Poodie James

excerpt

“George,” he told Pearson, “I need your help with this hobo
thing. Winifred Stone is going to fight me on it.”
“I’m not on the council, Pete,” Pearson said, “and I sure don’t
have much clout with Mrs. Stone.”
“You’re one of her biggest advertisters.”
“So are you. Has it done you a lot of good politically? She knows
we need the paper to sell cars, and, anyway, she’d throw our business
away before she’d back off in a showdown. What do you want
me to do?”
“Just be at the next council meeting when we open this thing up
for citizen discussion, and make the case. You can get the business
community stirred up.”
“Pete, if we were talking about dozens of derelicts down by the
tracks, I might get upset about it. But there’s never more than a
handful of those guys in that jungle, and they’re always coming and
going. Hell, most people in town don’t even know they exist. What
are you going to do with that hand?”
Torgerson glanced at his cards.
“Raise.”
He put down five dollars.
“Sure,” Pearson said, sighing, “I’ll come to the council and say a
few words. We’re old friends and partners, and I’ve been taking
business away from you. It’s the least I can do.”
Fred Lawrence chuckled, and raised.
Two hands later, Torgerson looked at his watch, tossed his
cards into the center of the table and pushed his chair back.
“You folding, Mr. Mayor?” Pearson asked.
“Only in this poker game, George. I got a meeting with a man
from the railroad. Thanks for your help, pal. I’ll owe you one. We’ll
get those bums out of town, and Poodie James, too.”
“He’s harmless, Pete.”
“He’s going, George.”
Torgerson puzzled for a moment over the hard look Angie gave
him as he waved goodbye, but the hollow moan of a train whistle
made him hurry to his car.

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Poodie James

“Well, you keep an eye on him. This could be our opportunity.”
Spanger peeled off back to the curb, erasing his frown and nodding
greetings as parade watchers who stood packing the sidewalk
looked up and let him ease through. The first contingent of horsemen
was passing, a sheriff’s posse from Colville. The riders doffed
their white Stetsons to the crowd. Behind the posse came two
clowns with brooms, outsized dustpans and barrels on wheels.
“They should be following the Packard,” the chief said to himself.
A platoon of Marine Corps reserves from Seattle approached.
Spanger watched as they executed their maneuvers to commands
from a gunnery sergeant with a chest a size too big for his body.
“Oodareah, hah,” the gunny bellowed. The platoon reversed direction.
“Oodareah, hah,” and they were headed north again. The sergeant
halted the platoon and ran them through the manual of
arms, their M-1s snapping from one position to the next. “Pah ray
reh. Ai lehf.” The Marines dropped their rifles, extended them to
the side and stood with their left hands behind their backs. Their
heads swiveled toward the crowd in front of the hotel.
Spanger looked into the young faces and saw Riley Patterson
crouching in the Guadalcanal mud at dawn, the chin strap of his
helmet dangling, his rifle to his shoulder, slowly pitching backward
as the blood began to gush from the hole in his chest. “Jesus, Sarge,”
Patterson said, “oh, Jesus.” He died before Spanger could crawl to
his side. That left Darwin, the little B.A.R. man Eddie Krotz and a
Japanese machine gun nestled in the trees 50 yards up a rise.
“What’ll we do, Sarge?” Krotz said.
“Stay the hell down, for one thing,” Spanger said, “and whisper.
They may think we’re dead. I don’t know what we’ll do. What have
we got?”
“I got this Browning and three clips and a satchel charge and a
couple of grenades.”
“I’ve got a little ammo for the M-1, plus whatever Patterson had
left,” Spanger said. He reached toward a body next to him. “And now
I have the lieutenant’s .45.” He was shaking, but he was surprised at
the calmness of his thinking. The machine gun was quiet.

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Poodie James

excerpt

Marcie returned the smile, then
splashed him, hoisted herself up the ladder and walked away.
When she looked back, he was standing in the shallow water,
watching her, smiling.
After she cleared the pool house of the last of the swimmers,
Marcie peeled off her suit, showered, and stood examining her
image in the big locker room mirror, turning from side to side,
looking over her shoulder, running her hands down her waist and
onto her hips. She liked the contrast between the tan sections and
the rest of her. She liked the chestnut hair tumbling onto her
shoulders, the firmness and upward sweep of her breasts, the balancing
swell of her behind, the flatness of her tummy, the curve of
her calves into her ankles, the length of her legs. Too bad she had
to be covered all the time, she thought. She knew there were plenty
of boys, and men, too, who wanted to uncover her. She felt their
stares and sensed their craving. Poor things, thank goodness they
don’t know what I feel most of the time, she thought. It isn’t easy
to want what I want and live in a small town where everyone knows
everything about everyone and talks about it. In the heat and steam
of the locker room a long shiver invaded Marcie’s thighs.
She pulled on her blouse, skirt and sandals. Leaving the pool
house, she started in the direction of town. Poodie was sitting on
the edge of his wagon. She stopped and turned to look across the
lawn toward the river. Poodie joined her and took her hand. He led
her to the beginning of a trail, and they stood watching the
Columbia. The surface shimmered copper from the sun lowering
toward the Cascades. An advance guard of nighthawks swooped
low, gorging on colonies of gnats. Halfway across the river,
expelled by the churn and velocity of a deep eddy, a log heaved out
of the water. It flopped onto the surface with a crash that she could
hear 150 yards away and floated for a few seconds before the
unseen power of the river pulled it under. Marcie looked back.
There were no other people. All of the cars were gone. The sun
balanced like a coin on the roof of the ice plant across the road. The
old shamble of a building was a deep silhouette.

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Poodie James

excerpt

often playing the grand piano in their living room, but she stopped the
minute she heard his feet on the porch steps. He could never persuade
her to continue. If he could just get at what it meant. Her piano playing
had been an important part of their lives, but now Sue-Anne
refused to share it with him, even to discuss it. Talking between them
came seldom. He wished he could fix it, but something kept him from
trying, something that frightened him. He could not identify the barrier
any more than he could name the sonata.
A group of children gathered at the piano. He stood at the edge
as the pianist put up a piece of sheet music. They began singing.
Tell me why the stars do shine,
Tell me why the ivy twines,
Tell me why the skies are blue,
And I will tell you just why I love you.
“You sing too, mister.” It was Dwayne Ellwood Mortensen.
“You wouldn’t want to hear me sing,” Torgerson said, leaning
down toward the boy.
“You don’t gotta be good at it.”
“No, you go ahead. I’ll listen.”
Dwayne gazed at him for a moment and turned, singing, back to
the group. The young voices harmonized. Torgerson felt an ache
for Sue-Anne, for their lost communication, for the child they had
tried to have, for the confusion in his mind and soul, for his fear,
for the boy. He found himself absently humming the song low in
his throat.
Because God made the stars to shine,
Because God made the ivy twine,
Because God made the sky so blue,
Because God made you, that’s why I love you.
The sky glowing a faint blue above the mountains hinted at the
longer evening beyond, but the camp was nearly dark when they

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Small Change

Sammy`s in Love
THE FIRST TRULY RELIGIOUS event I ever witnessed… well, maybe not the first, but the most impressive, was disguised as a fist fight.
It happened on the first day of school in grade five.
Sister Margaret really did look like somebody’s sister. She was a blue-eyed, pug-nosed nineteen-year-old with frizzy blonde hair that kept working out from the tight edge of the black wimple that framed her face. I remember thinking how much it reminded me of something that had caught my attention so strikingly and repeatedly over the summer. I had spent weekends at my grandfather’s summer house at South Beach on Staten Island where there were dozens of young women in bathing suits, strolling on the boardwalk or on the sand, and I was totally enthralled by one in particular, a blonde in her twenties whose pubic hair peeked out from the hem of her black one-piece and took my breath away every time I saw her. This was not an appropriate thought to have about a nun or a teacher, so I tried to imagine what Sister Margaret might look like in street clothes. Jeans and a plaid shirt, for instance, to go with her tomboy walk and that grin she had that curled up the side of her mouth, like Mickey Levine’s older sibling, Anita, as she swaggered demurely across the front of the classroom, picked up a blackboard pointer, and lashed it a few times over the desk, scattering notes, paperbacks, and pencils. I guess she wanted us to know she was a tamer. I was ready to jump through rings of fire, just for a shot of light from those blue eyes. But Sammy Ferretti was not impressed.
He was the round-faced, left-handed hit-man-to-be we all revered and admired. He’d already beaten up the bullies in grade eight. So, after the whisssh and slap and the pages fluttering and the blue gleam of power under those thick blond eyelashes, after the slummy accent we recognized as Railroad Avenue, our little, victimized souls began to collect around Sammy’s inevitable rebellion.
We weren’t disappointed. He called her a slut and a wet nurse, in impeccable Sicilian. Some of us looked down at our desks and snickered.

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Poodie James

excerpt

“I’m told that you want the police to do something about Poodie
James. Has he broken the law?” she said.
“Poodie James is a public nuisance,” Torgerson said. “Might as
well be a hobo. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s a mental case. He
drags that wagon around, poking into peoples’ garbage cans, wearing
raggedy old clothes, sneaking into the swimming pool, bothering
folks on the street. I had to throw him out of my used car lot the
other day. And that shack of his, there’s no way it could pass a
building department inspection. It’s a fire hazard, and he’s a squatter.
He ought to be in some kind of institution.”
Winifred walked to the window and contemplated the traffic on
Mission Street.
“Yes, I know about the spectacle in your lot. Poodie tried to collect
an empty bottle and you wouldn’t let him have it. You screamed
at him. Not that he could hear you. Really, Pete, how petty.”
“I don’t want him anywhere around my business.”
“By the way,” she said, settling into a chair next to Torgerson
and leaning toward him, “he is not a squatter. The Valley Bank
owns his shack on the old Thorp place. He is there by permission.
But don’t take my word for it. Check with Mr. Stone.”
“I don’t want Poodie James in my town.”
“Your town, Pete?”
“I’m the mayor.”
“For the time being, you are.”
“I was hoping The Daily Dispatch would work with me to
improve things for the citizens.”
“The Daily Dispatch has worked for the people of this valley for
almost fifty years, Mr. Mayor. If you push a project that means
something, we will be with you all the way.”
Torgerson stalked back to the Packard agency. Old Bell, polishing
the hood of a black sedan, looked up as his boss passed
through the show room.
“Man,” Bell thought, “he’s really steamed up. Don’t want to be
on the wrong side of that.”
Torgerson called Irv Wilkinson into his office

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Poodie James

excerpt

After Poodie made them understand that he needed to read their
lips, they looked into his face when they let their slow words out
but turned away when they joked about him. The sight of their
laughter warmed Poodie and he encouraged them with sounds that
increased their merriment. Soon, the three sat on their cots with
tears rolling down their cheeks.
They were all working, the tall, sinewy pickers from Arkansas,
the family of five from west of the mountains, the three big Thorps
and Poodie. The orchard was alive with picking and hauling. The
apples went from the bags into the boxes, and the boxes had to be
moved out. Dan Thorp took a chance that Poodie would be able to
control the horse. The pickers laughed when Poodie grunted his
commands, but the horse responded to his inflections and moved
the wagonload of boxes down the lane to the shed beyond the house.
When the harvest was done, Thorp paid the pickers and asked them
back for the next year.He gave Poodie the first twenty dollar bill he
had ever seen. Poodie laughed and carried on for half an hour. He
showed the money to everyone in the family. He showed it to the
pickers. He showed it to the horse.He hid it in his suitcase and went
down to look at the river and think about his good fortune.
Over the next few years, Poodie learned about sprays,
pollenization, storage and, to Dan Thorp’s surprise, the intricacies
of pruning and grafting. He worked alongside Dan in the orchard
and helped Ruth look after the twins. In his third year with the
Thorps, they allowed him to stay with the twins when they and
their older boy visited relatives in Seattle. He was part of the family
and he was becoming part of the town. When the pickers and
Thanksgiving had gone in 1928 and Christmas came, the Thorps
presented Poodie with a wagon that Dan found in a trash heap and
spent evenings rebuilding and painting. It was half again bigger
than the twins’ wagon, red with yellow wheels, fitted with wooden
stakes. Poodie spent Christmas afternoon pulling it up and down
the lane through the snow, into the horse shed, through the storage
barn, around the house. He gave the Thorps rides in the lane,
the adults one at a time, the children all together.

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Poodie James

and can’t hear. Been sleeping down at the station, but John was
going to get in trouble with the Great Northern if he let him stay.
Willing to do some work around the place for a bed and meals.
Could have one of the pickers cabins for a while and we’ll see how
he does. Use some help with the ditching anyway.”
Ruth Thorp scrubbed carrots as she looked out the kitchen window
to the edge of the orchard where Poodie stood.
“Isn’t much to him, is there? What is he, five-two, five-three?”
“’Bout it. Doesn’t walk so good, either. Sort of waggles along.”
“Poodie? Kinda name is that?”
“The one he has.”
“What’s he smiling at?”
“Never seems to turn it off.”
“Is he okay? I mean, with the kids. Can’t take any chances with
the kids.”
“We’ll keep an eye on him, but I think you’ll feel good about
him. Sort of gets to you. John never let anyone sleep in the station
before. Look, he’s waving at you.”
Ruth was trying to be cautious, but she smiled back and blushed
to find herself waving a carrot.
“Dan, you really know how to pick ’em. Tell him we’ll eat in half
an hour.”
Dinner ran long. The little Thorps stared as Poodie ate, giggling
when he asked for more, laughing when he strangulated and
grinned his way through a sentence. Their parents’ shushing had
little effect. After dessert, the twins insisted that their older brother
and Poodie stand back to back. The 12-year-old and Poodie were
the same height. Later, he and his folks sat on the porch and
watched as Poodie hauled the little girl and boy in their wagon up
and down the lane, the three of them talking at top speed as if they
were having a conversation. The next morning, Poodie followed
Dan Thorp through the orchard and learned how the ditches
delivered water to the apple trees and how to keep them clear.
Thorp put him in charge of a shovel. When he came back from a
trip into town that afternoon, he brought Poodie a pair of rubber

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Poodie James

excerpt

Poodie grinned at Torgerson, gestured with the bottle, pointed
at the spot by the Ford’s tire and grunted an explanation.
“Put that bottle back where you found it and get on out of here.”
Poodie watched intently as Torgerson indicated the tire. His face
darkened. Torgerson saw the little man’s neck muscles working.
He advanced a step. Poodie moved his grip to the neck of the bottle
and lowered it to his side.
“I don’t want you around here. Go on.”
Poodie’s gaze was intent on Torgerson’s face. For thirty seconds
the tall man and the short one were as motionless as posts, then
Poodie put the bottle precisely where it had been and paddled off
down the avenue toward First Street, resuming his explanation,
looking back to smile again at Torgerson. A woman passing by
slowly shook her head at the mayor, a commentary he interpreted
in his favor as he launched a scowl at the little man.
That smile. He knows, Torgerson thought. The dumb little
bastard has always known.
Winifred Stone regarded her managing editor for a long time
before she spoke.
“The facts are, Sonny, that mentioning Mr. Truman favorably
does not constitute an endorsement, the election is two months away,
and the man came here and made himself look pretty good. I know
the Republicans in this valley about as well as you do, I think, and I
know that if we say one good thing about him, we’ll get a dozen letters
in tomorrow’s morning mail. At least four of them will call me a
Communist, and I can tell you who the writers will be. If I could get
that dam built and avoid being hanged in the street, I guess I can survive
a few good words about the President of the United States. This
meeting of the editorial board is over. Run it as we have discussed.”
“One other thing,” her son said. “Pete Torgerson has been raising
hell to anyone who’ll listen about the hobos camping along the
tracks.”
“As they have been since the railroad punched through here in
1892.”

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