Read Eleven for Free Online Page B

loathing. He would not show the slap had hurt, that it still stung. No more tears for today, he swore, no more even not-crying. He would finish the day, go through the tea, like a stone, like a soldier, not wincing. His mother paced around the room, turning one of her rings round and round, glancing at him from time to time, looking quickly away from him. But his eyes were steady on her. He was not afraid. She could even slap him again and he wouldn’t care.
    At last, she announced that she was going to wash her hair, and she went into the bathroom.
    Victor got up from the sofa and wandered across the room. He wished he had a room of his own to go to. In the apartment on Riverside Drive, there had been three rooms, a living-room and his and his mother’s rooms. When she was in the living-room, he had been able to go into his bedroom and vice versa, but here . . . They were going to tear down the old building they had lived in on Riverside Drive. It was not a pleasant thing for Victor to think about. Suddenly remembering the book that had fallen, he pulled out the sofa and reached for it. It was Menninger’s The Human Mind , full of fascinating case histories of people. Victor put it back on the bookshelf between an astrology book and How to Draw . His mother did not like him to read psychology books, but Victor loved them, especially ones with case histories in them. The people in the case histories did what they wanted to do. They were natural. Nobody bossed them. At the local branch library, he spent hours browsing through the psychology shelves. They were in the adults’ section, but the librarian did not mind his sitting at the tables there, because he was quiet.
    Victor went into the kitchen and got a glass of water. As he was standing there drinking it, he heard a scratching noise coming from one of the paper bags on the counter. A mouse, he thought, but when he moved a couple of the bags, he didn’t see any mouse. The scratching was coming from inside one of the bags. Gingerly, he opened the bag with his fingers, and waited for something to jump out. Looking in, he saw a white paper carton. He pulled it out slowly. Its bottom was damp. It opened like a pastry box. Victor jumped in surprise. It was a turtle on its back, a live turtle. It was wriggling its legs in the air, trying to turn over. Victor moistened his lips, and frowning with concentration, took the turtle by its sides with both hands, turned him over and let him down gently into the box again. The turtle drew in its feet then, and its head stretched up a little and it looked straight at him. Victor smiled. Why hadn’t his mother told him she’d brought him a present? A live turtle. Victor’s eyes glazed with anticipation as he thought of taking the turtle down, maybe with a leash around its neck, to show the fellow who’d laughed at his short pants. He might change his mind about being friends with him, if he found he owned a turtle.
    “Hey, Mama! Mama!” Victor yelled at the bathroom door. “You brought me a tur-rtle?”
    “A what?” The water shut off.
    “A turtle! In the kitchen!” Victor had been jumping up and down in the hall. He stopped.
    His mother had hesitated, too. The water came on again, and she said in a shrill tone, “C’est une terrapène! Pour un ragoût!”
    Victor understood, and a small chill went over him because his mother had spoken in French. His mother addressed him in Frenchwhen she was giving an order that had to be obeyed, or when she anticipated resistance from him. So the terrapin was for a stew. Victor nodded to himself with a stunned resignation, and went back to the kitchen. For a stew. Well, the terrapin was not long for this world, as they say. What did a terrapin like to eat? Lettuce? Raw bacon? Boiled potato? Victor peered into the refrigerator.
    He held a piece of lettuce near the terrapin’s horny mouth. The terrapin did not open its mouth, but it looked at him. Victor held the lettuce near the two