by Jim Guhl
We opened gifts in the living room, and I was excited to get three new ice fishing tip-ups and a minnow bucket. They made me think again about Wolf. I opened another present and gawked at a pair of felt-lined boots, which I hadn’t expected at all. They were genuine Sorels, the brand that had become all the rage among the deer hunting and ice fishing crowd.
“Thank you, Mom,” I said.
I watched Mom as she opened her gift from me. She pulled the green object out of the department store box from Prange’s, where I bought it.
“It’s a frog,” she said. She mustered up a sort of confused smile.
Uh-oh, she doesn’t like it. “It’s a jewelry box,” I said. “It’s just shaped like a frog.”
I showed her how to lift up the top half of the frog box, and then she discovered the pair of earrings that I had hidden inside. They were bright-red simulated rubies in 24-carat gold-plated settings. Between the frog and the earrings, the purchase had set me back a couple months of Hoot Owl money. It was worth it though, because once she figured it out, she really loved my gift. She put the earrings on right away and said the frog would go right on top of her dresser.
Sally liked her gift too. I knew she liked Lifesavers candies, so I got her one of those sets of ten different flavored packs all wrapped up in a box that pretends to be a book. When she opened it and saw all those tubes of candy, her eyes really popped. She thanked me and Mom for our gifts just as a horn honked in the driveway.
“That’s Kevin,” said Sally. She grabbed her coat and dashed out the door.
With the fancy breakfast behind us and the gifts all opened, Mom lit up a cigarette and sat down in front of the TV. Gosh, that seemed like a sad way to spend Christmas day, so I suggested something else.
“Do you want to put on some music and teach me some more dance steps?”
She hesitated for a few seconds. “Why are you so interested in learning to dance all of a sudden?”
There was no way I could lie to her again, especially on Christmas Day, so I blurted out the truth. “I’m thinking about asking someone to the Snow-Ball next month.”
That earned me a wink. For over an hour, Mom showed me how to dance the Twist, the Hully-Gully, the Mashed Potato, and the Watusi. I picked it up quick because I’ve always had good coordination for stuff like that. Besides, Mom really knew the steps and was a great teacher.
Let me just say this. Dancing on Christmas morning with my mom was a hoot and a half, and I was happier than ever to see such a big smile on her face. By the time the last record played out, we were ready for a couple tall glasses of genuine orange juice from concentrate.
“I’m pretty sure most kids at the dance won’t know half of those steps,” said Mom.
“I’m pretty sure you’re right,” I answered. “Now I just have to get a date.”
After cooling off, we were both still in a good mood, so I asked Mom if she would play a game of chess and she agreed. I set up the board at the kitchen table. She made herself a cup of coffee and we were off to the races. There were a few tricks in chess I had picked up by playing the other nerds in the Science Resource Center. I started with a strategy of getting my horses and bishops out early and lining up some pawns at a diagonal. I captured her queen in about five minutes by using my horse to put her king in check and the queen in danger at the same time. It’s an old trick that my mom forgot to watch out for. With her queen out of the way, I moved in on her rooks and bishops and had her whipped into checkmate in fifteen minutes.
“Do you want to play again?” I asked.
“I’ll play you in checkers,” she said.
I was pretty sure that if I could whip her in chess I could do the same in checkers. Then I learned that Mom was the Winnebago County 4-H club checkers champion when she was a kid. The words “king me” hit my ears four times before I knew what was happening and she went on to trounce me without even breaking a sweat.
It sure was great seeing Mom having fun and smiling for a change.
“Do you think you’re getting any better?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I have good days and bad days,” she said. “I’ll probably need a nap this afternoon.”
We both sat and said nothing for a while.
“Who were you drinking with yesterday?” she asked.
Uh-oh. I should have known this was coming. The way I looked and smelled, Mom had me pegged from the moment I got home.
“Mark.”
“How much did you drink?”
“Half of a bottle of peppermint schnapps.”
“What size bottle?”
“Quart.”
Her eyebrows jumped and she let out a low whistling sound. “You keep that up and it’ll kill you.”
“I know.”
“And if it doesn’t kill you, then I’ll kill you.”
I looked at her wide eyed.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to do it again?”
“No.”
“I don’t know if I can believe you. You lied to me on Saturday, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think your punishment should be?”
Uh-oh. Trick question. I waited to see if she would break the silence, but her eyes were on me like a walleye on a crayfish.
“Well?”
I blurted out the only thing I could think of. “Fifty pull-ups every day for a month?”
She flinched. Then squinted. “Fifty is a lot of pull-ups,” she said. “Some people can’t do one.”
“I can do it,” I said. “Not all at once, but over a full day.”
“Let’s make it three months then.”
“Okay,” I felt like I had dodged an arrow. Maybe I had a future as a negotiator.
“And for the lying part, you’re going to wash all the dishes, scrub all the floors, and clean the bathroom to my satisfaction for three months. Understand?”
I paused to let my heart start pumping blood again. “Sure, Mom.”
For the next half hour, Mom rested on the couch watching I Love Lucy on television while I sat alone in the kitchen with a stack of old comic books. I had almost finished reading Tarzan and the Ant Men when the doorbell rang. It was Mark.
“Hi, Delmar.” He looked left and right, then whispered, “How are you feeling?”
Before I could answer, my mom hollered out from the living room. “Mark, could you come in here please?”
For the first time in my life I saw fear in Mark’s eyes. He took off his shoes by the door and walked back to see my mom. I stayed in the kitchen and five minutes later he returned.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Your mom threatened to kill me.”
“Me too.”
“What are we doing today?”
“Not drinking peppermint schnapps,” I said.
“Good idea. What else are we doing?”
“Do you want to play Monopoly?” I asked. “We can probably convince my mom to join us.”
“Okay.”
For almost the entire afternoon of Christmas Day, the three of us played games. We started with Monopoly but moved on to Parcheesi, hearts, Probe, and Landslide. Between games, Mom heated up Swanson TV Dinners and served hot chocolate. It was a blast. Mark, in particular, seemed to be having the Christmas Day of his life. Then the doorbell rang and it got better.
Can you guess who showed up in the middle of the whole party? Mrs. Samuelson and the church ladies.
“Merry Christmas, Dorothy,” said Mrs. Samuelson, as she forced her wide body through the door with a tray of cookies the size of a bicycle wheel. Her deep, gravelly voice, refrigerator-sized body, and neon pink face came as a shock to Mark. But when she sat down to join us in a game of hearts and shot the moon on the first hand, the queen of the church ladies instantly became his best friend for the day.
The other ladies, the super-skinny Mrs. Stevens and the pear-shaped Mrs. Weiden, went straight for the kitchen sin
k, cleaning up every dish that we had dirtied, and saving me a ton of work along the way.
Before long, the conversation found its way to the protest march against Sheriff Heiselmann, which everyone had seen on the Channel 2 news and read about in the paper.
Mrs. Samuelson commenced her rant by standing at the head of the table. “I was appalled at the way you kids were treated! And for the sheriff to punch you in the face—good gracious! I’ve got a good mind to take a rolling pin to that man! And if he touches you again, why, I’ll do more than that! Of course, I must forgive him first. But after that, somebody needs to teach that bully a lesson, and if I get the chance I’ll take it.”
Mark turned his head and tried to hold in his laughter.
Then Mrs. Samuelson put her plump hands on both sides of my face like she was picking up a pumpkin. “And how is your injury, dear?”
“Still a little sore.”
“I should say so!” She leaned over and kissed my head as I tried and failed to duck out of the way. The rant lasted a few more minutes. Then she looked at me again with that puffy, pink face beneath the roof of white hair.
“Did he really kill a swan?”
“Yes, ma’am. I saw it myself.”
Mrs. Samuelson let out a yelp like a wounded dog, and it kicked off another tirade on the subject of animal cruelty that went on for five more minutes.
“Are you kids planning another march?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. That brought a bent eyebrow from my mom.
“You must march again,” said Mrs. Samuelson. “And I shall join you next time!”
She turned her excited gaze toward the other church ladies. “Mrs. Stevens, will you march?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And you, Mrs. Weiden?”
“I believe I can.”
“How about you, Dorothy? Certainly you won’t stand idly by. You’ll join the march too, won’t you?”
“Well . . . I don’t know,” said Mom.
“How can you not?!” asked Mrs. Samuelson. “That fiend slugged your boy! He killed a swan!”
“Don’t forget about Delmar’s dad!” shouted Mark.
“An excellent point, young man,” Mrs. Samuelson replied, and before Mark could dodge it, she plunked a kiss on top of his head, making him blush like a poinsettia.
“What will it be, Dorothy? Will you march or won’t you?”
“I guess so.”
37
On Tuesday morning, the day after Christmas, I was amazed at all the letters to the editor written about our protest march on the opinion page of the Post-Crescent. I jogged down to the Food Queen, bought a copy of the Oshkosh Daily Northwestern, and brought it back home. Holy mackerel! Both papers were buzzing with letters that people had mailed in.
Just like at church, some people were mad at us for causing a ruckus.
They’re disrespectful! Somebody should teach them a lesson! They should be locked up!
But most of the letters, maybe three-quarters of them, stuck the needle to Heiselmann.
How dare he bully those students!
Who does the sheriff think he is—Adolf Hitler?
Believe it or not, most of the letters were about the message on our signs—“Sheriff Heiselmann Killed a Swan.” You’d have thought he had harpooned the last blue whale the way folks carried on. I chuckled at the thought of the sheriff reading those letters and turning red and purple all over again. It was Opal who had figured out that the swan would light people up, and now we had Heiselmann on the defensive. That much was for sure.
It was almost lunchtime and I had just finished scrubbing the floor and washing dishes when the doorbell rang. I had a feeling it wasn’t good news, and I was right. I peeked through the curtain. Holy crap! A sheriff’s department uniform! I opened the curtain wider. Hellfire! It was Heiselmann himself.
I jumped into the living room. “It’s the sheriff!” Mom crushed out her cigarette and got a sort of ready-to-fight look on her face. Together we approached the door and opened it.
Heiselmann put on a Count Dracula smile. “Hello, Mrs. Finwick. I’m sorry to bother you on the morning after Christmas, but I’m here on official business.”
“You hit my son.” My mom’s voice was strong.
He turned off the stupid smile. “That was an accident.”
“The hell it was. Look at that eye.” Mom pulled me forward, pushed the hair up on my forehead, and tilted my head back to show him the purple ring.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Finwick. It was completely unintentional, I can assure you. We were just trying to catch him.”
“The hell you were. Now, what do you want?” asked Mom. She blocked the doorway, one arm propped against each side.
“It has come to our attention that your son has found a piece of evidence near the crime scene. A bullet. I’m here to retrieve it.”
Mom glared at him.
The sheriff then pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “I have obtained a court order,” he said. “You are required, by law, to comply.”
Mom turned to me. “Get the bullet, Del.”
“He can’t have it.” My fists were clenched.
“Why not?”
I looked at the sheriff and then back at my mom. “Because he either killed Dad or knows who did.”
I could feel the sheriff’s anger without even looking at him. Mom put one hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes.
“You have to give him the bullet.”
Very briefly I thought about saying that I lost it, but I didn’t want to lie again to Mom. “He can’t have it. I hid it.”
“Where is it?” asked Mom.
“I won’t say.”
Mom and the sheriff both gave me the same look of disbelief. Heiselmann took a step forward and the corners of his mouth turned severely downward. “Maybe you’d like another trip to my office?”
Mom went face-to-face with him and took a step forward herself. “Get out of here.” Her voice could have scratched glass.
“I won’t leave without that bullet.”
“You will leave. Now!” She closed the door in his face and arranged the curtain to cover every square inch of the window.
Heiselmann yelled through the closed door. “I’ll get a search warrant!” We heard him clomp down the steps.
Mom walked to the kitchen and lit up a cigarette. I peeked out the corner of the window and watched the sheriff’s car spin its wheels on the slushy street and disappear.
“What are we going to do now, Mom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“No.”
That meeting with Heiselmann really got to my mom. She didn’t know what to do, so she vacuumed the whole house, nonstop, while puffing cigs and dropping ashes all over the floor at the same time. The combination of smoke and noise just about drove me bats. I grabbed my new Sorel boots and ice fishing gear and hiked toward Little Lake Butte des Morts.
It was always neat walking past the steaming mills wedged between Washington Street and the river channel in Menasha. White, man-made clouds swirled like dragon’s breath, flashing the sunlight on and off. I admired the old stone towers that marked the corners of the Tayco Street Bridge. In the summer months the bridgetender sometimes waved at me from his tiny room while waiting for boats so he could lift the drawbridge and let them pass through. Once off the island, I took a left on First and knocked on the door of a small house with a bait shop sign hanging from the porch roof.
An elderly lady opened the door and waved me in. “Come in out of the cold,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“What can I get you?”
“Do you have any wax worms?”
“Yes, but folks are catching perch on mousies,” she said.
I pulled a few coins out of my pocket. “How many can I get for sixty-five cents?”
“I usually sell a container of three dozen for a dollar,” she said. “But I’m running
a sale today.”
“Thanks.”
She smiled. “How about a cookie? They’re still warm.”
“Sure.”
The old lady disappeared behind a door, and I was left staring at the geezer who must have been her husband. He was sitting by a lamp with his nose buried in a book. His lips moved as he read through thick glasses. Suddenly, his head bounced off the page and looked in my direction like he had just been surprised by a burglar.
“Do you like to read?” he asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Do you like poetry?”
“I guess so.”
“Listen to this.”
He moved his shaking index finger to a bookmark and found the right page. It took him a few more seconds to get started, then he read to me with a deep, loud voice.
The great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open, and . . . there floated in my inmost soul, endless processions of the whale, and, mid most of them all, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.
He looked at me, smiling. “Do you know what that’s from?”
“Moby-Dick?”
“How did you guess?”
“It’s about a whale.”
“That’s right! The whale is the snow hill in the air. Sort of poetic, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“Melville had to have courage to write Moby-Dick that way.”
I nodded.
“Did you know that Melville was writing about more than just a whale?”
I shook my head.
“He was. You might ask your teacher about that.”
I nodded.
The man lowered his reading glasses and looked me over. “You’re the kid who marched against the sheriff, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I saw you on TV and read about you in the paper. Looks like you got a shiner for your trouble.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your daddy was the deputy who was killed?”
“Yes.”
“And you think the sheriff knows something about it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you better be careful. I understand you found some evidence.”
“A bullet.”
“Hmm—serious business,” he said.
The kitchen door clunked open and the lady showed up with a cookie in one hand and a chewing tobacco tin in the other. I took a bite of the cookie and twisted open the tobacco container exposing three dozen squirming white grubs in a bed of sawdust. I handed the lady sixty-five cents and thanked her.
