After Sylvia Page 6

  Owens dress shoes didn’t fit so he had just slipped on his classroom shoes, a pair of desert boots handed down by Andy months before. Both laces had been snapped and re-tied with tiny knots, such that it now took great skill to tighten the laces without breaking them again.

  Owen sat at his desk and tried to conjure up Sylvia. It took a great deal of concentration now to summon her, to make her eyes blue enough, to keep her face from turning into Miss Glendon’s. He thought of how they had walked together to the river and she had told him how her father had hurt his back playing tiddlywinks. He thought he could hear her voice in his head telling the story again, but realized with a start that it was Miss Glendon’s.

  “Martha Henbrock,” she was saying, and the class was applauding, and Martha walked slowly to the front.

  She too had tiny cards that she gripped against her belly like a life preserver.

  “Miss Glendon, fellow classmates and candidates, thank you for this opportunity to share my views,” she said, pronouncing each word painfully, as if moving her jaw through too much toffee. “Every year, children die of terrible diseases all over the world. I think that we, as fellow children, should dedicate ourselves to wiping out disease, malnutrition, poverty and ignorance everywhere. As president of the Junior Achievers, I would spare no effort to aid in the fight for planetary improvement. Even though we are young, we are the future. And without us, there would be none!” She threw her arms out dramatically but dropped her cue cards, which scattered like petals around her feet.

  Nobody clapped, until she finally bent down to pick up her cards, and then Miss Glendon began to applaud and others followed.

  Dan Ruck was next. He had no cards and he stuck his hands in his pockets and shifted from leg to leg as if standing on board a rocking boat.

  “I, uh, well, hmmm,” he said, then horked up some phlegm suddenly and looked around, at a loss. Finally he just swallowed it and pushed a hand through his hair nervously. After the hand came down, some of the hair relaxed in front of his eyes, where it had been previously, and some stayed sticking straight up.

  The words rushed out of his mouth. “I thought it might be a good idea to have a dance,” he said. He blew out loudly, twice, in an effort to catch his breath. “With, uh... just fuddle music. I mean fiddle! If you want to make me president,” he said in conclusion, “my pa and uncles are fiddlers. That’s all.”

  He bolted back to his chair, and once again Miss Glendon led an uncertain round of applause. Owen found himself gripping his desk in mounting terror.

  Next Michael Baylor walked to the front of the class. He was tall and graceful and held his little cards as if keeping them for someone else who might need them.

  “Some people,” he said, looking out at the class and pausing, the thought apparently just occurring to him, “never get beyond our little world in this small part of the country. We,” he said, putting his hands on his hips now and looking down, shaking his head sadly, “might even be among them. Where will we go in our lives? What will we do with ourselves when we get older?”

  He looked straight at Owen for a moment until Owen squirmed, thinking he might be expected to answer.

  “Children, in other schools are taking advantage of these years,” Michael Baylor said, “to see the world as their parents have never dared see it. I’m not sure if anyone here read in the newspaper last week about the class that traveled all the way to Japan?”

  Something lodged in Owen’s throat then and he started coughing horribly and gasping for breath.

  “Why couldn’t we organize something like that?” Michael Baylor asked. “Aren’t we good enough to go to Japan?”

  Owen gasped and struggled in his seat. Martha Henbrock whacked his back with the palm of her hand but he continued to hack and wheeze.

  “Owen, do you need to get some water?” Miss Glendon asked.

  Owen nodded his head in panic and fled the classroom. He bolted across the playground and into the main school, then down the hall and thrust his face into a drinking fountain. He drank and drank and tried to think what to do.

  Michael Baylor was saying everything he meant to say!

  Some minutes later Martha Henbrock came to get him at the water fountain. “Michael is going to win,” she said. “He told everyone his father could bring them to Japan like that other class.”

  Owen followed her back outside. The wind had picked up just in the last while, and suddenly the first snow of the winter was being driven against the windows and walls of the tired old school and the shivering little portable.

  Once inside again, Owen brushed the snow off his hair and his jacket. He walked to the front of the classroom, then spent as much time as he could taping Leonard’s banner to the blackboard. Some people tittered. He was hoping that during the delay a massive fire would break out and burn down the school.

  His mind felt frozen. He turned to look at everyone. At the back, Dan Ruck sat with his face buried on the desk under his arms. Michael Baylor was beaming and confident, the picture of a future president.

  Owen took out his cards and looked at them. The words seemed even more welded together.

  He cleared his throat finally and began to speak without knowing what words might come out.

  “Michael Baylor,” Owen said, “wants us all to go to Japan.” He paused, then opened his mouth again. “Japan!” he said, and looked out at everyone — at Martha Henbrock and Joanne Blexton and Miss Glendon, who was standing at the back. “Japan!” he said again, and some people began to chuckle. Owen took a step and found that he felt more comfortable, so he started pacing back and forth at the front of the room. “Why not Gibraltar?” he asked, and some more people laughed. “Why not Brussels or Boston or Kalamazoo? Why shouldn’t we go to Peru or Mesopotamia or the lost city of Adantis? If we can go to Japan, we can go to — “ And he paused, trying to think of some other place.

  Someone called out from the back, “Italy!”

  Someone else said, “Ethiopia!” and there were calls for Ireland and Brooklyn and Labrador before Miss Glendon shushed them down.

  “This is Owen’s speech,” she said, glaring at Owen, who at once felt awful.

  “Maybe we can go to Japan,” he said. “It might be a good idea. But maybe we should start with something easier. It would take a lot of money to go to Japan, and we don’t even have pen-pals yet. We don’t even know if they would like us. But we could go... to Elgin,” he said.

  “What would we do in Elgin?” Michael Baylor called out, and some people laughed. He looked upset, and Miss Glendon didn’t tell him to be quiet.

  What would they do in Elgin? Owen looked at the world map on the wall, as if it might tell him. He looked at the clock and the door to the cloak room and at Miss Glendon, who still seemed angry with him. Then he glanced at Miss Glendon’s desk, where her papers were laid out, and her pens were standing up in a large metal cup, and her pencils were in another wooden one. People began to get restless in their seats.

  “In Elgin,” he said, his mind racing. And then he said it again, “In Elgin!” and reached across to the wooden cup and took out the pencils.

  He showed the empty cup to everyone. Then he took a penny from his pocket and flipped it high in the air and caught it in the cup.

  “We could organize a tiddlywinks tournament... to wipe out world hunger!”

  Everybody was laughing now, as if it were all a big joke. Owen tried hard to think of what else he could say to salvage the situation, but nothing occurred to him. He sat down to a roar of laughter and applause. He could feel the blood pulsing in both his temples. What had possessed him to go on like that about tiddlywinks and world hunger?

  Miss Glendon handed out ballots and Owen wrote his own name under the president slot in pencil, then erased it and inked in Michael Baylor. Michael looked more like a president and made better speeches and who knew? Maybe his f
ather could buy them all tickets to Japan. What better idea had Owen come up with?

  Tiddlywinks.

  Miss Glendon collected the ballots, and dur­ing recess Michael Baylor shoved Owen in the dirt and said what a rotten jerk he was for making everyone laugh at his ideas. Then when he was on the ground Martha Henbrock told him he shouldn’t make fun of world hunger.

  Owen didn’t fight back. He just felt terrible.

  They returned to class to face the results. Beside Martha Henbrock’s name was written 7, and Dan Ruck had 0. Michael Baylor had 10. His name was circled and he had become president.

  President Michael Baylor.

  Owen’s name had 9 beside it.

  Owen had a hard time believing the result. He would have won if he had only voted for himself. But he was glad that he hadn’t. He pulled off his tie and Andy’s jacket and one of his sweaters and felt immensely better.

  What a relief that he wouldn’t have to be president after all!

  “Congratulations to all the contestants!” Miss Glendon said. “Michael, I think you will want to convene a meeting of your executive very shortly, since you have such grand plans. Owen, you ranked in second place and so become vice-president. Martha, you are the secretary and Dan, you are the treasurer.” ‘

  Owen looked across at the gloating expression on Michael Baylor s face and felt a sudden squeezing on his chest. He would have to take orders from Michael Baylor! No wonder they called it being vice-president, he thought — this awful feeling of being caught in someone else’s grip.

  Avalanche

  MICHAEL Baylor’s fingers would not stay still. They tapped against the desk top, the pencil case, the sheet of paper on which he had written notes about the trip to Japan. Owen watched him from the adjacent, vice-presidential seat.

  The executive of the Junior Achievers Club was meeting for the fifth time. It was only a week until Christmas and the four elected members had to stay after school and report to Miss Glendon.

  “Have we finished the pen-pal letters?” Miss Glendon asked.

  “Completed!” Michael Baylor said.

  “But have we found a class in Japan willing to exchange with us?” Miss Glendon pressed.

  “My father is looking after that,” Michael Baylor said.

  “Could you please remind him that it takes at least three weeks for letters to get to Japan. We don’t have a lot of time to set up contacts.”

  “My father knows many people at the municipal and county levels,” Michael Baylor said. “And in the business community as well.”

  “I know, you have explained this, Michael. But do any of them have anything to do with Japan?” Miss Glendon pressed.

  “All of them do!” Michael Baylor said indignantly. His fingers kept tapping, tapping.

  “What about the airline tickets?” Miss Glendon asked. “Your father was going to approach different companies and service clubs for donations.”

  “He’s still working on that,” Michael Baylor said.

  “But could you tell us which ones he has approached? Perhaps we could ask some others.”

  “He said he was still working on it!” Michael Baylor snapped.

  It grew very quiet around the table. Martha Henbrock was writing notes for the minutes. Dan Ruck had his head on his arms. Owen focused on watching Michael Baylor’s fingers.

  “Maybe,” Owen said, “while we’re getting ready for Japan, we could still plan a little Christmas party.”

  “What would we do — play tiddlywinks?” Michael Baylor jeered.

  “If you like,” Owen said in a little voice.

  “Well, I was elected to get us to Japan!” Michael Baylor said loudly. “I don’t think we have time to waste on little Christmas parties. We need to organize the passports and figure out what gifts to give our hosts. We need to find someone to teach us Japanese!”

  There was a bitter silence as Owen regretted having voted for Michael Baylor instead of himself.

  “I just thought that Dan could ask his father and uncles to come next week with their fiddles and—”

  “Do we want to go to Japan or not?” Michael Baylor asked. “Because I’m doing all this work organizing. I think the class voted for Japan, not fiddle music!”

  Miss Glendon told Michael Baylor to watch his tone, and Michael Baylor glared at her.

  “I’m doing all this work,” he muttered.

  Owen walked home in a gloom. It had been snowing since the middle of November, and now great drifts had blown up against the little farmhouse. One side of the house was protected by the apple tree and farther off an even taller, ancient oak, but the other side was exposed. The winds blew snow clear across the fields and piled it against the thin, wooden wall of the house. Three times already the boys had had to shovel the drift down so that the kitchen, window wasn’t blocked. Even the old boat, abandoned behind the garage, was buried.

  As soon as Owen got home Margaret told him, “Don’t take off your coat. You need to go outside and throw Sylvester’s rock for him. He’s been whining all day!” She sounded like she was ready to strangle someone.

  Sylvester jumped and howled at the door until they got outside. Owen took the rock around to the back, out of the wind, and threw it into a deep snowbank. Sylvester flung himself into the snow and began digging desperately, howling and whimpering. Then he rose in triumph. He trotted back, left the rock at Owens feet and began whining and worrying again until Owen launched it even farther into the snow.

  He knew Sylvester could keep this up for hours, never tiring, never losing interest in the rock. Owen waited and threw the rock, waited and threw it, wishing that life could be as simple for him. Dozens or hundreds of throws, it didn’t matter. Sylvester always came back with the rock in his mouth, desperate to continue.

  But even out of the wind Owen was beginning to get cold. His cheeks smarted and his hands felt like frozen meat. He picked up the rock and faked a throw to the left. Sylvester started running but knew in a moment that he’d been fooled. Then Owen faked right and while Sylvester was turned around he hurled the rock right over the apple tree and past the property fence into a snowy pasture.

  Sylvester missed it completely. He sniffed Owen’s hand and then backed up pleadingly, waiting for the throw.

  “It’s over there! It’s gone!” Owen said, pointing the way. “You go find it!”

  But Sylvester wouldn’t leave him. He trembled and slobbered and barked and sat back barely containing himself, waiting for the throw.

  So Owen had to mount the fence and hoist Sylvester over. The drool from the dogs tongue froze on Owens jacket. Together they searched in the pasture for the rock.

  It should have been right there. There should have been a hole in the snow where it had fallen. But soon the entire area was full of Owens and Sylvester’s tracks, and various holes where Owen had plunged his arm groping for the rock.

  It was gone.

  Owen and Sylvester searched the same area over and over. Then Owen branched out and looked past where he could have possibly thrown the rock — unless he’d been seized by a sudden strength. It was hard to say.

  The daylight faded quickly and Margaret called him for dinner. Sylvester raced back and forth, sniffing the ground like a hound dog, then almost crawling up to Owen, pleading with him to stop hiding the rock.

  “I haven’t got it!” Owen cried. “You found it when it was underwater! This should be a lot easier!” he yelled, and he kicked snow in Sylvester’s face in frustration.

  “Owen Skye! You come in for dinner now!” Margaret yelled.

  Sylvester would have stayed out by himself if Owen hadn’t dragged him in by the collar.

  “What’s wrong with the dog?” Horace asked at the table. Owen knew from his father’s voice that it had been another bad day at work. Now Sylvester was sniffing and worrying up and down th
e dining-room as if his rock might be there.

  “I lost his rock,” Owen said in a little voice.

  “Well, you’ll just have to find him another one,” Margaret said lightly. She was serving up boiled Brussels sprouts that smelled like wet laundry.

  “That’s his special rock!” Andy blurted. “How could you lose it?”

  “Nonsense,” Margaret said. “There are a million more just like it. Find another one and he’ll never know the difference.” She served up the mashed potatoes, too — they looked gray and old, like somebody’s grandfather — and one small, tough square of liver on every plate. Owen’s smelled like a wet baseball mitt.

  “It’s the only thing he loves,” Owen said sadly.

  Sylvester was sniffing under the table now, and Horace lost his temper.

  “Owen, put him in the basement if he can’t behave!” he ordered.

  So Owen dragged Sylvester into the basement and shut the door. Sylvester immediately began to scratch at the wood and whine even louder.

  “Let’s try to have a civilized dinner,” Horace said. That meant no one spoke as they chewed through the tired food, and Sylvester’s scratching and whimpering sounded like it was being broadcast over a loudspeaker.

  After dinner all the boys went out with Sylvester and swept the field where Owen had thrown the rock. Horace even let them use the large kitchen flashlight reserved only for the gravest emergencies. They joined arms and walked slowly up and down the pasture, kicking deep in the snow.

  It was a cold, windy night that offered up a few different rocks, but not the special one, not Sylvester’s. The boys stayed out till their cheeks were sore and red and the entire field had been kicked and pawed over and examined in light and darkness. Finally Margaret ordered them in before they perished of the cold.

  Sylvester was inconsolable. He whined and muttered at the front door, pleading with them to not give up the search. Owen lay awake deep into the night, thinking not only of Sylvester but of his own Sylvia, how easily she, too, had been lost when he had been least suspecting it.