George

  Sometimes someone would run into the cafeteria and stand in line to buy milk for other members of the class; no one ever bothered to remove his lab apron when he so ran. That clear plastic apron was a badge that was fun to flash occasionally. After all, astronauts telecast pictures.

  Mr. Berkowitz was aware of the lack of time they had for laboratory work in class. He was also aware that a short time well spent was more useful than a long time poorly used. He stressed the importance of being prepared. Come to class knowing what you are going to do. Never lose sight of the purpose of your work; don’t follow directions one step at a time. That is the way accidents happen. He summarized by urging, “Don’t be a cookbook chemist.”

  In keeping with his policy of free enterprise, Mr. Berkowitz told the class that he would not police them. He would not quiz them on whether or not they were prepared. Instead he would watch results. Poor preparation would show up in poor results, sooner or later and more often than not. Laboratory grades, which accounted for one third of the course grade, would depend upon results. Results count in real life.

  Methods of Purification was the lesson for the third week of school. Everyone was to distill impure benzene and make it pure. Karen set up the equipment for distillation; Ben was to take it down. That was the manner in which they divided their work. Karen was very orderly even if she didn’t smile very much and even if she was not nearly as much fun as William had been. George reminded Ben that he had had much more to do when William had been his partner. George was full of those kinds of reminders, and Ben only half listened. Ben wondered if George was jealous of William.

  Ben was anxious to show their product to Mr. Berkowitz; their benzene was clear, just as it should be. And they had a good yield besides. Ben thought that he would like to take the benzene home and add it to his collection. It would be his first important organic chemical. He had collected unwanted products and broken equipment for two years. He kept everything in his room, all shelved and dusted and neatly labelled with Dennison stickers, which he bought in McCrory’s. It gave him a feeling of order, of polish and finish, to have this tidy corner, always neat, in his mother’s tumble-dry house.

  Benjamin carried his flask of clear benzene to Mr. Berkowitz, who took it and held it up to the light of the window and asked, “What have we here? Ah! Nectar from a cactus? Syrup from a log cabin, perhaps? Ah, no, it is indeed …”

  “A morning specimen to be tested for diabetes,” George added. But only Ben heard that. Ben laughed, and Mr. Berkowitz was glad to see that Ben appeared happy in class again.

  “Put your product into the jar labeled RECOVERED BENZENE. It’s on the table in the back of the room. We’ll use it again, all this good, pure benzene as a solvent for our next lab project. As the lady in the curlers would say, ‘Don’t let that benzene go down the drain.’” Then Mr. Berkowitz made notes in his grade book.

  Karen said to Ben, “This is one thing that you won’t be able to take home.” Ben shrugged; he didn’t care that much. Karen always seemed borderline unfriendly. She was cool and shy, and Ben was quiet and shy, and both kept their common symptom, shyness, hidden. Thus, they faced each other as cool and quiet; they never would learn to touch.

  Meanwhile, William and Cheryl had spilled half of their product over the top of the lab table. Small wonder. They had come to class late, set up hurriedly, and at clean-up time, Cheryl had knocked over their flask. While Cheryl quickly tidied up the mess, William checked to see that Mr. Berkowitz did not notice. William acted with the speed and forethought that people usually see only in practiced spies during the third season of a TV series.

  William smiled at Ben as Ben stood by the corner of his lab table examining his benzene before he poured it into the RECOVERED BENZENE jar, which was just in back of where he and Karen worked. “Benjamin, my friend, would you mind if I relieved you of that heavy burden?” William asked. He did not look at Karen at all, and he would not look at her throughout his negotiations.

  Ben smiled at William, “I’m putting this in the recovery jar. We’re not allowed to take it home, Will,” he said. “I’m not taking it home.”

  “And neither will I, Ben,” William said. He pronounced neither like nigh-ther. “I wish it only as a loan for a short length of time.” Then he leaned over and whispered in Ben’s ear, “Cheryl dumped ours by mistake. Can’t you help your old partner out?”

  Ben hesitated. Karen looked the other way. If there had been no witnesses at all, Ben would not have hesitated at all. He would have handed over the flask even before George could yell, “That’s next door to cheating. Don’t do it, Ben. Don’t. Do. It.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Ben,” William urged. “You don’t want me to flunk and get in trouble at home, do you?” William glanced at Mr. Berkowitz and saw that he was involved with Adam and Violet up front, so he urged further. “I can’t have Cheryl’s mistakes pull down my mark.”

  “That’s what partners are about, William. You’re not altogether alone,” Karen told him. “You’re responsible for someone else, too. Like in sickness and in health.”

  William ignored Karen. “Just this once.” He smiled at Ben. “For your old partner. For your buddy of the past couple of years who is in sickness right now.”

  Karen turned away again.

  Ben handed William the flask.

  George asked, “Did you give it to him? Ben? Did you give it to him? All right. You don’t have to answer me. I know. Your silence is deafening me, Benjamin. You can count me out now. I am bowing out of this organic chemistry. All those stupid sissy names: methyl, ethyl. I am going to sleep through all the rest of this organic thing.”

  Thus began the battle of George vs Ben. George bowed out of one part of Benjamin’s life.

  Ben did not do well on the first organic chemistry quiz of the year. George did not begin a sleep-in. He began a talkathon. He chanted. He sang. He recited things that he had learned for Ben beginning with kindergarten.

  “Trochee trips from long to short;

  From long to long in solemn sort

  Slow Spondee stalks …

  by Calvin Coleridge.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Ben corrected, “Calvin Coolidge was a president. It’s something else Coleridge.”

  “What is it?” George asked.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care. I don’t have time now. I’ve got to think.”

  “You never have time for poems anymore. I like poetry. Why don’t you ever think about what I like anymore?”

  “Because I’m busy. Right now I’m very busy.”

  “Slow Spondee stalks; strong foot! Yet…”

  “It doesn’t make any sense what you’re doing to me, George.”

  “Makes as much sense as what you do—aiding and abetting a criminal. — From long to long in solemn sort…. Was it William Makepeace Coleridge?”

  “No! That was someone else, too. Now skip it, George. I have to at least finish reading the questions.”

  “Makes as much sense as reading those stupid questions. All the answers are in books anyway.”

  “Oh, George, of course they’re in books. Go to sleep, George. You said that you were going to sleep through the course. Well, prove it, George. Go to sleep.” George quieted down enough for Ben to pass the test but not with the high mark he wanted and was accustomed to getting.

  Next George sang during the first full-hour exam they had in Organic. He kept humming crazy commercials until Ben thought that he would lose his mind. He pleaded again with George to hush, and he did, finally, leaving Ben enough time to get through the test with nothing greater than a 78. The high mark was 93, and that was earned by Karen.

  three

  Soon it was Thanksgiving vacation, the one school vacation that Ben and Howard were not shipped north to Norfolk to visit their dad. And they loved it for another reason besides: It was the first vacation of the school year. Early in January of each year, Charlotte Carr requested a day off the Friday following Thanksgiving. On M
onday of every week she checked her November calendar to make certain that the date was still circled. That Friday was important to her; she liked to start every week thinking about it. People should have a permanently nice day to think about. Nice from either direction: From looking forward to or looking back on.

  Mrs. Carr baked a twenty-five pound turkey for the three of them; she had plans for the leftovers. She also had dressing, pumpkin pie, candied sweet potatoes, and every other traditional thing, even if they came from the frozen food department, from packages of ready-mix, and from cans.

  George blossomed into his sarcastic best on Thanksgiving Day. “Please tell the Queen of the Maytag that the oven will not roast the turkey unless it happens to be turned on. Tell her that the on button of the oven is spelled just as it is in books. O-N. I swear that if that lady, our mother, had a General Electric oven, it would get broken to corporal.”

  Ben told George to hush and admit that Mother was trying. But he did walk over to the oven to see if it had been turned O-N.

  “Trying? Yeah, trying my patience,” George answered.

  They formally ate at 1:00 p.m. and nibbled informally for the rest of the day. They didn’t clear the table until the evening. Mrs. Carr knew about germs, but she did not believe in them the way that Marilyn, the second Mrs. Carr, did. Marilyn was a home economics major and regularly waged anti-germ warfare. In Marilyn’s house the milk cartons were put away so promptly that they never sweated, and the mayonnaise was treated like some hopelessly insane relative that was never allowed out. Ben was certain that Marilyn Carr would call the riot squad if she ever looked inside Charlotte Carr’s refrigerator. Nothing was covered, and only things that made puddles were laid level.

  On the Friday after Thanksgiving, Ben, Howard, and Charlotte Carr packed all the leftovers into a shopping bag and loaded them and blankets and Charlotte’s chair and books and one old tennis ball into the blue Buick and drove to Lawton Beach for their annual post-Thanksgiving picnic. That picnic was always the last time they went to the beach until after Easter vacation, until after the college crowd was only a memory and a cleanup problem. The post-Thanksgiving vacation was a good tradition; it was plain, and it had grown from a real desire to do it, and it continued for the same reason. Best of all, everyone understood his part and did it and complained only enough to properly call it a family tradition.

  The Carrs’ old Buick pulled into one of the angle slots between a tan Volkswagen and a gray-green Mercury. The Buick looked like a lump of faded blue denim; it was hard to believe that it was made of metal.

  The beach was crowded. There in south Florida where everyone made his living directly or indirectly from the heat of the sun, it was strange to hear how many people congratulated themselves on the weather. Fine day! they said to each other as if they had given birth to it. The sun merely did what the travel folders said that it should be doing all year long in Florida: shining. It took the Carrs at least twenty-five fine days before they found a spot. They staked their claim by spreading their torn, tar-stained Navy blanket that had covered acres and acres of beach for them, one square at a time. Mrs. Carr wedged herself into the half-chair that was her squat throne on her blanket kingdom by the sea. She immediately began to read.

  Howard had a suggestion. “Shall I get the Cokes now, Mom, so that we can eat?”

  “Not yet. Work up an appetite.”

  “It’s worked. I’ve been hungry for about seven minutes already.”

  “We have the whole day ahead of us, Howie. If you eat everything now, you’ll be hungry later, and then you’ll nag me to death.”

  “Well, that’s exactly what I’d say. Which would you rather have me do, nag now or nag later? I’m sure to be hungry both times.”

  Mrs. Carr did not answer. Sound doesn’t travel through a vacuum. She would not answer, and she would shut him out. She bowed her head toward her book.

  It didn’t work.

  “I peeled the carrots, so can I have one of them?”

  “Swim first. You’ll get cramps if you eat before swimming.”

  “I never believed all that stuff about cramps. I don’t even believe Ben when he gives me scientific reasons about cramps.”

  Mrs. Carr tried a new approach. “You can eat when I begin Chapter Five. Interruptions will slow me down. I will get to Chapter Five faster if you don’t interrupt me at all.”

  “O.K.” Quiet for a minute. Howard cleared his throat. No answer. Again. No answer. Then, “By the way, what chapter are you on now?”

  Mrs. Carr held up two fingers.

  “You must mean two and a half. That’s not the beginning page of a chapter. The beginning page always has more margins.”

  Mrs. Carr said, “I am not paying any attention to you, Howard.”

  Howard resumed, “How many pages in each chapter?”

  “I didn’t even hear you ask me how many pages in each chapter.”

  Howard again. “Mother, there is a man with a moustache watching you.”

  “I am not going to look up from this book until I have reached Chapter Five.”

  Ben nudged Howard and whispered, “That is Mr. Berkowitz.”

  Howard said, “The man with the moustache is Mr. Berkowitz, Mom. Mr. Berkowitz looks like he needs something non-fattening to eat. Turkey, maybe. Turkey isn’t fattening. Mr. Berkowitz looks hungry, Mom.”

  “If Mr. Berkowitz is hungry, that is Mrs. Berkowitz’s problem.”

  Mr. Berkowitz, who was now standing over Mrs. Carr, answered, “The only Mrs. Berkowitz who would care is my mother, and she is living in New Jersey.”

  Benjamin wanted to dig himself right into the sand. There was his teacher, maker of scientists, standing there without a shirt on. There he was with all of his chest showing and showing all the hair on that chest. Pale. Pale all over except for that hair making him look more naked. It was embarrassing. And there was his mother sitting in that almost-chair, and there was his teacher looking right into the top of his mother’s bathing suit. Really, thought Ben, the way she keeps growing out at the top of that suit, she ought to go on a diet. And Mr. Berkowitz with her. Mr. Berkowitz sat down right on the blanket next to Mrs. Carr and did not look at all embarrassed about how he or Mrs. Carr looked in their bathing suits or about where his eyes should go.

  “For openers,” Mr. Berkowitz said, “how does it feel to be the mother of such a brilliant student?”

  “Getting an 82 in organic chemistry and an 86 in English on his first report doesn’t make him brilliant.”

  “I would be frightened for him if he made high marks in everything all of the time,” Mr. Berkowitz said. Then he smiled at Ben, and then he smiled at the top of Mrs. Carr’s bathing suit.

  Mrs. Carr looked at what he was looking at, hitched up her suit, and asked, “Would you care for something to eat, Mr. Berkowitz?”

  “Sounds fine,” he answered. “Just a minute; I’ll be back with my things. I’m stationed a little way from here.”

  Mrs. Carr noticed Howard. “Close your mouth, Howard. Howard will give you a hand, Mr. Berkowitz. This is Howard.”

  Howard gave his mother a slit-eye look but went trotting after Mr. Berkowitz, mouth closed. Howard did know his limits.

  Mr. Berkowitz returned, gave Ben money to run across the road for Cokes for everyone, and began to eat. Mr. Berkowitz was eating white meat, and Howard watched Mr. Berkowitz eating it. He chewed and looked over at Howard and then looked away. Howard didn’t stop looking. Mrs. Carr offered her son potato chips. Then a drumstick. And then (even) a Baby Ruth bar, but Howard nodded no and continued to stare.

  Finally, Mr. Berkowitz asked, “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  “Because I don’t want to miss it.”

  “Miss what?”

  “Seeing what is proper.”

  “Staring isn’t!” Mr. Berkowitz said.

  “I am not staring at you. I am staring at what you are doing. Or are going to do. I have to see whether you wipe your moustache wit
h your handkerchief or with your napkin.”

  “I just may shampoo it and rinse it in the Atlantic.”

  “Really?” Howard asked. “You know, I expect to grow one as soon as I get together enough hair. I started adding Vaseline to my upper lip every night. Someone told me that Vaseline makes hair grow. Raymond told me.”

  Mrs. Carr said, “So that’s the trouble. I’m telling you, Howard, if it grows hair anywhere, it will be on the pillowcases. It sure won’t wash out.”

  “Dumb Raymond,” said Howard.

  “I’ll give you something for that,” Mr. Berkowitz said. “I’ll send some acetone home with Ben. Acetone should take it right out.”

  “Acetone?” Mrs. Carr repeated. “I’ll have to remember that name and see if Ben has some in his collection.”

  “What collection?” Mr. Berkowitz asked.

  “All those chemicals and stuff that he’s always bringing home. All those unused portions and their cracked containers.”

  “Oh?” Mr. Berkowitz looked puzzled.

  “But I doubt if he has acetone. I seriously doubt it,” Mrs. Carr added quickly.

  “I doubt it, too,” said Mr. Berkowitz. “I’ll see to it that you get some.”

  “That would be very kind of you,” Mrs. Carr said.

  George noticed how easily Mr. Berkowitz joked with Howard. Answering back about shampooing his moustache.

  Ben asked Mr. Berkowitz about the seniors’ research projects—partly because he wanted to know and partly because by asking he could get a glimpse at the part of Mr. Berkowitz that the seniors were finding out about and that Howard had already talked back to. The border of him that lived slightly outside of the classroom, the edge close to friendship. Ben wanted to move in on that part of Mr. Berkowitz, because William already had.