Duke

by Kirby Larson

  They ate the sandwiches Aunt Ellen had made, watching the boats moving about in the harbor. “Doesn’t it make you want to go somewhere?” Uncle Tryg asked Hobie.

  Hobie didn’t answer. He liked being right where he was. He didn’t really want to go anywhere else. He just wanted the ones he cared about — Dad and Duke — to come here. Come home.

  Uncle Tryg chewed up the last of his sandwich, washing it down with a swig of coffee.

  “Best get back at it.” He and Hobie worked for another couple of hours. Hobie sanded and scrubbed until his arms burned. He’d barely made a dent in the rust. He sat back on his haunches, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his T-shirt.

  Uncle Tryg tapped him on the shoulder. “Stow your supplies,” he said. “I’ve got chores at home.” Uncle Tryg picked up his lunch pail and thermos. “Can I drop you somewhere?”

  “Sure.” It’d been a few days since Hobie had been able to check in on Max and Pepper, see how they were doing with the obedience training. “My friend’s house.”

  Hobie stashed the sandpaper and brushes in a footlocker. He rolled his bike down the dock to Uncle Tryg’s car and lifted it into the trunk.

  Uncle Tryg told Hobie about the letter they’d gotten from Erik and Emil, who were at Bible camp for two weeks. “Those two knuckleheads get themselves into more trouble,” he said. “They got the brainy idea to stick all of their counselor’s socks in the camp freezer!” He sounded cross, but his eyes were twinkling.

  “That’s the house there.” Hobie pointed at the Kleins’.

  Uncle Tryg pulled up to the curb and then unlocked the trunk.

  “Same time tomorrow morning?” Hobie lifted out his bike.

  “That’ll be fine.” Uncle Tryg winked at Hobie. “Now, no turning your sister’s socks into Popsicles,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it!” Hobie straightened the front wheel to get the bike rolling. “Our icebox doesn’t even have a freezer,” he added.

  Uncle Tryg burst out laughing. “See you tomorrow, son.” He drove off.

  Hobie followed the barking to the backyard. It’d been two weeks since Max had found Pepper. Two weeks and over two dozen “found dog” signs. But no one had telephoned to claim her.

  “Which one of you is getting the bath?” Hobie asked. Both Max and Pepper were soaking.

  “It’s supposed to be her,” Max said. He squirted more Magi-Tex pet shampoo on Pepper’s back. He and Hobie had each chipped in thirty cents to buy the shampoo at Bartell’s. Hobie dropped his bike and went over to help scrub. “Hey, Pepper. Hey, girl.” He rubbed shampoo down her hind legs.

  Pepper’s coat had grown in shiny black. Not one flea floated in the washtub today. She’d put on some weight, too.

  Max hosed off the lather. “Better duck!” he hollered. They were too slow. Pepper shook herself all over, nailing them but good. Hobie wiped his face, sputtering. Max finished rinsing her. “You’re not a nuisance, are you, girl?”

  Pepper tried to lap at the water pouring from the hose.

  “Ma says she can stay another week and that’s it.” Max stared off into space, water cascading on his sneakers. “Then it’s the pound.” Hobie swallowed hard. The pound would only keep a dog for a week or two. Then it was all over.

  Hobie turned off the faucet. “We’ll think of something,” he said. “I know we will.”

  Max dropped the hose. “I sure hope so.” Pepper jumped out of the washtub and ran around the yard, rolling on the grass.

  “She’s happy that June’s not here,” Hobie said. The last time June had come over, they’d caught her trying to dress Pepper up in a skirt and baby bonnet.

  Max screwed the lid back on the shampoo bottle. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Pepper’s not crazy about playing dress-up.”

  Pepper heard her name and trotted up to Max. He stroked her wet head.

  “What are we going to do, Pep?” he asked. Her answer was to take off again, running and rolling. “That is one goofy dog,” Max said, shaking his head. But Hobie could tell that he didn’t really mean it.

  “I better get home,” Hobie said. Going to work for Uncle Tryg hadn’t put a dent in the list of chores Mom made for him each day. “See you tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” Max grabbed Pepper as she ran by, and buckled her collar back on. “Give me a call if you get any brilliant ideas.”

  Hobie thought hard all the way home. He’d already asked Mrs. Lee if she’d like a dog, seeing as she was so fond of jokes about them. But she worried that Pepper was too peppy. She had promised to see if any of her customers might be able to take her home. So far, no one had said yes.

  Hobie even asked Aunt Ellen, but she only rolled her eyes. “I have two wild animals already,” she said. “I can’t handle one more.”

  Hobie and Max were running out of options. The only other thing Hobie could think of was for them to take Pepper and sit outside someplace busy, like the Roxy Theater, and ask people if they wanted a dog as they came out of the show. It might work. Especially if the show was something like Call of the Wild. Or Lassie Come Home.

  As Hobie turned the corner, a Western Union messenger on a bicycle was pedaling from the opposite direction down their street. Hobie’s heart dive-bombed his stomach when the messenger dropped his bike on the sidewalk in front of their house. The last telegram they got was when Grandfather Hanson died. Telegrams brought bad news. Hobie tried to run, but his legs had turned to mush. By the time he reached their front walk, the messenger was cycling away.

  Mom hadn’t seen him yet. She opened the telegram and then felt behind her, collapsing on the porch swing.

  “Mom?” Hobie’s legs finally started to work again. He pounded up the steps.

  She held up the piece of paper. Her mouth opened but no words, no sounds came out.

  June came through the front door right then. “Mommy?” she asked. “Mommy?” She crawled up on Mom’s lap.

  Hobie peered around his sister to see for himself what the telegram said.

  The words hit him like a rogue wave.

  REPORT JUST RECEIVED THROUGH THE INTERNATIONAL RED CROSS STATES THAT YOUR HUSBAND SECOND LIEUTENANT PALMER B HANSON IS A PRISONER OF WAR OF THE GERMAN GOVERNMENT LETTER OF INFORMATION FOLLOWS FROM PROVOST MARSHALL GENERAL = J A ULIO THE ADJUTANT GENERAL.

  Hobie didn’t move. Couldn’t move. A picture flashed through his mind of the B-24 model on the floor of the classroom that day. Did Dad’s plane crash? Was he hurt? What did it mean to be a prisoner of war? He’d read and heard awful things about the Nazis. What would they do to Dad?

  A hundred questions bubbled up inside, but one look at Mom told him not to ask them. Not now.

  “Mommy, Mommy.” June tugged at Mom’s dress.

  Mom hugged her close. “It’ll be okay, Junebug. Let me catch my breath.”

  Hobie was too big for such coddling. He wished he wasn’t.

  “Why are you so sad?” June asked. She stroked Mom’s cheek. Mom took her hand and kissed it.

  Mom inhaled a shaky breath and looked at Hobie. “Can you play a game or something with June?” she asked. “I should call Tryg.” She gave June another squeeze. “Hop down, sweetie.”

  “I don’t want to play a game,” June said.

  “Then we’ll do something else,” Hobie told her. He was the man of the house. And Mom needed his help.

  But she merely sat there, her left hand holding the telegram and her right hand patting June.

  Then she reached out to Hobie, pulling him down next to her. The three of them huddled there, drawing strength and warmth from one another, for a good long while.

  Finally, Mom eased June off her lap. “I’d better make that call.”

  Hobie took June’s small hand. “Come on. How about a puzzle?”

  “Kitty wants a story,” she said.

  Hobie hadn’t even finished reading the first chapter in Little House on the Prairie when Uncle Tryg, Aunt Ellen, and the cousins arrived.

  “Palmer co
uld land a cardboard box,” Uncle Tryg said, squeezing Mom’s shoulder. “He’s fine.”

  “Of course he is.” Aunt Ellen tied on one of Mom’s extra aprons. “A tough Norwegian like that?” She clucked her tongue. “Those Germans will rue the day.”

  Mom nodded numbly. June hung on the hem of her dress.

  “What’s ‘rue’?” June asked.

  Mom bent to kiss the top of her head. “Why don’t you go play with the boys?”

  Aunt Ellen took over the kitchen, making coffee for the grown-ups and Kool-Aid for the kids. She started supper, too. One of Hobie’s favorites: Porcupine Meatballs.

  Emil and Erik set up the Monopoly board. June picked the yellow token, Emil blue, Erik green, and Hobie picked orange. It was his least favorite color. It didn’t matter.

  “I dibs banker!” said Emil.

  “You were the banker last time,” said Erik.

  “Was not.”

  “Were too!”

  “Hobie’s banker,” Uncle Tryg pronounced.

  Hobie counted out the play money, and they took turns rolling dice and moving the pieces around the board. But June didn’t buy one railroad, which was her favorite thing. And Erik forgot to collect rent from Emil three turns in a row.

  The whole evening was like that. People tried to do the usual things: fix dinner, wash dishes, listen to the radio. But Aunt Ellen burned the broccoli and Mom used oil instead of Lux soap on the dishes and when the radio crackled with static, no one got up to adjust it.

  After supper, Aunt Ellen telephoned the Red Cross. “They said they can help us find out where Palmer is,” she reported. “But it may take some time.”

  Mom twisted a dish towel in her hands. “I wish I could do something,” she said.

  Hobie’s insides felt a lot like that dish towel.

  Aunt Ellen hugged her. “You can pray,” she said. Then she brushed her hands together. “And we can start assembling a care package for him.”

  The house was heavy with quiet after Uncle Tryg’s family left. June had a tummyache. And then a headache. And then a toothache.

  “How about if I lay with you until you fall asleep?” Mom asked her.

  June thought that was a good idea. Kitty did, too. The three of them curled up on June’s bed.

  Hobie went to his own room. He flopped, facedown, on the bed, left arm dangling off the edge, reaching for Duke’s warm comfort. He had a stomachache, too. Like Mom and June, he was worried about Dad. That was the biggest part of his ache. But the other part was a big ball of mad.

  How could this have happened? It wasn’t fair. Hobie had done everything to be a good home-front soldier, to do his bit. All the war stamps and scrap drives. He had planted a Victory garden. And Duke! He’d given him away to the Army, for crying out loud. And what good had that done for Dad? Nothing.

  It wasn’t fair. None of his other friends had fathers in the service. Not Max. Or Preston or Catherine. They got to sit down to dinner with their fathers, every single night.

  Hobie tried not to think about all those episodes of Hop Harrigan where the Germans beat him up and other stuff. Would Dad be safe? He was tough — Uncle Tryg had said that about a dozen times tonight. But was one Dad tough enough for the whole German Army?

  Hobie rolled over on his back, a tear trickling into his ear. He’d thumbtacked the spotter model box top to the ceiling. THE LIBERATOR! it blared. Until tonight, he’d liked that red, white, and blue reminder of building the model, and of Dad. Now it only added to his stomachache. He grabbed his pillow, swinging it back and forth until he knocked the darn thing down.

  Dad wouldn’t want Hobie fussing at Mom the way June was. The man of the house had to be strong. And silent. Sometimes, though, a guy needed to talk to someone. And Duke was the best listener Hobie knew.

  But he had tried to get him back. Twice! Pfc. Corff said they were a team — dog and Marine. Without Duke, Pfc. Corff couldn’t do his job. And despite everything else, Hobie wanted the Marines out there, fighting the bad guys.

  Hobie sat upright on the bed, his pillow pressed to his middle. If he were in a comic book, there’d be a lightbulb over his head.

  Pfc. Corff needed a dog. And Pepper needed a home! All he had to do was call Mr. Rasmussen, sign Pepper up, and then the Marines could send Duke back. Pepper was as smart as Duke; not as fast, but definitely as smart. And she’d been easy to train. She could catch up in no time.

  It was the perfect solution.

  Mr. Rasmussen had agreed to come over that evening. Hobie couldn’t wait to tell Max the good news, but Mom came down with a sick headache.

  He carried some weak tea into her bedroom. “Do you want an aspirin?” He pulled the bottle from his pocket. She took two with sips of the tea.

  “I’ll be up soon,” she said. But she was already back down on the pillow, her face the color of library paste. Hobie tiptoed out of the room and closed the door.

  “I want Mommy.” June pouted when Hobie tried to pour her a bowl of cereal. “You don’t do it right. I like the way Mommy does it.” She held up her doll. “So does Kitty.”

  “Mom doesn’t feel good,” Hobie explained. “Now, do you want regular milk or magic milk?”

  “There’s no such thing as magic milk.” June smoothed out Kitty’s dress.

  “Have it your way.” Hobie hummed as he pushed down the toaster lever.

  “Maybe there could be such a thing.” June poked at her dry cereal with her spoon.

  Hobie hummed louder.

  “Okay, okay!” June held up her bowl. “I want the magic milk.”

  Hobie made a big production of getting the milk bottle from the icebox and bringing it to the table.

  “It doesn’t look magic,” June said.

  Hobie set the bottle on the table, then pretended to take something out of his pocket. “Abracadabra, alla kazam!” He blew on his palm and then made sprinkling motions over the milk.

  “Ready?” he said, bottle tipped, ready to pour.

  “Ready.” June stared intently as the milk glugged from bottle to bowl. She took a taste, smacking her lips. “It tastes a little different,” she said.

  “The taste isn’t the best part.” Hobie wagged his finger. “No, sir.” He leaned into June. “This milk improves your ability to spell.”

  June looked at him. “Now you’re spoofing me.”

  “Okay. Don’t believe me.” He poured himself a bowl of Wheato-Naks, too. “But when Miriam Bennett wins the second-grade spelling ribbon, don’t blame me.”

  June sighed. But she gobbled up her cereal. She even drank the leftover milk in the bottom of the bowl.

  “Want to play Sorry?” Hobie asked.

  They set up the board in the front room. After June had sent Hobie back to start for the third time, she looked up at him. “Where’s Daddy?”

  “I don’t know.” Hobie needed a one or a two to get off Start. He drew a three.

  June drew a seven. “When do you think he’ll get out of the war camp?”

  “I don’t know that, either.” Hobie drew again. A four. “Just play the game, okay?”

  June grabbed Kitty and held her close. “Do you think he’s all right?” Her face was pinched with worry.

  Hobie blew out a breath. “He’s Dad,” Hobie said. “He’s fine. Fine.” He said it firmly, to convince himself as well as June. “Your turn.” He wanted answers to those questions, too. But there was no need to take his frustrations out on his little sister. He let her win that round.

  And she won the next three.

  After six books, two games of Hide and Go Seek, and lunch, Mom made her way to the kitchen.

  “Are you feeling any better?” Hobie asked.

  “Some.” Mom poured herself a glass of tap water. “The tea and aspirin helped.”

  This was the second sick headache Mom had gotten since the news about Dad. The past week, Hobie had worked extra hard around the house, even doing the vacuuming. Mom said he didn’t have to, but with Dad in the pri
son camp, that only left one parent. Hobie didn’t want to take any chances.

  “Would you like some more tea?” Hobie hurried to the sink to fill the kettle.

  “That does sound good.” Mom pulled out a chair and sat down. “I might even have a piece of toast.”

  “Let me fix it!” Hobie ran to get the bread. “You just sit there.”

  “I can butter Mommy’s toast,” said June. “She likes the way I do it. I get the oleo to all the edges.”

  Mom stretched her arms out, hugging June to her on one side and Hobie on the other. “I am one lucky mom,” she said. “What would I do without you two?”

  The Kit-Cat clock tick-tocked, the kettle hummed softly on the stovetop, and the icebox chimed in with its own gurgly tune. The comforting kitchen noises and the comforting warmth of Mom’s hug dissolved away at least one layer of Hobie’s worries.

  “If I’d been feeling better,” Mom said, “I’d have told you sooner. But I got some more information from the Red Cross last night, after you two went to bed.”

  “Do they know where Daddy is?” June fiddled with the buttons on Mom’s housecoat.

  “Not yet, honey. But they’re hopeful it won’t be too much longer. But no matter where he’s sent, they told me he can get as many letters and packages as we want to send.” Mom tapped June’s nose with her fingertip. “That means you and I better get ready to whip up some cookies pretty soon.”

  “Oatmeal raisin!” June said, clapping her hands.

  “Does he get to write us?” Hobie couldn’t remember when they’d gotten their last letter from Dad.

  Mom clucked her tongue. “Well, he’s allowed to send up to three letters a month.” She sighed, then released Hobie as the kettle begin to whistle. “The Red Cross lady said it’s up to the camp commander if the letters actually get mailed.”

  “Daddy will write us!” June said confidently.

  “Of course he will,” Hobie said. He poured the boiling water in a mug and dunked in a tea bag. “Mom means we might not get them, that’s all.”

  The toast popped up. June carefully spread the oleomargarine to the very edges. Mom took a bite. “Delicious,” she said. “Thank you both for a tasty breakfast.” She blew on her tea. “I’ve got some errands to run today. Who wants to come with me?”