The Pigman's Legacy (The Sequel to The Pigman) (11 page)

Monday John and I agreed to meet during third-period lunch. We were still trying to figure out whether it would be more humane if we asked the Welfare Department to help the old man, when Dolly Racinski made the mistake of pushing her broom right by us. Dolly, as always, wore her giant pom-pom rhinestone earrings, and was wearing a gold electric-colored dress under her smock.

“Hi, Dolly,” John said. “How are you feeling today?”

“Lookin' up,” she said perkily, “lookin' up!”

Some kids started throwing walnuts at her, so she went on a coffee break near this special table reserved for the custodial workers. I could tell by the look on John's face that we both had exactly the same idea. In a flash we were at her side. We just leveled with her about the Colonel. And even though she was only sixty years old, we knew from the other conversations with her that she was looking farther down the line and knew all about the way the United States government makes old people go broke. Finally we just got right to the point.

“Dolly, could you come over and at least meet the guy?”

“I'd
love
to,” Dolly said immediately. I couldn't help noticing that she looked like she had just received a blind date for the prom four decades late. We knew she had never been married, but somehow we had just assumed she had gone out with a lot of veterans when she was at Hill View.

“You're great, Dolly, just great!” John said.

Dolly beamed and adjusted her right earring. “You two darlings are the only kids who make my work around here bearable. You appreciate a clean floor. The rest, they're like barbarians. For all the times you stood up for me and saved me from being hit with things, this is the least I could do for you.”

After school we picked up some more food and got over to the Colonel's. He was sitting in a chair near the front door waiting for us. I felt sad because I knew he had done nothing all day but look forward to seeing us. I could just tell. John brought him his portable radio, and I brought a package of laundry I had taken home with me the night before. I made Gus two orders of scrambled eggs, which he just loved. He literally licked the plate clean and barked for more.

After dinner we decided it was better to break the news to the Colonel that Dolly Racinski would be coming over. We didn't want him to have a coronary the minute she walked in the door. He took the news a little paranoid at first, saying we really had turned him in to the IRS and that this Dolly Racinski was probably some agent assigned to fix his wagon. I even thought of calling Dolly and telling her to cancel the whole thing, but she arrived at eight o'clock and sparkled so much you'd think she was the midnight sun. John let her in, and I watched carefully as Dolly met the Colonel in the living room. We thought maybe the Colonel would yell at first, but to my surprise he looked like a bashful little boy. Dolly gave a great big
hello
, and the Colonel mumbled
hello
back. Then he excused himself and went upstairs to his bedroom.

“I'm sorry,” I apologized to Dolly. “Maybe if we just give him a few minutes he'll come back on down.”

“Don't worry about him,” Dolly said. “I'm going
up
.”

“You're going up?”

“Honey, leave it to me,” she said, and went straight to the stairs. “We had cranks at Hill View, too.”

“Should we go with you?” John wanted to know.

“This is just between us old folks.” Dolly winked and disappeared up into the old man's bedroom.

Even Gus looked surprised; either that or he was blinded by Dolly's earrings and the electric-green dress that she was wearing that night. She also had a weird little handbag that was shaped like a doghouse. It was very cute, but it's the kind of thing you usually see an eight-year-old girl carry around, not a sixty-year-old lady. She was up there with the Colonel for over an hour. John remarked that maybe the two of them had died of angina. Then we heard some sounds and Dolly came down alone. She pulled us into the kitchen and spoke very dramatically.

“Oh, he's a
wonderful
man,” Dolly said.

“He
is
, isn't he?” I said.

“I know just how he feels,” Dolly sympathized. “He's been pushed around like so many of us. And he doesn't want to take it sitting down.”

“I don't blame him,” John said.

“Neither do I,” Dolly agreed, “but he's too weak to fight back alone. He needs us. He needs you and me,” Dolly emphasized. The force of her conviction caused her earrings to bounce against her cheeks. “But if you'll excuse me now, darlings, I've got to make the old boy some poached eggs.”

John and I were so relieved that Dolly was taking over. It was a joy to watch her jangling around in the kitchen like a living laser beam. Her green dress flashed, and she bounced in and out under the lights as if she'd been sprayed with fluorescent paint. As she cracked those eggs and plopped them into boiling water, each one came out a perfect circle. For the first time in several days it seemed like everything was going to be all right. It was only when I got a closer look at Dolly, I noticed a distinct sense of panic in her eyes. I may not be a psychologist yet, but I'll tell you one thing—I can tell if a person is making believe that everything is all right when it isn't.

“Something's wrong, isn't it, Dolly?” I said.

“Lorraine, whatever are you talking about?” Dolly plopped the eggs onto a piece of toast. “Everything's just fine.”

“Why did the Colonel cry out in pain the other night? Why did we have to take him to the hospital? Why didn't he stay?” I asked.

Dolly began to hum and spoke between musical passages. “The Colonel has
diverticulosis
” she explained.

“Oh, my God,” I said. I didn't know what diverticulosis was, but it sounded fatal.

“It's just a little intestinal condition, and all that fudge he ate caused an attack, that's all.” Dolly was very reassuring. “But don't you worry, my little honeys, I'll work out the right diet for him. I know what's best for him.” Suddenly there was a sound in the kitchen doorway, and we turned to see the Colonel.

“Who
are
you really?” the Colonel snapped at Dolly.

“We told you,” John said. “This is Dolly. She was just talking to you for an hour in your bedroom.”

“Well, she's forgettable,” the Colonel stated.

“Why are you being so rude?” I asked.

“Shush!” Dolly said. “I can take care of myself, Lorraine.” Then she carried the plate of poached eggs right past the old man and set it down on a small table in the dining room. “Don't you jump down my throat, you old buzzard. I came here to help.”

“Yeah?” the old guy wheezed. “Well, I was upstairs thinking about it, and I decided that you really came here just to make fun of me.”

“Excuse me, Colonel,” I said, “but now you
are
acting a little paranoid.”

“I am not. If she's here to start cooking poached eggs and playing canasta with me, I'm not interested.”

Dolly chuckled. “I didn't come here to play canasta, or even strip poker if that's your game. Besides, if you think you're going to scare me off, I want you to know the old goats at Hill View used to bellyache just like you. I find it charming. Now sit down and eat your dinner.”

The Colonel gave her a good feisty look, then focused in on the eggs. In a flash he sat down and started tearing into them like he had into the fudge. Dolly gave us a great big wink. “That's a good boy,” she said to the Colonel. “That's a very good boy.”

“You're not my doctor, you know” came the reply.

“I know it,” Dolly seconded as she gave the old man a paper towel for a napkin.

“You probably think I'm crazy, don't you?” the Colonel wanted to know.

“If you can count five stones and know your name, then I don't think you're crazy. That's always been my rule for nuts.” Then she reached into her doghouse-shaped pocketbook and took out a half pint of blackberry brandy. “This will really hit the spot,” she said, pouring the Colonel a small shot.

The Colonel grunted and took a sip.

“Are you sure that's good for him?” I asked.

“Of course it is,” Dolly replied. “It's organic.”

It got so it felt as if we were butting into Dolly and the Colonel's private little party, so John and I went out and did the dishes. Later on Dolly served ice cream for dessert.

“Tastes like homemade,” the Colonel grunted.

Dolly took the Colonel's hand at that point and gave it a big squeeze. Then she turned to us and said, “Oh, my darlings, this has been wonderful, hasn't it? I haven't enjoyed myself this much in years. Everything's lookin' up, lookin' up.” Her pom-pom earrings flickered now as though they were on fire. John and I decided it would be a good idea if he and I took a walk and let the two of them be alone.

“You kids are swell,” Dolly said to that idea. “You kids are just swell.”

The night was getting rather cool, and a fog was coming in off the ocean and we could actually see it ducking under the Verrazano Bridge. John took my hand and we walked the whole length of Howard Avenue, past the convent and the whole string of fancy houses perched on the cliffs. We even went past the house where Eileen Farrell, the famous opera singer, used to live, and farther down there was an old house where Dame Sybil Leek did a television program about spooks in an old stucco house. I don't know why, but I love to walk by famous people's houses. The most famous person's house I ever walked past was Phyllis Whitney's house, which happened to be in St. George, but on a street much higher up than where the Colonel's town house was. I loved reading all the mysteries she wrote. And one time she came to my high school and gave a great speech where she told a fantastic story about somebody and then at the end of the story we found out that the somebody was somebody famous like Einstein or Mary Baker Eddy. As we walked, John did a lot of talking about the Colonel and Dolly, and how strange old people are. He thought the two of them acted like two-year-old babies when they meet each other for the first time in supermarket baskets. Little babies wave to each other and smile and reach out even though they've never met before.

Right here I'm going to start another paragraph I'm not going to let John read until we're finished writing the book; then I'll stick it in. As we were walking along I wasn't listening to John's babblings. I was more focused in on the fact that he was holding my hand and at least four times I just wanted to stop, put my arms around him and kiss him on the lips. Sometimes I think a girl has to do something like that, because some boys are really slow. I also have a theory that there are a lot of homely girls who get very good-looking boys because they are aggressive and make up for good-looking boys' shyness. There's a girl, Peggy Lamberti, who really is physically a disaster, even so much as having bumps on her nose. But she goes after all the shy terrific-looking guys and gets them. She has what's called personality. That means that she can play the piano, compliment the boys a mile a minute, and dance in these skirts that flare out. In situations where other girls would be in tears, Peggy laughs delightfully. The more John talked about the Colonel and Dolly, the more my mind drifted to every thought I ever had about love and sex. Of course there was a lot of information in my head about love and sex because recently the public-school system on Staten Island canceled a big Sex and Love Information Conference that was supposed to be held under the auspices of the Mental Health Society. The principals of the schools decided it was too risky, so the kids decided to chip in and support the conference anyway outside of school. It was a terrific day, and I learned a lot of things from all the various discussions I attended. I don't know why, but a lot of stuff from that conference came barging through my head, like the two best seminars, called, “Sex: Ready or Not!” and “Rape—It Can Happen to You.” Then there was another panel where they gave you a list of a lot of things that kids should think about in order to find out what kind of person they are. Some of the questions you were supposed to ask yourself were, “If someone gave you five hundred dollars, what would you do with it?” and “What characteristics would you want most in a best friend?” There were a lot of weird classes in the conference, too. One was called “In Defense of Virgins,” which basically made the point that after boys go through a very passionate period in high school, they seem to be less obsessive about carnal wishes later on. I had to laugh at one session I went to called “Why Sex Education Belongs in the Home.” If that ever went on in my home, my mother would shoot me with a bazooka. The conference also had other workshops for mothers and fathers. They were very provocative and called things like “What to Do If Your Teenager Is Having Sex” and “You Can't Stop Your Child from Having Sex.” Another thing I got out of the conference was this theory about the ABC's of responsible sex. It said if you could just remember that “A” stands for abstinence, “B” is for baby, and “C” is for contraception, then everything would work out all right in life. And I remembered another thing in a pamphlet. They said that when a boy takes a girl home, all he really expects is a couple of kisses. And for a lot of boys this is all they can really handle comfortably. This pamphlet says that a boy is really relieved when a girl doesn't give in to his complaint about not getting more on a date. But I think this pamphlet was printed several years ago. They also had a wonderful poster they gave out that showed a doctor, a construction worker, and a bricklayer. Three tough-looking men, all of whom had gigantic bellies. Underneath the picture it said, “Would you be more careful if it was
you
who got pregnant?” But I guess the fact that really impressed me was that over fifty percent of kids my age do go all the way. Well at least that leaves about another fifty percent who are probably in the same boat I am. Maybe it's not a better boat, and maybe it's not a worse boat; maybe it's just the right boat for some kids. Sometimes, though, the more I read in the psychology books and magazines about sex, the less appealing it is. And the more I learn about it in all the sex manuals they hand out, the more scary it is. Sometimes I wish schools could just teach sex ignorance courses so I could spend more time being myself and less time worrying about what everybody else is doing. Anyway all I'm really trying to tell you is what was on my mind. I just felt like expressing to John that I thought we should be closer, so I put my arm around his waist and moved closer to him as we went by Eileen Farrell's house. I could tell I made John lose his train of thought for a moment. He was talking about what a kind lady Dolly Racinski was. And I knew he was taken off guard by my action. I was terrified that I might have gone too far and John would just brush me away like a leper, not because he hated me, but because his feelings weren't growing like mine. After a terrible silence, he put his arm around me and resumed talking about Dolly. My fingers on his waist got so nervous I thought he would yell at me for causing vibrations to his belly-button. Although he didn't say anything about our new proximity, his hand rubbed my right shoulder softly as though telling me
It's okay
. Somehow I heard my mother's voice in my head at just that moment screaming one of her favorite things, like “You watch out for boys. They're all dirty and only want one thing.” (This is the end of my secret paragraph.)