Halloween comes, and with it a most intense observance by the locals. Back in New York we rode our apartment building’s elevator up and down, knocked on a dozen doors, and went home with a little paper sack of candy, our faces damp with the condensation that accumulated on the insides of our sharp plastic masks. But in Salem, city of witches, the number of doors we knock on is endless, and the elaborate handmade or professional-grade costumes worn by children and adults in equal measure are genuinely frightening.
I lead Amanda on a trek through the neighborhood that does not end until our pillowcases are overflowing and her tears begin to spurt—partly from exhaustion and partly from a kid with a dangly eyeball and an axe in his forehead who jumped out of the bushes on Flint Street and made her pee a little in her Laura Ingalls Wilder pantaloons. I share some sugar loot with Howie and Carly and fall asleep on the edge of their bed as they whisper stories about commune living in Berkeley and the naked beach near Pacifica.
Howie and Carly’s stay goes from one week to two, then to three, and still shows no signs of abating. They are the unexpected jackpot in the Salem lottery. In a town where you expect the locals to stone you to death when you pick the wrong slip, I’ve found a true prize: honest, loving adults who renounce social divisions, bring everyone to the table, and then dump everything on it. The more time I spend fluttering around the edges of their blissful life the more I want to lose myself in its sensuous anarchy. It was clear when the light hit the sheet that first evening: innuendo is over. Everything is explicit.
So, perhaps this is the place I will grow up, after all.
In contrast to the magical mystery tour under way at home, my school, Oliver, is just holding me back. Assignments aren’t hard for me, but paying attention is. They don’t reward smarts at Oliver. They reward compliance. But the real reward, I am learning, is in breaking the rules. One day, I absentmindedly tear the erasers off Mrs. Biegelbock’s pencils while waiting at her desk to turn in a paper. She yells at me in front of the class, and that’s it. But a few days later when I crush her empty Styrofoam coffee cup in a similar manner, she has the principal call my mother. And that is the last straw.
* * *
When Howie comes down the next morning, I am sorting candy. Mama is sorting her tools—a sledgehammer, gloves, a shovel—in preparation for demolishing a wall in the basement.
“I can’t believe how much you take on, Princess. All work, never a complaint, just sleeves up, head down. And Lou, what? No school?” I nod as he pats my head lightly on his way to the kitchen and a fresh pot of coffee. I like what he said about Mama. I like how much he likes her. And I can see how, in her own quiet way, she enjoys being liked.
Still, the work ethic Howie appreciates in my mother is the same drive to do that keeps her from me. There’s a joy and spark to her now that wasn’t there before. At least not in New York. But it shines brightest for our guests, not for me.
“I’m pulling him from Oliver and sending him to another school,” Mama says, wiping her brow and smiling at Howie. “They gave him a D on a spelling test even though he got every word right. In New York, he was top of the class. Without trying, I might add,” she says, directing this last bit at me.
“I didn’t set up the margins the right way, and my lines came out crooked,” I grouse.
“But it’s a spelling test,” he reappears with a mug and a banana.
“And then he destroyed a Styrofoam cup. Oy! What a delinquent,” she says in her most sarcastic Jewish-mother voice. “That’s why he’s going to the Alternative School,” Mama concludes. I beam, proudly.
“Alternative School,” Howie repeats as Mama lifts the sledgehammer to her shoulder. “I like the sound of that. And look at you, Hunan Princess. Who got in your way today?”
“Little renovation downstairs. Carving out space for a framing studio. It’s an old hobby, and maybe even a way to make a little extra money around here, since I can’t go back to work right now.”
“Well ain’t that just like the daughter of a Kosher butcher? Grab a tool and carve. I love it. So let me help,” Howie offers. “I want to get dirty with you.”
“I would love to,” she laughs, “but I actually have to run some errands first, and what would really help me is if you could spend some time with Lou. I don’t want him sitting around eating candy all day.”
An alternative to candy never sounded so good.
“OK, but don’t use that sledgehammer without me. I’m starting to get soft with all this easy living around here.” And then, to me: “So, hombre, how ’bout we go visit your dad in the city today? Let’s see how El Jefe spends his days.”
* * *
“Why aren’t we driving?” I ask, as we pass the blue and white minibus, beckoning like a yellow submarine.
“Well, I’m high, for starters.”
The train to Boston is nothing like the subways in New York, where there are too many people too close together and the doors shut too suddenly. Once Mama pushed Amanda and me off a subway car ahead of her, then started to follow just as the doors began to close on her huge pregnant stomach. She screamed and I thought the baby would explode out onto the platform. David didn’t appear for another few weeks, but I never forgot the terror in my mother’s voice, rising above the cries of the few passengers who pleaded angrily with the conductor to “Open the fucking doors!”
The memories of New York have already started to blur. But the ugly ones stay sharp: brighter stars in a receding constellation. Why not the good ones? Why not the best?
Thirty-three minutes later, on soft seats in a half-full compartment, we roll into North Station.
“Naht station next. Naht station,” the conductor calls out as he pulls ticket stubs from the seat backs. Howie doesn’t move.
“I think this is it,” I say.
“What? No. He said ‘Naht Station.’”
“That’s the way they say it. North Station.”
We walk through Government Center, a complex of modern concrete structures that could have been the setting for Caesar’s simian revolution at the end of Conquest of the Planet of the Apes. The buildings turn from concrete to brick as we make our way through a downtown crossing.
Howie stops at the outskirts of the Combat Zone, that infamous corner of Boston where all the girlie shows, strip clubs, and violence are on display. I zero in on the faint flicker of peep show bulbs and marquees that promise NUDE, NAKED, and ADULT while he checks Papa’s office address on a slip of paper.
“Chez Jefe!” he says, motioning to a less seductive office building. “This is where the war on poverty meets the private sector petri dish. And your dad is the mad scientist. A little welfare reform here, a little capitalist efficiency there. Your Papa’s gonna outsmart the Washington bureaucrats and actually get people jobs. Might even make a little dinero in the process.” It doesn’t make perfect sense to me, but somehow I understand my father’s mission in life better than I ever have.
The elevator moves so slowly I can’t tell if it’s actually moving. My heart slams until, with a groan, the doors release. “You have a claustrophobia thing?” Howie whispers, noting my silent anxiety on the ride up. “Possession by the devil’s my phobia thing … Hi! We’re here to see Peter Cove.”
The woman at the desk stares curiously at us, a grown man in flowered drawstring pants and a twelve-year-old boy with shoulder-length hair. “May I tell him who is calling?”
“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” Howie smiles. “And you must be Maid Marian.”
“Joyce,” the woman at the desk corrects, lifting the telephone to her ear.
“Joy to meet you, Joyce,” he says. Her cheeks redden when he says her name. She looks away, Howie looks at me, and Joyce looks back at him. Looks away. Looks back again, up and down, catches a quick breath and shuts her eyes as if she’s trying to go back to sleep. Howie gives me a jumpy brow wiggle and points back at Joyce with his eyes as if to say Did you see her? He doesn’t notice that Joyce has seen him.
Beyond the reception desk there’s a room full of people, mostly black, mostly women, filling out forms, speaking with staff.
“Ever see The Exorcist?” Howie asks. “My friends said, ‘Hey! Movie night! Let’s take some sugar cubes and ride.’ And I’m thinking John Wayne. I’m thinking Hondo. I’m thinking Rio Bravo. I didn’t know anything about this movie. Nobody knew anything about this movie.”
“It’s a horror movie, right?”
“That’s one way to put it. I’m a Frankenstein/Dracula kind of guy. I loved The Tingler … You see The Tingler, Joyce?” Joyce, on the phone now, shakes her head. “Vibrators in the seats! Revolution in filmmaking. They should do that in porn films…” He pauses, making a mental note of the idea.
“Mr. Cove is just wrapping up a meeting,” Joyce says, hanging up. “You can take a seat.” She points to a sofa against the wall behind us, but we stay standing, continuing our conversation as if it was just the two of us alone on the roof.
“Anyway, The Exorcist isn’t like those old movies. It’s just totally real and fucking horrifying. The acid probably didn’t help. But somewhere in there I just lost the ability to discern fiction from reality and I walked out of there thinking, whether it’s the raging sea or the Devil himself, the universe will break you eventually. You’re going to get whacked, one way or the other.”
If Papa’s ever been petrified of anything, he never mentioned it. Fear of failure, maybe, but his universe is meant for conquering. My universe feels indomitable, and Howie just confirmed what the experience of unexpected moves and perpetual loss of control has taught me: I’m going to get whacked eventually. Then again, these two seem to be handling their respective fates in style.
“El Jefe!” Howie points to Papa, on cue. My father is standing over an older woman who is focused on filling out a form, his hand reassuringly resting on her shoulder. He looks up when Howie calls and smiles at us.
“You even wear that outfit in the city?” Papa points to Howie’s latest pair of drawstring pants—black with lush, white-pink hibiscus. You are a crazy motherfucker,” he says under his breath as he greets us.
“And who are you, asshole? Pat Boone in the white buck shoes?” Papa, who is indeed wearing white bucks, seersucker pants, and a plaid shirt with a white collar and paisley bow tie, grins again and hugs Howie. I catch a glimpse of Joyce, still staring at Howie. Looking away, staring again.
“There’s style and then there’s chaos,” Papa says. “This way,” he puts a hand on my head and leads us toward the back. “Welcome to the next frontier in the war on poverty.”
“Corner office, of course. He’s El Jefe,” Howie whispers to me, conspiratorially.
Howie catches the eye of everyone he passes, a black, white, and pink blur of kinetic energy. His friendliness is infectious—people can’t help but smile in response—but the smiles are followed by a weak wave and a confused look: Does this guy have something to do with getting off welfare? Maybe he’s on welfare?
Papa sweeps us into his office and reaches for a leather cigar box on the windowsill. “Cohiba?” Howie shakes his head and Papa shrugs, putting his nose to the long, brown stogie. He breathes deeply, pierces the tip with a gold-plated cigar punch, wets the end with his tongue, then his lips, and finally lights it with a scrimshaw Zippo.
“Cuban?” Howie asks.
“Dominican, alas.”
“How about Hawaiian?” Howie pulls his own smoke box from his pocket—the Sucrets box—and reveals three huge joints.
“Ever heard of boundaries? This is an office, for Christ’s sake,” Papa says.
“This is an orifice,” Howie replies, opening his mouth wide and mimicking Papa’s cigar routine, licking the joint, biting off the tip and spitting it across the room.
“Put it away,” Papa wags a finger, walks to the door to close it. A young businesswoman walks by at just that moment, focused on a stack of papers in her hand. She slows for just a second, waves at Papa, takes in the fact that Howie and I are there, and keeps going.
“New staff member,” Papa says cheerily. “I’ll introduce you to her later. Smart, smart, smart. GREAT hire.”
“Speaking of…” Howie says. “Are you hiring?”
Papa looks blankly at him. “Can you wear regular clothes and not get high in an office?”
“Did Franco Harris rush for one thousand yards last season?” Howie asks as if the answer is self-evident.
“No clue,” Papa says earnestly. “But I’ve got a grant proposal in. If it comes through, we’ll have an opening. You willing to stay on this coast for while?”
“You get me a job and you’ve got yourself a housemate, mate. Well, two housemates, in fact. Two for the price of one.”
“Oh, there’s a price,” my father nods, puffing at his cigar.
* * *
He kicks us out shortly after we arrive, so we stroll the Combat Zone with its Boston Bunnies, Rap Booths, King of Pizza, nude photos. Howie leads me to The Book Mart, a small corner shop with blacked-out windows and a glass door stenciled with different typefaces: BOOKS AND MAGAZINES. MODERN AND TRADITIONAL. LARGE COLLECTION FRENCH SWEDISH CLASSICS.
Inside, a black guy in a royal blue southwestern-print shirt and large round aviator sunglasses blocks our way. “Hey man, you can’t bring that kid in here.”
“He’s my son, it’s cool. I give him permission.”
“Pigs don’t give him permission. Gotta go.”
I glance around nervously: unfamiliar nude magazines are wrapped in plastic. The Seeker shows a man kissing a woman, her shirt fully unbuttoned.
“He’s blind, man,” Howie says. “He can’t see anything anyway.”
Then I see another cover—Show-Off—with a couple kissing on it, but the woman on this one has no shirt at all and the man is squeezing both of her breasts.
“Bull. Shit. Kid’s eyes popping out of his head right now.”
Twogether, Skin Scene, Screw, and Dirty Old Man Coloring Book with an illustration of a bald man on the cover that looks way too much like Gramps, a halo over his head and a sly smile spread under his extended nose.
“That’s because he’s blind,” Howie whispers. “You know, usually he wears dark glasses so you can’t see them. It’s embarrassing. Don’t talk about it, OK?”
“Out.”
Howie asks two construction guys on a cigarette break from ripping up the sidewalk if they can keep an eye on me while he does a quick shop. They nod, pat the concrete sewer pipes they’re sitting on, and invite me to join them.
“Your dad’s got weird clothes,” says one, shirt open, chest hairs dripping with sweat despite the cold of the Zone.
Howie emerges with a paper bag. “This kid give you any trouble?” he asks. “He’s a tough one.”
“Whatever, Sally.” The sweaty one tosses his cigarette into the street and gets up.
“Well, thanks for the kindness, gentlemen. Off to new adventures. If you’re ever in the San Francisco Bay Area…”
“Figures,” says the other worker. Sweaty nods vaguely and picks up a shovel.
* * *
We meet Papa at “Naht” Station, and ride the packed sardine train home.
“We had a bit of drama here today,” Mama says, handing my father a folded copy of the Salem Evening News as we walk in.
“These are the classifieds,” Papa says, dropping his leather doctor’s satchel, which doubles as a briefcase.
“Just read the announcements section, Peter,” she says through clenched teeth.
“Right, OK, Historical Society meeting at Hamilton Hall, Thursday. Volunteer cleanup, Salem Common, Sunday. Blah blah blah. Gay Rights Alliance inaugural meeting, tonight, 31B … Chestnut St.?” He looks up at Mama.
“Uh huh.”
“So, Frank’s becoming an activist. Good for him.”
“Yes,” Mama says. “Good for him. I’m glad. But Glovey Butler isn’t so glad that he’s doing it here.”
“Shit.”
“She’s the one who showed me.”
“Shit.”
“She says she doesn’t care what he wants to do on his own private time, but she’s worried about us. She thinks some local homophobes might do something, and now they have our address.”
Papa strokes his mustache, considers, then loosens his bow tie and starts up the stairs.
“Where are you going?!” Mama shouts after him and my shoulders rise at the familiar shrill. Something beyond frustration there. More like panic. Like her brakes just stopped working and the car is jetting off the cliff at the Marblehead lighthouse. It doesn’t happen often, but every once in a while my mother splinters, sharp and all at once. I guess everybody has their way of getting noticed.
“I don’t think that’s the issue. But we can certainly allay her fears. There’s only one thing to do,” Papa calls.
“And that is?” Her voice still frayed.
“Invite her to dinner.”
“OK,” Mama says uncertainly, but she drops out of DEFCON 1.
“And Frank, too.”
“Oh, God.”
“It’ll be fine! People can’t sustain fear or bigotry when they’ve had a good meal together.” Papa’s voice fades into his bedroom on the second floor.
“And have Howie and Carly take the kids out?” Mama’s head drops and she leans wearily against the banister.
“No! Everyone should be here,” Papa yells back. “In fact, let’s have everyone to Thanksgiving. That will give us a few weeks to figure all of this out.”
“Oh God,” Mama says again.
“We’re not going to Grandma Wini’s?” I sigh. “Come on. We don’t want that old lady here. She’ll ruin everything.”
“I’m certain she has some other place to go,” Mama says by way of comfort.
“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks no one has the courage to invite her,” Papa shouts. “And Howie! Let’s play racquetball Sunday! You need a good ass kicking!”