"When the Professor's solving a
problem, he doesn't talk to himself the way you do, and he doesn't
pull out his hair. His body's there but his mind goes somewhere
else. And besides," he added, "his problems are a lot harder!"
"I know! But whose problem is this anyway? Maybe you could
stop reading your baseball books for a minute and help me."
"But you're three times as old as I am! And besides, it's a crazy
problem anyway."
"Showing the factors was progress. That was thanks to the Professor,
wasn't it?"
"I guess so," said Root, looking at my work on the backs of the
advertisements and nodding as though he found everything in
proper order.
"I think you're on the right track," he said at last.
"Some help you are!" I laughed.
"Better than nothing," he said, turning back to his book.
Since he was very small, he'd often had to console me when I
came home from work in tears—when I'd been accused of stealing,
or called incompetent, or had the food I'd made thrown away
right in front of me. "You're beautiful, Momma," he'd say, his voice
full of conviction, "It'll be okay." This was what he always said
when he comforted me. "I'm a beauty?" I would ask, and he'd say,
feigning astonishment, "Sure you are. Didn't you know?" More
than once I'd pretended to be crying just to hear these words; and
he'd always play along willingly.
"But you know what I think?" he said suddenly. "When you're
adding up the numbers, 10 is odd man out."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, 10's the only one with two places."
He was right, of course. I had analyzed the numbers in many
ways, but had not thought about how each number was special,
different. When I looked at them again, it seemed terribly strange
that I'd never noticed how odd 10 looked lined up against the
others—the only one among them that could not be written without
picking up the pencil.
"If you got rid of ten, you'd have a number in the center spot,
which might be good."
"What do you mean, 'center spot'?"
"You'd know if you came to the last Parents' Day. We were doing
gymnastics—that's my best sport—and in the middle of the
exercise the teacher said, 'Double lines, face center.' The guy in the
middle held up his arms and the rest of us lined up facing him.
There were nine of us, so the guy in fifth place was the center, and
the lines were even. For 10 it doesn't work. If you add just one guy,
you don't have a center."
So now I tried leaving 10 aside and lining up the rest of the
numbers. I circled five in the center, with four numbers before it
and four after. The 5 stood, arms proudly extended, enjoying the
attention of all the others.
And at that moment I experienced a kind of revelation for the
first time in my life, a sort of miracle. In the midst of a vast field of
numbers, a straight path opened before my eyes. A light was shining
at the end, leading me on, and I knew then that it was the path
to enlightenment.
The radio came back from the repair shop on Friday, the twenty-fourth
of April, the day the Tigers were scheduled to play the
Dragons. We put it on the center of the table and sat around it.
Root twisted the knobs, and the broadcast of the game crackled
out from the static. The signal was weak, but there was no doubt it
was the baseball game—and the first sign of life from the outside
world that had made its way into the house since my arrival. We
let out a little cheer.
"I had no idea you could get baseball on this radio," said the
Professor.
"Of course! You can get it on any radio."
"My brother bought it for me a long time ago, for practicing
English conversation. I thought it would only pick up English."
"So you've never listened to the Tigers?" Root said.
"No, and I haven't got a TV, either ... ," murmured the Professor,
as if confessing something awful. "I've never seen a baseball
game."
"I don't believe it!" Root blurted out, nearly shouting.
"I know the rules, though," the Professor said, a bit defensively.
But Root was not to be
problem, he doesn't talk to himself the way you do, and he doesn't
pull out his hair. His body's there but his mind goes somewhere
else. And besides," he added, "his problems are a lot harder!"
"I know! But whose problem is this anyway? Maybe you could
stop reading your baseball books for a minute and help me."
"But you're three times as old as I am! And besides, it's a crazy
problem anyway."
"Showing the factors was progress. That was thanks to the Professor,
wasn't it?"
"I guess so," said Root, looking at my work on the backs of the
advertisements and nodding as though he found everything in
proper order.
"I think you're on the right track," he said at last.
"Some help you are!" I laughed.
"Better than nothing," he said, turning back to his book.
Since he was very small, he'd often had to console me when I
came home from work in tears—when I'd been accused of stealing,
or called incompetent, or had the food I'd made thrown away
right in front of me. "You're beautiful, Momma," he'd say, his voice
full of conviction, "It'll be okay." This was what he always said
when he comforted me. "I'm a beauty?" I would ask, and he'd say,
feigning astonishment, "Sure you are. Didn't you know?" More
than once I'd pretended to be crying just to hear these words; and
he'd always play along willingly.
"But you know what I think?" he said suddenly. "When you're
adding up the numbers, 10 is odd man out."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, 10's the only one with two places."
He was right, of course. I had analyzed the numbers in many
ways, but had not thought about how each number was special,
different. When I looked at them again, it seemed terribly strange
that I'd never noticed how odd 10 looked lined up against the
others—the only one among them that could not be written without
picking up the pencil.
"If you got rid of ten, you'd have a number in the center spot,
which might be good."
"What do you mean, 'center spot'?"
"You'd know if you came to the last Parents' Day. We were doing
gymnastics—that's my best sport—and in the middle of the
exercise the teacher said, 'Double lines, face center.' The guy in the
middle held up his arms and the rest of us lined up facing him.
There were nine of us, so the guy in fifth place was the center, and
the lines were even. For 10 it doesn't work. If you add just one guy,
you don't have a center."
So now I tried leaving 10 aside and lining up the rest of the
numbers. I circled five in the center, with four numbers before it
and four after. The 5 stood, arms proudly extended, enjoying the
attention of all the others.
And at that moment I experienced a kind of revelation for the
first time in my life, a sort of miracle. In the midst of a vast field of
numbers, a straight path opened before my eyes. A light was shining
at the end, leading me on, and I knew then that it was the path
to enlightenment.
The radio came back from the repair shop on Friday, the twenty-fourth
of April, the day the Tigers were scheduled to play the
Dragons. We put it on the center of the table and sat around it.
Root twisted the knobs, and the broadcast of the game crackled
out from the static. The signal was weak, but there was no doubt it
was the baseball game—and the first sign of life from the outside
world that had made its way into the house since my arrival. We
let out a little cheer.
"I had no idea you could get baseball on this radio," said the
Professor.
"Of course! You can get it on any radio."
"My brother bought it for me a long time ago, for practicing
English conversation. I thought it would only pick up English."
"So you've never listened to the Tigers?" Root said.
"No, and I haven't got a TV, either ... ," murmured the Professor,
as if confessing something awful. "I've never seen a baseball
game."
"I don't believe it!" Root blurted out, nearly shouting.
"I know the rules, though," the Professor said, a bit defensively.
But Root was not to be
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