by Kirby Larson
“Up you go, boy!” Pastor Haavik waved his hand, and Hobie scrambled across the gangplank to the boat’s deck. He clipped the flag on the lines and hoisted it up, up, up. When it bumped at the top of the pole, the crowd cheered. His hands ached from the cold, but Hobie felt warm inside. If only Dad’s was one of the faces there on the dock.
He made his way back across the gangplank and leapfrogged to the dock.
“Good job, Hobie.” Uncle Tryg shook his hand and then pointed to the flag. “When the season’s over, we’ll send that to your dad,” he said.
“He might be home before then,” Hobie said.
“Right you are.” Uncle Tryg tugged on the brim of his hat. “There’s always hope with a line in the water,” he said.
Before Hobie could figure out what that meant, Emil grabbed his arm. “Race you to the end of the dock!” Hobie tore off after his cousins, the three of them dodging this way and that through the departing crowd.
At Uncle Tryg’s, the cousins played a rousing game of Chinese checkers — June won — while the adults drank coffee and talked. Aunt Ellen’s butterscotch pie almost made up for not being able to work on the model.
They came home to find an envelope wedged behind the screen door. Delivered to my house by mistake was penciled on the front. Hobie’s heart jumped when he saw it was addressed to him. From Camp Lejeune. He ran to his room to read it.
Dear Hobie,
I am wagging my tail because Marv and I passed our training with flying colors. I never doubted that I’d pass, but Marv was another question altogether. The hardest thing (for me, not Marv) was learning not to bark. Especially during field exercises.
Your pal,
Duke
P.S. Corff here: I don’t have a little sister, but if I did, I hope I could be the kind of big brother you are. I hate to break a kid’s heart, but Duke and I are a team now. I promise I will bring Duke back to you — and your sister — as soon as I can.
Hobie crumpled the letter and tossed it in the waste bin.
His plan hadn’t worked. Now what was he going to do to get Duke back?
Mom sent Hobie on an errand right after school. “I’m out of eggs and I need some for this new recipe I got from Aunt Ellen. Codfish casserole; doesn’t that sound tasty?”
It didn’t sound tasty to Hobie, but Aunt Ellen was a good cook so it was probably okay. Of course, Mom thought of a few other things she needed at Lee’s. Hobie slipped the straps of a canvas shopping bag over his shoulder and jumped on his bike.
He scarcely felt the rain spitting down on him as he pedaled. His mind kept bumping against the topic that had been like a pebble in his shoe over the last few weeks: what to try next to get Duke home. Last night, he’d been so preoccupied while he was working on the spotter model, he’d nearly glued the wings on upside down. June had stopped him before he ruined everything.
Hobie parked his bike outside Lee’s Grocery, a little store that was really Mrs. Lee’s house. Duke used to rest his nose on the front porch railing when he’d come with Hobie. Mrs. Lee had a strict rule against dogs in the store.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite customer.” Mrs. Lee wiped her hands on her apron. “What have you got for me today?”
“Fresh out of jokes,” he apologized. He wasn’t in the joking mood.
“Well, doggone it,” she said. Then she slapped the counter. “Doggone it. Get it?”
Hobie forced a smile.
Mrs. Lee straightened a display of cans. “Taste-well soup’s on sale, three for a quarter.”
“Here’s Mom’s list,” he said, handing it over.
Mrs. Lee read, then began assembling. A three-pound tin of Spry shortening, a package of tea, a packet of sandwich cookies, and, from the icebox, a dozen eggs. Hobie put the groceries in the canvas sack and then counted out the ration stamps.
Mrs. Lee tallied up the bill. “That’ll be a dollar sixty-eight,” she said.
Hobie handed over the stamps and the money. She handed back two cents in change. “Tell your mother I pray for your father each night.”
“I will.” Hobie put the pennies in his pocket.
Mrs. Lee fished two root beer barrels from one of the glass jars on the counter. “One for June, too,” she said, handing him the candies.
Hobie added them to the pennies in his pocket. “Thank you!” As he headed out the door, Max was heading in, holding the arm of an old man with white fuzzy duckling hair. Hobie held the door for them. He and Max hung out together nearly every day at lunch, but it felt funny seeing him out of school. Kind of like running into a teacher at the movie theater or something.
“I’ve got those pigs’ feet, Mr. Klein!” Mrs. Lee called out when she saw them. She reached under the counter and brought out a large glass jar.
The old man moved very slowly, and his hands trembled a bit as he reached out for it. “Oh, you are a dumpling, Mrs. Lee.”
Mrs. Lee chuckled. “What else can I get you today?”
While the old man and Mrs. Lee talked, Hobie turned to Max. “Pigs’ feet?” he asked.
“Even worse,” Max said. “They’re pickled.”
They both made faces and then cracked up.
“Grandpa says I’ll like them when I get older,” Max said.
“Kind of makes you not want to grow up,” said Hobie. “That’s your grandpa?”
“He lives with us.” Max stepped farther inside the store. “I better help him.”
“See you tomorrow,” Hobie said, slipping through the door.
“My uncle sent me a new comic we can read,” Max called after him.
Hobie started for home. The rain had let up, but there were plenty of puddles to splash through as he rode. Pigs’ feet! Poor Max.
A block from Lee’s, he saw the little girl with the Boston terrier again. There had been no improvement in the obedience department. The dog was zigzagging her across the sidewalk, and through every single puddle. When a squirrel leaped down from a tree, the dog bolted after it, turning the little girl into a human kite.
Hobie didn’t know who he felt more sorry for — the girl or the dog.
Without warning, the dog changed course and dashed right in front of Hobie. He slammed on his brakes, jerking to a stop.
“Watch what you’re doing!” he shouted at the girl.
She tugged on the leash. “I’m trying,” she said. “But Suzy won’t mind.” The girl wiped her nose on her coat sleeve. “Mother says if I don’t get her trained soon, she’s going back to the pound.”
Suzy snuffled at Hobie’s leg.
“What have you done to train her?” Hobie asked.
“I make her wear a leash,” the girl said. “And I tell her no.”
“Let me try something.” Hobie set his bike down and fished a cookie from the packet in the shopping bag.
“Here, Suzy.” He broke off a tiny piece and let Suzy sniff it. Then he gave it to her.
“She likes it!” the girl exclaimed.
“Cookies aren’t great for dogs,” Hobie admitted. “But that’s all we’ve got.” He took the leash from the girl and positioned Suzy next to his left leg. She stared at him as if he were some kind of doggy treat dispenser.
“Suzy, sit.” Hobie waited. Suzy didn’t sit.
“Sit, Suzy!” the girl said.
“Just one of us at a time.” Hobie tried it again. “Sit.”
Suzy licked her chops, hoping for a cookie.
“Nope,” Hobie said lightly. He pressed gently on her back end. “Sit.”
Suzy sat. She got a treat. She looked up at Hobie, licking her chops again.
“She did it!” the girl exclaimed.
“Now, she needs to do it about fifty times,” Hobie said. “And that’s no joke.”
When it seemed like Suzy had gotten the idea, Hobie turned leash and cookie over to the girl.
“She’s sitting!” the girl said. “She’s minding!”
“Have her do it again,” Hobie said, “but this time no c
ookie. Just pet and praise her.”
The girl did what Hobie said. “She’s still minding!” She did a little hop. “Wait till I show Mother!”
Hobie gave her a quick lesson on stay and heel. “Work with her every day.” He rubbed Suzy’s head. “You’re a good dog, aren’t you, girl?”
Suzy flopped down on her back for a belly rub. Hobie gave her one. “I better get going,” he said.
“Come, Suzy.” The little girl started for home, Suzy prancing smartly at her side. After a few paces, Suzy zigged in front of the girl again. “Oops!” the girl giggled.
“Practice makes perfect!” Hobie called after her. That’s something she would’ve figured out if she’d gone to the library and checked out even one book on dog training. Hobie slung the grocery sack over his shoulder and picked up his bike. Suzy wouldn’t have to go to the pound. But it was going to take more time to break her of her bad habits.
Hobie had to admit that, despite all the time he’d worked with Duke, he never could cure him of his weakness for squirrels. It was Duke’s only bad habit.
Bad habit! Hobie slammed on his brakes. He remembered something Mr. Rasmussen had said that day. That some dogs were returned because of bad habits that couldn’t be broken.
Hobie cranked on the pedals. Not to beat out the rain this time, but to get home as fast as he could.
He had another letter to write.
“Where’s the fire?” Mom asked when he burst in the house. “Oh, my goodness. You’re drenched.” She took the groceries from him. “Go change and I’ll make you some hot Ovaltine to warm you up.”
After putting on dry clothes, Hobie grabbed some stationery. With the mug of Ovaltine at his elbow, he began to write.
Dear Pfc. Corff,
There’s one thing I forgot to tell you about Duke. If he sees a squirrel, he can’t think about anything else. He will run after it no matter what. I have tried for three years to break him of that bad habit.
I wouldn’t want him to cause you a problem. So, you should probably send him back.
Very truly yours,
Hobie Hanson
He sealed the envelope, pasted on a stamp, and ran to the postbox on the corner.
Why hadn’t he thought of this sooner?
No matter. Hobie dropped the letter in the mail slot.
Duke was as good as his again.
Mom and June were thrilled with their latest letters from Dad. But Hobie’s made him squirm.
Dear Hobie,
When I said you would need to be the man of the house while I was gone, I had no idea how much of a man you would be. Duke means so much to you. Loaning him to the war effort is one of the bravest things I’ve heard of.
I know it’s easy to think of bravery as something big and bold. But the kind of bravery you showed requires putting others before yourself. Not many people can be that kind of brave.
This has to be short — duty calls. But I couldn’t rest tonight until I let you know how proud I am of you.
Tell Mom that Duke deserves his own service flag hanging in the window!
I love you, son.
Dad
Hobie put Dad’s letter in his dresser drawer. At the back, behind his socks.
“Are you feeling okay?” Mom asked at dinner. “I thought chipped beef on toast was your favorite.”
Hobie spooned up a bite and put it in his mouth. The gravy tasted like glue but it had nothing to do with Mom’s cooking. He forced himself to swallow.
“I’m fine,” he said.
But he wasn’t. Dad wouldn’t be so proud if he knew about the letters to Pfc. Corff. That wasn’t putting others first. That was being selfish. Wanting Duke back.
“May I be excused?” he asked.
Mom frowned at his still-full plate. “No dessert,” she said.
“I know.” Hobie cleared his dishes, scraping the uneaten dinner into the garbage.
“I ate all my dinner,” June said. “So I get dessert. Right, Mommy?”
Hobie didn’t wait to hear Mom’s answer. He made his way down the hall to his room, where he grabbed a Green Lantern comic book from the desk. Dad wouldn’t have to know about the letters, he told himself as he lay on his bed, flipping the pages. Besides, didn’t Dad always say he would love Hobie no matter what he did?
Hobie flopped over on his stomach. Dad would still love him all right. But be proud of him?
He turned another page in the comic. Alan Scott, the Green Lantern, had just discovered he could be weakened by wood. And the bad guy was going after him with a wooden club. It didn’t look good for the Green Lantern, not even with his magic ring.
If he had known about that weakness ahead of time, he could have prepared for it somehow. Maybe some kind of shield. What else that might work against wood? Fire? So if the Green Lantern had a shield, or a torch, the bad guy wouldn’t be winning.
That was why it was a good thing that he’d told Pfc. Corff about Duke. To make sure the bad guys wouldn’t have the advantage. The Marines needed to know about Duke’s bad habit. It might mean life or death to some soldier. Hobie closed the comic book and got ready for bed.
Though he tried to concentrate on other things, like what to plant in the Victory garden come summer, or Suzy and the little girl, or even pickled pigs’ feet, Dad’s words were the last things he thought of before falling asleep.
“Can I carry the model?” June poked her head in Hobie’s bedroom bright and early the next morning. “I helped.”
“But it’s mine.” Hobie carefully put the B-24 in an old shoe box. When Mrs. Thornton had learned he’d been working on it, she’d asked him to bring it to school when it was finished. Now, the black paint was completely dry. It was safe to take it in.
“You can carry something of mine,” June persisted.
“June, let your brother alone,” Mom called. “Come here and I’ll braid your hair.”
Hobie munched a bowl of Wheato-Naks while Mom worked on June’s hair.
“Mommy, did you know this week’s spelling words are just like us?” June asked.
“Really?” Mom wound a rubber band at the bottom of the first braid.
June nodded. “Oops. Sorry.”
“Hold still now.” Mom rewound the rubber band.
“This week’s list has ‘mother,’ ‘brother,’ and ‘sister.’ No ‘father.’” June made a face as Mom tugged the second braid into shape.
“We have a father,” Hobie said.
“Well, he’s not here,” said June. “Just like ‘father’ is not on my spelling list.” She stuck her tongue out at Hobie.
“There you go.” Mom patted the braid. “All finished.” She gave June a kiss on the forehead. “Your dad is with you, no matter what.” She tapped June lightly on the chest. “Right here, in your heart.”
“I don’t like it that both Dad and Duke are gone.” June leaned into Mom for a hug. “Do you?”
“Life is full of things we don’t like,” Mom said. “But what matters is our attitude.” She gave June another hug. “Would some icebox cookies help with your attitude?”
June’s head bobbed up and down.
“I’ll have some for you this very afternoon.” Mom gave June a pat on the rump. “Now you two better get going or you’ll be late.”
When Hobie dropped June off at her classroom, she grabbed his arm. “Dad’s right here,” she said, patting her chest. “Right?”
June looked so small and worried that Hobie was tempted to give her a hug. But not at school. He tugged one of her braids. “Tell you what, I’ll let you take a turn carrying the model home after school. How’s that sound?”
“Great!” June skipped off into her classroom, and Hobie could hear her saying, “Miriam, Miriam. Guess what I get to do!”
When she saw the model, Mrs. Thornton acted like Hobie had invented the lightbulb or something.
“Oh, this is wonderful,” she said, admiring it from all angles. “I’m sure our arithmetic can wait a few minutes.” She
pushed some papers aside on her desk. “I know I’d love to hear Hobie tell us more about his project.” She sat down, her face aglow with encouragement.
Hobie scratched his arm. “There’s not much to tell.” He scratched the back of his neck. All this attention was giving him a rash. “My uncle brought me this model because it’s the kind of plane my dad flies. A B-24.”
“The Liberator!” Marty called out. He was a fiend for planes.
Hobie nodded. “Yeah. I mean, yes.” Mrs. Thornton insisted on good grammar. “The Army and the Navy and the Civil Defense use these models to train spotters. So they can pick out a plane from a mile off.”
“That’s so interesting.” Mrs. Thornton clasped her hands together.
“And I’m going to donate this to the Army,” he said. “Because of my dad.”
“I’m sure he’ll be very pleased to know that. What you’ve done is quite remarkable.” Mrs. Thornton patted Hobie on the shoulder. “And now I’m certain you young citizens are eager to get to that quiz on long division!” She stood up.
“Hobie, why don’t you put your model on the back counter for safekeeping?”
Hobie did and they moved on to the quiz. That was not as remarkable as the model.
Mrs. Thornton seemed genuinely sad about Hobie’s 79 percent.
Let’s work together on a multiplication refresher, she’d written across the top.
Hobie didn’t know why he had to learn long division. Dad never used it on the Lily Bess. Neither did Uncle Tryg. Or Mom. But it was important to Mrs. Thornton. She stayed in with him at recess to review his times tables.
Hobie did okay until he got to the sevens.
“I have trouble with those, too,” Mrs. Thornton confessed.
“You do?”
She put her finger to her lips. “This will be our secret, okay?”
“Okay.” Hobie felt a little better.
“Sometimes, it’s even hard to do the twos and threes,” she said. “Thinking about Neil.” She looked over at the photo on her desk. Her husband, in uniform.
Hobie erased one of his wrong answers. “I miss my dad, too. I want him to come home.” He hoped he didn’t sound like too much of a baby.
