I always get the shakes when I go back to Baltimore. I actually thought this last trip—a year ago next week—would be easier, but as soon as the smooth-talking southern pilot announced that we were “starting our gradual descent into the Baltimore-Washington Airport,” my mouth turned to cotton and my fingers became as cold as those on any corpse. I took a couple of deep breaths, gripped the armrests, and told myself to chill out, that this time was different. I was returning home a “hero,” a “celebrity,” no reason to panic. But such talk had zero effect on my racing heart. I took a deep breath and stared down at the lush countryside that ran next to the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. There were tall green bushes that looked like they might pull out their roots and start walking around and great blotches of some cream-colored flower—probably honeysuckle. Of course, it would be honeysuckle. Maryland was covered with that sweet-smelling vine; the old house at Chateau Avenue had wild honeysuckle running up a broken lattice on its north side, and even the mere thought of that made me feel something had broken inside.

“The only problem is you’re scared shitless,” I said, trying a little lame wit on myself, which helped some. Better to be in touch with the melting, panicky center than trying to sound like some Allstate salesman of the soul.

I blew air from my cheeks, wiped the flight grime off my neck, and tried to figure it out. I’d suffered major panic attacks in past swings home, but I had chalked those up to the ugliness of the tasks at hand, burying my dear grandmother, Grace, and my aunt Ida (beautiful, independent Aunt Ida who died young from smoking her filterless Raleighs) and seeing my father through a couple of rough surgeries (he was not a model patient). But why panic on this particular morning when I was flying down to be honored by my old school, Calvert College, for my “achievements as a writer”? The dean of Humanities, one Dr. Moss, had gushed about my books over the phone, especially my Pulitzer nominee, The Black Watch (he was kind enough not to mention I’d lost). Oh, yes, this was a fine day. I was to be given an honorary Ph.D. Henceforth, I would be Thomas Fallon, Doctor of Humane Letters, and though I had laughed about it and told my New York friends that it was hardly like being honored by Harvard, I’d be lying if I said I was less than pleased. After all, the year before Calvert had seen fit to honor another graduate, Grady Wheat, the famous abstract painter, and it was nice to know they regarded me in Wheat’s class.

Beyond pride of achievement, however, I have to confess to a nastier emotion in all of this. I wanted the honor as a means of revenge on all the boobs, cretins, and imbeciles who had populated both Calvert’s faculty and student body during my years at the college. The place had formerly been a state teacher’s institution, and during my four wild years there, the school was largely still run by educationalists, the kind of mothbrained, pinheaded idiots who mumble cliches about the “joys of learning” while systematically squeezing every drop of life out of the process. Consequently, I had spent much of my time at the school railing against them and their moronic building block mentality.

But my experience at Calvert wasn’t all bad. After all, it was there that I met the professor who forged my intellectual life, Dr. Sylvester Spaulding, and of course, it was at dear old Calvert that I met the only true genius I’ve ever known, Mad Jeremy Raines, not to mention my first true love, Val, and all the rest of the wild boys and girls at the battered old shingled house on Chateau.

As the plane touched down, I laughed in a manic, lunatic way. Of course that was why I felt like a crooked man falling down a boiling, greased hill. From the very day Dean Moss had called me at my apartment in the Village to tell me of the impending honor, I had known that there was going to be a serious price to pay for becoming Dr. Thomas Fallon. Oh, no, this little trip home could never be as simple as LOCAL BOY MAKES GOOD. To walk on that green campus again, to sit on the hard benches outside the moldy English offices, to see the old lacrosse field, was inevitably to be drawn back to a particularly painful part of my history. Indeed, I knew as soon as I climbed down the plane’s portable steps and stepped on Maryland soil once again that what I truly feared were the memories of youth, a deep sweet wildness and precious hope that was gone from my world.

All of this flooded through my brain as I grabbed my bag; walked like a zombie through the mental hospital glare of the airport, rented the only car they had left, a midnight blue Mercury Cougar, and headed out toward Calvert. On the freeway, I chattered constantly to myself, playacting the Good Coach (“You’re gonna be fine. You’re getting a goddamned award for Chrissakes.”), while around me the other drivers on the Baltimore Beltway looked into my dusty windows and shook their heads. I could nearly hear their nasally Baltimore voices as they drove through the killer humidity back to their redbrick row houses. “Saw a loon-a-tic onna road today, hon. Man talking to his self. I swear to Gawd. Loon-a-tics is everywhere!”

By the time I made the York Road exit, I had sweated right through my nice, predictable blue oxford broadcloth shirt and felt as though a swarm of dark gnats had entered my ears and were buzzing around inside my addled brain. I scarcely remember parking the car or walking up the footpath toward Old Main. The next time I became fully conscious of my surroundings I was ushered into a room called the Calvert College Public Relations Suite by a big Irishman named Riley, who apologized for the flashbulbs and the microphones that were thrust into my face. I blinked, smiled at the press, and told myself that this was fine. I was here to be honored, and the truth was, I was grateful for the lights and the questions. They served as a diversion from the terrors of the past, which lay coiled in my heart.

As I answered questions about my novels and screenplays, I looked around nervously for Dr. Spaulding. Surely he wouldn’t miss my big day at the college, but he was nowhere in sight. Instead, I found Dr. Gerald Lawson, a fat literature professor, in a 1930s double-breasted suit, replete with tobacco stains. He was a great bore in class, droning on about the “little golden truths” in his favorite work, The Faerie Queen, the dullest great poem ever written. Lawson was one of the many legions of people I’ve met whose only distinction in life was attending Harvard or Yale and who feel it necessary to mention the fact in every other sentence they utter. “While attending Harvard, I first came across the poetry of John Crowe Ransom, taught to me by Visiting Professor Allan Tate. I remember well asking Tate about Ransom’s use of syntax as we strolled through Cambridge … blah, blah, blah.” This method of teaching is designed to make the state school student feel even more hapless, and I had a mind to go over and poke him in the stomach, a temptation I just barely managed to resist.

Near fat Lawson was an educationalist named Professor Roger Touhy, a Man Without a Brain. Gray suited, gray crepe shoed, and gray faced, he had taught something called Lesson Plan I, in which he taught us prospective teachers how to outline our course material. “You start with a capital A,” he used to mumble into his rooster tie, “and then after you go to number 1. Now that’s not roman numeral I—oh, no, indeed, that’s a small 1—under which you must think of your objective for the first five crucial minutes.” Once, on a dare from Jeremy, I’d hit dear Professor Touhy in the head with a snowball from fifty yards away. Now he smiled at me as if I were his acolyte, his native son.

Even after I had been fielding questions for fifteen minutes, there was no sign of Dr. Spaulding and my mood started disintegrating. Could it really be possible that he still held a grudge against me after all these years? The thought made me sag a little, and I looked over at Riley to save me. The last thing I could afford was one of my panic attacks. I could see the headlines in the Baltimore Sun tomorrow: “Famous Baltimore Author Goes Screaming from Room.”

Luckily, Calvert was only minutes away from Larson-Payne Mental Hospital. Once they scooped me up, they could put the Big Shirt on me and hustle me right off to the good old A-3 ward, a place I knew so well I could almost call it home.

I held my breath and felt the flashbulbs go off. I mean felt them go off under my own itching skin. If Spaulding wasn’t going to show, I wanted—no, needed—to go find him. In any case, I’d had enough, and I wanted out of here.

Then the great oak doors swung open and he was suddenly standing there staring at me, dressed in his perfectly tailored brown herringbone suit and I smiled and walked toward him, trying not to seem like an eager child racing toward his lost father. I mean, I had to literally slow my feet down, remind myself that “Yes, I was an adult, yes, I was successful. Yes, I deserved his respect.”

Of course he was much older. I had expected that. Or, no, that’s not quite true. I had attempted to prepare myself for that inevitable fact by saying over and over: “Well, naturally, he’ll be older. What do you expect?” But preparation doesn’t really always coincide with expectation. I was still shocked by the deep lines in his handsome square face, by his short-clipped snow white hair, by the cane that he held at his side, by his noticeable limp. Indeed, his presence—this sounds melodramatic, but I am trying to be accurate—his presence, so much older and clearly weaker, actually weakened me still further; I felt for a brief second (and I am ashamed of this) furious that he had aged. I wanted to grab him, shake him, say, “What in the hell are you doing, Dr. S.? Walking in here old? For Godssake?” Instead, of course, I shook his hand and said in a measured whisper: “Professor, it’s good to see …”

I couldn’t say anything else. Suddenly, I longed to be away from this maelstrom of flashbulbs and roaming eyes, the good little machines that send your image to the world but cut out your heart.

“Good to see you, Thomas,” he said in his stiff, formal way. “Congratulations.”

I started to hug him but remembered his horror of being touched and settled for a pat on his shoulder. Words and thoughts came rushing back to me with such a force that I felt like grabbing him by his old thin arm, pulling him away from the lights.

But, of course, I didn’t do that. I’m a professional now, aren’t we all?

There was a good-looking blond reporter in the front row with a name tag on her perfect tweed suit. It said Sally Harper, and I recalled seeing her byline on a couple of stories during the past year. She smiled and held up The Black Watch.

“Dr. Spaulding,” she said, “Tom Fallon’s novel is about police violence and cover-ups in the Latino community in New York City. When he was a student, did he have such a well-developed social conscience?”

Dr. Spaulding smiled slightly and answered in a dry, ironic voice: “No, I think not,” he said. “When he was in my class, he was rather fond of Henry James.”

I looked at him for signs that he was saying this with affection or irony, but he gave me no smile, no wink of an eye. It was as though he was describing the weather.

Harper finished scribbling in her notebook and looked at me: “What was your inspiration for The Black Watch, Mr. Fallon?”

“Anger,” I said. “I don’t like the way the cops kick people around.”

I was surprised and slightly embarrassed by my own voice. It was overtough, almost a caricature of some hard-boiled private eye of the 1940s. It sounded so ridiculous to me that it nearly made me laugh out loud. Didn’t they all know that inside I’d regressed to age nineteen?

There was a small murmur in the crowd, and I looked at Dr. Spaulding, but he seemed a little nervous, anxious, I thought, to get away from here, maybe even to get away from me.

“That’s not quite the truth,” I said, taking off my glasses. “The truth is that Professor Spaulding is the inspiration for all my work.”

Everyone smiled at that (except for Dr. Lawson, whose mouth hung open like he was waiting for someone to stuff a doughnut in it) and dutifully wrote it down. Of course, I’d sounded sentimental, but it was my own awkward way of apologizing. I looked back at the professor and he allowed himself a small smile, then stared down at the floor.

“When I came to Calvert,” I said, “I knew very little about life or art, a shortcoming that Dr. S. quickly made clear to me. He reminded me that before I could write a great novel, or even a publishable short story, I would first have to suffer the minor inconvenience of being able to write a coherent sentence.”

That got an affectionate laugh, and Spaulding allowed himself another slight smile of acknowledgment.

“Is that true, Dr. Spaulding?” Harper said.

He paused for a second, took off his glasses with his right hand, and tapped them on his left palm, a gesture I’d seen him make a thousand times in class.

“Thomas was always a student with great potential,” he said and let it die there.

There was a small, respectful titter, and I couldn’t help myself. Though he had barely acknowledged my presence, I put my arm around him.

He stiffened like a corpse but stayed there as the cameras clicked away. Still, I felt him shrinking from my touch. He was dying to get out of there, and I wondered if after all these years, he still hadn’t forgiven me.

I wanted badly to speak to him again, but at the end of the press conference, he apologized, saying he had to attend a faculty meeting. I nodded as though I understood but thought it odd. Would the school schedule a faculty meeting the same time they were honoring one of their graduates? That seemed unlikely, and I felt a stain bleach over what happiness I had taken from the morning. So I walked with big beef-faced Riley down the marble steps and out the great stone-arched entrance to the green fields that ringed Old Main.

“You’re free until tomorrow morning at nine,” Riley said. “Is there anything more I can do for you?”

“No,” I said. “Thanks for everything. Guess I’ll give my dad a call.”

What I wanted to say was give me Sally Harper’s number, for Chrissakes, don’t let me go redneck and drown in memories.

But such impulsive tactics were really no longer my style. So I simply shook his hand and watched Riley walk away, a man with a schedule, a man with a place.

I should have gone directly to my car, gotten away from the school, but the truth is, the campus had so expanded that I wasn’t exactly sure where the mighty Cougar was parked. So I started walking across the green sward of campus in front of Old Main. I looked up at the great Gothic spire, the stained windows, the cupolas, and black stone gargoyles that hovered over the high-arched entrance and remembered my first days here—1965, the year that the world cracked.

The pictures came back with a buzz, a great swarm of bright images, one overlapping the other, until they made me physically dizzy and I sat down under an oak, behind a surrealistically green hedge.

I lay my head back on the tree’s trunk and tried to order the bright images, but they kept coming as though sent by some half-drunk projectionist behind my eyes, so I reached into my sport coat pocket and pulled out a half-pint of Jack Daniels.

I uncapped it and laughed. What would the press make of their hero now? The distinguished Dr. Thomas Fallon gets shitfaced on the College lawn. I took a long hit and said loudly and absurdly to myself: “What one needs here is a sense of order! Indeed! This above all else!”

The booze hit me instantly, and I laughed at the sound of my ridiculous voice. Or, rather, the high and proper academic voice I had borrowed. For this was not Dr. Tom’s voice, but rather Dr. Sylvester Spaulding’s. Or, perhaps, that’s not exactly true either, for in a real sense his voice was my voice, I think. I mean the liquor felt fine, and I was at last settling in, giving myself over to the House of Memories, as old Merle Haggard once called it. And I laughed a drunken cough of a laugh and thought of the irony of it. Here I was a professional writer, a man who lives through and for memory, afraid to recall my own past. All this time I had kept these years sacrosanct, built a temple around them, and watched it sit there glimmering on ancient hallowed ground, afraid what I would feel if I kicked open the battered doors.

But who was I kidding? The doors were going to fall in the end, the temple would collapse, and I had my Jack to keep me warm, so why not now? Why not here? On the very lawn where the great, stumbling adventure began?

It was the fall of 1965, my parents were fighting again, and I knew I had to leave home or risk some kind of violent reaction against them. What form it would take, I wasn’t sure. All I really knew was that it was coming; there was a mounting fury in my heart and I feared its release. For they screamed at one another over breakfast, they glared and cursed and cried at one another at dinner, and they slammed their bedroom door shut at bedtime, still clawing and shouting as the lights went out. What was this endless battle all about? I wasn’t really sure. Only that my father, James, harbored a vast resentment against my mother. In his eyes, he had fallen from grace, and she was the instrument of his collapse.

He had been an artist before they met, a watercolorist of some talent. (Even now I had two of his early paintings on my apartment walls.) His dream had been to go to New York. My mother told me he talked of nothing else when they first met. But being poor and not well connected, he had no idea of how to go about getting himself into school there. Of course, he could have simply gone, roughed it, lived the Bohemian life in the Village, and at one point he was going to do just that. But his mother, Grace, wouldn’t hear of it. She forbade him to go; she had an image that he was “frail” and was certain he would never survive such a life. There’s no use in trying to make her out a villain for this decision. Indeed, with my grandfather either gone to sea or wasting the family’s money in sailors’ bars and whorehouses, Grace had slaved to keep the family afloat. In all ways she was a remarkable woman. Though her education had ended in the eighth grade, she played Mozart on the piano and her favorite book was The Magic Mountain.

It was beyond my father’s will (or anyone else’s in the family) to defy her, so he stayed home in Baltimore, accepting a scholarship to the Maryland Institute of Art. Here he was happy enough and spent two years painting his watercolors, taking field trips throughout the lushly vegetated city and down to the Eastern Shore to make nature studies. It was by all accounts one of the happiest times in his life.

In his second year at the Institute, he met my mother, Ruth, at a church dance. She was a beautiful red-haired girl, full-figured, with an appealing overbite, and a pageboy haircut. In old photographs she looked like Gene Tierney. On her side, my mother was from a farm family who had recently migrated to Baltimore when the crops failed in Mayo County. Bored by her provincial home life, she was thrilled to meet a sensitive boy, a real artist.

Now when I remember the terrible screaming, the endless fighting, I try to think what it must have been like in those first years of courtship, the two of them taking the old yellow No. 8 streetcar out the York Road to “the country” (only one mile past Calvert College there was once nothing but forest and streams and glowing, green Maryland fields), my father with his easel and canvas, my mother, his lovely muse, holding his paintbrushes and colors. I see them walking over the old train trestle that bisects Towson, walking and talking philosophy. (My father, like my grandmother, was much taken with Bertrand Russell.) I think of the excitement they must have felt, their growing love for one another, my father’s wonder that at last he had met a girl who understood him as his mother did. I picture them lying in one of those impossibly beautiful green fields, near a stand of oaks, my mother with a picnic basket, my father thin and muscular and tan. I watch them making love, feeling young and beautiful and strong. They must have felt that they were never going to get old, would never turn bitter, never turn away from the good, radiant world.

But their happiness lasted a short season. The Depression wiped out my father’s hopes of becoming an artist and in short order he was put to work in a local CCC camp, building roads and planting trees in the reservoir by Druid Hill Park. My mother, meantime, worked as a secretary for the Relief Fund, the first of the terrible slavelike jobs she held all her life.

After Roosevelt got the country back on its feet again, my father tried to resume his painting career, but there was little outlet for his work in Baltimore. It was not only that people were too poor to purchase paintings. There is something else in the very fabric of Baltimoreans, and it is this thing that drove my father mad, I believe. The city has such a deep provinciality, such a profound inferiority complex, that it rarely recognizes its own.

To be blunt, my father’s dreams were crushed, and he became a bitter and sarcastic man.

I remember him standing on the front porch looking at the neighbors coming home from their jobs. He would say to me, “Look at ‘em, Tommy, a bunch of sheep. All living in their goddamned little row houses, all having their same little row thoughts. Who do the goddamned Orioles play tonight, wonder if there’s any National Bohemian in the ‘fridge, gotta get up to the moronic Catholic church and play their precious bingo. Never read a book. God knows, they would never look at a painting. Mencken had it right, son. Baltimorons, that’s what old H. L. called them and that’s what they are, a great, brutal horde, as dumb as any jungle animal. Believe me kid, get the hell out of here as soon as you can. ‘Cause once you get married … you’re in this craphole for life.”

“But why don’t we all leave, Dad?” I said, staring at his pinched face, silhouetted by the perfect evening blue light. “We could go. We could live in New York.”

“Ha!” he would laugh, shaking his head as he leaned on the porch railing. “You don’t know your mother, son. She can’t leave wonderful Baltimore. Why, to her, New York is next to nothing and Paris is some city dump. Oh, no, son, to your mother, there is only one real place in the entire world, godforsaken old Baltimore.”

The bitterness in his voice, the sound of defeat, frightened me even then and though I badly wanted to back him up, I felt torn apart, for I didn’t really want to leave town either. Like my mother, I loved our redbrick row house neighborhood, loved the fact that just down the street were my friends all living in houses that looked just like mine and around the corner was Tom Mullin field where we would act out our fantasies of being major leaguers. I loved getting on my bike and heading down to Northwood Shopping Center to see the Saturday afternoon horror films, loved having my aunt and grandparents only five blocks away. On Sundays, I would call Pop and ride my bike over to Stonewood Road, where we would eat root beer ice cream floats and watch the Colts on TV, and he would tell me about the old-time players, Jim Thorpe and Red Grange and Bronco Nagurski. I miss him badly even today, dear old toothless, big-muscled Pop, who had started his life as a farmer and become a full-time carpenter at age forty-seven and could fix anything, a man who loved everyday life, the simple joy of the Colts game, or making a plate of stewed tomatoes and who himself thought Baltimore was the best place in the world. Indeed, once, when I was a tortured teenager, I said to him, “Pop, I want to go live in Washington,” and he merely looked at me and said, “Don’t know why you would want to do that, boy. Those people don’t even live where they grew up.” A sentiment my mother shared in spades.

So, I loved Baltimore, too, and yet I knew that it had crushed something special in my father, for it was a city that only valued the practical, the everyday, a city that was ruthlessly unforgiving of its dreamers and its artists. As my mother often said to my father when he would spend too much time reading: “Mr. Philosopher. He thinks who he is, hon!”

That was the city I grew up in—warm, nurturing, and mind-bogglingly provincial, a combination that proved deadly to my sensitive, bitter old man.

But I am getting ahead of my story (a habit of mine, like my father, I am impatient, eager for fireworks), for in 1965, I knew all this only dimly. Indeed, I would liken my own consciousness to that of a drunken pug fighter who has suffered so many blows he only wants to fall in his corner and get the seconds to plug his cuts.

Not that my parents fighting was a new situation. They had fought off and on for years. There would be a violent period followed by a couple of weeks (sometimes, even a month) of relative calm. Then the mad cycle of screaming and crying would begin again. Of course, given the lunacy in our house, I should have gone away to college, and I would have if I had planned things a little more carefully, but in those days the future was like some alien, uninhabitable planet and my parents were too wrapped in their own misery to worry about my higher education.

Indeed, to be fair, I had given them little reason to think of it. My high school years had been spent drinking National Bohemian beer, playing cards with friends, and chasing girls at Ameche’s Drive-In. My three best friends were, like myself, drunken carousing boys, all bright underachievers and after graduation they had scattered, attending colleges out of state. As for me, I had convinced myself that I “hated school,” when quite the opposite was true. The truth was, I had always been a torn child, rowdy and sensitive, bookish and athletic. This kind of complexity was no more tolerated by the children of my neighborhood than it was by the adults. One had to be a jock or a brain, and those of us who fell in between were highly suspect. Worse, we felt not quite right about ourselves. I remember stabbing myself with a fork in the hand once to prove I was a “real boy,” not some fag intellectual.

Given all the tensions at home and my own ambivalence about my bookishness, I studied only sporadically. Needless to say, my grade-point average suffered, and when it came time to apply to colleges, I found that I had a very slim selection to choose from.

Finally, when the deadline was almost past, I applied to Calvert, telling myself that I didn’t really want to go, that the only reason I was bothering at all was because it was near my house and I had seen a few cute girls walking across the campus. When Calvert surprised me and accepted my application, I felt no joy at all. After all, I had nearly convinced myself that I was not a scholar, not a reader, not a sensitive intellectual type. Nothing, in short, like my father, the failure.

But there was a surprise waiting for me at Calvert. Dr. Sylvester Spaulding. Like my father he was bookish, like my father he was brilliant, a lover of the arts. But unlike my father, Dr. Spaulding seemed a happy man. Rigorous, demanding, but essentially happy. Baltimore had not crushed him, for he didn’t really live in Baltimore. He lived inside the books he read, he loved literature, and he transmitted that love to anyone in his class.

Having written this, however, I should say that he was not a Romantic. He didn’t believe in motivational tricks to make students read. He was demanding, frighteningly so. The early days I spent in his Contemporary European Novel class were both exhilarating and humiliating. First, there was the matter of the man himself. Dr. S. was intimidating in the extreme. Small-boned, trim, and dressed inevitably in a herringbone suit and a rep tie, he walked nervously back and forth as he lectured, tapping his glasses on his open palm. He had total recall of every poem, play, or novel that he had ever read, and he expected his students to understand his every reference.

“We are here,” he said on the first day of class, “to discuss art, high art. If that makes me an elitist, then so be it. I believe art, true art, is always elitist in that it is complex rather than simple, in that it stands above the common fray, in that it transcends the mundane and often unpleasant facts of our lives. If it were not elitist, if it were to be what some misguided souls wish, an art ‘of the people,’ then it would lower its standards, become kitsch, and ironically lose its power to move and instruct people at all.”

He stared at me like he was trying to see into my soul. I swallowed hard and tried to meet his gaze.

I had never been exposed to such seriousness of purpose, and although I was intimidated, I was also thrilled. I looked at Dr. Spaulding and said, through an embarrassed cough, “I … quite agree, sir.”

He nodded as if he approved, tapped his glasses into his palm, and went on: “True art is demanding, complex, filled with multiple meanings. You don’t enter into the worlds of Henry James, James Joyce, or Virginia Woolf lightly as you might casually turn on the television or listen to the banal confessional chatter of coffeehouse poets, like Allan Ginsberg. I know my attitude toward art seems like sacrilege to some of you, who have been raised to think that the Baltimore Colts are the highest achievement of Western civilization, but I believe that the rewards of art are far greater than our good crab cake-eating citizens know.”

I knew from the second I heard him speak that I wanted to be his most serious student. As I left class that day, I heard some of the other kids moaning about how hard the course would be, but I felt a secret jubilation. I wanted it to be difficult. I wanted it to be arcane, complex, mysterious. I wanted to lose myself in the rich sensibilities, the aristocratic manners of Henry James, of Virginia Woolf.

I wanted to be lifted up on the wings of genius, with Dr. Sylvester Spaulding as my guide.

That night, as I headed home, I felt lighter than air. I couldn’t wait to tell my father about Dr. S. I envisioned the three of us drinking beer, seriously discussing the subtleties of literature together. Perhaps, I thought giddily, meeting Dr. Spaulding might even inspire my father to resurrect his painting career. But, when I arrived, my father wasn’t in the mood to listen. He had retreated, as he often did of late, into his temple of bliss, into his inner sanctum, into his secret garden of tile, the Great Bathroom.

This was his retreat, the last step in the great bitterness that had become his life. He walked down the hall in his navy shorts, shut the door, and was gone, gone into the land of steam and running water, acne creams, scalpels, cotton balls, Q-Tips, gauzy bandages, razors, special laxatives, back scratchers, and specially ordered Lufte sponges from Sweden. Gone, gone, gone from Baltimore into some narcissistic playland where a man could dream, as he endlessly worked on his thin, muscular, acne-covered body.

He would enter the Inner Sanctum at 6 A.M., stay in there shitting; pissing; tooth scrubbing; washing and rewashing his body, his face, his hands; slicing open the big red acne cysts that plagued his back, neck, and face until 7:30, at which time he would emerge, wrapped in towels, lanced boils bleeding from his chest like some acnefied versions of Roman Catholic bleeding hearts—James Fallon, the Baltimore Bathroom Job. On some mornings, like a Roman emperor, he would raise his scalpel high above his head, stare wide-eyed into my bedroom, and scream, “They thought they had Jim Fallon, Tom. The bastard cysts thought they were taking over, but I showed them, by God! I showed them.” Then he would join thousands of other depressed and furious souls on the Baltimore Beltway in a nose-to-nose gridlocked drive across town to his hated civil servant’s job at the Social Security Administration, from which he would return at six, snarl at my mother for a while over her nervously overcooked dinners, and once again enter the Holy Toilet at around seven, from which he would not remove his oil-drained carcass until eleven at night. To this day I cannot think of my father without hearing a toilet flush.

Sometimes he would take in his purple Philco radio and play the classical music station for hours on end—Rachmaninoff, Beethoven, Mozart—while my mother would sit as though she had been poleaxed at the white kitchen table, under the golden sunburst clock. What did he do in there? That was the great mystery. The great unanswered question, though, of course, I knew part of it. He would wash, then wash again, place selected salves on his skin, brown salves, skin-toned salves, white creams, special acne soaps, magical oils from Formosa that promised to rejuvenate dead cells. And though he barely talked to me, he never stopped his dialogue with his pimples. Through the oaken door, I could hear him saying, “Yes, you little red creep. You think you’ve got old James Fallon licked, but I’ll show you. I’ll show you, you pus-filled bastard.” Then he would hold high his mighty scalpel and lance the pimple with his sterling silver boil popper, as though he were a medieval knight on a white charger lancing Baltimore itself, the great pimple of a city that had kept him from reaching his artistic dreams.

This was nothing new to me. He had been behaving this way since I was twelve. Much of my life had been lived leaning against a bathroom door, trying to tell my father about a shot I made in basketball, what happened on our Boy Scout trip, a spectacular catch in an Oriole game, or the plot of a movie I’d just seen. Sometimes, when he had had a particularly good lancing session and had sufficiently screamed at my poor mother for a few hours, he would even be in a decent enough mood to answer.

So in the fall of 1965, hot with excitement from books and my heroic new teacher, Dr. S., I found myself once again leaning up against the Holy Bathroom door, saying, “Hey, Dad, I have this brilliant new professor over at Calvert. We’re studying Kafka.” After turning off the water, he answered, “Kafka, huh? Well, that’s good, Tom, yeah that’s great. Read The Trial when I was sixteen and I can assure you that Kafka knew exactly what he was talking about. This whole city is one Kafkaesque nightmare, believe me. Big shots run your life, guys you never even see.”

“I finished it today, Dad. You know, it’s amazing. Dr. Spaulding told us that no one understood that Kafka was a genius except his pal, Brod.”

“Nothing all that amazing about it, Tom,” my father said, his voice rising so I could hear him through the roar of the shower. “The Baltimorons didn’t understand Poe either. Left him in the gutter to die, but now, of course, they have the goddamned Edgar Allan Poe house fully restored. Oh, yeah, they love him now that he’s good and dead, and the founding father assholes can sell tickets to see where he starved and froze. That’s your Baltimoron, for you, Tom! Love their artists when they’re dead. Can’t wait for them to die!!!”

Though it was a sour, bitter answer, hardly the elevated conversation I had hoped for, I wasn’t really discouraged. No, I was thrilled at the sound of my father’s voice croaking over the roaring shower, ecstatic that I had gotten him to respond at all. “This Dr. Spaulding is a great guy, Dad. He really understands literature.” I hoped that he would respond again. I had so much to tell him about Dr. S.

But suddenly my mother was leaning on the door next to me saying, “James Fallon, don’t talk that way about your native city to your son. He doesn’t need your bitterness.” But I quickly cut her off: “No, Mom, it’s all right, I don’t mind,” and felt an icy fear come over me. God, they were going to start at it again, just when I had gotten him to talk to me. Oh, Lord, don’t let them do it. My fingers got cold, and I felt the panic starting to rise inside my chest. But there was no stopping her; she was flying now, soaring, “Well, I do mind. Okay, Bertrand Russell? You can’t blame everything on Baltimore, James Fallon.”

“Don’t worry,” my father’s voice said, cutting like a switchblade through the bathroom door, “I don’t blame it all on Baltimore!”

That was the end. She started beating on the door with her fists, her red face a mask of pain, a huge blue vein throbbing in her forehead.

“Oh, I see, then. It’s all my fault is it? It’s all my fault that you’re so unhappy. Don’t you say that, you liar. Don’t you tell our only son that!”

“Mom,” I pleaded, “Mom, we were just having a conversation. About books.”

“Which she can’t stand,” my father boomed through the door. “Having never read any except those moronic romance novels!!”

“That’s it,” my mother said. “You bastard. You rotten liar. Let me in there. Let me in!”

Now she was beating and kicking and screaming, tears rolling down her cheeks, and I could hear my father’s voice jacked up as he screamed back, “You want in? You want in? ‘Cause if you come in here, if you come in here, you’re gonna get it, Ruth. Get the picture?”

“Fine,” my mother screamed, bashing and kicking the door until the wood splintered. “Beat me up in front of Tommy. Go ahead. I’d expect nothing less from you. Nothing at all! You cowardly bathroom-loving son of a bitch!!!”

And then I was holding onto her, pulling her from around the waist, saying, “Mom, Mom, you don’t want to go in there. You don’t.” And she was crying and scraping at the door, flailing about like a madwoman, and it went on like that for five minutes before she finally let me take her into the living room, sit her down on the couch, where she broke into deep, moaning sobs.

Needless to say, with such a cozy home life, my studies suffered. Those first few months of school I would spend all day hanging out in the student union or reading in the library. As long as I was lost in the world of books I was fine, but as soon as I started the walk home—our house was only seven blocks away from Calvert—I would feel my stomach tighten, and a kind of numbing sensation would roll through my arms and head. It was as though I’d been in some kind of car accident and I felt as though I were falling through a whirlpool, like a battered gumshoe in some old noir flick.

Only Dr. Spaulding was tangible, real. He was still giving me C’s, but he’d begun to speak to me outside of class—in the student union, in walks we took to his car. I wonder if he knew the importance of these little chats. Probably not. He was merely making small talk on the way to lunch, but as far as I was concerned, it was as though I was talking to God himself. Oh, how I lived for Dr. S.’s pearls of wisdom and hoped that he didn’t feel he was dropping them before swine. Indeed, as the year rolled on, I decided that more than anything, I wanted to become a gentleman, an academic, not a fiction writer, but a Man of Letters, like, say, Edmund Wilson or Dr. S. himself. I had even begun to fall into Dr. S.’s speech rhythms and tried to think as I imagined he thought. Yes, I wanted not only his intellectual muscle and his gentlemanly stature, I wanted to be him. I wanted his posture, his brains, his suits. I wanted to transcend all that sweat and screaming and pimple popping with high-mindedness, rare sherry, herringbone suits, and great novels. Ah, the naked sadness of it. I remember driving to Ameche’s (named after our Baltimore Colt hero, fullback Alan Ameche, of course) one day and saying to the pimple-faced boy who served out the swill: “One would like a malted, and one would like a bag of fries, and one would very much like a massive Powerhouse Double-Burger.”

The kid looked at me as though I was an escapee from Larson-Payne, but I didn’t mind in the slightest. Of course, I was aware of how ridiculous I sounded, but even though there was a large element of private parody in my speech, I felt a certain satisfaction, a certain frisson of aesthetic pleasure, in using such quaint, archaic phrases. Indeed, on one date I had later that year, while sitting through It’s a Mad,

Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World at the Passion Pit, I said to a fellow English major, a cute but chunky girl named Leslie Walker, that “one would love to partake of a blow job,” which she found so amusing, so truly Spauldingesque, that she complied with one’s request and for the next hour and a half licked one’s throbbing log until all the sacred juices had run dry.

But even though I used such language with a sense of irony, the truth was, I held out an almost unconscious hope that I would be able to somehow, someday, transcend. But transcend what? Everything, I suppose. Row-house Baltimore, my own crowded past. Transcend to some cool, well-lit place where cultured people talked in lush tones about the deeper things, the finer textures, art.

That first year I was a saint in the library. Nearly every day I sat in my carrel and attempted to write papers in the manner of my new heroes (and Spaulding’s), Wilson, F. R. Leavis, or Lionel Trilling. I remember these papers now as endearingly ludicrous attempts of an eighteen-year-old Baltimore boy to talk about “high culture” and “political reality” and “levels of irony” as though he were some fifty-five-year-old sophisticate who had been to the Finland Station; who had stood in breadlines in the 1930s; who had read every word of Freud, Jung, Marx, when, in fact, I had just barely scratched the surface. Indeed, only a few years earlier my favorite author had been John R. Tunis, author of boy’s sports novels like The Kid from Tomkinsville and World Series. Not that I was completely blind to my pretensions. It occurred to me that I was becoming faintly ludicrous, that I had taken on near foppish airs, and yet, there seemed no other course. After all, I did truly love reading Henry James. The Ambassadors seemed to me an altogether brilliant book, wonderfully alive. I saw my own reflection in the American businessman Strether as he attempted to cultivate his sensibility in Europe. Both he and I were undergoing our real education, the education of our hearts and souls, and when he faltered, made a fool of himself, I ached for him just the same as if it were I myself who had committed the boobish, American faux pas.

Needless to say, with my own spotty education and completely derivative prose style (not to mention that all my “critical judgments” merely aped Spaulding’s own), my papers were at best earnest, lifeless bores. I still remember my first paper for which I received the mighty grade of C –. The grade was so pathetic, given the endless amount of hours I’d put in that I felt physically ill.

That afternoon, screwing up my courage, I went to see Spaulding during his office hours. Lord, what a sullen and uncommunicative sack of a person I was. I felt that I was barely fit to sit at his English pebble-grained feet.

“You see, Mr. Fallon,” he said, as I slumped in my chair, “you have much to learn about using the English language. For one, you use the first person, but in a formal essay, one never does that.”

I looked at him and shook my head.

“Why not, sir?” I said, “I mean, I’m doing the writing …”

“True,” he said, “but it’s a matter of literary convention. By saying ‘one’ you are able to achieve a more felicitous style. As I’ve told you before in matters of literature, style is all.”

“Really?” I asked innocently. “I would think there is more to it than that.”

“Well, of course, there is,” Dr. Spaulding said as he tapped his glasses on his palm. “I was speaking ironically, elliptically. You’ve been taught many bad habits, Tom. You think that by blurting things out directly, by just saying what’s on your mind, you’re being bluntly honest. But what is unsaid, what is left out, what is said cleverly or cloaked in brilliant bursts of language, is where real art lies. That is what separates art from mere confession. Though, of course, there are some misguided souls, the so-called beat writers who think that by spilling their guts, they create a more vibrant art.”

“Yes,” I said quickly, “but I don’t consider them artists at all.”

“Good,” Dr. S. said. “That shows there’s some hope for you.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling as though bugs were creeping under my skin. “I’ll try and do better, sir. I really will.”

“The thing is, Thomas,” he went on after a considered pause. “You are not without talent. Occasionally, you are even capable of subtlety.”

These words, so casually stated, sent a shock wave through me, nearly great enough to knock me off the chair.

“But, sir?” I said. “How can you tell? I mean I get lousy grades, and I obviously don’t understand the first thing about art.”

Dr. Spaulding got out of his chair and walked to the tall window that looked out on the southeast side of the campus. Outside, an oak tree’s branches brushed lightly across the glass.

“One has a feeling for these things,” he said with his back turned to me. “There is something in your work—wit, intelligence, a feel for language—that is trying to burst forth from beneath all your crudeness.”

I felt a light sweat break out on my head. Oh, God, I thought, let it be true.

“You need to apply yourself strictly,” Dr. Spaulding said. “You see, what we are all of us hoping for is to perfect a kind of inner vision, what James calls our sensibility. It is that sensibility that is the wellspring of any real, lasting art.”

“And you think I might possess such a sensibility?” I said in a choked Victorian whisper.

“I think you have potential,” Dr. Spaulding said. “But before you let your spirits soar, Thomas, you must understand that as rare as potential is, realized potential is many times rarer. In my many years of teaching I have seen quite a few people with a potential, but sadly only once or twice have I seen such potential result in palpable achievement.”

God, I wanted to say something, something that would convince him, assure him, that I would not be a case of wasted potential (even if I had no idea what palpable meant). I started to speak. I intended to swear to him that I’d do anything necessary, drain the blood out of my veins, if it would help me achieve this rarified sensibility.

Then I farted.

Oh, the shame of it, the pain, and horror. I let rip a long, near pants-tearing fart, which sounded like my old bicycle wheel with my baseball cards stuck in it. The smell was violently sulfuric, like five cartons of ancient rotting eggs left in some weed-filled refrigerator on an abandoned Waverly lot. This was a majestic, jazz-scatting, gaseous, bilious fart.

Tears nearly sprang to my eyes, as the hideous smell engulfed the room. Dr. Spaulding gasped, held his throat, and then, when he was able to speak at all, said: “That will be all, Thomas. You must study harder and try to eat a more balanced diet. Good day.”

Oh, Lord, the humiliation of it. I nodded like a zombie, got stiffly up, walked slowly out of his room, and staggered to the stairwell.

And as I walked down the English Department steps, my face burning with embarrassment, it occurred to me that the Terrible Fart itself was symbolic. Yes, the young literary scholar who saw Freudian signs and symbols in every coffee spoon now saw the Hideous, Horrific Fart as the intrusion of his home life into his perfectly ordered artistic world at Calvert, the world in which he had True Potential. And the source of the Fart Most Foul was home. Yes, home where his mad father and his beaten hysterical mother were locked in their melodramatic death grip.

At that moment, I knew I could no longer wait, even if my leaving somehow meant they would drown together in the great toilet that had become their lives. One had to get out of there, one had to find a retreat, a room of one’s own, to borrow parlance from V. Woolf. One had to escape, race away in the lifeboat of high art. And never look back.

It seemed to me, at the moment I walked down the steps, that it was a very simple thing. I had saved enough money from last summer’s job—working on the old Port Welcome boat, carrying tourists up and down the Chesapeake Bay from Pier 1 to Tolchester. So I could at last move out from the fart-filled bathroom of a home to my own clean, modest place, a place where I could cultivate my sensibility and begin the long, arduous, and serious pilgrimage to find the one and only Holy Grail, my true artistic sensibility.