Manhattan Bully Wars

1 One Too Many Tweaks

2011-12-03T05:22:00.001-08:00

Adam Panflick stared into the darkness. He could hear the drone of Maldbar's voice in the background. But it was fading fast, as his own thoughts began to take hold.

This was Parousia Academy's last class on Friday in the last week of March, 1947.

Adam needed to get out. He itched. He was dead bored. Throughout his capacious 10-year-old mind, there echoed a steady chant:

Out of this building! Out now! Out now! I can't take this! Out now! Out now!

The location of Adam's desk encouraged his habitual distraction. It stood by a window. Through the window lay freedom.

The desk itself was made of sturdy wood with a top that raised. Underneath lay a welter of notebooks, pencils and pens, a jar of ink, Tootsie Roll wrappers, gnawed pencils and pieces of erasers that had fallen victim to Adam's tendency to chew and pick at everything. In the rubble lay a handsome leather bound volume.

Looking out, Adam could barely see the athletic field a floor below.

A scene from a week ago rankled. "How could I be called out standing on third base just because the kid who was coaching gave me a pat on the back? What kind of rule is that? Maldbar an umpire? What spite!"

The umpire in question was the very same Zoran P. Maldbar who now stood a just few feet from Adam. He was Parousia's sixth grade homeroom teacher, also known as The Tweaker due to his habit of seizing the hair of inattentive students and yanking hard while saying such things as "This'll teach you" in a hostile monotone.

Adam was among the most tweaked of all.

Two notorious bullies in the sixth grade were never tweaked. And all but a few of the twenty-five remaining class members avoided tweaks by appearing to heed every word Maldbar spoke.

Adam was a half-hearted heeder and now he was entirely lost in window-gazing and attendant thoughts.

He thought of the strange man he met the previous Saturday in Times Square. Being legally underage, Adam depended on willing adults to help him get into the movies. The man had been willing.

"Should I have given him our phone number?" Panflick wondered. "What if he calls? What if someone besides me answers the phone?"

Adam had ventured out alone in Manhattan since he was five. He walked a lot. He knew the buses and subways. He had little trouble achieving independence because his parents had full lives of their own. Their ideas about bringing up children were affirmed by Dr. Benjamin Spock. Give them independence. Treat them as adults. No heavy discipline. Adam called his mother and father by their first names, Mildred and Melchezedek. Words like mom and dad were never spoken.

Adam did not believe this was a raw deal, even if he had to make do with an occasional stand-in when a parent's presence would have been helpful. The only real raw deal at the moment was Parousia.

The boy's mind moved to his recent Valentine's Day crisis. Among Adam Panflick's many activities, the most important involved girls. He preferred girls to boys. They were prettier. They talked better. They did not hit him. They laughed at his humor. He was at ease in their presence. His very best friend was Buzzy and Buzzy was a girl.

He thought: "How stupid I was to take two boxes of chocolates to Harris's!" This thought was accompanied by a sphincter contraction and a visible grimace.

Adam attended two dancing schools, Miss Bloss's at the Plaza and Miss Harris's pleasant East Side establishment. "I meant well,” he reassured himself. "Here were two supremely beautiful girls, one a radio star. Ah! "

By now, Maldbar had stopped talking. He was moving in Adam's direction. The boy was lost in the humbling image of two young ladies side by side, one blond, the other with luxuriant black hair falling long, standing together by the cloakroom. Talking! Each holding an identical box of Baracinni chocolates.

No!

Adam's head exploded. He felt the searing, crystalline pain of a vintage Maldbar tweak.

"Owwww!" he yelled.

"That'll teach you," Maldbar said.

The teacher had a firm grip on a substantial tuft of Adam’s longish hair. Maldbar did not let go. He yanked upward. Adam stood involuntarily. He said "Owwww" again. Someone chuckled. It was Slake the bully. Other chuckles ensued. Adam felt coals of fire being heaped upon his head.

"Do you know what it means to be doomed to fail?" Maldbar asked. Adam could barely hear him through the pain. Maldbar let go. Adam turned and looked at him. There was spittle on Maldbar's chin.

"I'm not the only one," Panflick muttered.

It was evidently the wrong thing to say.

Maldbar re-grabbed Adam's hair. He turned him around. He marched him smartly to the corner next to the blackboard.

"That is the stupidest thing I ever heard," he cried. "If everybody believed that, the world would be full of irresponsible idiots, saying, 'I'm not the only one, I'm not the only one, I'm not the only one'. I will ask you one more time. Are you so stupid you really believe such a lame and childish excuse?"

He pushed Adam into the corner. Hard.

Adam pressed his head against the cool walls, trying to think. His inhaled the dull smell of the yellow paint. He listened for the liberating bell. Freedom. Release. Now. But it did not ring. The only ringing was in his head.

Maldbar was directly behind him, breathing heavily. "Well?" the teacher demanded.

Adam could think of only one thing. Out of this building! Now.

He felt cornered. Something snapped. This was do or die.

He turned around. He faced Maldbar. The teacher had on a dark, pin-striped suit. He might have been a banker. Or an actor.

"I am turning you in," Panflick said. He heard himself speaking.

Maldbar straightened up. Maldbar pursed his thin lips. He looked down at the boy with undisguised distaste.

"You what?"

"Find another line of work," Adam heard himself say. Then: "Quit."

There was not another sound in the room. Even Maldbar's breathing seemed to have stopped. And now all eyes could see. Maldbar was reddening.

It had happened before.

Redness was moving up Maldbar's neck, slowly suffusing his cheeks. His face turned from sallow white to blotchy crimson. Then the redness moved up his forehead and crept across the narrow top of his largely hairless head.

"Do you dare?" Maldbar whispered. He took a step back. It seemed he might fall.

"You are through," Adam said softly.

"What did I just hear?" Maldbar said. Slow. Measured. He cupped his ear. His redness deepened.

Adam lifted a well-used yardstick from the wooden ledge at the base of the blackboard. He raised it until it pointed directly at Maldbar's chest.

"What are you doing, boy?" the teacher gasped. "Are you threatening me?"

"Adam Panflick is my name. And no, I am not threatening you. I am pointing to your heart. You are cruel. You are a bully. Take up another line of work. Get help."

Adam was on the portly side, a trifle large for his age. His father Melchezedek had concluded he was smart and put him into Parousia a year ahead of himself. There were tolerable woman teachers his first two years in grade's three and four, but two subsequent years of male teachers, particularly Maldbar, had been a disaster. Adam's response: Get no higher than a C- in anything. Fail math. Risk the tweaks, but no more.

Adam began to sway from side to side, slowly waving the yardstick like a languid baton. He observed himself as in a dream. A silenced Maldbar slumped into his chair.

Then the bell rang. The class did not move.

Maldbar wiped his brow with a plaid handkerchief. He glowered at Adam but said nothing.

Adam put the yardstick back and walked to the cloakroom. He gathered his windbreaker from its hook and put it on. He walked back into the classroom.

Maldbar sat silently in his chair, his head inclined to the floor.

Panflick turned and walked out.

The rest of the class followed.

Adam almost turned back. He had forgotten Henry.

Henry was a leather-bound edition of Henry V Parts One and Two. Borrowed from the book room of the House of Panflick, Melchezedek’s Madison Avenue antique business. Adam loved Shakespeare, even when he didn't understand him. Shakespeare contained no senseless propositions about x's and y's and 2's and 4's. Falstaff and Ophelia were his heroes. Misunderstood by the masses. Standing higher than anyone.

Adam wished he'd never come to Parousia. He vowed that if he ever had children he would let them choose their schools. Or not go at all. He felt this way not merely because of bullying and tweaking, but because there was so much to be learned away from these depressing precincts.

He decided not to retrieve Henry. The very feeling of cool air moving on his face as he walked out the front door was a balm he welcomed with every fiber of his being.

Complete Text of Manhattan Bully Wars

Panflick: The Manhattan Bully Wars (1947)

2011-09-07T03:58:00.000-07:00

Panflick: The Manhattan Bully Wars (1947)

By Stephen C. Rose
Copyright 2007 by Stephen C. Rose

For Kurt Vonnegut (RIP)

finally

tweak (twk)

tr.v. tweaked, tweak·ing, tweaks

1. To pinch, pluck, or twist sharply.

2. To adjust; fine-tune.

3. To make fun of; tease.

n.

1. A sharp, twisting pinch.

2. A teasing remark or action; a joke.

[Probably variant of dialectal twick, from Middle English twikken, from Old English twiccian.]

From http://www.thefreedictionary.com/tweak

+

bul·ly
n. pl. bul·lies
1. A person who is habitually cruel or overbearing, especially to smaller or weaker people.
2. A hired ruffian; a thug.
v. bul·lied, bul·ly·ing, bul·lies
v.tr.
1. To treat in an overbearing or intimidating manner. See Synonyms at intimidate.
2. To make (one's way) aggressively.

http://www.thefreedictionary.com/tweak

Falstaff: Can honor set-to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? no. Honor hath no skill in surgery then? no. What is honor? a word. What is that word, honor? air. A trim reckoning!--Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth be hear it? no. Is it insensible, then? yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll none of it: honor is a mere scutcheon:--and so ends my catechism. (Henry IV Part One V, I)

Note: The small building on the East River referred to in the Chapter Nine (Bully Roll) is no more. It has been replaced by a large platform and other industrial-style structures.

Contents

One Too Many Tweaks
Gay Blades
The House of Panflick
Chez Buzzy
The Garden Room
The Care Brigade
Walking With Charley
Candide
Bully Roll
Home Fires
The Tweaker Must Die
A Question of Authority
Jack
“I Fought The Devil and Won”
Smack You Down
Roadmaster

One Too Many Tweaks

Adam Panflick stared into the darkness. He could hear the drone of Maldbar's voice in the background. But it was fading fast, as his own thoughts began to take hold.

This was Parousia Academy's last class on Friday in the last week of March, 1947.

Adam needed to get out. He itched. He was dead bored. Throughout his capacious 10-year-old mind, there echoed a steady chant:

Out of this building! Out now! Out now! I can't take this! Out now! Out now!

The location of Adam's desk encouraged his habitual distraction. It stood by a window. Through the window lay freedom.

Looking out, Adam could barely see the athletic field a floor below.

Adam was among the most tweaked of all.

Two notorious bullies in the sixth grade were never tweaked. And all but a few of the twenty-five remaining class members avoided tweaks by appearing to heed every word Maldbar spoke.

Adam was a half-hearted heeder and now he was entirely lost in window-gazing and attendant thoughts.

He thought of the strange man he met the previous Saturday in Times Square. Being legally underage, Adam depended on willing adults to help him get into the movies. The man had been willing.

"Should I have given him our phone number?" Panflick wondered. "What if he calls? What if someone besides me answers the phone?"

No!

"Do you know what it means to be doomed to fail?" Maldbar asked. Adam could barely hear him through the pain. Maldbar let go. Adam turned and looked at him. There was spittle on Maldbar's chin.

"I'm not the only one," Panflick muttered.

It was evidently the wrong thing to say.

Maldbar re-grabbed Adam's hair. He turned him around. He marched him smartly to the corner next to the blackboard.

He pushed Adam into the corner. Hard.

Maldbar was directly behind him, breathing heavily. "Well?" the teacher demanded.

Adam could think of only one thing. Out of this building! Now.

He felt cornered. Something snapped. This was do or die.

"What are you doing, boy?" the teacher gasped. "Are you threatening me?"

Maldbar sat silently in his chair, his head inclined to the floor.

Panflick turned and walked out.

The rest of the class followed.

Adam almost turned back. He had forgotten Henry.

He decided not to retrieve Henry. The very feeling of cool air moving on his face as he walked out the front door was a balm he welcomed with every fiber of his being.

2.

Gay Blades

Adam headed to Gay Blades for some roller skating. He had already arranged it with Jack and Viola.

Jack and Viola were the latest in a succession of servants Mildred and Melchezedek Panflick engaged over the years to make their busy lives easier. Viola was small, attractive and quiet. Her husband Jack was big, speedy, handsome and loud. They lived in servant's quarters in the basement of the Panflick’s apartment building on East 86th Street.

Jack was a good driver. He could push the family Plymouth from the Seventh Regiment Armory at Park and 66th all the way to 86^th and make a right turn, without hitting a single red light. Viola could make a mean fried egg.

The senior Panflicks and Adam's two younger brothers were already driving up to Pickinsboro, Vermont, for the weekend. The boys were in kindergarten and second grade. They got out of Parousia at noon on Fridays. It was fine they were off to the country. Adam had pressing reasons to remain in town. He relished the prospect of a weekend on his own.

This Friday, he'd negotiated 7:30 as a reasonable hour to return to the apartment. He would take care of his own supper. A hot dog and a coke at Gay Blades.

The Broadway bus downtown was slow and crowded. Adam gave up his seat to a lady wearing a large black hat. He made rather a contest of being able to stand freely on the moving bus without holding on. But he quickly reached for a strap. He was still a bit unsteady after the events at Parousia.

He wondered if Maldbar was still sitting there, reddened and inert. He wondered if he would be in serious trouble come Monday or even before. His head hurt from the tweaks. The chuckle from Slake held little promise of future peace. Adam would leave Parousia in a minute but felt trapped by his dismal performance there. He was caught in a conundrum of his own making. I'm lazy. I'm proud. I'm a disaster.

He almost missed his stop, allowing his self-denigration to take hold.

Gay Blades had both ice and roller skating. It was a spacious and impressive arena. Adam had a ticket good for an hour

Ice skating one Saturday morning, he had met a beautiful girl who was said to be the next Sonya Henie. Her name was Carol. She and her mother and sister got the red carpet treatment.

Adam’s capacities on ice were about equal to his proficiency in arithmetic. But he gladly subjected his tender ankles to unimaginable tortures just for a closer view of young Carol and her sister, gracefully dominating things on center ice. As he edged closer for a better view, his concentration was so intense that his skates moved out from under him. He literally fell at her feet.

Carol swished to a stop inches away and laughed.

"Your skating is beautiful," Adam said with no trace of embarrassment.

She laughed again and reached down to take his hand and help him up.

Ah, he might become her partner and learn to do fancy things under her expert tutelage.

Her hand was warm.

"Thanks," Adam said, wobbling a bit.

He waited for her to speak. But her sister skated up immediately and said a few words into Carol's ear. He watched them move off together.

"Ah, well," he thought. It was his usual response when faced with challenges he felt were insurmountable. He would move on with an "Ah, well".

On Friday evenings, Gay Blades featured roller skating.

Adam rented a pair of ankle-length shoe skates, laced them up and began moving counterclockwise around the rink with some fifty other early arrivals. Wondrous organ music filled the space. The skaters rolled along to the familiar cadences of Strauss waltzes, “Sweet Rosie O’Grady” and “Bicycle Built for Two”.

Adam looked up and saw stars twinkling. In actuality, they were colored lights dotting the high ceiling above. Red, blue, green, orange, purple, pink, yellow and gold.

But then everything changed.

Stars appeared all around the arena. Adam saw them. He saw them become trees. He saw multicolored branches stretching upward like supplicating hands beckoning him into the penumbra of movement. Undulating streaks of color almost flamelike. Star-trees. Not moving. Buffeted. Waving. Anchored. Summoning. Moving yet not moving.

Adam watched. He continued to skate. No one else saw them. They were his. Sent to him. As real as breath. As real as the skaters moving to the music. They were a gift. A message. A solace. A hello.

Relief.

These moving star-trees were real. Things would be OK. That is what the moving star-trees said to Adam.

He skated on. He watched the undulations. He watched the beckoning branches. He stepped off the rink. He took off his skates. He put on his shoes and walked to the hot dog stand. He looked back but now the star-trees were gone.

Adam had spent the past year trying to purge his inner criminality. A brief life of thievery and destruction began the year the War ended, with little items rifled from the backs of stores. Candy. Knicknacks. Small toys. Comics. From time to time, Adam took extra spending money from nooks and crannies in the drawers of the two dressers in the Panflick master bedroom.

Then came a dismal weekend when he invited a friend named Philip to the Panflick spread in Pickinsboro. Philip and the five Panflicks squeezed into the family Plymouth with Melchezedek at the wheel, singing harmony with Mildred as they headed north from Manhattan along the tree-lined Taconic Parkway.

There's a long, long trail a winding
Up to the land of my dreams

Philip was a morose boy who lived on Park Avenue. He wore thick glasses and went to Buckley. He and Adam met at the Colonial Blues.

The Panflicks were content to see Adam "reaching out".

There was a neighbor boy in Pickinsboro named Wendell. Wendell was trouble. Wendell's family was trouble. Wendell was small and mischievous, filled with ideas that presaged disaster.

And so it was that Philip, Wendell and Adam, on an autumn Saturday morning, climbed over a nearby stone-wall and crawled through a window they'd broken in a handsome Colonial cottage filled with stored furniture and bric-a-brac.

More breaking of glass ensued, along with kicking and throwing of chairs and tables and upsetting of larger items. The three boys laid waste to the room in near darkness. Save for the sounds of destruction, all was silence. It took just five minutes.

The three climbed back over the stone-wall and kept silence. In a few months, however, their crime was solved.

First, there was discreet questioning. And common denials.

Then there was more questioning, the distinct implication being that their complicity was known. All that was needed was an admission.

Finally Adam confessed. Then Philip. Then Wendell, angry at the disclosures of the other boys.

When all was out in the open, Adam anticipated punishment, but it never came.

Indeed, Melchezedek made the crime go away. It had become, evidently, a matter of money. The amount needed for restitution was well within the reach of the prospering Melchezedek. If there was any aura pervading these days, it was not one of penitence but of the smooth manner in which things could be handled.

Adam was stricken. He was damnably sure something inside him needed to be purged or his life would be more and more a disaster. This was not child’s play. It was life and death.

So, without consciously attempting it, he became deathly ill.

His temperature rose to 105.4 degrees.

He was taken downtown in an ambulance to a crowded children's ward.

The next day, with sick and dying children all around, he was forcibly held down in his hospital bed and told nothing could be done to dull the extreme pain he was about to feel.

Then a needle of mammoth proportions was inserted into his spine.

Adam writhed. Adam cried out. The pain was unspeakable. People held him down.

And then it was over. The next day, he was told he did not have spinal meningitis and was sent home. In a few more days, he was back to normal.

From then on, he avoided Wendell when in Pickinsboro. He stopped stealing. He began to read a good deal. Not what they gave him in school, not mindless texts on large pages, but what made sense. What great minds thought and set down over time.

Leaving Gay Blades, Adam walked east across 52nd Street. He stole a brief glance at his reflection in a shop window. He gave little thought to his appearance. He was accustomed to the somber face he presented to the world. But sometimes he checked just the same and this evening he found himself saying hello.

Adam took the Lexington Avenue subway up to 86th Street. He did not assume his usual place at the window in the front of first car on the train, looking intently at the upcoming tracks. Instead, he took a bamboo-backed seat in a middle car and lost himself in thoughts of coming hours and days.

Tonight he would take his radio to bed with no fear that listening would be terminated by a parental sweep. Tomorrow he would wander to and fro and then enjoy the company of his very best friend in all the world.

He came up from the subway by the hot dog place on Lexington at 86th and ran to his apartment building between York and East End. He waved a quick hello to the doorman Eddie. Karl took him up in the elevator.

The front entrance to the Panflick's apartment was unlocked as usual. What was not usual were screams coming from the back.

"Hello," he called.

The screaming stopped.

In a few seconds, Viola appeared at the door of the long hall that led from the kitchen to the foyer. She was crying softly. Towering behind her was Jack. His shirt was open and there was perspiration on his face. He looked mildly deranged.

Jack mumbled words Adam could not understand.

"Come into the living room," Panflick said.

He turned into the large front room and waited. Jack and Viola walked back down the hall and through the dining room and appeared at the double doors on the other end.

"What's the trouble?" Adam said.. He was sitting on the gold couch.

"We're alright now," Jack said. He wiped his brow. He looked more composed.

"What happened?"

"We're alright."

Adam looked at Viola. She nodded.

Seconds passed.

"Well," Adam said, "Come on."

He got up and walked past them and led the way to the back door. He opened it, walked through and rang for the freight elevator.

"I'll go with you." Adam said.

He rode down with Jack and Viola to the basement and walked with them to their quarters. He had never been inside where they lived before.

He winced inwardly at the contrast between their two small rooms and the Panflick apartment.

He noticed fragments of broken records on the floor.

"Jack," Viola said softly.

"Are you alright now?" Adam said, looking at Jack.

Jack nodded.

"And you?"

Viola nodded.

"Good night," Adam said.

In bed Adam reviewed his recent beatings and tweaks.

Slake: Three beatings. A pileup on the athletic field which had begun in fun. In the midst of the maelstrom, there was Slake pummeling Adam in the stomach and chest, rapid fire pain-punches that brought tears. For no reason. Another around Christmas on the street after school. Repeated cuffing of the ears and battering around the head. All down Columbus Avenue. For no reason. Until finally Adam turned on him and began flailing madly and screaming. Slake backed off but made it clear there would be retaliation. The third was in the changing room before going to gym. This was the worst. Adam said something derogatory about Slake to another kid. Slake overheard. The punch came from nowhere and caught Adam in the ribs. He turned around and caught a second blow to the gut, bending over and practically throwing up on the spot. Finally, a rain of blows until he fell in a heap. The rest of the class stood in a circle and did nothing.

Adamov: Two beatings. Adamov was larger than anyone else in the class and his bullying was not as frequent or mad as Slake's. When bothered, Adamov would simply haul off and knock down his victims. Then he would push them casually with his feet as a sort of signature of superiority. His victims generally welcomed the gesture as it signaled the end of the encounter. The first time, Adam managed to step on Adamov's toe in the changing room. From a seated position, Adamov decked him with a blow to the abdomen. He then pushed Adam away with his feet, snorted and that was that. The second time was similar to the worst of the Slake beatings. An overheard comment. A slam harder than before. And instead of a push with feet, a series of kicks.

Maldbar. Six tweaks. All for not paying attention. The worst was the most recent.

As sleep came, Adam curled into a fetal position to protect himself against incursions that no amount of bravado could erase from his mind.

The next morning, Viola was in the kitchen when Adam appeared.

"We're supposed to be taking care of you," she said. "Thank you."

She made him a mean fried egg.

The House of Panflick

Until he was 10, Adam went to the Translux 85th Street most Saturday mornings and watched cartoons.

The Translux had matrons, sparing upper East-side parents the necessity of accompanying their under-age children.

Adam resonated to Donald Duck's rendition of "Right in Der Fuhrer's Face". He took in the vagaries of Tom and Jerry, Goofy and Mickey Mouse.

But the War was over now and so was Adam's childhood. Cartoons held no more interest. These days Adam went to normal films on his own.

So this Saturday, he walked briskly over to Park Avenue and turned south.

At 78th Street a water bomb fell a few feet in front of Adam, resulting in an ineffective splash. No direct hit.

Water bombs were hand-folded paper missiles filled with what Mildred called Municipal Champagne. These would be dropped from the windows above by kids from Buckley, Collegiate and Allen Stevenson. Adam felt endowed with considerable luck.

He strode on in good time and turned west at 51^st and proceeded to CBS at 485 Madison Avenue. There in the lobby he picked up free tickets to the Red Barber Sports Show. The studio was just around the corner. The show was about to begin.

As a youngster, Adam had gnawed the corner of the wooden door of the living room radio to shreds, sitting on the gold carpet, listening to Superman, The Lone Ranger and Tom Mix, toggling between WOR and WJZ. Now he preferred watching radio live. The shows one could attend were limited only by one's free time. The tickets cost nothing. Adam=Fox. Manhattan=Chicken Coop.

Inside the studio, Adam took a comfortable seat. There before him was Red Barber. His guest this morning, Phil Rizzuto, the New York Yankee shortstop. Rizzuto had played for the Yankees for five years. He was a big star. Sitting there sitting opposite Red on a simple stage. Talking about other stars: Yogi Berra, Joe DiMaggio. Taking his hat off to the great City of New York.

Adam felt a quiet thrill. Here he was at the center of things. The voices he was watching could be heard everywhere. He did not pay attention to what was said. Sports did not interest him. The show did. The medium. The power. The simplicity.

When the broadcast was over, he walked west to the RCA Building. It was not crowded on weekends. He entered the front and looked up admiringly at the murals all around. To the right and down a handsome corridor was a proper coffee shop. It was where he always went on his radio-movie wanders.

Adam took his customary seat at the curved counter. He always ordered the same thing. Ham on rye with lettuce and mayonnaise. A small Coke.

It was not even noon. Adam didn’t mind. The shop was nearly empty. He liked it that way.

What next? Head west for movies?

He loved the soft depths of Radio City Music Hall, the Roxy, the Capitol, and the Palace. They were all different. The Music Hall was the most opulent. It seemed almost holy. The Roxy and Paramount had their points. All these theaters had band pits where the likes of Louis Prima, Tommy Dorsey and Art Mooney would hold forth. All of them had huge curtains that would open when the movie was to be shown. Some had live stage shows, vaudeville, comedy or, in the case of Radio City, the Rockettes. Such precision. Such class. Such a world.

Adam valued solitude in these giant palaces. He liked seats to the side toward the front. No one next to him. Or too near to him.

At age 10, he still wasn't considered an adult. He could not legally enter a theater alone... So he would stand in line and politely ask a grown-up to help him get in. When he found an agreeable grown-up, he would hand over the money for the ticket. Once in, he would say thanks and move on.

But last Saturday his adult was a man with an accent and thinning hair, a benign-seeming, smaller version of the Tweaker in appearance. A trifle shabby. The man helped Adam in and then asked if he could sit with him. Adam did not object. Afterward, the man said he'd be glad to help him again if he had a way to get hold of him. Adam gave him the Panflick number.

Today he decided not to go to a movie. Instead, when he was finished, he walked back to Madison and realized how lucky he was. He must be the only boy in the city to have a friend like Buzzy. And most certainly, he was the only boy who had his own personal reading room. Yes. Right on upper Madison Avenue. At The House of Panflick..

Adam walked uptown to the familiar sandstone building between 75th and 76th. He mounted a few steps to the handsome entrance. He pushed open the heavy glass and metal door and walked in.

He said hello to Rose, the receptionist, and then climbed more steps to Melchezedek's spacious front office on the second floor. The shop was happily empty. Everything was done by appointment. Customers generally came only when Melchezedek himself could be present.

The business did not actually require sales at the shop. Clients would simply ask Melchezedek to go to England and buy the desired pieces. These would be delivered directly to their spreads which were increasingly located in faraway places such as Texas and California.

Through the office door Adam saw Quince. Quince was Melchezedek's man-Friday. Quince came from Torquay, Devon, England. Quince always seemed to be sitting on his high stool by the window. Looking down on Madison Avenue. Stroking his chin.

"Ah, Master Adam," Quince said. "What brings you here? Why aren't you up in the country with your family?"

"I have to sing tomorrow."

"Very good. Besides, I hear country is not your favorite place to be."

Adam did not answer. Quince knew about the events of last year.

"There's nothing wrong with being a man about town," Quince said.

Adam looked around the handsomely furnished room. It was filled with choice antiques.

"Your father is very good at what he does," Quince said. "If you buy the best to begin with, you set the price. I see you've stopped wearing shorts."

Adam nodded. The phone rang.

"Excuse me a minute." Quince delivered crisp instructions to the caller, placing bets on various upcoming events. He set down the receiver.

"Do you plan to go into the business, Adam?"

"No."

"What will you do?"

"Write. Think. Speak," Adam said.

"Ah, politics then."

"Maybe."

Adam had no idea what he would be. "Can I go read?" he asked.

"Certainly," Quince replied. "You know where the books are."

Adam walked to the rear of the second floor and entered the cozy book room. There were shelves of reference books befitting a distinguished dealer in antiques. On one wall there were also some volumes for sale, most of them in fine leather bindings.

Adam pulled out a copy of Hamlet and sat down in a comfortable armchair. He turned to the Ophelia part, his favorite. Where she supposedly acts crazy. Only Adam didn't think so. He read the lines over. He had them memorized.

QUEEN GERTRUDE
Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?

OPHELIA
Pray you, let's have no words of this; but when they
ask you what it means, say you this:

Sings

To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes,
And dupp'd the chamber-door;
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.

KING CLAUDIUS
Pretty Ophelia!

OPHELIA
Indeed, la, without an oath, I'll make an end on't:

Sings

By Gis and by Saint Charity,
Alack, and fie for shame!
Young men will do't, if they come to't;
By cock, they are to blame.
Quoth she, before you tumbled me,
You promised me to wed.
So would I ha' done, by yonder sun,
An thou hadst not come to my bed.

The message seemed clear to Adam. The girl was eminently sane. Too bad the majesty of Denmark failed her. She gave herself too freely. Hamlet had no real love in him. She was honest and on the mark. Hamlet was a schmuck. If Buzzy did not exist, Ophelia would be the next best woman. Adam would not treat her so meanly.

Panflick shut the book and returned it to the shelves. It was sitting next to St. Augustine’s The City of God. Adam knew nothing about St. Augustine but assumed the book was of some importance.

He began reading but soon gave up. There was a good deal about gods and wars.

As far as Adam could see, killing was killing and he could not conceive of any deity whose aim differed from that of Falstaff, being for life, preserving life, eating well and so forth.

Adam put the book back and sat in the armchair, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere of the room. Next to the chair was a table with a tray, two glasses and a thermos of ice cold water. He poured himself a glass.

He loved cold water. He loved this nook in The House of Panflick.

If he could just get his life onto some sort of track that did not involve the Tweaker, Slake and Adamov, something more redolent of the RCA Building and The House of Panflick, there might be hope for him yet.

Chez Buzzy

An hour later, he was at 45 East 82^nd Street taking the elevator up to Buzzy's.

Once outside her door, Adam rang. But there was no answer. As he turned to leave, the door opened. A little man he had never seen appeared. Neither young nor old. He looked like Sam Hop from the laundry on 80^th Street.

“They gone. You wait," he said.

"Where are they?" Adam asked.

"Nee-ham. They come back soon. You wait," the man repeated.

So Adam sat on the big green couch in the living room and waited. The minutes passed and he became more and more restless. He was supposed to stay over. Jack and Viola were off. And here he was with an unknown man, in an apartment with no other sign of life. This was not what he had expected.

But then his sensitive ears heard the elevator gate open. And voices!

Buzzy!

Buzzy's mother.

And then, a bark? A woof?

The door opened. The Breckenridge’s came in. They were preceded by a bounding snow white dog of immense size.

"He's mine," Buzzy exclaimed, with an engaging grin. "His name is Polonius."

Buzzy was thin and beautiful. Her face was perfect. There was never a time when she did not look as though she was meant to be exactly where she was. Doing exactly what she did. Whatever it happened to be. She and Adam were almost the same age.

"He's new, just a puppy. A Great Pyrenees. We went all the way up to Massachusetts, practically to Boston, to get him. He is very wise, though a bit of a troublemaker."

"Rather like you," Buzzy's mother, Celia Breckenridge, said to Adam.

"Polonius? A puppy?" Adam said.

Buzzy ran up to Adam and started tickling.

"Stop it!" he screamed. "You know I can't stand to be touched without warning."

But now Polonius bounded toward Adam and placed his formidable paws on the boy's shoulders, bobbing his giant head up and down within inches of Adam's flinching face. The Pyrenees's well-lubricated tongue threatened to drench Panflick with gobs of Polonius spittle.

"Get him off me!" he yelled. "Return him."

Polonius needed no further prompt. He backed off and looked up at Adam, as if to say, "What next?"

"Who is that man?" Adam asked, moving back to the couch.

"Boon Wah?" Celia responded.

"I assume so."

"He is our new helper. He'll be sleeping out back with you."

Celia Breckenridge never said things outright. It was part of her strange bond with Adam that each knew exactly what the other meant even though the words were, more often than not, opposite in their implications.

"Excellent," Adam answered.

It turned out Boon Wah was more than a helper. He was a cook of no mean achievement. Celia, Buzzy, Adam and Wanda, Buzzy's younger sister, sat down to a quite delicious meal of shrimp toast, wonton in hot oil, cold noodles in sauce, hacked chicken and a selection of dim sum.

Sated, with Polonius taking a peaceful rest at Celia's feet, they played Monopoly until bedtime.

After good nights were said, Adam retired to the little maid's room off the kitchen. He slipped on his pajamas, brushed his teeth at the small basin and then opened the door and walked through the pantry, past the living room and down a long hall. The second door on the right was Buzzy's.

He opened it softly and entered.

There were two beds on adjacent walls joined at the head. Adam crawled into the vacant bed. Buzzy was already tucked in.

"Where's Polonius?" he asked.

"With mom," Buzzy said softly. "I need to talk about something."

"Proceed," Adam said.

"I think I've figured out why mother lets us --

"Function like an old couple?"

"Be together this way."

"She recognizes destiny. She accepts it."

"No. I don't think so. I think she and your father Melchezedek --"

"What? Had something going on a long time ago, before we were born?"

"How do you know?" Buzzy sat up and sat cross-legged on her bed looking at Adam in the darkness. "Do you think so?"

"I read minds. It was something she said," Adam replied. "About not seeing very much of my father lately. As if any of us does."

"Yes," Buzzy whispered excitedly. "I think something did happen, maybe when we were one or two, or before we were born. And then it was over. And somehow our families remained friends."

"And your mother is sentimental,” Adam said. “It’s funny. We're not old enough to have an affair, quite apart from being married."

"But you think I'm right. Right?"

Buzzy lay back down. Adam rolled over on his left side and elbowed up.

"I think you could be right and that your mother is weirdly wonderful to me. But I also think whether they did or not is unimportant in the scheme of things. I mean us."

"What was Mildred doing back then? What was my father doing?" Buzzy asked. "I wonder if they …"

"Mildred was building trucks for Uncle Sam. She has lots of beaus. Half our weekend guests are in love with her. You father was working day and night and having headaches. I doubt they ever did anything."

"Adam, I think Mom lets us be such good friends because she sees us as herself and your father. Only --"

“I just said that. I also think it's because we are we. We are special," Adam said. "I vastly prefer you to your mother, by the way. Though I do appreciate her wit. For that matter, I do not care why your mother approves. Just as long as she does."

"I heard about your encounter at school."

"You what! How?"

"Ann Alexander's brother is in your class. She called yesterday before we went to Needham."

"The redheaded wonder? What's in Needham?"

"Poil de Carotte. Polonius was in Needham."

"Hold my hand, "Adam said, extending his free arm.

Buzzy reached over her head. Adam took her hand. "Ah, yes. That's nice. I saw a child marriage in my old neighborhood a few years ago. People younger than us, married."

"We'll never do that. I mean as adults. Now tell me about your encounter at school."

"The Tweaker is hopeless. Cruelty in the classroom. I decided no more and that was that."

"What did he do exactly?"

"He pulled my hair." Adam gently touched the hair on the back of Buzzy's neck. "Right here. He grabbed my hair. Twice. Once when I was not paying attention and then, much more viciously, when I said I was not the only one." He held her hand once more.

"Not the only one? What did you mean?"

"I am not the only one paying no attention. I am not the only student dying of boredom. I am not the only one who would do well to simply read what I want without having to pay attention to all that.”

"What were you not paying attention to?"

"Arithmetic."

"Well Adam, arithmetic is not exactly unimportant. I'm sorry he tweaked you twice."

"He also shoved me into a corner. I had no alternative but to respond."

"Aren't you afraid of worse things? Getting expelled? Being hurt more?"

"I did not consider the consequences. He was upon me with his hot, angry breath. I was cornered. Something overtook me. I was very cool and I knew I could stop him."

"Yes, that is what Annie said. People noticed. Remarkable."

"Perhaps."

"What will happen now?"

"We'll see on Monday. I would prefer to attend Brearley with you, as you well know. Or we could both go to Dalton. We'd be together there. No bullies, I bet."

Buzzy withdrew her hand, turned onto her side and faced the wall.

Adam heard her even breathing. He turned over too. There in the silence with his best friend in all the world, he felt profound peace. One by one, thoughts of the Tweaker, the country, Parousia and Vermont state troopers coming to his family's Manhattan apartment to finalize Adam's criminality, vanished in the soothing penumbra of his and Buzzy's private world.

He woke hours later from a sweat-inducing dream.

Buzzy was gently pulling his hair.

He could see through the shaded window it was dawn.

"What ungodly hour is it," he moaned. "I just had a horrible dream."

"Ssssh," Buzzy whispered. "What? Tell me."

"A fight. Where we change for gym. I am all alone. The bullies Slake and Adamov. I think they are coming for me. But instead they start to fight each other. Madly. Arms flailing like windmills, smashing, smashing, pounding, pounding, hurting each other. Their faces are red. They keep beating and beating. I am very scared. That’s it. Just that.”

"You were talking in your sleep," Buzzy said. "You woke me."

"I was? No. You'll make it up. I never talk in my sleep."

"Do you want to know what you were saying? You kept repeating the same thing."

"What?"

"There is no health in us. There is no health in us."

"It's from the program," Adam said.

"What program?"

"Church. It's a prayer. Confession. Printed in the program they hand out."

"Do you really believe that?"

"It's about the only thing I do believe. If there was any health in us, there would be no tweaks. Or Fuhrers. Or death, maybe.”

"I heard father come in, in the middle of the night."

"I am talking about something your father and his black bag can’t cure," said Adam.

The telephone rang. They heard Dr. Breckenridge talking softly. Then morning noises: a shower, steps in the hall.

"Shhh," Buzzy whispered.

"This is so strange,” Adam said softly. “Your mother lets us be chums and your father knows nothing."

"He's oblivious."

"Or maybe he knows and doesn't care. Your mother wants the Chinaman to think I am asleep in the other maid's room."

"Yep."

They heard the front door to the apartment open and shut.

"Do you remember when we were running around like fools in Pickinsboro at the end of the war?" Adam asked.

"VJ Day? You mean what my sister said."

"Yes."

"She still can't stand us."

Adam stood and prepared to leave.

"I still don't care what she thinks. I do what I want."

"Yes," said Buzzy. "I would say you are very lucky."

"I know," said Adam, blowing a kiss from the door.

In some ways, he thought, moving down the hall.

The Garden Room

It was just a short walk from Buzzy's corner to East 86^th. Then cross town to the block between York and East End where there was a row of three buildings that Vincent Astor had put up. Adam's was the first.

By 7:00, Adam was having a fried egg with bacon, white toast and a glass of milk. He sat at the kitchen table looking out the window at the backs of row houses on 85th Street.

Instead of Viola, Jack did the honors. Adam said nothing beyond normal greetings. Jack opened things up.

"You know a kid named Lazlo?"

"Can't say I do."

"Well this guy called yesterday morning after you left. I think he said his name was Lazlo. Sounded like a man talking like a kid. With an accent."

"Ah," Adam said. "I know. I know who that is. That's funny."

Jack leaned back, put his hand on his forehead and smiled. "He said he would try again.”

Adam stood up. "Gotta get ready."

Soon after, dressed for church, he stood on 89th Street in the morning shade, looking up at a fourth floor window across the street. It was where he imagined Melanie Reynolds might live. It was crazy to do this, he knew. He could see nothing in any of the windows. Adam had become fixated on Melanie as she walked past him wearing a bolero. It was at the other dancing school he attended off and on, Miss Bloss's. The very first time, he followed her home.

He fell in love with her face. What could he say?

When Melanie did not appear, Adam proceeded to Park Avenue and turned uptown. He walked to the Church of The Rock, a Presbyterian establishment. The church was known for its music. And for being a good place to leave children regardless whether parents attended or not.

Adam was in the Church of the Rock’s Youth Choir. Today they were scheduled to sing from their perch in the back balcony overlooking the church’s substantial sanctuary.

After choir, Adam had a regular routine: Go to Sunday school. Get expelled. Then sit happily in a place called the Garden Room until someone came. A family member generally. Sometimes no one came and he would simply leave and walk home when church was over.

Adam liked choir. He liked the half hour of rehearsal before church began.

There shall a star from Jacob come forth
And a scepter from Israel riseth

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat again. "That's good." said Mr. Goggins, the choirmaster. It was a rather ambitious piece, but Adam and his cohorts sang with gusto.

Down below, early arrivals for the Sunday service peered up and offered smiles and approving nods.

The youth choir repeated this performance as part of the actual service. Their singing was preceded by Adam's favorite item on the program, the Prayer of Confession. He enunciated it with care and conviction.

Almighty and most merciful Father, we have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against Thy holy laws. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and we have done those things which we ought not to have done, and there is no health in us. But Thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable offenders. Spare those, O God, who confess their faults. Restore those who are penitent, according to Thy promises declared to mankind through Christ Jesus our Lord. And grant, O most merciful Father, for His sake, that we may hereafter live a godly, righteous, and sober life, to the glory of Thy Holy name. Amen.

This was followed by a brief sermon, aimed at the young. Then came the exodus to Sunday School.

Adam descended with the youth choir from the balcony to the narthex where he joined other children and moved down some stairs to a substantial room that was sectioned off with dividers into eight small class areas. He took his customary place in the last row of the last class on the left. It was never clear who would teach. What the teacher's qualifications were. Or what the subject would be.

Adam had never lasted through a single period. For some reason unknown to him, he was incapable of sitting there without submitting a barrage of questions on whatever was being presented. This was entirely at odds with his performance at Parousia, where he displayed not the least curiosity and participated at a sub-minimal level.

Generally, within several minutes, Adam would be warned that if he interrupted one more time he would have to leave. But he could not restrain himself. Perhaps he felt that in a church he had protection from being tweaked or otherwise harassed. Perhaps he was genuinely curious. Perhaps he felt the presentations were not what they should be. Regardless, he interrupted and then interrupted again and again and again.

He questioned how the cutting of hair could result in the collapse of a building. He questioned whether Noah could have fit all species onto an ark, even if only two by two. He wondered why it made any difference if dry bones rose or not if they remained dry. He questioned if Jesus was a peacemaker when conversing with Pharisees?

He questioned whatever the lesson was no mercy. And he was sent out without fail. The sending was never acrimonious. After a certain period of provocation, he would simply be told to go to the Garden Room.

This morning the subject was Psalm 23.

Adam's first interruption was to ask what the psalm had to do with living a godly, righteous and sober life. If the Lord was a shepherd, and we were mere sheep, there would be no point. We would just be herded along.

Then he wondered what difference it made to fear no evil if there was still evil in the world. Wasn't the trick to eliminate it? Or avoid it, possibly using Falstaffian techniques? Wasn't evil devoutly to be feared? And to be delivered from? Daily?

Then, he asked, why both a rod and a staff? Would not one suffice?

At which point he was asked to leave.

He moved along to the Garden Room with barely a prompt.

And he was always happy with the result. The Garden Room was more pleasant than the Sunday school basement. He could sit there in peace on a comfortable, cushioned metal armchair, among the plants, looking down at the flagstones and think to his heart’s content. There were even copies of LIFE and the Saturday Evening Post to peruse at leisure.

All told, the Church of the Rock was much nicer than the malevolent habitat of the Tweaker and the bullies Slake and Adamov. It seemed a forgiving, understanding environment.

Adam saw people wandering past the room, a sign church was over. He was just about to walk out of the Garden Room when none other than Dr. Walter Ronald Jones walked in.

"Good morning, Adam," Dr. Jones said. "How would you like to have an ice cream soda on me?”

Dr. Jones did not once question why Adam was in the Garden Room. Nor did he explain this curious but welcome invitation. Nor even how he knew Adam's name.

Adam got up with a smile and a nod, shook hands and walked out with the pastor.

They hardly spoke as they walked several long blocks east to Pruser's Ice Cream Shop on First Avenue. Once there, they sat side by side at the cool, black counter and ordered sodas. A strawberry for the Doctor and maple walnut for Adam.

"I have something to tell you Adam," Jones said, after drawing a swig of strawberry soda and indulging in a satisfied smack of the lips. "This does not work."

Adam looked at the pastor and wondered what "this" was.

"I have been at our church for over ten years and I may well be there forever," Jones said. "It does not work."

He paused and looked at Adam. Adam said nothing.

"And I want you to understand this,” Jones continued. “If you ever become a minister, do something different. We need a new monasticism. Do you know what that is?"

"No," Adam said. "Not really."

"Monasticism. Monasteries. From the Middle Ages when there was widespread barbarity and corruption. Communities that withdrew from the world. They were celibate. There was no marriage. I am not proposing that. I am proposing a community where people at least know what they believe and act on it. This does not work. So if you ever become a minister, Adam, do something different."

"Why are you telling me this?" Adam asked. He had no thought in the world of becoming a minister. He had no idea what he would be yet.

"Because I cannot tell it to my congregation. They would not understand."

"But why tell me? I am the one who keeps getting expelled from Sunday school."

"That's because you ask a lot of questions. The teachers get nervous. They are not experienced. They have a lesson plan they try to follow. They are not equipped to deal with questions. You would not keep coming Adam, unless you had some level of interest."

"I believe there is no health in us," Adam asked.

"Exactly. That’s the problem. No one believes anymore that we are in serious trouble. And most certainly no one sees the other side. That the whole of heaven is opened to us if we simply behave. God is shoving heaven into our laps all the time. But the doorway is repentance, every second, every minute, every day. They are all Wall Street and Park Avenue. And as far as they are concerned, this is where it all begins and ends. No understanding of themselves. No understanding of their real potential."

Adam did not respond.

"The rest of the prayer. Do you know it?" Jones said. "Spare Thou those, O God, who confess their faults. Restore thou those who are penitent; According to Thy promises declared unto mankind in Christ Jesus our Lord. And grant, O most merciful Father, for his sake; that we may hereafter live a godly, righteous, and sober life, to the glory of thy holy Name. Amen."

"Godly. Righteous. Sober," Adam said. He thought of Wendell's raucous and frequently inebriated family up in Pickinsboro.

"Yes. But the most important word is promises."

The two sat in silence.

"Can I walk you home?" Jones said. "We're neighbors. You may not have noticed but the Jones family lives in the very next building to yours."

They walked in silence and, when they reached Adam's building, they shook hands. And Adam watched as Jones continued down the block.

Upstairs, the door was unlocked and Jack and Viola were sitting in the kitchen.

"You almost had us worried," Viola said.

The phone rang. Adam walked through the dining room to the living room. He sat down at Melchezedek's antique double desk and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

He knew who it was. He listened to the agitated voice on the other end of the receiver.

"I cannot go to the movies anymore," he said.

An imitation child's voice dropped to an adult register but retained the childish subterfuge. Now pleading.

"Thanks anyway," Adam interrupted. He was not listening to what the man said. But he knew the man would not call again.

"Thank you," he said. And hung up.

"Want a sandwich?" Viola called.

"Thanks," said Adam. "I'm not hungry. I have to get ready for The Greatest Story Ever Told."

"What is that?" Jack asked.

"A radio show. I have a new girlfriend," Adam said with a smile

The Care Brigade

Girls wore white gloves at the two dancing schools Adam attended.

Adam would wear them too, for Thursday’s Dress Drill at the Seventh Regiment Armory.

This Sunday he imagined he would see Janice Attenborough without gloves.

Adam had lied to Jack. She was not his real girl friend. He had no girl friend. He had Buzzy. Girl friends would come later. They involved sex. Just now he was most at ease in the company of girls. He imagined sex would complicate that. It was enough to like.

Adam's box of Valentines Day chocolates for Janice had won today's invitation.

Janice was a well-known child radio personality.

Today Adam would have the chance to attend a live performance of a radio program called The Greatest Story Ever Told.

Janice had a part.

Adam played ball in the court behind his building until it was time to go.

The day was brisk and sunny. He literally swung down Park Avenue, weaving through clusters of afternoon pedestrians. He prided himself on his capacity to step and dodge without bumping anyone. He paused from time to time to check out doormen and dogs. He had no watch but he was adept at telling time by reading the dials on passing wrists.

Janice lived in a row house off Park in the Sixties. Her building reminded Adam of the East 80th Street town house the Panflicks had unwisely vacated the year before the war ended. Their move to an apartment created a five room deficit but saved enough to enable completion of a substantial country residence up in Pickinsboro.

The move deprived Adam of a spacious third-floor bedroom looking down on a lively street with coal trucks, fruit wagons and hurdy gurdy men making life interesting. How could one become a creature of habit if one had always to move?

Adam rang Janice's doorbell and was immediately buzzed in. He climbed up to the second floor and pressed another bell. Mrs. Attenborough opened a heavy black door and introduced herself.

"Come right in, Adam," she said.

She was a compact, handsome woman of indeterminate age.

Adam entered a small, formal living room where everything seemed to be off-white. Janice was nowhere to be seen. The only other person present, save for a small cocker spaniel, was a girl named Jessie.

"Jessie is Janice's older sister," Mrs. Attenborough explained. Jessie was larger than Janice and seemed somewhat vague and ill-defined. She gave little sign of being aware of Adam’s presence.

There did not appear to be a Mr. Attenborough. Adam had the impression the family numbered but three.

"What does your father do, Adam?" Mrs. Attenborough asked.

"Antiques. Mainly English. He has the House of Panflick ten blocks up on Madison Avenue."

"And you are learning to dance at Miss Harris's? And you gave Janice those lovely chocolates. Do have any interest in drama?"

Before Adam could respond, Janice appeared.

"Adam," she cried, with a delightful smile. "Have mother and Jessie taken good care of you?"

"Of course we have, my dear," Mrs. Attenborough said quickly, walking behind Janice. She started busying herself with the child's hair. Jessie joined her mother as if awaiting an assignment. Adam noticed that the older sister was now the soul of alertness.

Janice looked utterly ravishing to Adam. She had on a red velvet jumper over a long-sleeved white blouse. Her dark hair fell straight and lush, concealed to some extent by her mother's busy hands. Janice's own hands were very pretty. Adam liked them without gloves. Janice held a small gold bag in one of her hands and in the other a script.

"Hello Janice."

"I'm so glad you could come, Adam," the actress said.

"Me too."

Janice held up the script.

"You have a wonderful part, darling," Mrs. Attenborough said, taking the script.

"Yes, mother."

"She has so much work, Adam. We are so busy. Yesterday we did 'Let's Pretend'. And now this. She barely has time for Music and Art." Adam recognized this as the name of a school where children like Janice could go. He felt a twinge of envy and shuddered at the thought of Parousia.

Adam looked at Mrs. Attenborough and noticed that she had taken hold of Janice’s script and was now helping her don a pair of white gloves.

“Do you like Let’s Pretend, Adam?” she said as she worked away.

“Sure I do,” Adam replied flatly. Actually, the radio shows Janice did were not among his favorites. His favorites had included Superman, Captain Midnight and Tom Mix and, more recently, George Burns and Gracie Allen, the Lux Radio Theater and The Great Gildersleeve. There was also his favorite Sunday evening lineup which he would miss today , The Shadow, Jack Benny and Phil Harris.

"It's time to go," Mrs. Attenborough said. She bundled Janice into a light overcoat with velvet lapels. "Put your gloves on, dear."

On they went.

They took a cab just a few blocks to ABC. It was barely six o'clock. Adam and Jessie sat on the jump seats. The March sky was already getting dark.

Once inside the studio, Janice was led off to the stage. Adam, Jessie and Mrs. Attenborough were ushered up some stairs to a balcony next to a glassed-in control booth, overlooking a wide, bare, stage where microphones stood side by side. There was no space below for a live studio audience.

Soon the cast and announcer, a Mr.Norman Rose, appeared. Mr. Rose stood on the far left. And to the far right, before her own microphone, stood Janice. She looked most self-possessed. And she had evidently removed her white gloves.

At 6:30 sharp, there was choral introduction and Mr. Rose intoned: "The Armed Services Radio Presents The Greatest Story Ever Told."

This evening's drama unfolded in the words of its characters. It was called The Flight of the Children. And it was set in the Biblical town of Emmaus.

But the story had no Biblical origin Adam could recall. He was up on such matters, having been subjected to daily Scripture readings at compulsory Parousia chapels for almost four years.

In this evening's story, Emmaus was preparing a feast of welcome for a former resident called Seth. Seth's mother is all aflutter because he has been traveling the Empire for six years. "He used to have the gayest eyes!" she exclaims. But immediately she wonders why she has put this observation in the past tense. We soon find out.

It seems Seth has concluded during his wanderings that the weak and infirm are expendable. He now urges that these burdensome souls be expelled from Emmaus. His manner is that of the bully.

Seth now has a Roman name -- Sylvanus, which he insists on being called. When introduced to Janice, whose name in the story is Ruth, he is rude.

Reluctantly, village leaders agree to Sylvanus' draconian agenda. Villagers begin to carry it out. Among those doomed to the exodus is Ruth's infirm mother.

Janice is spell-binding. Adam is transfixed. Her best line is, "What good is learning if it makes men bad?"

Adam notices that he is not the only one who is impressed. Next to him, regarding Janice with rapt admiration sits the Janice brigade.

Adam easily sees this Seth character is the Tweaker. The performer even sounds like the Tweaker. And his attitudes are most Tweaker-like.

Janice saves the day. She halts the exodus of the useless by enlisting the other children to agree to leave the village unless the planned expulsion is stopped. When Seth actually sees these young future workers leaving with the wounded. ill and maimed, he goes ballistic.

But then, Jesus, the Master, appears at the village gate. His spokesperson is Peter.

Jesus wears a suit like the other performers. But his voice, which limits itself to verbatim quotations from Scripture, is run through an echo chamber. Indeed, he sounds to Adam like the Shadow, but with no trace of lurking evil.

Peter commends Janice. He says she is truly a child from whose mouth has flowed wisdom surpassing that of adults.

"I'm so hungry," Janice said, after the show was over.

"Oh darling, let's get you something to eat. Poor thing," said Mrs. Attenborough, busying herself with Janice's overcoat and gloves.

"Oh, thank you, mother," Janice said.

Adam noticed that Janice's voice was no different than that of the heroine child she had just been playing. Also she was so small; eating might have a tangible effect on her shape. But, most prominently, her mother and sister seemed to live for her.

Faced with these observations, Adam felt a certain gratitude for his parents who most certainly had their own lives to look after.

Within a few minutes, the small party was cozily ensconced in Hamburger Heaven on Madison, which had the most delectable hamburger in the world, a patty, smallish in circumference but remarkably thick and always done to perfection, rare, medium or well-done.

Adam’s attraction to the Attenboroughs increased as a result of this choice.

Mrs. Attenborough had even been considerate enough to call the Panflick household and inform Viola of this spontaneous supper idea and to say that Adam would be sent home in a cab.

The seats at Hamburger Heaven had wooden trays that were hinged. When you sat down you swung the tray in front of you, giving each person a sense of unusual privacy. The four in the Attenborough’s party were seated in the back in a horseshoe pattern with Adam on one end, Janice next to him, then Mrs. Attenborough and then Jessie.

Adam had eaten here with his family and knew the best thing of all was a nice rare hamburger. He ordered one when his turn came. Mrs. Attenborough and Jessie ordered medium. Adam noticed that when it came time for Janice to order Mrs. Attenborough chimed in with a well done. Janice seemed primed for this. Still it seemed a trifle strange.

Stranger still was what happened next, just as Adam was about to apply catsup to his nice rare burger. The swiveled trays of both Jessie and Mrs. Attenborough had swung out and the two were now standing up hovering over Janice.

“Get a knife,” Mrs. Attenborough ordered. Within a few seconds, Jessie had obtained a knife from a compliant waiter.

Janice’s well done burger was extracted from its roll and cut into miniscule pieces on her plate.

Adam did not ask why this procedure was necessary. He assumed it might have something to do with the need to spare Janice the discomfort of large bites. Such bites were virtually mandatory at Hamburger Heaven due to the inherent generosity of the establishment. Still, a sage eater could manage by judicious biting on an angle. It could be done without the need to encompass the entire height of the substantial serving in a single bite. Adam did not envy Janice the need to pick at little pieces on her plate but he maintained a discrete silence. With a trace of embarrassment he turned to his own feast.

Looking over, he was amazed to see that Janice was not, in fact, spearing fragments and consuming them on her own, famished as she might be. Instead, with Jessie standing as a sort of sentinel, Mrs. Attenboroough was bent over, busily forking fragments baby-style, into the open mouth of Janice. It was a slow process as Janice then chewed these modest mouthfuls, by Adam’s count, approximately twenty-six times each.

What stupefied Adam was the fact that all of this occurred without a trace of protest from Janice or self-consciousness on the part of Mrs. Attenborough and Jessie. He had already long since finished his hamburger when Janice's two helpers resumed their seats and tackled theirs meals, no doubt cold by now. Their manner was most businesslike and they managed to finish up in what must have been record time, using the large bite technique.

“Why look over there, but don’t be obvious, that’s Henry Fonda,” Mrs. Attenborough whispered, pointing her head toward a booth up front.

“Oh my,” Janice exclaimed in a whisper, shielding her mouth with her hand. “He’s wonderful.”

Adam did not look as it would have involved almost a 180 degree turn and he did not want to be obvious. Besides he did not know who Henry Fonda was, other than a name he had heard.

By the time Adam had taxied home, the entire Panflick family was about. After perfunctory greetings, he was alone in his little room with his little radio. But there was nothing but static. Which was alright. He had missed his Sunday pantheon.

He lay on his narrow bed thinking.

Janice perplexed him. So did her family. He could not imagine a time when he might have a moment alone with her. The notion of a Buzzy-like relationship was completely unthinkable.

If he had to pick the event of the day, it was be sitting at Pruser's with Dr. Jones and walking along with him. The senior pastor appeared simply to accept him. It was a mystery but hardly unwelcome. He felt as though a door was opening. But he had no idea what might lay on the other side.

He wondered if his good feeling would last. Palfrey Manor had not lasted. 80th Street was over.

He thought of his two earliest playmates.

Penny with whom he played house in her apartment on Park. The playhouse house fit over a card table. They got inside. She was blond and wore glasses. They only played a few times. He was told she was ill. He was told she had died.

A boy named David. A beautiful boy. Also blond. Adam could not even remember what they had played now. He was told David was ill. It was his heart. He was told David had died.

There had been more deaths than new beginnings. That needed to change.

Adam turned over and slept.

Walking With Charlie

Monday morning meant the gray boredom of Parousia Academy. The beginning of another week of school. There was however a compensation. A walk from the east end of 86th Street to the West Side via the Central Park and the reservoir.

Parousia seemed to Adam a massive obstacle to life. He had no sense of movement when he was within its thick stone walls. Or of progress. Or engagement.

Nothing he was taught held much interest. Reading the speeches of Falstaff in the book room at Melchezedek's Madison Avenue establishment taught him true wisdom. Parousia was the very battlefield he wished to avoid. It was rife with tweaks from the Tweaker and bullying from the likes of Robert Adamov and Peter Slake.

It was also life-draining because of the relentless boredom of the classes themselves.

The bellicose lyrics of the noxious school song were anti-Falstaff in the extreme. Fight. Glory. Fame. For what? In a pig's eye.

And then there were the incessant daily chapels dominated by desultory King James readings by jaded upper classmen. Their disdain for a text which Adam was coming to value was palpable.

Even Adam's social interest, normally acute, was minimal at Parousia. He maintained relationships with a few bright shy boys in his class and avoided the dominant clique as he would the plague.

Two years earlier, his mother, Mildred, found him in tears before the sink in his little bathroom at 80th Street.

"What is the matter, Adam?"

"I am homesick."

"This is your home."

But that is not what Adam meant. Or perhaps it was. It came to the same thing.

1942 to 1945.

Palfrey Manor. A large estate on Long Island, a half hour out from Manhattan via the Triboro Bridge. Adam in a private limousine. Driveway stones that crunch as the heavy Packard rolls in from the city.

Substantial grounds. Replete with stables, polo fields and even a special track where the Palfrey’s young son Willie, here from England to escape German bombardment, could ride his motor scooter round and round, laughing all the way.

Adam is the chosen heir to all things Palfrey. Not in a legal sense. But by implication. And suggestion. This is surely the circle of great things to come.

On arrival Adam is shown to his room. His room can be any of several on the second floor of the main house. Bela is there to turn down his bed in the evening and bring him a silver tray with fresh orange juice in a carved crystal glass every morning. The sheets are of finest linen.

Adam sleeps the sleep of angels, confident and undisturbed.

Adam has the run of the entire property.

If he should meet Lord Palfrey first thing, reading his paper, Adam pauses for a brief discussion of world affairs. His eyes upon the bristles of the famed Palfrey moustache.

The celebrated Lady Palfrey, wealthy beyond dreams, will not appear until luncheon.

The Palfrey children have adopted America as their playground and stage. Already they have made significant marks. In writing. In acting. Even in politics.

Their names are John W. and Sarah. Handsome. Beautiful. Adam's friends. And promoters. He is made to feel so comfortable here. Respected. Even loved.

And then there are the friends of the younger Palfreys, a stream of guests each weekend. Some not known to the world but with positions of importance. Others known to all.

On many weekends, Adam is in their midst, absorbing, imbibing, dreaming, secure.

In early morning walks, it is mainly servants Adam meets. He knows their names. He wanders freely through the pantries. He inspects the cars in the garage. He crunches stones under his shoe soles striding down the driveway.

Other Panflicks hardly seem present. Sometimes they are not.

Adam is the featured speaker on broadcasts to the world, John W. holding the mike in a corner of one of the north sitting rooms. All seriousness. A pin could drop and be heard. Celebrities look on. At six, seven and eight, Adam earnestly shares his ideas.

Orson Welles sits diagonally across the oval table at lunch next to his new wife Rita. Rita offers Adam a kiss which he accepts with no hesitation.

The butter is patted into tiny golf balls. At breakfast the huge lazy susan is weighted down with china jars containing every jam and honey.

Adam, John W., Sarah and the guests all play evening games of sardines through the maze of rooms and closets rooms, squeezing in, laughing madly, bundling close, unbridled, happy.

All this is what Adam is homesick for.

When the war ends, Palfrey Manor ends as well. John W. moves to Washington. Sarah to New York and Hollywood. Lord and Lady Palfrey, with Willie and most of the servants, back to Britain, to some other great hall over there.

Adam senses his rare tears may have hurt Mildred. But she never says so. They never discuss it.

He begins to insist on sleeping with his bedroom door open. And that the light be kept on in the hall.

Adam searches the hall's yellow penumbra from the darkness of his bed. And sure enough, a monster appears and he screams. There is no monster, he is told. But he can see the monster as plain as night. It is there and it is real. A grim dark form against pale yellow going all the way to the ceiling. It appears only once. But, for a time, Adam remains afraid and wary.

He is by now wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses. And by now he sees things through his own inner window that he shares with no one. He reads more. Loner. But not self-possessed. Only semi-conscious. Buried treasure. Rocky. Wierd. Unknown. A power perhaps.

At 80th Street, he watches his youngest brother crawling on the floor of the lift which carried the Panflicks up to their third and fourth floor dwelling. An elementary device with only a folding metal gate. A little foot goes through the gate. A scream. Two screams.

"Push stop," Adam says firmly, calmly. The frantic nurse does so. A little leg is broken. That is all.

This morning Adam knew that what was unfolding was neither sought nor desired. He needed somehow to change the direction of things. He ticked off the problems:

1944. The little school across 80th Street only goes through grade two. Adam is happy there. He has a girl friend, his first, whose daddy owns a baseball team. They play together. Melchezedek takes time with him each night. Adam has questions and needs answers. So they sit side by side on an antique love seat and go at it. Life is vibrant. In the fall, he is sent to Parousia. A dark curtain starts to fall.

1946. The Panflicks move to 86th Street. There is no discussion. They move from ten rooms to five in a somewhat more rarefied neighborhood. More fit perhaps for parental purposes. Melchezedek's work increases. Clients demand his time. They ply him with their glorious antiques and rarities. Which he then sells to an exclusive clientele, which in turn comes to him with new treasures. Melchezedek's Madison Avenue establishment is where he spends most evenings. Increasingly evenings at home are the scene of crowded cocktail parties filled with a rising babble of whatever is passing for talk.

Both school and home are now problematic. But Adam is no longer stealing or destroying things. And the message to him now is that he can blame no one save himself for the last two years.

This Monday morning, Adam was dressed, breakfasted and down in the lobby, waiting for Charlie, an unobtrusive classmate Adam enjoyed passing the time with.

And here he was, Charlie Naughton, always on time, in a buttoned navy jacket to fend off the March winds. The two walked briskly seven long blocks to Central Park. Then they cut up to the reservoir and followed its southern path across to the West Side.

Charlie lived with his father and sister in a small building in back of Adam's apartment.

Charlie's dad was a naval officer. Adam was not sure what he did now or if he even worked at all. He had learned one thing from Charlie and knowing it, he asked no further questions.

At the end of the war Charlie's, father and mother and two sisters had gone out on a lake in a rowboat. The boat capsized. Charlie’s mother and one sister drowned. Charlie's face had a sad cast to it. It was enough to walk, knowing, And to talk of other things.

"The Tweaker really got you," Charlie said. "And you really got him. What do you think will happen now?"
.
"One of two things," Adam said. "Either he will have been stopped entirely or he will not. If not, he will continue to tweak. And the class will continue to sit there and do nothing. While a few of us put on a show."

"Sometimes it's not worth trying," said Charlie, another tweak veteran. "There'll just be more tweaks. I hear he lives with his mother. He takes care of her."

"No one is all bad," Adam said. "How did you hear that?"

"From him. One day after class. It was just after I lost --"

Adam said nothing. .He thought of drownings and dreams.

"Anyway," Charlie said, "He told me people need to take care of each other. He said his mother is an invalid. And a little crazy too. And that he helped her keep from setting fire to where they live. He actually smiled. It was weird."

"Yes," said Adam. "In class he is a bore and a bully. The kids who are bullies are smarter. They do their fighting in the locker room where no one is around to stop the mayhem. Actually the Tweaker gets away with it too. But I think something happened to him on Friday."

"Have you ever been beaten up?" Charlie asked. "By the bullies I mean."

"Certainly," Adam said. "But I am working on a solution. Falstaff."

"What's that?"

"Falstaff. From Shakespeare. Some called him a fool, but he wasn't. He did whatever was necessary to survive. Even if it meant being seen as a sissy or a coward. Or playing dead. He valued life over honor. He did what he wanted to do. Henry the Prince and King treated him like dirt."

"Would you have fought in the war if you were old enough?"

"Depends. I would not kill so-called enemies. German soldiers. But I would kill Hitler. I would not expose myself to being killed if I could avoid it. I would not sign up to fight. You?"

"I don't know," Charlie said. He said no more and the subject was dropped.

The path was vacant except for Charlie and Adam. Across the water, there was someone on horseback. The trees were leafless. The breeze was cool, pleasant.

Adam saw no future and tried to forget the past but he could not. At least not yet. The monster, 80th Street, and the little school he'd been to when Melchezedek gave him time every evening, the Palfrey Manor days -- all these were irretrievably gone.

There by the reservoir, to the chunking pulse of his and Charlie's footsteps, he had an odd vision. He saw a wrinkle in the Tweaker's pin-striped suit as the teacher rose to begin the first class of the day.

Candide

Mr. Fairweather appeared as the home room teacher on Monday. The Tweaker was not there. Nothing was said about his absence, though there were whispered speculations in the area behind Adam where the clique sat.

Whatever the reason, Adam found the change welcome.

On the way to gym things grew grim.

"We think you killed him," said Slake, the prime bully of the class, "Everyone thinks you did."

"What makes you think he’s dead?" Adam muttered. “If he is dead, he was bound to die.”

Adam was disturbed by the thought that Maldbar might be dead. And by the thought that the class was assuming the worst and setting him up as a possible cause. Since when was making a person pause in an act of mayhem a homicidal act?

When it came to dead people, Adam believed people who were decent got what they wanted. And people who did harm got what they deserved. Maldbar may have some good points, but he should not be teaching. Maybe running a prison. If the class was sitting in summary judgment, knowing no more than Adam did, he was at risk. Maldbar was one of those who would get what he deserved. So was Adam. He deserved for his laziness and failure to solve his own problems. It was a struggle being decent.

He walked into the dank changing room. As he fiddled with his combination lock, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

It was Slake again.

"Take off your glasses, Panflick."

Adam stood up and turned around.

"Don't you dare," he said with a trace of fear. Slake was explosive. His fists could become a whirlwind of destructive force instantly. But he simply repeated, “Take off your glasses.”

As was usual, when bullies were about to strike, the rest of the class including Charlie, formed a loose circle around the potential conflict.

Adam had had enough of Slake in previous encounters. There had been no valid cause before and now there appeared to be cause. Slake was operating more like a vigilante than a bully. The consequences could only be disastrous. Adam was in serious danger. Slake would not go easy on him. It took Adam no time to know what he must do. He would have to Falstaff him.

Adam had but one athletic talent. He ran well.

"OK, OK," he said slowly, with a trace of resignation, reaching for his horn-rimmed glasses, so thick that they had themselves been objects of derision.

"Hold on,” Adam said. “They're coming off."

But instead of taking off his classes, he bolted quickly past Slake and pushed through the circle.

He ran out into the corridor. There was no one there so he started to scream as loud as he could."

"Crazed bully! Crazed on the loose! Help! I'm being attacked."

He saw Mr. Melitas, the athletic director, at the end of the corridor and sprinted toward him.

"I need your protection, sir. Slake the bully is on the loose. He wants to blind me."

"Calm down, Panflick," Melitas said. "I don't see anyone."

Adam halted Slake’s attack. He was not chased. Bullies were too smart for that.

"Go back and get ready for gym," Melitas said.

Adam turned and began walking toward the changing room, but when he got close to the open door on his left he bolted again and did not stop running until he arrived at the school nurse's office on the main floor across from the spacious headquarters of Parousia's principal.

Within ten minutes, Panflick was walking quickly down Columbus Avenue clutching an official excuse. He caught an eastbound bus at 86th Street. Within a half hour, he was alone in the family apartment.

He heard the back door open and listened as bags were being set on the kitchen table. He walked back through the dining room and into the kitchen. He greeted Viola.

"Got an excuse from school," he said.

Viola smiled and did not reply.

Adam had gotten at least one or two excuses a month forever it seemed.

"This time it was serious," Adam said. "I almost got blinded."

He told Viola the whole story, beginning with Friday's tweaks and ending with his frustration of Slake's attack.

"Mmm" Viola said. "Seems you got a problem. "

"I have a day to figure it out," Adam replied. "Meanwhile, I feel like a good read."

He walked back into the living room and started to inspect the books in the two large cases that occupied both sides of the double doors that opened into the dining room. On the right were leather-bound volumes from the book room at the House of Panflick.

His hand lit on a slim volume with the title Candide in gold leaf on the spine. The author's name was Voltaire. Something told Adam this was an important book. He had discovered Falstaff quite by accident, leafing through Henry IV Part One at Melchezedek's shop and opening it to Falstaff's honor speech.

He held the same hopes for Candide.

Viola walked in with a sandwich and some milk on a tray.

Candide did not disappoint. From the first page to the last, from late morning until late afternoon, Adam devoured the book, laughing at times, at times pausing to consider the words on the page.

How could there be a greater satisfaction? How much better than school!

Adam concluded he was not Pangloss, for he did not believe everything was for the best, not with Slake's restless fists at bay. Not to mention the recent depredations of the Fuhrer.

He was Candide perhaps, capable of soaring loves, ultimately of heroic reason. Not to mention flexibility. And a sin here and there.

He rather admired Voltaire’s dour Martin for his realism. And Voltaire himself? Whoever he might be, Adam admired him most of all. Almost as much as Falstaff and his prolific creator Shakespeare.

Adam was still lost in reveries of this sort when a delicate but strong hand appeared and yanked the book from his grasp.

A sharp voice said, "Adam! What are you doing with this?"

It was Mildred, just arrived, wearing her fox fur and carrying an alligator purse.

Before Adam could respond, she was striding from the living room, Candide in hand.

Panflick had never had a book yanked from his hand and he wracked his brain for some explanation of this unusual behavior.

Candide's equanimity and Voltaire's wise parsing of reality were beyond criticism in Adam's view. The book was on a par with The Wizard of Oz. Wise. Simple, Humorous. Sensible.

Mildred did not return.

The Panflick master bedroom was down a long hall and served as her refuge from contact with the family. Adam decided he would not pursue the issue of her censorious outburst. But suddenly Mildred reappeared and stood over him.

"That book should never have been here," she declared. "It is definitely not for children."

"What is wrong with it, Mildred?” Adam said. “And I am not a child."

"It's for adults, Adam." Mildred replied.

She squared her shoulders and walked out of the room and back to her refuge.

Strange, Adam thought. He wondered how it was that he had such a mother. Her typical advice to him when he was acting depressed was: Be yourself.

He was being himself all the time. What else could he be?

There was no right self he could snap his fingers and elect to become. He lived by his own lights as best he could. It was hardly helpful to have redeeming wisdom snatched away.

At Palfrey Manor he had been told he was talking to the whole world. That of course was a fiction. Now he was occupied with trying to retain his eyesight in the face of young Slake and fending off a class intent on branding him a homicidal maniac.

And here was his mother in a fox fur marching off with Candide as it was a piece of dirt and not something pretty intelligent.

Melchezedek was not home as usual.

Mildred was in her room.

Adam's brothers were doing something in their room.

Viola had left dinner in the oven.

Adam sat there on the living room couch, a comfortable, gold upholstered affair with deep cushions. He made up his mind to return to school the next day and play out the drama the Tweaker had initiated. Like Candide, he would survive to eat preserved citrons and pistachio nuts -- in Voltaire's words -- and cultivate the garden of his life as he wished.

Candide did not disappear entirely. Adam had a most festive dream that night which he remembered in some detail the next morning.

He was in Turkey, at the home of the very Dervish he'd read about in Voltaire. But this Dervish had the face of the Tweaker, wrapped in a giant turban and looking out with eyes as stern as ever. But this Tweaker-Dervish also wore a benign entirely uncharacteristic smile.

As in Candide, Pangloss asked the Dervish why people were made.

And the Tweaker-Dervish said, "Welcome to my philosophical hall where all secrets are revealed."

The accent reminds Adam of Lazlo.

Adam-Candide says, “Then explain the evil in the world please.”

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha," the Tweaker-Dervish exhales in a flat and matter-of-fact tone.

"Is that all you can do? Laugh?"

"Were you expecting to know why it is we are filled with meanness that can erupt any time and create endless waves of evil? All because of a single moment's irritation?"

Pangloss chimes in with a direct quote: "I was in hopes," he repeats, "that I should reason with you a little about causes and effects, about the best of possible worlds, the origin of evil, the nature of the soul, and the pre-established harmony."

Tweaker-Dervish replies, "That is for Adam to say. It is too deep for me. I am just Voltaire's Dervish after all."

The dream ends.

Yes, Adam thought. It is for me to say.

Bully Roll

Tuesday morning meant another day of school. The air was very still. The daily walk had commenced. Charlie and Adam were almost at Central Park West. The sky was cloudy, the day windless.

"So what will you do if Slake goes after you again?"

"He won't," Adam said.

"Why wouldn't he?"

"I have a way to stop him. I have a plan."

When the two got to Columbus Avenue, Adam took a quick run to Herbie's.

"Do you have an old sign, something I can write on the back of? I need to make a sign," Adam said, breathing heavily from his running. He forked over money for a box of crayons and took the large ice cream sign Herbie gave him and turned it over and began to write on the back.

Bully Roll

(All Bullies at Parousia -- Must Have Injured At Least One Student)

He wrote the names of the two bullies in his own class that he knew filled the bill.

He rolled the sign up and trotted to Parousia just in time for morning Chapel. He attracted some attention with the roll in his pew. The exterior of the heavy paper cylinder was filled with images of Neapolitans, Mello-rolls, Popsicles and other ice cream-related items. However, no faculty accosted him and he managed to get to the classroom without incident. He slipped the poster between his desk and the window sill and waited for study hall.

Mr. Fairweather was still sitting in. There was no word about Maldbar.

After the study hall started, Adam stood and walked resolutely to the blackboard carrying the rolled up poster. He opened it and held it up so that the text he had written in large letters was visible to every student in the room.

"What is this?" Mr. Fairweather asked, rising from the desk where Maldbar usually sat.

"A Bully Roll, sir," Adam replied as evenly as he could. He felt extremely nervous. "We need to stop the bullying, sir. Teachers and students."

He saw that Slake had risen from his desk. And Robert Adamov was glowering from his seat in the back row.

Fairweather saw Slake. He said to Slake, "Sit down. He said to Adam, "Come with me." He said to the class, "Continue studying." He took the poster from Adam and led him out to the spacious second floor corridor and led him toward the stairs.

"Where are we going?" Adam asked.

"I am not sending you to the Principal's office. But we do need to talk to him."

Within a minute Adam was sitting alone in a large armchair facing a man of indeterminate age and substantial heft. His hair was slicked straight back on a large oval head. He gave the impression of being vastly more muscle than fat. He was conspicuously well-dressed, down to a gold tie pin and initialed gold cuff links.

This was the principal. His name was Dr. E. Barnes Perkins. His desk was completely bare.

"Who are you and what are you holding?" he said in a soft voice.

Fairweather had left Adam there with the poster. He unrolled it and held it up as he had done upstairs.

"Hmm, Slake? I know his parents I think. The other I am not familiar with. I am going to assume that you can honestly say that you have been the victim of bullying by each of these boys. I asked you who you are."

"Panflick, sir. My name is Adam Panflick. And the answer is yes. I have been bullied by both. And tweaked by Mr. Maldbar many times."

"Tweaked?"

"Being grabbed by the hair. He pulls and twists. It is very painful."

"Yes. Very well. Adam Panflick. Do you know why you are here at Parousia?"

"No, sir."

"I thought so. May I tell you why you are here?"

Adam was curious so he nodded.

"You are here to learn the values you should live by. These are the values of our school song. Fight! For fame. For glory. We're about honor here at Parousia, Adam Panflick. Honor and glory. We have just completed the second big war of this century to defeat the true bullies of our world. Have you ever heard of making a mountain out of a mole hill, Adam Panflick? You look fine enough to me." He gestured toward the Bully Roll. "Please give me that."

Adam placed the rolled-up poster on the empty desk. Dr. Perkins lifted it and wordlessly set it down again.

"I am going to ignore your behavior, Adam Panflick. You may go back to your class. That will be all."

Adam stood and turned away. He walked slowly to the door and opened it. He passed the secretary whose face revealed no notice of him. He walked out of the office.

But instead of turning left and going back up the stairs, he turned right. He turned right again. And for the second day in a row, Adam left the premises. Only this time there was no written excuse.

When he got home, there was no one around so he went and sat at Melchezedek’s double desk in the living room. He opened the drawer to get a pad and pencil. He noticed the words Palfrey Manor on an envelope addressed to Mabel and Melchezedek. Adam debated picking it up.

He had recently started to look at his Palfrey Manor experiences as childhood things, things he might be wise to leave behind. If he was uneasy with Jack and Viola being servants in the Panflick household, why would he be homesick for a situation where a plethora of servants was at everyone’s beck and call? They loved him out there. Or did they? He performed for them. He was their amusement. Ah, but they certainly had the life.

The address on the monogrammed envelope and the message inside was written in the bold script of Lady Palfrey.

Adam read:

Dear Mildred and Melchezedek --

Lord Palfrey and I are very concerned about your choice of a school for Adam.

Shock suffused Adam's face. He looked away. Then back at the remainder of the short note.

We hope you will not be offended by the following offer.

We will happily defray all the costs of Adam's primary education if you will send him to Dalton which has the great advantage of having both boys and girls as well as a reputation of being almost the only truly progressive school in the city.

Please understand we value Adam and want him to have every advantage.

With our love and affection, always.

Lady P

March 17, 1945

Adam could not believe his eyes. Here was an unacknowledged two-year-old ticket to a new world, a life line sent by the Palfreys. There was love in this. And respect. And it would have been a life line. But Adam had never been made aware of the offer. He had never been told.

Would acceptance of the offer have motivated him to study? No doubt. Would girls have been there? Yes. In abundance. How he longed for a place with girls.

What could he do? Why would the letter have been placed so obviously if at some level he was not supposed to have learned its contents? But there was nothing to do. The letter was almost exactly two years old, sent when he had been at Parousia over a year. He must have conveyed his displeasure to the Palfreys. They were returning to England so this amounted to a true lifeline.

A school where tweakers would not exist. Nor bullies.

Why had Mabel and Melchezedek hidden this from him? A gift beyond any dream he had ever had. Here he was, stuck in a bully den with boring classes and biased baseball referees.

He knew why and it only made him more upset. The offer was a judgment on the choices the Panflick's had made. And on Adam for not speaking up. In truth he had had no major complaints until the bullies surfaced. His initial years had not been terrible. He could only conclude that his parents had reservations about accepting such an offer. But what were they exactly? What motivation would induce them to subject him to a disaster that might well be turning into a debacle?

He did not know what to do. If he disclosed that he had read the note -- no he must not do that. If he brought the issue of Parousia to a head, the offer was two years old and could not be revived. Then he realized that the Panflicks had probably said no.

What school would consider him now, with his horrendous grades?

Adam felt like a double outlaw and very alone. He needed to get out of the apartment before anyone came in, so he could at least mimic having spent a day at school. He had no idea whether his exit with no excuse would have repercussions. Or if he could or would return tomorrow.

He hustled to the elevator and rode down with Carl who had the good grace to treat his truancy as normal and ask no questions.

He walked toward East End Avenue, past the building where the Church of the Rock minister lived.

His Bully Roll campaign had been a dismal failure. By now the Principal had probably forgotten his confiscation of Adam's weapon. The school would never condone saying who the bullies were and what they did.

As far as the Principal was concerned, Adam was in the wrong. He needed to keep a stiff upper lip and defend his honor if a bully came his way.

In a pig's eye he would. Such honor was stupid. A better honor: Falstaff playing dead on a battlefield. No one is pure; there is no health in us. Falstaff least of all. But there is no point in walking into the jaws of hell for the sake of honor.

Adam had seen Slake's resolute fists reduce him and his classmates to tears. He had no intention of shedding any moiré tears at Parousia.

Crossing East End Avenue, Adam entered Carl Schurz Park. He trotted up the right hand set of broad stone steps at the end of a wide avenue of greenery, bordered by park benches. These steps curved up to a handsome esplanade with sextagonal paving The wide walkway stretched north and south. Watching over it was a standing bronze relief of a walker known, Charles Finley by name. Over a low wrought iron fence flowed the East River. Across it lay large and small islands. On the largest of all – Long Island -- sat Adam's once and fabled home.

Adam walked a few blocks south to the back of Brearley School for Girls. There was a metal mesh enclosure jutting out over the walkway where Brearley girls came out for air. Buzzy was a Brearley girl.

It occurred to Adam that if he could have a moment with Buzzy he would not, by definition, be as alone as he felt. Just then, as if by an act of Providence, a group of girls emerged into the enclosure above him. It was unlikely he could get Buzzy’s attention even if she were to move to the edge of the mesh fencing and look down. But he did hear the noise of a bunch of girls running out into their play area and amazingly enough he caught view of Buzzy staring in his direction. He waved his arms. Buzzy wore her school uniform, including a smart green beret.

She did not go by the name Buzzy at Brearley. So Adam contented himself with a silent gyration. He had no desire to call her real name and possibly embarrass her..

As it happened Buzzy spied him. But her eyes signaled that there should be no contact. They showed concern however. But about what? Adam could read Buzzy’s expressions like a book. But he could not read the one he watched come and go in an instant.

Buzzy turned away from Adam. A few other girls looked down at him with curiosity.

After a few seconds, Adam turned and wandered off in the direction from which he had come. He kept on and on until he reached the north end of the park. Down a slight hill, there was a little house by the water where the river patrol could tie up a boat.

Adam saw an inert form on the concrete pavement to the left of the structure. He drew closer. It was a body. Clothed. Wet. Dark.

There was no one around.

Adam was transfixed. He stood there, a few feet away from the corpse, separated only by a single chain barrier. He could step over it with ease. But he did not move.

"They dragged him from the river," a man said. Adam had not seen the man. He looked official. Maybe part of the river patrol. "It'll be a while before they pick him up."

"Does anyone know who it is?" Adam asked.

"That? You tell me."

The man moved back into the little house.

Adam could not leave. He kept a vigil. No one else appeared and it began to grow colder and darker. He thought he would wait until something happened. An hour passed. Then another. He stood there five feet from the body. Then the man appeared again.

"Still here?" he asked.

Adam nodded.

“They should come for him soon.”

Adam nodded again. The man walked off toward York.

The dead man simply lay there, just as he had when Adam first saw him. Looking down, Adam could not distinguish between his garments and his flesh. It was all a blackened jumble. Inert mush.

But Adam had a distinct feeling. Here was a dead man. But he had lived. He had been alive. He had a past. He was someone. Perhaps only a day ago.

Adam was suddenly very cold. He waited a few more minutes, but still no one came. So he left as well. But he kept looking back until he could no longer see.

Adam walked the neighborhood. He got to the center of Yorkville at Third Avenue, passing the 86th Street Brauhaus and the marzipan shops and the German travel agencies. He walked past several local movie theaters.

He turned into an Automat and invested a few coins in a bologna sandwich on white bread and bought a Coke to wash it down. He sat alone and ate. He relished this. He was typically the only unaccompanied kid in a world of adults. It fit. It made sense. He was who he was.

The clock on the wall said 4:17.

He walked out. He thought of going a few blocks uptown to watch for Melanie again. But by now he could go home and he did not want to risk actually encountering her, making her aware that he was watching. So he turned east and headed for the apartment.

Tonight he would hunker down in his own room, with his radio under the sheets, and listen to Throckmorton P. Gildersleeve speak about his modest and amusing existence.

Already the events of the hours and days just past were receding. Whatever remained, Adam would reckon with tomorrow. This weekend he was going to the country, so there would be no quality time with Buzzy.

Somehow he would need to go back to school. The alternative would involve dealing with his parents. But just now he had neither the will nor the plan to pursue things with Mildred and Melchezedek. Not to mention the difficulty of seeing them even if he did have something to suggest. He was still reeling from the Dalton missive. And he did not know why he had spent hours as he had this afternoon.

Charlie would come in the morning.

That was certain. He remembered an odd phrase from those morning chapels.

Let the dead bury the dead.

And for a moment he was not sure whether he was dead or alive.

10.

Home Fires

Wednesday it rained. Adam and Charlie trudged across the park, saying very little.

At school, Adam was not bothered regarding his absence of the day before.

Mr. Fairweather was still taking the place of Mr. Maldbar. There was no word about the latter.

The school day passed without incident. This was largely because the two main bullies in the class both came up to Adam and indicated they were not going to harm him.

"It's hands off for now," Slake said.

Adam did not ask why. He could only assume that the Principal had given the Bully Roll further consideration and acted somehow to curb their hostile impulses.

Remarkably, neither boy appeared to be acting against their will. It was almost as though they could turn their vicious tendencies off if they decided to.

Adam was relieved but wary. Slake’s “for now” meant it might be a quite temporary peace.

Charlie had not said anything to prepare Adam for the change.

Fairweather was not that different from Maldbar as a teacher. His presentations were boring and at the end of the day, if you had asked Adam what he had learned, he might remember Hannibal’s elephants negotiating the Swiss Alps, but not a whit about equations or Latin conjugations or the temperature of water when it boils.

Adam took the bus home and found that his parents would both be there this evening.

When the Panflicks did have dinner together, it was by candlelight in the dining room. There was a bell under the carpet at Mildred's end of the large rectangular table. She would tap it lightly with her right foot to summon whoever was cooking and serving.

Places were set with cloth napkins and monogrammed silver bearing Mildred's initials.

Adam's brothers sat next to each other on one side, Adam on the other, Mildred at the kitchen end and Melchezedek at the living room end. There were rarely guests. The Panflicks favored city cocktail parties and country weekends. So candlelight suppers were somewhat special. .

Tonight with Melchezedek at hand, the candles were duly lit. One of Adam’s brothers did the honors.

Viola cooked.

For a time Jack did the serving but there was a tacit sense that this was a bit much. Now, when Mildred signaled, Viola came in to serve and clear. She wore a black uniform with white trim.

Adam thought that it was hardly possible to maintain an establishment like Palfrey Manor in a five room apartment. The Panflicks lacked both the presence and the resources of Lord and Lady Palfrey. Adam doubted that servants quite fit their family. He was not sure now whether he would prefer a return to the Palfrey orbit or something else. He did not feel at home in this.

Melchezedek arrived at the table dressed as always in a three piece suit with a conspicuous pocket watch chain visible against his vest and a white handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket. Mildred was dressed as well. She had changed from her street clothes to a handsome blue dress.

"Have a surprise," Melchezedek said.

He pulled a thin colored sheet from his breast pocket and unfolded it. He passed it to Adam. A picture of a car. A convertible car. A Buick. The hood had four little chrome port holes.

"No more Plymouth?" Adam asked, passing the folder to Mildred.

"Oh, it's beautiful," she exclaimed.

"Plymouth is traded in," Melchezedek said.

"Where is this new car?" Adam asked.

"Tudor Garage, just like the Plymouth. It has an automatic shift. Dynaflow. Top model."

"They think I killed my teacher," Adam said.

"Don't be silly, Adam," Mildred said.

"What are you talking about?" Melchezedek asked.

"Never mind," Adam said. "It isn't important. We had a slight argument last week. He hasn't been at school since."

"We would know about it from other sources if it was serious," Melchezedek said.

"We have your reports, Adam," Mildred chimed in. "There is just this immaturity comment that keeps coming up. And of course the grades. It all needs work. You know that. Everybody agrees you could do the work if you put your mind to it."

"We've never had a convertible before," Melchezedek said.

"Can Jack drive it?" Adam asked.

"Absolutely," Melchezedek said.

Mildred pressed the bell.

They had fruit cup for dessert.

Shortly after the dining room doors closed, the phone rang and Mildred picked up the black receiver on the shelf behind Melchezedek's double desk in the living room.

"Hello dear," she said. "Adam? Yes. Very well."

She set down the receiver and said, "Adam, it's for you."

"I'll take it in your room," Adam replied and walked through the foyer and down the long hall.

It was Buzzy.

"Is anyone listening?" she said.

"No."

"Why were you there today?"

"I left school. The Tweaker did not come in this week. A bully accused me of having killed him. I began a campaign against the bullies. The principal said I had the wrong idea. I figured I would get hit. So I Falstaffed out of danger."

"Well Adam, I hope your teacher will be alright, and that you will not get hurt. But I am actually calling about something else. Something difficult to say."

"I thought you were concerned about something when I saw you. What is it?"

"Mother says no more overnights for us."

"What? Impossible!"

"She says we are both growing up fast and it would be inappropriate."

"Really. Hmm."

"We can still talk and do things together, Adam."

"It's not the same," Adam said.

"There is nothing to be done."

"I feel as though I cannot build anything at all in my life without it dying on me."

"Adam!"

"I have bullies telling me that they will get me. My best friend and love says we cannot have sweet overnights any more. I go to a radio program with someone who requires constant attention even to eat a hamburger. I try to talk to M and M and end up being lectured about immaturity and automobiles. I feel closer to a corpse than to most people I know."

"Adam, come over on Saturday. We'll go to the museum."

"Can't. We're going to the country Friday. In our new car."

"Well, all is not lost. I thought you looked sadder today than I have ever seen you."

"I spent the afternoon with a dead man," Adam said.

"What do you mean?"

"There was a dead man they pulled out of the East River laying by the little house where the river patrol boat ties up. I found him there and there was no one there to pick him up or anything. He was just lying there."

"How could you do that? Why?"

Mildred stuck her head in the door and signaled.

"Have to go," Adam said.

"We'll talk," Buzzy replied.

"I'm sure we will. I’m sure we will. Bye."

Adam hung up the phone and looked up from the bed where he sat. His face was filled with sadness. Mildred stood in the doorway.

"You need to get a grip Adam," she said. "I think you ought to go to bed now. Get some rest. I keep wishing you would just be yourself. You really are a very sweet boy."

Adam walked up the hall and down another hall leading toward the kitchen. His little room was off this hall. It had its own sink in one corner and a toilet and half tub in a tiny bathroom.

He got ready for bed and hunkered down with his little radio. He forgot much of what had been happening and lost himself in Fibber McGee and Molly and Duffy's Tavern. He wished it had been The Great Gildersleeve. He needed the equanimity of Throckmorton P. Gildersleeve, He needed something, anything. He did not know what.

Sleep would not come.

He remembered a time before the Palfrey Manor, back on 80th Street.

His parents had entrusted him with a shiny 50 cent piece to go and buy a light bulb around the corner on Third Avenue. He swelled with pride at this act of trust. He rounded the corner and walked with coin in hand in the shadow of the El. As he approached the hardware store, an older boy came up to him. Adam's mood of well-being extended to anyone he met. He felt no twinge of inner warning. The boy was blond. His hair was short. He stood a head taller than Adam. He asked if he could see the coin.

Adam handed it to him. The boy put it in his pocket. Adam said, "Please give me back my fifty cents.".

"What fifty cents?" said the boy? "There's no fifty cents." He walked away.

Adam did nothing. He knew the boy had taken the coin. At the same time, he knew just as certainly that he had no power to get it back.

He had failed. He had been duped. He took it as an act of God. He went home and explained what had happened.

There was no punishment. Only his own self-judgment.

He could not explain it.

It was like many other things in his life. Just something happening. Leaving him alone and at loose ends.

His mind turned to the Plaza Hotel Ballroom. A dancing school. It was much fancier than Miss Harris's place. It was run by Miss Bloss. The band was a bit livelier, the girls a bit more exciting. He was just about to dance with Janice when sleep came.

11. The Tweaker Must Die

Thursday was weird. In a fit of lust to have a sword Adam had lobbied hard to become a member of the Colonial Blues, a snob military drill operation that ran out of the Armory at Park and 65th very close to where Janice lived. Swords were allowed to young men who attained the rank of sergeant. He had attained no such rank yet. In fact he had not a single stripe on his gray uniform, which he duly wore to school.

He met Charlie downstairs and they began their brisk journey westward.

"I've got something to tell you," Charlie said.

"Shoot," Adam replied.

"This is my last day at Parousia," Charlie said, with no discernable trace of emotion. His voice was its usual flat self.

"Good for you," Adam said. "I wish I could join you. Where are you going?"

"PS 6."

"PS 6? Why?"

"We can't afford Parousia and my dad will not ask for a scholarship. He managed to get me into PS 6."

"I'm sorry," Adam said. "I suppose they have bullies there too. I'll miss you. What does your father do?"

"He's looking for a job. He has had trouble working. He was a captain in the navy. He fought in the Pacific."

Adam rehearsed in his mind the grisly facts of a family boat ride. Almost half the family gone. He had never brought himself to ask Charlie how he and his sister and his father had survived.

"Looks like he has another war on his hands," Adam said, looking forward. The morning was windy. Adam loved the cool wind on his face.

"What do you mean?" Charlie said.

"Trying to move along in life," Adam said. "With what happened."

Charlie said nothing. They walked on in silence into the park and along the reservoir. Then Charlie spoke.

"He and I were in the back and when the boat tipped. My older sister was in the middle. He grabbed me and her. He could not see my mother and other sister. The storm came up fast. We were in the middle of the lake. I couldn't swim."

"So he feels guilty and he is having a very hard time."

"Yes. And I do too. We all do."

Adam thought. This would probably be the last time he saw Charlie. He had nothing to offer him. He was through inviting people to Pickinsboro. His best friendship was being ruined by Buzzy's idiot father.

“Charlie, let’s not lose contact,” Adam said. “I’m sure things will get better.”

“I hope so,” Charlie said.

They walked the rest of the way to school in silence.

Fairweather was still the home room teacher but this morning there was news. Maldbar had suffered a serious heart attack and it was not known if he would ever reappear. Adam felt bully eyes drilling through his shoulder blades as Fairweather blandly delivered the message.

Adam remembered the last time he had seen Maldbar. He had, he assumed, helped to precipitate the attack. He had, he was sure, a role in Maldbar's fate. But he felt not a scintilla of guilt.

After the Wendell Episode in the country he had felt the hot anguish of having been massively stupid. And done massively wrong. And when there was no absolution he had sought it in punishment and recovery.

Maldbar had betrayed his profession. Perhaps he was a better teacher than Adam gave him credit for being. Adam separated his learning problem from the bully problem. As a bully, as an abuser, Maldbar stood guilty. Adam had acted and his action had been called for. He felt no guilt. Just the bully eyes of Slate and Adamov.

He stood up and did a half turn so hat he could take in the whole room including Fairweather.

"The tweaker must die," he said.

There was almost a communal gasp.

"I do not mean that Maldbar must die,” Adam went on. Just the tweaker part. And the bully part. Yes, the bully must die as well." Adam looked into the eyes of Slate and saw hostility and curiosity evenly blended. He addressed Slate directly. "There is no way to survive here if you can't do something other than inflict pain. I am sorry. But that’s the truth."

Adam sat down.

Fairweather continued his account of Hannibal’s conquest of Italy, ending with subsequent defeat and the levying of taxes to pay for the whole thing.

After class, Maldbar’s replacement came up to Adam. "The Principal wants to see you."

Adam shrugged. He got up and walked into the hall and made his way down the stairs. He was ushered immediately into the presence of Dr. Perkins. His desk was still bare.

"You apparently picked up a ruler and threatened Mr. Maldbar," the principal said, not bothering even to greet Adam. "Worse than that, you apparently told him he was no teacher and called him a bully."

"I picked up a ruler and pointed to his heart," Adam said. "The man needs a new heart. I told him he should not be a teacher. Yes, I said those things because they are true."

"You know that he is right now hovering between life and death."

"No. I have no information other than that he had a serious heart attack. I know that he reddened more than once in the classroom."

"Reddened?"

"He turned red."

"You are very lucky, Adam Panflick,” Perkins said. “According to Maldbar's doctor, he should have had an operation long ago. Based on this intelligence, and for the good of our school, I have determined to say nothing to anyone regarding your conduct. I trust you will do the same. Nothing to anyone. Mum’s the word, Mr. Panflick. Agreed?"

"If you are telling me I will not tell anybody that I helped to kill or almost kill Mr. Maldbar, certainly. If you are telling me to keep quiet about bullying at Parousia, the answer is no."

For a moment, Adam thought he spied a trace of red moving up the neck of the principal. Dr. Perkins did not answer immediately. Nor did he move. But his eyes changed. He now looked at Adam with what almost seemed like respect. Or possibly it was a look of caution. Regardless, Adam felt a twinge of power within himself.

He waited for the principal to respond. A full thirty seconds passed.

"Fine," Perkins said.

There was more silence. Perkins was looking elsewhere. Adam got up and left the room. There were no goodbyes.

A special meeting had been called, an all-school assembly. It took the place of the normal mid-morning chapel. When Adam walked out of Perkins’ office, he joined others filing into the large room across the hall.

The service began as usual, with upperclassmen stumbling over "'pistles to the 'postles" when trying to read the letters of Paul. And desultory singing of the morning hymn, “Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus.

Stand up, stand up for Jesus, ye soldiers of the cross;
Lift high His royal banner, it must not suffer loss.
From victory unto victory His army shall He lead,
Till every foe is vanquished, and Christ is Lord indeed.

It reminded Adam of the Parousia school song.

After the hymn, something extraordinary occurred.

Upon the raised platform in the front of the assembly there appeared the frail, stooped form of Zoran P. Maldbar. At his side stood Dr. Perkins. The principal spoke from the rostrum.

"I am pleased to say that our beloved Sixth Grade home room teacher, Zoran Maldbar, is recovering nicely from an illness he has had for some time. He still has an extended period of recovery ahead of him, but I anticipate he will be back with us and as good as new in the fall.

“I am also very pleased to say that we have agreed to form a faculty committee to work on the, ah, bully problem. In fact, that is the main reason I have called you together this morning.

"I do not need to tell you that we will not tolerate any bullying whatsoever here at Parousia.

"We shall begin with greater supervision in areas where bullying may occur. We will encourage immediate reporting of bullying incidents. We will regard closed mouths and blind eyes as signs of a lack of manliness and courage.

“Proven bullies will be suspended. If they inflict physical injury, the will face immediate expulsion.

"Very well, you ask, what makes a bully?

“I say two things. Power to inflict physical harm. And anger. I suspect most bullies have some resentment somewhere. . Maybe there’s bullying at home. We are human beings and human beings contain everything from violent impulses to the spirit of holiness and prayer. And everything within us can be turned to some good.

“I am not a doctor. I am the principal of this school. And I am convinced with leadership this problem can be solved. The cycle needs to be broken and we are up to the task. It’s simple enough. No more bullying here at Parousia. No more bullying. Is that understood?

"And one other thing."

Dr. Perkins paused and scanned the assembly until his eyes found those of Adam Panflick. He held Adam’s gaze as he continued.

"There is more than one form of bullying," he said. "It is not only physical. There is just as much power in words as in fists. And those who believe they are superior to bullies who use fists, because they have found ways to use words that can hurt, need to think long and hard about their own responsibilities.

“For, you see, word bullies are doubly hard to catch. And word bullies can and do inflict not merely mental but physical damage. There is a thin line between the power to speak truth, however unpleasant, and the use of language to flail at others, to hurt, to defame, to do harm."

Dr. Perkins paused and turned his gaze from Panflick to Maldbar. The stricken teacher had taken a seat on the platform. Perkins put his hand on Maldbar's shoulder.

"As I indicated, Mr. Maldbar tells me it may be some months until he is able to resume a full schedule But I expect him, as he is able, to participate with us in making Parousia bully-free."

Maldbar did not look as though he would necessarily be around in some months.

Dr. Perkins continued, "Mr. Maldbar assures me he is completely in accord. We will not publish a roll of those who bully others. We will not need to on the basis if the policy I have declared. We will be alert. Soldiers of the cross if you will.”

The organ swelled with the music of benediction.

As Adam walked from the chapel, he heard Slate whisper into his ear, "It's not over yet, Adam Panflick."

Adam walked on and held his tongue.

12.

A Question of Authority

Fortunately, the upcoming dress drill at the Colonial Blues was a green light for Adam and the few others who were members of that august organization. They could leave Parousia at 3:00PM and they did. They shared a taxi down to the Armory on Park Avenue.

Adam was a trifle hot in his uniform. The day itself was unseasonably warm. About the only place the garb made any sense was within the cavernous confines of the Armory itself.

Here, for several months, Adam had dutifully learned to march, halt, present arms, right shoulder arms, left shoulder arms, stand at attention and stand at ease.

Had one asked Adam why he undertook such training, he might have answered because he was curious or because he had a strong impulse one day to have a sword attached to his midriff. The senior Panflicks regarded the entire exercise with suspicion if not veiled scorn. The truth was that Adam wanted to learn the effect of such activities on himself. It was a philosophical enquiry.

The world had just been through a war in which his father had been too old to serve. And Adam much too young. Charlie’s dad had not been too old. Wendell’s dad had gone off on a destroyer in the direction of

Japan

What was war all about? What did it have to do with bullying? Tweaking, for that matter? Was it politics? Was it science?

He knew there must be reasons why the rages between individuals translated into these monstrous events. But he did not know what they were. The only hint his mind would deliver was that there might be another way. Another way to make war. No less courageous than dying on some battlefield. Something in Adam made him feel like a warrior.

The commander of the outfit was a retired Army colonel. Colonel Ansel Hannimon. He was rarely seen. The most visible brass of the Blues were older kids with plumes and swords.

The demeanor of those with plumes on their caps was most certainly what Adam associated with a military ethos. Particularly the tucks of their chins, which were extreme, rendering normal breathing almost impossible. The whole thing looked quite serious.

Were Adam to be a successful cadet, he must first graduate to having a sword. Then would come the plumes. There were various colors of plume denoting higher ranks. The actual nuances escaped Adam. For him a sword was a sword. It would do the trick. Plumes he was less sure about.

In truth, it must be said that Adam had no feelings against, or even qualms about, the Blues.

The older he had become, the less seriously he took anything, save a few friendships, such as with Buzzy. He accepted the terms of the Blues. That is to say, when a young sergeant said, “Forward march”, he would place one foot ahead of the other and maintain pace with five others in his platoon.

He would have preferred that a platoon consisted of five Buzzy's and himself, but one could not have everything.

Likewise, when the sergeant said, “Halt,” he obeyed the command. He was agreeable. That much was true.

At times he was clumsy, particularly with the rifle. There were many orders regarding the rifle. Shifting the weapon from hand to hand. Getting it up on one shoulder or the other. Inevitably there were commands that Adam missed. Or failed to execute with the proper precision.

He might, when presenting arms, place one hand above the other and then the other above the previously higher hand. In the heat of obeying, he had little or no idea which hand was meant to be up or down.

He was told to keep his eyes forward most of the time. So furtive efforts to determine the proper grip by looking to his left or right involved insubordination.

Today's Dress Drill was set for 4:30. Mabel and Melchezedek were coming. They would not remain. Tonight’s calendar: Early cocktails at the Rainbow Room with Texas clients. Dinner at the Stork Club.

The senior Panflicks’ full lives did not mean they did not have the time to keep Adam informed about who they knew or what they did.

In their absence following the drill, Jack would be waiting on Park Avenue to run Adam home. And a "baby sitters" would be present at the apartment to get Adam's brothers to bed and maintain watch until Mabel and Melchezedek returned.

Shouldering his rifle Adam, joined his platoon and marched around the big armory floor, then stood at attention and followed various crisp orders as best he could. He was in the back row, farthest from the reviewing stand. Still he could pick out his nattily-dressed parents among the spectators.

There followed an exhibition by an elite platoon, doing all the things Adam had been trained to do, but with considerable flourish and a somewhat amplified repertoire of twists, twirls and other martial acrobatics.

Adam looked again for his parents. Just as he located them, they stood and moved into the aisle, up some stairs and disappeared. Next stop Rainbow Room.

It was just as well. Adam simply fainted. He fell down unconscious on the wooden floor. There was a brief, mild commotion. But almost all eyes remained on the main action.

Someone came and lifted Adam up and patted his face to see if there was any life. Adam opened his eyes and allowed himself to be slowly walked from the area. He was taken to the front lobby.

Shakily, he stood there trying to get his bearings. Next to him stood the young man who had evidently moved him to where he was.

"Better now?" the fellow asked.

"I think so," Adam said. "Can I get some water?"

"In there," the man said.

He pointed to the door of a lavatory and Adam made his way, gingerly, in that direction. He opened, walked in, and found himself leaning against the sink. He ran cold water running. He splashed it on his face. He felt better. He wiped his face with paper towels.

He leaned against the sink and took a few breaths. He looked at his face in the mirror. If it was green, he could not tell. He had no sense of green in the general spectrum of color.

He was just beginning to establish some sense of contact with himself when he saw in the mirror the impressive form of Colonel Hannimon.

"You're alright I see," the Colonel said. "Good."

Adam did not reply. He collected himself and turned around. He found the back of the sink with his back. He leaned a little.

"You need to get back in there, son," the Colonel said.

Adam looked at the man. He saw someone dressed up as an officer but not someone with any real authority to tell him to do anything. What authority did he have? If this was real, he would have a good deal of authority. But it was not real. So he had none.

"Go back now and join your group," the Colonel said.

"I can't anymore," Adam said. "It was a mistake."

"I told you to go back in. There are no excuses. This is an order."

Adam considered. The man was not going to physically force him to go back in. The man and Adam were alone in a place where Adam did not want to be. The man was trying to order him to do something he would not do. He assumed if he had fainted once, he would do so again and again and again. He assumed he was his body and that reliable messages were always forthcoming from it. He did not like the prospect of following orders inimical to his survival. Or desire. It was simple.

Adam began slowly moving toward the Colonel, taking little steps. He was still not sure he would not drop again right then and there. But he felt another energy coming into him. It was the energy of no. The energy of refusal. The energy of choice. It was a small thing. But it was a big thing too. The Colonel's commands were a form of bullying. Adam was already against the Maldbars and Slakes and Adamovs of the world. Now he would be against the unhealthiness of swords, rifles, stripes and plumes.

The Colonel moved to let Adam by. "That's right," he said.

Adam walked back into the dark lobby of the Armory and then stopped. He was not going to obey. He was going to leave and never come back. He was going to get out. This was not as grasping a place as Parousia. It was a play place. It was stupid. Children playing at being soldiers. But there was serious undertow. War. If not now, later.

Well, Adam believed in war. And in being a soldier. But his war would not be killing one. It would be a war against killing. Against commands that made no sense.

Taking life was entirely wrong. It mattered not whose. It was stupid. It was failure. People who killed in wars did so because they took silly commands like this. It was like South Pacific. You have to be taught. Only Adam refused the lesson.

The Colonel now stood to Adam's left. They were side by side, not facing.

"Go ahead now," the Colonel said. The door into the drill area was steps away to the left. The street door was steps away on the right.

"You have no authority over me," Adam said softly. Looking straight ahead.

The Colonel turned his head and looked down on Adam. Adam looked up at the Colonel. Adam saw incredulity. Adam saw disbelief. Adam saw speechlessness. He walked forward and turned right. He walked out of the Armory, never to return.

13.

Jack

Adam was flooded with relief when he emerged.

For a moment he was seized with anxiety because the familiar white Plymouth was nowhere to be seen. But then he caught sight of Jack, sporting a new black chauffeur's cap. Jack sat, smiling broadly, in the Panflick family's spanking new Buick Roadmaster convertible. The top was down. Jack gave the idling engine a welcoming rev.

Adam ran up and got in on the passenger side. They made 86^thStreet in one light.

Instead of turning right, Jack kept on going. The first red light was on 90th.

“Where are we headed?” Adam asked.

“Harlem,” Jack said.

The light changed and Jack proceeded at a slower than usual pace. Park Avenue went down an incline at 96^th Street and entered Harlem. Jack drove the big Buick to 116^th and turned left. He drove two long blocks and turned right on Morningside Avenue. He pulled to a stop in front of a church across the street from a wooded park that rose steeply to Morningside Heights.

Next to the church was a building called Morningside Community Center.

"Viola thinks you are colorblind," Jack said.

"I am," Adam replied. "Red green. Can't always see them."

"She means black and white."

Adam considered this. Jack was completely serious. Much of the time he didn’t seem serious.

"I guess so," Adam said. "If you mean I think about that, I don't. I can. There is no health in any of us. We are all the same."

"I think you're very smart,” Jack said. “Not the way your daddy's smart. Or your mommy. She's smart too. You have something they don't have, Adam."

Adam looked at Jack and waited.

"Follow your light, Adam," Jack said. "Don't let anybody stop you."

This was a lot different than Mildred telling him to be himself. Or the Colonel telling him to obey orders. Or the Principal telling him to keep silent about bullying.

Adam looked forward. He saw some kids his own age walking toward him. They looked at Adam and Jack and the car with mild curiosity but kept on their way and turned into the center.

Jack said: "I want you to know this church. It's called the Church of the Master. The minister is a man we call Reverend Jim. Reverend Jim is a great man."

Jack had turned the big car’s engine off. He turned it on again. Just as he did, a man who looked to Adam like the absolute reverse of the Tweaker save that he had the same body type and similarly little hair on his head, emerged from the church and walked toward the car. He was wearing a gray sweater over a shirt with a striped tie. He was smiling.
He held out his hand to Adam. They shook.
”I’m Jim Robinson,” he said. “I’ve been the minister here since 1938. We’re a neighborhood church. We had ten when I started. Now we have many, many more. And the Center. How are you, Jack?”
“Can’t complain, Reverend. Adam is the boy I told you about.”
“I remember. Can I tell you a story, Adam? It's short. It’s about how prophets are born. There are two steps.”
“Bible prophets?” Adam asked.
“Yes,” the Reverend said. He had a pipe and what seemed like an air of perpetual amusement. Adam watched as he tamped down the tobacco. He lit it with a kitchen match. Adam saw Jack Benny in him. And maybe a Bible prophet also.
“My favorite prophet lived years ago. Before Jesus. After Moses. Between when we knew right from wrong and the time when we realized that knowing that wasn’t enough.”
Adam looked at the Reverend. He seemed neither young nor old.
“Listen.” The Reverend said. He pulled out a small Bible. He found a blue ribbon marker. He pulled on it and the book opened to the page he wanted to read from. He read:
“In the year that king Uzziah died I saw also the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up, and his train filled the temple. Above it stood the seraphims: each one had six wings; with twain -- that means two -- he covered his face, and with twain he covered his feet, and with twain he did fly. And one cried unto another, and said, Holy, holy, holy, is the LORD of hosts: the whole earth is full of his glory. And the posts of the door moved at the voice of him that cried, and the house was filled with smoke. Then said I, Woe is me! for I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips: for mine eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts. Then flew one of the seraphims unto me, having a live coal in his hand, which he had taken with the tongs from off the altar: And he laid it upon my mouth, and said, Lo, this hath touched thy lips; and thine iniquity -- that means wrong-doing, Adam -- is taken away, and thy sin – that means what you did and your guilt over it -- purged. Also I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then said I, Here am I; send me. And he said, Go, and tell this people, Hear ye indeed, but understand not; and see ye indeed, but perceive not. Make the heart of this people fat, and make their ears heavy, and shut their eyes; lest they see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and understand with their heart, and convert, and be healed.”
Adam listened carefully and said nothing.
Reverend Jim said: “It's simple. Do you know what sarcasm is, Adam?"
Adam nodded.
"God is being sarcastic. God knows that the world is full of his glory. God knows that most of us never see it. God knows that people don't see or hear or understand. Because if they did, they would turn around -- that means repent -- or convert -- and then they would be healed. A church is a community of people who have been healed. It's a way to repent and be healed all the time."
"My minister says it isn't working," Adam said.
"Who is your minister Adam?"
"Dr. Jones. His church is a mile from here."

"He's right," the Reverend replied. "A community of the healed reaches out to heal others. To break through the sarcasm. That's why I started this center."

“There is no health in us,” Adam said.
The Reverend laughed. The Reverend clapped his hands. “Jack,” he laughed. “My, my. The good news is also that God is nearby. In fact the whole world is full if his glory. There is no health in us. But with repentance our eyes can open and we can be changed.”
“And healed,” Jack said.
“Yes, Jack,” said the Reverend. “Healed. Whole. Everything can be alright on this earth. Where we are. We can even learn how to behave. Sometimes the environment of helping others first can create repentance. We spend a good deal of time trying to create that environment.”
A remarkable looking boy came up the street and nodded to the Reverend. Adam had never seen such big eyes.
“This is Boyd,” the Reverend said. “Boyd, this is Adam and Jack.”
The next thing Adam saw was a smile he would never forget. A smile beyond greeting. A smile beyond politeness. A holy smile. Adam had never seen a person whose beauty was so palpable and to whom he was more drawn.
“Yeah,” Boyd breathed. More like breath than words.
“Boyd understands,” the Reverend said. “Come with me for a minute, Adam, please."
Adam got out. He walked with the Reverend and Boyd through the door of the Morningside Center.
Inside, there was little to distinguish it from the area at Parousia where kids got ready for gym. And from the gym itself. There was a big space and rooms to the front and sides. In the big space, kids stood in clusters. Some were tossing a basketball. Others were talking. And in the far corner a group sang.
Boyd and the reverend stayed close to Adam.
The Reverend put his hand on Adam's shoulder. "Anyone who cares about moving the world some has a home here," he said. "I want you to know that. You can make this your home."
Adam looked at Boyd. "Do you live near here?"
Boyd nodded.
Adam looked out at some thirty kids doing one thing and another. He listened to the singing. He listened to the harmony.
The Reverend's hand moved on his shoulder. "I just wanted you to see," he said. "Now let's get you back home."
"Goodbye Boyd," Adam said.
"Yeah," Boyd said and smiled.
The Reverend and Adam walked out to the car and shook hands again.
Jack fired up the Buick and drove Adam back to 86^th Street. .

It was only as he was going up in the elevator that Adam remembered he was still wearing his uniform. Everything that had happened with Jack was like day compared to the night he had undergone with the nearly-forgotten Colonial Blues.

14.

“I Fought the Devil and Won”

Adam was glad it was once again Friday. He thought of exposing his awareness of the Dalton letter to his parents and requesting a change of schools, but he kept butting against the same grim realization. His wretched performance, no matter how agile his mind might be, would never suffice to make such a change possible. And the letter was two years old.

He might not be able to keep up at Dalton, even if he was interested. Maybe, he thought, there is something wrong with my mind. It thinks but it has severe resistances.

Adam could not stomach arithmetic. He could not comprehend the intricacies of science. He accepted things he could not understand. He recognized the value of fluency in a language. He knew the utility of having a vocabulary. He had language naturally. He could learn best by reading on his own. He could learn by talking if there was someone to talk to.

He looked down the block for Charlie, but then he remembered there would be no Charlie today. He saw a stormy lake and Charlie’s own face etched with the deathly images his once and former walking partner would live with all his life.

For a moment, Adam debated walking up to the corner in front of the Corn Exchange Bank and taking the cross-town bus. He started in that direction. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a man’s voice.

"Adam, can I join you?"

It was Dr. Jones.

"Sure," Adam said.

"On your way to school?"

"Yep."

”Do you like it? School?”

“No.”

“Jesus was a teacher. Can you imagine what he would think of your school?”

“I doubt he would be happy about the bullying.”

"Why bullying?"

"I have had a week of bully problems," Adam said.

“I think Jesus would say bullies are doomed."

“I agree. What is the solution?”

“I hardly speak for Jesus but I’ll speak for myself.”

Adam waited. But Jones did not speak for a several seconds. Then he said:

“Living in this world is what matters. Jesus taught a way of living. His church does not live by the way he taught.”

”You can say that where you are,” Adam responded.

“Sure. And I do. But the odds against it getting through are huge. People hear what they want to hear. But let’s talk about you. What are you concerned about?”

“Bullies. Violence. Conflict. If Jesus had known Falstaff, I think Falstaff might have saved his life.”

"Go on," Jones said.

"Falstaff takes honor out of the picture. Honor is what makes the world that you say is dying hold together. It is based on war and battles and conflicts. Falstaff says other things are more important."

They walked on in silence. When they came to Park Avenue, Adam assumed Jones would say goodbye and walk up to the church. But Jones said, “Do you mind if I tag along?”

“Not at all,” Adam replied. "I walk through the park by the Reservoir."

They headed west.

“Was your father in the service?” Jones asked.

“No,” Adam said.

“Neither was I,” said Jones. “Neither were most of our members. In fact we lost almost very few. What does that suggest to you, Adam?”

“Privilege?”

“Yes. You spoke of Falstaff. I want to say something about Jesus."

Jones stopped. Adam did as well. They faced one another on the corner of Madison.

“I think Jesus was all about making peace,” Jones said. “The church I serve and the school you go to are both part of the world he came to save. And the honor you are talking about is part of it. I think honor is about preserving life and making peace."

“Did Jesus believe it was OK to run from conflict, or play dead, to save your life?”

“Adam, I have no idea what Jesus believed about that. I know what some people say he said. Thy will be done. Die for your brother. Don’t kill. Blessed are peacemakers. Take your choice. I don’t know. There’s an old saying about working out your own salvation in fear and trembling.”

“What do you believe?” Adam said.

They were crossing Fifth Avenue now, approaching the Park entrance.

“I believe Jesus fought the devil and won. He won by showing that there is nothing outside of us that prevents us from – from working out our salvation. I believe the most precious thing we have is an inviolable center of freedom in each of us. A core of spirit. A core where conscience can live and breathe. This is the same thing as saying God is in each of us. And that abusing and mistreating – bullying -- is for Jesus the very worst of sins. Nearly unforgivable if we are to believe what he said about sinning against the Holy Spirit.”

“I fought the devil and won too,” Adam said.

They walked into the park.

“How did you do that?” Jones asked.

“I stole. I destroyed property. I knew what I was doing. I struggled with it. Then I stopped. Part of it was no longer letting things outside of me control me. Like people. Like having that freedom you were talking about and being responsible.”

They came to the reservoir and walked in silence for a minute or two.

“I have all girls, Adam,” Jones said. “To tell the truth, I believe Jesus abolished blood. He placed less emphasis on blood ties than we do. So Adam, if you ever you need someone to talk to, I’m available."

Adam did not answer him. He kept his eyes forward. He realized he starting to cry. He felt Jones’ hand on his shoulder, this time squeezing lightly, just for a moment, and then lifting.

They walked on, again not speaking. Jones broke the silence.

“I think the world is dying,” he said. “I think Jesus offered a way out. Make courage and honor what you do to stop the world from dying."

"I made a Bully Roll,” Adam said. “Nothing much. Just naming the problem. But it seems to have worked. The Principal acted.”

“I think you will have more success than I will,” Jones said.

15.

Smack You Down

They were drawing close to Parousia. Across from the school stood borderline tenements, brownstones occupied by persons who were not well off. On the stoops of these buildings, Irish kids would sit, regarding the passage of privileged Parousia students, but rarely creating a conflict.

This morning there was another threat from across the street.

Jones had stuck with Adam through the turn onto the Parousia block. It was clear this would not be their last time together. He bid Adam farewell. And Adam, inhaling a happy breath, continued on. Here was someone with whom he could actually talk.

The other threat materialized in the form of Slake and Adamov.

The street was, at that moment, empty. No bus was disgorging students. There were no other pedestrians.

For Adam, this was not a propitious moment for a Falstaff ploy.

Slake walked up to Adam and stood, Tweaker-like, a few inches from his face. The boys were the same size and eye to eye.

“Hit me, I dare you,” Slake said.

“Why?” Adam asked.

“So I can smack you down,” Slake answered.

Adam estimated that he might be able to run into the street around the two bullies and get to the entrance of the school, but he did not move.

Adamov stepped forward grabbed the front of Adam’s windbreaker and pulled him so their faces were an inch apart.

“I should think only one of you would be needed to smack me down,” Adam said. “However, if you attended chapel yesterday, you know that the opportunities for bullying are declining, which is probably why you are here and not inside.”

Instantly Adamov's grip relaxed. Now neither boy was looking at him. They looked past him. It was Jones returning.

The minister walked up quickly and stood between the trio of boys and the street. Adam thanked the deity that Jones was not rigged up in clerical garb. He looked like a normal adult. Bigger, thankfully, than present company, but otherwise normal.

“What’s up?” Jones said.

“Nothing,” said Slake.

“These are the first names on my Bully Roll,” Adam said. “You get on the Bully Roll by inflicting physical violence and causing injury. These are the bullies in my class.”

“Do you boys inflict injury?” Jones asked his eyes on Slake.

“No,” Slake replied. “We fight. It’s their problem if they can’t defend themselves.”

“That’s not how I understand it,” Jones said. “My understanding is that you pick fights. And that you do it with people you know you can hurt.”

Slake did not take his eyes off Jones, but he did not respond.

“I have to go to school,” Adam said.

“I have to go to work,” Jones said. His eyes moved between Slake and Adamov.

“Look," he said. "Bullying is stupid. And it can be ended very simply. Find something else to fight. Look inside yourself and figure what you want to be. Look for some life inside you. Grab onto it. Grab onto it with all the energy you put into fighting. You may escape the consequences of bullying. You were bullied some way I bet. Break free.”

Adam walked away from the group toward the school entrance.

He did not look back. If he had he would have seen that the trio he had left was still in place. Talking.

16.

Roadmaster

This Friday Adam got out of school after lunch and joined his younger brothers on the sidewalk. Within minutes, the bright red Buick Roadmaster convertible came into view. The three boys piled into the back. The top was down. And soon the Panflicks were on the West Side Highway, heading toward Hawthorne Circle. Pickinsboro was a good four hours north and they would have no break until the Route 23 turnoff near Hudson, NY.

There had been no smacking down that day. Slake and Adamov had avoided Adam and he them. Fairweather was in charge and it appeared he would become Maldbar’s replacement. Whatever happened with Maldbar, Adam believed that the days of tweaking were past. Some bullying might continue. He doubted Jones had convinced Slake and Adamov, though he was very happy that he showed up. Yesterday's statement by the Principal chapel statement had force. The school had never heard such words.

Adam actually looked forward to getting to the Pickinsboro house. It was new, though made from old boards. It had the appearance of having been around for years. The Panflicks had built it during the war.

Adam had a room of his own that was substantially larger than his city room. In it was a record player and a small guitar he was just learning to play. The Panflicks were partial to music that Adam himself liked. The songs of Burl Ives, Josh White, Marais and Miranda, Danny Kaye; music from Broadway shows Adam had seen with his parents. Annie Get Your Gun and Show Boat were his favorites. Too bad there was no music from Harvey.

Adam felt the powerful car grabbing the road with its brand new tires.

From war footing to peace. From a Plymouth to a Buick. He could see prosperity growing as he was growing. He could feel it.

Was this the fatness and blindness that Reverend Jim had spoken of. Or part of the glory of the Lord?

Jones was right. The Church of the Rock was a nice social club and the music was fun. But it had nothing to do with what the prophet was talking about, or what was in the prayer of confession. The something different that Reverend Robinson was talking about was righteousness. Was Reverend Jim a prophet? Adam thought so. And he knew enough about Jack to understand why Jack had given him the gift of an introduction.

A world of Hitler's and Tojo's , atomic bombs and what Josh White talked about in the song "Strange Fruit". The world needed an army of prophets.

Even the small world of Pickinsboro needed to change.

The very worst humiliation he suffered was at Christmas when it was time to deliver baskets of this and that to the less fortunate down the hill and down the road. He had done it once and then refused to do it ever again.

He was an adult now. In less than two months he would be 11. Somehow he would negotiate the waters of Parousia, accommodate some to the needs of the school. It would be better without Maldbar. And with the bullies at bay.

Never again could he lie in an ecstatic union in the same room with his best friend Buzzy. Talking through the night. The sex that he had been told was necessary for making babies must be a good deal more than that. Maybe it was tawdry. Maybe it was ecstatic. As far as Adam could see, it was a stupid reason not to be able to be with his best friend. Perhaps when they were adults by the world's warped standards, they could be together that way again. What could be a better way than that? But he knew: They would never lose what they had had but they might never regain it either. Oh, he hoped they would. Would that not be a supreme pleasure?

Adam was excited by the whir of the big car. They had put the top up for warmth and the darkness was falling.

Maybe someday he would get his own car and he would become a Roadmaster. And find other girl friends that would listen to his stories and lie down with him through the night.

And maybe too, just in the welter of the week past, he had found a way to make up for the blank he felt in dealing with his parents.

Melchezedek and Mildred Panflick had their points. They also had their own busy lives, lives that in many respects did not intersect with Adam’s. He had no taste for artifacts and antiques. He had no interest in property. The country was bugs and four legged things bothering him or scaring him or otherwise telling him that his city world was not the only world.

He detested city cocktail parties almost as much has he detested the cackling gossip that emanated from the front porch of the Pickinsboro Country Club, led by the likes of Wendell’s mother, lost in an afternoon’s alcoholic haze.

In Dr. Jones and also in Jack and his friend Reverend Jim, he had the barest hint of another world. A world more tuned to the strains within him than he had yet touched. Perhaps he had received a false start at Palfrey Manor. The fast crowd there had had glimpsed light an Adam but they had made of it something unreal, an entertainment. What Jack had said, what Reverend Jim had showed him, what Dr. Jones had offered, all these had a solidity that felt right. A pathway he might well travel.

If he had any mission it was not one of peace. Peace was insipid or transitory, depending. His mission was the avoidance of mayhem, murder, violence, attack, idiocy, ill decisions that led to catastrophe. It was something like reason combined with a courage that had nothing to do with the honor Falstaff had so roundly skewered. Maybe there would be honors for people who stood against death, bullying and the like. .

The Roadmaster ate up the miles. It grew dark. They were at the end of the Taconic and on Route 22. Then they cut over to Route 7 and crossed into Vermont at Pownal.

Adam knew something else as he held his fingers to the wondrous wind as the car flew along. He knew he would have access to most everything, just as he had mastered the back elevators and corridors of the RCA building to gain entry to virtually any studio in the entire complex. No one would know about this. It would be the secret he could easily keep because it really was secret.

Adam agreed with Jones.

Jones had said what Adam himself thought. There is no health in us. So work things out in fear and trembling. And hope to have some friends.

Walking downtown on a Manhattan Street one day, Adam had taken to looking into the eyes of those he passed. There he could see the light. The life. The tiny spark he and Jones understood to be the very truth of God inside each living person.

It was there in everyone if one knew how to look and what to look for.

Life was filled with chances to learn from human beings. Almost like books.

Adam looked at his two brothers. Practically nameless to him. Born too late perhaps. Lovely boys. Different than him.

Even Wendell, so very different too, might be lovely someday. But he would need to escape the vitriol of his own household. To shake dust from his feet and get far away and free.

When Adam tried to look within himself, he found he was looking outward. He felt whole. He opened the window an inch. He felt blessed wind on his face. While he was in many senses destined to be alone, he also felt for the first time that there might be a community out there for him.

And he knew he could not feel any better than that.