by Lois Lenski
Orvie turned and edged back through the crowd. Men were picking the body up and putting it into a two-horse wagon. Freckles had gone. Orvie stumbled back toward the car. He knew Bert would be furious with waiting.
He stopped in the gutter behind the Ford and vomited. He was sick half the way home.
Bert stared at Orvie’s white face. “I hope you’re satisfied,” he said.
Orvie was. Now he knew why Mama had wanted him to stay away. Mama was right. He would stay as far away as he could after this. He never wanted to see a shooting again.
There were several calls to make on the way home. The Murray house was closed up, and had all the blinds pulled down. Orvie thought they must have gone away. He knocked at the back door to see if they wanted any milk.
He waited and waited. He knocked more loudly.
Suddenly a door at the side of the house opened and two large police dogs dashed out. They barked furiously and snapped at Orvie’s heels as he ran, almost dropping his bottles. Looking back, he saw the heads of the two little girls peeping out from under a window shade.
Orvie knew now. They hadn’t gone away at all. They were hiding in there with all their fears. The dogs were to protect the little girls. They weren’t allowed out of the house any more. Orvie thought of the fun he and Addie were always having together. “I’d rather be us,” he thought, “than two little fat girls with lots of money.” He set the bottles of milk down at the edge of the lawn.
“Them cross old dogs like to tore me up,” he said to Bert, as he jumped back in the car.
Bert made some stops along the row of little houses. When they came to the house in the alfalfa field, where Hazel and Jack Daley lived, Orvie saw bedding stretched out on a clothesline.
He stared hard at it. There was the blue checked quilt he used to have on his own bed. Next to it was the pink-flowered quilt from Della’s bed. He remembered the day when Mama had missed them off her own clothesline and said she was living in “a nest of thieves.” It was the same day Orvie and Charley had sold the whisky bottles to Nicky Grimes, the bootlegger. He could never forget that.
Orvie knew Mama would be glad to get the bedding back again. He marched boldly into Hazel Daley’s house and was surprised to see how small it was. It held an iron bed, a table, two chairs, a heating stove and a small gas plate, a wash stand and a cupboard. Hazel Daley was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in a bright red kimono, combing out her light yellow hair. Orvie thought she looked pretty, even though he was mad at her.
“Where did you get those quilts on the line, Mrs. Daley?” he demanded.
“Where did I get ’em?” answered Hazel. “Why, I made ’em myself!” She stared at the boy from head to toe. “What business is it of yours, I’d like to know?”
“You? You made ’em?” sniffed Orvie. “Why, you can’t even sew a stitch. I heard you tell Mrs. Soaper you never darn Jack’s stockings. When they get holes in ’em, you just throw ’em away.” Orvie thumped the bottle of milk down in the middle of the floor and walked out.
“Well, my pretty young man, and who are you? Judge Robinson, I suppose!” came the woman’s sarcastic voice behind him.
Orvie jumped from the doorstep, grabbed the quilts from the line and ran for the car. Hazel Daley took time to pick up a broom, and then, with her long hair flying, chased swiftly after him.
“You bring back them quilts, bring ’em back I say! You’ll be sorry, Orvie Robinson. Orvie Robinson, you’ll be sorry!” she shouted.
Luckily Bert had kept the engine going. Orvie threw the bedding in the back and jumped in front. “Hurry, Bert, hurry, she’s after me!” A volley of stones, thrown by the angry woman, showered over the Ford.
“What’s the matter with Hazel Daley?” asked Bert. “She crazy?”
“No, just mad,” said Orvie. “She stole those quilts and I’m takin’ ’em back. They’re Mama’s and she can’t have ’em.”
Bert grunted.
“What do you s’pose she meant when she said I’d be sorry?” Orvie asked.
“Dunno,” said Bert.
When the boys reached home, Orvie ran into the house with the quilts. Mama was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor.
“Are these yours, Mama?” asked Orvie.
Mama got up and sat on a chair. “Yes,” she said. “Where did you find ’em?”
After Orvie told his story, Mama said, “That Hazel Daley. She’s a dishonest woman—takin’ quilts off my clothesline in broad daylight. Seems like you boys are late getting home. Anything happen in town?”
“No … er, well, no …” Orvie hesitated. “Nothin’ much.”
He didn’t like to tell about the Murray girls shut up in their house or mention the shooting. He knew Mama wouldn’t like that.
“You sure?” Mama looked at him hard.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” said Orvie. “We chased a jackrabbit through Peg-Leg’s store … and I saw Slim!”
“Slim!” Della came out of the dining room.
“You’re going to have company for dinner tomorrow, Della,” Orvie went on, “and you’re to be sure and have rabbit gravy.”
Della flushed to the roots of her hair.
“We brought you the rabbit—it went whizz-bang right through Peg-Leg’s front show window and Bert caught it!”
“Can Slim come, Mama?” asked Della.
“He’s starved for home cooking,” added Orvie.
“Bless his heart,” said Mama. “Of course he can come. We’ll cook him up a good meal.”
When Slim came the next day, he said the gravy was the best he ever ate. They all had a happy time together, and it was good to have Slim back. He told them that he would soon be going to work on No. 5 Murray.
“What? You goin’ right back on the job?” said Papa. “After that accident of yours, I’d think you’d want to be a farmer or do something safe, and give up this oil business.”
“It’s such greasy, dirty work, Slim,” said Della. “Couldn’t you find something cleaner?”
Slim laughed. “Nope—oil’s in my blood, I guess. I’d never be happy at anything else. When you know the best and worst of anything, it’s got you for keeps.”
Orvie was never to forget Slim’s words.
The very next morning Orvie found out what Hazel Daley meant by her final retort. About mid-day, Jim Duncan drove into the yard in his huckster wagon. Jim sold cakes, rolls, cookies and pies, making stops at all the oil field houses. He had a good trade with people who had no transportation to the stores in the towns.
“Mrs. Robinson,” he called out, “where’s them folks gone to that used to live in that shack in the alfalfa field? Daley, their name was. Where are they?”
Mama came to the door. “They’re not there?”
“Hazel hasn’t been up here for water this morning,” said Orvie. “I been watchin’ out for her.”
“They’re not there,” said Jim Duncan, “not hide nor hair of ’em. Their house is empty. I walked in when I saw the front door open. They left in the middle of the night, the neighbor said. I thought you might know where they’ve gone to.”
“Gone?” cried Mama. “They haven’t paid their rent. She told me she’d pay up next week and I believed her. I’ll go right down there.”
“The neighbors say they owe everybody—restaurant, dry goods, millinery and all the other stores,” said Duncan. “They pay a little down and forget to pay the rest. They owe me for baked goods for three weeks.” Jim got back in his wagon and took up the lines.
“Can’t you sue ’em?” called Orvie.
“Can’t sue ’em when you can’t find ’em,” said Duncan angrily. He whipped up his horse and drove off.
Orvie went to the house in the alfalfa field with Mama. The furniture that was left was broken to pieces.
“Here’s something, Mama.” Orvie ducked under the ramshackle bed and pulled out six large cardboard boxes, one by one. Mama opened them and found six fancy hats.
“A l
ot of good they’ll do me,” said Mama. “I’d like to put ’em on a bonfire. But since they’re not paid for and haven’t been worn much, I’ll take them back to the Sunflower Dept. store.”
“So that’s why she said I’d be sorry,” remarked Orvie. “She ran off without paying the rent. Hazel Daley—such a pretty woman too.”
He remembered what Grandpa had said—it takes all kinds of people to make up a world.
CHAPTER XI
A Big Time
“You hold her tail now, Addie, while I milk,” said Orvie. “How can I hold it when I’m shooin’ flies off?” said Addie, waving a pigweed stalk back and forth.
The cow’s tail jerked violently and slapped Orvie in the face. He fell backward off his stool. “Now looky there …” He put his hand up to his reddened cheek. “Golly! It burns like fire. I know what I’ll do—I’ll tie her up.”
He brought a rope and tied the cow’s tail to her hind leg. Addie kept on shooing flies and Orvie resumed his milking.
“Are we poor?” asked Addie suddenly. “Is that why Papa won’t never give us more’n a nickel to spend?”
The question surprised Orvie. “I don’t know,” he said, after a pause. “I’ll ask Grandpa.”
They stopped under the cottonwood tree and put the question to the old man. Grandpa stared at the two children and scratched his head.
“Poor? Who said we are poor?” he answered. “Now that reminds me of something, and today is as good a time as any.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket and went into the kitchen, followed by the children. He waved the paper in the air.
“Jennie, how do you like your new gas stove?” he asked.
Mama mopped her brow. “I guess I’ll like it, once I get used to it,” she said. “It cooks so fast I burn everything up, and I keep thinking it might explode.”
“You better get used to it,” said Grandpa, “’cause it’s yours. I paid up all the payments on it.”
“Oh Pa,” said Mama. “You’re so good to us.”
Grandpa called Papa and Bert in from the yard. They hated to leave the big shiny new automobile that stood there, but they came.
“I want you to go to town today and have a big time,” said Grandpa. “I want you to buy everything you want! See this little piece of paper? I’ll put my name to it, and we’ll go to the bank first and I’ll fill your pocket-books full of cash, and you’re to spend it—every cent. Don’t come home until it’s all gone.”
The family stood still, open-mouthed with surprise. Addie jumped up and down, clapped her hands and said, “Goody! Goody!”
“There’s plenty for everybody,” said Grandpa. “Let’s go buy the town out.”
“Pa, are you serious?” asked Papa.
“Oh, but Pa …” Mama began. “You bought Al the new car and me the new stove … You save the rest for your old age.”
“Nonsense,” said Grandpa. “I’m a spring chicken. Don’t I live in a hen-house? I want you folks to spend to your heart’s content just this once.”
Mama hurried to get ready. She went to the yard to bring in the washing. She had washed the night before and hung the clothes out before daylight to get them dry before the dust got so bad.
Della had to finish sweeping. “Seems like we’re eatin’ and breathin’ dust,” she said. “It keeps a body busy just sweeping.”
“Everything’s covered with dust—every leaf and branch and blade of grass,” said Mama, coming in with her arms full of clothes. “We must shut all the doors and windows tight before we go.”
“The Murrays keep their house shut up tight,” said Orvie. “Looks just like everybody’s gone away.”
“That old oil company,” growled Bert, shaving by the kitchen mirror, “cuttin’ all them ‘company roads’ through our farm. You can hardly see them big wagons and trucks for the dust they make. You get dust whichever way the wind blows.”
“And we have to sweep it out by the bucketful,” added Della.
The family all dressed up in their Sunday clothes, and soon they were ready to start. Mama and Della left a cold lunch on the table for the boarders to eat, and put the key to the back door under the mat.
“We’ll eat at a Café,” suggested Grandpa. “We’ll be stylish and dine out.”
They piled into the new car. It was a deep maroon seven-passenger Packard sedan and had comfortable cushioned seats and a flaring open top.
“We’ll get covered with dust, if we don’t put the side-curtains on,” said Della.
“If we put them on and close it up, we’ll smother with the heat,” said Bert.
“I like to feel the wind blow through,” added Orvie.
“Maybe I should have took that closed model,” said Papa. “But it looked so new-fangled, with glass windows all around.”
“This new car is just right,” said Mama. “Trust these kids to start complainin’.”
“Stop your talkin’,” ordered Grandpa, “so your Pa can think what he’s doin’. Do you want us to land in the ditch?”
Papa drove slowly and intently in the ensuing silence. It was not easy to drive the new Packard after the old Ford, but he had been taking lessons and managed pretty well. The new car rolled along very smoothly, leaving a billowing cloud of dust behind it. It went straight through Whizzbang and Bliss and came to Ponca City.
“If we’re goin’ on a buyin’ spree,” said Grandpa, with a twinkle in his eye, “we may as well go to a city where there’s a few things to buy. Nothin’ worse than to want things and not be able to find what you want.”
They parked in front of the largest bank in Ponca City, and they walked in through the big bronze doors. A smiling man with a bald head met Grandpa and ushered him inside an iron gate. Grandpa signed the check, and the man brought the money out and spread it over a table.
Grandpa picked up handfuls without counting and passed them out. Mama, Della and Addie all had pocket-books, which they stuffed full. Orvie, Bert and Papa filled their pockets. Part of the money was in silver—big silver dollars that clinked together, and part of it in bills. There was a lot of loose change for everybody too.
Grandpa waved his arm and shouted: “Go on out on your spending spree!” The people in the bank turned and looked.
Orvie remembered the nickels that Papa used to hand out so sparingly. It was hard for Papa to part with a nickel. Maybe that was because he had so few of them. He always made Orvie feel that a nickel was something very special, something he’d worked very hard to earn, something not to be thrown away or wasted or spent lightly. It was to be treasured, and whatever was bought with it, was to be treasured too. Orvie often ended up by not spending it at all. He couldn’t find anything that was worthy of the wonderful nickel he carried in his pants pocket.
Now he began to wonder. Had they really been as poor as that? Were there so few nickels that Papa could spare one so rarely? When he had asked Grandpa if they were poor, Grandpa had not answered the question.
Orvie thought of the campers who lived on Cottonwood creek. He knew how little they had to eat and to wear, and how shabbily they lived. He thought of the oil workers’ families in the little box-car houses. Some of them made high wages while the work lasted, but spent it quickly and were soon poor again. They had all their furniture in one room, and often had no more than enough to eat and wear.
Orvie saw his own family in perspective for the first time.
The Robinsons owned a farm and a seven-room house. They had all they could eat—their own hogs and beef to butcher, their own vegetables and fruit, and all the milk and cream and butter they could use. Orvie had never seen a member of his family dress in rags—except Grandpa, who wore ragged overalls to be comfortable, but had others that were not ragged or torn.
Were the Robinsons poor, or did they only think they were, because they worked hard for all the very real comforts they enjoyed? That was it. Papa thought they were poor. He and Mama had started out with very little, and they kept on thinking they were poor long after th
ey had plenty. That was why it was such a struggle for Papa to give Orvie a nickel to spend. That was why Orvie had such a hard time spending it.
But now all that was over. Grandpa was going to cure the Robinsons of feeling poor all the time. Grandpa was going to make them spend. They could never act poor and think poor again, because from now on they were rich.
It gave Orvie a strange feeling of exhilaration as he walked down the main street of Ponca City. The family had decided to separate and do their spending independently. All but Addie, who was to stay with Mama.
Orvie put his hands into his pockets and jingled the silver dollars against each other. He began to whistle. He felt happier than he had ever felt in his life before. His Sunday shirt chafed his neck, but he did not notice or care. He stopped at every show window and looked at everything in it. It was a grand feeling to think he could buy anything he saw.
The stores and streets were crowded with people. He saw Indian squaws wearing bright-colored shawls, and Indian men with braided hair. The Indians had money too—oil had been discovered on their lands. They rode in big cars, and their children had money in their pockets too.
Orvie walked up one side of the street and came back down the other. He felt hungry, so he stopped at a Café and bought a hot-dog, a ham and cheese sandwich, and a piece of cherry pie. He walked on, studying the windows. He picked out a mouth organ, a new saddle for Star and a pair of cowboy boots. He also chose new overalls, a fancy belt, some bandana handkerchiefs and a Stetson hat. That was all he wanted for himself. He decided to come back later to buy them.
He was hungry again, so he went in a drug store and bought a milkshake, a banana split and a raspberry soda. When he came out, he decided to think about presents for the rest of the family. He saw a box of silver knives and forks—that would do for Mama. A hat with pink roses—that would be for Della. Six cute little silk dresses—just the right size for Addie. He thought of the tractor that Bert wanted, but compromised on a pocket knife with six different blades.
