On his way to the detention center, Ennis stopped at his favorite Italian bakery and bought a cannoli. It was kind of a ritual, whenever he was on Hanover Street. He'd tried one at every bakery between the central artery and Commercial Street and had settled on Antonio's, not because they made the best cannoli but because it had been the first place he'd ever tasted one. He bought two and placed the little carton carefully in his knapsack. He'd share them with Jay when he got home.
As Ennis waited for the Sri Lankan men he had come to visit to be brought out, he studied their names, trying to guess how to pronounce them. He hoped their first names, which were designated with just an initial, were simpler.
G. Ragunathan
S. Ravindran
T. Karunarajav
He felt a bit nervous, coming here alone. When he accompanied one of the older women, he realized, he let himself slip slightly out of adulthood while pretending to be a writer. Now he had to act as though he knew how the system worked when the truth was he was baffled by it. Sometimes detainees were transferred to a detention center in another state without warning, he'd been told. He learned that one of the Iranians he'd met had been sent to New York in August and now was back, thanks to the intervention of Reverend Beers. He wondered what help he could really offer these men.
He heard the shuffling of slippers in the corridor, signaling the men's arrival. They entered the room single file in ascending order of height and Ennis quickly took their measure. They all appeared to be in their mid to late twenties. Unlike the other groups he'd seen, their skin tone varied greatly and each one sported a mustache.
The short man was quite light, like a regular coffee; the middle one was like dark chocolate and the third and tallest... it was hard to say. He was kind of between the two, but his complexion seemed to have a different undertone. Tea?
They looked at him quizzically when they saw him, then glanced around the room, obviously looking for their usual visitor. Ennis stepped forward and extended his hand.
"Hi. Um, George is sick so I came instead. My name is Ennis."
Each smiled politely as they shook his hand and said hello. The tea man was almost Ennis' height. Then they took seats around the table, moving very deliberately toward specific chairs. George had been visiting them once a week for two months and had filled Ennis in on the situation in their country – the civil war, the Tamil Tiger guerillas who claimed one son from each family, the arrests and torture – but Ennis had realized he didn't even know exactly where their country was located, just that it was near India. It had occurred to him the day before, when he was cycling past a bookstore, that he ought to find out a bit more about Sri Lanka and he'd even slowed down. But he'd felt reluctant to cram his head with facts before meeting them.
Ennis lay the scrap of paper with their names in front of him. "So who is G. Ragu-nathan?" he asked, sure he was mispronouncing the name.
The short man raised his hand. "Raguna-tan. Ragu is okay."
Ragu. Tomato sauce colored birthmark on neck. He was going to need some memory tricks to keep the names straight. But was that his first or last name?
"What does G stand for?"
"Gunaratnam. But that is my father's name."
"You mean your last name?"
"Last one?" Ragu looked to the others for help.
"Tamil people have only one name," explained the tea man, who was sitting opposite Ennis. He noticed his eyes were not exactly the same dark brown as the others, closer to hazel. His face was longer, and handsome in a more Western way. "When the British come they want us to have two names. So we make father's name second name but we put it first. But just write with first letter."
"Uhhh, right. So you are..." He looked at the paper. Tea Man reached right over and pulled it towards him, turning it around.
"That's him," he said, pointing first to S. Ravindran and then to the chocolate man. "Ravi. And that's me." He moved his finger to the third name.
Ennis tugged the paper back and looked at the name, T. Karunarajav. "Then you must be Karu," he said.
"No. Kaj," said the Sri Lankan. "My brother call me that when he's small."
Ravi murmured something to Ragu and they both laughed. Ennis looked at them and saw they were grinning at him. He glanced at Kaj, who smiled broadly.
"He say you look like a big cock."
What the fuck? Ennis felt like he'd been... slapped? Zapped? For the first time in his life he had an inkling of what all those past victims of his malapropisms had felt.
Kaj crowed softly and tugged at his own hair. Oh, a rooster; he'd let his hair grow so long in front so that it flopped onto his forehead, but the sides were still short.
"Why you wearing your hair like that?" Kaj asked.
That was a good question. Ennis had to admit the style was pretty 1983. But would they know that? So he just shrugged, smiled and changed the subject. He asked them when they'd each arrived, and the circumstances. Ragu and Kaj had the same story: flew in to Boston with false passports, then caught in passport control.
Ravi had a somewhat different tale. He had been living in Germany as a refugee with his wife and baby daughter. They'd been denied permanent residence cards and Ravi believed they would never be granted them, so he'd convinced his wife they should try for North America. When they'd changed planes in Dublin, his wife and daughter had been pulled from the line and Ravi had watched helplessly as they were taken away. He'd continued on to Boston, hoping he would be able to settle and bring them over. After getting off the plane, he'd destroyed his passport and identity papers, then presented himself at passport control and requested political asylum.
That had been in June. His wife and daughter had been returned to Germany and he was still "in prison". Ravi took a photo from his jumpsuit pocket and showed it to Ennis. "Everyday I think about them," he said. "My lawyer, I think he forget about me. Can you take these papers to him? My wife sent them. Maybe you can tell him to hurry. I call him every week, sometimes two, three times but nothing happens."
Ravi handed Ennis the manila envelope. The address scrawled on the front was for a law firm near South Station. That was nowhere near his route between work and home so he'd have to make a special trip. On the other hand, he could simply mail it. He put it in his knapsack, to worry about later.
He asked them what they were fed. They were sick of potatoes, they said. Occasionally rice was served rice and when that happened the detainees fell on it. They couldn't stand the bland food. They were used to spices; they could eat a whole chili raw, no problem. They needed soap. It was noisy, the TV was on constantly. They were bored to death. There was a Monopoly game but it belonged to a group of Columbians who spent hours playing. Kaj was trying to be friendly to their leader, hoping he would inherit the game when they left.
Then they had questions for him. Where was his family? Was he married? Did he live in a house? They had no idea where Kansas was. He told them about his Japanese landlady and her little dog, Ginger. They thought this was hilarious, naming an animal after food.
"I had a dog, name Robin," Kaj said when they'd stopped laughing.
"Our dog was name of Jimmy," Ravi volunteered. He said something to Ragu, then: "He say his dog was Sam."
"Not Tamil names?"
They glanced at one another.
"When the British were in Ceylon they had signs on buildings that say No Dogs or Indians Allowed. After independence, Sri Lankan people always give dogs English names," Kaj explained with a grin. "Did you have a dog?"
"Yeah. His name was... was Toto." Ennis seldom mentioned his family's dog's name, out of embarrassment.
"That is nice name," Ravi said and the others nodded in agreement. He went on to talk about the neighbor's dog in Dusseldorf but Ennis barely listened. The Wizard of Oz reference had meant nothing to them – what a relief!
Before he ended the visit, Ennis asked them if they needed anything that he could bring next time. Just soap, they said. He promised to bring some. He promised to come back soon.
Chapter 6b
September 1980
The taxi driver opened the trunk, took my suitcase from me and swung it in. I kept hold of the handle of my typewriter case and said I'd keep it with me, along with my knapsack. I had never taken a taxi before, but I'd seen how it was done on TV and in movies. As I was opening the door to get in the back seat, I saw walk by the kind of girl I'd only ever seen in Time magazine. Her hair was dyed pitch black and so stiff and spiky it looked as if it could draw blood. Her clothes were various layers of black and she wore black leather studded with metal around her neck and wrists. Her boots were thick and black and her makeup was the same. I felt a stirring, looking at her. Of course now I know why but at that point I was just in awe of her power to do something to me that no girls back home had ever managed: make me hard.
"So whereya from?" the driver asked, glancing at me in the rear view mirror after we'd pulled away from the curb.
"Kansas."
"No kiddin! Hey, you got a friend named Dawthy? Evva seena tawnado?"
"Yeah."
"Really? Up close like?"
"Yeah. One blew our house away and killed my parents."
"Ssshhhit."
"Not really."
"Ha ha. Guess ya get that alla time."
"Well, this is the first time I've been out of Kansas."
"Really? You must be jet lagged."
"Huh?"
"Kansas is like three time zones away, right?"
"No, just one. And I took a bus."
"Sorry, kid. Kansas and all them states out theah's like anotha world, knowwhudumsayin?"
"Yeah, I do."
The part of town we were in looked kind of seedy but very shortly, after two or three turns, we were driving alongside a large, green park behind a black wrought iron fence.
"That's the Public Garden. Ya motha evva read Make Way for Ducklings when you was a kid?"
"No."
"Right. Nevva mind. Anyhow, that's the Ritz Hotel on the left."
"Wow." I'd never heard of it.
We turned left onto a broad boulevard with a wide grass and tree-filled center strip with a footpath.
"This is Commonwealth Avenue. Everybody calls it Comm Av."
I was getting used to his accent surprisingly quickly. Now I stared at the elegant brownstones with growing excitement; I'd be living in one of these beautiful old houses! The streets seemed to be laid out in a regular grid with names in alphabetical order that was reassuringly like Kansas even if the street names themselves - Arlington, Berkeley, Clarendon, Dartmouth, Exeter, Fairfield, Gloucester, Hereford - were not.
"This part here's called Back Bay. It used to be a swamp. They filled it in the 19th century and made these streets nice and regular. The rest of the city ain't like this by a long shot."
After a few minutes we began to leave behind the elegant houses. The trees in the median strip park dwindled in number and then trolley tracks replaced the grass. The taxi driver kept up his chatter, pointing out landmarks that meant nothing to me then, and I was barely listening anyway, too busy taking in the sights and flinching when pedestrians darted across the street against the red light when there was the slightest break in traffic. Suddenly I came to attention when he said a name I did know.
"Now we're in Kenmore Square, home of Fenway Park. We're almost to BU. See that big sign with the triangle?" He waved to his right at a huge square sign very high up that had a red triangle in the middle of a white field. "That's the Citgo sign and if you're ever lost, just look for it cause you can see it from practically everywhere. Usually it's lit up at night but our asshole governor made them turn it off last year. To save money, he says. What a retard! How're the BU students gonna find their way back when they're drunk outta their minds?"
I hoped my roommate liked baseball because I wanted to go to a game at Fenway as soon as possible.
"Now see down there, that big place on the left? That's Warren Towers" – Wahren Towahs – "where you're gonna be living."
I stared at the massive edifice with its three concrete towers looming over the wide street. I had wanted to be right in the city, but I hadn't envisioned living in an office building.
"I'm gonna park around the corner cause it's wicked crowded out front. Just pullin in here and you can walk across the street."
He swerved into a space near the corner, got out and opened the trunk. I looked at the meter on the dashboard. Whenever I'd seen someone take a taxi on TV, they never had luggage. When it came time to pay the fare, the passenger just handed something through the window to the driver, who was still behind the wheel. I knew you were supposed to include a tip so I rounded up the amount and took a ten from my wallet. He unloaded my suitcase and I handed him the money, then picked up my luggage and typewriter.
"Hey, thanks! Have good life, Dawthy," he grinned and winked.
I waited at the light for a moment, feeling stupid; I'd obviously tipped him too much. Now people were stepping around me and out into traffic. So when there was a lull in the flow I stepped off the curb and took a few brave steps until I saw a car bearing down on me. I scuttled across to the trolley tracks. A train was approaching but other students were crossing blithely over so I followed them, then played the same game of chicken with the cars going in the other direction.
The ground floor of Warren Towers was swarming with students and their parents encumbered with boxes and trunks. I found a desk, gave my name and was handed a key to a room on the 17th floor of Tower A.
I took an escalator and then an elevator to my floor, sharing it with a red-haired girl and her parents. She was clutching a big purple cushion to her chest, the kind with arms that my mother used to sit up in bed. Her own mother and father flanked her, weighed down by large cardboard cartons. She smiled at me when I pushed the button for 17. "We're on the same floor!" she exclaimed. I felt her parents' eyes on me, studying me with interest or maybe trepidation – I was staring at the cushion and the dotted S her long pink nails made as her fingers splayed against the vibrant fabric, framed by flaming curtains of hair. Her father finally cleared his throat and I jerked my head up.
"My name's Sandra," she said. "I'm in room– What's so funny?"
By the time we reached the 17th floor I'd managed to have a normal exchange with Sandra and her parents and I think they were convinced I was an ordinary, wholesome boy from the Midwest.
When the elevator door opened, we stepped out into a corridor filled with students lugging trunks and suitcases, cardboard boxes, turn tables, speakers and bedding. The din was incredible, amplified by the hard surfaces of the white cinderblock walls and linoleum floor. Shell-shocked parents wandered up and down the hall, their arms laden, cutting their eyes right and left as they passed open doors, trying discreetly to check out the population into whose midst they were delivering their son or daughter.
As I walked along counting down the room numbers, I was enveloped by a mad, joyous storm of sound. Music was blasting everywhere, at least on the men's side. It seemed like a contest to show who had the most powerful stereo system.I picked out Boz Scaggs and Genesis but also Talking Heads and Devo. I was thankful my parents hadn't brought me because I wouldn't have been able to contain my glee. When I moved Jenny into her dorm at UMass this fall, I was disappointed at how quiet it was, with all those iPods.
I found my door; it was closed and locked. I fitted the key in the doorknob, opened and walked in. The room was somewhat smaller than the one I'd shared with KE, with a pair of bunk beds, two desks and two dressers against the opposite wall. There was an alcove at one end that served as a closet. The wood furniture was sleekly plain, even moreso than my family's which, although it was old and unadorned, at least had a patina of history.
My roommate had already moved in; his belongings were neatly arranged. I couldn't believe how much stuff he had; it looked like he'd been settled in for more than just a few hours. There was already a poster on the wall over his desk of The Police, from those early days when they had bleached blond hair. When I saw his stereo system filling the space under the window, I was thankful I'd spared myself the humiliation of revealing my little radio and cassette player. Two wooden crates of record albums were set against the wall. Books were lined up along the shelf of his desk, on top of which sat a new-looking Olivetti electric typewriter.
When I finally looked at the window, I gasped. I had never been so high up before. Our room was on the side of the tower nearest Kenmore Square, with a view of the city as well as the river and Cambridge. The sky had darkened with storm clouds and beyond the city, out to sea, I saw streaks of lightning. I picked out the red and white Citgo sign I'd passed. Fat raindrops spattered on the pane and the students and parents milling on the pavement far below began to scurry toward the doors like ants to their nest.
I set my typewriter on the other desk and approached the beds. I had brought only a sleeping bag; my mother was sending me bedding and more clothes. My roommate's still-folded sheets and a blanket were sitting on the top bunk.
On the brown metal guard rail I saw a note on a small yellow square of paper that was somehow clinging to the bar with no tape. I pulled on it and it peeled off easily; when I looked at the back, there was no folded over tape or obvious glue. I touched the paper to the bar again and it stuck immediately. Intrigued, I spent half a minute pulling the tag on and off the bed before I focused on the message:
Ennis, can I be on top?
As I was standing there beside my suitcase with the yellow square stuck to my finger, I heard the door open. I turned to see a guy about my height standing in the doorway. He was wearing brown corduroy Levis and a very faded green zippered sweat jacket with a hood that was half covering his head. The jacket was spattered with wet spots from the rain but also with streaks of white paint, as though it was only worn for dirty jobs. It was zipped halfway up, revealing a triangle of yellow T-shirt. His hair was extremely blond, like Sting's, and stuck straight up in front. The color looked strange, because his eyebrows were thick and black and his skin tone didn't match. Even his eyes were not the right blue for that hair.
He grinned at me and said, "Ennis Del Mar?"
My family put the stress on Del but it sounded more exotic the way he said it so I didn't correct him. I just stared at him, trying very hard not to say what I was thinking; trying so hard that I forgot to say anything at all for a long moment until I saw his smile begin to fade.
"Joel Angstrom, then?" I said quickly and stuck out my hand. The housing office had sent each entering student the name and home town of his or her roommate during the summer.
"Yup. Nice to meet you, Ennis," he replied, raising an eyebrow at my outstretched hand. He stepped into the room, grabbed my hand and pumped it up and down in an exaggerated manner. "I was wondering if they'd put me with a mute."
"Oh... uh, sorry 'bout that," I mumbled. "I was thinking..." No don't say it! "...that you looked like... like an ear of corn, dressed like that."
Shit! For the second time in one day I'd blurted out something idiotic to a stranger. I felt despair wash over me; I had left behind my home but evidently not my weirdness.
Joel's eyes went wide at my words, but a grin spread over his face too. He closed the door, which had a full-length mirror on it (installed by him, I learned later) and studied his reflection.
"Well, you've got plenty of that where you come from, so you should know," he laughed.
"You know something about Kansas?" I stared at him in astonishment.
"Main Kansas crops are wheat, corn and sorghum. The capital is Topeka, the state flower is the sunflower, state bird is the Western Meadowlark, it has 6 electoral votes... "
I'm glad that I just assumed in those first months that Joel had been an A student in Geography. I didn't know yet that he had the soul of a campaign advance man. But I was stunned and pleased to find myself sharing a space with someone who had retained some facts about my state. But I was also embarrassed.
"I don't know anything about New Jersey," I said apologetically. "Just that Bruce Springsteen is from there."
"Don't worry about it. Hey," he said, glancing at my minimal luggage, "what do your parents think of the room? Are they bringing up the rest of your stuff?"
When I felt myself blushing, I turned away to the window and looked down at the trolley pulling up to the stop in front of the dorm, then toward the tall buildings like gray blocks against the storm-roiled sky. The red triangle of the Citgo sign was the brightest patch of color I could see. Suddenly the taxi driver's misheard words came to me. I took a breath and faced my roommate.
"I came on my own," I said, looking him in the eye. "I don't have much, so I don't need much."
Joel regarded me thoughtfully. I couldn't hold his gaze and looked back down at Kenmore Square.
"It's okay to want things, though, isn't it?" he said softly.
I've come to think of my life before Jack Twist as a barge on a canal, chugging steadily along a flat, still surface. But certain people have been like locks on that canal: a gate closes behind me and a flood lifts me up to a new level. As I stared at the Citgo sign, I felt my heart swelling with a feeling I couldn't then identify. Even now, whenever I look across the river at that triangle filling and emptying, I feel again the sudden pulse of freedom that moved through me at that moment. It was alright for me to desire, even if I didn't quite know what.