“CAPTAIN PASHAROONEY” WAS published in 1967, when Davidson’s son, Ethan, was five years old. Avram Davidson loved children, and always spoke to them with grave respect. He regarded children as small people, deserving the same consideration as big people. This touching story captures the speech and thoughts of a child. Although the story has a neat plot twist, it was written right from Avram’s heart.
—GD
The great big Cadillac drew up in front of the school in the middle of the morning. A uniformed chauffeur was at the wheel, and a man all dressed up in striped pants and a derby hat got out from in front and opened the door of the back. Children in the schoolyard were already gathering and looking through the wire-mesh fence.
“Hey, look at the Rolds-Royst!”
“It ain’t a Rolds-Royst—it’s a Caddy.”
“How much you wanna bet it’s a Rolds-Royst?”
“Ah, you haven’t got anything to bet. And besides, a Caddy’s just as good as a Rolds-Royst.”
The man who got out of the door held open for him was tall and broad-shouldered, though rather pale. A thin mustache rode his short upper lip. He wore a dark overcoat with a velvet collar and had an astrakhan cap cocked slightly to one side of his head.
“Thank you, Jarvis,” he said.
“Very good, sir.”
The tall man trotted nimbly up the front steps of the school, vanished inside.
“Gee, will ya look at the butler!”
“Ah, hoddaya know he’s a butler?”
“Lookit the way he’s dressed! Didn’tcha ever see a butler in the movies or television? And besides—and besides—didn’tcha hear him say, ‘Very good, sir’? That’s what butlers always say.”
“Gee!”
“Gee!”
* * *
A JANITOR LEANING on his broom looked up in surprise at the rapid, brisk sound of adult male feet. The man in the astrakhan cap tossed two words at him without slowing down.
“The office?”
“Yes, sir. Right to the left a them stairs as ya come t’the top, sir, right to—”
The tall man nodded curtly, tossed something that glittered. The janitor lunged for it, “—the left a them stairs—” caught it. The tall man went out of sight, though not sound. Another, younger janitor, came up, bent over to look.
“Whah did he give ya, Barney?” Barney held it up. “Hey, a silver dollar! I haven’t seen one of those in a long time … Who was he, d’ya know?”
Barney nodded. “He was a gentleman,” he said. “And I haven’t seen one of those in a long time, either.…”
* * *
THE TALL MAN walked into the office, smiled at the squat ugly woman at the desk, bowing slightly as he did so, sweeping off the astrakhan cap. “I’m Major Thompson,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh. Yes. Why—”
“I believe the Principal is expecting me.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, he is, Major.” She smiled back, blushed. “Mr. Buckley!” she called, trying to push back a recalcitrant chair. “Mr. Buck—”
Major Thompson said, “Allow me, ma’am,” as he gave the chair a no-nonsense tug … and the lady a helpful hand under her elbow. She blushed again.
The frosted glass on the door of the inner office quivered a second before the door itself opened, and a thin little man with pince-nez spectacles, a few strands of greying sandy hair combed optimistically over his bald spot, came bustling out. “Yes, Miss Schultz—what—Oh.”
Very tall, very broad-shouldered, Major Thompson held out his arm straightly. “Major Thompson,” Miss Schultz said, in a loud whisper; and “Dr. Buckley,” said the Major, taking and pumping the hand of the Principal. “A pleasure, sir.”
The thin little man beamed. Then his face quivered. “It’s Mr. Buckley,” he said. “Of course, I have my M.A., and I always intended … but…”
Major Thompson smiled. “Confidentially,” he said, in a lower tone. “Confidentially, I never even took my A.B.” He chuckled. “What do you think of that? Too much celebrating—Harvard-Yale game—my senior year—suspended me.” He laughed, a hearty laugh. Mr. Buckley laughed back. “I could have returned the year after that, but, well, it so happened that by that time I had other interests. Well, well,” he concluded, on a note neatly blending regret and satisfaction. “How’s the boy?” he asked, abruptly, seriously.
Mr. Buckley cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. “Jimmy, hmmm, how shall I put it, Major—? Jimmy has, I think, I believe I am justified in saying, mmmm, a very considerable potential—”
Softly, gravely, Major Thompson said, “But he isn’t realizing that potential; is that it, sir?”
The Principal was almost distressed. He hoped that Major Thompson would not misunderstand him. He had discussed the matter with Mrs. Morley, very fine woman, Mrs. Morley, he had just hung up the phone on her call telling him to expect the Major the minute he walked in the door, almost. He had discussed the matter with Mrs. Morley once or twice, after all, she was the boy’s foster-mother in a way—
Major Thompson said, “Have you met my sister?”
“No. No, I never have. I wrote to her—”
“But she never replied. I know. She never replies to my letters, either. If my wife were still alive…”
There was a silence. Then Mr. Buckley, in some embarrassment, said, “You see, one of the difficulties about Jimmy, besides the matter of his schoolwork, is, well, humm, how shall I put it, his, mmm, tendency to exaggerate?”
The Seth Thomas clock on the office wall ticked loudly. “Such as … for example?”
Mr. Buckley’s thin face reddened ever so slightly. He looked down, he looked around. But the other man was implacable. “Such as what, sir?”
The Principal took a deep breath. “Well … he told us he told everybody, his teachers, his friends, Mrs. Morley, me … that…”
Major Thompson smiled. “Told you, perhaps, that his father had a ranch in South America with ten thousand horses … eh?”
“Yes!” exclaimed Mr. Buckley.
Still smiling, the Major said, “Mr. Buckley, I have no idea how many horses there are on my various South American properties.” The little man’s ear caught the plural, his eyelids fluttered with dawning understanding. “There may be well over that number, all told. We just don’t count them, down there. Horses. Now, as to cattle—I can give you without any difficulty—” he reached into an inner pocket “—the latest statistics on them … if you like…”
Just as Mr. Buckley was assuring Major Thompson that it wasn’t necessary, wasn’t in the least necessary, the outer door opened and Miss Schultz came back in, shepherding a small and most reluctant little boy in front of her. The boy observed Mr. Buckley’s ear-to-ear smile with some misgivings, and started to turn away. But Miss Schultz blocked the way.
“Do you know who this is, Jimmy?” she asked, pushing him forward. The tall man bent over, slowly, and slowly put his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. The boy looked up at him in utter astonishment. He opened his mouth, shook his head. Miss Schultz tittered, joyfully, gave him a friendly little shove forward.
“Who is it that lives in South America,” asked Mr. Buckley, archly, “and has many, many horses—” The boy blushed scarlet. “—on several ranches; hey? Guess!”
At first Jimmy would not lift his head. Then he did. His expression was almost defiant. He stared up at the tall man in front of him. Then his mouth opened. He pointed.
“I remember you!” he cried. “Now I remember! At my mother’s! We had green ice-cream!”
Major Thompson said, gently, “Yes. It was pistachio.”
The strange word seemed to throw the boy off balance. “I don’t remember that … it was green.”
Mr. Buckley said, still beaming, “Pistachio is green.”
Angrily, Jimmy said, “Well, I don’t remember! How could I? I was only about four years old!” His voice had risen to a shout. He burst into tears.
Major Thompson went down on one knee and took him in his arms.
“I didn’t remember that you were my father,” the boy sobbed. “I didn’t remember it.…”
His father patted him gently, while Miss Schultz blew her big nose and Mr. Buckley took off his glasses and wiped the inner corners of his eyes with thumb and forefinger.
* * *
THE PRINCIPAL OF the school agreed, not only without reluctance, but even eagerly, that Jimmy might take the day off to be with his father. “Why, under the circumstances, certainly, Major, certainly,” he said. “I understand. Perfectly. What a shame, though, after all these years away, that you have to go back so soon.” He clicked his tongue. “I wish,” he said.
“I wish, too. But I have to be in Washington very shortly; and then—well, back to South America. Things aren’t too well down there, as I’m sure you know.”
Mr. Buckley did know. It was the heritage of Spain, he supposed. All those generations of fighting the Moors had made the Spanish so bellicose.… Jimmy came back with his coat and cap and an expression on his face both incredulous and self-important. “I gave the note to Miss Humphreys and she said Of Course. She said she hoped you’d be able to give the class a talk about South America. And I said: Maybe.” He looked up at his father rather uncertainly.
Miss Schultz gave a little gasp and Mr. Buckley brightened. “That would be a wonderful thing, yes,” he exclaimed. Half-turning to his secretary, then turning back to his visitor, he said, “Perhaps at a special assembly—? It would be wonderful for the children and…” He stopped. Major Thompson pursed his lips, first cocked his head, dubiously, then shook it, remarking that he doubted there would be time.
At a gesture from him, the boy began rapidly to button the coat. “What—you won’t mind my asking, I’m sure—what,” Mr. Buckley inquired, “is the educational system like down there?”
The Major said that it left something to be desired. “That’s one of the reasons I’ve never sent for Jimmy.” (“Ahah, ah,” the principal made quick noises of understanding.) “Another was, that I wanted him to grow up in his own country. He’d always be a foreigner down there, why should he return and feel like one in the United States? Which is how it would be, you know? No, no. Much as I have missed him—and will continue to … Someday he’ll understand.”
The corridors were crowded with children coming back from their recess, and Jimmy—holding his father’s hand—walked with head up, proud, darting looks from side to side. Major Thompson subdued his own long strides. Whenever he passed a teacher, he made a very short bow. Even the big boys of the sixth grade were impressed, and looked enviously at Jimmy.
“That’s his father—”
“—big black car with a shofer and a—”
“He’s a major!”
Jimmy’s head went higher. Automatically, he started to turn towards the small side door which the children generally used; but Barney, the short-tempered old janitor, saw them coming. Almost at a run, he reached the big front doors, gestured father and son onward, and swung the door open.
“This is my father, Barney.”
It was not an introduction but a declaration. Barney’s head went back, his mouth opened, closed, opened. “Now I know where you get them high spirits from!” he exclaimed. “Some a these people,” he said to the major, “are always crabby and complaining, but I tell ’m, I tell ’m, ‘It’s only high spirits.’ See, reason I understand, I used to be in the Service myself. Oh, yes. With General John ‘Black Jack’ Perzhing down in Mexico when we was chasing that guy Pancho Villa.”
“But he ran too fast for you,” Major Thompson said. He and Jimmy went out the door.
Barney’s laughter cackled behind them. He trotted to the top of the steps and called after them. “You come down to my room there behind the furnace during lunch time or after school some day, young fella, and I’ll show you my pitchers and souvenirs!”
Jimmy grinned with delight. “I will, Barney, I will,” he called back. “Tomorrow, maybe.”
“Jarvis,” the major said, “This is James, Junior.”
“Good morning, Master James.”
“Gee!”
* * *
THEY FOUND MRS. Morley, assisted by a neighbor, struggling with her hair. “I was so excited,” she said, “that I just had to ask Mrs. Marks, here—she’s lived next door to me for years—I had to ask her to come over and make me some coffee and help me get dressed. My Lord! After all these years, not so much as a letter; Mrs. Gibson—”
Major Thompson cleared his throat. “I hope you appreciate my sister’s situation, Mrs. Morley. Not that I excuse her. Do you know that she didn’t even inform me of her marriage?” Both ladies exclaimed at this duplicity. “But she is, after all, my sister. It’s her husband I must blame. That gentleman and I are going to have to have a little talk together, if I’m not much mistaken.”
Mrs. Marks nodded her head firmly. “Lining his own pockets, I suppose. Keeping the money, not letting her visit the child—”
“It’s not the food,” Mrs. Morley explained. “It’s not the room, either, nor the time. As far as money goes, it’s the clothes. But that was my problem. I managed. But—you know—what about the boy? What about Jimmy? How does it look, everybody has a family and he hasn’t got a family. His father is in some far-off foreign country, his mother passed away, his aunt never shows her face. How does it look? How do you suppose he feels? No wonder—”
“Now, Lindy, don’t get so emotional,” Mrs. Marks said. “I always said, the father will turn up some day. Didn’t I? Blood is thicker than water. You do a good deed, you don’t do it for nothing. Was I right?”
And Mrs. Morley had to admit that her friend and neighbor was right. “Your check was very generous, Mr.—Major Thompson,” she said. “It more than took care of everything.”
But he denied this. Stroking his thin moustache with the tip of a finger, he said that the check could hardly make up for the care and affection which Mrs. Morley, bound by no legal or moral ties, had shown to his motherless little boy.
“Well, I did my best. God knows. I did my best.…” Her voice got all quavery and she began to cry.
* * *
THE ICE HAD begun to break up on the river when they crossed it. Jimmy pressed up close to the window of the car and murmured at the sight. Then he snuggled back in his corner of the seat and smiled shyly at his father.
“Have you ever been to New York before?” asked the Major.
“No. That time … one time my aunt said we were going to New York. But we went to Mrs. Morley’s and I thought that was New York. And she said she was coming back but she never came back. I don’t care,” he added, after a moment.
“Listen, Jim … Your aunt has her own troubles. Don’t think hard of her. She left you in a good place, didn’t she?”
Their conversation touched on many subjects and Mrs. Gibson, Jimmy’s aunt, was soon forgotten. The boy wanted to know all about his father’s far-away ranch, but interrupted almost immediately to tell how he had gotten into a fight with three bigger boys who didn’t believe about the ranch and he, Jimmy, had beaten them up, all three of them, and they ran home crying and played hookey the next day because they were afraid to come to school and see him. “They thought I would make fun of them and beat them up again,” he said.
“Hmm.”
“And I would. I can beat up anybody.”
Major Thompson cleared his throat. “I’m sure you can,” he said. “But don’t bother. It’s not necessary. If you know the truth, then it doesn’t matter what anybody else thinks. You don’t even have to talk to them about it. Why bother?”
Jimmy considered this, then renewed his questions about the ranch. He listened to the stories of the endlessly rolling South American prairies and the snow-capped Sierras, cattle and horses as far as the eye could see, the wide rivers filled with crocodiles and the murderous piranha fish that would reduce a cow to its bones in five minutes—and a man, in two—the grass fires and campfires and bandit attacks—
“Bandits! Were you ever … were you ever … shot?”
No. No, his father had been often shot at. But never shot.
“Were you ever captured by the bandits? And tied up and put in a dungeon?”
Major Thompson smiled, faintly amused. “Something like that,” he said.
Jimmy swallowed. “Were you all alone?” he asked. The car sped on through snowy fields and lonely farmhouses. The Major looked at the boy’s concerned face, shook his head. No, not alone. He had a friend with him who had been captured, too. “What was his name?”
“His name? His name was Captain Pasharooney.”
Jimmy’s concern left him, and he laughed. “That’s a funny name.” Then, “No, it isn’t. I was only joking. Go on. Tell me…”
Early in the afternoon they reached New York, where they had a huge lunch in a restaurant with wood-panelled walls and linen napkins and cut-glass pitchers of water. The Major had a cocktail and his son had lemonade with grenadine in it. They both had grilled steak with french-fried potatoes and onion rings and lots of ketchup and a sauce with a funny name. Afterwards, Major Thompson smoked a thin cigar. He told Jimmy he could keep the big book of matches with the fancy picture on it, and, under the table, slipped him a crisp new bill and told him to tip the waiter.
“Come and see us the next time you’re in New York,” the waiter said.
“All right.… This is for you.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
They drove up and down the broad and busy avenues until the major directed the car to stop. Then they went into a very big jewelry store where they picked out a tie-pin and a pair of cufflinks for Jimmy, both with small sapphires set in them; and a brooch for Mrs. Morley. It was a crisp, golden afternoon with a hard blue sky overhead. While they waited on the curb for the car, Jimmy turned his head up and said, “You know what I would like?”
“No, Jim. What?”
“A saddle.”
Jarvis opened the door and they got inside. “Is there room at Mrs. Morley’s to keep a horse? I doubt it.”
“I don’t care. I just want—”
“—a saddle. Well, someday you’ll have a horse. All right.”
The salesman in the store which smelled richly of leather had at first some idea of showing them children’s saddles, but Major Thompson, without being told, knew that this wasn’t what Jimmy had in mind at all. They bought a real saddle, full-size, with stirrups; and a box of things to take care of keeping the leather in good condition.
They went to the top of the Empire State Building, they went to the Zoo in Central Park, they picked up some boxes of toy soldiers in old-fashioned uniforms, spent an hour in a theater showing news-reels and short films, and then it was supper time. And for supper, they had hot dogs. Lots of them. With mustard, sauerkraut, and relish.
“Instead of going back the same way we came,” Major Thompson said, “how would you like it if we took the ferry across?”
Jimmy licked tentatively at a small blotch of mustard. “Do we have to go back?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so. Yes.”
“But you’ll come back with me?”
The Major nodded. “But then … you know … I’ve explained to you that I’ll have to turn around and go away again.”
The boy considered, then said, “Let’s take the ferryboat, then.”
The early night wind was cold despite the crimson shadows still streaking the western horizon. The skyline vanished behind them. “I’d like to look at the water some more,” Jimmy said. “But I’m cold.”
“Let’s go inside to the cabin, then.” It was stuffy there, but it was warm. Jimmy pressed close to the window, shading with his hand against the obscuring reflection of the cabin lights, looking out onto the dark river intently. The Major lit another panatella. A man opened the cabin door. Their eyes met. The man vanished, reappeared a second later with another.
“Excuse me, son. There’s someone I have to talk to.” He flicked his cigar, got up and walked forward. The boy barely turned away, then resumed his watch.
“Well, well, well,” said the bigger of the two men. “Billy Rooney. Of all people.”
“The old Pasha himself,” the other one said. He was thin.
“Gentlemen. Surely you aren’t going to Jersey for pleasure—?”
“Who’s the kid?” the big man said, ignoring the question. The thin man surveyed the astrakhan cap, the well-tailored overcoat, pursed his lips in a silent whistle.
“Who’s the kid?”
“Nice-looking boy, isn’t he? You’ll be surprised when I tell you. Remember Jimmy Thompson?” He flicked his cigar again.
This time the whistle was not silent. “Sure, I remember. That’s his kid? I didn’t know Jimmy had a kid.”
The Major’s smile was brief. “Jimmy doesn’t know it most of the time himself. And when he does, he doesn’t care. I thought I’d look him up, seeing that I was at liberty and his father wasn’t. I suppose you have a lot of tiresome business you want to bother me about?” The two men nodded. “I thought so.… Well, let me say goodbye.”
Taking out a cigar which was not a panatella, the big man asked, “How’s the kid going to get home? It’s a cold night, Rooney.”
“I am aware of that. He’ll get home all right. There are some people here who have a car, they’re driving him home.” The two men watched as he walked back.
“Jim.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m afraid that I won’t be able to come back with you after all. Something has come up. But you can sit up front with Jarvis and the chauffeur, so you’ll have plenty of company.”
The boy said, “I have to go to the bathroom first.” When he came out, the Major and the two men were standing together near the door.
“Jim, here are two old friends of mine who’d like to meet you. Captain Schmitz and Lieutenant Brady, of the United States Foreign Service—James, Junior.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Captain Schmitz, of the United States Foreign Service.
“Likewise,” said Lieutenant Brady, of the same.
They all walked to the big, black limousine, where it was explained to Jarvis and the chauffeur that Jimmy would be the only passenger on the return trip. “We’d better say goodbye now. There won’t be time when the ferry stops.… I don’t know when I’ll see you again, Jimmy. Stay out of fights and be good to Mrs. Morley. She’s a good woman. I—”
He stopped, as the boy reached up and clutched him around the neck. The embrace was brief. Jimmy started to get in the car, then turned around. “I won’t forget you any more,” he said. “I was just a little kid the other time. I was only four years old. Where’s the saddle? Oh, there it is.” He got in, climbing over Jarvis so that he was between him and the chauffeur. He bounced up and down, said, “Hey, we’re coming into the dock!” Then he leaned towards the window and called, “Thank you very much. I had a very nice time. I’ll be real bigger when you see me again.” Then he turned an eager face towards the quickly approaching ferryslip.
Captain Schmitz said, “Um … what’s with the car and the driver and the flunkey, Rooney?”
“Hired them from an agency. The receipts are in my pocket.”
“You sure do things in style, Pasha,” Lieutenant Brady observed.
The boat hit the slip, recoiled, bumped it again, slid along the greased pilings. A bell sounded. A chain rattled. “Well, after all, gentlemen, his father and I were old friends, not to mention our being room-mates at a certain well-known establishment.…” His manner changed, abruptly. “Can you imagine that S.O.B., though?” he demanded. “He’s got a boy like that and he doesn’t even give a damn about it.”
The gangway fell into position. People streamed off the boat. Captain Schmitz said, “I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about a certain peter job down in the loft district, Rooney?”
“Never heard of it,” he answered, once again serene.
“It’s got your name written all over it. First thing we said, we said, ‘Oh-oh. Pasha Rooney must be out again,’ didn’t we, Conrad?” asked Lieutenant Brady.
* * *
BUT HIS PARTNER had something else on his mind. “The kid looks like someone I know,” he said. “And I don’t mean that bum, Jimmy Thompson, either.”
Pasha Rooney was watching the cars as they drove off the ferry. “He looks like his mother,” he said briefly. “Helen Farrel. She’s dead.”
Schmitz snapped his fingers. “That’s who. Yeah. Sure. She was a real good-looker.…” He turned to the man in the astrakhan cap. “If I’m not mistaken, you used to like her, didn’t you, Rooney? Before she took up with Jimmy Thompson?”
The black car drove down onto the ferry-dock. There was a movement at the window, which might have been that of a small boy waving goodbye. The man in the astrakhan cap waved back. “Yes,” he said, after a moment. “I used to like her a lot.…”