Stone Lake: part 28

A Star Tribune serialized novel by Richard Horberg

Chapter 9 continues

The story so far: Allen helps a drunk Pauline Lund to her house.

"That's great," Coach Don Worthington said. "A butcher who draws cartoons. What I always say, it's people like him who make this a great country. From the hamburger counter to the drawing board, right? Rags to riches. Meat cleaver to paint brush. That's the stuff America's made of."

Then, glancing at his watch, he went to the door and blew his whistle, at which point the sound of bouncing balls stopped abruptly. "Tell your dad," he said, returning a moment later, "that the football coach at Stone Lake High School loves his drawings."

Allen was enormously grateful.

He told himself that Don Worthington was a great guy.

A couple of weeks later, Don invited Allen to Thanksgiving dinner at his house. Having received no other Thanksgiving invitations, not even from Dave Meyers and his wife, he had planned to drive to Crookston or Bemidji, spend the night at a motel and have Thanksgiving dinner at a good restaurant by himself. He was happy to change his plans, especially after three months of eating out.

Don Worthington lived in a magnificent red brick Georgian house, with flaking white columns in front, arched windows and a broken cupola on the roof — the only one of its kind in town. Allen had seen the house on his walks and could not help noticing that it needed repairs, both brickwork and paint. Despite the old swing set, he thought it must be owned by some ancient patriarch of the town, probably an invalid, cobwebs in the corners.

Inside, the house bore evidence of considerable activity — toys on the floor, photographs tacked randomly to one wall, much-abused furniture and a crooked shelf of trophies, one of which (a gold-plated golfer) lay on its side like a defeated warrior. Worthington had an attractive wife with a firm chin, wearing a knitted black shirt and slim black slacks. There were four young children, ranging from four to ten. One wore a football helmet. Another sat on the floor bouncing a tennis ball off the wall. Sitting down with Allen, the coach told him he was glad to have a moment alone before the others arrived. He congratulated Allen on being an English teacher, insisting that his was the most important job in the school, teaching students to communicate in correct English.

Allen laughed. "That's what everybody tells me," he said.

Don laughed too, as though he'd said something very funny. As for himself, he said, he had attended college in Fargo, where he'd met and married his wife. Then, looking around the room, his expression changing, he nodded confidentially. "Not many people know this, Allen, but I spent two years as a prisoner of war in Japan. And hard as it was — unbearable, some said — I'm here to tell you that I learned from the experience. More than I learned in college. I learned toughness. I learned patience. I learned survival. Most of all, I learned the importance of democracy. Sharing, teamwork, camaraderie. The undying spirit. Most of all, like I just said, I learned the value of freedom. Because I didn't have any."

"You missed it," Don said. "You missed the big part. What I am today — my competitive nature, trying to win ball games — I owe in large part to those two years I spent trying to stay alive."

Allen, quite impressed, asked him if it was his ambition to coach in some bigger town, like Duluth or St Cloud. It was not. His ambition, he said, was to win the regional basketball tournament, take the team to Minneapolis, wipe out the big city schools and bring home the title.

"That's what this country is all about, Allen," he said, standing up. "David and Goliath. The 13 colonies and the British Empire. Country bumpkin meets slick city boy. It's an old story. It's a classic. People never tire of it, never stop listening to it or reading about it."

Four other people arrived shortly — George Schuelke, the chemistry teacher, whose wife was in the hospital for minor surgery and was unable to make dinner for him; Worthington's sister, a tall, gaunt woman who taught girls' phy ed in a town some distance away; and a woodcutter and his wife who had recently moved to town because the woodcutter lost a leg and was seeking new employment. The pair sat in a corner, the man in worn jeans and a flannel shirt, the woman in an old housedress with a buttoned sweater pulled over it, each holding a tiny fork and a small plate which held three or four pieces of pickled herring. Both wore boots. Neither said a word when Allen was introduced to them. Their names were Henrik and Orda. From the dazed look in their eyes, Allen wondered if they spoke English.

"I always try to invite some unfortunates to Thanksgiving dinner," Don confided to Allen. "Help them get started up the ladder." He added that they were living temporarily in the basement of the Baptist church, that Henrik had a wooden leg and hoped to get a job in the lumber yard.

"Look at that tackle, will you? Watch now — here comes the big play. I think that's Clayton Tonnemaker at the bottom of the pile, recovering the fumble. Is that or is that not Clayton Tonnemaker?" He couldn't help adding from time to time, turning from one guest to another, that football was the great American sport, that it exemplified democracy.