Return to Sender (6 page)

And he did.

After dinner and ice-cream cones, the noisy Zebra was leisurely driven around the outskirts of town. The sky was splendid. The clouds—thin, dappled strips—lay across a field of dying rose. A chorus of insects made inspired music, but the Zebra's grumbling drowned it out.

“You know,” Mrs. Murphy said dreamily, “the night is so lovely, but the sound of this car sort of ruins the effect.”

“I'll get at it soon,” Mr. Murphy assured her.

“I like it,” Whitaker said. “This way people know us all over town, even when we're blocks away.”

“Don't I know?” Mrs. Murphy said. She turned around to see why Molly was silent. Molly's head was resting against the back of the seat. Sound asleep. Before turning to the front again, Mrs. Murphy ordered, “Whitaker, get your head back inside the window.” He was trying to catch bugs.

As they were nearing home, Whitaker spotted the flashing red light of the water tower. He thought about an invasion of space creatures. How some aliens would arrive at Horlick's Field, and teaming up with Frogman, take Miss Smathers hostage. Then they'd transport her to some uncharted planet, millions of light years away. Never to be seen again.

Focusing on that thought, he stared at the water tower, getting closer and closer as they approached Kewaunee Street.

Even though it was becoming dark, Whitaker could see well enough to notice a difference in the water tower. The massive tank was as always—spaceship-silver. But the cylindrical legs weren't. They were now chartreuse. The exact color of Frogman's cape.

“Hey, you guys,” Whitaker said, pointing, “look at the spaceship. It's turning green because Frogman's staying there.”

Mr. and Mrs. Murphy turned toward each other, eyes wondering, searching.

“I thought you cleared things up with him,” Mrs. Murphy whispered to her husband.

“I thought I did
too
,” Mr. Murphy whispered back.

“You guys, look!” Whitaker persisted.

Mr. Murphy parked the car and said sternly, “Listen, Whitaker, there is no such thing as Frogman, except on TV and in comic books. And the water tower—not spaceship—is being painted. I read about it in the newspaper today. And there is no magic about that. At all.”

“What about my letters, then?”

“Whitaker, I'm not sure how you or your friends managed that, but you know as well enough as I that they're no more real than if I wrote a letter and said it was from the Easter Bunny.”

“Shhh, Dad,” Whitaker said with concern. “Molly still believes in him.”

“Right, and you used to too. But you grew out of it. Just like you'll grow out of this Frogman business. And please, Whitaker, do it in a hurry. For me. Okay?”

Whitaker didn't answer. It wasn't the same thing as the Easter Bunny, though. It didn't make sense to Whitaker that parents
want
you to believe in things like that, and then they act funny when you believe in something better. He had known for a long time that his parents hid the eggs and candy around the house on Easter Sunday. Not some rabbit. Same for Santa Claus on Christmas. But he also knew that his parents didn't write the Frogman letters. Or why would they be so worried? And Whitaker knew that
he
didn't. So who was left but Frogman?

The last blocks were driven in silence. Mr. and Mrs. Murphy were thinking of how they could convince Whitaker that Frogman wasn't real. Whitaker was thinking of how he could convince his parents that he was. And Molly was dreaming that she was Goldilocks, sitting at a table having dinner with the Three Bears. It wasn't porridge they were feasting on. It was burgers.

T
HE REST OF THE WEEK
passed as most weeks do—sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. And it was filled with the things that weeks usually are filled with—some good, some not so good.

But two events transpired of major interest. Number one—Mr. and Mrs. Murphy took possession of Whitaker's letters, in the hope that by doing so, Whitaker would be more apt to forget Frogman and graduate to less fantastic pursuits.

And number two—the water tower's new yellow-green paint job was completed. The entire structure had become a bright vision, to say the least. And to Mr. and Mrs. Murphy's dismay, Whitaker was all the more certain that Frogman had taken up residence in Horlick's Field. According to Whitaker, the “spaceship” was his local headquarters. The color proved it.

And then, what Whitaker saw on Saturday morning was the icing on the cake . . .

A big F.

Whitaker thought that he was seeing things, so he pulled the window shade back down and counted to ten. Saturday morning light filtered into the room, making amber lines on the floor, the wall, the bed, the dresser. Whitaker stared at the lines while he counted, then raised the shade again. It was still there. A large letter F—bold and black—dominated the tank of the water tower.

Dressing in haste, Whitaker continued to glance out the window, to make sure. Then he ran down the stairs two at a time, the wood creaking beneath his weight.

The kitchen was empty, but dirty dishes cluttering the table let Whitaker know that everyone was up. He found his father on the side of the house, trimming the hedge for the last time of the season.

Even though he was sure that the F would convince his skeptical father, Whitaker started slowly. “Morning, Dad,” he said cheerfully. “Where's Mom and Molly?”

“Morning, son,” Mr. Murphy said, setting down the shears and wiping his forehead. “They went to the grocery store. They're getting hot dogs, potato chips, and marshmallows. We thought that this might be one of the last chances to eat outside. Sort of an end of the summer picnic. What do you think of that?”

“Great,” Whitaker replied. He loved grilling-out. Especially when they had marshmallows, toasted dark brown, between two pieces of chocolate and two graham cracker halves.

“Have you gone out in front yet?” Whitaker asked.

“Nope. Why?”

“Will you follow me, Dad? I want to show you something.”

Whitaker led his father around the house to the front yard. Raising his head and nodding to the water tower, he exclaimed, “What do you think of that?”

Putting his hands in his pockets, Mr. Murphy said, in a patient voice, “I think the new paint job is nice. But I thought we weren't talking about that anymore.”

“But Dad, I mean the F. It stands for Frogman. It's just like the one on his cape. Now you have to believe.”

Mr. Murphy's patience was at an end. “That's enough, Whitaker,” he said. “The F is for Franklinville. And I'm sure you know it.” Mr. Murphy briskly walked back to the bushes and started to chop ferociously. “And if you want me to play that game, I will,” he called. “I think the F stands for frustrated—and that's what I am this very minute.”

Mrs. Murphy didn't appreciate Whitaker's observation any more than Mr. Murphy had. Whitaker didn't bother trying to persuade Molly—she was too easy a target. But Barney was another story altogether.

“Not one piece of mail for the Murphy family today,” Barney shouted, halfway down the block.

“It doesn't matter,” Whitaker said, when Barney was in talking range.

“Everything matters,” Barney said, pointing to the large oak in the front yard, “from every leaf on that tree to that monster of a tower over yonder.”

Willing to give it one more try, Whitaker asked, “Do you see that large F?” He pointed to the tower.

“Why sure I do. But I'd be willing to place a wager that most folks don't. Some probably never even bothered to notice that this town has a water tower.” Barney paused. “And today I'd say that that F is to let us know what a
f
ine day it is. But the look on your face says—
f
orlorn.”

Whitaker didn't know what that meant, but it sounded bad.

“What's the matter?” Barney asked.

“It's a long story,” Whitaker began. He went on to tell Barney about the two letters he had received from his hero Frogman, and how his parents didn't believe. Whitaker also told about how he thought that Frogman had come to Horlick's Field and how the F proved it. And Whitaker ended by saying that his parents were mad at him, and that he was mad at them, and that he was planning to run away. To live at Horlick's Field. With Frogman.

For the first time, Barney was aware that one of his simple plans to bring a little happiness into someone's life wasn't so simple any longer.

“Now, Whitaker,” Barney said, scratching his head as if to shuffle through all his collected memories in search of the one he needed, “speaking from experience, I'd advise against running away. I tried that over a half-century ago, and I came back real soon.”

“I have to Barney,” Whitaker said, eyes on the big F.

“I'm going to tell you something my pa told me when I was fixing to run off. And I've never forgotten it. Even told my own kids when the time came. Pa said to me, ‘A yard without a tree ain't fit for a dog.'”

“But I don't have a dog, Barney.” Whitaker sounded puzzled.

Barney laughed. “Let me explain,” he said. “This is where you belong. Here you've got a mom and a dad and a sister and a charming house. Not to mention this mighty oak—the Cadillac of trees. Just like an old hard-luck dog without a tree in his yard—no place out there is going to feel like home. Horlick's Field with Frogman may seem like the place to be, but you'd miss your folks and Molly and your house and even this tree before you could say Frogman ten times.”

“But what about the F? Do you believe it stands for Frogman?”

Barney had to be careful how he answered. “I imagine that that F can mean whatever anyone wants it to mean. And the word Frogman seems as good a choice as any.”

Whitaker was looking down at his shoes. He'd never realized how filthy they were before. He spit on his fingers and rubbed them over the Nike swooshes on his shoes, trying to get off some of the dirt.

“This Frogman fellow, is he kind of like a hero to you?” Barney asked.

“I guess,” Whitaker replied, nodding.

“Well,” Barney said, “to tell the truth, heroes can become a disappointing business, because we're really all the same. And that means that we all make mistakes. Even heroes do.”

Barney cleared his throat and continued, “When I was about your age, my pa told me about a great baseball player named Joe Jackson. He played for the White Sox. ‘Shoeless Joe' they called him, because he once played without shoes due to some ornery blisters. He got the suckers from breaking in a new pair of spikes. I still have a picture in my head of him in the outfield diving to make miraculous catches. But what my pa never told me, what I found out later, was that he was supposedly involved in a scandal. With gamblers. During the World Series of 1919. Folks said that Joe sold out, threw the win to Cincinnati.”

Scandal. Gamblers. The words hung heavy in the air.

“So he was a bad guy?” Whitaker asked.

“Gee, Whitaker,
I
don't think so. It's one of those things that's hard to say. But maybe it shows that there aren't any real heroes.” Barney's voice wasn't very persuasive.

“But what about super heroes?”

“Super heroes,” Barney said, thinking deeply. “I suppose that they're a unique breed.” He picked his teeth. “You mean like Frogman?”

“Yup. He is real, isn't he?”

As much as he felt that he ought to, Barney didn't have the heart to shatter Whitaker's illusion. “You believe in him—sometimes that's enough,” Barney managed to say.

Whitaker's ears wanted to hear more. His eyes said so.

Unsure of what would happen or what his next move should be, but unwilling to admit defeat, Barney smiled and said, “Yes. Yes, Frogman is real. And I have a feeling that you'll get a sign real soon. Just be patient and keep your parents from worrying.

“Yes,” Whitaker said, overcome with anticipation.

“I'd better get rolling,” Barney said. He moved quickly down the block, his mind a whirlpool of thought.

Whitaker wondered how long he'd have to wait for the sign. A day? A week? A month? He was certain that Frogman would come through, though. And waiting for something that's bound to happen isn't always bad. Whitaker stayed in the front yard a few minutes longer. He looked around—to the tower, the sky, down the block—just in case the sign was early. Whitaker saw nothing special or unusual. Absolutely nothing.