Evan Hunter: Me and Mr. Stenner

“Build things, that’s why,” he said. “Put them on paper, see them go up, that’s the meaning of it. Two kinds, creators and destroyers, that’s all, nobody else, just those. Be different if, sure, but no, not what she wants, oh no. When I told my mother, face lit up, just lit up, architecture, my, my, architecture. Build things. My, my.”

“Dad, please let me call Mr. Harkins.”

“Couldn’t believe it, just couldn’t believe it. Come home, nobody here, note on the kitchen table, what kind of way is that? Dear Frank, son of a bitch, dirty rotten son of a bitch...”

He shoved me away from him then, shoved me across the room, and then picked up an ashtray from the coffee table and threw it against the stone wall of the fireplace, and I ran out of the room and called home. Berit answered the phone, and she told me that my parents weren’t back yet. At that time, she didn’t know Mom and Mr. Stenner weren’t married; in fact, she quit the minute she found out. But she’d heard them mention that they were eating at a restaurant called The Cops and Robbers, and I could probably get them there if it was important.

“Berit,” I said, “there can’t be a restaurant called The Cops and Robbers.”

“That’s the name,” Berit said, and hung up. Berit spoke English with a heavy accent, and besides was the kind of woman who thought all children were nitwits.

In the kitchen, I could hear my father cursing as he took a tray of ice cubes from the refrigerator, and tried to get the cubes out of it, and spilled them all over the floor. I heard the tray when it fell, and heard the ice skittering over the tiles. I looked up The Cops and Robbers in the phone book, and couldn’t find it, and then I dialed O for Operator and asked her for The Cops and Robbers, and first she thought I wanted her to connect me with the police. But when I told her. I was looking for the number of a restaurant called The Cops and Robbers, she told me to dial 411 for Information, which I did, and of course there was no listing for any such place as The Cops and Robbers. So I looked in Dad’s little black book alongside the telephone, and I called Mr. Harkins after all, but I didn’t want to tell him Dad was out in the kitchen crying and talking to himself and yelling and whatnot, so I asked him instead if he knew of a restaurant called The Cops and Robbers, and Mr. Harkins began laughing, and said, “The what?”

“The Cops and Robbers,” I said.

“Honeychile,” Mr. Harkins said, “there couldn’t possibly be a restaurant called The Cops and Robbers.”

“I know,” I said.

“You’re not thinking of Cobbs Corners, are you?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I said. “Thank you, Mr. Harkins.”

I hung up, and opened the phone book again, and of course it was Cobbs Corners, however Berit had got The Cops and Robbers from that was beyond me. I dialed the number and when somebody answered the phone, I asked to talk to Mrs. Stenner, please. This was the first time I’d ever referred to my mother as that. The person said, “Just a moment, please,” and in a minute or so my mother came on the line.

“What’s wrong?” she said immediately.

“Daddy’s acting funny,” I said.

“Funny how?”

“He’s swearing and crying and yelling,” I said. “Can you come get me, Mommy?”

“We’ll be there right away,” my mother said.

They picked me up about ten minutes later. My father didn’t even come into the driveway to say good-bye. As we drove off, I could see him through the sliding glass doors of the kitchen. He was sitting at the table, staring at his hands, and I suddenly felt I had done the wrong thing by asking my mother to come get me.

When we got home, my mother and Mr. Stenner had a hushed talk in the living room, and I heard Mr. Stenner saying, “I think we’d better call that guy across the road, Lil. What’s his name?”

“Arthur Harkins.”

“Yeah. Let’s call him, okay?”

“Yes,” Mom said.

They both went upstairs then, to use the phone in their bedroom. They closed the door behind them, but I could hear Mom’s voice anyway. She was talking to Mr. Harkins. She was telling him that Dad seemed to be in pretty bad shape, and would he just go over to make sure everything was all right.

What I couldn’t understand was why Mr. Stenner had suggested calling Mr. Harkins. If he really cared about what kind of shape my father was in, then he shouldn’t have stolen Mom away in the first place.

It was all very confusing.

It got particularly confusing around Christmastime.

To begin with, I wasn’t sure who was supposed to pay for my father’s Christmas present. Because if Mr. Stenner was paying the rent, then he was also paying for our food and clothing, right? And since my mother didn’t have any money of her own, then anything she gave me for my father’s Christmas present was undoubtedly coming from Mr. Stenner. Which was the same thing as him buying a present for my father. Which I’m sure was the last thing in the world he wanted to do, despite the fact that he was the one who’d suggested calling Mr. Harkins that night Daddy got so depressed.

My allowance each week was two dollars — I had no qualms about accepting it from Mr. Stenner, but perhaps that’s because I was following Mom’s example. I usually spent the money on the following items:

Little glass bottles, which I adored.

Bubble gum, which I similarly adored.

Airmail stamps, to write to Grandmother Lu in California.

I usually got my allowance on Saturday morning. By Saturday afternoon at three o’clock, I had usually spent my allowance. So the problem was:

1) How could I buy Daddy a Christmas present with allowances I’d already spent?

2) How could I take money from Mr. Stenner to buy a Christmas present for Daddy?

The way I solved the problem was to cry.

Mr. Stenner came into the living room where I was crying by the fire, and he said, “What’s the matter, Abby?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” I said.

“Don’t you want to talk about it?”

“You just wouldn’t under stand,” I said.

“Try me,” he said. “Here,” he said, and handed me his handkerchief.

I dried my eyes with it, but I didn’t blow my nose in it.

“So what’s the problem?”

“There’s no problem.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“Because I feel like crying, okay?”

“What about?”

“Nothing.”

“If you’re crying you must be crying about something.”

“It’s personal.”

“Maybe I can help you with it.”

“I doubt it.”

“Try me.”

“You don’t have to keep saying ‘Try me, try me,’ all the time,” I said. “If I feel like trying you, I’ll try you.”

“Okay, try me,” he said, and smiled.

“Boy!” I said, and shot him a piercing look that didn’t affect him in the slightest.

“So what is it, Abby?”

“You’d cry, too,” I said, “if you didn’t have any money of your own, and you had to buy your father a Christmas present, and there was nobody you could ask for money, and you didn’t know what to do,” I said, and started crying again.

“How about asking me?” Mr. Stenner said.

“Daddy wouldn’t want you to pay for his Christmas present.”

“Well,” Mr. Stenner said, and paused, and then said, “I didn’t mean I’d give you the money.”

“Huh?” I said, and reached for his handkerchief again.

“Because, frankly, I don’t want to pay for your father’s present.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, he doesn’t want you to, either.”