Cartoonist (4 page)

Alfie got to his feet. Running again, he left the park and ran through the Lanleys’ yard. A dog barked. He entered the apartment building where they lived at the time.

He looked so wild as he entered that his mother asked him what was wrong. Gasping for breath, he broke into the story of Bubba and Perry Fletcher’s car.

Halfway through the story he faltered. He realized his mom would be furious with Bubba. She would probably throw on her coat and go looking for him. Bubba would never forgive him.

Instead he saw that his mother was beginning to laugh. He hesitated, puzzled.

“But, Mom, this could be car theft.”

“Not if he doesn’t get in the car,” she said. “Anyway, go on.” She reached forward and turned off
I Love Lucy
so she could get a real laugh. “Now, start from the beginning and tell me every detail.” Her eyes were shining. “Don’t leave out a thing.”

He told it again, slower, standing as rigid as if he were in front of his class giving a report.

She laughed so hard at this second telling that she had to have a tissue. When she dried her eyes, calm at last, she said, “Do me a favor.”

“All right.”

“Don’t let Bubba know you told me.”

“All right.”

“I want to hear him tell it too. Can’t you just imagine them sitting on Goat’s porch? Can’t you just imagine the expression on Perry Fletcher’s face when he—Hey, get me Bubba’s annual. I want to see what he looks like.” The picture of Perry Fletcher in the annual set her laughing again. “I
knew
he’d look like that. He’s the only boy on this page who’s got on a tie.”

Alfie shifted in his bed again. On the ceiling the lights of a car passing on the street below reflected, moved, disappeared. In the next room his mother snorted in her sleep.

Maybe he could do a cartoon about it, Alfie thought. That was what artists were supposed to do—turn life’s painful experiences into art.

He imagined two boys pushing a car down the street. It was too real. He imagined an old man and a woman pushing a funny-looking car down the road. That was better. They would be hot and sweaty. The old woman’s hair would be flying out from her head. The old man’s shirt sleeves would be rolled up. The old woman would be snapping at the man. “Sure you invented the car! I want to know when you’re going to invent the
engine
!”

Maybe his mother would laugh at that, but he didn’t think so. Planning a better cartoon, he fell asleep.

A
T HIS SCHOOL DESK
Alfie was drawing a comic strip about a dog. The rest of the class was working math problems.

Alfie had gotten the idea for his strip that morning during breakfast. Alma was talking about an article she’d read. “It said you shouldn’t buy this kind of cereal, Mom.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s got additives in it. Look on the box—artificial coloring, artificial flavoring—just read what we’re eating.”

Pap said, “It’s better than hot dogs. There’s rat hairs in them.”

“Not at the table, please, Pap,” Alfie’s mother said.

“And where there’s rat hairs, there’s probably rat—”

“Pap!”

“—droppings.”

“Pap!”

“Let
me
buy the cereal from now on, all right, Mom?” Alma said, getting up from the table.

Alfie was dipping his spoon into his soggy cereal, thinking up a comic strip about artificial flavoring.

“Alfie, are you going to sit there all morning or are you going to school?” his mom said finally.

“Don’t bother me right now.”

“Well, you’re lucky to have somewhere to go, isn’t he, Pap? Don’t you wish you could go to school?”

“No.”

Now Alfie had finished his comic strip. He had intended that as soon as he finished, he would begin work on his math problems, but now he sat admiring his work. His math was forgotten.

In the first square a large dog was reading the label on a can of dog food. “Artificial flavoring.”

In the second square the dog was reading the label on a box of dog biscuits. “Artificial coloring.”

In the third square the dog was reading the label on a dog collar. “Artificial fibers.”

In the fourth square he was howling, “Is everything artificial these days?”

In the last square a little sign comes up from the dog’s fur. “Fleas are still real!”

Alfie was very pleased with it. He wanted to take it up immediately and show it to his teacher, but she would know he had done it during Math.

“All right,” the teacher said, “time’s up. Change papers with your partners and we’ll check our work.”

Alfie looked up, startled. He glanced at Tree. Dutifully Tree was holding out his paper to Alfie. “Go easy,” he said. He waited a minute with his hand outstretched and then he said, “Come on. Give me your paper.” He snapped his fingers with impatience.

“I didn’t do mine,” Alfie whispered back, hiding his comic strip under his notebook.

“Why not?”

“I just didn’t.”

“But then I don’t have anything to check!” Tree complained. He was upset. He loved to grade papers. It gave him a feeling of power. Grading papers made him want to become a teacher when he grew up.

“What’s wrong back there, Tree?” Mrs. Steinhart asked.

“Nothing.”

“Alfie? Anything wrong?”

“No.”

“All right then, we’ll go over the first problem.” Mrs. Steinhart began to put the problem on the board. All the class bent over their papers.

Tree leaned forward too, hunched miserably over his bare desk. He shot Alfie a resentful look. Alfie did not glance at him. He was going over Tree’s first problem.

Tree punched Alfie to get his attention. Then he acted out the difficulty of grading an invisible paper.

“Tree?” Mrs. Steinhart called.

He looked up.

“Is anything wrong?”

“What could be wrong, Mrs. Steinhart?” This was what he always said when something was wrong that he was not free to discuss. He had gotten this from his sister, who had gotten it from soap operas.

“Whose paper are you grading?”

Tree looked down at his bare desk, the pencil in his hand. He sighed. “Alfie’s.”

“Bring it up here, please.”

Tree’s mouth fell open. He stared down at his desk. Finally he looked up at Mrs. Steinhart. “I can’t find his paper, Mrs. Steinhart, that’s what we were muttering about.”

Alfie cleared his throat. “The reason he can’t find my paper, Mrs. Steinhart, is because I didn’t do it. My mind was on something else.”

“Oh.” There was a pause, and then Mrs. Steinhart said, “Well, then we’ll continue without Alfie. Tree, give your paper to Maurice and you can grade Elizabeth’s paper.”

Tree’s face lit up with delight. “Yes,
ma’am
!
”
He snatched his paper from Alfie and made the exchange. He took Elizabeth’s paper with a flourish. “Revenge,” he whispered happily. He pantomimed making big X’s beside every one of her problems. “Is she going to be sorry she didn’t take our picture yesterday!”

Alfie sat without moving. He thought about going up to Mrs. Steinhart after class and explaining why he didn’t do his math, but he knew he didn’t have a good enough reason. Not comic strips. She wouldn’t buy that. Maybe he could say he had an attack of something. He sat silent and miserable.

Tree punched him. “She missed number three,” he whispered, his voice rising with delight, “subtracted instead of added.” He bent over Elizabeth’s paper again, pencil poised for action. He began to whistle through his teeth. Alfie slumped lower at his desk.

Beside him Tree straightened abruptly. His hand shot into the air. “Oh, Mrs. Steinhart,” he called, “is that a two or a three on the second line?”

“It’s a three.” She went over the number with her chalk.

“That’s what I was afraid of!” Tree said, singing the words in his joy. He made an elaborate X beside the problem. To Alfie he hissed, “She’s missed two out of five. Bet she’s really sorry she didn’t take our picture!”

Alfie nodded by lowering his head. He lifted his notebook and glanced at his comic strip of the dog. He pulled it into view. It made him happy when one of his cartoons came out just right, but now he didn’t smile.

Tree’s long arm was waving in the air again. “Oh, Mrs. Steinhart?”

She sighed. “Yes, Tree.”

“How many can you miss and still pass?”

“This isn’t a test, Tree.”

“I know, but if it
was
a test?”

“Well, there are ten problems. Everyone should get at least seven, though I would like to see everyone have a perfect paper.

“Too late for
everyone
to get a perfect paper, Mrs. Steinhart,” Tree said cheerfully. Tree nudged Alfie. “If she misses one more she’s—” He made a down gesture with his thumb.

Alfie nodded without enthusiasm. He took his comic strip and slipped it carefully in the back of his notebook in a pocket for special papers. When he got home he would put it up on the rafters in the attic. It deserved a place of honor, he thought, even though it couldn’t cheer him up now.

Also in the pocket was a comic strip he had done the day before during English. He pulled it out and looked at it. “Super Giant.”

In the first square the giant was destroying a forest, ripping trees from the earth, crying, “I love violence.”

In the second square the giant was destroying a village. “I
love
violence!”

In the third square the giant was destroying a farm.
“I love violence!”

In the last square the giant was flattened on the ground, being attacked by the villagers, the farm people, and the forest animals. He was saying, “It’s things like this that take the fun out of violence.”

The strip hadn’t come out the way Alfie had wanted it to, and although he had spent most of English and Science trying to correct it, he had not succeeded. He saw now that he had failed because he had tried to put too much into each square. Perhaps if he …

Beside him Tree was desperately going over Elizabeth’s paper one more time.

“Give me my paper, Tree,” Elizabeth said. She tried to snatch it from him.

“In a minute, in a minute.” He waved her away with his long arms. “I just want to make sure there aren’t any more mistakes.”

“Tree, give me my paper. Mrs. Steinhart, Tree won’t give me my paper.”

“Tree.”

“I’m just trying to be thorough, Mrs. Steinhart, like you taught us. I know there’s another mistake here. I just can’t find it.”

Elizabeth snatched her paper from him. “I’m rechecking this whole thing, Tree, and you better not have made any mistakes either.”

“Me? Make mistakes?” Tree said. He looked as lofty as if he were in the forest, glancing down at a mere sapling. He took his own paper from Maurice. He fell silent.

“By the way, how many did
you
miss, Tree?” Elizabeth asked scornfully.

Tree didn’t answer.

“All right, class,” Mrs. Steinhart said, “pass the papers to the front of the room, and, Alfie, I want to see you after school for a few minutes.”

Alfie closed his notebook. He shook his hair out of his eyes. “Yes’m,” he said.

“W
HAT’D SHE WANT?” TREE
asked. He had been waiting for Alfie. He was leaning against the lone schoolground tree, his foot propped on a root. He seemed part of the landscape.

“Nothing,” Alfie said.

A line of boys and girls were waiting to board the school bus. One of the boys called, “What’d she do to you, Alfie?”

“Nothing.” He kept walking. All the grass had been worn off the schoolyard, and the dirt was packed as hard as concrete.

Tree fell into step with Alfie. “What
did
she want?”

“If you
must
know—”

“I must.”

“—she wanted to tell me I’m flunking Math.”

“That’s supposed to be news?”

“Also she wants a conference with my mom.”

“She must not know your mom.”

Alfie kept walking, watching his feet.

“Nothing against your mom,” Tree went on. “I just can’t imagine anybody wanting to have a conference with her.”

Alfie said nothing. He had made a terrible mistake in his talk with Mrs. Steinhart, one he regretted deeply. In the middle of the talk, he had abruptly decided to take her into his confidence and show her his comic strip about the dog. This had been for two reasons. First, he really liked Mrs. Steinhart, and, second, he did not want her to think he was just goofing off during Math.

“Wait a minute,” he had said.

He had hurried back to his desk and gotten his notebook. He had carried it to her, opened it, and carefully pulled out the comic strip. He had laid it before her like a fabric salesman.

“What’s this, Alfie?” She put on her glasses.

“It’s a comic strip, Mrs. Steinhart. I drew it myself.”

“This is what you were doing instead of your math problems?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She looked at the strip. Alfie watched to see if a smile would come over her face. It did, but it was too faint to count. When she looked at Alfie the smile was gone. “You like to draw, don’t you, Alfie, cartoons and things?”

“Yes.”

“But—” She got even more serious. She took off her eyeglasses. “But don’t you think, Alfie, that there are times to draw—we do have Art, you know.”

“I know,” he said quickly. The week before they had cut out and colored Indian symbols. School art was as different from cartoons as Science was from recess.

Mrs. Steinhart was still talking. “And then there are times for Math and for English and for Science.” She made it sound as exact as sorting mail.

He picked up his drawing and slid it back in the pocket of his notebook. “Yes.”

“Your cartoon is really very good, and I think there’s a lot of humor in it.”

“Thank you.”

“And you’ve made a good point about the way we live today. There
are
too many artificial things. I myself have started reading the labels on everything I buy.”

“Thank you.”

“Only you’re going to have to do your cartoons after class.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to see you drawing again.”

“You won’t.”

“Good.” She smiled at him, a big smile now, the one he had wanted to see earlier when she had first looked at his comic strip. “You’re a smart boy, Alfie, and I want you to do as well as I know you can.”