The Paper Cowboy (25 page)

BURNING THE TRASH, PART 2

I wish I could say things were perfect then, but of course they weren't. When she got stressed, Mom still yelled. But she went to see Pa every week. And Mrs. Glazov would come right over if Mom got too loud, even if she was in the middle of a music lesson, and so there were no more beatings.

I'd like to say that Sam and Eddie and the choirboys all got along perfectly. But that would be a lie. “You're like the center of a wheel,” Sam told me one day at the shop, over an ice cream sundae. “When you're there, Tommy, it all holds together. But when you're not around, we fall apart. I'm back to being Little Skinny.”

“No,” I said. “You're Sam now. Even when I'm not there.”

“No, I'm not,” he said.

“Cowboy Sam,” I said, pulling out the silver star and handing it to him.

“This was your present from Mary Lou,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “But I don't need it anymore.”

Sam smiled and put it on. “Thanks.” And I swear he sat a little taller. I could almost see the ten-gallon hat on his head.

Monday, May 17, was Mary Lou's first day going back to school. I woke up before my alarm. The glow-in-the-dark clock read 4:28 a.m.

I liked the dark and quiet now; it was my own special time, to think about the day and the kind of person I wanted to be. Eating breakfast alone was peaceful, Boots begging at my feet. The fur had grown back in over his belly, although if you looked closely, you'd notice that the hairs over his scar grew in the opposite direction from all the others.

The red bike in the garage was oiled and shiny now, the holes in the tires patched. I loaded up the basket and pushed off, sailing smoothly into the weakening darkness. My balance was perfect.

Pa was sitting on his front porch, watching the sunrise. “The community picnic is next week,” he told me as I rode up. This was a new event the homeowners' association had started at my dad's request. We were going to meet at the Prince Pond shelter and cook out. Everyone was invited. “You're coming, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ma's beside herself with excitement.” He grinned.

I waved at him as I rode off.

“Bring that accordion!” he called after me.

Mr. McKenzie was just turning the lights on in the sandwich and ice cream shop. He always got started early. It took a long time to bake the bread for all those sandwiches. The lights were still off in Sam's room. I'd see him at school.

Mrs. Scully was standing on the porch, waiting for me. “Tommy,” she yelled as I pulled up on my bike. “I got a new train. Come by this afternoon to take a look?”

“Gladly!” I said.

She threw Boots a piece of sausage and we headed home. My legs didn't even hurt anymore. They just felt strong. By the predawn light, I could see that Mrs. Glazov's garden was already half planted. I had plenty of time to change my clothes, do my chores and catch the bus to school with Mary Lou.

My sister was standing in the hallway, looking at herself in the mirror, when I walked in. For the first time since
that day,
Mary Lou was wearing her school uniform again: navy-blue wool pleated skirt, white blouse, matching sweater thrown across her shoulders, thick white knee socks and penny loafers so new, there wasn't a scuff on them. There were only a few weeks left before graduation, but she was determined to go back.

“How do I look?” she asked. “Can you see them?”

I knew she meant the scars. There was just a hint of red on her left wrist, and an odd twisting of the flesh on her neck, barely visible under her collar. “No,” I said.

And it was true. Because I really didn't see them. Not even the horrible ones across her legs before she pulled her knee socks on. Because all I saw was my sister.

After breakfast, I watched Dad lug the box that said
College Days
to the fire pit. As soon as I was done with my oatmeal, I went out to stand beside him. “You don't need a newspaper to remember an idea,” I said.

“No,” he agreed, and smiled.

Mom walked out then, carrying some more brown paper. She put it on the ground, and I started to ball it up, placing it around Dad's box.

“Don't light it yet,” Mom said suddenly, and hurried back to the house. She returned a moment later, clutching something small and round in her hand. “Tommy,” Mom said quietly, “I have one more thing for you to burn.” She placed the item into my palm.

It was Dad's belt. The one Mom always used for the beatings. I looked up at her. Her face was quiet and still, her eyes calm.

“That's my best belt,” said Dad.

“You've got others,” Mom said.

Dad nodded and Mom smiled at me. My hands shook a bit as I placed the coiled belt carefully on top of the trash and the box. “Can I light it this time?”

Dad hesitated a moment, then handed me the matches.

I leaned over and cupped my hands. The match sprang to life and I tossed it into the pile.

The paper balls caught fire at once and flared brightly, like flowers in the desert bursting into bloom after a thunderstorm. The belt twisted like a snake as it burned. The box glowed red, a blazing treasure chest, until it collapsed in on itself, and I couldn't make out any shapes in the orangeyellow blaze.

My dad took my mom's hand as they stood together and watched the flames. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Mary Lou, standing behind me.

“What are you doing out here?” I asked.

“I had to come see,” she said. “Can't be afraid forever.”

I took my sister's hand in my own and we watched the fire burn. When it was only coals, we turned and went to catch the bus for school.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I love to base my stories on real events. My first book,
The Best Bad Luck I Ever Had,
was loosely based on my maternal grandfather's memoirs. My second,
The Lions of Little Rock,
was inspired by my mother's childhood in Arkansas. So for my third book, I decided to focus on a period from my father's life.

My dad, otherwise known as Tommy to those who knew him at the time, grew up in Downers Grove, Illinois, a small town just outside of Chicago. In some ways, it was an idyllic 1950s childhood, with a loyal dog named Boots, a paper route full of friendly customers, double features at the local movie theater, lots of friends at a beloved school, and even a local pond to skate on in the winter.

But in other ways, Tommy's life was full of challenges. His mother, a loving and caring woman, struggled with mood swings that, although undiagnosed at the time, would most certainly be seen as a form of mental illness today. In addition, his sister, Mary Lou, was indeed severely burned in a fire, much as described in this story. In my previous books, the main characters came from stable, supportive households. I wondered what it would be like to write about a character for whom that was not the case.

A few additional aspects of my father's story intrigued me. One was that my dad, when talking to me about his childhood, admitted that he had been something of a bully. He had felt much regret about it over the years. His admission reminded me of a chapter in the amazing book
NurtureShock
by Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman. In a nutshell, that book describes how many bullies aren't the stereotypical “big hulking shadows” in the corner, but popular, well-adjusted kids who know exactly how far they can push things without getting caught.

This was true of my father. He was a popular, well-liked boy at school. When he asked his childhood friends if they remembered him bullying others at school, they denied he had ever behaved that way. But
he
remembered it. And I was fascinated by the idea that bullying also harms the bully. So much focus is on the victims, and rightly so, but I believe if we really want to understand bullying, we have to look at the bullies too, without creating the belief that they are all horrible, irredeemable people.

The second aspect of my father's childhood that intrigued me was the time period. The early 1950s were consumed with fears of communism, and in many ways, the Cold War spilled over into my own childhood. As a child of the 1980s, communists were our bogeymen, the villains in the popular movies. As a child, I was terrified of a nuclear war. If there was one thing I knew, it was that communists were evil.

And then in 1989 the Berlin Wall came down, and in 1991 the Soviet Union fell apart, and in 1992 I went to work as an au pair in Vienna, Austria. While I was living in Europe, I studied German at the local university. My class was filled with people from the old Soviet republics, Hungary, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia—real live former communists!

Of course, what I discovered was that they were just normal men and women like me, with varying viewpoints and opinions. It's been almost twenty years since I was in that class with the “former communists.” To this day, I think of them often, especially when dealing with people whose opinions or beliefs seem so foreign to me that I am tempted to dismiss them as simply being wrong. Because of that class in Austria, I always try to take a minute to understand a new point of view, even if I don't agree with it.

Finally, talking to my father about his childhood reinforced my belief in the importance of community. The old woman who lives next door might need some company. The annoying boy on the playground might be longing for a friend. Even when a parent is sick or a child injured, it's not always easy to see the need or what to do about it. But when people do step in and help, when they take a chance and engage with their neighbors, amazing things can happen. My father greatly benefited from the close-knit community in 1950s Downers Grove. My hope for my readers is that they, much like Tommy in
The Paper Cowboy,
will never stop striving to find ways to create a supportive community in their own lives.