Antrim, Donald - Elect Mr. Robinson for a Better World

I lowered my fuzzy head to the rich green earth, and gathered in my mouth a big sweet clump of its wonderful, grassy food.

The next thing I knew, I was being kicked in the ribs by small shoes. A child’s voice was saying, “Okay, mister, nice and easy now.”

“Keep him covered. If he tries anything funny, let him have it in the foot,” another child’s voice said.

A pair of freckle-faced boys stood over me. The boys appeared to be about ten years old. They were identical in every respect. Each was armed with a venal-looking longbow strung with razor-sharp hunting ordnance.

It was the Harris twins, Matt and Larry, with their bow-and-arrow sets.

In as cautious a voice as I could summon, I spoke to them. “Easy, guys.”

The sun floated high in the sky. It must’ve been well past the time for school to begin. I was dirty and my clothes were badly grass-stained. I said to the boys, “Put down your weapons. I’m your teacher.”

“If you’re our teacher, how come you’re out here eating the grass?” asked the first boy.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were. Like an animal. We watched,” the brother said, obnoxiously.

I told them, “When you get to be my age, and you have the fear of death, you’ll understand these things. Did you remember to pack your bag lunches?”

“Our mom’s got them,” they exclaimed in unison. Motioning with their bows and arrows, they directed me to rise. “Put your hands on your head and walk toward the house,” one of them commanded.

Did they think this was a game? Once school got under way I’d teach them a thing or two about endangering innocent people’s lives.

On the other hand, you had to hand it to them — and their parents. Carl and Deborah Harris had obviously done marvelous work in training their young sons for sentry duty. These boys were alert, cautious, under control; they weren’t taking any chances. Even now, as we came around the side yard and passed through the tall hedge of blooming jasmine bordering the walkway to the front porch, they kept a safe distance behind me. One of them called ahead, “Hey, Mom.”

Deborah Harris was standing on the porch. She clutched, in her middle-aged hands, those aforementioned bag lunches. Several other mothers and their anxious, dressed-up kids gathered in klatches on the grass and at the foot of the porch steps, like people at a church function. I recognized several youngsters from Story Time at the library. There was Steven Moody, the sensitive boy, with his overprotective mom, Sheila. And there was the boy named David, holding his redheaded infant brother, Tim. The despondent-looking girl, the one who always appeared to be weeping — what was her name? Jane? — perched on the bottommost porch step. She was drawing, in the dirt, with a stick, pictures of what appeared to be fish.

In all, there were ten kids. Enough for a start. The future beckoned. The children clutched lunches and toy animals, their dolls and plastic guns.

In the middle of the yard, near a clump of purple wildflowers, was the little auburn-haired sweetie, the sexy child with the lace-up oxfords decorated with friendly smiling schnauzers’ faces.

“Hey there, Sarah,” I called to her.

“It’s the monster!” Sarah shrieked. Her mother reached down and grabbed her hand, wrenching Sarah forcefully from my path. From behind my back a Harris twin, in a voice like a soldier’s, though higher-pitched, ordered, “Stop right there. Don’t move your hands from your head. Tell my mother who you are.”

I could feel the points of arrows tickling me in the kidney region. What a situation. Here I was, briar-scratched, unwashed and unshaved, wearing bloody clothes and one of those “dirt” tans, my fingernails black with grime and my hair standing straight up off my head, the way it always does in the morning, like a set of those bony jutting dorsal plates purported to have graced the backs of certain dinosaurs.

“Hello, Deborah. It’s me, Pete.”

“Oh my God.”

Fortunately, Sarah’s mother, Mrs. Miller, who’d been present at the library for Saturday morning Story Time, when I’d brought in the destroyed Egyptian Book of the Dead, stepped forward and said, somewhat sarcastically, “More lawn work, I suppose, Mr. Robinson?”

“Right you are. Getting the playing field together. So much to do. So little time.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” said Deborah Harris, relaxing a little. Though only a little. She inquired, “What sort of athletic program do you have in mind, Mr. Robinson?”

Before I could think of an answer, one of her sons thrust an arrow hard at my back. “We found him eating grass.”

“Heh heh. Kids,” I said.

As luck would have it, Deborah Harris was one of those parents who always believe another adult before their own children. She glared at her sons. “Put away those bows right now and behave yourselves.”

“But Mom!”

The thing to do was get shed of all these mothers, then hustle the youngsters down to the basement. The sooner class began, the sooner the PETE ROBINSON IS THE ONLY CONCEIVABLE CHOICE FOR MAYOR campaign could start rolling.

Deborah, who seemed to’ve assumed a spokeswoman role for the assembly of parents, said, “Are you sure you’re feeling well, Mr. Robinson?”

“What do you mean?”

“You look a little tired is all.”

Talk about understatements. Thank God for Jenny Jordan, turning up the drive in her beat-up Volvo. Susy and Brad hopped up and down wildly on the back seat. Jenny tooted the horn and waved, and we all waved back. It was as if her arrival signaled that the world was normal and good. The day could proceed.

“Hi, Brad! Hi, Susy!” I called.

“Hello, Mr. Robinson,” yelled my star pupils, leaping from the Volvo and skipping up the walkway to the house. Brad carried his Erector Set missile launcher, enormous and looking dangerously real in his small, fat arms. Susy gripped, by the hair, her disheveled doll.

“Sorry we’re late,” Jenny said, coming across the grass in sundress and sandals.

“No problem. We’re spending a few minutes getting to know one another. Jenny, have you met Deborah Harris? Deborah, this is Jenny Jordan, and this is Susy and this is Brad. Susy, Brad, say hello to your new classmates, Matt and Larry.” And so on. Hellos all around:

“Hi. I’m Sheila Moody, and this is Steven. What do you say when you meet someone, Steven?”

“Hello.”

“Steven will be a second-grader this year. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

And:

“This is David, and this is his brother Tim. Tim’s gotten to be a very good walker recently. You don’t think he’s too young for school, do you?”

And:

“Let me get this straight. You’re Matt. And you’re Larry. Oh, you’re Larry?”

And:

“Our Jane always gets frightened when she has to leave the house. Eventually she calms down. Don’t pay her any mind if she cries.”

And:

“I see. Larry’s the one with the bump on the back of the head. How’d you get that bump, Larry?”

And:

“Well, Susy would be grade two, I guess. Brad’s still pre-school.”

And:

“I think it’s so fascinating that your daughter’s name is Hope.”

After an interval I called out, “Everybody! Folks! Can I have your attention?”

The yard fell quiet. Moms and kids stared my way. “I’m not much for speeches, but I think it’s appropriate at this time to say a few words in connection with this proud moment in education—”

That’s as far as I got. The front door of the house opened, and Meredith walked out onto the porch. She was wearing a low-cut purple dress. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Strung around her neck were tiny, spectacular seashells. She looked like royalty. As if on cue my audience turned, resting wide, admiring gazes on her. She opened her arms and said, “Come in, everyone. There’s juice and coffee in the kitchen.”