“I don’t care what it says. It’s Sixth Avenue.” The man crossed the street, looking back angrily at Oreo.
Oreo had noticed that New Yorkers called things whatever they wanted to call them. Thus Houston Street was not the “Hews-ton” of Texas, but “House-ton”; the so-called squares named Sheridan, Duffy, Abingdon, Jackson, Cooper, and Father Demo were closer to being triangles; hopskotch was called, in some potheaded precincts of Gotham, potsy; and New Yorkers stood “on,” not “in,” line.
Oreo made two side trips — one to sniff the cheeses in a store called Cheese Village, another to sniff the books in a library called Jefferson Market. The library reminded her of a castle, with its spiral staircase, traceried windows, and low archways into the paradoxically bright dungeon of the reference room.
At Scott Scott’s
Oreo knocked. There was no answer. She was about to turn away, when a woman carrying an armload of groceries came up to the door. She was about thirty-five, with the harried look of a septiplegic cephalopod.
“Are you looking for someone?” the woman asked, eyeing Oreo’s walking stick.
“Does Scott Scott live here?”
“Do you have the time?” The woman was trying to hold up the groceries, get her key out, and bite her nails at the same time.
“It’s about three o’clock.”
“Scott should be home any minute now. You can come in and wait for him if you like.”
Oreo was shown into a tiny apartment cluttered with statuettes, globes, certificates — and now with groceries, which the woman had dropped. “They’re Scott’s acting awards,” the woman said, gesturing around the room with her elbows and chin. “I’m Mrs. Scott.”
Oreo had had enough fun watching Mrs. Scott juggle the groceries; it was time to help her. She rounded up stray beef patties as she trailed Mrs. Scott into a kitchen that was just big enough to let one slice of bread pop out of the toaster before it could actually be called crowded.
“I must get Scott’s tea ready. He likes his tea as soon as he comes in.” She found an old bag of Earl Grey behind the toaster.
Oreo backed out of the kitchen to wait for Scott. She saw Mrs. Scott drop the same teaspoon seven times. Then the woman pulled herself together and dropped a cup for a change. Fortunately, it was empty, and its fall was cushioned by the groceries, which Mrs. Scott had dropped again. An orange rolled by Oreo’s foot. She picked it up and ate it quickly — she thought she might go mad if it rolled by her one more time. It was what General Mills must go through when Betty Crocker was in mittelschmerz.
Oreo looked around the apartment. Under the clutter, she could see that the Scotts had at least one piece of furniture that they were protecting. It was an expensive plastic couch, which the Scotts had had the bad taste to cover with cheap upholstery, so that neither family nor visitors could get the look or feel of its fundamental, its rich plasticness. Oreo, ever alert, had spied the plastic through a worn spot in the upholstery. She was upset. To spend all that money on plastic and not show it!
A few minutes later, the door opened and a French-accented voice said, “I am arrived.”
Mrs. Scott came bursting out of the kitchen, tripping over a bunch of bananas. “Scott’s here!” she said as if it were a miracle.
To Oreo, it was something less. The mature man, possibly her father, whom she had been expecting turned out to be an eleven-year-old actor. He had the dark, knowing eyes of a street urchin, and his black hair, a jaunty morion, peaked front and back. All his movements were quick and sure. What his mother dropped on the one hand, he could surely catch, offhandedly, on the other hand — while doing three other things, yawning.
Breaking a vase as she pointed to her son, Mrs. Scott introduced the boy. He put his school books next to what Oreo now saw was a Play-Doh configuration of three Oscars, a Grammy, and an Emmy.
“Hi, Scott,” said Oreo.
The boy threw his arms wide. “What is this that this is that you are so formal? I wish that you me call of my prename.”
“Okay. Hi, Scott.”
“Well!” said Scott, nodding and rubbing his hands with apache aplomb. “Well, well, well, that goes.” He laid his finger aside his nose. “Then, so, in that case, thereupon! How you call you, young girl?”
“I call myself Christine Clark.”
“Well, well, well, that goes. Since what hour wait you for me?”
“Since three hours less ten minutes,” said Oreo.
“What a damage!” He turned to his mother. “I have need of the tea,” he said, speaking the speech trippingly on the tongue as his mother went trippingly into the kitchen.
While Mrs. Scott was klutzing around, Oreo explained that she obviously had the wrong Scott Scott. The Scott Scott she wanted, né Samuel Schwartz, had changed his name for stage purposes.
Scott nodded vigorously. “You have reason. Me, this Scott here — this is me.”
“But your mother’s last name is Scott too.”
Scott shrugged. “This is true. You have reason.”
Mrs. Scott came back in, squishing a tomato underfoot — that is, in her case, underfeet. She explained that she had changed her name for two reasons: one, she hated her husband for not deserting her because she hated him, thereby putting her to the trouble of deserting him; and, two, she knew her son would be famous someday, and she wanted part of that action. When people spoke of Scott Scott, they would be speaking of her too, since her real first name was also Scott. She and her son had taken her maiden names. Parenthetically, she said that she had assumed Oreo was one of her son’s chums from Professional Children’s School. He had many older friends, she said.
“Which reminds me,” Oreo said, “Sally at the SAG office asked me to say hello for her.”
“Ah, yes, Sally — my old. She is — how you say? — a veritable pedophile.” He shrugged again. “But that is the war.”
“That woman!” said Mrs. Scott with a shudder. She took the dripping teabag from Scott’s cup and plunked it into Oreo’s cup of hot water. “I hope you don’t mind,” she apologized.
“Not at all. I like weak tea. My grandmother calls it ‘water bewitched.’”
Scott clapped his hands. “This is magnificent! That phrase there — this is the word just.” He turned to his mother. “Mama, my cabbage flower, have we of the outside of works to offer this visitor charming?”
While his mother stumbled into the kitchen, Scott excused himself to go to the room of bath. Amidst klunks, bangs, and thuds, Mrs. Scott chatted with Oreo. Oreo marveled at young Scott’s accent. She told his mother that his inflection was so musically Gallic, she had had to remind herself that he was speaking English and not French. Mrs. Scott said that Scott came home with a different accent each day. Fortunately, she knew many languages and could follow him most of the time; but for two days the week before, because of her ignorance of Shluh and Kingwana syntax, Scott might as well have been speaking Shluh and Kingwana.
When Scott came back (one step and he loomed before them), Oreo told him that the other Sam Schwartz — the one who was still Sam Schwartz — must be her father.
Scott stroked his chin, then snapped his fingers. “There is!” He put his hand gently on Oreo’s shoulder. “Then, so, in that case, thereupon, the path of your father, it has crossed the mine many of times. The ten-eighth April, I think, that day there, your father, he was the voice of a bubble of soap, and I the fall of the snows of yesteryear,” he said, perhaps quoting Villon. He paced the floor (two and one-thirty-second paces) and turned sharply. “Have you the knowledge of the mathematics?” he asked pointedly.