Eleven Miles to Oshkosh

by Jim Guhl

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “Well, you need to. And if I ever hear you use language like that again, you can bump those pull-ups up to one hundred a day.”

  As mad as I was, I knew when it was time to keep my mouth shut for once. I turned toward the sink and reached for the dish soap.

  Have you ever seen the movie Night of the Living Dead? It’s about zombies that come to life and climb out of their graves. Well—that’s what I felt like when I finally finished my last pull-up and hung the dirty dish towel on the oven door.

  Did I go straight to bed? No, I did not. There was still one very, very, very important thing to do. While Mom slept upstairs, I walked out to the garage and drained the gasoline can into a bucket until the bullet rattled out. I took the bullet in the house, washed it off, and taped it to a note I had written on a sheet of paper. I addressed the envelope to Agent Culper at the FBI in Milwaukee, put a couple of stamps on it, and walked it out to the blue-and-white official U.S. Postal Service mailbox on Forest Avenue. If I had to turn over the bullet, it sure as heck was not going directly to Sheriff Heiselmann.

  39

  At Shattuck High the next day, I set up an emergency meeting with Opal, Mark, and Rhonda to take place at lunchtime in the cafeteria. Mark and Opal showed up together. They both looked a little embarrassed.

  “Sorry I didn’t tell you earlier that I had asked Opal to the dance,” said Mark.

  “I’m sorry too,” said Opal. “I should have told you.”

  I waved it off. “It’s okay. I’m not really big on dancing anyhow.”

  Everybody smiled awkwardly at the same time. Then Rhonda showed up, allowing us to change the subject. I swept the crumbs off a cafeteria table with my sleeve and we all sat down around it. Everybody had seen the sheriff on TV and I added the story about his coming over to my house and giving me a ride home from ice fishing.

  You’re not going to believe this, but Mark and Opal actually thought that the sheriff’s change of heart was a good thing.

  “It means we’re winning,” said Opal. “Our goal was to put pressure on the sheriff and it’s obvious that we got to him.”

  “But he’s lying,” I said.

  “I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” said Mark. “We’re kicking his ass. He doesn’t know what else to do, so now he wants to be on our side.”

  “I’ll never believe that. The guy’s a crumb. He hated my dad and he hates me. And if the sheriff didn’t kill Dad, then he knows who did. Mark, you know how he reacted when I talked to him at his office.”

  “Yeah . . . but if he says he wants to be our teammate now, don’t we have to give him a chance? If we don’t, then everybody is going to start calling us the big jerks.”

  Opal nodded. “Mark’s right, Del. We have to give him a chance.”

  I shook my head, crumpled up my paper napkin, and threw it at the trash can. It bounced off the rim and rolled to a stop on the floor. I was so disgusted that I just left it there.

  “Mr. Finwick!”

  I turned around and saw Mrs. Borger glaring at me over folded arms.

  I walked over and tossed the napkin in the can.

  Mrs. Borger walked over to our table. “Are you discussing the sheriff’s recent announcements?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think he’s a stinking liar,” I said.

  “He came clean about shooting the swan, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t it possible that he really wants to help you solve your father’s murder?”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I know, that’s why. I know that he hated my dad.”

  “Be careful, Mr. Finwick. The sheriff is innocent until proven guilty, just like everyone else. He’s making a peace offering. Do you really want to slap the olive branch away?”

  “Maybe I do.”

  “I suppose that’s your choice. But, if you turn your back on the sheriff’s offer to help, what’s next?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve said all along that you want justice for your dad. What will you do next?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Would you like a suggestion?”

  “Sure.”

  “Make him prove his good intentions.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “March to Oshkosh again.”

  I kicked my foot against the metal table leg. “What’s the point? Heiselmann already said that he added investigators to solving the crime. He apologized for killing the swan. He brought my mom a stupid apple pie, for crying out loud. We might as well just give up on the protesting.”

  “Maybe he wants you to give up,” said Mrs. Borger.

  There was a long pause. It seemed like nobody knew what to say.

  “Will you march with me?” I asked and looked around the table.

  “I will.” Rhonda’s hand shot up.

  “Me too,” said Opal.

  “I’m in.” Mark nodded.

  “May I join you as well?” asked Mrs. Borger.

  I actually smiled. “Sure, Mrs. Borger. You can go too.”

  The week flew by. I delivered my 232 Hoot Owls in a freezing-cold wind that nearly made an ice statue out of me. Luckily, a few ladies took pity along the way. Mrs. Zweigeldorf invited me in for a cookie and Mrs. Nesput even fixed me a cup of hot chocolate.

  The next night was spent making protest signs again. I had run out of sturdy sticks and decided to try knocking on the Johnsons’ door, the same place where I had borrowed the metal detector.

  Mrs. Johnson answered and told me she didn’t have any sticks. Then Mr. Johnson poked his bald head around the door jamb.

  “Meet me by the garage,” he said.

  He came out the side door in just a white T-shirt on a freezing cold night. I could see his arms turning pink as he scrounged through a collection of wood scraps. From the pile we pulled out a half-dozen two-by-twos and a pair of shovel handles.

  “Thanks, Mr. Johnson,” I said.

  “Anytime. They weren’t doing me any good. Are you making more protest signs?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Shove one up the sheriff’s ass for me.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “First chance I get.”

  In case you haven’t figured it out by now, I liked Mr. Johnson.

  Opal came over to help me make signs, and between the two of us we came up with some new slogans, including A Murderer Walks Among Us and Justice Will Never Give Up! I liked them both because I figured the messages might make Heiselmann twitchy. But my favorite sign was still Sheriff Heiselmann Killed a Swan. It was still just as true as before, and that was the one I planned to carry.

  I told my mom we were marching this time and reminded her of her promise. I called up Mrs. Samuelson and the other church ladies too. I posted notices on the school bulletin board and others at the Food Queen, the Red Owl, and the bowling alley, inviting anybody and everybody. The signs were simple and to the point.

  MARCH TO OSHKOSH SATURDAY, JANUARY 6

  JUSTICE FOR OFFICER FINWICK!

  MEETING 9 A.M. AT NEENAH LIBRARY

  Guess who I didn’t try to contact. That’s right—Sheriff Heiselmann. He may have thought he was part of the team, but I still had other ideas.

  Through that whole crazy week I was like one of those jugglers who keeps a knife, ax, and tomato in the air all at the same time. I went to school, pounded the homework, did the dishes, and swept the floors. I scrubbed the toilet as clean as Mom’s good china. I was done lying to my mom.

  Of course, I did my pull-ups too, and guess what. On my pull-up bar in the basement, I could do all fifty in two sets of twenty-five—one before school and one after. I knew I was getting stronger too. For one thing, the pull-ups came easier, but I also knew because the sleeves of my shirts weren’t so floppy any more.

  Do you know what else I did every day that first week of
January? I practiced lines from Romeo and Juliet with Rhonda in the chemistry lab next to the Science Resource Center. Yep, every day during sixth period. It was just the two of us, and just like our practice sessions for To Kill a Mockingbird, Rhonda gave me tons of good advice and encouragement. She taught me how to project my voice and how to infuse my speech with emotion. I got pretty good at it too. I even learned how to express my heartfelt feelings for my beloved Juliet. Sure, I was embarrassed at first, but then Rhonda straightened me out.

  “It’s for the audience, Del. You’ve got to give them all you’ve got. Give them a reason to smile and cry. Give them a reason to applaud.”

  I shook off the embarrassment and really went for it.

  This bud of love by summers ripening breath, may prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.

  Rhonda leaned in across the Bunsen burner gas valves and smiled. Our noses almost touched. Yep, I was Romeo all right. The star-crossed lover gazing into the sparkling eyes of his darling Juliet. I was really getting the hang of it. And believe it or not, I didn’t mind looking into the deep blue eyes of Rhonda Glass either.

  A strange thing happened when I left Shattuck High on Friday afternoon. As I walked past the bike racks, all covered in snow, I heard a voice.

  “Hey, Minnow.”

  I glanced left and there was Larry Buskin standing by himself smoking a cigarette. What the heck did he want? I should have kept walking but I didn’t. I stopped, turned, and faced him.

  “What?”

  “You still going on that protest march to Oshkosh tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be careful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t mess with Heiselmann.”

  I stared at Buskin. He shrugged and took another long suck on his cigarette.

  “Why?”

  “Like I told you before, he knows some people who you never want to meet. Just avoid him. That’s all I’m saying, and you didn’t hear it from me.”

  What was he getting at? I kept right on staring at Buskin. He turned and walked away.

  40

  Mom woke me up early Saturday morning with a poke in the ribs. “Are we going on this hike or aren’t we?” she asked.

  I looked at the clock. “Yep, we’re going.”

  She mumbled and rolled her eyes at the ceiling.

  “Don’t blame me, Mom. It was Mrs. Samuelson—remember?”

  “I know, but here’s the deal.” Mom pointed a finger at me. “If I go on this walk, you have to give that bullet to the sheriff.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I already sent it to an FBI man.”

  She clamped a hand on each hip and blew a lock of hair out of her eyes. “And how, might I ask, do you know an FBI man?”

  “I met him last month in Milwaukee.”

  Mom scowled. “Was Grandpa Asa involved in this?”

  “Yes.”

  Mom pushed her open palms toward me like she didn’t want to know any more. “Just get dressed and come down for some breakfast.” Slowly, she shook her head. “I don’t know why I’m even doing this.”

  A fresh inch of snow sparkled on front lawns and rooftops all over Neenah. The announcer on WNAM said the temperature was nineteen degrees.

  At nine o’clock they were all there waiting for us at the library. We made a group of ten this time—me, Mark, Opal, Rhonda, Mom, Mrs. Parsons, Mrs. Borger, Mrs. Samuelson, Mrs. Weiden, and Mrs. Stevens. Honestly, I almost laughed as I scanned my ragtag platoon. There was Rhonda in her army gear and Mark, once again, in blaze-orange deer hunting clothes. The moms and church ladies wore all sorts of garb, from puffy, goose-down coats to red-and-black plaid. Mrs. Stevens standing next to Mrs. Samuelson reminded me of a little brown twig alongside a weather balloon. Mrs. Borger held tight to her purse, looking ready for church in her tan overcoat and white gloves. The mismatched group piled into three cars and headed toward Highway 41.

  We parked our cars on the frontage road next to Funland. Fresh snow covered the pretzel-shaped go-kart track. The tires that made the perimeter looked like a hundred chocolate donuts with white frosting. The giant slide looked down on the highway, shiny blue where the snow had slid off the steep parts. Everybody grabbed a sign, and just like last time, Rhonda took the lead.

  I had my worries about Mrs. Samuelson, but she managed to keep a steady pace. Instead, it was my mom who turned out to be the weak link in the chain. The past few months had really yanked the life out of her, and I was pretty sure that all those cigarettes and days on the couch hadn’t done her any good either. For the first time, her face looked old to me.

  Mrs. Samuelson dropped back to walk with her and boost her morale just as my mom was lighting up a cigarette. The mammoth-sized church lady snatched that cigarette from her lips like it was poison and chucked it in the snowbank.

  “How dare you!” shouted Mom. “I’m quite sure that kind of rudeness is not in the Bible.”

  “Cancer sticks!” shouted Mrs. Samuelson. “They’re killing you and you don’t even know it.”

  “I’m not asking your opinion,” said my mom.

  “Come along, Dorothy. March to my beat. One—two—three—four—one—two—three—four!”

  Mom scurried forward to escape her tormenter. The other church ladies scared her almost as much, and she kept hustling forward until she had passed all three. Mom slowed down to walk beside Mrs. Parsons but then must have remembered she was black. In the end she settled in alongside Mrs. Borger. I watched her pop another cigarette in her mouth and strike a match.

  We were a half hour on the road before it felt like we had found a rhythm. Mark pumped his sign up and down and Opal started singing again. Everyone except Mom marched in time with the beat, and it kept our spirits up for ten or fifteen minutes. Then Mark started giving his horn honking signal to passing cars and it kept us amused for another fifteen.

  We were well on our way to the Butte des Morts Bridge when a Winnebago County cop car pulled over with lights flashing. I recognized the deputy who stepped out of the car right away as the red-haired guy who tried to catch me at our last protest march. I remembered him calling me a “little bastard,” and those words still stuck in my craw.

  He was all smiles, of course, when he stopped to chat. “The sheriff has asked me to give you an escort,” he said. “It’s for your safety.”

  “No thanks,” I said. “Just leave us alone, please.”

  That took care of the smiling.

  “Sorry, kid. If I had my way we’d mop you up like before. The sheriff says it’s going to be different this time. He says we’re on the same team. Imagine that.”

  “Drive ahead of us if you want, but we’re not on the same team.”

  “Watch your mouth, kid. The sheriff is doing you a favor.”

  We walked, trudged, stumbled, and teetered toward the bridge, getting slower with each mile. Mom ran out of steam and accepted a ride with the deputy but the rest of my team kept moving along. For two hours more we kept it up. Opal energized the team with her singing and Mark got the horn honking started up again. We had our share of detractors too, of course, and a few curse words were hurled our way from open windows, but we did our best to ignore them.

  It was well past noon when we saw a crowd gathering up ahead. At least a dozen people and several cars waited for us on the shoulder near the bridge. The Eyewitness News truck and other reporters were there again. So were the flashing lights.

  As we got closer, I recognized Sheriff Heiselmann. He met us with a stupid gesture of open arms and another phony smile. Then he waved and pointed, directing my group of marchers to a table where two of his helpers had cups of hot chocolate and a mountain of cookies waiting for us.

  A reporter spoke into a TV camera, while three others, from various newspapers, jotted notes in steno pads. We moved closer and stopped. One man appeared to be sketching a cartoon, and I hoped he wouldn’t show me as a midget. I kept my ey
es on the sheriff as he shook hands and slapped backs while making small talk with everyone.

  “He reminds me of President Nixon,” I said to Mrs. Borger.

  She whispered in my ear. “Be polite, Del. This is going to be in the news again.”

  Mark and Opal led the charge toward the hot chocolate and cookies and everybody else followed. In my mind I sort of wanted to boycott the free treats but the marchers were hungry and thirsty and there was no stopping the stampede. In the end I shrugged and joined them.

  Through it all, the sheriff kept working the crowd like a politician. He approached me with an open right hand and I shook it.

  “Don’t you worry, young man,” said Heiselmann. “We’re going to catch that murderer. We’ve got our best people on it.”

  I nodded. Heiselmann put his arm around my shoulders and we both grinned for the cameras.

  “If there’s anything I can do for you and your mom just let me know, okay?” Gosh, he almost sounded sincere.

  “Sure,” I said. He nodded and walked away. I wondered why he didn’t ask about the bullet.

  One by one Heiselmann introduced himself to each member of our protest group. Everyone was polite until he got to Mrs. Samuelson.

  “You’d best watch yourself, sheriff. I’ve got a number 4 cast-iron frying pan with your name on it.”

  He shrugged it off with an awkward chuckle and moved on to Mrs. Stevens and Mrs. Weiden.

  Like a gopher peeking from its hole, I kept one eye on Heiselmann the whole time. The sheriff roamed easily from person to person and seemed to save the biggest smile for my mom. She smiled back. As you can imagine, that bugged me.

  After another round of backslapping, the sheriff moved toward a makeshift podium from which he prepared to give a speech. His polyester smile was back in full force as the news reporters and cameramen lined up to get a shot of Heiselmann with the Butte des Morts bridge in the background. My little army of marchers stood around randomly at both sides of the podium.

  The sheriff started off his speech with more glowing words of welcome and continued with comments about what a great country we all lived in. He spoke about the wonderful freedoms offered by the constitution and how those freedoms include the rights of assembly and free speech. Sheriff Heiselmann looked at our group and then spoke directly into the camera.