Theobald scowled out at the breakers. “It’s all right,” he grudged.
“What’s the matter?”
“The water looks sick. And the sun ought to be off that way, not there. And where’s the big trees?”
“What big trees?”
“The high slim ones, with big bushes at the top.”
“Hmmm…what’s wrong with the water?”
“It ain’t blue.”
Hamilton walked back to where Phyllis lay on the sand. “Can you tell me,” he said slowly, “whether or not Baldy has ever seen stereos of royal palms-on a beach, a tropical beach?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Think back. Did you use such a picture to extensionalize for him?”
“No, I’m sure of that.”
“You know what he’s read-has he seen any flat-picture like that.”
She checked back through her excellent and well-arranged memory. “No, I would have remembered it. I would never have put such a picture in his way without explaining it to him.”
The incident occurred before Theobald had been entered at the development center; what he had seen, he had seen at home. Of course it was possible that he had seen it in a news or story cast in the receiver at home, but he could not start the machine himself and neither of them recalled such a scene. Nevertheless, it was damned funny.
“What did you start to say, dear?”
Hamilton gave a slight start. “Nothing, nothing at all.”
“What kind of ‘nothing’?”
He shook his head. “Too fantastic. My mind was wandering.”
He went back to the boy and attempted to pump him for details in an effort to ferret out the mystery. But Theobald was not talking. In fact, he was not even listening. He said so.
On a similar occasion but much later an event occurred which was quite as disturbing, but a little more productive. Felix and the boy had been splashing in the surf, until they were quite tired. At least Felix was, which made a majority with only one dissent. They lay down on the sand and let the sun dry them. Presently the salt drying on the skin made them itch, as it has a habit of doing.
Felix scratched Theobald between the shoulder blades — that awkward spot-and reflected to himself how catlike the child was in many ways, even to the sybaritic way in which he accepted this small sensuous pleasure. Just now it suited him to be petted; a moment later he might be as haughty and distant as a Persian torn. Or he might decide to cuddle.
Then Felix lay on his stomach, Theobald straddled his back and returned the favor. Felix was beginning to feel rather catlike himself-it felt so good! — when he began to be aware of a curious and almost inexplicable phenomenon.
When one human monkey does another the great service of scratching him, delightful as it is, it never quite hits the spot. With infuriating obtuseness, despite the most careful coaching, the scratcher will scratch just above, just below, all around the right spot, but never, never, never quite on it, until, in sheer frustration, the scratchee will nearly dislocate his shoulder going after it for himself.
Felix was giving Theobald no instructions; in fact, he was nearly falling asleep under the warm relaxing ecstasy of his son’s ministrations, when he suddenly snapped to attention.
Theobald was scratching where Felix itched.
The exact spot. An area of sensation had only to show up for him to pounce on it and scratch it out of existence.
This was another matter that had to be taken up with Phyllis. He got up and explained to her what had happened, attempting the meanwhile to keep it from the child’s attention by suggesting that he go for a run down the beach — “But don’t go in more than ankle deep.”
“Just try him,” he added, when he had told her of it. “He can do it. He really can.”
“I’d like to,” she said. “But I can’t. I’m sorry to say that I am still fresh and clean and free from vulgar distresses.”
“Phyllis — ”
“Yes, Felix?”
“What kind of a person can scratch where another person itches?”
“An angel.”
“No, seriously.”
“You tell me.”