Hearts In Atlantis

off for a moment, then said with honest curiosity: “You’re not jealous of him, are you?”

“Well,” I said carefully, “he got to spend an afternoon with you. I’m jealous of that, I guess.”

“Don’t be. He’s got brains, plenty of them, but he’s also got a wif-fle haircut and great big shifty eyes. He shaves, but it seems like he always misses a big patch. He’s not the attraction, believe me.”

“Then what is?”

“Can I see you? I want to show you something. It won’t take long. But it might help if I could just explain . . .” Her voice wavered on the word and I realized she was close to tears.

“What’s wrong?”

“You mean other than that my father probably won’t let me back into his house once he’s seen me in the News? He’ll have the locks changed by this weekend, I bet. That’s if he hasn’t changed them already.”

I thought of Nate saying he was afraid his mother would see a pic-ture of him getting arrested. Mommy’s good little pre-dent pinched down in Derry for parading in front of the Federal Building without a permit. Ah, the shame, the shame. And Carol’s dad? Not quite the same deal, but close. Carol’s dad was a steady boy who said ship ahoy and joined the Nay-yay-vee, after all.

“He may not see the story,” I said. “Even if he does, the paper didn’t use any names.”

“The picture.” She spoke patiently, as if to someone who can’t help being dense. “Didn’t you see the picture?”

I started to say that her face was mostly turned away from the camera and what you could see was in shadow. Then I remembered her high-school jacket with HARWICH HIGH SCHOOL blaring across the back. Also, he was her father, for Christ’s sake. Even half-turned away from the camera, her father would know her.

“He may not see the picture, either,” I said lamely. “Damariscotta’s at the far edge of the News’s area.”

“Is that how you want to live your life, Pete?” She still sounded patient, but now it was patience with an edge. “Doing stuff and then hoping people won’t find out?”

“No,” I said. And could I get mad at her for saying that, considering that Annmarie Soucie still didn’t have the slightest idea that Carol Gerber was alive? I didn’t think so. Carol and I weren’t married or anything, but marriage wasn’t the issue. “No, I don’t. But Carol . . . you don’t have to shove the damned newspaper under his nose for him, do you?”

She laughed. The sound had none of the brightness I had heard in her earlier giggle, but I thought even a rueful laugh was better than none at all. “I won’t have to. He’ll find it. That’s just the way he is. But I had to go, Pete. And I’ll probably join the Committee of Resis-tance even though George Gilman always looks like a little kid who just got caught eating boogers and Harry Swidrowski has the world’s worst breath. Because it’s . . . the thing of it is . . . you see . . .” She blew a frustrated I-can’t-explain sigh into my ear. “Listen, you know where we go out for smoke- breaks?”

“At Holyoke? By the Dumpsters, sure.”

“Meet me there,” Carol said. “In fifteen minutes. Can you?”

“Yes.”

“I have a lot more studying to do so I can’t stay long, but I . . . I just . . .”

“I’ll be there.”

I hung up the phone and stepped out of the booth. Ashley Rice was standing in the doorway of the lounge, smoking and doing a lit-tle shuffle-step. I deduced that he was between games. His face was too pale, the black stubble on his cheeks standing out like pencil-marks, and his shirt had gone beyond simply soiled; it looked lived-in. He had a wide-eyed Danger High Voltage look that I later came to associate with heavy cocaine users. And that’s what the game really was; a kind of drug. Not the kind that mellowed you out, either.

“What do you say, Pete?” he asked. “Want to play a few hands?”

“Maybe later,” I said, and started down the hall. Stoke Jones was thumping back from the bathroom in a frayed old robe. His crutches left round wet tracks on the dark red linoleum. His long, crazy hair was wet. I wondered how he did in the shower; certainly there were none of the railings and grab-handles that later became standard in public washing facilities. He didn’t look as though he would much enjoy discussing the subject, however. That or any other subject.

“How you doing, Stoke?” I asked.

He went by without answering, head down, dripping hair plas-tered to his cheeks, soap and towel clamped under one arm, mutter-ing “Rip-rip, rip-rip” under his breath. He never even looked up at me. Say whatever you wanted about Stoke Jones, you could depend on him to put a little fuck-you into your day.

21

Carol was already at Holyoke when I got there. She had brought a couple of milk-boxes from the area where the Dumpsters were lined up and was sitting on one of them, legs crossed, smoking a cigarette. I sat down on the other one, put my arm around her, and kissed her. She put her head on my shoulder for a moment, not saying anything.

This wasn’t much like her, but it was nice. I kept my arm around her and looked up at the stars. The night was mild for so late in the sea-son, and lots of people—couples, mostly—were out walking, taking advantage of the weather. I could hear their murmured conversa-tions. From above us, in the Commons dining room, a radio was playing “Hang On, Sloopy.” One of the janitors, I suppose.

Carol raised her head at last and moved away from me a little— just enough to let me know I could take my arm back. That was more like her, actually. “Thanks,” she said. “I needed a hug.”

“My pleasure.”

“I’m a little scared about facing my dad. Not real scared, but a little.”