Edenville Owls

Chapter 19

It was late afternoon on Saturday. I was in the town library reading The New York Times. I’d never been to New York. But reading the Times allowed me to feel like I knew something about a world of excitement I had never seen. I could read box scores for the Yankees and the Giants and the Dodgers. I could read about famous actors in plays I’d never seen, and famous singers and comedians in nightclubs I’d heard about on Manhattan Merry Go Round. I could read about Toots Shore’s, and Jack Dempsey’s, and the Stork Club, and fights at Madison Square Garden and St. Nicholas arena. I knew what Tammany Hall was. I knew where Billie Holiday was performing, and Duke Ellington. I knew who was at Carnegie Hall. I knew about Greenwich Village.

Joanie came in and sat down at the library table beside me.

“What are you reading?” she said.

“New York Times,” I said.

I liked telling her that.

“You ever been to New York?” she said.

“Not yet,” I said.

“But you will,” she said.

“Sure,” I said. “I’m not staying in Edenville the rest of my life.”

“You want to move?” she asked.

“No. But even if I stay here to live,” I said, “I want to travel and stuff.”

“What kind of work do you want to do when you’re, you know, a grown-up?” Joanie said.

“I want to be a writer,” I said.

“Like for a newspaper or something?”

“No,” I said. “I want to write books.”

“Books?”

“Yes.”

“Wow,” Joanie said. “I never heard of anybody wanting to write books.”

“Well, now you have,” I said. “How about you? What do you want to do?”

“I’m supposed to marry a nice man, live in a nice house, have enough money, have nice children,” she said. “You know?”

“Stay here?”

“I guess so,” Joanie said. “I think I’m supposed to go where my husband’s job takes us.”

“You sound funny about it,” I said. “You want to get married?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “I don’t want to be an old maid.”

“No,” I said.

“You want to get married?” Joanie said.

“Yes,” I said.

“What if you don’t?”

I was quiet for a time.

“Maybe,” I said, “if you didn’t get married, and I didn’t get married by the time we were, like, thirty-five, we could go someplace and live together.”

“Where?” Joanie said.

“Writers can live anywhere they want,” I said.

“If you didn’t live here, where would you live?” Joanie said.

“I’d like to live in New York,” I said.

“New York City?”

“Yes.”

“I’d be afraid to live in New York City,” Joanie said.

“Even with me?” I said.

“I wouldn’t be scared there with you.”

“And I wouldn’t have to go to New York,” I said.

“Because of me?”

“Sure,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to make you go someplace you didn’t want to go.”

Joanie smiled and shook her head.

“You’re not like other boys, Bobby,” Joanie said.

I was wading pretty deep into waters I didn’t know much about.

“Is that good or bad?” I said.

“Good,” Joanie said. “I just hope growing up doesn’t change you.”

“It won’t change me,” I said. “At least not about you.”

“We’ll always be friends,” she said.

“Forever,” I said.

“Yes,” Joanie said. “Forever.”