Life Among the Savages Read Online Free PDF Page A

“He gave the crayons around and he picked up the books afterward and the teacher said he was her helper.”
    â€œWhat happened?” I asked incredulously.
    â€œHe was her helper, that’s all,” Laurie said, and shrugged.
    â€œCan this be true, about Charles?” I asked my husband that night. “Can something like this happen?”
    â€œWait and see,” my husband said cynically. “When you’ve got a Charles to deal with, this may mean he’s only plotting.”
    He seemed to be wrong. For over a week Charles was the teacher’s helper; each day he handed things out and he picked things up; no one had to stay after school.
    â€œThe P.-T.A. meeting’s next week again,” I told my husband one evening. “I’m going to find Charles’ mother there.”
    â€œAsk her what happened to Charles,” my husband said. “I’d like to know.”
    â€œI’d like to know myself,” I said.
    On Friday of that week things were back to normal. “You know what Charles did today?” Laurie demanded at the lunch table, in a voice slightly awed. “He told a little girl to say a word and she said it and the teacher washed her mouth out with soap and Charles laughed.”
    â€œWhat word?” his father asked unwisely, and Laurie said, “I’ll have to whisper it to you, it’s so bad.” He got down off his chair and went around to his father. His father bent his head down and Laurie whispered joyfully. His father’s eyes widened.
    â€œDid Charles tell the little girl to say that?” he asked respectfully.
    â€œShe said it twice,” Laurie said. “Charles told her to say it twice. ”
    â€œWhat happened to Charles?” my husband asked.
    â€œNothing,” Laurie said. “He was passing out the crayons.”
    Monday morning Charles abandoned the little girl and said the evil word himself three or four times, getting his mouth washed out with soap each time. He also threw chalk.
    My husband came to the door with me that evening as I set out for the P.-T.A. meeting. “Invite her over for a cup of tea after the meeting,” he said. “I want to get a look at her.”
    â€œIf only she’s there,” I said prayerfully.
    â€œShe’ll be there,” my husband said. “I don’t see how they could hold a P.-T.A. meeting without Charles’ mother.”
    At the meeting I sat restlessly, scanning each comfortable matronly face, trying to determine which one hid the secret of Charles. None of them looked to me haggard enough. No one stood up in the meeting and apologized for the way her son had been acting. No one mentioned Charles.
    After the meeting I identified and sought out Laurie’s kindergarten teacher. She had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of chocolate cake; I had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of marshmallow cake. We maneuvered up to one another cautiously and smiled.
    â€œI’ve been so anxious to meet you,” I said. “I’m Laurie’s mother.”
    â€œWe’re all so interested in Laurie,” she said.
    â€œWell, he certainly likes kindergarten,” I said. “He talks about it all the time.”
    â€œWe had a little trouble adjusting, the first week or so,” she said primly, “but now he’s a fine little helper. With lapses, of course.”
    â€œLaurie usually adjusts very quickly,” I said. “I suppose this time it’s Charles’ influence.”
    â€œCharles? ”
    â€œYes,” I said, laughing, “you must have your hands full in that kindergarten, with Charles.”
    â€œCharles?” she said. “We don’t have any Charles in the kindergarten.”
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    IT WAS SOON after this meeting—the whole question of Charles having somehow dissipated and become without discussion a forbidden topic—that my husband, moved by some obscure