Boys Life

came to pass that Dad’s milk route became progressively shorter, if such a thing can be called progress. People liked the newness of going into a clean, air-conditioned supermarket and buying their milk in plastic jugs and then throwing those jugs away without a second thought. Not only that, but Big Paul’s Pantry stayed open until eight o’clock at night, which was unheard of.
    Putting a basket on Rocket was like saddling Seabiscuit with mailbags. But I did my duty, carrying pies and cakes around to people in the afternoons, and Rocket stiffened up from time to time in protest but never dropped one item.
    To show thanks to the Lezanders for being so kind to Rebel, Mom decided to make a pumpkin pie-her best seller-for them free of charge. She put the pie in a box, tied it up with twine, and I slid the box into Rocket’s basket and pedaled for Dr. Lezander’s house. On the way, I passed Gotha and Gordo Branlin on their black bikes. Gotha acknowledged me with a slight lift of his chin, but Gordo-still wearing bandages that covered oozing sores-sped away like blue blazes. I got to Dr. Lezander’s house and knocked on the back door, and in a minute Mrs. Lezander answered.
    “Mom baked you and the doctor a pie,” I said, offering her the box. “It’s pumpkin.”
    “Oh, how very nice.” She took it and sniffed around the lid. “Oh dear,” she said. “Does this have cream in it?”
    “Evaporated milk, I think.” I should know. The kitchen was teeming with Pet Milk cans. “My mom made it this mornin’.”
    “It’s very thoughtful of your mother, Cory, but I’m afraid neither of us can eat cream. We’re both allergic to anything from a cow.” She smiled. “That’s how we met, all red and blotched at a clinic in Rotterdam.”
    “Oh. Gosh. Well, maybe you can give it to somebody else, then. It’s a real good pie.”
    “I’m sure it’s a wonderful pie.” Vunderful, she’d said. “But if I even kept it in the house, Frans would get into it like a little mouse around midnight. He has the sweet tooth, you know. Then in two days he would look like he had the measles and he would itch so much he couldn’t wear clothes. So, better not to even let Frans smell it, or he’d be walking around like Vernon Thaxter, yes?”
    I laughed at that image. “Yes, ma’am.” I took the pie back. “Maybe Mom can make you somethin’ else, then.”
    “It’s not necessary. Just the thought is kind enough.”
    I paused at the door, wondering if I should mention something that had been on my mind lately.
    “Yes?” Mrs. Lezander prodded.
    “Can I see the doctor? I’d like to talk to him for a minute.”
    “He’s taking a nap right now. He stayed up all night listening to his radio shows.”
    “His radio shows?”
    “Yes, he’s got one of those shortwave radios. Sometimes he stays up until dawn listening to the foreign countries. May I give him a message?”
    “Uh… I’ll just talk to him later.” What I wanted to ask was if he needed some help in the afternoons. After watching Dr. Lezander at work, it seemed to me that being a veterinarian was a pretty important job. I could be a veterinarian and a writer at the same time. The world would always need veterinarians, just like it would always need milkmen. “I’ll come back some other time,” I said, and I returned the pumpkin pie to Rocket’s basket and headed for home.
    I pedaled leisurely. Rocket acted a little nervous, but I took that to be his dissatisfaction with the basket, like a greyhound with a leash. The sun was warm and the hills were blazing yellow. A week from now the leaves would be brown and tumbling. It was one of those beautiful afternoons when even the blue shadows are lovely, and you know instinctively to slow down and enjoy things because they cannot and will not last.
    I grinned, thinking of Dr. Lezander walking around as naked as Vernon Thaxter. That would be a sight, wouldn’t it? I’d heard of people being allergic to grass, dogs and cats, ragweed, tobacco and dandelions. Grand Austin was allergic to horses; they made him sneeze until he could hardly stand, which was why he’d stopped going to the Brandywine Carnival when it came through town every November. Grandmomma Sarah said the Jaybird was allergic to work. I supposed people could be allergic to everything under and including the sun. Just think! Neither of the Lezanders could eat ice cream. They couldn’t eat banana pudding, or drink a glass of vanilla milk. If I