The Paper Cowboy

by Kristin Levine

  Little Skinny stared at the floor, his face so pale, it made his scar look even redder.

  “Your wife . . . ,” I said slowly, putting all the pieces together, “is in the hospital.”

  Mr. McKenzie nodded. “Shortly after Sam was injured, I was sent to a work camp.” He pulled back his left sleeve. Z8914 was tattooed on his forearm.

  I’d heard of the prisoners in German concentration camps with numbers tattooed on their bodies. But I’d never met one.

  “The Z,” he said quietly, “is for Zigeuner. That’s German for ‘Gypsy.’”

  He pulled his sleeve back down. “I should have died there, but my wife managed to bribe a guard and get me out. We had to go into hiding. There wasn’t enough food and my wife got very sick. She’s never been the same since.”

  “She caught tuberculosis,” said Little Skinny. “TB. It’s why she’s going to die.”

  We both turned to look at him.

  Little Skinny’s face was still pale, but I noticed his eyes were brown with yellow flecks, like the muddy water of a stream where a cowboy pans for gold. His hair was the same shade of brown as mine, and he looked angry.

  “She’s not going to die,” said Mr. McKenzie in a voice that was just a bit too bright and cheerful. It was the voice grown-ups always use when they’re telling a lie. “They have drugs to treat it now.”

  Little Skinny said nothing.

  Sometimes I didn’t like my mom, but I didn’t want her to die. I wondered if that was what happened when you spent a lot of time in the hospital. Was Mary Lou going to die too? Medicines didn’t always work. I wanted to say I was sorry. I wanted to tell Little Skinny I hoped his mom really would get better. But before I could find the words, Mr. McKenzie went on.

  “Tommy, I may need you to speak to Officer Russo, to tell him you were the one who placed the newspaper here in the store.”

  “Fine,” I said. “But please don’t tell my mom.”

  He thought about that for a long moment, long enough that I wondered what her reaction had been when she’d realized I was the one who had stolen the yo-yos. “It’s a deal,” he said finally.

  I let out a long breath, one I hadn’t even known I was holding.

  Mr. McKenzie told me not to move and went to make a phone call. He was only gone a minute, and when he came back, he made us sandwiches on heavy dark bread, with thick slabs of roast beef and rich spicy mustard. They were delicious. We ate the sandwiches in silence. I was just finishing the root beer he’d given me when there was a knock at the front door. Mr. McKenzie stood up to answer it.

  That had to be Officer Russo. I didn’t realize I’d have to confess today! The sandwich sat in my stomach like a stone. Mr. McKenzie returned a moment later with Officer Russo. He was the only police officer in Downers Grove and a friend of my father’s. His brown hair was just turning gray, and he’d gained some weight since I’d seen him last. He didn’t have his uniform on, but he still came in and sat down as if this were his interrogation room. Mr. McKenzie handed him a beer.

  “Hear you’ve got a story to tell me, Tommy,” Officer Russo said.

  Believe you me, the last thing I wanted was to rehash what I’d done, but when a cowboy has a nasty horse to shoe, he just tries to get it over with as quickly as possible. So I started talking and when I was done telling him about finding and planting the paper, Officer Russo shook his head.

  “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Where did you find this paper?” he asked.

  “On the paper drive.”

  “So we don’t know where it came from?”

  “No,” I admitted. “But I didn’t throw the brick. Or paint the window. Really I didn’t!”

  “I believe you, Tommy,” said Mr. McKenzie.

  Officer Russo clucked his tongue. “This kind of nonsense takes time away from us pursuing real criminals, like the Rosenbergs. Or Alger Hiss.” He shook his head. “Your dad would be most disappointed if he found out.”

  “Please don’t tell him,” I said. “I mean with my sister, he . . .”

  Officer Russo glanced at Mr. McKenzie.

  Mr. McKenzie stared at me a long time. Then he turned to look at Officer Russo. “As long as you pay no more heed to Mr. Sullivan’s story,” he said finally, “let’s just keep this between the four of us.”

  “No,” said Officer Russo. “We need to let people know who put that paper there. Might help clear your name.”

  “Do you really think that’ll help?” Mr. McKenzie asked.

  Officer Russo took another long sip of his beer. “You know,” he said, “you’re right. It probably won’t. Once a rumor gets started . . .”

  “Then if anyone asks, let’s just say one of the schoolboys did it. Doesn’t matter who,” Mr. McKenzie said firmly.

  “Fine with me,” Officer Russo agreed.

  Relief washed over me like rain after a storm in a dry canyon. “Thank you, Mr. McKenzie.” I wasn’t quite sure why he was helping me. Probably because he felt sorry for my sister. But in any case, I was grateful.

  Mr. McKenzie nodded. “Go on, Sam. Walk Tommy out.”

  Little Skinny made a face, but he stood up and walked me to the front. With one hand on the door, I turned to Little Skinny. I’d dodged all sorts of bullets that day, but there was one more thing I was wondering. “Why didn’t you tell your dad I hit you?”

  Little Skinny snorted.

  “But you could have gotten me expelled.”

  “You think that would make a difference?” he snapped. “You think the others would have been nicer to me?” He looked down again. “It’s the same everywhere. I’ve changed schools a bunch of times. I’ve told my dad. He doesn’t do anything. He just tells me to toughen up.” The spark went out of his eyes and the scar seemed to overwhelm his face.

  I didn’t know what to say. “It’s too bad about your mom,” I muttered finally.

  “Yeah, well.” He paused. “Your sister said hello and smiled at me on the first day of school. She was the only one who did that. She seemed nice.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “She’s pretty special.”

  “Is her face burned?” he asked suddenly.

  “No,” I said. “Just a little mark on her forehead. Her legs are the worst.”

  “Good,” he said. “Legs can be covered. Not faces.”

  For the first time, I really looked at his scar. It was just red, puckered skin. Nothing really scary at all. Kind of like when you pick a scab off your elbow and it’s not quite healed yet. Were Mary Lou’s legs like that too? One huge big scab that would be picked off?

  “Any idea who the communist really is?” Little Skinny wondered aloud.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I mean, you said you found it on the paper drive.”

  He had been listening.

  “That means it had to belong to someone in our neighborhood.”

  “Yeah!” I agreed.

  “Maybe if you could find out who the real communist is, people might believe it’s not my dad.”

  I thought about what Little Skinny had said as I walked home. I owed Mr. McKenzie now. For stealing the yo-yos. And getting his window broken. And most of all, for not telling my dad about the paper. A cowboy always paid his debts. Maybe I should try to figure out who the communist was. Gary Cooper followed his gut. And if I had to place a bet, I’d put my money on the Russian lady who lived next door.

  13

  THE DEAL

  The question was, how could I get into the Russian lady’s house and find something, a membership card or another newspaper, that would prove she was the communist? Even though she lived next door—and had for years—we weren’t exactly friendly. I needed a reason to go and talk to her.

  On the first of October, Sister Ann provided me with the perfect excuse. Every year St. Joe’s raised money to send to Catholic mis
sions around the world by having a magazine sale. The Russians were our allies during the war, you know. They helped our boys liberate Poland and Hungary and Czechoslovakia from the Nazis. But once the war was over, the Soviets stayed and took over the local governments in those countries. As Sister Ann put it, “It is a race to save the souls of all those poor people in Eastern Europe from the Red Menace, those godless communists in the Soviet Union.” That was why we needed to support the missions—to fight the spread of communism, to help stop its slow creep across Europe.

  In any case, we were supposed to go door-to-door to all our friends and neighbors to see how many magazine subscriptions we could sell. So that night after dinner, I set out. My plan was to visit everyone on Mary Lou’s paper route, saving the Russian lady for last. The truth was, now that I was actually going to do it, I was a little scared. I mean, I’d never spoken to a real live communist before. It was like I was in the movies and I was on a secret mission.

  The first few families each purchased several magazines. Ma and Pa bought Woman’s Day, American Rifleman and Boys’ Life (for their grandson, of course). I felt a little envious. He only visited them on holidays and in the summer, and yet they were willing to pay for the magazine for the whole year. I imagined them saving the extra issues in a closet and presenting them to him when he arrived.

  I moved on to the next house, but the old lady I visited there refused to buy a thing—not even Look or Life, and everybody bought those. I couldn’t get her to budge, not until I mentioned my poor sister Mary Lou, and how she was still in the hospital. Then she couldn’t pull out her wallet fast enough. I felt a little guilty about that, but I shook it off.

  The seamstress, Mrs. Scully, bought three subscriptions: Life, House & Garden and Model Railroader.

  “Who’s that one for?” I asked.

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Scully, blushing a little. “Model Railroader is for me.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  She nodded. “My husband”—she crossed herself—“God bless his rotten soul. When he wasn’t spending all his money on booze, he bought model train cars. Hundreds of them. He had a whole basement full of them.” She shrugged. “Funny, it bugged me no end when he was alive. But now, I kind of like them.”

  It was fully dark by the time I walked up the path at the Russian lady’s house. Except it wasn’t really a path. There were no paving stones, just a piece of plywood thrown over a big muddy patch in the front yard. There was accordion music coming from inside, a lively polka. She sounded as good as Dick Contino. If I could sell her a magazine, it would give me an excuse to come to her house again. And if I could search her house and find another newspaper, or a communist party membership card or a telegram from Moscow, maybe I could use that evidence to clear Mr. McKenzie’s name.

  I had to knock on her door three times before she answered it, wearing a shapeless dress so faded, I couldn’t tell what color it might have once been. “Why should I buy?” she asked when I finished my pitch. Her wispy white hair swayed in the evening breeze like cobwebs.

  I lowered my eyes and put a pious yet tearful look on my face. “You know, my sister Mary Lou is still in the hospital.”

  “I know,” she said. “Does her no good if I buy copy.”

  That may have been true, but no one else had dared to say it. “Well, then, uh . . . Life tells you what’s going on in the world.”

  “In English. I no read good.”

  “What?” I asked. “You get the paper.”

  “To learn!” she said. “To see pictures. Read headlines.”

  “Well, that’s fine, then. Life has lots of great pictures!”

  She gave me a funny look.

  “You don’t have to read it,” I insisted.

  “No,” she said firmly. “Why I buy magazine I no read? Stupid.” She crossed her arms in front of her huge bosom.

  “Maybe you should learn to read English.”

  “Of course I should learn.” She sighed. “Why you think I get paper for five years!”

  “Can I come in and show you—”

  “No!”

  “Well,” I said slowly, coming up with an even better idea, one that would definitely get me in her house. “I could teach you to read English.”

  “You?”

  “Sure.”

  “I no take charity,” she said.

  “Oh, it wouldn’t be charity,” I said. “We’d trade.”

  “Trade what?”

  I thought fast. I couldn’t exactly ask her to teach me all about communism. But I did remember the music I always heard coming from her house. “I’ll teach you to read English,” I said. “And you can teach me to play the accordion.”

  I grinned.

  She gave me another funny look. “You want learn accordion?”

  “Of course!” Actually, I’d never considered it before. But I remembered Mom playing the Dick Contino records around the house. I was pretty sure she’d love the idea.

  “Okay,” she said finally. “I buy the Saturday Evening Post.” She grinned back at me, her mouth full of rotten teeth. “Such pretty pictures. You come by Sunday afternoon, we start our lessons.”

  It wasn’t until I was walking in my front door that I realized I’d committed to going into a communist’s house. To spend time with her. She might corrupt me. Brainwash me into becoming a supporter of the Soviet Union. It felt dangerous—and a little bit exciting too.

  I was right. Mom loved the idea when I told her about it the next evening after dinner.

  “Yes, yes,” she exclaimed, “then you can play carols at Christmas. And ‘Auld Lang Syne’ on New Year’s Eve! Just like Busia used to do.” Her eyes brightened at that. “Come with me.”

  I followed Mom into the hall and up the little pull-down ladder that led into the attic. We rarely went up there. There were just a bunch of boxes, including one of Dad’s old papers from his semester at college. Every time the paper drive rolled around, Mom begged him to get rid of it. But he never did. I think having it there made him feel smart.

  We climbed past the boxes. You had to be careful in the attic. There wasn’t really a floor, only boards laid across the rafters. If you accidentally stepped off the wooden planks, you’d go straight through the ceiling.

  “There!” Mom pointed to a large, squat suitcase in the corner.

  It took a bit of careful shoving and pushing, but finally I managed to get the suitcase down the ladder.

  “What is it?” I asked Mom, whose eyes were gleaming like Pinky’s when she’s given a lollipop.

  “Open it and see,” she said.

  I carefully undid the three rusted clasps.

  It was an accordion. A big, shiny one. The bellows flashed red, gold and green as I pushed the air in and out.

  “It was your grandfather’s,” Mom said, giving me a rare hug. “You never got to meet him, because he died before you were born. But he’d be so happy if he could see you with his accordion today.”

  And here’s the worst thing about my mom’s moods: there she was, acting completely nice and normal. And instead of enjoying it, all I could think was, great, how long is it going to last this time?

  14

  TEA FOR TWO

  Sunday after church, I found myself lugging the accordion on my old red wagon next door to the Russian lady’s house. According to the paper route cards, her name was Mrs. Anastasia Glazov. The pumpkins in her vegetable garden were enormous. Carefully, I rolled the wagon over the plank that led to the front door. The plank rattled loudly and suddenly the door opened.

  “What you doing here?” Mrs. Glazov asked, hands on her hips. She was wearing either the same dress as before or another one that was equally faded.

  “I promised to teach you to read.”

  She scowled. “That lie you told to get me buy magazine.”

  “No,
” I protested. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  She gestured to the suitcase. “What this?”

  “An accordion.” I grinned. “You’re still going to teach me to play, right?”

  Finally, she threw her head back and laughed. “Fine. Come in. I make you tea.”

  So with a touch of fear and a touch of excitement (I was going to root out a real live communist!), I ducked into her little wooden shack, lifting the accordion off the wagon and placing it just inside the door.

  The only light came from the window and one kerosene lamp. The walls were the same rough-hewn wood that could be seen outside. The room was neat and tidy enough, but there wasn’t much furniture, just a small wooden table and three plain, hard chairs. Everywhere there were piles of magazines and newspapers. I didn’t see any copies of the Daily Worker, but surely she wouldn’t leave them out in plain view. A large wood-burning stove sat in one corner. It heated the room, and I guess she also cooked on it.

  On the stove was a fat, barrel-shaped pot. But it was too pretty to be a normal kettle. It looked like copper, shiny, with little carvings all over it. On top of the barrel sat a teapot. Mrs. Glazov caught me looking at it.

  “My samovar,” she announced proudly. “Nazis take my old one, send me work camp. Me! Old woman. But I survive. And when I arrive in America, first thing I do, I buy new samovar.”

  Mr. McKenzie had said he was in a camp with communists. She had to be the one! But I needed proof.

  “Sit!” she told me.

  So I did. Mrs. Glazov brought over a plate of tiny sandwiches, open-faced, with pats of butter. Some had ham or green vegetables that looked like cucumbers on top. On the table there was also a sugar bowl and a plate of lemons, sliced so thin, you could practically see right through them.

  “Didn’t think you come,” she said, blushing. “But hoped.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “How you like your tea?” she asked.

  “Uhhh,” I said. I didn’t usually drink tea.

  “Not too strong for growing boy,” she said. She picked up a cup, or actually it was a half cup made of metal, and inserted a plain glass inside. Then she took the teapot from the top of the samovar and poured a thick black liquid into the glass. Only a little, just so it barely covered the bottom. Then she replaced the teapot and added some hot water to the glass from a little spout near the bottom of the samovar.