Chapter 5A
Ennis let the rest of August and September slip away with little thought for the men in the detention center. Contrary to what he'd told his mother, he did manage to eke out some extra vacation days. As the newest hire, Jay wound up with the worst six-week shift that summer, working weekends, so he took advantage and worked a few Saturdays himself. A friend of hers on the Cape, a former co-worker at the Cape Cod Times, had asked if they'd be willing to come down and stay in their house to look after the dog while he and his wife were away on vacation the last week of August and they'd jumped at the chance.
Ralph-pronounced-Rafe irritated Ennis with his British accent; he didn't say much but seemed to expect that every American he met was ready to swoon over the few words he did utter, which were usually preceded by "When I wrote for the Daily Mirror..." If that paper was so great, why was he still over here? His American wife, Shalawn, made up for him by talking a blue streak. She was so irritating, Ennis couldn't understand how Jay had stayed friends with Ralph after he married her.
During that week Ennis ran into one of the two brothers he'd worked for the summer after he graduated. They catered clambakes for large beach parties and Dave had just put his back out; Tim practically begged Ennis to help out for the remaining weekends of the season, which stretched well into September. The money was good and it was fun working with Tim so he drove down on Friday evenings and spent the night at his boss' house. Out of guilt for having missed the family reunion, he had Tim take photos of him digging the fire pit, laying seaweed on the hot rocks and placing crates of lobsters and clams on top. These he mailed to his mother for her photo album.
None of his family had ever visited Boston since he'd lived there, not even to attend his graduation. He'd understood why – the distance, the expense, the season – and hadn't been hurt though Joe and Jay had been indignant on his behalf. If not for Jay, he might have returned home... no, who was he kidding? He could never live there again. But would Boston ever feel like his home? He probably wouldn't know until the day came when Jay wanted to move on from the Herald. She aspired to become a star photographer and win a Pulitzer, like Stan Grossfeld at the Boston Globe, but that meant she would have to find a place at the number one newspaper in a different city. Her dream was to make a name for herself.
The fact that his career had stalled out bothered him more often these days. The truth was, it had never gotten going in the first place. Jay was urging him on, but he could sense the beginnings of lassitude on her part. So after the final clambake weekend, he got back in touch with the Quakers.
He found out that one man was visiting a group of Sri Lankans on weekday evenings. That could be an interesting change, going midweek and late in the day, so Ennis contacted him and arranged to meet him the following Wednesday at six o'clock at the usual place.
That afternoon, though, the man called him at work to tell him he was down with bronchitis and would have to cancel. But Ennis had been twice already and knew the routine, so maybe he'd like to go on his own this time? One of them had some important documents to give to his lawyer and he had agreed to deliver them. Would Ennis at least pick those up?
Well Ennis couldn't say no, could he? So he left his bike at work and took the Green Line to Government Center and made what turned out to be the first of many, many walks through the North End to the Coast Guard Station.
Chapter 5BIn early December I came home from school to find my mother waiting for me at the kitchen door. Instead of her usual smile she wore a grim expression.
"There's a big envelope from Boston University over there," she said accusingly, pointing toward the kitchen table as if a wild creature had crept in and settled on top of it. The package was lying askew, not set neatly at my place like my other mail.
I dropped my knapsack and sat down at the table, ripped open the fat parcel and read through all the papers. My mother remained by the door, watching me silently, a tea towel wrapped tightly around her fist.
"I've been accepted," I said when I'd finished reading the last page.
"That's wonderful, honey," she said, with no wonderment in her voice.
"We don't have to pay anything."
"Nothing? Nothing at all? I thought it was a private college."
"It is. But they're offering a bunch of grants, and a scholarship. One of the grants is work-study so I'll have a campus job." I looked up at her. She was twisting the towel with both hands now. "So it's not totally free money." I spoke calmly, but my heart was jumping around in my chest. They really, really wanted me.
"You're sure you want to go that far away."
"Yeah." I ignored the resignation in her voice; I was halfway there already, making plans.
My father's reaction was mild, as usual. He congratulated me, and was pleased that I would be getting a free ride. I was both glad and disappointed that they never asked to see my essay. I wouldn't have dared to let them read it, but weren't they even curious?
To my surprise, the news that I was going off to college out of state, all the way in the east, excited my classmates' imagination. Boston, Washington, New York, Philadelphia... those cities were names in our history books and represented for them the sharp edge of the continent. They were impressed, and I even got invited to a New Year's Eve party. The girl with the raw liver hair was there and she danced with me. When the clock struck midnight she even kissed me. It seemed like an auspicious start to the eighties.
Once my future was set, the year passed quickly. I had a Saturday job in Garden City at the agricultural cooperative, and now I knew that the money I made would be extra cash for me when I got to Boston. Between that and farm chores and baseball practice I had little free time, but I didn't mind. In the spring my parents came to every home game and cheered me on, though they'd learned to do so discreetly. They'd found out the hard way my first year that unless they wanted to hear me called an asshole by other fans it was best not to break my concentration.
I graduated, then spent the summer helping on the farm and working a couple days a week. My mother gave me an old manual Royal typewriter that she'd used in high school to take to college. My father bought me a suitcase.
On Labor Day my parents drove me to Wichita, where Kathy was a nurse in the biggest hospital. They left me at her house and went back the same day. My mother had tears in her eyes when she kissed me goodbye.
That night Kathy brought me to the bus station. The journey would take a day and a half and I'd have to change buses in four cities and stop in a dozen other towns. It had taken forty-five minutes on the phone with Greyhound to sort out my itinerary.
We pulled into the parking lot but after she cut the engine she didn't get out right away. She looked at me with a serious expression.
"Ennis, I want to talk to you about something before you go."
"Right." I expected a lecture about keeping in touch with Mom and Dad, not forgetting the family and all that.
"You haven't had a girlfriend, have you." It wasn't a question because it would be impossible to keep that a secret at our house.
"Ummmm... not exactly." I felt as though I had to make my reply seem at least slightly ambiguous.
"Well, you're bound to have one in Boston, I bet."
I hadn't given it much thought but I answered, "I hope so."
"Make sure you use rubbers."
"Uhh, well I—"
"Herpes, Ennis. You have heard about it, right?"
"Of course."
"Once you get it you never get rid of it."
"Right."
"Use them without fail."
"Right."
"I see kids every day who never thought they'd get it and now they have to cope with these sores every few months for the rest of their lives, all because they thought the girl or boy they slept with looked clean. Or they were afraid to ask. Think about it."
"Right."
She opened her purse. "Here're some now, so you don't have an excuse when the time comes."
"Thanks." I took the box of Trojans from her and stuffed them in my knapsack. I couldn't wait to get away on that bus!
I don't remember very much about that first bus journey east. I had several paperbacks in my knapsack and my mother had packed me a lot of food. I wished I had my little boombox but the stethoscope would have looked strange. It was impossible to sleep for the first 24 hours. I had a series of seatmates for much of that time and the further away from Kansas I traveled, the less that person knew about my state. When I changed buses in Columbus, I sat next to a black guy a few years older than me wearing glasses, a goatee and a Mets cap. He was "riding the dog" as far as New York, where he lived. When I told him which state I called home, he frowned.
"Kansas, huh. That's... next to Wisconsin?"
"It's right in the middle of the country, actually. Below Nebraska. Which is next to Wyoming," I added, since people seemed to have a better fix on that state.
"Oh yeah, they call that the fly-over."
"Who does?" I asked irritably. I was exhausted by that time and getting peeved at having to defend my state, especially as I'd spent most of my life longing to leave it.
"You know, rich people who only spend time in New York and LA," he said.
"You know anything about Kansas, then?"
"What, you think I ain't never watched The Wizard of Oz? It's flat and you got tornadoes." He grinned at me. "And everything's in black and white."
I looked at him. "It's true. There are no colored people in Kansas."
I think it was the fact that I said it with a straight face that saved me. His jaw dropped but after a few seconds he began to chuckle. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists in his lap, shaking with laughter until I had to join in. When he'd calmed down we talked for a few minutes but it was very late and we were both tired. The laughter released some tension in me and I was able to fall asleep at last. When we arrived at Port Authority terminal in Manhattan it was five in the morning and he helped me find my next and final bus, for which I was grateful.
I was asleep as we neared Boston early Wednesday. The sun on my face woke me and I pulled the stiff orange curtain all the way open. We were still on the interstate, but I could see the Boston skyline ahead. I saw what I thought was the sea off to the right, though it was only Massachusetts Bay. I watched a plane flying across the clear blue sky, and when it passed out of sight I lowered my gaze and saw a wondrous thing. We were passing the Boston Gas installation, with its enormous white tanks glowing in the sunlight. One of the tanks looked as though a giant had tipped five different cans of paint over the top of it, leaving red, yellow, blue, green and purple slashes running down the sides. I stared at this tank as long as I could see it and couldn't stop smiling.
Shortly after, we entered the city and wound through narrow streets full of cars inching along and people darting back and forth in front of them. I was trembling with anticipation, or exhaustion, or caffeine; the woman in the seat across the aisle had given me some very strong coffee from her thermos. Horns blared; scraps of white paper danced along the gutters, pushed by a stiff wind. The blue sky I'd seen outside the city had already been invaded by clouds.
The bus pulled into the station, which smelled like all the others but sounded different somehow, the voices sharper. After I retrieved my suitcase and typewriter from the hold, I wobbled toward the exit, my legs stiff. I pushed open the glass doors with my shoulder and emerged into the daylight and gusting wind. A big white taxi was parked at the curb in front of me, the driver half sitting on the hood, smoking a cigarette. He was neither young nor old, pale with a dark goatee and wire rim glasses. He wore a blue Red Sox cap, the kind with a pair of socks as an emblem instead of a B, and I thought he could be the white cousin of my New Yorker seatmate. He was trying to blow smoke rings but the wind snatched them away. When he spotted me blinking in hesitation he flicked the butt to the pavement.
"Need a taxi?" he said.
I was so tired I just nodded and handed him a piece of paper with the address that was my first stop.
"Zatcha dawm?"
"Uuuhhh... what?"
"Seven hunnid Cawm Av. Izzatcha dawmitawry?" *
"Oh. Yeah."
"So yer goin a be you."
It took me a few seconds to realize what he'd actually said, but I hoped that what I thought I'd heard was the truth: now I was going to be myself.
.
.
* 700 Comm Ave in Bostonese