Fathoms (Collected Writings)

by Jack Cady

  “A detective is just what we need,” said Sally. “Somebody’s got to figure out what happened to Claymore the mouse.”

  “The case might amuse me,” the bear said as it turned back to a conversation with the fish. “While you infants spend your weekend watching reruns of Spider Man I begin work on the problem.”

  Requirements For Becoming A Poet

  Jerome liked Saturday mornings best. He would wake up a long time before his mother and father. His mother always left a bowl of cereal for him. He would sit and eat his cereal and watch how the gray, misty light covering the lawn went away, and the sun began to make colors in the trees and on the top of the fence. In the winter there were not very many birds and all of them were little except the crows. There were sparrows and Oregon juncos and rufous-sided towhees that scratched sideways when they ate seeds from the feeder. His mother told him what the birds were named.

  After the sun was up, or anyway after the sky was light, he would go and watch television. If there was no rain he would play outside with Sally in the afternoon. If it was raining Sally might come to his house to play.

  This Saturday morning Jerome watched Spider Man and The Klutzy Kritter. He watched Galapagos Goose and The Purple Baron Goes to Hollywood. He watched The Strawberry Benders and Beast From The Sewer and Barbie Meets The Eastside Strangler. He got most excited about Beast From The Sewer because the beast looked a lot like the paper mache alligator Candace.

  When cartoons were over some noisy men on television began to talk about a football game. Jerome’s father came into the living room. Jerome’s father was bigger than Mr. Keeper. He was louder than Mr. Keeper, but he was not as loud as Mrs. Keeper. Jerome liked his father, even if there was not much room on the sofa after his father sat down. Once during Show and Tell Jerome had taken a heavy red tool to class to show how his father was a plumber. That same night his father yelled that a man’s pipe wrench was a man’s pipe wrench, and you just couldn’t check it out like a library book. On Saturdays Jerome’s father watched football games and drank beer.

  Beer was bad. Mrs. Keeper said so. Jerome did not understand, because his father always talked to him more on Saturdays. Jerome’s father smoked cigars. Mrs. Keeper said that smoking was bad even if the cigars smelled fat and nice. When Jerome’s father came home from work he was usually pretty dirty and sometimes smelly. Mrs. Keeper said those things were bad.

  “What’s a poet,” Jerome said to his father. His father blinked, then turned the knob on the television. “Sparkle sparkle little twink, how the hell you are I think.” Jerome’s father chuckled. “That’s a poet.”

  Cussing was bad. Mrs. Keeper said so.

  “I’m going to be one,” Jerome said. “So is Sally.”

  “You’re going to get a lobotomy,” Jerome’s father said, but he said it most kindly. “Poets never have any money, and they all have dandruff, and they are bums. Forget about being a poet.”

  “What’s a lobot-o- . . . ?”

  “Every poet has one,” Jerome’s father said. “Game’s starting.”

  Jerome felt warm and comfortable sitting beside his father. Sometimes his father held Jerome on his lap.

  Jerome would snuggle down, smelling the cigar and beer smells. He would feel safe and warm. Sometimes he would take a little nap, but the naps did not last. One of the football players would do something wonderful. That would make his father bounce around.

  “We have a new bear at school,” Jerome said. “The bear is a poet.”

  “That sounds about right,” his father said. “All the good poets are dead ones, except the ones who are bears.” His arm hugged Jerome. “Fifty-two yard field goal. That guy couldn’t kick a Georgia peach hard enough to bust it. “

  On Becoming A Fireman

  Jerome’s mother was not fat like Mrs. Keeper, but lately when she took Jerome on her lap and read stories there was less lap. Jerome’s mother said that Jerome would have a baby sister pretty soon. Jerome did not know if that was—a good idea. Sally had a baby brother, but Sally said the baby was not working out.

  “What’s a poet?” Jerome said to his mother.

  She was standing in the kitchen. The radio was playing. She hummed along with a song on the radio. Her hair was browner than Sally’s, and she had a big nose and freckles. Her hair was tied up in a green bandanna. Jerome thought she was prettier than anybody.

  “A poet makes stories with rhymes,” his mother said. “I read poetry to you all the time. ‘Black sheep black sheep have you any wool/yes sir yes sir three bags full’ Wool and full are rhymes.”

  “I’m going to be one. So is Sally.”

  “Maybe you’ll be a fireman.”

  “I’m going to be both.”

  “That is a very good idea,” his mother told him. “Are you going to Sally’s, or is she coming here?”

  “Going.”

  “Coat weather.” His mother looked at the thermometer hanging outside by the bird feeder. “Get your coat and hat.” “We’re not going to be bears. We’re going to get married.”

  “That is another very good idea, 11 his mother said, “and you must be sure to tell me when, but you still have to wear your coat and hat.”

  “Next Saturday.”

  “I intend to have the baby next Saturday,” his mother said. “You’ll have to put it off awhile.”

  It was chilly as he went down the sidewalk and maybe there wasn’t any rain, but the mist was thick like rain. He stuck out his tongue and let the mist tickle it. He was so busy letting the mist tickle his tongue that he almost ran into Mr. Feet who was the mailman. “Your face is going to freeze that way,” Mr. Feet said. “Then what are you going to do?’’ Sometimes Mr. Feet was nice, sometimes he was a grump.

  “Be a poet.”

  “Rejects,” said Mr. Feet. “Friends of the post office. If we don’t have poets I ain’t got a job.” Today Mr. Feet was being a grump.

  “And wear a red hat and drink beer and smoke cigars and cuss,” Jerome told him.

  “And get rejected,” Mr. Feet said. “Spend all your money on stamps and beer and cigars. By golly, you even sound like a poet.”

  “Do you have a letter for me?” Sometimes Mr. Feet gave him a letter, but it never had his name on it. It almost always said ‘Occupant’.

  “I have just the thing,” Mr. Feet said. He searched through his bag. “Read this.”

  “Do you a - - - - - - - - to - - - -?”

  “Do you have a restless urge to write?” Mr. Feet said. “That’s the kind of letters poets get.”

  Mr. Feet was no fun so Jerome kept on walking to Sally’s house. He folded up the letter and put it in his coat pocket. Mrs. Keeper said that littering was bad.

  The Secret Fort and The Evil Weed

  “Sally is outside,” Sally’s mother said. Sally’s mother was tall and skinny. She had long black hair. Sometimes Sally said her mother was Mexican. Sometimes Sally said her mother was a Choctaw. Sometimes Sally said her mother was a Rosicrucian. Jerome didn’t understand the difference, but he liked Sally’s mother.

  The new baby wasn’t really so new anymore. It sat in a highchair in the kitchen. It was wearing a bib and diapers. The baby had a little dab of black hair and an orange streak of strained carrots on its bib. Sally said that it wasn’t much of a baby but Jerome thought it looked about right.

  “. . . said she was going to play with a new friend,” Sally’s mother told Jerome.

  Jerome blinked and felt bad.

  “Baby, baby,” Sally’s mother said to Jerome, “a person can have a new friend. That doesn’t mean they don’t like their old friends.”

  Jerome felt better.

  “She asked me what was a poet,” Sally’s mother said. Jerome felt even better. Sally was playing with the new bear. It seemed a little goofy, because bears were supposed to stay at school.

  “What is a poet,” Jerome said.

  “A poet is like a painter, only a poet draws pictures with words. ‘The Angels bustl
e in the Hall-/Softly my Future climbs the Stair/I fumble at My Childhood’ s prayer/So soon to be a Child no more-’ that’ s a poet.”

  “And drink beer and smoke cigars and cuss and wear red hats?”

  “I don’t think that one did,” Sally’s mother said softly, “but maybe she should of.” Sally’s mother turned to look at the baby, her voice even softer. “Butcher, baker, candlestick maker; what will it be? I hope it goes well for you,” she said to the baby. To Jerome she said, “Try the secret fort. I expect they are there.”

  The secret fort was a place that only Sally and Jerome knew about. It was in a woods back of Sally’s house. Some trees had fallen down, and some other trees drooped over them. In the summer the fort was a cool and quiet place that the birds liked. Sally and Jerome would fight Indians and make up stories. Once they found a dead bird and held a funeral.

  In the winter the fort was not shady because the leaves were off the trees. The fort was pretty wet from rain. In the winter they took popcorn to the fort and fed the squirrels.

  Sometimes the squirrels and the crows got to jawing at each other about the popcorn.

  Jerome knew that Sally was playing with the new bear because he saw a little spot of red as he got close to the fort. When he got even closer he saw that the bear seemed bigger, almost as big as Sally. In school the bear had not been much bigger than the stuffed rabbit Henry. He decided that poets could make themselves bigger whenever they wanted.

  “Good afternoon, urchin,” the bear said in a growly voice. “We are examining your battlements.”

  Jerome saw Sally who stood beside the bear. Sally looked like Sally never looked. Sally looked impressed. She did not look ornery at all.

  “Your tents of white now pitched before the gates,

  And gentle flags of amity displayed,

  I doubt me not the governor will yield.”

  “What?”

  “I was declaiming about the fort,” the bear growled. “I spoke the words of the sainted Marlowe.”

  “Been carrying on like that,” Sally said.

  “What is your name,” Jerome asked. “We have to be in the ‘name the bear ‘ contest.”

  The bear pushed its red hat forward. The hat nearly covered the bear’s button eyes. “What is my name,” the bear growled.

  “Gruff,” Sally said.

  “Correct,” said the bear. “My name is Gruff because I am gruff.”

  It seemed like a perfect name to Jerome.

  “We’ll never win,” Sally said. “Mrs. Keeper will never say Gruff is best. She’ll say that ‘Patty Cake’ is best.

  “Mrs. Keeper,” said Gruff, “is unfortunately an obese and dictatorial termagant.”

  “She sure is,” said Sally as if she understood, while Jerome looked confused.

  “Fat old poop,” Gruff explained to Jerome. “However, it is not good policy for me to undermine your authority figures. Let us simply say that Mrs. Keeper leads an unfortunate existence.”

  “She used to be nice,” Jerome said.

  “Have you found Claymore the mouse?”

  “In good time,” Gruff said. Gruff squatted down behind one of the fallen trees. He looked out across the field which was before the woods. “If I were mounting an attack on this fort,” Gruff said, “I would bring my unicorns in from that direction.” He pointed toward Sally’s house. “Over that way . . .” and he pointed toward Jerome’s house, “I would fly air cover with an umbrella of griffins. Beneath that cover I’d place a squad of wooly mammoths escorting fifty hand-picked trolls. This place could be overrun.”

  Jerome felt like he was about to cry. “However,” said Gruff, “Jerome and Sally would not allow that to happen.”

  Jerome felt better.

  “Because,” Gruff explained, “as all the unicorns and griffins and mammoths and trolls were converging, Jerome and Sally would begin a tea party. Everybody would sit down to tea and cookies and they would all become good friends. That is the best way to defend a fort.”

  “Claymore is a little bitty mouse,” Sally said. “Why would Mr. Keeper pick on a little bitty mouse?”

  Gruff stood back up and adjusted his hat. Now that Gruff was bigger the carpety fur was even more carpety. Gruff was not the kind of bear that anyone would just want to walk up to and hug.

  “Mr. Keeper did not pick on Claymore,” Gruff said. “My investigation is far from complete, but I already know that the culprit is not Mr. Keeper who has depth.”

  “He didn’t do it?” Jerome was glad. Jerome thought Mr. Keeper had always been nice.

  “And speaking of tea and cookies, and speaking of Claymore, I find that I will need a cookie,” Gruff said. He seemed to be listening to his own words. “Two cookies,” Gruff said.

  It was easy to get the cookies. Sally and Jerome went to Sally’s house, and Sally’s mother gave each of them a cookie. Then they went to Jerome’s house. Jerome’s mother gave each of them a cookie. Jerome’s father was taking a nap on the sofa. A cigar sat in ashtray, barely used.

  “This is a rare treat,” Gruff said about the cigar. “Each of us may now eat a cookie.”

  There was one cookie left over.

  “This is bait,” Gruff explained. “I have a theory about the missing Claymore.” Gruff turned to Jerome. “Please give my thanks to your father for the cigar. You brains have furthered Claymore’s cause. I will see you in school on Monday.”

  Garibaldi and The Children’s Hour

  On Monday after the children were in school and the fathers went to work Sally’s mother and Jerome’s mother visited at Jerome’s house. They drank coffee and watched the birds at the feeder.

  “Pulled the old double-cookie scam again on Saturday,” Sally’s mother said about the children. Her long black hair was tied back. She wore a little red bow to hold it together. “Should we tell them not to be devious?”

  “We’d better tell them not to smoke cigars,” Jerome’s mother said. “One of Jim’s cigars turned up missing. Jerome gave it to the new bear.” Jerome’s mother giggled. “I know they didn’t smoke it because nobody urped.”

  “A bear who is a poet,” Sally’s mother said. “They’re at an age when they have invisible friends. It’s just that I never heard of two kids sharing the same invisible friend.”

  “Maybe they’re both afraid of the same things,” Jerome’s mother said. “We’ve got the new baby coming. You had yours last year.”

  “My Sally-kid is jealous” Sally’s mother said. “On Sunday she bit the baby on his big toe. The baby yelled murder, and Michael yelled at Sally. Gave her a pat on the butt. More yelling. I went to the living room and watched football.”

  “Pat on the butt.”

  “Michael is a panty-waist,” Sally’s mother said. “I used to smack her harder burping her.”

  “And Mrs. Keeper is no help,” Jerome’s mother said.

  “It’s bad enough the kids are jealous. I’m afraid she’ll end up making them hate school.”

  “She used to be wonderful,” Sally’s mother said. “At least the women with older kids say so.”

  “I used to be wonderful,” Jerome’s mother said. “Now I just tote watermelons.”

  “Ninth month is lousy.”

  “What’s this business about red hats?”

  “Sally wants a red hat,” Sally’s mother said. “As near as I can tell what she wants is a red beret.”

  “That’s it,” Jerome’s mother said. “Like Garibaldi. That’s what he was trying to describe.”

  “Garibaldi was the red shirts, not hats. I’ll make up a couple of red berets,” Sally’s mother said. “You just get busy and have that kid.”

  “Garibaldi in the first grade,” Jerome’s mother said. “I’ll bet Mrs. Keeper has a fit.”

  ‘Poop’ For Short

  Mrs. Keeper had her first fit during Show and Tell when Sally said she was an unwanted child.

  Sally showed her teeth. They were the teeth she used to bite her baby brother on the toe.
Sally pulled down her jeans and showed her pants. She was showing the spot on her hindey where her father beat her with a ballbat and a great big whip.

  “Sit down,” Mrs. Keeper said. “Pull up your jeans first.” Mrs. Keeper turned to a goody-two-shoes named Annabel. “Go get Mr. Keeper,” she said to Annabel. To Sally she said, “That was unladylike. Nothing is more unladylike than that.”

  Gruff chuckled. Gruff was sitting on the table between the stuffed rabbit Henry and the paper mache alligator Candace. Gruff was still carpety, but he was shrunk. He was the same size as when he first came to school.

  Sally stuck out her tongue at Gruff. Mrs. Keeper could not hear Gruff. She yelled at Sally. Sally turned, and Sally’s tongue was sticking right out at Mrs. Keeper. Some of the children laughed. Gruff laughed.

  “It would certainly be unladylike for Mrs. Keeper to expose her hindey,” Gruff said with another chuckle. “In fact, it would be downright overwhelming.”

  Two of the children who had laughed were now listening hard. Johnnie-red-head was listening, but the other Johnnie, the one with yellow hair, was not. A girl named Wong Li was listening. She was smiling.

  “I am a poet,” Gruff continued, “and poets are notoriously over-sensitive in matters of good taste. Thus, I may say with some authority that an exposed hindey does not seem like a hanging offense.”

  Sally looked happy. Gruff was on her side.

  Gruff tried to look gruff but did not do good at it.

  Gruff chuckled. “In the case of Mrs. Keeper’s hindey, what I just said was a pun; and a very good pun, and maybe everything would be just opposite in the case of Mrs. Keeper’s hindey.”

  Wong Li giggled. Johnnie-red-head laughed. So did the stuffed rabbit Henry.

  “Good show,” Henry said to Gruff, “a really good go there, old bear.”

  “You can talk,” Jerome whispered to Henry. “You never talked before.”

  “Never had a thing to say before,” Henry said in a voice that was not loud, but it was loud for a rabbit.

  Now a girl named Sandy whispered to Jerome. “Can you hear that bear.”