Return to Sender (2 page)

“Tell him it's not real,” Molly pleaded.

“Tell her it
is,
” Whitaker demanded.

“Well . . .” began Mr. Murphy, very slowly, thinking very fast.

“Well?” Whitaker said.

“Well?” Molly said.

“Well . . .” Mr. Murphy repeated. “Let's go ask your mother.”

Whether anyone else believed in it or not, the letter from Frogman immediately became Whitaker's most prized possession. It was more valuable to him than his Brewer batting helmet or his baseball autographed by Hank Aaron. More valuable than his dead bug collection or his fiberglass knife with its real cowhide sheath. And even more valuable than his jar of black sand that Aunt Nancy and Uncle Iggie brought back from their trip to Hawaii.

Whitaker put the letter under his pillow at night. During the day, he folded it in half and in half once more, and kept it in his front pocket along with his usual assortment of front pocket necessities—a cat's-eye marble, an inch-thick rubber band, a few baseball cards, a picture of Frogman cut from the back of a box of Colonel Cornflakes, a flattened penny, and a dead wasp or fly to add to his collection.

Whitaker read and reread the letter nearly a hundred times, so that in a matter of days the creases started to give way. Soon the letter was in four wrinkled and ripped and tattered pieces. Whitaker knew what that meant. It was time to write to Frogman again.

W
HITAKER'S SECOND LETTER
to Frogman was written and mailed—in the same fashion as the first—before his parents had a chance to talk with him about what kinds of things in life are real, what kinds are make-believe, and how to tell the difference.

This time, Whitaker asked Frogman how many flies he ate daily. How old he was. And if
he
had a little sister, and weren't they a pain?

As he walked back from the mailbox downtown, Whitaker decided to take better care of the new reply when he received it. He wouldn't fold it or stash it under his pillow. I know, he thought, I'll keep it in the exact middle of my dictionary. Whitaker was pleased. In his entire life he had never had any desire to use a dictionary, and now within a few days he had actually looked up a word, and believe it or not, he had discovered an even better use for it—a safe home for his anticipated letter.

As the previous time, Orson Pitt was the first person to take notice of the new letter. Again, he stamped the envelope
Return to Sender, Not Deliverable As Addressed.
But this time he gave it to Barney personally.

“Edwards,” Orson screeched, pushing his glasses up his thin carrot of a nose, “I'd appreciate it if you'd tell this Whitaker Murphy person to stop this nonsense. I can tell by his unskilled penmanship that he isn't more than a bothersome child, plagued by juvenile stupidity.”

Barney laughed out loud—a hearty, rolling laugh. “He's just a little kid with an active and trusting imagination.”

Orson turned to Barney and placed the envelope in his outstretched hand. “And kids like that grow up to be people like you—silly adults who forget their age.”

Barney gave Orson the best kind of smile he knew how.

“Don't smile at me, Edwards,” Orson mumbled. “I hate it.”

“Is that so?” Barney singsonged, as he strolled to his desk, the letter already safe in his pocket.

Two days later, Mrs. Murphy emptied Whitaker's pants pockets for the weekly laundry. As always, she was amazed at how much he was able to cram into them. And as always, she was disgusted at how dirty and smelly most of it was. This time, the best, in Whitaker's eyes—and worst, in his mother's—was a half-smoked cigar. He had found it on Monday near the train tracks that ran diagonally through Horlick's Field, and was saving it for the perfect time for a first cigar. That's one of those special things that you simply don't rush. The moment must be exactly right.

“Whitaker? What in heaven's name are you doing with this filthy thing?” Mrs. Murphy asked. She was holding the cigar with two fingers, her pinky sticking straight out. Her nose was scrunched up.

“Oh, that's a cigar,” Whitaker answered innocently. He sat at the kitchen table behind a big bowl of soggy cornflakes. Until his mother appeared from the laundry room, he had been flicking the wilted flakes with his spoon against the refrigerator.

“I know what it is. The question is, what are you doing with it?”

“Um, I found it.”

“Terrific. Go on.”

Thinking quickly, Whitaker said, “I thought Grandpa might like it. I thought I'd save it for his next birthday. For a present.”

“I think Grandpa will survive without this particular surprise.” Mrs. Murphy rolled her eyes as she walked to the sink. “It is a blessing that school starts next week,” she said to herself, in a voice loud enough for her son to hear.

Whitaker wasn't terribly disappointed at the sound of a potential milestone in his life being noisily devoured by the garbage disposal. He was certain that he could find another. And anyway, there were more important things to be concerned with—like the morning's mail. And Lincoln Elementary. Shoot.

Nevertheless, the breakfast encounter left Whitaker moping on the front porch. He looked up at the sky, staring. Instead of frogs or spaceships or County Stadium, the cumulus islands looked like books and desks and fat Miss Smathers, who would be his teacher this year. Even Barney took on a new appearance as he sauntered up the walk. For an instant, he reminded Whitaker of Mr. Wolfe, the principal of Lincoln Elementary, known for his short temper and sly mind. Why, he even had the nerve to slink through the halls during bubbler break and hide in the janitor's room. Then the minute Whitaker or one of his friends—Jeff Hunter or Gordy Lucas—had a perfect spray of water directed at one of the girls, Mr. Wolfe would jump out and drag the offender to the office. He had caught Whitaker seventeen times last year.

“What's the matter, Whitaker?” Barney asked. “If you'd stand on your head, you'd be wearing the biggest smile I've ever seen.”

“School starts next week. And I hate it. And I don't want to go. And I'm not going to.”

Barney set down his mail sack, took off his hat, and ran his fingers through his thinning gray hair. “Life's chock-full of things that seem unpleasant. Like school. And sirens that wake you in the black-middle of night. And discarded nails, carelessly lying on the sidewalk, that puncture your bike tires and make them go flat. What you have to remember is that things that seem unpleasant usually aren't all bad. Nails come in darn handy for hanging pictures on a wall. Sirens are necessary to get speedy help to someone in need. And school, well school is one place where you learn about life. How big the dinosaurs really were. What state was the thirtieth to become part of this country. The life cycle of the frog. So you see, it's not all boring. And
some
things—the best kinds—you don't even learn from books. In fact, I learned the most during recess. And that's definitely part of school.”

Whitaker wasn't totally convinced, but Barney's words comforted him enough at least to let his mind drift back to matters of present importance. “Any mail for me, Barney?”

“I hate to disappoint you, Whitaker,” Barney replied. Taking a deep breath and shrugging his shoulders, he continued, “But all there is today is this mailing from the new shopping mall for their first annual back-to-school sale. Were you expecting anything in particular?”

“I was waiting for a letter from a friend. An answer to one I wrote.”

“Well, sometimes it takes a while for someone to answer a letter. For example, I had been planning to write a letter last night, myself, but it was inadvertently postponed. You see, after dinner I took out my lawn chair to watch the sunset from my backyard. I only meant to stay out a few minutes. But the colors were magnificent. Red and orange and purple scudding around and around. And before I knew it, the sun was gone and right before my eyes were the most stars I'd ever seen. Dusted over the dark blue, they were slivers of glass, just winking away. I fell asleep and didn't wake until the sun was back where the Eastern stars had been. Sometimes I think I could watch it all forever. So anyway, I didn't write my letter. And maybe the very same thing happened to your friend.”

“I doubt it. I don't think my friend would be doing that.”

“Well, you never know. But about that letter—the best thing you can do is check again tomorrow. And I have a feeling that it will be here.” Barney replaced his hat on his head, his sack already reslung over his shoulder.

Whitaker followed Barney down the steps. Then he lay on the front lawn. He watched the clouds glide past the water tower. He thought about spaceships. He thought about the letter. He thought about school. He found the cloud that resembled Miss Smathers again. Then he pointed his finger and held his hand as if it was a gun. And he shot her.

I
T HAD BEEN A BAD DAY
all around for Whitaker. First his cigar had been confiscated. Next he had been reminded that school was soon to begin. He hadn't gotten any mail. Then his mother made ham for dinner and managed to ruin it by smothering it with pineapple chunks and brown sugar. And to top it all off, right when he was in the middle of an after-dinner baseball game at Horlick's Field with his friends (possibly the last of the summer), he heard the telltale rumbling of the family car getting closer and closer. His parents and Molly drove up in their beat-up '64 Chevy Impala. Everyone in the neighborhood called it the Zebra, because it was white with striped primer marks stretching across the body from fender to fender.

“Hey, Champ,” Mr. Murphy called from the car, “we're going to the new shopping mall to get school clothes. And that means you, too.”

“But, Dad, I can't,” Whitaker yelled from second base. “We're in the middle of a game. Tie score.”

“I think this is more important. So let's go. Now!”

“Da-a-ad,” Whitaker whined, his eyes pleading.

Mr. Murphy did his noted two-finger whistle. And not another word had to be spoken. Whitaker took off toward the car, his friends waving good-bye behind him.

Within a minute, the Zebra—fully occupied—was cruising in the direction of the mall, the lack of a muffler announcing their presence all the way there.

The parking lot glowed with the festive signs of a grand opening. There was a marching band weaving through the cars, playing “Roll Out the Barrel.” Streams of colorful flags and banners, strung from the light poles, flowed above the cars. Attendants in striped uniforms were tying balloons to the car antennas. And there were clowns passing out candy at the entrances.

When the wind blew, light as it was, the banners, flags, and balloons fluttered. “Look!” Molly said. “They're different flavors of birds that are ready to fly away.”

“That's stupid,” Whitaker said.

Mrs. Murphy clicked her tongue and turned her head to give Whitaker a five-second stare. “They look like birds to me,” she said. “Very pretty ones at that.”

“Oh, yeah, birds—pretty ones,” Mr. Murphy said, after his wife nudged his arm.

Oh, great, Whitaker thought. First they force me away from the baseball game and now they gang up on me. He wondered, too, how his parents could say that the flags were birds, but not believe that Frogman wrote him that letter.

After circling the lot five times, Mr. Murphy spotted a parking space. It seemed to be ten blocks away from the stores.

Mrs. Murphy made sure that the car doors were locked before saying, “You know how I hate big parking lots—so many cars and careless drivers—and we do have a long walk, so, Whitaker, please hold Molly's hand.”

Whitaker took Molly's hand in his own and began to squeeze it so tightly that Molly decided she was old enough to walk through the lot unguarded.

A clown, who said his name was Rosco, greeted the Murphys as they entered the mall.