The Pinballs by Betsy Byars Page A

living room.” She got serious. “You wouldn’t believe, Harvey, what good help I can be in a fight.”

16
    Harvey watched his father coming up the walk. There was no expression on Harvey’s face. Everyone had always told him that he looked exactly like his dad, and he realized it was true. Yet, inside, he had always felt more like his mother.
    â€œWell, how’s it going, Son?” his father asked. He took all three steps in one bound. Then he looked uneasy, as if he wished he’d taken more time.
    â€œAll right,” Harvey said.
    His father cleared his throat. “Looks like a nice place.” His father was in the construction business—or had been until the building business went bad.
    â€œIt’s all right.”
    â€œAny other kids here?”
    â€œTwo.”
    â€œThat sounds good—company.” He paused and cleared his throat again. Then he said more seriously, “What kind of kids are they?”
    â€œThey’re all right.”
    â€œI mean, you know, kids in a foster home—well, you never know.”
    â€œ I’m here,” Harvey said.
    â€œOh, well, yeah.” Harvey’s father still had not looked directly at him. “And the legs?” he asked in a lower voice.
    â€œThey’re all right,” Harvey lied.
    â€œWell, that’s good news.” He paused and then sat in the wicker rocker. He pulled at the turtleneck of his shirt. “Look, about the legs—” He still had not looked at Harvey.
    â€œI don’t want to talk about it.”
    â€œWell, I just don’t know what got into me, that’s all. Sure, I’d just lost a contract. Sure, I’d just had a couple of drinks. Sure, the car was new, but that still doesn’t excuse it.”
    â€œNo.”
    It was quiet on the porch now. Carlie had turned off the TV in the living room.
    â€œAnyway, you seem to be getting on real well here,” his father said with false cheer. “I’ve never seen you looking better.”
    â€œExcept for the legs.”
    â€œOh, well, yeah, sure.” There was another silence. “Oh, guess what? I brought your birthday present—I didn’t forget the big day’s this Friday.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œIt’s right out in the car only I’m not going to let you see me carry it in. You might guess what it is.” His father got to his feet abruptly. “Well, what do you say? Let’s go get something to eat.”
    â€œI don’t know if I’m allowed.”
    â€œSure you are—your own dad.” He went to the door. “Mrs. Mason?”
    Carlie’s face popped into view as quick as a jumping jack’s. “I’ll get her.” She ran into the dining room. “Mrs. Mason, Harvey’s father wants to talk to you. He wants to know if he and Harvey can go get something to eat.”
    It was a relief to Harvey when his father left. He felt as flat as an old tire. He could hardly wheel himself into his room.
    â€œHow’d it go?” Carlie asked. She was leaning against the doorway in another halter. So far she had made eleven.
    Harvey lifted his shoulders and let them drop.
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œIt went all right,” Harvey said in a flat voice. Actually it had never been all right, but the worst moment had come in the restaurant when Harvey had said, “I wrote a letter to my mother telling her what had happened.” He hadn’t planned to say it. It had just slipped out.
    His father had swallowed hard and wiped his mouth with his paper napkin. “Did you?” he asked. There was no expression in his voice.
    â€œYes, but I haven’t heard from her.”
    â€œYou won’t.”
    â€œI think I will.” Harvey put down his fork and looked up at his father. He said, “She probably wrote to me dozens of times over the years only you never gave me the letters.” This was something he