Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

same way. Arthur sighed and shook his head.
    "Oh dear, Donald," Agnes said, "I don't think the dinner table is the proper stage for that kind of humor, do you?"
    Donald looked up from his plate of food. All through the telling of the joke, he had been dipping his serving spoon into one thing after another and dropping gobs of potatoes and vegetables on his dish. Now he was hacking off a chicken leg.
    "Oh, you want food jokes, huh? All right," he said, pushing on. "There was this rotten apple at the bottom of the barrel, and this housewife comes along and starts digging down because she thinks she's going to get the best apples on the bottom, only she comes up with a handful of gook, see . . ."
    "Excuse me, Donald," Agnes interrupted, "but dead camels and rotten fruits are not the sort of things we like to hear about when we're eating."
    "Oh." He stuffed the roll into his mouth in one gulp and chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "You know the one about this midget who dies and goes to heaven?" he began.
    There didn't seem to be any way to stop him short of shooting him. I looked at Agnes. She took a deep breath and shook her head. Like it or not, our little student residency family had been formed. The twins had their room, Arthur had his, Donald, thank goodness, was the farthest down the corridor, and of course, Trisha and I had ours.
    Before the week was out, Arthur and Donald had a bad argument when Donald continued to tease him about his weight. Agnes interceded and a fragile truce was declared, but it got so we didn't look forward to dinner as much as we had before because it was only a matter of time at most meals before snarling and snapping started between Arthur and Donald. It came again the week Donald had kitchen duty. Somehow he had gotten into the kitchen without Mrs. Liddy knowing it and skinned all the meat off a piece of chicken.
    He served Arthur the bones with a teaspoon of potatoes and one pea. It was funny and Trisha and the twins started to laugh, but Arthur became enraged and left the table.
    Agnes asked Donald to go up and apologize to him.
    "There has always been peace in this house," she lectured. "We've always been a good cast and a good cast can't perform well if there is dissension."
    "Hey, I'll do anything for show business," he said, flicking an imaginary cigar and leaning over like Groucho Marx. He was incorrigible, but he did go up to apologize. He returned soon after saying he didn't mind talking to a door if the door would at least squeak.
    Later, when I met Arthur in the hallway alone, I advised him not to pay so much attention to Donald.
    "He's an exhibitionist," I said, "trying to be like his father. Just ignore him and he'll stop teasing you."
    "I thought you considered him funny," Arthur snapped.
    "Sometimes, but most of the time, he's just obnoxious. I don't like to see anyone teased and made the butt of someone else's jokes."
    Arthur's face softened.
    "You're right," he said. "He's not worth it." I smiled and started away.
    "Dawn," Arthur called. "I . . . um . . . wondered if I couldn't show you some of my poetry one of these days. I think you might like it."
    "Why of course you can, Arthur. I'd be very happy to read it. Thank you for asking," I said. I never saw his face light up so quickly and his normally dark eyes turn so bright.
    "Okay," he said.
    I didn't tell Trisha because I knew she would advise me against becoming involved with him in any sort of way, but I did feel sorry for him. I thought he was easily the loneliest and saddest boy I had ever known.
    Not long after the new school year had begun, I received a letter from Daddy Longchamp. He said he had been heartened and grateful for my letter. He claimed he missed me a great deal and he had wanted to say so in his first letter, but he didn't think he had a right to anymore. The rest of his letter was filled with details about his apartment and job. He sounded more hopeful because he was making some new friends, one in particular being a widow in the same apartment building.
    I decided I would try to write to him at least twice a month.
    One afternoon, a few days after Arthur had asked me to read his poetry, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. Trisha was still at dance practice. I was sitting on the floor, my back against the bed, doing my English homework.
    "Excuse me,” he said when I said, come in. He stood back, not daring to take a step in.
    "Hello, Arthur. What can I do for you?" I asked. He had the strangest