Billy Don't. William OSB Baker
when times were good, but vanished when he needed them. His life had been disrupted, permanently altered. Although he often had vengeful thoughts, he did not seek revenge. To the contrary, he found or created the rationale necessary to explain away the acts of others.
After the Monterey accident and the divorce, Bill Munroe had taken stock of his personal situation, his financial position, his physical limitations, and his expectations. He drew strength from the lessons he'd learned in his youthful years, bringing himself to full realization of where he was and what was best for him. The accident and divorce had denuded him of his financial holdings, leaving him with a small monthly medical disability payment of which one-half was awarded to Gertrude for child support. His decision to live in a caretaker role in an isolated cabin in the Sierra Nevada Mountains answered the facts he had assembled. He would not be dependent on his mother.
Financially, he could not afford to live in Carmel or Oakland. The hip injury needed time to heal. He needed time to repair the emotional and mental injuries he had suffered, and to be away from the scenes which carried memories of the past would speed that recovery. Mums reluctantly accepted her son's decision to live in the mountains, and as a supporting offer agreed to periodically return him to Oakland for visits with his children. At first there were a couple of visits a year. Then as the children adjusted to their environment and became less aware of his absence, a chasm in their relationship began to develop. A visit of a few hours became too short to rekindle memories and devotions. The visits became difficult, their purpose and pleasure lost. Gradually the visits became fewer and further apart. Eventually they stopped.
"Clang, clang, clang." Billy heard the distant clanging of the street car's bell, remembering when he rode the street car to his grandmother's how the conductor incessantly tapped his heel on the steel pin which struck the bell anchored under the conductor's platform. Billy thought, "They ring the bell all the time." And so it seemed with most conductors. As the three reached the corner, the clang of the street car's bell was coming over the hill giving advance notice of its impending arrival. "Just in time," said Dad. "We won't have to wait." The steel wheels screeched as they brought the street car to a stop on the shiny surface of the tracks midway up the hill. The doors folded open and the step dropped down into its place.
They boarded the car, and Dad dropped three tokens into the square fare box. "Need transfers?" "No, thanks. Just going up to the show," replied Dad, making his stumbling way to the seat where Billy was sitting against the window, and Beth was standing in the aisle waiting for him to take his place between them. "Looks like you two are going to make a sandwich out of me." The children laughed. "Which one is the onions?"
Not me, I'm ketchup," chimed in Beth, happy to play the game of make believe.
"Me neither. 1 don't like onions." Billy screwed up his face and held his nose, emphasizing his point.
Dad tilted his head back in the pretence of calling in an order. "Hold the onions." He spoke in a rather loud voice, which drew a smile from the lady seated across the aisle.
The game of food nudged Billy's thoughts into an awareness of the black jelly beans crammed into the pocket of his knickers. "Can 1 have one of my jelly beans now?" He squirmed on the seat, making room to force his hand into the tight pocket as Dad said, "It'd sure beat the gee-willickers out of this sandwich." They all laughed, and the lady across the aisle again smiled.
Beth, correctly assuming the granted permission included her, carefully unfolded the torn bag she had been holding in her hand and removed a candy kiss. "They are all melted," she complained. "Well, now you have a bag of finger-lickers instead of kisses." Beth laughed at her dad's comment, carefully peeling the thin foil from the melted candy kiss.
Dad reached up to pull the cord signaling the conductor they wanted off at the next stop. Billy jumped to his feet. "1’ll pull it, Dad." He gave the cord a hard yank.
At the corner the street car came to a stop, and the three got off. The show was a Tom Mix western preceded by the Movietone News and a cartoon. Billy ate his black jelly beans, sharing a few with his Dad. Beth's candy kisses were messy, but good. She paid more attention to unpeeling the foil wrappers than she did to the movie. On their way out, Dad suggested, "Let's use the restrooms. I think some fingers could use washing." Outside, they crossed the street to wait where the street car would be stopping.
As they stood waiting, Dad spoke. "Oh say, you know what?"
Billy responded, "Oh say, you know what." It was a game Billy played with his father's habit of starting a conversation with the those words.
Again, Dad said, "Oh say, you know what."
"What?" asked Beth
"I just thought of a riddle. See if you can solve it."
"Okay," Beth and Billy gleefully answered in unison.
"Here it is. On my way to Van Nuys I met a man with seven wives. Each wife had seven sacks. Each sack had seven cats. Each cat had seven kits. Now, kits, cats, sacks, and wives, how many were going to Van Nuys?"
"What?" asked Billy, his face screwed up in a puzzled look.
"I'll repeat it for you." He did, speaking slowly and emphasizing the words, "0n my way ....." "I know. I know." Beth excitedly called, jumping up and down.
"Okay. How many?"
"Fourteen." "Nope.
Do you know, Bozo?"
"No." Billy was trying to mentally add the seven kits, seven cats and seven sacks. "How many wives were there?" he asked.
"Seven of everything, except me." Again, Dad repeated the first three words. "On my way." Only this time he gave added emphasis to the word "my".
"I know. I know." Beth twirled herself in a small circle.
"Okay. How many?"
"One." She shouted out the answer.
"Right, Y'are, Kiddo."
"I don't get it." Billy stood half-pouting, half-confused, disturbed that Beth had the correct answer.
Mr. Munroe was in the process of explaining how only he was going to Van Nuys when a car stopped at the curb in front of where they stood. The driver leaned across the front seat and opened the front door. "Hey, you guys looking for a ride?"
Dad for a short moment looked quizzically at the car, then the driver. Recognizing Bud, he said, "Hey, yourself. Straw is cheaper. Didn't recognize the car, Bud. What're doin' here? Make a special trip for us?"
"Yep. Thought you might like a ride home."
"Mighty kind of ya, Bud. We'd appreciate it."
"Ah, forget it. I'd do it for any "crip" even if he was my wife's brother."
"That's the way it is with Bud," thought Bill, letting the remark pass, always kidding and joking around." He opened the rear door, ushered the children into the back seat, and got into the front with Bud.
"Hi, Uncle Bud."
"Hi, Billy. How's the carrot top?"
"I'm not a carrot top. Carrot tops are green." It was a standard exchange between Billy and his Uncle Bud.
"Hi, Uncle Bud." "Hi, Sweetie Pie. How was the show?" "It was good....."" Billy interrupted. "It was about cowboys, and they got the bad guys who stole the cattle." Bud turned to Bill. "A real cliff hanger, eh, Bill?" Both men laughed. The car pulled away from the curb.
"Uncle Bud?" "Yeah, Billy. What's on your mind?" "When is soon?" "Huh? What’cha mean, 'when is soon?'" On hearing the question Bud's first reaction was to make fun of the question. But the tone of Billy's voice suggested that a serious answer was expected. "I don't understand the question, Billy." "You told me you would take us to see Dad in the mountains, soon. I want to know when soon is."
Bud looked at Bill. They both wanted to break out laughing, but stifled the urge. "That is a good question." Bud waited a moment before going on. He needed to compose himself and think out the answer.
"Uncle Bud ..... " "Yeah, I'm thinking." "Hold yer