handed it back over to him to light for himself.
“What’s this?” he said, spitting. “What’s this green stuff on the end of this cigar?”
“Wait!” I shouted. “Dad, this proves it!” I turned out my shirt pocket, emptying it of a handful of bright-green grit, first into my hand and then into his. “Look!” I said. “You tell me what this is, Dad!”
He ran it through his fingers and smelled it. He made a face. “It’s . . . it’s that instant meadow grass!” he said. “Permagrass! We used to use it on our layout.”
“Dad, before I jumped onto the layout, just before the crooks came into the bank, I had my face pressed down on Mr. Pettishanks’s Great Plains. You know how I used to do that all the time at home. I got the grass all over the side of my face. Some old lady on the train made me clean it off! I put it in my pocket so as not to make a mess.”
For the first time, my dad hesitated, and he narrowed his eyes, thinking. “I know this much,” he said. “You’re not in 1931 anymore, son. I sure as shootin’ voted for Mr. Roosevelt in 1932 and 1936. President Roosevelt single-handedly pulled us through that terrible depression and set America on its feet again. These days movies are in color, Oscar! Sulfa drugs cure infections! And the best player in the American League is Joe DiMaggio! He hit forty-five home runs and stole seventy bases this season for the Yankees. Have you never heard of these things?”
“Never!” I answered. “But it doesn’t matter now! Dad, we’re rich,” I said, rapping the table happily with the end of my spoon.
“Rich?”
“Yup. You can buy an orange ranch. We’ve got ten thousand dollars.”
“What do you mean, Oscar? I’ve been working back up to mechanic all these ten years. I still only make fifty bucks a week,” said Dad.
“Dad, Mr. Pettishanks offered a reward for anyone giving information leading to the arrest of the bank robbers. At first it was five thousand dollars, and now it’s doubled to ten thousand! All I have to do is remember what the crooks looked like and what their names were. We’ll be sitting pretty, Dad. We’ll be thousandaires, if not millionaires! The reward was published in yesterday’s
Los Angeles Times
. I saw it with my own eyes.”
My dad shook his head. “Oscar. The reward has long expired. The cops won’t catch ’em now. Everyone has forgotten the crime. We’re in the middle of a war!”
“A war?”
“The Japanese attacked our navy at Pearl Harbor.”
“Pearl Harbor? Where’s that? The Japanese?” Back home in Cairo, Mr. Kinoshura was Japanese. Mr. Kinoshura ran the drugstore soda fountain. “But the Japanese are nice people. What did they do that for?” I asked.
“The whole state of California is paralyzed with fear that the Japanese are coming our way and going to bomb us next. Everybody’s in a panic. All the boys are joining up with the army and navy.” Dad’s face changed expression. “Oh, no!” he said darkly.
“What,
oh, no
?” I asked.
“Oscar, we’ll have to be very careful. The army is drafting every young man in the country. Just last week the recruiters came out to the ranches looking for Tip-Top Ranch’s fruit pickers. The long arm of Uncle Sam’ll nab you for the army if we’re not careful!”
“But Dad, I’m eleven years old.”
“Well,” he said, “I believe in serving your country, but not if you’re in the fifth grade.” He looked at me quizzically. He was considering the impossible. I knew that much about my dad. He didn’t want to believe my story, but he knew that something about me wasn’t quite squared up.
Dad gave me an old shirt, a John Deere cap, and a pair of his overalls to wear. They were still a little small, but way better than Cyril’s old castoffs. Then he zipped up his jacket and took me to work with him. We drove from Burbank to Tarzana. There on the Tip-Top Citrus Ranch, we checked the engines of the machinery Dad had sold to them
“What’s this?” he said, spitting. “What’s this green stuff on the end of this cigar?”
“Wait!” I shouted. “Dad, this proves it!” I turned out my shirt pocket, emptying it of a handful of bright-green grit, first into my hand and then into his. “Look!” I said. “You tell me what this is, Dad!”
He ran it through his fingers and smelled it. He made a face. “It’s . . . it’s that instant meadow grass!” he said. “Permagrass! We used to use it on our layout.”
“Dad, before I jumped onto the layout, just before the crooks came into the bank, I had my face pressed down on Mr. Pettishanks’s Great Plains. You know how I used to do that all the time at home. I got the grass all over the side of my face. Some old lady on the train made me clean it off! I put it in my pocket so as not to make a mess.”
For the first time, my dad hesitated, and he narrowed his eyes, thinking. “I know this much,” he said. “You’re not in 1931 anymore, son. I sure as shootin’ voted for Mr. Roosevelt in 1932 and 1936. President Roosevelt single-handedly pulled us through that terrible depression and set America on its feet again. These days movies are in color, Oscar! Sulfa drugs cure infections! And the best player in the American League is Joe DiMaggio! He hit forty-five home runs and stole seventy bases this season for the Yankees. Have you never heard of these things?”
“Never!” I answered. “But it doesn’t matter now! Dad, we’re rich,” I said, rapping the table happily with the end of my spoon.
“Rich?”
“Yup. You can buy an orange ranch. We’ve got ten thousand dollars.”
“What do you mean, Oscar? I’ve been working back up to mechanic all these ten years. I still only make fifty bucks a week,” said Dad.
“Dad, Mr. Pettishanks offered a reward for anyone giving information leading to the arrest of the bank robbers. At first it was five thousand dollars, and now it’s doubled to ten thousand! All I have to do is remember what the crooks looked like and what their names were. We’ll be sitting pretty, Dad. We’ll be thousandaires, if not millionaires! The reward was published in yesterday’s
Los Angeles Times
. I saw it with my own eyes.”
My dad shook his head. “Oscar. The reward has long expired. The cops won’t catch ’em now. Everyone has forgotten the crime. We’re in the middle of a war!”
“A war?”
“The Japanese attacked our navy at Pearl Harbor.”
“Pearl Harbor? Where’s that? The Japanese?” Back home in Cairo, Mr. Kinoshura was Japanese. Mr. Kinoshura ran the drugstore soda fountain. “But the Japanese are nice people. What did they do that for?” I asked.
“The whole state of California is paralyzed with fear that the Japanese are coming our way and going to bomb us next. Everybody’s in a panic. All the boys are joining up with the army and navy.” Dad’s face changed expression. “Oh, no!” he said darkly.
“What,
oh, no
?” I asked.
“Oscar, we’ll have to be very careful. The army is drafting every young man in the country. Just last week the recruiters came out to the ranches looking for Tip-Top Ranch’s fruit pickers. The long arm of Uncle Sam’ll nab you for the army if we’re not careful!”
“But Dad, I’m eleven years old.”
“Well,” he said, “I believe in serving your country, but not if you’re in the fifth grade.” He looked at me quizzically. He was considering the impossible. I knew that much about my dad. He didn’t want to believe my story, but he knew that something about me wasn’t quite squared up.
Dad gave me an old shirt, a John Deere cap, and a pair of his overalls to wear. They were still a little small, but way better than Cyril’s old castoffs. Then he zipped up his jacket and took me to work with him. We drove from Burbank to Tarzana. There on the Tip-Top Citrus Ranch, we checked the engines of the machinery Dad had sold to them
Similar Books
