The Paper Cowboy (6 page)

GUILTY OF TREASON

The knot in my stomach only tightened as I walked home. Mr. McKenzie was probably calling Mom right now. I could barely breathe as I opened the front door and stepped in.

Dad was sitting at the kitchen table and Mom was at the stove cooking lunch. Her long black hair was braided and pinned up on her head, as if she were going to a party. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement. “Oh, Tommy,” she cried when she saw me. “The doctor called. Mary Lou woke up!”

A wide grin crept across my face. “She's going to be okay?”

“Yes,” said Mom, tossing the spaghetti into a colander with such enthusiasm that a few strands of pasta wriggled over the edge and fell to the floor. Mom giggled.

“They
think
she's going to be okay,” my dad added in a serious tone.

I turned to look at him. He was unshaven and had a bunch of papers spread out before him. “The burns on her legs were severe. She's going to need extensive skin grafts.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“When they take skin from her stomach or her back and put it on her legs.”

It sounded like something from a monster movie at the Tivoli.

“There's a risk of infection,” Dad went on. “And, of course, even when the grafts are healed, she'll have to learn to walk again.”

“Learn to walk again?” Thinking about skin grafts and infection made me feel kind of sick, like the time I ate a hot dog and a bag of popcorn before getting on a roller coaster. Suddenly, I could smell the wet grass of that morning, see Mary Lou's penny loafers as she skipped across the lawn. Maybe she would never walk like that again. Maybe it was all my fault.

“Oh, you two worry too much!” exclaimed Mom. She went to the record player and put on Dick Contino playing the accordion. She turned the volume up loud and danced around the kitchen.

I walked over to the table and picked up one of the papers, just to clear a spot to eat. It was a bill from the hospital.
Payment due. $300. Please pay promptly.

Dad snatched the paper out of my hand. “I'll put these away,” he said without looking at me.

Three hundred dollars was a lot of money. But if I asked Dad about it, I knew he wouldn't answer. “When can I see Mary Lou?” I asked instead.

“A week or two,” he said. “She's not allowed to have visitors just yet.”

After lunch, we all went out into the yard to hang the laundry and work in the garden. Pinky kept running back and forth under the sheets, Boots chasing her like she was a squirrel. Mom laughed so hard, she almost started to cry. She wasn't even upset when Boots got mud on a pillowcase, just told me to take it down and throw it in the laundry again.

Every time the phone rang, I flinched, but Mr. McKenzie never called. Dad picked corn from our garden for dinner, and Mom's Polish plum cake browned perfectly. But a bit of the gooey plum filling oozed over the side of the pan and burned in the oven. The smell reminded me of that awful car ride, and I spent the rest of the evening trying not to remember, so I couldn't even enjoy the cake.

The next day I kept worrying about running into Mr. McKenzie and Little Skinny at church, but we didn't see them. Afterward, Eddie and I went off to the double feature at the Tivoli. The movie theater was just across from the station where my dad caught the train to go to work. The Tivoli could hold almost 1,400 people and had ushers in little caps and jackets to show you to your seat. There were chandeliers overhead, and even an organ that a little old lady played before the show. When the lights dimmed, I let out a deep breath. Here, at least, I could relax.

The first movie was
Guilty of Treason,
about that Hungarian cardinal József Mindszenty. We prayed for him every day after Mass. I'd seen the film at least twice before (once at school when the nuns had shown it to us) but I liked it. There was this tough American newspaper reporter who went to visit Mindszenty when he was hiding out in the hills around Budapest. The cardinal had all these great lines. He sounded kind of like a cowboy defending his homestead. “One must take a stand somewhere. One must draw a line past which one will not retreat.” And “We shall teach there the gospel according to Jesus Christ, not according to Karl Marx.”

Karl Marx, of course, was the father of communism. The guy who'd written
Das Kapital
and
The Communist Manifesto
and those other books commies liked to read.

But there was another line in
Guilty of Treason
that I hadn't remembered from before. The characters were talking about how the communists would try to discredit Mindszenty and spread ugly rumors about him in an attempt to reduce his influence. Then the cardinal's mother says, “It only takes a little poison to ruin a well on a farm, or to spoil a reputation in a big city.”

Well, I started squirming in my seat when she said that. I mean, Downers Grove wasn't exactly a big city, but planting a commie newspaper . . . wasn't that a little like what she was talking about?

I shook off the thought. It was just a silly joke and I wasn't going to worry about it. I was relieved when
Guilty of Treason
was over and the next movie came on.
Big Jim McLain
starred John Wayne as a congressional investigator fighting commies in Hawaii. That was more like it!

When the movies were over, we walked back to Eddie's. Main Street went past Mr. McKenzie's store and I stopped short when I saw it.

The large front window was shattered and pieces of glass glittered all over the floor, as if someone had spilled a bag of ice. A brick lay among the shards. Mr. McKenzie stood outside, waving his hands in distress and talking loudly to the man who owned the hardware store. I could only catch part of what he was saying. “New glass . . . immediately . . . lose business . . .”

I felt kind of dizzy as I remembered the words from the movie,
It only takes a little poison . . .

“Come on, Eddie,” I said. “Let's go home down Odgen.” That was in the opposite direction.

“Takes longer,” he said.

“It's a nice day,” I said. “I wanted to walk.”

Eddie shrugged and we turned around. He didn't seem to notice I was distracted, and I guess he didn't see (or didn't care) about Mr. McKenzie because he didn't mention the broken glass either. Once we got to his house, we went straight to the bomb shelter his dad had built. It was in their basement. The walls were made of concrete blocks, creating a space just big enough for three bunk beds hung on the wall, a small table and a pantry full of canned goods, water and other supplies.

“You see,” Eddie explained, “if the Soviets drop an atomic bomb on Chicago, those people are all dead. But my dad says Downers Grove is far enough away, so we stand a good chance of surviving. And look!” He pulled back a small curtain in the corner. “There's even a toilet!”

They also had a radio, a record player and a pile of books. “How long would you have to stay here?” I asked.

“Depends,” he said. “Maybe two weeks after the blast. Then you could go out during the day, but you're supposed to sleep inside the shelter for the next couple of months. Limit your radiation exposure.”

He sounded so matter-of-fact. But it kind of scared me. My family didn't have a shelter. What would happen to us if the Soviets dropped an atomic bomb on Chicago?

Eddie knelt down and pulled out a box from under one of the beds. “We've got a gun in here too, to ward off any intruders, and Dad even bought a Geiger counter.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“Measures the radiation, so you know if it's safe to go outside.”

Upstairs, a door slammed and we could hear Eddie's dad start yelling. His words were slurred as if he'd been drinking.

Eddie shoved the box back under the bed. “It did cost a lot of money, building a place like this,” he admitted. “Mom was kind of upset about it.”

There was more screaming from upstairs. I wanted to say something to Eddie, wanted to say I understood. “Wish I had a Geiger counter that told me when my parents were in a bad mood,” I joked.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, but he didn't laugh. “Me too.”

I went to bed early that night and fell asleep quickly. But I dreamed of Mr. McKenzie and Cardinal Mindszenty in Eddie's bomb shelter and they were reading the
Daily Worker.

PAINT ON THE WINDOW

When Saturday rolled around again, it was almost a relief. I'd face Mr. McKenzie, see that everyone had understood it was just a joke and life would go on.

I got up extra-early and finished the paper route in plenty of time. I even had some breakfast and put on a clean white shirt before I went to the store. When I arrived, Mr. McKenzie was outside, washing his front window. Phew. He'd gotten it replaced. The brick probably had nothing to do with me planting the paper in his store. I wasn't sure why the replacement glass was so dirty, but at least it was there.

Mr. McKenzie grunted when he saw me. “So you showed up again.”

“Yeah.”

“Wasn't sure you would.”

I shrugged.

“How's your sister?” he asked in a kinder tone.

“Better. I guess.” I'd gone with Mom to the hospital twice that week, but hadn't been able to sneak off to see Mary Lou.

He gave me a grimace that was almost a smile. “Grab a sponge,” he said. “Help me get this off.”

That was when I realized it wasn't dirt on the front window. It was paint. Someone had painted a hammer and sickle on the new glass. The symbol of communism. I picked up the sponge and scrubbed and scrubbed. It came off slowly. My insides felt rubbed raw too, guilt and regret peeling the lining of my stomach like old wallpaper.

“Is this . . . because of me?” I asked finally.

“Why would it be your fault, Tommy?” His tone was even, but there was an edge to his voice.

He knew. I knew he knew. And I was just so tired. I wanted to stop hearing Mindszenty's mother say, “It only takes a little poison” over and over in my head. Even so, I was a little bit surprised when I heard myself admit, “Because I was the one who planted that paper.”

“Oh,” he said quietly, not looking at me, not stopping his scrubbing. “Then I imagine it is.”

That wasn't what I'd expected. “I didn't mean—”

“It doesn't matter what you intended,” he said. “The damage has been done. It's easy to start a rumor. Much harder to stop it.”

I scrubbed harder. The paint chips stuck under my fingernails like bits of dried blood.

We finally got the last of the paint off and went inside. I was glad to sweep out the store and to move boxes. Little Skinny worked the register, but there were few customers that day. He was careful never to catch my eye.

“Slow day,” Mr. McKenzie said once.

I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. Mr. McKenzie having no customers, my sister needing to learn to walk again, my mom's moods, it was all my fault. But thinking about it made me feel even worse, so I focused on mopping the store's floor like my life depended on it, noticing nothing but the stuck-on dirt.

At noon, Mr. McKenzie put up the
CLOSED FOR LUNCH
sign. I took off my apron and hung it up. “I'll see you next week,” I said.

“No,” said Mr. McKenzie. “Come on back and have a sandwich, Tommy. I want to talk to you.”

Now, I'll admit it. I was scared. I'd heard that some shop owners kept a shotgun in the back room. He was probably really mad at me, and rightly so. Maybe he thought I'd thrown the brick too!

“Tommy,” he repeated. “The back room.”

As I followed him, I felt just like Gary Cooper in
High Noon,
walking down the street to confront the bad guys all alone.

In the back room were a table and four chairs. Little Skinny was sitting at the table. Mr. McKenzie gestured for me to sit too, then pulled three root beers out of a cooler and sat down at the table.

“Tommy, do you know about Senator McCarthy?” Mr. McKenzie asked.

That puzzled me. I expected him to yell at me, not chat with me about politics. “'Course I know about him,” I said. “He's rooting out all the communists in the government.”

“That's what he says he's doing. Others think he's just spreading fear and terror. Conducting a witch hunt, accusing innocent people and destroying their reputations for his own reasons.”

I thought about
Guilty of Treason
again and how the communists had made up false charges against Mindszenty. Surely our own government wasn't doing the same.

Mr. McKenzie went on. “By planting that paper in my store, you were playing into that hysteria. Now, I hope this will all blow over. Just another mean rumor. We're already known to be Gypsies, even if we did change our name to McKenzie. But if it doesn't blow over, if the rumor keeps people out of the store . . . well, I don't want to think about what would happen then.”

“What would happen then?” I asked.

“We might not be able to pay my wife's medical bills. We might lose the store.”

Little Skinny stared at the floor, his face so pale, it made his scar look even redder.

“Your wife . . . ,” I said slowly, putting all the pieces together, “is in the hospital.”

Mr. McKenzie nodded. “Shortly after Sam was injured, I was sent to a work camp.” He pulled back his left sleeve. Z
8914
was tattooed on his forearm.

I'd heard of the prisoners in German concentration camps with numbers tattooed on their bodies. But I'd never met one.

“The
Z,
” he said quietly, “is for
Zigeuner.
That's German for ‘Gypsy.'”

He pulled his sleeve back down. “I should have died there, but my wife managed to bribe a guard and get me out. We had to go into hiding. There wasn't enough food and my wife got very sick. She's never been the same since.”

“She caught tuberculosis,” said Little Skinny. “TB. It's why she's going to die.”

We both turned to look at him.

Little Skinny's face was still pale, but I noticed his eyes were brown with yellow flecks, like the muddy water of a stream where a cowboy pans for gold. His hair was the same shade of brown as mine, and he looked angry.

“She's not going to die,” said Mr. McKenzie in a voice that was just a bit too bright and cheerful. It was the voice grown-ups always use when they're telling a lie. “They have drugs to treat it now.”

Little Skinny said nothing.

Sometimes I didn't like my mom, but I didn't want her to die. I wondered if that was what happened when you spent a lot of time in the hospital. Was Mary Lou going to die too? Medicines didn't always work. I wanted to say I was sorry. I wanted to tell Little Skinny I hoped his mom really would get better. But before I could find the words, Mr. McKenzie went on.

“Tommy, I may need you to speak to Officer Russo, to tell him you were the one who placed the newspaper here in the store.”

“Fine,” I said. “But please don't tell my mom.”

He thought about that for a long moment, long enough that I wondered what her reaction had been when she'd realized I was the one who had stolen the yo-yos. “It's a deal,” he said finally.

I let out a long breath, one I hadn't even known I was holding.

Mr. McKenzie told me not to move and went to make a phone call. He was only gone a minute, and when he came back, he made us sandwiches on heavy dark bread, with thick slabs of roast beef and rich spicy mustard. They were delicious. We ate the sandwiches in silence. I was just finishing the root beer he'd given me when there was a knock at the front door. Mr. McKenzie stood up to answer it.

That had to be Officer Russo. I didn't realize I'd have to confess today! The sandwich sat in my stomach like a stone. Mr. McKenzie returned a moment later with Officer Russo. He was the only police officer in Downers Grove and a friend of my father's. His brown hair was just turning gray, and he'd gained some weight since I'd seen him last. He didn't have his uniform on, but he still came in and sat down as if this were his interrogation room. Mr. McKenzie handed him a beer.

“Hear you've got a story to tell me, Tommy,” Officer Russo said.

Believe you me, the last thing I wanted was to rehash what I'd done, but when a cowboy has a nasty horse to shoe, he just tries to get it over with as quickly as possible. So I started talking and when I was done telling him about finding and planting the paper, Officer Russo shook his head.

“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Where did you find this paper?” he asked.

“On the paper drive.”

“So we don't know where it came from?”

“No,” I admitted. “But I didn't throw the brick. Or paint the window. Really I didn't!”

“I believe you, Tommy,” said Mr. McKenzie.

Officer Russo clucked his tongue. “This kind of nonsense takes time away from us pursuing real criminals, like the Rosenbergs. Or Alger Hiss.” He shook his head. “Your dad would be most disappointed if he found out.”

“Please don't tell him,” I said. “I mean with my sister, he . . .”

Officer Russo glanced at Mr. McKenzie.

Mr. McKenzie stared at me a long time. Then he turned to look at Officer Russo. “As long as you pay no more heed to Mr. Sullivan's story,” he said finally, “let's just keep this between the four of us.”

“No,” said Officer Russo. “We need to let people know who put that paper there. Might help clear your name.”

“Do you really think that'll help?” Mr. McKenzie asked.

Officer Russo took another long sip of his beer. “You know,” he said, “you're right. It probably won't. Once a rumor gets started . . .”

“Then if anyone asks, let's just say one of the schoolboys did it. Doesn't matter who,” Mr. McKenzie said firmly.

“Fine with me,” Officer Russo agreed.

Relief washed over me like rain after a storm in a dry canyon. “Thank you, Mr. McKenzie.” I wasn't quite sure why he was helping me. Probably because he felt sorry for my sister. But in any case, I was grateful.

Mr. McKenzie nodded. “Go on, Sam. Walk Tommy out.”

Little Skinny made a face, but he stood up and walked me to the front. With one hand on the door, I turned to Little Skinny. I'd dodged all sorts of bullets that day, but there was one more thing I was wondering. “Why didn't you tell your dad I hit you?”

Little Skinny snorted.

“But you could have gotten me expelled.”

“You think that would make a difference?” he snapped. “You think the others would have been nicer to me?” He looked down again. “It's the same everywhere. I've changed schools a bunch of times. I've told my dad. He doesn't do anything. He just tells me to toughen up.” The spark went out of his eyes and the scar seemed to overwhelm his face.

I didn't know what to say. “It's too bad about your mom,” I muttered finally.

“Yeah, well.” He paused. “Your sister said hello and smiled at me on the first day of school. She was the only one who did that. She seemed nice.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “She's pretty special.”

“Is her face burned?” he asked suddenly.

“No,” I said. “Just a little mark on her forehead. Her legs are the worst.”

“Good,” he said. “Legs can be covered. Not faces.”

For the first time, I really looked at his scar. It was just red, puckered skin. Nothing really scary at all. Kind of like when you pick a scab off your elbow and it's not quite healed yet. Were Mary Lou's legs like that too? One huge big scab that would be picked off?

“Any idea who the communist really is?” Little Skinny wondered aloud.

“What?” I asked.

“I mean, you said you found it on the paper drive.”

He had been listening.

“That means it had to belong to someone in our neighborhood.”

“Yeah!” I agreed.

“Maybe if you could find out who the real communist is, people might believe it's not my dad.”

I thought about what Little Skinny had said as I walked home. I owed Mr. McKenzie now. For stealing the yo-yos. And getting his window broken. And most of all, for not telling my dad about the paper. A cowboy always paid his debts. Maybe I
should
try to figure out who the communist was. Gary Cooper followed his gut. And if I had to place a bet, I'd put my money on the Russian lady who lived next door.