Page 24

"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 way of peering at me, making his eyes small and leaning so that his shoulders turned in, making him look like a bird.

"I was wondering, if you weren't too busy that is, if you would want to look at my poems."

He was carrying a notebook under his arm. "Sure," I said. "I'd love to. Come on in."

He hesitated a moment, looked back and then entered.

"Sit down," I said, patting the spot beside me.

"On the floor?"

"Sure, why not? It's very comfortable down here. Trisha and I always sit on the floor when we do our homework."

It took Arthur a few moments to fold those long legs of his comfortably, but he did it and then handed me his notebook. It was a thick one.

"You have a lot of poems," I said, impressed.

"I've been writing them a long time," he said dryly.

"Who else has seen them?" I asked, opening the cover.

"Not too many people," he said, "that I wanted to see them. Of course, there are always people who will poke their noses into someone else's business," he added and I guessed he was referring to Trisha who had told me she had once snuck a look at his poetry when he left the notebook on a table in the sitting room.

I turned the page and read. Trisha had been right. All of his poems were about dismal subjects: animals dying or being deserted, stars that burned out and became black spots invisible in the night sky and someone dying from some horrible disease. I thought they must be good, even so, because they made me feel sad and afraid and reminded me of my own bad times.

"These poems are very good, Arthur," I told him. He turned his head and allowed his eyes to meet mine. They looked like dark pools in the forest, deep and so still they seemed frozen. Looking into Arthur's eyes was like looking through a keyhole of an otherwise locked door. I saw the sadness and the loneliness inside and I felt the emptiness. "I know they're good because they make me sad and make me remember when I felt like this in the past.

"But if you can write so well, why don't you write poems that will make people feel happy?"

"I write what I feel," he said, "and what I see."

I nodded, understanding. When I read the poem about the beautiful dove that broke its wings and had to stay on a leafless branch until its heart gave out, I thought about Momma Longchamp growing weaker and weaker after Fern's birth until she was like a beautiful bird whose wings had been clipped. I recalled the day her heart gave out, and in remembering I felt anew my need for a mother or daddy to hold me close and stroke my hair when I was sick or scared.