Mother first told her pet about Dad being gone. That's the way things happen in this house. Next, she told Doc III. Her pet mentioned it to Crazy Annie, maybe because they're both dark-skinned. I win freckle contests. That shows you how dark-skinned I am.
I discovered the secret that Dad was gone by accident. Crazy Annie let the cat out of the bag by telling Hen House Helen Kell at Kell's house while Bobby and I were playing with kittens. After the mill's noon whistle blew, Annie and I headed to our house for lunch. "Did I hear you tell Hen House that Dad's gone?"
"Uh-huh."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"From Bill."
"Bill who?"
"Our brother, of course."
"Your brother," I said. "He ain't mine." Whenever I want to make a point extra clear, I become ungrammatical.
"Is too. Who'd you think told me?"
"Is not. Bill K., maybe. Besides, I didn't know Dad was gone."
"Well, he is. So, there."
"So, where is he, then?"
"I don't know. Quit asking so many questions, or I'll tell Mother." Oh, oh, the ultimate of warnings, the promise of being split in two by a pair of runaway horses.
"Please do so," I said although I meant the opposite.
Whenever Mother's upset with me, which is often, her icy glare could freeze Mount Vesuvius's fiery belly. If I asked her why she didn't tell me, she'd say, "Because you’d tell your friends, and that hurts your father's medical practice."
So, what should I do, lie? Sister Mary Rose, School Sister of Notre Dame, also known as "Beaky," warned me: "If you tell a teeny-weenie lie, it's a venial sin, but if you tell a falsehood, that's a mortal sin." Her knobby fingers grabbed at large, black beads on a rosary with a huge, brass crucifix, hanging on the side of her habit. Nuns don't wear dresses. They wear habits. And stumpy black shoes with black shoe laces and black nylon stockings you can't see through.
"But, Sister, who decides if something's teeny-weenie or a falsehood?"
"Jesus, our lord and savior, of course." Beaky bowed her head and made the sign of the cross. Three times, mind you.
"So, if I tell my sister her piece of apple pie is larger than mine, but I know for certain my piece is larger than hers, what would that be?"
Beaky giggled. "You're a naughty boy. It's most likely a venial sin."
"What if I tell Dad's patient on the phone, 'The doctor's not home. He's making house calls.' But as I say that, I can see Dad lying on the parlor couch, fast asleep." Of course, I can't tell a nun Dad was passed out, drunk.
"That is a falsehood. If you died before you confessed that sin to a priest, your black as coal soul would go straight to hell."
Oh, oh. Time to check with a higher authority: Monsignor C. W. Gille. "If you commit a mortal sin and die before you confess it, Satan will assign you to shovel coal into hell's furnaces for an eternity. There'll be no chocolate milk, water, or Kool-Aid for you to drink, either, but if you confess, you'll go to heaven and have all the milk shakes you'd want."
"Herschleb's milk shakes?"
"Yes."
“Chocolate or vanilla?”
“Either one.”
Now, I've got to tell you, Diary, I thought God was being a little too stringent with me. (Thank you, Readers Digest Word Power page). So, before I hop into bed at night, I kneel and ask the Blessed Virgin, "Please, talk to your son. I don't mean to tell falsehoods, but Mother says I must. But don't let him send Mother to hell, either. She means well. She’s just a little nuts. That’s all. And thank you."
Back to the day I overheard Annie tell Hen House Helen about Dad being gone. After lunch, I walked downtown, heading across the river to Woolworth's Five and Dime to buy a model airplane or car. I had saved up fifty cents. All I needed was twenty-nine. Suddenly, a driver stopped his car and shouted, "Gordy." It was Bill K. I stood outside the open passenger side window. He was smiling. "Your father back yet?"
"Not yet, but I didn't know he was gone until an hour ago."
I couldn't believe the size of Bill K's eyes. "You didn't know. Why didn't you know?"
"Mother's scared I'll tell my friends."
He turned off the engine, got out of his car, and put a hand on my shoulder. "Your dad's in Eau Claire for treatment."
"Oh Claire? What’s that?”
“A city up north. Dick and me (There he goes again) drove your dad there. Treatment will help him understand our disease. He should be back in Whiskey Rapids any day. Truth is, I thought he'd be back by now. Don't tell anyone what I said, okay?" He got back into his car and took off. I waved. He waved back. I really like that Bill K.
On my way home, carrying a brand-new balsa wood rectangular lump that will become a race car if I do things right. It was tucked into a brightly colored box. My cars never look like those on the pictures. I made my way up the Wisconsin Street hill and stopped to say hello to Margaret Peterson, a pretty girl my age, plus she’s really smart. Finally, I made it to the hilltop on Eighth Street. As I looked both ways before I crossed to the other side, I saw Dad get out of a car by Habeck's gas station. He saluted the driver. My dad, medical doctor and drunkard, now a hitchhiker. Embarrassed, I looked the other way, hoping he wouldn't see me.
I discovered the secret that Dad was gone by accident. Crazy Annie let the cat out of the bag by telling Hen House Helen Kell at Kell's house while Bobby and I were playing with kittens. After the mill's noon whistle blew, Annie and I headed to our house for lunch. "Did I hear you tell Hen House that Dad's gone?"
"Uh-huh."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"From Bill."
"Bill who?"
"Our brother, of course."
"Your brother," I said. "He ain't mine." Whenever I want to make a point extra clear, I become ungrammatical.
"Is too. Who'd you think told me?"
"Is not. Bill K., maybe. Besides, I didn't know Dad was gone."
"Well, he is. So, there."
"So, where is he, then?"
"I don't know. Quit asking so many questions, or I'll tell Mother." Oh, oh, the ultimate of warnings, the promise of being split in two by a pair of runaway horses.
"Please do so," I said although I meant the opposite.
Whenever Mother's upset with me, which is often, her icy glare could freeze Mount Vesuvius's fiery belly. If I asked her why she didn't tell me, she'd say, "Because you’d tell your friends, and that hurts your father's medical practice."
So, what should I do, lie? Sister Mary Rose, School Sister of Notre Dame, also known as "Beaky," warned me: "If you tell a teeny-weenie lie, it's a venial sin, but if you tell a falsehood, that's a mortal sin." Her knobby fingers grabbed at large, black beads on a rosary with a huge, brass crucifix, hanging on the side of her habit. Nuns don't wear dresses. They wear habits. And stumpy black shoes with black shoe laces and black nylon stockings you can't see through.
"But, Sister, who decides if something's teeny-weenie or a falsehood?"
"Jesus, our lord and savior, of course." Beaky bowed her head and made the sign of the cross. Three times, mind you.
"So, if I tell my sister her piece of apple pie is larger than mine, but I know for certain my piece is larger than hers, what would that be?"
Beaky giggled. "You're a naughty boy. It's most likely a venial sin."
"What if I tell Dad's patient on the phone, 'The doctor's not home. He's making house calls.' But as I say that, I can see Dad lying on the parlor couch, fast asleep." Of course, I can't tell a nun Dad was passed out, drunk.
"That is a falsehood. If you died before you confessed that sin to a priest, your black as coal soul would go straight to hell."
Oh, oh. Time to check with a higher authority: Monsignor C. W. Gille. "If you commit a mortal sin and die before you confess it, Satan will assign you to shovel coal into hell's furnaces for an eternity. There'll be no chocolate milk, water, or Kool-Aid for you to drink, either, but if you confess, you'll go to heaven and have all the milk shakes you'd want."
"Herschleb's milk shakes?"
"Yes."
“Chocolate or vanilla?”
“Either one.”
Now, I've got to tell you, Diary, I thought God was being a little too stringent with me. (Thank you, Readers Digest Word Power page). So, before I hop into bed at night, I kneel and ask the Blessed Virgin, "Please, talk to your son. I don't mean to tell falsehoods, but Mother says I must. But don't let him send Mother to hell, either. She means well. She’s just a little nuts. That’s all. And thank you."
Back to the day I overheard Annie tell Hen House Helen about Dad being gone. After lunch, I walked downtown, heading across the river to Woolworth's Five and Dime to buy a model airplane or car. I had saved up fifty cents. All I needed was twenty-nine. Suddenly, a driver stopped his car and shouted, "Gordy." It was Bill K. I stood outside the open passenger side window. He was smiling. "Your father back yet?"
"Not yet, but I didn't know he was gone until an hour ago."
I couldn't believe the size of Bill K's eyes. "You didn't know. Why didn't you know?"
"Mother's scared I'll tell my friends."
He turned off the engine, got out of his car, and put a hand on my shoulder. "Your dad's in Eau Claire for treatment."
"Oh Claire? What’s that?”
“A city up north. Dick and me (There he goes again) drove your dad there. Treatment will help him understand our disease. He should be back in Whiskey Rapids any day. Truth is, I thought he'd be back by now. Don't tell anyone what I said, okay?" He got back into his car and took off. I waved. He waved back. I really like that Bill K.
On my way home, carrying a brand-new balsa wood rectangular lump that will become a race car if I do things right. It was tucked into a brightly colored box. My cars never look like those on the pictures. I made my way up the Wisconsin Street hill and stopped to say hello to Margaret Peterson, a pretty girl my age, plus she’s really smart. Finally, I made it to the hilltop on Eighth Street. As I looked both ways before I crossed to the other side, I saw Dad get out of a car by Habeck's gas station. He saluted the driver. My dad, medical doctor and drunkard, now a hitchhiker. Embarrassed, I looked the other way, hoping he wouldn't see me.
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