Troublemakers (41 page)

   
We read comics together, and Jeffty and I both decided-separately, before we came together to discuss it-that our favorite characters were Doll Man, Airboy and The Heap. We also adored the George Carlson strips in
Jingle Jangle Comics,
particularly the Pie-Face Prince of Old Pretzleburg stories, which we read together and laughed over, even though I had to explain some of the esoteric puns to Jeffty, who was too young to have that kind of subtle wit.

   
How to explain it? I can’t. I had enough physics in college to make some offhand guesses, but I’m more likely wrong than right. The laws of the conservation of energy occasionally break. These are laws that physicists call “weakly violated.” Perhaps Jeffty was a catalyst for the weak violation of conservation laws we’re only now beginning to realize exist. I tried doing some reading in the area-muon decay of the “forbidden” kind: gamma decay that doesn’t include the muon neutrino among its products-but nothing I encountered, not even the latest readings from the Swiss Institute for Nuclear Research near Zurich, gave me an insight. I was thrown back on a vague acceptance of the philosophy that the real name for “science” is
magic.

   
No explanations, but enormous good times.

   
The happiest time of my life.

   
I had the “real” world, the world of my store and my friends and my family, the world of profit&loss, of taxes and evenings with young women who talked about going shopping or the United Nations, of the rising cost of coffee and microwave ovens. And I had Jeffty’s world, in which I existed only when I was with him. The things of the past he knew as fresh and new, I could experience only when in his company. And the membrane between the two worlds grew ever thinner, more luminous and transparent. I had the best of both worlds. And knew, somehow, that I could carry nothing from one to the other.

   
Forgetting for just a moment, betraying Jeffty by forgetting, brought an end to it all.

   
Enjoying myself so much, I grew careless and failed to consider how fragile the relationship between Jeffty’s world and my world really was. There is a reason why the present begrudges the existence of the past. I never really understood. Nowhere in the beast books, where survival is shown in battles between claw and fang, tentacle and poison sac, is there recognition of the ferocity the present always brings to bear on the past. Nowhere is there a detailed statement of how the Present lies in wait for What-Was, waiting for it to become Now-This-Moment so it can shred it with its merciless jaws.

   
Who could know such a thing... at any age... and certainly not at my age... who could understand such a thing?

   
I’m trying to exculpate myself. I can’t. It was my fault.

   
It was another Saturday afternoon.

   
“What’s playing today?” I asked him, in the car, on the way downtown.

  
 
He looked up at me from the other side of the front seat and smiled one of his best smiles. “Ken Maynard in
Bullwhip Justice
an’
The Demolished Man.”
He kept smiling, as if he’d really put one over on me. I looked at him with disbelief.

   
“You’re
kidding!”
I said, delighted. “Bester’s
The Demolished Man?”
He nodded his head, delighted at my being delighted. He knew it was one of my favorite books. “Oh, that’s super!”

   
“Super
duper,”
he said.

   
“Who’s in it?”

   
“Franchot Tone, Evelyn Keyes, Lionel Barrymore and Elisha Cook, Jr.” He was much more knowledgeable about movie actors than I’d ever been. He could name the character actors in any movie he’d ever seen. Even the crowd scenes.

   
“And cartoons?” I asked.

   
“Three of ‘em: a
Little Lulu,
a
Donald Duck
and a
Bugs Bunny.
An’ a
Pete Smith Specialty
an’ a Lew Lehr
Monkeys is da
C
-r-r-r-aziest Peoples.”

   
“Oh boy!” I said. I was grinning from ear to ear. And then I looked down and saw the pad of purchase order forms on the seat. I’d forgotten to drop it off at the store.

   
“Gotta stop by the Center,” I said. “Gotta drop off something. It’ll only take a minute.”

   
“Okay,” Jeffty said. “But we won’t be late, will we?”

   
“Not on your tintype, kiddo,” I said.

   
When I pulled into the parking lot behind the Center, he decided to come in with me and we’d walk over to the theater. It’s not a large town. There are only two movie houses, the Utopia and the Lyric. We were going to the Utopia and it was only three blocks from the Center.

   
I walked into the store with the pad of forms, and it was bedlam. David and Jan were handling two customers each, and there were people standing around waiting to be helped. Jan turned a look on me and her face was a horror-mask of pleading. David was running from the stockroom to the showroom and all he could murmur as he whipped past was “Help!” and then he was gone.

   
“Jeffty,” I said, crouching down, “listen, give me a few minutes. Jan and David are in trouble with al: these people. We won’t be late, I promise. Just let me get rid of a couple of these customers.” He looked nervous, but nodded okay.

   
I motioned to a chair and said, “Just sit down for a while and I’ll be right with you.”

   
He went to the chair, good as you please, though he knew what was happening, and he sat down.

   
I started taking care of people who wanted color television sets. This was the first really substantial batch of units we’d gotten in-color television was only now becoming reasonably priced and this was Sony’s first promotion-and it was bonanza time for me. I could see paying off the loan and being out in front for the first time with the Center. It was business.

   
In my world, good business comes first.

   
Jeffty sat there and stared at the wall. Let me tell you about the wall.

   
Stanchion and bracket designs had been rigged from floor to within two feet of the ceiling. Television sets had been stacked artfully on the wall. Thirty-three television sets. All playing at the same time. Black and white, color, little ones, big ones, all going at the same time.

   
Jeffty sat and watched thirty-three television sets, on a Saturday afternoon. We can pick up a total of thirteen channels including the UHF educational stations. Golf was on one channel; baseball was on a second; celebrity bowling was on a third; the fourth channel was a religious seminar; a teenage dance show was on the fifth; the sixth was a rerun of a situation comedy; the seventh was a rerun of a police show; eighth was a nature program showing a man flycasting endlessly; ninth was news and conversation; tenth was a stock car race; eleventh was a man doing logarithms on a blackboard; twelfth was a woman in a leotard doing sitting-up exercises; and on the thirteenth channel was a badly animated cartoon show in Spanish. All but six of the shows were repeated on three sets. Jeffty sat and watched that wall of television on a Saturday afternoon while I sold as fast and as hard as I could, to pay back my Aunt Patricia and stay in touch with my world. It was business.

  
 
I should have known better. I should have understood about the present and the way it kills the past. But I was selling with both hands. And when I finally glanced over at Jeffty, half an hour later, he looked like another child.

   
He was sweating. That terrible fever sweat when you have stomach flu. He was pale, as pasty and pale as a worm, and his little hands were gripping the arms of the chair so tightly I could see his knuckles in bold relief. I dashed over to him, excusing myself from the middle-aged couple looking at the new 21” Mediterranean model.

   
“Jeffty!”

   
He looked at me, but his eyes didn’t track. He was in absolute terror. I pulled him out of the chair and started toward the front door with him, but the customers I’d deserted yelled at me, “Hey!” The middle-aged man said, “You wanna sell this thing or don’t you?”

   
I looked from him to Jeffty and back again. Jeffty was like a zombie. He had come where I’d pulled him. His legs were rubbery and his feet dragged. The past, being eaten by the present, the sound of something in pain.

   
I clawed some money out of my pants pocket and jammed it into Jeffty’s hand. “Kiddo... listen to me... get out of here right now!” He still couldn’t focus properly.
“Jeffty,”
I said as tightly as I could,
“listen
to me!” The middle-aged customer and his wife were walking toward us. “Listen, kiddo, get out of here right this minute. Walk over to the Utopia and buy the tickets. I’ll be right behind you.” The middle-aged man and his wife were almost on us. I shoved Jeffty through the door and watched him stumble away in the wrong direction, then stop as if gathering his wits, turn and go back past the front of the Center and in the direction of the Utopia. “Yes sir,” I said, straightening up and facing them, “yes, ma’am, that is one terrific set with some sensational features! If you’ll just step back here with me...”

   
There was a terrible sound of something hurting, but I couldn’t tell from which channel, or from which set, it was coming.

   
Most of it I learned later, from the girl in the ticket booth, and from some people I knew who came to me to tell me what had happened. By the time I got to the Utopia, nearly twenty minutes later, Jeffty was already beaten to a pulp and had been taken to the manager’s office.

   
“Did you see a very little boy, about five years old, with big brown eyes and straight brown hair... he was waiting for me?”

   
“Oh, I think that’s the little boy those kids beat up?”

   
“What!?!
Where is he?”

   
“They took him to the manager’s office. No one knew who he was or where to find his parents-”

   
A young girl wearing an usher’s uniform was kneeling down beside the couch, placing a wet paper towel on his face.

   
I took the towel away from her and ordered her out of the office. She looked insulted and snorted something rude, but she left. I sat on the edge of the couch and tried to swab away the blood from the lacerations without opening the wounds where the blood had caked. Both his eyes were swollen shut. His mouth was ripped badly. His hair was matted with dried blood.

   
He had been standing in line behind two kids in their teens. They started selling tickets at 12:30 and the show started at 1:00. The doors weren’t opened till 12:45. He had been waiting, and the kids in front of him had had a portable radio. They were listening to the ball game. Jeffty had wanted to hear some program, God knows what it might have been,
Grand Central Station, Let’s Pretend, The Land of the Lost,
God only knows which one it might have been.

   
He had asked if he could borrow their radio to hear the program for a minute, and it had been a commercial break or something, and the kids had given him the radio, probably out of some malicious kind of courtesy that would permit them to take offense and rag the little boy. He had changed the station... and they’d been unable to get it to go back to the ball game. It was locked into the past, on a station that was broadcasting a program that didn’t exist for anyone but Jeffty.

   
They had beaten him badly... as everyone watched.

   
And then they had run away.

   
I had left him alone, left him to fight off the present without sufficient weaponry. I had betrayed him for the sale of a 21” Mediterranean console television, and now his face was pulped meat. He moaned something inaudible and sobbed softly.