Liberty

by Kirby Larson

  Fish perused the shelves. He had no idea there could be so many books on this one topic! He grabbed a couple and thumbed through them until he found a likely candidate. The librarian helped him fill out the form for the card and he was soon on his way. The book he picked suggested giving a treat each time the leash was used. That way, Liberty would associate it with something good. That made sense to Fish. If he’d known anything about dogs, he might have figured that out on his own.

  The weather had turned when he stepped outside. Dark clouds scudded overhead and the air was so heavy he could’ve scooped it up and thrown it, like a snowball. He hadn’t learned to read this sky yet, like he could the one back in Seattle, but he sure hoped it wasn’t going to start raining before he got home. It’d ruin his library book. He paused under a drugstore awning, book open, waiting for traffic to clear so he could cross the street. “The best training for man’s best friend is kindness,” the book said. “Be patient and positive and you will soon have a well-mannered pooch.” Mo would appreciate that; she wasn’t too happy at the holes Liberty had dug in the backyard.

  When Fish looked up from the book, traffic had cleared. And there was Olympia walking with some friends. They were too far ahead to catch up to. Besides, he wasn’t about to inflict himself with a gaggle of girls, so he hung back.

  On the next block, he passed five or six white men, in rolled-up shirtsleeves, sitting on a row of wooden chairs outside a small store. One smoked a pipe, which reminded Fish of Pop; they all burst out laughing at something the pipe smoker said. Fish didn’t hear what it was, but he couldn’t help smiling, too. Another man, wearing a dark shirt, called out to the men as he crossed the street to join them. The pipe smoker swiveled on his seat to face his friend. The dark-shirted man reached one section of the banquette the same time as Olympia and her friends, only they were looking at something else and didn’t see him. Didn’t realize they were blocking his way. The next thing Fish knew, Olympia was on the ground, the man yelling horrible things at her. Her friends helped her to her feet, all the while tugging her off the banquette. The three of them stood in the street, at the curb, letting the man pass.

  Fish tightened his grip on the library book. That man had shoved Olympia. Clean off the banquette. Out of pure meanness. And his pals on the chair kept laughing and talking like it was nothing out of the ordinary. Fish stared at them, trying to summon up the courage to say something. Do something.

  Olympia and her friends hurried on. Fish hurried on, too, and not because of the changing weather. He crossed to the other side of the street, away from those men. The thick air and his shaky legs made the walk home seem to take forever.

  When he let himself in the house, the notes of “All Creatures of our God and King” wobbled over the backyard fence from Miss Zona’s house. Olympia practicing for church again. She missed a few notes. Fish wondered that she could play at all after what had happened.

  He grabbed the leash and a piece of bologna from the icebox and went out to sit with Liberty in her pen under the live oak tree. He’d thrown it together that morning, using more scrap lumber and chicken wire from Mr. Campbell’s. She barked a greeting, wiggling left and right like it was any other day, nudging his hand to scratch that hard-to-get spot above her tail.

  “I missed you, too.” Something about petting that sweet head, looking into those trusting eyes, helped to erase the ugliness he’d seen. “We’re going to try an experiment, okay?” He broke the bologna into chunks and gave her one every time he clicked the leash on and off her collar. After about ten bites, he tried walking her around the yard. She seemed to forget she even had a leash on, trotting close to his hand, nosing it for more meat.

  “I guess that works pretty good, huh, girl?” He gave her the last bite and sat under the live oak. She plunked down next to him, dozing off while he read more about dog training. Mo would be impressed if he could teach Liberty to fetch. She could get the paper or Mo’s slippers; Mo would really go for that. She and Liberty would be best pals in no time.

  Liberty twitched, sat up, and barked.

  “What is it?” In the distance, Fish heard the rumble of thunder. “That won’t hurt you.” He tried to stroke her head. She tugged at the leash, dragging Fish in circles. “It’s okay, girl. It’s okay.” He petted her until there weren’t any more rumbles, and she settled. “I used to hate storms when I was a kid, too,” he reassured her. “But it’s okay. Mo says thunder is only God bowling.” He rubbed the white patch on Liberty’s chest. “But dogs probably don’t know about God or bowling, do they?”

  Mo was in a snit when she got home from work, so it didn’t seem like the time to ask if Liberty could stay inside that night. Fish fell right to sleep after he went to bed but jerked awake when lightning lit up his window. He counted, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi … crash! That was close. He threw off the bedcovers and was outside as quickly as he could. He made out two shapes in the dark. One was wearing shorts and a light-colored top.

  “Olympia?” He let himself into the pen. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I heard Liberty crying.” She had her arms tight around Liberty’s neck. “She hates lightning.”

  “I think it’s the thunder, but you’re right. Storms scare her.” He shivered as rain pelted his back. “Let’s go in the shed.”

  He clipped on the leash and the three of them made their way inside, watching the fingers of lightning through the one window. Fish made a lap and Liberty curled up in it as best she could, trembling. Fish stroked between her eyes; the book said that was calming to dogs.

  The next lightning bolt turned the inside of the shed as bright as a summer day. In that flash, Fish saw the big bandage on Olympia’s knee. Liberty shivered and he rubbed her all over, thinking. Should he say something to Olympia about what he’d seen?

  “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi … ” Olympia counted, and then crash.

  Liberty shifted, tried to get up, but Fish kept petting her. Olympia reached over, too. “That’s just God rearranging furniture.” She comforted the dog. “Nothing to fret about.”

  “When I was little, I learned it was God bowling,” Fish said.

  Olympia laughed. “No, furniture. And the lightning flashes is the Almighty taking pictures of all His beautiful children.” She shifted to sit cross-legged, too. “Ain’t it funny the things our mothers tell us.”

  Fish was quiet a moment. “My mother never told me anything. She died when I was born.”

  Olympia clucked her tongue just like Miss Zona did sometimes. “That’s rough.”

  He shrugged, watching drips run down the filthy shed window. “It’s just the way it is.”

  Thunder clapped again and Liberty twitched. But she didn’t try to get up.

  “My mama got pneumonia when I was six. That’s when I came to live with my grandmamma.”

  “Why didn’t you live with your dad?”

  Now Olympia shrugged. “Don’t know where he is.”

  Liberty rolled onto her back, wedged between Fish and Olympia. They took turns rubbing her belly. Not talking, but easy.

  “Sounds like the storm’s dying down,” Olympia said after a while.

  “God must be done with the furniture.” Fish smiled.

  “I’m real sorry about that time I let her out.” Olympia concentrated on a spot by Liberty’s white patch. “It was a sheer accident.”

  Fish nodded. “Sorry I got so mad.”

  “Pfft.” Olympia snorted. “You don’t know the first thing about being mad. Wooie. You should see my auntie when she’s fuming.” She rested her head on her knees. “Grandmamma and the preacher say we have to turn the other cheek.”

  “Mo says you gotta stand up for yourself sometimes, too.”

  Olympia’s voice got low. “It’s different for us, Fish.”

  He stretched out his good leg. It was getting pins and needles in it from sitting so long. “You mean for kids?”

  “I m
ean for us.”

  Fish thought about that man on the sidewalk. And the side-by-side water fountains labeled WHITE and COLORED. And about the invisible line in the streetcar that someone like him sat in front of and someone like Olympia sat in back of. “Mo says maybe the war will change that.”

  “Maybe.” But she didn’t sound near as convinced as Mo. They sat awhile longer, taking turns petting Liberty, until Olympia yawned. She got up and brushed off the seat of her shorts. “I better get back to bed. I think the storm’s passed.”

  “I’m gonna stay with her a little while longer.” Fish rubbed circles on Liberty’s belly.

  “You’re a keeper, Fish,” Olympia said. “Night.”

  He couldn’t see her, but he imagined her padding through the darkened backyard and slipping through the hole in the fence and into Miss Zona’s house.

  Another flash of lightning caught Fish’s eye. He counted but he got to twenty Mississippi and no thunder clapped. The storm was probably over, like Olympia said. He smiled to himself. Maybe that last flash was God taking a picture of one of His children.

  Taking it of Olympia, one of his really nice ones.

  Mo disappeared into the office, gently closing the door behind her. But that was no buffer for the words bellowed from within. “I’m a busy man! This isn’t a kindergarten.”

  Fish tugged at the tie Mo had made him wear. He couldn’t breathe.

  The hollering continued, including a few choice bits that Fish would’ve gotten his mouth washed out for using. He edged away from the door, toward the exit.

  A gaunt man glanced up from the papers scattered across his desk. “His bark is worse than his bite,” he reassured Fish. Then he chuckled. “Generally.”

  Fish couldn’t make out what Mo was saying, but from the lull in the volume, he knew she was saying something. This wasn’t the first time he was grateful for his bulldog of a sister. Nothing much stopped her. Not even the hospital rules, back when he was on the polio ward. “He doesn’t have a mother,” she’d told the duty nurse who tried to enforce the parents-only visitation rule. “If he did, she’d be here. Now let me in.” After that, no one said a word when Mo showed up to see Fish.

  The blustering commenced again.

  Mo might be able to tangle with a nun and win, but it was sounding like Mr. Higgins was getting the better of her. “I should probably go,” Fish said aloud, to no one in particular.

  “Take a load off.” The gaunt man scooted back from his own desk and found Fish a chair. “I’ve got my money on your sis.”

  Before Fish could take advantage of the offered chair, the office door swung open and Mo stepped out. Bright spots of pink dotted her cheeks, but, otherwise, you wouldn’t have a clue that she wasn’t cool as a cucumber.

  “Mr. Elliott,” she said to Fish. “Mr. Higgins will see you now.” Fish stood frozen in the center of the reception area. Mo made a little jerk with her head, signaling Fish to get a move on. He wiped one sweaty hand on his pants, and gripped a pad and pencil with the other.

  “Don’t worry,” called the man. “He’s had his shots!”

  Fish took a deep breath and step-clomped through the doorway, into the office of Mr. Andrew Jackson Higgins. One of the most powerful men in America. A man who was such good friends with the president that FDR was planning to visit the factory in the fall.

  The founder of Higgins Industries planted himself smack in the center of the room. He was taller than Pop; heftier, too. The crease in his trousers was sharp enough to slice bread and there wasn’t a wrinkle in his white shirt. Fish had never seen such a fancy tie. And that tie clip had to be real gold.

  Fish stuck out his hand as his father had taught him. “Hello, sir.” His mouth was so cottony, it sounded like he had a lisp. He licked his lips. Swallowed. “I’m Michael Elliott. But most people call me Fish.”

  Mr. Higgins’s hand was as big as an armadillo and twice as rough. “Good to meet you, Fish. People call me Mr. Higgins.” Mr. Higgins’s breath carried more than a whiff of Old Grand-Dad whiskey. Mo had warned Fish about that.

  Fish nodded.

  Mr. Higgins laughed. “But I have a feeling we’re going to be friends. And my friends call me A.J.” He hadn’t let go of Fish’s hand and now tugged him over to a seat opposite an enormous desk. Some kind of intercom buzzed on his desk. “Hold up a minute, Fish. Gotta take this.” He listened to a scratchy voice rasping from the machine, then barked back a series of orders. “Gosh darn it, Henry. I can’t live with you and I can’t live without you. Just do what I asked.” Only, Mr. Higgins didn’t say “gosh” and he didn’t say “darn.” He flipped a switch on the intercom and plopped himself in a leather swivel chair.

  Fish nodded again. He began to feel a bit like that ventriloquist’s dummy, Charlie McCarthy, with someone else controlling his body. He cleared his throat, set his notepad on his lap, and poised his pencil to take notes.

  “I gotta tell you, Fish, I don’t relish being someone’s homework.”

  Fish blinked. Was Mr. Higgins going to change his mind after all? There went his assignment.

  “But because it was you, I decided to make an exception.” Mr. Higgins patted around his pocket, found a package of cigarettes, and pulled one out. His face softened. Was that pity in his eyes?

  This was the one reaction Fish hated. More than any of the teasing. Someone feeling sorry for him because of the polio. Because of his leg. Fish tried to tuck it under the chair. Out of sight.

  Mr. Higgins struck a match, ready to light the cigarette. Then he blew it out. “Guess your teacher would frown on that.” He yanked open a desk drawer to toss the pack of cigarettes inside. He pulled out a cigar box. Fish’s cigar box. “You might want this back,” he said, sliding it across the desk. “I admire how you worked with what you had.” He tugged on the ribbons. “Your girlfriend’s probably missing these, however.”

  Fish felt the blood rush to his face. “She’s my neighbor.” Fish paused. “A girl who is my friend.” At that moment, he realized the truth in that statement. Olympia was his friend.

  Mr. Higgins smoothed his hand over his Brylcreemed hair. “I do the very thing myself. Make models. Sketch drawings.” He leaned back, hands behind his head. “Sometimes, in school, when I was supposed to be doing something else.”

  Fish felt his face turn an even deeper shade of red. He did that, too.

  Mr. Higgins chuckled. Then he stood up. “Come along with me, young man. I can’t sit still for more than three minutes or I get cross-eyed.” He headed toward the office door, motioning for Fish to follow. “See what I’ve built up here, why don’t you?”

  They stepped out into the reception area. Mo’s eyebrow raised.

  “Miss Elliott, hold my calls. I’ve got a VIP to escort around the plant.”

  Mr. Higgins barreled off. He didn’t slow down for Fish, but Fish appreciated that. Being treated like a normal kid. He gave up on taking notes. It was too hard to keep pace with Mr. Higgins and write at the same time.

  They left the office, zigzagging through the building until they were standing on a catwalk overlooking an enormous assembly room. A huge banner was draped across the far wall: THE MAN WHO RELAXES IS HELPING THE AXIS. Fish wondered if Mr. Higgins should update that sign. Most of the workers in the room below were not men but women in coveralls, their heads covered with kerchiefs.

  “That’s a lot of ships.” Fish leaned over the rail to count. There must have been twenty-five LCVPs, each in a different stage of completion. He’d heard Mo talk about Mr. Higgins’s assembly lines, but seeing them was another thing altogether. As each row of boats finished one step, it rolled forward for the next crew, the next part. The whole place looked like the ant farm he got for his birthday one year: No one and nothing was standing still.

  Mr. Higgins rested against the railing. “They said I couldn’t do it. But last year we delivered seven thousand LCVPs and a thousand LCMs. You get your sister to take you on a drive past Bayou St. John. It’s cram-pack
ed with ships waiting to be delivered to Uncle Sam.” He clapped Fish on the back. “Two things I’ve learned, Fish.” He held up a plump finger. “Don’t let others set the bar for you.” A second finger. “And if you think you can’t, you’re right.”

  From there, they strode on to the machine shop. Fish covered his ears; even Mr. Higgins didn’t try to talk over the grinding and grating. They stopped by the woodshop and the rigging room. Fish was fascinated by the welders, with arcs of heat sparking from their tools. Think what he could build if he had his own soldering gun!

  “Can you believe it? We’ll put out forty-two LCMs this week alone.” Even though he was the big boss and knew every detail of the company, Mr. Higgins sounded amazed. “Maybe next time I can take you on a little ride.”

  Fish had heard about Mr. Higgins’s test drives. His favorite trick was to run a ship up Lake Pontchartrain’s steep concrete seawall, scaring the bejeebies out of his passengers, then throw it into reverse to bump off. Fish was content to have gotten his ride from Roy.

  They were about to enter another part of the plant, when a worried-looking man ran up to them. He and Mr. Higgins talked for a bit about steel and measurements and some other things Fish didn’t track, and then Mr. Higgins said, “Gotta go, Fish. The Navy’s trying to muck with my PT boat design. Big mistake.” He poked at Fish’s notebook. “Take this down: These Higgins boats are going to help win the war. Mark my word.”

  As he hurried away with the worried man, Mr. Higgins called over his shoulder, “I’d like to see that essay of yours when it’s done!”

  That thought had not even occurred to Fish. But he knew from Mo that when Mr. Higgins asked for something, you’d better deliver.

  “And, finally, these words from Michael Elliott.” Principal Sellars cleared his throat and read Fish’s essay over the public address system. Fish kept his eyes on his desk, but sat taller in his chair. “I will always remember Mr. Higgins’s advice: If you think you can’t, you’re right. Because one thing a hero never does is give up. Mr. Higgins has inspired me to keep trying. He may not be a soldier, but he is a hero to me.”