Liberty

by Kirby Larson

  Olympia was now settled, cross-legged, next to him. “Mo’s going to tan your hide if she catches you smoking that trash.”

  Fish gave her a disgusted look. “I’m not smoking. I’m thinking.” He flipped the lid up, down, up, down, up, down as if repeating that action would make an idea fly into his brain.

  “Oh.” Olympia sat quietly for about ten whole seconds. “What about?”

  “You don’t want to hear.” Fish had been teased too many times at his old school for sharing his inventions.

  She leaned forward, bony elbows resting on scabbed knees. “I truly do.” Something in her expression reminded Fish of Nurse Meg. And she’d been a real good listener.

  He flapped the cigar box lid again. “Well, I can figure out how to fasten the door to the trap easy enough, using hinges,” he said. “But then how do I get it closed?”

  Olympia’s thin face scrunched up as she pondered. “Poke at it with a stick when the critter’s inside?”

  “I need a way to close it if I’m not here.” He waggled the lid again. What could pull it closed?

  “Some kind of rubber band?” Olympia suggested. “’Course, that’s hard to come by with the rationing.” She giggled. “Grandmamma’s had to make our undies with drawstrings because there’s no elastic to be found. Mine came untied at recess last week and ’bout fell to my ankles.”

  Fish hid his face behind the cigar box. “You’re right. It can’t be rubber.” Only Olympia would bring up something as embarrassing as underwear.

  She turned her head sideways. “How about some kind of doohickey?”

  “What?”

  “You know, like what helps the blinds go up and down.” Olympia made a motion as if pulling cords to open a set of venetian blinds.

  Fish closed his eyes and tried to visualize the blinds in his bedroom. There had to be some kind of pulley system in the innards to make them go up and down. His eyes sprang open.

  “Does Miss Zona have any empty spools of thread?”

  “With all the sewing she does?” Olympia rolled her eyes. “She’s got a basket full.”

  “Can you bring me two?” Fish tapped his lips with his fingers. He was on the verge of a breakthrough. If he talked too much, the idea might get talked away. Luckily, Olympia didn’t pester him with questions. She ran off and was back in a flash.

  “Equipment as ordered!” She gave Fish the wooden spools and he handed her two paper clips to straighten.

  While she did that, he poked a tiny hole near the top edge of each of the short sides of the cigar box. He threaded a paper clip through the hole in the center of one of the spools, then through one of the holes in the box, twisting the ends together with the pliers. Now the spool was resting on its side on the lip of one of the short sides of the box. “Look through that jar there for two of the smallest eyes you can find,” he told Olympia, repeating the threading process on the other side.

  “I see what you’re doing!” Without being told, Olympia screwed the pointy end of the eyes into either side of the lid.

  Fish sat back. “Now I just need some string.”

  “Hey!” Olympia untied ribbons from two of her braids. “What about these?”

  Fish tied one end of each ribbon to each eye and threaded the other end under each of the sideways spools. He handed one loose end to Olympia — she had helped, after all — and took the other himself. “Ready? One, two, three, pull!”

  They both gave gentle tugs and, like magic, the lid pulled up and closed.

  “We did it!” Olympia jumped up and did a little dance, hopping from one foot to the next.

  “I bet Mr. Campbell has what I need to make it work for the trap.” Fish struggled to his feet. He couldn’t dance around like Olympia, but he felt a grin lapping against his ears. “Then all I need is some meat for bait.”

  Olympia stopped her prancing. “Don’t you mean carrots?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Fish caught himself. “I guess I was thinking of supper.” He patted his stomach. “I’m pretty hungry. Going to head in and get a snack.”

  Olympia looked at him funny.

  “Thanks for your help.” Fish meant it.

  Olympia gave the ribbon one last gentle tug. “You can keep these for now. But I’ll need them back before church on Sunday.” She disappeared through the gap in the fence.

  Fish took his cigar box model inside and set it on the kitchen counter. He checked the time; he’d better hurry before Mo got home.

  He went to his room and shut both doors. No sense taking chances. He traded his chinos for the only pair of shorts he owned. He never wore them outside. He couldn’t hide the limp, but he could his ugly leg, stick thin and white as chalk dust.

  Fish glanced at the picture of President Roosevelt he’d taped to his wall. Under it, he’d copied words from one of FDR’s fireside chats: “There are many ways of going forward but only one way of standing still.” So far, none of Fish’s fix-it ideas had really worked. But FDR hadn’t given up, even though he had polio, so neither would Fish.

  He retrieved his secret weapon from under the bed. It looked like a kids’ swing. Fish positioned his right foot on what would be the seat of the swing, gripping the attached lengths of rope in each hand. Then he pushed as hard as he could, trying to straighten his knee. He counted to ten. Then rest and repeat. Push, hold, count. Push, hold, count. Do. Not. Stop. If he did this every day, his knee might begin to bend. Push, hold, count. Push, hold, count. It hurt like heck, but it would be worth it when Pop came home. Worth it to hear Pop tell complete strangers, “This is my son. A chip off the old block.”

  Fish grimaced as he counted again. The pain made his stomach clench. He flopped back on the floor, wiping sweat from his face, panting. It felt like he was back in the hospital, one of those times when the therapy had hurt so bad, he couldn’t help hollering. Then Nurse Meg came along and told him to think of his favorite place in the world. “Now imagine you’re there,” she said in her soft voice. It sounded crazy to Fish, but because it was Nurse Meg, he gave it a go. It had worked then. And it worked now. He sat up, gritted his teeth, and counted to ten five more times.

  Pop didn’t know that Fish had seen the snapshot he’d chosen to pack when he left for the Army. But Fish did. The one from his fifth birthday, riding his new bicycle, a goofy grin on his face. Fish was smiling so big you could see the missing baby teeth on the bottom. He got the hang of bike riding right away, didn’t even need training wheels. Mo told him Pop had bragged about it to all the guys at the repair shop. Four months later, Fish was flat on his back in the polio ward. Never got on the birthday bike again. Pop wanted to remember that boy. Not the one he had now. Fish would do whatever it took to be the kind of son that his father really wanted.

  He heard Mo fumbling with the lock at the front door. He stashed his device and jumped into his chinos, hurrying to the kitchen. His sister came in as he was taking three plates out of the cupboard.

  “Hey, kiddo.” She ruffled his hair. “Thanks a bunch.” She peeked out the back door as she unpinned her hat and hung it on a hook. “Looks like you’re making progress on Miss Zona’s trap. Thanks for doing that.”

  “Well, she’s been so nice to us and all.” Fish avoided Mo’s eyes. She didn’t have to know the real reason he was working so hard on the trap. He finished setting the table.

  “How are things at work?” That question was a surefire way to distract her.

  Mo chuckled as she tied on an apron. “Boy howdy, did we get a passel of complaints. I’ve told you how Mr. Higgins cranks up the public address system for his little pep talks. Well, he went a bit overboard today. The neighbors appreciated his patriotism but not his salty language. One of them even called the police.” She shook her head. “But he gets a fire lit under people and that’s what matters.”

  “What’s the count?”

  Mo kept a tote board in the office, tallying the number of ships Higgins Industries built. Crews worked around the clock to churn out boats as fa
st as they could.

  “We’re on track to break a weekly record. Maybe thirty-nine LCVPs and twenty PT boats.” Mo tore some iceberg lettuce into a bowl. “That reminds me; I may have to work late tomorrow or the next night. There’s a big wrinkle that needs ironing out. You see —”

  A rapping at the front door interrupted Mo. She went to answer it and came back with Roy, still in uniform, hat tucked under his arm.

  “Seaman Weathers reporting for duty, sir!” Roy saluted Fish before tossing his hat on the hook by Mo’s. “What’s cooking?”

  “Ask my sister,” Fish answered. “I can’t tell.” This Meatless Tuesday concoction didn’t look as bad as last week’s, a revolting mixture of eggs, Grape-Nuts, Velveeta, and stewed tomatoes.

  Roy laughed again. “I meant, what have you been up to?”

  “He’s been hard at work on that trap for Miss Zona’s garden.” Mo dropped a blob of grease into the hot skillet. “That is one good kid.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.” Roy smiled at Fish.

  Fish hid behind the open icebox door, taking his time getting out the milk bottle.

  Roy plunked down on a chair. “It’s good to be with friends.”

  “Tough day at class?” Mo held up the percolator, wordlessly asking if Roy wanted some coffee. He nodded.

  “That McDerby is going to be the death of me. Docked me ten points for penmanship on my exam.” Roy shook his head. “I’m here to learn to drive a Higgins boat. Not for finishing school. Penmanship! He nearly canceled my Friday night pass because of it.”

  Mo made a sympathetic face as she set plates of food on the table. “I know he’s tough, but there’s no one who knows those LCVPs better than Captain McDerby. Even Mr. Higgins says so.”

  “Well, he thinks the rest of us are dumb as stumps.” Roy forked up some green beans. “I’m so glad it’s almost over.” He buttered a slice of bread, eating it in two bites. “Boy, hon, this is delicious, but I’m starved. You couldn’t spare a slice of Spam, could you?”

  “Can I have one, too?” Fish piped up.

  “It’s ‘may I?’ ” Mo made a face. “I take it you boys did not enjoy my crispy baked eggs.” She shook her head. “And here I am, trying to be patriotic.”

  “Nothing more patriotic than feeding a hungry sailor!” Roy held up his empty plate, making puppy dog eyes. Fish followed suit.

  Mo laughed as she opened a can, cutting them each a slice. Roy gobbled his down; cold Spam was not Fish’s favorite. But he needed it.

  “I can’t wait for your graduation party,” Mo said. “I’ve heard about it at the office so many times.” Her eyes got all dreamy and far away. “The Blue Room at the Roosevelt Hotel! Dinner! Dancing! Imagine. I only hope my dress will pass muster.”

  Fish pulled his napkin onto his lap, hoping neither of them noticed that it was hiding the slice of Spam.

  “Even in coveralls, you’d be the prettiest girl there,” Roy said.

  “May I be excused?” Fish wanted to vamoose before the mushy stuff.

  “What about those green beans?” Mo pointed at his plate. “There are starving children in China, remember.”

  “Aw, let the kid alone.” Roy reached over and stabbed a forkful of Fish’s green beans. “I hated vegetables when I was your age, too.”

  “Now may I be excused?” Fish asked again.

  Mo sighed. “I suppose.”

  “Hey, before you take off. You two busy a week from Sunday?” Roy looked at Fish and then at Mo, who shook her head. “Well, you are now. There’s a big war bond sale at Pontchartrain Beach. You can try on gas masks, get free seeds for a Victory Garden, and yours truly will be giving civilians rides in an LCVP.” He kind of puffed out his chest.

  “Sounds fun, doesn’t it, Fish?” Mo poured herself another cup of coffee.

  “Sounds swell.” It did, but he needed to get going. Fish picked up his plate and set it in the sink. It was his turn to wash, but he’d do that later.

  For now, he was going to take a walk around the block. After he grabbed a piece of rope from out back. He patted the wrapped-up Spam in his pocket.

  His dog was probably hungry.

  The Americans turned them over to the French, who seemed determined to make life as miserable as possible. The Frogs had charming ideas, which included hours of standing at attention in the hot sun, miserable food, disrupted sleep. All meant to crush Erich and his fellow soldiers. Punish them. And from what he had learned of the Fuhrer’s actions, Erich couldn’t really blame them. Yet, he had not done those awful things. He hadn’t even wanted to be a soldier.

  Being the youngest of the prisoners granted Erich no privileges. He was regularly questioned by the commanding officer — perhaps they thought because he was the youngest, he’d be the weakest. That showed how little they knew of him. The Tommies had tried psychology on him, but it didn’t work. There had not been any rough stuff, but when would his interrogators tire of Erich answering all of their questions with “I don’t know”?

  Almost the only time Erich spoke now was to his interrogators. He was determined to keep himself to himself. He had heard rumors that the Nazis still had connections, even from the camps. If he said the wrong thing, who knew how that might harm his loved ones? Best to stay silent.

  Not a moment went by that he didn’t wonder how his family was faring. It had been so long since he’d heard from any of them. Even now, if he thought for one instant about his brother, it was worse than any punishment the French could dream up. Friedrich was so sensitive, so kind, so trusting. Because of his leg, the family had protected him. Erich had protected him. His brother had not learned to be hard, as Erich had been forced to. How would someone like Friedrich survive this war?

  To calm himself, Erich turned his thoughts to his grandfather. A big bear of a man who loved nothing more than to stroll through the woods, seeking out fallen limbs. He would cut them into various lengths and then select one piece, studying it. “What do you think is hiding inside, Erich?” he would ask. And Erich would answer: A fox. A wood duck. An osprey. Perhaps even a turtle. Grandfather would hold an impossibly small knife in his huge hands, nicking here, notching there. In an afternoon’s time, he would release the requested creature from that stick of wood.

  Here, in this camp, Erich felt much like the dead limbs Grandfather collected. And he was going to do whatever it took to stay concealed, to stay hidden. He could not let anyone see the Erich within.

  It was his only chance of surviving.

  The air smelled of coffee and some kind of perfumey flowers. Nearby, someone wailed “Skylark” on a saxophone. From Miss Zona’s drifted the notes to “This Little Light of Mine” being plinked out on the piano. Olympia practicing for church.

  The sounds pushed him along Fig Street. Rope tossed over his shoulder, Fish step-clomped down the sidewalk even more slowly than usual. He wondered if he’d ever get used to calling it a banquette, like Olympia and Miss Zona did. He liked all the French-sounding words people used here; sometimes New Orleans was one joyful jumble of sound. Not just music like that sax he could hear when he stopped every few paces to whistle for the dog. But the language and the voices, too. As he strained to catch any bark or whine, he caught the cry of the watermelon man: “Watermelon. Red to the rind!” Never heard that in Seattle.

  And he’d never been this close to having a dog back home, either. He stopped to whistle again. Waited. No sign of Liberty.

  That’s what he’d decided to call her. Mostly because she’d been running free when they first met. Once that name popped into his head, he couldn’t think of anything else that suited. “Here, girl!” he called, too shy to use her name aloud. A yappy dog pressed its nose against the glass in a house across the street. But it was a fluffy puffball. Not his Liberty.

  He walked on. Take a few steps, stop, whistle and call. As long as he was home by dark, Mo wouldn’t fuss. He attracted waves from two neighbors he didn’t know, but nothing else. And now he’d reached Carrollton. T
here was nothing to do but head toward Pritchard Street, so at the next corner, he turned right. It gave him the willies, but he knew he should check out the Chicken Man’s place. Maybe Liberty was so hungry that she’d gone back to the chicken coop. He prayed she didn’t bother any chickens. Hopefully, the Spam would be enough to tempt her away. He should have brought a bigger piece.

  Though all the houses looked alike, it was easy to pick out the Chicken Man’s. Just looking at it made Fish flinch. He crossed over, step-clomping with determination. The mailbox in front bore the name LaVache, painted in crooked letters. The name sounded angry, like the man. Fish paused. The chickens were quiet. A good sign. But if Liberty wasn’t here, where could she be?

  Fish step-clomped his way to the next house, did an about-face, and step-clomped back again. Three more times he paced back and forth in front of the Chicken Man’s house. No sign of anything, person or dog. He whistled softly. Waited.

  Nothing.

  Maybe someone else took her home.

  He shook his head, refusing to consider such a thought. Liberty was counting on him. And he wasn’t going to let her down. Even if he didn’t have the guts to cut through Mr. LaVache’s yard to poke around the chicken coops. Plan B. He made a loop around the block, coming up from behind. Instead of another home on the back side of the LaVache house, there was a pint-sized farm with a Victory Garden ten times bigger than Miss Zona’s, and several good-sized chicken coops.

  Fish rocked back and forth, from good leg to bad, looking for Liberty while keeping an eye out for Mr. LaVache. If he didn’t mind pitching rocks at a pesky dog, he probably wouldn’t have any problem pelting a pesky kid.

  One clumsy step, then another, and soon he was next to the first chicken coop. Still no sign of Liberty. But the chickens — already tucked in for the night — must’ve sensed him. One coop started clucking and squawking, which started a commotion in the second and third. Over the hen racket, Fish heard the screen door open and slam shut.