Pride (37 page)

We both say we understand and I put on my pajamas and climb into bed. Laurel's already in her nightgown because she took her shower with Mom and came back with it on.

I lie there and try going to sleep. I want to. I have Cannibal in her box beside my bed and the top is closed so she can't get out, but she must be tired, too, after all the playing with Mom and then chasing that ball through the tunnels. I try to remember the whole thing, building it and Dad catching my finger in the first tunnel and the long tunnel and the ball going all the way through and then down to the hole. I can see in my mind Cannibal running around the side of the mountain with the sand sliding and that ball keeping just ahead of her and her going through the tunnels. It's something I'll never forget. It's almost more important than catching that stingray this morning. But I can't get to sleep.

I lie there and try praying. Saying Hail Marys over and over again can usually help me go to sleep but it doesn't work this time. Also, I can hear that Mom and Dad aren't sleeping either. They're whispering to each other and Mom makes noises like she's being tickled again. I keep my eyes closed but it sounds as if they're wrestling in bed and then both of them start making noises as if they've just finished running a race. I'm a little bit worried and I'm about ready to open my eyes and look up when it all gets quiet.

I try breathing as if I'm really asleep. I try not thinking about the lion. I hope he's all right and that nobody shoots him. I know he killed the motorcycle driver but that's the one who stuck him with the sharp stick, so maybe he was mad at him.

He seemed like such a nice lion when he pushed against my hand. I try to keep out of my mind the part about the lock. When I think about that part, my heart just beats so hard I think I'm going to cry. Then I hear Dad talking. He's whispering, but the room is so quiet I can hear what he's saying. I can hear Laurel breathing and can tell she's really asleep.

“Laura, honey, you'll never guess what Dickie was talking to me about when we were out fishing on the pier.”

Mom doesn't answer, and Dad goes on; it's almost as if he's talking to himself. I wonder if I should stick my fingers in my ears. I always hate it when somebody talks about something I said or something I did. I even hate it when Mom tells Mrs. Reynolds when I got good grades on a report card or when I was made altar boy so young, even though Mrs. Reynolds is a Protestant and probably doesn't even care.

But I lie there still.

“He wants me to quit J.I., the union and everything; set up my own repair shop for electrical appliances and things like that. He called it the Kettleson Fix-it Shop. He's sure a smart little guy. I tried to explain about my seniority and security and all that and we had some good conversation. It's nice having him grow up so we can talk.”

They're quiet and I'm hoping they won't say any more. I feel as if I'm hearing things I'm not supposed to hear. Then, I can just make out Mom's voice:

“Dick, is that what you'd really like?”

“What?”

“To have your own repair shop the way Dickie said.”

“Now don't
you
start being ridiculous. You know we can't take a chance like that. We're lucky we got through the Depression as well as we did.”

“I'm serious, Dick. You've got the rent paid off for a year. You know you can always go back to nights waxing floors if we get stuck. Roy Kerlin will always take you back. Or maybe you can do it part time.”

“Yeah, but they're paying me forty dollars at J.I. now, that's a dollar an hour. I don't think I could ever beat that.”

“But if you're unhappy and always getting beaten up and now with that letter about the kids, I'd just as soon we went out on our own. We should
try
at least.”

There's a long quiet. I'm holding my breath. But then I think I should be breathing if I'm asleep so I start to breathe deeply as if I'm really asleep, but I don't think they're paying much attention.

“Fabrizio says the company is thinking of making me shop foreman. That means I'll get at least
fifty
dollars a week; think of that. I don't know how I can let a chance like that go by.”

“That's wonderful, dear, but how about the union and the terrible men the company pays to beat you up? You don't need J.I.
or
the union. You're the kind of man who should work for himself. You know darned well they're making a lot of money off you.”

“Dickie said almost the same thing. You're sure about this, Laura? You're not just scared or anything?”

“Sure, I'm sure. I'm scared, too, but I think you can do it. You could always build porches again with Dickie, too. There's always that. You'll probably have to work even harder than you do now, so it's up to you.”

“If it's just up to me, Laura, I quit right now. They can have their lousy seniority and shop stewardship, the shop foreman job, the whole works. I'd rather be my own boss any day. Besides, I like fixing things up. There's a really good feeling about taking something that isn't working because some little part is broken or burnt out or worn and putting it in and having the whole thing work again. It's the kind of work I really like to do. It isn't even work for me, it's like playing.”

“I know. It's one of the things I love about you. You really respect things and people; you have a very special feeling.”

They're quiet again. I'm afraid I'm going to cry and ruin everything. I don't know why I'm about to cry because it isn't sad; it's just I'm getting that dry feeling in my throat that always comes when I'm trying not to cry.

“I must admit I've been thinking about it ever since Dickie brought it up. I could cut a door between the cellar and the garage; that wall's just two-by-four thick, with chicken wire and plaster over it. If we ever leave the house, I could put it back so nobody'd ever notice. Then I could have my electrical-repair part in the cellar and my carpentry and that kind of thing in the garage. I could cut a small door in the garage door so people could bring their stuff in. I'm sure Mr. Marsden wouldn't mind. He knows I can put it back without any trouble.”

“And you could make a little counter and shelves behind on the back wall to store things people bring in to be fixed. We could have one section for the things coming in and another for the stuff you've already fixed. The important part is getting things fixed fast because that's why people would bring it to you instead of going back to Sears or wherever they bought it where they take weeks and weeks to fix anything.”

“And you could take care of the records, Laur. We'd need to keep a record of how much time I put in on each repair and when I have to buy parts, what they cost. Then you'd make out a bill and collect from people. I'd rig a little bell so when somebody comes in it'd ring in the house and you could come down. I think it's best if I keep working most of the time instead of gabbing with people. I'm not very good at that part anyway, and I'd probably forget to charge people or do dumb things.”

“You wouldn't do anything dumb, but that's a part I
can
do from my experience selling at Penney's before we were married. I like it; it'll make life more interesting, too.”

I listen and I can't believe it. It's like a dream coming true.

“I can also go out and do repairs at people's houses, electrical work and a little plumbing, putting in new washers on spigots, things like that. I'll make a sign for the truck. We'll call it ‘Kettleson's Snappy Service. No repair too large or too small.' How's that sound?”

“It sounds wonderful, dear, and just think, you'll be home most of the time and we can have so much fun together. That's worth almost everything else.”

Then they're quiet again, more or less, at least they don't talk any more and I keep breathing, pretending I'm asleep, until I guess I really do go to sleep because I don't remember anything else.

A
man is standing under a desk lamp in the darkened back of a curio shop. It's the shop next to the Wall of Death. The man is Chinese, middle-aged. He wears Chinese costume; black, with toggle fastenings. He wears a small black silk mandarin cap on his head; his hair is in a long queue.

It could be his age, a desire to maintain the traditions of his country, or perhaps only that the costume lends authenticity, interest, to his shop.

This shop is more than an ordinary souvenir and curio place; it also sells small carved ivory figures, silks, and oriental rugs. At the request of the police, he has stayed closed for the past three days. His shutters are drawn now as twilight descends on the virtually abandoned boardwalk outside.

The room is stuffy from being closed tight during these unseasonably warm days, and he's pushed open the trap door to his attic. It's up there where he keeps his reserves of merchandise, it's also where Tuffy has his lair.

The man stands erect behind an old-fashioned accountant's or clerk's desk. A small lamp is perched on an upper edge and a ledger is spread before him.

He works with a bamboo brush, held vertically, as he carefully checks his records. He's making his final season inventory and preparing order lists for the next year. His intention is to leave on the weekend and go stay with his family in Philadelphia's Chinatown, where he lives most of the year.

Upstairs, Tuffy has been disturbed from his sleep by the opening of the trap door. He gnaws some more at Jimmy's humerus. He's hungry again and confused. He still hasn't completely absorbed the concept of hunting as a way to get food. For the entire life he's known, he's never hunted and Cap has always brought him what he needed.

Tuffy stands and arches his back, yawns, stretches each foot in turn, spreading his toes, baring his claws. He balances carefully as he walks across the attic beams to the source of light from below. The door is propped open with a stick, which Tuffy carefully avoids.

He silently pads down the steep steps, placing one foot tentatively in front of the other; the angle is steep, almost that of a ladder, and difficult for him to manage. He reaches the floor of the curio shop, halfway between the front door and the back wall, back where the man is working. Tuffy is feeling only vaguely hungry, mostly restless, curious. He pads slowly up and down the narrow aisles, between the cloth-shrouded tables holding small articles for sale.

The man thinks he hears something and lifts his head, looks around; Tuffy instinctively freezes, holds still, until the man goes back to work. Tuffy isn't exactly stalking, but, catlike, he wants to discover before he's discovered. He moves slowly, quietly, stealthily toward the light, changing aisles so he comes up behind the man.

He goes to within two yards of him and sits back on his haunches, runs his tongue lazily across his mouth, lifts one paw, rubs his face, straightens his whiskers. If it weren't for the man's age, he would hear Tuffy and surely smell him. A lion has a strong odor, not of dirt but of animality, sweat, the general odor of a carnivore.

Tuffy advances cautiously until he's beside the man. He gently rubs his face against the man's leg, Tuffy's way of expressing, demanding affection. He's lonesome, and for all his life man has been his only source of company. Tuffy, as with all lions, is primarily a social animal.

The Chinese jumps. If it had been a pussy cat or a child coming up behind him and rubbing against him without warning, he'd have jumped. He looks down and sees Tuffy, a lion, a man-eating lion. He stands petrified. He slowly puts down his brush and feels himself becoming faint. He holds on to the sides of his high desk.

Tuffy pushes harder against the man's thin thigh, rubbing his face, his ears, his mane, his whole head against him, rubbing so hard he almost knocks this small frail man to the floor. Now Tuffy sits down. He looks up into the man's eyes, looking for some return of affection, some recognition. But Tuffy can smell the fear from the man. It's a smell he knows; it's the smell from Jimmy, sometimes from Sally.

Slowly the man moves around to the other side of his desk. Tuffy sits there watching. Perhaps the man will bring him food, take him to Cap. The man backs down the aisle toward the front door. Tuffy follows him slowly, between a stalk and a stroll. Mostly he's only following, waiting to see what happens next.

The man fumbles with the latch, the locking bar on the door, the swinging shutter. Tuffy watches. Then the man pushes the door open and starts running away along the boardwalk away from the Wall of Death. He's running for help, running for his life.

Tuffy steps out the door. It's a lovely evening. He stands there a moment and then turns toward the Wall of Death. He sees his cage and tries to get inside, but the door is closed. He paces back and forth between the Wall of Death and his cage several times. Where's Cap?

He stands there, first grunts, coughs, then growls. He expands his chest and gives the loud proud roar of a lion searching for his pride, a lion letting other lions in his pride know where he is or defending his territory. This roar can be heard a mile away. The few people on the boardwalk hear it and turn. There is a scampering left and right as people dash to escape.

Tuffy sees something large and colorful turning off to his left. It's the merry-go-round. He starts padding toward it. It's going around in circles the way motorcycles he knows so well go around inside the Wall of Death; perhaps Cap will be there.