The Investigations of Avram Davidson (13 page)

“I remember you!” he cried. “Now I remember! At my mother's! We had green ice-cream!”

Major Thompson said, gently, “Yes. It was pistachio.”

The strange word seemed to throw the boy off balance. “I don't remember that … it was green.”

Mr. Buckley said, still beaming, “Pistachio
is
green.”

Angrily, Jimmy said, “Well, I don't remember! How could I? I was only about four years old!” His voice had risen to a shout. He burst into tears.

Major Thompson went down on one knee and took him in his arms.

“I didn't remember that you were my father,” the boy sobbed. “I didn't remember it.…”

His father patted him gently, while Miss Schultz blew her big nose and Mr. Buckley took off his glasses and wiped the inner corners of his eyes with thumb and forefinger.

*   *   *

T
HE PRINCIPAL OF
the school agreed, not only without reluctance, but even eagerly, that Jimmy might take the day off to be with his father. “Why, under the circumstances, certainly, Major, certainly,” he said. “I understand. Perfectly. What a shame, though, after all these years away, that you have to go back so soon.” He clicked his tongue. “I wish,” he said.

“I wish, too. But I have to be in Washington very shortly; and then—well, back to South America. Things aren't too well down there, as I'm sure you know.”

Mr. Buckley did know. It was the heritage of Spain, he supposed. All those generations of fighting the Moors had made the Spanish so bellicose.… Jimmy came back with his coat and cap and an expression on his face both incredulous and self-important. “I gave the note to Miss Humphreys and she said Of Course. She said she hoped you'd be able to give the class a talk about South America. And
I
said: Maybe.” He looked up at his father rather uncertainly.

Miss Schultz gave a little gasp and Mr. Buckley brightened. “That would be a wonderful thing, yes,” he exclaimed. Half-turning to his secretary, then turning back to his visitor, he said, “Perhaps at a special assembly—? It would be wonderful for the children and…” He stopped. Major Thompson pursed his lips, first cocked his head, dubiously, then shook it, remarking that he doubted there would be time.

At a gesture from him, the boy began rapidly to button the coat. “What—you won't mind my asking, I'm sure—what,” Mr. Buckley inquired, “is the educational system like down there?”

The Major said that it left something to be desired. “That's one of the reasons I've never sent for Jimmy.” (“Ahah, ah,” the principal made quick noises of understanding.) “Another was, that I wanted him to grow up in his own country. He'd always be a foreigner down there, why should he return and feel like one in the United States? Which is how it would be, you know? No, no. Much as I have missed him—and will continue to … Someday he'll understand.”

The corridors were crowded with children coming back from their recess, and Jimmy—holding his father's hand—walked with head up, proud, darting looks from side to side. Major Thompson subdued his own long strides. Whenever he passed a teacher, he made a very short bow. Even the big boys of the sixth grade were impressed, and looked enviously at Jimmy.

“That's his
father
—”

“—big black car with a
sho
fer and a—”

“He's a
major!
”

Jimmy's head went higher. Automatically, he started to turn towards the small side door which the children generally used; but Barney, the short-tempered old janitor, saw them coming. Almost at a run, he reached the big front doors, gestured father and son onward, and swung the door open.

“This is my father, Barney.”

It was not an introduction but a declaration. Barney's head went back, his mouth opened, closed, opened. “
Now
I know where you get them high spirits from!” he exclaimed. “Some a these people,” he said to the major, “are always crabby and complaining, but
I
tell 'm, I tell 'm, ‘It's only high spirits.' See, reason I understand, I used to be in the Service myself.
Oh,
yes. With General John ‘Black Jack' Perzhing down in Mexico when we was chasing that guy Pancho Villa.”

“But he ran too fast for you,” Major Thompson said. He and Jimmy went out the door.

Barney's laughter cackled behind them. He trotted to the top of the steps and called after them. “You come down to my room there behind the furnace during lunch time or after school some day, young fella, and I'll show you my pitchers and souvenirs!”

Jimmy grinned with delight. “I will, Barney, I will,” he called back. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

“Jarvis,” the major said, “This is James, Junior.”

“Good morning, Master James.”

“Gee!”

*   *   *

T
HEY FOUND
M
RS
. Morley, assisted by a neighbor, struggling with her hair. “I was so excited,” she said, “that I just had to ask Mrs. Marks, here—she's lived next door to me for years—I had to ask her to come over and make me some coffee and help me get dressed.
My Lord!
After all these years, not so much as a letter; Mrs. Gibson—”

Major Thompson cleared his throat. “I hope you appreciate my sister's situation, Mrs. Morley. Not that I excuse her. Do you know that she didn't even inform me of her marriage?” Both ladies exclaimed at this duplicity. “But she is, after all, my sister. It's her husband I must blame. That gentleman and I are going to have to have a little talk together, if I'm not much mistaken.”

Mrs. Marks nodded her head firmly. “Lining his own pockets, I suppose. Keeping the money, not letting her visit the child—”

“It's not the
food,
” Mrs. Morley explained. “It's not the
room,
either, nor the
time.
As far as money goes, it's the
clothes.
But that was
my
problem. I managed. But—you know—what about the
boy?
What about Jimmy? How does it look, everybody has a family and he hasn't got a family. His father is in some far-off foreign country, his mother passed away, his aunt never shows her face. How does it look? How do you suppose he
feels?
No wonder—”

“Now, Lindy, don't get so emotional,” Mrs. Marks said. “I always said, the father will turn up some day. Didn't I? Blood is thicker than water. You do a good deed, you don't do it for nothing. Was I right?”

And Mrs. Morley had to admit that her friend and neighbor was right. “Your check was
very
generous, Mr.—Major Thompson,” she said. “It more than took care of everything.”

But he denied this. Stroking his thin moustache with the tip of a finger, he said that the check could hardly make up for the care and affection which Mrs. Morley, bound by no legal or moral ties, had shown to his motherless little boy.

“Well, I did my best. God knows. I did my
best.…
” Her voice got all quavery and she began to cry.

*   *   *

T
HE ICE HAD
begun to break up on the river when they crossed it. Jimmy pressed up close to the window of the car and murmured at the sight. Then he snuggled back in his corner of the seat and smiled shyly at his father.

“Have you ever been to New York before?” asked the Major.

“No. That time … one time my aunt
said
we were going to New York. But we went to Mrs. Morley's and I thought
that
was New York. And she said she was coming back but she never came back. I don't care,” he added, after a moment.

“Listen, Jim … Your aunt has her own troubles. Don't think hard of her. She left you in a good place, didn't she?”

Their conversation touched on many subjects and Mrs. Gibson, Jimmy's aunt, was soon forgotten. The boy wanted to know all about his father's far-away ranch, but interrupted almost immediately to tell how he had gotten into a fight with three bigger boys who didn't believe about the ranch and he, Jimmy, had beaten them up, all three of them, and they ran home crying and played hookey the next day because they were afraid to come to school and see him. “They thought I would make fun of them and beat them up again,” he said.

“Hmm.”

“And I
would.
I can beat up anybody.”

Major Thompson cleared his throat. “I'm sure you can,” he said. “But don't bother. It's not necessary. If
you
know the truth, then it doesn't matter what anybody else thinks. You don't even have to talk to them about it. Why bother?”

Jimmy considered this, then renewed his questions about the ranch. He listened to the stories of the endlessly rolling South American prairies and the snow-capped Sierras, cattle and horses as far as the eye could see, the wide rivers filled with crocodiles and the murderous piranha fish that would reduce a cow to its bones in five minutes—and a man, in two—the grass fires and campfires and bandit attacks—

“Bandits! Were you ever … were you ever …
shot?
”

No. No, his father had been often shot at. But never shot.

“Were you ever captured by the bandits? And tied up and put in a dungeon?”

Major Thompson smiled, faintly amused. “Something like that,” he said.

Jimmy swallowed. “Were you all
alone?
” he asked. The car sped on through snowy fields and lonely farmhouses. The Major looked at the boy's concerned face, shook his head. No, not alone. He had a friend with him who had been captured, too. “What was his name?”

“His name? His name was Captain Pasharooney.”

Jimmy's concern left him, and he laughed. “That's a funny name.” Then, “No, it isn't. I was only joking. Go on. Tell me…”

Early in the afternoon they reached New York, where they had a huge lunch in a restaurant with wood-panelled walls and linen napkins and cut-glass pitchers of water. The Major had a cocktail and his son had lemonade with grenadine in it. They both had grilled steak with french-fried potatoes and onion rings and lots of ketchup and a sauce with a funny name. Afterwards, Major Thompson smoked a thin cigar. He told Jimmy he could keep the big book of matches with the fancy picture on it, and, under the table, slipped him a crisp new bill and told him to tip the waiter.

“Come and see us the next time you're in New York,” the waiter said.

“All right.… This is for you.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

They drove up and down the broad and busy avenues until the major directed the car to stop. Then they went into a very big jewelry store where they picked out a tie-pin and a pair of cufflinks for Jimmy, both with small sapphires set in them; and a brooch for Mrs. Morley. It was a crisp, golden afternoon with a hard blue sky overhead. While they waited on the curb for the car, Jimmy turned his head up and said, “You know what I would like?”

“No, Jim. What?”

“A saddle.”

Jarvis opened the door and they got inside. “Is there room at Mrs. Morley's to keep a horse? I doubt it.”

“I don't care. I just want—”

“—a saddle. Well, someday you'll have a horse. All right.”

The salesman in the store which smelled richly of leather had at first some idea of showing them children's saddles, but Major Thompson, without being told, knew that this wasn't what Jimmy had in mind at all. They bought a real saddle, full-size, with stirrups; and a box of things to take care of keeping the leather in good condition.

They went to the top of the Empire State Building, they went to the Zoo in Central Park, they picked up some boxes of toy soldiers in old-fashioned uniforms, spent an hour in a theater showing news-reels and short films, and then it was supper time. And for supper, they had hot dogs. Lots of them. With mustard, sauerkraut, and relish.

“Instead of going back the same way we came,” Major Thompson said, “how would you like it if we took the ferry across?”

Jimmy licked tentatively at a small blotch of mustard. “Do we have to go back?” he asked.

“I'm afraid so. Yes.”

“But you'll come back with me?”

The Major nodded. “But then … you know … I've explained to you that I'll have to turn around and go away again.”

The boy considered, then said, “Let's take the ferryboat, then.”

The early night wind was cold despite the crimson shadows still streaking the western horizon. The skyline vanished behind them. “I'd like to look at the water some more,” Jimmy said. “But I'm cold.”

“Let's go inside to the cabin, then.” It was stuffy there, but it was warm. Jimmy pressed close to the window, shading with his hand against the obscuring reflection of the cabin lights, looking out onto the dark river intently. The Major lit another panatella. A man opened the cabin door. Their eyes met. The man vanished, reappeared a second later with another.

“Excuse me, son. There's someone I have to talk to.” He flicked his cigar, got up and walked forward. The boy barely turned away, then resumed his watch.

“Well, well, well,” said the bigger of the two men. “Billy Rooney. Of all people.”

“The old Pasha himself,” the other one said. He was thin.

“Gentlemen. Surely you aren't going to Jersey for
pleasure—?
”

“Who's the kid?” the big man said, ignoring the question. The thin man surveyed the astrakhan cap, the well-tailored overcoat, pursed his lips in a silent whistle.

“Who's the kid?”

“Nice-looking boy, isn't he? You'll be surprised when I tell you. Remember Jimmy Thompson?” He flicked his cigar again.

This time the whistle was not silent. “Sure, I remember.
That's
his kid? I didn't know Jimmy had a kid.”