The Unmaking of Rabbit Page 2
“I will do what I can,” Miss Olah had said, “but you know how children are. They are like little savages sometimes. I can’t promise miracles, but I will try.”
If Paul’s mother did get married again, he would go to live with her and visit Gran on week ends. If Gran got lonely, she always had Mrs. Tuttle for a friend. Paul thought Mrs. Tuttle was a pain, but Gran liked her. He wouldn’t go off and just leave Gran alone. He’d make plans.
If he had a proper family, with a father and mother and maybe a brother or sister, then he’d have friends he could ask over to make papier-mâché masks or to go to the movies with or to go trick or treating with on Halloween.
Last Halloween he’d gone out alone because there was no one to go with. He’d rung three bells and three people had said, “All alone? That’s a shame. That’s no way to be traveling tonight.” Then they’d loaded him up with candy, giving him extra to make up for being alone. He’d quit and gone home with eight candy bars and two lousy apples.
3
Gran sat at the table making up her shopping list. When she started out by saying she needed a loaf of bread and a pound of margarine, she usually ended by sending him for a load of stuff he had difficulty carrying home.
“You tell Mr. Barker I want the thin noodles,” she said. “If he doesn’t have the thin kind, I don’t want any. And if they’re more than thirty cents, don’t buy them. If he wasn’t so convenient, I wouldn’t set foot inside his place. That man would just as soon rob his own mother as look at her.”
Paul took the list and tucked it into his pocket.
“I like Mr. Barker,” he said.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t like him,” Gran snapped. “I simply said he’s a robber, the prices he charges. And you tell him that last piece of round steak he gave me was tough as an old billy goat.” She handed Paul some money. “You tell him for me if that was round steak, I’m Marilyn Monroe.”
Paul escaped into the half-dark day. Thunder grumbled in the distance like an empty stomach. He scuffed through the cast-off candy wrappers and bits and pieces of trash by the curb looking for money. Once he had found a dime, and it seemed to him that on that day his luck had changed for the better. He had passed an arithmetic test he had expected to fail, and a new kid down the street had asked him over to play checkers. He didn’t like the boy much, and he’d never been invited back, to play checkers or anything else, but finding the dime had been nothing but luck.
Although he kept his head down the whole way, except when a car blew an angry horn at him and the driver leaned out the window and shouted, “Watch it, kid. You wanna get killed?” he didn’t find anything but a rusty beer-can opener.
Boy Wanted, the sign in Mr. Barker’s window read. From 3-6 weekdays, Saturdays all day. Inquire within. Paul read the sign two or three times. He closed his eyes and made a wish. He hadn’t made too many wishes lately, so he figured his credit was good. He promised God that if he got the job, God could count on him for all kinds of things, like not forgetting to brush his teeth, which were usually fairly green around the gums, and also taking trouble with the margins on his homework papers.
A bell tinkled as he opened the shop door. Two ladies with hats on were pinching the tomatoes, although there was a sign in front of them which clearly said: Please don’t pinch the tomatoes. They might pinch back.
That was Mr. Barker for you. He had a really good sense of humor. When Paul told his grandmother that, she sniffed and answered, “If I had as much money in the bank as he does, I’d be laughing and joking too.” When Gran got down on somebody, she really went all the way.
“Hey, Paul, how’s the boy?” Mr. Barker’s long, droopy mustache lifted at either end as he smiled. That mustache made him look as if he’d lost his last friend. It wasn’t until you noticed how his eyes shone and sparkled that you knew that here was a man who took life in his stride, a man who bounced back when Fate dealt him a right to the jaw.
Mr. Barker had confided to Paul that Fate had dealt him not only plenty of rights to the jaw, but also its share of lefts. If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Barker, he never would have made it, he said. Mrs. Barker was a dried-up little raisin of a woman with a long, pointy nose which made her look like a witch. A good witch. She always had her head in the oven, bringing out trays of brownies, cookies, pies, and goodies of all sorts. The Barkers lived above the store and sometimes invited Paul up to share their plenty. It was a constant source of wonder to him that Mr. and Mrs. Barker weren’t both big and fat, with all the food they had to tempt them.
“How you doing, sir?” Paul said. He would wait until the ladies left before he asked Mr. Barker about the job. After one of the ladies screamed when Mr. Barker said, “That’ll be ninety cents” for two hothouse tomatoes, the other practically made him sign a piece of paper swearing the grapefruits were fresh. With a wink at Paul, Mr. Barker held his hand over his heart and said, “I promise they’re fresh as a daisy. Brought ’em up just yesterday from Florida.”
Sour, unsmiling, the two ladies creaked out the door.
“What can I do for you?” Mr. Barker asked Paul, who read from his grandmother’s list while Mr. Barker assembled the groceries.
“I see you’re l-l-looking for a b-b-b-boy to help you,” Paul said. He almost never stuttered when he was with Mr. Barker. “I-I-I sure would like the job.”
He put his head down and stared at the floor, embarrassed because he knew he had put Mr. Barker on the spot.
“There’s nothing I’d like better than to hire you,” he said, and Paul’s heart did a couple of flips in his chest, “but there’s one thing against it, and it’s an important thing. There’s a law,” he said slowly, putting the margarine and stuff into a bag. “They have this law against hiring anyone under sixteen. Now I know you’re a responsible boy and a hard worker”—Mr. Barker wordlessly held out a stick of gum and Paul took it, nodding his thanks—“but I also know you’re not anywheres near sixteen, right?”
Paul carefully peeled the wrapper off the gum and just as carefully wadded it up into a ball, which he stuck in his pocket. He turned his head to look out the window. For a minute he thought he might start crying, and he knew that if that happened, things would never be the same between him and Mr. Barker. He swallowed hard, a method for dispelling tears he had found useful in the past, and said, “I’ll be twelve in three-and-a-half months.”
And then he added, “Well, I guess it wouldn’t be such a hot idea anyway, because maybe my mother’s going to get married, and I might go to live with her.”
“Is that right? That’s good news.” Mr. Barker sounded really pleased. “Wait’ll I tell the missus. She’ll probably whip you up a couple dozen tollhouse cookies and a pecan pie to take along with you.”
“It’s not set yet,” Paul said hastily. “It’s still kind of up in the air.”
“Your grandmother’d sure miss you, that I know. She thinks the world of you.”
“Yeah, well,” Paul said, “I better get going. See you.”
Lightning lit the sky as he walked home. When he came to Meadow Street, he saw a bunch of kids coming toward him. It was Freddy Gibson and Pete Todd and some of those. He started to cross over, pretending he hadn’t seen them, but someone called, “Rabbit, there’s Rabbit.” Although he wanted to run, Paul stood his ground.
“Bringing home the bacon, are you, Rabbit?” Freddy sneered. He was twice Paul’s size, though they were in the same class. Freddy had a constant group of hangerson, laughing at his jokes, playing up to him Paul was afraid of him, even if Freddy was a Boy Scout.
“What you got in the sack?” Freddy asked, snatching it from Paul. “Anything good? Any grass?” The group snickered as if on cue.
“J-j-just some s-s-s-stuff for my grandmother,” Paul said, blinking.
“How come you live with your grandmother?” Freddy looked around to make sure he had an audience. “That must be a drag, living with an old lady. How come you don’t live with your parents?”
“I heard your old man ran out on your old lady,” Freddy said, smiling. “Is that the story?”
“No kidding?” Pete opened his eyes wide. “Your father ran out on your mother, huh? That’s neat. Isn’t that neat, Freddy?”
Freddy frowned. “I’ll decide what’s neat and what isn’t, and don’t you forget it.”
Sensing dissension in the ranks, Paul grabbed the bag of groceries and set off. He wanted to run, leaving the groceries with Freddy, but the thought of facing his grandmother without them was worse than the fear that Freddy would hit him. Trying not to hurry, Paul stiffened his back against whatever assault might come. None came. Halfway down the block, he dared to look back. Freddy was lining up the troops, with Pete bringing up the rear. Pete wasn’t very bright, but you’d think he’d know by now who was boss.
Out of breath, Paul banged the front-door knocker. He almost always used the kitchen door, but now it seemed too far away. Gran didn’t answer, so he banged harder.
“Just a minute,” he heard her call. “I’m coming.” When she saw who it was, she said crossly, “It’s you. I thought it was the paper boy. Why didn’t you just come in?”
“I thought it was locked.” Paul put the package down on the kitchen table. “Wow, that’s heavy.”
“I’m glad you made it home before the storm came,” Gran said. “It’s going to be a dilly. I can tell. I would have had a fit if you’d been out in the lightning.” She was afraid of thunder and lightning. When she was young she’d known at least a dozen people who’d been killed or maimed by lightning. It was nothing to fool around with.
“I’m O.K., Gran. I have on my sneakers. When you have on rubber soles, you’re safe. I read that somewhere.”
Gran sniffed. “A likely story,” she said and opened the bag. “I thought I told you the thin kind. What a terrible price to pay for a package of noodles.” She put the things away.
“Your mother called while you were out,” she said, sitting down. “She’s coming out tomorrow.”
Paul’s face cracked with the giant smile it wore. “I knew she’d come,” he said. “I told you so.”
“That’s all right,” Gran said. “She’s not coming alone. She’s bringing someone.”
“Who?” Paul asked foolishly, knowing.
Gran picked Flora up and put her on her lap. “The one I was talking about.” She stroked Flora’s fur. “Oh, you cat,” she said. “Always looking for a little affection, aren’t you?”
Paul said, “I think she’s hungry,” but his grandmother went on stroking Flora and looking out the window. Finally he got up. “I’ll just go see if there are an ash tray and some magazines in the room.”
“Go ahead,” Gran said. She sounded very tired. “She won’t be staying, but go ahead if it makes you feel better.”
4
Saturday morning Paul got up early, brushed his teeth and his hair—a rare exertion—made his bed, and emptied the garbage and the wastebaskets.
“You’d think we were expecting the Prince of Wales,” Gran said, wrapping a towel around her head to prepare herself for an orgy of house cleaning. Swinging her dust mop in wider and wider arcs, she “got at” the cobwebs, which she imagined lurked in every corner. Paul couldn’t see any, but she attacked them anyway, breathing hard.
“I don’t know why I bother,” she said, sinking down for a brief respite. “Your mother could live in the middle of a trash heap and never notice. There’s Bess,” she announced.
Paul got ready for a fast exit. He saw Mrs. Tuttle’s snooded head rounding the corner by the hedge. Mrs. Tuttle crocheted snoods in every color of the rainbow to match all her outfits. She crocheted snoods for Gran too, but Paul had to give his grandmother credit—she didn’t wear them. She stuffed them in her bureau drawer until she had a sizable collection, then she took them to the church fair as her contribution.
“I’m not the snood type, Bess,” she had told Mrs. Tuttle. Paul thought Mrs. Tuttle wasn’t the snood type either, but she wore them like a badge of honor.
Bess Tuttle was Gran’s best friend. They got together every day, sometimes twice a day, to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes. Mrs. Tuttle always looked at Paul as if he were an exhibit at a science fair. She had this grandson, Gordon, who was a genius. She was always telling Gran what a genius Gordon was, how he got A’s in everything. Then she’d fix her black eyes on Paul and ask him questions which, if he’d asked them of her, would have been termed impertinent. Questions about how his marks were, had he pulled his spelling up, was he on the Little League team—things that were none of her business.
Just as he was about to skin out of the kitchen, Gran asked Paul to scrub the sink out with cleanser.
“I’m exhausted,” she said. “Anne is coming out today with her beau, and Paul and I have been tidying up.”
Bess lit her cigarette, then Gran’s. “This the one you’ve been telling me about?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Gran replied. “He’s an artist and a photographer, free-lance, of course. Anne has always gone for the artsy-craftsy type that never makes a dollar from one end of the month to the other.”
“It’s only money,” Bess said sarcastically. “What’s his name?”
“Art something. A Polish name, or maybe Hungarian or Jewish. Anyway, it’s not Anglo-Saxon. That I do know.”
“Anything goes these days.” Mrs. Tuttle lit another cigarette from the half-finished one in her hand. She was a nervous smoker. She didn’t use a holder the way Gran did, and Paul, who had seen plenty of filmstrips and movies showing pictures of smokers’ lungs, very much hoped that all that tar and nicotine was getting to Mrs. Turtle’s lungs; slowly but surely.
Bess Tuttle sighed happily. “You’re not going to believe the latest about Gordon,” she said. “Out of this world.”
“May I go now, Gran?” Paul asked. “I’m finished.”
“I don’t have to tell you, Emma,” Mrs. Tuttle continued as if Paul hadn’t spoken, “that that boy is a source of tremendous pride to each and every member of his family. Absolutely tremendous. I predict great things for him.”
Emma was Gran’s name. Paul called her Emma to her face when he was feeling frisky. Sometimes she smiled and other times she said, “Don’t be fresh with me, young man.” It depended on what kind of a mood she was in.
Paul had never met Mrs. Tuttle’s grandson, Gordon the Genius. That was how Paul thought of him—Gordon the Genius. He was probably a figment of her imagination. Paul didn’t really believe in him any more than he believed in the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
“You remember I told you they took him on the tennis circuit, spent the entire summer taking him around to play in tennis tournaments? Yes, well, anyway, it was a grueling time for them, believe you me. You wouldn’t believe what it cost!” Mrs. Tuttle rolled her eyes up to the cobweb-free ceiling. “A fortune! Hotels, motels, lessons, entry fees, first-class equipment, all that.”
Gran got up to heat the coffee.
“None for me, thanks,” Mrs. Tuttle said. “I’ve just come from Elsie’s house, and if I drink any more coffee today, I’ll be climbing the walls.”
Silence.
“Don’t you want to know how Gordon finished?” Mrs. Tuttle demanded.
Gran lifted her hand and smoothed her forehead. She lit another cigarette. “Tell us,” she said, unnecessarily.
“First in the county in his age group, twelve and under,” Mrs. Tuttle said in a loud, proud voice. Paul had known that Gordon the Genius would be first in his or any other age group. Gordon was an ace in anything and everything.
“You may think it was fun,” Mrs. Tuttle said huffily when Gran didn’t stand up and cheer, “all that traveling and excitement. But I can assure you,” she lo
wered her voice, “it was anything but. It was hard work. Nothing but sheer hard work every step of the way.”
“Who in his right mind would think that kind of thing was fun?” Gran asked with asperity. “The whole thing sounds ghastly. Gordon must not have had much of a summer, it sounds like to me.”
Mrs. Tuttle smiled pityingly, revealing a set of yellowed teeth, which she had once told Paul were all her own. He hadn’t thought they were anyone else’s.
“Sometimes one must forgo one’s own pleasure if the goal is sufficiently large,” she said. “Gordon’s mom and dad are raising him to be a champion, a responsible citizen. It takes effort to be first. But it is worth it, oh my yes, it is certainly worth the struggle. It’s not easy to raise a child today”—she waggled her finger at them—“but I don’t have to tell you that.
“It’s hard enough having responsibility for your own, much less somebody else’s,” Mrs. Tuttle went on relentlessly. “Don’t think I don’t know that. Oh, don’t think I don’t appreciate what you’re doing, Emma.” Mrs. Tuttle’s eyes traveled back and forth from Paul to Gran, as if she were watching a Ping-Pong game.
She stubbed out her cigarette and rose to leave. “By the by,” she said, “Gordon’s coming to visit next week end to enable his mom and dad to go off on a much-needed vacation. Maybe he and Paul could get together, go to the movies or something,” she said doubtfully.
Paul stood with his hands at his sides, trying to figure out what he’d have to say to boy genius Gordon. Maybe if he started reading the encyclopedia right now, he would have a few topics of conversation. Or better still, he could get some dread disease and not see Gordon at all.
“Fine,” Gran said heartily. “They’re about the same age. That’d be fine, Bess. Just give us a call when he gets here, and if Paul isn’t busy, we can arrange something.”
“If I’m not visiting my mother,” Paul said, and his voice sounded very loud. “She might ask me today when she comes if I can visit next week end. It’s just possible,” he said, and the inflection of his voice sounded just like his grandmother’s.