Return to Sender (8 page)

We saw some roller-skaters, and Uncle Iggie had the notion to try it. Well, he did just fine until he decided to hot-dog it. He was going backward on one foot—and what do you suppose happens? He knocked himself into one of those mime characters. Ended up with two broken legs. The mime was okay—at least he didn't say anything. So now we just sit in the hotel room and eat and look out the window. (We've made friends with a pigeon family.) But maybe this is all a blessing in disguise, because I've already crocheted 14 telephone book covers to use as Christmas gifts.

Love always,        

Nancy and Iggie      
  

Funny as it was, Barney didn't even smile.

“Look what I've got,” Whitaker called, when he saw Barney. It was the Frogman Utility Pen that Whitaker had sent for with box tops from Colonel Cornflakes. “It's not the sign, but it's neat. I got it this morning. A man in a big brown delivery truck brought it.”

“My, my,” Barney said, examining it.

“It squirts water. It tells time. And best of all, it writes in gold ink that glows in the dark,” Whitaker recited, as if he were a salesman. “And remember,” Whitaker added, thinking of the advertising on the cereal box, “something written in gold lasts forever.”

Just then Mr. Murphy came out onto the porch with a jacket for Whitaker. “Put this on, Whit. It's chilly out here.” Looking at Barney, he said, in greeting, “Morning, Barney.”

“Morning,” Barney answered, trying to smile. He handed Mr. Murphy the postcard. “That's some pen Whitaker has there.”

Mr. Murphy shook his head and frowned. “I'll say,” he said sarcastically. “Barney, you wouldn't believe all the trouble a little pen like that can cause.”

Whitaker didn't want to hang around—he didn't like the direction in which the conversation was leaning. “Bye, Barney,” he said, as he ran into the backyard to practice pitching.

Barney waved.

“Oh, Barney,” Mr. Murphy said, obviously flustered. “Some days, I tell you, I don't know.” He nervously tapped the postcard against his leg. “Because of that little pen, Whitaker has gotten the crazy idea that Frogman is going to write
him
a message in gold. As big as a house, he says. In ‘extra-ultra-fluorescent letters,' he says. To prove that Frogman is real. And something written in gold, he says, lasts forever.

“Barney, Frogman is a
cartoon character,
” Mr. Murphy continued, “and my Whitaker has to go and believe in him. Why?”

Barney grinned. “That's the way it goes with kids,” he said, his face starting to glow. “And that's what tomorrows are for. By then, things are generally forgotten or resolved. Sometimes
unbelievably
so.”

“
Tomorrow
? This kind of thing has been going on for
weeks.
” Mr. Murphy scratched his head. “All I can say is I envy you today, Barney—all your kids are grown-up.” His eyes scanning the water tower, Mr. Murphy added, “I could tell you stories you'd
never
believe.”

“I bet I would,” Barney whispered. In a matter of seconds, he was already two houses away. He hurried through the rest of his route, faster than he ever had.

That night on the way home from work, Barney stopped at the hardware store to buy five cans of gold, glow-in-the-dark paint. The best plan of his life was beginning to form in his mind. And there was no time to lose.

B
ECAUSE
B
ARNEY HAD
to attend to his plan, he couldn't watch the televised Brewer game that night. It was the first game that he had missed all season. But it would prove worth it, in a way he hadn't counted on.

Mr. Murphy and Whitaker watched, though. As usual, Mr. Murphy had beer. Whitaker had grape Kool-Aid. And they both had potato chips.

“I hope we win,” Whitaker said, cramming a whole potato chip into his mouth.

“I do too,” Mr. Murphy agreed.

Whitaker was keeping score on the back of his reading workbook with his Frogman Utility Pen. The gold ink was as shiny as ever. In between batters, Whitaker worked on a drawing of Frogman in a baseball cap, with the water tower in the background.

Mr. Murphy glanced over every few minutes to look at the drawing. But he didn't say a word.

During a commercial for
EXPENSE
credit cards, Whitaker asked, “Dad, how do they get the ripples in the potato chips?”

“I suppose a machine does it,” Mr. Murphy answered. “But I never really thought about it before.”

Whitaker decided to try to separate the ripples. It didn't work. All that he managed to make was a pile of potato chip crumbs. But he kept trying.

After a two-run homer by Cecil Cooper, Mr. Murphy turned to Whitaker, clapping. “All right!” he cheered. That's when Mr. Murphy spotted the potato chip crumbs all over the carpet. “Whitaker, your mother will not love that. Why don't you get a napkin and clean it up?”

When Whitaker got up from the floor, he knocked over his glass of Kool-Aid.

“Oh, Whitaker,” Mr. Murphy said. “When you get that napkin, how about bringing back a wet dishrag too, to wipe up this grape mess someone made here?”

“Frogman could just zap it away,” Whitaker said, leaving the den.

“Well, you're not Frogman—he doesn't exist,” Mr. Murphy shouted after Whitaker. “And hurry up!”

While Whitaker was in the kitchen, Mr. Murphy reached for the Frogman Utility Pen to see what time it was. He couldn't get it to work, so he shook it and tapped it against the end table. Something snapped. The spring shot across the room. The cartridge cracked. The pen squirted water. And then it leaked gold ink all over the sofa.

“Oh, no,” Mr. Murphy said. He closed his eyes, threw back his head, and grunted something like “Urrgh!”

“What a mess, Daddy,” Molly observed, matter-of-factly, as she pushed her doll carriage into the den to see what was on TV. “Wait till Mommy sees it.”

“Hurry up, Whitaker!” Mr. Murphy yelled, trying to ignore Molly. “What are you doing,
making
the dishrag?”

Whitaker dashed into the den with the dishrag and a napkin. “Frogman to the rescue!” he shouted. He had cleaned up his mess before he saw the broken pen.

“What happened?” Whitaker asked, staring at a pool of gold ink. “You wrecked it!”

“I had an accident too. Just as you did,” Mr. Murphy said. “I'm really sorry, son,” he added softly.

“But, Da-a-ad, it'll take
eight
more boxtops to get another one.
Eight!
”

“Listen, Whitaker,” Mr. Murphy said, ready to give up, “I'll help you eat the lousy cereal if it's that important. But after all, it's just a pen.”

“Just a pen?
”

“Just a pen.”

Silence. Except for Whitaker mumbling, “Eight, eight, eight . . .”

After counting to ten, Mr. Murphy motioned with his head and patted the sofa cushion, inviting Whitaker to sit down. “I think we should try to forget this whole thing. So come on, Whit, let's watch the rest of the game. All right?”

Whitaker grabbed the broken pen and stormed up to his room without saying a word. He didn't care anymore who would win the game. Placing the pen, now in six pieces, on his bookshelf, he wondered only if he'd
ever
get his sign from Frogman.

“What's all the fuss?” Mrs. Murphy called to her husband. “I could hear you all the way in the laundry room.”

“Just a bit of baseball excitement, I guess,” Mr. Murphy answered.

“Well, good, who's winning?” Mrs. Murphy asked.

Mr. Murphy sighed. “Definitely not me.”

As he tried to clean the gold ink stain from the sofa, Mr. Murphy remembered what Whitaker had said about gold—how it lasts forever. He hoped that it really didn't, at least on sofas. Mr. Murphy also remembered what Barney had said earlier that day about tomorrows, how things are generally forgotten then. Only problem, Mr. Murphy thought, is that tomorrow never really comes.

W
ELL, MARVELOUSLY ENOUGH,
tomorrow
did
come. And it was Sunday.

Sunday mornings weren't as good as Saturday mornings in Whitaker's opinion. But they were better than Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday mornings. Sunday morning meant a big breakfast with the whole family and something extra, like crullers or pecan kringle or doughnuts. It meant no school. It meant a chance to explore at Horlick's Field, or to get a game of baseball going if the weather cooperated. It meant a whole day to eat Colonel Cornflakes, which meant a new box of cereal and another box top toward a new Utility Pen. It meant time to wait for Frogman. And it also meant the Sunday funnies, where Frogman always appeared in full color on the front page.

Like an alarm clock, the newspaper hitting the front porch woke up Whitaker without fail. Then he, in turn, woke up Molly, who woke up Mr. and Mrs. Murphy.

A sleepy parade, they shuffled down the steps. Molly and Mr. and Mrs. Murphy stayed in the kitchen to start breakfast. Whitaker went out to get the paper so he could read the comics first.

Whitaker opened the front door, and before he even located the paper, he stood paralyzed, facing the water tower. His eyes grew large. He blinked them once. He blinked them twice. But the enormous message didn't vanish. It was as real as the water tower itself. The big F was outlined in gold, and following it were more letters. They spelled “FROGMAN LIVES . . .”

As big as a house.

Written in gold.

To last forever.

“Mom! Dad! Molly!” Whitaker cried as he ran into the kitchen. “Come here! Now!”

The family, reacting to Whitaker's excitement, hastily went out to the porch after him.

Whitaker pointed to the tower.

“Oh, my word,” Mrs. Murphy said, squinting.

“Oh brother,” Mr. Murphy said, shaking his head.

“What does it say?” Molly asked, jumping up and down.

“It says ‘FROGMAN LIVES . . .'” Whitaker replied proudly.

“What are the three dots for?” Molly asked.

“That means on and on,” Mrs. Murphy answered.

“On and on,” Molly repeated. “And on and on and on.”

The four of them just stayed there a while, wondering.

After a minute or two, Whitaker noticed that the gold letters weren't straight and even like the F. They didn't look much different from the graffiti scrawled on the side of Horlick's Bridge. In fact, this message and the ones on the bridge seemed more alike the longer he looked.

Shoot, Whitaker thought, everything making sense all at once. Everything. There was no wondering now. He kicked the porch railing, feeling that he had been tricked. Not liking it. Crazy old mailman.

Then he remembered Molly. And how he always played along with the idea of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. “Helping her grow up,” his parents called it. And maybe, Whitaker thought, this is the same kind of thing. Only with Barney doing the “helping.” Not me. Crazy old Barney.

Suddenly a smile broke across Whitaker's face. I know, he thought, I won't even let on to Barney. Just let him think I believe. Good old Barney.

“You're going to write to Frogman again, aren't you?” Molly asked anxiously, now totally convinced of Frogman's existence and his presence in Franklinville. “Aren't you?”

A long silence passed before Whitaker answered.

“I doubt it,” he finally said, smiling. “I don't have to anymore.”