Slider’s Son

by Rebecca Fjelland Davis

  Slider had wound the rope back up, slung it over his shoulder again, and climbed down.

  Only then did they notice the crowd of men from Grumpy’s Tavern standing in a clump in the street to watch the rescue show. Askil Snortland held Henry Olson’s arm to keep him from collapsing in the snow.

  At the bottom, Slider looked each boy in the face. Grant felt his face get red, and not from the cold, but he dared not look away from his dad’s eyes. Slider said nothing. He motioned with his head that they should clear out. They took off at a run, not even knowing where they were going. Just running.

  Grant looked over his shoulder to see Slider bending over Big Joe in the snow, shaking him, and pulling him to his feet. Grant kept running.

  Ten

  Christmas Is Coming, 1936

  Monday morning, Grant saw Little Joe waiting at the corner. He hustled up to him. “Howdy.”

  “That was a close shave Saturday night,” Little Joe said. “I had nightmares about falling all night.”

  Grant nodded. “It was dumb. Why’d we let Frank talk us into—”

  “’Cause he always talks us into everything. You know that.”

  “He’s the one who almost died.”

  “Doesn’t matter, though, does it?” Little Joe asked. “It coulda been any of us.”

  Grant shook his head. “Hope we wouldn’t all be such dopes. Did Big Joe, uh, did Big Joe . . . snap out of it?”

  Little Joe shrugged and spat, the spittle freezing before it hit the snow. “He always does. What did Slider have to say?”

  “Not a word.” Grant looked at Little Joe. “Not a solitary word. I reckon he thinks we learned our lesson.”

  “Wow. Wisht he was my dad.”

  Grant bit his lip. He didn’t blame Little Joe for that one little bit.

  “Grant?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t tell anybody I said this, but sometimes, if I could, and I knew I could get away with it, and I wouldn’t get sent to prison forever and ever and leave my mom all alone with the little girls, I’d kill my dad. I would, Grant. Sometimes I downright hate him. And we’d be better off without him.”

  “Don’t say that, Little Joe.”

  “I would, though. Wouldn’t you, if he was your dad?”

  Grant considered this. It was next to impossible to blame Little Joe for feeling that way.

  Before he could respond, Little Joe went on, “You got no idea. You got a swell dad. Slider gets drunk, sure, but he’s a swell dad. And a great pitcher. Look at what he did. And didn’t say nothin’. Look at what my dad did. Worse than worthless in a pinch. Frank was right that he’s a louse. I hate him, Grant. I really hate him. I wish he was dead.”

  “But he’s—” Grant started to say.

  “It’s true,” Little Joe said. “We’d be better off without him.”

  Grant stared. He figured that part might be true.

  Big Joe had been a drunk as far back as Grant could remember. When he first had his job with the railroad, Big Joe stayed sober during the day and got drunk every night. Three summers ago, just before Big Joe lost his railroad job for showing up drunk at work, he had taught the boys acrobatics.

  Big Joe had just gotten off a hot, sweaty week working on the Northern Pacific line and was walking from the depot to Grumpy’s Tavern. When he saw Little Joe, Frank, Orland, Sammy, and Grant in front of the post office, he’d grabbed hold of the flag pole, swung himself sideways, curled his legs around the pole, and slowly extended them. He stuck straight out from the flagpole. Perpendicular like a human flag.

  “Wow! How’d you do that?” Orland had said.

  And Big Joe showed them how to use their arm muscles, and how it was like the hardest sideways sit-up in the universe.

  “Where’d you learn that?” Grant asked.

  “I ran away with the circus when I was twelve. I mucked stalls until I learned to do acrobatics.”

  “I thought you running away with the circus was just a tall tale,” Orland said.

  Big Joe shook his head. “Nope. That’s how I met Little Joe’s Ma. We did a show right by the rez. Fort Berthold Rez.” He swung himself perpendicular again. “And she ran away with me. When she was fifteen.”

  He dropped back to his feet. “Most people are too lazy to do acrobatics,” Big Joe said, “but anybody can learn if they work at it.” Big Joe left them taking turns on the flagpole and went on down Main Street to Grumpy’s Tavern.

  They had worked at it all summer. At first, Orland and Little Joe were the only ones of them who could stick straight out. Grant and Frank sort of drooped like saggy flags. By the end of the summer, all of them could make human flags, and then they got bored with it.

  After Big Joe lost his railroad job, Little Joe refused to do the human flag ever again. He told Grant he didn’t want to do anything like his dad.

  Now Big Joe worked part time for Jacob Tanner at the blacksmith shop and went straight from the shop to the tavern every night.

  Grant never saw Big Joe stick out like a human flag again.

  * * *

  Little Joe’s voice brought Grant back to the present. “But now don’t you dare go tellin’ anybody I said that about my dad. Slider might come arrest me for plotting a murder or something.”

  “Naw. Don’t think so. He’d probably give you a medal. He told your dad he’d kill him himself if he beat you guys up again.”

  “He said that?”

  Grant nodded. “Sure enough. I heard him.”

  “He just said it, though, right? It was just talk. Slider’d never kill anybody.”

  Grant said, “Why doesn’t your mom take you and your sisters and just move back to Fort Berthold? I mean, you can’t go ’cause we need you to catch for the team, so you can’t leave, but why doesn’t she just do it anyway?”

  Little Joe kicked at the snow. “’Cause. Two big reasons we can’t move back to the reservation.”

  “What reasons?”

  Little Joe looked at Grant sideways. “She tried it once. And he came and found her and got her and beat her up like nobody’s business. And said he’d find her and kill her and take us away and she’d never find us if she ever did it again.

  “The Mandans say,” Little Joe continued, “that if a woman leaves her husband, it’s his own fault, and she doesn’t have to go back to him unless she wants to. But Big Joe doesn’t give no count to what he says are ‘Injun laws.’”

  “Figures,” Grant said. “He really is a louse. What’s the other reason?”

  “She says that if we lived on the Fort Berthold Reservation, they’d make us go to boarding school in Wahpeton, or maybe even all the way to Turtle Mountain, and Mama says she’d never see us.”

  Grant nodded. He couldn’t argue with that one, either. He’d heard about Indian boarding schools. Nothing sounded good about them. Mean nuns. Awful rules. Kids getting beaten or having their mouths washed out with soap for talking in Mandan, Arikara, Hidatsa, or whatever they were used to speaking.

  “Mama says living with Dad is better than boarding school.”

  They reached the schoolyard.

  “You won’t tell, right?” Little Joe said.

  “You got my word,” Grant said. “I swear.”

  Other kids were gathering around the school and heading in the front door. It was too cold to linger in the schoolyard without something to do.

  Suzy Matheison, however, was swinging again. She was the only one actually playing in the schoolyard since the temperature was hovering around zero. Every time she pumped her legs to soar forward through the air, her skirts flew up and exposed thick wool leggings, but Grant thought she still must be freezing. He and Little Joe walked closer. She was singing. And swinging. Again.

  “Not that song again,” Little Joe said, leaning his head to hear if it was the song about spitting blood in a bucket. “I hate that song.”

  Suzy’s voice rang clear on the frozen air.

  “. . . that glorious song of old.


  From angels bending near the earth

  to touch their harps of gold.

  Peace on the earth, good will toward men . . .”

  Grant and Little Joe stopped in their tracks. “Suzy,” Grant said, “why are you still outside? It’s freezing out here.”

  “I can’t sing in there. They make me stop.”

  “That’s too bad,” Little Joe said. “You got a pretty voice. And at least this time, it’s a good song.”

  Suzy’s cold cheeks turned redder. “Thank you.” She smiled down at them and pumped higher in the swing.

  “What’s Santa bringing you this year?” she asked.

  “Santa?” Little Joe choked. “Santa?”

  Grant elbowed Joe so hard he almost doubled over. Harley still believed in Santa Claus, so he knew about pretending for little kids’ sake. Little Joe’s family probably couldn’t afford to pretend that Santa Claus brought presents.

  “What’s he bringing you?” Grant asked Suzy.

  Suzy shrugged and started singing,

  “Jolly Old St. Nicholas, lean your ear this way.

  Don’t you tell a single soul what I’m going to say.

  Christmas Eve is coming soon, now you dear old man.

  Whisper what you’ll bring to me. Tell me if you can.”

  Grant’s toes were going numb. He wanted to get inside the warm school. He felt funny standing here listening to Suzy sing, especially about something as pathetic as believing in Santa Claus, but her voice rang innocent and clear as a bell in the frigid air. Instead of heading into the school, he stood captivated by her song.

  “When the clock is striking twelve,

  When I’m fast asleep,

  Down the chimney broad and black,

  With your pack you’ll creep;

  All the stockings you will find

  Hanging in a row;

  Mine will be the shortest one,

  You’ll be sure to know.”

  And the last verse, she inserted her own words:

  “Joey wants a pair of skates;

  Frank, he wants a rifle;

  Orland wants a set of paints;

  Grant wants a bicycle.”

  Grant’s mouth fell open. “What? How did you know?”

  But she kept singing.

  “As for me, my little brain

  Isn’t very bright;

  Choose for me dear Santa Claus

  What you think is right.”

  She stopped. Singing and swinging. “That’s what I want, Grant O’Grady.” She jumped from the swing, and as she ran toward the school door, the bell started to ring.

  “What?” Grant called. “Wait, Suzy. How’d you know what I want?”

  “I just know, that’s all,” she called over her shoulder.

  Grant and Little Joe stared at each other.

  “You want skates?” Grant asked.

  “Naw.” Joe kicked at the snow while they walked toward the door. “I mean, yeah, I do. I’d love skates, but who’s got money? I ain’t gonna get skates, so I ain’t askin’ for anything to make my mama feel bad. I’d love to skate, though.”

  Grant nodded. He thought about the five-dollar bill Big Joe had thrown on Grumpy’s bar, and clenched his fist.

  “You want a bike?” Little Joe asked.

  “Yeah. Like crazy. Think of how far I could go with a bike. But there’s no money for a bike.”

  “Santa?”

  “Oh, hush up. Harley believes in him. I pretend for his sake. I’m not sure about Shirley, either. I doubt it. She’s Miss Practical. I sure as shootin’ didn’t ask for a bike for Christmas.”

  “Your dad’s got a good job. My dad only works at the blacksmith shop sometimes. And he drinks up that paycheck. But you, Grant O’Grady, you’ll get presents. I bet you get a bike. You’ll see. You can afford to believe in Santa if you want to.”

  Grant’s stomach tightened. It was true. The O’Gradys never went with nothing the way some families did. And having Big Joe for a dad . . . Grant didn’t know what to say. Instead he said, “Beat ya to the door,” and he let Little Joe win.

  Eleven

  Christmas in the Classroom

  Racehorse Romney had nailed two laths crosswise underneath a little spruce tree which stood green and proud, three feet tall, on a table in the classroom, spreading the Christmasy pine smell to every corner of the room.

  “A Christmas tree?” Little Joe said as they tried to slick their hair down, walking into the classroom after removing their wraps and caps.

  Racehorse Romney smiled. “We’ll make our own decorations for an art project. You can make something that you can take home to give your mothers on Friday. So start thinking about what you might want to make for a decoration.”

  “Miss Romney,” Martha Ryerson asked, “how’d you get a spruce tree?”

  Racehorse Romney smiled. “I ordered it. It came on the train all the way from Fargo.”

  Orland was at this seat, sketching.

  “Howdy,” Grant said to him.

  “Howdy,” Orland said, and slid an arm across the paper to cover up this drawing.

  “What? Won’t you let me see?”

  Orland narrowed his eyes at Grant and then moved his arm.

  In soft pencil lines, there was a beautiful little stable with lots of hay sticking out every available inch, and in the middle were wedged a very somber-looking Joseph, a very sweet-looking Mary who resembled Lorraine Woods, and a baby with lines radiating from his head to show that he was lit up with holiness.

  “Wow,” Grant said. “Orland, that’s really good.” He decided not to mention the Lorraine-looking Mary.

  “I wish,” Orland said. “I’d love to be an artist.”

  Grant studied the drawing. “Shucks, Orland, I think you already are. You’re good.”

  Orland looked at him. “Thanks, Grant. But please don’t tell anybody I said that. About wanting to be an artist. I’d get razzed to kingdom come. I just told you. Promise?”

  “I promise, but I think everybody knows anyway.” He thought of Suzy Matheison’s song about Orland wanting paints. “It’s no secret you’re an artist.”

  He wondered why half the countryside seemed to tell him secrets he wasn’t supposed to tell anybody else. It wasn’t fair. It seemed like his job in life was to keep his trap shut for his friends.

  The day dragged. The temperature had dropped below zero again, so the teachers kept everybody inside at recess. They played tic-tac-toe on the blackboard and heads-up-seven-up.

  When they finally got to make Christmas decorations, Grant had decided on pasting together brown pieces of cardboard and construction paper to make a tiny manger that could hang from a branch with string. He couldn’t draw but he could sort of build, so it started out okay. They each had to cut and glue twenty links for a paper chain to wrap around the tree, too.

  “Tree’s gonna be so full of decorations, you won’t see any green,” Frank said, gluing his chain links to Tim Sutton’s, and then passing along the growing chain to Martha Ryerson.

  The next afternoon, Miss Romney surprised them with needles and thread and a big tub of popcorn.

  “Popcorn! Where’d you get this?” asked Tommy. He ate a handful before Racehorse could stop him.

  Racehorse Romney just grinned.

  They each threaded a string of popcorn and got a pile of it to eat, too.

  “This is the best school day ever,” Little Joe said, eating one kernel at a time to make it last a long time.

  They finished their decorations. Grant’s manger mostly stayed together when it dried. He only had to straighten one crooked leg. Orland’s scene had been carefully colored and mounted on cardboard, and it looked so good that Racehorse Romney put it at the tiptop of the tree to show it off. Even Frank had to admit that Orland did a good job. The tree was so pretty and cheerful, it pained Grant to think about dismantling it on Friday to take their respective ornaments home as gifts.

  They drew slips of paper that aftern
oon. “Don’t open them yet,” Racehorse Romney said. “On Friday, we’ll get out early. But in the afternoon, we’ll have a little Christmas party. I want each of you to consider the person whose name you drew and think of something to give this person. Now, I know none of us have much or any money. Don’t go buy something. That’s why I didn’t do this last week. I want you to make something simple, even just a card and write in it what you like most about this person, or what you see as this person’s strengths.” She looked around the room. “But make something for him or her. Understood?”

  Silence.

  “Questions?”

  Silence.

  “All right, then, open the name you drew.

  Grant drew Seward’s name. Racehorse must have cut up a class list before she had deleted him from the roster. He raised his hand. “I drew Sue’s name.”

  “Sue?”

  “Seward.”

  A flicker of confusion showed on Racehorse’s face. She looked in the box she’d used to draw names. “Ah, wait. There’s an extra name wedged in the corner. Come and get it, please.”

  “Joe Thorson,” the paper read. Grant didn’t know whether to be glad or mad. It might be easy to think of something for Joe, but he could have gotten pretty Violet Sutton’s name and then he would have spent a penny on a peppermint stick and tied it with a ribbon, even if they weren’t supposed to buy anything. But Little Joe. Anything he’d like, Little Joe would probably like. He racked his brain and couldn’t think of anything. Skates. A bike, a gun, a new sled. Stuff Joe would love, Grant couldn’t afford. But what on earth could he make?

  Racehorse clapped her hands. “We have ten minutes until final bell. You can use this time to read or start working on your gift or card. If you don’t have any ideas yet, use your time to read. No idleness. ‘Idle hands are the devil’s tools,’ you know.”

  Grant dug out his book, I, Claudius. It was one of the new books in the public library, and Racehorse had said she thought he’d like it. It was about a Roman emperor who was really smart but had a speech impediment. He did like it, but it took a lot of concentration to read.

  * * *

  After school, Shirley and Harley were waiting for Grant at the corner of the schoolyard.