Hansen Dodge

Hansen Dodge, trying to fix the wings on a balsa wood glider so it would fly right, could feel Emma Jeanette on her way to his neighborhood. He didn't know her as Emma Jeanette, or Missus Sinclair. To his mind, Emma Jeanette was The Welfare Lady, a murky vapor floating behind a pair of bifocals. She was on her way, scary as the witch who bicycles through the turbulent air outside Dorothy's bedroom window.

The Welfare Lady would be wanting to know where Virgie was. She'd already been over twice, asking. The first time he told her that Virgie was at the beauty parlor. The second time, he caught himself in the middle of saying that Virgie was at work. If the Welfare Lady thought Virgie was working, she'd cut off their food stamps. So he slid the "w" of "working" into "washing" and said, ’Virgie’s washing clothes at the laundrymat." Did she believe him? At eleven, he was old enough to tell lies, but not old enough to tell how they went over. The Welfare Lady got in her car and drove off, though, and that was all he'd wanted at the time.

But she was on her way again, he could feel her coming, and this time she wasn't going to go away until she saw Virgie or his dad or somebody. She'd put him and Bubbie in a foster home. Or different foster homes, and when they found out Bubbie peed the bed they’d beat his butt.

Hansen went into the kitchen. Bubbie was sitting on the floor, eating Frosted Flakes out of the box.

"Them are stale, Bubbie," Hansen said.

"I know it," said Bubbie. "This’s all there is."

Virgie had left them two big sacks of groceries before she went away Friday, but some of it was in cans, corned beef hash and tuna fish, and Hansen didn't know where the can opener was, if they even had one. The kitchen was dirty and smelly and all the counters were piled with tools and beer cans and crusty frying pans. He should have known Virgie was up to something as soon as she'd come home with more than one bag of groceries.

'Take your Frosted Flakes in the bedroom," Hansen told his brother. "I'm going someplace."

"Make me," said Bubbie.

"Better go on," said Hansen. "Booger man'll get you. You don't want the booger man to get you, do you?"

"Where you going?" said Bubbie.

"Illinois," said Hansen, "to get Virgie and make her come back."

'Tell her bring us a can opener," said Bubbie.

Bubbie, after a little struggle, was put in the bedroom with the Frosted Flakes, some hard marshmallows, and a box with a few broken pieces of Ritz cracker in it.

"If you get real real hungry, Bubbie," Hansen told his brother before he shut the bedroom door, "you can come out in the kitchen and get you a can of corn beef hash out of the refrigerator. 1 opened it up for you." Hansen had torn the paper label off the open, half-full can on the refrigerator shelf. Bubbie couldn't read very well, but the picture of the German Shepherd might have told him something. If it didn't kill Blackie, it wouldn't kill a little kid, and Blackie didn't need it -- Daddy took his dog with him when he went.

"Where'd you find a can opener?" asked Bubbie.

"I didn't, I did it a special way. I'll come back before you need any more of it opened up." Hansen shut the bedroom door. Then opened it again.  "DON'T OPEN THE DOOR UNLESS YOU WANT THE BOOGER MAN TO GET YOU."

Hansen unlocked his bicycle and unwound the chain from the front porch rail. He looked at the tires. The front one was pretty low, and the back one might take a little air. He rode to the Swifty station.
Hansen leaned his bike against the front of the station and looked inside for the attendant. The man had to put the hose on the air machine for him because they didn't want kids coming and using up all the air.  He peered into the greasy gray interior of the station, but the attendant was talking to the mechanic and Hansen was afraid to bother him.

"Good morning," said a man's voice behind Hansen. The man was wearing a business suit, and his car, parked at the ethyl pump, was pretty new. Hansen wondered what he was doing at a crummy station like the Swifty.  "What're you looking for, there?"

"Air," said Hansen. "For my bike."

"Going on a big trip, are you?" said the man. "Across town?"

"Farther than that," said Hansen, staring at the attendant so he'd quit yakking and come bring the hose. "Illinois." This sounded dumb by itself so he added a lie. "To see my aunt."

"Where in Illinois?" said the man. "I don't believe you know what you're up to."

"Wheaton," said Hansen, to prove he did. His dad bought lottery tickets in Wheaton. It was the only city in Illinois Hansen knew. Virgie was in Illinois. He was sure she'd gone back to her old job at Estes Brothers Carnival. The carnival did Illinois in June, Indiana in July, Ohio in August. Virgie told them all about it back when she and his dad were first going together. Hansen used to hear them talking in the other room, while he was lying in bed. Virgie had a nice voice.

It looked like the attendant was never going to quit talking and bring the hose. Hansen wheeled his bike away from the station wall, and got on. "See you," he said over his shoulder, and began pedaling. When he got to the edge of the lot, the man called out "Here now!" Hansen circled back around and stopped next to the man.

"Would you like a ride?" said the man.

"You're not going that way," said Hansen. "Are you?"

"Could be," said the man. "It depends."

Hansen considered. The man looked pretty shy, and would probably leave him alone until the state line at least. Then Hansen could pretend he didn't know what the man meant, and tell him to stop and let him out. If the man wouldn't stop, Hansen would wait until the car slowed for a curve and then jump out. Either way he'd at least get to the edge of Illinois, and really down deep he knew he couldn't ride his bike all the way. What he’d do when he got to Wheaton was a hard question, and so was what he'd do after he got out of the pervert's car. But the Welfare Lady was after him, time was short, and there wasn't any can opener at home. He got off his bike and chained it to the rusty fence behind the Swifty, looping the chain through as many times as he could. Then he went to the passenger door of the man's car and waited to be let in.

The man wasn't a pervert, just religious. A lay minister in The Church of Jesus Only. His car had a Sunday School picture card taped to the front of the glove compartment. Jesus the gentle shepherd was wearing a pretty chalk-striped cloak. His sheep looked at him lovingly. The man never tried to touch Hansen, only wanted him to take Jesus as his own personal savior, which Hansen was willing to do for the ride.

After Hansen was saved, the man didn't say too much on the long drive. Hansen thought this was to give him time to think about Jesus, but Hansen didn't think any more about Jesus than he ever had. He thought about Virgie a little bit, though. She was skinny, with yellow hair. She was part Indian. Hansen thought it would feel funny to be a yellow-headed Indian, but his dad was proud of Virgie. Sometimes he called her "that injun." If Hansen wanted to go someplace, Daddy would say, "Better ask that injun." When Virgie lived with them, usually there was something to eat in the kitchen, and the toilet got flushed once in a while. One time Daddy even talked about Virgie and him getting married. He hadn't gone on one of his drunks yet, and Hansen couldn't figure out if it would be better for him to do it before or after the wedding. Before, she'd find out what Daddy was like for real and then she wouldn't marry him, but if she found out afterwards, she'd leave anyway. He decided before was just as good as after, right about the time Daddy went wild again and left, after hitting everybody and tearing the house all up. Virgie stayed for a few days after that, then Friday she brought two big sacks of food, and Hansen knew she was going back to work the carnival.

The car bumped up into the parking lot of a Howard Johnson's. Hansen's head knocked against the side window just a little, and that woke him up.

"Let's get us a bite to eat," said the man. He bought Hansen two cheeseburgers and a vanilla shake, which Hansen felt bad about because of Bubbie and the dog food.

They got back in the car, and in a few minutes they started to see the first houses on the edge of Wheaton.

"Where's your aunt want you to meet her at?" said the man.

"At the Greyhound station," said Hansen. "She's going to come get me at the bus station."

"How's she going to know when to come get you?" said the man. "She doesn't know you lost your ticket, so she'll come when the bus should've come, isn't that right?"

"No, I have to call her," said Hansen. "I call her at work, and she'll come after me."

The man seemed to believe everything Hansen told him, which Hansen assumed had something to do with being Jesus crazy. The car stopped at a filling station so the man could get directions to the bus terminal.

When they got to the Greyhound station, the man pulled in next to the curb, behind a row of three taxis waiting for customers. "Guess I better come in with you until she comes and gets you," he said.

"Better not. I guess," said Hansen. "She might think— something was funny. You know."

"Well, all right," said the man, reaching across Hansen's lap to open the passenger door. "I hope you won't forget the friend you made today."

"I won't," said Hansen. "Thank you very much."

"Not me, son."

"Oh," said Hansen. "Thank you, Jesus."

"That's the way," said the man.

Hansen walked down a street in the business district, which was growing darker as the sun fell behind a one-story wholesale furniture outlet. He walked by a store that sold discount shoes, and a jewelry store that said DIAMONDS RESET in neon. Then an appliance store with television sets in the window, the whole row turned to face the sidewalk. Hansen stopped to watch. All the sets were showing a rerun of "Gonier Pyle," Hansen's favorite. He watched the episode to the end, knowing how it all came out with the sergeant and Bunny, even without the sound. He'd seen this one several times. He jigged up and down as if he were cold, and not hungry and tired. A commercial for mattresses came on, then one for canned ravioli, then there was a Iit-up Ferris wheel turning against a night sky. Across the bottom of the screen in big letters it said EXTRA EXTRA ESTES BROS. CARNIVAL COMING TO YOUR AREA, continuously in a moving strip like a news bulletin. Then the picture changed to ordinary block letters on a white cardboard background.  "Estes Brothers Carnival. Coming to Evanston June 10 - 16. Proceeds from opening night to Lion's Club Kidney Fund." The picture flashed off, replaced by the opening close-up of Beaver Cleaver's house.

Hansen found a man to drive him to Evanston. The man was not religious.


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At the run-down, cluttered little house, Bubbie had taken his chances with the booger man and come out of the bedroom to sit on the floor in front of the television console.  When the heavy pounding on the front door began, he crossed the fingers on both hands to jinx away the intruder, and stayed where he was.  He eased the volume on the television lower, and leaned in close to hear Beaver and Wally.

Out on the front step, Emma Jeanette wrote "No answer" in her notebook, followed by "call Norma, Foster Parent program."


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Under the "Fast-Pitch Champion" sign, Virgie handed three softballs across the dirty board counter to a drunk teenager whose orange baseball cap had black fingermarks on the bill. He gave her a folded dollar, which she unfolded with a snap and slid into her apron.  The teenager tipped his cap forward, spit out his gum and wound up. He missed. He missed again. The third ball didn't even come close, and rolled lazily down the limp tarpaulin backdrop.

"Another three," he told Virgie, pulling a bill out of his front pocket and scattering coins and cigarette butts and a wadded five into the mud between the black electric cables underfoot. After he's spent the next dollar, the wadded five, and two dollars in quarters, he won.  Any of the stuffed animals in the booth sold for under two dollars at Val-U-Mart, but the man seemed happy with a nine-dollar toy gorilla smaller than his hand. His girlfriend liked it too, and she was sober. Virgie didn't care if the fast-pitch champions were happy or sad, drunk or sober, as long as they didn't start fights.

A little boy came to the counter. Virgie didn't bother to focus her eyes. "Fifty cents a throw," she said. "Three for a dollar.”

"Hey," said Hansen quietly. "You got to come back, Virgie. Bubbie don't have anything to eat."

"Who brought you around here to bother me?" said Virgie. "Welfare? Let them put me in jail, I don't care. You're not my kids. He can take care of you. Or Welfare. It won't help them, dragging you up here, trying to make me feel bad. I'm not living with him, he's crazy and mean and a drunk."

"I know it," said Hansen. "I've not even seen him since you left. Welfare didn't bring me, they think you're still there. Even Welfare wouldn't make us live with Daddy. He's crazy. But you got to come back. Bubbie has to eat dog food."

"I left you some corn beef hash." said Virgie.

"No can opener," said Hansen.

"I can't help that," said Virgie. "Who brought you up here?"

"A man. I don't like him, but he didn't mess with me. Too much. I don't know where he's at, though."

"Better find him," said Virgie.


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Rain began to piddle down, sliding behind Hansen's shirt collar. He crunched through the wet gravel, leaving the lit-up Ferris wheel in the dark sky behind him. He went past rows of cars, rows and rows all the way to the end of the lot. All of them had a layer of mist spread over their windshields. A man was peeing or throwing up or something in between one of the last six rows of cars. His girlfriend was waiting for him to finish. There was a wet toy gorilla lying in the muddy gravel near Hansen's foot. He gave its head a furious stomp, crushing in its plastic face. Then he bent over and picked up the little gorilla and worked his finger back between the plastic face and the gray fur of the head, popping the features back out the best he could. The gorilla looked ill-used but fairly cheerful, considering. Hansen laid it, face up, on the hood of the nearest car, and crunched on.

He got to the edge of the parking lot, and was nearly hit by a green Plymouth wagon which came up the aisle behind him. He stepped sideways into a muddy wheel rut, twisting his ankle. The passenger door of the wagon flew open, and a thick batch of fresh cigarette smoke swirled out.

"Well, goddamn it, get in," said Virgie. 'Tm burning up gas."