Radio mirror (July-Dec 1947)

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I had hoped a great deal for little Burke from the companionship of his pony. I had hoped that its appearance in the neighborhood might also attract the other children. But the boy seemed to have retreated farther and farther into his dream-world. His fantasy that Pinto could talk was Burke's way of escaping the iron discipline imposed on him — Pinto was his outlet for being bad. THE Gittlesons weren't unfeeling parents. They thought they were doing the right thing for their son, bringing him up so strictly. Two nights later the phone rang, sharply. It was three A.M., and I woke up blessing up and down the idiot who would get me out of bed at that hour. I stumbled to the telephone and answered it in no very friendly tones. "Yes — who is it?" The voice that answered was agitated to the point of panic. "It's Henry Gittleson, Ed. I'm terribly sorry to wake you up like this — but Burke's gone!" I was still half-asleep and the words didn't quite penetrate. "Gone? Gone where?" "Just gone, Ed. I thought perhaps he'd run away to your house. He took Pinto, so they could have covered the distance in this time. Are you sure he's not there, somewhere?" Wide awake by now and fully alarmed, I looked out through the sun porch window. "I don't think so, Henry, but I'll have a look. He might possibly be outside, but I would have heard Pinto, I think. Give me a few more details, first." Henry explained that they had come home late and before retiring had looked in to see if the boy was okay. Burke's bed had been slept in, a window was wide open — and he was gone. The girl who "sat" with Burke while they ' were out reported that she'd heard nothing suspicious; she'd looked in only fifteen minutes before and then gone on reading her book. He was in bed, then. She'd heard no noise from the stables, but Burke had learned to bridle and saddle Pinto, himself, and he must have been careful in the dark. I got dressed in a hurry and went outside. Little boys do run away quite often, but they don't usually make such elaborate plans as Burke had done. It looked as if he'd carefully waited for the best time — lain there in bed until just the right moment. I was plenty worried. There was no sign of either him or Pinto on my place. When I drove into the Gittlesons' an hour later, I asked the question that had been uppermost in my mind since Henry had first told me of the runaway. "What made him do it?" I asked. "I certainly wouldn't have put him down as adventurous." Henry looked as if he would like to tell me it was none of my business. He stiffened and his face closed up tight. But his wife was different. Huddled in the chair, she was crying and not caring who saw her. I'll never forget those two in that room. There was only one dim light glowing over on the desk; the rest of the room was in shadow. Outside the lanterns and flashlights bobbed up and down as friends and neighbors hunted for tracks of the pony. San Fernando Valley is a big place, for the most part residential and suburban, but out here where the Gittlesons lived there were larger orange ranches and farms, hills and big, fantastic rocks, gullies and underbrush— plenty of places for an eightyear-old to hide — or get lost in. The strain of waiting was telling on Mrs. Gittleson. And, on Henry, too. Suddenly the remnants of his self-assurance cracked wide open. He covered his face with his hands. "I don't understand it, Ed. Burke knows I've always wanted to do the best for him — he knows I only do things for his own good. I thought I knew my son, Ed. But today you would have thought I wasn't his father, the way he talked back to me. He said he hated me. He flew into a temper." • "What caused it?" "I told him we would have to take Pinto away from him." "Oh, Lord!" I thought, silently. And then, aloud: "And you expected him to understand that?" "I've always expected him to understand that I do things for his own good. I never have to explain to him — he knows I try to be fair. He's intelligent. I told him he had been warned over and over again not to indulge his fancy over Pinto talking, but that it had reached the point where it would be best for him and the pony to separate. I knew he'd be disappointed — but I didn't think he'd go all to pieces like that — tell me he hated me — throw himself at me, screaming at the top of his lungs." TALKING to Gittleson now was like kicking a man when he was down, but I'd never have a better chance to make him understand. "You didn't expect that? You were prepared to take away the boy's closest friend, his other-self — " He almost shouted at me. "Pinto's a horse! He's not a human being, even if you and Burk^ seem to think so." "Of course not. But you kept Burke so slicked up and' so polite, so full of do's and don'ts, he wasn't comfortable around other children — so Pinto was the closest thing in his life. Yes, I mean that. Parents can't ever really bridge that gap between them and their kids — not just years, but years of experience!" I'd said enough. I'm not one for lecturing, anyway; where kids are concerned I've got too much to learn, myself. Besides, it wasn't good for Henry to sit here in the house while others were out hunting for his boy. Inaction would just rasp his nerves and he'd work himself into a state of agony. All that night we hunted. When day broke we had narrowed the search down to one hill — particularly bad, particularly rocky. By process of elimination, by rousing all the neighbors in all directions, by inquiring in every all-night filling station and restaurant, the searching party came to the conclusion Burke and Pinto had left the main roads and struck up over this hill. State troopers had joined us, and while their presence gave the search efficiency, it also added the final touch of ominousness. The boy had been out all night long and Burke was dressed thinly. There might be danger of exposure; there was worse to be expected from the boy's own shock if he were lost — or he might have fallen and be