The Unmaking of Rabbit (5 page)

“Paul, go out in the hall until you can pull yourself together,” Miss Olah said, not unkindly. Head down, Paul lurched out of the room, but not before he heard Freddy whisper, “Go, go, Rabbit, hippety-hop, Rabbit baby, go, go, go.”

The hall stretched long and empty and smelled of old gym suits and egg salad sandwiches. It was nice out there alone, peaceful and calm. Paul heard other teachers talking to their classes. One kid, so little he must have been a first grader, came down the hall, putting one foot carefully in front of the other, singing a song to himself. He went into the boys' room without noticing Paul. That was good. He might've been embarrassed if he'd known he was being watched.

Presently Miss Olah came out and said, “Are you all right now, Paul?”

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

“I know you'll do a good job on the story, Paul,” she said. “I think you express yourself on paper very well. Now go back to your seat and get to work.”

Paul had to pass Freddy's desk on the way to his own, but Freddy was so intent on what he was writing that he didn't notice. Paul breathed a sigh of relief.

Too soon. Freddy was waiting, along with four of his cohorts, by the side door as Paul came out of school.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey, Rabbit, I want to talk to you.” Paul thought of pretending he'd forgotten something in his desk, but before he had a chance, Freddy held out a box of licorice. “Take one,” he said. It was more a command than an invitation. Paul didn't like licorice, but he took a piece and chewed on it, careful not to make a face. Freddy had never offered him anything before.

He smiled at Paul, revealing a gap between his two front teeth, which protruded slightly. He looks more like a chipmunk than I look like a rabbit, Paul thought suddenly, feeling pleased that this was so. Does anyone ever call Freddy “chipmunk”? Paul smiled, thinking how much he would like to, but he said nothing. He was conscious now of the black taste spreading through his mouth, coating his tongue and teeth. I'm going to look like a chow dog, he thought.

Freddy put his hand on Paul's shoulder and, involuntarily, Paul shuddered. “We got a plan for some fun,” Freddy said ingratiatingly. “Fun and profit,” he added, laughing. That was the sign it was all right for the others to laugh too, which they did.

Paul said nothing. He felt a sudden panic, an urge to run, to escape, combined with another sensation, which sent pleasurable shivers of anticipation down his spine, that he might be on the verge of becoming a member of a group. He had never come even close to being a member of anything, and the prospects were pleasing.

“It's this way,” Freddy said, keeping his hand on Paul's shoulder. They walked in the lead, the others trailing behind. It was an awesome situation, walking side by side with the leader. Paul watched the sidewalk as if he were looking for treasure there, his heart leaping in his chest like a frightened bird. A nerve in his eye twitched. Part of him wanted to sing, like the first grader going down the hall to the boys' room.

And another part, hidden deep inside the layers of skin which held him together, wanted to cry out for help. Get me out of this before it's too late; take me home where it's safe! A chill passed over him. Gran would say somebody had just walked over his grave. That was probably it. He was digging his own grave. The price to be part of Freddy's group was going to be too high. He couldn't afford it.

“We've got a job planned, we got it all lined up, and we thought maybe you'd like to get in on the ground floor.” Freddy turned. “Get that? The ground floor? That's pretty good.” Dutifully, the followers laughed, but they overdid it so Freddy had to frown for them to stop.

“Actually, what we had in mind was sharing the wealth, you might say. Some guys live in mansions with swimming pools and tennis courts and all like that, and they'd never miss a camera or a TV set or a stereo—it's all a drop in the bucket to them. So we got a house all lined up—the people are loaded. So we figured we'd rob the rich and give to the poor, and guess who the poor is?”

Paul stood still, thinking of Mr. Barker and Robin Hood.

“You guessed it, Rabbit. The poor is us. How's that for a good one?”

Paul watched as one by one the others put their hands over their mouths and snickered. He didn't trust himself to speak, which was just as well since no one seemed to demand any response from him. He stood there, his arms hanging aimlessly, with Freddy's hand draped around him, very friendly.

“We're thinking of cutting you in on the caper, Rab,” Freddy said, “if you'd like. One. thing about this gang—we stick together. Mum's the word. Nobody tells anything except to the other members. That goes without saying, right?”

A murmur of assent went out.

“We're having our big sleep-out in the spring, as soon as it gets warm enough—probably in April,” Freddy went on. “We camp out in the woods behind my house, build a big fire to cook hot dogs, hamburgers, and marshmallows. Think your grandmother'd let you come? If you don't have a sleeping bag, you'd better get one. We have a blast.”

Paul cleared his throat. “It sounds like it,” he said, managing not to stutter. Instead, his voice came out high and squeaky. “Listen, I got to get home. I just remembered I have to go to the dentist, and they make you pay if you forget.”

“Think it over, Rabbit,” Freddy said, releasing his grip on Paul. “I'll see you tomorrow. Remember though, mum's the word, or else it's into the dungeon with you.”

Freed, Paul started to run. Behind him, he could hear a burst of laughter.

“Look at that rabbit run,” he heard someone, Scott Detmer maybe, holler. “That's the fastest rabbit I ever did see.”

9

Paul ran until the pain in his side made him stop. He decided to go see Mr. Barker. Seeing Mr. Barker always made him feel better.

Eugene was behind the counter, reading a magazine again. Paul wondered if it was the same one he'd been reading yesterday.

“Hi,” Paul said. “How are you? Where's Mr. Barker?” He wasn't sure Eugene remembered him.

Eugene snorted. “Probably where he usually is, over at the bank. I tell you,” he said, squinting, looking crafty, “if I could figure out how to get my mitts on some of that scratch, I surely would. Then I might go to Canada …”

“I thought you said you wanted to go to Miami Beach,” Paul said. “That's what you said yesterday.”

Eugene frowned. “I might go to Canada,” he continued, “and possibly stake out a place for myself for when Uncle Sam decides to put his meat-hooks on me. You can't be too careful about that old Uncle Sam. He likes red-blooded boys like yours truly. Montreal is a swinging town, they tell me. Then maybe on to Toronto and down through Minnesota, sorta work my way west. Then on to Yellowstone.”

Eugene tapped a cigarette on the counter fiercely, as if he had a grudge against it.

“Y-y-you must g-g-get out of school aw-awful early,” Paul said, suddenly stuttering. “To get here so soon, I mean. What grade are you in?”

“I make my own rules,” Eugene said grandly. “I go to school when I feel like going. When the urge is upon me, you might say. Like, if I get up in the morning and the sun's shining and all them chicks in their bikinis are lolling around, I go to where the chicks are because of they might not be there tomorrow, right?”

“D-d-don't they call up when you're absent?” Paul asked. “That's what they do in our school.”

“Sure. But my mom's at work, my old man's sleeping, and nobody answers the telephone, so that's that.”

“Oh,” Paul said.

“Listen, you want to hear about this trip I have planned when I make enough bread to cut out of here?” Eugene asked. “Maybe your folks would let you come along. As chaperon.” Eugene winked.

“Sure,” said Paul.

Eugene swept his hair off his forehead with a practiced twist of his head, revealing a covey of pimples hitherto held under wraps.

“First, I climb Mount Marcy, on account of it's the highest mountain around,” he said. “I always wanted to climb a mountain, sleep under the stars, all that crap. I got a little of the wanderlust in me, I guess.” He looked as if having a little wanderlust in him was a plus for his character. “My ancestors must've been pioneers, huh?” He laughed uproariously.

Paul figured Eugene must watch a lot of shows like “Gunsmoke.” He sounded just like those people.

“That's going to cost a lot of money,” he said.

Eugene was delighted. “Money? What's that? You get this trip for nothing, my friend. Just use the old thumb and there you are. The whole shebang for zero bucks, except maybe on a bad day you got to spring for a burger and brew. You get suckers to foot the bill.”

“What suckers?” Paul wanted to know.

“I have friends, they been from Maine to California,” Eugene said, “and it didn't cost them one red cent. The people who give 'em rides, they're the lonely jerks who got no one else to talk to. They're so lonely they can taste it. So they pick anybody up, almost, unless he's got two heads. My friend said he got a ride from a guy, his wife just left him and he's on his way to his father's funeral and he starts to cry and everything. So my friend listens to him and this guy buys him dinner and a couple drinks and the whole thing doesn't cost a penny. If you listen to these guys, they'll drive you a thousand miles and pay for the works, and in the end they thank
you
. For listening to them. How do you like that?”

Paul didn't say anything. He was a good listener too.

“And if you get picked up by a couple greasers, or like that, you know what to do? You know how to split from that scene and fast?”

“No,” Paul said. “What do you do?”

“I'm about to tell you.” Eugene lowered his voice and spoke slowly. “You get in a car with one of these types, queers or something, and you catch on maybe things aren't so hot, maybe they're going to roll you or something, take the old money belt, or who knows what-all, and you want out—you know what you do?”

Paul figured if he waited quietly and long enough, Eugene might tell him. He was right.

“You pretend you're going to puke.” Eugene stopped and looked as if he expected applause. “That's all. You grab your gut and say you're going to puke and, man, they let you out and fast! Some guys told me they got a ride with some oddies, and they decided they wanted out. ‘Let us out at the next exit,' they say and, man, that next exit, she just whizzes by.” Eugene held a finger to his lips. “Here comes somebody.”

A man came in for a six-pack of beer, and Eugene had a terrible time making change. First he gave him too little, then too much. Paul knew he could do a better job, even if he wasn't all that hot in math.

“Where was I?”

“The guy just went by the exit,” Paul prompted.

“Oh, yeah. Well, you just hold the old gut and start making puke noises and, man, they let you out and fast. It works every time.” Eugene helped himself to a pack of gum from the case. “Don't forget what I told you,” he said. “It's a good thing to remember. Might come in handy some day.”

“I'll remember,” Paul said.

“You ever been to Yellowstone?” Eugene asked.

“No, but I've been to Sturbridge Village.”

“I was reading in the paper the other day about one of those thermal pools in Yellowstone. It said this kid, nine or ten, about your age, was leaning over, and he fell smack dab in the middle of that pool.”

“I'm eleven,” Paul said.

Eugene raised his hand for complete attention. “The paper said that authorities said death was instantaneous. I figure they say things like that to make the parents feel better.” Eugene looked very wise. “Then when I get through with Yellowstone, I figure on hitching to the Grand Tetons. You heard about the Grand Tetons?”

“Sure, they're in Wyoming,” Paul said. “We studied them in social studies.”

“You're some smart kid,” Eugene said. The door opened and Mr. Barker came in. Eugene put his hand around the broom handle, which was conveniently close, and started sweeping.

“There's a couple cases of stuff out back that need unloading, Eugene,” Mr. Barker said. “How you, Paul?”

Eugene hopped to his task, and Paul said he had better get home. As he walked he thought about puking and hitchhiking and thermal pools. He thought about Freddy and his gang and the plan that he, Paul, was supposed to be an important part of. He thought about Art getting married to his mother, and he thought about Gran. He thought about going by the exit. He didn't run into anyone he knew along the way. No one called him Rabbit, which was a good thing. Paul didn't feel up to being called Rabbit, or anything else.

10

“Why Paul, what's the matter? You look as if you'd seen a ghost,” Gran said, getting up from the kitchen table to put her cheek against the back of his neck, her sure-fire test to see whether or not he had a fever.

Clouds of smoke billowed about Bess Tuttle's head, obscuring her bright yellow snood, which matched her print dress. “The boy looks peaked to me,” she said, nodding her head in agreement. “A dose of milk of magnesia ought to fix him up.”

One of the least of Mrs. Tuttle's charms was that she figured herself some kind of a medicine man and was constantly prescribing milk of magnesia. Paul figured if he had a broken leg, she'd say, “Just dose him up good with milk of magnesia.”

“I'm O.K.,” he said.

“Probably just some little disappointment in school,” Bess said to Gran. “You know how they make mountains out of molehills.”

Oh, yeah, some molehill, Paul thought. Here he was, asked to be a robber, a real robber, and what he wouldn't give to just stand there and tell Bess Tuttle about Freddy Gibson, Boy Scout of the World, and his plans for acquiring riches. He'd love to see the expression on her dumb old face and see her mouth open and have nothing come out. Just for once to see her mouth open and have no sound come out. It might almost be worth it, even if Freddy and his gang killed him for it.