Martin fascinated him. He reckoned that he had misinterpreted Martin’s expression. It was not vacant terror but general wonder. He was that rarest creature, a blissful mad-child. The other children understood his election and treated him with a kind of bemused awe.
One afternoon they entertained themselves by encircling Martin and firing large numbers at him to multiply.
He rocked back and forth, like a man at prayer, his eyes closed. He beat his thighs with open palms as he thought, like an awkward bird trying to leave the ground, and made a buzzing sound as though his mind were machinery.
“Em-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m …”
“Look at him go!”
“Em-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m …”
“C’mon, Martin boy!”
“Eighty-one thousand, nine hundred and eighteen.” he announced, opening his eyes. The boys cheered and hugged him.
Then he caught sight of a small pine tree. He stopped dead, stared, and walked out of the circle. Breavman followed him.
“Are you okay?
“Oh yes. I believe I’d better count these.”
Until supper he amused himself by discovering how many needles there were on an average pine tree.
Krantz was annoyed when he discovered what Breavman’s afternoon activity was.
“That isn’t what Mrs. Stark pays her money for.”
“No?”
It was incredible that they should have put themselves into a position where one could castigate the other.
“Not to have her son used as a side-show freak.”
“What does she pay her money for?”
“Come off it, Breavman. You know it wasn’t healthy. She wants the kid to be like everyone else — integrated, inconspicuous. It’s hard enough on her as it is.”
“Okay, we’ll force him into baseball.”
“Infractions of the regulations will be severely disciplined, Herr Breavman.”