HEROES
Sam looked at the note his classmate had just handed him. "Patricia Janson has the hots for you," he read, under his breath. He looked at the classmate, who was giggling, then all around him. He saw desks, other students - students? - a wallful of drawings, bookcases, a rabbit in a cage, a blackboard, an angry teacher...
"Mister Farmer." The angry teacher was addressing Sam. He stood up, red-faced and chagrined, still clutching the note, and whispered, "Oh, boy."
"What's that you said?" demanded the teacher, a Lincoln-lanky but beardless fellow of perhaps twenty-eight or -nine. First teaching job, guessed Sam. I can handle this guy.
"Nothing, sir," he said, respectfully. "I'm sorry, sir."
"Sorry for what?"
This was a trick question and Sam knew that whatever and whoever else he was, he was caught. Still, he had to try, for his host's sake as well as his own. "Sorry, sir, for speaking out loud. I didn't mean to, sir."
The skinny teacher hesitated. Perhaps, thought Sam, all is not lost. "All right, Farmer," said the teacher, at last. "Sit down." Relieved, Sam sat; a glance to his left told him that the student who'd passed him the note was slightly disappointed. Not my friend, thought Sam. Watch out.
The bell did not ring for another half-hour. Fortunately for Sam, the lesson concerned science, and third-grade science at that. Although he was not called on again he understood the lesson sufficiently that, if he had to stay here a while, he might not unnecessarily complicate the academic life of the real young master Farmer. This person was probably about eight years old and was possibly (or possibly not) the object of one Patricia Janson's affections. He did not need to wonder long who that young lady might be, since she was called on almost immediately after Sam's narrow escape. She was a rather tall girl, for eight, and bony. Her hair could best be described as dishwater-blonde, and she wore blue-framed glasses, not quite horn-rimmed, which did not flatter her face, which badly needed flattering. In fact, those glasses helped Sam to place the year somewhat; this had to be the early 1960s. A second look revealed a strong resemblance to the teacher. So this is Mr. Janson's class, Sam realized. Poor kid. She knew the answer all right, but Mr. Janson was not satisfied. He would be harder on her than on the others, not to seem to be playing favorites.
"Yes," admitted Janson, "plants absorb carbon dioxide. But why is this significant?" Patricia was silent. Sam thought she knew the answer but had given up. He raised his hand, and so did half a dozen other students. Janson called on one of the others and received an answer that satisfied him. Patricia sat, wilting. Poor kid, thought Sam, again. If she has a crush on me, I mean Farmer, I hope it's reciprocated.
The bell did eventually ring, and recess was called. Sam didn't want to hang back and be approached by Janson, but he wasn't quite sure what Farmer's recess routine was. The boy who'd passed him the note solved his dilemma by putting an arm around Sam's neck and propelling him into the school yard. "Come on," said the boy. "Time to kick butt."
Kicking butt turned out to mean joining his new "friend," Glen, and some of their larger peers in chasing some smaller kids around the yard and stealing their lunch money. Sam's heart wasn't in it, and he quickly learned how to fake some manhandling without actually hurting anyone. He also promised to return the loot to the looted after school and hoped he could make good on his promise. He began to wonder where Al was.
After a while Sam managed to slip away, back into the school, to the boys' lavatory, which by then he needed to use. A glance in the mirror showed him a bigger eight-year-old than he'd been prepared to meet; no wonder those kids had so willingly handed over their lunch money. "Lord," said Sam, aloud. "I'm Baby Neanderthal!"
"Pithecanthropus," corrected Al; Sam spun to face him. "Not a pretty picture."
"Well, don't you look dandy," choked Sam, giving his friend the once-over. "Running away to rejoin the circus, are we?" Unperturbed, Al pinched out the ample fabric of his red and yellow polka-dotted sultan's pants, unnecessarily improving their breadth, and turned slowly on tiptoe, modeling his attire. His matching blouse, complete with ruffled cuffs and a high-frilled collar, was also outsized, as were his floppy felt shoes (yellow with a red pompon at each toe), which made scuffing sounds against the invisible imaging chamber floor as he turned. A brilliant orange wig and a bulbous red plasticine nose nearly completed the costume. Al had even applied a large circle of clown white to each cheek and around each eye, above which he'd drawn two black triangular eyebrows. His ubiquitous cigar was clamped between the teeth of his cherry-red painted grin. "Super," admired Sam.
"Tina made this whole get-up," said Al, "even the shoes."
"I didn't know Tina could sew."
"Oh," said Al, "Tina is a woman of many talents. Many amazing talents. Many amazing, unusual talents. Many amazing, unusual, hitherto unsuspected talents. Many..."
"Enough," laughed Sam. "I admit she is amazing. I confess to being amazed. But why am I Pithecanthropically here?"
"Don't you want to know why I'm dressed like this?"
"It's Hallowe'en, Al. No big mystery."
Al stared at his friend. "How did you know?"
"Pumpkins and black cats and witches on the walls... black and orange crepe everywhere... give me some credit, Al."
"You mean," said Al, removing the cigar from his mouth (and somewhat disturbing the plasticine nose in the process), "it's Hallowe'en here too?" Sam had no answer for that. With one hand Al punched a few handlink buttons to confirm the obvious and with the other he readjusted his nose. "Well, I'll be... Sam, has this ever happened before?"
"You're asking me?"
"I don't think it has, Sam. Our calendars have never coincided before; not as closely as this, not to the exact day. Wish it would happen at Christmastime," he added, ruefully.
"Well, Al," said Sam, softly, "we couldn't exchange presents anyway. It'd just make us sadder, I think." Two boys, both older and bigger than Farmer (whose first name Sam still hadn't learned), burst into the room in a frenzy of laughter, which only subsided mildly when they caught sight of Sam. One of them shoved him roughly against the sink in passing; both boys urinated, vying for distance and duration, then left without washing their hands. Sam turned back to the mirror. "I thought I was the school bully."
"No," said Al, "only the class bully."
"Go on." "It's 1963. Hallowe'en, it's Thursday, bla bla bla."
"Bla bla bla what?"
"Nothing. Ziggy's been acting a little weird - she's throwing in some extraneous stuff from time to time, that's all. Your name..."
"What extraneous stuff?"
"Well, Sam, if you must know, this particular bla bla bla is the home phone number of every left-handed U.S. senator elected in an off-year. Your name is Frankie Farmer."
"You're kidding."
"Nope. And you're the class bull. Bull?"
"Bully, yes, we've been through that, Al."
"Patience, buddy, patience. You're eight years old, single, no children..."
"Ha, ha, Al."
"... and no mother, either."
"No mother?"
"No mother." Al looked unhappily away from the handlink for a moment. Sam would have put a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder, clown suit and all, but that shoulder was not physically present. "She died when you were six," Al said, finally. "Cancer."
There was a mad rush for the urinals then, and some minor stall use; Sam washed his face until the room cleared out. "So I live with my dad?" Al winced at the scientist's use of the intimate title.
"Yeah, your... father. Sam, this isn't good."
"What? What isn't?" The bell rang before Al could answer. The hologram pressed a button and stepped back into a rectangle of light. "Al...?" Al shook his head and closed the door, leaving Sam standing alone in the lavatory, one hand extended to where the hologram had been. It took Sam a moment to realize that his presence was expected elsewhere and that tardiness would necessitate an explanation he couldn't provide. He ran out into the hall and found that he didn't know where he was in relation to his classroom. He tried to recognize some of the students who scurried by, but could not. He was late and lost.
"Hey, Farmer," called the boy who'd pushed Sam against the sink. "You sick or something, or you just in love with Nurse Perez?" Before Sam could think of an answer the boy strode up to him and strong-armed him against a door; the knob caught Sam in the small of the back and his gasp of pain delighted his assailant. "You in love, little boy, is that it?" The door opened and the boy let go of Sam, who fell backwards against a plump woman in a nurse's cap. She caught him and righted him and put a hand on his shoulder to steady him further.
"Thank you, Mister Little," said the nurse, "for bringing Mister Farmer to the infirmary." Little grinned. "It's always good to see the older boys taking care of the younger ones." She shepherded Sam into the infirmary and closed the door after him. "Did he hurt you?" she asked, indicating a short metal stool and reaching for a thermometer. Sam shook his head, sat down on the stool and permitted the thermometer to be placed in his mouth. This was as good an excuse as any to be late for, perhaps even absent from, class. Yes, if he could summon up enough thespian spirit to be faint or feverish, his father - Frankie's father - could be called to come and collect him; he wouldn't have to figure out where he lived and he wouldn't have to deal with school again until tomorrow. Nurse Perez drew up a second stool and sat down in front of Sam. "You don't have a permission slip, do you," she noted, conversationally, taking the thermometer, checking it and shaking it. She dropped it into a jar of alcohol and sat smiling at Sam as if everything was okay. He hoped everything was okay. He lowered his eyes then because she had a beautiful smile, his mother's smile, and eyes like his mother's, too, and he didn't want her to see the tears that suddenly filled his own. Funny how if you didn't watch out you could be eight again, and at the same time miss being eight. If she saw his tears she pretended not to; on the other hand, she made no move to send him back to Janson's classroom. "How do you feel?" she asked, and Sam laughed, thinking she'd taken her time getting around to asking him that. He'd already decided how to answer.
"Dizzy," he said, "and a little sick to my stomach. Do I have a fever?"
"No," she admitted, holding the back of her hand against his forehead. "You are a little warm, though. Come on." He followed her to a curtained-off cot and lay down, his shoes still on. Before drawing the curtain, she frowned and asked, "Did Mister Little hurt you?" It took Sam a moment to realize that she was referring to his recent tormentor and not, for example, to a teacher (in his elementary school, students had not been called "Mister" unless the teacher was truly angry) and then he still didn't quite understand, since he was clearly uninjured. "Did he touch you?" He shook his head, Nurse Perez shook hers and drew the curtain, and he was left in peace.
When Sam awoke he was surprised to discover that he had slept. He was even more surprised to discover that the lies he had told Nurse Perez were now true; he felt dizzy and nauseated, and he was burning up. "Al?" he called, softly and unreasonably. "Nurse?" he tried next. "Nurse Perez?" Something stirred elsewhere in the infirmary but Nurse Perez did not appear. Sam sat up and regretted it. "Whoa," he said to himself, swaying. He slid his feet to the floor and stood up, carefully. "Frankie must've been coming down with something," he reckoned aloud, getting caught in the curtain and struggling to free himself, "and guess who came down with it. Oh, boy."
"Talking to yourself. Better watch out. Nurse Perez'll send for the nuthouse white-suits and you'll be locked up." The inaptly named Little grabbed the curtain with one hand and Sam's neck with the other. "And you oughta be locked up, too, after what you did to my brother."
"What I... what I did..." Little's specialty seemed to be squashing his opponent (now thrice Sam) against the nearest handy architecture, or, as it happened, furniture. This time it was a simple gray filing cabinet, and it rattled as Sam's head cracked against the handle of its topmost drawer. Sam blacked out briefly, or thought he did; at any rate he slipped to the floor and out of Little's clutches, and finding himself suddenly free decided to stay that way: he rolled, scrambled to his feet and fled. Little chased him as far as the school yard but backed off when the school custodian started toward them. Sam noticed neither this nor the nurse who came running into the school yard a split-second later. He raced around to the front of the school and into the street, where a pale blue Rambler station wagon full of screaming, costumed toddlers nearly struck him. The driver, no doubt the mother of at least one of the little brats, shouted at Sam but didn't stop or even slow down. Sam crossed the street and kept running, down one block and over the next, past virtually identical frame-constructed tract homes, many with jack-o'-lanterns already burning in their windows, although it was not yet night. School was definitely out; how had he slept so long, where had Nurse Perez gone, why hadn't his dad come for him, where the hell did he live and where was Al?
Sam could run no more. He stood panting in front of a Colonial-style house, inexplicably painted puce with ochre window shutters and a gray door. In the middle of the lawn a black jockey shared defense of the house with a pink flamingo and two brown bunnies. If he hadn't been so nauseated already Sam's stomach would've been turned; as it was, he sank to his knees and retched into the gutter. "You get away from there, you! What are you doing?" Sam looked up to see the man of the puce house planted in the open doorway, waving something cylindrical. Not a shotgun, thought Sam, but not candy either. He forced himself to his feet and loped off to the end of the block and around the corner, out of the man's sight, before giving up. He collapsed on the sidewalk in front of someone's overgrown willow tree, which reminded him of something that immediately fell through one of the holes in his swiss-cheesed memory. He lay on the sidewalk, panting, thinking, I don't care who shoots me, I don't care if I get pelted with candy corn, I don't care if Chicken Little finds me and kills me; I can't move.
"Are you hurt?" A girl, maybe 14 years old, was peering down at Sam, very adult concern evident on her acned face.
"I'm sick," said Sam, trying to smile at her; the result must've been something very different, because her concern deepened. She helped him to stand, then finding him too wobbly to go far she called out, "Mom!" Mom, a 40-year-old ringer for her daughter (acne and all), dropped two bags of groceries to come running; a third party, a boy who was small for his seven years, hung back, dismayed, recognizing Frankie. Then he stepped hesitantly forth, thinking, maybe I'll get my lunch money back after all.
"Your dad's drunk," said Al, emotionlessly, "and you can say so. It's no secret." He was still wearing his clown costume and that cheered Sam up considerably.
"Maybe I could just stay here." Sam was sitting up against two soft pillows, toasty under heaps of blankets on a cushy sofa. The television was on, not too loudly, in a corner of the room, where the teenaged girl and her young brother lay on their stomachs, simultaneously watching "Sally Starr's Popeye Theater" and doing their homework. The girl was already in her Hallowe'en costume: Snow White's evil stepmother. She hadn't put on the long, spiky fingernails yet; they were scattered near her schoolbooks. Sam spoke softly but the little boy heard him and looked up. Sam smiled at the boy and received a suspicious frown in return. It was at this moment that Sam recognized the boy. His heart sank, then rose; he reached under the blankets and into his pants pocket and came up with a fistful of change. How much did he owe this kid, anyway? His average take had been 50 cents; he took three quarters and put the rest back into his pocket. "C'mere," he called. Was he supposed to know the kid's name? He looked inquiringly at Al.
"Douglas and Betsy Bonhoff. Their mother is Emily Bonhoff, divorced, mother of three; the oldest is at college already. Bla bla bla." Sam opened his mouth to ask about the "bla bla bla" but Al ploughed blithely ahead. "You're in Levittown, New Jersey. Oh, that's interesting, Sam. This is maybe the second or third Levitt establishment in the world. It was called Willingboro before Levitt got ahold of it and pretty soon it'll be called Willingboro again. You know, Levitt wouldn't sell to blacks or other minorities, the nozzle, but in 1968, after Martin Luther King was assassinated, he repented. Took big ads out in major newspapers, promising never to be a bigot again..." Douglas glanced back at the TV before standing up and shuffling toward Sam. Betsy was there, and this was his own home, and Farmer was, after all, sick and weak. Still, he stopped just outside arm's length of the sofa.
"Here," said Sam, holding out the three quarters. "I'm sorry about before. I... I had to. You know." The boy accepted the quarters in silence. When he turned back to the TV he found his sister staring at the two of them, obviously having witnessed the transaction, and instead of returning to his homework and the show he veered off into the kitchen, where Mrs. Bonhoff was preparing grab bags and candy bowls for the door. Sam lowered his eyes but the girl was unwilling to let her curiosity ride. She came to the sofa and looked at him inquiringly. Sam couldn't meet her eyes.
"You're the one," she said, finally. "You creep. You're almost as big as me and you've gotta pick on little bitty kids like Douglas."
"I'm sorry about Douglas. It... it won't happen again."
"It'd better not," said Betsy. "I know where you live." I wish I did, thought Sam, glancing once more at Al, who shook his head.
"Later," said Al. "Not important now." Betsy stood gazing thoughtfully down at Sam. She didn't look particularly angry. In fact, she was smiling.
"Peer pressure," said Sam.
"What?"
"I mean, the other kids make me do it. I don't want to. Really."
Betsy understood. "Yeah, I remember. I used to go to that school. It's a pit." She patted his arm. "Don't you worry. You'll get outta there and go to the junior high school and it'll be okay." Sam laughed. "Too bad you're gonna miss trick or treating. What were you gonna be?"
"Uh... hadn't decided yet." Now Betsy regarded him with the kind of pity that would've enraged Frankie but which informed Sam all at once of things he had only suspected: Frankie's father would never get him a costume or let him go out trick or treating; Frankie's father would most likely give Frankie the back of his hand for Hallowe'en, and maybe for lunch money too; anyone Betsy's age or older knew all about Frankie's father.
Mrs. Bonhoff came out of the kitchen with an armload of treats and arranged them in the large bowls already waiting on the card table by the door. "You're up," she said, cheerfully. "How are you feeling? Betsy, you almost ready?" Douglas came out of the kitchen carrying more bowls and after placing them on the table he raced from the kitchen to the back of the house; Sam turned to watch him go.
"Uh, fine, Missus Bonhoff. I..."
"Mom, I'm gonna miss most of the party."
"Betsy, we've been through this. You take Douglas out now and you'll be back in time for the second half of the party. It's that or stay here and hand out the grab-bags. Take your choice."
"But Mom..." Douglas came back into the living room as Mickey Mouse, ears and all. Al chuckled.
"I've just got time," said Mrs. Bonhoff, "to give you a lift home, Frankie."
"No, Sam," warned Al, "don't go home. Home is hell. We've got to talk."
"Couldn't I help you here, Missus Bonhoff?" suggested Sam. "I could pass out the candy and that way you could take Douglas out trick-or-treating."
"Why, that's a good idea, Frankie!"
"No," said Al, "that's a bad idea, Sam. Ziggy says that whatever you're here to do, you've gotta get out of here."
"Or," Sam quickly amended, "I could take Douglas out. That would give Betsy more time at the party." Betsy brightened; Douglas darkened.
Mrs. Bonhoff looked doubtful. "You're only eight years old yourself, Frankie."
"I'm big," said Sam, simply.
"That's true enough," laughed Mrs. Bonhoff, "but you're sick, too. You're in no condition to go trick-or-treating."
"Yes, I am! I feel much better now, Missus Bonhoff. In fact, I feel great! Look!" He took her hand and clapped it onto his cool forehead. "See? No fever."
She laughed again and relented. "All right. But you'll need a costume, won't you?"
"Oh, I don't think that would be..."
"I think we have just the thing." Mrs. Bonhoff was gone for a full 10 minutes, during which time Douglas allowed Betsy to straighten his ears and help him on with a pair of gloves that were far too large for his bony little hands. He glared at Sam, then went to get his trick-or-treat bag from the kitchen.
Betsy stroked Sam's hair. "Hang in there," she said, went to the TV and stooped to pluck her fingernails from the floor. She had the whole left hand glued on by the time her mother came back with a pseudobuckskin jacket and a beavertail cap.
"Here you go, Frankie."
"Daniel Boone," said Sam, trying to remember. Al shook his head.
"Davey Crockett," corrected Douglas, contemptuously.
"Marc wore it when he was, oh, maybe eleven," sighed Mrs. Bonhoff. "Douglas won't grow into it for a while. But you are, as you say, big." Sam couldn't argue with that. He put the jacket on over Frankie's pale green button-down shirt. He put the cap on so that the tail hung down over one eye. Al choked on his cigar. Mrs. Bonhoff turned the cap around. Sam grinned at his little joke. Maybe eight was a good age after all. "Don't you want to take a look?" asked Mrs. Bonhoff.
"Uh, sure." Sam glanced at Al as he was led off to one of the bedrooms, where he was shown a full-length mirror and left to admire himself privately. Al was waiting there for him. "I'm here," said Sam, excitedly, adjusting the jacket, "to get this family to adopt me. Aren't I, Al? I am, aren't I!"
"Sam, I know you're not feeling well..."
"I feel fine."
"You do not!" "Well, you come up with something better, then!"
"Sam, think!" said Al, sharply. "This woman - Missus Emily Bonhoff, age forty, divorced and receiving no child support whatsoever - works a full-time job by day and clerks at a supermarket three nights a week just to feed the two kids she's already got, I mean still got, and to pay off the mortgage on this house."
"The one in college can't help out?"
"Naw; he saved the money himself to go, and now that he's gone it looks like he's gonna be a free spirit. Changed his name. Never writes home. Moved out of the dorm. They could find him through the school but Emily doesn't want to bother him. Anyway, as far as we know, he hasn't any money to help out with." Al took a closer look at the handlink. "Geez, Sam, this house cost eight thousand dollars new in 1960."
"Eight thousand dollars?"
"The point is, Sam, she can't afford the two she has; don't go sticking her with a third kid just because you like the neighborhood..."
"I hate the neighborhood," said Sam, firmly. "I'm just trying to help Frankie."
"... unless, of course," Al just had to finish, "you were planning on somehow changing history so she wins the lottery."
"New Jersey had a state lottery in 1963?"
"No, Sam. Never mind. Look, I'm gonna go back and light a fire under Ziggy and try and get some results here, okay? But be careful, Sam. Don't go home. Ziggy isn't sure but she thinks Frankie is in some danger, and it's a good bet, from what he's been saying, it's his father."
How is he, anyway? Where does he think he is?"
"Oh, he was a handful for a while, Sam. That's why I had to leave so fast before. He was out of control. But he's okay now; he just needed, uh, a firm guiding hand."
"You."
"Well, Sam, I know I never had any kids, but I don't think I am completely unable to deal effectively with children."
"You didn't..."
Al drew himself up to his full height, which was less than impressive itself but was more than balanced by the Observer's extreme dignity. "I do not strike those who are smaller than myself," he said.
"You do not often find those who are smaller than yourself."
"I'm outta here."
0*0*0
Sam and Douglas trekked up one street and down the next in the immediate neighborhood, which extended from the Bonhoff house beyond the school and around as far as the hospital. They were on their way back, their bags fairly full (Douglas' was orange with witches flying their brooms across it; Sam's was brown and said "Shop Rite"), and Douglas still hadn't volunteered a word to Sam, though he'd answered Sam's attempts at friendliness, briefly but civilly. "We did pretty well," said Sam, referring to the loot.
"Yeah," said Douglas.
"You know," tried Sam, "I don't need all this stuff. I can't eat it all myself, you know. Maybe I could give you some of it, hm?" Douglas only grunted at this, but he did sneak a peak at Sam's haul, and Sam was hopeful that the bribe would prove effective. "Though I might like some of the candy corn," he qualified, a little nostalgically.
"Hey, Farmer." Sam and Douglas looked back to see a half-dozen bizarre creatures closing in on them. Despite their manifestation as a pirate, the Lone Ranger, a cowboy, G.I. Joe and a tin-foiled knight, Sam recognized them as Glen (the pirate) and the recess bully brigade. (The sheeted ghost was more difficult to identify.) "Who's the squirt?" asked Glen. Douglas tried to get away but he was quickly surrounded; Sam pushed his way between the boy and Glen. "What'chyou doin' hanging around with babies?"
"He's my apprentice," said Sam, hoping he'd be understood. "Uh, my assistant. My trainee."
"He's too small."
"Everyone has to start somewhere."
"I don't want to," said Douglas, backing away, and they all turned to stare at him. "My mother told me to stay away from you guys." His defiant gaze skimmed over Sam with no reduction of contempt or acknowledgment of what had passed between them. Sam felt cut and, inexplicably, ashamed.
"He's dead," said Glen, signaling the others to follow Douglas. Sam blocked his erstwhile buddy and the others halted too.
"He's my friend," said Sam. "You want him, you go through me first."
"Don't hurt them," warned Al. "They're kids." Sam nodded, his hands raised in tae kwon doh defensive position, his mind mapping out ways to discombobulate his foes without injuring them. Douglas was walking home, a slight stiffness of his back the only hint that he may have been aware of the trouble brewing behind him. That trouble, in the form of six boys, aged eight to eleven, jumped on Sam in an instant. He flung them away from him like so many flies. The ghost boy got tangled in his sheet. Awed but determined, the remaining five jumped him again, and some got in a lick or two (G.I. Joe managed to whack Sam in the eye with his plastic rifle and the beavertail cap went sailing off; I'd better get that back, thought Sam, in the midst of all this; it'll be valuable some day), but, impeded to one extent or another by their costumes and by Sam's unexpected prowess, they all ended up like comic book villains: more or less in a heap, defeated, facing an impossibly gifted hero. Douglas had disappeared way down the block, unaware of the brouhaha and its result. "I hope you're proud of yourself, Sam." Al's contempt was not much less palpable than Douglas' had been.
Sam turned scarlet, first with embarrassment, then with anger. "Damn it, Al, you always pop up in time to be totally useless. You don't have to be a critic too!" His eye began to smart and he touched it tenderly, wincing.
"They're just kids."
"And what am I?" It was a stupid question and he knew it. "Well, what was I supposed to do, Al?"
"Run away."
"Run away? How is that going to help Frankie? How is that going to help Douglas? I guess I should've let them kill him."
"Don't be such a drama queen," said Al. "Nobody's gonna kill anybody. A bloody nose, maybe. Which you've already got, by the way." Sam tested his nose; it was indeed bleeding. He could feel the trickle reach his upper lip, and contorted his mouth to divert it. He reached a hand up to wipe it away, then didn't know what to do with the bloodied hand. He was breathing rather hard, even considering his recent exertion. "Busted pride," continued Al. "Douglas could handle that. But you couldn't, huh?" Sam was silent. Al waited for his friend to cool down but it didn't happen; Sam continued to steam, and when he lifted his eyes to meet Al's the hologram was a little taken aback to see the tears of fury welled there. "Sam," he began.
"Leave me alone," said Sam, huskily. "Go away."
"But..."
"Scram."
"Hold on, buddy, I haven't..."
"I mean it, Al. Get lost. I'll do this myself."
"Do what yourself, Sam?"
"Do... whatever. I don't know. But whatever it is, I'll do it alone. I don't need you."
Al recoiled from the vehemence of his friend's words and Sam, seeing this, immediately wished the words recalled, but Sam could more easily go home than unsay them. The Observer observed only his handlink for several long moments; he seemed to be picking lint off it. Almost by accident, he pressed the buttons that opened his door of light, into which he backed, felt shoes flapping, white-circled eyes still downcast, and vanished.
Sam whirled to face one of the boys he'd defeated. The kid was almost on top of him, his hands up not to attack or in imitation of Sam's once-more defensive posture but in a gesture of appeasement. He was returning Sam's beavertail hat. Sam lowered his hands and the rest of the boys, Glen trailing well behind, approached as he accepted the hat. Another boy had picked up Sam's candy bag and replaced all but the most soiled of the spilled sweets; Sam accepted this too, then accepted all the boys, including Glen, with a (nonlethal) wave of his hand. "C'mon," he said, leading them down the street a few paces, to the next decorated house. He even smiled as he slapped Marc's beavertail hat onto Glen's head, but there was an inexpressible ache in his heart as he turned his back on the image of the red plasticine nose that had fallen from Al's face and briefly been visible, only to whom it had the power to injure, before the imaging chamber door had closed and it had vanished with its owner. The place where Sam had last seen it was marked somehow, in his memory: an extra line of tar or a paving flaw to be trod carefully around, in the middle of the unforgiving street.
0*0*0
Sam had weighed the value of chasing after Douglas against the benefits of sussing out Glen's game and the latter had won; besides, he'd been swept along, and it hadn't been unenjoyable. Whatever he'd lost from the Shop Rite bag in the previous scuffle had long since been replaced; he and his new friends had been treated at every house between the school and the ugly puce Colonial with its ochre shutters, gray door, and kitschy lawn ornaments. Their slivers of soap were burning holes in the pockets of those costumes that had any. "Benson," said the ghost, indistinctly.
"The old bastard," said Glen, spitting. Sam could not disagree.
"We... we soap his windows, right?" Glen looked at Sam in surprise. "Soap 'em? Smash 'em!"
Well, thought Sam, I've been on top for the last half-hour and that's the most useful place for me to stay. No use being a goody-two-shoes about this. He picked up a smooth yellow stone that almost filled his fist and hefted it before flinging it at a dark upper window; it sailed through with a satisfying crash. All the boys cheered, even Sam. The old bastard! At that moment Sam hoped the window would be expensive to repair, but an instant later he recovered enough of himself to wonder why nothing was stirring within the assaulted house. "Something's wrong," he said, softly.
Glen said, "Huh?"
"Something's wrong," repeated Sam, starting for the gray door.
"What're you doing?" Unsurprised to find the door locked, Sam examined the ochre shutters of the ground-floor window directly under the one he'd broken; they seemed sturdy enough, so he used one to propel himself upward. His costumed peers watched, awed, as, standing on a shutter, he grabbed the sill of the broken window and hauled himself up. He wished now he hadn't given Glen the cap because it would have made a fine mitten for his hand if he had to break the remaining glass; however, he was able to climb up onto the sill and balance himself there as he reached gingerly inside and unlocked the window. Then it was up and he was in. Immediately he tripped, misjudging the distance to the floor, and cut his bloodied but previously uninjured right hand on a piece of glass. He froze, anticipating a response to his cry of pain, but none came. The room was damned dark and there was no corded ceiling lamp - only, he supposed, a wall switch, probably near the door, on the opposite side of the room. He delicately brushed shards of glass from his right hand, then held it tightly with his left, to stop the bleeding. Great. Now I'll be leaving big bloody pawprints everywhere. Boy oh boy.
The hallway had a night light and Sam easily found his way to the top of the stairs. He wondered where this courage was coming from; was he feverish again? Surely he and/or Frankie were already reformatory-bound if his fears were unfounded and old Benson was all right. Any moment now he'd be pounced on and dragged to the police station, where his explanations would be disbelieved and his doom sealed; Benson might even take a bit out of his hide first. Yet somehow he knew that his intuition was correct: that somewhere in the house Benson was in trouble and needed him. Somewhere in the house. Right. Where, precisely, in the house? Sam caught sight of a light beyond the staircase and was about to check it out when a moan from below prompted him to look down the staircase. Benson was sprawled face-down across the landing. Sam took the stairs two at a time and swiftly but gently rolled the old man over. He was semiconscious but his breathing was strong; he emitted occasional faint moans. Further examination both revealed a broken leg (and, Sam suspected, hip) and bloodied the man's clothes. Sam nearly tumbled down the stairs in his race to find a telephone.
0*0*0
By the time the ambulance arrived night had fallen as far as it was going to fall. Sam hadn't been keeping track of the time - didn't even have a watch - but figured that the Bonhoffs had supped around five-thirty while he napped (he'd been given some soup later) and it had been between six and six-thirty when he'd left the house with Douglas. How long had he been out? The street lights had been on for a while now. It could be seven-thirty or eight now, or midnight, except that a number of older trick-or-treaters were still visible, and occasionally audible, down the block. Some of them seemed interested in the ambulance and were heading toward it; a good many neighbors had already gathered in front of Benson's house, where Sam and his costumed companions waited, answering (or evading) questions and basking in a little unaccustomed admiration. Since they were heroes, the boys were allowed to ride in the ambulance (the hospital was so near they could have walked there), as long as they kept out of the way. Benson regained consciousness during the short ride and rewarded Sam's encouraging smile with a murderous glare. Sam didn't mind. He'd done his good deed and was as ready to leap as he ever was, which wasn't very; leaping in was always traumatic but he was often completely content to leave an old leap behind, and this was one of those times...
... only he didn't leap. Did he need Al to leap? He thought he remembered one or two occasions, apart from that first leap, on which Al had not been summing up the results on the handlink as Sam let himself be swept from one recently mastered time, place, life, to another one, to start the learning process anew. He also thought that if he'd learned anything from leaping around it had been that no two situations were exactly alike. He might well need Al to leap from here. Even if I don't need him to leap, he thought, and even if I don't need him to survive, I do need him. Benson was taken away to the emergency room and Sam's gang was temporarily abandoned. Everyone's paper bag or pillowcase (except Sam's, which had been lost) was full. Everyone was proud but pooped and it was, after all, a school night. Everyone's parents were waiting, perhaps worried, perhaps angry, but no one would be punished tonight. They were heroes.
"Gonna head home," said the ghost boy.
"Good idea," said Glen. "Gonna kick some butt tomorrow, right?" The other boys laughed and nodded and started for the nearest exit.
"I've got a better game in mind," said Sam, "than kicking butt."
"Better than kicking butt?" Glen was doubtful.
"Yeah, better than kicking butt. Guarding butt." In those eyes not obscured by masks Sam could see the idea taking hold. "Protecting butt."
"Neat," said the Lone Ranger.
"They pay for our protection?"
"No, Glen," explained Sam. "We do it for free. We do it because we're heroes." The others were jumping up and down but Glen wasn't buying it.
"What's in it for us?"
"What's in it for us? Glen, is that what it's about for you? The money? What, you... you just have to get that... that last Green Lantern for your collection? Or are you saving up for a Porsche?"
"Green Lantern?" asked the Lone Ranger. The others shrugged and left. Right, thought Sam. It's been out two years and they don't know it. Glen was scowling now and he left just long enough after the others not to have to walk with them. Sam knew suddenly that for him it was the money. Glen would go without lunch if he didn't rob the smaller kids. Maybe lunch was his only regular meal. Sam had nothing to say, nothing to offer the boy. Now Glen would go through coat pockets and empty desks and unattended pencil cases, or accost his victims after school instead of at recess, and in secret instead of openly, supported by his friends. He'd save face and manage to scrape by, and he'd hate Frankie Farmer forever. It couldn't be helped. He can't be helped. I'm trying to put wrongs right and instead I'm screwing up this kid's life. Why am I here? Al? Al, I'm sorry...
"Come on," said the ambulance driver, who looked so much like Abraham Lincoln that Sam had checked his I.D. badge and found, sure enough, the name Janson: Pete Janson. "I'll give you a lift." Pete didn't ask where Sam lived and since Sam didn't know, he kept his mouth shut. Sitting up front he was able to memorize the route; if he was going to be Frankie for any length of time he'd have to know his way around (and do a bit of homework, too, he thought, not without a small measure of alarm). "How do you like that?" asked Pete, referring to the siren, which got them through every red light and hurt Sam's head a little. (Trying to give the kid a thrill; too bad I'm not that kid.) "How's the hand?" Sam showed him the bandage. "Your eye's gonna be black." Sam nodded. "You sure did leave a blood trail, boy!"
Sam wanted to ask if Pete was the teacher's brother and Patricia's uncle but he didn't dare, since Pete was at least well enough acquainted with Frankie to know where he lived. Where he lived turned out to be a house just like Benson's but with a gentler color scheme: a white frame house with canary-yellow shutters and a door that had once been bright red but was faded now almost to rusty brown. Everywhere paint could be peeling it was; everything that could bend or sag did. The whole community was spanking new; even without Al to fill him in, Sam could tell that. How had this house gotten so old so fast? Pete had turned the siren off two blocks before and when he stopped in front of the faded house he gave Sam a searching look and patted his knee. "Go on," he said. Without knowing quite why, Sam was a little afraid; a mild sense of doom was beginning to reside in the pit of his stomach. "Go on," said Pete, again, reaching across Sam to open the door.
The ambulance was gone before Sam had a chance to thank Pete; he turned to the rusty door and took a deep breath, and a few steps. Whatever had been warning him mildly was now signaling his stomach more insistently; he thought his earlier illness might be returning. He took another deep breath and walked right up to the door, which opened as he reached it. The Cro-Magnon man who waited there for him in oversized boxer shorts, a gray undershirt and a colorless cardigan, could only be Frankie's father. From where he stood Sam could smell the whiskey on his breath, and he could see too that the man was not a jolly drunk. Then he saw stars, because Farmer's open hand, as big as a brick and as hard, shot out and slapped him to the ground. "Where'd you get that jacket!" boomed Farmer, bending down to take it. "You little thief."
Sam pulled away from the man and somehow managed to get to his feet. He stumbled backward a few steps and gasped, startled, as his face was brushed by the tiny leaves of the inevitable willow tree into which he'd backed. No, he couldn't allow himself to be trapped here! As his father - God forbid he should have had such a father! - lunged for him once more he sprang into the crook at the center of the tree, hoping as he reached higher that the willow would not prove too slender to support him. It was a vain hope. The boughs were too weak. He fell at his father's feet, and his father fell at his.
Sam recovered consciousness first and didn't want it. There was a part of him lucid and distant enough to note that he'd spent more time than usual today lying about in various degrees of unconsciousness, and thought this was pretty humorous. There was a greater part of him that wanted a hug and a more comfortable place to pass out. Yet another part was beginning to notice that Farmer was snoring on the chilly roots of the willow tree, one child-laden branch of which had sent him into his unscheduled slumber. Sam put his bandaged right hand on the tree and his left on the huge man's shoulder, intending to use both to help him stand, but although the hand on the tree no longer stung, the wrist to which it was attached was fractured. Sam cried out and fell across Farmer. This time he used his right elbow and left hand to push himself up. He stood against the tree again, this time not minding the tickle of the leaves.
The wisest thing would be to run as fast as he could to the Bonhoffs and beg them to let him stay, but there was a drunken man lying unconscious on the damp lawn in the chilly night. He had to get him inside, at least, before making good his own escape. Pros and cons, thought Sam. Be rational; list the pros and cons: Cons first: I am working with only one good arm and I'm cold and tired and sick and in pain and my best friend is gone; I don't know if I can physically do it and if I can, will I have any strength left to run away? And I have to run away because while I'm standing here thinking about pros and cons he could wake up and kill me. Pros: I can't just leave him here.
Sam went inside; it was not much warmer there than outside and the place was a wreck. He vaguely remembered the dorm room of the overfraternal Wild Thing, whose life he'd once briefly inhabited. Compared to this house that room had been pristine, sterile. Sam stepped on, over and around clothing, newspapers, empty and half-full liquor bottles, scrapbooks, towels, ropes, loose batteries of various sizes, mechanical and electrical equipment that Sam had no time to stop and identify and other stuff he had no time to notice. He climbed the stairs, almost expecting to see Benson still stretched out on the landing, as the layout was identical. The first room he found was a bedroom - his own, he guessed, from the size and from the sporting paraphernalia. Apparently, Frankie liked football, and was willing to take much better care of his toys than his father was of his own. Sam didn't waste much thought on all this; he stripped the bed of its faded topsheet and raced back out of the house. With his left hand he spread the sheet on the grass. This was difficult, but not as difficult as rolling Farmer off of the roots of the willow and onto the sheet.
Every time Farmer's breathing changed Sam wanted to drop him and flee; the man was not just bigger than Frankie but bigger by far than Sam himself. The sheet was not wide enough to be tied over the immense body, and without doing that first Sam could not drag the sheet a single inch without simply pulling it out from under Farmer. Why didn't I take the extra minute to find Farmer's bedroom? He stood panting, holding his wrist, wishing he were anywhere but here. Then he remembered having seen some rope in the house. There was no way for Sam to get Frankie's father up the stairs and into bed; he would have to settle for the floor of the front hall and a blanket for which Sam again had to negotiate the rubbish-littered stairs. By the time he felt he was entitled to leave he was too exhausted to go anywhere. It had occurred to him not to free Farmer too soon from the sheet, but he'd freed him all the same, and checked his vital signs while he was at it. The man was all right - just drunk and maybe a little concussed. It would be dangerous, Sam decided, to rest.
On his way out, leaving only the hall light on, he thought to reach into the pocket of the coat hanging on the rack by the door and was rewarded with a sawbuck and a half-pack of peppermint Lifesavers. (It occurred to him to wonder where his own coat was; then he guessed he must have left it behind in Janson's classroom, to which he hadn't returned before leaving the school.) The Lifesavers made him realize how hungry he was - he was bushwacked then by a pang not of hunger but of regret for the lost Shop-Rite bagful of candy! - and he almost went in search of the kitchen instead of leaving, but a loud snore from not far off eighty-sixed that plan; he stuck the money and the candy into a pocket of the borrowed buckskin jacket, opened the door and walked into the waiting arms of young Mister Little.
"Is he dead?" asked Little. He had Sam's left arm pinned behind his back and with one hip was pressing Sam against the shutter of a window on the side of the house, where he'd dragged him, out of the light. Worst of all, he had Sam's right wrist between his fingers and was squeezing, probing, causing exquisite pain. "I didn't figure you'd have the guts to kill him." Even if Sam had known how to answer Little he could not have uttered a word; he was concentrating too hard on not fainting. He had no room to kick; in fact, Little was blocking him inch for inch and then some.
Through his pain Sam realized with a shock that Little was not merely blocking him; his physical proximity had another purpose. "Did he touch you?" Nurse Perez had asked. How had she known? Sam shuffled his feet to the right. He had to get off the shutter and to the window. The movement won him an inch and a brutal wrist-squeeze.
"You can't get away," said Little. "Don't try." Sam did more than shuffle this time; he lifted his right knee and jabbed Little as high and as hard as he could. This was neither hard nor high, since he hadn't much room, but when his leg came down he made sure he stumbled and fell to the right. Little wasn't going to let him escape that way a second time; he lifted Sam bodily and slammed him against the window. Sam in turn slammed his right fist backwards through the window, carrying Little's hand with him. They both shrieked as the glass pane shattered. Little let go of Sam's left arm and Sam tried to use it to flip the boy through the window, but it was too sore for a feat like that; the best he could do was to shove Little with his shoulder, then kick him again, this time much more effectively. Little went down and Sam nearly did too, but regained his balance and got the hell out of there. He was getting seriously tired of running all over Levittown, New Jersey, but he couldn't stop. He was terrified. Real live people were after him; he would have relished an encounter with something a little less corporeal. Maybe ghosts were less violent too, more reasonable. Maybe holograms...
The bright light and whooshing sound stopped Sam in his tracks. "Al?" he said, hopefully, turning around, and was blinded by the headlights of a dark Oldsmobile that had pulled alongside him; he held his good hand up to shade his eyes, wincing as he accidentally hit the sore eye. He couldn't see the driver. What did Farmer's car look like? He backed up in a kind of panic, onto someone's lawn, then turned and ran toward the front door, crying, "Help! Help me!" As he threw himself upon the door, banging on it with his left hand, his shoulder, his head, anything that might make a sound, the car's lights went out and the driver got out and rapidly approached Sam. The driver's face was not visible in the darkness but Sam could see immediately that this was not Farmer. He stopped attacking the door and waited quietly, though the ache that pervaded his entire body was as inescapable as an endless sound.
"Mister Farmer?" Sam knew the voice. He knew the lanky figure of his teacher, Mr. Janson. He even knew the ballerina who had followed her father out of the car and who now stood just behind him, shivering in her father's coat and staring at Sam's bloody bandaged hand and fractured, lacerated wrist, at his dazed, half-relieved, half-wary expression, and at the uncharacteristic tenderness with which her father caught the falling boy and carried him back to the car.
"How come we're always picking glass out of you?" asked the same doctor who'd previously patched up Sam's hand and inspected his eye. Sam shrugged and smiled. His wrist was secured on a splint and he had a fresh bandage now, wound all the way up to his elbow. The doctor was probing his scalp for bumps. "What've we got to do to keep you out of trouble?" Sam had a sudden thought.
"Has Mister Little ever been in here?"
"John Little, the school custodian?"
"No, I mean his son." The doctor let go of Sam's cranium rather suddenly. He stood up and opened the curtain that gave minimal privacy to the table on which Sam sat. He looked around, then closed the curtain again and sat back down on the table, next to Sam. He spoke softly.
"Frankie, has Mister Little ever... done anything to you?"
"Do you mean the father or the son?" The doctor frowned.
"Like father, like son," said Al. Sam jumped.
"Al"
"What?" The doctor picked up Sam's bandaged arm. "Where does it hurt?"
"No, I..."
"John Little regularly molests his older son, Craig," said Al. "He used to molest his younger son, David, until the poor kid jumped from the roof of the school, about a month ago." Sam's shocked eyes questioned the Observer. "No, he didn't die. He's paralyzed, Sam. Eight years old and he's got no life, but at least his father leaves him the hell alone. But Craig..."
"I feel sick," said Sam. "I mean tired. Do you think maybe I could just lie down here for a couple of minutes? Just five minutes." He began to lie down.
"Sure," said the doctor, not at all surely. He patted Sam briefly on the cheek and left.
"Al," whispered Sam, raising himself on his left elbow. "You came back."
"I had to, Sam. Ziggy said Frankie's father was going to kill you. In the original history, he did kill you."
"He tried, Al. God, I'm glad to see you." Something stirred outside the cubicle. "Al, this is really important. You've been talking to Frankie, right? Has he ever been molested before? By anyone! Big Little or Little Little or whoever. And did Craig get him or not? I mean, is tonight the first time he..."
Al interrupted with so harsh a sound that Sam bit his tongue, then gasped as Al fell onto his knees. "Tell me he didn't," he rasped. "I'll never forgive myself. Sam, if I could have prevented..."
"No, no, Al," Sam hastily reassured him, leaning over the edge of the table, "I got away. I got away. But I need to know what happened to Frankie."
Al was still on his knees, not looking at Sam. "He tried. I wasn't there."
"He didn't succeed. I feel like hell but I'm pure as the driven snow. Come on, Al. Look at me." Al looked at him. "I want to tell you how sorry I am about before and how relieved I am to see you and even how much I love you, Al, but that doctor'll be back in a minute and he's gonna want to know which Little if any molested Frankie Farmer, and I don't know, and you do. Please, Al."
Al stood up and brushed himself off. He was dressed not in the clown suit but much more conservatively in a bright orange kimono with witches on broomsticks flying all over it. He looked exactly like Douglas' trick-or-treat bag. His hair was wild and he was barefoot - and cigarless.
"Consider all those things said," he murmured.
"No, Al, I owe you one hell of an apology and you'll get it, formally, on my knees, too, if you like, but later."
"Frankie was with David Little when he jumped."
"Oh, God."
"Frankie and David were friends. Neither of them was very specific about being abused by his father, each in his own way, but they both knew. They recognized it in each other and they became friends. Frankie tried to stop David from jumping. Now, if John Little admits that his eight-year-old son tried to commit suicide, that's tantamount to admitting to himself that he hurt him. He can't do that, right? If he did that he'd have to stop, and he can't stop. So he has to believe that Frankie pushed his son off that roof. And Craig has to believe it to, though surely he knows better."
"Frankie told you all this?" "Well, there is some extrapolation going on, okay, but yes, Frankie has told us as much as he knows. He's been drawing pictures and acting things out with toys - you know, like toy soldiers and stuff. Doctor Beaks is a genius. She's pulling it all out of him, and it's not pretty, Sam. Not pretty at all. And then Ziggy said you were in the emergency room..."
"Second time tonight, Al. Safest place in town, it's turning out." Sam showed Al his arm. Al whistled. "So I can tell the doctor that I have never been molested."
"You're not going to bust the Littles?"
"Al, I can tell the doctor what happened tonight and maybe get someone to help Craig, but I don't think Frankie or I can say anything about his father. We don't... we couldn't know anything." The curtains stirred; Sam lay down flat and closed his eyes.
"How's our favorite window-smasher?" The doctor sat down and Sam sat up.
"Doctor," said Sam, "I've had a really weird night and I'd like to tell you about it now. Have you got a few minutes?"
0*0*0
Patricia was asleep by the time the doctor emerged from the curtained cubicle. Mr. Janson'd had the situation explained to him early on and had called home, so he wasn't particularly anxious. He kept one arm around his sleeping daughter; her head rested on his shoulder. As the doctor spoke to him he drew the ballerina closer. He woke her gently while the doctor went back into the cubicle to collect Sam. She smiled sleepily at Sam when he trudged wearily out; she was still homely, even without the glasses (Mr. Janson had them in his hand) but it was a sweet smile, which he tried to return.
"Nurse Perez and I have been searching for you all night," said Mr. Janson, sternly, wiping sleep from each of Patricia's eyes with a long, gentle thumb.
"I'm sorry," said Sam, truthfully.
"Sam," said Al, "Ziggy says Frankie is safe now. His father isn't going to kill him."
"What about his father?" interrupted Sam. "I left him lying on the floor..."
"Well, you left the door unlocked too, so the ambulance guys'll have no trouble getting to him. Frankie's going to be taken away from his father, and just in time, too. In fact, the Jansons are going to adopt him. It'll be two decades before Craig Little gets help and confronts his dad, but it is gonna happen. Meanwhile the community is wise to Little and the school'll just quietly let him go.
"And you'll be happy to know that your gang of six back there all grow up and become bigger bullies: lawyers, mostly. Accountants. Civil servants."
"That's wonderful, Al," whispered Sam. "Mostly wonderful, anyway." He hung his head. "I guess I blew it for Douglas. Lost his brother's cap, got blood all over the jacket, didn't take care of him. He did make it home, didn't he?" Al nodded distractedly, checking the handlink. "I guess Betsy'll never forgive me."
"Oh, I don't know," said Al. "Seems you've steered her toward a career in child psychology."
Mr. Janson stood up and so did Patricia. Sam said, a little more loudly, "I'd like to give you a hug." Both Mr. Janson and Al were startled, but Janson only hesitated a moment before opening his arms. Sam jerked his head toward Janson, and Al started again, then slowly moved over to the teacher. He literally stepped into the taller man's shoes. He had to use the handlink, though, to rise a little, ghost-like, for Sam to be able to thank his benefactor and embrace his best friend at the same time.
THE END