don't let him talk to any strangers because, well, you know the sorts of people who might be hanging around the Public Garden; you just never can tell.
Actually, there are all sorts of interesting people hanging around the Public Garden. But from the way she said it with a kind of knowing look, a just-between-us-adults sort of attitude, I could tell that she meant: don't let him talk to what Mrs. Kolodny would call preverts, people who would kidnap old Joshua for weird sexual reasons.
I said okay.
He came trotting back down the hall, dragging a little Irish sweater and carrying a stuffed bear. His mother buttoned him into the sweater and tried very pleasantly to take away the bear.
He held on tightly. "Bearable wants to go along," he said.
"Sweetie," said his mother, trying the old child
psychology, "Bearable has a cold, I think. I heard him coughing this morning. He really should stay home in bed."
"No," said Joshua, outpsychologizing her. "I gave him penicillin."
"It's all right," I told her. "I don't mind. I'll keep an eye on Bearable, too."
So off we went, me and Joshua Warwick Cameron IV, and Bearable staring glassy-eyed at the brick sidewalk from under his master's arm, down West Cedar Street to Chestnut, and down Chestnut to Charles, on our way to the Public Garden.
On our way, we stopped and patted a large Airedale tied to a post in front of the bookstore, thereby breaking rule one.
We took off his sweater because it really was pretty warm, breaking rule two.
And we stopped at DeLuca's, where I bought some Life Savers, and we each ate one, breaking rule three.
All that was before we even
got
to the Garden.
The other thing we did, which was not really breaking a rule because his mother hadn't told us not to, was old Joshua's idea, and it made me realize that he and I were going to get along just fine. We changed his name.
As we stood at the corner of Beacon and Charles, waiting for the light, I said, "Watch for it to turn green, Joshua."
"Don't call me that," he said firmly. Then he added politely, "Please."
I asked him if he would like me to call him Josh.
"No," he said thoughtfully, trotting beside me as we crossed the street. "I want you to call me Tom."
"Tom Mix? Or Uncle Tom?" I asked, wondering if he knew about old cowboy movies or Harriet Beecher Stowe.
"Nope," he said. "Tom Terrific."
So the kid was allowed to watch cartoons. I remembered Tom Terrific; he had that Wonder Dog, Manfred. Mrs. Kolodny and I used to watch them together, back when I was just a little kid.
At the entrance to the Public Garden, we had a small name-changing ceremony, my little four-year-old buddy and I. We shook hands solemnly after he shifted Bearable to his other arm, then we each popped another Life Saverâhe liked the green ones bestâinto our mouths. We entered the Garden holding hands. Cynthia, and Tom Terrific. Those other people, Enid Crowley
and Joshua Warwick Cameron IV, whoever they were, got left behind, at least for the afternoon.
It looked as if it might be a pretty good summer.
Chapter 5
I have this theory that it's very important to know your turf well. Up until then, my main turf had been my bedroom, and I know my bedroom very, very well. I know my room as well as I know my parents, or Mrs. Kolodny, or Emily and Trina, my best friends from school.
I know that my bed once belonged to my grandmother, who died when I was little, probably right around the time I was wearing corrective shoes and wishing I had a Wonder Dog named Manfred. I remember that I had a Youth Bed, with a plastic covering over the mattress in case I might still wet at night. Then all of a sudden I had this big mahogany fourposter that had been my grandmother's, because my grandmother had died. I suspect that she died in the very same bed, but I have never gotten my mother to admit it.
"Enid," says my mother when I ask her exactly
where
my grandmother died, "she died at
home, very peacefully." (That means
bed,
right?
Actually, there are all sorts of interesting people hanging around the Public Garden. But from the way she said it with a kind of knowing look, a just-between-us-adults sort of attitude, I could tell that she meant: don't let him talk to what Mrs. Kolodny would call preverts, people who would kidnap old Joshua for weird sexual reasons.
I said okay.
He came trotting back down the hall, dragging a little Irish sweater and carrying a stuffed bear. His mother buttoned him into the sweater and tried very pleasantly to take away the bear.
He held on tightly. "Bearable wants to go along," he said.
"Sweetie," said his mother, trying the old child
psychology, "Bearable has a cold, I think. I heard him coughing this morning. He really should stay home in bed."
"No," said Joshua, outpsychologizing her. "I gave him penicillin."
"It's all right," I told her. "I don't mind. I'll keep an eye on Bearable, too."
So off we went, me and Joshua Warwick Cameron IV, and Bearable staring glassy-eyed at the brick sidewalk from under his master's arm, down West Cedar Street to Chestnut, and down Chestnut to Charles, on our way to the Public Garden.
On our way, we stopped and patted a large Airedale tied to a post in front of the bookstore, thereby breaking rule one.
We took off his sweater because it really was pretty warm, breaking rule two.
And we stopped at DeLuca's, where I bought some Life Savers, and we each ate one, breaking rule three.
All that was before we even
got
to the Garden.
The other thing we did, which was not really breaking a rule because his mother hadn't told us not to, was old Joshua's idea, and it made me realize that he and I were going to get along just fine. We changed his name.
As we stood at the corner of Beacon and Charles, waiting for the light, I said, "Watch for it to turn green, Joshua."
"Don't call me that," he said firmly. Then he added politely, "Please."
I asked him if he would like me to call him Josh.
"No," he said thoughtfully, trotting beside me as we crossed the street. "I want you to call me Tom."
"Tom Mix? Or Uncle Tom?" I asked, wondering if he knew about old cowboy movies or Harriet Beecher Stowe.
"Nope," he said. "Tom Terrific."
So the kid was allowed to watch cartoons. I remembered Tom Terrific; he had that Wonder Dog, Manfred. Mrs. Kolodny and I used to watch them together, back when I was just a little kid.
At the entrance to the Public Garden, we had a small name-changing ceremony, my little four-year-old buddy and I. We shook hands solemnly after he shifted Bearable to his other arm, then we each popped another Life Saverâhe liked the green ones bestâinto our mouths. We entered the Garden holding hands. Cynthia, and Tom Terrific. Those other people, Enid Crowley
and Joshua Warwick Cameron IV, whoever they were, got left behind, at least for the afternoon.
It looked as if it might be a pretty good summer.
Chapter 5
I have this theory that it's very important to know your turf well. Up until then, my main turf had been my bedroom, and I know my bedroom very, very well. I know my room as well as I know my parents, or Mrs. Kolodny, or Emily and Trina, my best friends from school.
I know that my bed once belonged to my grandmother, who died when I was little, probably right around the time I was wearing corrective shoes and wishing I had a Wonder Dog named Manfred. I remember that I had a Youth Bed, with a plastic covering over the mattress in case I might still wet at night. Then all of a sudden I had this big mahogany fourposter that had been my grandmother's, because my grandmother had died. I suspect that she died in the very same bed, but I have never gotten my mother to admit it.
"Enid," says my mother when I ask her exactly
where
my grandmother died, "she died at
home, very peacefully." (That means
bed,
right?
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