by test
"Anyway, this morning Carl foughtarguedwith his teacher, Miss Fortenberry, and I just thought I'd call and let you know she had to send him to the principal's office."
"I see," I said.
"Carl is normally such a quiet, well-mannered boy," Mr. Secrist said. "I mean, I know Carl, everybody at school knows Carl, he's a great kid. I just thought I'd call and tell you, in case it's something you might understand and, ah, know how to deal with better than us." He was choosing his words carefully. "Is there anything we can do to help?"
"No, thank you," I said. "I think I know what's troubling Carl. We can talk to him."
"I don't mean he's been a troublemaker or anything," Mr. Secrist said. "Carl's a good student."
"He's not in any trouble here, Mr. Secrist. Thank you for calling. We appreciate it."
"Well if you'd ever like to come in for a conference or anything, just let me know."
"Sure. Thanks." I hung up. I was nearly out of the room when the phone rang again. I walked back and answered it.
The voice was puzzled.
"Oh I'm sorry," Mr. Secrist said. "I was trying to dial another number and must have redialed yours by mistake." He chuckled. "Busy day."
"That's all right," I said. "I know what you mean." We hung up. I was al-
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most to the kitchen when the phone rang again. I called ahead to Lanny, "I got it," and answered the one on the kitchen wall.
The caller made a surprised sound. It was Mr. Secrist again. "Man, I'm terribly sorry," he said. "I made sure I dialed the right number this time. Something must be wrong with the phones." He paused. "Well, this is embarrassing."
"Don't worry about it," I said. "Maybe you should try another phone, or call the phone company."
"I'll call the phone company from another phone," he said.
"That's probably a good idea," I said. "Thanks again for calling about Carl."
We hung up. Lanny looked at me. She was slicing peeled potatoes into halves on the chopping block. It made a sound that filled the momentary silence between us. Schock. Schock.
"What about Carl?" she said. "Who was that?"
"A counselor from school. He said Carl argued with his teacher today and got sent to the principal."
"He called us over that?"
"Well, he said he's been doing it a lot lately."
She looked at me and set the knife down on the block and wiped her hands on a towel.
"I'm not surprised," she said. "Kids know things. They can tell when something's wrong." She picked up the knife again. "It's us he's upset over." She sliced another potato. Schock.
The phone rang again.
"Jesus, if that's him again," I said. "He's called three times already."
"Who?"
"The counselor. He said his phone's messed up."
I answered it on the third ring.
"Bob?" the caller said.
"You must have the wrong number," I said and hung up.
"What are we going to do about Carl?" Lanny said.
"We need to sit down and tell him. Explain it to him."
She was quiet. She chopped another potato. Schock. Then set the knife down again. "It's not going to be easy," she said. "We've just ignored Carl through all this. We never pay him any attention. And he's going to be the one it's hardest on." She breathed hard and looked down at her hands. They were pink from working in the kitchen and I had a moment of guilt about sitting out on the porch while she started supper by herself. I put it out of my mind. Lanny took a deep breath and seemed on the verge of tears. The phone rang again. I snatched it up.
"Yes?"
"Who is this, please?"
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"Who is this?"
They paused and hung up. Lanny was looking at me. I hung up the phone.
"We never even taught him to ride his bicycle," Lanny said. "He can't even ride a bike. The kids all rode by here a few minutes ago and they all had their own bikes except Carl. He was riding on the back of Fredrick Nelson's." Our kitchen was in a small separate wing of the house. A window at the sink overlooked the back yard, and our breakfast table sat near a bay window that looked out front. Lanny could see the street out that window. I'd seen the kids ride by too, when I was on the porch, Carl on Fredrick's old splayed banana seat while Fredrick rode the pedals. Carl's legs hanging listless, bare ankles in old sneakers and toes stubbing pavement with Fredrick's desultory lunges.
"Even the little girls ride their own bikes," Lanny said. "We got Carl a bike like that last Christmas."
"I know that," I said.
"Well why isn't he riding it?"
"Look, I know mothers who've taught their kids to ride bikes."
"My father taught me." Schock, schock. Four large Irish potatoes, halves rocking on the cutting board, crazy beveled edges like fat whittled sweetwood sticks. We seemed to have more than enough for supper. The phone rang again.
"How you been?" a woman's voice said. "I ain't seen you in a long time."
"Who is this?"
"Terry?"
"You have the wrong number," I said and hung up. I felt the urge to turn on Lanny and held it back.
"I'm going outside," I said. The phone rang as I stepped onto the porch but I ignored it. The kids were a couple of blocks down the street on their bicycles. I walked out to the curb, cupped my hands and called out, "Carl!" Down the street a few heads among them turned. The bicycles wobbled to a stop. They talked among themselves, then turned and started my way.
It was seven o'clock on daylight saving time, thin high pink clouds spreading across the sky. They looked like brush strokes in a painting. The lush greens of the trees and grass deepened, the sharp lines and angles of houses and cars and telephone poles and lines softening. The children drew closer, brown-skinned already on their rangy bikes. Poker cards were fastened by clothespins to the bikes' front forks, making stuttering noises they imagined to sound like motorcycles.
They called their group the Roadhog Club. I know how they came up with this. What they loved to do was line their bikes up in the street until a car came along. Then they reared up on their back wheels and stood their ground until the driver got out cussing. Then they scattered and scooted, motocrossing through the yards and whooping like Indians.
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They zipped up and skidded to a stop, looking at me and waiting on what I had to tell Carl. They may as well have been reared up, the looks on their faces. The formidable Roadhog Club, defiant. I could hear the phone ringing faintly inside the house. Carl sat loose on the back on Fredrick Nelson's rigged-up banana seat, waiting.
"C'mere," I said to him.
"Aw, I want to ride."
"Just c'mere. I want you to do something with me for a few minutes."
He dismounted in silence, Fredrick slipping forward on the bar to let him off. Carl's a good-looking kid, with his straight sandy blond hair down on his forehead and his tiny wedge build. He doesn't have the wiry or pudgy looks the others have. Carrot-headed Bubba Weeks, Wick's kid, stared at me with a cool gaze I took for insolence.
"Y'all go on. Carl's going to be a little while. Get." I shooed them away with my hand. Carl stood a little behind me with his back to them. The Roadhogs wobbled slowly around and at some silent signal scooted, Bubba Weeks and Fredrick Nelson's sister doing wheelies. They dipped turning right onto Ashland, like birds swerving.
"Come on," I said to Carl. We went around back, phones ringing faintly then clearly as we passed windows thrown open for a breeze.
"What're we doing?" He stayed a few steps behind me, dragging.
"We're going to teach you to ride your own bike. Your mother's ashamed."
He mumbled something, then said, "What's Mama ashamed about?" We turned to the little window above the kitchen sink and saw his mother's head there.
"Nothing," I said. "I was only kidding. We want you to learn to ride your bike." He mumbled something. "Come on now, let's do it."
I got the bike from
the shed and rolled it through the back yard, past the cherry tree and out to the alleyway lined and shaded with old wooly oaks and tall, upflung sweetgums. Twice a week garbage trucks rumbled through, stirring dust and a faintly sweet stink. Carl followed like a small prisoner. He stood a couple of steps away, hands in pockets. I heard a breeze and looked up, the thick oaks rustling and the star-pointed sweetgum leaves playing against the sky. I heard something and looked at the little window and her head was still there. Shouting something.
"The phone keeps ringing."
I laid the bike down and went up to the window.
"There have been five calls since you went outside," she said.
"Wrong numbers?"
"Yes. What the hell's going on?"
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe you should call the phone company."
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"What are you doing out there?"
"I'm teaching Carl to ride his bicycle," I said. She looked at me and I could tell she was holding back a comment. Behind her in the kitchen the phone was ringing. She looked around at it and then back at me.
I went back out to the alleyway and picked up the bike and grabbed it by the handlebars and the back of the seat.
"Okay," I said to Carl, "get on."
He trudged over, wiped the dust off the seat with his soft grime-edged fingers, wiped his fingers on his shorts. He grabbed the bars and mounted.
"You set?" I said. He put his feet on the pedals and nodded.
"Was the phone for me?" he said, looking up.
"No. You ready?" He nodded. I pushed and got him going a little ways and said, "Okay, go." He tried to, but his feet slipped off the pedals and the bike fell over with a crash. The alleyway road's a dirt one, hard-packed sand with a little gravel ridge in the middle and scattered gravel on the edges. Carl got up breathing through his nose and scowling and blinking his eyes. I felt my skin prickle with shame and I ran over to help him pick up the bike.
"Jesus, Carl, I'm sorry," I said almost to myself. "My fault. My bad." I pushed the hair from his forehead and looked at him. He frowned and pulled his head away. "I'll do it right this time," I said. I looked back at the house. Lanny's head still at the window.
Carl wouldn't look at me. He got on the bike again. I grabbed the back of the seat.
"Ready?" I said.
He gave a serious nod.
"Is Mama watching?" he said.
"Yeah."
We took off. I ran beside him, holding on with one hand. He didn't pedal, but kept his feet ready and his eyes straight ahead. He was on the right wheel path, hard-packed, and I ran on the gravel ridge having a tough time of it. Then I let go and ran beside him and yelled Pedal! and in a second he did and took off down the alleyway. He was going pretty good. Down where the alleyway runs into the street he slowed and fell over. He jumped up and hopped around, holding his elbow.
I called out, "You all right?"
He stopped hopping and examined his elbow. Then he picked up the bike and walked it back to me.
"Did Mama see that?"
"I don't know." I didn't turn to the window. Carl stared at the house for a minute. A group of kids rode by in the street down where Carl had fallen over. They were younger than the Roadhogs and ringing chrome bells clamped on
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their handlebars. The ringing faded, shring-ring, fainter than their shouting voices, then a faint sound lost in rustling leaves and air.
Carl climbed back onto the bike and I grabbed hold and pushed him going again. He wobbled a little when I let go but didn't fall down when he turned, and got started back to me by himself. He got the hang of it and rode back and forth for a while, up and down the alleyway. I smoked a couple of cigarettes and watched. Carl whizzed past on the bike, kicking up dust.
He was having a time. He started trying to do wheelies, catching on so fast because he'd waited so long, hanging around such good riders. He was being cool, paying me no mind. And he was beautiful, with his hair blowing back away from his forehead. The breeze had died and the air was quiet. The phone lines and power lines dipped and rose from pole to pole along their graceful paths through the trees and in the quiet warmth of the evening I could almost hear them humming. Voices into robotic hums and metallic warps and squawks at near light speed across continents and then cut off with a button. At near light speed once again the gulf between. I sensed a vague feeling of dread creeping in, but then Carl zipped up and skidded to a stop, breathing hard and sweating, his eyes wide open.
"It's almost supper time," I said.
"Can I stay out just a little bit longer?" He leaned forward over the handle-bars, pleading.
I remember this moment sometimes, by itself. It stands apart, in balance, like Carl balanced over the handlebars of his bike, wanting another few minutes outside. There are moments like that, and when you remember them they grip you inside. But at the time I only hesitated for a second.
"Go ahead," I said.
It was twilight. Lamps snicked silently on in houses. I walked down the alleyway toward the street, where light bloomed pinkish in streetlamps curved from poles like thin chromed gargoyles brooding over what traffic may wander their way.
I crossed the street and walked on in the relative dark of the alleyways, into a part of the neighborhood whose houses from the back looked unfamiliar The shadows had deepened. The trees were towering dark shapes. I stood there looking up at them. I felt small and isolated beneath their huge branches. A bit of breeze ran through them like a shiver.
I turned and started back, taking my time. Sounds changed subtly with the light. And in the cooling calm of the settling dusk I became aware, like someone waking up from a dream, of a faint ringing.
Behind one house I stopped in a mimosa's shadow to watch. Under a single lamp, sliding glass door open for a breeze, a fat scarlet man and woman in T-shirts and three near-naked pudgy children sat eating supper. They glistened
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with sweat. Steam rose from their meal. Their phone was ringing. It stopped for a moment then began again. None of them said anything, glowering, forking food into their mouths with an angry urgency.
I walked on toward my house through the darkening back yards. In every house the phone was ringing. Toot Nelson stood beside his, yelling at his oldest son and pointing outside. The boy ducked his head and came out the back door, his startled, angry face looming suddenly into mine.
"Yah!" He jumped back. We stared. He turned wide-eyed and hurried on.
I crossed through a yard and out into the street. Through the screen doors and windows open for breezes I could hear the phones ringing as I walked. A television blared in the Hirlihues' house, blue light filled their empty den. Before I stepped onto our porch I saw the dim figure of a phone company truck parked way down the street.
I cupped my hands and hollered, "Carl." No answer.
Except for the kitchen, the house was dark, and I stood there for a minute in the den, the phone in the hallway jangling dully on, off, on, like a senseless alarm. In the dark the rooms felt vast, everything in the air tingling and electric, jumping needles. I felt I couldn't breathe in enough air. I took a deep breath until I could feel a small tight spot deep in my chest expand like sore muscle. The dread welled up and spread through me. In the kitchen the phone rang, stopped, and began ringing again. Lanny stood at the sink washing tomatoes and ignored it.
