The Paper Cowboy (9 page)

HALLOWEEN, PART 2

So I was already in a bad mood when I got home only to discover Dr. Stanton leaving our house, his white coat draped over one arm, his black bag in the other. I suddenly felt weak, as if I'd roped a runaway calf and it was taking all my strength just to hold on. “What's wrong?” I asked. “Is Mary Lou okay?”

“She's fine, as far as I know,” Dr. Stanton said. “I was here checking on your mother.”

Mom?

He tipped his hat at me. “Happy Halloween, Tommy.” He got into his car and drove off.

Inside, Dad was sitting on the couch, a pile of papers spread out on the coffee table in front of him.

“What's wrong with Mom?” I asked.

Dad sighed. “According to Dr. Stanton, nothing. He can't find a reason for all her back pain and headaches. She needs to relax. Calm her nerves. He suggested we invite some of her friends over.”

Did Mom have any friends? Sure, there were women she talked to at church, but . . .

“I thought we might have a card party next weekend,” Dad continued.

Mom did like cards. Back before Busia had died, Eddie's parents, the Sullivans, had come over now and then to play bridge. But a party? With Mary Lou in the hospital? It seemed kind of wrong. I said as much to Dad.

He shook his head. “If Dr. Stanton thinks it's a good idea, it's worth a try.”

I didn't agree, but I wasn't going to argue. I sat down next to Dad on the couch and picked up one of the papers. It was a bill from the hospital for $700.
Second notice,
it said.
Please pay promptly.
I wasn't that good at math, but I knew my dad made about $9000 in a year. “What's this, Dad?” I mean, I knew what it was, but . . .

Dad plucked the paper from my hand. “You don't need to worry about that.”

So of course I started worrying. Seven hundred dollars was a lot of money!

“I'm afraid I need to go to the hospital tonight,” Dad said as he started gathering up the papers. “Just need to talk to the doctors about . . .” He pasted on a grin so big, I knew it was fake. “I need you to stay home and watch Pinky and Susie.”

“But Mom's here,” I said. “And it's Halloween!”

“I know,” Dad replied. “But Dr. Stanton gave her a pill and she probably won't wake up until tomorrow.”

I nodded. What else could I do?

It was an awful evening. I gave Susie a bottle, made bologna sandwiches for dinner for Pinky and me and got ready to hand out candy to the trick-or-treaters who came to the front door. I dreaded seeing Eddie, but it was Little Skinny who showed up first.

He was dressed as a pirate with a black hat and an eye patch. His scar only added to the costume, almost making me believe he'd really been in a fight at sea. “Tommy,” he said. “I thought you were going to be a cowboy.”

“Mom got sick and Dad's at the hospital,” I said. “I had to stay home and take care of my sisters.”

“Oh,” he said. “My dad's at the hospital too. Visiting Mother.”

I knew I should ask how his mom was doing, but I was too upset about being forced to stay home. Instead, I gave Little Skinny a big handful of candy corn. I suddenly realized he was out trick-or-treating by himself. I wasn't sure I would have had the guts to go without my friends. I kind of admired him for it.

As soon as Little Skinny was gone, I turned off the porch light and didn't answer the door again.

“Sorry, Tommy,” Pinky whispered as we sat in her bed eating the leftover candy corn. “I know you wanted to go get candy.”

“It's not your fault,” I said. But part of me wanted to yell at her anyway, just because she was there.

I checked on Mom after my sisters were in bed. She slept quietly, her black hair spread out peacefully on her pillow. Dad got home late. He smelled like whiskey. “Grabbed a drink with Mr. Sullivan,” he said guiltily.

I shrugged and went to bed.

At school on Monday, Eddie, Luke and Peter were talking about all the fun they'd had, the treats they'd gotten and the tricks they'd played.

“Too bad you had to stay home,” said Peter.

But I could tell by his tone that he didn't really mean it. I watched as Little Skinny showed up on the playground with a big bag of Halloween candy, and suddenly I had an idea.

“That's all right,” I told Peter. “I'll just get some now.”

I sauntered over to Little Skinny.

“Little Skinny,” I said, “you're the one!”

“The one what?” he asked, confused. I didn't usually speak to him at school. Then again, we had had a nice time carving that pumpkin.

“The one who is going to give me his Halloween candy!” I snatched the bag from him.

“Hey!” he protested.

“You don't need this, fatty,” I said, taking out a piece of chocolate and popping it into my mouth. “I'm doing you a favor.”

Peter, Luke and Eddie laughed.

“It's mine!” Little Skinny tried to grab it back, but I jumped aside. He was heavier, of course, but I was nimbler and stronger.

“Guys,” I called to Eddie and the choirboys. “Want some candy?”

I tossed candy to all of them.

“Give it back,” cried Little Skinny. “It's mine!”

“Oh, you don't mind sharing, do you, Little Skinny?” I asked.

Tears started to run down his face, but still he stood there, watching us eat his candy.

Pretty soon, there was only the rotten stuff left, the jawbreakers and mints nobody wanted.

“Here you go,” I said, handing the bag back to Little Skinny. “Thanks for the treats.”

Little Skinny took the bag and dumped what was left onto the ground. “I was going to share it with you!” he yelled. His whole face was as red as his scar.

The candy sat like a stone in my stomach.

“I thought I was wrong about you,” he spat. “But no. You really are a jerk.”

He stormed off and all the boys laughed. Including me.

Eddie walked over and punched me on the shoulder. “Did you hear that? He was going to share it with you!”

I laughed again. A weird, hollow laugh, but no one seemed to notice.

THE PARTY

The party to improve my mother's nerves was scheduled for the first Saturday in November. Three couples had been invited for dinner and cards: the Colvins from church, the Starrs from my dad's work and Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan.

Dad set up two card tables in the living room, one for the men and one for the women. I helped Mom peel potatoes and carrots for the pot roast. Once it was in the oven, Mom went back to bed, complaining of a headache. Dad ironed the tablecloths and I filled little bowls with peanuts. Pinky and Susie entertained themselves on the living room floor, playing with a bowl and a spoon, while Boots kept an eye on everyone from under a chair.

In the late afternoon Dad went to wake Mom. Behind the closed door I could hear yelling. But by six o'clock, it seemed like Mom had pulled things together. She was dressed, the table was set and the food was ready. Everything went smoothly at first. When the grown-ups were finished eating, they all went into the living room to play cards.

Once I put Pinky and Susie to bed, I had to do the dishes. From the kitchen, I could hear the conversation.

“My compliments on your dinner,” Mrs. Starr said. Her dark hair was short and she wore a pearl necklace over her black dress.

“Thank you,” said Mom. “McKenzie's had a good cut of meat and I just—”

“McKenzie's?” interrupted Mrs. Sullivan. Eddie's mom was a small woman, with shoulder-length brown hair, cat's-eye glasses and a thin, raspy voice. “Why did you go there?”

“He's the closest grocer,” said Mom.

“Oh,” whispered Mrs. Colvin, a plump blond woman in an ugly lace dress. “I stopped going there.”

“McKenzie?” Mr. Sullivan, at the other table, sniffed. He was already on his third beer. “He's lucky they didn't arrest him and send him to Sing Sing like the Rosenbergs.”

The Rosenbergs were the spies who'd inspired our game of electric-chair tag.

“You know, Catherine,” Mrs. Sullivan whispered, “my husband was the one who found the copy of the
Daily Worker
in his store.”

“Come now,” said my dad. “I heard that was a prank. One of the schoolboys.”

I suddenly felt short of breath, as if a hammer and sickle were tattooed on my forehead.

“Isn't that exactly what he'd say if he really
were
a commie?” asked Mr. Starr.

“Please,” my dad said. “An old newspaper is no evidence. Don't be a McCarthy.”

“I like McCarthy,” said Mr. Sullivan. “He cleaned up the State Department.”

“McCarthy is a cowboy,” said my father. He spat the word “cowboy” as if it were another term for criminal.

“Well,” Mr. Colvin said, “his numbers do keep changing. First it was 205 communists in the State Department, then 57, then 81.”

“McCarthy is a hero,” Mrs. Sullivan added, peering over the tops of her glasses. “If you ask me, even one communist in the State Department is one too many.”

“He's been investigating for years and they've never found a single one,” my father replied.

“They just don't want publicity is all,” said Mr. Sullivan. “I bet they've found plenty.”

“Oh my,” said my mom loudly. “I didn't mean to start such a fuss. I only went to McKenzie's because the meat was on
sale.
”

Everyone laughed.

“I hope it was a going-out-of-business sale,” Mr. Sullivan muttered.

I walked into the living room to refill the nut bowls.

“How is Mary Lou doing?” asked Mrs. Colvin.

I froze. Just mentioning Mary Lou was often enough to set Mom off. But she stayed calm. “Fine, thank you. We had a minor setback last month, but she's doing well now.”

Mrs. Colvin nodded. “We're praying for her. Be sure to let us know if there's anything we can do.”

Mom bit her lip so hard, a drop of blood welled up. “Please excuse me,” she said. “I need to whip the cream for the pie.”

I followed Mom back into the kitchen. She whipped the cream so hard and long, her arm turned red. “I think it's done, Mom,” I said quietly.

She didn't respond.

“Mom.” I touched her arm gently.

She jumped as if she hadn't even known I was there. The bowl fell to the floor. “Now look at what you've done!” she yelled.

I knelt down and started mopping up the mess.

Mrs. Starr wandered into the kitchen. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Mom said. “Tommy just made me drop the whipped cream.”

“Let me help clean—”

“No,” Mom snapped. “Tommy can do it.”

“But it's really no bother.”

Mrs. Sullivan and Mrs. Colvin poked their heads into the kitchen. “What's all the fuss?” joked Mrs. Sullivan.

“Nothing!” The vein popped out on Mom's forehead. She was embarrassed, and when she was embarrassed, the best thing was to leave her alone. But I realized these ladies were just acquaintances, not real friends, and they didn't know that.

“Oh dear, you had a little spill,” said Mrs. Colvin. “Let me just help—”

“I said, everything's fine!” Mom roared.

I stared at the floor and scrubbed a spot that was already clean just so I wouldn't have to stand up. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the three women glance at one another as if they were trying to figure out what to do.

“We were just trying to help,” Mrs. Starr said.

“Help?” Mom sneered. “By sashaying in here with your fancy pearls!”

Mrs. Starr's hand automatically went to her necklace.

“You think you're so much better than us because you have a little money,” Mom taunted.

Mrs. Starr turned pale. “They are fake,” she said finally. “I just thought they were pretty.” She turned on her heel and walked out.

“Catherine,” Mrs. Colvin chided gently, “that wasn't very polite.”

“Oh yeah?” Mom said. “And what do you know about good manners? Mrs. Starr might be a snob, but at least she didn't show up to my dinner party in a dress that looks like it was made from a tablecloth!”

I've got to hand it to my mom. She does know how to insult people.

Anyway, Mrs. Colvin turned as red as Little Skinny's scar. She gave a little gasp and marched into the living room. “It's time to go,” I heard her tell her husband.

Mrs. Sullivan, still in the kitchen, sighed. “Catherine, Catherine. You're having a bad evening.”

“I'm not!”

“I hope you feel better soon,” Mrs. Sullivan told my mother.

“And your glasses are ugly too!” Mom called out.

Mrs. Sullivan laughed nervously in the living room.

I was horribly embarrassed. I picked up the bowl and went over to the sink to wash it. The front door squeaked open and closed a couple of times, and I could hear good-byes being said. Mom sat down at the kitchen table and began to cry, but I didn't look at her.

After a minute, Dad came into the kitchen. “What happened?” he demanded. “We were having such a nice evening.”

Mom only cried harder.

“Tommy?” Dad asked.

I shrugged.

“Tommy made me drop the whipped cream!” Mom announced.

As if that were the real problem. As if she hadn't just insulted all our guests for offering to help.

“You're crying over whipped cream?” Dad asked.

Mom was hysterical now, sobs breaking in between each syllable. “You . . . don't . . . understand!”

“No, I don't,” said Dad.

Mom gave a cry of frustration and ran off. I heard her door slam.

“Party didn't work out so well, did it?” I asked.

“Shut up, Tommy.” Dad looked old and tired. “Just do the dishes.”

He walked off after Mom. I gathered up the plates and glasses from the living room and cursed Dr. Stanton and his stupid idea.

Sunday afternoon, I was playing the accordion at Mrs. Glazov's again, but I kept missing notes. “We stop now,” she said finally.

“No, I want to get it,” I said.

Mrs. Glazov shook her head. “You no play good today. We sit and drink tea and talk.”

I put the accordion away, and poured myself a glass of tea with sugar and lemon. As I stirred, the tea splashed over the edge of the cup, running down like the tears on Little Skinny's face when I'd taken his candy.

“Talk!” Mrs. Glazov demanded.

I wanted to talk to someone. That's what I missed most about Mary Lou. She was always there to listen to me and cheer me up. And the reason she wasn't there, the reason she was in the hospital, well, that was because I had been too lazy to take out the trash.

I couldn't tell Mrs. Glazov about the dinner party. Or planting the paper. But maybe I could tell her about taking the candy. Maybe that would help. “There's this boy at school,” I said slowly. “Little Skinny.”

“Little Skinny?”

“His real name's Sam,” I said.

“He too thin?”

“No, actually he's fat.”

“Why you call him skinny?”

“It's a joke.”

“Ahh. Joke,” she said dryly. “Go on, go on.”

“I didn't like him. I don't like him. Sometimes, Eddie and I and the choirboys, we tease him.”

“Ahh,” she said again. “He laugh too?”

I shook my head. I knew what Mary Lou would say.
Shame on you, Tommy! Picking on that poor boy.
And now she would have scars just like him. How would I feel if someone picked on her?

“What did you do?” Mrs. Glazov asked, her voice soft, like a priest at confession. It surprised me. I'd never heard her sound so gentle.

“I took some candy from him,” I admitted.

“You stole it.”

I shrugged.

“Ahh.”

“It's not my fault! If Mary Lou had been there, I never would have done it!”

Mrs. Glazov laughed. “You don't need sister. You need conscience.”

I had the horrible feeling that she was right. I wasn't a cowboy at all. I was an outlaw.