalls with the rolled-up cuffs and one broken suspender. I wiped my forehead with my sleeve.

“It's Jack the shit shoveler,” I said. “How you doing?”

“I'm doing great.” He looked around the barn like he'd never seen one before. “First time I ever seen you you wasn't outside getting chased.”

I shrugged.

“So where you been?”

“Just wandering,” I said.

Scud hiked himself up onto the railing of a stall. The cow inside snorted and shuffled. “Andie tells me the old man's really got you bustin' your butt here. Looks like she told me right.”

“I'm helping him out, just till his hand gets better.”

“Long as he's got you to do his work for him, he ain't gonna get better.”

“Maybe.” There was some tension between us. On my side, I knew where it was coming from. I'd been
thinking about Andie pretty much twenty-four hours a day, and I'd been trying not to think about Scud.

He dug in a pocket of his clean blue cotton shirt and pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes. “You want one?”

“No thanks. Those things can give you lung cancer.”

Scud gave me a puzzled look. “What's that?”

“Lung cancer. You get it and you die.”

He lit up with a wooden match, blew a stream of blue smoke at me. “You're nuts, you know that?”

“So I'm nuts. That cigarette is still gonna kill you.”

“I suppose you're gonna tell me that in the future nobody smokes.”

My guard went up. “What do you mean?”

“You said you were from the future.”

“I was kidding.”

Scud took a drag off his Lucky. “I knew that,” he said.

Scud showed up a couple times a week, usually around mealtimes, usually dressed up like he had someplace important to be. He was there to see Andie, of course, but he liked to take a few minutes to watch me work. I think he was worried about me and Andie being around each other so much.

One day, while Scud was watching me replace a broken board on the side of the barn, he came right out with it. “So what do you think about Andie?” he asked.

“She's okay.” I was working with a handful of rusty, bent nails. Old man Murphy said new nails were too expensive, so I was trying to straighten out the old nails using a hammer and a brick.

“Me and her, we're going to get married as soon as she's done with school.”

“You mentioned.” I was holding a nail with one hand against the brick. You had to get the nail in just the right position, then give it a good smack on the side. With a little luck, it would straighten out just good enough so it would pound into a board.

“Just wanted to make sure you knew. You know?”

I'd got the nail nearly straight, took one more hard swing at it, and smashed the tip of my finger. I dropped the hammer, jumped up, and howled.

Scud started laughing. That did it. I tackled him, and we both tumbled into the muddy track that led from the barn out into the pasture where the cattle grazed. We rolled over each other a couple times, then I got on top and pinned him to the ground. His wool coat and most of the rest of him was covered with mud.

“You think it's funny?” My finger was throbbing.

“Jeez, Jack, would'ja take it easy?”

“It's not funny.”

“Okay, okay, it's not funny. Get off me, would'ja?” He had a big glob of muck stuck to his forehead. All of a sudden I saw what we must've looked like, two guys rolling around in the muck and cow pie. I tried to stand up, slipped in the mud, and went down
again, landing hard on my butt. Scud started laughing, and the glob of mud on his forehead rolled down his face onto his chest. That set us both off. When the old man came around the corner of the barn, we were both laughing so hard I was afraid I was going to pee in my pants. Not that it would have made any difference at that point. Old man Murphy just shook his head, turned, and walked away.

For some reason, both Scud and I thought that was about the funniest thing we'd ever seen.

That was the thing about Scud. He could be a real jerk, but he knew how to have a good time.

A few days after the mud incident, I was getting ready to clean out some of the stalls when Scud showed up in a corn-colored trench coat and a wide-brimmed felt hat with a feather stuck in the band. I invited him to help me out.

“No thanks,” he said. “I don't do manual labor.”

I made a move like I was going to tackle him. He backed away, saying, “New coat! New coat!”

We had a laugh over that.

Scud said, “Me and Andie, we're driving into Red Wing tonight to see an Abbott and Costello movie.”

“That's nice.”

“You got thirty cents, you can come along.”

I had about twenty dollars in 1990s money, but here in 19411 couldn't spend a dime of it without getting arrested. I figured I could get some money from old man Murphy, since he owed me for the time I'd
worked, but the idea of being a third wheel on Scud and Andie's date didn't appeal to me. I was about to tell him no thanks when I all of a sudden had this image of the two of them sitting in the back row of the theater, making out like crazy. If I was there, they'd have to behave themselves.

“Sure,” I said. “That sounds okay.”

“Show's at seven. I'll pick you up around six.” He gave my grimy overalls a critical look. “You got something besides that you can wear?”

“Don't worry about it,” I said. “I'll get out my tuxedo.”

Later I found out the only reason he'd invited me was that the old man wouldn't let Andie go to the movies with just Scud. I was supposed to be their chaperone. I think if her father had thought he could get away with it, he'd have forbidden Andie to see Scud at all. But the old man was smart enough to know that if he did that, Andie would be sneaking out every chance she got.

Scud showed up a few minutes after six. Andie and I were all ready to go, but Mr. Murphy was still finishing his dessert. Scud pulled his Ford right up to the front porch and leaned on his horn. Andie got up and started for the door.

Mr. Murphy looked up from his pie and said, “Hold it right there, girl. You wait for him to come knocking, as is proper.”

Andie rolled her eyes at me, but came back and sat at the table.

It took Scud a good two minutes to figure it out, but finally we heard his footsteps on the porch and his knock on the door.

Mr. Murphy pointed his fork at me, then at the door. I went to answer it.

Scud was decked out in his new coat, a bright red scarf, and his felt hat. He looked like the Shadow, only with blue eyes and that pimple on his chin.

Andie wore a plain green dress. An ugly dress, I thought, but somehow it made her more beautiful than ever, her red hair shiny and full, her green eyes dancing with energy.

I had on a clean pair of overalls, my Nikes, and my nylon parka. Scud gave me a critical once-over. “Where'd you get those shoes?”

“Chicago,” I said. It had been enough of an explanation for old man Murphy.

“They look like clown shoes,” he said.

“They walk just fine.”

“Let's go!” Andie said. “We don't want to be late.”

“Movie don't start till seven,” said Mr. Murphy.

“We want to get the good seats,” Scud said. He picked Andie's often-mended coat from the hanger behind the door and held it open for her.

Mr. Murphy glared at him, then said to Andie, “You be home by eleven, girl.” He turned to me. “You make sure,” he said.

We all promised to be good, then it was out the door and into Scud's Ford, the three of us crowded into the front seat with Andie in the middle. I liked
the feel of that, Andie's hip pressed against mine. But she was leaning more toward Scud. I just set my jaw and tried not to think about it.

On the way to Red Wing we stopped at a roadhouse where Scud tried to buy some beer. While Scud was in the roadhouse making a fool of himself, Andie and I got a chance to talk.

“I thought we were just going to a movie,” I said.

Andie grinned at me. Her coat was old and worn, but the way that collar framed her face, especially sitting outside the beer joint with the red and white lights from the entryway lighting up her features, it was a beautiful thing to see. Her eyes, green by daylight, now looked as dark and deep and thick as pools of molasses.

“He's just showin' off,” she said. “Trying to impress you.”

“How do you know he's not trying to impress
your?
”

“Scud knows he's not gonna impress me. Anyways, he doesn't have to. We known each other a long time.” I thought I detected a touch of regret in her voice, but it might have been my imagination.

She went on, “They won't sell him any beer in there anyways. I could've told him that, on account of my cousin Teddy works the bar and he knows Scud's not of age. But it doesn't pay to argue with Scud. You get to know him better, you'll find that out.” She wrinkled her nose. “But one thing for sure, he isn't boring.”

Andie was right on all counts. Scud wasn't in the
roadhouse two minutes before they kicked him out. He opened the door and got behind the wheel, saying, “Bunch of country jerks.” I didn't say anything to Scud, but I was glad he hadn't gotten the beer. I didn't want to be drinking beer, not after seeing what it did to my father, and I didn't want to be riding around in a car being driven by a drunken Scud. I got the impression that Andie wasn't too disappointed, either.

So we got to the Metro theater in Red Wing in plenty of time to buy a couple boxes of popcorn for a nickel each and grab the “good seats” which, according to Andie, were the ones in the front row. She said she liked to fill her eyes up with the movie and nothing else. The lights went down a few seconds after we took our seats, Andie sitting between me and Scud, and the newsreel started up.

Movie theaters don't have newsreels anymore, not since television got started. But back then, just about any movie you went to would start out with a newsreel, a five-minute movie about something that was happening in the world. This one was about the war in Europe. It showed German tanks rolling across Eastern Europe, columns of war prisoners, fleets of destroyers in the North Sea, soldiers firing mortars, all with this hokey-sounding drum music in the background and an announcer with a super-deep voice going on about “Hitler's war machine” and “courageous British defenders.” One clip showed the president, Franklin Roosevelt, saying that the United
States would not be drawn into needless conflict. Knowing as I did that the United States would soon be in the thick of it, I could feel the hair standing up on the back of my neck.

Right about then, I got hit with the first piece of popcorn.

I didn't know what it was, I just felt something bounce off my head.

The newsreel ended and a cartoon came on. I noticed Andie give a little jerk, then brush at her hair. I turned around to look behind us. Two rows back, three guys about our age sat grinning at us. I smiled back at them uncertainly, thinking that they might be friends of Scud or Andie, then I recognized two of them: Harry and Hermie, the twins from Gleason's Market. The other kid, older and bigger than the twins, flicked another kernel at me but missed. Andie put her hand on my wrist. “Ignore them, Jack,” she whispered.

Scud leaned over. “What's going on?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Andie said. “Watch the movie.”

A piece of popcorn bounced off her head and fell onto her lap. Scud looked back at the popcorn throwers and started to get up. Andie grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. “Don't start anything, Scud. Please! The movie's starting. Hush up and watch it!”

So we watched the movie. Every few minutes a popcorn kernel would fall among us. Each time that happened, Andie would give my hand a squeeze. It wasn't a bad trade-off, but I sure wasn't able to concentrate
on the movie, which was pretty silly, anyway. I had never seen an Abbott and Costello movie before, and I wasn't sure I ever wanted to see another one. After a while, the popcorn bombardment stopped, either because they got tired of throwing the kernels, or because they ran out of popcorn. A little later, Scud whispered something to Andie, got up, and left the theater.

“Where's he going?” I whispered.

“He says he thinks he left the headlights on,” Andie whispered back, her lips only inches from my ear. She smelled of popcorn and Ivory soap.

I let my eyes watch the movie, but my mind was completely focused on my left arm where Andie's hand was resting.

I didn't even notice when Scud returned to his seat, but later when I looked over he was there, staring up at the movie screen, a strange sort of smile pasted across his face.

I had the feeling he'd done something that was going to get us in trouble.

I was right.

A
fter the movie ended, Andie made us sit in our seats until the popcorn throwers had left the theater. Scud just smiled and sat back in his seat.

“Who was the big guy?” I asked.

“That was Henry, the older brother. I don't get along with them Gleasons so good.”

“They think Scud is stealing trade from them,” Andie said.

“You mean it was you they were throwing at?” I'd been thinking that all the popcorn throwing had something to do with me trying to buy that comic book with a 1993 quarter.

Scud explained, “They don't like me 'cause I buy stuff and sell it to folks. Like I just drove up to Minneapolis and bought three cases of canned cranberries and four cases of canned pumpkin. On account of Thanksgiving coming up, you know? I got the berries for a nickel a can, and the pie pumpkin for four and a half cents. I can sell those cans door to door in Memory for a dime a can, make myself eight bucks, just like that! People buy from old lady Gleason, it cost 'em fourteen cents. You know? Those Gleasons, they just don't like free trade.” He laughed. “They'll be up to their ears in cranberries and pie
pumpkin all the way till next fall.” It wasn't hard to see why the Gleasons didn't like him much.