John Gardner - Freddy's Book

Freddy went on looking at the scab. Mentally, he backed away from us, securely locked some door.

“You hear that, Freddy?” Professor Agaard piped. “Jack Winesap would like to read your book!” When the boy said nothing, Agaard said, “Wouldn’t you like that? Wouldn’t that be nice?”

After a moment Freddy said, almost too quietly us to hear, “You don’t know I’ve got a book.”

Agaard said nothing — stiffened a little, possibly; slightly paled.

I looked from one of them to the other. “Come, come, Freddy,” I cajoled, “your father’s proud of you! I know how he feels; I’ve got a son myself”

Freddy did not look up. He said very softly, “He doesn’t know if I’ve written a book or not.” He glanced at me and smiled, faintly apologetic but standing his ground. His face for the first time struck me not really a child’s face after all, more adult than his fathers. He slid his eyes toward Agaard. “It’s not that I want to hurt your feelings.”

“Ha!” Agaard said. He spoke loudly, but perhaps only to some voice inside his head.

I lit the pipe and half turned away from the boy as if to leave. He looked back at me for an instant, as I’d known he would. “You’re right,” I said, “your own business is your own business. But isn’t it odd not letting anyone see it?” Somewhat mechanically, like a bad actor, I held my hand out toward him, as if to show him, as you would a dog, that I was friendly. The gesture embarrassed me as soon as I saw it for what it was; but I had no power to take it back.

“It’s just a book,” the giant said.

“There!” Agaard said, turning to me gleefully. “It exists! He’s admitted it!”

I stared at him, then turned and crossed stiffly to the door. Before stepping out into the hall I turned again and said, “I’m glad to have met you, Freddy. Good luck to you — all the luck in the world!”

“Yes sir,” he said. “Thank you.” It surprised me that he spoke so serenely, accepting it so easily — made me wonder if perhaps I’d gotten closer than I’d imagined. I left, however, having committed myself. After a moment Professor Agaard popped out behind me.

“Well, what do you think?” he said earnestly, much too soon to be out of earshot.

“Very sharp boy,” I said at once, slightly slowing my step. “Those constructions he makes are magnificent.”

“Oh yes, those,” Agaard said.

“And so are the drawings. If his talent as a writer comes anywhere near those other talents—”

Agaard glanced at me, puzzled, perhaps impatient. “I could show you some of the things he wrote when he was younger,” he said.

“Oh no — no thank you!” I said rather loudly. “I wouldn’t want to look at them without Freddy’s permission!”

Poor Agaard was puzzled to speechlessness. We descended the back stairs in silence.

I MOVED AROUND the kitchen restlessly as the old man, scooting back and forth, bending and straightening, put on supper. At one point, abruptly pausing with my back to him, I slipped my pipe into my pocket, thinking of claiming I’d left it upstairs in Freddy’s room, giving myself a chance to go back up and talk with him alone. But what would I say? That he ought to get out more, take better care of himself, guard against his father’s distrustfulness?The stress of the situation made the pipe trick impossible. To think the thing through, get up my nerve to try it if it seemed right, I needed the pipe in my mouth. I got it out again loaded it, and lit it.

Agaard was peeling the plastic wrap off a great package of chicken legs. “I hope you like chicken, Winesap,” he said crossly. He’d been thinking, had perhaps figured out at last what I’d done to him upstairs.

I nodded and gestured absently. “Yes, fine,” I said.

“That’s about all we eat around here, chicken and fish and vast quantities of spaghetti. Giants are expensive.” He laughed.

“I imagine,” I said. I remembered suddenly that I had my paper on Jack and the Beanstalk in my bag in the living-room. I knew intuitively the instant I thought of it that it was the perfect gift for the boy upstairs, though it took me a minute or two to convince myself that I was right. It was true that it had a giant in it, but it had nothing to do with giantism, only with the fear of the small and weak in relation to the large and powerful, first in the family, then in the Welsh-English political situation; it had to do with comedy and tyranny, how the joking Welsh Jack-tales made it possible to slip around the mighty political parent unharmed. In a word, it reversed the situation of Agaard and his son — made Agaard the flesh-eating giant, if you will. Perhaps it would make me a villainous guest, at very least ungrateful, giving that paper to Agaard’s son; but it was Agaard who’d invited me, presumably to help in whatever way I could, and presumably the decision as to what would be best was mine. I excused myself and went to the front room for the paper. I hesitated for a moment, drawing it out of my bag. It was the paper I’d been intending to read in Chicago but never mind, I would figure something out — maybe stand there telling jokes, or have a dialogue with the audience. Never mind.

Back in the kitchen, now filled with the smells of squash, potato, and chicken cooking, I said, “I’ve got a present here for Freddy. You don’t suppose there’d be any harm in my taking it up to him?”

“I’ll take it,” Agaard said. “I’ve got to take him his supper.”

“I’d just as soon take it myself, actually,” I said, “though of course if you think—”

“What is it?” Agaard said. He spoke into the oven, where he was bent over, stiffly and awkwardly spooning something onto the chicken.

“Oh, something I wrote,” I said, “a little trifle.”

Agaard thought about it. Perhaps he guessed what it was that I meant to do. But he said nothing. I took his silence for consent and stepped through the back rooms — he’d left them unlocked — and up the back stairs, moving along grimly, left-foot, right-foot, like a man on a mission he does not entirely approve of. At Freddy’s door I paused, listening for a moment, then knocked.

“Yes?” the boy said. He spoke from not far beyond the door.

“Freddy,” I said to the doorknob, “it’s Professor Winesap. I’ve brought you something.”

There was a silence while — frantically, I imagine — he tried to make out what to do. At last he said, “Just a minute,” and I heard him coming nearer. One by one, slowly, as if reluctantly, he undid the locks. There was another brief pause; then the doorknob turned and the door swung inward. There he stood, bent over, too tall for the room by a foot or more. He was wearing pressed trousers and a clean white shirt. It crossed my mind that he’d been thinking of coming downstairs; but no, I decided, he’d merely prepared himself in case we should come at him again.

I held out my sheaf of Xeroxed pages. “I brought you this,” I said. “It’s the paper I read the other night at the university. Since you weren’t able to be there—” I smiled and tipped my head, trying to show him I was harmless.

He stared at me intently, then abruptly looked down at the paper I held out, and blushed.

“It’s for you,” I said, and gave the paper a little shake.

“Thank you,” he said after a moment, and slowly raised his hand to take it.

“When your father mentioned that you’ve read some of my work,” I said, widening my smile, “it occurred to me that maybe this would interest you. As I said before, we writers have to stick together!” I gave a laugh.

“Thank you,” he said cautiously. Then, after a moment: “Did you want to come in?”

Given the way he asked it, I had no choice but to decline, “I’m helping your father with supper,” I said, “but thank you for the kind invitation.”