Robert was
The Fly.
Not the
unfortunate fly in the 1958 movie with Vincent Price.
Robert was
a hero such as Batman and Robin, who appeared in a series that had recently
aired on television. Joe’s cousin Jay had given Joe his Navy Peacoat from World
War II, which Jay had outgrown, and Joe passed it along to Robert. At the
auction of Flora Farden’s belongings, Robert had acquired a pair of amber dark
glasses that were big and round with ivory-colored Bakelite frames. Wearing the
black coat and the round glasses with the deep amber lenses, Robert was The
Fly.
When Robert
helped his father with the evening chores, he flew over gates. Well, he had to
scale the gates’ horizontal panels and hop down on the other side, but he did
it really fast, as if he were flying! On the other side of the gates, Robert
fought crime. Often, he did so by cracking ears of corn in two or by spreading
hay in the mangers of the barn.
Even though
he missed games on the playground, Robert was enjoying his time in the seventh
grade. He enjoyed jumping up when the bell rang and scurrying to his next class
in another room. He enjoyed the lessons and the teachers and his classmates. He
enjoyed having a locker instead of a desk.
And he
enjoyed becoming The Fly after school.
For many
generations, students from Rainsville had transferred to Pine Village for their
final years of schooling. When Robert entered the seventh grade, a reorganizing
brought Rainsville students into his class. A few of the teachers who had
devoted their careers to Rainsville’s classes permanently transferred to Pine
Village. One of them was the beloved Mr. Charles Lloyd Cavanaugh.
He stepped
from a story by Washington Irving. A thin gentleman, he parted his gray hair in
the middle. His reading glasses slid down his long nose. To see him on a windy
day striding between the school building and the gymnasium was to see a scholar
of skin and bones barely able to keep his footing while his trousers and coat
flapped as if they might lift him into the sky.
Mr.
Cavanaugh was named the sponsor of Robert’s class, and Mr. Cavanaugh remained
the class sponsor all the way through the class’ senior year.
He taught
English and mathematics. While Mr. Cavanaugh was of the old school that
memorized everything and seldom (if ever) erred about a fact, he occasionally
lapsed into an extraordinary pronunciation.
Once,
Robert’s class was learning a mathematical principle when Mr. Cavanaugh thought
an example might prove helpful.
“Let us say
you have four cassaws,” Mr. Cavanaugh said. He went on to describe a
mathematical equation involving the four “cassaws.” Then he called on one of
the sharpest students—probably because he wanted the class to hear the correct
answer—but the student blushed and apologized, saying, “I’m sorry, but I don’t
know.” Mr. Cavanaugh said, “That’s quite alright,” and he called on another
student good at math. Fidgeting, the student said, “I don’t know, either.” Now
Mr. Cavanaugh wondered what to do. He had hoped to demonstrate the mathematical
principle so clearly that the class would see how very simple it was, but he
had called on two students who should have known the answer and they had been
unable to respond.
Meanwhile,
Alan, with knitted brows, had been staring at his desktop. Suddenly, a smile
flashed across his face, and he raised his hand.
“Yes,
Alan,” Mr. Cavanaugh acknowledged.
“Mr.
Cavanaugh,” Alan began, clearing his throat, “by your word ‘cassaws,’ might you
mean cashews?”
“I mean
those delightful nuts that can be found along with peanuts in a can of mixed
nuts,” Mr. Cavanaugh replied innocently, not taking any offense at Alan’s
question. The idea of taking offense at anything never could cross Mr.
Cavanaugh’s wonderful mind.
At that
moment, the student on whom Mr. Cavanaugh had first called, raised a hand, was
acknowledged, and said, “Now that I know we are dealing with cashews, I can
give the answer.” And the answer was correct! Mr. Cavanaugh beamed, and he went
on to say how simple the principle was, after all.
From that
day forward, Robert always thought of cashews as “cassaws.”
Robert
liked every one of his classmates—and had since first grade. He was delighted
that he liked all the new classmates that came from the Rainsville School, too.
Among them was his cousin Pam. They were complementary in many ways. Pam’s hair
was as dark as Robert’s was blond. Her complexion was olive, but Robert’s was
pale. When Robert was serious, Pam would laugh, and, when Pam was serious,
Robert would laugh. They initiated a mutually pleasant academic rivalry that,
six years later, would bring Robert to be the Valedictorian and Pam to be the
Salutatorian—with the two separated by hardly a difference.
In seventh
grade, Robert relied upon Pam’s customary response to any of his ideas that she
considered outrageous; “Now, Robert!” she would admonish him with her genuine
smile. He continuously amused her, and, as she was so intellectual herself, she
always kept him on his intellectual toes.
For Mr.
Cavanaugh’s English class, Robert drafted a letter to Aunt Della in Georgia: "Several
events have been happening on the farm. Pigs have been coming, chickens
hatched, young calves have been born, and a zillion other creatures have
entered into our life. I enjoy it all except for one thing—work! It takes
energy to feed a mess of squealing pigs and squawking chickens. It’s work to
get clean again; although I suppose it’s worth it."
To Robert,
the year felt as if a long-awaited future had arrived to pay homage to the past.
The fall was distinguished by a futuristic television series named Star Trek that acknowledged its roots in
Old World myth and fable. The hallmark of the spring was the CBS telecast of
Hal Holbrook’s stunning performance as Mark Twain. (In the distant future,
Robert would meet Hal Holbrook and would tour the eastern half of the United
States as Edgar A. Poe for over two hundred performances, and Robert would spend
two days with—and sketch—Gene Roddenberry, the creator of Star Trek.)
Meanwhile,
Joe called out, “Robert, it’s time to do the chores.”
“Robert?”
Robert called back. “Who’s Robert? Don’t you mean The Fly?”
