ELEVEN 
He woke up disoriented in his car somewhere on Canal Street. Had he slept there all night? He wasn’t certain. His last recollection before he passed out was stumbling into an alley and ridding himself of the package containing his manuscript from Simon & Schuster, postmarked third class, which had been sitting in the back seat of his car unopened. He threw it into a large dumpster behind a bar whose name he couldn’t conjure.
The night was returning to Kenny in snippets. He remembered his mother trembling and wondering to himself, when had she become so frail? He couldn’t stop thinking about her skin, how shriveled her cheeks appeared, and how the talcum powder that she’d always applied so expertly had caked on her chin. He couldn’t breathe in that house any longer, and so he’d left. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, not really, but he couldn’t control the rage that had been building inside him. It was as if all the years of living someone else’s version of himself had ended and he, the real John Kennedy Toole, had finally emerged.
It was messy to be sure, and he hadn’t intended to disappear without a by-your-leave, but the need to escape had consumed him and he knew if he didn’t go, he would cease to exist. John Kennedy Toole was determined he would not be forgotten, and that Ignatius, whom he’d put in that god-awful box in his closet, would finally be released and light up the sky; and for this reason, and others he had yet to understand but soon would, he erased himself from that house and that woman and that life and that lie, and so he slammed the door and the sound was like music to his withered spirit, and he let the rush of the cold winter air fill his lungs and nourish his resolve.
Methodically, he began his morning. First he went to the bank. When he directed the teller to withdraw his entire savings, she hesitated. A pretty girl, not more than twenty years old, she asked him if he was going on a vacation, to which he answered yes. She wanted to inquire where he was headed, but he didn’t seem talkative. As the teller watched him leave, something about the way he walked, how each step was measured, reminded her of the boys from ROTC in high school; they walked the same way, determined but vacant. Usually when customers came in to withdraw funds for a vacation, they were happy and excited.
Next stop, clothes. This would be tricky, John thought. He didn’t want another confrontation with his mother. He parked the car in front of the apartment, closed his eyes, and summoned the coldhearted part of himself that he wasn’t proud of but knew was there, the part that allowed him to mimic others even when he realized it hurt them, that laughed at the misfortune of strangers and used it for literary fodder. Then he envisioned his parents. Attachments cannot be counted on, he thought, and he remembered the line from Sophocles: “Love is like the ice held in the hand by children.”
To his surprise, the house was quiet. What Kenny didn’t know was that his mother was upstairs asleep. She had been up all night and when she finally did fall asleep, it was the deep slumber that resembles a small death.
Kenny went to his bedroom, and the boy who had always been a fastidious packer, folding each item just so, threw clothes into his suitcase and stuffed it shut. Next, he took a box down from his closet, grabbed the smaller of two manuscripts that were inside, and put it in his briefcase along with a few of his favorite composition books and his lucky pen. As he was making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, he could hear the creaking of the floor beneath his feet, the hiss of the furnace down the hall, the flushing of a toilet, a telephone ringing, and he committed these sounds to memory, for they were the innocuous music to which his family moved, without knowing it was playing just for them.
J. D. Toole saw his son leaving with a suitcase and valise. Kenny must be going on a trip, he thought, and went to the kitchen to get him an apple. By the time he returned, Kenny was in the car. J.D. went outside and called to his son from the front steps. It was cold and the old man was shivering. Kenny tightened his hands on the steering wheel and drove away.
“Where are we going?” Ignatius asked.
Kenny turned on the radio. It was rush hour and traffic was heavy. While he was stopped at a red light, the person in the car next to him kept staring at the driver arguing with an empty passenger seat.
“How dare you ignore me! Have you no moral decency!” Ignatius shouted.
“No sir, I do not have any moral decency, nor any other kind of decency at this moment. Now if you would be so kind as to let me drive in peace.”
Ignatius remained quiet the rest of the day. By nightfall he was growing agitated again and decided to try a different tack. “If you do not tell me where we are going, I shall summon the authorities who will consider your egregious transgressions crimes of a serious nature.”
Kenny felt his temples begin to throb. “Ignatius, please, I don’t know where we’re going. We’re heading west, maybe to Hollywood.”
Ignatius licked his lips. “We must find the home of Annette Funicello.”
“Perhaps there’s a tour that passes by her home,” Kenny suggested. “In Hollywood, all the big movie stars live in the same neighborhood, Beverly Hills, and there are buses that take you there.”
“I do hope Ms. Funicello doesn’t serve us any vegetables.”
“Ignatius, I don’t know Annette Funicello.”
“She will have undoubtedly heard of my exploits.”
Kenny sighed and kept driving. When he heard snoring from the back seat, he said a silent prayer of thanks.
The year is 1969. It is the week of January 20. Richard Nixon is inaugurated president of the United States. Gas is thirty-five cents a gallon and young people are wearing bell-bottom jeans and tie-dyed shirts. In the coming weeks, California will be declared a disaster area due to flooding and mudslides. The last edition of the Saturday Evening Post will be published and the Boeing 747 will make its first commercial flight.
The Rand McNally road map that Kenny had picked up at a gas station a hundred miles back sat in the passenger seat untouched, still wrapped in its plastic sheath. Kenny didn’t want maps or routes. He hungered for release, to drive where he wanted when he wanted, explore little dirt roads, stop at diners and eat whatever the hell he felt like, drink until he was satiated, behave however he wished without being judged. This was not a road trip. It was a sojourn into the unknown. As Kenny drove, he paid little attention to the trail he was on or the long stretches of highway that went on forever like ribbon candy, cool and smooth, unfurling before him as far as he could see.
Kenny began to laugh. His eyes were watering and he was coughing. Ignatius felt a surge of compassion for his creator. Clearly the man was sick. Ignatius believed that the burden of their immortality would soon rest upon his shoulders alone, that their fate was contingent upon his fortitude. He would persevere and ensure that their story would be shared and read forever.
The creator had grown quiet and was stopping at a motel. The place looked dilapidated and seedy, probably owned by communists, Ignatius thought. He imagined cockroaches fitted with tiny cameras scurrying around the rooms, recording the comings and goings of guests, and relaying the footage to the bosses drinking vodka in glass-plated offices, discussing who to recruit. Ignatius determined that he must call his nemesis Myrna Minkoff and warn her, but first he had to tuck his creator into bed and make sure he got a good night’s sleep. He had heard somewhere that sleep can stave off disorders of the mind.
Thelma would have been disgusted by this motel. Old and neglected, it smelled faintly of urine. Kenny could see his mama now, out of breath, chest heaving, frantically trying to escape, leaving a cloud of talcum powder in her wake. Yes, Kenny said to himself, Thelma would hate this place, and he smiled as he pulled a crisp, new ten-dollar bill out of his pocket to pay for the night’s accommodations.
Ignatius was livid but trying to maintain his dignity. How dare I be subjected to this hovel, he said to himself. The gods were cruel indeed, but he would not allow these temporary circumstances to thwart his mission. He was to be the keeper of the flame.
Before Kenny went to sleep, he was preparing to write an important letter. At first, he didn’t want to use his lucky pen for this writing task because it hadn’t been that lucky. On the other hand, his favorite uncle had given him that pen as a gift and it was high time, Kenny concluded, that its ink be used for greatness instead of failure. He had been pondering this correspondence for a long time. After all, it was arguably the most important thing he would ever write. Should it go to his parents, or should he write several letters, one for each of the important people in his life? No, he thought, that’s a terrible idea. I’d have to write a letter to everyone I know because they all think they’re important. Kenny stretched his arms above his head and leaned back in thinking position. The bed squeaked in protest and he wondered if it might break and he’d fall through the floor, into the lobby, crushing someone. He imagined the surprised looks on everyone’s faces when a portly writer in flannel pajamas came crashing through the ceiling.
Kenny was doing what all good writers do when they’re afraid of the blank page. He was allowing his mind to wander, hoping it would find its own way. It was crazy, he thought, to be struggling with a letter. He’d written hundreds of them.
The next morning Ignatius wanted to sleep in, but his creator was having none of it. “Time to experience this great country of ours!” Kenny shouted. Ignatius followed Kenny out to the car, grumbling.
As the days turned into weeks, they drove from dawn to dusk, stopping at motels at night, and then repeating. Every place seemed the same to Ignatius. Though he’d never seen buffalo or antelope roam before, once he’d been exposed to the creatures, he determined they weren’t as majestic as he’d hoped. Kenny was enjoying himself, absorbing every detail. Some afternoons it was mile after mile of cattle ranches or dairy farms. Other days, Kenny would find himself driving through hundreds of miles of open land thick with evergreens. To strangers he was just another tourist passing through town, someone they could sell a keychain to or some other cheap bauble, reminding him that he’d been there. While they were making their way through the Colorado Rockies, Ignatius prayed to Fortuna for their safe delivery. There were signs everywhere warning motorists of falling rocks. Ignatius didn’t like it and he, unlike his creator, had his priorities straight. He was also tired of roadside food. The only redeeming element of this trip so far was Texas. Ignatius discovered he had a fondness for barbecued ribs. He could devour a slab and a half, secretly wishing there was more.
Kenny was surprised that Ignatius had lasted this long. He was expecting his protagonist to carry on and complain and try to persuade him to return home to New Orleans. Perhaps Kenny had underestimated him.
Ignatius was evolving.
But Kenny had left all that behind. He still hadn’t finished the letter. He’d start and then stop, ripping out page after page of his composition book. He’d left a trail of crumpled note paper across five states and he was still no closer to getting it right than he had been two weeks earlier.
Ignatius wanted this letter to be in Kenny’s own words, but he was beginning to worry that he may have to write it for him. Ignatius had been discussing the situation with his mother, Irene Reilly, and his savior, Myrna Minkoff, the two most important women in his life, and they agreed that Ignatius must continue holding up their creator. They knew he wasn’t right. Perhaps it was the way he looked at himself in the mirror, as if he didn’t recognize the man staring back at him, or the half-light in his eyes he tried to hide. There was no denying that John Kennedy Toole was receding, no longer wanting to occupy his own soul. It was the inevitable and noble choice, Kenny thought, so why not abandon decorum, fuck the social graces his mother insisted upon, and gorge on moments, forgetting the whole, existing only on the bounties of the here and now? Fulfilling the desires of the dying was a fraught ritual. Kenny’s face was breaking out and his lips were chapped. His mouth breathed a rare flower most people made a point to avoid.
Kenny’s heart was set on reaching California. He’d dreamed about visiting Hollywood since he was a boy. He’d followed his favorite movie stars and was encouraged by how much he had in common with them. They started out as nobodies, too. Judy Garland was a sweet unassuming girl from the Midwest named Frances Gumm. Kenny thought of himself and Judy as kindred spirits. They both had determined mothers, and Kenny often wondered, if it wasn’t for Mrs. Gumm’s relentlessness, would Judy still just be Frances, another pretty thing with a voice like an angel who worked as a waitress or taught Sunday school, dreaming of a different life? Cary Grant, whom Kenny considered the handsomest leading man in film, was born in England with the unfortunate name of Archibald Leach, and his parents worked in a clothing factory, yet he became a star. Kenny knew the stories of all his favorite stars. Clark Gable, Fred Astaire, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Rita Hayworth, Jean Harlow, and of course his beloved Marilyn were mythical figures, like the gods of ancient Greece, fallible and human yet transcendent. Death didn’t kill movie stars; it kept them alive. Kenny wanted some of that, and he also had an obligation to Ignatius. Ignatius was all he had now, the only thing between himself and obscurity. Ignatius deserved the spotlight. As Kenny wound his way across the country, something was forcing him to continue, to not stop until he’d reached his destination. He knew that once he did, everything would be all right and so he drove and drove, singing a happy tune.
The Pacific Coast Highway welcomed John Kennedy Toole. He had all the windows open so that the cool ocean breeze reinvigorated his senses. He wanted to taste the sea spray and stuck his tongue out playfully like a child trying to capture snowflakes. He could hear the roar of the surf and imagined the people living in these beach towns. He wanted to walk among them unnoticed, to blend into their routine and become one with this place and the waves and the water, the infinite blues and grays, the unpredictability of nature, right there, life, beating, breathing, in the rhythmic movement of the tides. This was Eden and Kenny wanted to enjoy the garden before biting into the apple. He stopped at the small towns dotting the coast. He ate fish so succulent and delicious that he ordered two, sometimes three helpings. He also tried an avocado for the first time. A boy was selling them for a dollar a bushel on the side of the road. Kenny decided he’d never tasted anything as curiously satisfying before. The boy showed him how to make guacamole and mixed Kenny a small tub of the spicy dip for the drive, along with a bag of homemade tortilla chips. He was thriving here as he knew that he would. There was sand everywhere, in the car, in the bed, in his shoes.
It was on this part of the trip, between San Diego and Dana Point, that John Kennedy Toole finally was able to write the letter. It was a moment familiar to any writer, when suddenly the words you’d been struggling to find avail themselves. He could hear them inside his head. Kenny was sipping a glass of white wine at a seaside joint, gazing at the ocean, when it happened. He had been hoping it would be like this. He assembled his lucky pen, his notebook, and released the captured bird of his thoughts, filling one page after another, unburdening himself.
Tears stung Kenny’s eyes. Trying to explain to his dad what he was planning was near impossible. He would never understand. Thelma, on the other hand, might, though he doubted she’d ever admit it. She admired fame and believed she had been cheated of it. Kenny would fix that. It would mean more to her than grandchildren, a gift he wished he could give her, but this was a sacrifice he was willing to make for them both. He wrote until he was spent, and then he wrote again a few hours later, and again after that, until the sentences stretched out like the path he had been traveling.
By the time Kenny reached Los Angeles, he wanted to explore the land of his boyhood fantasies. He consulted the map of Hollywood attractions that he’d bought at a previous motel along with a bottle of Coke and a package of gum drops.
First stop, Grauman’s Chinese Theater, where celebrities left hand- and footprints in the cement. He purchased a ticket from the visitors’ booth and asked where he might find Marilyn. The clerk, without looking up, handed Kenny a guide map, saying everyone was listed alphabetically. It took only minutes for Kenny to locate her. Two adjacent concrete blocks both signed on the same date, June 26, 1953. One autograph was Marilyn’s and the other Jane Russell’s. They had scrawled the words first on one block and finished it on the next: GENTLEMEN PREFER BLONDES. Kenny admired the raven-haired Russell’s sense of humor. Then he kneeled down and carefully placed his palms over Marilyn’s, closing his eyes, imagining that they were dancing in a courtyard, laughing and twirling, joined forever in spirit. He would have stayed that way, absorbing her through the rough concrete, had a security guard not interrupted him.
Kenny spent two days in Hollywood. He went on a bus tour of Beverly Hills, visited the La Brea Tar Pits and Paramount Studios, had lunch at the Farmers Market, drove out to Knott’s Berry Farm, and spent an evening at the Troubadour. The performer that night reminded him of Joan, the girl he’d met in Greenwich Village at the Gaslight almost a decade earlier. He heard her on the radio sometimes, and he wondered what might have happened if he’d accepted her invitation to meet her friends. Kenny regretted that decision. There was so much he should have done differently.
Kenny’s next magical destination: Hearst Castle. Kenny had always been fascinated by the story of newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst and the grand soirees he hosted at “the ranch.” The castle, sometimes referred to as San Simeon, was part of a ninety-thousand-square-foot estate that boasted lavish guest houses, a movie theater, a gold indoor pool, art, and a private zoo. Kenny imagined the famous people who’d stayed there: Winston Churchill, Franklin Roosevelt, Charles Lindbergh, Greta Garbo… Though Kenny wasn’t certain about ghosts, if they did exist he hoped there would be a few famous ones floating around San Simeon. Kenny wanted to stand inside the castle’s towering halls and pretend he was someone important like those who’d been there before him. He longed to breathe the same air they breathed and let that power and influence soak into his skin. John Kennedy Toole had not been invited there but he could pretend that he would have belonged, and this trip was all pretend anyway because it would end as it had begun, with the closing of a door and the turning of a key. Kenny didn’t want to think about that now. He had purchased a ticket for the tour and heard the guide asking everyone in their group to gather by the main entrance. He slipped the ticket stub into his pocket and joined the others.
Later that day, Kenny pondered whether he was making the right decision. Parents sacrificed for their children all the time, he thought. Besides, he’d lived a full life, all things considered. This trip was what he needed and he must not waver. When Ignatius asked Kenny where they would be staying that night, he was told, “Under the stars.” Ignatius was not amused.
“Ignatius, we’re running low on money. I can’t afford a motel every night. We need what’s left to get back to Biloxi.”
Ignatius considered this. If they didn’t return to Biloxi, it would ruin everything. He reluctantly took the blanket his creator was handing him, spread it on the ground, and laid down. Within minutes he was asleep. Kenny retrieved his valise from the car and pulled out the one manuscript he’d brought. Just a handful of pages. He remembered those hours locked away in his room, angrily pounding the typewriter keys. He and Ellen had spoken by phone earlier that day so many months ago, and though it wasn’t anything that either one had said, they both sensed an elemental change had taken place. It wasn’t long after that they would see each other for the last time. Kenny felt a familiar ache whenever he thought of her. If he ever married, she would be the one. But he realized that would be selfish and unfair. He remembered the concern and anticipation in her expression when he met her at the airport. Kenny knew that if he told her, she would find a way to stop him, and he couldn’t let her do that. So he’d treated her cruelly, pushed her away, forced her to feel such disgust that she would never be tempted to return. When she left, he wept for everything he would never know. Yes, there were times when he could convince himself he didn’t want any of that, but then, a yearning would grow again, and he’d struggle not to feel it. He’d drink, he’d fight with Thelma and write short stories like the one he was holding in his hands but that part of him couldn’t bear. Kenny didn’t have a flashlight so he turned the motor on, sat in the cool grass, and read in the glow of the headlights.
He’d titled the story “Disillusionment.” He’d considered changing it but liked the way the word sounded. Perhaps it was the perfect title. As he read the story again, making occasional edits, he realized just how distraught he must have been when he wrote it. The characters were scattered, and the narrative was confusing, jumping between time periods without any links. Not his best work to be sure, he thought. Like The Neon Bible, it too was a dark and depressing tale. That’s why he loved Ignatius and everyone living in Dunces. They made him laugh. And he knew they’d make others laugh, too. Not like that Superworm book, Kenny said to himself. Kenny turned the headlights off and laid down. Tomorrow they would turn around and head back to Georgia, the second to last stop of their adventure.
March 2004. Bill Greeley was sitting on a bench at Tulane University in uptown New Orleans. Before he left, he’d gotten a call from his contact at the New York Post, who said they were no longer interested in his article, that it came from the top and there was nothing he could do. Greeley wondered if his sniffing around had had anything to do with it, and like any good journalist, it fueled his determination. He telephoned the entertainment editor at the competing New York Daily News. She and Greeley knew each other from many late nights at P.J. Clarke’s. A smart, no-nonsense newswoman who’d started out as a college intern, she was immediately intrigued by the idea of a backstory on A Confederacy of Dunces and okayed the piece. His deadline was the end of the week. He had been in New Orleans for days, immersed in research, and was requesting more time.
“I’ve stumbled onto something that I think could be major, but need time to follow it through.”
When she asked him what he’d found, all he said was that a lot of smart people may have gotten it wrong. The excitement in his voice was persuasive.
“How much time are we talking here?”
“Just one more week and I’ll file.”
Trusting Bill’s instincts, she agreed to extend the deadline.
Greeley was frustrated by the paucity of primary source material on Toole. He had asked Professor Bell to talk to Gottlieb, since they knew each other socially, and though the renowned editor was polite, he wasn’t forthcoming. Greeley wondered if the man had learned of Kenny’s suicide somehow when it happened, or if he found out years later when the book was published. He imagined it must have saddened him.
Greeley was relentless. When one avenue didn’t pan out, he’d resolve himself to uncovering the next. He had already spent nearly a week exploring the French Quarter, visiting all the places Kenny frequented that were still there, the Old Absinthe being the most interesting. He understood its allure. It had a quality to it that made you want to drink excessively, which Greeley did, and then regretted the next morning. He’d hired a guide to drive him to the homes where Kenny grew up. One of them, the apartment on Cambronne Street, was for sale, and to Greeley’s surprise the front door was open, so he just walked in. He recalled his conversation with Kenny’s old friend from Southern Louisiana Institute, Joel, and tried to imagine the Tooles on a typical day, Kenny’s father wandering about the house, testing the doorknobs, or his mother making notes in the dining room for her next pageant. The place had clearly been unoccupied for a while. Greeley had done his due diligence and still wasn’t satisfied. Kenny’s death certificate and police report were destroyed in a fire, and the few people who knew Kenny had little to offer. Some couldn’t remember details; others felt uncomfortable talking about the dead. Joel had been the most helpful, but he admitted that he couldn’t shed more light on Kenny’s final days than Greeley had already uncovered in the archives at Tulane.
Greeley was interested in the last leg of the trip, especially his visit to Flannery O’Connor’s home in Georgia and his time in Biloxi. Greeley had a theory about great writers and artists, that they perceived death differently than other people, that for them the afterlife wasn’t about the hope of heaven, but rather the promise of their work. Kenny would want that, too. How far would he have gone to achieve it? Kenny was so full of life. He lived in one of the most colorful cities in the world and had captured its magic in a way that no other writer had before or since. Greeley had read everything he could get about Toole. Most of it concluded that Kenny succumbed to mental illness and killed himself out of despair. Greeley didn’t believe it; perhaps it was because it was a cliché and Kenny’s gift to the world deserved a braver understanding of what happened. He realized he was inviting criticism but Kenny’s story was worth it. He felt for the guy because he’d been there. When he continued to receive rejection after rejection for his novel, and the old man kept pushing him to get a proper job and stop pursuing such nonsense, he remembered going to the bank and putting his manuscript in his safe-deposit box, along with a note. He had the whole thing figured out. He would kill himself that night, pills, and leave the key to the deposit box next to his pillow. He imagined how the story would be reported by the media, which he would have laid out for them in the suicide note, and the look on the old man’s face when he read it and his mother’s regret. This book was his baby, and he’d made the sacrifice that would let it live on. And if the writing was there, and he wanted to believe that it was, so much so that he was willing to die for it to be read, then the book would go on forever. He wondered if Kenny had the same fear. That was what moved Greeley. Kenny knew his writing was good and that’s why he went through with his plan. Greeley didn’t, and that’s why after swallowing only four Valiums, he stuck his finger down his throat.
Greeley didn’t call Professor Bell to discuss his theory. He needed more evidence, so he made copies of the last few items from the archives, rented a car, and headed toward Biloxi. He knew that Kenny had died somewhere off Popps Ferry Road. He’d consulted contemporary maps but they offered little clarification. There had been so much construction in the area over the years, he feared he wouldn’t be able to find anyone who might recall the writer who was found dead in the woods in a blue Chevy Chevelle. As he crossed into Biloxi, he noticed a landmark building with a sign out front that read BILOXI HISTORICAL SOCIETY and a phone number. He dialed the number. A young woman answered. He explained why he was in town and she told him that a lot of the families that lived out that way had been there for generations. She gave him directions and said if she thought of anything else, she’d call.
As he was turning off the main road, he saw a lawnmower parts and repair shop, the kind that were vanishing across America, with a sign that had probably been there since the 1930s, and a selection of rusty lawnmowers sitting out back. Greeley loved places like this, untouched by the modern world. He parked and went inside. When he opened the door, an old-fashioned bell signaled his arrival. A man whom Greeley judged to be in his early sixties, with a long beard, wearing bib overalls, greeted him warmly and asked how he could help. Greeley explained why he was in town.
“You don’t happen to know of any old-timers around here that might remember the incident?” Greeley asked.
The man showed him to the back office, where he introduced him to his dad, Al. Greeley reached out and shook the old man’s hand. He had to be well into his eighties, but his grip was firm and his eyes were alert and the deepest blue Greeley had ever seen. He was dressed in overalls like his son, and was sporting a cap proclaiming the name of the shop. He had a deep Southern accent and his voice was warm and engaging. Al knew about John Kennedy Toole. The day they found him, Al’s youngest grandchild was born, and he remembered the folks at the hospital talking about the accident. When A Confederacy of Dunces came out years later, like a lot of people in Biloxi, he bought it and he read it.
“Shame about that poor fellow,” Al said. “He was a damn good writer. I’ve never been much of a reader, but that one was worth my time.”
“I’d like to find the spot where he died.”
“If you follow Popps Ferry for just under two miles, there’s a dirt road on the right that’ll take you through the backwoods. It’s on this side of the causeway. Keep following it until it dead ends. They found him near there.”
Greeley took notes. The two men shook hands, then Greeley thanked him for his kindness, and left eager to find the location Al had described before nightfall. As he wound his way through dense woods, he could see the calm, serene waters of the causeway glistening in the distance. When the road ended, he parked and got out. There was a tangled beauty about the place, the way the sun peeked through the trees casting eerie shadows, and how the dark green leaves seemed to be whispering their secrets. He stood there for a long time, just listening, and then reached into his backpack and pulled out one of the documents he’d gotten from the library earlier that day. “Okay, Kenny, talk to me.” Then he sat under one of the giant oaks and began to read.
By the time he’d finished “Disillusionment,” the moon was out and the sounds of katydids pierced the lonely silence. Greeley could almost feel Kenny there beside him. Greeley remained still and absorbed the images taking shape in his mind, unfolding like bits of film, each one blending into the next, revealing a long-awaited truth. In that extraordinary moment, Greeley let go of doubt, just as Kenny’s spirit had done thirty-five years earlier under the same majestic oak. Greeley would look back on this experience and remember every detail, convinced something really did happen that night that he would never be able to fully explain.