Lights Out

by Peter Abrahams

  JMM/cb

  “I told you,” Vic said.

  “Told me what?”

  “Jack writes.”

  “This letter’s ten years old.”

  Vic snatched it out of his hands. “That’s a crock.” He stuffed it in his pocket, behind the remote.

  Ten years old and a brush-off besides, Eddie thought. But he left it unsaid because of the expression on Vic’s face: pissed off and crazy at the same time. He’d seen that expression often enough, not on Vic’s face, but on plenty of faces inside.

  “Sounds like he’s doing all right,” Eddie said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Two-twenty-two Park Avenue. Investment consultant.”

  “I don’t even know what that means,” Vic said.

  “Me neither. Maybe not much, or he would have sprung for more than fifty.”

  Vic glared up at him, more crazy, more pissed off; with the rooster crest Eddie had raised on his head, he looked like a fighting cock about to do something bloody with his talons.

  Shouldn’t have come, Eddie thought. He said, “I wanted to see how you were, that’s all.”

  “Broke,” Vic said. “Stony broke.”

  “And other than that?”

  Vic blinked again. Eddie didn’t remember that blinking. It was a sign of the loser, too slow to keep up. Vic had become a loser.

  “Other than that, what?” Vic said.

  “Nothing,” Eddie told him. He extended his hand. “Take care of yourself, Vic.” Eddie got his handshake. The old man’s hand was hot and dry. Probably the drinking did that, Eddie thought, although he remembered an inmate whose hand had felt the same way. He’d died of brain cancer a few months later.

  “You don’t want any money?” Vic said.

  “I answered that.”

  “Everyone’s tryin’ to put the touch on these days, with the way this lousy state’s …”

  Eddie went to the door, opened it.

  “Where are you gonna go?”

  “Out.” Eddie stepped into the storm.

  Standing behind him, Vic laid his hot, dry hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “You were really something in the pool,” he said.

  Eddie walked away. “It’s all psychological, this fuckin’ life,” Vic called after him. Eddie thought he heard the TV snap on just before the door closed.

  Eddie walked back, down Turk, left on Mill, right on River, onto the bridge, toward the downtown side. His feet knew the way. It was colder now, snow thicker, blowing harder. Eddie felt the cold, but it no longer bothered him. The ice was spreading, narrowing the black band where the river ran free and fast in the constricted space. The fissure in the ice, bubbling and black, seemed to shrink even as Eddie gazed down into it. He pictured himself falling through the white air into black water, sinking. Why not? He was a free man.

  The river was frozen all the way across. Eddie laced on his skates. He could never get them tight enough; they were Jack’s old ones, still too big, and the plastic tips had come off the ends of the laces. He had to lick them, twist them, stick them through the holes, all with bare fingers getting colder.

  “Is it safe?” he yelled.

  Jack, stickhandling around some beer cans, made chicken noises. He could see Jack’s breath rising in puffs of gray.

  “I’m not chicken,” Eddie said, but not loudly, more to himself: let your stick do the talking. If you win, say little, if you lose, say less. And there was another saying the hockey coach had told them, but he couldn’t remember. Eddie tugged hard at the laces, quickly tying a knot, but not quickly enough to keep the laces tight. Then he took his stick, pushed himself off the bank, and skated out. The ice was gray and opaque under his blades, thick and solid. Mrs. Benoit had warned the class, that was all. She was just a worrywart.

  “Pass, pass,” he called.

  Jack circled in that easy way he had, leaning into the turn, looked right at him, said, “Cluck, cluck,” and fired a slapshot at one of the bridge supports. The puck rang off the steel, bounced back, slid across the ice toward Eddie.

  He skated toward it, heard Jack’s blades cutting snick-snick across the ice, skated faster, reached with his stick, lost his balance, touched the puck, tried to pull it into his skates; then Jack came swooping down, lifted Eddie’s stick with his own, stole the puck, and whirled away, fast enough to flutter his Bruins sweater. Eddie saw that fluttering sweater just as he fell, hard, onto his back, losing his stick. He got up, picked up the stick, skated after Jack, out across the river, toward the New Town side.

  “Pass, pass.”

  Jack slowed down, turned, skated backward, still stickhandling the puck. Eddie caught up to him. Jack smiled, pushed the puck toward him on the outside edge of his blade.

  “Here you go, Chicken Little.”

  Eddie reached for the puck, but it wasn’t there. It was sliding between his own skates; and before he could get his stick on it, Jack had skated around him, cradled the puck, snick-snicked away. Eddie’s right skate slipped out from under him; he fought for balance like a cartoon character, almost stayed up. He rose, got his stick, skated after Jack.

  “Pass, pass.” He loved playing hockey.

  Far ahead, Jack wheeled around, leaned into a figure eight, gathered speed, wound up, and passed the puck. Not a pass, really, more like a shot, but in his direction. Eddie took off, trying to intercept it.

  He wasn’t fast enough and the puck got by him. He chased it toward the New Town side, skating as fast as he could, expecting the snick-snick of Jack’s blades at any moment, expecting the flash of that billowing Bruins sweater. But there was no snick-snick, no black-and-gold flash. Eddie caught up to the puck, out in the middle of the river, tucked it into the blade of his stick, and wheeled around like a defenseman gathering speed in his own end. His head was up in proper style. He didn’t notice that the ice had changed from gray and opaque to black and translucent. He just heard a crack, and then he was in the water.

  Eddie went right under, all the way to the bottom. First came the terror, then the shock of the cold, then the thrashing. One of his thrashing skates touched something. The bottom. Eddie pushed off. He must have, because the next moment he was on the surface. But only for that moment: the weight of his skates, the water saturating his thick clothes, pulled him back down. His eyes were open: he saw black, and silver bubbles, his own silver bubbles, bubbling out of him. He kicked his way up, got his hands on the edge of the ice, kicked, pulled. The ice broke off.

  “Jack,” he screamed, went under, swallowed icy water, came up gasping. “Jack.”

  He saw Jack. Jack saw him. Jack was standing still, his mouth open, a tiny breath cloud over his head. That was all Eddie had time to take in before he went under again.

  Eddie hit bottom, pushed off, came up, looked for Jack. Jack was skating away, skating in a clumsy way he had never seen before. Eddie had that thought. Then he thought: he’s going for help, and getting his frozen hands on the ice again, he kicked with his legs and tried to push himself up with his hands. The ice broke away, and Eddie started to go down again. Then something hit him in the face. His stick. He reached for it, got it in his hands. His hands were awkward things now, barely able to grip, and his shivers were beyond control.

  Eddie took the stick, reached out as far as he could, scissored his legs with all his strength, tried to dig the blade into the ice. Pull. Kick. Pull kick. He flopped onto the ice, up to his chest. Some of it broke off beneath him, but not all. He kicked, pulled, wriggled, flopped up a little higher; and finally right out of the water. Eddie didn’t get up, didn’t skate, but crawled all the way to the river bank, frantic.

  He was crying now, crawling and crying. “Jack, Jack.” But Jack wasn’t there. No one was there. He came to the bank on the downtown side, pulled himself up. The house was a block from the river. Eddie walked there in his skates. He didn’t know what else to do.

  The back door was always unlocked. Eddie pushed it open, called, “Mom, Mom.”
The house was silent. He had to tell someone, but there was no one to tell.

  Eddie poured a steaming bath, lay in it, wearing his clothes and his skates; lay there until the shivering stopped. After that, he felt sleepy. He got out of the bath, unlaced his skates-that took a long time because of the wet laces and his sausage fingers-stripped, dried himself.

  Eddie went down the hall to the bedroom he shared with Jack. The door was closed. He opened it. Jack lay in the bed, still in his Bruins sweater. He was doing the shivering now.

  “I got scared,” he said.

  Jack was eight, Eddie seven.

  Eddie, leaning on the bridge rail, looking down at the water, didn’t hear the squad car stop beside him, didn’t hear the door open and close. The wind was blowing harder, drowning out other sound, and his attention was elsewhere.

  The ice was here, the ice was there,

  The ice was all around:

  It cracked and growled, and-

  A voice said: “You Eddie Nye?”

  Eddie turned. A cop was standing there, all bundled up except for the bare right hand on his gun butt.

  “Yeah,” Eddie said.

  “Just saying hi,” the cop said. “Wouldn’t want you to feel all-what’s the word? — anonymous, or nothing.” He waited, perhaps for Eddie to say something. When he realized it might be a long wait, too long in weather like that, he said, “Enjoy your visit,” got in the car and drove off.

  Eddie stood on the bridge. Snow collected in his collar and the tops of his shoes, and on his bald head. After a while he laughed, a little sound, lost in the wind. Vic had dropped a dime on him. Who else could it be?

  Eddie walked quickly off the bridge, into downtown, amused. Good old Uncle Vic.

  It was time for that steam bath.

  5

  “You a member?” asked the man behind the counter at the Y. He had the valley accent too.

  “No,” said Eddie.

  “Then it’s three bucks. Plus fifty cents for a towel.”

  Eddie handed over the five, received lock, key, towel, change.

  “Locker room’s down the hall, second on the left,” the man said. But Eddie knew that.

  In the locker room Eddie stripped, stowed his clothes, his money, Prof’s cardboard tube, and locked up. Hanging the key around his neck he went through the showers toward the steam room at the end. He hadn’t thought about swimming; a steam bath was all he wanted. But the door to the pool was propped open with a bucket, and he couldn’t help seeing the still, blue quadrilateral in the door frame. He went back to his locker, dressed, returned to the counter.

  “Rent swimsuits?”

  “Used to. No demand now, not with this AIDS business. You can try the lost-and-found if you want.” He pointed to a box by the scales.

  Eddie looked through the box, found a faded Speedo that would fit. If AIDS spread through the lost-and-found, no one had a chance anyway.

  A few minutes later he was standing by the pool at the deep end. Same pool. Twenty-five yards, eight lanes, no springboard. Eddie had it all to himself, except for a man sitting in a chair at the other end with a towel around his neck, talking on a portable phone.

  Eddie stepped up to the edge in lane five. Lane five had always been his favorite, he couldn’t remember why. Maybe there hadn’t been a reason. Jack in four, Bobby Falardeau in three. Two high-school state championships, athletic scholarships for him and Jack-Bobby hadn’t been quite good enough, hadn’t needed the money anyway-if he had to sum it up, that would be it. But that left out the swimming itself.

  Eddie stood by the pool, motionless, toes curled over the edge. He smelled the chlorine, felt cool air rising from the water. The man at the other end raised his voice, said: “Three is the final offer. They can take it or leave it.”

  Eddie dove in. Almost not registering on his consciousness was the impression that there was something familiar about the man’s voice.

  Eddie glided. The glide went on and on, slowed to the point of swimming speed. But Eddie didn’t want to start swimming. He wanted to keep gliding through that cool blue, to feel it all around him. That was it: not so much the swimming itself as just being in the water. If there was a heaven, it must be a watery place.

  “First time in the islands?” asked Mrs. Packer.

  Eddie turned from the window of the little plane, turned from the sight of that clear blue-green sea with coral growing like forests on the bottom. First time in the islands, first time on a plane, first time he’d met a woman like Mrs. Packer.

  “That’s right, Mrs. Packer.”

  “Evelyn, please.”

  “Okay.” But he didn’t say her name. She was older, for one thing. Then there were her painted nails, her makeup, the smell of her perfume, her long tanned legs, her self-confidence.

  “I could tell by the way you were making big eyes at the scenery,” Mrs. Packer said. “Sometimes I think the planes should just turn back right about here and not bother landing.”

  “Why is that?”

  Mrs. Packer laughed, laid her fingertips on his forearm. “I’m just being cynical.”

  She took her hand away, but he continued to feel the spot she’d touched, hot, like a local infection.

  “Are you talking about the poverty?” Eddie asked, remembering something Bobby Falardeau had said; the Falardeaus went to the Caribbean every Christmas.

  “There’s worse poverty in Miami. I just meant tropic isles.”

  “Tropic isles?”

  “And all that goes with them.”

  The plane rose suddenly, bumped back down like a car running over something in the road. Not a hard jolt, but enough to throw Mrs. Packer, half turning, onto his chest, with her hair, full of smells, all good, in his face.

  “Sorry,” Eddie said, disentangling himself. The infection began to spread all over.

  “For what?” said Mrs. Packer, straightening, patting her hair.

  Eddie could think of no reply, no way to resume the conversation. He gazed out the window again. The sea changed from opaque blue to translucent turquoise to transparent green. Then a round island went by and the sea colors passed under the wing in reverse order.

  “You look like your brother,” Mrs. Packer said.

  “People say that,” Eddie said, turning toward her. Face people when they talk to you: the job-hunting advice of Mrs. Botelho, guidance counselor.

  Mrs. Packer took off her sunglasses for a better view. “Maybe not so … I don’t know what the word is. Hard?”

  “Jack’s not hard.”

  Mrs. Packer put her sunglasses back on.

  The plane banked, descended on an island shaped like a banana, a green island outlined in white sand. “Saint Amour,” said Mrs. Packer. “You’re going to have a great summer, if you do something about that hair. My husband has a thing about long hair.”

  The plane swooped down over treetops, so close Eddie saw a black bird, perhaps a buzzard or a vulture, on a branch, and touched ground, much too fast, Eddie thought, on a dirt strip. Only when the plane rolled to a stop did he glance at Mrs. Packer’s unconcerned face and realize it must have been a smooth landing.

  A jeep was parked beside the plane. Jack and another man got out, rolled stairs up to the door. Eddie opened it, followed Mrs. Packer out. The air hit him right away: hot, still, full of floral smells. The blue of the sky was so deep and saturated it looked unnatural. He was going to love it.

  “Good news?” said the second man, helping Mrs. Packer off the last step. He was as tall as Jack but broader: thick necked, barrel chested, with wiry hairs curling up around the opening of his short-sleeved shirt.

  “I’ll tell you all about it,” said Mrs. Packer.

  The thick-necked man held onto her arm. “Tell me now.”

  She didn’t speak until he let go. “If their coming for a look is good news, then it’s good news,” she said.

  “It’s great news.” He tried to kiss her mouth, but she turned her face and he got her cheek instead.


  Jack threw his arm around Eddie’s neck, gave him a hug. “Bro,” he said. Jack looked great: browned, barefoot, strong: saturated too, in some way. “Brad,” he said, “this is Eddie, I’ve been telling you about. Eddie-Brad Packer.”

  They shook hands. Packer’s hand was huge, his grip powerful. He squeezed hard, in case there was any doubt. Then he noticed Eddie’s hair. The grip softened; the hand withdrew.

  “You didn’t tell me he was a goddamn hippie.”

  Jack laughed. “Hippie? He’s starting USC on full scholarship in the fall. He’s no hippie.”

  “What about that mop?”

  “Needs a haircut, that’s all. No objection to a haircut, is there, Eddie?”

  Eddie liked his hair the way it was. On the other hand, he would have to cut it for swimming in a few months anyway. He nodded, barely.

  From the frown on Packer’s face he could see that another antihair remark was forming, but Evelyn cut it off. “That’s settled, then,” she said. “Welcome to Galleon Beach.”

  “Resort, development, dive club, and time share,” added her husband, sticking out his hand. Eddie found himself shaking hands with Packer once more. This time he was ready, or Packer’s grip had lost some of its power. “Dive club,” said Packer: “That’s your line, correct?”

  “Correct,” said Eddie, smiling. He couldn’t help smiling, not with that air, that sky.

  “Remember Muskets and Doubloons?” he said to Jack as they got in the jeep.

  “Huh?”

  Galleon Beach, resort, development, dive club, and time share: six cottages on the water, one with a broken window; a central building with office, kitchen, dining room, and the Packers’ suite; a thatch-roofed bar; a floating dock; a fat folder of blueprints and architectural drawings. That afternoon, Jack opened it and showed Eddie the plans.

  On paper, Galleon Beach had a two-hundred-room hotel, eight stories high; three restaurants-Fingers, the Blue Parrot, Le Soleil; two nightclubs-Mongo’s and Voodoo Rock; box on box of time-share villas spreading back from the hotel, up into the hills and halfway across the island; an eighteen-hole championship golf course, tennis courts, two swimming pools; a fleet of boats on the water.