again. My mornings in front of the TV grew longer. I could zombie-glide right through the game shows sometimes, The Price Is Right and Concentration , both of which I hated. âHarry, would you turn off that TV and go outside,â my mother would say. And I would roll onto my back and stare up at her with hollow eyes. And whine at her: âI donât wanna go to camp.â Before she could bully me into my clothes it was nearly lunchtime, and when she hurled me outdoors, I would linger in the backyard like my own ghost, haunting her with an I-donât-wanna-go-to-camp stare through the kitchen casements. Harryâs Raiders were soon disbanded on account of this depression. How long could they sit in the womblike dark of the lumber pile with their fearless leader sunk in dejected reverie?
And as for Agnes â I did not see her. In all that time, that whole last week. I didnât understand that she was at the heart of this, I just didnât feel like going over there anymore, thatâs all. Sometimes, some afternoons, I would wander aimlessly up toward Piccadilly Road, but I was never abuzz with the old expectations. I was steeped instead in fantasy: King Harry at the Judgement Day, his dread sceptre tilting left or right, the naked women wailing in their terror, and flailed across the tush, many of them, to insure obedience or simply for good measure not to mention that it was such breathless fun. And then, somewhere along the road, at the top of Wooleyâs Lane usually, before the curve, before the ghost house, I would stop. I would look around me and find myself cotton-headed with dreams and out-of-sorts. I did not want to see her; even the thought of it depressed me even more. I wanted to go home, to spend these precious moments of the fleeting July with that dear, dear mother from whom I would too soon be cruelly sundered.
So, shrugging, sighing, miserable â God, miserable â I would turn again and head back down the hill, angrily kicking stones, angrily dreaming, wasting what could have been our last days together, Agnesâs and mine, and laying â or so I tell myself on those nights I want to rip my own head off in paroxysms of regret â the groundwork of our lifelong ruination.
Signs of the Dreaded Day accumulated: Mom sewing name tags into shorts and T-shirts, clothing strewn on bedspreads, suitcases brought up from the basement and a camp trunk, with stout metal hinges and latches everywhere, brought home from the city by my Dad. My parents were taking advantage of my absence to spend a week in Europe so the packing was general and, to my tragical mind, it looked as if my entire existence were being struck like a set.
Finally, as it must to all men, Sunday came, the eve of my departure. The various packing paraphernalia had converged in the guest room. Thoughtful, nimble, my tubby Mom stepped among the neat piles of clothing on the carpet there, returning inevitably to the suitcases set open upon the bed and the trunk on the floor, all of which became, inevitably, nearer and nearer to being full. The condemned man sat in the midst of this. On the edge of the bed with head hung down, with hands clasped between his knees and shoulders bowed under at least a ton of fear, homesickness, helplessness, dread. And something else, some nameless suspense. Outside, through the glass door that led onto the garage roof, the sun could be seen setting, a dragon-toothed splotch of light poised on the peak of the Rothmansâ roof next door.
âWhy do you have to go to Europe?â I groaned.
âWeâll be back before you get home,â said my mother wearily. She pressed a finger to her lip as she swiveled indecisively between a poncho and a pile of underpants.
âI donât wanna go to camp,â I said.
The underpants, Mom decided, and leaned down to lift the stack between her two hands.
âI donât wanna â¦â
âOh, Harry, itâs only
And as for Agnes â I did not see her. In all that time, that whole last week. I didnât understand that she was at the heart of this, I just didnât feel like going over there anymore, thatâs all. Sometimes, some afternoons, I would wander aimlessly up toward Piccadilly Road, but I was never abuzz with the old expectations. I was steeped instead in fantasy: King Harry at the Judgement Day, his dread sceptre tilting left or right, the naked women wailing in their terror, and flailed across the tush, many of them, to insure obedience or simply for good measure not to mention that it was such breathless fun. And then, somewhere along the road, at the top of Wooleyâs Lane usually, before the curve, before the ghost house, I would stop. I would look around me and find myself cotton-headed with dreams and out-of-sorts. I did not want to see her; even the thought of it depressed me even more. I wanted to go home, to spend these precious moments of the fleeting July with that dear, dear mother from whom I would too soon be cruelly sundered.
So, shrugging, sighing, miserable â God, miserable â I would turn again and head back down the hill, angrily kicking stones, angrily dreaming, wasting what could have been our last days together, Agnesâs and mine, and laying â or so I tell myself on those nights I want to rip my own head off in paroxysms of regret â the groundwork of our lifelong ruination.
Signs of the Dreaded Day accumulated: Mom sewing name tags into shorts and T-shirts, clothing strewn on bedspreads, suitcases brought up from the basement and a camp trunk, with stout metal hinges and latches everywhere, brought home from the city by my Dad. My parents were taking advantage of my absence to spend a week in Europe so the packing was general and, to my tragical mind, it looked as if my entire existence were being struck like a set.
Finally, as it must to all men, Sunday came, the eve of my departure. The various packing paraphernalia had converged in the guest room. Thoughtful, nimble, my tubby Mom stepped among the neat piles of clothing on the carpet there, returning inevitably to the suitcases set open upon the bed and the trunk on the floor, all of which became, inevitably, nearer and nearer to being full. The condemned man sat in the midst of this. On the edge of the bed with head hung down, with hands clasped between his knees and shoulders bowed under at least a ton of fear, homesickness, helplessness, dread. And something else, some nameless suspense. Outside, through the glass door that led onto the garage roof, the sun could be seen setting, a dragon-toothed splotch of light poised on the peak of the Rothmansâ roof next door.
âWhy do you have to go to Europe?â I groaned.
âWeâll be back before you get home,â said my mother wearily. She pressed a finger to her lip as she swiveled indecisively between a poncho and a pile of underpants.
âI donât wanna go to camp,â I said.
The underpants, Mom decided, and leaned down to lift the stack between her two hands.
âI donât wanna â¦â
âOh, Harry, itâs only
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