Hearts In Atlantis

XI. WOLVES AND LIONS. BOBBY AT BAT. OFFICER RAYMER. BOBBY AND CAROL.BAD TIMES. AN ENVELOPE.

Sully-John returned from camp with a tan, ten thousand healing mosquito bites, and a million tales to tell . . . only Bobby didn’t hear many of them. That was the summer the old easy friendship among Bobby and Sully and Carol broke up. The three of them sometimes walked down to Sterling House together, but once they got there they went to different activities. Carol and her girlfriends were signed up for crafts and softball and badminton, Bobby and Sully for Junior Safaris and baseball.

Sully, whose skills were already maturing, moved up from the Wolves to the Lions. And while all the boys went on the swimming and hiking safaris together, sitting in the back of the battered old Sterling House panel truck with their bathing suits and their lunches in paper sacks, S-J more and more often sat with Ronnie Olmquist and Duke Wendell, boys with whom he had been at camp. They told the same old stories about short-sheeting beds and sending the little kids on snipe hunts until Bobby was bored with them. You’d think Sully had been at camp for fifty years.

On the Fourth of July the Wolves and Lions played their annual head-to-head game. In the decade and a half going back to the end of World War II the Wolves had never won one of these matches, but in the 1960 contest they at least made a game of it—mostly because of Bobby Garfield. He went three-for-three and even without his Alvin Dark glove made a spectacular diving catch in center field. (Getting up and hearing the applause, he wished only briefly for his mother, who hadn’t come to the annual holiday outing at Lake Canton.)

Bobby’s last hit came during the Wolves’ final turn at bat. They were down by two with a runner at second. Bobby drove the ball deep to left field, and as he took off toward first he heard S-J grunt “Good hit, Bob!” from his catcher’s position behind the plate. It was a good hit, but he was the potential tying run and should have stopped at second base. Instead he tried to stretch it. Kids under the age of thirteen were almost never able to get the ball back into the infield accurately, but this time Sully’s Camp Winnie friend Duke Wendell threw a bullet from left field to Sully’s other Camp Winnie friend, Ronnie Olmquist. Bobby slid but felt Ronnie’s glove slap his ankle a split second before his sneaker touched the bag.

“Yerrrrr-ROUT!” cried the umpire, who had raced up from home plate to be on top of the play. On the sidelines, the friends and rela-tives of the Lions cheered hysterically.

Bobby got up glaring at the ump, a Sterling House counsellor of about twenty with a whistle and a white smear of zinc oxide on his nose. “I was safe!”

“Sorry, Bob,” the kid said, dropping his ump impersonation and becoming a counsellor again. “It was a good hit and a great slide but you were out.”

“Was not! You cheater! Why do you want to cheat?”

“Throw im out!” someone’s dad called. “There’s no call for guff like that!”

“Go sit down, Bobby,” the counsellor said.

“I was safe!” Bobby shouted. “Safe by a mile!” He pointed at the man who had advised he be tossed from the game. “Did he pay you to make sure we lost? That fatso there?”

“Quit it, Bobby,” the counsellor said. How stupid he looked with his little beanie hat from some nimrod college fraternity and his whistle! “I’m warning you.”

Ronnie Olmquist turned away as if disgusted by the argument. Bobby hated him, too.

“You’re nothing but a cheater,” Bobby said. He could hold back the tears pricking the corners of his eyes but not the waver in his voice.

“That’s the last I’ll take,” the counsellor said. “Go sit down and cool off. You—”

“Cheating cocksucker. That’s what you are.”

A woman close to third gasped and turned away.

“That’s it,” the counsellor said in a toneless voice. “Get off the field. Right now.”

Bobby walked halfway down the baseline between third and home, his sneakers scuffling, then turned back. “By the way, a bird shit on your nose. I guess you’re too dumb to figure that out. Better go wipe it off.”

It sounded funny in his head but stupid when it came out and nobody laughed. Sully was straddling home plate, big as a house and serious as a heart attack in his ragtags of catching gear. His mask, mended all over with black tape, dangled from one hand. He looked flushed and angry. He also looked like a kid who would never be a Wolf again. S-J had been to Camp Winnie, had short-sheeted beds, had stayed up late telling ghost stories around a campfire. He would be a Lion forever and Bobby hated him.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sully asked as Bobby plodded by. Both benches had fallen silent. All the kids were looking at him. All the parents were looking at him, too. Looking at him as though he was something disgusting. Bobby guessed he probably was. Just not for the reasons they thought.

Guess what, S-J, maybe you been to Camp Winnie, but I been down there. Way down there.

“Bobby?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” he said without looking up. “Who cares? I’m moving to Massachusetts. Maybe there’s less twinkydink cheaters there.”

“Listen, man—”

“Oh, shut up,” Bobby said without looking at him. He looked at his sneakers instead. Just looked at his sneakers and kept on walking.

Liz Garfield didn’t make friends (“I’m a plain brown moth, not a social butterfly,” she sometimes told Bobby), but during her first couple of years at Home Town Real Estate she had been on good terms with a woman named Myra Calhoun. (In Liz-ese she and Myra saw eye to eye, marched to the same drummer, were tuned to the same wavelength, etc., etc.) In those days Myra had been Don Bider-man’s secretary and Liz had been the entire office pool, shuttling between agents, making their appointments and their coffee, typing their correspondence. Myra had left the agency abruptly, without much explanation, in 1955. Liz had moved up to her job as Mr. Biderman’s secretary in early 1956.

Liz and Myra had remained in touch, exchanging holiday cards and the occasional letter. Myra—who was what Liz called “a maiden lady”—had moved to Massachusetts and opened her own little real-estate firm. In late June of 1960 Liz wrote her and asked if she could become a partner—a junior one to start with, of course—in Calhoun Real Estate Solutions. She had some capital she could bring with her; it wasn’t a lot, but neither was thirty-five hundred dollars a spit in the ocean.

Maybe Miss Calhoun had been through the same wringer his mom had been through, maybe not. What mattered was that she said yes—she even sent his mom a bouquet of flowers, and Liz was happy for the first time in weeks. Perhaps truly happy for the first time in years. What mattered was they were moving from Harwich to Danvers, Massachusetts. They were going in August, so Liz would have plenty of time to get her Bobby-O, her newly quiet and often glum Bobby-O, enrolled in a new school.

What also mattered was that Liz Garfield’s Bobby-O had a piece of business to take care of before leaving Harwich.

He was too young and small to do what needed doing in a straightforward way. He would have to be careful, and he’d have to be sneaky. Sneaky was all right with Bobby; he no longer had much interest in acting like Audie Murphy or Randolph Scott in the Saturday-matinee movies, and besides, some people needed ambushing, if only to find out what it felt like. The hiding-place he picked was the little copse of trees where Carol had taken him on the day he went all ushy-gushy and started crying; a fitting spot in which to wait for Harry Doolin, old Mr. Robin Hood, Robin Hood, riding through the glen.

Harry had gotten a part-time stockboy job at Total Grocery. Bobby had known that for weeks, had seen him there when he went shopping with his mom. Bobby had also seen Harry walking home after his shift ended at three o’clock. Harry was usually with one or more of his friends. Richie O’Meara was his most common sidekick; Willie Shearman seemed to have dropped out of old Robin Hood’s life just as Sully had pretty much dropped out of Bobby’s. But whether alone or in company, Harry Doolin always cut across Com-monwealth Park on his way home.

Bobby started to drift down there in the afternoons. There was only morning baseball now that it was really hot and by three o’clock Fields A, B, and C were deserted. Sooner or later Harry would walk back from work and past those deserted fields without Richie or any of his other Merrie Men to keep him company. Meanwhile, Bobby spent the hour between three and four P.M. each day in the copse of trees where he had cried with his head in Carol’s lap. Sometimes he read a book. The one about George and Lennie made him cry again. Guys like us, that work on ranches, are the loneliest guys in the world. That was how George saw it. Guys like us got nothing to look ahead to. Lennie thought the two of them were going to get a farm and raise rabbits, but long before Bobby got to the end of the story he knew there would be no farms and no rabbits for George and Lennie. Why? Because people needed a beast to hunt. They found a Ralph or a Piggy or a big stupid hulk of a Lennie and then they turned into low men. They put on their yellow coats, they sharpened a stick at both ends, and then they went hunting.

But guys like us sometimes get a little of our own back, Bobby thought as he waited for the day when Harry would show up alone. Sometimes we do.

August sixth turned out to be the day. Harry strolled through the park toward the corner of Broad and Commonwealth still wearing his red Total Grocery apron—what a fucking nimrod—and singing “Mack the Knife” in a voice that could have melted screws. Careful not to rustle the branches of the close-growing trees, Bobby stepped out behind him and closed in, walking softly on the path and not cocking back his baseball bat until he was close enough to be sure. As he raised it he thought of Ted saying Three boys against one little girl. They must have thought you were a lion. But of course Carol wasn’t a lion; neither was he. It was Sully who was the Lion and Sully hadn’t been there, wasn’t here now. The one creeping up behind Harry Doolin wasn’t even a Wolf. He was just a hyena, but so what? Did Harry Doolin deserve any better?

Nope, Bobby thought, and swung the bat. It connected with the same satisfying thud he’d felt at Lake Canton when he’d gotten his third and best hit, the one to deep left. Connecting with the small of Harry Doolin’s back was even better.

Harry screamed with pain and surprise and went sprawling. When he rolled over, Bobby brought the bat down on his leg at once, the blow this time landing just below the left knee. “Owwwuuuu!” Harry screamed. It was most satisfying to hear Harry Doolin scream; close to bliss, in fact. “Owwwuuu, that hurts! That hurrrts!”

Can’t let him get up, Bobby thought, picking his next spot with a cold eye. He’s twice as big as me, if I miss once and let him get up, he’ll tear me limb from limb. He’ll fucking kill me.

Harry was trying to retreat, digging at the gravel path with his sneakers, dragging a groove with his butt, paddling with his elbows.

Bobby swung the bat and hit him in the stomach. Harry lost his air and his elbows and sprawled on his back. His eyes were dazed, filled with sunbright tears. His pimples stood out in big purple and red dots. His mouth—thin and mean on the day Rionda Hewson had res-cued them—was now a big loose quiver. “Owwwuuu, stop, I give, I give, oh Jeezis!”

He doesn’t recognize me, Bobby realized. The sun’s in his eyes and he doesn’t even know who it is.

That wasn’t good enough. “Not satisfactory, boys!” was what the Camp Winnie counsellors said after a bad cabin inspection—Sully had told him that, not that Bobby cared; who gave a shit about cabin inspections and making bead wallets?

But he gave a shit about this, yes indeed, and he leaned close to Harry’s agonized face. “Remember me, Robin Hood?” he asked. “You remember me, don’t you? I’m the Maltex Baby.”

Harry stopped screaming. He stared up at Bobby, finally recogniz-ing him. “Get . . . you . . .” he managed.

“You won’t get shit,” Bobby said, and when Harry tried to grab his ankle Bobby kicked him in the ribs.

“Ouuuuuu!” Harry Doolin cried, reverting to his former scrip-ture. What a creep! Nimrod Infants on Parade! That probably hurt me more than it hurt you, Bobby thought. Kicking people when you’re wearing sneakers is for dumbbells.

Harry rolled over. As he scrambled for his feet Bobby uncoiled a home-run swing and drove the bat squarely across Harry’s buttocks. The sound was like a carpet-beater hitting a heavy rug—a wonder-ful sound! The only thing that could have improved this moment would have been Mr. Biderman also sprawled on the path. Bobby knew exactly where he’d like to hit him.

Half a loaf was better than none, though. Or so his mother always said.

“That was for the Gerber Baby,” Bobby said. Harry was lying flat on the path again, sobbing. Snot was running from his nose in thick green streams. With one hand he was feebly trying to rub some feel-ing back into his numb ass.

Bobby’s hands tightened on the taped handle of the bat again. He wanted to lift it and bring it down one final time, not on Harry’s shin or Harry’s backside but on Harry’s head. He wanted to hear the crunch of Harry’s skull, and really, wouldn’t the world be a better place without him? Little Irish shit. Low little—

Steady on, Bobby, Ted’s voice spoke up. Enough is enough, so just steady on. Control yourself.

“Touch her again and I’ll kill you,” Bobby said. “Touch me again and I’ll burn your house down. Fucking nimrod.”

He had squatted by Harry to say this last. Now he got up, looked around, and walked away. By the time he met the Sigsby twins halfway up Broad Street Hill, he was whistling.

In the years which followed, Liz Garfield almost got used to seeing policemen at her door. The first to show up was Officer Raymer, the fat local cop who would sometimes buy the kids peanuts from the guy in the park. When he rang the doorbell of the ground-floor apartment at 149 Broad Street on the evening of August sixth, Offi-cer Raymer didn’t look happy. With him was Harry Doolin, who would not be able to sit in an uncushioned seat for a week or more, and his mother, Mary Doolin. Harry mounted the porch steps like an old man, with his hands planted in the small of his back.

When Liz opened the front door, Bobby was by her side. Mary Doolin pointed at him and cried: “That’s him, that’s the boy who beat up my Harry! Arrest him! Do your duty!”

“What’s this about, George?” Liz asked.

For a moment Officer Raymer didn’t reply. He looked from Bobby (five feet four inches tall, ninety-seven pounds) to Harry (six feet one inch tall, one hundred and seventy-five pounds), instead. His large moist eyes were doubtful.

Harry Doolin was stupid, but not so stupid he couldn’t read that look. “He snuck up on me. Got me from behind.”

Raymer bent down to Bobby with his chapped, red-knuckled hands on the shiny knees of his uniform pants. “Harry Doolin here claims you beat im up in the park whilst he was on his way home from work.” Raymer pronounced work as rurrk. Bobby never forgot that. “Says you hid and then lumped im up widda ball-bat before he could even turn around. What do you say, laddie? Is he telling the truth?”

Bobby, not stupid at all, had already considered this scene. He wished he could have told Harry in the park that paid was paid and done was done, that if Harry tattled to anyone about Bobby beating him up, then Bobby would tattle right back—would tell about Harry and his friends hurting Carol, which would look much worse. The trouble with that was that Harry’s friends would deny it; it would be Carol’s word against Harry’s, Richie’s, and Willie’s. So Bobby had walked away without saying anything, hoping that Harry’s humilia-tion—beat up by a little kid half his size—would keep his mouth shut. It hadn’t, and looking at Mrs. Doolin’s narrow face, pinched paintless lips, and furious eyes, Bobby knew why. She had gotten it out of him, that was all. Nagged it out of him, more than likely.

“I never touched him,” Bobby told Raymer, and met Raymer’s gaze firmly with his own as he said it.

Mary Doolin gasped, shocked. Even Harry, to whom lying must have been a way of life by the age of sixteen, looked surprised.

“Oh, the straight-out bare-facedness of it!” Mrs. Doolin cried. “You let me talk to him, Officer! I’ll get the truth out of him, see if I don’t!”

She started forward. Raymer swept her back with one hand, not rising or even taking his eyes from Bobby.

“Now, lad—why would a galoot the size of Harry Doolin say such a thing about a shrimp the size of you if it wasn’t true?”

“Don’t you be calling my boy a galoot!” Mrs. Doolin shrilled. “Ain’t it enough he’s been beat within an inch of his life by this cow-ard? Why—”

“Shut up,” Bobby’s mom said. It was the first time she’d spoken since asking Officer Raymer what this was about, and her voice was deadly quiet. “Let him answer the question.”

“He’s still mad at me from last winter, that’s why,” Bobby told Raymer. “He and some other big kids from St. Gabe’s chased me down the hill. Harry slipped on the ice and fell down and got all wet. He said he’d get me. I guess he thinks this is a good way to do it.”

“You liar!” Harry shouted. “That wasn’t me who chased you, that was Billy Donahue! That—”

He stopped, looked around. He’d put his foot in it somehow; a dim appreciation of the fact was dawning on his face.

“It wasn’t me,” Bobby said. He spoke quietly, holding Raymer’s eyes. “If I tried to beat up a kid his size, he’d total me.”

“Liars go to hell!” Mary Doolin shouted.

“Where were you around three-thirty this afternoon, Bobby?” Raymer asked. “Can you answer me that?”

“Here,” Bobby said.

“Miz Garfield?”

“Oh yes,” she said calmly. “Right here with me all afternoon. I washed the kitchen floor and Bobby cleaned the baseboards. We’re getting ready to move, and I want the place to look nice when we do. Bobby complained a little—as boys will do—but he did his chore. And afterward we had iced tea.”

“Liar!” Mrs. Doolin cried. Harry only looked stunned. “Shocking liar!” She lunged forward again, hands reaching in the general direc-tion of Liz Garfield’s neck. Once more Officer Raymer pushed her back without looking at her. A bit more roughly this time.

“You tell me on your oath that he was with you?” Officer Raymer asked Liz.

“On my oath.”

“Bobby, you never touched him? On your oath?”

“On my oath.”

“On your oath before God?”

“On my oath before God.”

“I’m gonna get you, Garfield,” Harry said. “I’m gonna fix your lit-tle red w—”

Raymer swung around so suddenly that if his mother hadn’t seized him by one elbow, Harry might have tumbled down the porch steps, reinjuring himself in old places and opening fresh wounds in new ones.

“Shut your ugly stupid pot,” Raymer said, and when Mrs. Doolin started to speak, Raymer pointed at her. “Shut yours as well, Mary Doolin. Maybe if you want to bring beatin charges against someone, you ought to start with yer own damned husband. There’d be more witnesses.”

She gawped at him, furious and ashamed.

Raymer dropped the hand he’d been pointing with, as if it had suddenly gained weight. He gazed from Harry and Mary (neither full of grace) on the porch to Bobby and Liz in the foyer. Then he stepped back from all four, took off his uniform cap, scratched his sweaty head, and put his cap back on. “Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark,” he said at last. “Someone here’s lyin faster’n a hoss can trot.”

“He—” “You—” Harry and Bobby spoke together, but Officer George Raymer was interested in hearing from neither.

“Shut up!” he roared, loud enough to make an old couple strolling past on the other side of the street turn and look. “I’m declarin the case closed. But if there’s any more trouble between the two of you”—pointing at the boys—“or you”—pointing at the mothers— “there’s going to be woe for someone. A word to the wise is sufficient, they say. Harry, will you shake young Robert’s hand and say all’s well? Do the manly thing? . . . Ah, I thought not. The world’s a sad goddamned place. Come on, Doolins. I’ll see you home.”

Bobby and his mother watched the three of them go down the steps, Harry’s limp now exaggerated to the point of a sailor’s stagger. At the foot of the walk Mrs. Doolin suddenly cuffed him on the back of the neck. “Don’t make it worse’n it is, you little shite!” she said. Harry did better after that, but he still rolled from starboard to port. To Bobby the boy’s residual limp looked like the goods. Probably was the goods. That last lick, the one across Harry’s ass, had been a grand slam.

Back in the apartment, speaking in that same calm voice, Liz asked: “Was he one of the boys that hurt Carol?”

“Yes.”

“Can you stay out of his way until we move?”

“I think so.”

“Good,” she said, and then kissed him. She hardly ever kissed him, and it was wonderful when she did.

Less than a week before they moved—the apartment had by then begun to fill up with cardboard boxes and to take on a strange denuded look—Bobby caught up to Carol Gerber in the park. She was walking along by herself for a change. He had seen her out walk-ing with her girlfriends plenty of times, but that wasn’t good enough, wasn’t what he wanted. Now she was finally alone, and it wasn’t until she looked over her shoulder at him and he saw the fear in her eyes that he knew she had been avoiding him.

“Bobby,” she said. “How are you?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Okay, I guess. I haven’t seen you around.”

“You haven’t come up my house.”

“No,” he said. “No, I—” What? How was he supposed to finish? “I been pretty busy,” he said lamely.

“Oh. Uh-huh.” He could have handled her being cool to him. What he couldn’t handle was the fear she was trying to hide. The fear of him. As if he was a dog that might bite her. Bobby had a crazy image of himself dropping down on all fours and starting to go roop-roop-roop.

“I’m moving away.”

“Sully told me. But he didn’t know exactly where. I guess you guys don’t chum like you used to.”

“No,” Bobby said. “Not like we used to. But here.” He reached into his back pocket and brought out a piece of folded-over paper from a school notebook. Carol looked at it doubtfully, reached for it, then pulled her hand back.

“It’s just my address,” he said. “We’re going to Massachusetts. A town named Danvers.”

Bobby held out the folded paper but she still wasn’t taking it and he felt like crying. He remembered being at the top of the Ferris wheel with her and how it was like being at the top of the whole lighted world. He remembered a towel opening like wings, feet with tiny painted toes pivoting, and the smell of perfume. “She’s dancin to the drag, the cha-cha rag-a-mop,” Freddy Cannon sang from the radio in the other room, and it was Carol, it was Carol, it was Carol.

“I thought you might write,” he said. “I’ll probably be homesick, a new town and all.”

Carol took the paper at last and put it into the pocket of her shorts without looking at it. Probably throw it away when she gets home, Bobby thought, but he didn’t care. She had taken it, at least. That would be enough springboard for those times when he needed to take his mind away . . . and there didn’t have to be any low men in the vicinity for you to need to do that, he had discovered.

“Sully says you’re different now.”

Bobby didn’t reply.

“Lots of people say that, actually.”

Bobby didn’t reply.

“Did you beat Harry Doolin up?” she asked, and gripped Bobby’s wrist with a cold hand. “Did you?”

Bobby slowly nodded his head.

Carol threw her arms around his neck and kissed him so hard their teeth clashed. Their mouths parted with an audible smack. Bobby didn’t kiss another girl on the mouth for three years . . . and never in his life did he have one kiss him like that.

“Good!” she said in a low fierce voice. It was almost a growl. “Good!”

Then she ran toward Broad Street, her legs—browned with summer and scabbed by many games and many sidewalks—flashing.

“Carol!” he called after her. “Carol, wait!”

She ran.

“Carol, I love you!”

She stopped at that . . . or maybe it was just that she’d reached Commonwealth Avenue and had to look for traffic. In any case she paused a moment, head lowered, and then looked back. Her eyes were wide and her lips were parted.

“Carol!”

“I have to go home, I have to make the salad,” she said, and ran away from him. She ran across the street and out of his life without looking back a second time. Perhaps that was just as well.

He and his mom moved to Danvers. Bobby went to Danvers Ele-mentary, made some friends, made even more enemies. The fights started, and not long after, so did the truancies. On the Commentssection of his first report card, Mrs. Rivers wrote: “Robert is an extremely bright boy. He is also extremely troubled. Will you come and see me about him, Mrs. Garfield?”

Mrs. Garfield went, and Mrs. Garfield helped as much as she could, but there were too many things about which she could not speak: Providence, a certain lost-pet poster, and how she’d come by the money she’d used to buy into a new business and a new life. The two women agreed that Bobby was suffering from growing pains; that he was missing his old town and old friends as well. He would eventually outlast his troubles. He was too bright and too full of potential not to.

Liz prospered in her new career as a real-estate agent. Bobby did well enough in English (he got an A-plus on a paper in which he com-pared Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men to Golding’s Lord of the Flies) and did poorly in the rest of his classes. He began to smoke cigarettes.

Carol did write from time to time—hesitant, almost tentative notes in which she talked about school and friends and a weekend trip to New York City with Rionda. Appended to one that arrived in March of 1961 (her letters always came on deckle-edged paper with teddy bears dancing down the sides) was a stark P.S.: I think my mom & dad are going to get a divorce. He signed up for another “hitch” and all she does is cry. Mostly, however, she stuck to brighter things: she was learning to twirl, she had gotten new ice skates on her birth-day, she still thought Fabian was cute even if Yvonne and Tina did-n’t, she had been to a twist party and danced every dance.

As he opened each of her letters and pulled it out Bobby would think, This is the last. I won’t hear from her again. Kids don’t write letters for long even if they promise they will. There are too many new things coming along. Time goes by so fast. Too fast. She’ll forget me.

But he would not help her to do so. After each of her letters came he would sit down and write a response. He told her about the house in Brookline his mother sold for twenty-five thousand dollars—six months’ salary at her old job in a single commission. He told her about the A-plus on his English theme. He told her about his friend Morrie, who was teaching him to play chess. He didn’t tell her that sometimes he and Morrie went on window-breaking expeditions, riding their bikes (Bobby had finally saved up enough to buy one) as fast as they could past the scuzzy old apartment houses on Plymouth Street and throwing rocks out of their baskets as they went. He skipped the story of how he had told Mr. Hurley, the assistant princi-pal at Danvers Elementary, to kiss his rosy red ass and how Mr. Hur-ley had responded by slapping him across the face and calling him an insolent, wearisome little boy. He didn’t confide that he had begun shoplifting or that he had been drunk four or five times (once with Morrie, the other times by himself) or that sometimes he walked over to the train tracks and wondered if getting run over by the South Shore Express would be the quickest way to finish the job. Just a whiff of diesel fuel, a shadow falling over your face, and then blooey. Or maybe not that quick.

Each letter he wrote to Carol ended the same way:

You are sadly missed byYour friend,Bobby

Weeks would pass with no mail—not for him—and then there would be another envelope with hearts and teddy bears stuck to the back, another sheet of deckle-edged paper, more stuff about skating and baton twirling and new shoes and how she was still stuck on frac-tions. Each letter was like one more labored breath from a loved one whose death now seems inevitable. One more breath.

Even Sully-John wrote him a few letters. They stopped early in 1961, but Bobby was amazed and touched that Sully would try at all.

In S-J’s childishly big handwriting and painful misspellings Bobby could make out the approach of a good-hearted teenage boy who would play sports and lay cheerleaders with equal joy, a boy who would become lost in the thickets of punctuation as easily as he would weave through the defensive lines of opposing football teams. Bobby thought he could even see the man who was waiting for Sully up ahead in the seventies and eighties, waiting for him the way you’d wait for a taxi to arrive: a car salesman who’d eventually own his own dealership. Honest John’s, of course; Honest John’s Harwich Chevrolet. He’d have a big stomach hanging over his belt and lots of plaques on the wall of his office and he’d coach youth sports and start every peptalk with Listen up guys and go to church and march in parades and be on the city council and all that. It would be a good life, Bobby reckoned— the farm and the rabbits instead of the stick sharpened at both ends. Although for Sully the stick turned out to be waiting after all; it was waiting in Dong Ha Province along with the old mamasan, the one who would never completely go away.

Bobby was fourteen when the cop caught him coming out of the con-venience store with two six-packs of beer (Narragansett) and three cartons of cigarettes (Chesterfields, naturally; twenty-one great tobaccos make twenty wonderful smokes). This was the blond Vil-lage of the Damned cop.

Bobby told the cop he hadn’t broken in, that the back door was open and he’d just walked in, but when the cop shone his flashlight on the lock it hung askew in the old wood, half gouged out. What about this? the cop asked, and Bobby shrugged. Sitting in the car (the cop let Bobby sit in the front seat with him but wouldn’t let him have a butt when Bobby asked), the cop began filling out a form on a clipboard. He asked the sullen, skinny kid beside him what his name was. Ralph, Bobby said. Ralph Garfield. But when they pulled up in front of the house where he now lived with his mom—a whole house, upstairs and downstairs both, times were good—he told the cop he had lied.

“My name’s really Jack,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” the blond Village of the Damned cop said.“Yes,” Bobby said, nodding. “Jack Merridew Garfield. That’s me.”

Carol Gerber’s letters stopped coming in 1963, which happened to be the year of Bobby’s first school expulsion and also the year of his first visit to Massachusetts Youth Correctional in Bedford. The cause of this visit was possession of five marijuana cigarettes, which Bobby and his friends called joysticks. Bobby was sentenced to ninety days, the last thirty forgiven for good behavior. He read a lot of books. Some of the other kids called him Professor. Bobby didn’t mind.

When he got out of Bedbug Correctional, Officer Grandelle—the

Danvers Juvenile Officer—came by and asked if Bobby was ready to straighten up and fly right. Bobby said he was, he had learned his les-son, and for awhile that seemed to be true. Then in the fall of 1964 he beat a boy so badly that the boy had to go to the hospital and there was some question of whether or not he would completely recover. The kid wouldn’t give Bobby his guitar, so Bobby beat him up and took it. Bobby was playing the guitar (not very well) in his room when he was arrested. He had told Liz he’d bought the guitar, a Silvertone acoustic, in a pawnshop.

Liz stood weeping in the doorway as Officer Grandelle led Bobby to the police car parked at the curb. “I’m going to wash my hands of you if you don’t stop!” she cried after him. “I mean it! I do!”

“Wash em,” he said, getting in the back. “Go ahead, Ma, wash em now and save time.”

Driving downtown, Officer Grandelle said, “I thought you was gonna straighten up and fly right, Bobby.”

“Me too,” Bobby said. That time he was in Bedbug for six months.

When he got out he cashed in his Trailways ticket and hitched home. When he let himself into the house, his mother didn’t come out to greet him. “You got a letter,” she said from her darkened bedroom. “It’s on your desk.”

Bobby’s heart began to bang hard against his ribs as soon as he saw the envelope. The hearts and teddy bears were gone—she was too old for them now—but he recognized Carol’s handwriting at once. He picked up the letter and tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper—deckle-edged—and another, smaller, envelope. Bobby read Carol’s note, the last he ever received from her, quickly.

Dear Bobby,

How are you. I am fine. You got something from your old friend, the one who fixed my arm that time. It came to me because I guess he didn’t know where you were. He put a note in asking me to send it along. So I am. Say hi to your mom.

Carol

No news of her adventures in twirling. No news of how she was doing with math. No news of boyfriends, either, but Bobby guessed she probably had had a few.

He picked up the sealed envelope with hands that were shaky and numb. His heart was pounding harder than ever. On the front, writ-ten in soft pencil, was a single word: his name. It was Ted’s hand-writing. He knew it at once. Dry-mouthed, unaware that his eyes had filled with tears, Bobby tore open the envelope, which was no bigger than the ones in which children send their first-grade valentines.

What came out first was the sweetest smell Bobby had ever expe-rienced. It made him think of hugging his mother when he was small, the smell of her perfume and deodorant and the stuff she put on her hair; it made him think of how Commonwealth Park smelled in the summer; it made him think of how the Harwich Library stacks had smelled, spicy and dim and somehow explosive. The tears in his eyes overspilled and began to run down his cheeks. He’d gotten used to feeling old; feeling young again—knowing he could feel young again—was a terrible disorienting shock.

There was no letter, no note, no writing of any kind. When Bobby tilted the envelope, what showered down on the surface of his desk were rose petals of the deepest, darkest red he had ever seen.

Heart’s blood, he thought, exalted without knowing why. All at once, and for the first time in years, he remembered how you could take your mind away, how you could just put it on parole. And even as he thought of it he felt his thoughts lifting. The rose petals gleamed on the scarred surface of his desk like rubies, like secret light spilled from the world’s secret heart.

Not just one world, Bobby thought. Not just one. There are other worlds than this, millions of worlds, all turning on the spindle of the Tower.

And then he thought: He got away from them again. He’s free again.

The petals left no room for doubt. They were all the yes anyone could ever need; all the you-may, all the you-can, all the it’s-true.

Now they go, now they slow, Bobby thought, knowing he had heard those words before, not remembering where or knowing why they had recurred to him now. Not caring, either.

Ted was free. Not in this world and time, this time he had run in another direction . . . but in some world.

Bobby scooped up the petals, each one like a tiny silk coin. He cupped them like palmfuls of blood, then raised them to his face. He could have drowned in their sweet reek. Ted was in them, Ted clear as day with his funny stooped way of walking, his baby-fine white hair, and the yellow nicotine spots tattooed on the first two fingers of his right hand. Ted with his carryhandle shopping bags.

As on the day when he had punished Harry Doolin for hurting Carol, he heard Ted’s voice. T hen it had been mostly imagination. This time Bobby thought it was real, something which had been embedded in the rose petals and left for him.

Steady on, Bobby. Enough is enough, so just steady on. Control yourself.

He sat at his desk for a long time with the rose petals pressed to his face. At last, careful not to lose a single one, he put them back into the little envelope and folded down the torn top.

He’s free. He’s . . . somewhere. And he remembered.

“He remembered me,” Bobby said. “He remembered me.”

He got up, went into the kitchen, and put on the tea kettle. Then he went into his mother's room. She was on her bed, lying there in her slip with her feet up, and he could see she had started to look old. She turned her face away from him when he sat down next to her, a boy now almost as big as a man, but she let him take her hand. He held it and stroked it and waitied for the kettle to whistle. After awhile she turned to look at him. "Oh Bobby", she said "We've made such a mess of things, you and me. What are we going to do?"

"The best we can", he said, still stroker her hand. He raised it to his lips and kissed the palm where her lifeline and heatline tangled briefly before wandering away from each other again. "The best we can."

1966: Man, we just couldn't stop laughing.

1

When I came to the University of Maine in 1966, there was still a Goldwater sticker, tattered and faded but perfectly readable (AuH₂O-4-USA), on the old station wagon I inherited from my brother. When I left the University in 1970, I had no car. What I did have was a beard, hair down to my shoulders, and a backpack with a sticker on it reading RICHARD NIXON IS A WAR CRIMINAL. The button on the collar of my denim jacket read I AIN’T NO FORTUNATE SON. College is always a time of change, I guess, the last major convulsion of childhood, but I doubt there were ever changes of such magnitude as those faced by the students who came to their campuses in the late sixties.

Most of us don’t say much about those years now, not because we don’t remember them but because the language which we spoke back then has been lost. When I try to talk about the sixties—when I even try to think about them—I am overcome by horror and hilarity. I see bell-bottom pants and Earth Shoes. I smell pot and patchouli, incense and peppermints. And I hear Donovan Leitch singing his sweet and stupid song about the continent of Atlantis, lyrics that still seem pro-found to me in the watches of the night, when I can’t sleep. The older I get, the harder it is to let go of that song’s stupidity and hold onto its sweetness. I have to remind myself that we were smaller then, small enough to live our brightly hued lives under the mushrooms, all the time believing them to be trees, shelter from the sheltering sky. I know that doesn’t make any real sense, but it’s the best I can do: hail Atlantis.

2

I finished my senior year living off-campus in LSD Acres, the rotting cabins down by the Stillwater River, but when I came to U of M in 1966 I lived in Chamberlain Hall, which was part of a three-dorm complex: Chamberlain (men), King (men), and Franklin (women). There was also a dining hall, Holyoke Commons, which stood a little apart from the dorms—not far, perhaps only an eighth of a mile, but it seemed far on winter nights when the wind was strong and the tem-perature dipped below zero. Far enough so that Holyoke was known as the Palace on the Plains.

I learned a lot in college, the very least of it in the classrooms. I learned how to kiss a girl and put on a rubber at the same time (a necessary but often overlooked skill), how to chug a sixteen-ounce can of beer without throwing up, how to make extra cash in my spare time (writing term papers for kids with more money than I, which was most of them), how not to be a Republican even though I had sprung from a long line of them, how to go into the streets with a sign held up over my head, chanting One two three four we won’t fight your fucking war and Hey hey LBJ how many kids did you kill today. I learned that you should try to get downwind of teargas and breathe slowly through a handkerchief or a bandanna if you couldn’t do that. I learned that when the nightsticks come out, you want to fall on your side, draw your knees up to your chest, and cover the back of your head with your hands. In Chicago, in 1968, I learned that cops can beat the shit out of you no matter how well you cover up.

But before I learned any of those things, I learned about the plea-sures and dangers of Hearts. There were sixteen rooms holding thirty-two boys on the third floor of Chamberlain Hall in the fall of 1966; by January of 1967, nineteen of those boys had either moved or flunked out, victims of Hearts. It swept through us that fall like a virulent strain of influenza. Only three of the young men on Three were com-pletely immune, I think. One was my roommate, Nathan Hoppen-stand. One was David “Dearie” Dearborn, the floor-proctor. The third was Stokely Jones III, soon to be known to the citizenry of Chamberlain Hall as Rip-Rip. Sometimes I think it’s Rip-Rip I want to tell you about; sometimes I think it’s Skip Kirk (later known as Captain Kirk, of course), who was my best friend during those years; sometimes I think it’s Carol. Often I believe it’s the sixties themselves I want to talk about, impossible as that has always seemed to me. But before I talk about any of those things, I better tell you about Hearts.

Skip once said that Whist is Bridge for dopes and Hearts is Bridge for real dopes. You’ll get no argument from me, although that kind of misses the point. Hearts is fun, that’s the point, and when you play it for money—a nickel a point was the going rate on Chamberlain Three—it quickly becomes compulsive. The ideal number of players is four. All the cards are dealt out and then played in tricks. Each hand amounts to twenty-six total points: thirteen hearts at a point each, and the queen of spades (which we called The Bitch), worth thirteen points all by herself. The game ends when one of the four players tops a hundred points. The winner is the player with the lowest score.

In our marathons, each of the other three players would cough up based on the difference between his score and the winner’s score. If, for example, the difference between my score and Skip’s was twenty points at the end of the game, I had to pay him a dollar at the going rate of a nickel a point. Chump-change, you’d say now, but this was 1966, and a dollar wasn’t just change to the work-study chumps who lived on Chamberlain Three.