Pemetic High School - Pemetic Yearbook (Southwest Harbor, ME)

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THE GIFT The old man drummed a steady staccato on the maple table. He stared out the window into the cold October sun. Ought to pull the shades, he thought, sun'll fade the upholstery. But he didn't. He wanted to wait for Ned. Cussed kid, he bellowed. His voice echoed from the four high walls and from the wall over the fireplace, his wife, (he blessed her soul) glared at him. Where in the . . he stopped. The kid was coming. Ned had stopped in front of the iron gate; he was unbolting it now; he was coming. Clarence Fogarty, the old man, had to laugh to watch Ned. He looked a little scared, and a little silly, his hair falling to a part in the middle, and a little red cowlick stubbornly refusing to lie down. His faded dungarees and checked shirt were tousled with wear and dirt. Even though he had been coming with papers for a week, he was still a little bit frightened by the prospect of coming face to face with the stingiest man in town . The doorbell rang. Clarence straightened up his suspenders. Gruffly he paced to the door, unbolted it and stared at Ned. Big eyes peered at Clarence Fogarty. 'Tve come for the dime, sir, and here's your newspaper, sir. He handed Fogarty the stiff bundle. Clarence paused, Come in boy, come in. I forgot you were coming, he lied, but, I suppose that if you must be paid, you must be paid, right? I'll go get the money . He had deliberately forgotten it, on the pretence of asking the boy to come inside. Come in for the love of the Gods, come in, he urged. For the first time in his life, old Fogarty wished that he wasn't so stingy, and had gotten the heat up higher than 59 degrees, because the boy looked cold and ill. He was skinny and he coughed a lot. Stupid kid, only a thin sweater on this cold day. Clarence Fogarty reached into the oak desk, an old roll top that he had bought for a lark, a good bargain. When Fogarty did have to buy something, he always looked for a bargain. Now, as he reached for the tin change box, and held it, overflowing with dimes and nickels and quarters, all hoarded to add to the already huge pile beneath his mattress, he hunted fora tarnished one; no •ise wasting a shiny one. But, as he turned to look at the boy in the tattered hand-me-downs of a poor family, he thought better of it, and rubbed a shiny dime between his thumb and forefinger. Coming into the den again, Fogarty caught the boy unaware, staring at the heavy curtains and the maple table. What ya starin at boy? Fogarty probed. Mumbling to himself, he made one of his custo- mary remarks on money, Prices of papers going up; used to be you could buy one for a penny. Yes sir, Ned replied, I like this house, sir. It's pretty. Mmm, cost's too much, heat, lights; can't save a dime. Well, here you are son. Pretend- ing indifference, he asked Ned Can you stay a while, son? No, thanks sir, Mr. Fogarty. I have more papers to deliver. But I like it here, and I'll come tomorrow and stay; that is, if it's all right with you? The man grinned. He had liked this boy from the minute he had brought the first paper; he was different from all his neighbors. They always snooped and tried to ask him personal questions. Could you, I mean, I don't go out much; could you bring some ice cream the next time you come. Haven't eaten ice cream in years. After the price went up, I stopped buying it. I'll write down the store to get it at. Could you, kinda eh, pick out the cheapest ? He walked quickly to the desk and rummaged around for the ink. He never used anything but a fountain pen, an old quill type, and he used the same bottle of ink that he's used for thirty years, a deep scarlet ink that wasn't even sold in the stores anymore; it could really be considered an antique. He wrote slowly and laboriously, and when he finished, he grinned. We'll have a party.

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He seemed so much older this year. His beard was much whiter than I remembered it, and his snow white hair seemed thinner and less bushy. His hands had many more wrinkles and when he filled his pipe and lit it, they trembled and it took much longer. I always expected him to spill the tobacco or drop the pipe and I actually sat on the edge of my chair waiting, but he never did. His false teeth clicked but he still put away enough turkey and pumpkin pie to feed one for a week. As always, after supper he dozed off in the middle of the coffee hour, only this year he snored. THE DAY PEMETIC STOOD STILL (ALMOST) It started as an ordinary day, but soon became apparent that it wasn't. Strange things were happening everwhere. Why, Paul Walsh hard- ly said a word all day, and Brad Reed, Gerald Cummings, and Bill Thurston were the first ones in the hot lunch line. Things really looked bad when Michael Galbreath wrote out his name. The one person in the school most affected was Mr. Johnston. To begin with, his T V set wouldn’t work, so he missed his news pro- gram. That left him in such a state of shock that he left the front door of his house open, and all his pets followed him to school. What a field day Mr. Atwood's biology class had! Things came to a head just before school let out when a helicopter landed on the ball field, disruptingCoach's seventh period gym class. A tall dark stranger emerged from the heli- copter and went straight to the office where he asked for Mr. Johnston. This man was so important that Mr. Furtwengler wasted no time calling Mr. Johnston to the office even though there were only five minutes until school was over. Mr. Johnston was very worried when he saw the man. (He was afraid his past was catch- ing up with him.) The man introduced himself as a government representative and proceeded to ask Mr. Johnston if he liked Henry David Thoreau. Like him! declaredMr. Johnston, He's my IDOL! Just the manl've beenlooking for! said the government man. 'Tve been sent to find a man who really understands Thoreau. It's part of a major psychological study. You'll be famous! You can’t be serious! said Mr. Johnston. '1 can't be part of a psychological study. I've got a senior play to do, and NOTHING comes before the senior play!” M

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Suddenly, returning to his normal self, he shooedNedout the door, saying that a fellow could never earn a cent by dawdling. Ned Parkinson ran down the walk. The grass, hand cut to save money, scraggled across the cement. As he came to the road, Miss Totter, the fourth grade teacher, came scurrying by. Land sakes, Little Mr. Parkinson, what are you doing in there with that old stingy Fogarty. Why, do you know that he's so tight, he won't even give to the Red Cross, and he's had the same suit of clothes for twenty years, and he is the most anti-social . . .! Ned ducked beneath her arm, and with a cough and a sigh of relief, left her talking to the hedge, and ticking off on her bony fingers, the number of reasons that Clarence Fogarty was con- sidered the stingiest man in town. The friendship between the fourth grader and the eighty year old penny pincher, lasted one month. Every day, Ned ate ice cream with the old man and listened, enraptured, to Fogarty's yarns, or just sat in the big quiet house and watched the people on the street. But one day, Ned didn't come, and the old man, the penny pincher, was worried. Ned Parkinson had died of Leukemia. The cough, the tiredness, all had been first signs of the dreaded fatal disease. His parents were heartbroken, but they had six other children to look after. It was two months later, when the teachers of Claryden School started a drive for Leukemia, in memory of Ned Parkinson. It was on December 31, when the Leukemia fund received a check for $15,000. An odd looking check, of heavy parchment, the numbers filled in with deep scarlet ink. CREDITS ODE TO A SURFBOARD William Thurston GAME ............................................................. Paul Walsh (inspired by the short story entitled Game by Donald Barthelme, appearing in LITERARY CAVALCADE, February, 1966) Story on page 14................................................... Mary Hamlin THE DAY PEMETIC STOOD STILL........................................Merle Martel 16 THE GIFT Peggy Robinson