“Where do you think your parents are?” Arthur says, and he says, “It’s probably just my mom who’s coming, and I don’t know. She’s usually never late—she’s a stickler about time—so something must have gone wrong with the city: a detour by cab because of a parade or something, or a car crash in front of hers. And your mom?” and Arthur says, “My parents, and they’re always late, so I’m used to it. They’ll be here, though, that I’m sure. They never fail. Look,” and points to the ceiling; it’s as high as any ceiling Gould’s seen. Higher up than the one in the Great Hall at the Natural History Museum, even, which he’s seen hundreds of times, since he lives so close to it. “Yeah, that’s a pretty high ceiling, all right, but near where I live? The Natural History Museum?” and Arthur says, “The what museum?” and he says, “The American Museum of Natural History,” and Arthur says, “Oh, that one; I didn’t know which museum you were talking of,” and he says, “Why, there aren’t two like it in the city,” and Arthur says, “There’s one in Washington, D.C., and another in San Francisco and in Philadelphia, I think, and probably lots of other places in America. That’s why you have to distinguish them or identify them correctly, because there’s only one called the American Museum of Natural History, and that one’s in New York,” and he says, “But I did say ‘near where I live,’ right? and that couldn’t be Philadelphia or San Francisco, right?” and Arthur says, “Sure it could, for Philadelphia. It’s only an hour away by train from Pennsylvania Station. For you never told me what city you specifically live in. Or if you did, this summer or last, I forgot,” and he says, “Oh, what’s the sense in talking to you? You always say this and that instead of talking about what we’re talking about,” and Arthur says, “If you remember, Gould, I was the one who was pointing something out when this conversation started, and it wasn’t the height or breadth of this train station either. I mean, both those we know, correct? I’m saying, both of us left from here two months ago, didn’t we? and we both left and came back from here last year too.” “All right, so what’s your point?” and Arthur says, “My point, sir, is pigeons,” and he says, “‘Sir’?” and Arthur says, “I was only joshing with that. But look up. Did you ever see so many pigeons inside a building like this, if at any time any bird flying in one? It’s so mysterious and eerie,” and Gould sees way up, right at the top—it must be a thousand feet away—with big long sunbeams slanting through the whole station from the big windows, making the place look like it has prison bars: anyway, a whole flock of pigeons flying around up there, or just birds. Because they are so far away, who can tell for sure what kind of birds they are? “Why do you say they’re pigeons?” and Arthur says, “What else can they be, in a city so filled with them? Besides, they flap and flutter like pigeons, and I think I heard one before, even from way down here, go coo, coo, coo. And they also have to be them because look at those two there,” and points, and about a hundred feet away, walking between some people and their luggage on the floor, are two pigeons, a mother and father it was pointed out to him once, the father with a green shiny neck and much bigger and more beautiful—or handsomer, you can say—than the mother, who had no colors like that on her neck and not as many feathers there and no puffy chest either or not as much so and her head sort of shaped like a woman’s. More graceful, a softer look; something like that. “Well, I guess that clinches it in a way,” Gould says, “though if all those by the ceiling are also pigeons, how come these two aren’t up there?” and Arthur says, “Boy, you’re a hard one to convince. Because they’re resting from flying, what do you think?”
“Arthur,” a woman says, and they look and it’s his mother. Gould recognizes her from a visit during Parents Day, even if she’s wearing city clothes now while this summer she had on shorts and a camp T-shirt. She must have not come with the right country clothes then, so borrowed the shirt from Arthur or bought it at the camp store and maybe the shorts from someone else. He forgets what she had on her feet; here it’s high heels. But what he remembers most about her is her ugliness. She’s maybe the ugliest woman her age he’s ever seen in real life—“Ugly as sin,” as his dad’s said about some people, men and women and even a couple of kids, though he isn’t completely sure what that expression means—with big everything on her face: nose, eyes, chin, even her lips, plus holes in her cheeks and yellow pimples and bushy hair, but a normal unfat body and legs. Arthur runs to her and Gould stays there and they hug and she stares at Arthur’s face and for a moment almost looks as if she’s going to cry but then grins, kisses the top of his head and one of his hands, and starts talking, and Arthur covers his eyes in embarrassment, it seems, so it must be how tall he’s grown the last month and how older he looks and more mature and so healthy with his tan and things like that and how his hair’s grown so long and it’s going to have to get cut for school. Though who knows? They might be weirdos, as his dad also likes to say about some people, so they’ll let him go to school with hair halfway down his neck and over his eyes. “Where’s Father?” and she says, “We couldn’t find a parking spot so he’s sitting in the car. He can’t wait to see you. Think you’re strong enough to carry your duffel bag alone? You look it,” and he says, “I don’t know, I’ll try,” and with some struggle gets it onto his shoulder; then he begins to sag under it, says, “Help,” and she grabs a handle at one end and he the other and he says, “Give me another year,” and they laugh. As they’re starting out she looks at Gould and says something, and Arthur shrugs and they come over, put down the bag, and Arthur says, “Mother, this is a friend from camp, Gould Bookbinder,” and he thinks, Friend? I talked more to him here than I did all summer, but he wants to lie that he has lots of friends, that’s okay. She says, “How do you do, Gould, did you have a good summer?” and he says, “Yes, thanks. I just hate the end of it because it means going back to school,” and she says, “I don’t think Arthur will have that problem. You’re looking forward to school, aren’t you, dear?” and Arthur says, “Sort of. It can be stimulating and fun,” and she says to Gould, “Did I meet you this summer when I came up?” and he says, “I don’t think so; Arthur and I were in different cabins.” “You’re waiting for your parents, though, yes?” and Arthur says, “Just for his mother; she’s unusually late,” and she says, “I’m sure she’ll come, and if not, Mr. Birmbaum will look after him, so don’t worry.” Mr. Birmbaum—Uncle Sol to the campers—has just run over and says, “Glad I caught you whisking Arthur away before you got past me. But I guess Gould would have let me know who swiped him, right, there, kid? So, so long, Arthur, my boy, and hope to see you at the camp reunion. It’ll be at the President Hotel, February, same as last year,” and Arthur says, “Will we be notified of the exact date a little longer beforehand than last time?” and Uncle Sol says, “I’ll see to it personally that you have plenty of time to get it into your engagement calendar. Goodbye, Mrs. Singer,” and she nudges Arthur, and he says, “Goodbye, sir, and have a good winter, Gould,” and he says, “You too, see ya,” and they go.
Now, out of the whole camp it’s just him and this very young boy who’s left, and then the boy’s picked up and he says to Uncle Sol, “Where do you think my mother is? She’s always on time, even a little before. Should we call her?” and Uncle Sol says, “Good idea, kid,” and gives him a dime and points to a booth nearby and he goes to it, puts the dime in and thinks, What’s my number again? It’s been so long, I forgot, and knows he can dial Information for it but then he might lose the dime and he’s not sure he’d know what to say to the phone company to get it back and also what to say to the Information lady to get his number and then to Uncle Sol if he really lost the dime, so he goes back to him and says, “You don’t have my phone number on your clipboard there, do you?” and Uncle Sol says, “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” and he says yes, thinking Uncle Sol either means long time away from New York or since he’s used his phone number or called home or maybe since he’s asked anyone for it. Anyway, he gets the number, says, “That’s it; now
I won’t probably forget it till the end of next summer,” and calls and nobody answers. He offers to give back the dime but Uncle Sol says, “Nah, hold it; better than asking me for it again,” and he says, “What’ll happen if no one comes?” and Uncle Sol says, “Then I take you to my house and throw you into the basement pit with all the other campers from previous years whose parents didn’t pick them up and work you twelve hours a day only on bread and water and at less than slave wages, digging a tunnel to China so I can open up a fast new lucrative rice route. Only kidding; don’t look so scared,” and he says, “I wasn’t; I could tell you were fooling,” though he did think while Uncle Sol was saying all that that he might do something mean to him—raise his voice, pull him by the arm to the phone to call again or something—not by the story, which was silly, but by his sharp voice and face, which seem a bit angry. “And listen, don’t even say your mother might not come. It’s never happened in ten years where a camper’s been stranded, knock wood,” and looks around, then taps Gould’s head. “It’d be the worst thing in the world for me, hunting down a parent. After two months of camp without a day off and another six weeks straight preparing to open it, not to mention going to everyone and his uncle’s home for three months to show them pictures of the camp and stuff to come there and in between that hiring a staff and setting up the camp reunion, you don’t think I need a few hours to myself with no campers around before I go back tomorrow to help close the place? You’ve any idea what that closing entails?” and he says no, though he didn’t understand all of what that last part meant since he doesn’t know what “entails” means, and Uncle Sol says, “You don’t want to know, believe me, but if you’re smart never become head counselor of a camp you’re also part owner of. I thought it’d be easier than school-teaching, but like every time I plan my life for something better, I was wrong. But if your folks aren’t here in half an hour—and God help me I hope it doesn’t take that long, my feet won’t stand it—then I contact one of your relatives or someone like that close. I have a sheet with the names of three people to reach in case of emergency for all my campers,” and Gould says, “What kind of emergency could it be?” and Uncle Sol says, “I said, in case of, in case of. You gotta listen better, Gould, it’ll help you later in life and possibly even a little today. But there won’t be an emergency, so relax and enjoy the station and don’t make me even more nervous than I am.” Now I’m worried, Gould thinks. Did his mother take a cab and it crashed? Maybe she forgot about today and was at home when he called and for some reason didn’t pick up the phone, but then why wouldn’t his dad have reminded her he was coming back from camp today? Something really bad happen to her at home? He should have called his father at work after nobody answered at home, but Uncle Sol only gave him the dime to call home and he didn’t think of it then besides, and if he got Dad at work he might get mad Gould took him away from important business or customers. Maybe there was some catastrophe at home: a fire, something in the electricity or with the stove. It could be happening right now and the phone when he called kept ringing through all of it. That could be why the camp wasn’t told why his folks couldn’t pick him up. He’s sure something bad’s happened, though maybe not as bad as he just imagined. He’s going to ask Uncle Sol if he can use the dime to call his father at work, and if he gets him he thinks his father won’t be too upset with him when he learns how worried he is about his mother and that he’s the last camper here and Uncle Sol’s ready to bust a gut over it.
Just then a woman says, “Excuse me, but Gould?” She’s holding a photo and looks back and forth at him and it. “Gould Bookbinder, this is you”—showing him a photo of him last summer—“Bea’s son, right?” and he says, “Yeah, who are you?” “Can I help you, miss? I’m the head counselor at Gould’s camp,” and she says, “Mr. Birmbaum. I was supposed to look for you too. I’m a friend of Gould’s mother and I’ve a letter from her giving me permission to collect her son and deliver him home,” and Uncle Sol says, “May I see it?” and takes the letter and reads it. “Gould, this your mom’s writing?” and he looks at it, and it starts off with, after the To Sol Birmbaum or Whomever Else It May Concern: I hereby give permission to Lynn Jacobo, a trusted co-worker of mine at Lord & Taylor’s and a friend … “and he says, “I think so; it looks it, the way she makes circles over the i’s and the nice handwriting,” and Uncle Sol says, “But you didn’t seem to recognize the lady,” and she says, “He couldn’t have. We knew there’d be this problem, because you should be extra cautious with your charges, so that’s why this letter. I only met his mother this summer at the store we work at,” and Gould says, “That’s another thing that sounds a bit fishy to me, Uncle Sol. My mother never worked at a store,” and she says, “Excuse me, he’s right, though she works at one now forty-four hours a week. And two days ago she gave me this note, in case she couldn’t pick him up, much as she wanted to, and then called late last night for me to do her this favor and fetch him. She said she’d call you before your buses left for the train station, but she didn’t?” and Uncle Sol says no and she says, “Well, what can I say? But I still got the arrival time wrong by an hour, it seems, if all the kids are gone, because if you can believe it I thought I was getting here ten minutes early, just to have a doughnut and coffee and a quick peep around. I really apologize for coming late, Gould; you must’ve been worried,” and Uncle Sol says, “I’m sorry, Miss Jacobi—” and she says, “Jacobo, and missus, and we didn’t properly say hello, did we?” and shakes his hand and then shakes Gould’s and says, “It’s so nice meeting you after hearing such wonderful things about you from your mother. My, does she talk of you!” and he says, “Thanks.” “Still, Mrs. Jacobo, you’re not one of the names on the list of people allowed to get him. I have Louise and Max Rand down here, her sister and brother-in-law it says, and a Florence Hoff,” and she says, “The last is her neighbor—I’ve met her, and Gould certainly knows her—and she’s at a psychotherapists’ convention. That’s what she does, psychotherapy, out of her apartment,” and Uncle Sol says, “That so, Gould?” and he says, “I know Flo; I don’t know what that psychosomething is, but she does work in a big room that she has.” “As for the Rands,” she says, “all I know is what I heard from Bea, and that’s that they’re at a resort in New Hampshire till Labor Day, so that left little me,” and Uncle Sol says, “You do know a lot about the family. But you’ll still have to give more proof, because I can’t release a child to just some family knowledge and a letter. And when we called his home before, no one answered, so is Mrs. Bookbinder at work?” and she says, “She’s home—didn’t I say?—waiting for me to bring him. I’m on my lunch hour, which is really just forty-five minutes to the dot, so I have to be quick. Even if I cab back and forth I won’t make it; so what are they going to do, dock me for fifteen minutes? And she’s okay, Gould, nothing to worry about; your mom must’ve simply not heard the phone ring, because otherwise I’m sure she would’ve answered. But may I speak to you, Sol, out of earshot, if we can?” and Uncle Sol looks at her peculiarly. She gives an expression, the way her forehead’s folded and eyes are half closed, that seems to mean what she has to say is very important and will explain what she can’t explain here, and Uncle Sol says, “Sure. Don’t go away, Gould, we’ll be back in a flash,” and they go off about twenty feet and talk. Uncle Sol nods that he understands. She takes some papers out of her pocketbook and shows him them. He nods some more, then looks over to Gould and back to her with the expression Think-he-knows-what-we’re-talking-about? and she shakes her head no. They come back. “Gould, this Mrs. Jacobo’s legit. She’ll take you home to your mother,” and he says, “How come she’s taking me and not my mom?” and she says, “I’ll tell you everything in the cab,” and she and Uncle Sol look at each other and she nods, and Gould says, “How come you can’t tell me now?” and she says, “Because in the cab we’ll be on our way and I gotta get back to work soon. These your bags?” and he says, “Just two,” and she says, “Gosh, I didn’t kno
w what I was getting myself into. They look heavy. You’ll help me with them?” and he says, “I grew four inches this summer; I can carry them both,” and puts the big bag on his shoulder and the smaller one under his arm. “We can stop at a stand here for a hot dog and you can eat it on the way,” and he says, “No, I want to get home, and my mom always has something good waiting for me.” “See you at the camp reunion,” Uncle Sol says, “and I hope everything at home turns out okay,” and he says, “Why wouldn’t it? She tell you something?” and Uncle Sol says, “Nothing; what’d I say? Just an expression, kid, like ‘good luck’ and ‘stay well’ and all that. So, you had a great summer, Gould, hope to see you as a camper next year, and now I’ll also be on my way,” and salutes them and goes.
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