If he'd thought to bring the video, soap and Bombay Mix to the office on that Bad Haircut day, Ennis would have gone to the detention center straight from work, especially since he hadn't ridden his bike. But it was just as well he forgot them because he felt he ought to neaten up Jay's hack job before he showed up at the coast guard station. On the way home that evening, he didn't get off the T at Harvard Square but continued on to Porter Square so he could see if Judy Jetson was still open. Back in the days when Judy had cut his hair in her kitchen, he always used to spend a moment trying to guess how to pronounce the last name on the doorbell while he waited for her to buzz him in. It was he who had suggested the new name when she was going to open her own salon, even though she didn't sound a thing like the perky cartoon character. But it seemed to fit her energy.
"Holy shit Ennis, what the fuck happened? You decide to cut your hair yourself when you were stoned or what?" was how she greeted him before she shoved him down into a chair and slung a length of purple polyester over him.
Fortunately, Jay was delighted when he arrived home with his hair even shorter. Or rather, shorter but even. That was when Ennis began to suspect that she'd cut his hair badly on purpose. And at work the next day he got compliments from everyone, although Don's was typically backhanded.
"Much better, Ennis. Now you look like a cultured thug."
That evening there was a new guy at the counter of the pastry shop when he stopped for his cannolis on Hanover Street. Ennis could've sworn the guy winked at him when he handed him his change. He decided this could mean either that he couldn't scare an Italian, who would know a real hit man if he saw one, or... or what? He studied his reflection in the shop window next to the bakery, which was decorated with a Halloween theme. It brought back a memory of his first Halloween in Boston, when he'd had his ear pierced and bought his leather jacket. He turned abruptly from his reflection, worried about the time, and jogged the remaining three blocks to the detention center.
When the three Sri Lankans entered the visiting room, they looked at him in surprise.
"Yeah, I got a haircut yesterday," Ennis began sheepishly. "I guess I did look a little—"
"I am... we are not expecting to see you this week," Kaj said, grinning.
"Well, I said I would come back soon."
"Yes...this is very soon."
They went to their usual places around the table. Ennis told Ravi he had delivered the documents but his lawyer hadn't been in. Ravi shrugged and made a face as if unsurprised. Next Ennis put his knapsack on his lap and unzipped the outer pocket.
"I brought you soap," he said, drawing out the three wrapped bars and setting them on the table. The men picked them up and began to thank him but Ennis said, "Smell it."
Ravi sniffed his and Ragu followed suit.
"Sandalwood," Ravi grinned.
Kaj put the soap under his nose and inhaled deeply, gazing into the middle distance. Ennis noticed his eyes exactly matched the color of the wrapper.
"When very rich or important people in India and Sri Lanka die," Kaj said gravely, looking back at Ennis, "they put some sandalwood when they burn the body."
Ennis felt instantly sick – not at the thought of cremation but from fear that he'd offended him. He took a big breath. "I.. I'm really sorry... I didn't mean to… to…."
"No, it's a good smell," Ravi assured him.
"When Indira Gandhi died you can smell the sandalwood hundred miles away," Kaj said. "Thank you for this."
Next Ennis gave them the video. Their eyes widened and they discussed it excitedly in Tamil, passing it around.
"You know this movie?" Ennis asked.
"No, but the actor is good so the film is good."
Ennis decided not to tell them he'd watched it for fear they'd ask him what he'd thought of it. He was pretty sure they wouldn't laugh if he said he thought that when the women sang they sounded like cats fighting. He just explained about the shop, and showed them the list of films. "They're all in Hindi, though," he said apologetically.
"Doesn't matter," said Kaj. "Even if no subtitles we can understand."
The men spent a few minutes discussing the choices and put an X next to the ones they wanted.
Finally, Ennis took out the packet of Bombay Mix. Aaaahhh. The men fall on it, ripping it open and soon there was no talk, just crunching. Kaj held out the bag to Ennis, offering him some. Ennis wasn't big on hot and spicy but he gamely pinched some of the mix up and put it in his mouth. He tried to keep his face impassive as he chewed but soon his eyes were watering.
"You cry of happiness because it taste so good, yes?" Kaj grinned mischieviously. "Nice and hot!"
Ennis couldn't speak. He needed something to put out the fire in his mouth but there was no water in sight. He opened his knapsack and brought out the box of cannolis, scrabbling at the tape to get it open. Then he sighed with relief as he bit into one and felt the sweet ricotta cheese coat his tongue. The men gaped at him.
"What is this thing?" Ravi asked.
"A cannoli. It's really good," Ennis said. "Have a taste." He passed the second one around and they each took a small bite.
"Nice."
"It's okay."
"Um."
They handed the rest of it —an entire half! – back to him. How can they not love this? Ennis wondered. He returned the cannoli half to the box, which he placed back in his knapsack, and took out the travel guide. He showed it to them, and they paged silently through the book, studying the pictures. Ragu made a short remark, pointing to one of the photos and Kaj responded in a sharp voice. Ragu started to retort but Ravi said something obviously meant to keep the peace. Ennis had wanted to ask them some questions about the civil war, but now he realized that just because they were from the same country didn't mean that they all had much in common. Maybe he shouldn't mention the violence but stick to their personal situations.
"What happened to your arm?" he asked Ravi. His forearm had a long scar and wasn't straight.
Ravi explained that he'd been in the Sri Lankan Air Force and during the 1983 rioting against the Tamils the Sinhalese soldiers in his unit beat him badly and broke his arm. It wasn't set for three days. The papers Ennis had passed to his lawyer contained his Air Force ID, which his wife had mailed to him from Germany. It was proof that he'd been in the military and wasn't a terrorist. There was also a medical report that detailed the extent of his injuries.
Just as Ravi finished his account, Ennis noticed Reverend Beers signing in at the guard's booth. He told the men it was time for him to leave. But he wrote his phone number on three scraps of paper and told them to call him if they wanted him to bring something the next time. He asked Kaj how the campaign to win the Monopoly game was going. Kaj looked pained.
"More Columbians come in yesterday and keep it. So I have to make nice to the new guys," he muttered.
"I might know somebody who has one they can donate," Ennis said.
"Thank you. But still I try to get that one."
"Hello... Ennis is it?" Reverend Beers was suddenly standing by the table. "I almost didn't recognize you."
"Uh, yes ma'am. I'm just leaving, though," Ennis mumbled as he put the travel guide back in his bag.
"Have you taken over for George, then?" she asked pleasantly.
"Well, I'm not sure… Maybe. I guess so, yeah," he finished when he saw Kaj nodding emphatically.
"That's... fine," she said, and Ennis wondered what say she had in whether someone visited the detainees.
Everyone was standing now, and the men shook hands with him, looking almost as self-conscious as he felt, Ennis thought.
As the Red Line train crossed the bridge over the Charles River he watched the Citgo sign and realized he felt happier than he had in a long time.
…
Chapter 9b
My first semester at BU would turn out to be the second most confusing time of my life. It was almost as if I'd been transported to a different planet. The university had over 30,000 students, which meant it was larger than the population of Garden City, our nearest town. Warren Towers housed as many students as were in my high school, 1,800. I was surrounded by people all the time, except when I was in our dorm room. Sometimes when I was between classes I would retreat there so I could safely observe the bustling city campus from high above it.
Unlike Joe, who was clear on his major – politics seemed to be the family business, I'd learned – I wasn't sure what I wanted to study. College had simply been a means of escape from home. (Surely my own kids don't view it that way, I tell myself.) I had latched onto the College of Communication at BU because I could write well and I confused that with communicating. The two degree options I was considering were Journalism and Advertising and Public Relations. The first seemed like a no-brainer – there would always be newspapers, right? – while the second one seemed like a stretch for me. But I didn't have to decide just yet.
I floundered around that first semester, though Joe and the other students on our floor didn't realize it. They mistook my quiet, studious ways for focus. By Thanksgiving, however, I was mass of anxiety. It didn't happen overnight, but overtook me in increments.
I'd arrived in Boston on a Wednesday and by the weekend I felt I'd been away from home for months. On Friday we registered for classes and Joe and I went to WBUR to sign up officially for our work-study jobs. To our great disappointment the station manager told us we couldn't work together. The station was allotted 40 hours which they divided among eight students who each worked five hours a week at five dollars an hour. There wasn't enough for two students to do on the same shift. So we went over the week's schedule and each signed up for five hours' worth of work. It included the weekend and I took a two-hour slot on Sunday evenings during a call-in show about cars. I was to screen the calls as they came in.
In the dining hall on Friday evening, I discovered that everyone on our floor knew that I'd never seen the ocean. We now all ate together as a group, with several tables forming a U. I wasn't sure how this had happened so quickly but later I realized that Joe and Sandy had acted as magnets, drawing others to them. For two months mealtimes were a blast, until I said that stupid thing.
Everyone but me was from the East and they all wanted to take me to the beach the very next day since the weather was still hot. Someone proposed going to one that was right near a T stop since it would be easier to organize than taking a train to the north or south shore.
I pretended that I didn't care, that I could wait, no need to make a big deal of it – but I was secretly excited. When Joe had shown me around Boston the day before, I'd had a tantalizing glimpse of the harbor and had almost asked him to take me there. But he'd been too intent on making me climb a hill.
Only six of us sustained the enthusiasm for this outing overnight, but I didn't mind. In the morning I made myself a pair of shorts by cutting off the legs of a pair of my oldest jeans. At eleven o'clock Joe and I waited on the sidewalk outside Warren Towers and were joined by a short guy named Virgil who was in the room next to ours. He looked like Yin to Joe's Yang because he'd dyed his blond hair black. Virgil told us he was a Massachusetts native from "Wusta." When I looked at him blankly he explained, "You know, like Wustasheer sauce."
In the middle of that conversation Sandy walked up to us along with two of her friends and volunteered that she was from Connecticut without mentioning the name of her hometown. Weeks later, after everything went bad, I heard she was from Greenwich. I realized then just how kind she'd been to spare me from having to pronounce that name and felt even more remorseful.
The Green Line car was full of students, like us too excited to sit in the seats. Other passengers looked on indulgently as we hung onto the poles, clowning around and laughing, our glee fueled by the knowledge that at the end of the day out we would not return to our parents.
We rode to Government Center and then changed to the Blue Line. When the train emerged above ground somebody said, "Look Ennis, the sea!"
I looked. And I was disappointed. It must've shown on my face because Sandy touched my arm and said, "It's really only the Bay, Ennis. This is just a little taste. You'll get to a real ocean beach when—"
"Yeah, don't worry Ennis," Joe said. "I'll show you Newburyport if the weather stays this good. We can take the commuter train."
We got off at the Revere Beach stop and walked the two blocks to the water. Even though it was hot already there were few people on the sand. A young seagull on the sea wall was facing off with an abandoned packet of french fries. The edge of the little paper pouch was fluttering in the breeze, making it look like a yawning mouth with flapping lips, daring the bird to snatch a golden morsel. The gull performed an anxious dance, advancing and stretching its neck towards the food then jerking back nervously. We watched and laughed, until one of the girls took pity and went over and tipped out the french fries. The gull had flown off squawking at her approach but soon circled back and attacked them with gusto.
We piled down the stairs to the beach, which was littered with cigarette butts and wrappers and bottle caps. I took off my sneakers and sprinted over to the water's edge where the feeble waves were sloughing off gray foam onto the wet sand. Along with a couple of the others I waded in just enough to wet my ankles. When I saw the scum clinging to my skin I decided I would wait until I went to a real ocean beach before venturing any deeper.
Someone had brought a frisbee so we threw that around for a while. Then we went across the road to Kelly's and discovered why the beach was empty: everyone was waiting in line for roast beef sandwiches. When we finally returned with our food, more students from various colleges had arrived on the beach. A boombox was blasting out the B-52s and two skinny blond girls wearing identical pink sundresses were jumping and gyrating barefoot on the sea wall.
Word got around that this was my first time on a beach and someone yelled, "Let's bury him in the sand!" Before I knew it, Joe had yanked off my t-shirt and I was lying in a shallow indentation that had been quickly scooped out of the sand. Someone advanced the cassette tape to Rock Lobster and a dozen people scrabbled around me in a frenzy, laughing and pushing sand onto my body. I felt embarrassed at first at being the center of attention but as I was powerless to move I had no choice but to stand it. I squinted up at the seagulls wheeling above us and at the planes that roared over the bay every couple of minutes, drowning out the music, as they came in to land at Logan airport.
Soon I was completely covered, and I found I enjoyed feeling the weight pressing down on me. I remember that the sensation of the hands patting the length of my body, muffled by the four inches of sand, was strangely arousing. I didn't think of it at the time, but it was similar to the way I'd felt as a catcher, with the heavy padding on my chest and the pitcher's eyes on me.
Sandy was kneeling by my left shoulder and piling sand higher on my chest. Her long red hair was loose; strands of it drifted in the breeze and tickled my chin. She had on a straw hat with a wide brim that shaded my eyes as well as her face. The smell of coconut from her tanning butter wafted around her, mixing with the fake herbal fragrance emanating from her hair. She was wearing very short cutoffs and a green halter top that supported her full breasts only loosely. I was too clueless to realize she'd deliberately positioned herself so that I could have a clear view of them.
Why wasn't I wasn't conscious of my indifference to Sandy's charms?
When I was a horny teenager, I did think about women. At least, that was what I was convinced I thought about. Except that there was always a man in the picture, never a woman alone. I had an idea of what other boys fantasized about, from overhearing them in the locker room, but somehow I hadn't registered that what I dreamed about was any different.
When I was in the 10th grade, someone brought a copy of The Godfather to school – the novel – and it made the rounds with the page about Sonny Corleone's monster cock dog-eared. Everybody read that scene where he fucks a woman up against the wall, the one with the big... well, let's say they were a perfect fit. So I visualized Sonny and the woman as I jerked off and never admitted to myself that Sonny alone would have been enough.
But back to the beach. Two guys had begun sculpting the damp sand that was being heaped onto me. Joe was at my other shoulder now and he told me they were students from an art school. Everyone else was standing around watching the artists shape the sand, or helping by bringing them plastic cups of seawater to wet it. I could see I was being given a new body.
"Hey, that looks like the guy from Pumping Iron," someone laughed. I was being turned into a muscle man. It took them about 45 minutes to complete my transformation. I couldn't really see it properly but one of the girls from Warren Towers had a camera and took a picture, which is now in one of my mother's photo albums. I'm flexing one gigantic bicep while the other hand is propped on my narrow waist. I'm grinning, my head comically small.
After the photo session, Sandy came and knelt beside me, took one of the cups of water, mixed sand into it and began dribbling little cones on top of "my" nipples. I thought it was funny but Joe, who had been joking around with a couple of people near my feet, suddenly rushed over and flicked them off, muttering, "That's enough. Let's get him out of there before he suffocates", even though I was breathing just fine.
They all dug me out and brushed me off as much as possible. We hung out on the beach a couple more hours before taking the T back to Kenmore Square. Joe and I talked about going out that night, but when I was taking a shower I felt a headache coming on. I looked in the mirror and saw that my face was very pink and by the time I'd staggered back to our room my head felt like a spike had been driven through it and a wave of nausea hit me whenever I moved. I'd stayed in the sun too long. Joe lay wet cloths on my head and pressed an ice pack against my neck as I groaned and whimpered on my bunk. I remember Sandy came to our door, asking how I was, but he wouldn't let her in.
I still feel bad about that.