The Seventeenth Swap by Eloise McGraw Page A

didn’t know why he was asking these questions when they weren’t really the ones he wanted answers to, but now he couldn’t seem to stop. “I bet you could’ve been dairy foods manager at Mulvaney’s. After Mr. Johnson died. Or produce manager! Instead of Marvin.”
    His father smiled, mostly with his eyes, which dwelt warmly on Eric for a moment, and he seemed about to say something, but instead settled back in his chair and drank some coffee. Eric had hardly expected a reply. His dad knew his feelings on these subjects and had tried patiently to explain before, mentioning hassle, mentioning finding your niche and making your peace, saying he’d had enough ups and downs and backs and forths in his life and preferred it uneventful. Obviously he’d decided not to repeat himself.
    Still wandering mentally among a scatter of facts that seemed to have no connection, Eric said, “But you did quit Mulvaney’s once—when you went to work at the library. When you went to the University for library training.”
    â€œNot the same thing. That was just moving on. To a lifelong career. Or so I thought.”
    Eric glanced quickly at his father’s expression, wary of the flat note that had come into his voice. Why am I giving him all this flak? he asked himself. I’m kind of nagging.
    But now might be the chance to solve a mystery he’d never understood. “Dad?” he said. “How come younever went back? To the library job? I mean—they laid everybody off, but then they got voted more money and people got their jobs again—”
    â€œBy that time I was working for Mulvaney,” Mr. Greene said quickly. He moved in his chair as if he found it uncomfortable. Even more abruptly, he added, “They didn’t lay everybody off.” He glanced at his paper, then almost pleadingly at Eric. “It’s all over long ago. You got a problem you want to talk about? Or—”
    Or do I just want to nag, Eric finished to himself. “Not really,” he mumbled. “I just—got to wondering. Sorry.” He got up, went to the cupboard and got the cereal box and a bowl.
    Obviously, the mystery wasn’t going to be solved today, either. Or maybe ever, if it was up to Dad to explain. He didn’t want to talk about it. Or just— couldn’t.
    They didn’t lay everybody off. Was that an explanation? As he munched his cornflakes, Eric tried to imagine being laid off from—well, from Language Arts class, which was his favorite and the one he was best at. Say they had to change that hour to Independent Study because they couldn’t pay the teacher. Only they didn’t lay off everybody. Angel Anthony got to stay, and Debbie Clark and a couple others who always got A’s on every single paper. They got to go to the teacher’s house and have Language Arts there. But the rest were out in the cold. Okay. Then say the school got money again and the teacher came back, and the rest of the kids could come back if they wanted to. So—would they? Would I ? Eric asked himself.. How would I feel by that time?
    He found he couldn’t answer for himself, because after all, Language Arts class was a lot different from a lifelong career, and anyway, how did he know how he’d feel? But he knew how some people would feel—Melinda Jones, for instance, or Willy. They’d get mad. They’d ask everybody in sight how come Angel Anthony got to stay in that class, and they didn’t. And even if they knew—(Willy would; he always got C-minuses)—they’d be too proud to go back, or too sulky.
    But, thought Eric, groping, but what if they didn’t know why they’d been—well, weeded out.
    That would be scary. It would hurt. It kind of hurt Eric right now, just thinking about it. What if you’d always thought Language Arts (or library work?) was your very best thing? Then you might never go back,