LITMIR.BIZ

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as soon as you’ve got all the men’s names down, and their wives’ names and their children’s names, then you figure out all their professions. You’ve got to have a doctor, a lawyer—”

      “And an Indian chief,” Sport interrupted.

      “No. Someone who works in television.”

      “What makes you think they have television?”

      “I say they do. And, anyway, my father has to be in it, doesn’t he?”

      “Well, then put mine in too. Put a writer in it.”

      “OK, we can make Mr Jonathan Fishbein a writer.”

      “And let him have a son like me who cooks for him.” Sport rocked back and forth on his heels, chanting in singsong, “And let him be eleven years old like me, and let him have a mother who went away and has all the money, and let him grow up to be a ball player.”

      “Nooo,” Harriet said in disgust. “Then you’re not making it up. Don’t you understand?”

      Sport paused. “No,” he said.

      “Just listen, Sport. See, now that we have all this written down, I’ll show you where the fun is.” Harriet got very businesslike. She stood up, then got on her knees in the soft September mud so she could lean over the little valley made between the two big roots of the tree. She referred to her notebook every now and then, but for the most part she stared intently at the mossy lowlands which made her town. “Now, one night, late at night, Mr Charles Hanley is in his filling station. He is just about to turn out the lights and go home because it is nine o’clock and time for him to get ready for bed.”

      “But he’s a grown-up!” Sport looked intently at the spot occupied by the gas station.

      “In this town everybody goes to bed at nine-thirty,” Harriet said definitely.

      “Oh” – Sport rocked a little on his heels – “my father goes to bed at nine in the morning. Sometimes I meet him getting up.”

      “And also, Dr Jones is delivering a baby to Mrs Harrison right over here in the hospital. Here is the hospital, the Carterville General Hospital.” She pointed to the other side of town. Sport looked at the left root.

      “What is Mr Fishbein, the writer, doing?”

      Harriet pointed to the centre of town. “He is in the town bar, which is right here.” Harriet looked down at the town as though hypnotised. “Here’s what happens. Now, this night, as Mr Hanley is just about to close up, a long, big old black car drives up and in it there are all these men with guns. They drive in real fast and Mr Hanley gets scared. They jump out of the car and run over and rob Mr Hanley, who is petrified. They steal all the money in the gas station, then they fill up with gas free and then they zoom off in the night. Mr Hanley is all bound and gagged on the floor.”

      Sport’s mouth hung open. “Then what?”

      “At this same minute Mrs Harrison’s baby is born and Dr Jones says, ‘You have a fine baby girl, Mrs Harrison, a fine baby girl, ho, ho, ho.’”

      “Make it a boy.”

      “No, it’s a girl. She already has a boy.”

      “What does the baby look like?”

      “She’s ugly. Now, also at this very minute, on the other side of town, over here past the gas station, almost to the mountain, the robbers have stopped at a farmhouse which belongs to Ole Farmer Dodge. They go in and find him eating oatmeal because he doesn’t have any teeth. They throw the oatmeal on the floor and demand some other food. He doesn’t have anything but oatmeal, so they beat him up. Then they settle down to spend the night. Now, at this very minute, the police chief of Carterville, who is called Chief Herbert, takes a stroll down the main street. He senses something is not right and he wonders what it is …”

      “Harriet. Get up out of that mud.” A harsh voice rang out from the third floor of the brownstone behind them.

      Harriet looked up. There was a hint of anxiety in her face. “Oh, Ole Golly, I’m not in the mud.”

      The face of the nurse looking out of the window was not the best-looking face in the world, but for all its frowning, its sharp, dark lines, there was kindness there. “Harriet M. Welsch, you are to rise to your feet.”

      Harriet rose without hesitation. “But, listen, we’ll have to play Town standing up,” she said plaintively. “That’s the best way” came back sharply, and the head disappeared.

      Sport stood up too. “Why don’t we play football, then?”

      “No, look, if I just sit like this I won’t be in the mud.” So saying, she squatted on her heels next to the town. “Now, he senses that there is something wrong—”

      “How can he? He hasn’t seen anything and it’s all on the other side of town.”

      “He just feels it. He’s a very good police chief.”

      “Well,” Sport said dubiously.

      “So, since he’s the only policeman in town, he goes around and deputises everybody and he says to them, ‘Something is fishy in this here town. I feel it in my bones,’ and everybody follows him and they get on their horses—”

      “Horses!” Sport shrieked.

      “They get in the squad car and they drive around town until—”

      “Harriet.” The back door slammed and Ole Golly marched squarely towards them across the yard. Her long black shoes made a slap-slap noise on the brick.

      “Hey, where are you going?” asked Harriet, jumping up. Because Ole Golly had on her outdoor things. Ole Golly just had indoor things and outdoor things. She never wore anything as recognisable as a skirt, a jacket, or a sweater. She just had yards and yards of tweed which enveloped her like a lot of discarded blankets, which ballooned out when she walked, and which she referred to as her Things.

      “I’m going to take you somewhere. It’s time you began to see the world. You’re eleven years old and it’s time you saw something.” She stood there above them, so tall that when they looked up they saw the blue sky behind her head.

      Harriet felt a twinge of guilt because she had seen a lot more than Ole Golly thought she had. But all she said was, “Oh, boy,” and jumped up and down.

      “Get your coat and hurry. We’re leaving right now.” Ole Golly always did everything right now. “Come on, Sport, it won’t hurt you to look around too.”

      “I have to be back at seven to cook dinner.” Sport jumped up as he said this.

      “We’ll be back long before that. Harriet and I eat at six. Why do you eat so late?”

      “He has cocktails first. I have olives and peanuts.”

      “That’s nice. Now go get your coats.”

      Sport and Harriet ran through the back door, slamming it behind them.

      “What’s all the noise?” spluttered the cook, who whirled around just in time to see them fly through the kitchen door and up the back stairs. Harriet’s room was at the top of the house, so they had three flights to run up and they were breathless by the time they got there.

      “Where’re we going?” Sport shouted after Harriet’s flying feet.

      “I don’t know,” Harriet panted as they entered her room, “but Ole Golly always has good places.”

      Sport grabbed his coat and was out the door and halfway down the steps when Harriet said, “Wait, wait, I can’t find my notebook.”

      “Oh, whadya need that for?” Sport yelled from the steps.

      “I never go anywhere without it,” came the muffled answer.

      “Aw, come

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