I taught myself how to read and write again during those last two weeks of summer with my new mother, Ruth Day. She was determined to keep me inside or within earshot or in her line of vision, and I happily obliged her. Reading, of course, is merely associating symbols with sounds, memorizing the combinations, rules and effects, and, most important, the spaces between words. Writing proved more difficult, primarily because one had to have something to say before confronting the blank page. The actual drawing of the alphabet turned out to be a tiresome chore. Most afternoons, I practiced with chalk and an eraser on a slate, filling it over and over with my new name. My mother grew concerned about my compulsive behavior, so I finally quit, but not before printing, as neatly as possible, "I love my mother." She was tickled to find that later, and the gesture earned me an entire peach pie, not a slice for the others, not even my father.
　　The novelty of going to second grade quickly eroded to a dull ache. The schoolwork came easily to me, although I entered somewhat behind my class-mates in understanding that other method of symbolic logic: arithmetic. I still tussle with my numbers, not so much the basic operations—addition, subtraction, multiplication—as the more abstract configurations. Elementary science and history revealed a way of thinking about the world that differed from my experience among the changelings. For example, I had no idea that George Washington is, metaphorically speaking, the father of our country, nor did I realize that a food chain is the arrangement of organisms of an ecological community according to the order of predation in which each uses the next, usually lower, members as a food source. Such explanations of the natural order felt most unnatural at first. Matters in the forest were far more existential. Living depended on sharpening instincts, not memorizing facts. Ever since the last wolves had been killed or driven off by bounty hunters, no enemy but man remained. If we stayed hidden, we would continue to endure.
　　Our struggle was to find the right child with whom to trade places. It couldn't be a random selection. A changeling must decide on a child the same age as he was when he had been kidnapped. I was seven when they took me, and seven when I left, though I had been in the woods for nearly a century. The ordeal of that world is not only survival in the wild, but the long, unbearable wait to come back into this world.
　　When I first returned, that learned patience became a virtue. My schoolmates watched time crawl every afternoon, waiting an eternity for the three o'clock bell. We second graders sat in the same stultifying room from September to mid-June, and barring weekends and the glorious freedom of holidays, we were expected to arrive by eight o'clock and behave ourselves for the next seven hours. If the weather cooperated, we were let out into the playground twice a day for a short recess and at lunchtime. In retrospect, the actual moments spent together pale to our time apart, but some things are best measured by quality rather than quantity. My classmates made each day a torture. I expected civilization, but they were worse than the changelings. The boys in their grubby navy bow ties and blue uniforms were indistinguishably horrid—nose-pickers, thumbsuckers, snorers, ne'er-do-wells, farters, burpers, the unwashed and unclean. A bully by the name of Hayes liked to torture the rest, stealing lunches, pushing in line, pissing on shoes, fighting on the playground. One either joined his sycophants, egging him on, or would be slated as a potential prey. A few of the boys became perpetually oppressed. They reacted badly, either by withdrawing deep inside themselves or, worse, crying and screaming at every slight provocation. At an early age, they were marked for life, ending up, doubtlessly, as clerks or store managers, systems analysts or consultants. They came back from recess bearing the signs of their abuse— black eyes and bloody noses, the red welt of tears—but I neglected to come to their rescue, although perhaps I should have. If I had ever used my real strength, I could easily have dispatched the bullies with a single, well-placed blow.
　　The girls, in their own way, suffered worse indignities. They, too, displayed many of the same disappointing personal habits and lack of general hygiene. They laughed too loudly or not at all. They competed viciously among themselves and with their opposites, or they faded into the woodwork like mice. The worst of them, by the name of Hines, routinely tore apart the shyest girls with her taunts and shunning. She would humiliate her victims without mercy if, for instance, they wet their pants in class, as happened right before recess on the first day to the unprepared Tess Wodehouse. She flushed as if on fire, and for the very first time, I felt something close to sympathy for another's misfortune. The poor thing was teased about the episode until Valentine's Day. In their plaid jumpers and white blouses, the girls relied upon words rather than their bodies to win their battles. In that sense, they paled next to the female hobgoblins, who were both as cunning as crows and as fierce as bobcats.
　　These human children were altogether inferior. Sometimes at night, I wished I could be back prowling the forest, spooking sleeping birds from their roosts, stealing clothes from clotheslines, and making merry, rather than enduring page after page of homework and fretting about my peers. But for all its faults, the real world shone, and I set my mind to forgetting the past and becoming a real boy again. Intolerable as school was, my home life more than compensated. Mom would be waiting for me every afternoon, pretending to be dusting or cooking when I strode triumphantly through the front door.
　　"There's my boy," she would say, and whisk me to the kitchen for a snack of jam and bread and a cup of Ovaltine. "How was your day today, Henry?"
　　I would make up one or two pleasant lies for her benefit.
　　"Did you learn anything new?"
　　I would recite all that had been rehearsed on the way home. She seemed inordinately curious and pleased, but would leave me at last to the dreadful homework, which I usually managed to finish right before suppertime. In the few moments before my father came home from work, she would fix our meal, my company at tableside. In the background, the radio played her favorite ballads, and I learned them all upon first hearing and could sing along when the records were invariably repeated. By accident or ignorance, I mimicked the balladeers' voices perfectly and could sing tone for tone, measure for measure, phrase for phrase, exactly like Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney or Jo Stafford. Mom took my musical ability as a natural extension of my general wonderfulness, charm, and native intellect. She loved to hear me, often switching off the radio to beg me to sing it one more time.
　　"Be a dear boy and give us 'There's a Train Out for Dreamland' again."
　　When my father first heard my act, he didn't respond as kindly. "Where did you pick that up? One day you can't carry a tune, now you sing like a lark."
　　"I dunno. Maybe I wasn't listening before."
　　"You're kidding me? She has that racket on day and night with your Nat Cole King and all that jazz, and 'Can you take me dancin' sometime?' As if a mother of twins .. .What do you mean, you weren't listening?"
　　"Concentrating, I mean."
　　"You should be concentrating on your homework and helping your mother with the chores."
　　"If you pay attention and listen instead of merely hearing the song, you can pick up the tune in no time."
　　He shook his head and lit another Camel. "Mind your elders, if you please, Caruso."
　　I took care not to be such a perfect mimic around my dad.
　　Mary and Elizabeth, on the other hand, were too young to know any better, and they accepted without question my budding talent for impersonation. Indeed, they begged for songs all the time, especially in their cribs, where I'd trot out all the novelty tunes like "Mairzy Doats" or "Three Little Fishies." Without fail, however, they fell asleep as if knocked unconscious every time I sang "Over the Rainbow." I did a mean Judy Garland.
　　My days with the Days quickly fell into a comfortable routine, and as long as I stayed inside the house or inside the classroom, all went well. The weather suddenly grew cooler, and almost at once the leaves turned garish shades of yellow and red, so bold that the mere sight of trees hurt my eyes. I hated those bright reminders of life in the forest. October proved a riot to the senses and climaxed those giddy last weeks before Halloween. I knew that parties were involved, begging for nuts and candies, bonfires in the square, and playing tricks on the townsfolk. Believe me, we hobgoblins did our share of mischief—unhinging gates, smashing pumpkins, soaping the library windows with cartoon demons. What I had not experienced was the folderol among the children and the way that even the schools had gotten into the act. Two weeks before the big day, the nuns began planning a classroom party with entertainment and refreshments. They hung orange and black crepe paper along the tops of the chalkboards, pasted paper pumpkins and black cats on the walls. We dutifully cut out scary things from construction paper and glued together our own artistic efforts, pitiable though they were. Mothers were enlisted to bake cookies and brownies, make popcorn balls and candy apples. Costumes were allowed—indeed, expected. I remember exactly my conversation on the matter with my mother.
　　"We're having a party for Halloween at school, and teacher says we come dressed in our trick-or-treat outfits instead of our uniforms. I want to be a hobgoblin."
　　"What was that?"
　　"You know, a hobgoblin."
　　"I'm not sure what that is. Is it anything like a monster?"
　　"No."
　　"Or a ghost? Or a ghoul?"
　　"Not those."
　　"Perhaps a little vampire?"
　　"I'm no bloodsucker, Mother."
　　"Perhaps it's a fairy?"
　　I howled. For the first time in nearly two months, I lost my temper and screamed in my natural wild voice. The sound startled her.
　　"For the love of God, Henry. You scared the wits out of me, raising the dead and howling like a banshee. There'll be no Halloweenin' for you."
　　Banshee keen, I wanted to tell her, they wail and weep, but they never howl. Instead, I turned on the tears, bawling like the twins. She drew me to her and hugged me against her stomach.
　　"There now, I was only kidding." She lifted my chin and gazed into my eyes. "I just don't know what a hobgoblin is. Listen, how about going as a pirate, you'd like that now, wouldn't you?"
　　And that's how I ended up dressed in pantaloons and a shirt with puffed sleeves, a scarf tied around my skull, and wearing an earring like Errol Flynn. On Halloween day, I stood before a class of ghosts, witches, and hoboes, the only pirate in the school, probably the whole county. Teacher had tapped me to sing "The Teddy Bears' Picnic" as part of the scary entertainment for our party. My normal speaking voice was a squeak like Henry Day's, but when I sang "If you go out in the woods tonight," I sounded exactly like the sonorous bass of Frank DeVol on the record. The imitation shocked nearly everybody. In a back corner, Caroline Hines sobbed in fear through the whole song. Most of the slack-jawed kids gaped through their masks and makeup, not quite knowing what to believe. I remember that Tess Wodehouse sat and stared without blinking, as if she realized a fundamental deception but could not unravel the trick. But the nuns knew better. At the end of the song, they whispered together in a conspiracy of penguins, then nodded in unison as they crossed themselves.
　　The actual trick-or-treating left much to be desired. My father drove me into town at dusk and waited for me as I walked the row of houses along Main Street, spying here and there another child in pathetic costume. No hobgoblin appeared, although a black cat did try to cross my path. I hissed at the creature in perfect cat, and it turned tail, running away in panic to hide beneath a honeysuckle bush. An evil grin crossed my face. It was good to know I had not yet lost all my tricks.