The Unmaking of Rabbit (8 page)

Then Mrs. Barker joined them and listened to him talk about the nutritional value of kidneys and brains, not to mention liver. Paul was just wishing somebody would change the subject when Mr. Barker looked at his pocket watch and said it was about time to start home.

“I don't like to hustle you,” he said, “but they'll worry if you're out too late.” He said he'd drive them home.

No, they protested, they were old enough to walk. He conceded a point and said he'd drop them off at their corner.

Mrs. Barker kissed each of them good-by, and Paul didn't even mind. “You're two nice boys,” she said firmly. “Tell your mothers I said so. And your grandmothers too. I don't know who deserves more credit. Maybe both. Anyway, it's been a pleasure to have you. Come again soon.”

Mr. Barker let them out at the corner, as he'd promised, and as they walked through the deserted street, feeling independent, Gordon said, “They're nice, easy, you know what I mean? You feel easy when you're there, like you're not trying or anything, and you can say what you want and they hear you.”

“Yeah,” Paul agreed.

“But you know something about what Mr. Barker said? About how you should tell people how you feel about them? I never told anybody I love them. Not since I was a little kid. Not my mother or my father or anybody. Did you?”

“I guess not,” Paul said, trying to remember.

“See you tomorrow,” Gordon called out as they came to Mrs. Tuttle's house. “First thing.” He was gone.

But tomorrow was Saturday. And Freddy Gibson. And all kinds of things. Paul wished tomorrow wouldn't come.

14

But tomorrow always comes.

“I said eight sharp.” Freddy looked at his watch. “It's two minutes past.” Paul had told Gran he was going to play ball with some kids. “This early?” she'd asked, glad that he'd made some friends.

Freddy's eyes were flat with dislike, his fists clenched at his side. The gang formed a circle around Paul. At a signal from the leader, they would set upon him. He was the rabbit for real; they were the hounds. Paul tucked his head down between his shoulders so he wouldn't be so visible, so exposed.

Raising his hand in a gesture of forgiveness, Freddy relented. “It's O.K. No harm done,” he said magnanimously. “Let's go.” He laid his hand again on Paul's shoulder, which he had a habit of doing. Paul felt as if a cold wind had passed through him. Nobody had made him come. He had made the decision. He wasn't a baby. He was about to become one of the boys.

“We've cased this house, see? The people are away on a trip. It's a big ritzy house, a split-level, air conditioned and everything. They've got this little window on the side—it doesn't lock—and they got lots of cameras and portable TVs and stereos and stuff. Scott knows on account of he was their paper boy and he used to go inside while she got the money to pay him.”

Scott's chest swelled visibly at having been singled out by the chief for his superior reconnoitering.

“And that's where you come in, Rabbit baby. The little window is just about your size.” Freddy stood back and measured Paul with his eyes. “You're a nice dainty size, Rabbit, I'll say that for you.”

Paul's tongue stuck in his throat. The urge to run, to escape, was overpowering, but Freddy's hand stayed where it was at the nape of Paul's neck. Maybe he was testing him for fever too, like Gran. Paul felt as if he were burning up.

“Now we gotta make sure the coast is clear. You and you and you”—Freddy pointed to three eager boys, who snapped to attention as if they'd been puppets pulled by their strings—“are lookouts. Don't forget, everybody gets a share.” He smiled his chipmunk smile, encompassing all his subjects in its warmth, which was inconsiderable. “Walk along, nice and easy like. We're out for a stroll, see?”

Single file, like Indians going through a forest or Boy Scouts out for a day's hike, they began the march, Freddy and Paul in the lead.

“And when we're done, we'll discuss the sleep-out,” Freddy promised, holding out the prize. “You're the only new member the gang has had since we started. That's an honor,” he said, looking hard at Paul, who nodded because some response seemed necessary. So far, he hadn't said a word.

They walked for what seemed a long way down streets placid in the Saturday morning calm. The milkman was still making his rounds, and there were rolledup newspapers on front steps. A couple of dogs barked, but their hearts weren't in it. Saturday morning was the best morning of all, Paul thought. No school, no church, no nothing but doing what you want to do.

“We're getting close now,” Freddy said hoarsely. The houses here were farther apart, the lawns greener and larger. The cars they saw were either very big or very small. Either way, they were expensive.

“That's it, the pink one at the end,” Scott said. “That's some house. My father said it cost the guy a whole mess of dough. It's even got a sauna.”

“What's a sauna?” Freddy asked, annoyed. He didn't like not knowing what things were.

“I don't know,” Scott said. “But it's got one anyway. It's like a swimming pool only it's not.”

Paul put one foot after the other and concentrated on telling himself that it would soon be over and then they could plan the sleep-out.
What am I doing here
? a little voice in his head kept asking.
I wish I was home in bed
. Then an even smaller voice said,
You wanted to be in the gang and now you're going to be, so shut up and carry on
.

The pink house looked closed, forlorn, and full of secrets. The grass was neatly trimmed and the shades were pulled halfway down. A beer can lay on the grass near the hedge, where someone had tossed it from a passing car. Otherwise, all was in order.

“Through here.” Scott directed them through the hedge. He knew the terrain, after all. He had been admitted inside the pink house as a trusted paper boy. So what if in the process he had lined things up for Freddy and his boys? So what indeed.

When they had circled the house completely, making sure it was deserted, Freddy said, “Now listen you guys, and I'll give orders. There's the window.” Heads swiveled to look at the round window on the side of the house.

“Paul here,” and again the hand fell like a ten-pound weight on Paul's shoulders, “stands on my shoulders, on account of I'm the tallest, and we hoist him through, and he unlocks the door, and presto, we're in.”

“How do you know you can get in that window?” The sound of his own voice startled Paul. “It looks locked to me. And it looks like it'd be a long drop to the floor inside.”

“Because our chief spy here”—Freddy turned toward Scott—“like I said, he's been inside plenty of times. He says there's a landing underneath the window with a nice comfy couch on it to fall on. Also he heard the lady telling somebody that the window's always open. One time she locked herself out of the house and she sent her little kid up on a ladder, and he crawled through and opened the door. That's how we got the idea in the first place.”

“I don't think I can make it. It's too small. I might get stuck halfway through. Then what'd happen?” Paul's voice shook. He knew what would happen if he got stuck. They'd all run off and leave him, half in, half out, until the people who owned the house came and found him, and by then he'd probably be dead of starvation. He could see Gran's face when the police came to her door and told her her grandson had been found stuck in a window, dead of starvation.

Freddy said, “Give him a hand up,” without indicating he'd heard Paul. Two of the gang hoisted him onto Freddy's shoulders as if he'd been a toy. He teetered there, looking down at them. Their upturned faces registered excitement, greed, fright. Freddy grabbed hold of Paul's ankles.

“We got it made,” he said gleefully. “See if it's open.” Paul pushed gently against the round pane of glass. If he didn't force it, maybe it wouldn't open. But it gave slightly, as if it were hinged on the inside.

“Harder!” Freddy commanded. The window swung open.

“It's too high. I can't make it.” Paul's voice sounded loud and jubilant. He couldn't make it through the window!

“Get the box,” Freddy directed and, magically, hands produced a sturdy wooden box with
Clover Farm's Milk
printed on it. Two boys held onto Paul's ankles while Freddy climbed up on it. The additional height was just enough to enable Paul's waist to hit the sill of the window. It would be a cinch.

“There's a couch underneath,” Freddy whispered in triumph. “Just drop down and you'll hit it; then open the front door. Paul didn't look down. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Atta boy, Rab, you've got it made!”

Maybe if he'd called him Paul instead of Rabbit, Paul would've obeyed orders. Maybe not. The voice spoke in his ear. It said,
Just pretend you're going to puke. You want out, you hold your gut and say you're going to puke, and, man, they let you out and fast
!

Paul took his hand down from the window sill and clutched at his stomach.

“I'm going to puke,” he said. And maybe that wasn't a lie. If Gran could hear him, she'd let him have it. She didn't like him to use words like that. “I'm going to puke all over you,” he whispered.

“You're O.K.,” Freddy pleaded. “Hang in there. Just a little longer and you're in. You're going to be all right.” His face was pale.

Paul gulped huge amounts of air. “I can't,” he said weakly. “Better let me down before it's too late.”

In disgust, Freddy released his hold on Paul's ankles. “Get down and make it fast,” he said. Paul jumped and lay on the ground, gasping struggling for air. Maybe he really
was
going to puke all over everyone. They stood and watched him, waiting.

His stomach rolled, heaved, and rolled again. No one said anything. They stood in a ring around him, but well back. Finally, he stood up, his legs shaky.

“Couldn't take it, huh, Rabbit? Chickened out, did you?” Freddy's face was ugly. “If you're going to puke, go ahead.” Paul raised his hand and Freddy backed off.

Paul ran. He ran so long and so hard and fast that he had a tremendous pain in his chest and had to lean against a tree until it went away. Gran was on the telephone when he banged open the kitchen door. He made a beeline for the bathroom and hung over the toilet bowl, still heaving.

“I've got to go,” he heard Gran say. “He went to the Barkers' for dinner last night and must've eaten something that disagreed with him. Wouldn't you think they'd serve their guests the best? Children, too. Some people. Honestly.”

She held his head, the way she'd done when he was a little boy. “That's all right,” she kept saying. “That'll be all right. Get it up and you'll feel much better.”

He never was actually sick, but later, lying on his bed with a cold washcloth which Gran insisted upon putting on his forehead, he felt as if a horse had kicked him in the stomach.

Gran tiptoed into the room. “Gordon's here,” she said, “but I told him I didn't think you felt up to visitors.”

Paul took the clammy cloth off his head and sat up. “I'm O.K.,” he said. Gordon's head popped around the door.

“Hey,” he said, “you wanta do something?”

“Sure. What?”

“We could go see the Barkers,” Gordon said.

“I'd stay away from there if I was you,” Gran said darkly. “Did you have any uneasiness in the stomach last night?” she asked Gordon.

“What'd she mean by that?” Gordon asked when they were on their way out.

And although they'd been friends for only a few hours, Paul told Gordon about Freddy and the gang and the sleep-out and the window and what Eugene had said about puking. “You're the only person who knows,” he said, “and it's gotta stay a secret.” They shook hands on it.

“And Gran thinks I was sick because of what I ate last night at the Barkers',” he finished. “She thinks I was poisoned.” They looked at each other and started to laugh. They laughed so hard they were unable to keep walking and had to sit down on the curb until they'd calmed down.

15

“I still say you'd be better off if you took my change purse,” Gran said. “You know the city is rife with pickpockets. Just brush up against you and before you know it the wallet is gone. You've got your money in a safe place?”

Paul patted the breast pocket of his jacket. “Everything's O.K.,” he said.

“You've got the handkerchief I ironed for you? You're sure your stomach's all right this morning? It would be terrible if you had a recurrence of your upset on the train.”

“I feel fine,” Paul reassured her. “You don't have to come to the station with me. I know the way.”

Gran pursed her mouth to put on her lipstick. Paul knew she would walk him to the station, buy his ticket, and probably wait until the train pulled in. Then she'd ask the conductor to keep an eye on him, which was humiliating at his age. But he had learned long ago there was no sense in arguing with her. Once started on her appointed course, she went straight as an arrow.

Paul took his wallet out for the tenth time, just to make sure the five new dollar bills he'd got last Christmas were there. He planned on treating his mother, and Art too, to a cup of coffee or a soda or whatever they wanted.

“We better get going,” he said. “It's getting late, and if I miss the train, we'll have to call my mother.” That would get Gran if anything would. She didn't like to make a long-distance telephone call unless it was absolutely necessary.

For her age, Gran was a fast walker. Once she'd got herself pulled together in her new dress and her hat pinned securely on, they made good time. Paul suspected Gran walked a little faster than usual when she was with him just to show him what good shape she was in.