Slider’s Son

by Rebecca Fjelland Davis

  “She is now.”

  Slider smiled at Grant and pulled out the stool beside him. “Have a seat, son.”

  So Grant slid onto a vacant bar stool made from two apple crates, reinforced and sanded smooth, rubbed to a sheen by rough wool pants sliding on and off of it nightly. Grumpy slid a glass of root beer across the bar to him. Grant felt only a twinge of guilt for telling Grandma that he needed to head home. Who wouldn’t rather have root beer than tea any night of the year?

  Slider reached out a hand for Grant’s mittens. He hung them over a wire above the secondary “stove.” A fifty-gallon drum sat on bricks in the middle of the floor. It glowed hot, with a makeshift door, iron cover, and a pipe spliced into the coal stove chimney. During the week, Grumpy burned old rubber tires in the drum to save money. Old rubber burned slowly and was free from the junkyard. And old rubber stunk to high heaven, sending a faint black smoky haze into the air and adding a burnt rubbery feel to every breath Grant took in the building. Grumpy figured the regulars would drink during the week, no matter what the place smelled like. He saved the precious coal to burn on Friday and Saturday nights, when he could make the most money if everybody who came in could breathe without complaining.

  “That Grandma Beadlie you’re talkin’ about?” Askil Snortland asked.

  Grant nodded. He turned around on his stool and stuck his wet, frozen feet out toward the burning drum of tires.

  “You take her coal tonight?”

  “Yessir.”

  Askil nodded but didn’t say more. Nobody seemed to need to fill the empty air space with talk.

  In spite of the stink, Grant liked it here, surrounded by a feeling of men and work and sweat and warmth and rest at the end of a long day. Grumpy had strung odds and ends on the wall at the end of the bar, just in case—sort of a hardware store for the after-hours crowd: a jack, an inner tube, a length of coiled rope, an oil can, a hammer and saw, and a little wooden keg of nails. He called it the “just-in-case” wall for anybody who needed it. Slider said Grumpy used to show his true grumpy colors when people came in asking to borrow something. When somebody borrowed a hammer, he tacked a spare up on the wall. If anybody asked to borrow anything, Grumpy just nodded toward the wall. The last thing up was a tiny shelf. On it: a dictionary.

  “Anybody ever borrow the dictionary?” Grant had asked.

  “Nope, but it saves answering a lot of stupid questions,” Slider said. And you can just tell some stupid son-of-a-gun who thinks he knows something to go look it up in the dictionary. And it shuts ’em right up.” Slider grinned. “’Specially if they can’t spell.”

  Finally, Grumpy said, “Grant, sure glad your dad is back on his feet this year. Mamie came down here last winter when your dad was laid up after the accident and shut down the rubber fire. She said any public establishment had a responsibility for public health and shouldn’t be suffocatin’ the clients. Granty, you think it’s so bad?”

  Grant took a sip of root beer to keep from choking. The smell was so strong, it burned his eyes as well as his nose. “No, sir,” he said, shaking his head. He tried not to grin, thinking about his mom in charge of law and order in the county, and what a ruckus she’d made trying to shut down Grumpy’s tire fire.

  Last year, Slider and Judge Mortenson had been transporting a criminal to Minot for a trial in the dead of winter, and a milk truck slid through a stop sign and broadsided them. The judge, the criminal, and the other driver were killed outright. Slider had two broken legs, and when he couldn’t stand up and act as sheriff, he deputized Mamie to help Deputy Will keep law and order on his behalf.

  At first, everything was fine, but after a couple weeks, the locals were fit to be tied. Mamie hated it when Slider got drunk, which mostly happened after baseball games in the summer, but all she could do about it was get “naggy,” as Slider called it. Mamie hated public drunkenness even more, and when she was deputy, the jail was full of drunks every weekend.

  Every Monday, somebody at school came up to Grant and said, “Did you know your ma put my dad in jail Saturday night?”

  The last straw was when Deputy Mamie O’Grady tried to shut down Grumpy’s rubber-tire fire.

  Grumpy came to the house on a Monday morning while Mamie was at the courthouse and said, “Slider, you gotta talk sense into that woman.”

  So that night when Mamie came home from the sheriff’s office, Slider laid into her and said to ease up. That was the only time Grant had ever heard Slider yell at Mamie without Mamie saying anything back. She hung up her coat on the hook by the door and started cooking with more racket and pan-slamming than Grant thought was possible. He ran upstairs and pretended to do homework until supper was ready.

  The next day, Slider navigated to the courthouse on crutches, and he took over sheriff desk duties again. Mamie only worked as his driver when nobody else could. As soon as he could work the gas and clutch and brake, Mamie went back to being a housewife, substituted cooking for the jailbirds at the courthouse, and left the “sheriffing” to her husband.

  Grant remembered it well. He grinned at Grumpy. It was all funny now that it was over. And now that his dad was walking just fine again and had played ball all summer. “I don’t mind the fire at all, sir.” The soles of his shoes started steaming as the wetness heated up, so he turned back around to face the bar.

  Grant felt Slider eyeing him. “Little Joe Thorson got a black eye again?”

  Grant looked at his hands. “It’s not for me to say.” He had given his word to Joe, after all. “Why you askin’?”

  Slider shrugged. “Suspicion I had.”

  “I gave my word I wouldn’t say—I mean, I never mentioned anything about any such thing.”

  “You didn’t mention. I did.”

  Grant looked his dad in the eye.

  Slider nodded, understanding. “Saw his ma at the mercantile this morning. Mary Thorson looked like she’d been run over by a wagon. Black and blue. Wondered if Little Joe got it, too.”

  Grant’s stomach sank. He set down his glass of root beer. Beautiful Mrs. Thorson beat up, too.

  Grant nodded. “I promised I wouldn’t tell.” Now he knew for sure. Little Joe hadn’t been in a fight. Joe’s dad, Big Joe, had been on another drunken rampage. No wonder Mrs. Thorson didn’t want Slider to know about the black eye. An embarrassment.

  Slider turned the vodka sour glass between his fingers. “You didn’t tell me, son. You didn’t need to. And you didn’t break your promise.” Slider turned his gaze into his drink and swirled it around.

  The front door banged open and wind whistled in. “Snow’s startin’ up again,” a big voice boomed. “Tha’s . . . tha’s awmost too much. Blasted roads’ll fill in again.”

  “Speak of the dad-gum devil,” Slider said.

  “Get in and close the door, Joe,” Grumpy hollered. “You born in a barn?”

  A hulking figure stumbled through the door. He almost fell headlong, caught himself on the edge of the lone billiards table, and turned around to pull the door shut.

  He swaggered over toward the group at the bar. His pock-marked nose glowed red and stood in sharp contrast to the white, cold skin drawn against his puffy cheeks. Big Joe Thorson.

  Little Joe’s dad, Big Joe, pulled off his worn cowhide gloves and knitted cap. “Lemme buy a roun’.” He swept his arm to indicate the room.

  “Naw, Joe. You got a family to feed. Don’t be buyin’ booze for all of us,” Lawrence Messner said.

  Big Joe stepped to Lawrence, towered over him. “Don’t . . . don’,” he slurred, “don’ be tellin’ me wha’ to do with my family. Here.” He produced a five-dollar bill and slapped it on the bar. “A roun’, I said.”

  Grumpy looked at Slider and then got up and made his way around to the back of the bar. Grant watched Grumpy pour a glass with a little whisky and a lot of water. He pushed it across the bar toward Joe.

  “I said, a blasted roun’!” Big Joe slammed his fist on the bar.

  Grant tried
to make himself as small as possible on the barstool.

  “Blast it,” Big Joe repeated. He reached across the bar and grabbed Grumpy by the front of his shirt. “I said—”

  The world blurred. Grant didn’t really see his dad get off his bar stool, but there was a blur of wool and hair and faces and a blood-curdling scream from the stove. Slider had Big Joe by the front of the coat and had lifted him clean off his feet and set him down on top of the tire-burning red-hot barrel.

  Joe screamed and clawed and grabbed at Slider, but Joe was drunk and Slider was fast. Slider had set him down and stepped out of reach. Joe’s long legs didn’t reach the ground and he had nothing to grab hold of to pull himself off the redhot stove. His pants were smoking and the smell of singed wool hit Grant’s nose as fast as Joe kicked back and launched himself off the stove toward Slider, swinging wildly.

  Grant sat frozen.

  The rest of the men jumped to their feet. Slider grabbed Joe by both ears and flipped him onto his back on the floor. Big Joe howled. Grant could hardly imagine how much Big Joe’s backside must hurt. Slider, quick as a whistle, straddled Big Joe’s chest. Slider was a big bear of a man, folks said, but Big Joe was even taller and outweighed Slider by a lot.

  Joe screamed, “Blast it! Get off me, you blasted—”

  Lawrence, Grumpy, Askil, and Ole—all of the guys except Henry, who was still slumped over his whiskey at the bar and oblivious—jumped on Big Joe’s arms and legs to hold him down.

  “Blast you! I’ll kill you, you blasted—”

  Slider let go of Big Joe’s ears. “Listen to me, you son of a gun. I’m the law here, so no use complaining. And if you kill me, you’re up for murdering the law, and that’ll be a death sentence, so listen. You touch, you touch your wife and kid again and leave another mark on them, one black eye, one bruise, so help me God, I will throw you in jail for the rest of your life or I will kill you myself and every court in the land will back me up.”

  “That lying squaw. Everybody knows Injuns lie. She’s—she’s makin’ up sto-stories again—”

  Slider slapped Big Joe’s face so hard it made Grant’s teeth rattle from halfway across the room. “That’s how it feels, you low-down wife-beater. She didn’t say a blessed thing. She tried to hide her face when she saw me at the mercantile, buying food for your kids, mind you. She didn’t want me to see what you’d done. Tried to hide it, I say. But I saw. And your kid, too. Shame on you. Good boy like Little Joe. How dare you. He doesn’t tell on you. Never tells on you. He protects his daddy.”

  Big Joe grunted. “He’s half Injun, so he lies, too—”

  Slider slapped Big Joe’s other cheek. A red hand print rose on Big Joe’s pock-marked face. “Maybe Li’l Joe did lie. He lied by not tellin’ what happened to his eye. He’s a good boy. Nobody told on you. Li’l Joe hid it, just like his ma. They protect you. And you sure as heck don’t protect them. You hit your family, the whole town can see what you do. You do it again, I’ll kill you. I swear I will.”

  Big Joe struggled, tried to lift against all five men, gave up, and lay still, eyes glaring at Slider.

  “You hear?”

  Big Joe nodded.

  Slider jerked his head to the side to motion the men off Big Joe’s arms and legs.

  “Get your sorry excuse for a self out of here.” He grabbed the five spot off the bar and stuck it in Big Joe’s coat pocket. “I got your drink. Use your dad-gum money to feed your own dad-gum kids.”

  And Big Joe straggled to his feet, his face showing Slider’s handprints, the back of his pants still smoking a little. He whimpered and lumbered toward the door as fast as such a drunk hulk of a man could go.

  The men around the bar started a low, slow round of applause. Slider shook his head. “Knock it off. No honor in beatin’ up a drunk. Maybe shouldn’t have. Just can’t stand to see that sweet, beautiful Mary like that. And Little Joe. Dadgummit all. Granty, you scoot on home before Mamie wonders what happened to you.”

  Grant downed his root beer and said, “Thanks, Grumpy.”

  “Go on,” Slider said. “Scoot.”

  Grant scooted. He scooted all the way home, too, the sled bumping along behind him. He only he scooted two blocks out of his way, to be absolutely sure he didn’t run into Big Joe again that night.

  While he ran, he wondered if Big Joe was scared of Slider. Or just plain mad. And if Big Joe would be waiting for a chance to get even. And if somehow, somehow, Little Joe’s mother knew Slider even better than Grant did. How else would Mrs. Thorson have known that it wouldn’t be a good thing to tell Sheriff Slider that Big Joe had been on a rampage?

  Seven

  Little Joe

  Little Joe was back in school the next morning. He slid into his seat without looking at Grant. His shiner was purply by then.

  After math and language arts, “Racehorse Romney,” the long-legged seventh-and-eighth grade teacher, clapped her hands. “Recess. Fifteen minutes. Get your wraps on!”

  The room spilled over into the cloakroom in a flurry of coats, scarves, and mittens. Frank was the only one in the class who owned overshoes, so he was the last one out the door.

  “Pom-pom pull-away” screamed Bill Beatty, first to reach the giant spreading elm tree at one end of the playground. Two giant elms stood sentinel in front of the school, perfectly marking two goal lines. Grant ran toward the tree. Mid-sprint, somebody jerked his jacket sleeve back so hard he spun around in the snow, in the thick of running legs and arms.

  Little Joe hung on his coat sleeve, and his other fist was coming at Grant’s nose. Grant ducked and the fist grazed his cheek and knit cap. “Ow! What the . . .” He stopped running and put his hand to his cheek. It burned. “What was that for?”

  Joe ran on past Grant. “You said you wouldn’t tell your old man!”

  “I didn’t tell!”

  “Right. My old man comes home with his rear end half burnt-off and said Slider did it for hittin’ us.”

  “Joe!” Grant realized he’d stopped running. He gathered his wits and ran after Joe toward the tree. “No, Little Joe. I didn’t say anything. Slider saw your ma uptown. He saw her face. He just asked me if you had a shiner or anything.”

  “And you said yes.”

  “I tried not to answer, and I said I gave you my word not to talk about it.”

  “Same thing, stupid.” Joe reached the tree and stood on a root. “That’s the same as telling him I had a shiner.”

  “Grant’s it! He’s last!” yelled the crowd around the tree. “Grant’s it! Grant’s it!” a chorus of voices chanted.

  “Joe,” Grant said. “Listen. Ya don’t lie to Slider. You just don’t.”

  Little Joe shrugged. “You’re it.”

  So Grant backed away from base and waited for some adventurous kid to run to the opposite tree so he could catch him. Nobody budged. Kids hung onto the tree’s bark, stood on its massive roots, stood well behind the “it” line, so Grant started counting. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten!”

  The whole nest of kids busted loose like a swarm of bees. They stampeded and slipped on the snow and spread in all directions. Grant went for Orland because he was fastest and together, they would catch everybody else in no time.

  And they did.

  Eight

  The TB

  Next morning, Grant met Little Joe on the road to school. Little Joe’s black eye had green around the edges, a sure sign that it was healing.

  “Hey,” Grant said. “Your eye’s already gettin’ better.”

  “Yup,” was all Joe said.

  There was a crust on the snow, frozen so hard that if you fell through it into a deep drift, you could break your leg if you kept moving forward without lifting your foot up out of the hole it made. Joe and Grant stuck to the road. Grant wanted for all he was worth to ask what had happened when Big Joe got home the other night, but instead, the boys walked in silence.

  When they turned into the schoolyard, a chunk
of icy snow came hurtling at each of them.

  “Ouch, drat it all,” Little Joe said.

  A flat, icy snowball bounced off Grant’s shoulder.

  The boys dropped their books and ducked behind the nearest tree. Peeking around, they could see Frank, Sammy, and Orland crouched behind a snow fort wall, each hurling more ice chunks toward them.

  Little Joe and Grant started hurtling snow chunks right back.

  “Lookit me,” Joe said. The bruise above his black eye was bleeding. “Time for revenge!” He stood up and heaved a big chunk of snow as hard as he could. Grant heard it crash on the frozen ground, harmless, a couple feet short of the snow fort.

  “That was a waste,” Grant said, throwing another iceball.

  Little Joe threw another. “I can’t really see.”

  Grant saw blood streaming down Joe’s cheek. “Truce!” Grant yelled. “Comin’ out!” Little Joe and Grant stood and made their way from behind the tree.

  Orland squinted at Little Joe’s eye. “Did we do that? Make your black eye bleed?”

  “Yeah, you loose livers,” Grant said. “See what you did?”

  “Did not!” Frank said. “It was black yesterday.”

  “You made it bleed, though,” Grant said.

  “What happened, anyway?” Sammy asked Joe. “I mean, besides us chuckin’ snow at you? You never said.”

  Little Joe shrugged. “Is it still bleeding?”

  “Yup.”

  Joe wiped his face some more with his mitten and glanced at Grant.

  “Here,” Orland said. He scooped a handful of snow out from under the icy crust. “Now hold still.” Joe jerked when the cold snow touched his face. Then he held still. With the snow, Orland rubbed blood off Little Joe’s face until only a wet icy trickle shone on Joe’s cheek.

  “There,” said Little Joe. “Numb. Now I can’t feel a thing.” He wiped his wet face with his coat sleeve. “’Cept cold.”

  The bell clanged for the school day to begin. The boys grabbed their books and ran for the door. Joe swiped his face with his sleeve while they ran.