motioned me out of earshot of my mother, who was busy supervising the usual after-school skirmish in the kitchen.
I sighed with impatience. In recent months Armand had become a figure of authority, siding with my father and mother occasionally. As the oldest son he sometimes took advantage of his age and experience to issue rules and regulations.
“How much money have you got?” he whispered.
“You in some kind of trouble?” I asked, excitement rising in me as I remembered the blackmail plot of a movie at the Globe a month before.
He shook his head in annoyance. “Look,” he said, “it’s Pa’s birthday tomorrow. I think we ought to chip in and buy him something …”
I reached into my pocket and caressed the coins. “Here,” I said carefully, pulling out a nickel. “If we all give a nickel we should have enough to buy him something pretty nice.”
He regarded me with contempt. “Rita already gave me fifteen cents, and I’m throwing in a quarter. Albert handed over a dime—all that’s left of his birthday money. Is that all you can do—a nickel?”
“Aw, come on,” I protested. “I haven’t got a single Ken Maynard left, and I was going to buy some cards this afternoon.”
“Ken Maynard!” he snorted. “Who’s more important—him or your father?”
His question was unfair because he knew that there was no possible choice—“my father” had to be the only answer. My father was a huge man who believed in the things of the spirit, although my mother often maintained that the spirits he believed in came in bottles. He had worked at the Monument Comb Shop since the age of fourteen; his booming laugh—or grumble—greeted us each night when he returned from the factory. A steady worker when the shop had enough work, he quickened with gaiety on Friday nights and weekends, a bottle of beer at his elbow, and he was fond of making long speeches about the good things in life. In the middle of the Depression, for instance, he paid cash for a piano, of all things, and insisted that my twin sisters, Yolande and Yvette, take lessons once a week.
I took a dime from my pocket and handed it to Armand.
“Thanks, Jerry,” he said. “I hate to take your last cent.”
“That’s all right,” I replied, turning away and consoling myself with the thought that twenty cents was better than nothing at all.
When I arrived at Lemire’s I sensed disaster in the air. Roger Lussier was kicking disconsolately at a tin can in the gutter, and Rollie Tremaine sat sullenly on the steps in front of the store.
“Save your money,” Roger said. He had known about my plans to splurge on the cards.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“There’s no more cowboy cards,” Rollie Tremaine said. “The company’s not making any more.”
“They’re going to have President cards,” Roger said, his face twisting with disgust. He pointed to the store window. “Look!”
A placard in the window announced: “Attention, Boys. Watch for the New Series. Presidents of the United States. Free in Each 5-Cent Package of Caramel Chew.”
“President cards?” I asked, dismayed.
I read on: “Collect a Complete Set and Receive an Official Imitation Major League Baseball Glove, Embossed with Lefty Grove’s Autograph.”
Glove or no glove, who could become excited about Presidents, of all things?
Rollie Tremaine stared at the sign. “Benjamin Harrison, for crying out loud,” he said. “Why would I want Benjamin Harrison when I’ve got twenty-two Ken Maynards?”
I felt the warmth of guilt creep over me. I jingled the coins in my pocket, but the sound was hollow. No more Ken Maynards to buy.
“I’m going to buy a Mr. Goodbar,” Rollie Tremaine decided.
I was without appetite, indifferent even to a Baby Ruth, which was my favorite. I thought of how I had betrayed Armand and, worst of all, my father.
“I’ll see you after supper,” I called over my shoulder to Roger as I hurried away toward home. I took the
I sighed with impatience. In recent months Armand had become a figure of authority, siding with my father and mother occasionally. As the oldest son he sometimes took advantage of his age and experience to issue rules and regulations.
“How much money have you got?” he whispered.
“You in some kind of trouble?” I asked, excitement rising in me as I remembered the blackmail plot of a movie at the Globe a month before.
He shook his head in annoyance. “Look,” he said, “it’s Pa’s birthday tomorrow. I think we ought to chip in and buy him something …”
I reached into my pocket and caressed the coins. “Here,” I said carefully, pulling out a nickel. “If we all give a nickel we should have enough to buy him something pretty nice.”
He regarded me with contempt. “Rita already gave me fifteen cents, and I’m throwing in a quarter. Albert handed over a dime—all that’s left of his birthday money. Is that all you can do—a nickel?”
“Aw, come on,” I protested. “I haven’t got a single Ken Maynard left, and I was going to buy some cards this afternoon.”
“Ken Maynard!” he snorted. “Who’s more important—him or your father?”
His question was unfair because he knew that there was no possible choice—“my father” had to be the only answer. My father was a huge man who believed in the things of the spirit, although my mother often maintained that the spirits he believed in came in bottles. He had worked at the Monument Comb Shop since the age of fourteen; his booming laugh—or grumble—greeted us each night when he returned from the factory. A steady worker when the shop had enough work, he quickened with gaiety on Friday nights and weekends, a bottle of beer at his elbow, and he was fond of making long speeches about the good things in life. In the middle of the Depression, for instance, he paid cash for a piano, of all things, and insisted that my twin sisters, Yolande and Yvette, take lessons once a week.
I took a dime from my pocket and handed it to Armand.
“Thanks, Jerry,” he said. “I hate to take your last cent.”
“That’s all right,” I replied, turning away and consoling myself with the thought that twenty cents was better than nothing at all.
When I arrived at Lemire’s I sensed disaster in the air. Roger Lussier was kicking disconsolately at a tin can in the gutter, and Rollie Tremaine sat sullenly on the steps in front of the store.
“Save your money,” Roger said. He had known about my plans to splurge on the cards.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“There’s no more cowboy cards,” Rollie Tremaine said. “The company’s not making any more.”
“They’re going to have President cards,” Roger said, his face twisting with disgust. He pointed to the store window. “Look!”
A placard in the window announced: “Attention, Boys. Watch for the New Series. Presidents of the United States. Free in Each 5-Cent Package of Caramel Chew.”
“President cards?” I asked, dismayed.
I read on: “Collect a Complete Set and Receive an Official Imitation Major League Baseball Glove, Embossed with Lefty Grove’s Autograph.”
Glove or no glove, who could become excited about Presidents, of all things?
Rollie Tremaine stared at the sign. “Benjamin Harrison, for crying out loud,” he said. “Why would I want Benjamin Harrison when I’ve got twenty-two Ken Maynards?”
I felt the warmth of guilt creep over me. I jingled the coins in my pocket, but the sound was hollow. No more Ken Maynards to buy.
“I’m going to buy a Mr. Goodbar,” Rollie Tremaine decided.
I was without appetite, indifferent even to a Baby Ruth, which was my favorite. I thought of how I had betrayed Armand and, worst of all, my father.
“I’ll see you after supper,” I called over my shoulder to Roger as I hurried away toward home. I took the
Similar Books
