My One Square Inch of Alaska (9781101602850) (24 page)

“Not just a little boy!” Babs snapped. Her expression had hardened with fury I’d never seen her express. Her voice pulled Mr. Kincaid’s eyes up to her face, and he looked startled. “Her little brother. Who was really looking forward to that deed to one square inch. And found out that he wasn’t going to get it”—I was shaking my head at Babs,
No, no, please don’t drag Will’s illness into this. There has to be another way, even if I just beg Mr. Kincaid for a sample copy of the deed from the advertising department…or break into the Bakers’ house and steal theirs
, but she was staring down Mr. Kincaid, who suddenly sensed danger and was turning red—“right after he found out something else. That he has cancer. Lymphoblastic leukemia.”

Babs leaned forward, her breasts almost spilling out from her bra under the camera. But Mr. Kincaid didn’t even seem to notice. “So you’re going to buy up another tract of land and make sure that all the kids who thought they’d get their square inch of Alaska actually do—including my friend’s little brother.”

She tapped the box I was still holding with her perfectly polished fingernail. “If you don’t, my daddy, who is editor of the
Groverton Daily News
, will write a scathing editorial about your misleading advertising practices and how they
feed the dreams of little boys, only to destroy them when it suits your bottom line.”

A smile slowly filled Mr. Kincaid’s face and he narrowed his eyes. He got a distant look like he was suddenly getting a fantastic idea—fantastic to him, anyway.

A chill crept slowly over my skin.

But Babs had gone back to her usual self and didn’t seem to realize that Mr. Kincaid’s smile wasn’t for her. She smiled right back at him and added, “And Daddy always does what I want.”

T
wo nights later, October 22, Will stood next to Sergeant Striker by the makeshift podium that had been set up in the lobby of
Groverton Daily News.
He looked completely miserable.

Sergeant Striker was being played by Hugh Garvey, the actor from the radio show, whose career had suffered when his part was recast for television. Mr. Garvey wore the identical costume to television’s Sergeant Striker, except that his hat was ridiculously large, his suit was too tight, and his smirk a blight on the character.

Will himself all but disappeared into a pinstriped, gray flannel suit Grandma had insisted on buying two sizes too big at Rike’s Department Store. Maybe she didn’t understand that acute lymphoblastic leukemia was not a growth opportunity. Although everyone, even Will, now knew the name of his disease, no one had been blunt enough to translate:
terminal
.

Indian summer had arrived in Groverton, making the lobby close and stuffy, the weight of the flannel unbearable to Will. I was wearing the homecoming dress I’d made from Mama’s wedding dress, modifying it one more time
for this event, taking the hem up from floor length to mid-calf, and even though it was sleeveless, I felt suffocatingly warm, standing at the front of the pack of people crammed in the lobby, most of whom were watching newspaper photographers and even television crews from WLWD in Dayton and WCPO in Cincinnati capture the event, rather than the event itself. As for me, I focused on Will, his big blue eyes holding me, begging me to get him out of there, my gaze telling him,
You’ll be OK; just a few more minutes
.

I wished I’d insisted that he wear a comfortable short-sleeved shirt and pants. I wished I’d never agreed to this event in the first place, seeing how small and miserable Will looked in his suit, between the smirking “Sergeant Striker” and the podium, where Mr. Kincaid rambled about how he and Mr. Denton (who stood on the other side of the podium) were so inspired by “this brave young man” that they’d decided together to buy not just one more tract, but
two
, of Alaskan territory so that the square-inch campaign could continue.

“Not only that,” Mr. Kincaid said, “but each company is donating a thousand dollars to Will’s family to help with his medical costs!” The audience broke into applause.

I looked around, taking in familiar faces of people who seemed genuinely happy for Will—Big Terry and Shirley and Ralph from Grandma’s diner; Mr. and Mrs. Leis (her face was wet with tears, and I thought,
She understands how serious Will’s condition really is
); Will’s fifth-grade teacher; his friends Tony, Suze, and Harold and Herman, and their parents. Of course Grandma, Daddy, and Miss Bettina were there, and Jimmy and Babs, both of whom kept looking at me apologetically.

Small ceremony. What a joke—on us. When I’d agreed to it, I hadn’t understood that Mr. Kincaid and Mr. Denton were going to turn Will’s condition into a promotional opportunity for both of their companies.

I looked back at Will. He gazed at me with his wide blue eyes:
Get me out of here.

Suddenly, Mr. Kincaid stopped talking and hoisted Will onto a stool hidden behind the podium. Will’s face peered over the top. He stared out at the crowd, his wide eyes darting back and forth, with a growing look of panic on his face.

Will, who with all his shenanigans seemed like the most confident, outgoing boy, had never spoken in public before, and it was clear that this was going to be expected of him—but he hadn’t been forewarned. Neither, of course, had I.

But then Mr. Kincaid was finally thrusting a frame at Will, saying, “On behalf of the Sunshine Bakery—”

“And on behalf of Groverton Pulp and Paper,” added Mr. Denton, beaming at the cameras.

“We are pleased to present to William Everett Lane an official deed to one square inch of the Territory of Alaska!” Mr. Kincaid concluded.

The crowd applauded. Will snagged the framed deed from Mr. Kincaid and held it to his chest, hugging it tightly, as if he was afraid it would be snatched back from him.

As the crowd started to quiet, Mr. Kincaid said, “Now, I’m sure you’re excited to get your picture taken with the radio Sergeant Striker here”—the actor in the bad costume gave a cheesy smile at the cameras and a little wave of his hand—“but we have an even bigger surprise. In a few weeks, we’ll arrange to fly you out to Hollywood to have your photo taken with Chase Monahue, the television Sergeant
Striker, so your photo can be on boxes of Marvel Puffs! What do you think of that, young man?”

The radio Sergeant Striker actor looked angry.

“Did I…did I win the essay contest?” Will asked. “I barely get C’s in English.”

All the men at the podium laughed and some of the audience tittered nervously. “No, but that’s OK,” said Mr. Kincaid. “After all, you’re a
special young man
.”

Will frowned. “But that’s not fair to whoever wrote—”

Mr. Denton cut him off with an overly hearty chortle. “Of course it is.” Then he gazed out at the crowd with a somber expression. “But it also takes a long time to make these boxes, and of course, while there’s a strike, the boxes can’t be made.” Mr. Kincaid nodded solemnly. Babs’s father, Mr. Wickham, looked pleased as his reporter took photos of the stunned faces in the crowd. “Now, I’m sure we’d all love for this
special young man
, one of Groverton’s own, to be on those boxes, especially in his
special condition
, but first the United Paperworkers International Union locals…”

Will looked confused, not understanding the nasty trick Mr. Kincaid and Mr. Denton had just pulled, or the angry murmurs starting to grow in the crowd. I started toward Will, but Daddy was quicker, shoving past a startled Mr. Kincaid and radio Sergeant Striker to Will’s side. Daddy grabbed the check for medical bills from Mr. Kincaid’s hand and tucked it inside his jacket pocket.

Then he nudged the evil Sunshine Bakery man out of the way, and said into the microphone, “Will says thank you for the deed and for the check.” He gently lifted Will off the stool. Will ran to me, and I clasped him in my arms. Miss Bettina put a hand on my shoulder.

“But now there’s something I have to say,” Daddy went on. The crowd hushed, nervous but eager to hear. “And that is my boy will not be a pawn in some tricky game to end this strike! I should have spoken out years ago, when I was management and Mr. Frederick McDonnell came to me about safety issues. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

He looked at me, Will, and Miss Bettina. “I’m sorry about a lot of things. But now I say, as I’ve written in letters to the editor and will keep writing, the majority of workers at the mill need and deserve union protection, including safety measures. And it’s in all of our best interests for the mill management to—”

Suddenly, someone ran into the lobby. Mr. Baker, our neighbor from across the street, shouted out his news. “I just came from the mill. There’s a fire in the storage yard!” The crowd gasped. Most of the workers typically crossed through the storage yard to clock in through a back entry, and that’s where most of the picketers were marching. “People are trapped. We need as many volunteer firefighters as we can get!”

The crowd broke up, people shoving and hurrying to exit the newspaper lobby. Daddy came down from the podium to us.

Grandma glared at him. “Porter, what was all that about? Turning a shining moment for the Lanes into—”

Miss Bettina interrupted. “Oh, shut up, Lorene. This wasn’t about you to begin with.”

“Daddy,” I said quietly, as Grandma, thankfully, walked away, “I’m really proud of you.”

He looked at me, a smile starting to form on his weary
face…but then he stared at the shoulder of my dress again, at the lace. He touched it gently and the smile vanished.

He knew. The other dresses were one thing, but I should have let Mama’s wedding gown be.

Daddy’s hand dropped from the lace. He looked at Miss Bettina. “I’m going to go help.”

“I’m going with you,” she said.

Will looked up at me. “I want to go to MayJune’s,” he said. “I want to see Trusty.”

MayJune was waiting on her front porch swing, with Trusty at her feet. I’d barely pulled the car to a stop on the dirt and gravel road in front of her tiny house when Will jumped out and ran up her small, hilly patch of front yard to the porch. Dusk softened the scene, as if I were already immersed in a gauzy, distant memory: Trusty jumping up, tail wagging, to greet Will; Will sitting down beside MayJune, making the porch swing sway; MayJune pulling the afghan on her lap over him, then leaning over to gaze with admiration at his deed to his one square inch of Alaska.

That moment is one of my favorite memories of Will and MayJune.

I looked away from the porch scene, tears suddenly pricking my eyes, and took my time putting the top back up on Mama’s convertible. By the time I joined them on the porch, I was dry-eyed. MayJune and Will were sipping tea. I sat down across from them on a turquoise metal porch chair. MayJune pointed at a mug, steam still rising from the top, on a small table.

I picked up the mug, inhaled the steam—lemony and sweet smelling all at once—and took a sip, mm-mmming my approval. This was a new concoction.

“Lemon verbena, sassafras, and honey,” MayJune said, smiling so that her eyes crinkled up in that familiar, comforting way.

I took another sip, suddenly parched for the comfort and ease that the tea offered, and thought,
Of course MayJune didn’t come to the ceremony at Groverton Daily News.
Somehow, she’d known that we’d need to take refuge at her small house, with her and her strange herbal teas, had even surmised when we’d come by so that our hot tea would be ready. That was MayJune’s way.

She looked down at the deed and put her arm around Will and gave him a squeeze. “My, my, look at that! Our Will is a landowner!” Will beamed. Trusty bumped his head against Will’s knee and Will laughed, then reached down to scratch him between his ears. His tail thumped even harder against the porch.

The dog looked mostly healed, a crookedness to his right ear and a slight limp the only signs of how badly he’d been hurt. And, of course, he still didn’t bark. I wondered if he’d ever get his voice back. Or if he’d ever trust me. But I was glad to see him getting better.

Will and I filled MayJune in on the goings-on at the news conference and the fire at the paper mill. She shook her head and clucked and said, “Oh my.” Then, for a little while, we all stayed comfortable in our quietness, because with MayJune, it was easy to just…be.

But then behind MayJune and Will, a few yards from the porch, an impossible sight caught my eye. I pressed my eyes
shut, opened them again, stared, and sure enough, its outline barely illuminated by MayJune’s porch light, was a teardrop camper. I knew in my gut that it was the camper Trusty had been so cruelly chained to in Stedman’s Scrapyard the first time I’d seen him.

“Is that…?” I pointed at the camper. Will twisted around to see where I was pointing.

MayJune chortled. “Got it last Tuesday. ’Course, my daughter’s car doesn’t have a trailer hitch, so I thought about calling you, since your mama’s old car does have a hitch that would haul that little trailer just fine.”
It does?
I thought, and then realized that, yes, there was a round hitch on the back bumper. MayJune went on. “But I figured it was better if Mr. Stedman didn’t see anyone from the Lane family. I couldn’t have him haul it here; then he might see Trusty.

“So I got Lenny—that’s my neighbor next door—to go get it with me. Mr. Stedman was happy to let it go for next to nothing. He said his old guard dog had fouled it.” MayJune shook her head. “Took all the doin’ I had in me not to tell him, well, you can’t chain up a dog and not expect him to go a little wild trying to get away.”

MayJune took Will’s empty mug and put it on the table, and Will leaned forward and hugged Trusty.

“Anyway, Lenny helped me get it home and clean it up. You can’t tell in the dark, but it’s a right shiny little camper now, good as new, inside and out. Lenny even found some new tires for it.”

I stared at MayJune. “But…why?”

She smiled. “Well, my traveling days are over. But I figured someone I know might need it.”

Suddenly, a look passed across Will’s face and I knew, my
stomach sinking, that he had a crazy idea. “I’m taking you home, Trusty,” he said.