peanutbutter and bestfriend. Sometimes they pelted him with pebbles, the tiny weapons as casually cruel as the small insults that we inflicted on each other at play.
It frightened me that his inaudibly moving mouth and his vacant eyes made me think of my grandfather.
He became part of my mind's landscape of school, as omnipresent as asphalt, as reliable as chalk. Like snapshots glued to pages of an album, my images of school were objects and people: Ticonderoga pencils in an orderly yellow row; a daub of mint-scented paste on a square of construction paper; Miss MacDonald in a flowered dress, bending to whisper; furry erasers thick
with chalk dust; Dick and Jane and Baby Sally skipping through the pages of a book; Ferdie Gossett, reptilian sentinel of the playground; and Louise Donohue, bold and mischievous, who moved into the spot that Charles had occupied alone, and became my other best friend.
"Charles," I said to him tentatively one weekend when he came to visit Tatie, "I can't play with you
all
day, only part. Because I have to visit my friend Louise."
"I don't care," said Charles. But his eyes were hurt.
"You probably have new friends at your school," I said warily, not certain whether I wanted him to or not.
"Yeah. Clarence E. Cartwright. He's my friend at school."
"And if I came to visit you at your house, probably you would have to go play with Clarence E. Cartwright some of the time."
"You never come visit me at my house," Charles pointed out, as if the idea startled him.
"Well. If I did. If I was allowed to."
"Yeah. Probly I wouldn't even play with you at
all,
if you did."
"I wouldn't care," I lied.
"Me neither. Clarence E. Cartwright and me, we don't like girls any."
"Oh. I like
you
still, Charles."
We looked at each other anxiously. Finally he reached into his pocket. "I brung you something," he said. "Jest my ole printing paper."
I looked at his neat printing, the rows of uppercase
As
and
Bs,
and at the star pasted on the top of the perfect paper. His penciled letters were as carefully formed as my own. It seemed a link between our different schools, our different lives.
"Thank you," was all that I could think of to say.
***
Louise's house was very different from Grandfather's. Instead of the austere silence punctuated by the hollow striking of the hall clock, there was noise at the Donohues' house: radios played in adjacent rooms, tuned to different stations, combinations of gospel music, syncopated Rinso White! Rinso Bright! commercials, and the portentous conversations of Helen Trent and her many lovers.
Instead of the gleaming, well-polished antiques, each placed in the spot, at the angle, at which it would stand forever, there was clutter at Louise's house, and the surprise of things moved, rearranged, discarded, or changed.
One week there was a canary in a cage in the Donohues' kitchen; he hopped and twittered and sang and spewed seed on the stained linoleum floor. He had several names. Louise called him Goldie. Her mother
had named him Rudy Vallee, after a singer, and she called him Rudy for short. Cousins who came and went referred to the canary as Yellowbird and Tweety; the same cousins called Louise things like Weezie, and Lulubelle, and Babydoll.
One afternoon the door to the canary's cage was left open by mistake, and the little bird emerged, looked around, flew across the kitchen, sang briefly by an open window, and disappeared. The Donohues waited a day or two, hoping he might return, decided cheerfully that he would not, filled the cage with artificial flowers, and hung it in another room.
The casual, amiable impermanence of everything delighted me.
There were babies at Louise's, but they were not like my own baby brother, who slept according to a schedule and was brought out for display only occasionally, always in clean clothes and with his sparse blond hair brushed into a temporary curl. Louise's baby brothers were one and two years old; they sat most of the time
It frightened me that his inaudibly moving mouth and his vacant eyes made me think of my grandfather.
He became part of my mind's landscape of school, as omnipresent as asphalt, as reliable as chalk. Like snapshots glued to pages of an album, my images of school were objects and people: Ticonderoga pencils in an orderly yellow row; a daub of mint-scented paste on a square of construction paper; Miss MacDonald in a flowered dress, bending to whisper; furry erasers thick
with chalk dust; Dick and Jane and Baby Sally skipping through the pages of a book; Ferdie Gossett, reptilian sentinel of the playground; and Louise Donohue, bold and mischievous, who moved into the spot that Charles had occupied alone, and became my other best friend.
"Charles," I said to him tentatively one weekend when he came to visit Tatie, "I can't play with you
all
day, only part. Because I have to visit my friend Louise."
"I don't care," said Charles. But his eyes were hurt.
"You probably have new friends at your school," I said warily, not certain whether I wanted him to or not.
"Yeah. Clarence E. Cartwright. He's my friend at school."
"And if I came to visit you at your house, probably you would have to go play with Clarence E. Cartwright some of the time."
"You never come visit me at my house," Charles pointed out, as if the idea startled him.
"Well. If I did. If I was allowed to."
"Yeah. Probly I wouldn't even play with you at
all,
if you did."
"I wouldn't care," I lied.
"Me neither. Clarence E. Cartwright and me, we don't like girls any."
"Oh. I like
you
still, Charles."
We looked at each other anxiously. Finally he reached into his pocket. "I brung you something," he said. "Jest my ole printing paper."
I looked at his neat printing, the rows of uppercase
As
and
Bs,
and at the star pasted on the top of the perfect paper. His penciled letters were as carefully formed as my own. It seemed a link between our different schools, our different lives.
"Thank you," was all that I could think of to say.
***
Louise's house was very different from Grandfather's. Instead of the austere silence punctuated by the hollow striking of the hall clock, there was noise at the Donohues' house: radios played in adjacent rooms, tuned to different stations, combinations of gospel music, syncopated Rinso White! Rinso Bright! commercials, and the portentous conversations of Helen Trent and her many lovers.
Instead of the gleaming, well-polished antiques, each placed in the spot, at the angle, at which it would stand forever, there was clutter at Louise's house, and the surprise of things moved, rearranged, discarded, or changed.
One week there was a canary in a cage in the Donohues' kitchen; he hopped and twittered and sang and spewed seed on the stained linoleum floor. He had several names. Louise called him Goldie. Her mother
had named him Rudy Vallee, after a singer, and she called him Rudy for short. Cousins who came and went referred to the canary as Yellowbird and Tweety; the same cousins called Louise things like Weezie, and Lulubelle, and Babydoll.
One afternoon the door to the canary's cage was left open by mistake, and the little bird emerged, looked around, flew across the kitchen, sang briefly by an open window, and disappeared. The Donohues waited a day or two, hoping he might return, decided cheerfully that he would not, filled the cage with artificial flowers, and hung it in another room.
The casual, amiable impermanence of everything delighted me.
There were babies at Louise's, but they were not like my own baby brother, who slept according to a schedule and was brought out for display only occasionally, always in clean clothes and with his sparse blond hair brushed into a temporary curl. Louise's baby brothers were one and two years old; they sat most of the time
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