Little Klein (5 page)

Miss Muriel glanced up from the card catalog where she was helping Janet Wallace find a book on bees. Mr. Olafson paused over the
Farmer’s Almanac
. Reverend Clambush looked up from a stack of gardening books from which he was gathering metaphors for his sermon, and The Reverend Missus Clambush lowered the book she was using to disguise her interest in the activities of Widow Flom, who was perusing the fiction section. LeRoy’s barks floated through the open window.

“Let’s ask
her,
” said Little Klein in his outdoor voice, pointing a dirt-crusted finger at The Reverend Missus Clambush, whose trim hat and suit gave an official air.

“SHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhh,” said everyone at once as Cornelia Clambush guiltily dropped her book and looked behind her to discover at whom these ruffians were pointing.

“No,” said Luke in what he supposed was a whisper. “That’s her over there.” He pointed his own crusty claw at Muriel, who shut the card drawer on her finger. As the gang of Kleins tromped the fourteen paces to the reference checkout desk, no one went back to their reading.

Miss Muriel looked at the Reverend, trying to send him a signal to pray for her. The sight of three broad and scruffy boys was not tempered by the scrawny one at their side. While Muriel had weathered any number of unusual patron requests in her three-week tenure as a professional librarian and even a storm that blew out the west window, she had not yet faced imminent bodily harm from a pack of hoodlums.

She grabbed the dictionary, held it in front of her face, and, when the biggest asked, “Ummm?” she whimpered, “Take anything. There’s no money in the building, but take anything else you want, only please don’t hurt me. And please leave
Jane Eyre
as it is my favorite.”

The boys shuffled from foot to foot, not sure how to respond to her request, until Widow Flom laughed. Out loud.

“Muriel,” she screeched in between guffaws, “Muriel, may I introduce the Klein Boys. Boys, this is Miss Muriel, our new librarian.” That was as far as she could get before she had to flop down in a chair with her handkerchief and let the fit take her over. The sound of Widow Flom’s laughter was like a drug wherever she used it, and soon the entire patronage of Lena Library was giggling, hiccing, tittering, and out-and-out laughing. The Klein Boys joined in, too, imagining themselves stars in some grand joke they hadn’t known they’d planned but would take the credit for nonetheless.

“Muriel,” Widow Flom finally continued, “your job is to serve. Won’t you ask these gentlemen what they need?”

Muriel, who had allowed herself a few self-conscious titters, lowered her dictionary and asked in as librarianish a voice as she could muster, “May I help you, Misters Klein?”

“Yes, please. Our mother sent us here to check out some books. She is planting flowers in our yard, and we need to know . . .” Mark held out his hand to Little Klein, who gave him a piece of paper and a library card. “We need to know, ‘How far apart do you plant zinnia seeds? How much sun do cosmos require? What does one feed roses and which ones grow best in northern climates?’ And, um, what is a heliotrope?”

“And allergies,” added Little Klein hastily. “We need a book about allergies.”

The Reverend Missus Clambush could be silent no longer. “A garden!” she exclaimed. “Why, you can’t learn gardening from a BOOK! No offense, Muriel, but BOYS! Where do you LIVE? Now, PEOPLE!” this addressed to the patrons who had not returned to their reading material, “The mother of these boys is in NEED. Put down your BOOKS and follow ME.”

Cornelia Clambush thrust her book at Muriel and with a sweeping motion gathered the entire Saturday population of Lena Library into a reluctant huddle around the Klein Boys. “We are being CALLED to SERVICE this day. BOYS, lead us home.”

Muriel hastily produced
Gardening Basics
but had to stay at the library to cover the desk.

“No!” the boys cried at once.

“Well!” huffed Cornelia.

“What we mean is, that’s okay, Mrs. Clambush,” said Matthew as politely as he could manage. “We’ll take it from here.”

Cornelia Clambush did not accompany them home that day, but she soon found occasion to be in the Klein neighborhood.

“Boys!” she sang in two syllables as they tossed a football in the street. “Is your mother at home? I divided my hostas and must find someone with space in their garden. You can go get them and bring them here. We’ll go ask her now, shall we?”

While his brothers trudged off to the parsonage, Little Klein watched from the tree, LeRoy keeping guard underneath as Mother and The Reverend Missus toured the garden. When they got to the
PICKLES
sign, Cornelia paused. “You can’t grow pickles, dear.”

Mother Klein bit back her instinctual reply, breathed deeply, and said simply, “It’s cucumbers, of course, but my youngest wanted a garden, too, so I let him choose something.”

“Oh yes, you’re wise to encourage their ambitions. Why, my Barbara is the toast of Owatonna with her elegant dinner parties. Don’t you know I encouraged her from the start, letting her set the table when we had guests, fill the glasses, all kinds of grown-up responsibilities. I believe my Barbara owes a great deal of her prowess in the kitchen to childhood observation and prodding. Now, Esther, you’ve got a fine start here, but if I could offer some suggestions . . .”

Little Klein dropped from the tree, whispered “Stay” to LeRoy, and attempted to cross to the house unnoticed. If there was one thing that put his mother in a bad mood, it was unsolicited advice.

“There’s the cherub!” trilled Cornelia Clambush. “Come here and let me have a look at the little farmer.”

Little Klein approached her slowly, glancing at the street, willing his brothers’ return.

“I was just showing The Reverend Missus . . .” his mother was saying.

“My Land! There’s no call for such formality! Call me Mrs. Clambush, dear.”

Mother Klein started again. “Mrs. Clambush and I were just admiring the progress in your pickle garden.”

“Thank you,” said Little Klein, seizing the opportunity to use a previous lesson on making polite conversation. “Corn would be nice, too. I was really hoping to grow corn.”

Mother Klein smiled too widely and gave Little Klein the
That’s enough
eye. “Guess he was born to be a country boy. I was hoping you’d tell me more about your Barbara —”

“Corn?” interrupted Mrs. Clambush. “Why, Mrs. Klein, you don’t need to plant an acre for the boy. One stalk here in this sunny spot will do. I’ll send the Reverend over tomorrow to help him get started.”

LeRoy bounded over to Little Klein. “Shhh, boy,” he said as he looked from his mother to Mrs. Clambush, cautious in his hope for his own corn.

“The boy can poke a hole in the dirt by himself just fine, thanks just the same,” said Mother Klein, the angry vein on her neck popping out as a warning no one but her boys could read. While Cornelia Clambush paused, deciding whether or not to be offended, Mother Klein recovered her decorum.

“Of course, you and the Reverend are welcome to stop by anytime to check in on progress. Or for any other reason. I am Lutheran, though I have slipped in attendance and sometimes go over to the Methodists. Have you heard their new preacher? Really, I am a Conversationalist, one who converses with the Higher Up. I certainly have nothing but respect for you Episcopalians.” Mother Klein wiped her forehead with her sleeve.

“We’re Presbyterian, dear,” corrected Mrs. Clambush, “but I’m sure the corn is nondenominational.”

As the grown-ups went inside for iced tea, Little Klein, with LeRoy on his heels, raced to the garage for a trowel. He dug a hole in the discussed spot before Mother Klein could change her mind. He slipped into the kitchen, grabbed three forks, and stuck them in the ground around the hole, then tied string around the forks, marking the territory. He made a label,
CORN
, and sat waiting for his brothers, LeRoy at his side.

Little Klein longed to fish with his brothers but was considered a drowning risk by his mother. Days of sighing about the wait for his corn to grow, though, frayed Mother Klein’s patience, so as a distraction she let the Bigs take Little Klein to the river at last.

“Keep LeRoy close,” she cautioned, unaware of LeRoy’s unusual swimming affliction.

The Bigs tied a hook on a string on the end of a stick and deposited Little Klein on a spot of sandy shore. They drifted off to the ledge that reached out over the river, LeRoy panting behind them. The Bigs dropped their lines with reels and real coated fishing line.

In the river just below the ledge, a deposit of stones made an underwater cove where the fish of Klein dreams lived. The boys called him The Minister because they’d first seen him on a Sunday morning and he’d slapped the water loud as the preacher’d pounded the pulpit on Easter. Ten years ago someone had pulled a 137-pound catfish from this river. The Minister could be their fame.

While the Klein Boys hadn’t caught a really large fish in the river, a baited hook had not gone uneaten until they met The Minister, an overgrown catfish that’d lost his traveling spirit and lived a hermit’s life in this shallow stretch of river bottom where he grew fat and lazy eating unsuspecting delicacies that floated by. The Minister had seen enough of his mates yanked out of the water by ugly mugs like those peering at him over the ledge that he proclaimed a diet anytime their shadows disturbed his watery den.

Little Klein stood in the weeds dangling his line near the shallow shore while his brothers baited The Minister and forgot about him. They certainly did not expect him to catch anything. Distracted by a squirrel, LeRoy wandered into the woods.

Little Klein held his line steady for a bit, then jigged it, making the dead worm wriggle in what he considered an appetizing way. He imagined himself mess cook, feeding worms to an army of fish. He’d reel them in, caught on his line like ribbons on a kite string. There’d be a town fish fry to cook up his catch. “Who caught all these fish?” people would ask and he would hear his name, Harold Klein, murmured through the crowds. “That’s my boy,” his father would tell people. “That’s my boy and his dog.” Little Klein pulled his line along as he walked the shore, then repeated his dangling, jigging, and dragging. He was rewarded with a tug on his line.

“Got one!” he yelled, hanging on to his stick as he ran along the shore in the direction the fish was pulling his line.

“Set your hook!” called Matthew, sliding down from the ledge on his bottom.

“Pull your stick up!” added Mark.

Little Klein yanked his stick, and with a snap he was left with a six-inch twig while his line and the rest of his stick followed the escaped fish.

They went home with an empty net that day, but Little Klein was hooked on fishing. He relived that moment when the fish pulled at his line over and over. The stick had been weightless in his hands and then like a divining rod had jerked and pulled like a thing alive. In those few seconds a rush of excitement flew from his hands up his arms, through his body, and right out his toes, and he wanted more.

“I need a fishing pole,” Little Klein announced at dinner that night.

“Can’t one of you boys share?” Mother implored, looking from Matthew to Mark to Luke. They stared back at her as though she’d asked them to share their underwear. “Okay, all right. We’ll see.”

After dinner, Mother Klein poked around in the garage. She sorted through shovels, rakes, and old brooms. Then, mixed in with a pile of skis, she found it — a tall bamboo pole. She wrestled it free and leaned it against the house.

“There,” she said to Little Klein, who was watching behind her. “Have your brothers tie some fishing line on there and you’re all set.”

“Man alive!” exclaimed Little Klein, picking it up and swinging it around, accidentally catching the back of Mother’s dress, then whapping LeRoy.

“Oh!” he cried.

“Careful! Don’t you go hurting anyone with your father coming home in eight days, no . . . seven. You’d better just leave that pole by the house until your brothers can help you.” She paused. “Maybe it is too big. . . .”

“No! I’ll be careful! It’s perfect, Ma.”

The next day they set off for the river again. LeRoy and the Bigs gathered around Little Klein on the shore with instructions.