5

The day seemed very long. They finished lunch before noon, then Gran went to take a bath. “Maybe I’ll lie down for a minute,” she said. “All that cleaning took something out of me.”

“Do you need anything at the store?” Paul asked. He wanted an excuse to get out of the house, anything to fill in the time until his mother arrived.

Gran came out of her room with a mask of cold cream on her face. “I don’t know why I bother,” she said, and he understood she meant the cold cream. “My skin’s like a dried-up walrus. It’s funny how you keep on trying when it doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference any more.”

She wore the blue robe she’d had ever since Paul could remember. If she’d ever had another, Paul didn’t know about it.

“Just let me see how I’m doing on eggs,” she said. “The Robber Baron has upped his prices on eggs, I see.” She called Mr. Barker the Robber Baron sometimes. It made Paul think of Robin Hood, for no good reason. If Mr. Barker were a few years younger, Paul thought, he would be a good Robin Hood. Mrs. Barker would have to do for Maid Marian. The only thing lacking was the forest.

“Buy a half dozen,” Gran instructed, giving Paul her battered change purse. He hated that purse; it didn’t seem right for a boy to carry it. “That way we’ll use them up while they’re still fresh. Tell him the last lot was so old I thought a chick might hatch right smack on the kitchen table.”

Gran never sent him to the store without some sort of message for Mr. Barker. Paul never delivered any of these messages, as they were always derogatory. He had a feeling Mr. Barker knew how Gran felt about him. It was not a subject for discussion.

The sign was gone from the store window. That was quick, Paul thought. Mr. Barker must’ve hired a boy already. He went in and saw Mr. Barker talking to a tall boy who looked the way he, Paul, had looked last spring when he was getting over the chicken pox. Only this wasn’t chicken pox. It was just plain old pimples, like the ones guys in TV commercials had before they used the advertised product. After they used it, the pimples disappeared like magic.

“Paul, this is Eugene, my new helper.” Mr. Barker pronounced it “Yoogene,” and Paul, who had never known anyone of that name, spelled it that way in his mind.

“Hayah?” Eugene said, to which Paul responded, “Sure.” He bought the eggs, and Mr. Barker said, “The missus says she’d like you to come have supper with us before you leave. Says she feels terrible about you going.”

For a minute Paul didn’t know what Mr. Barker meant. Then he remembered he’d said he’d probably go to live with his mother when she got married. “That’s O.K.,” he said. “It probably won’t be for a long while yet.”

“The longer the better.” Mr. Barker smiled. “So long,” Paul said, and Eugene, who was busy stacking cans of soup, didn’t look up.

There was a car in front of Gran’s house, a sleek, yellow car with wire wheels. Those wire wheels were what made that car, Paul decided. His throat dry and his eyes blinking rapidly, Paul walked as slowly as it was possible to walk and still keep moving. He practiced what he’d say. Not much, that was for sure. He prayed not to embarrass his mother by stuttering. She hated to hear him stutter.

“Paul! Darling! Baby!” She enveloped him in a warm and scented embrace. Her hair tickled his nose and he sneezed. “You’re not coming down with a cold? Darling,” she said to Art, “I want you to meet Paul.”

She called lots of people “darling.” The man got up and crossed over to shake hands. His grip was firm, so firm Paul imagined the bones in his hand snapping gently under its pressure. Gran would like that. She always said she didn’t trust a man with a wet-fish handshake.

“Hi, there,” the man said. Paul liked his face. It had a lot of deep lines and reminded Paul of pictures of Abraham Lincoln. He even had a beard like Lincoln’s.

“Paul, this is Art. I hope you two are going to be good friends.” His mother smiled. She was very pretty. She wore a pink dress that matched her cheeks. She was prettier than anybody else’s mother. Paul wished he could figure out a way to get her to come to school so the kids could see her. That’d show them.

“Paul.” Gran’s voice startled him. He had forgotten Gran. “Paul, bring a chair from the hall for Mr.—ah—What did you say your name was?”

Art smiled. “Bogovich. B-o-g-o-v-i-c-h.” He spelled it out very slowly. “Just call me Art.”

“Paul,” Gran said again, “bring a chair for Mr. Bogovich and get me my holder, will you? May I get you some refreshment, some sherry or a cup of tea?”

Paul had never heard Gran speak in that tone of voice before. She didn’t sound like herself at all.

“Nothing, thanks, Mother. We stopped for lunch on the way. We found this adorable place by the river with swans and ducks and the whole works.”

“The food stank,” Art said, settling into the chair Paul brought in, “but the joint was loaded with atmossphere.”

There was a silence. Paul picked up Flora from her nest in the couch and put her on the floor.

“Some cat,” Art remarked.

“Paul, you must’ve grown six inches since I last saw you,” his mother said.

“That was some time ago,” Gran reminded her, without expression. Then, “Tell me about your work, Mr.—ah—Bogovich, is it? What do you do?”

Art crossed his long legs, and Paul saw he wore no socks. If nothing else got Gran, that would.

“I’m a free-lance photographer and also an artist,” he said.

“What kind of art work do you do?” Gran asked.

He raised his eyebrows. “Graphics,” he said, as if he was using a foreign language. “Actually, I do all sorts of art work,” he said to Gran. “I’m what you might call a jack-of-all-trades.”

“Master of none,” Gran added.

He smiled. “That’s right,” he said.

“What on earth time is it?” Paul’s mother asked Art. She stood up and ran her hands down the sides of her dress. She squealed when he said four thirty. “We’ve got to fly,” she said. “We have this party some friends are giving. Next time we’ll stay longer.” She turned to Paul and put her arm around him. “Come on out with me, Paulie. I haven’t really had a chance to talk to you.” He wished she wouldn’t call him Paulie. He had asked her not to many times.

When they were out of earshot, she whispered conspiratorially in his ear, “Do you like him? Art. Do you like him?”

“He’s O.K., I guess.”

“Darling, we’re going to get married. He’s going to be your new father.” Her eyes shone.

Paul, who had never known his old father, shrugged. “That’s nice,” he said. “When do I get to come and live with you?”

She drew back. “We’ve got to go on a honeymoon and look for a bigger apartment. My gosh, we couldn’t possibly have you in that little hole!” She turned to Art and Gran, who had followed them. “We’ve really got to run. Good-by, Mother.” She pressed her cheek against Gran’s. “I’ll be in touch.”

Gran stood looking after the yellow car with the wire wheels as it drove away.

“I wonder how much money he owes on that car,” she mused aloud.

“How do you know he owes money on it?” Paul asked truculently.

“That kind always does,” she said. “You wait and see.”

“I like him,” Paul said. “I think he’s nice. He looks like Abraham Lincoln.”

“Lincoln, shminkon,” Gran said.

“Did my mother tell you she’s going to get married to him?” Paul asked. “Did she tell you?”

“She told me.” Gran turned her head away, but not before Paul had seen two large tears working their way down her lined cheeks. He had never seen her cry before.

“They have to get a bigger apartment before I can go live with them,” Paul said to cheer her up.

“They’ll never get a bigger apartment,” Gran answered. “There isn’t an apartment big enough in the entire world.”