by Karen Wolff
Gram said, “Well, let me tell you, Alfie. I have no intention of sinking. We’re going to work hard. We’ll persevere.”
Persevere? I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but I knew it was what I had to do. I’d swim back across that pond if it killed me. I felt resolve in my belly, and I wasn’t so afraid this time. Wes carried my overalls over his head so they weren’t quite so wet when we got to the other side. He even gave me a ride back to town on his bike. I knew I’d be in big trouble, but I didn’t care. It was the first time I’d made myself do something that terrified me, and I was proud of it.
I waited as long as I could before going home for supper. My hair was still damp, and my pants were far from dry. I sat down with Granddad and my sister Polly at the big, round kitchen table, hoping Gram wouldn’t notice my pant legs. She was at the black cook stove, dishing up our food. She came to the table and stood over us, holding a platter of golden fried catfish, her bulky figure wrapped in a spattered apron. My stomach reminded me how hungry I was, and I made to grab a big piece.
“Just a minute, Harry. Your hair is wet. Where have you been?” Gram started right away. “Did you go to the Brule? I’ve told you and told you to stay away from that place. You can’t swim.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is that where you were?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m going to whip your backside.”
“But, Gram. I can swim now. Good as anybody. I swam across that swimming hole twice.”
Granddad laughed. “It’s okay, Bess. A boy has to try it some time. He’d have done it sooner or later.”
I was grateful to the beery-smelling old man, smiling his toothless grin, his devilish eyes fixed on me. He wasn’t my true grandfather, but a little Frenchman Gram married after her first husband died. His name was Alphonse Didier. He played fiddle at the dance hall on Saturday nights and liked to tell stories that made me laugh even though Gram didn’t always appreciate them.
Gram didn’t let go of my disobedience as easily as Granddad. She decided that Polly and I could put our time to better use. “You kids can help out at the store,” she said. “Take over when Granddad comes home to eat dinner.” She hustled Polly and me across the big side yard of the house to their grocery store on the corner. A sign above the door said Alphonse D. Didier, Proprietor. The smell of coffee beans hit me the minute we walked in.
“Here, Harry, see if you can turn the crank on the coffee grinder,” Gram said. “Polly, you can straighten out the produce bins. Get rid of the bad stuff.”
I struggled, but I could turn the crank. Polly poked her fingers at the bins in the center of the room that held onions and potatoes. I could tell she didn’t want to touch that stuff, but she had to do what Gram said.
The store was just one room with a yellow, linoleum-covered counter where the gold cash register sat. It had big, round number keys that were hard to push down. Tall windows faced the road on one side, and shelves for canned goods and baking supplies filled the other walls. A small oak icebox held cheese, eggs, and cold meat. Candy and cigarettes were arranged under the counter in a glass-front cabinet.
“Don’t you kids get into the glass case, or let anybody else in there,” Granddad said. “I keep it closed up so nobody can swipe cigarettes.”
A door cut through one wall of the store opened into a windowless room with a bar and some stools. It was dark and smoky and smelled of beer—beer spilled on the floor, beer leaked from barrels, and beery belches from the men who gathered there. Ashtrays overflowed until Gram couldn’t stand it anymore and emptied them. Underfoot we crunched on the shells of the peanuts Granddad provided.
“That bar will be the death of him. Or me,” Gram would say because he enjoyed the bar more than he should. Gram would roust him out of bed in the morning to open the store. If one of his friends came in, like as not, they’d go into the bar and drink. If more friends came, he’d drink some more. At noon Gram would send Polly or me to the store, and he’d come home for dinner. Granddad’s teeth were almost ruined from chewing tobacco, and it took him a long time to eat. Then, if he’d been drinking beer, he couldn’t do much but sleep, so Gram would have to take over at the store. Or one of us would do it. Sometimes she forgot about me being there, and I stayed for the whole afternoon. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, I got an education in that store. Over the years I worked there I learned how to put our best stuff forward, how to encourage folks to try new things, and how to smile and be polite even when people griped about the prices. I’d put it all to good use later on.
Ory Gabel, who was my Sunday school teacher, was a customer. He came in one day and wanted a few groceries. I could add up the prices and wrap the packages. I could even write up a bill for a charge account, but I didn’t know how to make change for the five-dollar bill he gave me. There weren’t any other customers so he said, “Would you like me to show you how, Harry?”
I was mortified, but I nodded.
“If somebody’s bill is $4 and he gives you a five-dollar bill, how much change does he get?” I knew the answer, so he asked harder questions.
“What if the bill comes to $3.40 and he gives you a five? What if it’s $7.42 and he gives you a ten?” When I got the right answer, he’d say, “That’s great, Harry. You’re a sharp boy.” He taught me how to count the change into the customer’s hand to make sure it was correct.
Between arithmetic problems, he talked about God. He said I was born to be a Christian warrior to help people find Jesus. I didn’t know exactly what he meant, and I wished he’d leave that business alone. It embarrassed me, and I didn’t have much of an answer for him.
I got my fill of Ory every week at Sunday school at the Methodist Church. And I had to attend church service with Gram. The preacher always prayed for “our boys overseas.” He said about the same thing every Sunday, and I got so I didn’t listen much until Gram’s sister, Great-Aunt Lida, with her greenish stained false teeth, poked me on the shoulder and whispered that I should bow my head and pray for my dad. So I did. I also prayed for a bike.
I WAS DESPERATE FOR a bicycle of my own. I imagined myself riding with the boys, visiting the cave where they said Jessie James hung out. I just couldn’t figure out how to get one. Once Dad sent me a dollar, and I hid it away to save for a bike. As I remember it now, it was the only dollar my dad ever gave me in my entire life.
Summer was half over when I found a comic book at the store with an ad for selling medicinal salve. Sell a hundred tins of Rawleigh’s Antiseptic Salve for Man and Beast within one month and you’d win a free bicycle.
It was risky to send away for the salves without knowing if I could sell them, and I wondered what Dad would think. Dad had said he thought I’d make a lot of money someday. Maybe that was now. My plan was to comb my hair and go to every house in town and try to sell two tins—one for people and one for their animals. In a week I’d go back to see if they needed more.
Gram had a conniption when the package came. “What’s this?” she said.
I explained I was going to sell salve and earn a bicycle.
“In a pig’s eye! Who do you think is going to buy all this? One hundred cans? Who’ll pay for this if you can’t sell them?”
“Don’t worry, Gram. I’m pretty sure I can sell them.”
“Yes, but what happens if you can’t? I’ll tell you right now, I’m not going to pay for it.”
I was scared silly at what I’d gotten into. Just the same, I stuck to my sales plan and started making the rounds, selling the cans for a dollar a piece.
I tried Mrs. Miranda Phelps first. I knew her from church and she was always nice to me.
“Hi,” I said, my voice oddly stiff and high. The words poured out of me.
“I’m-selling-some-salve-and-if-I-sell-one-hundred-I-can-get-a-bike—it’s-wonderful-salve-and-will-cure-everything.”
“Oh, Harry,” she said, laughing. “Take a breath.” She put her arm around me and invited me t
o sit on her front step. “Now tell me all over again what this is. And don’t forget to breathe!”
She made me say it twice. Then she bought one can and sent me on my way. I got much better at my sales talk, and by the end of the day I’d sold eight cans. Only ninety-two to go. I asked Gram to keep my money safe because I knew that she wouldn’t let Polly or Granddad get into it.
After a week, I was down to forty-seven cans. By the end of the next week I was down to twenty-two. Then the going got rough. I had to go around to the same houses where I’d made my first sales to see if they needed more. Not many did. One old woman yelled, “Don’t come around here again, or I’ll take a switch to you.”
I knew I was a pest, but I kept asking people to buy. Some did just to get rid of me. With only a week to go, I was down to eight tins. I’d worn out my welcome in town and had to try something new. I went over to the bar and worked on Granddad’s drinking buddies.
Pug McCormick, who drove a chicken truck, usually came in the daytime. Polly and I had to time his visits ‘cause, if he left the crates of live chickens in the sun too long, they’d die. Pug was an easy sell with bites and scratches all over his hands from the chickens. He bought two cans.
Squint Pickard was a half-witted old man, stumpy, with one eye that didn’t open just right. He didn’t need my salve any more than the man in the moon, but I told him how much better his feet would feel if he’d rub salve into them. He bought a can, and I felt guilty ‘cause I knew he didn’t have any money to spare.
Bill Nelson was there too. He said, “I don’t have any cash on me, but if you come to the house Saturday afternoon, Jalmer and I’ll buy some of your salve.”
I was pretty sure he’d be as good as his word. Bill and Jalmer were bachelor brothers, and Granddad said their credit at the store was like gold. I wanted to ask how many they’d buy, but I didn’t dare.
Now I was down to five cans, and my month for selling them was up on Monday. My body prickled all over in bed at night as I worried about losing the bike after all my work. I’d tried to sell to everybody in town. Except one. Gram. But I’d have rather sucked eggs than ask her to buy. I wanted to prove to her that I could do it, and I wanted that bike.
Saturday finally came, and I walked to the edge of town where the Nelson brothers lived. I was so scared I could hardly breathe for fear they wouldn’t buy. Pretty soon I heard a hullabaloo coming from their place. A bunch of men were standing around some noisy machine yelling and laughing. Every so often a fluffy white glob flew into the air, and they whooped harder than ever.
Jal’s face was red, and his eyes squeezed up with laughter. “Look at this, Harry. We’re washing our clothes.” Sure enough, their washing machine was sitting out in the yard, going like a son of a gun.
“The belt broke on the washer,” he said, slapping his leg.
A steam threshing machine sat a few yards away, going full throttle. They’d hitched the belt of the thresher to the washing machine, making the washer spin so fast there were soapsuds shooting all over the yard. Everybody howled with laughter when a sock flew up with the suds in a big burst.
I wasn’t a bit surprised to see Granddad there, laughing with the rest of them. Nobody loved a good time more than he did. When I walked up, he put his arm on my shoulder and grinned his gap-toothed grin. “What do you think of this, Harry?”
“Bill promised to buy some salve if I’d come out here today. Do you think he’ll remember?” This was fun, but I had business to do.
“Just wait ‘til things quiet down some. Then ask him,” he said.
I saw a couple of farmers who, by the looks of their heads, had come to town this Saturday for haircuts. I ran up and gave my sales talk. They scarcely paid attention, but one gave me a dollar and stuck a can in his pocket. I approached two others, but they pushed me aside. One said, “Look out, kid. We wanna watch the action.”
Then I saw old Walter Trometer and hesitated because I’d already sold a can to his wife. I asked him anyway, and I sure didn’t remind him about his wife. He thought for a minute, then pulled out a dollar. Now I had only three cans to go. It seemed like a half a day before things settled down at that place. Finally, most everyone left, and I went up to Bill to see if he’d remembered.
“Harry, I gave you my word. Here’s a buck.” Bill took a can of salve and yawned. “Now I’m gonna have me a nap.”
“What about Jalmer?” I said, my voice high as a girl’s.
“I think he went up to Yankton with the Snyders,” he called back through the screen door.
I stood in disbelief before the closed door. Jalmer was my very last chance, and he’d slipped away without my seeing him go. I clutched the bag with the two cans that I hadn’t sold, never imagining I’d have to carry them home. How could this happen after all the weeks of my selling salve and telling everybody about the bike? I’d tried and tried, but it’d all come to nothing. I’d have to admit to my friends I wasn’t going to get one. My face squeezed up as I started for home, and I had to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from bawling. Sweat ran down my neck, and I wiped it away with a grimy hand.
I could picture Gram standing over me with her “I told you so” face. I kicked at the dirt in the road, sending up whorls of dust over my pant legs. I didn’t want to face her yet, so I headed over to the store.
Noisy laughter poured from the bar, and I heard Granddad telling a big story about the Nelsons and their washing machine. I slunk behind the counter in my misery and sat down on a stool we kept back there, grateful there were no customers.
A few minutes later Granddad stepped out of the bar and saw me. “Harry. Get me a couple dollars worth of dimes and nickels, will you? So I can make change for these fellas.” He turned and went back inside the bar.
I opened the till, counted out the coins he wanted, and took them to him. When I came back, the thick stack of bills in the drawer I’d left hanging open spoke to me. Without even forming a thought about it, I reached into the till, took two dollars, and slammed the cash drawer shut. The bills went into my pocket with the rest of my money, and the two unsold cans of salve went under the counter.
My heart thumped against my chest, and my palms got sweaty. I was shocked at myself. I was a thief! I’d stolen money. Gram always said there was nothing worse than a thief. I should put the bills back right now before I got caught. But I couldn’t do it. I wanted a bike that much.
“DID YOU SELL all your salve?” Gram asked the minute I got home. I nodded. “Well, you sure don’t seem very thrilled about it.”
“I’m just tired, I guess.” I bent over and tied my shoelace to avoid looking at her. I wondered if she could tell what I’d done.
“Hmph.” She waited like she expected me to say more, then something boiled over on the stove, and she went back to it.
I was miserable the rest of the day. I wished I’d never thought about a bicycle. That evening Granddad and Polly cheered and patted me on the back for my success.
Gram said, “I didn’t think you could do it, Harry, but you sure showed me.”
“You’re quite a boy, Harry. A real go-getter,” Granddad said.
I pretended to be excited, but shame made my heart heavy as stone. Guilt burned through me, but I couldn’t think of a way to give the money back. And the truth was, I didn’t want to.
On Monday morning, Gram helped me get a money order for one hundred dollars for the Rawleigh Company, and we sent it off. She smiled and said, “Looks like you’re gonna have a bike, Harry.” I felt myself let go a little, still not quite believing the ordeal was over.
That afternoon Polly came running into the house after spelling Granddad at dinner. “What are these?” she said, waving my bag with the salves. “I thought you sold them all, Harry.”
“Those are mine,” I yelled, grabbing at the bag. “What are you doing with them?”
“I found them under the counter.”
“Give them to me,” I screamed even though I knew I was caugh
t.
“What’s going on here?” Gram hustled over. “What’s this? Didn’t you sell them, Harry?”
My face heated up, and the tears I had choked back the other day now burst out. She grabbed the front of my shirt. “What’s wrong with you, Harry? What did you do?”
I sobbed and sobbed, tears sopping my shirt, my nose running, and I couldn’t speak.
“I want to hear it, Harry. Right now.” She shook me until I choked out a few words.
“No…nobody wanted them.”
“Now you stop this crying. Right now! What are you talking about?”
Of course the dreadful truth had to come out, how I thought I could sell all the cans, and when I couldn’t, how I’d taken two dollars from the till and pretended I’d earned it. How I let us mail in the money order and all the rest.
Gram sent Polly outside and sat me down at the kitchen table. Her black eyes were as sharp and mean looking as an eagle I’d seen once. I was terrified.
“I thought you were an honest boy, Harry. Someone I could trust. This makes me mad. Stealing from your own family. What would your dad say? Answer me. What would he say?”
I cried louder, trying to talk. “I dunno.” I choked. “He…he’d say I was bad.” It hurt so to picture Dad’s face twisted up with disappointment in me.
She went after me a long time, and my crying finally slowed down. The thing I remember most was when she said, “Listen to me, Harry. Of all the people in the world to hurt, you don’t ever want to hurt your own family members. You only get one set of them in this world, and you better treat ‘em right.”
Then she marched me over to the store and made me tell Granddad I had stolen money from him. It was humiliating, my eyes swollen from crying and people staring. I whispered my wickedness to him as softly as I could. He said, “Aw, Harry, you could’ve asked me for the money, and I probably would have given it to you. You didn’t have to swipe it.” His kindness made me start crying all over again.
