The Jesse James Scrapbook

PROLOGUESummer 1906 Tom Gardner, age twelve, hoisted himself to the top of Old Man Ginty’s fence and eyeballed his chances. Neither Ginty, his dogs, nor his ferocious rooster were in evidence. All that stood between Tom and triumph, were the beehives, the goldfish pond, and a picket fence so low it filled him with contempt. “Afternoon, Tom.” From out of nowhere Old Man Ginty appeared, a hatchet in his hand. Tom leaped into the yard, sucked down a healthy dose of air, and churned his legs like the great drivers of a steam locomotive. He accelerated past the beehives, leaped the fish pond, and scrambled over the picket fence. He flew across the trolley tracks and almost collided with the Long Island City electric. He took the stairs of his house by threes, threw open the front door, and launched himself into a belly-slide down the polished, hardwood floor. “Safe,” he cried. But just as he crashed into the umbrella stand, the joyous, summer air was rent by a voice as furious and frightful as a rolling clap of thunder. “Thompson Grant Gardner!” In a flash, Tom took it all in. His mother’s arms were folded across her chest. Her features were contorted in a hideous sneer. Pressed to her bosom was an item that had heretofore been buried in his bureau under a pile of brownish baseballs and old, smelly socks—The Jesse James Scrapbook. “What’s the meaning of this, Tom?” his mother said, her hand upon the book. “I just pitched a shutout,” he replied, in a desperate bid for time. “Had my in-shoot, had my out-shoot, had my false-rise, and those Maspeth boys didn’t have a prayer.” “There’s no dodging it, Tom.” Trapped, he hung his head. “Your things are still in there, Ma. I just pasted over ’em.” “You pasted your Jesse James over my Tour of the Continent?” Tom got to his feet. “It was a long time ago,” he lied. “We were just kids playing games. We were detectives, you see, even had our own detective agency. We swore a blood oath to capture Robert Ford, the coward who assassinated Jesse James, and we had to have evidence so we could get a warrant… .” “Come to the point, Tom.” “I am. I am.” Though the role of traitor and informer fit the infamous Ford better than he, was it not written that the strong would survive and the weak would perish? “It was Jumbo that did it. Jumbo went to the library, and…” “Don’t try to blame it on poor Jumbo.” “I ain’t, Ma. I ain’t.” Jumbo was a fat, dyspeptic boy, and, as such, Tom realized, he was the recipient of unwarranted sympathy from little old ladies and mothers alike. “It was George that was at the bottom of it,” Tom declared, altering course just enough to launch an all out attack on his older brother. “George made himself a colonel. I only made myself a captain even though the Wide Awakes were all my idea. Poor Jumbo went to the library because George said to. He cut things out of newspapers and books because George said to.” “You know…” His mother paged through the book. “Some of the parts you wrote yourself are really quite good.” “Thanks, Ma. I thought so, too.” “‘After the Civil War,’” she read, “‘Jesse James surrendered his arms and attempted to return to the pursuits of peace. But his old enemies and the Yankee militia still had it in for him. They hounded Jesse and persecuted him till all he had left was the outlaw life. So he took to the woods with his merry men, and there they lived a carefree existence—hunting, fishing, and engaging in target practice… .’” She looked at him. “Why don’t you write this well on your compositions?” “I do, but the teachers are prejudiced against me. Mr. Sheckard is a Dutchman, you know.” “The word is German. Not Dutchman.” “Mr. Sheckard is a German, and German’s are all prejudiced against Americans.” “Why, that’s nonsense, Tom. Who ever told you that?” “Pa did.” His mother fell into a confused silence, and Tom, knowing he had struck a telling blow, sent a regiment of cavalry through the breach in her lines. “‘All Germans are good for,’” quoth Tom, “‘is drinking beer and preaching anarchy. If it weren’t for the Germans… .’” “That’s not true, Tom, and you know it. Sometimes your father gets angry when he reads the papers and says things he doesn’t mean.” “Jesse James never touched off any anarchist bomb. Jesse James robbed from the rich and gave to the poor. He fought on the side of justice and right.” “Jesse James,” his mother said, “was a killer and thief. We’ve talked before about that trash you boys read.” “I’ve stopped readin’ it, too, Ma, and I’m a better boy for it, I’ll say.” His mother sighed a deep, tormented sigh. “You know you’ll have to be punished for this, and I’ll have to let Jumbo’s mother know too.” “But it wasn’t Jumbo Brown, Ma,” Tom said, with noble purpose. “It was some other fellow named Jumbo. He never told us his last name. All we ever knew him by was Jumbo.” “You boys,” his mother continued, “have stolen books and newspapers from the library.” “We took ’em back.” “After you’d cut pages out.” “Yes, ma’m.” “You took my scrapbook without permission, young man, and when your father gets home, there will be hell to pay.” She laid The Jesse James Scrapbook on the hall table, righted the fallen umbrella stand and pointed a trembling forefinger at the stairs. “To your room.” Tom slunk toward the stairs, and, as he did, the staircase seemed to take on the aspect of a gallows. When he reached the first step, he turned and faced the woman who had appointed herself judge and jury. “Ma? What are you planning to do with the book? I know I did wrong, but I worked real hard on it. I never did finish it, but someday I’m going to, even if it takes a hundred years. I’m going to go out west and interview farmers and outlaws and trainmen and wild Indians, everyone who ever knew or saw or was robbed by Jesse. You wouldn’t burn a fellow’s life’s work, would you?” “You should have thought of that before you borrowed my scrapbook. And if you’ve started contemplating your life’s work, young man, I suggest you begin by ruling out both Jesse James and baseball.” He looked towards the top of the stairs and imagined his father standing there—an executioner’s mask covered his face, a razor strop was in his hands. A cold drizzle was falling. Jesse James, Tom knew, wouldn’t have quailed. Jesse James would have met his fate with a stout heart and an enigmatic smile. Young Tom Gardner threw back his shoulders and climbed. WAR