Cartoonist (8 page)

And now he, Alfie, had joined the group. Drawing cartoons was bad enough, he thought, but locking himself in the attic really clinched it. “He’s weird,” Tree would tell everyone, “locked himself in the attic.”

“Well, you know how he is, Tree,” his mother said. “He just does things without thinking. Anyway, I thought maybe if you called to him, he’d come down and you could walk to school together.”

“Well, I don’t know. I could try.” Tree cleared his throat. “Alfie, you want to walk to school with me?” He waited, then said in a lower voice, “I don’t think he wants to, Mrs. Mason.”

“Call again … please.”

“Alfie, you going to school?” He paused, and then his voice began to pick up speed with his enthusiasm. “Listen, the reason I came by this morning is because Lizabeth and me are having a kind of war—it’s not going to be anything violent, Mrs. Mason,” he added quickly, “it’s just going to be one of those boys against the girls things—like
Challenge of the Sexes
on television. Anyway, Alfie, we worked it out last night. It’s going to be five different contests. And it’s you against Zeenie in—get this!—bowling! And Zeenie’s lousy too, Alfie. Half the time her ball never even gets to the pins. I mean, if it goes all the way down there, she’s
proud.
Gutter balls are her specialty.”

Tree swallowed, almost choking on his enthusiasm. “And, Alfie, here’s the really good news. It’s me against Lizabeth in
basketball.
I still can’t believe she agreed. I mean, free throws are my specialty, Alfie. Everybody knows that. I can do them blindfolded, but she said, ‘All right, fine with me,’ and so we each get ten shots from the free-throw line—she takes one and I take one—or rather she
tries
to take one, right, Alfie?

“And then—more good news—it’s Willie against Beth Ann in a race. He looks slow because he’s fat, right, but you and me know he is
fast.
Remember when he stole my adenoids? Remember the doctor put them in a little jar for me and we chased him for seven blocks? Anyway, you got to come down. We need to make plans. And, Alfie, if I’m late to school one more time I have to write a composition!”

There was silence. In the attic Alfie could imagine Tree and his mother with their faces turned up to the trap door. There were sounds as Tree climbed up the ladder. He slapped his hand against the trap door. “Alfie, hey, come on down. This sex challenge is going to be one of the biggest things Morgantown’s ever seen. We may get on TV!”

Alfie’s mother let her breath out in one long sigh. “He’s not coming, Tree.”

“But he’s
got
to. He’s got to be in the challenge, Mrs. Mason. I already promised Zeenie he’d bowl her.” He raised his voice. “Alfie, I
promised
Zeenie. She won’t bowl anybody but you!” He went up another rung on the ladder and lowered his voice. “Look, if you’re mad about what I said yesterday, forget it. That’s over with. I didn’t mean it. This is too important for us to stay mad. This is
war
!”

There was another long silence while Tree realized slowly that Alfie was not going to come down. “Mrs. Mason, are you sure he can hear me up there?” he asked.

“He can hear you.”

“But then why doesn’t he come down? This is important.”

“I know, Tree.”

“We’ve got to make plans.”

“I know.” Her voice had a cold, ringing sound. “Alfie has upset a lot of plans.”

In the attic Alfie shivered.

“Well, when he comes down, Mrs. Mason,” Tree went on, “tell him about the war—he may not have heard all the details through the ceiling. And tell him to come on to school. We can’t put this war off. We’re
up
for it, you know, Mrs. Mason? We don’t want to lose our momentum. Tell him I’m going against Lizabeth after school today—three o’clock in the gym. I know he’ll want to be there for that. Did you hear me, Alfie? It’s me against Lizabeth at three o’clock. And tomorrow, Alfie, it’s you against Zeenie. Now she’s lousy, Alfie, but she’s also the niece of the man who runs the bowling alley—Red Cassini is her uncle, Alfie, and he’ll probably get some pro to coach her. Alfie, are you listening?” Tree stepped down from the ladder and started for the door. “Is that clock right, Mrs. Mason?”

“I think so, Tree.”

“Then I’m late.” His voice sank.

The door slammed, and Tree ran down the sidewalk toward school. Alfie heard his footsteps fade in the distance.

Alfie’s mother went into the kitchen, plugged in the coffee pot, and sank down into one of the chairs. In a few minutes the scent of coffee reached Alfie in the attic. He glanced over at his own supply of food. He looked away. He wasn’t hungry. Hunger seemed now to be one of those things he would never feel again. Like thirst. Or sorrow. Or happiness. He just didn’t think he would feel anything again ever.

A raindrop fell on the roof. It made a loud sound as if the roof material were stretched, drum-tight, over the rafters. Alfie had never been in the attic when it rained. He put his head down on his arms.

The rain began to come down hard now, splattering against the roof in waves. It was a rhythmic thing, Alfie thought, like the ocean he had never seen. He closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

“A
LFIE, DO YOU HEAR
me? This is Pap speaking.” Pap’s voice sounded as clear and pronounced as a radio announcer’s.

Alfie lifted his head. The rain had slackened and was now a steady drumming on the roof. It gave Alfie a drowsy feeling. His eyelids drooped.

“Alfie?”

His eyes opened.

“Alfie, your ma’s gone over to the Wilkinses’ to use the telephone. She’s calling to tell Bubba and Maureen to come on over as soon as they can get their things together. She’s not letting on that you’ve locked yourself in the attic. She’s telling them the attic is all fixed up like something out of a picture.”

Pap pulled his chair closer to the trap door. Alfie could hear the chair legs scraping on the floor. Pap sat down heavily. He sighed, scratched his chin. Alfie could hear his whiskers bristle.

“There’s something I want to say before she gets back,” Pap went on. “Now, Alfie, I don’t want Bubba and Maureen staying here any more than you do. I wish
I
could lock myself somewheres. I’d do it if I thought it would do any good. Only it wouldn’t. There’s not much an old man can do to get noticed without them sending him to the asylum.”

Pap cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. Alfie knew Pap was looking up at the trap door now. He could hear the back cushion creak.

Alfie opened his eyes wide, trying to stay awake. He didn’t know why he was so sleepy. It was mid-morning—he knew that from the television programs—and yet he felt as tired as if it were midnight. Maybe it was because of the bad dreams, he thought. All night long he had had nightmares in which cars crashed together and the ceiling cracked like a jigsaw puzzle and fell on him.

“So here’s what I was thinking, Alfie,” Pap said, his voice rising with his enthusiasm. “I was thinking maybe you and me and Bubba could get the junkyard back. Harvey Sweet’s let it run down. I was out there the other day—took the bus to the end of the line and then walked five miles just to see how things was—I miss that place, Alfie—and things was bad. Sweet hadn’t got a new wreck in three months. And the crown—remember the hubcap crown your dad made? Wreck King of West Virginia? Well, it’s gone—blew down in the wind, Sweet said—and the whole place is looking run-down. I got a catch in my throat when I saw it.”

He shifted in his chair. Then Alfie heard him get to his feet and begin lumbering around the living room like a bear just learning to walk erect. Alfie remembered that last day when the junkyard was being sold. Pap had walked among the ruined cars like a dazed, defeated general.

“Things could be the way they used to be, Alfie, when your dad was alive. You remember them days?”

In the attic Alfie looked down at his empty hands. Slowly he closed them into fists.

Below, Pap had gotten to the wall. Alfie heard his footsteps stop, then begin again as he returned. Alfie imagined him touching pieces of furniture as he had long ago touched fenders and windshields. “We had someplace to go then, something to do. Remember how we used to sit out there on a summer evening? People would come shopping for parts after supper, remember? That was our busiest time. And I’d sit there on an upturned Coke carton, greeting people, and you—you was as good at tracking down car parts as your dad. And when you got tired you’d take a rest in an old blue Dodge sedan you was fond of. You
got
to remember the Dodge, Alfie!” He sighed.

“Well, Alfie,” he went on, “it could be like that again. I know it could.” Pap stopped walking, and Alfie heard the ladder creak as Pap leaned against it. “I know how you feel up there, Alfie. I have give up a time or two myself. I think about the government rotting away like an apple and senators using our money for trips to China—did I tell you, Alfie,
twenty-seven
senators is going to London, England, to pick up a copy of the Magna Carta? Which they could
mail,
Alfie! And you know who is paying them twenty-seven senators’ way, don’t you? You and me!” He snorted with disgust. “I think about things like that and about us giving money to countries that hates us and arms to countries that wants to shoot at us. Well, it makes me want to go somewheres too. Stick my head in the sand. Lock myself in a closet. Get where I can’t hear no more.” His voice lowered. “Only if we had the junkyard again, Alfie, well, it would make up for everything. Come on down and we’ll talk about it. I got a little money saved up—don’t tell your ma. It’s not much, but we could use it for a down payment, get a loan for the rest. And Bubba—well, if he’s good at anything, it’s wrecking cars, and between the three of us—”

Pap broke off. “Your ma’s coming back. She looks mad too. Come on down, Alfie. No need to rile her any more.”

Alfie could hear his mother running up the walk, taking the steps. She came in the door, shaking water off her raincoat. “It’s pouring, Pap,” she said, “and I couldn’t get anything but a busy signal. Twenty times I dialed. You’d think they’d stay off the line when they knew I was going to call.”

“Maybe they’d took it off the hook. A busy signal don’t always mean busy.”

She ignored him. “Maureen stays on the phone all the time. I suppose we’ll have to have one installed to keep her happy. Is Alfie down yet?”

“No.”

“It figures. When one thing goes wrong, everything goes wrong.” She looked up at the ceiling and yelled, “Did you hear that, Alfie? You are now just
one
of the things going wrong. You are one of the two thousand and ninety-nine things going wrong!”

“Alfie and me was just talking about starting up the junkyard again.”

“Oh, Pap, you know that’ll never happen.”

“We could do it.”

“Forget it.”

“How can I forget it when every time I see a dented fender I get a pain over my heart?”

Alfie closed his eyes. The junkyard seemed so long ago to him. He couldn’t go back. It was as if someone had taken him by the hand and said, “Remember how much fun being five years old was? Let’s go back to kindergarten and make flowers out of pipe cleaners and masks out of paper plates.” You couldn’t double back.

Alfie raised his head and looked at the end of the attic. Water was dripping through the eaves, and a puddle had formed on the floor. Around him were the sounds of other drips. Alfie did not look up, because he did not want to see his cartoons.

There was an old game he had played long ago with Alma. “Heavy, heavy, hangs over your head,” she would say, and he would have to guess what the object was.

“Is it made of wood?”

“No.”

“Is it made of metal?”

“No.”

“Paper?”

“Yes.”

“Is it—cartoons?”

Alfie let his head drop heavily on the plastic tabletop. His pencils in their glass jar trembled. Pointing up, they reminded him of what he could not forget.

A
LFIE HEARD THE OPENING
music of his mother’s favorite soap opera, and he knew it was three o’clock. Tree would be going into the gym now. Maybe he was already there at the free-throw line, practicing. Alfie knew just how Tree would look, one foot slightly behind the other, one hand on either side of the ball. He would bounce the ball three times for luck. His eyes would be riveted on the basket. He would shoot. Elizabeth wouldn’t have a chance.

Alfie sighed. For a moment he wished he were in the gym with them. If he could have gotten there without going down the ladder and walking through the living room, he would have done it.

If only, he thought, he could move from one attic to another, walking through tunnels over everyone’s head, unseen, unheard. He would stroll to the game, listen to Tree beat Elizabeth, walk home through the tunnel, sit down at his desk. He would never have to see anyone. That was the way he wanted his life to be—a series of attics.

He laid his head on the table. The rain had stopped, and everything seemed clearer, as if the rain had cleaned the air. Sun was slanting through the eaves.

He imagined that by now Tree was probably halfway through the shoot-out. The score was probably five to nothing, Tree’s favor. The boys would be counting every time Tree’s ball went in the basket.
“Five!” “Six!”

Below all was quiet. His mother had been to the Wilkinses’ twice to call Bubba and Maureen, but she had gotten a busy signal both times. Now she was watching her soap opera, sipping a cup of coffee. The program ended in a burst of music, and his mother turned the channel to a game show.

Suddenly he heard Tree’s voice. “Mrs. Mason, can I see Alfie?”

“Tree, he’s not down from the attic yet.”

“Well, that’s all right. I just want to tell him something.”

“Be my guest.”

Tree paused, cleared his throat. “Could I speak to him in private, Mrs. Mason?”

“I’m watching television, Tree,” she said. “Oh, well, I can hear it in the kitchen, I guess.”

She walked out of the room, and Alfie heard Tree climbing up the ladder. Tree reached up to the trap door with one hand. He drummed his fingers against the wood. “Alfie, can you hear me?”