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Indy had told him all about America during those long, hot days as they made their way to Delhi, spinning stories of his youth in New Jersey and New Mexico to Shorty on the voyage across the Pacific and during the plane ride from Chicago to Connecticut. Indy had promised him all sorts of adventures in America. Hot dogs and ice cream; fishing trips and camping. And baseball.
"Giants vs. the Senators," Indy tells him once, during those first awful days on the ship when Short Round hadn't been able to stand without throwing up. "The World Series, Shorty. I've never seen anything like it. King Hubbell and Prince Hal pitching. We'll go to the next one, once we get to America."
"You promise, Dr. Jones?" Shorty had demanded. "A real baseball game?"
"You bet, kid. Home runs, peanuts, the works. I promise."
Shorty had seen what America was like, in the films he'd watched back in Shanghai. America had seemed like paradise to him back then, with streets lined up and down with mansions and steak and lobster for dinner every night. But now, a part of Shorty—the part that has him leaning over the side of the ship after every meal—can't help but wonder if America will be worth of all the effort it's taking to actually get there.
But America turns out to be nothing like Short Round had expected.
Indy’s home is one of those things Shorty hadn’t expected—though, to be fair, he hadn’t really pictured Indy having a house at all. If he’d been pressed further, Shorty would have said that he’d imagined Indy sleeping in the backseat of a car, or on the floor of a motel, as he often had during their travels through China and India. But here in America, Indy has a house of his own.
Every available surface is cluttered with half-opened books and scattered papers, and there’s a fine layer of dust over all the furniture. But there’s a wireless radio by the window, and a baseball signed by Babe Ruth on the mantel, and a room with a several leaning file cabinets and a desk buried beneath fascinating boxes overflowing with bagged-up bits of pottery that Indy says is his office.
“Wow, Dr. Jones,” Shorty says, impressed. “You rich guy!”
“No, not exactly,” Indy mutters, running his hand thorough his hair. “You know, I don’t even have tenure.”
Shorty does not know what tenure means, but he is too busy investigating the contents of his new residence to care. He is taken with a pair of photographs framed on the table beside a deep-set wingback armchair. There’s one of a brunette young woman with a mouth that turns up at the corners and a look about her face as though she is just about to laugh, and another photograph of a severe middle-aged man next to a well-dressed woman with soft curls clustered around her face, and an expressionless young child. Shorty picks up the photograph and studies it carefully.
“Who that, Dr. Jones?” he asks, frowning.
“That’s me,” Indy grunts. “That’s my mother—and my father.”
Indy has never mentioned a father before in any of their discussions about America. Given his tone, Shorty gathers that he does not much care for the topic. But there’s a large gray dog in the corner of the picture that steals his attention.
He jabs his finger at the photograph. “You got a dog, Dr. Jones?” he asks hopefully.
“Not anymore,” Indy says. “But we'll get one. A kid needs a dog.”
To his delight, Shorty finds that he has a room of his very own. There’s a mattress on the bedstead that he has to stop and bounce on once or twice, and a well-worn quilt folded across the footboard that he must run his fingers over, feeling the stitches across each bright patch of calico, and there are several more boxes of papers and broken pottery wedged in the corner that Indy says he’ll move out as soon as he can.
It’s all wonderful. But Indy is frowning as he surveys the room.
“It's not exactly the Plaza Hotel. Think it’ll do for you, Shorty?”
“You bet, Dr. Jones,” he assures him, and bounces on the bed again, for good measure.
It’s not quite the mansion Shorty had seen once in a film back in Shanghai. But it’s his, his and Indy's, and that makes it better than anything Shorty had ever imagined. Indy tucks a set of sheets on the mattress and feeds Shorty a meal of cereal and milk and makes him take off his shoes before going to bed.
“But how I run, when bad guys come?” Shorty protests sleepily as Indy drops him on the mattress and roughly tugs the quilt over his shoulders. The quilt smells of mothballs and dust, and Shorty sneezes once, then twice.
He hears Indy’s laugh.
“They won’t, Shorty,” he promises. “Not here.”
America, thinks Shorty as he drifts off, America sure is one strange place.
Strange is the right word, Shorty decides after a week on foreign soil.
“You told me that your name was So Wah Mu,” Indy growls at him at the Immigration office. He looks uncomfortable in his tweed coat and slicked back hair, but that’s no reason to take it out on everyone else, in Shorty’s opinion. He’s pointing an outraged finger at Shorty’s passport, where Wan Li is printed neatly underneath his portrait. “This is something different. Where did Wan Li come from?”
Shorty shrugs, unconcerned. “Why I tell you real name? Bad idea, back in Shanghai. Number one rule, Dr. Jones: Always give fake name. That way, cops can’t find you again.”
“I guess so,” Indy mutters. He sounds distinctly grumpy, which is not surprising. It seems like Indy has been grumpy almost since the moment their plane landed.
Back in Shanghai, Indy had been fun and exciting and adventurous. But here in America, Indy is mostly irritable and annoyed. In Shanghai, the only rule Indy had ever expected Short Round to follow was Hit the gas and ask questions later. But in America, Indy keeps strictly to the right side of the law. There are rules, and obligations, and chores to complete. And even worse—shots, and not the kind you hear at night on the streets of Shanghai.
“Ow!” Shorty protests as the nurse plunges the syringe into his upper arm, and flinches. “Dr. Jones, why you let her punish me?”
“You’ve got to have it, Shorty,” Indy says, exasperated. “It’s a vaccine. It’s for your own good.”
That’s the kind of thing Indy keeps saying about eating vegetables, and drinking glasses of milk, and declining Latin conjugates, and going to bed promptly at eight. And it’s what he mutters when he shows up on the streets when evening approaches and Shorty hasn’t returned to the house before dark.
“Hey, Dr. Jones! I was in the middle of something!” Shorty protests when he is unceremoniously extracted from hustling a card game in an alley behind the pharmacy.
“I brought you to America to get you off the streets, not to let you go back out in them,” Indy growls as he collars Short Round and drags him back to the house. He deposits Shorty in the depths of the wingback armchair, none too gently.
“Why you so mad?” Shorty asks, squirming to sit up straight.
“Why am I mad?—” Indy throws down his hat on the ottoman. “Shorty, I couldn’t find you! I had no idea where you were!”
Shorty shrugs. “But I come back. I promise.” He twists his fingers together and shows him. “Pinky promise!”
“You can’t promise that,” Indy barks. He’s rubbing his temples as though he has a headache. “This isn’t Shanghai, Shorty, it’s America! Anything could have happened to you!”
Anything could have happened to him back in Shanghai, Shorty figures, and plenty of things actually had. But that’s just how it is in America. No matter what Shorty does, he gets in trouble for it.
On their way to America, Indy had promised him all sorts of things. Baseball and hot dogs, cracker jacks and glass marbles, ice cream and cotton candy. But in those early days in New Jersey, there’s distinct lack of baseball and ice cream and far more unpleasant things--like shopping.
Shorty hadn’t realized how much he didn’t have until he came to America. Things like collared shirts and shoes without holes, neatly-folded pocket handkerchiefs and clean underwear. Back then, he’d been much more concerned about what he did and didn’t have inside his belly to worry over frivolous things like that. But now Indy takes him shopping for new shoes and new shirts, woolen trousers and jeans, even new hats.
“I no want a new hat. I like this one!” Shorty objects as Indy yanks his New York Giants cap off his head in the shop.
“I know you like it,” Indy replies testily, “but you need this one, for when you go to school.”
This is a deeply concerning new prospect for Short Round.
“What you mean, school?” Shorty demands as the shopkeeper measures his feet for shiny new black shoes that Shorty does not want at all. “I stay with you, Indy! You say so!”
Indy chuckles. “I’m sorry, kid, but you can’t be with me every second. I have to teach, and you have to go to school. Don’t worry, you’ll like school. You’re bright enough—you’ll do ok. And there’ll be other kids your age.”
As it happens, Shorty doesn’t just like school. He loves it. There are all kinds of new marks can detect with his streetwise eyes, and he delights in separating rubes from their money. American kids, Shorty is starting to realize, are pretty stupid, and lots of fun.
The second day of his experience at school, the headmistress calls Indy into his office.
“Do you know why you are here, Dr. Jones?” she asks in an icy tone. Shorty squirms in his chair and tries to shoot Indy a conspiratorial grin, which Indy roundly ignores.
“Well, not exactly,” Indy allows, leaning back in his hair and tipping his fedora back casually. It’s a move calculated to win the hearts of ladies, Shorty knows. He’s seen Indy use it before in Shanghai and on the ship to America, with varying degrees of success. Today will not be among them, if Shorty’s limited experience with the headmistress continues as it has.
“Your, er, ward was caught running a gambling ring in the boy’s bathroom,” the headmistress says evenly. "Dr. Jones, what do you have to say to that?"
Indy straightens back up real quick, Shorty notes with interest. “Shorty, is that true?” he demands.
Shorty grins proudly. “I make big money, Dr. Jones. You wait and see!”
Indy tugs his hat down to cover his face, and groans.
“Shorty, you can’t do that kind of thing here,” Indy snaps on their way home. His number one finger is really going at it, Shorty notices with great interest. It’s pointed directly at Shorty’s nose. He’s never been pointed at by Indy before. It stings his feelings a little. “There are to be no gambling rings. No betting on dog fights. No black market acquisitions. And absolutely zero pickpocketing.”
This is amazing news to Shorty. “But how I make money?” he demands. “Dr. Jones, you no so good with cash. You lose it all! How we gonna eat?”
“We’re in America now,” Indy reminds him. “I keep telling you, you don’t have to make money anymore. I make the money. I— ” he pokes at Shorty’s chest— “Take care of you . Not the other way around.”
Shorty shrugs, dubious. “If you say so, Dr. Jones,” he mutters.
Shorty keeps to his word. No more gambling rings, no more pickpocketing during recess. But he still keeps running up against rules: Rules he didn’t know about, rules that get Indy agitated and irritable. Like when Shorty decides to leave school early and go visit Indy at his work. He’s never been to Indy's college before, and he’s curious. What does Indy do, when he’s not on his adventures?
Shorty finds his way to Marshall College easy enough, even though he can’t read street signs at all, and even finds his way through the labyrinthian corridors to Indy’s office by tipping his new hat at the secretary while cheerfully calling out Gotta delivery for Dr. Jones.
But here he stops short. There’s an someone else waiting in Indy’s office--an older man in a crumpled suit. He smiles pleasantly down at Shorty. “You must be Indiana’s young man. Good to meet you. We can wait for the old boy together.”
One look and and Shorty knows exactly who this is: A perfect mark. And Indiana hadn't said anything about a friendly game of three card monte.
He’s shuffling clamshells around Indy’s desk with most of Mr. Brody’s cash stuffed in his pockets by the time Indy arrives.
“Shorty, what are you doing here?” Indy demands.
“I come see you,” Shorty explains cheerfully. “Maybe we go see a baseball game? You promise me, we go see a game. Remember?”
“No baseball,” Indy growls. “Shorty, you’re supposed to get in school. You’re—you’re a truant!”
“Ah, well, he comes by it honestly,” breaks in Mr. Brody cheerfully, “I see the lad’s keeping up the family tradition!”
Indy’s head whips around dangerously.
“And you can just stay out of it, Marcus,” Indy snaps, pointing that threatening finger at him.
“All right, Indy, all right," Mr. Brody says amiably. "Could you possibly spare a moment of your time to discuss the museum's latest acquisitions? I've a mid-fourteeth century piece I want your opinion on."
"In a minute, Marcus."
Indy’s eyes have fallen upon Shorty’s overstuffed pockets.
“Shorty,” he says in a dangerously pleasant voice, “why don’t you give Mr. Brody his money back, huh?”
“Nonsense,” protests Mr. Brody, “the boy won it fair and square.”
“I am entirely sure that he didn’t,” says Indiana. He is smiling thinly. Shorty knows that look: He’s run up against another of Indy’s rules. Shorty sighs and devests his pockets of his winnings.
When the reach Indy’s house, the number one finger turns on Shorty.
“You need an education—and I need to work. You can’t just up and walk out of school whenever you want!”
“But what about baseball?” Shorty tries again, opening his eyes very wide. “You promise, Indy, but we never go!”
“Forget about baseball! I’m talking about your education. This is important!”
“You said, Indy,” Shorty wails. “You said, you take me to America, then you take me to see baseball. But we come here, and now you say, Go to school, Shorty, and Stay at home, Shorty, and No baseball, Shorty. Not fair, Indy!”
He’s breathing heavily by the time he's done. He hunches up his shoulders.
“I thought you like me,” he whispers. "Why you bring me to America, if you don't like me?"
Indy's shoulders are sagging.
“I do like you, Shorty.”
“You used to be nice,” Shorty says tearfully. “But now you just mad at me all the time.”
“I’m not mad, Shorty, I’m—” and Indy stops short. Runs a hand through his hair distractedly. Then he mumbles, to no one in particular that Shorty can tell, “Good grief, I’ve turned into him.”
Then he crouches in front of Short Round and takes hold of his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Shorty,” he says, serious. “I guess I’ve gone and changed on you, and you didn’t know what to expect.”
“America,” Shorty says definitely, “is not what I expected. At all. I thought I was coming here to be more free. You say so. Now I’m stuck in your house all the time. No, Shorty, no! It’s all you say anymore.”
Indy sighs. “I can’t let you just go around doing whatever you want, staying out all night, picking pockets.” He scrubs his hands over his face, keeps them over his eyes for a long time. “In Shanghai, I was your friend,” Indy says at last. “Here, I’m your—”
He stops short.
“You my boss,” Shorty finishes for him resignedly. “You got to boss me around, Dr. Jones. Tell me what to do all the time.”
“No,” snaps Indy. “I’m not your boss, I’m your dad."
Anger flares up in Shorty, from somewhere deep inside. He didn't even know he could be this mad at Indy. And all that anger bubbling up inside of him makes him say what he says next.
"If this what American dads are like, I don't want one," Shorty hollers, and stomps off to his room. He’s just so mad and so hurt. But he can't help but glance back behind him when he reaches his door. Indy’s is slumped over in the wingback, head in his hands.
Shorty almost feels sorry for him. Then all his anger rushes back.
He slams the door behind him, for good measure.
They tiptoe around each other for the rest of the evening. Indy keeps looking like he wants to say something, but Shorty’s still nursing his hurt feelings. He doesn’t want to hear what Indy has to say—about anything—ever again. But his stomach hurts when he thinks about Indy’s crestfallen face. And that sick feeling doesn’t go away even after he eats the sandwich that Indy silently leaves for him at the table.
And later that night, the stomachache gets worse and worse. Here in America, Shorty doesn't know what to do. In Shanghai, he would never have considered asking for help; he would have either curled up in his alleyway hidey-hole or spent a few stolen coins on whatever remedy he could afford from the apothecary. But he's not in Shanghai anymore—and this hurts like nothing he'd ever experienced back there—and he doesn't know what to do. It hurts and hurts, and all he wants is to be back home, where at least things made sense.
Shorty stumbles out of his bed, pressing his hands against his stomach. He slips into Indy’s room.
“Dr. Jones,” Shorty whispers. He pushes hard against his stomach, right up against the ache. “Dr. Jones.”
“Shorty?” Indy mumbles. Shorty hears him fumble, and then a lamp switches on. “What is it?”
“I don’t feel good,” Shorty mumbles. And throws up right there on the floor, right into Indy’s house shoes.
He hears Indy say a word that he’s distinctly told Shorty before that he’s under no circumstances allowed to repeat, then Indy’s scooping him up in his arms and hauling him to the bathroom. Shorty throws up into the toilet again while Indy is wiping up the bedroom floor. He tosses the house shoes straight into the waste bin without trying to clean them.
“I sorry, Indy,” Shorty whispers. He's crouched on the bathroom floor, more miserable than he's ever been in his life, even back on the ship.
He hears Indy sigh. “It’s okay, kid.” Then he feels a hand on his forehead. It’s wonderfully cool against his flushed skin. “Jesus, Shorty, you’re burning up.”
Shorty stays hunched miserably over the toilet while Indy goes into the next room and makes a quiet phone call, talking so softly that Shorty can't make anything he says until the end of the conversation.
“Thanks, doc. I’ll do that.”
Indy makes him drink a lot of water, then takes Shorty back to his bed. He spreads the old quilt over Shorty, then lowers himself down on the bed next to him. The bedframe squeaks violently as he settles back against the headboard. Shorty curls up around him, inching his head slowly by degrees into Indy’s lap.
"You sorry you came to America, Shorty?" Indy says. His voice sounds rueful.
Shorty thinks for a minute. In Shanghai, he'd been free to do whatever he wanted.
But in America, he has Indy.
"Nah," he mumbles eventually. "Nah, not sorry. Even if we never go see baseball."
He feels Indy sigh. “Listen, Shorty, I’m real sorry about that."
Shorty shrugs listlessly. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. You’re right. I promised you, and I shouldn’t have broken my promise.”
Shorty feels a flutter of hope at that. He lifts his head off of Indy's lap. “We go tomorrow?”
“Nah, you’re sick. But when you’re better.”
Shorty drops his head back down. He feels Indy's hand settle on the back of his neck. “And we get hot dogs and ice cream, too?” he mumbles.
“You got it, kid.”
“You really promise, Indy?”
“Already bought the tickets.” Shorty can hear Indy’s smile. “Wanna see?”
“Un-huh.”
Indy sits up a little, reaching into his pocket. He finds his billfold and pulls out a pair of tickets, handing them over to Shorty. Shorty runs his fingers over the edge of the paper, marveling. Real live baseball.
American dads aren’t anything like Short Round expected.
They’re better.