Raising Arthur

Chapter 3 - Fred

 

It was on a Friday in September 1946, the year after the war ended. Bob and I had returned home from McLaughlin Heights Grammar School. I had just entered first grade and Bobby the third.

Fred, our older brother, stood in the kitchen making hot chocolate. I thought it odd to see our nineteen-year-old brother standing there; we’d not seen him for a long time. At five foot four, he was slight but muscular. The girls thought him good looking.

“Hi, boys,” Fred said.

Bobby ran up and gave him a hug, “Hi Fred.”

I withdrew. After a moment’s hesitation, I tenuously embraced him. He recalled wistfully the last time we’d seen each other. It had been a troubling time in his life.

Three years earlier, in 1943, the Second World War had raged for over two years when Fred and his two buddies, Joe Davidson and Sam McDonald, discussed their options for joining the Army. Joe, the smartest of the three, provided the brains for the trio. He stood tall and lean, had short-cropped brown hair that looked like it had been caught in a lawnmower. Sam provided the muscle. In contrast to Joe, Sam was short, with stringy black hair and a pug nose. Fred was the wheelman. He could drive anything bigger than a wheelbarrow. This particular talent had gotten him in trouble in Queens.

Fred eyed Joe. “What‘ja get from the Enlistment Office, Joe?” he asked, his New York accent still lingering.

“Not much. We can’t enlist in Vancouver, but they said the Army’s not so picky in San Francisco. Maybe we could join there.”

“What did you find out about your visit to the enlistment office, Fred?” asked Sam.

“A big 4F.”

“Why?”

“Oh. When I was five, I had scarlet fever. They gave me the once-over – said I have heart damage, but look at me, I’m fine.” Fred looked at Sam. “How’re we gonna get to San Francisco, Sam?”

“Well, since we don’t have money for bus fare, we’ll have to borrow a car. We’ll leave a note on it with an explanation. No one will find it after we’re already in the Army. What’re they gonna do? We’ll be in the South Pacific, or who knows where.”

“How about Mr. Peterson’s ’38 Ford?” asked Fred.

“He’s gone East to see his folks, and won’t return for a week. We can replace the license plate with the one on Pop’s old Ford.”

The next morning, the boys met at Fred’s house, broke into Mr. Peterson’s Ford, and headed south. After driving for five hours, they crossed the California / Oregon state line, and stopped for lunch.

“What are we doing?” asked Fred.

“Dunno,” replied Sam. He munched on his sandwich. “Lunch, I guess.”

“No, I mean with this stolen car and all?”

“Seemed like a damn good idea at the time,” said Joe.

“Maybe we should go back,” said Fred.

They discussed the reasons for their decision to head South in the first place. Each boy looked at the other two. All three, in unison, voiced their decision, saying, “Nooooo.”

Continuing South, they drove through Mount Shasta, Red Bluff, and Corning, and were approaching Orland, some 200 miles north of Sacramento. About thirty minutes past dusk, on the right hand side of the highway sat a stubby Black and white police car—facing opposing traffic—with its single red spotlight pointed directly towards them.

“Oh oh. What do you think we should do, Joe?” Fred asked. “Maybe I was going too fast.”

“We better stop. Maybe we can bluff our way out of this.”

Fred pulled over, stopped, and waited for the police officer to approach his window. Suddenly, a voice from a bullhorn boomed. “This is Officer Martini. You two in the front seat, get out on the driver’s side with your hands up! NOW!”

As ordered, Fred exited, followed by Sam. Fred had never seen Sam move so fast.

“Get to the rear of the car and put your hands on the trunk,” demanded the policeman. “You in the back, get out on the driver’s side!”

Joe instantly complied.

“What’s the problem, officer?” asked Fred.

“Someone held up a liquor store in Chico, and your car fits the description, smart ass.”

“What kind of car?”

“Dunno. Dark sedan, I think.”

“Sir, we’re driving a medium brown sedan,” said Fred.

“And I think Chico is east, not north, Officer Santorini,” joined in Sam.

“It’s Martini, smart ass. Santorini is an island in Greece. But I don’t expect you’d know that.”

“Sorry, Officer,” Joe replied.

By this point in the conversation, Fred had turned around. Four other police cars had pulled up. One of the officers strolled over to Fred.

“You the driver?”

Fred turned in panic, first to his right, then to his left, to make sure the officer was addressing him. He grunted, “Umm, hmm.”

“My name’s Officer Graziano. I’m with the Corning Police Department.” He addressed the boys, “Been chasing you guys since you sailed through Corning. If my car didn’t need a tune up, I’d a caught you guys ten miles back.”

“Why didn’t ‘cha turn on your siren? I’d a stopped.” Fred asked.

“Listen. If I’d a got that close, I’d a started shootin’!”

“My God!” mumbled Fred to Sam, “What kind of bums do they hire in this county?”

After Officer Graziano realized that Fred, Sam, and Joe were not dangerous, he peered at Fred. “We’re looking at your vehicle. You boys need to talk to the Officer in Charge about it when you arrive at the station.”

At the police station, the boys were booked, then met the man in charge. “I spoke to the Police Department up in Vancouver, boys. No one’s filed a stolen vehicle report, yet – and we’re not done with our investigation—but I’d bet you my morning coffee and donuts you fellows sure as hell didn’t have no permission to drive that there car. You’ll have to see the Judge.”

After two days in the slammer, the boys went before the Judge. Glaring over his bifocals, he scowled at Fred. His black gown barely covered his black cowboy boots and his cowboy shirt poked out from the top of his robe. He appeared distracted.

He glared at Fred. “You’re charged with auto theft, and driving a stolen vehicle across state lines. How do you plead, young man?”

“Guilty, your Honor. But we have an explanation.” Sam joined in. “Your Honor, we just wanted to help the war effort. We tried to enlist in Vancouver, Washington, but they couldn’t take us. Told us to try in San Francisco. Sam here is good at mechanics, and so am I. And Fred can drive two-bys, four-bys, and those big suckers that bend in the middle and go “Shhh-shhhh.”

The Judge frowned at Sam’s humor. “Boys, I’ve talked to the recruiting office and they’ve verified your story. But then there’s the matter of stealing the vehicle. I find you all guilty of stealing the vehicle and taking it across State lines.”

The Judge decided on leniency and treated the boys as juveniles rather than adults, sentencing each to three years in reform school. But he transferred them to Washington State Juvenile Authority so they would be close to family and home.

On the second month of Fred’s incarceration, Pete Jablonski, the Sergeant in Charge, who had befriended him, gathered the juveniles together, “For the next few months, I need a few volunteers to help me with painting and plastering.”

“I’ll try it,” mumbled one.

“I’ll help,” Fred offered.

“We’re gonna plaster the cafeteria and redo the bathrooms. I’ll show you guys how to refinish the walls. Then we’ll paint.”

“Should be interesting,” said Fred.

“Maybe we’ll learn something useful,” replied the other.

Pete liked the way the men volunteered, especially Fred. During the next six months, Pete taught him to plaster and fix most plumbing problems. Very pleased with Fred’s work, Pete recommended to the Review Board that he be given an early release. He felt Fred had grasped sufficient knowledge of a trade, overcoming the adversity he’d experienced in his young life. The Board agreed. He went home a free man with a trade, concluding that his learning problems did not affect his ability to build things with his hands.

Fred’s movement brought me back to the present. Fred stood in the kitchen in Vancouver. He thought about his learning difficulty and what caused it. Was it his fault? Were they traits he’d inherited? He recalled living in Queens, back in ’35 when he’d been eight and Glenna eleven. Fred had problems passing his courses, so Pop had pushed Glenna to teach him. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t understand the material, however. The more he failed, the less he wanted to try. He sat at his desk with Glenna looming over him. She urged him to focus on his studies, but he just stared past her and out the window. But in 1935, learning disabilities were unrecognized. Had they been, no medication had been discovered to treat them. The best anyone could hope for was that the person grew out of their symptoms and difficulties.

Fred hated Glenna for pushing him. Glenna in turn resented her brother and his inability to learn because of the pressure her parents put on her to teach them. Pop didn’t understand why Glenna couldn’t make him understand. After all, she easily grasped the material, why couldn’t she help him? Mother, weary of the arguing, just wished everybody could get...