 | Tales of the jazz age |  |
III
Even after the new addition to the Button family
had had his hair cut short and then dyed to a sparse unnatural
black, had had his face shaved so close that it
glistened, and had been attired in small-boy clothes made
to order by a flabbergasted tailor, it was impossible for
Mr. Button to ignore the fact that his son was a poor
excuse for a first family baby. Despite his aged stoop,
Benjamin Button—for it was by this name they called
him instead of by the appropriate but invidious Methuselah—was
five feet eight inches tall. His clothes did not
eyebrows disguise the fact that the eyes underneath
were faded and watery and tired. In fact, the baby-nurse
who had been engaged in advance left the house
after one look, in a state of considerable indignation.
But Mr. Button persisted in his unwavering purpose.
Benjamin was a baby, and a baby he should remain.
At first he declared that if Benjamin didn't like warm
milk he could go without food altogether, but he was
finally prevailed upon to allow his son bread and butter,
and even oatmeal by way of a compromise. One day
he brought home a rattle and, giving it to Benjamin,
insisted in no uncertain terms that he should "play
with it," whereupon the old man took it with a weary
expression and could be heard jingling it obediently at
intervals throughout the day.
There can be no doubt, though, that the rattle bored
him, and that he found other and more soothing amousements
when he was left alone. For instance, Mr. Button
discovered one day that during the preceding week
he had smoked more cigars than ever before—a phenomenon
which was explained a few days later when,
entering the nursery unexpectedly, he found the room
full of faint blue haze and Benjamin, with a guilty expression
on his face, trying to conceal the butt of a dark
Havana. This, of course, called for a severe spanking,
but Mr. Button found that he could not bring himself
to administer it. He merely warned his son that he
would "stunt his growth."
Nevertheless he persisted in his attitude. He brought
home lead soldiers, he brought toy trains, he brought
large pleasant animals made of cotton, and, to perfect
the illusion which he was creating—for himself at least—
he passionately demanded of the clerk in the toy-store
whether "the paint would come off the pink duck if the
efforts, Benjamin refused to be interested. He would
steal down the back stairs and return to the nursery
with a volume of the "Encyclopædia Britannica," over
which he would pore through an afternoon, while his
cotton cows and his Noah's ark were left neglected on
the floor. Against such a stubbornness Mr. Button's
efforts were of little avail.
The sensation created in Baltimore was, at first,
prodigious. What the mishap would have cost the Buttons
and their kinsfolk socially cannot be determined,
for the outbreak of the Civil War drew the city's attention
to other things. A few people who were unfailingly
polite racked their brains for compliments to give to the
parents—and finally hit upon the ingenious device of
declaring that the baby resembled his grandfather, a
fact which, due to the standard state of decay common
to all men of seventy, could not be denied. Mr. and
Mrs. Roger Button were not pleased, and Benjamin's
grandfather was furiously insulted.
Benjamin, once he left the hospital, took life as he
found it. Several small boys were brought to see him,
and he spent a stiff-jointed afternoon trying to work up
an interest in tops and marbles—he even managed, quite
accidentally, to break a kitchen window with a stone
from a sling shot, a feat which secretly delighted his
father.
Thereafter Benjamin contrived to break something
every day, but he did these things only because they
were expected of him, and because he was by nature
obliging.
When his grandfather's initial antagonism wore off,
Benjamin and that gentleman took enormous pleasure in
one another's company. They would sit for hours, these
two so far apart in age and experience, and, like old
of the day. Benjamin felt more at ease in his grandfather's
presence than in his parents'—they seemed always
somewhat in awe of him and, despite the dictatorial
authority they exercised over him, frequently
addressed him as "Mr."
He was as puzzled as any one else at the apparently
advanced age of his mind and body at birth. He read
up on it in the medical journal, but found that no such
case had been previously recorded. At his father's
urging he made an honest attempt to play with other
boys, and frequently he joined in the milder games—
football shook him up too much, and he feared that in
case of a fracture his ancient bones would refuse to knit.
When he was five he was sent to kindergarten, where
he was initiated into the art of pasting green paper on
orange paper, of weaving colored maps and manufacturing
eternal cardboard necklaces. He was inclined
to drowse off to sleep in the middle of these tasks, a habit
which both irritated and frightened his young teacher.
To his relief she complained to his parents, and he was
removed from the school. The Roger Buttons told
their friends that they felt he was too young.
By the time he was twelve years old his parents had
grown used to him. Indeed, so strong is the force of
custom that they no longer felt that he was different
from any other child—except when some curious anomaly
reminded them of the fact. But one day a few weeks
after his twelfth birthday, while looking in the mirror,
Benjamin made, or thought he made, an astonishing discovery.
Did his eyes deceive him, or had his hair
turned in the dozen years of his life from white to iron-gray
under its concealing dye? Was the network of
wrinkles on his face becoming less pronounced? Was
his skin healthier and firmer, with even a touch of ruddy
longer stooped and that his physical condition had improved
since the early days of his life.
"Can it be—?" he thought to himself, or, rather,
scarcely dared to think.
He went to his father. "I am grown," he announced
determinedly. "I want to put on long trousers."
His father hesitated. "Well," he said finally, "I
don't know. Fourteen is the age for putting on long
trousers—and you are only twelve."
"But you'll have to admit," protested Benjamin,
"that I'm big for my age."
His father looked at him with illusory speculation.
"Oh, I'm not so sure of that," he said. "I was as big
as you when I was twelve."
This was not true—it was all part of Roger Button's
silent agreement with himself to believe in his son's
normality.
Finally a compromise was reached. Benjamin was to
continue to dye his hair. He was to make a better
attempt to play with boys of his own age. He was not
to wear his spectacles or carry a cane in the street. In
return for these concessions he was allowed his first
suit of long trousers. . . .
| Tales of the jazz age | |