and he said “Does that mean after the summer
too, since it’s only April now?” and she said “No, he could be back sometime in the
fall, though thank you for calling, Thomas will appreciate it,” and she hung up before
he could say “Can I please speak to him if he’s not too sick and it’s okay?” He told
his mother he wanted to talk to Thomas to say he hopes he’ll feel better, and she
said “Possibly she didn’t realize that, I think it’d be all right to call again.”
He did, asked Thomas’s mother if he could visit him—“I could do it right now, I’m
just a few houses up the block”—and she said “Oh no, my dear, he’s much too out of
sorts to see anyone now. Maybe in a month or so, probably more like two,” and he said
“Like in June? I hope not July because then I’ll be away in camp for two months,”
and she said “If we’re lucky, the end of June. But don’t you worry about him, he’ll
be better soon enough and will be delighted you called.” Almost every time he passed
Thomas’s building the next few weeks he looked up to the fourth-floor brownstone window
where his bedroom was, hoping to see him and wave. A few times he thought he should
yell up to him “Thomas, it’s me, Gordon, can you come to the window—is there anything
you want—are you okay?” but never did. His mother bought a get-well card for him to
sign and leave above Thomas’s mailbox, the class sent him a card they all signed,
and he called him once more to see how he was—maybe even get him to the phone, since
it seemed to have been long enough—and Thomas’s mother said “He’s feeling a little
better, not well enough to come to the phone though, but I will tell him you called—he’s
loved all the attention he’s received lately from his teachers and friends.” About
two weeks later his mother said she had some very bad news to tell him and he thought
“Did I do something bad I don’t know about? Are they planning to move from the city
and take me away from all my friends? Is one of my uncles or aunts very sick or did
one of them die?” Two of them already had, one on a golf course, the other in a bathroom,
and this is how she started to tell him it. She said “Your friend Thomas died two
days ago in the hospital—that’s where he’s mostly been the last few weeks,” and he
said “Well not two weeks ago, because that’s when I talked to his mother and she said
he was home.” “Maybe she was keeping it from you, knowing how you’d feel. He had a
weak heart, something he was born with, and it simply wouldn’t work for him anymore.”
She was going to the funeral, he said he wanted to, and she said it was during school
hours and, besides, he was much too young to go to a young person’s funeral. “They’re
much sadder than an adult’s, and it might be upsetting for the boy’s parents to see
you there.” He thought it strange she wanted to go; she hardly knew Thomas, didn’t
even seem to like him when he was over at the house, but he went along with how she
explained it: Since he couldn’t go, it was her way of showing his feelings and the
family’s respects. Later that day after the funeral he asked how it was and she said
there was a good turnout, she’d never seen such an array of flowers in the chapel,
the coffin was open, which she didn’t think was right, till the ceremony began. “I’m
glad I stopped you from going. It was the first funeral of a child I’ve been to and
was almost too sad for me to take.” He asked if any kids were there and she said “Cousins,
I heard, your age and younger, which is all right I suppose if they were close, but
nobody from your class.” Just about everytime he walked past Thomas’s building the
next few weeks he looked at his window. The shade was always down and then one day
it was up and the next day there were Venetian blinds on it. Sometimes,
too, since it’s only April now?” and she said “No, he could be back sometime in the
fall, though thank you for calling, Thomas will appreciate it,” and she hung up before
he could say “Can I please speak to him if he’s not too sick and it’s okay?” He told
his mother he wanted to talk to Thomas to say he hopes he’ll feel better, and she
said “Possibly she didn’t realize that, I think it’d be all right to call again.”
He did, asked Thomas’s mother if he could visit him—“I could do it right now, I’m
just a few houses up the block”—and she said “Oh no, my dear, he’s much too out of
sorts to see anyone now. Maybe in a month or so, probably more like two,” and he said
“Like in June? I hope not July because then I’ll be away in camp for two months,”
and she said “If we’re lucky, the end of June. But don’t you worry about him, he’ll
be better soon enough and will be delighted you called.” Almost every time he passed
Thomas’s building the next few weeks he looked up to the fourth-floor brownstone window
where his bedroom was, hoping to see him and wave. A few times he thought he should
yell up to him “Thomas, it’s me, Gordon, can you come to the window—is there anything
you want—are you okay?” but never did. His mother bought a get-well card for him to
sign and leave above Thomas’s mailbox, the class sent him a card they all signed,
and he called him once more to see how he was—maybe even get him to the phone, since
it seemed to have been long enough—and Thomas’s mother said “He’s feeling a little
better, not well enough to come to the phone though, but I will tell him you called—he’s
loved all the attention he’s received lately from his teachers and friends.” About
two weeks later his mother said she had some very bad news to tell him and he thought
“Did I do something bad I don’t know about? Are they planning to move from the city
and take me away from all my friends? Is one of my uncles or aunts very sick or did
one of them die?” Two of them already had, one on a golf course, the other in a bathroom,
and this is how she started to tell him it. She said “Your friend Thomas died two
days ago in the hospital—that’s where he’s mostly been the last few weeks,” and he
said “Well not two weeks ago, because that’s when I talked to his mother and she said
he was home.” “Maybe she was keeping it from you, knowing how you’d feel. He had a
weak heart, something he was born with, and it simply wouldn’t work for him anymore.”
She was going to the funeral, he said he wanted to, and she said it was during school
hours and, besides, he was much too young to go to a young person’s funeral. “They’re
much sadder than an adult’s, and it might be upsetting for the boy’s parents to see
you there.” He thought it strange she wanted to go; she hardly knew Thomas, didn’t
even seem to like him when he was over at the house, but he went along with how she
explained it: Since he couldn’t go, it was her way of showing his feelings and the
family’s respects. Later that day after the funeral he asked how it was and she said
there was a good turnout, she’d never seen such an array of flowers in the chapel,
the coffin was open, which she didn’t think was right, till the ceremony began. “I’m
glad I stopped you from going. It was the first funeral of a child I’ve been to and
was almost too sad for me to take.” He asked if any kids were there and she said “Cousins,
I heard, your age and younger, which is all right I suppose if they were close, but
nobody from your class.” Just about everytime he walked past Thomas’s building the
next few weeks he looked at his window. The shade was always down and then one day
it was up and the next day there were Venetian blinds on it. Sometimes,
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