Return to Sender (4 page)

Whitaker spent the morning waiting for Barney. To make the minutes drag less, Whitaker took a stone and drew a small, lopsided baseball diamond on the cement. Placing Pimple on home plate, Whitaker snapped his fingers to indicate a hit, and then he cheered Pimple on to first base.

As always, Pimple rocked from side to side, nothing else.

Barney, who had been watching quietly, said, “That little fellow sure wouldn't be a very successful base stealer, would he?”

Whitaker turned with a start. “Barney! Did I get my letter?”

“Why, the Murphy family, which of course includes you, got a real haul today.” Barney held up a thick stack of envelopes. He cleared his throat and in a robust voice began the mail call. “Number one, electric bill,” he said, handing the envelope over to Whitaker. “Number two, something from the state motor vehicle department. Numbers three, four, and five, various-sized colored envelopes addressed to your mother. All with very lovely handwriting, I should add.”

Whitaker took each piece of mail as Barney announced it. But he was too anxious even to remember what Barney had said two words earlier.

“Number six, a bank statement. Number seven—now this looks interesting.”

“What?” Whitaker asked.

“Don't get excited,” Barney said. “It's an oversized postcard from your Aunt Nancy and Uncle Iggie. They're still in New York.”

Bending down, Barney showed the picture to Whitaker. It wasn't a photograph but simply a fat red apple on a white background. Whitaker wasn't impressed.

“What's so big about an apple?” Whitaker asked, seriously.

“You see,” Barney answered, “that's what people call New York City—The Big Apple. Although, for the life of me, I don't know why. As far as I know, The Big Apple is the name of a dance. Maybe they just do a lot of dancing there. Let's read it. Maybe we'll find out.”

The postcard said:

Dear ones,

You wouldn't believe all the big bridges here. Absolutely enormous. Thousands of times bigger than the one over Horlick's Creek. Uncle Iggie had the notion to go fishing off one of them, but a kind officer suggested he didn't.

We went to one of those ballet shows. We never saw so many folks jumping around in all our years. Just like the annual frog jumping contest back home, only with skinny people. Uncle Iggie let me buy a pink tutu, and I wear it as I dance around the hotel room, dusting the furniture. He says I'm quite a sight!

Love always,        

Nancy and Iggie      
  

“I guess they do dance there,” Whitaker said, eyeing the two pieces of mail that remained in Barney's hand.

“Back to business,” Barney continued. “Number eight—” he said, holding one of the envelopes up to the sunlight. The envelope was thin, so Barney could read the enclosed note without much trouble. “This is from the library. It is a notice that says a book called
Psychology and Childhood Development,
that your parents requested, is available to be checked out at their convenience.”

Whitaker didn't pay any attention to that. He only hoped that the last envelope was the letter from Frogman.

“Number nine,” Barney said, “and remember the last is usually the best. Number nine is for you.”

Recognizing the familiar green handwriting, Whitaker was immediately aware that Frogman had responded. “All right!” he yelled, dropping the other eight pieces of mail. “Bye, Barney,” Whitaker shouted as he ran up the steps and into the house. Proof, he was thinking, now I have more proof.

“G
OOD NIGHT
” M
OLLY CALLED
from bed, upstairs.

“Good night, Molly, for the twentieth and
last
time,” Mr. Murphy shouted back. He sat down at the kitchen table across from Mrs. Murphy and said to her, “Whitaker sure is quiet. It's usually he who yells down all night.”

Mrs. Murphy set her teacup gently on the table and ran her finger around its rim. “He was tired out. Being the last Saturday before school starts, he wanted to get his money's worth today—and he did. Jeff and Gordy and he played hard.” She fidgeted with a spoon, the sugar bowl, the butter dish. “And then all this Frogman business . . .”

“With school on Monday, I'm sure he'll forget about it soon enough,” Mr. Murphy said. He dumped three teaspoons of sugar into his coffee mug and watched it dissolve as he stirred. “It's been a long summer. I think he just needed something new to fill these last days. After all, you can only play so much baseball, and do so much gallivanting with your friends.”

“I'd still like to know where this came from,” Mrs. Murphy said, holding up the new letter from Frogman. “That other letter was one thing—it didn't faze me—but
two!
”

Mr. and Mrs. Murphy had taken the letter from Whitaker after dinner. They told him that they just wanted to read it over a few times. Whitaker wasn't too keen on the idea, but they promised to return it the following day, so what could he do?

The letter said:

Dear Whitaker,

  
In answer to your questions . . .

         
1. Depending on my appetite, I average 999 flies per day.

         
2. Due to my chosen profession—super-hero—I cannot divulge my true age. Let's just say I'm old enough to be smart enough to remember what it's like to be young.

         
3. No, I haven't any little sisters (older ones either), but I can imagine that they could be hard to deal with at times, however pretty.

Your amphibious friend, 

Frogman 

Mrs. Murphy folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. “You can't tell me he wrote this. We don't even have a typewriter. And he doesn't know words like divulge or—”

“Maybe he does,” Mr. Murphy interrupted. “You know, he's been spending time with his dictionary lately. The last couple of days I've seen him going through it. And I'll bet the Hunters or the Lucases own a typewriter. You know all the crazy things those kids have gotten into before. This is just another one. No big deal. I'm sure it's nothing.”

“Do you think it's possible for someone from the Frogman television program to have answered the letters?” Mrs. Murphy asked, suddenly.

Mr. Murphy reexamined the letter and the envelope. “No,” he said finally, “there's no special letterhead, and the postmark is local. You know, we're probably reading too much into this. It's
nothing.
If we forget about it, he'll forget about it.”

Silence. Both Mr. and Mrs. Murphy toyed with the handles of their respective mug and cup.

“I would feel better if one of us had a talk with him,” Mrs. Murphy said, vaguely. “And I think this is the kind of thing a father should handle.” She paused. “I just don't want it to get out of hand.”

Sighing, Mr. Murphy picked up the letter and put it in his shirt pocket. “Okay,” he said, “tomorrow. Tomorrow, we'll talk.”

Sunday afternoon. Whitaker and Mr. Murphy were in the backyard playing baseball. At the beginning of the summer, Mr. Murphy had measured a strike zone on the side of the garage and marked it with masking tape.

First Mr. Murphy helped Whitaker with his pitching. Then Mr. Murphy pitched to Whitaker, to help his batting along.

“Whitaker, watch your stance. Move your right foot back a bit,” Mr. Murphy instructed from the uneven pitcher's mound that Whitaker had formed with dirt from the garden.

“Dad, do you think I could be a pro when I grow up?” Whitaker asked after watching his father's celebrated curve ball whiz past him. A strike.

“Well, you have to practice real hard to be a pro,” Mr. Murphy answered. “I used to want that, but it's not as easy as it may seem.”

“It'd be fun,” Whitaker said, matter-of-factly.

“I guess. But no matter how much you may dream about it, you have to be good. I just wasn't good enough.”

Another strike rocketed past Whitaker.

Mr. Murphy breathed deeply. Trying eventually to lead into a talk about Frogman, he said, “I used to picture myself playing for the Braves with Hank Aaron—playing in the World Series. But it came to the point where I had to be realistic. I had to stop pretending. Pretending's okay to a degree, but it can hold you back and keep you from moving on. Growing up.” He was thinking about Frogman.

“Are you saying I should give up baseball, already?” Whitaker's voice was touched with disappointment.

“Oh. No, not at all,” Mr. Murphy said quickly, frustrated at the thought of misleading Whitaker. “I guess I'm just saying it isn't good to believe in something that isn't real. Do you know what I'm talking about now?”

Whitaker didn't, but he nodded anyway.

“Well, good,” Mr. Murphy said, greatly relieved. He walked toward Whitaker, took the Frogman letter from his pocket and put it in Whitaker's, and ruffled his hair. “I guess it can't hurt for you to keep this thing then, as a souvenir.”

Whitaker was confused. Real/pretend. He hadn't understood what his father had been trying to get at. But before he could ask a question to clear things up, Mr. Murphy said excitedly, “Really, though, about baseball, you're pretty good. And you've got a lot of time. So here's my best pitch.”

Mr. Murphy went into an exaggerated windup. Hamming it up. The ball—a bullet—had perfect direction. Whitaker swung at it and made solid contact. Now that's real, Whitaker thought as he watched the ball disappear beyond the trees on Kewaunee Street, and so is my letter from Frogman.

T
HE NIGHT BEFORE THE FIRST DAY
of a new school year can be a long one. When the lights go out, the noises seem louder. The shadows seem darker. Even your bed can seem hard and uncomfortable. And then if you have other things on your mind, like a perplexing talk with your father, sleep is not so easy to come by.

It took Whitaker a long time to fall asleep. But once he did, he didn't awaken until the dark was replaced by sunlight, and the noises weren't those of the night but rather those of the morning—chirping birds and his mother's joyous humming.

“Whitaker,” Mrs. Murphy said, between melodies, “rise and shine.”

“Yeah, get up, Whit,” Molly called. “School today! School today!”

“Okay, okay,” Whitaker managed to say. He rubbed his eyes, counted to three, and thrust the blankets off his bed. They landed in a rumpled heap on the floor.

Molly was prancing around in the hallway in front of the full-length mirror. She was wearing her new red dress. Buttons, in the shape of flowers, were evenly spaced, running from the bottom of her chin to the tops of her knees.

“See, I'm all ready,” she said, with a curtsy.

“So what?” Whitaker mumbled on his way to the bathroom.

Downstairs, the kitchen was filled with the smells of good things to eat. And despite the thought of having to go to school, Whitaker's appetite was entirely unaffected. There was cinnamon toast, scrambled eggs, bacon, orange juice, and milk. Whitaker had all that plus his daily bowl of Colonel Cornflakes. He tried to go through them as fast as possible; he needed only two more box tops before he could send for a free Frogman Utility Pen that could allegedly squirt water, tell time, and write in gold ink that glowed in the dark.

“Whitaker, if you don't stop eating, you'll be late for school,” Mrs. Murphy observed, glancing at the clock above the stove.

“Good idea, huh?” Whitaker said, only half joking.

Mrs. Murphy was collecting the dirty dishes, banging them on the inside of the trash container, and stacking them in the sink. “Scoot along and brush your teeth,” she said to Whitaker. “You've always been my slowpoke, haven't you? Molly got up with your father. She's been ready for what seems like days. And I don't have to take her for another hour. But you—you need prodding.”