14

Mary took a strawberry cake from the oven and placed it out to cool.

Will eyed it hungrily. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen a cake, my sweet tooth is plumb soured up.”

“If you want frosting on this cake you’d better get movin’ and bring that sugar back before supper. I don’t have a bit left in the cupboard.”

Will fingered through the pockets of his jacket. “Where’d I put that coupon?”

Hands on her hips and a smirk on her face, Mary let him struggle. After watching him assault each pocket for the third time, she took pity. “It’ll be a miracle if this cake gets frosted today. Look in your pocketbook. You put it there less than five minutes ago.”

He searched through his pocketbook and, to his surprise, found the coupon. “Mary, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d be a whole lot thinner. Now get on with you. But come straight home. Don’t you go stopping at Bennie’s.”

When Will turned his Model T onto High Street, he spotted kids playing mumblety-peg in the courthouse alley. He could see that Squeak McBride was having difficulties, so he parked the Lizzie, got out, and called, “You wanna see how that’s done, Squeak?”

“Sure, Mr. O’Shaughnessy,” Squeak said. “I can’t get it to stick.”

“You’re throwing it too far out.” He reached toward the small boy. “Give me that knife, I’ll show you.”

Will balanced the jackknife on his middle finger — but at a slight downward angle — paused for a moment, and then flipped it straight up. It turned once before sticking in the ground.

“Gee, Mr. O’Shaughnessy, I wish I could do that.”

“You can, Squeak, just practice two things. Balance the knife on your finger, and flip it one turn. Practice, Squeak, practice. Remember, just one turn.”

“Will you stay and play with us, Mr. O’Shaughnessy?” Squeak said.

“I can’t today. Gotta get sugar back to Mary. Come over tomorrow and have some strawberry cake.”

“Can I, Mr. O’Shaughnessy?” Squeak said. “You’re sure good at mumblety-peg. You’re better than the eighth-graders.”

“You don’t have to be big, no you don’t. Just practice.”

Will walked the three blocks to Sandby’s grocery. “Mr. Sandby, I need my monthly sugar allotment. Mary says there’ll be no frosting on the cake if I don’t get it home by supper.”

“Do you have your coupon this time?” He reached back to the shelf and removed a five pound cloth bag. “I’m tired of asking for coupons. I hope this darn war’s over soon. I’d sell more sugar and you’d eat more cake.”

“My sweet tooth’s so deprived that it’s all shriveled up,” Will said as he dug through his pockets. “Where’s that darn coupon?”

Mr. Sandby exchanged the sugar for the coupon and a dollar bill. Will walked back down High Street toward his car, but hadn’t gone a block before he heard shouts and whistles from the bottom of the hill. People streamed from the telegraph office; then they ran toward him. Bert Whitford, who was in the lead, shouted, jumped, and flailed his arms in the air. “The war’s over! An armistice has been signed! The boys are coming home!”

Before Bert reached Will, people rushed from the buildings and began an impromptu parade up the street. Some headed to the churches at the top of High Street, and others dropped out at the bars. Mayor Tommy Burns grabbed Will’s arm. “Come on, Will, I’ll buy you a drink.”

“You’re buying? That’s a first,” Will said.

“It’s a great day. Bernie’s coming home.”

Will wondered if he’d see Jesse soon.

“Come along now, my man,” Burns said.

Before Will could answer, someone shouted, “Everyone to Tony’s Tavern! Tommy Burns is buying!”

Will didn’t resist the crowd that flowed toward Tony’s. As a young man he learned to not swim against the current, and he wasn’t going to start now.

Burns shouted to the bartender, “Tony, I’ll buy drinks this day, all that St. Louis brew you can pour!”

“You know I only serve Wisconsin beers.”

“Ohhh, too bad. And I was going to buy for these good fellows. Sorry, men, no Bud tonight.”

Hands grabbed Tommy and pushed him toward the door.

“Hold on. I was just joshin’. Fill ’em up, Tony. A pail or two to each table. And send the bill to the mayor’s office.”

The room reverberated with, “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” interspersed with, “You’ve got my vote, Tommy.”

With a full glass thrust into his hand, what could Will do? He would be unpatriotic to refuse. After initial thirsts were quenched, the stories began. Not to be outdone by his constituents, Tommy shouted, “I’ve got a true story to tell, about a trip I took to the Black Hills. I was — ”

“You suggesting that our stories aren’t true?” Dennis Newberry said. “That Franz didn’t wrestle a bear?”

“Of course not, Dennis. I know you’re as honest as Father McCrery, and you know the good Father and I are close as Siamese twins.”

“Why, you aren’t even Catholic,” Dennis muttered.

“No, but Father’s working on him,” Silas Murrish shouted. “Tell your story, Tommy.”

“Last year when I drove west to see my invalid sister in the Montana wilds, I stopped for a night in Deadwood. Now, that’s one scary town. Why — ”

“Get on with it,” someone shouted. “We know Deadwood. We threw those blokes outa the Springs.”

A murmur of agreement filled the room.

“Yeah, they’re rejects,” shouted a reveler.

“Those who couldn’t hack it here,” chimed in another.

Tommy waived them down. “I stopped at a saloon, to inquire about lodging, you know.”

“Sure, Tommy, sure.”

“Of course, someone asked my name, and I said, ‘Burns.’ That guy looked me up one side and down the other, then he said, ‘You aren’t that Burns guy who won the world championship, are you?’”

“You never won any championship,” Silas Murrish said.

“Of course not,” the mayor said. “That was another Tommy Burns, heavyweight boxing champion. But I didn’t let on. I said, ‘Yes, I’m Tommy Burns.’ I wouldn’t lie, you know.”

“Not you, Tommy. Like all the politicians, nothing but the truth outa that mouth.”

“Now listen to Tommy, men,” another shouted across the room. “He’s an experienced man. Why, he’s made the same mistakes dozens of times.”

“Take that man’s beer away,” Burns shouted back.

“Get on with it, Tommy.”

“Well, this fella looked me up one county and down the other and said, ‘You’re a heavyweight champion? Why, anyone in here could beat Billy blazes out of a wimpy guy like you.’ He turned to his buddies and said, ‘Isn’t that right, fellas?’” Tommy swigged his drink. “I thought they were about to challenge me for the title right there. Never seen such a hullabaloo.”

“Why, my old lady could beat the Billy blazes out of you,” Dennis Newberry said.

Burns turned to Newberry. “I suppose she could. She practices on you every day. Fill ’em up again, Tony.”

Will began to feel a bit wobbly, so he took a seat next to Rich Turner in the corner. “How’re the Fords selling?” Rich said.

“A bit better. I expect it to boom when the boys get back, but the insurance business helps some.”

“You’re trying to sell insurance to these tight-fisted farmers? Sounds like a fool’s errand to me.”

“Maybe I should have stayed farming.”

“Cheese and cash crops have been up. I never did so good as last year.”

“The war’s pushed prices higher,” Will said, “but I’m not sure it’ll last. I think about farming lots. There may be better ways.”

“New ways?”

“With improved trucking, I think we could ship milk to Chicago and Minneapolis.”

“Too chancy for me,” Rich said. “Milk doesn’t keep that well. Lot’s of extra work and expense to meet Grade A standards, too. I’ll stick to cheese.”

“There’s too much price fluctuation between spring and fall,” Will said. “If we could just even it out.”

“Farmers out East are dumping milk,” Rich said.

“I’d hate to throw good milk,” Will said. “I think cooperatives are a better way.”

He’d pulled library materials about cooperatives every chance he got. He had even asked Mrs. Selkirk to search for any new articles that were published on the topic, and then he paid for them. He was excited to learn that Illinois and Minnesota farmers were beginning to talk cooperatives. Their idea was to bring farmers together as a group that could buy their supplies cheaper and sell milk for more money than they could negotiate as individuals. Will knew that someday he wanted to be part of that movement.

“Where’s Will?” Tommy’s voice floated across the room. “Will O’Shaughnessy, get up here and lead a song.”

Tommy bought another pail of beer. “You’re empty, my good man. Let me fill ’er up.”

“No, Tommy, Mary’s waiting for this sugar,” Will said as he picked up the bag.

“Just one more.” Tommy poured his glass full.

A voice hollered, “Take it easy, Tommy! Will gets tipsy on one drink.”

“But he’s not sure which one it is,” Liam Shea shouted. “The tenth or eleventh!”

Tommy grabbed the bag from Will’s hands and set it in the corner. Then he pulled him to the center of the room. “Come on, Will, just one song.”

“We don’t want another Irish song,” Dobberstein shouted. “We’ve heard enough from those Kaiser lovers.”

Rich Turner jumped at Herman Dobberstein. “Shut up, Herman. The war’s over. Besides, you’re half Kraut yourself. Go ahead, Will.”

Glasses clanked and voices shouted, “Go ahead! Let ’er rip!”

In an acceptable tenor voice, Will sang his favorite Irish song, “Danny Boy.”

The room was quiet as a cemetery at midnight by the time he finished.

“Oh, Will, why’d you go do that?” Tommy said as he wiped a tear from his eye.

Sniffles could be heard throughout the room, and several men pulled out hankies.

“Okay, fellas,” Will said, “sing with me,” and he turned the gloom to laughter when he belted out the bawdy lyrics of the “Irish Washer Woman.”

Two hours later, Will threw the bag of sugar over his shoulder and staggered out of Tony’s front door. There’d be heck to pay when he got home. He couldn’t remember sugar so heavy or hills so steep. He was about to turn off High Street when he decided to rest against a telephone pole. Will hung on for dear life as it teetered to and fro. He’d have to tell Tommy about that wobbly pole. It wasn’t safe.

After he supported the pole for fifteen minutes, Will wiped his brow and turned toward home, thankful that the bag seemed lighter now. As he walked up the path to his house, he noticed the shed door was open and his Model T was gone. Who’d have taken that? He entered the house and faced a more pressing problem.

“Where have you been? Give me that sugar.”

Mary reached for the bag when Will struggled to unhitch it from his shoulder. He staggered against her from the effort.

She grabbed it from his hands. “You’re drunk as a skunk. You’ll not — ” She turned the empty bag in her hands and pointed to a hole. “Why, you lost all the sugar. You threw our money away with your drunkenness.”

Mary started up the stairs, then, she twisted around toward him. “You’ll have to find your own dinner. I’m going to bed. My mother told me not to marry an Irishman.”

Will banged around the kitchen while he boiled black coffee and sliced cold pork shoulder. He avoided going upstairs as diligently as he avoided the unfrosted strawberry cake, fodder for the guilt of a failed November day. America may have celebrated a victory, but Will felt the sting of defeat.

After four cups of coffee and a couple slices of the pork, his courage was sufficiently fortified to assault the ramparts and face the anger of a righteous wife. She complained a bit when he took a nip, but she’d never seen him tipsy before. He knew that this time, there would be a battle.

Will approached the bed cautiously. He hoped that Mary was asleep. He raised his leg, but when his toe hooked a sheet, he lost his balance and sat hard on the floor. “Mary, give mea hand. Can’t you see I’m ‘avin’ trouble?” he slurred.

Will thought he heard a groan.

“You drank yourself into your problem. You can sleep your way out of it, right there on the floor.”

“But don’t ya know the war’s over? Why, I was with the best people in town.”

“Will, let this be a warning. I’ll sleep on it, but don’t be surprised if I’m not here in the morning.”