The Seventeenth Swap (12 page)

The artist plucked a small, especially worn-looking metal rabbit from the back of the shelf, wound it up and set it on the floor. It hopped sedately in a circle, its mechanism buzzing loudly, then slowed, and toppled over. “This was mine, when I was about half your age,”
he said. “I still had him when I was twice your age, and one day I drew his picture. I had some others by then—I always did like wind-ups. They make me laugh. I just—went on from there. I guess I'm crazy.”

Eric suddenly remembered why he had come. “Do you have any beetles on that shelf?” he asked.

“Beetles?” Robert Sparrow's eyebrows, which were blond and toothbrushy like his moustache, drew together as he looked over his collection. “I don't think so. A cockroach, yes. A butterfly, yes—a couple. Beetles, no. Have you got a beetle you want to get rid of?”

“Not get rid of, exactly.” Eric said cautiously. “More like—swap? I mean, I don't exactly
have
it, but I know where I can get it for you. It's a—a sort of antique. And funny. I think you'd like it.”

“I'll bet I would. But if it's a sort of antique I doubt if I have anything valuable enough to swap. Do you know I've been offered a hundred dollars for that rabbit?”

Eric's mouth fell open. He had never asked Maggie the beetle's price and now realized he had no idea what sums he might be talking about—if he could ever get the beetle, if any amount of swapping would do the trick. He had a sudden sensation of being in over his head, way over. He also realized it
was
a trick he was pulling on Robert Sparrow, though he hadn't intended that at all.

“Actually the beetle's for sale to anybody,” he blurted, feeling confused and dishonest and ashamed and cross, all at the same time. “At the Hobbyhorse Shop. You don't need me to get it. You could just go buy it yourself.”

“Buy it? Oh, I think that would be against my principles.” The artist glanced thoughtfully at his collection, replaced the rabbit, and added, “Yes, I'm sure it would. I never buy wind-ups. I've never yet paid a cent for one.”

“How do you get them, then?”

“People give them to me for a joke. Bring them home from places like Minneapolis and Amsterdam. Put them aside for me when they throw out the trash—or they used to, before anybody found out they were valuable antiques. My friends
like
me to be crazy. I've even got a few scoot-abouts by swaps.”

“What do you swap?” Eric ventured hopefully.

Robert Sparrow smiled. “All I've got is my hand and a pencil. Bring your beetle around and I'll do a drawing of you—a nice little portrait like the ones in my window. I charge twenty bucks for them usually.”

“Oh,” said Eric. The answer was so unexpected that his mind just spun its wheels for a moment. A portrait of him, Eric Greene? But nobody would want that—nobody with anything good to swap. Dad might, he thought, remembering his father's odd remark about the school pictures. But that would get him no closer to Jimmy's boots. “Can I—sort of think about that a little?” he asked the artist.

“Sure, take your time. The offer's open.”

“And thanks!” Eric added belatedly, as it occurred to him he should have acted a little more delighted. “The portraits are really great.”

That produced Robert Sparrow's quick grin again—he seemed to have no trouble at all reading Eric's mind. “Well, they pay for my paints,” he said. “The
wind-up pictures I do for fun.” He jerked a thumb toward the walls full of action drawings. “But it's the other kids who make my living.”

Eric turned again, curiously, to the walls full of children. “Make your living?”

“I'm an illustrator. I draw pictures for kids' books—whenever I can land the job. And kids' magazines. Like this.”

He picked a couple of books off a shelf—the wide, flat books people read to little kids—along with a copy of
Jumping Jack,
a magazine Eric had loved in about third grade. Even before he'd seen the little sketched sparrow in the corner, he could tell who had illustrated the books. And it wasn't hard to find the magazine story that showed the little girl flying.

He looked up at the same sketch on the wall, then at Robert Sparrow, feeling the thrill of contact with a genuine Famous Person. “They had this magazine in my grade school library,” he confided. Awkwardly, he added, “Is it fun to be an artist?”

“Well,
I
think it is—but then that's all I ever wanted to be. If I'd always wanted to be a Certified Public Accountant then I'd probably think that was fun too.”

“I wouldn't!” said Eric, thinking of the math.

Robert Sparrow nodded with perfect comprehension. “What did you always want to be?”

Eric shrugged, but gave his usual answer to that question. “A librarian. You probably think that's dull.”

“Not the least little bit. You and I have a lot in common.” The artist put the books back on the shelf, just as the chimes on the Episcopal church struck five. Eric decided it was time for him to go.

“Well—thanks for showing me the wind-ups—and everything,” he said. “I'll find out about the beetle. Could I come by after school—maybe Tuesday—and let you know?”

“Not Tuesday. I teach at the art school in town on Tuesdays and Fridays.”

Since Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturday mornings were Jimmy-days, that didn't leave much. Eric said, “I have a sort of job too. But I'll get here sometime.”

“Whenever you can.” Robert Sparrow gave an enigmatic smile and said surprisingly, “I may have a job for you myself sometime.”

“A job?” Eric echoed.

“Well, a sort of job. Just tell Cholly he was right again.”

Without adding anything to this mysterious remark he steered Eric to the door and turned away, leaving him to descend the outside stair feeling puzzled but interested, hoping Cholly would tell him what the artist had meant. Meanwhile, he had another item to add to his What People Might Swap list—if he could think of anybody who'd want it—and if he could acquire the beetle to make the swap.

All day Monday, Eric's two ill-fitting lists zigzagged around his brain like a jigsaw that wouldn't come together. He wondered if anybody had a china dog or a perfume bottle and wanted a Mt. St. Helen's T-shirt instead. He wondered what Maggie might take for the beetle. He wondered if Mrs. Panek's little hook-thing really was the same as those he'd seen in Maggie's shop. He tried to think what people usually used to pull down shades. He eyed Angel warily from a distance, wondering how she'd feel about a beautiful antique Chinese lacquer jewel box with a mysterious design in gold—but he avoided her. After school, as he watched her go off with Debbie Clark, he even wondered if Jimmy might possibly like one of Debbie's free kittens instead of boots—provided the doctor would let him have one.

He dumped his books at home and went slowly downstairs to the Nicholsons' apartment, wishing he'd find Jimmy all fired up about some new project that had made him forget about the boots. But the ad was still pinned to the curtain, there were several new boot drawings around, and the home teacher had
brought a big book about cowboys that Jimmy was avidly reading. It seemed futile to offer him a kitten—especially since he was probably allergic to cat hair, same as he was to dogs.

Anyway—Eric suddenly realized—the boots themselves weren't quite the point any longer. Somehow, over the weekend, things had got beyond that. The point was
getting them
—and staying with it until he had.

He put it out of his mind and told Jimmy all about Robert Sparrow and the child-drawings and the wind-up pictures, and promised to ask for some painty smells next time he went there. They played rummy for most of the afternoon; Jimmy had made up some new rules to make it harder, and it was—though not for him. Out of eight games, Eric lost six.

He was climbing back up the stairs at five-forty before he even thought to wonder if the boots were still available. They might easily have been sold by now. Half-hoping they had been, he hurried up the last of the flight and phoned the shoe store. It had already closed.

Frustrated, he finished his homework, ate his dinner, watched the news and, feeling as if the day had gone on forever, went to bed as soon as he decently could. He was glad to shut the world off and quit trying to make squarish puzzle-pieces fit into roundish holes. He hoped tomorrow would be more like days used to be. He could hardly remember what it was like before he'd started trying to get Jimmy those boots.

Then, just before he slept, his mind turned one piece of the puzzle upside down.

He awoke Tuesday morning with his whole plan
neatly in place. He sat straight up in bed, wide awake and with his heart pounding as if he'd heard a thunderclap. He could hardly believe it—but there it
was.
The whole thing. Beautiful, logical, perfect, in parade-like procession from A to Z.

If he could just get everything to work.

Drawing in a long, steadying breath, he climbed out of bed and into his clothes. It was going to be a busy day.

He started with his father, at breakfast. “Hey, Dad? You know that bunch of pictures in your drawer? The ones with the rubber band around them, that used to be Grandad's?”

His father nodded, eyebrows raised, and waited for clarification.

“Well—do you want 'em? I mean, all of them? Are there any extras, or spares, or some you don't specially care about?”

Mr. Greene looked baffled, but gave the matter his consideration while he chewed. “Might be a few duplicates—Grandad's sister's collection is all there too.” After a moment he added, “I don't even know who some of the people are. Don't care about those. You need old photos for something?”

“Maybe,” Eric said, hoping his dad wouldn't ask for what. By now he didn't want to tell anybody anything about the swapping project and the boots. They had somehow become personal, private property. His dad, who was studying him curiously, appeared to be reading some of this in his face, for he ended up asking nothing. Emboldened, Eric ventured, “Would you—you wouldn't have time to pick those out, would you? The ones you don't care about?”

“Before work?” His dad glanced at the clock doubtfully, but said, “I'll make time. You fix the kitchen.”

So while Eric washed their plates and got their lunch sandwiches out of the refrigerator, Mr. Greene disappeared into his bedroom, emerging a few minutes later with half a dozen brownish, curling studio portraits, plus a couple of smaller pictures surprisingly heavy for their size. One showed—dimly—an indignant-looking bearded man in a military uniform, the other a pale woman with smooth dark hair parted severely in the middle.

“Daguerreotypes,” he told Eric. “That's a Civil War uniform. But I don't think those folks were even our kin.”

“So I can have some of these? Or all of them?” Eric asked eagerly.

“Help yourself.” Mr. Greene gave his slow, warm smile as he shrugged into his jacket. “See you tonight.”

Eric stowed the photographs in his own drawer, feeling that the day had made an auspicious start. Then he took out the Chinesey box, emptied its contents into the drawer, and slid the box into his jacket pocket before hurrying off to school.

He tackled Debbie Clark next. Since she was in his first-hour class it wasn't hard to arrange.

“I heard you have some kittens,” he said, pausing by her desk on his way to the pencil sharpener.

He had her immediate and eager attention. “You want one? You want
three?
Oh, please want one—they're so cute, but my mom says we have to get rid of them
this week.
Or else,” she finished dolefully.

“Well, I might. Could I sort of take a look at them? Like today after school?”

“During lunch hour, if you want!”

“Lunch hour?” Eric needed only an instant to see the time-saving advantages of this offer. “Okay, meet you by the side door right after the bell.”

He had to eat his sandwich as they walked to Debbie's house, first down Rivershore in the opposite direction from his usual route, then along Marina Drive, which curved around the narrow end of the lake. All the houses had their backs to you along there. You could only see their garbage cans and three-car garages. He followed Debbie down a narrow cement walk between two of the garages, and into a utility room, which turned out to be on the second floor. Presumably the rest of the house was below, on the lake level; he caught a glimpse of sparkling water and an expanse of deck. But the kittens were up here.

“Look! Aren't they
darling?
” Debbie said emotionally, catching up a little gray-striped character who had been stalking his brother's tail. “This one's Stripey and that one's Snowflake and the one in the basket is Captain Hook—”

“Captain
Hook?”

“Well, he sort of scratches. I'm sure he'll outgrow it,” Debbie added quickly. “And there's a kind of calico one, mostly white—there, behind the dryer. That's Scraps. Here, Scraps, here Scraps, here Scraps, come here, honey-bunny, oh, aren't you the sweetest little darling sugar-pie . . .”

Eric tuned her out. The kittens were as irresistible as kittens always are. He was a pushover for them himself. But he was trying to see them through somebody else's eyes, and judge them with somebody else's
possible prejudices in mind. “Which ones are male and which are female?” he asked Debbie.

“We
think
Captain Hook's a male. And Stripey. We're almost sure.”

Eric picked up Snowflake and stared earnestly into his/her wide, opaque-blue eyes, which were just beginning to show a hint of proper catty green. Are you the one? he asked her silently. How do I tell? He noticed the homemade toy she had been playing with—a wooden ring on a string—put her down, and began trailing the toy in front of her. She reacted instantly, dancing along behind it making lightning-fast swipes with first one front paw and then the other, suddenly pouncing and capturing it before Eric could jerk it away. By now he was laughing and saying things almost as silly as Debbie's sweet-talk. He shut up and straightened, letting Snowflake keep the wooden ring.