The Paper Cowboy (7 page)

THE DEAL

The question was, how could I get into the Russian lady's house and find something, a membership card or another newspaper, that would prove she was the communist? Even though she lived next door—and had for years—we weren't exactly friendly. I needed a reason to go and talk to her.

On the first of October, Sister Ann provided me with the perfect excuse. Every year St. Joe's raised money to send to Catholic missions around the world by having a magazine sale. The Russians were our allies during the war, you know. They helped our boys liberate Poland and Hungary and Czechoslovakia from the Nazis. But once the war was over, the Soviets stayed and took over the local governments in those countries. As Sister Ann put it, “It is a race to save the souls of all those poor people in Eastern Europe from the Red Menace, those godless communists in the Soviet Union.” That was why we needed to support the missions—to fight the spread of communism, to help stop its slow creep across Europe.

In any case, we were supposed to go door-to-door to all our friends and neighbors to see how many magazine subscriptions we could sell. So that night after dinner, I set out. My plan was to visit everyone on Mary Lou's paper route, saving the Russian lady for last. The truth was, now that I was actually going to do it, I was a little scared. I mean, I'd never spoken to a real live communist before. It was like I was in the movies and I was on a secret mission.

The first few families each purchased several magazines. Ma and Pa bought
Woman's Day,
American Rifleman
and
Boys' Life
(for their grandson, of course). I felt a little envious. He only visited them on holidays and in the summer, and yet they were willing to pay for the magazine for the whole year. I imagined them saving the extra issues in a closet and presenting them to him when he arrived.

I moved on to the next house, but the old lady I visited there refused to buy a thing—not even
Look
or
Life,
and everybody bought those. I couldn't get her to budge, not until I mentioned my poor sister Mary Lou, and how she was still in the hospital. Then she couldn't pull out her wallet fast enough. I felt a little guilty about that, but I shook it off.

The seamstress, Mrs. Scully, bought three subscriptions:
Life,
House & Garden
and
Model Railroader.

“Who's that one for?” I asked.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Scully, blushing a little. “
Model Railroader
is for me.”

“Really?” I asked.

She nodded. “My husband”—she crossed herself—“God bless his rotten soul. When he wasn't spending all his money on booze, he bought model train cars. Hundreds of them. He had a whole basement full of them.” She shrugged. “Funny, it bugged me no end when he was alive. But now, I kind of like them.”

It was fully dark by the time I walked up the path at the Russian lady's house. Except it wasn't really a path. There were no paving stones, just a piece of plywood thrown over a big muddy patch in the front yard. There was accordion music coming from inside, a lively polka. She sounded as good as Dick Contino. If I could sell her a magazine, it would give me an excuse to come to her house again. And if I could search her house and find another newspaper, or a communist party membership card or a telegram from Moscow, maybe I could use that evidence to clear Mr. McKenzie's name.

I had to knock on her door three times before she answered it, wearing a shapeless dress so faded, I couldn't tell what color it might have once been. “Why should I buy?” she asked when I finished my pitch. Her wispy white hair swayed in the evening breeze like cobwebs.

I lowered my eyes and put a pious yet tearful look on my face. “You know, my sister Mary Lou is still in the hospital.”

“I know,” she said. “Does her no good if I buy copy.”

That may have been true, but no one else had dared to say it. “Well, then, uh . . .
Life
tells you what's going on in the world.”

“In English. I no read good.”

“What?” I asked. “You get the paper.”

“To learn!” she said. “To see pictures. Read headlines.”

“Well, that's fine, then.
Life
has lots of great pictures!”

She gave me a funny look.

“You don't have to read it,” I insisted.

“No,” she said firmly. “Why I buy magazine I no read? Stupid.” She crossed her arms in front of her huge bosom.

“Maybe you should learn to read English.”

“Of course I should learn.” She sighed. “Why you think I get paper for five years!”

“Can I come in and show you—”

“No!”

“Well,” I said slowly, coming up with an even better idea, one that would definitely get me in her house. “I could teach you to read English.”

“You?”

“Sure.”

“I no take charity,” she said.

“Oh, it wouldn't be charity,” I said. “We'd trade.”

“Trade what?”

I thought fast. I couldn't exactly ask her to teach me all about communism. But I did remember the music I always heard coming from her house. “I'll teach you to read English,” I said. “And you can teach me to play the accordion.”

I grinned.

She gave me another funny look. “You want learn accordion?”

“Of course!” Actually, I'd never considered it before. But I remembered Mom playing the Dick Contino records around the house. I was pretty sure she'd love the idea.

“Okay,” she said finally. “I buy the
Saturday Evening Post.
” She grinned back at me, her mouth full of rotten teeth. “Such pretty pictures. You come by Sunday afternoon, we start our lessons.”

It wasn't until I was walking in my front door that I realized I'd committed to going into a communist's house. To spend time with her. She might corrupt me. Brainwash me into becoming a supporter of the Soviet Union. It felt dangerous—and a little bit exciting too.

I was right. Mom loved the idea when I told her about it the next evening after dinner.

“Yes, yes,” she exclaimed, “then you can play carols at Christmas. And ‘Auld Lang Syne' on New Year's Eve! Just like Busia used to do.” Her eyes brightened at that. “Come with me.”

I followed Mom into the hall and up the little pull-down ladder that led into the attic. We rarely went up there. There were just a bunch of boxes, including one of Dad's old papers from his semester at college. Every time the paper drive rolled around, Mom begged him to get rid of it. But he never did. I think having it there made him feel smart.

We climbed past the boxes. You had to be careful in the attic. There wasn't really a floor, only boards laid across the rafters. If you accidentally stepped off the wooden planks, you'd go straight through the ceiling.

“There!” Mom pointed to a large, squat suitcase in the corner.

It took a bit of careful shoving and pushing, but finally I managed to get the suitcase down the ladder.

“What is it?” I asked Mom, whose eyes were gleaming like Pinky's when she's given a lollipop.

“Open it and see,” she said.

I carefully undid the three rusted clasps.

It was an accordion. A big, shiny one. The bellows flashed red, gold and green as I pushed the air in and out.

“It was your grandfather's,” Mom said, giving me a rare hug. “You never got to meet him, because he died before you were born. But he'd be so happy if he could see you with his accordion today.”

And here's the worst thing about my mom's moods: there she was, acting completely nice and normal. And instead of enjoying it, all I could think was, great, how long is it going to last this time?

TEA FOR TWO

Sunday after church, I found myself lugging the accordion on my old red wagon next door to the Russian lady's house. According to the paper route cards, her name was Mrs. Anastasia Glazov. The pumpkins in her vegetable garden were enormous. Carefully, I rolled the wagon over the plank that led to the front door. The plank rattled loudly and suddenly the door opened.

“What you doing here?” Mrs. Glazov asked, hands on her hips. She was wearing either the same dress as before or another one that was equally faded.

“I promised to teach you to read.”

She scowled. “That lie you told to get me buy magazine.”

“No,” I protested. “I'm here, aren't I?”

She gestured to the suitcase. “What this?”

“An accordion.” I grinned. “You're still going to teach me to play, right?”

Finally, she threw her head back and laughed. “Fine. Come in. I make you tea.”

So with a touch of fear and a touch of excitement (I was going to root out a real live communist!), I ducked into her little wooden shack, lifting the accordion off the wagon and placing it just inside the door.

The only light came from the window and one kerosene lamp. The walls were the same rough-hewn wood that could be seen outside. The room was neat and tidy enough, but there wasn't much furniture, just a small wooden table and three plain, hard chairs. Everywhere there were piles of magazines and newspapers. I didn't see any copies of the
Daily Worker,
but surely she wouldn't leave them out in plain view. A large wood-burning stove sat in one corner. It heated the room, and I guess she also cooked on it.

On the stove was a fat, barrel-shaped pot. But it was too pretty to be a normal kettle. It looked like copper, shiny, with little carvings all over it. On top of the barrel sat a teapot. Mrs. Glazov caught me looking at it.

“My samovar,” she announced proudly. “Nazis take my old one, send me work camp. Me! Old woman. But I survive. And when I arrive in America, first thing I do, I buy new samovar.”

Mr. McKenzie had said he was in a camp with communists. She had to be the one! But I needed proof.

“Sit!” she told me.

So I did. Mrs. Glazov brought over a plate of tiny sandwiches, open-faced, with pats of butter. Some had ham or green vegetables that looked like cucumbers on top. On the table there was also a sugar bowl and a plate of lemons, sliced so thin, you could practically see right through them.

“Didn't think you come,” she said, blushing. “But hoped.”

I didn't know what to say.

“How you like your tea?” she asked.

“Uhhh,” I said. I didn't usually drink tea.

“Not too strong for growing boy,” she said. She picked up a cup, or actually it was a half cup made of metal, and inserted a plain glass inside. Then she took the teapot from the top of the samovar and poured a thick black liquid into the glass. Only a little, just so it barely covered the bottom. Then she replaced the teapot and added some hot water to the glass from a little spout near the bottom of the samovar.

“Now you drink,” she said.

Drink? I didn't want to drink. But if a cowboy was trying to make friends with a tribe of Indians, he had to smoke the peace pipe when it was offered. My heart was beating fast, faster than I expected. She was just a little old lady. But Soviet spies were devious. They could look like anyone.

“Drink!” she ordered again.

Automatically, I took a sip. It scalded my tongue and though I tried not to, I guess I made a face.

“You add sugar and lemon.” She laughed. “Soon, you love it!”

I waited a moment to see if I would suddenly collapse in searing pain. I mean, I didn't really think she was trying to poison me, but imagining that she might be made the whole situation more exciting.

When she started to pour herself a glass (she put a whole lot of the black stuff and only a little water in her cup), I figured I was probably okay. So I added about half the bowl of sugar and a bunch of lemon slices. When I took another sip, it tasted like hot lemonade.

“Now,” she said, sitting down at the table, “you teach me read.”

Oh yeah. I guess I'd kind of thought I'd find proof immediately and wouldn't need to hold up my side of the bargain. But I'd been in her house a whole ten minutes and I hadn't found a thing. “What do you want to read?”

“You bring comic book?” she asked.

“No.”

“Boys always read comic book.”

“Yeah, I like to read them, but . . . I don't have one with me today.”

She sighed. “Bring next time. Today we start with paper.”

“Which one?”

She gestured at the piles on the table. “Take your pick.”

I jumped up. This was my chance. I thumbed through every pile, but I didn't find anything. Only the
Chicago Tribune
and some magazine in Russian that seemed to be devoted entirely to tea, cooking and flowers.

“Tommy, I not know how read any of them. Pick one!”

I finally grabbed a
Tribune
at random and pointed to a headline. “Uhhh. Sound this out.”

What came out of her mouth made absolutely no sense. She sounded like Pinky trying to talk with a mouthful of marbles.

“No,” I said. “It says, New Restaurant Opens.”

“
Restaurant
same word in Russian,” she said sadly. “But spelled all different.”

“How do you write it in Russian?”

She picked up a pencil and wrote in the margin of the paper:
pectopah.

“
Pectopah
?” I said.

“No,” she insisted. “Restaurant.”

“But it starts with a
p,
” I said.

“Start with
r-r-r-r
sound.”

“
P
makes an
r-r-r-r
sound in Russian?” I asked.

“Yes, of course!” she said. “Not in English?”

“No,” I said.

“Ahh,” she cried, resting her forehead on the table. “English too hard. By time I learn to read, I too old to see.”

“No,” I scoffed. “You just need to start with the alphabet.”

I wrote out the alphabet on the back of the paper and told her all the sounds. I had to admit, Mrs. Glazov learned fast. I went over the alphabet three times, all the English letters and the sounds they made, and by then she knew them pretty well. It was kind of fun. I was about to teach her a couple of words when she pushed the paper aside and said, “Now your turn.”

“To do what?” I asked.

“Learn from me,” she said.

She stood up and pulled a huge accordion out from under the table. It was almost as big as she was, with black and white keys like on a piano running down one side and tiny buttons on the other.

“No, no,” I insisted. “You don't have to—”

“I no take charity!” She hefted the accordion up like it weighed nothing at all and put the straps around her arms. Then she came back to sit on the chair.

“First, you listen.”

She started playing a song. A happy song, like the polkas Mom sometimes played on the record player. Mom and Dad used to push the coffee table aside and start dancing, right in the living room. Once when I was six years old, my father asked Mary Lou to dance. As they polkaed across the floor, my mom picked me up and spun me around. We all laughed and laughed, flying across the carpet in time with the music.

When Mrs. Glazov finally stopped, she asked, “You like, Tommy?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“You get yours out now,” she said.

So I did. And she showed me how to hold it and pull the bellows out nice and smooth, and even play a chord or two. And the best thing was that while I was playing the accordion, I didn't think about Mary Lou or Mr. McKenzie or my mom or anything else. I just focused on the music.

When I was done with my lesson, Mrs. Glazov gave me a pumpkin to take home, twice as big as my head. Mom broke out in a huge grin when she saw it. “Get out the flour, Tommy. We're going to make a pie.”

As we mixed and baked, my thoughts were mixed up too. I knew communists were bad and evil. I knew they wanted to deny us, and even their own people, freedom of speech. Commies didn't believe in freedom of religion either. Heck, they didn't believe in religion at all. The Reds wanted to take all the businesses away from their owners and give them to the government. According to Mr. Sullivan, they might even be planning to drop an atomic bomb on Chicago! So why did I kind of like Mrs. Glazov? What was wrong with me?