“This is just the sketch. I thought of him as just at the top.”
“I know it’s just the sketch, papa. You forgive me if I butt in. I don’t mean to act as though I knew.”
“I like you to tell me.”
“You know who’d know would be Eddy. He sees faster than a camera and he remembers. Don’t you think Eddy is a great man?”
“Of course he is.”
“Practically nobody knows about Eddy. Tommy does, of course. I like Eddy better than anybody except you and Mr. Davis. He cooks just like he loved it and he knows so much and can do anything. Look what he did with the shark and look how he went overboard yesterday after the fish.”
“And last night people beating him up because they didn’t believe him.”
“But, papa, Eddy isn’t tragic.”
“No. He’s happy.”
“Even today after he was all beaten up he was happy. And I’m sure he was happy that he went in after him.”
“Of course.”
“I wish Mr. Davis was happy the way Eddy is.”
“Mr. Davis is more complicated than Eddy.”
“I know it. But I can remember when he used to be careless happy. I know Mr. Davis very well, papa.”
He’s pretty happy now. I know he’s lost the carelessness though.”
“I didn’t mean a bad carelessness.”
“I didn’t, either. But there is some sort of a sureness that he’s lost.”
“I know it,” David said.
“I wish he’d find it. Maybe he’ll find it when he writes again. You see Eddy’s happy because he does something well and does it every day.”
“I guess Mr. Davis can’t do his every day the way you do and Eddy does.”
“No, And there are other things.”
“I know. I know too much for a kid, papa. Tommy knows twenty times as much as I do and knows the damndest things and they don’t hurt him. But everything I know hurts me. I don’t know why it should, either.”
“You mean that you feel it.”
“I feel it and it does something to me. It’s like a vicarious sin. If there is any such thing.”
“I see.”
“Papa, you excuse me for talking seriously. I know it isn’t polite. But I like to sometimes because there is so much we don’t know and then when we do know, it comes so fast it goes over you like a wave. The way the waves are today.”
“You can always ask me anything, Davy.”
“I know. Thank you very much. I’ll wait, I guess, on some things. There’s some I guess you can only learn for yourself probably.”
“Do you think we better do this ‘rummy’ business with Tom and Andy at Bobby’s? Remember I got in trouble about the man saying you were always drunk.”
“I remember—when he’d seen me drunk on wine twice in three years—but let’s not talk about it. This at Mr. Bobby’s will be a good alibi in case I ever did drink. If I did it twice with that man I might do it three times. No, I think this is a good thing to do, papa.”
“Have you done it lately, the pretend-rummy scene?”
“Tom and I do some pretty good ones. But with Andy they’re much better. Andy’s sort of a genius on them. He can do horrible ones. Mine are sort of special.”
“What have you done lately?” Thomas Hudson went on drawing.
“Did you ever see me do the idiot brother? The mongolian idiot?”
“Never.”
“How do you like it now, Davy?” Thomas Hudson showed him the sketch.
“It’s fine,” David said. “Now I see what you were after. It’s when he hangs in the air just before he falls. Can I really have the painting, papa?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“There’ll be two.”
“I’ll only take one to school and I’ll keep one at home at mother’s. Or would you rather keep it here?”
“No. She might like it. Tell me about some others that you did,” Thomas Hudson said.
“We used to have some awful ones on trains. Trains are the best because of the sort of people I guess. You don’t get those sort of people concentrated almost anywhere except on trains. And then they can’t get away.”