“Billiards is the game on that table,” Grant said. “You play it with sticks and balls that look like they’re made of china.”
“Like baseball?”
“No, silly. You can watch.”
“No! I wanna play!”
“Watch the first time, to figure it out, and then you can play,” Grant said.
Harley stuck his lip out so far, Grant said, “Be careful, ’cause you know what birds do on lips that stick out like a perch.”
Harley gave him a shove and frowned, but took his place beside the billiard table, eyes barely even with the top of the table, waiting to see the show.
“See? You can’t really play. You can’t even see the table.”
“Can so.”
So Shirley and Grant played. Neither of them were any good at sinking balls in the holes, so the game took forever. The motion of shooting hurt Grant’s elbow, but he figured it was good for it to be limbering up. They kept score just by the number of balls they smacked in, not even paying attention to the cue ball. Grant shot two right off the table and Shirley kept hitting the ball so low it jumped on the table. They were down to the two and the nine when the door slammed open and Big Joe filled the doorway.
Shirley shrank away from the door, and practically flew around the table to Slider’s side. He put an arm around her and pulled Harley back to him by the shoulder.
“Kids! Goll-durn kids in the tavern?” Big Joe lurched, two steps in and one step sideways.
Grant moved around the pool table to be out of his path.
“Slider, them’s your kids, ain’t they?” He staggered two steps farther toward them. “’Course they are,” he said, looking Grant up and down. “I know that young, good-for-nothin’ hooligan. Whatchyou doin’ bringin’ your own kids to the tavern, Sheriff? At least I got the sense to leave my kids home with their ma. Billyards, huh? Wanme ta show ya how ta play? Billiar . . . No place fer . . .” and he crumpled and slid like a noodle over the edge of the table onto the floor. Grant stepped closer and looked. Big Joe was face-down, wedged against the billiard table, out cold.
Askil and Lawrence once again turned back to their drinks.
“Is he dead?” Harley asked.
“No, no, he’s not dead.”
“Just dead drunk, young feller,” said Grumpy. “Happens to him a lot. Take a lesson from Big Joe. Don’t drink that much when you grow up.”
Slider chuckled. “Nope. You listen to Grumpy on that one. He knows his drunks.”
“That I do.”
“But I have an idea,” Slider said. “Look here, Harley. Now you can play, too. You got a ready-made stool. You can stand right on Big Joe’s back.” And he lifted Harley so he stood square on Big Joe’s huge, broad back. He picked up a cue stick and showed him how to hold it.
“New game,” Grant said, and so they played, with Harley standing on Big Joe. After about twenty misses, Harley got sick of it and just rolled the balls with his hands. He got one in the hole and jumped up and down. Big Joe moaned but didn’t move.
“Well, don’t jump on him. Stand still, for cryin’ out loud,” Slider said.
“I forgot.” Harley said.
And they finished their game.
Grant chugged the last of his root beer. “I gotta go to the train. Dad, can these two stay with you?”
“I’ll take ’em home,” Slider said. “See you gentlemen tomorrow. I did promise Mamie I’d stay put at home tonight.”
The four of them stepped around Big Joe and outside and pulled their coats tighter. The temperature had dropped back toward freezing as the sun sank in the west.
“Why does he do that?” Shirley asked when they were in the street.
“Who? What?”
“Big Joe. Drink ’til he passes clean out.”
“I think,” Slider said, “he drinks to forget who he’s with.”
“Dad, that doesn’t make sense,” Grant said. “Mrs. Thorson’s beautiful, and his kids are all good kids, and besides that, he’s by himself almost all the time. He hardly ever goes home.”
“That what I mean,” Slider said, “He doesn’t like his own company, so he drinks to forget who he’s with when he’s by himself.”
Grant looked at his dad and thought this over.
“One more lesson from Big Joe,” Slider added. “Don’t ever turn into somebody you don’t want to spend your time with. Don’t be somebody you don’t like.”
Grant thought about that all the way to the train.
Twenty-Five
Hospitals and Mothers
Mamie stayed away for two nights. When Grant came home from school two days later, the smell of custard pie met him at the door. “Mom!”
“Hello, Granty.” She came to the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a flour-sack towel.
“How’s Grandma?”
“Your grandmother is as stubborn and stringy as an old goat. And probably not long for this world.”
Grant hung up his coat on the hook by the door and slid into a chair at the table. Mamie scooped him a piece of pie and Grant smiled his thanks while he waited for her to say more.
“I took her to the doctor, finally, and he said she could be treated if she went to the hospital. She, of course, refused. Said a hospital is no place for an old woman, and she’d see to herself just fine.” Mamie shook her head. “That woman.”
“I’m glad—” Grant tried to stop himself before he said too much, but it was already half out of his mouth.
“What? You’re glad what?”
“That you didn’t bring her home with you. I was afraid you’d have to. And we’d have to live with her. And . . . and I’m glad you’re not like your mother.”
Mamie turned toward him, the ghost of a smile on her face. “Thank you, Grant O’Grady. I take that as a supreme compliment. You weren’t welcome at her house. So I suppose it’s only fair that she’s not coming to ours. And I wouldn’t want to put you through what I—”
“What you what?”
“Eat your pie.”
Mamie sat down at the table, the flour-sack towel in her lap. “Actually, I invited her to come stay with us.”
Grant’s head jerked up.
“But she flat-out refused. Said ‘no way in tarnation.’ She said, ‘If a cancer is going to send me to my grave, I’ll go there from my own house, where nobody will try to boss me around, not from that sheriff’s house, with three snivel-nosed kids gawking at me.’” Mamie looked out the window. “It’s a sad thing, Grant, to leave your mother to die alone, but I had to do it.”
Grant ate his pie.
Twenty-Six
Honey
The Thursday before Palm Sunday, the sun streamed through the schoolroom windows.
“The ball field should be dry in a couple weeks,” Orland said as he passed Grant on his way out. “Can’t wait.”
“You can say that again,” Grant said, but he slowed. What if his arm didn’t work? He hadn’t tried real pitching yet. He stalled, gathering his books, hoping he could avoid all the ballplayers on his way home.
When Grant was the last one still in the schoolroom, Racehorse Romney asked him to help her move a bookshelf.
They each toted an end of the big wooden shelves. He was glad he had strength in his arm again. He was relieved he could carry it with a straight arm, like he carried crates and milk cans at Sims’s store.
“Grant, what did you think of I, Claudius? I know you read it back over Christmas. It’s one of my favorites.”
“It was all right. Actually, it was really good. I almost forgot about it. I liked learning about the Roman Empire. I’d like to read some more about it, I guess.”
“Good, I’m glad.” She reached up on a shelf. “You should read the sequel, then. Claudius the God and His Wife Messalina. What else have you been reading?”
“When I was in the hospital and this winter, I read all Jack London’s stories I could find, and Gulliver’s Travels, and Arabian Nights, and a couple books by Hemingwa
y.”
Racehorse Romney straighted up, her hand on her back. “All that? You do amaze me.”
“Well, my arm was stuck in in a cast. It’s not like I had anything else I could do but read.” He grinned at Miss Romney.
“You may be the first truly literate major league baseball player in our history,” she said, smiling. “I’m alphabetizing all the books in our library by author on this new bookshelf. Would you like to help me? I imagine you’ve read as much of it as anybody in the school.”
Grant couldn’t help smiling back. “Sure.”
So they worked, side by side, shelving books. Grant felt his face grow warm whenever she got within touching distance of his arm.
She said, “I haven’t had a chance to read this new Hemingway yet. What did you think of him?”
“I liked him. Farewell to Arms was swell. Except I didn’t like Men Without Women.”
“I never read The Big Leaguer, either,” she said. “I see you checked it out three time since we got it in the fall. You like it?”
Grant looked at her and rocked back on his heels. The book she held, by William Heyliger, had been published last year. “I liked it,” he said. “’Cause it’s about the big leagues. But I don’t like something about it—maybe how he puts the words together—as much as some other books. Still,” he grinned at Racehorse as he said this, “I did read it three times.”
She smiled and nodded. They worked quietly for a bit. Grant forgot everything but stories and the closeness of Racehorse Romney.
Then Miss Romney said, “The gossip around town is that your surgeon in Grand Forks was a Jew. Is that true?”
“Yeah. He’s really nice. Has a thick accent, but he’s nice. Why?”
“Where’s he from?”
“Germany.”
“He’s lucky.”
“Why lucky? The Jews in Germany don’t sound very lucky to me.”
“Lucky because he got out. Did he talk about Germany at all?”
Grant stopped, holding a poetry book by Yates. “Yeah, he did, actually. He asked us if it was obvious in the news how much Hitler hates Jews. And he said he was trying to talk the rest of his relatives into leaving Germany before something really bad happens.”
“Are they leaving?”
“Some are. His brother and his dad wouldn’t listen.”
“Did he say why?”
“Because they don’t believe their great government—they called it the Reich—could do anything really bad to them.”
“I hope they pay attention, and I hope they get out, Grant.” She stood, brushing off her skirt. “I think it’s worse than anybody thought it could be. I think Hitler is a madman who knows how to sweet-talk a crowd. The Germans love him, but I don’t think anybody knows what’s really going on.”
“That’s kind of what my dad said.”
“Hmmm.”
“Miss Romney? Do you understand it? What would make somebody want to punish a whole bunch of people like the Jews because they’re different? Because they aren’t Aryan? I just don’t get it. What if President Roosevelt all of a sudden said that the Irish didn’t get to own houses or have jobs?”
“Or, what if the Irish had to move onto reservations and couldn’t live where they’d always lived? And what if you couldn’t live with your parents and you had to go away to a boarding school?”
Grant slid the Yates book in front of Yeats on the shelf. “Like the Indians, you mean.”
“Exactly.”
Grant’s head reeled. He hadn’t thought of that, that making the Indians live on reservations was like what the führer did to the Jews. “Miss Romney, I asked Little Joe why his mom doesn’t leave his dad, and he said it’s ’cause they’d have to go back to Fort Berthold Reservation to be with her people, and then Little Joe and his sisters would have to go to the boarding school.”
“Those aren’t very good options,” Racehorse Romney said. “I hate the idea of boarding schools. But I do worry about Little Joe.” She slid the last book onto the shelf, one by Emile Zola. “Well, Grant, it’s getting late. I imagine you’d better run along home. Thank you for all the help. And the conversation about books. I don’t know many folks who want to talk about books in this town.”
Grant felt his face get red and hot as he stood, shaking the cramps out of his legs and flexing his elbow. In the distance, he heard the faint ring of the church bell.
“Holy mackerel! What time is it?”
Miss Romney nodded her head toward the classroom clock. Four o’clock.
“I have to go! I was supposed to help out at Sims’s store before the train comes!”
“Thank you again for your staying to help, then, Grant.”
Grant sprinted home for his wagon.
Mamie stuck her head out the back door. “Where you been, young man?”
“Helping Racehorse Romney.”
“You use respect when you talk about your teacher, young man. Slider got a quarter of beef from the Siebolts. I could have used some help cutting it up.”
“Sorry, Mom. Miss Romney. I started helping, and then I forgot.”
She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Let a body know where you’re at, will you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I forgot Sims, too, so I might have to help him after the train. I need to check if Sims needs me after I go get coal.”
“Yes, indeed. I used a fair amount of coal today in the cookstove canning all this beef. So we need a good load. Run along. No dawdling this time. Be home on time for supper.”
Grant grabbed his wagon and trotted toward Main Street. He could see a faint ribbon of smoke from the train far in the distance. He had maybe twenty minutes, but no more until the train pulled up to the Larkin stop.
He parked the wagon in the alley behind the store. The back door stood open, letting the sunshine and spring breeze into the store. Grant went inside with it.
Mr. Sims stood behind the counter, talking to Mrs. Swanson. Frank’s mom held a fancy flowered shopping bag bulging with food. On top, Grant could see white butcher paper, so he knew that Frank would be having beef for supper tonight, too.
Mr. Sims nodded and said, “Afternoon, Grant.”
“Mr. Sims,” he said. “Mrs. Swanson.”
“Hello, Granty,” Mrs. Swanson said, “How’s that elbow of yours?” and turned back to Mr. Sims without wanting an answer.
“Getting better,” Grant said because it would seem impolite not to answer, even if the woman wasn’t listening. What a mom she must be. No wonder Frank looked for ways to get into trouble. Maybe his mom looked at him more when he got in trouble.
Mrs. Swanson could talk a blue streak, and Grant was afraid he wouldn’t get a word in edgewise if he waited, so between sentences, before she could open he mouth again, he blurted, “Mr. Sims, sorry I came so late. I was helping Racehorse—I mean Miss Romney—with a new bookshelf, and I forgot the time.”
Sims lifted his eyes to Grant’s and winked. “It’s okay, son. Not much to do today, and it’s about time for the train, isn’t it?”
Grant nodded.
“There’s a crate of honey out back. Needs to be unloaded and shelved. And some butter to put in the cold room. And we got flour and beans from the livery, too, but that’s all fifty-pound sacks, so I’ll get it later. If you want to put away the honey and butter before the train gets here, that would be plenty today.”
“Yes, sir!”
Mrs. Swanson humphed. Grant didn’t so much hear it as feel it on the back of his neck.
Grant headed down the aisle, out of sight.
Two wooden crates of honey sat, as if Sims had been ready to start stacking them himself when Mrs. Swanson showed up. The butter was still enclosed in sawdust inside a wooden crate, just inside the back door.
Grant retrieved Sims’s claw hammer to pull the nails from the crates. The claw hammer made his elbow hurt and his eyes twitch. He figured he’d never see a hammer without remembering how a hammer felt slamming into his elbow on the c
hurch roof.
Hurrying, he carried the two crates of butter into the back room, where blocks of ice and sawdust lined the wall to keep meat, milk, cheese, and butter cold. He felt his elbow stretch with the strain. People usually bought their dairy products directly from the creamery, but in the winter the cows in the county gave less milk, so Sims got a shipment of milk and butter once a week.
He turned his attention to the quart jars of honey and his mouth started watering. Honey was his favorite treat in the world. “Clover Honey,” the labels read. “Cottonwood Farm, Bettendorf, Iowa.” This must be last year’s, he thought. Nobody would have clover this early in the spring, not even in Iowa!
He put all the jars on the shelf where they belonged and moved all the crates out back, where Sims could use them again, or sometimes sell the lathes to customers. A stack of fifty-pound flour sacks and beans rested against the back wall.
Done with all his work and about a minute to spare before he needed to run for the train, he picked up the last golden jar of honey. He could imagine the taste dribbling over his tongue. He pretended he had money to buy it, and held it in his hands like a treasure as he moved along the butcher case, looking at bacon, chops, steaks, and ground beef stacked on shaved ice. Fresh sausages sat like a stack of logs along the end of the glass case, and three butchered chickens nested in chipped ice. He hugged the honey to his chest and wished Mrs. Swanson would leave and Mr. Sims would come back here. Sometimes if he walked along the butcher case and looked hungry, Mr. Sims would give him a sliver of his home-cured jerky, but Mrs. Swanson was still talking Mr. Sims’s ear off at the front of the store, so Mr. Sims never looked his way. Grant headed back toward the honey shelf to replace the jar and then run for the train.
The front door bell dinged, and Grant looked to see who came in. Suzy Matheison. She carried her mother’s shopping bag and a list. She walked toward the meat counter and spotted Grant. “Why, Grant O’Grady!” she said. “Whatever are you doing here?”
“I . . . I work here some after school.”
“I didn’t know. If I had, I’d have asked my mum to send me on errands every day!” She looked up into Grant’s face, beamed, and laughed.
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