Boys & Girls Together (8 page)

“Oh boy,” Walt said. “Oh boy.” Maudie turned and left the room. Walt picked up his spoon.

“Wait!” Arnold said.

Walt looked over at him, spoon poised.

“Don’t touch that. There’s something wrong with it.”

“Oh, you don’t fool me, Arnold. Not this time, you don’t.”

“I’m not trying to fool you.”

“You just want my pudding, I know. Well, you can’t have it.”

“I don’t want your pudding, Berty. I don’t even want mine.” He pushed his plate a few inches away.

“Why don’t you?”

“Because there’s something wrong with it.” He sniffed his pudding. “It’s spoiled or something. Smell it yourself if you don’t believe me.”

Walt stuck his nose close to the pudding and that was when Arnold pushed his face down, right into the bowl. The pudding splattered all over and Walt’s glasses were caked with chocolate so he could hardly see.

“All right now, what’s the fuss?” Maudie, big and black, stood by the table.

“Walt had an accident,” Arnold hollered. “He thought the pudding smelled funny and then he had an accident.”

“I do believe you’re right,” Maudie said, picking up Walt’s bowl, sniffing it. “I must have used spoiled cream. It sure does smell funny.”

“It does?” Arnold said, and he sniffed at his bowl of pudding until the great black hand slammed down, shoving his face into the chocolate. Arnold kicked but the hand held firm, forcing his nose flat against the bottom of the plate. Arnold flailed his arms but the great black hand did not move. It pushed and pushed and only when Arnold began coughing convulsively did it raise up.

Arnold ran sobbing from the room, crying, “P.T., P.T.” over and over.

“He’s going to tell them,” Walt murmured. “He’s running right to them.”

Then Maudie had him, shaking him hard. “You! You are so gullible I want to cry. You know what that means? Gullible? It means sucker and you stop being one!”

Then Arnold was back in the kitchen, screaming, “You’re gonna get it now, you’re gonna get it now!” and then P.T. strode in, followed by Emily.

P.T. pointed to his eldest son. “You do that, Maudie?”

“Bet yo’ass!”

P.T. hesitated, staring at the folded black arms. “Oh,” he said finally. “Well, you probably had a good reason.”

“That’s my feeling.”

“Just checking,” P.T. said, and he returned to his guests.

Emily approached Maudie. “Maudie,” she whispered, “you must try to watch your language in front of the children.”

“You’re absolutely right, Emily. I gotta do that.”

“Yes,” Emily said, and she followed her husband. Arnold just stood there, staring around.

Walt looked at him. “Chicken!” he said. “Yellow chicken!” Arnold began to shake. Then he (1) stamped his foot in anger; (2) burst into tears; (3) fled.

“He’s yellow,” Walt said. “I never told them. Never even once.”

“Shut up and eat your pudding,” Maudie said. Walt ate his pudding. And didn’t it taste good!

Gino Caruso was the only marble player in school as brilliant as Walt. Gino never fudged or spit during an opponent’s turn. He simply knelt by the perimeter of the big pot circle, his chin resting on his knees, his dark eyes bright. Then, when his turn came, he would knuckle down fairly and begin to shoot, his deadly fingers cleaning out the pot with startling speed. He and Walt would usually battle around the big pot circle late in the afternoons, after they had beaten all other comers soundly. Then, their pockets crammed with spoils, they would engage each other in epic struggles that sometimes lasted till dark. Gino won some, others Walt won; always the caliber of play was outstanding. But Gino was more than just a marble player; he was quick, brighter than most, and easily the most graceful on the jungle gym or at tag or pom-pom-pullaway.

“Hey, Gino,” Walt said. It was autumn and they were standing together on the playground during recess.

“Hey, Walt.”

“Hey, Gino,” Walt said again, feinting with his right, sending a straight left that grazed Gino’s arm.

“Pow,” Gino said, moving his lithe body this way, then that, getting Walt off balance, delicately landing a light right to the chin.

“Watcha doon?” They continued to spar.

“Watcha mean, watcha doon? When?”

“After.”

“School?”

“Yeah.” Walt drove in with a right and left to the body, but Gino was much too fast, so both punches missed.

“Some stuff for my old lady.”

“That take long?” Walt tried a roundhouse right, but it wasn’t a good idea; Gino gave him three fast ones in the ribs and was gone from range before the right arrived.

“Half hour if I hurry.”

“You wanna do something after that maybe?”

“Sure. What?”

“I don’t know. Something.”

“Fine with me. Where? Here?”

“How ’bout my house? We got trees.”

“Where’s your house?”

“End of Linden Lane.”

“I’ll find it.” The recess bell rang. They started back to school, still fighting. “Zonk.” A right to the breadbasket. “See you, Walt.”

“Whap.” A final errant left. “See you, Gino.”

As soon as school was over he hurried home. His mother was back by the pool with Mrs. Hosquith. She waved to him, gesturing toward the water, but he shook his head, shouting, “Gino’s coming to play” before turning, starting for the kitchen. He let the screen door slam shut with a bang because that always got Maudie good.

“You let that door slam one more time and you are d-e-a-d.”

“Hey, Maudie.” He entered her domain.

“Don’t you ‘Hey Maudie’ me, whoever you are. I don’t associate with people so stupid they let the door slam.”

“Hey, Maudie.”

“Hey Maudie what?”

“What we got to eat?”

“Food, stupid. That’s what we generally eat, ain’t it?”

“We got any cookies or cake or anything?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Gino’s coming to play and maybe he’ll be hungry.”

“The famous marble shooter you told me about?”

Walt nodded.

“Is he as stupid as you are?”

Walt shook his head.

“Then don’t you worry. I’ll feed him.”

Walt dashed out the back, letting the screen door slam again, waiting till he heard “d-e-a-d” loud and clear. Then he ran around to the front and started inspecting trees. He decided that the old maple would be best to climb, and, the decision made, he tore into the house again and up to his room. He got out his collection of baseball cards and tossed them casually across his dresser top. Then he brought his game of Photo Electric Football from his closet and stood it in a corner of the room. Ready at last, he mussed his hair, made sure his hands were dirty and walked to the window seat on the landing. From the window he had a clear view of the long driveway along which Gino would have to travel. Walt waited. After a moment or two he began to sing. “I’m called little Buttercup, sweet little Buttercup, though I shall never tell whyyyyyy; but still I’m called Buttercup, dear little Buttercup, sweet little Buttercup I-I-I-I-I-I-I.” No Gino. He dashed downstairs and looked at the grandfather’s clock that dominated one corner of the foyer. It had been half an hour. Gino was due. He took the stairs two at a time and slid safely onto the window seat. It was a beautiful day, warm, with the leaves still striving for green. A light wind blew across the great lawn. Walt slid down the banister and examined the grandfather’s clock. Forty minutes now. He climbed back to the window seat. The maple tree was begging to be conquered; its low arms reached out toward him, bowing before the mounting wind. “You’re mad, Kirkaby. No one has ever climbed Everest. Much less at night. Much less in a blizzard like this one. Great Scott, man, you won’t have a chance.” The Whizzer’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got to listen to me, Kirkaby. It’s two hundred below on the slopes tonight. And that wind! Just listen.” The Whizzer listened. Then he donned his ear muffs. “Kirkaby, come back. Kirkaby, don’t. Kirkaby ... Fifty-five minutes. Walt drew back his foot to kick the clock, then thought the better of it.

“Ain’t your friend here yet?”

“He’ll come!”

Maudie looked at him. “Course he will, sugar. Don’t you worry.”

Walt walked to the window seat and stared out. Nothing. Just the wind. At that moment he could have cried, so he vaulted off the seat and ran out into the front yard. The maple tree was no fun to climb alone, but he pulled himself up over the bottom limbs just to see better. Nothing. Just the wind. Had he said Linden Lane? Maybe he had said the wrong address. Walt shook his head. He remembered. End of Linden Lane. That was what he had said and Gino had answered I’ll find it. Walt jumped out of the tree and did an awkward somersault on the grass. They always made him dizzy, but the grass was soft so he didn’t mind. He lay on his stomach and pushed his glasses up snug tight against the bridge of his nose with his left thumb before he began looking for a four-leaf clover. He was terrific at spotting four-leaf clovers, probably the best in the world. He never cared much for them but his mother loved them, so whenever he had nothing better to do he hunted them down and gave them to her. She always made a fuss and thanked him and that wasn’t so bad. Walt looked for a little but then stopped because where was Gino! Walt rolled onto his back but the clouds were too thin to hide any animals. And wasn’t that always the way? When you were in a hurry there’d be a whole menagerie over you and when you had time, nothing. Not even a cow; not even if you cheated. Walt stood and started spinning around and around. That really made him dizzy, much worse than the somersaulting, but he kept on until he almost fell back to earth. He lay in a heap, eyes closed, heart thumping.
Where was he?
Why did he say he was going to come if he wasn’t going to? He should never have told his mother and Maudie. Walt stood and thrust his arms out straight, making airplane noises. He was good at it but it bored him then, so he shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking aimlessly across the perfect lawn. “
Gino!
” he yelled suddenly, all he had. From somewhere came an answer, soft and far. “Walt? Walt?”

Walt ran. He tore down the lawn to the driveway and then sped over the gravel toward the great stone posts at the end. Gino was standing framed between the posts at the edge of the driveway.

“Hey, Gino!” Walt cried.

“Hey, Walt!”

“How long you been here?”

“Hour.”

“You have? You been here an hour, Gino?” They were standing side by side now and they shook hands. “Why didn’t you come in? You crazy?”

“I just been waiting for you here.”

“But you should have come
in
. That’s what you should have done. You crazy Gino.”

“I can read.”

“Read what?”

Gino pointed.

Walt stared at the wooden signs.
PRIVATE DRIVEWAY. NO TRESPASSING. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

“I ain’t no trespasser,” Gino said.

“Oh them. They’re just there, y’know? Now c’mon.”

“I ain’t no trespasser.”

“Will you forget about them, huh?” And he pulled at Gino’s arm but Gino did not move. Walt pulled again and then he let go and ran at the signs. “I tell you they don’t mean anything! See?” And he started pulling at them but they were nailed in, so he grabbed a rock and started pounding with all his might until the wood began to splinter. “See? See? They don’t mean anything! Not a goddam thing! See! See, Gino! See!” He switched the rock to the other hand, crying like a fool, smashing until the wooden signs fell from the pillars to the ground, where he stamped them to death beneath his feet.

Maudie approved of Gino and Emily was very kind, so the next recess Walt asked him over for lunch.

“Got my lunch,” Gino said.

“You got milk? You got dessert?”

“No.”

“Then come on.”

So they walked to Linden Lane, quizzing each other on batting averages. (They were both fantastic on batting averages.) When they got to the house Walt opened the back screen door, careful not to let it slam, and preceded Gino up the steps. “Hey, Maudie.”

“Hey Maudie what?”

“Guess who I got with me?”

“I got my own lunch,” Gino said quickly, holding up his brown paper sack.

“He’s gonna have milk and dessert.”

“That’s right,” Maudie said. “Course he is.” They sat at the kitchen table and she brought Gino a plate. He unfolded the brown paper bag, took out two sandwiches, then folded the bag again on the same creases and stuck it into his back pocket. Maudie busied herself with Walt’s lunch.

“Watcha got?” Walt asked.

“Same as always.”

“What?”

“Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

“They any good?”

“You never had one?”

“No.”

Maudie brought them both glasses of cold milk. Then she brought Walt’s lunch. It consisted of a slab of roast beef and mashed potatoes and gravy and fresh green peas.

“Lemme taste,” Walt said.

Gino handed him a sandwich.

Walt took a small bite. “So this is peanut butter and jelly.”

Gino nodded.

Walt could say nothing more.

Then Gino said, “You ate my whole sandwich.”

“Gimme the other.”

Gino hesitated.

“Here,” Walt said, and he shoved his steaming plate of roast beef across the table. “If you don’t like it, you can have something else. But I gotta have that other sandwich.”

Gino started eating the roast beef.

“Oh boy,” Walt said. “Oh boy.” He finished half the sandwich, then forced himself to slow down. “You get these every day?”

Gino nodded. “Whaddya call this?”

“Roast beef.”

“Oh, sure,” Gino said, and then neither of them spoke until the meal was done.

The next day, Maudie made Walt peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and he ate them, but all the while he was watching Gino eat his. Because Maudie’s weren’t the same. Peanut butter is peanut butter; jelly, jelly; bread, bread—but they just weren’t the same. After lunch, he took her aside while Gino waited for him in the doorway.

“Those were terrific sandwiches, Maudie. I really liked those sandwiches.”

“Go on.”

“Well.” Walt smiled at her. Finally he whispered, “I think it’s that brown bag gives them the flavor, you know what I mean?”