Liberty

by Kirby Larson

  “Who’s out there?”

  Mr. LaVache. With a baseball bat in his hands. “I hear you, you chicken thief!” He stomped down the steps, stumbling out of his house slippers. He hollered again while he fumbled back into them. “Don’t think you can get away!”

  Fish scrambled backward as fast as he could. He step-clomped toward a hedge he thought he could hide behind, too scared to notice the tree root snaking its way through the banquette. He went flying, landing hard on the concrete. Gasping for breath, he lay there, unable to get up.

  A painful turn of the head revealed Mr. LaVache checking out the chicken coops. Evidently, he’d given up the chase.

  After a second, Fish pressed his palms to the banquette and pushed to an awkward kneel, resting on his good knee while the other stuck out stiffly. At least no one had seen him fall. That would mean teasing. Or worse: pity. He pushed back memories of other falls. Too many other falls. Stupid leg.

  Something cool tickled his left ear. Fish batted at it and felt a wet tongue. He turned.

  “Liberty!” He threw his arms around her, not even minding her smell. He plopped onto his rear and she clambered onto his lap. Her head and forelegs didn’t fit, but she didn’t seem to mind, intently nosing Fish’s pocket. He pulled out the Spam, breaking it into chunks. She inhaled each bite.

  “You’re still hungry, aren’t you?” Fish stroked her bony back. “Come with me. I’ll get you plenty to eat.” He slowly stood up, holding out the last bit of Spam. “Want this?” The rope had gone flying when he fell. He had to coax her closer.

  She licked at the meat, then tried to pry it out of his fingers. With her teeth, but so gently.

  “You wouldn’t hurt a fly, would you?” He patted her head. “Or Mr. LaVache’s chickens.” He kept talking, softly, holding the food just out of Liberty’s reach. He took a few step-clomps. She followed. A few more. The rope was now inches away.

  A pair of bicycles came barreling up the street. Wally and another boy from their school were shouting war whoops and waving their free arms like they were in some Tom Mix western movie.

  At the racket, Liberty bolted, leaving the last of the Spam behind.

  The other boys stood, pedaling hard, chasing Liberty as she ran. Fish hobbled after them, but he couldn’t keep up. Could never keep up.

  The chunk of Spam felt slimy in his hand. He pitched it away as hard as he could.

  “What’s going on?” Olympia trotted toward him. “Those boys going to hurt that dog?”

  That thought hadn’t even entered Fish’s mind. “Go away.” Fish began limping home. Olympia walked, too, matching her pace to his.

  “So is that why you wanted meat for the trap?” She played with the ribbon around one of her braids. “To catch a dog? That dog?”

  Heavy sigh. “Yeah.” Fish could’ve been carrying one of Mr. Higgins’s boats on his back, he felt that weighed down by failure. He braced himself for Olympia to confirm it.

  Olympia cocked her head, eyeballed Fish. “That’s a great idea.”

  Fish glanced at her. “You think so?”

  “Looked like she was about starving. She needs taking care of.” Olympia chewed on the hair ribbon. “She come to you?”

  Fish nodded, holding out his now empty hands. “I fed her some of my dinner.”

  Braids bounced. “Well, that’s real good. She knows you’ll have food. And she trusts you.” Olympia tugged on Fish’s arm. “Come on. Let’s get home and finish that trap. We’ve got a dog to catch.” She picked up the pace. Fish bounced along, trying to keep up.

  His steps felt lighter. So did his heart. It felt good to have someone on his side.

  Even if it was Olympia.

  Fish tossed the mail on the table, mostly bills. But a letter from Pop tumbled out. Addressed just to him! He tore it open and read.

  Dear Fish,

  Uncle Sam put me to work on Bailey bridges. It’s a lot like working in the garage, taking car engines apart and putting them back together. The motto of our unit is “Forward” because we go ahead of the troops, building bridges, so soldiers and tanks can move to where they’re needed. Anywho, I thought you’d get a kick out of knowing that. Mind your sister.

  Pop

  It was the first letter Pop had written just to him. Fish read it several more times. He sniffed the paper to see if he could pick up Pop’s scent of Barbasol, engine grease, and Prince Albert tobacco. But the only thing he smelled was paper.

  As he put the letter away, the house seemed quieter, lonelier. Fish would give anything to hear Pop’s gravelly voice. He hoped he was taking care. Hoped it wouldn’t be too much longer before he came home.

  Fish shook his head. What had come over him? He was being downright sappy. Maybe it was because he knew Mo would be working late tonight; he wouldn’t have anyone to talk to.

  He pulled open the icebox, looking for a snack. First thing he saw was the leftover liver curry that Mo said he could have for supper again. Fish could barely gag it down the first time she’d served it. He didn’t think it’d be improved, left over. Despite his sister’s good intentions, Fish’s dinner plans revolved around a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. But there was something that liver curry was good for.

  Holding his breath, Fish carried the dish out to the backyard. The pie tin in the trap still had the macaroni and cheese from the night before. He dumped that into the trash, and re-baited it with some of the curry. He waved his hand in front of his face. It sure smelled like something a dog would like.

  A head poked through the fence. “Any luck yet?” The rest of Olympia squeezed through. “Whoo-wee! What is that?” She pinched her nose with her fingers.

  Fish pointed at the trap. “Mo’s liver curry.”

  “She made you eat that?” Olympia’s eyes bugged out.

  “She tried.” Fish shuddered to remember. “Trust me, no amount of ketchup helped it go down.”

  “I hear you.” Olympia stayed far away from the trap, pulling a jump rope from her skirt pocket. “So did the dog come by?”

  Fish hadn’t told her about naming Liberty yet. He sighed. “The food hadn’t been touched.”

  “Well, you think you could spare the trap for one night?” She turned the rope, jumping in place. “That durned rabbit’s ’bout gobbled up all Grandmamma’s bean starts.”

  “Sure. Tomorrow?” Since it was Miss Zona who had inspired him to build the trap, Fish guessed it was only fair that he actually put it to use in her garden. “We’ll use different bait.”

  “I sure hope so.” Olympia started doing some fancy moves, like scissors and front cross. Each landing sent up a puff of dust. “Want to go look for the dog again?”

  After school, they had scouted the neighborhood, circling each block carefully, whistling and calling. Olympia even walked Pritchard Street with him, past Mr. LaVache’s. When they’d seen him leave in that rattletrap truck of his, Olympia marched right into his yard, peering under shrubs and behind piles of trash, calling, “Here, girl, here, dog!” They spotted no sign of Liberty but met many of their neighbors. Fish’s favorites were the Beasley sisters, who dressed like twins even though they weren’t and offered him and Olympia fresh-made pralines.

  “We’ve been saving our sugar up for an occasion,” said the one Miss Beasley. “We just didn’t know what it was going to be. And here it is, making your acquaintances!”

  They met Mr. and Mrs. DeSoto — he lost an arm in a traffic accident. No one would hire him but Mr. Higgins. Mrs. DeSoto told them that her husband now worked in the electrical shop at the City Park Plant. Fish felt proud of the man his sister worked for.

  That afternoon, they met more nice people, and even a few neighborhood dogs, but never did come across Liberty. Fish had no idea where she managed to hide, out of sight, for so long. He wished he could invent something that would find a missing dog. Maybe he’d go through those old Popular Mechanics magazines tonight, after supper. Might be an idea in one of those.

  “I gotta get ho
me,” Olympia said when the Catholic church bells chimed five. “I’m sorry we got skunked. But, like Grandmamma says, if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”

  Fish nodded. That was like what the president said in that fireside chat. But they’d tried so many times. Maybe he had to face facts. He wasn’t going to find Liberty. It had been silly to think he would. Just like it was silly to think he could fix his leg. “You tell Miss Zona I’ll bring the trap over tomorrow night. She can keep it as long as she needs. I don’t think I’m ever going to catch that dog.” He hadn’t felt this low since that first night in the polio ward.

  Olympia stopped dead-still on the banquette. “Don’t say that. Remember what that Mr. Churchill said? ‘Never ever ever give up.’ ” She crossed her arms. “That dog will come to you again. I just know it. Grandmamma feels it in her bones, too.”

  Fish wished he had Olympia’s confidence. “See you tomorrow.” He went inside the house and did his stretching exercises, just in case Olympia was right about that never-giving-up thing. He used Mo’s sewing tape measure to check for progress, but his right leg was still an inch shorter than his left. It hadn’t lengthened one iota and the knee was as frozen as ever. Nothing was going to turn out right. Not the leg or the dog.

  Someone knocked on the front door. Shave and a haircut. He peeked over Pop’s Blue Star Flag. Olympia stood on the front porch.

  “I brought you a plate,” she said through the glass. “Fried chicken and mashed taters.”

  He yanked open the door.

  Olympia handed him the covered dish, lowering her voice. “I told Grandmamma about that liver curry. She said no human being should have to eat such. Especially as leftovers!”

  “Tell Miss Zona my stomach and I are grateful.” Fish inhaled the delicious smells. “Very grateful!”

  Olympia skipped down the stairs. “You can set the plate on our porch when you’re done. To hide the evidence.” She laughed.

  Fish savored each bite of crispy chicken and buttery potatoes as he pored over several of those old Popular Mechanics he’d found in the shed. They gave him lots of good ideas — how to build his own radio and chick brooder and crossbow to “shoot arrows or launch airplanes.” Mo would have conniptions about the last two things. But nothing that gave him any ideas about inventing a gizmo to find a lost dog. He did have all the supplies to make the radio, so after getting rid of his chicken dinner evidence, he gathered them together and started to work. He was winding wire around a paper clip when the front door lock rattled.

  “Are you still up?” Mo took off her hat, yawning. “It’s past your bedtime.”

  “Can I finish this part?” He showed her what he was doing.

  “You and your inventions.” Mo opened the icebox. “Looks like you ate a good supper,” she said.

  Fish had taken precautions, scooping out more of the leftovers into the trap to make it seem like he’d eaten them. Not even the starvingest child in China would eat liver curry.

  “Still hungry?” She held out the plate.

  “Oh, no, thanks.” Fish patted his stomach. “Full up.”

  Mo put it back and pulled out a milk bottle, pouring herself a glass as she kicked off her pumps. “What a day!” She plopped onto a kitchen chair. “You were the talk of the meeting.”

  Fish stopped winding. “What?”

  She took a sip, swallowing and nodding her head at the same time. “I’ve been getting to know one of the engineers, Mr. Haddock. A real nice guy who’s giving me tips on becoming an engineer.” Mo had taken the job at Higgins hoping she could put her mechanical background to work — she’d grown up working with Pop in Uncle Dutch’s garage — but the rule was that women could work in the plant, not in engineering. That was just one of the work rules Fish didn’t understand. Higgins also kept separate assembly lines for the white and the black workers, even though everybody seemed to get along. Mo said that kind of stuff was sure to change after the war. “It has to,” she said. “We’re fighting for freedom, aren’t we?” At any rate, she’d taken the secretarial job hoping it would give her an in for her engineering dream. Like most of Mo’s plans, it seemed to be working.

  Mo rolled her neck side to side, stretching out kinks. “I told him how proud I was of you and that I thought you were going to be the next Thomas Edison.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Fish blew a raspberry.

  “I took that cigar box contraption of yours to show him.” Mo rubbed her temples. “Gosh, what a long day.”

  Fish had wondered where he’d left that. Olympia was fussing about getting her hair ribbons back. “What did he say?”

  Mo stopped rubbing, looking Fish square in the face. “You might be more interested in what someone else had to say.”

  “Cut the mystery. Please.”

  “You know how I told you there was this big wrinkle at work? I can’t tell you everything — top secret — but it had to do with the ramps on the boats that will carry the tanks. Tank lighters, they’re called. Getting them to lower in a less complicated way. Mr. Higgins shut all the engineers in the office, saying they couldn’t leave until they figured it out. Someone tried to go get a sandwich at lunchtime and Mr. Higgins ordered him back inside and sent me out for food. While I was gone, one of the guys noticed your cigar box on my desk. He started playing around with it and then someone else said, ‘Hey, that gives me an idea.’ ” Mo beamed. “Your model got those engineers thinking in a different way. And they solved the problem! Mr. Higgins was so happy, he passed cigars all around. Even to me!”

  “Are you pulling my leg?” Fish’s contraption helped the most important shipyard in America?

  Mo crossed her heart. “It’s the honest truth.” She patted the table between them. “And now, Mr. Brilliant, it’s way past time for you to hit the hay.”

  Fish nearly brushed his teeth with Mo’s face cream, he was so astonished at her story. He crawled under the sheets, staring at the ceiling, while that delicious thought played over and over: His model had inspired real engineers! As he drifted off to sleep, he realized the best part. He’d done something that would make Pop proud.

  He couldn’t wait to write to tell him.

  They were rousted out for the daily roll call. Erich found his spot in the long line with many hundred other prisoners. It would be ages before the last name was ticked off. The sun’s heat battered the tops of heads like a sledgehammer. After the first hour, Erich could not conjure up enough saliva to lick his blistered lips. The man next to him swayed, nearly knocking Erich off his feet. Erich pushed him upright and held him there till the man was able to stand on his own again. The man nodded thanks; speaking required too much effort.

  Erich would not fall. He loosened his knees, relaxing his body as best he could. He thought back to his father teaching him to ski. “It’s all in the knees, son,” Vater had told him. If he closed his eyes, Erich could almost imagine shushing over the snow, flying free. When Friedrich had been born, Erich looked forward to teaching his brother to ski. But Friedrich’s leg made that impossible.

  Erich did his best to keep his family at the front of his thoughts; it helped to block out the heat, the flies, the angry Frog guard calling off the German names as slowly as possible. He hoped Mutti did not worry too much about him. He hoped his father was still playing the piano of an evening. And Friedrich — was he keeping up with his chess? One of the first things Erich would do when he returned home was set up the board. Perhaps this time, his little brother would beat him. Fair and square.

  Finally, the last name was called. “Roll call, dismissed!” shouted the guard. Erich staggered after his fellows to the mess tent. He ate. Not for himself. But to survive for his family. For Friedrich.

  Mo clattered around in the kitchen, waking Fish from a really good dream. He and Liberty were playing fetch and no matter how far he threw the ball, she caught it and brought it back. “Good girl,” he mumbled as he rolled over.

  The door to his room popped open, letting in breakfas
t smells. Bacon. Pancakes. Maple syrup.

  “Up and at ’em, sleepyhead.” Mo waved a spatula at him. “We need to leave in an hour to meet Roy.”

  Fish pulled the bedspread over his head. He’d forgotten about the day at the beach. “I might not feel very good,” he fibbed. He definitely wouldn’t feel very good if he went another day without catching Liberty. Except for the night in Miss Zona’s garden, the trap had been baited every day with something tasty. Yesterday, he and Olympia had put out chipped beef.

  “You’ll feel better after some food.” Mo poked him with the spatula. “Let’s go.” She closed the door behind her as she stepped back into the kitchen.

  Fish threw off the covers and climbed out of bed to do his stretching exercises. Push, count, hold. Push, count, hold. Sweat trickled down his back as he worked to get his knee to bend. The pain would be worth it, if he could change that leg. He paused, studying the stiffened knee. Was it a little bit more flexible? Maybe a tiny bit.

  “You do look flushed,” Mo said as he sat at the table.

  Fish realized he probably overdid it with the stretching. “Uh, I forgot to open my window last night. It got really hot in my room.”

  She reached over and felt his forehead anyway. “No fever, but warm.” She poured him a glass of milk. “This will cool you off. The window’s a good idea. It’s supposed to hit ninety today.”

  After breakfast, he and Mo headed to the streetcar stop. They waved to Miss Zona and Olympia on their front porch, all dolled up for church, waiting for Mr. Simpson. Fish had never met Mr. Simpson, only seen him coming down the street in his Plymouth coupe, barely visible behind the dashboard. The way he looked reminded Fish of the time he tried to be helpful and do some laundry for Mo. He’d washed one of her wool sweaters in hot water and it came out baby doll–sized. Mr. Simpson looked like he’d been shrunk in the wash, too, wrinkly and small. Even though he was about ninety, every Sunday morning, at exactly 10:15, he picked up their neighbors for church, insisting on parking his car and escorting Miss Zona down the front steps. They looked like Mutt and Jeff from the funny papers. It was a wonder Mr. Simpson didn’t fall right over.