The Unmaking of Rabbit Read online

  He wished he had more time to think about it.

  11

  He had even less time than he’d thought. Next morning Freddy was waiting for him in the playground. He was alone. It was the first time Paul had ever seen him not surrounded by his friends, and he looked different, smaller and not quite so ominous.

  Freddy smiled, revealing his chipmunk teeth. “Hey, Rabbit, how’s it going? You decide? About what we were talking about yesterday, you decide?” The smile was turned off and the teeth had disappeared.

  “I don’t know,” Paul said. “I-I-I-I’ve got to go visit my mother Sunday. If you want me on Sunday, I can’t go. My mother and me are going to do a whole bunch of things Sunday. We might go to a museum or to the zoo and …”

  “Saturday, Rabbit, it’s Saturday we got plans.” Freddy spoke slowly and distinctly, his eyes never leaving Paul’s face. “We really want you to come along. All the guys told me they want you.” He put his hand on Paul’s shoulder and Paul tried, without success, not to flinch. That hand felt as if it weighed a ton. “Don’t forget the sleep-out either. That’s the best. A blast. We do everything together, the gang does.” He waited.

  “As long as it’s Saturday, I-I-I guess it’s O.K.,” Paul stammered. Up until that moment, he hadn’t known exactly what he was going to say. Freddy’s face became friendly again.

  “Terrific!” he said. “Be at the corner of Maple and Willow at eight o’clock Saturday morning,” he said, lowering his voice, even though they were alone. The bell had rung. “Don’t tell anybody where you’ve gone, your grandmother, nobody. Mum’s the word, pal, and don’t forget it. That’s one of the rules, the most important one. Nobody lets on to nobody outside the gang.” Freddy’s grammar would have Gran in a flap.

  “If you tell, the deal’s off, sleep-out, everything. And I wouldn’t want to see you miss out, Rabbit, honest I wouldn’t.” For a boy with chipmunk teeth, it was amazing how sinister Freddy could look and sound.

  “I think you and me are going to be real pals, Rab,” Freddy said, smacking Paul hard between the shoulder blades, so hard that Paul took a few steps forward, feeling his legs tremble.

  “You’re a little on the skinny side,” Freddy said. “You better pick up a couple pounds, but just wait until after Saturday to start, that’s all.” He laughed and ran away.

  What’s he mean by that? Paul asked himself. He felt as if he had a large lump of something in his chest. Does fear come in lumps? An interesting question and, as usual, one to which he didn’t have an answer.

  It was too bad that Gran had cooked his favorite supper, sweet-and-sour perk. Paul pushed the bits of meat and pineapple and green pepper around on his plate and tried to swallow some. The lump was still there, only it’d moved from his chest up to his throat.

  “You feel all right?” she asked. Again she laid her cheek against the back of his neck, testing for fever.

  “For gosh sakes, Gran,” Paul shouted, jumping up. “Can’t you leave me alone? Always fussing at me. I’m too big for that. I’m not a baby.”

  Gran tucked her chin down into her chest, and they finished eating in silence. She got up to clear away the dishes.

  “I’ll do them,” he said. “It’s just about time for Walter Cronkite.”

  Gran was very fond of Walter Cronkite. “That man has more integrity in his little finger than all the rest of them put together,” she always said. “You can tell just by looking at him.”

  Paul wished he could ask Mr. Cronkite what to do about Freddy.

  “You won’t get the water hot enough,” Gran said. “You never do.”

  “Then you run the water and I’ll wash when you’ve fixed it,” Paul said. She gave him no further argument. He swished the dishrag around, punching it down every time it rose to the surface. “Die, you dog!” he hissed with each spurt of water. He checked every dish before he put it in the drainer, determined that Gran would find no fault with his work. He could hear Mr. Cronkite talking to Gran in the living room as he sprayed the dishes with rinse water.

  Instead of doing his homework, Paul sat on his bed and doodled on a piece of paper. He wondered about Saturday and what it was all about. All of a sudden Freddy thought he, Paul, was a good kid. Why was Freddy being so friendly when up to now he’d done nothing but make fun of him? “There’s something rotten in Denmark,” Gran would say if she knew.

  When it was time for bed, Paul went to say good night to Gran. She was reading and smoking and drinking her gin and ginger ale. In her blue robe, her face clean and puckered, she looked old.

  “I’m sorry I got mad,” he said, bending to kiss her. She looked at him as if trying to remember who he was. Behind her glasses, her eyes were pale and sad.

  “I’m growing up,” Paul said, “and I don’t like to be fussed over like I was a baby.”

  “As if.” Gran corrected him. She had a thing about grammar. Taking off her glasses, she said, “I’ve been fussing so long, Paul, it’s hard to break the habit. First I fussed over your mother, and now I’m fussing over you. I guess I’m too old to change.”

  Paul wished she would say she would at least try to stop, but she didn’t. She smelled of gin and smoke and witch hazel.

  Even though he was tired, it took Paul a long time to fall asleep. And when he did, he dreamed of Freddy, running away from something, someone, carrying a big sack full of skinny boys, all of whom looked exactly like Paul, ears and everything.

  12

  “Where you been keeping yourself?” Mr. Barker asked when Paul stopped at the store after school on Thursday. “The missus was asking about you last night. Said she wanted you to come for a meal real soon. I told her maybe you wouldn’t be around forever, maybe you’re going to live with your mom, and she said not to sneak away without letting us know where we can reach you. Leave your address, telephone number.” Mr. Barker swabbed down the front of his glass cases, smudged with a myriad of small fingerprints and even nose prints.

  Boldly Paul said, “I could come tomorrow.” Even as he spoke, blood ran into his cheeks. He was ashamed of being so forward, but he really wanted Mrs. Barker to invite him for supper Friday.

  “So far’s I know, we got no plans,” Mr. Barker said. “I’ll ask her, and you stop by tomorrow so’s I can let you know for sure. That way your grandma’d have a night off and not have to cook for you. It must be kind of hard, a woman her age having to keep up with a young one like you.”

  If Gran heard Mr. Barker referring to her as “a woman her age,” she would in all probability blow a gasket.

  “Where’s Eugene?” Paul asked.

  “He called in sick.” Mr. Barker looked solemnly at Paul. “Second time this week. Three strikes and he’s out. Eugene’s not exactly what I call a ball of fire. He’s more what I term ‘feckless.’ The missus says she could’ve told me that right off. All’s she has to do is look at somebody and she can pretty well tell what he’s like. She’s something.” Mr. Barker shook his head in admiration. “She’s a corker, that one. Keeps me on my toes.”

  Paul wondered if Mrs. Barker liked him. He made a note to look up the word feckless when he got home.

  “If she knows you’re coming, Paul, she’ll spend the whole day in the kitchen,” Mr. Barker said. Then, as if reading his mind, he added, “You’re her favorite. And that’s high praise. That woman isn’t easy to please when it comes to people.” He smiled and tapped Paul lightly on the arm. His hands were very big and covered with scars, which he had told Paul were the result of his early days as a butcher. “People think it’s easy, being a butcher, but there’s a lot to learn if you’re going to be first class, and I’m living proof it isn’t so easy,” he had explained. “One slip with that knife and only the good Lord knows what might happen.”

  He arranged some soup cans in a neat pyramid. “You got anything you’re especially fond of?” he asked. “She likes to fix your favorite food.”

  “As long as it isn’t liver,” Paul said, “I don’t care.”


  “Some day you should taste my liver,” Mr. Barker said. “The finest liver there is. Expensive, but worth every penny. I got a couple customers, they buy it for their cats. Would you believe it?”

  “Gran wouldn’t buy it for our cat,” Paul said. “Not even for Flora.”

  “Your grandmother’s a wise shopper, a careful shopper. She thinks about where she puts her dollars.”

  “She sure does.” Paul agreed, and they both laughed.

  Filled with the warm, friendly feeling he always had when he talked to Mr. Barker, Paul went home. Gran wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room, and she wasn’t lying down, as she sometimes did, so Paul figured she must be out. Flora regarded him with her usual insolence, and Paul said, “You are fat and ugly and feckless, that’s what. Feckless Flora.” He often insulted her when they were alone. It made him feel better, and Flora’s haughty demeanor remained unchanged.

  Helping himself to a day-old doughnut Gran bought at the bakery for half price, Paul settled himself down with a copy of National Geographic. The telephone rang, and when he answered, Bess Tuttle’s voice cried, “You’ll never guess who’s here!”

  “Who?” Paul said, and she answered, after a dramatic pause, “Gordon.” She handed him the name as if it were a bunch of roses. “He got here a day early, and I’m on my way over right now so you two can get to know each other.”

  “I’m alone,” Paul said stupidly. “Gran isn’t here. I don’t know where she is.”

  “She’s gone to the foot doctor,” Mrs. Tuttle said briskly. “She usually walks home down Chatsworth Avenue. I’ll hop in the car and pick her up.”

  Gran walked everywhere, from one side of town to the other, in fair weather or foul, just like a mailman. She had never learned to drive and saw no reason to. “I’m in better shape than most women half my age,” she was quick to say. “All that walking and my cigarette holder are responsible, that I know.”

  Paul hung up and sat doing nothing. If he took a shower he wouldn’t be able to hear when they arrived. He didn’t usually take a shower in the middle of the afternoon, but there could always be a first time.

  But Gran came in the back door. “There you are,” she said, taking off her hat. “Truesdale just cut a corn off my foot, and I walked all the way home. That man is a miracle worker, let me tell you.”

  “Gordon’s here and Mrs. Tuttle’s in the car looking for you on Chatsworth to bring you home,” Paul said. “He got here a day early and she just called up.” He turned despairing eyes to his grandmother.

  “Well,” she said, refusing to meet his gaze, “I’ll just whip up some lemonade.”

  A car pulled up in front of the house. “She must’ve been doing seventy-five all the way,” Paul said.

  “Either that or she called from the pay phone on the corner,” Gran said smiling.

  “We’re in the kitchen, Bess,” Gran called as she heard them at the front door. “Come on in.”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Tuttle, “here we are.”

  Gran said, “I thought Paul said Gordon was with you.”

  “He is.” Mrs. Tuttle moved aside and revealed a boy with red hair, eyes like twin raisins, and more freckles than he had room for.

  He looked as if he’d been hiding behind her. Paul was pleased to see Gordon wasn’t much taller than he was. Mrs. Tuttle started to put her arm around Gordon. He dodged and said, “Hey,” without looking at either Gran or Paul. Mrs. Tuttle mouthed “shy” at them and looked embarrassed.

  “Nice to meet you, Gordon,” Gran said. “Your grandmother has told us about you.”

  “Yeah,” Gordon said, raising his eyes briefly, “I know.”

  There was a silence into which Gran tossed the promise of lemonade. Then, arming each with a full glass, she suggested, “Why don’t you turn on the TV?” Paul’s mouth dropped open in surprise. TV in broad daylight? Gran must be flipping. Only once when he’d had a bad case of bronchitis and had stayed out of school a whole week had she let him watch TV in the daytime.

  “Let’s go outside,” Gordon said. “O.K.,” Paul agreed, and under the heavy weight of Mrs. Tuttle’s smile, the two boys took their glasses out to the front steps, where they sat and stared at the ground.

  “I thought you were coming tomorrow,” Paul said finally.

  “I was, but my mother and father decided to leave today, and they dropped me on their way. Three days with my grandmother. I don’t know if I can hack it,” Gordon said.

  “Why, don’t you like her?” Paul asked. He almost added “either” but he was too tactful. It was one thing for Gordon to say he didn’t like his own grandmother, but he might not like it if Paul agreed with him.

  “Aw, you know. She’s always at me. She talks about me like I was some kind of genius or something.”

  Paul started to laugh. He took a long swallow of lemonade and almost choked. Gordon thumped him on the back and after a few agonizing moments, Paul got his breath back.

  “What’s so funny?” Gordon asked.

  “Nothing. She said you were a tennis champ. Is that right?”

  Gordon shrugged. “Why not? I’ve had lessons since I was five. I’ve had so many lessons I got ’em coming out my eyeballs. I’d have to be a real zero not to be pretty good. It’s important to my parents, you know. That I be first, I mean.”

  They sat in silence. Paul clinked the ice around the sides of his empty glass.

  “She says you get all A’s.” Paul asked offhandedly, “Is that right?”

  Again Gordon shrugged. “Sure. I go to a private school with only fifteen guys in my class. They really keep an eye on you, and when the old B’s start, they call in the tutor. It’s not much of a sweat.”

  “I guess not.” Paul felt quite friendly toward Gordon.

  “How do you get to school? I mean, do you walk or take a bus or what?” Gordon asked.

  “I walk. It’s only about a half mile.”

  “Maybe I’ll walk with you tomorrow. I don’t have any thing else to do.”

  “You have to be here at eight fifteen. That’s when I leave.”

  Paul stood at the window and watched Mrs. Tuttle back her car out the driveway. It took her about a half hour to maneuver the huge shining vehicle into its going-home position. “She has more car than brains,” Paul remembered Gran saying once about somebody. Maybe she had Mrs. Tuttle in mind.

  “Well?” Gran said.

  “Well what?” Paul asked.

  “How’d you like him?” Gran demanded.

  “He’s O.K.” Paul started setting the table. “He’s going to walk to school with me tomorrow. He doesn’t have anything else to do. He says he can’t hack his grandmother. She brags about him and that gets him embarrassed.” Paul looked at her. “That’s one thing, Gran. You don’t have anything to brag about me to your friends.”

  “That’s all you know.” Gran sniffed. “Fork goes on the left, not the right. I expected him to be a big boy. He’s not much bigger ’n you.”

  “No,” Paul said. “He says his mother and father want him to be first in things. It’s important to them.”

  “That must be quite a strain,” Gran said without expression.

  “I guess,” said Paul.

  13

  “Hey, you’re early,” Paul said when he came down to breakfast in the morning and found Gordon waiting, his face pushed against the glass in the kitchen door. “It’s only ten to eight.”

  “Ask him in,” Gran directed. She made French toast and cocoa for breakfast and a tuna fish sandwich for Paul’s lunch. Up until a couple of weeks ago, she’d made next day’s lunch the night before. “They get soggy,” Paul had protested more than once. “You try eating it.”

  “You’re right, it is soggy,” Gran had said, making a face after she took a bite. That was the last time she’d made the sandwich ahead of time.

  “On the way over,” Gordon said with his mouth full, “I saw a pileated woodpecker. I bet you don’t see too many of them around here.”
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  “What’s a pileated woodpecker?” Paul asked.

  “It’s a special kind with a big red crest on its head,” Gordon explained. “Very rare. In my bird book, it says they’re mostly found in the east and northeast. I’m going to be an ornithologist when I get out of college, I guess.”

  File ornithologist away with feckless Paul told himself. “I’m thinking of being a film director,” he said, without warning.

  Gran raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t know you were interested in that sort of thing,” she said.

  Paul blushed. He’d been thinking about being a director or an actor for some time, but he’d never mentioned it. “I might like to try acting too,” he went on boldly, “but I hear those lights get pretty hot.”

  “I know a kid who’s got a really first-rate camera,” Gordon said. “He takes pictures all the time. He wants to be a photographer. Maybe you could meet him if you come to visit me.”

  Paul nodded, too overcome for words. Gordon liked him well enough to talk about inviting him to his house! When Gran wasn’t looking, he picked up his plate and ran his tongue around to get the best and last of the syrup. Gordon followed suit, and Gran turned around just in time to catch him at it. Naturally, she couldn’t bawl out a guest, but Paul was sure she’d clue in Mrs. Tuttle to the fact that her grandson might be a tennis champ and a genius, but it was certainly too bad his table manners had been neglected.

  “Nothing left for you, fat cat,” Paul told Flora, who only swished her tail. “Let’s go,” he commanded, and he and Gordon, who mumbled thanks to Gran, took off. When they got to school, it was late. Paul had taken the long way to avoid a possible meeting with Freddy or anyone else who might call him Rabbit. He didn’t want to be called that in front of Gordon.