The Dragon in the Ghetto Caper (2 page)

“I often feel dragonish,” Edie said. “He probably felt it that day. I think that it's perfectly all right to do a dragon as a self-portrait, personally.”

“Oh,” the secretary replied, “I'm sure it was all right, considering that when he was asked to do a family portrait, his mother, father and sister all turned out to be dragons, too. That was fourth grade. You might say that Andrew J. Chronister is a dragon master.”

Edie smiled. “Like George and Michael.”

“George and Michael who?” the secretary asked.

“Saints,” Edie said. The secretary still looked puzzled. “Saint George and Saint Michael. They mastered dragons.”

The secretary said, “Yes …well…” and then asked for Edie's name, address and telephone number and told her that she would give Andrew the message. And she did.

A
ndy was the first one off the bus when it stopped at the gate to Foxmeadow. He was always the first one off so that he could walk straight ahead. If he wanted company, he would lag behind until someone caught up. He didn't usually lag. There wasn't much he wanted to say to the jocks who lived in his neighborhood. Even the girls of Foxmeadow were jocks; they stayed jocks until the seventh grade when they became Cleopatras like Mary Jane. He waved at Tim to show him that he wasn't ignoring him; Tim waved back and yelled, “Hi, Andy,” and gave a good yank you-know-where; Andy watched, hypnotized, but certain that he had made the right decision in not asking Tim to be his sidekick.

He pulled the note from between pages 112 and 113 of his math book. He had been in math class, problem 14 on page 112, when the secretary had given it to him. He decided that he would visit Mrs. Yakots rather than telephone her. He had not been inside that house since the Yakotses had moved in. Everyone said that the Yakotses were just renting from the Grants who had lived there
before, but no one who said it had taken time to ask and find out.

“Good afternoon,” Andy said using his Heart and Cancer voice (those were his favorites). “I am Andrew J. Chronister. How are you today?”

“Yes, I am,” Mrs. Yakots said, her glasses catching the late afternoon sun. “Won't you please come in and talk about buying and selling. The dragon.”

Andrew accepted her invitation. He walked into the foyer and looked around slowly and carefully as he had trained himself to do.

Mrs. Yakots watched Andy's slow ceiling-to-floor, wall-to-wall gaze. She panicked. “What's the matter? What's the matter?”

“Nothing's the matter,” Andy answered. “I like your house a lot.” And Andy did. He was surprised that he did. Nothing matched, but, somehow, everything went together.

Mrs. Yakots sighed with relief. “We thank you very much,” she said. “My husband is out of town. That's where I want to hang him. His name is Harry,” she said, pointing to a spot over the sofa. “How much would it take?”

She had a strange way of talking, Andy observed. But he understood her, he further observed. “I haven't set a price,” he said. “Yet,” he added. “But I will in a minute.” He looked around and decided that things did not match because she didn't want them to, not because she couldn't afford for them to. “Twelve fifty,” he said, figuring that he'd have to come down to ten. “And it's a girl.”

“It was real friendly of you to stop by—have you ever sold a girl dragon before—instead of phoning.”

“Not a boy either,” Andy answered. He was pleased with his perfect understanding of her. “I've never even had one framed. My mother doesn't care for my subject matter. I do dragons; she likes flowers. Listen, I could let you have it for ten.”

“Oh, I do, too,” Mrs. Yakots replied. “That's why I went to that meeting of the Garden Circle. I thought they grew flowers and grass. Lawn grass. Would you take an even seven fifty?”

“Seven fifty isn't even, but it will be okay,” Andy replied. “But only because I'm not going to be a famous artist when I grow up. You realize that you can't count on your investment growing. I am going to be a detective when I grow up. A famous one.”

Mrs. Yakots then asked Andy if he would like a Coke. Andy said yes and followed her into the kitchen. He wanted to see it; kitchens were another thing he watched. He looked this one over slowly and carefully and asked, “What color do you call this, for God's sake?”

“Mauve,” Mrs. Yakots answered. “Harry—he's my husband—and I painted it. I couldn't make the painter understand.”

Andy looked up at the ceiling, all swirled with mauve and violet and said, “I can understand that. I can certainly understand that.” He sat on a bench across the kitchen table from Mrs. Yakots. The bench was painted a brilliant pink. He rested his hand on its arm and said, “I'm surprised
that I don't get burned. I've heard of hot pink, but this is positively electrifying.”

Mrs. Yakots smiled. “I painted it myself. I couldn't make the painter understand that either. That's a pew.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that,” Andy replied.

“But it is. A church pew. It's from an old church that had Sister Henderson. They were remodeling the church, and she was in charge of selling. That's how I began carrying her every Thursday.”

“You carry your sister every Thursday?”

“She's not my sister. Everyone at the Mt. Zion Baptist Church is a Sister, except the men; they're Brothers. She's a church sister in the car. I started taking her the day I bought the bench from her church. They were Black. Both the congregation and the bench. Now just the congregation is. See, I've painted the pew. Pink goes nicely in a mauve kitchen, don't you think?”

Andy was resting his elbow on the table, leaning his head on his fist, sorting out what she had said, “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Pink pews would hardly go in a Black church.”

Mrs. Yakots rested her elbow on the table and leaned her fist in a pose just like Andy's. “So you want to be a detective?” she asked, eyes blinking at him behind her glasses.

“Yeah,” Andy replied, “I've put myself in training. I'm very observing.” He closed his eyes and said, “You are five feet six inches tall, weigh 120 and are 36-25-35 …” He opened his eyes and looked at Mrs. Yakots, waiting for her to express amazement.

She did. “Gee, Andrew, that's great.”

“Not so great,” Andy replied. Then afraid that her understanding might be as mixed-up as her talking, he added, “Look, I don't mean that your 36-25-35 isn't great. That is great. I mean my knowing isn't so great. I told you I'm trained. Besides, I saw you swimming two weeks ago. You're nice looking without your clothes or your glasses. I watch swimmers. You swim the way you talk. Uncoordinated.” Mrs. Yakots, who had been smiling, suddenly was not; she lowered her head. “Listen,” Andy said, hating himself for feeling as bad as he did about making her feel bad. “Listen, five dollars will be perfectly all right for the dragon. Five dollars will certainly be plenty. Plentiful.”

“I'll pay on delivery,” Mrs. Yakots said. “Harry—he's my husband—thought I needed to get out of the house. That's why I tried swimming. It's worth seven fifty, that's for sure, but I'll take it for five. And I went also to the Garden Circle. But it was worth it to meet someone in Foxmeadow who likes dragons. That's why I take Sister Henderson on her errands every Thursday. Harry travels all week. That means he's only home on the weekends. You know the weekend: Saturdays and Sundays. We are mostly married on the weekends.”

“What are you the rest of the week?”

“Edie,” she answered. “Edie and alone.”

“Listen,” Andy said, “I just remembered. The art show is over tomorrow. I'll bring you my painting after school tomorrow. Will you be here?”

“If you say so,” Mrs. Yakots answered.

Andy said good-bye and walked home. There were a lot of things that he had to sort out. Mrs. Yakots talked a smorgasbord. He had to choose one or two things he could digest. Pink pews and Sister Henderson. Dragons and Thursdays. Edie and alone. Edie and alone. It hadn't occurred to him that there could be an Edie and alone. A pretty, nearsighted thing like her. A grown-up pretty person like her, for God's sake.

A
ndy had told Mrs. Yakots that the art show would be over, so the next day he took his dragon down from the left wall of the media center. The other pictures could stay there the rest of the week, but the show would be over for him. In place of his picture he hung a card that he had prepared at home.

He carried his painting on the bus, up the street and to the door. He didn't even have to ring. She opened the door and said, “Call me Edie,” first thing. Then she took the painting from Andy and looked at it and said, “It is beautiful, Andrew.”

Andy was more pleased than a cool, tough person ought to be. “It's a girl, remember,” he said. Then he added, “You may call me Andy. A lot of people do.”

Edie carried the dragon to the sofa and propped it against the wall, using the back of the sofa as a ledge. “She's beautiful, Andy. Harry—he's my husband—was married before, but I never was, so I've never bought a dragon or any painting before. But he has. With his first wife, but she never bought a dragon. She didn't like or even understand them.” She turned from the dragon to Andy and asked, “Will you help me pick out a frame?”

“I believe that I can find the time,” Andy replied. “Would tomorrow be too late?” Edie was looking at the (girl) dragon and smiling, showing all of her teeth. Andy cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, I'm free tomorrow afternoon. We have half-day on Thursdays at Emerson. I could get a note from home to be excused from riding the bus.”

“I wrote you a check already,” Edie said. “I don't know if your parents would want you to get involved with carrying Sister Henderson. I always finish with Sister by three, and then we could get her framed. For five dollars,” she said, handing the check to Andy.

“You happen to have a pretty handwriting,” Andy said.
“I'm noticing handwritings. I notice everything I can. It's not easy training to be a detective in Foxmeadow. I can't find a sidekick among all the jocks who live here, and I haven't seen even one murder yet. I begged my father to move into a high crime area, but he refused. He says I've got to be protected because he and Mom don't have much time.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” Edie said. “What is it? Cancer? Heart condition?”

“No. Nothing like that. Golf, a busy law practice for my dad. With my mother, it's tennis and clubs and my sister's wedding. With my sister, it's her wedding and her parties. She spends a lot of time in front of the mirror. She also shops a lot.”

“Harry—he's my husband—and I didn't have any parties. We just got married to each other. His daughter was there and her two children. She has one of each: a boy and a girl. Harry—he's my husband—is gone all week, and he wanted me safe, too. That's why I'm protected here, too. Sometimes here you have to go out to find a dragon. That's why I was so surprised at the Garden Circle to find one on the wall at Emerson. Do you want to help me carry Sister Henderson in the car? She lives in the northern part of town.”

“Is that where the ghetto is?”

“One of them,” Edie said.

Andy said that he wouldn't mind going. He told Edie to pick him up at Emerson C.D.S.

Andy raced home and wrote a note, excusing himself
from riding the bus. He wanted to go so badly that he wasn't going to take
no
for an answer, so he decided not to ask. Since he had started his training, he had stopped asking his parents to sign his report cards. He always did his own. He was something of an artist at it. He decided to write the note in his father's handwriting, which he figured he did seven and one-half percent better than his mother's. It was more man to man.