suppose it may come in handy one day to know how to draw such a thing.”
“Dad,” said Helen, “if I sing you a song, can you tell me the name of it?”
“I might. If it’s an Irish ballad, I might.”
“It isn’t. It goes like this.” Helen began humming and then singing the words she could remember from hearing the song many times. She did not try to whistle it as the man in the woods had done.
“Hm ... said her father. “That’s ... that’s whatchamajiggy ... ‘The Happy ... ‘The Happy Wanderer.’ That’s the name of it. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I just heard it somewhere is all,” she said airily. She looked into her father’s intense blue eyes. He knew she wasn’t telling him all of the truth, but he let it go and kissed her good night and tucked her in after her prayers were said, just as he had done when she was little.
Helen was very nearly asleep when the sound of the television downstairs in the living room woke her up. In seconds she was crouched on the landing listening to the late local news. “New Bedford area drivers can rest easily tonight for the first time in two months,” the announcer droned. Helen positioned herself so she could just see his flickering face on the old black-and-white TV. “Since mid-summer random rock throwings along Route Six outside of New Bedford have terrorized local drivers and resulted in several accidents. An intensive manhunt was called off tonight with the arrest of Duane ‘Stubby’ Atlas of Forty-two Dock Street, New Bedford. An anonymous tipster directed police to a bar in the wharf area. Atlas was found in possession of several grams of heroin. The latest incident occurred today, when Mrs. J. J. Sokol of Dartmouth and her young daughter narrowly missed death as a rock hit their car. Atlas is believed to have been under the influence of drugs at the time.”
Helen’s father turned off the TV and without looking up said, “I know you’re there listening, Sweet Pea.”
“Okay, Dad. I am,” said Helen.
She could hear the smile in her father’s voice. “Your worries are over,” he said. “Thank God they got him.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“And to think you chased him, a near murderer, a drug addict, up through the woods. You promise me you’ll never do anything so foolish again?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“He went to St. Theresa’s, the Atlas boy, didn’t he?”
“Yes, Dad,” she repeated automatically. “Three or four years ahead of me.”
“You never know,” said her father.
Helen tried to sleep, but sleep would not come. Over and over the song, whistled so beautifully, repeated itself. Over and over Helen came to the same flat certainty. It hadn’t been Stubby she’d seen in the woods. Never in a hundred years would Stubby whistle that song.
Chapter 4
B Y SATURDAY MORNING HELEN , sitting in her bedroom, had lost count of her drawings. She supposed she was up to sixty or seventy. On Wednesday and Thursday and then on Friday she had presented several to Jerry Rosen and Barry de Wolf. Too much expression in the eyes was their verdict each time. Not cute enough, not round and dimpled and Hummelly enough. Maybe Beverly could do it. But Beverly was not interested in doing a drawing for free, now that she made a nice bit of money selling her caterpillar jewelry.
Helen sweated over her latest sketch and waited for Pinky to come and take her to the football game. She hated the Hummel music box more than ever. She hated Jerry and Barry for being so superior and rejecting her hateful drawings over and over again. She was grimly determined to get it right. She was sure Jerry and Barry and Beverly would be more respectful toward her if her hair were straight and her figure anything but pencil-like.
As the morning hours passed, Helen’s concentration dwindled. She began to doodle distractedly. In the back of her mind, taking wonderful turns and growing surely, was a whole new idea. The Whaler ran a weekly contest for the best story written
“Dad,” said Helen, “if I sing you a song, can you tell me the name of it?”
“I might. If it’s an Irish ballad, I might.”
“It isn’t. It goes like this.” Helen began humming and then singing the words she could remember from hearing the song many times. She did not try to whistle it as the man in the woods had done.
“Hm ... said her father. “That’s ... that’s whatchamajiggy ... ‘The Happy ... ‘The Happy Wanderer.’ That’s the name of it. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I just heard it somewhere is all,” she said airily. She looked into her father’s intense blue eyes. He knew she wasn’t telling him all of the truth, but he let it go and kissed her good night and tucked her in after her prayers were said, just as he had done when she was little.
Helen was very nearly asleep when the sound of the television downstairs in the living room woke her up. In seconds she was crouched on the landing listening to the late local news. “New Bedford area drivers can rest easily tonight for the first time in two months,” the announcer droned. Helen positioned herself so she could just see his flickering face on the old black-and-white TV. “Since mid-summer random rock throwings along Route Six outside of New Bedford have terrorized local drivers and resulted in several accidents. An intensive manhunt was called off tonight with the arrest of Duane ‘Stubby’ Atlas of Forty-two Dock Street, New Bedford. An anonymous tipster directed police to a bar in the wharf area. Atlas was found in possession of several grams of heroin. The latest incident occurred today, when Mrs. J. J. Sokol of Dartmouth and her young daughter narrowly missed death as a rock hit their car. Atlas is believed to have been under the influence of drugs at the time.”
Helen’s father turned off the TV and without looking up said, “I know you’re there listening, Sweet Pea.”
“Okay, Dad. I am,” said Helen.
She could hear the smile in her father’s voice. “Your worries are over,” he said. “Thank God they got him.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“And to think you chased him, a near murderer, a drug addict, up through the woods. You promise me you’ll never do anything so foolish again?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“He went to St. Theresa’s, the Atlas boy, didn’t he?”
“Yes, Dad,” she repeated automatically. “Three or four years ahead of me.”
“You never know,” said her father.
Helen tried to sleep, but sleep would not come. Over and over the song, whistled so beautifully, repeated itself. Over and over Helen came to the same flat certainty. It hadn’t been Stubby she’d seen in the woods. Never in a hundred years would Stubby whistle that song.
Chapter 4
B Y SATURDAY MORNING HELEN , sitting in her bedroom, had lost count of her drawings. She supposed she was up to sixty or seventy. On Wednesday and Thursday and then on Friday she had presented several to Jerry Rosen and Barry de Wolf. Too much expression in the eyes was their verdict each time. Not cute enough, not round and dimpled and Hummelly enough. Maybe Beverly could do it. But Beverly was not interested in doing a drawing for free, now that she made a nice bit of money selling her caterpillar jewelry.
Helen sweated over her latest sketch and waited for Pinky to come and take her to the football game. She hated the Hummel music box more than ever. She hated Jerry and Barry for being so superior and rejecting her hateful drawings over and over again. She was grimly determined to get it right. She was sure Jerry and Barry and Beverly would be more respectful toward her if her hair were straight and her figure anything but pencil-like.
As the morning hours passed, Helen’s concentration dwindled. She began to doodle distractedly. In the back of her mind, taking wonderful turns and growing surely, was a whole new idea. The Whaler ran a weekly contest for the best story written
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