The Paper Cowboy (23 page)

AFTER THE MUSIC

After the concert, I stood in the lobby, looking back in at the theater. Not quite believing that I'd done it. That I'd managed to play and perform and
do a good job
in front of all those people. I felt a tap on my shoulder.

It was Mary Lou. She was standing. Leaning on a cane, sure, but standing. A nurse waited patiently a few feet away.

“You did a great job,” Mary Lou said, smiling.

“It wasn't just me,” I said. “Lots of people—”

“No, Tommy,” Mary Lou said. “It was mainly you.”

My ears itched and my cheeks felt hot.

“You're blushing,” Mary Lou teased.

“No, I'm not.”

“Anyway,” Mary Lou said, “I just saw Sister Ann and she said I should be able to finish the eighth grade with my class after all and go on to high school next year.” She said “high school” like it was the World Series.

“That's great.”

“'Course, I need to get out of the hospital first. The doctors said maybe in another month.”

“A month's not too long,” I said.

“No,” Mary Lou said, “it's not.”

The nurse came up and gently touched her arm.

“We have to leave soon. I'm going to go say bye to Mom and Dad. See you soon!”

I gave her a big hug and watched her hobble off with the nurse standing right beside her.

Lizzie Johnson came up to me next, her red hair pulled back in one big French braid, though little curls kept escaping. I wanted to tuck them behind her ear.

“Hi, Tommy,” she said. “I didn't know you could play the accordion!”

“Yeah, well, I learned.”

We both stared at our shoes, as if there was something really interesting on the carpet.

“Hey, Lizzie,” I said finally.

“Yes?” She looked up at me eagerly.

“I shouldn't have said your freckles looked like a lizard,” I said. “I actually like them.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, Mary Lou has freckles too.”

“Oh.” Lizzie looked disappointed.

Perhaps telling a girl she looked like your sister was not the right thing to say. “Do you like ice cream?” I asked, desperate to change the subject.

“Who doesn't like ice cream?”

“Yeah, well, they're gonna have some at Sam's shop.” Then I added quickly, before I could chicken out, “We should get a float there sometime.”

She smiled. “That'd be nice.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

And before I could say anything else, she walked away.

Sister Ann came over to me then, with two other nuns from school. “Tommy,” she said. “You've done a wonderful thing. Over a hundred people showed up. Many gave more than one dollar.” She gestured to the basket she was holding. “I'm going to take all this money over to your father.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

“And I was thinking,” Sister Ann said, “maybe we should have another concert next year. Make it a tradition.” As they walked off, I heard her say, “Did you know, Sister Rose, that in my youth I used to play the oboe?”

Sister Rose laughed. “No, Sister Ann. I did not.”

I looked for something to eat then, but the buffet Mr. McKenzie had carefully laid out had been picked over till there was nearly nothing left. Ma pointed at it as she walked off. “I do have to admit,” she said, “those watercress sandwiches were really good. Almost as good as mine.”

“Better,” said Pa.

She whacked him with her purse, and they both laughed.

“Like your bow tie,” Pa said, and winked at me.

“Thanks,” I said, and smiled as they walked out.

After they left, Mr. McKenzie came up to me. “Look at this, Tommy!” He held up a bunch of papers. “Did you see how many order forms I got?”

“How many?” I asked.

“I don't know,” he said excitedly. “I haven't had a chance to count them. All the league ladies ordered something. And you know that man from the hospital? Well, they're having some sort of a picnic this summer and they wanted to know if I could provide all the sandwiches. For a hundred people. And—”

“Is it . . . is it going to work?” I asked.

“I don't know, Tommy. We have minds to change. Some people will probably always think I'm a communist. But you know what?”

“What?”

Mr. McKenzie grinned, his dark eyes flashing. “It feels awfully good to have a chance to try out my dream.” He picked me up in a big bear hug, lifting me off the ground.

“Hey!”

He put me back down and laughed. “Got to go count my forms!”

Mom came over to me next. The green dress made her eyes shine. Despite the new gray in her hair, she looked younger than she had before. Susie was sleeping in her arms.

“Hi, Tommy,” Mom said shyly.

“Hi,” I said.

“The concert was wonderful.”

“Thanks.”

We stood there in an awkward silence.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

“For everything.” Her voice trembled a little. “Pa suggested that maybe the next time you get in trouble, I let Dad give you your punishment. I think that's a good idea.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”

Now
both
my parents had apologized to me. It felt weird. Not bad, but kind of strange. Maybe talking with Pa really had done her some good. And suddenly, like a flash flood in a dry canyon, all the reasons I loved my mom came roaring back. The pies she baked. How she danced to polka music in the kitchen. Even her toughness, because without that, how would she have found the strength to smother the flames and save Mary Lou?

“Does it help?” she asked. “Saying I'm sorry?”

“Yes,” I said, and smiled. “It does.”

Susie woke up and started to cry, and as Mom walked off to feed her, Sam came up to me. “You ever played before an audience before?”

I shook my head.

“How was it?” he asked.

“Terrifying,” I admitted. “But then, once I got started, I guess it was kind of okay.”

“You did a good job,” he said, and handed me some rolled-up papers.

“What's this?” I asked.

“One of my stories,” he said. “I figured, if you can play in front of all those people, I can let you read one of my stories.”

I glanced at the front page:
The Adventures of Cowboy Sam.
“Thanks.”

Sam gave me a shy smile. “I'm going to leave now before I change my mind.”

I laughed as he ran off.

Everyone was just about gone by then. The lobby was almost empty. Sam had given his hat and jacket back to one of the real ushers, who was sweeping up and getting ready for the next day's show.

The only person I didn't get to say good-bye to was Eddie. Through the big glass doors, I saw him on the sidewalk in front of the Tivoli, arguing with his father. His dad pointed at us, then angrily shoved him into the car. I waved, but I don't think he saw me.

Finally, it was just Dad and me, looking at an old ad for
High Noon.

“You know,” Dad said softly when I walked up to him, “I was wrong before when I said cowboys were reckless, vengeful and independent to a fault. It wasn't the shoot-out that made Gary Cooper a great man. It was that he cared for others. He faced his problems. He didn't walk away. He solved them. A good cowboy is a leader who looks after his herd and his posse. No one goes missing. Kind of like you.”

And for the first time in ages, for the first time since before Mary Lou had gotten burned, I knew who I was. I was Tommy John Wilson. A paper cowboy.

FISHING AT NOON

Everyone was on their best behavior on the way home. Dad drove the car and Mom sat in the front with him, Pinky leaning against her, Susie snuggled in Mom's lap. Mrs. Glazov and I rode in the back, our accordions between us. Mom's suitcase of belongings from Ma and Pa's was in the trunk.

For a few days, everything was okay. But when I came back from my paper route the last Saturday in April, Dad and Mom were already arguing again. “I don't understand why we still need her,” Mom said. “I'm home!”

“What is your objection to Mrs. Glazov?” Dad snapped.

“I don't like having a stranger in the house.”

“She's not a stranger,” Dad continued. “Not anymore!”

Mom glanced around the kitchen. “The glasses aren't in the right cabinet,” she said. “And there's grease on the stove.”

“Catherine,” Dad said, his voice gravelly, and I could hear the anger in his voice. He'd never really stood up to Mom before. I was kind of impressed.

“What?” she said.

“We're not even paying her! You can't criticize—”

Mrs. Glazov cleared her throat. She was standing at the back door. “I here to make breakfast,” she announced. She pushed her way in between my parents and stood with her hands on her hips, looking at both of them.

Mom was going to drive her off, like she had with the women at the dinner party. She wasn't really going to accept help. And without Mrs. Glazov, Mom would get overwhelmed again and everything she had learned from Pa would go out the window and . . .

But Mrs. Glazov didn't storm off in a huff. Instead she took my mother's hand. “What you saying?” she scolded my father. “Of course she need to tell me where things go. A woman's kitchen is very important. We particular. Right?” She looked at my mom.

Mom was breathing heavily, the vein on her forehead popping in and out. She took two deep breaths and sighed. “Yes. Yes, you're right. We're particular.”

“So,” Mrs. Glazov said. “What else I do wrong?”

Mom laughed.

“No, tell me! Want to know.”

Mom shook her head.

“Then I tell you,” Mrs. Glazov said sternly. “You need new teapot.”

“What's wrong with this one?” Mom asked.

“Makes terrible tea. I show you how!” Mrs. Glazov took the flowered apron off the hook by the back door and started to put it on.

Mom's eyes narrowed. I knew exactly what she was thinking.
That's my apron. How dare she!

Mrs. Glazov must have seen Mom's expression too, because she paused and put the apron around my mom's neck instead. “This is yours,” she said, as formally as if it were a crown.

Mom's face softened and she smiled as she tied the sash behind her back. They made a funny picture, the short woman and the tall one, sizing each other up, like they were cowboys in a showdown. Finally, Mom went to a cabinet in the corner and rummaged for a bit. She pulled out another apron, this one frilly and pink with white polka dots instead of flowers.

“You can have this one,” Mom said.

Mrs. Glazov took it from her like a sacrament. “Thank you.”

I could hardly believe it. The things Pa had told Mom, about taking a deep breath, thinking before you speak and, most of all, accepting help, had actually worked! In the doorway, Dad was smiling too. He shook his head in amazement.

Mom and Mrs. Glazov started working together, the flowers and the polka dots moving around the room like they'd always been there together. I went out to the garage and found an extra hook in the box of nails and screws. By the time I'd installed a hook for Mrs. Glazov's apron by the back door, next to Mom's, the pancakes were ready.

They tasted delicious.

A week or so after the concert, Dad, Mr. Sullivan, Eddie and I went fishing again. It was late April and the sky was blue. The clouds were white and round, like puffs of smoke from a train. All morning we pulled the fish in, one after another, and put them in a large bucket.

“Don't have room for many more,” I said as I threw in another yellow perch.

The sun was high in the sky and it must have been close to noon. Way off in the distance, I could hear the whistle of a train. The birds were chirping and it was a beautiful day, but Mr. Sullivan wouldn't stop complaining.

“Can you believe it?” Mr. Sullivan moaned. “Old McKenzie renamed his store and now, just because he called it Sam's, he expects everyone to forget that he's a commie!”

“He's not a communist,” Dad said.

“Yeah, that's what you say.” Mr. Sullivan took another drink from the thermos he'd brought with him. From the smell, I was pretty sure it wasn't coffee, like my dad had brought. “And that old Russian lady? One little concert and my wife is nagging me to let her give my son music lessons!”

My dad coughed. “Well, Doug, Tommy has learned a lot from her. And the concert was for Mary Lou. To help pay for her medical bills.” He sounded annoyed, maybe even a little embarrassed.

“Yeah, I heard that,” Mr. Sullivan said. “Why are you taking charity from a commie anyway?”

“She's not a commie,” I said.

Both dads ignored me.

“Didn't see you offering me any help,” Dad said crossly.

“I lost my job,” Mr. Sullivan said.

“Sorry about that,” Dad said, “but maybe if you'd quit drinking you'd—”

“You saying it was my fault?” Mr. Sullivan demanded.

My palms were sweating so much, I could barely hold my pole. Next to me, Eddie was trying to put a worm on his hook, but his fingers were trembling so that the bait kept slipping out of them.

“No,” Dad said calmly. “No, Doug, of course I'm not saying that.”

Mr. Sullivan fumed quietly.

“Come on, let's just fish,” Dad added.

We each cast our lines in a few times, but nothing bit. The tension was so high, I bet the fish could feel it.

“You're an old friend,” Mr. Sullivan said, “but, Robert, I don't understand why you continue associating with Mr. McKenzie. And doesn't it make you nervous living next to that Russian?”

“Dad!” Eddie cried, exasperated. “Stop going on about the commies!”

“There's one here in town!”

“So what?” Eddie said.

“The commie could be gathering intelligence to feed to the Soviets,” Mr. Sullivan said.

“What could the Soviets possibly want to know about Downers Grove?” Dad asked. “How many people showed up at the Tivoli on Friday night?”

“Yeah,” Eddie added. “Think the Russians care how many fish you caught?”

Mr. Sullivan reached over and slapped Eddie on the cheek. Just like Mom had done to me that day at school. It felt odd, like watching myself in a movie. I knew how angry and scared and embarrassed Eddie must feel. Heck, I could practically feel the sting from the slap on my own face.

“You be respectful, boy,” Mr. Sullivan growled. “Now that they are shutting McCarthy down, we'll have to root them out ourselves.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “There's nothing to ‘root out,' Dad! We already know where the paper came from.”

Eddie!
I wanted to scream.
You promised not to tell!

“What?” Mr. Sullivan's eyes blazed like Mom's when she was angry.

“I mean . . .” Eddie turned white as the belly of a fish.

“Where'd it come from?” Mr. Sullivan demanded.

“It was just an old newspaper,” my dad said quietly, looking at me. I could feel his disapproval like a weight. He knew I'd told. After I'd promised not to. I'd broken my word. “It doesn't matter where it came from,” Dad said.

“It does to me!” Mr. Sullivan stood up, grabbed Eddie by the shoulders and shook him hard. “Tell me!”

“Doug,” Dad said, “let the boy go.”

“Tell me!” Mr. Sullivan shook Eddie harder, causing him to drop his pole. Eddie looked at the sky and the ground and the lake, everywhere but at his dad. I was pretty sure he was crying. I bet it hurt being shaken like that. It had hurt when Mom had hit me. And no one had done a thing to stop her.

“Me,” I said, standing up. “I put the paper in the store.”

Mr. Sullivan let go of Eddie. “You're the commie?” he asked. His strong arms suddenly seemed scary, like a gorilla's. He took a step toward me. I backed away, but the dock was narrow. There wasn't much room.

Dad stood up and stepped between the two of us. “Tommy put the paper in the store,” he said. “But it came from me.”

“You?” Mr. Sullivan barked. “You're the commie?! My best friend?”

“I'm not a communist,” Dad said slowly. “I just read a newspaper.”

“Oh yeah, college boy? Just a newspaper, huh?” Mr. Sullivan said sarcastically. “While you were at your cushy factory job, I was fighting in Korea! At the Chosin Reservoir it was thirty below. With no good boots, all my toes froze clean off.”

“I'm sorry, Doug,” my dad said. “Let's just calm down and—”

“It's why I can't walk straight now. Because of commies like you!”

He lunged at my dad, but my dad ducked out of the way and Mr. Sullivan fell to the ground. “Think you're better than me, don't you?” he said, climbing to his feet.

“No.” Dad put down his fishing pole and stood up to his full six feet.

“I know you're laughing at me behind my back.” Mr. Sullivan walked over to the bag he'd brought and rummaged through it. He pulled out a handgun and pointed it at my dad's face.

“Dad!” Eddie sounded terrified.

My father's face was covered with a thin layer of sweat.

I started shaking.

Dad picked up the knife we used to gut the fish. “Put the gun down.”

“No.” Mr. Sullivan was unsteady on his feet, but his grip on the gun was firm.

They were going to fight. But this wasn't a movie, and if someone got hurt, they wouldn't just jump up again when the director yelled “cut.” There had to be a better way. But I couldn't think. It was like when Mary Lou had caught fire and I hadn't moved. Mom had had to come smother the flames, even though I'd been closer. No matter what, I couldn't let that happen again.

Suddenly, I remembered how Mrs. Glazov had handled the situation with Mom in the kitchen. She'd
agreed
with her. I could do that. I was a good talker. I just needed Eddie to follow my lead.

“Yeah.” I walked over to Mr. Sullivan. “I know why you're so angry.”

“Tommy?” Dad gave me a confused look.

I ignored him. My heart was galloping like a horse. If this didn't work, I didn't know what else to do. I glanced at Eddie. He had to remember. How we stole the yo-yos. One person distracts and charms. The other takes something. I mouthed,
Yo-yos,
and I could see his eyes clear. He nodded, not so anyone else could see, but I knew he'd understood.

“You know, I had the same reaction,” I said to Mr. Sullivan. “My own father! A communist. It was so embarrassing.” My voice sounded calm, but my legs were trembling.

“Yeah?” said Mr. Sullivan uncertainly. I could smell the whiskey on his breath.

He still had the gun pointed at my dad, but it was a bit lower now.

“I mean, he attended meetings. He should at least lose his job or something!”

“Yeah,” Mr. Sullivan agreed. “Look at me. I lost
my
job!”

“It's not fair,” I agreed.

I glanced at Eddie. He nodded.

My dad looked confused and hurt. I winked at him, but I wasn't sure he understood.

“He's got to pay,” Mr. Sullivan said.

“Definitely,” I agreed.

Mr. Sullivan raised his gun again. He was really going to do it. He was really going to shoot my father.

This was it. We had to act now. I caught Eddie's eye and whispered, “Hi-Yo, Silver.”

Eddie and I both jumped onto his father, knocking him to the ground. The gun went off, but the bullet went wild, into the marshy grass.

“What the—?” Mr. Sullivan roared.

Dad put his knee into Mr. Sullivan's back, holding him down as he flailed and cursed. The gun was lying on the dock, a few inches away. I picked it up and, like I was throwing a baseball bat, hurled it into the pond. It floated for a moment, then sank with a few bubbles into the murky water.

Dad looked at Eddie and me like we were heroes, not just two scared boys with lots of practice stealing things. “Stop it, Doug,” Dad growled, as tough as any cowboy. “You're drunk. You lost your job because of the drinking. It had nothing to do with me.”

Mr. Sullivan stopped struggling.

“I'm going to let you go now,” Dad said. “Don't try anything funny.”

Mr. Sullivan stood up slowly. He had dirt on his legs and belly. There was even a big smudge on his cheek, kind of like Sam's scar.

Dad's face was angry, and somehow he still had the knife in his hand. For a moment, I was afraid he was going to stab Mr. Sullivan. I touched Dad's wrist, and slowly he placed the knife on the ground.