The Pinballs (7 page)

“I know.”

“Hey, maybe your mom's not at the farm anymore. Did you ever think of that? She could be
anywhere
.”

“Then I'll get my letter back. The return address was on it.”

“I
know
my mom got my letters. She just won't answer. For all I know, she's left the state.” Carlie kept swinging her legs back and forth, hitting the heels of her sandals against the railing. “If you weren't in that wheelchair, we could go looking for your mother.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” she said. She was pleased with the thought. “We could just take off. I'd really like to see the farm. I'm bored with this place anyway, aren't you?”

“Are you talking about running away again?”

Carlie looked at him. “Why do you have to make everything sound so bad? Run away. Nobody's going to
run away
. You been watching too many Shirley Temple movies. We're just going to take off, split.” She glanced at the door to see if Mrs. Mason was within hearing, then she turned back to Harvey. “You know, it really isn't a bad idea, Harvey. I couldn't go home because they'd pick me right up, but this farm …”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, I am in a wheelchair in case you haven't noticed.”

“Listen, the wheelchair would make it easier. It makes you look pitiful. Nobody would turn us down for a ride. I could step out and thumb and you could hold up a sign that said—”

“I couldn't do it.”

“Harvey, you
could
. Listen—”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“But—”

“I don't want to talk about it!”

“All right, all right, we won't talk about it. You don't have to jump down my throat.” She paused, then said, “Anything interesting in your lists lately?”

“What?”

“Your lists. Anything interesting?”

“Oh, no.” Harvey's eyes were on the street. His father would have to come over the crest of the hill.

“What's your latest list about?”

“What? Oh.” Harvey touched his forehead. He was too nervous to remember. He said, “Oh, I don't know. Let's see. Oh, yeah, it was just something I read that interested me, nothing important.”

“What?”

“I read somewhere that one day everybody will be famous for fifteen minutes.”

“Whoo, if that's true, I wish my fifteen minutes would hurry up and come. I am so bored.”

“And I'm making a list of ways—if I get the fifteen minutes of fame—well, the ways I would want it to be.”

“What do you want to do? Splash down in the Pacific in a rocket ship? Discover a new germ?” She straightened. “You know what I'd want? I'd want a fifteen-minute TV special. I'd come out in a low-cut, shiny dress like Cher and I'd be so good that everyone would say ‘Who is she?' and ‘She's going to be a star.'” Carlie grinned. “That way my fifteen minutes would just be the beginning of a whole lot of fifteen minutes. I'd stretch it out like an all-day sucker.”

Harvey was still looking at the top of the hill. “I keep hearing a car but I don't see it.”

Carlie said quickly, “How do
you
want to be famous?”

“I don't know. I forget what I put down now.” He looked down at his legs. “I just hope it's not for something bad.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, like maybe I've already had my fifteen minutes—maybe when my dad ran over my legs—” He looked at Carlie. “I mean, everybody in town knew about it. Everyone was talking. People were driving past our house. Maybe that was my fifteen minutes.”

“Naw. They didn't just drive past your house for fifteen minutes, did they? Not if I know people. More like two or three days. No, you're going to be famous. Hey, you'll be a writer. I know you will. You'll write best-sellers.”

“I don't know.”

“Look, I was in the newspaper too one time, only they just called me a juvenile. You think I consider that fame? A juvenile? Naw, it's got to be more than that. You'll be a famous writer and then you can write a movie for me. I'll get to be a star that way.”

“That's his car,” Harvey said abruptly. He made a move as if he was trying to get to his feet. A pain shot through his legs.

“Are you sure?”

“It's the same car.”

Carlie got to her feet. “Then I'll go inside as promised.” At the door she turned. “If you need me, I'll be right inside the living room.” She got serious. “You wouldn't believe, Harvey, what good help I can be in a fight.”

Harvey watched
his father coming up the walk. There was no expression on Harvey's face. Everyone had always told him that he looked exactly like his dad, and he realized it was true. Yet, inside, he had always felt more like his mother.

“Well, how's it going, Son?” his father asked. He took all three steps in one bound. Then he looked uneasy, as if he wished he'd taken more time.

“All right,” Harvey said.

His father cleared his throat. “Looks like a nice place.” His father was in the construction business—or had been until the building business went bad.

“It's all right.”

“Any other kids here?”

“Two.”

“That sounds good—company.” He paused and cleared his throat again. Then he said more seriously, “What kind of kids are they?”

“They're all right.”

“I mean, you know, kids in a foster home—well, you never know.”

“
I'm
here,” Harvey said.

“Oh, well, yeah.” Harvey's father still had not looked directly at him. “And the legs?” he asked in a lower voice.

“They're all right,” Harvey lied.

“Well, that's good news.” He paused and then sat in the wicker rocker. He pulled at the turtleneck of his shirt. “Look, about the legs—” He still had not looked at Harvey.

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Well, I just don't know what got into me, that's all. Sure, I'd just lost a contract. Sure, I'd just had a couple of drinks. Sure, the car was new, but that still doesn't excuse it.”

“No.”

It was quiet on the porch now. Carlie had turned off the TV in the living room.

“Anyway, you seem to be getting on real well here,” his father said with false cheer. “I've never seen you looking better.”

“Except for the legs.”

“Oh, well, yeah, sure.” There was another silence. “Oh, guess what? I brought your birthday present—I didn't forget the big day's this Friday.”

“Oh?”

“It's right out in the car only I'm not going to let you see me carry it in. You might guess what it is.” His father got to his feet abruptly. “Well, what do you say? Let's go get something to eat.”

“I don't know if I'm allowed.”

“Sure you are—your own dad.” He went to the door. “Mrs. Mason?”

Carlie's face popped into view as quick as a jumping jack's. “I'll get her.” She ran into the dining room. “Mrs. Mason, Harvey's father wants to talk to you. He wants to know if he and Harvey can go get something to eat.”

It was a relief to Harvey when his father left. He felt as flat as an old tire. He could hardly wheel himself into his room.

“How'd it go?” Carlie asked. She was leaning against the doorway in another halter. So far she had made eleven.

Harvey lifted his shoulders and let them drop.

“What does that mean?”

“It went all right,” Harvey said in a flat voice. Actually it had never been all right, but the worst moment had come in the restaurant when Harvey had said, “I wrote a letter to my mother telling her what had happened.” He hadn't planned to say it. It had just slipped out.

His father had swallowed hard and wiped his mouth with his paper napkin. “Did you?” he asked. There was no expression in his voice.

“Yes, but I haven't heard from her.”

“You won't.”

“I think I will.” Harvey put down his fork and looked up at his father. He said, “She probably wrote to me dozens of times over the years only you never gave me the letters.” This was something he had always suspected. He had even searched the trash cans for scraps.

“She never wrote you.”

“I don't believe that.” Harvey was holding his fork in both hands as if he was going to snap it in two. “She wrote and you tore up the letters. You probably flushed them down the toilet.” He looked across the restaurant at a fat woman begging her thin son to eat just one more French fried potato.

“Look at me, son.” Harvey's father's voice sounded so low and strange that he had to look. “She never wrote you,” he said, “not one time.” He pronounced every word carefully.

“She would write if she knew I had two broken legs.”

“She didn't write when she knew you had the appendectomy.”

“She didn't know about that.”

“I wrote her.”

“How about the measles?”

“I wrote her then too.”

“And she didn't answer?”

“No.”

“I don't believe you.”

“
No!
”

As soon as his father said “No” in that way, Harvey knew it was true. He suddenly felt old and tired. He looked down at the fork in his hands. A moment before he had felt as if he could snap it in two. Now he could no longer even hold it. He let it drop to his plate.

He looked up at his father, taking in all his features. Maybe, he thought, it was because he looked so much like his father. Could his mother, hating his father, hate him too just because of his looks? She was always saying “You're your father's son,” and he had known it was not a compliment—but could she hate him because of his looks?

“Eat your supper, Son.”

“All right.”

“Is your steak too tough?”

“No.”

“Well, eat.”

Harvey picked up his fork. He barely had the strength to move his baked potato. Finally he managed to cut his potato so it looked eaten, and to hide some of his steak, but he couldn't eat a bite.

Carlie was still standing in the doorway. “Where'd you eat?” she asked.

“Bonanza.”

“Lucky! We had tuna casserole. One night I'm going to make tacos for everybody. Are they good!”

Carlie stood in the doorway, watching Harvey's back. Harvey was trying to get the strength to lift himself onto his bed. He wished for one of those special hospital lifting bars.

Carlie said, “Oh, by the way, one of the Benson twins died today—you know the old ladies Thomas J used to live with?” She came into the room. “Or did you hear about it?”

“No.”

“Heart failure.”

“Oh.”

“It was Jefferson that died. Hey, and guess what the other twin's name was?”

“I can't.”

“Thomas! Get it? Thomas and Jefferson!
Thomas Jefferson!
” She hooted with delight. “Whoo, how's that for names? You know, one time somebody told me they knew twins named Pen and Pencil, but I didn't believe it till now.”

Harvey sat silent in his wheelchair, hunched forward like an old benched player.

“Thomas J is leaving in the morning to see the remaining twin and go to the funeral and all.” She sighed.

“Everybody here is having some excitement in their lives but me. You go off to Bonanza and Thomas J to a funeral.”

She paused. Harvey was still staring at his bed. “I don't think I can make it,” he said.

“What? Oh, you want to lie down? Here, I'll help you.” She started forward.

“No, I don't think I can make it—period.”

Carlie stopped in the middle of the room when she realized Harvey was talking about more than getting in bed. “Harvey, you
have
to make it.”

“I really don't think I can.”

“Because, Harvey, listen, you're one of us—you and me and Thomas J are a set. And I've got used to you, Harvey. When I get used to somebody I don't want anything to happen to them.”

She walked over to his wheelchair. “Look at me, Harvey—no,
look
at me.”

He glanced up. His face was pale. His eyes were dull. His lips had a smudged look.

“I promise you can make it,” she said.

He lowered his eyes.

“And I don't make promises easily, Harvey. Listen, I
promise
you can make it.”