was temporarily sick. There was no trace of the reliable characters they had once been, and no clue about the new and presumably improvedselves to come. The large foil-wrapped pots of purple and yellow mums on the end tables in the living room, gifts from Aunt Jeannie, were the only things that seemed to have any chat in them. She blew in once a day, and everyone, even the dog, took cover. When Robert stayed late at his factory, Joyce sat in the window-seat of her bedroom staring at the sky, without moving, like a Yogi. Walter wondered, years later, if by October Daniel understood the nature of his illness. He came to believe that while he was off at his sophomore year of high school memorizing the periodic table, reading The Grapes of Wrath and the highlights of The Peloponnesian War , Daniel was doing the optional work that all good students of death, all goners, undertake. He was preparing. It was as if he had already grown up and left them.
Four afternoons a week and on Saturday mornings, Walter rode the el train from Oak Ridge to the Loop in Chicago for his ballet class. Susan and Mitch sat in one seat, their arms around each other, and Walter sat behind them, or in front of them, or across from them. The handsome couple might have passed for brother and sister if they hadn’t usually been in each other’s lap. Their eyes were the same quality of blue, they were slender and they both had a graceful, erect carriage. Mitch, for everyday purposes, had the confident I’m-beautiful gait of a runway model. Susan’s hair was a silver blond and Mitch’s the yellow of straw. He parted his mane on the side and the long fine strands fell across his eyes every time he moved. He habitually flicked his head. Walter thought, Your Highness, each time Mitch made the gesture.
On the train, suspended between the luxuriant green world of Oak Ridge and the unending pavement of the city, Walter was always aware of Mitch’s taunt. Susan might lean against her boyfriend, or kiss his cheek, or stroke his hand, and then, invariably, Mitch flicked that gorgeous head of his. He kept it where the movement landed him, to show off his profile to Walter, and slowly he combed through his hair with his first two fingers. He’d finally turn, and look straight across to Walter. It was in part the size of the blue iris, the roundness of the eye, and the heavy lids that made Mitch’s face notable. A showstopper.He fixed his gaze on Walter as the train lurched forward and moved slowly on.
There wouldn’t have been much of a message in a quick glance. For Walter, time gave the look meaning, the stretch along the tracks between Cicero and Pulaski. Mitch hardly blinked and he didn’t move his hands or his feet. The sly smile was set. It was as if the boy was becalmed. But in the stillness he was saying to Walter, I have this great girl on my arm, something you’ll never have. See the way she fawns — I can sit here motionless and she fawns! She can’t get enough of me; she’ll do anything to make me show signs of life. Anything!
The train passed the housing projects on the West Side of Chicago, passed the boarded-up schools, the burned-out lawns, the rusty jungle gyms, the few garden plots in the narrow fenced-in backyards. The ghetto flashed in a blur while Mitch stared at Walter, while Susan tickled her quarry’s earlobes and cheek, her manicured nails moving circles over the ruddy skin of his permanent Irish blush. The red lacquer made Walter shiver. Even if her hands were folded on her lap the sight of the nails gave him goose pimples.
Once, at the Halsted station, Susan sat in Mitch’s lap whispering at his neck while a pickpocket was arrested three cars up. Walter pulled on the sleeve of his own corduroy jacket to keep himself in his seat, to prevent a humiliating moment. He might shout, against his will. What happened to love if it wasn’t collected, he wanted to know, if it wasn’t received? He might ask this question out loud. He
Four afternoons a week and on Saturday mornings, Walter rode the el train from Oak Ridge to the Loop in Chicago for his ballet class. Susan and Mitch sat in one seat, their arms around each other, and Walter sat behind them, or in front of them, or across from them. The handsome couple might have passed for brother and sister if they hadn’t usually been in each other’s lap. Their eyes were the same quality of blue, they were slender and they both had a graceful, erect carriage. Mitch, for everyday purposes, had the confident I’m-beautiful gait of a runway model. Susan’s hair was a silver blond and Mitch’s the yellow of straw. He parted his mane on the side and the long fine strands fell across his eyes every time he moved. He habitually flicked his head. Walter thought, Your Highness, each time Mitch made the gesture.
On the train, suspended between the luxuriant green world of Oak Ridge and the unending pavement of the city, Walter was always aware of Mitch’s taunt. Susan might lean against her boyfriend, or kiss his cheek, or stroke his hand, and then, invariably, Mitch flicked that gorgeous head of his. He kept it where the movement landed him, to show off his profile to Walter, and slowly he combed through his hair with his first two fingers. He’d finally turn, and look straight across to Walter. It was in part the size of the blue iris, the roundness of the eye, and the heavy lids that made Mitch’s face notable. A showstopper.He fixed his gaze on Walter as the train lurched forward and moved slowly on.
There wouldn’t have been much of a message in a quick glance. For Walter, time gave the look meaning, the stretch along the tracks between Cicero and Pulaski. Mitch hardly blinked and he didn’t move his hands or his feet. The sly smile was set. It was as if the boy was becalmed. But in the stillness he was saying to Walter, I have this great girl on my arm, something you’ll never have. See the way she fawns — I can sit here motionless and she fawns! She can’t get enough of me; she’ll do anything to make me show signs of life. Anything!
The train passed the housing projects on the West Side of Chicago, passed the boarded-up schools, the burned-out lawns, the rusty jungle gyms, the few garden plots in the narrow fenced-in backyards. The ghetto flashed in a blur while Mitch stared at Walter, while Susan tickled her quarry’s earlobes and cheek, her manicured nails moving circles over the ruddy skin of his permanent Irish blush. The red lacquer made Walter shiver. Even if her hands were folded on her lap the sight of the nails gave him goose pimples.
Once, at the Halsted station, Susan sat in Mitch’s lap whispering at his neck while a pickpocket was arrested three cars up. Walter pulled on the sleeve of his own corduroy jacket to keep himself in his seat, to prevent a humiliating moment. He might shout, against his will. What happened to love if it wasn’t collected, he wanted to know, if it wasn’t received? He might ask this question out loud. He
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