Woodford Brave

by Marcia Thornton Jones

  Mrs. Springgate was always around, even when I got out of bed in the mornings. As far as I could remember she had never been in our house, but she acted as if she knew every nook and cranny. She made breakfast, dusted the living room, cleaned the bathroom. Sometimes I heard her talking with Mom in a low voice. I wondered if she gave Mom some of her beer. I thought about telling Dad, but then it hit me. I couldn’t. I would never be able tell Dad anything again.

  For a week, I stayed in my room. I read my comic books. Then read them again, paying attention to what the Warrior did whenever someone died. How did he look? What did he say?

  The Warrior never cried. He went after the bad guys. He sought revenge.

  I stood in front of my mirror and practiced being the Kid. Face blank. Eyes cold. Fists clenched. My sidekick, the Mighty Echo, at my side. Both of us silent. Stoic.

  Woodford Brave.

  I left the window wide open at night, not even bothering with the blackout curtains, and listened for the ghosts to call out. The whole idea of ghosts started making sense. What else happened to a person’s feelings and thoughts, all their knowledge and energy, all the words and laughter that had made them who they were? That couldn’t just be gone in a split second. It had to float around, looking for a place to land. It made sense that all the energy that made up a person would seek a familiar place. Someplace they had lived and worked and played. Where they had people who wanted to see them just one more time.

  After a week my room started feeling too small, and I fled the house filled with people saying words that wouldn’t change a thing. How could they know how I felt or what I thought? What made them think they could tell me how to behave or what my father would want?

  My go-cart sat in the middle of the garage. Dad’s tools were scattered on the workbench, and the pile of rags Echo used for naps was still a tangled heap in the corner. Dust motes swirled and shifted in a sunbeam, hinting at a solid shape, only to churn apart as if something walked through them. I turned in a circle. Dad had died thousands of miles away, in a land where they didn’t even speak our language. If there were such things as ghosts, would he wander in a foreign land, lost for all eternity? Or would he, could he, find his way here, where he had spent hours polishing the tools he never really used? Where he could watch over me?

  “I won’t let you down, Dad,” I whispered to the dust motes. “I promise.”

  I searched the sunbeam, but the dust stayed dust, so I grabbed the hammer and started working on my go-cart. I worked on it all day, and I went back to the garage every day after that. After a few days, Anne showed up. She didn’t say anything. Not one single word. Just picked up a piece of sandpaper and started smoothing away the wood on the crate. We worked like that, in quiet. I focused on the wood and sandpaper and nails. And sometimes on Anne’s breath, on the way she moved and the way her blue eyes darted to mine and stayed there, unafraid, but not expecting anything. Just there.

  I wondered where Aidan was, but when I heard Sawyer hooting from across Satan’s Sidewalk one afternoon, I knew. It wasn’t fair that their lives went on just like always when my entire world had been destroyed. Not fair that they still had their dads. Even if Aidan’s father had a bum leg and Sawyer’s would rather sit in a tavern instead of fighting the Nazi aggression. It. Wasn’t. Fair.

  I focused on the wood of the crate that was supposed to be my tank. If only Dad had had a tank to protect him from flying debris. Or the Kid’s Net of Invincibility. Even if he’d just had on his own helmet. But he hadn’t, and a ragged shard from an exploding jeep had pierced his brain. He may not have been fighting in battle, but I knew one thing. If it hadn’t been for the Germans wanting to take over the world, my dad would’ve still been safe right here in Harmony, helping me build go-carts and make slingshots. Telling me what to do about Aidan and Sawyer. And Ziegler.

  “I’m sorry about your dad, Cory.”

  Anne stood up from tightening a screw and faced the open door, but I didn’t need to turn around to know it was Jackson leaning against the garage.

  “What good is sorry?”

  “You’re right, Cory. Sorry doesn’t do one bit of good, does it?”

  I held Dad’s hammer. My hand looked small, skinny. Dad’s had been big with calluses on the palms. I doubted my hand would ever grow as strong as his.

  Jackson turned to leave, but I stopped him. “There is something you can do.”

  He half-turned, waiting.

  “When you get over there, kill every last German you see. Do it for Dad.”

  Jackson used his thumbnail to flick a chip of paint from the garage doorframe. “Whatever you say, Cory. Whatever you say.”

  Anne watched him walk away, then met my eyes, finally breaking her silence. “Having a parent die is hard. I know.”

  Anne had only mentioned her mother once. I’d pretty much forgotten that she was even dead.

  “Everyone says things get better with time,” she said. “But the hurt doesn’t ever go away. Not really. You’ll always miss your dad, Cory. Sort of like when you lose a tooth and you keep poking your tongue where it used to be, feeling the hole even though that makes it hurt more. But after a while, you get used to the feel of it and you don’t look for the hole as much.”

  “I’ll never get used to it,” I whispered.

  “You still get hungry, don’t you? You still sneeze? Your nose still runs, right? So you eat and sneeze and blow your nose. One thing follows another. Life goes on, Cory. Just by putting one foot in front of the other you’ll get to the other side of grief. But hating people who had nothing to do with what happened to your dad won’t help.”

  I turned on her then, so fast that she took a step back. “How can you say that? If it hadn’t been for the Germans, my dad would be right here, helping me build this go-cart instead of you.”

  “Not all Germans are bad,” she said. “You have to know that.”

  Anne seemed so sure. As if the words she spoke were written on Moses’s tablet when he came off the mountain. But then I looked at Dad’s hammer in my hand. My hammer now. “You don’t know anything, Anne, but I do. You’re nothing but a dumb Dora. Ziegler’s one of the bad guys and it’s up to me to do something about it.”

  Then I pounded a nail so hard the wood splintered in two.

  16

  THE REVENGE OF THE WARRIOR KID AND THE MIGHTY ECHO

  Dear Dad

  All the white space of the paper stared up at me. I started to draw, hoping it would help me block out the sound of Mom crying.

  I ignored the wet splotches that smeared the face of the Kid. After all, the Kid never cried.

  “We’ll get them,” I told Echo. “Every. Last. One.”

  17

  PERFECT PLAN

  What if he s-s-sees us?” Aidan asked.

  It was Friday night and the sun was low in the sky. It hadn’t taken long to convince Sawyer of my plan. All I had to do was tell him I was ready to prove, once and for all, that I was a Woodford through and through. Since Sawyer was in, so was Aidan. That, and they were both being extra nice since Dad died. Now all of us were huddled in Aidan’s living room, trying to see through a crack in the curtains. Even Anne.

  “Ziegler’s as regular as clockwork,” I repeated for the umpteenth time. “We won’t even need the Space Warrior’s x-ray goggles to follow him.”

  Sawyer grinned. “Maybe I was wrong about you, Cory. You’re really stepping up to the plate this time.”

  I wasn’t sure if he meant it or if he was just being nice. “I told you I’d prove he’s a spy, and I meant it.”

  “You’re full of beans,” Anne said. “Ziegler’s no more a spy than I am.”

  “Said the girl p-p-peeking out a window,” Aidan pointed out.

  “You don’t have to go,” I added. “Nobody’s making you.”

  “I’m your friend, Cory,” she said. “Of course I’ll go.”

  Sawyer made kissy noises on his arm. “Sounds like Cory’s girlfriend can’t live wi
thout him.”

  “Cory and Anne, s-s-sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” chanted Aidan.

  “Shut up,” I said, hoping the light was dim enough that none of them could see my ears burning.

  Anne acted like Aidan hadn’t said a thing. “Even if he is a spy, Cory, catching him won’t bring back your dad.”

  “The Germans killed my father. They have to pay for what they did.”

  “No matter how many times you say it,” Anne said softly, “it doesn’t make it true.”

  “I’m avenging his death. It’s what superheroes do.”

  Anne didn’t have an answer to that.

  “Shh,” Aidan said. “He’s c-c-coming.”

  Ziegler’s shadow, long and skinny, led the way as he strode up the block. The same black case he always carried dangled from his right arm. He kept his eyes forward without so much as a glance our way.

  “This is it,” I said, adjusting my cap low over my eyes and heading for the door. It felt good having my cap back, even it if had been in the hands of the enemy.

  “Let’s go c-c-catch a spy,” Aidan said.

  It happened just like I planned. As soon as Ziegler passed Aidan’s house, we flew out the back door. I became the Kid, leading my friends up Satan’s Sidewalk to where it dumped onto a street. I held out my hand, stopping them until I saw Ziegler crossing at the corner. Then I darted to where the alley continued on the other side of the street. Up three blocks, then zigzagging to another. We tracked Ziegler for fifteen minutes until he slowed and crossed one final street, heading for the last place I expected him to go.

  The VFW.

  The VFW was tucked on the side of town one block north of the grain elevator. Dinners, reunions, and dances all happened at the VFW. Food and booze was cheap for soldiers, and a band played most nights. Dad took Mom dancing there the last time he was home on leave. The very last time.

  “That really came out of left field,” Sawyer said, as Ziegler pulled open the door and waited for a group of men dressed in Navy whites to file in.

  “It makes perfect sense,” I said slowly, thinking it through out loud. “The VFW is the best place in Harmony for a Nazi spy to collect information on the sly. When soldiers come home on leave, they hang out at the VFW. They drink a few beers and that gets them talking. It’s a spot-on plan to overhear secrets.”

  “Or maybe he just wants to boogie-woogie,” Anne said.

  “There’s one way to find out,” I told her.

  “Forget it,” Anne said before I could take a step toward the VFW. “No kids allowed.”

  A cluster of girls wearing high heels went inside. One of them had tried to draw a line down the back of her leg to make it look like she was wearing stockings, but the line was crooked. When they pulled open the door, the sound of laughter reached out to us.

  I was the Kid. Nothing would stop me from completing my mission.

  “Follow me.”

  I led them around back to the alley littered with crates, wood, and trash. I pointed to the three small windows high on the outside wall. They were propped open to encourage what little breeze there was to cool off the dancers inside. Cigarette smoke mingling with stale beer stained the air.

  “They’re too high for us to see inside,” Anne said.

  “Not a problem.” I started pulling crates toward the back of the building. Aidan caught on, then Sawyer. Soon we had enough to build a pyramid under the window. If we squeezed real close, we could all stand on the top, but we had to be careful not to tip over. I pushed my cap back on my head so it wouldn’t bump the grimy window, then curled my fingers around the sill to peek inside.

  The VFW was dimly lit. Tables lined the edges of the room. My heart double-thumped at the sight of two men wearing Army green. One of them looked just like Dad. I gripped the window ledge and blinked hard to clear my vision. The Kid didn’t cry. My eyes were just blurry from the smoke curling through the window.

  The floor had seen better days. Dark marks and scratches from years of dancing crisscrossed the grain of the wood. There were a few groups of men and more clusters of women. The women were laughing, trying not to look as if they were eyeballing the men. Right beneath us was a platform stage that stood two feet higher than the dance floor.

  Ziegler walked through the doors at the front of the room, looking straight ahead as if there wasn’t another soul in the room.

  “He doesn’t look like he’s trying to extract military secrets and invasion plans from anyone,” Anne pointed out.

  “Give him time,” I said.

  The cuffs of Ziegler’s baggy pants broke on wing-tipped shoes that matched the shine of his black hair. The fingers of his right hand curled around the handle of his beat-up black case. He walked clear across the floor and swung it gently so that it didn’t make a sound when it landed on the stage. There were latches on the case, and he flicked them open with his little finger.

  A trio of girls came in wearing cherry rouge and platform shoes. Navy boys wearing caps cocked to one side whistled through their teeth.

  “We ought to w-w-warn them,” Aidan said, but none of us cried out.

  Ziegler never looked up. It was as if he was alone. Just him and that case. He tossed back the lid and took out a muddy pink cloth. Then he lifted what was inside.

  It wasn’t secret documents. Not guns or knives or bombs, either.

  The single light in the middle of the room sent a shiny beacon slicing through the smoke-fog of the club to land on a trumpet.

  Ziegler looked deep into the trumpet’s brass and I imagined his brown eyes staring back as if from a mirror. He ran the cloth over the smooth gleam of the horn’s long, thin lines and swelling curves. He polished his trumpet until all the tables were filled with people. Finally, he dropped the cloth back in his case and hopped onto the stage, quick and lithe like Echo jumping from the floor to a windowsill. A few other band members stepped up, too, but they soon faded behind him as he tested the give of the brass valves. Then he placed the horn to his lips and the music began.

  Ziegler worked the crowd, starting soft and sad, sliding from one note to another with lazy self-assurance. The band followed his music as it led the dancers in a two-step. Soft curls rested on women’s necks as they smiled up at partners, their Victory-red lips laughed, and they stepped in time.

  Not a single one seemed to care that a German was in their midst.

  One song ended and another began. Ziegler’s back arched and he blew his trumpet loud and jazzy, letting the notes tumble and swell. His slicked-back hair worked loose and his white shirt stuck to his back. The glitter ball twirled above, throwing sparkles like big drops of sweat on the dancers, on the band, and on him.

  Smoke hovered overhead as his parade of notes carried the dancers across the scarred wooden floor. I squinted through the swirling haze to catch a glimpse of his fingers flying on valves in a mysterious code of quarter-notes and swing time. My toes, my fingers, the beat of my heart, all pounded to the rhythm of his trumpet. He was better than Les Brown. Even better than Tommy Dorsey.

  I stared at Ziegler, swaying and twisting as he blew that horn until suddenly he was looking right at me. He didn’t blink. Didn’t miss a beat before he turned back to face the dancers again.

  I jumped down, swiping the cap off my head, even though it was too late. The Kid’s cover was already blown. The Space Warrior would’ve been humiliated.

  Anne hopped down beside me. She was laughing so hard she snorted. Then she said the four words every kid hates—coming from Anne, they were even worse. “I told you so!”

  “She’s just whiffing at hot air,” Sawyer said, shattering any doubts that I might have had into a thousand jagged slivers. “Your girlfriend’s nothing but a dumb Dora.”

  “She is not my girlfriend,” I said. “She’s not even a friend. No friend of mine would side with a German. Not after what they did to my father.”

  I looked Anne in the eyes. “Ziegler’s one of them. He’s a bad guy. He’s t
o blame for what happened to Dad.”

  “Face it, Cory. You weren’t fair to Mr. Ziegler. You should’ve gotten to know the man he is instead of plunking him in a category based on where he happened to be born. I know it, and you know it, too. You just won’t admit it.”

  Sawyer stood on one side of me, Aidan on the other. We were a formidable force. I willed Anne’s words to bounce off me and said the words the Warrior said each and every time he faced down his archenemy. “Nothing is fair when it comes to evil.”

  Anne stepped back as if she’d been slapped, but she didn’t blink. Then she turned and walked away. I reached up, adjusted my ball cap, and watched her go.

  18

  HERO’S ACT OR COWARD’S SCARE?

  The moon was a jack-o’-lantern grin in the sky as we zigzagged back through the alleys of Harmony. The memory of Ziegler’s trumpet followed, the notes vaguely familiar. Then it hit me. It was the same sound as the Mallory ghosts I heard at night. Now I knew it had been the faint music of Ziegler’s trumpet the whole time.

  “See you tomorrow, Cory,” Sawyer said when we split up at Meeker Street. “You too, Aidan.” He didn’t say anything to Anne.

  The houses we passed were dark and the alleys deserted as we made our way back to Satan’s Sidewalk. The muffled war reports from radios leaking through blackout curtains blurred with the calls of cicadas. It was a shock to see one of the houses backing up to Satan’s Sidewalk lit up like high noon.

  “Oh, no,” Anne said. “They’ve probably been looking all over for us.”

  I sprinted down the alley to the back of our houses. Mom had barely been holding it together. If she thought I was missing, she’d break into a million tiny pieces.

  But the only movement at my house was Echo, emerging from shadows to rub against my legs as if he had been waiting the entire time just for me.