Pa didn’t say a word. Just stood up and took off his coat and held it out to me.
“No, that’s okay,” I said.
“Put it on,” he said.
So I did. The jacket was still warm and smelled like a pipe. And then I thought, why not? Why not just tell him everything? “And guess where the commie paper came from?” I said quickly, before I could chicken out.
“I don’t know,” Pa said evenly.
“From my dad. My dad is the communist!”
“Really?” Pa asked mildly.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Pfft,” he said, waving a hand in the air. “Reading a paper doesn’t make you a communist.”
“Sure it does.”
“Does stealing a yo-yo make you a thief?”
I thought about that. I didn’t think I was a thief. And yet I had stolen a yo-yo. But I had realized I’d made a mistake. I kept thinking and thinking as yet another train pulled into the station. “Well,” I said, embarrassed, “thanks for listening.”
“Are you done?”
“Don’t you have to go?” I asked.
He looked thoughtful for a moment, chewing on the white whiskers on his upper lip. “No,” he said. “They are sad old men who only complain about their lives.”
“But if they’re your friends . . .”
“I think . . . ,” Pa said slowly. “I think, here, I might actually be able to do something.”
He stood up and leaned on the cane for a moment. “Don’t tell Ma I actually used it!” he warned.
I zipped my lips shut.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to get you home.”
Pa hailed a taxi. The car was warm and dry. But the closer we got to my house, the more I shivered. “Pinky and Susie . . .”
“Yes,” Pa said. “We’ll check on them now.”
In no time at all, we were pulling onto my street. The front door was slightly open. Mom’s car was gone. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
Pa paid the taxi driver and together we walked up the front steps. The coat was big on me, the edges dragging in the snow. Pa gripped my arm and I was surprised at how much braver I felt, even if he was just a wrinkled old man.
“Hello,” I called out as I pushed open the door.
No one answered, but the living room was a mess. The coffee table was overturned, magazines and newspapers scattered everywhere. Dad’s belt was still lying on the floor.
“Hello?” Pa called. “Anyone home?”
Mrs. Glazov hurried out of the nursery. She was wearing Mom’s flowered apron. “Oh, good, Tommy. It’s you.”
I was surprised to see her. “What are you doing here?”
Her milky blue eyes filled with tears, and she picked at a string on the pocket of the apron. “I sorry, Tommy,” she said finally.
“For what?”
“I live right next door,” she said sheepishly. “I hear things. Like today. But I not know what to do. I mother, I lose my temper too. When’s too much . . .” She shook her head. “I should help. I see your mother drive off, crazy-like. And still, I not act. But when I see Pinky, alone in snow, calling for you. I know I need to do something.”
She put her hand on one of mine.
I blinked, my eyes blurry. “Where is Pinky? And Susie . . . ?”
“They fine,” said Mrs. Glazov. “Both sleeping now.”
“And Mrs. Wilson?” asked Pa.
“Gone,” said Mrs. Glazov. “I not know where.”
The three of us walked around the house, and it was like I was seeing it again for the first time in a long while. The dishes piled in the sink. The dust bunnies under the tables. The piles of laundry in the bedrooms. “This house is a mess,” said Pa.
I felt angry. “I’m doing my best! Mom doesn’t help anymore. She just lies in bed and—”
“Tommy.” Mrs. Glazov laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. “It not your fault.”
Pa nodded. “I’ll call Ma. Have her come over and help us clean up.”
While Pa dialed his wife and talked to her rapidly in a language I didn’t understand, I walked around the kitchen, opening drawers. Finally, I found it. Mom’s notebook of phone numbers. On the first page was listed: Robert John Wilson, Western Electric. I’d never called the number before.
“Yes, yes,” Pa added in English. “I still have the cane!”
He hung up. “Not a word!” he said to me. “If she finds out I actually used it, I’ll never be allowed to take a step without it again.”
I smiled. “I found my dad’s number,” I said. “Do you think . . . ?”
Pa nodded. “Call him.” He left to join Mrs. Glazov in the living room. I could hear them talking quietly as they picked up the papers and magazines and righted the coffee table.
The phone sat on the wall like a big black beetle. I took off Pa’s coat and laid it carefully over a chair. Then I took a deep breath and pinned on Mary Lou’s star.
My fingers trembled only a little as I dialed the number.
“Hello, Western Electric. How may I help you?”
It was a woman’s voice. I’d expected my father. But of course there’d be a telephone operator instead. “Hi,” I said. “May I speak to my dad? Please.”
The woman giggled a bit. “Sure, hon. Who’s your father?”
“Robert John Wilson.”
“One moment.”
It seemed like she was gone forever. The house was quiet. So quiet. In the nursery, Susie started to cry and Pinky called out, “Mommy!” I heard Mrs. Glazov shushing them.
“Tommy?”
It was my dad this time.
“Tommy, are you okay?” I didn’t think I’d ever heard him so worried. It kind of made me feel good.
“Yeah,” I said, “I’m fine.”
“Then why . . . is Mary Lou . . . ?”
“No,” I said. “It’s Mom.” I explained how she’d beat me and hit Pinky and I’d run away and how Pinky had been out in the snow alone, and how Mr. Kopecky and Mrs. Glazov had come to help, and I sounded calmer than I’d imagined I would.
“Let me call the hospital,” he said. “I’m sure she’s just gone there. I’ll call you back in a minute.”
He hung up and I stared at the dishes. There was a great big pile of them on the counter. I did my best in the evenings, but I never quite managed to get caught up. I heard the front door open, and a moment later, Mrs. Kopecky barreled into the kitchen. “Okay, Tommy,” she ordered, hands on her hips. “We wash.”
Without another word, she started filling the sink with sudsy hot water. I helped Ma wash the dishes and the hot water felt good on my cold hands. I was so worried and angry, I wanted to pick up a glass and smash it against the wall. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to be like Mom.
When the phone rang again, I jumped. It kept ringing as I quickly dried my hands on a dish towel and went to pick it up. “Hello?”
“Tommy.” It was my dad. “I found your mother. She’s at the hospital.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, remembering. “She said she had a meeting with Mary Lou’s doctors.”
“No,” my dad said. He sounded funny. “She was . . . injured.”
“What?” My breath suddenly caught in my throat and my feet felt colder than they had in the snowbank. Ma must have noticed too, because she froze, a dirty plate in the air, a bunch of soap bubbles dripping off one edge. I watched them fall onto the counter. Sometimes I hated my mom, but I didn’t want her dead.
“What’s going on?” I said. “Tell me!”
“Your mom did drive to the hospital to see Mary Lou. But as she was pulling into the parking lot, apparently she had an accident.”
37
THE ROPE
Dad didn’t know exactly what had happened, just that Mom had been admitted. Ma a
nd Pa decided they would drive me to the hospital to meet Dad. Mrs. Glazov would stay home with my sisters. I nodded and followed Pa to the car, obedient as a lassoed calf.
We got stuck at the railroad crossing, just like on that other ride, the one I had taken with Mom and Mary Lou. Was Mom hurt bad, as bad as Mary Lou? Pa chattered on and on as he drove.
“From what you say, Tommy, I believe your mother is suffering from melancholia. A damping of spirits, brought on by a number of different factors. She probably always had an innate tendency to it, but it can be greatly exacerbated by major life events such as death, birth, injury, all of which your family has experienced in the past year.
“I studied this in Vienna, before the war. I never missed the Saturday-evening lectures by Dr. Sigmund Freud at the university. There are many techniques to be used in such a case: dream analysis, hypnosis . . .”
He continued on and on, but I found it hard to listen. If Mom died, she couldn’t whip me anymore. Maybe then I could breathe in my own house. But the fact that I was even thinking that made me feel awful. I loved my mom! Didn’t I? Sometimes she was nice. And what would Pinky and Susie do without her? They were still little, and little kids need their mom.
The car was old and the shocks were bad. Every time we went over a bump, I remembered Mary Lou moaning in pain. Ma had insisted on sitting in the back with me. She reached over and held my hand. I squeezed it back and held on tight, as my thoughts went round and round.
When we arrived, Dad and Dr. Stanton were sitting in the waiting room, talking in low voices. Dad was sitting stiffly, as if he’d been riding a horse all day and hadn’t quite remembered he was out of the saddle. Dr. Stanton looked tired too. He ran his hand though his salt-and-pepper.
Dad stood up as we entered. “Tommy!” He ran over and gave me a hug. I wasn’t sure when was the last time he’d looked that happy to see me. It made me glad, and then I felt awful. Awful to feel happy that now my mother was in the hospital too.
“Is she . . . is Mom going to be okay?” I asked.
Dad nodded. “She’s got some bruises and bumps and they’re going to keep her in the hospital overnight, but, yeah, she’s fine. Physically, at least.”
I was so relieved, my legs went rubbery and numb and I had to sit down on the couch.
“I spoke to the physician who treated her,” Dr. Stanton said. “I’m not sure what to recommend once she’s released. We could send her to a sanatorium, but . . .”
“A sanatorium?” Dad asked.
I wasn’t exactly sure what that was, but the look on Dad’s face made me think it wasn’t good.
“Perhaps,” Dr. Stanton said gently.
“You’ve been our family doctor a long time.” Dad sounded defeated. “We’ll do what you think best.”
“If I may,” interrupted Pa, “perhaps I can offer another solution. I am a doctor of psychiatry, trained with Freud, Adler and Jung before the war, even published a couple of articles about melancholia, though that’s years ago now. I would be happy to try treating her at my home.”
“At your home?” Dad asked.
“Yes,” Ma continued. “We’d be more than happy to have Mrs. Wilson stay with us for a few weeks. It’s no imposition. The rest would do her good as much as anything else.”
Dad looked confused. He glanced at Dr. Stanton.
“I don’t really believe in the talking cure,” Dr. Stanton said. Then he shrugged. “But I guess you could try it, rather than immediately sending her away.”
“I don’t know,” Dad said. “I just don’t know what to do.” He buried his face in his hands. Dr. Stanton put a hand on his back.
“It’s up to you, Robert,” Dr. Stanton said kindly.
Dad took a deep breath. “We’ll manage all right with her at home. I’ll do more and Tommy . . .”
I couldn’t believe it. Dad was turning them both down. I didn’t think I had it in me to do any more. There was already the paper route and the dishes and the cleaning and taking care of Pinky and Susie, all the while tiptoeing on eggshells around Mom. “No, Dad,” I interrupted. “I’m sorry. But we just can’t handle Mom by ourselves anymore.”
Dad sat down next to me on that ugly brown couch, the one I’d sat on so many times with Pinky, and he started to cry. It was even worse than when Mr. McKenzie had cried, because this was my father. Dads weren’t supposed to cry. I wanted to run away again, but the sheriff’s star was still pinned to my shirt. I had to make him understand.
“Dad,” I said. “Do you remember the time the Lone Ranger was stuck in the mine, all alone, and he tried everything but couldn’t find a way out? And then Tonto came and lowered a rope to him?”
“Yes,” my dad choked out. “We listened to that episode together. Why?”
“Please,” I said. “Let them be our Tonto. ’Cause we really, really need a rope.”
He looked up at me then, the tears moistening the crevices in his cheeks like a desert canyon after a hard rain. “Okay,” he said.
“So what would you like to do?” asked Dr. Stanton. “The sanatorium? Or the talking cure?”
“The talking cure, I guess,” Dad said. “I’m not ready to send Catherine away.”
Pa looked thrilled. I remembered how he’d never liked being a chicken farmer. He had been a doctor and now he could be one again.
The grown-ups huddled together to work out the details. I slipped away and ran up the stairs to tell Mary Lou the news. But my sister wasn’t in her bed. I glanced around and saw her halfway down the hall. She was walking! I mean, she was holding on to the railing on the side of the wall for dear life, but she was walking.
“Mary Lou!” I cried.
She turned, smiled and nearly fell.
I rushed to grab her arm.
We grinned at each other for a moment.
“Did you hear about Mom?” I asked.
Her grin disappeared. “Yeah. Are they going to send her away?”
“No,” I said. “She’s going to stay with Ma and Pa.”
“The Kopeckys?” Mary Lou asked, surprised.
I nodded. “He’s a doctor.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.”
“Do you know where Mom’s room is?”
Mary Lou nodded this time. “I was going to see her. The elevator is down the hall.”
I took her hand and we walked together, taking tiny steps. But unlike at Christmas, she didn’t wince in pain with each one. I felt dizzy with all that had happened that day. In the elevator, I accidentally leaned against my sister, and for a moment, it seemed like she was holding me up.
We got off the elevator and took a couple more steps. Mary Lou stopped. “Here we are,” she said.
We looked at each other, and pushed the door open. Mary Lou and I, still holding hands, crept inside.
It was just like when I’d first seen Mary Lou. Mom was turned away, facing the wall, her long black hair in a tangle on the pillow. She was asleep, her breathing slow and gentle. She had one black eye and a bandage over a huge lump on her forehead. For the first time ever, I noticed her nose was shaped just like mine, with a little ski jump at the end.
I hated her. And I loved her. And at that moment, I wasn’t sure which one was stronger. All I knew was that I was glad to see her breathing, her chest going up and down. Glad to see she was alive.
Mary Lou ran her fingers through Mom’s matted hair. “I’ll have to bring my brush,” she whispered. “She brushed mine. I don’t remember much about those first few weeks in the hospital, but I remember her brushing my hair.”
We waited a long time, but her breathing remained slow and steady. Finally, Mary Lou and I went back to her room.
“You’re walking pretty well,” I said.
“Yeah.” Mary Lou smiled. “I guess I am.”
Dad had taken a taxi from work, so Ma and Pa drove u
s home. No one spoke in the car. When we got to our neighborhood, I asked them to drop me off at Mrs. Scully’s. “Why?” Dad asked.
“Long story,” I said. “Maybe Pa could fill you in?”
Pa nodded.
As I walked up Mrs. Scully’s steps, my heart was beating like I’d been running up a hill. I knocked, soft and hesitant. Mrs. Scully didn’t answer.
My stomach dropped. Boots had died during the day while I’d been at the hospital. I knew it. My body went numb all over, like I’d suddenly turned into a giant ice cube and . . .
A dog barked.
It sounded like it was coming from inside the house. I opened up the screen door and went inside.
And there, on the kitchen floor, running around like he didn’t have an eight-inch gash in his tummy, was Boots. He was drinking water from a bowl, but when he saw me, he stopped and ran over to greet me. I knelt down and let him lick my face.
“That dog is a Sherman tank,” said Mrs. Scully, walking into the room. “He woke up this afternoon when I was frying sausages for dinner and started begging like nothing had happened.”
Boots kept licking my face and wiggling his tail. His breath smelled like sausages.
“Don’t give him anything else to eat.” She sighed. “He already got three pieces of sausage out of me. He needs to take it easy until he heals.”
I swallowed. My mouth was dry and my hands were shaking. I’d managed to hold it together all day, with my mom and seeing Mary Lou, but now that I knew Boots was okay, I was falling apart. “Thank you.”
“Oh, Tommy,” said Mrs. Scully, sitting down heavily in the kitchen chair. “I’m so happy myself.”
Boots sat in my arms as I walked home, his nose up in the air, sniffing away. I carried him inside. Mrs. Glazov was at the stove making dinner. “Pa told us,” she said. “How is dog?”
“He’s all right,” I answered.
Mrs. Glazov wiped her hands on the flowered apron and came over to examine him. “Such even stitches.” She nodded in approval. “I send mending to Mrs. Scully from now on.”
The Paper Cowboy Page 18
