The Unmaking of Rabbit (6 page)

Paul helped himself to some orange juice from the refrigerator. “Paul,” Gran said in a company voice, although not like the voice she had used when Art and his mother came, “Gordon's coming on Friday. Mrs. Tuttle's grandson Gordon, you remember?” As if he could forget. “He'll be here on Friday, and we thought maybe you two might like to go to a show Friday night, maybe have supper out first,” Gran went on. “How'd that be?”

Paul took a long drink, not looking at either of them. He finally looked square at Gran. She had her face on, so she must've been out shopping this afternoon. He liked her better without her face on, with her cheeks just wrinkly and soft and her mouth looking like a mouth instead of like a giant wound in her face.

“I don't know,” Paul said. “I might be doing something Friday night.” Behind Mrs. Tuttle's back, he made a face at Gran so she'd know he didn't want to go to a show with Gordon.

“We'll see if we can work something out,” Gran said to Mrs. Tuttle.

Paul went to his room, and taking the pillow from his bed, he hit it again and again, so hard that it was a wonder it didn't burst and send feathers flying all over. “Take that and that and that,” Paul cried under his breath. The pillow was Gordon the Genius. “You've met your match at last!” He missed and his hand hit the wall with a thud. Paul cradled the hand against his chest and didn't make a sound. It really hurt, but he felt in some obscure way that he had got Gordon down and made him cry uncle.

He heard the back door close, and looking out the window, he saw Mrs. Tuttle and her yellow snood sailing past like a four-masted schooner. There was something about her that made Paul want to punch her in the face. Maybe that was why he felt the same way about her grandson.

“You can come out now,” Gran called. Paul smiled. That was Gran for you. Even though she liked Bess, she didn't mind that Paul disliked her. She didn't even really try very hard to change his mind.

“She's really a good soul,” Gran had said once to Paul. “She's just a mite aggressive, that's all.”

“I don't have to go with Gordon the Genius to the show, do I, Gran?” Paul asked.

She peeled potatoes with an expert hand and shrugged her shoulders. “That's not like you, not even to give him a fair shake,” she said. “How do you know you don't like him when you've never even met him?”

“I feel it in my bones,” Paul said.

“Bones sometimes lie.”

“Your bones don't lie, do they?” he asked.

“On occasion,” she said dryly, “but that's different.” She smiled at him. “My bones are old and tired. Your bones are young, and they can make mistakes. It'd be pretty hard to get out of, Paul. I don't want to offend Bess. But if you really feel that strongly about it, maybe we can make up an excuse.”

“Maybe Mr. Barker's going to invite me for supper Friday,” Paul said hopefully. “He said Mrs. Barker wanted me to come before I went to live with my mother. I didn't tell him yet that she got married, but maybe I'd better, and then he'll ask me for supper soon, like Friday.”

The telephone rang before Gran could reply. “Hello?” she said. Then, “Speaking of the devil,” she murmured and held the receiver out to Paul.

“Darling!” his mother's voice caroled. “Art and I want you to come in on Sunday and spend the day. We can't go away on a wedding trip yet; we have to save some money, and besides, Art has some work he has to do. We can't ask you to spend the night; the place is so dinky we just don't have room but we'd love for you to come in, and we'll go to the Automat and the museums and do all the things you like to do. It'll be your day. How's that?”

Paul said, “I could sleep in a sleeping bag. On the floor. I could come Friday for the whole weekend. I know a kid, he said I could borrow his sleeping bag any time I want.”

“We've got a couple of tiresome parties to go to Friday and Saturday, sweetie,” she said, “and it'd mean you'd be here alone. I'd hate for you to be alone. It'd be better just for Sunday this time, then maybe we can work out a longer stay later. Let me speak to Gran.”

If only he could go for the week end, he could escape Gordon the Genius, and Freddy Gibson too, Paul thought, handing the receiver over to Gran. What's more, he'd be where he wanted to be, with his mother. She might even ask him to stay when she found out how helpful he was, what good company. He'd make her laugh and he wouldn't be in the way. He'd try very hard not to be in the way. Art might even take him to some art exhibits and explain the abstract paintings to him, since he was an artist. Paul had once seen an exhibit of abstract art, and some of the paintings haunted him. Maybe they meant something and maybe they didn't. Paul thought that if you looked at them long enough, you could figure them out. He'd like to try.

Gran said, “Yes, I'll put him on the nine-oh-five. You'll meet him, then? And he'll be on the six-oh-five coming home? I'm fine. No, nothing much.” She hung up, and for a minute she stood still, staring at the wall. Gran so rarely did nothing—either she was smoking or fixing vegetables or playing solitaire or washing windows—that Paul said tentatively, “Gran?

“Gran?” he said again, and this time she came out of her reverie and smiled at him.

“That'll be nice for you, won't it?” she said. “You're going to have a really busy week end, what with Gordon's coming and you going to see your mother.”

And Freddy Gibson. What about him? Paul wondered. Shivers of fear and anticipation went through him. To be a member of the group at last was something he had to think about, to savor, to imagine. To go on a sleep-out and cook stuff and talk and laugh and close his eyes to shut out the stars. These were not small things. On the other hand, what did he have to do to obtain them? Gran had always said, “Never take anything that doesn't belong to you.” Paul didn't know if he had the strength to resist the promise of friendship, even friendship so badly bought. What part was he supposed to play in Freddy's plan?

He wished he had more time to think about it.

11

He had even less time than he'd thought. Next morning Freddy was waiting for him in the playground. He was alone. It was the first time Paul had ever seen him not surrounded by his friends, and he looked different, smaller and not quite so ominous.

Freddy smiled, revealing his chipmunk teeth. “Hey, Rabbit, how's it going? You decide? About what we were talking about yesterday, you decide?” The smile was turned off and the teeth had disappeared.

“I don't know,” Paul said. “I-I-I-I've got to go visit my mother Sunday. If you want me on Sunday, I can't go. My mother and me are going to do a whole bunch of things Sunday. We might go to a museum or to the zoo and …”

“Saturday, Rabbit, it's Saturday we got plans.” Freddy spoke slowly and distinctly, his eyes never leaving Paul's face. “We really want you to come along. All the guys told me they want you.” He put his hand on Paul's shoulder and Paul tried, without success, not to flinch. That hand felt as if it weighed a ton. “Don't forget the sleep-out either. That's the best. A blast. We do everything together, the gang does.” He waited.

“As long as it's Saturday, I-I-I guess it's O.K.,” Paul stammered. Up until that moment, he hadn't known exactly what he was going to say. Freddy's face became friendly again.

“Terrific!” he said. “Be at the corner of Maple and Willow at eight o'clock Saturday morning,” he said, lowering his voice, even though they were alone. The bell had rung. “Don't tell anybody where you've gone, your grandmother, nobody. Mum's the word, pal, and don't forget it. That's one of the rules, the most important one. Nobody lets on to nobody outside the gang.” Freddy's grammar would have Gran in a flap.

“If you tell, the deal's off, sleep-out, everything. And I wouldn't want to see you miss out, Rabbit, honest I wouldn't.” For a boy with chipmunk teeth, it was amazing how sinister Freddy could look and sound.

“I think you and me are going to be real pals, Rab,” Freddy said, smacking Paul hard between the shoulder blades, so hard that Paul took a few steps forward, feeling his legs tremble.

“You're a little on the skinny side,” Freddy said. “You better pick up a couple pounds, but just wait until after Saturday to start, that's all.” He laughed and ran away.

What's he mean by that? Paul asked himself. He felt as if he had a large lump of something in his chest. Does fear come in lumps? An interesting question and, as usual, one to which he didn't have an answer.

It was too bad that Gran had cooked his favorite supper, sweet-and-sour perk. Paul pushed the bits of meat and pineapple and green pepper around on his plate and tried to swallow some. The lump was still there, only it'd moved from his chest up to his throat.

“You feel all right?” she asked. Again she laid her cheek against the back of his neck, testing for fever.

“For gosh sakes, Gran,” Paul shouted, jumping up. “Can't you leave me alone? Always fussing at me. I'm too big for that. I'm not a baby.”

Gran tucked her chin down into her chest, and they finished eating in silence. She got up to clear away the dishes.

“I'll do them,” he said. “It's just about time for Walter Cronkite.”

Gran was very fond of Walter Cronkite. “That man has more integrity in his little finger than all the rest of them put together,” she always said. “You can tell just by looking at him.”

Paul wished he could ask Mr. Cronkite what to do about Freddy.

“You won't get the water hot enough,” Gran said. “You never do.”

“Then you run the water and I'll wash when you've fixed it,” Paul said. She gave him no further argument. He swished the dishrag around, punching it down every time it rose to the surface. “Die, you dog!” he hissed with each spurt of water. He checked every dish before he put it in the drainer, determined that Gran would find no fault with his work. He could hear Mr. Cronkite talking to Gran in the living room as he sprayed the dishes with rinse water.

Instead of doing his homework, Paul sat on his bed and doodled on a piece of paper. He wondered about Saturday and what it was all about. All of a sudden Freddy thought he, Paul, was a good kid. Why was Freddy being so friendly when up to now he'd done nothing but make fun of him? “There's something rotten in Denmark,” Gran would say if she knew.

When it was time for bed, Paul went to say good night to Gran. She was reading and smoking and drinking her gin and ginger ale. In her blue robe, her face clean and puckered, she looked old.

“I'm sorry I got mad,” he said, bending to kiss her. She looked at him as if trying to remember who he was. Behind her glasses, her eyes were pale and sad.

“I'm growing up,” Paul said, “and I don't like to be fussed over like I was a baby.”

“As if.” Gran corrected him. She had a thing about grammar. Taking off her glasses, she said, “I've been fussing so long, Paul, it's hard to break the habit. First I fussed over your mother, and now I'm fussing over you. I guess I'm too old to change.”

Paul wished she would say she would at least try to stop, but she didn't. She smelled of gin and smoke and witch hazel.

Even though he was tired, it took Paul a long time to fall asleep. And when he did, he dreamed of Freddy, running away from something, someone, carrying a big sack full of skinny boys, all of whom looked exactly like Paul, ears and everything.

12

“Where you been keeping yourself?” Mr. Barker asked when Paul stopped at the store after school on Thursday. “The missus was asking about you last night. Said she wanted you to come for a meal real soon. I told her maybe you wouldn't be around forever, maybe you're going to live with your mom, and she said not to sneak away without letting us know where we can reach you. Leave your address, telephone number.” Mr. Barker swabbed down the front of his glass cases, smudged with a myriad of small fingerprints and even nose prints.

Boldly Paul said, “I could come tomorrow.” Even as he spoke, blood ran into his cheeks. He was ashamed of being so forward, but he really wanted Mrs. Barker to invite him for supper Friday.

“So far's I know, we got no plans,” Mr. Barker said. “I'll ask her, and you stop by tomorrow so's I can let you know for sure. That way your grandma'd have a night off and not have to cook for you. It must be kind of hard, a woman her age having to keep up with a young one like you.”

If Gran heard Mr. Barker referring to her as “a woman her age,” she would in all probability blow a gasket.

“Where's Eugene?” Paul asked.

“He called in sick.” Mr. Barker looked solemnly at Paul. “Second time this week. Three strikes and he's out. Eugene's not exactly what I call a ball of fire. He's more what I term ‘feckless.' The missus says she could've told me that right off. All's she has to do is look at somebody and she can pretty well tell what he's like. She's something.” Mr. Barker shook his head in admiration. “She's a corker, that one. Keeps me on my toes.”

Paul wondered if Mrs. Barker liked
him
. He made a note to look up the word
feckless
when he got home.

“If she knows you're coming, Paul, she'll spend the whole day in the kitchen,” Mr. Barker said. Then, as if reading his mind, he added, “You're her favorite. And that's high praise. That woman isn't easy to please when it comes to people.” He smiled and tapped Paul lightly on the arm. His hands were very big and covered with scars, which he had told Paul were the result of his early days as a butcher. “People think it's easy, being a butcher, but there's a lot to learn if you're going to be first class, and I'm living proof it isn't so easy,” he had explained. “One slip with that knife and only the good Lord knows what might happen.”