The only singing I do these days is on Karaoke Night at Bennigans Pub, but I never did get tired of running my mouth. Im a jock on WKIT up in Bangor. You know, a disc jockey?
Uh-huh. And Troy?
Living la vida loca in Palm Springs. Hes the rich fella in the family. Made a bundle in the computer biz. Got in on the ground floor back in the seventies. Goes to lunch with Steve Jobs and stuff. She laughed. It was a terrific laugh. I bet people all over eastern Maine tuned in just to hear it. But when she spoke again, her tone was lower and all the humor had gone out of it. Sun to shade, just like that. Who are you really, Mr. Amberson?
What do you mean?
I do call-in shows on the weekends. A yard-sale show on SaturdaysIve got a rototiller, Ellen, almost brand-new, but I cant make the payments and Ill take the best offer over fifty bucks. Like that. On Sundays, its politics. Folks call in to flay Rush Limbaugh or talk about how Glenn Beck should run for president. I know voices. If youd been friends with Harry back in the Rec days, youd be in your sixties, but youre not. You sound like youre no more than thirty-five.
Jesus, right on the money. People tell me I sound a lot younger than my age. I bet they tell you the same.
Nice try, she said flatly, and all at once she did sound older. Ive had years of training to put that sunshine in my voice. Have you?
I couldnt think of a response, so I kept silent.
Also, no one calls to check up on someone they chummed around with when they were in grammar school. Not fifty years later, they dont.
Might as well hang up, I thought. I got what I called for, and more than I bargained for. Ill just hang up. But the phone felt glued to my ear. Im not sure I could have dropped it if Id seen fire racing up my living room curtains.
When she spoke again, there was a catch in her voice. Are you him?
I dont know what you
There was somebody else there that night. Harry saw him and so did I. Are you him?
What night? Only it came out whu-nigh, because my lips had gone numb. It felt as if someone had put a mask over my face. One lined with snow.
Harry said it was his good angel. I think youre him. So where were you?
Now she was the one who sounded unclear, because shed begun crying.
Maam Ellen youre not making any sen
I took him to the airport after he got his orders and his leave was over. He was going to Nam, and I told him to watch his ass. He said, Dont worry, Sis, Ive got a guardian angel to watch out for me, remember? So where were you on the sixth of February in 1968, Mr. Angel? Where were you when my brother died at Khe Sanh? Where were you then, you son of a bitch?
She said something else, but I dont know what it was. By then she was crying too hard. I hung up the phone. I went into the bathroom. I got into the bathtub, pulled the curtain, and put my head between my knees so I was looking at the rubber mat with the yellow daisies on it. Then I screamed. Once. Twice. Three times. And here is the worst: I didnt just wish Al had never spoken to me about his goddamned rabbit-hole. It went farther than that. I wished him dead.
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9
I got a bad feeling when I pulled into his driveway and saw the house was entirely dark. It got worse when I tried the door and found it unlocked.
Al?
Nothing.
I found a light switch and flipped it. The main living area had the sterile neatness of rooms that are cleaned regularly but no longer much used. The walls were covered with framed photographs. Almost all were of people I didnt knowAls relatives, I assumedbut I recognized the couple in the one hanging over the couch: John and Jacqueline Kennedy. They were at the seashore, probably Hyannis Port, and had their arms around each other. There was a smell of Glade in the air, not quite masking the sickroom smell coming from deeper in the house. Somewhere, very low, The Temptations were singing My Girl. Sunshine on a cloudy day, and all of that.
Al? You here?
Where else? Studio Nine in Portland, dancing disco and trying to pick up college girls? I knew better. I had made a wish, and sometimes wishes are granted.
I fumbled for the kitchen switches, found them, and flooded the room with enough fluorescent light to take out an appendix by. On the table was a plastic medicine-caddy, the kind that holds a weeks worth of pills. Most of those caddies are small enough to fit into a pocket or purse, but this one was almost as big as an encyclopedia. Next to it was a message scribbled on a piece of Ziggy notepaper: If you forget your 8-oclockies, ILL KILL YOU!!!! Doris.
My Girl finished and Just My Imagination started. I followed the music into the sickroom stench. Al was in bed. He looked relatively peaceful. At the end, a single tear had trickled from the outer corner of each closed eye. The tracks were still wet enough to gleam. The multidisc CD player was on the night table to his left. There was a note on the table, too, with a pill bottle on top to hold it down. It wouldnt have served as much of a paperweight in even a light draft, because it was empty. I looked at the label: OxyContin, twenty milligrams. I picked up the note.
Sorry, buddy, couldnt wait. Too much pain. You have the key to the diner and you know what to do. Dont kid yourself that you can try again, either, because too much can happen. Do it right the first time. Maybe youre mad at me for getting you into this. I would be, in your shoes. But dont back down. Please dont do that. Tin box is under the bed. Theres another $500 or so inside that I saved back.
Its on you, buddy. About 2 hours after Doris finds me in the morning, the landlord will probably padlock the diner, so it has to be tonight. Save him, okay? Save Kennedy and everything changes.
Please.
Al
You bastard, I thought. You knew I might have second thoughts, and this is how you took care of them, right?
Sure Id had second thoughts. But thoughts are not choices. If hed had the idea I might back out, he was wrong. Stop Oswald? Sure. But Oswald was strictly secondary at that point, part of a misty future. A funny way to put it when you were thinking about 1963, but completely accurate. It was the Dunning family that was on my mind.
Arthur, also known as Tugga: I could still save him. Harry, too.
Kennedy might have changed his mind, Al had said. Hed been speaking of Vietnam.
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Even if Kennedy didnt change his mind and pull out, would Harry be in the exact same place at the exact same time on February 6, 1968? I didnt think so.
Okay, I said. Okay. I bent over Al and kissed his cheek. I could taste the faint saltiness of that last tear. Sleep well, buddy.
10
Back at my place, I inventoried the contents of my Lord Buxton briefcase and fancy-Dan ostrich wallet. I had Als exhaustive notes on Oswalds movements after he mustered out of the Marines on September 11, 1959. My ID was still all present and accounted for. My cash situation was better than Id expected; with the extra money Al had saved back, added to what I already had, my net worth was still over five thousand dollars.
There was hamburger in the meat drawer of my refrigerator. I cooked up some of it and put it in Elmores dish. I stroked him as he ate. If I dont come back, go next door to the Ritters, I said. Theyll take care of you.
Elmore took no notice of this, of course, but I knew hed do it if I wasnt there to feed him. Cats are survivors. I picked up the briefcase, went to the door, and fought off a brief but strong urge to run into my bedroom and hide under the covers. Would my cat and my house even be here when I came back, if I succeeded in what I was setting out to do? And if they were, would they still belong to me? No way of telling. Want to know something funny? Even people capable of living in the past dont really know what the future holds.
Hey, Ozzie, I said softly. Im coming for you, you fuck.
I closed the door and went out.
11
The diner was weird without Al, because it felt as if Al was still therehis ghost, I mean. The faces on his Town Wall of Celebrity seemed to stare down at me, asking what I was doing here, telling me I didnt belong here, exhorting me to leave well enough alone before I snapped the universes mainspring. There was something particularly unsettling about the picture of Al and Mike Michaud, hanging where the photo of Harry and me belonged.
I went into the pantry and began to take small, shuffling steps forward. Pretend youre trying to find the top of a staircase with the lights out, Al had said. Close your eyes, buddy, its easier that way.
I did. Two steps down, I heard that pressure-equalizing pop deep in my ears. Warmth hit my skin; sunlight shone through my closed eyelids; I heard the shat-HOOSH, shat-HOOSH of the weaving flats. It was September 9, 1958, two minutes before noon. Tugga Dunning was alive again, and Mrs. Dunnings arm had not yet been broken. Not far from here, at Titus Chevron, a nifty red Ford Sunliner convertible was waiting for me.
But first, there was the former Yellow Card Man to deal with. This time he was going to get the dollar he requested, because I had neglected to put a fifty-cent piece in my pocket. I ducked under the chain and paused long enough to put a dollar bill in my right front pants pocket.
That was where it stayed, because when I came around the corner of the drying shed, I found the Yellow Card Man sprawled on the concrete with his eyes open and a pool of blood spreading around his head. His throat was slashed from ear to ear. In one hand was the jagged shard of green wine bottle he had used to do the job. In the other he held his card, the one that supposedly had something to do with it being double-money day at the greenfront. The card that had once been yellow, then orange, was now dead black.
CHAPTER 10
1
I crossed the employee parking lot for the third time, not quite running. I once more rapped on the trunk of the white-over-red Plymouth Fury as I went by. For good luck, I guess. In the weeks, months, and years to come, I was going to need all the good luck I could get.
This time I didnt visit the Kennebec Fruit, and I had no intention of shopping for clothes or a car. Tomorrow or the next day would do for that, but today might be a bad day to be a stranger in The Falls. Very shortly someone was going to find a dead body in the millyard, and a stranger might be questioned. George Ambersons ID wouldnt stand up to that, especially when his drivers license was for a house on Bluebird Lane that hadnt been built yet.
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I made it to the millworkers bus stop outside the parking lot just as the bus with LEWISTON EXPRESS in its destination window came snoring along. I got on and handed over the dollar bill Id meant to give to the Yellow Card Man. The driver clicked a handful of silver out of the chrome change-maker he wore on his belt. I dropped fifteen cents into the fare box and made my way down the swaying aisle to a seat near the back, behind two pimply sailorsprobably from the Brunswick Naval Air Stationwho were talking about the girls they hoped to see at a strip joint called the Holly. Their conversation was punctuated by an exchange of hefty shoulder-punches and a great deal of snorkeling laughter.
I watched Route 196 unroll almost without seeing it. I kept thinking about the dead man. And the card, which was now dead black. Id wanted to put distance between myself and that troubling corpse as quickly as possible, but I had paused long enough to touch the card. It wasnt cardboard, as I had first assumed. Not plastic, either. Celluloid, maybe except it hadnt exactly felt like that, either. What it felt like was dead skinthe kind you might pare off a callus. There had been no writing on it, at least none that I could see.
Al had assumed the Yellow Card Man was just a wet-brain whod been driven crazy by an unlucky combination of booze and proximity to the rabbit-hole. I hadnt questioned that until the card turned orange. Now I more than questioned it; I flat-out didnt believe it. What was he, anyway?
Dead, thats what he is. And thats all he is. So let it go. Youve got a lot to do.
When we passed the Lisbon Drive-In, I yanked the stop-cord. The driver pulled over at the next white-painted telephone pole.
Have a nice day, I told him as he pulled the lever that flopped the doors open.
Aint nothin nice about this run except a cold beer at quittin time, he said, and lit a cigarette.
A few seconds later I was standing on the gravel shoulder of the highway with my briefcase dangling from my left hand, watching the bus lumber off toward Lewiston, trailing a cloud of exhaust. On the back was an ad-card showing a housewife who held a gleaming pot in one hand and an S.O.S. Magic Scouring Pad in the other. Her huge blue eyes and toothy red-lipsticked grin suggested a woman who might be only minutes away from a catastrophic mental breakdown.
The sky was cloudless. Crickets sang in the high grass. Somewhere a cow lowed. With the diesel stink of the bus whisked away by a light breeze, the air smelled sweet and fresh and new. I started trudging the quarter mile or so to the Tamarack Motor Court. Just a short walk, but before I got to my destination, two people pulled over and asked me if I wanted a ride. I thanked them and said I was fine. And I was. By the time I reached the Tamarack I was whistling.
September of 58, United States of America.
Yellow Card Man or no Yellow Card Man, it was good to be back.
2
I spent the rest of that day in my room, going over Als Oswald notes for the umpteenth time, this time paying special attention to the two pages at the end marked CONCLUSIONS ON HOW TO PROCEDE. Trying to watch the TV, which essentially got just one channel, was an exercise in absurdity, so when dusk came I ambled down to the drive-in and paid a special walk-in price of thirty cents. There were folding chairs set up in front of the snackbar. I bought a bag of popcorn plus a tasty cinnamon-flavored soft drink called Pepsol, and watched The Long, Hot Summer with several other walk-ins, mostly elderly people who knew each other and chatted companionably. The air had turned chilly by the time Vertigo started, and I had no jacket. I walked back to the motor court and slept soundly.
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The next morning I took the bus back to Lisbon Falls (no cabs; I considered myself on a budget, at least for the time being), and made the Jolly White Elephant my first stop. It was early, and still cool, so the beatnik was inside, sitting on a ratty couch and reading Argosy.
Hi, neighbor, he said.
Hi yourself. I guess you sell suitcases?
Oh, I got a few in stock. No moren two-three hundred. Walk all the way to the back
And look on the right, I said.
Thats right. Have you been here before?
Weve all been here before, I said. This thing is bigger than pro football.
He laughed. Groovy, Jackson. Go pick yourself a winner.
I picked the same leather valise. Then I went across the street and bought the Sunliner again. This time I bargained harder and got it for three hundred. When the dickering was done, Bill Titus sent me over to his daughter.
You dont sound like youre from around here, she said.
Wisconsin originally, but Ive been in Maine for quite awhile. Business.
Guess you werent around The Falls yesterday, huh? When I said I hadnt been, she popped her gum and said: You missed some excitement. They found an old boozer dead outside the drying shed over at the mill. She lowered her voice. Suicide. Cut his own throat with a piece of glass. Can you imagine?
Thats awful, I said, tucking the Sunliners bill of sale into my wallet. I bounced the car keys on my palm. Local guy?
Nope, and no ID. He probably came down from The County in a boxcar, thats what my dad says. For the apple picking over in Castle Rock, maybe. Mr. Cadyhes the clerk at the greenfronttold my dad the guy came in yesterday morning and tried to buy a pint, but he was drunk and smelly, so Mr. Cady kicked him out. Then he must have went over to the millyard to drink up whatever he had left, and when it was gone, he broke the bottle and cut his throat with one of the pieces. She repeated: Can you imagine?
I skipped the haircut, and I skipped the bank, too, but I once more bought clothes at Masons Menswear.
You must like that shade of blue, the clerk commented, and held up the shirt on top of my pile. Same color as the one youre wearing.
In fact it was the shirt I was wearing, but I didnt say so. It would only have confused us both.
3
I drove up the Mile-A-Minute Highway that Thursday afternoon. This time I didnt need to buy a hat when I got to Derry, because Id remembered to add a nice summer straw to the purchases I made at Masons. I registered at the Derry Town House, had a meal in the dining room, then went into the bar and ordered a beer from Fred Toomey. On this go-round I made no effort to engage him in conversation.
The following day I rented my old apartment on Harris Avenue, and far from keeping me awake, the sound of the descending planes actually lulled me to sleep. The day after that, I went down to Machens Sporting Goods and told the clerk I was interested in buying a handgun because I was in the real estate business and blah blah blah. The clerk brought out my.38 Police Special and once more told me it was a fine piece of protection. I bought it and put it in my briefcase. I thought about walking out Kansas Street to the little picnic area so I could watch Richie-from-the-ditchie and Bevvie-from-the-levee practice their Jump Street moves, then realized Id missed them. I wished Id thought to check the late November issues of the Daily News during my brief return to 2011; I could have found out if theyd won their talent show.
I made it a habit to drop into The Lamplighter for an early-evening beer, before the place started to fill up. Sometimes I ordered Lobster Pickins. I never saw Frank Dunning there, nor wanted to. I had another reason for making The Lamplighter a regular stop. If all went well, Id soon be heading for Texas, and I wanted to build up my personal treasury before I went. I made friends with Jeff the bartender, and one evening toward the end of September, he brought up a subject Id been planning to raise myself.
Who do you like in the Series, George?
Yankees, of course, I said.
You say that? A guy from Wisconsin?
Home-state pride has nothing to do with it. The Yankees are a team of destiny this year.
Never happen. Their pitchers are old. Their defense is leaky. Mantles got bad wheels. The Bronx Bomber dynasty is over. Milwaukee might even sweep.
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I laughed. You make a few good points, Jeff, I can see youre a student of the game, but fess upyou hate the Yanks just like everybody else in New England, and its destroyed your perspective.
You want to put your money where your mouth is?
Sure. A fin. I make it a point not to take any more than a five-spot from the wage-slaves. Are we on?
We are. And we shook on it.
Okay, I said, now that weve got that accomplished, and since were on the subjects of baseball and bettingthe two great American pastimesI wonder if you could tell me where I could find some serious action in this town. If I may wax poetic, I want to lay a major wager. Bring me another beer and draw one for yourself.
I said major wager Maine-stylemajah wajahand he laughed as he drew a couple of Narragansetts (which I had learned to call Nasty Gansett; when in Rome, one should, as much as possible, speak as the Romans do).
We clinked glasses, and Jeff asked me what I meant by serious action. I pretended to consider, then told him.
Five hundred smacks? On the Yankees? When the Bravesve got Spahn and Burdette? Not to mention Hank Aaron and Steady Eddie Mathews? Youre nuts.
Maybe yes, maybe no. Well see starting October first, wont we? Is there anyone in Derry wholl fade a bet of that size?
Did I know what he was going to say next? No. Im not that prescient. Was I surprised? No again. Because the past isnt just obdurate; its in harmony with both itself and the future. I experienced that harmony time and again.
Chaz Frati. Youve probably seen him in here. He owns a bunch of hockshops. I wouldnt exactly call him a bookie, but he keeps plenty busy at World Series time and during high school football and basketball season.
And you think hell take my action.
Sure. Give you odds and everything. Just He looked around, saw we still had the bar to ourselves, but dropped his voice to a whisper anyway. Just dont stiff him, George. He knows people. Strong people.
I hear you, I said. Thanks for the tip. In fact, Im going to do you a favor and not hold you to that five when the Yankees win the Series.
4
The following day I entered Chaz Fratis Mermaid Pawn & Loan, where I was confronted by a large, stone-faced lady of perhaps three hundred pounds. She wore a purple dress, Indian beads, and moccasins on her swollen feet. I told her I was interested in discussing a rather large sports-oriented business proposal with Mr. Frati.
Is that a bet in regular talk? she asked.
Are you a cop? I asked.
Yes, she said, bringing a Tiparillo out of one dress pocket and lighting it with a Zippo. Im J. Edgar Hoover, my son.
Well, Mr. Hoover, you got me. Im talking about a bet.
World Series or Tigers football?
Im not from town, and wouldnt know a Derry Tiger from a Bangor Baboon. Its baseball.
The woman stuck her head through a curtained-off doorway at the back of the room, presenting me with what was surely one of central Maines largest backsides, and hollered, Hey Chazzy, come out here. You got a live one.
Frati came out and kissed the large lady on the cheek. Thank you, my love. His sleeves were rolled up, and I could see the mermaid. May I help you?
I hope so. George Ambersons the name. I offered my hand. Im from Wisconsin, and although my hearts with the hometown boys, when it comes to the Series my wallets with the Yankees.
He turned to the shelf behind him, but the large lady already had what he wanteda scuffed green ledger with PERSONAL LOANS on the front. He opened it and paged to a blank sheet, periodically wetting the tip of his finger. How much of your wallet are we talking about, cuz?
What kind of odds could I get on five hundred to win?
The fat woman laughed and blew out smoke.
On the Bombers? Even-up, cuz. Strictly even-up.
What kind of odds could I get on five hundred, Yankees in seven?
He considered, then turned to the large lady. She shook her head, still looking amused. Wont go, she said. If you dont believe me, send a telegram and check the line in New York.
I sighed and drummed my fingers on a glass case filled with watches and rings. Okay, how about thisfive hundred and the Yankees come back from three games to one.
He laughed. Some sensayuma, cuz. Just let me consult with the boss.
He and the large lady (Frati looked like a Tolkien dwarf next to her) consulted in whispers, then he came back to the counter. If you mean what I think you mean, Ill take your action at four-to-one. But if the Yankees dont go down three-to-one and then bounce all the way back, you lose the bundle. I just like to get the terms of the wager straight.
Straight as can be, I said. Andno offense to either you or your friend
Were married, the large lady said, so dont call us friends. And she laughed some more.
No offense to either you or your wife, but four-to-one doesnt make it. Eight-to-one, though then its a nice piece of action for both sides.
Ill give you five-to-one, but thats where it stops, Frati said. For me this is just a sideline. You want Vegas, go to Vegas.
Seven, I said. Come on, Mr. Frati, work with me on this.
He and the large lady conferred. Then he came back and offered six-to-one, which I accepted. It was still low odds for such a crazy bet, but I didnt want to hurt Frati too badly. It was true that hed set me up for Bill Turcotte, but hed had his reasons.
Besides, that was in another life.
5
Back then, baseball was played as it was meant to be playedin bright afternoon sunshine, and on days in the early fall when it still felt like summer. People gathered in front of Bentons Appliance Store down in the Low Town to watch the games on three twenty-one-inch Zeniths perched on pedestals in the show window. Above them was a sign reading WHY WATCH ON THE STREET WHEN YOU CAN WATCH AT HOME? EASY CREDIT TERMS!
Ah, yes. Easy credit terms. That was more like the America I had grown up in.
On October first, Milwaukee beat the Yankees one to nothing, behind Warren Spahn. On October second, Milwaukee buried the Bombers, thirteen to five. On the fourth of October, when the Series returned to the Bronx, Don Larsen blanked Milwaukee four-zip, with relief help from Ryne Duren, who had no idea where the ball was going once it left his hand, and consequently scared the living shit out of the batters who had to face him. The perfect closer, in other words.
I listened to the first part of that game on the radio in my apartment, and watched the last couple of innings with the crowd gathered in front of Bentons. When it was over, I went into the drugstore and purchased Kaopectate (probably the same giant economy size bottle as on my last trip). Mr. Keene once more asked me if I was suffering a touch of the bug. When I told him that I felt fine, the old bastard looked disappointed. I did feel fine, and I didnt expect that the past would throw me exactly the same Ryne Duren fastballs, but I felt it best to be prepared.
On my way out of the drugstore, my eye was attracted by a display with a sign over it that read TAKE HOME A LITTLE BIT O MAINE! There were postcards, inflatable toy lobsters, sweet-smelling bags of soft pine duff, replicas of the towns Paul Bunyan statue, and small decorative pillows with the Derry Standpipe on themthe Standpipe being a circular tower that held the towns drinking water. I bought one of these.
For my nephew in Oklahoma City, I told Mr. Keene.
The Yankees had won the third game of the Series by the time I pulled into the Texaco station on the Harris Avenue Extension. There was a sign in front of the pumps saying MECHANIC ON DUTY 7 DAYS A WEEKTRUST YOUR CAR TO THE MAN WHO WEARS THE STAR!
While the pump-jockey filled the tank and washed the Sunliners windshield, I wandered into the garage bay, found a mechanic by the name of Randy Baker on duty, and did a little dickering with him. Baker was puzzled, but agreeable to my proposal. Twenty dollars changed hands. He gave me the numbers of both the station and his home. I left with a full tank, a clean windshield, and a satisfied mind. Well relatively satisfied. It was impossible to plan for every contingency.
Because of my preparations for the following day, I dropped by The Lamplighter for my evening beer later than usual, but there was no risk of encountering Frank Dunning. It was his day to take his kids to the football game in Orono, and on the way back they were going to stop at the Ninety-Fiver for fried clams and milkshakes.
Chaz Frati was at the bar, sipping rye and water. You better hope the Braves win tomorrow, or youre out five hundred, he said.
They were going to win, but I had bigger things on my mind. Id stay in Derry long enough to collect my three grand from Mr. Frati, but I intended to finish my real business the following day. If things went as I hoped, Id be done in Derry before Milwaukee scored what would prove to be the only run they needed in the sixth inning.
Well, I said, ordering a beer and some Lobster Pickins, well just have to see, wont we?
Thats right, cuz. Its the joy of the wager. Mind if I ask you a question?
Nope. Just as long as you wont be offended if I dont answer.
Thats what I like about you, cuzthat sensayuma. Must be a Wisconsin thing. What Im curious about is why youre in our fair city.
Real estate. I thought I told you that.
He leaned close. I could smell Vitalis on his slicked-back hair and Sen-Sen on his breath. And if I said possible mall site, would that be a bingo?
So we talked for awhile, but you already know that part.
6
Ive said I stayed away from The Lamplighter when I thought Frank Dunning might be there because I already knew everything about him that I needed to know. Its the truth, but not all of the truth. I need to make that clear. If I dont, youll never understand why I behaved as I did in Texas.
