Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (153 page)

"Uncle,
what's
it
like
really
to
be
grown
up,
to
be
as
old
as
you are?"

Over
the
crumpled
sheet
of
the
big
bed
a
rheumy
eye
regarded
him. He
thought
he
was
going
to
be
bawled
out.
But
no
voice
came.
Only the
old,
tired,
inflamed
eye
kept
on
looking
at
him—first,
fiercely, next,
defiantly,
then,
pathetically—that
was
worst.
Or
was
it?
For
suddenly
it
didn't
seem
Uncle
Andy's
eye
any
longer.
It
seemed
somehow a
picture
of
some
sort,
a
kind
of
mirror,
or
as
though
you
were
looking down
the
wrong
end
of
a
telescope.
Ever
so
small
and
distant,
but quite
clear,
he
saw
an
old
man
lying
with
fixed,
open
eyes
on
a
long bed.
The
light
was
still
faint,
as
though
the
window
had
a
curtain
over it.
The
old
man
lay
stiffly
still,
all
save
the
lid
of
his
eye,
which
seemed to
flicker
a
bit
as
he
lay
on
his
side
looking
toward
Nick.
He
was
awful like
Uncle
Andy,
and
yet,
somehow,
he
wasn't
Uncle.
The
bed,
too, looked
far
richer,
just
as
the
man
in
it
looked
even
more
tired
than Andy.

The
old,
harsh
clock
began
to
strike,
but
it
seemed
more
soft
than usual.
Still,
it
was
enough
to
rouse
Uncle.
"You
get
along,
you
young lazy
scamp.
There's
the
half-hour
gone
and
you
still
not
even
washed. You
leave
me
alone
with
all
your
dam
questions.
You'll
know
soon enough
what
it
is
to
be
old—the
heck
you
will!
And,
I'll
lay
it,
you'll not
have
made
the
hand
at
living
I've
made
when
time
comes
to
take a
stretch,
as
I've
a
right
to
take.
Get
along
and
don't
disturb
me
till you've
the
coffee
ready
and
the
bacon
cooked!"

He
nipped
out
of
the
room.
If
you
didn't
clear
quickly
when
Uncle blew
like
that,
you'd
have
his
boots
flying
at
your
head
a
moment after,
and,
though
old
and
lying
down,
Uncle
had
scored
more
hits than
misses
with
those
old
hobnails
of
his,
which
were
always
close
at hand
when
off
his
feet.

Under
the
yard
pump
the
cold
water
on
the
top
of
his
head
made his
brain
tingle.
Like
rockets,
thoughts
shot
through
his
mind.
He wouldn't
be
a
failure,
like
Uncle,
or
just
conk
out,
the
way
he'd
heard his
parents
had.
He'd
get
through
and
make
good.
Why,
he
could always
win
in
discussions
at
school,
already.
He
was
always
twice
as quick
at
answering
back
or
thinking
up
a
wisecrack.
Yes,
and
some
of those
big
hulks
and
lubbers
who
could
kick
him
over
a
fence,
they were
afraid
of
his
tongue,
he
knew—the
way
things
he
said
would stick
to
the
person
he
said
'em
about.
He
saw
himself
getting
on. What
did
one
do?
Law,
of
course.
As
he
rubbed
his
red,
thin
body with
the
coarse
towel,
he
saw
himself
on
his
feet
in
court,
winning
big law
cases,
first
here
and
there
and
then
right
and
left;
then
marrying, of
course,
an
admiring
wife
and
having
a
large
family
that'd
look
up
to him,
because
he
was
clever,
rich,
powerful.