The Seventeenth Swap (8 page)

Since he never had money to squander on anything, Eric felt safe in making this promise, and quickly steered the conversation into more interesting channels. “Mrs. Panek—remember you said this morning you'd swap that iron there if you had something just as heavy to weight your
Wall Street Journals?”

“Sure, honey, I remember. 'Course, I always kind of liked that old thing—folks ask about it, you know. Half of 'em don't know what it is! Why? You got some idee about it?”

“I've got something I'd like to swap,” Eric told her boldly. He produced the Petoskey stone.

“You mean that rock?” she said without enthusiasm.

“Folks'll ask about this, too! I'll show you—if I just had a little water—or some hair spray if you've got any . . .”

He was not surprised to discover that hair spray played no role in Mrs. Panek's life, but water was easy, and she was gratifyingly impressed by what it did to the Petoskey stone. “My
land!
Why, it gets real pretty, doesn't it? And hair spray makes it stay that way? Now, isn't that something!”

“So would you like to swap?” said Eric eagerly.

“Well—I dunno.” Her gaze moved doubtfully to the sadiron, and lingered. “That belonged to my own gramma—I've watched her use it, many's the time! And what would
you
do with it, Eric honey?”

“Oh, I wouldn't keep it. But I—I've got a friend who likes them.”

“Likes
sadirons?
” Mrs. Panek uttered a laugh as sharp as it was unexpected. “My land, what next! Well, go ahead and take it, I likely won't know the difference by this time next week. Here y'are. Now you come back and see us.”

Eric set off in a hurry for the Hobbyhorse Shop, realizing instantly—and rather guiltily—that while the Petoskey stone would no doubt do its job of holding down newspapers, it was nowhere near as heavy as the prize he was lugging now.

Maggie accepted the sadiron without hesitation, handed over the I LIKE IKE button in exchange, and threw in two Indian Head pennies as a bonus when Eric mentioned his friend who collected them.

Eric ran all the way to Mulvaney's, walked briskly through the store with only a passing wave at his dad, who was restocking the deli case, and slid through the employees' door into the backstage regions of the meat department.

“Is Mr. Forrester here?” he asked the new girl at the wrapping machine.

“In the cold room,” she told him.

Eric pondered this. He had never before ventured into the cold room, having never had reason to, and he was not quite certain of his welcome. On the other hand, people could stay busy in there for half an hour or even longer. He considered Mr. Forrester's normal
manner—brusque but not unfriendly—and decided to take the chance. He eased through the door of the cold room and started along the narrow, shelf-lined aisle toward the hanging carcasses in the rear, zipping up his jacket as the chill of the place struck through it. He found Mr. Forrester checking over a delivery of pork quarters in the second aisle over—an imposing, bankerlike figure in an incongruous long white apron and a ravelly cardigan, his rimless glasses on the end of his formidable nose and his breath in a cloud before him. Eric's breath was plainly visible too, and his jeans beginning to feel remarkably thin. Moreover he was suddenly certain he should have waited outside. But before he could retreat, Mr. Forrester turned to peer at him.

“Um?” he grunted. “Yeah? Somebody want me out yonder?”

“No, Mr. Forrester, I—I wanted to ask you something, is all. I thought you wouldn't mind if I . . .”

“Mitch Greene's boy, isn't it? Yeah. Sure. I remember you. Whatcha want, kid?”

“Well, I—Marvin, in the produce, you know—he told me you collect old campaign buttons.”

“ 'S right.” Mr. Forrester rearranged some frozen pork roasts on the shelf with a sound like boards clattering together.

“Well—I've got one for sale in case you're interested.” Eric fumbled with stiffening fingers in his pocket and produced the I LIKE IKE button.

Mr. Forrester took it in a large, shapely hand, smiled, and glanced at Eric over his glasses. “Haven't got one of these. So I'm interested. Whatcha want for it?”

Eric swallowed and said firmly, “Two dollars.”

“Fair enough.” Mr. Forrester jabbed the pin of the button into his cardigan and heaved up the apron to extract his wallet. He selected two one-dollar bills and handed them to Eric. “You come across any other buttons, you bring 'em around. Better get outa here now, it's cold.”

He turned back to his work and Eric said, “Thanks! So long! I will!” and hurried back to the semitropics beyond the cold room door.

That was it, then. Mission accomplished. Available swaps all swapped.

He had walked the length of the store and out onto the street before he understood why he wasn't feeling more triumphant—why there was, in fact, a sort of sinking in the pit of his stomach. Leaning against the glass wall of the bus stop on Mulvaney's corner, he stared at the two crumpled bills in his hand.

So. He'd finally let go his triangle stamp to find out where he'd stand when all those swaps were swapped, and he'd found out. Half a dozen swaps = two dollars. That was the end result.

And now he was out of swaps.

After a long, long time—maybe five minutes—he became aware of what he was leaning against, took a thoughtful look at the bus stop sign and another at the big clock on the corner outside the bank. Twenty-seven after four. Slowly he straightened up, folded the two dollars and put them carefully in his pocket, then explored his other pockets to see what was there. He found a dollar and a half—this morning's Jimmy-pay. He watched it dwindle as his mind took little necessary bites out of it: notebook paper, by Tuesday at the
latest. That library fine. The dime he'd owed Willy for a week. It seemed absolutely sinful to spend
ninety cents
of it on bus fare into the city and back. But it was absolutely stupid to go any further with this Great Boots Project—which was going to take longer than he'd thought—without making sure the boots were still there.

There was a pay phone in the shopping mall. That would cost only a quarter. “Hello, this is Eric Greene,” he would say to whoever answered at the shoe store. “I want to know if you still have those red-and-black cowboy boots, one hundred percent vinyl, that you advertised in the paper last . . .” “What size?” the salesman would say. And he'd have to say, “Well, I don't know, but his feet are six and three-quarters inches long—better make it seven . . .” “What width?” “Well, I don't know, just sort of normal, I guess—or maybe thinner . . .” “And did you want the scalloped top or the plain? . . . And did you want us to put those back for you . . . And do you have a charge account? . . .”

A Number 37 bus hove into sight around the corner of Evergreen Drive and rattled down Lake Street toward him, looming larger by the second—the last bus that would get him to town before the stores closed. Eric took a deep breath, exhaled explosively, and walked to the curb to get on.

An hour and a quarter later and ninety cents poorer—and, he thought bitterly, not a scrap better off—he was back at the same bus stop, wearily climbing off. It hadn't taken long at the shoe store, once he located it. And the conversation had been almost identical to the one he'd imagined having over the phone. Only there hadn't been a salesman, there'd been a tall
young black woman, intimidatingly handsome, like somebody on TV, with big dangly earrings and
seven
bracelets on one arm. Eric had found it almost impossible to talk to her, especially as she kept looking toward the door instead of at him. He had to force himself not to keep looking there too, to find out who she was expecting. At last he had managed to get her attention long enough to point out the boots—they were displayed in a case against one wall along with several other styles. They looked pretty good for $17.99, which was quite a relief, and the young woman, with a parting glance at the door, consented to go back into the stockroom with a ruler and find Jimmy's size.

But she would not save them for him—not even when he offered to put his two dollars down.

“A third down for layaway,” she told him, replacing the lid on the box and letting her gaze stray to the door. “Six dollars. Store policy, babe. You got four more dollars?”

“No,” Eric told her miserably. “How long will the sale last?”

“Probably 'nother week. You come back Monday, Tuesday. They might still be here.”

She turned away, glancing over her shoulder toward the door as she bore the precious box back to the stockroom.

Eric left. Come back Monday, Tuesday—spending another ninety cents to do it—bringing another four dollars he didn't yet have! And they
might
still be there.

Okay, that's
it,
he told himself angrily as he tramped home from the bus stop. It was a dumb, impossible idea in the first place. So forget it. Jimmy'll
never even know there was a chance. There
wasn't
a chance.

It was one of those evenings when he was glad Dad wasn't a talker. He veered restlessly between his library book and his weekend homework, finally watched a dumb movie on TV and went to bed. He couldn't decide whether he felt more like bawling or more like hitting somebody. Or maybe it was more like somebody had lied to him—or somebody had died. Whatever it was, it was entirely different—and worse—than just the usual things like not having a color TV or never getting a bike. For some reason he could not fathom there just seemed a lot more
to
it.

Sunday was a bad day for Eric. He woke up an hour earlier than he had the least need to, which would have started any day wrong, and instead of waking rested and hopeful, with a fresh outlook on everything, he felt exactly the same as when he went to bed.

He climbed into jeans and a T-shirt and padded barefoot into the kitchen to pour some orange juice, careful not to disturb his dad, who was still snoring gently behind his closed door. The fat Sunday paper Dad always brought home on Saturday evening lay untouched on the kitchen table like a package under the Christmas tree, awaiting its proper moment, which was when Dad sat down with his coffee. Eric eased the comics out of it and carried them into the living room with his juice, but somehow he couldn't settle down to them, or else they weren't comic this morning, just pointless and dumb.

He finally threw them aside and tried to think—which was pointless and dumb too, because he'd already made up his mind about the boots. Forget them!
Nothing else to do. There were times when you just had to admit you were licked. Lots of times. You might not like it but you made your peace with it. No use smashing yourself to bits trying to break through a stone wall. No use trying to climb Mount Everest when you didn't have the equipment. Dad had told him so over and over. Eric had acknowledged it over and over.

Not that he hadn't often argued—silently—with Dad's opinions and advice. Not that he hadn't thought,
Oh, what does he know!
But that was only when he was cross and rebellious, and didn't want to face facts. The facts were that Dad knew a lot more than he did, and usually he was ready to admit that. On the whole he considered he'd jogged along pretty well, making his peace with the way things were, understanding that Dad wasn't well off, couldn't buy things like bikes and there was no use whining about it.

So why couldn't he make his peace with this? He got up angrily from his chair and started shuffling together the scattered comics. Why did he keep feeling so disappointed, just about a dumb little pair of cheap boots?

It finally dawned on him, just as he bent to scoop up an armful of paper. He wasn't disappointed about the
boots.
At least—he was, but that wasn't the problem. He was disappointed in himself—because he couldn't get them.

Well—not exactly because he couldn't
get
them. He mooned over this for a minute, trying to pin it down. Because he'd decided to give up trying?

But that's what you did, when a thing was hopeless. That was the only smart thing to do. Not try to smash
stone walls or climb Mount Everest—all that. Dad said . . .

Dad said.

The closed bedroom door opened, and Mr. Greene emerged, tousle-haired, struggling into his old maroon robe. He peered at Eric, up and dressed, raised his eyebrows at this unprecedented sight, and vanished into the bathroom. Eric finished gathering up the comics and took them to the kitchen trash basket, plugged in the coffee, and sat down at the table to waylay his father before the Sunday paper claimed him. Maybe this time what “Dad said” would be something different.

A few minutes later Mr. Greene poured coffee into his favorite blue mug and sat down opposite—then, after a closer look at Eric, turned his chair kitty-cornered, crossed his legs, and propped one elbow on the newspaper instead of reading it. He always knew when Eric needed to talk. What Eric didn't know was how to begin. After a moment, to his own surprise, he bore in from an angle.

“Dad,” he said, “you know that time the man from Safeway phoned—'way last year or sometime?” He waited for his dad's puzzled nod, and forged on, not quite sure himself what he was getting at. “Well—wasn't that a kind of good job he was offering you?”

“Dairy foods manager.” Mr. Greene shrugged. “A little more money. Lot more hassle.”

Hassle. That was a familiar word, too. “I was thinking it was quite a lot more money,” Eric said casually.

After a moment his dad uncrossed his knees and turned square to the table, folding both arms on the
paper. “I started at Mulvaney's as a box boy my first year in high school. Old Mr. Mulvaney always treated me right. Why should I go work at Safeway?”