"I doubt he'll give me the chance," Grandma said.
Not long after I went to bed, I saw William's flashlight blinking SOS. Save Our Souls, our special signal to talk. Easing up my window, I pressed my face against the screen so I could hear him.
"Do you think FDR died because he had polio?" William asked.
"Don't you remember what the man on the radio said? FDR had a cerebral hemorrhage. It didn't have anything to do with polio, William."
"That's what Mother said, but still..." William's voice trailed off as if he wasn't convinced. I guess if I'd been in his shoes, I'd have been scared too.
"I bet worrying about the war killed him," I told William. "It wore his brain out. That's why he got the hemorrhage."
William thought about that for a while. "Do you think we can win the war without him?"
"I hope so," I said, "but it's a shame he won't be here to see us do it. It doesn't seem fair. Him missing the parades and the celebrations."
"Maybe he'll see everything from heaven," William said slowly. "FDR and all the men who died in the war. They'll look down at Earth and they'll be happy we won."
I knew William was picturing his father up there with the president and the angels and God, so I nodded as if I agreed. It was nice to think of all the dead soldiers strolling along streets of gold, laughing and telling jokes the way they used to before Hitler and Hirohito came along and ruined the world.
But to tell you the truth I'm not sure I believe in heaven. It's a swell idea but hard to picture. Why would God be so mean to people while they're alive and then give them cities of gold after they die?
Just then Mrs. Sullivan hollered, "William, turn off that flashlight and go to bed. You have all day tomorrow to talk to Gordon."
William shone his flashlight up into the sky like a searchlight and I pretended to machine-gun a couple of Messerschmitts. Ackety-ackety-ackety. Die, evil Nazi, die!
After William shut his window, I went back to worrying about the old man. I wished I could have found the words to tell William what he was really like and how much he scared me. But I doubted William could imagine a boy being afraid of his own father.
To keep from thinking about the old man, I tried reading a comic book. When that didn't work, I tried daydreaming about hopping a freight and heading for the Gulf Stream waters and the redwood forest. I even tried counting backward from a hundred, a trick Stu once taught me.
But every time I shut my eyes, I saw the old man behind the wheel of his old black car, driving east, the morning sun in his eyes, a stubble of whiskers on his chin, a whiskey bottle in the glove compartment. Getting closer every day. Bringing misery with him like an extra passenger.
Twelve
The next day, I found Mama sitting on the porch swing. She had Bobby on her lap. He slumped against her, sucking his thumb, his face as blank as hers. I sat down beside her but she didn't even look at me. Mama and I never had gotten into the habit of talking.
For a while we just rocked back and forth, slow and gentle. Finally I forced myself to say what was on my mind. "Is the old man really coming here this summer?"
Mama frowned. "Don't be so disrespectful, Gordy. He's your father, not your old man."
"Is he coming or isn't he?"
"Yes, he is," she said, giving me the fiercest look I'd ever seen. Hugging Bobby so tight he squirmed, she glanced at the open living room window and whispered, "We should be in our own home where we can do things our way, not Mother's."
"Our way?" I braced my feet against the porch floor and stopped the swing. Jarred out of her thoughts, Mama looked at me.
"Our way?" I repeated. "Do you mean being shoved down the stairs, having your arm busted, making up lies to protect him? That might be your way, Mama, but it sure isn't my way!"
Mama's face hardened. "You heard what I told Mother. Your father's changed, he's quit drinking, things won't be like before."
I grabbed her arm and made her look at me. "Don't believe him, don't let him come here," I begged. "He's lying, Mama—"
Mama interrupted me. "Gordy, you don't know your father. Not how he was when I first met him. If you could have seen him then..." Her voice trailed off as if she was fading away into a dream.
I touched her arm to bring her back. "What was he like, Mama?" I asked, wishing she'd tell me something that would change my mind about the old man. Something that would allow me to believe he might be okay after all.
"Oh, he was just the handsomest man I ever saw," Mama said. "All the girls were mad about him. Even though he was a little wild."
I stared at her, waiting for her to go on. So far, she hadn't said a thing that made sense. "Was he nice to you?" I asked finally.
She smiled. "Of course he was."
"What made him change?"
Mama sighed. "Things went wrong for him after we got married, Gordy. He had bad luck getting jobs. Never found a fair boss. Other men got raises, but not him. He'd ask why and they'd say he had a bad attitude. Or they'd pick on him for some little thing he did wrong, like coming in late or having a couple of beers at lunch."
Mama paused to shift Bobby to her other knee. "The men Roger worked for weren't fit to clean his shoes," she went on. "The way they treated him was just disgraceful."
Bobby began squirming. "Want to get down," he whined.
Mama held him tighter. "You sit still and be good," she whispered, "and Mama will take you to the store for a Popsicle."
Bobby leaned back and stuck his thumb in his mouth.
"Every time your daddy lost a job, he got more unhappy," Mama said. "That's why he started drinking, Gordy. He needed something to cheer him up, make him forget. I can't blame him for it. Life's been hard on him."
"I guess you can't blame him for hitting us," I said, "not with a sad life like that." I was being sarcastic, but Mama didn't notice.
"You know how sorry he was afterward," she said. "He'd give me flowers and perfume just like he did when he first came courting."
"He never gave me anything," I said. "Never gave Stu or Donny anything either. Unless you count black eyes and broken arms and cuts and bruises."
Mama glared at me. "I told you he's changed, Gordy. He won't lay a hand on any of us again. He swore he wouldn't."
That did it. I went hot all over. "Mama, he says the same thing every time he hits you. How can you keep on believing him? Are you crazy or just plain stupid?"
Bobby's thumb fell out of his mouth and he started crying. At the same moment, Mama slapped me hard enough to make my eyes sting. Maybe she had a right to, maybe I had it coming for calling her stupid and crazy, but I was too mad to apologize. She hadn't said one word that convinced me the old man had changed.
Without looking at her, I jumped out of the swing and ran. Out the gate and down the sidewalk, past William's house, past the park, past the corner grocery, past the school and the post office with the flag flying at half-mast for President Roosevelt.
I wanted to run right out of Grandville, but by the time I crossed the train tracks, I was out of breath, stumbling and tripping over my own feet. I kept going, though, till the paved road turned to dirt. Finally I came to a stop under a big tree and flung myself down in the grass.
For a while I just lay there listening to my heart pound. My conversation with Mama played in my head like a scratched record. If she went to California with the old man, she'd go without me. I'd keep my sister and brothers here, too. Maybe Mama and the old man deserved each other, but we kids sure didn't deserve them.
I don't know how long I lay in the grass. The air was warm but the ground still held some of winter's cold and damp. After a while I started feeling stiff. It occurred to me I might be getting polio. That's how it started. Stiffness in the neck and back, weakness in the legs and arms. I sat up real cautiously and tested my arms and legs and neck, turning them this way and that. They seemed to be working okay.
I walked slowly back to Grandma's, hoping to run into Langerman. I pounded my right fist
into my left palm—pow! That's what I'd do to his ugly kisser if I got the chance.
Which I didn't. Instead of fighting Langerman, I had to content myself with kicking a stone all the way home. Maybe it was just as well. The mood I was in, I'd probably have broken every bone in his body.
Thirteen
For several days, Mama didn't speak to Grandma or me. In fact she didn't have much to say to anybody except Bobby. Once I heard her tell him he was her baby. "She's taken the others away from me, but not you, Bobby. You're still mine."
It made me cold all up and down my backbone to hear Mama talk like that. Grandma hadn't taken us away from her. She'd just treated us nice, that's all. Paid us some attention. Fed us. Talked to us. Wiped Victor's nose, washed Ernie's face, braided June's hair and ironed her dresses.
When Mama finally started speaking to me again, it was mainly to ask for the butter or the bread. She never apologized for slapping my face. Didn't mention the old man to me either, though I heard her speak of him to the others.
It riled me the way Mama talked; she made the old man sound like a cross between Santa Claus and Uncle Sam, with a little bit of Jesus thrown in for good measure. Right before my eyes I saw Victor, Ernie, and June slowly drift toward believing in this Daddy Mama had made up. The real old man, the one they'd been so scared of, was fading from their memories. If I tried to make them remember, they said he'd changed, he was nice now, Mama said so.
"Ha" was what I said to their pitiful beliefs. Not that that changed anything. After a while I gave up trying and kept my thoughts to myself.
One night I happened to be in the living room when Grandma was reading Heidi to June. Although I pretended not to listen, I got sort of interested in the story. It had a lot of dumb, preachy parts, but I liked hearing about Peter and the goats and the old grandfather toasting cheese on the fire and stuff like that.
This particular evening, Grandma was reading about a crippled girl named Clara who'd come to stay with Heidi. Peter was jealous of Clara, so he pushed her empty wheelchair down the mountain where it smashed to pieces. Good-o for Peter, I thought.
He did it to make Clara go back to the city, but busybody Heidi talked the grandfather into carrying Clara up the mountain so she could see the pretty flowers. While they were in the meadow, Heidi got this bright idea to teach Clara to walk again. She bossed poor old Peter (who was scared he was going to jail because of breaking the wheelchair) into helping.
While Grandma read, I kept my head bent over the planes and tanks I was drawing, but I paid close attention. Clara reminded me of William, scared of trying things. His mother hung all over him just like Clara's grandmother hung all over her.
Grandma got to the part where Clara's grandmother comes to visit. She sees Heidi help Clara to her feet, and she almost dies of fright. But then she realizes Heidi has taught Clara to walk and she runs to them, laughing and crying, and hugs them and kisses them and makes a big fuss over everybody, even the goats.
When Grandma came to the end of the chapter, June asked if Clara had polio. "Is that why she couldn't walk?"
"Maybe," Grandma said, closing the book.
"But Clara got well," June said, sighing happily. "She drank fresh milk and she slept in the hay like Heidi and she saw the stars. Heidi and Peter and the grandfather taught her to walk again. She didn't need the wheelchair anymore. Isn't that nice, Grandma?"
Grandma gave my sister a little hug and got to her feet. "Time for bed, June. You too, Gordon."
"Where's Mama?" June asked.
"On the porch, I guess."
Grandma and June went on upstairs, but I rolled over on my back and stared at the ceiling. The story had given me an idea. Suppose I taught William to walk again? We'd do it like Heidi did—keep it a secret and surprise his mother.
I pictured Mrs. Sullivan running to hug and kiss William and me, laughing and crying like Clara's grandmother. She'd say, "Why, Gordy Smith, all this time I thought you were heading for reform school, but I was wrong about you, so wrong. I can never thank you enough!"
Just then, Grandma walked into the living room and saw me sprawled on the carpet where she'd left me. "I thought I told you to go to bed, Gordon."
"Yes ma'am." I got to my feet, shoved Heidi under my shirt, and left the room before she noticed I had the book.
As I passed the front door, I glanced outside. Sure enough, Mama was sitting in the porch swing, rocking slowly back and forth. I could see the red tip of her cigarette glowing in the dark. Its smoke mixed with the smell of honeysuckle and fresh-cut grass. If she saw me standing there, my face pressed against the screen, she didn't say anything.
I went on upstairs, one step at a time, dragging myself along by the railing as if I was learning to walk all over again.
The next afternoon I went over to William's. I'd stayed up half the night skimming through Heidi, finding all the parts about Clara. It seemed walking hurt her feet at first, but I figured William was tough enough to stand a little pain if it meant saying good-bye to his wheelchair.
Mrs. Sullivan actually said we could play in the yard. Poor William was so excited you'd have thought we were going on a safari. First his mother bundled him up in a thick sweater and made him promise to keep his cap on. Then she eased his wheelchair down the steps and pushed him to a tree where she could watch us from the kitchen window.
After Mrs. Sullivan left, William and I played war for a while. At first we were pilots. I'd taught William how to make airplane and bomb sounds and he'd gotten almost as good at it as I was. Then we were soldiers like Donny, machine-gunning Nazis and throwing hand grenades. I was badly wounded but I managed to drag myself out of range and fire some mortar rounds from behind William's wheelchair, which was the tank. He was the gunner. He blew up three Panzers and a half track and shot down six Nazi planes. There were dead Krauts everywhere. General Patton gave us both the Congressional Medal of Honor. He said we were the finest and bravest soldiers he'd ever had the pleasure of meeting.
"Maybe your brother Donny will really get a medal," William said when we'd gotten tired of playing war.
I was making a whistle out of a blade of grass, something Stu had taught me. "Oh, he'll win a dozen medals, maybe more," I said. "He's so brave he'll probably win a whole chest full. In fact, he'll have to hire somebody to wear the ones that won't fit on his uniform."
I grinned at the idea of Donny swaggering through the front door, weighed down with medals. A hero, that's what he'd be. Just the kind of soldier I'd be if I ever went to war.
I blew a loud blast on my whistle and rolled over on my back to see William. "Don't you get sick of being in that wheelchair?"
William gave me a startled look, kind of like a rabbit who hadn't noticed a cat sneaking up on him till it was almost too late. "What do you think?" he asked, sounding hurt I'd ask such a dumb question.
"I bet you could walk if you really wanted to."
William shook his head sadly. "No, I can't. Mother says—"
I hushed him. "Your mother watches over you too close, William. She's holding you back. You've got to stand up to her."
"That's easy for you to say," William muttered, turning his face away as though he wanted me to stop talking.
But I didn't intend to stop. No, sir. Not till I convinced him. "All you need is a little gumption and you'll be on your feet again."
He stared at me. "Do you really think so?" His voice had a little quaver of hope in it.
"Remember what FDR said? 'All we have to fear is fear itself.'" Leaning closer to William, I added, "He didn't just sit around in a wheelchair feeling sorry for himself, you know."
To keep from looking at me, William fidgeted with the fringe on his blanket and shook his head. "My mother says—"
With my face an inch from his, I forced him to meet my eyes. "I don't care what your mother says. Just try. You can do it, I know you can. In fact—" I shoved my face even closer. "I'll help you, William."
"Mother won't let you help
me," he said uneasily. "She won't even let you take me around the block in the wheelchair."
I kicked at the pile of acorn bombs we'd made. "Your mother hates me."
William's face got red and he went back to fidgeting. "Of course she doesn't hate you," he mumbled.
"You're a lousy liar, William, but it doesn't matter, I don't care. I'm used to people hating me. They always do. Grown-ups, I mean. Teachers, other kids' parents." I spit in the grass to show him what I thought of adults in general.
I looked up just in time to see Mrs. Sullivan walking toward us. The look on her face told me she'd seen me spit and hadn't much liked it. How I wished I could pry William away from that woman. Heidi was lucky to live high in the mountains far from Clara's fussy grandmother.
"Promise you'll think about it," I whispered in William's ear.
He nodded, but his mother was beside him now, making it impossible for him to say anything. "It's time to go inside, William," she said. "You look pale and tired. I think you've had enough excitement for one day."
Turning to me, she added, "Run along home, Gordon. We'll see you tomorrow."
I left the Sullivans' yard but instead of going inside, I scrambled up into the tree and perched on my favorite branch. It was strange to think William had sat here once. He'd been strong like me. He could do everything a regular kid did—climb trees, play in the creek, ride a bike, go to school. Then all of a sudden he got polio and couldn't do anything.
Actually it was more than strange—it was downright scary to think how fast William's life had changed.
I swung out of the tree, promising myself to get William back on his feet even if I had to break his wheelchair to do it. A little encouragement from me, a little effort on his part. That's all it would take.
Fourteen
Every time I went over to William's, I brought up the walking idea, but, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't sell him on it. He'd just sit in that stupid old wheelchair of his and say, "I can't, I can't, I can't." Sometimes I'd get so mad I'd go home in a huff and not come back for two or three days.