In God We Trust_ All Others Pay Cash Part 15

I somehow got the idea that an abbess was either a safety patrol lady or some kind of bad tooth. But there was something about it! I could not lay it down. And I began, mysteriously, to sweat, a telltale cold clamminess.

The stories didn't exactly end. Not like The Outdoor Chums The Outdoor Chums, where Dan, the bully, shakes his fist at Will, the fun-loving Chum, and, retreating in his cowardly way, surrounded by his toadies, says: "Will, and all the rest of you Outdoor Chums-I'll get you yet! Just wait and see!" Brandis.h.i.+ng his clenched fist in the air while the Outdoor Chums laughed gaily, mounted their electric canoe, and headed for camp. No, these stories didn't exactly end. They just petered out. But I was hooked.

Steamily, itchily, I read on and on and on. And on. The house grew darker and colder, the winds were rising. On the far-off horizon the night s.h.i.+ft took over in the vast, sinister steel mills. The skies glowed as the Blast Furnaces and the Bessemer Converters painted the clouds a dull red and orange. My eyes ached throbbingly, my throat was dry and parched. I read of maidens and virgins, nightingales and cuckolds-a small, yellowish, canary-like bird. Finally, palsied with fatigue, a changed man, I carefully replaced the green volume in its regular spot and went into the kitchen to knock together another salami sandwich. It was a good afternoon's work. Wait till Miss Bryfogel sees what great books I'm reading now.

It was one of the very few times I ever looked forward to getting to work on a book report. It was Thurday and next day was of course our day of reckoning.

After supper I scrunched over the kitchen table, my blue-lined tablet with its Indian Chief cover before me, my Wearever fountain pen clutched in my cramped claws. I began my love offering to Miss Bryfogel.

"The Decameron of Boccaccio, by Giovanni Boccaccio." I thought carefully, my mind humming like a well-oiled clock, toying with phrases, rejecting, and finally selecting the opening line: "This is the best, most interesting book I ever read. It is by a Italian and I think this book is very interesting. It is about these people that tell stories about knights and friars and cuckolds."

(I figured this was a nice touch, since I knew Miss Bryfogel liked birds.) Gathering steam, I went on: "There was this one story about a man named Ma.s.setto who worked in a garden and he made believe he was dumb and he did a lot of funny things, and there was this lady named the Abbess who said she would lieth with Ma.s.setto because, I guess, she didn't want to embarra.s.s him because he was lying. She did, and they were very happy. I liked this story because I think having a garden is a good thing to have. There are a lot of other stories I liked in this book. It is very hard to read because it has small printing, but anyone who would read this would like it."

I leaned back and re-read my masterpiece. It was good, the best work I had ever done. My mother, hunched over the sink in her Chinese-red chenille bathrobe, doing the dishes, was vaguely humming "When the Blue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day." At that time she was deep in her Bing Crosby period. The kitchen was warm, my stomach was full, and Life was complete.

Friday dawned bright and clear, a perfect gem of a morning. I floated to the Warren G. Harding School with that high exhilarated feeling of a man who has his homework in his notebook and the world in his hand. Birds sang, milkmen whistled, and I could hardly wait for Miss Bryfogel and Six-B English. Now she would know. She could not mistake my devotion for a mere pa.s.sing whim.

Miss Bryfogel that afternoon sat at her desk looking even more unattainable, elusive, and sultry than ever before. Her opening remarks followed her cla.s.sic pattern: "Pa.s.s your book reports up to the front and open your books to page seventy-eight."

Ahead of me Simonson shoved his smudgy sc.r.a.p of paper, bearing the t.i.tle Sam, The Young Shortstop Sam, The Young Shortstop. From behind me Helen Weathers poked my ear with La.s.sie Come Home La.s.sie Come Home, and I, violins playing pianissimo in my soul, added my magnificent epistle to their scrubby lot. Miss Bryfogel simply stacked the book reports together, shoved them in a drawer, and we went to work on gerunds.

At long last my heavenly tryst with Miss Bryfogel ended. The bell rang, and caressing her lovingly with my burning, myopic eyes I drifted out into the hall, knowing that the trap was set. She had a whole weekend to think about me and our life together. Now that she knows the Higher Things to which I aspire, the pinnacles I have conquered, there can be no stopping us!

Sat.u.r.day and Sunday flew by on the wings of ecstasy. And then Monday-blessed Monday. It was the first time in the recorded history of education in the state of Indiana that a normal, red-blooded, Male kid ever sprang out of bed at 7 A.M A.M., a full fifteen minutes early, and took off for school without so much as a single whine.

The day dragged endlessly, achingly toward that moment of sublime triumph that I knew must come, and the instant I walked into Miss Bryfogel's cla.s.sroom I knew I had made the Big Strike. I was not even at my seat when she called me up to her desk. I turned, the way I had seen Clark Gable do it many times. Miss Bryfogel, her voice sounding a little odd-no doubt due to pa.s.sion-said: "Ralph, I'd like you to stay a few minutes after cla.s.s." The Jackpot!

I swaggered back to my seat, a man among children. Fifty-five minutes later I stood before Miss Bryfogel's altar, ready to do her slightest command. She opened: "Ralph...ah...about your book report. That was a very well-written book report."

I said: "Heh, heh, heh. Good."

I was not used to this. n.o.body ever talked about my work. I was strictly a C+ man, and C+ men never get praised. Miss Bryfogel was talking in a strange, low voice.

"It was very well written. Did you really...enjoy the book?" the book?"

"Yes. It was a very exciting book."

Then Miss Bryfogel did something I had never seen a teacher do before. The first faint whisper of Danger wafted through my ventilating system. She just sat and looked at me for a long time and finally said, very quietly: "Ralph, I want you to be very truthful with me."

Truthful! Was Miss Bryfogel laboring under the delusion that I was leading her on, toying with her affections? I said: "Yes?" I was beginning to sweat up my corduroys a little.

"Did you read read the book or did you copy that from somewhere?" Well, there is one golden rule of all book reporters: never admit you didn't read the book. That is cardinal. the book or did you copy that from somewhere?" Well, there is one golden rule of all book reporters: never admit you didn't read the book. That is cardinal.

"Yes...I read it."

"Where did you get the book? Did you get it out of the library? Did Miss Easter give you that at the library?"

The Animal in us never sleeps. The dog lying on the hearth, eyes half-closed, senses Evil. His back hair rises out of pure instinct. The acrid scent of TROUBLE TROUBLE, faint but real, filtered in through the chalk dust and the lunchbags. My mind, working like a steel trap, leaped into action: "Well...ah...ah...a kid gave it to me. Yeah, a kid gave it to me!"

Miss Bryfogel closed in.

"A kid? Anybody from cla.s.s?"

Uh oh! Look out!

"Ah...no! A kid...I met on the playground at recess. A big kid."

"A big kid gave you that book? That's a big book, isn't it? A thick book."

"Yes, it's the biggest book I ever read."

"And a kid gave it to you? Does he go to Harding School?"

"Ah...I never saw that kid before. No, I don't know where he's from. A big kid...by the candy store."

Miss Bryfogel swiveled her chair and stared off at the Venetian blinds for what seemed like two years. Slowly she turned back to me.

"A big kid by the candy store...gave you Boccaccio's Decameron?" Decameron?"

"...............yeah."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"...yeah. Yeah, he said...'Here's a book!'"

"He said 'Here's a book?' And he gave you that that book?" book?"

".........yeah!"

"By the candy store? Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

"Well, it...it was dark!"

"It was dark?" dark?"

"Yeah! It was dark! It was...ah...raining! It was dark!" Miss Bryfogel took some paper clips out of her top drawer and straightened them up for a while and then said, even more quietly than before: "Are you telling me the truth?"

"...............yeah!"

"WHERE DID YOU GET THAT BOOK!?"

".........................home!"

"At home? Do they know that you read this book, at home? Does your mother know?"

".........yeah!"

"Are you sure?"

"Ah yeah."

Miss Bryfogel picked up her pen and took a sheet of paper out of her desk drawer, and looked at me in a way that Jean Harlow never looked at Clark Gable.

"I'm going to give you a note. You are going to take it home to your mother, and in one hour I will call her to see that she got it."

My socks began to itch. I had been through this note business before!

"..........okay."

"Are you telling me the truth?"

"NO!"

This moment, this very instant in time, this millisecond was one of the great turning points in my life, and even then I knew it. Miss Bryfogel leaned back in her swivel chair. She was soft and warm again.

"Ah. Where did did you get the book?" you get the book?"

"My father's room."

"Oh? Did he know you took it?"

"No."

"You know that you did something wrong, don't you?"

"..........yeah."

"Did you like the book?"

Somehow I knew that this was a loaded question, a key question.

"..........yeah."

"I see. It was pretty funny, wasn't it?"

"......no!"

I was telling the truth. It seemed like for the first time in two years I was telling the truth. I hadn't gotten a single boff from the book. Funny! The only thing that I liked about it was castles and knights. There wasn't a single laugh in it!

"Are you sure you didn't find it funny anywhere?"

"No!"

She knew I was telling the truth.

"Well, that's good. That's much better. Now, will you promise me one thing-that you will not sneak into your parents' room and get books any more, if I promise not to send a note home?"

"......okay!"

"You can go now."

A great cras.h.i.+ng wave of relief roared over me, and, bobbing in the surf, I paddled frantically toward the door. Just before I was through it and out safely: "Oh, Ralph?"

"What?"-Figuring she is about to welsh on the deal.

"I'm curious. Did you read all all of it?" of it?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's very good. I like to see stick-to-itiveness. Now go out and play."

I sipped my warm Scotch thoughtfully as Miss Bryfogel's voice faded off into the darkness of my memory forever. Arnold Palmer was coming into the 18th three under par, Julius Boros was lining up a putt. My knees were stiff; my soul was sick. Outside somewhere, far off, a siren droned into the distance. Wading through the papers I retrieved the Book Review Supplement Book Review Supplement. Yes, there he was, my old friend, the languorous youth, reclining provocatively. The nun looked down upon him as she had for all these centuries, and somewhere off in the fairy-tale background the cuckolds sang sweetly as they busily built their nests.

XXVII

POLKA TIME POLKA TIME "I don't get it," Flick said.

"Get what?"

"All that stuff about a cuckold. Isn't that one of them yellow birds they put in clocks?"

I was saved at this point by the sudden entrance of three large, pink-faced youths wearing work jackets and plaid corduroy caps who clattered noisily up to the bar.

"Man, were you hot last week! Boy, was you on!" One shouted at Flick with a noticeable, very familiar Polish accent.

"I throw a working working ball, Stosh," Flick shot back. ball, Stosh," Flick shot back.

There followed a quick flurry of shouting between all four, regarding bowling, the Game, and a waitress called Ellie. I will spare you that. Finally, one of the men threw a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and bellowed: "KEEP THEM BEERS COMIN', FLICK, UNTIL WE HOLLER!"

They clumped over into a booth, after priming the jukebox, which immediately boomed out a deafening polka. Flick came back, after delivering the suds.

"That was Stosh and Joe and Yahkey. They're good boys. They work in the Sheet Mill over at Youngstown."

Inwardly I shuddered, realizing how narrowly I had missed being one of the boys myself, forever doomed to the Sheet Mill where I had once spent a few harrowing centuries one summer.

"They sure throw their dough around, don't they?"

Flick polished a gla.s.s as he said: "The mills are workin'. They get plenty of Tonnage these days."

"Yeah, I can see that."

"Well, they work their a.s.s off for it." Flick defended them.

"Don't I know it! Flick, my back still aches from my days in the mill!"