Ishmael Toffee Read Online Free Page B
Author: Roger Smith
later.
7
Cindy goes into the house. She wants to get the little man another book. A more cleverer book, to help him with his reading. She passes Flo, polishing the dining room table. Flo smiles at Cindy, but Cindy doesn’t like her.
She smells. Flo, Flo, stinks like poop.
She sung that once to Mommy and Mommy was very cross. Didn’t smack her—Mommy never did that—but told her she was a very rude little girl. That if Flo heard her she’d be very, very upset. Made Cindy stay up here in her room for the whole afternoon.
Cindy likes her room so it wasn’t a terrible thing. But she didn’t like it when Mommy was cross. Made her sad. Like thinking of Mommy now. Cindy opens her closet and looks through the books. Finds the right one. She’s too big for it now, but maybe it can help the little man.
She likes the little man. He’s her friend. And when you have a friend you tell them your secrets, don’t you? If they really, truly are your friend and you can trust them. But she knows she couldn’t tell him with her mouth. Never could do that.
So she takes out the little pile of cards—pretty with flowery borders—Mommy used to send to people to say thank you when they were nice. Ready to write him her secret.
“But silly Cindy,” she says, “he can’t read. But he’ll learn, from the book. He will.”
She takes a card and her pen and very, very, carefully and even more neatly than at kindergarten, she writes him a note. She blows on the card, flaps it the way Mommy used to, slips it between the pages of the book and goes back out to her friend.
●
The taxis are full, so Ishmael rides home on the bus. Slow and stinks of diesel, but what of it? He’s smelled worse and he’s in no hurry, and he gets a seat to himself, back of the bus. Sits with his face against the window, watching the rush hour traffic. All these new cars, small and round looking. When he went away cars were big and square like boxes. Lot more brown people driving now. Even brown women. Didn’t see that, back in his day.
Apartheid gone, too. Whities and darkies and coloreds all together on the same bus. Go use a public toilet now and you piss next to a white man. Takes some getting used to and that’s a fact.
Ishmael opens his backpack, lying beside him on the seat. He helped himself to some plants from the big house and who is ever going to notice? Has them in a plastic bag inside his pack, next to the new book the little girly give to him. Checks on the plants—roots still nice and damp—and closes the bag.
He wipes his hands on his jeans and lifts out the book. Bigger than the last one. More pictures, not so many words. For a smaller kid, he reckons and this makes him laugh. He flips through and comes on a little card, white with flowers, stuck in the pages. Kid must have left it there sometime. He sees a drawing on the front of the card and looks closer. Two stick people, way kids draw, one bigger, one smaller. Bigger one holding something like a net on a pole. Pool scoop.
Left this for him, the kid did. On purpose. He turns the card over and sees writing and something tells him that what’s written on that card isn’t good. Flashes on those bruises on the kid’s leg, and that gets him all upset and nervous.
It’s trouble, written on there. For sure. And he wants none of that. But long as he don’t know what it says he’s safe. He folds the card and drops it on the seat beside him.
The bus drives into Paradise Park and he packs away the book but doesn’t touch that card. Leaves it there. He slings his pack over his shoulder and walks like a sailor to the front, people coming up behind him.
The bus pulls up and the doors open and Ishmael steps down. Then he stops. Throws a U-turn and he’s back in the bus, and the people are bitching at him. Fuck them. He fights his way to his seat, picks up the card and puts it in his pocket.
This is trouble, Ishmael. Fucken trouble
8
All day
7
Cindy goes into the house. She wants to get the little man another book. A more cleverer book, to help him with his reading. She passes Flo, polishing the dining room table. Flo smiles at Cindy, but Cindy doesn’t like her.
She smells. Flo, Flo, stinks like poop.
She sung that once to Mommy and Mommy was very cross. Didn’t smack her—Mommy never did that—but told her she was a very rude little girl. That if Flo heard her she’d be very, very upset. Made Cindy stay up here in her room for the whole afternoon.
Cindy likes her room so it wasn’t a terrible thing. But she didn’t like it when Mommy was cross. Made her sad. Like thinking of Mommy now. Cindy opens her closet and looks through the books. Finds the right one. She’s too big for it now, but maybe it can help the little man.
She likes the little man. He’s her friend. And when you have a friend you tell them your secrets, don’t you? If they really, truly are your friend and you can trust them. But she knows she couldn’t tell him with her mouth. Never could do that.
So she takes out the little pile of cards—pretty with flowery borders—Mommy used to send to people to say thank you when they were nice. Ready to write him her secret.
“But silly Cindy,” she says, “he can’t read. But he’ll learn, from the book. He will.”
She takes a card and her pen and very, very, carefully and even more neatly than at kindergarten, she writes him a note. She blows on the card, flaps it the way Mommy used to, slips it between the pages of the book and goes back out to her friend.
●
The taxis are full, so Ishmael rides home on the bus. Slow and stinks of diesel, but what of it? He’s smelled worse and he’s in no hurry, and he gets a seat to himself, back of the bus. Sits with his face against the window, watching the rush hour traffic. All these new cars, small and round looking. When he went away cars were big and square like boxes. Lot more brown people driving now. Even brown women. Didn’t see that, back in his day.
Apartheid gone, too. Whities and darkies and coloreds all together on the same bus. Go use a public toilet now and you piss next to a white man. Takes some getting used to and that’s a fact.
Ishmael opens his backpack, lying beside him on the seat. He helped himself to some plants from the big house and who is ever going to notice? Has them in a plastic bag inside his pack, next to the new book the little girly give to him. Checks on the plants—roots still nice and damp—and closes the bag.
He wipes his hands on his jeans and lifts out the book. Bigger than the last one. More pictures, not so many words. For a smaller kid, he reckons and this makes him laugh. He flips through and comes on a little card, white with flowers, stuck in the pages. Kid must have left it there sometime. He sees a drawing on the front of the card and looks closer. Two stick people, way kids draw, one bigger, one smaller. Bigger one holding something like a net on a pole. Pool scoop.
Left this for him, the kid did. On purpose. He turns the card over and sees writing and something tells him that what’s written on that card isn’t good. Flashes on those bruises on the kid’s leg, and that gets him all upset and nervous.
It’s trouble, written on there. For sure. And he wants none of that. But long as he don’t know what it says he’s safe. He folds the card and drops it on the seat beside him.
The bus drives into Paradise Park and he packs away the book but doesn’t touch that card. Leaves it there. He slings his pack over his shoulder and walks like a sailor to the front, people coming up behind him.
The bus pulls up and the doors open and Ishmael steps down. Then he stops. Throws a U-turn and he’s back in the bus, and the people are bitching at him. Fuck them. He fights his way to his seat, picks up the card and puts it in his pocket.
This is trouble, Ishmael. Fucken trouble
8
All day
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