No, it was true, Frank thought. You didn’t have to be a farmer or the son of a farmer to know that breeding was always a gamble. He and Andy should have begotten a race of gods and goddesses. He finished his beer and called down to the boys, “Wanta have a contest?” Richie, with rounded, placid eyes, looked up the stairs.
Frank moved a couple of armchairs, then pushed most of the dining-room chairs against the wall. He took one of them and set it in the middle of the kitchen. The boys were still lolling. He turned off the TV — it was one he hadn’t seen before coming to this house, a portable GE with a clock. He took each of the boys by the hand and stood them up. Richie knew better than to cry when Frank took his blanket away from him and tossed it toward the stairs.
Frank said, “Okay, fellas, here’s the course. You start here, at the bookcase, and then you run to the green chair — that’s the green chair — turn right — this way”—he demonstrated right—“and then run straight into the kitchen and go around the chair, and come back to this spot.” With his toe, he pointed out the threshold between the dining room and the living room. He said, “Let’s try it.”
Still grasping the boys, he led Michael and half dragged Richie over to the bookcase. Then he trotted them (slowly) toward the center of the room, turned right at the green chair, and trotted them (even more slowly) through the dining room into the kitchen. Michael stumbled as they went around that chair, but regained his feet right away. Frank exclaimed, “Come on, boys! This is the home stretch! Put on some speed!” He dropped their hands, and they half ran across the “finish line.”
“Okay!” said Frank. “That was the warm-up!”
He walked them back to the base of the bookcase and stood them about a foot apart, both facing ahead. Now he whispered in Michael’s ear, “Keep your feet — you can beat him easy! Got me?” He backed away, made eye contact, and stared at Michael until Michael nodded. Then he whispered in Richie’s ear, “If he stumbles, Rich, you just keep going. Slow and steady wins the race. You listening?” Richie nodded.
Frank stepped back and held out his arm, then he said, “Ready? Set? Go!” He dropped his arm, and the two boys took off. Richie understood the course better than Michael — he did make the right turn and head into the dining room while Michael was still wondering what to do — but then Michael spun around and overtook him at the chair in the kitchen, and, in fact, poked him in the side with his elbow, causing Richie to stumble. When they got to the finish line, they were about a step apart, Michael in the lead. Frank stood in the middle of the living room, scowling and shaking his head. He said, “What a pair of slowpokes! This race is going to have three heats. That was number one. Go back to the start.” He pointed to the bookcase.
He sent them off again. This time, Michael had learned something — he turned at the proper spot and headed for the kitchen with Richie on his heels. But Richie had learned something, too, and when they came to the chair, he turned his hip and popped Michael, sending him sprawling. He crossed the threshold by himself, grinning, and said, “I won! I won!”
“You did!” said Frank. “You won! Can you beat him again?”
Richie nodded emphatically.
Frank said, “Okay, then. You each had one win. Richard, you go stand by the bookcase and wait.”
He went into the kitchen, where Michael was sitting on the floor, his face hot and flushed. Frank squatted down and said, “Michael? You mad?”
Michael nodded.
“Are you really, really mad?”
Michael nodded again.
Frank said, “Okay, then, you go beat him. You are faster, and you can do it. You got that?”
Michael nodded and clambered to his feet. When he arrived at the bookcase, he stuck his tongue out at Richie, who responded in kind. Frank said, “Save it, boys. Just run fast!” Then, “Ready? Set? Go!” This time, the squabbling commenced almost immediately — Michael bounced Richie into the green chair, but Richie kept his feet, followed Michael, and grabbed his shirt. Frank said nothing. Michael smacked Richie on the arm and then pushed him, but they both kept running through the dining room and into the kitchen. At the kitchen chair, Richie did a smart thing — he pushed the chair a couple of inches, so that Michael had to duck to one side to avoid it. In the meantime, Richie, having shortened his own course, was two steps into the dining room while Michael was still going around the chair. But Michael was faster, and when he caught up to Richie, he reached out and grabbed his hair and pulled him down. Frank barked out a single laugh. He had to give Richie credit, though — instead of crying, he crawled forward as fast as he could and grabbed Michael’s pant leg and brought him down. Then he crawled over the finish line first. Frank now laughed out loud, and both boys turned and stared up at him. Frank said, “I guess Richie wins. Richie wins by a neck.” Richie started laughing, too, but Michael’s face began to crumple, so Frank said, “What’s the prize, boys? What does the winner get?” Both boys looked at him. He said, “The winner gets tickled!” He fell upon Richie and played his fingers over the tiny ribs until Richie was squirming away and laughing. After a moment, Frank stood them up. He wiped tears off Richie’s face with the tail of his shirt — he didn’t want Andy to see those — and then he got a Kleenex and wiped both their noses. “You boys tough?”
Both boys nodded.
“Are you really tough?”
They nodded again.
“All right!”
But they were still angry at one another; when they went back to watching TV, Frank had to sit them on cushions a couple of feet apart so they wouldn’t continue the argument. By the time Janny walked in, and then Andy, they were quiet enough. Andy said, “Whew! It’s nice and shady in here. We could have stayed home, it’s so hot. You guys have a nice afternoon?”
“We did,” said Frank. The boys nodded; undoubtedly, “nice” was not the word to describe the particular pleasures of their time together. But “nice” was not for boys, Frank thought. “Educational,” “stimulating,” “active.” Right out of Dr. Spock, Frank was sure.
1956
GRANNY ELIZABETH WAS BOUND and determined to go visit Henry in California (and Eloise, too — ever since Eloise had lived with Rosanna and Walter back in the old days, helping with Frank and Joe, Granny Elizabeth had had a special fondness for her), and so Claire found herself on New Year’s Day, her seventeenth birthday, helping Granny down the steps at the station in Oakland or Berkeley or somewhere damp, dark, and chilly. Granny had on her furs — a set of four minks with heads and tails, biting each other around her neck. The thing was ten years out of style, but she was enormously proud of it—“It’s the dog she never got to have,” said Joe. Claire, carrying both the suitcases, had to hurry to keep up with her grandmother as she clicked down the platform toward the waiting room. “California!” she exclaimed. “You know, Claire, in a day or two, I will stand on these eighty-year-old feet and stare out over the Pacific Ocean, and that is a thing no Chick or Cheek has ever seen before! Stuck in the mud as always, just like hornbeams on the riverbank, looking at the lucky creatures drifting by! There he is!”
The Chicks and the Cheeks were Granny’s ancestors back in England. Secretly, Claire always thought maybe the names were a joke, that they were really “Smiths” and “Johnsons.”
Henry was laughing as he took the bags from Claire. Then Eloise was hugging her, and Rosa kissing her, and Henry was saying, “How was your trip, Granny?”
“Not long enough by half,” she said, “but I hear this is as far as you can go.”