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ONE QUIET MORNING, a Saturday, in the spring, when I was three, while Dudley Beaker was sitting on his porch drinking a cup of coffee and reading the morning paper, the thought struck him that it was time I learned to read.
Mr. Beaker was wearing a tan satin robe that my mother had made for him, though she had presented it first to my father, who never wore such things, as a birthday present. After a month or two had passed and my father had not worn the robe, my mother asked why he didn’t wear it on Saturday mornings when he sat in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee and reading the paper. My father told her, sheepishly and gently, that he was really sorry he hadn’t worn it, but that a tan satin robe wasn’t his style, that he didn’t wear that sort of thing. My mother admitted that he was right and said it seemed a terrible shame to have a perfectly good robe go to waste and that it was too bad she couldn’t think of somebody else to give it to. My father struck himself on the head with the heel of his right hand and said that he had a perfect idea. They could give the robe to Dudley Beaker, whose birthday was coming up in just a week or two. At first my mother didn’t seem to think much of this idea. She said that Dudley’s birthday wouldn’t come up for months, but my father consulted the small book in which my mother listed birthdays and anniversaries and showed her that Mr. Beaker’s birthday was, in fact, just around the corner. My mother declared that she must be losing her marbles like poor Mrs. Barber, the widow downtown, and scampered off to rewrap the robe, using the original box, paper, and bow, which she had saved on the topmost shelf of her closet, in the back, behind a hat box. When she gave the robe to Mr. Beaker, he said that it was just his style, just the sort of thing he would enjoy wearing on a spring morning, when he drank his coffee and read the morning paper on his porch.
The idea that it was time for me to learn to read struck Mr. Beaker so powerfully that he put the paper aside at once, scrawled a note for Eliza, who was sleeping late, left his coffee, and went off to buy me a book.
There was no bookstore in Babbington at that time, but Lydia Barber, who ran a used furniture store on Main Street, liked to arrange the furniture in her shop as it might be arranged in a house, so she kept a good supply of props to lend verisimilitude to the arrangements, including antimacassars and doilies, knickknacks and books, and these were also for sale. Among the books at Mrs. Barber’s shop was a used, foxed copy of The Little Folks’ Big Book, an anthology of fables, maxims, poems, cautionary tales, and lighthearted stories for children. Mrs. Barber was the widow to whom my mother referred when she said that she must be losing her marbles. Whenever my mother thought of Mrs. Barber, she—like many other young Babbington matrons at that time—took a deep breath and thanked her lucky stars that she was not in Mrs. Barber’s shoes, and she made a mental note to call her on the telephone or drop into the shop for a chat.
Mrs. Barber had one child, a son named Matthew, who was about my age. It was Mrs. Barber’s custom, while she tended the shop, to keep Matthew in the back room, which was full of dusty furniture, antimacassars and doilies, knickknacks and books, or, in good weather, to let him play in the tiny yard behind the shop. When Matthew grew tired and cranky, Mrs. Barber would read to him from one of the books that she had for sale, and this habit gave her a reputation for having lost her marbles, since Matthew, although he could hear her perfectly well from the back room or the yard behind the shop, was invisible to the passersby who glanced through the store window and saw the slight woman reading aloud, apparently to no one.
Among the books that Mrs. Barber read from was The Little Folks’ Big Book. However, Matthew didn’t seem fond of the Big Book. If anything, listening to his mother read from it seemed to make him more tired and cranky. Mrs. Barber was not, therefore, unwilling to sell the book to Mr. Beaker, who decided that it was just the thing for teaching me to read.
Mr. Beaker had Mrs. Barber wrap the book. Then he drove directly to my parents’ house.
When he arrived, my mother was in the kitchen, making breakfast. My father was in the bathroom, shaving. I was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of graham crackers and milk. My mother was wearing a terrycloth bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. My father was wearing blue boxer shorts. I was wearing a fresh pair of flannel pajamas with pictures of romping, drooling dogs all over them. Mr. Beaker suddenly appeared at the back door, rapping on the window, smiling.
My mother was quite startled. “Dudley!” she cried, and began patting her hair into place. She opened the door and let him in. “Dudley!” she said again. She blushed and smiled and turned her cheek toward Mr. Beaker for a kiss.
“Good morning, Ella!” said Mr. Beaker, full of hearty good humor. He was holding both his hands behind him and smiling. He leaned forward and kissed my mother and rubbed his cheek against hers.
My mother giggled. “Why, Dudley,” she said, “you look like the cat that swallowed the canary.” She took a step back and studied Mr. Beaker’s smile. “What have you got there, Dudley?” she asked. She stepped toward him again and tried to look behind him. He turned so that she couldn’t see. She turned the other way. “What are you holding behind your back?” she asked. She grabbed his arm and tried to turn him around. He twisted away. Her bathrobe fell open. Mr. Beaker drew a sharp breath. My mother blushed and pulled her robe closed. Mr. Beaker turned toward me.
“I—have—something—for—Peter,” he said, advancing toward me and releasing one word with each step.
“Oh,” said my mother. She let her arms fall to her sides. “Isn’t that nice. Isn’t that nice, Peter?” she said.
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You’ll find an overview of the entire work in An Introduction to The Personal History, Adventures, Experiences & Observations of Peter Leroy. It’s a pdf document.
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