Harriet the Spy (18 page)

Harriet laughed up at him. “It’s great.” Sport’s father was a nice-looking man with laughing eyes like Sport and funny hair that fell over his eyes. He always wore an old sweater with holes in it, the same old pair of gray pants, and worn-out sneakers. Sometimes he was gloomy, but when he was happy like this, his smile filled the room. Harriet looked at him with wonder. He was a
writer
. A real
writer
. What did he think? What was in his head? She forgot Sport altogether as she stared at Mr. Rocque. She couldn’t resist a question for the notebook. Would he answer something profound?

“What does it feel like to get paid for what you write?” What would he say? She waited breathlessly.

“It’s heaven, baby, sheer heaven.”

Harriet felt irritated. Was he like everybody else?

“Hey, listen, Sport, get a clean shirt on. I’m taking you out to dinner.” Sport ran into his room. “How ’bout you, Harriet? Want to go to dinner with us?” Before Harriet could say anything, Sport opened the door to his room and shouted “NO” as loud as he could. Then he slammed the door again.

“Well,” Sport’s father said. He looked embarrassed. “If I know my boy he’s trying to get me not to spend that check already.”

“I have to go home anyway. I was going to say I have to go home”—Harriet began to shout—“I couldn’t go with you anyway. I couldn’t go with you ANYWAY,” she screamed toward Sport’s door.

“Well,” said Sport’s father again, looking at Harriet in astonishment. Harriet walked out the door and went home.

That night Harriet had another nightmare. It didn’t start out as a nightmare. It started, in fact, as a wonderful dream in which Ole Golly, seated in a rocker and wearing a warm yellow flannel bathrobe, rocked Harriet on her lap as she held her very close.

Harriet’s mother came into the room. Harriet was still in her dream, screaming at the top of her lungs, “Ole Golly, Ole Golly, Ole Golly.” She kept on crying softly even after her mother was holding her. Then she realized where she was and turned her head to the wall. She pretended to be asleep until her mother left. Then she cried a little more and really fell asleep.

W
hen Harriet woke up it seemed very late in the morning. She had been awakened not by her mother calling her but by an angle of the sun hitting her face. She sat straight up in bed. She couldn’t hear anything from downstairs. She got up quickly, dressed, and ran down, feeling vaguely as though something was wrong.

No one was in the dining room, in fact the table wasn’t even set. She ran down to the kitchen, narrowly missing the cook who dodged aside just in time.

“Where’s my breakfast?”

“Lunch, most likely.”

“Whatdya mean?”

“It’s twelve o’clock. You sure slept a long time.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up? I’m late for school,” Harriet shouted.

“Don’t yell at me or I’ll quit. Your mama said not to wake you up.”

“Where is she?”

“Upstairs. Both of ’em. In there talking about you.”

“Where? What do you mean?” Harriet felt frantic.

“Up there.” Enjoying herself, the cook gestured upstairs in an offhand way.

Harriet turned and ran up the stairs. The library door was closed. There was the murmur of a voice coming through the door. She crept closer. Then she heard her father talking on the phone. “Well, Dr. Wagner, let me ask you this… yes, yes, I know she’s a very intelligent child.… Yes, well, we’re well aware that she has a lot of curiosity.… Yes, a sign of intelligence, yes, quite right, I would say so.… Now, Doctor, the thing is… Yes, I think she just might make a writer.… What? a project? oh… school… yes, I think… Yes, we’ll call the principal.… A few days’ absence? Well, I think that can be arranged.… But, you’re sure, absolutely sure, that she’s all right?… Yes… yes, exceptional… Yes, weli, I think we know that.… What?… Oh, yes, well, as I explained, she left… But, you think?… Yes, I see.… Well, I think we have her address somewhere. You think that would be a good idea?… I see.… Yes, I see.… Yes. Well, thank you very much, Doctor. You’ve been a great deal of help.… Yes, I understand, and I agree with you, she always listened to her.… Yes, a regression, yes.… One thing more, Doctor, you’re sure?… Yes, quite sure.… Good. Well, thank you again. Good-by.”

Harriet’s ears were standing out from her head. Of course, that’s me, she thought. Of course I’m intelligent.

“He thinks we should mumble a mumble to mumble mumble.”

Oh, how irritating. When he wasn’t shouting into the phone her father couldn’t be heard.

“That’s a splendid mumble.” Mrs. Welsch couldn’t be heard either.

“And then the school… a mumble. Perhaps a project which would mumble her to mumble herself, and then this mumble wouldn’t dominate… then more attention, of course… but I should call Miss Whitehead and get this mumble started. He’s no fink, you know; I think we should listen to him.”

“Of course, I think it’s all grand. And he says she’s not mumble?”

“Not in the least. In fact, quite the mumble. She’s an extraordinary mumble and might make a good mumble someday.”

How infuriating. Just what one dreams will happen. I’ve
always
wanted to hear people talk about me, thought Harriet, and now I can’t hear it.

Suddenly the doorknob turned. Harriet leaped back but not quickly enough. She decided to make the best of a bad scene. “
BOO
,” she said loudly. Her mother jumped.

“Good Lord, you frightened me. Harriet! What are you doing there? Were you spying on us?”

“Nope. Couldn’t hear.”

“Oh, well, it’s not because you didn’t try. Have you had your breakfast?”

“No.”

“Then run down and get it. You won’t be going to school today, dear”

“I know. I heard that.”

“What else did you hear? Come on, Harriet, out with it.” Mrs. Welsch closed the door quickly as she heard Mr. Welsch say, “Hello, Miss Whitehead?”

“Nothing,” Harriet said.

“Honest?”

“Honest.”

“All right, run along and eat, then. I have to write a letter.”

I wonder, thought Harriet, what is up?

She was still wondering two days later and no wiser. She had had time to catch up on a lot of spy work, but she was surprised to find that on the third day away from school she was beginning to miss it. She had covered her spy route in the first two days, giving ample time to each case, but there really hadn’t been much going on. Little Joe Curry was reinstated after he said he was just hungry. This touched the heart of Mama Dei Santi. The next day, however, he was caught with a whole ham. Harriet was there when this happened. It was very exciting because not only was he caught stealing the ham but he was caught at the instant he was giving it to three of the happiest-looking children anybody ever saw. Harriet wrote in her notebook:

THAT WAS A SCENE I’M GLAD I SAW BECAUSE I WOULD HAVE GUESSED THAT MAMA DEI SANTI WOULD HAVE BOPPED HIM OVER THE HEAD BUT WHEN SHE SAW THE CHILDREN SHE BURST INTO TEARS AND COMMENCED WAILING AND GIVING THE KIDS EVERYTHING IN SIGHT. EVEN A WHOLE LONG SALAMI. THEN SHE SHOOED THEM AWAY AND TOLD THEM NOT TO COME BACK OR SHE’D CALL THE COPS. PEOPLE ARE VERY FUNNY. ALSO SHE DIDN’T FIRE LITTLE JOE. SHE TOLD HIM HE BETTER SEE A DOCTOR. HE EATS TOO MUCH.

Mrs. Plumber was told by her doctor that she could get up. As far as Harriet could see she hadn’t hit the bed since, but flew from one party to the next all day, did charity work incessantly, and, according to her phone conversations the next day, stayed out half the night too.

The Robinsons showed a lot of people their doll.

The Dei Santi family, other than the incident with Little Joe, had a fairly uneventful week. Fabio was working hard, even harder than Bruno. Franca flunked some test or other and came home in tears. Dino, the baby, got the chicken pox, so Mama Dei Santi had to stay at home with him.

The most surprising thing was Harrison Withers. Harriet went by expecting to see him moping about his cats, and there he was humming and working on a cage in the happiest way possible. She couldn’t understand it. He even got up and ate some lunch. He actually made himself a tuna fish sandwich and had a coke. Harriet leaned back against the wall and wrote:

I JUST CAN’T UNDERSTAND THIS. OH, I KNOW, MAYBE HE DIDN’T HAVE ENOUGH MONEY TO EAT GOOD BEFORE BECAUSE HE HAD TO BUY ALL THOSE KIDNEYS. OR MAYBE HE COULDN’T EVER EAT TUNA AND HE LIKES TUNA. MAYBE THE CATS ALWAYS GRABBED IT.

She leaned over the parapet again to study the problem at length. Harrison Withers was humming away, even tapping his foot as he worked. She watched, puzzled, until suddenly he looked up in the direction of the kitchen door. Then she saw it. Into the room, as though he owned it, to the accompaniment of loud cooing and baby talk from Harrison Withers walked the tiniest cat Harriet had ever seen. It was a funny-looking little black-and-white kitten which had a mustache which made it look as though it were sneering. It stopped, looked at Harrison Withers as though he were a curiosity, and then walked disdainfully across the room. Harrison Withers watched in adoration. Harriet leaned back and wrote:

SO THAT’S IT. WONDER WHERE HE GOT THAT CAT. I GUESS IF YOU WANT A CAT YOU RUN INTO ONE SOMEPLACE, HEE HEE, THEY AIN’T GOING TO CHANGE HARRISON WITHERS.

And, for some reason, as she walked home Harriet felt unaccountably happy.

On the third day Harriet woke up and found herself really wishing she were going to school. She didn’t say anything to her mother, however, because she didn’t want to go
that
much. In the afternoon she decided to go and see what was happening at the clubhouse. She waited until time for school to be out, then she went over and crawled over the fence to her post. Rachel came home, bringing Marion Hawthorne with her. They walked sedately.

They walk like old ladies, thought Harriet.

“Rachel, don’t you think it would be nice if we could play bridge in the afternoons?” Marion had a kind of cawing voice, like a crow.

“Well,” said Rachel, “I don’t know how.…”

“Oh, that’s easy. I’ve watched my mother lots of times,” said Marion authoritatively. “Why don’t we play Mahjong? I like that.”

“Well, I think bridge is
MUCH chic
-er, but if you want to we will. Do you have a set?”

“Yes. That is, Mother does.”

Bridge? Mahjong? thought Harriet. Who are they kidding? Wait till Sport hears about this.

Beth Ellen arrived. Rachel and Marion nodded curtly in her direction. “I think,” said Marion, “that we should uphold a certain standard in this club.”

“Yes?” said Rachel, although she looked as though she hadn’t the foggiest idea what Marion was getting at.

“Don’t you, Beth Ellen?” Marion asked pointedly.

“Ye-s.” This came out very small.

“I mean, I think we have to be very careful who we take in… and”—she looked around darkly—“who we
KEEP
in.”

“Oh,” said Beth Ellen, “you mean like a country club.”

“Yes,” said Marion, “exactly. I think that anyone who wants to have a social life in the afternoon should be welcome, that is—” she added mysteriously, “that is if they’re the right kind of person.”

“Yes,” said Rachel.

“Yes,” whispered Beth Ellen.

“I also think and I don’t know how you’ll feel about this”—Marion drew herself up until she looked like her mother—“but I feel that in view of the fact that I’m the class officer I should be president of the club.”

Well, thought Harriet, it’s a good thing for you I’m not in this club, because you’d get it, right across the head.

“I therefore nominate myself for president.”

“I second it,” said Rachel. She must second things in her sleep, thought Harriet.

“Motion carried,” screeched Beth Ellen in a fit of helpless giggles.

Marion frowned Beth Ellen into silence. “Now that that’s settled, I shall make a few decisions. First, I think we should serve tea.”

“My mother isn’t going to like that,” said Rachel.

“Well, not really tea, just milk in tea cups. We DO have to
LEARN
, you know.”

“She isn’t going to like that either. The cup part.”

“Well, we can each bring our own cup. Second, we have to set up a card table and chairs. Third”—she stood up and pointed her finger as though she were knighting them—“I make you vice president, Rachel, and you are the secretary-treasurer, Beth Ellen.”

“What do I have to do?” Beth Ellen looked terrified.

“You take minutes, collect the money, and serve the tea.”

“Oh,”

In other words, thought Harriet, everything.

“I think also we should discuss people who have the wrong attitude.” Marion was liking her job more and more. “I think we were all aware at the last meeting of a very wrong attitude coming from Sport and Janie.”

Naturally, you idiot, thought Harriet. Wait till they find out you’re president. Just as the others began to arrive from school a sudden rainstorm drove them into the clubhouse. Harriet watched a minute to see Sport and Janie run across the yard, the last ones to arrive. Then Harriet ran with all her might, but she was still soaked through by the time she got home.

Upstairs, when she had pulled off her wet spy clothes and gotten into her bathrobe, she wrote a long account of what she had seen, adding at the end:

MARION HAWTHORNE IS TOO BIG FOR HER BRITCHES. SHE’S GOING TO GET IT.

Three days later Harriet was bored to extinction. She had played Town all morning in her room and she was beginning, for the first time in her life, to be bored with her own mind. She was just about to throw her notebook across the room when she heard the doorbell ring. She jumped up and ran as fast as she could downstairs. Her mother was at the front door taking a Special Delivery letter from the postman.

“What’s that?” asked Harriet eagerly.

“Well… I do believe,” said her mother scrutinizing the letter, “that it’s a letter for you, Harriet.” Her mother smiled at her.

“Who from?”

“Why, I haven’t the faintest idea,” her mother said casually, and handing Harriet the letter, disappeared into the library.

I never get letters, thought Harriet, and tore open the envelope. She recognized the handwriting at once.

Dear Harriet
,

I have been thinking about you and I have decided that if you are ever going to be a writer it is time you got cracking. You are eleven years old and haven’t written a thing but notes. Make a story out of some of those notes and send it to me
.

“‘
Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’—that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know
.”

John Keats. And don’t you ever forget it
.

Now in case you ever run into the following problem, I want to tell you about it. Naturally, you put down the truth in your notebooks. What would be the point if you didn’t? And naturally those notebooks should not be read by anyone else
, but if they are,
then, Harriet, you are going to have to do two things, and you don’t like either one of them:

1) You have to apologize
.

2) You have to lie
.

Otherwise you are going to lose a friend. Little lies that make people feel better are not bad, like thanking someone for a meal they made even if you hated it, or telling a sick person they look better when they don’t, or someone with a hideous new hat that it’s lovely. Remember that writing is to put love in the world, not to use against your friends. But to yourself you must always tell the truth.

Another thing. If you’re missing me I want you to know I’m not missing you. Gone is gone. I never miss anything or anyone because it all becomes a lovely memory. I guard my memories and love them, but I don’t get in them and lie down. You can even make stories from yours, but remember, they don’t
come back.
Just think how awful it would be if they did. You don’t need me now. You’re eleven years old which is old enough to get busy at growing up to be the person you want to be
.

No more nonsense.

Ole Golly Waldenstein