Only Love Can Break Your Heart

by Ed Tarkington

  The silence inside Mr. Powell’s office was punctuated by a muffled slap and a sniveling cry—Swift Justice connecting with Jimmy Hutter’s rear end.

  As I sat there waiting to get hided, I searched my mind frantically to deduce how quickly and easily I had transformed into a “bad kid.” I wondered how being bad worked. Was it something that happened accidentally? Did all people start out good? I hadn’t invited Jimmy Hutter’s torments, but I knew I wasn’t innocent either. Was I born bad? I had the same birthday as Anne, after all. She was clearly bad. And Mussolini. Did Mussolini simply wake up one morning and decide to be bad? Surely not. Hitler must have made him that way, like Anne said.

  A shape appeared in front of my downcast eyes. I looked up, expecting to see Mr. Powell, ready to take me in for my flogging.

  “Hey there, Rocky.”

  It was Paul, dressed in tan slacks, a navy blazer, and a white shirt and tie. He was clean shaven, and his hair was neatly parted and combed behind his ears. I hadn’t seen him in a tie since he graduated from Macon. As far as I knew, he’d never combed his hair in his life.

  I was too elated by Paul’s sudden appearance at my moment of direst crisis to wonder how he had happened to arrive just when I was about to face Mr. Powell and Swift Justice. Paul must somehow have sensed my need, I assumed, and had come running to my aid.

  Ever ready to improvise, Paul behaved from the start as if he’d known he was going to find me there.

  “Hey there, Miss Hallenbeck,” he said.

  He leaned over the desk to give Miss Hallenbeck a peck. Her cheeks flushed pink. As it turned out, even the meanest woman in the Spottswood County Public School System was a sucker for Paul, the “born manipulator.”

  “So,” Paul said, “what has young Richard here gotten himself into?”

  “Fighting in the lunchroom,” Miss Hallenbeck said, casting a scowl in my direction. Paul sighed and shook his head.

  “Kids these days, right, Miss Hallenbeck?”

  She giggled girlishly.

  “Mrs. Askew didn’t mention she’d be sending you, Paul,” she said.

  “Something came up at the last minute,” Paul said. “I’m in town for an alumni thing, so I offered to help out.”

  A worried look came over Miss Hallenbeck’s face.

  “Mr. Powell will want to speak with Mrs. Askew,” she said. “Or your father.”

  “One of them will come in tomorrow,” Paul said. “They’ll call to set up an appointment later on, I’m sure.”

  “Well, all right,” Mrs. Hallenbeck said. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  She stood and started toward Powell’s office. Another loud slap pierced the air on the other side of the door.

  “If you don’t mind,” Paul said, “I’ll take the little pugilist here down to the bathroom to clean himself up.”

  “Make it fast,” she said.

  As we left the office, Paul winked at Miss Hallenbeck—not a quick, casual wink, but a slow, sensual, flirtatious batting of long, thick eyelashes. For a moment she seemed to lose her breath.

  “Come on, slugger,” Paul said.

  As we reached the end of the hallway, I turned toward the restroom. Paul touched my shoulder.

  “Not that way, brother,” he said.

  He tilted his head toward the entrance to the school, the tall glass doors glowing brightly in the midday sun.

  “What about Mr. Powell?” I said.

  “Have you ever had a taste of Swift Justice before, Rocky?” Paul asked.

  “No.”

  “I have,” he said. “Old Man Powell made me bleed when I was your age.”

  “He made you bleed?” I whispered.

  “That’s right,” Paul said.

  I heard another faint smack and another, louder cry. I envisioned the paddle in Mr. Powell’s thick, callused hand, slicing through the air, making me bleed. Who wouldn’t run away from that?

  We may well have passed Mom’s Buick station wagon on the way up the street, but I would have been hidden by the enormous dashboard of the Nova, gazing off to the right at the dogwood blossoms and the magnolia trees that spot the yards along the way to Pearsall’s Drugstore.

  “So,” Paul said, holding the wheel with one hand and lighting a Camel with the other. “What happened?”

  “You don’t know?” I said.

  “How would I?” he said.

  “I did what you told me to do,” I said. “I kicked him in the balls!”

  Smoke spewed from Paul’s mouth and billowed over his face as he choked with laughter.

  “Shit, Rocky,” he said. “What’d you do that for?”

  I felt myself start to cry again.

  “He said, ‘My dad says your dad is one cold-blooded son of a bitch.’ ”

  Paul’s laughter dropped off sharply, as if he’d just blown it all out the window like the smoke from his cigarette.

  “He said that, huh?” Paul asked.

  “Yeah,” I answered.

  “Well then,” Paul said, aiming his eyes at the road. “I guess if somebody says something like that, he deserves to get kicked in the balls.”

  Paul flipped on the tape deck. We listened to Ted Nugent as Paul drove along Riverdale, past the old boarded-up Zip station and Helms’ Market and up to Pearsall’s.

  “I gotta get some smokes,” Paul said.

  He stripped off his jacket and tie and tossed them into the backseat and disappeared into the drugstore. A few minutes later he came ambling out, a fresh Camel Light hanging from his lips, the pack already tucked into the breast pocket of his shirt. In his left arm he cradled a brown paper bag; in his right hand he held a Styrofoam cup.

  “Got you a milk shake,” he said.

  Paul pulled out onto the road and headed back along Riverdale toward US 29. He reached behind the front seat and into the brown paper bag he’d brought out of Pearsall’s and pulled out a Busch beer. He popped the can open and blew the first little puff of white foam off the rim before taking a healthy swallow.

  “Want a sip?” he asked.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Well, the commercial says to head for the mountains,” he said.

  He nodded to the box of cassette tapes he kept on the seat.

  “Pick something out,” he said.

  I chose Best of the Doobies. Paul popped it in and turned the knob over. Electric guitar riffs throbbed through the speakers as we whipped past the long, empty hay fields and run-down stables and shacks that line US 29.

  I had been to Charlottesville only once before, on a school trip to visit Jefferson’s Monticello. I knew that this was where Leigh lived—where she was a student at the university. I gaped at the teeming mass of students hastening to and from classes and in and out of the shops and restaurants that lined University Avenue from St. Paul’s Church down to the corner below the trestle bridge at the bottom of the hill, where Paul turned onto Fourteenth Street.

  Soon we came to a stop in front of a house surrounded by a high brick wall. Paul stepped out of the car and tossed his cigarette into the street, the last of the smoke slipping from his nostrils like a lost thought.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s surprise her.”

  I followed Paul up onto the sagging porch. Under the window next to the door sat a red velvet couch smelling of mildew. A pair of empty kegs served a dual purpose as improvised end tables and ashtrays. I surveyed a row of beer bottles lining the edge of the porch in front of the bushes while Paul knocked. A few moments later, the door creaked open. A plump girl with long, curly hair appeared.

  “Hey,” Paul said.

  “Oh, hi,” the girl said. “Leigh didn’t say you were coming.”

  “It’s a surprise,” Paul replied.

  The girl wore jeans and a faded T-shirt. The boards of the porch groaned under her bare feet.

  “Bum a smoke?” the girl asked.

  Paul took a pair from the pack in his pocket and flipped his Zippo out. The girl took
a hungry drag from the cigarette and tilted her head toward me.

  “Who’s this?” she said.

  “My brother,” Paul said.

  “Oh, yeah. Rocky,” the girl said. “I’ve seen your school picture.”

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “I’m Becky,” she said to me. “Hasn’t she ever told you about me?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Figures,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  “You’re not in school,” I said.

  “He has your manners,” she said to Paul.

  “Aren’t you going to invite us in?” Paul asked.

  “Leigh’s not here,” she said.

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Leigh’s dad called about half an hour ago. Said she needed to call him as soon as she got back. Is somebody dead or something?”

  Paul looked down at me and back at the girl.

  “Oh,” she said. “I get it.”

  I walked along the edge of the porch and continued inspecting the detritus while the two of them smoked and talked.

  “Leigh won’t be back for a while,” Becky said. “Her class hasn’t even started yet. You can wait inside if you like, but you’ll have to smoke on the porch.”

  “Where do you think she might be?”

  “You know the amphitheater at the end of the lawn? She studies over there before class sometimes. I think she has a test.”

  “All right then,” Paul said.

  Becky tilted her head and squinted at Paul as she sucked on the end of her cigarette. She nodded toward me.

  “What’s he doing here?” she said.

  “I’m babysitting,” Paul said.

  “Right,” Becky said.

  Paul dropped his spent cigarette on the porch and ground it under the heel of his shoe.

  “Ever heard of an ashtray?” Becky asked.

  Paul swept the butt off the porch into the ivy below the bushes. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and spat on the spot where the cigarette had fallen.

  “Later,” he said.

  “Uh-huh,” Becky said. “Nice to meet you, Rocky.”

  “Bye,” I said.

  We left the squat girl on the porch and walked to the car. Paul drove back in the direction we’d come from. He turned right onto University Avenue and pulled into an empty metered spot across the street from the Rotunda.

  “Can I put the coins in?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said.

  Paul waited impatiently as I carefully slid each coin into the slot and turned the mechanical dial. When I finished, we walked up the stairs and past the bronze statue of Thomas Jefferson, around the great domed edifice and down to the long, sloping lawn, where still more students made their way back and forth beneath the graceful white columns.

  At the end of the lawn we turned again and came upon a sunken half circle of large concrete steps in the style of a classical amphitheater. Students were spread out across the steps, reading, talking, and smoking. When I spotted Leigh among them, I ran to her. She was sitting cross-legged, wearing jeans and a halter top, her long hair hanging down past her freckled shoulders. A book was open on her knees. Next to her sat a boy with short blond hair.

  “Rocky!” Leigh said.

  She rubbed out her cigarette on the pavement next to her and reached up to return my embrace.

  “Your dad called,” I said. “Somebody died!”

  Paul came up behind me, his shadow falling across Leigh and the boy who sat next to her. She closed the book on her knees and stood to embrace Paul, a little less enthusiastically than I expected.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hey,” Paul said.

  “What a surprise,” she said.

  “I thought you might like it.”

  “Who died?” she asked.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Rocky said my dad called,” she said, worry creeping into her voice.

  “Don’t mind that,” Paul said. “It was just some stupid thing Becky said. We just stopped by your place looking for you.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  Paul looked down at the blond boy, who hadn’t taken his eyes off Leigh since the moment I caught sight of the two of them.

  “Who’s your friend?” Paul asked.

  The boy stood and extended his hand to Paul.

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m Barton.”

  “Paul,” my brother said.

  He took the boy’s hand and shook it.

  “Barton is my study buddy for econ,” Leigh explained. “We have a test.”

  “A midterm,” Barton added.

  “I got in a fight at school,” I announced.

  “Oh, Rocky,” Leigh said.

  “We need to talk,” said Paul.

  “Can it wait?” Leigh asked. “It’s a really big test.”

  “Say there, Barton,” Paul said. “Would you mind keeping an eye on my little brother for a minute?”

  Barton looked at Leigh.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” she said.

  “Not at all,” Barton said.

  “Stay here, Rocky,” Paul said.

  I sat down next to Barton. Paul held his hand out and helped Leigh up the steep stairs until they reached the top of the pit and disappeared from sight.

  Barton turned back to me, his lips forming a painfully phony smile.

  “So,” he asked, “what grade are you in?”

  “Leigh loves Paul,” I said. “They’re getting married.”

  “Is that a fact?” Barton asked. “Are you going to be the best man?”

  “Probably,” I said. “Or the ring bearer.”

  “Maybe I’ll get invited,” Barton said. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

  “You don’t stand a chance,” I said.

  “Easy there, Rocky,” he said.

  “Only Paul and Leigh call me that,” I said.

  “Then what should I call you?” he asked.

  “Watch yourself,” I said, trying my best to sound as intimidating as Jimmy Hutter. “You might get kicked in the balls.”

  Barton didn’t know what to say to that. I can’t imagine he’d had too much experience being threatened by fourth graders.

  Barton gave up on the small talk and turned back to his economics book. I wandered away from him down toward the stage, where I ran back and forth, inspecting the doors of the proscenium, glancing back periodically to see if I could spot Paul and Leigh up above along the stone railing that surrounded the amphitheater.

  Finally they returned. Leigh’s cheeks were streaked with tears.

  “He didn’t watch me,” I told Paul.

  “You made it all right,” he answered.

  “I could have been kidnapped,” I said.

  “We’ve got to go,” Paul said.

  “Are you coming with us?” I asked Leigh.

  “No, sweetie,” she said. “I have a test, remember?”

  She knelt and opened her arms to hug me. I felt the dampness of her cheek against my own as I breathed in that peculiarly enthralling odor of cigarette smoke and strawberry shampoo.

  “Think about it,” Paul said to Leigh.

  “Please, Paul,” she said. “Not now.”

  “You promised,” he said.

  “You promised too,” she said.

  Leigh knelt again and faced me. She looked as if she’d walked off with Paul and come back a decade older.

  “Go home, Rocky,” she said. “Tell him to take you home, OK?”

  “I don’t want to go home,” I said.

  I didn’t even want to think about home and what was waiting for me there.

  “Please,” she said. “Promise me, OK?”

  “OK,” I said.

  She stood and embraced Paul again.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “Go take your test,” he said.

  “Please, Paul,” s
he said.

  “We’ll see you around,” he said.

  I sensed that Paul was suffering a rare defeat. Leigh’s eyes followed us as we walked away, to see whether Paul would turn and look back. He didn’t, but I did. Leigh waved again and blew a kiss. I turned on my heels to run after Paul.

  “She would have come,” I said as I came up beside him. “She has a test.”

  Paul quickened his pace. I had to jog every few paces to keep up with him. When we reached the car, he opened the door and ordered me in.

  “Stay here,” he said.

  In the side mirror, I watched him pace down the block and turn into a convenience store. He emerged a few minutes later with another brown paper sack. He pulled the Nova away from the curb and drove back through the university grounds and across Barracks Road. When we reached the highway, he pulled two beers from the sack and handed one to me.

  “Here,” he said. “Drink up while it’s still cold.”

  The beer tasted sour and bitter. I drank it fast to be done with it more quickly.

  “How about a little Neil?” he said.

  “Sure,” I answered.

  I popped the Doobie Brothers cassette out and slid in Tonight’s the Night. Paul turned it up loud. Before long, we were both singing along. The wind whipped through the open windows. Tonight’s the night, yes it is.

  We drove a ways before Paul turned off the main highway and up onto a ramp that fed into the Blue Ridge Parkway. We were still singing. I must have had another beer, or maybe I didn’t. One was probably enough.

  At the top of a ridge, Paul veered the car onto a fire road. We bumped and skidded down a steep, switchbacking slope, over the potholes and around wide bends, little pebbles spinning off the tires and rattling up under the body of the car like machine-gun fire.

  At the bottom of the valley, the road became flat and straight. The pace slowed. The rock-strewn path gave way to sand and dirt. An enormous rooster tail of fine grit formed behind us. Paul braked hard. The car slid for a moment and then stopped and was swallowed by the billowing dust.

  Paul grabbed the brown paper bag and opened the door.

  “Come on,” he said.

  We walked through the sandy fog and up the bank and through the woods until we reached the base of a stretch of exposed limestone: a giant, bone-yellow slab climbing three hundred yards up to the tree line and a maybe a quarter mile down the ridge. It was essentially as if the trees and earth had been scraped away by a giant trowel, leaving a flat rock face set at what was probably a thirty-five- or forty-degree angle but felt much steeper, particularly when you looked up the length of it from the scree piled at its foot.