Boys Life

somebody walks around naked all the time, you’ve got to believe he’s not rowin’ with both oars. I can’t figure why Moorwood lets him go around like that.”
    “Young master Vernon has his own life. Mr. Thaxter has decided to let him do as he pleases.”
    “That’s clear to see,” Dad said. “You know, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Moorwood in… oh, I guess over three years. He was always a hermit, but doesn’t he ever come up for air anymore?”
    “Mr. Thaxter’s business is taken care of. His rents are collected and his properties maintained. That was always his principal pleasure in life, and so it remains. Now: what may I tell young master Vernon, please?”
    Vernon Thaxter had had a book published. A mystery, by the sound of it. A real book, by a real New York City publisher. I might never get the chance to talk to a real writer again, I thought. I didn’t care if he was crazy, or walked around in his birthday suit. He had knowledge of a world far beyond Zephyr, and though this knowledge may have scorched him, I was interested in finding out his own experiences with the magic box. “I’d like to go,” I said.
    “That’s a yes, I presume?” Mr. Pritchard asked my parents.
    “I don’t know, Tom,” my mother said. “One of us ought to go, too. Just in case.”
    “I understand your hesitation, Mrs. Mackenson. I can only tell you that my wife and I know young master Vernon to be a gentle, intelligent, and sensitive man. He doesn’t have any friends, not really. His father is and has always been very distant to him.” Again, the ice crept back into Mr. Pritchard’s eyes. “Mr. Thaxter is a single-minded man. He never wanted young master Vernon to be a writer. In fact, up until quite recently he refused to allow the library to stock copies of The Moon My Mistress.”
    “What changed his mind?” Mom asked.
    “Time and circumstances,” Mr. Pritchard replied. “It became clear to Mr. Thaxter that young master Vernon did not have the aptitude for the business world. As I’ve said, young master Vernon is a sensitive man.” The ice left him; he blinked, and even offered a shade of a smile. “Pardon me. I didn’t mean to ramble on about concerns with which I’m sure you don’t wish to be bothered. But young master Vernon is eager for an answer. May I tell him yes?”
    “If one of us can go, too,” Dad told him. “I’ve always wanted to see the inside of that house.” He looked at Mom. “Is that all right with you?”
    She thought about it for a minute. I watched for signs of a decision: the chewing of her lower lip usually brought forth a no, whereas a sigh and slight twitch of the right corner of her mouth was a yes being born. The sigh came out, then the twitch. “Yes,” she said.
    “Very good.” Mr. Pritchard’s smile was genuine. He seemed relieved that a positive decision had been reached. “I’ve been instructed to tell you that I’ll pick you up here on Saturday evening at six-thirty. Is that suitable, sir?”
    The question was directed to me. I said it would be fine.
    “Until then.” He gave us all a stiff-backed bow and walked to the black-satin-skinned car. The noise the engine made starting up was like hushed music. Then Mr. Pritchard drove away, and turned at the next intersection onto the upward curve of Temple Street.
    “I hope everything’ll be all right,” Mom said as soon as we were back in the house. “I have to say, Vernon’s book gave me the willies.”
    Dad sat down in his chair again and picked up the sports page where he’d left off. All the headlines were about Alabama and Auburn football games, the religions of autumn. “Always wanted to see where ol’ Moorwood lives. I guess this is as good an opportunity as I’ll get. Anyhow, Cory’ll have a chance to talk to Vernon about writin’.”
    “Lord, I hope you don’t ever write anythin’ as gruesome as that book was,” Mom said to me. “It’s strange, too, because all that gruesome stuff just seemed sewn in where it didn’t have to be. It would’ve been a good book about a small town if all that murder hadn’t been in there.”
    “Murders happen,” Dad said. “As we all know.”
    “Yes, but shouldn’t a book about life be good enough? And that bloody meat cleaver on the cover… well, I wouldn’t have read it to begin with if Vernon’s name hadn’t been on it.”
    “All life isn’t hearts and flowers.” Dad put down his paper. “I wish it was, God knows I do.