Edwin Mullhouse: The Life and Death of an American Writer 1943-1954

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I FIRST MET JEFFREY CARTWRIGHT in the sixth grade. I can barely remember him. He was the sort of vague industrious boy who gets A in everything and excels in nothing. He was the sort of boy who wears eyeglasses and sits in the front row. He knew all the countries of Central America and their capitals; he liked to draw maps of South America showing the major products of each country. On the playground in the morning before the bell he stayed by himself, staring at his toes or gazing through the diamond-shaped spaces in the tall wire fence; during recess he joined in games only when Miss Thimble required everyone to play; after school he walked home by himself, carrying his books girlishly in the cradle of his arms. I can recall nothing physical about him except his tremendous eyeglasses, which seemed to conceal his eyes; somewhere in the dark attic of memory I have preserved an image of him turning his head and revealing two round lenses aglow with light, the eyes invisible, as if he were some fabulous creature who lived in a cave or well. I never spoke to him. Indeed I rarely thought of him; and after the sixth grade, when I moved from Newfield to another town, I promptly forgot him.

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