by Trevanian
Oh, shut up, why don’t you?
You shut up!
Copycat, eat my hat!
Oh, shut up!
No, you shut up!
(From the bedroom) Both of you shut up, for Christ’s sake!
The third morning I arrived at the A&P bright and early to find another boy standing there with a wagon and sign—a bigger boy with a bigger wagon and a bigger sign. And he wasn’t even from our block! Well, we had words. He said he had as much right as I did to be there because I didn’t own the sidewalk, so just who the hell did I think I—
I got two solid shots in before he knew he was in a fight, then we really went to Fistcity, rolling around on the pavement, him mostly on top because he was bigger, but me getting in some pretty good face-shots from below. The manager of the A&P came out and snatched us around by our collars for a while, then he said that if we didn’t behave ourselves he’d send for the cops. When I tried to explain that I had been there first, he told me that he’d seen me start the fight. Of course I started the fight! A smaller kid has to get his shots in first or he doesn’t stand a chance! Jeez! But I promised not to fight any more, so this copycat interloper and I ended up standing on opposite sides of the store’s door, glowering at each other until some old lady came out carrying groceries, then we’d try to out-smile and out-nice each other. I was at a disadvantage because my smile was sort of one-sided from a split lip. It was a scorcher of a day, and the time passed slowly standing there in the sun, especially since I got only one customer, and that only because this other kid was away on a delivery. I could read what was going on in the women’s heads. They didn’t like having to pick one kid and leave the other behind, so some of them carried their own bags home, and others chose this bigger kid because they didn’t want to make a skinny little kid lug those bags all that distance. Yeah, sure! Give money to the big healthy kid, and let the skinny little one go without! That makes lots of sense, you stupid old...!
That night I walked home dragging the wagon behind me, too tired and disheartened to remember to avoid the shortcut through the back alley. I knew I should go straight home, but I wanted desperately to play some kind of story game for a little while because without my nightly dose of radio, there was no narrative narcotic to rinse away daily life and refresh my soul. Then too, I wasn’t all that eager to arrive home with a split lip and only a nickel to show for a day’s work. I was always better at playing the modest winner than the brave loser.
There was only one lamp post in the back alley, and its grainy light fell at an acute angle over the facades of abandoned stables, emphasizing textures and leaving pockets of felted shadow in entranceways...a perfect setting for scary games. I slipped into a space between a shed and a stable, one side of my face lit and the other in shadow, knowing how scary I must look as I whispered to my companion that there had to be a rational explanation for the case he called The Murders in the Back Alley. There just had to be! I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to learn that Professor Moriarty had a hand in this, Watson. (A blend of clipped speech and Peter Lorre nasality did for my English accent.) I told the good doctor that the only way to discover the insane killer was for me to expose myself to the same dangers that those poor, bloody, axe-chopped, heads-ripped-off, faces-bashed-in women had met when they—
—I nearly pissed myself when that sharp tap-tap-tap on the window made my voice squeak and sent Dr Watson vanishing into the darkness, leaving me to face the danger alone. I looked up to see Mrs McGivney beckoning to me, and her husband in the other window, both silhouetted by the soft gaslight of their parlor. I knew I should have gone straight home! Drawing a peeved sigh, I inserted a mental bookmark into my game so I could remember where I was, when I got back to it, and I trudged to the end of the alley, around past my own stoop where I stashed Anne-Marie’s wagon in the hall, then down to 232, and up its stairs, the air getting thicker and hotter with every floor I climbed. It was really hot in the McGivney apartment so high up, close to the lead roof, and their gas lighting made it hotter yet. That was the only time in my life I experienced the effect of gaslight, which was softer than electric light and didn’t seem to descend from the ornate gas fixtures on the wall, but rather to glow from within things and people, a golden radiance.
With an edge of grievance to her voice, Mrs McGivney asked where I’d been the last few days. I explained that our radio had blown a tube and I had been trying to earn money to replace it, but she made a tight little nasal sound, dismissing my excuse, so I rather curtly asked what it was she wanted me to do for her. It was late and Mr Kane’s grocery was closed. But it turned out that she just wanted to give me a glass of milk and some of those cookies that ‘all boys love so much’. I didn’t tell her that this particular boy would rather be allowed to pursue his game than be dragged up there to spend time with a boring old lady and a zombie. Instead, I sat across from her and nibbled grumpily. But she just smiled at me, then looked over at her husband and sighed with satisfaction, as though everything was all right again, now that we were all back together.
I noticed that when she drank her milk she looked into the glass, like little kids do. And that’s when it struck me that she was strangely young. She had white hair, sure, but her skin was smooth and her eyes bright. It was as if, living as she did on the edge of life, without hopes or fears, work or play, nothing had eroded and aged her, so she had remained eternally young and oddly...ghostlike.
As I left, she pressed a nickel into my hand. I protested that I hadn’t done anything to earn it, but she just squeezed my hand closed around it, so I left thinking how nice people can be more trouble than mean ones, because you can’t fight back against nice people.
I found my mother and sister sitting on our front stoop to get a breath of cool evening air, and I joined them. When Mother asked what had happened to my lip, I shrugged it off and changed the subject by telling them about the McGivneys. Mother was surprised to discover that there was a Mr McGivney, and Anne-Marie rubbed the goose bumps that rose on her arms at the thought of my sitting in the same room as a crazy man who just stared out the window all the time. I told her he wasn’t crazy, only sort of...well, damaged, but she said that damaged people were just as scary as crazy ones, maybe even more, and she didn’t care how many nickels they gave me. Mother said I shouldn’t accept money unless I did some chore to earn it. It was like accepting handouts, and we LaPointes didn’t do that. But she was glad I’d made some new friends, and she was sure I’d be a big help to these lonely old people. I almost told her that I resented being made to feel responsible for them, but I didn’t. I was afraid she’d realize how often I felt the same resentment about being responsible for getting us off Pearl Street some day.
The next morning, there was a third boy outside the A&P, and he had a brand-new cart and a sign with professional-looking lettering that offered to carry groceries for 4. You could tell from his clothes that he wasn’t poor, just a regular kid, lucky enough to have a new cart and somebody—probably a father—to help him paint his sign and to advise him about undercutting the competition. I could see right off that offering to carry the groceries for four cents was a smart scam because most of the women would give him a nickel, and wouldn’t ask for their penny change back because that would make them seem stingy; so he would get the job by underbidding us, but he’d end up making as much as we did. I’ll bet his father was a car salesman or a con man or a stock broker...one of those people who make their livings by selling the sizzle, rather than the steak. Well, I drew this new kid aside and explained that there wasn’t enough business for two kids—forget three—and this had been my idea in the first place. Then I put on my most sincere expression and told him that I was very, very worried about him, and worried about how his mother would feel if he came home with no front teeth and his fancy wagon all kicked in and— But out of the corner of my eye I could see the manager watching me from within the store, so I just pointed at the middle of
the rich kid’s chest and skewered him with squinted-up eyes, which on my block meant ‘You’re standing real close to the edge, pal!’ then I swaggered back to my battered old cart.
But he stayed, and I didn’t get a single customer that day, bracketed as I was by a bigger competitor and a more attractive one. I stuck it out until the A&P closed that night. But I didn’t bother to come back again. What was the use?
That Friday our weekly $7.27 welfare check came, so we were able to buy the tube, although it meant having potato soup every night that week and the next. That evening I stood in front of the Emerson in a state of deepest soul-comfort, my head bowed, my eyes half-closed, totally absorbed in the exciting adventures of Jack Armstrong, and the Green Hornet, and the Lone Ranger, Masked Rider of the Plains. The world was in its orbit again.
After my sister and I did the supper dishes, the three of us sat in the front room, listening to Friday night’s run of mystery programs. We always turned off the lights and listened in the dark, with only the faint orange glow of the radio’s dial because that made the stories deliciously spooky, such programs as The Inner Sanctum with its heavy door that creaked open and a darkly evil voice that said, “Good evening, friends.” And there was Lights Out, Suspense, The House of Mystery and on Sunday nights at seven-thirty, The Whistler: “...who walks by night and knows many things. He knows strange tales hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. Yes, he knows the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak!” The Whistler’s tales were told from a unique and effective narrative point of view: he spoke directly to the villain of the piece in a curling, feline voice with a little echo in it, as though he were the person’s conscience, saying things like, “You thought you would get away with it, didn’t you, James Townsend? You were so cunning, so careful. But you forgot just one thing...”21
It was a stifling August evening when I looked out our front window and saw Mr Kane out on his side steps, his head in his hands. I went across and sat silently beside him, wondering what could be wrong. After a few minutes, he said in a fatigued monotone, “The Russians. They’ve signed a nonaggression pact with Germany. You know what that means?”
I didn’t.
“It means there’s nothing to stop Hitler from taking Poland,” he explained.
“Doesn’t Poland have an army?”
“Yes, but Czechoslovakia had a better, more modern army than Poland’s, and where did it get them?” His voice had a tone of leaden inevitability. Then I remembered that he had told me that both England and France had promised to attack Germany, if she attacked Poland. I reminded him of this.
“England and France guaranteed Czechoslovakia too.”
“...Oh.”
Mr Kane frowned at a patch of ground near his feet, and his jaw muscles worked as though he were chewing something tough. I understood that something vast and ominous was happening out there in the world, but there was nothing I could do about it, so after sitting in silence for a while, I got up and said I’d better be getting home. He nodded without looking at me, and I left. That night I sat on the edge of my bed, looking out onto the empty street, feeling that something terrible was on its way. I was confused and afraid, but I was also young and male, so I felt a prickle of excitement. War!
I awoke the next morning to the chilling realization that summer vacation was almost over and, what with trying to earn extra money and spending time up at the McGivneys’, I hadn’t gotten enough good out of it...sort of like a Popsicle that melts while you’re obliged to talk politely to a nun, and you don’t get to suck it white before it falls off the stick. Next year I would be ten, and I felt that advancing to a double-digit age signified the end of childhood, because, let’s face it, once you get into two digits, you’re there for the rest of your life. Everything was changing on me! I was growing up before I was finished with being a kid! And now a war was looming on the horizon. This would be my last summer before I had to give up my story games and start in earnest doing what I could to get my family off Pearl Street. And the summer was almost used up.
All right, I accepted that bringing my mother’s damned ship into port was my job. But I couldn’t take care of Mrs McGivney, too. I intended to play as hard as I could for the two weeks until school started, and this meant that I would need all my time for myself, for my games, for listening to the radio, for wandering the streets in search of mysteries and adventures. There just wouldn’t be any time to sit around with the McGivneys.
I avoided the back alley for a week, during which I revisited one by one all the story games I had played since we came to North Pearl Street to imprint them upon my memory so I would never forget the exhilarating fun of them. That week I fought off Richelieu’s swordsmen, ran cattle rustlers off the streets of Albany once and for all, blew up the planes of the Condor Legion to save Spain from the Fascists, and led an expedition to the Elephant Graveyard, where we almost lost Reggie and Kato to native black magic that sucked out their will to live so they could only be kept breathing by my passionate exhortations to fight, fight, fight. On Sunday, I changed into play clothes right after six o’clock mass and went off to spend the morning playing one of the best story games of all: Foreign Legion, in preparation for which I hadn’t drunk anything after supper the night before. So I was good and thirsty by the time I had crossed Broadway towards the river, passed through Blacktown’s tangle of still-sleeping streets, and scrambled over the high wooden fence of an abandoned brickyard where there were huge piles of sand and gravel. For the next two hours I staggered up and down the endless dunes, blinded by the glaring sun, suffering horribly from thirst made worse by the fact that I was weakened by half a dozen spear wounds inflicted by perfidious Arabs whom I had always treated well, unlike some of my brother Legionnaires. My throat parched, I muttered to myself that the pools of icy water I saw all around me were only mirages. Mustn’t be fooled! Must...keep...going. I wanted nothing more than to give up the struggle and just lie down and let sweet death overwhelm me—but no! Must...keep...going! At the most distant corner of the brickyard, there was a stand pipe with a spigot by a watchman’s hut, and it was part of the game to hold the vision of that cool, clear water in my mind as I crawled on my hands and knees over the piles of sand and gravel, dragging my wounded leg behind me (sometimes both wounded legs) but determined to carry the message from what was left of my decimated company besieged in our fly-blown outpost of Sidi-bel-Abbs to the colonel of the regiment stationed at our headquarters in the noisy, bustling city of Sidi-bel-Abbs. (All right, so I knew the name of only one desert city! Is that a crime? Jeez!) By taking the least direct path possible and weaving my painful, dazed way over the great central sand pile again and again, I managed to drag the game out to well past noon, by which time my lips were crusty and my tongue thick with thirst. When at last I arrived at the stand pipe, I put my head under it, ready for the blissful shock of its cool dousing gush, my fingers almost too weak to turn the rusty spigot. In a hoarse voice I cried out to Allah to give me strength. Give me strength! And I gave the spigot a desperate twist with the last of my fading energy—
—but no water came out. They’d cut off the water since last summer! Anything to spoil a guy’s game!
By the time I got back to my block, I was really thirsty, so I cut through the back alley to get to my apartment as quickly as I could.
Three sharp clicks of a coin against the window above me—Oh no! And there she was, gesturing for me to come up. Nuts! Nuts! Double nuts!
But this time it would be different. As I trudged glumly up the dark stairs of 232 I decided on a plan to free myself of this lonely old lady and her loony husband once and for all: I would mope and be rude, so she wouldn’t want my company any longer. But first—
“Could I please have a glass of water, Mrs McGivney?”
“Why, of course, John-Luke!”
I gulped it down, rather than sipping it slowly and savor
ing the life-saving sweetness of it, as I would have done in the dramatic last scene of the Foreign Legion game...if those idiots hadn’t shut off the water!
“My goodness, you were thirsty. Want some more?”
“No, thank you.” It was hard to remember to be rude.
“You’re sure?”
Mrs McGivney sat across from me at the little table set for two. “Here, before I forget it.” She placed a nickel beside my napkin.
“No, I don’t want it,” I said, pushing it back to her.
She cocked her head. “Don’t try to tell me that a little boy can’t find something to do with a nickel.”
“No, my mother said I wasn’t to take money from you unless I did an errand or something in return.”