Through the Eyes of a Child

When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

I don’t remember much from my childhood. In fact, I have worked hard to forget my childhood in its entirety. Still, memories float back and stick in my conciseness like the bloodsuckers we boys pulled from the creek at the bottom of the hill. Rolling up our trousers, we would wade in up to our knees and emerge with bloodsuckers attached to our legs. We would wait until they were fat with blood, then lay pour salt on them to make them release. We would place them on the hot asphalt and wait for cars to roll over them. Children can cruel.

We were cruel to Charlie Parker. No one had to tell us Charlie didn’t belong. First of all, he was poor. We knew that by the way he dressed and the fact that he took the school bus.

My friends and I were rich. No one had to tell us we were rich. It oozed out of our pours, like the curry smell from the Indian restaurant in the center of town. We all had big houses on big properties. We went to Bridgehampton on Long Island in the summer and the Blue Ridge Mountains in the fall. We took trips to Aspen to ski in the winter. Our families belonged to the country club and the yacht club and, I guess, every other club that was important.

The main thing that told us Charlie was poor was his house, a ramshackle, white clapboard affair on a half acre of land in a community where the minimum lot size was three acres. Charlie’s mother could continue to live there because her family had owned the property for generations, long before, as my mother often repeated: The town got wise and put in tougher zoning laws.

We guys liked to do stupid stuff like crawl under Charlie’s desk and tie his shoelaces together or hide his book bag in the garbage bin.

Charlie would get all red in the face and call us names like: “Boogers” and Stink-heads.”

I kind of liked Charlie despite it all. He was little, but quick. Smart but not stuck up about it.

After school was over, I would see him on the edge of the woods on the other side of the chain link fence. I wondered if he hid out in the woods until it was time to go home for supper. I wondered if he and his Mom even had supper. Who knew what poor people ate or when.

I knew his Mom worked late at the library. His house would be empty. It would be frightening and exciting to be in a house all by yourself. I was never alone in my house. Hilda, the cook, was always there and Malcom, the chauffeur, not to mention the gardeners, and the house cleaners.

One day, I asked Malcom to wait and ran into the woods. Charlie was sitting under a pine tree sucking on a lollipop. He looked up, suspicion in his eyes. “I got a right to be here.”

“Sure do.” I searched for the next word, then stuck my hands in the pockets of my Brooks Brothers jacket. “Just wondered if you might want to come over.”

“Come over?”

“Yeah.”

“To your house?”

“Yeah.” 

His eyes darkened. “Is this a joke? Or a trick?”

“Nah. Just thought we could hang out.”

He rose, brushing leaves off his the back of his pants. “I guess that would be O.K.”

Hilda didn’t blink when I showed up with Charlie in tow. She motioned to the swivel seats by the counter.

“Sit yourselves down boys.”

She produced her magnificent chocolate chip cookies and large glasses of milk. Charlie wolfed his down as if he had not eaten in a long time or maybe it was just that Hilda’s cookies were really boss.

After we finished, I slid off the seat. “Want to see my room? I’ve got a lot of neat stuff.”

A shrug, “Sure.”

The room looked different from what I thought Charlie’s might look like-if he even had a bedroom all to himself.

He didn’t show much reaction to the array of books and the personal TV lurking in the corner. He just sat down on one of the twin beds.

“Nice room.”

“Thanks. I’ve got some new video games if you want to play.”

“Nah. I’m not very good at them.”

We played Monopoly for a while then I asked? “What’s it like at your house? 

His face glowed. “Pretty neat.”

“Doesn’t your mom work? Aren’t you alone all the time.” 

“Gosh no. Mom leaves dinner in the fridge. She’s a writer. Doesn’t make much money, but we have a great time. I get to read all her stories. She and I talk about them when she gets home.”

My eyes turned to the bedside clock. I stood up in rush, knocking the Monopoly board to the floor. 

“Guess it’s time for you to go home.”

“Sure. It’s getting late.”

It was getting late, too late. I had been so involved in the game, I had forgotten the time. 

My mother was waiting when we got downstairs. She narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips together.

“Who gave you permission to invite this…” She seemed to be unable to come up with a word for Charlie. “Person into our house?”

I felt heat rise in my face. “I just wanted someone to play with.”

“He must leave.”

I spoke quickly to cut her off. “I know, I know- only our kind but, but…

“But what?” 

“None of the other kids like me.” I touched my face where the scar had started to throb. Three surgeries hadn’t smoothed away all the effects of a pan of boiling water thrown at me for mouthing off.

Malcolm drove Charlie home. I didn’t join them.

I never invited anybody home after that.