“Have a nice time,” Artie said politely. “Hello, Miss Tyler.”
“Hello, Arthur,” Lillian said. Mrs. Ransom-Jones waved from the doorway and went out, closing the door very gently. Lillian sat back and smiled at Artie. “She does worry so,” she said.
Artie sat down gingerly. He had been in the Ransom-Jones house before, but never in a position of responsibility. He felt proprietary about the tapestry chairs standing carefully against the walls, about the oriental rug, the thick scarf on the piano. He knew Miss Tyler as a person of authority, a grown-up in his children’s world, someone his mother knew, and now he was in charge of her; he sat back more comfortably and smiled at Miss Tyler on the couch. “Can I get you anything?” he asked.
“No, indeed.” Miss Tyler smiled back at him, tenderly, as though drawn away from an enchanting reverie. “They do have such good times together,” she said.
Artie smiled again, blankly.
“Brad and that woman,” Miss Tyler said. “My sister.”
“Have you lived here long?” Artie asked idiotically. He had understood that Miss Tyler would be in bed, an invalid, and he was to read quietly until Mr. and Mrs. Ransom-Jones came home, alert only for an emergency that would require the medicine, the doctor, the various phone numbers. But Miss Tyler sat on the couch across from him, looking fragile in a lavender negligee, and he was, atrociously, condemned to polite conversation until Miss Tyler should remember her duty and go obediently to bed.
“He brought her here when he married her,” Miss Tyler said. She looked up at the ceiling, around the walls. “They’ve always lived here. You can tell by the flowers.” Artie stared, and she said tolerantly, “Flowers grow best when they have always been tended by the same hand. My sister and I planted this whole garden. It was a wilderness.” She nodded her head vehemently. “It was a real wilderness at first.”
“You’ve certainly made it look good,” Artie congratulated himself; the remark had made sense, it belonged in the conversation, it was complimentary.
“When I was your age,” Miss Tyler said, and laughed lightly. “It must have been twenty years ago,” she said, “I used to tend an acre of roses all by myself. Lady Hamiltons.” She looked at him vaguely. “You wouldn’t remember that far back,” she said.
“I’m afraid not.” Artie was troubled with thoughts of his responsibility; she ought to be going to bed soon, that was certain; he had a grave burden on him. (“Shall I help you to bed, Miss Tyler?” “Don’t let me keep you up, Miss Tyler,” “You ought to rest now, Miss Tyler.”) “Miss Tyler,” he began, but his voice was weak and he stopped.
“Such a pretty wedding,” Miss Tyler was saying. “She carried armfuls of my roses. My roses.”
“You have beautiful roses here,” Artie said. It was the same kind of remark as before, the kind he was proud of.
“I never married,” Miss Tyler said. “Young men like you—how old are you, dear? Eighteen? Twenty?”
Artie cleared his throat. “Miss Tyler,” he said. (“Shall I help you to bed, Miss Tyler?”)
“Young men like you passed me by,” Miss Tyler said. “Brad was the only one.”
“That’s too bad,” Artie said. That was the kind of remark he was not proud of.
“Well,” Miss Tyler said soberly, “it’s time I retired. You don’t mind?”
“Of course not,” Artie said. “Can I get you anything?”
“Thank you, no,” Miss Tyler said. “You won’t be bored?”
“No, no,” Artie said. “I have to read this book.”
He stood up when she did, standing back respectfully to let her pass him. “Will you help me?” she asked suddenly, and swayed a little so that he was frightened when he ran forward and took her arm. “Over there,” she said. “I have my room downstairs now. There’s a bathroom and everything.” He helped her into the hall and she stopped at her doorway. “My sister is so kind,” she said, leaning her head against the closed door. Then she took her arm away from him gently and said, “Thank you very much, Arthur.”
“Can you manage all right now?” Artie said. He felt a very real sympathy, not quite realizing that it was because he could walk perfectly well, could run if he wanted to, could go upstairs fifty times a day. “Please let me help you.”
“I’m perfectly all right now,” Miss Tyler said.
Artie realized with hideous embarrassment that she was waiting for him to go before she opened the door to her bedroom. He backed away, gasping, “Good night, then,” and Miss Tyler waved one finger rougishly at him. “You gay young men,” she said.
Artie, sitting tentatively on the edge of one of the tapestry chairs in the living-room, listening for the sound of a fall or a scream, heard her say tenderly, “Always some rash young fool, my darling dear,” and then she was quiet.
He read his book, finally, accustomed to the silence, never leaving the living-room except for one tiptoed journey down the hall to see if he could hear her breathing. After an eternal minute outside her door he came back to his chair and read peacefully until Mr. and Mrs. Ransom-Jones came home shortly after one.
“Everything’s been fine,” he said.
“I knew she’d be all right,” Mrs. Ransom-Jones said, “that’s why I didn’t bother to call.” She gave him a quarter.
• • •
“When I grow up,” George Martin said to his grandfather, “I’m going to drive a truck. A ten-ton truck.”
“First you grow up,” his grandfather said. He nodded sagely. “First you grow up,” he said. “Once,” he went on slowly, “I thought I would be a doctor, myself. Now I am a gardener.” He nodded again, as though a point had been proved. He was sitting on a broken box in the Martins’ back yard, wild growing things in profusion around him and the morning sunlight heavy on his old head. It was his custom to sit here Sunday mornings when the weather was good, and regard phlegmatically the garden which belonged to him and which he never had time to cultivate; except for George’s abortive efforts and an occasional fussing over by the children’s grandmother, the back yard was allowed to run a wilderness. In one corner, near the Merriams’ fence, was an aged plum tree which no longer bore plums; next to it was the rabbit-house built by George, where one sickly rabbit had perished miserably the summer before. There were two more plum trees and an apple, the plum trees all barren and the apple given to wry unpalatable fruit. The rest of the yard was wild grass, weeds, and junk, and a climbing rose tree which grew up the back of the house and caught at the grandfather’s shoulders when he sat on his broken box.
George was building something again; it was to be either a skate coaster or a wagon. He had nailed an orange crate on to a board and was busy trying to fit two halves of an old skate onto it for wheels.
“If I had a truck, you know what I’d do?” George continued in an even singsong that corresponded rhythmically with his work; when he became most careful, in some delicate operation, his words slid out and became long and breathless; when he worked steadily along, hammering or measuring, he spoke evenly and smoothly. Occasionally he looked up at his grandfather, to prove some important statement, and then the sunlight touched his eyes and mouth, and gave him an expression of intelligence usually lacking in his vacant face.
“You know what I’d do?” he insisted, turning to look at his grandfather. “I’d run it right into old Missus Merriam’s house and I’d run right over her. Run over Missus Merriam, run over Missus Merriam, and I’d run over Misssssssssster Meeeeeeeeerriam.” This became very long because George was trying to straighten a skate wheel. Then his voice quickened again. “And I’d run over old Harriet and I’d run over old Missus Merriam. If I had a truck that’s what I’d do.”
The sun made the old grandfather sleepy, and he half-closed his eyes. He found it difficult to understand much of what his grandchildren said; they spoke so quickly, and with such strange words, and the to
ngue itself was still alien to an old man. When George looked up at him, the grandfather smiled and nodded, exactly as he had smiled and nodded at the immigration officials forty years before. “You grow up,” he said sleepily.
“When I grow up,” George went on, “I’m going to have a tractor.”
“Tractor?” the grandfather said.
“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 con
clave, 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.