There Was a Time

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  “What made you think I was scared?” he asked in his thin and neutral voice, after a prolonged interval.

  Frank shrugged. “I—I guess I can—can—recognize being scared when I see it. How old are you, and what’s your name?” he asked abruptly, for meagre contact with others had not imparted to him a smooth and tactful approach.

  The tense nervousness of the other boy’s figure relaxed; his legs untwined from clutching the leg of the bench. “I’m thirteen, almost fourteen. And my name is Paul Hodge. We just moved into Bison a couple of days ago. From Erie, Pennsylvania. My father and me, and my brother, Gordon. Gordon’s in first year high, and he’s two years older. I haven’t any mother.” His voice became plaintive and wistful. “My father’s a bookkeeper in some store on Main Street. I don’t remember what it is.” He paused. He seemed astonished at his own loquacity. “What’s your name?”

  “Frank Clair. I’ve got my mother yet, and my father.” He went on: “I’m just as old as you are. And my father is a chemist—a druggist That’s all. Where do you live?”

  “I live down on West Avenue, near Connecticut.”

  “I live on Albany Street. Near the river. Ever see the river? I can show you a lot of places. There’s boats, on the canal, and going across to Canada. And fishermen, and saloons, and trains.”

  They stared at each other, rapt. The cold and dismal yard disappeared from their consciousness. The screams and shouts and laughter of the other children were less than the wind in trees.

  “What do you do?” asked Frank softly.

  It was the completeness of the odd communication which had sprung up between them which made the other boy understand immediately. He murmured: “I play the violin. I take lessons.” Now his face glowed. “My teacher says I’ll be a great violinist, if I keep on taking lessons.”

  Frank felt the sweetness of bliss. “I write,” he said. “I write stories, and soon I’m going to write a book.”

  “Books!” said Paul, with entire and wonderful acceptance. “May I read what you write?”

  “Yes. If you’ll play for me, sometime. I—I like music so much. My father played the violin once. We’ve got the violin in the cellar. He won’t let me touch it, though.”

  The recess was over. Frank and Paul fled up the stairs to their classroom, running close together as though escaping from a common danger which threatened them if alone. There was a thunder and rumble of feet all about them, classes returning from recess, classes impatient and noisy, going to recess. The corridors seethed with children, and the dank air was full of dimness and dust. Paul and Frank hugged the walls, slipped past their natural enemies, pushed into their room ahead of the returning class.

  The classroom was dingy and dark and scuffed, with old ink-stained desks and grayish blackboards. An odor of chalk, decaying wood, dampness and chill hung in the motionless atmosphere. The two boys sat down and smiled at each other like conspirators. Paul’s eyes were no longer afraid. They were full of trust as, frequently during the afternoon, they rested on Frank.

  He watched Frank almost with fascination. He was so silent, so impassive of face, that it was not possible to read his thoughts. He was a naturally obedient and well-behaved child, and Miss Hempstead, with thankfulness, decided that the new boy would give her little or no trouble, not like that horrible Frank Clair, who displayed towards her and her teaching an open mixture of carelessness and indifference which was infuriating. He never knew his lessons, except spelling and “English.” He showed no interest, except when, during the last half hour, she read from The Child’s History of Napoleon. Nor did he appear to care that he was at the foot of the class. Often he was insolent, but in so subtle a way that she could not find a clear-cut occasion for which to punish him. There he would sit, scowling emptily, twisting scraps of paper in his hands, or he would stare through the windows with an utterly vacuous look, while only his body remained behind like a discarded heap of clothing. She, however, respected his marvelous talent for writing “compositions,” and would reluctantly read them to the class. A boy who could write like this, with such lucidity and mature wisdom and beauty, should certainly learn long division and fractions with ease. A boy who could read aloud with expression, understanding and clarity, ought to have no difficulty with history or geography. But he rarely, if ever, attained a passing mark in these subjects, though he would astonish her, during a written test in history, by his awareness of some sidelight which she had not mentioned at all.

  Frank dozed with his eyes open all afternoon, though during the morning, when the class had been ordered to write a composition about the sea, he had been all alertness, all excitement. Then at half past two Miss Hempstead began to read from The Child’s History of Napoleon, and Frank came to life again, visibly rising from some bottomless depth into which he had moved, semi-conscious.

  It seemed, from the history, that Napoleon’s youthful nose had been his most conspicuous feature, and all through the reading the eyes of the children turned, with grins and snickers, to Frank. Now Frank’s nose, though classic and well-formed, was, in the opinion of the others, overlarge and too emphatic, and he felt self-conscious when the passages referring to Napoleon’s nose were read by Miss Hempstead. In some fiendish and subtle way which only children command, his classmates had divined his sensitiveness. Also, a very popular comic strip was now being run in a local newspaper about an old horse ludicrously christened Napoleon. Never was there such a delightful grouping of circumstances.

  So it was, as the reading proceeded, that nearby boys would whisper spitefully at Frank: “Giddap, Napoleon, it looks like rain!” Frank pretended to ignore these comments, fixing his attention upon Miss Hempstead. He was afraid to glance at Paul Hodge, for fear of seeing derision on his face. But when he finally could not refrain, he saw that Paul’s expression was blank and inscrutable, and that he was giving the teacher proper and oblivious attention. Frank understood. Paul, too, was apart from the others.

  Then Frank, with a peculiar thrill, noted something else. In addition to Paul Hodge, there was another stranger that day, a quiet little girl with pigtails and a freckled face. She sat near Paul, with decorous politeness. The other children, tired of baiting Frank under their breath, turned their attention to Paul and the little girl, with that monkey-like curiosity and speculation which distinguishes the anthropoid race. Not yet civilized, they had not learned that one gives the stranger at least a tentative and courteous acceptance, and hides antagonism as smoothly as possible. They studied the little girl. Mysteriously, almost as though by open vote and acclaim, they accepted her without reservations. She belonged to them, and this decision had been arrived at instinctively. They forgot her, until she could be more completely explored in a friendly manner at a later opportunity. They turned their satisfied attention to Paul. Immediately, there was a quickening about his vicinity.

  Paul sat, listening to the teacher, his quiet, well-shaped hands on the desk before him. There was nothing in his face or his dress that was unusual or odd, as there was in Frank’s, nothing odd about his attitude, nothing outlandish in his expression. He looked as colorless as the majority of the others; he appeared completely conventional and acceptable. Nevertheless, not a glance that touched him warmed or became interested. Each eye turned from him, bored, returned to him, sharpened vaguely into dislike, then into aversion.

  “I’m afraid that’s a very stupid child,” sighed Miss Hempstead to herself, as she glanced up from her book and looked at Paul Hodge. “He hasn’t a bit of expression. Just a dull blank face. He’s worse, in his way, than that awful Frank Clair.” She felt no alarm, however. She knew instinctively that Paul would never cause her anxiety. His report card from Erie had shown him to have attained average marks.

  When three o’clock came, the children surged downstairs for their clothing. Frank, as usual, hung behind. He always waited until the others had gone, in order to escape their persecutions outdoors. He made a great play of looking for his books, putting away
his pencils. He was hoping that Paul would wait for him, but it was more a depressed wish than an expectation. He was much surprised, therefore, to discover Paul sitting silently in his seat in the empty classroom, watching him.

  “Hullo! Aren’t you going home?”

  “Um. I don’t want to go out just now,” replied Paul, in his fluting tones.

  Frank stared at him, astounded. Paul returned the stare. He smiled a little, and again his greenish eyes glowed and welled. Frank slowly put down his ragged books.

  “Say,” he said slowly, “you don’t—you don’t hate the kids the way I do, do you?”

  Paul shrugged. All at once he did not look fearful; there was a sort of livid contempt on his face. But he made no answer. Frank glanced through the window. The street was almost cleared of children.

  “I guess we can go—now,” he muttered, his voice dropping on the final word. In silence, they left the room together.

  CHAPTER 19

  The malignancy of the children seemed to permeate the street for some distance about the school, and Frank and Paul hurried through it until they came to other streets where they would be less likely to encounter tormentors.

  “Gosh, I have to twist like a corkscrew to get home,” said Frank, with some humor. “First the kids, here. Then I have to pass a parochial school. You know, a Catholic school, where they have nuns for teachers. The kids chase Protestant kids and yell ‘A.P.A.’! and ‘dirty Black Protestant’! Sometimes they throw rocks. One of the kids in our class almost lost his eye.” He added reflectively: “I’m a Protestant. I didn’t know we were Protestants until we came here. Never heard of it in England.”

  “In Erie,” said Paul Hodge, “we do the same thing to the Catholics. Serves them right.”

  Frank scuffed his toes with dissatisfaction on the concrete sidewalks. “Why do they do it, anyway? There’s no sense to it.”

  Paul set his pale lips tightly and did not reply.

  Frank’s nervous tension relaxed. He slowed down, shifted his books, and said: “I’ve got five cents. Want some candy?”

  Paul assented without much interest. He rarely showed interest in anything, but it was characteristic of him that he studied the candy counters in the little dark shop with sudden avidity. Frank took his time in choosing. He bought two little pink paraffin bottles, which, when bitten, poured out a rich red sweet syrup, nectar to the tongue. Then, after due consideration, he bought ten little chocolate “niggers” for another cent, two tiny tin skillets filled with pink soft candy (to be eaten with minute tin spoons), and a length of licorice string. They strolled down the street again, while Paul ate his full share with a sort of hidden greediness and pleasure which had more than a little of the feline in it. When he had finished, he licked his lips delicately with the clean tip of a very pale tongue. Walking beside Frank, his carriage and his posture were superior. He had a kind of cold and negative dignity. Frank almost slouched along, both aggressively and warily, and now there was an exaggerated fierceness on his face.

  For the first time in his short life he felt both strangely expansive and at ease. He felt unknotted. Because of this, he became witty, and Paul laughed, listening as if in surprise to his own mirth. Inspired by this laugh, Frank’s conversation became, in his own ears, quite brilliant. His humor flowed out, sly, subtle, pungent, unusually intelligent and discerning. He kept glancing at Paul, hopefully. Paul’s greenish eyes sparkled with enjoyment and pleasure, and sometimes he looked at Frank with amazed and dawning affection. Frank’s voice became louder, more excited and eager, voluble and colorful, full of stammering crudity but also full of power and authority. His gestures were violent and lavish. Adults, passing them on the street, were much amused. Frank was not conscious of this, but Paul was, and he colored duskily. His sympathy for Frank increased, became mysteriously strong and protective. Nevertheless, he said mildly: “Don’t shout so, Frank. The fools are staring at us.”

  Frank scowled after two passing women. “Damn fools,” he muttered, ferociously, but with uneasiness. Paul said nothing, but there was a smooth malevolence on his quiet face as he looked at the adults. Frank saw that look, and he experienced a shock of confusion, almost of repugnance.

  “Oh, hell, who cares about old people?” he said carelessly. “What was I saying? Oh, yes. Well, I write poems and stories. I’m going to write a whole book, soon. About the French Revolution.” He swelled with pride. “I had a teacher once. She said I would be a writer. Seems I always was, even when I couldn’t write.” He paused. “I’ve got a poem in my history book. I’ll read it to you when we can sit down.”

  Paul turned and smiled at him, and all at once it was a soft and radiant smile, full of tenderness, and a sharp little thrill of joy, almost of pain, twisted through Frank’s heart. Neither of them had spoken of parting immediately. Frank was going some streets out of his way to be with his new friend as long as possible.

  Frank began to speak about his parents. He said: “Well, my father is a pharmacist. He works in a drugstore. They have all kinds of candy there, but he won’t let me go in when he’s working, or any other time. Says it doesn’t do to get too ‘familiar.’ He’s funny. He never takes Ma anywhere, and she rows about it. He doesn’t care what she says, though. Acts as though he’s heard her rowing so long that it’s just like a noise in his ears that he doesn’t hear. Pa says we’ve got to save money so we can go back to England before he and Ma are too old.” His face changed, darkened, grew more intense as he struggled with his thoughts. “He isn’t so old, though. He’s only forty-two, but Ma is forty-seven. When Pa talks about England, he looks alive. He walks about, sometimes, and talks excited. He’s not so old. But I guess he walks about so he can feel important. When grown-up people are scared, they just feel they have to do something important. When they haven’t anything important to do, they look dead, don’t they? Funny?” He stared with intent eyes of sudden excitement at Paul’s face, so impassive, so inscrutable. “Maybe we all got to feel important or we just die, whether we lie down or not. When we get older. That’s why I don’t ever want to grow up and get old. That’s what my poem is about.”

  They reached the corner of a quiet street, where grassy lawns spread about them, and the houses, in the waning November light, had an air of secretive withdrawal. There was an iron railing near the sidewalk, and Frank, with sudden shyness, drew out a sheet of scrawled paper from his history book.

  “I wrote this while old Hempstead was howling about fractions,” he said. “I never can learn fractions. I don’t see any sense in it.”

  Paul raised one fair eyebrow. The two boys leaned comfortably against the railing. “Please read your poem,” he said politely.

  Frank cleared his throat shyly, staring down at the paper. His colorless cheek turned pink. “Well,” he said, and now he did not stammer, “I call it ‘If I Must Die’—”

  He glanced up to see if there was any ridicule on Paul’s face. But a strange look, almost too intense, had come into Paul’s eyes. Frank began to read:

  “If I must die, then let me die

  While still my lute is strung,

  Before the birds have left the sky

  And all their song is sung.

  If I must go, then let me go

  While still I feel, and still I know,

  That earth is fair and all aglow,

  And God and I are young.

  “If I must sleep, then let me sleep

  Before my hours are run,

  Before the winter snows are steep

  And summer’s day is done.

  If I must fade, then let me fade

  Before my faith is all betrayed,

  And hope and I too deep are laid

  For any morning sun.”

  His young voice had become vibrant, rich and compelling, during the reading of his crude but vital poem, and it seemed to hover in the drained light about the two boys. Paul did not move; he leaned against the railing. He watched Frank and listened. But a quickening tensen
ess had whitened the area about his impassive lips, and his eyes had widened enormously in their sockets. He did not speak while Frank awkwardly folded the poem and replaced it with feigned carelessness in the leaves of his book. “Well, I guess it isn’t so much,” he said. “Maybe I’ll do better later on.”

  But he waited, his heart beating. Paul still did not move.

  “A lute,” said Frank, faintly, “is a kind of stringed instrument. The ancient Greeks used to play it. It has a pretty sound, hasn’t it? Lute.” He frowned. He repeated softly: “‘Before my faith is all betrayed,’ I don’t know just exactly what that means—I think. I suppose I really meant before I got to feeling that nothing was beautiful any more. Yes, that was it. When you look at grown-ups, you know there isn’t anything beautiful for them in the world. It—it’s as if they had got color-blind, or something, and saw everything just in grays and blacks and dirty whites.”

  Paul drew a little breath. There was a tiny vivid light in the corners of his eyes.

  The brief November day was dying. The dry, astringent gales had fallen, and the static air hung, quiet and dead and very cold, about the children. The streets were almost empty except for an occasional hurrying housewife with a basket of groceries, a brave child on a velocipede, a beer wagon that rumbled by, its barrels thumping, or an automobile, clanging, roaring, smoking, leaving a stink of gasoline behind it. The windows of the shabby but large frame houses began to glow and flicker with yellow gaslight, and chimneys smoked languidly, throwing up twisting serpents of dark vapor against a darkening sky. Doors slammed eerily in the dusk; once or twice a hungry dog barked. Underfoot, the sidewalk was gritty, and on the brown lawns there swirled little eddies of dried chaff. The trees stood spectrally along the curbs, their bare branches merging indistinguishably. Now an arc light on the corner began to hiss and splutter, tearing the twilight apart with its shooting and glaring beams.