The Indian in the Cupboard (14 page)

When the bell rang Omri still hadn’t come to any decision. He hurried back into school. Patrick was nowhere to be seen. Omri looked around for him frantically. Maybe he’d gone into the toilet to be private and give the men something to eat. Omri went in there and called him softly, but there was no answer. He returned to his place in the classroom. There was no sign of Patrick. And there continued to be no sign of him till about halfway through the lesson—not one word of which Omri took in, he was so worried.

At last, when the teacher turned her back to write on the board, Patrick slipped around a partition, rushed across the room silently, and dropped into his chair.

“Where have you
been?”
asked Omri under his breath.

“In the music room,” said Patrick smugly. The music room was not a room at all, but a little alcove off the gym in which the musical instruments were stored, together with some of the bulkier apparatus like the long horse. “I sat under the horse and fed them,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth. “Only they weren’t very hungry.”

“I bet they weren’t,” said Omri, “after all they’d been through!”

“Cowboys and Indians are used to rough treatment,” Patrick retorted. “Anyway, I left some food in my pocket for later if they want it.”

“It’ll get all squashy.”

“Oh so what? Don’t fuss so much, they don’t mind!”

“How do you know what they mind?” said Omri hotly, forgetting to whisper. The teacher turned around.

“Oh ho, so there you are, Patrick! And where have you been, may I inquire?”

“Sorry, Miss Hilton.”

“I didn’t ask if you were sorry. I asked where you’d been.”

Patrick coughed and lowered his head. “In the toilet,” he mumbled.

“For nearly twenty minutes? I don’t believe you! Are you telling me the truth?” Patrick mumbled something. “Patrick, answer me. Or I’ll send you to the headmaster.”

This was the ultimate threat. The headmaster was very fierce and could make you feel about two inches high. So Patrick said, “I was in the music room, and that’s true. And I forgot the time.”

And that’s not true, added Omri silently. Miss Hilton was nobody’s fool. She knew it too.

“You’d better go and see Mr. Johnson,” she said. “Omri, you go too, chattering away there as usual. Tell him I said you were both disturbing the class and that I’m extremely tired of it.”

They got up silently and walked through the tables, while all the girls giggled and the boys smirked or looked sorry for them, according to whether they liked them or not. Omri glanced at Patrick under his eyebrows. They were in for it now.

Outside the headmaster’s office they stopped.

“You knock,” whispered Omri.

“No, you,” retorted Patrick.

They dithered about for a few minutes, but it was useless to put it off, so in the end they both knocked together.

“Yes?” came a rather irritable voice from inside.

They edged around the door. Mr. Johnson was seated at his large desk, working at some papers. He looked up at once.

“Well, you two? What was it this time—fighting in the playground or talking in class?”

“Talking,” they said, and Patrick added, “and I was late.”

“Why?”

“I just was.”

“Oh don’t waste my time!” snapped Mr. Johnson. “There must have been a reason.”

“I was in the music room, and I forgot the time,” Patrick repeated.

“I don’t remember you being especially musical. What were you doing in the music room?”

“Playing.”

“Which instrument?” asked Mr. Johnson with a touch of sarcasm.

“Just—playing.”

“With what?”
he asked, raising his voice.

“With a—with—” He glanced at Omri. Omri threw him a warning grimace.

“What are you pulling faces about, Omri? You look as if someone’s just stuck a knife into you.”

Omri started to giggle, and that set Patrick off.

“Somebody just did!” spluttered Patrick.

Mr. Johnson was in no such jolly mood, however. He was scowling horribly.

“What are you talking about, you silly boy? Stop that idiotic noise!”

Patrick’s giggles were getting worse. If they hadn’t been where they were, Omri thought, Patrick would have folded up completely.

“Someone—did—stick a knife into him!” hiccuped Patrick,
and added, “A very small one!” His voice went off into a sort of whinny.

Omri had stopped giggling and was staring in awful anticipation at Patrick. When Patrick got into this state he was apt to do and say anything, like someone who’s drunk. Omri took hold of his arm and gave it a sharp shake.

“Shut up!” he hissed.

Mr. Johnson got up slowly and came around his desk. Both boys fell back a step, but Patrick didn’t stop giggling. On the contrary, it got worse. He seemed to be getting completely helpless. Mr. Johnson loomed over him and took him by the shoulder.

“Listen here, my lad,” he said in fearsome tones. “I want you to pull yourself together this moment and tell me what you meant. If there is any child in this school who so far forgets himself as to stick knives into people, or even pretend to, I want to know about it! Now, who was it?”

“Little—Bear!” Patrick squeaked out. Tears were running down his cheeks.

Omri gasped. “Don’t!”

“Who?” asked Mr. Johnson, puzzled.

Patrick didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He was now speechless with nervous, almost hysterical laughter.

Mr. Johnson gave him a shake of his own that rocked him back and forth on his feet like one of those weighted dolls that won’t fall down. Then, abruptly, he let him go and strode back to his desk.

“You seem to be quite beyond yourself,” he said sharply. “I think the only thing I can do is telephone your father.”

Patrick stopped laughing instantly.

“Ah, that’s better!” said Mr. Johnson. “Now.
Who
did you say had stabbed Omri?”

Patrick stood rigid, like a soldier at attention. He didn’t look at Omri, he just stared straight at Mr. Johnson.

“I want the truth, Patrick, and I want it now!”

“Little Bear,” said Patrick very clearly and much louder than necessary.

“Little who?”

“Bear.”

Mr. Johnson looked blank, as well he might.

“Is that somebody’s nickname, or is this your idea of a joke?”

Patrick gave his head one stiff shake. Omri was staring at him, as if paralyzed. Was he going to tell? He knew Patrick was afraid of his father.

“Patrick. I shall ask you once more. Who is this—Little Bear?”

Patrick opened his mouth. Omri clenched his teeth. He was helpless. Patrick said, “He’s an Indian.”

“A what?” asked Mr. Johnson. His voice was very quiet now. He didn’t sound annoyed anymore.

“An Indian.”

Mr. Johnson looked at him steadily for some seconds, his chin resting on his hand.

“You are too old to tell those sort of lies,” he said quietly.

“It’s not a lie!” Patrick shouted suddenly, making both Omri and Mr. Johnson jump. “It’s not a lie! He’s a real live American Indian!”

To Omri’s utter horror, he saw that Patrick was beginning to cry. Mr. Johnson saw it too. He was not an unkind man. No headmaster’s much good if he can’t scare the wits out of children when necessary, but Mr. Johnson didn’t enjoy making them cry.

“Now then, Patrick, none of that,” he said gruffly. But Patrick
misunderstood. He thought he was still saying he didn’t believe him.

He now said the words Omri had been dreading most.

“It’s true and I can prove it!”

And his hand went to his pocket.

Omri did the only thing possible. He jumped at him and knocked him over. He sat on his chest and pinned his hands to the ground.

“You dare—you dare—you dare—” he ground out between clenched teeth before Mr. Johnson managed to drag him off.

“Get out of the room!” he roared.

“I won’t!” Omri choked out. He’d be crying himself in a minute, he felt so desperate.

“OUT!”

Omri felt his collar seized. He was almost hiked off his feet. The next thing he knew, he was outside the door and hearing the key turning.

Without stopping to think, Omri hurled himself against the door, kicking and banging with his fists.

“Don’t show him, Patrick, don’t show him! Patrick, don’t, I’ll kill you if you show him!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

Footsteps came running. Through his tears and a sort of red haze, Omri saw Mrs. Hunt, the headmaster’s elderly secretary, bearing down on him. He got in a couple more good kicks and shouts before she got hold of him and, with both arms around his waist, carried him, shrieking and struggling, bodily into her own little office.

The minute she put him down he tried to bolt, but she hung on.

“Omri! Omri! Stop it, calm down, whatever’s come over you, you naughty boy!”

“Please don’t let him! Go in and stop him!” Omri cried.

“Who? What?”

Before Omri could explain he heard the sound of footsteps from the next room. Suddenly Mr. Johnson appeared, holding Patrick by the elbow. The headmaster’s face was dead white, and his mouth was partly open. Patrick’s head was hung down and his shoulders were heaving with sobs. One look at them told Omri the worst. Patrick had shown him.

M
r. Johnson opened and shut his mouth for several seconds without a sound coming out. At last he croaked: “Mrs. Hunt … I’m afraid I’m unwell. … I’m going home to bed. … Will you take charge of this child. …” His voice dropped to a mumble like an old man’s. Omri just caught the words, “… back to their lessons …” Then Mr. Johnson let go of Patrick’s arm, turned, walked most unsteadily to the door, and then put his hand on it and swayed as if he might fall over.

“Mr. Johnson!” said Mrs. Hunt in a shocked tone. “Shall I call a taxi … ?”

“No … no … I’ll be all right. …” And the headmaster, without looking back, tottered out into the corridor.

“Well!” exclaimed Mrs. Hunt.
“Whatever
have you been doing to the poor man?”

Neither of them answered. Omri was staring at Patrick, or rather, at his pocket. Patrick’s shoulders were heaving and he was not looking at anybody. Mrs. Hunt was obviously flummoxed.

“Well. You’d better go to the toilet and wash your faces, both of you, and then go back to your classroom as fast as you can toddle,” she said in her funny old-fashioned way. “Run along!”

They needed no second telling. Neither of them said a word until they were in the boys’ toilet. Patrick went straight to a basin and began running the cold water. He splashed some onto his face, getting his collar soaked. Omri stood watching him. Obviously he was as upset as Omri, if not more so. Once again Omri felt their friendship trembling on the edge of destruction. He drew a deep breath.

“You showed him,” he said at last in a trembling voice.

Patrick said nothing. He dried his face on the roller towel. He was still gasping the way one does when one’s been crying.

“Give them back to me. Both of them.”

Patrick reached slowly into his pocket. He put his closed hand backward. Omri looked as his fingers slowly opened. Little Bear and Boone were sitting there, absolutely terrified. They were actually clinging on to each other. Even Little Bear was hiding his face and they were both trembling.

With infinite slowness and care, so as not to frighten them more, Omri took them into his own hand. “It’s all right,” he whispered, bringing them near to his face. “Please. It’s all right.” Then he put them carefully in his pocket and said to Patrick in a low voice, “You stupid fool.”

Patrick turned. His face gave Omri more of a jolt than Mr. Johnson’s had. It was white-mottled-red, with swollen eyes.

“I had to!” he said. “I had to! He’d have phoned my dad!
They’d have made me tell in the end. Anyhow, he didn’t believe in them. He thought he was seeing things. He just stood there, gaping at them. He didn’t even touch them. When they moved he gave a yell and then I thought he was going to fall over. He went white as a ghost. You saw. He didn’t believe his eyes, Omri, honest! He’ll think he dreamed it!” Omri went on looking at him stonily. “Can’t I—can’t I have Boone?” asked Patrick in a small voice.