Evergreen (53 page)

“Not now, lady.” The trooper turned to Joseph. “You’re the grandfather? We found the boy on the highway, trying to hitch a ride. He was heading for Boston, but he thought he was going northwest. Someplace in upstate New York … where was it, kid?”

“Brewerstown,” Eric said. “It’s where I live. I wanted to go back.”

He stood there shivering and suddenly very small. The borrowed Windbreaker enfolded him like a cape and hung almost to his knees.

“I don’t understand,” Joseph said. “You were running away?”

Eric kept his eyes on the floor.

“Seems so,” the trooper said. “It’s a good thing we came along. He got a lift, he and the dog, with some guy who was—you understand,” he said, glancing at Anna and Ruth, “excuse me—some sort of queer. Luckily he was able to get out of the car when it stopped at a light. I guess maybe the dog protected him, too.”

The veins pulsed on Joseph’s forehead. “Why did you do it, Eric? You’ve got to answer me. We’ve been good to you, haven’t we, Eric? Why did you do this to us?”

Eric raised his eyes. “Because I hate it here,” he said.

Joseph and Anna looked from one to the other, then at Eric, and back to each other.

“Kids!” the trooper said. “Don’t pay too much attention, Mr. Friedman. He needs a good old-fashioned hiding and he’ll shape up. They usually do. Only not tonight, I wouldn’t. He’s tired out and scared to death.” He turned to Eric with rough kindness. “You’re some lucky boy, living in a house like this. I wish I could have grown up in it! And you had a narrow escape. You could be in plenty of trouble by now, and don’t you forget it.”

He replaced his cap. There was a flurry of thanks, then offers of repayment and refusal.

“A drink? A cup of coffee, at least?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Just take care of the boy here. And you, mind your grandfather from now on, hear?”

The door closed, thudding into silence. Where Eric stood, in cotton trousers and thin shirt, a smudge of wet spread on the floor.

“Eric, tell me,” Anna whispered, “tell me what’s wrong?”

“I hate it here! It’s a mean, ugly place. I hate this house! You had no right to take me away from my home, and I’m going back. I’m not going to stay. I’ll run away again. You can’t keep me—”

“What kind of crazy talk is this?” Joseph cried.
“This
is your home. You know there’s no place else, no one but us to take care of you. You ought to be glad that—”

“Joseph! Hush!” Anna commanded. “Eric, listen to me. We can talk about all that tomorrow. But tonight it’s late and you can’t go anywhere in weather like this. There’s nobody out tonight.”

He swayed and grasped the back of a chair. “Come, come upstairs and then in the morning we can decide what to do,” Anna coaxed, urging him toward the stairs.

He was so weary that he had to pull himself up by the banister.

“I’ll heat a can of soup,” Ruth whispered.

Joseph followed them and started into Eric’s room.

“No,” Eric said, “I don’t want anybody. Leave me alone, all of you. I hate you all.”

The door slammed in their faces. They stood in the hall.

“I don’t understand it,” Joseph said again. He twisted his hands together. “He’s been so cheerful, so agreeable. We were going to buy football gear today. I don’t understand—”

Last week Anna had noticed that Eric trembled, or so she thought, but when she had mentioned it, Joseph had said it was nonsense. She didn’t remind him now.

Ruth came up with a cup of soup and joined them in the hall at the closed, defiant door.

“I don’t know what to do,” Anna whispered.

“This is ridiculous,” Joseph said. “Three adults intimidated by a naughty boy. I’m going in.”

He pushed the door open. Eric lay on the bed in his underwear, his face half hidden. His wet shirt and pants were on the floor. In the weak smudged light from the desk lamp they could see that he was weeping.

Joseph laid a hand on his shoulder. “Now, why should you be crying? A big boy like you, basketball champ, football player?”

“Joseph, get out,” Anna said fiercely. Talking to the boy as if he were a backsliding three-year-old who had soiled his pants! He forgets how
he
cried, how we held each other when this child’s father—

“What did you say?”

“‘Get out’ is what I said.”

“What are you talking about? Here’s Ruth with hot soup, we only want to help—”

“You’ll help by leaving him alone. Yes, there’s one thing you can do. Hand me a quilt from the linen closet; there’s a heavy blue one on the top shelf. And then go,” she said, turning upon him a look which seemed to amaze him.

When she had covered Eric and shut the door she came and sat down on the bed.

“Now cry,” she commanded. “God knows you’ve had reason enough. Cry it out. As loud as you want.”

She had a glimpse of an anguished face; then the head
went down to hide in the quilt, the body thrashed, shaking the bed. The sound of grief, deadened at first by the muffling quiet, rose into gasping cries, tearing the air, tearing the heart.

What can he think of a world in which his family always dies? Twice now, his home has been destroyed. Is he afraid that we too will die, Joseph and I? And then where will he go? Ought we to talk to him about that? Some other time, of course, not now?

A baby, Anna thought. Because he’s tall and smart and speaks well we think he can cope with anything. It’s hard enough for us to cope, old as we are. One foot stuck out of the muddle of quilt, one arm thrust over the head. Thin childish arm, large dangling hand of a man. Voice that veered from a squeal to a growl. And the first fuzz on the cheeks, so cherished, so anxiously examined in the mirror every morning. Maury used to take a hand mirror to the light at the window.

“Yes, cry,” she repeated. “You’ve had enough to cry about.”

On the opposite wall the haughty, elegant face of Bellingham looked at them from above the desk, surrounded by the books and photographs, the relics of the shrine that Eric had made. Yes, a shrine, built for the same reasons men have always made shrines.

Long minutes later (how many? Five? Fifteen?), the heap of quilting moved and struggled. A wet face emerged and was laid upon Anna’s shoulder. Her arms went out and she raised the cheek to her own. And they sat there, rocking slightly, while the weeping died away into a long, shaking sigh. Then a quick sob, another sigh, long sighs and quivers and, finally, ease.

“Ah, yes, ah, yes,” she said.

“I’m not asleep,” Eric whispered. “Did you think I was?”

“No.”

“Where is Grandpa? I want to tell him something.”

“Grandpa, if I know him, is walking up and down the hall outside this room with his hands behind his back, the
way he always does when he’s terribly upset. Shall I call him?”

“Yes.”

“Joseph?” she called.

The door opened instantly. “You want me?”

“Eric wants you.”

Eric’s head went back under the protection of the quilt. “I only wanted to tell you I don’t hate you,” he whispered, without looking up. “I don’t hate it here.”

“We know you don’t,” Joseph said. “We know.” He cleared his throat. He coughed.

“George is hungry,” Eric said.

Joseph cleared his throat again. “I fed him. He was very hungry. And thirsty, too. He’s asleep now in the living room.”

“I feel sleepy too, I think.”

“Yes, yes,” Anna said. “Lie down, I’ll cover you properly.”

“Doesn’t he need something to eat?” Joseph asked.

“No, better for him to sleep now. In the morning he can have a big breakfast.”

“Here, let me fix the quilt,” Joseph said.

She stood a moment, watching his clumsy arrangement of it, feeling his need to do something, some little thing, anything.

Oh, for Joseph’s sake, for mine, oh, not to lose this boy, too! Was it our fault? Can one ever say, “If this hadn’t been, then that wouldn’t have been”? But if it was our fault, let us hope not to repeat it—

So much to learn about this child, so little time left before he would be a man. And always, always, the secret places never to be entered. On those ancient maps that Iris collected there was a lonely boundary with a legend:
Terra incognita
. Unexplored land.

West of Gibraltar, Anna thought, where the world ended. They went out softly and as softly closed the door.

Vision blurred in the shimmering light; the sky, the sea and the sand merged in a white glare; figures were seen as red or blue dots in a painting by a Pointillist. But sound was distinct. It carried from far down the beach; swimmers’ voices were heard on shore; they had the clarity of voices heard across snow.

The little boys were laughing in shallow water. Or rather, Jimmy was laughing while Eric held him, teaching him to swim, although he was only two and a half. Steve screamed and resisted.

Anna said, “It’s strange that it’s the older one who’s scared.”

“Jimmy’s a tough little guy.” Joseph chuckled. He admired toughness.

Iris was silent. She laid her book face down on her enormous belly, which formed a shelf; she was pregnant again, only five months, but she looked almost ready to deliver. She was thoughtful. People were beginning to think Jimmy was the elder boy. He was almost as tall as Steve and when they were seated Jimmy looked bigger and sturdier. Only this morning, when they had all arrived at the beach, Mrs. Malone had walked over to greet them and made the mistake. Iris read so much about the psychology of children but the books didn’t really tell you what to do. In each special situation you had to use your own judgment.

Steve screamed again and Eric released him. He sat down in two inches of water.

“Don’t you think—?” Iris began, but Theo, who had been walking on the beach with a colleague, came up behind her.

“You don’t have to worry with Eric there. He knows what to do.”

Theo had great regard for Eric. They all had. He was so dependable for his years, Eric was.

Now Eric carried Steve to the semicircle where they were all sitting. Jimmy trudged alongside. His walk was still a baby waddle.

“You don’t have to,” Eric soothed. “We won’t swim anymore if you don’t want to!”

“What’s the matter? Why is he scared?” Joseph wanted to know. “Shouldn’t you make him go back and learn that there’s nothing to be scared of?”

“He can’t learn all stiffened up like that, Grandpa. You’d just make him hate it. He’s only three and a half, anyway.”

“Yes, only three and a half,” Anna repeated. “We forget because he’s so smart.”

Steve had astounded them this past week by picking out some words in the newspaper. He had remembered the “c” for “cat” in a picture book, the “a” for “apple” and the “t” for “tree.” He had recognized the word “cat,” and after that two or three more words, amazing the family.

Steve dove for his mother’s lap. He burrowed, but there was no place to sit, so he butted his head hard against her.

“No, no,” Iris said, holding him away. “You’ll hurt Mommy, you’ll hurt the baby in her tummy.”

Joseph shook his head disapprovingly and muttered, “What next? You think he understands that? Much easier to tell him it’s the stork and be done with it.”

Privately, Anna agreed, but, after all, it was Theo’s and Iris’ business. “Come here, come to Nana,” she said. “Look what I have for you.”

She was sheltered under a beach umbrella to keep her thin skin from peeling. She had a beach chair and a bag.
The supplies that came out of this bag were seemingly endless: tissues, sun lotion, handkerchiefs, Band-Aids, a bag of homemade spice cookies, a novel for herself and picture books for the children. People always laughed affectionately at Anna’s organization and took advantage of it.

“Here, sit down, Nana will read you a story,” she told Steve.

He crawled on her lap, dripping wet sand. If he couldn’t have his mother’s lap, Nana’s would be a good substitute. He was still shaking from his fright in the water, although he trusted Eric, knew Eric wouldn’t hurt him. But he was scared anyway. And Jimmy was splashing water in his eyes. Jimmy hurt. Mommy was always saying, “Don’t be so rough with Jimmy, he’s still a baby.” But Jimmy
hit
. He threw his pail at me.

He leaned his head against Nana’s softness. She read
The Little Engine That Could
. Every day, somebody read it to him. It was his favorite book and he knew where all the words were supposed to come, beneath every picture.

Nana pulled two cookies out of the bag. “One for you,” she said. “And one for Jimmy. Come and get yours, Jimmy.”

Jimmy took his and walked to some people sitting near them on the sand. He stood and stared, holding his cookie.

“Oh, isn’t he darling!” a woman cried. “Look, Bill, isn’t that the cutest ever? What’s your name, sonny?”

“Not sonny. Jimmy,” he said.

“Well, hello, Jimmy. Bill, look at those eyes!”

Theo scrambled up to fetch Jimmy and apologized.

“He isn’t brothering us … he’s just a very sociable fellow.”

“That he is.” Theo smiled proudly, agreeing.

Jimmy came over and stood listening to Nana. He never listened very long. Nana said it was because he was too little to understand very much of the story. He still hadn’t eaten his cookie, although Steve had finished his. He always walked around carrying his food as if he didn’t want it and sometimes he would even drop it on the floor, but if
Steve should pick it up and eat it he would howl. Seeing him standing with that uneaten cookie made Steve want another one.