Adventures of Homer Fink Read online

“Richard saw Pan,” Homer told Katrinka. “And you and Peter are going to see him, too.”

  We waited on the hill overlooking Jones Fall for fifteen minutes and nothing happened. It was close to five o’clock and it was growing dark. I let Pete out of the stroller and he was having a great time rolling down the hill. Homer told Katrinka Nonningham and me to be very quiet and think. I wanted to ask him what he would suggest we think about. But there was an expression on Homer’s face that indicated that if I didn’t know I shouldn’t be there.

  Homer was picking blades of grass and piling them into small stacks and Katrinka Nonningham was lying on the ground with her chin resting in her hand and eyes closed. I suggested Katrinka use Homer’s coat as a blanket. He wasn’t wearing it and I could see she was beginning to feel cold even if she didn’t mention it.

  I made up my mind not to be the first to speak. I wasn’t thinking about Pan or any of the Greek gods. I was wondering if Pete was going to catch cold because we were out so long, and if my mother was going to be sore because I came back after dark and if the miracle failed, would I ever see Katrinka again. I thought about all those things for a while and then I just settled upon thinking that this was ridiculous. There was no Pan—only a shepherd in Druid Hill Park and it was very unlikely that he would be grazing his sheep at twilight.

  “You’re not praying hard enough,” Homer said suddenly. “Let’s burn incense.” He was on his feet clapping his hands and bowing furiously. “‘Heap the shrine of luxury and pride with incense kindled at the muse’s flame’,” he said.

  Pete was halfway up the hill. He was stumbling and falling all over himself, but he got a big kick out of Homer Fink’s hand-clapping. Pete started clapping his hands too. It didn’t help his balance. Every time he clapped he fell.

  “Gather pine cones,” Homer directed Katrinka Nonningham. “Do you hear my command, maiden? Get thee pine cones for our offering to Pan.”

  Katrinka Nonningham sat up and folded her arms over her knees. I could tell she wasn’t used to boys ordering her around.

  “Gather ye pine cones,” Homer said impatiently. “I command thee, maiden. Do not tarry.”

  I said, “I think Homer wants to start a fire or something, Katrinka. We might find some pine cones in the woods. I’ll help.”

  Homer raised one hand and held the other over his heart. “You there, Hephaestus,” he said to me, “keeper of the flame and guardian of the forge—ignite the bier.”

  I said, “Listen Homer, it’s not exactly safe to start fires in Druid Hill Park. Maybe we’d better forget it.”

  Homer raised both hands toward the sky and faced the direction from which we had seen the shepherd appear several weeks ago. “Oh, great god, Pan,” he chanted, “your servants await thee. Come to us and play your pipes of reed. Let us rejoice in melodies as sweet as the nightingale’s song.”

  Pete had managed to crawl near the top of the hill. We saw Homer with his hands outstretched. My brother laughed and raised his hands too and said, “Me. Indian. Me. Indian.” It wasn’t exactly what you would expect from a two and a half year-old who was learning Caesar’s Gallic War, but television had gotten to Pete before Homer Fink discovered him.

  Katrinka Nonningham stood up, looked at Homer and then at me and then at Pete crawling up the hill. Suddenly Katrinka Nonningham was dashing off to the woods to look for pine cones. It wasn’t every day somebody invited her to burn incense to the gods, and I guess she decided to go right along with it.

  I found some small sticks to use as kindling and built a square with lots of air space. Homer was chanting in Greek and Pete was echoing with an Indian war whoop.

  When Katrinka returned with two pine cones Homer was satisfied. He directed me to start the fire.

  “It isn’t that easy, Homer,” I said. “If you don’t have a match, I’ll have to rub two sticks together. That takes time.”

  I was a Cub Scout for four years and I made it all the way to Webelos. I spent two years in the Boy Scouts besides, but the truth is I never really started a fire by rubbing sticks together. Somebody always had matches.

  My wrists were sore and my fingers numb, but I kept rubbing the sticks for all I was worth. If Katrinka Nonningham hadn’t been with us I would have given up and tried to talk Homer out of burning incense. But Katrinka had a bright dewy look about her eyes. I could see the idea really got to her and I didn’t want to be the one to let her down.

  The sun was very low, and off in the distance the park was black. There were long shadows of trees and we could hear the first sounds of night animals. Homer and I were concentrating on rubbing the sticks and Katrinka was holding Pete to keep him from knocking down our bier.

  None of us spoke and I was beginning to feel a flush of shame for failing Katrinka. I was just about positive I could never get a spark from the two sticks.

  And then we heard the first, faint notes of a song. It seemed to come from the other side of the hill. I dropped the sticks and none of us moved.

  “Ah, the pipes of reed,” exclaimed Homer. “Pan is coming.”

  I saw Katrinka Nonningham shiver.

  “You’d better put on Homer’s coat,” I told her. “You’ll get pneumonia.”

  “Silence,” Homer ordered me. “He’s coming. Pan has returned. Rejoice, oh ye hills and myrtle bows and woodland nymphs—the shepherd’s god is returning.”

  I listened attentively. There was no doubt that the music was getting closer. But it didn’t sound at all like a pipe or any kind of instrument. I thought I heard a man’s voice. He was singing a song and I was sure I recognized the word “glorious.” There were other words to the song, but the man’s voice was indistinct and it was difficult to understand exactly what he was singing.

  Homer Fink heard it too. “Answer with me,” he directed us. “Repeat—‘glorious, glorious.’”

  “What about the fire?” I said. “Should we forget all about burning incense?”

  Homer didn’t answer. He raised his hands to the heavens again, chanted in Greek, and repeated, “Glorious, glorious.”

  Katrinka Nonningham stood by his side, repeating with him, “Glorious—glorious.”

  I was ready to greet Pan. I was wondering about his goat horns and looking forward to seeing his hoofs. I could feel my knees trembling.

  The singing was more distinct. It was obvious “the piper,” as Homer called him, had heard our refrain and was coming to join us.

  The words were very clear if not inspiring. The man was singing “glorious” all right. And the next verse went:

  One keg of beer for the four of us.

  Glory be to God that there are no more of us,

  Because one of us could drink it all alone.

  We saw him wandering about the base of the hill. He was a jovial fat old man with a beer bottle in one hand and a shopping bag in the other. When he walked, he weaved from side to side. It was all he could do to stay on his feet.

  “Do you want me to run after him and ask him for a match?” I asked Homer Fink.

  “It’s not Pan. You promised us a miracle and all we’ve seen is a drunk, fat old man,” cried Katrinka Nonningham. “I hate you, Homer Fink.” Katrinka took off Homer’s coat and threw it down. Then she kicked at the sticks we had built for the fire and picked up her tennis racket and ran away. I was sure she was crying.

  “There goes your women’s committee,” I said to Homer, and I was feeling lonely and empty already.

  Homer Fink was more interested in the old man. He stared after him. There was an expression about Homer’s face as if he had just een Zeus himself riding through the heavens on his golden chariot, gathering thunderbolts.

  “I give up,” I said. I picked up Pete and put him back in his stroller. “If we hurry we can get out of the park before night.”

  “A miracle,” said Homer Fink. “Richard, we have witnessed a second miracle.”

  We started down the hill and headed toward home. “Katrinka Nonningham didn’t think so,” I s
aid. “Didn’t you think she was really beautiful. Homer? Wouldn’t you like to see her again?”

  “Never fear,” Homer Fink assured me. “Aphrodite will join us. I have merely to explain that she was witness to the coming of Silenus—brother of Pan and a good friend of Bacchus.” Homer paused and then he said with great assurance, “Tomorrow at four o’clock, the B and O terminal. Even Caesar didn’t cross the Rubicon twice in one day.”

  10

  Passenger trains don’t run from the b and o’s Mt. Royal terminal anymore, but the clock works and we could see it from the west windows of P.S. 79 or when we were going to gym or traveling to and from school. The gray brick of the clock tower is majestic compared to the schoolhouse, and I have always thought of it as a part of the school rather than a city landmark. I looked to the big hands to tell me how much longer I would have to wait for recess or lunch or the school bell.

  A great stairway leads down to the terminal, and there is a driveway that once served the cars and taxis carrying passengers. Few cars park in the spaces flanking the station now, and rarely do we see people going and coming. Sometimes in the spring, when we were in the lower grades, we would play step ball on the staircase. It is handy for ruling off bases or sitting and watching the birds that roost and shelter under the tower.

  After lunch period the next day, I heard Homer Fink say to Phillip Moore, “I’ll be expecting you after school—under the clock.”

  We were in the schoolyard and Homer started to the gate. Ninth-graders were allowed to make brief visits to the candy store or to buy ice cream from the vendor on the corner. That day I heard another reason for leaving the schoolyard. Mr. Muncrief was guarding the gate and Homer told him, “I have some thinking to do, sir, and I think better when I walk. I’m sure you are acquainted with the peripatetic philosophers.”

  The collar of Homer’s tweed coat was rolled under and Mr. Muncrief adjusted it. He patted Homer lightly on the back and stared after him, concentrating on the cuffs of Homer’s pants which barely missed catching under the heels of his shoes.

  Homer didn’t show for afternoon classes, and at three-thirty when Phillip Moore, Brian Spitzer, and I started to the terminal I said, “I hope nothing has happened to Homer. It’s not like him to play hookey.”

  “We have an appointment,” said Phillip Moore. “Homer wouldn’t have made the date if he didn’t intend to keep it.”

  “I wonder what Fink is up to now,” said Brian. “Remember when he had us all sign a petition against cutting up dogs at the hospital?”

  “Homer is an anti-vivisectionist,” Phillip tried to explain to Brian. But I didn’t listen closely. I was thinking neither Phillip nor Brian knew that Homer was going to announce he was running for the presidency of the school. We started across the island of Hoffman Street where Trudy Deal and Patty Esposito were waiting for the bus. Considering that Phillip was an obvious candidate and that Brian was no fan of Homer’s, I decided to have the others join us.

  “We’re going to hear Homer Fink make a speech,” I called to the girls. “Want to come along?”

  The memory of Homer’s riotous show in the auditorium was fresh in their minds. By the time we’d reached Mt. Royal Patty had a dozen of her classmates with her.

  Brian wasn’t making out so well in his argument with Phillip Moore and he welcomed an opportunity to change the subject. “I’ll bet Homer Fink wants us to go on a sit-down strike on the railroad tracks or something like that,” said Brian. “Remember how once in class he made a long speech about it?”

  “Homer was talking about Mahatma Gandhi,” said Phillip.

  “Hey, fellows,” Brian Spitzer called to a group nearby. “Homer Fink is going on a hunger strike. B and O Railroad terminal. Four o’clock.”

  Several minutes after we arrived, the area surrounding the B and O terminal was jammed. Not only was there a mob of students from P.S. 79 but I recognized a dozen fellows from the neighboring Latin School and a group from the Bryn Mawr School for Girls.

  The crush was terrific. Brian Spitzer was shouting, “The tracks. Out to the tracks. Fink’s hunger strike begins at sunset.”

  I heard one of the girls from the eighth grade say, “Isn’t this exciting. Homer Fink thinks of everything.”

  Homer may have been thinking of everything, but it was past four and I was hoping Homer’s thoughts included an appearance at the terminal.

  By four-fifteen Trudy Deal was stretched out on a bench rolling her eyes and fanning herself with a Latin notebook.

  “Stand back,” commanded Marvin Bloom, and he started shoving kids away from the bench.

  Trudy Deal liked to create a crisis, and Marvin Bloom enjoyed nothing better than an excuse to throw his weight around.

  “Water … water before I faint,” whined Trudy.

  Marvin boomed, “Get the kid a drink before I bust somebody.”

  Little Louie Bannerman weaved through the crowd and made his way to Trudy. “If you’re feeling faint sit up, loosen your collar, and place your head between your knees.”

  “Stop horsing around,” Marvin told Louie. “This kid is in no shape for calisthenics.”

  Louie reminded Marvin that he was the son of a practicing physician. But Marvin Bloom insisted all Trudy needed was for everybody to stand back. After a brief announcement to that effect Marvin flung his one hundred and forty pounds into the crowd, shoulders down, arms bent and raised. He must have had visions of clearing the line for Lenny Moore of the football Colts.

  Patty Esposito finally slowed Marvin by hitting him with her science textbook.

  I was beginning to fear a riot if Homer didn’t arrive. I was also considering the possibilities of Homer speaking, once he did appear. The pavement around the terminal was beginning to look more and more like the floor of a political convention, complete with absent candidates.

  Phillip Moore tried to get the crowd under control. Standing on a bench, he warned about fire hazards and keeping calm. When that didn’t work, Phillip started singing the school song. Some of the boys and girls thought that was a fine idea—they were in the glee club.

  Nobody else sang. Not that we don’t have school spirit. You have to be practically a Richard Tucker or Joan Sutherland to sing 79’s Alma Mater, “Great Old Lafayette.” I never understood the words until my senior year. I always thought we were singing, “Gray Old Lafayette.”

  There was a lot of speculation as to what Homer Fink was up to. I heard one boy say, “Fink hasn’t eaten in three days. He’ll never take another bite until the school board outlaws homework.”

  “Did you hear about Homer Fink?” an eighth-grader announced. “He’s sitting on the B and O tracks, and freight trains are backed up to Havre dc Grace.”

  “Fink is organizing a march on City Hall,” said another. “He wants a four-day school week and more holidays.”

  I don’t know who started the rumor, but it swept around the terminal. “Homer Fink is standing on the clock tower.”

  Louie Bannerman had brought Trudy Deal around by then. She was sitting up and breathing deep and Louie was suggesting that she get some fresh air and rest. When Trudy heard that Homer was on the clock tower she screamed, “Stop him. He’ll jump.”

  That was the cue for a retreat to the steps where we would have a view of the clock tower. A moment before, everyone had been determined to get as close to the train tracks as possible. But now the students made a dash to the steps.

  As Phillip Moore and I joined the others, Phillip said, “I wonder what Homer intended to announce.”

  I was ready to explain, but we were interrupted by a great cry from the students. They were massed in mackinaws and overcoats, loafers and saddle shoes, braids and Beatle-cuts. With their schoolbooks under their arms they roared, “Fink. Fink. Fink.”

  Those nearest the terminal were staring at the tower and momentarily I believed Homer was standing by the big clock. I prayed that Homer Fink had no delusions of wearing winged sandles. He had told me the story
of Perseus, and it occurred to me that he may have been as convinced of meeting Hermes as he was of our encounters with Pan and Silenus.

  Phillip and I dashed around the crowd. (There was no chance of breaking through them.) We stationed ourselves on the highest steps in order to have the best view.

  A girl screamed, “Homer’s up there. I saw him.”

  “Send for the cops and the fire department,” advised another.

  A boy who watched a lot of war stories on television explained, “You can’t see Homer because he’s camouflaged by the brick.”

  All eyes were on the clock tower and again the chant began: “Fink. Fink. Fink.”

  I cupped my hands over my eyes and stared hard. I examined every foot of the clock tower until I was absolutely positive Homer Fink wasn’t there.

  “It’s an illusion,” Phillip Moore said to me. “Unless Homer has already jumped.”

  “Homer Fink wouldn’t even do a forward somersault—much less jump from a tower,” I told Phillip.

  It was then I heard a dog bark and in the next moment I felt a nip at my heels.

  “Get away from me, Argus,” I complained and I swung my foot to throw him off.

  “It’s him. It’s Homer Fink,” a girl screamed. And all eyes turned to the head of the stairs where Homer Fink stood, his hands pressed deep into the pockets of his oversized overcoat. Homer’s face was flushed and his hair was askew. It was obvious he had been walking for a long time and I knew he had traveled far—at least as far as the Park School—for by his side was Katrinka Nonningham.

  “Homer Fink has returned from the dead,” cried Trudy Deal. “I think I’m going to faint.”

  “It’s a ghost,” declared a seventh-grader.

  “Who is he anyway?” asked a fellow from the Latin School.

  The reply came from the chorus: “Fink. Fink. Fink.”

  Homer held his hand up, signaling for quiet. He seemed not the least surprised by the great crowd or the enthusiasm of the greeting. “I have been reading Plato and thinking hard,” Homer Fink announced. “And I have concluded I am a wolf.”