I'll Get There. It Better Be Worth the Trip.: 40th Anniversary Edition

by John Donovan

  "No, Fred," I say. "Mother's tired. She's wasting her life for us, Fred. Right?"

  I think Fred says "wrong," except that I know Fred doesn't speak English. Maybe he speaks German. Right? Who knows? Fred, I guess. And Germans.

  ltschuler doesn't speak to me very much the next week, and he doesn't suggest that we walk home after school. Miss Stuart, our English teacher, gets us talking together again. She thinks it would be a good idea if we put on our own version of Androcles and the Lion. Altschuler gets himself elected to play Androcles. He is still basking in his triumph from Julius Caesar, so whatever part he wants is his. Malcolm the slow learner seems a likely lion, but I decide that I want to be the lion. In the few weeks I had been in school I had learned who the three or four guys were besides Altschuler who had a following among the rest of us. I get to be the lion. I ask Malcolm to coach me on roaring, so there are no hard feelings. There doesn't have to be as much discussion about this play as there was about Julius Caesar. It is a simple story in which the slave Androcles does a good turn for the lion when he takes a thorn from his paw and the lion, in turn, remembers the kindly Androcles in the arena when the lion is about to eat him up. The important scenes are when the thorn is removed and when the lion recognizes Androcles. There's also a lot of philosophical junk in the play, but you don't have to pay attention to that.

  "The play shows what a noble person Androcles is," Altschuler tells the class, "and how he gains the lion's eternal gratitude for all the noble things he does."

  I tell everyone, "The play is about how seemingly dumb beasts have memories and the power of understanding. The lion recalls Androcles' acts. That shows how intelligent a lion can be. And how filled with gratitude."

  "It shows that Androcles has been such a magnificent person that even a lowly lion appreciates him," Altschuler says.

  "Don't think animals are so dumb," I tell the class. "I have a dog, a dachshund, and my dog is smart and truly understanding. Not just because he understands all these thousands of words I am sure he knows the meaning of, but because he knows people and can predict what they will do."

  "It is men, not animals, who should attract our attention," Altschuler says, and he says it fairly loud so that even Malcolm will get what he is trying to say.

  "Sure," I say, just as loud as Altschuler. "Men are great. But sometimes animals aren't as dumb as men think they are.

  "Is that right?" says Altschuler.

  "Yes, that's right," I answer.

  "What makes you think that's the case?"

  "Because I know it's the case."

  "What? Because you have one dumb dog you think you know how a lion is supposed to think?"

  "Why not? Besides, he's not dumb."

  "Not as dumb as you."

  Malcolm thinks that Altschuler is a hit playwright by this time and just about falls out of his seat laughing at Altschuler and me. Miss Stuart says she thinks we have gotten off the track and if we are going to put on our version of the play we should stop yelling at each other and start preparing the script. Since most of the guys don't have much to do in the play beyond being a gladiator or a wild animal, Altschuler and I have a script together in a couple of days by just working in the classroom, and we are ready to put on the play less than a week after Miss Stuart thought up the whole project. The school likes it. A lot of guys tell me they liked the way I licked my paw and cried like I was in pain, and a lot of them tell Altschuler that he was pretty funny when he came to the rescue and pulled the thorn out of my paw and again when he thought it was curtains for him. It's really everyone telling Altschuler and me how great we are. So that afternoon Altschuler says that maybe we should walk home together.

  "Sure," I say.

  "I'll meet you at the bus."

  "Let's go to Mrs. Greene's candy store on the way home."

  Altschuler looks at me for a minute.

  "OK," he says, but without conviction.

  We do meet, and we do go to the candy store, and Mrs. Greene tells him that he's a bad boy not to come to see her, and she kisses him, and she cries a little bit about Larry Wilkins, and she gives us some chocolate-covered marshmallows because she just made them. Altschuler promises he won't be a stranger, and she gives me a hug and tells me that I'm a good boy to bring Dougie back to her.

  "She's goofy," Altschuler says after we leave.

  "Sure," I agree. Neither of us believes it. We both like her.

  We walk along for several blocks, talking about how great we both were in the play and maybe we should become actors because we both know how much money you can make if you are a successful actor.

  "And you don't have to work too much either," Altschuler says. "I could make one movie a year and make enough money so I could get to the Olympics with no sweat at all."

  I ask Altschuler to come to see Fred, and he says that would be fine. Mother is not at home, so dopey Fred has had a long day of snoozing and is in a state of ecstasy over our arrival. Altschuler and I take Fred out for a walk.

  "I'm sorry about last week," he says.

  "What do you mean?"

  "About not being friendly."

  "That's OK."

  "The play makes up for it. We worked that out real well."

  "Yes," I say.

  "Together."

  "Sure."

  We are getting slurpy, we both realize. When Fred plops, it gives us something to look at rather than each other.

  "That's a good doggie," I say to Fred.

  "Good Fred," Altschuler says. "He smiled at me."

  "Dogs don't smile."

  "Fred can," Altschuler insists. "He was pleased that I complimented him on his dump."

  "Maybe Fred can. He's unusual." I bend down to Fred. "Smile, nut." Fred licks my face. "That's not smiling."

  "He does it only for me."

  "Some people read human responses into animal behavior. My mother keeps telling me that."

  "Your mother doesn't know what she is talking about."

  "That's true," I say.

  We go back to our house. Altschuler and I chase Fred around the apartment. Fred loves to duck under chairs and dart out from under them to see if we can catch him in a hurry. He wants to be caught, but he wants to be chased too. He has his favorite rag, and he uses that as though it is a prized object he knows I want from him. When he rests under a couch or a low chair, he is always looking to see in which direction he will be able to move to escape the feet pursuing him. It is fun to fall on the floor, down to his eye level, and threaten Fred with extinction unless he gives up the rag. Fred loves that.

  I fall on the floor at one end of a couch in Mother's living room. Altschuler falls to the floor, facing me. We are both threatening Fred, who is under the couch, with terrible consequences unless he gives up his rag. Fred is delighted. His eyes dart from Altschuler to me and back again, twenty times in less than a minute. Heaven! He is trapped, ready to be taken, rag and all. Both Altschuler and I reach out for Fred's rag and-zoom!-Fred has tricked us. He snatches it back and makes his way along the wall away from us for his getaway.

  "Foiled!" Altschuler yells.

  "By the smartest dog in Christendom!" I shout.

  We laugh. I would have said that all three of us laughed except that Fred is at the opposite end of the room, far from us. Altschuler and I are lying on the floor, our arms still stretched out for Fred's rag. We laugh louder and louder. Fred has proved himself the smartest, the most uncapturable dog in the world. He is an animal! And what are we? Mere men.

  Mine and Altschuler's laughing dies down, but we stay on the floor. I look at Altschuler, and we smile, sort of. And I'm not quite sure what happens now. I think we both intend to get up and chase after Fred, but there we are, lying on the floor, Fred peering at us from across the room, us half peering at Fred and wanting to chase after him again, but also not wanting to get up at all. I close my eyes. I feel unusual. Lying there. Close to Altschuler. I don't want to get up. I want to stay lying there. I feel a sligh
t shiver and shake from it. Not cold though. Unusual. So I open my eyes. Altschuler is still lying there too. He looks at me peculiarly, and I'm sure I look at him the same way. Suddenly Fred jumps in between us. First he licks my face, then Altschuler's, and back and forth between us. I think that this unusual feeling I have will end, but in a minute the three of us are lying there, our heads together. I guess I kiss Altschuler and he kisses me. It isn't like that dumb kiss I gave Mary Lou Gerrity in Massachusetts before I left. It just happens. And when it stops we sit up and turn away from each other. Fred has trotted off, maybe tired of both of us by now.

  "Boy," I say. "What was that all about?"

  "I don't know," Altschuler answers.

  We get up, and we avoid looking at each other. When our eyes meet, we laugh, but not like before.

  Fred comes back and we horse around with him for ten minutes. Altschuler says he has to go home. I tell him he doesn't have to go home because of what happened on the floor. He says he knows that, and he also says that we were pretty great in the play.

  "We're just a couple of great kids," I say.

  "We sure are," Altschuler says. Then he sort of lunges toward me with his fists up like a boxer. We mess around for a few seconds, pretending we are two bantamweight tough guys. I mean very tough. I mean a couple of guys like Altschuler and me don't have to worry about being queer or anything like that. Hell, no.

  he next day both Altschuler and I have to run for the school bus in the morning, so there isn't time to say more than hello until we are on the bus, and then nutty little Frankie Menlo insists that I sit with him and tell him about how I learned to be such a good lion.

  "I went to a lot of zoos," I say.

  "What ones?"

  "Zoos all over the place. Haven't you ever been to a zoo?"

  "Sure. But which zoos did you go to to learn lion behavior?"

  "Actually I didn't go to any zoos," I tell him truthfully. "I remembered lion behavior from going to movies."

  "Which ones?"

  "How do I know which ones! Any movie I ever saw with lions in it. I remembered those, and that's how I knew how to be a lion in the play."

  "Did you see Born Free?" Menlo asks.

  "Yes," I say.

  "Is that the movie which taught you most about lion behavior?"

  "I don't know. Maybe."

  "It's my favorite movie of all time. That's why I asked you if that's the one you learned from."

  "Sure. I guess I did."

  "That is my seventh movie."

  "What about the ones on television?"

  "They don't count."

  Menlo wants to know which parts of Born Free I liked the best, and I tell him I guess it's the end when Elsa comes back to show off her cubs. Menlo likes that part too, but his favorite part is Elsa riding on top of the wagon. We both like when Elsa is a cub herself, running around knocking stuff over and having a hell of a time.

  "I'd like to own a lion," Menlo says.

  I tell Menlo that he probably never will, not in New York anyway. He says that he will probably go to Africa to live. And then I tell him the truth about how I learned to be a lion.

  "My dog taught me," I say.

  "Your dog! What kind of lion can a dog teach you to be?"

  "He taught me animal behavior."

  "Animals aren't all alike."

  "Enough alike."

  Menlo looks dubious, but we are at school now, and it is enough that Menlo has had a talk with me on the bus to keep him in the power position I know he now has in the third grade.

  Altschuler shoots off the bus in a hurry. There's no chance to talk during the day. He isn't at the bus after school. I walk home alone. It's Friday. I have to admit to myself that I want to talk to Altschuler about yesterday and all the goofy business on the floor. And then I don't want to talk to him either. Just as well it is Friday, and the weekend.

  My father calls on Friday night to tell me Stephanie has a terrible cold, so maybe we should wait until Sunday to get together, if that's all right with me. I tell him to forget this weekend, and he tells me that he won't forget it at all, and I tell him that I don't mean what I said to sound unfriendly, that I understand about Stephanie's cold, and there's nothing wrong with missing one weekend every now and then. It's really OK, I keep telling him. And he keeps saying that it's awful. Then he tells me that with spring coming on he is going to take me and Stephanie and Fred to Montauk for a nice long weekend at the beach, and IT love it there, that it is wild and desolate and Fred will be able to run and be as close to heaven as any New York dog can be. He assures me that the beach will be covered with smelly fish, just like at home in Massachusetts except that New York fish will be twice as big and ten times as smelly as those at home, and that maybe in another year or so he and Stephanie will even buy a house on the beach at Montauk and Fred and I can come out every weekend. This sounds pretty great, I must say, so at the end of the telephone conversation after I have told him about my lion performance and Stephanie has got on the phone to insist that I roar for her, and I do, and she roars back (she tries to make me feel as though I'm an overachiever all the time), I'm laughing a lot.

  "What did your father want?" Mother asks.

  "Stephanie has a cold. I'm not going to see them tomorrow."

  "Not see them! I've made plans, Davy! You see them every Saturday."

  "It's Stephanie's cold. She feels lousy."

  "So she feels lousy! What's that got to do with it?"

  "Don't bother about me. I'm all right."

  "What kind of mother do you think I am? Of course I'll bother about you. Your father may take his responsibilities lightly, but I don't. I wouldn't dream of leaving you alone for the whole day and the evening."

  "It's all right, Mother."

  "Who says?"

  "I don't care, Mother."

  "I do!"

  Then she gets started on one of her solos, all about my grandfather and how he always teased her when she was a little girl and made fun of her every time she got a new dress, how my Uncle Jess used to tell her she was the world's most human dog, and about my father and all the years and talent she wasted with him and her family, which she mentions as though it's someone other than me, some third person entirely, some enormous burden she has carried day after day for the last four hundred and forty years. I know the end of these solos: a trip to the kitchen and an even more elaborate encore. In an hour or so Mother gets back to the problem though.

  "What will I do with you tomorrow?"

  "Don't worry about me."

  "Of course I will, my precious," Mother says, giving me one of her warm hugs. She runs her hand through my hair and tosses it around. She can be a real lovable kid when she wants to be. "Mother worries about Davy because she loves him dearly," she says, her family suddenly no longer a burden but the thing that keeps her going. She's a hot-andcold girl, there's no denying that.

  I whip up some scrambled eggs, and Mother talks on into the evening of the good times we are having together. Fred eats Mother's eggs, and Mother thinks that Fred is the cutest animal in the world. I keep urging Mother to leave us alone tomorrow.

  "All right, angel," she acquiesces. "Why don't you call your boy friend Douglas and invite him for the day?"

  "No," I say.

  "Why not? He's a nice boy. It isn't far, and you could have a lot of fun together. Call him up."

  No.

  "You see him all the time. Why wouldn't you call him up and invite him over for the day?"

  "He's busy."

  "How do you know?"

  "I just know."

  "That's ridiculous. Did he tell you he was busy tomorrow?"

  "He's busy every Saturday."

  "Call him up, Davy. I won't leave you here alone."

  "I don't want to."

  "Then I'm going to call his mother myself."

  I tell Mother not to, but she says that she knows what is best for me, and if I want to ruin her day that's entirely up to me. She will
not go out to enjoy herself, even though this is one of the few occasions since I have come to live here that she has planned a whole day with friends for the express purpose of self-indulgence, unless someone is here with me. I tell her that I'll call someone else from school, and she asks me who, and I tell her about Malcolm, and she wants to know where he lives, and it is on Park Avenue somewhere in the Seventies, which is like another country. I even tell her about little Frankie Menlo, who must live nearer than Malcolm because we ride the same bus. When she hears how old he is, she decides I'm some kind of loon and starts to leaf through the front of the Manhattan phone directory. Mother calls Mrs. Altschuler and tells her who she is and invites Altschuler to spend the day with me. Mrs. Altschuler tells Mother that she has been hearing all about me and the lovely apartment we live in and what great friends Altschuler and I have become in a few short weeks. She accepts Mother's invitation for Altschuler without even asking him, so I can imagine how happy he is. Mother is pleased with herself and tells Mrs. Altschuler that it would be nice if the two mothers got together sometime.

  "And Mr. Altschuler too, of course," Mother adds. There is a long wait while Mrs. Altschuler explains that Mr. Altschuler lives in Old Greenwich, Connecticut, with his present wife and their three children. I can tell right away that the conversation may go on for hours, as Mother starts to explain about Father's present wife too, and about how she, Mother, went without so many things while he was finishing his studies at Parsons School of Design, and how he then worked for years without contributing anything substantial to the family except when he started to make money and began to contribute his absence. The whole damn story pours out. The only thing stopping Mother from describing some of the grimmer details is that she has to stop every now and then to listen to the same story from Mrs. Altschuler. I take Fred out for his finals. When I come back, Mother tells me that she has just hung up, that Douglas is a wonderful boy, that Mrs. Altschuler thinks I'm a wonderful boy, and that Douglas and I are going to have a wonderful day together. He is going to stay over Saturday night, Mother tells me.