The Paper Cowboy (18 page)

THE ROPE

Dad didn't know exactly what had happened, just that Mom had been admitted. Ma and Pa decided they would drive me to the hospital to meet Dad. Mrs. Glazov would stay home with my sisters. I nodded and followed Pa to the car, obedient as a lassoed calf.

We got stuck at the railroad crossing, just like on that other ride, the one I had taken with Mom and Mary Lou. Was Mom hurt bad, as bad as Mary Lou? Pa chattered on and on as he drove.

“From what you say, Tommy, I believe your mother is suffering from melancholia. A damping of spirits, brought on by a number of different factors. She probably always had an innate tendency to it, but it can be greatly exacerbated by major life events such as death, birth, injury, all of which your family has experienced in the past year.

“I studied this in Vienna, before the war. I never missed the Saturday-evening lectures by Dr. Sigmund Freud at the university. There are many techniques to be used in such a case: dream analysis, hypnosis . . .”

He continued on and on, but I found it hard to listen. If Mom died, she couldn't whip me anymore. Maybe then I could breathe in my own house. But the fact that I was even thinking that made me feel awful. I loved my mom! Didn't I? Sometimes she was nice. And what would Pinky and Susie do without her? They were still little, and little kids need their mom.

The car was old and the shocks were bad. Every time we went over a bump, I remembered Mary Lou moaning in pain. Ma had insisted on sitting in the back with me. She reached over and held my hand. I squeezed it back and held on tight, as my thoughts went round and round.

When we arrived, Dad and Dr. Stanton were sitting in the waiting room, talking in low voices. Dad was sitting stiffly, as if he'd been riding a horse all day and hadn't quite remembered he was out of the saddle. Dr. Stanton looked tired too. He ran his hand though his salt-and-pepper.

Dad stood up as we entered. “Tommy!” He ran over and gave me a hug. I wasn't sure when was the last time he'd looked that happy to see me. It made me glad, and then I felt awful. Awful to feel happy that now my mother was in the hospital too.

“Is she . . . is Mom going to be okay?” I asked.

Dad nodded. “She's got some bruises and bumps and they're going to keep her in the hospital overnight, but, yeah, she's fine. Physically, at least.”

I was so relieved, my legs went rubbery and numb and I had to sit down on the couch.

“I spoke to the physician who treated her,” Dr. Stanton said. “I'm not sure what to recommend once she's released. We could send her to a sanatorium, but . . .”

“A sanatorium?” Dad asked.

I wasn't exactly sure what that was, but the look on Dad's face made me think it wasn't good.

“Perhaps,” Dr. Stanton said gently.

“You've been our family doctor a long time.” Dad sounded defeated. “We'll do what you think best.”

“If I may,” interrupted Pa, “perhaps I can offer another solution. I am a doctor of psychiatry, trained with Freud, Adler and Jung before the war, even published a couple of articles about melancholia, though that's years ago now. I would be happy to try treating her at my home.”

“At your home?” Dad asked.

“Yes,” Ma continued. “We'd be more than happy to have Mrs. Wilson stay with us for a few weeks. It's no imposition. The rest would do her good as much as anything else.”

Dad looked confused. He glanced at Dr. Stanton.

“I don't really believe in the talking cure,” Dr. Stanton said. Then he shrugged. “But I guess you could try it, rather than immediately sending her away.”

“I don't know,” Dad said. “I just don't know what to do.” He buried his face in his hands. Dr. Stanton put a hand on his back.

“It's up to you, Robert,” Dr. Stanton said kindly.

Dad took a deep breath. “We'll manage all right with her at home. I'll do more and Tommy . . .”

I couldn't believe it. Dad was turning them both down. I didn't think I had it in me to do any more. There was already the paper route and the dishes and the cleaning and taking care of Pinky and Susie, all the while tiptoeing on eggshells around Mom. “No, Dad,” I interrupted. “I'm sorry. But we just can't handle Mom by ourselves anymore.”

Dad sat down next to me on that ugly brown couch, the one I'd sat on so many times with Pinky, and he started to cry. It was even worse than when Mr. McKenzie had cried, because this was my father. Dads weren't supposed to cry. I wanted to run away again, but the sheriff's star was still pinned to my shirt. I had to make him understand.

“Dad,” I said. “Do you remember the time the Lone Ranger was stuck in the mine, all alone, and he tried everything but couldn't find a way out? And then Tonto came and lowered a rope to him?”

“Yes,” my dad choked out. “We listened to that episode together. Why?”

“Please,” I said. “Let them be our Tonto. 'Cause we really, really need a rope.”

He looked up at me then, the tears moistening the crevices in his cheeks like a desert canyon after a hard rain. “Okay,” he said.

“So what would you like to do?” asked Dr. Stanton. “The sanatorium? Or the talking cure?”

“The talking cure, I guess,” Dad said. “I'm not ready to send Catherine away.”

Pa looked thrilled. I remembered how he'd never liked being a chicken farmer. He had been a doctor and now he could be one again.

The grown-ups huddled together to work out the details. I slipped away and ran up the stairs to tell Mary Lou the news. But my sister wasn't in her bed. I glanced around and saw her halfway down the hall. She was walking! I mean, she was holding on to the railing on the side of the wall for dear life, but she was walking.

“Mary Lou!” I cried.

She turned, smiled and nearly fell.

I rushed to grab her arm.

We grinned at each other for a moment.

“Did you hear about Mom?” I asked.

Her grin disappeared. “Yeah. Are they going to send her away?”

“No,” I said. “She's going to stay with Ma and Pa.”

“The Kopeckys?” Mary Lou asked, surprised.

I nodded. “He's a doctor.”

“Oh, I didn't know.”

“Do you know where Mom's room is?”

Mary Lou nodded this time. “I was going to see her. The elevator is down the hall.”

I took her hand and we walked together, taking tiny steps. But unlike at Christmas, she didn't wince in pain with each one. I felt dizzy with all that had happened that day. In the elevator, I accidentally leaned against my sister, and for a moment, it seemed like she was holding me up.

We got off the elevator and took a couple more steps. Mary Lou stopped. “Here we are,” she said.

We looked at each other, and pushed the door open. Mary Lou and I, still holding hands, crept inside.

It was just like when I'd first seen Mary Lou. Mom was turned away, facing the wall, her long black hair in a tangle on the pillow. She was asleep, her breathing slow and gentle. She had one black eye and a bandage over a huge lump on her forehead. For the first time ever, I noticed her nose was shaped just like mine, with a little ski jump at the end.

I hated her. And I loved her. And at that moment, I wasn't sure which one was stronger. All I knew was that I was glad to see her breathing, her chest going up and down. Glad to see she was alive.

Mary Lou ran her fingers through Mom's matted hair. “I'll have to bring my brush,” she whispered. “She brushed mine. I don't remember much about those first few weeks in the hospital, but I remember her brushing my hair.”

We waited a long time, but her breathing remained slow and steady. Finally, Mary Lou and I went back to her room.

“You're walking pretty well,” I said.

“Yeah.” Mary Lou smiled. “I guess I am.”

Dad had taken a taxi from work, so Ma and Pa drove us home. No one spoke in the car. When we got to our neighborhood, I asked them to drop me off at Mrs. Scully's. “Why?” Dad asked.

“Long story,” I said. “Maybe Pa could fill you in?”

Pa nodded.

As I walked up Mrs. Scully's steps, my heart was beating like I'd been running up a hill. I knocked, soft and hesitant. Mrs. Scully didn't answer.

My stomach dropped. Boots had died during the day while I'd been at the hospital. I knew it. My body went numb all over, like I'd suddenly turned into a giant ice cube and . . .

A dog barked.

It sounded like it was coming from inside the house. I opened up the screen door and went inside.

And there, on the kitchen floor, running around like he didn't have an eight-inch gash in his tummy, was Boots. He was drinking water from a bowl, but when he saw me, he stopped and ran over to greet me. I knelt down and let him lick my face.

“That dog is a Sherman tank,” said Mrs. Scully, walking into the room. “He woke up this afternoon when I was frying sausages for dinner and started begging like nothing had happened.”

Boots kept licking my face and wiggling his tail. His breath smelled like sausages.

“Don't give him anything else to eat.” She sighed. “He already got three pieces of sausage out of me. He needs to take it easy until he heals.”

I swallowed. My mouth was dry and my hands were shaking. I'd managed to hold it together all day, with my mom and seeing Mary Lou, but now that I knew Boots was okay, I was falling apart. “Thank you.”

“Oh, Tommy,” said Mrs. Scully, sitting down heavily in the kitchen chair. “I'm so happy myself.”

Boots sat in my arms as I walked home, his nose up in the air, sniffing away. I carried him inside. Mrs. Glazov was at the stove making dinner. “Pa told us,” she said. “How is dog?”

“He's all right,” I answered.

Mrs. Glazov wiped her hands on the flowered apron and came over to examine him. “Such even stitches.” She nodded in approval. “I send mending to Mrs. Scully from now on.”

I smiled at her. She looked different. It took me a minute to realize why. Her white hair had been combed and pulled back into a neat bun. Even her dress seemed a little less faded than normal. Like Pa, she seemed not at all put out by us needing her help. She seemed happy.

“Dinner ready!” Mrs. Glazov called. Susie gurgled in her high chair. She was seven months old now and gumming a cracker. Pinky ran into the kitchen.

“I'm not hungry,” Dad said from the kitchen doorway.

“Sit,” Mrs. Glazov ordered.

“Better do what she says,” I said. “She can be very bossy.”

So Dad sat, and when he saw Boots, he smiled. “I'm glad he's okay, Tommy,” he said with a wide grin.

“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”

It was a good evening. Mrs. Glazov had made a Russian noodle dish, not exactly like Busia's pierogi, but almost as tasty in a different way. Pinky chattered away happily, like she hadn't done in months. After dinner, Mrs. Glazov gave Pinky a bath and put Susie to bed. Dad and I did the dishes. When Mrs. Glazov came out of the nursery, she was smiling. “Beautiful baby,” she said. “Real doll.” She put her hands on her hips. “Good job on dishes. I come back and help again tomorrow.”

My dad shook his head. “You've already done so much.”

“Please,” she said. “Make me feel useful. Let me come. I come every day if you want. No vegetables to plant in winter.”

“But we don't have any money to pay you. We can't even pay the medical bills for Mary Lou.”

“Tommy taught me to read,” said Mrs. Glazov, without looking at me. “Tommy plays accordion with me,” she continued, “and Tommy invited me to Thanksgiving. Think it's time I do something for you.”

Dad looked at me as if he were seeing me for the first time.

“Tommy good boy,” Mrs. Glazov said.

“Yeah,” my dad agreed. “He's pretty amazing.”

As I lay in bed that night, I kept hearing my dad's words again and again. And I couldn't stop smiling.

TRYING TO FIND THE WORDS

When Mary Lou was burned, everyone asked me about it. On the paper route, at Mass, in the classroom. But no one mentioned what had happened to my mother, even though from their looks and whispers, I knew they'd heard. I guess being burned in a fire was okay, but melancholia was something no one wanted to talk about.

When I went out for the first morning recess, I stood by the wooden horses for a moment, trying to pull myself together. It was fine. If no one wanted to talk about my mom, I wouldn't either. But I couldn't quite decide what I wanted to do. After a while, I realized Sam had walked up and was standing next to me. “Tommy, are you all right?” he asked.

“My dog got hit by a car,” I said. I could see Sister Ann and the other nuns at the far end of the girls' side of the playground. One of the third graders had fallen jumping rope and was crying loudly.

“That's awful!” Sam said.

“Boots needed stitches,” I said. “But I think he's going to be okay.”

Eddie had been avoiding me all day, but he sauntered over to us now. His forehead was wrinkled, his eyes blazing with anger. “Talking to your new best friend?” he asked.

Sam blushed and looked at the ground.

“Come on, Eddie,” I said quietly. “You know you're my best friend.”

“Do best friends rat each other out?”

“No.” He was right: friends keep each other's secrets. Maybe we weren't friends anymore after all.

“So why'd you do it, then?” He pushed me in the chest.

I just stood there and looked at him.

“Come on!” he yelled. “Tell me.” He shoved me again.

“Eddie,” said Sam. “The nuns are right over there.” He seemed nervous, jumping from one foot to the other like he had to go to the bathroom.

“Why don't you tell him, Sam?” Eddie hissed his name like it was a bad word. “We're already in trouble. They might even expel us.”

“What?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Eddie. “Because of the fight at Prince Pond last Friday. Thanks a lot, buddy.” Then he slugged me in the stomach.

I wasn't expecting the blow and I fell to the ground. My belly ached, twisted in knots, and for a moment, I thought I was going to throw up. I stood up slowly, boiling mad. Ready to hit him. Ready to beat him. Just like Mom had beaten me.

But before I could take a swing at him, I saw Sam watching me, and Sam made me think of Mary Lou, and I waited to see what she would say. To see if she would tell me not to hit him. And I did hear a voice. But it wasn't Mary Lou's. It was mine. It was as if I could hear myself, as if I were standing there right next to me, saying,
Tommy, don't do it!

And suddenly, I didn't want to hit Eddie. I was sick of it all. The fighting and the lying and the pretending everything was okay when it really wasn't.

“I'm sorry,” I said. Then I turned and walked away. Maybe it wouldn't do any good, but I could try to save him.

“Chicken!” Eddie yelled after me. “Commie!”

A rock flew through the air, whizzing past my leg.

I kept walking. Sister Ann was still at the far end of the playground, putting a bandage on the third grader's knee. I was pretty sure she hadn't seen Eddie hit me. When she was done, the girl went off with her friends and Sister Ann turned to look at me. “Is something wrong, Tommy?”

“May I speak to you about Eddie, Sister?”

“Ah,” said Sister Ann. “I'm sorry, Tommy. I know Eddie is your best friend, but we have a very clear policy against fighting at St. Joe's.”

“But—but I didn't tell you everything,” I stammered. “It's true, Eddie has been picking on Sam all year, but so have I. You just didn't catch me. So if you're going to punish him, you'd better punish me too.”

Sister Ann pursed her lips. It was cold and they were chapped. Her nose was red too, now looking more like a beet than a pickle. But her eyes were smart and warm.

“Please give him another chance,” I said. “And Sam too. Really, he didn't do anything wrong.”

Sister Ann nodded. “I will be speaking to Father Miskel this weekend. He wanted a week to think things over. He will make the final decision, but I will let him know what you have said.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And thank you for tutoring Mary Lou too.” I turned to walk away.

“Tommy!” Sister Ann called after me. “If you need anything, please, just ask.”

I knew she was trying to be nice, but part of me was kind of annoyed. Asking was usually the hardest part.

The next day on the paper route, my hands started to sweat as I approached Ma and Pa's house. I knew they had gone to the hospital the day before to pick up Mom and take her to their house. She'd only been in the hospital one night. I knew Ma and Pa had a guest room, the one for when their grandson visited, and Mom was going to sleep there. I imagined her lying on a twin bed with a blue comforter, baseballs in the corners of the room, and a whole stack of
Boys' Life
magazines in the closet.

I didn't want to see her. But I also kind of did. Maybe I was a chicken, but that morning, I didn't leave my sled, just threw their paper up onto the front porch and kept walking.

That day at school, everyone left me alone. Sister Ann didn't call on me all day, even when it was clear I wasn't paying attention. Eddie threw snowballs with Luke and Peter. Sam wasn't there. He didn't show up on Thursday or Friday, either. I wondered if he was sick. Or maybe his mother was doing worse.

On Saturday after my paper route, I decided to stop by McKenzie's store. The front door was locked and a sign reading
STORE CLOSED
hung in the front window, but I rang the doorbell anyway. After a moment, Sam came out of the back room and let me in.

“Tommy,” he said, “what are you doing here?”

I shrugged. “You missed a lot of school.”

“We've been at the hospital with Mother.” His eyes got glassy, like muddy puddles, but they didn't overflow.

“Sorry,” I said.

He shook his head. “Dad's in the back. Want to help us pack? We've got three weeks before the move.”

“Sure,” I said.

The shelves were mainly bare, but Sam and I worked steadily, putting the leftover cans into a box. “How's your mom?” Sam asked.

This time, I could feel my eyes fill with tears. “I'm not sure. You're the only one who's asked,” I whispered. “No one else will mention it.”

We packed silently for a few moments.

“I wish someone would talk to me about my mom,” Sam said. “What will happen to us when she dies? Who will take care of Dad and me?”

“She's been in the hospital for a while now,” I said quietly. “You two have been doing okay.”

“But we always thought she'd come home.”

That was true. It was awful having Mary Lou gone, but everyone kept reassuring us that eventually she would come home.

“The worst part is, sometimes I wish she'd just hurry up and die. Just so this'd all be over. But I don't really mean it,” Sam added quickly. “Do you think I'm awful for saying that?”

“No,” I said, remembering all my thoughts about my own mother when I'd been driving to the hospital with Ma and Pa. “Not at all.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Sam went on, “what will happen to
her
? Will she go to heaven? Where will she be buried? If we move into the city and she stays in the hospital here, will she be alone when she dies?”

I didn't know.

“And then sometimes, I worry about stupid things. Like, what will we do with her clothes? Her pictures, her diaries and papers. They're all in this big box. She used to write, like me . . .”

“Maybe you could ask her?” I suggested. “About the clothes at least.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, placing the last can in the box. “Maybe I will.”

Mr. McKenzie came out of the back room, carrying a box. “Hello, Tommy,” he said.

“Hello, Mr. McKenzie,” I answered.

The doorbell rang then, and we all turned to see who it was.

My father, in a casual shirt with no tie, was standing outside. “Tommy told me he was thinking of stopping by,” he yelled through the window. “I thought you might need some help packing up.”

I'd mentioned it in passing at breakfast. I hadn't even realized Dad had been listening.

“We can always use an extra hand,” said Mr. McKenzie, unlocking the door and letting him inside. For the next two hours, we packed and loaded boxes onto an old truck. The leftover inventory was being sold to another store owner, a few towns over. “We're not getting much,” said Mr. McKenzie, “but it's better than nothing.”

We were almost done with the packing when Dad cleared his throat and said, “Did Tommy tell you?”

“Tell me what?” asked Mr. McKenzie.

Dad's face was ashen, but he plowed on. “It was my paper. The copy of the
Daily Worker.
In college I—”

“What?”

“In college, I attended a few meetings, but—”

Mr. McKenzie stood up, suddenly furious. “You knew where the paper came from all along?!”

“My wife threw out some old papers without asking me. Tommy just accidentally found it at the paper drive.”

“Why didn't you ever say anything?!”

My dad didn't answer.

Mr. McKenzie turned bright red, and I swear I saw a vein throb on his forehead, just like Mom's. He picked up a glass jar of pickles and threw it against the wall.

Sam and I jumped as bits of glass and cucumber flew everywhere. It was like when Mom broke the vase. When I threw the drinking glass. Now Mr. McKenzie was furious too.

But Mr. McKenzie wasn't screaming or yelling. He was looking out the window, taking one deep breath and then another.

“I'm so sorry,” Dad said quietly. “If I'd admitted what had happened in the beginning, if I'd told the truth—”

“You might be the one without the job now,” interrupted Mr. McKenzie. “I can't blame you for doing what you thought you had to do to keep your family safe.”

He sat back down on the box he was using as a chair. It was as if breaking the glass had caused the anger to explode out of him, like popping a balloon.

I stood up. “I'll clean up the broken . . .”

“I made the mess this time,” Mr. McKenzie said. He smiled at me, and I was pretty sure he was remembering the jar I'd broken on my first day at the store. “I'll clean it up.”

“No,” said my dad. “We'll all help.”

So I got the mop and the broom from the back room. Mr. McKenzie swept. Sam sopped up the pickle juice with a towel. And Dad took the dustpan with the bits of glass and dumped it into the wastebasket.

When we were done, Mr. McKenzie made us all sandwiches on his thick, crusty bread.

He pulled the two last root beers out of the cooler for Sam and me, and two beers for him and Dad. We clinked the bottles together before we drank.

“Good sandwiches,” I said, my mouth full of bread. “I'm gonna miss them.” What I really wanted to say was
I'm going to miss you,
but I couldn't quite get the words out.

Mr. McKenzie smiled. He'd lost weight over the past few months, which had given his face a gaunt look, sort of like my father's.

“When I was a kid,” Mr. McKenzie said, “I dreamed of having my own sandwich shop.”

“I'd buy your sandwiches,” I said.

“Yeah, well.” Mr. McKenzie shrugged. “Dreams don't always come true, Tommy. Sometimes you try and try and it still isn't enough.”

Dad looked like he wanted to say something, the skin around his eyes wrinkling like he was trying to figure out just the right words. But I guess he didn't find them, because he only took another sip of beer.