Boys & Girls Together (9 page)

“I know what you mean.” She sighed. “And ask the marble shooter how he likes his steak. We aim to please around here.”

“Yes, Maudie. I’ll ask him, Maudie.”

From then on it was hot lunches for Gino.

Afternoons, they played in the yard, the two of them. (Once Arnold tried to ruin it, but they were stronger than Arnold, the two of them together, so he tried it only once.) They played marbles, of course, battling grandly on the gravel driveway, or tag or two-man touch, or they lay on the grass adding numbers or counting animals in the sky. One afternoon it rained so they ran up the stairs to Walt’s room and lay on the floor.

“Ducky Medwick in ’35,” Walt said.

“.353. My turn. Pepper Martin in ’34.”

“.296. My turn.”

“Belinda ...”

“No, it isn’t your turn. He hit .289, so it’s still my turn.”

“Aw, nuts,” Walt said.

“Dizzy Dean in ’34.”

“
Belinda
...”

“Dizzy Dean in ’34,” Walt repeated. “Thirty wins, seven losses. O.K. My turn. Daffy Dean in ’34.”

“
Belinda
...”

“What is that?”

“My grandfather. He lives in the back. Sometimes he yells a lot.”

“Daffy Dean in ’34.” Gino closed one eye, then sat up. “Who’s Linda?”

“Not Linda. Belinda. A monkey. Grandfather’s a little ...” And he twirled his index finger around his ear.

“Is he really ...” Twirl of the index finger.

“Don’t you believe me? You want to see?”

“Can we?”

“Follow me.” Walt stood and crept out of the room down the long hall to the back of the house. He stopped in front of a partly open door and turned to Gino. “Don’t be surprised at how the room looks. It’s all his stuff. Very old.”

“O.K.,” Gino whispered.” I’m with you.”

Walt knocked and gave the door a push. “Grandfather?”

“Belinda?”

“No, it’s me, Grandfather. Walt. You remember me?” He moved into the room a step at a time.

“You. Yes. I remember.” The old man sat in a corner by the window. A torn blanket comforted his shoulders. The room was furnished sparely, a bed, a tired chair, a trunk without a lid. The old man peered at Walt, his eyes very pale, very wet, hardly blue.

“Can I get you anything, Grandfather?”

“Belinda has gotten out. Have you seen her?”

“No. I’m sorry but I haven’t.”

“Well, she has gotten out and it is too cold for her. It is very cold today, yes?”

Walt ignored the perspiration on his face. “Yes,” he said. “Very cold.”

“Belinda is dead,” the old man said then, waving a hand. He shook his head and smiled. “I just remembered that. She is dead, Belinda. Sometimes I forget. It comes and it goes. Everything.” He began to mutter at the windowpane. “Everything comes, everything goes, yes?”

“Grandfather?”

No response.

“Grandfather, I’d like you to meet somebody.” He gestured for Gino, who crept forward till he was even with Walt.” This is Gino Caruso.”

The old man turned suddenly, wet eyes wide. “The great singer?”

“No,” Gino said.

“No.” The old man nodded. “He was taller than you. Not so young.”

“Yes,” Gino said.

“You sing? I sing. I was a great singer. Not so great as my son. But I was great.”

“That’s wonderful, Mr. Kirkaby,” Gino said.

“Sing for me, Caruso.”

“I’m not so good, Mr. Kirkaby.”

“Do you know ‘Blessed Assurance’?”

“No. I’m sorry, I don’t.”

And then the old man was singing. Sitting on a dying chair by a wet window, in a room filled with ruins, the torn blanket held tight, he sang, his voice old, unsteady, dry. “ ‘This is my story, this is my song; praising my Savior all the day long.’ ” He paused. “You remember it now?”

“No, but it’s very pretty, Mr. Kirkaby.”

“Yes,” Walt echoed.

“All together now. A trio. ‘This is my sto—’ Don’t be shy. Come. A trio. Now. ‘This is my story ... ’ ”

“ ‘This is my song,’ ” Walt sang.

“ ‘This is my song,’ ” Gino sang.

“ ‘Praising my Savior all the day long.’ ” The old man nodded. “That was all right. This time we do better. Now; one, two, three,” and they all sang, “ ‘This is my story, this is my song; praising my Savior all the day long.’ ”

“Do you know ‘Rock of Ages’?” Gino asked.

“Of course.” And they all sang “ ‘Rock of ages cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee.’ ” They sounded better on “Rock of Ages” than they had on “Blessed Assurance,” but “Shall We Gather at the River” was the best yet, although “The First Noel” topped it by a mile because they were beginning to feel each other now, Gino’s voice soaring high in makeshift harmony, the old man growing stronger, his voice beginning to swell. The rain stopped but they didn’t, segueing into “Silent Night,” then “We Three Kings,” which was followed by seven of the “Twelve Days of Christmas” and “Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly,” really rolling now, demolishing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” pulverizing “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing,” bringing new life to “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” etching “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” so that you could almost see it, and when they finished with “Joy to the World” there was joy.

P.T. ended all that.

P.T. or the rain; either way it ended. He had been golfing but the rain had stopped that, so he got home early. Walt never heard him but there he was suddenly, standing in the doorway.

“What’s all this?” P.T. said.

“We’re just singing,” Walt told him.

“Well, I think the old man’s tired.” (He did not mean father, not the way he said it; he meant the man who is old.)

“No,” the old man said. “Come sing.”

P.T. snapped his fingers.

“This is Gino Caruso,” Walt said.

“Hello,” Gino said.

P.T. snapped his fingers.

Walt nodded and he and Gino left the room.

That night Walt and his father had a talk. Walt had been expecting it, more or less—the old man probably was tired; maybe they had excited him, although Walt didn’t think so. Still, he prepared an apology so that when P.T. called him into his study after dinner he thought he was ready.

“I’m sorry we got him all tired,” Walt said. “It was my fault.”

“Nice-looking boy.”

“Pardon?”

“That boy you were with.”

“Oh, Gino? I don’t know.”

“Italian, isn’t he?”

“No, he’s Greek.”

“You said his last name was Caruso.”

“It is.”

“Caruso’s an Italian name.”

“But he’s Greek.”

“Don’t argue with me.”

“His name is Caruso but it really isn’t Caruso. It’s Gianopolous. That was his father, but he died and his mother married this Mr. Caruso and—”

“Greek, Italian—that’s beside the point.”

“Yessir.” Walt nodded. Then, almost in a whisper: “But you see, he really isn’t Italian.”

P.T. got up from his big chair and walked to the fireplace. Above it, hung high on the wall, were the head of a deer and a fat bass. The bass had set a record—the biggest ever caught in the state of Wisconsin. “What’s his father do?”

“He runs the school.”

“You mean he’s superintendent?”

“No, no; he runs the school.”

“You mean he’s the janitor.”

“Yes, but he runs the school, doncha see?”

“Now listen, Mister!” P.T. left the rest unfinished. He reached up with a big hand and stroked the face of the brown deer. Walt watched the hand and waited for the voice. When the voice came it was friendly, fatherly, false. “Walt?”

“Yessir?”

“Do you trust me?”

No. “Yes.”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

Yes. “No.”

“Have I ever done anything to hurt you?”

Yes
. “No.”

“You’ll believe me, then, when I tell you something.”

Why should I? “Yessir.”

“You don’t want to bring kids like that around here. I can’t tell you who to play with when you’re away from home, but when you’re here, you don’t want to bring kids like that over.”

“But he’s my friend.”

“You’ll have lots of others.”

“But he’s my friend.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yessir.”

“Bring home whoever you want to, but you don’t want to bring home kids like that.”

“No. I don’t.”

“O.K.?”

“O.K.” He was about to say O.K. for you, old man. That’s what he should have said. O.K. for you, old man. Tough about you, old man. He’s my friend, old man, so to hell with you, old man. That’s what he should have said.

But he didn’t.

Walt discovered his salvation on the second day of second grade.

The first day, he tried not to think about. His mother had driven him in the big black car, depositing him right in front of the school. (He had sensed even then that it was too far, that he should have made her stop a block away, but he did nothing.) The early hours in school were uneventful, but recess was not. He was standing by the jungle gym when somebody pushed him from behind. Walt stumbled forward, managing not to fall. Then he turned to find Wimpy Carlson advancing on him.

“I seen ya,” Wimpy Carlson said. Wimpy Carlson was fat and probably slow, but, unfortunately, big.

“Hi,” Walt said.

“I seen ya,” Wimpy said again.

Walt made a smile.

“In that car. Ya goddam rich kid.”

“I’m not,” Walt said. “Rich.”

“Yes, y’are. Think you’re so good, doncha, ’cause you’re rich, doncha?”

“No,” Walt said.

“Yes, you do,” Wimpy replied, and he pushed Walt again.

“Cut it out.”

“Gonna make me?”

“Cut it out.”

Wimpy pushed him again, very hard, and this time Walt did fall. As he got up he calculated his chances of making it safely to the school door. The odds seemed definitely in his favor, but by now a crowd had gathered so he had no choice but to charge. He ran at Wimpy’s stomach with all he had and his aim was good. Wimpy said “Ooof,” more or less, as Walt collided with him. They both went down, rolling across the gravel playground for a while before Wimpy’s weight began to tell. Soon he was sitting astride Walt, punishing him as best he could, but Walt had been hurt by masters so he did not cry. In time Miss Allenby pulled them apart, with Wimpy hollering, “I’ll getcha, I’ll getcha good,” Walt hollering back, “Just you try,” but his heart wasn’t in it.

At noon, when Miss Allenby dismissed them for the day, Walt hurried out of the room onto the playground. There, dead ahead, was the big black car, his mother waiting behind the wheel. Walt stuck his hands into his pockets and began to walk away from the playground, not bothering to turn as Wimpy shouted after him, “Don’t worry. I’ll getcha tomorrow.” Walt walked down the block just as fast as he could—he didn’t run; no one could accuse him of running—and by the time he reached the corner the great black car was cruising alongside. “Walt, what’s the matter? Get in.” He continued to walk. “Please, Walt.” He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, staring straight ahead; his glasses began sliding down his nose, but he didn’t bother pushing them back. “Now, Walt. Enough of this. Get in the car.” Walt walked the second block without breaking stride. At the corner he glanced back. Sure that no one saw, he dashed around the front of the car and got in.

“Now what in the world,” his mother began, but that was all she said.

“Don’t you ever—and I’m not kidding, no sir, I mean it—drive me to school, not me, I’m walking, or maybe my bicycle—but you’re not driving me, not in this car—I mean, you’re not!” He did not mind the fact that she was smiling, but when he added, “Except when it rains,” he would have much preferred it if she had not laughed.

The hours before recess on the following morning were spent partially in trying to pay attention to Miss Allenby, partially in trying not to pay attention to Wimpy. Wimpy would turn in his seat and clench his fat fist, scowling, and Walt did his best not to show fear. He scowled or shrugged or yawned ostentatiously, but when Miss Allenby said “Recess” he was the first one out of the room. Hurrying around the corner from the playground, he found a dark place behind an open door and crept into it. Hiding. He could not deny it to himself. He was hiding. He was afraid of goddam fat Wimpy so he was hiding. He—Walt the Whizzer Kirkaby. Shame. The one and only Whizzer was hiding. Walt pressed deeper into the shadow behind the door and closed his eyes, swallowing air. When he guessed that recess was over, he sauntered as casually as possible back to the playground and up the steps into school. Wimpy was waiting by the door and Walt said, “Where were you? I was looking for you” as he passed by into the room to take his seat.

As Miss Allenby clapped her hands for quiet, Walt leaned forward on his desk, cupping his chin in his hands, watching her. She was quite young and pretty and had a nice soft voice. “Printing can be fun,” Miss Allenby said, and Walt nodded in absolute agreement. She turned to the blackboard and Walt watched as her hand made marks with a piece of yellow chalk. “That is an ‘A,’ class. Say ‘A.’ ” “A,” everybody said. “Good,” Miss Allenby said, and she turned to the blackboard again, commencing to write more letters. Walt was watching her closely when his belch began.

Miss Allenby had received her degree in Education from Washington University the summer preceding, so this was, in actuality, her first class. Of course she had had many sessions in practice teaching, but this was her first
real
class. She was even-tempered and she liked children, so she felt she would be a fine teacher, given time. She was, however, worried about enforcing discipline. She never much cared for punishing pupils, and if they ever found that out, they would obviously take advantage of her weakness, and who could blame them? Consequently, her initial reaction to the start of the belch was confusion. Should she punish the offending belcher? Or should she ignore the whole thing, make believe it never happened? She decided on the latter course of action (or inaction), which seemed sensible because, after all, belches were brief, and in a few moments the whole incident would be forgotten. Miss Allenby printed a “C” and a “D.” But the “D” was a sloppy “D”—by now her hands were shaking, she hoped not too noticeably.

Because the belch was growing louder.

Miss Allenby started on an “E,” but she was just not up to it. She dropped her writing hand to her side. Really, it was the most incredible belch she had ever heard. The duration, the resonance, the sheer blasting power! Reluctantly, Miss Allenby turned to face her class. She was about to ask, “All right now, who’s belching?” (a difficult thing to say under the best of conditions) but there was really no need. And so, summoning her fiercest face, Miss Allenby stared at the nice little boy with the glasses.