Defiant Heart (17 page)

Patsy looked surprised, and, for a moment, pleased. Then she narrowed her eyes, gave Dahlgren a suspicious look, and said, “But?”

“But, does the whole town deserve to be punished?”

She was silent for a long time, considering him. Finally, she said, “So, that’s where you’re going with this. You want to make me out to be the villain. My establishment gets wrecked, I get cheated, and, yet, I’m the bad guy because I complain. Is that what you think?”

Dahlgren chose his words carefully. “No. That’s not what I think. No rational person will either. But here’s the thing. People don’t always think the way they should. They get emotional. They let their prejudices take over. They do the wrong things, sometimes terrible things. I don’t want that to happen.”

Patsy’s eyes flashed. “What kind of ‘
things
’ are you talking about?”

Dahlgren had not wanted to go there. But he’d anticipated that he might have to. “I don’t know for sure. But you know how excited everyone has been since last year. People absolutely believe the basketball team is going to the state finals. It’s been the collective dream of this town for months. If that dream gets crushed, they’ll want a scapegoat.”

“Then they can blame those boys,” Patsy said, angrily, and she pointed toward the back of the diner, “and what they did.”

Dahlgren winced, and nodded. He reached into his coat pocket and took out the envelope Mort Fletcher had given him the night before. He set it on the counter.

“In here,” he said, tapping the envelope, “is more than enough to cover the repairs, the bill they didn’t pay, and your trouble. It’s a very generous sum.”

She looked at him hard. “What kind of ‘
things
’?” she repeated.

Dahlgren looked away, then shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Maybe they stop eating here. Maybe they try to find other ways to hurt your business.”

“Like what?”

Still not meeting her eyes, he said, “Who knows. I’ve seen strange ordinances proposed at the city council. Limits on hours of operation, building upgrade requirements, things like that.”

She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “That would be illegal. We both know that. And, anyway, you could stop it.”

He looked at her again. “Maybe I could, maybe I couldn’t.” He took a deep breath. He was committed. Meeting her eyes, he said, “Then again, maybe I would, maybe I wouldn’t.”

He braced himself for her response. But, instead of anger, what he saw on her face was sadness. And something else. Pity?

She pursed her lips, eyed the envelope lying on the counter, then slowly looked at him. She was silent for a long time. Finally, she said, “All right. If that’s the way it has to be. I’ll take the money. And I’ll call Bill Jansen.”

Dahlgren nodded. Awkwardly, he reached in his pocket, pulled out some change and put the coins on the counter. “Thank you, Patsy,” he said.

He rose and turned to go, but she called after him. “If they get away with this, what kind of message does it send? That they can get away with anything? What do you think they’ll do next?”

He had no answer for that.

#

At lunch on Tuesday, Jon was sitting at one of the benches in the outdoor seating area. He was alone, which was not unusual. When he was in a charitable mood, Jon actually found it almost funny the way he could clear a table in the cafeteria just by sitting down.

It was a little chilly today to be outside, but Jon figured, if he was going to take up a whole table, it might as well be one of these. And, truth be told, he preferred not to advertise his isolation in the public manner that sitting alone in the main dining area entailed.

The door leading from the cafeteria opened, and he glanced up to see Jeff Fletcher and one of the other boys from the basketball team, Caleb Pratt, step outside. They were speaking in hushed tones. Caleb spotted Jon and nudged Jeff, who glanced in Jon’s direction, made a face, then turned back, shaking his head. Jon wondered what they were up to, then realized a moment later when he heard the telltale scratch of a match and almost immediately smelled the tobacco.

Jon turned his attention back to his sandwich and ignored the two boys as they smoked their cigarette in violation of school rules. It was none of his business what they did.

“I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s a pansy.”

Jon glanced up. It was Jeff who had spoken. He and Caleb had taken a few steps toward Jon’s table. Jeff had the cigarette between two fingers. He casually held it up to his lips, took a drag, then blew the smoke in Jon’s direction. “Isn’t that right, Jew boy. Aren’t you a pansy?”

Jon looked at Jeff, but said nothing. He knew the toughness was, in large part, the result of Caleb’s presence. He’d observed Jeff over the past couple of months. For all his bravado, Jeff was a coward. Still, the boy was a good two to three inches taller than Jon, and he had at least twenty-five pounds on him. Jon had no desire to provoke a fight. He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed slowly.

Jeff’s mouth curled into a sneer. “Yep. Like I said. Pansy.” He looked back at Caleb, who shrugged.

The school bell rang, signaling the end of the lunch period and indicating the next classes would start in five minutes. Watching Jeff carefully, Jon rose.

Jeff whipped his head back around. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Keeping his voice level, Jon replied, “Same place you are. Science.”

Caleb tapped Jeff on the shoulder, turned and started toward the door. Uncertainty played across Jeff’s face. He hesitated, then turned, and started walking toward the door as well. Cautiously, Jon followed.

Just before he reached the door, Jeff wheeled and stepped toward Jon. He was now close enough to reach Jon. Jon tensed, watching Jeff’s eyes.

They stood, facing one another.

Jeff’s eyes narrowed. “What?” he said, loudly. “What did you call my mother?”

“I didn’t…”

Jon never saw the punch coming.

There was a sudden flash of light and a startling dizziness. Then Jon realized vaguely that he was lying on his back, though with no recollection of having gotten there. It took a moment for his brain to register pain, but, when it came, it was intense, radiating out from his left temple and cheekbone, a sharp, burning sensation. He felt confused. He tried to focus, but images swam in front of his face. In the background, he could hear voices.

“The son of a bitch insulted my mother. I’m not gonna to repeat what he said. It was disgusting.”

Jon tried to raise himself, but he slipped and fell back. He opened his mouth to speak, but that made the pain worse, so he immediately clamped his jaw shut.

Someone was leaning over him. Or maybe it was more than one person. There seemed to be several heads swirling in the space above him.

“If you insulted his mother, then you got what you deserved.”

The faces disappeared. Then the voices dissipated and were gone as well. Jon lay on his back, stunned, the only sound the rustle of tree branches swaying in the breeze. Cold from the ground began to seep up through his trousers and coat.

#

Ben Wheeler walked to the small hangar door, stepped partially out and looked up at the sky, which was, for the most part, clear. Though it would be a little chilly, they would still be able to get in a short flight. But only if they got going soon. He checked his watch again. It was a good half hour later than the time Jon had arrived the day before. Unbidden, a feeling of anxiety passed through Ben. He chided himself and dismissed the emotion. The boy will get here when he gets here. Ben resolved to wait. He did not, however, return to the relative warmth of the hangar. Instead, he remained at the door, peering down the road.

Another twenty minutes passed before a small figure appeared at the far end of the road and, as it neared, transformed itself into Jon on his bicycle. The boy was pedaling slowly, as if laboring, and it took him a full two minutes to cover the distance to the hangar.

When Jon reached a spot a few yards from the building, he swung off the bike and began walking it, choosing to go around the back of Ben’s truck rather than making straight for the door. His head was down, and the way he was holding himself gave Ben the sense that he was trying to avoid looking in Ben’s direction. Jon set the bike against the outside wall and slid the knapsack off his back. He then walked toward the door, head still down and turned slightly away.

“Sorry I’m late. I was delayed a little at school.”

Ben stepped back to allow Jon to enter the hangar. However, he remained just inside the door, so that, as Jon stepped over the threshold, he was brought up short. Ben reached out, put his hand under Jon’s chin, and gently turned the boy’s head to face him.

Encircling the outer two thirds of Jon’s left eye was a huge shiner.

Nodding, Ben said, conversationally, “That’s a good one. Head still ringing?”

Jon looked down and said carefully, “I’m ok.”

Ben let go of Jon’s chin and stepped back. He did not say anything, but continued to regard Jon.

After an awkward silence, Jon ventured, “We were playing dodgeball.” He made a vague gesture toward his face and added, “I got hit by a lucky shot.”

Ben was silent for a moment longer. Then he asked, “That’s what happened?”

Jon nodded, but did not meet his eyes.

Quietly, Ben said, “You’re not a very good liar, son.” Walking to the door, he added, “Follow me.”

In the house, Ben gathered ice from the small compartment in the refrigerator and wrapped it in a towel. He instructed Jon to sit at the table and tilt his head back. Then he placed the ice pack on Jon’s face and had him hold it in place.

Ben returned to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of milk and poured two glasses. He set one down in front of Jon and the other on the opposite side of the table, where he took a seat.

“So,” Ben said, “did you even see it coming?”

Jon shook his head.

“Sucker punch, huh?”

Jon nodded.

“Did he give you a reason?”

Still looking up at the ceiling through his good eye, Jon replied, “He said I insulted his mother.”

“Did you?”

“No, sir,” Jon said, immediately, taking the ice pack away and looking directly at Ben.

Ben motioned for Jon to re-place the ice. Jon leaned back again and returned the cloth to his eye. After a moment, Ben said, “Can you think of a reason why he might have felt it necessary to punch you out?”

Jon didn’t reply. Something about his silence seemed odd to Ben. He took a sip of milk and studied the boy. After a minute, he said, “There’s more to this story, isn’t there?”

Jon hesitated, then gave a half shrug of his shoulders and a vague nod of his head.

Ben sat back. “Why don’t we start at the beginning.”

It took some patient prodding, but, slowly, a picture began to emerge. Jon had somehow managed to cross the most important clique of students at his new school, the players on the school basketball team. He had, for several weeks now, been turned out and ostracized by a large part of the student body, the others being motivated either by the same thing inspiring the basketball team or because they were simply afraid of the players on the basketball team.

Ben could understand the latter if Jon’s black eye was any indication of how those boys dealt with people they didn’t like. What he couldn’t understand, however, and what made the whole thing so mysterious, was how a kid as likeable as Jon could possibly wind up so at odds with so many others. Thus far, Jon had been reluctant to give details.

“Jon, you haven’t told me why they’re treating you like this. You do know, don’t you?”

Jon had sat up and set the ice pack aside. Ben had let it be. In response to Ben’s question, Jon nodded, hesitantly, a sad expression on his face.

Ben waited, patiently. Slowly, Jon looked around the room. He glanced at Ben, but his eyes darted quickly away. Finally, he fixed on a spot in the middle of the table and stared at it for a long quiet moment.

Then, in a small, barely audible voice, Jon said, “I’m Jewish.”

Ben was not sure he’d heard correctly. He was about to ask Jon to repeat himself when the words sunk in.

He looked at Jon, who was still staring at the center of the table. And then the full impact of the boy’s words dawned on Ben. Here was Jon, sitting across from him, afraid that Ben would think less of him.

Ben asked, quietly, “Do you think the fact that you’re Jewish makes a whit of difference to me?” he asked.

Jon looked up at him, a mixture of uncertainty and hope playing across his face.

“Well, it doesn’t.”

When he saw the look of relief on Jon’s face, he had to fight the urge to reach out to the boy.

Slapping the table with his palms, Ben said, “Tell you what. We’re not going to fly today. It’s late and it’s too cold anyway. Take that ice and meet me out in the hangar. I need to get something.”

#

When Ben entered the hangar, he was carrying an old canvas bag. Stenciled in large white letters along the side, Jon could see, was the name “Wheeler.” Setting the bag down on the workbench, Ben took a seat on one of the stools. He gestured for Jon to do likewise.

“I’m going to tell you a little something about my younger days,” Ben said. “I’ll be honest with you up front. I’m not proud of every part of it.”

Jon settled onto a stool. Ben had his attention.

“When I graduated from high school,” Ben began, “I couldn’t wait to get out of this place. Back then, if you can believe it, Jackson was even smaller than it is today. I felt there was just nothing here for me. I needed to see the world. That didn’t make my dad very happy. He wanted me here to help out on the farm. And I think he wanted my company. I was an only child, and we were pretty close. But I was headstrong. We argued a little. He finally agreed to let me go because he knew deep down I’d go anyway.

“For a few years, I bounced around a lot. I guess you could say I was a bit of a ne’er do well. I held jobs, but none for long. I didn’t have the inclination or the discipline to stick with anything. I’d make just enough money to keep from starving. I treated life as one adventure after another. I wanted to go everywhere, try everything. And, to me, the more danger involved, the better. I was a daredevil. Heck, you had to be a little crazy to strap yourself to some of the planes I flew before the war.