“Who said you could walk here?” Mitch hollered at Max.
Max tugged at the canvas sack on his back and kept moving.
“I’m talking to you.” Mitch shoved him. Hard. Max stumbled and fell back, crunching whatever was in the sack. He jumped up, and globs of slimy egg white and yellow yolks plopped off the seat of his pants.
Mitch barked out a laugh. “Hope you like your eggs sunny-side up.”
“You’re going to have to pay for these groceries,” Max said.
“And who’s gonna make me?” Mitch asked.
Hobie couldn’t unstick his feet from the sidewalk.
Mitch curled his hands into fists. “You lousy Kraut.” He shadowboxed at Max. Left. Right. Left.
“What’s going on here?” A grandma lady marched right past Hobie, over to Max.
“Aw, my friend tripped.” Mitch quickly picked up a can. “I was helping him.” He held it out to Max, who snatched it away.
“You have a funny way of helping.” The grandma picked up the egg carton, taking a quick look inside before closing the lid. “Looks like four Humpty Dumptys survived their fall,” she said, handing the carton to Max. “It’s a lucky thing eggs aren’t rationed.”
Max thanked her and she continued on her way.
“So long, traitor!” Mitch goose-stepped down the street in the opposite direction. Probably off to find a baby somewhere and steal its candy.
“Are you okay?” Hobie called as he walked closer.
Max tried to brush off his corduroys. “What am I going to tell Ma about these eggs?”
“The truth?” Hobie guessed.
Max gave him a look.
“Right.” There was still a can of soup on the ground. Hobie picked it up. “Sorry,” he said.
“For what?” Max took the can. “It wasn’t your fault.” He pulled the straps of the shopping bag over his shoulder. “See you at school.”
The car was gone when Hobie got home; he found a note on the kitchen table. “Ran to Aunt Ellen’s. I’ll bring June home from Brownies.” To fill up the quiet, he snapped on the radio, dialing in Fibber McGee and Molly. In this episode, Fibber was going to an aviation show. The announcer explained that Fibber was getting ready for it by reading a couple of flying magazines, then qualifying himself for a high rank in the HAF — the Hot Air Force.
Chuckling, Hobie opened the icebox to get himself some milk. His hand brushed against a carton of eggs. He pulled out the bottle and closed the door, standing there a moment. Had Max gotten into trouble at home over the eggs? Hobie didn’t know why he worried about that, but he did. Even though he hadn’t done anything.
Hobie stopped in mid-pour. That’s right. He hadn’t done anything. Anything mean.
Or anything good.
He set the bottle down with a clunk. He remembered that last week before Scooter moved. Hobie had accidentally bumped into Mitch in the lunch line. A tiny bit of gravy splashed on Mitch’s shirt. It was an accident. But the guy wouldn’t let it go. When Hobie went to sit down at the table, Mitch kicked the stool out from under him. Hobie crashed to the floor and his lunch tray went flying.
Mitch acted all innocent, so the lunch monitor didn’t do anything but help Hobie clean up the mess. His rear ached from landing on it so hard. And he didn’t have money to buy another lunch. But Scooter shared his Spam sandwich and even did his canned-pea-booger trick to cheer Hobie up. That was Scooter. Always with the good ideas. Always the good friend. It was like the sampler Mom had hanging in the kitchen: Friends double our joys and halve our sorrows.
Hobie thought about that. His ideas were never as funny as Scooter’s. But he did have an idea about Max. Hobie grabbed a couple of his comic books and stuffed them in a paper sack. He’d take them to school tomorrow, see if Max wanted to trade.
The back door banged open and Mom stepped inside. June was right on her heels, like Duke used to be on Hobie’s.
“Somebody got some ma-ail!” Mom waved an envelope in the air.
It wasn’t from Dad. Who, then? Hobie ripped it open.
Dear Hobie,
I am writing you from Camp Lejeune, where I am now a member of the 3rd War Dog Platoon. Along with my friends Skipper, Missy, and Bunkie, I am working hard to whip these two-legged Marines into shape. My training buddy, Pfc. Marvin Corff, has managed to learn “sit” and “stay,” but he’s got a ways to go on the other commands. I’ll have him trained up proper in no time.
They work us hard here, but I eat good and sleep in a nice kennel. I’ve got a brand-new leather collar and a serial number: 178. (Dogs don’t get dog tags. Whaddya think of that?) And guess what? Today I learned how to maneuver an obstacle course with explosives going off all around. It was pretty exciting.
I hope you can write me back.
Your best pal,
Duke
P.S. Pfc. Corff here: Thank you for sending Duke. It’s a dream to work with him. He’s tops!
Hobie didn’t understand. What was that about explosives? Why would a guard dog need to practice something like that? And Mr. Rasmussen never said anything about Duke joining the Marines. Or a War Dog Platoon. Never.
“Can you read it to us?” Mom asked.
Hobie did.
“I like the names of Duke’s friends,” said June. “Do you think we’ll get to meet them someday?”
Mom tied on her apron. “Are you going to write back?”
Hobie stuffed the letter in his back pocket. “Maybe.”
“That nice Marine took the trouble to let you know how Duke was doing.” Mom rummaged around and found some paper and a pencil and handed them to Hobie. “And he’s serving our country.”
Hobie kicked his heels against the chair legs. “So’s Duke,” he said.
Mom raised an eyebrow. “‘Thank you for writing’ would be a great way to start.”
There was no arguing with Mom’s eyebrow. Hobie put pencil to paper.
Dear Pfc. Corff,
Thank you for writing.
Hobie kicked the chair legs again. What else was there to say except I want my dog back? He was supposed to be a guard dog. Safe at home. Mr. Rasmussen didn’t tell him the truth.
June and Kitty were “helping” Mom start dinner. June was pretending she was the mommy and Kitty was the little girl.
“Oh, Kitty,” June said in her mommy voice. “Duke will be back. Very soon. Just like Dad. It’s all right.” She cradled the doll in a hug.
June caught Hobie watching her. “Kitty’s sad but I’m cheering her up,” she explained. Then she walked over and leaned her head on Hobie’s shoulder. She smelled of crayons and shoe polish.
She bent toward his ear. “Can I tell you a secret? I’m sad about Duke, too.” A fat tear bounced down her cheek and landed on Hobie’s letter.
June wiped at it. “I’m sorry. I’ll get you another piece of paper.”
He stopped her. “No. It’s okay. Really.” June had given him an idea. “I know you are going to get that spelling ribbon,” he said.
Her eyes got as big as cookies. “I am?”
“Yep. Because you are so smart.” He tapped her on the head gently with his pencil. “As smart as Duke.”
She skipped off, dancing Kitty around the kitchen.
Hobie started writing again.
Do you have a sister, Pfc. Corff? Well, I do. She’s a really good sister and she has been crying around the clock since Duke left. I wouldn’t ask but my sister is so sad. Could you please send Duke back?
They take pets and other animals on the regular train. I know because my friend’s grandmother comes to visit from Michigan every summer on the train and she always brings her dog, Winky. And he makes a lot more noise than Duke.
If it costs, I will pay you back.
Sincerely,
Hobie Hanson
“All done?” Mom asked.
Hobie sealed the letter up before she could ask to read it. He didn’t want her to think he was a welcher or anything. But June was so sad! Hobie
had to do whatever it took to get Duke back.
He licked a three-cent stamp, pasting it on with a cheerful pat. Duke was going to be home before they knew it.
“Done,” he said.
June was having conniptions. “You’re pulling too hard!” she complained.
Mom tugged another hank of June’s wet hair around her finger and secured it with a bobby pin. “Don’t you want to look your best tomorrow?”
June’s lower lip poked out. “I think I’d look my best in a plain old ponytail.” She waggled Kitty. “Kitty thinks so, too.”
Hobie turned another page in the comic he’d traded with Max. Miss Milner, the school librarian, was a sport, letting Hobie and Max read in the library during rainy day recesses. Other kids had started bringing in their comics, too, and Miss Milner was talking about starting a club. Hobie didn’t want a club. He just wanted to read comics.
“Ouch!” June hollered again. “Aren’t you done yet?”
“Almost,” said Mom. But she’d been saying that for half an hour.
Hobie was glad that all he’d needed to do was make sure his shoes were shined. Mom had even let him use Dad’s brushes. This was the second year Dad would miss the Blessing of the Fleet. The Hansons never missed. There was even a photograph in the family album of a brand-new baby June there on the docks.
Every year since 1929, in late March, all the fishermen and their families would gather at Fishermen’s Terminal. And every year, Pastor Haavik would choose one boat to represent the entire fleet, and he’d bless that boat.
This year, he’d picked the Lily Bess.
“How do those shoes look?” Mom asked, twisting another curl around her finger.
Hobie set down the comic and held them up for her to see.
“Dad couldn’t have done a better job,” she said. “I’ve ironed your white shirt, and laid out your tie.”
“Tie!” He’d choke to death.
“Tie,” said Mom firmly.
Hobie sighed. But not too loudly. At least he’d only have to wear the tie for a few hours. June was going to have to sleep all night on those pokey bobby pins.
“Is that someone at the door?” Mom asked. “Go see.”
Hobie scrambled up. A huge man filled the doorway.
“Just making sure you’re going to be there tomorrow,” said Uncle Tryg. He carried a box under his good arm. When he stepped inside, he held it out to Hobie.
“I got one of these for my boys,” Uncle Tryg said, meaning Hobie’s cousins Emil and Erik. “They don’t have the patience. But I thought you might.”
He handed Hobie a blue box stamped OFFICIAL AIR SCOUT SPOTTER MODELS. 25 CENTS. B-24. THE LIBERATOR.
“Dad’s plane.” Hobie ran his hands over the box.
June’s lower lip stuck out even further. “What did you bring me?”
“Ah, my little pickled herring,” Uncle Tryg said. “You don’t think your favorite uncle would come empty-handed?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a brand-new jump rope with colored handles.
“Oh, thank you!” June tried to reach for it, but Mom tugged her back down.
“We’re not done here yet!” Mom said, fussing with a pin curl that had come loose.
“But I want to try out my new jump rope,” said June.
“Not after I’ve gone to all this work on your hair,” said Mom. “You can jump rope after the ceremony tomorrow.”
“That’s too long,” June wailed.
Uncle Tryg patted his overcoat pocket. “I may have something that will sweeten the wait.” He handed June a roll of Curtiss Fruit Drops. She tore it open and popped one in her mouth.
“What do you say?” Mom asked.
“Thank you!” June smacked on her candy. “Do you want one?” She offered the roll first to Mom and then to Uncle Tryg.
“I’ll take one,” said Hobie.
June made a face.
“June,” said Mom.
“Oh, all right.” June peeled the paper roll down farther, bypassing a cherry drop. “Here.” She handed Hobie a green one. “I don’t like this flavor.”
“Gee, thanks.” Hobie popped the candy in his mouth. Then he studied the cover of the model box. “This looks swell. Thanks, Uncle Tryg.”
Mom came back from the kitchen with a cup of coffee and handed it to Uncle Tryg.
Hobie flipped the box around and read the back. A red, white, and blue message caught his eye:
BOYS! YOU CAN HELP WIN THE WAR!
Hobie leaned closer to read the fine print. THOUSANDS OF MODEL AIRCRAFT ARE NEEDED TO TRAIN NAVY, ARMY, AND CIVIL DEFENSE GROUPS. BLOCK HITLER — BUILD A PLANE!
“You could keep it,” Uncle Tryg said, shrugging out of his overcoat. “Or donate it to the military. They’re using them to train folks to look for certain plane silhouettes,” he added.
Hobie hefted the box. “I don’t get it.” How could a model help the Army?
Uncle Tryg lifted his coffee cup high over Hobie’s head. “If you hung that model on the ceiling, it would look like a B-24 flying about a mile up.”
“Nifty!” Hobie decided right then. He would donate it when he finished. To do his part.
“You’ll need some black paint,” said Uncle Tryg. “But I thought your dad might have some in the basement.”
“Would you like something to go with that coffee?” Mom asked. “I’m done here.” She stretched a hairnet over June’s head full of crisscrossed bobby pins. “You can go play now,” Mom said. “But no jump roping!”
“The coffee hit the spot.” Uncle Tryg set down his empty cup. “I best be on my way. See you tomorrow.”
As soon as he left, Hobie ran to the basement. There was a small can of black paint at the back of Dad’s workbench. He ran back upstairs. “I’ll be in my room, Mom!” he called.
He carefully opened the model box with his pocketknife and read the instructions. Twice.
His bedroom door creaked open. “Whatcha doing?” June asked. She looked like some kind of space creature with those pins all over her head.
“Nothing.” Hobie picked up a piece. Was that the right wing or the left?
“Can I help?” June bumped his elbow.
“No!” Hobie pushed her away.
“But I heard you and Uncle Tryg. This is Daddy’s plane.” She patted the box as if it were a pet. As if it were Duke.
Hobie sighed. “Okay. You can help. But you have to do exactly what I tell you.” He set the pieces out on the desk. Some of them needed to be punched out of a thin wood frame. But they looked so flimsy. And breakable. Hobie picked them up and set them down again.
“I could punch them out,” June offered. “I have lots of practice with my paper dolls.”
Hobie hesitated. But her fingers were smaller than his. And she did have lots of paper dolls. He handed over the piece of wood and June gently pressed out the first piece.
“See?” she said. “Piece of cake. Want me to do the rest?”
Hobie’s hand poised over the other pieces, then pushed them over. June finished that task while he started arranging the bigger pieces for assembling.
By the time they left for the Blessing of the Fleet on Sunday morning, bundled up against the cold March morning, both wings were sanded as smooth as Mom’s fancy silk scarf. Hobie planned to glue them on that afternoon.
Mom, June, and Hobie made their way through the crowds, down the dock, passing boat after boat, breathing deep of salt and fish.
“Over here!” Aunt Ellen called, waving a handkerchief.
Mom took June’s hand, and shivering in the raw air, they hurried to stand with Aunt Ellen.
“You’ll come over after for coffee,” Aunt Ellen said to Mom.
“Of course,” Mom answered.
Hobie tried not to groan. He had hoped to work on the model that afternoon. “Coffee” at Aunt Ellen’s would turn into a pinochle game for the grown-ups and then supper. It always did. Who knew when they’d get home?
“There’s my boy!” U
ncle Tryg came over and scooped Hobie in a bear hug. He turned to June. “And who is this movie star with you?” he asked.
June giggled, making her pin curls bounce. “It’s me, Uncle Tryg. June.”
“No!” Uncle Tryg looked very thoughtful. “Not Shirley Temple?”
June giggled again.
“May I borrow your brother, fair maiden?” Uncle Tryg asked. “I promise to bring him back.”
“You may,” June answered like a princess, curtsy and all.
“Come with me, young man.” Uncle Tryg put his good arm around Hobie’s shoulder. “The boys and I decided there was only one person to hoist the flag today.” He tapped Hobie.
Hobie hesitated. “Are you sure?” He tugged at his necktie. “It’s a pretty big deal. It seems like you should do it.”
“Palmer would do the honors, if he were here, being the oldest.” Emil and Erik were scuffling on the dock, and Uncle Tryg stepped over to separate them.
“He started it,” Emil said.
“Uh-uh!” said Erik.
“Stow it,” grumbled Uncle Tryg. “Oh, hello, Pastor!” He greeted Pastor Haavik, whose long nose was as red as the scarf wrapped around his neck.
“God bless, Tryg!” Pastor Haavik shook hands with all of the Hanson crew. Then he pulled a small purple flag from his pocket.
“I remember your father when he was your age,” the pastor said to Hobie, handing him the flag. “He and Tryg were like those two —” He tilted his head toward Erik and Emil. “It’s a wonder your grandfather had any hair at all, with the trouble they gave him.”
Hobie glanced over at his cousins. Emil sneaked a punch to Erik’s arm. Erik’s shoe landed on top of Emil’s foot. He had a hard time picturing Dad and Uncle Tryg acting like that.
“Let us pray.”
Uncle Tryg and the other men removed their hats. Pastor Haavik bowed his head, and the crowd quieted. For a small man, he had a big voice. And the water helped carry it over the docks. “We ask that you keep this boat, the Lily Bess, and each crewman upon it safe during this fishing season. Likewise, we petition for the safety of every boat and every man in the Seattle fleet. The sea is big, oh Lord, but you are bigger. Amen.”
Hobie stood there uncertainly a moment after the prayer finished. He didn’t want to do the wrong thing.