Chapter 19
Max loved watching Lassie on TV. Like most kids then, he decided he wanted a dog exactly like the beautiful Collie featured in the show. I talked it over with Pete and he agreed it might be a good idea. A friend with a nice dog suggested I go to the pound. She said they had some dogs that were already neutered and had all their shots.
There were a couple of puppies at the pound that looked as though they had Collie blood but Max had settled on a dog who was obviously a full-grown white miniature poodle. She was an appealing little dog with bright button eyes and a cheerful expression but as far from the TV Lassie as possible.
“Max, this dog is full-grown. Its fur will always be white and curly and it isn’t going to get any larger.”
“Yes it will. It’s going to get big and look just like Lassie.”
“Max, you have to believe me, this dog is not going to grow bigger and this is the way it will always look.” Nothing I said swayed him. Only five, he didn’t understand the implacable constants of heredity. This was the dog he wanted. He said he would call it Lassie.
The attendant said, “You could do worse. She’s house-trained, spayed, has had all her shots, eats much less than a collie, doesn’t shed hair and will be happy to use your backyard to run around in and do her business.”
The dog sounded like a pet-owner’s dream. That was when I should have asked why the dog’s former owners were getting rid of her if she was such a gem. We soon found out. Lassie was a selective nipper. She never broke the skin; she just lunged and triggered an instinctive flinch away from her sharp teeth. She preferred male ankles. The first time she tried nipping Pete, he lifted her with the side of his foot and sailed her across the room. She picked herself up and shook her head. After that she often rested her head on her paws and stared at him with an intense, unsettling gaze. I had the feeling she was plotting something but she was smart enough to leave Pete’s ankles alone.
Max tried to teach her to do some of the clever things the TV Lassie did. Nothing seemed to work but he kept at it. He repeatedly asked me when the dog was going to start looking like the real Lassie. Each time he asked, I explained this would never happen but he just ignored me and persisted in his belief she would get larger, develop a long pointed nose, red silky hair, a long sweeping tail and know how to do Lassie tricks. On the TV show the Collie’s tricks always centered on saving Timmy, the little boy in the series.
I knew this was why Max wanted a dog exactly like the one on the show. I was cheered that he seemed to understand he needed constant saving. What he hadn’t grasped was the fact that Timmy’s perils came from the outside world. Max’s were no less threatening but came from his own actions and misperceptions of the world. I worried about his reaction when he finally understood wanting something as drastic as changing a poodle into a collie would have no influence on the outcome. This seemed like a crucial lesson. I assumed Max would figure it out eventually but I had no idea how he would react when his dream of a loving dog that would protect him from harm fizzled.
Lassie would chase a ball and bring it back but even when Max explained exactly how to do it, she didn’t develop any skill at unlocking and pushing open windows the way the TV Lassie did when the house was on fire. His dog just continued to do what she did best. She nipped boys’ ankles. After a while she concentrated on Seth’s ankles because it made him furious and got a satisfying response. Seth was two and said very little but what he did say was clear. Every time the dog became bored, she made a run at Seth’s ankles. Lassie was much faster than Seth was. He tried kicking her but this just delighted the dog and presented her sharp teeth with a great target. So he grabbed the broom and tried whacking her with it. He shrieked, “Damn dog, damn dog, damn dog,” and swung the broom like a club but Lassie moved too fast to hit. Attacking Seth became her favorite game.
A childless older couple lived down the street from us. They thought Lassie was ‘simply adorable’. They were so taken with her they often borrowed her so they could take her on walks.
Lassie finally figured out how to get back at Pete for his summary rejection via foot-assisted air lift: she left a pile of dog feces on the exact center of his pillow.
Max was so grossed out when I showed him Lassie’s not too subtle message to Pete, he seemed relieved when I said we had to give the dog away. He knew the real Lassie would never befoul Pete’s pillow. Any worthwhile dog would be smart enough not to challenge his father.
I spoke to the older couple. They were delighted to take the dog. They were serious dog-lovers. They thought it was funny when Lassie ate the man’s Stetson hat. It was a perfect match. They renamed the dog Louis the Fourteenth and called her Teeny. Max never mentioned Lassie again.
Chapter 20
The nursery school program ended with pre-kindergarten. At my last meeting with the psychologist and social worker they told me Max wouldn’t do well in public school. We had an excellent one in this part of downtown Philadelphia but the classes were large and kindergarten was just a half day. They insisted he would do better in a private school where the classes were small, less rigid and ran from nine to three. A school in Center City came well-recommended and I liked the people I met when I visited there.
It was closer than the nursery school and the schedule allowed me to combine Max and Linda’s drop offs and pick-ups. Max liked kindergarten. The teacher was smart and had enough imagination to treat each child as an individual. She found Max fascinating and he responded well to her encouragement. At our parent/teacher meeting, she noted that he hadn’t bonded with any of the other children but she didn’t see this as a problem.
“He’s a loner. Not unusual with really bright kids. He has a great vocabulary, likes the sound of words. He’s a nice boy, doesn’t throw his weight around.”
I nodded. “That’s good as long as he doesn’t allow himself to be bullied.”
“True. I only mention it because super-bright children can be mean to children who are slower to grasp new things. The only problem I ever have is his wandering off. When we visited the battleship at the Philadelphia Navy Yard last week he gave us a real scare.”
Apprehensive, I frowned. “He said something about visiting the captain. He was so off-hand about it, I just assumed it was part of the tour.”
The teacher laughed. “No way. We weren’t supposed to see anyone but their public relations guy.
“How did he end up with the captain? Was it really the captain?”
“Oh, yeah. The real one. One minute Max was standing with the other kids watching the officer describe how they batten down the deck in high seas. Then he was gone.”
“How did you finally find him?”
“The PR guy made an announcement that a small boy was loose and asked anyone who knew where he was to let him know. Boy did he snap to attention when the captain called him back. Max was up on the bridge. The captain said he would make sure Max got back safely but he was showing him some of the equipment on the bridge so it might be a few minutes.”
Now I knew why Max was beaming in the official picture of the outing.
Chapter 21
Downtown Philadelphia was a good place to live. There were always places to go and things to do. Linda and I liked to take the bus down to John Wanamaker’s store on Market Street, cattycornered from the City Hall. We made a ritual of shopping even if the only thing she needed was socks. We then took the elevator up to the Crystal room for lunch. The waitresses were kind and didn’t rush us. They understood little girls who went shopping with their mothers.
Before Linda knew how to read she liked me to tell her what was on the menu and describe each item in detail. After this part of the ritual was satisfied, she always got the tea sandwiches with the tiny cup of soup in the center of the plate. I think it was a visual thing with her. At home we ate crusts. At Wanamaker’s, not only were there no crusts but the four sandwiches were all diamond shaped with different breads and fillings. She finished every sandwich and never com
mented on the fillings even when they were ones she would never eat at home. We finished with hot fudge sundaes.
Max and I went to the Franklin institute and the Art Museum. He spent most of the time there in the area with the armor and weapons. The suits of armor were all much smaller than any current adult male I knew. This fascinated Max. One of the full suits would have fit him and he was much smaller than most boys his age. He wanted me to explain who would have worn it.
“Did they let boys my age fight in wars?”
“Maybe. No one knows.”
“Yeah but could they fight if they wanted to?”
“I wouldn’t think so. People were supposedly smaller then. The boy who wore this could have been nine or ten.”
A man listening to us talk volunteered that he had read the small suits were samples the armorers made to show how good their work was. Max just rolled his eyes. He preferred the idea of small boys clanking around in shiny armor.
He turned his back on the man, stood in front of the weapons case and mimicked how fierce he would have been if he were given a hefty sword or a mace with barbs all over its surface. He looked like he could do a lot of damage for a skinny little kid. And enjoy every minute of it. Suddenly feeling chilled, I clutched my elbows. Maybe six-year-olds were used as soldiers.
When we went to The Franklin Institute it was so full of Maxtype exhibits my only problem was getting him to leave. I read every explanation posted with the individual parts of the exhibits. Max was like a spring-loaded toy figure. He leaped from section to section the moment I got to the end of the written placards. He seemed to be reading them along with me. The only problem I had with the Franklin Institute was the questions he peppered me with in subsequent weeks. He remembered virtually everything I had read to him. I didn’t. I grasped the overall logic but didn’t always retain the details. He did.
An older couple with no children of their own and a lot of patience lived directly across Pine Street. They found Max fascinating and often invited him to go places with them. He thrived on the undivided attention of two approving adults. One day they decided to take him to a polo match. Max wore chinos and a polo shirt. I explained the shirt was named for the match he was going to see. He wanted to know why. I had never been to a polo match so I told him I assumed the players wore polo shirts.
His experience with horses was limited to Roy Rogers and Gene Autry movie re-runs and Lone Ranger episodes on TV. Fortunately, the couple who took him had a sense of humor. Max spent the entire match trying to figure out what the men riding the horses had done with their guns. At one point the man who took him had to grab the collar of his shirt and hold on to him when Max started out onto the playing field. Max was sure he would be able to see the guns if he got closer to the horses.
Pete took Max to the museum at the University of Pennsylvania just across the Schuylkill River from our house. They both looked a little frazzled by the time they got home but they did it again so they must have enjoyed the outing.
One weekend afternoon, Pete asked Max if he wanted to go to his office. Max was thrilled and the two of them drove off. Plagued by a mental image of Max loose in the middle of the art department with its paints, matte knives and partially finished artwork on drawing boards kept me literally breathless. I only realized I was forgetting to breathe when I took an involuntary gasp. I tried to will myself to fill my lungs normally but it’s hard to override gut-level anxiety. I gasped the afternoon away.
When I heard the unmistakable sound of the VW beetle parking in front of the house, I ran to the window and peeked out. Pete looked concerned but they were still talking and Max was glowing. He clutched a handful of layout paper with drawings all over the pages. I must have looked panicked when I realized some of the pages were partially finished layouts and asked Max where they came from. I had visions of being up all night trying to re-do the work and sneak them onto the respective artists’ drawing boards in the early morning.
“This is stuff I found in the trash room. Dad said I wasn’t allowed to go into any of the little rooms where the desks were but he didn’t say anything about the trash room so I played there.”
“What trash room?”
“It’s a door around the back by the freight elevator.”
When I asked how the day went, Pete just shrugged and said, “I know a lot more about where stuff is kept on the floor now.”
When he came home the following day, Pete handed me a notice that had been circulated in the art department. It asked artists to leave small children at home because of danger to equipment, personal belongings and the child or children.
I looked up at Pete. “What equipment?”
“The Lucy was down all morning. It had been cranked too far.” (Before the advent of computers, the Camera Lucida, always referred to as Lucy, was used to scale artwork up or down. It was in constant use because no writer, artist, or account executive thought he had earned his keep unless he made changes.)
“What personal belongings?”
“Fred’s stash of Clark bars and Art’s jar of licorice sticks. Max left two sticks.”
I looked around to make sure Max hadn’t gotten out of bed. “Do they know Max created the havoc?”
“No. A lot of people were signed in during the morning. A few had kids with them so it was just a general notice.”
Pete and I had a busy social life and took advantage of the city itself. Many of the plays and musicals getting ready for New York tried out in Philadelphia. We saw them all. The orchestra was top-notch and ballet companies from all over the world came to town. Life was as good as it could get. Until Pete was asked to move to Chicago.
His title was Art Director. He functioned in that role and had developed an incredible talent for turning out beautifully executed drawings that conveyed movement and expression and made a series of flat drawings come to life. Referred to as comps if these were for print ads, or story-boards if for TV, these drawings showed clients what proposed commercials or other advertising would look like. He had been traveling frequently in the last year, had spent considerable time in Detroit working on a major account there and in Chicago on an equally large account. Earlier, he had been asked to move to Detroit. He refused this move without a moment’s pause. Because of his talent for capturing the sense of the planned presentation and his ability to work long hours, no matter where he lived, he was going to spend much of his time at the agency’s other offices every time they were getting ready for major presentations. He could have refused the Chicago move but he didn’t.
I recognized the signs. He was getting restless and wanted a change. We had been married for nine years and we’d moved six times. I knew moving would be a major mistake. The family was stable. I had work I enjoyed and was well paid for it. I loved where we lived and the city itself. Max was happy in the kindergarten at his school. Linda was in an excellent school full of fascinating people.
I tried to get Pete to talk about the impact his move would have on the family as a whole. He said he was too busy to waste time discussing it.
I talked with the psychologist at Max’s old nursery school. He set up a joint conference with the psychiatrist who oversaw Max’s case and the social worker. This time Pete did go to the meeting. The three experts made a compelling case for staying in Philadelphia. They told us moving Max at this point would have a damaging effect on his progress.
I nodded. “He hates change. He seems to need every day to be the same even when he doesn’t like what’s going on around him.” Pete’s eyes turned opaque. He heard what each of us said but was obviously not interested in anyone else’s point of view.
He wouldn’t have been fired if we stayed here; he was just bored. I told him I wouldn’t move. He took the transfer anyway, lived in a hotel in downtown Chicago and came to Philadelphia a couple times a month if he could. I got the impression he liked the arrangement. The hotel washed and cleaned his clothes and he could decide where and what he would eat. He could hang out in ba
rs as late as he wanted. He saw all the current movies and read the papers over a leisurely breakfast without interruptions from a wife and children. He called most days, asked what was going on and filled me in on office politics. He was entertaining over a phone line. Pete’s visits were brief and chaotic. We usually entertained or went out to parties. He made an effort to be charming. He was a break in the routine. Fun to have around for a couple of days but by Sunday afternoon his sarcastic side started to pop to the surface and I realized I was becoming tense waiting for one of his cutting barbs. I knew I would miss him at times but was relieved each time he left. I had the sense we all were, even Max. The minute Pete disappeared inside the airport terminal, the tension level in the car dropped noticeably. With him in Chicago, I didn’t have to camp on the couch and fight to stay awake until he came home. I could lock and bolt the doors and go to bed when I wanted.
Life was dull but I had nothing against dull if it was easier. And it was. The kids thought macaroni and cheese tasted great with a cream of mushroom soup base. Their favorite vegetable was the green bean casserole topped with those crispy tinned onions from the recipe on the onion can. They even liked frozen fish sticks if I made plenty of tarter sauce full of chopped dill pickles and no onions. And even when Pete was in Chicago, the rest of us were invited to family parties.
Chapter 22
Pete was living in Chicago in September of 1959 when Max started first grade. His school had two first grade teachers: a skilled, well-trained one who had asked if Max could be in her classroom and a sweet young woman with an English degree from a good school who had no teacher training whatsoever. He got the untrained one.
His first report card had only the caustic comment that Max could read The New York Times from cover to cover in spite of the fact that he didn’t want to do the exercises with the rest of the class. When I asked the teacher what the exercises were, she indicated yellow lined pages with CAT, HAT and every other possible three-letter word ending with AT taped to the top of the blackboard. When I asked her if he was disruptive or disobedient, she was defensive. “He’s quiet but just wants to read books instead of writing out the exercises the other children have to do.”
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