Eleven Kinds of Loneliness Read Free Page B

You’re really gonna get it.”
    Startled, and then suddenly calm, Vincent Sabella palmed his chalk, hooked his thumbs in his belt and turned on Arthur with a menacing look. “Yeah?” he inquired. “Who’s gonna squeal on me?”
    “Well, nobody’s gonna squeal on you,” Arthur Cross said uneasily, “but you shouldn’t go around writing—”
    “Arright,” Vincent said, advancing a step. His shoulders were slumped, his head thrust forward and his eyes narrowed, likeEdward G. Robinson. “Arright. That’s all I wanna know. I don’t like squealers, unnastand?”
    While he was saying this, Warren Berg and Bill Stringer appeared in the doorway—just in time to hear it and to see the words on the wall before Vincent turned on them. “And that goes fa you too, unnastand?” he said. “Both a yiz.”
    And the remarkable thing was that both their faces fell into the same foolish, defensive smile that Arthur Cross was wearing. It wasn’t until they had glanced at each other that they were able to meet his eyes with the proper degree of contempt, and by then it was too late. “Think you’re pretty smart, don’tcha, Sabella?” Bill Stringer said.
    “Never mind what I think,” Vincent told him. “You heard what I said. Now let’s get back inside.”
    And they could do nothing but move aside to make way for him, and follow him dumfounded into the cloakroom.
    It was Nancy Parker who squealed—although, of course, with someone like Nancy Parker you didn’t think of it as squealing. She had heard everything from the cloakroom; as soon as the boys came in she peeked into the alley, saw the words and, setting her face in a prim frown, went straight to Miss Price. Miss Price was just about to call the class to order for the afternoon when Nancy came up and whispered in her ear. They both disappeared into the cloakroom—from which, after a moment, came the sound of the fire-exit door being abruptly slammed— and when they returned to class Nancy was flushed with righteousness, Miss Price very pale. No announcement was made. Classes proceeded in the ordinary way all afternoon, though it was clear that Miss Price was upset, and it wasn’t until she was dismissing the children at three o’clock that she brought the thing into the open. “Will Vincent Sabella please remain seated?” She nodded at the rest of the class. “That’s all.”
    While the room was clearing out she sat at her desk, closed her eyes and massaged the frail bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger, sorting out half-remembered fragments of a book she had once read on the subject of seriously disturbed children. Perhaps, after all, she should never have undertaken the responsibility of Vincent Sabella’s loneliness. Perhaps the whole thing called for the attention of a specialist. She took a deep breath.
    “Come over here and sit beside me, Vincent,” she said, and when he had settled himself, she looked at him. “I want you to tell me the truth. Did you write those words on the wall outside?”
    He stared at the floor.
    “Look at me,” she said, and he looked at her. She had never looked prettier: her cheeks slightly flushed, her eyes shining and her sweet mouth pressed into a self-conscious frown. “First of all,” she said, handing him a small enameled basin streaked with poster paint, “I want you to take this to the boys’ room and fill it with hot water and soap.”
    He did as he was told, and when he came back, carrying the basin carefully to keep the suds from spilling, she was sorting out some old rags in the bottom drawer of her desk. “Here,” she said, selecting one and shutting the drawer in a businesslike way. “This will do. Soak this up.” She led him back to the fire exit and stood in the alley watching him, silently, while he washed off all the words.
    When the job had been done, and the rag and basin put away, they sat down at Miss Price’s desk again. “I suppose you think I’m angry with you, Vincent,”