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  “Or what a maniac you were bringing into your house.”

  “Some maniac. Holding on for dear life to that stuffed cat or whatever it was—”

  “Dog,” I said. “Emory Doghead Dog—You came to the door in pink pajamas.”

  “I never had pink pajamas.”

  Maybe he was right. I don’t have that many clear memories of the past—why should I remember that night any better than anything else? The year I was thirteen, I started spending every spare moment in the library reading about my parents, going through years of Readers Guides’ and the New York Times Index; looking under AWE, Bombing, Connors, Radical Left, Revolution, Underground. I thought I knew a lot about my parents, but I came up with all sorts of stuff—articles, pictures, editorials—more stuff than I’d ever imagined had been written about them.

  Now it bothers me quite a lot that I’m not sure about the memories I have. Those pictures I tote around in my mind—aren’t a lot of them actually from newspapers and magazines? Laura in her mortarboard. Hal holding up a mammoth sign. Laura reaching with a frantic smile for Hal being pulled away by two policemen. Public parents, public pictures. Where are the private pictures, the memories, the images, the flashes of light from the past that are mine alone?

  Riding Hal’s shoulders through a mass of people … up there above everyone else, clutching his hair, laughing because I was Prince of the Hill on top of my daddy … and all the banners waving and people singing … “We will not, we will not, we will not be MOVED. Just like a tre-eee standing by the wa-aa-ter, we will not be moved …”

  Marching next to my mother in front of the White House with a sign as big as me hung across my chest … MR. PRESIDENT, I AM 5 YEARS OLD AND I WANT TO LIVE. NO MORE NUCLEAR WEAPONS.

  I remember those things, I’m sure I do. And more—being torn off a pole by the police … and mounted policemen riding toward us, the horses’ legs as tall as the sky … and running with Laura, who held my hand so hard I thought our hands would melt together, one hand forever.

  I say I’m sure, and then I’m not sure. Are these actual memories of my own—or are they movie and TV clips? I don’t have my parents. I don’t have my name. Is it too much to ask for my own memories?

  “Pink pajamas,” I repeated stubbornly. “You were wearing pink pajamas, and the way I was feeling, dazed out, I thought you were a big pink rabbit. Don’t laugh. I did. Alice-in-Wonderland time.”

  “No pink pajamas,” Gene said. “Never.”

  When the two of us knock heads, we usually don’t get anywhere but mad. Fortunately, Martha came in just then.

  “Hi, guys.” She threw off her shawl, tossed it on the table. She has a way of doing things that makes you aware of how big she is. I don’t mean she’s gigantic, but for a woman she’s pretty big, tall and broad-shouldered—as big as Gene and quite a bit bigger than I am. What’s odd is that her voice is high and little, almost like a kid’s.

  She has her own way of dressing, too. Tonight she was wearing her bright red and black Peruvian shawl, a faded green cotton skirt, and Mexican sandals that squeaked. Nothing matched, yet everything seemed right. That was Martha.

  “You look great,” I said. “Like something out of the fifties.”

  “I hope you mean the decade, not my age.”

  I laughed. There is definitely something about her that gets to me.

  “Oh, what a gorgeous night out there. Warm! Plus—would you believe—stars! More like June than March.” She kissed Gene on the mouth, ruffled my hair and hugged me.

  Martha’s a very physical person, which is good, because Gene and I are both sort of inhibited about hugging and kissing. I really like Martha as a friend, but I also have a lot of attraction to her. I read that in some countries, like France, older women take young guys as their lovers and teach them all about sex. I instantly thought of Martha and me Of course it could never happen because of her and Gene, but that doesn’t stop me from having wild fantasies. One favorite is where Gene has a heart attack or a broken leg—something serious but not fatal—that lands him in the hospital for quite a while. As a good friend of the family, Martha moves into our place to help me out … and we get friendlier and friendlier … and friendlier.

  Actually, Martha’s never stayed overnight at our house, although Gene fairly often stays over at her place. Do they think I don’t know what goes on? Or do they just like doing it without me around?

  “What are you two chewing over?” Martha said.

  Gene and I exchanged a quick look. That was it. Differences forgotten. The important thing was, no talking about the past in front of Martha. She didn’t know anything about it.

  “Pete made a foul pot of something for supper tonight,” Gene said, “and we got into a little hassle over it.”

  “Look, Unc, I threw it out. That ought to satisfy you.”

  “You threw out food?” Martha said. “It must have been incredibly raunchy, Pete. I’ve seen you eat some very questionable mixes.”

  “You see,” Gene said, “even Martha, who thinks you do no wrong, doesn’t like the messes you brew in the kitchen.”

  “Messes!” I howled. I clutched my heart, and Gene rolled his eyes at my flamboyance. We were like a comedy team or two magicians, distracting Martha so she wouldn’t ask any more questions.

  From the Manila Envelope

  Explosion Damages Lab

  Fire Chief Says No Theories Yet

  An explosion of unknown origin ripped through the Femmer Laboratory in the Franklin Butler Building at Beecham University last night some time past midnight, causing extensive damage and endangering adjoining buildings. While fireman battled the three-alarm blaze, police threw up a cordon to hold off the crowds of curious students who converged on the scene, some of them in nightclothes. One young man was there with a tennis racket. He explained, “The courts are so crowded that the only time I can get on them is after midnight. But this is more fun than a tennis game.” An almost festive air held sway. A green truck with “GrubStake” painted on it did a brisk business in hot dogs, soda, and French fries. Between bites of food, students called encouragement to the firemen who went about their business without responding.

  Fire Chief Paul Marshallo said he did not yet have any theories about the origin of the explosion. “It could have been somebody careless with cigarettes and some of those chemicals they’ve got there,” he said. “It could have been arson. It could have been anything. We’re investigating. It might be arson. We’ll investigate the possibility of arson. This lab was doing pretty important research. Government stuff. But I don’t want to say anything firm yet. We have to investigate all possibilities and keep an open mind.”

  Three

  When Martha and Gene left, I watched from the living room window as they got into Martha’s VW bug. I have Martha’s promise that if she ever sells the bug, I get first dibs. Originally it was a nice light green, but now one fender’s a mottled brown and the other’s red. The engine is still great, though. We, or Gene really, have a big dignified Volvo, but it was at the dealer’s for brake work. It’s ten years old and always at the dealer’s for something or other. Considering that Gene walks to and from his office and we don’t have our own garage and can’t park in front of the house for more than an hour without hitting the meter, the V is nothing but a big expensive nuisance, but Gene loves it and doesn’t care.

  He’s been trying to get the city to zone our block for unlimited day parking for years, but it’s a losing battle. We live in the only remaining private house downtown, and the land developers, who are all tight with City Hall, would love to drive us out and get their hands on our place. Not for the house—they wouldn’t care about that at all. It’s limestone and it was originally a farmhouse. Long before I came to live with him, Gene had reworked the whole house, pulling down walls to make fewer but bigger rooms, uncovering the old fireplaces, and tearing up layers of cruddy linoleum to get to the original wide, pine plank floors. The house is really his baby. He trie
d for a long time to have it declared a historic building. He lost that battle, too.

  Since we live downtown in the middle of stores and offices, some nights it’s as quiet as the country. This was one of the country nights. That is, until Martha pulled away from the curb. She likes to say that in another life she wasn’t an artist, she was a racing car driver. I watched out the front window as she roared down the street.

  A moment later, another car pulled away from the curb. Coincidence? That made the most sense—but not to me. I jerked open the front door and ran down the stone walk. Where had the car been parked? Had someone been watching the house? My stomach lurched, a hand in there grabbing and squeezing. I was lucky, half-lucky—I raced down the street, caught sight of the car just before it turned the corner. I got the first three letters of the license plate. Not good, but enough for an entry.

  In my room, I filed the information under NOTED. “AAR … B1. 4 dr F. new, fllwd G&M in bug.” I kept my sightings in an ordinary green school notebook divided into two sections, DEFINITE and NOTED. Every time I made an entry, I checked and cross-checked to see if that particular car had ever turned up before. Now and then, it happened.

  I was still flipping through the pages and brooding over the car that had (might have?) followed Gene and Martha when the phone rang in the kitchen. The hand grabbed me in the belly again. I shoved the notebook into my desk. The phone kept ringing.

  “I’m coming,” I yelled as I went downstairs.

  “Hi, Peter.”

  “Deirdre!” I hitched myself onto the counter.

  “How’d you know it was me, Peter?” She pronounced it Peet-ah.

  “I ought to know your voice by now, Dee.”

  “That’s true, I always recognize your smashing voice when you call us, luv.” Deirdre is one of my friend Drew’s sisters. For about two years, she’s been crazy for anything English. She listens only to English rock groups, says “smashing” as often as possible, and reads everything written on Princess Di. “No one else sounds like you, old chap, but I didn’t know I had such a distinctive voice.”

  “Bloody modest of you, luv.”

  “You’re teasing me, Pete!” she said, suddenly sounding like the old Deirdre.

  I’ve known Deirdre almost as long as I’ve known Drew. She, Dawn, Drew, and I used to play kickball and King of the Hill together. Deirdre’s a year older than I am, Dawn’s a year younger. It was always Deirdre I was interested in. Sometimes we used to go off by ourselves to talk. I was a fairly horny little kid even in elementary school, and I spent a lot of time praying for Deirdre to be overcome by passion for me. All she ever did, though, was complain about her mother’s favoring Drew over her and Dawn. Once, when I tried to kiss her, she just laughed.

  “Where’s Drew?” I said now.

  “Oh, he and Mummy went out to look at stuff for the shop. Some bloody old antique dining room set. I called to ask when you’re coming over, Peter. We blokes haven’t seen you in a huge while. Come on over and have supper with us one of these nights.”

  “If you promise to sit next to me.”

  “Oh, my, aren’t you growing up, though.”

  “I’ve been this way for years, luv. Remember when I tried to kiss you?”

  “Hmmm. Can’t say that I do, Peet-ah. Don’t tell me about it! I always thought you were the nicest boy I knew. I don’t want to get all disillusioned about you.”

  We fooled around like that for a while. All the time, in the back of my mind, I wondered if anyone was listening to our conversation. I have this clear picture in my head of a man in a cellar. I can’t see his face, but I know he’s wearing earphones and chain-smoking. Next to him there’s a tape deck, turning and turning, recording all our thousands of conversations. Martha to Gene. Gene to me. Me to Drew. Nothing exciting, nothing unusual, but the man doesn’t care. He’s patient, the way a hunter has to be patient. He’s waiting. Waiting for me or Gene to forget, to make one unguarded comment, one indiscreet remark. That’s all he would need. Actually, in this age of electronic miracles, I guess tapping phones is done a lot more easily than sticking some poor agent into a damp cellar. But somebody has to listen to the stuff, don’t they? It might as well be my faceless man in the cellar.

  Four

  “Don’t you get it?” I said, handing Drew the Koren cartoon. I hated that anxious note in my voice. What did it matter if Drew got it or not? When was I going to stop being so damn dependent on his good opinion?

  It was lunchtime and we were outside, sharing Winston High’s somewhat soggy lawn with about two thousand other students playing killer Frisbee, eating, and looking for places to make out or smoke. Winston High is one of those windowless wonders. As soon as the snow melts, the cafeteria is deserted. Even in the middle of winter, there are diehards who go outside and sit in snowdrifts to eat their lunches.

  Drew pulled at his lower lip as he studied the cartoon. I’d cut it out of an old New Yorker magazine that had been hanging around my uncle’s office. I practically worshipped Koren as a true genius. His cartoons were tacked up all over my bedroom walls. This one showed four typical shaggy Koren animal-people—or people-animals, take your choice—with their fuzzy clothes and anteater snouts, sitting around a fire in a living room. They were all holding wineglasses and while the other three smiled benignly on her, one of the female shaggy types said, “I love to be alive. It’s fun.”

  “You really think that’s funny?” Drew said, handing back the cartoon. “‘I love to be alive, it’s fun’? I don’t get it. I mean, that’s pretty obvious.”

  “That’s the point. It’s so obvious and banal and understated. That’s what makes it funny.”

  Drew slung an arm over my shoulder. “I’ll take your word for it. Wendy Varner called me last night. You should have heard her. You should have heard the things she said.”

  “Quit slobbering on my neck. Don’t you ever think about anything except girls?”

  “Do you?”

  “Now and then, now and then. Anyway, I thought you were in love with Joanie.”

  “I am.”

  “So what’s this Wendy Varner stuff?”

  “She called me. What was I supposed to do? Hang up on her?”

  “Dear Drew,” a girl had written him in third grade, the year he and I had become friends, “I love you.” And ever since, girls had been slipping notes into his desk, his books, and his locker, one way or another always leaving the same message. “Dear Drew, I love you.”

  It was truly depressing to think about his endless string of girl friends. As far as girls went, he was world-class and I was no-class. I could count my lifetime record for girl friends on the fingers of one finger. Barbara Hart, who not only let me kiss her behind Wood Street Elementary School but also, in exchange for a mere bag of marbles, showed me a patch of her bare stomach, including belly button. Hot stuff for fifth grade. However, that moment of glory was far behind me. A long drought since then.

  I’d always liked girls. It didn’t come on me suddenly, ta ta! ta ta!, big burst of adolescent frenzy. What had changed was how much I liked girls and how much it bothered me that there wasn’t a girl in sight who liked me back.

  I fingered the two hairs on my chin. Drew had a mustache already. “Remember Barbara Hart?”

  “Fifth grade,” Drew said. “All Hart. What brought her to mind?”

  “Did I ever tell you I had a hot romance going with her?”

  “Who didn’t?” Drew said, chewing on a twig. “When she moved away, she had the biggest marble collection in Wood Street School.”

  I sat up. “You’re just saying that to drive me crazy.”

  “Ah, Pete! For a smart guy—Did you think you were the only one? I bet she gave you the old belly-button treatment, too. Right? Right? Six marbles?”

  “You only had to give her six? A whole bag of my best marbles.”

  “Now that’s funny!”

  I punched him on the arm. “The hell it is.”

  He grinned and
gave me a stinging slap on the cheek. “Sure you want to start this, Pete?”

  “I’ll take you.”

  “It’ll be the first time.” Another slap.

  We had met eight years ago on my first day in Wood Street Elementary School third grade. I had lived with my uncle for about two weeks by then, spending my days playing around his office. In school, in a hushed sorrowful voice, he told the principal that I had always been taught at home by my parents, who had recently died and left him to be my guardian. Things, he said, were still chaotic, and he didn’t have the family documents yet.

  Miss Simpson, the third-grade teacher, put me in the seat next to Drew. Greenwood, Gregoretti. Later that day, she told me I did fine work and that maybe I could help Drew with his reading. Then she asked me what Pax was short for.

  “It means peace.”

  “Well … yes. Peace. I thought maybe it was a family name?”

  I shook my head no and then yes, and she let me go. I reported this conversation to my uncle at suppertime.

  “I guess we didn’t think of everything,” he said. By then we both knew that I would be staying with him longer than a few days or a month. Word had come to him, again through an anonymous phone call, that it would be for a year, at least. After that call, the decision had been made for me to enroll in school under Gene’s name. He said, “Maybe it would be a good idea to change your first name, too. Not too much, hmmm? How does Pete sound to you?”

  “Okay.”

  In school, I told Miss Simpson that Pax was just a nickname and she should call me Pete. No one ever remembered that for one day I had been Pax—except me. For months, I was anxious about my name, afraid I’d forget, not respond when the teacher called on me. And I was constantly on guard, waiting for some kid or teacher to come up and say, Hey! How come you changed your name? Just the thought of it turned me damp and hot with anxiety. I figured out what I’d say. At home, I wrote it down and I memorized it. I didn’t change my name! I told you, that was just a family name, sort of a nickname. My name is Pete! I practiced saying it to my mirror and to Emory Doghead Dog. But inside me, I knew that, no matter what I said, they wouldn’t believe me, that something in my voice or my face would give me away.