Monkey Island by Paula Fox Read Free Book Online Page B

saints,” Calvin said ferociously.
    â€œThere’s Gerald,” Buddy said. “And the ones who bring the boxes of clothing. And the ones at the church. And that old fellow giving me that money for those cards he won’t be able to use anyhow. Come on, Calvin!”
    Calvin said, “All right, all right … maybe there are three saints. Not more, I think.”

5   The Coffee Van
    â€œWhat are you writing, Calvin?” Clay asked.
    â€œA history of my life and times,” Calvin replied, glancing over at Clay, who had let Robinson Crusoe fall onto his lap.
    It was early morning, a quiet time before the heavier traffic started up. Gerald had been bringing extra milk for Clay, who had begun to like it with a drop of coffee for warmth. He finished it now and put the cup inside the crate for Dimp Laughlin and his dog, even though Dimp hadn’t been around for a few days. Yesterday, the cold had been bitter, the sky the color of metal. But today, though it was dank, there were rays of pale, mothy sunlight that Clay watched move across the scattered newspapers people had slept beneath, discarded garbage sacks, a mud-caked boot on its side under a bench, the grainy surface of the drinking fountain that no longer worked.
    In the two weeks Clay had been living in the park, Buddy had found several things to improve their living arrangement—a crescent of hard plastic that now shielded the entrance of the crate, another piece of tarp to cover its west side, which took the brunt of the river wind, and a straight-backed chair in which Calvin was at present sitting, his feet in slippers that appeared to have been cut out of an old pink carpet.
    There were a few people clustered at the counter of the van. Buddy had left on his daily round to find cans to redeem, saying it would be a good morning because of all he’d eaten at the Unitarian Church several blocks away, where he and Clay and Calvin had gone for Thanksgiving dinner. Wrapped tightly in plastic and hidden in the back of the crate was a paper dish full of leftover turkey parts, hard to chew but still pretty good.
    â€œIs your life going to fit inside that notebook?” Clay asked.
    â€œThis is the eleventh notebook I’ve filled,” Calvin replied. “I’m up to age forty-seven.”
    â€œYou told me the story of your life when I first came, and it took you about three minutes,” Clay remarked.
    â€œThat was an outline. Each time you tell the story, there’s more.… Any life is infinite. Imagine a single hour, all that happens in it.”
    â€œBut what if I’m reading, or just staring at something for an hour?” asked Clay.
    â€œDo you think your brain leaves town? It’s always working, with or without your permission. What you think and feel is as much of a story as the things that happen outside you.”
    Clay didn’t entirely understand what the old man was saying, but he was grateful to have a conversation with him, especially since Calvin wasn’t, as he often was, talking about Clay going to the police and foster homes.
    Sometimes the two men paid little attention to him, although he knew they had really taken him into their lives in the park.
    But on some days, there had been moments, hours, when they barely spoke to him as they went about their housekeeping, or just sat silently with grim, faraway expressions on their faces. Then he knew that his being a child, a thing he’d never thought about much before, made no difference at all. He was alone as they were alone. He was just another person, ageless, in trouble, out of ordinary life, out of the time that ruled the lives of people hurrying past the park on their way to work or home.
    â€œDo you know something, Clay?” Calvin’s voice broke into his thoughts. “You need a haircut.”
    He was a fine one to talk, Clay thought to himself. Birds could have built nests in his hair and