The Paper Cowboy (17 page)

THE SHERIFF'S STAR

It took me a long time to do the paper route. There was a lot of snow. I was cold and slow and I had no idea what time it was by the time I finally got back home.

Mom was waiting for me at the front door, the vein on her forehead pulsing like a red worm, the leather belt coiled in her hand. “You missed the bus!” she hissed.

“But I—”

“Now I'll have to drive you to school. I'll be late to see Mary Lou. There's a meeting with her doctors and I promised I'd be there.”

“Boots got—”

“Don't give me your excuses!”

I tried to push past her, but she grabbed my arm and pulled me into the kitchen. She didn't even wait for me to pull down my pants this time, just slammed my hands down on the counter and started hitting me.

“Stop it, Mom!” I wailed. “I didn't do anything!”

I was too terrified to cry. Her blows were wild now, as likely to hit my back or my legs as my buttocks. Panic rose in my throat. What if she didn't stop? Boots wasn't there, and neither was Mary Lou. My dad was at work and wouldn't be home for hours.

I looked back at her. Mom's face was as red as Sam's scar, as if she'd been the one burned in a fire. What was I going to do?

“Stop it, Mommy,” cried a tiny voice. “Stop hurting Tommy!”

It was Pinky. She was standing by the back door, tears running down her face.

“Pinky!” I called out, not sure if I was asking for her help or warning her to stay away.

Mom hit me again and I winced.

Pinky ran over and threw her arms around my waist.

The belt flew through the air again.

Pinky gasped. A big welt rose up on her skinny little arm.

“Get out of the way, Pinky!” Mom ordered.

My little sister shook her head.

“Run!” I hollered. “Pinky, run away!”

But Pinky didn't move.

So Mom hit us again.

Time seemed to slow down. And I thought of Cardinal Mindszenty's line in
Guilty of Treason
: “One must take a stand somewhere. One must draw a line past which one will not retreat.” This was my line. Mom could hit me, but I was not going to let her hit Pinky.

I whirled around and grabbed the end of the belt, yanking it out of Mom's hands. She stumbled and fell against the wall. “Leave us alone!” I screamed.

For the first time, I realized I was almost as tall as she was. I threw the belt to the floor.

“Don't you dare—” she snapped. She rose to her feet and took a swing at me, but I jumped out of the way. Mom picked up the belt and came after me.

I ran to the front door.

“Come back here!” she screamed.

I kept running. The sidewalk was slippery and I fell down in a snowbank. My left side was instantly wet and cold.

“Tommy! Tommy!” I heard Mom yelling after me.

I scrambled to my feet and ran on. Someone was crying, great big gasping sobs. It took me a minute to realize it was me. I had a stitch in my side and my knee was bleeding, but I kept running.

I slipped on the ice and fell down again. But this time I stayed there, half-frozen in the snow. A train whistle blew; a train was pulling into the station. I'd run clear across Downers Grove, all the way to the center of town. I was lying in a snowbank next to the train station.

I imagined stealing some money. Buying a train ticket and riding out of town into a new life. If I hurried, maybe I could even make the next train.

I scrambled to my feet in the icy slush. My fingers were freezing and I'd left my jacket at home, so I stuck my hands in my pants pockets to warm them up. My fingers hit something sharp. “Ow!” I said aloud, and pulled the item from my pocket.

It was the sheriff's star from Mary Lou.

I suddenly remembered how Gary Cooper had wanted to flee his problems too. At the beginning of
High Noon,
he'd gotten in his wagon and ridden away. But he'd turned around. He'd come back.

I longed to be a cowboy. Not a bully. But a cowboy who stands up for others. Who fights for the people he loves, for the town they live in.

Even if I could leave, I wouldn't leave Mary Lou. It wasn't right to let Eddie get in trouble for fighting Little Skinny. I couldn't let Pinky and Susie grow up with Mom and no one to protect them. Sam would need a friend when his mom died. And if I couldn't save Mr. McKenzie, at least I should help him pack. And Boots. The little dog had never abandoned me. Didn't he deserve the same?

“All aboard!” the conductor called.

I held the star tightly in my hand, and like Gary Cooper, I watched the train start to pull away. The caboose went by and across the tracks I could finally see what film was showing at the Tivoli.

One week only!
the marquee said.
Back by popular demand.

High Noon.

ROUNDING UP A POSSE

As the train whistled in the distance, I walked over to the station and sat down on a bench. The star was cold in my hand as I touched each of the six points one by one. What was I going to do?

A tall, thin figure walked out from behind one of the columns at the train station. He wore an old tweed suit with a red bow tie and an overcoat that was frayed along the edges. He was clutching a cane in one hand, but not leaning on it to walk. His whiskers were gray and neatly trimmed, though his face was so gaunt, he looked like he could have used a couple of extra sausages at breakfast.

And that was what reminded me that it was actually Mr. Kopecky, otherwise known as Pa, the doctor-turned-chickenfarmer.

“Tommy?” Pa called. “Tommy Wilson? Are you all right?”

I rubbed my eyes angrily, as if that would wipe away the red. “Yes,” I said. “I'm fine.”

He looked pointedly at my ripped pants and the blood on my knee, but he didn't comment on it. “Oh,” he said. “I just missed my train. The door on the chicken coop is broken and the rooster got out this morning. Took a while to catch him.”

That made me think of Boots. I wondered if he was okay. “Sorry you missed your train,” I said finally.

Pa shrugged. “Not a problem. There'll be another one soon.”

That was true. The commuter trains ran every half hour.

“Mind if I sit with you while I wait?” he asked.

I shrugged.

He lowered himself slowly onto the bench, laying the cane beside him. “Don't need the darn thing,” he told me, “but it makes Ma feel better if I take it.”

A weak smile was all I could manage.

Across the street the Tivoli's marquee flicked on and off, as if someone were testing the lights.

“Where are you going?” I asked. It wasn't like I really wanted to know. I was just making conversation.

“To Chicago. Once a month I meet up with a bunch of other old men. From Prague, Vienna, Budapest. Some of them are even psychiatrists like me.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“A kind of doctor,” he said. “I thought I could help people who were angry. Or sad. Or crying all the time.”

“There are doctors who do that?” I asked.

Pa sighed. “Well, there are doctors who try. But in the end, I'm not sure I did much good. There were so many sad people in Europe after the war.”

Dr. Stanton hadn't been able to help Mom. Was it possible that Pa could? I remembered how Gary Cooper had gone from person to person in his town asking everyone to stand with him against the villain who was coming on the noon train. And how they'd all turned him down. But he'd asked. And asked. And kept asking. I took a deep breath. “I think my mom needs a doctor like that.”

“Why, Tommy?” he asked, so softly I could barely hear him.

And I started talking about how my mom had always been moody, but how she'd had okay times too. Times when she was fun, and made jokes, and danced around the house. And how that had all started changing when Busia died and Susie was born. I kept talking as another commuter train came and left. Pa didn't move a muscle, just nodded his head.

So I went on talking, about Mary Lou getting burned and stealing the yo-yos and picking on Sam and planting the paper in Mr. McKenzie's store. I told him about Mom beating me and the medical bills we couldn't pay and even about poor Boots and the rooster. “It's all my fault.” I started shivering.

Pa didn't say a word. Just stood up and took off his coat and held it out to me.

“No, that's okay,” I said.

“Put it on,” he said.

So I did. The jacket was still warm and smelled like a pipe. And then I thought, why not? Why not just tell him everything? “And guess where the commie paper came from?” I said quickly, before I could chicken out.

“I don't know,” Pa said evenly.

“From my dad. My dad is the communist!”

“Really?” Pa asked mildly.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Pfft,” he said, waving a hand in the air. “Reading a paper doesn't make you a communist.”

“Sure it does.”

“Does stealing a yo-yo make you a thief?”

I thought about that. I didn't think I was a thief. And yet I had stolen a yo-yo. But I had realized I'd made a mistake. I kept thinking and thinking as yet another train pulled into the station. “Well,” I said, embarrassed, “thanks for listening.”

“Are you done?”

“Don't you have to go?” I asked.

He looked thoughtful for a moment, chewing on the white whiskers on his upper lip. “No,” he said. “They are sad old men who only complain about their lives.”

“But if they're your friends . . .”

“I think . . . ,” Pa said slowly. “I think, here, I might actually be able to do something.”

He stood up and leaned on the cane for a moment. “Don't tell Ma I actually used it!” he warned.

I zipped my lips shut.

“Come on,” he said. “We've got to get you home.”

Pa hailed a taxi. The car was warm and dry. But the closer we got to my house, the more I shivered. “Pinky and Susie . . .”

“Yes,” Pa said. “We'll check on them now.”

In no time at all, we were pulling onto my street. The front door was slightly open. Mom's car was gone. I wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

Pa paid the taxi driver and together we walked up the front steps. The coat was big on me, the edges dragging in the snow. Pa gripped my arm and I was surprised at how much braver I felt, even if he was just a wrinkled old man.

“Hello,” I called out as I pushed open the door.

No one answered, but the living room was a mess. The coffee table was overturned, magazines and newspapers scattered everywhere. Dad's belt was still lying on the floor.

“Hello?” Pa called. “Anyone home?”

Mrs. Glazov hurried out of the nursery. She was wearing Mom's flowered apron. “Oh, good, Tommy. It's you.”

I was surprised to see her. “What are you doing here?”

Her milky blue eyes filled with tears, and she picked at a string on the pocket of the apron. “I sorry, Tommy,” she said finally.

“For what?”

“I live right next door,” she said sheepishly. “I hear things. Like today. But I not know what to do. I mother, I lose my temper too. When's too much . . .” She shook her head. “I should help. I see your mother drive off, crazy-like. And still, I not act. But when I see Pinky, alone in snow, calling for you. I know I need to do something.”

She put her hand on one of mine.

I blinked, my eyes blurry. “Where is Pinky? And Susie . . . ?”

“They fine,” said Mrs. Glazov. “Both sleeping now.”

“And Mrs. Wilson?” asked Pa.

“Gone,” said Mrs. Glazov. “I not know where.”

The three of us walked around the house, and it was like I was seeing it again for the first time in a long while. The dishes piled in the sink. The dust bunnies under the tables. The piles of laundry in the bedrooms. “This house is a mess,” said Pa.

I felt angry. “I'm doing my best! Mom doesn't help anymore. She just lies in bed and—”

“Tommy.” Mrs. Glazov laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. “It not your fault.”

Pa nodded. “I'll call Ma. Have her come over and help us clean up.”

While Pa dialed his wife and talked to her rapidly in a language I didn't understand, I walked around the kitchen, opening drawers. Finally, I found it. Mom's notebook of phone numbers. On the first page was listed:
Robert John Wilson, Western Electric.
I'd never called the number before.

“Yes, yes,” Pa added in English. “I still have the cane!”

He hung up. “Not a word!” he said to me. “If she finds out I actually used it, I'll never be allowed to take a step without it again.”

I smiled. “I found my dad's number,” I said. “Do you think . . . ?”

Pa nodded. “Call him.” He left to join Mrs. Glazov in the living room. I could hear them talking quietly as they picked up the papers and magazines and righted the coffee table.

The phone sat on the wall like a big black beetle. I took off Pa's coat and laid it carefully over a chair. Then I took a deep breath and pinned on Mary Lou's star.

My fingers trembled only a little as I dialed the number.

“Hello, Western Electric. How may I help you?”

It was a woman's voice. I'd expected my father. But of course there'd be a telephone operator instead. “Hi,” I said. “May I speak to my dad? Please.”

The woman giggled a bit. “Sure, hon. Who's your father?”

“Robert John Wilson.”

“One moment.”

It seemed like she was gone forever. The house was quiet. So quiet. In the nursery, Susie started to cry and Pinky called out, “Mommy!” I heard Mrs. Glazov shushing them.

“Tommy?”

It was my dad this time.

“Tommy, are you okay?” I didn't think I'd ever heard him so worried. It kind of made me feel good.

“Yeah,” I said, “I'm fine.”

“Then why . . . is Mary Lou . . . ?”

“No,” I said. “It's Mom.” I explained how she'd beat me and hit Pinky and I'd run away and how Pinky had been out in the snow alone, and how Mr. Kopecky and Mrs. Glazov had come to help, and I sounded calmer than I'd imagined I would.

“Let me call the hospital,” he said. “I'm sure she's just gone there. I'll call you back in a minute.”

He hung up and I stared at the dishes. There was a great big pile of them on the counter. I did my best in the evenings, but I never quite managed to get caught up. I heard the front door open, and a moment later, Mrs. Kopecky barreled into the kitchen. “Okay, Tommy,” she ordered, hands on her hips. “We wash.”

Without another word, she started filling the sink with sudsy hot water. I helped Ma wash the dishes and the hot water felt good on my cold hands. I was so worried and angry, I wanted to pick up a glass and smash it against the wall. But I didn't. I didn't want to be like Mom.

When the phone rang again, I jumped. It kept ringing as I quickly dried my hands on a dish towel and went to pick it up. “Hello?”

“Tommy.” It was my dad. “I found your mother. She's at the hospital.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, remembering. “She said she had a meeting with Mary Lou's doctors.”

“No,” my dad said. He sounded funny. “She was . . . injured.”

“What?” My breath suddenly caught in my throat and my feet felt colder than they had in the snowbank. Ma must have noticed too, because she froze, a dirty plate in the air, a bunch of soap bubbles dripping off one edge. I watched them fall onto the counter. Sometimes I hated my mom, but I didn't want her dead.

“What's going on?” I said. “Tell me!”

“Your mom did drive to the hospital to see Mary Lou. But as she was pulling into the parking lot, apparently she had an accident.”