The Road Through the Wall (8 page)

“I'll run into the whole world and kill them,” George said. “And Missus Merriam.” He began to sing, monotonously, “Old man Kelly had a pimple on his belly and it tasted like jelly.”

His grandfather stirred in the sun, and the leaves of the climbing rose rustled gently.

“Old man Kelly,” George said. “How'd you like to run a streetcar, Gramp?”

His grandfather opened his eyes and smiled.

“Boy,” George said. “Clang, brrrrrrrrrr, clang, clang.” He left his work and moved about the yard, pulling imaginary levers, steering a desperately maneuvering machine, ringing the bell. “Clang, clang,” he shouted. “Clang.”

With a faint surprise, the old grandfather watched. A leaf of the rose tree touched his cheek, and he reached up and pulled the leaf around to look at it. Scrutinizing it carefully, he called, “George, come, boy, to me.”

George stopped careening around the trees and came over to his grandfather. “What you want, Gramp?” he said. He kicked at his skate coaster to come over and stand next to his grandfather.

“See?” the grandfather said, holding the leaf close to George's face. “See?” He pointed to a tiny spot on the leaf. “Not good,” he said.

•   •   •

Harriet Merriam and Virginia Donald walked down Cortez Road arm in arm. They were going to the nearest store, three blocks away, where they would each buy a popsicle and then walk home again. They were passing the big apartment house on the corner of the highway and Cortez when a man, hurrying into the building, ran into Virginia and knocked her nickel out of her hand. “Darn it!” Virginia said loudly, and the man, who had said, “Pardon me,” and hurried on, turned and came back to them. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“I lost my nickel,” Virginia said. She was looking around on the sidewalk and did not see that the man was Chinese, but Harriet saw him and pulled Virginia's arm. “You can have
my
nickel,” Harriet said. “Come on, Virginia.”

“It was my fault,” the man said. “Let me make it good.” He took a handful of change out of his pocket, and Virginia said, “No, no, please,” before she looked up and saw him. Then she said, “Of course not,” very coldly, and took Harriet's arm again.

The man smiled at them sadly. “I insist on giving you the nickel,” he said. He had selected a nickel from the change in his hand and now he put the rest of the money back in his pocket and held the nickel out to Virginia. “It was my fault, after all,” he said.

Virginia hesitated. “You can have my nickel,” Harriet said again.

“Such a charming young lady,” the man said. “And I have troubled you.” He held out the nickel, more urgently. “You would be very unkind to refuse,” he said.

“Thank you,” Virginia said. She took the nickel, and the man bowed and said, “Thank
you
. Now I feel less clumsy.”

Harriet thought that he had forgotten how much of a hurry he was in before; he stood there as though anxious to talk to them, his head on one side and his smile courteous and expectant. He was excellently dressed, as well dressed as Mr. Desmond, and there had been a lot of money in the change he took out of his pocket. Virginia said, feeling the expectancy in his face, “Do you live here?” She waved at the apartment house.

He turned and looked at the house curiously. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do.”

“I've never been inside,” Virginia said. “Is it nice?”

“Very bad taste,” he said. “No modesty.”

“I remember when they built it,” Virginia said. “Do you, Harriet?”

Harriet shook her head, continuing her steady faint pull on Virginia's arm.

“That was when we were kids,” Virginia said. “We used to play here when they were building it.”

The man listened intently, and nodded when she was through talking. “I have lived here for two years now,” he said. “Perhaps some day you will visit me and see the inside of the house.”

Harriet made her pressure on Virginia's arm more violent, but Virginia said, “Thank you. Some day I'd like to.”

“Perhaps you would like to come to tea some day,” he said. “With your charming friend, of course.”

Virginia pulled back as violently against Harriet, and said, “Thank you. We
would
like to.”

The man thought for a minute, and Harriet said, “Virginia, we've got to
go.
”

Then the man said, “Perhaps a week from today?” He looked at them, and his smile faded. “No?” he said as politely. “Another time, then.”

“We'd
love
to,” Virginia said hastily. “I was just trying to think if we were busy that day.”

He smiled again. “Next Tuesday, then,” he said. “About four. I'll meet you right outside here, so that you won't be uncomfortable, coming in by yourselves.”

“Thank you,” Virginia said. She yielded slightly to Harriet's tugging, moving slowly along the sidewalk after Harriet while she talked. “It's very nice of you,” she said. “We'll be here.”

“Thank
you
,” the man said. He bowed to them and then went into the house, in a hurry again.

“Virginia,” Harriet said, “you must be
crazy
. Stopping to talk like that.”

“What could he do to us?” Virginia said. “He gave me a nickel.”

“Suppose someone saw us?” Harriet said. “Suppose my mother had come by?”

“What of it?” Virginia said. “We were looking for my nickel, is all.”

“You're not going to go next week?” Harriet said, frightened by something in Virginia she did not understand.

“I may,” Virginia said, turning down the corners of her mouth tantalizingly. “
Helen
would go.”

“I won't,” Harriet said.

“Anyway,” Virginia went on, “I found mine. Look.” She held out her hand with two nickels in it. “We can get gum,” she said.

“You shouldn't have,” Harriet said uncertainly.

“What of it?” Virginia said again. “It doesn't hurt to take money from a Chinaman.”

•   •   •

“I'll bet this old thing used to be deep enough for swimming,” Pat said.

“That would be something, swimming right next to home,” Art said, “right around the corner almost.”

They were lying in the deep grass in the old creek bed. Above them on either side were the steep banks, grown over with moss and grass and high above the eucalyptus and fir trees heavy and ending far up in the sky. The old creek was the border of the golf course which spread over a vast area near Pepper Street; the golf course belonged to the better neighbors beyond the gates, but because golf courses are large and the better neighbors only played on this one and never tried to live there, the fairways were allowed to meander democratically past the strict border line of the gates and touch, formally, the neighbors on the other side, even to the extent of permitting young boys like Pat and Art on its fringes. They could have caddied on the course if their fathers had not opposed their working, but they would have had to go around through the gates and up the long road where no home was permitted to be visible, around in a great circle to the clubhouse, barely distinguishable from the edge of the creek. Starting from the clubhouse and following dutifully along with bags of clubs, they might have approached the creek from the better, or well-tended, side, might have reached the place where they were lying now, in search of erring golf balls. (It is a known fact that George Martin once retrieved a golf ball from the creek bed, and kept it to play with, although the act was eventually, in neighborhood conclave, accepted as stealing.) The golf course was in no sense a forbidden heaven to the Pepper Street children; James Donald had been, correctly dressed, to the clubhouse for dinner, and Mr. Desmond played on the golf course regularly of a Sunday; as a member, he had even taken Mr. Roberts occasionally.

What the golf course represented, actually, was a reminder that within the sphere which the people who lived on Pepper Street allowed themselves, there was a maximum and a minimum attainment; Mr. Desmond, for instance, belonged to this club and another in the city, and a further club in which he played squash, but before long Mr. Desmond intended to promote himself beyond the gates; John Junior and Caroline would grow up in a house not visible from the street; they might even have a tennis court and be called rich. Mr. Byrne, on the other hand, preferred bowling and performed every Saturday night with as select a group of men as those with whom Mr. Desmond played golf, although Mr. Byrne's friends lived without the gates and never planned to live within. To Mr. Byrne and his friends, Pepper Street was the ultimate goal and they reached it with as much satisfaction as Mr. Desmond would reach his home inside the gates and, eventually, his estate outside town. At present Mr. Byrne and Mr. Desmond met as equals and respectful acquaintances; eventually they would be as far apart as they had been when they started, although probably equally wealthy. Pat Byrne and Johnny Desmond would almost certainly meet at some expensive university, but all they would have in common would be the old times on Pepper Street and recollections of the creek, not the golf course.

Except that there was the faint chance of being brained by an overzealous golf ball, the creek was very nearly ideal for a neighborhood hideout. Mildred Williams had never been there, nor had Caroline Desmond, nor Marilyn Perlman, but they were the only ones. The creek was filled with big stones for making walls, with heavy grass for sod fights; it was called the creek only by courtesy, for it was a long time since water had flowed there. Sometime in the far distant past a tree had fallen across the widest part of the ravine, from the vacant lot on the one side to the golf course on the other, making a dangerous bridge. James Donald was the only person—it did much to establish his neighborhood reputation—ever to ride across this log on a bicycle; Pat and Art, and Helen Williams, who would do anything a boy could do, could walk across it upright; Johnny Desmond had run across it once and fallen into the grass below, breaking his arm; Tod Donald and such younger children as Jamie Roberts were able to inch across it on their stomachs. Mrs. Merriam did not know of its existence, Mr. Roberts approved of it enthusiastically, and Mr. Desmond, although the children were unaware of the fact, had once walked across it dead drunk in the middle of the night, starting from the golf-course side.

Pat lay in the grass on his back with one arm over his eyes, and Art sat up, his arms around his knees. They spoke only occasionally, without much regard to communication, in a sort of pleasant comfort that came partly from their great familiarity with one another, and mostly from the feeling of ground and grass under them and trees and sky overhead, with no houses to be seen. Pat twisted a blade of grass in his fingers, feeling it more tangible than food, than books; he saw the sky overhead as arched personally for him, and concerned in his immediate welfare; Art, on the other hand, liked the way the grass smelled, and the way the creek sides crowded closely against him, hiding him.

“My father,” Art said finally, “might be over playing golf now.”

“He isn't,” Pat said, his voice muffled through his arm. “He's in the city working; today's Tuesday.”

“If he wanted to he could play golf today,” Art said.

“Mine couldn't.” Pat rolled over on his stomach and began pulling small handfuls of grass and scattering them. “Mine couldn't do a darn thing except work and criticize other people.”

“I'd rather have your father than mine,” Art said. He put his chin down on his knees and regarded the trees sideways. “Bet those trees are fifty feet high,” he went on.

“I'd rather have
your
father than
mine
,” Pat said. “Yours just doesn't pay any attention to people.”

“You
think
he doesn't,” Art said. “He's
always
sounding off about something.”

“Mine,” Pat said carefully, “he just can't leave a person alone. He's always spying and prying and criticizing and pestering other people.”

Art giggled. “My father's a windbag,” he said.

Pat giggled. “My father's a pest,” he said.

“My father's a bully,” Art said.

“
My
father's a bully,” Pat said.

“My father's a dope,” Art said.

“
My
father's a dope,” Pat said.

“My father's a big fat slob,” Art said.

“My father's a
little
fat slob,” Pat said. They both laughed again.

“My father's an old pig,” Art said.

“
My
father's an old pig,” Pat said.

“My father's a stinker,” Art said.

“
My
father's a . . .” Pat hesitated. Then: “My father's a bastard,” he said.

There was a pause, and then Art said, “
My
father's a bastard.”

They were both quiet for a while, Pat with his face in the grass and Art looking at the trees. It was getting darker; over on the golf course the fairways were emptying, and men were changing their clothes in the locker-room, having a drink, talking cheerfully. The sky over the creek was changing from bright blue to pale green, and the trees were deepening. The wind, which seldom came far down into the creek bed, touched the grass along the sides lightly, and turned in the trees. Finally Pat raised his head. “Almost dinner time?” he asked.

“We better be going,” Art said. They both got up and brushed the grass and dead leaves from their clothes; then, Art leading and Pat following, they climbed skillfully up the side of the creek and started across the vacant lot toward home.

•   •   •

“I understand the Williams girl is moving away,” Mrs. Merriam said to Harriet at the dinner table.

Harriet looked up, surprised. “I didn't know that,” she said. “Helen was always talking about it, though.”