The Calder Game

by Blue Balliett

  He was busy for several minutes picking out cards, and then realized that the shop was quiet — too quiet. He glanced up, and then down again. Squeak-squeak went the rack, and Calder plunged one hand into his pentominoes pocket.

  A middle-aged woman peered suspiciously around the cards, perhaps seeing the boy’s hand slide into his pocket. One of the older men cleared his throat, as if he’d been interrupted and was ready to continue.

  He poked a finger into one ear, jiggled it vigorously, then barked, “Monstrous!”

  The woman gave a loud, impatient sigh that made Calder think of a hen’s bawk. “Yes, oh dear, bawk, most unpleasant. Perhaps if it had been a smaller variety.” She then paused to shuffle through a stack of papers, as if the topic wasn’t important enough to discuss any longer.

  A third voice chimed in. The speaker’s words sounded mushy, as though his mouth was numb — Calder wondered if he’d just come from the dentist. “Well, that’s the pity of it, no one asked us, did they? No consideration, but then those people don’t know any better. What’s good for them is also good for everyone else. Never mind if the shoe doesn’t fit!”

  The woman’s voice now scolded, “Peckish, that’s what you all are! Haven’t you watched any of those museum shows on the telly? It’s a donation, didn’t cost us a penny! And it’s ever so colorful!”

  The ear-cleaner now grunted. “Right, about as artful as what’s stuck to my finger,” he muttered. There was a wave of tuts, tsks, a bawk, and several nose-snorts.

  Smiling, Calder joined in with what he thought was a soft hah — and instantly there was total silence. Wishing he’d stayed quiet, he rushed his three cards into a corner and got busy.

  He’d just printed Dear Mom, when a new voice boomed into the shop.

  “Well?” the man shouted. “With or against?” No one replied, and the man went on, “Cat got your tongues? Well, you can all rot down under before I’ll allow it! That’s been our square for countless generations! I’ll do the job myself if I have to!”

  “Nashy,” the Ear Man warned. “Hang it up.”

  Calder was now hardly breathing, and stared miserably at the counter beneath his hand. It was the Angry Dad from the square! And his name was Nashy — just like gnashing teeth. What was the fastest way out? Now that he’d written on one of the cards, he couldn’t put it back. He stepped over to the ROYAL MAIL window.

  The newcomer bellowed, “I’ll hang you up — dressed and all!”

  Calder thought for a dreadful split second that the man was talking to him, but then realized that the target was Ear Man.

  “Three postcard stamps, please,” Calder murmured, thinking suddenly of the dead and very naked birds hanging in the butcher’s window.

  The person selling asked, “For?”

  Calder paused, thinking he’d give anything to disappear. “The United States,” he whispered. The silence was now dreadful.

  Calder’s hands were sweating and his heart pounding by the time he reached for his money and stuffed everything roughly into his back pocket. As he turned to go, he realized the man who’d been shouting was now blocking the door.

  Nashy was built like a bull and had a heavy ridge of bone on his brow. Wiry, ginger-colored hair sprouted from every side of his neck, and dense bristles poked from both nostrils, making two tiny brooms. He was the hairiest man Calder had ever seen. The name Nashy seemed too human; Angry Dad fit him better.

  He gave the giant man a half-smile, as if to say, I’m American but not that kind, and the man gave him a long, mean stare. Did he recognize Calder from the day before?

  He moved just enough for Calder to slip by, and then banged the side of the door with his fist as the boy walked away. Calder jumped.

  “Now, Nashy …” It was Slush Mouth speaking this time.

  The man growled something unpleasant in response, something that ended “oh-ta-da-bahg.”

  Calder’s stomach churned as he crossed the square. He noticed that the piece of paper that had been tossed under the bench yesterday was now gone. Passing the sculpture, he reached out and gave it a quick pat, as if telling it not to worry. Then he glanced back at the post office, which now looked empty.

  A lone, yellow leaf drifted down in front of the open door, landing gently in the cradle of the sill. A woman hopped off a blue bicycle and stepped carefully around the leaf, adjusting the soft rectangle of the plastic bag on her shoulder. Calder had noticed that everyone in Woodstock carried those saggy bags.

  Bag! Suddenly, the boy realized what Angry Dad had said.

  Out of the bag … poachers carried bags. What or who had gotten out of Angry Dad’s bag? Don’t let the cat out of the bag. Calder knew the expression meant don’t give away the secret. He imagined Pummy in a bag and shuddered.

  The secret had something to do with the huge sculpture, Calder was sure of that. But why was everybody so upset about a piece of art, one they hadn’t even paid for? He understood them not liking it, but why the fury?

  Calder was beginning to realize that outsiders who interfered weren’t too popular, and that Woodstock residents were used to defending their own territory. He guessed that people, like the streets and houses, hadn’t changed much in Woodstock over the past several hundred years. No wild animals running by, but the same basic ideas. And what about the same games?

  He thought again about the Man Trap, and wondered if several centuries ago there had been a number of residents missing a foot or even an arm. Had they behaved like Angry Dad?

  Calder wandered past two fieldstone churches, both with graveyards, and then found himself standing in front of another. He opened the wrought-iron gate and stepped inside. Perfect: A little time with his mazes, away from shops and streets. He’d finish the cards later. He certainly wasn’t going back into the post office today.

  The graveyard was long and thin, an odd shape, and houses had been built right to the edges on three sides. Calder spotted a window with a jar of toothbrushes and a tidy row of bottles and tubes along the sill. What was it like to brush your teeth in the morning and look out at a backyard filled with bodies? He scanned the windows: Good, no one in sight.

  Gravestones packed the space but not in rows, and in places there was only a foot or two between the markers. How did that work? Streaky and spotted with lichen, the stones leaned in every direction. Even the tombs were lopsided, some sinking into the ground. Calder had never seen such a crazy-looking graveyard; it made him think of a bunch of birthday candles stuck in a cake by a very young child.

  Well, at least it was private in here, and almost cheerful in the middle of the day. Calder walked over to a low tomb. The lettering on it was so worn that it had almost disappeared. Pulling his hand into the sleeve of his sweatshirt, he whisked a place clean of berries and twigs, and then unloaded the pentominoes in his pocket. He also pulled out a wad of graph paper and three mechanical pencils, the cheapest kind from the grocery store at home. Those were the best.

  Soon he was sitting happily on the slab of stone, one leg tucked beneath him. He hummed quietly to himself as he moved his pentominoes around, occasionally flipping one over.

  Every once in a while he’d release an ah-ha kind of sound and begin to draw, glancing at the pentomino arrangement as he worked. The first thing he made looked like this:

  Under it, he wrote:

  I’m pritending these mazes are surrounded by a rectangle of solid hedge, and that what you’re looking at is the path. This one has 7 dead-ends and 1 loop. A dead-end has to have 2 turns in it.

  The next looked like this:

  And under it he wrote:

  How many loops can you have using 12 pentominoes? How many dead-ends?

  Almost an hour had gone by since he sat down, and after recording the second maze, he stretched his arms over his head and looked around.

  A huge black crow hopped slowly along the top of the brick wall that separated the graveyard from the houses. Every once in a while it stopped to peck at the moss on the wal
l. It now turned to face Calder, spread its wings, and flew directly toward him.

  Calder ducked, and the crow flapped heavily overhead. He was glad he wasn’t superstitious — well, too superstitious. Everyone was a tiny bit, if they admitted it.

  Didn’t crows have something to do with death?

  There was no one walking on the sidewalk, and no sign of life in the houses. There might be more dead people in this town than living, Calder thought to himself. Leaving the graveyard, he stepped on each of the rectangular flagstones in the sidewalk, hopping lightly over the irregular shapes.

  The night before, he and his dad had spotted a place called the Lyon Tea Shop that had a menu in the window. There were no burgers or hot dogs, but there were tuna fish sandwiches, which Calder loved. His dad had suggested that he go there for lunch.

  Calder opened the door and stumbled inside; the room was dark, and the floor was not exactly even. He had an impression of small, round tables with people seated at most of them, a buzz of conversation, and a counter at the front.

  “What’ll it be?” The girl behind the counter snapped a drawer shut, and Calder looked up. He was shocked to see Bird Girl — the one who had been taking pictures of the Calder sculpture. Still wearing black, she was all elbows and wrists; even her chin looked sharp. She might be a year or two older than Calder, but wasn’t any taller. Studying Calder with a steady, gray gaze, she didn’t show any sign of interest or recognition.

  Relieved, Calder ordered a tuna with chips, having learned that they were what Americans called fries, and a large chocolate milk with extra syrup.

  “Name?” the girl asked.

  “Calder,” he said.

  At that, he saw her blink several times, then glance quickly behind him. The restaurant suddenly felt quiet. The girl spun around and disappeared through a swing door to the kitchen.

  Calder plopped down at one of the tables. Was he imagining it, or was everyone in the restaurant looking at him?

  He slunk down in his seat, pulled out his wad of graph paper, and peered over the top of it. Yikes — there was Ear Man at a nearby table! And Hen Voice and Slush Mouth, also from the post office. They leaned toward each other and whispered something, then both glanced in his direction.

  Calder turned his chair away, only to find that he was then facing a giant set of shoulders and a great, hairy arm. Could there be two men that size in Woodstock? Maybe, but not two men with that amount of hair on every imaginable surface. Luckily, Angry Dad was reading his mail and didn’t seem to have noticed Calder — yet.

  On the other side of him, a man wearing blue jeans, a black leather jacket, and sunglasses snapped open a copy of The Oxford Times. Calder had the uncomfortable feeling that the guy was only pretending to read.

  Maybe I should just leave, Calder thought to himself. But then, it was such a small town. What if someone ran after him, demanding that he pay for his order? No, the best idea was to stay put and pretend he hadn’t noticed a thing. Calder studied his mazes from the graveyard, spreading them out on the table in front of him. He pulled out his pencil and made a couple of minor adjustments.

  Several minutes later, he was tapped on the shoulder by something that was definitely not a hand. A wooden cooking spoon hovered by his ear. “Hey!” he said.

  “You the bloke with the tuna?” Bird Girl asked. Her voice was mean.

  She zipped back behind the counter before he could respond, the spoon now tucked into her apron. “I didn’t hear my name,” Calder said.

  “You wish,” she hissed, her voice barely audible. Or had he misunderstood — was that sand-wish? Again, he had the distinct feeling that the people around him were waiting — waiting and watching.

  He walked over to the counter to pick up his lunch and pay. Bird Girl looked everywhere but at him, slapped down his change on a paper napkin, and shoved it roughly in his direction. Under the coins was scrawled, in red pen, Real name? The question mark was big and had a maze-like curl.

  “Huh? Mine?” Calder said aloud as he pocketed the change. Before he could answer, the girl swept the napkin into a trash bin under the counter and flew back into the kitchen.

  Calder felt the floor shaking as someone walked heavily across the room behind him. His heart began to pound as he wondered what Angry Man was going to do. Would he pulverize Calder for speaking with his daughter? To his great relief, Calder then heard a door slam shut on the side of the room — the man had gone into the bathroom.

  Not a moment to lose! Calder pretended to look at his watch, sighed loudly as if he’d forgotten the time, then hurriedly wrapped the sandwich in a wad of napkins and stuffed it into his pocket.

  He hurried out the door and down the sidewalk, looking back several times. None of the crew was behind him. Had he imagined all of that? What if they thought he’d followed them from the post office and was spying on them? And what had Bird Girl wanted? Did she think he was lying about his name? Or, worse, making a point by using Alexander Calder’s name?

  He tried the gate to the graveyard, hoping to eat on his tomb, but it was now locked. Frowning slightly, he headed back toward the town square.

  A steady breeze was blowing; large clouds drifted across the blue. Red and yellow leaves swirled overhead, and an occasional ice cream wrapper or stray piece of newspaper flattened against a leg. Two black crows flew side by side, crossing the town on a diagonal.

  He passed a grocery store he hadn’t noticed before and rattled his leftover lunch money. Oh, good thinking — dessert! Inside, he stood in front of the candy counter and picked up one chocolate bar after another, weighing them carefully. He knew Cadbury was an English chocolate company, because his grandma Ranjana had always loved it and sometimes asked his parents to look for it in Chicago. Twirl … Double Decker … Time Out … Crunchie … Fruit and Nut Bar … Dairy Milk Bar … Dream. Calder picked out three: a Twirl, in honor of Tommy (“The Intense Chocolate Hit”), a Dream for Petra, who would love that name, and a Crunchie for his mom, who liked everything crisp.

  Rounding the corner before the town square, he was happy to see a familiar blast of red. The sculpture was beginning to feel like his only friend today. He’d sit on a bench. At least in such a public spot there could be no secrets; no one could stuff him in a bag or hang him up.

  He sat down, unwrapped his sandwich, and took a huge bite.

  “Yeow!” said a loud voice.

  “Pummy!” Calder exclaimed, thrilled to have the company. When he broke off a chunk of sandwich and held it up, he saw only a black blur and then the quick flash of red mouth, sharp teeth, and one yellow eye. Pummy snatched the bite from his hand and dragged it beneath a neighboring bench, purring loudly.

  Calder then thought of Bird Girl sitting here the afternoon before, and of the paper that her father had snatched from her. No one had ever done anything like that with his work. His work!

  Suddenly, Calder remembered — he’d left his mazes lying on the table in the Lyon Tea Shop.

  “These yours?” a voice asked moments later in an American accent. It was the man with the sunglasses and the leather jacket.

  His mouth full, Calder nodded at the papers being held out to him. “Thanks so much,” he managed to say.

  “They look like something you wouldn’t want to lose. Is it a game?” the man asked.

  “They’re pentomino mazes,” Calder said stiffly, hoping the man would then stop talking. It didn’t seem smart to be seen speaking with another American, not now. He looked away, as if the conversation were finished.

  Black Jacket sat down on the bench above Pummy, who didn’t move. The newspaper opened again, and for a few minutes Calder ate his sandwich, Pummy washed his whiskers, and the man read. Every once in a while the man glanced around, as if waiting for someone else to show up, then disappeared back into his newspaper.

  Calder, relieved that neither the man nor Pummy was paying any attention to him, began to look closely at the sculpture.

  It was the same metal as
the Flamingo sculpture in Chicago and was definitely the same color. Much smaller, this sculpture stood about three feet taller than his dad. It was about as long as his bed at home, and as wide as — as what? Maybe a large cow. Or a bull; something about it felt masculine. It was made up of bendy-looking, stretched triangles, five shapes that came together in a kind of startled but sturdy creature.

  Calder then saw a small plaque bolted to the ground on one side, something he hadn’t noticed before. MINOTAUR, it read, ALEXANDER CALDER, 1959. Wasn’t the Minotaur some kind of man-bull combo that ate people? Calder was hazy on the myth, but he remembered that the Minotaur lived in an impossible maze. Some guy found his way through it with yarn and killed the —

  “Minotaur!” he blurted, suddenly delighted. Of course; it was perfect for Woodstock. Perfect for the maze, perfect for this town that specialized in large and fierce creatures. Why, then, was everybody so upset?

  “I’ve been listening to what people in the town have to say about it,” Black Jacket announced. He stayed behind his paper; Calder could only see one ear and the top of his head.

  “Why?” Calder asked him, curiosity winning over caution.

  The newspaper, still open, went up and down in a shrug. “I study art,” the man said. “And how it affects people.”

  “Oh!” Calder sat down on a nearby bench and, pulling out one of his pentominoes, told the man in detail about the excitement in Chicago over the Calder mobiles and about the giant and much-loved Flamingo, Flying Dragon, and Universe. The newspaper came down, and the man smiled. He looked pleased, but not at all surprised. He listened and nodded, but continued to glance around. Suddenly, as if he’d forgotten to do it before, he took off his jacket.