The Paper Cowboy (19 page)

DOUBTS AND DISEASES

I thought about what Mr. McKenzie had said all day. When you're little, you think you can do or be anything. Then you get older and realize, no, John is better than you at baseball, and Maria's better at math.

If I was being really honest, I knew I was never going to be a cowboy. There wasn't a Wild West anymore, no outlaws to be hunted down on horseback with a lasso and a gun. It was just a dream. Just a stupid dream that was never going to come true.

The mood stuck on me like a fog I couldn't shake. That evening, I played a duet with Mrs. Glazov in our living room after Pinky and Susie were in bed. I didn't miss any notes, but the music still sounded wrong, hollow, empty, as if the accordion knew my heart wasn't in it.

Mrs. Glazov stopped suddenly in the middle of “On Top of Old Smoky.” She gave me a funny look, but didn't say anything about my playing. “Tommy,” she said. “I have news.”

She pulled a crumpled piece of newspaper out of her pocket. “Look what I read in paper!”

It was from the
Downers Grove Reporter.
Apparently, a group of local musicians was starting a musical society.

“You not teach me to read, I never see this!” she raved. “I went to meeting last week. We planning concert. At Tivoli. Trumpet player, his cousin run the projector and he talk to boss and he say we have it cheap. Wednesday, April 21. It January 23 now. We have three months get ready!”

“What do you mean, ‘we'?” I asked.

“You play too. I be music teacher again! You my star student!”

I'd never heard her talk so much. She was dreaming, just like Mr. McKenzie. It would only end in disappointment.

“No,” I said. “I'm sorry, but I don't want to. Not in front of all those people.”

“But, Tommy . . .”

I got up and ran to my room.

Later that night, Dad knocked on my door. I didn't answer, but he still came in.

“Mom is settled at the Kopeckys',” he said. “She's going to be there for a few weeks, resting. Kind of like a holiday.”

I nodded. Not having her in the house was kind of like a holiday for me too. I felt bad thinking it, but it was true.

“And you know Mrs. Glazov is going to keep coming over, as sort of a housekeeper and a nursemaid for the little ones.”

I nodded again.

“Things are going to get better, Tommy. They really will.” He smiled, but his voice was strained, like he was trying to convince himself.

“Sure,” I said. But really, I thought, what was going to change?

“You seem down tonight,” Dad said on his way out the door.

I shrugged.

“Don't worry about Mary Lou's bills,” he said. “We'll figure something out.”

But he had to force his voice just a little too hard to sound cheerful, and that gave me even more to worry about.

The next day on the paper route, I slipped and fell on a patch of ice right in front of the Kopeckys' house. The sled didn't tip over or anything, but I fell on a rock and there was a big cut on my knee, the same one I'd skinned running away from Mom.

It hurt pretty bad, but surely I could hobble down the road to the next house. I didn't want to go into Ma and Pa's to ask for a bandage because I might see my mother. I had only gone a few steps when Ma came out on her front porch. “Tommy! I saw you take that horrible spill. You get in here right now and I'll fix you up!”

“I'm fine!” I called.

Boots looked at me and whined.

“Tommy! Right now!”

There was no arguing with Ma, so I slowly made my way up the steps. It did feel good to go inside the warm house. I took off my jacket in the foyer and followed Ma into the kitchen. It was the same size as ours, but the cabinets were painted blue, the countertops were white, and there was a blue-and-white-checkered cloth on the table.

There was no sign of my mother. Bacon was frying on the griddle. A pile of pancakes waited on a platter on the counter.

I sat down at the table and Ma placed a plate of food in front of me. “Eat!” she ordered. “I'm going to go get the iodine.”

I dug in. It was delicious. As I ate, I noticed a framed quote on the wall. Someone had written in fancy calligraphy:
Medicine heals doubts as well as diseases.
I liked that.

I heard footsteps outside the kitchen. What if it was my mother, coming in for breakfast? What would I say to her? The pancake stuck in my throat.

But it wasn't my mom. It was Pa, wearing a navy-blue bathrobe. “Morning, Tommy,” he said, as if he saw me in his kitchen every morning.

“Is it true?” I asked.

“What?”

“That quote on the wall.” I gestured to the frame. “Can you do that?”

“Ah. Medicine as healing doubts. Words of wisdom from our dear friend Karl Marx.”

“Karl Marx said that?” I asked.

Pa laughed. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Karl Marx is the father of communism!”

“He came up with the idea of communism. I'd say it didn't turn out quite like he expected.”

Pa sounded almost like my father, and yet I was pretty sure he wasn't a Soviet spy either.

Ma came back with the bandage for my knee, and we all sat down for breakfast.

As we ate, Pa and Ma told me all about Prague. That was the capital of Czechoslovakia and it was where they had come from. There was a castle and a river. “And so many churches,” said Ma, her eyes bright and shining, “that people called it the city of a hundred spires!”

“If it was so great, why did you leave?” I asked.

“We didn't want to,” said Pa. “After studying in Vienna, I became a professor of medicine at Charles University. It is one of the oldest and most prestigious universities in Europe.”

“He speaks Czech, Slovak, English, German and Russian,” Ma said proudly. “I only learned Czech, Slovak and English.”

Two more than me, I thought to myself.

Pa sighed. “We outlasted the Nazis, and when the war ended, I thought our problems were over. But in 1948, the KSC, the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, took over. Because I spoke out against them, I was dismissed from my post at the university and forced to flee.”

“It's okay,” Ma said, patting his wrinkled hand like he was a tired child.

“No, it's not,” Pa said. “There, I was an educated man. A leader. Here, I am a poor chicken farmer.”

Pa turned to look me in the eye. “The communists didn't just take away my right to vote and express my opinions, they took away my job and my home. Yes, I have read Karl Marx, Tommy. I like some of the things he said. But I am not a communist.”

This was too much to think about so early in the morning. It was time to go. My knee felt better, and I had to finish the paper route. I walked to the door, put on my coat and heard a little intake of breath, almost like a tiny gasp.

There in the hallway was my mother.

She still had a bandage on her head, but it was a smaller one now. Her black eye had faded to yellow and purple. Her long dark hair was tangled, as if she had just woken up. She wore a white long-sleeved nightgown that came down to her ankles and made her look like a ghost.

My arms and legs tingled. I felt like I needed to run. We stared at each other, not saying a word. I wanted to leave, but I couldn't seem to make my legs move.

Ma walked into the hallway. “Ah, Catherine,” she said, taking Mom's arm and leading her into the kitchen. “I've got the coffee all ready. You must be hungry.”

The spell was broken. I slipped out the door without saying a word.

Monday morning, Sister Ann pulled Eddie, Sam and me aside just before the afternoon recess. “Good news, Eddie,” Sister Ann said. “Father Miskel has reconsidered your expulsion. Instead, you and Tommy”—she turned to look at me—“will spend the next month cleaning the boys' restroom during recess.”

“What's going to happen to me?” asked Sam.

“In light of the information Tommy provided,” Sister Ann said, “you are being let off with a warning. Tommy and Eddie, you two may start your punishment now.” She handed us each a bucket and scrub brush.

I thought Eddie would be happy he wasn't getting expelled, but he said nothing. Once we got to the restroom, he started to scrub so hard, I was afraid he was going to rub the bristles right off his brush. He wouldn't even look at me. It was a long afternoon.

EACH ACCORDING TO HIS NEEDS

The last Sunday in January, Dad and I drove to the hospital. It was early evening and snowing lightly, the flakes big and almost blue in the moonlight. The windshield wipers swished back and forth. All week, I'd been haunted by memories of Mom: standing in her white nightgown in the Kopeckys' hallway; holding the belt as it flew through the air and hit Pinky; throwing the pierogi on my birthday.

“Dad?” I asked.

“Hmm?”

“Why didn't you ever do anything?”

“About what?”

“About Mom.”

Dad glanced over at me. The streetlights reflected off the snow, making my dad's face glow like a jack-o'-lantern. “Don't worry, Tommy,” he said. “When Mom comes home, I'm sure things will be much better.”

He'd ignored my question. Again. It made me angry. “You really think everything will be fine?” I scoffed. “She'll just stay at Pa and Ma's for a few weeks and they'll fix her up, good as new!”

“Tommy, your mother is . . .” Dad stopped, unable to find the right way to describe her.

“Why didn't you ever say anything?”

“I don't know,” Dad said. “I don't know.”

Swish, swash, swish, swash.
The wipers droned on. The snow fell, quiet and peaceful. Dad was silent so long, I didn't think he was going to answer. Then he said, “My parents spanked me.
Spare the rod, spoil the child.
I wanted to believe that was all it was.”

“She knocked over the Christmas tree!”

“Women act strange when they've had a baby and—”

“Dad!”

“I know,” he said, so quiet it was almost a whisper.

“We needed you to do something!”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't know what to do.”

I'd never heard him apologize to me before. It made me feel like he was actually listening to what I had to say. And knowing that my dad sometimes made mistakes was scary and terrifying and kind of wonderful all at the same time.
He didn't know what to do.
I understood that. I'd felt that way a million times.

“What about Mr. McKenzie and the paper?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Dad said. “Honestly, I should have done something.”

He looked so miserable, his eyes drooping, his shoulders slumped, that I finally asked, “Why did you go to those meetings anyway?”

“I don't know,” he said. He was silent for a long time, but at last he went on. “After the First World War, many people thought communism was an idea worth talking about, one that might have prevented much of the suffering of the Great Depression. Part of the reason I got a good job in the factory at Western Electric, one that paid enough to support you and your mother and your sisters, is because the unions got ideas from Karl Marx. Ideas about working-class people gaining power and influence. It doesn't seem right to just forget about all those ideas now that I'm a manager.

“Karl Marx's original view of communism was a utopian society where everyone would share everything, and everyone would have what they needed. ‘From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs.'

“I liked the idea that if someone was in need, someone else would volunteer to help. It reminded me of why I moved to Downers Grove. I hoped a small town would be a place where we would all . . . take care of one another.”

Dad shook his head.

“But when Stalin came to power in the Soviet Union, he did horrific things in the name of communism. Millions of people were executed or died from disease and starvation when they were sent to Siberia or forced-labor camps. The communists arrested people who spoke out against them, took over governments of other countries in Eastern Europe and outlawed religion. Stalin's version of communism was nothing like the utopian ideals that we discussed in the meetings I attended.

“And now McCarthy has embarked on this witch hunt, saying anyone who ever thought about a different idea, anyone who ever considered another viewpoint, is a traitor to our country.”

Dad shook his head again. “No, Tommy. I'm no communist. But I do believe the great thing about the United States is that we are free to have whatever ideas we want, even the bad ones. At least—we were until McCarthy came along.”

My head was spinning, all my old beliefs about right and wrong melting away like the snowflakes on the warm windshield. For the first time, I could really picture my father as a young man, like me, learning new things, meeting new people, taking risks, making mistakes.

We pulled into the hospital parking lot. “Come on, Tommy,” he said. “Let's go see Mary Lou.”

Dad went off to talk with the doctors, and Mary Lou and I practiced walking up and down the hallway. But it had only been five minutes when Mary Lou said, “All right, Tommy. Spill the beans.”

“What?”

“I can tell something is wrong. You might as well admit it.” She gripped my arm. Her fingers were cold as icicles. “Did Sister Ann say something? Am I not working hard enough? Am I not going to graduate on time? Please, Tommy, just tell me, I want to know!”

“No,” I said. “It's nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

I sighed. I'd never told her what I'd done to Mr. McKenzie. “It's kind of a long story.”

Mary Lou snorted, most unladylike. “Well, I got plenty of time.”

So we sat down in her room and I started talking. About planting the paper in Mr. McKenzie's store. About him losing the business. And finally, about Dad being the communist.

When I'd finished telling her everything, even what Dad had said to me in the car, she leaned over and gave me a hug. “Oh, Tommy!”

“Aren't you going to say
I told you so
?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No. It sounds like you've suffered enough. That's a lot to deal with all by yourself.”

I shrugged. “I didn't want to burden you.”

“Still,” she said, “I wish you had told me before.”

“Told you what?” Dad asked, walking into the room.

“About your college activities,
Comrade Dad,
” Mary Lou teased.

But Dad did not laugh. All the blood drained from his face as he shut Mary Lou's door. When he turned back toward us, he looked as serious as a skeleton. “Did you tell her?” Dad asked me.

“Yeah.”

“Tommy!”

“It's just Mary Lou!” I didn't see what the big deal was.

“I told you not to tell anyone!”

“I'm not going to tell, Dad!” Mary Lou sounded offended.

“The more people who know, the greater the chance of it coming out. The greater the chance of something awful happening.”

“But you told Mr. McKenzie,” I pointed out.

“We owed him. And it was probably a mistake.”

“Dad, we know how to keep a secret,” Mary Lou said softly.

“I hope you do,” he said angrily, “because this isn't a game. If anyone gets a whiff of a rumor that I might be a communist, I could lose my job at the plant. And then who would . . . who would . . .”

Dad stopped talking and sat down on the edge of the bed. He covered his face with his hands and I was afraid he was going to start crying again, like he had when Mom had been hurt. I knew what he was going to say. If he got fired, who would earn money for the family? Who would pay the hospital bills?

Mary Lou was as white as the hospital sheets on her bed.

“I'm sorry, Dad.”

Dad took a deep breath and stood up. There might have been tears in his eyes, but I didn't want to look too closely. “Come on, Tommy. We need to go.”

I jumped up.

“And both of you, not a word!”

“We promise,” Mary Lou and I said at the same time.

Dad and I walked a few paces down the hall in silence, when one of the nurses stopped me. “Hey, it's the famous accordion player,” she said, and patted me on the shoulder. “You were great!”

“I'm not that good.” I blushed.

“Yeah, you were.” She added, “I'd pay money to hear you play.” She winked at me and walked on.

We were almost out the door when a man in a suit ran up to us. “Mr. Wilson,” he said, “may I speak to you for a moment?”

They went into a little office and left me outside, but I could hear snippets through the closed door.
Payment late. Again.
Dad apologizing, his voice low and gravelly.
Trying to be understanding, but . . .

I stepped away, not wanting to listen any more. In the car, I thought about the man in the suit and the nurse, and about what dad had said about people helping one another. My thoughts slowly packed together like a snowball. Mrs. Glazov was planning a concert. She wanted me to be in it. What if we made it a concert to raise money for Mary Lou's medical bills?

It had started to snow again and that reminded me of something else. “Hey, Dad,” I said. “Remember that movie we saw at the Tivoli last year? The Christmas one with Jimmy Stewart.”

“Yeah,” Dad said. “
It's a Wonderful Life.
”

“That's it,” I said. “I liked the end. When the town just gives him all the money to replace the bank deposit he lost.”

“Yeah, me too,” Dad said absently.

Surely it wouldn't be asking for charity if we offered people a concert in return. And what was so bad about accepting charity anyway?

Maybe I could make Dad's vision of Downers Grove come true after all.