The Paper Cowboy (16 page)

THE APARTMENT

The store was closed when we arrived, but Little Skinny had a key. “Dad's probably at the hospital,” he said. And he didn't have to say the rest:
because Mom's not doing so well.

The dark, empty shelves gave the store an eerie feel. Little Skinny marched right through it, heading for the stairs. I'd never seen their apartment before, but I followed him up the narrow staircase.

There was a simple living room at the top, a couch, a table and an armchair. The furniture was well-worn, but everything was neat and tidy.

“Wait here,” said Little Skinny. “I'll go get some dry clothes.”

While he was gone, I looked around. In one corner, there was a small table with a funny metal machine on top. It had a round drum and a handle.

“What's that?” I asked when Little Skinny returned.

“A mimeograph machine,” Little Skinny said, drying his hair with a towel.

“Where'd you get it?” I asked.

“The church was throwing it away,” he said. “I fixed it myself. I'm good at things like that.”

“How does it work?”

Little Skinny sighed. “You put this special sheet, it's called a stencil, in the typewriter and type out what you want to say. Then you can run off as many copies as you want. My dad writes family letters every month, and I make copies of them so he can send them to all his relatives. He lets me use the extra stencils.”

“For your stories?”

“Yeah.”

“Going to let me read one?”

“No.” But this time he said it with a smile. It was odd to think he had secrets, a whole other life, one where he wrote stories and was good at skating and could fix things.

“Ready to go?” Little Skinny asked.

“What about your wet clothes?”

“What about them?”

“Don't you need to wash them?”

He shrugged. “I'll do it when I get home.”

“I'd be afraid my mom would beat me if I left wet clothes lying around,” I said without thinking.

Little Skinny laughed.

But I wasn't joking. And I guess after a minute Little Skinny realized that, because as we were walking back down the stairs, he asked, “Your mom hit you a lot?”

I shrugged. “She always used to yell, but since Mary Lou has been in the hospital, she's . . . gotten worse.”

When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I peeked over, expecting to see pity in Little Skinny's eyes, but he just looked surprised. As if he hadn't realized I had another life too. “You always seem so confident, Tommy. Like nothing ever bothers you.”

“Ha!” I laughed, short and bitter. “Wouldn't that be nice.”

“But you do stuff,” said Little Skinny. “I've wanted to go out and steal a bunch of yo-yos more than once.” We walked back through the dark store. “I just don't have the guts.”

Was he saying he admired me? For stealing yo-yos? “Nah,” I said. “Guts are overrated.”

Little Skinny laughed, then looked embarrassed.

“We'd better get back to school,” I said.

“Yeah,” he replied.

We walked the rest of the way in silence. Then, right before we went inside, he said, “You called me Sam. Before the ice cracked.” It was almost a question.

I nodded. “Isn't that your name?”

He smiled. “Yeah, it is.”

That afternoon, I was a few minutes late leaving the building after school. I had to finish the math assignment I'd missed when I was with Sam. And I wanted to make sure I didn't run into Eddie. So by the time I made it outside, Mom was waiting by the car. She was leaning against the hood, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked like a mess. Her hair was uncombed, her dress wrinkled. Her eyes were wide and a bit unfocused, as if she'd taken one of Dr. Stanton's pills and then drunk a whole pot of coffee to stay awake. “You're late.”

“Little Skinny, I mean Sam, fell through the ice.”

“Don't lie to me.” Mom sneered.

“I'm not.”

Mom slapped me.

The sound seemed to echo across the school yard. Everyone turned to look at us. Sister Ann stood in the school doorway, watching. I thought I would be embarrassed, but maybe, like Sam, I'd just had enough.

I turned the other side of my face toward her. “Go ahead,” I said. “Slap the other side.”

She did.

Sister Ann walked up to our car then. “Is everything all right, Mrs. Wilson?” she asked, her wimple blowing in the wind.

Instantly, Mom was all smiles. “Of course, Sister Ann. Tommy was just being disrespectful.”

“I see,” said Sister Ann. She looked at me, but I didn't say a word, just got into the backseat with Pinky.

My sister climbed into my lap and gave me a big hug. “Mommy's in a bad mood.”

“I know.”

“I wet my pants this morning,” she admitted. “I'm almost five! I'm not supposed to do that.”

“It's not your fault.” But Pinky still didn't let go.

Mom got into the driver's seat, and I was surprised when Sister Ann climbed into the front beside her. Mom said, “We're ever so grateful, Sister, that you're coming to the hospital to tutor Mary Lou.”

“It's my pleasure,” Sister Ann said.

I guess Father Miskel had approved of the idea. No one had bothered to tell me.

Mom drove way too fast, skidding on the ice when she turned. No one said a word all the way to the hospital. As soon as we arrived, Sister Ann and Mom went up to see Mary Lou. They were gone a long time.

When I finally got to see Mary Lou, my sister chattered on and on, about how great it felt to do her school lessons. “Sister Ann said if I worked really, really hard, I might even be able to graduate with the other eighth graders!” She grinned. “And it's all thanks to you, Tommy!”

But it didn't feel great. It felt like everything was falling apart.

I sat in the chair next to her bed and looked out the window as I listened.

“Is something wrong?” Mary Lou asked. “You're quiet today.”

I just shook my head. I didn't know where to start.

THE COMMUNIST

Later that evening, I was in the kitchen doing the dishes. My whole body hurt from falling on the ice and I could still feel the sting on my cheeks from where Mom had slapped me, even though they weren't red anymore. I was about halfway done when Dad came in and tapped me on the shoulder. “Can I help?”

I shrugged and Dad took that as a yes. Oh, I knew he was trying to be nice, but I needed help with Mom, not with the pots and pans! Still, I washed the plates while Dad did the glasses.

“I heard Sister Ann came to tutor Mary Lou today,” he said, wiping a smudge of lipstick off a water glass. “Mom said it was your idea.”

I shrugged again.

“It was a good one, Tommy. We should have thought of it before.”

That sounded almost like a compliment. I scrubbed a bit of dried food off a plate, kind of embarrassed.

“I also heard that Eddie got into a fight at school. Something about him picking on—”

“I didn't hit anyone!” I said.

“I know,” he said. “Just making sure.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Dad!”

“Well, you sometimes act impulsively. Like you think you really are a cowboy.”

“I like cowboys.” Dad said it like there was something wrong with being one. “Cowboys are brave and strong and honest.”

“They're also reckless, vengeful and independent to a fault.” Dad sighed. “Take your idea about ‘finding the communist' and ‘clearing Mr. McKenzie's name.'”

“What about it? You defended Mr. McKenzie at the card party.”

“I like Mr. McKenzie just fine,” Dad said, “but—”

“Then why don't you want me to help him? I feel bad that I haven't!”

“Tommy, it's not—”

“I really should keep trying. That's what a cowboy would do.”

“Thomas John Wilson, this conversation is over.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Oh, that's a good reason,” I scoffed.

“Tommy!” Dad's face was getting redder and his hands trembled as he washed the glasses. Any second now, I thought he was going to go get the belt and whip me himself. But I just couldn't stop.

“Or maybe,” I said, “you just don't like me!”

Dad froze, a glass in one hand. “Tommy, is that what you think?”

I realized I was breathing hard, my heart pumping as if I'd just finished a race.

“Yeah.”

Dad looked horrified. “That's not true. I . . . I don't want you pursuing this anymore because I already know who the ‘communist' is.”

In the harsh glare of the kitchen, every line in my dad's face stood out. He looked as tense as Gary Cooper heading to the final shoot-out all alone. “Who?” I asked.

“Me.” He whispered the word so softly, I wasn't quite sure I'd heard him.

“You?” I asked. “You're a communist?” Part of me wanted to laugh, but his face was tight and pinched and it certainly didn't look like he was joking.

“No, of course not. But the paper came from me.”

“I don't understand.”

He sighed. “When I was in college, I attended a meeting or two. Maybe I bought a few papers. I was curious. There was a professor I admired who invited me and . . . it doesn't matter. I never joined anything. Everything is packed up in some old boxes in the attic. Your mother took it upon herself to get rid of one of the boxes without asking me, and I guess one of the old papers got mixed up with the new ones.”

I couldn't believe what my dad was telling me. All this time and he hadn't said a thing. “You could have saved McKenzie's store!”

“How?” Dad countered. “Officer Russo went around telling people it was a schoolboy prank. It didn't do any good. What would have happened to me if I had actually admitted owning that newspaper? Who would have supported you and Mom and your sisters if I had lost my job?”

I didn't answer.

“Oh, I shouldn't have told you,” he said almost to himself. His hands were still shaking as he started drying the glasses. “But I couldn't let you think I didn't care!”

My thoughts were spinning. I'd always believed communists were evil, bad people. And my father had associated with them! What did that make him? And did he just say he cared about me after all?

“Tommy, you can't tell anyone about this. Look at what happened to Mr. McKenzie, and he didn't even do anything!”

“But it's not fair that Mr. McKenzie is suffering because of you.”

“No, it's not,” Dad agreed. “And if you hadn't put that paper in his store, this would never have happened.”

I picked up one of the clean dry glasses and threw it to the floor. It shattered into a million pieces.

“Just like your mom.” He shook his head. “Not a word to anyone!” Dad threw down his dish towel and stormed out of the room.

I was left in the kitchen alone. I knew I had to clean up the mess before Mom came in, but every shard of glass I picked up made me feel even worse. I
was
like my mom. I had a bad temper. I threw things when I got angry.

And worst of all, my father was the communist.

THE SEAMSTRESS

Sunday after church, I told Mrs. Glazov I wasn't feeling well and went to the movies. It was mid-January and I hadn't been to the Tivoli since I'd started giving her reading lessons. Usually I went with Eddie, but he still wasn't talking to me. I wanted to lose myself in a good film and forget all my problems for a little while.

The movie that day was called
Red Planet Mars.
It was about two American scientists, a husband and a wife, who started receiving radio messages from Mars. “The whole world is scared,” said the wife. “Why shouldn't I be?”

She was talking about the Soviets who may—or may not—have been faking the radio messages in an attempt to cause chaos in the American economy. But I could relate. I was scared too. What if someone found out about my dad? Would someone throw a brick through our front window? Draw a hammer and sickle on our car? Would Dad lose his job at Western Electric? My dad wasn't going to take over the world or redistribute our property or even stop going to church. He wasn't a bad person. Sure, he sometimes made me mad, but I loved him. Oh, why had he gone to that stupid meeting?!

“We've lived on the edge of a volcano all our lives,” the scientist in the movie continued. “One day it has to boil over.”

She could have been describing my life. Sometimes, I felt like a big explosion was coming, but no one would believe me and I had no way to stop it. I left the theater more exhausted than when I had arrived.

My thoughts were still running in circles on Monday morning when I woke up. It was snowing, a heavy, wet snow that would make delivering the papers even harder, but I didn't care. It matched my mood.

I gobbled down my breakfast as Boots paced the kitchen, impatient to get outside and run. When it was time to go, I realized I'd left my snow boots outside on the back porch. Melting snow had run off the roof and now my boots were sopping wet. Great.

I ran back to my room to pull on my cowboy boots instead. There was something sharp in one of them. It was the silver sheriff's star from Mary Lou. I put it in my pocket.

Outside, it was still snowing. I placed a big tarp over the papers on the sled, but I knew some of them were still going to get wet. I hoped no one would complain.

The streets were deserted. This was a morning for curling up in bed or drinking a cup of hot chocolate and watching the snow fall from the kitchen window. The only sign of life was at Ma and Pa's house. They were up early, as usual, and Ma invited me in for some cocoa, but I said, “No, thank you.” I didn't want to talk to anyone today. I felt so ashamed. As if
Son of Communist
was branded on my forehead.

Soon as Boots and I got back on the road, we spotted a rooster there, shivering, like he'd gotten out of his coop and couldn't find his way home. Great. Now I'd have to go back to tell Ma and Pa and—

By my side, Boots growled.

“No,” I yelled, but it was too late.

Boots tore off after the rooster. The bird dashed down the road, crowing like it was already sunrise. I ran after them both. If Boots killed that bird, I'd have to pay Ma and Pa back. 'Course it was probably going to die anyway because of the cold. It was snowing even harder now, and my hat fell off in the wind. I stopped to pick it up and didn't even notice when a car turned the corner and headed straight for me.

At the last minute, it honked. I glanced up, and jumped out of the way. There was a loud
thump
as I fell into the snowbank on the side of the road.

The car kept going, the driver not even stopping to see if I was hurt. I'd pulled the sled over when I jumped and the papers were scattered all over the road. I was sore and bruised, but nothing hurt too badly. The papers were ruined. By the time I gathered them all up, I'd probably be late for school. I was cursing my luck when I heard a small whimper.

There was a small, hairy lump lying in the middle of the road.

Boots! The car had hit him, not the sled or me. That was the thump I'd heard. The stupid rooster was still running around in circles, like he'd had his head cut off.

“Boots,” I called. “Are you okay?”

He tried to pick up his head but couldn't. Ice and snow clung to his dark fur. His tail gave the tiniest flicker of a wag.

I went closer. There was a huge red gash from one end of his belly to the other.

He whimpered again.

I was pretty sure I could see his guts hanging out.

“It's going to be okay,” I said, knowing I was lying. I pulled the sled upright and threw the rest of the papers off, leaving just one layer of dry ones. Then I ran back to Boots and ever so carefully picked him up and laid him gently on the sled.

“It's okay, boy,” I said again.

He didn't even try to wag his tail this time. I pulled the tarp over him and tried to figure out what to do. I couldn't go home. With all the medical bills, I knew Mom and Dad had no money for a vet.
Think, Tommy, think,
I said to myself. Boots needed stitches. I knew how to sew a button on, or hem a pant leg if it came undone, but a dog? My dog? There was no way. Boots was going to die and . . .

Then I remembered Mrs. Scully. She was a seamstress. Surely she'd be able to help.

I didn't allow myself to think about it any more, just ran to her house pulling the sled behind me as gently as possible. It had almost stopped snowing by the time I reached her place. I scooped Boots up in my arms and carried him up the porch steps. He was trembling as I banged on the door.

It seemed like forever before Mrs. Scully came out in her bathrobe. Her hair was a mess and there wasn't a drop of makeup on her face. She looked young and pretty and a little scared.

“Tommy,” she cried. “What's wrong?”

“My dog” was all I could choke out.

She touched Boots gently and when she took her hand away there was blood on her fingers. “What happened?”

“He got hit by a car!” I said. “There's a big gash all down his stomach. I thought—I thought—” I started to cry great big tears that rolled down my cheeks.

Mrs. Scully only nodded. “Bring him inside and we'll see what we can do.” I expected her to start crying too, but she didn't. Her eyes were hard and determined, like Grace Kelly's in
High Noon
when she decided to get off that train and start fighting back.

I followed her into the house. There was a clean towel on the kitchen table. She pointed to it. “Put him there. I'll be right back.” I laid Boots down on the towel. He was still breathing. Barely.

Mrs. Scully strode back into the kitchen, her sewing basket in one hand, a bottle of pills in the other.

“Sleeping pills,” she said, pressing the bottle into my hand. “Give him half of one. Too many pills will kill a dog faster than a gash in the side.”

The pills spilled out all over the counter as I pulled off the lid. I grabbed a knife and cut. There was a jar of peanut butter nearby. I scooped out a spoonful and buried the pill in it.

Boots was practically unconscious anyway, but he opened his eyes when I said his name. “I got a treat for you, boy,” I said, and stuck the peanut butter on his tongue.

Automatically, he swallowed it. And his eyes closed again.

“Don't you worry,” said Mrs. Scully as she washed her hands. “I grew up on a farm. I've sewn up pigs and cows and . . .” She turned to look at me. “I can't make any promises, but Tommy, I swear I will do my best to save your dog.”

She took a big, curved needle from her kit. My knees felt weak, and I think I wobbled on my feet.

“Get out of here,” said Mrs. Scully, threading the needle.

I nodded. “I got to do the rest of the route.”

“Good,” she said. “Don't think about it. Just come back in the afternoon and we'll see how we're doing then.”