The View From Saturday

by E. L. Konigsburg

  That would not do. Answering before a question was completed or having several kids answer at once were violations of the rules that would cost points. Mrs. Olinski reminded them that if they continued to do that, the penalties could easily add up to a loss. Her team seemed to communicate with a secret stealth language that slipped beneath thought. It took only one warning, and they stopped. Just. Like. That.

  With the success of her team, Mrs. Olinski was asked more and more often how she had chosen them, and she continued to give several good answers, varying them as the need arose. They worked well together. They were willing to take time to drill. They understood the rules. They were quick. All of these answers were true, but not the whole truth. The whole truth was that Mrs. Olinski did not yet know the whole truth.

  Then the day before the contest for the district championship Mr. Connor LeDue, the principal of Knightsbridge Middle School, found some pretext to visit Mrs. Olinski. He stood to one side of her wheelchair, leaned over, smiled, and said, “I heard a rumor that your team is expecting to blow mine out of the water.” His smile was as genuine as a Xeroxed signature.

  In order to make eye contact with someone standing where Mr. LeDue stood, Mrs. Olinski had to stretch her neck in two directions—up and to the side—and open her eyes wide. This made her look worshipful. She wasn’t.

  Mr. LeDue applied his smile again and said, “I told our coach that she could expect to be hung if she lets your sixth grade grunges beat us out.”

  “Well then,” Mrs. Olinski replied, “much as I respect your coach, I recommend that you start buying rope.” She shifted her head slightly and added, “By the way, Mr. LeDue, in our grunge neighborhood, we say hanged, not hung. Check it out.”

  Dr. Roy Clayton Rohmer, the district superintendent, was a worried man. Item one: He worried about his contract that was up for renewal. Item two: He worried about the district playoffs. Item three: He worried about Mr. Homer Fairbain, his deputy superintendent in charge of instruction. He worried because item three could affect item two, which could affect item one.

  The previous year when Mr. Homer Fairbain had been master of ceremonies for the district playoffs, the contest had been broadcast on educational TV. When he was to ask the question, What is the native country of Pope John Paul II? Mr. Fairbain asked, “What is the native country of Pope John Paul Eye Eye?” The day after the broadcast, there were five letters to the editor in the paper about Mr. Fairbain, none favorable.

  Dr. Rohmer knew that this year’s broadcast would have a larger than usual audience, partly because people were curious about having a sixth grade team be a contender for the district middle school championship but mostly because everyone would be waiting for Homer Fairbain to goof. Dr. Rohmer had to let Mr. Fairbain be master of ceremonies again. It would be his one chance to show the community that he had learned a thing or II.

  Dr. Rohmer knew that if the names of any of the former Soviet Socialist Republics—Uzbekistan or Azerbaijan or, Heaven forbid! Kyrgyzstan—appeared in any of the questions, Homer would embarrass himself. If he had to read the names of the ministers of Japan or Zaire, or any name containing more consonants than vowels, or more vowels than consonants, he would embarrass himself. He would also embarrass Dr. Rohmer and make him worry a lot.

  Mr. Fairbain, who was a humble man, saw no problem with requesting help from one of the reading teachers until Dr. Rohmer pointed out that the entire staff of remedial reading teachers came from the very department he was in charge of.

  Dr. Rohmer, whose patience was as close to the end as his contract, arranged to give Mr. Fairbain the questions a week in advance, told him to practice reading them out loud, and strongly suggested that if he had any difficulty with them—anything at all—to see one of the school’s speech therapists. (Therapists came from the department of student services, not curriculum.)

  The Souls stayed after school late the Thursday before the Knightsbridge contest. Mrs. Laurencin sent in Cokes and pizza for the team. On Friday afternoon, she came into Mrs. Olinski’s room and told the team that after this practice, she wanted everyone to go home and get a good night’s sleep, and that win, lose, or draw, she couldn’t be more proud of all of them tomorrow than she was at that moment.

  For all the reasons given—an unprecedented sixth grade championship team, the snobbishness and arrogance of the Knightsbridge team, as well as waiting for Mr. Fairbain to make a fool of himself—the Knightsbridge cafetorium was filled to capacity. Small kids were perched on tabletops because there weren’t enough chairs, and the Epiphany sixth graders stood like caryatids leaning against three of the four walls of the room.

  Mr. Fairbain did well and actually seemed to be enjoying himself until syllabication did him in. The question was to name the tribe associated with each of the following Native American leaders and name a major accomplishment of one. The leaders’ names were Sequoyah, Tecumseh, Osceola, and Geronimo. However, Geronimo was hyphenated at a line break, so Gero appeared on one line and nimo on the next, and unfortunately, Mr. Fairbain read it as Jair-oh-NEEM-oh.

  Dr. Rohmer hoped that no one would notice, and no one on the Knightsbridge team did. Fact: They could not answer the question. Then it was The Soul’s turn to answer, and Julian corrected Mr. Fairbain. “With all due respect, sir, I believe one of the men of whom you speak is Geronimo, a member of the Apache tribe.”

  Poor Mr. Fairbain. He looked down at the card, squinted, read it, and said, “Yes, indeed, you are right, young man. Good for you.” He caught Dr. Rohmer’s eye and knew he had done something wrong. He laughed nervously and said, “You look a bit like an Indian yourself.”

  Julian smiled. “I am a hybrid. I am in part what is called East Indian.”

  “Well, now, that is special,” Mr. Fairbain said, smiling and looking out over the audience, and wanting to reinforce his compliment, asked, “What is your tribe?”

  Dr. Rohmer paled to the point of translucence, and the audience gasped. Everyone—even those who had not had diversity training at taxpayer expense—knew that even though it was correct to recognize a person’s ethnicity, it was not correct to comment upon it in public.

  Mrs. Olinski thought Dr. Rohmer would have to be taken out on a stretcher. Mr. Fairbain noticed Dr. Rohmer’s sudden anemia, and without knowing what he had done wrong, but knowing it was something, said, “That’s all very interesting, young man, but I’m afraid we must move along. Can you answer the question or not?”

  “I can, sir,” Julian replied. And he did.

  His answer put Epiphany ahead.

  They had to answer one more question: What is the origin of the phrase, “to meet one’s Waterloo” and what does it mean?

  There was a clear, bright gleam in Ethan’s eye as he concluded his answer with,”… to meet one’s Waterloo means to suffer a crushing defeat.” Crushing applause followed a nanosecond of crushing silence. Everyone clapped. But not the sixth-grade sentinels who lined the walls. Instead, upon a signal from Michael Froelich, they took from their pockets a piece of rope, which they pinned on their shirts in the place where a medal would go.

  When The Souls came down off the stage, they stood four abreast behind Mrs. Olinski’s wheelchair and pushed her toward the back of the room where the sixth graders converged and formed a phalanx that lifted her—wheel-chair and all—onto their shoulders and carried her out of the building and into the parking lot.

  Two of the boys stopped short of Mrs. Olinski’s van. One was Michael Froelich. He hopped on top of the other fellow’s shoulders and draped a noose over the antenna of Mrs. Olinski’s van.

  Ethan said, “Look, Ma, no hands,” and Noah said, “Look, Ma, no legs,” and Nadia thought, “Sometimes people need a lift between switches,” and Julian said nothing but rubbed the little ivory monkey in his pocket.

  Other victories followed, but none was sweeter.

  8

  After defeating Knightsbridge, The Souls started drilling for the regionals.

  There
were eight regions in the state. Each was named for a major body of water that touched the counties within its boundary. They were named for lakes, great and small; for rivers, flowing south or east, and one was named for a sound, Long Island Sound. Epiphany was in the region called Finger Lakes. Finger Lakes had never won the state championship. The Hudson River region, which included Maxwell Middle School, had won three out of the past four years.

  The week before the regionals, Mrs. Olinski arranged with Mrs. Laurencin to have the school opened on Saturday afternoon so they could have an extra drill. Her team had always been willing—even eager—to practice, so she was surprised and disappointed when they refused.

  Finally Noah spoke. “No disrespect intended, Mrs. Olinski, but we would prefer not to.”

  No disrespect, but. But what? But they prefer not to! “What happens on Saturday that is more important than an extra practice session?” she asked.

  Noah answered, “We have tea. On Saturdays we all have tea.”

  “You have tea?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Noah said. “We have tea.”

  “At Sillington House,” Nadia added.

  “At four,” Ethan added.

  Then Julian said, “Tea is always at four, Mrs. Olinski.”

  Mr. Singh’s teas at Sillington House were becoming well known in the community, and Mrs. Olinski remembered her half promise to herself after the matinee of Annie. She would have another cup of slow tea, and the children had just extended a half invitation. Two halves make a whole, she thought. She would go to tea at Sillington House at four o’clock on Saturday afternoon.

  At precisely three forty-five Mrs. Olinski locked the door to her house, got in her van, and drove to Sillington House. She arrived at four and had hardly let herself down from her van when she saw the front door swing open and Mr. Singh come down the path to the curb. He insisted upon wheeling her up the ramp across the wide porch. He paused before they entered the front hall and said, “We are glad you have come, Mrs. Olinski.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because Sillington House is its own place, Mrs. Olinski. You will soon see.” He wheeled her through the front hall and into the dining room where The Souls were standing behind a table in the back.

  There were two other tables where paying guests were already seated. They smiled and nodded at her in the approving way people do when they see people in wheel-chairs.

  Mr. Singh wheeled her around to the side of the table opposite The Souls. They greeted her. Quietly. In unison. One word. They said, “Welcome.” A place had been set at the end on the side of the table away from the wall. Handicap parking, she thought.

  Julian said, “We have not yet poured your tea, Mrs. Olinski. We did not want it to get cold.”

  Ethan poured. Mrs. Olinski lifted her cup in a silent toast and slowly sipped. Even before replacing her cup in its saucer, she once again felt something lift from her shoulders. She nibbled on the small sandwiches with no crust and soft fillings and ate the tiny tarts with bites as delicate as the tarts themselves. Mrs. Olinski felt—the sensation was so strange to her that she hardly remembered the word—relaxed. She could not remember a time since her accident—maybe even before it—when she had not forced herself not to notice people noticing her. Yet, the children watched her eat cake and drink tea, and she did not feel at all self-conscious. Mrs. Olinski finished the last of the miniature cream puffs, delicately touched her napkin to the corners of her mouth, folded it, laid it on the table alongside her saucer, lifted her eyes, and saw four smiles adorn the faces opposite her. She returned their smiles with a grin.

  Other paying guests had arrived, and The Souls excused themselves as they made trips in and out of the kitchen bringing tea and tiered trays of tea sandwiches and cakes. They rejoined Mrs. Olinski at her table, and waited until the creased V between her eyes smoothed out and disappeared altogether. Then when the last of the paying guests had paid his check, Noah said, “We begin practice after we clear up.”

  There was a tip under the rim of the saucer on each of the tables of the paying guests. Whoever picked up the money put it into a box on the sideboard to which a small sign, written in calligraphy said, TO INSURE PROMPTNESS.

  After The Souls had disappeared into the kitchen, Mr. Singh came out. He laid several packs of note cards on the table and sat across the table from Mrs. Olinski. He sat with his back as straight as his chair, and said, “They were getting worried, Mrs. Olinski.”

  “Who was?”

  “The Souls, Mrs. Olinski.”

  “The Souls?” she repeated. “Who are The Souls?”

  “It would be more proper to ask, what are The Souls.”

  “All right, then. What are The Souls?”

  “The Souls, Mrs. Olinski, are what Noah, Nadia, Ethan, and Julian have become. Do you understand?”

  “No, Mr. Singh, I’m afraid I don’t. Is this some strange Indian philosophy, Mr. Singh? Reincarnation. That sort of thing?”

  He smiled. His smile was as white as his turban and almost as broad. “An incarnation, perhaps. Not a reincarnation. Nadia chose the name.”

  “Why were they getting worried?”

  “They worried, Mrs. Olinski, because you were on the verge of choosing another. Such a choice would have been disastrous.”

  Mrs. Olinski had never told anyone—anyone—that she had been on the verge of choosing another. She grew uneasy. Why was Mr. Singh destroying the wonderful relaxed feeling she had had only minutes ago? She nervously cleared her throat. “But I did not,” she said defensively.

  “Yes. It was most fortunate. They have been waiting, Mrs. Olinski.”

  She said, “I’m afraid I still don’t understand. Waiting for what? What are you trying to tell me, Mr. Singh?”

  He smiled. The white of his teeth made a dazzling underline to his turban. “Just think about this, will you? You have never been able to explain how you chose the members of your team. You have given answers but no explanations.”

  How did he know that?

  “Think of the atom, Mrs. Olinski. There are energies within that tiny realm that are invisible but produce visible results.” Mr. Singh shook his head slowly. “Do not feel uneasy, Mrs. Olinski. Hamilton Knapp would truly have been a terrible choice.”

  Mrs. Olinski had never told anyone—anyone—that she had been on the verge of choosing Hamilton Knapp. How could Mr. Singh tell her not to be uneasy when everything he said made her uneasy!

  Mr. Singh stood. “Later,” he said. “Later you will understand. But for now, we would like to express our gratitude for realizing that Julian was the necessary soul.”

  She nodded. “All right,” she said. “Later.”

  He pushed the packets of cards in front of her. “Would you like to be quizmaster today?”

  “I guess I would.”

  “I’ll send them in. They are ready to begin.”

  She absentmindedly turned over the cards. There was one question per card, just like hers, but these were written, not typed. The writing was calligraphic, the paper white, the ink as black as Hecate’s soul. She examined the questions—they were good ones—and hardly noticed when the children had come out of the kitchen and taken places at the table on the side opposite her.

  “Who wrote these?” she asked.

  Noah said, “We all did. I gave Julian a calligraphy kit for our first Saturday, and I taught them all.”

  “Who made up the questions?”

  “You made up some,” Julian said. “And the rest of us contributed others.”

  “You, too, Mr. Singh?”

  Mr. Singh bowed slightly from the waist. “My specialties are languages and weights and measures. Cooks must know weights and measures.”

  Mrs. Olinski laughed. “Where did you come up with that category?”

  “I’m a big fan of Jeopardy! on the television. When Julian and I lived on the cruise ship, they very often had quiz contests to amuse the patrons. This happened very often when the weather w
as bad.” He bowed again. “If you will be quiz-master today, Mrs. Olinski, I shall return to my kitchen. I am trying out new recipes for bran muffins. Americans care very much for bran. I learned of this when I was on the cruise ship.” He smiled. “We must talk again, Mrs. Olinski.”

  Noah was saying, “There are some holes we need to plug, Mrs. Olinski.”

  “What are they?” she asked.

  Julian answered. “Music and the Bible.”

  Noah said, “I keep telling Julian that we can skip the Bible.”

  Julian said, “When I watch Jeopardy! with Papa, the Bible is very often a category. I think we need it.”

  Noah said, “Fact: This is New York. Not India, not England, and certainly not a cruise ship. This is New York. And fact: There is the law. There is no way anyone involved with teaching in a public school in the state of New York is going to quiz anyone who is in school at taxpayer expense on the Bible. They’d be slapped with fourteen lawsuits before the buzzer finished sounding. Don’t you agree that’s a fact, Mrs. Olinski?”

  Mrs. Olinski was not thinking about facts. She was thinking about their name, The Souls. “I like it,” she said out loud.

  “You like the Bible?”

  “Well, yes,” she replied. “I like the Bible. As literature, as history, I’m comfortable with it as a category.”

  Noah sighed. “Does that mean the New Testament and the Old Testament?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt,” Mrs. Olinski replied.

  “And the Koran?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt,” Mrs. Olinski replied.

  “The Upanishads?” Julian asked.

  “Those, too?” Noah asked.

  “Wouldn’t hurt,” they all said in unison. And then they all laughed until Noah caught on and laughed, too.