* * *
“Hello, sir,” said Maisie when Frank, accompanied by Honey and Cowboy, answered the door. She reached her hand past the dogs and held it out to her neighbor, who gave it a limp shake. He did not have his aggressive walker, and, like before, he kept one hand propped on the door frame.
She said, “My associate and I are interested in performing good deeds for absolutely no other reason than because we are do-gooder sorts of people. Might you, perhaps, have some odd jobs you would like us to do for you?”
From the corner of his eye Hank watched Frank pull himself taller and give his head a little roll.
The man sighed and said, “Look, Maisie, I wasn’t going to say anything because I know you have your reasons, but now this has gone beyond Booler. You seem to think I cannot take care of my own property. Peeking in my windows… picking up my dog poop. I am as capable as I’ve ever been.”
A nervous shiver ran through Hank. Frank had not been yelling, but everything about his words and his tone stank of yelling.
But Maisie barely seemed to notice. Calm as could be, she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Jorgensen. We just want to do good deeds. You see, we are do-gooder sorts of people. When people see us walking down the street, they are all, ‘My goodness, there go Maisie and her associate, Hank. They are always making the world a better place.’ It’s sort of our brand.”
Frank started to close the door. “Well, that’s very nice, but—”
She took a step forward. “Actually, it’s for school.”
The man squinted. “School?”
“We have to help a neighbor and then write about it.”
Hank moved to the side of the porch, the better to distance himself from Maisie. A school project? To help a neighbor? That was definitely not part of the plan. The plan was to go undercover, pretend to be do-gooders, figure out whether Frank was really nice or mean—figure out what was really best for Booler. Hank licked his lips and looked over at Booler, who was asleep in the grass. He twisted the belt loop of his jeans.
The door squeaked open a little. Frank said, “For how long?”
Hank turned around and saw Maisie shrug, so, holding his breath, he stepped even farther away and did the same.
Maisie’s neighbor was quiet for a while. Sounding reluctant, he said, “Well, my dogs are always itching for walks. How would that suit you?”
“We would be delighted, sir. Wouldn’t we, my-associate-Hank?”
His voice flat, Hank said, “We would be very delighted, sir.”
* * *
“You watch, Hank,” said Maisie as the three dogs pulled them through the neighborhood. “If we keep this up, we’ll be so knit into Mr. Jorgensen’s life that he’ll be telling us where the bodies are buried.”
Hank stopped. “There are buried bodies?”
She gave his shoulder a lazy slap. “Figure of speech. He’ll be showing us his true colors, what he’s really up to—you know, about Booler.”
They walked on some more. “Look how much Booler likes his freedom,” said Maisie. She sounded so content, so happy, even as she suddenly lurched forward, her arm pulled taut as Booler pounced at a butterfly that had landed on a bush.
It was true. Booler had never seemed happier. His whole face was stretched into what no one could deny looked like an actual smile, and he had a spring in his step as he gave up on catching the butterfly and pranced through the bush.
“But look how much he likes to be with Cowboy and Honey,” said Hank, as the dog went and squeezed between Honey and Cowboy, knocking his head against each of theirs.
Clearly, the undercover business would take a while.
So they kept it up. And every day they went to Frank Jorgensen’s house, he found them something to do. And every time they did something, he seemed to relax a little more and become friendlier. They walked the dogs. They bathed the dogs. They walked up to the pet store and picked out a new cushion for Booler’s doghouse.
“You know, we can do other things besides help with your dogs,” said Maisie when they came back with the cushion.
“My, my. This school project is really taking a long time,” said Frank. “Well, let me see if there are any non-dog-related odd jobs I can come up with.”
The next time they came by he handed them the newspaper. “Maybe you can read me the sports page,” he said.
So they did.
It turned out the man was crazy about sports—all kinds of sports, especially bowling. Before retiring he’d even owned a bowling alley.
“It was right on the main street of town,” he told them. “They turned it into a Dairy Queen.”
“Wait,” said Maisie. “There used to be a Dairy Queen here?”
There did, but it had gone the way of the bowling alley, as had many businesses that used to be in Meadowlark. There was no longer an Owl Pharmacy. There was no longer a Coast to Coast Hardware. There was no longer a Moonlight Café or a Hank’s Bikes—that’s right: Hank’s. Over the years they’d all been replaced with cute little souvenir stores or cute little dress shops that catered to the day-trippers going up and down the mountain. Frank told them all about it.
Hank loved listening to Frank’s stories. They were like excavations—not for precious metals or jewels, but for the past. And Hank thought it was cool that just like you had to move a lot of dirt to find a diamond, you also had to sweep away a lot of the present to find a forgotten gem. Like a bike store named Hank’s. Like a bowling alley that had just six lanes and made all its money on beer (which Mr. Jorgensen told them to keep secret; he didn’t want their parents to think he was corrupting their young minds).
Hank didn’t keep it secret—not even for a day. He told his parents all about it. His mom even remembered the bowling alley. She’d gone there as a kid. And she’d worked at the Dairy Queen when she was in high school!
“Here’s a funny story,” Frank said one day after Hank and Maisie read him an article about a woman who had just broken a bowling record. “Booler is what Colleen used to call the bowling alley. When I would come home from work she’d say, ‘How was the Booler, Daddy?’ I’d almost forgotten about it until I found Booler.” He cupped the dog’s face in his hands. “When he was a pup, he made this face. It looked just like one Colleen made when she was a baby—but don’t tell her that because she will not appreciate the comparison. But the expression… It just made me think, ‘Booler.’ That’s how he got his name.” He moved around on the seat of his walker. His eyes sparkled.
Maisie thought that was the best story she’d ever heard. She wrapped her arms around Booler’s neck. “Isn’t that a funny story, Booler? You’re named after a bowling alley.”
Booler yawned and licked her nose.
But the school project/do-gooder plot was starting to bother Hank. The more time he spent with Maisie’s neighbor, the more he knew he was right. Frank was not a two-faced sneakypants. He was a nice guy, and not just that. He was a little like Booler. He wasn’t tied to a tree, but Hank wondered if maybe he kind of needed to be. Not really, of course, but maybe sort of, in a way.
The thing was, Frank was kind of a hazard to himself. One time, he was in the kitchen making them ham and cheese sandwiches. He was cutting a tomato because he had this crazy idea that tomato belonged on the same sandwiches as ham and cheese. The man almost cut his finger off. The big knife came this close. Hank shuddered. Maisie too. And Frank went right on slicing the tomato, not noticing a thing. And there was evidence that sometimes Frank wasn’t so lucky. He was always walking around with Band-Aids all over him. But the tomato incident was the last straw. After that, Maisie took the big knife and threw it in the outside trash. She didn’t say a word. She just did it, and Hank was glad.
And then there was the time he answered the door with a big red mark on his arm.
“What did you do?” Hank asked.
“It’s nothing. Just a little burn. Can barely feel it,” said Mr. Jorgensen.
“But ho
w did you get it?”
Frank got a little snippy then. “I said it’s nothing. So that means it’s nothing.”
But that didn’t stop Hank from bringing Mr. Jorgensen some special cream the next day. “My dad said to give this to you,” he explained. “He says it’s good for burns.”
“I can take care of myself,” Frank answered grumpily. But he took the cream and held his magnifying glass up close to it so he could see it better. Then he softened. “I mean, thank you.”
He didn’t want any do-gooding that day. He said his hip was hurting and he just wanted to rest, so Maisie and Hank went out back to play Jungle Book with Booler. They were feeling a little disappointed, actually, because they had been looking forward to some interesting do-gooding. And then things just got worse because Booler had another seizure—and it was a long one, at least a full minute.
They stayed with him, reassured him, petted him—just like always—but after it was over Booler was especially tired. He crawled into a little ball and began to snore before he even closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Maisie seemed even quieter than she usually was after witnessing one of Booler’s seizures. Finally, she said, “So Mr. Jorgensen loves his dogs, and his dogs love him and each other. Right?”
“Right,” said Hank, who was fiddling with his rocks of the day (all quartz—white, pink, and pale green) and still trying to shake off the drama of the long seizure.
“And, actually, Mr. Jorgensen is not a bad guy.”
“He’s a good guy.”
Maisie nodded. “Yeah. He’s a good guy. So Booler probably should keep living with him.”
This was the first time Hank had ever heard Maisie say anything like this. He turned his head, looked at her. He couldn’t read her voice. He couldn’t read her face. He waited for her to say more.
Maisie twisted sideways. “But if Booler lives with his family he will always be tied to a tree.”
“Mr. Jorgensen says it’s the only way.” Hank shook his head at the misery of it all.
“And that’s because he can sometimes barely take care of himself.” She stood up, frustrated. She began to pace. She stopped, chewed for a moment on her thumbnail. Sounding like she was working out a math problem, she added, “If Booler stays with Mr. Jorgensen he will be sad because he’ll always be tied to a tree and alone most of the time. But if he lives somewhere else he’ll be sad because he won’t be with his family.” She looked at Hank. “Does that mean Booler will always be sad?”
Hank came and stood next to her. As close as he was to Maisie, even her gaze could be scary, so he turned and looked at the dog. “He doesn’t seem sad now.”
Maisie looked at Booler. She chewed again on her thumbnail and then wagged her finger at Hank. “No. But does it mean he’ll never be one-hundred-percent happy?”
That was a tough one. Hank crossed his arms and thought.
She shook her head. “It’s just like the book. If the boy stays in the forest he’ll die because there’s no food. But if the boy goes back to his village he’ll die because the Nazis will get him.”
Hank’s jaw dropped. “It’s nothing like the book.” He scowled. “And don’t talk about that book. I hate that book.”
“But it’s not fair,” she said, her arms swinging up and then falling in a huff. “It just seems like there should be some way that Booler can win, but… what if there isn’t?”
Hank went and sat back down next to Booler. He ran his hand across the dog’s side. “It’s not a contest,” he said softly.
She let out a loud “Pffff. That’s what people say when they’re already winners.”
9.
Hank’s class was about three-quarters of the way through the gigantic and distressing tome. It was clear to everyone that a merciful book would have ended by now, but as Mrs. Vera liked to say, “It was a long, merciless war. Don’t fool yourself by thinking otherwise.”
They had been assigned to make a shoebox diorama that showcased the use of metaphor in the book. Hank and Maisie had been assigned the line, “Winter assaulted the little hut, sending missiles of ice and bullets of sleet through the broken windows.” Maisie had already made a little cabin out of Popsicle sticks and now she was trying to fill the inside of it with white beads, which was the closest she could come to sleet.
Hank had committed to a silent protest. Well, it wasn’t really silent. He was humming Maisie’s favorite song, which was now his favorite song. This was something they did now, when the conversations between them came to a lull. They hummed or sang their favorite song, and when they got to the “Oh, we could be heroes” part, they would bob their heads and shoulders and yell the refrain. Of course, he could not yell the refrain in class. That would draw attention to his silent protest, his nonparticipation in the diorama, which only Maisie was allowed to know about.
Maisie respected his protest, even though it meant she had to do all the work herself. As she said, “I am an expert at dioramas.”
Hank had actually not seen Maisie for two days. She had simply not shown up for class. When he asked her where she’d been, she said, “Blah. I had to go visit my doctor in Missoula.”
“I like the doctor,” said Hank, happy to be reminded of a very interesting talent he possessed. “I have a trick so that it doesn’t hurt when you get a shot. The key is to—”
“Don’t ask why I was at the doctor either,” said Maisie, “because that is personal business, sir. I will thank you not to bring it up.”
He didn’t bring it up. He asked her instead if she wanted to go camping with his family. They were going that weekend.
She shook her head. “Not happening,” she said. “My parents are opposed to camping.”
“But your dad said he liked to camp. Remember? He said you used to go all the time.”
“Well, we don’t now. And I don’t want to talk about it.” She was quiet for a moment more. Then she looked up suddenly and blurted, “Guess what? Mr. Jorgensen drove his car into a ditch. The police had to drive him home yesterday.”
Hank pinched his face in shock and distress.
Maisie reached out her hand and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “He’s okay, though. My mom went and checked.”
They decided they should go visit after school and both were surprised when a woman opened the door. She was thin with pale cheeks and ponytailed beige hair. She wore a long-sleeved, collared shirt that she tucked into tan pants, and in her hands she held a fluffy white dog the size of a loaf of bread. It wore a thin pink sweater, and matching pink ribbons were tied to its pancakelike ears. Hank might have thought the dog stuffed were it not for the quivering nose that pointed back and forth from Maisie to Hank.
Maisie squealed in delight. She stretched out a hand to pet the dog. “That is the cutest dog in the world.”
The woman took a step back and turned to shield the dog from Maisie’s fingers. In turn, Maisie froze, her hand still hanging in the air. She looked at Hank. She looked at the woman, whose mouth was now a squiggly line. Then she looked back at Hank. Something about Maisie’s rolling eyes and open mouth worried him.
“Who are you?” said Hank, taking control of the situation.
The woman’s head snapped back. “Colleen Jorgensen. I’m Frank’s daughter.”
The dog let out a series of high-pitched yaps that seemed to mimic the sharp, no-nonsense tone of the woman’s introduction.
“I bet I know who you are,” said Colleen with a grumble. “You’re the kids who accused my dad of neglecting his dog. He loves that dog, you know.”
Hank felt a flutter in his stomach. He leaned toward Maisie and decided to let her take control of the situation instead. “Is she mad at us?”
Maisie tilted her head thoughtfully. “I… We know he loves Booler. So do we.”
The woman moved her mouth from one side of her face to the other and considered them. The dog stretched out its head and began to sniff them from afar. The woman blinked. The dog blinked.
“
Do you need something?” said Colleen, who definitely did not seem like she wanted them to need anything.
Hank looked out at the lawn. “We just came for a visit.”
She shook her head. “Maybe later. We’re pretty busy right now.” Then, with something halfway between a weak smile and a hiccup, the woman closed the door right in their faces.
They stood there for a moment, unable to move.
Maisie opened her arms wide. “What the heck?”
“I don’t like her,” said Hank, frowning.
Booler started to howl and they went to comfort him, but they had not been with him two minutes when Colleen opened the back door. Still holding the little dog, she snapped, “Excuse me? Did anyone say you could be back here?”
“Colleen,” they heard Frank say.
She turned her head toward the house and listened to words they could not make out. “Well, I don’t think either of us need that distraction right now. We have a lot to work out.” She snapped her fingers and pointed toward the fence. “Go,” she mouthed at them. “Go!”
They went, but not before privately nicknaming Colleen “the evil daughter.”
* * *
Details of her visit leaked out the next week, courtesy of Maisie’s mom, who Maisie said was the original master of investigating.
“Apparently, the evil daughter lives in Minnesota. She’s here for a week and she never puts her prissy little yapper dog down on the ground,” Maisie told Hank at school on Monday.
On Tuesday she told him, “Apparently, the evil daughter is a lawyer, and she was sort of a big deal smarty-pants when she went to high school, but she has always been tough as nails so we really don’t want to mess with her.”
On Wednesday she said, “Apparently, Mr. Jorgensen fought in a war a long time ago, but not the one with Nazis. And then he opened his bowling alley and the evil daughter actually went to college on a bowling scholarship even though she hated bowling and called it stupid. And Mr. Jorgensen never forgave her for hating bowling because bowling put food on their table. And she never forgave him for making her spend her whole childhood renting out bowling shoes. But really it’s a tragedy of misunderstanding because there is a lot of love there if they could just let go of the past. And Mr. Jorgensen used to have a wife, but she died about fifteen years ago and everyone cried because she was a nice lady. And Mr. Jorgensen and the evil daughter have hardly seen each other since then because the wife was the glue that held the family together. Did you know any of that?”
We Could Be Heroes Page 9
