distant look about him, but then Michael had to admit
that there was nothing really new about it. Ned had always been
something of a dreamy kid. Of course, there had to be a certain
amount of inner conflict and uncertainty in the boy but nothing
serious. Ned was apparently responding well to the new house and to
the town. Michael mentally repeated one of his favorite maxims:
Kids are tough, adults are the ones who need help.
Another thing that Linda had not yet fully
accepted was the fact that Ned was, by his own nature, one of those
youngsters who tend to keep to themselves. He was bright but quiet
rather than boisterous and outgoing. He might have trouble picking
up the social graces when he got a little older, but so what?
Michael had a feeling that Ned would always run by himself, not
with a pack, and the thought was pleasing. If nothing messed him
up, he should grow into a strong, self-possessed individual.
Working in a bureaucracy helps you appreciate those qualities
because they are just the ones you've lost yourself, Michael
thought sardonically. The point was valid, however, and sometimes
it annoyed him that he had to make it over and over again to his
wife; but he understood what her problem was. Linda's touchy
asthmatic condition and the fact that they could have no more
children combined to create in her a desperate fear that Ned was
somehow uniquely vulnerable. So she wanted to see him as healthy
and active as possible, which was fine; and she was constantly
encouraging the boy to become involved with sports, which was not
so fine because Ned simply had no interest in them.
"You want him to be Teddy Roosevelt,"
Michael had once said half-jokingly to his wife. "Just let him be
himself." The hurt look in Linda's eyes had told him he'd made a
mistake, and ever since then Michael hadn't prevented her from
airing her anxieties by urging Ned to take up athletics. But he was
careful not to join her cause, telling himself that as long as he
abstained from the discussion, if not actively taking Ned's side,
the boy would keep his equilibrium.
Michael realized he must have walked too far
and taken a wrong turn, as he was now circling down toward the
town's main street. It wouldn't do to get lost in a place this
small. He backtracked, and a few minutes later found the dead-end
road he was looking for.
It was the first time Michael had actually
seen up close the place that was so popular with his son. What
could you expect of a baithouse? This crude structure seemed
appropriate. He could see, out back, a small and dilapidated
house-that must be where the old guys live, Michael thought. His
eyes took in the other features: the vegetable patch, the jalopy
that looked like it hadn't been driven since the day it rolled off
the assembly line, the pile of old tires, crabbing gear and junk
that had accumulated around the yard. Yes, just the sort of place
that would worry a mother. But to a boy it would be fascinating,
and even to an accountant father it was not so off-putting.
"Hello," Michael called out, wondering if he
had chosen the wrong time to visit. There didn't seem to be anyone
around.
Peeler came out of the baithouse a moment
later. He knew at once that this man, casually dressed but in city
clothes, was not here to buy perch eyes.
"Yes, sir, what can 1 do for you?"
"Oh, hi. My name is Michael Covington. I'm
Ned's father."
"Is that right? Well, I'm pleased to meet
you, Mr. Covington, 1 truly am. How are you?"
"Fine, thanks," Michael said, noting the
other man's warm smile and firm handshake. Nothing wrong there.
"Nice to meet you. I gather Ned comes around here quite a bit. He
talks about you all the time, so I thought I ought to come around
and introduce myself."
"Glad you did, glad you did. That's a fine
boy you got there, Ned is. Awfully fine."
Michael nodded. "He's a good kid. 1 just
hope he doesn't get in your way or make a pest of himself when
you're working."
"Not a damn bit. Ned drops by most every
day,
that there was nothing really new about it. Ned had always been
something of a dreamy kid. Of course, there had to be a certain
amount of inner conflict and uncertainty in the boy but nothing
serious. Ned was apparently responding well to the new house and to
the town. Michael mentally repeated one of his favorite maxims:
Kids are tough, adults are the ones who need help.
Another thing that Linda had not yet fully
accepted was the fact that Ned was, by his own nature, one of those
youngsters who tend to keep to themselves. He was bright but quiet
rather than boisterous and outgoing. He might have trouble picking
up the social graces when he got a little older, but so what?
Michael had a feeling that Ned would always run by himself, not
with a pack, and the thought was pleasing. If nothing messed him
up, he should grow into a strong, self-possessed individual.
Working in a bureaucracy helps you appreciate those qualities
because they are just the ones you've lost yourself, Michael
thought sardonically. The point was valid, however, and sometimes
it annoyed him that he had to make it over and over again to his
wife; but he understood what her problem was. Linda's touchy
asthmatic condition and the fact that they could have no more
children combined to create in her a desperate fear that Ned was
somehow uniquely vulnerable. So she wanted to see him as healthy
and active as possible, which was fine; and she was constantly
encouraging the boy to become involved with sports, which was not
so fine because Ned simply had no interest in them.
"You want him to be Teddy Roosevelt,"
Michael had once said half-jokingly to his wife. "Just let him be
himself." The hurt look in Linda's eyes had told him he'd made a
mistake, and ever since then Michael hadn't prevented her from
airing her anxieties by urging Ned to take up athletics. But he was
careful not to join her cause, telling himself that as long as he
abstained from the discussion, if not actively taking Ned's side,
the boy would keep his equilibrium.
Michael realized he must have walked too far
and taken a wrong turn, as he was now circling down toward the
town's main street. It wouldn't do to get lost in a place this
small. He backtracked, and a few minutes later found the dead-end
road he was looking for.
It was the first time Michael had actually
seen up close the place that was so popular with his son. What
could you expect of a baithouse? This crude structure seemed
appropriate. He could see, out back, a small and dilapidated
house-that must be where the old guys live, Michael thought. His
eyes took in the other features: the vegetable patch, the jalopy
that looked like it hadn't been driven since the day it rolled off
the assembly line, the pile of old tires, crabbing gear and junk
that had accumulated around the yard. Yes, just the sort of place
that would worry a mother. But to a boy it would be fascinating,
and even to an accountant father it was not so off-putting.
"Hello," Michael called out, wondering if he
had chosen the wrong time to visit. There didn't seem to be anyone
around.
Peeler came out of the baithouse a moment
later. He knew at once that this man, casually dressed but in city
clothes, was not here to buy perch eyes.
"Yes, sir, what can 1 do for you?"
"Oh, hi. My name is Michael Covington. I'm
Ned's father."
"Is that right? Well, I'm pleased to meet
you, Mr. Covington, 1 truly am. How are you?"
"Fine, thanks," Michael said, noting the
other man's warm smile and firm handshake. Nothing wrong there.
"Nice to meet you. I gather Ned comes around here quite a bit. He
talks about you all the time, so I thought I ought to come around
and introduce myself."
"Glad you did, glad you did. That's a fine
boy you got there, Ned is. Awfully fine."
Michael nodded. "He's a good kid. 1 just
hope he doesn't get in your way or make a pest of himself when
you're working."
"Not a damn bit. Ned drops by most every
day,
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