An Ocean in Iowa (15 page)

Scotty continued to wear his football helmet to school. And because she felt badly about the painting, Mrs. Boyden permitted it. But when, on the third day, Chip Fisher showed up with his Kansas City Chiefs helmet and Tom Conway wore his father’s military helmet, Mrs. Boyden knew she had to take action. She asked the three boys to stay for a moment after the others went to lunch. “It appears Scotty has started a trend.”

Yes, I have, he thought.

“Soon every boy will be wearing a helmet. And we can’t have that, can we?”

“Yes, we can,” Scotty said.

Mrs. Boyden smiled. “No, Scotty, I’m afraid we can’t. In the future you boys need to leave your helmets at home.”

(2)

“Make the bad good,” the Judge would say. “
Make the bad good!
” For he believed there were positive aspects to any unpleasant situation. Claire had her doubts. She read the paper. She watched the TV news. There was real evidence of evil. There was Vietnam and pollution. Scotty knew enough to know that Claire was usually right.

But the Judge knew that with Joan gone, for instance, his children would get to know him better. He was right. They saw a new side to him immediately—his playful use of language. If he promised to do something, he would say, “You can
COD
.” It meant: count on Dad. He had other odd terms for things. Even the toilet had a special name. As he headed for the bathroom, he loved to call out, “I’m going to go sit on the throne.”

“Like he’s some kind of king,” Maggie would complain.

“You’re just upset about your new name,” Claire said.

The Judge had given them all nicknames and Maggie was not pleased. Claire became Clarinet, Maggie was called Magpie, and Scotty—Scotch Tape.

“It’s a phase,” Claire argued.

“But
Magpie
? I hate Magpie.”

“He’s upset about Mom. Let him have some fun.”

“But why these stupid names?”

Claire explained. “Clarinet because I’m music to his ears….”

“And why Magpie?”

“Well, Magpie because…”

“See, you don’t know.”

“Magpie is an incessantly talkative bird.”

“So? I don’t talk a lot,” Maggie whined. “Not that much at all. Okay, maybe I do. But that’s because nobody is saying things, you know, things that need to be said.
I’m
the one who says things. Scotty doesn’t say anything….”

It was true. Scotty had been mostly quiet since Christmas. He didn’t have much to say. He stared at his family during mealtimes and his teachers during class time with a blank expression, as if the rest of the world were speaking another language.

TV brought a particular comfort.

He began most mornings with
Captain Kangaroo
. He waited for Mr. Moose to say the secret word. When the word was spoken, hundreds of Ping-Pong balls rained down from above.

He liked the animated tapping foot at the start of
My Three Sons
, the lighting of the fuse on
Mission: Impossible
, and always (he never missed, in fact) the opening credits of
Hawaii Five-O
, where he moved to the percussive and brass-filled theme song until the giant wave filled the screen, and then he pretended as if he were being washed away.

His new favorite commercial was for Purina Puppy Chow. As a miniature chuck wagon with its red-and-white-checkered tarp sped across a clean kitchen floor, a shaggy white sheepdog chased after in determined pursuit. Then, suddenly, and to the confusion of the dog, the wagon disappeared into the floorboard of the kitchen cabinetry.

Wouldn’t it be great to disappear like that?

His mother had.

If there had been any residual hope of her return, it was erased with the news that Joan had moved to Iowa City, ninety miles due east of Des Moines, taken a tiny studio apartment,
and enrolled in a broad variety of college courses at the university.

On her way out of town, she had stopped by the house. She stayed in the car as her three children, one at a time, got in to say good-bye. Scotty went last.

In her talk with Claire, Joan revealed the most: She was going to Iowa City to get a master’s degree in something wonderful, anything but art. Her paintings had been put in storage. She hoped never to look at them again. Then she told Claire, “You’re the smartest girl ever.”

She told Maggie she was the prettiest girl ever. “So please,” Joan warned, “be careful with boys.”

She told Scotty she would miss him most, that he was her favorite man.

She asked each of them to kiss her, and they did, except for Scotty, who didn’t feel like kissing.

While all this happened, the Judge busied himself making a dinner. He had become obsessed with the idea of the family meal. His knowledge of the grocery stores in the area had increased. He knew where to get the best buy. He cut coupons from the newspaper. And on Saturday afternoons, he loaded up the Dodge with Scotty and his sisters and they spent long hours driving to Hy-Vee, then to Safeway, to Hinky Dinky, to Dahl’s. One store had a better price on milk, another had the freshest bread, another the cheapest meat.

Everyone had their particular tasks during dinner preparations. Claire mixed the Jiffy corn muffins or the blueberry muffins. She supervised the baking of Tater Tots and wrapped potatoes in aluminum foil. She opened the canned fruits and vegetables. She learned the proper mix of ingredients for the fruit salad dressing.

Maggie’s job, the hardest, was to wait at the Judge’s side to assist him on any need that might arise. “Salt,” he might say, in a sudden panic, “I need salt!”

Scotty poured the drinks and was responsible for keeping the Judge’s water bottle filled. “Always refill it after using it; that way I’ll always have water.”

Because the Judge wanted everything to go right, inevitably something always went wrong. Scotty spilled a glass of milk, Maggie burned the bread, or the oven wasn’t turned on at the right time. The Judge would rage.

Scotty learned to stand in the corner of the kitchen near the phone during these times. He learned that if he didn’t move, there was a good chance the Judge wouldn’t yell at him, a good chance the Judge would forget he was even there.

Monday night meals were baked or barbecued chicken. Tuesday night—spaghetti.

Wednesday nights the Judge attended Kiwanis, a men’s fellowship group that met at Baker’s Cafeteria. On those nights individual Stouffer’s pot pies—chicken, turkey, or beef—sat thawing. Claire heated the oven, Maggie set the table, and when the pot pies were served, Scotty ate only the crust.

On Thursday nights, after a meal of pork chops or a pork roast, and after all homework was completed, they would clean the house in preparation for the hired cleaning lady who would come each Friday. They never saw her—she was always finished before they returned home from school—but they loved swinging open the door and finding everything in place, everything vacuumed. Friday night meals would be hamburgers usually or steak if the week had gone well.

Saturdays usually consisted of leftovers.

Sunday night they would go out to eat, McDonald’s usually, sometimes King’s Food Host or the A & W.

For the Judge, dinner was the most important time of the day. He believed, and said it often, “it’s important that we do things as a family.”

(3)

Since the New Year, Judge Ocean, his two girls, and Scotty had been regularly attending St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church. Each week they took their place in the second pew, where they had a fine view of the altar and the forty-foot steel-beamed cross that hung from nearly invisible wires. The Oceans always arrived early and kneeled together in prayer, with the Judge remaining on his knees until the first notes of the processional hymn blared on the church’s organ.

That first week Scotty squirmed about in his polyester Sunday best, looking around and such, but, halfway through the service, he looked back and saw something. Immediately he began to behave.

Claire didn’t know why Scotty suddenly became so well-mannered. Perhaps her repeated pinchings had modified his behavior. Or maybe he’d had a religious experience.

Scotty didn’t say what made him look forward to church. But it had become the easiest thing to wake him on Sunday mornings. On school days, Scotty lay virtually comatose. His sisters would poke and prod, yank the covers off him; once Maggie even poured a cup of water on his head.

But now on Sundays, he bolted out of bed, dressed himself, and sat waiting on the sofa, always the first one ready.

Claire told the Judge, “I think Scotty likes church.”

***

The final Sunday in January, Scotty and a boy he didn’t know played outside on the playground at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church. In minutes the service would begin. It was a snowless Sunday, and a crisp wind blew over the frozen playground. The boy complained that he wanted to go inside where it was warm.

“Stay out,” Scotty demanded. He looked toward the entrance to the church parking lot. “It’ll be worth it,” he said. Minutes earlier Scotty had promised the boy that if he waited he would see something incredible.

The boy stuffed his hands deeper into his parka and said, “What are we waiting for?”

“You’ll see.”

The boy shivered as he and Scotty waited.

“There, I told you,” Scotty finally said, pointing to a station wagon that turned into the church parking lot. Scotty pulled himself up onto the cold bars of the jungle gym. Then he hung upside down from the knees, locking his ankles together—and from this batlike vantage point, he watched as Tim Myerly’s mom got out of the family car. He watched as she gathered her black shiny purse and wrapped a scarf around her neck and led her children into church. By this time the blood in Scotty’s head had pumped downward, forcing veins to emerge. The boy waiting with Scotty said, “It looks like you got a road map running down your face.” Scotty told him to be quiet.

The wooden fence surrounding the playground stood as high as Mrs. Myerly’s neck; from Scotty’s perspective, only her head could be seen moving.

He hung upside down so long that his face turned bright red and his eyes watered, causing Mrs. Myerly to blur.

After she had gone inside, Scotty used the boy to pull himself upright. And while the blood drained from his face, Scotty said, “Do you think she noticed me?”

The boy shrugged and mumbled. He didn’t know.

Scotty hoped that she hadn’t seen him, for he didn’t want her to know that he was watching her. Then he dropped to the cold concrete of the playground and hurried after the Myerlys. If he moved fast enough, he could see where she hung her winter coat, so that then, after the service, he would know where to hide so he could study her every move.

(4)

In the endless white of the February snow, Scotty tried to step where no one had walked: He liked to turn around every thirty or forty steps and see the path he’d made, see his imprint. This meant a longer walk home from school and in more treacherous terrain.

Two girls ahead of him pretended to smoke, bringing an invisible cigarette to their mouths for a moment, then blowing out. Because of the cold air, steam came out of their mouths when they exhaled.

Scotty shook his head and thought, Stupids.

***

Tom Conway stood bundled up in front of Scotty’s house. With his snot-wet scarf wrapped mummylike around his face, he appeared to have frozen while he waited for Scotty. “Want to see something?” Tom asked.

Scotty didn’t want to see Tom’s grenade again. So Scotty said, “No.”

“You’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“No.”

“Chicken,” Tom said. “You’re Kitty Litter. You’re a Q-tip.”

Tom turned and headed toward his house. “You’re a loser,” Tom said under his breath.

Scotty surprised himself by following after.

***

Scotty and Tom stood on milk crates as Tom propped up the big white freezer lid in the Conways’ garage.

“The springs are broken.”

Tom wedged in a stick that helped keep the heavy lid lifted. The cold air pushed up and bathed the faces of the two boys.

“My dad is having us save her.”

“Yeah?”

“For the fur.”

“For the fur?”

“Yeah.”

Tom struggled to remove a basket of frozen vegetables, a package of hamburger meat.

“There. She’s down there.”

Scotty looked past a box of Fudgsicles and a half-gallon container of Borden’s ice cream.

“Where?”

Tom pointed to a package of white butcher paper securely wrapped.

“Oh man.”

“Yep.”

“How do I know?”

“Do you see Lassie anywhere?”

Scotty looked around. The Conways had kept their puppy in the garage. She slept in an old TV box. But the box was gone. The dog dish was gone. “So you see.”

Tom poked at the package, exposing a tuft of dog fur.

“Now do you believe me?”

The Conways’ collie had been crushed by Sergeant Conway’s car when he drove into their garage late one night. The puppy crawled out into the snow-covered front yard, her back legs broken, and collapsed, dead. Sergeant Conway wrapped the animal up and placed it in the freezer, where it had spent the last several days. As he stared down at the frosted package, Scotty thought, Because they loved the dog.

But, in truth, the dog’s being frozen had nothing to do with love.

“The fur is worth something,” Tom told Scotty.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, worth money. Lots of cashola.”

“Yeah?”

“Worth more dead than alive.”

“No.”

“Yep.”

Scotty suddenly felt sick.

“Oh yeah,” Tom said, as if strangely pleased. “The dog is definitely worth more dead.”

(5)

Occasionally the Judge attempted a new recipe. The night he tried to make a meat loaf it was burned severely. He set it on the table and the Ocean children stared at its charred remains.

“The inside is still good,” the Judge said as he used a spatula to lift the meat loaf out of the bread pan. He cut off the ends. “See, the middle is fine. Eat up everybody.”

“No thank you,” said Claire.

“No thanks,” said Maggie.

“This is not up for discussion, girls. This is the meal.”