Paperboy

by Vince Vawter

I nodded.

  From the kitchen I watched my mother get in her car and back it down the driveway. She stopped at the street and reached into her handbag for a cigarette. She pushed in the lighter on the dashboard and rolled her window down. She put the lighter to her cigarette and then blew the smoke out the window.

  My mother had told me at the beginning of the summer that she had stopped smoking and made me promise that I never would start. I knew she hadn’t quit because I could smell it on her clothes. But I didn’t care if she smoked or not. My father smoked and he never made any bones about it.

  I headed upstairs.

  When I passed my parents’ bedroom I noticed that one of the doors to the big closet was open a few inches. Most closets in the house were small but my father had paid some men to knock a hole in the wall and turn the smaller bedroom next door into their closet. It was so big that it had two doors going into it. I was not allowed inside because that was where my father kept his shotguns for hunting. I felt creepy going in but I did anyway. I pushed the light switch on and closed the door.

  I remembered once seeing my mother get out a big round hatbox she kept in the closet. It had a bunch of papers and pictures in it and I could tell by the way she handled them that they were special to her. I had been meaning to take a look inside the box ever since and I decided that the right time had come.

  The first thing that hit me was the smell of mothballs. My mother put mothballs everywhere. In all the closets. In all the chest of drawers. In the attic. A moth would be committing suicide if it came near our house.

  My father’s suits were lined up on one side and my mother’s dresses on the other. My father’s guns were standing up in the corner in a long rack that had a lock on it. I saw the big hatbox on a high shelf. I piled some suitcases on top of one another and climbed up to get the box.

  The first batch of papers I came to was all my report cards from the first grade on. Tied up with the report cards was a letter to my parents from the school principal with Private written on the envelope in red ink. I knew what was in the letter. It had to do with the time after the first grade that the principal said I was reading and writing like a third grader or even a fourth grader which meant the school would let me skip a grade but he didn’t think I should because of the way I talked. My mother went to see the principal and told him with me sitting there that he had better not hold her son back because letting me skip a grade would show her friends that I was just as smart as their kids even though I couldn’t talk right. Before I knew it I had been moved up to the third grade.

  Next in the hatbox was a thick book with heavy black pages full of photographs. My father was in a bunch of the pictures. He was easy to pick out because he was so tall and thin and had blond hair.

  I went through the rest of the papers and folders as fast as I could. Just a bunch of diplomas and newspaper clippings and other stuff with my father’s name on them. At the very bottom of the box I came to a brown envelope without any writing on the outside.

  Inside was a small piece of paper that said “Birth Certificate Of” and the name written in longhand was “Baby Boy.” The date on it was my birthday. My mother’s name before she got married was written in at the bottom of the paper on the left beside MOTHER. On the right side next to FATHER was a word I wasn’t expecting.

  Unknown.

  I put everything away in the box like I had found it and went to my room to lie down on my bed and start some serious thinking.

  When I heard my mother’s car in the driveway and the car door close I slipped out of my hard thinking and ran to the big closet to make sure I had turned off the light and shut the doors.

  Both closet doors stood open and the light was on which let me know I had been in there for sure and I wasn’t just dreaming about what I had seen. I turned off the light and fixed the doors like I had found them and ran to the bathroom to run water in the tub. I didn’t usually take a bath that early in the day but I decided I smelled too much like mothballs.

  Chapter Eight

  I probably get over things that hurt faster than most kids. I don’t have much of a choice seeing as how my stuttering hurts me so many times during a day.

  Rat has a big scar on his left arm from the time he crashed his bike trying to ride down the concrete steps at Crump Stadium. He tells anybody who listens about how the doctor had to sew sixteen stitches in his arm. He likes to show off to guys and make girls scream by sticking a safety pin in the scar. He says he can’t feel the pin but I can tell he’s careful not to push it in too far.

  I used to have my own secret trick but I used a thumbtack instead of a safety pin. If I knew I was going to have to read or recite in class I would keep a thumbtack in my hand and push it into my palm when I started to talk. I kept hoping the pain would make me forget about stuttering but it never did. I decided it didn’t make much sense to keep sticking myself and I got tired of always having a bloody hand when class was over. You can’t replace one hurt with another one. You just end up with double hurts.

  Walking the paper route each day gave me time to think about what I had found in the closet.

  Here was the toughest part to figure out. If some other man and my mother got together to make me then why did I like being around my father more than my mother? I liked to talk to my father a whole lot more than I did my mother. My father never seemed to mind that I stuttered so much. He even said when I turned thirteen he would be buying me a shotgun and he wanted to take me hunting with him and his friends. I knew he was always tired when he got home from work and he really didn’t like to pitch and catch much but he always took the time to do it if I asked him.

  Finding out my father was Unknown answered one big question. I had always tried to figure out how I could have such a good arm on me when my father threw so soft. Almost like a girl. I had always wondered if I was going to be tall and thin like my father when I got older. I guess I knew the answer to that question unless the other man who made me was tall too. But I didn’t have the first notion of who that man was or if he was short or tall.

  I thought so much about what I had seen in the closet that week that I would come to the end of my route and look down in my newspaper bags and wonder where all the papers had gone. But I don’t think I ever missed a house because I never got a complaint. My arms and legs could do things without my mind knowing about it.

  Friday morning my father surprised me by saying he was going to take off work that afternoon and we could have lunch anywhere I wanted and then take in a matinee.

  I told him I had to be at the paper drop by three o’clock and he said he would make sure I got there. We checked the paper and the only movie time that worked out was a western called Shane playing at the Crosstown Theatre. He said he saw the movie years ago when it first came to town but it was good enough to see again and he thought I would like it. He said for me to be ready at noon. We would eat at Britling’s Cafeteria and then go to the movie.

  At noon I was waiting on the back steps with my newspaper bags when my mother came outside to tell me that my father’s secretary had called to say that he had gotten caught in a meeting and was running late. My mother said she would fix me a pimento cheese sandwich for lunch and then my father and I could go straight to the movie.

  s-s-s-s-Could I have just s-s-s-s-cheese?

  You can’t have a pimento cheese sandwich without pimentos in it.

  I wanted to tell my mother that Mam never put pimentos in my cheese because I thought the red specks looked like pieces of glass but sometimes it was easier to eat glass than explain things to my mother.

  Mam wasn’t at home to fix my lunch because she had called to tell my mother that she needed a little more time off. I couldn’t remember the last time Mam had been gone more than one night. Something didn’t feel right that she would be away for so long without me knowing where she was.

  My father’s Buick screeched into the driveway about the time I swallowed my last piece of glass. He motioned for
me to jump in.

  I’m sorry about lunch, son. The meeting was important.

  I nodded.

  I wanted you to have a nice lunch of your choosing. I know the dinner the other night wasn’t much fun.

  I nodded again. I thought about saying that eating glass wasn’t too much fun either.

  Your mother and I are proud of you for taking on Art’s paper route. It shows how responsible you’re becoming.

  I nodded and then thought my father deserved more than a nod for what he had said.

  s-s-s-s-Thanks.

  When the movie was about half over I whispered to my father that Shane was going to ride into town and take care of the bad guys so that the mother and father and their boy could be safe on their farm even though Shane was in love with the boy’s mother. I don’t stutter as much when I whisper so I was able to say all that without much trouble. My father slapped me on the knee and whispered back.

  How’d you know that?

  I smiled at my father. Sometimes I could see endings to movies in my head like the beardy old man in Coldwater could see what was going to happen to Mam’s brother.

  When the lights in the theater came on my father said we had to hurry so I could start my route on time. I didn’t say much when we got in the car because I was working on a question. It took a lot of planning ahead on the words.

  s-s-s-s-Do you think the s-s-s-s-boy looked more like his s-s-s-s-father or like Shane?

  I guess his father. Why?

  s-s-s-s-Do boys always s-s-s-s-look like their fathers?

  More often than not … but it’s not always a given.

  I was looking out the windshield but I felt my father glance over at me when he said it wasn’t a Given. I thought about asking him if Shane could have been the boy’s father because it was plain that Shane had an eye for the mother but then I started getting confused about what was in the movie and what was in the story in my head.

  We got to the drop about the same time as the newspaper truck.

  Made it right on time. Don’t forget your bags in the back. I enjoyed the movie.

  s-s-s-s-Me too. s-s-s-s-Thanks for s-s-s-s-taking off work.

  Next time we eat out it will be at Britling’s. I promise.

  My father pulled his car out on Bellevue and headed back downtown toward his office.

  I folded my papers in world-record time once I got the movie out of my head and the kid yelling Shane Shane Come Back Shane. I think that kid was lonesome like me but he was only in the movies and I was living my real stuttering life.

  I noticed Big Sack sitting in his truck parked across the street and watching me. It was the second time during the week I had seen him just sitting like that which didn’t seem right because he was usually mowing lawns or cleaning out flower beds.

  Ara T hadn’t been around all week but I spotted him a ways down the alley when I was lifting the bags off the fence onto my shoulders. The way he was sneaking looks at me made me wonder if Mam had gotten my knife back from him. One thing was for sure. Ara T was going through the garbage cans a new way. He would pull stuff out of a can and throw it anywhere. His neat way of collecting junk was gone.

  I almost ran for the first part of my route. I was breathing hard by the time I got to Mr. Spiro’s house. It wasn’t time to collect but I had something special to talk to him about.

  I had worked on a list of questions for Mr. Spiro all week in my room. I didn’t want to forget anything important so I had typed the three questions on a clean piece of notebook paper.

  1. Why do most grown-ups treat me like I’m not a real human being?

  2. When does a kid become a grown-up?

  3. What can I do to be smart like you?

  That wasn’t everything I wanted to talk about but that was all I could get out of my head and down on paper.

  I didn’t want to be out of breath if we had our talk so I sat down on the curb across the street and refolded some papers that weren’t as tight as Dick’s hatband. I asked my mother once who Dick was when she talked about his hatband but she never would tell me.

  I noticed an old bicycle leaning against the side of Mr. Spiro’s house. It had a basket on the front handlebar and a flat piece of wood on the back behind the seat. The handlebars and the spokes on the wheels were rusted but the chain looked like it was in good shape.

  About the time my refolding was done Mr. Spiro came out of his door with a book under his arm and holding a thick white coffee mug that was steaming. I didn’t see how anybody could be drinking hot coffee in the middle of the hottest part of the Memphis day but it seemed to suit Mr. Spiro. He waved me over when he saw me on the curb.

  What news do you bring me today, Messenger?

  I knew he meant newspaper news but it was my chance to see if we could have another long talk. I lifted the straps of the newspaper bags over my head and laid them on the porch.

  s-s-s-s-Would you have s-s-s-s-time to s-s-s-s-answer some questions?

  Certainly.

  Mr. Spiro took a sip of his steaming coffee.

  I have a good cup of joe and a good traveler at my side.

  Anybody else would have answered with one or two words but Mr. Spiro made you feel like he was excited about the same thing you were excited about.

  We sat on the porch swing. I reached into the back pocket of my shorts and pulled out the piece of paper with my questions. It was only a little wet from sweat. I handed it to Mr. Spiro. He didn’t take it.

  Our goal is dialogue, Messenger. That takes two. I have all the time we need so I would like to hear you ask your questions.

  I should have known Mr. Spiro wouldn’t let me get away with just handing him my list. I looked down at the piece of paper to start getting the first question lined up inside my head.

  s-s-s-s-Do grown-ups think s-s-s-s-kids are humans?

  Yes.

  I waited because no eye blinks meant there was more coming.

  That is the quick answer to your query but I believe the question you really wish to ask is: Are adults good at communicating with young people?

  Mr. Spiro had hit the nail on the head. Then he answered the question.

  I’m afraid I would have to answer that query in the negative.

  Why?

  I asked it without a stutter because Ws have built-in Gentle Air.

  More reasons than we can know but I would sum up by saying it’s because many adults are uncomfortable with themselves.

  That answer took some going over in my head. Mr. Spiro gave me a few seconds and then went on.

  Adults—or grown-ups as you most graciously refer to them—have a difficult time talking with children because young people don’t understand the code.

  Mr. Spiro twisted toward me on the swing.

  Example. An adult says: I’ll have to think about that. What do you think the adult means?

  I shook my head even though my mother said that to me all the time.

  The translation is: What you asked about is not going to happen so don’t bring up the matter again.

  I smiled because that was what it usually meant for me.

  s-s-s-s-Tell me some s-s-s-s-more ’bout the s-s-s-s-code.

  What do you think adults mean when they say: That’s not something we should talk about until you’re older?

  I shook my head again.

  It can be decoded as: I don’t know how to answer you.

  When will I be an s-s-s-s-adult?

  Who’s to say? You might be further along than you realize.

  Mr. Spiro got up from the swing.

  I am a rude host. I have this good cup of coffee and you are without sustenance. How would a lemonade suit you?

  I wasn’t all that thirsty because my father had bought me a giant Coca-Cola at the movie but Mr. Spiro was already headed into the house before I could get anything out of my mouth. He came out soon with a glass of lemonade about as big as I could hold in one hand. It was sweet like Mam made it because she always made sure the sug
ar was stirred up. The glass was full of big lemons that were cut in half and squeezed. Not like the thin slices my mother cut and that you couldn’t do anything with. I took big swallows.

  Now let me ask a few questions while you imbibe.

  He asked me questions that I could answer mostly with a Yes or a No. The best kind of questions for me.

  Do you like school?

  s-s-s-s-Most times.

  Do you have siblings?

  s-s-s-s-No.

  What does your father do for a living?

  I thought about telling Mr. Spiro what I had seen on my birth certificate in the closet but decided the time wasn’t right to talk about that.

  s-s-s-s-He takes care of s-s-s-s-money for s-s-s-s-people.

  Do you think he enjoys his work?

  I nodded.

  s-s-s-s-He spends s-s-s-s-plenty of time s-s-s-s-doing it.

  Then Mr. Spiro said one of those things that seemed important without me knowing why.

  One of the most beautiful happenstances of life is the person doing precisely what he knows is intended for him. Unfortunately a rare situation.

  I let the words stay on the blackboard in my head.

  I looked down at my wrinkled piece of paper for another question.

  How s-s-s-s-can I be smart s-s-s-s-like you?

  Mr. Spiro let out another one of his short laughs and then took a long drink of coffee. He looked straight ahead like he was working on the answer or making a plan.

  Would you care to come inside for a moment?

  I looked away and wasn’t sure what to say. Rat had told me that going into a house on the route was against the rules. Mr. Spiro stood.