Evening star. [volume], December 21, 1947, Page 18, Image 101

About Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
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“WE GO TOGETHER”
Continued from page eight
be somebody his son could take there to the
Scout house tonight and introduce proudly
to others: “This is my dad... ”
"Thank you, Mr. Olsen,” said the woman
in 6C. “And now I wonder if you’d just
take a look at my pilot light.”
Yah, sure. Sash cords — pilot lights —
this was all he knew. He’d sit there dumb
tonight in his worn-out suit, while the other
fathers talked of big things. They’d won
der what he was doing there, the only one
who amounted to nothing... “Paul, I think
I’ll not go,” he said when the boy came in
from play. “My head is hurting.”
Paul turned so white that Mr. Olsen was
frightened. "But all the fathers — I could
n’t — ” he stammered, then swallowed and
asked softly, “Is it very bad? Don’t you
think maybe if you lay down for a while—?”
Mr Ol.SF.N sidhpH within himcnlf 14o
The boy laughed, and his father, a thin,
brittle-looking man, leaned across him to
speak to Mr. Olsen. “I’ve just been telling
Jimmy that he and I will have to get out
together more, play ball and everything.
You only realize, when you do get together
like this... Trouble is, I’m always up to
my ears at the office. .. ”
Mr. Olsen nodded, and applied himself
to his hamburger. He ate neatly and care
fully, the way he’d always done since Ilse
had died, as an example to the boy. But he
wasn’t thinking of eating. He was wishing
all this were over and he could go back with
Paul to his apartment, where he wouldn’t
have to be reminded that he was nobody.
Some of the fathers made speeches after
dinner, and Mr. Olsen looked at Paul. Now
the boy would know — now he would un
derstand that never in a thousand years
could his father speak like that...
But Paul wasn’t listening to the speeches.
He was quiet and polite, his face upturned
to the speakers in an attitude of listening.
Yet Mr. Olsen knew he heard not one word.
There was a glazed look in his eyes that Mr.
Olsen understood very well; he saw it in
the eyes of the other boys too, and it made
him want to chuckle. Yah, sure, he thought.
Boys don’t listen to speeches.
1 he scoutmaster was talking now — had
been for some time. “The world of tomorrow
is in the hands of these young fellows. And,
now, what all the boys have been waiting
for — the awards and merit badges. Come
up as I call your names, fellows.”
Mr. Olsen watched the boys walk up for
their badges. Some were stiff and serious,
some fell over their feet a little, others pre
tended it was all a silly business, to be got
over quickly. Paul, when his turn came,
walked quietly, his head up. Mr. Olsen’s
throat choked; he wished Ilse were there.
“This boy,” the scoutmaster said, “this
boy, Paul Olsen, has won more badges than
any first-year scout in the troop. That
world of tomorrow I was talking about will
be Safe in the hands of fellows like Paul.”
A man murmured to Mr. Olsen: “Fine
boy. Yours?”
“Yah, mine.” Mr. Olsen nodded vigor
ously. “My boy.”
My boy, he thought, taking care of the
world. Sure I’m a success. Sure I’m some
body. Father of a good boy, that’s who I am.
From across the floor Paul grinned at
him and winked, and Mr. Olsen grinned and
winked back. Then he turned to the man
nearest to him and held out his hand and
spoke in a loud, hearty voice.
“My name is Olsen,” he said. The End
a sudden sharp longing for Ilse, who could
have shared this with him, told him what
to do. It was important now to the boy, in
his young innocence, that he should not go
to the father-and-son night without a father.
There was no way of making him under
stand. Yet after tonight he might under
stand only too well. "Okay, I go,” Mr.
Olsen said, no longer able to bear that
anxious face. "May be good for my head.”
The color came back to Paul’s cheeks.
"Oh, sure it will be. You’ll see. They’ve got
the place all decorated and a swell supper
planned — see, you won’t have to cook or
anything, so that will help your head — ”
He paused, stemming the rush of words, and
said resolutely, “But if you feel too bad — ”
Mr. Olsen laughed and pulled the boy to
him. “We go together,” he said softly . . .
They were among the first to arrive at
the Scout house. Paul introduced his father
to the scoutmaster, a ruddy young man with
alert, friendly brown eyes that took Mr.
Olsen all in. “So this is Paul’s father.”
Yah, Paul’s father, thought Mr. Olsen.
Not what you expect? Not the successful
gentleman you think Paul’s father to be.
rr.._. .
m. nc uttic nuusc iuiea up rapidly, noisily,
the boys all shouting and talking at once,
the men hailing their friends or soon finding
some common ground with strangers...
“Are you Fox, the lawyer? ... Oh, insur
ance, eh? ... Know Hal White down there?
... Sure — went to school together... ”
Mr. Olsen lost himself among the boys,
listening to accounts of the trial flights of
their model planes, making suggestions,
arranging for the use of his workbench the
next day. With the boys, at least, he was
somebody. They were too young to recog
nize his failure. They did not understand
that in America, where all men are created
equal, it was a disgrace not to have made
something of yourself...
The tables were arranged in the shape of
a seven, the troop’s number. Each man sat
between two boys, his own and another, so
Mr. Olsen was spared the need of talking
to one of these educated, successful fathers.
There were a few who knew him, who lived
in the apartment house, but he managed
to keep away from them and only nod across
the room. “Isn’t it swell, Dad?” Paul, be
side him, couldn’t contain his excitement.
“Is your head okay?”
“Sure. Fine.”
The boy on his other side spoke to him:
“That’s a swell inside curve you taught
Paul, Mr. Olsen. None of the kids hit it.”
“Yah? But I don’t teach it to him. I just
stand and catch, maybe a hundred times.”
* '
"Yes, that was some shot!"