The Unmaking of Rabbit (7 page)

He arranged some soup cans in a neat pyramid. “You got anything you're especially fond of?” he asked. “She likes to fix your favorite food.”

“As long as it isn't liver,” Paul said, “I don't care.”

“Some day you should taste my liver,” Mr. Barker said. “The finest liver there is. Expensive, but worth every penny. I got a couple customers, they buy it for their cats. Would you believe it?”

“Gran wouldn't buy it for our cat,” Paul said. “Not even for Flora.”

“Your grandmother's a wise shopper, a careful shopper. She thinks about where she puts her dollars.”

“She sure does.” Paul agreed, and they both laughed.

Filled with the warm, friendly feeling he always had when he talked to Mr. Barker, Paul went home. Gran wasn't in the kitchen or the living room, and she wasn't lying down, as she sometimes did, so Paul figured she must be out. Flora regarded him with her usual insolence, and Paul said, “You are fat and ugly and feckless, that's what. Feckless Flora.” He often insulted her when they were alone. It made him feel better, and Flora's haughty demeanor remained unchanged.

Helping himself to a day-old doughnut Gran bought at the bakery for half price, Paul settled himself down with a copy of
National Geographic
. The telephone rang, and when he answered, Bess Tuttle's voice cried, “You'll never guess who's here!”

“Who?” Paul said, and she answered, after a dramatic pause, “Gordon.” She handed him the name as if it were a bunch of roses. “He got here a day early, and I'm on my way over right now so you two can get to know each other.”

“I'm alone,” Paul said stupidly. “Gran isn't here. I don't know where she is.”

“She's gone to the foot doctor,” Mrs. Tuttle said briskly. “She usually walks home down Chatsworth Avenue. I'll hop in the car and pick her up.”

Gran walked everywhere, from one side of town to the other, in fair weather or foul, just like a mailman. She had never learned to drive and saw no reason to. “I'm in better shape than most women half my age,” she was quick to say. “All that walking and my cigarette holder are responsible, that I know.”

Paul hung up and sat doing nothing. If he took a shower he wouldn't be able to hear when they arrived. He didn't usually take a shower in the middle of the afternoon, but there could always be a first time.

But Gran came in the back door. “There you are,” she said, taking off her hat. “Truesdale just cut a corn off my foot, and I walked all the way home. That man is a miracle worker, let me tell you.”

“Gordon's here and Mrs. Tuttle's in the car looking for you on Chatsworth to bring you home,” Paul said. “He got here a day early and she just called up.” He turned despairing eyes to his grandmother.

“Well,” she said, refusing to meet his gaze, “I'll just whip up some lemonade.”

A car pulled up in front of the house. “She must've been doing seventy-five all the way,” Paul said.

“Either that or she called from the pay phone on the corner,” Gran said smiling.

“We're in the kitchen, Bess,” Gran called as she heard them at the front door. “Come on in.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Tuttle, “here we are.”

Gran said, “I thought Paul said Gordon was with you.”

“He is.” Mrs. Tuttle moved aside and revealed a boy with red hair, eyes like twin raisins, and more freckles than he had room for.

He looked as if he'd been hiding behind her. Paul was pleased to see Gordon wasn't much taller than he was. Mrs. Tuttle started to put her arm around Gordon. He dodged and said, “Hey,” without looking at either Gran or Paul. Mrs. Tuttle mouthed “shy” at them and looked embarrassed.

“Nice to meet you, Gordon,” Gran said. “Your grandmother has told us about you.”

“Yeah,” Gordon said, raising his eyes briefly, “I know.”

There was a silence into which Gran tossed the promise of lemonade. Then, arming each with a full glass, she suggested, “Why don't you turn on the TV?” Paul's mouth dropped open in surprise. TV in broad daylight? Gran must be flipping. Only once when he'd had a bad case of bronchitis and had stayed out of school a whole week had she let him watch TV in the daytime.

“Let's go outside,” Gordon said. “O.K.,” Paul agreed, and under the heavy weight of Mrs. Tuttle's smile, the two boys took their glasses out to the front steps, where they sat and stared at the ground.

“I thought you were coming tomorrow,” Paul said finally.

“I was, but my mother and father decided to leave today, and they dropped me on their way. Three days with my grandmother. I don't know if I can hack it,” Gordon said.

“Why, don't you like her?” Paul asked. He almost added “either” but he was too tactful. It was one thing for Gordon to say he didn't like his own grandmother, but he might not like it if Paul agreed with him.

“Aw, you know. She's always at me. She talks about me like I was some kind of genius or something.”

Paul started to laugh. He took a long swallow of lemonade and almost choked. Gordon thumped him on the back and after a few agonizing moments, Paul got his breath back.

“What's so funny?” Gordon asked.

“Nothing. She said you were a tennis champ. Is that right?”

Gordon shrugged. “Why not? I've had lessons since I was five. I've had so many lessons I got 'em coming out my eyeballs. I'd have to be a real zero not to be pretty good. It's important to my parents, you know. That I be first, I mean.”

They sat in silence. Paul clinked the ice around the sides of his empty glass.

“She says you get all A's.” Paul asked offhandedly, “Is that right?”

Again Gordon shrugged. “Sure. I go to a private school with only fifteen guys in my class. They really keep an eye on you, and when the old B's start, they call in the tutor. It's not much of a sweat.”

“I guess not.” Paul felt quite friendly toward Gordon.

“How do you get to school? I mean, do you walk or take a bus or what?” Gordon asked.

“I walk. It's only about a half mile.”

“Maybe I'll walk with you tomorrow. I don't have any thing else to do.”

“You have to be here at eight fifteen. That's when I leave.”

Paul stood at the window and watched Mrs. Tuttle back her car out the driveway. It took her about a half hour to maneuver the huge shining vehicle into its going-home position. “She has more car than brains,” Paul remembered Gran saying once about somebody. Maybe she had Mrs. Tuttle in mind.

“Well?” Gran said.

“Well what?” Paul asked.

“How'd you like him?” Gran demanded.

“He's O.K.” Paul started setting the table. “He's going to walk to school with me tomorrow. He doesn't have anything else to do. He says he can't hack his grandmother. She brags about him and that gets him embarrassed.” Paul looked at her. “That's one thing, Gran. You don't have anything to brag about me to your friends.”

“That's all you know.” Gran sniffed. “Fork goes on the left, not the right. I expected him to be a big boy. He's not much bigger 'n you.”

“No,” Paul said. “He says his mother and father want him to be first in things. It's important to them.”

“That must be quite a strain,” Gran said without expression.

“I guess,” said Paul.

13

“Hey, you're early,” Paul said when he came down to breakfast in the morning and found Gordon waiting, his face pushed against the glass in the kitchen door. “It's only ten to eight.”

“Ask him in,” Gran directed. She made French toast and cocoa for breakfast and a tuna fish sandwich for Paul's lunch. Up until a couple of weeks ago, she'd made next day's lunch the night before. “They get soggy,” Paul had protested more than once. “You try eating it.”

“You're right, it
is
soggy,” Gran had said, making a face after she took a bite. That was the last time she'd made the sandwich ahead of time.

“On the way over,” Gordon said with his mouth full, “I saw a pileated woodpecker. I bet you don't see too many of them around here.”

“What's a pileated woodpecker?” Paul asked.

“It's a special kind with a big red crest on its head,” Gordon explained. “Very rare. In my bird book, it says they're mostly found in the east and northeast. I'm going to be an ornithologist when I get out of college, I guess.”

File
ornithologist
away with
feckless
Paul told himself. “I'm thinking of being a film director,” he said, without warning.

Gran raised her eyebrows. “I didn't know you were interested in that sort of thing,” she said.

Paul blushed. He'd been thinking about being a director or an actor for some time, but he'd never mentioned it. “I might like to try acting too,” he went on boldly, “but I hear those lights get pretty hot.”

“I know a kid who's got a really first-rate camera,” Gordon said. “He takes pictures all the time. He wants to be a photographer. Maybe you could meet him if you come to visit me.”

Paul nodded, too overcome for words. Gordon liked him well enough to talk about inviting him to his house! When Gran wasn't looking, he picked up his plate and ran his tongue around to get the best and last of the syrup. Gordon followed suit, and Gran turned around just in time to catch him at it. Naturally, she couldn't bawl out a guest, but Paul was sure she'd clue in Mrs. Tuttle to the fact that her grandson might be a tennis champ and a genius, but it was certainly too bad his table manners had been neglected.

“Nothing left for you, fat cat,” Paul told Flora, who only swished her tail. “Let's go,” he commanded, and he and Gordon, who mumbled thanks to Gran, took off. When they got to school, it was late. Paul had taken the long way to avoid a possible meeting with Freddy or anyone else who might call him Rabbit. He didn't want to be called that in front of Gordon.

“I get out at three,” Paul said. “If you want, you can meet me here.”

“Maybe,” Gordon said. “If nothing else turns up. Take it easy.”

Promptly at three, Gordon was waiting. “I've gotta go see a friend of mine to find out something,” Paul said importantly. He felt good taking Gordon to the store because the Barkers were always so glad to see him. Sure enough, Mrs. Barker was there helping out, and she said, “My, it's nice to see you. How've you been keeping?” She smiled, revealing her two lovely gold teeth, which Paul thought much nicer than plain teeth. They sure beat Mrs. Tuttle's. “I made a peach pie for tonight,” Mrs. Barker said. “We're expecting you. I don't know you, do I?” she asked Gordon. “Those are some fine freckles you've got. I always did want to have freckles and red hair. You're lucky.” She drew breath long enough for Paul to introduce Gordon and explain that he was a visitor in town.

“Bring him along for supper,” she directed. “The more the merrier.” For one fleeting moment Paul knew a pang of jealousy. It was supposed to be
his
evening with the Barkers.

“That was pretty nice of her invite me when she doesn't even know me.” Gordon said on the way home.

Paul said, “She's a cool lady,” with a proprietary air. After all, Mrs. Barker was
his
friend.

Gran said that as long as they were both invited out, she and Mrs. Tuttle would take in an early movie. “That's very nice of them,” she had said grudgingly, when she found out about their asking Gordon.

It was a perfect evening. From the moment Mr. Barker opened the door, shouting, “Welcome, Welcome!” to the ride home through the dark, Paul was filled with happiness. He even found out Mrs. Barker's name was Irma. “Irma, our guests are here!” Mr. Barker called when he'd taken their coats. Paul had never heard the name before. He thought it suited her.

First they had tomato juice cocktail with little wedges of lemon, just like in a restaurant. Then stew, succulent with rich gravy, onions, and carrots. Mrs. Barker had made biscuits no bigger than fifty-cent pieces, and they had celery and both black and green olives. Just like Thanksgiving dinner.

Then came the peach pie à la mode, “If you can handle it,” Mr. Barker said, and it turned out they both could.

“I really like to eat,” Gordon said, putting his hands over his stomach.

“You had me fooled,” Mr. Barker laughed.

“My mother and father went to a fancy hotel this week end to celebrate their wedding anniversary, and I bet the food isn't as good there as it is here,” Gordon said.

“Wedding anniversary, eh?” Mr. Barker's eyes twinkled. “Me and the missus, we were married during a blizzard, and it's been tough sledding ever since.”

“You!” Mrs. Barker laid a fond hand on his cheek. “He made that joke up,” she explained, “and he never misses a chance to drag it in.”

“Trouble is, she knows I couldn't get along without her, and that's why I can get away with jokes like that.” Mr. Barker lit his pipe and settled back in his chair. “There's one thing about women, and don't you fellows forget it. They like to be told how you feel about 'em, gents. Unless I tell Irma here every day I love her, not to mention that she's the best cook in town, she gets as ornery as an old rhinoceros.”

That's the truth, Mrs. Barker's smile said. She was like a little jack-in-the-box, jumping up and down throughout supper to make sure everybody had what he wanted. She wouldn't let them help at all.

“You men go into the parlor, and I'll be through in a jiffy,” she said.

Mr. Barker turned out to be an expert on bears, turtles, and lots of other things. He told them there was nothing in the whole world that smelled worse than a bear but that they were smart and had a sensational sense of smell. Turtles see the same colors as people do, he said, and Paul wondered how he knew.