The Paper Cowboy (20 page)

THE RIGHT WORDS

That evening after dinner, while my dad was putting Pinky to bed, I talked to Mrs. Glazov about my idea to raise money for Mary Lou. “Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Concert to support local burned girl—everyone will come!”

I grinned.

“And you must play too,” Mrs. Glazov said. “Brother of Mary Lou—you will be star!”

I wasn't sure I liked the idea of sitting on the stage at the Tivoli with everyone looking at me. But Mrs. Glazov was smiling at me with a wide, toothy grin I'd never seen before. Surely anything that made her that happy couldn't be bad.

I nodded.

The next morning, I couldn't wait to tell the Kopeckys about my idea. I hadn't talked to Dad yet, I wanted to be sure it would work out first so I could surprise him, but I was pretty sure Ma and Pa would love the idea. In fact, I was so excited about telling them that I decided to risk the possibility that I might see Mom. I knocked, softly in case Ma and Pa were still sleeping, and of course it was my mother who opened the door.

Mom looked better. It had been about a week since I'd seen her. The bruises on her face had faded, and the cut on her forehead was now only a faint scar. There was gray in her hair that had never been there before, but it made her look kinder and less on edge. Even her eyes were not as tired.

“T-T-Tommy,” she sputtered. She seemed surprised to see me. “A couple of chickens escaped again. Pa and Ma are out back trying to catch them.”

“Oh.”

“You look well, Tommy.”

It was a little odd to hear that from my mom, as if I were an acquaintance she barely knew, not her only son. But even if they weren't exactly the right words, at least she was trying. “Thanks,” I said. “How's it going with Pa?”

Mom shrugged, just like I did when I didn't really want to answer a question. “All right, I guess. I just sit on a couch and he asks me questions about my childhood or my dreams.”

“Oh,” I said again. “Is it helping?”

“The verdict's still out,” Mom said with a little half smile.

I smiled too, wanting to be happy she was acting normal again, when all I could really think was, how long is this going to last?

Pa walked up to the doorway then, his tall, thin frame slicing through the tension. “We found the chickens so you can—oh, Tommy!”

Mom and I both stared at the floor, like we were guilty kids who'd been caught with our hands in the cookie jar.

“Would you like to come in for some eggs?” Pa asked.

I shook my head. “No, thanks, I'm already late. But I could come by sometime next week and put a new door on the chicken coop.”

Pa nodded. “That'd be great.”

I turned and ran back to the sled. It wasn't until I was already three houses down that I realized I'd forgotten to tell them about the concert.

Mrs. Glazov was frowning when I got home from the paper route. “I realize problem.” She sighed as she handed me my lunch. “No money to advertise. No money for flyers. Without advertise, no one will come.”

Flyers. “Like you make on a mimeograph machine?”

“Yes.”

I knew who had one of those. “Don't worry,” I said as I rushed out the door to catch the bus. “Leave that to me.”

Sam wasn't at school that day, so I didn't get a chance to speak to him. I told myself he was just sick, had the flu or a bad cold, but he had missed a few days of school the week before as well. To miss again so soon . . . I was afraid I knew what that meant.

After school, I stopped by Mr. McKenzie's again. I told myself I was only going to ask about the mimeograph machine, but really I was worried about Sam. When I got to the shop, Sam and his father were just coming out. Mr. McKenzie looked at me, his eyes as hollow as an empty bird's nest in a cactus. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then just shook his head and got into the car. My breath caught in my throat, a hard sharp pain, as if I'd been hit in the stomach.

Sam stood beside me for a moment. His face was blank and so tense that even the skin on the smooth cheek was pulled tight. His eyes were tinged with red. “She died, Tommy,” he said. “Early this morning.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. He was trembling, just like Boots when he'd gotten the huge gash on his belly and I'd carried him up the steps into Mrs. Scully's house. I felt awful for him.

“But I talked to her. Before she died. She said Dad and I could take care of each other. She didn't care where she was buried. And she told us ‘wedding ring.'”

“What does that mean?”

Sam shrugged. “I don't know. I asked Dad, but he said Mother didn't have one. She lost it years ago.” He started to cry. When he continued, he sounded defiant, almost angry. “But she said it, right? Three times. Just before she died. It must be important!”

“Yeah,” I said. “It must.” I wanted to say something else, wanted to find the right words to make him feel better.

Mr. McKenzie honked the car's horn.

“I have to go,” Sam said. “My dad's cousin in Chicago is going to pay for the funeral. We have to go talk to him.”

I nodded.

“She wasn't alone. That means something, right?”

“Yeah. It does.”

Sam smiled weakly and got into the car. I watched them drive away. Even though I'd only met Sam's mom that one time, I felt like crying too. It could have been me in that car. If Mary Lou had been burned just a little bit more, or if Mom had been driving just a little bit faster, it might have been me. And I suddenly felt less angry about all the people who had said nothing to me about my mother. Sometimes the right words were hidden away, like a legendary lost treasure, nearly impossible to find.

THE WEDDING RING

The viewing for Sam's mom was held Friday, February 5, at the Toon Funeral Home on Main Street, just a block from the school, from four to six in the evening. Just as I was planning to walk there, Dad showed up on our front porch, wearing his dark gray overcoat.

“You're home early,” I said.

Dad looked me over. “Going to Mrs. McKenzie's viewing?”

I nodded. I'd put on my best pair of pants and a fresh white shirt. I didn't have a suit, so my navy school blazer and tie would have to do.

“Can I come?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

We walked slowly into town together. Dad didn't know Mr. McKenzie well. I didn't think he'd ever met his wife. I guess he figured he owed it to him because of all the trouble we'd caused him. Or maybe Dad liked the idea of people in a small town sticking together. Or maybe Dad was just there for me. In any case, I was glad to have him along.

When we arrived at the funeral home, Dad went off to speak to Mr. McKenzie. He was talking to someone I thought must have been the cousin from Chicago, since they both had the same burly build and bushy eyebrows. I wandered off to look for Sam.

At the far end of the main room was another door, and inside that door was the room with the coffin. No one else was there. I'd never seen a real dead body, and I couldn't decide if I was excited or terrified as I walked over to the coffin and peeked inside.

Sam's mother was lying on her back, her eyes closed. People often said dead people had gone to sleep, but she didn't look like that. She looked like she'd been dipped in wax and had on too much makeup. Her thin gray hair was curled and arranged on a silk pillow. There was a white lily in her hands. She was so incredibly, impossibly still.

Someone sniffed and I jumped.

Sam was sitting on the floor behind the door. He was wearing a plain black suit that was a little bit too big, probably borrowed from someone at the church.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, glancing up at me. His eyes were red and watery, as if he'd been squinting into the sunset for way too long.

“Sam, I'm so sorry,” I said.

“Me too.”

“I'll leave you alone,” I said.

“No,” he said. “Stay. Please. Just . . . you don't have to say anything.”

So I went over and sat next to Sam on the floor. We sat there for a long time, watching the mourners wander in and out to pay their last respects. Most never even noticed we were there.

My legs had both fallen asleep from sitting in the same position for so long, when I heard my father asking people, “Have you seen Tommy?”

I turned to Sam. “I'd better go.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“What are friends for?”

“Is that what we are?” he asked. “Friends?”

“Yeah,” I said slowly. “I think we are.”

Sam wasn't at school all the next week, so I didn't get a chance to mention the concert idea to him until Saturday, February 13, just a couple of days before they were planning to move. The door was unlocked when I arrived, so I let myself into the empty store. It was sad, seeing all the empty shelves. “Sam, Sam!” I cried. “Are you here?”

“I'm upstairs,” he called.

I ran up the stairs two at a time. “Sam, I have a favor to ask you.” I didn't wait for him to answer. “I need to use your mimeograph machine.”

“It's right over there,” he said. He was sitting on the floor, a box in front of him and piles of papers spread out all around.

The machine was squatting on its table. Just like always.

“But Dad's selling it,” Sam said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Tommy, we need the money,” Mr. McKenzie said, walking into the room.

“But I need to make some flyers!” I quickly told them about my plan for the concert for Mary Lou. “We need to advertise. And I'm the paperboy. I can just put the flyers in all the papers.”

“That's a great idea,” Mr. McKenzie said. “But a lady is coming to buy the machine today.”

“Oh,” I said, disappointed.

“How am I going to make copies of my stories?” Sam asked crossly.

“Sam!” Mr. McKenzie sighed, like they'd had this conversation before. “We need the money. My cousin already paid for the funeral. I can't ask him for anything else.”

“
Mom
thought my stories were important.”

“I do too,” Mr. McKenzie insisted. “It's just that . . .”

This was beginning to sound like a conversation at my house before my mom had gone to stay with Ma and Pa. The arguing made my palms sweat, and I tried desperately to think of something, anything else to say.

“So, what are all these papers?” I asked, gesturing to the files spread out on the floor.

“Nothing,” said Mr. McKenzie. “Files. Old clippings. Diaries. Medical records. Bills. Maybe a letter or two.”

“It's Mom's stuff,” Sam said fiercely. “She said I could have it. And she told us to find her ‘wedding ring.'”

“Sam, your mother was delirious. She lost her wedding ring years ago.”

“Well, that's what she said, Dad!”

“You're welcome to look,” Mr. McKenzie said. “But we can't take that huge box with us to Chicago. Pick out what you want and get rid of the rest.” His voice cracked as he added, “I can't bear to look through it.”

Mr. McKenzie hurried down the stairs and into the empty store.

“Scoot over,” I said to Sam, sitting next to him on the floor. “I'll help you look.”

“Thanks,” Sam said.

We started looking through the papers slowly, one after another. If Mary Lou had died, what would I have wanted to do? Get rid of her stuff or keep it all? I wasn't sure. I shook the thought off. “A wedding ring,” I said to Sam. “Gold, I guess?”

Sam shrugged. “I'm hoping Mom hid it. If we find it, maybe we could sell it and . . .”

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. Some extra money would save them now. I realized they needed a concert too. But who would come if it was for a man who was rumored to be a communist? I flipped through the papers. Bill, letter, newspaper clipping, greeting card. Medical report, bill, bill, envelope. A sealed envelope.

The bell rang. I heard Mr. McKenzie open the door.

On the front of the sealed envelope, in neat cursive letters, were the words
Wedding Ring.

“Come on in,” Mr. McKenzie said, his voice carrying up to the second floor. “The mimeograph machine is upstairs. In perfect working order. My son maintained it himself.”

“Sam,” I said. I handed him the envelope.

He clutched it, barely daring to breathe as he ran his fingers over it. “But there's nothing in here,” he wailed softly. “There's no ring.”

“Open it,” I said.

Mr. McKenzie and the buyer started walking up the stairs.

Sam ran one finger under the edge. His nail was torn and jagged, as if he'd been biting it. The envelope opened and one piece of paper fell out.

“Nothing,” I said. It was so disappointing, I wanted to cry.

Sam picked up the paper and scanned it. “I don't understand,” he said, just as his father walked back into the room. “What's a ‘term life policy'?”

“What?” asked Mr. McKenzie. “Let me see that.” He rushed over to Sam and grabbed the letter.

“Is this the machine?” the woman asked. She wore a red pillbox hat and matching gloves. We all ignored her.

Mr. McKenzie took the letter, holding it like a hurt bird in his hands. He read it quickly, took a deep breath and read it again. “Oh, my goodness,” he said. “She lied to me. All those years, she lied to me!”

Tears began to leak out his eyes. I couldn't quite figure out why it was good that she had lied, but he was smiling.

“Who?” asked Sam. “What?”

I held my breath.

“Your mother. That crazy mother of yours. She was the one who saved me from the camps all those years ago. She's the one who found a doctor who would treat you when your face was burned. And now she's saved us again.”

“How?” asked Sam.

“When we first arrived in the United States, practically the first man we ran into was a life insurance agent. He wanted to sell us a policy. Your mother was all for it, but I told her no, we didn't have any money. She wanted to sell her wedding ring. I told her to keep it.” He laughed, short and sweet, not bitter at all. “A month later, she told me she had lost the ring. I yelled and yelled. We had a huge row.” He laughed again.

“She had life insurance?” I asked.

Mr. McKenzie nodded. “Apparently so. Not a lot. But enough to keep us going for another few months, maybe even make a few changes to the store. But she left it all to you, Sam.”

“Is it,” Sam asked, “is it enough for a sandwich shop?”

Mr. McKenzie smiled, the grin traveling across his face, the idea lighting up his eyes like a match. “A sandwich shop?” he repeated. “Yeah, I think it is.”

“We could add you to the concert flyer,” I said. “‘Refreshments provided by McKenzie's Sandwich Shop. Opening soon.'”

“That's a great idea.” Sam turned to his dad. “What do you think?”

“It's up to you,” said Mr. McKenzie. But for the first time in months, maybe since I'd planted that paper, Mr. McKenzie looked hopeful.

“We're staying here,” Sam said decisively.

“Is this mimeograph machine for sale or not?” the woman asked, the red hat bobbing on her head.

“No,” we all said loudly. Then we laughed.

“No,” Sam repeated. “I'm afraid it's not.”