C H A P T E R 3
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I taught myself how to read and write again during those last two weeks of summer with my new mother, Ruth Day. She was determio keep me inside or within earshot or in her line of vision, and I happily obliged her. Reading, of course, is merely associating symbols with sounds, memorizing the binations, rules and effects, and, most important, the spaces between words. Writing proved more difficult, primarily because one had to have something to say before fronting the blank page. The actual drawing of the alphabet turned out to be a tiresome chore. Most afternoons, I practiced with chalk and an eraser on a slate, filling it o<mark></mark>ver and over with my new name. My mrew ed about my pulsive behavior, so I finally quit, but not before printing, as ly as possible, "I love my mother." She was tickled to find that later, and the gesture earned me aire peach pie, not a slice for the others, not even my father.The y of going to sed grade quickly eroded to a dull ache. The schoolwork came easily to me, although I entered somewhat behind my class-mates in uanding that other method of symbolic logic: arithmetic. I still tussle with my numbers, not so much the basic operations—addition, subtraultiplication—as the more abstract figurations. Elementary sd history revealed a way of thinking about the world that differed from my experience among the gelings. For example, I had no idea that Gee Washington is, metaphorically speaking, the father of our try, nor did I realize that a food is the arra anisms of an ecological unity acc to the order of predation in which each uses the , usu-ally lower, members as a food source. Such explanations of the natural order felt most unnatural at first. Matters in the forest were far more existential. Liv-ing depended on sharpening instincts, not memorizing facts. Ever sihe last wolves had been killed or driven off by bounty hunters, no enemy but man remained. If we stayed hidden, we would tio endure.
Our struggle was to find the right child with whom to trade places. It couldnt be a random sele. A geling must decide on a child the same age as he was when he had been kidnapped. I was sevehey took me, and seven when I left, though I had been in the woods for nearly a tury. The ordeal of that world is not only survival in the wild, but the long, unbear-able wait to e bato this world.
When I first returhat learned patience became a virtue. My sates watched time crawl every afternoon, waiting ay for the three oclock bell. We sed graders sat in the same stultifying room from September to mid-June, and barring weekends and the glorious freedom of holidays, we were expected to arrive by eight oclod behave ourselves for the seven hours. If the weather cooperated, we were let out into the playground twice a day for a short recess and at lunchtime. Irospect, the actual moments spent together pale to our time apart, but some things are best measured by quality rather than quantity. My classmates made each day a torture. I ex-pected civilization, but they were worse than the gelings. The boys in their grubby navy bow ties and blue uniforms were indistinguishably horrid—nose-pickers, thumbsuckers, snorers, neer-do-wells, farters, burpers, the unwashed and un. A bully by the name of Hayes liked to torture the rest, stealing lunches, pushing in line, pissing on shoes, fighting on the play-ground. Oher joined his sycophants, egging him on, or would be slated as a potential prey. A few of the boys became perpetually oppressed. They reacted badly, either by withdrawing deep ihemselves or, worse, g and screaming at every slight provocation. At an early age, they were marked for life, ending up, doubtlessly, as clerks or store managers, systems analysts or sultants. They came back from recess bearing the signs of their abuse— black eyes and bloody he red welt of tears—but I ed to e to their rescue, although perhaps I should have. If I had ever used my real strength, I could easily have dispatched the bullies with a single, well-placed blow.
The girls, in their own way, suffered worse indighey, too, dis-played many of the same disappointing personal habits and lack of general hygiehey laughed too loudly or not at all. They peted viciously among themselves and with their opposites, or they faded into the woodwork like mice. The worst of them, by the name of Hines, routiore apart the shyest girls with her taunts and shunning. She would humiliate her victims without mercy if, for instahey wet their pants in class, as happened right before recess on the first day to the unprepared Tess Wodehouse. She flushed as if on fire, and for the very first time, I felt something close to sympathy for anothers misfortuhe poor thing was teased about the episode until Val-entines Day. In their plaid jumpers and white blouses, the girls relied upon words rather than their bodies to win their battles. In that sehey paled o the female hobgoblins, who were both as ing as crows and as fierce as bobcats.
These human children were altogether inferior. Sometimes at night, I wished I could be back prowling the forest, spooking sleeping birds from their roosts, stealing clothes from clotheslines, and making merry, rather than en-during page after page of homework and fretting about my peers. But for all its faults, the real world shone, and I set my mind tetting the past and being a real boy again. Intolerable as school was, my home life more than pensated. Mom would be waiting for me every afternoon, pretending to be dusting or cooking when I strode triumphantly through the front door.
"Theres my boy," she would say, and whisk me to the kit for a snack of jam and bread and a cup of Ovaltine. "How was your day today, Henry?"
I would make up one or two pleasant lies for her be.
"Did you learn anything new?"
I would recite all that had been rehearsed on the way home. She seemed inordinately curious and pleased, but would leave me at last to the dreadful homework, which I usually mao finish right before suppertime. In the few moments before my father came home from work, she would fix our meal, my pany at tableside. In the background, the radio played her favorite ballads, and I learhem all upon first hearing and could sing along when the records were invariably repeated. By act norance, I mimicked the balladeers voices perfectly and could sing tone for tone, measure for measure, phrase for phrase, exactly like Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra, Rosemary ey or Jo Stafford. Mom took my musical ability as a natural extension of my general wonderfulness, charm, and native intellect. She loved to hear me, often switg off the radio to beg me to sing it one more time.
"Be a dear boy and give us Theres a Train Out for Dreamland again."
When my father first heard my act, he didnt respond as kindly. "Where did you pick that up? One day you t carry a tune, now you sing like a lark."
"I dunno. Maybe I wasnt listening before."
"Youre kidding me? She has that racket on day and night with your Nat Cole King and all that jazz, and you take me dan sometime? As if a mother of twins .. .What do you mean, you werent listening?"
"trating, I mean."
"You should be trating on your homework and helping your mother with the chores."
"If you pay attention and listen instead of merely hearing the song, you pick up the tune in no time."
He shook his head and lit another Camel. "Mind your elders, if you please, Caruso."
I took care not to be such a perfect mimic around my dad.
Mary and Elizabeth, oher hand, were too young to know aer, and they accepted without question my budding talent for imperson-ation. Ihey begged for songs all the time, especially in their cribs, where Id trot out all the y tunes like "Mairzy Doats" or "Three Little Fishies." Without fail, however, th<cite>99lｉｂ?</cite>ey fell asleep as if knocked unscious every time I sang "Over the Rainbow." I did a mean Judy Garland.
My days with the Days quickly fell into a fortable routine, and as long as I stayed ihe house or ihe classroom, all went well. The weather suddenly grew cooler, and almost at ohe leaves turned garish shades of yellow and red, so bold that the mere sight of trees hurt my eyes. I hated those bright reminders of life in the forest. October proved a riot to the senses and climaxed those giddy last weeks before Halloween. I khat parties were involved, begging for nuts and dies, bonfires in the square, and playing tricks oownsfolk. Believe me, we hobgoblins did our share of mischief—unhinging gates, smashing pumpkins, soaping the library windows with cartoon demons. What I had not experienced was the folderol among the children and the way that even the schools had gotten into the act. Two weeks before the big day, the nuns began planning a classroom party with eai and refreshments. They hung e and black crepe paper along the tops of the chalkboards, pasted paper pumpkins and black cats on the walls. We dutifully cut out scary things from stru paper and glued together our own artistic efforts, pitiable though they were. Mothers were enlisted to bake cookies and brownies, make pop balls and dy apples. es were allowed—indeed, expected. I remember exactly my versa-tion oter with my mother.
"Were having a party for Halloween at school, and teacher says we e dressed in our trick-or-treat outfits instead of our uniforms. I want to be a hobgoblin."
"What was that?"
"You know, a hobgoblin."
"Im not sure what that is. Is it anything like a monster?"
"No."
&quhost? houl?"
"Not those."
"Perhaps a little vampire?"
"Im no bloodsucker, Mother."
"Perhaps its a fairy?"
I howled. For the first time in nearly two months, I lost my temper and screamed in my natural wild voice. The sound startled her.
"For the love of God, Henry. You scared the wits out of me, raising the dead and howling like a baherell be no Halloweenin for you."
Banshee keen, I wao tell her, they wail and weep, but they never howl. Instead, I turned oears, bawling like the twins. She drew me to her and hugged me against her stomach.
"There now, I was only kidding." She lifted my and gazed into my eyes. "I just dont know what a hobgoblin is. Listen, how about going as a pirate, youd like that now, wouldnt you?"
And thats how I ended up dressed in pantaloons and a shirt with puffed sleeves, a scarf tied around my skull, and wearing an earring like Errol Flynn. On Halloween day, I stood before a class of ghosts, witches, and hoboes, the only pirate in the school, probably the whole ty. Teacher had tapped me to sing "The Teddy Bears Piic" as part of the scary eai for our party. My normal speaking voice was a squeak like Henry Days, but when I sang "If you go out in the woods tonight," I sounded exactly like the sonorous bass of Frank DeVol on the record. The imitation shocked nearly everybody. In a back er, Caroline Hines sobbed ihrough the whole song. Most of the slack-jawed kids gaped through their masks and makeup, not quite knowing what to believe. I remember that Tess Wodehouse sat and stared without blinking, as if she realized a fual deception but could not uhe trick. But the nuns knew better. At the end of the song, they whispered together in a spiracy of penguins, then nodded in unison as they crossed themselves.
The actual trick-or-treati much to be desired. My father drove me into town at dusk and waited for me as I walked the row of houses along Main Street, spying here and there another child in pathetie. No hobgoblin appeared, although a black cat did try to y path. I hissed at the creature in perfect cat, and it turail, running away in panic to hide beh a hon-eysuckle bush. An evil grin crossed my face. It was good to know I had not yet lost all my tricks.
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