Nineteen

Our house is tucked, or maybe squeezed is more accurate, between a couple of big office buildings while, at the same time, it is set quite far back from the sidewalk. “I never noticed this house,” Cary said. “All the times I’ve been down this street—”

“You’re not the first one.” I unlocked the door and held it open for her. “Nobody expects to see a house downtown, so they don’t. Want something to eat?”

“Not now. Is it okay if I look around?”

I trailed after her as she went from room to room downstairs, looking at everything. I don’t think she missed a thing. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d opened the refrigerator and taken inventory. In the living room she examined every picture on the wall.

“I know, I’m terrible,” she said. “I’m fascinated by other people’s houses. Every time I baby-sit for someone new, I have to roam through their entire house. Who are these people? Relatives?”

“That’s my uncle’s shrine. They’re actors, writers, directors—people in the theater that Gene admires.”

“Here’s Joanne Woodward. Does he know her?”

“Doesn’t he wish. He thinks she’s great, even if she is in the movies now.”

“What’s wrong with the movies?”

“Nothing, but Gene’s a theater snob, he thinks all the real actors are on a stage.”

“Who’s this black man?”

“Paul Robeson. He’s dead now. He was a great actor, with a fantastic singing voice. He was one of these super people. Phi Beta Kappa in college, All-American in football, that sort of stuff. That one’s Laurette Taylor, she’s dead too. Gene saw her a million years ago on Broadway in a Tennessee Williams play. She was a drinker and falling apart, but he says she was still a superb actress. He was only a kid then, but he was pretty stagestruck and he got her autograph after the show.”

“Do you know everything about all these people?”

“No,” I said, but Cary went from picture to picture anyway, asking for details, and I told her whatever I knew. I was surprised how many of Gene’s stories had stuck with me.

I got us both soft drinks and Cary said, “I might as well see everything. What’s upstairs?”

“Not that much. Just our bedrooms.”

On the way up, Cary stopped to look at one of Martha’s watercolors that was hanging in the stairwell, an old willow tree growing over a stream, and in the background a faded red barn. “This is beautiful. Did someone famous paint this?”

“Martha. She has a little place downtown.”

Cary continued up the stairs. She peeked into Gene’s room, into the tiny spare room that was really a walk-in closet with a window, and even into the bathroom. “What a neat bathtub!”

“Gene goes for old-fashioned stuff. This is my room—” I opened the door. “Excuse the mess, I didn’t know I was going to have company.” I swooped up a bunch of dirty clothes and shoved them into the closet.

“Is this your shrine?” she said, looking at the Koren cartoons I had on the wall.

“No, not the way the pictures downstairs are Gene’s shrine. I could never be a cartoonist, but I think this guy is a genius. He just makes me break out laughing.” I watched hopefully as she read each caption, looked up at the picture, then down at the caption again. The best Koren got out of her was one very small smile. Oh, well … nobody’s perfect.

“I love this slanted ceiling,” she said. “This house is really wonderful.” She took a hairbrush out of her pocketbook and started brushing her hair.

If I tried to kiss her here, would she think I was trying for a lot more? I perched on the windowsill. I liked the way Cary did everything—the sober little look she gave herself in the mirror, the neat way she put her brush back into her pocketbook, even the way she checked out each book on the table next to my bed. I guess, at that moment, she could have done anything at all and I would have thought it was fantastic.

She gave the rocker a little push, then sat down in front of my desk. It’s a small rolltop with lots of little drawers and cubbyholes. She opened and shut one drawer after another. “Where’d you get this desk? It must be a real antique.”

“I think it is. Gene got it for me a couple of years ago.”

“For your birthday?”

“No, just—he found it in an antique shop and he thought I’d like it.”

“He really is sweet, isn’t he?” She picked up a notebook. I watched her do it without a twinge of alarm. I was still in the dream of her being in my room.

“What’s this for?” she said. “What are all these numbers?” She had my license plate notebook.

I jumped up. “It’s nothing. Give it to me.”

“Uh, uh, uh, it is, too, something. Your face is turning red.” She studied a page. “Now what is this? A code or something? Oh, I get it! It’s love letters in code! SWW158. Who’s she? No, no, no, don’t tell me, let me guess. Sally Wilson Wade. But why is Sally in the NOTED section? Does that mean she noted you or you noted her? And who’s this? 706AAG. DEFINITE. My, my, my. Definite what? Definite love? Pete! With a name like that? Hope you gave her up. She sounds like a disaster.”

I reached for the notebook, but Cary held it over her head.

“Cary, come on.”

She ducked under my arm, mimicking me. “‘Cary, come on!’ … Tell me how to break this code and I’ll give it to you.”

I sat down on the bed and covered my face. I could never explain the notebook. My hobby is memorizing the license plates of cars I think are following me.

After a moment, she sat down next to me. “Pete—did I make you mad or something? I was just teasing.” She tossed the notebook into my lap. “Was I really mean?”

“No, it’s just—” I didn’t know what to say. “Can I kiss you?” I blurted.

Her hair smelled like peanuts and rain. I never wanted to stop kissing her, or go away from her, or let her go away from me. We had our arms around each other, I couldn’t get close enough, I wanted more … more … more …

Suddenly she pulled away, moved away from me, her face freezing into the princess mask. “Look,” she said, “just because we kissed—just because I came here, you don’t have to think—How about me? How about what I want?”

I sat there, dumb and aching, shook my head, couldn’t speak. I didn’t want her to look at me that way. I thought, What if I told her about my parents? I’d often imagined telling someone, just spilling it all out—to Drew, or his sister Deirdre, or Totie Golden. Totie would want to know, wouldn’t she? It was history in the stream, not along the banks. Once or twice, in a strange reckless mood, almost as though I were sleeping on my feet, I had even thought of collaring a stranger on the street. Listen! I have to tell you something important … secret … I don’t do this lightly. Pay attention! My secret is going to be your secret.

“Cat got your tongue, Pete? Hey—” Cary touched my head. “It’s not that bad.”

Cary, my parents are not dead. They’re fugitives from the law … political outlaws.…

“What are you mumbling about?”

“My parents—my parents—”

She bent toward me. “Pete, are you okay?”

“My parents … Cary, they’re in hiding …”

What had I said? What had I done? I’d never told anyone. I seemed to stop breathing. Everything in me froze. I had given away my parents, betrayed them. Suddenly I saw them hunched together in a dark closet. Safely hidden … until someone told on them. Me. My stomach did that lurching, grabbing thing. I yanked the closet door open, they tumbled out. Then I saw them in a car, driving through barren lands, miles of deserted desert. Outlaws … on the lam. My mother was a lamb … fierce lamb who had left a bomb in a wastebasket … and my father was a friendly frog with bulging green eyes and a great and glorious smile.

“What? What did you say?”

They bombed a lab, Cary; it wasn’t an act of terrorism, but of conscience.

“Hey, you’re sweating like anything.”

The lab was doing germ warfare research. Hal and Laura wanted to bring it into the open, bring the truth to everyone.

She put her hand on my forehead. “You’re really burning. I think you’re getting sick.”

The action was planned so the bomb would detonate when no one was there. Those two people—no, I don’t want to talk about it.… They weren’t supposed to be there. Laura and Hal wouldn’t hurt a fly, that’s no joke, our house was a safety zone for flies …

From across the street, we heard the bells in St. Luke’s chiming the hour. Cary jumped up. “Pete, I should have left ages ago.”

I followed her down the stairs. She hadn’t heard me. She hadn’t heard me! Outside, big ragged clouds raced through the sky. A sign banged against a post. I walked with her to the bus stop, dazed by what I’d almost told her, as dazed as if I’d had walked in front of a speeding car and only by a miracle missed being hit.

That night I dreamed I was walking down a dark alley with a little kid riding my back, his arms choked around my neck. “Too hard! Too hard!” I yelled, but when I looked around, it was a squirrel on my shoulder. He bit deep into my ear. I screamed with pain. A moment later, I was in a high cool room being questioned by someone I couldn’t see.

Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God?

I do.

What is your name?

Pete Greenwood.

Liar. Your name?

Pete Greenwood.

Your name.

Pete Greenwood!

Take him away.

No! Wait!

Take him away.

I woke up moaning, in the grip of the White Terror, choking for air, faceless, empty. A breeze blew through the venetian blinds and I rocked in the terror, sweating and holding on to myself until it passed.

And when it was gone, I fell limply over the side of my bed and saw the notebook where I’d dropped it on the floor. I picked it up. The fresh odor of Cary’s hair rose faintly from the pages. I rolled back on the bed, holding the notebook against my chest.