The knocking was hard and rapid. It sounded like the police. I opened the door and saw that it was Mr. Cosgrove, my little league coach, smelling of cherries and chocolate. He was the best smelling person I knew. He always had a pipe going and smoked nothing but flavored tobacco: mint, peach, rum, vanilla. His hair was thick and black and thoroughly Brylcreemed. He was a professional jelly maker who worked for a company that made little jelly packets for restaurants. He was a little over 6 feet tall, and had a great big stomach that he’d let my brothers and me sock. We’d wind up and hit him as hard as we could, and he wouldn’t even blink. I was hoping he was here to tell me he’d selected me for the all-star team.
“Hi, Dennis,” he said, “I’ve come to talk to you and your parents.”
“All right, Mr. Cosgrove,” I said, “come on in, I’ll go get them.”
I ran upstairs and told my parents that Mr. Cosgrove was downstairs and had something to tell us. My parents rushed down and invited him into the kitchen where my mom offered him a cup of coffee. We sat around the kitchen table, and he and my dad talked about the Dodgers for a few minutes. Then Mr. Cosgrove said he had something important to talk to us about.
“I’m ready,” I said.
“That’s good,” he said, “because this mostly involves you, Dennis.”
I smiled. Mr. Cosgrove began.
“Dennis, I’m going to ask you a few questions now, and things will go a lot easier for you if you tell us the truth. Do you understand that, Dennis?”
My smile disintegrated. “Yes, Mr. Cosgrove.”
“Dennis, a few weeks ago, a petition was circulated at your school. Did you know about this?”
“Yes, Mr. Cosgrove.”
“Did you see the petition?”
“Yes, Mr. Cosgrove.”
“Did you sign the petition?”
“Yes, Mr. Cosgrove.”
“That’s right, Dennis, I saw that petition, and was I ever surprised to see your name on it. Tell me, Dennis, what was that petition about? What was it trying to accomplish? Why did the students at your school find it necessary to protest something and circulate a petition?”
“Three of our teachers were fired, Mr. Cosgrove, and the petition said we thought they should get their jobs back.”
“Were any of these teachers one of your teachers, Dennis?”
“No, Mr. Cosgrove.”
“Had any of them ever been one of your teachers, Dennis?”
“No, Mr. Cosgrove.”
“Well then how did you know that they shouldn’t have been fired?”
“Because all of the students I knew who had those teachers said they were really nice and that they learned a lot in their classes, and I thought the school fired them because they thought they weren’t good teachers.”
“No, Dennis, that’s not the reason those teachers were fired. People like those teachers at your school are always nice, that’s how they get you. That’s how they manipulate you. They become friends with you. They give you things to eat. They offer you rides home. Are you sure you never had any contact with any of them?”
“Yes, Mr. Cosgrove, I only ever saw them when I walked by their classrooms.”
“Dennis, let me tell you and your parents why I’ve come here tonight. The reason the teachers at your school were fired, Dennis, was not because they were bad teachers. The reason those teachers were fired was because they were communists. Communists, Dennis, you signed a petition for communists.”
My parents gasped.
“I’m going to ask you a question now, Dennis, and I want you to tell me the truth. Will you do that?”
“Yes, Mr. Cosgrove.”
“Dennis, are you a communist?”
I looked to my father for help.
“Answer Mr. Cosgrove’s question, son,” my father said.
“No, Mr. Cosgrove, I’m not a communist.”
“Do you know what a communist is, Dennis?”
“No, Mr. Cosgrove.”
“A communist is someone who wants everything to be equal, to be fair, who thinks everybody should get paid the same. Do you think everybody should get paid the same, Dennis?”
“I guess not, Mr. Cosgrove.”
“You guess not? Why, I’m beginning to think you are a communist, Dennis.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the horror on my parents’ faces.
“I’m not a communist, Mr. Cosgrove.”
“Now Dennis, I don’t mean to scare you, but the FBI might have to come and talk to you. Are you prepared for that? What are you going to tell them when they ask you why you signed a petition for communists? I’d hate to see you have to go to prison, Dennis, but being a communist is taken very seriously in this country. Are you sure you’re not a communist?”
“I’m sure, Mr. Cosgrove, some of the kids at school said the teachers were fired because they were in a teachers’ union.”
“Let’s not split hairs,” Mr. Cosgrove said, “a communist is a communist.”
I couldn’t sleep for weeks. Every time there was a knock on the door, I thought it was the FBI coming to take me to prison. I had headaches and nightmares about being in some kind of re-education camp. I couldn’t focus in school and started getting bad grades. I couldn’t concentrate in little league and wasn’t able to find the plate when I pitched. My batting average plummeted. I wasn’t a starter anymore. I knew the FBI probably wasn’t really coming to get me, but I could never feel sure about it.
A few years ago, I heard that Mr. Cosgrove was in the hospital, the VA hospital, with throat cancer. I went to see him. He was old and weak and didn’t smell like cherries and chocolate anymore. I told him I was Dennis Wilkins and asked if he remembered me.
“Sure,” he said, barely able to speak, “you’re the communist.”
“That’s right,” I said, “I just got out of prison.”
I could tell he knew I was kidding. We talked for a few minutes about the Dodgers, and then he fell asleep. I kissed him on the forehead and got up to leave.
“I love you, Mr. Cosgrove,” I said quietly.