And Sons (30 page)

“Oh Jesus,” Andy said, looking around.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Andy was getting giddy at the prospect of being lost within this facsimile of nature, Currier and Ives giving way to a spastic Lewis and Clark. But then he spotted Bethesda Fountain—there!—and posed like stout Cortez, misplaced but beautifully delivered. He guided Emmett onto the lower brick terrace and through the arches of the underground arcade that opened up onto the Mall. From here he was certain he could find the carousel, the two of them passing the bandshell, the statues of various artists, the promenade wide and pleasant, like flat water and they were perfect skipping stones.

“I’m reading
Ampersand
,” Emmett told him. “Like I’m almost done.”

“Oh yeah.”

“It’s the first A. N. Dyer book I’ve read. I don’t know why I’ve waited so long, maybe because of my dad or something, didn’t want to upset him, I guess.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah, a lot. I’m a big reader, I mean, like I read everything, all across the board, but this book, I don’t know, it’s a really good book. Hard to believe he’s my grandfather.”

“I know what you mean,” Andy said.

“He does the high school thing pretty well and it doesn’t seem all that dated, you just sort of jump in and go along for the ride. And Edgar Mead, I like him but I know by the end I’m going to hate him. Like that scene where he loses his virginity to the Pudge?”

“Yeah.”

“Cringeworthy but oddly honorable.”

“Yep.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

“Maybe.”

“You go to Exeter, right, like my dad did, like all Dyers but me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m at public school, Oxford Academy, in Anaheim. It’s why we live there, because of the school, otherwise, you know, it’s fucking Anaheim. But it’s a pretty good school.”

“Excellent.”

“Not like Exeter though. Is it weird going there?”

“Exeter is weird in general.”

“But like with the book and your dad, is that weird?”

“Maybe a little. And it’s Shearing, not Exeter.”

“Right, right. But pretty close, right?”

“Exeter has girls now.”

“Of course.”

“And it’s a lot less old-school preppy.”

“Right.”

“More foreign students, more buildings, but otherwise, yeah, pretty close.”

“I’m just curious about the place,” Emmett said, “and the whole family thing. Like I’ve been to the website and checked it out, you know, to see how it compares with the book and with my school. The place looks like a college. Looks like everyone has some superpower. I did the virtual campus tour and came across Dyer Hall and I wondered if that was like Dyer as in Dyer, I mean, of course, right?”

“It’s named after your great-grandfather. He died in a car accident and his parents, your great-great-grandparents, gave Exeter a dorm in his memory. It’s where I live, and it’s probably where your dad lived
too. Not very original. Let’s put all the Dyers in Dyer Hall. In the book it’s Moulder.”

“No shit.”

“Yes shit.”

“Like where they all live?”

“Like where they all live.”

“I’m at the part where Veck wants out of the prank, like he’s been in the closet for seven days and he’s whining about how it’s not fun anymore and he wants to go home and have a bath and eat decent food and sleep in his bed and see his dog—all that crying about his dog—and the guys are like sorry but not yet, just a little longer, Veck, soon, Veck, okay, bud, and Veck tries to bolt and goes from being a pretend hostage to being a full-blown hostage, bound and gagged, and the guys find themselves in hard-core kidnapper roles, and poor Mead, or not-so-poor Mead, what with Veck and those perfumed letters from the Pudge, just about the saddest, most hilarious letters in the whole world.”

“Yep.”

“Is there really a used bookstore in a basement?”

“There is.”

“And a secret closet?”

“Yep.”

“The police are about to get called.”

“What?”

“In the book.”

“Oh. Don’t hold your breath.”

They came to the end of the Mall, or the beginning, depending on your starting point, where the statue of Christopher Columbus stood, arms outstretched, eyes heavenward, as if seeking forgiveness in the darkening clouds. The first few raindrops seemed innocent enough as Andy and Emmett took the path to the right. Andy was confident now, especially since a sign said carousel, with an arrow pointing, and in the distance they heard the confirming squeeze of Wurlitzer music, presently playing “The Blue Danube” though they had no idea of the name, only a familiarity from old cartoons. They half-waltzed up the
slight incline. After the pretzel, they would definitely have a ride. But when they got up there, it was one of those moments, rare in the city, where the lack of people can fill you with apocalyptic dread, as if New Yorkers are always on the verge of extinction. Soon enough there was an explanation: those leaping horses were locked behind a gate.

“Fucking closed?” Andy went and pressed his face against the bars. “I’m the world’s worst tour guide.”

“It’s open only on weekends during the winter,” Emmett said, reading a sign.

The rain began to fall harder now, the wet eating the dry like a virus.

“Where the hell’s the music coming from?”

A pivot and they spotted the source: a lone hot dog cart with a boom box fastened to the umbrella, like some mad Odysseus outsinging the Sirens, calling children to this false shore. The man behind the cart was squat and dour, suggesting the bitterness of a baker in a bread line.

“It’s him,” Andy said, in near-lunatic awe.

“Him?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. It’s you,” Andy almost shouted, approaching with open arms.

The man grabbed a baseball bat from the bottom of his cart. “What you want?”

“Whoa, whoa. Just a pretzel.” Andy turned to Emmett. “Two pretzels, please.”

The man only slightly relaxed. “Sorry but you looked drugged up.”

“No, we’ve just traveled a long way for your pretzel. I’m a fan.”

The man seemed unsure if this was a compliment or an inside joke; either way, he reached into his bin and liberated a pretzel, and then another, handing them to these foolish, probably stoned kids. After paying the five dollars, Andy grabbed the mustard and showed Emmett the proper route around the knot, part peace sign, part heart.

“Why the music?” Emmett asked the man.

“Carousel closed, and I need to get people up here, so they think it’s
open, so they buy food for disappointed children, so the music, so that’s why.”

“It’s bait,” Emmett said.

“No, it’s nice happy music.”

Andy took a bite, and whether memory confirmed or memory insisted he smiled and proclaimed it easily the best in New York. As he ate it, he played the old game of imagining a person walking along the pretzel’s snowy top and suddenly the path disappears in front of him, and he turns and heads in the other direction, but again the path disappears, the options disappearing left and right, until he’s standing on the cliffhanger of the very last bite, wondering, What now?

“Tasty,” Emmett said.

“Told you. You want another one?”

“Think I’m fine.”

“Guess I’m fine too,” Andy said, bittersweet at being full.

“Anything to drink?” the man asked.

The boys shook their heads but continued to stare at the man like he might pass along the next clue and continue their adventure, but the man just tucked himself under the umbrella, waiting to be activated by another dollar. Andy again wished that the carousel was open. It would have been awesome. He and Emmett could have gone for a couple of loops and laughed at the corny childish fun and the goofy innuendo of going up and down, the other children around them oblivious, just seeing big kids having fun, big kids laughing as hard as any little kid, all ridiculous and stupid and a tiny bit scary.

Andy dug into his pocket for his phone. “Before I forget, what’s your cell?”

“I left it in L.A.,” Emmett said.

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to be bothered. I wanted anoniminity.”

“Excuse me?”

Emmett grinned. “Anomininimity. Anoma … anona … anominini … anomone.” He shook his head.

“To be incognito,” Andy assisted.

“Exactly.”

“Who needs anonymity?”

“Certainly not me.”

The rain before was merely prelude to the rain now, as the clouds unloaded in an almost thrilling acceleration, and maybe that’s why the boys started to run, not because they were getting wet—they were instantly soaked—but because they were caught up in the velocity of the event and hoped to match its speed. They sprinted side by side without competition, laughing, whooping, sometimes jumping on and leaping from benches, pleased that the weather had conspired for more excitement. At one point they passed a street performer dressed as the Statue of Liberty, and though her toga was getting drenched and her green paint was streaking, she remained absolutely still on top of a lowly crate, dedicated to her oblique craft, her eyes breaking only briefly and following these boys who ran as if guilty of something, like mortals who had stolen joy from the gods’ shitty day.

HOTEL
Hana-Maui

September 23, 1959

Dear Charlie,

Well we made it. The flight was endless and there was a moment after Los Angeles where the turbulence turned our 707 into one ugly duck but we flapped through and landed in Hawaii a full grown swan. If Maui is paradise, then Hana is its Eden. Isabel and I have tossed aside our fig leafs and gone native, shamelessness regained. If only we could have you sing Some Enchanted Evening again. That was quite a performance. Bravo. I must say the entire wedding was a blur, a pleasant blur but a blur nonetheless, though I recall a moment of you looking glum in the corner rusting, it seemed. I hope it wasn’t anything I said. Maybe it was too much drink and sweat—Christ it was hot. Did you have fun with any of Isabel’s friends? They are a decent bunch, if horsey. Seems I always smell hay when I’m around them. I didn’t see you on the dance floor except for that one turn with my bride—she said you were sweet—but perhaps that saved a few crushed toes. I still can’t believe you got up there and sang a song. It was almost funny. But you have a good strong voice. Charlie, you’re my oldest friend but we were bound to get older. I’m sure you’ll meet somebody soon, somebody great. We can’t do everything three weeks apart. And when you do get married I highly recommend Hana. I know you dislike the ocean and the beach but you would love this place. We swim all day long, the waves perfect rollers. I trust everything is tip top back in New York. Did my stepfather talk to you about moving over to Cravath? Is your Daddy down south for the dove season? I know nothing changes when you’re away from the city but boy do you feel like you’re missing scads. We move and yet stay still all at the same time. Did I tell you I got a very nice rejection from Gus Lobrano at The New Yorker? He wants to see more. Don’t think I am a natural short story writer but that’s the place to start these days. I certainly could spin a tale about that wedding that would curl O’Hare. Anyway, the surf beckons. Isabel and I bite the old apple in three weeks. I have no desire to return to the wicked east but return we shall as husband and wife. I must say I’m feeling quite lucky.

Your felled friend,
Andy                  

S
HE MUST HAVE TAKEN THE TRAIN
, the Harlem Line, probably drove from Litchfield and parked at the Wassaic station and bought a
New York Post
, which she finished before the train even arrived: the 8:30
A.M
. to Grand Central, a trip of two hours, give or take a few minutes. I myself did the ride a week ago. Despite what you might think, I am trying to be accurate here. I forgot how much I enjoyed trains, their whistles and chugs, their storybook rhythms. When I was very young my mother would take us to Florida by Amtrak, longdistance train travel the lingering nostalgia of an earlier generation, and we would stay in sleeper cars with their slick use of space, and she would make the trip go faster by giving us a bagful of presents, just small things, with specific details written on the wrapping paper, like
Four Yellow Schoolbuses
, or
A Herd of Cows
, or
Children Playing Baseball
, and when our window-pressed eyes caught sight of one of these things we could finally rip open the present. It was as if my mother had gifted the world into being.
A Red Volkswagen Bug. The Word SMILE. Any Kind of Dinosaur
. While I rode along the Harlem Line I searched the landscape in hopes of finding a sign of her, unwrapping
Lovely Green Hills
and
Small Dying Towns
and
Seventy-six-Year-Old Isabel, Born Isles, Once Dyer, Now Platt
.