Authors: Robert Cormier
I Am the Cheese (5 page)
“Look, Adam. We’ve got to do something about this.”
“But what, Dad?” Adam asked, feeling his chin trembling.
“First, I want you to get out of here.”
“I want to stay with you, Dad.”
“Look, the dog will probably let one of us go. Here’s what to do. I’ll take a small step forward—you take a big one backward. That might confuse him. Then take another one while I make a slight movement. But go slow. Don’t upset the beast. Just walk backward. Keep going …”
“Where will I go?”
“I heard traffic a while ago. The highway runs to our left.” His father was talking softly, barely moving his lips. “Make it to the highway and flag down a car.”
“But what about you, Dad?”
“I think I can handle it alone. I’ll try moving back,” he said.
“I want to stay with you, Dad.” Actually he wanted to get away, he was terrified of the dog, but he felt as though he’d be betraying his father if he left.
“You’ll be helping most by going, Adam,” his father said, finality in his voice. “Now, do it slowly …”
Adam retreated reluctantly, backing up slowly, not daring to glance at the dog, keeping his eyes on the
ground, hoping he wouldn’t trip and find himself on the ground, the dog rushing at him. He heard his father muttering, “A dog, for crissakes.” The dog didn’t move. Adam glanced up, the dog’s ferocious eyes were on his father.
Adam took one more step—and the dog attacked, the growl reaching a siren’s howl as the animal leaped toward his father. His father stepped aside, one arm outstretched, the dog’s teeth ripping the sleeve of his father’s jacket. The teeth caught on the jacket for a moment, long enough for his father to fling the animal away, changing its course for an instant. In that instant, his father cried for Adam to run, but Adam was frozen with horror to the spot. His father crouched low, close to the ground, meeting the dog at its level. But Adam saw that his father’s right hand was searching the ground for a weapon, a stone or a stick. The dog, too, was crouched, body sloped forward, chin almost touching the ground. Adam’s father slowly rose from the crouched position; he held a tree limb in his hand. The limb was about an inch thick. He thrust it toward the dog, as if offering the animal a gift. For the first time, the animal seemed confused, the glittering eyes wavering in their intensity. Then without warning, the dog leaped again—but this time at the limb, grasping it with its teeth. His father grabbed the limb with both hands and swung it as the dog closed its jaws around it. He swung furiously, the dog hanging on frantically. Suddenly his father let go of the limb, allowed it to soar away from him, the dog still gripping it in its teeth. Thrown off balance and spinning dizzily in the air, the dog fell awkwardly to
the ground, howling now, scurrying to its feet. Adam’s father grabbed another branch, and another. He held tree limbs in each hand now. He looked like a lion tamer in a movie.
“Come on, you bastard,” his father yelled at the dog.
Adam had never heard his father swear like that before, although he said “hell” and “damn” once in a while. The sound coming from the dog was not a growl anymore but a kind of cry, a moan, as if it had been injured. And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it departed, pawing the ground one moment and then turning away the next, thrashing through bushes and thicket.
Adam’s father turned, mouth open, breath coming in huge gasps, his cheek streaked with dirt and sweat, jacket torn. Adam rushed to him, flung his arms around him. He had never loved his father as much as at that moment.
| T : | And that was the clue? |
| A : | I think so. You said to tell it all from the beginning, if possible. And this was the beginning. |
| T : | What strikes you as important about that incident? |
| A : | What do you mean? |
| T : | I mean—was the encounter with the dog in the woods most important? Or was it what made you and your father enter the woods? (5-second interval.) |
| A : | At the time, my father and I didn’t talk about why we went into the woods. We didn’t say anything to my mother—it was as if we shared a secret. And the dog was such a terrifying experience that it overshadowed everything else. I hadn’t seen anyone following us. My father told my mother that he had felt like taking a walk in the woods because it was the first nice day in March. And by the time it was all over—they found the dog had actually bitten my father and he needed a shot at the hospital—I’d forgotten about the reason why we went into the woods. |
| T : | What do you think your father saw on the street that made him panic? |
| A : | I don’t know. Even now, I’m sure he did panic. I’m telling it the way I remembered but that was a long time ago. I was only nine. |
| T : | But you felt at the time that your father was in flight through the woods? |
| A : | Yes. |
| T : | I don’t know. I don’t know. (5-second interval.) |
| A : | May we take a break? I’m tired—drained |
| T : | Of course. You did well. Try to rest now. |
| A : | Thank you. |
END TAPE OZK004
The telephone booth stands outside Howard Johnson’s at the junction of Routes 99 and 119, and the sun splashes on the windows and glass doors of the booth. I get off my bike and walk toward the booth. My shoe rubs against a blister on the heel of my right foot. I bend against the wind and start to search for change in my pocket. I need to talk to Amy Hertz; her voice will sustain me. I should have called her this morning before I left Monument. I should have taken the medicine. I should have stopped in Fairfield and gone to the john or at least bought something to eat, even if only a Hershey bar. Now I am somewhere between Fairfield and Carver and there are all those other places ahead to go through and I am discouraged. I get discouraged very easily. That’s why I need to talk to Amy. She refreshes my spirit, she makes me laugh. I love her.
I reach the telephone booth after an endless walk, like in a dream when you can’t reach your destination, and I look at my watch and find out that it’s only 1:15. School doesn’t end until 2:15, and it takes her
at least fifteen minutes to get home if she doesn’t stop on the way. I look at the telephone in the booth with disgust. Not disgust for the phone but disgust at myself. I have lost all track of time. I will never reach Belton Falls by darkness at this rate and I have to go to the john. I glance at Howard Johnson’s. I’m not hungry but I know that my body requires food for energy, fuel for my trip to Rutterburg. My mother always says that I don’t eat enough and she is always trying to get food into me or bringing home the latest vitamin discovery in the form of candy or chewing gum. My poor mother. I walk my bike to the door of Howard Johnson’s. When I was just a little kid, I called it “Orange Johnson” and we were driving along in the car, my mother and father and me, I was between them in the front seat, and when I said “Orange Johnson” the first time they laughed and laughed and I felt safe and secure and surrounded by love. And sometimes in the night even now I murmur “Orange Johnson” in the dark and feel good again, safe again.
I really have to go to the john now. I know Howard Johnson’s has rest rooms, but there are at least two problems. First of all, what can I do with the bike? There is no lock and I can’t risk leaving it unguarded because somebody might steal it and I would be marooned here if that happened. The second problem is this: Suppose the bathroom in Howard Johnson’s has no window? That will create all kinds of complications because I can’t stand places without windows. Then I see an immediate solution to the bike problem. The booths are located near the windows and I will sit
in a booth, close to the door, and be able to keep an eye on the bike. The second problem is also quickly solved, and I figure that my luck is turning. From my vantage point, I can see a Sunoco station across the street and the rest room sign is visible and there is a window in the door of the one that says Men. Now that relief is imminent, I really have to go to the john and I hurry across the street.
Later, I stand in the telephone booth and the telephone rings and rings. I know it’s a long shot, I know that Amy Hertz is still in school, but I figure that maybe she came home early. But the phone keeps on ringing and I lose count of the rings.
My stomach is tight and tense. The hamburger I ate in Howard Johnson’s has turned into a rock in my stomach. I should have ordered something easy to digest: soup or chowder. And I should have taken the medicine with me. My hand is glued with perspiration to the receiver and my fingers feel strange and alien—they are accustomed to the contours of the bike’s handlebars. A headache has begun: iron bars beneath the flesh of my forehead. I am a wreck, but Amy Hertz, even the voice of Amy Hertz, could cure all that.
The phone is still ringing, unendingly.
The trucks are headed north on Interstate 99 and their motors grind and groan, lonesome sounds.
The operator cuts in. “I’m sorry. Your party does not answer.”
The operator is a man and it’s startling to hear a man’s voice on the line.
“Will you try a few more times?” I ask, although I
know it is futile. Yet, somehow, I find it comforting to know that the phone is ringing in Amy’s home, echoing in the rooms where she eats and sleeps and reads her books and watches television.
After a while, the operator says, “I’m sorry, sir. There is still no answer.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for trying.”
Immediately, the coins come tumbling out of the phone and I slip them out of the coin-return slot. I push open the door of the booth—it sticks for a minute and my heart pounds: Will I be trapped inside?—but it finally opens again and I step outside. The sun has disappeared and the clouds are low, pressing downward, almost claustrophobic. Rutterburg seems far away, impossible to reach. My stomach lurches with nausea and my head throbs. I walk toward the bike and my blister hurts. If I could have talked with Amy …
My next stop is Carver and I check my map. The mileage chart says that one inch represents ten miles and Carver is only about one half inch away. By the time I reach Carver, Amy should be home from school. And maybe I can find a drugstore in Carver and buy aspirins for my headache. I check the bike and I lash my father’s present to the basket. I pull the cap down over my ears—it keeps me warm and shuts out the lonesome sounds of the trucks laboring up the hill on Interstate 99. I look behind but nobody is following me. In Carver, I can probably find a restaurant and order some soup or chowder.
I get on the bike and tell my legs, Pedal, pedal. It’s
as if I have been pedaling forever. I sing to keep up my spirits:
The farmer in the dell
,
The farmer in the dell …
But I only sing for a little while because I am tired and I just want to hold on until I reach Carver.
| TAPE OZK005 | 1350 | date deleted T-A |
| T : | Shall we discuss Amy Hertz? |
| A : | If you want to. (5-second interval.) |
| T : | Would you describe her as your best friend? Or more? |
More. He thought of the night he and Amy had huddled together under the football stands, the field deserted, winter winds blowing, and how their lips had touched and opened, her tongue darting swiftly seeking his and then touching, and he shivered, not with the cold, but with delight. He had felt her breasts against his chest and his breath had come rapidly, his heart beating dangerously. God, how he loved her.
| A : | More than a friend. |
| T : | Tell me about her. |