Gallery
The Tricycle
January 1969
by CATHRYN ROTHERY, Marblehead, Massachusetts
When I was a child, my father was a physician on the staff of a large state
mental hospital. At the top of the hospital community’s social ladder were
the doctors and their families. Then came the business manager and chief
engineer, nurses, electricians, carpenters and plumbers, and finally, the
skilled and semi-skilled workers.
Near the bottom of the ladder were the attendants. They were largely
untrained, relatively uneducated people. Most of them lived with their
families nearby the hospital. We never went near their houses. Some of their
children, though, had to pass our home on the hospital grounds on their walk
to their little school on the other side. Naturally we, the doctors’
children, did not attend this country school. We were driven two miles into
town where, for a small tuition fee, we were educated.
We resented these “trespassers” who traversed “our” domain each day. We were
always back from our school before they passed by on their way home. At
first we simply stared at them–and they returned the silent hostility. Then
one fall day we began to use words, and soon were hurling insults at each
other. We needed a name for them, so we began to call them the “Meanies.”
After a while, words were not enough. I have forgotten who cast the first
stone. Soon the little group began to gather stones on their way home from
school. In the meantime, we prepared and waited for them. The battle never
lasted more than a few minutes, which was the only reason our parents
remained unaware for a while. Actually, little damage was done. But once,
when one of the “Meanies” was hit, she cried angrily, “I’m gonna tell my
daddy on you!”
“We’re not afraid of your daddy,” we jeered. “Our daddy can fire your
daddy!” Of course, as soon as our parents realized what was going on, they
put a stop to it.
It was about that time that my sister and I outgrew our tricycles. We wanted
bicycles. The trikes were still in good shape, and we decided to try to sell
them in order to have Christmas money. For several days we displayed the two
trikes in the front yard with a big “For Sale” sign, but there were no
buyers. Then my mother insisted that the trikes be put downstairs.
Weeks passed. Then one afternoon a small knock sounded at the door. I opened
it, and standing there was a pale little girl, about my age, poorly but
cleanly dressed. She was one of the “Meanies”! What could she want? Then she
said in a quiet voice, “Have you sold the tricycles?”
It took a minute for me to recover myself enough to ask her in–how strange
it seemed to do that–and to call my mother. We conducted the little girl
downstairs to see the tricycles. I wanted to say something, but the best I
could do was, “You look a little big for that trike.”
“Oh, it’s not for me,” she said quickly. “I’m buying it for my little sister
for Christmas. I saw them out in the yard last month, but I had to wait
until I saved some money. I did chores after school.” Then she bent down to
examine the two vehicles more carefully. Suddenly I admired this little girl
immensely.
She stood up and looked directly at me. It wasn’t a hostile look, but her
eyes said, “Even though I am poor and my daddy is just an attendant, I have
a right to be here. You offered something for sale, and I came to buy it and
I am proud of what I am doing.” But when she spoke, her voice held a trace
of anxiety as she said, “How much is it?”
I remember wondering how much money she had saved. I conferred with Mama.
“Two dollars,” I said, hoping it was not too much.
A wisp of a smile brightened her face as she took out her purse and began to
count out the money, all of it in coins. I was happy to see a few left. She
handed over the money, and I helped her get the trike out to the street.
We were smiling now, but the little girl never relaxed her slight reserve. I
wanted to apologize to her, but there were no words that would do. I looked
at her, hoping my eyes would tell her. She looked at me and said shyly,
“Well . . . goodbye.”
She took the trike by the handlebar and, walking along beside it, guided it
away. Pride and triumph showed in every line of her back.
I felt overwhelmed at all I had discovered in this brief time. She hadn’t
been a real person before, and now she had revealed herself as a human
being–one who loved her family.
And one little girl–I could never call her a “Meanie” again–had taught me
that what she thought of herself was more important than what I thought of
her.
I watched until she disappeared around the curve.
Comments
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.