The Amazing Adventures of Aaron Broom

by A. E. Hotchner

  “But you don’t give me all I got coming,” Veronica Wister, the Marmon beauty, chimed in. “The two of you steal from what he wants me to have.”

  “You’re lucky to get what you get,” Grace said. “I’m his wife. I’m the one deserves—”

  “But I was more to him than you ever were.”

  “You were what? His sometimes tootsie, his toy.”

  “You’re all a bunch of crooks, pushing in on us,” Justin said, “muscling in on our store—”

  “He said I would get the store,” Veronica told the judge.

  “He did not!” Grace protested. “As his wife I was the one—”

  “Baloney! Catsy said, ‘Honeybunch, it’s your nest egg until I buy my way outa here.’ ”

  The two women were on their feet now, facing each other. Grace gave Veronica a big push, knocking her down. “That’s a lie! A lie! You were nothing to him! Zero! Just a tart—”

  Veronica, back on her feet, grabbed Grace and both of them hit the floor clawing at each other. Sol, Joel, the policeman, and the bailiff tried to separate them as the judge pounded his gavel so hard he broke the handle in two while bellowing, “Order in the court! Order in the court!”

  It all finally subsided, the ladies were put back on their chairs, their dresses kinda torn and their hair messed up.

  Percy Quince went up to the judge. “Your Honor, the district attorney and his staff are on their way. Everyone must remain in place until they arrive.” The cop pulled out his gun.

  Lawyer Appleton spoke up: “Under the circumstances, Your Honor, I request the discharging of Mr. Frederick Broom.”

  The judge, who was applying his handkerchief to the perspiration on his face, said, “Granted.”

  So Lawyer Appleton and my father and me walked out of the courthouse and onto the sidewalk. I turned to look up at Lawyer Appleton’s tall face that was smiling down on me. I took his hand and shook it.

  “You are a wonderful man, Lawyer Appleton.”

  “You are, sir,” my father said.

  “This meant as much to me as it does to you,” Lawyer Appleton said. Then he opened the door of his car that was parked at the curb.

  “May I give you a lift?” he asked.

  “You already have,” I said.

  He got in his car and smiled at me through his window as he drove away.

  “Let’s go to Gino’s and have a good Italian lunch,” my father said. “Then we’ll get Bertha and go see Mother.”

  “Sure Dad, but could we please go to Garavelli’s instead of Gino’s?”

  Happening 35

  As soon as we finished lunch, a treat for both of us, my father was eager to go get Bertha and drive to Fee-Fee, but as we were passing a shop I made him stop and look at the two of us reflected in the window. “Mom sees you with your scraggly beard and the suit you’ve been wearing and sleeping in all this time and me rumpled as I am, well, just look at the two of us in the window—she’ll faint.”

  “Oh my God,” he said, taking a good look. “They didn’t have a mirror in the jail. Let’s head to the apartment and make ourselves beautiful.”

  Riding the streetcar with my pop after the wonderful lunch at Garavelli’s, where he talked the most I ever heard him talk, made me doubly aware I wasn’t dangling on my own anymore. I fought my way up the mountain, now I’m coasting down the other side.

  * * *

  —

  THE POLICE SIGN was gone from the door along with the locks, and my booty was safe and sound in the Fatima tin. While Pop attacked his beard, I indulged myself in a hot shower with a head-to-toe dowsing of Lifebuoy soapsuds; all the crazy things that had happened since the J & J shot was fired seemed to wash off and float down the drain.

  Before leaving to get Bertha, as my father poked through the mound of bills and throwaways, he found two important-looking letters, one from Bulova that said it had received the sample case that had been returned from the J & J jewelry store where my father had deserted it. For such negligence, the letter said, he was herewith fired. So there went our only hope of being able to pay some of those bills, but the other letter put back that hope since it was from one of the new groups called the Work Progress Administration being started by President Roosevelt. “Dear sir, we are pleased to inform you that your application has been approved. Your contact in the St. Louis office is as follows…”

  “Fired and hired just like that.”

  * * *

  —

  WHEN WE picked up Bertha from behind the mountain of tires at the used-parts place, the owner said the engine was still pretty good but that all four tires were frazzled and had to be replaced, the windshield wipers were shot and so were the brakes, and the radiator leaked water.

  “Well,” my father said, “to tell you the truth my son and I are going to have trouble scraping up gas money but as soon as I start my new job at WPA, I’ll be coming here to take care of good ol’ Bertha.”

  The way he said “my son and I” I knew my Fatima hideaway cash was in trouble but so be it, I got my pop back and I’m perfumed with Lifebuoy.

  * * *

  —

  WE HAD to stop twice on the way to Fee-Fee to water up the leaking radiator but that didn’t dampen our enthusiasm for seeing Mom, both of us scrubbed and pressed. When we reached the enclosure beneath where her bed was, however, the bed was empty. Empty! I grabbed on to Dad. “Oh no! Oh no!” he exclaimed. I was too shocked to make a sound. Frozen I’d say. Pop said he would go ask at the desk and I should stay put. But as he started away there was a loud knocking on one of the half-open windows that got our attention and it was Mom who had now improved to the walk-arounds which meant she’d be coming home soon.

  We had a great back-and-forth and I dropped a few tears of joy seeing her in a pretty summer dress having happy talk with my father even though it was somewhat difficult making themselves heard with so many people on the lawn talking up to patients. So the feared moment of death became a moment of joy.

  Happening 36

  The WPA people said it would take about three weeks to process my father, salary not yet determined, but in the meantime he was to report to the WPA instructional group. We had very little money, virtually none in the family bank, which was a cookie jar over the stove. As I had guessed, my Fatima hideaway cash was scooped up for the gasoline that got us to Fee-Fee and back. The loot I had in the band of my felty plus the little Pop had in his wallet could get us a few groceries, but what about the apartment rent (in serious arrears), the pile of sanitarium charges, and the electric and gas bills (no more funny business jumping the meter)? It was at that moment, sitting alone at the kitchen table, letting the Depression blues wash over me, that the bell rang. I looked through the peephole and saw a policeman. What now? I suffered a stab of panic—what to do? Maybe not answer, maybe run out the back door, but go where? The bell rang again. They know I’m here, probably have the back covered. Prepared for the worst, I opened the door. The policeman wasn’t alone. There was a man with a camera, plus two men in suits.

  “Are you Aaron Broom?” the cop asked.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. My knees were castanets.

  “We’d like to come in.”

  I said, “Sure, come on in.”

  My mind was absolutely boggled. The living room, with my Murphy In-A-Dor in the wall, was pretty small and the group filled it up.

  “Aaron,” the cop, who had stars on his collar so he must have been a lieutenant or captain, said, “I have this citation for you from the mayor of St. Louis.” He unrolled a scroll he had in his hand and read it to me while the cameraman took pictures. “The City of St. Louis salutes Master Aaron Broom for his fortitude in bringing vital information to the authorities resulting in the arrest of a murderer and criminal charges against individuals committing unlawful acts. Signed Bernard F. Dickmann, Ma
yor.” He opened up a little box that had a pin in it that he fastened on my shirt. It was ebony with gold letters that said “Honoring Valor” and under the lettering was the shield of the City of St. Louis.

  One of the two suits took the officer’s place beside me while the camera guy clicked away. “Aaron,” he said, “I’m George Rogers of the Reliable Insurance Company. It’s my pleasure to present you with this reward check for five hundred dollars as offered to the public by our company. It is public-spirited young men like you that keep our country safe.” He shook my hand and handed me the check. Sure enough: five hundred dollars, a five and two zeros.

  The other man was taking notes in a Post-Dispatch notebook, and now the photographer asked all of them to get around me for a group photo. I was absolutely whirling like I’d been stuck on the Flying Turns at the Forest Park Highlands.

  They all shook my hand and patted me on the back and left, except for the Post-Dispatch reporter who stayed awhile and asked some questions, writing down what I said in his notebook.

  After he left, I took the mayor’s tribute and my five-hundred-dollar check and my valor pin and went to the bathroom mirror to look at myself displaying them. It brought a great big smile to my face. No doubt about it, Hilda Levy’s soul was around, reminding me to always expect the unexpected.

  Happening 37

  When you go from two quarters in the liner of your felty to five hundred dollars snug in your pocket, plus your picture on the front page of the Post-Dispatch, it’s like a deep-sea diver coming up too fast and getting the bends. We learned all about that when we studied anatomy. I thought that with my mug in the Post-Dispatch everyone would rush up to me asking for my autograph but actually nobody at the tennis courts or on the streetcars paid any attention to me.

  But who did bust with pride was my father who carried my picture around and laid it on each and every person he met, whether he knew them or not. Embarrassing.

  The paper was full of all the Catfish connections, like the gambling River Princess and Pete’s and the jewelry store, all of them being run from Dannemora with the help of Matt J. Pringle who was Anthony Aravista and Grace Dorso who was his wife, Graciella Borsolini, but I had no interest in reading about what was going to happen to them. I was through with all of it and that was that.

  * * *

  —

  MY DAD was head-over-heels dedicated to throwing a birthday party for me. For all the Depression years I hadn’t had a birthday party because everything that’s a party—cake, candles, costumes, presents, music, games, clothes, friends—was in zero supply when you go to eleven different grammar schools and the landlords are trying to evict you. But now with all the bills tidied up and Bertha reborn, thanks to the Reliable Insurance Company, Pop was putting up some paper decorations and getting into the swing of it.

  I had received in the mail a splendiferous birthday card my mom had made in the therapy section at the sanitarium, making it doubly sad she wouldn’t be at my party. Also, it was sad that Augie wasn’t there but he sent a card and wrote that he was glad to be in Keokuk working alongside his cousin’s three sons raising cucumbers and pickling them in barrels of brine and selling them to grocery stores. Not my cup of tea, so to speak, but good to know it was a fit for him. I sent him a nice letter and enclosed a generous hunk of my reward loot. I also sent a shiny new smokeless stove to Vernon and a gift card for the Mound City Liquor Store to Arthur.

  * * *

  —

  THE DAY of my birthday was as hot as any other but Pop borrowed a big fan and put it in the window and I guess it helped some. He gave me a nice card and his prized silver pocketknife that his father had given him. I was very moved by that but when I went to hug him he just shook my hand. I also got a card from Lawyer Appleton that said, “If one day you decide to go to law school I have a place reserved for you.”

  Ella and Mrs. McShane were the first guests, bringing paper plates and a pot full of that special chili con corny and a T-shirt that said “You’re the Best.” Buddy Silverstone showed up with an almost-new Bill Tilden tennis racket that he had strung himself. He also brought his phonograph and some records. Buddy started the music with “Pennies from Heaven” and that got everyone singing and dancing around. The party was in full throttle when Vernon and Arthur arrived, Vernon with a carrot cake he had baked and covered with peanuts. Arthur had a covered wicker basket that he left outside the door. Pop served cold drinks he had invented and it was simply the best party anyone ever had anywhere, with Ella leading the singing with her beautiful voice, Buddy dancing with Mrs. McShane, and Vernon and Arthur beating out the rhythm.

  I pulled Ella aside for a moment and told her my best present was being able to give her a long-lasting supply of that epilepsy medication that I had obtained at the drugstore. She gasped and hugged me and we both shed a couple of tears with our cheeks pressed together.

  Mrs. McShane served buns with her plates of chili con corny and everyone sopped up the gravy, wiping off the paper plates.

  Vernon put his cake in the middle of the table and decorated it with thirteen plus one candles that he took from his pocket. He took out his lighter and started to light the candles, he and Arthur counting them out loud one after another with number fourteen to grow on.

  With all the candles glowing on the cake, Vernon said, “Ready, get set with your wish, goodbye to twelve, hello thirteen, fire up your wish and we’ll all make wishes for you, ready—go!” I got all the candles with one big blow-around and Ella plucked the candles as Vernon sliced pieces of cake for everyone and Pop poured more of his drinks.

  I’ll tell you how I felt. For the first time, I felt that I truly belonged somewhere. As the peanuts from the delicious cake crunched under my teeth, I felt real love in that room. Luck, detectifying, and especially the helping hands of strangers had gotten me over the hot coals of those mean times, strangers who are now true friends.

  Arthur made a bugle call with his hands cupped over his mouth and carried in the basket he had left outside the door. It was tied with a huge blue ribbon. He put the basket on the living-room table and presented it to me. I had no idea what might be inside. I untied the ribbon and slowly raised the wicker lid as a yelp came from within and a golden retriever puppy poked her head over the basket’s edge. Everyone clapped with delight as I picked up the puppy and snugged it to my face.

  “Arthur!” I said. “Where in God’s name did you get such a—”

  Vernon cut me off. “If you don’t mind, lad, Pickles don’t like to palaver ’bout his acquisitions. He has his own mysterious ways.”

  “She ain’t got a name yet, that’s up to you. There’s some puppy kibble and toys in the basket,” Arthur said.

  I put the puppy down and Ella gave her a bowl of water which she lapped up happily. She made a joyous round of everyone in the room.

  “I’m going to call her Hilda,” I said, picking her up and rubbing noses with her. “Welcome, Hilda, welcome.”

  Happening 38

  It was the first morning of my thirteenth year and I was taking Hilda for her first walk, she strutting proudly on the end of the yellow leash I found on the bottom of Arthur’s basket. As we turned the corner onto DeBaliviere, there was Nathan’s pawnshop with its three gold balls gleaming in the sun. The window was packed with a variety of objects, primarily musical instruments: violins, a banjo, ukuleles, an accordion, a drum set, a flugelhorn, but there also was a shelf that contained jewelry, and I tried to see if my mother’s brown diamond was among the rings on display.

  While I was concentrating, with my nose pressed on the window glass, the door opened and Nathan himself stuck his head out.

  “Come in, Aaron, come in. It’s not too often we get a celebrity outside our window. Your father came in yesterday carrying the Post-Dispatch to brag about you.”

  I had met Nathan that time my father had taken me along when h
e was pawning something. I liked seeing the things in the shop, some of them pretty weird, that people had pawned; pawning is a sad business and I felt sorry for them, especially my father who, I could tell, was suffering when he handed over what he had brought for Nathan’s money.

  But, listen, that is not to say that Nathan was anything like Shylock in The Merchant of Venice that we’d studied in Hilda Levy’s class. Nathan was a cheerful man who liked to tell corny jokes and laughed with the kind of laugh that made you laugh. He had been friends with my father a long time and he told my father he wouldn’t sell his stuff, especially the brown diamond, unless he absolutely had to. Nathan was a nicely dressed, handsome man, nothing like the picture of Shylock in our Shakespeare book.

  If I had not haphazardly turned onto DeBaliviere, it would have never occurred to me to think about the brown diamond and what it meant to my mother and father—all those arguments, for selling it or keeping it. Now with my father getting a job guaranteed by President Franklin D. Roosevelt, my mother about to come home all healed up, and me with a wad of dough in my pocket, even after taking care of the back rent, Bertha’s tires, wipers, radiators, and crumples, the refrigerator chock-full, plus some stuff on the shelves in the kitchen.

  “Is that the pin?” Nathan asked, inspecting my shirt. “Honoring valor,” he read aloud.

  Hilda decided she had been ignored long enough and she pawed Nathan’s shoes. He picked her up and she slurped his nose. “Who have we here?”

  “Say how-de-do, Hilda. She was a birthday present yesterday.”

  Hilda slurped him again and yipped twice.

  Nathan opened a drawer with his free hand and took out a small red pocketknife that he handed to me. “You have a knife?”