UNDERTOW

John F. Reinus
 Contents

Red 1

She 60

Ann 173

War 294

The 403
City
Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden
to some sea, which sighs collectively for all
sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall.

Virginia Woolf,
“Mrs. Dalloway”
 Red
In the beginning, I remember my Grandma
Kay. I love my Grandma Kay. She’s strong and
she has a loud laugh. When she laughs, her eyes
sparkle and sometimes cry tears even though
she’s happy, not sad. She hugs me and kisses
me and calls me her boy, her good boy, her
handsome boy. She smells like cigarettes and
peppermint chewing gum and perfume from the
big fancy bottle with the pink top on her dresser.
Grandma Kay says that she brought those
bottles home from France. She smokes long
cigarettes from beautiful dark-red packages and
chews pieces of gum that look like little pillows.
She gives me gum whenever I want some. She
cooks me chicken and baked potato with butter
and gravy and cuts the chicken into pieces for
me and sits with me while I eat. She says, “Let
me cut your chicken for you and make it nice.”
Grandma Kay tells Grandpa Murray what to do:
“Murray get me my glasses.” He smiles. He asks
me if I want a horsey ride and then he bounces
me on his knee. He puts his teeth in a glass of

1
water before he goes to bed and that makes
Grandma Kay laugh.
On Sunday afternoons, Grandma Kay and
Grandpa Murray come to our apartment.
Grandpa Murray watches the ballgame on the
television in the corner of the dining room. He
says that I should be quiet and listen to the
announcer because the announcer tells you
what’s happening. The announcer’s voice
sounds like an engine and makes me think of
falling asleep on the back seat of the car. It’s
bad to bother Grandpa Murray. If I don’t bother
him, I’m allowed to lie on the carpet that smells
like my sweater and listen. I hear the
announcer’s voice and the cracking noise when
one of the players hits the ball with his bat and
the popping noise the ball makes when it lands
in a player’s glove and the sounds of whistling
and cheering. Through the open windows, I hear
buses slowing down and speeding up on the
street outside and sometimes a car horn.
Grandma Kay and Grandpa Murray stay to
eat dinner with us. Usually, Aunt Doris has
dinner with us too, and sometimes Aunt Joan
comes with her husband, Phil, and her daughter,
Kate, who was born the same year as I was.
Uncle Phil watches the ballgame with Grandpa
Murray. Kate is beautiful, everyone says so. Yes,
Kate is beautiful. She goes into the kitchen with
the women. They help my Mother cook dinner
and they talk. They tell me that I don’t belong in

2
the kitchen, that I am in the way. They say that I
should go and watch the game with Grandpa and
Uncle Phil. Sometimes, I hear Mommy talk about
Daddy.
“I can’t believe I married him,” she says.
Aunt Doris asks, “How could he be so
irresponsible? To get married, start a family and
then just leave the country?” Nobody answers
her question. “What does he think you are going
to do with a young child alone? Did he think you
could just drag the child around the world after
him?”
Grandma Kay laughs and there is a wet
sound in her throat; it’s the same sound that my
throat makes when I have a cold.
“What did you expect when you married
him, Barbara? He has to work.”
She coughs.
Mommy said that she expects Daddy to
stay with his family like other husbands.
“I’m too tired to do everything by myself.”
“Uchh,” says Grandma Kay, “everyone is
tired.”
Daddy is across the ocean. Later, I
remember when I hear the song: “Daddy’s gone
across the ocean…”
Mommy is so tired that she has to go to the
hospital. Aunt Doris comes to stay with me
because she doesn’t have children. She’s too
smart, Grandma Kay says. I ask Aunt Doris when
is Mommy coming back? She says she doesn’t

3
know. Daddy comes home for a while. He picks
me up and calls me Chief, and I feel very happy.
Lots of grownups come to visit Daddy and
Grandma Kay and Grandpa Murray. They whisper
to each other. Aunt Doris tells me to go and play
in my room, and the grownups come to see me.
A fat lady says, “Hello Sweetie, I’m Ethel
Greenbaum,” and she leans over and hugs me so
that I have to bend my back and almost fall on
the floor. I ask Grandma Kay, “When is Mommy
coming home?” She says that Mommy isn’t
coming home, that I should be brave and that
Aunt Doris will take care of me. I cry. I want to
live with Grandma Kay, but she says that she has
to take care of Grandpa Murray, and that one
child is enough for her. So Aunt Doris moves into
our apartment and Daddy goes back across the
ocean to work.
“You will be living with me now,” she says,
“be a good boy.”



Aunt Doris straightened things up. She

said that I had to learn to pick up my toys and
help her. She put a big pile of clean clothes on
my bed.
“Help me fold the laundry,” she said.
“I don’t know how,” I told her.
“You can learn. It’s not hard. You can learn
to fold a t-shirt and then you can fold the t-shirts.

4
You can put the socks together and fold pillow
cases. It will be fun.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I don’t care; you have to start helping.
You’re old enough.”
She took a t-shirt and made it flat on the
bed. “Watch me,” she said. She began to fold.
“Here’s a shirt for you. Fold it the way I
did.”
I couldn’t remember and Aunt Doris
grabbed the shirt and started to show me again.
“Pay attention,” she said. “Don’t be lazy.”
I tried to pay attention.
“Just pull out all the socks and put them
together in pairs,” she said with her disgusted
voice.
“What are pairs?” I asked.
“Just pull out all the socks and pay
attention,” she answered.
I stared at the lump of laundry, then pushed
my hands into it, trying to find socks. Parts of all
sorts of things stuck out of the pile, but I
couldn’t find a part of anything that I thought
was a sock.
“What are you doing?” my Aunt asked me.
I jumped.
“Pay attention and stop fooling around.
Just find the socks; anyone can do that.”
Small things were wrapped up inside the
sheets. I noticed the red sleeve of one of my
shirts sticking out of a bunch of sheet and I

5
pulled on it. The sheet fell off the bed onto the
floor, making a nice clean-smelling puff of air.
“That’s enough!” shouted my Aunt. “Go find
something else to do! Now!”
I walked away from the bed quickly,
watching Aunt Doris. I wanted to ride my horse,
but she didn’t like the horse noise, so I went
quietly out of the room and walked into the
living-room where I hid behind one of the window
drapes. It was warm behind the drape. I could
feel warm air moving above the radiator in front
of the windowsill. I pressed my forehead against
the window glass. It was cold. A truck drove
past and engine noise made the window shake. I
could feel with my forehead that the glass
wasn’t really flat, that it had bumps. I touched
them with my fingers while I looked outside at
the people on the sidewalk. They were wearing
their warm coats.
“Where are you?” my Aunt shouted.
I ran out of the living room as fast as I
could. She was standing in the hall.
“What were you doing?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said, thinking that I might be
lying. She didn’t seem to know.
There wasn’t any more laundry on my bed;
the room looked okay again. I closed the door
and locked it. Then I got on my horse and began
to rock and bounce. The horse was white with
black spots and he had a brown saddle shape in
the middle of his back. He didn’t have real

6
stirrups; I put my feet on a piece of wood that
went through his body. There was another piece
of wood through his ears that I held, but he also
had reins. I rocked and bounced as hard as I
could. I closed my eyes a little so that I was
seeing through my eyelashes, and I imagined
that I was riding a real horse in the West like a
cowboy. The horse began to slide around on the
carpet. Suddenly, someone started banging on
the door and I knew that I was in trouble.
“Open this door!” Aunt Doris shouted, and
she shook and twisted the door handle.
I got off my horse and unlocked the door,
and then I ran back to my horse and stood
behind it. Aunt Doris came into the room, and I
started to cry.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she
asked me in a loud voice.
I wanted to cover my ears with my hands,
but I didn’t. I stood there crying, watching her
and saying nothing.
“I asked you a question! Don’t just stand
there crying like a baby. Answer me! You are not
to lock this door! Ever! I’ve told you that before.
Do you understand me?”
I nodded.
“I hope you do. Stop crying and find
something else to do because that horse drives
me crazy. I’ve told you that before too, but you
just don’t listen. It’s impossible to get through to
you.”

7
 She left the room, and I lay down on my bed
facing the wall and hugged my bear. I wasn’t
allowed to lie on my bed during the day but I
knew that Aunt Doris wouldn’t come back for a
little while. I loved my bear. He was so perfect,
so soft, such a nice brown color, like the
chocolate cake with mocha icing that Grandma
Kay made. He smelled so good. When I hugged
him, I thought of the Pooh.



Daddy came home for Christmas and slept

in the extra bedroom across the hall from my
room, because Aunt Doris slept in his room,
which was now her room. When he got home, he
picked me up and squeezed me and called me
Chief. He had his special smell and the skin of
his cheek was rough. I wanted to have rough
skin like his. He gave me his Army hat with the
heavy gold eagle on the front and the brown
leather brim that was as smooth as a new bar of
soap. When I put it on, it fell down over my eyes
and ears so that I couldn’t wear it because, for
me, it wasn’t like a real hat. The inside of the
hat smelled like his hair, which I liked. Daddy
said that I could keep the hat and I put it on my
bed, but Aunt Doris said that it was bad luck to
put a hat on a bed and that I should put it in the
closet where it belonged. Daddy brought me a
baseball glove, although it was a kid’s glove so

8
that it would fit on my hand, and a big ball that I
could barely squeeze into the glove. He took me
to the movie about Robin Hood, and after the
movie, at lunch, I told Aunt Doris the movie story
until she said to eat my sandwich. He took me to
Grandma Kay’s. Grandma Kay gave me a big hug
and a kiss and she gave Daddy a kiss. She
smoked a cigarette. She sat with Daddy in the
living room and sent me into her room so that
Grandpa Murray could show me the coins from
France that she kept in a drawer of the table
next to her bed. At bedtime, Daddy read me the
Pooh story. I liked the Pooh. It was very unfair
to say that he was a bear of little brain because
he always did the right thing, but I thought that
the person who had written the story was joking
about this. The person who had written the
story was saying that the Pooh had little brain
because he was a bear. I decided that what the
Pooh did was most important, and then I felt
better when the story said that the Pooh had
little brain.
On Christmas day I woke up very early. It
was still dark outside, but I knew that morning
was coming because I could see through the
window blinds that the sky had a pink color. I lay
very still feeling my heart beating and listening,
and I thought about opening presents. I knew
that it was too early for me to get up, and that it
was wrong to disturb Daddy and Aunt Doris
because it was dark outside. She had told me

9
how the clock should look before I woke her up,
but I couldn’t remember. I thought that it would
be alright if I just went very, very quietly down
the hall to see the presents and the tree in the
living room. After looking at them, I would go
back to bed and sleep until daytime, and then it
wouldn’t be bad to wake up Daddy and Aunt
Doris.
I got out of bed and looked through the
window at the dark city. It was very quiet.
There were no cars moving on the street, no
people on the sidewalk. An invisible stream of
cold air hit me in the face. I held my hand
carefully over the top of the radiator and then
touched it with just the tip of my finger; it was
only a little warm. Then I yawned and suddenly I
felt very tired. I got back into bed and closed my
eyes, and when I opened them again it was
daytime.
I didn’t remember what day it was until I
smelled the tree smell from the living room.
Then I jumped out of bed as fast as I could and
looked into the hall. The door to the guest room
was already open; Daddy was awake and I
thought that Aunt Doris must be awake, too. I
ran into the living room and there, on the floor
around the tree, were all of the presents.
“Look who slept late like a good boy,” Aunt
Doris’s voice said.
I turned around and saw that she was
sitting next to Daddy on the sofa, drinking

10
coffee.
“Merry Christmas,” they each said.
I stared at what was on the floor beside the
tree. I looked at Daddy and then I stared again
at the thing on the floor. It was a board with
train tracks on it: a train set. The board was
painted green to look like grass and grey to look
like roads and blue to make a river and a pond.
There were little houses and trees in the fields
and little cars on the roads, and, on the train
tracks, there was a train with six cars: a black
steam engine and a dark red caboose, some cars
for people, and two other cars, the names of
which I didn’t know. I ran to look at the board
and try the train, because I was sure that it was
an electric train and that meant, I knew, that it
would really go.
“Don’t touch it,” shouted my Aunt, making
me jump. “The paint’s still wet. Daddy and
Grandpa Murray put it together last night after
you went to bed and the paint hasn’t dried yet.
You’ll get paint all over.”
I looked at her. Didn’t Santa paint it? I sat
on my heels beside the board, and my hands
waved in the air above the train, which was
stopped next to a little stationhouse and a
parking lot where two toy cars were parked in
the spaces between white lines. A red and white
pole blocked the road into the parking lot
because the road crossed the tracks in front of
the train; cars couldn’t go in or out of the parking

11
lot when the train was at the station.
“Don’t worry, Chief,” Daddy said. “We can
still use it, and the paint will be dry in a few
hours.”
“Show me, please!”
I didn’t have to ask him again. He came
over from the sofa and got down on the floor with
me. We were both there together on our hands
and knees in front of the train. I moved closer to
him. He showed me the transformer, a big heavy
black box with three knobs on its top. It was
connected by a red wire and a green wire to the
tracks and also had a thicker long black wire
that could be plugged into the wall.
“Don’t touch those wires when the
transformer is plugged in because you could get
an electric shock,” Daddy told me, and I said that
I wouldn’t.
He showed me the knob that changed
forward to backward and backward to forward,
and the knob that made the whistle, and then the
big knob in the middle of the transformer that
made the train go. You had to twist the big knob
slowly so that the train made a smooth start and
didn’t fall off the tracks. It made a nice clicking
sound when I twisted it.
“You’re not to use this without a grownup
here,” my Aunt said.
Daddy allowed me to plug the black wire
into the wall, which I did very carefully to show
him that I could do it by myself. The transformer

12
box made a humming noise and I could smell
electricity; the electricity smelled the same as it
did at the beach near the wires that were
attached to our house. I turned the handle
slowly, and the train started to go, making a
noise that was like the noise of a real train.
After it had left the station, the pole blocking the
road into the parking lot went up in the air all by
itself so that cars could drive over the tracks.
“Try the whistle,” Daddy said. He sounded
happy.
I did. The whistle knob twisted smoothly
and popped back when I let go of it. The farther
I turned the knob, the louder the train whistled,
and I saw that when the whistle sounded, white
smoke came out of the smokestack on the steam
engine. If I turned the handle the right way, the
whistle sounded just like the whistle of a real
train.
“Oh, my God,” my Aunt said and laughed a
little. “I hope that thing doesn’t set fire to the
carpet.”
Daddy was still on the floor next to me.
“Let’s make it go backwards. Do you want to do
it?”
“Yes,” I nodded.
I turned the big knob in the middle of the
transformer to stop the train, and it stopped
suddenly and fell off the tracks. It was wrecked.
I almost started to cry because I thought that it
might be scratched and bent and ruined, but

13
Daddy said, “Don’t worry Chief. No harm done.
Let me show you how to put it back on the
tracks.” He crawled around the board to where
the train was, and carefully put the wheels of
each car back on the tracks. Then he showed
me how to check that the cars were still hooked
together. When he was done, I looked at the
train carefully: everything was perfect again.
“See, you need to be sure that all the
wheels are on the tracks. It’s easier to do if the
train is on a straight piece of track, not on a
curve.”
I said, “Yes,” but I didn’t think that I could
do it. “You’ll help me, won’t you?” I asked him,
wondering what I would do after he went back
across the ocean?
“Sure,” he answered. “Now let’s try it
again. Pretend it’s a real train and start it
gradually so that the passengers don’t get hurt,
okay?”
I twisted the big knob very slowly and the
train began to move backwards. When it was
almost at the station, the little gate went down
to block the road into the parking lot again.
Then I stopped the train carefully and made the
whistle, because the train was at the station. It
sounded nice, the way it did at night at the
beach.
“Do you see this switch track?” Daddy
asked, pointing to a place where the track
turned into two tracks. “This is where you can

14
switch the train so it will go around the inside
circle. Before the train gets here you just push
the button on this box and the track changes.”
He pushed the button: part of the switch
track moved sideways with a loud click and a
flag on the end of a little pole next to the track
went up in the air.
“Now try. Start slowly.”
I made the train go forward, slowly twisting
the knob so that it went faster. When the engine
got to the switch track, it changed tracks and
pulled the train over a bridge across a painted
river. I let the train run and watched it go around
and around, staring at the beautiful real-looking
engine and the car called a flatbed car. There
was also a tanker car, Daddy said, and he told
me what it was for. I noticed that there were
lights in each of the cars for people, and a light
on the flag next to the switch track and also on
the pole that blocked the road where it crossed
the track near the station. The train, I thought,
would look beautiful in the dark because of the
lights. I looked at Daddy and then I gave him a
big hug and he hugged me back.
“Well, don’t you say thank you?” my Aunt
asked.
“Thank you, Aunt Doris.”
“Give me a kiss.”
I got up and kissed her.
“I love you, honey” she said. “I hope this is
the best Christmas ever for you. Well, let’s turn

15
that thing off for a while and open the other
presents. Daddy and I want to see what Santa
brought us, too. You can play with it later, but
remember, only with an adult present and don’t
touch the board until the paint is dry.”
After all the other presents had been
opened, I played with my train set, stopping only
when Aunt Doris told me to put my new toys in
my closet.
“Be sure you do a neat job,” she said.
After a while, she left me alone in the living
room. I was careful to start and stop the train
slowly so that it wouldn’t fall off the tracks.
When sometimes it did, I told Daddy and he fixed
it for me. Aunt Doris came into the living room to
check on me, and I asked her if Daddy could put
my train set in my room, and she said that we
would talk about it later when there was time
because it was a big job, and that it was a very
large train set so it might take up too much
space on the floor of my room.
“Where will we keep it?” I asked
“We’ll see,” she said.



In the afternoon, Aunt Doris took her bath

and then, while she was standing in front of the
mirror putting on her makeup, I took a bath in her
bathtub. I lay on my stomach with my face in the
water and wondered how long I could hold my

16
breath. What would happen if I held my breath a
little longer, and then a little longer after that?
My insides felt as if they were going to explode,
and I couldn’t think about anything besides
breathing. I became a second person pushing
my own head into the water.
“How long can you hold your breath?” I
asked Aunt Doris.
“I don’t know. A minute maybe. I’ve never
timed myself.”
“I mean, how long can I hold my breath?”
“I don’t know. How could I know a thing
like that. Not very long.”
“What happens if you don’t hold your breath
under water?”
“You drown, of course. You can’t breathe
when you’re under water. Okay, stop fooling
around and wash yourself. Be sure to wash
everywhere.”
Aunt Doris dressed me in my good clothes
and she put on her good clothes too: a black
dress with a big skirt that made a noise like
tissue paper. Daddy got dressed in one of his
dark suits and a very white shirt with cuffs that
stuck out of the sleeves of his suit jacket so that
you could see his shiny gold cufflinks, and a soft
red tie with small white dots on it and his shiny
black shoes, and the three of us took a taxi cab
to Aunt Joan’s house to have a fancy dinner. I
loved riding in a taxi cab, sitting on the seat
feeling warm even though it was cold outside,

17
bumping up and down in the dark and looking
through the window at the smoke coming out of
holes in the street and, tonight, at the colored
lights and decorations and at all of the people on
the sidewalks dressed in their good clothes and
carrying bags of presents. We had presents with
us too for Aunt Joan and Kate and Grandma Kay
and Gussie and Grandpa Murray and Uncle Phil.
The taxi driver stopped the cab next to the
end of the green awning in front of Aunt Joan’s
apartment house. Aunt Doris and I got out of the
cab while Daddy paid the driver, and then we all
walked to the door and a doorman standing in
the lobby opened it for us. I started to go inside
but Aunt Doris walked in front of me.
“Remember, ladies first,” Daddy said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because that’s the proper way to behave,”
said Aunt Doris.
“That’s just the way people do it,” Daddy
said.
The three of us walked to the elevator.
There were lots of mirrors and dark pictures on
the walls of the lobby, and sofas and chairs and
coffee tables. I wondered why they put living-
room furniture in lobbies? I had never seen
anyone sitting on the chairs in our building lobby.
I stopped next to the open elevator door and
waited for Aunt Doris to go in first.
“Ladies first. Good boy,” she said as she
walked past me.

18
 In the elevator, I remembered to take off my
hat, because you had to do that too when you
were in an elevator with a lady. Daddy took off
his hat that looked like a cowboy hat and smiled
at me because, I thought, he was glad that I had
remembered.
It was dark in the hall outside Aunt Joan’s
apartment. Daddy put down one of the shopping
bags of presents that he was carrying and
pressed the pearly white button on the wall next
to the front door. I heard the bell ring inside the
apartment and someone’s heels tapping the
floor, and then Aunt Joan opened the door and
there was bright light that made me squeeze my
eyes shut, and I heard the sounds of people
talking; I heard Grandma Kay’s laugh.
“Welcome,” said Aunt Joan, looking at
everyone and smiling. She sounded as if she
were surprised to see us. “Merry Christmas.
Come in.”
I felt shy, and Daddy pushed me in front of
him into the apartment.
“Well, don’t you look handsome,” Aunt Joan
said, looking at me and then bending down to
give me two kisses. She smelled like Grandma
Kay. “You too,” she said to Daddy and gave him a
kiss and laughed.
Her laugh sounded a little like Grandma
Kay’s laugh. She kissed Aunt Doris on the
Cheek.
“Hi, Doris dear. Let me take your coats. I

19
think Katie has a present for you,” she said to me
as she helped me take off my coat.
I looked across the foyer. Kate stood under
Aunt Joan’s chandelier which was covered with
sparkling glass beads that looked like pieces of
ice. She wore a dark green dress with puffy
shoulders and a wide skirt, black stockings and
very shiny black shoes with straps that went
over the tops of her feet. Kate was beautiful. I
stared at her eyes; they were dark brown with
long lashes and they looked like cat eyes. They
stared back at me. She was holding a package.
“Go run and play with Katie, and see what’s
in that package for you, and tell Gussie if you
want something to drink,” said Aunt Joan,
smiling at me again.
“Wait Sweetie,” said Aunt Doris, “give this
to her.”
She handed me a big box wrapped with
green and red paper, and with a wide red ribbon
around it that was tied into a fat bow.
Kate turned around and ran out of the foyer,
her skirt bouncing, and I followed her slowly so
that I could look at the things in Aunt Joan’s
apartment because I liked her apartment. There
was wallpaper that had pictures of little houses
and other wallpaper that had pictures of flowers.
There were soft carpets and shiny-smooth dark
wood furniture and fat sofas and chairs. There
were drapes and shades covering the windows,
and lots of paintings on the walls to look at, and

20
all sorts of little things on the tables: boxes and
ashtrays and pots and plants.
Some grownups, including Uncle Phil and
Grandpa Murray, were sitting in the living room,
talking and holding glasses that sparkled like the
foyer chandelier. The ice cubes made ringing
noises when they hit the sides of the glasses as
the grownups drank. I walked near the wall
carrying Kate’s present and they didn’t notice
me. Grandma Kay wasn’t there, and I guessed
that she was in the kitchen. Daddy came into
the living room and the men got up to say hello.
I stopped and watched. Uncle Phil, Grandpa
Murray and the other men, whose names I
couldn’t remember, were wearing dark suits like
Daddy’s. There were also some women in the
room wearing silky dresses and shiny jewelry;
they stayed in their chairs to say hello. Everyone
was very happy to see Daddy, who walked
around shaking hands with the men and bending
down to kiss the women on their cheeks.
“Let me get you a drink,” Uncle Phil said to
Daddy. “Tell us what’s going on in the world.”
I turned around and ran down the hall to
Kate’s room. She was sitting Indian style on the
floor facing the door, holding my present on her
lap. She smiled a big smile, showing lots of
white teeth. I sat down on the floor in front of
her and we traded packages.
I began to tear the wrapping paper off my
box; there were pictures of little white snowmen

21
and reindeer on the paper, which was red, and
there was a gold-colored bow stuck on one side.
A heavy thing slid around a little inside the
package. After I had torn off some of the paper, I
could see through a window underneath where
the bow had been that the present was a cowboy
gun and a belt with a holster. My heart was
beating the way it had in the early morning, and
my fingers shook.
“Do you like it?” asked Kate. Her dark eyes
stared at my face.
The holster and belt were made out of stiff
brown leather with the shapes of cowboys and
horses on it, which I thought was stupid because
real cowboys wouldn’t have that, but I didn’t say
anything. The gun, though, was heavy, the way I
imagined a real gun would be: smooth dark silver
metal with a rough white handle and with a flat
screw through the handle. I had seen screws
like that through real gun handles on TV. I aimed
the gun at the wall because I didn’t want Kate to
think that I was going to shoot something in her
room, and I pulled the trigger hard with my
pointing finger. The gun shot and, at the same
time, the part that held the bullets turned to a
new bullet. I had a big smile and got up to put on
the holster belt while Kate began to unwrap her
present, which was a doll with thick blonde hair
in a dress that was even fancier and puffier than
her own. The doll dress looked like tissue paper,
but it wasn’t made out of paper, it was made out

22
of real material. The doll had little hard pink
hands sticking out of the puffy tissue-paper
dress sleeves and a hard pink face with shiny
eyes, and hard eyelids with long stiff black
lashes. Why did a blonde doll have black lashes?
The eyelids closed and made a clicking noise
when Kate put the doll on the floor, and they
opened and made a clicking noise when she
made it stand on its feet.
“Thank you,” Kate said. “Isn’t she
beautiful?”
I looked at the doll, but I didn’t answer. It
wasn’t nearly as beautiful as Kate. I wondered
why you would make a doll like that? I decided
that you couldn’t make a doll like Kate. I thought
of shooting the doll but then I decided that I
would get into trouble if I shot it, so I paid
attention to the silver metal buckle on the gun
belt. Then I noticed a really bad problem: the
holster was on the wrong side of the belt. When
the belt was around my waist, I couldn’t take out
the gun with my shooting hand. I tried twisting
the belt around so that the holster was on the
same side as my shooting hand, but that made
the holster backwards and the buckle behind
me, which was stupid. I twisted the belt around
my waist again so that it looked right.
“The holster is on the wrong side,” I said.
“It’s okay,” said Kate, who was looking at
her doll.
“But it’s on the wrong side!”

23
 “It will still work. Just reach around and
get the gun out, that’s all. Do you want to play
dolls?”
“No.”
“Please. It’s fun.”
“No!”
I reached my shooting hand around the
holster the way Kate had said that I should,
pulled out the gun, turned it over using both
hands and then aimed it at the doll with my
shooting hand.
“No!” shrieked Kate, crossing her arms over
the doll and hugging it.
“Children!”
I turned around, surprised. Aunt Joan was
standing in the doorway.
“He was going to kill my doll!”
“Oh, what a beautiful dolly. Where did you
get it?” asked Aunt Joan.
“It was a present,” answered Kate.
“Did you say thank you?”
Kate and I both nodded.
Aunt Joan looked at me. “Do you like your
pistol?”
“Yes, thank you, Aunt Joan.”
“He thinks it’s on the wrong side,” said
Kate.
“Oh? Well remember, you must never ever
point it at anyone, okay?”
“Yes, Aunt Joan,” I answered.
“Good. Now why don’t you both come with

24
me and say hello to everybody? We’re going to
eat soon.”
We walked back to the living room. Kate
carried her hard pink doll in her arms as if it
were a real baby. I switched my gun from my
shooting hand to my other hand and put it back
in the holster. No cowboy would ever have to do
that, I thought. The grownups in the living room
saw Kate and began to say hello and merry
Christmas. They said how beautiful she was and
how beautiful her doll was. She knew them all
and said their names. Grandpa Murray looked at
me and noticed my new gun; he let me know by
raising his eyebrows and making his eyes large
as if he were afraid of me. I smiled at him and
ran over to where he and Grandma Kay were
sitting on a big sofa under a painting of a woman
who was wearing a puffy tissue-paper dress like
the doll’s and sitting on a swing in a flower
garden. I jumped up on the sofa between them,
and Grandma Kay grabbed me and gave me a big
hug.
“Uchh, hello my darling,” she said and she
squeezed me and coughed.
Before dinner, I had to take off my gun and
put it on the floor under the Christmas tree
because Daddy said that guns weren’t allowed at
the table. There were two tables in the dining
room, one for grownups and a small one for
children, and even the children’s table had a
white tablecloth and special dishes and glasses

25
and silverware. I sat at the children’s table with
Kate and her cousin, Jean. Jean was older. She
wore a black dress and she looked almost like a
grownup. She had a necklace and a bracelet
made out of pearls.
First, Gussie brought us each grapefruit on
a small plate. Gussie was wearing a black
uniform with a fancy white collar and a very stiff
white apron that you could see through. Gussie
wore a black uniform for special occasions;
other times she wore a white uniform. There
was a small silver pot of sugar on the table.
Jean gave it to Kate and then to me, and we put
sugar on top of our grapefruit and I watched the
sugar turn grey. Then we all ate the grapefruit
with pointed silver spoons and the juice squirted
up in the air and onto our faces, stinging a little,
but making us laugh. The grownups at the other
table were busy talking and getting ready to eat.
They were making so much noise that they didn’t
notice what was happening at our table.
“Katie, you’re getting juice in my hair,” Jean
yelled.
Kate didn’t pay any attention to her and
scooped out another piece. I had juice all over
my fingers. I tried to suck them clean because I
hated having sticky fingers. When I sucked, my
tongue smacked against the top of my mouth and
that made Jean and Kate giggle. I took my
fingers out of my mouth, grabbed my grapefruit
and stabbed it with the tip of my spoon. A piece

26
of grapefruit popped up in the air, almost hit
Jean’s shoulder and then landed on the rug
behind a fat bald man. Jean and Kate shrieked
and the three of us laughed so hard that we
couldn’t breathe. Grandma Kay, who was sitting
near us at the end of the grownup table, turned
her head to see what we were doing and she also
started to laugh, I thought just because we were
laughing. She coughed and her eyes began
making tears. Then all of the grownups looked
at us.
“My goodness, what is going on over
there?” asked Aunt Joan. She was smiling.
“Jeanie, help him with his grapefruit, would
you?”
“I don’t need any help,” I said.
“You do too!” yelled Kate.
“I do not! You do!”
“No I don’t! Girls are more matour than
boys. Isn’t that right Mommy? Aren’t Girls more
matour than boys?”
“All of you settle down. Jeanie, can you
make sure that everyone is well behaved at that
table?” said Aunt Joan without saying whether or
not Kate was right. I didn’t understand what
Kate was talking about, but I decided not to ask
her because I was sure that she had said
something bad about me. I thought that she was
making as big a mess as I was. I stared at my
grapefruit and tried to figure out how to eat it
without getting juice on my fingers or squirting it

27
all over the table.
“Children, Gussie wants to know whether
you want dark meat or light?” said Aunt Joan.
Gussie was standing next to her.
“White meat.”
“White meat, please.”
“I want white meat.”
A lady at the grown-up table whose name I
couldn’t remember said, “When I was a child, I
didn’t get to eat white meat because the adults
took it. Now I’m an adult and I don’t get to eat
white meat because the children get it.”
“There’s plenty for everybody,” said Aunt
Joan.
When Gussie brought the food out of the
kitchen, everyone started saying how delicious it
looked, and what a good job Aunt Joan and
Gussie had done: “The dinner looks wonderful,
Gussie.” “The table is beautiful, Joan.” Gussie
carried the food around the grown-up table on a
silver tray stopping next to each person, and the
grownups took what they wanted using big silver
spoons and forks that were on the tray. “Oh,
Gussie, that’s wonderful, thank you,” and Gussie
answered in a quiet voice, “Thank you, Mr.
Somebody or Mrs. Somebody.” Gussie’s helper
brought our dinners on shiny plates that had
pictures of flowers on them. My turkey already
had been cut into little pieces and covered with
juice. Next to the turkey there was cranberry
sauce with little berries in it and there was

28
sweet potato with golden-brown marshmallow on
top and stuffing. There also were a few skinny
string beans mixed with pieces of some kind of
nut. I checked to see that I had been given all of
the good things, which I had, and I began eating.
Everyone else must have been eating too,
because it was much quieter. While I ate, I
listened to the grown-ups talk:
“...I saw her at Lynn’s, she looked awful…”
“……Did you take the cottage?…………The
other………..”
“………………………….that diamond…………..”
“..redo the living room, or at least change
the carpet……..”
“……but she must be sick…………..
….couldn’t possibly……… she said…”
“………………..back to Europe so soon?
What……….…here……..”
“…….They both looked awful…….”
“……………………………..not, it’s the clothes
and the hair and……..”
….can’t live with her old things………..………
not right.”
“………………………that’s when they expect
me.”
I moved the string beans around my plate
so that they looked like leftovers, and I told
Gussie that I didn’t want seconds of anything. I
wanted to have room in my stomach for dessert,
because Grandma Kay, I knew, had made a
chocolate cake with mocha icing. We only had

29
mocha chocolate cake for special meals
because it was a lot of work. Sometimes
Grandma Kay let me help her mix the icing and
then lick the bowl when the cake was finished.
Gussie wanted to know why I didn’t want more
turkey or stuffing or even cranberry sauce or
sweet potato, and she said that she thought I
must be sick. She looked at me and then she
said, “Oh, I knows what you wants,” and she took
away my plate before Aunt Doris saw it, and soon
Gussie’s helper brought the cake and also apple
pie with ice cream and some kind of fruit. I ate
my cake very slowly, starting at the thin end, and
I had sips of milk between bites. By the time the
cake was gone, I was feeling sleepy.
After dessert, Kate and Jean and I were
excused from the table by Aunt Joan and we
went into the living room to watch television. I
got my gun and lay on the carpet holding it in
front of me. I couldn’t pay attention to the TV
show because I kept looking at the gun and
thinking about the holster being on the wrong
side of the belt and how that ruined it because I
couldn’t draw the gun like a real cowboy. It was
such a good gun. I looked at it and felt its
weight. Why couldn’t the holster be on the right
side? It was as if the present weren’t really for
me, but were for somebody else who shot with
the wrong hand.
A little while later, after we had put our
coats and hats back on and had said thank you

30
and goodnight and when we were sitting on the
backseat of another taxi cab, I said this to Aunt
Doris and to Daddy. I told them that my present
was wrong.
“Don’t be spoiled, Honey,” said Aunt Doris.
“It was very nice of Aunt Joan to give you such a
thoughtful present. It’s not nice to look at it so
closely; you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the
mouth. Didn’t you have a good time?”
“But it’s wrong,” I said again, almost crying
and then really crying. “I can’t use it because
it’s on the wrong side.”
“Oh,” said Daddy. “It’s because you’re not
right-handed.”
“No,” I cried.
“Chief,” Daddy said, “most people are right-
handed. They use the other hand from you.
You’re left-handed. The holster was made for
someone who is right-handed and uses the other
hand, so when you put the belt on, you don’t like
where it is.”
Daddy spoke again. “Chief, maybe Aunt
Doris can find you one on the other side so that
it works for you.”
I looked at my Aunt. “Would you do that?” I
asked.
“Of course, Honey. I’ll try. We’ll see.”



When summer came, Aunt Doris packed our

31
clothes in suitcases and put the other things
that she needed into cardboard boxes. She
pulled down the window shades and closed all of
the drapes, and had Rose cover the furniture
with old sheets and unplug the lamps so that
they wouldn’t catch fire. George, the doorman,
helped her by taking the suitcases and boxes
downstairs with Grandpa Murray. They put them
in the car, and then we went to the country
where we stayed in a white house near the
beach. Aunt Doris drove the car and Grandma
Kay sat on the other front seat, knitting;
Grandma Kay knitted me a new sweater every
summer. I sat next to a pile of suitcases and
boxes on the backseat and looked out the
window. Grandpa Murray stayed in the City and
went to business, so Aunt Doris had to do all of
the driving by herself, which was hard.
“You’d think one of the men would drive us
up there and help us get settled,” she said to
Grandma Kay. “Every summer it’s the same
thing: pack the suitcases and the household
utensils, pack the car, drive the whole way by
myself and then have to get everything inside
and organized while taking care of a child with
his Father off somewhere doing nothing to help.
It’s just too hard for me.”
“Oh, Doris,” said Grandma Kay. “We’ll have
fun. It will be a fun drive, won’t it Sweetie?”
“Yes,” I answered.
I liked riding in the car and watching the

32
world outside the window. I liked the way the
buildings changed. First, for a little while, there
were apartment houses like the one in which we
lived, but each one had a different front. I looked
at the doormen who made me think of old-time
television soldiers in complicated uniforms
guarding the buildings. Then Aunt Doris turned
the car and we passed small buildings where
there were stores with mysterious and surprising
things in their windows. Sometimes I saw a
window and remembered having been inside the
store, but it was different seeing a place from
the car, knowing that I was going faraway and
couldn’t touch the place, except in my mind
where I could imagine being inside and maybe
remember times when I had been inside, times
that seemed like old memories even if they only
had been a few days before.
Aunt Doris stopped the car at a corner
because the traffic light was red and I saw the
butcher shop where she went every week to buy
meat. There were big pieces of red and white
meat hanging in the window; I smelled the
butcher shop when I saw the meat hanging
there. Inside, the floor was made of wooden
boards covered with sawdust and I smelled the
sawdust. In my mind, I moved my feet through
the sawdust and pushed it into little piles the
way I did when she went shopping there. The
man behind the counter said, “Would you like a
piece of baloney, Red?” and Aunt Doris said that

33
I would and he cut me two pieces with a knife
that had a very thin blade and I noticed that
some of his fingers were too short and had
stubby ends. When I could squeeze past the
ladies and get close to the low part of the
counter where the cash register was, I could see
the other butchers cutting and wrapping meat in
brown paper and sweeping little pieces of fat
and bone and meat off the wooden counter onto
the floor with their hands or their knives, and I
saw that some of them had short stubby fingers
too. I said this to Aunt Doris: “Their fingers are
short,” and she told me shush, and later, after
she had paid and taken her package and we had
left she said, “Don’t talk about people in front of
them,” and “Butchers lose their fingers in
accidents with knives and that’s why you
shouldn’t play with knives.” I watched the
butchers cut, but I never saw one of them cut off
his finger.
Poor people sat on the steps in front of the
buildings that we passed. There were fat ladies
with gray skin talking to each other. They wore
thin dresses and they didn’t have their legs
crossed the way Aunt Doris and Aunt Joan and
Grandma Kay and other ladies did when they
were sitting. There were men sitting on the
steps with them, smoking cigarettes. Some of
the men weren’t wearing shirts, only undershirts.
They also had gray skin, but their faces and
necks were brown and you could see that their

34
hands were rough when they put their cigarettes
in their mouths. I saw a man spit, which I knew
you weren’t supposed to do.
“I saw a man spit,” I said.
“Fouy,” said Aunt Doris. “Those people are
poor and they don’t know proper manners, do
they? Look at those children. Isn’t that
terrible?”
Near the corner there were children
running through water that sprayed out of a fire
hydrant. The water hit cars on the street and
made a river in the gutter that carried pieces of
trash to the sewer at the corner. The children
weren’t wearing shoes and a lot of them, even
the girls, were wearing only underpants, not even
bathing suits, even though they were outside in
public, and you could see through their wet
underwear. They didn’t seem to care though;
they ran and shouted and played in the water,
and it looked like a lot of fun running around
nearly naked and spraying water all over the
street by standing in front of the fire hydrant.
“I want to do that,” I thought, and I must
have talked to myself, because Grandma Kay
said, “God forbid,” and laughed. “Those children
run around like wild animals like the Negroes.
Make sure the windows are closed and the doors
are locked.”
Soon we were riding on a road without
traffic lights past other kinds of buildings that
were different sizes and shapes. Some of them

35
had broken windows, and some had parking lots
next to them where there were trucks and
machines and boxes. There was a building that
looked as if it were made of dark grey metal and
brown bricks. It was old and dirty, and had two
big smokestacks on its roof. The smokestacks
were painted like barbershop poles with red and
white stripes and had grey smoke coming out of
their tops. I liked this building. Sometimes its
giant front doors were open and I could see big
machines inside and men walking around them.
The place was always gone before I could look at
it carefully, though, as if it had never really been
there, had been there only in my mind.
Aunt Doris drove the car across a bridge
and then there weren’t as many buildings to look
at. All of the cars on our road were going in the
same direction. Beside us there were bushes
and trees, and, on the other side of the bushes
and trees, there were cars going in the other
direction. The air started to smell like plants; I
watched the green things with my head pressed
against the window glass and waited to be
surprised by passing cars and trucks. The
engine made the seat and the window shake.
Sometimes the cars on the road looked as if they
weren’t moving and then they went slowly
forwards or backwards while the trees behind
them moved very fast. When I stared at people
in passing cars, they sometimes looked like two
people in two cars. By trying, I could see one

36
car and then two cars again. The same thing
happened when I looked out the window in my
room, and I wondered why, and then my eyes
closed.
When I woke up we were on a different
road, an almost empty road, and there were only
trees around us. I imagined that we were
surrounded by woods and wild animals and that
there were no other people anywhere. I thought
about my gun and walking through the woods,
hunting and sleeping on the ground like Davey
Crockett. After a little while, we stopped to eat
at the Ho Jo, and to get gasoline and go to the
toilet. I had icy Coke that I sucked through a
paper straw from a glass that looked like a bell
upside down, and hot dog with yellow mustard
and French fries with red ketchup. Why did you
only put mustard and ketchup on these two
things that you ate together? Grandma Kay and
Aunt Doris didn’t know. I always had hot dog and
French fries at the Ho Jo except when we were
at the beach where it was safe to have fried
clams and Grandma Kay and Aunt Doris had
lobster rolls.
After lunch, I started to feel uncomfortable
in the car and I fidgeted, even though I knew that
I shouldn’t. Time passed very slowly, much more
slowly than it had at the beginning of the trip. I
wanted to ask how far we still had to go but that
question would make Aunt Doris mad, I knew.
Instead, I thought about the way my space on

37
the backseat had been cozy in the morning. I
tried to feel that it was cozy again, but I couldn’t.
“How much farther is it?” I had to ask.
“Soon Dear,” answered Aunt Doris. “Be
patient. You’ve been a very good boy.”
Finally, we were riding on a small road and
I began to see houses that I remembered. A lot
of the houses had signs on them and some had
old things sitting on their porches. The dirt at
the edge of the road, I saw, was sandy and
suddenly I could smell salty air; we were close to
the ocean. I thought that if I got out of the car
and dug in the ground, I would find pieces of sea
shells and pine cones. We were at the beach,
and I remembered summer, and I felt as if I had
been in the country forever.
I saw the drug store in town. I remembered
waking up early and walking to the hotel room
where Grandma Kay stayed, and also Grandpa
Murray when he visited from the City. I knocked
on the door and stood on the porch waiting,
listening. My stomach made noises. Grandpa
Murray opened the door. He was wearing blue
pajamas with thin white stripes. The pajama
shirt had pearly buttons on its front. He pushed
his white hair off his face with his hand and then
he smiled and touched his lips with his finger.
“Shhh. I’ll be right out,” he said. He
already had his teeth in his mouth.
Grandpa Murray winked his blue eye at me
and closed the door quietly. I walked across the

38
porch and touched the arm of a big wooden
chair. There were drops of water on the paint
even though it wasn’t raining; the sky was blue
and the air was cool and had a nice smell. I
knew that it would be a beautiful day, that the
sand would be hot and the ocean very cold. I
tasted salty water and shivered. In the middle of
the lawn next to the porch there was a large tree
whose branches made a tent where I could hide.
I watched the wind make the branches shake
and listened to the sea gulls that were flying
over the inlet. I thought about climbing up on
the fence around the dock and looking over the
edge to see how high the water was, but I wasn’t
allowed to do that without a grownup holding
me. When I leaned over the top of the fence, I
could see the giant posts under the dock: they
were as big as trees. Sometimes these posts
were covered with water, but sometimes they
weren’t and I could see seaweed and mussels
sticking to their sides. When the water was low,
people walked and swam across the inlet, but
this wasn’t safe, Grandpa Murray said. People
who did this could be dragged by the water
against the posts and cut by the sharp shells, or
carried out into the ocean where they would
drown and be eaten by fish. It didn’t look to me,
though, as if people had any trouble swimming
across the inlet.
Grandpa Murray had told me that one day
when he was a boy he had decided to play with

39
bad children who wanted to put pennies on the
train tracks so that a train would run over them
and squeeze them flat. In the place where they
went, one track went over a river on a long
bridge built out of posts like the ones under the
dock. If you walked onto the bridge, you could
drop a rock between the tracks and listen to it
splash when it hit the water, but this was very
dangerous because it was easy to fall between
the tracks or to be run over by a train because
there wasn’t anywhere to stand except on the
tracks. The biggest boy, who was a bully, dared
the other boys to walk with him across the
bridge. Grandpa Murray didn’t want to go, but
the big boy said, “C’mon, Mickey, don’t be
yellow,” and Grandpa Murray went with him and
the other boys even though he knew that he was
doing something wrong. He was the last boy to
get to the other side of the bridge and, as soon
as he had stepped off the tracks, a train came,
so he was almost killed. He said that God had
protected him so that he could grow up and have
a nice grandson, and he told me not to do
anything wrong like that. If a bigger boy called
me names and tried to make me do something
that I knew was wrong, he said that I should just
go home. He said that I always should do what I
thought was right.
“Did a boy ever fall between the tracks and
get run over by a train?” I asked Grandpa Murray.
“Oh, yes, I’m sure it happened,” he said and

40
nodded his head.
“Did you see it happen? Did anyone you
know get run over by a train?”
“I’m sure boys got run over by a train and
fell off the bridge.”
“But did you see it happen when you were
there to someone you knew?”
“No,” said Grandpa Murray, “not while I was
there but I’m sure it happened.”
I heard the door open behind me and, when
I turned around, Grandpa Murray was standing
on the porch in his clothes looking at me and
smiling.
“Are you ready for breakfast?” he asked.
“Yes.” I ran to hold his hand, and then we
walked together up the big hill into town to eat
breakfast at the drug store.
Aunt Doris turned the car. The hotel was at
the end of the street and Aunt Doris stopped the
car there so that Grandma Kay could get the key
to her room. Grandma Kay stayed at the hotel to
make sure that everything was alright, and Aunt
Doris drove the car around the corner and down
the lane to the white house where we lived
during the summer.
“You were a very, very good boy,” she said.
“You were very patient. You are the best boy and
I love you. Are you excited to be here? We are
going to have a great summer.”
I got out of the car and stretched my arms
over my head. The air smelled like tar and salt

41
and fish and sand and hot grass, and I knew each
of those smells. I could hear the screams of sea
gulls flying over the inlet and the sound of
crickets in the weeds on the other side of the
lane where Aunt Joan’s house was. Aunt Doris
walked to the gate in the fence and found the
house keys in the mailbox. The fence was
covered with red roses and I stared at them.
Soon it would be dark, and I would be able to see
the stars.
I walked on the path through the prickly
bushes from Aunt Joan’s house, where we all
had eaten dinner on the porch, to our house
across the lane. The air was cool and smelled
like roses and the ocean. Grandpa Murray was
taking me home to put me to bed; Aunt Doris
would be there soon so that Grandpa Murray
could go back to the hotel. I felt fidgety after
sitting still at the dinner table. We crossed the
lane and I opened the gate.
“There are bees,” I said. Fat yellow and
black bees were crawling on the roses that grew
next to the fence.
“Be careful of them,” Grandpa Murray said.
“They sting.”
I ran through the gate past the bees,
feeling excited. Then I turned around and ran
back to Grandpa Murray. He waved his finger at
me.
“You’ll get stung,” he said.
“They don’t bother me,” I said. “I’m too

42
fast.” I ran into the yard again, stopped and
turned around. Aunt Doris was walking across
the lane and I ran back through the gate to show
her that I wasn’t afraid. Suddenly, I felt a hot
pain inside my ear, and I screamed and covered
my ears with my hands.
“What are you doing?” she said in a loud
voice.
I couldn’t answer. I stood in front of her
crying, holding my head between my hands.
“I warned you,” Grandpa Murray said.
My Aunt stared at my face. “Were you
running through that gate?”
I nodded.
She looked at Grandpa Murray. “What were
you thinking, letting him do that? You should
have more sense than that. I can’t believe you
did that.”
“I warned him that he would get stung, but
he wanted to do it. What was I supposed to do?”
“What were you supposed to do? You’re the
adult. You should have told him, no. Now what
am I supposed to do?”
Aunt Doris was very angry at Grandpa
Murray because I had been bad. I looked at the
ground. My ear burned and it felt as if it had
grown. Aunt Doris pushed me in front of her up
the porch stairs.
“It’s all right,” she said. “We’ll put some
ice on it and soon it will be fine. It will be fine. I
can’t believe he let you do that. You won’t do

43
that again, will you? Now you know that bees
are dangerous and can sting you.”
I was still crying. I had snot and tears all
over my face.
“Calm down now,” she said. “It will be fine.
You don’t need to cry.”
I stared at the red roses, the soft flowers
and the dark prickers on the stems.
“Don’t just stand there with your mouth
open, Sweetie. Come and help me get these
things inside.”
Aunt Doris surprised me. She was walking
down the porch steps and the front door of the
house was open behind her.
I walked to the car, and she put a
cardboard box in my arms. It was heavy, but not
too heavy for me to carry.
“Take this upstairs and put it in the
bathroom. Then come back outside and we’ll
see what else you can carry.”
I went into the house. The first floor was
dark as usual because all of the window drapes
were closed. Aunt Doris said that the lady who
owned the house wanted them closed, and that I
mustn’t go anywhere on the first floor except the
kitchen. The living and dining room drapes were
always closed in the City apartment, too. I
looked quickly into the living room and then I
carried the box up the stairs. The door to my
room was open, and I went inside and put the
box on my bed. Through the window at the end

44
of the bed I could see the backyard. There was
another window next to the bed where my
animals used to sit. I stared at the empty
window sill. Dust floated in the sunlight coming
through the window. The bed was made and
covered by the white spread with little bumps
that looked like rabbit tails. I stared at the
empty window sill.
Something terrible had happened, I
remembered, a thing that made me shake inside.
My animals weren’t on the window sill next to
my bed where they should have been, where
they sat every day while I was at the beach and
waited for me to come home. My brown bear
was gone. I searched for him. He wasn’t on the
bed or on the floor. The shaking feeling got
worse. I looked under the bed and between the
bed and the wall. He was gone. I opened my
mouth and the shaking came out as a scream. I
ran out of my room to the top of the stairs,
crying.
“Where are my animals?” I yelled. “I can’t
find my animals, they’re gone. Where are they?”
“Stop that,” Aunt Doris said.
I felt a bump inside of my chest and I
turned around so fast that I almost fell over. She
wasn’t in the kitchen; she was behind me, very
close to my back.
“Where are my animals?” I screamed.
“Stop that,” she said again loudly. “Don’t
talk to me like that. I don’t ever want to hear

45
you yell at your elders. You’re too old to have
stuffed animals. You’re not a baby anymore. You
don’t want to be a baby, do you?”
I stood crying and looking at the floor.
“I gave your animals to Aunt Joan for Katie
while you were at the beach.”
“You can’t,” I almost whispered. “They’re
mine. I want them. Please, I want them. They’re
mine.”
“You’re too old to have stuffed animals.
They’re for babies.”
“Please,” my body shook. “I want them. I
want my bear.”
“Calm down. You’re being silly about this.
They’re just stuffed animals.”
“Please,” I said again.
“Stop it. I can’t do anything about it now
anyway. I gave them to Katie and I can’t go and
ask for them back.”
“You can. You can ask Aunt Joan. Please.”
“I can’t ask for them back. What would
Aunt Joan think? It’s not nice to give things and
then ask for them back. You don’t need them.
You’re not a baby anymore.”
I stood in the hall, staring at the floor and
crying.
“It’s time for your nap. You’re tired and you
need to rest.”
“My bear,” I whispered.
“You have to take a nap. I tell you what I’ll
do. Let me put you to bed and you go to sleep so

46
you’re in a good mood tonight and then I’ll go
across the street and see if I can get some
animals back.”
I got into bed as fast as I could, feeling
very tired, and I lay facing the window sill hoping
for my bear. A little while later, Aunt Joan came
back. I rolled over and saw that she was
carrying a small, hard yellow bear that I didn’t
care about.
“No,” I cried. “My bear, my brown bear.
That isn’t the one. Please get the brown one,
the one I like.”
“Enough,” she shouted. “You wanted a bear
and I brought you a bear. I’m not going over
there again. Be happy with what you have and
go to sleep. Don’t make such a big deal out of
everything.”
That, I knew, was the end.



In the morning, when I woke up, sunshine

was coming through the window next to my bed,
making the covers warm. I stretched my legs,
feeling the smooth cool spots in the deep
corners of the bed with my feet. Then I stepped
quietly onto the floor. After a quick look through
the window at the backyard, I went into the
bathroom, peed, and took off my pajamas. I hung
them on the hook behind the bathroom door by
climbing on a stool that Aunt Doris had put in the

47
bathroom so that I could reach the water faucets
to wash my hands and face and brush my teeth.
Then I went back into my room and put on a dark
blue bathing suit with a thin white stripe down
the side of each leg, a shirt and my blue and
white sneakers with bottoms like erasers. As
soon as I was dressed, I went down the stairs,
walking on my toes like an Indian so that nobody
could hear me. The house was so quiet that the
silence was like a thing, but I wasn’t afraid of it
anymore or of being alone the way I had been
when I was a baby. I liked the early morning,
when the air was still cool and people were
asleep.
In the kitchen there was an empty bowl
sitting on the table and, next to that, the sugar in
a glass with a metal top that had a hole in it, a
spoon and a big box of Cornflakes. I poured
Cornflakes into the bowl and then I got the milk
bottle out of the refrigerator. It was easy to tip
the bottle because it wasn’t full. When the
cereal was covered by just the right amount of
milk so that it wouldn’t be too dry or too much
like soup, I poured sugar on top of the
Cornflakes; Aunt Doris didn’t like it when I put a
lot of sugar on my cereal, but Aunt Doris
wouldn’t know. I ate quickly so that the cereal
didn’t have time to get soft, and, after I had
finished, I slurped the sugary milk out of the
bottom of the bowl. Then I put everything away
and went through the kitchen door out into the

48
backyard. I was careful not to let the screen
door make any noise when I shut it.
As soon as I was outside on the lawn, I
reached my arms up in the air, tilted my head
back, and spun around while jumping first on one
foot and then on the other. Daddy was coming to
Maine. There were several big puffy white
clouds floating in the blue sky, and the air had a
green smell. The grass was wet and, as I turned
around and around, splashes of cold water hit my
ankles, and I could feel water soaking through
the tops of my sneakers. I spun until I was dizzy
and nearly fell over. Tonight Daddy would be
here and then, tomorrow, he would come to the
beach with us and I would watch him body surf
and he would take me swimming and show me
how to body surf and maybe we would dig in the
sand together. I liked to build with the wet sand
near the ocean; when Daddy was there to watch
me I didn’t always have to stay and use the dry
sand around Aunt Doris’s umbrella.
I looked for things in the grass until Aunt
Doris shouted from the house that it was time to
go to the beach. She smeared sun-tan lotion all
over me and then we went out to the car and she
put her beach bag in the trunk along with a bag
of sand toys that was sitting on the grass next to
the driveway. We got into the car and she drove
around the corner to the hotel where Grandma
Kay stayed. It was my job to go to Grandma
Kay’s room and tell her that Aunt Doris was

49
waiting. I walked across the porch past the big
wooden chairs. The door wasn’t closed all the
way so I pushed it open and went into her room.
She had a big bedroom and a living room with a
small kitchen behind it that was more like a
closet than a real kitchen.
“Grandma Kay?” I called.
“Hello, my darling.”
She came out of the bedroom wearing her
beach coat. Her hair was covered by a light blue
hat that looked like a towel and was the same
color as her coat.
“Your Daddy is coming today. Are you
excited?”
“Yes.” I lifted my chin to kiss her and she
bent down and kissed me and hugged me.
“Grandpa Murray is coming with him. You
two will be able to have breakfast together
tomorrow morning.”
We walked together to the car and I held
her hand. In the other hand she carried a beach
bag in which she had, I knew, some peanut
butter taffy that was, everyone said, the best
candy in the world. It was the best candy in the
world.
“Did you bring some taffy?” I asked her.
“We’ll see. I’m not sure I have any left.”
I knew that she was teasing.
“You just got it. I know you brought it. Can
I have some later?”
“Of course, my darling,” she said.

50
 I climbed onto the backseat of the car. She
put her beach bag down next to me and then got
into the front beside Aunt Doris and kissed her
good morning on the cheek.
“I thought we could all eat at the Sand Bar
tonight for dinner,” Grandma Kay said.
“That would be wonderful. Would you like
to do that, Sweetie?”
I nodded and said, “Yes.” I loved the Sand
Bar. We had clam chowder and steamed clams
there, and I had hamburger steak and corn on
the cob, and while we ate, we sat on the porch
and watched the boats go in and out of the cove.
It would be beautiful. Daddy would be there.
The car tires made a drum sound on the
bridge that crossed the inlet. I looked out the
window and saw men standing beside the railing
fishing with long poles. One of the men pulled a
flopping fish as long as my arm over the railing
and put it into a net. The fish was fighting, I
knew, and I thought that it must be afraid. I had
gone fishing.
I had gone fishing with Grandpa Murray’s
friend, Mr. Klausner, whose grandchildren were
old and didn’t come to the beach. Mr. Klausner
fished from the hotel dock, and he asked
Grandpa Murray if I would be allowed to go
fishing with him. Aunt Doris said yes, and one
morning before breakfast, Grandpa Murray took
me to meet Mr. Klausner on the dock. There was
an extra fishing rod, a real one, for me to use,

51
and Mr. Klausner showed me the sinker and the
hook and how to crank the reel and stick a worm
onto the hook at the end of the fishing line. I
didn’t want to put my hand into the can where he
kept his worms, but I knew that I had to touch
the worms because Mr. Klausner was going to a
lot of trouble to teach me how to fish, so I put
my hand into the can and took out a worm. It
felt squishy and curled in a nasty way when I
picked it up and held it between my fingers. Its
skin was dark brown and damp and had pieces
of dirt sticking to it. I didn’t want to push the
hook into the worm’s body.
“Don’t worry, Red,” Mr. Klausner said.
“You’re not hurting it, but be careful of your
fingers. The hook is very sharp. If you get
stuck, the barb will hold on and you won’t be
able to get it out.”
He showed me what the barb was.
“That barb is what keeps the fish on the
hook after they bite the worm. It catches in
their mouths.”
I saw that he was watching me. Aunt Doris
wouldn’t have let me touch the hook if she were
there. I stuck the hook into the worm. Its body
split open; its insides were pink but didn’t bleed.
How did Mr. Klausner know that I wasn’t hurting
the worm? It would have hurt me a lot to be
stuck with that hook, and my hands shook when
I thought about the sharp point getting caught in
my finger.

52
 “They can’t feel,” Mr. Klausner said.
Was it true? In the back part of my mind I
thought that everything in the world was alive
and I was sure that every living thing must think
and feel. Didn’t people talk to dogs and other
animals and didn’t dogs answer and didn’t dogs
look sad if you yelled at them? I was sure that
he was wrong. Did animals have feelings and
memories? Worms and fish must have been hurt
when people killed them. What about the giant
tuna fish that had a fight with the men in the
inlet?
“Wake up, Sweetie. We’re here. Close your
mouth.”
Aunt Doris was speaking to me. The car
was parked, and Aunt Doris and Grandma Kay
were opening their doors to get out. We took our
things and walked together across the sandy
parking lot to the boardwalk on top of the dunes
and the steps down to the beach. Aunt Doris and
Grandma Kay carried their beach bags and I
carried the bag of sand toys. It wasn’t heavy, but
it scraped against my ankles; the banging,
rubbing bag made me forget about the tuna fish.
Soon my sneakers would be filled with sand. I
hated walking from the car to the beach and,
even more, walking from the beach back to the
car when it was hot and I was sun-burned and
covered with sand and sticky stinging salt. I
knew that Aunt Doris hated the walk too and that
she would yell at me if I complained, but I was

53
quiet so she wouldn’t get mad.
Aunt Joan and Kate were already sitting
under an umbrella near the water, and, as soon
as Aunt Doris and Grandma Kay saw them, Aunt
Doris went back to the refreshment stand and
paid the man to bring another umbrella and
beach chairs for Grandma Kay and herself.
Grandma Kay and I walked through the soft
sand, our feet slipping and twisting, to where
Aunt Joan and Kate were sitting.
“Good morning,” Aunt Joan said to both of
us, and smiled.
Kate smiled at me. Her skin was brown like
the caramel candy they had at the drugstore in
town. The sun made it that way. The sun burned
my skin so that it was bright red and peeled, and
I had to stay in the shade under the umbrella
most of the time so that I wouldn’t get burned
and be sick.
“Good morning,” Grandma Kay said to Kate
and Aunt Joan. “It looks like it’s going to be
another beautiful day.”
She put her bag down on the sand and lit a
cigarette from the dark-red package in the
pocket of her beach coat while she waited for
her chair and umbrella.
I sat down on the sand near Kate and
pulled my sneakers off as fast as I could. Then I
took a shovel out of the bag of sand toys and
began to scrape away the soft top sand to get to
the damp underneath sand that would be good

54
for building.
“Sweetie, try not to throw sand on the
beach blanket,” said Grandma Kay.
“When can we go swimming?” I asked her.
“For God’s sake, we just got here. Give us a
chance to get settled. Anyway, we have to wait
for it to warm up a bit; you’ll freeze in that water
right now. Later, when it’s warmer and the water
isn’t so rough you can go in. The water is too
rough for you and Katie now.”
I thought about what she had said. I liked
the ocean when it had big waves that banged
into you making a spray and pushing you off your
feet. I knew how to dive under the wave so that
it wouldn’t knock me over. I began to dig a hole
in the sand near Aunt Joan’s umbrella.
Late in the afternoon, I heard people
shouting. I was hiding under the tree outside
Grandma Kay’s hotel room, practicing a card
trick that Grandpa Murray’s friend, Mr. Weinberg
had shown me. I crawled under the hanging
branches and ran to the dock. Aunt Doris,
Grandma Kay, Aunt Joan and Grandpa Murray
and Uncle Phil, and other grownups were
standing at the fence watching something in the
water. Grandpa Murray put his arms around my
waist and helped me climb up so that I could see
what was happening.
The tide was very low; the posts under the
dock looked like tall trees covered with shells
and seaweed, and there was only a little water in

55
the middle of the inlet. A dark shape moved in
the water; it was as large as a grownup, at least.
“Do you see?” Grandpa Murray whispered.
Some men were wading in the water,
shouting and splashing with their hands. When
the shape got close to one of them, it turned
around and went away quickly. It was a giant
fish. The men looked as if they were trying to
make a circle around it. More men came running
over the dunes across the inlet. One of them
was carrying a giant fork and another one had a
long pole with a metal hook on its end. What
was it? What were they doing?
“A boathook,” Uncle Phil said.
The long pole was a boathook. The men
ran across the sand and jumped into the water.
Some of them were wearing pants, not bathing
suits. One of the men stopped to take off his
shirt and his shoes and socks; the others already
had bare feet. They all splashed with their
hands.
“I think they’re going to catch it,” said Aunt
Doris. She sounded excited.
“What are they doing?” I asked.
“They’re trying to catch that big fish,”
Grandpa Murray said.
The fish knew and was afraid. The man
with the boathook shouted at the other men; he
was telling them what to do. The man with the
fork stayed near him. More people, grownups
and children, were running over the dunes onto

56
the beach, and many of them were pointing and
shouting.
“They should get a boat,” a man next to
Uncle Phil said.
“Why do they want to catch the fish?” I
asked Grandpa Murray.
“I think it’s a tuna fish,” he said.
“I wouldn’t want to be in the water with
that big fish,” said Grandma Kay, and she
laughed.
“Why don’t they get washed out into the
ocean?” I asked Grandpa Murray.
The man with the fork and the man with
the boat hook suddenly pushed them into the
water at the fish, but it made a fast turn and got
away. I watched the way it moved. It was like a
bird swooping through the sky.
The men kept wading back and forth, trying
to keep the fish in the middle of their circle
while they moved closer to each other. They
tripped and sometimes fell completely into the
water and had to swim to a place where they
could stand. Another man came carrying an oar
and he became part of the circle, too. Every
time one of the men with a thing pushed it into
the water, the fish moved away quickly so that it
wouldn’t be hurt. I imagined that I was the fish
trying to get away from the men, which made me
feel the same way that I felt when I imagined
that I was being chased by animals in a dark
forest, and I hoped that the fish would escape

57
but I also wanted to see what would happen if
the men caught it.
“Can’t it just knock them over and swim
away?” a lady asked.
“It could knock them down easily,”
answered Uncle Phil. “It just doesn’t know.”
“Will it bite them?” I asked.
“It doesn’t bite,” said Grandpa Murray. “It’s
a tuna, I think. I don’t think tuna bite.”
“I think it’s a tuna,” said Uncle Phil.
“But it should bite them. They’re trying to
stab it.”
“It doesn’t know. It just wants to get
away.”
The circle around the fish got smaller and
smaller.
“I think they’ll get it,” said Aunt Doris.
The man with the fork suddenly pushed it
down into the water almost underneath where
we were standing. I saw the fish’s giant tail
move quickly, and then it swooped around him
and between two other men who were standing
in the circle, and it was free. The people
watching made a noise all together that sounded
as if they had fallen on their behinds. The tuna
had escaped. Soon it would be in the ocean.
Then it stopped moving. What was it doing?
“It can’t get out. It’s too shallow,” said
Uncle Phil. “It’s caught by the low tide. That’s
why it’s here in the first place. It came in here
after food and got trapped when the tide went

58
out.”
I hadn’t seen the man with the fork get out
of the water because I was looking at the tuna
fish. Suddenly, with the side of my eye, I noticed
him running across the sand bar behind the tuna.
He held the fork above his head with both of his
hands, like a spear. Then he jumped into the
water and pushed the points of the fork into the
fish’s back with what looked like all of his
strength. The tuna wiggled back and forth, but
this time it couldn’t swim away. The handle of
the fork waved in the air and came out of the
man’s hands, but the points stayed in its back. I
watched a cloud of red spread in the water. No
one was shouting anymore; some mothers
standing on the beach took their children’s
hands and pulled them away from the shore and
up the dunes to the parking lot. The other men
ran to where the fish was, and the man with the
boathook started to stab it in the side and the
man with the oar beat its head. In a little while,
the tuna floated on top of the water, not moving.
I knew that it was dead. Grandma Kay had told
me that when you’re dead you can’t feel pain and
you are safe forever.



Daddy came when it was just starting to

get dark outside. We had finished eating dinner
and I was sitting in the kitchen, watching Aunt

59
Doris wash dishes and put away leftovers. Daddy
was wearing his business suit and a necktie and
he was carrying his briefcase. I had a briefcase
almost exactly like his; it was an old one that he
had given me. I kept mine filled with papers and
pencils. I had a real stapler in mine too, and also
some erasers, a letter opener with a point that
Aunt Doris had made dull by scraping it on a
stone, a small metal box filled with paper clips, a
hole puncher, a big roll of Scotch tape and even
an appointment book like the one that Daddy
used. I had an old wallet in my briefcase filled
with paper money that looked almost real, and a
bunch of crayons held together by a rubber band,
even though I knew that grownups didn’t use
crayons, because I liked to color and coloring
didn’t make a mess the way painting did.
“Hi, Chief,” he said, looking at me and
smiling.
I ran to where he was standing with my
arms spread so that we could hug.
“You’re getting big,” he said, lifting me off
the floor. “I’m not going to be able to do this
much longer.”
I kissed him; he had his good smell and his
cheek was rough. He carried me to where Aunt
Doris was standing beside the sink.
“Hi Doris, how’s everything?”
He kissed Aunt Doris on the cheek.
“Fine,” she said. “We’ve been having good
weather. How is work? We haven’t seen you for

60
a while and we were beginning to worry.” Aunt
Doris sounded the way she did when she was
disgusted.
“You knew I was coming this weekend,
didn’t you? It’s what we planned the last time I
was here.”
“I’m sorry we just finished dinner. I don’t
know what I have to give you to eat.”
“That’s okay. I already ate.”
He put me down on the kitchen floor and
picked up his briefcase.
“I’ll take this upstairs,” he said.
I followed him.
“Wait for me downstairs, Chief,” he said
when he saw me walking after him. “Let me get
my suitcase and change and then I’ll come down
too.”
I went back into the kitchen and started to
wander around and touch things and kick the
floor.
“Go outside and play, Sweetie. Go on.
You’re in my way. I have to clean up this mess. I
don’t want you fooling around in here.”
I went out of the kitchen through the
screen door and sat down on the ground facing
the house, hoping that Daddy would come
downstairs soon and that I would be allowed
back inside. Was it alright to ask him to play
catch? In a little while it would be dark and I
would have to go to bed. I sat and waited,
staring at the house and then at the grass and

61
then at the house again. I heard him open the
front door and get his suitcase out of the car,
which was parked in the lane. After a while, I
heard his steps inside the kitchen again and the
sound of one of the kitchen chairs scraping the
floor. Aunt Doris was putting the dinner dishes
away in the cabinets; the plates banged together
on the shelf. Soon she would go upstairs and
soon after that she would tell me to come inside
and get ready for bed.
They didn’t speak and then, suddenly, Aunt
Doris started yelling, and I had to hear what she
said even though I didn’t want to hear her yell at
Daddy.
“Get up and go outside and spend some
time with him. He’s your kid. You haven’t seen
him in weeks. Go do something with him. Go on,
go outside.”
“Alright, I’ll go. You’re right,” Daddy said.
That was all.
I was still sitting on the ground when he
came outside. I felt ashamed and afraid, but
then he sat down next to me and I was happy
that he was at the beach and I hoped that we
really could do something together.
“Hi, Chief.”
“Can we play catch?” I asked him.
“Chief, I don’t think we can do that now,” he
answered. “It’s almost dark. We’ll try and do it
tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I said, hoping that we really would

62
do it.
I picked at the grass and then quickly
pulled my hand back because there was a spider
there with a body the size of a bean and long
legs. It was horrible. I stood up and kicked at
the spider with my foot.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“A spider,” I said, and I put my foot over it,
getting ready to smush it.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to smush it. It’s a spider. Look.”
“Why do you want to kill it?”
“Because it’s a disgusting bug,” I
answered, wondering why Daddy wouldn’t want
to kill a spider.
“It’s not hurting anyone,” he said.
“But it’s disgusting. It’s a bug.”
“Spiders are good. They eat insects. They
eat flies and mosquitoes.”
“They do? But they’re disgusting.”
“It’s because of spiders that there aren’t
more bugs around. Besides, how does it help you
to kill it? There are spiders everywhere. If you
kill this one, there will be millions and millions
left. You won’t be able to tell the difference
except that you killed something.”
I had never thought of that before. The
spider began to move from one blade of grass to
another on its disgusting long legs. It didn’t try
to escape. I still wanted to kill it.
“Can’t I kill it, though?” I asked him.

63
 “You can kill it if you want to,” he said. “But
there always will be spiders everywhere. This
spider helps you by eating bugs.”
“But it’s okay if I kill it anyway?”
“You can kill it”
I stamped my foot three times on the spider
as hard as I could. Then I got down on my hands
and knees and looked at it carefully for a few
seconds. It didn’t move. Its legs were broken
and its body was broken into the dirt and grass.
It was smushed. I had killed it.
“So why did you do that?” Daddy asked.
“You said I could,” I answered, afraid that I
had made a mistake and that he was angry at
me.
“I said you could do it. I was just
wondering why you did do it?”
“Spiders are disgusting,” I answered.
“They aren’t like us, but they have the right
to live their lives,” he said.
Suddenly, I felt very sad and I was sorry
that I had killed the spider. Why had I done that?
Why hadn’t I remembered that killing the spider
was hurting a creature? Daddy had told me it
would be bad to kill the spider. What he had said
was like what was written at the end of one of
the Fables: one of the old stories that he read to
me. I knew I had done a very bad thing.
“Can you fix it?” I asked Daddy, and I
started to cry.
“Chief, once something like that happens

64
there isn’t any way to fix it anymore even if we
want to. You know that, don’t you? That’s just
the way some things are: once they happen,
there’s nothing you can do about them.”
I stood looking at him, crying quietly.
“What are you men doing out there? It was
Aunt Doris. She was standing in the kitchen
doorway. “It’s time to come inside and get ready
for bed,” she said. Then she noticed that I was
crying. “What are you crying about?”
“I smushed a spider.”
“What do you mean?”
“I stepped on a spider and killed him on
purpose.”
“Oh, please!” Aunt Doris said. “Why are you
crying about that. Come in here and stop that.
Who cares about a spider. Come in here and
stop crying. You’re overtired and excited to see
your Daddy. It’s time for you to go to bed.”



We all went to the beach together in the

morning: Daddy and Grandma Kay and Aunt Doris
and Grandpa Murray and I, and we got two
umbrellas and sat with Aunt Joan and Kate and
Uncle Phil who also was at the beach instead of
working in the City. Everyone was very friendly
and happy. Other grownups came to say hello to
Daddy and Grandpa Murray and Uncle Phil. The
sand was damp and good for digging. I sat in the

65
umbrella shade and began to make a tunnel
under the corner of Aunt Doris’s beach blanket.
First, I chopped up the sand with a metal shovel
and then I scooped it out of the hole with my
hands. How large could I make the hole? I
imagined being able to hide inside it. Kate was
on the other side of the blanket, filling shapes of
sea animals with wet sand that she had in a pail.
I listened to what the grownups were saying and
to the seagulls screeching and the sounds of the
ocean and the wind. Sometimes the wind blew
sand up in the air and it hit the chairs and
umbrellas and made a tapping sound. You
noticed that it was very noisy at the beach, if
you paid attention.
“It’s noisy,” I said.
I kept pulling sand out of the hole. When I
put my head near the ground, the sounds of the
beach went away. I decided to make a long hole
in front of the tunnel so that I could lie down
under the noise while I was digging. I put my
hands together, reached in front of me and
scooped up sand and then pushed it backwards
between my legs, digging like a dog. I was a
dog.
“Oh my God!” a woman screamed.
I looked up and saw that she was standing
on the other side of Aunt Doris’s beach blanket,
watching me. Was she screaming because I was
acting like a dog?
“Oh my God, they’ve gotten so big! I

66
mustn’t have seen them for more than two years.
Has it been three years, Kay?”
She was a fat lady wearing a red bathing
suit. The wind blew the skirt of the bathing suit
up in the air and showed her bottom, which
looked like a giant apple. Her legs were fat. Old
ladies had fat legs. I couldn’t imagine Kate
having fat legs.
“Kids, come say hello to Mrs. Greenbaum,”
Grandma Kay said, coughing and putting down
her knitting.
“Oh, don’t disturb them, Kay. They’re busy.”
“No, that’s okay,” said Aunt Doris. “They’re
not doing anything important. They have to learn
how to behave. Come Sweetie.”
I got up and walked around the blankets to
where the fat lady was standing, trying not to
kick sand up in the air, because, if I kicked sand
up in the air it would blow on the grownups and
they wouldn’t like that.
“Oh my God, Kay, will you look at this?”
She came closer to me, bent down and
pressed my cheeks between her hands. They
had something greasy with a perfume smell on
them.
“Will you look at this? He’s so skinny.
Don’t you feed him anything? And look at the
hair! Where did you get that hair?” she asked
me, her face almost touching mine. Then she
scraped the top of my head with her fingers. Her
nails made the sunburn on my head hurt.

67
 “Well, say something, Darling,” Grandma
Kay said. “Mrs. Greenbaum will think you’re
dumb.”
“He never stops eating. He eats like a pig,”
Aunt Doris said.
“And look at you Katie! You are so
beautiful. I love your bathing suit.”
“Thank you Mrs. Greenbaum,” Kate said,
and made a big smile.
Her teeth looked very white. I noticed her
bathing suit: it was pink and white, and had little
bumps. Kate looked like a pink banana in her
bathing suit. The fat lady was an apple and Kate
was a pink banana.
“They’re just wonderful, Kay. Go ahead and
play children. Go on. Don’t let me keep you.”
We each turned around and ran back to
where we had been digging.
“Watch the sand, the sand,” shouted Aunt
Joan and Aunt Doris.
I got down on my knees in my hole. The
umbrella shadow over the hole, I noticed, had
moved. In a little while the sand would be in the
sun and then it would dry out. I began to dig
faster. I stopped digging only to make the walls
of the tunnel hard by patting them with my
hands.
“Sit down, Ethel,” Aunt Joan was saying to
the fat lady. “Can we give you something to
drink?”
“No,” she answered, “I have to get back to

68
Jules.”
“Sit down a minute. He can live a minute
without you.”
She sat on an extra beach chair, which
tipped a little sideways. I dug sand out from
farther and farther under the corner of the
blanket. Dry sand fell down the sides of the hole
in front of the tunnel. If I imagined that I was a
little person, then the falling sand could be a
landslide; I had seen landslides on television. I
got a truck out of the bag of sand toys and drove
it in and out of the tunnel.
“….hit by lightening right at the end of the
beach towards the inlet.”
I stopped what I was doing and looked up
again. A different lady was sitting in the extra
beach chair.
“No, you don’t say,” said Grandpa Murray.
“Yes. Killed right away.”
“But why didn’t he get off the beach?” Aunt
Joan asked.
“I don’t know. When the lifeguards told
everyone to leave I guess he just stayed there
and he was killed. Can you imagine?”
“Who was killed?” I asked.
“Oh, nobody. Don’t pay any attention. It’s
not important,” said Aunt Doris.
“I always wondered if you would really get
hit by lightning if you stayed on a beach during a
storm, and I guess now I know,” Uncle Phil said
and laughed.

69
 “Can we go swimming?” I asked. I had
sand on me and I was starting to feel hot.
“Don’t interrupt, Sweetie,” said Aunt Doris.
Daddy was reading a big book. He looked
at me and then he looked at his watch. “In a
little while,” he said.
“Please?”
“Just be patient for a little longer, then
we’ll go in,” he said. “Who wants to go in the
water?” he asked the grownups.
Nobody said anything, and then Grandpa
Murray and Uncle Phil said that they would walk
to the water with us.
“Do you want to go in, Katie?” Aunt Joan
asked.
“I don’t know,” Kate said.
“I wouldn’t mind walking down there and
then walking on the beach,” Aunt Joan said.
“I’ll go with you,” said Grandma Kay. She lit
a cigarette and gave one to Aunt Joan.
“I will too,” said Aunt Doris.
An old man came walking slowly across the
beach from the direction of the water.
“Hello Murray. Hello Kay. Hello everyone,”
he said.
He looked older even than Grandpa Murray.
He had loose skin and some dark crusty things
on his belly and the top of his head, which was
bald, and on his hands and arms. He wore thick
glasses. He looked, I thought, as if he might
have a bad smell.

70
 I put my head down and dug some more,
but I was having trouble reaching the sand at the
end of the tunnel under the beach blanket. I lay
flat in the bottom of the hole and squirmed
forward, pushing my head part of the way into
the tunnel so that I could make it larger, and also
so that the grownups wouldn’t notice me and ask
me to come and talk to the old man who might
touch me the way the fat lady had.
“You know how he made his money?”
Uncle Phil was talking; the old man was
gone.
“I thought he was in the garment business,”
said Grandma Kay. “Or doesn’t he own a
department store?”
“No. Before that. How he got started.”
“Where else?” said Aunt Joan. “He came
over on the boat. He probably didn’t even have
parents here. The Nazis probably got his family.”
“He was in the Gold Rush,” said Uncle Phil.
“No!” said Grandpa Murray, “You don’t say.
He was a gold miner? Isn’t that something.”
“No, that’s not what I heard,” said Uncle
Phil. “He didn’t mine. Al Lewis told me he went
out there and worked in the assay office. Can
you see him going and digging in the ground with
his hands?” He laughed.
“Oh, please. Well, he didn’t get rich doing
that,” said Grandma Kay.
“He told Al one time that what he did was
he grew his fingernails and when he weighed the

71
gold he scraped a little up with his finger. Then
he went home and scraped the gold out from
under his nails into a bottle.”
“Oh my God!” cried Aunt Joan. “Can you
imagine? He’s lucky he didn’t get caught and go
to jail.”
“How could he go to jail for having
fingernails? He stayed up there for several years
and then came back here and used the money
from the gold to open his first store.”
“He’s lucky somebody didn’t just shoot
him,” said Grandma Kay. She laughed and then
coughed. “Well, it just goes to show you,”
I tried to imagine the old man when he was
young. I had seen television shows about gold
miners; they had been in the West and the old
man must have been like the people in those
shows when he was young. He must have
walked on the dirt streets and had a horse with a
saddle, and he must have gone into saloons
where there were cowboys who had real guns
and could have shot him for taking some of their
gold. Had he been like that, the same person
who was an old man at the beach and owned a
department store and spoke to Grandpa Murray?
“What are the Nazis?” I asked.
“Oh, nobody. Don’t pay any attention,” said
Grandma Kay, “just grownup talk.”
I scraped the sand at the end of the tunnel.
There was sand under my fingernails and my
fingers were sore, but I kept digging to make the

72
hole larger. Then I felt the edge of something.
Maybe I had found gold or money, and I would be
rich like the fat old man, or maybe it was just a
shell. You had to be very careful when you were
digging so that you didn’t cut your fingers on
buried shells. It wasn’t a shell or gold, though.
It felt like a piece of cardboard or a thick piece
of paper. It could be a pirate map; pirates buried
treasure at the beach. I pushed myself into the
tunnel to get the thing out. Then, suddenly, I felt
hands holding my ankles, and I was being
dragged backwards and my legs were being
lifted up in the air. I twisted to see who was
behind me and my face banged against the side
of the hole and sand got into my nose and my
mouth.
“What is the matter with you?” yelled Aunt
Doris.
She was staring at me and holding one of
my ankles in each of her hands. She looked
angry.
“Are you trying to kill yourself?”
I didn’t understand why she was dragging
me and yelling.
“Oh my God,” cried Grandma Kay, and she
began to laugh.
The other grownups were looking at me
and laughing too. This made me think that what
I had done probably wasn’t very bad.
“Don’t you have any sense?”
Aunt Doris let go of my ankles and my rear

73
end landed on the beach with a hard bump. I
crawled onto my knees. I was covered with
sand: I had sand in my nose and my mouth and in
my hair and inside my bathing suit and all over
my body. I had to spit, even though I knew that I
shouldn’t, and I tried to wipe the sand off my
face with the backs of my hands. They also were
sandy, so that didn’t help.
“Oh my God, get him a towel,” said
Grandma Kay, and she started coughing.
“Don’t you have any sense?” Aunt Doris
said again.
She was standing with her hands on her
hips and staring at me the way she did when she
was very angry.
“What would have happened if that hole
collapsed with your head in it? You would have
suffocated! You don’t ever think before you do
something. You have to be watched every
minute.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You look like a worm,” Uncle Phil said.
“How far under there did you get?”
“Please Phil, don’t encourage him,” said
Aunt Doris.
Grandma Kay walked over to where I was
kneeling. She helped me stand and then she
began to brush the sand off me with a towel.
The sand under the towel scraped my skin.
“Sweetie,” she said, “you look like you’ve
been buried alive.”

74
 “He could have been,” said Aunt Doris.
“That’s exactly what could have happened.
Honestly, you can’t be left alone for a minute. If
somebody didn’t watch you every second, I don’t
know what would happen to you,” she said to me.
She wasn’t yelling anymore. “What were you
trying to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Chief, your Aunt means that you have to
think before you do something. The hole could
have caved in and suffocated you,” said Daddy.
He was smiling.
“I could have gotten out. It’s not that
deep.”
“Well, anyway, no harm done.”
“That’s right,” said Grandma Kay. “Now I
think you do need to go swimming to wash off
that sand.”
“Let’s go down to the water,” said Aunt
Joan. “Come on. Let’s walk on the beach, Doris.
Katie, do you want to swim or take a walk?”
“Can I come with you?” Kate asked Aunt
Joan.
“Of course, Dear. Come on. Let’s go. Boys,
are you going to stay here to watch the things?”
“That’s fine,” said Grandpa Murray.
“I’ll stay too,” said Uncle Phil, lighting a
cigarette.
“Listen to your Father,” Aunt Doris said to
me. “Stay right in front of him while you’re in the
water, and don’t go too deep.”

75
 “I won’t,” I said.
Daddy took the towel from Grandma Kay
and got another towel out of the beach bag.
“Are you ready? Let’s go.” he said, and he
began to walk.
I followed him around people sitting on the
beach, hurrying to keep up with him. I tried not
to kick sand on the blankets, but I had to run so
that I wouldn’t be lost and I did kick sand up in
the air making the grownups that I passed angry.
The beach started to burn the bottoms of my feet
so that I had to run anyway, but then the sand
got hard, and then wet and cool, and there
weren’t any more umbrellas or blankets. We
were close to the part of the beach where the
biggest waves reached, and sand sucked at the
bottoms of my feet. I stood still and stared at
the ground and the water surprised me by
suddenly pouring around my ankles. Sand and
pieces of shell moved over the tops of my feet in
the freezing-cold water and the sand under my
heels washed away and my feet sank into the
ground so that it looked as if I were standing just
on my ankles. I thought that I could feel the
world turning under me.
Daddy put the towels on the dry sand near
the water and then, without stopping even to
look at the sky or the long beach or past the
waves at Europe, he ran into the ocean as fast
as he could. He jumped over the small waves
into the deeper water and ran into the bigger

76
waves, and, when the ocean began to push him
back, hitting him in the chest and spraying up in
the air, he dove under the waves with his arms
over his head. Then his head popped out of the
water and he turned around. He twisted his
head to look at the waves that were coming
behind him and bounced up and down and then
tipped forward just in front of the biggest wave
and moved his arms and then he made himself
flat with his face in the water and his arms
pointed at the beach and floated on the wave
back to the beach where I was watching him.
When he was tired, he ran out of the water and
stood on the hard sand and rubbed himself with
a dry towel.
I looked at the ocean and tried to see all
the way to Europe where France was, but I could
only see waves and the blue sky.
“Will you come in with me?” I asked him.
“No, not now,” he answered. “I’m not hot
enough yet.”
I walked very slowly into the water so that
my skin got numb in a way that wasn’t really
uncomfortable. The small waves went up and
down around my legs until they reached the
bottom of my bathing suit, pulling me and
pushing me and making me afraid that I would
fall into the freezing water. Then water splashed
onto my stomach and I bounced on my toes, still
trying not to feel cold.
“Why don’t you just run in? It’s much

77
easier,” Daddy called from behind me.
After a while I believed that getting wet all
at once was better than being splashed, and I
dove into a wave and bounced up in the air and
then knelt down and stayed in the water. When I
was numb all over, I stood up and ran until the
ocean tripped me and I fell into a wave. Then I
got up and ran back to Daddy and fell again
slapping my hands into the water, my skin
stinging. Now I felt warm when I was under the
waves, and cold when I stood in the air; this
change of cold to warm and warm to cold I
couldn’t understand.
“Please come in with me,” I begged.
“In a few minutes,” he said.
I waded deeper into the water and then
turned around and tried to body surf on a wave
the way Daddy did. The ocean bounced me off
my feet and rolled me onto the beach. I jumped
up, and ran back into the water, diving under a
wave and then floating over another one. I
looked to be sure that Daddy was watching me.
When he smiled, I tipped onto my stomach with
my face in the water, kicking my legs as hard as I
could. This time, the ocean picked me up and
pushed me, and I started to go fast.

Then it was as if a hand had closed over

me and I was dragged down and backwards,
submerged and unable to move so much as a

78
foot or a finger, my lungs nearly empty of air. For
the briefest moment, I tried hard to free myself
and to rise above the waves, but even as I willed
my body towards the surface, I knew with
complete certainty that I was being held by a
force that I could never overcome and that I was
about to drown, to die, and in that instant I
experienced a feeling of the most profound calm
and I no longer struggled. My mind and body
drifted apart, and before my inner eye I began to
see the world I was leaving, the things I had
done and the people I knew. So my life
continued to repeat itself from its first instant
and moving closer to its end, which was the
present, and I floated disembodied through the
days and years until as suddenly as it had begun
I was released. The hand opened and I was
thrown up from the deep, abruptly reincarnated,
and I landed hard on the sand with my face
pointed toward the wide blue sky. I breathed.

Slowly, I rolled onto my stomach and then I

stood up. Daddy was standing very close to me,
still smiling. It had happened and now it was
over and I had lived my entire life again but only
a little time had passed.
“I’m ready to get out,” I said.
“So soon? You can stay in longer if you
want. You just got in.”
“No, I want to get out.”

79
 “Okay. But go rinse the sand off.”
I walked into the shallow water, kneeled
and splashed myself. Then I got up, turned
around and walked back to the blankets and the
grownups sitting under the umbrellas, feeling as
if I were partly at the beach and partly
somewhere else, somewhere new.

80
 She
We went back to the City. Aunt Doris
opened the apartment door and warm air with
City smells came out of the foyer into the
elevator vestibule. The smells made me think of
friends and school and also of other things that I
couldn’t name. I went into the apartment and
walked around the dark rooms thinking that I
was seeing them as they had been while I was at
camp, which made me feel as if I were in two
different places at the same time. In my room,
sunlight shined between the slats of the window
blinds and I could see dust moving in the air and
I stopped to watch it, and, as I stood there, I
could feel the summer that had only just ended
become a part of the past.
“Sweetie, help me put these things away.”
I walked down the hall to Aunt Doris’s
room. She had pulled up her window blinds and
opened the window, and she was taking her
makeup box into her bathroom. There were piles
of clothes on her bed.

81
 “Take your clothes and put them away
neatly, and then when you’re done you can help
me. I don’t want you to start making a mess
until all of this has been taken care of. Get
everything put away before you mess it up again.
Go on. And open up your window so that some
fresh air can come in.”
I picked up my shorts and bathing suits,
carried them into my room and put them on my
bed. Then I went back into Aunt Doris’s room to
get my shirts. When all my clothes were on my
bed, I sat down on my desk chair and opened the
top desk drawer. My pencils and pens were
there in separate parts of the brown tray, and
also an eraser and my ruler and my tan metal
stapler. Everything was still in the drawer:
things that I had forgotten had been there all
summer. There was a bunch of old fake money
held together by a rubber band. I picked it up,
pulled off the rubber band and spread the money
on top of the desk. It still looked almost real to
me.
“What are you doing? Weren’t you going to
put your things away and then help me before
you started doing anything else?”
I quickly straightened my back. Aunt Doris
was carrying some of her clothes on hangers and
she took them into my closet. When she came
out, she opened the window blinds and the
window.
“Well?”

82
 “I’m going to do it,” I said. “I just wanted to
see what was here.”
“Well, I guess you’re happy to be home.
Don’t worry, everything is exactly as you left it.
Nobody has touched anything.” She made a
laughing noise.
Aunt Doris started to put away the clothes
on my bed, and I sat at my desk and watched her.
Who could have touched the things in my room?
She made a lot of noise opening and closing
drawers. When she was almost finished, the
telephone rang.
“Do the rest of this and pick up that money,
and then come back to my room. I want to look
at your school clothes while we’re doing this.
It’s that time of year again,” she said, and then
she left to answer the telephone.
I walked to the window and watched a
truck drive past below on the avenue.
Everything outside looked the same as it had
before the summer. Now we were home. I
pushed the rest of my clothes into drawers and
went back to Aunt Doris’s room.
She was still talking on the telephone. I
watched her face, and had the idea that she
wasn’t seeing anything in the room: she was
seeing something in her mind. Her eyes got
bigger. When Aunt Doris talked on the telephone,
her face changed.
“….marvelous. We had wonderful weather
almost every day.”

83
 She stopped talking, looked towards the
wall and started to smile.
“It was gorgeous. Yes. Yes. I know.”
The telephone made a buzzing noise next
to her ear.
“Mmm. That must have been marvelous.
I’m jealous.”
Aunt Doris’s eyebrows moved up towards
her hair, and the wrinkles on her forehead got
bigger.
“Let me tell you something. She has
always been like that. Always.”
Her eyes got smaller and she pushed her
lips together. She turned her head and listened
some more to what the other person was saying.
“I think one of us should just tell her off
one of these days. Really. Can you imagine?”
I walked back to my room and looked again
at the furniture and the books and the
decorations; they were almost as interesting as
new things. I went into the closet and looked at
the boxes of games that were piled on the
shelves, larger boxes under smaller ones so that
the pile was like a modern building with
balconies. The air in the closet was hot and
smelled like wool and camphor balls. I opened
the toy box on the floor. I liked to reach down
into the bottom of the box and find something
with my hand and pull it out and be surprised by
what it was. I didn’t do that, though, because
Aunt Doris didn’t want me to make a mess.

84
Instead, I went out of the closet and pushed the
paper money that was on my desk into the top
desk drawer. Then I walked over to the window,
sat down on the radiator box and leaned my head
and back against the side of the bookcase
behind me. By sliding my head around, I could
make the little wooden frames that held the
window glass cover the edge of the building
across the street and also the fancy line of stone
between two of its floors. Then, by sliding my
head around a little more, I could fit a whole one
of the building’s windows into each of the
frames. I couldn’t get all of the windows into the
centers of the frames, though. Each one was a
little bit farther to the side than the one before
it. The side of the frame that I saw out of the
corner of my eye was in front of one of the
windows.
“Sweetie, come in here. I want to start
teaching you your letters.”
I went into Aunt Doris’s room. She was
standing in front of her desk. She opened one of
the desk drawers and took out a piece of paper
and a pencil.
“I think you should learn to write your
name. Would you like that?”
I nodded my head because I knew that she
wanted me to say yes, but I didn’t think that I
could write my name. I didn’t know anything
about writing.
“Let me show you.”

85
 She made some lines on the paper.
“Let’s see. Which hand do you use? I think
you use your left hand, don’t you? Most people
don’t, but nowadays people don’t really care
about that.”
She twisted my fingers around the pencil.
Her fingernails were long and red and shiny.
“Go ahead. You do it. Just copy.”
I untwisted my fingers so that I could draw
with the pencil, and I started to put its end on
the paper.
“No. Not like that. Hold the pencil the way
I showed you.”
I looked at the pencil and then at my
fingers.
“Go on.” Aunt Doris grabbed the pencil.
“Like this.”
She held the pencil and then she gave it
back to me, but I still couldn’t do it the right
way.
“Oh! Here, let me help you.”
She twisted my fingers around the pencil
again. I looked at her.
“Copy your name,” she said. “It’s easy.
Just copy what I did.”
I put the end of the pencil on the paper and
it moved across the page and drew a line that
was much bigger than any of the lines in my
name.
“Come on. Try again and pay attention.
Just look at what I did on the paper and you do

86
the exact same thing. It’s simple.”
I tried again but, instead of writing, I
dropped the pencil on the desk.
“Okay. Okay. Maybe you need to do
something easier. Let’s just make one letter.
We’ll start by doing that. After you’ve learned
some letters, then you can write your name.”
“I don’t want to write,” I said.
“What kind of a thing is that to say? You
have to write. It’s time for you to learn how to
write and go to school and get out of the house.
Sit on the chair and pay attention.”
I climbed onto the chair in front of her desk
and looked at the paper. My chin was almost on
top of it.
“I guess you’re too short to sit in a chair,”
Aunt Doris said. “Stand up again and I’ll show
you a letter. What letter from the ABC song
would you like to do?”
“I don’t want to do letters. Can I draw a
picture?”
“I told you that you have to do this. I’m not
kidding. It won’t kill you to spend five minutes
and learn to write one letter of the alphabet.
What are you going to do when you go to school?
You know, this is what they do in school and you
don’t want to be bad in school, do you? You have
to know all the letters. They’ll expect that. The
teachers won’t tolerate your fooling around.
Now, what letter do you want to do? Think of a
letter from the ABC song.”

87
 “I don’t know,” I said.
“Then here, make an “R” or make an “S”.
That’s really simple. I’m sure you can do that.”
She drew something on the paper and then
put the pencil in my hand again the way she
wanted it to be. I put the end of the pencil on
the paper and made a shape.
“Does that look like what I did?” Aunt Doris
asked. “Does it? Look carefully at what I did
and try again.”
I made another shape with the pencil.
Even though I was trying to copy what she had
done, what I drew looked different than the other
lines on the paper.
“I can’t believe you can’t do this. I want
you to look closely at the way I made that letter
and then copy it from here to here.” Aunt Doris
pointed at the letter and tapped her red
fingernail on the paper.
“Can’t I do it later?” I asked.
“No, you can do it now.”
“But I can’t do it,” I said.
“Yes you can! Anyone can do it.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Go ahead. Do it!”
I pushed the end of the pencil across the
paper and, by accident, it made a shape that
was like the one that Aunt Doris had made. I
looked at her, surprised, hoping that she
wouldn’t know that I had copied by accident, and
that she would be happy.

88
 “See, I told you. I was right, wasn’t I? Do it
again,” she said.
I knew that I couldn’t do it again.
“Please, can I do it later.” I started to cry.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Stop it. That’s
enough. Okay, we’ll do it tomorrow,” said Aunt
Doris in her disgusted voice. “Aren’t you proud
of what you did?”
“Yes,” I said.
I put the pencil on the desk and ran out of
the room, hoping that she wouldn’t yell at me.
A doorman wearing a green uniform coat
with gold buttons on the shoulders and the coat
sleeves and gold stripes on the legs of the pants
walked out from under the awning of the building
across the street and stepped off the curb. He
stood between the cars parked in front of the
building, waved his hand in the air and blew a
whistle. A yellow taxicab stopped next to him.
The doorman opened the back door of the
taxicab and a lady walked out from under the
awning and got into the cab. The doorman
closed the door, and the cab drove away.
“I want you to pay attention, and I want you
to think before you answer,” Aunt Doris said. “I
just hope they don’t ask you to write something.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Don’t just give them one of those silly
answers. Think about what you say before you
answer their questions.”
“Okay.”

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 “And use good manners. Say hello and
goodbye, and please and thank you, and don’t
hide your face or whine. The grownups you are
going to meet are important.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t act like a baby.”
The taxicab stopped in front of an old brick
building. We went inside. The Headmaster was
very tall and he had white hair. He said hello
and smiled at me, but he didn’t ask me any
questions. He only talked to Aunt Doris. Aunt
Doris and I sat on big chairs with red leather
cushions and he sat at a desk. We were in a
dark room. The window drapes were closed and
the lamps were on, even though it was during
the day. It was so quiet and dark in the room
that I forgot about the city outside. The top of
the desk had stacks of papers and books on it.
There were lots of pictures on the walls:
pictures of big kids and little kids, pictures of
grownups, pictures of buildings and pictures
with only fancy writing on them. There were
high bookcases with fat old-looking books on
long shelves. In the middle of the room, there
were two little chairs next to a small table with
some blocks and crayons and papers on it. A
lady came into the room.
“I’m Mrs. Pine,” she said.
“Let’s go outside and talk,” the Headmaster
said to Aunt Doris.
“Pay attention,” Aunt Doris said to me as

90
she was walking out of the room with the
Headmaster.
“Oh, don’t worry. We’ll be fine, won’t we?”
Mrs. Pine said, and she looked at me and smiled.
I smiled at her and nodded my head.
Mrs. Pine just wanted to play with the
blocks on the little table and draw pictures, and
then she said that we were done and she took
me to find Aunt Doris, and Aunt Doris and I said
goodbye.



Aunt Doris had to take me to Dr. Alan’s

office for a Physical. I sat next to her in the
waiting room, wondering what Dr. Alan would do
to me and thinking that I might get a shot, and I
could feel my heart beating inside my body.
“Do I need to have a shot?” I asked Aunt
Doris.
“I told you I don’t know Sweetie. Don’t
fidget.”
“I don’t want a shot.”
“Well, if you need a shot then you have to
have one. That’s just the way life is. We’ll find
out when we see Doctor Alan, if he ever shows
up. Now you know why I changed my game this
afternoon. If it gets much later, I’ll have to leave
anyway.”
We had been waiting a long time. The
nurse said that Doctor Alan had an emergency.

91
 “We can leave,” I said, hoping that we
would go back to the apartment, even though my
second mind knew that we wouldn’t.
“No, you need to have your physical before
school. He’ll be here soon.”
“I don’t want a shot.”
“Let’s think about something else, why
don’t we?” said Aunt Doris. “Do you think Doctor
Alan needs some new furniture?”
I looked at the furniture in the waiting
room. A girl and another boy were sitting next to
their Mothers on the orange chairs and the girl
was watching me. “Yes,” I said, even though I
didn’t care about Doctor Alan’s furniture. I didn’t
know why I said yes.
“I’ve had the worst pain in my ankle ever
since I tripped over that vacuum cleaner
yesterday,” Aunt Doris said. “That Rose just
leaves everything wherever she feels like it. I
should get rid of her.”
I tried not to notice the girl. There was a
magazine on the table next to my chair. I put it
on my lap, opened it and stared at a picture but
had trouble understanding what the picture
meant. I wanted to go home.
I started to cry and I slid part of the way
off my chair and scrapped my feet on the floor.
“I want to go. I don’t want a shot. I want to go.”
My voice was loud, I knew.
Aunt Doris grabbed my wrist and pulled me
back onto the seat. “Stop that,” she said. “Do

92
you see any other children here putting on a
performance? Just calm down. A shot isn’t the
end of the world.”
“I want to go,” I cried. “I don’t want a
Physical.”
“Sit back and behave yourself. You have to
learn to get a hold of your emotions. You can’t
behave like this. Don’t make me lose my temper
here in public.”
It was wrong to cry but I couldn’t stop. I
breathed hard and made pig noises. Aunt Doris
pretended not to notice.
My pounding heart was like a clock beating
inside my chest. Although time was passing
slowly, Doctor Alan would come soon. Having
the ideas of time being slow and of something
happening soon together in my head made it
hard to think.
The nurse came into the waiting room and
said that Doctor Alan was ready to see me. Aunt
Doris held my wrist and pulled me behind her
into a room with a doctor smell. He was
standing beside the table, waiting for us.
“Hello Doris,” Doctor Alan said.
He put his hand on top of my head and
looked at me. Then he lifted me up and put me
on the table. The paper stuck to my hands, and
made peeling noises when I moved them.
“Help him undress, please, Doris,” Doctor
Alan said.
She took my shoes off my feet and then she

93
dragged my shirt over my head and my pants
down to my ankles and I pulled my feet out of
them so that I was wearing only underpants and
socks. I heard Doctor Alan opening a drawer
behind Aunt Doris. My heart thumped harder and
I made more pig noises.
“Do you want everything off?” Aunt Doris
asked him.
“Yes,” answered Doctor Alan, and Aunt
Doris pulled my underpants off me and then also
my socks, so that I was sitting on the table
completely naked. Now I was stuck to the paper
almost everywhere. I hoped that Doctor Alan
wouldn’t put a stick in my mouth.
There was a clock on the waiting-room
wall, and I tried to see the time change, but
couldn’t; time only changed when you weren’t
watching it. I turned the pages of the magazine.
“Doris, do me a favor and just hold his head
for a second,” Doctor Alan said.
Aunt Doris walked behind me and squeezed
my head between her palms, and when I tried to
twist away I could feel the points of her
fingernails on my skin. Doctor Alan pulled my
eyelid up with his finger and shined the bright
light at my eye, and I couldn’t move away
because she was holding me and because I was
stuck to the paper on the table.
“Try and keep your eyes still for just a
second,” he said to me. “Look at the picture on
the wall.”

94
 I couldn’t see a picture; I could see only
the light and Dr. Alan’s white coat.
“Sweetie, get up and pay attention.”
“What?”
“Dr. Alan is ready for you,” a different voice
said.
The nurse had opened the door to the
examining room. I looked at Aunt Doris who was
watching me. She lifted her hand towards my
wrist, but, before she could grab it, I stood up
and walked across the waiting room and through
the doorway. He was waiting inside.
“Hi, Alan,” Aunt Doris said behind me. “I
thought you would never get here. That was
some wait.”
“Sorry, Doris. How are you? I couldn’t help
it. I’ll get you out of here as fast as I can.”
He put his hand on top of my head. “And
how are you, young man?”
“Do I need a shot?”
He looked at me and then he said, “I think
you do, yes, a booster.”
Aunt Doris started dragging the back of my
shirt over my head, surprising me so that I
jumped forward and hit my forehead against
something hard in Dr. Alan’s coat pocket.
“I can do it,” I said.
I moved away from where they were
standing and undressed quickly until I was
naked. She followed me and took the clothes out
of my hands. It was cold in the room.

95
 “OK, young man, hop up here.” Doctor Alan
patted the top of the examining table.
There was a small stool next to the table; I
stepped onto it, turned around and sat on the
paper. When I tried to slide backwards, the
paper stuck to my hands and my rear end.
As soon as I was sitting, he put the band
around my arm and blew up the balloon inside
the band until my hand burned. I squeezed my
eyes shut and tried not to move. Soon he would
put the stick on the back of my tongue. The idea
made me taste wood and almost gag. My
heartbeat shook my chest and I was already
sweating allover myself. When he shined the
light at my eyes, I blinked and moved my head
even though I was telling myself that I would be
still.
“Do you need me to hold him?” Aunt Doris
said, and her fingernails touched the skin under
my hair.
Then he was standing in front of me holding
the stick and a flashlight.
“I can open my mouth really wide. I really
can,” I said. “Please don’t put the stick in my
mouth.”
“If I can see your throat without it, I won’t.”
He pushed it against the back of my
tongue, and I gagged twice and then made a loud
burp that tasted like vomit. When I did that, he
stepped backwards quickly.
“Okay. All done. It’s alright. I’m going to

96
listen to your chest. I’m just going to put the
stethoscope on your back and then listen to your
heart.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. It was
cold.
“Relax and don’t breathe so fast.”
I tried to make my breathing slower so that
I wouldn’t be doing it wrong, and he listened, but
then he said, “I can’t hear you. Look breathe like
this. Look at me.”
“Look at Doctor Alan, Sweetie,” said Aunt
Doris.
I looked at Doctor Alan and he took big
breaths. I tried to do what he was doing. He
listened again.
“Come on now, do it slowly,” he said. “I tell
you what, when I say breathe in, you take a big
breath, and when I say breathe out, you breathe
out. Go ahead, breathe in.”
I breathed.
“Whoa, whoa. Just in. Then, when I tell
you, out. Wait until I tell you.”
I couldn’t do it right. Doctor Alan stopped
telling me when to breathe. After a while he
said, “Well, I guess I’ve heard enough,” and he
said lie down. I lay flat on the table, and he
listened to my front.
“Now don’t talk,” said Aunt Doris.
“I’m not talking,” I said.
“Please, be quiet for a second,” said Doctor
Alan.

97
 I said again that I wasn’t talking. I wanted
him to know that I was trying to do it the right
way.
“Shush!” said Aunt Doris and she put the
end of her finger in front of her lips and made her
eyes small.
When he was done listening, he put his
hands on my stomach and began to tap with his
fingers and then he pressed. His fingers made
my stomach hurt and, before I could stop myself,
I slid backwards away from him, tearing the
paper on the table.
“Please,” he said to me. “We’re almost
done.”
I knew that he was about to push his finger
against the bone between my legs. I squeezed
my eyes shut, grabbed the sides of the table and
made my muscles stiff.
“Hold his legs, Doris,” he said.
Aunt Doris pressed her hands down on top
of my knees.
“Cough!”
I started to kick even though I wanted to be
good.
“Cough!” he shouted.
“I can’t”
“Will you please cough?” Aunt Doris said in
her disgusted voice.
I made a coughing noise, hoping that would
be enough and then I kicked really hard. Dr. Alan
took his hands off me and stepped backwards

98
and then so did Aunt Doris.
“My God. What a performance!” Aunt Doris
said. “Why do you embarrass me like that? Do
you think other children behave like that at the
doctor’s office?”
Doctor Alan came back to the table and I
saw what he had in his hand.
“Hold him Doris.”
He pushed the needle into my arm. It was
hot and made my muscle feel as if someone had
punched it hard.
“Was that really so bad? Go ahead and get
dressed. I’ll see you next door.”
Doctor Alan picked up his papers and left
the examination room. My back and shoulders
became loose again, and my heartbeat stopped
shaking my chest.
“Really, can’t you control yourself?” Aunt
Doris had her disgusted face.
I didn’t answer; I knew that I wasn’t
supposed to answer. I dressed.
We went into Doctor Alan’s office and sat
on living-room chairs in front of his desk. He was
sitting in a leather chair with a high back writing
something with his pen. When he had finished,
he looked at Aunt Doris.
“How is everything?” he asked her.
“Oh, everything’s fine,” she answered,
“except that I tripped and hurt my ankle
yesterday. Let me just ask you, is it possible
that I broke my ankle and I’ve been walking

99
around on it all day?”
“Well, of course it’s possible, but if you’ve
been able to walk on it, I don’t think so.”
I looked at the books and papers in Doctor
Alan’s office. How could someone know what to
do with all that stuff? His chair was very
comfortable and I started to feel sleepy. My arm
hurt, but I didn’t care.
“Everything seems to be fine, Doris, but
there is one thing I’ve been a little concerned
about for a while,” I heard Doctor Alan say. “He
has a little heart murmur and I think we should
just check it out to be sure that it’s nothing.”
“He has a heart murmur?”
“He has a little sound. It doesn’t sound
serious, but just to be safe, I’d like him to have
an electrocardiogram.”
When I heard Doctor Alan say this, I
became awake again, and I watched his face
while he talked to Aunt Doris.
“Well what does this mean?” Aunt Doris
asked. “Could this be serious, Alan? I don’t like
the sound of this.”
“Really, Doris, I don’t think it’s anything to
worry about, but we should be cautious and just
do this one test.”
“Well, when can this be taken care of? I
think a thing like this should be done right away.”
“I can call the hospital and maybe they can
fit you in this afternoon,” said Doctor Alan.
“He won’t have to stay there, will he?” Aunt

100
Doris asked.
“No, no,” said Doctor Alan. “You’ll just take
him in and they’ll do the test and then you can go
home.”
My heart started beating fast again.
“I’ll have to cancel my game,” said Aunt
Doris. “I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. The
girls will be fit to be tied. When will we find out
about this?”
“You go home," said Doctor Alan. “I’ll call
the hospital and tell them what I want and have
them call you. Don’t forget to give him some
aspirin when you get home. He may get a
reaction to the booster.”
“Oh, Alan. I don’t like the sound of this.
His heart?”
“Doris, don’t worry about it. It’s just a
precaution.”
Aunt Doris took me back to the apartment
in a taxicab instead of on the bus. As soon as
we were there, she made me take off my shoes
and lie on her bed. Then she called Mrs.
Wasserman on the telephone.
“Janice?”
The telephone buzzed.
“Hi. I’m sorry, but I have to cancel on you.
We were at the pediatrician, and I have a big
problem here.”
“………”
“There’s something wrong with his heart.
I’m fit to be tied. I’m taking him to the hospital

101
this afternoon for a special test and then we’ll
see what it is. I was afraid something like this
would happen.”
“……………………………………………………………
………………….”
“I feel awful because I have to cancel on
you, but this has to be taken care of right away.”
“……………”
“We were there just now. He found
something wrong with his heart. We have to go
to the hospital this afternoon. I don’t know
what’s going to happen here.”
“……………………………..”
“Do me a favor and make my excuses to the
girls. I don’t want to tie up the phone because
they’re calling us with instructions. I’ll give you
a ring as soon as I know anything.”
“………”
“Oh, Janice, you’re a doll. Thanks.”
“…………………”
“I’ll speak to you as soon as I know
something.”
Aunt Doris hung up the telephone.
“Can I watch television?” I asked her.
When I was sick, I was allowed to watch
television during the day, and I thought this
might mean that I was sick.
“Sure, Sweetie. Let me turn it on for you.
You stay on the bed and I’ll get you some lunch.”
She turned on the television, and I asked
her to change the channel until she found a

102
cowboy movie.
After a while, Aunt Doris brought me some
chicken-and-noodle soup and a tuna-fish
sandwich on a tray. She put a bathroom towel
over my lap so that I couldn’t spill on her
bedspread and she put the tray on top of the
towel.
“What would you like to drink?” she asked
me.
“Can I have Coke?”
“Sure you can have Coke. I’ll get you
some.”
I was allowed to have Coke with lunch
when I was sick. She brought me a glass of
Coke and ice cubes and then went back into the
kitchen to make a grocery list and tell Rose what
to cook for dinner. My arm hurt, but I felt happy
eating lunch on the bed and watching the
cowboy movie. Later, the telephone rang and I
heard Aunt Doris answer it in the kitchen and
talk to someone. After she hung up, she came
back to her bedroom.
“Sweetie, we have the appointment for your
test at 3:30. When you finish your lunch, I want
you to rest on the bed and try and go to sleep.”
“Can I finish watching the movie?” I asked
her.
I knew that she would say yes.
“You can watch TV, but I think you should
rest until we figure out this little thing with your
heart,” she said. “I’ll get you a cover. You don’t

103
need to worry about anything.”
Aunt Doris went out of the room and came
back with a blanket.
“Are you done?” she asked.
I nodded. I had eaten the soup and half of
the sandwich. She took away the tray and the
towel and covered me with the blanket. I lay on
her bed feeling mostly comfortable and sleepy,
and I watched the cowboy movie.
I was facing the wall and it was dark. The
picture on my wallpaper was of a farm and I
could barely see it. There was a barn
somewhere in the picture, I knew, and around
the barn there were fields with long rows of
plants and around the fields there was a fence.
A farmer wearing a hat drove a tractor across
one of the fields. The barn and the fields and the
fence and the farmer were there on the
wallpaper over and over again. The farm made
me feel sad, and I understood that this was
because the farm was dull and had no color, and
because it had no end and never changed but
kept repeating. I stared at the farm, and while I
stared, I began to hear the sound of waves
hitting the beach and the sound was like the
beating of a drum inside my head.
“Are you awake?” Aunt Doris asked me very
quietly. She was behind me.
I tried to nod and that made my head hurt
more.
“Here’s some water.”

104
 I didn’t answer her. I was too tired.
“Wake up, Sweetie.”
I opened my eyes.
It was daytime. Aunt Doris’s room was hot
and I had a headache.
“I have some aspirin for you. Take these
and drink some water. Come on, sit up.”
She gave me the little orange pills and I put
them into my mouth and swallowed them with
some water.
“I’m sorry I had to wake you, but you’ve had
a good long nap. We have to go for your test. It’s
important.”
I nodded and that made me feel as if
something were rolling around inside my head. I
didn’t care about the test. I didn’t think about
what they were going to do to me; I was too
tired.
We went to the hospital in a taxicab. The
hospital entrance was very fancy; we had to
climb a lot of stone stairs to reach the door and
my knees felt heavy when I lifted my legs to
climb. Holding Aunt Doris’s hand, I walked with
her across a porch past some tall stone columns.
My Father had taken me to the museum and told
me about columns and the names of the orders,
but I didn’t have the energy to think about the
orders of these columns. A doorman opened one
of the thick brown-gold metal doors and he
tipped his hat. We walked past him, and Aunt
Doris spoke through an open window in the wall

105
to a lady sitting at a desk. Then we went
through another doorway into the lobby. There
wasn’t much furniture in the hospital lobby, just
a stone floor with a pattern of squares and some
wood chairs, and there were two elevators, also
with big metal doors. Aunt Doris pushed me into
the elevator in front of her.
“Third floor, please,” she said to the man,
and he closed the elevator door and the shiny
metal gate, and he held the handle and turned
the wheel and the elevator started to move.
When the elevator got close to the third
floor, he let the wheel turn back and the elevator
slowed down and bounced a little bit and
stopped just at the right spot so that we could
get off without tripping. Sometimes, when I
wasn’t with Aunt Doris, George let me drive the
elevator in our building. This one was faster and,
in part of my mind, I was sorry that I couldn’t
drive it.
Outside the elevator, there was a vestibule
and a hallway. Some nurses wearing white
uniforms and stupid-looking hats, and some
doctors wearing long white coats were walking
in the hallway. There were also some old people
standing in the vestibule near the elevators.
Aunt Doris looked at a sign on the wall, and then
she took my hand and we walked to a large wood
door. Inside, there was a nurse sitting at a desk.
“Hello, I’m Mrs. Katz,” Aunt Doris said to the
nurse. “Alan Sokel sent us.”

106
 The nurse didn’t say anything. She looked
down at an open book that was lying on her
desk, then she took a pencil out of her hair and
wrote something on one of its pages.
“Sit down,” she said. “You’ll have to wait.”
I didn’t think that she was polite and I
thought that Aunt Doris might get mad and tell
her off, but Aunt Doris didn’t say anything else to
her. She just held my hand and we walked
across the room to where there were some
chairs in front of a big window.
“I want you to behave yourself here,” Aunt
Doris told me.
“I will,” I said.
I didn’t have the energy to complain about
what they were going to do to me. It would have
been nice to sit in the chair and look out the
window for the rest of the afternoon.
Another nurse came into the room. She
spoke quietly to the nurse at the desk, and then
she looked at me and said, “Come with me,
please.”
Aunt Doris and I stood up, but she told Aunt
Doris, “You stay here,” and then she turned
around and began to leave the room.
“Can I go with him?” Aunt Doris asked.
The nurse looked over her shoulder. “No,
you stay here, please,” she said and kept
walking.
I didn’t know what to do. I looked at the
nurse’s back and then I looked at Aunt Doris.

107
 “Go with her,” Aunt Doris said. “I’ll wait for
you here. You’ll be alright.”
I followed the nurse down a hallway with
more big windows on one side and a wall that
didn’t go all the way up to the ceiling on the
other. The doorways in the wall had no doors,
only curtains. The nurse stopped walking next to
one of them.
“Come along, Red,” she said, “go in here.”
She held the curtain up in the air so that I
could walk under it. Behind the curtain there
was a little room with an examination table, a
small desk and a chair, and also a machine that
had knobs and lots of wires attached to it, and a
strip of paper coming out of its top.
“Get undressed and put that gown on with
the opening in front.” She pointed to something
on the examination table. “I’ll be right back.”
When I heard her voice, I knew she thought
that it was stupid for me to have the heart test.
She dropped the curtain and I was alone. The
idea that the nurse didn’t agree with Dr. Alan
surprised me. If the nurse thought that it was
stupid for me to have the heart test, would she
tell Aunt Doris to take me home? Maybe she
would do that. Maybe the Doctor would tell Aunt
Doris to take me home.
I stared at the machine. I had never seen
one like it before and I didn’t know how a doctor
could do something to me with it. Would he stick
the wires into me? When my trains were set up

108
at Christmas time, Aunt Doris didn’t want me to
play with them unless there was an adult in the
living room, because she was afraid that I would
touch the wires and get electrocuted. I picked
up the gray gown and unfolded it. It looked like a
big smock. While I was holding it, the nurse
came back into the room.
“Aren’t you undressed yet?” she said.
“No,” I answered and I could feel my face
get red.
“For the love of Mike, you’re big enough to
get undressed by yourself aren’t you? Go on.
Put that gown on and I’ll be back in a minute.
Don’t make me stand around like a monument to
public service.”
I wanted to tell her that I didn’t have any
energy and that I knew how to undress myself. I
thought of asking her if I should go home, but
before I could decide to say something, she left
again, so I took off all of my clothes and piled
them on the chair. Then I put my hands through
the armholes of the smock; it dragged on the
floor. As soon as I had finished, the nurse came
back into the room. She stared at me for a
second.
“Put your underpants back on, young sir,”
she said, “we surely won’t be doing any of that
here today.” She laughed.
I rushed over to the chair, grabbed my
underpants and put them back on as fast as I
could, and my face felt hot.

109
 “Quick. Up on the table with you,” she said.
“It’s getting late.”
There was a stool next to the table, so I
stepped onto it the way I had done in Doctor
Alan’s office and sat down and looked at the
nurse’s face. She had a nice face even though
she didn’t smile, and when she spoke her words
sounded like poems.
“Go on then. Lie down on your back.”
I lay down and my heart started to pound
because I knew that something was about to
happen to me even though the Doctor wasn’t
there yet. My face got tight and I was worried
that I might cry.
The nurse looked at me. “Oh, for the love of
Mike, stop that silliness. All I’m going to do is
put these little things on your skin with some
cream and that will be the end of it. There’s no
need for that nonsense.”
I lay still while she attached wires to my
arms and legs with fat rubber bands, and my
heart beat harder.
“What is the Doctor going to do? Is it going
to hurt a lot?”
“It doesn’t hurt at all so be still. And
there’s no doctor coming. You’d think I was
about giving you the chair, for the love of Mike.”
This sounded like the truth and I felt safer.
I didn’t think that what she was doing could be
very bad without a doctor in the room. She
turned a knob on the machine and took a little

110
metal cup with a rubber ball attached to it that
made the cup suck my skin, and she moved the
cup around my chest and every time she moved
the cup, she squirted some cream on my skin
from a bottle and tapped a button on the
machine. After only a short time she said,
“That’s it. Go get dressed and find your Mum,”
and I was sad when she left the room.
When I was dressed, I walked down the hall
by myself to the room where Aunt Doris was
sitting. I noticed that I didn’t feel tired anymore.
“Are you done already?” Aunt Doris looked
surprised.
I nodded.
“Well,” she looked around the room, “let me
find out if there is anything else we have to do.”
She walked over to the desk where the
nurse with the pencil sticking out of her hair was
sitting and spoke to her. Then she said, “Come
on, Sweetie. We’re done,” and we left the
hospital and walked to the street corner to find
another taxicab.
“I’m hungry,” I said.
“Well, we’re having broiled chicken and
baked potato for dinner, how’s that?”
Rose served dinner in the dining room as
soon as we were back at the apartment. After
dinner, Aunt Doris told me to take a bath and she
went into her room to talk on the telephone. I
floated for a while on my back in the warm water
and looked at the tiles on the walls, then I got

111
out of the tub, dried myself and put on a clean
pair of pajamas and my bathrobe. Aunt Doris
gave me more aspirin and let me watch a cowboy
movie before she told me that it was time to go
to bed. She made the bedcovers neat and
tucked me in and gave me a kiss.
“Tighter,” I said.
She pulled the covers tighter and tucked
them in again.
“Sweet dreams,” she said. “You are such a
wonderful boy. You really are terrific. I would
do anything for you. Did you know that? I love
you.”
“I love you, too,” I said.



In the morning, the yellow school bus

stopped at the corner to pick me up. Its door
swung open, and I climbed the steps holding the
metal railing with one hand and pulled my
briefcase behind me with the other, and then I
walked towards the back of the bus between the
rows of benches and looked for an empty seat
next to a window. As I sat down, I heard the door
squeak and bang closed. The engine rumbled
and there was a grinding noise under the floor.
The bus jerked forward and started going to the
next stop, and I felt my forehead shake against
the window glass while I looked at the roofs of
the cars on the street outside. Most of the boys

112
talked to each other, but they weren’t loud
because if they made too much noise, the
Teacher would tell them silence, and there would
be no talking at all until we got to school.
Carl got on the bus at the next stop, and he
walked down the aisle and sat on the seat next
to me.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I said.
He bent over and put his hand into his
briefcase, which he had put on the floor between
his feet, and pulled out an old book with a hard
blue-green cover that looked like a library book.
“What’s that?” I asked him.
“The Peloponnesian Wars.”
“The what?”
“The Peloponnesian Wars” he said again.
“What’s that?” I asked. Carl didn’t mind
answering questions.
“It’s history.” He opened the book to
somewhere near its middle and started to read.
“What do you mean?”
He looked at me and then back at the page.
“You know. It’s a history book. It tells about the
Peloponnesian Wars.”
Once, when I was at Carl’s house, he had
read a history book about Napoleon while I
played on the floor with some of his soldiers. His
Mother had come into his room and yelled at him.
“What are the Peloponnesian wars?” I
asked him.

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 “I can’t read if you keep talking,” he said.
He sounded annoyed, but that didn’t bother
me; Carl never really got mad at people.
“Just tell me what are the Peloponnesian
Wars?”
“I can’t just tell you what the
Peloponnesian Wars are because I’d have to tell
you about the whole book. You read it when I’m
done and then you’ll know.”
“I can’t read that,” I said, and I turned my
head and looked out the window.
Carl was one of the kids who had been
given a book first.
I saw them piled on top of the high
cupboard across from the door and I could smell
them; they had a good smell that made me feel
excited. Why had someone put them on top of
the cupboard? The Teacher stood on a chair to
get a book. I noticed that she was having
trouble balancing on her high-heel shoes and
that her legs looked nice. I walked across the
room to the cupboard as fast as I could and
asked her for a book.
“They’re not for you,” she said. “David,
here.”
She gave him the new book that she was
holding. It had a picture of kids and a dog on its
cover.
“What do you mean they’re not for me?” I
said in a loud voice.
Some of the other kids looked at me. Had

114
she forgotten that I was in the class?
“You’re not ready yet.”
“That’s not fair.” My voice was too loud
again, but I didn’t care.
“You’ll get one when you’re ready” she said
“Go sit down.”
I walked to my seat and watched the kids
who had books. They were talking and they
looked excited. I didn’t want them to see that I
hadn’t been given a book. I could feel that my
face was red. Why wasn’t I ready?
The bus made a screeching sound and
stopped suddenly, bending me forward on my
seat. A fire engine with a man driving the front
and another man driving the back went past the
window. Its siren was very loud. Then there was
the noise under the floor and the bus started
moving again.
Later, I was given a book, because it was
time for all of the kids to have books, but the
Teacher thought that I still wasn’t ready, I knew.
When it was my turn to sit with her and read, I
looked at the words on the page and saw only
black lines. Not knowing what the lines meant
made my insides tight; how did those lines tell
you words? The Teacher said to look at the
letters and then she said to look at the letters
again, and, when she spoke, she sounded like
Aunt Doris. I knew that I would only have to sit
with the Teacher for a little while. She told me
to pay attention and try.

115
 “Sound them out,” she said.
After the Teacher had finished listening to
me, I sat at my desk and watched Davey read.
His desk was next to mine. There were lots of
words on the pages of his book and not many
pictures. He could feel that I was looking at
him, because he stopped reading and looked
back at me.
“Why don’t you read?” he asked me. “We’re
supposed to read.”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t? It’s easy,” he said.
“I don’t know these words. How could I
know all these words?” I looked down at my
book and turned bunches of pages.
He laughed. “You don’t have to know the
words. I don’t know all the words.”
“You don’t? But you have to know the
words to read the book. You know the words.”
“No you don’t.” He sounded as if he were
telling the truth.
Davey slid his chair next to mine. The little
metal tips on the bottoms of the chair legs made
a scratching noise on the floor.
“What is that noise back there?” the
Teacher asked.
“I’m showing Red how to read,” said Davey.
The Teacher didn’t say anything for a
second, and then she said, “That’s a good idea.
Just keep your voices down.”
Her answer surprised me, because it meant

116
that Davey and I were allowed to talk in class.
Some of the other kids started to talk also and
the Teacher told them settle down.
“Look,” said Davey. He pointed to a word in
my book. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know. I told you.”
“But you do know. What sound does ‘c’
make?”
I answered.
“And ‘r’?”
I answered again.
“So what is the word?”
“You didn’t ask me the ‘a’.”
“You don’t need the ‘a’. Just do the ‘c’ and
the ‘r’ together.”
“How do you know that you don’t need the
‘a’?”
“Because I know what the word is without
making the ‘a’.” He sounded as if he did know.
“What’s the word?”
“How do you know it’s the right word if you
didn’t look at all the letters? You’re supposed to
look at all the letters.”
“Because it fits in the story.”
I didn’t say anything. There must have
been something else that you had to know, and
there must have been something else that you
were supposed to do, because reading was hard.
“Say them together and guess the word,”
Davey told me.
“Car,” I said.

117
 “Yeah. It’s on other pages, too. See?”
His eyes looked at my eyes and then he
turned the pages pointing to car. The same word
was written over and over; it was on almost
every page. I had the idea that the story must be
stupid if it had the same word written on almost
every page.
“When you see it in another place you don’t
even have to make the sounds because it’s the
same,” he said.
“You’re allowed to do that?”
He didn’t answer; he just looked at me.
“But what about the other words?” I asked
him.
“Do another one,” he said. He pointed to
another word and I read it. “Some of them are
harder,” said Davey, “but you know the right
answer because of the story, even the long
ones.”
I stared at the page. I wasn’t sure that I
could do it, but at the same time I thought that
Davey had told me how to read. Why didn’t’ the
teacher tell us that?
We were at school. Carl and I waited for
the bigger kids to get off the bus and then I
walked in front of Carl and pushed past the
smaller kids, and we climbed down to the
sidewalk ourselves. Before we went to our
homeroom, we put our coats in our hall lockers.
While Carl was trying to open his combination
lock, I watched the other kids in the corridor. It

118
took Carl a long time to do things.
“What are you looking at, Bozo?” an older
kid asked me. Another boy standing next to him
laughed.
I didn’t answer; I turned around, hoping
that the kid would decide to forget that I was
there. I could feel him watching me and that
made the hairs move on the back of my neck and
I started to sweat a little.
Carl was having trouble closing his locker
door; he kept pushing it shut and it kept
bouncing open. I noticed that the sleeve of his
coat was sticking out of the locker under the
bottom of the door.
“Carl, your coat is stuck in the door,” I said,
wanting him to hurry.
“Oh,” said Carl. He sounded disappointed.
He pushed his coat sleeve into his locker and
finally shut it.
“Let’s go,” I said, and I picked up my
briefcase and started walking to our homeroom
without looking behind me.
There was a lot of talking for a few minutes
in homeroom, and then the Teacher told us to get
in line and we went to Assembly.
We did the Pledge of Allegiance and then
the Headmaster made the Announcements. I
was sitting near Mrs. Small, who played the
piano, and I stared at her shoes. Mrs. Small
always wore black shoes with sides that covered
her ankles. They had laces and looked like

119
sneakers except that they were made out of
leather and had high heels. Davey called Mrs.
Small’s shoes combat boots. When Mrs. Small
played the piano, she stamped her right foot on
the floor as if she were marching, and she
pounded the keys with her fingers. I could feel
the floor shaking while we sang the Hymn.
Assembly ended, and we walked back to
our classroom in a line. The Teacher told us
settle down and real school started.
While the Teacher talked about Pilgrims, I
sat at my desk and looked around the room. I
felt calm, and ideas came into my mind.
The Indians taught the Pilgrims how to
plant corn in rows and told them to put a dead
fish in a hole at the end of each row. The Indians
were smart. They knew how to hunt and shoot
with bows and arrows. They could walk in the
woods without making any noise and sneak up
on animals. Indians noticed everything. If I had
lived in Pilgrim Times, I would have been an
Indian.
The Pilgrims knew about God but they
couldn’t take care of themselves in the
wilderness. The Indians lived in the wilderness,
but they didn’t know about God. Why didn’t the
Indians know about God, if God is God for
everybody, which He would have to be if He were
really God?
Did the Indians tell the Pilgrims to put a
fish at both ends of the row or only at one end?

120
The dead fish got rotten in the hole, and rotten
fish made the corn grow better. Why was it safe
to eat corn that grew next to a rotten fish when
it wasn’t safe to touch a rotten fish or any rotten
thing? When you ate corn that grew next to a
dead fish, did the corn taste fishy? How did a
dead fish in a hole at the end of a row make corn
in the middle of the row grow better? If dead
fish made corn grow better, why didn’t the
Indians tell the Pilgrims to put dead fish in holes
everywhere in the field? That would be
disgusting.
The Indians probably didn’t tell them to do
that because it would take too many dead fish.
It’s hard to catch animals if you aren’t an Indian.



The grownups went to Temple on the High

Holidays and I went with Aunt Doris.
“I want you to behave inside,” she said.
“This is an important holiday. We have to stay
for a while, so I don’t want you to keep asking
me when we’re leaving.”
“I know,” I said.
“I’m serious.”
“I know,” I said again, trying to sound
friendly to show her that I was agreeing.
“I expect your Father will put in an
appearance.”
I didn’t say anything.

121
 “We’re eating dinner at your Grandmother’s.
You’ll like that, won’t you?”
“Uh huh,” I said.
“Personally, I wish we didn’t have to go.
I’m totally fed up with her. First she gives me
those jade grapes that she brought back from
Europe. Then she decides that they look so nice
on the dining-room table that she wants them
back. How do you like that? That’s no way to
behave. You don’t do things like that. When you
grow up, I hope you’re not an Indian-giver.
“But I don’t know why I’m surprised. They
always take whatever they want and just expect
me to make do with whatever is left. Why am I
the only one in the family without a mink coat?
Everyone else has one, including your Aunt Joan,
but not me. I’m tired of being treated like the
poor stepsister. One of these days, they’re just
going to wake up and find me gone and that will
be that, and I’m not kidding.”
We crossed the street. I looked at the
people standing in front of the building and tried
to see my Father.
“Sometimes I think I should just tell
everyone that I’m the maid,” Aunt Doris said.
Without thinking about what would happen
if I said it and because I was feeling happy, I
asked her, “Do you want me to do it for you?”
“What?”
She stopped walking and stared at me, so I
had to stop walking, too. Her eyes were big and

122
her lips were pushed together. My heart beat
faster and my thoughts bounced around in my
head and then I had an idea.
“Tell Grandma Kay that you should have a
mink coat,” I said after just a small stop, and I
made my voice sound as if I didn’t understand
how she might think that I could mean anything
else. I listened to myself speak and thought that
the way I had said it sounded really good.
She looked at me a little longer and then
started walking again. For a few seconds she
didn’t say anything, and then she said, “You just
mind your own business.”
I breathed out.
We got close to the crowd and suddenly I
saw my Father waiting for us and he saw me too
and we both smiled at the same time. I wanted
to run and hug him, but I controlled myself.
“Hi,” he waved and called to us.
“Hi,” I called back.
“Good morning,” Aunt Doris said.
He kissed me and then he kissed Aunt
Doris on the cheek. I stood next to him with all
of the grownups and some other kids around us.
Everyone was dressed in fancy clothes, and I
thought that they looked as if they were going to
a special party.
“How are you,” my Father asked Aunt Doris.
“Oh, I’m fine,” she said.
“I guess we should go inside,” my Father
said.

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 We walked under the awning and through a
doorway into the dark lobby that was like the
lobby of a very nice movie theatre with a
colored-marble floor, fancy moldings on the walls
and ceiling, and big chandeliers. Then we went
through another doorway and into the huge
Sanctuary. Someone was playing the organ
behind the candy-colored marble columns far
away, above the Bema. The sound echoed, and
so did the sounds of footsteps on the marble
floor and of talking. I looked at the tall gold-
metal gates in front of the Ark that could be, I
thought, the Gates of Heaven, and then at the
colored light beams shining through the stained-
glass windows, especially the big round one over
the door. The light made the tiles on the walls
around the Bema sparkle. The Sanctuary looked
like one of the big churches in the pictures that
Mr. Kurtz showed us at School.
I tried to see Grandma Kay and Grandpa
Murray, and Kate and her family in the crowd, but
I couldn’t find them. Aunt Doris saw Mrs.
Wasserman and we walked down the middle isle
past lots of people to where she was sitting with
her husband. Mr. Wasserman stood up and so did
Josh and his sister, and the grownups said hello.
Mr. Wasserman kissed Aunt Doris on the cheek.
My Father shook his hand, and Aunt Doris and
Mrs. Wasserman touched their cheeks together
and made kisses with their lips next to each
other’s ears. When Aunt Doris put her hand on

124
Mrs. Wasserman’s shoulder, I heard her bracelets
jingle. Mrs. Wasserman was wearing a mink
coat, I noticed. She said happy New Year.
“Say hello, Sweetie,” Aunt Doris said to me.
“Hello,” I said.
I looked at Josh. He had a mean kind of
smile, I thought.
“Well, hello to you, too,” Mrs. Wasserman
said to me, and she kissed my cheek. “Your Aunt
tells me that you’re going to stop taking the
school bus and start taking the public bus. Josh
has been after me to let him do that, isn’t that
right Josh, but I told him that he had to wait
another year just like the other boys.”
Josh didn’t look at her.
“It will be any day now, Josh. You’ll see,”
Aunt Doris said, and she kissed his cheek.
“Why don’t you sit with us?” said Mr.
Wasserman,
“We can’t. I told Joan that I would sit with
her,” Aunt Doris said.
“Oh please Doris,” said Mrs. Wasserman,
“you’ll never find anyone in this mob. Sit before
there are no seats left. They’re going to start
soon.”
“I guess you’re right,” Aunt Doris said, and
we walked sideways between the pews past the
Wassermans to an empty space next to them on
the bench.
I stayed beside my Father. He helped Aunt
Doris take off her coat and then he took off his

125
coat, folded it and put it on the seat, and I did
the same with mine. We sat down on the red
cushions, and the grownups took books off the
shelf on the back of the pew in front of us. My
Father opened one and handed it to me.
“You can read along, too,” he said.
I held the book. I didn’t like to read along
because, when I did that, I couldn’t think of
anything except what I was reading.
“I don’t know where it is,” I said.
“The Rabbi will tell you what page he’s on.”
It was boring to sit still on the bench
without being able to think of something. The
only part of the Service that wasn’t boring was
when the Cantor blew the Shofar. If he did a
good job and made a really loud noise, then in my
mind I could see the gates in front of the Ark
open. They were the golden Gates of Heaven,
and after they had opened, I could see God
standing in Heaven covered by bright light that
poured like water into the Sanctuary. The
people in the Sanctuary covered their faces with
their hands and there was silence except for the
note that the horn made, which was so loud that
it shook the room.
“Did you hear about Celia? Isn’t that
awful?” Aunt Doris said to Mrs. Wasserman.
“Right in front of her apartment, too!” Mrs.
Wasserman said.
“And they got everything. She was going to
theatre.”

126
 “Oh, that’s so terrible. Why can’t they do
something about them? She’s lucky she’s
alright.”
“And poor Morris standing and watching
the whole thing. Can you imagine?”
The people in the audience started to be
quiet. I looked at the front of the Sanctuary and
saw the Rabbi and the Assistant Rabbi and the
Cantor and some other people walking out of a
door at the side of the Bema.
“Why do they wear graduation gowns?” I
asked my Father.
“You mean their robes? I don’t know. It’s
just traditional.”
Coughing sounds and the sounds of books
falling on the floor made loud echoes. Then the
music stopped.
“How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob, thy
dwellings, O Israel!” The Rabbi spoke.
People around us turned the pages of their
books and whispered to each other.
“O Lord, I love the place of Thy house and
the abode in which Thy glory dwelleth.”
The beams of colored light had moved
slightly closer to the Bema, I noticed. Everyone
was almost quiet now. I watched the Rabbi. He
stood facing the audience inside a box made of
shiny stone; it was a tall desk for his papers, so
he could put them down and still read them.
“This is the day of God. On this day we are
called to the sanctuary by a summons as

127
exalting and enduring as the everlasting hills…”
I walked next to Grandpa Murray. It was
early in the morning. Grandpa Murray was
carrying a small dark-red velvet bag with gold
designs on it. The bag looked like a little pillow.
He held my hand. We went up the steps and
through the door of an old building into a small
lobby that was crowded with men wearing dark
clothes and hats. I stared at them. A few said
something to each other quietly and nodded
their heads, but there was no other talking. I
was the only kid in the lobby. Was I really
allowed to be there? Other men had velvet bags
like the one that Grandpa Murray was carrying.
They opened their bags and took out big white
scarves with black lines on them and fringe on
the ends. Then they kissed the scarves and put
them over their shoulders. I felt Grandpa
Murray’s hand on my back and I turned around.
Grandpa Murray was wearing a scarf and he had
another one in his hand.
“Here. Let me show you how to put it on,”
he said.
I didn’t want to put it on. It was yellow and
dirty. It smelled old.
“I don’t want it. It’s torn,” I said.
He looked at it.
“You have to wear one.”
He took another scarf off a rack next to the
wall and put it over my shoulders. Then he put a
yarmulke on the back of my head. It started to

128
slide off and I held it on with my hand. We
walked together into the Sanctuary.
The Sanctuary was small and crowded with
men who were talking to themselves. They
bounced and bowed while they talked.
“What did you think?” Grandma Kay asked
me. “Did you see all the old men carrying on like
a bunch of nuts?”
Grandpa Murray found us a space on the
middle of a wooden bench near the back of the
room. We stood in front of the bench and he also
started to talk to himself, but I couldn’t
understand what he was saying because it was
Hebrew. I didn’t know that he could talk Hebrew.
He opened a book and pointed to some printing
on a page.
“You go like this.” He bowed. “You do it.”
I bent my knees and then I bowed.
“Very good,” said Grandpa Murray. “Go
ahead, daven.”
I bounced and bowed some more. It made
me feel stupid even though nobody was
watching me and everybody else was doing it.
The scarf started to fall off my shoulders, so I
pulled it up and hugged it around myself. I tried
to see the Bema, but I couldn’t because of the
men standing in front of me.
“Where’s the Rabbi?” I asked Grandpa
Murray.
“There,” he said.
Through the crowd, I finally saw an old man

129
with a beard standing with his back to the
audience in front of a big book on a table. He
was dressed in dark clothes just like the other
men and he wore a scarf, too.
“When does the ceremony start?” I asked
Grandpa Murray.
“This is it. Shush.”
“Doesn’t he say any English?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand what they’re saying.”
“Well, it’s in Hebrew. Shush.”
I watched the men. They were very
serious. Their whispering was like a song that
filled your head. I watched them bend and bow.
A lot of them had their eyes closed; they didn’t
need to read the book. Their voices made a hum
in the small room.
Then I noticed something that I really had
noticed before, but hadn’t thought about.
“Why aren’t there any women?” I asked
Grandpa Murray.
“They’re not allowed,” he said. “Only
upstairs.”
I looked up. Around the room there was a
balcony with curtains hanging in front of it. I
could see through spaces between the curtains
that there were women sitting in the balcony.
“Don’t look at them,” said Grandpa Murray.
“So, are you going to be a Rabbi, God
forbid?” Grandma Kay asked me.

130
 

Winter came and, sometimes, snow. I sat

next to the window on the radiator box, closed
my eyes and listened to the sound of the storm,
which was like the sound of wind blowing sand
at the beach: the cold wet snowflakes hit the
glass and made the sound of sand. It was dark
outside and snowing hard, and when I opened my
eyes I could only see parts of the building on the
other side of the street. The snow filled the air,
not just falling, but going in every direction, even
up: bunches of flakes that made me think of
flocks of birds. I tried to see them in the air and
watch them bump into the window. It was hard
to do that because they were so small and
moving so fast. When flakes hit the glass, some
of them melted and others bounced off,
disappearing in the dark. Each snowflake, I
thought, had a separate life that nobody noticed.
Did God really decide what happened to each
separate flake?
I pressed my face against the window and
looked down, trying to see the sidewalk in front
of the building. The snow was definitely sticking
to the pavement. Snowflakes flew around the
tops of the streetlights like bugs. There were no
cars or trucks on the avenue, not even a taxicab.
It was snowing hard, and the snow was definitely
sticking. They couldn’t drive buses through that
much snow. Would they be able to plow it all off

131
the streets before tomorrow morning? Maybe
they could if it stopped snowing soon, but it was
still snowing hard.
My Father held my hand and pulled me
behind him.
“Hurry up,” he said.
“I can’t walk. The snow is too deep. Carry
me.” I was whining, I knew.
“Just walk in my footsteps. We have to get
to the school bus before it leaves.”
I tripped.
“Please pick me up,” I begged.
“Come on. It’s not that bad. Step where I
step.”
“I think you’re getting the day off
tomorrow,” said Aunt Doris’s voice.
She was standing in the doorway.
“Really? Did they call you?” I asked her.
“I haven’t heard yet, but it sure looks that
way.”
“Do you think it will keep snowing all
night?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t look like it’s
stopping. The city is going to be a mess for
days.”
“I hope it doesn’t stop.”
There was a rumbling sound outside and
the banging of something heavy. I looked out the
window again and saw a garbage truck with a
snow plow attached to its front. The trucks
made huge snow mountains on the street

132
corners. If it snowed all night, then in the
morning the parked cars and the sidewalks
would be covered with clean, smooth snow, and
almost no people would be outside, only kids
playing in the snow, even in the middle of the
streets. I hoped that it would keep snowing hard
all night.
“Come, it’s time for you to go to bed,” she
said.
I stood up and took off my bathrobe.
“Do you need to use the bathroom?” she
asked me.
“No,” I said.
“Are you sure? You don’t want to have to
get up in the middle of the night.”
“No,” I said again, and I got into bed.
“Did you brush your teeth?” she asked me.
“Yes,” I lied. Did she know?
She turned off the light and started to
lower the window blinds.
“Can you leave the blinds up so I can see
the snow?” I asked her.
“Okay. Say your prayers.”
“I will.”
“Well, goodnight, Sweetie. I love you
oodles and oodles. You’re a good boy.”
She kissed me.
“I love you,” I said.
Alone in the dark, I listened to the sounds
of the snowstorm, and I stretched my legs,
sliding my feet over the clean, smooth sheets.

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 I would wear one of the heavy sweaters
that Grandma Kay made for me. Corduroy pants
with the legs tucked into the tops of rubber
boots. A scarf wrapped around my neck under
my heavy coat. A wool hat that covered my ears
and leather gloves with fur linings on my hands.
I was warm and comfortable.
There was a rumbling sound outside, and
the banging of something heavy.
The snow pile on the corner was huge: a
mountain with two high peaks and one smaller
peak, and valleys between them. I climbed the
cliff that led up to the highest peak, kicking my
toes into the snow and grabbing snow chunks
with my hands.
Just below the top, there was a flat space.
I stood there, made a snowball and then threw it,
but I had trouble moving my arm because of my
sweater and my coat. When the snowball hit the
ground, it broke into powder and pieces. I made
another one, pressing the snow together and
rubbing it with my palms, trying to make it hard.
“What grade are you in?”
“Fifth,” I said.
“I’m in Fifth, too”
He was small. I threw a snowball.
“Don’t hit anything or you’ll get in trouble,”
he said. “Are you Catholic?”
“No. I’m Jewish.” Was I allowed to say
that?
“I’m lucky. I’m Catholic.”

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 “Why?”
“Cause we get to confess our sins.”
“What?”
“We go to confession, so our sins are
forgiven and we can go to Heaven.”
“Jews don’t have sins.” Was that true?
“But you can’t go to Heaven.”
“How do you know?” Would that be a
problem?
“Because you can’t. You’re not Catholic,”
he said. “But it’s not your fault.”
Tommy and I walked past a pile of dirty
snow that was on the sidewalk next to a fire
hydrant. Tommy made a snowball that looked
hard, like a baseball. He threw it and the
snowball hit a garbage truck.
“You better not throw at cars,” I said.
He made another snowball.
“You better not throw at cars,” I said again.
Tommy threw the snowball. It hit a car
window with a loud thud. I wished that I could
throw like him. As soon as the snowball hit the
car, the car stopped and the front door opened.
We both started to run, but I wasn’t
worried. A grownup couldn’t catch us because a
grownup couldn’t run as fast as a kid.
I was ahead of Tommy. I looked over my
shoulder and saw a big man chasing us; he was
running really fast.
“Inside,” I shouted and ran into the lobby of
Tommy’s apartment house. We would be safe

135
there because the doorman wasn’t allowed to let
a stranger into the building.
The doorman stared at me; I looked at his
face as I passed him. He knew that we were
being chased, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t
going to stop the man.
Maybe we could get in the elevator and go
upstairs before the big man caught us. I looked
at the elevator door: closed. Tommy ran into the
lobby behind me, and I was sure that the man
was right behind Tommy. What would he do if he
caught us? Would he hurt me? He would hurt
me. He could kill me.
There was a door in the wall a few feet to
my left. I grabbed the doorknob, pulled it, and
the door opened. Behind the door there was a
dark stairwell. I started to run up the stairs but
then quickly stopped. Where I lived, a metal
gate at the top of the first flight of stairs kept
robbers out of the building.
I looked around for a safe place to hide:
there was nowhere to go but up the stairs or
back out the door. I was trapped because the
big man was probably outside the door already.
I ran behind the staircase and crawled as far as I
could into the small space between the floor and
the first steps. The man would find me, but
maybe he wouldn’t be able to reach me: he was
too big to fit under the stairs. My hands felt that
the floor and the wall were covered with dirt so I
crouched and tried not to touch anything with

136
my clothes. If I got dirty, Aunt Doris would yell
at me and make me tell her what I had done.
Tommy ran through the doorway and up the
stairs as fast as he could. I wanted to tell him
about the metal gate that might be at the top of
the first flight of stairs, but the big man crashed
the door open behind Tommy, so I shut my
mouth. There was a loud rattling noise when
Tommy hit the gate, and just after that, the
sound of the big man’s shoes above my head. I
was sure that he could hear me breathing.
Tommy screamed, “Don’t. Please don’t.”
“You little bastard. I’ll teach you, you little
fucker.”
I heard the sounds of Tommy being
punched, and I thought that I should do
something to help him. If I went up the stairs
and kicked the big man, would that help? What
if I ran out the door? Would he chase me and
leave Tommy alone? Could I get away from him?
He would catch me and beat me up too.
“Stop it. Please stop it.”
“Where’s your buddy you punk.”
“I don’t know. I don’t.” Tommy was crying.
“You know, you little fucker.”
The man’s feet started to walk down the
stairs. He was coming to get me. I held my
breath.
Then I heard the door open and close.
After a short time I said, “Tommy? Are you
okay?”

137
 “Where are you, you chicken?”
He sounded bad. I should have helped him.
“I’m under the stairs.”
“Why didn’t you help me, you chicken,” he
said.



“Time to wake uh-up!”

Aunt Doris kissed me and rubbed my head,
and then she kissed me again.
“Come on. You don’t want to be late for
school.”
“Okay,” I said. It was hard to speak
because my tongue was sticky.
She left the room
Feeling warm and weak, I stared at the
bookcase next to the window with my eyes
partly closed, floating inside myself near to the
dream like another world where I had just been.
Dim gray sunshine came into the room through
the window. Breathing slowly, I sank away from
the light. The girl waved at me. She had dark
hair. She was wearing a sweater and a wide
skirt, and she was standing next to a little red
car without a roof. It was the kind of car that
people in the movies drove. The girl was a
woman. She was nice. She smiled at me and
waved her hand to tell me to come with her in
the car, and then I floated up to the light again.
The part of the sheet that was folded over

138
the top of the blanket touched my ear and I
turned my head slowly so that it rubbed against
my skin. I could smell the wool blanket and the
clean sheet and also the ribbon that covered the
edge of the blanket.
“Come on now, get out of bed. Don’t make
me tell you again. You’re going to be late.”
She stood in the doorway and watched me
while I lifted the covers and slid my feet off the
bed and onto the floor.
“Go on. Get dressed. I’ll see you in the
kitchen.”
After I had finished in the bathroom, I took
off my pajamas and put on my underwear and a
clean white shirt. Then I hung my pajamas on
the hook in the closet. I looked at the school
pants hanging in the closet and decided that it
was okay to wear the dark gray ones that I liked
because I had already worn each of the other
two pairs once that week. I put them on and
carefully tucked the shirt bottom straight into
the pants, using my hands to make sure that
there were no folds in the material except at the
sides and that it went around my waist evenly.
Then I put on the brown leather belt that I wore
to school, zipped my fly, and took my blue school
tie off the rack. While I made a knot in the tie, I
watched myself in the mirror on the back of the
closet door and checked that the ends of the tie
were the right lengths: the outside end longer
than the inside end but not too much longer.

139
After I had finished fixing the knot, I took my
gold tie clip out of the black leather box on the
closet shelf and slid it over the tie and the front
of my shirt, making sure not to pull the tie down
too tight or to leave it too loose because there
had to be more tie material than shirt material
above the clip so that I could stand straight, but
not too much more or the tie would make a loopy
bulge on my chest. I put on my brown loafers
and jiggled the waist of my pants so that the
cuffs at the bottoms of the legs lay on the tops
of the loafers the right way. The last thing I did
was put on my blue blazer. Then I looked at
myself in the mirror again. One side of my face
was bigger than the other.
“Stop admiring yourself in the mirror and
come and eat your breakfast. It’s time for you to
get going,” said Aunt Doris, and my head jerked
because I hadn’t heard her come into the room.
“Come on. It’s time to wake up and get
going.”
She walked out of the room, and I picked up
my briefcase and followed her to the kitchen
where I drank a glass of orange juice and ate a
bowl of cereal.
“I’ll take care of the dishes,” said Aunt
Doris. “Go on. You’ll be late.”
I took my winter coat out of the foyer
closet, put it on and buttoned it. After I had
patted the pocket to be sure that my bus pass
was there, I picked up my briefcase and went out

140
of the apartment into the vestibule.
“Ring the bell for the elevator. Give me a
kiss”
I kissed Aunt Doris and, soon after that, the
elevator door opened.
“Goodbye. I love you. Have a good day and
pay attention in class,” she said.
“I will. Bye,” I said.
At least two times I had dreamed that the
elevator could go down lower than the first floor
and lower than the basement to other floors
under the building. In the dream, I had felt
danger coming from those floors. George knew
about the danger. He wouldn’t let me drive the
elevator to the basement because, he said, he
didn’t want me to go too far by accident. If the
elevator went down too far, something would
happen.
I persuaded him to take the elevator just
one floor below the basement. He stopped it
there, and I looked at the door outside the gate.
It was made of thick unpainted wood boards.
George didn’t want to open the door or even the
elevator gate.
The door was open just far enough for me
to slide sideways out of the elevator. I had done
that once and had walked a few feet down the
dark, dirty corridor on the other side of the door.
Then I had decided that there was a reason to be
afraid and had run back to the elevator before
the door could close. The corridor was filled

141
with the feeling of a beating heart.
We went down in the elevator to another
floor, and almost to another one below that.
George stopped the elevator. He didn’t want to
go any farther. The door outside the elevator
gate was old and dirty. I heard noises;
something was happening behind the door.
George couldn’t make the elevator go back up to
the lobby. It was stuck. To make it move, we
had to go farther down. They wanted us to open
the door.
Outside the apartment house, the air was
cold and gray. I noticed that most of the
buildings on both sides of the avenue had gray
stone fronts. The sidewalks were gray concrete,
and the streets were gray-black. The cars were
covered with gray dirt, and so were the windows.
The city was a gray place.
There was a bus at the bus stop, and a
small crowd of people were standing next to its
open door. I walked around them to the front of
the bus and started to squeeze myself through
the doorway. Carl was inside; he had just shown
his bus pass to the driver and he was putting it
back into his pocket. I pushed in front of a man
and climbed up the bus stairs.
“Carl,” I said as I showed my pass.
He turned his head. “Oh. Hi,” he said. He
didn’t sound surprised to see me; he sounded as
if he had known that I was there but had
forgotten to say hello.

142
 “Hi,” I said.
“I changed the map,” he said.
“Oh, great. Did you give me more land?”
“Yeah. I gave you Scandinavia too.”
“Just one country?”
“All of Scandinavia; that’s four countries.
Five, if you count Iceland” His face looked as if
he were hearing a bad noise. “You can take
Iceland too. That’s a real lot.”
He was worried, I thought, that I would ask
him for even more.
“Let me see it,” I said.
He bent over and opened his briefcase. The
inside was almost as messy as the inside of
Davey’s briefcase. He pushed his hand into a
bunch of stuff and pulled out a map and some
papers.
“There,” he said, pointing to part of the
map. “This is all your territory. I wrote it down.”
He handed me a piece of paper that had the
names of countries written on it.
“Oh.” It didn’t look like a lot of land to me.
“I want more than that,” I said.
Carl’s face squeezed together. “If I give you
more, it won’t be fair. Look. You had a lot before.
Now you have Scandinavia. That’s a lot.
Anyway, you wouldn’t be able to defend more
land than that.”
“Oh?” I said.
The bus stopped and I looked out the
window.

143
 “Come on. We have to get off,” I said
I started pushing around the grownups who
were standing in the isle and Carl followed me.
We got off the bus and walked behind it across
the avenue and then across the street that went
through the park. Davey was already waiting at
the stop where we got on the second bus.
“Hi,” he said and we said ‘hi’.
“My Father said he might buy Chamoun,”
Carl said to Davey.
“My Father says it’s really good,” Davey
said.
I waited at the bus stop with Davey and
Carl until a bus came. There were empty seats
in the back, and I sat next to a window with my
foot resting on the part of the floor that went
over the wheel. Carl and Davey talked while I
looked out the window at the park.
“I have a great idea,” my Father said.
“Let’s go.”
We walked through the park to a
playground that was surrounded by a black
metal fence. There was a wide path just inside
the fence and, in the middle of the playground,
dirt and grass.
“You can ride around in a circle and I can
be in the middle and catch you so you don’t fall,”
my Father said.
I looked at the playground. It had a long
round shape. It might be safe.
I sat on the bike and he stood next to me,

144
holding the back of the seat with one hand and
the handlebars with the other. I put my feet on
the pedals.
“It’s shaky. It’s going to fall.”
“No it won’t. I won’t let it. Trust me,” he
said. “When you start to pedal the bike will
become more stable. That’s because the wheels
act like gyroscopes. You know what a gyroscope
is, right?”
What did he mean? When it was moving,
the bike wouldn’t fall over. Was this true?
“Go ahead. Pedal.”
“Don’t let go,” I said.
“When you’re moving you’ll see that the
bike will be more stable. You won’t need me to
hold it. Go on. Pedal.”
“How will I stop?”
“You slow down and put your feet out, but
I’ll catch you for now.”
I was afraid, but I pedaled and he ran
beside me, holding the back of the seat. The
bike didn’t feel so shaky anymore. Then I felt his
hand let go of the seat.
I steered with the handlebars, and the bike
started to wobble and tip, and I became more
afraid of falling, so I stopped pedaling. I stuck
my legs out almost straight to the sides, and
then I felt him hold the back of the seat. He put
his arm around my waist.
“I’ve got you,” he said.
It was true: he did catch me.

145
 “Don’t stop pedaling and you won’t fall
over. The faster you pedal, the smoother it will
go. Don’t steer with the bars so hard. Just look
in front of you and point the bike where you’re
looking. Go on. Do it again.”
I was afraid to do it, but I wanted to do it
so I believed him and pedaled again. The bike
started going faster and faster. Falling would
hurt a lot. The turn was coming.
“Steer gently,” I heard him yell behind me.
I turned the bike slowly and it went around
the end of the circle. Then I knew that he was
right: it wouldn’t fall. I kept pedaling. I could do
it.
“You’re doing it!” he shouted.
We were happy.
The bus stopped.
“C’mon,” said Davey.
We got off the bus and walked the rest of
the way to school. In homeroom, Mr. Kurtz told
us about the Food Drive. As soon as he was
finished, the buzzer sounded, and Davey and Carl
and I went to English.
Mr. Arnold told everyone to settle down and
take out our books. Then he asked who was the
hero of the story? I watched the kid’s raise their
hands and felt relaxed. Each one of them had a
different way of doing it: stretching their arms,
waving their hands, wiggling their fingers. Some
leaned forward over the tops of their desks and
some called, “Mr. Arnold, Mr. Arnold,” or “Oh, oh,

146
oh.” Davey didn’t raise his hand; he sat in his
seat drawing pictures on pieces of paper that he
had picked out of a big pile of stuff inside his
desk. Everyone in the class including Davey
knew that after a while the Teacher would get
angry at him because he was messy or because
he was drawing or talking and not paying
attention, and then the Teacher would call on
him and Davey would say something and the rest
of us would laugh.
Mr. Arnold was talking about Apprentices. I
began to think about living in the Colonies and
learning to be a silversmith. Living in the
Colonies would be better than living in the City
and going to school.
I worked with the silversmith and helped
him make beautiful things: shiny candlesticks
and bowls and pitchers, and the silversmith
marked each piece so that everyone would know
that he had made it. I was able to use the tools
and the annealing furnace. I knew how to melt
silver in the crucible and wore dirty leather
pants. I thought that there might be a
revolution, but then I thought that everything
was okay without a revolution. I could ride a
horse.
A beautiful girl with brown hair came into
the workshop. She looked at me and I looked at
her: I looked at her eyes and felt as if I could see
through them to the inside of her which at the
same time made me feel that she could see the

147
inside of me. I wanted to touch her, but I knew
that I couldn’t because she was proper and a
lady. I tried to think of a way to change the
story so that we were together: I would make
silver for her Father and he would want to help
me, but then I would have to become a person
who wore fancy clothes and wasn’t a
silversmith. I tried to think of a way that she
would need to be with me: there would be a
revolution and I would save her from the British
and we would live together in the woods and
take care of her brothers and sisters, but what
would happen after that? She still would be a
proper lady. Anyway, we were both just kids.
“Mr. Levey, what are you doing?” Mr. Arnold
spoke as if he were surprised because Davey
was doing what he was doing, even though
everyone in the class knew that Mr. Arnold
wasn’t surprised by what Davey was doing.
I looked at Mr. Arnold and then I looked at
Davey. He wasn’t afraid. He was smiling.
“I’m making notes, Mr. Arnold,” Davey said.
He sounded surprised, too. He acted surprised
that Mr. Arnold didn’t know that he was making
notes because he was paying attention.
Everyone laughed except Mr. Arnold.
“Silence!” he yelled.
His face became very red and his eyes
looked almost big enough to pop out of his head.
He walked across the room to Davey’s desk with
big loud steps. His shoes looked huge.

148
 “Get up,” he shouted at Davey.
Davey stood up and started to fold his piece
of paper neatly, showing how careful he was. I
could hear Mr. Arnold breathe.
“Give me that,” Mr. Arnold said and he
grabbed the piece of paper.
He ripped it into little pieces and threw
them onto the floor. Then he bent over and
picked up Davey’s desk so that he was holding it
over his head. Some of the kids in the room
made a noise that was like the sound of wind
blowing around the edge of a building, and the
ones who were close to Davey’s desk leaned
back in their seats. Mr. Arnold turned Davey’s
desk upside down and all of the stuff inside of it
fell onto the floor and bounced under the desks
near where Davey had been sitting. Davey’s ruler
hit my ankle. Mr. Arnold shook the desk to make
sure that it was empty and then he dropped it on
top of the pile of spilled stuff.
“Go get the wastebasket and clean this
mess up,” he said to Davey. “The rest of you take
out a blank sheet of paper and a pencil.”
When we heard that, we all breathed out
but no one spoke. Then the only sounds in the
room were the noises of notebooks snapping
open and shut and paper shuffling and pencils
rattling on desk tops, and finally it was very
quiet and we waited.
“Why did the author give the hero of the
story a deforming injury?” said Mr. Arnold.

149
“Write!”
Why did the author give the hero an injury?
Why did the author make the hero burn his hand
so that it wasn’t normal and he couldn’t use his
thumb? Because if the hero hadn’t burned his
hand, he would have been a silversmith and he
never would have had the adventures that the
author wrote about in the story. If the hero had
been normal, there would be no book or just a
book about a kid who became a silversmith.
The buzzer sounded.



I went to Davey’s house on Saturday

morning. We played soccer in his room and then
we found some fried chicken in the refrigerator
and took it to his den so that we could watch
television while we ate lunch. Davey’s parents
didn’t care that he watched TV during the day.
I liked Davey’s den. It was small and
always dark because heavy green drapes
covered the windows even during the day, and
because the wallpaper was dark red and green
and the carpet dark red. The carpet was soft
and comfortable, and so were the sofa and the
armchairs. There was a large television against
the wall across from the sofa and the light from
its picture made the chandelier on the ceiling
sparkle. I liked to lie on the carpet and watch
the chandelier glass glitter and see the colors in

150
the clear glass that were made by the TV light,
and I liked to sit on the sofa between the fat
pillows with my feet on the dark wood coffee
table and watch TV. When I did this, I felt as if
the movie story were happening in my mind and I
forgot that I really was sitting in Davey’s
apartment in the City.
There was a bar in the den closet with a
shiny black stone floor. The bar had red and
black wood cabinets with glass doors, and inside
of the cabinets there were bottles of liquor and
rows of glasses on glass shelves with mirrors
behind them. At the back of the bar there was a
black counter and a gold metal sink, and,
underneath, inside a cabinet with fancy doors,
there were lots of bags of chips and pretzels and
cans of nuts and even a refrigerator filled with
drinks.
I took cokes out of the refrigerator and a
bag of potato chips from the shelf next to it.
Davey turned on the TV while I sat down on the
sofa. The sofa had really soft cushions and,
when I sat down on it, I always felt as if I were
falling through the bottom onto the floor. I
kicked my feet out in front of me to help me lean
forward so that I could push the ashtrays and
magazines on the coffee table out of the way and
put down the food that I was carrying. Davey
found a cowboy movie on TV and we started to
eat. We ate as many potato chips as we wanted
and we watched the movie.

151
 It turned out that the movie was almost
over; some cowboys were hanging a bad guy
from a tree. He was sitting on his horse and his
hands were tied behind his back. The cowboys
knew the bad guy; he had been their friend and
they knew that he really wasn’t bad so they were
all very sad. I began to feel sad, too, thinking
about why he had decided to do whatever he had
done. The cowboys didn’t want to hang him, but
they had no choice because he had rustled and
you were supposed to hang rustlers. That was a
law, although I wondered why it had to be a law
if everyone knew that the person wasn’t really
bad? It was like a trap. His best friend from the
time before he was a rustler, who was the
saddest person there, made a noose on the end
of his lariat and threw it over the branch of a tree
and then he put it around the rustler’s neck. He
was trying to show the other cowboys that he
was very tough. They all said goodbye and how
sorry they were about the rustling and the
hanging, and the rustler said he knew that they
had to hang him and that they didn’t need to be
sorry about it because he shouldn’t have rustled.
Then one of the cowboys slapped the rustler’s
horse on the behind and the rustler was dragged
by the noose off the back of the horse as it
galloped away. After that, the movie showed the
wiggling shadow of the rustler on the ground,
and from the way the shadow moved you could
tell that the rustler was choking and then the

152
shadow stopped moving which meant that he
was dead. I said to Davey that it was a good
movie because the cowboys looked and sounded
real and the scenery looked real, and because
they had hung the guy for rustling even though
he had been their friend which made it like real
life, and Davey agreed.
“I know how to make a noose,” Davey said.
“You do? Show me,” I said.
“Sure, but we need to find some rope.”
“Do you have any?”
“Maybe. Maybe there’s some in the
kitchen.”
We ran into the kitchen and started looking
inside drawers.
“Not there. Look over there,” Davey said,
pointing to some drawers under a counter next to
the corridor that led to the maid’s rooms.
I found all sorts of junk in the drawers:
tools and papers and rubber bands and scissors.
I even found an old bottle cap, but I didn’t find
any rope and I thought that I wouldn’t learn how
to make a noose because Davey didn’t have any
rope, but then Davey said, “Here, we can use
this.” He had found a box in the pantry with a
piece of clothesline tied around it. He untied the
clothesline and we took it back into the den.
We didn’t need to turn on a lamp because
the TV made enough light for us to see what we
were doing. Davey put the clothesline on the
coffee table and folded it into an S shape with

153
two long ends. He picked up one of the ends and
started winding it around the rest of the S,
counting each turn.
“You’re supposed to wind it thirteen times,”
he said.
That made sense, because thirteen was the
bad-luck number.
The S began to look like a real hangman’s
noose. When he had made thirteen winds, Davey
pushed the end of the rope through the small
loop that stuck out of the top of the noose, and
then he pulled on the part of the noose that went
around your neck and the rope got tight and
even. It was perfect.
“Let me try that,” I said and I grabbed it out
of his hand and untied it.
While I practiced making nooses, Davey
found another movie on the TV. It was a love
movie; you could tell because the people in the
movie were at a party. They were all dressed up
in fancy clothes, dancing to orchestra music,
drinking liquor and smoking cigarettes and
calling each other darling, and they were very
happy and funny. One of the men was leaning
against a column and smoking a cigar. He had a
thin moustache. A waiter standing next to a
huge crystal punch bowl on a table asked a
beautiful woman if she wanted some punch.
“Do you want to make punch?” Davey asked
me. “Let’s make punch.”
“Okay,” I said.

154
 I had the thought that Aunt Doris wouldn’t
let me make punch at home, but Davey’s Mother
had different rules.
He went into the bar and got a huge glass
bowl out of the cabinet under the counter. It
looked like the one in the movie.
“Here,” he said, handing me the bowl. “Put
that on the table.”
I put the bowl on the coffee table, and
Davey brought some big bottles of soda out of
the bar and put them down on the table next to
the bowl.
“Let’s go get some ice,” he said.
He picked up the bowl and we walked into
the kitchen. Davey started taking ice trays out
of the freezer. He dumped the ice into the bowl
and then he threw the empty trays into the sink.
“Shouldn’t we fill them up?” I asked him.
“Naw. That’s okay,” he said.
I carried the bowl with the ice in it back to
the den and put it down on the coffee table.
Then we stood and looked at everything on the
table for a few seconds. There was Coke and
orange soda and a bottle of ginger ale and
another bottle of Coke and a bottle of root beer.
I watched a drop of water run down the side of
the bowl: it moved back and forth between the
shapes in the glass and then spread onto the
shiny wood. How had the water gotten out of the
bowl?
“Maybe we should do this in my bathroom,”

155
Davey said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Good idea.”
We took everything down the hall to
Davey’s bathroom. I put the bowl with the ice in
it on top of the toilet seat and Davey put the
soda bottles on the floor next to the toilet and
shut the door. As soon as the door was closed,
though, Davey remembered that we needed a
bottle opener, so he ran to the kitchen to get
one. When he came back, his older brother was
following him.
“What are you doing?” he was asking
Davey.
“Nothing,” said Davey. “Leave us alone.”
“You’re not doing nothing. What’s all that
stuff for? You took all those drinks from the bar
didn’t you.”
“We’re making punch,” Davey said and he
tried to close the bathroom door but his brother
held it open with his foot.
“You’re not supposed to have that stuff in
here. That’s Mom’s good crystal punchbowl.
You’re gonna get in big trouble if you don’t put
that back. Dad’s gonna kill you.”
“He won’t know. We’re just making punch,”
Davey said.
“Who’s gonna drink all that? What are you
going to do with it? I’m telling you, you’re gonna
be in trouble,” his brother said, but he didn’t
sound as if he expected Davey to listen to him
even though he was a big kid, and he turned

156
around and went out of Davey’s room without
waiting for Davey to answer his questions.
Davey closed the bathroom door and locked
it. I felt excited and I knew that Davey felt
excited too, because of the way his face looked.
He began to open soda bottles. Each time he
pried off one of the caps, there was a SSHHH
sound and some soda sprayed into the air. I
picked up a bottle of Coke and started pouring it
into the bowl. When the soda in the bowl got
very foamy, I stopped pouring and put the Coke
bottle down on the floor. Then I picked up the
orange soda bottle and poured some of that into
the bowl. We watched the punch become
orange-brown. Davey laughed.
“Don’t put too much in,” he said.
“Let’s taste it.” I could feel my heart
beating.
Davey took a glass off the shelf over the
sink, filled it by dipping it into the bowl and
drank some punch.
“Uum, that’s not bad,” he said. “Try it.”
He handed me the glass and I tasted some.
“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe you should mix it.”
Davey took his toothbrush out of the holder
on the wall.
“Don’t mix it with the brush end!” I yelled,
“you’ll get toothpaste in the punch.”
He turned the toothbrush around and
stirred the punch with the end that had the
brown rubber thing on it, pushing the ice cubes

157
in a circle. While he did that, I poured some
ginger ale into the bowl. We both watched the
punch change color and foam, and we started to
laugh really hard. The bowl was already almost
full and we had more bottles of soda left. We
tasted the punch again.
“Really good,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Davey. “We should do this
again.”
“We’re not done yet. I think it should have
more orange,” I said.
“I’ll have to pour some out to make room.”
Davey picked up the bowl and began slowly
lifting it toward the sink. The punch sloshed
around and almost spilled over the edge of the
bowl, so he moved it even more slowly.
“Watch out that you don’t knock over one of
the soda bottles with your foot,” I said.
Davey looked down and, when he did that,
the punchbowl tipped slightly and some soda
spilled onto the floor.
“Whoa!” I yelled and Davey laughed so hard
that he couldn’t hold the bowl still and he spilled
more soda.
“Well, I guess I don’t have to pour anymore
out,” he said, and we both laughed together.
While he was putting the punchbowl back on top
of the toilet seat, someone banged on the door
and my insides jumped.
“What are you doing in there? I told you
you’re going to get in trouble.”

158
 It was Davey’s brother again. Now it didn’t
matter what he said because there was soda all
over the bathroom floor and it was too late to
stop. Knowing that it was too late to stop gave
me a wild feeling.
“We’re not doing anything,” yelled Davey.
“Go away.”
We kept laughing; we were both having
trouble breathing.
“I’m telling Mom.”
“If you do then I’ll tell Mom what you were
doing with Max last weekend,” yelled Davey.
“Leave us alone.”
“Okay, but Mom will find out anyway.”
“She will not because we’re not doing
anything.”
Davey and I looked at each other. Seeing
Davey laugh made me laugh harder and I knew
that Davey was laughing harder because I was
laughing. There were no more sounds on the
other side of the bathroom door.
“We’d better clean this up,” Davey said
when he could breathe again.
I wished that his brother hadn’t bothered
us.
Davey pulled some toilet paper off the roll
hanging next to the toilet.
“I don’t think you can do it with that,” I
said.
“Sure I can.”
“No you can’t.”

159
 He began to wipe the floor with the toilet
paper and it turned into a big blob of orange
brown mess.
“Yuck! I told you.”
Davey looked at it and then he looked at me
and then he threw the wet toilet paper as hard as
he could at the wall behind the bathtub. There
was a splat sound when the paper hit the tiles.
It stuck to the wall, and soda sprayed over the
tiles and dripped down into the bathtub making
orange-brown streaks. We both yelled at the
same time and hurried to grab toilet paper from
the roll. I bumped into Davey and he pushed me
out of the way so that he could get more first.
Then we each used handfuls of toilet paper to
wipe soda off the floor, and threw the wet paper
at the wall. The soda sprayed all over the
bathroom tiles and got in our hair and on our
clothes. We screamed and laughed and I didn’t
even care what would happen when we were
done or that my skin was sticky, because I felt
so crazy. Then Davey stopped and put his hand
up in the air and said “Ssshhh!” He looked very
serious.
“What is it?” I asked him, holding myself as
still as I could.
“Hurry. I hear my Mother. We have to clean
this stuff up. Quick.”
I listened and I could hear his Mother
calling him from somewhere in the apartment.
She would come into his room and want to know

160
what we were doing in the bathroom.
Now we were afraid. We started to pull
handfuls of toilet paper off the tiles as fast as we
could. When both of my hands were holding big
blobs of paper, I looked at Davey because I
couldn’t think of something to do next. There
was too much paper to flush down the toilet.
“Put it in the bowl,” said Davey, “then go
out and tell my Mom I’m going to the bathroom.”
I dropped the paper into the punchbowl and
wiped my face and hands on a towel. Then I
went out into Davey’s room and slammed the
bathroom door. I heard Davey lock it. I picked
up Davey’s soccer ball and, as soon as I had the
ball in my hands, Davey’s Mother walked into the
room. My heart was banging inside my chest.
“Why hello, Dear, how are you, it’s good to
see you.”
Davey’s Mother kissed me.
“Davey’s going to the bathroom,” I said,
trying to speak in my regular voice.
“Oh? Well that’s good. You two must have
been playing hard. You look all hot and sweaty.
Have you had something to drink?”
“Oh yes. Thank you Mrs. Levey,” I said.
She looked around the room. When Mrs.
Levey looked at things I always had the idea that
she couldn’t see them very well, even though she
wore glasses. She squeezed her eyelids together
and looked at the bathroom door.
“Hello, Davey Dear. I’m home. Are you all

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right?”
“Hi Mom,” Davey yelled from the other side
of the door. “Hi. I’m fine. I’ll come and say
‘hello’ in a minute.”
“All right Dear, take your time,” she said.
Then she looked at where I was standing. “I
think I’m having dinner with your Aunt tonight.”
“Oh?” I said.
“Yes. Tell Davey to come into my room
when he’s finished in the toilet.”
“Thank you. I’ll tell him, Mrs. Levey.”
She didn’t know.
Davey’s Mother left the room and I went
and knocked quietly on the bathroom door.
Davey opened it just far enough for me to
squeeze inside and then he closed it again.
There was a big pile of wet toilet paper in the
punchbowl. He had wiped the soda off the tiles
with a towel and he had poured the rest of the
soda into the toilet.
“Quick,” he whispered, “put the bottles in
the bathtub and close the shower curtain. He
started to wash himself off at the sink.
“What are we going to do with that?” I
whispered back, pointing at the huge blob of wet
toilet paper in the punchbowl. “Wow, there sure
is a lot of paper on one roll.”
“Open the window,” said Davey and he
picked up the bowl.
“What!” I said without remembering to be
quiet.

162
 “Ssshhh! Open the window.”
“You can’t throw that out the window.”
“I’m not throwing the bowl out you idiot,
just the paper. There’s no place else to put it.
Help me. This thing is really heavy.”
“But you can’t throw the paper out. It
might hit somebody.”
“It won’t hit anybody, anyway, there’s no
place else to put it.”
“But it could hit somebody. How do you
know what will happen if you throw it out?”
Davey didn’t answer me. He put the
punchbowl back down on the toilet seat, opened
the window himself, and then he picked up the
bowl again and tipped it forward with its edge
balanced on the windowsill. The toilet paper
stuck to the inside of the bowl and he tipped it
more. I was afraid that he would drop everything
including the glass punchbowl out the window,
and I started to imagine how someone on the
street would be hit and killed by it, but then the
paper began to slide forward. Davey shook the
bowl a little, and the whole blob with the rest of
the soda and the ice flew through the window
into the air over the sidewalk. As soon as the
bowl was empty, Davey put it down on the toilet
seat, slammed the window shut, moved the
punchbowl into the bathtub with the soda
bottles, and flushed the toilet.
“Come on,” he said.
We went out of the bathroom. Davey closed

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the door and we started to play soccer. I wasn’t
seeing the ball though, I was seeing the toilet
paper and ice dropping through the air and then
hitting the street. In my mind, it hit the
sidewalk, and soda sprayed in a big circle the
way it had when we had thrown the paper at the
wall. It sprayed all over the clothes of people
walking on the street. I saw it falling and
turning: orange and brown drops, clear ice and
the fat wad of soaked paper. It hit a woman in
the head. She looked up in the air and saw my
face, and I felt as if her face were only a few
inches away from mine.
The ball bounced against my knee.
“Kick the ball you idiot,” Davey said.
“Do you think it hit anything?” I asked him.
“Naw,” said Davey. “I don’t know.”
“Your Mom wants to talk to you,” I
remembered to tell him.



In the morning, when the clock radio began

to play music, I was dreaming, although as soon
as I heard the music the dream stopped and I
couldn’t remember it. I lay in bed thinking about
the dream world that seemed so real and then
disappeared, sometimes leaving no memory of
itself or a few memories that didn’t make sense,
and I listened to songs and street noises with my
eyes still closed, not wanting to go to Sunday

164
School. After a while, I began to think that I
would be in trouble if I stayed in bed any longer,
and I opened my eyes and looked at the clock: I
was late. I was late every Sunday morning.
I went into the bathroom, and washed my
face and brushed my teeth. Then I wet my hair. I
was careful to wet it evenly and not soak it. I
combed the hair on the top of my head to the
side, but the part was slightly crooked, so I
combed the hair straight forward and parted it
again. I had to do this four times to make the
part straight. Then I smoothed the hair on the
sides of my head with a brush until I thought that
it looked right. When I was done, I peed and
went back into my room.
My blue suit had been cleaned and pressed
two weeks before, so I had only worn it once
since it had been to the dry cleaner and it was
still neat. I looked at it carefully to make sure
that there wasn’t any lint on it, and then I put on
the pants and also a clean white shirt that had a
button-down collar. I used my hands to push the
shirt bottom and the insides of the pockets strait
down into the pants, making sure that the shirt
material went around my waist evenly. Then I
put on my black leather belt and zipped my fly. I
pushed hard on the end of the zipper to close it
so that it wouldn’t open by accident at Sunday
School.
I had two ties that looked good with the
suit. After staring at them and imagining for a

165
moment how each one would look if I wore it, I
took the one with dark red and navy blue stripes
off the rack, put it on, tied it and twisted the
knot a little to make it look perfect. The ends of
the tie were the right lengths, the outside end
longer than the inside end, but not too much
longer, so I didn’t have to redo the knot. I took
my gold tie clip out of the black leather box on
my closet shelf and slid it over the tie and the
shirt front, making sure not to pull the tie down
too tight or to leave it too loose, because there
had to be more tie material than shirt material
above the clip so that I could stand straight, but
not too much more or the tie would make a loopy
bulge on my chest. Then I put on my black
loafers and looked at myself in the mirror on the
back of the closet door. The loafers weren’t
shiny but they weren’t really dirty either. I
noticed that the shirt buttons didn’t go into my
pants behind the belt buckle at the middle of my
waist, so I pulled on the shirt until the buttons
went straight down my front, and I made some
folds in the shirt material smooth by pushing
them around my waist towards my back. I
looked at myself again and jiggled the pants
waist to be sure that it was in the right place.
Then I put on the suit jacket and buttoned it,
while I still watched myself in the mirror. My red
hair made me look like Bozo; it looked stupid,
even though the color had gotten much darker.
The suit looked good.

166
 I went into the kitchen, quickly ate a bowl
of cereal, put on my coat and left the apartment
before Aunt Doris woke up. I didn’t go to the bus
stop to wait for a bus; there weren’t many buses
going downtown early on Sunday mornings. I
just started to walk. Cold air came through the
front of my coat because the loops that attached
to the buttons didn’t close the space between
the two sides of the coat tightly, but I walked
fast because I was late and walking made me
warm, almost hot, and I had to be careful not to
go so fast that I started to sweat. Five minutes
before class started, I was at Sunday School, in
my classroom. I hung my coat on a hook, and
then went quickly to the bathroom so that I
could tuck my shirt into my pants again the right
way and fix the knot in my tie, because walking
had made my clothes messy. Nobody else was in
the bathroom. I looked carefully at my reflection
in the mirror over the sink and I had the idea that
the person I saw was somebody else and not me.
There were girls at Sunday School. I
stayed away from them and they didn’t bother
me. They spent most of the time that we weren’t
in class standing close to each other,
whispering, giggling and making expressions
with their faces and their hands. When they did
this, I thought of what Aunt Doris did with her
face when she talked on the telephone. The girls
sat together in the classroom and the boys sat in
the rest of the seats. I didn’t know any of the

167
other boys in my class, although Carl and Davey
and Tommy and other kids from school also went
to Religious School. I tried to sit close to a
window so that I could look outside while the
Teacher talked. The windows were big. The
whole school was big and clean with wide
hallways that had smooth shiny floors and walls
with wallpaper and without cracks. The place
looked a lot nicer than my regular school, maybe
because it was only used one morning each
week.
“Why do we remember Joseph?”
I noticed that the room had become quiet
and I looked at the Teacher: she was staring at
me.
“Hello. Why do we remember Joseph?” she
said again and louder.
I couldn’t think, but my mind gave me an
answer anyway. “He had a coat of many colors?”
“Yes, well that’s right, but that’s not what
we’re talking about,” the Teacher said. “What are
we talking about?”
I didn’t answer.
“We’re talking about how Joseph became
an advisor to the Pharaoh. Pay attention. Why
did the Pharaoh make Joseph his advisor?”
Some of the kids put their arms up in the
air and waved them. The Teacher picked a girl in
front of me to answer her question.
“Because Joseph could interpret dreams,”
the girl said.

168
 “That’s right, Julie! And why could he do
that?”
“Because God told him what they meant?”
“Right! Very good. Because God sent the
dreams and then allowed Joseph to understand
their meaning because Joseph was close to
God.”
I felt stupid because a girl knew something
that I didn’t know; I sat in my seat staring at the
back of the girl’s head and feeling as if all of the
girls in the room thought that I was stupid. Then
I looked out the window and hoped that the girls
and the other kids would know that I didn’t care
about what the Teacher was saying because I
was looking out the window and not listening.
They would know that I didn’t raise my hand
because I didn’t care about what the Teacher
was saying and not because I was stupid.
I wondered if it were true that God sent
dreams? Maybe it was true that God sent
dreams a long time ago when people lived in the
desert and had sheep. A lot of things that didn’t
happen now might have happened when people
lived in the desert. Why, though, would things
happen now a different way than they did a long
time ago? This story sounded to me like a fairy
tale. Most of what the Teachers said at Sunday
School sounded like things from fairy tales, but
they wanted the kids to believe them, so it was
hard to know when they were lying. I was sure
that the Teacher didn’t believe fairy tales were

169
true.
I had the idea of asking the Teacher if she
believed the Joseph story and that God told
Joseph the meaning of dreams, but then I looked
at her and decided that this question might make
her angry because she wanted me to believe the
Joseph story, and she might tell Aunt Doris that I
was a problem in class, so I didn’t say anything
and I looked out the window again.
Still, it might be true that God sent dreams,
because dreams were not the same as real life
and God wasn’t like a real person, or even a
person at all, although the Teacher said that God
made men in His image. I didn’t think that the
Teacher could know this; how could the Teacher
know that men looked like God or were like God,
which was stupid? That would be the same as
believing that Superman could be a real person.
If God were a spirit in the air around us, and if
you sometimes thought that you saw God in your
mind, but not with your eyes, then God was like a
dream, and maybe sometimes you did see God
and then you couldn’t remember what it was like
to see him, the way you couldn’t remember other
things that had been in a dream. If you were
close to God, maybe you could remember
dreams, and maybe you also would know the
meaning of dreams. I didn’t think that I was
close to God, but that wasn’t because I was a
kid; I didn’t think that God cared that I was a kid,
or that God wouldn’t want to be close to a kid.

170
God might be close to a kid, if the kid were good.
I looked away from the window and saw
that all of the kids were standing up, and I knew
that it was time to go to the Sanctuary. In the
corridor, the Teacher told us to get in line and not
to talk. I waited at the back of the line, and
watched the girls whisper and giggle, and then I
turned my head so that they wouldn’t notice that
I was looking at them. When I turned my head, I
saw Davey also standing in the corridor with the
kids from his class. Davey saw me, and he tried
to walk behind his Teacher to get in line next to
me so that we could go to the Sanctuary
together, but she grabbed his shirt collar and
pulled him backwards and he almost fell on the
floor, or he pretended to almost fall on the floor.
Davey frowned and carefully brushed his suit
jacket with his hands to show that his Teacher
had misbehaved and messed up his clothes by
grabbing his shirt collar, and to show that he
didn’t approve of bad behavior. Davey’s suit was
a mess and his shirt wasn’t tucked into his
pants. The inside end of his tie was longer than
the outside end and the knot was crooked. I
watched him and laughed without making any
noise. Davey looked at me and waved his hand
against his side, telling me to sneak into the line
next to him, but his Teacher saw what he was
doing.
“You stay where you are,” she said to me.
“I didn’t do anything,” I said, making the

171
same face that Davey made at school when one
the Teachers yelled at him.
Davey and I looked at each other and we
both laughed. Then a Teacher said something
and the kids in the corridor started walking
towards the stairs.
“Everybody stay in line and no talking,”
Davey’s Teacher said in a loud voice, but most of
the kids didn’t pay attention to her, especially
the girls, who kept talking to each other until we
got to the sanctuary.
We sat in the front pews of the Sanctuary
and the Rabbi talked to us about Passover and
the Seder. The Jews suffered in Egypt because
they were Pharaoh’s slaves. They didn’t enjoy
the freedom that we were lucky to have today,
and we should try and understand what it was
like to be slaves. Pharaoh’s overseers forced the
Jews to build pyramids and make bricks out of
mud and straw in the hot desert. It was probably
like digging in the sand at the beach, but without
an umbrella and water, and without swimming in
the ocean. Grownups hated digging in the sand.
I would have gotten a really bad sunburn in
Egypt and I probably would have died, so I
couldn’t have been Moses, and I couldn’t have
saved the Jews. I wouldn’t have lived to reach
the Promised Land. When the Rabbi was finished
talking, he sent us back to our classrooms so
that we could be dismissed.

172
 

I walked back to the apartment, but this

time I walked slowly. It was warmer outside
now, and I wasn’t in a hurry to get home because
it was Sunday.
When I was finally at the apartment, I
opened the front door with my key and called
hello. Nobody answered, and that made me
afraid. I heard Aunt Doris doing something in the
kitchen so, after I had taken off my coat and
hung it in the front closet and quietly closed the
closet door, I went into the kitchen and said hello
to her again.
“Hello,” she answered, and the sound of her
voice told me what I already knew in my other
mind: that I was in trouble, that she was mad.
“I have a little bone to pick with you,” she
said, but she didn’t turn around and look at me or
say anything else. She wiped a shelf in one of
the cabinets with a rag. All of the dishes from
the cabinet were on the counter in front of her.
I stood in the middle of the kitchen
watching her and not being able to decide what
to do. Should I just go to my room and wait for
her to come there and get me? I knew that I
couldn’t do anything to stop Aunt Doris from
being mad, but I wanted to think that she wasn’t
mad, anyway, and that everything was normal.
“What are you doing?” I asked her. It was
stupid to ask her what she was doing, but it was

173
the only thing that I could think of saying and it
was normal to say something. She started to
answer my question almost before I had finished
speaking.
“What am I doing? What does it look like
I’m doing? I’m cleaning up the mess around here
just like I’m always doing. I’m cleaning the
cabinets because Rose is too lazy to do it. I’m
cleaning the pantry because you just leave
everything in there any old way. What do you
think I’m doing?” She was already very mad
even though she wasn’t screaming.
“Oh,” I said, noticing that I was tired. “Do
you want me to help you?”
She put her rag down and turned around,
and I saw her face. Her whole face looked as if
she were trying to squeeze everything on it
together around her nose: her lips were closed
under the bottom of her nose, her eyes looked as
if they had moved nearer to each other and
towards her nose, and she stared at me. I tried
not to see her face even though I had to look at
her.
“You’ve already been enough help,” she
said. “Just get your lunch and stay out of my
way.” She turned around, picked up the rag and
wiped the shelf again.
I stood without moving. I didn’t want to eat
in the kitchen while she was there, but I wasn’t
allowed to bring food into my room. If I took food
out of the refrigerator, it would make a mess and

174
that would make her even more angry.
“Did you have a good time with the Leveys
last night?” I suddenly asked her. She didn’t
answer; she just kept wiping the same cabinet
shelf. The sound of the rag was too loud.
“Should I take something to eat into my
room? So that I’m not in your way?” I said, still
trying to have a normal conversation, to make
the conversation normal.
“Do whatever you want,” she answered.
“I’m totally disgusted with you.”
I waited, watching her, and then I said, “Is
it okay if I eat something at the table?”
She turned around and looked at me with
the same squeezed-together face, threw the rag
onto the counter and walked over to where I was
standing. I jumped inside of myself and stepped
backwards a very little bit and, after I did that,
she came even closer to me, leaning forward so
that her face was in front of mine.
“I’ll tell you what you can do. You want to
know what you can do? You can clean up your
dishes for a change and put them in the
dishwasher instead of leaving them in the sink
for me to take care of like a spoiled brat.” She
pointed her finger at the table and I saw that her
hand was shaking. Her voice got louder. “And
when you do that, you can make sure that
everything is put away in the refrigerator and
wipe up the counter and help me a little bit,
instead of just going around doing whatever you

175
please and letting me wait on you like some kind
of slave. That’s what you can do. How do you
like that, huh?”
I stepped backwards again, and I felt one of
the kitchen chairs touch my side, so I moved a
little away from it, and wherever I moved, she
followed me, getting closer and closer to my
face. She stared at me with bulging eyes.
“I’m sorry. Next time I’ll put my bowl in the
dishwasher, I promise,” I said.
“You think it’s that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, do you? Look at me when I’m
speaking to you. Look at me.”
“I said I’m sorry.” My voice was beginning
to shake. I looked at her face and tried not to
cry. I was forced to ask her: “What else did I
do?”
“What else did you do? Did you pick up
your dirty laundry this morning? Did you? If I’ve
told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times,
pick up your laundry and put it in the hamper. I
don’t need to go in your closet and find laundry
on the floor. And close your closet door, turn off
the lights and close your closet door.”
“I’m sorry; I was late so I was in a hurry.”
The muscles in my throat were tight and I
tried not to start crying like a baby.
“Why not try getting up on time then, for a
change. Did you ever think of that? Huh? Do
you think I like picking up your dirty laundry?”

176
 “No.”
“What?” Her spit hit me in the face. Now
she was yelling.
“No,” I said louder and my voice squeaked.
“You should be glad there’s someone to
wash your clothes for you and take care of you,
instead of just taking everything for granted. It’s
about time you started to appreciate what’s
done for you.”
“Okay,” I said.
“You know, there are a lot of children who
would be very grateful to have what you have.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, and my voice was
louder too, and I felt tears in my eyes.
“Okay?” She screamed in my face, “On
Tuesday you left junk all over your room. I find
soldiers on the floor, food in your room; I find all
sorts of things. You never turn off lights. You
leave laundry on the floor, you leave dishes in the
sink. Last week I found your sweater in the den,
where your stuff doesn’t belong at all. Did you
ever think of putting anything away? Are you
that lazy? I think you enjoy being a slob, don’t
you?
“No,” I whispered, and she just kept
screaming.
You don’t pick up. You don’t do your
homework.”
“No. Okay. You already told me about the
sweater and I said I wouldn’t leave anything in
the den. I’ll clean up everything. I promise.”

177
 The tears were dripping down my cheeks. I
kept my throat tight, though, so that I wouldn’t
make crying noises.
“Listen, you. While we’re having this
discussion, there’s something you did that we
need to have a little talk about. I think you know
what I mean, don’t you?”
“No,” I said very quietly, feeling as if there
were no air in my body. “No, I really don’t.”
“No? No?”
“I didn’t do anything, really, I didn’t,” I said.
My throat felt so tight that it was hard for me to
speak. “It was Davey.”
“What are you talking about? Are you
trying to be cute with me? I want to know what
kind of nonsense you thought you were pulling
with Mr. Arnold at school the other day? What
did you and Davey do?”
“Wha’ d’ya mean?” I squealed like a pig.
I would cry; I was crying.
“You know darn well what I mean, mister
and I want an answer. I have a good mind to
take the hairbrush to you.”
“I don’t know what you mean, honest,” I
said, and my voice honked and made a scraping
sound.
“Don’t lie to me. I know what’s going on.
You may think I don’t, but I do. I’m talking about
the test you took in Mr. Arnold’s class.”
I tried to understand what she was saying,
but my thoughts were jumping around in my

178
brain. I was very afraid that she would hit me
with the brush.
“I don’t know,” I squeaked, blowing a snot
bubble out of my nose.
“I’m talking about the test you took in Mr.
Arnold’s class. Didn’t he give you a test last
week?”
Then I knew what she was talking about.
“You mean the pop quiz?”
“Call it whatever you like. You took a test
or a quiz or whatever in Mr. Arnold’s class last
week didn’t you? Didn’t you take a test?” She
screamed at my face.
“Yes, yes.”
I wanted to tell her that it was a pop quiz,
but I couldn’t. I was afraid of the brush and I
kept crying like a baby.
“And what sort of stupid nonsense did you
write on the test. Go on. Tell me.”
“I didn’t write nonsense. Honest. I
answered the question.”
What did she want me to say?
“You didn’t write nonsense? You didn’t
write nonsense, did you?”
She kept spitting as she screamed. Her
voice was so loud that it made a ringing noise in
my head.
“No!”
“Don’t lie to me, you. I spoke to Mr. Arnold.”
“Why did you speak to him? I didn’t do
anything, I swear.”

179
 “Do you know that you got a D- on the test?
You don’t know that do you! Do you? That’s why
I spoke to him. Because everybody is trying to
help you, that’s why. You may not be the
smartest person in the class, but at least you
can do your homework. You can study for a test.
Do you think you could study for a test? Do you?
Nobody is asking you to get an A, we’re just
trying to find a way to make you put in an
acceptable performance. Can’t you appreciate
that?”
I didn’t have the energy to answer anymore.
She watched me and waited for me to say
something, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t make words.
I just cried and hoped that she would be finished
soon and not hit me with the hairbrush.
“So you just decided to write some
nonsense because you probably didn’t study. Did
you? What was it that you wrote? He asked you
what it meant that the boy in the book was
crippled and you said what? You said he was
crippled because it was a story about a crippled
boy? I can’t believe that. Did you think he would
read that and not say anything? Were you trying
to fail? I bet you didn’t even read the book.
That’s it, isn’t it? You were too lazy to read the
book, so you just had to invent some stupid
answer.”
“I did read the book. I did,” I yelled.
“Don’t you yell at me, you brat. Don’t you
ever yell at your elders, especially me.”

180
 “But I read the book.”
“Go in your room,” she said. “I’m disgusted
with you. I don’t know what I have to do to get
through to you. You can come out after you’ve
thought about this for a while and then maybe
you’ll have something to say to me. You need to
apologize for the way you act. Maybe from now
on you’ll know that I won’t stand for this kind of
thing.” She stopped looking at me. “My God,
what am I supposed to do with you?”
When she said this, I turned around and ran
out of the kitchen as fast as I could. I went into
my room and closed the door quietly, and I lay
down on the bed and pushed my face into the
pillow so that my crying would be less loud. I
was crying like a baby; I was crying so hard that
I couldn’t breathe. I squeezed the pillow around
my head, and then I had the idea that I would get
snot and tears on the bedspread and make a
mess on the bed, so I slid down onto the floor
and pushed my face into the side of the mattress
under the bedspread where she couldn’t see the
wet spots that I made on the blanket, and I tried
to stop crying but I couldn’t.
“I told her it was a pop quiz, not a test. You
can’t study for a pop quiz. How was I supposed
to know about a pop quiz?”
I was talking as if there were someone in
the room who was listening to me. I heard
myself speaking, but I didn’t stop even though I
was alone. I whispered with my face pressed

181
against the side of the mattress, and I tried to
breathe and to stop crying. It always happened
like that. I couldn’t think of anything to say to
her while she was yelling at me and then, when I
was alone, I thought of things to say and I
whispered them so that she couldn’t hear me.
“And I did answer the question. He asked
why did the author give the hero of the story an
injury and I answered what he asked. What I
said was right. If the hero didn’t get injured then
nothing after that in the book could have
happened. Nothing. The author had to give him
an injury so that he couldn’t be a silversmith. Mr.
Arnold knows it’s true.”
I choked on my breath and coughed, and
suddenly there were loud steps in the hall and,
almost as soon as I heard them, the door opened
fast and she walked into the room with big heavy
steps and put a pile of clothes on the bed so
close to my head that a zipper scraped against
my ear.
“Get off of the floor, you, and put these
things away and do it properly for a change
instead of like a slob like you usually do.”
I stood up and tried not to look away from
her face, to look at her eyes that were bulging
and staring at me.
“What do you think you’re doing on the
floor, you lazy brat? With the amount of time you
spend sitting around, sitting around staring out
the window, you’d think you would find time to do

182
what you’re supposed to, but no. You can’t be
bothered. You must think you’re some kind of
little prince. Is that what you think? That you’re
above it all and everyone should wait on you?”
“No,” I said and I squeaked like a pig and
cried harder.
“Do something constructive for a change, if
you can which I doubt.”
She bent her face at mine and her eyes
stared. I thought that she would keep going, but
then she turned around, walked out of the room
and slammed the door.
I picked up the folded clothes and took
them across the room to the bureau. My arms
were weak. I didn’t care that tears were
dripping onto the clothes, but I had to keep them
neatly folded and not mess up the drawers; she
would look inside the drawers.
“It wasn’t because the boy was arrogant.
The boy wasn’t being punished for thinking he
was better than the others. That’s just a stupid
excuse. Anyway, the boy was better. He was a
better silversmith than the others. Everybody
knew that the boy was better. The Silversmith
knew it. He was trying to help the Silversmith
and he had an accident. You can’t punish him for
trying to help the Silversmith. Was it the right
answer to say that the boy was being punished
by having an accident for knowing that he was
better at making silver than the others and good
enough to help the Silversmith? To leave out

183
that if he hadn’t been injured the story would
have been over? That would be really smart: why
did the author have the hero burn his hand so
that it wasn’t normal and he couldn’t use his
thumb anymore? Because the author wanted the
hero to be punished for thinking that he was a
good silversmith, even though he really was a
good silversmith. Even though the hero was
trying to do the right thing, he had to be
punished and it didn’t matter that, if he didn’t
burn his hand, then he could have been a
silversmith and the story would have been over,
but the author wasn’t thinking about that. No, he
wasn’t thinking that the hero has to burn his
hand so that I can write this story. He wanted
the reader to know that the hero had to be
punished.”
I made a loud squealing breath; I couldn’t
stop crying. I squeezed myself between the bed
and the desk and sat on the floor with my back
against the wall and my face pressed against the
bed.
“She doesn’t know anything about it; what
does she know about it. Has she read the book?
No. When did she ever read the book? I read the
book but she didn’t read the book and she says
that I didn’t read the book. What does she know
about it?”
I noticed that my voice was getting louder
and I made it quiet again, but I didn’t stop
speaking, talking to nobody, to the air or myself.

184
 “It’s not fair. She already yelled at me for
leaving something in the den. I left it there so
that I could answer the phone. She was the one
who told me to answer the phone and then I
forgot that it was there because of her. I can’t
help it she tells me to answer the phone. But
then she has to yell at me about it a second
time. I just left my bowl in the sink.”
I heard the sound of footsteps again in the
hall. I stopped whispering and tried to think of
something that I could be doing when she came
into the room so that she wouldn’t know that I
was still sitting on the floor crying and talking to
myself, and I pulled the spread down to cover the
wet spot on the blanket and stood up as fast as I
could and smoothed the spread with my hands,
and then the door opened very quickly. She
stood in the doorway and looked at me; I was
bending over the bed with one hand on the
spread, not moving, looking back at her. Her
face was less squeezed together. I didn’t cry.
“Well?”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
I knew that she was done.
“What? I didn’t hear you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again and louder, but
being careful not to yell, and my voice squeaked
even though I tried to make it sound normal. I
sounded like a baby.
“Why are you sorry?”
“Because I made you angry.”

185
 “Not because you made me angry. That’s
ridiculous. You have to pay attention. The
problem is you. I’m angry because I want you to
behave and do your school work, and I don’t
think that’s so much to ask, do you?”
“No.”
“Is it so much to ask that you do what
every other child in the world does? That you
behave in school? That you clean up your room
and not live like a slob? That you don’t leave
things all over the house?”
“No.” My voice squeaked and I breathed in
air as if I had been holding my head under water
for a long time.
“I should say not. And what are you going
to do from now on?”
She walked into the room. She walked
normally without squeezing her shoulders
together and with normal steps, and she stopped
next to the desk, not close to me.
“I’m going to pick my stuff up and not leave
it on the floor, I promise.”
“And?”
“I’m going to do my homework.”
“It’s not just that, although you have to do
your assignments. If the Teacher gives you a
book to read, you’re expected to read it. It’s that
simple. But you also have to behave in class and
not just give flip answers when someone asks
you a question. I want you to apply yourself. Do
you understand?”

186
 “Yes, but I did read the book.”
“Well, you have to complete the job and
then listen to the Teacher and answer his
questions properly, and I don’t want any
arguments about that.”
I couldn’t answer her.
“You understand that the reason I’m asking
you to do this is because you have to learn how
to take care of things and not be spoiled and
expect other people always to do for you?”
“Yes.”
“Is that so much to ask?”
“No,” I said, and the “no” sounded almost
like a honk and I started to cry hard again.
I gave up trying not to cry; I stood next to
the bed and looked at the floor and the tears
dripped off of my face.
“Come here,” she said, holding her arms
apart to hug me.
I walked to where she was standing and
she closed her arms around my shoulders.
“You’re getting so big,” she said. “You know
I love you, don’t you?”
I nodded my head, crying with my face
pressed against her sweater. I couldn’t speak.
“And you know that we are all trying to help
you?”
I nodded again and made pig noises and
coughed.
“Come let’s get you a tissue. You’re getting
tears all over my sweater!”

187
 She held my hand and we walked out of my
room and into her bedroom. I looked at the floor
and let her lead me. She gave me a tissue.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Blow. Everything is
going to be alright.”
I blew my nose and made more pig noises.
“Blow again. Come sit here next to me.”
She sat on the bed, which I wasn’t
supposed to do, but I knew that I was allowed
this time. She put her hand on my back.
“You know,” she said, “it’s tough being a
parent. It’s hard bringing up a child and making
sure that they are cared for and educated so that
they grow up properly. Did you ever think of
that? I bet you never thought of that, did you?”
I shook my head; I didn’t need to speak
anymore.
“I have a tough job.”
I nodded.
“You’re lucky because you have so many
people rooting for you and helping you, and
someday, when you’re older and you get married
and have a family of your own, you’re going to
appreciate all of the things I did for you. It’s just
like they always say, ‘youth is wasted on the
young,’ and right now you just don’t understand,
but someday you will.”
She stopped speaking so I nodded my head
again. My breathing was more normal, and I
started to feel happy sitting next to her on the
bed. I hoped that she would keep talking to me.

188
I wiped my nose on my sleeve.
“Don’t do that,” she said. “Let me give you
another tissue.”
“I realize that I’m not always perfect,” she
started talking again. “Sometimes, I make
mistakes and I know that sometimes you’re
going to make mistakes too, even though you’re
really a good boy. We all do. That’s just the way
life is. But we have to try and do better. Does
that make sense?”
I held the tissue under my nose and nodded
my head. I felt tired. It would have been nice to
lie down on the bed and go to sleep.
“I know that you’re not the smartest kid in
your class. You may not be a Carl Lobell or one
of those boys. Sometimes I think that I made a
mistake sending you to school when I did and
that I should hold you back.”
“No!”
“Well we’re not thinking of doing that now,
but in return you need to apply yourself better.
It’s not just the grades you get, you need to pay
attention to improving your effort grade too. Do
you think you can do that?”
“Yes. I don’t want to be left back.”
“Okay, okay, I said we weren’t thinking of
doing that now. Just as long as you understand.
And your teachers and I are going to continue to
help you. Does that sound good?”
I nodded.
“I’m sorry if I upset you, but sometimes I

189
just need to let you know what’s what. Do you
forgive me?”
I nodded. I was sad because I knew that
now she would stop talking to me.
“Good. That’s over and done with.
Everything is alright. I have an idea. I’ll make
you a sandwich while you go in your room and do
your homework and then later you can help me
get dinner ready for Grandma Kay and Grandpa
Murray, and your Daddy is coming too. How does
that sound?”
“Okay,” I said.
“Remember, I love you. Give me a kiss.”
I stood up and kissed her.
“Come on, you can do better than that,” she
said.
I kissed her again and hugged her while
she sat on the bed.



Gray light. I watched cars pass on the

street below the window: a brown truck, two
taxicabs, a police car, more cabs, a bus. A
taxicab and a blue station wagon stopped at the
corner and then started moving again. If your
mind is empty and you only watch, time passes
slowly. Then a memory, an idea, can carry you
away and when you wake up it is much later, or
maybe not much later at all.
“Sweetie.”

190
 I got off the radiator box and walked into
her room.
“What were you doing?”
“Looking out the window,” I answered. She
was dressed only in her underwear.
“What’s so interesting out there?”
“Nothing.”
“Go into the kitchen and get the telephone
book for me,” she said.
I went and got the telephone book out of
the cabinet under the counter in the pantry and
brought it to her. She sat on a chair near the
bedside table and put the book on her lap. While
she turned its pages, looking for a phone number,
I stood next to her bureau, watching her and
waiting. After she had found the number and
started to dial it, I walked back to my room and
sat down again on the radiator box.
The steam in the radiator made a ticking
noise that was first slow and then fast and faster
until, suddenly, it stopped. I could feel warm air
moving, rising around me. Warm inside the room
and then at the edge there is the thin glass and
outside the glass, cold gray space. I sat with my
forehead touching the window, and tried to see
straight down the brick front of the building,
something that I couldn’t do, I knew, something
that I hadn’t been able to do before, but maybe
this time would be different and I would see.
Almost the same as sitting in the air on the
other side, above that space in the cold gray

191
light, and not to fall, but to be almost falling and
then to think of falling. How it felt, how long
before hitting the pavement?
“I need you.”
Again, I got off the radiator box and walked
into her room. She would want me to put the
telephone book back in the cabinet under the
pantry counter.
“Sweetie, I need the step stool. When you
go and get it, put this away, please.” She handed
me the telephone book.
I went into the pantry and put away the
telephone book. Then I brought her the step
stool.
“Open it in the closet,” she said.
I did, and she climbed onto it and looked
inside one of the boxes on the shelves above her
clothes.
“I know I have a little black pockabook
with a gold clasp in here somewhere. Isn’t that
silly that I don’t know where it is?”
I waited and watched, but I didn’t say
anything. Her rear end covered by the shiny tight
slip was in front of my face. The slip, I noticed,
had a lace border.
“Here. Hold this.”
She handed me a small purse and then
another larger one, and she moved things around
inside the box.
“Thank you. You’re being a big help. You’re
going to be a good husband someday when you

192
grow up.”
This idea surprised me. I thought about
being a grownup, but I couldn’t imagine anything
in the future. After trying for a minute I said, “I
don’t want to grow up.”
She laughed. “What kind of thing is that to
say? You don’t mean that. Do you want to be
Peter Pan and live in Never Land?” and then she
changed her voice and started to sing: “I don’t
wanna grow up. I don’t wanna go to school. I’ll
never grow up, never grow up, never grow uh-up,
not me,” and she laughed again. “Is that what
you want: to be Peter Pan? I think I’ll have to
take this out of the closet to find it. What do you
think?” She started to pull the box out from
under another one and, while she did that, the
telephone rang.
“Answer that, please,” she said.
I walked across the room to her bedside
table and picked up the receiver. “Hello,” I said.
“Who’s this?” a woman’s voice asked.
“It’s Mrs. Rosen,” I said to Aunt Doris.
I held the receiver in my hand and waited
for her to get off the step stool and take it.
“Don’t you say hello, how are you?” she
asked me.
“I said hello.”
She took the phone.
“Helen, how are you? Forgive him, we were
just looking for something in the closet. How’s
Bob?”

193
 I waited for her to finish talking, because I
knew that soon she would want me to help her
move the box.
(“They always said that: who’s this?”) I
argued to myself without speaking out loud. (“I
said hello. She didn’t say hello to me; she didn’t
say how are you. They always did that.”)
The next time I answered the phone I would
ask her if she knew what number she had dialed.
(“Who do you think it is? Who did you
call?”)
I could act as if I didn’t know already who
she was and ask her what number she had
dialed, but I knew that I was too afraid to do
that. I wouldn’t do that because I was afraid.
“Sweetie, close your mouth, and come and
help me.”
She climbed back onto the step stool and
handed me the box. I put it on her bed, and she
found the purse that she was looking for. Then
she closed the box and I helped her put it back
on the closet shelf.
“Okay. I’m done,” she said
I folded the step stool and carried it
through the kitchen to the maid’s room, and I slid
it into the cabinet. After I had put away the
stool, I walked back to my room.
What could I do? I looked at the bookcase.
The books were in even rows on the shelves.
Beside the books there were knick-knacks: two
marble bookends that looked like horse’s heads

194
and a picture in a metal frame of the kids who
had been in my bunk at camp the summer
before, some fancy toy soldiers like the ones that
Carl collected, a bowl with a plant in it and two
rectangular clay heads that I had made in Art.
The record player on the counter under the book
shelves was closed and the records were in their
jackets next to it. I looked at the desk. Nothing
was on the desk blotter. A bunch of sharp
pencils were standing in a yellow china mug
between the blotter and the desk lamp. The
lamp had been in Grandma Kay’s apartment
when I was little, I remembered. The bedspread
was smooth and tight, the bolsters on top of it
against the wall, and the cushions on the
upholstered chair that also was from Grandma
Kay’s apartment were puffed up the way they
were supposed to be. Everything was arranged
the right way, which made me feel calm. I sat
down again on the radiator box with my back
against the side of the bookcase and looked out
the window.
“You have all those expensive toys in your
closet,” she said to me. “Why don’t you use
them? I didn’t buy them just so they could sit in
your closet.”
“I use them,” I said.
“Well instead of sitting there and staring
out the window with your mouth open, why don’t
you do something?”
“I’m going to do something.”

195
 I got up and walked into the closet. She
watched me and then I heard her leave the room.
I moved the back of my head over the
smooth side of the bookcase until the upper
edge of the frame that held the window glass
was just under a row of bricks in the building
across the street.
The blocks were piled on the floor in the
middle of my room. I stared at them and tried to
see something that might be part of a good
building.
“I’m talking about using the other toys you
have. You always play with the same toys,” she
said. “Why don’t you use something else?”
“I like blocks,” I said.
“I know you like blocks and that’s fine, but
there are other things you can do too. You have
all those expensive toys. Why don’t you use
them? Go on. Why don’t you get some of those
games out? It’s not right to just let them sit in
your closet.”
“Do you want to play a game?” I asked her.
“Those are for you to play with your
friends, but you can play with them yourself too.
Maybe you can play them tomorrow with Katie.
Take some of the other toys out and see what
you can find that you might like to play with
Katie. Come on. I’ll help you.”
She went into my closet and brought out
some boxes. I put them on the floor and opened
one of them: an erector set. The erector set had

196
lots of metal pieces and little screws. It was
hard to screw the pieces together and I couldn’t
make anything good with them. There were
pictures of good things on the box, but I couldn’t
make them. She sat on the desk chair and
watched me. I took two pieces out of the box
and started screwing them together.
“That’s it,” she said, “you can build with
that too, you know.”
I couldn’t make the screw tight enough to
stop the pieces from moving.
“What’s in the other box? Show me,” she
said.
I was glad that she wanted to see
something else because the metal screw was
hurting my fingers. I dropped the erector set
parts and opened the other box. It was a game.
“What’s in there? Why don’t you take it
out?”
“Take it out?”
“Tip it over. See what’s inside, silly.”
I tipped the box over, and the board and the
cards and the dice and a lot of cardboard things
fell onto the floor.
“Let’s get some other games,” she went
back into the closet and came out with more
boxes. She sounded as if she were having a
good time.
“Open them up and take everything out.
Enjoy them,” she said.
I opened the boxes one at a time.

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 “Should I put all of this stuff on the floor?” I
asked her.
“Of course you can,” she said. “What do
you think?”
Soon there were chips and dice and little
men and animals and cards and cardboard
pieces all over the floor. There was a pile of
cards next to my knee. I picked it up and started
looking at the pictures on the cards.
“That’s it,” said Aunt Doris. “Dig in and
enjoy yourself. That’s what this stuff is for.”
Then she stood up and started to leave the room.
“Stay here with me,” I said.
“I have things I have to do. You go ahead
and play. Spread out and have a good time. I’ll
come back later.”
“Please!”
“Not now. You play.”
“Why can’t I go to the party tonight?” I said
when she was almost in the hall.
She turned around and looked down at me.
“I told you already that it’s a grownup party. It’s
not for children.”
“But Kate is going.”
“Katie is going because it’s her Father’s
birthday.”
“That’s not fair,” I said.
“Of course it’s fair. Anyway, she’ll be here
after the party and when you wake up tomorrow
morning you’ll see her and you two can play.”
She walked out of the room.

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 I looked at the junk on the floor. I couldn’t
think of anything to do with it. I didn’t know how
to play the games and, anyway, I couldn’t play
them by myself because you needed two people
to play a game. I picked up some of the dice and
felt the little dots on their smooth sides. Then I
put them down and looked at a game board.
There was a picture on the board of a bunch of
clowns getting out of a very small car. They had
big shoes and red noses, and they were wearing
stupid clothes and makeup. I had seen them
when Aunt Doris and Mrs. Lobell had taken Carl
and Davey and Tommy and me to the circus.
We sat in the dark and I looked at the small
lights bouncing in the air all around us. Davey
and I were shaking our flashlights over our
heads. Carl’s flashlight was already broken; I
worried that mine would break, too. Davey
pointed his at my face and I put my hand up so
that he couldn’t shine it in my eyes. This was
the best part of the show. I watched the little
bright spots bouncing up and down, and hoped
that the room would stay dark, but a big light in
the ceiling started waving around on the circus
floor as if it were looking for something, and
then it found what it was looking for, a little car,
and it stopped waving. The car stopped and all
four of its doors opened at the same time and, as
soon as they were open, clowns started getting
out of the car and the people watching
screamed. The clowns ran around and more big

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colored lights turned on in the ceiling and the
clowns waved their arms and kicked their feet at
each other like little kids, and I could hear
people laughing at them. More clowns got out of
the car, and that was a surprise because the car
was very small. Their faces were covered with
makeup so that they didn’t look like real people.
They had circles around their eyes and red dots
on their cheeks. They had red hair that stuck up
in the air. They wore hats that were very small
or very big, but none of them had a hat that
looked as if it were the right size for his head.
Their clothes were all wrong, too. They stuck
out in wrong places and bounced up and down,
and they were wrong colors. Their shoes were
very long and had fat toes. No real person would
ever wear clothes like that. More clowns got out
of the car, and this was a bigger surprise. How
did so many people get inside of such a small
car? One of the clowns was carrying a baseball
bat, and he started trying to hit other clowns
with it. Every time he swung the bat there was a
loud whistle noise. The people watching the
circus laughed, even though he was trying to
hurt someone. A fat clown wearing a dress
sprayed water out of a bottle at a small clown. I
thought that the fat clown in the dress was a
man. The small clown, who had stubby legs, got
a bucket out of the car. He held it over his head,
and he chased the big clown. When the big
clown was very close to the seats, the small

200
clown swung the bucket and lots of pieces of
colored paper came out of it and landed on the
people in the seats. They screamed and other
people screamed. Then the small clown with
stubby legs dropped his bucket, bent over and
stuck his rear end out, put his hands on his
cheeks and made a surprised face, and ran away.
There were lots of honking noises and whistles
and people were laughing. I looked at Aunt Doris
and she looked at me and smiled a big smile,
which surprised me. I looked at Davey. He
wasn’t watching the show; he was playing with
his flashlight and saying something to Carl.
Suddenly, there was a loud siren noise. All of the
clowns ran back to their car and got inside as
fast as they could, and a little police car came
out from behind a curtain at the end of the room.
The clown car started to go around in circles
and there were loud engine noises and the police
car chased it, and then both cars went behind
the curtain and the lights went out and the
noises stopped.
I turned on my flashlight, but as soon as I
started waving it, a big light turned on and there
was sad music. A clown in very messy clothes
was standing in the middle of the light. He was
holding a broom. Aunt Doris leaned over Carl’s
lap and started to whisper to me. Her face
looked the way it did when she told me that she
was saying something important.
“He’s very famous,” she said. “He’s really

201
terrific. Watch what he does. He’s really
terrific.”
“Okay,” I said.
She was talking about the clown, who was
trying to sweep a small spot of light into a
dustpan, but he couldn’t do it, because it was a
spot of light. It kept moving the wrong way. The
clown’s clothes were dark and dirty and torn,
and he had a big handkerchief hanging out of his
pocket. The makeup made his face look sad. He
tried to clean up the light, but it kept moving the
wrong way, and then he started to cry, and he
took out his handkerchief and blew his nose.
There was a loud noise, and the people watching
him laughed, but he didn’t say anything. He just
looked around the room, and they laughed even
more. That was bad, and I said so to Aunt Doris.
“Oh, Sweetie,” she said, “don’t be silly.
He’s just pretending.”
“But why are the people laughing at him?”
“Because he’s silly. Don’t you think he’s
silly?”
I didn’t answer her question.
“Why is he wearing dirty clothes?” I asked
her. “Why does he have to clean up the circus
when he doesn’t have clean clothes?”
“Oh, those are just his clown clothes.”
“But they’re ripped and dirty,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it. Just watch what he
does. His own clothes are nice,” she said.
The light that the sad clown was trying to

202
sweep turned into two and then three and then
four smaller lights, and I knew that he was
unhappy and felt stupid because he couldn’t
sweep them into the dustpan and lots of people
were looking at him. “They’re lights,” I
screamed, but he knew that they were lights
because he was a grownup. He knew that he
couldn’t clean them off the floor, so why did he
stay there and let people laugh at him?
“Why is he doing that?” I asked her.
“To be funny,” she said.
“But you can’t sweep light,” I said.
“Well, that’s why it’s funny. Oh, I guess
you’re too young to get it,” she said
I wondered if Davey and Carl knew that he
was funny?
I stopped looking at the board and threw it
at my bed. Then I crawled around the pile of
junk on the floor to the place where my blocks
were. Maybe I could use some of the stuff from
the boxes to make a building.
Everyone would be at the party except me.
If Kate went, I should go too. It wasn’t fair. I
was as old as Kate. I went to Christmas and
Kate came to my birthday. Why didn’t Aunt Joan
invite me?
I heard her walking in the hall, and then
she came into the room.
“Well, I see that you’ve been busy,” she
said.
“It’s not fair that I can’t go to the party

203
tonight,” I said.
“Please, are you going to start that again?
I’ve told you, it’s a grownup party. It will be over
very late. It’s not for children.”
“But Kate is going. That’s not fair.”
“Because it’s her Father’s birthday; she’s
going for a while and then she’s coming here.
Now stop it. That’s enough of that. I suppose
we might as well clean up this mess,” she said.
“Can’t I leave it here for a while?”
“Not like this. I want the house
straightened up when Aunt Joan brings Katie.
Go ahead, put it away.”
“But I can’t put it away by myself.”
“Of course you can. It will only take a few
minutes. It’s your toys and your room and you
have to learn to take care of your own things if
you’re going to use them.”
“Help me,” I said.
“No. I told you. You do it. That’s enough of
this. Go on. Be sure to put everything in the
right boxes.”
“Turn on some lights; don’t sit here in the
dark,” she said, and she turned on the ceiling
light. She was standing in the doorway. She had
finished dressing. “Linda is here.”
“Where are you going?” I asked her.
“Oh, just a restaurant with some boring
grownups. I left the number on a piece of paper
next to the telephone in my room. There are
leftovers in the refrigerator for your dinner.”

204
 “Okay.”
“Don’t stay up too late. You can watch TV,
but I want you in bed at a reasonable hour.”
“Okay.”
“Come on. Let’s go say hi to Linda. See me
to the door.”
I went with her to the foyer; Linda was
there.
“Hi,” she said.
Linda was a nurse. She was wearing a skirt
and a sweater. She had big breasts.
“Hi,” I said.
I watched Aunt Doris put on her mink coat
and a pair of gloves made of very thin leather.
Then I held the door open for her and she walked
into the vestibule and pressed the button to call
the elevator.
“Don’t stay up too late,” she said “and clean
up the dishes after you eat dinner.”
“Okay. Have a good time,” I said.
She got on the elevator and Carl slid the
door shut. I heard the gate inside of the door
bang closed and then the sound of the motor and
the twang made by the elevator cable. I shut the
apartment door and locked it.



(“Why shouldn’t you use a spread as an

extra blanket? The spread isn’t going to get
dirty. It’s not even touching your skin; it’s just

205
touching the air, like a blanket. Sometimes, she
lies on her bed, and her hands and feet are on
the spread, and her hair. That’s less clean than
using a spread as a blanket. So why can’t you
use a spread? If you’re cold and it’s the middle
of the night and you’re asleep and don’t know
what other blanket you can use and the spread is
on the chair near the bed? The spread is even
unfolded when you use it so it doesn’t get
wrinkled.”)
My shoulders were tight, and I was walking
fast, one arm swinging. With my other hand, I
held my briefcase.
(“And then she has to say, guess what.
Take a guess why. It’s not good enough to just
ask me not to use the spread. Does she tell me
to guess because she thinks I don’t understand
what she’s talking about? Does she think that I
don’t understand? People say guess what when
they’re talking about something fun or something
interesting or exciting. Does she think that’s
interesting? Oh gee! You have to leave the
bedspread on the chair when you’re asleep? Boy,
I’m really surprised and interested to hear that
because I got cold and I thought it would be okay
to use the bedspread as a cover because it is a
cover. Boy, was I stupid to think that. Thanks so
much for letting me know. I can’t wait to tell the
kids in class; golly gee, will they be excited! The
teachers too. They may decide to have Class
Meeting about it. It’s time for Class Meeting

206
about the bedspread. Guess what: who cares
about the spread? And why does she say what
do you think? Were we discussing something?
Does she think that we were having a
discussion? That I think we were having a
discussion? She doesn’t want to know what I
think. What do I think? You mean what do you
think, not what do I think. Wow, are you clever;
I’m just so amazed at the way you said that.
Everyone must want to be just like you. This is
such a fun conversation. I want to learn to say
smart things so that instead of just telling
somebody something, I can be smart like you.”)
I looked around; a bus was stopping next to
the curb. Had I spoken? Four or five men and
two women were standing at the bus stop, but
nobody was staring at me. Carl wasn’t there,
though. He had left ahead of me, I was sure.
Would I be late? I looked at my watch.
The bus door opened. I let the grownups
get on first, and then I climbed up the stairs and
showed the driver my pass. All of the seats were
taken and a lot of people already were standing
in the isle. I pushed myself around the grownups
in front of me until I was next to the back door.
The bus started to move, and I gripped the steel
pole near the door.
(“Guess what? Nobody cares what you
think. Did you ever think that? Why doesn’t she
just say what she means? Because she’s so
smart. She pretends that I must have done

207
whatever I did because I don’t know that I’m not
supposed to do it. Wow, is she smart. Not like
me, because I can’t remember how to hang up a
towel. Oh, isn’t this fun. We’re so silly. We’re
pretending. Let’s play pretend - our favorite
game. Guess what? You get to be the idiot who
can’t remember how to fold a towel and I’m going
to surprise you by screaming until my eyes pop
out of my head, and we are just going to have a
great time. I’ll ask you what you think about
folding towels. Won’t that be fun? Oh yeah,
that’ll be a lot of fun. Well, guess what? I think
you shouldn’t fold towels. I think you should
throw towels on the floor. That’s the right thing
to do with them, and now we’re going to have
lots of fun yelling at you because you don’t throw
your towel on the floor. Well no, you idiot. That’s
the wrong answer. The right answer is that you
are too stupid and lazy to fold a towel the way
God wants it folded.”)
I jumped out the back door of the bus,
hurried to the corner and crossed the street in
front of the stopped cars. As soon as I got to the
opposite corner, the light changed and I was able
to cross the avenue. Carl and Davey weren’t at
the bus stop, but a bus was coming, so I wouldn’t
be late.
There were other kids waiting at the stop
and I was the last one to get on the bus. As I
started to climb the steps, I heard somebody
shout. I looked outside and saw Davey running

208
down the sidewalk and waving at me. I stood in
the doorway so that the driver couldn’t close the
door and watched Davey. His briefcase was
open and there were papers sticking out of it.
“Get outta the door, kid,” the driver said.
He closed the door against my side. It hit my
arm and then opened and closed, hitting my arm
again. I shoved my briefcase between the door
and the step.
“Hurry up,” I yelled at Davey.
“Move it, kid,” the bus driver told me again.
“I gotta go.”
Davey jumped through the doorway,
pushing me up the steps. I stumbled and
bumped into a man standing in front of me.
“What does it look like I’m doing, you idiot,”
Davey said. He was sweating and breathing fast.
We laughed.
The man I had bumped into stared at us
and then he turned around so that I was looking
at his back.
“I wish the drivers would do something
about them,” a woman sitting near him said.
“They shouldn’t let them on the buses if
they can’t behave themselves,” somebody else
said.
The bus driver didn’t say anything, except
step back from the door. He held the steering
wheel with both of his hands and spun it around,
and the bus tilted and moved away from the curb
making us stand on our toes and hold one of the

209
metal poles between the seats so that we
wouldn’t fall.
“Wow, that was a close one,” Davey said
and we both laughed again.
“You would’ve been late,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Do you already have detention?”
“Nah. I don’t think so. Do you?”
I looked at him. Davey knew that I had
never had detention.
“Do you want to come over Saturday?”
Davey asked. “We can go to a movie and then
you can have dinner and sleep over.”
“Sure,” I said. “But I have to ask.”
The bus tilted from side to side. I stood
with my briefcase between my feet and held on
to the pole. The floor shook and we swayed as
the bus rumbled over the street, going fast and
then slowly and then faster again. I had
forgotten about her. I pulled against the pole or
the pole pulled against my hand, and my head
rocked. Feeling loose inside my clothes, I
balanced so that I almost didn’t need to hold on
to the pole, and I opened my hand until my
fingers were just touching the metal. I thought
that everything would be okay when my real life
started.
Then we were at the bus stop near school;
maybe only a few minutes had passed since
Davey had jumped through the doorway. We got
off the bus and walked. Other kids were around

210
us, and I walked with Davey and started to think
about what we might do on Saturday.
Before I had an idea about the weekend,
though, I noticed that somewhere in front of us a
person was shouting. I looked to see who it was
and what was happening, and I saw a bum
standing on the sidewalk near the next corner,
screaming at a building. The kids and the people
walking past him were trying not to be close to
him.
“Look, it’s Mr. Smythe,” said Davey.
We both laughed.
“I think he has your test. Go ask him what
grade you got,” Davey said, and he pushed me
towards the bum.
I laughed. “No. He wants to talk to you,” I
said and I stepped around Davey so that I was
walking nearer the curb and Davey would be
between me and the bum when we passed him.
We got closer to the corner and I smelled
piss. The bum was holding a bottle that was
wrapped in a paper bag and, in his other hand, a
really dirty blanket. He had newspapers stuffed
inside of a ripped brown overcoat. I saw that the
coat had wet stains on it.
“What you think you are?” he was shouting.
“I’ll come here if I want. I don’t give a shit what
you say. I think I’ll come in you house. Get
warm.”
He had a dirty beard and long greasy-
looking hair. I could see that his teeth were

211
broken and he wasn’t wearing any socks; he was
wearing sneakers that weren’t tied, probably
because his feet were so fat. While I was paying
attention to the bum, Davey walked behind me so
that I was between Davey and where the bum
was standing again. I stopped moving because I
didn’t want Davey to have a chance to push me
against the bum. Davey grabbed my arm and
tried to drag me.
“Let go of me,” I yelled. He was trying to
make me touch the bum.
The bum turned around and looked at me.
“You think you so smart you know
everything?” He said and he came nearer to
where Davey and I had stopped walking. “You
better than otha people? I a person. It’s a free
country. That’s right. I don take no shit from
nobody.”
“Yeah, you tell him,” Davey said, and he let
go of my arm, ran between two parked cars and
walked in the street past where the bum was
standing.
The bum kept staring at me and I was
afraid that if I moved he would follow and get
closer to me. I looked for a grownup who could
tell the bum to leave me alone, but everyone on
the sidewalk was walking fast and trying not to
see the bum or me.
“You think you right tell’n me I’m not here?”
the bum said and looked at my face. “Where’m I
goin? What I do? I gotta sleep somewhere. I

212
gotta live. I don give a shit what he say.”
The bum made a step and I almost started
to run, which I didn’t want to do, but he turned
around and looked at the building again. When
he did that, I walked fast between the cars into
the street and past where the bum was standing,
the way Davey had.
“Who you think you calling like dat.” The
bum started yelling at the building again. “You
want me freeze? He think his building so nice I
cain go in dair?”
Davey was waiting for me at the corner.
“Boy Mr. Smythe stinks,” Davey said.
“Don’t push me like that, you idiot,” I said.
“I thought he had your paper.”
“I’m serious. Don’t push me.”
“Okay. I’m sorry. Come on.”
We walked the rest of the way to school.
“You’re right, though. Mr. Smythe definitely
needs to take a shower,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Davey. “Mr. Smythe is a fat pig.
They should send him to a pig farm.”
When we got to our homeroom, I was
laughing so hard that I had trouble breathing.
I had Math after Homeroom. I sat at a desk
in the back row and watched Mr. Tinsley draw a
line of numbers and letters on the blackboard.
Mr. Tinsley held his chalk as if it were a teacup
and, when he wrote on the blackboard, the chalk
didn’t squeak. Each Teacher had a different way
of writing on the blackboard. Mr. Smythe banged

213
his chalk against the board making little white
clouds of chalk dust; his clothes got very dusty,
and he broke a lot of chalk. When Mr. Tinsley
wrote on the board, the chalk just tapped and
then made a smooth scraping sound.
I thought that Mr. Tinsley’s name sounded
like his hair. Mr. Tinsley’s hair wasn’t brown and
it wasn’t gray. I had never seen a rat, but I had
the idea that his hair was the same color as rat
fur. You could see that it was stiff, too, partly
because it never moved, but also because it
looked shiny. Mr. Tinsley was getting bald. His
hair made a high wave on the top of his head, as
if there were a lot of it, but you could see skin
through the wave, and I thought that he would be
bald.
Mr. Tinsley was different from most of the
other people at school. He wore tight pants and
jackets, and pointed shoes. When I saw Mr.
Tinsley, I wanted to ask him why his lips were fat
and greasy and why his hair looked like rat fur.
This made me grin at Mr. Tinsley whenever I
talked to him, which wasn’t good, because I had
to talk to him a lot about bad grades and
mistakes on homework. He would show me what
I had done wrong or ask me what I didn’t
understand, and I would look at him and grin. I
knew that I wanted to be nasty to Mr. Tinsley,
even though in my other mind I also knew that
Mr. Tinsley was trying to be nice to me. I didn’t
think about that.

214
 The bell rang and I put my notebook in my
briefcase. Everyone started yelling and banging
chairs against desks and scraping them on the
floor.
“People! People!” Mr. Tinsley shouted and
flapped his hand in the air. “For tomorrow,
Chapter 6, problems 1 through 20. I want to see
all your work.”
I left the room as fast as I could and went
to History. Davey was already there, and we sat
next to each other at desks near the back of the
room. Davey took a bunch of messy papers out
of his briefcase and put them on his desk.
“How can you find anything in there?” I
asked him.
“What do you mean?” he said, tipping his
chin up in the air and making a loud sniff. “I’m
very organized.”
He pulled a sheet of paper covered with
smudged writing out of the pile, waved it in the
air and put it down very carefully. After looking
at it and tipping his head to the right and then to
the left, he turned the paper a little, looked at it
again, and slowly rubbed it with his palm to
make it smooth, but also smudging the words
even more. Then he put his other papers back
into his briefcase. The inside of his briefcase
looked like the inside of a garbage can.
“Is that your homework?” I asked him.
“Yeah.”
“When did you do it?”

215
 “Last night, you idiot. When did you do your
homework?”
“It just looks old.” Davey’s papers didn’t
need time to get old.
Davey grinned and held the sheet of paper
up in the air again between his thumb and finger;
he held it the way Mr. Tinsley held chalk and
while he was holding it he put his lips together
as if he were going to kiss somebody. Davey was
acting like Mr. Tinsley, but he wasn’t like Mr.
Tinsley.
“This is a beautiful piece of very fine work,”
he said. “Very few people can understand work
like this. Very few people are capable of
appreciating this type of interplay of ideas. In
the words of H. L. Mencken: ‘The human race is
divided into two classes: a minority that plays
with ideas and a majority that finds them
painful.’ I am a member of the minority.”
I laughed, even though I didn’t know who
Davey was talking about, and while I was
laughing Mr. Smythe came into the room, as
usual not really stepping but instead sliding his
feet on the floor as if he were skating. He
bumped into the blackboard, then sat down at
the Teacher’s desk. The chair made a screech.
“And here is the majority,” said Davey, and
we both laughed.
“It’s a good thing we sat back here,” I said.
“He forgot his wine and his blanket,” said
Davey, but not loud enough so that Mr. Smythe

216
could hear him.
“He forgot to zip his fly,” I whispered, and
we both started laughing really hard but quietly.
The bell rang.
“Okay, okay. Everybody let’s get settled
down,” Mr. Smythe said, and he looked at me and
Davey, so I tried to be serious.
“What’s so funny, Mr. Levey? Would you like
to share it with the class?”
“Me?” said Davey.
“Yes, you Mr. Levey.”
“Sir, I would really like to share it with the
class,” Davey said, “but it probably wouldn’t be
good right now. I’ll share it with them later,
definitely.”
“Yes, that probably would be more
appropriate.”
I had stopped laughing; I was just grinning,
but when Davey said this I started laughing so
hard that I had trouble breathing, and everyone
looked at me.
“Would you like to excuse yourself?” Mr.
Smythe said to me, and now he sounded angry.
“Why don’t you go and sit over there, away from
Mr. Levey so you can get yourself under control?”
He pointed at an empty desk in the third row
near the wall.
“I’m okay here, Sir,” I said.
“Go on. We have work to do. Don’t waste
anymore of our time.”
For a second I thought about arguing with

217
him, but then I looked at him and knew that he
would say no, and I thought that he might give
me detention because he was angry. I didn’t
want the other kids to see Mr. Smythe make me
move, but I had to pick up my briefcase and walk
in front of people to the other desk, so I did it
slowly. I sat down and looked over my shoulder.
The other kids were smiling, but Davey had made
his face sad. His head was tipped backwards
and he was shaking it just a little, pretending
that he was disappointed because he didn’t
approve of bad behavior. That started making
some of the other kids laugh. I wanted to do
something, too.
“Mr. Levey!” Mr. Smythe said in a loud
voice.
“What?” Davey asked him.
“Pay attention. Do you have your
homework?”
Davey picked up his homework and waved
it in the air.
“Good. Everybody pass your homework to
the front,” Mr. Smythe said.
I took my homework out of my briefcase
and leaned over the top of my desk to give it to
the kid sitting in front of me. As I leaned, the
desk slid forward a little bit and that gave me an
idea. While Mr. Smythe was collecting
homework, I took a piece of paper out of one of
my notebooks and wrote “move forward slowly”
on it. Then I folded it. Mr. Smythe was collecting

218
the papers.
“Pssst,” I said at the kid next to me.
He didn’t move.
“Hey,” I said, just a little louder.
He turned his head. I looked at Mr. Smythe
and then down at the piece of paper, which I held
next to my leg.
“Pass it on.” I moved my hand slowly
across the aisle.
“What is that!” Mr. Smythe yelled.
My hand jerked and I pushed the paper
under my leg quickly. I could feel that my face
was red.
“I asked you what is that!” he yelled again
even louder.
I looked up: he was staring at me.
“Nothing,” I said quietly.
“It’s not nothing. Get up and give it to me.
Now!”
Without waiting, I stood up and walked to
the front of the room. Mr. Smythe held his hand
open in front of me.
“Give me that,” he said.
I gave him the crumpled note. He looked
really mad; I had never seen him really mad
before. I thought that he was just a fat sloppy
teacher.
“It’s a piece of scrap paper,” I said, but I
knew that he wouldn’t believe me. “It’s nothing.
Honestly.”
“What does this mean? ‘Move forward

219
slowly?’ What does that mean?” he asked me,
again in a loud voice. His cheeks were red and
the hand holding the piece of paper was shaking.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Come on, what does this mean! Tell me or
you can tell the Headmaster! You’re going to
have to tell the Headmaster anyway.”
There was a ringing sound in my head and I
stopped seeing the rest of the room.
“I just needed more space in my seat,” I
said. I could barely hear my own voice because
of the sound in my head.
“Get out of here. Go down to the
Headmaster’s office and wait there.”
“Please,” I begged.
“Get out of here!”
I walked out of the room and down the hall
without seeing where I was. The air suddenly
felt thick, wrong. How could I stop this? I saw
that I was standing downstairs in front of the
door to the Headmaster’s office, and I opened it.
Inside, his secretary looked at me. She would
know that something had happened. I had to
make them think that this was a mistake.
“Can I help you?” she asked me.
“I’m supposed to wait here,” I heard myself
say. I sat down on the sofa.
The Headmaster’s office was dark. He sat
behind his desk, and I sat facing him on a hard
chair. There was a lamp on his desk that made
yellow light. My body was too big. I could only

220
see the yellow light.
“What is this?” the Headmaster asked me,
holding up the note that I had written.
“Nothing. It’s just a note, Sir,” I said and
my voice sounded far away. I was surprised that
he had the piece of paper.
“I know it’s a note. What’s it for?”
He was angry, too. I had to make him think
that this was a mistake.
“I just wanted more space in my seat.” He
would have to believe me, because he hadn’t
been there. He didn’t know.
“No you didn’t. You passed it to the person
next to you. Why?”
How did he know that?
“What were you doing?”
“Nothing. Honest. It’s just a note.”
“This is very bad. I’m not sure why you
were passing notes, but now you’re lying about it
and that is very bad. I’m not sure what I’m going
to do about this, but if you don’t tell me the truth
it will be a lot worse. Do you understand?”
I nodded my head, and I felt tears in my
eyes.
“I’m going to ask you again. What is this?”
“I was just asking Eric to move forward,” I
said. I felt the water on my face.
“Yes, I understand that, but why?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m losing patience with this. I have work
to do.”

221
 “I wanted him to slide his desk forward a
little.”
“Why?”
He wouldn’t think that it was a mistake.
“To get closer to Mr. Smythe,” I said.
“Why?”
“No real reason.”
“I told you I want the truth!”
“I just thought it would be funny if we got
closer to Mr. Smythe while he wasn’t looking.” I
wiped my face with the sleeve of my jacket.
There was no sound. I waited, or he waited.
“Lying is unacceptable.”
“Yes.”
The ringing sound in my head was very
loud.
“I’ll let you know what I’m going to do about
this, but I want you to know that it’s very
serious. Go to Study Hall and wait for your next
class. Get your homework from one of the other
students.”
I sat on a chair in the back of Study Hall
and held a book on my lap so that I looked
normal. I couldn’t read it because there was no
space in my head for anything but what had
happened. It was done. It was really bad.
Maybe I would get two or four detentions or be
suspended. Everyone would know. She would
know. The clock changed – the bell rang.
My body was too big. I walked through the
thick air. A car turned the corner in front of me; I

222
was looking down and saw its tires pass my toes.
She opened the door as I put my key in the
lock, but I wasn’t surprised. She looked at me
and didn’t say anything and then she said, “A fine
mess you’ve made now,” and walked into the
kitchen.
I stood in the foyer without taking off my
coat and heard the ringing sound in my head.
“You could be expelled for this.”
The rooms seemed dark. It was all over; it
was really bad now. I wanted the real dark, to be
deep in the real dark where the noise would stop
and no one would know.
“Maybe you’ll get away with a suspension,”
she said.
(“Please forgive me. Let me die and be
forgiven.”)
I made all of my muscles tight then tighter,
(“I’m sorry. Please believe me. I’ll never do
anything bad again. I don’t want to be bad. Tell
me what you want.”) and pushed my face into the
mattress so that I could barely breathe. I
wanted not to breathe.
(“Please make a sign that you believe me.
That you know that I mean it. Make my hair
white.”)
In the morning, maybe my hair would be
white. That would show everyone that God had
forgiven me and that I had suffered and was
really good, but God didn’t do that just because
someone wanted it. It was wrong to think that

223
God would make my hair white, but maybe God
would make my hair white anyway.
There were sounds of talking on the phone.
She wasn’t talking to one of her friends; the
sounds were different from the sounds that she
made when she talked to her friends.
She stood in the doorway.
“The Headmaster thought very seriously
about suspending you because of what you did.
You know that, don’t you? I thought he was
going to do it. It would have gone on your
permanent record and then you probably could
have kissed College goodbye. He was going to
do it. What you did was very very serious.
But you got lucky. We’ve decided that
you’ve suffered enough and the Headmaster isn’t
going to suspend you. You could have even been
expelled. You should thank your lucky stars.
You’d better think about this before you pull
another stunt like that.”
“Yes.”
(“Thank you. Please make my hair white so
that people can know.”)



Everything in the room looked gray, even

things that were made with color: the furniture
and books, the pictures, the rug, the top of my
desk. I slid my fingers across the smooth sheet
of paper that was lying on the desk blotter. Then

224
I looked at the crumpled pile of paper in the
wastebasket next to the desk. Five hundred
words — only five hundred words.
I checked to be sure that the point of my
pencil was sharp enough to make good letters,
but not too sharp. Very sharp pencil points broke
and when they broke they made smudge marks
on the paper or even tore the paper, which
looked terrible. After the tip broke, the rest of
the point didn’t make a nice line, it made a thick
uneven line and it crumbled, and the letters
looked different, which was bad, so you had to
start again on a new sheet of paper. That was
why it was so hard to sharpen a pencil. You had
to be careful to make it sharp enough to write
good letters, but not too sharp.
I wrote the beginning sentence again:
“Samuel Clemens’s first important story was The
Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.
This story, like others written by Clemens, was
about the American West”. As soon as I had
finished writing, I grabbed the sheet of paper
and crushed it against my leg because I had put
an “s” after the apostrophe, and I hated the way
that sounded: “Clemens’s”. That sounded
terrible, and I had made the same mistake two
times. I crushed the paper into a ball and stuffed
it into the wastebasket. Why did I keep making
the same mistakes?
("You’re allowed to write Clemens’, you
idiot so why don’t you remember to do it,

225
stupid.”)
I wasn’t paying attention to the “s” because
I was listening to the way “story” sounded and
thinking that maybe I should use another word
instead of writing “story” twice almost on the
same line, but I couldn’t think of another good
word. I had to say “story” the first time because
I was talking about a Short Story. What else
could I say the second time? Saying “story” the
second time wasn’t totally right because Samuel
Clemens wrote books about the American West
too, not just stories. I thought about writing,
“This piece of fiction, like others,” but that
sounded horrible. Anyway, books are stories too,
so maybe it was okay to leave the word in the
sentence, but then I was going to have two
“stories” really close together. Maybe I should
think of another beginning sentence? But I had
tried to do that already and I couldn’t think of
another beginning sentence.
“Samuel Clemens’ first important story was
The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras
County. This story, like others written by
Clemens, was about the American West.” An
apostrophe at the end of a word looked wrong.
Looking at the apostrophe at the end of the word
gave me a crawling feeling inside my chest, and I
wanted to throw away the page but I forced
myself to keep writing. “Clemens, who used the
pen name, Mark Twain, wrote many stories,
books and essays including, The Man Who

226
Corrupted Hadleyburg, My Platonic Sweetheart,
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry
Finn.”
That was really bad. I had another “story”
in the next sentence – I definitely couldn’t have
another “story,” and I also had a lot of
“Clemenses.” I could change one of the
“Clemenses” to “Twain” but then I would have to
think of another beginning because I couldn’t
say “Twain” until I had said that Twain was
Clemens’s pen name.
“Right, that would really sound smart:
‘Twain, who used the pen name, Mark Twain.’
Why don’t you write that, you idiot?” I said to the
empty room, to myself.
Also, “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and
Huckleberry Finn” sounded like I was talking
about one book. That was really bad, although
you could tell they were two books if you noticed
that there was no line under “and.” I could put a
comma before the “and” but Mr. Russell didn’t
like it when we did that. I had to start again, so I
crumpled up the paper and pushed it into the
wastebasket as hard as I could. I noticed that
my other mind wanted the wastebasket to look
less full so that anyone who saw it would know
that I was just getting started and being careful,
and not think that I was wasting paper and
couldn’t write an essay.
I would write the beginning just one more
time. This would be the last time, and I would

227
pay attention and be careful about what I said
and the way I wrote the letters. I could still use
the same beginning: “Samuel Clemens’ first
important story was The Celebrated Jumping
Frog of Calaveras County. This story, like others
written by Clemens, was about the American
West.” That was alright; the two “stories”
sounded alright, I thought. I looked at the way I
had made the words. The writing was okay, so
this part was alright. What was the next
sentence? I started to look for the piece of
paper I had just thrown away, but then I
remembered, and I remembered the problems
with the “Clemenses” and the “Adventures of
Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.” I had a good
idea for the “Adventures of Tom Sawyer and
Huckleberry Finn,” which was that I would
switch the order and make it “Huckleberry Finn
and the Adventures of Tom Sawyer.” That would
be good, but what about the “Clemenses?”
The crawling feeling in my chest got worse
and spread to my arms and my head, and I
wanted to rip up the paper. I wanted to rip it and
crush it. I wanted to stab the pencil, smash the
pencil into the desk but that might hurt the desk
so, instead, I threw it at the window as hard as I
could, and then I stood up quickly and picked it
up so that it wouldn’t be lying on the floor. I
slammed it down on top of the paper, smudging
the letters, ruining the page.
Another ruined page, (“and then another

228
ruined page and then another and another for
ever and ever and ever and ever”). It never
ended. (“Just five hundred words, ha ha ha ha
ha.”) It would eat me, I thought. It was eating
me, I could feel it eating me.
I walked to the window and sat down on
the radiator box with my forehead touching the
window glass. At the edge there is the thin glass
and outside the glass, empty gray space. Almost
the same as sitting in the air on the other side,
above that space in the gray light, and not to fall,
but to be almost falling and then to think of
falling. How it felt, how long before hitting the
pavement? Could I do that? Davey said that
when you fell off a roof or out of an airplane, you
lost consciousness and didn’t know what was
happening. I found a nickel in my pocket and
dropped it on the floor; it fell very fast. You
would fall very fast. You wouldn’t be afraid for
long – but you would be afraid, horribly afraid.
Would it hurt when you hit the street, or would
you just be dead before it could hurt? Who could
know. Nobody knew that.
The string that raised the blinds was
hanging next to my shoulder. I pulled it in front
of me and started to make a knot, but I wasn’t
allowed to do that so I untied the knot. Then I
thought of making a noose. If I made a noose,
the radiator box could be like a gallows. You
could jump off the box right out the window and
you wouldn’t feel falling or hitting the ground.

229
 “You wouldn’t feel falling or hitting but you
would be hanging there over the street, you idiot,
and that would be scary.”
That sounded worse than falling.
It didn’t take long to make a noose; I only
had to do it once to get it even. The noose didn’t
look real because the string was too thin, but it
was attached to the top of the window and the
radiator box was something like a gallows.
I stood on the box and slowly put the noose
around my neck. Should I have the knot behind
or at the side of my head? Sometimes they put it
at the side. I decided to have it at the side.
Everything seemed alright, except my hands
weren’t tied behind my back. Your hands had to
be tied behind your back. How could I do that? I
had another idea. I took off the noose, bent over
and pulled the shoelace out of one of my shoes.
Then I stood up, put my head through the noose
again and held my hands behind my back. Of
course I couldn’t really tie my wrists together,
but I was able to wrap the shoelace around my
wrists, so it was almost the same as having
them tied together.
I was chicken, so I faced the room.
They all watched me: men and women, but
no children. This isn’t the type of thing that you
let children watch. This isn’t for children. The
men and women were very serious, and they
were disgusted with me because it was my fault
that this was happening. It isn’t pleasant when

230
you have to hang someone, but sometimes it just
has to be done. At least after it’s over I won’t be
a problem anymore. It’s too bad, though, that I
had to make them do something like this after I
had been brought up with all the advantages.
“Come on. That’s enough. We have a job to
do so let’s get it over with.”
“Do you want to say anything?” He had to
ask that even though he didn’t want to hear
anything more from me.
“No.”
“Alright then, let’s get it over with.”
I jumped off the box. There was a
clattering sound: the blinds opened all the way
and hit the top of the window. My shoe came off
as my feet hit the floor and I stumbled and fell
forward until the rope pulled me up hard, and the
noose got very tight around my neck. I lay on
the floor with my head and shoulders dangling
and swinging a few inches above the carpet. My
head started to feel like a tire that someone was
pumping full of air. I tried to undo the noose, but
my hands were stuck behind me. Then I heard
her key slide into the lock in the front door: she
was here.
I twisted my wrists as hard as I could. The
shoelace dropped onto the floor, and, when my
hands were free, I was able to hold myself up and
pry the noose open so that I could take it off. I
untied the noose, lowered the blinds and looked
at them quickly, but carefully. I was lucky; they

231
weren’t broken. Would she see a red line on my
neck? I rubbed my neck as I pushed my foot
back into my shoe. Then I pulled up my shirt
collar as high as I could make it go. She walked
into the room.
“Hi,” she said. “How’s your homework
doing?”
“Okay,” I said.
“Why is there a shoelace on the floor? And
there’s a coin over there near the radiator.”
“Oh, it broke.” I picked up the coin and the
shoelace and closed my hand over them.
“Did you finish your work?”
She hadn’t noticed.
“Almost,” I said.

232
 Ann
We waited beside a dirt road somewhere in
the woods. I watched the truck turn around and
then drive back toward us; it made a cloud of
dust, and I smelled the dust and weeds in the
morning air. The air was cool in the shade of the
trees, but a breeze that blew through a stripe of
sunlight in the middle of the road felt warm so I
thought that it would be a hot day.
The truck stopped before it reached the
place where we were standing. Not long after
that, Emmett jumped down onto the road from
between the trees. Could the trail be there? He
walked to the truck and spoke to Mr. Lewis
through the open window. “I’m sure,” I heard him
say and, “I marked…before.” Then Mr. Lewis
revved the engine, put the truck in gear and
drove past us Even though he went slowly, the
wheels scraped more dust into a cloud that
coated my skin. Dust got into my eyes, and when
I breathed, I could taste it.
“Hey,” somebody yelled, “why’d he do that?

233
He could’ve waited.”
Some of the kids laughed. A few made loud
barking coughs.
We were completely alone now with only
the food and clothes that we carried. I had a big
pot, some dried soup mix, a box of Bug Juice
powder and three loaves of bread with the air
squeezed out of them in my backpack along with
my own stuff. Would I be able to carry all that up
a mountain?
“Alright, everybody listen up,” Emmett said
in a loud voice, but not really yelling. “We’re all
gunna stay together. I don’t want anyone more
than three steps behind the person in front of
him. Nobody gets behind Paul, who’s gunna be
last, and nobody goes in front of me. Got it?
Mike will be in the middle.”
Some people mumbled, “Yeah.” I wondered
why he had said three steps and not four or two
steps? Two steps weren’t many. You might
bump into a person who was only two steps in
front of you. You couldn’t lose sight of someone
four or even six steps in front of you, though,
even in the woods.
“And nobody goes off the trail. I mean it.
Nobody goes off the trail. You have to stay with
the group. If you get more than three steps
behind the person in front of you, say something
and speed up. If you have to stop, tell the person
in front of you and he’ll pass it up to me.
Okay, men, put on your backpacks and get

234
in line. Let’s move; we have a long way to go.”
“Yeah, girls, pick up your bags and get in
line,”
“Shut up, Ross,” Paul said.
I bent over and pulled one of my pack
straps but I couldn’t lift it over my shoulder.
While I thought about what to do, I watched
Feller try to pick up his pack the same way. He
pulled harder and harder on the strap until he fell
into a ditch filled with weeds next to the road.
“Hey Fatso, did you have a nice trip?”
somebody said and a lot of people laughed.
I decided that the only safe way to put on
the pack was to sit in front of it and then slide
the straps over my arms. After I had done that, I
couldn’t stand up again without rolling onto my
knees, and, with the pack on my back, I couldn’t
bend far enough once I was standing to brush all
the dirt off my pants. The truck had made me
dusty anyhow, so it didn’t matter that I had to
give up and be dirty already, I decided.
“Okay. Everyone get in a line,” Paul
shouted.
Mike pulled the hood of JJ’s sweatshirt. JJ
started to tip backwards and turned to see what
was making his pack feel heavier.
“Hey, what are you doing?” he yelled. “Get
offa me you mo.”
Mike laughed. “Come on, get in line and
stop fooling around,” Mike pushed him forward.
“Try and act your age.”

235
 “Fooling around?” JJ yelled and laughed,
stumbling against the kid in front of him and
almost pushing him off the road and into the
ditch. “Wait till you fall off a cliff. See if I help
you.”
“Oooo,” said Ross.
“That’ll be the day,” Mike said and laughed
again.
“Why don’t you act your age?” somebody
said.
“Shut up, Ross,” Mike said.
The line started to move. I watched kids
slip and stumble and then crawl up the
embankment across the road. A few were able
to stay on their feet by holding onto branches
and pulling themselves into the woods. One
after another they disappeared. Would the trail
be that steep all the way up the mountain? That
wasn’t possible, was it? When it was my turn I
tried to walk, but my feet kept slipping
backwards.
“Come on, move it,” Paul said to me.
I had to crawl like a baby. The ground was
dry and dusty, and my fingers slid through the
dust and scraped over sharp pebbles. I reached
into the woods without being able to see what
was in front of me, felt a tree branch, grabbed it
and pulled. The branch slid through my hand,
scratching my palm, but I pushed hard with my
knees and reached forward with my other hand.
It found a smooth rock and I pulled on that.

236
Slowly, I moved up the embankment. A pine
branch pricked the side of my face. My knee
landed on something pointed, making me lunge
forward. Then my hands touched a flat spot. I
looked up and saw a path, and I got onto my feet.
The other kids were standing on a dark trail
in front of me. I walked forward a short
distance, looking at my hands. They were
scratched and there were green stains and dirt
on them. I wiped my palms on my pants and
discovered that my left leg was wet: my canteen
was leaking.
While the rest of the kids crawled up the
embankment, I stood with the group on the trail.
There was a lot of crashing and cursing, but no
talking, except by Emmett who said, “A real
bunch of woodsmen you are. You sound like a
herd of cattle.”
Finally, everyone was on the trail and
Emmett said, “Let’s go. Keep together,” and we
started to walk.
My backpack immediately felt very heavy
and the straps hurt my shoulders. After I had
made a few steps, the muscles in my legs
started to burn, and I breathed faster, panted or
even gasped as if I were drowning. How could it
be this bad already? In the City I walked really
fast and far without getting tired. Would I be
able to hike all day with a pack on my back? It
bounced up and down and from side to side, and
my clothes scraped my skin. The bottom of the

237
pack kept getting caught on my belt, pushing my
pants down, and, every time I took a step, the
canteen hit my leg and spilled more water. I was
sweating and wet and wanted a drink, but I
couldn’t get the canteen off my shoulder
because its strap was under the shoulder strap
of the backpack. Maybe the mountain wasn’t
very big and in a few minutes the trail would go
downhill? It was impossible to see how far we
had to climb because the trail made a tunnel
through the trees and I couldn’t look around the
kids in front of me. Their packs blocked the view
and, anyway, the path wasn’t straight: it made a
turn every few feet.
A branch hit me in the face. Then I tripped
on a root and almost fell. Soon I would have to
tell them that I couldn’t go any farther even
though they would laugh at me and call me a girl.
They had to send me back to Camp; I wasn’t
ready for this, not strong enough. (“The truck is
gone, you idiot. You can’t go back to Camp.”) So
they would have to stop and let me rest. I wasn’t
a Woodsman or anything like that; I couldn’t do
it.
“Slow down. This is too fast,” somebody
behind me yelled.
“Yeah. Let’s stop and rest.”
“Yeah. I need to stop. Hey, tell Uncle
Emmett we need to stop.”
Were the others having trouble too?
“What’s the matter with you babies?” I

238
heard Mike say behind me. “You want to stop
already? We just started.”
“Come on. We’re not going that fast,”
Emmett said from somewhere in front of me
I didn’t say anything. I tried only to use
energy for walking. Other kids started shouting,
though.
“Okay, okay. We’ll take five minutes,” I
heard Emmett say, and then I heard Paul yell
something behind us.
“Hey, Emmett,” Mike shouted, “Paul says
that there’s a couple falling behind back there.”
Everybody had stopped walking. I sat down
on the trail and leaned against a tree trunk. As
soon as I was on the ground, I pulled my arms
out of the pack straps, took off my canteen and
had a drink of water. There wasn’t much left
because it had been leaking. Where would I get
more water? I took off my sweatshirt. A fly
touched my hair and landed on my cheek. I tried
to smash it, but it got away and flew around my
head. (“Nice, you idiot, you just slapped yourself
in the face”) but nobody had noticed. The air
was getting hot and it was humid.
Emmett walked past me going downhill. He
looked as if he were skipping, I thought, even
though he was carrying the biggest pack, a
special one with lots of pockets.
“Where’s the stupid truck,” somebody said
to him.
“You’re not allowed to swear,” somebody

239
else said.
“That’s not swearing, dumb ass,” Ross said.
Emmett came back with Feller shuffling
and stumbling behind him. Feller was sweating.
His sweatshirt was dragging on the ground and
the top of his canteen was hanging by the little
chain: he didn’t have any more water.
“You all have two more minutes then we’re
going,” Emmett said as he walked past us. “Keep
up.”
“Slow up,” somebody said.
I rolled my sweatshirt into a tube and put it
around my neck on top of my shoulders. Then I
pulled the pack straps over the sweatshirt. How
could I carry the canteen so that water wouldn’t
spill on me? I put my head and one arm through
the strap and pulled on it until the canteen was
behind me, lying on the pack.
Emmett shouted, “Let’s move. Stay
together.”
Slowly, I rolled onto my knees and stood.
Then I bent forward, bounced the pack as high
as I could make it go on my shoulders and pulled
hard on the ends of the straps to tighten them so
that the pack would move less. We started to
walk again.
“Hey, JJ,” Ross said behind me, “if a tree
falls in the forest and nobody hears it, does it
make a sound?”
“Ross, what are you talking about?” Walsh
said.

240
 After that, nobody talked. I watched the
trail in front of me and tried to make smooth
even steps and not stumble on any roots or loose
rocks. Where the trail was steep, I pressed my
palms down on my thighs to help myself climb.
This must have been the way the Scouts and the
Indians had walked a long time ago, I thought. I
had to walk like an Indian so that I didn’t use all
my energy before we made it to camp. My
canteen was probably leaking on the pack,
making it wet, and I hoped that the wet part
wasn’t near my clothes or my sleeping bag.
When I moved things at camp that night, I
decided, I would cover everything inside with my
poncho so that my stuff stayed dry. I was stupid
not to have thought of that before now.
We were going slower; my legs weren’t
hurting anymore even though the pack still felt
too heavy. For a while, I watched the silver ID
bracelet slide around on Gardner’s wrist. His
wrist and his arms and legs were so thin that
they looked as if they would break if you touched
them. How could Gardner carry a backpack?
Emmett must not have given him much food or
any of the pots to carry. I looked at his canteen.
It was larger than mine and it had a better top.
Aunt Doris had said that the big canteens were
too expensive and had bought the small one
when we went to the Camp Store.
Then I looked at the trees and bushes
along the sides of the trail. It would be really

241
hard to walk through these woods without a
path. There were big boulders, thick bushes and
fallen trees all over the ground. It was a perfect
place for an ambush.
My foot slid off a rock. Unable to keep my
balance, I started to fall. Quickly, I wrapped my
arms around the trunk of a tree, bending
backwards at the waist and scratching my cheek
on the bark, but staying on my feet.
“Spazz,” Walsh said behind me.
“Shut up,” I said, pushing myself upright as
fast as I could so that nobody else would see me
hugging the tree.
“What’s the matter, Bozo. Having trouble
walking?” Ross said.
“Shut up,” I said again.
“Hey Ross,” Walsh said, “if you fall on your
ass in the forest and nobody sees it, does your
ass hurt?”
The line stopped and Emmett shouted,
“Take five.” I pulled off my canteen and my
backpack without looking at Walsh or Ross,
dropped the pack on the trail and drank the rest
of my water. Still thirsty, I watched Grossman
and Gardner drink.
“Hey, Gardner,” I said, “can I have some
water?”
“Drink your own water,” he said.
“I ran out.”
“Tough. Drink slower.”
“I didn’t drink it. It leaked out. Come on.

242
Let me have some.”
“I told you, no. I need it.” He took another
drink, and screwed the cap back on his canteen.
“Thanks a lot,” I said.
“Thanks a lot,” he imitated me.
I looked away and didn’t bother to ask
Grossman or anyone else.
We continued to walk and rest and walk
and rest for a while, maybe an hour, maybe two
hours, or maybe more. I decided not to think
about being thirsty. I decided not to think about
my pack, either, or bugs or heat. I looked at the
trail and I looked at the woods and I didn’t think
about anything except making smooth and even
steps.
Gradually, sunlight started to shine
between the trees on the left side of the trail. I
noticed that it wasn’t very bright and thought
that now there must be clouds overhead. What if
it rains? (“If it rains, you get wet, you idiot.”)
The whole time that we had been in the woods,
the whole time that we had been in the truck and
even for several days before we had left Camp,
this thought had been somewhere in my mind:
what if it rains? I had concentrated on the idea
that we would have good weather, that it
wouldn’t rain, or, if it rained then it would only
rain a little. (“You can’t make the weather good
by hoping, even if you hope really hard”) but I
hoped anyway. I looked to my left through the
trees; it wasn’t cloudy, was it? No, it really

243
didn’t look cloudy. (“Yes, you idiot. That dark
gray color means it’s cloudy. The sky isn’t gray
when it’s sunny.”)
I could see more sky at times because a
ravine next to the trail made an opening in the
forest. From the bottom of the ravine I heard a
rushing roaring sound: there was a stream down
there. As we walked up the mountain, the side of
the ravine became less steep and eventually the
trail and the stream were next to each other only
a few feet apart. Water poured down the
mountain making a huge noise and cool spray
where it crashed into boulders and fallen trees. I
opened my mouth and stuck my tongue into the
mist, hoping to catch enough water to make a
small drink. When we stopped, I would be able to
fill my canteen.
Then, ahead, something completely
unexpected appeared: log cabins with little front
porches and, on the left between the trail and
the stream, a larger building.
“Hey, Uncle Emmett, what’s that?”
Grossman shouted, and other people in the line
started talking and asking questions.
“Is this where we’re sleeping?” Ross asked
behind me.
The trail went between the cabins and the
larger building. Through its windows I saw rows
of tables with benches lying upside down on top
of them. It was a dining hall. This was a camp,
but it didn’t look like anybody besides us was

244
here.
Again the line stopped moving.
“Everybody gather round,” Emmett said in
his loud voice.
“Hey, Uncle Emmett, can we stay here?”
“No, we’re not staying here, we’re just
gunna eat lunch. I need the peanut butter and
jelly and a couple of loaves of bread. Who has
them?” He looked at us for a moment. “Feldman
and Walsh, you have sandwich duty. Somebody
has some raisins, too. The rest of you relax but
don’t go far. Don’t touch anything and don’t
leave any trash. Okay?”
“Why do I have to make the sandwiches?”
Walsh asked.
“Because you want to eat,” Emmett said.
“Can I get water?” Feller asked Mike.
“Yeah, you can all get water, but remember
if you fall in you’ll be walking around wet for the
rest of the day. Okay Feller?”
I took off my pack and put it on the porch of
one of the cabins so that it would be protected
by the roof if it rained. There was a wet spot on
the pack where the canteen had been touching
the canvas. I opened the top flap and slid my
hand between the canvas and my stuff. The
sleeping bag was a little wet, but it probably
would be dry before I needed it that night, I
hoped. I closed the flap and then, after another
quick look at the sky, grabbed my canteen and
walked up the trail and around the dining hall to

245
the edge of the stream. Some of the kids were
already there, filling their canteens or walking on
the boulders in the water. Paul was there.
“Can’t I go swimming?” Ross asked him.
“Go ahead if you wanna hike in wet
clothes,” he answered.
“We can stay here and dry out.”
“You heard Emmett, we’re just eating
lunch.”
“Why can’t we just stay here?” JJ asked
him.
“Because we’re not.”
“Who lives here?” I asked him.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“But how did they get all this stuff here? Is
there a road?”
“I guess they just built it here. There aren’t
any roads,” he answered and started to walk
back to the trail before we could ask him more
questions.
Bachmann was squatting on a rock near
where I was standing, filling his canteen. It
looked like a good place to get water.
“I call the rock when you’re done,” I said.
He finished and jumped back to shore.
“Boy, that’s cold,” he said.
“How do you think the people get here?” I
asked him.
“They walk here, duh,” Ross said.
“With all their stuff, duh?” I said to Ross.
I jumped onto the rock, squatted and

246
dipped my canteen into the stream. The water
was clean and clear and felt as if there should be
ice in it. I held the canteen under the surface of
a small pool next to the rock and turned it to let
out the trapped air. When the canteen was full, I
took a big drink that made the top of my head
hurt. I rubbed my hands together in the stream
to clean off the dirt and sap that had gotten on
them, filled the canteen again and then stood on
the rock and looked at the dining hall.
Somebody had carried all the tools and nails up
this mountain to make these buildings in the
middle of the woods? Then they had carried all
their food and clothes here? Why had they done
that? Were there bathrooms here? Did they have
electricity? I couldn’t see any wires. Where
were the people who had built the place?
I walked back to the dining hall and looked
through one of the screened windows. The room
was dark, but everything seemed as if it were
just waiting to be used. Maybe the people were
out hiking somewhere and would come back
before we left. There was a door near where I
was standing, but it was padlocked.
“Hey look at this.”
I turned around and saw Berman standing
on the porch of one of the cabins.
“You gotta see this, really,” he said to
everybody, and walked into the cabin.
Some of the kids ran over to the cabin and
went inside. Emmett followed them and so did I.

247
The cabin had only one room and no bathroom or
even a sink. There were two metal beds in the
room like the ones we had at camp. The
mattresses were on top of the bed springs tied in
rolls with cord. There was a small table in the
middle of the room and there were two chairs
next to it and some shelves nailed to the log
walls. That wasn’t what Berman wanted us to
see, though. He wanted us to see the stuff that
had been left in the cabin: boxes of cereal, an
orange and blue box of something called Oxydol,
a metal can of Saltines, some other cans and, on
a low table between the beds, magazines.
Berman wanted us to see this stuff because it
was old. The Cornflakes box wasn’t like any that
I had ever seen in a store.
“Wow, look at that,” somebody said.
“What’s the date on that Life?” somebody
else asked.
We moved towards the table where the
magazines were stacked. On top of the stack
was a Life Magazine with a picture of a bride on
the cover. Coles picked it up.
“June 22, 1942,” he said.
“What?” somebody said and other people
said, “darn,” and “gimme that,” and “let me see
it.”
People reached to grab other magazines
from the table and things from the shelves, but
Emmett shouted, “Leave that alone,” and they
stopped moving.

248
 “Can’t we look at it?” Burke asked.
“No, leave it alone,” Emmett said.
“Why can’t we?”
“Because it’s not yours.”
So we all just stood and stared at the
strange room.
Then Coles said, “Hey, it’s raining.”
I looked out the window. It was drizzling. I
was glad that I had left my backpack on the
cabin porch, even though I hoped that the rain
would stop in a minute or two.
“Go on. Get out of here and put your packs
under cover,” Emmett said.
“You mean out in the rain?”
“I mean you go out in the rain, Feller, and
put your pack out of the rain.”
Some people left, but I stayed. So did
Emmett and Ross.
“Where are your packs?” Emmett asked us.
“On the porch of one of the cabins,” I said.
“Why do you think this stuff is still here?”
“They just left it here, I guess.”
“They’re definitely not coming back,” Ross
said. “This stuff has been here forever. Can I
just take a magazine?”
“No, Ross, I told you.”
“But why?”
“Because it’s not yours.”
“They just left it here.”
“I don’t care,” Emmett said.
“Who built this place?” I asked Emmett.

249
 “Don’t know,” he said.
I looked at the room. The camp was like a
ghost town, except that the buildings weren’t
falling down and there weren’t cob webs
everywhere and thick dust on everything. The
place must have been deserted for years and
lots of people must have walked past it and gone
inside the cabins, but nothing looked as if it had
been moved. There was no sign that anything
had happened here since 1942. Everything was
neat and looked as if somebody had been taking
care of it and then had left for a little while,
maybe a few weeks.
“Come on. Let’s go,” Emmett said.
He went outside and we followed him. I
turned my head and looked in the room a last
time and then closed the cabin door.
Fat raindrops were falling slowly around the
cabins. The shower would probably end in a few
minutes, I hoped. Maybe the air would be cooler
after the rain. On the porch where I had left my
backpack, there were sandwiches stacked on a
torn grocery bag that was spread out like a
tablecloth. A box of raisins was lying on its side
next to the sandwiches. People had their plates
and they were putting sandwiches and raisins on
them. I waited in line to get my mess kit out of
my pack and take a share of the food.
“You need your plate before you get in line,”
Mike said to me. He was sitting with Paul under
a tree next to the cabin. He turned his head and

250
started talking to Paul before I could tell him
that my mess kit was in my pack on the porch.
“Yeah, go get your plate stupid,” Ross said,
and he pushed in front of me. I walked over to
the tree to tell Mike that my pack was on the
porch.
“What’s it doing there?” he asked.
“So it won’t get wet,” I said.
“We told you not to put anything on the
porch because the food is there.”
“Well I didn’t hear you. I was in the other
cabin and I already put it there.”
“Well next time pay attention.”
“I told you. I wasn’t out here.”
“Look, just go get your mess kit and take a
sandwich and don’t argue with me. You can do
KP tonight.”
I walked back to the line and waited again.
“Jerk,” I said, but not loud enough so that he
could hear me.
While I waited, I looked at the sky. It
wasn’t really raining very hard; maybe the rain
clouds would blow away. When I got to the front
of the line, I walked up the porch steps, put down
my canteen and opened my backpack. My mess
kit was on top of my clothes, which I had shoved
inside the pot. I unscrewed the wing nut,
separated the plate from the pan and took out
my cup. Then I closed the kit and put it back in
the pack. I poured the last raisins into my cup,
took a sandwich and walked over to a big tree

251
next to the dining hall. Its leaves had kept the
ground around the trunk mostly dry. I sat on a
root, ate my food and watched raindrops splat
down on the dirt. The rain made the warm air
green-smelling.
“We’re leaving here in ten minutes,”
Emmett said in his loud voice while I was eating.
“You better get your ponchos. Don’t leave any
trash. None.” He crumpled the paper bag that
had been spread under the sandwiches into a
ball, picked up the raison box and walked over to
his backpack, which was under the tree where
Paul and Mike had been sitting.
“Why can’t we just stay here and keep
dry?” somebody yelled, but he didn’t answer.
My poncho was inside my backpack next to
the pot. Wearing it while I walked would be
really hot. I decided to just leave it on top of the
other stuff in the pack so that I could get it
quickly if I really needed it. Meanwhile, it would
keep my clothes and my sleeping bag dry. I
partly unfolded it and spread it over the things in
the pack, put my cup on top of the poncho,
closed the pack and then sat on the porch
waiting for Emmett to tell us that it was time to
leave.
Soon we were walking again and
completely surrounded by woods. The camp was
gone, only a memory. As we walked, the light
became dimmer. Just a few raindrops reached
the ground but the air still was damp underneath

252
the trees. The trail went up and down, through
mud and over rocks. Mosquitoes made the sound
of air leaking out of a balloon through a small
hole, then bit the skin around my ears and on my
neck. We crossed a narrow stream and then a
slightly larger one by stepping on slippery logs
and flat rocks. Once, Emmett lost the trail; we
had to stop and wait until he found it to the right
of where we had been walking. Finally, we came
to an opening where there was rocky, uneven
ground. A small lean-to built of logs sat in the
middle of the opening and in front of the lean-to
there was a circle of black stones where people
had built fires.
“Okay,” Emmett said, “put your stuff down
and then I need everybody to collect firewood
before you do anything else. Dry and not green,
and no pine needles. Get some kindling and
some medium stuff like your arm. We’re gonna
eat mashed potatoes so I need the mix and a
medium pot, and the big spoon, whoever has
them.”
“What else are we having?” Bachmann
asked.
“We’re having hotdogs,” Emmett answered.
I walked quickly to the lean-to. It had no
front wall, only sides, a back and a tilted roof.
The bottom was filled with pine branches and
dry pine needles, and there were spider webs in
the corners. There wasn’t enough space in it for
everyone, but there were only two backpacks

253
inside. I put mine next to one of the walls and
hoped that nobody would move it. Most of the
kids were sitting on the ground, but while I was
standing there, Grossman and Gardner and then
Walsh, JJ and Coles claimed spaces by leaving
their packs. That made the lean-to look
crowded. Feller started to put his pack inside.
“What are you doing, Feller,” Walsh said.
“This place is taken.”
“Whadaya mean?” Feller said. “I can sleep
here if I want.”
“No you can’t Feller. We have dibs on it and
Ross has that spot.”
“Take your stuff somewhere else, Fatso,
there isn’t enough room especially for you,”
Gardner told him.
“You can all move your stuff because the
Counselors are sleeping here.”
It was Mike. He was carrying his pack and
another one that must have been Paul’s, because
it wasn’t Emmett’s. He put them on the pine
needles.
“You don’t need the whole thing,” Walsh
said.
“Yeah,” said JJ and then Grossman and
Gardner said, “You can’t keep the whole thing for
yourselves,” and “We should be able to have part
of it.”
“You can stay as long as there’s enough
room for the three of us,” Mike said and walked
away.

254
 “You guys better not fart in here,” JJ yelled
at his back.
“Aw crap,” Walsh said. “Who’s moving? I
have dibs on the middle. Whose packs are
those?”
“That one’s mine” I said, “and I was here
first.”
“Yeah? How do we know?”
Feller took his pack and walked away. I
looked in the lean-to and decided that it wouldn’t
be very comfortable anyway. There were spiders
and probably bugs crawling around in the pine
needles on the floor. The only good thing about
it was that it had a roof. No matter who was in
there, it was going to be crowded and hot. I
didn’t want to lie close to those guys. I decided
to leave my pack inside and move it later after I
had found another sleeping spot.
People were already picking up branches
between the trees close to the fireplace, so I
walked to the edge of the woods behind the lean-
to and, while I walked, I watched the ground. It
was mossy and soft in places but there were no
flat areas between the rocks that looked big
enough to be a good sleeping spot. Behind the
lean-to there were two trees without many
branches to stop raindrops and the trees at the
edge of the woods weren’t very large either.
Maybe there was another small clearing nearby
with more flat ground and some overhanging
branches. It would be good to find a thick bush

255
with enough space underneath for a person in a
sleeping bag.
Most of the wood that I found was wet and
some of it was rotten; it had a strong leafy, dirt
smell. I decided that I would have to take wet
stuff or nothing, so I began picking up pieces
that were near the right size and when I had as
much as I could carry, I walked back to where
people had already left some branches in a small
pile next to the circle of stones.
“That looks wet,” Paul said to me, or maybe
to Berman who was standing next to me.
“That’s all there is,” I said.
“Well look harder.”
A dragging noise behind me made me turn
around. Grossman and Gardner were pulling a
log as thick as my leg toward the woodpile.
“What are you clowns doing?” Paul asked
them. “That’s way too big.”
“You can break it,” Grossman said. “There
are a lot of branches on it.”
“Take it away and get something we can
use,” Paul said and laughed.
I went back to the place where I had been
searching and found a long dead branch. Was it
too big? I stood on it and broke it into pieces
that I carried back to the woodpile.
Emmett was kneeling next to the fireplace
rearranging the rocks. He had made a teepee
out of sticks and twigs next to a stone with a flat
top that he had put in the middle of the circle.

256
The paper bag left over from lunch and some
bark were inside the teepee. He took a match
out of a cigar tube that he kept in his pocket,
held the match in his fist and scraped his
thumbnail across its head. The match sparked
and made a flame that he covered with the palm
of his other hand. He leaned over and touched
the flame to the bag, which immediately started
to burn.
“Can you make this go?”
“Huh?” I said.
Was he speaking to me?
“Can you get the fire going?”
“Sure,” I said and got down on my knees
next to him.
He stood up. “Get a good fire going around
that stone,” he said, and walked away.
In a moment the bag would be ashes. I
jumped up, pulled more twigs out of the wood
pile and crouched down again in front of the
fireplace. As I did this, I started breaking the
twigs into short pieces that I carefully added to
the teepee. The sticks started to smoke. I put
my hands behind the teepee and my face in front
of it and blew gently. For a few seconds nothing
happened but then some of the twigs flamed. I
kept adding sticks and blowing until I felt dizzy.
When the flame looked strong enough to light a
bigger piece of wood, I got the parts of the
branch that I had just found and put two of them
over the fire with their ends resting on the stone

257
that Emmett had moved into the circle. Then I
gradually laid more kindling and larger sticks
around the teepee to make the base of the fire
wider. I was careful not to suffocate the flames
and stopped a lot to blow on the wood. It made
popping and snapping sounds and the pieces
lying over the teepee flamed. The fire was
definitely going.
“Can I help?”
It was Bachmann. I wanted to take care of
the fire by myself, but I knew that other people
were going to butt in. If he helped me, then
together maybe we could keep everyone else
away.
“I need some big pieces,” I told him,
wanting him to know that I was in charge.
The air had become misty and was making
my skin wet even though there weren’t any real
raindrops falling.
“Try and get the driest ones,” I said.
He went to the woodpile and came back
with two more dead branches, each almost as
long as my leg. I pushed another rock into the
middle of the fireplace and laid both branches on
top of the two rocks so that the fire was
underneath them. There was a hissing sound
and then a popping noise. The teepee collapsed
and some sparks shot up in the air. The flames
burned higher and the new wood steamed. It
was really going.
“More big pieces,” I told Bachmann.

258
 He brought back four medium-sized
branches.
“I’ll put some on the other side,” he said,
leaving two on the ground for me. “They should
be dry enough.”
“Don’t crush it,” I said.
“We’re going to need more wood,”
Bachmann said.
I looked up and saw Emmett walking
toward us carrying a pot with a spoon in it and
some packages of hotdogs. He had a box of
potato mix under his arm.
“Good work,” he said. “Let it burn down a
little now so I can put the pot on the rock.”
“Okay,” I said. I looked at the sky. “Uncle
Emmett, we should cover the wood.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” He didn’t say anything
else for a few seconds and then he shouted,
“Hey, Ross, where are you?”
Ross walked around the side of the lean-to
toward the fire.
“Where’s your firewood, Ross?” Emmett
asked him.
“I already got some,” Ross said.
“That’s okay. Take off your poncho and
cover the woodpile with it.”
“Why mine?” Ross asked.
“Because it’s waterproof,” Emmett
answered.
“But I need it.”
“You don’t need it now. Soon you’ll be in

259
the sack, anyway. Cover the pile with it.”
“Listen everybody,” Emmett made his voice
loud again, “we need more firewood. After you
bring two more loads, get some sticks to cook
hotdogs.”
Bachmann and I watched the fire while
Emmett filled the pot with water from a canteen,
and put it on the rock. Then he stood with
Bachmann and me and watched the fire and the
pot while the other kids brought more wood.
“I guess you guys better get your mess
kits,” Emmett said to everybody, but Bachmann
and I stayed where we were.
I decided that the fire needed more wood
so that it would be big enough to cook all the
hotdogs. I got a few more branches from the
woodpile and put them on top of the flames.
Then I used a branch as a poker to push embers
around the rock. Emmett didn’t seem to mind
that I had done that.
Paul started handing out hotdogs, and kids
crowded around the flames to cook them. Walsh
and Ross got on their knees between me and the
fire.
“Keep out of this area,” Emmett told them,
but not me or Bachmann.
We continued to watch the fire. There was
now a bright bed of embers in the middle of the
fireplace. The water in the pot started to boil.
“Use your stick to grab one of those
handles,” Emmett told me.

260
 I crouched down and pushed the end of my
poker stick under one of the pot handles. He did
the same with the spoon and together we lifted
the pot and carried it to a place on the ground
next to the wood pile. Emmett poured the
mashed potato mix into the water, added some
salt from a jar that he had in his pocket and
stirred with his spoon.
“Get in line everybody,” Emmett said. “You
two better get your plates,” he said to Bachmann
and me.
I didn’t want to leave my spot next to the
fire, but I did so that I could have food. I was
very hungry. Bachmann and I brought our plates
and our canteens back to the fireplace and
Emmett gave us each two big spoonfuls of
mashed potatoes without making us wait in line.
I took a stick off the woodpile and got two
hotdogs from Paul. Then I kneeled down and
cooked my hotdogs, and had hotdogs and
mashed potatoes while I watched the fire and
felt its heat dry some of the wetness in my
clothes. The food tasted like smoke. It tasted
really good and I ate it quickly.
“Flattop, when you’re done eating, clean
this pot,” Emmett said.
I looked at Mike. He hadn’t heard or he
didn’t remember that he had given me KP.
“How am I gonna wash the pot?” Flattop
asked. “There’s no water.”
“Just wipe it with some leaves. We’ll wash

261
it tomorrow when we find some. But get all the
food out of it.” Emmett looked at me: “We should
let this thing go out,” he said about the fire.
It wasn’t night yet, but everybody started
taking out their sleeping bags and arguing about
who should sleep in the lean-to. I sat in front of
the fire and watched the embers, poking them
with my stick to make sparks float up into the
air. They looked a little like fireflies. My eyes
became unfocused and I began to see the
abandoned camp again: I saw people there. They
were living in the cabins and they were eating in
the Dining Hall. In my mind, they were real, only
in another part of the woods. Maybe these
people had come back to the camp after we had
left. They wouldn’t know that we had been there,
that we were here in the woods. The fire made
my eyes dry. I looked away from the embers,
blinking. Was the sky dark because it was
almost night or because it was cloudy? Without
a clock you couldn’t know.
I decided that I had better find a place to
sleep, so I carried my plate and canteen back to
the lean-to. Ross was there, yelling at some
other kids about where they were allowed to
sleep. Somebody had taken my backpack out of
the lean-to: it was on the ground next to where
Ross was standing.
“Ross,” I yelled, “did you move my
backpack?”
“I didn’t touch your pack.”

262
 “Somebody did.”
“Tough shit.”
“This place is taken,” Walsh said.
“I was here first,” I told him.
“You’re not here now,” Walsh answered.
“Jerk,” I said to Walsh.
“Oooo. Why don’t you cry about it,” Walsh
said.
I picked up my pack and took it behind the
lean-to. Through the wall, I heard Walsh call me
a mo.
“Enjoy sleeping in there with all the spiders
and bugs, jerk,” I yelled, and while I was yelling I
thought that this was a stupid thing to say and
not the real thing that I wanted to tell him. (“It’s
always like that.”)
Again I walked around looking for a good
place to sleep. The ground was rough
everywhere and there was no shelter. I stopped
to piss on a tree at the edge of the clearing.
Maybe the lean-to wall would protect me a little
if it rained. I walked back to my pack and took
out my poncho, my sleeping bag and my ground
cloth. The sleeping bag was damp even though
it had been covered by the poncho. I laid the
ground cloth next to the wall and unrolled the
sleeping bag on top of it. Then I turned the
ground cloth and the bag so that my head would
be higher than my feet and dragged the
backpack near to where my head would be while
I slept. I covered the sleeping bag with the

263
poncho and got my towel out of the pack to use
as a pillow.
Other people crouched in little groups
around the edge of the clearing and got ready to
sleep.
“Will you move over,” I heard one of the kids
in the lean-to say.
“You move over,” someone answered.
“Ross, if you don’t shut up I’m throwing you
out of here,” Paul said.
I sat down on the ground cloth and looked
at the sky; maybe it wouldn’t rain. Holding my
feet in the air to keep them clean, I took off my
shoes and socks, put my socks in the shoes and
the shoes under my pack. Then I twisted on my
butt and slid into the bag. When I was lying
down, I squirmed out of my pants, rolled them up
and pushed them into the bottom of the bag with
my feet.
There was a hard point under my hip and
the sleeping bag was wet next to my feet,
probably because it had been touching the
canvas where the canteen had spilled water. I
rolled away from the hard point, landed on
another one and knew that I wouldn’t find
anyplace flat and soft to lie. Mosquitoes were
biting the skin around my ears, so I slid as far
into the bag as I could and dragged the towel
over my head. As soon as I was completely
covered by the bag and the towel, I started to
sweat. Would I be cooler if I took the poncho off

264
the sleeping bag? I thought about this; if it
rained the uncovered bag would be soaked.
I wished that we could have stayed in the
camp. What was different about being in the
woods here, or staying there, where we could
have slept in cabins? That was the only thing
that was different; the woods were the same.
The forest changed without really changing and
was the same everywhere and on any day and
even in any year, except for the seasons, but the
seasons didn’t matter really, did they? The
seasons happened over and over again, and so
you might say: “I was in the woods in the
summer of 1942,” or “I was in the woods in the
summer of 1952,” or “1932,” and what would be
the difference? We were in the same forest as
the Camp People and as the Indians, but we
didn’t see them. Did we think that they had gone
forever or were they just in another part of the
woods? Either way, we remembered them as if
they were alive; it was all the same. The question
that Ross had asked JJ about the forest was
stupid because the sound is part of the tree like
the branches and the roots. The sound is always
with the tree, but where is the tree? At least in
the cabins, we would have been dry.
The gray sky got darker and the embers
shimmered in front of my eyes. The fire was hot.
I had trouble walking. I straightened my legs
and tried to take smooth, even steps. A kid
walked around the edge of the lean-to dragging

265
his sleeping bag behind him. He came back to
camp. A bride was with him. There was water
on my face so I dried it with a towel. I listened
to wind blowing through the leaves and saw the
surf flowing over the sand. The pack strap hurt
my shoulder, so I turned onto my back, and then
Emmett shouted get up, it’s morning, and I saw
that the sky was gray.
For a couple of minutes I looked at the sky
and didn’t move, but lying on the ground was
uncomfortable and I decided that dressing would
be better than staying where I was, so I pulled
my pants out of the bottom of the sleeping bag
and started to put them on. They were damp and
smelled like fire smoke and they were dirty.
After what seemed like a long time, I finished
tying my shoes and stood. My muscles were
having trouble remembering how to do things.
What should happen next? Pack my stuff?
I stared at the things around my feet. The
sleeping bag, I noticed, wasn’t on the ground
cloth anymore. There were little puddles of
water on the bag and on everything in the field. I
decided that I should just put my stuff in my
pack; nothing would dry if I left it on the ground.
After I had closed the pack, I noticed that I was
hungry so I opened it again, took out my plate
and walked to the fireplace hoping to find some
food.
Emmett had already made a fire and
cooked oatmeal in the pot. He gave me some,

266
and poured a little brown sugar on top of it.
Other kids came to get breakfast.
“I want to be out of here in twenty
minutes,” he told us. Even though he spoke in
his loud voice, his words sounded as if they were
coming from far away, as if my head were
underwater. “Finish eating and then police the
area. Make sure that you pick up everything.”
After I had eaten my oatmeal, I went and
pissed on the tree at the edge of the clearing.
Then I got my pack and sat on it next to the
fireplace. I stared at the embers. Emmett
started scraping dirt off the ground with his
plate; he dumped the dirt on the fire. I watched
and then, noticing that my own plate was on the
ground in front of my feet, I stood up and used it
to help him.
“Thanks,” he said. “Finish that off for me.
Make sure nothing is still burning.”
I didn’t say anything; I just kept scraping up
dirt and pouring it on the wood coals. Eventually
I couldn’t see them anymore. A few minutes
later, Emmett said let’s go, and we put on our
packs and left the clearing.
The camp disappeared and we were
surrounded again by woods. Not asleep but not
awake either, I looked at the trail and wondered
for a second whether we were walking back to
the road or in some other direction. (“What do
you think, you idiot?”) In this way we continued,
sometimes stopping, sometimes eating,

267
sometimes sleeping. I walked and had thoughts
that didn’t seem to be made in my own mind.
Then, on the fifth day or maybe the fourth day,
the trees got shorter, the air hotter and the brush
thicker. It crowded the trail and scraped my skin
as we crashed past it on the narrow path, and
suddenly we were standing again beside a dirt
road somewhere in the woods, and I had the
feeling that I had traveled to another world.



“You havta play football this year,” Matt

said. “You are, right?”
“Are you playing football?” I asked Davey
later.
He laughed. “No way,” he said. “I’ve got
bad knees.”
“Whada ya mean, bad knees?”
“My knees hurt when I do sports.”
Davey was great at sports.
“So, they’ll get better,” I said.
“Not without an operation.”
He didn’t want to play.
We sat on the ground under a tree behind
the water bucket and watched the older kids run
plays.
“School starts in three days,” Matt said.
“Yeah.”
“Did you hav’ta say that?” Tommy said.
I took off my helmet and looked at the

268
crack in the plastic above the right ear hole. I
could smell my sweat in the helmet and also dog
shit and car exhaust in the city air. Three days
was a lot of time if you just thought about now
and the moment after now.
“Do you think we’ll do anything else?”
Tommy asked Matt or maybe me.
“Naw, we’re done,” Matt said.
That let me feel calm: we were done until
tomorrow, except for running. I would worry
about tomorrow when tomorrow happened.
A girl walked toward us on the other side of
the field holding the strap of a book bag over her
shoulder with one hand and carrying a brown
paper bag in her other hand. She was Hartman’s
girlfriend. I knew that we were all watching her.
She wore a light-blue sweater and a short blue
and gray plaid skirt; the bottom of the skirt
touched the skin above her knees. I looked at
her legs. She was wearing long tight socks that
covered her calves. You would be able to see the
shapes of her ankle bones through the socks
when she was closer; in a part of your mind you
saw them already.
“I hope he doesn’t make us run too much,” I
said.
“You don’t run anyway,” Stein said.
“I run the same as you.”
“You wish.”
“I don’t hav’ta wish.”
“Right. If you wanna think that.”

269
 She walked around the practice area and
waved to Hartman who was standing behind the
center. He must have seen her but he didn’t
move. He wasn’t allowed to stop the play, but
that meant that he was being rude to her. Did he
worry about that? The center snapped the ball
and Hartman took one backward step, then
turned and handed off to Woods. Woods held the
ball against his chest and ran between the guard
and the tackle about fifteen yards into what
would be the defensive backfield during a game.
It was almost impossible for one person to stop
Woods.
The girl put her book sack on the ground
under a tree near where we were sitting and
waved to Hartman again. As she waved, we
watched her bounce on the toes of her saddle
shoes, making her skirt swing around her thighs.
“Running is good,” Dan said.
“Great,” Matt said and laughed.
I looked at Hartman and wondered what he
would do.
“Running makes you stronger,” Dan said.
“We don’t need to be stronger,” I said.
“We’re J.V.”
“You wanna play well,” Dan said. “You
wanna play Varsity next year.”
“We’re not playing next year.”
“Speak for yourself. I’ll play,” Stein said.
Makris blew his whistle. “Okay, get a
drink,” he yelled.

270
 We watched the girl smile at Hartman. She
wasn’t angry; she was certain that he would
come to her, and he did. He took off his helmet
and walked to where she was standing and that
was what she wanted even though he was dirty.
None of us said anything.
She gave him the paper bag, then put her
hands on his shoulder pads, stood on her toes
and kissed his lips; everyone could see her do it.
While Hartman drank the bottle of juice that had
been in the bag, she talked to him. Standing
near Hartman showed the girl’s cleanness and
also something else about her. What was the
other thing? She had made Hartman do
something, but next to him she seemed very
small. After he had finished drinking the juice,
Hartman spoke to her first with both hands held
open in front of him, then pointing with one hand
in the direction of the field. He shook his head.
The girl listened and smiled, then she kissed him
again, picked up her book bag and walked past
us towards the other side of the park. We turned
our heads to watch her walk away.
The kids in my group had been told to put
on bathing suits and bring soap and towels to
the dock.
We washed in the lake. It was hard to get
the soap off my skin in the cold water. When
Jack said that we were clean, we dried
ourselves and went back to our bunks where we
dressed in regular clothes, not camp uniforms. I

271
wore khaki pants and a navy-blue shirt that she
had packed in the bottom of my trunk. They
were damp and creased and they smelled like
clean clothes from the city laundry. I put on my
leather belt and brown loafers. Then I took my
comb to the bathroom and combed my hair until
I had a straight part. I hoped that nobody had
noticed me redo the part to make it right.
“So, are you guys ready?” Jack asked us.
He was wearing clean clothes too, and a regular
shirt, not a Staff shirt.
Nobody answered.
“It’s gunna be fun,” he said.
“Right,” Ross said.
“How do you talk to them?” I asked him.
He knew something important about this, I was
sure.
“Talk to them like you’d talk to anybody.”
“But what do you talk about?”
“Ask them about camp – ask them if they
like camp. Ask them what they like to do.”
He thought that it was easy because he
knew.
“This stinks,” Miller said.
“I don't know,” I said.
“What are you worried about?” Ross said to
me.
We waited for them in front of the Dining
Hall. They came from the parking lot walking in
a line, watching us as we watched them.
Inside the Dining Hall, they stood in a group

272
in front of the tables where the cook had put
snacks. The tables had been moved to make an
open space for dancing. We stood on the other
side of the room near the wall.
Music started to play through John Woo’s
loudspeakers and then stopped. Ed and a
woman walked into the middle of the room. Ed
said to have fun and that nobody should leave
the room. The woman said that nobody was
allowed to leave the room. Why did she think
that she could make rules for us? Where did
they think we would go?
The music started again and that was the
only sound in the Dining Hall. Nobody moved.
Then I heard Mike tell JJ that he should pick a
girl and dance with her.
“You first,” JJ said.
He tried to walk away from Mike, but Mike
followed him.
“This isn’t my dance, Ace,” Mike said,
laughing and holding him by the shoulder. “Are
you chicken?”
“Takes one to know one,” JJ said.
“Come on,” I heard Jack say behind me, “I’ll
go over there with you. They’re your guest. You
can’t just leave them standing there.”
Without turning around to look at him
because I didn’t want to attract his attention, I
walked slowly away from his voice. I decided
that eventually the Counselors would make us
all dance, so I started looking carefully at each

273
of the girls in front of the snack tables, which I
had been doing anyway. Looking for what; what
did I want to find? Most of the girls were at
least a little ugly, I thought, for different
reasons: their faces, or they had bodies that
could have belonged to different people, top and
bottom, or they were just fat. Grandma Kay
would have said, “They must have extra good
food at that camp.” Did their camp give them
better bunks too because they were girls?
I had stopped being careful about who was
near me and I felt a girl hand grab my wrist
before I had a chance to get away. A Counselor
from the Girl Camp had snuck across the dance
area and grabbed me.
“Come on. Let’s dance,” she said, laughing
because she had caught me.
“I’m a kid,” I said, trying to pull my hand
free, but I couldn’t.
Even though her touch was soft, it was
strong. She was like a grownup woman with soft
hands and red fingernails.
“So? Can you dance?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
She started to fast dance so I had to dance
with her. I could feel my face get red. Everyone
could see me.
“That’s great,” she said. “Where are you
from?”
“The City.”
“Oh. I’m from here.”

274
 “Really? You live here all the time?”
“Not exactly here.” She laughed. “I go to
College near here.”
“Wow. You go to College? Here? You must
get cold.”
“Listen. You should dance with one of the
girls,” she said. We hadn’t even danced to one
whole song. “What about her?” She pointed to a
girl standing in front of the snack tables who
smiled. The girl looked like a bird, but there was
also another girl standing near her who looked
okay. I knew that the other girl looked okay
because I had seen her walk into the Dining Hall.
I could pretend that I thought that the Girl-Camp
Counselor had told me to dance with the other
girl. I could do that even if the other girl or
someone else wanted to know why I had asked
her to dance.
“Okay,” I said and walked quickly past the
smiling-bird girl.
“Do you wanna dance?” I asked the other
girl.
“Yes,” she said and smiled.
“Okay.” I turned around and walked back
to the open space and she followed me. The
smiling-bird girl was mad, I saw from the side of
my eye as I passed her, but that would be okay
because the Girl-Camp Counselor hadn’t said in
words to dance with her and I was dancing with
someone, which was what the Counselor
wanted.

275
 “What’s your name?” I asked the other girl.
“Lisa,” she said.
We fast danced. She did look really good,
not the way I had expected her to look, but
better I thought. She had blue eyes and her hair
was wavy and a dark gold color and also brown.
You could see that each of her hairs was a
different color of gold and brown when you were
close to her. She didn’t seem to mind that I had
asked her to dance, so I thought that I could talk
to her. I hoped that my face wouldn’t get red. I
knew that I looked really stupid.
“Do you like camp?” I asked her.
“Yeah. I’ve been going for five years.”
“Oh. That’s a long time.
“Yeah.”
We danced. What should I say next?
“Do you like camp?” she asked me.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“What do you like to do?”
“I like making stuff in shop. You know:
projects. And I guess I like shooting.”
“Shooting?”
“Yeah. 22s. Do you do that?”
Even while I asked her the question, I knew
that girls didn’t shoot. I was totally stupid.
“No, we don’t do that. Are you a good
shooter?”
She didn’t laugh at me.
“Yeah, I guess. I usually get 98 or 99 and a
lot of times 100. A few 97s.”

276
 Was I lying? No, that was true. Was I
bragging?
“Oh,” she said.
When the song was over, people started
walking around the room and bumping into each
other, and I noticed that a lot of the other kids
had been dancing too. I decided that I had been
lucky to be one of the first people to pick so that
I wasn’t forced to dance with someone like the
bird girl. What would happen if another kid tried
to dance with Lisa?
“Do you want a snack?” I asked her.
“If you do,” she said.
“Okay,” I said.
We had Bug Juice and little pretzels. Then
a slow song started playing.
“Do you wanta keep dancing?” I asked her.
“If you do,” she said.
“Sure,” I said, so we went back to the open
space.
She looked at me and smiled; I was going
to have to put my hands on her body. I raised my
arms and made a step forward and she did the
same, and then I did put my hands on her: I held
her right hand in my left hand and I put my right
hand on her back. Her sweater felt soft and she
smelled clean and like flowers and lemon. Our
faces were close together and she smiled. I
lifted my right hand and moved it higher on her
back to make my arm more comfortable, and
when I touched her again I almost jumped

277
because I could feel her underwear through her
sweater. What should I do? She was still
smiling, but she knew what I was thinking.
Slowly, I lifted my hand and moved it back to
where it had been. The skin on my face felt as if
it were burning.
“This is a good song,” she said. “Do you
like this song?”
“Yes,” I said.
I did like the song, although I hadn’t
noticed before that I liked it. We danced some
more. We didn’t talk, but that felt okay.
“Where do you live?” she asked me.
“In the City. Do you live in the City?”
“I live outside it. Not far though.”
“Oh.”
I wasn’t going to see her again. I decided
not to think about that.
“Come on,” Matt said. “Time to wake up
and have a nice little run.”
“What?”
“Time to wake up and run.” He laughed.



“Listen to this,” Matt said. A new song was

playing on the radio.
“How does he sing like that?” Tommy said.
“Jeeze.”
“He must hafta have somebody kick him in
the balls every time,” Dan said.

278
 We laughed.
“It sounds that way. It’s good, though,”
Matt said “don’tya think?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Very impressive,” Davey said.
“Come on. You like it, don’tya?” I asked
him, and my other mind had the idea that I was
begging. The song was good though; we all
should know that it was good and like it.
“I love it,” Davey said. “How could anybody
not love listening to a guy who sounds like a girl
sing about lions. It’s a classic. Fats Waller
would be envious.”
Everybody laughed again. Who was Fats
Waller? Did Matt know about Fats Waller? Davey
grinned at me.
I felt angry and drank the rest of my Coke
so that I didn’t have to see him.
“Well, I have to go,” Davey said.
That made me remember to look at my
watch. It was twenty-to-six; how had it become
twenty-to-six so fast? I was almost late even
though it seemed as if we had been at Matt’s
house for only a few minutes. Should I call her?
If I called her, she would make me answer
questions and she would be mad.
“She would be angry.”
“No, she would be mad, Mr. Russell.”
I decided just to leave with Davey. If I left
now with Davey, I really wouldn’t be late, I
thought, but my second mind was unsure about

279
this.
“I’ve gotta go too,” I said.
“Do you really have’ta go?” Matt asked me.
“Stay for one more song.”
“No,” I said.
“Just one?”
“Oh well. Okay. One.”
It really wouldn’t make a difference if I
stayed for just one more song. I looked at Davey,
who was putting on his coat.
“Stay for one more song and I’ll go on the
bus with you,” I said to him.
“No. I’m going,” he said, “bye.”
He walked out of the room and Matt
followed him. I heard the front door open and
close, and then Matt came back. The next song
was playing.
“This one isn’t any good,” Dan said, and we
all agreed. I couldn’t remember the name of the
song or of the band that played it, but anybody
would know this song – I was sure that I knew it,
didn’t I?
“You want more Coke?” Matt asked us.
“You can have another one, but then you hafta
leave.”
“I’d better leave now,” I said, suddenly
feeling a need to move, to be moving.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Maybe I could catch up with Davey. I put
on my coat quickly.

280
 “Okay.”
Matt walked with me to the door.
“You don’t want to get in trouble.” He
laughed.
“Yeah. See ya. Thanks.”
“See ya.”
I waited for the elevator, wishing that I had
left with Davey or before Davey, wishing that I
had gone home earlier. The elevator came after
what felt like ten minutes and I rode in it down to
the lobby. When the doorman saw me, he opened
the building door and I walked past him, turned
left and hurried towards the bus stop at the
corner. A bus was just leaving and Davey must
have been on it because I couldn’t see him
anywhere on the sidewalk. I looked at my watch:
five-to-six.
(“I’ll only be a few minutes late.”) I wanted
to believe myself and feel comfortable again. (“If
a bus comes soon, I’ll only be a few minutes
late.”)
When I got to the corner, I looked in the
direction of the river and tried to see another
bus: there were only trucks and cars and cabs on
the street. My chest began to feel as if someone
were inflating a balloon inside it. Wanting to find
a bus somewhere in the traffic, I kept staring at
the street. The traffic light at the end of the
block turned red and all of the cars stopped. I
looked at my watch again: six o’clock. A
cleaning lady made an angry face at me and I

281
noticed that I was walking back and forth on the
edge of the curb in front of her so I put my hands
in my pockets and yawned to make her and
everyone else know that what was happening
wasn’t important.
The balloon got bigger.
How long did traffic lights stay red? Maybe
two or three minutes, but not five minutes.
Maybe only one minute. If they stayed red for
three minutes and a bus didn’t come until the
traffic lights had been red three times, then it
would be nine more minutes before a bus
arrived.
(“That’s not right, you jerk. It takes time
for the bus to drive while the light is green too.
It could be 15 or 20 minutes before a bus
comes.”)
Was that possible? I usually didn’t wait
that long for a bus.
Finally, the light turned green and the
traffic started to move again, but slowly; a bus
passed on the other side of the street going
towards the river.
(“You’re going to have to wait until that one
turns around and comes back.”)
No, there are others coming.
(“Right, asshole. That’s the next one,
moron. You’re going to be really late.”)
It was the next bus. I sat on one of the
back seats next to a window with my left foot on
the rear-wheel cover. The bus moved and then

282
stopped and then moved a little more and
stopped again. It was five-after-six. Why hadn’t I
called her?
(“She’d be mad anyway so what’s the
difference?”)
The balloon was huge and I couldn’t make
it smaller. I should have called her.
(“I’ll just tell her there wasn’t a bus. There
was a lot of traffic and it took a long time for a
bus to come and then a long time to get through
the park. That’s true. I can’t help it if there’s
traffic. There is traffic. You’re late sometimes.
People are late.”)
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
“I’m just telling you that there was traffic
and it took longer to get here than I thought.
There must have been an accident.”
It’s okay for her to yell at me because I’m a
kid, but I’m not allowed to yell at her because
she’s an adult.
(“Well, big deal. I don’t care if she’s an
adult.”)
“If you want to yell at me, then I’m yelling
at you too.”
“I think you need to stay home and think
about this. You need to learn a lesson. We’ll see
how you act after spending the weekend in your
room.”
“Look, there was an accident.”
(“No. I should say, people are late
sometimes. I’m sorry but there was an

283
accident.”)
“I don’t care. I was late because there was
an accident and it took a long time to get
through the park. Even you can understand
that.”
“Listen, you brat. You don’t speak to me
like that…”
“Yeah? I just did.”
“…and if you can’t get yourself home on
time then you won’t be able to go out. It’s as
simple as that.
“I can’t believe you behave this way after
everything I do for you. You should learn to
appreciate what people do for you.” Or she says,
“someday you’ll appreciate what I do for you. Do
you know what the word appreciate means?”
Behave what way? Took the bus? Had to
wait in traffic? Don’t you take the bus?
“Behave what way? I had to take the bus
and it just got stuck in the park because there
was an accident. How can that be my fault?”
“Don’t you think that I have the right to go
out sometimes? You can’t do something so
simple as get home on time so I can go out?”
“I’m here. You can go out. I’m not stopping
you. Go out.”
(“Yeah. Do me a favor and go out. Go out
and leave me alone.”)
I laughed a little, and then looked quickly
at the people near me without turning my head,
hoping that nobody had heard.

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 (“Go out sometimes? You must be joking.
That’s all she ever does.”)
“Go out with your friends and tell them to
say hello when they call someone on the
telephone and not, ‘Who’s this?’ If they don’t
know who they’re calling, then why are they
calling the number? Don’t they know that I live
here?”
“I don’t like your tone. You don’t talk about
my friends that way. Just because you hang
around with a bunch of playboys doesn’t mean
you have the right to talk about people that way
and do whatever you want.”
(“No: There was an accident in the park and
I had to sit on the bus for about twenty minutes
until they got it out of the way. Until they could
move the wrecked cars out of the way and until
the ambulance left.”)
“Don’t lie to me. You were hanging around
with Matt and Carl and the rest, and you didn’t
even have the courtesy to look at the time and
to call me.”
“How could I call you?”
An uptown bus was at the stop on the other
side of the park when I got there. It was six-
twenty.
(“How can I call you if I’m on the bus?”)
“I have to go out but we’ll talk about this
later.”
“Yeah? Maybe I won’t be here later.”
“What are you talking about? You better

285
behave yourself. That’s enough from you.”
All that red lipstick and makeup and
bracelets clinking. Dyed blonde hair. Diamond
rings. Fur coats. “Did you hear what she said?”
and “I can’t believe the nerve of her,” or “I should
tell her off,” and “Don’t you just love that dress,”
or “Don’t you just hate that coat, those earrings,
those shoes, that bag. Don’t you just love the
way she did her hair. I hate the way she did her
hair. Can you believe the way she gets herself
together. I can’t believe what she said.” The
long red fingernails waving in the air. And then
they kiss at each other because they’re such
good friends. They love each other.
She was standing in the foyer when I
opened the apartment door.
“Where have you been? I was about to call
the police.”
“I’m sorry. There was an accident and it
took a long time to go through the park.”
“Well you should have called.”
“I was on the bus.”
“You should call before you left. You have
to learn to pay attention to the time and not be
so careless. You have to think. I have people
waiting for me. I can’t be late. Here, zip my
dress.”
I closed the zipper on the back of her dress
over her underwear. The strap was black and
lacy. Why did they make dresses so that women
couldn’t put them on and take them off by

286
themselves?
“What did you do about Extra-Curricular
Activities?” She started walking back to her
room so I followed her. I still was wearing my
coat.
“I’m thinking about it,” I said.
“You’d better do something about it and not
just think about it. You need to have some good
Extra-Curricular Activities if you want to get into
College.”
She was saying that I probably wouldn’t get
into College.
“I know.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I was thinking about Camera Club.” Maybe
she would let me be in the Camera Club because
she wanted me to do more Activities.
“The Camera Club? You’re going to take
pictures? What do you want to do that for?”
“Not just take pictures. You know, develop
them too.” I said the second part a little more
quietly.
“How do you expect to do that?”
“I could make a darkroom?”
“Listen. I don’t want to start with some
expensive new hobby that you’ll do for a while
and then forget about. You have to have
something serious on your application. I’m
talking about Yearbook, the School Newspaper,
Art Society, things like that, not some silly
pictures.”

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 I didn’t want to do those things.
She put her junk in a small purse made out
of soft black leather: first a white handkerchief
with a wavy edge that made it look something
like a flower. It had her initials embroidered on
the corner. Then the heavy gold compact that
Grandma Kay had brought back from Europe and
the lipstick in the matching gold case, shiny and
beautiful. You could see their weight – was that
possible? Why did they look heavy? Maybe
because of the thick ridges in the gold.
“Come see me to the door,” she said. “You
can help me put on my coat.”
I walked behind her to the front door. Her
clothes made a rustling noise. I smelled her
perfume.
“Which coat do you want?” I asked her.
“The silk,” and then she said, “I need to
remember to get the Mink out of storage,” but
mostly to herself.
I held the silk coat for her and she put her
arms into the sleeves.
“There are leftovers in the icebox for your
dinner,” she said. “Clean up after yourself; don’t
leave a mess. I know you. And don’t stay up too
late. I’ll be back around eleven, I think, but you
should be asleep. Give me a kiss.”
I kissed her and then opened the front door.
She walked into the vestibule and pressed the
button to call the elevator; I heard the bell ring
and knew that the elevator was in the lobby.

288
Then I heard the gate and the door close and the
twanging sound of the cables.
“Why don’t you do some homework?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
The elevator door opened.
“Have fun,” I said.
After she had gone, I hung my coat in the
front closet and went into the kitchen. Suddenly,
I felt hungry. There was a hunk of meatloaf
wrapped in aluminum foil in the refrigerator.
While I ate it, I stood in front of the sink so that
crumbs wouldn’t fall on the floor. Then I pressed
the foil into a ball and dropped it into the
garbage can. There was nothing else in the
refrigerator that I wanted. Before I went to my
room, I got a handful of chocolate-chip cookies
from the pantry. I was careful to close the
cookie package and put it back on the shelf so
that you couldn’t see that it had been moved.
“Stay out as late as you want,” I said to
nobody. “How can I call if I’m on the bus?”
Maybe Grandma Kay would buy me a good
camera.
(“What’s the difference between the School
Newspaper and Camera Club?”)
I didn’t answer myself, but I knew that you
had to be smart to do School Newspaper and
Yearbook. She didn’t want to spend money on a
camera; cameras are expensive.
Her old TV was in my room. I turned it on
and changed the channel to the movie station. It

289
had a movie about a guy at a gambling casino in
the desert. The movie looked really good. I
quickly took off my clothes, put on my pajamas
and got comfortable in bed.
My real life would be like that. I would live
in a huge apartment in a sunny place and have a
convertible car, a fancy one, and lots of friends.
Everybody would be friendly to me and know that
I was important. I would wear a tuxedo with gold
cufflinks and have a beautiful girlfriend and be in
love with her. It felt good to be the guy in the
movie, even though in some part of my mind I
thought that I couldn’t do that. Why?
I got a Coke from the kitchen during a
commercial. Then the movie ended; the guy
married the woman. I wasn’t tired, but I had to
be asleep before she came home, so I turned off
the TV. I took the Coke glass to the kitchen and
put it in the dishwasher, then I went back to my
room and closed the door until only a thin line of
light came inside from the hall.
There was a big round table at the head of
my bed; it had been in Grandma Kay’s apartment
when I was little. The table had a shelf under its
top that was divided into four parts and I had
turned the table so that the opening to the part
next to the wall was only a little wider than my
head. It had taken a while to push the table into
exactly the right position. My old brown radio
was on the part of the shelf next to the wall, and
I turned it on very carefully so that I could barely

290
hear the music. Then I switched off my lamp and
got comfortable in bed with my ear next to the
shelf opening. A warm orange glow came out of
the radio back. Sometimes, I used that glow to
see the pages of a book when I was supposed to
be asleep, but at other times, I pushed the radio
almost against the shelf divider so she couldn’t
see any light and she wouldn’t know that I was
listening to music if she looked into the room.
It would be nice to drive a car like that. We
could see the desert in the moonlight. I drove
the car with the top down, and the radio played
music. The air was warm and smelled like open
space. There were mountains in the distance
and billions of stars in the sky. We were there
alone together.
The sudden scraping sound of her key
being pushed into the front-door lock made my
heart jump. Quickly, I turned off the radio and
rolled so that I was facing the wall. She put her
coat in the closet: the hangers clanked together
and the door banged when she closed it. Then
she walked down the hall. More light came into
the room and I heard her footsteps behind me.
My heartbeat was shaking my chest. Her clothes
rustled as she bent over and then she kissed my
cheek. After that, she left the room and closed
the door. I breathed and stretched. When my
heart was beating normally, I turned on the radio
again.
After a couple of minutes, one of the best

291
songs started playing; it had a great guitar part.
Did the guitar player worry about mistakes? The
music made me feel good the way that the movie
story had, and I wanted to be able to play the
guitar.
There was a bad problem with being the
guy in the movie, though, a problem that I
couldn’t solve in my mind. Most of the things
that felt good about being the guy in the movie
changed because of the way the movie ended.
The end of the story made his life different, less
exciting. You couldn’t imagine being that guy
and not have this happen. It was as if the story
had been forced to kill itself. Was every story
like that? Maybe stories were like that because
life was like that. Was life like that?
“The excitement ends because you find out
what happens, you idiot.”
I repeated this in my mind.
No. That’s not the problem. It’s not finding
out what happened that changed things; it’s
because of what happened that things changed.
The guy became a different person and that’s
what was important. The movie was over
because his old life was finished. Had he chosen
to make a story like this for himself, to change
his future? He had decided to marry the girl, but
he also hadn’t decided to marry the girl; it just
happened that they met.
I thought about this until I began only to
hear the music and felt myself falling asleep. I

292
made the effort to reach over my head and turn
off the radio, then quickly I sank and was in a
dream that I knew.
I knew the streets. I passed over them
through the evening into the Park and then
turned to the right. They were streets in the
City, but also I didn’t know the streets. Some of
them were dead ends near the river. Doormen in
fancy uniforms stood watching. Beautiful
buildings with carved stone fronts and tall
windows lit by glittering chandeliers were there,
but then they were not there. I didn’t know this
part of the City. The Avenues were long, and the
farther that the bus went, the less I remembered
them. It was dark night with a wind that blew
litter through the alleys. The buildings were
made of old carved stones built into gigantic
arches and alcoves, the blocks covered with
soot, the elaborate moldings chipped. I stood on
the sidewalk beside one of the iron grilles that
covered the lower windows. I was alone. How
could I get back? It didn’t matter; it was only a
dream.



Should I wear my blue suit? The suit was

too fancy for a party, even a party with girls. I
wasn’t going to Dancing School.
I slid the glass shower door open a few
inches and reached through the gap. Carefully, I
turned the faucets to positions that felt right,

293
waited and then touched the water with my
fingertips. The temperature was okay. I closed
the door, moved to the opposite end of the tub
and stepped over the side, shutting that part of
the shower door behind me. For a moment, I
tested the temperature with my feet. Then I
moved slowly sideways underneath the stream,
first my leg and hip, then my shoulder and finally
my head. The water wasn’t hot enough. I
twisted the cold faucet counterclockwise. Was
that right? I nudged it a little further and then
let the water pour down onto my neck and back.
It was good. Swaying from side to side I let it
soak my hair and face. My shoulders sagged and
my knees began to feel loose.
At Dancing School, we stood in a circle
next to the tables around the dance floor while
the Teachers showed us the steps. Then we
picked girls and did the dance with them.
People walked quickly across the room to get to
the girls who were okay before anyone else. We
weren’t allowed to run. The Teachers watched
us.
The man behind the counter watched us.
He had a stained apron tied over his fat stomach.
His arms and hands were huge. We reached into
the barrel of cold water and grabbed the biggest
pickles that we could find. The ones we picked
had to be the right color: green, but not too dark.
The dark ones were soft sometimes.
“Don’t touch em all, just pick one.” He

294
didn’t want us in the store. “Come on, hurry it
up.”
“Hurry it up,” Tommy imitated him. Tommy
imitated him every week.
“Shut up, Tommy,” I whispered at his back,
“you’ll make him mad.”
“Listen, sonny taka pickle, pay me and get
outta here.”
I gave the man two quarters. The pickle
was crunchy and salty. I finished eating it
before we got to Matt’s house.
We all went into the bathroom to wash the
pickle juice off our hands. It was hard to keep
your suit sleeves dry with so many people
standing in front of the sink, grabbing the soap
and splashing water. I combed my hair with
Matt’s comb, uncovering the white patch on the
right side of my head.
“Come on. We hafta go. The car is
waiting,” Matt said.
Bending under the spray, I picked up the
soap and rubbed it on my chest, then up and
down my right arm four times, then up and down
my left arm four times, then twice under each
arm.
We shoved each other away from the car
door, trying to be one of the first three into the
back so that we could sit on the comfortable
seat facing forward. Matt always got one of the
places because it was his Father’s car.
“Move your feet,” Davey said to me. My

295
ankles crossed over his in the space between
the jump seats and the backseat.
“You move yours,” I said.
We all kicked at each other, but not hard.
Carl looked unhappy but the rest of us laughed. I
laughed, but I was worried that my shoes would
be scuffed and that someone would kick my
ankle bones.
“Your Father doesn’t want you fighting back
there,” Bernard yelled from the front seat. He
was talking to Matt and he was talking to the
rest of us also, but he meant Matt’s Father. He
was always confusing in that way. Maybe it was
because he was drunk.
“You think we’ll crash?” I asked Matt.
“Shush. He’s okay.”
He looked at the front seat and laughed
quietly while he said this.
I scrubbed each leg the way that I always
did: front and back down to the feet and the toes.
Then I let the shower rinse the soap off my skin
everywhere. It was good that she didn’t know
what we did on the way to Dancing School.
“Why do you need fifty cents?”
“For a pickle.”
“You shouldn’t be eating pickles before
dancing school anyway.”
“But everybody gets them.”
“I don’t care what everybody does. You
don’t have to do something just because
everybody else does it. If everybody jumped off

296
a bridge would you do that?”
“Whada you think, you idiot?” I made sure
that my voice wasn’t too loud.
With my eyes pressed tightly closed, I
washed each cheek and then my nose and then
behind and inside each ear and then my forehead
and finally my chin, being careful not to miss any
spots and to wash evenly and in the right order.
After I had finished, I put my face under the
shower.
“Why shouldn’t I get one? What’s the big
deal?”
I imitated her: “You don’t have to do
something just because everybody else does it.”
“Really? No kidding? What does that have
to do with it if I’m hungry?”
I wanted to stand under the shower and
think but decided that I would be late if I didn’t
dry myself soon and get dressed so I bent
forward and turned off the water.
“You can’t dance with a girl when you stink
of garlic.”
“We don’t stink, we just ate a pickle.”
“The pickles stink. They make your breath
stink.”
Nobody at Dancing School ever said
anything about that.
After I had finished in the bathroom, I put
on underwear and a clean white shirt. It
probably was okay to wear the dark gray slacks
again even though I had just worn them to

297
school, because a party is different from school.
I put them on and carefully tucked the shirt
bottom and the insides of the pockets straight
into the pants, using my hands to make sure that
there were no folds in the material except at the
sides and that it went around my waist evenly.
Then I put on the brown leather belt that I wore
to school, zipped my fly, and took my dark red tie
off the rack. While I knotted the tie, I watched
myself in the mirror on the back of the closet
door and noticed that the shirt buttons didn’t go
into my pants at the middle of my waist. I pulled
on the shirt until the buttons went straight down
my front, then took my gold tie clip out of the
black leather box on the closet shelf and slid it
over the tie and the front of the shirt, being
careful not to pull the tie down too tight or to
leave it too loose. I put on my brown loafers and
jiggled the waist of my pants so that the cuffs at
the bottoms of the legs lay on the tops of the
loafers the right way. The last thing I did was
put on my blue blazer.
“Stop admiring yourself in the mirror. You
look very handsome,” she said.
She was standing in the doorway smiling or
maybe grinning at me.
“Are you excited?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You’d better hurry up. You don’t want all
the hot numbers to be taken before you get
there.”

298
 “I’m almost ready,” I said, wishing that she
would stop talking and leave the room. What did
she think she was saying?
She watched me while I put my wallet and
keys into my pockets; wallet in the right inside
pocket of my sport coat, keys in my right pants
pocket. The left pants pocket was for change. A
small pocket knife that my Father had given me
went into the left side pocket of the blazer.
Where was the knife? I couldn’t find it. I looked
for it again in the leather box, but it wasn’t there.
Had I dropped it? I searched the floor and then
put my hand in the left side pocket of my other
sports jacket. Still, I didn’t find it.
“Come on. What are you doing? It’s time to
go or you’ll be late,” she said.
“I’m just trying to find my pocket knife,” I
said.
“Don’t be silly. You don’t need a pocket
knife to go to a party.”
“I just want to find it.”
I walked to my desk and opened the top
middle drawer: not there. My shoulder muscles
suddenly began to feel tight. I couldn’t leave
without the pocket knife. Where should I look?
What if I couldn’t find it? I went back into the
closet and looked on the shelf around the black
leather box. I wanted to search the floor by
crawling under the hanging clothes where it was
dark and hard to see, but I couldn’t because that
would make knee marks on my pants. I stared at

299
the floor.
“Will you please stop this and go. It’s
ridiculous to worry about a knife. What use will
it be, anyway. Don’t be such a perfectionist. You
need to get going.”
“But I want to find it.”
“Don’t be so picky. It’s just a knife.”
Maybe I had put it into a pants pocket by
mistake. I started searching the pockets of my
other pants.
“This is ridiculous. Get going,” she said.
She was ordering me and I knew that I
would have to leave without the knife.
“You can’t be such a perfectionist all the
time. Do you have the address?”
I took the piece of paper with the girl’s
address on it off the top of my desk and showed
it to her.
“What if it’s lost?” I said while I stood in the
foyer and put on my overcoat.
“If it’s lost then it’s lost. Forget about it.”
I couldn’t get another one. It was perfect.
My Father had given it to me because it was
something that he thought was useful to have.
He had said that. He had said, “I always have
mine.” It was a perfect size, stainless steel with
small bumps in the metal and a single blade. It
had a brown leather case that I had rubbed
between my fingers, making it dark and smooth.
I felt wrong without it. What if it were lost
forever and I didn’t have one anymore?

300
 (“If it’s lost, then it’s lost. Forget about it.
Nothing to be done.”)
No, my Father always had his knife.
When the elevator arrived she kissed me.
“Don’t forget to say thank you to the girl’s
parents,” she said, “and be back in the door by
eleven.”
“I know. I won’t”
I stood in the elevator without speaking
and looked at the floor. Everything would be
perfect if I had the knife.
“Good night,” Carl said.
“Bye.”
There were lots of empty cabs driving up
the avenue. I waved my hand and one swerved
quickly to the curb and stopped in front of me.
“454 East 95,” I told the driver, reading the
address from the scrap of paper. He didn’t say
anything.
The cab bounced over the streets while I
tried to remember the last time I had seen the
knife: the day before when I had gotten home
from school? Which jacket had I been wearing?
I looked at the other jacket hanging in my closet.
Did I see myself putting the knife in the right
side pocket while I was at school?
(“Just forget about it, you idiot. There’s
nothing you can do about it now.”)
The cab stopped next to a row of cars on a
side street; the gold metal numbers, 454, were
on the black door of a brownstone building

301
behind the cars. Did they live in the whole
building? I had never been in a brownstone that
was somebody’s house. I paid the driver and got
out of the cab. A wide flight of stairs led up to
the front door. Before climbing them, I
straightened my clothes.
A woman with black hair opened the door
at the same time that I rang the bell. She was
standing in a little room that had a mirror in a
fancy gold frame on one wall and a row of coats
hanging on hooks on the wall facing it. There
were small black and white square tiles on the
floor and a brown doormat. The bathroom tiles
looked good there. The woman didn’t smile.
“Go ahead inside. You can leave your coat
on the settee,” she said.
I took off my coat and started to hang it on
one of the hooks.
“Not there,” she said. “Go inside and put it
on the settee.”
My face got warm. Those hooks were for
family coats. I walked out of the little room
through another doorway. There already were a
lot of kids inside the house, talking and almost
running around a large living room. A record
player in the corner was playing Rock-and-Roll,
but nobody was dancing. On my left, there was a
pile of coats on a bench. I didn’t want to leave
my coat on top of the pile because I knew that it
would fall on the floor when other kids looked for
their own coats under it. Instead I put it on a

302
chair with a red velvet cushion to my right.
“No. On the settee.”
She was behind me.
Slowly I picked up the coat and put it on
top of the pile, pressing it close to the wall so
that it would be less likely to fall on the floor
where people would step on it. I looked at it
over my shoulder as I walked farther into the
living room, trying to believe that it would stay
where it was and, in my other mind, knowing that
it wouldn’t. Then I stopped next to some stairs
that went up to a raised area like a stage with a
dining table on it and looked at the kids,
forgetting the coat and thinking that I didn’t
know any of them. Tommy and Carl might be
coming, but I didn’t see them anywhere. I didn’t
see anyone I knew. What should I do?
I walked up the stairs trying to move
smoothly. The dining table was covered with a
tablecloth made of plastic, not cloth, so what
should you call it? On the plastic were snacks
and drinks; I poured some Coke into a clear
plastic glass. Could you call them glasses if they
were made of plastic? What should you call
them? Cups? A cup of soda? It sounded like
something that you would say to a baby. A
plastic cup of soda, and if you squeeze it,
especially near the top, the plastic will crack
and break and the soda will spill. My hand shook
a little and Coke dripped down the side of the
cup.

303
 (“Spaz.”)
Where were Tommy and Carl? I took a
handful of potato chips out of a china bowel,
walked to the metal fence that went around the
stage and watched the other kids. They weren’t
all in my grade, I knew by looking at them. A lot
of them were older. What should I do next? I ate
the potato chips and drank the Coke very slowly,
being careful not to spill any.
(“You have to act as if you know that
everything is okay.”)
I would have to talk to someone.
Lots of the girls seemed to know each
other, which I thought meant that they were
probably in the same class as the girl who lived
in the house. They talked to each other and
made gestures with their hands. I watched their
faces. Their eyes were wide and, even if they
were listening to someone else and not speaking
themselves, their faces looked as if they were
almost shouting.
They were kids but they were like women
too. “Look what I got Katie for her birthday.”
Her eyes were wide and she was grinning. She
took a lacey bra out of a box and shook it in front
of my face.
“Don’t touch it.”
Why was she showing that to me?
“She doesn’t need that.”
“I want to get her first one.”
“What’s she going to do with it.”

304
 “She can stuff toilet paper in it.”
“Stuff toilet paper in it? Are you joking?”
“You have to remember that she’s almost a
woman.”
Now their bodies had definite shapes: fat
on top or on the bottom, fat legs, or very skinny
in some places, different combinations. Their
face shapes also had changed and they were
wearing makeup and jewelry and had hairdos.
They turned their heads to see the other people
in the room; they wanted to be noticed.
Only a little Coke was left in the cup. What
should I do now? I would have to talk to
someone because that was normal.
(“You look like a jerk if you don’t talk to
someone.”)
I watched the crowd of kids. Nobody I
knew had arrived, so I turned around and got
more Coke and potato chips from the table.
Eating was doing something.
Beside the fence again, I started to look at
each girl in the room carefully but quickly, one
after the other, hoping that they wouldn’t see me
noticing them. It was difficult to keep track of
them because they were moving, but I tried to
look at each one: first the ones near the
windows on the right and then the ones in the
middle of the room and then the ones near the
wall on the left. Looking for what? I did it again
to be sure that I hadn’t missed any. Then I saw,
standing near a table beside the wall on the left,

305
a girl who seemed to have just appeared in the
room.

She is taller, older. She has a different kind

of face.
The room light has dimmed, and time has
thickened around me.
I watch her and, as I watch, my second
mind sees her too from a place above my head.
She is older than the others (and has come
here with an older boy who has gone to get
something. Soon he will be back.)
I have never seen this girl before but she
also is known in some important way to my other
mind.
She waits calmly, standing straight, her
heels together and the toes of her shoes spread
slightly apart, the palm of one hand resting on
the back of the other in front of her. Her fingers
are long, thin. She has smooth brown hair
parted slightly to the side of her head and cut in
a curve beneath the line of her jaw, the ends
turning slightly inward at a place where her neck
becomes her shoulder.
I watch her and know that my second mind
already has decided that I must speak to her.
How can I do that? She is older, she is
beautiful, she is perfect. (She is here with an
older kid, maybe even someone from chool who
knows me,) but I have no choice.
I place the plastic cup on the dining table,

306
wipe my hands on a paper napkin, then turn and
walk slowly down the stairs towards her.
There is no sound in my head. I am
standing in front of her. She looks at me and
smiles.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Do you know these people?”
We are speaking, she is speaking to me.
She is looking at my face.
“What’s your name?”
I am looking at her face. She smiles.
“Where do you go to school?” I know the
answer but ask the question anyway.
“What grade are you in?”
“How old are you?”
We are in the same grade but she is older.
What should I say now?
“It’s noisy in here. Let’s walk over there
and talk next to the window. It will be quieter.
Do you want to go over there?” (Is that
possible?)
“Yes.”
(Can that be true?)
We stand beside a tall window with our
backs to the room. The window panes are black;
it is night and I see our reflections together,
waiting. We seem almost real. What should I
say?
“Sometimes, I like to look out the window
of my room and move my head so that the wood

307
frames around the window panes match the
shapes of the building across the street.”
I know she will think that this is stupid.
“I think that’s so interesting.”
“My Father is here to take me home,” she
says.
“You have to leave?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your phone number?” I have to ask
now. “Can I call you?”
I say it without stopping to think, and she
tells me. I write the number under the
brownstone address on the scrap of paper.
“I’ll call you.”
“Okay.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
A big man in a gray overcoat is standing in
the living room doorway. He kisses her and they
leave together.

For a moment, the room seemed

completely empty. Then someone to my right
screamed, “Oh my God.” I looked towards the
sound and saw that a girl had spilled soda on the
carpet. The girls beside her were giggling and
gasping, flapping their hands in the air. Others
crossed the room, almost running, to see what
had happened. The woman with the black hair
rushed past me with a rag in her hand.
“Thank you,” I said.

308
 My coat was still lying on top of the pile of
coats on the bench. While I put it on, I watched
the woman with the black hair crouch on the
floor and rub the dark spot in the carpet with her
rag.
Outside the air was clear and cold. The
streetlamps were on and lights sparkled in the
windows of the brownstones across the street.
At the bottom of the stairs I turned left towards
the avenue. There would still be lots of buses
running – it was only ten o’clock – but I decided
to walk. The weather was good and the
apartment wasn’t far away. I made long fast
strides, walking smoothly around and past the
few other pedestrians outside at that hour. Soon
I would have to call her, but I would worry about
that later. There was plenty of time.



It was almost dark. Lights already

sparkled in the building windows and from the
tops of the street lamps. I walked quickly down
the avenue and across the side streets, avoiding
the cabs and other cars without having to think
about them.
Her Mother opened the apartment door.
“Hello,” she said, “it’s nice to see you.” She
smiled.
I smiled. “Hello.”
“Ann will be ready in a second. How are
you?”

309
 “Fine, thank you. How are you?”
“What movie are you kids going to see?”
Ann walked through the doorway on the
other side of the living room. She looked at me
and smiled. I smiled at her and tried to be calm
(to look calm). Her overcoat was in my hands; I
held it while she slid her arms into the sleeves.
Her hair lightly touched the collar.
“We won’t be late.”
The door closed behind us; we were alone
together. She spoke and I listened, nodding my
head, while my other mind concentrated on
seeming normal.
Something made her laugh: a small gasp, a
high-pitched sound, “Rick,” she said. She
continued talking. I didn’t have to say anything.
The party was in a private club. I helped
Ann take off her coat and I put it on the marble
counter of the lobby coatroom together with my
own. A woman in a maid’s uniform with white
lace cuffs and collar and a starched white apron
took them and handed me a single brass disc
with the number 11 on it. I slipped it into the
side pocket of my suit jacket, feeling the smooth
hole in one edge between my left thumb and
index finger. The suit smelled clean and
pressed, which it was.
I looked at Ann. She stood on a Persian
carpet beside a round table that held a large
crystal vase full of flowers. She was waiting for
me, watching me. Her heels were touching and

310
the toes of her shoes were turned outward
slightly. The palm of one hand rested on the
back of the other in front of her. She wore a
black velvet dress with a wide skirt. Her pale
skin touched the soft dark material. I noticed
again the shape of her eyes.
We walked together through the lobby
between two curving staircases and under an
archway into an anteroom, our heels clicking on
the marble floor. The edge of her skirt brushed
against my leg. Music played inside the room to
our right: a piano, a bass, a snare drum, and then
the sound of a saxophone. A man with a smooth
voice sang.
“…until I smile at you…within my heart…to
smile again…”
Together, we entered the room. It was
large and lit by three crystal chandeliers. The
ceiling curved upward to form a blue oval
painted with clouds at its center. Beneath the
clouds was a wooden dance floor. Many people
were already dancing. Others were sitting and
talking at small tables around the edge of the
dance floor. I hoped that we hadn’t arrived late.
I didn’t notice anyone from school.
Our fingers touched. The palm of my right
hand pressed lightly against her back. The
velvet was soft. She laughed her laugh.
“Your hand’s so stiff.”
“It’s not stiff.”
“Yes it is.”

311
 We danced close to each other. I let the
right side of my face just touch her hair.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your hair is prickly.”
“It’s hairspray. I won’t use it anymore.”
I ring the doorbell; her Mother opens the
door.
“Hello,” she says. “How are you?”
“Hello. Fine,” I answer. “How are you?” I’m
smiling.
“What movie are you kids going to see?”
Ann walks through the doorway on the
other side of the living room. I wait, and my
second mind waits, for her to look at me; she
does and smiles. I smile at her and breathe
slowly.
“Hi,” I say and she says “Hi” to me.
She slides her arms into the sleeves of her
coat while I stand behind her and hold it. Her
hair shines and has a clean smell.
“Have fun. Don’t be home late.”
“We won’t.”
The door closes behind us; we are alone
together.
“Do you want to walk?”
“Okay,” she says.
We walk fast, side by side, almost touching
but not touching, still I can feel her there. I
listen to her voice. I don’t have to say anything.
It’s dark now. I don’t see the strangers on the
sidewalk, don’t watch them, and I don’t feel them

312
watching us. I don’t notice the cars that must be
passing, the cabs, trucks or buses, stopping and
starting as the traffic lights change from green
to red and then to green again. There must be
street noise but I don’t hear it. I listen to her
voice.
“When we’re older, we’ll definitely meet
each other. What do you think that will be like?”
Although my legs continue moving, I stop
suddenly inside myself. This is the second time
she has said this to me and again I see it
happen. It is exactly the same, and I can’t
prevent it.
She looks down at me and smiles, but her
smile is different, it is not the smile I know.
Then she lifts her arm towards where I am
standing. We can’t touch; I am too far away. She
is wearing a silver and black jacket made of
heavy silk and I see around her neck a chain of
diamonds that sparkle brilliantly in the dim light.
Her hair is combed like the hair of the older
women around her. They are all elegantly
dressed. So are the men, who carry glasses that
make bell-like sounds when the guests raise
them to their lips. They laugh and talk calmly,
happily. I notice the shine of their shoes and
look down at where my own feet should be, but I
have disappeared.
I laugh a little (a laughing sound). “I don’t
know,” I say.
“But what do you think?”

313
 “I don’t know,” (I can’t) I repeat, wanting
the world back in place.
We continue walking and after a moment
she starts to speak again, and I am moving
within myself at her side listening to her voice
until we arrive at the movie theatre. In the line,
surrounded by adults and waiting to enter, we
say nothing. Then we are seated in the dark and
the movie has started.
The spy wears a white dinner jacket and a
black bowtie. He smokes a cigarette; it’s a
special type of cigarette that he carries in a
silver case. He kisses a woman in a gauzy dress,
a dress like a nightgown. The dress lets you see
her breasts without really seeing them. Her eyes
are closed and her body is limp.
When the movie is over, we walk back to
Ann’s apartment, but more slowly. It is almost
ten o’clock and she becomes quiet.
“It must be ten,” I say and she laughs her
laugh.
“Do you want to come in for a minute?” she
asks.
“Yes.”
To sit at the kitchen table with her and eat
ice cream. First, she asks me what I want. She
looks in the freezer and says, “We have ice
cream.” Then she takes the ice cream out of the
freezer and scoops it into two bowls. I offer to
help but she says, “No. Sit down. I’ll do it.” She
talks to me and we are alone together

314
surrounded by darkness and silence, and then I
also feel my muscles start to tighten.
When I leave, will I kiss her?
I want not to think about this but the
question keeps asking itself in my mind. The
time is getting closer. She also knows that the
time is getting closer. It would be normal for me
to kiss her, but in my second mind I am sure that
I can’t do this. It is impossible. Doing it would
mean that I can imagine her feeling connected to
me. I can’t act as if she might be connected to
me, because that would be ridiculous. She
would have to laugh, she would laugh in her
mind. Again, I try not to think about the problem.
It’s stupid. Still, if I did kiss her, what would I
say later – tomorrow or another day? How would
we be together? Who would I be?
I stand in the corridor and Ann stands
quietly in the doorway facing me.
“Goodnight,”
“Goodnight, Rick,” she says. “Thank you.”
“I’ll call you.”
“Okay,” she says.



Walking slowly to the bus stop from Matt’s

house, I breathed the cool air and, in it, I smelled
the changing season. It was past midnight and I
hoped that she was asleep, although my other
mind knew that she was watching her clock and
waiting for me. Why hadn’t I remembered to call

315
her? I was busy and not thinking about her and
didn’t see a pay phone until it was so late that
calling wouldn’t have mattered. (If I had called
her, she would have tried to make me do
something. She would make me feel as if I were
with her and not with Matt and Tommy and Dan.)
I waited at the bus stop and breathed the smell
of spring in the air mixed with Ann’s faint smell
on my clothes. After spring it would be summer
and the end of school and summer vacation.
This summer I would be with kids who
didn’t know me. I could be different. They
wouldn’t know that I was being different or who
I had been before. They would only know who I
was this summer and that would be who I always
was in their minds. The important thing was to
act as if I were sure that everything I did was
right. The important thing was to show other
people that I didn’t care what they thought. If a
kid said something bad about me, I would laugh
to show that what he had said was stupid and
didn’t matter. That was what I would do; I
wouldn’t say anything to him, but I would look at
him in a way that told him he didn’t matter. The
important thing was not ever to show that I was
worried. Nothing that happened could worry me.
This would make the counselors like me and the
thing was to act as if I knew that the counselors
would like me because I was sure that
everything I did was right. That would be who I
was.

316
 I got on the bus, paid the fare and walked
to the back, where I sat on the seat facing
forward with my left foot on the rear wheel cover
and my hands in my coat pockets. The bus made
a hissing noise and then jerked forward across
the avenue towards the park. I looked out the
open window beside me at the few people on the
sidewalk.
There was a noise at the front of the bus.
A bum had gotten on and not paid his fare. The
driver turned and watched as the bum walked
towards the back where I was sitting.
“Hey, you,” the driver shouted, “you gotta
pay your fare.”
I thought the bum might sit next to me and
the muscles in my stomach and shoulders
started to feel tight, but then I was sure that he
couldn’t sit next to me because the driver would
throw him off the bus.
The bum made a grunt or a growl and didn’t
look at the driver or stop walking. He was
looking at me, and while he looked at me I also
saw myself sitting in the back of the bus wearing
a blue suit and a red and blue tie, and I knew
that the bum had noticed how I was dressed and
that I was a kid and that he was going to try and
sit near me, maybe next to me on the same seat,
because I looked like a rich kid. He wanted to
show that the bus also belonged to him. My
heartbeat began to shake my chest. I had to
ignore him. If I ignored the bum he would forget

317
me. What would I do if he touched me?
(“Come on, throw him off, throw him off.”)
“Hey, you,” the driver shouted.
“He don’t have no money,” an old man
sitting near the driver said and laughed. “You
know he don’t have no money.”
(“Please throw him off the bus. You have to
throw him off the bus because he didn’t pay.
Come on, throw him off. You can’t let him sit
next to me.”)
The driver looked at the bum for another
few seconds and then turned around and closed
the front door. He spun the steering wheel, and
the bus made a hissing noise and started to
move away from the curb.
This was not right. It was the driver’s job
to collect the fare from everybody who got on
the bus. He couldn’t just let a bum sit next to a
regular person who had paid the fare. He was in
charge of the bus.
It was very important not to look at the
bum, not to let the bum see me looking at him. I
turned my head towards the window but
continued to watch him with the side of my eye.
He sat down on the seat in front of me that faced
the aisle. He was close enough to bend and
touch me with his right hand. The air around us
began to smell like a clogged toilet. What should
I do? (“Just don’t look at him, ignore him.”) I
pushed my face as far toward the open window
as I thought I could without showing that I was

318
trying not to breathe his stink. He started to
make mumbling sounds. Was he going to talk to
me? Maybe I should move to another seat near
the bus driver. That was what a baby would do.
I wouldn’t look like a baby if I got off the bus at
the next stop because nobody would know that
it wasn’t my stop, but then I might have to wait a
long time for another bus and be late. (She
would be waiting for me.)
The bus stopped again and the driver
opened the front door.
(“Throw him off. Throw him off the bus.”)
Maybe a cop was standing on the sidewalk
near the bus stop. The driver should yell out the
door that there was a bum on the bus who hadn’t
paid his fare. He didn’t say anything though or
even turn around and look towards the back.
“If somebody gives you trouble on the bus,
tell the bus driver,” she said, “tell a policeman.”
Instead he waited while a negro kid got on
and paid his fare, and then another one and
another one after him. Four negro kids got on
the bus and they also walked down the aisle
towards me. They didn’t sit on any of the empty
seats in the middle of the bus. They were going
to sit on the back seats near me. I was trapped.
I couldn’t move to a seat near the driver because
I would look like a chicken, and the negroes
would notice. They would notice that I had
moved away from them and that might make
them do something to me. Would they want

319
money? (Did they have knives?)
I crouched on the sidewalk in front of the
apartment building and tightened my skate strap
while Tommy waited for me.
“Give us your money. Give it now,” a kid
said.
I looked up and saw two kids with dark
shiny hair combed into pompadours and DAs
standing near us. They wore white t-shirts, tight
jeans and black pointy shoes. One of them, the
taller one, was talking. My heartbeat shook my
chest. I looked at Tommy. He looked at me.
Maybe we could skate into the apartment
building lobby before they did anything to us.
George was inside. I stood and noticed that I
was having trouble moving. The kids were really
close to Tommy. The taller one held his left fist
under Tommy’s chin. He was bigger than Tommy,
almost as tall as I was wearing skates, and his
face looked hard.
“You take that one,” he said to the smaller
kid pointing at me, but the smaller kid stayed
next to him and looked at Tommy.
“Hurry up. Give us your money. Go take
that one I told you,” the taller kid said.
I looked for an adult on the sidewalk who
would help us. A woman walked past without
noticing what was happening even though I
stared at her with big eyes.
“Take that one.”
I found a quarter and a nickel in my pocket.

320
 “Here.”
I stretched my arm towards the big kid.
Would this be enough? Did he have a knife?
The short kid grabbed the money out of my
hand and ran away. The taller kid ran after him.
The negroes were talking in regular voices
and laughing.
(“You have to ignore them. Don’t look at
them.”)
One of them sat on the seat across the
aisle from me and the other three sat behind him
on the backseat. My muscles felt so stiff that I
didn’t think that I could move and I started to
sweat even though a breeze came into the bus
through the open window. My heartbeat shook
my chest. The bum mumbled something in a
loud voice and, before I could stop myself, I
turned my head and looked at him.
“Man you smell,” one of the negro kids said.
“Whada you walk round like that for?”
“Yeah,” another one said. “Go sit
somewhere else.”
“Hey kid.”
The one straight across the aisle was
talking; he was talking to me. I turned my head
and stared at him, trying to make my face smile.
“Kid, you don’t wanna sit next to that
stinkin bum, do you?”
I tried to smile, stared at him and shook my
head for a second but then stopped because I
didn’t want the bum to see me agreeing. They

321
were all watching me. What should I do? What
were they going to do? I looked at the bum.
“Shut the damn window. That wind’s cold,”
He said looking at my face.
“Don’t shut the window,” the kid across the
aisle said.
“Yeah,” one of the kids on the backseat
said, “he can keep the window open if he wants.
I like it open. Keep the window open kid.”
“Yeah. Keep it open. Open it more. We like
it open.”
“Man, if you close that window kid, we’ll
die.”
They all laughed. The kid across the aisle
opened his window. I looked at them. What
should I do?
“Close that window, I said,” the bum
shouted at me.
“Shut up and leave him alone,” one of the
kids sitting on the backseat said.
“Yeah, leave him alone and shut up. Get off
the bus if you don’t like it.”
“Yeah, get off. You stink. Leave the kid
alone.”
The bum didn’t answer. I turned my face
towards the window, trying to breathe only the
outside air.
Then the bus was at my stop. I stood up
quickly and almost ran to the back door, down
the stairs and out onto the street. I had
escaped. My muscles relaxed and my body

322
stopped sweating as soon as my feet were on
the sidewalk. No longer feeling stiff, I began to
walk slowly towards the street corner and the
back of the bus where the negro kids were
sitting. The bus made a hissing noise.
I had to think about something – what was
it?
Two of the negroes were leaning out the
open bus window; would it be safe to walk past
them?
My second mind wanted something. I
needed to think about this quickly.
The engine made a louder noise. One of
the negro kids was watching me. I looked at him
and walked even more slowly. The bus began to
move.
I stopped walking, smiled and then I waved
to him. Right away, he smiled a big smile and
waved to me. It was good. I smiled a big smile
and waved again. They all turned their heads
and smiled big smiles at me and waved and I
waved to all of them, as the bus took them away
up the avenue.
Feeling light inside, I turned the corner and
walked towards the apartment. The space
around me seemed large. I could feel the streets
go in every direction before me under the
sparkling street lamps to the wide boundaries of
the city.
In the future, I would be different. I would
be sure that I was right and not care what

323
people said. I wouldn’t worry. (I would be the
person who talked to Ann.)
She was in the kitchen waiting for me.
“Where have you been?” she said.
“With Matt and Tommy and Dan at the
movies,” I answered without thinking first about
what I should say.
“Don’t get smart with me. You know what I
mean.”
I looked at her face, which was squeezed
together, and her staring eyes. I looked at her
hunched shoulders. Seeing her that way made
me feel very tired.
“I want to know where you were. You’re an
hour late.”
She pointed to the clock over the stove
with a movement of her hand that was like a
punch.
“I was with Matt and Tommy and Dan,” I
said, taking off my coat.
I wanted to go to bed, I wanted to be away
from her, but couldn’t move because she kept
speaking at my face. While she spit words at me,
I noticed that my other mind was trying to tell
me something again, a new thing.
“And what exactly were you doing that you
didn’t have the courtesy to think of me and call
here like you’re supposed to? Did you ever
think...
My mind was trying to tell me something
important. Time began to pass more slowly in

324
my head.
...that I was here desperately worried,
hanging out the window looking for you. I was
about to call the police. What if something
horrible had happened to you?”
“By being late?”
That wasn’t right.
“Excuse me?” She was screaming. “You
know what I mean. What were you doing?”
“Nothing,” I said. “What would I be doing?
We just went to the movies, then went back to
Matt’s house and had a Coke. Everybody went
there.”
“Everybody? What do I care about the rest
of them? [Your friends.] Let their parents worry
about what they do. How can you be so
inconsiderate?”
Suddenly I understood.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“What?”
“I said I don't know. I just am, I guess.”
For a few seconds she stared at me without
speaking, her eyes wide. Then she said, “What is
this stunt that you’re trying now?”
“You said I’m inconsiderate and I’m
agreeing with you. I thought that’s what you
want.”
I noticed that I felt stronger. It was right.
“Well you are inconsiderate,” she yelled.
“Are you proud of that? That would be just like
you. Don’t you care about me? I’m here thinking

325
that you’re dead and you’re running around with
your playboy friends as usual without ever
thinking about anybody else.”
“I guess.”
“You guess? You guess? So you’re proud of
being the way you are?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you act like it. I want a better
answer than that from you. You guess. You're
always guessing. Think for a change, don't
guess.”
“What can I say? You’re right.”
She was suddenly silent again. I heard a
truck engine on the street outside. I heard a dog
bark.
“I’m very disappointed in you,” her voice
hissed.
I waited. (Don't argue.)
“We’re going to have to talk more about this
tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
She didn’t say anything else. (It was right.)
I walked out of the kitchen, hung my coat in
the hall closet and then went into my room and
closed the door.
(“Sure. Let’s talk about it tomorrow. It’ll be
a ton of fun. Can’t wait. It’ll give you a good
topic and also you’ll have time to think of some
other interesting stuff to talk about too.”)
I took off my clothes and put on my
pajamas. Then I got into bed. I would put my

326
laundry in the basket tomorrow; I didn’t want to
leave the room now.
“Whatever you say.”
I made sure that I spoke with a quiet voice.
“I’m inconsiderate or careless or whatever
else you say. Have it your way. I’m not playing.”
What does she think? It was as if she were
saying that everyone gets killed between eleven
and twelve o’clock but not between ten and
eleven o’clock, even though she really was
saying that being late might mean that I was
dead. The way she acted was confusing; it made
events confusing, not real. How could you live a
real life and be like that?
(“If I’m dead, does it matter what time it is?
Why not call the police at ten o’clock or nine
o’clock?”)
“Who cares anyway.”
“The question is, why do I listen to anything
she says? You’re inconsiderate, you’re a
perfectionist, you’re lazy, you’re careless, you’re
wonderful, I can't stand you, you’re terrific.
That’s a big one: you’re terrific. I love you. I
didn’t mean it when I said I can’t stand you or I
didn’t mean it when I said I’m leaving. So how
should I know what you mean? Just guess?
Guess the thing that’s best for her?”
(“They just say anything that happens to be
in their heads when they open their mouths. I’m
not playing. Let her say whatever she wants. I
don't care. I’m inconsiderate and I could be

327
killed, but if I call her, then I’m considerate and I
won’t be or wasn’t killed and she won’t have to
hang out the window looking for me.")
Or whatever she thinks she means.



It was okay to play Classical records on the

stereo in the Living Room (no rock and roll). The
stereo was bought and put in the Living Room, so
to use it had to be okay. If I sat on the Living-
Room furniture, though, it would look as if I were
lounging around in there. She wouldn’t like that.
Anyway, I didn’t want to sit on the furniture.
I turned on the amplifier and twisted the
volume knob to the spot that would make the
sound loud enough to fill my head but not loud
enough to make her complain, usually. Then I
lowered the tone arm onto the record and walked
quickly to the center of the room where I lay flat
on my back with my feet towards the speakers in
the bookcases. I was careful to lie exactly
straight in the place where I thought that the
same amount of sound would reach each side of
my head.
Kettle drums made the roar of waves
pounding a beach. Violins began to play and
then oboes. Some of the music was sinister,
some was victory music. I waited for the piano
part, stretching on the hard floor, pressing my
back into the carpet, my eyes closed. Finally it
began, and I floated in the sound tide, changing

328
time and place, seeing what I would do tomorrow
morning.
I crouched in the dirt facing the offensive
tackle with my head tilted slightly down so that I
could watch the ball without twisting my neck.
(I don’t like looking at the eyes of the other
players.) When the ball starts to move, as soon
as the center’s hand moves, I straighten my legs
as hard and as fast as I can - “Move faster,”
Makris says - almost harder and faster than even
that, and I put my hands up in front of me. I slap
my right palm against the ear hole of the tackle’s
helmet and jab the heel of my left hand under
the edge of his shoulder pads, shoving him up
and away from my body. (This is my way.) For a
small part of a second, I don’t push so that I can
feel how he wants to move me, then I quickly
ram the heel of my hand into his forehead. He
becomes limp, soft. By pressing my hands under
the edges of his pads it is easy to throw him into
the space he is trying to make. So he leans into
empty air and collapses onto the ground. I move
around his body, my legs spread apart, my knees
bent, my hands up in front of me. The running
back is coming quickly. Arms spread, I rock
forward, straighten my legs and ram my shoulder
pads into his thighs. There is a loud cracking
noise. I squeeze his knees, closing my right
hand over my left wrist to hold my arms together
and his legs together and he rocks backwards. I
let all of my weight drop on top of him, slam his

329
back into the ground and I tilt the top of my
helmet into his chest.
I do it again faster, harder.
Time passes slowly. I see each movement
very clearly, feel each movement.
I do it again. I straighten my legs and slap
my right palm against the ear hole of the tackle’s
helmet as hard as I can and jab the heel of my
left hand under the edge of his shoulder pads,
pushing him up and away from my body. Then,
for a small part of a second, I don’t push so that
I can feel the way he wants to move me. He
steps backwards. I follow and press myself
under his shoulders towards the quarterback.
He steps to his left allowing me to move around
him. I feel it and stop, look to my left. The right
guard has pulled and is coming towards me, his
shoulders down, aiming at my knees. I step
away quickly and slam the heel of my left hand
into the back of his helmet, move with him
slightly to my right, lean on his back, push his
face towards the ground. He falls, but I don’t
watch him; I look in front of me. The running
back is there holding the ball against his chest.
I ram my shoulder pads into his thighs. There is
a loud cracking noise. I squeeze his knees
together, closing my right hand over my left
wrist. He rocks backwards and I let all of my
weight drop on top of him, slam his back into the
ground and tilt the top of my helmet so that it
hits his arms, the ball.

330
 I float in the sound. I smell dirt and sweat.
I have no fear, no pain, no fatigue, no thirst. I am
irresistible, insurmountable.
I do it again.
“Ohoo Romeo.”
It all stops.
“Turn that thing down so you can hear me.”
She was in the archway behind my head,
looking at me. I didn’t move for a moment, then I
stood. Feeling dazed, I went and lifted the tone
arm off the record and pressed the power button
on the amplifier.
“Matt called. He wants to know if you’re
going to the party tomorrow night. I told him yes.
You’d better call him.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
She went away and left me standing in the
middle of the Living Room, now very quiet. I
hadn’t heard the climax of the music, the
pounding piano chords and brassy crash of the
orchestra that I had been waiting for at the end
of the piece. It was too late now; I couldn’t start
again.
Nothing to do about it.
I looked carefully at the room to see if
anything was changed. There was an
indentation in the carpet where I had been lying
and I slid my foot over it, erasing my outline.
Then I walked to my room, closed the door and
sat down on the radiator box with my head and
back against the side of the bookcase behind

331
me.
They were punting. I crouched in the dirt
facing the offensive tackle with my head tilted
slightly down so that I could watch the ball
without twisting my neck. When the ball started
to move, I straightened my legs as hard and as
fast as I could and put my hands up in front of
me. I slapped my right palm against the ear hole
of the tackle’s helmet and jabbed the palm of my
left hand under the edge of his shoulder pads.
The force made him rock on his heels. He fell
backwards and curled up like a dead bug. I
moved to my left around him in a line towards
the punter. I would block the punt, a great play –
but then he grabbed my ankle and kicked my
other leg with the hard toes and bottoms of his
cleats. It was illegal. I tried to pull my foot free
but couldn’t. The whistle blew before the punter
kicked the ball.
There was a penalty, not because of what
he had done but because they were off-sides. I
looked at the kid lying on the ground between
my legs.
“If you do that again, I’ll run across your
face.” I stood over him. “I’ll run on your body. I
swear.”
My spit sprayed onto the cage of my
helmet. I stared down at him, my jaw muscles
tight, my arms straight at my sides, my hands
squeezed into fists, then I walked away and
paced near the new line of scrimmage.

332
 We crouched in the dirt facing each other
again. He looked at me; he was grinning. Hadn’t
he heard me? Was he stupid? He understood
that I didn’t want to see his face. He sneered at
me.
The punter started the snap count. I tilted
my head slightly down so that I could watch the
ball.
What would I do?
The center moved his hand, and only a very
small part of a second after his first motion, I
thrust myself forward. The kid in front of me
tried to move faster than he had before, but that
meant nothing. I slammed the palm of my right
hand over the left ear hole of his helmet and
rammed my shoulder into the center of his chest,
lifting him off his feet and rolling him onto his
back. He curled up like a dead bug.
What would I do? I had another chance to
block the punt. It had taken almost no time to
knock him down. All I needed to do was run
straight forward four steps. I could hit the last
blocker running, push him into the kicker. I
would block the punt and might get the ball.
Their end zone was only twenty yards away.
I lifted my knees high to keep my feet away
from the cheating kid, but he immediately
grabbed my ankle anyway and started to kick my
other leg with the hard toes and bottoms of his
cleats.
I looked down at him. He was grinning.

333
 I could make one easy, natural step and
put my foot on his neck, the steel tips of my
cleats on the skin of his neck. I had told him I
would do it.
Might that kill him?
I could run across his chest. I could make
one step and put my foot on his chest, my cleats
on his ribs, my weight and the steel tips on bone.
I felt them crack.
He thought that he had won something
because I hadn’t broken his ribs or cracked his
chest, killed him. He thought that he had beaten
me because I wouldn’t hurt him. He was an idiot.
I had knocked him down twice; twice he couldn’t
stop me. I would have blocked the punt, maybe
scored. He had cheated. What could I have
done?
I was a jerk. Why did I let him stop me?
(“Why are you such an idiot?”)
What else could I do?
I breathed slowly and slid my head around
to make the little wooden frames that held the
window glass cover the edge of the building
across the street and also the fancy line of stone
between two of its floors. I could feel my
heartbeat shake my chest.
What else could I do?
Our fingers touched. The palm of my right
hand pressed lightly against her back. The
velvet was soft. I let the right side of my face
just touch her hair. Was that too personal?

334
 There was a reason to call Ann.
I walked across the room to my desk and
sat on the desk chair. Doris had given me a
telephone with its own number so that my calls
didn’t prevent her friend’s calls from reaching
her. I dialed Ann’s number and, while I waited for
someone to answer, opened a news magazine.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mrs. Feld,” I said, “this is Richard.
May I speak to Ann please?”
“Of course. Wait a minute, she’s right
here.”
Then I hear her voice.
“Hi.”
She speaks. (I feel very calm.) I turn the
pages of the magazine.
She laughs, her special laugh: a small gasp,
a high-pitched sound.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“I hear pages turning.”
“Oh, I just moved some papers on my desk.”
I listen to her speak.
“Are you reading a magazine?”
“No.”
“You are. I hear pages turning.”
“I’m just looking at a news magazine. I’m
not reading it.”
Would she be angry?
“You’re looking at a magazine?”
“I’m just looking at the pictures. It’s a

335
news magazine”
She laughs. I listen to the squeaking noise.
“Rick,” she says.
“What time should I pick you up tomorrow?”
“Skip called and asked me out next
weekend.”
I sit up straight on the desk chair and look
away from the magazine, look at the phone.
“My Mother says I should go out with other
people, not just you.” Her voice sounds almost
like a question.
“Are you going out with him?”
She is quiet for only a small part of a
second when she usually would have spoken.
“No,” she says.
I look back at the picture in the magazine.
“My Aunt says I should go out with other
people, too.”
“Do you want to?”
I try not to answer. I say, “Do you want to?”
“Do you want to?” She repeats.
“No. I only want to go out with you.”
(I am close to an edge or boundary, but I
have said it.)
“I don’t either,” she says, without seeming
to notice.
I breathe slowly.
“His parents gave him a dog name?”
“That’s not nice. You shouldn’t say that.
He’s very nice.”
“Yeah, but he has a dog name.”

336
 Does she think that I’m nasty?
She laughs. She isn’t really angry. Soon
the phone call would have to be over. I want to
talk to her.
“I guess I should go,” I say.
She speaks more and I listen.
“I’ll pick you up at six-thirty, okay?” I tell
her.
“Okay.”
“Okay, I guess I should go.”
“Okay.”
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight.”
She was gone.
“Why don’t you go out with someone else?
Give some other girl a chance?” she said.
She was wearing only underwear. Which
other girl?
“You know, there are lots of fish in the sea.
You should be meeting lots of people at your age.
See what they’re like. There are lots of cute
girls out there.”
I looked out the window and slid my head
against the bookshelf. Ann isn’t cute. The
thought is strange. It is unconnected to me.
What other girl would I like? I think of how
another girl would look. She should look like
Ann. I think of how another girl would act. She

337
should act like Ann. Why look for another girl, if I
thought she should be like Ann. Could you find
another girl exactly like Ann? That wasn’t
possible. Ann was real.
“You know, Ann is a very nice girl, but she’s
older than you. When she’s ready to get married,
you’re still going to be much too young. She’s
going to marry an older guy… extends her arm
towards where I am standing… don’t touch; I am
too far away... My husband was eleven years
older than me. You need to find some other
people.”
This was true (she was right).
(I wouldn’t think about it.)
Skip. I had seen him twice. He was small,
a dork. No, he was a baby in a suit. A good boy.
Very clean. Very polite. Such a nice boy. Not
anything, nobody. Skippy. Here Skippy. I could
crush him like a bug. Would she go out with
him? She wanted to go out with me.



“Give me a word, John. A soft word.”

What is a soft word? Concentrate.
“No – no, Abby, I’ve not come for that.”
“You come five mile to see a silly girl fly? I
know you better.”
Emphasize to make the meaning.
“I come to see what mischief your uncle’s
brewing now. Put it out of mind, Abby.”
“John – I am waitin’ for you every night.”

338
 “Abby, you’ll put it out of mind. I’ll not be
comin’ for you more.”
Did that sound okay?
“You’re surely sportin’ with me.”
“You know me better.”
(He is sure that what he does is right.)
“I know how you clutched my back behind
your house and sweated like a stallion whenever
I come near! I saw your face when she put me
out and you loved me then and you do now!”
I hear the sound of laughter through closed
lips. Forget that. Only think about the meaning.
“Abby, that’s a wild thing to say…”
(He doesn’t show that he is worried. He is
calm.)
“A wild thing may say wild things. I have
seen you since she put me out, I have seen you
nights.”
“I have hardly stepped off my farm this
sevenmonth.”
“I have a sense for heat, John, and yours
has drawn me to my window. Do you tell me
you’ve never looked up at my window?”
(Is this possible?) Think about timing, the
same as in music.
“Perhaps I… have.”
More laughter. I try not to hear anything in
the room but the Abby. I have decided: I will do
it right, speak with the emotions of the
character, even when they laugh.
“I know you, John, I know you. I cannot

339
sleep for dreamin’, I cannot dream but I wake
and walk about the house as though I’d find you
comin’ through some door.”
What does this mean? (He always makes
me read the hardest parts.)
“Child…”
“How do you call me a child!”
“Abby, I may think of you softly from time
to time. But I will cut off my hand before I’ll ever
reach for you again. Wipe it out of mind – we
never touched, Abby.”
“Aye, but we did.”
“Thank you. Stop there.”
He may give me the part. Could that
happen? The other two were older: Seniors. One
of them wasn’t very good, but the other one was
okay. Was he okay? What would happen next?
It was time to be finished. I looked at my
watch again. It was time to leave. I had to leave
now to get there before the beginning (and be
with Ann,) but I couldn’t leave until we were
done.
He might give me the part. He could even
give it to me now. Could I learn all these lines?
Could I remember all these lines?
I looked at the clock over the door. Ann
would be waiting. Would she wait?
(“Be finished. Come on. It’s time. It’s past
the time.”)
“Chris, read the same section. Melissa,
keep reading Abby.”

340
 No. When would we stop? He had to stop.
(When would he choose?) She was the Abby. He
had decided that she would be Abby but he was
unsure about the John. The good Senior would
be John. (The other one stank.) This had to be
the end. We should have been finished already,
but he was unsure about the John. Could I still
get there before they started dancing? (No.)
“Give me a word, John. A soft word.”
She was okay.
“I come to see what mischief your uncle’s
brewing now. Put it out of mind, Abby.”
“John – I am waitin’ for you every night.”
“Abby, you’ll put it out of mind. I’ll not be
comin’ for you more.”
No, the emphasis of the words should be
different: (“I’ll not be comin’ for you more.”) I
was better. Was I better?
Again the sound of laughter through closed
lips. They hadn’t laughed because I was saying
the lines or at the way I was saying the lines:
they laughed even when someone else, someone
older read the part.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
Al, a Senior, would be a Senior when school
started. He could say that without laughing. He
was saying that to me, and I thought to act calm
and as if it were normal for me to talk like this. I
was a person who could talk like this.
“I go out with someone.”
“Yeah? From what school?”

341
 I concentrated on walking up the trail with
smooth, even steps, and I watched the ground so
that I didn’t trip on a rock. I told him.
“Yeah? Who is it?”
Was it okay to say Ann’s name, to say that I
went out with Ann? I had to answer.
“Ann Feld.”
“Your girlfriend is Ann Feld?”
I breathed. “Yeah.”
Was that lying? Ann did go out with me.
Did Al really know her? Why did he know her?
“She’s really sharp. There are only two
really sharp girls in that school and she’s one of
them.”
“Yeah?” I wanted to hear him say that
again. “Two sharp girls?”
“Yeah. Ann and Catherine Gray.”
Ann and I waited for the movie to start.
She said, “I saw Catherine Gray changing in
the girls bathroom.”
“Oh?”
“She was wearing the most beautiful
underwear. She goes out with older guys, with
men.”
“Okay. Thank you all. That was very good.
See you next week. Don’t forget to leave your
scripts.”
I walked quickly to the table at the end of
the stage and put the yellow booklet in a
cardboard box. Then I walked out the door and
down the stairs. The centers of the stone treads

342
were dented because so many feet had scraped
across them. My hand slid over the slick surface
of the railing. Just like the others, I had done
this many times before, would do it again over
and over in the future. What made the people
different, the days different? Eventually, it would
end and then what would there be?
A cab had stopped at the corner to let a
passenger out. I held the door and then stepped
inside and told the driver the club address. The
traffic light turned green and the cab began to
move. I looked at my watch. Already started.
Outside on the sidewalk, people moved in
many directions doing small things. The cab
passed a man selling newspapers. He wore a
canvas apron and waited for someone to take a
paper off the stack lying on the sidewalk beside
him.
We walk fast, side by side, almost touching
but not touching, still I can feel her there. I
listen to her voice. I don’t have to say anything.
It is dark now.
A man at a fruit and vegetable stand sells
something in a brown paper bag to a woman
wearing a fur coat. They block our path and we
wait until the man has given the woman change
and she has walked past us carrying her
package.
Ann says, “Don’t you wish you were like
them? It would be easier.”
She is speaking about the grocery man.

343
 “They don’t think about everything.”
I don’t answer. The adults would laugh and
say that this is a stupid question but it confuses
me. (I am not sure that what she is saying is
stupid. In my mind it is somehow a horrible
problem.) Why does she have this thought? She
has never said anything like this before. I don’t
know her this way.
The cab stopped in front of the club
entrance and I paid the driver. The stone
staircase leading to the front doors was empty;
nobody was going in or out. I was very late.
What was she doing?
I rushed up the stairs into the building, took
off my coat and threw it onto the counter. Where
was the coat-check lady?
“Hello?”
After many seconds like minutes she
walked slowly towards me from somewhere in
the back of the coatroom. She looked at me.
She looked down at the coat. Slowly, she picked
it up, found a hanger, gave me the little tag with
a number on it.
I rushed to the back of the lobby. There
was an archway. Through the archway, a curved
staircase, marble. A brass railing fastened to the
polished stone wall by ornately formed metal.
Ahead, at the bend, a glass chandelier with
glittering crystal drops. I grasp the railing and
pull myself forward up two stairs with each
stride, looking towards the curve of the rising

344
marble passage. I turn the corner.

She appears from somewhere within, steps

onto the upper landing, turns and faces me, eyes
searching. Black velvet, a broad skirt. She has
smooth brown hair parted slightly to the side of
her head and cut in a curve beneath the line of
her jaw, the ends turning slightly inward at a
place where the neck becomes the shoulder.
Pale skin. We smile. My heart smiles. Her face
is a light that darkens everything around us. I
feel myself lifted, lifted towards her, slowly
rising in the light. The air glitters, the smooth
stone walls shine, the crystal drops of the
chandeliers star-like. She raises her arms. Her
hands open, her fingers long, slender. I am
lifted. Her breath flows through me but my mind
screams. What can I do? What comes after? I
have no answer. I am almost there. I raise my
arms. Our fingers touch, her face waiting just
beneath my own.

I held her hands and stepped around her

onto the landing. We looked at each other only
for a small part of a second as she began to pull
her hands away from mine. I saw her eyes and
felt sickened by the feeling there, which forced
me to turn my head. What should I say?
“I need to go to the bathroom.” This was
true. “I’ll meet you inside.”
I went into the men’s room. It’s stupid,

345
impossible. Will she come and live in my room
with me, with me and Doris at the apartment?
What will we do? Go to the movies? Dress up
and go to dances like dead people in old movies?
It’s stupid. Then what would happen? We would
have to go to college soon. She would go to
college and meet people who were going to be
lawyers and business men. Doctors. And where
would I be? I saw her face evaporating,
becoming transparent in the air. What would I
do? I can’t think about this.
I found her in the ballroom. She was
dancing with Matt. They weren’t talking. Tommy
and Carl were standing nearby. I rushed to cut
in.
“We were taking turns dancing with her to
keep other guys away,” Tommy said.
Matt looked at me and laughed, “Where
were you? Some guy was trying to dance with
her, but we kept cutting in.”
“Yeah, he wouldn’t go away, but we
wouldn’t let him dance with her.”
“Thanks. Thank you. It was supposed to
end much earlier. I wanted to be here.”
Ann didn’t say anything. Her back felt stiff
under my hand. After a few dances, everything
would be alright. (No.) It was over, anyway.
Nothing to be done. I wouldn’t think about it.
“I couldn’t leave. I had to stay,” I said. “I’m
sorry I’m late.”
I would believe that this was the problem.

346
The problem was that I had missed most of the
dance, had told her that I would be here.
She didn’t say anything.
Then she said, “That’s okay.”
Her voice was different. My insides felt
dull, sick. (After a few dances everything would
be alright.)
“Thank you very much. Goodnight,” the
bandleader said. “We hope you’ve all enjoyed
yourselves.”
That was all? It was over?
I looked at her, but she had turned and was
walking toward the stairway. I followed, walking
quickly, but couldn't catch her until she stopped
in the lobby to get her coat. I took it and held it
for her and she pushed her arms rapidly into the
sleeves.
“Goodnight,” she said. “My Dad is here for
me.”
He was?
“Where?” I asked her.
“Outside,” she said.
She was gone. When would I see her
again? I wanted things to be normal.
(“You’ll fix it later. Don’t worry about it
now.”)
I stood on the sidewalk in the gray
darkness, the dull feeling now was stuck inside
me. Suffocating. How should I go home, which
way? Not seeing anything that I recognized, I
turned slowly, then began to walk.

347
 What could I have done, anyway? I had no
choice. I had to stay until it was over.
(“Just don’t think about it, you idiot. It’s
not important.”)



“Have you read it?” Carl asked me.

“I’ve started, but I haven’t read the whole
thing yet.”
Carl knew I couldn’t finish a book with
more than a thousand pages in five days (knew I
wasn’t smart enough).
“But it’s really good,” I said. It definitely
was a good story. “Are the others this good?”
The story filled your mind completely.
“I haven’t read them yet, but this is the
main one.”
“She’s definitely right about people,” I said,
although in my second mind I thought this
probably wasn’t true (wrong about everything?)
“Yeah.”
The woman in the book was different from
real women.
(“That’s the point, you idiot.”)
Were the other characters like real people?
Each of them was too much one way: too stupid
or too smart mostly, or too something — but I
didn’t want to think that.
"It’s the way people are,” I said.
“It’s a great description of bourgeois
behavior,” Carl said.

348
 “Yeah.” Carl was definitely right. (Did I
understood what he meant?)
“You have to read the explanation of the
philosophy. There’s a long explanation of the
philosophy later,” he said.
“Yeah, I know.” Was I lying?
“She’s basically saying that the reality you
perceive exists outside of consciousness, you
know, that the world is a definite thing, not just
something we think about or imagine.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Titssess,” Tommy said behind me.
No, I wasn’t lying, because Carl had told me
twice already that the book had an explanation
of the philosophy.
“Titssess,” Matt said and laughed quietly.
I looked to my left and saw a woman
walking towards us in a grey coat that bulged
over her chest.
“Titssess,” Dan and I said at the same time.
I spit each of the “Ts” over the top of my
tongue and hissed the rest so that the word
sounded right, which I thought it had. Carl and
Davey didn’t say anything, making me feel
embarrassed.
She was wearing a very short skirt, black
stockings and boots. She didn’t look at us as we
passed. We stared at her. Through the tight
stocking material, I could see the line that the
edge of the muscle made above her knee.
A woman walked towards us. She wore a

349
white sweater. Her breasts raised the sweater
into pointed cones. I stared at them.
“That’s really something,” she said. “Do
you like that?”
I didn’t want to hear her and didn’t answer.
“Do you like them that way?” she said more
loudly.
“What?” I said, and walked faster.
“Do you like that?”
Tommy laughed. He had gotten drunk
because of Carol Leiber, but he wasn’t as drunk
as Matt had been the weekend before when he
had vomited on my shoes.
“Tits,” he shouted.
“God. Shut up, Tommy,” I said. “We’re in
public.”
“She’s got em.”
“Yes, that’s very nice. We know. Keep
quiet.
Matt and Dan laughed.
“He’s not coming inside if he’s going to act
like that,” Davey said.
“He’ll be alright.” Matt patted Tommy on the
back. “Feeling good, Buddy?”
“No I feel like shit.”
“Well, if you’re gonna puke, you’d better do
it now before we get there.” Matt laughed.
“I may puke.”
“Yeah, why don’t ya. You’ll feel better.”
Carl looked at Tommy. I watched his face,
which was twisted as if he were already smelling

350
vomit.
“He could do it in the gutter,” Carl said
quietly, almost only to himself.
“Let’s do it in the road,” Tommy yelled.
“I’m telling you, he’s not coming inside,”
Davey said.
“Wanna go home, Buddy?” Matt asked
Tommy.
“I wanna go find Carol.”
I patted him on the back and said, “I know
you do, but I don’t think you can, Tommy,” making
my voice sympathetic, hoping he would forget
about Carol and be sober (but also wanting to
hear him talk about Carol.)
“You don’t care. You’re going to marry
Ann,” he said.
“I’m not going to marry Ann.”
“You’re going to marry Ann,” Matt said.
“Yeah,” said Dan.
“No I’m not.”
I stared at them, then turned my head and
looked towards the buildings we were passing.
Why did they always say that? They must know
that it couldn’t happen. If it did happen, then
nothing would ever change. Everything would
always have to be the same as now, which was
impossible. (Who would I be?) Don’t think about
it.
“Titssess,” Matt said.
I didn’t look.
“Who is John Gault?” I said to Carl, feeling

351
angry.
“Who is John Gault.” he said.
“Titssess,” said Dan.
“You understand, don’t you?” Tommy
groaned and looked at me. “Carol’s going out
with other guys.”
“Yeah, Tommy, I understand.” Wanting him
to stop talking. (Wanting to be drunk, too.)
Why did he think that she would go out only
with him?
“You understand.”
He put his arm around my shoulders.
Matt stopped walking and we all stopped
behind him. I saw that we were standing in front
of the club and looked at Davey who was
watching Tommy.
“Don’t worry, Davey,” I said, “I’ve got him.
He’s okay.”
“Come on. Let’s go in,” Matt said.
We climbed the stone steps in a group.
“Tommy, just don’t say anything. I’m
serious.”
“Okay,” he said, and I thought that he
understood.
“Do you need to be sick?”
“No,” he said. He was looking at his feet.
“Great,” I said.
We waited while Davey walked towards a
man in a black suit who was standing beside a
desk made out of dark shiny wood at one side of
the large lobby. It looked old and expensive.

352
Was this possible? Could something look old or
look expensive? The muscles of Davey’s face
were tight.
“Good evening Mr. Levey,” the man said to
Davey. “How can we help you?”
“We’re going to play pool. Is my Father
here?”
“He’s in the library. Enjoy yourselves
gentlemen,” he said. “I’ll send Mario up to you.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Davey answered.
He turned his head. “You go upstairs. Don’t go
in if someone else is using the table. I’m going
to tell my Father we’re here. And don’t do
anything.”
Matt made his quiet laugh again. “It’ll be
okay,” he said. “We won’t do anything will we?”
Davey looked over his shoulder at us as we
walked towards the elevator.
“Tommy, don’t say anything,” I told him.
“Don’t worry.” He did understand, or maybe
he was thinking about Carol.
“Somber not sober,” I said.
Carl laughed.
Matt pushed the button on the wall beside
the elevator and the door slid open immediately.
The elevator was small and paneled with
polished dark-brown wood that reflected the dim
light from a thick brass fixture on the ceiling.
We crowded together inside and Matt pushed the
button for the third floor. The door slid closed.
“Chchllllellll,” Matt gurgled.

353
 “Hi sweetie,” Dan said to Matt.
“Get away from me, you queers,” Tommy
said and pushed Dan against Matt. The elevator
shook.
“Come on, Tommy,” I said, hoping that we
went directly to the third floor and that nobody
was waiting there for the elevator.
“Oh, sweetie,” Matt said to me.
The door opened. In front of us there was
an arched entry. Beyond that, a large room with
a bar, a television and green leather armchairs
around low coffee tables. There was a brick
fireplace facing the bar.
Dan pushed in front of Tommy and me.
“Chchllllellll,” he gurgled.
“Watch it, sweetie,” I said.
“God you’re all a bunch of faggots,” Tommy
said loudly.
“Shut up, Tommy.”
There were no adults in the room. We
walked inside and to the right. The pool room
was behind a door near the fireplace. No one
was in the pool room either; the lights were out.
Carl waited while we shoved each other to get
through the doorway first. Matt turned on the
lights and, when we were all inside, Dan
slammed the door.
“Okay! Who’s playing snooker?” Matt said.
“Eight Ball,” Dan shouted and rushed to
collect the balls and rack them. “I’ll break.”
Tommy stood in front of the cabinet against

354
the long wall facing the door. I looked over his
shoulder and tried to decide again which cue
was the best.
“Lag for break,” Matt said. “Who goes
first?”
While I stared into the cabinet, the others
stepped in front of me and took cues. There
were only four left. I picked the one that looked
most right: straight, polished-smooth. What was
the right length? Was this the best one? It
didn’t matter now because there were only three
others in the cabinet and they definitely looked
wrong. Two seemed bent and one had a chip in
its side. Maybe someone else would share with
me? The problem might be that I never had the
right cue.
I slid my arms out of my coat and sport
jacket and laid them over the back of a chair
with the lining folded to the outside. Dan shot a
ball the length of the table. It hit the cushion at
the other end and rolled half-way back towards
him.
“Shit,” he said.
“Sorry buddy,” said Matt.
Matt bent over the table and put another
ball on the felt surface. He laid his hand on the
tabletop behind the ball with his fingers spread
apart like an open fan, then balanced the cue on
top of his thumb and held it under his index
finger. Slowly, smoothly, he slid the cue back
and forth without touching the ball. I watched

355
what he did and tried to relax and be confident: I
would imitate him and make a good shot.
Suddenly, the door opened and Davey
walked into the room followed by a man wearing
a white jacket with brass buttons. Matt stood up
and put the butt of his cue on the floor. We didn’t
say anything. The waiter stood behind Davey.
(The waiter didn’t like us.)
“Do you want something to drink?” Davey
asked us.
“Yeah, Coke.”
“Coke.”
“What kind of gin do you have?” Tommy
asked in a loud voice.
We all laughed except Davey.
“You’re not having gin,” Davey said.
We laughed again.
“Bring us six Cokes, please,” Davey said to
the waiter.
The man nodded at Davey, then turned and
left the room without speaking.
“And bring some gin,” Tommy shouted.
Davey stared at Tommy and shut the door,
while the rest of us laughed.
“Well, I guess we have to start over,” Dan
said and picked up his ball. “Matt goes first.”
Matt laughed, bent over the table again and
aimed his cue at the ball. I watched the way he
held it, made it slide between his fingers. The
cue tapped the ball, which rolled the length of
the table, struck the cushion and rolled back

356
nearly to the cushion in front of him.
“Good shot,” Dan said. “Tommy, you go.”
Tommy’s shot was good even though he
was drunk, but not as good as Matt’s. He picked
up his ball, dropped it in one of the side pockets
and walked to the corner of the room where he
sat on a chair.
Dan’s shot was too hard and hit the near
cushion. Carl’s ball stopped in the middle of the
table.
Maybe it would be better if I used Matt’s
cue.
“Can I use your cue,” I asked Matt.
“Sure.” He traded with me.
I put my ball on the felt tabletop and rested
his cue behind it on my hand, imitating him.
Slowly, I slid the cue back and forth over my
fingers, trying to make the motion smooth and
straight. It wobbled slightly. Maybe I should
change the position of my feet?
“Come on,” Davey said. “We want to play at
least one game before school starts Monday.”
“Shut up, Davey. Let me shoot.”
“Well then shoot.”
“Come on,” Matt said.
I shot. The ball hit the far cushion and
rolled back towards me. The shot was okay,
wasn’t it?
“Uh oh.”
“A leetle speedy.”
It would be okay. (No.) I had been rushed.

357
 “Too bad.”
The ball bounced against the cushion in
front of me and rolled back almost to where it
had started.
(“Jerk. Can’t you just shoot the right way.”)
No. I picked up the ball.
Davey’s shot was good, stopping about six
inches from the near cushion. Everyone except
Tommy looked at the two balls on the table.
“Matt wins,” Dan said. “Give me your balls.”
We all laughed.
“Shut up you assholes.”
He put the rest of the balls in the rack and
slid it across the table until its front point was
on the black spot.
“Okay, I break and play Davey first game,”
Matt said.
“I’ve got the winner,” Dan said.
Instead of watching them, I sat on a chair
in the corner next to Tommy.
“How are you doing?” I asked him, because
he was drunk and might be sick (because I
wanted to hear him talk about Carol.)
He stared at his hands and didn’t answer.
Then he said, “Why does she do that? I thought
she cared about me. Everything was perfect.
She said she cared about me.”
“You can’t believe that stuff, Tommy, you
know.”
Did he think that he and Carol would be
together forever just because she was beautiful?

358
 “She’s so beautiful. You think she’s
beautiful too, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” (He knows this but wants me to say
it.)
“I wish we were together.”
“Tommy, you should just forget about her.”
I tried to sound wise.
“I can’t forget about her. I can’t stop
thinking about her.”
“It doesn’t do any good. Take my word for
it. Just put her out of your mind.”
“She said she cares about me.”
“Well, you can’t believe that stuff. You
knew she went out with a lot of people.”
“But now she goes out with me.”
“Tommy, she says that but she’s going out
with other people. She changed her mind.”
“No. She cares about me. Why else would
she say that?”
“Who knows, Tommy.”
“But I feel the same as I did. I can’t forget
her.”
“Just wait awhile. It’ll go away.”
I looked in the direction of the pool table.
Davey was shooting. Why did you have to watch
them? They made you watch them, they knew
you wanted to touch them.
“I keep hearing stories about you with
other girls all over the city,” Ann said.
I stop breathing; I can’t breathe for several
seconds or even minutes.

359
 “It's nothing. They don’t mean anything. I
don’t care about them.”
This is very true: I don’t care about them.
They are nice, pretty, but they are not important.
Ann is important; they are nothing.
I have taken off the costume (the last
time). I dressed slowly in my own clothes, pulled
the dark red sweater that Grandma Kay had
made over my head. As I straightened my
shirtsleeves under the sweater arms and pulled
them so that the cuffs showed over my wrists, I
realized that I was alone in the dressing room.
They will leave the theatre and I won’t be able to
find the party. My shoulder muscles tightened. I
looked carefully at the room and smelled its air
to remember, then rushed through the door into
the wings and onto the stage, which was empty
and almost completely dark. A thin bar of light
and the sound of a few voices came through the
space between the two halves of the curtain: the
only sound. Have they left? I pulled the curtain
aside and stepped through the opening onto the
apron, and, when I did that, everyone stopped
talking and looked at me. They were all there
waiting, all of them including the older kids. Ann
was sitting in the second row, empty seats on
either side of her. We see each other. We smile.
Then, at once, together, everyone stood and
began to leave the theatre.
Ann walks beside me in the frigid air. She
is wearing her long cloth coat. Her hair is

360
smooth; it touches her collar. I want to smell it,
to put my arm around her waist. Near us, people
laugh and talk in loud voices. We are quiet, but
my heart is shaking my chest. There will be beer
at the party. If I am drunk I may kiss her; it
might happen that way. We would dance and
then begin kissing, pressed together in the dark.
It would be because I was drunk. Everyone
would be drunk so they could be crazy. Maybe
Ann would drink too.
“I feel sick,” Tommy was still staring at his
hands.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here,” I said.
‘We can take a cab. Come on.”



The stripes passed beneath my eyes so

quickly that I saw a single line. Blurred black
marks on the line meant that what I saw was an
illusion though, really a lot of separate things
that created one bigger thing. I could even make
myself see the line as black with white stripes
on it. Each stripe was like a mark on a ruler
measuring the distance we had gone, or like a
clock tick measuring the time we had traveled.
Was there a difference?
("Of course, you idiot. It depends on how
fast you're moving.")
(Was there?) My eyes began to hurt and I
turned my head and looked at the dashboard and
then at my Father's hands on the steering wheel.

361
They were my hands, but stronger and with dark
hairs on the backs of the fingers. We had the
same hands. I looked at his face. I thought he
looked happy, maybe excited because he was
going back to his college. How could you know
this? I tried to think of something to say.
"Are you glad to be going back?"
"Sure. It'll be fun."
In my other mind I wasn’t sure that this
was an answer to my question.
"Are you ready for your interview?" he
asked me.
"I guess." (Ready?)
"It's a real reach, but you never know."
"Uh huh," I said, sitting on the front of my
chair, leaning forward and looking at him to
show that I was listening and understood what
he was telling me.
"But do you think there's really a chance?"
she asked. [Begged.]
"I think this is a place where you're never
sure what they're going to do, but of course it's a
long shot," he answered.
My Father didn't say anything.
"But then you really have to get to work on
those other applications," she said to me.
"I know." (The crappy places.)
"You have to stop procrastinating."
"I will. I'll do it,"
I didn't have to think about that now.
"We're going to take a trip and visit them,"

362
she said looking at Mr. Hollis and then at my
Father, who nodded his head.
"You should think about the interview in
advance: the questions he might ask you and
your answers," Mr. Hollis said to me. "He may do
something to make you uncomfortable to see
how you react."
"You really have to prepare," she said.
"Use your head. [For a change.]"
They all looked at me.
"I will," I answered, and, with part of my
mind, tried to remember Mr. Hollis's speech
about college interviews.
"Why do you want to go to college?"
Everybody has to go to college. You have
to go to college so that you can get a job.
(Where else would I go?) Only morons don't go
to college.
"Tell me about yourself."
What was the right answer to that? Tell
about what?
I would just think of something to say when
I heard the questions. Who could know what he
would ask me?
I watched my Father drive the car and felt
the world around us become strange.
We should talk about something.
"What should I say at my interview?"
"I don't know. It depends on what he asks
you."
"Yeah."

363
 "If you have the opportunity, you could talk
about what you did last summer."
"Yeah, that would be good." (Why?)
"Or you could talk about what you've been
reading."
"Yeah."
That was easy.
My Father steered the car off the highway
at an exit marked by a large green sign that
rushed towards my face so fast that I flinched.
At the end of the exit ramp, he turned the car
right onto a regular road between two farm
fields.
"It's the country here," he said.
"Yeah."
I tried to understand a college being in this
place.
"Well, they keep the students real busy so
there isn't time to get bored. There actually are
a lot of people around because of the State
University."
What did they do all day? I looked at the
brown fields and the farm buildings. The
buildings were old: some of the boards were
falling off the sides of the barns and the paint on
the farm houses had peeled in places uncovering
bare gray wood. We passed a large village green
surrounded by old-style houses with wide front
porches and narrow attic windows. There was a
church that looked like the ones in Christmas-
story books and another large wooden building

364
that had a portico with four tall columns. Who
lived here? What did they do?
"We're almost there now," my Father said.
The road began to go uphill between
clusters of trees and more houses. The houses
didn't have garages, but some of them had
driveways that led to separate buildings with
wide high doorways.
"It hasn't changed much."
They had cornices and moldings, hinged
shutters held against their sides by s-shaped
metal bars, iron fences and weather vanes.
Then, on the right, a brick fence surrounding a
football field and, behind the field, a stadium
with wooden bleachers.
My Father stopped the car at a traffic light
at the top of the hill.
"We're here," he said.
In front of us was another village green,
this one surrounded on two sides by buildings
with flat fronts, mostly made of brick, containing
stores. Across from where we were stopped and
facing the long side of the green to the left of the
road, were some larger buildings including a
church and one that looked like several brick
houses attached to each other in a random way.
A painted sign hung from a thick wood post
beside its door. To the right of the road there
was a large brick building with a portico and
stone columns (Corinthian).
"That's the College," my Father said,

365
looking straight out the windshield, "and that's
the Inn." He pointed across the green at the
building with the sign in front of it. "I've always
wanted to stay there." He smiled.
The light changed and my Father drove
through the intersection, turned left at the far
side of the green and parked the car in front of
the Inn.
"This'll be fun," he said.
My heartbeat shook my chest. We carried
our suitcases into a dark lobby with a low
ceiling. There were oil paintings of colonial
scenes on the walls. We stopped in front of a
polished counter to the left of the doorway near
a narrow staircase. A man wearing a dark suit
(here?) walked out of an office behind the
counter. I turned slowly, looking at the room:
armchairs, dark wood, lamps and, facing the
counter, double doors with glass panels covered
by curtains on the opposite side. There was a
large painting of wood ships anchored in a
harbor (had I seen them before?).
"Good evening," I heard the man say behind
me. "How may I help you."
"We have a reservation," my Father said,
"Mr. Frank and Mr. Frank."
"Ah, yes. One night for two. And will you
be eating dinner with us?"
"Yes, I think so. We should do that, don't
you think?"
"What?" I turned to face him.

366
 "Would you like to eat dinner here?"
"Sure," I answered. "That sounds great."
"Do you need help with your bags?" the
man asked.
My Father looked at me. "No, I don't think
so."
We carried our suitcases up the stairs. I
was careful not to let mine scratch the
wallpaper.
Our room was small. It had a cupboard
(armoire?) instead of a closet and two beds
separated by a table. I looked at the
symmetrical curves cut into the tops of the
headboards. (Did their shapes mean anything?)
The shape of the headboards reminded me of the
top of a building.
"Which bed would you like?" my Dad asked.
"I don't care. You pick," I said.
"I'll take this one." He put his bag on the
one nearer the door. "You can have the one next
to the window. Is that okay?"
"Sure."
I put my suitcase down beside the bed,
trying to step lightly on the carpet so that I
didn't disturb it.
"Why don't you hang up your suit and then
we can go have a look around? I think we have
time before dinner."
He hung his clothes in the armoire and
went into the bathroom. I put my suitcase on the
bed carefully, opened it and took out my suit and

367
my sport jacket. The air inside the armoire was
warm and smelled woody. I had to turn the
hangers slightly sideways to close the armoire
doors. They banged shut making me jump
because I hadn't pushed them hard. While I
watched the armoire shake, my Dad came out of
the bathroom.
"Come on," he said. "Let's look around."
We walked out of the hotel and turned left,
going uphill toward the building with the
Corinthian columns. The sidewalk was narrow
and, although I stayed close to the edge of the
pavement, I veered and bumped against my
Father's side several times.
("Why can't you walk straight?")
In my other mind, I thought that it felt as if
I were being pulled toward him by a personal
gravity. He didn't seem bothered; he was looking
at the big brick and stone building.
"That used to be the library before they
built the new one on the quad," he said, raising
his bare arm and pointing. He was wearing a
short-sleeved shirt and he had taken off his tie. I
looked at his arms: they were covered with
smooth black hair. My arms were thinner. (How
did he know that they had built another library?)
"That's where I decided to go to business
school. I was in the can on the second floor.”
"In there?"
"Yup. In the can on the second floor."
"Oh."

368
 We reached the building and he stopped
and turned to look at its front.
"Now I think it's the administration
building. I guess we're going there tomorrow."
"Oh," I said.
"Come on. Let's go see the quad."
Not very far past the old library or
administration building, the street ended at a
road that went uphill to the left and was
separated from the sidewalk by a wide strip of
grass.
"That's the new library," he pointed at a
much larger modern brick and concrete box in
front of us.
"This is just the College here?" I asked him,
looking at the library and the other nearby
buildings. "That library is just for the College?"
"Yes. What do you mean?"
"There isn't an entrance? The College is
just in the town?"
"Uh huh."
"And all this is the College?"
"Uh huh. All the College."
In front of the new library there was a
terrace paved with gray stone and, in front of
that on the other side of the road, a large grassy
rectangle with huge old trees growing alongside
paths that crossed the lawn at odd angles. The
road went all the way around the lawn,
separating it from other buildings.
"That's the main quad."

369
 (Other quads?)
There was a white-painted wood and brick
church to the right. On each side of the church
were identical long brick buildings and, beside
them, smaller ones, similar but not identical,
with their narrow ends facing the grass.
Opposite, across the quad, there were two more
long brick buildings that looked newer. I could
see past the trees that there were other
buildings at the far end of the quad and, at the
center of the far end, a wide piece of blue sky
that must have been a view from the top of the
hill.
I stared at the space, my eyes feeling the
symmetrical plan that was crossed and touched
by unsymmetrical parts (how did they know they
could combine symmetry and asymmetry that
way?), and at the brown brick, white wood and
gray stone, old trees and cut grass. I smelled
the fresh green. The space was good if you
didn't look at the new library. The new library
wasn't right.
"What do you think?"
"It's big."
He laughed. "Not that big. But it does look
strange without most of the students here."
It looked unused and almost perfect. There
were only a few people walking around the
campus and going in and out of the long
buildings. Were they students? They wore
casual clothes, not ties and jackets.

370
 "Come on, let's take a look at the view."
I followed my Dad who was crossing the
road and we walked together over the grass
between the trees. Was it okay not to walk on a
path?
The center of the far end was paved with
gray stones and encircled by stone posts
connected by a thick black chain. Within the
circle, place names were carved on the fronts of
rectangular granite blocks. Beyond this
enclosure, a flight of stairs and then, across a
path, a steep hill went down to an enormous
playing field. On the far side of the field, there
were dark woods and distant mountains. I
couldn't see even one house past the field. The
grass on the hill was cut in a widening wedge
that made me feel as if I were being sucked into
empty space. It was meant to do that, I realized.
"This is a monument to students and
teachers who died in the war," my Father said.
Teachers died?
"I guess I knew some of them."
He stood still and looked at the names
carved into the surface of a raised platform in
the center of the circle.
A sudden deep noise made my body shake.
One bong, then another and another: the clock in
the steeple on top of the church.
"Wow, it's later than I thought," my Dad
said, "we should go so we're not late for dinner."
I looked again at the view and then began

371
walking with him back across the quad.
"When I was a senior, I had a room in that
building over there on the fourth floor right next
to the steeple."
"Did that thing ring at night? How did you
sleep?"
"I don't know. I guess I just did. One time,
though, I borrowed an old car from a guy who
lived down the hall because I had a date, and the
steering on the car didn't work right. The girl
wanted to drive. It was stupid, but I let her and
she crashed the car into a tree."
"The guy must have been really angry."
"I don't remember. I took the girl home and
then I went back to my room and listened to
those bells ringing all night and my head was
killing me. Finally I got up, put all my shoes in a
suitcase and walked to the infirmary."
"You put all your shoes in a suitcase? Why
did you do that? You took all your shoes to the
infirmary?"
"I don't know. I had a fractured skull and a
concussion. I didn't know what I was doing."
"A fractured skull?"
"I'd broken my skull."
"You mean you broke the bone? You hit
your head so hard you broke the bone and then
you just went back to your room?"
"Yup."
"But you could’ve died, couldn't you?"
"I guess I could have. In those days all

372
they did was keep me in the infirmary. It's hard
to remember what happened I guess because I
had a concussion. But I remember lying in bed
with those bells ringing in my head and dreaming
about bells. I missed my final exams and didn't
make figh bait."
"What's figh bait?"
"The honor society. Phi Beta Kappa."
"But didn't they give you make-up exams?"
"They did, but my score on the English
exam was one point too low and I didn't make it."
"That's not fair. You cracked open your
head."
"That's the way it is."
"What's a concussion?"
"It's when your brain gets hurt, I think, but
not permanently damaged."
"You cracked open your head and hurt your
brain and didn't go to a hospital? Where did you
break your skull?"
"Back here."
He pointed at the bottom of his skull in the
exact middle just above his spine where he had a
long narrow white scar.
"Did you get cut there? Where you have the
scar? I thought you just had a cut there or
something."
"I can't remember. I must have because I
have a scar."
When we reached the hotel, we went
upstairs to our room and put on ties and our

373
sport jackets. Then we went back downstairs.
The double doors with glass panels had been
opened. Behind them was a large dining room,
the tables covered with smooth clean white
tablecloths and set with shining plates, glasses
and silverware. I could smell the tablecloths and
food cooking somewhere, and another smell,
which I thought was from the carpet or the
drapes. It was a warm restaurant smell.
"Mr. Frank and Mr. Frank," my Dad said to a
man standing beside a tall desk just inside the
doorway.
(Which Frank was him and which Frank was
me?)
The man led us to a table almost in the
middle of the room. A waiter wearing a white
jacket and a black bowtie brought us menus and
then we ate pot roast and green beans. The
restaurant was fancy but the meat was dry, not
like Grandma Kay's pot roast. (So was it actually
a good place to eat?) My Dad didn't talk very
much. What would I have done if I had broken
my skull and hurt my brain? I couldn't know.
There were only a few other people having
dinner and they weren't talking either, and the
dining room was so quiet that you could hear a
clinking noise every time someone put a knife or
fork on his plate. (Soon I would have the
interview. Then it would be over.)
We went back to our room after we had
finished our dinners. First I washed and put on

374
my pajamas and then my Dad washed and put on
his pajamas. We both had the same kind of
pajamas, but his had blue stripes and mine were
solid blue like the sky. I liked the color. Why?
What should I do? I got into the bed. The
mattress sagged uncomfortably and my feet
touched the board at its end. I moved so that I
was lying at an angle, but my toes still rubbed
against the wood. I moved again.
"Do you want to read or do you just want to
go to sleep?" he asked me.
"I don't know. I think I'll just go to sleep."
"Will it bother you if I read for a while?"
"No."
I rolled so that my back was towards him
and I was facing the window: the bed rocked like
a boat. It wasn't completely dark outside yet,
but soon we would wake up, go to the interview
and then it would be over and things would be
normal again. (Sooner if I went to sleep now.) I
tried to move my feet away from the board so
that I couldn't press my toes against it, which I
was doing even though I didn't want to. The bed
rocked.
We had been paddling all day with just a
short stop for lunch on a rocky beach. There
hadn't been much food and I was still hungry
when we got back into the canoes. We traveled
with the current in the middle of a wide river,
then later we turned into streams that branched
and reconnected or met other streams bordered

375
by thick woods. How could Emmett know the
way? There were fallen logs in the streams and,
standing on the logs, long rows of turtles, some
with shells as large as dinner plates.
"Don't touch them or you'll get a nasty
bite."
It was hot and I wanted to swim in the cold
water, but there wasn't time. We had decided to
go all the way to the place where we would meet
the truck, finish a day early, because we had
almost no food.
The river widened. I was in the stern and
Uncle Paul was in the bow. Berman and Walsh
lay on the bottom of the canoe, their backs
resting on packs that were propped against the
thwarts. No one spoke. I felt very hungry, but
strong. It was almost completely dark. The
canoes were in a group, not in the usual line, but
it was still hard to see who was in each one.
Paul turned and looked at me over his
shoulder. "Can you keep going?" he asked.
I had taken a very long turn.
"I feel fine," I said. "I can keep going."
The water was choppy and a cold wind
began to blow from the port bow. I could smell
salt and weeds in the air. It was hard to paddle.
The canoe rocked on the waves.
"Where is this?" Mike yelled from his canoe
to Emmett whose canoe was in front.
"I'm not sure," Emmett yelled back. "I
can't tell from the map."

376
 "Oh shit," Walsh said, sounding almost
asleep.
"What should we do? It doesn't look right"
"Let's go on a little farther and see if we
recognize anything," Emmett yelled.
I felt cold and then suddenly tired. The
waves slapped against the aluminum sides of
the canoe and splashed over the gunnels.
"I feel tired," I said to Paul.
"I thought you felt fine."
He sounded angry. (I was weak.)
"I did, but now I feel tired."
"Well stay there. We can't change now.
You said you could keep going."
"You mo," Walsh said to me.
"What's that sound?" Mike yelled.
I listened to a roaring noise (a noise I
knew) that came from somewhere in front of us.
"I don't know," Emmett answered.
The ocean; we had reached the end of the
river.
It became more difficult to paddle in the
choppy water; the canoe was being pushed
backwards by the current. Nobody spoke, the
only sounds were the rush of wind, the slap of
waves against aluminum and the roaring.
"I need to change. I've been going a long
time." I told Uncle Paul.
"Shit. Walsh, change with him," he said. "I
thought you felt fine. Why did you tell me you
felt fine?"

377
 "I'm tired too," Walsh said.
"Change with him. Keep really low so we
don't ditch."
Walsh turned towards me and crouched
between the thwarts with a hand on each of the
gunnels. The canoe rocked.
"You go over," he said to me, his voice
sounding disgusted.
I put my paddle in the canoe and moved
slowly towards him, keeping as low as I could
and feeling the boat jerk from side to side each
time I took a step. (I was weak.) Cold water hit
my hands. (We would ditch. We would be in the
freezing water, a long way from land, unable to
see anything. We would lose our packs and have
to flip the canoe in darkness and be soaked.
Could we flip the canoe in this freezing dark?)
My hands shook. (Would someone drown?) I
stepped over Walsh and he crawled between my
legs pulling his feet over the thwarts. The canoe
swayed from side to side.
"Be careful," Paul yelled at me.
I made it to Walsh's spot between the
thwarts and sat in the bottom of the canoe. It
contained several inches of cold water. (We
should bail.) There was no dry place; everything
would be wet. My back pressed against a hard
edge inside somebody's pack.
"Move your feet," Berman said from in front
of me.
I tried to find a better position without

378
pressing my feet against Berman, some way to
rest. My eyes wanted to close even though I was
cold and wet and hungry. More water splashed
against my face and into the bottom of the
canoe. (Would we sink and be unable to flip the
canoe?)
"Holy shit, look at that," somebody in front
of us shouted.
I stared over the gunnel. The river had
become a large space that vanished around us
into darkness, a hole, and far away across the
water to our left was a town on a hillside. Small
wooden houses lined narrow irregularly angled
streets that went all the way down to the shore
where there was a row of dark brick buildings. A
church with a tall white steeple sat on the
hillside among the houses. I could see lights in
some of the windows.
"Where is this? What is that?" I heard
Ross's voice say from one of the other canoes.
Pale moonshine lit the water and a row of
wooden piers along the shore. Some of them
sagged under the waves or had wide gaps filled
with broken timbers. Others were charred by
fire. Moored at the piers were wooden sailing
ships, black ships with masts and spars, tied in
groups three, four or five ships wide. More of
these ships were anchored in long lines out in
the harbor, their masts broken, planks broken
from their sides, burn marks and holes in their
sides. Hundreds of dead ships floating there in

379
front of us. Was this real? Where were we?
"Turn around. We're going back," Emmett
yelled.
I closed my eyes and listened to the
pounding of the surf. (Would we survive?)
The phone rang; its sound was a pain in my
mind. "Thanks," I heard my Dad say, and then,
"time to get up."
My mouth was dry and my calves ached.
Without wanting to, I pressed my toes against
the board at the end of the bed. To stop doing
that, I swung my legs out of the bed and sat up,
even though I wasn't ready to be awake. The
room was warm and seemed far away and dull. I
was thirsty, stiff and sore.
We washed and dressed. I stared at my
appearance in the mirror.
We ate breakfast in the fancy restaurant
then left the hotel and walked uphill toward the
building with the Corinthian columns. I didn’t
speak. The sun was bright and the air warm, the
same weather as the day before, but today was
not yesterday. (The world was alive but didn't
care.)
"So, are you ready?" my Dad asked.
"I guess so," I said.
"Just be yourself. Don't worry. You talk to
people all the time."
"I know," I said.
Together, we climbed the portico stairs and
walked between the Corinthian columns through

380
a high doorway into the Administration Building.
Then we sat beside each other, almost
touching, on a sofa facing two closed doors and,
to our right, a desk where a woman did
something with stacks of files. The walls were
very white, clean, the sofa modern, like an open
box without a front. It was ugly; it didn't belong
in the building.
As long as I was on the sofa, I was safe; I
tried to hold time still in my mind. My Father
didn't speak. I sensed that his arm beside mine
was stiff.
The door nearest the woman opened
making me flinch, and the sound of happy voices
came through the doorway immediately followed
by a thin kid with smooth brown skin wearing a
suit and then a taller man wearing a shirt and tie
but no jacket. They were both smiling (showing
they liked each other). I watched them. That
was not the Dean.
"I think it will be a better place for you,"
the man said to the kid, "but you need to go over
there right away because it'll take an hour and a
half or so to get there. I'll call them now."
They stood in front of the woman's desk.
"Gertrude, get me Bob Hemings," the man
said, and the woman looked in a book on her
desk and then dialed a telephone number.
"I just think it would be a better place for
you," the man said again. Do you know how to
get there?"

381
 (The kid was alone.)
"Hi, Bob, I have somebody here for you.
He's coming over right now."
He was sending the kid away.
"No, he hasn't. He can fill one out while
he's there. Sure. Are you ready? Good. I'll start
with his junior year. AP English, A. Calculus, A.
AP History, A. Chemistry, B+." The man laughed,
"He slipped up there."
My face felt hot. I looked at my Father with
the side of my eye; he was smaller than he
should have been. They didn't want that kid?
"Latin, A."
I tried to be comfortable on the sofa. There
was still time before I had to say anything, I
thought, and then the door in front of us opened
suddenly. I flinched again, looked up and saw a
man with a large stomach. This was the Dean.
I stood rapidly. My Father also started to
stand. (He was confused.)
"Richard Frank?"
The Dean raised his arm and I shook his
hand, looking at his face. It was not the face I
had expected. (Why?) I wanted him to stop
moving, but he immediately turned towards my
Father and shook hands with him as well.
"Mr. Frank, how are you?"
Then he started to walk back into his
office.
"Why don't you both come in."
"Oh, that's alright, I'll..." My Father tried to

382
sit on the sofa.
"No, both of you come in."
My Father was partly standing and partly
sitting.
"Really," he said, "I think I should stay
here."
"No, that's fine. Why don't you come in
too."
(He knew that we would obey.)
The Dean looked at me and moved his hand
towards a wood chair in front of his desk.
"Please, sit down, both of you," he said.
His face was quiet. (He wasn't unfriendly
or friendly. His face wasn't trying to tell anyone
anything.). He looked at my Father, who sat in a
fat armchair to my left.
"Is this the first time you've been back?"
I hoped they would talk together for a long
time.
"No, but almost," my Father answered.
"I've come back a couple of times at
Homecoming.
There were motorcycles parked in the
fraternity house living room...
"So, I guess you've been here with your Old
Man."
I wished that I weren't sitting right in front
of him. He looked at me.
"Yes," I answered and nodded my head.
Should I say more? My Father was
watching me. His lips curled upwards at the

383
edges and I could see his teeth. (This was a
smile.)
I waited for the Dean to ask questions and
watched his face; it said nothing. I waited to
know what he would do
"What are you reading this summer for
school?"
"The Forsyte Saga."
Soon he will ask something that will have
no easy answer.
"Oh, Galsworthy is a great writer. You
should read all his books."
"All of them?"
Loud. Too loud. My mind began to vibrate;
suddenly I had no clear thoughts. Explain.
"He wrote about seven books and each one
of them was over a thousand pages long."
Bad. Lazy.
The Dean's eyes had widened. He moved in
his seat and looked at my Father for a second
and then looked at me again without saying
anything. I saw my Father's face from the side of
my eye; he looked as if he were smelling
something horrible.
(Time stopped.)
"I didn't mean this summer," the Dean
finally said and smiled a little. His face became
calm again. "I just meant that they would be
good to read sometime."
Broken thoughts piled up in my head, but
then I had an answer.

384
 Sitting back in my chair, I tried to smile at
him. My face was tight.
"In fact," I said, "Galsworthy wrote so much
about the Forsyte family that he got tired of
them, but people loved the stories and kept
wanting him to write more. He really didn't want
to and so finally what he had to do was kill all
the main characters, I mean have them die in the
story so that he couldn't write about them
anymore."
"Oh?"
"Yes, and when he killed the last Forsyte,
the London Times wrote his obituary, the
character's obituary. It's the only time in history
that the London Times has had the obituary of
somebody who wasn't a real person."
"Oh?" the Dean said.
"Uh huh," I said.
He asked more simple questions, and then
we were outside on the sidewalk in front of the
building and I saw that it was a normal day.
"Well that sure wasn't what I expected," my
Dad said. He looked normal again too. He
wasn't angry.
"No, I guess not."
It was all a waste.
"Do you want to stay here and look around,
or do you want to go back?"
It was over.
"Let's go back."

385
 

Wind-blown leaves scraped the pavement

outside and hit the window glass behind me. I
smelled radiator paint cooking. (Another year.)
"So why was there a Civil War?" Mr. Baker's
voice asked.
He gently bounced the black rubber tip of a
long pointer on the floor in front of his feet.
"Was there one reason, one cause for the
war, or was there more than one cause?"
Nobody answered. Mr. Baker looked at us
and waited. We looked at him and waited.
The classroom door was open and a sudden
burst of sound came into the silent room from
the long corridor that led to the front of the
school, a quick rumble of voices. It stopped and
then repeated: "...don't believe..."
"What are these authors saying?" Mr. Baker
asked. "What is the reason?"
(I had gotten into College.)
Then came the sound of rapid footsteps,
heels hitting the linoleum. (The Headmaster was
coming to tell me) I had gotten into College.
Everyone in the class stared silently at the
dark doorway. He appeared there and looked
into the room. His eyes found me.
"You just got into College," he said. "You'd
better get your grades up. Don’t make us look
bad."
It was done. I smiled, feeling comfortable
in my clothes, the second one, only Dan before

386
me. No more applications.
"Can I call?" I asked him, or I asked Mr.
Baker.
The Headmaster didn't speak for a second,
and then he said, "I guess it's okay. You can
leave for a few minutes. But only a few minutes.
(He spoke as if I had asked him to leave school
for the rest of the day or the rest of the year) he
wanted me to know that he still controlled me.
(He felt almost that he no longer did. He felt me
leaving. Suddenly, I was leaving.)
I stood and followed him to the school
office. The corridor was unusually dark and
long.
How many phone calls would they allow me
to make? I wanted to tell my Father, but I knew
that he couldn't talk to me during the day.
She answered the phone.
"You'd better sit down," I said, "I have
something to tell you."
"You got expelled."
Huh?
"No, I didn't get expelled, I got into
College."
"Tell me the truth. What did you do?"
"I got into College. I just found out. They
sent a letter to school. We probably got one
too."
"You really got into college? You got into
college? You're not joking?"
"Yes."

387
 "Oh! I'm so excited. I don't know what to
say. Are you sure?"
"Yes. They sent a letter to school. The
Headmaster told me."
"Oh, that's wonderful. Did you tell your
Father?"
"I can't reach him."
"Well, I'll tell him. Oh, he'll be thrilled.
That's so wonderful. Where is the Headmaster?
I want to speak to him."
"Why?"
"I just want to speak to him."
"I told you I got in."
"Well that's really wonderful.
Congratulations. Are you happy? You should be
thrilled."
"Uh huh."
"You've got it made now."
"Yeah."
"Don't you have class?"
"Yeah. They let me call."
"Well, congratulations. You'd better go
back. You've really got it made now. I can't wait
to call everyone. Your Father will be thrilled."



Who had told me about it?

It would be a small party, probably not
many girls there. Everybody wanted to do
something else, but I went anyway: rode a bus
south almost to the end of the avenue and saw

388
the address on a green awning over the entrance
of a building near a small park. The
neighborhood was quiet. There weren't many
cars on the street. Only one other person on the
sidewalk in the freezing darkness.
I said the girl's name to the doorman and
walked past him to the back of the lobby. She
lived on the sixth floor. Outside her apartment,
on the vestibule wall, there was a mirror in a
gold-painted frame. I looked at my reflection,
unbuttoned my coat and pulled the knot of my tie
to the exact center of my collar. Sounds of
music and talking came through a door to my
right. I rang the bell and waited.
"Hi," I said to the girl who opened the door.
"Hi," she said.
She looked at me and stepped backwards
out of the doorway, and I went into the
apartment.
I folded my coat and put it carefully on an
empty chair and then walked into the living
room. Five or six kids stood around a table in a
dining alcove talking and drinking sodas. I didn't
know any of them. I sat on a sofa facing the
alcove and looked at the girls. They were boring.
Maybe other people would come. A record was
playing on a stereo in the corner: "I don't know
why... time after time... I wouldn't mind..."
Then the room darkens.

Two women are pulling their arms out of

389
their coat sleeves at the edge of my sight. They
speak to each other quickly. One, a girl, takes
both coats and turns away, disappears. The
other walks towards me. Tall. Beautiful. Her
eyes looking at my face.
Ann sits beside me on the sofa. Turns
towards me. Her face near mine. (A clean
smell.)
"What are you..." I start to speak.
"I want to talk to you," she says.
We are silent for a second.
"How did you know?"
"I came here to talk to you.”
She pauses. Our eyes embrace.
“Rick, I think we have something special..."
This was right. We would talk to each
other. (It could have been my idea.) Her face
before mine was the only thing I wanted to know
in the world.
"Yes. Let's talk.” I nodded my head rapidly.
“We should talk to each other."
We would say things to each other.
"I want to talk to you. I think we have
something special..."

But suddenly I noticed that I had to piss.

(Why had I not realized this earlier?) I could
barely control the urge.
I stood quickly.
"I want to talk to you," I said, "I really do,
but first let me go to the bathroom. I'll be right

390
back. Just wait here."
Her eyes widened and she sat for a second
with her mouth open.
"Really. I'll be right back."
Where would I find the guest bathroom? I
concentrated on holding the piss inside and
walked as fast as I could across the living room
and down a corridor that I thought led to the
bedrooms. There was a partly closed door to my
right. Was this it? Would it be empty?
It was a bathroom, but it was crowded with
kids that I didn't know. (When had so many other
people arrived at the party?) At least they were
boys. I went inside and stood behind a kid who
was zipping his fly in front of the toilet. He had
pissed even though there were other people in
the bathroom. Two kids were talking and
combing their hair beside the sink. Would they
leave soon? I knew I couldn't hold the piss
inside much longer. Another kid walked into the
room behind me and lit a cigarette. I had no
choice.
I stepped in front of the toilet, unzipped my
fly as fast as I could and tugged at my shirt and
my undershirt, which were layered tightly over
my underpants. Now that I was standing in front
of the toilet, the urge to piss was irresistible. My
middle finger reached the gap in my underpants
and poked inside. As I yanked the opening, urine
squirted out uncontrollably, but instead of the
relaxation I should have felt, my whole body

391
jerked and I almost shouted (had I shouted?).
The warm wet stream was flowing down my right
leg under my suit pants. My sock was soaked in
seconds. I fought to stop the flow, tearing at my
clothes and spattering urine all around the toilet
before I finally hit the bowel.
("It's okay. You'll dry it off.")
(It's not okay.)
I heard people moving behind me and knew
that they had noticed what had happened and I
began to smell wet wool and piss. They would
smell it too. (Ann would smell it. She would
smell it.) I finished and looked at the mess
around me, felt the pool of urine in my shoe, the
wet wool against the skin of my leg. Could I
wipe it all up with a towel, with one of the fancy
towels hanging over the towel bar on the wall?
while other people were in the room?
("Are you fucking kidding? You have to get
out of here. Now.")
I turned around, stared at the door and with
long steps walked out of the bathroom. From the
side of my eye, I could see a kid beside the sink
watching me. My face burned. (Get out. Get
out.)
Through the hallway to the living room fast.
Ann looked at me and I looked at her but tried
not to see her face.
"I have to go," I said. "I'm sorry. I'll call
you."
She would have looked like that if someone

392
had hit her. (As if I had hit her, I had hit her.) I
pulled my coat off the chair in the foyer and went
out of the apartment without slowing my steps.
Would I stand in the elevator next to the
elevator man? Would I stand there stinking?
There was no stairway; the elevator was the only
way out.
("You fucking idiot.")
Cold air hit my face like a fist. I walked
fast, buttoning my coat around my neck.
("You fucking asshole.")
The apartment was a long way to the north;
could I take a cab or a bus?
("Yeah right. You're going to sit on a bus
smelling like piss. Stinking like a bum.")
Maybe it would dry.
("Maybe it'll freeze, asshole. Maybe your
leg will freeze. You can break the pissicles off
the bottom of your pants. That'll be fun. You'll
like that, won't you? Yeah, you fucking idiot.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. You've got it made, you jerk.
The world is at your command.")
What would I have said, anyhow? What did
I think I was going to say? (You can't say that.)
What would I have done?
It was all stupid, all of it.
It was impossible.
I would call her later and tell her
something. I would put the suit in the laundry
basket. It would be dry by the time I got home
and nobody would smell it. In the morning I

393
would shower.
("You can't do anything about it anyway so
just forget it.")
She's not the most perfect person in the
world. She's too fat. It had to be that way.
Just forget it.

394
 War
My left arm pressed against the corner of a
cardboard box and my right arm against the door.
Doris sat in front of me, beside my Father who
drove the car. As the world flashed past the
windows, I had glimpses of familiar scenery:
tenements, factories, cranes, power lines, train
tracks, warehouses, parking lots and then the
green of emptier country. I had looked at and
understood these things often before, but now an
inner vibration affected my vision and the
landscape I saw seemed different, no longer
what it had been, not the normal world.
"Can you move those boxes so that they
don't block the rear-view mirror?" she told me.
Even though everything was, in itself, the
same.
"I can see fine," my Father said.
"You're awfully quiet," she said. "Are you
excited?"
"I guess."

395
 I tried hard to notice details, but seeing the
particular parts of things made no difference;
these weren't the places they had been in the
past.
"Well say something."
"I guess I'm excited."
What did that mean? Did it mean that I was
happy?
"I'm just asking. You can answer a simple
question, you know." She made a small laugh
[funny] to show that she was being friendly.
I twisted into a different position on the
seat.
"Are you scared?" she asked me.
Her friendly voice sounded mocking. ["I'm
just teasing."]
"No."
Where were the others? They also had left:
done and comfortable with what would happen.
Was that right?
"Well then why aren't you saying anything?"
"I'm just thinking."
"What about?"
"Nothing much."
"You must be thinking about something."
"I'm just a little squished back here," I said.
"Do you think Carl (Ann) has started school
already?"
"I don't know. Why ask about Carl?"

396
 We wouldn't see each other. Would anyone
care about that? That's just the way it was; I
had to live with it.
"What do you think the first thing you'll do
when you get there?"
"Go to the bathroom."
"Ha-ha. Very funny. You're very funny.
Always making a joke out of everything."
The important thing was to act as if I
belonged, as if I were comfortable and knew that
what I did was right. Never worried or wrong.
That would be who I was.
The air smelled of plants. I watched the
green things and the other cars on the road with
my head pressed against the window glass,
which vibrated from the pulse of the engine.
Sometimes the cars beside us looked as if they
weren’t moving. At other times they went slowly
forwards or backwards while the trees behind
them moved very fast. The passing cars were
like the passage of time.
We went by small mountains covered with
trees that changed color in the changing light.
What secret places were hidden there? Then I
saw the clock tower. It appeared in the distance
and then disappeared behind a hill that moved
slowly past the car. I tried to see it again, and
suddenly the green sign rushed at my face as it
had before and my heartbeat shook my chest. At
the end of the exit ramp, my Father turned the
car onto the road between the farm fields.

397
 "Soon we'll be there," she said.
I had a single room: no roommate.
(Because I would have trouble doing the work)
but I didn't want a roommate, didn't want to live
with a stranger. (Would that make me different?)
"We'll need to get you some curtains and
find a place to buy a cheap rug."
Where could you buy stuff here?
"Hello? Are you there?"
"Yes, I'm here."
"Well, you could say something instead of
sitting back there like that."
"Like what?" (She couldn't do anything
now.) "What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. I'd think you'd have
something to say. What color curtains do you
want?"
My Father turned his head.
"Doris," he said, "look in the envelope.
Where are we supposed to go?"
"Where can you buy stuff here?" I asked.
"How do I know?" she said. "We'll just have
to find someplace. There has to be something
with all these kids here."
Should we buy curtains and a rug? Was
that right?
We drove past the brown fields. Straw
stalks poked out of the mud. The old farm
buildings had been new once; someone had built
them carefully, spent effort planning and
constructing them. Then a time must have come

398
when they lost importance and they had been
allowed to become wrecks. Their paint had been
worn away by the weather, their broken sides
had been left unrepaired. Now they appeared to
be partly useful human creations and at the
same time parts of the natural landscape. How
long had they been this way? Maybe the farmers
had just run out of money.
We drove past the large village green
surrounded by old-style houses, the church that
looked like ones in Christmas-story books and
the other large wooden building that had a
portico with four tall columns. What did people
do here?
"It won't be long now," my Father said.
The car went uphill between the clusters of
trees and passed the houses with their iron
fences and careful decoration, the separate
garages that had been carriage houses, then the
stadium with wooden bleachers, and again my
Father had to stop the car at the top of the hill,
this time in a line of cars waiting for the traffic
light to let them pass.
He turned and looked at me. He smiled. He
was happy. I felt very glad.
When the light changed color, almost all the
cars including ours went straight through the
intersection and across the Green. I looked out
the window and stared at the large brick building
with the Corinthian columns: the old library, the
ugly sofa (safe), an open box without a front, a

399
thin kid with smooth brown skin, the Dean, his
eyes wide, his mouth open. It passed rapidly,
and behind it were different buildings that I
hadn't seen the day we walked to the war
monument. There was a handmade sign
attached to a piece of wood stuck in the ground
beside the road. The sign said "Freshman" and
something else. As I looked at the letters the
sky tilted and the car shifted underneath me. My
Father drove it into a parking lot and found a
space between two station wagons under the
leafy branches of a large tree. The Country.
Kids and adults walked back and forth in
the parking lot carrying boxes and suitcases,
seeming as if they knew where they were going,
but they didn't, did they?
"Let's go inside," my Dad said.
I walked beside him towards a small brick
building with a white-painted front door between
two short white Doric columns. The bricks
between the columns and the door also were
painted white, a white so bright that my eyes
hurt when I looked at them. Another handmade
sign taped to one of the columns said, "Welcome
Freshman."
"That's you," she said [as if it were
something that I might not know]. She was
behind us. "You're a Freshman now." [Very
friendly.]

400
 I had been a Freshman before and now I
was a Freshman again, but this was the last
time, and then what? Would that be my real life?
Inside the building there were more kids
and adults, some standing and talking to one
another (weren't they strangers?), others sitting
behind long folding tables with brown tops. They
were smiling, everyone was smiling. I looked at
my Dad.
"Go ahead," he said "I'll wait for you here."
A kid gave me a beige envelope. My name
had been written on it with a laundry marker
(purple ink).
"Here's your room key and a mailbox key.
There's also an orientation schedule and the
name of your advisor. Remember that there's a
cookout tonight for just the class. [No parents.]
Do you need directions?"
I looked at him. He was an older kid, but he
was talking to me.
"No," I said, "I can find it. Thanks."
"Where are we going?" she asked me.
"It's in the other envelope," I said. "You
have it."
"Didn't you get directions?"
"I can find it."
"Don't you think you should get directions?"
"I can find it. Let's go."
The room was on the first floor of one of
the long brick buildings beside the grassy
rectangle, the Quad, in front of the library.

401
Parents had parked their cars between the giant
trees across from the dormitory entrance
(wheels tearing the ground), but my Dad found
space to park at the curb almost in front of the
door.
"So here we are," he said.
He waited for me to go into the dormitory
first, but as I walked up the stairs I could feel
him close behind me. The room was L-shaped
with two windows in the wall facing the doorway.
Its floor was covered with brown linoleum. I
could smell wax and cleaning fluid in the hot air.
There was a large wooden desk to the right of
the door and a beige metal cabinet next to the
desk in the corner of the L. The cabinet had a
mirror over a shelf above some drawers on its
right side and double doors on its left side (an
armoire?).
"How are you going to get all your clothes
in that?" she said.
The bed was against the wall across from
the windows. It had a metal frame like a camp
bed but a much thicker mattress than a camp
bed. I lay down on it; it was comfortable.
"Come on. Get up. We have a lot to do and
we have to get back to the City." she said.
(They.)
She was measuring the width of one of the
windows.
"I guess we should put a carpet in front of
the bed, but we'll have to leave the rest of the

402
floor bare. We won't find anything that will go
around that corner."
"Let's empty the car," my Dad said.
Someone else's Father held the dormitory
door open while I carried two large boxes inside.
He was smiling. The corridor was crowded with
kids and smiling parents moving things, personal
things. The parents were talking to their kids in
ways that they might have talked at home and
alone (they were home). From what places had
all of these people come? I left the boxes I was
carrying on the desk. My Dad put two more next
to them. We put boxes in the kneehole under the
desk and I put a small carton on the shelf of the
metal cabinet. Doris hung some clothes in the
armoire and I put my shoes on the armoire floor.
"Take that box off the chair so we can lift it
to put down the rug."
"I'll do it later."
Then we got into the car again and my Dad
drove it away from the campus, past the Green,
back down the hill.
"A woman told me it's somewhere here on
the right," she said.
I looked out the window. There were stores
next to the road in a single-story building that
had a parking lot in front of it. We passed a gas
station.
"Here," she said. "Turn here."
A long building had a window display of
furniture. Nobody in the city would buy that

403
furniture: chairs and tables like the ones in
restaurants beside country roads, lamps made
from brown ceramic jugs, sofas with smooth
shellacked wooden arms and rust-colored
cushions. Rugs. The rugs were rolled into tubes
and stacked in piles. There was a sample piece
on the floor in front of each pile, pieces like
doormats: a thin rectangle of carpet made of
colored threads with a black rubber back.
"Which one do you want?" she asked me.
I looked at the samples, at each rug as it
lay on the floor between the window wall and the
bed. I stood and looked from the doorway and
then from beside the armoire.
"Well? Decide."
"Can I have red?" I asked.
(A strange idea.)
"Sure, if that's what you want."
She would never allow a red rug in the
apartment.
"I'll take red. Thank you."
She bought short blue corduroy curtains
that would hang from metal rods with rubber
ends that you could wedge into the window
frames. They looked queer, but something had to
cover the windows.
I lifted the rug onto my shoulder.
"Are you sure you can carry that?" she
said.
I carried it to the car. My Dad rolled down
the rear window behind the driver's seat and we

404
slid it through the opening so that one end lay on
the dashboard in front of the passenger seat, the
middle rested on the seat back and the other end
stuck a short way out the window. Were you
allowed to drive with something sticking out the
car window?
"You'd better sit in front," she told me.
We drove back to the dormitory.
I lifted the end of the bed frame and my
Dad rolled the rug open on the floor between the
bed and a low bookcase in front of the windows.
Red. Was it straight? He hung the curtains over
the windows while Aunt Doris and I opened
boxes.
"Here's your bedding." She put some
sheets and a blanket on the bed. "Please change
the linen occasionally."
"I will."
I made tight hospital corners. Uncle Paul
would drop a quarter onto the bed during
inspection. If the quarter didn't bounce high
enough, he would pull the blanket and sheets off
the mattress and drop them on floor: "Do it
again."
"I hope you won't live like a slob. Please. I
know you. And Sweetie don't forget to get a
haircut. I'm sure there's a barber in town. I
don't want you looking dirty."
"Okay, okay."
It didn't take long to put my clothes into
the drawers, some slacks and two sport jackets

405
into the armoire. (Was it right to have them here;
would I ever need them?) There wasn't a tie rack
in the armoire; where should I put ties?
"Please do your work. Remember how
lucky you are to be here."
They stood beside the car, looking at me.
"I will," I said.
"We love you. You'll be fine."
My Dad hugged and kissed me. He smiled
and I smiled at him.
"How about a hug and kiss for your old
Aunt?"
I put my arms around Doris and kissed her.
"I'm so proud of you."
They drove away. Only a few cars remained
beside the curb and between the trees.
I went back into the dormitory. The doors
to most of the rooms were open. Loud music
came through one of them: "ou walk into the
room with your pencil..." I didn't listen to those
songs. They made no sense. Kids were standing
in the corridor talking and shaking hands. I
watched a kid with blond curly hair exhale
cigarette smoke as he spoke. He wore loafers
but no socks, and a pair of checked shorts:
maroon, green and two hues of blue. The kid
beside him nodded and laughed.
"What room are you in?" someone near my
shoulder said.
The sound made me jump inside. I turned
and looked at him; he was speaking to me. I

406
smiled because I had the idea that a voice like
his could say "golly gee" with perfect inflection.
He smiled back at me.
"107. You?"
"I'm in 112, just down at the enda the hall.
I'm John Styles"
"Richard Frank."
"Pleased ta meetcha."
We shook hands.
"Do you know where we can put empty
boxes?" I asked him.
"Yeah. They said to putem in the basement.
You want help?"
"No, that's okay. Thanks."
"Okay." He paused and looked at me.
"Well, seeya," he said and walked away.
I opened the door to my room, went inside
and put all the empty boxes in a pile on the
carpet in front of the bed. Then I pushed smaller
boxes into larger ones, turning and crushing
them so that they would fit together. It took only
a few minutes to compress all the boxes into a
mass that one person could carry. After I had
taken them to the basement, I arranged stuff in
my room: books on the bookshelves, their edges
flush with the front of the shelf, switching the
order until it looked right, blank paper firmly
pressed into the front right corner of the top left
desk drawer (won't stay), a school mug for pens
and pencils on the desktop the right distance
from the edge. I listened to music playing

407
somewhere outside the open door: "accept it
that soon you'll be drenched..." One ashtray
(Grandma Kay had stolen it from a restaurant in
Europe) on the desk to the left and in front of the
mug and desk lamp, another on the bedside table
beside my clock radio, and one of the books they
had asked us to read - Whitehead. I stood in
front of the window and looked at the room.
"Come on. Let's go eat. Time to eat,"
someone shouted in the corridor (someone who
knew).
I took the navy-blue sweater that Grandma
Kay had made for me at the beach out of the
third drawer of the cabinet, put it on, closed the
door to my room and followed a crowd of people
leaving the dorm. We went around the right end
of the library. I looked at the buildings, the trees
and the people. A kid with almost shoulder-
length black hair was walking near me. He was
wearing an army field jacket. It had areas of
dark material that were the shapes of what must
have been ripped off insignia and patches.
"Hi," I said to him.
"Hi," he said.
Then he was quiet.
"My name is Richard Frank," I told him.
"John Angelo," he said.
I waited, but he didn't say anything else.
"Seems like some of these people know
each other already. Do you know any of them?" I
asked him.

408
 "Naw." He laughed, surprising me. "I don't
know them. Maybe they went to school
together."
"Yeah. I guess. Where did you go to
school?"
"I was in the military. I mean, I went to
school but I was in the army for four years before
I came here."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Wow, that must have been different. How
did you end up in this place?"
"I don't know. They told us to apply to
college and I found the name in a book and
applied before I got discharged and they
accepted me. But I'm not stayin. I don't belong
here."
"What? Sure, you belong. Why not?"
"This kind of place isn't for people like me.
I gotta get outa here."
"You don't mean it, do you? They accepted
you."
"Yeah. I mean it. I'm leavin."
"But you just got here. You should stay and
see what happens. It'll be okay. You don't know
what it's like."
I quickly decided to tell him: "I probably
don't belong here either, but I'm staying."
"Naw. You belong here but not me."
What did he mean?

409
 "Come on. You gotta go to college. Why
not try it?"
Styles was suddenly next to me.
"Hey," he said.
"Hi," I answered.
I started to introduce them to each other
but Angelo had turned around and was walking
back in the direction of the dorm. I pointed at
him.
"He says he's leaving."
"I hope it wasn't my breath," Styles said.
I laughed.
"No, I'm serious," I said.
"Yeah, I know. Too bad, but I guess it's a
shock after the army."
They had met? Had Styles tried to
persuade him to stay?
"He shouldn't leave now," I said. "He just
got here. He's gotta go to college."
"Well, I guess he just feels out of place."
That didn't matter.
"You wouldn't leave, would you?"
"Heck no. I worked too hard to get here,"
he answered.
That made me feel embarrassed. I stopped
talking.
We arrived at a group of tables covered
with purple paper tablecloths. They were
arranged around a long charcoal-burning grill
that had been rolled into the middle of another
quadrangle. I couldn't see a single weed among

410
the blades of grass. Some kids were standing
near the barbecue, talking and laughing, drinking
from large waxed-paper cups.
"Seems like some of these people know
each other from before," I said to Styles.
"Preppies," he said.
"Huh?"
"They went to Prep School together.
They're the elite."
He didn't sound as if he believed that they
were the elite. I laughed.
"They're not any better than me or you," I
said. "They're not any better than me."
"Well they think they are."
How did he know that?
"Well fuck them. I don't think they are," I
said. (They’re people from nowhere.)
"Okay," Styles said, "I guess that settles
it."



Dodson, The Cat Bungler, Styles, The

Foreigner, Karp, Babbs and I walked to the Dining
Hall. The sky was almost dark even though it
was only five-thirty. I wore the maroon sweater
that Grandma Kay had made at the beach (it was
still good), no coat (like the others).
"Styles, you joinin the Panthers?" Dodson
asked him.

411
 "No, Dodson I'm not joining the Panthers,
but I have to admit those berets are pretty neat.
Are you joining the Panthers? You'd look really
special in one of those."
"Yeah, you should get a beret, Foreigner,"
Dodson said.
"Shud up Dods. He was talgin to you."
"What did he say?" Babbs asked.
"I think he said shut up," Dodson answered.
"Fuck you Dods. Youer da one wants ta
wear one of dose army hads."
"What did he say?" Dodson asked Babbs.
"He said sewer fun with hairs hose the
army fat."
"Babbs you're en esshole," The Foreigner
said, and we all laughed.
"Frankie, are you going to the mixer? Are
you guys going to the mixer?" Styles asked.
"Yeah, I was gunna go," I said. "Any of you
going?"
In my second mind I knew that I should
stay in the dorm after dinner and read the book
for Clarke's course. It would take hours to finish
that book. It probably wasn't possible to read
the whole thing before Monday.
"Definitely," said The Bungler.
"Bungler's gunna use those smooth moves,"
Karp said.
"Bungler, don't spill your beer all over some
girl," I said and laughed, (wanting them to know
that I wasn’t clumsy).

412
 Babbs started singing: "She'll never break,
never break, never break that heart of stone. No,
no, no, that heart of stone."
Then we all sang, "Here comes that little
girl, I see her walking down the street."
Bungler turned and walked backwards. He
looked at my eyes, put his right hand over his
heart and held his left hand in a fist under his
chin.
"What's different about her?" he sang, "I
don't really know. Better listen little girl, I ain't
got no love, I ain't the kind to meet,"
And we sang, "but she'll never break, never
break, never break, never break this heart of
stone."
"Bungler, you're messing up the words,"
Babbs said.
Bungler looked at him and laughed.
"You won't get no satisfaction that way,
Bungler," Karp said.
"Neither will you, Fish, that's for damn
sure," said Bungler.
We walked into the dining hall in a jumbled
group.
"New?" Styles asked.
"New," Dodson and I said at the same time,
and turned left towards the new dining room,
followed by the others.
I took a tray off the stack by the door to the
serving area and a knife and a fork from the
plastic buckets beside the stack. The tray was

413
damp and the dampness had an odor (sour milk).
I stood in line behind Dodson and looked at the
pans of food to see what was being served.
"Why do these fucking trays always smell
like spoiled milk?" Babbs said behind me.
"Welcome to The Cafeteria," said Fish,
somewhere behind him.
"Steak night," Dodson said. "Yesiree, boys
are havin steak."
"Yeah man," Babbs said.
"Say amen," said Styles.
"Styles...," Dodson laughed.
"I hop da forkz don have dat smell on dem."
"It smells like that in the line," the Bungler
said.
"Man, that's why I'm not washing dishes," I
said.
"Right," said Styles.
I said nothing and didn't look back at him.
Instead I watched my tray as it slid over the
stainless-steel tubes that made a shelf like a
track in front of the counter where they put the
pans and plates of food. I tried to imagine the
tubes again as a track but still had to steer the
tray so that it wouldn't fall onto the floor.
("It doesn't matter what you wish: there's
still no connection between the tray and the rails
you idiot.")
The workers behind the counter wore white
pants and white jackets that buttoned up the
front all the way to their necks. They all wore

414
white socks and black shoes. Nobody would
ever wear white socks and black shoes. They
were sweating.
As I watched the worker give Dodson his
steak, I compared the sizes of the pieces of
meat left in the pan and breathed the good
grease smell (still there was sour milk). I
wanted the one on top of the pile in the corner.
Would I get that one? (No seconds on steak.)
The worker took another thick plate from the
stack and I felt my shoulder muscles tighten as
he moved his tongs towards the pan. The tongs
passed over the large steak in the corner and
picked up the one next to it. It was okay. It was
pretty big.
I looked at his face. "Thanks," I said
(without too much friendliness).
He didn't say anything or even look at me.
I pushed the tray farther along the rails
that weren’t a track until it was in front of the
baked potatoes and used a large spoon that had
been left on a plate beside the pan to take two.
What else? Salad? Fruit? I took some string
beans (watery) mixed with pieces of nut, Gussie
carried the food around the grown-up table on a
silver tray and the largest piece of chocolate
cake on the shelf (could get more later), which I
slid on its thick white plate from behind two
other portions. Then I took a roll that looked like
a football and put it on a small plate from a stack
beside the bread basket. The pieces of butter

415
were in a pan on a pile of thin ice cubes. How
many? Two for the roll. Two for each potato. An
extra. Was that too many?
("Who cares. She isn't here.")
"Thank you, Mr. Collings," I heard Styles say
somewhere behind me. (Who?)
"Welcome."
There was a large coffee urn at the end of
the counter. I pulled the handle on the nozzle
and let some pour into a white china cup that
had a purple band around its rim. Also a milk
glass? For the cake. I took an empty glass out
of a slot in a green rubber rack and put it on my
tray. Did it have any of the sour wetness on it?
It was dry. I smelled it: detergent. Was dry
detergent poisonous? (A chemical.)
("They wouldn't let us be poisoned, you
idiot.")
Would they?
Dodson walked slightly in front of me past
the tables near the door to the dining area.
There was a table in the corner by the door that
was large enough for all of us and in a perfect
place because, if you sat there, you could get
seconds without walking very far, but it belonged
to some kids from a fraternity. Most of the large
tables were owned by groups of older kids, and
even if only a single person were sitting at one of
them and he had almost finished eating, you
couldn't use it.
"What are you doing?"

416
 He stared at me, holding his fork in the air
near his mouth that didn't smile.
"Find someplace else. This table's taken."
Dodson and I walked around the end of a
fence-like wall that divided the room in half. The
long table on the other side of the wall where we
usually sat was empty (did we own it?), and we
put our trays on it and took chairs next to each
other on the side closest to the kitchen.
"Steak night," I said.
"Boys are haven steak," he said.
We worked on our food as the others
arrived at the table. I sliced through the middle
of each potato along its length and put the
halves on their rounded backs in the juice that
oozed out of the steak. Then I lacerated their
smooth bare insides and laid one piece of hard
butter on each half. Were the potatoes hot
enough to melt the frozen butter (no), or would
the butter chill the potatoes?
("It doesn't matter what you want.")
I ate two watery beans - the string beans
would taste better after they had been soaked in
steak juice and butter - and cut a piece from the
end of the steak. As I chewed it, I watched the
butter lying on the potato halves. Had the
pieces softened? I pressed the squares into the
cut surfaces of the potatoes with a fork,
crushing them and potato into the steak juice,
breaking both apart. The butter stuck to the
fork. I dragged the tines through the potato to

417
clean them and mix the butter with the potato.
("Fuck it.")
I gave up trying to improve the food and
started to eat diligently. The food was okay, it
was good.
"Foreigner, where's your tea?" Styles asked
him. "No tea tonight?"
"Yeah, where's the tea?" Dodson said.
"You guize can't pud sald in de tea tonight,
cauze em only gettin id lader."
He turned his grinning face to look at us. It
was an aggressive grin [he had finally found a
way to win].
"You mean you don't like salt in your tea?" I
said.
"Whad dyou tink? No I don like sald in my
tea."
"Dods, he actually doesn't like salt in his
tea," I said, sounding as if I were revealing some
new information.
"He always has it though," Dodson said.
"Yeah, well I don hab id tonight, Dods," said
The Foreigner while he chewed a piece of steak.
"Foreigner, how do you chew and talk so
well at the same time like that? Where did you
learn how to do that?" asked the Bungler.
Everyone laughed, including The Foreigner.
There was a way. I would think of a way. I
stared at the timber beams that crossed the
room under the raw ceiling planks of the peaked
roof. A ski lodge. I wanted to like it, but it didn't

418
belong here, looked bad.
"So we're all going to the mixer tonight,
right?" the Bungler said.
"Bungler, did you finish the book for
Clarke?" I asked him.
He laughed.
"Not yet," he said.
"Do you understand it?"
"I guess. Pretty much."
He understood it? That couldn't be true.
The book made no sense, the combinations of
words were absurd, incomprehensible. I read
the paragraph for a third time. I had never seen
words combined this way before. They told me
nothing. How could the author believe that
people who read this would understand what he
meant?
I held the book in my hand and pointed at a
page. I asked him, "Can you explain this to me:
'...relatively homologous ways to a view of
hegemony…subject to repetition, convergence,
and rearticulation…the question of temporality
into the thinking of structure.' What does that
mean?"
"You have to understand it in the context of
the argument."
"Do you understand it?"
This question seemed to annoy him.
"Of course I understand it."
(He must be lying.)
"I don't think this makes any sense at all.

419
It's not possible."
"Well, just do the best you can with it. [It's
your fault that you don't understand.]"
I was too stupid.
No. It's not my fault, I won't believe that.
Anyone could see that this isn't communication,
it's garbage. If this jerk has an idea to
communicate, he should find language to
express it that can be reliably understood, that
can't be misinterpreted. How complicated can
his thoughts be? This isn’t theoretical physics.
"Bungler," I said, "you really understand
that stuff? You know what those sentences
mean?"
"Well, I mean, I know what he's talking
about because Clarke discussed it in class. I
don't think you really need to worry about the
way he says it. He's obviously a major bullshit
artist."
"Bungler, who could understand sentences
like that? They're like some secret code."
"Frankie, why are you worried about that
crap? It's Friday night. We're not thinking about
some academic bullshit, we're going to the
mixer."
We were supposed to care about it, weren't
we? Why take the class if what the books said
didn't matter?
The Foreigner stood up and grinned at us
again. "Be ride bag," he said.
I watched him walk towards the serving

420
area to get his cup of tea.
"Styles, quick give me the sugar bowl," I
told him.
"Why? What are you going to do?"
"Hand me the salt shaker."
Dodson started to laugh.
I unscrewed the top of the salt shaker and
poured a small amount of salt into the bowl.
Then I used my finger to mix it with the sugar.
Would that be enough?
"Frankie, you can't do that," Styles said.
"Why not?"
"Everybody uses that sugar."
"They'll fix it later."
He frowned at me.
"Or I’ll fix it; I'll scoop it out. Anyway, I’ve
already done it."
I looked at the two white powders in the
bowl: it was very hard to see the salt. You had to
know that it was there to notice it.
"Quick, put it back. Put back the salt
shaker."
We sat and waited without speaking, trying
not to laugh.
"Don't anybody fucking laugh," I said,
having to try hard not to laugh myself.
I filled my glass with milk from the pitcher
on the table and started to eat cake. It's hard to
laugh when your mouth is full of cake.
We sat at the table and pushed food around
our plates, ate pieces of what remained, ate

421
dessert.
"Frankie, he's going to be really pissed,"
Styles said.
"Why should he be any more pissed than he
usually is?"
Babbs made a snorting noise.
"Shh," said Dods.
A moment later, I saw Foreigner walk past
the end of the table. He would know something
was happening because we were sitting on our
seats like a bunch of dummies. I took another
bite of cake and drank more milk and tried not to
look at him directly, but I could still see what he
was doing with the side of my eye.
"Get your tea?" Dodson asked him.
"Godit, Dods, and you're not touching id.
Tonide um having tea and you'r not puttingany
shid in id."
The cup landed on the table making a small
bang and clatter. He had covered it with a
second saucer. For protection? to keep it hot? to
keep it from spilling? Foreigner banged the
chess piece onto the square and grinned at me.
"Go ahead end moof," he said. “I'll bead
your ass in five moofs."
Now we were all looking at him. It was
okay. He was confident and didn't think about
what we might have done.
"You got me Foreigner," Dodson said.
"Tonight I'm not putting salt in your tea."
When I heard that, I couldn’t stop myself

422
from laughing so I tried to make the laugh sound
natural, casual. Did it?
The Foreigner grinned.
He pushed the cup towards the fence wall,
away from the rest of us. He slid the saucer top
off the cup and dropped it onto the table, turning
his head to grin at us again. My heart beat
faster. He lifted his spoon and filled it from the
sugar bowl. He moved the spoon until it was
above the cup. Slowly, he tilted the spoon and
poured the contents into his tea. Then he dipped
the spoon into the tea and stirred it. He grinned
at us. I grinned at him. I had done it.
"Ah," he said, as he lifted the cup towards
his mouth.
Would it be enough?
"Ummm," I said, and at the same time
Dodson said, "Ahhh," and Babbs said, "Enjoy."
Before even a second had passed he had
pulled his lips away from his teeth, pushed his
tongue out of his mouth and let the tea fall back
into the cup. His eyes bulged: he saw what had
happened.
"Fuck you, Dods," he yelled.
"Dods?" I said.
He stood and dropped the cup onto his tray.
I quickly pushed my chair away from the table
and tilted backwards to avoid being splashed.
We were all laughing really hard.
"Thatszit. Um never eading wid you
bastards eggen."

423
 He picked up the tray. It shook in his hands
making the cup roll around in the tea and the
dishes clatter.
We all stopped laughing; this wasn't
happening the right way.
"Come on, Foreigner," I said, glad that I
hadn't told him who had put salt in the sugar.
"Sit down."
"No way. Um never eading wid you
bastards eggen."
"Come on."
He walked with stamping steps away from
the table.
"Hey, Foreigner," Babbs yelled.
"He's not coming back," said Styles.
Was what I had done this time different
from what we had done on other nights? We
always put salt in his tea: it was a game. We all
knew that it was a game. It had never made him
angry like this before.
"He'll get over it," I said.
"No he won't," said Styles.



Everyone put on jackets and ties, as if they

were in the city, except they looked different
from people in the city.
"Styles," I said, "you look like a car
salesman."
"Thanks, Frankie. That's real nice. I really

424
preciate it."
I held a towel around my waist and walked
quickly back to my room, bouncing on my toes so
that floor dirt didn’t touch the bottoms of my
feet, although I knew in my second mind that
this was stupid.
(“You’re still stepping on the floor, you
idiot”).
Why did I do that?
The door to Babs' and Fishey's room was
open. Fishey was standing in front of his mirror
tying a crappy-looking tie. I went into my room
and closed the door. Then I let myself stand with
my feet flat on the rug (it would be no cleaner)
and my muscles relaxed. The silence in the
room hummed in my ears, and with it, I heard the
quiet sound of a voice and then another from the
hall behind the closed door. I breathed the
isolated air and stared at the smooth blanket on
the bed. Blue. It was part of the stillness.
Carefully I dried myself, sprayed my
armpits with deodorant, and thought about what
I should wear, although I had already decided
what I would wear because I knew which were
the best clothes. I saw myself as I would look,
and brushed my hair until it was right. Then I
began dressing. After putting on underwear, I
slid my arms into the sleeves of a white shirt
made of stiffly starched cotton that had been
folded, unused, in the bottom drawer of the metal
cabinet since I had arrived. It still had the clean

425
dress-shirt smell that filled the air close around
you when you were wearing good clothes. I sat
on the wooden desk chair and put on black
socks: the left sock and then the right. My
charcoal-gray pants had been in the cabinet
closet also since the first day, the front creases
still sharp and unwrinkled. I stepped into them
carefully and raised them over my shirttails,
smoothing the material so that it would lie flat
underneath the wool pants, making sure that the
shirt buttons entered the pants exactly in the
middle of my waist where my belt would buckle.
Then I threaded the dark-brown leather belt
through the loops on the pants, closed it so that
it rested gently against my stomach but didn’t
slip, and put on the brown loafers that I had kept
in the back of the armoire. I looked at them: not
too shiny but not cruddy. Their color matched
the color of the belt. They were perfect. I took a
dark-red tie with a pattern of blue lines from the
bottom drawer of the cabinet and put it under my
collar, sliding it up and down until the ends were
in the right positions: after I tied the knot, the
outside wider end of the tie had to be slightly
longer than the underneath narrower end, which
had to reach just to the top my belt buckle. How
did I know that the ends were in the right
positions before I started tying? This question
made my insides throb. I didn’t want to try to
answer it because the more you thought about
something like that, the less sure you were that

426
you really knew what initially had made you
think of the question.
(“Just tie the tie, you idiot.”)
I took my navy-blue jacket off its hanger in
the armoire and put it on, settling it evenly on my
shoulders, pulling my shirt cuffs from inside the
sleeves down slightly over my wrists. Finally, I
buckled my watch around my right wrist, put my
wallet into the right inside pocket of my sports
coat, cigarettes in the left inside pocket and my
keys into my right pants pocket (the knife was
gone, lost somewhere).
“Where, where, where.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
I picked up a pack of matches that I had
left on the counter above the cabinet drawers
and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked okay.
Styles was standing in the hallway near the
door to my room. He was wearing blue pants
with a faint crease pressed into the legs. They
were made of what? His shoes were light brown
and had gold metal buckles (too large). Crap. He
looked at me and didn’t say anything.
“I’ll see you at the top of the hill in about an
hour,” I told him.
(Would there be time? Would he want to
know where I was going?)
Then he asked me: “Where are you going?”
“Oh, I just have one place to stop first.”
I looked away from his face and started to
walk past him.

427
 “Frankie,” he said, “I thought we decided
that we would all go up there together, didn’t
we?”
I stopped walking.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be there. I just have one
other place to go.”
“Where’s that?”
I had to tell him.
“AD.”
“You got invited to AD? You got invited
there and you didn’t tell us?”
“Well it’s not really serious. I’m not going
there to join, I just want to see it.”
(Did that make any sense?)
“Frankie, are you going to be a Really
Important Person? You want to be one of those
guys? Don’t you want to stay with us?”
(Yes. But. Yes.)
“Oh, don’t worry about it Styles. I’ll see
you at the top of the hill.”
I wanted to stop talking about this.
“We agreed.”
“Come on. We didn’t swear or anything like
that. Don’t worry. I’m going with you. We’re all
going together.”
“Frankie, don’t do it.”
“Styles, I’m not doing anything. I’m just
going there to see what it’s like.”
“Right.”
I left the dorm (feeling bad).
Instead of crossing the quad, I walked on

428
the sidewalk beside the road that went around it
so that I wouldn’t get my shoes wet or muddy.
(“I never promised that I would join with
them did I? I only said that I thought offering to
join as a group was a good plan.”)
Past the library: the guy who designed that
library had spent too much time playing with
blocks when he was a kid.
So why was I going somewhere else?
(They wouldn’t want me anyway.) Would they
want me? (They wouldn’t.)
Down the hill toward the Village Green. The
protesters were there: a line of people standing
side-by-side around the edge of the Green. They
faced the streets silently, not moving, staring at
the passersby. They did that every Sunday
morning: a protest against the War.
As I got closer, I looked at them looking at
me. They were students but also people from
the town. Hippies with long hair. Some
professors, probably.
Styles went and stood with them
sometimes.
“Frankie, why don’tcha come with me to
the vigil tomorrow?”
“Styles, it’s too early. I don’t want to get
up that early just to stand around (with a bunch
of oddballs) not moving or saying anything for an
hour. Besides, we’ll miss breakfast.”
“Come on Frankie. You can get up a little
earlier and eat. You’re against the war aren’t

429
you?”
Was it right to be against the war?
“Styles it’s probably gunna rain anyway.
You have to be crazy to stand out there without
doing anything.”
“So? You can go in the rain. You won’t
melt. Aren’t you against the War?”
They stared as I walked past them. They
saw me in my jacket and tie and slacks. What
did their faces say? “You are one of them and
not one of us and therefore you are wrong. We
are right. We are real people and you are what?”
They knew nothing about me.
Did anyone in the Government actually care
that some students and hippies were standing in
the rain and the snow and whatever else
happened every week because they wanted the
War to end?
(“Well, if enough people say ‘no,’ then the
Government will have to listen.”)
That didn’t seem likely. That was the kind
of thing they told you in fifth grade.
I crossed the street at the other side of the
Green, putting the protestors behind my back.
Was everyone who didn’t protest against
the War “for” the War? People talked about the
War a lot but not because they liked it (not here)
or wanted it.
(“Yeah, that would be great. I could go
there and get killed. Lie in mud. Get bitten by
bugs and snakes. Great idea. It’s important to

430
do that.”)
I laughed a little then looked quickly
around to see if anyone might have heard me.
Yes, but was fighting the War a right thing,
or was it wrong?
Two flights of stairs separated by twelve or
fifteen feet of pavement went from the sidewalk
to the entrance of the house. This looked good.
Why? The second flight ended at a portico with
four tall fluted Doric columns. As I climbed the
stairs, some kids dressed in city clothes walked
out the door at the back of the portico. Two
turned serious faces to look at me. Were they
wondering who I was? Wanting me to notice
them (because they were important, thought
they were important)? A third walked behind,
slumping forward slightly and looking at his feet.
He was wearing brown loafers with tassels.
More people were standing just past the
front door in the foyer. One was a freshman in
my humanities seminar who smoked continually
during class and waved his cigarette around in
the air while he talked, which he did a lot. He
was shaking hands with an older kid whose face
I had seen somewhere. The older kid turned,
looked at me and smiled. Who was he?
“Hi, Rick,” he said as if he had been waiting
for me to arrive. How was that possible? Had I
forgotten that I knew him?
“Hi,” I said.
My face, I knew, showed surprise, which

431
was bad (which he liked). I shook his hand.
“Go sit in the living room and we’ll be with
you shortly.”
He pointed through a rectangular opening
to a large room with leather-covered armchairs
and several sofas.
There were a few people sitting quietly on
most of the chairs. Despite the upholstery, the
people looked uncomfortable. I didn’t know any
of them, didn’t want to sit near any of them
(didn’t want to look like them).
I took a cigarette out of the package in my
pocket, lit it and leaned against the wall next to
the mantel of a large fireplace, wanting to seem
bored. (It didn’t matter that I touched the wall
here.)
Who was the guy in the foyer? I saw faces
from class, from the dining hall, the faces of
people walking on the campus. A kid gave me a
beige envelope. My name had been written on it
with a laundry marker. I looked at him. The first
person I had spoken to at the school. Did he
remember me?
(“No, you idiot. He recognized you because
he saw your picture in the Face Book.”)
He and probably others had learned the
names and faces of the people they had invited
to the house. Did they do this to make you feel
welcome? They would say that, smiling, but in
my second mind I thought that they wanted you
to feel something else. My floor advisor was a

432
member here though. I looked through the arch
for his face, but he wasn’t in the foyer.
The kid from my humanities seminar was
saying something that made the guy from the
house laugh. Then they shook hands and the kid
turned around and strolled into the living room.
He was tall and soft looking. I pulled the black
metal screen away from the opening of the
fireplace and flicked cigarette ash into the
hearth. He passed me and I nodded at him,
smiling a little. He smiled a little also, but didn’t
say anything and kept walking towards an older
kid standing in front of a pair of doors with glass
panes that led to a porch at the side of the room.
What should I do now? I threw the rest of
the cigarette into the hearth and put my right
hand into my pants pocket. An older kid walked
past me and stopped in front of someone sitting
on a leather armchair beside the doors to the
porch. The kid stood, shook his hand and they
left the room (going upstairs). Should I take the
kid’s seat? If I took the kid’s seat, it would seem
as if I hadn’t been comfortable standing. I
walked to one of the windows at the front of the
room and looked through it at the protesters
staring in the direction of the house.
If the protesters were drafted would they
fight? Would they be Conscientious Objectors or
go to prison? (Not likely.). Maybe some.
I looked at my watch. I had to go up the
hill, but I couldn’t just leave here without

433
meeting people. What would I do if I had to wait
longer? How much longer could I wait and still
be on time to meet the others?
“Richard Frank?”
I turned and saw a fat kid wearing a pink
tie standing near the entrance.
“Richard Frank?” he repeated.
I walked towards him.
“Hi,” I said and raised my arm to shake his
hand. His grip was weak and his hand was
flabby and damp.
“Hi. Come with me,” he said.
I followed him up two flights of stairs with
dark-wood balustrades to the second floor and
down a corridor between closed varnished wood
doors. Each door had a brass number in italic
typeface attached to it. He stopped beside a
door on the left near the end, opened it and then
stepped backward so that I could enter in front
of him.
Inside, there was a small room with several
chairs and a leather sofa with fat upholstered
arms that were slightly squished. Two people
were in the room, waiting for us.
“Go ahead and sit down,” the fat kid said
behind me.
I walked toward an armchair in the corner
next to the window and sat on it. After a short
pause, I lifted my right leg and rested my calf on
my left knee (be relaxed). The fat kid sat on the
sofa.

434
 “Hi, I’m Roger Tellis,” said a blond guy
sitting on a chair beside the sofa, “and this is
Jonathan Chapman.”
He extended his right arm towards a kid
sitting in the corner of the room opposite me.
Jonathan Chapman smiled a little.
“Nice to meet you,” I said and smiled a
little at him.
I guessed that they thought the fat guy had
already introduced himself.
(“Maybe he doesn’t have a name.”)
I smiled at him but his face didn’t change
and I quickly looked back at Roger Tellis.
There was a short silence.
“How’s school going?” he asked me.
“Fine,” I said. “It’s good.”
That was probably true because my first
semester grades had actually been okay. Did
they care about that? Was there anything else I
should say? No, they would ask questions. What
would they ask me?
More silence. I slid my butt sidewise on
the seat.
“What courses have you been taking?”
Again it was Roger Tellis who spoke.
“Oh, I had the Freshman Humanities
Seminar and History of Art and I took Clarke’s
history course.”
“He’s really good isn’t he?” Roger Tellis
said, seeming to mean it.
“I guess.”

435
 Could he actually think that? Was he
telling me that he understood those books?
Maybe he’s never taken a Clarke course and is
just saying what someone else told him.
Silence. They stared at me.
“Are you thinking of majoring in history?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure. I guess I
could.”
This was not what I had expected. What
did they want?
“Any interest in political science?”
The door opened and three more people
came into the room. I looked at them. Two sat
on the remaining empty chairs and one sat on
the sofa next to the pink-tie kid. They didn’t
speak, so I looked back at Roger Tellis, who was
smiling a little.
“Have you ever had Clarke,” I asked him.
Why did I ask him that? He said he thought
Clarke is good. It sounds as if I’m accusing him
of pretending to know what Clarke is like. That
was really stupid. I had better wake up.
“Of course,” he said.
Did he think that there was anything wrong
with my question?
More silence.
The door opened again and another two
people walked into the room. One sat on the arm
of the sofa closest to the door and the other
stood next to him.
“This is Hubey Harte, one of our Rush

436
Chairmen,” Roger Tellis said, looking at the
person on the arm of the sofa [who was very
casual].
“Hi,” I said.
He nodded. I waited for him to ask me a
question, but he didn’t say anything. So who was
the other guy? His bodyguard?
My brain began to feel numb. Should I
smoke a cigarette? Nobody else was smoking so
I decided not to. I uncrossed my legs and then
crossed them again.
Everyone stared at me silently: an
audience. How many people were in the room
now? I looked at each face, counting in my mind:
eight. They sent eight people into the room to
meet me and none of them was saying anything?
They sent eight people into the room to stare at
me? This thought made me grin. I grinned at
Hubey Harte, but he didn’t seem to notice that
something was funny. I grinned at the others,
but none of them smiled, not even Roger Tellis.
They just stared at me.
(“What the hell are they waiting for? Do
they want me to do a magic trick?”)
(“Ask a question you idiot.”)
“Are there enough of you left to talk to the
other people?” I said.
“Oh sure,” said Hubey Harte, “there’re
enough.”
His expression didn’t change.
He looked at Roger Tellis who looked at him

437
but didn’t speak.
This was bad (boring), a moment of nothing
that could fill forever. I looked at my watch, a
mistake, but it wouldn’t make a difference. (Glad
they saw me do it.) I still had enough time to get
to the top of the hill.
Hubey Harte said, “Thanks for coming,” (as
if I had given him a signal) and left the room with
his bodyguard.
Then the fat kid left the room without
saying anything.
“Do you have any questions?” Roger Tellis
asked me.
“No. It’s okay.” (“Fuck you all.”)
“Well, I guess we’re done then. Thanks for
coming,” he said, and he stood and walked
towards the door without saying anything else or
shaking my hand. The others followed him.
“You know how to get downstairs, right?”
Jonathan Chapman said. “I can show you the
way out?”
“That’s okay,” I said, “I can find it. Thanks.”
The numbness in my head had gone away.
(Get out of here.)
“Okay he said.”
“Bye,” I said. (“Glad to know that you can
talk, you asshole.”)
I didn’t see any of them in the corridor.
Possibly, they were behind me. I walked quickly
toward the stairs and down to the first floor.
Before reaching the foyer, I slowed my steps, not

438
wanting to look as if I were hurrying, wanting to
look relaxed. There were still people standing
near the front door, although the kid who knew
my name wasn’t there, which was good. I smiled
at a Freshman walking into the house and went
past him, across the portico, down one flight of
stairs and then the other with my hands in my
pockets. (Casual.)
It had been bad. (They thought I was
nothing.) Why? Why had they invited me if they
thought I was nothing? Had they invited me
because they thought I would be fun to look at?
(“So what? Who cares? You’re going up the
hill to join with everybody else. That’s what you
said you’d do.”)
The protesters were gone. The world felt
normal again.
After walking across the Green, I stopped
to light a cigarette and looked at my watch:
there was enough time even though I felt as if I
had been in that place forever.
What had they wanted? What had
happened?
“Who cares? They can fuck themselves.”
I walked up the hill beside the giant hedge.
(“I hope nobody heard that.”)
I laughed.
We would join together.
My Father had brought me there once many
years before. We had stayed in a small house
and played catch in the front yard. The yard was

439
surrounded by a white fence. There were orange
and yellow leaves on the grass and blowing
through the air around us.
“The summer is over,” he said.
We had walked up the hill together, a very
long walk.
“I wonder if it’s changed?” he said.
An enormously tall pine tree grew on each
side of the steps leading to the front door.
“These trees were only about fifteen feet
high when I was here. I have a picture
somewhere.”
Four motorcycles were parked in the living
room. I wanted to stay, but my Father thought
that we should leave.



The basement was crowded with sweaty

people dancing to jukebox music. You didn’t
have to put money in the jukebox: you could just
pick songs and they would play. People mostly
picked soul music. I hadn’t heard these songs
very often before. They were different from the
music that I listened to, but I thought they were
okay. Everyone in the House liked them; the
dancers and the people sitting at the bar in the
small room through the doorway sometimes sang
along with them. The house didn’t have any
black members, though. There weren’t many
black students and they didn’t join fraternities.

440
Why? (They felt apart.)
I looked up and saw Julian walking towards
me. Because we both had been in Thompson’s
history class, I said hello (wanting to show that
we were all students together and the same).
Were we all the same? Julian was smart.
When he spoke I understood that he expected
you to notice this. He didn’t act like black
people in the city; he was more like a preppie
who studied.
Would he be friendly (because I really
didn’t know him)? Would he think that I was
using him to show that I wasn’t prejudiced
against black people?
He stopped walking. His face was usually
smooth, but today he was frowning as if he were
concentrating on some bad thought.
“How’re you doin?” I asked him.
“Okay,” he said.
“Where’re you goin? Are you goin to eat?”
Maybe we could eat lunch together.
“I just ate at the President’s house.”
“The President’s house?”
“Yeah.”
“Really? That’s amazing. What were you
doing there?”
Were other students being invited to the
President’s house? (Would I be invited?)
“They invited me so they could show some
rich people how open-minded they are, and that
it’s okay because they have presentable negroes

441
here.”
I stared at him. Had he really said that?
Said sit to me? What should I do?
After a pause I said, “It’s important,
though, to be asked to help the President,” and
wondered if there were something else I could
say also.
“Maybe. That’s why I went. I don’t know.”
“Well it is important, and it’s important that
you helped him.” (?)
“That’s why I went.”
He looked at his feet.
“Were they nice anyway?”
“Nice?”
“Yeah. I mean were they nice to you?”
Was it okay to ask that?
“Were they nice to me? They were using
me. And then this woman said that it was too
hot, and that she was suffering because of the
heat, but I wouldn’t understand because, ‘you
people don’t feel the heat the way we do’.”
“Wait a minute. She said you people
meaning you?”
I almost shouted, because how could
someone be that stupid? That…what?
“Yeah. Me.”
“I mean just like that? To you?”
“Yeah, like that.”
“Oh. That’s really bad.”
(Should I apologize?)
“Yeah. Next time I’m not going.”

442
 “Yeah. That’s really bad.”
Would there be another time? How could
he not go?
“Well, I gotta study. I’ll see you later.”
“Frankie.”
He walked past me towards the library. Did
the President hear what she had said?
“Hey Frankie. Wake up.”
I turned my head. It was Styles.
“Frankie are you drunk?” he asked me,
sounding as if he thought I was.
“No,” I said, “I’ve only had one beer.”
“You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I was just watching them dance.”
“Well you better be careful or you’ll fall off
that stool.”
He laughed.
“You’ve only had one beer?” the guy behind
the bar asked me. “You haven’t even gotten
started. Here, join us.”
He smiled slightly as he slid off his stool,
filled another large wax-paper cup from the tap
and put it on the bar in front of me.
Join us: a joke? He had a pale serious face
and he wore glasses with thick black frames.
“Thanks,” I said and sipped some of the
cold beer.
The beer from the tap was covered with
creamy foam and tasted better than beer from a
can. It was good, but it made me sleepy.
Alcohol always made me sleepy.

443
 After giving me the beer, he sat on the stool
again, leaned calmly against the wall and gazed
at the ceiling over the stairs, sipping from his
own cup. He was Martello. He treated us as
friends even though we had only recently met
him; they all treated us as friends.
“Styles, where’s your beer?” I said, wanting
to show that I wasn’t the only one drinking
slowly.
“I’ve got some,” Styles said, showing me his
cup. “I don’t drink the way these guys do and
you sure can’t either.”
“I’m okay,” I said, (I’m just like them) and
sipped more beer, although my brain already felt
numb.
“Where’s Dods?” I asked him.
“He’s upstairs losing money he doesn’t
have playing poker,” he said.
“Oh.”
They sat around an oak table in the library
and played poker with dollar bills instead of
chips. Where did they get enough money to play
poker with dollar bills? Could I do that?
I pulled a cigarette out of the package in
my shirt pocket.
“Do you have a match?” I asked Martello.
“Sure.”
He stood and handed me a pack of matches
from the counter behind the bar.
“Got another cigarette?” he asked me.
“Sure,” I said, and gave him one.

444
 I lit my own cigarette and then leaned over
the bar to light his from the same match before I
dropped it on the floor, which was okay to do.
“Hey Marty,” someone standing behind me
said, “you have a beer?”
Martello filled another cup and handed it
across the bar to a tall skinny guy who had one
arm around the waist of a girl wearing tight blue
jeans and a shirt with a ruffled front. Her
breasts lifted the shirt noticeably near my arm. I
looked at her face (to see if she knew that my
left arm was nearly rubbing her breast). My
second mind thought that she was like Ann in
some way. Maybe she was older than the other
girls. She had thick wavy hair that touched the
tops of her shoulders. The guy gave the cup to
the girl who took a drink from it.
“Thanks, but I need two, asshole,” he said.
I stood and slid my stool away from her so
that the guy could reach between us and get the
second beer more easily. (So that I wouldn’t
touch her body.) Instead of sitting on the stool
again, I leaned against the bar (better to let the
girl have the stool) and looked at her face
without turning my head. Would anyone notice
me doing this? I had the idea that she seemed
separate from what was happening around her.
Being here meant something different to her
than it did to us.
It was too crowded in the small barroom. I
picked up my beer cup and walked through the

445
doorway and across the dance floor to the
jukebox. It was playing another soul song. A lot
of the dancing couples pressed against each
other: the girls had their arms around the guy’s
necks and the guys had their arms around the
girl’s waists. One guy had his hands on his
girlfriend’s butt. A few of the dancers sang: “…
made me love you…oh…now you’re gone.”
The girls were all different sizes and
combinations of shapes. I watched the butt of a
girl dancing with a guy near the door to the
barroom. She was wearing a short skirt and had
good legs with lean thighs. Why was that shape
so good? Her butt swayed back and forth as she
danced, slowly back and forth. As I watched, I
had an empty feeling that was familiar and like a
disease. This sick feeling wasn’t just because of
her was it? No, it was because of her but it was
more because of seeing them together. They
turned as they danced so that now I was looking
at her profile. I stepped backwards until I was
standing against the wall beside the jukebox
away from the bright light that shone out its
front. They didn’t notice me though; they were
looking at each other and singing softly. How
had he met her?
The cigarette was done; I dropped it and
walked around the jukebox to the door of a small
bathroom. The bathroom was empty and I went
inside, locked the door and pulled down my pants
so that I could piss. I never just opened my fly to

446
piss. People had written graffiti messages over
the toilet. One was: Never underestimate a good
shit or a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Who would
shit on a toilet three feet from a room filled with
dancing people (girls)? You opened the door and
a foul cloud followed you out of the bathroom
while people watched and breathed your stink.
Another was: The more things change, the more
they remain the same. Was that true?
When I was done, I walked back to the
barroom past the girl with the lean legs who still
swayed to the slow beat of the music, embraced
by her boyfriend.
(“That’s just the way it is. Forget it.”)
Styles wasn’t in the barroom anymore. The
tall skinny kid and his girlfriend also had left
(gone to his room). Instead, a guy with a square
friendly face and short black hair that was either
very wavy or almost curly was sitting on the
stool near where the girl had been standing.
“Where’s the Little One?” I heard Martello
ask him.
“She’s not here. I had to finish a paper,” the
guy answered.
“Which one is this one?”
“Race and the Progressive Era.”
“Again?” Martello asked him.
The guy laughed.
“Well, it’s a bit different this time, but I’ll
grant you I’ve written about the Progressives
before,” he said and laughed more. He picked at

447
the end of his cigarette with his thumbnail. “But
there’s actually a lot to say about them.”
Martello laughed with him and then looked
at me.
“Don’t you need another beer yet? Here,
give me that cup,” he said, reaching across the
bar to take my beer cup.
“No. It’s okay,” I said stepping slightly
backward. “I’ve got enough.”
“Mick, get that cup from him and I’ll pour
him a fresh one.”
“No. Really. That’s okay,” I said to the guy.
“Well, okay,” he said, “but that looks old.”
He cleared his throat. “If you’re going to drink,
you might as well drink good beer.”
He smiled and stared at my face, waiting.
I looked at the cup in my hand and then
gave it to him.
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
Martello took it and threw it into a steel
trash barrel and then filled a new one from the
tap and gave it back to the guy who gave it to
me.
“Thanks,” I said, this time to both of them,
and drank more beer (even though it made my
insides feel as if they were going to explode).
Never underestimate.
I wanted to say something else to Mick so I
asked, “What about the Progressives?”
I had read about the Progressives in high
school. Who were they? I should know.

448
 “About a Muckraker named Baker who was
one of the first people to examine race relations
after the Civil War. Are you interested in
history?”
“I guess I like fiction better.”
I didn’t want to say no. (Was it right to
contrast history and fiction?)
“I mean reading fiction better than reading
history.”
“Why?” he asked me.
“Well. Why?”
His question surprised me. Did I know the
reason?.
“I guess because I like the way fiction
gives you the experience of something different,
a different reality, that is. I mean, it’s not just a
lot of facts about something.”
“History isn’t just facts. History is an
attempt to understand something that happened
and why,” he answered. “It’s not only a narration
of events.”
Obviously he was right (idiot), but still it
didn’t mean that there wasn’t a big difference
between your perception of fiction writing and
your perception of history writing.
“Yeah, but fiction portrays the feelings and
the motives of people,” I said. That was true.
“Historians can’t know that.”
“I don’t know,” he said, “history definitely
looks at people’s attitudes and is very concerned
with why things happen.”

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 He spoke with seriousness but without
worry.
“But it can’t create the actual reality of
what happened. It’s just a guess. It’s just
someone’s opinion. And there are gaps,” I said.
(“Make it clear, you idiot.”)
“No, often that’s the argument: what was
the reality.”
“Huh?”
“Historians want to explain reality and then
interpret it. They do describe or attempt to
describe reality whereas the ‘reality’ of fiction is
invented.”
Somehow he seemed to have changed the
subject, or what we were discussing had
changed.
He drank beer, lit another cigarette and
cleared his throat. I pulled out one of my own
cigarettes and passed the pack to Martello who
handed me the matches. I drank more beer.
“It’s invented, but not unreal,” I said. “It’s
not unreal because the things in the book could
have happened or may actually have happened.
And because the author is creating the story, he
can show the motivation and behavior of the
characters in a way that allows him to make
statements about the real world, about real
people because we are like his characters.
There’s a subtext.”
“Well I don’t think that historians have to
invent behavior in order to explain it or make a

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statement about the real world,” he answered
and smiled.
“No. I mean when you read fiction you can
feel something different, you can experience a
different world, not just think about it. You can
feel it.”
“Thought versus feeling? If you really want
to know the truth, the best way is to study what
people do, isn’t it?”
“Then how do you know how to put what
they do together to make the story?” I asked him.
“It’s all assumptions or conjecture.”
“Because the things they do are related in
ways that become clear, hopefully, when you
study them,” he said and drank more beer.
“No. You’re saying that the truth, a true
story, is a story that’s made up from facts? That
there’s no other way to know the truth?”
He laughed again.
“Well, reconstructed from facts. Not
necessarily made up,” he said. “That’s the best
way.”
“Well, that’s what I think too, but I think it’s
made up and I have a different concept of facts.”
We both laughed.



There was a little park in front of one of the

flat office-tower facades that enclosed the
avenue: a rectangle of grass, several trees and

451
some bushes. The park was surrounded by gray
stone blocks that made a low fence, easy to step
over, placed to tell pedestrians not to walk on
the grass. Two hippies sat under one of the
trees, a girl and a guy, sharing a cigarette. A
worn olive-green canvas backpack lay on the
ground between them. Someone (the guy?) had
painted a white piece sign on it.
The image of them sitting there stayed in
my mind as I continued walking: long hair held
off their faces by colorful kerchiefs tied around
their foreheads.
(“Why can’t she leave me alone about my
hair?”)
Round steel-rimmed sunglasses. Beads.
Tie-dyed shirts and torn jeans.
Where did they live? Was all their stuff in
the pack, everything they owned?
(“My hair isn’t very long, it just isn’t short.”)
What did they do all day? What would they
do in the future?
Sandals.
I liked the guy’s sandals and his
sunglasses. I wanted sandals like that but they
were expensive.
“What do you want sandals for?” she said.
I had no answer.
I walked faster than the other people on
the sidewalk, squeezing past them and, as I did, I
looked at their faces, but their faces told me
nothing.

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 “That long hair like your friend Matt’s looks
dirty.” [Matt is dirty.] “I don’t want you walking
around like that. What if someone sees you?”
(“Someone sees me? I am seen?”)
What she means is, “what if someone I
know sees you?” If someone she knows sees me
with long hair, they may say bad things about me
(her, which is what she would do).
I began to feel the heat of the sun (and the
sidewalk, and the asphalt and my movement). I
didn’t want to sweat and I thought about not
sweating (which doesn’t make any difference),
and I walked more slowly.
I should shave my head.
“I was thinking of getting a Mohawk.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A Mohawk haircut. You know, a ridge of
hair down the middle of your head and the rest
shaved off.”
“That’s just the kind of thing you would do.
Don’t you dare.”
“You don’t think it would look good? It
would be real short, at least on the sides.”
“What do you think? You have to make a
joke out of everything.”
There was cool, air-conditioned air in the
lobby of the office building. I tried to relax
inside my clothes while I waited in front of a long
row of elevators, watching the numbers over the
doors that told you which ones were close to the
lobby. A big slot machine. As I watched, I moved

453
sideways along the row to get closer to the one I
thought would arrive first. Other people did this
too. You had to move carefully, though, so that
you didn’t seem too pushy.
Inside the elevator, people stood with arms
and shoulders touching, but not speaking.
Something must have poked a person next to me,
making him turn and glare in my direction,
otherwise the riders stared at the nothing in
front of them.
I got off on the 37th floor, entered the office
through large double doors at the end of the
vestibule and walked past the receptionist and
down the corridor to an area near its end where I
had been assigned an old green metal desk with
a gray Formica top. Mr. Jones was already
sitting at his green metal desk on the other side
of the low partition to my right.
Mr. Jones never said anything unless he
had to speak to Jerry, who was our boss. Other
people rarely said anything to him. He stared at
the top of his desk and moved pieces of paper
from one stack to another. I had no idea why he
did this, except that it was his job. Sometimes, I
stopped what I was doing and watched him: the
white wrinkled skin on the backs of his hands,
which shook slightly as he lifted a sheet of paper
towards his face so that he could read it, his
dark suit, his very white hair. At noon, he would
stop moving pieces of paper and take his lunch
out of a brown paper bag that he had put in a

454
desk drawer when he arrived at the office. Every
day he ate one sandwich and an apple or an
orange. (What kind of sandwich?)
I had my own paper. My most important
job, my only real job, was to read the Rent
Reports and underline the names of tenants who
hadn’t paid their rent. Before I was allowed to do
this, Jerry spoke to me in his office with the door
closed. He showed me a Rent Report and asked
me:
“Do you think you can read these reports
and underline the tenants who haven’t paid their
rent?”
It obviously embarrassed him to ask me
this question. At the same time, he seemed
serious, as if he were doing something
necessary. Was he embarrassed because it was
such a stupid question…
(“Gee Jerry, I don’t know. Read all those
words and figure out who hasn’t paid rent, which
is shown with a zero in the right column?”)
…or was he embarrassed because he was
implying seriously that I might not be able to do
it? Maybe he just thought that I was so sloppy
that I couldn’t do the job without making
mistakes.
“Yeah, I think I can do that,” I said, smiling
a little.
I didn’t want to be rude to Jerry. I liked
Jerry. He was a young guy and he was friendly.
He wanted to be Vice-President of the company,

455
so he never stopped working. The stacks of
paper on his desk were the biggest ones in the
office. Twice I had looked through the open door
of the President’s office; there wasn’t any paper
on his desk, nothing but a telephone with several
rows of buttons, some pictures, a fancy clock,
and two gold pens in holders attached to a shiny
piece of dark wood. I never saw the President.
There was a telephone on my desk too and
it had a row of buttons on its base, but not nearly
as many buttons as the President had on his
phone or Jerry had on his. I liked having a phone
with buttons on it, even though I never needed to
call anyone. Occasionally Jerry called me and
one of the buttons would light up:
“Have you finished the Rent Report for
666?”
The night before, I had left a Rent Report
on the middle of the gray Formica desktop. I had
turned it slightly clockwise so that it looked as if
I had put it there casually, and I had left a ruler
and a pencil side-by-side at different angles on
top of the report. Did it seem as if I were doing
real work?
I opened the report and laid the ruler
across the first line. I had already reviewed this
page and part of the next, drawing an arrow to
mark the place where I had stopped, but I
wanted to be sure that I didn’t miss a line, and it
made me feel more relaxed to begin at the
beginning. In my second mind I knew this was

456
stupid, but I did it anyway.
People walked back and forth behind me.
They talked quietly and exchanged stacks of
paper. I heard Jerry answer his phone by saying,
“Yes sir!” I looked at the clock on the wall at the
end of the corridor: the time had hardly changed.
The minute hand, which moved so fast on other
clocks, seemed stuck between four and five. I
stared. Nothing happened.
Then my phone rang with a noise that made
me flinch. I turned quickly to pick up the
receiver before it rang again.
“Hello.”
Did my voice shake? (As if I were guilty of
doing some bad thing?)
“Have you finished the Rent Report?”
“Almost. I’ll be done in two minutes.”
“Okay. Then, bring it in here.”
“Okay… Bye.”
Was I too slow?
My shoulder muscles tightened and I
concentrated my attention on the last pages of
the report. It didn’t take me long to finish – I
could have reviewed all the reports that Jerry
gave me each week in less than one day.
I stood and brought the report into Jerry’s
office.
“Thanks,” he said and smiled. “Do me a
favor. Take this document and make one copy.
Can you do that?”
He handed me a stack of paper.

457
 “Sure,” I said and smiled too.
“You have to be careful not to skip any
pages or get it out of order.”
“Don’t worry,” I said.
“Okay. Go do it and then bring it back to
me and be careful to keep everything in order.”
I left Jerry’s office with the document.
When I returned, would he check to see that all
the pages had been copied and were in order?
(“Wow. Will I be able to keep all the pages
in order? I don’t know. It’s a complicated job.”)
One of the secretaries was using the
copying machine. Her waist made a thick bulge
under her sweater. I stood behind her and stared
at the bulge while I waited for her to finish. The
copy paper smelled like solvent. Was it solvent?
(What was solvent?) Would that be bad? The
solvent smell mixed with a perfume smell and a
BO smell: her sweater. I stepped backward and
breathed through my mouth, eating BO and
chemical vapor until she was done. She didn’t
look at me as she walked back to her desk.
Should I start copying sheets of paper from
the top or the bottom of the stack? Which was
the right way? If I copied sheets from the top of
the stack, as I finished each page, I would have
to put the copies and the originals in piles face-
down to keep them in order. I looked at the top
page. A “1” was typed on the lower-right corner.
I slid it sideways and saw a “2” typed on the
lower-right corner of the next page. I could

458
watch the numbers to be sure that I didn’t miss a
page.
I lifted the cover off the glass top of the
machine and picked up page “1,” but then
stopped moving. For a few seconds, I held the
sheet of paper dangling in the air over the
machine (looking like a pantomime idiot) while I
had the thought that if, instead, I began copying
pages from the bottom of the stack, I could put
the copies and the originals in piles beside each
other face-up. I would still be able to look at the
numbers to see if I had missed a page and also I
would know that the copy and the original
matched because they looked the same.
I put page “1” back on the pile, flipped the
pile over and began copying pages from the
bottom. In my second mind I thought that it was
weird to turn pages in this order, an idea that
briefly made my hands clumsy, and I struggled to
balance what had become three stacks of paper
on the rim of the machine.
What if someone came and demanded to
use the machine instead of me? I looked over
my shoulder quickly to see if anyone was
walking towards me and then turned my head
back with a jerk because I felt one of the piles
start to slide onto the floor. I began to sweat.
(“Job too tough for you? Now you know
why the secretary has BO.”)
Finally, I finished. I picked up the stack of
originals and tapped first one edge of the stack

459
and then the other on the glass top of the
machine to make the pile into an even rectangle.
Then I did the same with the copies, but they
were sticky; the pages wouldn’t slide over each
other, and I almost dropped them on the floor.
“Fucking A.”
Without looking to see if anyone had heard
me, I picked up the two piles and walked quickly
back to Jerry’s office. Would he notice that I
was sweating?
“Thanks,” he said. “Are they in order? Did
you copy all the pages?”
“Yeah, don’t worry,” I said.
“You didn’t read any of it did you?”
“No. Well the page numbers. But just that.”
(?)
“Because these are confidential. I should
have told you. You can’t read any of it.”
I made my face look slightly dopey and
surprised, which seemed to satisfy him.
He looked at the piles of paper on top of his
desk and I knew that he was irritated by
something.
“I don’t have anything else to give you right
now.”
“That’s okay.”
“Wait. Here, take these documents and
make sure that they’re the same.”
He handed me two more stacks of paper.
“And don’t read any of it.”
“Thanks. I won’t.”

460
 “I mean it.”
“Okay. I understand. Honestly.”
(“How the fuck can I tell if they’re the same
if I don’t read them?”)
(“Look at the page numbers, you idiot.
There’re always page numbers.”)
Was looking at the page numbers a certain
way to prove that the pages were the same? Not
really.
I walked back to my desk.
(“Wow. Now that you know how to compare
two pieces of paper – without reading them – you
have a new job. You’ve only been working here
three weeks and you’ve already been
promoted!”)
I laughed. Mr. Jones raised his head and
looked over the partition at me but he didn’t say
anything.
I put the two stacks of paper face-down on
my desk and began flipping over the sheets and
laying them face-up next to each other and below
the originals, comparing what I saw.
(“Well, Jerry, there aren’t any page
numbers, so what the fuck do you think I should
do?”)
“Seller shall…”
“Seller shall…”
I flipped over two more pages:
“…insurance policy… Buyer agrees…”
“…policy… Buyer …”
(“Fucking A. What’s he worried that I will

461
see?)
“…documents… Tax… Mortgage…”
“…Tax … Mortgage…”
“Purchaser… Seller…”
“Purchaser… Seller…”
(“The names of the people making the
deal.”)
Who was selling and who was buying. What
was being bought and sold. He thought that I
might tell someone. Again I laughed, but this
time more quietly, glancing over the partition at
Mr. Jones.
Mr. Jones didn’t hear me, or if he heard me,
he didn’t care about what was making me laugh.
He was taking his lunch out of his desk drawer.
There was no need to look at the clock: it
was exactly noon and time to eat. Quickly I
stood, patted the inside pocket of my jacket to
be sure that I had my wallet (which was stupid
because there was no reason why it wouldn’t be
there), and started to walk towards the office
entrance. After making only a few steps, though,
I stopped, turned around and went back to the
desk. The writing on the top pages of the
document was visible to anyone who passed. I
turned the stacks over and then left the office,
free for an hour.
An empty elevator arrived at the vestibule
before I even had a chance to push the down
button (why?), which was good: I wanted to get
to the restaurant quickly so that I might find a

462
seat without having to wait.
I stepped into the elevator, pressed the
button for the lobby, walked to the back…
(“Move to da rear a da bus”)
…and turned to face the door. It closed
and, as it did, I told myself to relax because, no
matter how quickly I wanted to get out of the
building, the elevator would make a lot of stops
before it reached the lobby. Everyone in the
building would be hurrying to get to some lunch
place before all the tables were taken. The
elevator began to drop down the shaft; my
shoulder muscles got tighter and still tighter as I
waited for it to stop because it definitely would,
but it didn’t until it reached the lobby. I laughed.
There was a small store in the lobby that
sold candy, soda, magazines and junk that
people might want while they were at work, like
nail clippers (and deodorant?). I took a
newspaper off a rack next to the cashier, an old
guy in dirty pee-stained pants, paid him and then
walked quickly to the street.
Outside, I turned left and hurried to the
corner. As I walked, the heat in the pavement
began to seep through the soles of my shoes (hot
sand). At the corner, I turned left a second time
and walked almost another block to the
restaurant where I ate lunch every day. Again, I
was lucky: a waitress immediately took me to a
little table against a wall in the back of the room.
I wouldn’t have to wait and I wouldn’t have to sit

463
at the counter where there was no room to open
a newspaper.
The waitress wore a tight black dress and a
white apron with a lace border. I had seen her
every day for about two weeks but she didn’t
seem to recognize me and I didn’t smile at her.
She dropped a menu on the table and asked me
what I wanted to drink. I told her Coke and a
burger deluxe, medium-rare, and handed the
menu back to her. I ate a medium-rare burger
deluxe every day because burgers and fries were
the lunch foods that filled me up the most and
they were cheap. Anyway, I liked burgers and
fries. She wrote my order on a small pad of
green paper and then walked away. I watched
her butt as she squeezed it past people sitting at
other tables.
While I waited for my food, I pulled the knot
in my tie away from my neck, unbuttoned my
shirt collar - I wasn’t sweating that much, was I?
- and opened the paper. There were stories on
the front page about the riots across the river,
and pictures of soldiers, looters, cops and
burning buildings. There was a picture of a little
kid who was looking over his shoulder at a group
of soldiers walking behind him.
One of the negro kids was watching me. I
looked at him and smiled. Right away, he smiled
a big smile and waved to me.
He held his hands in the air over his head.
The cops had used so many bullets that they

464
needed to borrow more from the police in a
neighboring town (but not a town where there
were riots). Snipers shot at firemen who were
trying to keep the ghetto fires from spreading
into other parts of the city.
The waitress brought my coke. Water had
condensed on the outside of the glass; it was
filled to the top with ice (leaving less room for
Coke). I liked to drink it when it was icy cold.
There was also a story on the front page
about the war. Every day the paper had stories
about the war and these stories always were
mostly the same: descriptions of rocket attacks,
shelling, helicopter crashes, bombing and
burning villages. They told about soldiers stuck
in some unpronounceable place of no apparent
importance or going to another one, and of the
dead and wounded. There were pictures of
soldiers (kids) sitting in mud surrounded by
garbage. They wore wet ragged uniforms that
must once have been the same as the uniforms
worn by the soldiers across the river. Some lay
on the ground with bulky bandages around their
naked chests. They held guns above their heads
and blindly shot over walls. They sat on wooden
crates and ate food out of small containers while
their guns lay across their laps. They smoked
cigarettes and their eyes stared.
Officials said the war would be over soon.
The waitress delivered my food. I put the
paper on the table next to the wall and pulled the

465
plate towards me, rotating it so that the burger
was near my left hand, and I inhaled the warm
meat smell. The lettuce didn’t look bad; there
was one really crisp piece that I picked up,
folded and laid over the burger. The best way to
fix the food was to put the lettuce on the meat
before the ketchup. I was never totally sure
about the tomato, though. It seemed stupid to
put a slice of tomato on a hamburger and then
put tomato ketchup on top of it – redundant.
Sometimes I did that, and sometimes I didn’t, but
I couldn’t figure out which way was right. I liked
eating French fries with ketchup on them too, but
ketchup made French fries very messy to eat
unless you used a fork, and, if you used a fork,
juice and ketchup from the hamburger that was
on your fingers got all over the fork making
everything you touched sticky. I just picked up
the fries with my fingers and used them to
sweep up ketchup that had dripped onto the
plate. I licked my fingers after each bite and
didn’t touch the fork.
The waitress walked past and put the
check on the table and before I even had a
chance to think about anything the food was
gone and it was time to go back to the office. I
sucked the last watery drops of coke through the
straw. Then I wiped my hands with the paper
napkin, put a tip on the table and, leaving the
newspaper, went to the front of the restaurant
and paid the bill. When I got back to the office, I

466
would wash the print stains off my fingers, I
reassured myself.
On the street, I walked slowly and lit a
cigarette. I thought about taking off my jacket
and carrying it, but if I did that, my wallet or
cigarettes might fall out of the pockets. I might
not notice and lose my wallet. Also, I might get
newsprint on the jacket. Besides, carrying my
jacket would make my arm really hot and sweaty
– I had done it.
Would I be sent to the war? They didn’t
send college kids, only kids from towns and
ghettos. What would happen, though, after I
graduated?
I would graduate in a few years, but a year
was a long time. I didn’t have to worry about
that now.
I looked at my watch. There were still 15
minutes before the end of the lunch hour so I
decided to cross the avenue and walk around the
block.
What would happen after I graduated? I
would have to find some kind of job, and then
they could draft me.
(“You can go to graduate school.”)
That didn’t seem likely; go to graduate
school and do what?
(“Avoid the draft.”)
I looked in the window of a store that sold
purses. They were made of smooth, flawless
leather of different dark colors that glowed in the

467
sunlight. I stopped and stared at the side of one
of the bags and felt as if a hand might sink into
its deep red surface. Were the clasps made of
real gold?
What kind of graduate school? Would a
graduate school accept someone like me? I
would need to do something when I finished
college.
I would need to earn money.
I passed a store that sold jewelry: thick
gold necklaces and bracelets studded with
gems. They lay on cushions encased in black
velvet and were illuminated by spotlights. The
window glass appeared to be several inches
thick. A rioter wouldn’t be able to break one of
these windows with a chair or even a brick.
Why didn’t the rioters come here instead of
looting stores in their own neighborhoods? They
definitely didn’t have really valuable stuff like
this in the ghetto, just things that people needed.
The loud sound of a siren reverberated in
the spaces between the buildings, and I could
see a crowd filling the street, rioters running
towards me, climbing over parked cars and
smashing their windshields with baseball bats.
They set fire to the trash in the garbage cans on
the sidewalk. Some of the rioters were pushing
supermarket shopping carts filled with groceries
and other things: fur coats, purses, golf clubs.
Office workers and shoppers screamed and ran
away from them towards the avenue or into the

468
buildings on either side of the street.
A man standing next to me had a sledge
hammer that he began to swing at the jewelry-
store window.
“Move over, kid,” he said.
I stepped sideways and watched him pound
the window glass. An alarm bell began to clang
loudly. I heard more sirens.
One fire engine and then another sped past
the street corner. Firemen looked out the truck
windows at the people on the sidewalk (superior
stares).
I lit another cigarette. In a few minutes I
was back in the lobby of the office tower and
then back in the office on the 37th floor.
Before going to my desk, I went into the
men’s room and washed my hands. After drying
them, I used the damp paper towel to wipe my
face: my forehead and then around my mouth. I
looked at the mirror and inspected my skin: were
there any new zits? My second mind knew that
this was pointless because there were or would
be soon, but I did it anyway. It was cool and
quiet in the empty bathroom. I buttoned my shirt
collar and slid the knot in my tie back against my
neck.
The two stacks of paper were where I had
left them on top of my desk; they didn’t seem to
have been moved and so probably nobody had
seen their contents. I turned them over and
resumed comparing the pages. What if the same

469
page were missing from each pile because it had
been lost before the document was copied? I
couldn’t know that something was missing
without reading what I was comparing, so that
would be Jerry’s problem, not mine. Would I be
blamed?
How would I make money after I finished
college? Where would I live?
(“You’ll probably live (die) in the jungle.”)
Sleep in the dirt and kill people who were
trying to kill me? I didn’t like that idea. Was I
chicken? Was I not patriotic?
I checked the document as slowly as I
thought was possible without looking as if I were
reading it, but before much time had passed, I
was done. When I took it into Jerry’s office, he
gave me a Rent Report to review. He only said,
“here’s another one,” and continued working on
something, so I didn’t get to talk to him.
Slowly, I slid the ruler from line to line,
making an “X” next to the names of the (few)
tenants who hadn’t paid their rent, and, as I did
this, I thought about what the President might be
doing. I thought that maybe he didn’t come to
the office because he was somewhere buying
and selling buildings.
He was sitting in a leather armchair in a
quiet wood-paneled library, sipping coffee. The
chair had fat padded arms. He wore a charcoal-
gray suit, a white shirt and a dark-red tie. A
thick gold cufflink that fastened the soft cuff of

470
his shirt at his wrist was visible as he lifted his
coffee cup to his lips.
Two other men sat facing him. One smoked
a cigarette while the other, a very fat man, read
a document. The man who smoked held his
cigarette in the air between the tips of his first
two fingers. His other fingers were spread apart
and bent away from the palm of his hand. The
fat man wore glasses with half-moon shaped
lenses in gold frames.
The President smiled. His cheeks were
smooth, unblemished. His short gray-streaked
hair had been cut very recently.
“Two million is a good price,” he said.
The smoking man looked at him, but didn’t
answer. His face said nothing.
Finally, the clock hands reached five and
twelve: the work day was done and I could leave
the office.
On the way to the bus stop, I looked again
in the window of the jewelry store. It was
unbroken and the jewelry was still there. They
were definitely rioting in the wrong
neighborhoods – destroying the places where
they lived. Taking food and TVs from local stores
didn’t seem to be really criminal, though, in the
same way that stealing jewelry from a store in
another neighborhood would be.
Several people were already standing at
the bus stop and more arrived soon after I did.
Should I wait or walk? Which would be better:

471
walking home in the heat or riding in a hot can?
There were two buses, one following the other, in
the traffic only a block away, and I moved
casually to the place at the curb where I thought
the second bus would stop. Less than a minute
later, its brakes made a squealing noise, there
was a hissing sound and the door opened a few
steps from where I was waiting. After paying the
fare, I squeezed past people standing in the aisle
and stood next to a pole near an open window at
the back of the bus, hoping to be cooled by a
breeze.
The bus tilted as it moved away from the
curb. I held the pole and swayed, feeling the
wheels rumble over cracks in the asphalt. It
went fast and then slowly and then faster again.
My head rocked and the pole pulled against my
hand, and I relaxed until I was able to balance
with my fingers barely touching the metal. I
swayed and watched the sidewalk move past the
window.
Ann and I walked there, alone in the crowd,
and she talked to me. A summer evening.
Then the bus arrived at the stop near the
apartment; it seemed as if only a few minutes
had passed since I had left the office.
It was cooler on the street, but still I
sweated; when I was back at the apartment, I
would take a shower. (Would that be okay?)
She was in the apartment, dressing; she
met me in the hall.

472
 “Hi,” I said.
“Give me a kiss and zip me up,” she said.
I did and then started to walk towards my
room.
“Where are you going? Don’t you say
hello?”
“I said hello. I’m going to take a shower.”
“Why do you want to do that? I’m meeting
your Father and Aunt Joan and the Berkowitzes
for a bite at Jimmy’s and then we’re going to an
early movie. Come and have dinner with us –
there’s nothing here.”
“Okay, but just let me take a shower first.
I’m sweaty.”
“There isn’t time. You look fine. Come on,
we have to go if we don’t want to be late.”
She walked towards her room.
“But I just got here. Can’t I just take a
quick shower? I’m sweaty.”
“You look fine! Don’t be so fussy all the
time! Come on, they’re waiting for us.”
She went into her room and came out a
moment later with her purse.
We took a cab to Jimmy’s. I sat next to the
partly open window and felt grime in the air blow
against my face. I would get (more) zits. Did I
look dirty?
“Close that window so my hair doesn’t get
messy,” she said.
They were all standing in front of Jimmy’s
when we arrived.

473
 “Look who I found,” Aunt Doris said, and I
said hello and smiled. I looked at my Father and
smiled and he smiled at me and I shook his
(strong) hand. Then I shook hands with Uncle
Phil and Mr. Berkowitz. Aunt Joan kissed my
cheek; she smelled like Grandma Kay, I thought.
Inside the restaurant, Aunt Doris said hello
to Jimmy.
“I hope it’s okay,” she said, “we brought
someone else,” and she looked at me.
He was very young and had thick blonde
hair combed to make a loose pompadour. He
wore a caramel-colored suit and a white silk
shirt. The collar and the first button of the shirt
were unbuttoned: his skin was tan, the visible
part of his chest, hairless. Seeing him made me
feel dirty. He glanced at me, kissed Aunt Doris
on the cheek and said, “That’s fine. I have a nice
table for you right now.”
“Good,” Aunt Doris said, “because we have
to make an early movie.”
“Don’t worry,” Jimmy said, “we’ll get you
there on-time.”
He took a stack of menus from behind a
wooden podium near the entrance and walked
past the long bar towards the tables at the back
of the restaurant. The room was lit by old-
looking new brass light fixtures attached to the
dark wood-paneled walls. There were already a
lot of people sitting at tables, drinking and
talking and eating. We followed him to a pair of

474
tables beside the wall. He pushed them together
and made a hand gesture to summon a waiter
who was standing beside the kitchen door.
“Carlos, reset this for seven,” he told him.
“Yes Mr. Jimmy,” Carlos said.
A busboy helped Carlos cover both tables
with a single long white tablecloth and rearrange
the dishes, glasses and silverware, all of which
seemed to be done in only a few seconds. The
busboy brought another chair and put it at the
end of the table farthest from the bar. Then,
Carlos pulled the tables away from the wall to
make it easier for some of us to seat ourselves
on the banquette.
While Carlos and the busboy did this, I
waited next to my Father to learn where I should
sit.
“Why don’t you take off your tie and make
yourself comfortable,” Aunt Doris said to me.
“You don’t have to be so formal. Everyone is
casual here.”
My Father stepped forward and stood
behind the middle chair facing the wall, so I went
and stood behind the chair at his right nearer the
bar. I untied my tie, pulled it from under my
collar, folded it carefully twice and slid it into the
left inside pocket of my jacket. Did it make a
bulge? I pressed my hand against my chest to
flatten it. (That won’t work.) I unbuttoned my
shirt collar.
“Come on, everybody,” Aunt Joan said,

475
“let’s sit down.”
She sat on the banquette.
“Who’s sitting at the end?” Aunt Doris
asked. “Phil, why don’t you sit there next to
Joan.”
Uncle Phil sat on the chair at the end of
the table and the others chose seats. Aunt Doris
sat on the banquette beside Aunt Joan, and Mr.
Berkowitz sat facing me (so he could talk to my
Father). Then Carlos slid the tables back
towards the wall and Jimmy handed each of us a
menu. My Father sat and so did I, and I unfolded
the thick white cloth napkin that was under my
fork and laid it on my lap.
“Some business he has here,” Aunt Doris
said. “He must be raking in the money.”
Carlos filled our glasses with water from a
silver pitcher. He poured the water over the side
of the pitcher, allowing a few ice cubes to fall
into each glass. He didn’t spill any water. My
other mind wondered if he could do this because
he had a special kind of pitcher.
“He’s not much older than you are,” Aunt
Joan said to me.
“Is he a fairy?” Mrs. Berkowitz asked.
“Oh no, he’s married,” Aunt Doris said. “He
told me he got married last year.”
“Are you sure? I always thought he was a
fairy,” Mrs. Berkowitz said.
Another waiter arrived and said, “Can I get
you something from the bar?”

476
 Uncle Phil told him, “Gin and tonic.”
Should I ask for an alcohol drink? Would
that be wrong? It probably would be okay to ask
for beer, but not okay to ask for liquor because
that was what adults drank.
“Is it okay if I have a beer?” I asked Aunt
Doris.
“I don’t see why not,” she said.
After the adults had ordered drinks, I asked
the waiter for a beer.
“I hear you have a good job this summer,”
Aunt Joan said to me. “What are you doing?”
She didn’t already know? (If she didn’t
know what I was doing, how did she know that it
was a good job?)
“I’m working for a real-estate company,” I
told her.
“Oh, that must be very interesting,” she
said.
“That’s a wonderful business,” Mrs.
Berkowitz said. “Stick with that and you’ll make
a lot of money.”
“That’s right,” Aunt Doris said. “I think he’s
learning a lot, aren’t you?” she said to me.
“I guess,” I answered.
“Well you must be, aren’t you? We never
had wonderful opportunities like that when I was
young. You should appreciate this chance.
Anyway, it’s good for you to see what it’s like to
get up and go to work every day.”
Aunt Joan looked across the table at Mrs.

477
Berkowitz. “So, Bernice, what’s the news?” she
asked her.
“The news? Well did you hear about
Mildred’s daughter?”
Someone at the bar laughed loudly and
then shrieked.
I turned my head and saw several brown
faces in the doorway. A crowd of dark-skinned
people entered the restaurant and walked past
Jimmy, who stepped backwards towards the
wall. The people at the bar stared at them. A
man and a woman sat at the table next to ours.
The man wore a maroon suit and alligator-skin
shoes that were the same color. His tie had a
pattern of maroon and black squares; a gold pin
attached it to his shirtfront. The woman wore a
tight black velvet dress and white and black
shoes with very high heels. A necklace made of
thick gold cubes rested on the smooth brown
skin above her breasts.
“Get me a gin and tonic, honey,” she said to
Carlos.
She looked at me and smiled. I smiled at
her.
“Sugar, pass me that menu you have if
you’re done,” she said to me.



For desert, I ate cake with chocolate icing

and with it I had sips of cold milk. I ate big bites,

478
cutting pieces of cake with the edge of my fork
so that (almost) each one included some of the
chocolate. While I ate, my mind focused on the
food. After I had finished, I pushed the plate and
the empty milk glass towards the center of the
table.
(“Nobody will know about it. Anyway, there
aren’t any real police on campus just college
police.”)
What would they do if they knew?
(“But they won’t know. Why would they
know?”)
(“Stop thinking about it.”)
I tilted my chair backward onto its rear
legs. For a brief moment, I felt myself falling –
was I falling? – my arms flailing, hands grasping
air, my skull striking the floor, the bone cracking,
but then my shoulders gently touched the wall
behind me and I balanced, as I had intended, on
the rear legs of the chair. Had anyone seen me
flinch?
I lit a cigarette and watched the others at
the table where we always sat in the old dining
room: a large table beside the door to the
serving area.
What would be my reaction? Would I be
safe? My second mind refused to forget.
(“Stop worrying. Just relax. Don’t think
about it.”)
Tomorrow I would work all day, I would read
the rest of the book. This semester I would keep

479
up with the assignments, do a better job [could
I?].
“Foreigner, cards later?” Dods asked.
“Mebe late,” the Foreigner answered.
“Come on,” said Dods, “you can’t win if you
don’t play.”
“I kent do id now, but lader is okay.”
“Why do you play with him?” Styles asked
the Foreigner. “You know he’s only gonna take
your money.”
“Yeah, Foreigner, I’m only gonna take your
money” Dods said and grinned at him, “or maybe
you’ll get some of it back.”
“Well see Dods, you esshole.” The
Foreigner glared at Dods. “Don be so shure
aboud dat. What time you be dere?”
“Eight?”
“Too early.”
“Nine?”
“Nine, I’ll be dere.”
“Foreigner, you don’t learn from
experience.” Styles said.
“Styles, what are you doing tonight?” Dods
asked him.
“I have to work on a paper for Jarrett.”
“Shit,” the Bungler said, “did you see him
when that kid puked out the window? What a
dork.”
“Someone puked out the window during
class?” I asked. “That must have been
interesting.”

480
 “Yeah. He was probably drunk.”
We all laughed.
“He was drunk in class?”
“Well, drunk or hung over,” the Bungler said.
“Or sick, but I doubt it.”
“He was drunk,” Styles said. “He was
sitting slumped over in his chair and then he got
up and almost had to crawl to the window to
vomit.”
We were all laughing.
“And Jarrett, that dork, didn’t know what to
do,” the Bungler said. “He looked at the kid and
he looked at us and he kept talking about
colonial families and women knitting clothes or
something like that and everyone in the room
was kind of laughing at him. Jarrett looked like
he had a turd in his pants.”
“Knitting clothes? He really said knitting
clothes?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Some shit like that. That’s
the way he talks.”
“Fascinating,” Fishy said.
“Frankie, what are you doing tonight?”
Styles asked me.
“Yeah, Frankie. Another big date?” the
Bungler asked.
“Right Bungler,” I said, avoiding his
meaning. “Actually a friend of mine from the City
is coming.”
I leaned forward and stretched my arms
towards the table causing the front chair legs to

481
fall on the floor. Then I crushed the lit stub of my
cigarette against a dinner plate.
“I gotta go,” I said, standing.
“Come up to The House later for a beer,”
Fishy said.
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
I left the dining room and walked across
the corner of the quad. Meet another girl? Then
meet another one? The thought had begun to
make me feel tired.
I looked at her: she was small, graceful,
serious. She looked back at me and in her face I
saw a question. I kissed her: slid my tongue over
the smooth skin of her barely parted lips and
into her mouth. Would she let me do this?
Slowly, I lifted her shirt, stroked the soft curve
of her hip, carefully pushed my fingers behind
the button at the waist of her pants.
She grasped my wrist.
“How do you feel about me?” she asked.
I didn’t try to move. (How did I feel about
her?)
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You know what I mean. How do you feel
about me?”
Her eyes were staring at my eyes.
“I like you,” I said, waiting. “I like you a
lot.”
She rolled away from me.
“Before I met you,” she said “I went out
with Cogan.”

482
 “What? Who’s Cogan?”
“I went out with the theater grad student.”
I had seen the guy. He was older than
most of the regular students; I had thought that
he was an employee. He had sand-colored wavy
shoulder-length hair.
“He forced me. Do you know what I
mean?”
“He what?”
“He forced me.”
I didn’t say anything. She was standing
and tucking her shirttails into her pants. She
didn’t seem to care that I could see her
underwear.
The sound of music came into the
dormitory corridor through the doorway of the
room across from mine. I listened as I pulled my
key out of my pocket.
“He forced me” and that was all? That was
the end? What was she saying?
“You know what I mean.”
Matt probably wouldn’t be here for another
half hour. I unlocked my door, and left it partly
open to show that I was nearby, then I crossed
the hall.
“Is it okay if I come in?” I asked from the
corridor.
“Sure. I’m just cleaning up,” Haynes’ voice
answered.
Haynes, and maybe his roommate too, had
dozens of albums, all classical music. He had

483
multiple recordings of the same music made by
different orchestras or performers.
“What’s that?” I asked him, pointing at his
turntable, a separate thing that sat on the shelf
of the record cabinet beside a large amplifier
with a long row of knobs and buttons.
“Vaughan Williams 6th,” he answered. “In E
minor.”
“Oh,” I said, making my voice pompous,
“not the 6th in E major?”
He laughed. “No,” he said. “I don’t have
that one.”
“Well, it’s a lot happier than this one.”
He laughed more.
“You don’t like it?” he asked.
Did I like it?
“I guess I like some of the other ones
better,” I answered, unsure.
“Hey,” a new voice said.
Matt was standing in the doorway. I looked
at him, possibly for several seconds, before
saying anything. He was wearing a blue and gray
flannel shirt, an old beige suede jacket and light
blue socks that you could see between the
leather bands of his sandals. His hair had grown
so that it touched his shoulders.
“Hi,” I said. “Haynes, I gotta go. Thanks.”
“Okay,” Haynes said, looking at me and
then at Matt and, I was sure, wondering who he
was and what I was doing.
As I walked out of the room, I closed

484
Haynes’ door. Would he notice that I had done
that? Would he suspect something?
“How ya doin man?” Matt said shaking my
hand and hugging me loosely around the
shoulder with his left arm.
“Good,” I said, hugging back. “Let’s go
inside.”
We went into my room. Before I closed the
door, I looked to the right and the left (what
would I do if someone had seen us in the
corridor?), but the corridor was empty of
everything except the quiet sound of Vaughan
Williams coming from Haynes’ room. Carefully,
so that it wouldn’t make a noise, I turned the
handle of the second lock above the knob,
knowing in my other mind that double-locking
the door would make no difference to anyone
who really wanted to open it, then I switched on
the ceiling light.
“How ya doin?” I asked Matt. “Did you bring
it?”
He laughed. “Yeah I brought it. Should we
light up?”
“Right now?”
“Yeah man, right now. Don’t want to waste
time. Improve the flying moments.”
“Well should I do anything first? You’re sure
it’ll be okay?”
“It’ll be okay as long as the cops don’t
come in.”
“But could somebody smell it? What if

485
somebody smells it?”
“Then I guess we’ll be roommates at the
State U.” He grinned. “If they say something.”
He was serious, I thought, but he didn’t
seem afraid.
“I should open the window though, so there
isn’t too much smell.”
I lifted the window several inches. Would
air coming in the window blow the smell through
the gap under the door?
“Maybe I should block the space under the
door?”
“Sure,” Matt said. He sat on the floor and
leaned against the side of my bed.
(Did he think I was chicken or being
stupid?)
I took my towel off the bar on the side of
the armoire, rolled it into a tube and stuffed it
into the narrow gap between the floor and the
bottom of the door. (The floor would make it
dirty.) Could someone in the corridor see the
towel? I pulled it back a little, looked at it and
decided that it was okay.
“Maybe I should turn off the light so that
nobody outside sees it and thinks I’m here?”
I switched off the ceiling light and, instead,
turned on my desk lamp and pointed the bulb at
the wall behind it. I looked around the room: it
was mostly dark.
“Here we go,” Matt said. He was holding a
skinny handmade cigarette with twisted ends.

486
“Do you have a match?”
“Yeah,” I said, and handed him the pack of
matches I was carrying in my pocket. “Are you
sure this is okay?”
I sat on the edge of the bed near him.
He laughed. “Don’t worry. Soon you’ll be
nice and mellow.”
He put the joint in his mouth and lit the tip
with one of the matches, drawing a large lung-
full of weedy-smelling smoke that made his eyes
water. Without exhaling, he handed the joint to
me.
I held it between my thumb and index finger
and stared at it. Would the smoke force my mind
to show me some horrible thing? What could
that be?
Matt blew smoke out of his mouth in a
sudden gush and coughed.
“Smoke that thing or give it here,” he said.
I put the end of the cigarette between my
lips.
“Get it down deep and hold it there.”
I inhaled and held my breath while he took
the joint and had another drag.
I exhaled.
Nothing.
Matt blew out more smoke and gave me the
joint. “Here take a real good toke and hold it in
as long as you can. Like I did.”
I inhaled more deeply. How long could I
hold my breath? I waited while he watched me

487
and then, feeling light-headed, released an
explosion of air from my chest.
“All right,” he said. “Feel that? It’s good
stuff.”
“I don’t feel anything,” I said, coughing.
I examined my thoughts: everything
seemed okay.
Matt had another toke and then handed the
joint to me and I took the largest drag I could
and held my breath until I couldn’t resist the
need to cough.
We passed the joint to each other twice
more; already there was only a short piece left.
“Do you have another one?”
“Take one last drag,” he said.
“Okay. Do you have another one?”
“No. How do you feel?” he asked me.
“Fine. I think we need more.”
He laughed. “It’s enough. How do you
feel?”
“What?”
He laughed.
“Put on some tunes.”
“What? Oh, music. Yeah. I’ll put on some
music.”
I stood and walked across the room. I had
bought a stereo with the money from my summer
job. The turntable was covered by a hinged
plastic lid and it had separate speakers. I
noticed some hazy marks on the lid in places
where I had touched it. The record player and

488
speakers were made of smooth brown wood. I
slid my finger along the edge of the wood next to
the lid.
“What do you want that for?”
“It has great sound.”
“You already have a record player. What a
waste of money.”
“I want a good stereo.”
“Why? Well, it’s your money, if that’s the
way you want to spend it. But if you ask me, it’s
crazy.”
Through the lid, you could see the turntable
and the knobs that adjusted the sound, but the
plastic wasn’t completely clear: it had a gray
tint.
“Hey, put on some music.”
I looked over my shoulder: “Oh yeah,” I said.
There already was a record on the
turntable. I lifted the front of the lid and
switched on the power. The record started to
spin. Lift the lever, raise the tone arm. The
cartridge that held the needle had a turquoise
stripe on its back. Swing the tone arm over the
record: it moved several inches past the dark
band around the first track. I pushed it back
towards the edge of the record but had trouble
understanding how much force to use. It
stopped over the space between the first and
second tracks. Swing it towards the center and
back towards the edge and back towards the
center and back towards the edge.

489
 (“Stop!”)
It’s okay. Pull the lever, lower the tone arm.
“Wow! That sounds great!” I said. A
gorgeous sea of sound had filled my head.
“Yeah.”
“I’m gonna turn it up.”

When the truth is found to be lies

And all the joy within you dies

“The music is inside my head.”

“You better turn it down or we’re gonna get
busted.”
“What?”
“It’s too loud. Turn it down or we’re gonna
get busted. Give me a cigarette.”
I lowered the volume a little (intending) to
make the sound less loud outside the room but
not less loud otherwise.
“Do you have a cigarette?”
I took a cigarette out of the package in my
shirt pocket and put it between my lips. Where
were my matches?
“Give it to me and I’ll light it for you,” Matt
said. “And give me another one.”
I handed him two cigarettes. He lit them
and gave one back to me.
“Why don’t you sit down?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
I sat on the bed.

490
 Most of the time I just let it go by
Now I wish it hadn’t begun
I saw you, yes

I inhaled cigarette smoke: a warm flavorful

wind filled my mouth and swirled inside my
chest.
“This is a great cigarette.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“It smells great. Really great. I mean it.”
Matt stood and lowered the volume.
“Don’t do that,” I said.
“Feeling good?” Matt asked me.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Grandma Kay smoked long cigarettes from
beautiful dark-red packages.
My Father pulled a short cigarette out of a
package decorated with a picture of a yellow
and brown camel.
I noticed that the music had stopped. Matt
put another record on the turntable.
Grandma Kay had an old picture of him
wearing an army uniform. He and four other
men, also wearing uniforms, were sitting on
camels in front of a huge pyramid.
I had his old army hat with the heavy gold
eagle on the front and the brown leather brim
that was as smooth as a bar of new soap. The
inside of the hat smelled like his hair.
The music stopped. Matt knelt in front of
the crate of record albums under the end of the

491
plywood counter that I had made by screwing a
board to the top of the college desk.

In a while will the smile

On my face
Turn to plaster?

I thought of myself playing the music, a

hard, grinding harmony.
Matt took two more cigarettes out of the
package in my pocket, lit them both and gave
one to me.

Is it strange I should change?

I don’t know

I played effortlessly: a dark-red electric

guitar, a skinny one. I sang the words into a
microphone with a good voice.

When I’m sad she comes to me

With a thousand smiles.

I was dressed in faded bell-bottom jeans, a

tie-dyed shirt and old leather boots with scuffed
toes. I had long hair, and I wore sunglasses with
gold metal rims.

It’s gettin’ near dawn,

When lights close their tired eyes.

492
 I swayed as I sang and played, the sound
coming out of me, a good sound.
“Gotta go, man,” Matt said.
“What? Already?”
“Yeah. It’s getting late. I gotta get back.”
“It can’t be late yet.”
He laughed. “Well it is. Stay there. I’ll see
you soon.”
He was gone.
The music stopped and the room filled with
a calming stillness that made a hissing sound in
my ears. Lying on the bed, I felt time spread and
contract around me and I floated in the
darkness.
When I’m sad, she comes to me and smiles.
Someone walked past the door bouncing a
ball on the corridor floor, its noise like a clock
ticking seconds, a throbbing inside my chest. I
noticed that I was very hungry and thirsty.
I stood and opened the window as far as it
could go, then switched on the ceiling light: my
vision sharpened. The air was cold and had an
outside smell of leaves and water and concrete.
I lifted the towel off the floor, unrolled it and
shook it with a hard wrist snap. Dirty. They
would bring me a new one (I counted) in two
days.
The room was the same as it had been
before Matt arrived, except now there were a lot
of records scattered on the plywood counter
(where they could be scratched) and the ashtray

493
was full of cigarette butts. Would someone see
the ashtray and notice the end of the joint? I
found it, a small sliver of paper, and put it in my
pocket. I would find some food and throw the
butt in a trashcan outside the dorm.
Holding the records by squeezing their
edges between my fingertips, then balancing
them with their paper labels resting on my
thumb, I carefully slid each one into its proper
jacket and replaced it in the crate under the
counter. Then I turned off the desk lamp and
twisted the neck so that the light was in the
right position, pointing at the desk.
The book that had to be finished by the end
of the weekend lay on the desk blotter. I picked
it up and opened it: “…incidents which one lived
one by one,” I read.
Tomorrow I would work all day. Could I
keep up with the assignments? I wanted to keep
up with the assignments but, in my second mind,
I knew that there were other things that I would
rather do.
“…became curled and whole like a wave
which bore one up with it and threw one down
with it, there, with a dash on the beach."



How had it happened?

On Homecoming Weekend everyone would
have a date – a real date not just a blind date –

494
people would be at the house with their
girlfriends. I didn’t want to be alone (different, a
nothing, like a fag), but I had no (real) girlfriend.
Could I invite Ann? Would she come even
though we were now apart and didn’t see each
other? When was the last time I had called her?
(What would it mean if I invited Ann?) Would she
speak to me?
“Why don’t you go out with someone else?
Give some other girl a chance?”
Meet another girl. Then meet another one.
“You should be meeting lots of people at
your age. See what they’re like.”
Like what? Like Ann?
“Ann is very nice, but she’s older than you.
When she graduates from college, she’ll be ready
to get married and you’ll be much too young.
(Nothing.) She’s going to marry someone older,
someone established.”
Sunday evening at five o’clock, as
expected, I called Aunt Doris.
“So, are you doing your work? Is everything
okay?” she asked me.
(She was waiting for me to tell her that I
had been thrown out of school.)
“Yeah,” I said.
“Oh, that’s good. What are you doing?”
“Homecoming Weekend is in three weeks.”
Should I have told her about Homecoming?
“That’s nice. Do you have a date?”
“No. I thought maybe I could invite Ann.”

495
 Why had I said that?
“That’s a good idea,” she said, “but if you’re
going to do it, you’d better hurry up and make
arrangements. It’s getting close.”
“You really think so?” I asked her.
“Of course. I think she’d love to come.”
“Really?”
“Of course. Why not? But you’d better call
her right away.”
Somehow I find Ann’s college telephone
number and, telling myself not to think before
doing it, I call her. Only a few minutes pass
before I am listening to the familiar music of her
voice; familiar but there also is a question in the
way she speaks.
“Hi,” I say, “how are you?”
“Okay,” she says, “how are you?”
(Nothing more.)
“I’m fine. How’s school?”
“It’s fine.”
Then she is silent. [Why are you calling
me?]
“Would you like to come to Homecoming
here? Can you come?”
“Come to Homecoming with you?”
“Yes.”
“When is it?”
“In three weeks. The weekend. The game
is on Saturday morning so maybe you could
come Friday and there’ll be a party after the
game. If you can come.”

496
 “Sure. I guess I can come.”
“Really? You can come?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure. I have to ask my
parents, but I’m pretty sure.”

Then Ann is sitting beside me in the frigid

air. She wears her long cloth coat, a soft scarf
and a wool hat (warm city clothes). The smooth,
even ends of her hair touch her collar. She is
real. Is she real? People in the bleachers
around us scream, laugh and talk in loud voices.
They drink beer from wax-paper cups and wine
out of bottles that they share. Ann is quiet – we
are quiet. Later, would we dance to jukebox
music in the house basement, dance to soul
music? Everyone would be drunk and crazy.
Maybe Ann would drink. I try to cheer with the
others, but feel strange, divided between two
places at one time, between two times in one
place.
The game (finally) ends. We lose. (Is she
sorry that she came?) We begin to walk with the
others back to the house. Is it too far, too cold?
We have to go up the hill beside the high hedge.
As we walk, I feel her silence. We pass between
the pine trees and climb the steps leading to the
front door. I hold the door open for her and she
enters the foyer, which already is crowded with
people.

Mick is there with the Little One. He is

497
talking to Martello. They drink beer. The Little
One takes a pack of cigarettes out of her jeans
pocket and hands it to Martello.
Dods walks past us carrying a roll of duct
tape and two pear-shaped pink balloons the size
of grapefruits. They are tied together at their
ends and he is waving them in front of him as he
walks.
“Has anyone seen the Foreigner?” he asks
in a loud voice.
“He went upstairs,” Fishy says. “What’s
that?”
“They’re balls for Foreigner. Foreigner
needs a set of balls because he plays cards like
a girl.”
People laugh. I want to laugh, but only grin
and then look quickly at Ann who is standing
beside me, watching but not speaking.

“Let me take your coat,” I say to her.

There is no hanger for her coat in the
closet, so I walk into the library and lay both our
coats on a chair beside the fireplace. (Will they
be safe there?) Then I go back into the foyer.
What should I say?
“Would you like a beer?” I ask her.
“Okay,” she answers
(Does she really want to drink beer?)
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her.

I walk through the living room and down

498
the stairs that lead to the basement barroom.
Hickey is sitting behind the bar, filling cups from
the tap.
“Give me two, Hick,” I tell him.
He fills two wax-paper cups, tips them to
pour the foam into the pan under the tap and
hands them to me. Through the door to the
dance floor I hear soul music:

Day are getting so lonely,

yeah now
Life are getting so blue

I carry them upstairs and, as I cross the

living room, I see her standing calmly in the
midst of the foyer crowd. I pause and watch her.
She doesn’t notice me but waits: erect with her
heels together and the toes of her shoes spread
slightly apart, the long thin fingers of one hand
resting on the back of the other in front of her.
She wears a smock-like dress over a shirt like a
man’s dress shirt. She appears older than the
others, has a different kind of face, a serious
face.

I am beside her in the crowd. The kids

around us are in wild motion, almost running
despite their formal clothes. They grab at each
other, shout, laugh, plead. Their expressions are
fantastic; they have some knowledge that must
be shared. Two adults, chaperones, stand near

499
us [confused]. We watch. Ann smiles slightly
and speaks to me. I need nothing more.

I don’t move. (It is wrong.)

“Brothers!”
Barton is standing on the coffee table with
his arms raised over his head. He holds a cup of
beer and spills some onto the table and the floor.
“Brothers, please.”
The lower buttons of his shirt are open and
his bare belly bulges over the waist of his pants.
“Brothers, hear me in this solemn moment.
Please!”
He spreads his arms in a pantomime
embrace. More beer spills onto the floor.
“Listen to Brother Barton,” someone
shouts.
The crowd quiets. I don’t move.
Suspended.
“Brothers, sons of our dear Alma Mater, our
great Alma Mater, the fount of all wisdom…”
There is laughter.
“…Well that’s what I’m told.
“Brothers, we gather together here for
solace and for strength in this tragic moment.
Yes, in this moment of our defeat at the hands of
those outsiders. Brothers, do I hear an amen?”
“Amen,” several people shout. Others
laugh.
“Take a drink,” someone yells and I sip beer
from one of the cups I’m carrying.

500
 “Please come closer,” Barton exhorts the
assembly. “Come closer where you can feel the
spirit and give comfort to your fellow man, to
your beloved brothers.”
“And sisters.”
“Mahoney! Watch where you put your
hands!”
Everyone laughs. “Amen,” people shout.
“The spirit is moving him, he’s feeling it,”
Babbs yells.
“Take a drink,” several people shout.
“Well he better not feel it in the living
room,” Barton says.
“Yeah!”
“Sermon, sermon.”
“Amen.”
“Take a drink.”
We drink.
“Thank you Brothers, and shut up Babbs.
Brothers, our brave warriors have gone into
battle on the autumnal fields against a godless
foe spawned by, by…”
Barton drinks from his cup.
“What?” someone yells.
“…by an alien Mother, ah, a Mother whose
name definitely must not befoul our lips. They
have gone forth to fight evil for us, in the name of
our cause, which is a cause better than… their
cause.”
“Amen, amen.”
“Take a drink.”

501
 “Take two drinks.”
“They fought and fought some more for
almost a whole hour. They fought bravely…”
“And hardly,” Martello says and people
laugh.
“…okay, Martello, except for a few guys
who know who they are and are a disgrace to the
glorious uniform they wear.”
There is loud booing.
“Brothers, it deeply, painfully grieves me
that despite this bravery, yes, this dedication,
this readiness, nay eagerness, to spill their life’s
blood upon the autumnal fields, those assholes
lost!”
More booing.
“But brothers,” Barton raises his arms high
in the air and pours beer down the front of his
shirt and the front of his pants, “we have not lost
this war! No. No the war is not lost!”
“Amen.”
The crowd cheers and everyone drinks.
“I feel – I know – that we are about to turn
the tide…”
There is loud laughter.
“…Yes we will. Say amen Brothers!”
“Amen.”
“Drink.”
“And say amen again.”
“Amen again.”
“Drink again.”
“This was a mere skirmish, a minor setback

502
on the road to our ultimate victory, a victory that
is, ah, rightfully ours because...”
Everyone waits while he drinks.
Then Levine asks, “Because why?”
“Levine, don’t be like one of those negative,
long-haired hippies. Are you a commie? Victory
will be ours because we are superior. Victory is
our right.”
Everyone cheers even more loudly and
drinks.
“Brother Barton has spoken.”
“Amen.”
At ten she is tired, so I take her to the
motel. The next morning, I drive her to the
airport in Mick’s car (wanting not to think about
her), careful to control my speed.
“It’s amazing how you can keep the car
going at exactly the speed limit,” she said.
The airport isn’t very far from school; I
would be back at the house before noon.
We drove on the road between the brown
fields that had been and would again be green in
the Spring and past the old farm buildings where
the farmers kept their tools. The Christmas-story
church soon would be decorated with holiday
lights and, when it snowed, kids would make real
snowmen with carrot noses and cookie eyes on
the lawns in front of the old-style houses.
We crossed the river where the student
crew rowed when the weather was warm, and
that might freeze into blocks of ice when the

503
weather was colder, and before long we reached
the highway along the slopes of the small tree-
covered mountains. Orange, yellow, red, brown
leaves were still attached to some of the tree
branches.
Then the road crossed the river again. On
the other side there was a small city with
offices, stores and probably people living in
apartment houses, and, beyond that, industrial
buildings and then the airport.
(Torn, severed, needing to escape), I turned
the car onto the road under the sign that said
“Departures,” and drove past the parking lot to
the terminal. Ann moved in her seat (uneasy). I
slowed the car and stopped it by the curb in front
of the terminal entrance. She waited while I
pulled her small suitcase off the backseat and
set it on the curb next to her.
“Goodbye,” I said. “Thanks a lot for
coming.”
Then, before I got back into the car and
drove away, I watched her walk alone into the
terminal building.
I know she cried.



As the sky outside darkened, I read in my

room with only the desk lamp for light:

504
 “…to work the next day, turning, so to
speak, my back on that station. In
that way only it seemed to me I could
keep my hold on the redeeming facts
of life. Still, one must look about
sometimes…”

…but I was distracted by sounds in the

dorm corridor, sounds from a distance that I
vaguely noticed were unusual. I looked up and
then back at the book, but only briefly because
someone pounded on my door. “I’m working,” I
shouted at the closed door, and tried again to
read, but the sounds of pounding on other doors
and excited voices in the corridor closer to my
room continued to distract me. (What were they
saying?) “Shut up,” I yelled at the door, but the
noise became louder.
Then the door opened. I looked quickly into
the corridor but nobody was there.
“Will you quit screwing around. I’m
working,” I yelled at the empty doorway. “Close
the fucking door.”
Someone went running past, but I couldn’t
see who he was, then Haynes appeared.
“C’mon! We’re going to march,” he yelled
and before he had finished his sentence, he
rushed away.
“What are you talking about, Haynes. I’m
not going anywhere. I havta read a book.”

505
 I stood up and walked across the room to
close the door, but as I started to swing it shut,
Haynes lunged into the doorway.
“Haynes…”
“C’mon,” he shouted with his mouth only a
foot from my face, “we have to march. He’s
dead.”
“What are you talking about? Who’s dead?”
“They killed King.”
“They what?”
“They killed King,” he repeated, stared at
me for a second, and rushed away again.
“Haynes,” I yelled after him, “who are you
talking about? What do you mean march? March
where?”
“Frankie, don’t you care about this?”
someone to my right said.
I turned my head and saw Styles.
“Styles, what’s going on?”
“King’s been murdered. We hafta do
something.”
I looked at him, “King was murdered?
You’re shitting me? Really?”
“C’mon.”
“Where are you going?”
“To town. We all have to go.”
“To do what?”
“To protest.”
“Protest to who?”
“Make a statement, Frankie. Let people
know that we care. Are you coming? Good

506
people have to speak up. If you’re coming then
let’s go. I’m going.”
I glanced at the closed book, which I had
left on the desk blotter, then took my jacket out
of the armoire, shut my door and followed him
down the corridor to the stairway.
“Styles, that’s bad but what’s the point?
Nobody will care or know. It’s the same as the
Peace Vigil.”
“Frankie, don’t be a jerk. If you feel that
way then why are you following me?”
“Killing King is bad just like the war, but
the government doesn’t give a shit what you
think. They don’t even know what you think –
they don’t wanna know.”
We left the building through the street-side
exit with a bunch of other people and turned left
toward town. More students and even an adult,
maybe a faculty member, came from the campus
and walked towards the green where I could see
that there already was a crowd.
“You hear what they say. They think we’re
dirty unpatriotic kids. They just want us to shut
up, get haircuts and go fight in the army.”
“We have a right to let them know what we
think,” said Styles. “We have an obligation.”
“Right on,” somebody nearby said.
“First they havta notice that we’re here,” I
answered.
“If lots of people march, it’ll be in the
news.”

507
 “What news? The student newspaper?”
“Frankie, you’re an asshole.”
I didn’t want to argue anymore, to be
overheard, to seem unwilling. We walked in the
growing crowd. “Stop the war,” someone
shouted, but most people were silent, and the
silence felt to me like a solemn thing.
The real news would report that we
marched if police attacked us, if some of us were
killed. Police attacked King when he marched
and recently had killed a demonstrator
somewhere, a kid (hadn’t they?) but it was
ridiculous to think that the town police would
attack a group of students from the college. I
looked across the green toward the Town Hall
where the police station was, but didn’t see
anyone wearing a uniform.
The official, arm extended, pointed a silver
pistol at the man’s head. The man, knowing his
fate, waited to die [wanting it to be finished].
The force of the bullet piercing his skull bent
him sideways and he collapsed onto the ground.
His blood formed a dark puddle on the pavement.
“Shit,” I said, and then (casually) looked
around, but despite the silence it didn’t seem as
if anyone had heard me.
The darkness was now complete. We
marched in the night, but to where? We had no
destination; our goal was only a wish. People
would be murdered and drafted and sent to fight,
and how could anybody stop those things from

508
happening? We were the targets of powerful
others who couldn’t see us, didn’t notice that we
were real, who hated us and wanted us to kill
people in another place who weren’t real to them
either.
“What about the police?” a person not very
far in front of us shouted, and everyone must
have heard his voice. “They’re all over at
demonstrations and they have no problem
beating demonstrators, but do they protect
them? No. Did they protect King? No. They
aren’t acting for justice, they’re a tool of
oppression.”
Other voices made loud sounds of
agreement.
“Where is equal justice? Where are equal
rights?” he shouted. “What about the law?”
He wanted to give a speech, I thought, but
the crowd continued moving past him and he
must have lost confidence because he didn’t say
anything else.
After a few more minutes, students began
walking back towards us, towards the college,
and wandering in the street. They had reached
the far end of the Green and now, I thought, there
was confusion about what should happen next.
Someone yelled, “Burn your draft cards.”
What would we do? What would we all do
when we reached the end of our time here? We
would disappear into the world.
“Styles,” I said, “let’s go back to the dorm.”

509
 Nobody answered. I turned around in a
circle, but I couldn’t find him in the crowd, so I lit
a cigarette and started to walk alone back to my
room.
“Levitate Town Hall,” somebody screamed.



The Summer Theatre people, including girls

who went to a nearby school, lived together in a
dormitory. The actors rehearsed every day while
the crew built sets and women from town made
costumes. At night, we ate pizza or grinders in
the living room and learned our lines.
Sometimes Melnik played the piano and we sang
old songs. It was good; I was sorry that it would
end soon.
I rode back to the dorm with Lesser and his
girlfriend in Lesser’s car, wanting to relax and
enjoy the purple pill: about an hour before
leaving the theatre, I had swallowed a tab of
mescaline that Matt had given me earlier in the
summer at his beach house. That day had been
hot, but we didn’t go in the ocean. One of Matt’s
college friends had drowned there; it wouldn’t be
safe to swim while we were tripping. Instead,
we went to town and walked around in a lilac
drug haze. Two workers were painting the front
of a grocery store: very bright colors. The fresh
paint flowed evenly off their brushes onto the
wood siding. I stared at the vibrating hues of

510
the paint and watched the faint lines made by
the brush hairs disappear and the wood surface
become smooth.
As I did this, a woman left the store
carrying a bag of groceries and began to walk
towards us. A box of chocolate cookies stuck
out of the bag. Were they Mallomars? I stood
still and stared: they crunched when you bit
through the chocolate crust into the soft
marshmallow, and then you tasted the delicious
sweetness. I finished it in two bites and had to
have another one. I put the whole second
cookie in my mouth and chewed slowly.
“Hey. C’mon,” Matt said.
“Oh.”
When Matt spoke, the woman noticed us
and her face changed from nothing to hatred.
She quickly turned right and began crossing the
narrow street. While she walked, she looked at
us, at me. Then she spit in our direction.
“Scum,” she hissed.
“Hater,” Ball, Matt’s college friend, said
loudly.
“Shut up. Don’t say anything,” Matt said.
“There are cops in town. We should get out of
here.”
I didn’t care. I was mellow.
“I took some mescaline,” I told Lesser. “I
dropped a tab of mescaline at the theatre.”
“Oh yeah?” he said, and then he said
without apparent interest, “How’s that?”

511
 “It’s good. (I wanted them to know.) When I
feel like this I don’t worry about anything.”
“Well you should,” Lesser’s girlfriend said.
What?
Why had she said that? I abruptly felt stiff,
heavy, as if I had been filled with concrete. Why
should she care? What did she mean? My brain,
which had been happily studying the passing
trees and campus buildings, suddenly became
alarmed and shouted these questions but formed
no answers.
It was almost dark outside and very dark in
the car (threatening). I wanted to be back in the
dorm where there was light, where I could see
well and be away from them – be away from her.
Griping the side of the seat, I sat silently,
(fragile) unmoving. Then, as soon as we arrived,
I thanked Lesser for the ride. “See ya later,” I
told him (she wouldn’t know that I was bothered
or cared) and, without looking at his girlfriend
(who was she?), went upstairs.
The second-floor corridor was empty and
there was no sign that anyone was nearby, not
even a sound. Several lights filled the space
with a warm yellow-orange glow that should
have felt good but instead seemed mocking.
Why? I went quickly into the room that had been
assigned to me and shut the door. The room was
even emptier than the corridor and I couldn’t fill
it. I looked at the school furniture: a bed, a desk,
two chairs. I was losing myself. I didn’t want to

512
be close to anybody but maybe I would feel
calmer if I could see other people.
I went back downstairs to the living room.
There was a sofa against the wall near the piano;
I sat on it and gripped the arm. Did I look weird?
A few people were sitting on the floor at the
other end of the room next to the TV, practicing
their lines. They didn’t notice me. That felt
okay.
Was I freaking? Did I need help? Tommy
and I had smoked dope.
“What’s happening?” he said. His voice
squeaked.
I told him everything was okay, it would be
good.
“No, I don’t like this at all,” he said. “I don’t
like this at all I don’t like this at all.”
I told him that I would sit with him, that he
should relax, that soon he would feel better, but
he didn’t feel better.
Who could help? I remembered the name
of the school psychologist and found his
telephone number in the phone book. His wife
answered the phone.
“He’s asleep,” she said.
“I need to speak to him,” I told her.
“He’s asleep,” she said again.
“I have to speak to him. It’s an
emergency.” (He would understand.)

513
 “I can’t do anything for you,” he said.
“That’s what happens when you smoke that
stuff. Take him to the hospital.”
Maybe I should go to the hospital?
(“Right. That would be smart. Go to a
hospital where they would call Doris and
probably the cops.”)
“What did you do now?” she said in her
disgusted voice.
“What did you take? Where did you get it?”
They wore uniforms.
“You’ll have to stay here with us.”
I wouldn’t freak. I would wait. The drug
feeling would wear off (wasted) eventually. The
important thing was to not let anyone know that
I was messed up. How long would I have to
wait? I couldn’t feel time passing at all, but I
knew, anyway, that time would pass.
What if someone else wanted to sit on the
sofa, where they might be close to me? I could
lie on it. Would people think I was being a pig if I
did that? Would someone ask me to move? I
swung my legs onto the cushions and pushed
myself along the surface until I was lying flat.
The arm behind my head hid my face from
anyone who might be in the corner. My feet
touched the other arm. This was better (safer); it
was okay (as long as nobody bothered me). I
rested my hands on my stomach and closed my
eyes, as if I were a dead man.

514
 When the processes of being that create
time cease, the rest of eternity becomes
nothing.
I waited.
“Do you want some food?” someone said.
“We’re going for food.”
People moved in and out of the living room
while, neither present nor absent, but in
suspension, I lay on the sofa watching them.
Melnik played the piano. His fingers made
harmonies in lyrical waves that might have been
shapes or colors.
Someone turned on the TV: “Real progress
is being made.”
We were the good guys. Were we the good
guys?
Another voice said, “According to the
government, we’re winning. I guess that means
the way to win a war is to get your ass kicked.”
Unhappy laughter.
Pictures of soldiers wearing ragged
uniforms sitting in mud surrounded by garbage.
Pictures of dead, destroyed bodies.
What would I do when I reached the end of
my time here? Would that be my real life?
Soldiers wearing gas masks shot tear-gas
grenades into crowds of students who made
peace signs and covered their faces with
handkerchiefs. The police clubbed them, kicked
them.

515
 To protect myself, I wore a motorcycle
helmet and a gas mask. I wore a padded plastic
vest under my shirt. Where would I stand? The
soldiers pointed rifles tipped with bayonets at
kids just a few feet in front of them. I would
stand behind a car or between two cars. When
the police charged I would crawl under a car and
hide until they had passed.
Maybe there would be a student revolt?
Maybe workers would support the students by
going on strike? It had happened in other
countries.
Before me was an immense sloping plain
covered with ash and sharp stones. The surface
changed to soft sand near the very distant shore
where people sat on beach chairs. The heat was
intense; the hot air tasted like chalk. I struggled
to walk on the cutting surface, lowered my bare
feet carefully, transferred my weight gradually.
The sky wasn’t blue. Grit inside my sneakers
abraded my skin. People floated on top of the
waves, which were enormous, bigger than
houses, although none of the people seemed
afraid. Suddenly, the surf roared up the slope
toward me, a high rumbling wall coming close
and then closer. I should leave here.
To my right, in the distance, I saw people
dressed in elegant clothes walking in the golden
light of streetlamps. The women wore mink
coats and diamond bracelets. People stepped
out of taxicabs and greeted each other with

516
smiles, handshakes and kisses. They shopped in
the stores that lined the avenue.
Where I was standing, the sidewalks were
empty. There were no lights in the windows of
the brownstone buildings behind me or across
the street. The streetlamps, black iron poles
with ornamental curlicues and hooked tops,
were dark and I couldn’t see what was ahead. I
should leave here.
I began to run with long strides that lifted
me four or even five feet in the air. At the end of
the street, across a narrow channel, there was
an island and a sunny town of small white
wooden houses. Crowds of people crossed the
channel on a low bridge. The current in the
channel was violent; gigantic waves crashed
onto the bridge and showered me with foam. I
was forced to stop and stand on the shore.



While we waited, we played poker in the

library.
“How many do you want?” Barton asked
me.
I looked at my cards and quickly
reconsidered their possibilities. The pair of
threes wasn’t very useful without a face card –
even if I pulled another three I could easily be
beaten high. I should draw for an eight-low.
There would be more chances of hitting the low

517
hand. Would an eight-low be good enough to
win? It might be (I hoped; I doubted), maybe
with an eight-six.
“Give me two, Reverend,” I told Barton and
discarded a ten and one of the threes.
He dealt me two new cards. I slid them
over the tabletop towards my chest and held
them down with my first two fingers while I lifted
their front edges slightly with my thumbnail. An
ace and a seven: an eight-seven low. Would that
be good enough to take half the pot? Yes, it
could be; this was five-card stud. My heart beat
faster and I reminded myself to look calm. What
were the others holding?
“How many, Foreigner?”
“Gib me one,” the Foreigner said.
I looked at his face. He must have two
pairs, or he could also be going low – he liked to
go low – but he could have anything.
“What about you, Dods?”
“None for me, thank you, Reverend,”
Dodson said.
“Dods, what kind of crap are you holding?”
Barton asked him.
“I’ll show you in a minute. But you’re going
to have to pay to find out,” he answered.
“Shit,” said Karp, who was sitting to
Dodson’s left. “Give me three.”
He obviously had called in the first round
with garbage. Barton dealt the Fish three cards
and then dealt himself two. He put the deck on

518
the table, discarded, picked up his new cards
and laughed. What did that mean?
“Check,” I said and looked at the Foreigner
who had opened the betting.
“Check,” he said.
“Well, it’s up to you, Dods,” Barton said.
“This is going to be good.”
“Reverend, isn’t gambling a sin? Why are
you playing cards?” Dodson asked him. “Well, I
guess the way you play can’t really be called
gambling. It’s more like entertainment.”
“We’ll see who’s entertained in a second.
Go ahead and bet.”
“Dollar,” Dodson said and flipped two chips
into the pot.
He watched everyone; he looked at me. I
tried very hard not to let my face tell him
anything. Did he know what I was thinking?
Before Karp could bet, the Ox walked into
the library.
“Is it on yet?” Karp asked him in a calm
voice. My second mind had the idea that he was
trying to disguise his thoughts too.
“No. Not yet,” said the Ox.
He picked up a book bag that was on the
floor next to the fireplace.
“Hey, Ox, you’re a philosophy major, aren’t
you?” Dodson asked him. “When is playing cards
gambling and when is it entertainment?”
“It’s gambling because you can lose.
Entertainment is when you enjoy something. If

519
you enjoy it, it’s entertainment too.” he said
without turning his head as he walked past us
and went into the study room behind the library.
“I guess I was wrong, Reverend,” Dods said.
“You are gambling. I’m the one being
entertained. And, you’re going to be punished for
your sins.”
The others laughed, but I could only smile.
“Bet Fishy,” Barton said.
“Raise a dollar,” said the Fish with sudden
seriousness and threw four chips into the center
of the table.
“Uh oh,” Barton said. “Where did that come
from?”
Dods looked at Karp, grinned, looked at the
rest of us and said, “Well well boys and girls,
what have we here? There’s a big fish in the
pond.”
“Shit,” said the Foreigner. “I fold.”
“It’s not your turn, Foreigner,” Karp said
angrily. “You don’t want me to do that to you.
Shut up until it’s your turn.”
“I’ll Fish,” Barton said. He put another four
chips in the pot.
I stared at my cards. I was sure that Karp
wasn’t bluffing. He believed he had a winner;
that’s what he had been trying to hide. I also
thought that Dodson would raise again. Barton
must think so too, so his bet meant that he had a
decent hand. Why else would he have laughed?

520
It would cost a lot to find out if an eight-seven
could win low.
“I fold,” I said and tossed my cards onto the
table.
“Gimme a cigarette,” the Foreigner said to
me.
I took the cigarette pack out of my shirt
pocket, handed it to him and waited to find out
what Dods would do. He looked at the pot, at
Barton, then stared at Fishy.
“I call,” he said. “Seems like there are
sharks in the pond.”
He didn’t raise again. He was worried
about the Fish.
“I knew it,” said Barton. “Donkey diddle.
Declare. You’re losing, Dods.”
I watched them pick up their coins and put
their hands under the table. Then each of them
lifted a closed fist. When they all had done that,
they opened their hands.
The Fish dropped a dime. Dods laughed:
his hand was empty.
“Shit,” said Barton, who also was holding a
coin. “What do you have?”
“Two pair,” said Karp.
“Me too,” said Barton, obviously relieved.
“But I have ace-high: aces and eights.”
He began to divide the pot.
“Kings and kings,” said Fishy.

521
 “What? You know that’s not funny you
asshole. Lemme see. Don’t do that again if you
want to live. I’m not kidding.”
The Fish showed his four kings.
“You had aces and eights, Reverend?” I
said, looking at his hand.
“Not a very good omen, Barton,” said
Dodson, laughing. “Especially tonight.”
“Yeah,” said Barton. “It’s not funny, and if I
were you, I wouldn’t laugh because wherever
we’re going, you’re getting there first. Rumor
has it you’re already in the military.”
“What did you have, Dods?” the Fish asked
him.
“Nine-seven,” said Dods.
A nine-seven. I would have won low with
an eight-seven. I had folded a winning hand.
“Shit, Dods, what were you doing betting on
a nine-seven?” I asked him (feeling weak and
stupid).
“Bet crazy to win big,” he answered as he
and Karp split the pot.
Was he right? It often seemed that way,
but again it didn’t. The truth was that you never
knew what would happen, how a hand would
play, even a good one. That was the randomness
of things.
“C’mon. Let’s go watch the lottery,” I said.
“We can come back after it’s over.”
“Wad about de chips?” the Foreigner asked.

522
 “Take em or leave em. Nobody will come in
here,” I said (would they?). I balanced a
cigarette on top of my stack; I really hadn’t lost
anything, I thought, although my other mind
knew that I had lost at least seven, maybe ten,
dollars.
We went into the living room. People were
already there, sitting on the sofas or on the floor
in front of the TV in the corner.
“What is that crap?” I asked, looking at the
screen and knowing the answer.
An old guy wearing a tuxedo was talking to
a very small man wearing a Nazi army uniform.
The guy in the tuxedo had slightly slurred
speech, as if he were drunk. The Nazi held a
cigarette in a cigarette holder and smirked.
“It’s comedy,” said Hickey. “Can’t you hear
people laughing?”
After each of them said something, there
was machine-made laughter – or was it real?
“Why dontcha change the channel?” Styles
suggested. “Maybe it’s on another station.”
“It should be on every channel,” I told him.
Wouldn’t something as important as this be
on every channel?
“Take a lap,” Babbs said.
“Yeah, c’mon Dick, let’s go to the party,”
said Barton.
Rozinsky, who was sitting closest to the TV,
crawled a few feet to the set and began changing
the channel.

523
 “There it is. Stop.” several people shouted.
“It’s already on.”
A woman sitting at a small table took a
piece of paper out of a blue plastic capsule and
handed it to an old guy wearing a suit and a dark
tie. He handed it to another fat old guy in a suit
who attached it to a board next to a number. The
television showed what was on the paper: a date.
This must be the order that people born on those
dates would be drafted next year. Had they
already picked my birthday? I waited with
tensed shoulder muscles for the TV camera to
show the rest of the board.
“Dods,” I said “did you see our birthday?”
“No, can’t see it.”
Different people continued to pick capsules
out of a large glass or plastic cylinder and hand
them to the woman who opened each one and
took out the slip of paper inside. Before the
camera showed the date on the paper I stopped
breathing for a second. Would I draw a high
enough number to be safe? “It’s just a shot
away,” I thought and made a noise like a laugh.
Nobody noticed.
“Who are those guys?” someone asked.
“Guest stars,” I said.
“Customers,” Barton said.
We watched and waited. Every few
seconds the camera showed the board again. It
showed FEB 12 next to 68 and Alvin White got up,

524
cursed and left the room. The old guy attached
“MAY 20” next to 183.
“Fuck,” said Babbs, “I’m hosed.”
“You’re going to graduate school, asshole,”
Karp said.
“Yeah? Well now I better. I better get in.”
“Speaking of birthdays, are you guys having
the champagne party again?” Rozinsky asked
Dods and me.
“That depends on whether or not it’s worth
celebrating after this.” I laughed. “Yeah, we’re
having it – us and Newton, in absentia.”
We waited. I didn’t see my birthday
anywhere on the board.
“Damn,” said Hickey.
His date was picked: 190. Would 190 be
safe?
“Hick, you better start learning to march,”
Dodson told him.
“You better start learning to duck,” I said.
“Dods, why are you here? You’re already
signed up,” said Hickey. “Get outta here.”
“Waiting to play cards.”
“I can’t watch this shit anymore,” said
Karp. “I’ll find out what happens later.”
He left the room. So did Styles.
“Keep your hands off the chips,” I shouted
at Karp’s back.
They reached 200 and I began to think that
if my birthday hadn’t already been picked I might
be safe. I continued to stare at the TV screen.

525
The Ox walked in front of me and blocked my
view, making me jump slightly.
“Ox, you want to watch this?” Dodson
asked him. “This isn’t your year.”
“Entertainment,” the Ox answered without
turning his head.
Dodson and I laughed.
Then for me the wait ended: my date was
picked and attached to the board next to 215.
Would people with that number be called?
Maybe and maybe not; I couldn’t decide.
“Dods, do you think they’ll go that high?
215?”
“Don’t know. It’s possible,” he said.
“How many people will they need next
year? It might be safe.”
I thought that I sounded as if I were
begging.
“Can’t tell. You’ll have to wait and find out.
Let’s play cards.”



Someone’s alarm clock began to buzz; a

sharp, nasty noise.
“Turn that thing off, Barton,” Dods yelled.
“Havta get up.”
“What for?” Dodson groaned, “we’re on
strike.”
“We’re always on-strike,” I said.
We laughed. Barton turned off his alarm.

526
 “Barton, what the fuck was that for?” I
asked him,
“Don’t wanna miss lunch,” he answered.
“What time is it?” Dods asked.
“11:30,” he said.
“Fuck,” I said, “I’m hungry. We’ll have to
move if we want to make lunch.”
I rolled onto my back, slid my legs out from
under the covers and slowly raised myself off the
mattress. Sitting on the bed, I tried to recall my
dream – freezing air, a dark space – but it was
gone; only a vague feeling of doom remained,
along with the sour taste of cigarettes.
Dods walked past me and out the door with
his towel in his hand. I turned my head to look at
Barton: he was still a lump under his sheet.
Would I have time to shower and shave, and then
walk to the dining hall before they stopped
serving lunch? Probably.
I stood, took my towel off the bar attached
to the side of my bureau, picked up my
toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream and razor,
and went across the hall to the bathroom. After I
had pissed into one of the gigantic marble
urinals, I brushed my teeth. Dod’s reflection
walked past me (done already).“Seeya down
there,” it said. Then I took off my t-shirt and
underwear and stood under the hot rain from the
showerhead that was the size of a salad plate,
letting the water warm my bones. I shouldn’t be
slow, though. I washed with a bar of soap that

527
someone (always) left in the wire basket
attached to the wall, dried myself and walked to
the sink where I shaved. There was no time to
pick at the zits, which, anyway, would make
them redder. Would they ever go away?
I went back across the hall and took some
clean underwear, socks and a t-shirt out of the
bureau drawer. Barton was still in bed and he
was snoring. As soon as I had dressed, I strode
two steps at a time down the narrow stairway to
the second floor and then down the wide
staircase to the main floor, past the empty
library and outside into the sunshine and humid
air. Everyone seemed to have left already. I
looked at my watch: it was after noon, but I
would make it.
I lit a cigarette and walked rapidly down
the hill on the empty sidewalk next to the giant
hedge. Soon, we all really would leave, gone to
separate places and school would be done
forever. We would become what Davey and Carl
and the others were now, which was what? What
was left? There was no permanence. There was
no permanence except the final end. The
present was just a collection of things that
created the impression of time and vanished
instantly into stories we told ourselves. For us,
there would be no more vigils, no more mixers,
no more demonstrations, no more poker games,
no more bar debates, no more brothers, no more
House. What would there be? War? Copying

528
machines? We would be the same as everyone
else. We would have to earn money.
(“That’s just the way it is.”)
At least I wouldn’t have to worry about
missing classes and taking exams and writing
papers. Typing and tearing page after page.
Starting over and over. If the soldiers hadn’t
killed those kids and if there hadn’t been a
strike, I probably would have failed all my
courses. How many people had those dead kids
saved from being thrown out of school?
The kitchen workers were taking away the
food when I got to the dining hall. They ignored
me and continued to remove dishes from the
shelves as I picked up a tray and slid it along the
steel rails. I quickly loaded the tray with a plate
of macaroni and cheese, a piece of cake and a
glass for milk, then carried it to our table in the
corner. Two of the Ducks were sitting there and
said “hi.” Shortly afterwards they finished
eating. “See ya later” they said nearly
simultaneously and walked together towards the
door. I was the last one at the table, but the
room was still crowded with people talking
passionately in groups, passing papers to each
other. What was written on the papers?
Everybody knew why we were on strike. What
was there to say? What else could we do? Could
we end the war, change the government?
“Listen up for a second,” an invisible
person in the doorway announced loudly once

529
and then a second time, quieting the crowd.
“The College will be sending faculty
representatives to the dorms and fraternity
houses at seven tonight to speak to everyone.
Please be there. It’s important. The President
asks everyone to please keep calm and use this
as an opportunity to think about how we can play
a constructive role in the national debate.”
The roar of voices resumed and I heard
some laughter. Calm didn’t seem to me to be
part of the plan; the people in the dining hall
were almost shaking with excitement, I thought.
I finished eating and lit a cigarette. It
would be good to help with the strike but what
could I do? Maybe I could write something?
(“You’d waste too much paper.”)
I walked towards the dining hall exit and
stopped next to the lounge. There were a lot of
people in the lounge listening to a professor
make a speech. He must have been standing on
a coffee table because I could see him clearly
above the heads of the students.
“Who’s that?” I asked a kid near the
entrance.
“Green?” he said, his inflection implying
that everyone should recognize Green.
“Who’s Green?” I asked, embarrassed.
“Econ professor. He’s a star.”
(Star?)
“What’s he talking about?”

530
 “How, you know, the economy is based on
false assumptions,” the kid said.
I stood in the doorway, listening: Green
sounded like a rabbi or maybe a minister, I
thought.
“What will happen then? What will
happen?” he asked the crowd. “Once everyone
has a car, a washing machine, all the gadgets we
love, how will the economy grow? There’s a limit
to what people can consume, a limit to demand
and therefore a limit to what an economy can
supply. There’s a limit to its size.”
The students in the room made sounds of
understanding and agreement. What he said
made sense, I thought, but in my second mind I
was certain that he had overlooked something
and that what he was saying was wrong, stupid
even. Economies almost always did grew, didn’t
they? I turned around and walked out of the
dining hall and back to the House. Maybe there
would be a card game. Barton was watching TV
in the living room when I got there.
“You missed lunch, you asshole,” I said.
“Getting a grinder from Mamma Mia,” he
answered. “Where’s Dods?”
“I didn’t see him. What are you watching?”
“The Glory Guys. They’ve cut more scenes.
The amazing thing is that even after they’ve cut
half the movie, it’s still the exact same story.”
He laughed. “Fits together well. I wonder how
short they can make it?”

531
 “Huntem, killem, credits. If we can find
Dods and maybe one or two others, we can play
cards.”
“Maybe tonight. After I eat, I’m going to
drive over and see Debby.”
I sat on the sofa next to Barton and
watched the movie. A town kid delivered his
grinder and, by the time he had finished eating,
the movie was over. The bad guys were dead
again. We sang the movie theme song together.
“I’m gonna go,” Barton said.
“Oh, Reverend, there was an announcement
in the dining hall that someone from the school
is coming to speak to us at 7:00, so we all have
to be here.”
“What for?” Barton asked.
“Something about the strike, I guess. I
guess they want us to know that they agree with
us about the National Guard killing students and
everything, and want us to keep calm and stick
together.” (Which was good.)
“People are sticking together now by
joining the Guard so they don’t get sent to the
war. That’s what I’m doing. Seeya.”
After he left, I remained on the sofa for a
few minutes and watched the commercials. Did
they show real life? The people who made
commercials didn’t seem to know that soon
nobody would buy any more stuff. Except for the
sound of the TV, the House was silent. I stood,
lit a cigarette and walked out the front door.

532
 Where should I go? I went down the hill a
second time and walked slowly through town
past the police station in the basement of the
Town Hall and past the hotel. At the street
corner, I stopped and stared briefly at the
Administration Building before crossing the road
and walking by it, back uphill. When I reached
the gray flagstone terrace in front of the library, I
crossed the road around the quad and walked on
one of the oddly angled paths past the freshman
dorms. At the end of the quad, I re-crossed the
road and descended the stairs that led to the
granite memorial at the edge of the hilltop. The
widening wedge of grass on the hillside made me
feel as if I were being sucked into empty space.
I looked across the void and stared at the dark
woods and distant mountains, standing for a long
time without conscious thought among the dead
names chiseled in the granite until I was finally
recalled to the present by the tolling of the
chapel bell, a sudden throbbing noise.
Dinnertime wasn’t long afterwards. We sat
at our table, ate and then smoked cigarettes and
drank coffee until we had to go back to the
House to hear the faculty representative.
He was an old guy. He wore a necktie and
a tweed sport jacket, and his pants were baggy
and uncreased at the knees. There weren’t
enough chairs in the living room, so most of us
had to sit on the floor to hear him speak.

533
 “It looks like kindergarten,” I said to Dods,
who laughed.
Everyone stared silently at the professor.
They leaned forward to hear what he would say; I
imagined that I could feel their desire for
something – or was I the only wanting one?
“Who is he?” I heard Bernstein ask behind
me.
“Kreisler,” Style’s voice said.
“Anthropology.”
“Hello, I’m Professor Kreisler from the
Department of Anthropology,” Kreisler
announced. “I recognize one or two of you, I
think.”
He seemed to be trying to smile.
“Not me,” Bernstein whispered.
“I want to talk to you about what’s
happening on campus. As we all know, a
political dispute has intruded into our community
and caused a lot of strong feelings. It’s easy to
lose perspective in situations like this. Society
always has controversies, and we have to deal
with that.”
Many of the people in the room looked
confused. I waited to hear what he would say
about the murders.
“Sometimes, it’s hard to prevent outside
events from affecting our lives, but we can’t lose
sight of why we are here. No matter what else is
going on, we have to remember that this is a
place dedicated to study and learning.”

534
 A few voices tried to interrupt, but they
were shushed by others.
“The College has to preserve its role as a
special place and not let outside forces affect its
mission.”
This was what he had come to tell us?
What he thought was most important? I stopped
listening and, instead, stared at his person: the
curve of his necktie over his fat belly, his
hunched shoulders, his pale skin, his grimace.
He didn’t want to be here; he belonged
somewhere else.
While I was looking at his shoes, which
were a dull brown with scratched toes and worn
heels, he stood.
“Please remember this,” he said, and
walked towards the door.
There was no discussion.
“Well golly,” Styles said behind me, “I feel a
whole lot better, don’t you? If someone tries to
kill me, I’ll just go in the library!”
“What the fuck was the point of that?”
someone in the crowd asked.
“He’s reminding us that we’re here to work
and warning us not to get carried away with this
strike stuff,” the Ox answered.
“Is there any beer?” Babs asked.
“Yeah,” a number of people said.
“Does the house have any money?”
“We can do that. Give me five minutes and
we’ll be on-tap,” Rozinsky said.

535
 

It ended quickly.
We walked together into the fieldhouse
wearing academic gowns and mortarboard hats
while a small orchestra played marching music.
Most of us also wore black armbands. The
fieldhouse had been turned into an auditorium
with rows of white plastic chairs in front of a
large newly constructed dais. The walls were
decorated with purple and white bunting and
there were flagpoles standing beside the
staircases at the front corners of the stage. An
audience of parents stared at us; my Father and
Aunt Doris were somewhere in the crowd. The
faculty entered last. They wore colored robes
with long hoods, some trimmed with fur, and odd-
shaped hats. After they all were sitting on the
dais, a fat man dressed in old-style pantaloons,
white stockings, a striped tunic and a
tricornered hat pounded the platform floor with
the butt of a long staff that had a huge gold
ornament on its other end, and he shouted in a
low powerful voice: “I declare these proceedings
to be open.”
One at a time we crossed the podium,
shook hands with the President and received our
diplomas. I switched the tassel to the left side
of my hat and smiled at him, but he didn’t see me

536
and I felt embarrassed (I had stolen something
from him).
There were strangers everywhere in the
house after the ceremony. They carried boxes
and furniture to their cars, talking and laughing
as if they were in their own homes. One by one, I
found Styles, Dods, Barton and the others. I told
Dods not to get killed and he said thanks. Barton
and I sang a few lines of the theme song from
The Glory Guys and laughed. I told Styles to
remember to wear shoes when he came to visit
me in civilization. We all said goodbye,
embraced and promised to see each other soon.
Everyone knew that wouldn’t happen, but saying
it made leaving easier.
My Father drove the car. Doris sat beside
him on the front seat and I sat behind her
squeezed against the door by a pile of cardboard
boxes that contained my stuff. The car went
across the intersection at the end of the town
green and down the hill, past the houses with
their iron fences, the separate garages that had
been carriage houses, and then the stadium. We
drove between the fields and passed the rotting
farm buildings.
“Well, you’ve done it,” Doris said. “Aren’t
you proud of yourself?”
“Uh huh,” I said.
“What are you thinking?”
“Nothing much.”
“You must be thinking about something.”

537
 “I guess I’m wondering about the draft.”
“You’re thinking about that now?”
“I have a high number, but I could get
drafted.”
We were all silent for a moment.
“If they call you, you’ll have to go,” my
Father said. “You won’t have a choice.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about that now,”
said Doris. “All I know is that you’ve really got it
made. When I think of the wonderful advantages
you’ve had and now you can do whatever you
want. I’m very proud of you.”
“Thank you,” I said.
The car crossed the bridge and reached the
highway.
“Think of it! No more school. It’s time to
join the real world, go out on your own and get a
job.”
“I know.”
“What do you think you’ll do? I hope you’ve
been thinking about that.”
“I’m thinking about it.’
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Well enjoy your success; you deserve it.
You’ll have time to decide when we get back to
the city. You’ll have lots of opportunities.”
“I know,” I said.

538
 The City
Aunt Doris opened the apartment door and
warm air with City smells came out of the foyer
into the elevator vestibule: the smells of a past
time, a different life. I went inside and walked
through the dark rooms aware of, but unwilling to
name, things I had cared about that were now
gone. When I got to my room, I stood and stared
at the dust motes floating in the sunlight that
shined between the slats of the window blinds.
“Come on. Let’s get these boxes and your
clothes inside and put everything away,” she
shouted from the foyer. “I want all of this stuff
put away properly before we do anything else.”
“Okay,” I answered, and walked back to the
elevator vestibule.
George had helped us bring the boxes and
my suitcase upstairs from the lobby while my
Father parked the car in the garage.
“Remember,” she said, “you’re not living in
a dormitory anymore. College is over. I don’t
want you behaving like a slob.”

539
 “I know,” I said.
It didn’t take much time to put my clothes
in drawers and in the closet. I found space for
my books on the bookshelves, rearranging them
until they looked right. I put my typewriter on a
shelf in the closet and closed the door “close the
closet door,” but then decided that it was okay to
put it on my desk, so I took it out of the closet
and carefully placed it on the desk blotter.
Would she make me move it? After I had put
everything away, I crushed the cardboard boxes
and carried them and my suitcase to the foyer. I
slid the suitcase into its space on the highest
shelf in one of the front closets and carried the
flattened boxes through the kitchen and out the
back door to where we left trash.
“Your Father is bringing back deli
sandwiches for dinner. He’s getting you a turkey
on rye; I hope that’s alright,” she said. She was
standing behind me.
“That’s fine,” I said, turning to face her.
“And I thought we could go out tomorrow
night for a celebration dinner. Would you like
that?”
“That would be great.”
“Maybe your Grandparents will join us.”
“Oh, good.”
“How does it feel to be a college
graduate?”
“Fine,” I said and smiled at her until she
decided to leave the kitchen.

540
 I walked back to my room and sat on the
radiator box under the window, resting my back
against the side of the bookcase. What could I
do? In a few days, I was going to visit Mick.
After that, I would think of something; there was
a lot of time. I would worry about it later.
It was almost dark outside. I pressed my
forehead against the window glass and watched
the cars and cabs and trucks pass on the avenue
below. A taxi stopped next to the end of the
awning over the entrance to the building across
the street and a uniformed doorman opened the
door so that a man and a woman could get in.
The cab drove away, to where? To a party or a
restaurant.
“Come on. Let’s set the table,” she said
from the hallway. “Your Father will be here any
minute.”
I followed her to the kitchen.
“We can eat in here,’ she said. “Get the
placemats.”
I set the table while she made a telephone
call: “Oh, he’s thinking about it,” I heard her say.
My Father returned as I was filling water
glasses.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi. I got you a turkey on rye. Is that
okay?”
“Sure. Did you get potato salad and
coleslaw?”
“Of course, and dill pickles.”

541
 “Oh, great.”
I unpacked the food and put the
sandwiches on plates.
“Who has corned beef?” I asked.
“I do,” my Father said.
“Put the potato salad and coleslaw in bowls
and take out some serving spoons while I make
coffee,” she told me.
In a few minutes, we were sitting at the
kitchen table and starting to eat. I spooned
potato salad onto my plate and put coleslaw on
top of the turkey in my sandwich.
“I bet you didn’t get anything like this at
college, did you?” she said.
“No,” I laughed, “but we did have a great
place to get grinders.”
“You’ll be happy to sleep in your own bed
tonight, too.”
“Uh huh,” I said, biting into the sandwich.
“So, what are you really thinking about
doing?” she asked me [interested, confidential].
“About what?” I answered.
“You know about what: about a job. What
else? It’s time to make a living and move out on
your own,” she was annoyed. “This is real life
now.”
“There’s also the draft. I have to think
about that too.” (“Because I could get killed –
that’s what else.”)
“Oh, that. Of course. But you don’t really
think you’ll be drafted, do you? Anyway, you’ll

542
just have to see what happens. But you should
be looking for a job.”
“I know,” I said, wishing she would stop
asking me about jobs.
“So, what are you thinking?”
After a pause, I said: “I guess I thought it
might be good to build things, you know, make
something.”
“That might be good.”
Her response made me feel a little
optimistic.
“I was thinking of applying to architecture
school,” I said.
“Oh, I don’t think there’s much money in
that, is there? Architecture? But there’s a lot of
money in real estate. That’s basically the same
thing.”
“I’m talking about designing things.”
“I saw Phyllis recently, and she said that
Stan has a good friend who’s a private developer
who buys investment property. That would be a
really good business, and he’s looking for a
young person to help. You could learn the
business.”
“That’s not what I was talking about,” I said
and stared at her.
“Okay,” my Father said, “why don’t we leave
this subject for a while? We just got back from
graduation.”
When we all had finished eating, she
poured coffee and I put the dishes in the

543
dishwasher.
“I don’t want any coffee, thanks,” I told her.
“I think I’m going to read in my room, if that’s
okay.”
I paused and then asked: “I had bronchitis
when I was a kid, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you had it a few times,” said Doris.
“You had to stay home from school. Why?”
“Did Dr. Allan ever say that I had asthmatic
bronchitis?”
“Oh, how could I remember a thing like
that? He said you had bronchitis. You could ask
him, but what do you want to know that for?”
“I was just wondering. He has records,
doesn’t he?”
“Of course he has records. You could
always ask him if that’s something you really
have to know.”
“Thanks. May I be excused? I want to go
read.”
“Sure. Go relax. You’ve earned it. Don’t
forget to say goodnight before you go to sleep.”
“I won’t. Thanks for dinner,” I said to my
Dad.
“You’re welcome,” he said, smiling.
I walked to my room, closed the door and
sat on the radiator box. I didn’t have to worry
about jobs or the draft right now, anyway. In a
few days, I would visit Mick. We would sit in his
living room and argue with his Father. His Father
didn’t mind, even though he was a professor.

544
 “Relying on oil from other countries limits
our energy supply and makes it vulnerable to
disruption.” said Mick’s Father.
“But nuclear reactors aren’t safe,” I said
forcefully. “People ignore the fact that eventually
one will leak or worse. It’s inevitable.”
I lit another cigarette. He smiled and drank
from his beer can.
“Give me a cigarette,” said Mick. “Do you
want another beer?”
“No, I’m good. Here.”
I handed him my cigarette pack and some
matches, and took a sip of my beer.
“When there’s a nuclear disaster, people
will have a different opinion of nuclear power,” I
added.
“Nuclear reactors have been very safe for
decades,” his Father said, “and they don’t
pollute.”
“Don’t pollute? What about the nuclear
waste?” I answered. “The waste is dangerous
forever.”
“I’m going to bed,” Mick’s Mother said. “You
know where you’re sleeping?” she asked me.
“Yes, thanks,” I answered.
“I’m sorry it’s so crowded in there.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I always sleep
great on that bed. I love sleeping there.”
“Well, okay. Goodnight. I’ll see you in the
morning”
“Goodnight,” we all said.

545
 

If they drafted people with my number, I

would have to have an army physical in the city,
and everyone knew that the City Processing
Center didn’t give medical deferments. To be
exempted from the draft there, you would have to
be missing an arm or a leg or be blind. They
didn’t pay a lot of attention to regulation details;
they wanted bodies.
I made an appointment to go to a
processing center in a town outside the city and,
on the morning of the appointment, very early so
that I couldn’t be late, rode there on a bus full of
sweating people in dingy clothes carrying old
suitcases, shopping bags and bundles wrapped
in paper that they pushed into the overhead rack.
Some already seemed to have decided to stand
in the aisle but there still were a couple of empty
seats on the bench at the very back of the bus
beside the toilet. I sat on one, holding my manila
envelope tightly with both hands and hoped that
the toilet didn’t stink and that a really fat person
didn’t sit next to me. Maybe the seat would stay
empty. (“Right you idiot.”). I tried to look large.
The person who sat on it was a short
skinny kid wearing greasy jeans and a t-shirt. He
had long dirty hair and a scar on his face that
went from the corner of his left eye down his
cheek and across the side of his nose to the top

546
of his lip. Mucus ran out of his nose in a stream
that he blotted continually with a dirty
handkerchief. He looked truly bad; I thought that
he probably had a switchblade or a razor knife in
his pocket. Would he demand money and
threaten me? On a bus filled with witnesses
(who would look away)? Maybe he would ignore
me. I sat very still, not touching him, my
shoulders tight, trying to be invisible (as if that
were possible).
“Where are you going?” he said to me. His
voice, I couldn’t help noticing, was weirdly
earnest; it was a nice voice. He smiled.
The driver started the engine beneath our
seats and the vibrations shook my spine.
“Oh, you know, to see some friends,” I lied,
smiling stiffly back at him. “Where are you
going?” I had to ask.
“I’m goin to see my sister. I haven’t seen
her in two years and I want to see her. Do you
have a sister?”
The cushion under my butt began to get
warmer.
“A sister? Naw, I don’t have a sister.” I
smiled, laughed a little, and started to sweat
large drops that ran down the sides of my face.
Was there a way to end the conversation?
Could I tell him that I had to stand because the
seat was too hot? Would that insult him? I
wished that I had brought a book so I could read
and he would have to talk to someone else. I

547
looked at the nearby people; none of them
seemed interested in knowing him.
“Yeah, my sister’s growin up. Who’s your
friends?” He wiped his upper lip.
“Just some people from school, you know,”
I continued to lie.
“Yeah. Did you go to school there?”
“No. Near there. Do you live there?”
“My Mom and sister. I ain’t finished school
yet, but I’m gonna. I’m gonna live with them.
They won’t draft me cuz of prison, so I’ll be able
to finish high school.”
“That’s really good.”
“Yeah, and I really want to get a job to give
my sister some money and help my Mom. Do you
have a job?”
“Not yet. But I’m looking.” I smiled at him
again.
“It’s hard to find a job, specially if you have
a record. You don’t have a record, do you?”
“No,” I said and laughed a little.
He wiped his nose with the rag and I wiped
my face with my shirtsleeve. A fat woman from
somewhere in the front of the bus squeezed past
the people in the aisle and went into the
bathroom. When she opened the bathroom door,
the stink of old pee filled my nose. I wondered if
he could smell it?
“You could always join up if you can’t find a
job,” he said. “If you don’t mind people shooting
at you. They pay good money. They’d pay for

548
college if you can go. It doesn’t scare me if
people shoot at me.”
“Yeah? No. I don’t want to get shot at.”
“A guy shot at me once. It didn’t scare
me.”
Sweat trickled from my armpits down my
sides and made dark stains in the starched
fabric of my shirt under my arms and at my
waist. He wiped his lip with the handkerchief.
Where were we? I looked out the bus window:
we were on the bridge over the river.
There was a flushing noise and the toilet
door opened. The fat woman came out into the
aisle followed by sewage stench. She tried to
shut the door behind her but it didn’t latch; it
started swinging back and forth as the bus
swayed on the road, fanning foul air in our
direction. No one nearby seemed to be willing to
do something about it.
“Can you reach that door and close it?” I
asked him, taking the risks of making a demand
and being in his debt.
He looked at me, then at the door.
“Yeah,” he said and, reaching across the
person on his right, who leaned as far as he
could away from us, slammed the door shut.
“Thanks,” I said.
He told me that his Mother was a waitress
and then he talked about his sister again: that
she was smart and could go to college in a few
years so she didn’t have to work in a diner, and

549
that she was a good girl and everyone liked her.
I listened and nodded. He didn’t mention his
Father. I let him talk, wanting not to say
anything and hoping that the trip would end soon
and that the people at the processing center
would follow the rules. What would I do if they
didn’t — something I had been trying not to think
about? I would just have to go.
“Do you think I should do it? Is this
stupid?” I asked my Father.
“I don’t know. You have to decide. If they
take you, you’ll just have to go.”
He had been in the Army; he had gone.
“I know someone who’ll kill people for you.”
“What?”
“I know a guy who’ll kill people for you if
you want.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. If you need someone killed they’ll
do it.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I don’t need anyone
killed.”
“Okay, but you can tell me if you do.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I will.”
The bus stopped at a traffic light and, when
the light turned green, made a right turn. A
minute or so later, we were at the bus station.
After the people in the aisle had gotten off, I
followed him to the front and down the stairs. He
paused on the sidewalk a few feet from the door.
Was he going to follow me? To stall, I lit a

550
cigarette and gave him one. I waited facing him,
inhaling smoke and diesel exhaust. Still, the hot
air felt fresher now that I wasn’t sitting on top of
the engine, trapped next to him and the toilet. I
felt safer, even though in my second mind I knew
that I might not be safe at all.
“Thanks,” he said with his earnest voice.
“Good luck, man.”
That was all. He turned and began to walk
away.
“You too,” I called after him, relieved and
meaning it.
He carried nothing.
I took a map of the city out of the manila
envelope and rotated it in my hands as I looked
for the name of a nearby street so I could orient
myself. After checking the map and looking at
the sign on the corner twice, I turned in the
direction that he had gone and began walking to
the processing center, which I knew wasn’t very
far from the station. I passed a couple of liquor
stores, a pizzeria and some stores with plywood
nailed over their windows, walking slowly
because I didn’t want to sweat more than I
already had (which was ridiculous); there was a
lot of time before I had to be there.
On the next block, I passed a pawn shop
and then an empty lot surrounded by a chain-link
fence. Despite the fence, the lot was covered
with piles of rubbish that lay among chunks of
broken concrete, pieces of steel rebar, shards of

551
glass and dozens of used bricks. At the corner I
stopped and checked the map once more, even
though I was sure now where I was. I made a
right turn, crossed the street without looking at
the traffic light and, about a half a block in front
of me, saw what had to be the processing center,
a one-story building behind a small parking lot. I
told myself to be calm, confident. I wouldn’t
allow them to think of ignoring the rules.
Inside the glass doors, a kid dressed in an
army uniform was sitting at a green steel desk
with nothing on it but a telephone. The Center
was air-conditioned so the air inside was cool
and dry.
“I’m here for a physical,” I said.
He looked at me without answering or
turning his head and pointed backwards with his
thumb at a door to his left. As I walked past him,
he continued to stare through the glass at the
empty street outside. He was stoned, I was sure.
Beyond the door there was a room with
rows of school desks – chairs with rudder-shaped
arms – facing a lectern. Taped to the front of a
table next to the lectern there was a hand-
written sign that said “FILL OUT FORM,” with an
arrow pointing up in the direction of a stack of
paper and some old pencils. Another sign on the
wall behind the table said, “NO SMOKING.”
Several people were already sitting silently,
waiting for whatever would happen.

552
 I took a form from the stack and, sitting on
one of the school chairs, used my pen to answer
a list of questions: name, address, date of birth,
citizenship, do you have a criminal record?
More people arrived, kids (townies). They
were dressed mostly in jeans, t-shirts and
sneakers and some wore baseball hats; one hat
had NAPA written on it, another green one had a
picture of a leaping stag embroidered over the
bill. There wasn’t a single black kid in the room.
Why did these kids want to join the army? They
didn’t look like people who thought the war was
right. They definitely weren’t like the
construction workers in the city who wore hard-
hats decorated with flag decals and t-shirts
printed with patriotic slogans; the people who
had been sent downtown to attack students
protesting the war.
They sat on stacks of cinder blocks next to
the sidewalk, eating sandwiches, drinking beer
from cans in wet paper bags and making loud
comments about the passersby only a few feet in
front of them.
“Hey baby. Nice tits. Come and sit in my
lap and I’ll give you something.”
“Look at that faggot. Are you a faggot,
sweetie? Kiss kiss.”
“Man look at that babe’s ass.”
“Listen up,” a loud voice said and I flinched.
A bulky sergeant was standing beside the
lectern.

553
 “Take a test paper and don’t look at the
questions until I tell you.”
We had to take a test? I wasn’t expecting
that. Would I be able to answer all the questions
or would I look like an idiot (because I was
supposed to be smarter than townies)?
“Put it face-down on the desk. You have 20
minutes to complete the test. There’s no talking
and don’t, I repeat, don’t let me catch any of you
looking at someone else’s paper. Everybody shut
up and wait for me to tell you to start.”
A skinny kid in a uniform handed out
pencils and mimeographed test papers. He gave
me a test and a pencil that had most of its
yellow skin chewed off. I put the test face-down
on the arm of my desk and watched the
sergeant, who was watching us. His chest
looked as if it would explode through the front of
his shirt. What kind of questions did you have to
answer to get into the army? (“Do you like dope?
Do you know anybody who will kill people?”).
“Write your name on the front,” the
sergeant said with a voice that made my desk
vibrate.
How could I do that without turning over
the test?
“Okay, everybody, start. You have 20
minutes. Keep your eyes on your own paper.”
I turned the test over and wrote my name
on it. Then I started to read the questions:

554
 Circle the one best answer. A hammer is
least like: 1. a screwdriver; 2. a comb; 3. a file; 4.
a drill.
(“You must be fucking kidding.”)
It only took me a few minutes to answer all
the questions. I thought about checking my
answers, which made me almost laugh. Instead,
I put my pencil on the desk and waited for
everyone else to finish.
“What are you doing?” His voice boomed
from a few feet in front of me. “Finish the test.
No fooling around.”
“I did finish. I finished,” I said in a quiet,
unconfident voice.
He stared at me for a second as if I were
lying, then took several large steps toward me
and grabbed the paper. I waited while he turned
the pages.
After a moment, he said, “Okay.”
“You could be a typist,” he added, and put
the test back on the desk.
“Oh?” I responded, not knowing anything
else to say.
I sat trying not to look at anyone, trying not
to think about anything, until he bellowed,
“Times up. Put your pencils down. Now! All of
you.”
There was the sound of paper being
shuffled. A guy near me dropped his test on the
floor and picked it up.

555
 “Take out your IDs,” the sergeant growled.
“Bring your form, your test and your ID and line
up by the wall.”
My heart started to beat faster.
(“Just act like you know the rules. You do
know the rules and they have to obey them.”)
I took my birth certificate out of the manila
envelope, and, holding the envelope and the
other papers, waited in line.
In the next room, there were several
soldiers and an older guy wearing a white coat
standing behind a row of tables. It seemed
darker there than in the school room, even
though both were windowless and had
fluorescent lights.
A soldier recorded my height and weight on
a new form that he gave me to carry. We had
vision tests and then one at a time we sat in a
booth wearing earphones so they could test our
hearing. The soldier who took my pulse and
blood pressure didn’t seem to notice that I was
having a heart attack, or he noticed but didn’t
care because he knew they were going to send
all of us to basic training regardless of the
medical problems we had.
(“Not if I die here first.”)
Finally, I stood in front of the Doctor. I
quickly pulled the copies of Dr. Allan’s medical
notes out of the manila envelope and put them
on his desk.
“What’s that?” he asked me.

556
 “Medical notes,” I answered.
“What for? What do you want me to do with
them?”
My intestines rolled around inside my belly.
(“Just take them and read them, asshole.”)
Nearby people stopped what they were
doing and watched us.
“They’re about my asthma,” I told him.
(“Which I don’t have.”)
He took the notes and read them. He
looked at the signature and read them again.
“But this means you’re ineligible. You can’t
enlist.”
He sounded confused.
“Yeah, I know.”
He frowned at me for a second, then he
wrote something on the form with my medical
results and told a short soldier who was standing
behind him to take me and my paperwork back to
the office. I couldn’t stop myself from grinning.
Four soldiers were sitting at desks in the
office, typing. They didn’t look at us when we
entered. I noticed that the light had become
much brighter again.
“You can sit in that chair,” the short soldier
told me, pointing at an empty desk chair. “It
won’t be long.”
He sounded friendly.
“Do you want a Coke and maybe a
sandwich?” he asked me. “We have ham.”

557
 “Sure. Thanks.” I smiled, surprised by his
offer and suddenly noticing that I was very
hungry.
“Hey guys,” he told everyone in the room,
“this guy just got himself out.”
That made them all stop typing and turn
their heads in our direction.
“What?” one of them asked.
“Yeah. He brought a medical excuse and
the Doc made him 4F.”
Suddenly, all four of them started talking at
once.
“Good going,” one of them said to me,
grinning.
“Nice move.”
“Yeah, congratulations.”
“Thanks,” I said.



Lou, Barry and their secretary, Mrs. Rosen,

shared an office in the corner of space rented by
a real-estate management company. The
management-company office was mostly an
undivided windowless room filled with rows of
gray steel desks. Lou and Barry had a separate
business buying suburban apartment complexes
with money from rich investors, including the
owner of the real-estate company. After buying
the apartments, they managed them. For
arranging a deal, they received an ownership

558
share and, for managing the properties, they
received fees.
Barry did most of the work. Even though he
was a young guy, much younger than Lou, he was
the one who made most of the practical
decisions, it seemed. Barry was funny and
sarcastic. He thought that paying to go to a
liberal-arts college was a waste of money; he
had studied business at a state university.
“Whadya get outta that?” he said to me
frequently about my degree. My answers were
always vague and a little stupid. They made him
laugh, but I felt superior to him anyway, which he
knew. I liked Barry.
Lou was the one who knew the investors,
or that’s what I thought. He was a large man
who liked practical jokes. Barry told me that Lou
wore thermal underwear when it was cold
outside so that he didn’t have to wear an
overcoat. During the winter, he took business
contacts for long walks around the city,
supposedly to look at buildings. I liked him too.
I sat at a desk near the door to their office
and reviewed the rent reports. This time, it also
was my job to call the people who were in
arrears and ask them when they were going to
pay. As I called, I made notes on the report and
afterwards returned it to Barry.
“Do you think you can talk to the tenants
without pissing them off?” Barry had asked me.
“We need them to pay, but I don’t want to give

559
them the feeling that we’re harassing them.”
“Sure. I’ll just pretend that I’m you, I mean
in my head, and say what I think you’d say.”
“Very funny. Don’t pull any bullshit with
them,” Barry said, “and don’t screw up. The rent
pays the bills.”
“I won’t,” I said.
Barry mostly concentrated on business, but
he liked to talk. He always had something to say
to me when I was in his office.
“After we pay down the mortgages,” Barry
told me, “we’ll refinance the properties and use
the money to buy more buildings. When I started
a few years ago I had nothing; I wasn’t a rich kid
[like you]. Now I have a business, a nice house
and a wife and two kids.” He grinned at me:
“Stick with us and maybe you’ll be a partner in
our next deal.”
“That’s great. Thanks. I really mean it, but
I’m just not sure what I want to do,” I told him.
“Don’t be a schmuck. What else are you
gunna do? Spend money on another degree?
You want to get married, don’t you? If
opportunity knocks, open the door.”
When I wasn’t calling tenants or doing
errands for Lou and Barry, I sat at my desk and
studied the Shaw alphabet. The letters made
words that looked ancient and mysterious. I
thought it would be fun to be able to write like
that. Besides, I couldn’t read at work and there
wasn’t much else to do.

560
 Every day at five o’clock I left the office
and rode the uptown bus among a horde of
shoppers and office workers. After paying my
fare, I pushed as politely as I could through the
crowd and stood near the rear door, trying not to
rub against other passengers who tried not to
rub against me as the bus stopped and started
and maneuvered through the traffic. I looked at
them. We were all the same, but were we the
same? Together, we lurched from side to side,
standing and holding the smooth steel handles or
sitting on the blue plastic seats. We wore the
same kinds of clothes and displayed the same
nothing expressions after spending our days
doing the same sorts of things. We all waited
silently for the bus to arrive at our stops. Did we
wait hopefully? What would we do when we
reached our destinations? What were our
destinations? Did we choose them?
“No more school. It’s time to join the real
world.”
Was this, then, my real life?
Instead of taking another bus across town,
I walked east to the apartment I rented from
people Aunt Doris knew: the daughter and son-in-
law of one of her friends. They recently had
moved out of the city but had left a lot of their
stuff in the apartment: old furniture and even
some of their clothes. First, I walked past
apartment houses with awnings and uniformed
doormen. Lining the streets between the

561
avenues, there were stone townhouses with
ornate metal grills covering tall windows. Then,
after a few blocks, the buildings abruptly
changed to brownstone apartments with garbage
cans sitting on the sidewalk beside their
entrances. There were small stores: places that
fixed vacuum cleaners, places that sold old
clothes, a cheese shop.
The apartment was half of the first floor of
a brownstone building near the river. I opened
the door and turned on the light in the entryway,
a tiny space next to a closet-like kitchen. There
was a bathroom behind the kitchen and, behind
that, a living room and then a small bedroom that
was even narrower than the living room. The
apartment was just a long divided corridor. In
the bedroom and at the back of the living room
next to the bedroom, there were windows
covered by rusty steel gates to keep out
burglars.
I took off my work clothes, put on a t-shirt
and a pair of jeans and then went into the
kitchen to search for food. In one of the
cabinets, I found a can of tuna fish and opened
it. I used the lid to compress the tuna and let
the oil drip into the sink. Then I forked the tuna
onto a plate. The heel of a loaf of bread I had
bought the day before was in a bag on the
counter. I put that on the plate too and took the
food into the living room. Even after I had turned
on the lamp next to the sofa, the room was dark;

562
the apartment was always dark. I sat on the
sofa in the twilight and ate the tuna and stale
bread. While I was eating, the telephone rang. I
picked up the receiver:
“Hello,” I said.
“Oh. You’re home.”
It was Doris.
“Uh huh. I’m home.”
“How are you?”
“Fine,” I answered. “How are you?”
“Fine. How was work?”
“It was fine.”
(She really didn’t want to know.)
“I called to see if you’d like to eat dinner
with your grandparents and Aunt Joan and Uncle
Phil?”
“Thanks, but I’ve already eaten, and I have
something to do later,” I lied.
“Oh? A hot date?”
“No. But thanks for the invitation.”
Would she ask more hot-date questions?
“Because there’s some big news,” she said.
“Oh? What?”
“Your cousin Kate is getting married. I
guess I’m going to have to find a dress.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Well you could be a little more excited
than that.”
“It’s great, but It’s not a surprise,” I said. “I
mean, they’ve been going out together for a long
time. Unless she’s marrying someone else?”

563
 “Ha ha, very funny. (Did she really think
so?) Well you should call and congratulate her
and Aunt Joan and Uncle Phil. He’s a medical
student,” she added.
“I know,” I said. “He’s my college
classmate.”
“Yes, I know. You’re sure you can’t eat with
us?”
“I’ve already eaten and I have something to
do,” I repeated. (Does she hear me?)
“What are you doing?”
“I’m meeting a friend,” I continued to lie.
“For what?”
“I don’t know. Something. Maybe we’ll rob
a bank.”
“Don’t be smart. I’ve a right to ask what
you’re doing. I’m concerned about you. You
should be meeting girls and going out on dates.”
“I am going out on dates,” I lied again, “just
not tonight. Tonight, I’m thinking of robbing a
bank.”
“You’re very funny. Always a comedian.
Well, you’re going to miss a good meal.”
“Thanks. Enjoy dinner. Congratulate them
for me.”
“Okay but don’t forget to call too.”
“I won’t. Bye.”
“Bye. Love you.”
I hung up the phone.
“Yes, he’s a medical student,” I continued
talking, now to the empty room, “Did you know

564
that he’s going to be a doctor? Why, yes, dumb
as I am, I have noticed that medical students
become doctors, but thanks a lot for reminding
me.”
“Unlike you,” I continued to hiss in a
whisper, “they’ve taken advantage of all the
wonderful opportunities they’ve been given.
They behave properly and appreciate what’s
been done for them. [They aren’t an
embarrassment.] And now, they’re getting
married.”
“Why don’t you give some girl a chance
instead of sitting around in your apartment.
Don’t you want to meet a girl and get married
like other people? You know what I think? I
think you’re a fairy.”
My mouth opened, but made no words. I
was a fairy? Did I act like a fairy? Was I a fairy?
If she said that again, I decided, I would kill her.
I sat on the sofa and stared at the dark
room (a vacuum) for unmeasurable minutes.
While I sat there, the guy who lived in the
apartment on the other side of the wall came
home. There was some banging of doors and
then the music started: loud rock and roll that
might have been playing in my apartment, always
the same songs. “Well I followed her to the
station, with a suitcase in my hand…” He was a
big guy, huge. He regularly threw glasses or
bottles and furniture against the wall. A few
nights a week I was woken by his girlfriend’s

565
shrieks. I would lie in bed with a pillow clutched
over my head waiting for something to crash
through the wall, or for him to kill her. As I lay
there, I would think that I should call the police,
but I never did because (I was a coward) I knew,
if I did, I wouldn’t be able to walk in or out of the
building safely again. I had asked him once not
to play loud music at night; could I ask him
again? While I thought about this the phone
rang.
When I answered it, everything around me
suddenly became quiet except for the sound of
her voice:
“Rick?”
“Hi,” I say.
I tried to control my breathing.
“How are you?” she asks.
“I’m fine. How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“How are your folks?”
“Oh, they’re good, thanks. How’s your
Aunt?”
“She’s okay.”
Two seconds of silence.
“I was wondering, do you have a bike?” she
asks me.
“Yes, I do. I actually bought one last
month.” I looked at the bike leaning against the
wall in front of the window.
“What do you want that for? I think you
should be saving money instead of throwing it

566
away on a silly thing like that.”
“Do you like to ride?” I asked her. “I didn’t
know you liked to bike ride.”
“Yes. I was wondering if you could go for a
bike ride this weekend?”
“With you? That would be great. I’d really
like that. Which day do you want to go?”
“Can you go Saturday?”
“Sure. Sure I can go. Saturday’s fine. Do
you want me to come to your house? I could ride
over there.”
“Why don’t we meet at 1:00 on the corner in
front of my house? Is that okay?”
“Sure. That’s fine. I can do that.”
“Okay, I’ll see you then.”
“I’ll see you then. Thanks.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”



It didn’t rain. The sky was a beautiful blue,

the air warm but not humid. I arrived early at
the corner near the entrance to her apartment
building and stood watching the door, waiting.
Within minutes, she appears. She is
wearing jeans and an oxford-cloth shirt with a
button-down collar. I’ve never seen her in
clothes like these before. She rolls her bike, a
man’s bike, toward me and smiles. I smile.
“Hi,” she says and I say, “Hi” too.

567
 We both behave as if we have seen each
other recently.
“What do you want to do?” she asks me.
“We should go over to the park. Isn’t that
what you were thinking?”
“Sure.”
“We can ride there and then figure out
which way we want to go. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Should I go first?”
“Go ahead.”
“Watch out for pot holes. There’s a lot of
pot holes.”
I stand with one leg on either side of the
top tube and wait for the traffic light at the
corner to turn green. When it does, I start
pedaling, first standing for a few seconds, then
sitting. I look quickly behind me: she is there.
The street surface is cratered and there is
debris, including broken glass, in places. I am
afraid that one of us will get a flat tire and I go
slowly, carefully picking a route, staying as close
to the parked cars as possible.
“Wow. The street is a mess,” I say over my
shoulder. Don’t get a flat tire.”
“I’ll be okay,” she says.
I want to go fast, to ride without worry, (to
be beside her, with her, and to think only of that).
“But it’s a beautiful day,” I say.
“Yes,” she answers.
Cabs, cars and trucks pass, forcing us

568
toward the curb. The bike wobbles as I steer
away from them and then back to avoid parked
cars and holes in the pavement. I look quickly
over my shoulder again. She is close behind me
and smiles. (She is unafraid.) We are forced to
stop twice and wait at red lights, but she doesn’t
speak, we don’t talk.
Then we enter the park and before us there
is a wide and nearly empty path that winds
among the trees. I slow for a second and she
rolls up beside me, smiling. I smile at her. We
ride together, go faster, weaving easily among
the few obstacles before us, the pavement now
smooth. She begins to speak and I listen to the
sound of her voice and her laugh. The trees are
in bloom: clouds of pink blossoms cover their
branches, loose petals litter the ground beneath
them. The petals decorate park benches where
old couples and women with baby carriages sit.
We glide past them through the mild air.
At the end of a broad avenue, a man sells
ice cream.
“Let’s get ice cream,” I say.
We stop and stand close to each other,
eating vanilla ice-cream bars covered by thin
chocolate shells, and then we ride again.
“It’s getting late,” she says.
“Are you tired?” I ask.
“A little. Not really, but I have to get back.”
“Why? Let’s keep going a little longer.”
“No. I have to get back,” she says.

569
 I want to say that we have just gotten here,
but it is late afternoon.
We leave the park where we entered and
pedal slowly through side streets to her
apartment building. At the corner, we dismount
and stand facing each other, holding our bikes.
“Thanks,” she says. “I had a great time.”
“Me too,” I say.
I add quickly, “Why don’t we eat dinner and
then maybe we could go to a movie? Let’s do
that.” (like in the beginning.)
“No I can’t,” she says.
“Why not? You can go upstairs and change
and then I can come back and pick you up. Or
we can just leave our bikes and go now.”
As I speak, her presence fills my senses
and I have the intense desire to embrace her, to
feel her enclosed in my arms, her cheek touching
my cheek, (for her to be mine and part of me).
“I can’t,” she says and I know she is seeing
someone else.
“Call me,” she says.



I yawned and looked at my watch: it was

almost time to leave.
“Hey,” Barry shouted from his office, “come
in here a second.”
Now?
“Coming,” I shouted back.

570
 I massaged my eyes with the heels of my
hands, covered the paper on my desk with a rent
report, then stood and went into his office. Mrs.
Rosen was talking on the phone, making notes
on a yellow legal pad and smoking. Lou wasn’t
there. I sat on one of the chairs against the wall
facing the end of Barry’s desk.
“You got a cigarette?” he asked.
I handed him a cigarette, took one for
myself and lit them both with the lighter he had
given me: a rounded rectangle of silver
embossed with a pattern of leaves.
“I’m gonna quit smoking,” he said. “You
should too.”
I thought of Grandma Kay’s cough.
“I guess,” I said, stifling another yawn.
If I quit smoking, then I wouldn’t have any
use for the lighter and I liked the lighter; it was
beautiful. I liked having it, feeling its weight in
my hand, sliding my thumb over the edges and
smooth undulations of its surface.
He was about to say something else when
his phone rang. He swiveled his seat towards
the wall and answered it.
“Is it fixed?” he asked.
It had to be Lester.
“Schmuck, they have to fix it by tonight. I
can’t have a whole building without hot water for
24 hours. By tonight! Tell them if it’s not fixed
I’ll rip up the contract and find someone else. Do

571
I have to fly down there and do it myself? Do you
want to find a new job?”
He hung up the phone without saying
goodbye.
“What am I going to do with that jerk? I
should fire him,” he said to me.
I smiled.
He was sitting surrounded, as always, by
stacks of documents, which reminded me of
Jerry, but Barry wasn’t like Jerry. He picked up
a large manila envelope from the middle of his
desk blotter.
“Do you think you can borrow your Father’s
car tonight?” he asked me.
“Maybe. Why?” I asked, sure that I knew
the reason.
“Because we have more contracts that
have to be delivered to the insurance
underwriter by tomorrow. The same place you
went a few weeks ago.”
“I have to drive all the way up there again?
Now?”
“I hate to make you do it, but it’s
important.”
“I couldn’t have done it earlier?”
“Do you have something else to do?”
“No. Eat. Okay. Let me ask.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. We’ll be fucked if
we don’t get this to them on time.”
“I’ll ask.”

572
 I went back to my desk and called the
apartment. After three rings, Aunt Doris picked
up the receiver and said hello.
“Hi,” I said, “how are you?”
“What’s wrong?” she said.
“Nothing’s wrong. I called to ask if I can
borrow the car. You don’t need it, do you?”
I knew she didn’t.
“Why? What do you want if for?”
“They need me to deliver some documents
to an insurance company before tomorrow. The
only way to get them there is to drive. Like I did
before.”
“Well, I guess so. When will you be back?”
“I don’t know. Probably ten or so.”
“Okay, but call me when you get back.
You’ll have to let the garage know you’re
coming.”
“I know. Thanks,” I said, “thanks a lot.”
“Don’t forget to call me. I don’t want to
worry.”
“I won’t. Thanks.”
I clicked the button on the base of the
phone to switch lines and dialed the garage
number.
“Yeah, garage,” someone answered.
“Hi,” I said. “Can you have the Frank car
ready in about 45 minutes?”
“Who?”
“Frank.”
“Frank? Okay. See ya in 45.”

573
 I walked back to Barry’s office.
“I can do it. Let me have the package so I
can leave now.”
“Great. Thanks.”
He didn’t touch the envelope.
“Do you mind dropping me off on the way?”
he asked me. “My car is at the train station.”
“Where? Oh right. I guess I can. Are you
ready to go?”
“Yeah. Just let me get my jacket and my
case.”
I went back to my desk and put on my sport
jacket. Was there anything else I needed to do?
No. Barry walked out of his office and met me in
front of the elevator. He pushed the down
button.
“Where’s the package?” I asked him.
“Huh? In my case,” he answered. “I have
it, don’t worry.”
“You were the one who worried that I would
lose it last time.”
He hailed a cab in front of the building
entrance and we got in. The cab ride took about
20 minutes (faster than going by bus). Barry
didn’t talk while we were on the way so I looked
at the people rushing from place to place on the
sidewalk. Ants, I thought. Rich ants. Poor ants.
All ants. Why did they do it? Because they
needed something, wanted something. Was that
bad? It was bad if, like ants, they couldn’t
choose. It was bad if they did it because of fear.

574
 When we reached the garage, even though
we were early, the car was parked beside the
office next to the entrance. Barry paid the cab
fare and I went into the office.
“I’m here. Thanks,” I told the guy sitting at
the desk.
“Does your Aunt know you’re taking it?” he
asked me.
“Yeah, she knows.”
“Okay,” he said. “Key’s in the ignition.”
I got in the car on the driver’s side and
adjusted the seat and the rear-view mirror while
Barry put his briefcase on the back seat and
then got in the car next to me.
“You won’t be back too late,” he said as I
started the engine, “but take your time coming in
tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I said.
There was a lot of traffic, but I was able to
drive fairly fast once we reached the highway.
Barry looked at his watch.
“I have to be home soon for a camp thing,”
he told me. “They’re having some kind of talent
show.”
“Oh?” I said.
“Little kids. Day camp, so they do it early.
Screws up the whole day.”
“Right,” I laughed.
“What deal are the documents for?” I asked
him.
“Cluster housing. Next to the last one.”

575
 “Who’s going to manage it?”
“Lester. He can do both.”
“I thought you were thinking of firing him.”
“I just like to bust his balls. I’d never fire
him. He’s my cousin.”
“He’s your cousin?”
“Yeah.”
“But he’s a lot older than you.”
“Yeah, he’s my older cousin.”
“I mean, does he mind that you boss him
around?”
“I don’t know. He needs to eat so he better
not mind too much. He’s lucky he has the job.”
The train station was next to the highway.
Barry told me where he had parked his car and I
stopped behind it. He got out, left the passenger
door open and took his briefcase off the back
seat. I expected him to hand me the manila
envelope, but instead he gripped the door, leaned
forward and looked at me, grinning.
“That’s it,” he said. “You can go back.”
“What? What do you mean?” I said, (like a
dope). “To the city?”
“There’s no package,” he said still grinning,
almost laughing, “nothing to go to the insurance
company.”
A boiling feeling began to surge through my
body.
“What are you telling me Barry? That you
just used me to give you a ride home?”

576
 “The trains are delayed. There was an
accident and Beth would be pissed if I was late.”
“Then why the fuck didn’t you just tell me
that and ask for a ride?” I yelled at him through
the doorway, my hands strangling the steering
wheel, my shoulders shaking.
“Don’t get all bent out of shape. It’s the
same difference.”
“No it isn’t asshole. The difference is I
quit.”
“Oh, come on. Have a sense of humor.”
“You may think it’s funny, but I don’t. Close
the fucking door. I’ll pick up my stuff tomorrow.”
“Come on, don’t quit for a thing like this.
You don’t mean it.”
“Let go of the car door.”
“Take the day off. Think it over after you
calm down.”
I took my foot off the brake and let the car
roll, which made him step backwards and pull
the door nearly shut.
“Goodbye Barry,” I yelled and pressed my
foot down hard on the accelerator for a couple of
seconds, then braked and skidded to a stop. I
reached to my right, slammed the passenger
door shut and accelerated again, making the
tires screech on the asphalt.
“I’m not fucking Lester you piece of shit,” I
yelled at the empty passenger seat. “You think
that’s funny? To screw someone that’s helping
you? You think Lou will think that’s funny. (What

577
would he say?) Do you do shit like that to Lou?
Beth would be pissed; that’s your excuse? Oh,
Beth will be pissed so I’ll have to fuck you over.”
I entered the highway going very fast and
started to pass a tractor trailer that was in the
middle lane, but as I overtook it, I saw a police
car next to it in the left lane and quickly braked.
I let the truck pass me, then gradually moved
behind it into the middle lane. I couldn’t see the
cop anymore; I was sure that he had gone around
the truck to catch me. Carefully, I steered into
the left lane: no police car. I sped up a little,
passed the truck and moved into the middle lane
in front of it. A few seconds later, the cop
passed me, again in the left lane; he had chased
me in a circle around the tractor trailer without
even seeing me.
I laughed like a maniac.
“Fuck you all,” I shouted. “Fuck every one
of you.”
“Be careful you asshole,” I told myself.
I turned on the radio and kept changing the
station until I found one that played weird songs
with lyrics in some foreign language. Then I
raised the volume until the sound made my ears
hurt and turned the radio off.
“She never uses the radio, asshole,” I
reminded myself.
Still, sometime she might. I lit a cigarette.
After returning the car to the garage, I
walked back to the apartment instead of taking a

578
bus. The air was cooler than it had been during
the past week. The days were getting shorter.
The Fall was coming.
It was dark when I entered the building and
unlocked the apartment door. No sound came
from the other side of the wall.
“Maybe he’s killed her,” I said very quietly.
After turning on the light in the living room,
I lit a cigarette and stood looking at the
telephone.
“This’ll be fun.”
I picked up the receiver and dialed her
phone number.
“Hello-oh.”
“Hi,” I said. “I’m back.”
“That was quick. Is everything okay?”
“Well, I didn’t get killed or crash the car. Or
get a ticket.”
“I’m certainly glad to hear it,” she said.
That was her being humorous.
“If you get a ticket or have an accident the
insurance will go up,” she told me.
“Well then I better get killed instead.”
“Don’t talk like that. It’s not funny. I’m
glad everything went well.”
“Not completely. I quit,” I told her.
“What do you mean, you quit? What are you
talking about?”
“I quit. Barry lied about having documents
to go to the insurance company.”
“And you quit your job?”

579
 “Yes.”
“But why? Why would you do something
like that?”
“He didn’t have anything to deliver. He lied
to get me to give him a ride home.”
“A ride home?”
“Barry asked me to drop him off because
his house is on the way to the insurance
company, but there was nothing to take to the
insurance company. He just wanted a ride home
because the trains are delayed.”
“Oh! That’s terrible!”
“So I quit.”
“But isn’t there something else you can do?
Do you have to quit?”
“What else? I’m not working for him after
that.”
“What will I tell Phyllis? Stan just helped
get you that job.”
“I don’t know.”
“What are you going to do? You need a job.
That was such a wonderful opportunity. Can’t
you think of some other way?”
“There’s no other way. I’m not letting him
do stuff like that to me.”
“Well you could just tell him that.”
I didn’t answer.
“What are you going to do? How are you
going to support yourself? I can’t support you.”
“I can drive a cab while I figure it out.”

580
 “You’re going to be a cab driver? Is that the
way you plan on using your education? After all
the wonderful opportunities you’ve had, you’re
going to drive a cab? How are you going to
support a wife?”
“I’m not talking about forever. I’m talking
about until I know what to do next.”
“I don’t know. That’s not safe. I don’t like
that idea. I don’t want you doing that.”
“It’s safe.”
“What am I going to tell people? A cab
driver!”
“A lot of people drive cabs, a lot of
students.”
“I’m sorry. I think you can find another
way. I don’t like this.”
“Well there is no other way.”
“Why don’t you think about it.”
“I’m going to go and find something to eat.”
“Please talk to your Father.”
“Okay. Bye.”



The late shift started at 4:00 in the

afternoon. As day drivers returned to the garage,
their cabs were refueled and parked in a line at
the curb outside the entrance. The drivers went
into a small waiting room where a manager, who
sat behind a barred window in the wall, collected
their money and inspected their trip cards. After

581
he had tallied the fares and counted the cash, he
reassigned the cars to waiting drivers from the
next shift.
Only one of the vets was in the waiting
room when I arrived: a guy who, like the others,
had been drafted and sent to the war after
leaving school. He had just picked up a trip card.
“How ya doin, man?” he said to me when I
walked into the waiting room.
“Okay,” I said. “How’re you?”
“I’m good. See ya later?”
“Yeah, see ya later” I answered. “Have a
good night,”
I waited at the end of a line of drivers to
get my card. While I waited, I watched the
manager, who sucked on an unlit cigar butt; he
must have learned how to do his job by watching
people in the movies act like creeps.
“You have to tip him when you turn in the
take or he’ll make you wait till last and give you
a shitty cab,” the vet told me. “Give him five
bucks.”
“You mean I have to pay him to let me
work?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not bribing him. That’s not right.”
“You’re gonna be spending a lot of time
standing here if you don’t.”
“I don’t care. I’m not bribing that asshole.”
It took the manager less than a week to
make me pay him. Whenever I stood at the

582
window, he smiled because he had beaten me,
shown me that I was just like the others (that my
principles were bullshit).
When I reached the front of the line, the
manager grinned and handed me a trip card and
a car key. I went outside and found the cab
about fifty feet from the garage entrance,
opened the front door and, before getting in,
pressed my palm down on the driver’s seat. Fat
asses bouncing up and down on the seats day
and night eventually made the springs inside
poke through the surface padding. Even though I
didn’t feel anything sharp, I took a folding
cushion out of the airline bag I carried, opened it
and put it on the seat. Then I sat on the cushion
and shut the car door. Once I was locked inside
the cab, I took my change dispenser out of the
bag and slid its metal cleats into holes that
someone had made in the dashboard. I put the
card on my clipboard and wrote the car’s
mileage on it with a pencil. Then I took my
transistor radio out of the bag, extended the
antenna and wedged its end under the window
handle to the right of the passenger seat. I slid
my hack license, which displayed my name,
number and mug shot, into the holder mounted
on the front of the dashboard, wound the clock in
the meter, and, finally, started the car. It seemed
to run okay. I put it in-gear, steered it into the
street and began to drive towards the office
buildings in the center of the city.

583
 Before I had gone three blocks, I spotted a
man in a dark suit standing on the street side of
the parked cars, waving an arm in the air. I
stopped the cab next to him and unlocked the
back door so he could get in.
“Hi,” I said. “Where can I take you?”
He wanted to go to an uptown address. As
he closed the door, I turned on the meter.
“I need to be there in less than 15 minutes,”
he said.
“There’s gunna be a lot of traffic. I don’t
think we can get there in 15 minutes but I’ll try,”
I told him.
“Just hurry up,” he said.
At the corner I began to make a left turn.
“Don’t turn,” he commanded.
“It’ll take longer if I go across here.”
“Go straight. I’ll tell you when to turn.”
“Okay,” I said. (“The traffic is your problem
now, asshole.”)
I drove across the intersection and another
twenty yards before I had to stop. The back of a
van prevented me from seeing the street ahead,
but the traffic probably was blocked by a double-
parked delivery truck. While we waited, I wrote
the time and place where I had picked him up on
the trip card. I could hear him moving restlessly
on the seat behind me and, despite the fact that
he had chosen the route, my stomach muscles
contracted and I tried (not) to will the cab
forward. As I looked at the back of the van, I

584
listened to the clock ticking in the meter and the
crunching sound of the fare changing. The
longer we waited, the quicker the minutes
seemed to pass.
“Why don’t they make these damn trucks
stay out of here when people are trying to get
places,” he said.
Finally, the traffic began to move. The
cause of the delay was a hole in the street made
by repairmen from the power company. I
followed the van slowly past the hole to the next
intersection and, after several stops and starts,
to the one after that.
“Turn,” he commanded.
I turned left into an open lane, but had to
stop at the next intersection because of a red
traffic light. Pedestrians scurried across the
avenue in front of the cab while cars and trucks
sped past them on the street. People seemed to
notice their surroundings only as obstacles,
pursuing their paths with mechanical
determination. Did each of them think that his
was the only reality, the only right way to live?
I delivered the guy to his destination in just
over 15 minutes. He paid me and gave me an
average tip without saying anything but, “here.”
After he had gotten out of the cab, I wrote the
time, the address and the fare on the trip card.
Then I turned on the transistor radio; it was
tuned to a program about the war. I didn’t
change the station; I just adjusted the volume

585
and the position of the antenna, lit a cigarette
and started driving back downtown.
Within less than a minute, I picked up two
new passengers in front of an apartment house:
women who wanted to go to a restaurant in a
hotel south of the park.
“Please turn the radio off, driver,” one of the
women said to me and then, to her friend, “I
haven’t had a chance to ask you: how was the
march?”
“The strike, you mean? It was very
powerful. Very powerful. I’m sorry you didn’t
go.”
“I wish I could have, but I had so much to
do. It said in the paper that a lot of people
went.”
“Thousands. So many women that we
blocked the street.”
“Wonderful.”
“That many people supporting women’s
rights have to be heard.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the
sound of sirens. I looked in the rearview mirror
and saw two firetrucks about a block behind me,
so I slowed the cab, steered it to the right and
waited for them to pass. As soon as they had
gone by, I accelerated quickly back to the left
and followed in the empty space behind them,
which let me go faster for about half a block.
“Driver, do you think you can be a little
more careful?” one of the women said to me.

586
 “I’m careful,” I answered. “There’s a lot of
traffic.”
“That’s not what I mean. Please don’t go
so fast.”
“Okay,” I agreed disingenuously.
After leaving them at the restaurant, I
picked up a man who wanted to be driven farther
downtown. When he told me the address, I
realized that letting him in the cab had been a
stupid mistake.
“Are you okay?” I asked him.
“Shure um fine,” he answered as he rocked
from side to side on the seat.
“Well, if you feel sick, let me know and I’ll
pull over.”
“Um fine. Jus drive.”
I decided that I had no choice but to take
him where he wanted to go and hope that he
didn’t vomit.
“Wha’re you? A hippy?” he asked me as if
he were accusing me of being mentally deficient.
“No, I don’t think so,” I answered.
“No? Don care abow peas n love?”
“Peace and love are better than war and
hate,” I said as pleasantly as I could, and didn’t
add, “is that what you like: war and hate?”
“Shure they are.”
I looked at his reflection in the rearview
mirror; why hadn’t I noticed that there was
something wrong with him before I let him in the
cab? His suit looked as if he had just taken it

587
out of a washing machine. What sort of work
could he do?
“I know wha yer doin. Ya thin yer som kina
artis. Yer a painer or ya wanna be a acter. Thas
wah yuh are. Ya wanna be a acter.”
“No,” I answered, hoping that he would stop
talking (and not puke on the seat).
I turned a corner and he fell sideways,
hitting his head against the window, but that
didn’t seem to bother him. It probably was his
least useful body part. I was glad that he didn’t
break the window.
“Yeah. Yer pain the ren by drivin a cab n
yer a acter or a pote. Are you a pote?”
I didn’t answer.
“Ware ya go ta skool? Ya jus gradated frum
colage reye?”
“Yes.”
“Ware?”
I told him, thinking the name might shut
him up, if he recognized it.
“Hah. Thas a shit place,” he said. “Wha
thay teesh ya in tha shihole?”
“Most people think it’s pretty good.”
“Yeah? I plied ta be ryter in rezdense thair.
Wha a shihole.”
(“Are you shitting me?”)
“Guess you didn’t get the job, huh?” I said.
“Din wanna work ina shihole like tha.”
“Right.”

588
 “So now yer drivn roun the city trian ta fine
yerself.”
“Sure,” I told him.
He didn’t vomit on the seat and he paid the
fare. After I got rid of him, I ate two hotdogs that
I bought from a street-corner vendor. Then I
continued meandering through the city until
almost two in the morning, at first in dense
traffic and later on empty avenues, smoking,
listening to passengers talk and to talk on the
radio. Why hadn’t I told that drunken prick that
he should have been sober when he had his job
interview? (“It’s always like that. You think of
something to say when it’s too late.”)
Two vets were in the waiting room when I
entered to turn in my card and the cash, and to
pay the manager. They were wearing worn army
field jackets with the insignia ripped off. I was
wearing a field jacket too, one I had bought at an
army-surplus store. Did they think that I was
trying to imitate them, that I was pretending to
have been in the war? Some of them seemed not
to like me but I thought that was because I
hadn’t gone to a public school, which meant that
I was a rich kid, a snob. (Was I a snob?)
Everybody wore army-surplus stuff.
“You comin for a beer?” one of the vets
asked me.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just let me cash out.”
We walked several blocks to the east and
then, after a short wait, got on a nearly empty

589
bus that sped uptown, stopping only three or four
times.
“How’d you do?” one of them asked me.
“Not bad. About fifty bucks. You?”
“Okay,” he answered. “About the same.”
“I got a ride off the clock and made an
extra twenty,” the other vet said.
“That’s great,” I said. “Where’d you go?”
“Near the airport. Then I picked up
somebody at the airport who wanted to go
downtown, so I didn’t have a lot of dead time. I
only faked two fares.”
“Great night,” I said.
We got off the bus and walked farther east
along empty streets in the silent darkness. A
trashcan was lying on its side near the bar. We
carefully stepped around the spilled contents –
used diapers, crushed cans, vegetables coated
with coffee grounds – while a chill wind blew
soot and the stink of sour milk and dog shit in
our faces.
The bar was several steps below street
level in a brownstone building and had no sign
advertising it to passersby, except a neon light in
the shape of a beer bottle hanging behind a
small window next to the door. How had the vets
found this place? Another driver was already
inside, sitting on a straight-backed wood chair at
a table with a gray imitation-marble plastic top.
He was drinking beer from a glass that looked
like the ones for milk in the college dining hall.

590
 “Hi,” he said when he saw us.
“Hi,” each of us answered.
We sat at the table and the bartender
brought us three empty glasses and a pitcher of
beer without being asked or saying anything.
“I can pay tonight,” one of the vets said and
put a five-dollar bill on the table next to the
pitcher.
I lit a cigarette.
“Can I have a smoke?” one of the vets
asked me.
I passed around the cigarette pack and a
book of matches.
Three old men with short, gray hair and
bulky bodies sat at the bar separated from each
other by empty stools. These same men, and
often a fourth, were there most nights when we
arrived, smoking cigarettes and drinking brandy.
I looked at their backs and at the bartender, then
stared at the room, a white rectangle with a
linoleum floor and fluorescent lights, while the
vets talked quietly. There were some framed
black-and-white photographs of rural scenes
hanging on the walls; the people in the pictures
looked as if they had lived a hundred years in the
past. Occasionally, the men at the bar spoke in
a guttural foreign language. Where were they
from? Did they work?
“What are all of you going to do when
you’re done driving?” I asked the vets, “I mean
for a real job?”

591
 “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go for the fire
department, or maybe be a teacher,” one of them
answered.
“Why not go to graduate school?” I asked
him.
“Naw. My family doesn’t have that kind of
money. Maybe a teacher. What are you going to
do?”
“I don’t know – something.”
“Are you going to graduate school? You
can afford it.”
“Why do you say that?”
They laughed.
“If I can, then you can.”
“Naw.”
I turned my head and watched the
bartender take a bottle off the shelf and pour
himself a drink. He and the men at the bar had
come to the city for what? Why had they left the
places where they were born? Coming here
must have been hard; it forced them to become
different people. Had that been a good thing?
They had made a choice, gambled. I doubted
that there was anyone who could have saved
them if they had failed. Had they failed or
succeeded?
“Hand me the pitcher,” one of the vets said.
I looked back towards the table, but he wasn’t
speaking to me.
“The boats always dock at night,” another
vet said.

592
 “I got there at night. We stood on-deck, and
watched the muzzle flashes light up the trees. I
was so scared I almost shit in my pants. Guys
were jumping overboard and the MPs were
picking them up in small boats.”
“Yeah, I thought about jumping. I thought if
I jumped they would throw me in the stockade
and I would be safe, but they send those guys
out in the boonies first. Anyway, the MPs beat
the shit out of you in the stockade.”
“As soon as I got to camp the sergeant told
me to go up into one of the guard towers. He told
me I’d better stay awake because if I fell asleep
they’d kill me first.”
“They send new guys so they don’t lose
anybody they know.”
“There was an M-60 on a tripod up there,
but the thing was I didn’t know how it worked, so
I just laid the ammo belt over the gun and got
down as low as I could and hoped nothing
happened.”
They stopped talking.
“Does it ever bother you that me and other
people didn’t have to go?” I asked.
The three of them laughed.
“The only thing that bothers me is that
people who didn’t have to go went anyway,” one
of them answered.
I stayed at the bar for about an hour. Then
I walked back to the apartment, hoping that

593
when I got there, the guy on the other side of the
wall wasn’t going berserk.



Kate’s wedding was at a country inn north

of the city in a town that seemed fifty years and
fifty miles removed from the city world. We
arrived there in the late afternoon the day before
the ceremony. My Father left me at the place
where I was staying and, after putting my stuff in
my room, I walked to the inn.
When I got there, I stood just inside the
front door, not knowing what to do. The lobby
had a slate floor and a low ceiling supported by
unpainted timber beams that must have been
shaped by a hand-held cutting tool. The place
reminded me of the hotel on the village green
where I had stayed with my Father the night
before my college interview, and while standing
there I thought again of the other old town, the
one on a hillside by the shore, and of the ship
graveyard, the piers sagging under the waves,
the decaying boats charred by fire: black ships
with broken masts anchored in the dark harbor.
Water splashed over the gunnels. We would
capsize or sink, fall into the freezing water and
drown …
“Hi!”
I jumped a little and turned around; it was
Kate.

594
 “Hi,” I said and kissed her cheek
“You look like you’re thinking about
something very important.”
“No.” I laughed a little. “I was just
wondering where I should go. How are you?”
“We’re fine! Have you checked in yet?”
“I’m not staying here. I have a room
somewhere else.”
“Oh. Well, welcome anyway. Everyone is
having drinks. Why don’t you go inside?” She
pointed past the reception desk. “I’ll be back in
a minute,”
“Okay. Thanks,” I said.
I walked through a rectangular opening at
the end of the lobby and down two steps into a
sitting room furnished with upholstered sofas
and armchairs and with oriental rugs that
covered portions of a dark, wide-plank floor.
Several fat logs were burning in a stone fireplace
that faced the entrance. Firelight and dim yellow
light from antique lamps reflected off the
polished wood furniture and silver trays of hors
d’oeuvres on tables beside the sofas and chairs.
Twenty or more people were there, drinking
cocktails from short, cut-crystal glasses or
champagne from flutes. The adults, some of
whom I recognized, were wearing ties and sport
coats but I saw people from the college dressed
in jeans and sneakers, so I thought it was alright
for me to be there.

595
 Aunt Joan was standing near the fireplace
talking to Mrs. Berkowitz; I walked across the
room towards her.
“Don’t you say ‘hello’?” someone to my right
said.
I turned my head and saw Aunt Doris sitting
on a sofa with Kate’s cousin, Jean. I stopped in
front of them.
“Hello,” I said to Aunt Doris. “Hello, Jean,
how are you?”
“I’m fine,” said Aunt Doris.
“How are you?” said Jean, smiling. “I
haven’t seen you in such a long time. That’s one
of the best parts of family events like this:
everybody gets together.”
“It is,” I agreed, and stopped myself from
also saying, “at family events families do get
together,” because Jean was nice and, anyway, I
knew what she meant.
“Have you said ‘hello’ to Aunt Joan and
Uncle Phil yet?” Aunt Doris asked me.
“No, I was going to do that just now.”
“How’s your room?”
“It’s fine.”
“I hope you’re comfortable there.”
“I’m comfortable. I mean there’s a bed and
a bathroom, so that’s all I need.”
“It isn’t too far from here, is it?”
“No,” I said, “it’s fine. Thanks.”
“Well go say ‘hello’.”
“Okay. See you later.”

596
 I walked a few more steps across the room
to where Aunt Joan and Mrs. Berkowitz were
standing.
“Hi,” I said. “Congratulations. This is really
beautiful. Hi Mrs. Berkowitz.”
“Well hello! I’m so glad you’re here,” Aunt
Joan said, squeezing my shoulders and kissing
my cheek. “Have you seen Kate and everybody?”
“I saw Kate in the lobby. She said she’d be
right back.”
“Oh, good.”
“Sorry I’m just wearing jeans. I haven’t had
a chance to change.” (Was that true?)
“Don’t worry. You look very handsome.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Aunt Doris isn’t too
happy about my hair,” I couldn’t help adding.
“Well it’s your hair and anyway it looks
nice.”
“I think so too,” Mrs. Berkowitz said. “I
wish I had hair like that.”
“Thanks.”
I smiled at both of them and wondered if
Mrs. Berkowitz meant to imply that I looked like
a girl.
“Is your room okay?” Aunt Joan asked me.
“Oh sure – I mean, it’s not here and it’s a
little weird but it’s fine.”
“Oh. Are you far away?”
“No. Just a short walk.”

597
 “Good. Why don’t you get a drink and have
some hors d’oeuvres? I’m sure you’re hungry.
Go say ‘hi’ to your friends.”
“Good idea. I will. See you later.”
I walked over to the bar, which was at one
end of the room between two French doors.
Outside, there was a flagstone patio, but the
doors were shut because it was cold now: the
Fall. Several people from college were standing
nearby drinking beer.
“How ya doin?” I said to them.
“Good,” a couple of them answered.
“How’re you?”
“Good,” I said.
They continued talking to each other and I
didn’t try to join their conversation. I knew them
from school, but not well. They were people from
the football and baseball teams, from another
fraternity.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked
me.
“Beer,” I said, even though in my second
mind I thought I wanted champagne.
“Should I leave it in the bottle?”
“Sure.”
He handed me an open beer bottle.
“Thanks,” I said.
I turned around and saw my Father and
Uncle Phil coming down the steps from the
lobby, so I walked towards them and met them by
one of the hors d’oeuvres tables.

598
 “Hi,” I said. “Congratulations, Uncle Phil.
This is really nice,” I said, shaking his hand.
“Thanks, I hope you’re enjoying yourself,”
he said. He smiled.
“Where did you get the drink?” my Father
asked me.
“Over there.” I pointed to the bar at the end
of the room. “Do you want me to get you
something?”
“No, I’ll do it. Have you seen your Aunt?”
“Yeah. She’s sitting on the sofa near the
fireplace, or that’s where she was a few minutes
ago.”
“Well, I think I’ll get a scotch. Phil?”
They walked to the bar. I stayed behind
and inspected the food on the table: a large
glass platter of shrimp arranged in concentric
circles around a dish of cocktail sauce. I put my
beer bottle on the table and used a silver fork to
move three shrimp onto a plate from a stack next
to the platter. After doing that, I looked at the
plate and at the platter and at the plate again for
several seconds. Would it be alright to take
more? I decided that one more would be okay
just as long as I didn’t walk around with too
much food on my plate. I picked another shrimp
off the platter with my fingers, dipped it in the
cocktail sauce and ate it. Then I spooned more
sauce onto the plate and, before looking to see if
anyone was watching me, put another shrimp
from the platter into my mouth, grabbed the beer

599
bottle and walked (too quickly) towards the other
end of the room.
On a table against the wall opposite the
bar, I found a platter of little hotdogs in little
hotdog buns. Beside it was another platter of
something wrapped in bacon. I took two of
those and three hotdogs, ate most of what was
on my plate and drank some beer. Beginning to
feel relaxed, I started moving in the direction of
the fireplace because standing by myself would
make me look like a dweeb.
“We meet again.”
It was Doris. Would she complain that I
was eating all the hors d’oeuvres and not talking
to anyone?
“What are you doing?” she asked me.
“Just looking around.”
While I waited for her to say something
else, it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen my
grandparents.
“Where are Grandma Kay and Grandpa
Murry?” I asked her.
“They’re staying home. Your Grandmother
isn’t feeling well.”
“Why? What’s wrong with her?”
“Just a cold. She wanted to make the trip,
but I think it’s better that they didn’t.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Yes, so am I, but that’s just the way it is.
Have you gotten enough to eat?”
She looked at my plate.

600
 “I’ve had some shrimp.”
“Well you should load up on food because I
don’t think you’re invited to the rehearsal
dinner.”
She doesn’t think?
“That way you won’t need anything later.”
“Right. Yeah. Okay.”
I finished the beer and ate the rest of the
stuff on my plate. Then, deciding not to worry
(“who gives a shit”), I roamed around the room,
eating deep-fried cheese balls, prosciutto
wrapped around little pieces of melon and ovals
of toasted bread covered with crab meat. I got
rid of the plate and just went from place to place
picking stuff off the trays. Nobody seemed to
notice.
It wasn’t very long before the guests began
to leave. The people from college went to the
wedding rehearsal with Kate, her boyfriend and
their families. My Father and Aunt Doris went
upstairs to get ready to go to the rehearsal
dinner. When the room was almost empty, the
bartender started taking away the glasses and
liquor. Before he finished, I asked him for
another bottle of beer, unopened, so I could
carry it back to my room. He gave me one and I
put it in the pocket of my field jacket, then I left
the inn.
The room Aunt Doris had found for me was
on the second floor of a wood building that
looked like someone’s house and was only partly

601
a hotel because there was a police station on
the first floor. A cold wind had started blowing
through the town; trying to be warm, I zipped my
jacket and pushed my hands into the pockets of
my jeans, then started walking there. After
going several blocks past old homes with deep
porches and red-brick chimneys that must have
belonged to rich people from the city, I turned
right into a side street and went another block to
the police hotel.
The building had only one entrance; to get
upstairs I had to walk through the station
waiting room and pass a window at head-height
that was covered by what looked like bullet-proof
glass. I waved at an officer sitting behind the
glass and pointed up to let him know where I
was going. He looked at me for a second without
saying anything. “Wha’re you? A hippy?” I just
kept walking.
(“Why are you worried? He can’t arrest you
for having long hair.”)
(“They find a reason. They do what they
want.”)
“Almost cut my hair,” I sang very softly as I
climbed the stairs to the second floor.
(“It definitely increases my paranoia.”)
My room was at the end of a short corridor
lit by a single lightbulb screwed into a white
porcelain ceiling fixture. I opened the door with
a key like the ones in old movies, then shut and
double-locked it.

602
 “You’re in a police station, you idiot.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
As I unzipped my field jacket, the beer
bottle bumped into the door frame and, hearing
that, it occurred to me that I didn’t have a bottle
opener. I pulled the bottle out of my pocket, put
it on the bedside table and stared at it.
“Well, asshole, what are you going to do
now?”
While I thought about this, I lit a cigarette.
Could I ask the cop at the desk downstairs for a
bottle opener?
(“Maybe he’d trade for a joint.”)
I laughed; I had no dope. It might be okay
to ask, I thought, but I had another idea. I picked
up the beer bottle and walked into the bathroom,
where, beside the sink, an opener was screwed
to the wall. (“Just like in every other old hotel.”)
After pissing in the toilet, I opened the
bottle, undressed, threw my clothes on a chair
next to the window and got into bed with all four
pillows piled under my head.
It was dark outside and darker in the room.
What time was it? No time: the time didn’t
matter. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do
until the next day. If I wanted to, I could lie in
bed until I had to get ready for the ceremony. I
stretched, drank some beer and smoked. The
cigarette tip made an orange glow in the
darkness. Nobody would bother me here; I could
do what I wanted.

603
 Minutes passed. The wind blew against the
side of the house. I finished the beer, lit another
cigarette and stared at the wall.
“Don’t fall asleep.”
I thought about that: the burning cinder at
the end of the cigarette touching the blanket, the
blanket smoldering, the room filling with greasy
gray chemical smoke. Suddenly the bed would
explode in a carnival of flames, sucking up the
oxygen in my cell. Everything would burn: the
carpet, the furniture, the paint on the walls. The
building would become a tower of flame. I would
burn, the cops would burn. After it was over, the
coroner would ask her to identify my body. I
would be lying on a steel tray in the morgue
looking like a baked apple. “That one’s him,” she
would say, pointing at my remains. “That other
one must be some poor person he killed. It’s so
terrible. I feel horrible.”
“Fuck it.”
I turned on the lamp beside the bed, picked
up the book that I had left earlier on the bedside
table, and began to read:

“The body that had been Weston’s

threw up its head and opened its
mouth and gave a long melancholy
howl like a dog…”

Why did I like this? It was strange, weirdly

repulsive.

604
 “… the piece of ground on which the
two men stood and the woman lay
was rushing down a great hillside of
water.”

Maybe repulsive, but I was attracted to it, almost

hypnotized by it.

“Ransom kept his eyes fixed upon

the enemy, but it took no notice of
him. Its eyes moved like the eyes of a
living man but it was hard to be sure
what it was looking at…”

The emptiness was perfect, the banality.

“It did not even look in Ransom’s

direction; slowly and cumbrously, as if
by some machinery that needed
oiling, it made its mouth and lips
pronounce his name.
“Ransom,” it said.
“Well?” said Ransom.
“Nothing,” said the Unman.
He shot an inquisitive glance at it.
Was
the creature mad? But it looked, as
before, dead rather than mad, sitting
there with the head bowed and the
mouth a little open, and

605
 some yellow dust from the moss
settled in the creases of its cheeks,
and the legs crossed tailor-wise, and
the hands, with their long metallic-
looking nails, pressed flat together on
the ground before it. He dismissed the
problem from his mind and returned
to his own un- comfortable thoughts.
“Ransom,” it said again.
“What is it?” said Ransom sharply.
“Nothing,” it answered.
Again there was silence; and again,
about a minute later, the horrible
mouth said: “Ransom!”
This time he made no reply.
Another minute and it uttered his
name again; and then, like a minute
gun, “Ransom... Ransom... Ransom,”
perhaps a hundred times.

It won’t ever let you alone. I put the book

on the table and turned off the light. Nothing,
and then I opened my eyes and it was morning.
The wedding ceremony was brief. After the
reception, I drove my Father and Doris back to
the city.
“That’ll be you soon,” she said, being
reassuring.
“Oh yeah?”
“It will be. You’ll see.”

606
 We went over the bridge and past the old
power station. The front doors were open and I
had a glimpse of the generators inside.
“I need to tell you. Your Grandmother had
to be admitted to the hospital,” she said.
“What? Why?”
“She has pneumonia.”
“Will she be okay?”
“She’ll be okay. She needs antibiotics.”
“I’ll go see her tomorrow.”
“No. She isn’t ready for visitors.”
“I could just say hello before work.”
“No. Not yet.”
I drove them home, left the car at the
garage and started walking to the apartment,
carrying my valise. The air was damp and cold
and it began to rain a little. When I arrived, I
emptied the mailbox in the small vestibule.
Usually nothing interesting came in the mail, but
as I unlocked the front door I noticed an odd-
shaped envelope among the garbage delivered
by the mailman and immediately had a
presentiment of doom.
Methodically, without looking at the letter, I
closed and locked the apartment door. I walked
into the bedroom, put the mail and my valise on
the bed and hung my sport jacket in the closet. I
unpacked the valise, left my field jacket on a
chair and put my clothes in a laundry bag that
was under the dresser. I put the valise on the
floor of the closet and closed the closet door.

607
Leaving the letter on the bed and the lights off, I
picked up the rest of the mail and dumped it in
the kitchen trash can. I took my toiletries to the
bathroom and used a towel to dry my face and
hair. After doing all this, I sat on the bed until it
was almost completely dark. Then, without
looking at the return address on the envelope, I
opened the letter, an invitation to Ann’s
engagement party.
Why had she invited me? Who’s idea was it
to invite me?
That’s just the way it is.
I wouldn’t think about it. What was the
point? I had known this would happen since the
beginning.



Doris had told me she would have dinner

waiting at six o’clock. At about that time, I
double-parked the cab around the corner from
the apartment and went upstairs.
“Hello,” she said and kissed my cheek. “Are
you hungry?”
“Yes, very,” I answered.
“Well, I have a real nice dinner for you.”
“Great. Thanks,” I said.
I put my field jacket on the bench in the
foyer (she wouldn’t care), followed her to the
kitchen and sat at the table. It was set for one
person and a plate covered with aluminum foil

608
was on the placemat. Underneath the foil, I
found a fat piece of meatloaf with gravy, a baked
potato and some peas.
“This looks great,” I said.
“I’ll get you some butter.”
She brought a bar of butter to the table on
a small plate. I slit the potato skin with a knife
and pressed two slices of butter into the potato,
then began to eat.
“How is it,” she asked me.
“Really good,” I told her.
“I hope it’s still hot enough.”
“It’s fine.”
“Slow down. You act like you don’t eat
anything when you’re not here.”
“I eat.” (“Sort of.”)
“Kate’s wedding was lovely, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
I stopped eating, put salt and pepper on the
potato and then looked at her.
“How’s Grandma Kay?” I asked.
“She’s okay, but she isn’t ready to leave the
hospital.”
“Can’t I go see her?”
“Not now. She doesn’t want any visitors
right now.”
“Why not?”
“She doesn’t feel up to it.”
I ate several more forkfuls of food.
“When will she be ready to go home?”

609
 “I don’t know. The wedding was beautiful,
wasn’t it?” she said again. “Did you have a good
time?”
“Uh huh.”
“Kate looked beautiful.”
I nodded.
“Well say something.”
“I’m eating,” I replied and then added with
a hint of humor, “you don’t want me to talk with
my mouth full do you?” Would she understand
that?
“It must have been fun to see people from
school.”
“Well, I don’t really know them.”
“No? I thought you did. Anyway, I enjoyed
getting away. Would you like more meatloaf?”
“Yes. Please. That would be good.”
She took my plate to the stove.
“Save some room for desert. There’s apple
pie.”
“I will.”
“So what have you been doing with yourself
since we got back?”
“What do you mean?”
My insides clenched. Would she make me
answer questions about dates and jobs?
“Nothing much, really,” I said.
“Are you getting out at all?”
She returned the plate to the table and I
ate a forkful of meatloaf.
“Are you?” she said again.

610
 “I was invited to Ann’s engagement party,” I
answered.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Ann is engaged. I was invited to the
party,” she made me repeat.
“Oh! That’s wonderful.”
I looked at her, then said, “Do you think I
should go?”
“Of course you’ll want to go. Congratulate
her and her parents for me. You’re not thinking
of not going are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s crazy. Why wouldn’t you go? It’s
very nice of her to invite you. You’ve known her
for years.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Have you seen any other of your friends?”
she asked.
(Other friends.)
“Not really. Nobody’s in the city. You mean
from college or school?”
“Anybody. What ever happened to that
David Levey?”
“He’s in law school.”
“In law school?”
“Yes. Didn’t his Mother tell you?”
“Well I never expected that.”
“He is.”
“Imagine. I remember having to grab him
and hold him against the wall to calm him down
when he was little.”

611
 I finished eating. She took the plate to the
sink, then went to the refrigerator and brought a
piece of apple pie back to the table.
“What about your friend who was in the
army? What’s his name?”
“You mean Dodson? He’s in the Marines.”
“Yes I think that’s the one. You don’t know
anyone who was in the war, though, do you?”
“Of course I do.”
“You do? But you don’t know anybody who
was hurt?”
“A couple got killed.” (“I suppose that
might have hurt a little.”)
“Really! Their poor parents. That’s
terrible.”
“Yeah. But Dodson’s okay.”
She seemed to think for a second, then
said, “What about your other friend? The one
whose Father is a professor.”
“He’s fine.”
“Have you seen him? He’s a nice boy. I like
him.”
“Once. He’s in graduate school.”
I finished the pie, drank some water and
wiped my mouth with a napkin.
“I guess you don’t have time for coffee,”
she said.
“No. I should get back to work, but thanks
a lot. This was very good.”
I stood and picked up my plate, utensils
and the glass of water.

612
 “Just leave that,” she said, “I’ll get it.”
“Oh, thank you. Well, I guess I’d better go.”
I walked to the foyer, took my field jacket
off the bench and opened the apartment door.
“Don’t you want to use the toilet?” she
asked me.
“No. I’m okay,” I said
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Don’t worry.”
“Well, be careful.”
“I will.”
She stood in the doorway while I waited for
the elevator.
“Stay out of bad neighborhoods.”
“Okay.”
I put on my jacket and listened to the sound
of the elevator motor and the twang of the
cables.
“Say ‘hi’ to Grandma Kay for me,” I said.
“Tell her I hope she feels better soon.”
“I will. I love you. You really are
wonderful.”
George opened the elevator door and, as I
stepped inside, I looked through the gap between
the floor and the elevator and tried to see into
the dark shaft. He closed the door and the gate,
and we went down.
The elevator could go down lower than the
first floor and lower than the basement. What
lay beneath? Who could find it out? The door to
the floor below the basement was made of thick

613
unpainted wood boards. Behind the door, the
corridor was filled with the feeling of a beating
heart.
“Goodnight, George,” I said when we
reached the lobby.
“Goodnight,” he said.
I left the building. While I was walking to
the cab, a cockroach ran across the sidewalk in
front of me; I stopped and watched it.
“Ooh, kill it!”
No, I don’t want to kill bugs.
“Better save yourself (Gregor),” I told the
roach. “Nobody else will help you.”



Time passed imperceptibly as I waited in

the eternal twilight of the apartment with the
sound of emptiness ringing in my ears and
useless thoughts forcing themselves into my
mind. To suppress the noise, I put a record on
the turntable but the music didn’t change my
thoughts and, while I listened, the old war
continued inside me.
“This won’t help, you idiot. ‘But I looked
away…’ You think that will help?”
Still, I listened. Why? (Because you want
too.) “Tried to make me understand…” It can’t
happen; it’s impossible. I couldn’t live that life.
In the end, she would hate me. “…came as no

614
surprise to me…” What did you expect? You
always knew.
Time passed, I listened to the record again,
and eventually it was late enough to dress. First,
I showered and shaved carefully. After shaving, I
dried and brushed my hair until it looked right.
Then I put on a pair of jeans, a laundered, blue
oxford-cloth shirt, brown dress shoes that were
buffed but not shiny, and my sport coat that had
just been dry-cleaned. I looked okay (but nobody
cares).
When I was ready to leave, I stood in front of
the stereo unsure about what to do next,
confused, while it played the record for the third
or fourth time: “…it’s all wrong, but it’s alright…”
Should I go? (She doesn’t want me there.) I
smoked a cigarette and stared at the turntable:
“Each memory that has left its trace with me.”
“It’s nothing,” I told myself, “just go.”
I switched off the stereo, put on an old
trench coat and, after looking through the
peephole in the front door to be sure that nobody
was in the lobby, walked rapidly to the street.
Then, wanting to arrive late, I went slowly in the
direction of her apartment and immediately
stopped seeing my surroundings.
(“It’s nothing.”)
The air was cold and felt thick. I wandered
the wrong way for a while and had to turn back.
Time passed. I entered her building.

615
 From the corridor, I could hear the sound of
excited conversation in her apartment. Her
Mother opened the door.
“Hello.” she said indifferently [you no longer
matter]. “Let me take your coat. Don’t hit your
head on the chandelier.”
She is happy; I know she is relieved
(because it’s not me).
The light is very bright, making it hard for me
to see.
Ann and I shake hands loosely, she says ‘hi.’
Her hand slips out of mine, she looks away and
walks to the other end of the room where there
are hors d’oeuvres and drinks on a table in front
of the windows. She talks excitedly.
I know none of the guests. They are dressed
in suits, or sport clothes and wear ties. I see
him near her: he has short hair and wears well
creased slacks, a sport jacket, a starched dress
shirt, a tie. Very neat. Assured and polite. He is
a perfect relic of a past decade. They will live
like this, here in the city.
Blandly, she introduces me to him. She
must. He hardly notices, turns to speak to other
guests.
I watch Ann move, almost hop, from place to
place. She is being happy. I ignore this, refuse
to acknowledge the thought. (“This is good,” I
tell myself forcefully.) This is what she should
have. He will take care of her. It’s the right
thing.

616
 What should I do? I don’t move. She stays
on the other side of the room with him. What can
I think about? Not Grandma Kay; Grandma Kay
is dead. I didn’t visit her. (“That’s just the way it
is: everyone dies, you’ll die too.”) Your memory
will fade away.
“Goodbye,” I tell Ann’s Mother. “Thanks for
inviting me. I have to go to work.”
“Goodbye,” she shakes my hand and smiles
slightly.
The door closes behind me and then there is
nothing.
I walk back to the apartment through thick
gray air. A car turns the corner in front of me; I
see its tires pass my toes. My body is too big.
(“Nobody gives a shit, asshole. It’s the right
thing. Forget it. Get some food.”)
There was a bakery nearby that sold day-old
bread for almost no money. I bought a loaf and
took it back to the apartment. When I got there,
I undressed, put my clothes away and sat on the
sofa in my underwear, smoking and eating pieces
of bread that I broke from the loaf with my
fingers.
After I had been sitting for a while, the
phone began to ring: a piercing noise made more
painful by the anticipation of hearing it over and
over again in the otherwise silent room. Finally, I
decided to answer, but I was too late: when I
picked up the receiver, I heard a dial tone.

617
 I lit a cigarette and stared at my bike. Was
there a use for it? No, buying it was a waste of
money. What was the point?
The phone rang again and I answered
immediately so I didn’t have to listen to its noise.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hi, how are you?” she said in a monotone
that conveyed a bad message I had received
many times before.
“Fine,” I answered, hoping I was wrong and
knowing I wasn’t. “How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine, I guess.”
“What are you doing?” I asked her,
attempting to keep the conversation pleasant.
“Well, if you really want to know, I’ll tell you.
What I’m doing is wondering what’s happened to
you.”
“Nothing’s happened to me. I told you, I’m
fine.”
“Don’t be a smart Aleck,” she snarled. “Do
you think you could pick up the phone every
once in a while and call me?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy. Let me call you
tomorrow,” I said, hopelessly and added the day’s
useful lie, “I have to go to work.”
“Is that what you call it?” She began to yell.
“Honestly, I don’t understand you. You have the
best education that money can buy and what do
you do with it? You drive around in a taxicab like
a high-school dropout. Do you just expect me to
sit here and watch quietly without saying

618
anything? Are you waiting for the world to
provide you a living? Do you think that in a few
years anyone is going to be interested in a cab
driver? Maybe you’re just expecting me to
support you for the rest of your life? That’s it,
isn’t it? I’ll tell you, you’ve always been lazy, just
waiting for other people to do everything for you.
Well, I’ve got news for you buster, I’m not
standing for it anymore.”
“Okay,” I said, helplessly.
“Okay? Okay? Is that all you have to say,
you ungrateful, rotten thing? You should be up
looking for a job instead of lying around all day
like a bum.”
“I wasn’t lying around. I’m not lying around.
I work at night,” I pleaded.
“That doesn’t mean you should lounge
around and sleep all day. Get up and do
something,” she shouted.
“I wasn’t sleeping. I’m getting ready to go to
work,” I lied again, beginning not to make sense
(which she wouldn’t notice).
“Remember me? I’m the person who put her
whole life aside to take care of you. You have a
lot of nerve, mister. When you’ve had a chance
to think about this, I want you to call and
apologize to me. And I want you to do something
with yourself for a change.”
I heard the sound of her slamming the
receiver onto the cradle – and I breathed.

619
 “Well, fuck you too,” I hissed. “Fuck you all.
So which is it? I don’t know because I’m stupid.
Am I ungrateful, wonderful, rotten or terrific?
Am I lazy, a perfectionist or a slob? Well, let’s
see. I don’t close the closet door. My towel isn’t
folded the way God wants it to be folded. And, I
didn’t empty the dishwasher! So that settles it:
I’m the worst person in history.
Well, you know what? I don’t give a shit, so
fuck you. I’m a bad person and you’re the poor
unfortunate, unappreciated woman who got
stuck with me and I know everyone feels sorry
for you because it’s your impossible job to make
me do the right thing – whatever that is – but you
know and you’re ready to tell me. Too bad I’m
not a puppet that you can use by sticking your
hand up my ass.
“So, you are absolutely right as always! I
should be beaten. Someone should teach me a
fucking lesson. I should be killed.”
“Fuck,” I slammed my fist down on the sofa.
“Stop. Stop eating my brain. I can’t keep doing
this.”
Time passed and it became night so I got
into bed, wanting to be in the real dark, the deep
dark where all the noise would stop, but, despite
craving oblivion, I continued my apostrophe.
“Instead of driving strangers around the city,
you should be driving Barry home,” I said with
mock sincerity. “You should marry someone –
Doris will be happy to pick – and make money!

620
Your wife can play cards and you can eat at
Jimmy’s. You’ll take the bus home every day and
impress people by writing things in the Shaw
alphabet! It’ll be great…”
After a while, maybe an hour or two hours, I
slept.
Then the music started. “Well I followed her
to the station, with a suitcase in my hand…” It
was very loud and I woke, sweating, my
heartbeat shaking my chest. It wasn’t long
before he began breaking things: something
thudded against the wall above my head and she
started screaming.
“Bobby! Bobby don’t!”
(“Fucking hell. Kill her or kill yourself and
get it over with.”)
I pulled a pillow over my head, squeezed it
against my ears and remembered times I had
seen them in the lobby. Why did she want him?
She was tall, beautiful. Once, she had knocked
on my door and, when I opened it, she asked me
if she could borrow my vacuum cleaner. She was
wearing a negligee.
(“Sorry, I don’t have a vacuum cleaner. Wish
I did. That sound you hear through the wall is a
power saw; I do surgery here to make some
extra money. Don’t be alarmed if you hear
people screaming, it’s just my hobby. But while
you’re here, I wanted to ask you if Bobby has a
gun that I can borrow?”)
“Bobby, please. Stop it!”

621
 Something banged against the wall and
shattered.
“No,” I said, and again said, “no!”
I threw the covers off the bed, stood and
dressed as fast as I could, grabbed my field
jacket and left the apartment and the building,
almost running.
“No. This is wrong.”
Without plan or destination, I rushed into the
city night. The sidewalks and streets were
empty: no people, no cars. The sky was pitch-
black.
“Evil.”
Gusts of damp, freezing wind blew in my
face; I went faster, trying to make myself warm.
“I have to end this.”
After hurrying aimlessly for some time
through narrow streets past gray sooty buildings
with blank windows and black metal doors, I had
to stop because my path was blocked by the
roadway on the riverbank. I stared across it at
the water, which looked like flowing lava.
“I have to leave here.”
A pedestrian bridge went over the road near
where I was standing and I crossed it. On the far
side, along the top of a sheer stone
embankment, there was a walkway bounded on
the edge of the wall by a waist-high metal railing.
Standing at the railing, I looked over the brink
and stared at the moving water below. I watched

622
the current eddy and churn and breathed the
smell of the nearby ocean.
“I have to leave this place.”
It had almost happened before. My Father
took a towel and began walking toward the
water. I struggled to follow him, my feet
slipping, sinking into the hot sand. The surf
roared up the slope toward us.
“Are you ready?” he asked me. “Let’s go.”
He ran into the ocean as fast as he could
and dove under a wave.
A tugboat came into view, a neat newly
painted vessel riding swiftly on the current
towards the sea. As I looked down from the top
of the wall, it approached where I stood on the
embankment and a door opened; light flooded
the deck and a man strode through the doorway.
Without pausing to look around him, he closed
the door and walked forward to the wheelhouse
(determined to be gone).
“Nobody will save you.”
“Why don’t you just jump in? It’s much
easier,” my Father shouted.
"Nobody else. So what are you? Decide
because, if not now, when? What is your real
life?”
I leaned over the railing and tried to see the
bottom of the sheer stone façade where it
touched the water. As my body hung above the
void, there was a sudden blast of sound, the
deep booming noise of a horn so loud that it

623
made the ground shake, my skin contract, the
railing vibrate painfully against my palms. I
momentarily lost hold of the metal, swayed over
the giddy drop and saw myself fall, flailing,
turning in the air.

I crash through the surface into the

underworld of waters, tumble down, down into
the deep, beyond sight, sound and scent,
severed and numb, there to remember the world
I am leaving, the things I have done and the
people I know. In this restless sea of dreams,
weeds entwined about my head, I drift at the
base of mountains impelled by a fathomless
current until, at last, the past world is washed
away and I am released and let fall onto some
distant shore to begin anew.

624