Home Front

By Lois Jones

Wartime in rural America. Families torn asunder, lives disrupted, fundamental human values tested. Young men become the nation's warriors; some never return. And on the Home Front, farm folk are suddenly confronted with overwhelming problems. Memorable characters move this panoramic plot forward, and as the Martin family and their neighbors struggle, we see their real natures evolve.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lois Jones
• Release date: Dec 18, 2010
• ISBN: 9780984395910

Lois Jones

Although it was over before she entered high school, World War II had a profound effect on Lois Trantina Jones's life. Included in her book is a fictionalized account of some of her memories: ratiioning, scaricty of metal, air raid drills, defense plant work, etc. The author was born in the greater Chicago area but raised downstate. She graduated from a nearby college; married Dick Jones, who had been an engineer in the Army Air Corps; raised a daughter; taught school and received two more college degrees. She and her husband moved to a retirement area in Arizona near Phoenix. For several years she taught at the high school and college levels. Her book, which deals with what was happening on the home front during World War II, is available from Smashwords: http//www.smashwords.com/books/view/33916, Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/Home-Front-Lois-M-Jones/dp/0984395903/ref=sr 1 11? s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1301175339&sr=1-11, or by ordering through book stores.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Stray Dog sat up, stretched and yawned. The late fall wind whipped down the alleyway, carrying with it gritty cinders, dead leaves, scraps of paper, and the mouth-watering smell of food. The dog trembled in the cold as he slunk around the dumpster he used for shelter behind the only local bank. Hunger won out over the bone-tingling chill, however, so he headed into the wind and out of the alley. Except for the glow from the streetlights that occasionally punctuated the gloom along Rutledge’s unimpressive main street, the village was in quiet darkness.

As he jogged across the street and to the next alley, Stray Dog remembered the noises from much earlier in the evening—cars and trucks honking and careening around corners, people calling loudly to each other. That usually meant that not only was garbage being heaped high behind the Blue Plate Café but also that crossing the street was unsafe, so he had remained in his shelter and slept until things quieted down.

Turning purposefully into the alley, he noticed that the mingled aromas from the large containers became stronger and more pungent, causing saliva to drip from his already open jaw. Several scrawny, scarred cats jumped from the heaped garbage when Stray Dog growled at them. He had learned early-on how to stand on his hind legs and pull the cans over with his front paws, but tonight there was no need. Garbage overflowed onto the ground. He quickly gobbled up pieces of hamburgers, hot dogs, and fries, at first not even taking time to separate the food from the napkins and other trash. But when his hunger had been somewhat abated and he noted that the cats were still at bay, he became more selective.

After gulping down as much as he could hold, Stray Dog, trotting along more slowly now, retraced his path to the main intersection. Nearly all of Rutledge’s businesses were located on either side of Main Street in just two short blocks, and all of them, except Rooney’s Tavern, were dark. The streets were deserted except for a young man sitting on the high curb. Sometimes the local kids petted and played with Stray Dog, so rather than heading straight back to his shelter, he slowed to a walk and moved closer to investigate. While still some ten yards away from the huddled figure he recognized this one’s unique scent and immediately turned back toward his original destination. This young man was one of the few who yelled and even kicked at Stray Dog. Accelerating now to a trot, he loped off into the night, not realizing—or caring—that the young man was crying.

* * * * *

Harley Martin sat with his head between his knees, crying and retching into the gutter. He was drunk. Forgetting it was right beside him, he knocked over his half-finished bottle of beer. It broke against the brick gutter into which it fell, the brown shards of glass rocking back and forth, glinting in the soft glow of the streetlight. The area around Harley now contained the mingled, nauseating odors of vomit and beer, making him sick again.

Shit! he tried to yell into the deserted street. But even this was ineffective, as it came out sounding more like a moan.

In his inebriated state, Harley could see the lighted, three-sided clock on the corner of the bank half a block away only as a blur. Grimacing in agony from his effort to see the time, he rose slowly, muttering, See if Rooneys ’er still around. Even in his drunken condition, he knew the pains shooting through all his muscles were a mere foreshadowing of what tomorrow would bring. But then, he reminded himself, football heroes never let the pain show—or the fear. Shit! he said again, this time a bit more clearly, as he finally straightened up. He wondered whether he hurt more than anyone else on the team because he was the best player, or did most of the others hurt this much, too? As he thought of the time he’d sprained his ankle toward the end of his sophomore year—already playing varsity ball most of the time—he remembered what real pain was, especially playing in the next game when his heavily-taped sprain still hurt. Then it came to him why he had been sitting on the curb in this deserted town, retching and crying. He had played his last football game. Four years ago he had thought it would last forever; now it was over.

Harley became aware of the wind whipping through his light jacket, and he began to feel the cold. He had been sick on his pants, making his legs feel like they were covered with ice packs. He brushed his arm across his face to dry the embarrassing tears; the wind was turning even the salty teardrops to tiny icicles. Then, hoping to make this exciting yet exhausting day last just a bit longer, he dragged himself toward Rooney’s Tavern, knowing he would never have such a glorious, exhilarating time again.

It had been a perfect afternoon for football. The sun was bright. The temperature was chilly, but not too cold. The wind hadn’t picked up until after the game was over. At the final whistle, as he ran off the field with his victorious team, his old man, students, the cheerleaders, especially his girlfriend Ellen, adults, even old lady Evans, his English teacher, descended on him. They just couldn’t wait to congratulate him, hug him, and tell him how great he’d been. And he had.

Clear back in September he’d set the school record for making the most career touchdowns. The three he’d made today brought his record to forty-two. Now that was an achievement he doubted any future Rutledge High player would ever equal. Of course his older brother, HR, had left a bunch of football trophies in the attic when he went to college, but Harley was proud to think he had broken most of HR’s earlier records. Even though Harley was broad-shouldered and husky but not really tall, he could still run faster than most. And the undefeated season—because of his winning touchdown at nearly the end of today’s game—made his four years of playing even more noteworthy.

Afterwards in the locker room, the team had decided to go out to Barnett’s pond with the cases and cases of beer Bill Rooney had provided. Coach Caploe, even though he had just finished college two years before and should have known better what boys were like, had kept them home nights (or thought he had), in bed early and off the booze during the season. But it was over now, and they had made up for all they’d missed those three months—and then some!

But it was worth it, by God! Harley yelled, and then held his head, which seemed to be shattering into piercingly bright-lighted, multi-colored slivers. Maybe I can get the hair of the dog—cool Griesedieck—at Rooney’s, if he’s still around. With this, Harley stumbled along past the bank and across the street toward the lighted beacon that was Rooney’s place.

Even though the taverns in Colby County were to close at 1:00 a.m., Bill Rooney seldom asked anyone to leave. Most of his patrons wanted to talk more than drink, anyhow. The law—actually Constable Maycomb—occasionally came by to raise Cain, but since so few complaints were ever lodged—the good people of Rutledge were home in bed well before one o’clock—and so few customers stayed later, the other tavern keepers decided Rooney was welcome to what little business there was, and they went home to bed, too. The lawman just gave Bill warnings, in case anyone ever cared to check into it.

Seeing light coming from the tavern window, Harley decided Bill Rooney was probably still there, all puffed up over the football game and his son John’s part in it. It was sure considerate, though, that he’d furnished the beer for the party. Damned hard to get cases of beer around here when you were underage. And since the town was so small, everyone knew how old all the kids were. Through the window, Harley could see Bill and John sitting at the bar, empty beer mugs in front of them. Bill, his arm around John’s shoulders, showed pride in his eyes as he looked at his son.

Although Harley’s father had never allowed him to enter a tavern, surely tonight even he would have agreed his son deserved the experience, being the football hero that he was. Besides, Harley was eighteen and the star of Rutledge High, so to hell with what his dad thought! He tried the door but found it locked. The Rooneys heard the door rattle, however, and John rose to let Harley in.

Hey! Harley! That touchdown there at the end—that was something! How’d you ever get by that number 28? Wasn’t he a shittin’ horse? Bill called as Harley staggered onto a barstool.

Harley could almost feel the pain diminish as he basked in the warmth of yet more praise. His soggy brain dried out a bit, in fact, and he could nearly smile.

My son here, Bill continued, he reminded me of one time when I was playin’ in the game against Cedarcrest. I was only a sophomore—dropped out after football that year—but I’d made the first team. Anyhow, Cedarcrest was the team to beat. I was a tackle, just like him. With this, Bill ruffled John’s hair and continued, When all of a sudden . . .

It’s over! Harley burst out, amazing them (and himself) as he plopped his head into his arms on the bar and wept. The others, too stunned to act, could only empathize, each from his separate perspective. Tears gathered in their eyes, too, and soon they were all three weeping, but isolated. Knowing that men don’t cry, they erected unseen barriers between their bodies while conjoining their souls. Before long, Harley was asleep.

As Bill came back to reality, he asked, Where’s his car, Son?

Oh, shit fire! John replied, it’s probably still out to Barnett’s pond. We all come back in the back end of Harry Swanson’s pickup. ‘Member, we rode all over town yellin’ and carryin’ on? Harley and some of ‘em got out when Harry started back to the pond.

Well, old man Martin will be mad as hell iffen Harley ain’t home come mornin’. Help me get him out to the truck. Open the window on his side. I don’t want his puke all over the inside o’ my truck. God! It’s near two o’clock. His old man’s probably mad as hell already!

After wrestling Harley into the aging truck, listening to him groan as they did so, they headed south into the country. The clattering of the nearly worn-out truck motor covered the soft rustling of dead November leaves and brown, dried corn stalks and the soft animal noises along the way. Exhaust fumes from the truck’s rusted muffler overwhelmed the crisp smells of autumn fruits. The moon, mainly obscured by clouds, emitted faint light, hardly as bright as Rooney’s yellow headlights. As they passed farmhouses along the way, they heard a few dogs bark sleepily. Going by the Edgars’ place, a startled cat, caught in the truck lights, turned glowing green eyes their way.

Get ‘er, Dad! John yelled, although Bill swerved to avoid hitting it. Why didn’t yah get ‘er? John asked.

You’ll get enough killin’ afore long, Son. Let the cat alone.

What d’ya mean, ‘killin’?’

Hitler, Mussolini, Tojo . . . something’s gonna get us in this war. And you and that lunk over there, and the rest a ya—you’ll be cannon fodder.

A worried look crossed Bill’s face. Cannon fodder?

Sure. Who do you think’ll go off to defend the U.S. of A.? Your class of ’ 42 been lookin’ toward graduatin’ all this time. I been so proud, Son. You know you’re the first one in the family to get this fer in school. Bill, his voice, beginning to crack, softly repeated, I been so proud. And, after a pause, Since your maw died, I been hopin’ ta raise you right. And so fer it looks like I have, even though a saloon ain’t the easiest place ta raise a youngin’. But, Son, your class may not be able to go on to start your life; you may be a goin’ ta war."

But that ain’t fair, Paw. We have plans. Harley here, he’s a gonna farm with his old man. Harry Swanson said tonight he was a-goin’ ta see about goin’ to St. Louis to some trade school. We all got somethin’ planned, Paw.

Have you, Son? I’ve been a-wonderin’, Bill asked, having now driven three miles south of town. This here’s where we turn, he continued, as he navigated the truck around the corner to the right.

Well, I been thinking I might could get me a job somewheres as a bookkeeper, John responded. I know that’s getting ta be women’s work, but I might go later to be a CPA. I been likin’ my bookkeepin’ classes.

I surely do hope you can, Son. I truly do hope so. Bill spotted the Martins’ lone pole light shining ahead on the right. At least they’ve left the outside light on fer us. Yes, sir. You guys, you’ve been brave on the football field, and you’ve strutted around the town all fall, so full of it. But we’ll see, probably before long, just who’s left to strut. I try not to even think of it, Son. With your maw gone ‘n all. I couldn’t stand it, I guess, if anything was to happen to you, too. But, if you gotta go . . .

For the second time that night John watched tears form in his dad’s eyes, this time in the dim light from the dashboard. A pain worse than the physical ones he was feeling from the game jolted him deep inside. Sure, the guys talked of war with the same bravado as they used in their football talk, but they didn’t seriously think about it that much. This was their senior year. That was what was important. At least it had been until tonight. Now football was over. And neither John himself, nor most of the guys, truth be known, had ever even screwed a girl! How could the real world intervene before they were ready?

John’s thoughts were interrupted by his dad’s quick turn to the right into the Martins’ drive. Up the lane the large, two-story farmhouse loomed, pale white in the distance. When they came to a stop at the side of the house, a huge, black, fur-covered devil bolted out of the darkness, growling and barking in earnest.

Oh, shit! Bill said under his breath. The dog! Those damned German shepherds are mean!

Maybe he’ll remember me, John hoped. I been out here with Harley a time er two. What’s his damned name? Oh, yeah, Blackie.

Blackie was by now on his hind legs, front paws on the door, barking through the open truck window. Harley slowly regained enough consciousness to wonder why Blackie was there, barking and slobbering in his face.

The back porch light came on as Harley’s dad opened the door, gruffly yelling, Blackie! Who’s there? Whaddya want?

It’s Bill and John Rooney. We brung Harley home. Didn’t think he should drive, Bill yelled back. By the way, his car’s out ta Barnett’s pond, in case he forgets.

This is a fine time to be a bringin’ my son home! snarled Mr. Martin.

Yep! Must be long about two o’clock. If Harley’s got any chores, he’s gonna be a little late a doin’ ‘em. Right now he needs his bed, Bill Rooney concluded, stating the obvious.

Mr. Martin had trudged out to the truck by now. He was wearing slippers, work pants, long underwear and a heavy jacket. Flinging the truck door open, he yelled, Get outta there, Harley! Get to bed and sleep it off! When he recognized John in the truck, he continued, You heroes deserved a good party, I guess, even though I don’t hold with drinkin’, but you’ll both pay fer it in the mornin’.

As John followed Harley out of the truck to help him to the porch, Mr. Martin said, "No, John. If Harley’s man enough to get himself drunk, he’ll have to be enough of a man to get himself to bed. And he will do his chores come sunup. I’ll see to that!" Horrace Martin continued in a determined voice.

While Harley stumbled toward the lighted back porch, not looking much like a hero, Mr. Martin, one foot on the running board, leaned against the truck door. I thank you both fer seein’ my son home, but I can’t thank you fer givin’ him the booze. I know this was the last game and all, but it’s pretty hard fer me to see him in this condition. I expect you to turn him down the next time he comes by your place. Otherwise I’ll get Constable Maycomb on you, understand? Everyone knows you stay open after hours! With this, Mr. Martin hurried after Harley, who was staggering up the back steps. Blackie, bored now that there was nothing for him to do, trotted back to his sleeping spot under the worn back porch steps, listening to the uneven thumps above him.

Well, that’s a fine howdy-do! After we brung him clear out here! Who’s he to be so insultin’? John asked, shuddering from the cold as he quickly rolled up the truck window.

Insultin’? I was afeared he would get me arrested fer servin’ the boy—and the rest of ‘em. Some people jest don’t approve a drinkin’, and sometimes I can’t say I blame ‘em. I seen things that about make me ashamed o’ my business, Bill replied as he turned the truck around in the barn lot and drove out of Martins’ lane. Often times, though, the very ones who talk loudest about closin’ us down are the very ones who call and want me to leave a fifth hid in the alley behind the tavern fer them to pick up, he continued as they drove off into the late night darkness.

* * * * *

Fanny and Sharon, Harley’s sisters, shared a front room, formerly the parlor, which had been made into a bedroom after Fanny’s siege with polio began. Although she was confined to a wheelchair, the family considered her lucky, because so many children they knew or had heard about had to live in iron lungs in order to breathe—stop-gap measures at best. Many more had died outright of the same disease. Sharon’s bed was also in the room so she would be there when Fanny needed help at night.

Hearing the ruckus outside, Fanny had awakened Sharon and sent her to the kitchen to find out what was happening. When she returned with the report of what she had seen, Sharon noticed a smile briefly flitting across Fanny’s face. He’ll be in fer it now, Fanny predicted. The Martins don’t get into trouble, ner fights, ner especially they don’t drink! Dad’s bein’ a deacon ‘n all at the church. What’ll people think?

Sharon noted that Fanny seemed almost pleased rather than being exasperated about it.

Yes, sir, he’s in fer it now! He thinks he’s sech a hero with that football and all. You say you don’t know who brung ‘im home? she asked her sister.

I could hear men talkin’, but mostly it was Dad, and not very clear. You heard how loud the truck was.

Well, we’ll know in the mornin’. I need changin’, but I hate ta have Maw come down. Think you’re big enough to do it?

Sharon, who had been dreading the day this would happen, could only reply, Sure. I’m in fifth grade, you know.

And I’d be a junior this year . . .

Sharon began her smelly task.

* * * * *

R-I-N-G ring ring ring R-I-N-G

Hello?

Hello, Ruby? This here’s Ethel. How’re ya a doin’?

Jest fine. An’ yerself?

Tolerable. I jest hardly got no sleep last night, though, with all the ruckus.

The ruckus?

Well, I spoze clear down the road where you are, you didn’t hear.

Hear what?

Well, I had jest gone out ta the privy about two o’clock er so—I don’t use the pot lessen it’s rainin’ er snowin’, ya know. Well, as I was a goin’ to the outhouse, I heard this noisy ol’ truck come a rattlin’ down the road.

Who was it at that time a night? Anyone ya knowed?

I think it was that Rooney fella—the saloon keeper. Looked about like his truck, anyhow.

What in tarnation was he a doin’ a goin’ by your house in the dead a night?

Thet’s jest what I was a wonderin’, so I kept watch. I about broke my leg when I tripped on thet tree stump out front in the dark—the moon was mainly hid by clouds. I finally got out behind thet lilac bush by the road jest as whoever ’twas turned into the Martins’ lane. I figured hit could a been someone goin’ to Perkins’s, their hired man, ya know, but all Benny has is that junk car. An’ I hear tell his girl Ellen’s a goin’ with Harley now, so it don’t fit that someone else brung her home at that hour.

Well, my Sally said her friend Agnes called this mornin’ to say the football team tied one on out ta Barnett’s pond after the game. She said they had a dozen kegs a beer and even some hard stuff!

Law’s sake! Don’t thet beat all! Probably some a them fast girls coulda been out there, too. So John Rooney musta been the one bringin’ thet young Harley home. I’ll bet his pa was purely put out, hero or no. That sandy hair a Horrace’s might as well be flamin’ red fer the temper he has. Now, Fanny, iffin you’re a listenin’ in, you know we’re a tellin’ the truth here.

I allus said them Martins ain’t any better than they should be.

* * * * *

The midday sun shone through Harley’s upstairs window, waking him. Lying on his side, he focused unsteadily on the shiny trophies glinting in a sunbeam on his dresser. He did not need to read the engraving on them; he knew the first one was for Best Freshman Football Player—1938-1939; the middle one for Most Improved—1939-1940; and the last for Best All-Around Player—1940-1941. That had taken care of his first three seasons. This year he would receive several more. Taped to the small, wavy mirror above his dresser were team pictures and articles, some of which Fanny had cut from newspapers. Others were copies of pictures taken for the yearbook. The older clippings were beginning to yellow, although Harley didn’t notice. Several pictures showed Harley alone, suited up and smiling proudly. The captions often spoke of Harley as another Martin football standout, referring to his brother HR, now a sophomore and on the traveling squad at State U. This year many of the articles mentioned the Rutledge High records, mainly set by HR, which Harley had broken. Before leaving for college, HR had packed away all his clippings and trophies, taking them to the attic. Let’s see if you can cover the mirror with your stuff now, he’d said to Harley. Well, he had, and then some.

The dull, yellowed wallpaper was damaged in places where Harley had carelessly—or sometimes intentionally—thrown things. There were a couple of dents where in a rage he had tried to put his fist through the plaster. He and HR had left reminders of their scuffles, also. The door to the small closet stood open, thus giving a view of his work, school and church clothes. His other belongings were scattered here and there on the scuffed-up, painted, wide board floor. The only other furniture was the old dresser and double bed left over from when his grandparents had set up housekeeping.

Blinking to keep the bright light from hurting his eyes so much, he turned onto his back, put a hand on either side of his rumpled, single bed and thought about sitting up. A grievous, thudding pain reminded him of yesterday’s activities, both on and off the football field, not that he could remember much about the later events. Rising slowly only prolonged the agony, but at least it wasn’t so painful as it would be to get up all at once. His mouth tasted foul and was desert dry. Shit, he whispered, but even this slight effort made his head pound even worse. Last night had not been the first time Harley had drunk beer, but he had never before drunk nearly as much.

He could hear woman sounds from the kitchen and decided food might help him recover. Thinking back, he realized it had been nearly twenty-four hours since he’d had much at all to eat. Coach Caploe always wanted his players to have a light lunch before the games—soup, crackers, milk. Instead, Harley had had a hamburger, French fries and a shake at the Blue Plate Café. But the game had used much more energy than that. And who on the team had thought to bring food to the party? That was woman work—but no women had been invited. It had been almost a ritual passing of the group into manhood. Not that women were bad. Damn! Harley yelled, and Damn! again because it hurt so much to yell. I’ve got a date with Ellen tonight, he remembered, and I can’t even get out of bed. The thought crossed his mind that she could come share his bed with him, but then he muttered, Damned broad. Thinks she’s too good to screw. I’ll show her tonight. She can either put out for the football hero or I know lots of other ones that will. But I gotta admit she’s the cutest li’l thing from here to St. Louis, I guess. I saw her jumpin’ up and down, in her short cheerleader skirt, her tits a bouncin’, after I made that last touchdown. She don’t get that excitement for free, not around here—everything has a price in the Martin family.

Hunger won out, so Harley, who had fallen back onto his pillow, again pushed himself up and put his feet over the side of the bed. Gagging as his bare feet landed in the mess of cold vomit he’d deposited there during the night, he pulled on his filthy pants, which were lying nearby. He stumbled out of the room and into the hall, turning toward the steps leading down into the kitchen. Holding tightly to the rail, he clumped heavily downstairs where he found his mother washing the noon dishes. Fix me ham, three eggs and buttered toast in the oven, he commanded as he made his way across the room to the bathroom, closing the door behind himself.

His mother, colorless and drab, and wearing a faded housedress and shapeless sweater, stopped her work at the sink. She fetched the ham from the summer kitchen off the back porch, cut a thick slice and put it in a heavy, cast iron skillet on the range. Fortunately, she had just added wood to the stove, as she would soon begin heating water for their Saturday baths.

During the week there was enough hot water in the reservoir in the range. But this was bath day, so all the largest pans had been filled with water from the outside pump and placed on the stovetop to heat. With five people in the house and only one bathtub, the women began their washing up shortly after the noon meal. Every one wanted to be ready on time for the traditional Saturday night trip to Rutledge. Although Mildred knew how angry her husband was with their son, she said nothing to Harley about it. Confrontations with either her husband or Harley, she had learned, were never worth it in the long run.

Harley, looking pale and unkempt, returned to the kitchen and jerked open the refrigerator door. Ain’t no water in this jug, he growled at his mother. Can’t you ever keep it filled?

Your dad musta emptied it. He said you was to come help at the corn crib.

Gimme a chance ta eat first, Harley countered.

His mother added eggs to the hot skillet and checked the oven toast.

Hey, Harley! a voice called, wish I coulda seen that game.

Harley had been oblivious to the fact that his crippled sister Fanny was seated in her wheelchair at the worktable, her back to the wall phone. When she had contracted polio a couple of years before, the doctors agreed she was just lucky to be alive. Harley wasn’t so sure. Whenever he thought about her at all, which was seldom, he thought he would rather be dead than live her totally dependent life. If he had to be carted around or in a wheelchair—never!

I hear you was quite the hero.

Well, I made the last touchdown, he replied, then quietly added, It was the last game.

Yeah. I know. You’ll never play again, will ya? Unless ya go to college and be a big star like HR. But then, I guess ya have to study some in high school to get into college, Fanny continued pointedly.

Who the hell wants ta go to more school? Harley responded, joining her at the small table. He ignored his mother’s stern look at his use of the swear word.

Then she set his heaped plate in front of him, and he dived into the meal. Go to college like his older brother? He was even thinking seriously of quitting high school now that football was over. College? Never!

Dad said everyone cheered and cheered whenever you ran through their line, Fanny continued.

Harley merely grunted as he took a big bite of home cured ham.

Everyone’s been talkin’ about it. Because Fanny had so little to entertain herself, she listened to nearly every call on the telephone party line. Consequently, she was better informed about local affairs than anyone else around, even though her only outings were Saturday nights to town and Sunday mornings to church. Sometimes she stayed home Saturday nights now, though, as she tired so easily. Parking her wheelchair right beside the wall phone whenever she could gave her easy access to the calls. When the phone would ring—a different code of short and long rings for each of the twelve families on their line—she would bring the receiver to her ear. Everyone on the party line knew she listened, of course, but usually they didn’t mind, knowing it was about her only form of entertainment. Other people listened in, too, of course, but none so consistently as Fanny. If a man would come out with a swear word, he would often say, Excuse me, Fanny. One good thing was that she could be counted on for information. Sometimes, when there was no answer to their calls, the callers would find out from Fanny where the people were and when they would probably be back. Or, later on, she might even call the neighbors to tell them who had called them earlier. Once in awhile a caller would ask her to hang up if something they thought too mature for her fifteen-year-old ears was going to be discussed. She’d learned, however, to just depress the receiver hook and quickly release it, so people would surmise she had hung up. She was learning lots that way. More and more often now, though, she had to cough just when things got juicy. Then she really did have to hang up. The two girls who had sometimes hung around with her at high school occasionally came to visit and were impressed with her knowledge of women’s things.

Actually, she figured her life wasn’t as bad as most people thought. She could still feel useful doing a few chores around the house—at least in the kitchen—but she really didn’t have to do much. She listened to the kitchen radio and even had her own radio in the bedroom. The soap operas taught her more about life than she would ever have learned in school. Or more than she would ever experience in her own life, she thought wistfully. She didn’t even have to go to school now. Of course, she couldn’t move anything below her waist, had to wear a heavy cloth diaper with large, waterproof pants over it, and, worst of all—there was her dad. He had never paid much attention to her, as she was a girl, but now he seemed to even try to avoid her. He would go a whole day or so without even acknowledging her presence. He didn’t say much more to Ma, either. He just mainly told her what to do, where he was going—if he remembered to—things like that. Until her illness, Fanny had never even wondered if her ma was happy. Now she realized she couldn’t be. And Fanny was becoming more and more of a burden to her as she increasingly lost muscle control. Ooops! There goes the phone. Two shorts and a long. That’s Davis’s, a mile north. She maneuvered her chair around sideways and quietly took the receiver from the hook, placing it to her ear.

Harley, having gulped down his meal, stood up while still drinking the last of his milk. That did it for his stomach. He barely made it to the bathroom before everything came right back up. His mother quietly got a rag to clean up what hadn’t hit the toilet bowl. Harley stumbled across the kitchen toward the stairway. His little sister Sharon was coming down, bouncing a ball on each riser as she came.

Stop that goddamned noise and tell Dad I’ll help do chores before supper, Harley yelled at her. This caused him to have to retch again, so he turned and ran outside. The cold November air hurt his lungs and gave him chills. Finally, when he thought his stomach was settled, at least for the moment, he went back inside, up the steps and, remembering to step over the cold mess still on the rug by his bed, bundled under the covers, not even taking time to remove his pants. The rotten taste in his mouth nearly made him sick again. Also, he now realized how bad he hurt from the physical contacts yesterday during the game. Maybe he was a hero, but he had never before been as miserable.

The next thing he knew, it was getting dark, and he could feel his dad shaking him, none too gently.

Sternly, Horrace said, Get up, Son. I know you’ve about had it with the game and the beer. Benny and I’ve done the work today. You get out a bed and help with the evening chores. You get up now, you hear? He emphasized his command with a quick, hard jab between Harley’s shoulder blades.

That was one of the few places that hadn’t hurt, until now. Harley was glad his dad had left the room before the reflexive groan escaped his lips. Harley then remembered it was Saturday evening. That and Sundays were Benny the hired man’s only time off, unless farming season was busy, in which case only bad weather gave any of them any rest from their hard labor. Harley knew he had to help his dad with the chores so they could all go to town.

Thinking of Benny caused Harley to remember Benny’s daughter, Ellen. Christ! He had a date with Ellen tonight. Weak and in pain, he stumbled out of bed. By the time he was up and dressed in his work clothes, he had to admit he did feel a bit better, however. At least his stomach seemed settled; his mouth wasn’t so dry and putrid tasting; and his headache was nearly gone. The cuts and bruises remained, of course, but he had over time come to think of those as badges of honor.

After grabbing his heavy work jacket and cap, Harley joined his father in the barn. He threw down some hay from the hayloft then climbed down and spread it in front of the cows’ stanchions, where his father was doing the milking. Harley took hay to the stall where the bull was waiting. Next, he went to the corncrib for ears of corn for the pigs. Noticing that their shrill squealing didn’t make his head ache any worse, he decided he was as good as he was going to get for a while. The cold air seemed to help, too. Then he remembered his car. He’d already made up his mind that tonight was the night with Ellen—put out or get out, as his teammates were fond of saying about their dates—but his car was still at Barnett’s pond. And he did often wonder just how many of the guys actually made out with their girls and how much of it was just talk.

Dad! he yelled, hurrying back into the barn. Can you take me out to Barnett’s pond to get my car? I got a date with Ellen.

As he and his dad finished milking, Harley listened with half an ear to his dad’s sermon, which he knew was coming, on the evils of drink. Just remember you’re a Martin, Son. Watch that you toe the line now. People are already talking about you. Don’t do anything else to smirch up our good name.

When they finished the chores, Harley carried two pails of milk to the milk house for his mother to separate later, and then ran into the house. Ma! I’m starved! Get me something quick!

You forgot to take the slops to the hogs, she said quietly. Supper’ll be ready after you take your bath.

While Harley went upstairs for clean clothes, his mother added the last pan of hot water to what was already in the bathroom tub. Because she, Sharon and Horrace had already bathed in it, the water had a brown soap scum on it. But as dirty as Harley was, his mother thought, it didn’t really matter.

After a hearty supper, Harley and his dad retrieved his car. Harley was relieved when they got to Barnett’s pond; all the way there he had had to listen to even more of his dad’s lecture about upholding their good name. It occurred to Harley to wonder if his dad realized that everyone knew he kept a bottle of whiskey on a rafter in the barn, but he knew this was hardly the time to point that out.

* * * * *

When Harley returned home with his car, he was nearly an hour late for his date with Ellen. Serve the bitch right, he thought, reminding himself about his ultimatum. Just because Ellen was the cutest gal in school, and the best cheerleader and had the best body didn’t mean she could keep stringing him along. They had been going together since summer, after all. Shit! Her old man worked for them, and was a drunk to boot. He might just pressure her to give in with a threat to get her dad fired. What good was Benny, anyhow? Usually he was hung over and surly. And if you didn’t watch him every minute, he’d be off loafing somewhere. And Harley would soon be out of school and working on the farm full time. That little cunt had better put out for him tonight, or she’d be sorry.

The Perkinses lived in the Martins’ tenant house just down the lane toward the road. Coming up the lane, Harley turned right into the rutted path to their house and was about to turn off the ignition when two of the younger kids ran out to the car.

Late, huh? asked the girl.

Ellen’s really mad. She’s gonna pound your head in, I’ll bet! countered the boy.

She’s not never going with you again, the girl continued.

You kids shush, their mother called from the sagging porch. Y’all get back in here; it’s cold out. As she turned to go back into the house, the children following closely, she called back to Harley, Ellen’ll be right out . . . or, come in if you want.

The thought of going into that run-down, tiny shack crammed with people nearly brought up Harley’s stomach contents again. There wasn’t even much light inside. Electricity had just been run to the neighborhood a couple of years before. All Harley’s dad had put into the tenant house, though, was one wire coming down from the center of each of the four rooms’ ceilings, with a bulb at the end of each wire. There was only one wall outlet, which was in the kitchen. His dad wouldn’t have run any power to the house except for what people would say if he hadn’t. Besides, the main line ran right past the tenant house on its way to their place. At least maybe things didn’t look quite so bad in the dim light, Harley thought. Where in hell was that broad, anyway! Harley was about to honk, something even he knew was crude, when Ellen came out the door—slowly, it seemed to him. He reached across to open the car door for her, but she hesitated about getting in. Fer Christ’s sake, get your cute little ass in here before I freeze. The heater was just getting it warmed up!

Harley, the only reason I’m here now is, Mam made me come, Ellen complained as she got in. Where do you get off being an hour late? And that’s no way to talk to me, either!

Why don’t you get a phone? I can’t hardly let you know I’ll be late if I can’t even call you.

We could get a phone if your cheapskate dad would pay my dad a living wage. But then, we’re not paying to have a line put into a house that doesn’t belong to us, either.

You get a house ta live in. Your drunken bum dad has a job. What else do ya want? No one else around here would even hire your dad and put up with his trashy ways. With this, Harley put the car in reverse and shot back down the bumpy path, barely missing the big oak tree that towered above the path where it met the lane. Now he knew for sure tonight was the night. But he supposed they’d have to do something else first. He headed into town, realizing that Ellen was softly crying.

Come here, baby. Let’s not argue. Let me hold you tight. What’cha wanna do?

Ellen slid over under his right arm saying, Everything’s wrong today. Yesterday was your last football game—my last one to cheer for this year. I might not even be voted onto the squad next year.

Harley gave her arm a squeeze, brushing her pert breast as he did. Not get voted in? Are you nuts? You’re the best they got, honey.

And, maybe I won’t even try out. I want to go to college, and I just have one more year of high school to find a way of going. Pap can’t afford to send me, that’s for sure. I thought maybe I could get a job after school, but we’re way out here in the country, and, well, maybe I’ll have to work a couple of years after high school, and . . . all these things were worrying me, and then you were late tonight, and I’d given up on your coming. And she resumed her soft crying.

Oh, baby, you knew I’d come, said Harley, giving her another squeeze. I had to help with the chores ‘cause Benny’s off tonight, so I got behind. Then we went to Barnett’s pond to get my car. Did we have a helluva . . .

That’s another thing, Ellen interrupted. Pap took the car to town right after your dad paid him this afternoon. By the time he comes home, he’ll have drunk up all the money. Petey’s shoes are worn out; the little ones need jackets; we’re about out of groceries.

I’ll tell Dad to give the money to your ma next time, Harley said.

Oh, no! Pap’d be furious. You don’t know how mean he can get. He’d beat her up for sure! Ellen replied in an alarmed voice.

That little runt?

He’s out of control when he’s drunk or angry. Please, just leave things alone, Ellen begged. We’ll get by like we always do.

As they neared the town, Harley asked, Well, what do ya wanna do tonight?

I told Mary Lou we’d probably see her and Jack at the movie, but I guess it’s too late now.

Harley didn’t know if she meant this as a dig or not, but he thought it best to ignore it. And, since he knew lots of people would make a fuss over him for his game yesterday if they were around a crowd, and because he liked having people see him with Ellen, he suggested, Okay, let’s go to the Blue Plate. They’ll be there after the show, anyway, and tell you all about it.

Okay, replied Ellen, a bit surprised. She knew Harley didn’t really like Jack or have much in common with him. Jack got good grades, wasn’t very interested in sports, played in the band and was going to the state university in the fall. But since Mary Lou was Ellen’s best friend, the two guys tolerated each other on occasion. Maybe Harley was trying to make up to her for being so late. And besides, in a little town like this, there wasn’t really anything else to do, anyhow, even on a Saturday night.

Harley drove up and down the two blocks of the business district several times, squealing his tires each time he took off from the four-way stop at the bank corner. Ellen wondered if he knew—or cared—that he was embarrassing her. Finally they parked and got out into the chill wind.

The sidewalks were full of people hurrying from store to store or talking, huddled in small groups. Many of the parked cars contained a wife and perhaps a small child or two. Since the stores stayed open until nine on Saturday nights, the farmers came to town then to do their marketing, catch up on the news and have a social evening, and the women stopped to chat at friends’ cars. In answer to the offer of getting in, they would often reply, Well, I reckon I can, fer a minute er so.

The older children were sometimes at the show or were more likely to be scampering up and down the streets, full of their independence. The men could be found at the feed store or one of the taverns, depending on their ideas of a good time. Before the trip home, most of the youngsters would be asleep in their families’ cars or trucks. The high school crowd, divided into groups by sex or in pairs on dates, ritually attended the show, always a Western on Saturday nights. The couples found the back rows of the darkened theater a good necking place. In front of them sat the groups of singles. Nearer the screen, married couples congregated, some accompanied by children. In the front rows, grade schoolers, mainly boys, talked, threw popcorn, becoming interested in the film only during the chases. If there was a love scene, they all groaned loudly, sure that there was something important happening but uncomfortable about not quite understanding what it was.

While Harley and Ellen walked toward the café, people kept stopping them to talk about yesterday’s game. The men couldn’t say enough in praise of Harley’s abilities, often mentioning their own remembered—or imagined—former prowess. The women all complimented Ellen, telling her how cute she’d been in her cheerleading outfit. After moving on, the ladies would often comment on how lucky Ellen would be if she could catch Harley. All that money and farm land! Law’s sakes! they would opine.

Slowly, the couple drifted into the café, Harley’s arm possessively around Ellen’s waist. Although some of the booths were full when they got there, the theater crowd hadn’t yet arrived. When the show let out, people, young people, mainly, would fill every available seat and even be standing, drinking their Cokes or shakes, stretching out the evening as long as possible. Harley was glad there was a booth available near the door, where they would readily be seen. He helped Ellen off with her well-worn coat. Her dark brown, pleated skirt, which her mother had found at a rummage sale, showed a few food spots, but, as it had to be dry cleaned, something the family couldn’t afford, Ellen had just dabbed at the spots as best she could. She had had to wear it nearly every day since the weather turned cold, because it was the warmest skirt she had. The constant use had caused it to sag unevenly around her calves. Her cheap, peach pullover sweater had been new last school year, but she had washed it so often that it, too, now looked worn. Harley hung her coat on the hook on the end of the booth division. Putting his jacket on top of it, he entertained the thought that one-on-top-of-the-other was just how he expected them to be later. For now, he’d just have to get her in the mood. The jukebox was blaring that stupid little-bittie-fishie tune. Later he’d play something romantic, like Stardust. He scooted in beside Ellen, rubbing his leg against hers and taking her hand. Typically, she moved further toward the wall. Damned broad, Harley thought.

Within minutes several people, high school students and adults, came by, mainly to add more congratulations and praise. Even with all that, though, Harley still felt his bumps and bruises. When the waitress came, Harley ordered a hamburger and shake, mentioning that his ma hadn’t fixed enough supper. Ellen had a small cherry Coke from the fountain. Harley hoped the cherry would be significant. Not many people could afford to eat out, so the stoppers-by usually commented on his doing so. Owning 250 acres of good, Central Illinois farmland was lots of work, but it had its rewards. So far the night was turning out fine. Now, if Ellen would only cooperate. He moved their loosely clenched hands to her leg and began rubbing. Almost instantly she released her hand and turned away. Damn!

What with all the people coming by, Harley’s sandwich was cold by the time he finished it. He stretched a bit then, and casually put his arm around Ellen, as most of the other steadies were doing at that time. They had been going out for several months, so even though Harley hadn’t said anything about it, surely Ellen knew they were steadies, or would be before he took her home. Ellen didn’t move toward him, but she didn’t move away, either. Maybe a good sign, thought Harley.

Fellow teammates Dwayne Collins and Larry Peters came by to compare aches and pains with Harley. Larry was limping quite a bit, but Harley had an idea he was exaggerating his injury for the crowd. Dwayne said some of the guys were going to stop by his farm, as he had some beer in the barn. After last night, we need to drink some to keep in shape, he laughed. When Ellen said, We’re waiting for Mary Lou and Jack, Harley was relieved. He knew he didn’t want any more beer—keeping in drinking shape or not—well, at least not tonight. Shortly after the football players left, some cheerleaders came by to giggle with Ellen. They kept looking at the door whenever it opened, hoping for—even they, probably did not know who—to come walking in.

A few minutes later it because quite apparent that the movie was out. People piled into the café so fast the windows steamed up. Mary Lou and Jack quickly spotted Harley and Ellen and joined them at their booth.

So, how was the ‘shoot-’em-up?