The Paper Cowboy (10 page)

SPEEDING TICKET

The second Tuesday in November, I was finally able to see Mary Lou again after the skin-graft infection. This time, she did not look like herself at all. Her face was thin, her eyes hollow, and even her freckles seemed faded to only specks of dust.

“Hey, Tommy,” she said. Her eyes welled up with tears.

I couldn't look at her. The sky was overcast. It looked like it might rain, or if it was cold enough, maybe even snow.

“Say something,” Mary Lou ordered.

What should I say?
Mom fell apart at the card party in front of all our neighbors? I stole Little Skinny's candy when he was trying to be nice? I planted a commie newspaper at McKenzie's and now he has no customers? I still feel awful that you got hurt trying to help me?
“I'm learning to play the accordion,” I said finally.

“Really?” said Mary Lou. She sat up a little straighter.

“Yeah,” I said. “Mrs. Glazov, that's the Russian lady who lives next door, she's teaching me. She says I'm good at it.”

Mary Lou smiled and looked more like herself again. “Will you bring it to the hospital sometime? Maybe play a few songs for me?”

“Sure.”

She bit her lip, just like Mom had done at the party. Her skin looked so thin, I was afraid her lip might start bleeding too. “Every day here is the same. There's nothing to do.” She pressed her palms to her eyes, as if she were trying to force the tears back inside. “This is so embarrassing! I promised myself I wouldn't start crying.”

“Hey,” I said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “It's just me.”

“I know.” She picked at a stray thread on the edge of the white pillowcase. “I just wanted to finish eighth grade with my friends,” she whispered.

I thought about Eddie and Peter and Luke moving on a grade, leaving me behind.

“Mom dropped out, you know,” Mary Lou continued. “She never finished eighth grade.”

And I could hear what my sister didn't say:
I'm afraid I'm going to end up just like her.

“No matter what,” I said, “you'll never be like Mom. You're too nice.”

Mary Lou sighed, and laid her head on my shoulder. “But she must have been nice too, once. I mean, why else did Dad marry her?”

I thought about that for a minute. “She makes good pies.”

Mary Lou giggled. “Yeah. And she likes to dance.”

“Sometimes.” I took a deep breath. “Is Mom acting strange?” I asked. “I mean, when she's here with you.”

“Yeah,” said Mary Lou. “She's acting nice. Braiding my hair. Reading me books. Like I'm a baby.”

“Oh.” I wanted to tell her how Mom was changing at home. But if she started acting nicer to me, would she be meaner to Mary Lou?

Mary Lou sighed again. “Thanks for coming, Tommy. You always cheer me up.”

I didn't want to make my sister worry. So I didn't say a word.

That night, Mom made an unusual turn on the way home from the hospital. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“I have an errand to run,” Mom said, in a tone that clearly meant,
Don't you dare ask me any more questions.

But we didn't stop at the dry cleaner or the market. Instead, Mom turned into a parking lot in front of a small gray building. It wasn't until we walked inside and through the door labeled
TRAFFIC COURT
that I realized where we were. We sat down on a row of pew-like benches and waited.

“Catherine Wilson?” called the judge, after what seemed like hours.

“Yes, sir,” said my mother, handing Susie to me and standing up.

“He's wearing a black bathrobe!” Pinky exclaimed.

I shushed her, but apparently not fast enough, because the policeman at the end of the row glared at us.

“You received a speeding ticket on the morning of Tuesday, October 6, 1953?” the judge asked.

“Yes, sir.” My mother walked forward and smoothed her hair back, although as far as I could see, it was already arranged perfectly. “I need to explain. You see, I was going to visit my daughter in the hospital and—”

“Were you speeding?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she said. “But—”

“The ticket stands.” He stamped the folder and passed it to his assistant.

The officer came over to lead Mom back to her seat, but when he touched her arm, she jerked away. “But my daughter was going to have surgery!”

“Next time, I suggest you leave home earlier,” said the judge evenly.

“Listen here, you
pieprzony dupku
!”

I sank down in my seat. Once Mom started swearing in Polish, all you could do was stay out of her way.

“Madam, watch your—”

Mom stood up even taller, her eyes blazing. “My daughter was burned over forty percent of her body! You can't tell me—”

The judge banged his gavel twice on his desk. “Calm down or I will have you removed.”

“I'll not let a
dupku
like you tell me to calm down!”

I watched as the judge, who was nearly bald, turned a bright shade of red, from his neck to his ears to the very crown of his head. “Unfortunately for you, madam,” he said, “I speak Polish as well. And you will not disrespect this court's authority with your cursing!” He turned to the policeman. “Take her away.”

The policeman took her arm and didn't let go this time. He dragged her off, and as he did, I noticed a vein bulging on her forehead, just like it had when she beat me for stealing the yo-yos and at the dinner party too. It was like a little warning sign that Mom was about to lose her temper, except it always came a couple of moments too late. Mom was still yelling curse words in Polish as the officer pushed her through a side door and she disappeared.

The room was quiet.

The judge sighed. “Next case.”

Pinky and I sat there frozen and listened to the next case: a man who had had too much to drink had backed his car into his neighbor's bed of prize-winning roses. Susie slept on.

“Where's Mommy?” Pinky asked finally, in a voice so low, I could barely hear her.

I shook my head. I didn't know what to do. We listened to two more cases, before I realized no one was coming to get us. I didn't have any money to take the bus home. I didn't even have a dime to call my dad. It was up to me to get us home, so when the next case was over, I stood up. “Sir,” I called out.

The judge glanced around the room, before letting his eyes rest on me. “What is it, boy?”

“My mother—”

“Speak up, boy!”

“You took my mom somewhere, sir. I'm not sure how my sisters and I are going to get home.”

“And I need to go potty!” added Pinky, standing on the bench next to me.

Everyone laughed. Even the policeman cracked a smile. But the judge remained stern. “Your mom is the Polishcursing speeder?”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned toward the policeman. “How long has she been in there?”

“'Bout an hour, Your Honor.”

He sighed. “I'm sure she's calmed down by now. Let her out, have her pay her fine and take these kids home.”

I thought we were doomed for sure, like soldiers at the Alamo, but Mom seemed okay when they brought us to her. The lady at reception where she was paying her bill was young with dark hair and bright green eyes. Her name tag read
O'Brien.
“You Irish?” Mom asked.

“Yes.” The woman sighed.

“I'll bet you hear a lot of jokes about the Irish temper,” said Mom as she wrote a check, “but we Poles are the ones who really know how to get mad.”

The woman laughed. She had a pretty giggle and an even prettier smile. “You must be the one who cursed out His Honor.”

“Yes, I am,” Mom said proudly.

“Wish I'd been there to see it,” she said enviously. “The whole building's been talking about it.” She suddenly looked pale. “Not that he's a bad boss or anything. I love my job and—”

“Don't worry, sweetie,” said my mother kindly. “Your secret is safe with me.”

TALKING BACK

On the way home, Pinky and I huddled tensely in the backseat. Frankie Laine was on the radio, singing the ballad from
High Noon.
Mom sang along.

“Do not forsake me, oh my darlin'

On this our wedding day.”

I couldn't figure out what was going on. Mom seemed absolutely fine. Wasn't she embarrassed about being in jail?

Boots was waiting for us on the front stoop. I threw my arms around him and he licked my face. He followed us into the house.

Dad was sitting on the couch in the living room. His tie was loose around his neck, the furrow deep between his eyes. “Where have you been?” he fumed. “I've been worried sick.”

Mom ignored him and breezed past him. “Have to put the baby to bed,” she said, holding a sleeping Susie in her arms.

Dad grabbed my shoulder, so hard it kind of hurt. “Where were you?”

“Nowhere.”

“Tommy, did you get in trouble again?” Dad asked.

“No,” I said. “Mom went to pay her speeding ticket.”

“Speeding ticket?” asked Dad.

Oh crap. She hadn't told him.

“Never mind,” I said.

“Thomas, tell me what is going on.” His voice was calm, but behind his smudged glasses his eyes blazed with anger.

I shook my head.

“Thomas John Wilson, I—”

Pinky piped up. “Mom got thrown in jail for saying bad words to the judge.”

Mom picked that moment to come back into the living room. “What did you say?” she hissed.

I pushed my sister aside and stood in front of her. “Pinky was just telling Dad why we were late.”

“Are you making fun of me, Tommy?”

“No!”

“I think you are.” Mom pulled her hair out of its neat bun, put her hands on her hips and flounced around the living room, throwing her hair from side to side. “Look, how amusing! Mother was thrown in the slammer.”

“Of course not, Mom,” I said.

“It was humiliating!” she screamed. “And now you're humiliating me again!” The vein popped out in her forehead.

Boots walked over and sat down next to me, his warm body leaning against my leg.

“Now, Catherine,” said Dad. “Maybe we should just calm down and—”

“Don't you tell me to calm down! Why don't you ever go to the hospital? Why don't you ever go sit there with her?”

In the bedroom, Susie started crying.

“I'll get her,” said Dad quietly.

“Don't walk out on me when I'm speaking to you!”

“I'm not talking to you when you're so upset,” said Dad. He picked up Pinky and left the room. Unfortunately, he didn't take me too.

“What are you looking at, Tommy?” she fumed.

“Nothing,” I said.

“You think I deserved it, huh? I deserved to be thrown in jail like a common criminal. Because I lost my temper and—”

“Well, cursing out the judge wasn't exactly a good move!”

I froze. One thing you never did to my mom was talk back. I knew what was coming next.

“In the kitchen,” Mom commanded. “Now!”

She went off to get the belt. Boots looked at me with wide eyes. “Stay here,” I told him. I went into the kitchen and pulled down my pants.

When Mom started whipping me, I tried to make myself concentrate on normal things. The dirty dishes in the sink. The sound of water running in the bathroom. Pinky fussing as Dad rinsed her hair. But Mom just didn't stop. I could feel welts forming on welts on my butt. And when a lash went wild and hit my back, I couldn't help crying out.

I heard a growl. I glanced over and saw Boots standing in the doorway. The belt hit my back again, at an odd angle, so that the leather cut the skin. Pain exploded across my backside.

“Ow!” I cried.

Boots started to bark.

“Shut up!” Mom yelled.

Boots crept closer and kept barking.

“I said, shut up!” Mom kicked Boots aside. My poor dog slid across the kitchen floor and slammed into a cabinet. He whimpered once, but stopped barking. Mom kept hitting me. It felt like a thousand bees, stinging me all at once.

I hated her then. Maybe I had been rude, but Boots hadn't done a thing. He was just trying to protect me. I gritted my teeth. No matter how much it hurt, I would not cry out again.

Mom kept on. And Dad never came in to see if I was okay.

When she was done, Boots and I went out. Nowhere in particular. Just to walk. I couldn't be in that house any longer. Somehow, I found myself outside Mrs. Glazov's shack. I waited. Just standing there. It would have made more sense if she'd been playing the accordion, then I could at least have told myself I was listening to the music. But I wasn't.

After a few minutes, or maybe an hour, the front door opened.

I jumped.

“Who there?” she called.

I didn't answer.

“I taking trash out to fire pit. I got no money.”

She was afraid of me. She thought I was a hoodlum. Or a robber. Or worse. “It's me,” I said.

“Tommy?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“What you doing in cold? Come on in.”

So we did. We went into the communist's house. Boots curled up by the wood-burning stove while Mrs. Glazov made me a cup of the bitter tea. It tasted good. I guess I had learned to like it, just as she had predicted I would.

“Need more lemon,” she said.

“I'll get it.” I jumped up, and my whole backside ached. I tried not to wince as I found a lemon and the cutting board and knife and started slicing.

Mrs. Glazov cleared her throat. “You got blood on shirt.”

I didn't answer. Just concentrated on cutting those lemons as thin as she did.

“Get in fight?” she asked.

“Not exactly.” I brought the lemons back to the table.

“Show me.”

“No!” I protested. It was bad enough pulling down my pants for Mom. I wasn't going to do that in front of Mrs. Glazov!

“I help,” she said. She walked over to a shelf near the stove and came back with a bottle of iodine and a box of bandages.

There was that cut on my back, next to my spine. It hurt. I lifted my shirt and showed her that.

She didn't say anything, just got to work patching me up. The iodine stung a bit, but she put the bandage on so gently, I didn't mind.

“Aren't you going to ask what I did to deserve a beating?”

“No,” she said. “You good boy, Tommy.”

That was when I started to cry. “No, I'm not.”

“You good boy,” she repeated. “Who else give old Russian lady English lessons just to sell stupid magazine I buy anyway?”

“You said you wouldn't.”

“I lie.” She smiled. “I know about problems, Tommy. The Nazis not just throw me in camp. They kill my boys and my husband too. Now I never have no grandchildren. No family at all.”

Mrs. Glazov had had a family? Sons? A husband? I'd never thought of that before. I'd pictured her always being dumpy and faded and old and alone.

She shook her head. “No. You good boy. And good friend. The others, they call me communist.”

It seemed so ridiculous then. Of course she wasn't the communist. She was way too nice. And patient. In fact, her bossy kindness reminded me of Mary Lou.

“I show you something,” she said.

She stood up heavily and plodded over to a box in the corner. “Before I leave Russia, I save one box.” She rummaged through it, pulling books out and laying them anywhere. “Need to unpack, but . . .” She shrugged. “Too many memories. Aha!”

Mrs. Glazov held up a small silver frame. “Many books, and one picture.” She brought it over for me to look at.

It was a picture of a young, pretty woman with four boys gathered around her. The eldest looked about twelve, just like me.

I glanced up at Mrs. Glazov. She had tears in her eyes, but under the wrinkles and white hair I could see she had once been the pretty woman in the picture.

“Been long time,” she said quietly. “Thank you, Tommy. Good to see photo again.”

Embarrassed, I went to put the books back in the box. They were nice ones, bound in real leather. “You need a bookshelf,” I said.

“Can't afford.”

I picked up a small red book and started to look through it. It was in some foreign language; I thought it might be German. I flipped back to the front page. “I could build—”

Suddenly, I froze. The title page read:
Das Kapital
by Karl Marx.

This was a communist book. It was
the
communist book by
the
Karl Marx. The father of communism. The man mentioned in
Guilty of Treason.
This was proof!

My hands began to shake. There, on the first page, was a name:
Anastasia Glazov.
I slammed it shut.

“You okay, Tommy?” Mrs. Glazov said gently. “Need another bandage?”

“No,” I managed to choke out. I put the book back in the box. I hoped she didn't notice how my hands were shaking. “Just tired. I better go.”

Boots jumped up and followed me out. My house was dark and I made it to my bedroom without seeing anyone. But as I slipped into bed, I started to cry again. She couldn't be the communist. She just couldn't.