Orbit 5 - [Anthology] Read online

  “I really gotta hand it to you,” Freddy said.

  They didn’t go bowling that night after all; they all sat around the living room and first they had Winston read the daily papers to them, even the editorials, and when he was done they listened to him analyze the political situation and then Edna brought them all cake and they had Winston predict the season’s batting averages while Artie wrote them down and then Winston wrote a poem about autumn and then Winston began to suck his thumb; Edna sent the other kids to bed and they went, complaining because Winston got to stay up and they knew he was going to end up with the rest of the cake; the grownups listened to Winston some more and then Winston and Artie got into a kind of political argument, Artie must have hurt his feelings a little, calling him a squirt and too young to know anything about anything, because Winston began to sniffle, and Edna said they were going to have to let her put him to bed now, he just looked tired to death.

  She took him up to the front room, where they had laid in the complete works of Bulwer-Lytton and the eleventh edition of the Britannica; she showed Winston the globe and the autoclave and the slide rule and the drafting board, thinking he would give little cries of delight and perhaps sit down at the desk at once and compose something on the silent keyboard they had bought him, but instead he clung to her shoulder and wouldn’t even look. Finally she said, “Why honey, what’s the matter?”

  “I want my diddy,” Winston said.

  She found it finally, a tattered square of blanket jammed in the back of the traveling case, and once she had restored it to him Winston let her give him a bath and put him in his pajamas with the bunny feet; even in his pajamas he had that pedigreed look: his ankles and wrists were small and his fingers were long and she found herself wishing he looked just a little cuddlier, just a little more like one of her babies, but she suppressed the thought quickly.

  In bed, she said to Artie, “Just imagine. Right here, our own little Ph.D.” She hugged him. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “I don’t know.” Artie was looking at the ceiling. “I think he’s kind of fresh.”

  The Wazikis were awakened by a hubbub in the back yard. Artie found Little Art and some of Little Art’s friends grappling in the early-morning dirt and when he pried them off he found Winston, white and shaken and biting his lip so the other kids wouldn’t see him cry. He extricated Winston and set him on the back stoop and then turned to Little Art and Margie; they sniggered and wouldn’t look at him.

  “What’s the matter, Winston?”

  But Winston wouldn’t say anything, he only sat there wearing what Artie would learn to call his Hamlet look.

  Little Art elbowed Artie, with a dirty snicker. “You got rooked.”

  “I what?”

  “Dummy here can’t even catch the ball.”

  Winston had stopped shaking. “My father couldn’t catch a ball either,” he said coldly, “and he was wunner-up for the Nobel Pwize.”

  There was something about Winston’s attitude that Artie didn’t like, but he cuffed Little Art all the same and said, “We didn’t pay for him to catch the ball, dummy. You keep your hands off the merchandise.”

  “If he’s so damn smart why can’t he catch the ball?”

  “Shut up and come on inside.”

  At breakfast Margie brought out her geography homework and Artie and Winston had a little set-to about what was the capital of the Cameroons; Winston was right of course and Edna made Artie apologize and then she had to smooth it over because it was obvious to everybody that the whole thing had put Artie on edge.

  “Four-year-old kid. Four-year-oldkid.”

  “I’m sowwy,” said Winston, who in addition to the 160 I.Q. was nobody’s fool, “they used to make me study all the time.”

  “Well they didn’t teach ya manners.”

  “There there,” Margie said, trying to smooth the frown from Artie’s brow. “Just wait till you see the terrarium.”

  He pushed her fingers away. “What in hell is a terrarium?”

  “I don’t know, but Winston and I are going to make one.

  “I don’t want the kid playing with no explosives, and that’s that.”

  Winston had on his Hamlet look. “Anything you say, Mr. Waziki.”

  Artie decided the kid was trying. “You can call me Pop.”

  “O.K., Mr. Waziki.”

  At work he found that Freddy Kramer had spread the word; he was something of a celebrity in the shop. By lunch time he was basking in the glow.

  “Hundred and sixty,” he said in the face of their doubt and envy, “and he calls me Pop.”

  All the same he was more gratified than he should have been when he came home from work to find Little Art and Winston at it again. Little Art had the Britannica on his lap and he was barking at Winston:

  “Who was at the Diet of Worms.”

  Winston made a couple of stabs at it and subsided in embarrassment.

  “Hey Pop, you been rooked.”

  Artie said weakly, “Lay off, kid.”

  “Hundred and sixty and he don’t even know who was at the Diet of Worms.”

  Winston looked at his hands apologetically. “I’m bwand new.”

  “Well you just find out, kid. It’s your business to know.”

  Edna swept Winston to her bosom, noting uncomfortably that he was all knees and elbows. “You just lay off him.”

  Winston dug his chin in her shoulder. “I want my diddy,” Winston said.

  Even Edna had to admit Winston was too intelligent to hang onto a silly piece of blanket, it didn’t look good, and so she had Winston help her wrap up his diddy and put it away, and then they sent him up to his room to learn all he could about Weimeraner dogs and when he came out Artie got into a rage because he hadn’t learned a thing about Weimeraners even though he had the whole V volume of the Britannica to look it up in because never mind what the wise kid kept trying to tell them, Artie knew it was spelled just like it sounds.

  And as if he hadn’t learned his lesson Winston had the nerve to dispute Artie over a point of steamfitting, the thing Artie knew best, and when they looked it up it turned out Winston was right. Then Little Artie wanted Winston to leg-wrestle, and expensive as Winston was, Artie let him because he, Artie, was the head of the family and if Winston was going to live with the Wazikis he was going to have to shape up.

  The next day Edna had her bridge group and she dressed Winston in his pale tan romper suit, the one with the bunny-rabbit on the pocket, and she propped him up with his pocket Spinoza and the ladies all made a terrific fuss over him, chucking his chin and feeding him fudge and making him recite until finally he got nervous or something and he threw up right on the cretonne slipcover, Edna’s favorite. She cleaned up the mess and brought him back in his blue romper suit but he wasn’t so much of a hit after that.

  “Isn’t he kind of sensitive?” Maud Wilson said.

  “He’s bred for brains,” Edna said patiently. “When they’re bred for brains you’ve got to put up with a lot.”

  Melinda Patterson smiled a saccharine smile. “I just don’t know whether it’s worth it in the long run, putting up with all the mess.”

  “Winston is going to get his Ph.D.” Edna saw she was losing them, and she went on quickly. “And next week he’s going to win the Bonanza contest, just you wait and see.”

  She was sorry the minute she said it; the Bonanza contest was a kind of crossword puzzle and she didn’t know whether Winston was trained for that kind of thing, but she had laid Winston on the line and he was just going to have to follow through; maybe he would win and the prize money would make up for all the trouble he had given them. If Winston won they would all get their pictures in the papers together, and it would be a lot easier to be friends with Winston after that. They might even let him have his diddy back. As soon as the ladies left she told Winston about the contest and when he cried she tried to cuddle him, but he wouldn’t kiss her and she had to spank him. Then she got eight dictiona
ries, a thesaurus and that week’s Bonanza puzzle and sent him to his room.

  He tried, he tried for days, and when they came to check on him at the end of the week he said: “It’s hopeless.”

  Artie glowered. “Don’t you tell me what’s hopeless.”

  “Look.” He made them read one of last week’s answers. there’s no place like...and a four-letter word. “The answer is rome because while there are many homes there is only onerome.” He said, “See? It’s a hoked-up awbitwawy cheat.”

  “Do the puzzle, Winston.”

  “But it’s all chance.”

  Artie shook him. “Don’t you tell me what’s chance.”

  Evelyn Cartwright was the first on the phone when Winston didn’t win. “I just thought maybe he hadn’tentered” she said in honeyed tones. Edna was grim. “He entered five hundred and seventy-eight times.”

  “I.Q. one-sixty,” Evelyn Cartwright said with a musical snigger. “All that money down the drain.”

  The guys in the shop laughed so hard that Artie came home early. “Kid just don’t know his place. I’m gonna make him learn his place.”

  Edna thought maybe if she cut down on Winston’s rations it would sharpen his brains, so she put him on bread and water and a little fish: brain food, according to the books. Could she help it if some part of her insisted that she serve rich stews to Artie and the kids at the same time? Could she help it if determination hardened her heart so that she didn’t even watch Winston’s tiny, tortured face as the others devoured ice cream and sugar cookies, and fell on meatloaves like twenty-one-inch shells and devoured coconut custard pies?

  Artie decided a little outdoor work would put Winston in trim and build his character too so he turned him over to Margie and Little Art for a couple of hours every afternoon; they tried to make him catch the ball and they made him run foot races and practice broad-jumping and Artie always let it go on a little longer than it should have because after all, the kid had to turn out a one-letter man, it was in the guarantee.

  What killed them was, after all they’d paid for him he sniveled all the time, even after Edna let him hang up the snapshot of his father the professor and his mother the lady writer sunning at Biarritz; they had sent it in a letter reminding the Wazikis that the true parents were entitled to half of Winston’s future earnings, and it burned Artie so much that he tore it up and jumped up and down on the pieces and wouldn’t let Winston see it at all, not even the part where they sent their love. All that money, and Winston could hardly keep his mind on the dumbest questions; Edna’s next bridge gathering was a real washout, Winston cried the whole time, and all the ladies could talk about was how peaky he looked.

  Artie thought maybe a Sane Mind in a Sound Body and from then on Winston slept on the screen porch for his health, they even let him have a blanket because it was kind of cold.

  Artie’s birthday was coming up and he had taken so much guff from Freddy Kramer and the guys from the shop that he knew he had to show them, he would have a big beer party on his birthday, by that time Winston would be shaped up from the brain food and all that sleeping on the porch. He would have a big beer party on his birthday, he would get everybody greased and then he would have Winston come in and do his stuff. As it turned out they probably did drink too much, and maybe Artie did forget about Winston being outside for his constitutional, and maybe it was snowing by the time somebody remembered and they brought him in; maybe that’s why all he did was stand there in his romper suit with his knees knocking and his jaw set in his Hamlet look.

  Or maybe it was just plain stubbornness; whatever it was, Artie gave him a cuff and said, “Okay, Winston, tell the guys about the Diet of Worms.”

  “Yes, Mr. Waziki.”

  Artie gave him a belt. “And call me Pop.”

  “Yes, Mr. Waziki.”

  Artie gave him another belt and he started off on the Diet of Worms but he only got out a couple of lines before his mind wandered or something and he began staring at some spot in a corner and when Artie prodded him he turned to Artie with his face flaming and a look that bordered on apology and said, “I’m sowwy. I f-forget.”

  “What, forget.” Artie poked him harder because all the guys were laughing. “What forget?”

  Winston was shaking pretty hard, his knees were knocking; nerves, probably, Artie decided; Winston said, “I j-just.”

  “Awright, awright,” Artie said, because the guys were pushing him and Winston had better hurry up and do something. He tried to steer him into familiar territory: “Tell the gang about the Weimeraner dog.”

  “Hell,” Freddy Kramer said, egging the other guys on. “I bet he can’t even add.”

  “Yeah,” said somebody. “Big deal, Artie. What else did ya bring?”

  Artie gripped Winston by the shoulders; the other guys were getting ugly and he had to do something quick. He shook Winston, hard, hissing, “Times tables. Give ‘em the times tables.”

  Winston just rolled up his eyes with an agonized, forgive-me look. His teeth were chattering so hard now that he couldn’t even talk. Still he made a brave beginning: “W-wun.”

  “See,” Artie said quickly, “he’s about to give you the one-times.”

  “The hell he is, look at him.”

  Winston’s face was flaming now, his eyes feverish, and when Artie pressed him he couldn’t even talk. The guys were getting ugly and if Winston didn’t do something in a minute they were all going to walk out on his birthday party and Artie would be finished down at the shop.

  “He’s going to give you thetimes table,” Artie said doggedly, and he kept on shaking Winston.

  “Forget it, Artie.”

  “Forget it hell.” They were all milling and fuming and he had to act fast so he picked Winston up by the sailor collar. “Back in a minute. I’m gonna teach him, I’m gonna teach him for once and for all.”

  Then he took Winston upstairs and he got Edna’s silver hairbrush and turned him over his knee, muttering, “Gonna teach him a lesson” and when he finally stopped spanking Winston he set him on his feet. Winston’s legs buckled and his eyes rolled back so all Artie could see was the whites. He kept on for a couple of minutes, trying to make Winston stand up or answer or something and after a while he got scared and went down and called Edna, noting only in passing that the guys must have gotten depressed, hearing Winston yelling and all, everybody was gone.

  “I guess I hurt him,” he said as Edna rushed past him.

  “You ruined him, you went and ruined him.” Edna was crying over Winston’s crumpled body.

  “Five thousand dollars shot,” Artie said.

  Winston began to moan so they called the company doctor, after all it was in the guarantee. Winston turned out to be in a coma or something, he was burning up with fever and they sat up with wet compresses and stuff for several days and when Winston began to come out of it they noticed something funny and they called the doctor in again. After he had been with Winston for several minutes he came out and Edna gripped him by the elbow saying: “All right? Is he going to be all right?”

  The doctor looked weary beyond description. “With a lot of care he’ll be all right.”

  Shrewdly, Artie followed up. “One-sixty and all?”

  “He’ll be all right, but he’ll never think again.”

  “Then we get our money back.”

  “Read your contract,” the doctor said, as if he had been through all this before. “You’ll find your baby intellectuals are only guaranteed against failure.”

  “Failure, let me tell you about failure . . .”

  But the doctor was moving toward the door. “Not against personal damage or acts of God.”

  Artie had the doctor by the shoulders now and they were in the doorway, wrangling, but Edna paid no attention; instead she took a bowl of chicken soup and crept up to Winston’s room.

  He was pale and diminished, lying there under the covers, but he looked more or less all right. He recognized her when she came in and
he began to moan.

  She stroked his forehead. “All right, baby, you’re going to be all right.”

  “Sick.” Winston was blubbering. “Sick.”

  “Mommy make you all right.” Because he wouldn’t stop crying she thought fast. “Diddy? Winston want his diddy?”

  “Diddy,” Winston said, and when she produced it, took it to his bosom with a look of bliss.

  “That’s a boy.”

  Winston stopped stroking his cheek with his diddy and looked around the room until his eyes rested on the globe. He tried to sit up. “Baw?”

  “Ball, Winston. Ball.”

  “Baw.”

  “That’s my baby. Ball. That’s my baby, baby boy.”