Free Boys and Girls Come Out to Play by Nigel Dennis Page A

dresser. Here he held the animal at arm’s length and began to address it—without speaking, of course, but pursing his lips at it, wagging one finger warningly at its nose, suddenly projecting his chin and appearing to strike the animal sharply on the backside with his right hand. His father was not sure what to do; he eyed his son fiercely and tossed his head, but Art failed to notice: he made up his mind to ignore his son’s exhibitionism, but couldn’t resist glancing toward the animal from time to time. Noticing instantly that his father’s interest was aroused, Art looked at him with a winning smile and began a speechless, grimaceful explanation of the animal’s misconduct, stopping now and then to shake it savagely and threaten it with his bared teeth. He then looked hopefully at his father. Divver half-closed his eyes, to express pain. Art raised his eyebrows and patted his stomach questioningly. Divver replied by laying an open palm against his left ear. “Ts! Ts!” said Art. “Sshh!” said Divver. The bed shook.
    A few minutes passed. Art dropped the animal suddenly and stared vacantly into space, his mouth open. Divver lay back on the pillows with his eyes closed, listening to the morning traffic and pressing a plump end of the top pillow againsthis ear. When he next opened his eyes, he saw that Art had opened the closet door and was toying with the ends of his mother’s skirts, pulling each hem towards him, studying the colour and fingering the material. “Art!” cried Divver in a high whisper. Art turned; Divver beckoned to him, and the little boy came over in a sulky slouch, tossing his body pettishly from the hips up. “Get me the newspaper, eh?” whispered Divver, stroking his hair and kissing him. “What’s wrong with your ear?” whispered Art. “Sshh! We mustn’t talk. It’s a boil.” “What’s a boil?” “Like that thing you had on your arm, but bigger.” “May I see?” “Don’t talk, will you? There’s nothing to see. Get me the paper, please.”
    He heard Art wrestle with the handle of the hall door; there was the clang of a milk bottle rolling across the hallway, scraping sounds of pursuit, a loud slam, and the boy reappeared, walking at dead-slow pace, in deep study of the back page of the New York Times. “Go and play in the living-room,” whispered Divver, taking the paper and patting Art’s hand. “I’m hungry,” said Art. “It won’t be long now. Go and play in the living-room.”
    Divver opened the newspaper, but after reading no more than a column he found the dim light unbearable. After a short struggle with his conscience he stretched his hand toward his bedside lamp and began to turn the switch with extreme slowness. Eventually there was a loud click; Divver winced and swore; the light poured over Lily’s face. “Don’t wake, honey!” cried Divver. “What d’you mean, don’t wake?” replied Lily, sitting up and breathing out a deep groan. “Did you get Art some breakfast?” she asked, pushing her hair back and staring at him with sticky eyes. “Well, no, I didn’t. As a matter of fact, I’m not feeling so hot.” “He must be starving … Art!” “I have a boil.” “You have a what?” “A boil in my ear.” “You must have drunk too much last night. Does it hurt?” “It’s pretty painful.” “Well, I guess I’d better fix Arthis breakfast. God, I feel a wreck.” “I’ll get him his breakfast,” said Divver. “I thought you said you have a boil.” “I have a boil; it doesn’t mean I can’t squeeze an orange.” “Well, apparently you didn’t think of squeezing one before I woke up.” “Are we going to start the day like this?” “You can start it any way you please, so long as you’ll give me five minutes to fix your son’s breakfast.”
    Lily took down an old bathrobe made of towelling, much the same colour as Art’s animal—on which she now stepped and jumped away from with a dismal cry. Art ran in from the