stared up at the underside of Mama and Papa’s bed. The bed was much more interesting from the underside than from the top. It was like his own house under there, dark and shady, and he could look at things that fascinated him. For example, the legs of the bed had feet that looked like upside-down muffins, and above those, spirals—the back feet spiraled one way, and the front feet spiraled the other way, just like the spirals on the stair banister, one way, then the other way, up the stairs. The wood of the bed, which Frank also liked, was smooth and reddish, and on every side there were pegs sticking out. The best part of the bed from underneath were the ropesthat ran back and forth, making squares. Frank liked to slide his finger along the ropes, outlining the squares, but he never put his finger between a rope and the heavy thing above it, because he had done that once and gotten his finger stuck, and it had hurt to pull it out.
There were no toys under the bed—that wasn’t why he liked it. Why he liked it was that there wasn’t anything under the bed—no chickens, no Joey, no Eloise, no sheep, no “no”s. He could lie under the bed and not be told anything at all. It was so quiet under the bed that sometimes he had a nap. Mama didn’t mind him going under the bed—more than once she had said, “Well, you can’t get into any trouble down there, at least.” Eloise would sometimes come to the side of the bed and throw the quilt up and shout, “Boo! I see you!” and that made them both laugh, especially since he knew she was coming because her feet showed below the edge of the quilt.
But Papa didn’t like him under the bed, and if Papa had told him not to go under the bed, then Papa would be very angry if he found Frank under the bed. And today was a Sunday, and they were going to go in the buggy to Granny’s for Sunday supper, and Frank was wearing good clothes—clean pants and clean shirt. He had been told to stay downstairs and not go under the bed, and as soon as he was alone, he did the very thing he was told not to do.
It was beyond Frank to understand why he sometimes did the very thing he was told not to do. It seemed like once they told him not to do it—once they said it and put it in his mind—then what else was there to do? It was like smacking Joey. “Don’t hit your brother. Don’t ever hit your brother, do you understand? If I catch you hitting your brother, then I will whip you, do you understand?”
But what was hitting? Sometimes, when Joey was walking along, all you had to do was touch him and he fell down and cried. Other times, a good wallop had no effect. If there was anything Frank liked, it was trying things out. Joey was the most interesting person to try things out on, especially considering that the cat always ran away, even when Mama was not saying that the cat was dirty and shooing him out of the house. It was obvious to Frank that if you had something in your hand, no matter what it was, you had to employ it. If it was a rock, then you had to scrape it on the ground or on a wall. If it was a fork, you had to poke it into your egg or into the table or into Joey. If it was a stick, you had to hit something with it. If it wasa screwdriver, you had to turn a screw, and Papa had shown him how to do that. At Christmas, Mama had given him a box of eight colors (blue, green, brack, brow, vilet, ornge, red, yellooooooo) and a book to color in, but he had to try it on the table and the rug and the floor and the wall and his own skin. Only the wall was really bad—he got a whipping for the wall—but they laughed at the ornge on his legs.
Here came the call: “Frankie? Frankie, I don’t see you! Where are you?” He didn’t say a word. And then her shoes appeared, and then the quilt flew up, and then she was dragging him out by his arm and standing him up and slapping her hand down over his back, and she said, “I just ironed that shirt, and look at it—covered with dust!
There were no toys under the bed—that wasn’t why he liked it. Why he liked it was that there wasn’t anything under the bed—no chickens, no Joey, no Eloise, no sheep, no “no”s. He could lie under the bed and not be told anything at all. It was so quiet under the bed that sometimes he had a nap. Mama didn’t mind him going under the bed—more than once she had said, “Well, you can’t get into any trouble down there, at least.” Eloise would sometimes come to the side of the bed and throw the quilt up and shout, “Boo! I see you!” and that made them both laugh, especially since he knew she was coming because her feet showed below the edge of the quilt.
But Papa didn’t like him under the bed, and if Papa had told him not to go under the bed, then Papa would be very angry if he found Frank under the bed. And today was a Sunday, and they were going to go in the buggy to Granny’s for Sunday supper, and Frank was wearing good clothes—clean pants and clean shirt. He had been told to stay downstairs and not go under the bed, and as soon as he was alone, he did the very thing he was told not to do.
It was beyond Frank to understand why he sometimes did the very thing he was told not to do. It seemed like once they told him not to do it—once they said it and put it in his mind—then what else was there to do? It was like smacking Joey. “Don’t hit your brother. Don’t ever hit your brother, do you understand? If I catch you hitting your brother, then I will whip you, do you understand?”
But what was hitting? Sometimes, when Joey was walking along, all you had to do was touch him and he fell down and cried. Other times, a good wallop had no effect. If there was anything Frank liked, it was trying things out. Joey was the most interesting person to try things out on, especially considering that the cat always ran away, even when Mama was not saying that the cat was dirty and shooing him out of the house. It was obvious to Frank that if you had something in your hand, no matter what it was, you had to employ it. If it was a rock, then you had to scrape it on the ground or on a wall. If it was a fork, you had to poke it into your egg or into the table or into Joey. If it was a stick, you had to hit something with it. If it wasa screwdriver, you had to turn a screw, and Papa had shown him how to do that. At Christmas, Mama had given him a box of eight colors (blue, green, brack, brow, vilet, ornge, red, yellooooooo) and a book to color in, but he had to try it on the table and the rug and the floor and the wall and his own skin. Only the wall was really bad—he got a whipping for the wall—but they laughed at the ornge on his legs.
Here came the call: “Frankie? Frankie, I don’t see you! Where are you?” He didn’t say a word. And then her shoes appeared, and then the quilt flew up, and then she was dragging him out by his arm and standing him up and slapping her hand down over his back, and she said, “I just ironed that shirt, and look at it—covered with dust!
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