“We filled up our wallets on the stock market and went to the gym and booked therapy sessions to get in touch with ourselves. South America is burning, Malaysia’s burning, fucking
Sully thought of Malenfant getting in touch with himself, learning to like the inner Ronnie, and suppressed a shudder.
All of Dieffenbaker’s fingers were held up in front of his face and poked out; to Sully he looked like Al Jolson getting ready to sing “Mammy.” Dieffenbaker seemed to become aware of this at the same moment Sully did, and lowered his hands. He looked tired and dis-tracted and unhappy.
“I like lots of people our age when they’re one by one,” he said, “but I loathe and despise my generation, Sully. We had an opportu-nity to change everything. We actually did. Instead we settled for designer jeans, two tickets to Mariah Carey at Radio City Music Hall, frequent-flier miles, James Cameron’s
The new lieutenant was close to tears, Sully saw. “Deef—”
“You know the price of selling out the future, Sully-John? You can never really leave the past. You can never get over. My thesis is that you’re really not in New York at all. You’re in the Delta, leaning back against a tree, stoned and rubbing bug-dope on the back of your neck. Packer’s still the man because it’s still 1969. Everything you think of as ‘your later life’ is a big fucking pot-bubble. And it’s better that way. Vietnam is better. That’s why we stay there.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely.”
A dark-haired, brown-eyed woman in a blue dress peeked around the corner and said, “So there you are.”
Dieffenbaker stood up as she came toward them, walking slow and pretty on her high heels. Sully stood up, too.
“Mary, this is John Sullivan. He served with me and Pags. Sully, this is my good friend Mary Theresa Charlton.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Sully said, and put out his hand.
Her grip was firm and sure, long cool fingers in his own, but she was looking at Dieffenbaker. “Mrs. Pagano wants to see you, hon. Please?”
“You bet,” Dieffenbaker said. He started toward the front of the building, then turned back to Sully. “Hang in a little bit,” he said. “We’ll go for a drink. I promise not to preach.” But his eyes shifted from Sully’s when he said this, as if they knew it was a promise he couldn’t keep.
“Thanks, Loot, but I really ought to get back. I want to beat the rush-hour traffic.”
But he hadn’t beaten the traffic after all and now a piano was falling toward him, gleaming in the sun and humming to itself as it came. Sully fell flat on his stomach and rolled under a car. The piano came down less than five feet away, detonating and throwing up rows of keys like teeth.
Sully slid back out from beneath the car, burning his back on the hot tailpipe, and struggled to his feet. He looked north along the turnpike, eyes wide and unbelieving. A vast rummage sale was falling out of the sky: tape recorders and rugs and a riding lawn-mower with the grass-caked blade whirling in its housing and a black lawn- jockey and an aquarium with the fish still swimming in it. He saw an old man with a lot of theatrical gray hair running up the breakdown lane and then a flight of steps fell on him, tearing off his left arm and sending him to his knees. There were clocks and desks and coffee tables and a plummeting elevator with its cable uncoiling into the air behind it like a greasy severed umbilicus. A squall of ledgers fell in the parking lot of a nearby industrial complex; their clapping covers sounded like applause. A fur coat fell on a running woman, trapping her, and then a sofa landed on her, crushing her. The air filled with a storm of light as large panes of greenhouse glass dropped out of the blue. A statue of a Civil War soldier smashed through a panel truck. An ironing board hit the railing of the over- pass up ahead and then fell into the stalled traffic below like a spin-ning propeller. A stuffed lion dropped into the back of a pickup truck. Everywhere were running, screaming people. Everywhere were cars with dented roofs and smashed windows; Sully saw a Mer-cedes with the unnaturally pink legs of a department-store man-nequin sticking up from the sunroof. The air shook with whines and whistles.
Another shadow fell on him and even as he ducked and raised his hand he knew it was too late, if it was an iron or a toaster or some-thing like that it would fracture his skull. If it was something bigger he’d be nothing but a grease-spot on the highway.
The falling object struck his hand without hurting it in the slight-est, bounced, and landed at his feet. He looked down at it first with surprise, then with dawning wonder. “Holy shit,” he said.
Sully bent over and picked up the baseball glove which had fallen from the sky, recognizing it at once even after all these years: the deep scratch down the last finger and the comically tangled knots in the rawhide laces of the webbing were as good as fingerprints. He looked on the side, where Bobby had printed his name. It was still there, but the letters looked fresher than they should have, and the leather here looked frayed and faded and whipsawed, as if other names had been inked in the same spot and then erased.
Closer to his face, the smell of the glove was both intoxicating and irresistible. Sully slipped it onto his hand, and when he did something crackled beneath his little finger—a piece of paper shoved in there. He paid no attention. Instead he put the glove over his face, closed his eyes, and inhaled. Leather and neat’s-foot oil and sweat and grass. All the summers that were. The summer of 1960, for instance, when he had had come back from his week at camp to find everything changed—Bobby sullen, Carol distant and palely thoughtful (at least for awhile), and the cool old guy who’d lived on the third floor of Bobby’s building—Ted—gone. Everything had changed . . . but it was still summer, he had still been eleven, and everything had still seemed . . .
“Eternal,” he murmured into the glove, and inhaled deeply of its aroma again as, nearby, a glass case filled with butterflies shattered on the roof of a bread-van and a stop-sign stuck, quivering, into the breakdown lane like a thrown spear. Sully remembered his Bo-lo Bouncer and his black Keds and the taste of Pez straight out of the gun, how the pieces of candy would hit the roof of your mouth and then ricochet onto your tongue; he remembered the way his catcher’s mask felt when it sat on his face just right and the
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