The View From Saturday Read online

  I knew what they would do next. And sure as God made green apples, they did.

  Their next form of torment was to repeat whatever Julian said in an exaggerated imitation of his accent. They tossed I say and beg your pahdon front to back and across the aisle. Julian knew that he was the butt of their jokes, and I could tell that he cared, for I could see his cheeks glow red. But he said nothing, and kept his distance, or whatever distance he could manage on a crowded bus.

  I still looked out the window during the ride to and from school and never spoke beyond answering “Hi” to his cheerful “Good morning.” I always managed to delay getting off the bus long enough so that I would be last. I stood at the top of the stairs long enough to spot Julian waiting for me but not long enough to irritate Mrs. Korshak. It took a full week before Julian took the hint that I did not choose to walk with him from the bus to the building.

  About the third day that Julian started off for class without waiting for me, I stood at the top of the stairs of the bus, checking to see if he was gone and spotted Michael Froelich waiting just inside the schoolyard fence by the side of the gate where we entered. As soon as Julian was clear of the other kids, I saw Froelich get into a crouch and I knew what was coming.

  I ran down the bus steps and hooked my arm through Julian’s and began walking rapidly toward the school. Julian hardly had time to react before we were at the gate. I held onto Julian, blocking him from Michael Froelich.

  From the foot of the schoolhouse stairs, Hamilton Knapp came barreling toward us. He grabbed Julian’s book bag and ran with it to a tree beyond the school fence. My saving him from Froelich had slowed his chasing Knapp. He disentangled his arm and started toward Ham, but now his way was blocked by Michael, running backward, waving his arms like a guard in a game of basketball.

  Julian didn’t call for help. He didn’t call out at all. Not even with a begging look in his eyes did he ask for help. Julian, who proved to be stronger and quicker than I would have guessed, escaped, ran to Ham, and managed to retrieve his book bag after a serious tug-of-war, but not before Ham Knapp had managed to write “I am a ass” with a black felt tip pen.

  No one said anything about the incident. During the day, Julian put his book bag with the written side against the wall of his cubby, and on the way home that evening, he kept the written side of his book bag against his leg. I knew that the pen Ham used would leave permanent marks on leather.

  The following morning Julian waited at the bus stop, still wearing short pants and knee socks. It was really the knee socks that did it. Short pants, tube socks, and Reeboks would have been a little off-center but not weird. He boarded the bus, waved to his father, and said “Good morning” as he took his seat.

  Between a and ass, he had squeezed in a p. And in the space beneath that, he had changed the message. His book bag now read:

  I am a passenger

  on Spaceship Earth

  A lightened ring in the leather around the first four syllables where someone had made several attempts to erase the writing looked like a halo.

  I admired that halo. I guess I like halos.

  Following the book bag incident, things on the bus cooled down, and so did the weather. Julian began to wear long pants—corduroys. I wondered if he even owned a pair of jeans.

  The time of year had come when the after-school hours were growing shorter and shorter, and I had pumpkins to attend to. Every Saturday morning from June until mid-November, I went with Mother to the Farmers’ Market and helped her sell her fresh produce and free range eggs. In September and October we sold a lot of pumpkins. Mother paid me, and I saved almost all of it.

  I was the son who was scheduled to inherit the farm because Luke was scheduled for greater things. I knew that as soon as I announced to my family what I wanted to do, I would have to be prepared to pay my own way.

  There was no one in Epiphany to whom I could tell my plans. No one in Epiphany would believe that Ethan Potter wanted to go to New York City to work in the theater. I didn’t want to be an actor. I wanted to design costumes or stage sets, but I could not tell anyone. In mental mileage, Epiphany, New York, is farther from New York City, New York, than the road mileage from New York to Hollywood.

  Last summer Nadia Diamondstein’s father took us to see The Phantom of the Opera. I had seen high school plays and plays that Clarion U. had put on, but I had never seen something like that. When that chandelier came down from the ceiling, my throat went dry. No one I knew was sitting by me, and I squeezed the arms of my chair to keep myself from getting up to cheer. I had seen football fans act the way I felt. I dream about that show. I bought a souvenir booklet that cost ten dollars, and I had looked at it so often that I was wearing the gloss off its pages. Someday I’m going to design costumes for a show like that.

  But first I had to harvest pumpkins.

  On the third Saturday after school began, Julian and his father appeared at market. I saw them first from a distance. They did not stand out in that crowd because the Clarion County Farmers’ Market attracts a lot of people from the college, and the college in turn attracts a lot of dark-skinned people. Julian’s father was carrying a basket over his arm. A lot of the college people and suburbanites believe it is the ecological thing to do. I saw Julian pointing me out to his father before they made their way to our booth.

  Julian introduced his father to both Mother and me. Mr. Singh sang the praises of the quality of the goods at the market. (Everyone does. There is a rule that you cannot sell anything at the market that you do not grow or make yourself.) He said that as soon as his B and B opened for business, he would become a regular customer.

  When they left, Mother asked about them. She had never before expressed a friendly interest in the fate of the Sillington house. I told her as much as I knew.

  On the following Saturday, Julian and his father came to our booth again. Mr. Singh took forever to select four pumpkins from the $2.50 pile. They were not very big, but they were so similar in shape and size that they looked like clones. Julian handed me a ten-dollar bill. I hated that. I don’t know why I hate taking money from someone my age even though it isn’t charity. I took the money, which was folded in half, and said, “Thank you.” A lot of the booth operators say, “Have a nice day.” I never do. Mother never does either. Sometimes she’ll say, “Enjoy,” but never “Have a nice day.” Except for Uncle Lew who was in politics, Potters are famous for not saying anything they don’t mean.

  I waited until Julian and his father were on the far side of the next booth before I unfolded the ten-dollar bill. A small Post-it note was attached inside the fold. I glanced at it, couldn’t understand it, looked at it harder, and decided to pocket the money with the note instead of putting it in the cashbox. I’d make it up with Mother.

  Business was brisk the entire morning, and that was good. It meant that there would be fewer pumpkins to reload. I didn’t have a chance to give Julian’s note a second glance or a second thought. Well, maybe I did give it a second thought but not a third and not for long.

  At home I waited until I was alone in my room before taking the ten-dollar bill from my pocket. I peeled the Post-it from inside the fold.

  Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

  Chapter VII Title

  I found the book on the shelf in the living room and carried it upstairs. I closed my bedroom door, sat on the edge of my bed, and turned the pages until I came to Chapter VII, the chapter called “A Mad Tea Party.”

  This was obviously an invitation. The strangest I had ever received. I not only had never been invited to a tea party before but had never before been invited to a party where I was not told the time and the place. Either the mystery would clear up, or it wouldn’t. Either way, I wouldn’t give it a second thought or discuss it with anyone.

  Including Julian Singh.

  Having established my habit of not speaking to Julian on the bus, it was easy to avoid talking about the message in the ten-dollar bill. And, to his cre
dit, Julian gave no hint—no secret smiles or glances out of the corner of his eye—to indicate that he was waiting for a response. Instead, he boarded the bus, walked to the back, said “Good morning” just as he always did and said nothing for the rest of the way. And he did not wait for me at the foot of the bus steps.

  I once again managed to be the last one off the bus. As I picked up my backpack, I found a Post-it note attached to the underside of the left shoulder strap. I pulled it off and read it.

  Tea Time is always 4.00 P.M.

  World Atlas

  Map 4: D-16

  I put it in my shirt pocket.

  Our class would be in the school media center after lunch. We were allowed to browse for the first fifteen minutes. I found the atlas. Map 4 was New York State. D-16 of Map 4 was Clarion County. On the page facing Map 4 was a drawing of a house with a lacy wraparound porch. The address, 9424 Gramercy Road, was written beneath it. I took the drawing from the book and put it in my shirt pocket with the other two notes. I now knew the what, the where, and part of the when. I still didn’t know the date.

  As I returned to my study table, I passed Nadia Diamondstein among the stacks. She was in the fiction section, removing a book from the D’s. D for Dodgson, Lewis Carroll’s real name. I watched Nadia quickly leaf through the book she held in her hand, then go check it out. It was Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  That evening as I was undressing, I removed the notes from my shirt pocket. Behind the Post-its and the small sketch of the Sillington House there was a fourth piece of paper: a small page from a pocket calendar. The month of October. The fourteenth was circled. Now I knew everything I needed to know except how Julian had slipped that into my pocket.

  For the first time since I started school—no, even longer than that—for the first time ever, I was looking forward to a party. And I knew that part of the reason I was looking forward to it was because Julian had not made it public. Whenever someone makes out a guest list, the people not on it become officially uninvited, and that makes them the enemies of the invited. Guest lists are just a way of choosing sides. The way Julian had done the inviting, I didn’t know who else was coming—although I strongly suspected that Nadia Diamondstein would be, and that thought did not displease me.

  I wondered if I should bring a gift. It was always better to bring something. I didn’t know what. I suspected that sports equipment was out. Books: He probably had as many books as the library. Video game? Wrong. Clothes: NO! Then, when I was in the shower, a word dropped from the showerhead. Puzzle. That was it. That was exactly it. A puzzle would be the perfect present for Julian Singh. The video store at the mall had dozens of different puzzles that were not electronic. I had seen three-dimensional puzzles and jigsaw puzzles that had a different picture printed on either side.

  I didn’t want to tell anyone that I was going to a party. A tea party of all things. I hardly believed it myself. I needed a way to get to the mall, so on the Saturday of the party, I asked Mother to please drop me off at the mall on the way home from market. She asked why, as I knew she would, and I told her that I had to buy a present for a party I was going to later that afternoon. Mother was not pleased. She liked to get home right after market so that we could unload the truck and straighten out the accounts. She said all right—not gladly—and told me that she would wait in the truck while I made my purchase.

  Why couldn’t she come into the mall and browse like a normal woman? Why? Because she knew there was no better way to get me to hurry.

  I hopped down from the truck and ran to the video game store. As luck would have it, no salesperson pounced on me the minute I entered. If I had been there to browse, not buy, they would have. Now, I had to practically beg for attention. High on top of the shelves stocked with closed cartons of games of every sort was a display of jigsaw puzzles. There were picture puzzles of waterfalls, 1,000 pieces. There was another one that was a painting of water lilies done in a very loose way. Still another had a picture of a waterfall on one side and a picture of a koala bear on the other. One was a totally white circle. That would be tough because there would be no pattern to help a person line up the pieces. I decided on that one. Two salesclerks were standing at one end of the counter talking. I walked toward them and had to say “Excuse me” twice. I pointed to the puzzle I wanted and said I would like it gift wrapped.

  “That’s number four-sixty-two. We’re all out.”

  “Then why do you have it on display?”

  “It’s very popular. We’re expecting another shipment next week.”

  “I need it today,” I said. “It’s all right with me if you sell me the sample.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why? I don’t need a discount or anything just because it’s the display. I’ll pay full price.”

  The clerk said, “The models are glued together, see, and pasted on a board. So how else do you think they stay up?”

  I looked around. “Then I’ll take the one that has two different pictures. The one next to the all-white one.”

  “We’re out of that one, too.”

  “Could you please check your stock in the back?”

  “I checked this morning. We don’t have it. We have the heart-shaped one in stock.”

  I looked it over. Instead of a circle, it was shaped like a heart. It was all pink except for a small red heart within the large pink one. Although it wouldn’t be quite as difficult as the all-white circle, it, too, would be hard. But it was pink. Pink! Even on Valentine’s Day, for a Valentine’s Day party, I wouldn’t consider giving a pink heart to another guy. “I’ll take the water lilies then.”

  “That’s one of our most popular puzzles,” the clerk said. “It’s a reproduction of a famous painting by an impressionistic French artist who was famous.”

  “Does that mean you are out of it, too?”

  “Fraid so.”

  I thought of Mother waiting in the truck. “Okay,” I said, “give me the heart-shaped one. And gift wrap it, please.” How could a store that seemed so un-busy be sold out of all the good stuff?

  “That will take a while,” the clerk said.

  “Can you hurry? Please?”

  “Not if you want me to do a good job.”

  “Medium,” I said. “Can you do a medium job in a hurry?”

  The salesclerk smiled and called to her fellow worker. She asked him to do the gift wrap as she rang up the sale. Then while we both waited, she asked, “Is that a present for your girlfriend?”

  I knew it. I knew it. My choice was not half wrong; it was all wrong. I was on the verge of asking her to take it back and give me a refund when the clerk emerged from the back room carrying the puzzle box all wrapped in pink paper. I thought I would die. Then I thought of Mother waiting in the truck and asked for a bag to carry it in.

  Mother folded the newspaper she was reading. She turned the key in the ignition even before she asked, “What did you get?”

  “A puzzle.”

  “Good idea,” she replied.

  “Yeah, about twenty minutes ago, I thought so, too.”

  “By the way, where is this party?”

  “The Sillington house.”

  “Well,” Mother said, “I’ll bet you’ll have good food. I hear that Mr. Singh is a wonderful cook.”

  “I don’t guess I’ll be finding that out. I’m only going for tea.”

  “For tea?” Mother asked, a broad smile breaking across her face. “Tea?” she repeated.

  I wished I could bite off my tongue. How in the world had I let that piece of information escape? “Yes,” I said. “For tea. It’s a tea party, and tea is always at four.”

  It would be a good walk—a mile and a half. I could cover three miles in forty-five minutes, so I guessed that I would need a half hour to make it to the Sillington House without a sweat. I was not about to ask Mother to drive me there. I put on a plaid flannel shirt and my best sweater. At the last minute, I put on a necktie. I don’t know why I did, and
I didn’t want to think about it.

  Nadia and Julian were on the front porch. They were bending over a small ball of fur. It was a puppy.

  “She is Ginger’s child,” Nadia explained.

  “Neat,” I replied. I hated saying Neat. Nadia’s red hair in the autumn light made me forget not to say it.

  Mr. Singh came out onto the porch, and Julian made a formal introduction. We shook hands. “How do you like Julian’s present from Nadia?” he asked.

  I said “awesome” and immediately wished I hadn’t.

  Mr. Singh held his hand over his brow to make a sunshade and looked into the distance. “That looks like our other guest. Let us welcome him.” Then he turned to me and Nadia and asked if we would please excuse him and Julian for a minute.

  Nadia and I stood there on the front porch and said nothing to each other. No one would guess that we were almost relatives. We watched Noah Gershom get out of the car and start walking up the brick path to the house. In one hand he held a beautifully wrapped present. I watched Mr. Singh with his white turban and long blue apron over his trousers and Julian at his side walk down the path to greet him. Silhouetted against the sky, they looked like a travel poster for a distant land.

  Mr. Singh stepped aside to allow Julian and Noah to precede him up the walk.

  Julian took Noah’s gift and said, “I believe you know everyone here except Alice.”

  “Who’s Alice?” Noah asked.

  Nadia answered. “She is Ginger’s daughter. Ginger is my dog, and I have given Julian one of her puppies.”

  “Did you ask if Julian can have a pet?” Noah asked.

  “No,” she replied.

  “I’ve never heard of someone giving someone a pet for a present without permission.”

  “I could not believe that anyone would not want one of Ginger’s puppies.”

  “What if Julian has an allergy?”

  “If Julian had an allergy—which he does not—he would still want one of Ginger’s pups. Ginger is a genius.” She looked at me and added, “She is a hybrid genius of unknown I.Q.,” and I knew that she was acknowledging our conversation of last summer.