Little Klein (7 page)

“Ain’t Luke Klein your brother? I’m looking for him.”

Little Klein didn’t pause to answer. He turned and ran, zigzagging through the neighborhood, feeling her close behind him but hearing nothing.

He didn’t see Widow Flom until he ran flat into her.

“Harold Klein!” she said.

“Sorry, ma’am!” He looked behind him at the vacant street, then slid around to stand on the other side of Widow Flom.

“Does your mother know you are out wandering the streets alone?”

“Well, I . . . she . . . I mean . . . my dad . . .”

“Your father? Is he home?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Does he know you are out wandering the streets alone?”

“I . . .”

“Come with me,” Widow Flom boomed. She took Little Klein’s hand and led him up the steps to her porch. “Sit down right here. Your mother must be worried sick. I know for a fact she doesn’t let you roam about by your lonesome. Your father, I have no idea, but if he’s home, Esther has enough on her plate without worrying about you. And speaking of plates, I’ll run inside and get you a slice of pie — looks like you could use some pie — then off we go, young man. I’ll ring your mother and let her know you’re safe.”

Little Klein could have used a piece of pie after the Emma Brown incident, but he remembered the purpose of his mission and opened his mouth to stop her. Widow Flom was in the house and picking up her hallway phone before his voice could catch up. He pushed through the door and grabbed the phone from its stand and with it the receiver from Widow Flom’s ear.

“Wait!” he said in the voice he’d finally found.

Widow Flom stood in stunned silence, her empty hand still raised to her ear.

Encouraged by his rapt audience, Little Klein continued, telling Widow Flom about LeRoy’s impending fate and the need to find the Big Kleins and LeRoy before they went back home.

“Well,” said Widow Flom when she’d regained her composure, “if I must pay a ransom for my phone, I must.”

Little Klein flinched at the sight of a telephone in his arms and nearly dropped it. He’d been so intent on getting Widow Flom’s attention that he’d forgotten he was still holding it. Grasping the phone firmly to his chest, Little Klein began again, “I . . .”

“Here is what I am prepared to offer. In exchange for my telephone, I will harbor said fugitive canine until all parties have been heard and all parties have come to a mutually agreeable resolution.”

“What?” said Little Klein.

“I’ll keep your dog here until your parents sort things out. Now, come on. We’d better find the boys before they get home. We may already be too late.”

Little Klein turned to go.

“The phone?” prompted Widow Flom.

Little Klein set the phone on its stand and followed Widow Flom out the back door and climbed into her car. He sat in the front seat, looking out cautiously for LeRoy and the boys and terrified at the possibility of seeing Emma Brown.

They drove down Walnut, up Maple, across Plum, and toured slowly down Main, and there she was, walking away from them. Little Klein slumped down in his seat, barely breathing.

“You aren’t going to see them from down there, that’s for certain. We’d better circle back closer to your house,” suggested Widow Flom. “If we stay nearby, we’ll have a better chance of intercepting them.”

Little Klein waited until the car had made a couple of turns before he pulled himself back up and started watching again.

Sure enough, as the car coughed its way up the Maple hill, there was a leaping, yapping dog, bounding its way around three strapping boys. Widow Flom tooted her horn and pulled over beside the boys.

“Hold up there, boys. Meet your brother and me in my kitchen. Go on inside.” She winked. “It’s not locked. The dog can come in, too. Just keep his snout off the counter.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Flom, but we’ve got to get home. Another time,” said Matthew.

“This is not a social invitation, young man. I will see you in my kitchen.”

Four boys arrived home for supper that night without their dog. If their parents noticed, neither one mentioned the fact. Dinner conversation centered around Stanley — stories of his sales, his travels, people he’d met, places he’d stayed, unusual sights he’d seen, places he promised to take them all someday.

That night the doghouse stood empty. When Little Klein crept downstairs to get a glass of water, he peered out at the dogless yard and scanned for signs of a tall girl in boots hiding in the bushes or near the garage. He crawled back into bed feeling every ounce of his smallness.

Mother Klein lay on her side, watching the moonlit yard, hoping that wherever LeRoy had been during the day, he would leave it and return home by morning.

Widow Flom snored on through the long hours of LeRoy’s pacing and whining, through his kitchen foraging and toilet water slurping.

Stanley Klein simply slept.

Morning broke cloudy and barkless. Stanley studied his glum boys around the breakfast table. His eyes traveled from tallest Matthew to broadest Luke to muscular Mark then down to the pencil-armed Little Klein, shoveling oatmeal into his small “o” mouth as fast as his spiny hand would travel. Stanley stopped eating and frowned.

“Is he getting enough to eat?” Stanley asked of no one in particular.

Mother Klein followed Stanley’s eyes to Little Klein.

“Of course. Look at him go.”

“Has he been sick?

“No. What’s the problem?”

“He hasn’t grown at all since I saw him last.”

“He’s our frail one, Stanley.”

Little Klein held his spoon still and looked up.

“I have so grown. You can check the grow lines on the door.”

“Nine years, Esther. I think the boy is out of the woods; he’s not going to die a feeble infant. What we have here is the product of too much mollycoddling.” Stanley pushed away from the table and paced around it as six bowls of oatmeal grew cold. “Enough. While I’m home these next two weeks, we’re going to start toughening him up.” He looked at the Big Kleins, who refused to meet his eyes. “And I’m going to need everyone’s help.” The Bigs folded their arms across their chests without comment.

Mother Klein stood with two hands on Little Klein’s shoulders.

“He’ll grow when he’s good and ready.”

“When’s LeRoy coming home?” pestered Little Klein.

“Forget about that dog for a minute and concentrate, Big Guy,” his father admonished.

Big Guy. Little Klein hesitated. Toughen him up. Little Klein imagined himself running with the rough crowd, sporting a black eye, muscles bulging out of his shirtsleeves.

“What exactly would we be doing?” he inquired hesitantly. The Bigs glared at him for breaking their silent treatment in support of LeRoy.

“Now you’re coming around,” Stanley exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. “We’ll start with strengthening. Things like pull-ups. You’re going to have to eat better, too.”

“He’s our youngest, Stanley. Why rush things?” Mother Klein countered.

“Matthew, Mark, and Luke aren’t going to be around here forever,” Stanley said. “Fact, when I left Chicago, Mr. Huppert said they’re looking for fresh young men in St. Paul, and I told him my Matthew was a smart one with only a year left in school.”

Now it was Matthew who couldn’t contain himself. “Really? What would I sell?” He remembered himself and looked back down at the table.

“Don’t you bring Matthew into it,” retorted Mother Klein. “You can go ahead with Little Klein’s exercising and whatnot on one condition, Stanley. The dog stays.”

Everyone looked at Stanley, who looked at the floor, at the sink, at the window, and at the ceiling for a very long moment.

“No dogs. That’s the rule,” he said, but Mother Klein only raised her eyebrows while the boys waited expectantly.

“You know I don’t like dogs,” he continued. “I’m allergic,” he tried. Still Mother Klein stood silent. The clock ticked like hand claps, endless spaces between the beats; a shuffled foot was sandpaper; coughs echoed as in a canyon. Even Stanley was no match. There was nothing louder than Mother Klein’s quiet.

“Go find your dog,” he said at last, then muttered, “Maybe I’ll have to get back to work sooner than I thought.”

Little Klein followed his brothers to Widow Flom’s house for the reunion with LeRoy. LeRoy, while glad to see his boys, was distracted. He had a new love and her name was strawberry pie. He had his snout deep in a slice of heaven when they burst through the door. But a few minutes of rough and tumble worked LeRoy back to his frisky self, and after the boys had eaten the rest of the pie, the whole outfit ambled back home.

Little Klein lagged behind a ways. He watched his legs as they took turns striding in front of him. He bent one forearm, then the other, trying to show a biceps muscle. He had his brothers to protect him. How much toughening did he need? What were they going to do to him?

Stanley was waiting for them by the laundry line in the backyard. The yard was nothing like he’d keep it if he lived here full time. What had gotten into Esther? Used to be a fellow could count on a nice plot of green divided by a neat concrete path to his driveway and his garage. Look at this unconventional mess: his lawn broken into ribs of flowers and a muddy patch where the doghouse stood. If it weren’t for space around the laundry line, he’d have no room to roam about. LeRoy broke away and ran right up to Stanley, sniffing him in an exceedingly impolite manner.

“LeRoy!” cried Little Klein, and pulled the dog away, holding him around the neck.

“Settle that dog down, now. You’ve got work to do. I’m setting up an exercise routine for you, and with your brothers’ help, you’re going to carry it on after I leave.” He swatted irritably at LeRoy who came sniffing on up to him.

“Task number one: pull-ups. I’ll demonstrate.”

Stanley grasped the T end of the laundry line, bent his legs so he was dangling with straight arms, and pulled himself up until his chin was above the bar.

“There,” he said, red faced and puffing as he dropped to a crouch. “That’s a pull-up. Hey, enough with the licking! Someone hold the dog. All right then, who’s next?”

Matthew called first, but it was immediately clear that the Bigs would bend the laundry poles clear out of the ground, so it was Little Klein’s turn. It looked easy enough, and if his dad could pull his big self up, Little Klein imagined how easy it would be to raise his small self. He gave LeRoy’s ears a quick scratch, then stepped out.

Luke lifted him to the bar, then let go. Little Klein lost his grip and fell to the ground. LeRoy was all over him, licking his face and whimpering.

“Get the dog out of the way,” Stanley insisted. Mark held LeRoy back. Luke lifted Little Klein again and let go more gently this time. He dangled, his fingers growing red and sweaty on the bar. He pulled. He heaved. Little Klein toiled under the weight he didn’t know he owned until his slippery hands betrayed him and he crumpled on the grass.

Everyone looked down on him in silence as LeRoy bathed his face again. These were boys and a man who’d never known weakness. From the day they stepped out of their cradles, they’d not given strength a thought. Strength, like height and girth, simply was — like eye color or curly hair. So this boy whose arms would not lift the rest of the body was an inexplicable curiosity to them. A mystery. As he caught up on his breath, Little Klein grasped a handful of the long and tangled hair he refused to get cut. He’d read the story of Sampson and his strength-giving hair, but it certainly didn’t seem to be giving Little Klein any advantages.

“How about push-ups?” suggested Mark. “Push-ups would help him do pull-ups.”

“That’s thinking,” said Stanley Klein.

All three boys and Stanley lay on the ground under the laundry line, then one by one demonstrated the proper form for Little Klein. When it was his turn, Little Klein’s belly would not leave the grass. LeRoy lay down on all four paws and barked.

“Sit-ups would make his stomach stronger for lifting himself in push-ups,” suggested Luke.

“Good idea,” agreed their dad.

Again, demonstrations followed. This time it was Little Klein’s back that would not give up its resting place.

“Maybe if he didn’t sit in the tree all the time,” Matthew said. “Maybe if he walked around more, his whole body would get stronger and he could do all of these things.”

Little Klein stood and went to his tree. He climbed up halfway.

“This takes strength,” he said. “None of the other guys can do this.”

“That’s because we’re too big,” Matthew answered. “Dad, he hardly has to walk anywhere. He gets to catch a ride on the bike or go piggyback all the time. Mother doesn’t think he should get worn down.”

Stanley stood up and brushed off his pants.

“Let me think,” he said. Truthfully, with no results to inspire him, he was already losing interest in this project.

“You’re absolutely right, Matthew. Little Klein,” he called up to the tree, “I’m going in to talk to your mother. You’re going to start with basic conditioning, and by that I mean getting around on your own two flippers, duckling. Got it?”

Little Klein nodded and climbed higher than he ever had before, so high he could see clear over his own roof and three streets beyond to the station, where a train would take his father away again the next morning.