Old Neville

All the children in Hemming Ridge knew about Old Neville. They passed notes during lessons and warned each other in hushed hallway whispers about how Old Neville lurked in the corner of the playground by the rusty swing that no one was supposed to use.   Old Neville got Cindy at recess yesterday.   The word went around the school, wafting from room to room like the smell of boiled cabbage from the cafeteria and making everyone just as resolute. That day at lunch, Cindy would get a few extra pudding-cups and Tashia, the popular girl who barely knew her, would draw for her a glittery picture of dragons. Cindy would be melancholy, turned in upon herself. Then, Marcus' antics at the next table (he always did that when they served boiled cabbage) would prove to be a great distraction, and she would finally laugh again and everyone would forget about Old Neville for a while.  

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  "Who can tell me what liminal means?" asked Mrs. Morrow, the 4th grade English teacher. She turned around and began to write the word on the chalkboard.   "Is it sheets?"   "Tyler. Raise your hand."   Tyler raised his hand.   "Yes, Tyler?"   "Is it, like, sheets? And towels?"   "No, you're thinking of linen. I said liminal. Lim-in-al." Mrs. Morrow underlined it and turned back to the class.  

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  The kickball field was still wet after the morning's early rain. Kevin guarded 2nd base and tried to ignore the cold, damp feeling on his ankles from his sodden pant cuffs. Maria was up--oh no--he braced himself. As usual, her powerful kick sent the ball sailing far and straight over the field.   Kevin dashed after it
  by the time he could take his eyes out of the sky, the ball poosh-whumped! down into the vines by the fence and he was standing, panting, by the rusty swing in the corner of the playground.   Old Neville sat on the faded green plank, gripping the fused chain in one gnarly hand. The other hand lay in his lap, toying with an unlit cigarette. His neck tucked sharply down within dark brown lapels of his long, moldy brown coat. He seemed to twist in upon himself as he stared into the ground at his feet.   Kevin stood very still. He swallowed, his throat suddenly very dry and thick.   "It means nuthin'," Old Neville said in a voice laden with gravel.   "What?" Kevin's voice creaked around the lumps.   Old Neville swung gently in tiny circles, dragging a toe in the dirt to make a figure-8. "Aaallllll of this," he sighed, waving dismissively at the school, the field, the world. "All this runnin' around. Tryin' so hard to get it right."   Kevin had been taught to be polite to grown-ups, even Old Neville. "Um," he said, "I have to get the ball. Please."   Old Neville looked up sharp--a jaundiced, filmy eye fixed on Kevin. "Why? Who says?"   "It...it's the rules. That's how the game goes."   "So many rules." Old Neville's head dipped back down, his foot continued tracing the sideways figure-8 in the dust. He made a chuggery noise deep in his chest and Kevin thought he might be laughing. "Get the ball. Clean your room. Say please and thank-you. Huggh-huggh-huggh."   Kevin's breath came shallow. His neck was getting hot, and he thought he might be sick.   "Cross at the corner. Comb your hair. Get the ball. Tuck in your shirt. Who says, boy? Who says?"   Kevin's head was buzzing. His friends called from the infield, but he barely heard them.   "It's all a game. A big pointless game of kickery-ball. One team against t'other. Keeps you occupied while they sign their papers and decide what you get to do next. Ain't you sick of it? Did you wanna play this? Who put you here? Huggh-huggh. D'ya like these rules? Did you get a say? Why d'ya gotta get that ball? What good's that gonna do in the long run?" Old Neville rose from the swing and staggered forward, one foot pointing inward, the other tracing a sinuous wave on the ground. "It's all a great big game on a great big field and everyone's playin' by the rules but no one can remember who made 'em up or why they're playin' in the first place."   Kevin did not scream.   He wanted to--he almost did--but all at once Old Neville was right there, his wobbly head inches from Kevin's face, and as Kevin looked into the rheumy yellow eyes, he thought he could see tiny nebulae of stars.   Someone was screaming, inside his head.   "Why don'tcha make up your own game, kid?"   And the ball was in Old Neville's hand, and then it was in Kevin's hand, and then he was running across the field and Maria was already at home base and it was time to go inside for social studies class.  

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  Old Neville got Kevin during PE class today.   There were pudding cups. The twins, Tobi and Tina, decorated his notebook with an entire package of sticky stars they'd received as a prize for perfect attendance. There were more pudding cups, and even an extra slab of raspberry Jell-O.   But the pudding tasted like plastic, and the Jell-O reminded Kevin of an eraser, and now his notebook looked like a nebula. He walked through the halls among the throng of students and wondered who designed the halls,