CHAPTER TWO
You are a ticket agent, settled in the routine of your job. From nine tofive-thirty, five days a week, you see one face after another. There arecheerful faces, sullen faces, faces that breathe garlic, whiskey, chewinggum, toothpaste and tobacco fumes. Old faces, young faces, dull faces,scarred faces, clear faces, plain faces and faces so plastered withmakeup that their nature can't be seen at all. They bark place-names atyou, or ask pleasantly about the cost of round-trip versus one-waytickets to Chicago or East Burlap. You deal with them and then you waitfor the next.
Then one afternoon, about four o'clock, a face barely visible over theedge of the marble counter looks up at you with a boy's cheerful freckledsmile. You have to stand up in order to see him. You smile, and he grinsat you. Among his belongings is a little leather suitcase, kid's size,but not a toy. He is standing on it. Under his arm is a collection ofcomic books, in one small fist is the remains of a candy bar and in theother the string of a floating balloon.
"Well, young man, where to? Paris? London? Maybe Mars?"
"No, sir," comes the piping voice, "Roun-tree."
"Roundtree? Yes, I've heard of that metropolis," you reply. You look overhis head, there aren't any other customers in line behind him so youdon't mind passing the time of day. "Round-trip or one-way?"
"One-way," comes the quick reply.
This brings you to a slow stop. He does not giggle nor prattle, norlaunch into a long and involved explanation with halting, dependentclauses. This one knows what he wants and how to ask for it. Quite alittle man!
"How old are you, young fellow?"
"I was five years old yesterday."
"What's your name?"
"I'm James Holden."
The name does not ring any bells--because the morning newspaper ispurchased for its comic strips, the bridge column, the crossword puzzle,and the latest dope on love-nest slayings, peccadilloes of the famous,the cheesecake photo of the inevitable actress-leaving-for-somewhere, andthe full page photograph of the latest death-on-the-highway debacle. Youlook at the picture but you don't read the names in the caption, so youdon't recognize the name, and you haven't been out of your little cagesince lunchtime and Jimmy Holden was not missing then. So you go on:
"So you're going to go to Roundtree."
"Yessir."
"That costs a lot of money, young Mister Holden."
"Yessir." Then this young man hands you an envelope; the cover says,typewritten: _Ticket Clerk, Midland Railroad_.
A bit puzzled, you open the envelope and find a five-dollar bill foldedin a sheet of manuscript paper. The note says:
Ticket Clerk Midland Railroad Dear Sir:
This will introduce my son, James Holden. As a birthday present, I am sending him for a visit to his grandparents in Roundtree, and to make the adventure complete, he will travel alone. Pass the word along to keep an eye on him but don't step in unless he gets into trouble. Ask the dining car steward to see that he eats dinner on something better than candy bars.
Otherwise, he is to believe that he is making this trip completely on his own.
Sincerely, Louis Holden.
PS: Divide the change from this five dollars among you as tips. L.H.
And so you look down at young Mister Holden and get a feeling ofvicarious pleasure. You stamp his ticket and hand it to him with agesture. You point out the train-gate he is to go through, and you tellhim that he is to sit in the third railroad car. As he leaves, you pickup the telephone and call the station-master, the conductor, and sinceyou can't get the dining-car steward directly, you charge the conductorwith passing the word along.
Then you divide the change. Of the two-fifty, you extract a dollar,feeling that the Senior Holden is a cheapskate. You slip the other buckand a half into an envelope, ready for the conductor's hand. He'll thinkHolden Senior is more of a cheapskate, and by the time he extracts hiscut, the dining car steward will _know_ that Holden Senior is acheapskate. But--
Then a face appears at your window and barks, "Holyoke, Mass.," and yournormal day falls back into shape.
The response of the people you tell about it varies all the way fromoutrage that anybody would let a kid of five go alone on such a dangerousmission to loud bragging that he, too, once went on such a journey, atfour and a half, and didn't need a note.
But Jimmy Holden is gone from your window, and you won't know for atleast another day that you've been suckered by a note painstakinglytypewritten, letter by letter, by a five-year-old boy who has a mostremarkable vocabulary.
Jimmy's trip to Roundtree was without incident. Actually, it was easyonce he had hurdled the ticket-seller with his forged note and thefive-dollar bill from the cashbox in his father's desk. His error in notmaking it a ten was minor; a larger tip would not have provided him withbetter service, because the train crew were happy to keep an eye on theadventurous youngster for his own small sake. Their mild resentmentagainst the small tip was directed against the boy's father, not theyoung passenger himself.
He had one problem. The train was hardly out of the station beforeeverybody on it knew that there was a five-year-old making a trip allby himself. Of course, he was not to be bothered, but everybody wantedto talk to him, to ask him how he was, to chatter endlessly at him.Jimmy did not want to talk. His experience in addressing adults wasexasperating. That he spoke lucid English instead of babygab did notcompel a rational response. Those who heard him speak made over himwith the same effusive superiority that they used in applauding agolden-haired tot in high heels and a strapless evening gown sittingon a piano and singing, _Why Was I Born?_ in a piping, uncertain-tonedvoice. It infuriated him.
So he immersed himself in his comic books. He gave his name politelyevery five minutes for the first fifty miles. He turned down offers ofcandy with, "Mommy says I mustn't before supper." And when dinnertimecame he allowed himself to be escorted through the train by theconductor, because Jimmy knew that he couldn't handle the doors withouthelp.
The steward placed a menu in front of him, and then asked carefully, "Howmuch money do you want to spend, young man?"
Jimmy had the contents of his father's cashbox pinned to the inside ofhis shirt, and a five-dollar bill folded in a snap-top purse with somechange in his shirt pocket. He could add with the best of them, but hedid not want any more attention than he was absolutely forced to attract.So he fished out the snap-top purse and opened it to show the steward hisfive-dollar bill. The steward relaxed; he'd had a moment of apprehensionthat Holden Senior might have slipped the kid a half-dollar for dinner.(The steward had received a quarter for his share of the originaltwo-fifty.)
Jimmy looked at the "Child's Dinner" menu and pointed out a plate: lambchop and mashed potatoes. After that, dinner progressed without incident.Jimmy topped it off with a dish of ice cream.
The steward made change. Jimmy watched him carefully, and then said,"Daddy says I'm supposed to give you a tip. How much?"
The steward looked down, wondering how he could explain the standarddining car tip of fifteen or twenty percent of the bill. He took aswallow of air and picked out a quarter. "This will do nicely," he saidand went off thankful that all people do not ask waiters how much theythink they deserve for the service rendered.
Thus Jimmy Holden arrived in Roundtree and was observed and convoyed--butnot bothered--off the train.
It is deplorable that adults are not as friendly and helpful to oneanother as they are to children; it might make for a more pleasant world.As Jimmy walked along the station platform at Roundtree, one of hisformer fellow-passengers walked beside him. "Where are you going, youngman? Someone going to meet you, of course?"
"No, sir," said Jimmy. "I'm supposed to take a cab--"
"I'm going your way, why not ride along with me?"
"Sure it's all right?"
"Sure thing. Come along." Jimmy never knew that this man felt good for aweek after he'd done his good turn for the year.
His grandfather opened the door
and looked down at him in completesurprise. "Why, Jimmy! What are you doing here? Who brought--"
His grandmother interrupted, "Come in! Come in! Don't just stand therewith the door open!"
Grandfather closed the door firmly, grandmother knelt and folded Jimmyin her arms and crooned over him, "You poor darling. You brave littlefellow. Donald," she said firmly to her husband, "go get a glass of warmmilk and some cookies." She led Jimmy to the old-fashioned parlor andseated him on the sofa. "Now, Jimmy, you relax a moment and then you cantell me what happened."
Jimmy sighed and looked around. The house was old, and comfortablysturdy. It gave him a sense of refuge, of having reached a safe haven atlast. The house was over-warm, and there was a musty smell of over-agedfurniture, old leather, and the pungence of mothballs. It seemed togenerate a feeling of firm stability. Even the slightly stale air--thereprobably hadn't been a wide open window since the storm sashes wereinstalled last autumn--provided a locked-in feeling that conversely meantthat the world was locked out.
Grandfather brought in the glass of warmed milk and a plate of cookies.He sat down and asked, "What happened, Jimmy?"
"My mother and father are--"
"You eat your cookies and drink your milk," ordered his grandmother. "Weknow. That Mr. Brennan sent us a telegram."
* * * * *
It was slightly more than twenty-four hours since Jimmy Holden had blownout the five proud candles on his birthday cake and begun to open hisfine presents. Now it all came back with a rush, and when it came back,nothing could stop it.
Jimmy never knew how very like a little boy of five he sounded thatnight. His speech was clear enough, but his troubled mind was too fullto take the time to form his headlong thoughts into proper sentences.He could not pause to collect his thoughts into any chronology, so itcame out going back and forth all in a single line, punctuated only bynecessary pauses for the intake of breath. He was close to tears beforehe was halfway through, and by the time he came to the end he stopped ina sob and broke out crying.
His grandfather said, "Jimmy, aren't you exaggerating? Mr. Brennan isn'tthat sort of a man."
"He is too!" exploded Jimmy through his tears. "I saw him!"
"But--"
"Donald, this is no time to start cross-examining a child." She crossedthe room and lifted him onto her lap; she stroked his head and held hischeek against her shoulder. His open crying subsided into deep sobs; fromsomewhere she found a handkerchief and made him blow his nose--once,twice, and then a deep thrice. "Get me a warm washcloth," she told herhusband, and with it she wiped away his tears. The warmth soothed Jimmymore.
"Now," she said firmly, "before we go into this any more we'll have agood night's sleep."
The featherbed was soft and cozy. Like protecting mother-wings, it foldedJimmy into its bosom, and the warm softness drew out of Jimmy whateverremained of his stamina. Tonight he slept of weariness and exhaustion,not of the sedation given last night. Here he felt at home, and it wasgood.
And as tomorrows always had, tomorrow would take care of itself.
Jimmy Holden's father and mother first met over an operating table,dressed in the white sterility that leaves only the eyes visible. Shewielded the trephine that laid the patient's brain bare, he kept track ofthe patient's life by observing the squiggles on the roll of graph paperthat emerged from his encephalograph. She knew nothing of the craft ofthe delicate instrument-creator, and he knew even less of the craft ofsurgery. There had been a near-argument during the cleaning-up sessionafter the operation; the near-argument ended when they both realized thatneither of them understood a word of what the other was saying. So thenear-argument became an animated discussion, the general meaning ofwhich became clear: Brain surgeons should know more about the intricaciesof electromechanics, and the designers of delicate, precisioninstrumentation should know more about the mass of human gray matter theywere trying to measure.
They pooled their intellects and plunged into the problem of creating anencephalograph that would record the infinitesimal irregularities thatwere superimposed upon the great waves. Their operation became large;they bought the old structure on top of the hill and moved in, bag andbaggage. They cohabited but did not live together for almost a year;Paul Brennan finally pointed out that Organized Society might permit acouple of geniuses to become research hermits, but Organized Societystill took a dim view of cohabitation without a license. Besides, suchmessy arrangements always cluttered up the legal clarity of chattels,titles, and estates.
They married in a quiet ceremony about two years prior to the date thatLouis Holden first identified the fine-line wave-shapes that went withdetermined ideas. When he recorded them and played them back, his brainre-traced its original line of thought, and he could not even make amental revision of the way his thoughts were arranged. For two yearsLouis and Laura Holden picked their way slowly through this field;stumped at one point for several months because the machine was strictlya personal proposition. Recorded by one of them, the playback was clearto that one, but to the other it was wild gibberish--an inexplicabletangle of noise and colored shapes, odors and tastes both pleasant andnasty, and mingled sensations. It was five years after their marriagebefore they found success by engraving information in the brain bysitting, connected to the machine, and reading aloud, word for word, theinformation that they wanted.
It went by rote, as they had learned in childhood. It was the tiresomerepetition of going over and over and over the lines of a poem or thenumbers of the multiplication table until the pathway was a deeplytrodden furrow in the brain. Forever imprinted, it was retained untildeath. Knowledge is stored by rote.
To accomplish this end, Louis Holden succeeded in violating all of thetheories of instrumentation by developing a circuit that acted as a sortof reverberation chamber which returned the wave-shape played into itback to the same terminals without interference, and this single circuitbecame the very heart of the Holden Electromechanical Educator.
With success under way, the Holdens needed an intellectual guinea pig, avirgin mind, an empty store-house to fill with knowledge. They planned atwenty-year program of research, to end by handing their machine to theworld complete with its product and instructions for its use and a listof pitfalls to avoid.
The conception of James Quincy Holden was a most carefully-plannedparenthood. It was not accomplished without love or passion. Love hadcome quietly, locking them together physically as they had been bondedintellectually. The passion had been deliberately provoked during theproper moment of Laura Holden's cycle of ovulation. This scientificapproach to procreation was no experiment, it was the foregone-conclusiveact to produce a component absolutely necessary for the completion oftheir long program of research. They happily left to Nature's Choice theone factor they could not control, and planned to accept an infant ofeither sex with equal welcome. They loved their little boy as they lovedone another, rejoiced with him, despaired with him, and made their ownway with success and mistake, and succeeded in bringing Jimmy to fiveyears of age quite normal except for his education.
Now, proficiency in brain surgery does not come at an early age, nor doesworld-wide fame in the field of delicate instrumentation. Jimmy's parentswere over forty-five on the date of his birth.
Jimmy's grandparents were, then, understandably aged seventy-eight andeighty-one.
* * * * *
The old couple had seen their life, and they knew it for what it was.They arose each morning and faced the day knowing that there would be nonew problem, only recurrence of some problem long solved. Theirs was acomfortable routine, long gone was their spirit of adventure, thepleasant notions of trying something a new and different way. At theirage, they were content to take the easiest and the simplest way of doingwhat they thought to be Right. Furthermore, they had lived long enough toknow that no equitable decision can be made by listening to only one sideof any argument.
While young Jimmy was polishing of
f a platter of scrambled eggs thefollowing morning, Paul Brennan arrived. Jimmy's fork stopped in midairat the sound of Brennan's voice in the parlor.
"You called him," he said accusingly.
Grandmother Holden said, "He's your legal guardian, James."
"But--I don't--can't--"
"Now, James, your father and mother knew best."
"But they didn't know about Paul Brennan. I won't go!"
"You must."
"I won't!"
"James," said Grandmother Holden quietly, "you can't stay here."
"Why not?"
"We're not prepared to keep you."
"Why not?"
Grandmother Holden despaired. How could she make this youngsterunderstand that eighty is not an age at which to embark upon the processof raising a five-year-old to maturity?
From the other room, Paul Brennan was explaining his side as he'd givenit to the police. "--Forgot the land option that had to be signed. So Itook off after them and drove fast enough to catch up. I was only acouple of hundred yards behind when it happened."
"He's a liar!" cried Jimmy Holden.
"That's not a nice thing to say."
"It's true!"
"Jimmy!" came the reproachful tone.
"It's true!" he cried.
His grandfather and Paul Brennan came into the kitchen. "Ah, Jimmy,"said Paul in a soothing voice, "why did you run off? You had everybodyworried."
"You did! You lie! You--"
"James!" snapped his grandfather. "Stop that talk at once!"
"Be easy with him, Mr. Holden. He's upset. Jimmy, let's get this settledright now. What did I do and how do I lie?"
"Oh, please Mr. Brennan," said his grandmother. "This isn't necessary."
"Oh, but it is. It is very important. As the legal guardian of youngJames, I can't have him harboring some suspicion as deep as this. Comeon, Jimmy. Let's talk it out right now. What did I do and how am Ilying?"
"You weren't behind. You forced us off the road."
"How could he, young man?" demanded Grandfather Holden.
"I don't know, but he did."
"Wait a moment, sir," said Brennan quietly. "It isn't going to be enoughto force him into agreement. He's got to see the truth for itself, of hisown construction from the facts. Now, Jimmy, where was I when you left myapartment?"
"You--you were there."
"And didn't I say--"
"One moment," said Grandfather Holden. "Don't lead the witness."
"Sorry. James, what did I do?"
"You--" then a long pause.
"Come on, Jimmy."
"You shook hands with my father."
"And then?"
"Then you--kissed my mother on the cheek."
"And then, again?"
"And then you carried my birthday presents down and put them in the car."
"Now, Jimmy, how does your father drive? Fast or slow?"
"Fast."
"So now, young man, you tell me how I could go back up to my apartment,get my coat and hat, get my car out of the garage, and race to the top ofthat hill so that I could turn around and come at you around that curve?Just tell me that, young man."
"I--don't know--how you did it."
"It doesn't make sense, does it?"
"--No--"
"Jimmy, I'm trying to help you. Your father and I were fraternitybrothers in college. I was best man at your parents' wedding. I am yourgodfather. Your folks were taken away from both of us--and I'm hoping totake care of you as if you were mine." He turned to Jimmy's grandparents."I wish to God that I could find the driver of that other car. He didn'thit anybody, but he's as guilty of a hit-and-run offence as the man whodoes. If I ever find him, I'll have him in jail until he rots!"
"Jimmy," pleaded his grandmother, "can't you see? Mr. Brennan is onlytrying to help. Why would he do the evil thing you say he did?"
"Because--" and Jimmy started to cry. The utter futility of trying tomake people believe was too much to bear.
"Jimmy, please stop it and be a man," said Brennan. He put a hand onJimmy's shoulder. Jimmy flung it aside with a quick twist and a turn."Please, Jimmy," pleaded Brennan. Jimmy left his chair and buried hisface in a corner of the wall.
"Jimmy, believe me," pleaded Brennan. "I'm going to take you to live inyour old house, among your own things. I can't replace your folks, but Ican try to be as close to your father as I know how. I'll see you througheverything, just as your mother and father want me to."
"No!" exploded Jimmy through a burst of tears.
Grandfather Holden grunted. "This is getting close to the tantrum stage,"he said. "And the only way to deal with a tantrum is to apply the flat ofthe hand to the round of the bottom."
"Please," smiled Brennan. "He's a pretty shaken youngster. He'semotionally hurt and frightened, and he wants to strike out and hurtsomething back."
"I think he's done enough of that," said Grandfather Holden. "When Louistossed one of these fits of temper where he wouldn't listen to anyreason, we did as we saw fit anyway and let him kick and scream untilhe got tired of the noise he made."
"Let's not be rough," pleaded Jimmy's grandmother. "He's just a littleboy, you know."
"If he weren't so little he'd have better sense," snapped Grandfather.
"James," said Paul Brennan quietly, "do you see you're making trouble foryour grandparents? Haven't we enough trouble as it is? Now, young man,for the last time, will you walk or will you be carried? Whichever,Jimmy, we're going back home!"
James Holden gave up. "I'll go," he said bitterly, "but I hate you."
"He'll be all right," promised Brennan. "I swear it!"
"Please, Jimmy, be good for Mr. Brennan," pleaded his grandmother. "Afterall, it's for your own good." Jimmy turned away, bewildered, hurt andsilent. He stubbornly refused to say goodbye to his grandparents.
He was trapped in the world of grown-ups that believed a lying adultbefore they would even consider the truth of a child.