The Alley (4 page)

This was the way that Billy Maloon, instead of Judy Fabadessa, became Connie's best friend in the Alley. One day Connie was sitting in the kitchen, in the little red rocker, reading to Mama. Mama was cooking something that smelled wonderful.

"M-m-m," Connie said. "Smells good."

"Spaghetti sauce," Mama said. "Taste this for seasoning, will you?" she said. "What does it need? A little something or other—I can't think what. Thyme?"

Connie tasted. She ran her eyes around in her head like the dogs in "The Tinderbox." "M-m-m," she said. "Just right," she said. "Don't add another thing. You'll ruin it."

"I thought maybe a pinch more of salt," said Mama.

"Well, just a pinch, no more ... you'll ruin it. It's perfect now. And now, I'll read."

Mama loved for Connie to read to her when she was cooking, and Connie loved to read to her. Connie planned to read every single good book that she had ever read out loud to Mama. On the day of Billy's first visit, she happened to be reading,
On the Banks of Plum Creek,
The "Little House" books were among Connie's favorites, and Mama had never read any of them. Can you imagine? This shows how old Mama was—these books had been written after Mama had grown up—not when she was a little girl like Connie. At least Mama had had
The Secret Garden
then, however. Connie sat back in the little red rocker and prepared to read. She said, "Where were we?" She knew where they were but said this to see if Mama really listened. Mama said, "We were up to the part about the grasshoppers, the horde of grasshoppers eating up all the crops and wheat, leaving everything brown as dust—nothing growing, nothing to eat, not a live stalk left—"

"All right," Connie said. "Now, I'll go on." She was happy. Mama always listened. "Now, don't run the water," she cautioned.

"Well," Mama said, "I am cooking, you know. Once in a while I just have to run the water. I won't run it any more than I can help, not leave it running."

Connie found the place, after the grasshoppers, where they had left off, and began to read. When Connie was in the kitchen rocking and reading to Mama, peace settled over the little house and quietude on Mama's face. Sometimes while listening, Mama would stop what she was doing for a moment and take in the view of the living room—bright rugs, the books, some still in their new paper jackets, the paintings on the wall, the accordion player, a lovely piece of sculpture, and the last late beams of sunlight, reflected from the windows of the school across the street, lighting all with a tranquil glow.

Connie stopped reading a moment and looked at Mama. She said, "You know, Mama, we could write a book. We could call it
The Little House in the Alley.
"

"Yes," Mama agreed. "We have a wonderful life."

"Yes. Well now, listen now—you are listening, aren't you?" asked Connie.

"I'm listening," Mama said.

"Don't stare any more," said Connie, "into the living room." She read one whole chapter, and she had just asked Mama if she should read another one—it was short—and Mama had just said she'd love it, and Connie had rearranged her legs comfortably—Papa was right, the red rocker
was
getting a little small for her—when the back doorbell rang.

"Probably some of the little ones asking to swing," said Connie.

But it was Billy Maloon. Connie was surprised. Billy had never rung the bell before. Billy Maloon was one of the shiest people in the Alley and not used to ringing people's doorbells. Although shy, he was thoughtful and considerate. Wasn't that a considerate thing to do—wait until Connie had finished the last of the chapter before ringing the bell? Who else would do that that she knew? Ring ... just ring and ask to swing, that was what most would do. And never mind what was going on inside.

"H'lo," said Billy to Mama, not looking at Connie. "Can Connie play?" he asked.

"You ask Connie," said Mama, smiling. Connie could tell that Mama liked Billy Maloon. Mama was apt to like all children, and all children were apt to like her, too. She even liked Anthony Bigelow, and Anthony was not always a good boy. Sometimes he did not tell the truth. It was a shame. He was bright and could have been so nice. His tiny sister, Jilly, was so sweet, so good! "They are like sweet and sour pot roast," people sometimes said of the two.

Billy looked directly at Connie then. "Can you play?" he asked. His hazel eyes were large and shining, and a little frightened. In his slow, almost drawling way of speaking—a sort of singsong monotone—he said, "I brought this." He had a Dinky Toy, a lumber truck, in his hand.

"O.K.," said Connie. They went upstairs to her room. First they got some of her old put-away blocks out of the attic. Billy suggested it, so they could make a garage—it was low and modern—for the lumber truck. They also made stores, a whole village, with a lumber camp outside of it, and a super highway following the blue-green thread that wound along the border of the Chinese rug. Connie did not own any Dinky Toys, so Billy went home and got some more—his ambulance and his tractor. Besides these, he had a jeep. He also brought the catalog, to see what to buy next.

"Traffic is getting heavy," said Connie.

"I like the comment," Billy said.

Billy Maloon often used long and hard words. He was left to himself a great deal. But this did not matter to Billy Maloon. On the whole, grownups did not exist for him. They were obstacles to circle around. He tried to be unaware of their presence, even of Connie's mother, who liked Billy very much.

After that first day when Billy Maloon came to play with Connie with his lumber truck Dinky Toy, he came every chance he got. He and Connie became best friends. Judy Fabadessa did not like the idea. But Connie could not help that. She liked Billy, and she had more fun playing with Billy than she had had with anyone since she had left Clarissa and Washington. She and Billy never got into arguments the way she and Judy did. Billy didn't complain if he didn't win every time in checkers or chess. He never said, "Oo-oh, you cheated," the way Judy did when Connie was winning; and Connie had never cheated in anything in her whole life! She and Billy always agreed about what they wanted to play and what Dinky Toys each one should have for "his" in games, and how to divide things. Connie soon had some Dinky Toys of her own, a postal truck, a racing car, and a trailer.

Judy still often came over to play. But the more Connie played with Billy Maloon, the less Judy liked it. Judy had a habit of making a certain awful face, and now she made this face more and more often. She would pull the corners of her mouth way down and roll her eyes into a curious position that left only the white parts showing. She looked as though she didn't have any eyes. When she and Connie played checkers, or any other game now, she would soon get angry about something, make her awful face, and say she bet Connie was getting to like Billy Maloon better than her. Connie never answered, because it was true. Billy liked to play with Connie and Connie liked to play with Billy.

One day, when it was time for Billy to go and he had gathered up his Dinky Toys reluctantly, because he did not want to go home, Connie said, "Billy, you know that you can call me up and talk to me any time you want to on the telephone? And you can talk as long as you want." She didn't know why she said this, because she did not like to use the telephone—she could scarcely remember when she had ever once spoken into it.

"O.K.," said Billy in his flat voice. But from his wide eyes Connie could tell he was pleased. One night he did telephone. Mama answered the phone and said, "Connie, it's for you."

"Me!" said Connie. At first she did not want to take the phone. Can you believe it! Here she was, a girl of ten, and she was still not accustomed to talking on the telephone; in fact, she was scared of the phone—don't ask why. Perhaps it was because many big people shout in the phone, and this hurt Connie's ears. Big people, even Nanny, must think all people on the other end of the line were deaf, they shouted so. It was a wonder that everyone did not become deaf, with all this shouting in phones. Connie just didn't like it. But, "Please, please say 'Hello,' just 'Hello,' to Uncle Laudy in Los Angeles," Nanny would plead with Connie. Connie would disappear upstairs and not say "Hello" to Uncle Laudy or anyone else. Papa was ashamed of her. He'd say, "Connie, it's ridiculous. You must learn to dial a number and ask for someone—talk! And also
answer
the phone when it rings,
make
yourself do that." And Mama said, "Yes. Practice on Papa, Connie. Call him up at the college. Dial the number of the college and ask for Professor Ives in the English Department. Is that hard?" Connie never answered. But some day, some day, she would surprise them—answer the phone every time it rang, talk to Uncle Laudy, Aunt Beasie, everybody, even the President.

Now, here was Billy calling her up, and here she was talking! Maybe she would get over her fear of the phone now, if Billy kept calling her up. Connie was brave about practically everything else you can think of. She walked the high Harrington fence, and she climbed to the top of the jungle gym—Hugsy couldn't do that, not many people could—but phone? The phone scared her. She and Billy talked a long, long time together. He had a nice soft voice on the telephone—he was a pleasure to listen to; he never shouted, he did not hurt ears. But tonight he sounded sad, as though he had been crying. This troubled Connie. The Carroll children bawled and bellowed all the time over every little thing; but she could not imagine Billy crying. Still, she was sure he had been. As he and she were talking, he gradually sounded happier. Then Connie heard his mother's voice—from the upstairs phone probably—and this voice said, "Cut it out now, Billy. You have talked long enough." Then Connie heard him say to his mother, "But Connie said I could call her up on the telephone and talk to her as long as I wanted, any time, morning, noon, and night, whenever I felt like it—even the middle of the night."

Connie could not hear what his mother said next because Billy had hung up without saying good-by or anything. What had happened? Connie went upstairs to bed. His mother should hug Billy, just plain hug him, not scold him ever. "Never mind, Billy," she thought. "Never, never mind." And she imagined rescuing him from a horse's hoofs or from drowning.

Billy was a brave boy—he wandered all over the city—and he was not afraid of the Gregory Avenue boys; still, there were things—not the telephone, of course—that he was scared of, too. He scared himself thinking that someone might be looking in the window at him. Even the moon looking in the window scared him. He told Connie scary things that happened to him in Oldenport, the music colony, where his family spent their summers. He had to be on the watch all the time there, he said. Connie wasn't certain whether the things Billy told her really happened or not, nor was she certain whether or not Billy himself really believed them. Sometimes, while swinging or playing with the Dinky Toys, Billy told Connie such scary things about Oldenport that he and she would get tears in their eyes.

Billy was awfully afraid of burglars. He thought just any man walking up the street might be a burglar. This man might stop, sit on someone's stoop, and change his socks, probably plotting where he was going to burgle. "I saw a guy do this once, Connie. I really did. He came along, sat down across the street, and changed his socks." Another man might be muttering to himself. Mutterers were the worst sort, Billy said. "All burglars," he said, and his hair, which he always wore rather long, almost stood on end.

Now, Saturdays and Sundays were wonderful days for Connie, with Billy Maloon coming over and spending practically the whole day. He gave Connie a whole batch of old comics, ancient and crumbling at the edges—they had belonged to his sister first. Mama sighed—not when Billy could hear her, of course. Mama didn't throw them away, but she did say, "They are an awful waste of time!" "I love them," said Connie. They were her very first comics, and all about Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck. By coincidence, an old lady in California named Rosie Newell sent a subscription of Donald Duck comics to Connie for Christmas that year, so now Connie had some of her own and could trade. Mama sighed again. But, anyway, they were not horror comics. "At least, they're not that," said Mama. "Or ... out they'd go!"

Sometimes on Saturday, Billy would be at the swimming pool when Mama took Connie there. The Alley children were allowed to swim in the college swimming pool on Saturday mornings. Once, after Mama had finally finished helping Connie dry her hair and they were ready to leave, Connie said, "Let's wait for Billy; he'll be ready soon. Are you almost ready, Billy?" she asked. Billy was out of sight in one of the little dressing booths. There was no sound coming from there. After some silence, Billy said, "Yeah."

"We'll wait for you then," Connie said.

After another silence, "Yeah," came Billy's slow, drawling voice again.

Connie and Mama waited. You would think he would have been dried and dressed a long time ago, not having long, long hair to dry as Connie did. Finally Mama stooped down to see, at least, what Billy's feet were doing. They were just standing there—with shoes on them. They gave the impression that that was all that Billy was doing—absolutely nothing—just standing there inside his dark little booth.