Well, this was my chance to get away from the cards. It hurt to know Carol was leaving, but I’d be lying if I said that was foremost in my mind right then. At that moment, getting away from the third-floor lounge was. Getting away from The Bitch. If you flunk out this December, you’re apt to be in the jungle next December. Be in touch, baby, seeya, as Skip Kirk usually put it.
When I latched the suitcase shut and looked around, Nate was still standing in the doorway. I jumped and let out a little squeak of surprise. It was like being visited by Banquo’s fucking ghost.
‘Hey, go on, bug out,’ I said. ‘Time and tide wait for no man, not even one in pre-dent.’
Nate only stood there, looking at me. ‘You’re going to flunk out,’ he said.
Again I thought of how weirdly alike Nate and Carol were, almost male and female sides of the same coin. I tried to smile, but Nate didn’t smile back. His face was small and white and pinched. The perfect Yankee face. You see a skinny guy who always burns instead of tanning, whose idea of dressing up includes a string tie and a liberal application of Vitalis, a guy who looks like he hasn’t had a decent shit in three years, and that guy was most likely born and raised north of White River, New Hampshire. And on his deathbed his last words are apt to be ‘Cranberry dressing.’
‘Nah,’ I said. ‘Don’t sweat it, Natie. All’s cool.’
‘You’re going to flunk out,’ he repeated. Dull, bricky color was rising in his cheeks. ‘You and Skip are the best guys I know, there wasn’t anybody in high school like you guys, not in my high school at least, and you’re going to flunk out and it’s so stupid.’
‘I’m not going to flunk out,’ I said . . . but since last night I had found myself accepting the idea diat I could. I wasn’t just edging into a grave situation; man, I was there. ‘Skip, either. It’s under control.’
‘The world’s falling down and you two are flunking out of school over Hearts! Over a stupid fuckin card-game!’
Before I could say anything else he was gone, headed back up the county for turkey and his mom’s stuffing. Maybe even a through-the-pants handjob from Cindy. Hey, why not? It was Thanksgiving.
26
I don’t read my horoscope, have rarely watched The X-Files, have never called the Psychic Friends Hotline, but I nevertheless believe that we all get glimpses of the future from time to time. I got one that afternoon, when I pulled up in front of Franklin Hall in my brother’s old station wagon: she was already gone.
I went inside. The lobby, where there were usually eight or nine gentlemen callers sitting in the plastic chairs, looked oddly empty. A housekeeper in a blue uniform was vacuuming the industrial-strength rug. The girl behind the counter was reading a copy of McCall’s and listening to the radio. ? and the Mysterians, as a matter of fact. Cry cry cry, baby, 96 tears.
‘Pete Riley for Carol Gerber,’ I said. ‘Can you buzz her?’
She looked up, put her magazine aside, and gave me a sweet, sympathetic look. It was the look of a doctor who has to tell you gee, sorry, the tumor’s inoperable. Bad luck, man, better
make friends with Jesus. ‘Carol said she had to leave early. She took the Black Bear Shuttle to Deny. But she told me you’d be by and asked me to give you this.’
She handed me an envelope with my name written across the front. I thanked her and left Franklin with it in my hand. I went down the walk and stood for a moment by my car, looking across toward Holyoke Commons, fabled Palace on the Plains and home of the horny hotdog man. Below it, in Bennett’s Run, leaves flew before the wind in rattling drifts. The bright colors had gone out of them; only November’s dark brown was left. It was the day before Thanksgiving, the doorstep of winter in New England. The world was all wind and cold sunshine. I had started crying again. I could tell by the warmth on my cheeks. 96 tears, baby; cry cry cry.