by Evergreen
"It was a very pretty service, Joseph said. I almost laughed. If it hadn't all been so serious and so confusing, I would have. Can you imagine, Joseph in a church? 'Will it kill us?' he asked me. 'As long as the boy believes in something,' he said. But after the first five or six times Eric wouldn't go anymore. And do you know, Joseph was upset about it?" "Why didn't he want to go?"
"He said he didn't believe in it anymore. We tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't go back."
"Maybe he wants to go to temple, do you think?" "We took him there once. And Joseph asked him if he might like to learn something about our faith, but he said no, he didn't care about that either. So that's where it stands."
Ruth sighed. "Well, you've got plenty of problems, Anna. I don't envy you."
Joseph was just coming in. "Problems? What problems? We haven't any. Eric's a great kid, if you're talking about him. He's got guts and he's one of the brightest boys I've ever—" "Was he at Iris'?" Anna interrupted. "No, they haven't seen him today." "I wonder where he went? It's almost dinner time." An hour and a half later Celeste came to the door. "Shall I wait dinner? Eric's not home yet, is he?"
"No. I mean, no, he's not home yet. Do you want to wait dinner, Joseph?"
"Might as well eat. I'm going to have a talk with him when he does come in. Funny, he's so well-mannered, so considerate. He never did this before."
"There's always a first time. And he's only thirteen." Her voice pleaded, but pleading was entirely unnecessary, she knew. For if anyone were ever going to 'have a talk' with Eric about anything, it would not be Joseph. He was that soft with the boy.
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Celeste served the dinner. Ruth was the only one who ate. Anna began her usual struggle against the sense of doom, the dark half of herself which she had been trying all her life to submerge. Why am I so distressed because a boy is late for dinner? It must happen in thousands of households every night of the year.
"He's been gone since morning," Joseph interrupted one of Ruth's monologues.
"Then why don't you call some of his friends, if you're so worried?"
"Who's worried? Why, are you?"
"No," Anna lied. "But go call the Arnold boy, he's the captain of the basketball team. Maybe Eric's visiting there."
From across the hall they could hear the murmur of Joseph's voice at the telephone. Apparently, he was making one call after the other. Celeste brought in the dessert, which Anna didn't touch. She strained to hear Joseph and couldn't. Even Ruth fell silent.
Joseph came back. "Well, nobody's seen him. But there are seventy-five boys in his class. I can't very well call all of them," he said brightly.
And a minute or two later, "I wonder whether he could be avoiding dinner with me? I hurt his feelings about the dog, I think."
"No, no, of course not! And he got his way about it, didn't he? Joseph didn't want to let the dog into the living room," she explained to Ruth, "on account of the light carpet."
"I should think not," Ruth agreed. "Carpet like that costs a fortune."
"Joseph is neater than I am," Anna admitted. "Besides, I feel sorry for the dog. He hates being left alone."
"My wife and her animals! I'm liable to find a stray horse in the house some night, too," Joseph said. He got up and went out again, adding, "I just thought of another call I could make."
"The real reason," Anna whispered, "why he gave in about the dog was that Eric said his other grandmother never even minded that he slept on the bed with him."
"On the bed! Is that quite clean?" Ruth asked doubtfully.
Anna shrugged. "What's the difference? So now George is allowed everywhere, as long as Eric promises to wipe his paws first before he comes in from outside."
Joseph came back. "That kid!" he said, and turning to Ruth, "You know, he's so well liked, there's no telling what friend's
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house he might be at. Probably playing chess, forgetting the time. He's quite a chess player for his age; it's a scientific game, you know that, of course. An intellectual game. We've got a very brilliant boy on our hands," he concluded.
"Of course, of course, Joseph. I told Anna, anyone can see that."
"SOj" Joseph said, "I'm going upstairs to look over some papers I brought home, and you girls can entertain each other. Let me know when he comes in. I'm going to give him a piece of my mind. But not too big a piece." He winked at Ruth. "Sure you girls can get along without me?"
The joviality was entirely unlike him, and it worried Anna. "You go on up and do your work," she said, "and don't be upset, Joseph."
"Will you stop talking about being upset? For heaven's sake, it's eight o'clock, and a thirteen-year-old boy is a little late. Honestly, Anna, sometimes you—" He shook his head, took his briefcase and trudged up the stairs.
"Shall I turn the television on?" Anna asked. "No, it hurts my eyes. The children got me one for my birthday and would you believe it, I hardly ever look at it? I've got a magazine here, the last installment of my serial."
Anna took The Conquest of Mexico from the shelf. Joseph had promised a visit to Mexico time and time again. When Eric had been with them a little longer, she was determined to visit Dan. Perhaps during this winter's vacation; they might even take Eric with them! It would be a fine experience for the boy.
The book was hard going. She forced herself to concentrate, almost to memorize, as if she were going to take an examination on it. Her chair was turned deliberately away from the clock. It struck nine. Or had she counted wrong? Had it actually struck ten? She refused to turn around and look. Her mouth was dry. She was unexpectedly frightened.
"It's getting cold outside," Ruth remarked. "Listen." "Those branches need to be cut," Anna answered, forcing a level tone. "They always knock against the window in the least wind."
She got up and went to the front door. A gust of chilling damp rushed into the hall. On the front lawn the tops of the trees tossed violently against a white sky. At eye level the darkness was absolute. There were no street lights in this section of town; that was
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one of its rural charms. But tonight the darkness was grim. The wind rushed like ocean tides. She closed the door. •
Joseph was just coming down the stairs. "It's ten-thirty," he said.
"Perhaps you ought to call the police," Ruth suggested.
Joseph flashed her a furious look. "What? The police? Why? Ridiculous! What was he wearing, Anna?"
She frowned, trying to recall the morning, which seemed to have been ages ago. "A plaid shirt, I think. It's hard to remember."
"The radio said the temperature has fallen twenty degrees since six o'clock," Joseph said.
Anna was silent. She went back to her book, read one sentence four times without understanding it and laid the book down. In the kitchen, she could tell by the sounds, Joseph was making tea. She heard the kettle whistle, heard the cabinet door click as he took out a cup and saucer. Ruth sat quietly, she who could never sit more than two minutes without chattering.
It began to rain. There were no preliminaries, no first patter-ings. The squall simply came raging out of the sky and beat at the windows.
Joseph walked in, carrying his tea. "It's raining," he said, raising his voice above the drumming.
"I know." They looked at each other.
"This time I'll really let that kid have it!" Joseph shouted. "You know, it's not being fair to a child to let him get away with things. A child needs to know limits," he said, as if he were imparting some discovery or lecturing a class. "Yes, a child is happier when he knows what's permitted and what isn't. No doubt he's sitting somewhere with one of his friends, having a good time, not giving a thought to us, how we're—"
The doorbell rang. Their hearts lurched in their chests. It kept on ringing as if someone were leaning against it.
"My God!" Joseph cried, running to answer.
He ripped the door open to the vicious weather, to the bobbing arcs of a pair of flashlights in the hands of two state
troopers who stood behind Eric and the huge, wet dog.
They stepped inside. "Is this your boy?"
Ruth screeched, "God above, where have you been? You've frightened your Grandpa and Nana to death, you ought to be—"
"Not now, lady." The trooper turned to Joseph. "You're the grandfather? We found the boy on the highway, trying to hitch a
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ride. He was heading for Boston, but he thought he was going northwest. Someplace in upstate New York . . . where was it,
kid?"
"Brewerstown," Eric said. "It's where I live. I wanted to go
back."
He stood there shivering and suddenly very small. The borrowed windbreaker enfolded him like a cape and hung almost to his knees.
"I don't understand," Joseph said. "You were running away?" Eric kept his eyes on the floor.
"Seems so," the trooper said. "It's a good thing we came along. He got a lift, he and the dog, with some guy who was—you understand," he said, glancing at Anna and Ruth, "excuse me—some sort of queer. Luckily he was able to get out of the car when it stopped at a light. I guess maybe the dog protected him, too."
The veins pulsed on Joseph's forehead. "Why did you do it, Eric? You've got to answer me. We've been good to you, haven't we, Eric? Why did you do this to us?"
Eric raised his eyes. "Because I hate it here," he said. Joseph and Anna looked from one to the other, then at Eric, and back to each other.
"Kids!" the trooper said. "Don't pay too much attention, Mr. Friedman. He needs a good old-fashioned hiding and he'll shape up. They usually do. Only not tonight, I wouldn't. He's tired out and scared to death." He turned to Eric with rough kindness. "You're some lucky boy, living in a house like this. I wish I could have grown up in it! And you had a narrow escape. You could be in plenty of trouble by now, and don't you forget it."
He replaced his cap. There was a flurry of thanks, then offers of repayment and refusal.
"A drink? A cup of coffee, at least?"
"No, thank you, Mrs. Just take care of the boy here. And you, mind your grandfather from now on, hear?"
The door closed, thudding into silence. Where Eric stood, in
cotton trousers and thin shirt, a smudge of wet spread on the floor.
"Eric, tell me," Anna whispered, "tell me what's wrong?"
"I hate it here! It's a mean, ugly place. I hate this house! You
had no right to take me away from my home, and I'm going back.
I'm not going to stay. I'll run away again. You can't keep me—"
"What kind of crazy talk is this?" Joseph cried. "This is your
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home. You know there's no place else, no one but us to take care of you. You ought to be glad that—"
"Joseph! Hush!" Anna commanded. "Eric, listen to me. We can talk about all that tomorrow. But tonight it's late and you can't go anywhere in weather like this. There's nobody out tonight."
He swayed and grasped the back of a chair. "Come, come upstairs and then in the morning we can decide what to do," Anna coaxed, urging him toward the stairs.
He was so weary that he had to pull himself up by the banister.
"I'll heat a can of soup," Ruth whispered.
Joseph followed them and started into Eric's room.
"No," Eric said, "I don't want anybody. Leave me alone, all of you. I hate you all."
The door slammed in their faces. They stood in the hall.
"I don't understand it," Joseph said again. He twisted his hands together. "He's been so cheerful, so agreeable. We were going to buy football gear today. I don't understand—"
Last week Anna had noticed that Eric trembled, or so she thought, but when she had mentioned it, Joseph had said it was nonsense. She didn't remind him now.
Ruth came up with a cup of soup and joined them in the hall at the closed, defiant door.
"I don't know what to do," Anna whispered.
"This is ridiculous," Joseph said. "Three adults intimidated by a naughty boy. I'm going in."
He pushed the door open. Eric lay on the bed in his underwear, his face half hidden. His wet shirt and pants were on the floor. In the weak smudged light from the desk lamp they could see that he was weeping.
Joseph laid a hand on his shoulder. "Now, why should you be crying? A big boy like you, basketball champ, football player?"
"Joseph, get out," Anna said fiercely. Talking to the boy as if he were a backsliding three-year-old who had soiled his pants! He forgets how he cried, how we held each other when this child's father-
"What did you say?"
'"Get out' is what I said."
"What are you talking about? Here's Ruth with hot soup, we only want to help—"
"You'll help by leaving him alone. Yes, there's one thing you can do. Hand me a quilt from the linen closet; there's a heavy blue
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one on the top shelf. And then go," she said, turning upon him a look which seemed to amaze him.
When she had covered Eric and shut the door she came and sat down on the bed.
"Now cry," she commanded. "God knows you've had reason enough. Cry it out. As loud as you want."
She had a glimpse of an anguished face; then the head went down to' hide in the quilt, the body thrashed, shaking the bed. The sound of grief, deadened at first by the muffling quiet, rose into gasping cries, tearing the air, tearing the heart.
What can he think of a world in which his family always dies? Twice now, his home has been destroyed. Is he afraid that we too ¦ will die, Joseph and I? And then where will he go? Ought we to talk to him about that? Some other time, of course, not now?
A baby, Anna thought. Because he's tall and smart and speaks well we think he can cope with anything. It's hard enough for us to cope, old as we are. One foot stuck out of the muddle of quilt, one arm thrust over the head. Thin childish arm, large dangling hand of a man. Voice that veered from a squeal to a growl. And the first fuzz on the cheeks, so cherished, so anxiously examined in the mirror every morning. Maury used to take a hand mirror to the light at the window.
"Yes, cry," she repeated. "You've had enough to cry about."
On the opposite wall the haughty, elegant face of Bellingham looked at them from above the desk, surrounded by the books and photographs, the relics of the shrine that Eric had made. Yes, a shrine, built for the same reasons men have always made shrines.
Long minutes later (how many? Five? Fifteen?), the heap of quilting moved and struggled. A wet face emerged and was laid upon Anna's shoulder. Her arms went out and she raised the cheek to her own. And they sat there, rocking slightly, while the weeping died away into a long, shaking sigh. Then a quick sob, another sigh, long sighs and quivers and, finally, ease.
"Ah, yes, ah, yes," she said.
"I'm not asleep," Eric whispered. "Did you think I was?"
"No."
"Where is Grandpa? I want to tell him something."
"Grandpa, if I know him, is walking up and down the hall outside this room with his hands behind his back, the way he always does when he's terribly upset. Shall I call him?"
"Yes."
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"Joseph?" she called.
The door opened instantly. "You want me?"
"Eric wants you."
Eric's head went back under the protection of the quilt. "I only wanted to tell you I don't hate you," he whispered, without looking up, "I don't hate it here."
"We know you don't," Joseph said. "We know." He cleared his throat. He coughed.
"George is hungry," Eric said.
Joseph cleared his throat again. "I fed him. He was very hungry. And thirsty, too. He's asleep now in the living room."
"I feel sleepy too, I think."
"Yes, yes," Anna said. "Lie down, I'll cover you properly."
"Doesn't he need something to eat?" Joseph asked.
"No, better for him to sleep now. In the morning he can have a big breakfast."
"Here, let me fix the quilt," Joseph said
.
She stood a moment, watching his clumsy arrangement of it, feeling his need to do something, some little thing, anything.
Oh, for Joseph's sake, for mine, oh, not to lose this boy, too! Was it our fault? Can one ever say, "If this hadn't been, then that wouldn't have been?" But if it was our fault, let us hope not to repeat it—