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The Lost Boy
by
“I was not quite four.”
“And—you just wanted to see the room, didn’t you? That’s why you came back.”
“Yes.
“Well—” indefinitely—”I guess you’ve seen it now.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I guess you don’t remember much about him, do you? I shouldn’t think you would.”
“No, not much.”
The years dropped off like fallen leaves: the face came back again—the soft dark oval, the dark eyes, the soft brown berry on the neck, the raven hair, all bending down, approaching—the whole appearing to him ghost-wise, intent and instant.
“Now say it—Grover!“
“Gova.”
“No—not Gova—Grover! . . . Say it!”
“Gova.”
“Ah-h—you didn’t say it. You said Gova. Grover—now say it!”
“Gova.”
“Look, I tell you what I’ll do if you say it right. Would you like to go down to King’s Highway? Would you like Grover to set you up? All right, then. If you say Grover and say it right, I’ll take you to King’s Highway and set you up to ice cream. Now say it right!—Grover!“
“Gova.”
“Ah-h, you-u. You’re the craziest little old boy I ever did see. Can’t you even say Grover?”
“Gova.”
“Ah-h, you-u. Old Tongue-Tie, that’s what you are. . . . Well, come on, then, I’ll set you up anyway.”
It all came back, and faded, and was lost again. Eugene turned to go, and thanked the woman and said good-bye.
“Well, then, good-bye,” the woman said, and they shook hands.”I’m glad if I could show you. I’m glad if—” She did not finish, and at length she said: “Well, then, that was a long time ago. You’ll find everything changed now, I guess. It’s all built up around here now—and way out beyond here, out beyond where the Fair Grounds used to be. I guess you’ll find it changed.”
They had nothing more to say. They just stood there for a moment on the steps, and then shook hands once more.
“Well, good-bye.”
And again he was in the street, and found the place where the corners met, and for the last time turned to see where Time had gone.
And he knew that he would never come again, and that lost magic would not come again. Lost now was all of it—the street, the heat, King’s Highway, and Tom the Piper’s son, all mixed in with the vast and drowsy murmur of the Fair, and with the sense of absence in the afternoon, and the house that waited, and the child that dreamed. And out of the enchanted wood, that thicket of man’s memory, Eugene knew that the dark eye and the quiet face of his friend and brother—poor child, life’s stranger, and life’s exile, lost like all of us, a cipher in blind mazes, long ago—the lost boy was gone forever, and would not return.