The Leap Year Boy (11 page)

“I taught him how,” Arthur lied, hoping his brother’s talent would improve his social status with Mary, the prettiest, most popular girl in his class.

“Say now, what’s all the ruckus about over here in these here parts?” It was Principal Darwimple, a.k.a. “Farmer Dar,” as he had named himself for the day.

For reasons known only to himself, Principal Frederick Darwimple, a fastidious bachelor in his mid-30s, had abandoned his customary dark three-piece suit, white shirt and bow tie and had dressed for the day as a farmer, or what he imagined was a farmer, with a round straw hat, denim overalls and a plaid shirt. The corncob pipe he clenched between his teeth lent a final touch of pseudo authenticity. The children were much more accepting of his get-up than the grown-ups, where the whispered consensus among parents and faculty was that he looked like a fool.

“Land sakes alive, what do we have here,” he said, pointing his pipe toward Alex, who stood in the center of his adoring circle.

“Nothing, sir,” Arthur said. “It’s just my little brother Alex. He wasn’t doing anything.”

Principal Darwimple took off his straw hat with an exaggerated swoop intended to produce giggles—it did—and wiped his forehead with his checkered handkerchief. “Tarnation,” he said, trying to affect what he believed to be a southern/country accent, even though he’d never been farther south than Wheeling, West Virginia, “if he ain’t the gol-dangest little feller I ever laid eyes on. Well, howdy do, buckaroo.”

Alex said, “Howdy do.”

Over the children’s laughter, Darwimple said, “Well now, ain’t he just the cat’s pajamas. And how old are you, Alex?”

“Three quarters.”

“Come again, son.”

Benjamin said, “He was born on Leap Year day. That’s why he says it like that, sir. He’s really three.”

“Clever little buckaroo, aren’t you, Mr. Alex? Maybe Farmer Dar will be seeing our young cowpoke here at our fine school in a few years. Would you like that, Alex?”

Alex liked Farmer Dar, and he liked the idea of being in school with all the children. “If my momma lets me.” The children laughed again.

“Alex, I think you’ll find that Fulton Elementary is the finest school in these here parts. Isn’t that right, children?”

In a desultory chorus, the children replied, “Yes, Principal Darwimple.”

“Well, all righty then.”

“Principal…er, Farmer Dar?” It was Mrs. Stanczak, the principal’s secretary. “We need you over here.”

“Hold your horses, woman, I’m a coming.” He turned his back and waved at a group of children and adults standing at the starting line across the gym. “Boys and girls, I have to leave you now. It’s time ol’ Farmer Dar commenced to getting this here show on the road.”

A whistle blared on the other side of the gym. Everyone looked that way except Alex. Faster than you could say monkey see, monkey do, he reached out with his left arm and snatched Darwimple’s wallet from his back pocket. Only Benjamin saw it.

The kids ran off to watch the sack race, led by the Walsh brothers. Benjamin held Arthur back by the elbow.

“What?”

“Alex.”

“What about him? He’s okey dokey here for a minute…” It certainly looked as if Alex were fine, standing in the wagon, brownie icing smeared on his cheek.

“Arthur, Alex…he…he stole.”

Arthur put his hand over his brother’s mouth. He looked at Alex, who was holding the brownie with two hands. “What are you talking about?”

“He stole Principal Darwimple’s wallet.” He explained Alex’s cobra-quick pilfering.

“Where is it?”

Benjamin looked down. “In the wagon. See?” He pointed to a dark leather wallet lying on top of Alex’s blanket.

“We gotta get out of here.” He grabbed the front of the wagon. “Hold on, Alex. Benjamin, pick up the back.”

*

It was a little after two when the boys got back. They slipped past their sleeping grandmother and up to their room. Arthur sat Alex on the top bunk and ordered Benjamin to jam a sweater into the open space at the bottom of the door so they couldn’t be surprised.

He opened Principal Darwimple’s wallet. He counted out three one-dollar bills and eighty-seven cents in the change compartment. The miniscule fortune made his head swim. It was more money in his hand than he’d ever held before. He fingered the bills over and over, magic treasures.

“We have to take it buh…back,” Benjamin said.

“What?”

“It’s stuh…stealing.”

“Shut up. Hey, look at this.”

Arthur undid the photo compartment. There was a school identification card with the principal’s name and address, 1214 Hazlett Street, which was about two miles away from Mellon. There also were two photographs. The first was an older woman in a long dark dress puffed out with petticoats, and standing next to her was a man with a black suit and a white clerical collar. On the back, in blurred handwriting it said, “To our beloved son.” The other photo showed a tall, slim man in his 30s, with dark hair slicked back, dressed in tennis whites and holding a racket slung over his shoulder. The inscription on the back read, “To my dear Dar, from you know who.” The other item was a laundry claim ticket from Hong’s Laundry and Cleaners.

“Arthur, we can’t keep it.”

Arthur said, “Are you crazy?” He told him he was nothing but a big chicken, cluck cluck cluck, and besides, finders keepers, loser weepers, and that they really didn’t steal it at all, Alex stole it, he pick-pocketed it, and what could they do to Alex, he was too little and he didn’t know any better, and he didn’t even go to school so they couldn’t throw him out.

Benjamin countered that it still wasn’t right, and that if Arthur wouldn’t tell what had happened, he would, at which point Arthur put him in a combination headlock/chokehold until Benjamin turned beet red. He promised his younger brother a multitude of additional, more painful consequences if he didn’t keep his stupid mouth shut. “Three dollars and eighty-seven cents, dummy. We could get Pirates tickets, and ice cream and peanuts. You want to give it back? Don’t be a stupid baby.” He turned to Alex. “Did you like the fair, Alex?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know how to take Principal Darwimple’s wallet?”

“Just like Coco,” Alex said. He made a quick, grabbing motion.

“What’s he talking about, Benjamin?”

“He means the monkey.”

“Oh yeah, like Coco. Say listen, Alex. Do you think you can do it again, like Coco? It’ll be like a game you play. You like games, right?”

“I like to play checkers.”

“Yeah, I like checkers, too. But this is a different game. Do you know what that game is called?”

Alex said, “What?”

“It’s called Five Fingers.”

“Come on, Arthur.”

“Just shut your trap. Tomorrow is Saturday. No school. We’ll go to East Liberty and play Five Fingers.”

Alex said, “With Farmer Dar?”

Arthur laughed. “No, he won’t be there, but it’ll be fun, you’ll see.” Arthur stuck his index finger into Benjamin’s chest. “You’re coming, too.”

Alex began to hop up and down. “I want to play checkers.”

“You heard him, Benjamin. Set up the board.”

“But all he does is throw the pieces on the floor.”

“I said, set it up.”

Arthur shoved the money under the felt lining of a box where they kept their school papers. With huge satisfaction he watched Alex’s long arms snatch checker pieces. Saturday was going to be a big day.

Chapter 9

Abe smoked in the family’s lone armchair, content to read
The Daily Dispatch
until his mother-in-law put dinner on the table, not feeling guilty for not helping since he’d offered and she’d told him he’d only mess things up. Alex climbed on his lap and begged him to read his favorite comic strip,
Pickles Neary
, to him, but unfortunately for both Alex and Abe, Pickle’s strip appeared only in the Sunday edition, so Abe had to amuse his son by reading an account of a rooming house fire in Hazelwood that took the lives of seven women. It occurred to him after the second paragraph that perhaps it was a bit inappropriate to read a story about death and disaster to a three-year-old whose mother was seriously ill, which reminded him that he needed to check on her. He left Alex standing on the floor above the newspaper he spread out in front of him.

“Daddy,” Alex called, pointing to a column in the newsprint, “what’s investigation?”

Abe started to answer, but then he stopped. Had Alex really read that? That children’s book was one thing, but the newspaper? That was for adults. Little did Abe know that
The Daily Dispatch
was purposely written to be easily comprehended by the average fourth-grader.

He watched Alex’s eyes scan the page. It sure looked as if he was reading. But no, he must just be repeating a word he’d read to him. “Hold on a minute, son. I have to go investigate your mother.” He shook his head at his attempt at humor as he climbed the stairs with a tray of food. He wished he were taking it up to Delia after they’d made love.

*

Whether it was the heavy congestion in her throat or the stale air in the room, Irene felt that if she didn’t open a window she would suffocate. She swung her legs to the side of the bed and put one foot down on the floor, then the other, and pushed herself to her feet. She opened the curtains and undid the lock on top of the window sash. Down below, in the fading light, she could make out toys scattered in the yard. Irene felt a sliver of hope, for at least she had gotten to her feet on her own without falling, which was more than she had been able to accomplish the day before. She tried to raise the window, and it took all of her strength to lift it three inches. The cool air felt lush on her hands, alive with its dampness.

The door opened. Abe entered with a mug of tea, two slices of buttered toast, a hard-boiled egg on a tray and an admonishment. “Irene, what you doing, woman? You know you’re not supposed to be out of bed.”

She said in a low, labored voice, “I couldn’t breathe hardly.”

“You should’ve asked me, I would’ve opened it for you.”

It would have taken too much energy to explain she was too tired to call him, so she let it go. A low cough stirred from deep in her lungs, and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “You shouldn’t stay here too long.” She motioned to her night table. “Put the tray over here.”

Abe took away the tray of uneaten food he’d left her the night before and set down the fresh one. “Geez, Irene, you gotta try to eat something. You gotta have strength to fight this thing.”

You fight it, she thought. You’re good at fighting. She grasped the windowsill to keep from falling. “Is my mother here?”

“She’s getting dinner ready.”

The room was still except for the wheezing of her breath. They stood twelve feet apart, and they thought, this is what we have to say to each other after one year of courtship, ten years of marriage, two boys, two miscarriages and then a strange little miracle child who is here for some purpose we don’t understand. “How are my sons?”

“They’re fine. Just fine. They went to the school fair today. They took Alex.”

“What?”

“They rode him over there in the wagon. He’s fine. He said he saw a monkey.”

The room began to reel around in her head. She clutched the bedpost to keep from falling. “But he’s too little.”

“Come on, Irene,” Abe said, “nothing happened. His brothers look out for him, you know.”

“Please,” she begged, “please bring him home.”

Abe sighed. “But he is home.”

“He is? Oh yes, you said he is.” She walked back to the bed. “I better lie down now.”

Abe started for the door. “Well, call me if you need anything.”

Irene stared at him. “Abe.”

“What is it?”

“Could you come over here?” She held out her hand. “Did you ever love me?”

Abe looked out the window. “What kind of question is that?”

“Did you?”

He glanced down at his feet, then back into her eyes. “Didn’t I tell you I did? Remember that time in your room when your mother was away, how much I told you that you were the only one for me?”

“Yes. Was that love?”

“And what about the day we were married?”

“You’re supposed to say it when you get married.”

“Come on, Irene. There’ve been plenty other times, too.”

If she had pressed him, he might have had trouble coming up with another example. But instead, she said, “Say it now. I don’t even care if you mean it.” She adjusted the pillow behind her head.

He mumbled into his chest, “I love you.”

“I wonder.”

Abe turned red. “I do.”

“Sure you do, don’t be upset, I don’t want you to get angry. I couldn’t take it right now.” She took a sip of tepid water. “Bring Alex up to me, will you?”

“But you don’t want him to catch The Dip.”

She slumped back into bed. “I don’t know why, but I don’t think he can.”

Ida’s voice echoed up the stairs. “Soup’s on!”

Abe turned toward the door, the call a reprieve. “I’ll bring him up after dinner, all right?”

“Please.”

He turned to leave.

“Abe?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for saying it.” Fight it, she thought. Fight it for your sons. She forced a slice of egg and some tea down her throat before she gave herself up to the loopy feeling in her head.

*

Abe and the boys sat around the table, bowls of pea soup in front of them. He watched Alex dip a toy soldier in his applesauce. “Tell me, Arthur, how was the fair?”

Arthur looked at Benjamin, whose eyes stayed glued to his bowl. “Fine.”

“That’s it? Let’s have a little conversation around here.”

Alex said, “I saw Coco the monkey.”

“You did, son? Do you like him?”

“He smelled like poop.”

Arthur and Benjamin started to laugh.

“All right, that’s enough, you two.” Ida sat down with her soup. “Arthur, put that spoon down. We haven’t said grace. Who wants to say it?”

The boys looked at each other.

Abe felt like he was back at his Uncle Jacob’s dinner table twenty years earlier, where every meal was preceded by his uncle going on and on with his Hebrew prayers, and he wasn’t allowed to touch anything before Jacob finished, no matter how hungry he was, or else he’d get a slap on the back of the hand, which was just another reason why Abe wanted nothing to do with all that religious hooey. He just wanted to sit down and eat his meal. But then, he thought, Ida did cook for us; it wouldn’t be so bad just the one time. “Arthur, go ahead.”