First week of November, 1987

Hellooo, this is Kaj... I am okay. Just I call to tell you that Ravi's lawyer came to see him yesterday... So you don't even talk to him? Just leave a message? Haha then you are a powerful guy! He ask Ravi about you... Yes he wants to know who is this guy Ennis Del Mar. Ravi told him you are hero of the Tamils. Haha just joking. Ravi tell him... okay told him – sorry about my bad English but you know all the people stuck in here are speaking bad English so how can I learn? You have to correct me more. Ravi told him you are a good guy, very nice and helping us. He want to know what is your job, where you are living. Ravi say he doesn't know. Which is true because he's not calling you all the time haha. He ask your phone number... asks... but Ravi lie and... lies... say he don't have it... I change my mind, don't correct all my mistakes!... He thinks if you want the lawyer to have your number you can give it yourself. Anyway, we stop about that. I want to tell you a story.

When I am sixteen I have a girlfriend in Colombo... What you don't believe? Sri Lanka's not the west but not like India either. Boyfriends and girlfriends go around together, but decently. One day we go to the beach, we take the bus. I have a gold ring that was belonging to my grandfather that my mother give to me. My girlfriend ask to wear it and I let her. So we are on the beach... no not swimming just walking and talking. Then we go back. When we are almost to her house my girlfriend suddenly see the ring is not on her finger and start to cry. I am really angry – my mother will want to kill me! Already I'm tired of this girlfriend but now I will have to see her again next day to go back to the beach to find the ring. So next day we go there on my brother's motorbike. I sit in the sand and she walk up and down the beach looking and looking for almost one hour. Finally she come and sit down next to me. She put her head on my shoulder and she's crying because she is really lost the ring. I'm getting fed up with the crying. I look away from her and see next to me is a big palm tree leaf. I turn it over, no reason just bored. Guess what is there in the sand... the ring! All the time it is right by my side and I don't know it.

As soon as he got into work the Monday after Halloween, Ennis called Ravi's lawyer. He realized his case was complicated but it seemed like John Twist was not taking it seriously. Ennis knew he was doing the work pro bono so he wasn't surprised that it wasn't a top priority, but still it was dragging on too long.

The receptionist he'd seen a few weeks before answered the phone, the one who'd been so suspicious of him. Ennis gave his name and asked very politely if he might speak to John Twist. Randy Malone told him curtly that he wasn't in yet. When would he be in? Sometime in the morning.

Ennis was getting pissed off. "I need to speak to him about one of his clients, S. Ravindran, who's applying for political asylum and has been in detention for months. His case is going very slowly and Ravi... Mr Ravindran is getting really desperate. He needs... " Ennis decided to change tack. "I want to know if there's anything I can do to help advance things. Help get documents from abroad or anything like that."

The receptionist simply said, "I'll give him the message." But Ennis didn't trust him. Suddenly he had an idea.

"Why don't I fax him a note?" he suggested. It would be great if he could deal with this lawyer without actually having to talk to him – or to this jerk Malone.

"Fine. The fax number is 424-5123."

After he hung up, Ennis typed out a short letter introducing himself and offering his help. Then he went to Susan's desk and sent his first fax.

He didn't receive a reply, but the next evening he heard from Kaj that John Twist had been in to see Ravi that day and had fished for information about Ennis. So that was the way it was going to go.

When he walked into the office on Friday morning, Tina was sitting at his desk chatting with Don. She was trying to convince him to get his ear pierced and wear an earring.

"You need to spice yourself up, Don," she said. "You're too boring. No wonder Lureen won't give you a chance."

"Am I that obvious?" Don sighed.

"Yes, you are. Look at Ennis here; he looks great with an earring. And hey, that scarf is pretty cool."

The Tamils had complained about their yellow jump suits and ribbed Ennis about his penchant for wearing dark clothes, so since Fall had turned chilly he'd taken to wearing a yellow and scarlet mohair muffler, partly as a joke when he went to see them, partly in secret solidarity with them. The scarf belonged to Jay, who never wore it. She said it was the only thing she'd ever knitted.

"Yeah, but he's twenty-five. It's practically illegal for a guy his age not to have an earring, " Don retorted. "And I'd look like the Cat in the Hat with that striped thing around my neck."

"He'll be twenty-six tomorrow. Happy Birthday in advance, Ennis!" she said as she rose from his chair. She spun it around to him with a flourish.

"Thanks," he smiled.

He sat down in the chair and Tina pushed it to the desk.

"I came in to ask you if you wanted to come to a department heads meeting," she said.

"I'm the only one in my department."

"No, I mean come help think up headlines and subheads for the articles in the regular departments. For the January issue. You know, we used that one you tossed out last month. It was really clever. The three of us are kind of burned out and it might help to have some new blood."

"Well, sure. That might be interesting," he replied, thinking Yessss! But in the next instant: God how pathetic, getting excited about writing headlines when you have a journalism degree. But still... it was something.

"Look, here are the copy-edited manuscripts to look over. Come to the meeting room at eleven, okay? After that we're all going take you out to lunch."

The headline meeting went well. It was harder than he'd expected, because of the space and style constraints, but half the headlines the editors ended up using were all or partially his ideas and Tina said that thanks to him they'd finished much sooner than they usually did.

Afterwards, they asked him where he wanted to eat lunch. The Colorado Public Library? The Village Smokehouse? They knew he liked plain food. But today he surprised them all. After several weeks of sharing Bombay Mix at the detention center he had recently graduated to the hotter Madras Mix and he thought he might like to try the Thai restaurant two blocks away.

Don raised an eyebrow. "I thought an earring was enough spice for you," he said dryly.

In the afternoon he had to pick up cartons of books from a distributor near South Station. While he was there he stopped to buy train tickets to Philadelphia for the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, which he and Jay were going to spend with her parents.

As he was walking back to the van, Ennis saw a bearded man coming towards him who looked familiar, especially his scowl. He was walking hunched against the damp chill with his hands deep in the pockets of his long black overcoat, a knit wool hat pulled low on his brow, glaring at the sidewalk. As he drew near, the man looked up at Ennis; he'd guessed right — it was indeed the unpleasant receptionist from the law firm. Ennis reluctantly slowed, and so did Randy Malone, who seemed to start when he saw him. Ennis hesitated, then stopped; he felt he owed it to Ravi to make another attempt to see his lawyer.

"Uh, hi. Do you remember me? I'm Ennis Del Mar."

Malone stood stock still, frowning and making no move to shake hands. His gaze skittered over Ennis' face and shoulders, catching on his earring, lingering on his striped scarf.

"I've been trying to contact one of the lawyers where you work, John Twist," Ennis ploughed on. "About a man from Sri Lanka with an asylum request? I sent a fax on Monday. Is he in his office today? I'd like to meet with him and— "

"John Twist isn't even a lawyer," Malone said scornfully. "He's only a paralegal, couldn't cut it in law school. He just does the legwork for the partners. So don't be surprised if the case is all fucked up."

Ennis was completely taken aback by this outburst — it was the most Malone had ever said to him. He was indignant to learn that Ravi's lawyer was handing off most of the work to a flunky, but part of him empathized with Twist. He himself was stuck on a low rung, his career stalled at the bottom. He didn't understand, though, why Malone was so contemptuous of him.

He took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. "I don't mind meeting with a paralegal. I'm just trying to help Ravi... Mr Ravindran."

Malone looked away from him, watching a police car speed down the street, his brow deeply furrowed. "I think you should just let Twist be, let him do his job," he said when he finally looked back at Ennis, who suddenly realized Malone's accent was just like Lureen's. "He's not very social and he's got a lot to do. He has your fax number and if he needs you to do something I'm sure he'll get in touch. Excuse me, I have to get back to the office."

He watched Malone trudge away. Why would that guy care that John Twist wasn't sociable? He wasn't setting much of an example himself. He knew now that Twist was curious about him but for whatever reason chose not to contact Ennis directly. Was he embarrassed to reveal he wasn't a real lawyer? At any rate, Ennis wouldn't risk lowering Ravi's morale by relaying this fact.

After work he went by the detention center. It was a good visit; Kaj's lawyer had heard from Canada — there would be a decision rendered on his case in February. Ragu had learned he would have his hearing before the US judge just before Christmas and Ravi was more cheerful because his lawyer seemed to be moving on his case – thanks to Ennis, he said. And it was Ravi's birthday that day; he was 28, born 06-11-60, the same forwards and backwards, which was supposed to be lucky. Except it clearly didn't work in America, where they wrote the date the wrong way. Ennis told him his own was the next day and that he was two years younger. They grinned and shook hands.

When he got home that evening, Jay was out but she'd left a note. Joe had to stay in Washington. He wouldn't be coming to Boston after all.

Chapter 12b

Third week of October, 1980

"Draw, podner! Bam bam bam!"

"Don't think you call a guy you're gonna shoot 'podner'."

Joe, Virgil and I were hanging out in the 17th floor lounge on a very rainy Friday night. A few other people were clustered around the TV in the corner watching The Dukes of Hazzard. Joe was modeling my dad's cowboy hat for something like the tenth time that week. The boots fit him well enough, and he'd attached the rodeo buckle to his own belt. He'd bought a red bandana, and since it had started getting chilly he'd been talking about finding a jacket to go with it, maybe one of those buckskin ones with the fringes.

"Oh. Okay. Ummm...then… You gotta ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya, punk?"

"Wrong Clint Eastwood flic you dork!" Virgil guffawed.

I laughed along with them but I was actually preoccupied with the dorkiness of my own tan corduroy jacket, which my mother had included in the box. I'd worn it through high school but here it stood out in all its Kansas plainness. I felt it was time for a change.

Several times I'd wandered over to Kenmore Square to gaze in the window of a shop that sold leather jackets, all of them black. I really, really wanted one but I was nervous about going in by myself to try one on. I wanted Joe to come with me but I didn't want to just ask him to go shopping with me. I would have to work it into a conversation.

Fortunately, Virgil created that opportunity just then when he asked me what I was going to wear for Halloween.

"Well... I dunno... something simple, with clothes I can wear on normal days," I pretended to muse. "Like, a biker maybe?"

"You got a leather jacket?" Virgil asked skeptically.

"No, but I need a new jacket and maybe I should get a leather one. It's supposed to be good at stopping the wind and it sure is windy in Boston."

Of course wind was a famous feature of the Kansas plain even without the tornadoes, but they didn't know that.

"There's a place in Kenmore Square that sells leather stuff," Joe said.

"You mean that place next to the bank?" I said innocently.

"Yeah, we can go check it out tomorrow if you want."

So Saturday morning we wandered over to Kenmore Square. The shop had an intoxicating animal smell without the accompanying odors I was used to. Even as I tried on one jacket after another I knew I couldn't afford any of them. But I was enjoying looking at myself in the mirror, fascinated at how they transformed me. Joe made encouraging comments on most of them.

I was especially attracted to a jacket that had lots of zippered pockets, big lapels and a kind of belt in front. The plain, unadorned style didn't interest me. But Joe seemed skeptical. And when I tried on a black, peaked leather cap with a stiff brim, he looked aghast.

"No, Ennis, you don't want that one," he declared.

"Why not?" I murmured, admiring myself in the mirror. I realized I'd gained a little weight since I'd been at BU. I was eating a bit more than I had at home and I no longer had farm work to tend to at the end of the day. I'd been skinny as a rail before and it seemed to me that I looked better filled out some. I'd stripped down to a white t-shirt to try on the jacket and was wearing my usual Levis. I thought I looked quite macho, for me, and said so.

"There's macho and there's macho," he said cryptically. "Anyway, do you really wanna pay three hundred bucks for a jacket?"

Much, much later I'd be able to but not then. Joe suggested we go to a place in Cambridge that had just opened earlier that year and sold clothes for a dollar a pound.

Needless to say, I was skeptical. "That where you got that cruddy green sweatshirt you were wearing the first day?"

"Nah, that used to be my Dad's. This place kinda looks like an old factory. They collect clothes from all over, shred them up and sell bales of rags to industries that use them in manufacturing. But on Saturday morning they let you go in and pick out what you want and then they weigh it. I went there once with Miriam and she got some great stuff. They had all kinds of coats and jackets and I saw some leather ones that time."

So we took the T to Kendall Square and walked up Broadway past MIT until we came to a non-descript building with a hand painted sign that said simply Rags $1 a pound. Just inside the entrance a man with a cigar handed us each a black trash bag.

The floor of the dingy, cavernous room was a deep, colorful sea of clothing with dozens of people wading through it, trailing plastic bags like ours, bending and stooping to inspect a garment they'd fished out and then either dropping it or stuffing it into the sack. Along the edges of the room were bins with more clothing and long metal rods sagging with the weight of coats and jackets. I stood there gaping at the people of all ages scavenging in the piles, not sure what to make of it. Back home, no one would dream of outfitting themselves this way. A church rummage sale was fine because it was for a good cause but going to Goodwill or the Salvation Army for clothes for yourself or your family was a sign of desperation. This was at least a notch below that. Yet this crowd didn't seem dirt poor. More like eccentric. Still, it wouldn't hurt to look.

Amazingly, we did find a leather jacket that was halfway between Brando and Fonzie and was in pretty good condition except for a ripped lining. I hefted it in my hand and reckoned it would cost me four dollars, tops. Then we waded into the mass of clothes on the floor to see what else we could find. I nearly stepped on a sleeping baby whose mother had laid it down next to her – it blended right into the clothing.

I came across a pair of black jeans that looked like they might fit me. A few people were stripping off right there to try on garments, which seemed silly since they'd only be set back fifty cents if they found they didn't fit later. I stuffed other shirts and jeans in my bag and saw that Joe was doing the same. When he wasn't looking, I shrugged off my tan jacket and left it on the pile.

When I found Joe again, he was back among the coats. He had on a long, stone colored parka with a hood and was browsing among the jackets.

"You gonna get that thing?" I asked.

"Well, it seems brand new," he said. "And my winter coat is really old."

"You don't look good in that color."

"I don't?" He gave me a funny look. At the time I thought he was questioning my color sense, but now I understand that he was startled that I noticed, and cared, whether he looked good. "Well, I think I'll get it anyway since it's such a deal, maybe give it to my Dad."

I pulled out a shorter, blue parka from the bin. "Try this one."

Joe took off the gray coat and we traded. I tried on the long one just out of curiosity. It was still warm from his body. Joe was right, it was good quality, filled with down and not feathers. But the blue one fit him well and looked better on him, even with his yellow hair.

After we'd weighed and paid we emerged blinking back out into the bright sun. It was another jewel of a day, the air clear after the overnight rain with just a touch of crispness. The sunlight pouring through the sycamore by the curb set the yellow leaves aglow. As we walked back toward Kendall Square, I noticed some words spray painted neatly onto a building at waist level, as if done with a stencil. MISSON OF BURMA. I'd seen this marked on walls in several places since I'd arrived in Boston. I gestured at them and asked if Joe knew what it meant.

"I think it's the name of a band. I saw it on the marquee of the Paradise once," he replied, referring to a club a few blocks from BU. Joe was still working on getting us fake IDs so we could get into it and other music bars.

When we reached the T stop, Joe suggested that instead of riding back we could walk along the river to the Mass. Ave. bridge and cross over to Boston. There was something he wanted to show me.

Joggers swerved around us onto the grass as we walked side by side along the sidewalk at the water's edge, the river on our left, MIT buildings on our right, our sacks slung over our shoulders like we were tramps. Dozens of white sails glided back and forth along the Charles. I hadn't told Joe about my day sailing with Sandy so I mentioned it now, and how I'd enjoyed being out on the water.

"You didn't have to go all the way down to Community Boating, you know. There's a sailing club at BU. You just gotta take a swim test and pay for a sailing card. They'll give you lessons. Then you can take a sailboat out from the pavilion by the BU bridge. Miriam's boyfriend learned to sail there."

Was there anything Joe didn't know about? For the first time I felt irritation instead of admiration.

"But Sandy has connections and can take a boat out for free."

"Okay but I'm just saying."

I changed the subject and we talked about classes and music and a little about politics. Joe was resigned to Reagan taking the White House in two weeks but optimistic about Barney Frank's chances. At that point in my life I was apolitical and anyway, I wouldn't turn eighteen until just after the election.

We turned onto the Mass. Ave. bridge and a moment later Joe stopped and pointed down at the sidewalk. The words 364.4 SMOOTS + 1 EAR were painted in big yellow letters.

"Back in the fifties a bunch of students in an MIT fraternity measured the bridge with a guy whose last name was Smoot," Joe explained. "Ever since then the members repaint the marks every year. That's why the lettering looks raised."

"The city didn't mind?"

He rolled his eyes. "Who cares if they mind? You do something long enough here, it turns into a tradition and nobody can stop it. Wouldn't it be great to have your name immortalized like that?"

I looked sharply at him, sure he was joking. He had a faraway look on his face. "Yeah, but... your name already is a unit of measurement."

"That's not what I mean! I didn't have anything to do with the naming of zero point one of a nanometer. Anyway, how many people measure things in angstroms?"

"Uh, molecular scientists?"

"Yeah, well I'd rather have hundreds of regular folks see my name every day on their way to work than thousands of scientists in labs."

Back then I was sure Joe was going to be famous someday because he seemed perfectly ready to be the object of a fraternity prank if it meant he'd get his name before the public. But for as long as I've known him, whenever he's had the chance to step out in front of the curtain, instead of staying backstage working the ropes, he's hesitated. For a long time I thought he was just indecisive.

Sometimes I torture myself by imagining how his life would have gone if I'd said one little thing at certain points in our friendship, if I'd veered off from the script he was determined to follow. I don't know why I still kept quiet when he told me last year that he was getting married yet again. It was too late for us by a long shot, but it's not too late for him.