by Thomas Tryon
Still no word from Bobbitt, and in her heart Nellie truly was grieving. She waited and waited, but there was no reply to her skywriting appeal. Then a curious thing happened. One of the local TV station managers ran the first movie of the series, Bobbitt, for the station personnel. It had, they thought, a pleasant, old-fashioned appeal, so they put it on the air at five o’clock, just at the time when the kids were all home from school, waiting for supper. The reaction was instantaneous and overwhelming, a singular repetition of precisely what had happened almost twenty years before. Out of the darkness of the London blitz a small voice quavered: “’Oo put out th’ lights?” A match flared, and the same wondering face took shape on the small television screen just as it had in the great movie palaces. And people fell in love with Bobbitt all over again. Bobbitt was followed by Bobbitt in the Enchanted Forest, and the station discovered that its local rating jumped measurably; the whole series was bought as a package and they began regular weekly runs. Soon it was not only the children who were watching, but the grownups as well. In twenty years they had forgotten the charm of Bobbitt, but now, seeing the pictures again, they found they were reliving parts of their own childhood. A wave of nostalgia swept over everyone, and people rushed home from work to catch the latest on what had become known as “The Bobbitt Hour,” Bobbitt and the Magic Castle or Bobbitt Royal. They started saying, “But is it really truly true” again, and it had the same antiquated sound as if they’d said “Twenty-three skidoo” or “Hotcha.” To get a laugh, all one had to do was say “Ditto”; everyone knew that everyone else was watching Bobbitt.
The question was, and remained, what had become of Bobbitt? Where was the little tyke? Sorry—where was the man? Reporters delved, but came up with no answers. As for Nellie, she had not heard from him, and she felt surer than ever that he had left the city and had seen none of her messages. The next thing that happened was that she received a call from the talent coordinator of Good Morning USA, inviting her on the program. The notion of appearing live on early-morning TV made her nervous, but she thought that Bobbitt might see the show, so she went to be interviewed by Marion Walker, the hostess. Naturally Nellie couldn’t tell the truth of the matter, but she was quite adept at fielding Miss Walker’s questions and they spent a pleasant twenty-minute segment talking about the old days at Shady Lane Studios, when she was Missy Priss. The inevitable question was put by Marion Walker: Why was Nellie trying to reach Bobbitt and where was he now? The only things she could think of to say were some of the things Robin had told her about Ireland and the castle and the Galway Ball, so she used these, finding herself not even blushing as she told about Lady Farquahar and Castle Baughclammain and the Galway Race. Oh, she thought, she was such a liar—as bad as Bobbitt. Then she laughed out loud. She was in a taxi, and the driver, looking at her in the mirror, said, “Hiyuh, Missy Priss.” She was quite surprised as she listened to him tell her how his kids never missed a showing of a Bobbitt movie. Then she noticed people looking at her as she went about her daily errands, and it slowly dawned on her: she was becoming a celebrity. Missy Priss Missy Priss, she would hear people saying as she went by. Some of them would stop and talk to her, asking how she was, and so on, and she found these moments strangely satisfying.
It seemed the city now had one thing it shared in common, Bobbitt. Matters had not stopped with the television program. A manufacturer of printed T-shirts put out one with Bobbitt’s face on it (“Bobbitt’s smile is a yard wide”) and kids began buying them, then it became a fad and finally even the adults were wearing Bobbitt shirts. By now everybody knew about Missy Priss’s famous line “We must put pluck in our hearts,” and the emblem appeared on shirts and the backs of jackets.
Next a paperback publisher picked up the reprint rights and released the series in paperback, and you couldn’t go to a drugstore or a tobacco stand without seeing Bobbitt’s face smiling out at you from row after row of Bobbitt books. Someone else put out a comic magazine, The Adventures of Bobbitt, then there were The Further Adventures of Bobbitt, and Bobbitt and Missy Priss, and Bobbitt and Alfie. “America’s Fantasy Child” lived again.
Nellie’s new-found fame grew—along with Bobbitt’s—and she was asked to ride in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. There she was on a float, in a rocking chair, with a big Bobbitt book on her lap, surrounded by children. Her costume from the films had been copied; she wore her bombazine dress and apron, and the enormous bonnet, tied under the chin with a great black bow. They’d even found a reticule rather like the original, and lace mittens, and she wore screw curls down the sides of her face, which bobbed almost as much as the bonnet.
Then it was Christmas. Nellie was famous as Missy Priss, she was enjoying her new popularity, and her bank account was swelling, but still there was no Bobbitt to share this success with. On Christmas day she had Roger fly over the park and write: “MERRY CHRISTMAS BOBBITT FROM MISSY PRISS,” and a cheer went up from among the skaters at the Wollman rink; and at Rockefeller Center, when the carolers came to sing under the giant tree in the plaza, they sang the “Bobbitt Christmas Song.”
She spent an unhappy holiday that season. Of course she went to Garden City to visit the family, and she did her best to play Nana for the children, but in her heart she would rather have been playing Missy Priss for Bobbitt. She saw the bumper stickers Roger had put on his Ford Maverick: one side read: “Why did the good Lord put us here?” the other: “Surely not to chase rabbits.” Good advice from Missy Priss, but there was little she could do to take it. All the fame, all the money, all the love, were not enough to make up for the loss of Robin, and when she was alone she would try to tell herself that one day he would reappear, magically, out of nowhere. But the nowhere in which he existed was beyond her ken, and she realized that the tide of publicity could not possibly have passed him by; he must surely know, wherever he was, what had happened, but was rejecting it all and wanted no part of it or her. Occasionally Roger would fly over on a clear day and make the heart and put “PLUCK” in it, or write “BOBBITT REALLY TRULY TRUE,” but Bobbitt remained hidden and made no attempt to contact her.
It went on that way all winter. Spring came again and she returned to the bench in the park and watched the children playing around the mushroom, and she thought of Mr. Thingamabob. One of the children she recognized from the year before, and she asked, “Whatever happened to that—what was his name?” The child gave her a stare, didn’t know what she was talking about. “Mr. Thingamabob?” The child shrugged; how quickly they forget, she thought. She was resolved in her heart that she would never see Robin again. He had disappeared forever.
The school term was ending—it was now June—and the television station was planning its annual benefit, “Broadway Stars for Children,” a mammoth program in which famous performers appeared on an outdoor stage in the park’s Sheep Meadow, then donated their fees to the Children’s Orthopedic Hospital. Already the papers were full of publicity regarding the event, and one day Nellie’s telephone rang. It was the head of the program committee, asking her if she had any idea of the whereabouts of Bobby Ransome. It was hoped that since he was the performer most popular with the children, he might be persuaded to appear at the benefit in the next-to-closing spot. Nellie said she was sorry; no idea where he was. If she heard from him, would she let them know? they asked. They would be holding the spot for a long time, she wanted to tell them; Bobbitt’s act had closed years ago. But yes, she said, if she heard anything she would let them know.
Then one day she happened to be passing a shop in whose window something caught her eye and made her stop. The painted sign on the glass read FASCINATTO’S MEMORY MARVEL SHOP, and in the window were various advertisements for old photographs, sheet music, movie posters, books, and magazines. What had attracted her glance was a row of six green-and-gold plates, each with a small crown in the center. She could scarcely believe her eyes. She went in and spoke to the proprietor, whose name was Sam Fascinatto. Yes, he informed her, the six p
lates were originals, from Bobbitt Royal, and she was shocked to learn what he was asking for them. But she paid his price and had them wrapped. She took them home and hung them in two rows on the wall near the budgie cage. Several days later, passing the shop again, she noticed that in the window was a Bobbittmobile, one of the really old ones, but in good condition. It, too, was expensive, but she bought it. She asked Mr. Fascinatto by what chance he had come by these items. Oh, he told her, everybody was Bobbitt-crazy these days. Yes, she agreed, but these were original pieces. Had they come from someone’s attic? Mr. Fascinatto was too smart for that one; he wasn’t about to reveal his sources, not when original Bobbittiana was at such a premium. All he knew, he said, was that someone came in every week or so and gave him items to be sold on commission. He seemed in need of money.
Nellie asked Mr. Fascinatto to telephone her if anything else should turn up, she wanted first call on it, and a week later he rang her up, saying he’d come by an extraordinary piece, an original Bobbitt dollhouse, in remarkably good condition. Would she be interested? Certainly she would, and she told Mr. Fascinatto to have the man wait; she wanted to talk with him. But by the time she arrived at the store he was gone. She almost cried when she saw the dollhouse—it was perfect in every detail—and she paid for it and asked that it be delivered, since it was much too large for her to carry. The boy who worked for Mr. Fascinatto brought it to the apartment and set it on the table she had prepared for it by the window. As he was leaving, she thanked him and gave him a dollar tip. Then she flashed a ten-dollar bill under his eyes, suggesting there was a small favor he could oblige her with. He stared eagerly at the bill. All he had to do, she explained, was, the next time the man came in with something to sell, follow him and find out where he lived. She gave him the ten dollars. If he could do this, she would give him ten more. The boy pocketed the money, along with her telephone number, said, “You bet, lady,” and left.
Nellie’s heart skipped a little beat. From lying to hoaxing to bribing; it was so easy, once you got started, wasn’t it? She called the girls up for The Belle Telephone Hour and showed them the dollhouse; Naomi said she’d paid too much for it.
After they left she took all the furniture out, and the dolls, and gave the interior a good washing, shined the windows, and waxed the floors. She polished all the tables and chairs, shook out the rugs, and cleaned the dolls—Cathleen Nesbitt, Willie Marsh, Mary Astor, Dickie Haydn, etc., including herself as Missy Priss—then she arranged the figures in the various rooms and plugged in the lights so she could fully admire her new acquisition.
Robin, she thought, where are you?
It was not long before the bribe produced the desired results. The doorman called from downstairs, saying someone was there to see her, a Joseph Karmachino. She had no idea who that was, there was a consultation on the other end of the line, and the doorman informed her that Joseph Karmachino had a personal message for her. She suddenly remembered: the delivery boy. He came up, she gave him the promised ten dollars, and he left her with a matchbook cover; on the inside was scribbled a name and an address. “J. F. Harboomsteen, 451 W. 47th Street.” She got her things and hurried out, meeting Hilda going to the elevator. They rode down together. “Nellie,” Hilda asked, “what’s happened? You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.”
“No,” she replied, “I’m just going chasing rabbits.” Arming herself for this venture with nothing but a balloon, a Bobbitt promotional gimmick from the TV station, she took a taxi to the address. She was faced with a dingy brownstone building in a badly run-down neighborhood between Ninth and Tenth avenues. Holding tightly to her bag with one hand, the balloon with the other, she climbed the stairs and entered the vestibule. She read down the list of names alongside the buzzers, looking for J. F. Harboomsteen. There was none. Darn that boy, she thought, he’s had me and my twenty dollars. She rechecked the list, then went out. At the bottom of the stairs, lounging against the railing post, was a Puerto Rican. He smiled at her balloon, but it was her bag that she clutched more tightly.
“Are you looking for someone?” he asked in very good English. Nellie was so surprised it took her a moment to reply. “I’m looking for Mr. Harboomsteen,” she said. “I am told he lives in this building.”
The man pointed behind the staircase. “Down there,” he said. As she hurried toward the gate beside the ashcans, he called after her. “But be careful.”
“Careful?”
“He’s nutty.”
Nellie nodded, as if to say naturally he is, then took a step forward, then another, past the trash cans and down two steps into a cluttered areaway. A cat sat watching her. She watched it back, thinking it’s not cats I want, but rabbits. Under the brownstone steps she encountered a little iron grille, which she unlatched. There was a door beyond, no name plate, no bell. No one answered her knock, but from inside she could hear music. The door was ajar, she had only to push it, then she was inside a narrow hallway. “Hello?” she called. “Mr. Harboomsteen?” No reply. She stepped farther in, and went along the hall until she found another door. The music came from behind it. She took a large breath and made a small fist, and rapped. She waited, then rapped again. Someone was moving around beyond the door; she went on knocking until she heard several locks being unfastened. The door opened a crack, and through it she saw part of a face. The face had long hair and a beard; it was a very scruffy face. The eye blinked at her. “Excuse me,” she began, talking to the eye, which blinked again. “No one to home,” said a voice, and the door shut.
“Please,” she called, knocking on the closed door. “Please open.” No reply. “Please open the door,” she repeated, this time more severely. Then, “Mr. Harboomsteen, I shall not—I shall not go away. I will remain here knocking until this door is opened to me.” The only response was the music being turned up louder. Accordingly, she raised her voice. “I am a lady, and though I do not always act like one, I nonetheless insist upon being treated as such. Therefore, you will oblige me by opening this door immediately.” She was using her starchiest Missy Priss tone, but however starchy, it bore no results. She waited, arms crossed, her face growing redder, then she raised her hand, at the end of which was her large bag, and gave the door a fearful crack. “No more nonsense here,” she cried in a louder tone, “do you hear me? Open this door!” The bag swung on her hand, and with the other she felt its contents gingerly, wondering what she might have broken. Then, very quietly, she spoke again.
“Please, Robin? Just for old times’ sake?”
He opened the door then, and stood before her. She hardly recognized him, yet she knew that behind the long, unkempt hair and the beard that covered most of his face, it was Robin. He glanced uncertainly at her, more uncertainly at the balloon, then stepped aside as she came in. The shades were drawn, the room was in near darkness.
“Hello, Nellie,” he said. She did not reply immediately, but stood looking at him, wanting but not daring to cry. Wanting but not daring to throw herself into his arms. How thin he looked, how pale and drawn, how un-Robin. He returned her look with a jaunty carelessness, and offered her the only chair. She took it, and held her bag on her lap; the insides rattled dreadfully. He moved uncertainly to the far side of the room and turned on a light.
“Welcome to yesteryear,” he said.
“Oh, my,” she said, staring about her, “oh, my.”
It was an incredible sight, that room. It was not large, nor with much of a ceiling, and sparsely furnished: besides the chair only a table or two, an unmade day bed in the corner, a couple of lamps. But it was none of these that caused Nellie’s surprise; it was the other contents of the room. Even in the paltry light she could see what it held—not held, merely, but was crammed with: everywhere her glance rested it saw objects she recognized from the long ago past. A museum; Bobbittland revisited. Bobbitt mugs and breakfast bowls and plates on shelves, a Bobbitt rocking horse in the corner, Bobbitt boats and fire trucks, Bobbitt race cars, Bobbitt planes. There
was a Bobbitt flying carpet, and riding it, a Bobbitt doll. More dolls tucked amid the toys—Bobbitt the policeman, the cowboy, the knight in armor, the royal prince. The dark walls were covered with yellowed photographs, familiar scenes from the movies: Bobbitt Royal, he with his paper crown, Bobbitt and the Magic Castle, Bobbitt in Love, the whole history of Bobbitt, that smiling, curly-headed face, gazing out at her with its mixture of wonder and candor, row after row, year after year, growing up.