by Kirby Larson
Hobie stared at him. Mitch was a fathead, but whoever thought he’d stoop this low?
“You’re un-American,” Preston said. “Talking about a soldier that way.”
“Yeah, take it back,” added a fifth-grade kid. A big fifth-grade kid.
The other boys stopped chewing and swallowing and burping to listen. To see what Hobie would do.
“At least my dad enlisted,” Hobie said. “That’s more than your dad did.” He pushed back on the stool and picked up his tray.
The stool Max had been sitting in was empty. Hobie took it.
“Are you okay?” Marty asked. He moved his tray to make room for Hobie’s.
Hobie told him what Mitch had said.
“What a creep,” Marty said.
“You can say that again.” Hobie pushed his lunch around on his plate until the recess bell rang. Then he went outside and played tetherball. Each time the ball swung around, he imagined he was punching Mitch, not the ball. He won every single game.
Walking home from school, Hobie was still as hot as he’d been at lunchtime. The only thing that simmered him down was the hope that one of these days, Mitch would get what he deserved.
June skipped along beside him, lips purple from feasting on the ripe blackberries brushing up against the sidewalk.
“Do you want to pick some berries later?” she asked. “Mom could make a pie.”
“I’ve got homework.”
“Then Kitty and I will pick.” June set her hands on her hips. “And you won’t get any pie.”
“See if I care.” Hobie stomped up the front steps, stopping to get the mail. He flipped through the envelopes. There was one addressed to him. From Pearl Harbor. He didn’t know anybody there. And he didn’t recognize the handwriting.
He dropped his books on the porch, perched on the railing, and opened it.
Dear Hobie,
I am Merna Watts, a nurse at the naval base here on Pearl Harbor. Pfc. Corff is one of my patients. He has asked me to take dictation for him. He told me all about you. You sound like a fine young man. I don’t know what he would have done without Duke. Now, these words from my impatient patient:
Hey, there, pardner,
Looks like me and Duke have earned ourselves a vacation from the war. I wanted you to hear the skinny from me, not from anyone else. I owe you that.
Hobie’s heart tightened as he read those words, not sure he could read further. But he had to. Had to find out.
You may have heard or read about the battle on Guam. It was a scrap, let me tell you. And we were holding our own. Until July 27 or 28. I kind of lost track of time.
There were four of us scouting with a patrol — my buddy Ski and his dog, Missy, and me and Duke. It was dark and we were deep in the jungle. Bugs and vines and all kinds of things to trip you up.
The enemy had been on the island a lot longer than we had. Knew every hiding place around. I swear, they can hide in plain sight. After an hour or so, Missy picked up a scent and we got ourselves into a little pickle. Came out with three prisoners and no injuries. We were feeling pretty smart about the entire situation.
Then the lieutenant gave the order to march on, but Duke had other ideas. I hollered for everyone to hit the deck. That darned dog took the bullets meant for me. I tried to drag him to a foxhole and found myself with a few new holes, too.
When the coast was clear, the medics were Johnny-on-the-spot. Ski tried to get Duke back to camp, to the vet. But no go. Duke was on me like a tick. The medics wanted to leave him behind, but me and Ski and Missy helped change their minds.
Don’t worry — Duke’s going to be fine. He gets treated like a general here. And, because of him, I get treated okay, too.
Semper Fi,
Marv
Hobie should have seen it coming. Every headline blared some battle news from the Pacific. And the movies and newsreels always showed the Marines with the worst jobs: first in, cleanup, that sort of thing. But he never thought anything like this could happen. Even though Marv tried to put a good spin on it, things were bad. Hobie was sure of it.
“Tell Mom I’ll be back later,” he hollered to June. He grabbed his bike and pedaled as fast as he could. He didn’t have a plan. He simply had to ride.
Trees and houses and people swirled. It was like that storm scene in the Wizard of Oz movie. Everything gray and spinning so fast, Hobie couldn’t make anything out. He kept riding, turning up one street, turning down the next.
Without realizing it, he’d found his way to Fishermen’s Terminal. He slowed down, easing the bike’s tires over the uneven wooden dock planks until he was at the slip where the Lily Bess was moored. Uncle Tryg was topside, sanding a rail.
“Well, ahoy, there,” he called out to Hobie. “Come aboard.”
Hobie set his bike down and clambered over the gangplank.
“Need some help?” Hobie asked.
“On this bucket of bolts?” Uncle Tryg’s laugh was like an arm around his shoulder, making Hobie feel that everything was going to be okay. “Always.”
He tossed Hobie a rag to wipe down the rail, then started in on a patch of blistered paint.
Hobie followed behind his uncle, rubbing and rubbing until there wasn’t a single grain of sawdust. The late afternoon sun pounded down. Beads of sweat scrabbled down his back like a thousand spiders. He thought of the bugs in that jungle where Duke and Marv had been, and shivered.
“Someone step on your grave?” Unce Tryg must have noticed the shiver.
Hobie wiped the rail even harder. He hadn’t planned to say anything, but the news was like a fish trying to wiggle out of a net. “I got a letter. About Duke.”
Uncle Tryg stopped sanding. “Everything okay?”
Suddenly Hobie’s legs wouldn’t hold him up anymore. He slid to the deck. “They were almost killed.”
Uncle Tryg eased to sit on a nearby bucket. “You want to tell me about it?”
Hobie did. He told his uncle everything in Marv’s letter. And he didn’t stop there. He told him about trying to get Duke back. About messing up with Max. About Mitch. Every part of his body was shaking by the time he was done. Even his teeth were chattering.
Uncle Tryg didn’t say anything when Hobie finished. He probably was ashamed of him. Hobie leaned his forehead on his knees.
“All right.” The bucket scraped against the deck as Uncle Tryg stood up. “Time to stain.” He pried open a can of stain and tossed Hobie another rag. They wiped it back and forth, back and forth across the sanded wood. Hobie’s nails turned as dark as the dirt in their Victory garden.
“Do you know the story of my arm?”
They’d been quiet for so long, Hobie jumped at Uncle Tryg’s voice.
“It got caught in a winch,” Hobie said.
Uncle Tryg wiped at the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. “That’s part of it.” The rubbing left a spot of stain. “Our father was a tough old bird. Strict. Oh, man, you did not want to sail against his rules.” Uncle Tryg whistled. “He probably turns over in his grave watching down on my boys.”
Hobie dipped his rag in the stain can again.
Uncle Tryg sighed. “Young men and their fathers. There’s bound to be some butting of heads. Especially on a boat.”
Hobie couldn’t imagine butting heads with Dad. As if reading his mind, Uncle Tryg said, “You wait. It happens. Part of life.”
“So you and Grandfather didn’t get along?” Hobie asked.
“Oh, we got along fine. As long as I did everything he said.” Uncle Tryg looked out over the bow of the Lily Bess, out beyond the breakwater. Hobie wondered what he was looking at.
“So one night, I’m sixteen years old and tired of my father’s dos and don’ts. I go out with my friends. Watch a ball game. Drink some beers.” He leaned into Hobie. “Don’t tell Aunt Ellen I told you that part. My boys don’t even know.”
Hobie crossed his hand over his heart.
“I wasn’t feeling so hot the next mo
rning. But if you’re a Hanson, you’re on the boat, hungover or not. I was green as bilgewater, and not thinking straight. I figured I’d rest a bit when I got aboard. So what if the ropes didn’t get rolled up just so.” Uncle Tryg held up his arm. “I learned it the hard way, Hobie.” Uncle Tryg started in on the rail again.
Hobie waited.
Nothing more came.
“What did you learn the hard way?” he asked.
Uncle Tryg rubbed the rag back and forth, back and forth, coating the rail with stain. He didn’t look up. “My lesson,” he said. “Each man to his own.”
Hobie had never had a conversation like this with Uncle Tryg before. Never had a conversation like this with any adult before. Something shifted a bit inside him. He felt like somehow he’d just taken a first big step away from being a boy toward being a man.
Uncle Tryg rubbed the rail a few more times.
“I’m ready to call it a day,” he said. “Let’s clean up. I’ll give you a ride home.”
Every tool had to be spotless before it could be stowed away. Finally, Uncle Tryg locked up the cabin and they climbed back across the gangplank. Hobie picked up his bike and pushed it along the dock.
“Hold up a second.” Uncle Tryg fished some coins from his pocket and bought two grape Nehis from the machine at the net shed. Hobie nearly downed his in one guzzle, he was that thirsty.
At the car, Uncle Tryg unlocked the trunk and Hobie lifted his bike in. “You did good work today,” Uncle Tryg told him as they both closed their car doors.
“Thanks.” Hobie rolled down the window to let out a little of the smell of sweat and oily stain.
There wasn’t any conversation the rest of the way home. So Hobie had time to think about what his uncle had said. What had Uncle Tryg learned? Hobie wasn’t sure.
Hobie had never done anything quite like what Uncle Tryg described. But he sure had gotten some ropes tangled lately. Especially with Max. And trying to get Duke back? What would have happened to Marv and Missy and those other guys if he had?
He leaned back against the seat. Enlisting Duke had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. Ever. It must be sort of like Uncle Tryg, living with a bad arm because of one dumb decision. And Dad. Hobie had always thought he was brave because he was fighting in the war. But maybe the bravest thing he did was leave behind the people that he loved for something he believed in.
So maybe Hobie wasn’t like his Grandfather Hanson, steaming full speed ahead through life, like a giant destroyer. He was more like a little skiff, bumping along against the waves. The thing is, eventually, both boats reach the shore.
Maybe there were different kinds of bravery. Grandfather Hanson’s kind. Dad and Uncle Tryg’s kind.
And Hobie’s kind. The kind that doesn’t roar.
Hobie was startled when Uncle Tryg said, “Here you are.” They were at Hobie’s house already.
Uncle Tryg tapped Hobie on the arm. “Next season, we’ll all be on the boat,” he said. “You, your dad, and me and my boys. You wait and see.”
Hobie pulled his bike out of the trunk and waved good-bye. When Uncle Tryg said a thing, a guy could count on it.
“Next season.” He liked the sound of those words.
Dinner smells beckoned to him from the house. He hurried inside.
Uncle Tryg said it would be good next season.
But Hobie had a feeling he could make some things good right now.
Hobie hurried to the paper shack right after school. He didn’t have to wait long before a big truck pulled up. Shortly after that, the first of the newspaper carriers arrived, getting their allotted papers from the driver and taking them over to the shack to fold them.
When Max showed up, Pepper ran straight over to Hobie, licking his hands.
“What are you doing here?” Max set his bike on the ground. “Did you get a route?”
“Nope.” Hobie rubbed the top of Pepper’s head.
“Then what are you doing?” Max walked over to the truck and grabbed a bundle of papers.
Hobie grabbed a bundle, too, shifting it to his shoulder. It was heavy. “Where do these go?”
Max fumbled with the load he’d grabbed. “I don’t need your help,” he said.
“This is heavy,” Hobie said. “I’d like to put it down.”
Max stared at Hobie. Hobie stared back.
“Okay. Over there.” Max pointed to a spot next to the shed. “Only the older guys work inside,” he explained. “Unless it’s raining.”
Hobie put the papers where Max showed him and grabbed another load. After several trips, Max said, “That’s all I get.” He plunked to the ground, cut the twine around a bundle of papers with his pocketknife, and began folding. Pepper curled up behind him, like a furry backrest.
“That looks kind of tricky.” Hobie sat down, too. “Want to show me how?”
“What are you doing?” Max asked.
Hobie picked up a newspaper and started to fold it. “I figured I’d help my friend with his paper route.” He tried to make the same folds Max was making. “So he could get done in time to listen to Hop Harrigan with me.” He looked over at Max.
Max looked right back. Then he grabbed the newspaper from Hobie. “It’s going to fall apart if you fold it like that. Here.” He showed Hobie what to do.
It took him several tries, but Hobie got the hang of it. When all the papers were folded, Hobie ran over to his bike to grab the canvas shopping bag he’d brought. “I figured we could each carry half.”
Max pulled two pieces of Black Jack gum from his pocket. He handed one to Hobie, and put the other in his mouth. Then he tugged his carrier bag over his shoulder. “How’s your throwing arm?” he said.
“Pretty good, after playing baseball most of the summer.” Hobie unwrapped his piece of gum and popped it in his mouth. Working on the boat had sprouted him some muscles, too. “Lead the way.” He hopped on his bike.
Pepper danced all around when she saw Max get on his bike. “Crazy dog,” Max said.
“Duke’s like that, too.” Hobie followed Max down the sidewalk.
When they got to the first street on Max’s route, Max pointed out which houses needed papers. Hobie tossed them on one side of the street and Max on the other. As they rode, Hobie noticed how many of the houses had blue star flags in the window, like the one they had at home. He noticed some with gold stars, too. He hoped no one he knew ever had to change their blue star to gold.
About the fifth house, Hobie missed the porch. He slowed his bike to get off and grab the paper.
“Pepper!” Max called. “Paper!” He pointed toward Hobie.
Like a black-and-white blur, Pepper flashed past Hobie, picked up the wayward paper, and ran it to the porch.
Hobie shook his head. “Maybe you don’t need my help after all, with Pepper around.”
“Sometimes I miss on purpose,” Max said. “Just to keep her on her toes.”
They finished that block and turned up the next.
Mitch Mitchell’s street. And there was Mitch Mitchell’s house.
Hobie glanced over at Max. “You deliver here?”
Max reached into his bag. “His mom’s a good tipper.”
Hobie felt every muscle in his body tense up. But the house looked empty. The shades were drawn on the front windows. No car in the driveway.
Nobody home.
“Hey, look.” Hobie pointed to a pair of sneakers on the front porch. Mitch Mitchell–sized sneakers.
“So?” Max grabbed another paper out of his bag and got ready to throw.
Hobie braked to a halt. He held out his hand. “Give me your gum.”
“What?” Max made a face. “Disgusting.”
Hobie spit his own wad of gum into his hand. “Yeah. Isn’t it?”
Max laughed. “I get it.” He spit out his gum and tossed it to Hobie.
Hobie jumped off his bike and tiptoed up the Mitchells’ front steps. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he picked up one of the
sneakers. He pushed his piece of gum into the very tip of the toe. He did the same with the other sneaker and Max’s gum. Wiping his hands on his dungarees, he bounded down the steps.
“‘Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?’” Max said the words just like a radio announcer.
“‘The Shadow knows,’” Hobie answered, jumping back on his bike. “And us!”
They rode away, gumless and hysterical.
Pepper rescued a couple more papers while they finished the route. When the last paper was tossed, the boys turned and headed for Hobie’s house, Pepper hot on their tails.
The boys dropped their bikes on the front lawn and tore up the stairs. Hobie cranked on the radio. The announcer’s voice filled the kitchen with “Hop Harrigan, Ace of the Airways!”
“We made it!” Max slid into a chair.
Hobie turned up the volume and then sat down, too.
After sniffing around for crumbs, without success, Pepper curled up under the table.
June and Kitty crawled under the table, too. “You get to listen with your friend,” she said. “So we’re going to listen with ours.”
Hobie chuckled about what he and Max had done. Scooter would be proud.
“Want a piece of gum?” he asked.
Max sputtered.
“I want some.” June poked her head out from under the table.
That got the boys laughing so hard they missed Hop Harrigan’s opening lines.
Hobie snagged the mail from the box. “Dad!” he hollered, waving the postcard as he ran inside.
Mom grabbed it from him and began to read.
I am the envy of all in my barracks. Simply holding the care package was like a furlough from this place. I have shared everything, as we do here. Junebug, your artwork is treated like an old master. And, Hobie, the joke book has already been passed around so much the cover is falling off. My love to you all. Aim, fly, fight.
June jumped up and down. “The magic milk worked,” she said. “It worked!”
Mom scooped her in a big hug. “It certainly did.” She winked at Hobie.
After dinner, Hobie practiced reciting the week’s poem to Mom and June. And Kitty.
