Steven Millhauser - Edwin Mullhouse - The Life and Death of an American Writer 1943-1954

On a brilliant afternoon in August, when grass too green and a roof too red and the precise and luminous white shingles among the windows seemed not so much to be opaque and shining with a surface brightness as to be transparent, penetrated by color, and illuminated from within or behind, like the glowing objects in one of Mr. Mullhouse’s color slides mounted in glass and held up to a hot bright lightbulb; on such an afternoon in August, shortly after Edwin’s fourth birthday, a group of four people were to be found seated on the large white wooden family swing in the center of the Mullhouse back yard. On the right sat Mrs. Mullhouse and five-month-old Karen, with their backs to the vegetable garden and their faces toward Robin Hill Road; on the left sat Mr. Mullhouse and Edwin, who was slumped in the near corner with his bare legs extended and his feet resting on the edge of the seat opposite, a few inches away from Karen. The two bench-like seats of the swing were fitted into a tall roofed frame in such a way as to move back and forth upon the application of pressure to the fixed wooden floor or to the seat opposite. Hidden from the view of all four, a bright cardinal was pecking at the ground beside the little mountain laurel at the side of the house near Robin Hill Road. “And so,” Mr. Mullhouse continued, “the king—” “Not so fast, Edwin,” said Mrs. Mullhouse, frowning slightly and pulling Karen closer to her, though to all appearances they were swinging lazily back and forth with gentle creaking sounds. “Remember the baby,” she said, stroking Karen’s hair. Edwin pushed harder. “Stop it, Edwin. Abe, make him stop.” “Edwin!” said Mr. Mullhouse sharply; Edwin’s feet dropped, dangling just above the wooden floor. “And sit up, for heaven sakes,” said Mrs. Mullhouse, “you’re ruining your posture.” Slowly, with great precision, Edwin moved one inch. “And so,” continued Mr. Mullhouse, “the king took the pebble from Chicken Little’s head and said: ‘Thees ees awnly a leetle pebble, Señorita Cheeken, eet ees nawt thee sky.’ Whereupon Turkey Lurkey said: ‘Blimey, ’e says it’s only a bloomin’ pebble.’ And Henny Penny said: ‘You mean it’s jes a lil ol pebble? Ah do dee-klay-uh.’ To whom Goosey Poosey said: ‘Pebble, schmebble, the sky is falling down and you’re talking pebbles.’ And Ducky Daddles said: ‘Chees, if it ain’t one ting it’s anudda.’ And Gander Pander said: ‘Reckon we oughta mosey on back, ah reckon.’ And Cocky Locky said: ‘Cockadoodle doo! Cockadoodle doo!’ And Chicken Little said: Edwin, if you don’t want to listen, don’t listen, but don’t sit there making faces. I don’t know what’s gotten into that boy.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean anything, he’s just tired, aren’t you, Edwin. Let’s see, whose turn is it? Mine?” And putting a fingertip to her cheek, and pursing her lips, Mrs. Mullhouse looked off with a frown of concentration. Edwin, crossing his arms and yawning loudly, swung his chin toward his right shoulder and pretended to fall asleep.

“Once upon a time,” said Mrs. Mullhouse, “there was a little boy called Edward. He lived in a great big house with his mommy and daddy and he was such a quiet little boy. Well, one day Edward’s mommy said to Edward’s daddy, ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I’m worried about Edward. The way he just sits around moping around all day.’ ‘Hmmmpf,’ said Edward’s father, ‘I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. Just let well enough alone and everything will work out all right in the end.’ ”

“A very wise, very judicious man,” said Mr. Mullhouse.

“Please don’t interrupt, dear. You know you always tell me not to interrupt. Well, the next day Edward’s father bought him a great big fire engine. But it was the wrong color, so Edward refused to play with it and just moped around. The next day Edward’s father bought him a toy farm with a silo, and also a great big blackboard on a stand with boxes of chalk and a real eraser, but still Edward just moped around. Soon Edward was known in the neighborhood as The Boy Who Moped Around. Then one day Edward’s mother got an idea. She put on her coat and hat and went to the Stork Department at Howland’s. ‘Hello, Mr. Stork,’ she said. ‘I’d like one of those pink bundles, please.’ ‘Well,’ said Mr. Stork, ‘here you are, sweetheart.’ ‘Thank you,’ said Edward’s mother, ‘and you can keep your remarks to yourself if you don’t mind.’ ”

Mr. Mullhouse raised his eyebrows.

“As soon as Edward’s mother got home, she went up to Edward and gave him the pink bundle. And do you know what was inside?” Suddenly Mrs. Mullhouse turned to her left, picked up Karen, and placed her in Edwin’s lap. “Karen!” cried Mrs. Mullhouse. Karen began to giggle and grin. Edwin, scowling, pushed her away. Karen burst into tears. “Oh what a rotten spoilsport,” said Mrs. Mullhouse, drawing Karen onto her lap. “Don’t cry, baby. Mmmm, thaaat’s right, such a schatzkele. You just ignore Mr. Smartypants over there. Edwin, you make me so damn angry sometimes.”

“I think,” said Mr. Mullhouse, “that Edwin is anxious to go to bed.”

Mrs. Mullhouse made a secret signal to Mr. Mullhouse with her face. Mr. Mullhouse took out his pipe, and the cardinal hopped about as Karen’s sobs became fewer and fainter and stopped. “Well!” said Mrs. Mullhouse, “that’s better. Whose turn is it? Edwin’s?”

“Once upon a time,” said Edwin, “there was a cow. This cow had two heads, three eyes, four mouths, five tails, six hands, seven feet, eight toes, nine shoes, ten shoelaces, eleven”

“Oh Edwin,” said Mrs. Mullhouse.

“If you don’t want to tell a story,” said Mr. Mullhouse, “then don’t tell one.”

“I am telling a story.” Edwin frowned and pushed out his lips.

Mrs. Mullhouse looked at Mr. Mullhouse; she held up a finger and shook it back and forth slightly. “Well, Edwin!” she said brightly, “and what was the little cow’s name?”

“Jeffrey,” said Edwin.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Mullhouse, and paused. “What an unusual name for a cow.” She paused again. “And what happened to the cow, Edwin?”

“He died,” said Edwin.

Silence.

“And is that the end of your story, Edwin?”

“No.”

In those days the Mullhouse back yard abutted on a weedgrown vacant lot from which it was separated by a tall thick hedge.

“Oh look!” cried Mrs. Mullhouse, pointing to the clothestree beside the back steps. A bright cardinal had landed on one of the lines, shaking the row of clothespins. Everyone except Karen turned to look. “Oh the lovely thing. Why don’t you ever have your camera?”

“I’d need a telephoto,” said Mr. Mullhouse. “I ought to get one, anyway.”

“What’s telephoto?” said Edwin, still watching the cardinal. It stood with its chest thrust out, its small head moving in quick jerks, as if it were surrounded by invisible enemies.

“It’s a lens that makes small things appear big. Like putting a magnifying glass in front of the camera. With a telephoto I could sit here and take a picture of that bird as if I were sitting next to it on one of those clothespins. Yes, I certainly ought to get one.”

“Telephoto,” said Edwin. “Telephoto telephoto pheletoto pheletoto”

“Oh stop it,” said Mrs. Mullhouse.

“Cow went to Hell,” said Edwin, “and in Hell he met a bird. This bird had three tails, four heads, five nick nacks, six telephotos, seven”

“Oh Edwin, shhh! You’ve frightened him!” The cardinal rose from the trembling row of clothespins and flew swiftly over the swing and onto the hedge. Three heads followed its flight, turning completely around and changing from hair to pink. As the others stared eagerly at the upper branches, Edwin’s gaze fell carelessly to the leafless spaces at the base of the hedge. Suddenly he stiffened. His lips parted, his eyes widened. “There it goes,” said Mrs. Mullhouse, pointing skyward. “Edwin, what are you — oh! Well I’ll be. Hi, Jeff! Peek-a-boo! I see you!”