again," I wished I was over at Mrs. Harleigh's. But I knew grownups had a habit of forgetting things they had promised, things important to children, and I decided she, for all her specialness, must be no different from the rest.
And she hadn't even paid me for doing her shoveling!
In addition to my weaselly thoughts regarding the lady across the Green, I was consumed by boyish curiosity about the red-haired man. Once, when the sun was going down and the tree trunks stretched long blue shadows across the snow, I saw a figure hurrying in the direction of the brick house: a man in an overcoat, the collar turned up, his hatless head bent against the wind. Sitting at the worktable in the sleeping porch where I was building an airplane model of Wiley Post's
Winnie Mae
, I decided it was the sinister Mr. Ott returning, but the man continued past the house and disappeared in the gloom beyond the streetlight.
Another evening I saw the carriage lamps come on. The door opened and someone slipped out. I recognized it at once: the fur coat, the little fur hat, and boots. Mrs. Harleigh came down the walk and stepped onto the roadway, her hands buried in her pockets. For half an hour I sat at the table, chin cupped in my hands, my plane model forgotten, watching her slow progress around the Green. Passing our house, she did not glance up at my window as I hoped she might, but continued her solitary circuit until who should come plopping along through the snow but Rabbit Hornaday. The Green-Eyed Monster dwelt in my breast as I saw her stop and talk, pulling his dirty little cap down over his ears and doing up the top button of his windbreaker. Me she wouldn't look at, but Rabbit Hornaday got a pat and a chuck under the chin and a wave before he plopped off through the snow again.
How I hated Rabbit Hornaday!
Hated her, as well. But then the time came when I almost stopped thinking of her, and of her mysterious visitor. I even stopped hating Rabbit Hornaday. The river was frozen and we couldn't think about anything except skating.
After school we would hurry home to get our skates from the back porch and make our way down through the snowy fields behind Mrs. Harleigh's house to the Cove. Out on the ice a hockey game would already be in progress and around it red and blue jacketed figures would speed by, scarves flying, sprays of ice shooting up from the tips of the flashing blades. And you could depend on it, there would be dumb four-eyes Rabbit Hornaday, sliding around on the soles of his shoes and cutting in everyone's way. Secretly I gloated that he didn't own skates.
Rabbit Hornaday was a curious case. He lived up by the railroad tracks near the Rose Rock soda-pop works. His sister Dora "wasn't all there," and she and Rabbit had come to town to stay with their aunt, after their mother, having fallen in with some reprehensible characters who involved her in an illicit bootlegging scheme, was sent to the women's correctional institution at Middlehaven. Rabbit showed off by eating worms, alive or dead, but that wasn't why he was called the Scourge of Pequot Landing. The very day he arrived, he spent the afternoon trampling down every flower bed along Main Street, unscrewing the plug on the fire hydrant in front of the Spragues' house, and opening Colonel Blatchley's rabbit hutch to commit mayhem on several of the Colonel's prize Belgian hares. It was not difficult to imagine how Harold Hornaday was instantly rechristened Rabbit, nor how he earned the undying contempt of every kid in that part of town.
On the riverbank there was always a fire burning, a great heap of scavenged rubber tires which sent up clouds of smelly black smoke, but whose warmth was comforting as the sun started to sink. When it got too dark to see, we would hang our skates over our shoulders and hike back up the windy hill to the Green, where Nonnie would have supper waiting to be put on the table by the time Ma got off the streetcar from the Sunbeam Laundry.
And she hadn't even paid me for doing her shoveling!
In addition to my weaselly thoughts regarding the lady across the Green, I was consumed by boyish curiosity about the red-haired man. Once, when the sun was going down and the tree trunks stretched long blue shadows across the snow, I saw a figure hurrying in the direction of the brick house: a man in an overcoat, the collar turned up, his hatless head bent against the wind. Sitting at the worktable in the sleeping porch where I was building an airplane model of Wiley Post's
Winnie Mae
, I decided it was the sinister Mr. Ott returning, but the man continued past the house and disappeared in the gloom beyond the streetlight.
Another evening I saw the carriage lamps come on. The door opened and someone slipped out. I recognized it at once: the fur coat, the little fur hat, and boots. Mrs. Harleigh came down the walk and stepped onto the roadway, her hands buried in her pockets. For half an hour I sat at the table, chin cupped in my hands, my plane model forgotten, watching her slow progress around the Green. Passing our house, she did not glance up at my window as I hoped she might, but continued her solitary circuit until who should come plopping along through the snow but Rabbit Hornaday. The Green-Eyed Monster dwelt in my breast as I saw her stop and talk, pulling his dirty little cap down over his ears and doing up the top button of his windbreaker. Me she wouldn't look at, but Rabbit Hornaday got a pat and a chuck under the chin and a wave before he plopped off through the snow again.
How I hated Rabbit Hornaday!
Hated her, as well. But then the time came when I almost stopped thinking of her, and of her mysterious visitor. I even stopped hating Rabbit Hornaday. The river was frozen and we couldn't think about anything except skating.
After school we would hurry home to get our skates from the back porch and make our way down through the snowy fields behind Mrs. Harleigh's house to the Cove. Out on the ice a hockey game would already be in progress and around it red and blue jacketed figures would speed by, scarves flying, sprays of ice shooting up from the tips of the flashing blades. And you could depend on it, there would be dumb four-eyes Rabbit Hornaday, sliding around on the soles of his shoes and cutting in everyone's way. Secretly I gloated that he didn't own skates.
Rabbit Hornaday was a curious case. He lived up by the railroad tracks near the Rose Rock soda-pop works. His sister Dora "wasn't all there," and she and Rabbit had come to town to stay with their aunt, after their mother, having fallen in with some reprehensible characters who involved her in an illicit bootlegging scheme, was sent to the women's correctional institution at Middlehaven. Rabbit showed off by eating worms, alive or dead, but that wasn't why he was called the Scourge of Pequot Landing. The very day he arrived, he spent the afternoon trampling down every flower bed along Main Street, unscrewing the plug on the fire hydrant in front of the Spragues' house, and opening Colonel Blatchley's rabbit hutch to commit mayhem on several of the Colonel's prize Belgian hares. It was not difficult to imagine how Harold Hornaday was instantly rechristened Rabbit, nor how he earned the undying contempt of every kid in that part of town.
On the riverbank there was always a fire burning, a great heap of scavenged rubber tires which sent up clouds of smelly black smoke, but whose warmth was comforting as the sun started to sink. When it got too dark to see, we would hang our skates over our shoulders and hike back up the windy hill to the Green, where Nonnie would have supper waiting to be put on the table by the time Ma got off the streetcar from the Sunbeam Laundry.
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