 Who didn't William say strange things to?
Not if you believe me. The first thing I can remember, the start of all this, was when I was four or five somebody was soiling my bed for me. I took long naps morning and evening so I could lie awake all night to see that it wouldn't happen. For punishment, he locked me in a windowless room and told me to sit still until he came back. It wasn't so bad a punishment, except that when Dad closed the door, the light turned off and I was left there in the dark. Being four or five, I didn't know any better, so I thought Dad made it dark to add to my punishment. One day, to prove me a liar, he opened and closed the door a few times from outside. Alone in the dark, I wouldn't have had it so bad if it wasn't for the things that came to me. Because they were real, I talked about them as if they were real, and I almost earned a bunk in the home for retarded children until I got smart enough to keep the beasts to myself. The trouble came from the notes written in my awkward hand that she found, calling her names I didn't understand. My mother and father must have been glad when I was sent away to reform school after my thirteenth birthday party, the one If you believe any of this at all, you'll see why it couldn't be me who did the stealing. I got a letter from Mom or Dad every now and then before they were killed, saying they had sent money or that it was enclosed, but somehow I never got a dime of it. Partridge didn't seem to notice me, but I knew that was an act. Some skin-and-bones character I didn't know struggled out of his seat, amening. As soon as I got cleaned up, I was going to have dinner in a good restaurant, and I was going to order such expensive food and leave such a large tip for the waiter and send one to the chef that they were going to think I was rich, and some executive with some brokerage firm would see me and say to himself, "Hmm, executive material. I beg your pardon, sir—" just like the razor-blade comic-strip ads in the old magazines that Frankie the Pig sells three for a quarter. Even Partridge made his way down from the auctioneer's stand like a vulture with a busted wing and darted through his private door. Crockery was ringing and men were slurping inside.
 Partridge
 a man at the restaurant  his father  the librarian  Partridge