_from _Andrew and Hillary

by C. P. Boyko


Hillary was weeding the flowerbed, and questioning the weediness of 
weeds, some of which were just as beautiful as any flower, when an 
urgent message reached her from the Candy Ninja.

Her brother Ben handed her a piece of paper. "Andrew told me to give 
you this."

She looked at the paper, which Andrew had not even taken the trouble 
to fold, for the message was in code.

     Gregarious, Matinee Principal.
     Theater Cane Ninny island real toad movie.
     Youth hem island needeled.

She slipped the paper into the front pocket of her dress, put her 
sister Prudence in charge of the younger siblings, and went inside 
the house. She could decipher most of the message by sight, and in 
any case could guess its gist, but half the fun of having a secret 
code was going through the process of decoding it, and then 
destroying both the translation and the original. She entered the 
bedroom she shared with her sisters, withdrew from its hiding place 
beneath her and Judith's mattress a pocket dictionary, identical to 
one that Andrew owned, and silently locked herself in the bathroom. 
On a fresh piece of paper she wrote down the word that alphabetically 
preceded each of those in the message.

     Greetings, Math Princess.
     The Candy Ninja is ready to move.
     Your helter-skelter is needed.

The code, while simple, was not infallible. As usual, Andrew had 
skipped a word when encoding: presumably it was her help that was 
needed. She was also amazed that he could misspell a word ("needled") 
even in the act of copying it out of the dictionary. Nevertheless, 
the Candy Ninja had other assets that made him an excellent secret 
agent. She thought almost affectionately (agents could little afford 
such luxuries as affection) of his speed, his ingenuity, and his 
strength. His capacity to endure the cold and rain was as legendary 
as his capacity to withstand torture. And there was, of course, his 
ninjutsu.

She began to compose a reply, then realized that he would have to 
return home to decode it. She tore all the papers to tiny shreds and 
flushed them, and returned the dictionary to its hiding place. She 
found Andrew in the back alley throwing stones at a plastic bottle, 
an activity from which she was able to distract him only with 
difficulty. He had a tendency to drift into trances, which irritated 
his teachers and most of his family, but which Hillary respected, for 
she knew that he was dreaming about candy.

"Do you have any money?" he asked her, according to formula.

"No," she replied, according to formula, "but I wish I did."

Having thus established her identity and her abiding commitment to 
the cause, he went on, "The people in Number 147 just moved out."

Sometimes guests at his family's motel left behind a dollar or two, 
in seeming absentmindedness (neither Andrew nor Hillary was yet 
familiar with the concept of tipping).

"How will we get the key?"  --"Grandpa is at the desk. If he's not 
sleeping, you'll talk to him while I sneak around back."  --"He'll 
hear you."  -- Andrew reminded her that he was a ninja.  --"I don't 
know. I'm supposed to weed the flowerbed."  --"Okay. I'll help."  
--"I don't know." She remembered the time he had helped her roll 
coins for her parents. He had stuck the rollers on his fingers like 
claws and run around the room growling, he had built towers of coins 
and brought them crashing down, he had devised embezzlements that 
involved buying coin-sized washers from the hardware store, but he 
had not actually rolled any coins. "It can be hard to tell the weeds 
from the flowers if you've never done it before."

"Pay your brothers and sisters to do it."  --"Pay them! With what?"  
--"With some of the candy we'll buy with the money we find."  --"What 
if we don't find any money?"  -- He shrugged. "Then you'll be in 
debt."

The word froze her soul. From the way her parents used it in their 
arguments, she had come to think of debt as synonymous with muddle, 
illness, and disgrace. Suddenly she saw how easy it was to fall into 
dishonor, criminality, even death, and how thin was the crust of 
civilization beneath her feet.

But she feared that she had already raised enough objections to make 
Andrew doubt her allegiance. She made an offer to her sisters and 
brothers, who accepted as happily and gratefully as if the payment 
were already in hand -- for they were not accustomed in that family 
to being compensated for their chores. Hillary reflected, with fright 
and excitement, that she and Andrew simply _must _find money in 
Number 147; if they did not, her siblings would never trust her 
again. They might never trust anyone again.

Andrew and Hillary walked their bikes the seven blocks to the motel 
by back alleys, where life was messier and richer. They saw 
mysterious animal tracks preserved in concrete, a car bumper like a 
disembodied smile, a herd of ants carrying a leaf, and a paint can 
half full of gelatinous paint.

"Wrong color," said Andrew.  --"Wrong color for what?"  -- He 
grinned. "Camouflage."

When they reached Andrew's room, Number 15, he closed the curtains, 
handed her two black markers, and took off his clothes. "Start with 
my feet," he said.

She understood immediately. Andrew often undressed before performing 
physical feats like climbing trees or jumping ditches; he claimed 
nakedness gave him greater agility, and Hillary could well believe 
it. As a ninja, however, he had to be dressed in black in order to 
blend with the shadows. Here was an elegant solution. She began 
blackening his toes.

"That tickles."  --"This is gonna take forever."  -- He took one of 
the markers and colored the other foot with rapid back-and-forth 
strokes, as if he were shading a foot in a coloring book.  --"I'm not 
doing your doink," she said.  -- He took his penis in hand and 
colored it with rather more care. They both paused to admire his 
handiwork.

Andrew quickly lost interest in the task, and the markers ran out of 
ink before Hillary had finished his legs. Nevertheless, he was 
pleased with the result, and moved around the room liberally and in 
demonstrative silence. 

"Now we're ready."

His grandfather was asleep in the office and the keys to Number 147 
lay on the counter, but Andrew managed to invest his acquisition of 
them with a great deal of ninjutsu. On their way back to his room, 
however, he and Hillary were spotted by Andrew's brother Roger, who 
was smoking in the doorway of Number 12. 

"Hey, Andrew, why the hell aren't you wearing a shirt?" He did a 
double take. "Why the hell aren't you wearing any _pants_?"

"I was just going to put some on," said Andrew graciously.

They ducked inside Number 15 and Andrew got dressed. Then, moving 
with conspicuous stealth, they let themselves into Number 147. 

The room smelled moist and tangy, like the underside of a rock, and 
was in a state of magnificent disarray. There were bedclothes in the 
bathroom, towels on the bed, lamps lying on their sides; the 
telephone was out of its cradle and the television was turned to the 
wall; newspapers and the residue of meals were strewn across the 
floor. 

"Boy," said Andrew, "it's worse than my room."

They found much treasure, which they divided equitably, including a 
cardboard box with a flip-top lid, part of a watch strap, a marble, a 
battery, and several elastic bands -- but no money. Hillary dropped 
into a chair and succumbed to gloom, while Andrew rummaged through 
the fridge in search of sweets.

"Hey, have you ever had this?" He held up a jar of instant coffee.  
--"I don't know."  -- He said that it must be good, because his 
parents and most of his brothers and sisters drank it all the time.  
--"What's it taste like?"  --"You know," he shrugged. "Like coffee."

She found and washed a cup, into which he poured coffee crystals and 
hot water from the bathroom tap, stirring the concoction with a 
corner of the shower curtain.

"You first," he said.

"Ugh. It smells like burnt toast."

"Ugh. It _tastes _like burnt toast."

But they drank it all, while standing around in efficient and 
preoccupied poses like adults.

"Do you feel any different?" he asked.  --"No," she lied.

They couldn't stop giggling. They ran outside, as if expecting to see 
snow or a parade passing through town. The sky was purple and the 
horizon piled with kingdoms of cloud. The trees in blossom smelled as 
sweetly perfumed as uncooked hotdogs. A soft breeze carried 
intimations of elsewhere. Andrew remembered the time he had thrown a 
frog on top of the school. Hillary imagined herself a girl in high 
school, carrying a purse and with her hair in a braid. The world was 
brimming with adventures. Every solid object concealed spaces where 
candy might be found.

"Come on!"

"Let's go!"

They hopped on their bikes and pedaled away. 

"Andrew," a voice called after them, "have you delivered your paper 
route?"

"Shut up, Nance!" he screamed. "I _said _I'll do it later!"

They raced up Hawk Hill, but Hillary was laughing too hard to catch 
her breath. They coasted down the other side all the way to Main 
Street, flying over potholes and past stop signs, car horns blaring a 
salute to their fearless independence. Andrew turned in to the bank 
parking lot and slammed on his brakes, pivoting on one foot and 
spraying gravel. Hillary came to a more sedate stop, which she 
embellished by remaining upright for several seconds before having to 
put a foot down.

"Hey, would you look at this!"

The poster had been on the telephone pole for weeks, and they had 
both seen it many times; but now it seemed to glow with significance.

     MISSING: Our beloved cat
     Answers to "Mr. Whiskers" or "Charles"
     Last seen down by the lake
     Needs meds

There was a picture of the cat looking surprised, and the offer of an 
exorbitant reward.

"Do you know how many Tongue Lashers we could buy for that much 
money?" said Andrew.

The question was not rhetorical, and Hillary did some calculations, 
the results of which left her flushed and dazed. "Enough to fill your 
fort." 

Andrew's fort (which was also, unknown to one another, the fort of 
several other kids) was an abandoned garden shed in a vacant lot. It 
was not large, but it could hold a lot of candy. Andrew went into a 
brief trance. 

"I've seen that cat," he said finally. "I _know_ I have. Come on!"

They rode out to the lake at top speed, standing on the pedals and 
pulling hard on the handlebars for leverage. When they reached the 
picnic area, they jumped off their bikes without braking, and the 
bikes rolled several feet before they wobbled and collapsed in the 
grass.   

Catherine and Caroline, two girls from their class, were there with 
their families, and Hillary waved. Andrew batted her hand out of the 
air.

"Don't. They're -- dorks." He had been about to say "girls." "Plus 
they'll want to join us and share the reward."

Hillary saw that he was right.

They moved down to the beach and began searching for clues, while 
striving not to appear to be searching for clues. There were, if 
anything, too many clues; the area was teeming with them. A bottle 
cap, a broken sand shovel, a half-buried plastic bag -- all these 
suggested to their imaginations conflicting scenes of abduction, 
escape, scuffle, chase, injury, fugue, and drowning.

Andrew asked Hillary whether, if she had to drown, she would take a 
breath or let out a breath first.  --"Take a breath," she said, after 
consideration. "Although I guess you'd probably let it out in the 
end."  --"Yeah. It'd probably be over faster if you let out your 
breath. But I'm the same as you," he said. "I'd take a breath."  

"Here, kitty, kitty," said Hillary softly. "Here, Mr. Whiskers."  
--"That won't work. The owners would have tried it already."

An idea brought her up short. "Maybe he didn't _want _to come. Maybe 
he ran away."  -- Andrew concealed his surprise, but not his 
admiration. "My thoughts exactly."

They moved along the shore, away from the swimming area and out of 
sight of the picnickers, to where the beach became rocky. No longer 
spurred by observers, they allowed their search to become relaxed, 
almost luxurious. They hopped from stone to stone, choosing their 
steps carefully to avoid booby-traps. They plucked foxtails and 
chewed them contemplatively. 

"Theeth theedth thtick in your mouth."  --"Turn them around. They 
only stick one way -- like fishhooks."

Hillary discovered a pool filled with algae and tiny crayfish, but 
Andrew, who disliked bugs and muck, found something better. Among 
smooth rocks the size of apples and tennis balls, he found a 
doorknob. 

He tried to pick it up, but it was stuck. He moved some stones and 
found that it was attached to a piece of wood.

"Maybe it's a whole door," said Hillary, and helped him clear away 
rocks.

It was a door. But it did not appear to have washed up or been dumped 
there. It was free of dirt and slime and was well preserved, neither 
warped nor rotten. And it was embedded firmly in the ground, flush 
with the earth around it. It looked, indeed, like a cellar door, 
still in regular use, that someone had taken the trouble to conceal.

"But who would put a cellar _here_?"  --"Maybe it's a bunker," said 
Andrew, "or a hideout."

They looked around to make sure they were not seen; then Andrew 
turned the knob and lifted the door open -- revealing a long stone 
stairwell dimly lit by strange, flickering lamps.

"Well," said Andrew, "now we know where Mr. Whiskers got to."

Hillary hesitated -- thinking of her siblings, the flowerbed, her 
homework, her teachers, the laundry that needed to be done for 
tomorrow, the three books she was reading, even her parents. 

"Maybe it isn't safe," she said. "I mean, maybe we should bring along 
Duke and Burchett and those guys."  --"Naw. They won't come. They're 
mad at me."  --"Why?"  --"Just 'cause I wanted to play Burchett or 
Birdshit." He explained. "You say either ‘Burchett' or ‘Birdshit' 
really fast and they have to guess what you're saying. It's great. 
It's almost as good as Quack or Whack."

He and Hillary played a few rounds of Quack or Whack; Andrew won, 4-3.

Then, because she had hesitated, Hillary forced herself to go first 
down the stairs.

She took two steps. "Something's weird." The stairs seemed to be 
repulsing her feet, and at the same time tugging at her heels. She 
took another step with difficulty, feeling as if she were wading in 
water against a current. Then she realized what was unusual about the 
lamps along the walls: their flames pointed not upwards, but 
horizontally. Finally she understood.

"The stairs _look _like they go down, but they don't -- they go up!"

She backed out and got down on her hands and knees, this time taking 
the stairs head first, so that when she passed through the plane of 
the door and gravity shifted by ninety degrees, she found herself 
clambering up the stairs on all fours. 

Andrew watched in amazement as she stood upright: she seemed to be 
sticking out from the stairs like a board that had been nailed to 
them. He followed her example, feeling dizzy for only a moment as his 
head passed through the door. Then he too found himself crawling up a 
staircase, and it was a simple matter to stand and continue upright. 
Neither could remember why they had experienced any difficulty; it 
seemed as if gravity had always operated in this direction. They 
laughed and looked over their shoulders with fond condescension, as 
though at their own childhoods, and were startled to see, through the 
door at the bottom of the stairs, only empty sky.

At the top of the stairs was another door, which Andrew opened slowly 
and poked his head through. They found themselves in a long stone 
corridor lined with identical doors, and whose walls disappeared in 
darkness overhead. The air was cool and smelled like the woods after 
rain; the walls looked damp in the lamplight. There was no sound, but 
the silence was busy and varied, like the blackness behind one's 
eyelids. 

"We should mark this door," Hillary said, "so we can find our way 
back out."

They searched their pockets but found nothing capable of leaving a 
mark, so Andrew reluctantly placed one of his elastic bands on the 
doorknob. 

The corridor curved to the right in either direction, like an S, with 
no end visible. They went right. They passed 173 doors, by Hillary's 
count, before the passage began to curve to the left. 

"Well, at least we're not going in circles."  

"Unless it's a really big circle."

Finally, Andrew threw open a door at random -- and they stood looking 
out on a grassy plateau that rolled gently downhill to the horizon, 
where a white haze betokened a distant sea. Clouds tumbled across the 
sky, casting undulating blankets of shadow over the plain; lush 
grasses and edible-looking flowers rippled and bristled in the wind. 
And everywhere were horses: horses single and in pairs, horses 
cantering, galloping, and grazing, horses flicking their tails and 
fluttering their manes in contentment and exhilaration.

"Wrong door," said Andrew, and tried another.

They saw a dark, narrow, winding alley between brick tenements that 
was clogged with food stalls, nests of rags and cardboard, and heaps 
of garbage. Dogs of all shapes and sizes roamed through the shadows; 
sniffed the air and one another; shat, hunched and quivering, or 
pissed, one leg cocked, in corners; and rooted in the trash like 
shoppers hunting for bargains. 

"_Dogs_," said Andrew, and slammed the door. 

The next door opened onto a vast atrium filled with warm, 
candy-colored light. Sunshine streamed like stage spotlights through 
high stained-glass windows, igniting clouds of lazy motes that glowed 
as brightly and briefly as sparks. 

"Now this is more like it."

The floor was covered with languorously sprawling cats -- cats 
dozing, yawning, stretching, preening, purring, and snoring. 

"Excuse me," Hillary addressed a nearby tabby. "We're looking for a 
cat."  -- The tabby gazed up at her with steady indifference.  --"His 
name is Charles," said Andrew.  --"Charles Whiskers."  --"Although he 
might be using an alias."  --"An alias is a different name."

The tabby yawned, waited a moment to be sure that another yawn was 
not coming, then said, "Can't say as we have much use for names round 
here."

Hillary was perplexed. "Then what do you call one another?"

The tabby smacked his lips reminiscently, as though memories had 
taste. "Don't recollect as we call one another much of anything at 
all."

Hillary began outlining the inadequacies of this system, but Andrew 
interrupted her to describe the cat they had seen on the poster.

"No," said the tabby, "afraid I never was much of a one for faces. 
Mind you, I know just the cat you might should ask. He knows everycat 
hereabouts."

"What's his name?" said Hillary. "I mean, what's he look like? I 
mean, where can we find him?"

The tabby licked himself thoughtfully. "No," he said at last, "won't 
claim as I'm much good with directions."

They approached another cat, a Siamese who looked at them 
intelligently as they explained their problem, then said, "Might one 
inquire as to your _rank_?"  --"Rank?"  --"That's what one _thought_: 
visitor-class. Well, permit one to be the first to inform you that 
cats of the visitor-class, when addressing cats of the superior-class 
-- and one is a cat of the superior-class -- are required to look at 
three points before making eye contact."

"We're not cats," said Andrew.

The Siamese nodded. "Apology _accepted_. Just remember that the rule 
applies all the way up the line: you must look at four points for 
cats of the outstanding-class, five for cats of the 
distinguished-class, six for cats of the exalted-class, and of course 
seven points for King Charles himself -- though one hardly supposes 
you'll find yourself in the king's company. It is rather less 
unlikely in one's own case; and naturally a cat of the superior-class 
is required to look at only four points before meeting the gaze of 
the king."

"The king's name is Charles?" said Hillary.  --"Well, _yes_, but a 
cat of the visitor-class would address him as Lord Admiral Whiskers 
The Most High."  -- Andrew said, "That cat over there told us you 
didn't use names."  --"That cat over _there_," said the Siamese, "is 
no doubt a cat of the eminent-class. One need scarcely say more."

"How does one -- how does a cat of the visitor-class get an audience 
with the king?" said Hillary.

The Siamese assured them that it was difficult, unheard of, fraught 
with peril; but when they pressed for details, pledging their 
commitment and intrepidity, he was unable to supply any definite 
facts or guidance. Gradually they realized that he knew nothing about 
the king besides his name and rank.

They asked other cats, but none of them knew or would reveal the 
king's whereabouts. Eventually Andrew and Hillary gave up and went in 
search of the king on their own.

They passed through cavernous galleries, parlors, courts, annexes, 
antechambers, hallways, and halls; everywhere cats lay basking in 
pools of sunlight.

"They don't seem to _do _much here," said Hillary.  --"I know. Isn't 
it great?"

At last they found the king in yet another stuffy ballroom, enjoying 
no regal distinction other than a dusty palanquin which looked no 
more comfortable than the flagstone floor.

"Hello, Your Kingness," said Hillary, bowing, curtseying, and looking 
at seven or ten points around the room, "I mean, Lord Admiral 
Whiskers the Most High."

The cat from the poster blinked benevolently and looked at Andrew, 
who had gone into a trance and was staring at him hungrily. Hillary 
pinched Andrew's arm, and he wagged his head but did not take his 
eyes off the king.

"Who," said the king in a voice of ominous softness, "is this boorish 
cat who fails to observe the court etiquette?"

"I'm not a cat," said Andrew. "I'm the Candy Ninja. This is the Math 
Princess. And you're Mr. Whiskers. We've come to rescue you."

The cat king's face puckered in what Hillary took to be wrath; the 
muscles in her legs tensed, preparing to flee the royal death 
sentence. But then King Charles laughed.

"I like this cat," he said. "He flouts the etiquette, and he calls me 
‘mister' -- something that you bunch of lickspittles would never 
dare do, am I right?"

Without lifting their heads, the cats around him agreed obsequiously 
that they were all terribly obsequious. 

"But what makes you think I'm in need of rescuing, kitten baby? I'm 
perfectly content where I am." The king stretched and yawned.

"But your family misses you," said Hillary. "They've been looking all 
over for you."

"Don't talk to me about _family_ -- those fat cats were my 
slave-drivers. They took me for endless footslogs -- on a leash! They 
wouldn't leave me alone: always pushing me outside or calling me back 
in. They weren't happy unless I looked busy. They thought a cat 
should always be on the prowl, hunting for its supper -- even when 
the cupboards were full of tuna! No, pussycat, I'm never going back 
to that gulag, thank you very much."

Andrew muttered sympathetically.

"But your medication," said Hillary. "Don't you need to take your 
medication?"

"That poison!" The king waved a paw contemptuously. "There's nothing 
wrong with me that a little nap won't fix."

Hillary looked glumly at Andrew, but could not catch his eye.

"Well, if we can't persuade you," said Andrew in a bright voice, "I 
guess we'll just be leaving, then."

"Aw, kitten, I was going to make you a minister. Your friend, too, 
maybe."

Hillary would have liked to hear more about the positions they were 
declining, but Andrew was already asking for directions home.

"Your world," said the king, "has few exits, but plenty of entrances. 
Try that door there, and if not that one, the next one. You'll get 
there eventually. You can't really miss it."

"Goodbye, Your Highness . . ." Hillary bowed and genuflected, but 
Andrew was already walking out the door indicated. 

They found themselves emerging from a blackthorn bush at the bottom 
of Main Street. Looking back, Hillary was amazed: the foliage 
appeared unbroken; no one would ever guess that there was a door 
there. Indeed, as soon as they had taken a few steps, she doubted 
whether she herself could say for certain where they had come out.

She sighed. The adventure, which had begun so promisingly, was over. 

"I guess we better walk back and get our bikes," she said.

"Not till we've collected our reward," said Andrew. 

He lifted his shirt and revealed a hissing, wriggling Mr. Whiskers.

"But how!"

He reminded her that he was a ninja.

Her joy and admiration were quickly superseded by scruples. "But you 
kidnapped him!"

"Technically he belongs to his owners, so technically we're returning 
him. Ow! Stop scratching!" He held the cat at arm's length as he 
hurried up the street. "Besides, he needs his medicine. You said so 
yourself."

Hillary trailed behind, too overwhelmed by doubts to keep pace, yet 
moving too fast to think clearly. By the time they reached the 
owners' front door, she had resolved to do the right thing, but was 
no closer to knowing what the right thing was. Andrew told her to 
ring the doorbell, and her amorphous thoughts dissolved into a jumble 
of amorphous feelings. She rang the doorbell.

The door opened. 

"Hey lady, we found your cat."

A woman whose many chins gave her the appearance of perpetually 
recoiling in disgust stood glaring at them. 

"That's not our cat," she said. "Our cat came home last week."

With a violent convulsion, the cat king escaped from Andrew's grasp 
and ran away down the street. The woman offered to let them each pick 
an apple from the tree for their trouble, and closed the door.

Andrew and Hillary parted at the sidewalk with few words, Andrew 
slouching vaguely homeward and Hillary going to retrieve her bicycle. 

The sun was low in the sky, there was a chill in the air, and the 
picnic area was vacant. The sight of her bicycle, lying twisted and 
forlorn in the grass, filled her with shame; she pushed it home, 
feeling unworthy to ride it. All the excitement of the afternoon had 
drained from her, leaving only despondence and dismay. She winced as 
she remembered each of her misdeeds: abandoning her siblings and her 
work, stealing the room key, drinking coffee, ignoring stop signs, 
jumping off her bicycle, snubbing her classmates, abducting a king. 
And, worst of all, she had nothing to show for it, nothing with which 
to pay her brothers and sisters for their labor. Not that any amount 
of candy could ever have justified her behavior. How had she allowed 
herself to do all those things? First she blamed herself, but that 
made her unhappy. Then she blamed Andrew, but that made her feel 
mean. Finally she blamed the coffee, and vowed never to use drugs 
again. 

Her brothers and sisters sat through supper in a state of restless 
agitation, eager to show Hillary what they had accomplished in the 
garden and anxious to receive their reward. They were sure that their 
older sister's sullenness was feigned, concealing some delicious 
surprise. They all, even the littlest ones, helped clean up after the 
meal without bickering or bargaining, prompting their father to 
cynically express his astonishment.

Prudence, acting as guide, drew Hillary's attention to the yellow 
flowers like goblets, the pink flowers like dripping wax, the white 
flowers like folded napkins, the purple flowers like splashes of 
paint, each nestled in splendid isolation in its black bed of freshly 
turned soil. 

Hillary just shook her head.

"What's the matter?"

"Don't you know anything?" She kicked one of the purple plants. 
"These are weeds," she said, and stomped back indoors.

Each of the children looked to their next-older sibling for some 
explanation; Prudence stared at the beheaded flower.  --"Why is 
Hillie mad at you?" asked Gillian.  --"Be quiet, you _child_," said 
Prudence. She kicked one of the purple weeds and went inside.  --"Why 
did Pru tell you to be quiet?" asked Ben.  --"Shut up, you _boy_," 
said Gillian, and, kicking one of the yellow flowers, followed her 
sisters inside. Alan cried, and Judith sang a song about butterflies.

Andrew, on his way home, stopped at the house of Mrs. Willoughby, the 
most senile of the customers on his paper route.

"Is it that time again already? I always lose track. My goodness, 
when I think of how the time --"

"Thirteenth of the month," Andrew confirmed, picking a number at 
random.

She rummaged in her purse for money. "Your brother Lawrence was just 
here with the paper. It's wonderful how the whole family pitches in."

Andrew felt neither gratitude nor surprise at this information. He 
had learned that if he could avoid the job long enough, either his 
mother or one of his nice siblings would deliver the newspapers for 
him. He could then count on his father or one of his nasty siblings 
to chastise him for his laziness, but he was used to that.

"Thanks, Mrs. Willoughby. See you next month."

Mrs. Willoughby watched him saunter down the street till he 
disappeared first from view, then from her imagination, her heart 
warmed by the sight of a boy so young carrying so much responsibility 
so lightly. She never read the newspapers he brought, her eyesight 
not being what it used to be, but she cherished his visits.

Andrew bought twenty Tongue Lashers and five chocolate bars at the 
grocery store. Then an idea occurred to him. He would share his 
spoils with Hillary and her little brothers and sisters. He was 
touched by his own generosity, and daydreamed about their tearful 
gratitude. When he reached Hillary's street, however, he was appalled 
to discover that he had already eaten all the candy. He could not 
even remember what it had tasted like, and the pangs of loss were 
compounded by remorse.