by Rio Youers
They gave each other a couple of manly claps on the back and separated. The old boy and the man chewing his fingernails stared at them. Bobby grinned and scooted to the stool next to Matthew. The fan revolved, the photographs fluttered, and the jukebox played something else that skipped.
“I don’t believe this,” Bobby said. “How long has it been?”
“Twenty-six years,” Matthew said.
“Too long.”
“Well, life happens. Time races by.”
“You got that right.” Bobby slurped his soda, looking carefully at Matthew, as if expecting him to disappear any moment, and to be told that he had imagined the reunion—delusion brought on by the heat.
He pointed at Matthew’s bottle. “You want a drink?”
“No, I’m—”
“Hey, Jesse. Get my old friend here another Bud.”
Jesse grabbed a bottle and slid it across to Matthew, barely dragging his eyes from his cell phone.
Bobby topped up his Pepsi, ice tumbling from the pitcher into his glass, splashing, making foamy puddles on the bar.
“We’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” he said.
Matthew nodded and smiled again.
“So what brings you to Point Hollow?”
Matthew looked at his left hand, twirling the ring on his finger. “I needed to get out of the city for a few days. Take some time for myself.”
Bobby watched Matthew turning the ring. “Married, huh?”
“Well, I’m—”
“Divorced? Widowed?”
Matthew looked at Bobby, one eyebrow raised.
“Sorry,” Bobby said, holding up both hands. “I have a tendency to poke my nose where it doesn’t belong. Drives my mother nuts. My boss, too.”
“It’s fine,” Matthew said.
“Take no notice of me.”
“Really, it’s fine.” Matthew sipped his beer, then went back to twirling his ring. “I was about to say that I’m recently separated.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bobby said. He reached over and gently squeezed Matthew’s shoulder. “I hope things work out for you.”
“We’ll see,” Matthew said, and shrugged. “One thing’s for sure: feeling sorry for yourself doesn’t help.”
“Not a soul,” Bobby agreed.
Matthew guzzled his beer, wiped his lips, and smiled. “I guess I’m looking for the silver lining. Every cloud has one, so they say.”
“Yes they do,” Bobby said. He lifted his own glass and kissed it against Matthew’s. “I hope you find yours.”
“Me, too,” Matthew said.
They spent the next hour sharing drinks and conversation, touching on memories and trying to condense the last twenty-six years. For Matthew this was simple: high school, college, work, marriage, separation. In that order, as dull as you can get, despite the fact that he lived in one of the most vibrant cities in the world. Bobby’s story, while unquestionably dour, had a dash more colour: his old man dropped dead of a heart attack at the age of thirty-nine. Bobby was fourteen at the time, and he told Matthew that it felt like all the sunlight had been kicked from his world. He quit school at fifteen and took a job at the mill to help his mother pay the bills, and continued to do so until summer of last year.
“That’s when I got my wake-up call,” he said, tapping his chest. “Heart attack, and nothing mild about it. That son of a bitch knocked me out of my boots. Lookit.” He popped a couple of the buttons on his shirt and showed Matthew the long scar on his chest, directly between what Kirsty would have called his moobs. “Triple bypass. Thirty-five years old. Four years younger than my old man when he cashed in his chips. Scared the jippers out of me, Matty, I swear to God. But talk about your silver lining . . . I quit the mill and got a job at the post office. Less stress, right off the bat. Then I sold my F-150 and bought a bicycle. I also gave up the booze, started eating better food, and dropped a truckload of weight. I can’t begin to tell you how much better I feel.” Matthew nodded, wondering just how heavy Bobby had been when his ticker threw a rod, and further wondering if a sixty-ounce pitcher of Pepsi-Cola was part of the recommended diet.
He said as much, and Bobby only laughed. “My mom takes good care of me,” he explained. “I get my five a day. No red meat, low sodium, low fat. I eat like a goddamn supermodel, so the occasional bucket of soda isn’t going to hurt.” It turned out that Bobby’s mother was the only woman in his life. They lived in the same house that Bobby had been born in, thirty-six years ago. He still had the same bedroom, a fact that blew Matthew’s mind and made him feel, paradoxically, both old and young.
They left the Rack together. It was cooler now, dipping toward evening. Main Street was a strip of peace and quiet. Most of the stores had closed, there were few cars on the road, and the sidewalks were all but empty. A soft breeze made the trees bristle and the sun offered mature light. It poured in from the western rim of God’s Footprint, like gold.
“How long are you in town?” Bobby asked.
“I’m thinking four or five days,” Matthew said. “I hope to have my head on straight by then.”
They started walking, their long shadows tattooed on the sidewalk. Ahead of them, Abraham’s Faith reflected the falling sun: auburn shades, like something heated and beaten out of shape. Matthew was relieved when they turned left on Napanoch Avenue and the redbrick bulk of the town hall blocked it from view.
“So I’m going to see more of you?” Bobby asked.
“Yeah, absolutely.”
“That’d be good. We can go fishing. Maybe walk a few trails, take a picnic.”
Matthew nodded, thinking that picnicking in the forest (with a three-hundred-pound post office worker) was quite the stretch for his New York state of mind, but also that it sounded quite wonderful. “We can do that,” he said, clapping Bobby on the back, and understanding, for the first time since he had been back, how they had been such solid friends when they were children.
They came, within a few moments, to a street that struck Matthew with memories as bright as constellations. He had walked this way hundreds of times, with his pack slung over one shoulder and his laces untied. Like the mountain, this neat strip of asphalt had folded into the crevasses of his mind, leaving behind a ghostly puff of dust.
“Our old school was on this street,” Matthew said. “Rising Pine Elementary.”
“Still is on this street,” Bobby said. “Hasn’t changed a jot.”
Matthew smiled, quickened his step, and saw that Bobby was right. His old school, where he had pledged allegiance, plugged Bazooka bubblegum beneath the desks, and been the giver/recipient of countless awesome wedgies, looked hauntingly the same. It could have been air-lifted from a time when Reaganomics was in full swing. Matthew had to wonder how much it had changed inside. Were the walls the same drab shade of blue? Were the water fountains in the same places? Was his bubblegum still glued beneath the desks?
“Same, huh?” Bobby said.
“Scary,” Matthew said.
“Principal Lawrence died . . . jeez, about ten years ago—”
“Principal Lawrence. Jesus.”
“Mr. Nordhagen is principal now.”
“Nordhagen? Holy shit.”
“All coming back to you, huh?”
“Yeah, it’s . . .” Matthew shook his head. He made a vague gesture with his hand, as if trying to sum up what was happening in his mind. “It’s like waking up.”
He stood silently for a moment, letting the memories cascade, listening to the halyard tap against the flagpole out front. Rising Pine Elementary was a simple building of stone face and wide windows. There was a beautiful pine on its east side, with golden bark and broad, musical branches. A baseball diamond stretched to the west, and Matthew remembered how the clay looked so red under the field lights, and how the ball would sometimes lodge between the
chain links in the backstop.
“Are you okay?” Bobby asked, touching Matthew’s shoulder.
Matthew nodded, feeling his chest tighten with emotion, amazed at the power contained in such small things: the peeling school sign; the faculty parking lot with spaces enough for maybe a dozen cars. It was like looking through a keyhole and seeing the whole room. He strolled over to the pine and Bobby followed, kicking cones the way they used to when they were children.
“We used to sit here every lunch period,” he said, touching the pine’s golden trunk. “We’d trade food and comic books. I always got Spider-Man and The Mighty Thor, and you got The Incredible Hulk and—”
“Justice League of America.” They said it at the same time, and then started to laugh. Matthew felt warmth flow through him, as if one of his internal faucets had sprung a leak. He couldn’t remember the last time he had genuinely laughed—when joy touched his soul and shook outward. Too damn long, he thought, looking at Bobby. Then he snapped his fingers and saw, again, a flame flickering at the tip of his thumb. Light the darkness.
They walked to the baseball diamond. Bobby, excited, assumed the catcher’s position behind the plate. “Give me the number one, Matty. Straight down Main Street. Let’s go.”
Matthew grinned and jogged to the mound. He nodded, went through his wind-up, and zipped Bobby an imaginary speedball.
“Pop!” Bobby exclaimed, jerking back his catching hand as the invisible baseball socked home. “You still got it, Matty.”
“You know it,” Matthew said, and then shivered; for a moment—the wink of an eye, no more—he fully expected to see the rest of his old friends standing around him: Candle Daniels on first base (his real name was Robin, but everyone called him Candle because he was waxy pale and his hair was orange as a flame). Lutz the Klutz in left field. Mark Kettle on third. Yo-yo Jones playing shortstop. Matthew wiped his eyes and stepped off the mound. The empty field spread like an open palm. Except it wasn’t empty. Ghosts shimmered, caught in the drowsy light, like child-shaped haze.
“What happened to the rest of the guys?” he asked. “Are they still in town?”
“A few of them are,” Bobby replied. He straightened with a groan and walked toward Matthew. “Most up and left, though, just like you. Yo-yo Jones moved to Pennsylvania . . . jeez, a long time ago. Twenty years, maybe. Robin Daniels married some European heiress—lots of money, but ugly as a slapped ass. Lutz the Klutz near-drowned in an ice fishing mishap, then moved to the Jersey shore with his boyfriend.”
“His boyfriend?”
“Uh-huh. Turns out he was as gay as two dicks touching.”
Matthew looked toward the outfield, rolling his gaze from left to right. The ghosts flickered, bright and dark, like afterimages. He could almost hear the crack of the bat, the cheers and shouts.
“Oliver Wray is still in town,” Bobby said.
Oliver Wray. The name struck a chord. Something inside Matthew resounded coldly and he looked instinctively to the mountain. An image formed in his mind, too vague to discern—crumbled when he reached for it. He turned to Bobby and shook his head.
“You must remember Oliver.”
“No,” Matthew said.
“He was older than us. Four years, or so.” Bobby flipped off his cap and wiped sweat from his brow. “A quiet kid. Didn’t mix well. You’d see him sometimes with bruises on his face. No secret that his old man was keen with his fists.”
“His name . . .” Matthew made a rotating gesture with his finger to indicate his mind was cranking. “. . . it’s sort of familiar, but I guess some things are buried deeper than others.”
“And some things are better left buried,” Bobby added, then shrugged. His belly wobbled. “Anyway, Oliver is the town hotshot. He runs some million-dollar business that he started up himself, and does a whole bunch for the community. Not just Point Hollow, but Oak Creek and Indigo, too. Heck, he’s the reason this school is still standing. He made a six-figure donation a few years ago—brought it in line with current education standards, and padded the teachers’ pay envelopes, too. Mayor Woolens handed him the key for that one, and they’re already talking about naming a street after him. As soon as they’ve laid down the blacktop, that is.”
“Generous guy,” Matthew said.
“Sure, a real golden heart.” Bobby sneered and looked at the tops of his sneakers. “Everybody loves Oliver.”
“But you don’t?”
“No. I don’t.”
“You must have a good reason,” Matthew said.
Bobby considered this, his lips pressed so firmly together that his chin dimpled like a golf ball. He removed his cap, scratched his head, swatted at a few mosquitoes, and for a long moment the only sound was the summer breeze. It skated across the infield and made the trees exhale. A swallow rippled across the sky, arrow-shaped, absorbed by the featureless silhouette of the peaks in the west.
“I don’t trust him,” Bobby said finally, sliding the cap back onto his head. “Everybody sees Oliver as this model citizen with a big smile and an even bigger cheque book. You’d think he could walk on water, the way they talk about him. But they don’t remember the way he used to be. A moody, bitter kid who didn’t like anybody, and who was always on his own.”
“People change,” Matthew said. “Maybe he just came out of his shell.”
“I don’t think so,” Bobby said. “Think about it. He’s handsome, successful, and incredibly wealthy. But he doesn’t have a wife or girlfriend. No children. He lives on his own in a million-dollar house he built outside of town. Doesn’t sound like someone who’s come out of his shell.”
“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” Matthew said.
“Can’t help it,” Bobby said. “Naturally curious, I guess. Like I said . . . inclined to put my nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“You’ll get the tip snipped off,” Matthew said with a grin.
“That’s what Mom says.” Bobby’s eyes gleamed beneath the peak of his cap. “But Oliver makes me curious. Take his old man, for instance. He’s still alive—sick as hell, but still kicking. He lives in a tiny apartment on Blackbird Road. If Oliver is such a good Samaritan, why doesn’t he move his sick father in with him? I’m sure he has the space.”
Matthew shrugged.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Bobby said. He shook his head, and then tipped Matthew a wink. “I’m sometimes tempted to take a trip up to his house. Peek through the windows. Find out what he does up there on his own.”
“Snip-snip,” Matthew said.
Bobby smiled and let out a shaky breath, as if he’d just unburdened a wearisome load. Matthew wondered if he was overreacting. Maybe a touch envious, too. Oliver was clearly a success story: a self-made millionaire, but generous with it, loved by all. Bobby, on the other hand—from the same Podunk town—lived with his mom, shuffled mail for a living, and downed statins and nitrates to soothe his troubled ticker.
“I don’t remember him,” Matthew said, even though there was that dull glimmer, like an old injury on a cold day.
“Well, you’re sure to see him while you’re in town,” Bobby said. “And he’ll be super-friendly and grinning bigger than a kid in a Disney commercial. He’ll probably invite you for Kobe beef steaks and a hot tub. You’ll remember this conversation and think that I’m wrong—crazy, even. But I’ve known him all my life, Matty. And I’m telling you . . . something isn’t right.”
Both men stood in silence, Bobby lost in thought, Matthew gazing to the east, where Abraham’s Faith cast its dark angles against the sky. A fingernail moon, as pale as spider web, touched that place in the heavens that was not quite night, not quite day. Stars gathered on one side. The sky looked like a flag.
“Anyway, forget about that,” Bobby said, breaking the silence. His smile had returned, as big as the moon. He chugged to the plate and dropped into the cat
cher’s position. “One more, Matty. For old time’s sake. And put some steam on it.”
Matthew stepped onto the mound, grinned, and threw a perfect four-seamer. Bobby caught it, then shook his hand as if it were on fire.
“Bringing the heat,” Matthew said.
Bobby nodded. His boyish face was wide and gleeful. “Pop!” he said.
———
They parted ways at Pawpaw Avenue, Matthew heading back to Main Street and the Super 8, Bobby heading home, where his mom was no doubt clucking because he was late for dinner.
“It’s only rabbit food, anyway,” he explained. “It’s not like she spent the day cooking.” Matthew declined the invitation to join Bobby for said rabbit food, saying that he was tired (which was true), and that he was going to get an early night (not entirely true; he simply needed to recalibrate after such an emotional day—two emotional days, if you factored in what had happened with the deer). Bobby nodded, as if to suggest that Matthew wasn’t missing much, then gave him another hug and said, “Catch you later, alligator,” getting the phrase slightly wrong, just like he used to when they were kids.
They went their own ways, drawing steadily away from each other, like two cowboys about to duel. Only Matthew turned around, though. The breeze lifted his hair, not as brown and wavy as it used to be—thinner on top, and dusty around the temples. Bobby had flipped his Mets cap backward and was stepping between the cracks in the sidewalk. Matthew’s heart trembled. Tears prickled his eyes. In this geography, with the air so clear and the sunlight slanting just so, it was like the last twenty-six years had never happened. I’m a child again, he thought, and held the feeling close. It kicked inside him, unbroken.