The Paper Cowboy (5 page)

VISITING MARY LOU

After school, before I could get on the bus, Mom met me on the front steps. At first glance, she looked okay. Her dress was neat and ironed; she'd combed her hair and put on a necklace and lipstick. But her eyes were wild, a mix of brown and green. For a moment, I thought she'd heard about the incident on the playground. But she only grabbed my arm and said, “Come on. We're going to go see Mary Lou.”

I was relieved. If Mary Lou was allowed to have visitors, it must mean she was doing better! What I discovered, after forty-five minutes in the car, was that Mom and the baby were going to see Mary Lou, not me. I was so disappointed, I wanted to scream. But there was Pinky, holding my hand, looking up at me with big brown eyes.

We sat in the waiting room for two hours. I gave Pinky an old piece of paper from my school satchel and she drew big round scribbles over and over while I did my homework. After a few minutes, her paper ripped and she started to cry. Pinky climbed into my lap and I rocked her and sang “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep” about fifty-seven times.

I was so frustrated about not seeing Mary Lou, I felt like I was going to explode. Finally, Pinky fell asleep and I placed her on the couch. She rolled over, but didn't wake up. This was my chance. I ran for the stairs.

I reached the stairwell just before my mother and a doctor walked into the lobby. I could hear Mom wailing, “Morphine? But she'll become an addict!”

“We know what we're doing,” said the doctor, his voice low and soothing. “There's nothing else to control the pain. We can wean her off it slowly and . . .”

I didn't wait to hear the rest. I ran up the stairs two at a time and poked my head out into the hall. No one was there. I was pretty sure Mary Lou's room number was 320, so I ducked into that room and pulled the curtain.

The figure in the bed didn't move. It was wrapped up in bandages, lots of them, like a mummy I'd seen in the encyclopedia Mom had at home. The person was turned away, facing the wall, so all I could see was long brown hair. There was a brush on the bedside table, and the hair was smooth, as if someone had just finished combing it.

I crept over to look at the person in the bed.

It was Mary Lou. I couldn't speak. She looked both better and worse than I had expected. Her legs were covered with bandages so thick, they resembled sausages. Her face was puffy but unmarked, except for a scar on her forehead that her hair would cover. As I stared at the freckles on her nose—just the same as they'd always been—her eyelashes fluttered, like spiders dancing on her eyelids.

“Mary Lou,” I whispered. “It's me.”

Her eyes opened for a moment, looking big and unfocused. “Tommy?” she mumbled.

I waited a long time, but she didn't open her eyes again. Her breathing was slow and steady, as if she were asleep. But she was breathing. She was alive.

Finally, I turned to go. I hurried down the hall, then sat in the stairwell for a minute, just to catch my breath. That's when I started crying. Really sobbing. My sister was alive and I knew I should be happy and thanking God, but I couldn't stop crying. It was embarrassing. All I could think was, cowboys do not sob like babies. But then I remembered that Mary Lou might end up looking like Little Skinny, and the thought only made me sob harder.

Suddenly, I heard a door open on a floor above me. I held my breath. Someone else was in the stairwell with me. I jumped up and started down the stairs, wanting to avoid whoever it was.

But the door hadn't been on the floor above me, it had been on the floor below, which meant I ran smack into a boy standing in the stairwell.

It was Little Skinny.

Even though I'd just been thinking about him, he was the last person I expected to see. For a moment, I was so embarrassed, I couldn't breathe. There I was, my eyes all red, my face smudged and dirty. That was when I realized he was crying too, great big silent tears that fell down his red scar onto the white, starched collar of his shirt.

“Are you going to hit me again?” he asked.

I didn't answer, just pushed past him and ran back to the lobby. Mom, Susie and Pinky were sitting on the couch, waiting for me.

“Where have you been?” Mom snapped.

“I had to go to the bathroom,” I said.

“Well, come on,” she said. “It's time to go home.”

Mom didn't cry or yell as we got in the car, but she started driving way too fast. I didn't dare ask her to slow down.

WORKING FOR MR. M
C
KENZIE

Little Skinny stayed out of my way all that week at school. I was glad. Every time I saw him, I wondered why he'd been at the hospital, and if Mary Lou's scars were going to end up looking like his.

I didn't want to spend my Saturday helping in Mr. McKenzie's store, so I decided to give back the yo-yos. Then my debt would be repaid and I'd never have to set foot in his store again. I still had the yellow yo-yo and the red one too. Eddie gave me the blue one back and I promised not to rat him out. “I know,” he said. “We keep each other's secrets.”

Saturday, September 19, was raining and miserable. It took me a long time to do the paper route. I kept imagining what I'd do if I saw that bright flash that meant an atomic bomb, kept looking for places where I could duck and cover. A wall. An embankment. Something like that. I saw no one. Everyone else was safe and snug in their beds, even the chickens. But Boots loyally came along, his black-and-white fur sticking to his sides, making him look like an oversized rat in the rain. By the time I was done, I was soaked through. I put the yo-yos, wrapped in brown paper, into my school satchel and walked slowly to the store.

When I arrived, there were a couple of customers walking up and down the aisles. Little Skinny sat at the front counter working the cash register. He flinched when he saw me and had to count out change for the little old lady buying eggs three times before he got it right. I'd decided to leave the yo-yos on the counter and get out of there, when Mr. McKenzie hurried out of the back room.

“Tommy!” His voice was a big, booming growl. “You're late.”

I shrugged.

He put his hands on his hips, looking like a huge, angry bear. “Why did you do this to me? I would have given you a yo-yo had you asked!”

I didn't answer.

He sighed and held out a broom and dustpan. “Sweep out the store. Front to back.”

“Actually . . .” I let the words trail off.

“Actually, what?” His bushy eyebrows huddled together, like a caterpillar on his face.

I gave him my sweetest, most innocent smile. “I decided to just return them,” I said, handing over the small package.

His face froze, as if an ice storm had suddenly blown into town. Stiffly, he unwrapped the paper.

“See,” I said, grinning even broader. “Good as new.”

Mr. McKenzie did not reply.

“Well,” I said. “See you around!” I turned to go.

He grabbed my shirt. “No.”

I jerked away. “What do you mean, no?”

“How long do you think I would stay in business if I allowed boys to ‘borrow' items whenever they wanted?” Now he spoke so softly, I had to strain to hear him. “No, the deal with your mother was you'd work for me on Saturday mornings, from nine until twelve.”

“Fine,” I said, crossing my arms. “Then give me back the yo-yos.”

“Oh, Tommy.” He laughed. “You are a funny boy!” He held out the broom again.

I glared at him.

“Sweep,” Mr. McKenzie said. “Front to back.”

I took the broom. “Yes, sir,” I said, sarcastic as can be. He didn't even look at me as he walked off.

So I started sweeping. Every time I thought I was done, he pointed out another spot I'd missed. Five times. Even Mom wasn't that picky.

When I was finished with the floors, I had to wash the windows. And dry them, even though it was still raining. Then it was carry boxes from here to there and there to here. While all Little Skinny did was wrap up the items people bought in old newspapers and work the register, pecking at the keys like a hungry bird.

My anger grew with each new task. Sure, I'd known it was wrong to take the yo-yos, but to make me work when I'd returned them? That was ridiculous!

It was almost noon, almost time for me to go, and the store was crowded. Little Skinny complained that he was hungry.

“You go on back and make yourself a sandwich,” Mr. McKenzie said. “I'll take over at the register for a while.”

I was hungry too. And my feet hurt. But no one offered
me
a break. No, I just had to keep on restocking canning jars on a shelf. I was paying attention, I really was, but one of the jars was wet, which was probably why I dropped it.

The jar bounced and then shattered loudly into a million pieces.

Everyone came scurrying over to my aisle to see what had happened. Mr. McKenzie walked up and inspected the broken glass on the floor, like he'd never seen a broken jar before.

“Clumsy,” he said finally.

All the customers were looking at me. It was embarrassing.
I've been up since 4:30,
I wanted to yell at them.
I'm tired!

Mr. McKenzie clucked his tongue. “Tommy, that was careless.”

I was so furious, I wanted to slug him. Deal or no deal, I wasn't going to take that. I turned on my heel and walked off.

I was almost to the front door when I came up with a great idea. If I left now, Mom would find out and beat me again for sure. But if I found another way to get back at him . . .

Everyone else, even Mr. McKenzie, was still gathered in the back of the store where I'd broken the jar. I quickly searched through my satchel. Yes, I still had that commie newspaper. It was a little wrinkled and wet, but that didn't matter. I slipped my copy of the
Daily Worker
under the counter, onto the pile of papers they used to wrap the purchases. The next time someone bought a salad dish or a gravy bowl, they'd get quite a surprise. Mr. McKenzie would be humiliated and then he'd see how it felt.

I picked up the broom and dustpan and sauntered down the aisle.

Mr. McKenzie looked at me.

The clock struck twelve.

“I'll clean it up,” I said, bending over with the dustpan.

“You certainly will.” Mr. McKenzie huffed. He marched off and the rest of the customers followed him.

I quickly swept up the glass and walked back to the front of the store to throw it out.

Mr. McKenzie was wrapping a purchase for Eddie's dad, Mr. Sullivan. “Hi, Tommy,” he called out to me. He wore overalls and a white T-shirt, revealing his muscular arms. “Eddie and I were thinking about heading over to Mud Lake one of these weekends before it gets too cold. You and your dad interested in coming?”

“Yes, sir!” I replied. Fishing was one of the only things my dad ever did with me. I never missed a trip.

“There you go,” Mr. McKenzie said, handing Mr. Sullivan the newspaper-wrapped package.

The masthead was clearly visible on the front. Eddie's dad noticed it immediately. “What's this?” he asked, without touching the paper. “Some sort of joke?”

“What are you talking about?” said Mr. McKenzie. “It's the lightbulbs, like you asked for. Sixty watts.”

Mr. Sullivan took the package and unwrapped it, as if it were a baby blanket containing a dead fish. He pulled the paper off and smoothed out the crinkled pages. “Since when do you get the
Daily Worker
?” he asked, his voice cold.

Mr. McKenzie laughed. “The
Daily Worker
? That's a good one.”

But Mr. Sullivan's face was deadly serious. A muscle in his arm twitched.

Mr. McKenzie stopped laughing and looked down at the paper. His face blanched when he saw the masthead. “I don't know where that came from,” he said. He looked over at me. I held his gaze, defiantly. I wanted him to know it was me. Finally, he turned away. “I just used the first newspaper on top of the pile.”

He reached for the paper to crumple it up, but Eddie's dad snatched it back from him. “I'm going to have to show that to Officer Russo,” he said.

Mr. McKenzie laughed again, but it sounded forced. “I'm no communist!”

“So you say,” said Mr. Sullivan. “It's just a precaution. I'm sure you understand.”

Mr. McKenzie rolled his eyes. “What do you think? That I'm holding secret communist meetings in my stockroom at night?”

“It's a possibility,” Mr. Sullivan said. “All I know is what I read in the papers. And if Senator McCarthy is finding them in the State Department, we can't be sure they aren't here too.”

“Mr. Sullivan,” Mr. McKenzie growled. “I am not a communist, but I've known some. They were locked up with me in a German work camp.”

“The commies aren't our allies anymore,” Eddie's dad retorted.

“No,” Mr. McKenzie said. “Not anymore.” He pulled out a new sheet of newspaper, glanced at the front page (it was the
Chicago Tribune
) and wrapped up the lightbulbs. “Got an article about your friend McCarthy right here!” He jabbed a finger at the paper. “Now take your lightbulbs and get out of my store.”

Mr. Sullivan held the package with one hand and slammed the door with the other as he stormed out. The little bell above the threshold rang wildly.

Everyone in the store was staring at Mr. McKenzie. Including me. They'd all heard Mr. Sullivan accuse him of being a communist. Mr. McKenzie took one deep breath, then another. “Store's closing for lunch,” he said finally. “You'll have to finish your purchases this afternoon.”

Without a word, the other customers left one by one. I started to join them.

“Tommy,” Mr. McKenzie called after me.

I froze, but turned to face him anyway.

He knew. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he knew, 100 percent for sure, that I'd put that paper there. But could he prove it? Had Little Skinny seen me with the paper at school? I didn't think so, but I wasn't sure.

“I'll see you next week,” Mr. McKenzie said finally.

I nodded and hurried off. Suddenly, planting the paper in the store didn't seem like it had been such a good idea.