Manly Virtues

A Novel
by

Hal Jones

Copyright, 2006
H.V. Jones

Contents

Preface.....................................Page 3

Tape 1......................................Page 4

Tape 2......................................Page 16

Tape 3......................................Page 29

Tape 4......................................Page 38

Tape 5......................................Page 60

Tape 6......................................Page 84

Tape 7......................................Page 104

Tape 8......................................Page 121

Tape 9......................................Page 141

Tape 10....................................Page 158

Tape 11....................................Page 177

Tape 12....................................Page 199

Tape 13....................................Page 217

Tape 14....................................Page 229

Last Tape.................................Page 240
Berge Demolition Co.
Reno, Nevada
Norman Berge, Owner

Internal Memo
6/26/2003

Dear Norm,

	Just to let you know - demolition of the remaining cabins at Breezeswept Point on Tahoe has been completed.  Altogether, 26 cabins were removed. All were empty except for #68.  That cabin was still full of stuff.  Before demolition, we took out living room and bedroom furniture, a stove and refrigerator, dishes and  kitchen utensils, rugs, bedding, linens, some clothes, a radio, an old tape recorder and a box of recorded tapes and lots of old magazines.  I kept an inventory of it all, and I have it at a mini-storage in Stateline.  
	I know all owners were notified to remove their goods, but you know how people squawk when their “treasures” are messed with.  Let me know what to do with these things.

Jack Ketchum,
Foreman

Reply:
7/1/2003

Jack,

	Thanks for letting me know about progress at Breezeswept and thanks for taking care of the things from Cabin 68.  For two years we’ve notified the former cabin lease-holders that all leases expired in 2000 and that the grounds would be cleared this year for development, but some were slow getting the message or didn’t want to hear it.  Some families have had those cabins for sixty or seventy years and are very pissed about losing them.  They’d  love to get someone into a lawsuit for whatever reason. 
	The former owner of #68 was the hardest to contact, but I finally received a letter from him last week stating that he had no interest in anything left in that cabin.  He said to give it all to charity.  
	There’s a used furniture dealer in Stateline who might buy the furniture and appliances.  Anything he doesn’t want can given to some church or trashed.  Don’t enter any receipts on the books.  Donate anything you receive to your favorite charity (the crew beer fund sounds like a good one).

Norm  

Repliforms 2243

TAPE ONE 									        5/21/85

	Come in...come in... testing...testing...
	This is about...this is about...  Hell!  The damn thing's not working. The little needle won't go up. Tape's turning, but I bet it's not recording a damn thing. Stupid idea, anyway. Tell your life to a fuckin' machine. Well, no one else's listening. Better the ol’ Wollensak recorder here than nothing...if the damn thing worked. There. It's recording again. Just proves the old maxim: if at first you don't succeed, kick shit out of it.  
	Now, let’s see...I guess this is what you’d call an audio journal.  I got this friend who writes things down at the end of each day and says its really useful for getting a fix on your life, to see where you’re goin’ and all.  Well, I’ve never done that, and I’m not about to write out forty-five years of my bullshit life.  But maybe I can talk it all out to Dr. Wollensak here and get some sense out of what’s goin’ on - or not goin’ on.  Well, that’s the idea, anyway.
	So let's see, Wolly, this is about...about sex. No. I’ve been thinking a lot about rooms lately.  Maybe it's about rooms...rooms with walls that are really doors, or rooms with walls that become gardens. No. It’s about rooms that are cameras.  Camera means room, doesn’t it - in Italian or something.  I remember a room that was a camera, where unbelievable things came into view.  Oh shit, I can see this is really goin’ well.  But maybe what I’m really thinking about is boxes.
	Marlene used to talk about putting people in boxes. She said I shouldn't judge Leo, shouldn't put him in a box. Those were her words, I remember. But why should all that be coming up now? I had it all packed away. What the hell good's a memory, anyway, if it's not to keep stuff like that boxed up and stored away where it can't give trouble?  But now everything seems to be leaking out.
	I've gotta get control of this. There's gotta be a plan. Well, let's start with the sex. It's no lie that sex has a lot to do with it. There's no need to be afraid of that. I mean, it's not like I've lived my life ashamed of sex. I guess you could say I've even got a little reputation along those lines, although that may be due for a helluva comedown if things go on the way they have lately.  And I'm not sure if nature's the one that's screwing around or if my own mind is doing me in. I mean, that mental thing has always been a little scary for me, and I'd just like to get things straight. Yeah, getting it straight is really the whole problem.
	Well, shit, there's no need to play word games here. The point of all this is total frankness for a change - get it all straightened out...I mean clear. Well, what the hell's the problem? You’re just a tape recorder, right Wolly? What can happen? Sure, right, I know - go ask Nixon.
	So, frankly speaking, the real problem here - at least the one that's messing me up now - is straightness. Or the fact that lately I can't get it straight. I've always needed sex a lot, and now the main tool is shot to hell, I mean, last night's spaghetti has better form. I've seen harder flounders. In a word: raging impotence.
	I suppose a lot of people would say so what, it happens in any marriage; maybe it's just stress. Well it's not just with my wife, to tell the truth, and of course it's stress, but sex is how I've always handled that.
	And then there's Marlene - and in my own bed - and with my wife right there. It happened about a week ago. As usual, I was getting to bed about one o'clock. It's gotten so I work or watch TV late almost every night thinking - hoping - my wife'll be asleep by the time I go to bed. That night she was waiting.  It wasn't anything nasty. She was acting very pleasant and all, but you only know if you start with excuses that you'll get something like: "It's alright, honey. We can try tomorrow. I'm fine." And then a little later: "Well, you know a woman has needs,too. I guess I'm not as young and attractive as I used to be." And later: "Is there somebody new at work?" "Y'know Sylvia says sex is even better for her and Sam now that they're in their forties." It could go on until morning.
	Rather than face all that, I gave it a try, only knowing what would happen, searching around like crazy for some way out: wear her down with tongue tricks, tie on a splint, use a starched rubber. And then hearing a little laugh, turning to see Marlene sitting cross-legged on the bed right next to us. I almost reached out to her, but I knew better.
	She had nothing on. Her skin glowed bronze, like it was then. Her thick hair was loose over her shoulders. The moonlight slanting through the window fell across her breasts like it did that night.
	It shocked me so much that I sat right up and jumped back to the end of the bed. Still she sat there with her mocking smile, waiting to judge my next move. It was a vision, I knew, but I hadn't had one for years. It scared me, but there was excitement too, especially when I glanced at the dresser mirror and saw this tall skinny kid looking back, and I could see that he - I - had a good hardon.
	At least that part wasn't in my mind. When I looked down, it really was there, and I didn't lose much time getting it into my wife. She seemed surprised as hell, especially at my energy, but I was inspired for the first time in months. I really wasn't sure what was going on. Half the time it seemed like Marlene was under me. The rest of the time she was sitting next to us, like criticizing my technique after all those years. It didn't take long to finish, but my wife was happy enough. When I looked around, though, Marlene was gone.
	I've thought about all that a lot the last few days. I've used sex a lot to keep my head under control all these years, but now maybe nature is turning the tables. If the price of potency is having visions, I'm not willing to pay it. That's why I've got to figure out what the hell is going on. That's why I've got to talk it all through. And I guess the place to start is with Marlene.

	I first saw Marlene in 1955 during enrollment week of my sophomore year in high school. I remember it was the first day - when different groups had gathered in front of the school before the bell. The group I was with were all just entering high school. Although for three years we had gone to Toll Junior High across the street and had even had some of our classes in the high school buildings, it was something else to suddenly be high school students. The year before we were the biggest kids in our school, and now watching all the juniors and seniors arriving in their hot cars and letterman jackets made you feel a little sick. We grouped together for some kind of protection, although, of course, no one would admit to being nervous.
	I really only knew two kids in the group I joined near the flagpole. One was Al Bates who was my best friend - my only friend - and the other was Billy Finley, Al's cousin and a total asshole. Making friends was as easy for Al as it was hard for me. The rest of the guys were kids he knew through sports or from just living there all his life. They all joked together in a strained way, generally ignoring me.
	When the first bell rang we moved together toward the main doors of the school. It was then that we spotted Marlene, although it wasn't like you could miss her. It would be like missing a car accident when you were in it.
	She was standing at the top of the steps, just to the left of the main door. It was obvious she was a "tough" girl, although not a tough girl from our area. Like the kids from the Catholic school - like all of us, I guess, the local tough girls had their uniform. They always wore long black skirts with white sweaters and black scarves tied around their necks. Usually they had on their boyfriends' leather jackets. Marlene's clothes were very tight and very bright. She had on a red satin jacket over a pink sweater and very tight red pants. They showed off a good body and long legs accented even more by red high heels. I understood that later in the day she got sent home for the pants and high heels. Her eyes were greeny-gold, but that was the only thing on her face she hadn't covered with about a ton of makeup, so it was a little hard to tell what her face really looked like.
	Right away a lot of whispering passed around the group, but because it was our first day, no one dared to say anything - no one but Finley, that is. He was a tall, skinny kid with dark red hair and freckles, an opinion on everything, and a mouth like an air raid siren.
	"Whooee," he almost screamed as we crossed by her, "hot meat for lunch."
	There were some suppressed giggles.
	"Hey, kid," she called, "you've got long legs."
	"Long enough to go around you a couple of times.'' The rest of the guys broke up over that.
	"I bet those legs put your asshole a good four feet off the ground," she continued casually. "I could tell right off that you were one of this school's outstanding assholes."
	That stopped everyone. All of us cracked up while Finley turned purple. Al had to hold him back as he dissolved into a screaming, babbling fool. Marlene very cooly turned and went into the school. For only an instant, though, her eyes landed on me, and, for some reason, I smiled at her. She didn't seem to notice.
	Why I should react to her in any way was beyond me at the time. Although she was different, she was obviously tough, and I didn't hang around with tough kids. Tough guys could beat shit out of me, and tough girls hung around with tough guys who could beat shit out of me. There was something else that set us apart. Tough kids were supposed to know about sex, and, while we all wanted to know, there was something frightening about that, too.
	Marlene made me drop my guard a little. Maybe it was her accurate analysis of Finley's character, or maybe it was something in her eyes. Whatever it was, both of us shook it off at the moment and went on about the problems of a new school.
	Any school was a problem for me at that age. Studying was not a problem. I never had much trouble making grades, except in social studies which was boring as hell. It was the things that went on around school that caused problems for me. I was what you would call nothing much socially, and the stupid thing was that the only thing I wanted that particular year was to be popular. It wasn't like a goose wanting to be a swan kind of stuff. I wasn't ugly, or cross-eyed, or spastic, or anything like that. The handicaps that I had were in my head, mostly, but while I was sure that popularity would solve everything that was bothering me, I had no idea how to go about it. In a word, I was strange.
	Mostly I was very quiet. Kids who signed my yearbook that year put things like "Great Stone Face" or "Tall silent type." Not many kids signed my book, anyway. I didn't talk much because I was afraid kids would twist around what I said and use it to make fun of me. It was safer just to keep quiet.
	I hadn't been like that when I was a lkid. Then we lived in northern California, and it seemed like people were friendlier, or maybe it was just that I was a little kid up there. People like little kids more than teenagers. 
	I still didn’t know why we moved from there. My grandfather, who was a minister in a church in San Jose, retired, and then he got an offer to help with a church in Pasadena. For some reason he took it, although he was sort of tired and sick by then. My mother told him he shouldn't, but I think she was a little glad when he took it anyway. She wasn't so glad when my father, who had a building contracting business that was doing OK, began to talk about moving to LA, too. That worried me, I remember, but what can a little kid say? Within a year we were there. I was eight. My grandfather died when I was nine. My father died two year after that.
	How can you be popular? I analyzed it. It would feel so good if everyone just liked you. If they invited you to all the good places. If they smiled with you and not at you. You could feel all close and warm instead of what I felt. I thought about it a lot that year, but I didn't figure out much. Did you have to be rich? It didn't hurt, but it was no guarantee. Did you have to be smart? If you were, you'd better pretend you weren't. Did you have to be tough? Either that or be fast, but being a wimp was a disaster. Did you have to be out for sports? Probably. Did you need an "attitude"? They all seemed to have it, but how did you get it?
	After my father died, my mother went nuts. She sold everything - his business, his tools, the house in L.A. She gave away his clothes. It was almost like she knew it was going to happen and had it all planned out. She got a job in a bank and with her inheritence from Grandpa bought a house in Glendale, although why the hell there, I never knew. I guess because that was where the bank was.
	I went to movies a lot. My mother didn't care much. She was on her way up. Our conversations usually consisted of her bitching and me listening. She bitched mostly about money or mortgage payments, or how little my father left, including a cheapo insurance policy. That was bullshit. They were just reasons for her doing what she wanted to do anyway.
	She started at the bank as a teller, but pretty soon she was taking courses in banking law, or business economics, or God knew what. She was just trying to get whatever edge it took for a woman to scratch a little higher in those days. Finally, she knew so much about so many things - or so many people - that she got an executive position, which was a little amazing for that conservative old local bank. Either she was damn good or she knew some damn good secrets. When the bank was taken over by a more aggressive state bank she was on her way.
	I mostly liked swashbuckler movies, or ones about knights and castles. I spent a lot of time during those years in the library, too, if I wasn't at the movies. I looked up medieval stories or found out about heraldry. I began to live the life. I even designed a Thomas family coat of arms. I made up a lot of mystical stories about places I saw every day and there were special names for the routes I followed.
	The schools - like our house - were right at the base of the foothills, just above a long valley that stretched east to L.A. and west to San Fernando. From my house to the high school there were three ways I could go. The lowest, across Stocker Street was the fastest, but also the most boring. It was straight and went through a drab shopping area. The houses were all pretty much the same: wooden California bungalows - a kind of evolved shantyhouse - or shapeless apartment buildings. This I called the Bog and Gully Route.
	A little farther up the hillside lay another path. There was no street that made it all the way across, but by jogging up and down you could get there. This way took longer, but it was more interesting. The houses were a little larger and set farther apart. Here and there were some with good designs. The owners probably had a little more money there, and some of them were remodeling, which really caught my interest. A lot of the houses were the typical fake Spanish stuff that everyone built in the thirties, I guess, but I remember one apartment over by Central Avenue that was designed to look like a group of English cottages on a hillside, rather than just one building, which it was. This was the Shining Hill Path.
	The Golden Dome Trail was the highest one of all, and I usually didn't take it unless I had a lot of time to kill or later when I began to run a lot. This was the most interesting, though. The houses, some of them at least, were great. While many looked expensive, but ordinary, a lot were individually designed by architects. There were colonial mansions and plantation houses, Spanish haciendas with great rambling designs, and big Tudor halls.
	If you know southern California, you know that if you have the coins you live on a hillside - for a better view of the smog, I guess, or to look down on the neighbors. Most of the kids who were rich and popular lived above the school in the saddles and canyons of the Verdugo range. By the 1950's even some of the higher canyons - which had been left for poison oak and coyotes - were being bulldozed and graded for fancy houses. My mother couldn't push up that far, but you could tell she wanted to.
	I began to get interested in houses. That was natural, I guess, my father being an architectural engineer, sort of. When I went to the library I began to take out books on architecture and to notice and make drawings of the different styles of houses that were popular around southern California and then styles from around the country and from around the world. I could tell you what houses were Victorian or split ranch or saltbox. But, in fact, I never told anybody. I mean, these are really not the things of your typical teenagers talk about, after all. You can see why I just kept my mouth shut.
	About the only reason I hadn't become a total loner by high school was Al Bates. Toward the end of ninth grade, once when I was walking the Bog and Gully route home, he passed me on his bicycle. About a block away he doubled back, circled around me and screech-stopped in my path. He almost ran into me.
	I'd seen him around school. He seemed to go his own way, didn't hang around with any particular group. He was about my size, but stronger looking, with a mop of curly, sandy hair. I thought he might be looking for trouble, but instead he started off talking about something at school like we'd known each other for a long time. I noticed later that this was the way he started up with anyone he felt worth talking to. The funny thing was that I answered him right back, which was little strange for me.  It was like there was no barrier between us, and I had this terrific need for conversation. After that we spent a lot of afternoons and weekends together if his family didn't have something he had to do.
	Anyway, getting back to Marlene, which all of this was supposed to be about in the first place, around the second week of high school, I got out of cross country practice a little late one day, and there was no one around to hitch a ride from. There was never much chance of a ride anyway, because most of the guys on the cross country team were nerds who couldn't drive or whose parents wouldn't let them have a car even in they could drive.
	This particular day I walked the Shining Hill path along the edge of the hills. I ended up on Randolph Street, which was a way I didn't usually go, although it came out close to our house. I was surprised that the houses on one particular section of the street were all pretty nice - even what you would call stately - with wide, sloped lawns, some circular drives, large shade trees and plenty of rose and camellia gardens.
	I was busy taking all this in and making a lot of mental notes about the places when, in the distance, I spotted a girl who appeared to be Marlene. Someone in a black car dropped her off, and she stood for a while watching the car drive away, then turned and walked up the long walk to a big house and went in. I wasn't sure, but it sure seemed like her.
	I walked faster to see if I could get a good look, but by the time I reached the house no one was to  be seen. The curtains downstairs were drawn, and no one was visible upstairs. Anyway, I didn't look too hard. I tried to seem casual. I didn't really know why I was so interested. What difference did it make who it was that went into that house?  I just told myself that it couldn't be her. According to the way we all assumed things to be, this wasn't the area of town where you would expect a tough girl to live. More likely she lived in the low rent area across Glenoaks Road over by the industrial section. If it really was her, maybe she was in the neighborhood on some nasty business.
	Then I took a good look at the house. It was really something. I don't know why I'd never noticed it in my wanderings. It wasn't new - maybe from the 1920s - but it had the kind of lines that always look good. I swear it looked exactly like a house I'd seen pictured in a book about the work of Frank Lloyd Wright - one called "Falling Water" or something - that was built somewhere back east. I remembered reading in that book that he had also designed houses in Pasadena. Maybe he'd sneaked in one in Glendale that no one knew about. Or maybe it was just a damn good copy.
	The front was all heavy wood siding and really beautiful stone work. A broad, low gabled roof faced the street, and a cantilevered stone-covered balcony on the second floor ran from the middle of the house around the east side.
	Like I said, I wanted to look casual about it, so I kept on moving, taking in what I could with little back glances. Then, as I reached Jackson Street and turned down to our house, the stupidity of what I was into really hit me. Why should I give a damn who it was that went into that house? And if it really was Marlene, why should I want anything to do with her anyway? No one thought of me as any kind of tough guy, but so far nothing had happened to label me a wimp either. The surest way to change that was to come up against the leather jacket boys that Marlene hung around with during lunch, not that I really paid attention to what she did at lunch, of course.
	This whole fighting thing was a little strange. Kids in elementary school never got in many fights, but somewhere around eighth or ninth grade some guys just seemed to turn nasty. Hormonal, I guess. Two guys I knew got drawn into fights like that, got popped in the nose, gave up and went through a lot of shit later. It seemed like this was a kind of sorting out that had to be done, but if you could avoid it you could avoid the label at least for a while. To hang around a tough girl was to bring that day of reckoning closer. And for what? Why was I even interested?
	OK. Interested was not the word. Unconsciously, it'd become obsessive. I didn't even realize that I knew her class schedule completely, that I shadowed her, at a distance, from class to class, that, if there was a chance to eat lunch away from my friends and not draw comments, I tried to sit near her table.
	She usually ate alone. She hadn't been in school long enough to be in any group, and she seemed to prefer it that way. But sometimes leather jacket guys and upperclass-men with reputations as cocksmen would sit down by her, and I would find myself burning for some reason.
	After seeing the girl go into that house, I began to realize what I'd been doing. Instead of stopping it, though, I started watching her even more, cursing myself for an idiot all the while. What I was after, what I would do if I ever had a chance, were beyond my comprehension.
	For her part, if she was aware of me at all, she ignored me completely. Even when I dared to sit a few chairs from her one day in the library, not a glance passed between us for the full hour, although, if she'd looked, she would certainly have caught me watching her. 
	I took her all in. Her outfits had gotten a little more subdued since the first day. They were at least within the range that wouldn't get her thrown out again, but they didn't leave very much to imagination. Her sweaters were revealing as hell and her skirts tighter and shorter than the floor-moppers that were popular then, reaching just below the legal knee. Her hair was ratted up and her face hidden completely behind paint and lipstick. The face, the hair, the style were forbidding as hell to me, but the body - my God - the body hypnotized me.
	Now I even began to avoid getting rides home so that I could walk the middle route on the chance that I might see her again, but after a couple of weeks with no luck I was sure that I'd been wrong that afternoon. 
	All this was about the same time that I was getting seriously into cross country, a true indication of a self-destructive personality, if ever there was one. I'd messed around with running in ninth grade, mainly because Al was into that, and in the first weeks of high school the new track coach, Mr. Sosky, sniffed me out because he'd heard that I'd run in junior high. He was desperate to get a cross country team started. I was pretty tall and for your typical long distance runner, but, like I said, he was desperate.
	Practice meant that I didn't get out until around four-thirty or five, and as September wore on and evenings darkened earlier it was easier to see into lit houses and less easy for residents to observe me watching. I became bolder about looking into what I called "Marlene's house;" but while there was sometimes a light here or there, the drapes and shades were always drawn.
	Then one afternoon it happened. We got out of practice early because of a meet the next day, and, as I passed under the big old jacaranda trees that lined her parkway, suddenly there she was in the large, arched front window, holding back one drape as she watched the street. My reaction still surprises me, considering how shy I was at that time. As though having spotted my long-lost best friend, I raised my hand and waved.
	Taken off guard, Marlene began to wave back. Then, realizing that she didn't know this little jerk from the trash man, she canceled the wave and settled on a condescending kind of smile. It was the first time I saw her smile. My obsession was confirmed. I was really excited. But as I turned the corner and headed down the hill, the thrill gradually cooled into a consideration of what was next. If tough kids meant fighting and sex - as we all knew to be true - it wasn't for a fight that I was following Marlene, but what the hell did I know about the other thing?
	Up to that point, my sexual experience had been pretty much out of hand, as they say. My only serious date was Rosey Palm. The summer before high school I'd worked at a mountain camp where they had church conferences, and I sort of dated one of the girls on the crew. Actually the situation was that because I was the youngest one, all the older guys on the crew got lined up with the cuter crew girls, and I got left with one who was a little hefty in the haunches and not so pretty, but with a “great personality,” always a description to beware of.  She was a good talker, and we did a lot of that.  The only romance involved was when she gave me a peck on the cheek at the end of the summer.	
	I kept up the watch on Marlene's house, but without luck. At school, I never caught her in some situation where we might start up a conversation. Then one day in October I passed her house to find her sitting on the front steps. At first I hardly recognized her. She had on a grey sweatshirt and dark blue shorts. Her hair wasn't teased, and her face was scrubbed. Although caught off guard, I knew my way. I made a casual right turn, right up the front walk and stood in front of her. My boldness didn't surprise me anymore.
	"Hi, I'm Andy Thomas," I began. "You're new in this neighborhood, aren't you? We live just down the street."
	"Hi," she said a little guardedly, "I see you go by here all the time. Why did you wave the other day?"
	"Just trying to be friendly. I've seen you at school sometimes."
	"I've seen you seeing me at school. Why don't you say anything to me there?"
	"I don't know. Didn't think you wanted to talk much. Anyway, I just thought I'd say hi. Do you like it here?”
	"Not much."  Her tone was dry.
	"We moved this summer," she went on. "I don't know why my father had to pick a house in this neighborhood. Wants to keep me out of trouble, I guess."
	'Where are you from?"
	"Philadelphia."
	"I've never seen Philadelphia. Well, I've never been east of Nevada. But you're right about the neighborhood. It's dead. Mostly old ladies and cats.
	She laughed. The second smile. But I didn't know where to go from there.
	"Well, I hope things get better for you. There's not a lot to do around here, but it's not too bad. I guess I have to get home."
	"Well, thanks for saying hello. That was nice." 
	"Bye." 
	"Bye.”
	This time as I headed down the hill my attitude was changed completely. The thrill of the game I was playing had suddenly become something that hung heavily in the air and wrapped itself around me. A very serious thing was coming. I recognized the feeling. It had happened once before. I walked on, lost in thoughts. The world had changed in five minutes. For the first time I'd really seen Marlene Barzani. She was beautiful.

TAPE TWO										6/28/85

	Maybe you’ve heard stories about me, and you think I was some kind of sexual prodigy or something, but that's not true. When I was a little kid no one ever said anything to me about sex. Hell, my father hardly talked, anyway. If you think I was quiet, I was a regular blabbermouth compared to him. Anyway, he died when I was eleven, like I said.
	I remember some little girl and I showed each other our stuff when I was four or five, but that was curiosity more than anything else. Sometime after my father died, my mother - all serious - sat me at the kitchen table and gave me a very clinical description of activities I couldn't image any human doing, especially my parents. I kept my mouth shut, because she looked like she was in pain, and I told her I understood it all when she finished. I couldn't take any clarification of that stuff. I guess I was a little dense, because I should have figured out from that and from the stupid jokes kids were starting to tell by fifth grade that something was going on, but I didn't.
	Hell, even the dog tried to help. I came home one afternoon to find the neighbor's stupid dog in our yard humping hell out of our dog. Now I understand that she was in heat, and he, driven nuts by the aroma - or whatever it is - had opened a hole in the fence to get to her. The only thing I could think of then was rabies. Someone had been telling me how dogs could go progressively crazy if they got bitten by another animal with rabies, and what this mutt was doing was about the craziest thing I'd ever seen.
	Very cautiously I edged around them to a rake that was leaning against the garage. The neighbor's dog seemed nervous, following me with his eyes, but that didn't stop him. As I moved toward him, rake well in front of me, he began a weird howling that sounded more like an old man's whining. Finally, he disconnected and faced me, snarling. My neck was prickling, and I was scared, but I charged the rake into his nose. He gave out a yelp and beat it back through his hole in the fence. But when I returned to our dog, expecting the usual licks and tail wagging, she only slinked back to her favorite place by the garage with a definite air of deception.
	I remember that from the time I was eleven or twelve I would get this urge now and then to take my clothes off - not just in my room, but in strange places, exciting places. I don't mean like on the bus or in the school auditorium, but I was drawn to places like garden corners or open fields of tall grass. Some mornings my pajamas were all sticky, and I began to feel guilty that I was peeing myself at night.
	To show you what a sex whiz I was, I was almost thirteen before I figured out how to beat off. It was a lucky thing I finally did, too. Sooner or later I'd probably have gotten arrested for indecent exposure or have woken up some morning permanently glued to my sheets. I remember it was a little upsetting when a part of my body I thought I understood pretty well started doing something totally different like that, but I guess, after some time, I accommodated the whole thing pretty well. I mean, I wouldn't say I exercised the new function every day. I wouldn't say that because I don't want to sound like some pervert, but it's probably pretty close to the truth. I did stop looking for weird places to take my clothes off.
	I guess I should tell you a little more about my running, because it is important to all this. By the time I first talked to Marlene I'd only run cross country about a month, and yet, even in that short time, I’d become a quiet fanatic, although my reasons for getting into running were all wrong, athletically speaking.
	First, Al was really into track by ninth grade, and, not to be left out, I tagged along. He was what people call a natural athlete. He could do almost all the events except distance, which he really hated. That turned out to be about the only thing I could do. I definitely wasn't a sprinter.  I was sort of long and loose rather than tight and springy, so I didn't work very well at the jumps, either. If any of them involved poles or bars, it was a real disaster.
	My second reason for getting into running was that there was little hope of becoming really popular if you weren't out for some sport. Not that running was any great guarantee of popularity; football was best for that, with baseball and basketball about tied for second. I don't know what it was between me and team sports. I wasn't the greatest, but I was OK at most of them. It was something about the regimentation and drilling and taking orders.  Anyway, a guy could get pretty famous if he was really a hero at one of the track events, that is, one of the events like the sprints or jumps.
	The problem with cross country was that no one ever watched because meets were never held at our school and because after the start you couldn't tell there was a race because everyone was lost chasing their tails around the hills.  Another drawback to distance running was the guys who were on the team. I mean, I don't like to set myself apart or anything, but some of those guys were definitely weird, and I wasn't at all sure that it would benefit my reputation to be associated with them. If I'd thought about it much, though, I should have seen that you really had to be a little strange to run distances, because if you're doing it right, it involves pain over a pretty long period of time. And anyone who deliberately puts himself into pain for a long period of time has to be strange.
	The thing was, I was in pain a lot of the time, anyway. It wasn't the kind of pain you could name or touch. In those days I wouldn't even have said it was pain, but a sort of waiting that never stopped. At least when I was running I knew where the pain was. It was almost better to have sore legs and shin splints and stitches in my side and crotch rot than to keep slipping through the aimless days.
	There was another side to running, though, and I guess it was the real reason I stuck with it: if there was pain in running, there was also a natural anesthetic, and that anesthetic wiped out more than physical pain. Soz used to talk to the kids all the time about "running through the pain. That is, as you ran, pain was all around you, and you just had to keep pushing through it. He used to talk about little tricks you could teach yourself to use so that the pain didn't bother you so much. It really was so much Sozian bullshit, but we listened, and a lot believed.
	I listened, but I saw it differently than he explained it. To me running through the pain was like jumping through a hoop - you know - one of those fiery hoops guys like to jump through on motorcycles or horses. I thought of pain like that. As you ran, it built up and built up as you got closer to the hoop until you could feel the fire really licking at you and bubbling your skin and singeing off your hair, and then suddenly you were through it, and it was like running on over clouds in slow motion and in complete silence. Well, it wasn't really exactly like that, because if you didn't pay attention to where you were running, you'd get mixed up in a bunch of sticker bushes or fall off a cliff, or something. But if you worked at it you could really detach your mind, sort of like sending it up in a balloon while the rest of you churned along underneath.
	There were two secrets to it. First was the breathing. As you ran along, the breathing became hypnotic. After your body finally figured out what your brain was making it do, it settled into a certain rhythm: in-one-two-three, out-one-two-three, in-one-two-three, out-one-two-three. If you really ran hard it might be: in-one-two, out-one-two. Or if you were really struggling up a hill it would turn to: in-one, out-one. But the secret was to really concentrate on the rhythm, and eventually part of your mind drifted off.
	The other thing was to concentrate your vision. You had to stare hard at the ground - at the lines in the pavement, or the little bits of gravel in the asphalt, or the blades of grass, or the mixed-up stuff in the dirt.  Once your mind was locked into the breathing rhythm and your vision was tied up with the endless patterns, you had to just shut down your thoughts. Any time a thought got recognizable you had to stop thinking about it and concentrate on the rhythms and the patterns. It didn't happen all the time. The races were the times when it hardly happened at all because you had to think about your pacing and your position and the other assholes who were trying to push you off the hill.
	But during practices, I could sometimes get myself into a blank state, and, if the place I was running was fairly long and safe, I could run for fifteen or twenty minutes without even remembering afterward where I'd gone. It was really even more than that, though, because time seemed to slow down when I was like that, and it seemed more like an hour. I'd be really wiped out afterward, but I'd recover pretty fast and then feel relaxed and calm for a long time.
	Like most everything else I did around that time, I gave this a mystical name , too. I called it "white-light running." I called it that because when I really got my mind blank, even though I could still see everything around me, it seemed like I was running all surrounded by some white glow that pulled me on and protected me. The one bad thing about it was I sometimes thought that if I kept it up long enough everything else might disappear, and I might just be left there in the bright glow forever. I took care never to push it too far.
	Actually, there was another little problem with running like that. It had to do with the visions or feelings I mentioned before. I've always had a tendency to have them, but I've always kept it under pretty good control. But when I cleaned out my head for white-light running I also gave up some of that control, and there were some times when I was running when feelings came up very unexpectedly and strong. It really had more to do with place than time, and I gradually learned where those places were and stayed away from them. I won't go into what came into my head in those places; it really isn't very good to think about at all.
	Anyway, I got into talking about all this because in a way it was running that changed things between Marlene and me. Well, it really wasn't running as much as falling. It happened at our first season meet.
	The cross country course that we used was not at our school, but at Verdugo Park, about five miles away. First you had to run the length of the park, then cut over a street that suddenly went straight up into the hills behind the park. Part way up the hill the asphalt ended, and there was a low chain across the road to keep cars out of the dirt part of the road which quickly narrowed down into just a footpath. This path circled around a small canyon, then went almost ninety degrees up a hillside. On the other side of the hill you circled back until you were at the chain again, and then it was just down the street and back across the park to the finish line. The whole thing was a little over two miles.
	At that particular meet I was doing pretty well, although that was probably because the other team was pretty shitty. Coach Soz always scheduled that particular team, Webster School - a private academy - at the beginning of the season to give us a good start with a win. That was almost guaranteed, they were so bad. I don't know why they even continued to send teams each year. Anyway, as we neared the chain coming down the hill, I was feeling pretty cocky in third or fourth place. I let my mind drift out a little for some relief, and that was when I didn't lift my foot enough as I jumped over the chain. Of course, it wouldn't happen going up when I'd just fall on my face. Oh, no! It had to happen going down so I could have the fun of rolling ass over teakettle down an asphalt street. And I rolled almost all the way to the bottom. And, of course, the assholes on my own team had only asshole comments to make as they ran by. And, of course, no one helped.
	Finally, I did manage to get myself up and across the park to the finish. It was a little impressive at least: "Raw Hamburger Crosses Line - Gives All for Team." I wasn't even last, Webster was that shitty.
	But not all bad came out of that fall. In the first place there was the coach. He seemed more impressed that I had finished the race all beat up than if I had won. He'd never paid much attention to me - I mean special attention - but that day he took me back to school in his own car and made sure I had medication on all the cuts after I showered. The attention made me feel a little better, but, of course, none of the jerks on the team waited for me to get out, and so, bruises and all, I ended up walking home. But then that led to the second  thing. You could say it changed my life.
	By habit I took the route by Marlene's house, although since our last meeting there I'd hardly seen her at all. It seemed like she was never in the halls at school, and when I saw her at lunch she was never sitting alone, almost as though she was making a point of it. Finally, I got pissed and even stopped walking by her house. Now, while I was still two blocks away, I could see her sitting on the flagstone steps of the front porch. I knew she saw me and figured she would probably go inside, but she just sat there until I was in front of her walkway.
	Like the time before, she wore a sweatshirt, dark blue shorts and white tennis shoes. This time her hair was pulled back in a pony tail and she had a little make-up on. Slowly, with a little limp for effect, I turned into the front walk and stood before her. She took in the scrapes on my left arm. 
	"What's wrong with you?" 
	"Oh, nothing at all. I just fell over a damn chain, creamed my leg and lost the meet this afternoon." 
	"I didn't know you were out for sports." 
	"Cross country.” 
	"That's a lot of work. Why'd you pick that?" 
	"Oh, you know, it's so neat rolling down hills."
	Her eyes appeared darker than before. I can still see them. I'd thought they were green, but in the late afternoon sun they seemed almost dark brown. She was even more beautiful than before. For some stupid reason I felt a little - a lot - like crying, which was strange, because I hardly did that. Something seemed to come over her, too, but I don't think it had to do with crying.
	"Would you like something to drink?," she asked, her tone a little strange .
	"Yeah, I guess.
	She stood. I followed her through the wide oak doorway into the house. The house was a surprise. Although it had almost modern proportions outside, I still guessed it was probably built in the 1920's. But the interior was either recently remodeled or was the work of a very good architect. The lines were long and contemporary. The paneling was rich and warm. The floor was covered in places by terra cotta tiles and in others by thick rugs. I doubted that the Barzanis had had time to fix it up like that, but even the furniture was very tasteful and well-suited to the architecture.
	Marlene led me into a modern kitchen and produced a soft drink. Not knowing what to say, I studied the cabinets, which were a little strange. They had no doors but were full of expensive-looking dishes. We sat for a while as I drank. She didn't join me, but watched me carefully, examining everything, yet not staring. I was aware of her interest after so much deliberate ignoring, but I wasn't uncomfortable. She seemed especially interested in the raw spots on my arm.
	"You need to put something on that," she said.
	"Coach already did. He said it's best to leave it uncovered."
	"It must hurt a lot."
	"Naw. What does smart is the one on my leg. I've got to get home and get these Levis off. They rub hell out of it."
	For a while she seemed to be considering that, as if it were something important. Finally, I got up and took my empty soda bottle to the sink. I stood there for a few minutes looking at the fixtures and appliances. They were all solid brass or stainless steel and of the best quality. I was about to go toward the entrance hall again when she said,
	"You seem to like the house. Would you like to see the rest of it?"
	"Sure"	
	We left the kitchen by another door that led into a den.  We went through that room and into a large dining room. Beyond that was the living room. While the house was the usual rectangle outside, inside the effect was of length and curves, unexpected views and quiet warmth. It seemed to be a larger space than was actually enclosed.
	When we reached the front entrance again I noticed a staircase I hadn't seen the first time through. Marlene motioned me to go up.  At the second floor landing we stopped a minute, or I did, looking back down the curve of the staircase, admiring the carved and polished edges of the steps where they weren't covered by thick carpet. The stairs were set in a huge curved window that showed a corner of the yard with several orange and apricot trees surrounding a flagstone terrace where lawn chairs were set around a modernistic marble fountain. Honeysuckle and ivy covered the lower parts of the window and climbed almost to the roof on the left side.
	The house really fascinated me. I'd never imagined that so much invention could be put into a place to live. It was more like a public building, a great library or a theater. Every-thing seemed so thought over and well planned. Each place you stopped there was something to catch your eye, to entertain or make you think. I was hardly aware that Marlene had led me into a room that opened to the right of the top landing. As I wandered in I guessed that it was Marlene's room. The color was a kind of burned rose which was repeated with variations in the furniture, bedding, rugs and curtains. It was feminine, but not really teenage. There was none of the usual stuff like pictures, dolls, and perky things that I'd noticed on the rare occasions when I'd seen girls' bedrooms.
	Then, without realizing where I was going, I bumped into Marlene. She'd stopped in the center of the room. I started to say something when she put her hands up, took my face, pulled it to hers and gave me a kiss. We were in her bedroom, of course, but I'd been so entertained, like on a museum tour, that I'd made no connection.
	Regardless of old men's wet dreams, this is not necessarily a situation that turns a fifteen-year-old on. My mind flashed an image of Al and Suzie Kinsler. He told me that the summer before he was working in his yard one day when Suzie happened to walk down the alley behind their house. He only had on gym shorts because of the heat. Right away she started up a conversation, and before he knew it, she had her hand down his shorts feeling him out. He wasted no time getting the hell out of there, though, because everyone knew Suzie had more crabs than the Seal Beach mud flats at low tide. Now my feet wanted to do the same as Al's.
	I was panicked, but I was also angry - angry at myself for letting down my guard when I was with a tough girl. If my feet were trying to beat it for the door, though, the rest of me couldn't move. It was held there by something very hard to describe: her kiss.
	It's pretty hard to tell about a kiss. I mean the point of kissing is kissing, not talking about it. But Marlene's kiss was something I've never experienced since. She didn't like to kiss a lot; at least she didn't kiss me on a lot of occasions, but I wish she had. Her kiss was soft and cool, yet very electric. There was no particular pressure to it; the contact was everything. Somehow it touched all my body and left it aching for more. My panic was buried by the flood of impulses racing through me. I went lightheaded and knew that I was in the presence of something I'd never imagined.
	Somehow we ended up on the bed, sitting on the edge of it. I don't think that the kiss had been broken, but we must have moved ten feet across the room. Her hands were moving over my body, feeling my chest, my arms, my back. I winced when she touched the scrape and again when she moved her hand over my groin.
	I understood what I was supposed to do; I'd at least learned that much. And yet one thing really had me worried: how to get out of my pants. If you start dressing yourself by the time you're three, when you're fifteen you must’ve taken off pants about five thousand times. Yet now the only thing I could think of was how I was going to get out of them. I don't recall worrying about how anything else would function.
	Marlene sat back from me. Slowly she slipped off the sweatshirt. I can still see the contrast between the white brassiere and her gold-tan skin. I was fascinated by the sight and would probably have sat for an hour watching, but suddenly the brassiere was gone, and I found it hard to breathe. Her breasts were very definitely breasts. I see them now as beautiful, like the rest of her, but the sight of them then was so new to me that again it almost sent me running from the room. But I didn't run. She kicked off her tennies, neatly dropped her shorts and sat again next to me with only her panties on.
	I was feeling overdressed in the circumstances, so I began to unbutton my shirt. She took over and peeled it back. She ran her hands over my shoulders and chest and kissed me there. Her hands found the button and zipper of my Levis, and suddenly I remembered how to get out of my pants. I jumped up, ripped off my loafers and socks, dropped my pants and jockeys in one blinding movement, and stood there all flushed, showing off the one thing I'd managed to do right during the whole ritual.
	She took my hand and pulled me down to the bed, and we rolled to the center. For a while I guess we kissed, and I figured that I was supposed to take off her panties, which I managed, although I almost ripped them. Finally she pulled me on top of her, reached down and put my cock where it should go, and with maybe ten pushes it was over.
	Afterwards, we rolled apart and lay quietly. It had felt good, alright, but I remember thinking it wasn't quite the thrill you always heard. 
	I guess I felt that this little experience might bring us closer, but Marlene lay in silence, and I couldn't think of what to do or say. It finally became clear to me that she was waiting for me to leave. She turned her face to the window. I felt I should at least say something like, "Thanks a lot."  Fortunately, I didn't.
	There was a bathroom off the bedroom. I crossed the wide room and went into it. Again the decoration - I guess for that house the correct term is decor - the decor of this small bathroom was impressive. The fittings appeared to be gold. The color, like the bedroom was sort of pink with touches of tan and burgundy. I don't remember all of the small details, but they all seemed so correct, so precisely chosen.
	If it seems strange that I remember all of this now it's because it was so different to me at the time. Our house was never like that. I felt that I'd entered a world that had always been there but that only the privileged or very lucky could see.
	As I entered the bathroom I was surprised to see it suddenly get larger and was more surprised to be faced by a tall kid with no clothes on. The whole wall opposite the door was covered with mirror. The only place I'd seen full-view mirrors was in clothing stores and then never with all my clothes off.
	For a time I studied my body. The scrapes on my right side were still raw, but they didn't look bad in that warm light. Something was trying to make itself known to me, but things'd happened so fast and the place was so strange to me that I couldn't get oriented. Then, suddenly, it all came clear to me. This was what all the talking, the jokes, the warnings were about. This was what most kids my age only snickered about, and I'd done it. I had really done it. Well, maybe not I. But it had been done - not well, perhaps - but done. They said this was what made you a man.
	I studied the figure in the mirror to see if any manly changes had happened. The legs were long and becoming muscular. The running had done that; they didn't look much like kids's legs. My upper body and arms weren't so well defined, and there wasn't any hair on my chest. Maybe now it'd start growing. I wondered if kids would see differences and know what I'd done.
	My face didn't look harder or older, but that day it seemed a little Indian. Maybe it was the light in that room, but I guess it came from my father. Maybe there was some Indian in his family, although he never had talked about who his people were. Some kids thought I might be part Mexican, and when we took Spanish in eighth grade some of them started calling me Tomás, the Spanish form of my last name. I wasn't crazy about it, but I didn't mind much.
	I used the toilet and watched my partner do the same. It almost made me laugh to see his piss arching into the bowl, and I began to feel very sexy being naked in that luxurious place. I felt myself getting hard watching myself, as if I were really spying on another person. But then I remembered that I wasn't alone. Marlene hadn't made a sound or come to see where I was, but her presence was suddenly very strong. I realized that I'd have to cross the bedroom again to get to my clothes, so I finished and wrapped one of the very plushy soft burgundy towels around me and went back.
	She'd covered herself, and her back was to me. I guessed I was expected to let myself out, so I picked up my things to go back to the bathroom. I felt like at least I had to say good-bye, but as I looked at her back and long hair fanned over the pillow I became certain that she was crying.
	My first thought was that, having gotten into a thing I knew nothing about, I'd done something really bad, maybe even maimed her for life. But that was pretty egotistical, considering I wasn't all that hung, and I'd probably set some sort of speed record, anyway. I couldn't think of what to say, so I sat on the edge of the bed and reached across and touched her shoulder.
	Apparently she hadn't heard me enter the room and turned quickly, maybe thinking I was someone else. She didn't seem to recognize me. Her eyes were dry, but still I was certain that she was in some deep misery. I searched her face for a sign of pain or fear, but it went blank, emotionless. Frustrated by my inability to say anything, I bent down and kissed her lightly on the forehead. Then her arms came up around my neck, and she drew me down, kissing me with that soft, cool, burning kiss. A tent began to form under the burgundy towel.
	What happened then really surprised me. Her gentle hold on my neck became a vise. She pulled me to her hard, holding me like she was a scared child who'd just found her father. There was almost a panic in the way she ran her hands over my body. On the one hand, it felt damn good, especially the kisses that went with it. Her body was amazing - warm and soft, yet solid - and the touch of it along mine felt great. On the other hand, there was something too intense, too driven about her need. It didn't fit the situation, but, I thought, maybe that's the way sex is. It was what Grandpa used to call a push-pull. I was being drawn into her delirium and what it promised, but it scared me a lot.
	She must have felt my confusion. She released me. Then, in one of her infuriating changes - almost sarcastically - she grabbed my ears and forced my face between her breasts. The way she did it should have pissed me off, but the result was great. How could you imagine a sensation like that? Her smell was wonderful, like she'd just bathed and used lots of talcum, all fresh and soft and babylike. And the feel of that enveloping softness against my face almost set me off again. I stopped any resistance and tried to sink deeper into that beauty, but she didn't give me the chance. Roughly, she pulled off my towel and pulled me onto her, and this time, without her help, I found my way in.
	I knew it would all be over again too soon. I tried to move slowly, backing off, going in more, feeling us touch, then backing again. I lifted myself to see what it all looked like in operation, but that just about set me off, too. Leaning on my arms, eyes closed, I stopped and let the sensations wash over me. It was like feeling a connection to something known before - a plug into a secret world that had been part of me, but long forgotten. I wanted to know it more, to think about it, to dream.
	Marlene seemed pissed again. She put her hands on my butt and forced me back in. She ran them roughly over my hips, and it stung fiercely when she touched the burned places. That did it; I shot it all.
	It wasn't anything mind-shaking. The load just rolled over the edge. At first Marlene wasn't even aware that it happened.
	"Did you...finish?" she finally asked.
	"Yeah, I guess."
	"You stopped, but I didn't feel when you...
	She didn't say more, but lay back and stared at the ceiling. The nastiness was gone, but her frustration was easy to feel. She sort of reminded me of the dog, but I didn't like that comparison much. I was still hard and still in and didn't really want to go anywhere, so I stayed put, moving lightly in and out. Gradually she realized what I was doing. She looked up at me, and I guess I looked a little sheepish. She began to respond. She pulled me down, then lifted her right knee and rolled us over. Then she straddled me, kneeling.
	At this point, to tell you the truth, I really didn't know what was going on. I mean, I knew what we were doing, but I didn't know why. I guessed she was after the same thing I was, but took longer to get there.
	If that was it, she got pretty intense as she went on, bearing down on me, breathing hard and making some strong sounds. Her breasts moved heavily above my face. I noticed that the door to the hall was still open, and that worried me some.
	Whether she got where she wanted, I don't know, but then, I was totally ignorant about that stuff. To tell the truth, though, that's something I've never been too sure of with women, despite what they say; I mean, it's a little hard to prove, one way or the other. If she did, it was nothing explosive. She just slowed and then lay over me. I can't remember if I came again, but there probably wasn’t  much left, anyway.
	Finally we rolled apart. The silence returned. But this time it was a more natural silence, like when the communicating had been done right. I lay for a long time watching the colors of the room slowly change in the declining sunlight. I watched Marlene watching me, then watching nothing. I watched the leaves outside the large window shifting silently back and forth as if for a better view of us. I watched that strange fall day come to an end.

TAPE THREE 									 7/5/85

	So, I ask you Wolly, was I so wrong to think that after what had happened Marlene and I might have some future, that there might be some warm feelings there? I sure was! In the weeks that followed I thought about Marlene all the time, but it became impossible to talk to her. She was never at home, or she never answered the door. The phone wasn't in the directory because they'd moved in so recently, but when I called information they told me it was unlisted.
	The logical place for two students to meet should be school, but it never happened. If I caught sight of her between classes she quickly disappeared around a corner or into the girls' bathroom. If I were cagey and managed to trap her in the hall, she quickly struck up an intense conversation with anyone, and I looked silly trying to break in. Worse yet, she began to hang out with the tough girls and their leather jacket boyfriends. At lunch she always sat in their crowd. She continued to wear tough clothes, but now it was California tough. Most of the guys she hung with at lunch were not only in the tough crowd, but were twelfth graders.
	The frustration was building. What could have happened to make her avoid me so constantly? I may not have been the greatest thing to hit her life, but wasn't like I'd ruined her or treated her so badly. She could at least say a few words to me.
	One noon, as I came out of the lunch line, I saw her sitting with one of her new friends. Both had their backs to me. I decided to sit down with them anyway and cause a scene. If she was going to be an asshole, I could be one, too. As I got near the table, the guy, Leo Frank, who had a great reputation for kicking ass, got up and left without noticing me. Before Marlene could do the same, I wheeled in front of her. She looked very startled; something like panic crossed her face for an instant, and then her eyes narrowed, harder to read.
	"Look, I know what you want, but I can't see you anymore. Just leave me alone and quit chasing me around school."
	"Chasing you around school?"
	"Yeah. I see you after class. You're always looking for me, and I just don't have time for it. What happened - I don't regret it, but you're just not my type.'
	"Well, that's damn big of you. I see you're really making a classy selection of guys that are 'your type'."  I glanced at Leo’s back as he went through the door.
	"You little shit. Who told you you could make judgments about my life and my friends? At least he’s honest about who he is  and what he wants. He doesn't slip around the neighborhood peeking in windows and looking sad for freebies."
	Our voices were low, but the heat of the conversation was beginning to be felt by some others nearby, including a table of guys I knew. Several were looking over to see what I was involved in. Despite the things that Marlene was saying to drive me away, and despite my hurt, I didn't want to get into an argument with her. I wanted to try to straighten things out.
	"Look, I don't want to fight with you," I said.
	“Good. Then leave me alone."
	“How can I do that when I can't stop thinking about you? You know that I tried to get to know you before we did that. You know that's not the only thing on my mind. I honestly like you. I want at least to be friends. I don't see why you gotta put me down like this."
	"I told you what I had to say. I don't need a friend. I have friends. I don't like going around with wimps. Not you; not your table full of wimp buddies over there that always say nice things to me when I go by them. Hey, I've gotten paid for doing less than I did with you and by guys with more talent by far. You got away easy. Just let it go at that. I don't want to fight either, and I can't fight if I can't see you, so just take a walk."
	During this conversation I'd gone from embarrassment through shame and had ended up in a raging fury. It says something about my development that I didn't hit something or start yelling like I might have a couple of months earlier. Instead, I stood up, my face flushed, my ears so burned they felt like cinders, brought my face close to Marlene's, and said in a dead quiet voice,
	“You can say anything you want to. I know it's all bullshit. I know what I felt when we were together and I know you felt it, too. It wasn't sex for money. It didn't even have to be sex. I felt you, and you felt me, and you liked me, and that's all I wanted to talk about."
	Her eyes reddened a bit as I talked. She'd started to lower her head but kept her eyes fixed on mine until I stopped. Then she said in a deep hiss,
	"I said, get out of here. Just get away from me."
	I couldn't see a damn thing in that cafeteria. I don't know how I managed to get out the door. I remember that my friends called to me as I passed them, but I turned my back on them and got outside. The rest of lunch I spent wandering brainlessly around the campus.
	Somehow I got through my afternoon classes without causing a scene. I had Latin and world history classes in the afternoon, and I know that if anyone had asked me to do anything more than sit I would have gotten violent. Maybe we had tests, maybe we read; I had no idea.
	Sixth period was PE, and that day we had a cross country meet. We dressed out and drove to the park. By this time my rage, instead of dying out had grown. I decided to commit suicide on the cross country course. Nothing violent: I would kill myself running.  My heart would blow up and I’d die a hero.
	That day, we were competing against St. Thomas Aquinas, a Catholic high school. Things started off badly. Al's asshole cousin, Billy Finley, was on the team although he couldn't run worth shit. What he could do is get everyone pissed off. That day in a loud voice, which was the only one he used, he was telling a joke about some nuns who are talking about Polish sausages and demonstrating their lengths and thicknesses with their hands when an old deaf nun comes up, watches their gestures and asks, "Father Who?" It was an old joke. Whenever someone was talking about Catholics one of the guys would always say, "Father Who?" in a squeaky old lady's voice. Finley only brought it up now to raise a little dust with the kids on the other team, which he did. A couple of their guys were starting to walk over to our group when the coaches whistled to start the race.
	When the race began I blitzed to the front of the pack, far from my usual spot in back center. As we reached the end of the park and made the turn to begin climbing the hill I expected to die right there. I threw up without losing stride and started up the slope. I was holding first, but one of the St. Thomas school guys was right off my heel. Was he crazy enough to think that I was running a serious race? We ran side by side up the paved stretch of the hill and jumped the chain together. As we began the dirt part of the course we entered a very narrow stretch with a sharp dropoff on the left. Somehow our feet tangled up, and he fell off the course into some sage bushes, which are not the softest. I heard him yelling and cussing, but I knew it wasn't intentional on my part. Anyway, he probably wasn't hurt much if he could make so much noise. I couldn't stop. My prime mission was to induce a heart attack and die in glory. This was the best part of the course for that. From here on it shot straight up the hill. I raced on, my lungs screaming, my legs bursting, certain of entering the final agony with each stride. Suddenly I was at the top and still alive. I coasted down the backside of the course and made my way back to the chain. I could feel some runners closing on me, but with my lead and the best competition eliminated, I didn't even have to sprint too hard across the park to claim my first victory.
	Now I was really screwed up. Not only didn't I die, I won. This was supposed to be the worst day of my life, and everyone was congratulating me. However, things got put in perspective pretty quick.
	The guy who'd fallen off the course came straggling in at the end of the pack. Apparently even his own guys hadn't stopped to pick him up. But he'd been seen in the front, and now all sorts of witnesses appeared to testify that I'd knifed him, axed him, whatever, to get him out of the way. He said something like that was the only way chickenshits could win a race. As usual, my eloquence under pressure was really great, so I just hit him in the face.
	Everyone stood back in amazement - amazed that I would win a race in the first place and amazed that old quiet Andy was pounding shit out of some guy, even though he was pretty skinny.
	The coach broke it up and put the cap on a great day. First he forfeited my win for poor sportsmanship; then he told me to meet him at his office when we got back to school. There he told me that he almost suspected cheating, seeing a big win like that after my never winning before. That really got to me, but, as usual, I couldn't think of any way to explain my mind, so I kept quiet. Then he got into the part about bigoted jokes - like I was the one who told it - and how the school couldn't tolerate that, and he hoped that was not becoming part of my character. Then he waited, but I still couldn't say anything much; so he gave me some extra workouts as punishment, and I left.
	The shit with Soz was really the capper. Of all the teachers I had, he was the one I liked the most. It really hurt to have him think badly of me. All that weekend I thought about ways to explain and vowed to talk to him on Monday. 
	Actually, I’d been thinking about talking to Soz for a long time.  I still don’t know what I would have said.  Maybe I could have gotten into it slowly, like just hanging out in the gym office or helping with cleanup or something.  Maybe he’d just get used to me being there, like I used to hang out at my father’s shop, and then we could sorta shoot the shit.  I guess it was really that I missed my father, missed having some manly influence in my life - someone who could just listen to my shit and give me some clue as to how a man would handle all that - y’know what were the manly ways, the manly virtues. 
	But, as it turned out, I didn’t talk to Soz that Monday.  The reason was the Blue Flamer. The whole thing that happened just shows how stupid it was to think that hanging out with cross country guys would do anything positive for my reputation.  To see what I mean, just consider Jack Marshall. He was the kind of kid who would do just about anything on a dare, which provided a lot of guys with entertainment when they couldn't think of something else to do. But it was in the ninth grade that he really settled on what he thought would be his great claim to fame: the Blue Flame.
	In case you don't know what that was all about, the name came from a natural gas-powered race car that the local gas company was sponsoring for public relations. It was called the Blue Flame Special, because natural gas was supposed to burn that way.
	Somehow Marshall found out that he could blow a fart and light it, and it would also burn blue. No kidding, he could bend over, rip one off, light it with a lit match between his legs, and it would shoot out a blue tongue of flame. The Blue Flamer was born.
	Now some guys might try something like that a few times just for the hell of it. They might even show a close friend for a laugh. But Marshall really fell in love with the idea. Somehow it really tied in with his image of himself, like he'd been chosen by God to illuminate the world or something. He worked on his skill day and night until he really had something. He got to the point that, even with his pants on, he could blow a flame almost two feet long, and, as most kids lives are really pretty boring anyway, the other kids loved it. They were always getting Marshall to light off in the gym or out on the field when the coaches weren't looking or even in the school heads. He got so famous that even the girls knew about it -although I don't think he ever did it in front of a girl- and I think that some of the teachers had an idea.  Basically, his whole personality finally came down to farting.
	Now, like most fanatics, he finally went too far. He got so that he could fart anywhere and everywhere. I don't know if it was pride of farting, if his sphincter was getting a little loose from so much use, or if he was just eating too many beans, but he would rumble them off in the halls, in the locker room, even in class. It was impossible to get into any small enclosed space with him, like a car, for example, or a gymnasium. He would even shoot them off in the shower room, where there was no hope of lighting them, and that was what caused his downfall.
	The plot began with some football guys, of course.  They’d gone along with blue-flaming as long as it had been popular, but now had grown tired of the whole thing.  For their weapon of choice, they used Fleers Double Bubble. At the time when Marshall usually went to the showers, a group of about ten football players gathered there and received two or three pieces of bubble gum each, depending on capacity. When Marshall appeared, one quietly circulated among the others, collecting the soggy wads into one huge flame stopper. Marshall, with the sixth sense of the true artist, suspected foul play and made a break for the door. Too late. In a mass tackle, he was grounded A hell of a fight ensued, because he was pretty big for a runner, but in the end they had him, upside down and spread-eagled and applied the coup de grace right between the legs.
	Marshall raged and tried to get a piece of his tormenters, but it was useless. The more he ran around, the more securely the gum was implanted. Finally he was reduced to a sobbing mess in the middle of the locker room floor.
	Soz got involved in this because he was supervising the gym that day. I guess he felt that after the stink with the Catholic school he didn't need any more trouble, so he took it on himself to get Marshall cleaned up and keep the thing out of the main office. The problem was that Marshall was really hairy. Coach sent him into the head with some solvent, but every time Marshall tried to pull the gum off the screams could be heard all over the place.
	Finally Coach decided that the only way was to cut it off, so he took Marshall to his office, had him bend over his desk and carefully snipped out the mess, as much as he could. I know all this because guys took turns standing on each other's backs to get a look in the transom over the office door until some other coaches came in and drove them off.
	At last Marshall left the office, trying to look as cool as he could, but, ironically, the final blow was delivered by Soz himself. One of the kids overheard him saying to another coach that he couldn't take much more of that kind of shit, but he guessed he was lucky that at least Marshall hadn't blown any bubbles. When that got around, the mighty BlueFlamer was instantly reduced to "Bubbles" for the rest of his high school career.  It crushed him, and his flame was forever extinguished.
	Naturally , I just tried to stay out of Soz's way after all that, and that was too bad. Things might have been different if I'd had someone to talk to. Things never did work out that we could just sit down and talk about things, but I always had the idea that if we could, it would be good, that he'd say things - I don't know what - that might help me through.
	To tell the truth, maybe there was another reason I didn't talk to Soz. Maybe I was a little intimidated by what others thought of him. Some of the students - and even some of the coaches - thought he was a little nuts.
	He didn't look strange. Sherman Sosky was big, broad shouldered, and heavy muscled. He looked more like a football coach than a track coach. But he was the track coach, and he was good at it.
	One reason people thought he was nuts was because of his constant projects to raise money. He had run-a-thons and jog-a-thons and walk-a-thons or anything else-a-thon that might bring in a few coins. There were candy sales and magazine sales and bedpan sales until the principal finally had to tell him to stop.
	And then there were the cons he would pull. Take the pep rallies, for example. After about the third pep rally of the fall, when the people who planned those things began to run out of things to do, they would put an extra row of chairs on the gym floor behind where the football players sat, and, after fumigating us carefully, they'd let the cross country team sit there. Then, when everyone was done worshiping the football guys, Soz was allowed to get up and introduce the runners.
	He'd been waiting for this and he didn't just run down the list of names and get off. He had something special to say about each guy - three-time letterman, ran last week's race with four impacted toenails, all conference this or that - and then came the scores.
	"Next is Mark Buschemi," he'd say, "who is close to tying the league high-point record. Mark has totaled 72 points in our last three meets."
	Now this sounds spectacular except that in cross country the low score wins. First place gets one point, last gets fourteen. The crowd would go wild for a turkey who'd come in dead last three times in a row. No one knew shit about cross country, but high points, that's got to be great. So all the duds became kings for a day as Soz continued his number magic. Kids would wonder why everyone on the cross country team was cracking up, but they just marked it up to weirdness.
	I was so concerned with being somebody that I couldn't see clearly what Soz was doing, but I can now. I was more concerned with getting a leg up than with helping out the idiots on the team. But Coach knew they were just kids trying to learn something and get by and do what had to be done. They had the same right to a chance as anybody. He knew that all systems have their shit. Whatever you do, it's there. Instead of fighting it and getting all bitter like some teachers, or sucking up to it and being phony like others, he used it to get something for the students
	Maybe there was some good reason for pep rallies, but more often than not they were times for the glorification of the same old kids. And they were just the kids who didn't need more glory. So Soz conned everyone. He was just seeing to it that some kids who badly needed some attention got it and got it the right way. I mean, could he really stand up in front of the whole school and say, "This asshole is one of the worst runners in the league?"  Maybe that little bit of glory goosed the kid on to something better the next week, and then Coach could stand up there and say something good about him that was true, too.
	And what was all the money-raising about? At the end of each sport's season there was always an awards banquet. Soz's were famous. First, they weren't rubber chicken in the school cafeteria. Soz hired the banquet room at the Verdugo Inn, and it was steak all around. And then came the awards.
	There were the usual ones like best runner, most improved, most inspirational; but it didn't stop there. There were plaques for the team managers. I mean, cross country manager is usually the nerd-of-all-nerds job and these guys got plaques. And then followed categories no one had ever heard of: Most Consistent (consistently bad), Most Creative (always cut across the course), Most Orderly (fewest roaches in his locker), Best Prepared (got his shoes on the correct feet five days in a row), and if he couldn't get you into one of these there was one for "participant."
	Of course, we got ripped up by the kids in other sports, and I heard other coaches groused about "debasing the concept" of awards, but I remember one day years later when one of my kids came across a couple of my trophies in a box in the garage - the only ones I ever got for anything - and we had a long talk about the great old days of high school track, and I could see he saw me in a little different light. 
	Soz was a con man, sure, and he shoveled the shit around like the best of them; but he knew where the shit stopped and the real stuff began.With things that counted he didn't mess around, like forfeiting my win for fighting or getting on me for not doing my best to prepare for a meet.  He was a good man.  When I really think about it, I think one of my mistakes was in not trying to talk to Soz when I could.

 TAPE FOUR  									7/6/85

	Halloween came and went. I didn't care much. I was too old for that stuff, anyway. Some of the kids on the team got together, but I didn't go. Good thing. One guy’s older brother had a car which they loaded up with eggs and garbage to throw at other cars, drove around the corner and were stopped by the GPD's anti-hooliganism squad - history's shortest ride of terror. The cops held them at the jail for a few hours, and their parents had to come get them out.
	I thought I might go over or Al's, but he had to stay all night at his father's gas station to protect against any vandalism.
	The trouble with being friends with Al was his family. They were nice and all - expect for Finley - but very close-knit, and he had to spend a lot of time with them. It only got worse the summer before when his father bought the gas station.
	I didn't hang around with Al when he was there, and, because the station wasn't doing too well and his father couldn't afford to hire a regular helper, that was most of the time he wasn't in school. At first I did go there, but if I helped out I could tell his father didn't like it because he couldn't pay me, and if I just sat around he seemed nervous that I was wasting Al's time. So I saw Al less and less.
	Because he was my only friend, I really saw no one, to tell the truth. Mostly, I jogged, or sat around the empty house, or played with the dog. About a month had gone by since my afternoon at Marlene's. I saw her daily, of course, but I didn't see her. I didn't go by her house anymore. I tried not to think about her, which was stupid, because the more you try not to think about someone, the more she fills your mind.
	I've sometimes thought that if I'd just gotten my things and gone home after we did it the first time, things might have been different. I think that for a lot of guys the first time is pretty much like that - sort of like beating off with help - no real deep emotions except for the nervousness, just getting through it is everything. Maybe if I'd left it like that, my life would have gone a different way. It wouldn't have been such a big deal. I'd have tried it later with someone else, and it would have been a little different and so on, gradual-like.
	But I'd gone back, and she'd taken me higher - let me feel the warmth and the craziness and a bit of the glory - and there was no way back and no gradual way in. As much as I denied it, I wanted her. I could have tried to get to know someone else, but the way I was - and the way those days were - who would it be? I passed Marlene at school and didn't see her, but in my mind I couldn't take my eyes off her. I didn't think about her and thought of no one else. I burned.
	Everything burned. The weather that year screwed up completely. Usually in Southern California the summer heat fades as autumn comes on. The smog stays pretty bad until the rains begin in November, but it cools some. Then in late September or early October the wind turns for a week or two and you get Santa Ana winds out of the Mojave Desert that clear the air, but dry and burn everything. Every year ritzy homes are burned up in some dried out canyon set on fire by a local maniac.
	That year, for some reason, this so-called Indian Summer came on much later. It was early November when the winds turned and the temperatures jumped into the nineties, even over a hundred, for more than a week. One of those nights, about ten o'clock, I was studied out and sick of thinking about not thinking. I decided to get to bed early to escape the heat and the problems. My room was off the kitchen in the back of the house and had two large swinging windows which I had wide open trying to trap some stray breeze.
	The wind had stopped, but the humidity had gone way up, so that the night seemed almost tropical. I was already down to my shorts as I lay studying on the bed. I pulled down the covers, turned out the light and spreadeagled on the sheet, trying to gather in enough coolness to get to sleep.
	The heat had even driven out sound. No cars passed. The mockingbird that usually chattered all night from the big pine tree in the yard was cooling himself somewhere else. I was about under when a light tapping on the screen less than two feet from my head brought me back with a rush. There was no moon yet that night, so, as I rose and looked out the window, I could only make out a black figure standing in the yard.
	"Hey, can I come in?”
	It was the voice I heard every night but that night it came from the shape in the yard, not from my head. The shock of getting up suddenly had me dizzy. My head screamed with voices. Pride screamed, "Tell her to go to hell." Vengeance whispered, "Play with her, stall, make her stand out there." But the voice that came out of my mouth said, "Sure. Go around to the back door.”
	I grabbed some gym shorts and a T shirt and got them on as I crossed the kitchen. For once, my mother had been at home all evening. She was watching TV when I went to my room, but the front of the house was silent and dark now. Carefully, I let myself into the service porch and unlatched the back door. Marlene was scarcely recognizable. Her face was clean and her hair pulled into a tight bun. In a black sweatshirt and black pants she could have been a boy.
	Silently she slipped across the kitchen into my room, but on the way I made some noise with the door and stubbed my toe on a small table. I closed and locked my door and turned on the light. For a few minutes she looked around the room - much plainer than what she was used to, I supposed - and then sat on the edge of the bed. It squeaked. I pulled the wooden chair from my desk and straddled it, my arms crossed over the back.
	All this while speeches, one-liners, snappy come-backs and put-downs had been flying through my head on fast forward. Whatever I said first was crucial, I knew. I'd been too quick to let her in. Now I had to put the situation in correct perspective. Things - many things - had to be set right. Carefully I weighed and sorted. It had to be something deep, something penetrating, the tone was everything.
	“Well,'' I said profoundly.
	Moved by that eloquence, she replied, "Well."
	Clumsy silence followed. Stupidity was next.
	"I didn't expect to see you here."
	"No, I guess not."
	"I mean, you were pretty clear that you didn't want to see me again."
	"Yes, I guess so."
	Just then the kitchen floor creaked. I motioned Marlene into the little bathroom next to my room and opened my door before my mother could see that it was locked. I made like I was going for something in the refrigerator.
	"Did I hear you go out Just now? I thought I heard something," she said.
	"It was the dog. She got out of the garage," I said very offhand. "I heard her in the back yard and put her back in."
	"It must be the heat in the garage. How did she get out?"
	"I guess I didn't close the door tight."
	"Well, you know you've got to finish fencing the back yard. That dog can't be locked up or on a chain all the time."
	"I know, Ma, I'll finish it this weekend."
	"You've been working on it for two months." 
	"I know, I know, I'll do it."
	"Are you going to bed now?" 
	"I was in bed, Ma." 
	"Your light is on." 
	"That's because I got up, Ma." 
	I opened the refrigerator and poured some juice.
	"I was thirsty." 
	"You're going to bed now?" 
	"Yes, Ma." 
	"Good night." 
	"Good night." 
	I went back to my room and sat down again, listening to my mother bumping around the front of the house. Then it was quiet. Marlene sat on the bed again, but in the dark I couldn't make out her face. Finally, I turned on a small desk lamp. 
	She hadn't said anything about the exchange with my mother, but she was smirking a little. Her face was beautiful, as I remembered it, but that seemed to piss me even more. The muggy heat pressed ever more tightly into the room, squeezing my head so it throbbed. Thoughts had no meaning. This was not going right at all. 
	"You know," I said, dropping the mind games in frustration, "you hurt me. You hurt me a lot." 
	She said nothing, but her expression changed, and she looked away. 
	"Why?" I asked. 
	"Maybe I thought we shouldn't be seen together." 
	"What?"
	"Maybe I thought it wouldn't do you any good to be seen with me." Her tone was direct. 
	"You mean you were protecting my reputation?" 
	"No, I'm becoming a nun soon, and I thought you might blow it for me." 
	I gave her a dirty look.
	 "And maybe I thought you'd tell your friends what we did."
	 "I never did.” 
	"I know." 
	"How?" 
	"It doesn't take long for that kind of stuff to get back to you, believe me." 
	I didn't like the thought that she'd had so much experience with that, but it wasn't like she'd ever lied about who she was. I changed the subject. 
	"How'd you know where I live?" 
	"If you can spy me out, I can spy you out, too."
	 "I never spied on you." 
	"Right!" 
	"So why'd you come over tonight?" 
	"Well, isn't it socially correct to return calls? You called on me, didn't you? Or should I have sent my card first?" 
	"Well, ten o'clock at the back door in the dark doesn't really need all that formality.
	"Listen, it was a shitty idea, OK? I'll let myself out. And I won't wake up Mama."
	"No," I said, standing up to block her exit. "I'm sorry. You don't have to go. I mean, you can go when you want, but I don't want you to."
	She walked around the room for a few minutes, although there wasn't that much space and certainly nothing to see. Finally she sat down.
	"My father was acting like an asshole, alright? He had one of his fancy lady friends over for a little visit, and it pissed me off. I told him so, and we had a few words, and I walked out."
	"Where does your mother live?" I asked without thinking.
	"She's dead. He killed her," then, smiling sarcastically at the look on my face, "No, he didn't kill her, but he might as well have. Ah, listen, this wasn't such a good idea. I don't even know why I did it. I just didn't want to walk around all night, and I sure as hell don't want to go back there."
	"You can spend the night here."
	"Look, I really don't think..."
	"You can use the bed and I'll sleep on the floor."
	"I don't want to take your bed."
	"No, really, I'm used to it. I camp out a lot," I lied. "I've got a sleeping bag, see?"
	I opened the closet and grabbed the bag off the shelf. The truth was it belonged to my brother, Danny, and he was the one who camped out a lot when he was younger. It never really interested me.
	After a little more, I convinced her. I thought she might at least take off her sweatshirt in that heat, but she only took off her shoes and lay on the bed. It groaned.
	"Nice bed."
	"Yeah. It's not the greatest. Sometimes it sounds like the Boston Symphony."
	"Oh? It sees that much action?"
	'Huh? Oh yeah," I said, embarrassed. "Well, really, you were there for the only action I've ever seen."
	She shook her head at my frankness. I spread the sleeping bag on the floor and turned off the lamp. In the dark I got out of the shorts and the T shirt and stretched out on top of the bag. The sticky heat seemed to flow to the floor and settle. There was no movement at all. For a long time I lay still, listening. For a while the bed groaned and squeaked as she tried to find some comfort. Then it was quiet. A little later I could detect her soft, even breathing.
	That was worse than the noise. I seemed to feel her breath on my shoulder. The constant thought that she lay only inches from me built an enormous tension. Sweat stood out on my face and chest and rolled down my neck. I tried rolling to my stomach, like I usually slept, but in my condition and on the hard floor, that was really painful. After a long time, from plain exhaustion, I dozed off.
	About two or three in the morning the weather changed. The desert wind finally turned, and a cool ocean breeze flowed in. I felt the chill and woke up. At first I didn't know where I was. I'd never really seen a rug's eye view of my room before. Then I remembered.
	Both windows were still wide open. I got up to close them. The moon was high overhead and lit up the yard and the room with its silver-grey shine. I looked at the bed. Marlene lay there uncovered. She had only her bra and panties on. The full moonlight, streaming through the window, suspended her above the bed, glowing and shimmering, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. For a long while, despite the chill, I stood fixed, unable to break the hold of that chance vision, burning its beauty into memory.
	Everything ached. I wanted to touch her, to hold that beauty, if nothing more. It seemed like all my other dreams, but so intense it could kill. Finally, I closed the window. I got the blankets off the floor and covered her carefully, then went back to the steeping bag.
	The knocking from the door made me jump up from the floor. A glance at the clock showed that it was past seven-thirty. I only had forty minutes to dress, eat and walk a mile and a half to school. A glance down at Marlene showed me I had more to worry about than that.
	"Andy, why aren't you up? It's a school day. Why is your door locked?" my mother called.
	Marlene was gradually waking up. I motioned frantically for her to slide off the bed, away from the door, which she did, hiding herself between the bed and the wall. I grabbed whatever clothes I could and kicked them and the sleeping bag into the bathroom, then opened the door.
	"What happened to you?" my mother said. "You look terrible, like you hadn't slept a wink."
	I grabbed at that opening.
	"I must have had stomach flu last night. I had to go the head a lot. I don't feel too good."
	"Yes, I heard you tossing around. Why didn't you call me?"
	"I didn't want to disturb you. Maybe you should invest in a new bed so you wouldn't have to hear me tossing around."
	She shot back a glance at me, but she missed Marlene's sweatshirt tangled around my foot. I kicked it under the dresser.
	"Well, can you eat anything now? I'm ready to go. I have to get there early for a meeting. I'm just having toast and coffee."
	"No, I feel rotten. I'd better stay home today. I'll just throw up if I go to school."
	"Maybe I shouldn't leave you alone," she said, making a stab at motherhood. I didn't have much doubt about that lasting too long.
	"Nah, it's alright. I'll make some tea and toast later."
	"I'll call later to see how you're doing." I knew she wouldn't.
	Once she'd left,Marlene surfaced with a sour look on her face.
	"You sure lie to your mother."
	I looked at her in disbelief.
	"You're saying I should tell her the truth? Wait, her car isn't gone yet." I looked out the window. "Hold on, I'll call her back."
	"Never mind."
	"You never lie to your father?"
	"No."
	I felt like saying something like maybe that's why she had to spend the night on the street, but my head was clear enough to know I didn't want to go that way. Instead, I put on my bermudas and went into the kitchen. At first I got down some cereal, as usual. I thought Marlene would follow me, but in a few minutes I heard the shower in my bathroom.
	Now, that got me thinking about my brother, Danny. He didn't talk much about personal things, but one day he let slip something about taking a shower with his wife. After that, I fantasized about taking a bath with a girl and what it would be like. I pictured Marlene in my shower and felt my curiosity rising.
	Returning to my room, I saw the bathroom door was closed. Quietly, I tried the handle. It was locked, but an idea began to form. Taking a sweatshirt from my drawer, I went up to the front bathroom. With a damp cloth I sponged the night from my face, arms, and chest, put deodorant, brushed my hair and used some mouthwash.
	When I returned to the kitchen, I took out eggs, bacon, bread, sweet rolls and juice. While I waited, I scrambled and fried and toasted enough for four or five people. I don’t know why my mother always bought all that stuff.  We hardly ever ate much breakfast.  She just couldn’t get over not having a family anymore.
	All of the food was piled on the breakfast room table when she finally came out. I'd set the table with my grandmother’s best china which my mother kept separate in a big glass breakfront cabinet in the dining room.
	Marlene had put on her clothes. She'd washed her hair and only partially dried it. It looked almost black and was combed straight down, making a stark frame for her face. The breakfast didn't interest her. She took some toast and asked for coffee. There was only instant, which she made a face at, but drank. Outside, the ocean breeze of the night before had turned to heavy fog. Beyond the bushes bordering the house only a shining grey could be seen. Still, she stared into it, not looking at or speaking to me. I could hear only the "splash, splash, vroom" of occasional cars crossing the culvert in Stocker Street and gunning up the hill or the “lub, lub, lub, splash, splash" of cars decelerating down. Even when you thought it was quiet in that house you could always hear that sound, so you never heard it. That morning it roared.
	Nerves began to close in. In the deafening silence, confused feelings piled up. 		There was excitement. There always was with Marlene: the excitement of the unknown, the forbidden, the dark places. The air crackled with it. It burned over my skin.
	There was desire. From the start there had been desire, but I'd put other names to it. Now I knew its face. If I could desire her when I only saw her across the campus, covered with pounds of paint and ridiculous outfits, what could I feel when she sat so near - her face scrubbed and shining, her hair damp and fragrant or when I remembered how I'd seen her the night before?
	And there was fear.  I feared her moods, her temper, her secrets, her honesty. I feared the insight all women seemed to have that lets them see into the miserable grain that's the core of all men. Mostly, though, I feared her leaving.
	In a few minutes, I knew, she would get up and leave me again. I had no hold on her at all. Desperately I tried to trap her with a web of words. Grabbing at the latest school scandal, I began.
	"What do you think about Wiggy?"
	"Wiggy?"
	"You know, Mrs. Magnusen, the American History teacher?"
	"What about her?"
	It wasn't something I could tell about from having seen it. American History was a junior class, so, naturally, I didn't take it. But the story was that Tom Kier and Mike Brady, two guys who were on the baseball team, had pulled it off. It was funny that baseball guys would do it. They were always such square, clean-cut types. It was more like something a football guy would do.
	Anyway, Mrs. Magnusen was a nice enough old lady, I guess, but everyone had this thing about whether she wore a wig or just had the same ugly hairstyle every day. In those days not many ladies wore wigs just for looks, so everyone guessed that, if she did, it was because she was bald. Kier and Brady, who were in her fifth period, got the idea to sneak in during lunch and tie some clear fishing line to the back of the chair. On the end of the line was a small fishhook. They taped it to the chair some way so it wouldn't be noticed.
	Once class had begun, Kier used some excuse to come up to the desk, and while he was talking to her - she was sitting in the chair - he loosened the fish line. Then, acting all clumsy, he sort of fell against her and at the same time lightly dropped the hook into her hair. He apologized and went back to his desk.
	The class was ready to explode; everybody knew what was going on. Still they kept pretty quiet until finally she got up to teach and let out a scream. Now here is where I couldn't really be sure what happened. Some kids swore they saw the wig move, but others said no. If she had one, it must have been pinned on pretty good because it didn't come off. Actually, though, that might have been because the fishhook went into her scalp and stuck, nailing any possible wig to her head.
	Of course, all hell broke loose. Kier and Brady were suspended and almost expelled. The principal wanted to charge them with battery or something. The whole class was disciplined, and that led to a lot of parent protests. I was amazed that Marlene hadn't heard about it. It was all anyone talked about during the last week.
	As I was telling about it in a real peppy, joking way, I began to notice a change coming over Marlene. She'd been distracted and distant, but now she was giving complete attention, and I wasn't sure I liked it. Something dark moved over her face. When I finished she said,
	“And you think that's funny?"
	'Well, a little bit, I guess. I mean, a lot of kids did."
	"And you get your opinions from the other kids?"
	"Well, no, not really. I wasn't there. It's just a story I heard."
	Suddenly I felt very defensive for some reason.
	"Oh, so you don't mind repeating it, even if maybe it's not true."
	"It must be true. Those two guys were suspended."
	'And you don't mind continuing to get laughs at that poor lady's expense?"
 	"Oh, now, wait a minute. I didn't do anything."
	"No, you wait. I was there. I saw the whole thing. The woman was bleeding -bleeding - do you understand? Here she only comes in to do her job, to teach the shitheads who go to that half-ass school, and she has to put up with physical abuse from those two smug assholes - assholes who only expect everyone to say how wonderful they are and don't contribute one goddamned thing to the world except pain for a nice old lady."
	I knew where all Marlene's classes were, but I hadn't bothered to find out where Mrs. Magnusen taught. Anyway, I thought Marlene had only senior classes. Still, if she really saw the whole thing, I bet she was the only one in the class who felt that way. It seemed like I'd heard all the others joking about it.
	"Well, I'm sorry I brought it up then," I said.
	"No, I'm glad you did. It gives me a better idea about you; I really don't know you very well, you know."
	That made me a little hot.
	"Well, it's funny you didn't seem so choosy about who I was last night when you were hurting for a place to spend the night."
	"Oh. Oh, of course, you'd have to say that."
	Of course I had to say that, stupid as it was. The whole conversation was stupid, especially because I knew exactly what was coming next.
	"Well, thank you for the bed, and thank you for the food. I'm sorry I don't have any cash on me right now. Send me the bill."
	And with that she slammed out.	
	So I got what I wanted, right? The reunion of the century, right? But things didn't exactly go back the same as they were before.
 	Marlene began to acknowledge that I existed at school. It was nothing over-whelming: a quick look in my direction when we passed, a slight nod, a hint of a smile. I still didn't talk to her or try to sit by her; I knew that would be too much. She didn't come by my house again, but maybe she was waiting for me to go to hers. I thought about that, but I didn't go.
	There were a couple of reasons why not. First, I really took a little time to think about her and me. Mainly I thought about something that I'd known from the first time I met her, but that had been buried by my fascination for her: she was crazy. Maybe not totally, maybe not constantly, but I knew that she was mad as well as I knew that there were good places and evil places in my path. It was just a sense I had of things, and it was as basic to me as any other part.
	The funny thing was that on the one hand, I didn't really mind her madness in my life. Madness has sometimes even attracted me. Maybe it was a better way to see things. Maybe escape and freedom lay there. Maybe it was full of colors and lights and weird shapes: a mental Disneyland. On the other hand, I've never gone that way because of a vow I made to myself when I was just twelve. I guess I've never made another promise to myself. I don't think I'm up to keeping many promises, but this one I've never broken. It had to do with my father, but by the time I knew Marlene it was something packaged and stored away, and I never thought about it. More and more she brought that hidden thing to mind, and I didn't much like it.
	But there was another reason I didn't go back to Marlene's and that was because I made a new friend. And this time I could say that I made a friend and was not just befriended. To do it, I used humor.
	For some time I'd been aware that I had the ability to use humor if I wanted to. It started out like when I was in a group of kids and something weird happened. I could usually think of something funny to say. Gradually I began to say it. Kids would laugh until they looked around to see who it was. Then they would look like they'd just stepped in dog shit and would look at each other and laugh again, but this time all smirky.
	Still, I noticed there were some who began to expect me to say funny things, and in spite of themselves they laughed with me. It's strange, because I was never like that when I was a little kid. Everyone always said what a happy little kid I was, but now I was becoming a funny kid, instead. 
	When you think about it, humor's strange. I've heard that it's a sign of intelligence, but it's really a kind of cover. It's like a coating that makes things easier to take, or sometimes it hides things better not seen. And kids who aren't up to it look for the ones who are. Maybe a laugh helps them get through the day.
	When I deliberately decided to try my sense of humor on one person, I picked Glenn Potter. Glenn was a basketball player, only JV, not varsity; but that was OK for a sophomore. He was a very nice guy - not too snotty and a lot of kids liked him. Actually, that year being a basketball player was almost as good as being a football player, because the football team had done so shitty.
	Glenn sat right in front of me in geometry class, and the technique I used on him had to do with our teacher who was a great butt for jokes if there ever was one. He almost looked like a cartoon. He was fat and redfaced and bald. He'd been an army sergeant, and maybe as a reaction to his years of military discipline, his clothes were always baggy and unironed and about twenty years out of style. I guess it wasn't really fair of me making fun of him, because he was a good geometry teacher, but what I was after was more important than fairness.
	The teacher, Mr. Cazas, had one really irritating habit. He liked to tell jokes, but he always repeated the same ones. I guess sergeants could get away with that shit in the army. He had six jokes. I numbered them. I could tell when he was about to start one because he would lean on his lectern and take off his glasses. I told Glenn about my system, and when the teacher was about to start a joke I'd tap him on the back two times or three times, depending on the number of the joke. Some of the girls who sat around us even caught on to the system and would smile when I tapped Glenn. I knew they would never smile at me alone.
	One day Glenn tried to beat me at my own game. When Mr. Cazas leaned on the lectern, Glenn held up four fingers to me (two and four were Mr. Cazas's favorites), but I'd refined the system even more and could pretty well tell from situations what the joke would be. For example, that day he'd gotten off into Pythagoras and I knew - Italy and Greece being close - that the joke would be the seldom used one about two Italians, number five.
	Seeing Glenn's four, I tapped him back five, and when the joke began he had to fight so hard to keep from laughing that he nearly fell out of his desk. I guess the teacher figured out what we were doing because he shot me a look that made me damn glad we weren't in the army.
	After class, Glenn was still cracking up in the hall. He couldn't believe how I pegged that joke, and I just soaked it up, especially since other kids were seeing how friendly he was being with me. Then he surprised me by asking where I lived. I hadn't considered that we might be friends out of school. He said he might come by around seven if I wasn't doing anything. I said I wasn't.
	That evening my mother went out to some party thrown by a bigwig who did a lot of business with the bank. I got dressed up, but then sat around feeling stupid when seven, then seven-thirty passed. But around eight there was a knock, and when I opened, there was Glenn in a pork chop hat and a long grey overcoat. The outfit should have seemed funny, but on him it didn't look too bad. I hadn't realized how tall he was. He explained that he couldn't find the house at first, and he seemed really friendly.
	For a while we sat around the living room talking about not much. He took off his hat, but not the coat. He asked where my parents were, and I told him about my mother and that my father was dead. Like everybody, he said he was sorry for that. Then he said we had a nice house and a few other things, and then we got quiet because there wasn't really much more to talk about. I thought that if I weren't such a nerd I'd think of something to say or do and that he'd probably get pissed and go pretty soon.
	Suddenly he stood up and asked if we had orange juice. Of all the things I might have expected, that was about the last, but we went into the kitchen, and I found some frozen and mixed it up. He produced a half-pint of vodka from a big pocket of the overcoat, went to the cupboard like he'd lived there a while, got two glasses and poured the juice. Then he topped off both glasses with vodka.
	I'd never thought much about drinking. If anyone in our family ever did it, I never saw it. I saw some beer once at Danny's, but he never drank in our house. My mother's father was a Presbyterian minister, and she was raised with no alcohol in the house, but I think she drank a few when she was at parties. It was funny my father never drank, being in construction, but I never saw him do it, and I never smelled any on him.
	I really didn't want to have any, but I looked across at Glenn who raised his in a sort of toast and then drank as if that were the natural way to begin the evening. I didn't want to kill a friendship before it even started, so I took a sip. It went straight to my brain with a rush, and I blinked. Glenn laughed. I guess he figured I hadn't drunk much before, but he didn't
ask.
	After the first rush I didn't notice anything different, though. We went back to the living room and sat around talking some more. I couldn't figure why the hell people messed up good orange juice with vodka, but I didn't seem to care much. We were finding more to talk about, which made me more comfortable, and Glenn seemed to think a lot of what I said was pretty damn funny. I really couldn't tell why, but I found myself laughing, too.
	At one point he took the empty glasses back to the kitchen and refilled them. I suppose the way he took charge of the house would have irritated me normally, but it didn't seem to then. It just seemed a natural part of him, and somehow he did it in a way that wasn't offensive.
	After we finished that round, he asked me how I'd like to go to a party.  Some kid I didn't even know was giving one not far away. My reaction was about the same as it had been to the vodka. Somehow it scared me. I really didn't want to, but the alternative - having Glenn go by himself - seemed much worse.
	I got my jacket, an olive windbreaker my mother had bought for me a month before. Glenn took one look at it and said it wasn't right and for that matter didn't I have a sweater instead of the shirt I had on. I felt like saying that no one had dressed me for a long time, but I didn't. Maybe that wasn't the truth anyway. The truth was that I really didn't think much about clothes. I just put on what appeared in the closet. My mother liked to shop, and that was at least one motherly thing she did for me.
	We found a sweater that Glenn thought looked good for the evening, but the jacket was a problem. The only other one I had was too small. Danny had lived in that house for a year before he got married, but the only things I found in his closet were old shirts. Finally I thought about a trunk my mother kept in the storeroom, but I didn't hold much hope for that. There were some old clothes there, but it was mostly filled with blankets and bedspreads. About halfway down, though, I found a dark blue navy jacket my father used to wear when he was working. I expected it would be all crummy, but I guess my mother'd had it cleaned. I was surprised she even kept it; she threw out just about all of his other things.
	Glenn told me to put it on, but I didn't want to. It reminded me of my father too much, and I was sure it looked stupid. Glenn thought it looked great, so I went to a mirror, and the funny thing was it didn't really look bad at all. I'd liked it when my my father wore it, too.
	The party was only about three blocks from my house, but I had no idea who lived there. Glenn knew more about my neighborhood than I did. I recognized the kid. He was a junior or senior,but I didn't know his name. He seemed real happy to see Glenn, but then he looked at me like I was the village leper who'd just come in and dropped a body part on the floor. It had happened before. I didn't like it, but I'd always just accepted it as somehow reasonable, given me and given Glendale, but this time, when the kid turned his back, I made a face and a few obscene gestures. I don't know why. Maybe it was the booze. Glenn cracked up, but when the kid turned around we were all serious and sober. I swear, it had gotten so I just had to cross my eyes and Glenn would crack up; I was his resident joker.
	The party was a dud. Glenn was pissed because there was no liquor, but it turned out the kid's parents were holed up in one of the bedrooms, letting junior have his party, but spying on everyone. Glenn poured us some Seven-up and spiked it, but the vodka bottle was almost empty. We sat around for a while, but the kids who showed up were nerdly, even by cross-country standards, and pretty soon he gave me the sign, and we left.
	We just walked around aimlessly, or so it seemed to me. I thought we might head downtown, but I noticed we were working our way back toward the hills. We were on Howard Street, just a block over from my house.
	"D'you like to make out?" Glenn asked.
	I looked at him sort of funny and stepped away from him.
	"I mean with a girl, asshole."
	"I guess."
	"I know one who's really hot, and she lives right oh this street."
	"Does she go to Hoover?"
	"Nah - St. Lucy's."
	I didn't know how a girl was going to be any good for both of us, but by that point I wasn't capable of serious mental activity, so I didn't push it. I just followed Glenn up to this large, two-story, Spanish style house. After a minute a tall, blond girl, fairly good-looking, answered the door. She was all smiles for Glenn, which seemed to be required by municipal law, but she looked at me kindly,too, as he introduced us. Her name was Jo Riggs, and her brother and Glenn's brother were great friends. They were both out at a party so Glenn said that he was worried Jo might be lonely.
	The house had a big living room, well decorated, although nothing like the Barzani's, but we went into a family room which was heavy with fake Spanish stuff. The TV was on. Jo offered me an easy chair and sat on a big black leather sofa with carved wood ends while Glenn did his usual scouting of the kitchen, opening just about all the drawers and cabinets.
	"Don't you have any vodka?" he called. "We're drinking vodka, and I don't want to screw up my friend's stomach. He's the star of the cross country team, y'know. He's gonna letter this year after he takes the league championship."
	I really went red. Jo laughed and went into the back of the house. Later I heard her and Glenn talking quietly in the kitchen. Then they appeared again with three drinks and some chips. He brought me a drink and whispered,
	"Jo really likes you."
	But then he went and sat by her on the sofa. In a few minutes he had his arm around her, and pretty soon they were kissing.
	I didn't know what the hell to do , so I concentrated on the TV - I think it was Sergeant Bilko - while they made out. I had kept a pretty constant buzz since we started, but now it was starting to get heavy. Between the TV and sneaking looks at them going at it, I was starting to feel screwed up. Finally, I got up and went to the kitchen. I saw a head on the back porch and used it. Then I just wandered around the house, exploring, but not really interested. When I finished the downstairs rooms, I inspected the bedrooms upstairs and then returned to the family room. I thought I'd given them a chance to go somewhere more private, but they were still at it. It'd been more than a half hour.
	When Glenn heard me, he stopped and gave me a smile. Then he stood up.
	"I gotta use the head," he said.
	I tried not to look, but you could only tell he was hard. Then, amazingly he signaled me to sit next to Jo. I'd come to accept that this was how things worked in Glenn's world, so I sat. After he left Jo and I smiled, and I felt very embarrassed, but I really did want to kiss her, so I did. She kissed me back and picked right up where she'd left off. The booze cleared long enough for me to wonder if another guy had just been kissing a girl and you started kissing her, whether it wasn't the same thing as kissing the guy, but then the vodka washed back, and I gave up thinking.
	For a long time we just kissed. I liked it. Marlene's kiss was more exciting, but I'd never kissed her for more than a few minutes. Jo was getting passionate. She'd been at it quite a while with Glenn and was hot. When I came in Glenn had been massaging her sweater like we was testing oranges at the store. I put my hand under her sweater and rubbed her back then got my hand under her bra and felt her breasts. They were smaller than Marlene's, but respectable. At first she started to pull back, but then she just groaned and tensed a little each time I touched a nipple. Soon I felt her hand on my pants, rubbing my hardon. I mumbled something about the bedroom, and she mumbled something I thought was yes. But at that moment Glenn came back.
	"OK, ol' buddy, it's time to hit the road. The heat'll be here soon," he said from the kitchen.
	With one deft movement of her arm Jo cleared my hand from her sweater. In an instant she was sitting up primly, smiling and fixing her hair as Glenn came in. I could only sprawl against the back of the sofa, amazed again. Glenn already had one arm in his overcoat and he threw the navy jacket to me.
	It was one thing to give over control of my life to Glenn Potter; it was something else to get jerked around. I got the jacket on, but didn't make a very gracious exit. I didn't say anything, but it wasn't much of a secret that I was pissed. Jo stood at the door saying goodbye, still smiling, but underneath you could see bewilderment, like she wasn't really sure what had happened .
	We walked a little down the street when Glenn said,
	“You pissed? I don't know what you're pissed about."
	“I'm not pissed."
	"You weren't so nice to Jo when we left. She said something shitty to you?"
	"She was alright.”
	"Well, then, what the fuck?"
	"Nothing."
	"Come on!"
	"I thought we were going upstairs.
	"Upstairs? What's upstairs?"
	“I just thought we were."
	“What? You hadda use the head? They had one off the kitchen. Use the bushes."
	"I don't need to piss."
	"Then what the hell's upstairs? Oh...Wait a minute. You mean you thought you and Jo...Look, I thought I told you when we got here, she's not that kinda girl."
	“What did you tell me?”
	"I told you she goes to a Catholic school."
	"And Catholics don't do it?"
	"Of course Catholics do it. There's enough of 'em. I don't even know if she's Catholic. Man, you gotta learn about girls. I mean, just because they make out... She's a good girl."
	"And what's bad about fucking?"
	"Nothin's bad - for you and me -but for a girl. Look, you ever done it?"
	I started to answer, then studied his face for an instant.
	“Yeah, sure... Almost."
	“Almost? What's almost?"
	I don't know why I didn't tell him about Marlene. Maybe I wanted to protect her. Maybe I didn't want to be associated with her. But mostly, I was pretty sure he'd never done it, and I wondered how he'd feel if he thought I had. I searched around for some way out.
	"Well, there was this girl I used to take out last summer, where I worked in the mountains. We were, like, pretty close, and this one night we were all ready to do it, but then she didn't want to."
	"You see? She was a good girl, too. Just what I was telling you about. It's a lot more serious for a gal than for us. And the ones that do it you gotta be damn careful - they've got VD and stuff."
	I decided just to shut up. I hadn't gone out that night for sex; I'd gone out to make a friend, and I was damn close to blowing it. We'd walked on a little way in silence when Glenn turned around and stepped in front of me, walking backward. He punched me on the shoulder. I couldn't tell if he was kidding or pissed.
	"Hey, what kind of buddy are you anyway?" he asked.
	"What?"
	"Here I take you to a gal's house for a little making out, and right away you plot to get in the sack with her. What about me? What am I supposed to be doing, watching TV? Knitting?"
	"I thought you were going upstairs, too."
	"For what? Sloppy seconds?"
	"I thought you'd go first."
	Seeing I was serious, he stopped. His expression changed.
	"And what would you be doing meanwhile?"
	"Watching? Waiting outside? I don't know. It never got to that."
 	Now a hungry look came over him.
	"When I came into the family room, you had your hand up her sweater?"
	"Yeah."
	"Under her bra?"
	"Well..."
	"Did she say anything?"
	"She said she would."
	"Damn!"
	Now he panicked. In agitation he took a few steps back toward the house, but at the same time, a car that had been coming down the hill turned into Jo's driveway. A nice-looking lady in a short fur jacket and a red cocktail dress got out and let herself in the front door.
	"Son of a bitch!" he said, whirling around. "You nearly got us killed. I told you her mother was coming home."
	His face was disappointed, but his voice was relieved.
	The rest of the way down to Stocker Street we walked in silence. I glanced over once or twice, but couldn't tell if he was deep in thought or just stoned. When we got to the corner, he didn't even notice, but stepped off the curb and nearly sat down. He recovered and turned to face me again. With him in the street and me on the curb, his face - even featured, squarecut - was about on level with mine. He studied me, then said,
	"Y'know a lot of kids think you're weird. I think they're right.  I mean, who else would come up with you and me and Jo in the sack together?"
	Then this deep character analysis crumbled into a lewd giggle. He stepped up and clapped his arm over my shoulders.
	"And what if it had worked? Man, oh man. What an idea. And we were that close. Y'know what?  I like you. You may be weird, but you're not phony. You're alright."
	And we staggered on to my house, bonded by something that never happened.
When we got there, he said,
	"Listen, would your mom mind if I spent the night?"
	"I don't think so, would your folks?"
	"Nah, I already told them I would.”
	Naturally .
	"It's a long way to walk home when you're a little tipsy, and besides, my old man's getting a little shitty lately when I come in late. Smells my breath and all that."
	"He doesn't like you to drink?"
	"He doesn't like me to steal his booze."
	"Do you?"
	"Sometimes, but not tonight. A friend of my brother's got it for us. And by the way, you owe me $1.60."
	A few minutes after we lay down I could hear his heavy, even breathing coming from the sleeping bag on the floor. For me, sleep didn't come so easily. Too much had happened in too short a time. For a long time I lay plowing back and forth over all of it, trying to make some order, but it was useless; I was exhausted. What was worse, the session with Jo had left me horny as hell. I thought about Marlene.
	Then Glenn started to snore. It didn't bother me; it was like listening to a rhythmic sound of nature, like a river or ocean waves. It reminded me that things were changing, that after all the loneliness, I was making friends, that a popular guy was sleeping in my room. Maybe better things were coming. And with that thought I fell asleep.

TAPE FIVE   									10/20/85

	OK, Dr. Wolly, we’ve been out of touch for a few months.  After that last tape, things seemed to be getting better.  It was like the talking had helped.  I stopped having the sex problems for a few months, but now it’s started up again.  
	Actually, the first time I noticed it was when I was on a business trip to Oakland and stayed at a hotel near the airport.  There were a lot of stewardesses there, too, and one of them got friendly with me at the bar.  One thing and another and we ended up in the sack, but about halfway through, I lost it and couldn’t get it back.  She was decent about it - blamed it on the booze and the hour - but you could only tell she was faking all that.
	So I guess I haven’t really gotten to the grain of things yet and we’ll have to dig a little farther.  Maybe it’s the curse of this affliction, but when I think about the past, when I unpack all these mental boxes, I can remember what happened with almost picture clarity, like watching it all on some damn TV.  Actually, if I concentrate, that kind of memory is often possible for me, so that’s why I don’t like to think much about stuff from the past.  It could really drive you crazy, like you couldn’t really draw the line between the past and the present.
	But, getting on with it, what happened next was not really better; it was strange, though. To begin with, I got sick - I mean really sick. The doctor said it was just flu, but I don't remember ever being sicker. The first strange thing was that the dog got sick the same time I did.
	The first day that I was really feeling crummy I told Coach and left workout early. The walk home nearly finished me, but when I walked into the yard, I could tell something was wrong. The dog sidled up to me like they do - with that guilty sort of look, tail wagging like crazy, eyes cast down. I looked around the yard for something broken or a dead bird, but couldn't see anything. I checked her water bowl and filled it, but didn't stop to play. I only wanted to lie down.
	Taking care of the dog was my job, of course. There was no way my mother could ever feed her or give her water or tie her up or put her in the garage. And there was no way she could pay for a new fence so the dog wouldn't have to be tied up all the time. I never used to mind taking care of her, but lately that seemed to be changing.
	I'd been lying down for about a half-hour and was almost asleep when something - a sound or just a feeling - made me look into the yard. The dog was on her side on the grass having an attack. I'd never seen anything like that before, and it really scared me. I ran into the yard and tried to stop the quaking by holding her tightly, but it did no good; I only got covered with her slobber. Her legs stuck straight out and wave after wave of quakes shook us both. Finally it began to let up until she was left limp, almost unconscious, in my arms.
	We must have stayed like that about an hour. I didn't know what to do, but I was afraid if I put her down it might start again. Slowly, she came around. but she must have had other attacks that day and by that point was too weak to move. Luckily my mother didn't stay for her usual extra duty kiss-up at the bank, but it was almost dark when she pulled in and found us.
	The vet we took the dog to checked her for a few minutes and listened to my story, then said it was this distemper. There was no cure, he said, making sure I felt a little extra shitty by saying she should have had shots. Then he said we should “put her to sleep." I'd heard about them putting dogs into vacuum chambers and sucking out all the air til they imploded or something, and I'd be goddamned if they'd do that to my dog. They both could see that I was sick by then and decided not to cross me, I guess. He gave the dog a shot, but I caught his “I'll see you later” look and wanted to grab the needle and jam it in his ear.
	The next day nothing bad happened, except that I kept feeling worse. I made a bed for the dog on the back porch. That was never permitted, but, again, something in my eyes let it happen without my mother saying anything. I thought the dog actually seemed a little better. She was still weak, but there were no attacks. She ate a little and even went outside to do her things, although I had to carry her. For my part, I spent most of the day crashed and a little delirious.
	The day after was bad from the start. All night I had nightmares  - mostly huge, puffy hands and balloon faces and tremendous smothering shapes. My mother was going to stay home, but they called her with some problems, so she crammed me with aspirin and ginger ale and sneaked out. About ten o'clock there was a loud knocking on the back door as though a few people were out there pounding. I stayed put, waiting for them to go away, but it kept up. It seemed to be coming from the whole back porch. When I finally got out there the scene was about as close to hell as I ever want to see.
	The dog was out of control again. Her body was bloated like the faces and hands I'd seen all night. Her legs stuck out straight, like toothpicks in a potato, but even without their help she bounced and caromed all over the porch, smashing into the water heater and the washer, bowling over the empty pop bottles under the laundry sink.
	I screamed a lot of foul stuff and fell on her with all my weight, but her power was such that she simply carried me with her. When the attack finally died down we lay a sweated, stinking mess. I thought she was dead; her eyes were rolled back and her tongue hung limply. Slowly, I got up, and it started again.
	Usually I never called my mother at the bank, because it was at least a half hour of hassle before she came to the phone. I can't remember what I said that day, but she was on the phone in less than a minute and home in two. Between the two of us we got the dog into the back of the car. I never saw her again, but the infernal vision she'd shown me was only the beginning.
	During the next days I sank into a kind of delirious state. At first it had to do with the dog. I was convinced I'd killed her through some subconscious act of will. I'd deliberately made her sick and forced her through that agony. I guess I'd said something like that to the vet, and he'd told me dogs didn't get human viruses, but the idea haunted me.
	There was some truth to my feeling guilty. When I was a kid I'd loved that dog. Around the time my father died she was the only one I could talk to. Even if she only answered with wags and licks, it was better than the phony shit I got from adults. Even then, or maybe especially then, things were drying up between my mother and me. But slowly the love I'd felt for the dog had turned to complacence and then to a vague resentment of the obligation she represented or - perhaps worse - of the fact that she was the only real tie that still held me to that house.
 	The fever boiled guilt into misery. I raved that I was a dog killer. I lapsed into and out of dreams of dogs and monsters and weird forms representing something I couldn't quite see. My mother tried to calm me down, and when that failed, she called in Danny which was like bringing a mortician to cheer up the patient. He told me it was just a goddamn dog, for chrissake, and to stop acting like a little shit. I was getting our mother upset, he said, which meant that I should cool it and get her off his back. Then he left feeling very justified.
	Finally I did stop the craziness, but what followed was really worse. It was like a tremendous weariness. The fever was down, and the delusions stopped, but I had no desire for anything - not to eat or dress or even get up. If I slept, I dreamed of nothing, but mostly I just lay and watched the walls or the ceiling. At times I would find myself crying, but I couldn't say why. I'd never cried much, not when I was punished, not when Grandpa died, not even when my father died, but now I did it without even realizing it. It should have scared me, but I was beyond even that. As I see it now, it was a kind of mourning, but not just for the dog; it had something to do with me.
	At last my mother couldn't take any more, although it hit her right where she lived. She'd already paid for two trips to the vet, but without saying much she got me into the car and took me to the doctor.
	I remember him as a very dry person. You couldn't tell his age. His eyes were set in skin a little blue and smooth like a baby's, yet stretched too tightly over bones which appeared to be working their way through. He checked me out and concluded that the flu was over, the infection gone; but my eyes were still red and draining, and I was still exhausted.
	“Young people don't have any reason to worry," he told me. "Now is the time to enjoy your life. Leave worry to the old folks, like me."
	The skin pulled back to a grimace.
	"It isn't normal for a boy like you to be all depressed."
	I guess he and Danny studied bedside manner at the same place. The only thing I got from all his kindness was that I was abnormal, because, no matter what normal kids did, I sure as hell was depressed.
	Just in case, he finished up, he would give an antibiotic; then he told me to drop my pants and bend over the examining table. Before I saw what was coming he got a shot into my butt. I didn't know they even gave shots back there, and, whether from exhaustion or humiliation, I passed out. A few seconds later I was back with a jolt, on the floor, pants still dragging, trying to escape from him and his nurse as they shoved little cotton wads full of ammonia up my nose.
	I don't know what he gave me - he said it was antibiotics, but you can't trust doctors any more than vets. The main effect was that I slept for maybe two or three days, and when I woke up it was to a different world.
	It was a Saturday in early December. I'd been sick over ten days, and it'd been two weeks since I'd worked out. Maybe it was the dead season of the year, but I felt like biting off a huge chunk of life.  I wanted to run. I wanted to go. I wanted to use and use my body and forget my mind totally.
	I ate a little then got into my old cross country shoes and some shorts and a sweatshirt.  But then I found reasons to sit around and goof around until nearly ten o'clock. Finally I figured out what it was: I didn't want to go into the back yard.
	The reason was I knew I wouldn't see the dog as usual. When I got out there all of her stuff - her chain and bowl and the old toys she used to chew on - were still the same as always. I gathered it all up and thought about what to do with it. At first I thought I'd put it all in some special spot, like a little memorial or something. But what I finally did was I took all that stuff and her blankets from the garage and put them way down into one of the trash tanks. Then I threw in a bunch of newspapers from the back porch and headed out the gate.
	I really felt like going hard, but I knew I'd probably be weak after so long in bed, so, instead of heading right up the hill and into the paths that looped around the base of Mt. Verdugo, I took off along Stocker Street which wound east along the base of the mountain and gradually climbed a spur until it reached Rossmoyne Drive which ran down the crest of the spur. There were some great old houses along Rossmoyne.
	As soon as I’d gone outside, I'd noticed something a little strange. I could sense smells I’d never noticed before. I could even smell the ocean, which was odd, considering that any breeze from there had to blow over thirty or forty miles of Smogville. The air usually smelled more like baked waste, but that day I could almost hear gulls screechlng and smell fish and seaweed.
	As I ran along, other smells came in sharper than they ever had. There weren't many flowers around at that time of year, but I got a strong whiff of chrysanthemums in one yard, and you usually have to stick your nose right into them to pick up their sharp, medicine smell. Even the trees all shot out little aromas as I passed. I thought maybe it was the medication or all the sleep that made me so sensitive, but that really didn't explain it.
	Long before I got to the top of the ridge, I was exhausted. I'd expected to be tired, but this was more like something fatal. I could barely put one foot in front of the other for the last two blocks. And the smells were completely out of hand.
	What had been an interesting sharpening of the senses was now totally oppressive. It wasn't just plants. Anything within twenty yards filled my head - trash cans, dog crap, car exhaust. Layer on layer, they formed a smothering load that was burying me.
	Finally I staggered onto Rossmoyne.  Normally I liked to go that way because of the four houses that lined the east side of the street. Someone had told me that they were all designed by the same architect, but that was pretty obvious. The style wasn't wild or experimental or anything; they were all someone's idea of Tudor baronial halls.
	Everybody thinks that everything in southern California has to be Spanish, just because they were the first Europeans to get there; but sixteenth century England wasn't all that bad on top of a Sierra Madre ridge. There was a lot of brick and fieldstone, big oak beams and earthy plaster and big leaded windows that took in the hills, yet it was the slate roofs that tied these mansions into the chaparral. I don't remember a straight line in those massive stone canopies. They floated magically over their bases, swooping almost to the ground in places, soaring to three-story turrets, mixing into the oaks and sycamores like grey smoke from a campfire.
	A couple of times I'd explored behind the houses where the ridge fell away into a small canyon filled with ferns and sycamores. Climbing toward the houses were flagstone terraces and ivy planters. Two of them had pools. The others had rose and camellia gardens below stone landings where wide glass doors made me want to walk right in as though it was my birthright to discover the secrets of great buildings.
	That day,though, I didn't want to explore anything. As I dragged onto the street, a sodden, stinking shroud was trying to grind me into the ground. I slumped to the curb facing the row of mansions. I had little idea what was after me and less what was before me. I really felt I might be breathing my last.
	Then changes began to come on very fast. The street appeared to melt first into shiny tar then into water which extended out and out, shoving back the houses until they were miles away. But they didn't disappear; they were growing, too, until they were snow covered peaks that dwarfed Mt. Verdugo. I looked in its direction, but it was no longer there,either. It was farther back and covered with pines, not sagebrush.
	It was no mystery where I was then. It was a place I'd known since I was a baby. And I was sitting on a rock, a great chunk of granite, whose cleavages and cracks I'd used as racetracks for my toy cars when I was a kid. I'd spent hours in that very spot, right next to our cabin which stood on a hillside above Lake Tahoe. But, as I looked out from the rock, the cabin wasn't there anymore, or perhaps better said, not there yet. I could look over all the southern half of the lake and see most of the great mountains on the California side. No house blocked the view; but it was there - in part. The platform that would form its floor was in place, extended out from the rocky hillside on a web of posts and struts. And on that platform stood two men I knew well - or would know ten years after this scene passed into family history - my father and grandfather.
	You could tell they were arguing, although I couldn't hear much they were saying. A strong wind roared off the lake and clouds had closed over it since the scene formed. My father turned, his face full of disgust and shame. He walked off the platform and passed within two feet of where I was seated. I'd always thought of him as strong and good looking, in a fatherly way. I hadn't realized how handsome he was in his twenties. Even in his heavy wool shirt and windbreaker you could see his build and feel his force. His sharply featured face, though troubled, was clear and open, his deep brown eyes penetrating, his black hair thicker and wavier than I'd known it.
	As he passed me I could barely keep seated. I wanted so much to talk to him or just to touch him. But I knew instinctively that no movement was possible. Just as the smells had been a physical presence - a suffocating pile - so the vision rested over me like a web of crystal that any move would shatter.
	He walked by my rock and went to the small clearing that had been Grandpa's cabin. There he had his tool box and equipment. He picked up a tall ladder and returned to the platform. I could see him and Grandpa arguing more - Grandpa was the agitated one - as my father set up the ladder near the far edge of the platform. He tried to get Grandpa to climb it, but Grandpa seemed horrified at the idea. Finally, though, he did go up, my father steadying the ladder, then going up a few steps behind him. And there they were: two men on a ladder to nowhere, perched on a rocky hillside in the midst of a gathering storm. I ached to go to them, to share what they were seeing, but the fragile touch of the vision kept me locked down more securely than iron chains.
	Then, as I knew it would, the descending sun suddenly broke from the clouds in an explosion of gold and red that consumed us all. At last the whole scene just dissolved into a shimmering glow like falling sparks after fireworks.
	For a long time I sat on the curb. I wasn't tired any more; energy was pouring back into me. I felt, I felt, I didn't know what I felt. I'm not sure that even now I can explain it to you. I mean, I don't know how your average person would handle seeing a vision - not a dream or imagination, but a 100% wrap-around vision. I mean, it's something like a dream, but as real as whatever you're looking at right now. I guess the average person would be shocked or amazed or at least pretty impressed. But then, your average person doesn't see visions.
	That was part of the problem. A few months earlier I might have reacted differently; I was well on the road to weirdness, so what could a few visions matter? But things had been going so well recently; there was real hope for my averageness. I was making friends; I was breaking the mold; I was even getting a little popular. Then all that stuff I went through when I was sick and what the doctor said brought back the old fear I had about minds out of control. I really wanted things to hold together a little longer. I wanted a chance to be happy.
	And there was the thing about seeing my father. It was a jolt to see him so young and strong and looking so good. I mean, it was like seeing some essence of my father, the real him before life got its hooks into him. It reminded me how much I loved him. But there was also this other thing that I remembered. It was something everyone in the family knew, but never talked about - which was typical - my father saw things other people didn't. Did this mean that in that respect I would be like him whether I wanted it or not?
	I wasn't sure this vision had any particular message for me. It was nothing new. I'd heard the story since I was a kid; it was like family lore: Grandpa's Great Ladder Scene. It was supposed to tell why Grandpa had the cabin built in that place, and it also said something about the relationship between him and my father.
	Something was wrong between the vision and the story, though, but I wasn't able to concentrate on what it was. Anyway, maybe this wasn't really a scene from the past. Maybe it was just a projection from my own mind.  There was no way to tell, and I really didn't want to think about it.
	A mailman had just delivered something to one of the big houses. He crossed in front of me and nodded. I remembered where I was. I got to my feet and made it on up the hill. Something was turning in me.  I wanted to run - to go and go until I was out of breath. I needed some place to think - or not to think.  I needed some place to find some peace from the anxiety that was growing in me.  Mainly, I needed some place to take a leak.
	I jogged over the saddle in the hillside and dropped down into Nibley Park. By this time of year the park's sycamores had lost all their leaves.  They stretched scraggly branches against the brittle blue December sky. The sage and mesquite on the rocky hillside showed no trace of green. Even the grass seemed colorless.
	I used the men's room next to the deserted tennis courts.  I hadn’t seen anyone in the park, but as I finished I could hear quiet talking.  In the back wall of the restroom there was a grating of cement blocks that served as a vent, and voices were coming through it. Curious, I tried to see who was on the other side, but the vent was too high. So, leaving the building, I edged carefully down the side and peeked around the corner.
	The hillside came down in a steep cliff about fifteen feet behind the restroom. From the other side of the building a fence and hedge extended back to the cliff. This side had been blocked by picnic tables stood on end for scraping and painting. As I looked around the corner of the building, I could see a narrow space between the wall and the tables. Standing about ten feet away in this path was a boy with his back to me talking very earnestly with another person I couldn't see. He rolled to his right, bracing himself against the wall with both arms, forming a cage around the other person.
	I recognized the boy. He was a seventh grader the year before. That made him about fourteen. The other one was a girl who couldn't have been much older than twelve. He was arguing softly with her, trying to stay in her line of vision as she dropped her eyes. Now he leaned forward pressing his body against her and kissing her softly. She squirmed a little under his pressure, but he persisted. He ran his hand over what would someday be breasts and then dropped it down to finger her out over her pants. She tried to move sideways, but he had her well pinned. He continued whispering things and rubbing different parts of her body.
	Then he backed off, unbuttoned her pants and had them over her hips by the time she could grab them back and pull them up again. His pleading and kissing began again as she continued to resist. I noticed she hadn't rebuttoned her pants. Then in a flash he had her pants and panties down to her knees and was fingering the real thing.
	I looked back over my shoulder to be sure that no one was watching me watching. The park was deserted. When I turned back to the couple, he had his pants open and his cock out. He looked in my direction as he jerked it up, and I flattened myself against the wall, peeking around again where some ivy broke the line of the corner. Now he had it between her legs and was thrusting slowly. I don't think he was really in her yet.
	Suddenly a shout ripped the air.
	"What the hellfire you doin’? Get away from here. Get out of here, you bastard."
	I went about three feet straight up. The reaction of the couple was even better. The girl, with a weIl-placed knee and a big push, freed herself and rolled out to her left. The boy, left in mid-thrust, fell against the wall and nearly punched a hole in the concrete blocks with his dick. He cursed in pain, but both were frantically pulling and buttoning pants.
	I looked behind me to find the cause of the screaming.  A large German shepherd had turned over a trash can near the picnic area and was rummaging through the trash. A caretaker was closing in on him at full clip, a pair of open hedge clippers flailing madly in his right hand. The dog, apparently not too experienced at eat and run, chose the path leading to the restroom for his escape, not realizing it was a dead end.
	Quick as hell I jumped back to the door of the restroom, like I was just coming out. I did a fast jog down the path, and as I got out on the open grass there was a hell of a scream and yell as boy, girl, dog, caretaker and hedge clippers all came together behind the building.
	I could barely make it to the top of the hill. I was laughing so hard I developed a stitch in my side and had to collapse on a lawn when I reached the top.  After several minutes I noticed that the lady whose lawn I was using was watching me from her living room window. That brought me back to the sound of my own laughter which had taken on a hysterical note. Quickly, nervously, I jumped up and continued on along Mountain Street feeling more anxious than ever.
	There was no peace anymore - not in my room, not in running. Even the park which had always seemed wholesome and respectable had become a place for peep shows. It was no fun being pushed and pulled and jerked around by things I couldn't even see, and it wasn't comfortable running with a hardon which had been there since the park and wasn't going away. Everything was in control of me but me.  I needed some relief, and my thoughts began to turn in a particular direction.
	Without thinking much about it, I ran about two blocks past our street and then dropped down the hill. As I circled back, there was Marlene watering the flowers. It seemed like months since I'd seen her. I jogged up to the lawn and stood panting and sweating in front of her. She smiled.
	"Hi, what've you been doing?"
	"Uh...modeling tuxedos at a fashion show? Sweat testing new deodorants? Early entry in the Olympics marathon?"
	"You’re nuts. Where have you been? What's got into you?”
	"Not half of what I'd like to get into you, baby,' I said, doing a Groucho Marx walk, flicking my cigar. “Why don't we get something straight between us?"
	"You idiot, you've gone completely ape."
	At that I hung my arms like an ape and scratched my sides and loped sideways around the yard, making chorking sounds. I mugged it up good - a totally desperate clown.
	"Will you stop it? The old ladies across the street are watching."
	"To hell with them. Me Tarzan, you Jane."
	I tried to pick her up and swing away.
	"Stop it!"
	Now she turned the hose on me. I continued to dance around her as she soaked me good. Then I charged in and grabbed the hose and turned it on her. She fought back for it, and after a while we were one soggy, laughing mass on the lawn.
	"I've never seen you like this. What brought all this on?"
	"I don't know. Just feeling good today," I lied.
	I lay back on the lawn and watched some birds in a nearly bare jackaranda tree. The stuff that had been pushing at me backed off a little, but I could feel it near.
	"You've completely soaked me. Now I've got to change everything."
	"I'm sorry, that was kind of stupid." 
	"Well, I got you pretty good too. I just didn't know how to stop you." 
	"Why should you have to stop when you're having fun?" 
	"You just looked so stupid swinging around the yard like that." 
	"I'm just a fool over you, baby." 
	''Don't start again. Come around back; you can dry your clothes." 
	"Why bother? I just live three blocks away." 
	"What will your mother say?" 
	"Who cares? She won't notice." 
	"Come on in. You can have a drink while you're waiting." 
	We walked down the driveway to the back yard and up the steps to her service porch. It was a long, sun-lit room with large windows all along the back. Against the back walls were the washer and dryer and a large sink. I didn’t know anyone else who had a clothes dryer.  My mother still hung out clothes on a clothesline in the back yard.  Marlene went into the kitchen. 
	"Take off your clothes. I'll get you a towel." 
	I felt strange taking my clothes off in that big, bright place. At one end of the service porch I could see a door that was open slightly. I walked over and pushed it. There was a small room and bath, apparently for a maid. The Barzanis were using it for storage. Pieces of furniture stood around in no particular order, and there were several closed boxes. I kicked off my running shoes and took off everything except my undershorts. For a few minutes I explored around the room and then looked up to see Marlene in the doorway. She'd changed her clothes. 
	"Aren’t your shorts wet?  Take them off, too.  Here’s the towel." 
	"And your father?" 
	"He's not here." 
	I took them off, and she threw me a towel. We walked back to the porch where she threw her clothes and mine into the dryer.
	"That really isn't necessary for that little bit of clothes," I said, wrapping the towel around me.  "You're just going to have baked sweat."
	"Who cares? Come on, have something to drink. You must be thirsty after running."
	In the kitchen I sat down at the table while she got two sodas from the refrigerator. Although it had been warm for December outside, the house was a little cold. A chill ran through me. Marlene brought the drinks and sat down.
	"Where have you been the last few weeks?"
	"I was sick. Just the flu or something. And..."
	I looked around the kitchen. It was changed a little. The open cabinets had doors on them now - sort of a frosty plastic that let you see colors and shapes inside, but not much detail.
	"And what?"
	"Oh, nothing. The dog died."
	"I'm sorry. Is it better now?"
	“The dog?"
	"No, you jerk, the flu."
	"Oh, yeah. I've felt OK the last few days. I finally felt like running a little today, but I don't know, things don't seem right. Out of condition, I guess."
	"I guess you would be, after being sick so long."
	She got up and opened the double-door refrigerator.
	"You want some cake?" she asked.
	"Yeah, I guess. I didn't eat lunch."
	The refrigerator was loaded like for some invasion, but only two people lived in that house. I decided not to ask about that. She took out cake and some cold cuts.
	"You and your father doin' better?"
	"Better? "
	"Yeah, the last time I saw you things weren't so hot."
	"I guess you could say things are better, relatively."
	"But he's never here?"
	"Well, he works, of course. He's here at night if you'd like to meet him. You might have to come a little late."
	"No thanks. It sounds like my house."
	"He had a big party here last Saturday."
	"And I wasn't invited."
	"Well, you were sick, weren’t you? Anyway it was for business people - his associates."
	We yakked on like that for a while - like your typical teens, which was a little odd because we weren't. I knew that about her already, and now I knew it about myself. It sounded like the first time we were in that kitchen, but it wasn't like that at all. That time I hadn't a clue, but now I knew exactly what I wanted. The only thing was I didn't know how to go about getting it.
	Gradually the talk dropped off; the silences grew. Sensuality drifted over the room. The afternoon light gave even the brushed steel of the refrigerator and stove a warm glow. From the varnished teak of the cabinets and the waxed mahogany floors came smoky, musky smells.
	The silence became louder. She reached across, took my hand and stood up. I stood; the towel dropped. What I wanted was pretty clear.
	She led me to the service porch. I didn't like crossing by all those windows. At the end of the porch opposite the maid's room a small staircase led to the second floor. I guess it was for servants to use. Once we got in the stairwell I felt a little better. Feeling the plush carpet under my bare feet, the uneasiness of walking around with no clothes on gave way to the excitement of being nude in a strange place, like in my old fantasies.
	The second floor landing opened on a large hallway which ran nearly the length of the house. An arched window almost filled the end of the hall where we were. In front of the window was a heavy carved table which held a pot full of freshly cut flowers.
	There were four or five doors on the hall. I guessed that each was a bedroom. The walls were covered with a beige textured cloth that had a raised design woven into it. Several groups of etchings and watercolors lined the hallway, mostly architectural renderings of buildings - some modern, some old palaces or cathedrals. About halfway down was a small alcove on the right. In it was a half-round lacquered table with a big Chinesey pot and a mirror on the wall behind it. The effect of the whole place was that of calm and careful artistry. The only jarring note was the image of my bare ass as we passed the mirror.
	I remembered that Marlene's room was at the end of the hall overlooking the front of the house. To the right of her room was the main staircase, and to the left was a large open area. Instead of entering her room she stopped before a wide double door on the left and opened it. Inside was a bedroom so large it had to be the master bedroom of the house. As we stepped in on a grey plush rug, I could see that the whole interior was done in blacks, greys and whites with touches of chrome and some well-placed mirrors, especially in the area of the bed, which occupied most of the south wall and appeared bigger than king-size. We walked through that room and into a spacious bathroom. It, too, was mostly in grey tones with a lot of towels, soaps and other bathroom things. I remembered Marlene's bathroom. I wondered why they needed so much stuff for two fairly clean people. Like her bathroom, this one had plenty of mirrors. A huge one covered the wall behind the lavatory. The opposite wall also had large areas covered with mirror.  There was damn little you could do in that room without being reflected somewhere.  It was not a place for a self-effacing person because you faced yourself everywhere.
	Marlene slipped off her tennis shoes, and then turned her back to me. I helped her take off her sweatshirt and unclasped her bra like a real expert. She stepped out of her shorts and panties, and there we stood, multiplied by hundreds on either side of us. I put my arms around her and kissed her. She kissed me back, but I didn't sense much passion in it. After a bit she broke away and, lifting herself, sat on the edge of the wide lavatory top. I moved in front of her to kiss her again, but she pushed down on my shoulders. I thought that she wanted me to kiss her breasts, but she just kept pushing. I knelt down as she spread her legs and with one hand parted her lips.
	I suppose, considering all the pleasure it gives, that it's ungrateful to be critical, but really, that is not the greatest looking part of a woman's body. At that age I found it pretty repulsive, to tell the truth. Not that a close-up of a guy's stuff looks all that much better, really. 
	I didn't have a lot of time to think about all that, though, because with her other hand she pushed my head right in there. I'd barely had time to take in what it all looked like when the smell and taste of it were all over me.  It really wasn't all that bad, I had to admit even then. It was the first time I'd sensed a woman's muskiness, and she'd used something so there was also a smell of strawberry ice cream. But I was fifteen, and the only thing I'd heard about that kind of stuff was that it was dirty. She seemed tense and ready for something, but involuntarily I jerked back and was on my feet again in one move. 
	Marlene only laughed and dropped off the edge of the sink. Without saying anything or looking back, she walked to the end of the room.
	That area was a broad semicircle that had a sunken part in the middle. Part of it was the shape of a round tub and had a whirlpool setup. Marlene told me later that her father suffered back pains, and I guess that gave him some relief. The rest of the area was tiled and indented with a drain in the center. She led me into this scooped-out place and touched a lever with her toe. From the wall several jets of water shot out, aimed about chest high. I wondered if this strange shower was a Barzani invention or had come with the place.
	As we stood in that tingling warm mist, Marlene went down to her knees and took my cock in her mouth. I was still a little erect and responded rapidly, although I didn't like the idea much better than what she'd wanted from me. I tried to pull back, but she held tight to my legs, so I stood passively as she worked back and forth. In a couple of minutes I was ready. As I felt it rising I backed up, expecting her to let go. She continued as before, this time almost taking in the whole thing. I tried to pull free, but she kept her arms around my legs.  I couldn't hold it anymore.  She took it all in, then stood up and gave me a hard kiss full on the mouth.  My mouth filled with the salty, bleachy taste.
	This time I reacted violently, pushing her back as I ran my arm over my mouth, trying to get the taste out.
	"What's the matter?" she said coyly.
	"You know what's the matter. I don't know why you're being so goddam gross today."
	"Gross? I thought you liked sex.”
	"Yeah, I like it - the way we did it before. But all this stuff today; it's a little perverted. Hell, It's a lot perverted. Shit, you think I like to kiss my own cum?"
	She laughed at that, but it was like a nervous laugh. Without saying more she turned and touched another lever. A shower of water from the ceiling joined the mist from the wall. I left the shower area to rinse my mouth and then, still angry, sat on a bench by a potted palm. She only said,
	"Get me the shampoo.”
	"Where is it?"
	"In the cabinet there."
	I walked over to the shiny black cabinets under the lavatory and found a bottle of shampoo which I tossed to her. I sat down again, still hurt, but I couldn't turn my back on her. She paid no attention to me. She washed herself and then lathered her hair. In spite of my anger, I was held by the sight of her beautiful body. Her legs were long and firm, the thighs round and solid, but not muscular, the calves well curved. Her hips were full, but not too wide, and her stomach protruded slightly in a perfect female curve. Her breasts were large, but not out of proportion to the rest of her body. As she stood then, facing me about three-quarters, her eyes closed, her head back, the shampoo streaming over her body, I couldn't take my eyes off her. She knew it.
	"Throw me a towel.”
	I did. She stepped from the shower, but left it running. I was still crummy from running, so I walked into the mist and washed myself quickly, my back to the rest of the room. I knew she was watching me like she had in the kitchen. Was it the same kind of curiosity I felt, or was she trying to find something else? Sometimes her stare was so penetrating I couldn't tell if she was seeing me or right through me.
	With my foot I pressed the same lever Marlene had, but the water pressure increased. When I pressed again it went up again. I turned to Marlene to ask what to do, but she'd left the room. I hit the lever one more time, and the water stopped.
	I found a towel and dried as I walked into the bedroom. She was sitting on the edge of the bed wrapped in an oversized towel, drying her hair with another one. I finished and wrapped the towel around me.
	"You still mad?" she asked.
	"I'm not mad. I just get confused. I guess you like to make fun of me sometimes because I'm younger than you."
	"I'm not making fun of you. It was just a mood - something I wanted. I don't think it was perverted."
	"I guess not. I'm just not used to it. Well, I guess I don't know much. I don't mind doing what you want. It's just..."
	"I know. Don't worry about it. Here rub my back will you? It's really tight around the shoulders."
	I crossed to the bed, knelt behind her and began massaging her shoulders. I hadn't rubbed anyone's back before that I could remember, but I could feel the knots of muscles standing out in her shoulders. My mother would often massage my father when he came in from work, but he did a lot of lifting and hauling.
	"Why's your back so tight? You been lifting things?"
	 "No. It gets that way when I get tense. Can you really feel it?”
	"Yeah. What are you tense about?”
	"I don't know. I guess I don't like you to get mad at me."
	I was amazed that I could have that effect on her. It never would have occurred to me. I thought that she was above it all, calling all the shots as far as we were concerned.
I guess I inherited some of my mother's touch, because Marlene began to relax. She dropped the towel and let me rub up and down her back. After several minutes she said,
	"Will you just hold me?"
	"Hold you?"
	"Put your arms around me."
	I tried to sit back against the headboard, but the towel was damp. I threw it on the floor. She sat in front of me, leaning her head back on my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her stomach, and we just sat. She seemed more calm and released than I'd ever seen her. I felt the calm passing into me, and it felt so good just sitting there, relaxed, clean, her body warming mine, her fragrant, damp hair spread against my shoulder. I must have dozed off.
	After a while, I woke up a little startled. Something had changed. The winter afternoon was passing, and the room had darkened. I was disoriented, but remembered  quickly where I was. Marlene was still lying against me, curled somewhat, her head on my chest. I sat there for a while and thought about the afternoon. The boy in the park came back to me - this time not so comically. His earnest drive, his pleading, fumbling need came through to me. At the same time I glanced to the side and caught myself reflected in one of the large mirrors which flanked the bed: a lanky kid - maybe not such a kid anymore - with a beautiful girl resting against him. From the mirror I could see most of Marlene as she slept. The thoughts and images combined, and my desire kicked up again, more strongly and darkly than I had ever felt it. I felt a great need to do it, rather than just to be there. 
	Apparently I was making my point felt to Marlene, too, right in the middle of her back. She moved her head and looked up at me drowsily.
	"It's the mirror," I said a little apologetically.
	"One of my father's less inspired ideas," she mumbled.
	"Oh, I find it pretty inspiring."
	"I mean architecturally inspired."
	She tossed her head back and kissed me the way I loved it - that soft, cool, almost nonexistent touch electrifying my whole body. She rolled to my side and we lay, barely touching, connected only at the lips, but connected totally. Gradually I began to move, to touch her softly, gliding my hands over as many places as I could.  At the same time she moved her hands across my body with the same light, charged touch as her kiss, making me aware of every part of me.  I began to hold her more tightly, to press her into me, to kiss her with deeper passion and need.
	At last she moved away from me to the center of the bed and lay back. I followed her and lay partially over her, kissing her face, her shoulders, her breasts.  Slowly I moved onto her, kissing her lips lightly again.  She opened her legs, but we continued just to kiss and touch.  Finally, with no particular effort, I was in place and with a few light thrusts I was in.
	I was still not too good with the moves, but this time it all seemed to depend on me. She let me take over. I began to move in and out with my whole body. I lifted myself to see what was happening and stayed resting on my arms as I moved back and forth watching. Sometimes I pulled it all the way back and then buried it again. Marlene seemed patient but not too involved. Gradually I lowered myself to my elbows and began thrusting more with my butt, swiveling at the pelvis.
	Then from within that very good, very expensive bed I began to hear a faint but very definite squeak. I expected that at home but not there. At first it annoyed me and threw me off some as I tried to avoid it. Then it began to excite me. I noticed that, without any noticeable change in my movement, it was getting a little louder. I became aware that I was driving a bit deeper, my cock seemed stiffer and my muscles more tightly bunched. Now I began to use the squeak as an intensity gauge. I felt the first rises wash over me. Like in running,when your body finally figures out what you're doing and begins to signal the lungs to breathe harder and the heart to beat stronger, my breathing settled into a definite rhythm.  Marlene, in spite of her detachment, began to thrust back against my increasing pressure.
	Now, using my squeak gauge, I backed off a little. She sensed the change and opened her eyes to study my face. I felt sweat forming over my forehead and chest, but tried to pace, to hold on and let the tension build. In spite of my control, I felt a third rise and lowered myself completely over her body, slowing, holding wrapping my arms around her. I kissed her but could feel impatience growing in her.  She was moving with me, but the tension she had shown in the bathroom wasn't there.  No matter.  This was my time and I took it.
	My mind began to shift, like when I was running. It began to turn from the world and move to places beyond. But this was much better than the running high because there wasn't the pain that was always waiting just beyond the edges. I wanted to hold onto the feeling and move deeper into it, to find a place where the fears of that afternoon couldn't touch me.
	Marlene moved impatiently. I came back to the world and saw myself in the mirrors that seemed to be everywhere. For the first time I was aware of what it was to have my body splayed out over another - moving and driving another body without a care for the world's opinions.  I felt the power of the act, and then I lost it.  I stopped the measuring and pacing.  I drove my head into the pillow, arched my back and felt wave after wave wash over me and into her.
	After we'd rested together a while Marlene went into the bathroom, and then returned wearing a bathrobe. She sat on the edge of the bed again and began to brush out her hair.  She was letting it grow, I noticed.
	I'd covered myself with a sheet. The room was getting cooler as the evening came on, but I felt good watching her slowly stroking her hair. It was a letdown that the high was gone, but I felt content for the first time in weeks. All the crap that had been building was gone from my mind, or at least it was well stored and covered. And then, for some reason, I thought about that kid in the park.
	What happened next can only be a sign of retarded development. In spite of all that had happened between us, it was like I hadn't learned a damn thing about her. At the thought of the park I gave a stupid giggle, like some idiot kid.
	"What's so funny?" she asked with just the hint of a tone.
	"Nothing. "
	"Is it me?"
	"No, it's nothing. Just something I saw today came back to me for a minute."
	"And I remind you of something funny?"
	"No, it's not you. It's just..."
	"I don't see why you would think of something funny when you're looking at me.”
	The tone should have warned me, but, stupidly, I told her what had happened in the park. A silence followed, and then she said very quietly,
	"And what did you do?"
	"What do you mean, what did I do? I got out of there fast."
	"I mean, what did you do for the girl?"
	"For the girl? What should I do for the girl?"
	"You witnessed a rape and you did nothing to prevent it? To save the girl?"
	"Save her from what? What rape? She seemed to be part of the action."
	"You said she resisted. Even if she didn't resist, It's still a statutory rape."
	"Well, you know about resistance. Sometimes it's expected of you, even if you don't really mean it. Like, you know, maybe you're out for dinner at someone's house and the lady - the lady who invited you - offers you another dessert.  You say, 'No, thank you,' because it's expected of you.  She says, 'What, a young man like you?  I'm the one who should worry about eating too much,' and you go 'Ha, ha, ha,' meaning, 'You're not really a fat sow,' and then you say,  'Well, it's really good, maybe just half,' and she brings you the double serving that you wanted anyway."
	"Very clever. But we're talking about something serious here. You saw someone being abused and you did nothing to stop it."
	"Now you're making me out like a coward. It was not my opinion that she was being abused. Why are you so hot on abuse all the time?" A defensive tone had come into my voice.  “Maybe she wasn't enjoying herself as much as he was, but I had the feeling she wanted it too. Anyway, when she had to, she got out of there fast enough.”
	"A girl of twelve doesn't want that. She doesn't know what she wants. He was just pressuring her into something, and she goes along because she thinks he'll stop loving her."
	"And I'm going to run in there like Captain Do-Right yelling, 'Stop that sinful lust right now?' "
	"You could have done something."
	"And what if they're in love?"
	"Some love. He's just using her to get his rocks off, and then he'll go tell all his buddies like you probably do."
	"What do you mean? Who tells everybody?"
	"And then he goes after a new record with someone else. Meanwhile all the guys make her life miserable because they think she's a free lay."
	"Well, isn't she? I mean, the park is not really the classiest place to do it."
	In spite of myself,  I was getting pissed at her sudden holiness, but now she really flared.
	"And you think you're a little classier because you're doing it in a fancy bedroom?"
	"I didn't mean that. I wasn't comparing us to them. Things are different."
	"How are they different?"
	"Well, you can hardly say I raped you."
	"Oh, you mean that I raped you?"
	"Why do get such pleasure in twisting things all around? I didn't say that either, but at least I didn't come close to forcing you into something you didn't want."
	"No, you were all sweet innocence.  How do you know what I want? You know, you're really twisted. "
	"I'm twisted?"
	"Yeah. A few minutes ago you were saying I was perverted, but look at you .
	"I never said you were perverted."
	"You're one of these weirdos who hangs around restrooms in the park hoping to see someone go pee. Then today you really strike it rich. You sneak around and see some delinquent trying to stick it to a little girl, and you're so perverted it turns you on. So you come over here, because you can always get your hots off with good ol' Marlene."
	"Man...man...how can you? That's not the way it was at all. You've changed the whole thing.”
	"I haven't seen you for a month and suddenly you're ready to go. That's quite a coincidence."
	"Look, maybe what I saw turned me on, but running into you was a coincidence. How did I know that you were going to be here?"
	"My being here may be a coincidence; your looking for me wasn't.  And I don't like to have creepy little perverts chasing me around."
	"Man, don't talk to me that way. I'm no pervert."
	"And I'm not your man, or maybe you're going to try that next."
	"You asshole!"
	"Perverted creep! Get the hell out of here!"
	"You're damn right. Where're my clothes?"
	"Who cares? Get out!"
	I completely twisted myself up in the sheet trying to get off the bed and ended up on my head on the floor. Gathering what dignity I could, I stormed out the door and down the stairs to the service porch where I got my clothes from the drier.  Jamming on my running shorts only, I grabbed my shoes and shirt and bolted out the back.  To hell with her and her fucking moods and goddamn rotten temper. But even in all that rage, as I left I knew that I was losing something I needed more now than ever.

TAPE SIX										10/25/85

	After that experience with Marlene I decided I'd had enough. It was time to cut my losses and be grateful for what I'd gained. In a couple of months I'd learned more than most guys knew by seventeen or eighteen in those days. Maybe it could even be played for popularity points. Kids always seemed envious of guys who'd done it. But that didn't really interest me. I knew that I needed Marlene. What I didn't need was the craziness, and with her that was only getting worse.
	It had seemed like she'd gradually taken the edge off her tough image, but now she began to go in for super-tough. Her clothes became extra-tight and almost all black. A little more of that and the girls' vice-principal was sure to call her in. She put on enough make-up to paint a ship, and her hair was always ratted and piled high. I was happy enough not to be seen with her in school. It wasn't like I was in love or anything.
	The rest of December slipped by with no particular excitement. I wasn't working out much. Cross country season had ended, and track wouldn't begin until the next semester. We'd ended up third in the league, which wasn't bad for the first year the school had really put up a team. As usual, my classes were OK. I was pulling pretty good grades with no great effort. And so I coasted into Christmas.
	By 1955 everyone in the U.S. had been White Christmassed so much that they were convinced that if it didn't snow by December 25 you were missing out on one of your constitutional rights. That song is really a great example of what an inspired jingle can do for an otherwise negative product. One of nature's most miserable conditions was turned into the indispensable ingredient for enjoying Christmas, which, God knew, had to be enjoyed, or else. And through the usual perversity of human nature, those who'd never really seen the stuff were the most convinced that they were being cheated out of their birthrights. I'm sure that everyone in Southern California felt - like I did - that we'd never experienced a really, honest-to-God, genuine Christmas. Meanwhile in Keokuk, where they had ten to twenty feet of the magic ingredient, those who could afford it were buying tickets to L.A. or Miami or Bimini to spend the holidays. Ford should've hired Irving Berlin to write a few Edsel jingles.
	That year, however, as we geared up to suffer through another snowless season, a truly amazing thing happened. After one of the longest, hottest summers most could remember, about a week before Christmas, a storm took a wrong turn upstate and ended up over the Sierra Madres where it dumped several feet of the white stuff. There were even two or three inches of snow in La Canada and Tujunga, only five miles north of us. A local holiday declared itself as the the roads into the foothills packed with gawkers.
	And then, with only two days to go, everyone was astounded when that storm's little sister came tagging along and dropped even more magic. We woke up to find Mount Verdugo and the lower foothills blanketed within sight of our house. In the early morning there were even flakes on our lawn, but they quickly evaporated as I tried to scoop them up.
	Well, that was it! The Christmas spirit was on me as it never had been and never would be again. I found a sort of seedy old muffler and my father's navy jacket and after breakfast rushed downtown to do my Christmas shopping. Brand Boulevard was packed with other shoppers in heavy coats and old ear muffs and any other ragbag clothes that they could pretend were for snow.
	There were really only three people I had to buy for. But, despite my decision about Marlene, I thought about buying something for her, too. First, I wasn't sure that I wanted to do that, and second, nothing I saw in the the stores seemed like something she might like. Records and books were too impersonal, but buying something personal for her involved knowing her in ways that I didn't.  It was strange that I could know her so much better in one way than I knew anyone else but not have a clue as to who she really was.
	I'd about given up that whole idea. I was walking down Brand after picking up some shaving lotion and cologne for Danny and a Christmas record for his wife when I passed a narrow storefront that I'd never noticed before. It was an antique store with a display of old jewelry in the window. Most of it looked junky, but to one side of the display there was a small locket on a fine chain. It caught my attention. For a minute or so I studied it. It appeared to be gold, but rather dark. I figured it was plated. It was a heart locket, but you had to look closely to make it out. An intricate design of vines and flowers done in fine wire enmeshed the heart so that it was barely visible. After looking at it carefully, but with no purpose in mind, I continued down the street.
	About a block from the store I did an about-face and returned. When I pulled on the door it seemed locked; then suddenly it gave way, and I was inside. As I remember it, the store was a tremendous heap. Old objects were piled everywhere, and yet the place did not give the impression of being dirty as it should have been if the things had been there for years collecting dust. Surely no one would deliberately arrange a store that way all at once. It appeared to have accumulated over decades.
	Some of the objects were fascinating. There were old instruments, small furnishings, clothing, and a selection of old clocks. As I walked toward the back looking for the curator of the place I passed a glass case filled with cut crystal and frosted glass. To my right were piled up several stained glass windows and next to them were shelves with all sorts of colored glass things: vases, glasses, flower tubes and figurines. They gave off shimmering lights that covered that side of the room like a kaleidoscope. I couldn't figure out where the light was coming from. There were only a few bare bulbs that hung down on long cords and a little light from the front window, yet the glassware shone as if it was giving off its own energy.
	The store looked small, but the trip from the front to the back seemed unreasonably long. Finally I reached a showcase in the back that looked like a counter and looked around for a sales clerk. The wall behind the counter had a small doorway covered with a heavy curtain.  There wasn't any movement in the back room, although I'd made an effort to scuffle my feet and cough several times as I came in. At last I called out,
	"Anyone here?"
	"Of course. I'm certainly here," said a very clear voice directly in front of me. And there she certainly was.
	She was very old and rather short. Maybe she'd been squatting behind the counter or maybe she'd come through the curtain as I looked away for a second. Her sudden appearance about gave me a heart attack. Possibly she'd simply materialized out of the curtain. Her dress was brown like it was, and they both needed ironing. As I got my breath back I noticed that her face was the same: brown, fuzzy and wrinkled. Her grey, wiry hair was clean, though, and pulled back tightly into a bun. She appeared harmless enough, and I relaxed a little.
	"May I help you?"
	"Yes. I was interested in seeing..."
	"Some jewelry?"
	"Yes. How did you know?"
 	"What would a young man be looking for in an antique store before Christmas?"
	"Yes, well, it's something I saw in the front window."
	"A locket perhaps? Perhaps a heart entwined with flowers?"
	She produced a locket from behind the counter. I looked the same as the one I'd seen in the window, but a little shinier. I eyed her suspiciously. Did she have a locket factory in the back room?
	I left her and picked my way back to the front of the store. The display window was enclosed by glass on the inside, but I could see that the locket had been removed from its place. I went back to the old lady and asked,
	“Even if you saw me before, how did you know I’d be back?"
	"You have a suspicious nature. Good. Let's say it's woman's intuition. I just felt you would return."
	"But how did you know I was looking at that locket?l'
	"Intuition, as I said. Would you like to look at it?"
	Her voice had what I guessed was like a Jamaican accent, which was a little odd for Glendale. She placed the locket on a piece of black velvet which lay on the counter. It was as I'd seen it: apparently a twist of vines and flowers, but with a heart barely visible inside the design.
	'May I pick it up?"
	"A very polite young man. Certainly, you may."
	It was heavier than I'd expected, although it was only about the size of a quarter. I cradled it in my hand and felt its gravity. Perhaps it absorbed the warmth of my hand or maybe the old lady'd been holding it, but it felt warm, even like it was pulsating. I found the split between the halves and opened it with my thumb nail. Both compartments were empty, but there were spaces for two pictures. Considering the warm relations that existed between Marlene and me, it was strange that I'd even consider such a gift. Dueling pistols might be more to the point. I put it down.
	“How much is it?"
	"A very direct young man. Don't you wish to know more about the piece? What it's made of? Who made it? It's design?"
	I was usually very polite with older people. I guess it came from being with my grandparents a lot. But for some reason I was more direct with her.
	"It looks like gold, but I'm no expert. If it's really gold I guess it's too expensive. I know I like the way it looks, so how much is it?"
	What I didn't want was a long story about all the dead hands that had touched that locket. Maybe she sensed that. She laughed heartily.
	I've always been sort of a collector of laughs and this one pleased me. Some people say they can learn everything about a person from his eyes. Laughs tell me more than eyes. The one thing eyes tell me about is death. For some reason impending death comes through eyes very clearly to me. I’d seen death's dull vacuum in our dog's eyes the first day of the attack, but I'd denied it. The same thing was in the eyes of some of the old ladies in resthomes who Grandma'd told me to call 'auntie.'
	Hearing the old lady's unexpectedly clear laugh, I was moved to look directly into her eyes. In spite of her bent body and wrinkled face, nothing but life met me there. She was watching me like she knew what I was doing. Could she hear my thoughts? Were we members of some Weird People's Club with our own secret language?  Whatever it was, she seemed happy enough with what I didn't see in her eyes.
	"So, you don't want to hear the story about the locket. Maybe better.  Then it's yours as though it were new. It is a valuable piece, as you say, but I will ask fifty dollars of you for it."
	Again I looked at her carefully. Fifty dollars was a lot of money for me to consider spending - even on someone in my own family - and this was for a girl who was always going nuts and driving me away. But it wasn't impossible. I'd had a paper route and cut lawns in the neighborhood and saved almost all I'd earned. During the last year running had taken most of my extra time so I hadn't added much. I'd decided that when I was sixteen I'd use the money - about three hundred dollars - to buy a car. I guessed I could use some of that money now - no one watched how I spent it - but why?
	"How do you determine the value of something like this," I asked.
	"There's no set way. Believe me, the piece is worth much more, but I calculate you can pay fifty."
	"And if you lose money?"
	"Why should you worry about that? Sometimes other considerations determine my price.”
	"And if I offer thirty?"
	"Then you would not respect its value. For you, fifty is the price."
	"Can you hold it for tomorrow? If I can get the money I'll come back in the morning.”
	"I can hold it."
	I can't say I spent a sleepless night worried about what to do. I barely thought about it. The next morning I went to the bank, withdrew the money and bought the locket. 

	Whatever other family obligations my mother may have given up, she remained pretty firm about holiday meals. Now the family was down to her, Danny, Dede and me, but she made life generally miserable if anyone got ideas about eating a holiday meal in some other company. Up to this point she'd always had these meals at our house and had done all the preparations. Dede usually brought some vegetables or a pie or something like that, but basically it was my mother's operation.
	But Dede was beginning to get a little hardheaded herself. I'm sure life with Danny could do that to a person. That year she declared to my mother that dinner was at her house and we were invited. My mother groused about that for a while, but her banker's heart realized that, no matter what she made, there were too many leftovers for two people to eat before they dried out. Now she couldn't even feed them to the dog. So she took the tune that Dede needed the experience and agreed.
	On Christmas Eve my problem was how to get my present over to Marlene's house before we left. I hadn't seen her in the days since I bought the locket, and I didn't want just to leave it in her mail box in case it might be stolen. I figured that there was probably a good chance that she'd be home on Christmas Eve, so I'd planned to take a little walk by there before we went over to Danny's. Now my mother, who'd been planning to go there about six decided it would be nice to leave earlier so she could help Dede get ready - or catch her by surprise taking shortcuts with the food. Christmas brings out the best in us all.
	I thought fast and said,
	"I was planning to take a present over to a friend's house. I didn't think you were ready to go yet."
	"What friend? Why are you buying presents for your friends now? Are you suddenly into a fortune I didn't know about?"
	"Nah. It's just a gag gift for Mike Van Ark. We drew lots in class, and I was supposed to give it to him before the break. But I missed class that day because of a cross country meet. I thought he might get a kick out of it while it's still Christmas."
	Cross country meets had been over for a month, but of course she didn't have any idea about that. Mike Van Ark was a jerk who lived up the street from us. He thought I was a jerk too, and you can guess that we didn't spend much time together, but I often used him as an excuse to get away from the house in an emergency. I was going to stop doing that because my mother was beginning to wonder if we were such great pals why he never came over to my house.
	"Well," she said, "if it's such an emergency, I can drop you by there on our way to Danny's. He lives near here doesn't he?"
	"Yeah, it's just up the street, but he might see your car and know who left the present for him. I'll just run up there and be back before you leave."
	"I was planning to go right now. Why do you always do this? Just when I'm ready to go somewhere you hold me up."
	“I thought you were going later. Listen, don't worry. I can jog over to Danny's house. It's only a couple of miles away. It'll be a good workout."
	"You'll get all sweaty, and it's too cold outside."
	"How can I get sweaty if it's too cold?"
	"Don't answer everything I say. Hurry up then if you've got to. I don't know why you've always got to be so inconsiderate."
	She changes the time without telling anyone, and I'm inconsiderate. She was right about the cold, though. The days since the snowstorms had been sunny, but there was still snow on the hills, and the nights were going below freezing. I grabbed the navy jacket, stuffed the small box in the jacket pocket and took off out the front door.
	"Where's the present?" she called.
	"Right here," I shouted, showing her the box.
	"Why is it so little?"
	"Good things in small packages. It's a mouse trap that'll go off when he opens the box."
	"Andy!"
	By that point I was almost a block away blowing plumes of steam out of my mouth and nose as I covered the three blocks to Marlene's house in a quick jog. The icy air cut down into my lungs, but, in spite of the unusual cold I really felt great, like I was sailing along on little jet shoes or something.
	When I turned the corner onto Marlene's street I was surprised to see cars lined up on both sides of the street. There must have been twenty or thirty parked there, all pretty new and most of them pretty expensive, too. With all the old ladies that lived around there it was strange to see so many cars - I mean, it just wasn't the neighborhood for raucous parties.
	Then, as I got near Marlene's house, I could see that it was the only one on the street that was all lit up. That was where the party was going on. Every room in the house had lights on. A big arch of fir boughs and red lights that hadn't been there the day before had been placed over the front door. Lights danced along the edge of the roof, and every window on the front had colored lights around it. The curtains of the big arched window had been drawn all the way back, and you could see lots of people wandering around the living room with drinks in their hands looking all jolly and ho-ho-hoish.
	And there in the center of the window, as though posing for a whiskey ad or something, was Marlene in a slinky black cocktail dress all arm in arm with someone who looked a hell of a lot like a kid named Ronnie Robertson.
	I was sure it was Robertson, but what the hell was he doing with Marlene?  I had no idea he even knew her. I looked around the street, and sure enough there was his customized '49 Ford with the two-inch thick metallic blue paint job.
	Robertson was nice enough, I guess, if you liked oil slicks. His parents really had some coins, as his car and his clothes clearly showed.  He didn't do too much that made him famous at school, but he had a big reputation with the girls, and he could get a date with anyone he wanted to.
	But how did he know Marlene? The only guys I'd ever seen her talking to were Leo Frank and other leather-jacket hoods. Robertson was definitely not in that group. Maybe he sniffed around the tough girls, but his interests were clearly more uptown. He and Marlene just didn't seem a very likely combination .
	I got behind a tree,then watched the window. Marlene looked great. She was such a total chameleon: one person at school, another at home, and now this. Still, she looked damn good.
	Just then she snaked her hand up behind Robertson's head, like you see those breathy actresses do in the movies, and brought his face down to hers for a long, steamy kiss. He put his drink down on the grand piano, put both arms around her and really gave her a hell of a kiss - like they weren't really standing in front of a window large enough to fit into a department store or anything.
	The timing of the whole thing was so perfect I'd swear it was all set up just for me - like some sort of movie that doesn't start until you step on a hidden button on the floor. I watched as they finished the kiss, turned and strolled toward the dining room. It couldn't have been set up. How could she even know I would show up at that moment? She didn't even look out toward the street, and nobody would give a whole party just to put on a show for me, anyway. Still, that's just what it felt like, and the next thing was even worse. I'd swear that someone was standing right behind me with a baseball bat and let me have it right over the kidneys. It just about doubled me up. I lurched forward, and as I tried to straighten up, the pain moved up from my back right into the center of my chest.
	When I was a younger kid I used to get sick - I mean really nauseated from all the songs about broken hearts. I couldn't understand why singers would moan on about some pain that couldn't happen anyway. I mean, what the hell was a broken heart? Did it just pop open and start shooting blood all over the room?
	But, boy, now I knew what they were groaning about. Up to then I had no idea that I really cared about Marlene in any emotional way, but I couldn't have hurt more if someone had taken a chisel and hammer to the old ticker. It hurt right there, and it really did hurt.
	I turned away from the house and dragged my way down the hill to where my mother was waiting with the car already running. As we drove to Danny's she noticed the change in my mood.
	“So, your friend caught you giving him a mouse trap and gave you what you deserve! You should know that no one wants to receive something like that on Christmas. It's not April Fools' Day. You just don't have consideration for others, Andy. I wish you'd listen to me sometimes, but you only learn when someone gives you your comeupance."
	I sat quietly, trying to refigure my life. Every so often something my mother was saying drifted in. She just droned on as we made the short drive, and, of course, had to repeat it all for everyone at Danny's house.
	Dede - apparently putting my mood together with the idea of a rejected gift - arched her eyebrows and gave me a very pointed sideways glance. She spent so much time reading romance magazines, she could smell something romantic a mile away. I pitied Danny if his eyes ever started roving. But my mother just raved on. The woman was so perceptive.

	I guess it was somewhere around February when I saw Marlene again - that is, saw her to talk to. I never gave her the locket, first because I didn't want to and then because I lost it.
	It was on a weekend evening. I was home by myself with nothing to do. Things were going OK. There hadn't been any more visions or weird happenings. Even without Marlene’s help things were smooth enough, but there was still something that wasn't connecting, like something was missing in the middle of things and sometimes that made me nervous.
	I decided to clean out my closet. Now, that was not my typical thing to do on a Saturday night, but no one had called about a party or anything. I almost never saw Al now except at track practice and I’d learned not to pressure Glenn. He was not exactly what I'd thought. He blew hot and cold about people, me included. Anyway, the closet pissed me off. It was full of kid's stuff, like old comics and toys. It was time to get rid of all that.
	When I moved one of the boxes on the upper shelf, though, a bottle rolled over and nearly split my head. I grabbed it in time. It was a fifth of vodka. It could only be Glenn’s. He was so proud of being the procurer - usually from his brother's friends - although I guessed he probably stole this one from his father because he usually only bought pints. He probably stuck it in the closet as insurance against a dry night. It pissed me a little, but not much. There wasn't much danger my mother would ever clean my room.
	For a while I kept cleaning, but every so often my eye strayed over to the bottle. I'd gone to some other parties with Glenn since the time we visited Jo's house. He even had one at his house. Always there was drinking, and at his house a lot of guys got drunk. A friend of his brother got naked, ran around the block and came back with a few new friends from the GPD. I didn't really like drinking though, and even that time I only had a couple. It wasn't that I didn't like the feelings and the forgetting that booze produced, but I still had this fear of letting my head get too far out of control.
	Still, I looked at the bottle, and thoughts of warm feelings and Jo Riggs came back to me.  We'd never gone back there, probably because her brother and Glenn's were friends and Glenn didn't want to mess with her. Maybe what I'd suggested that night worried him, too.
	I went to the kitchen and poured some soda then went back and added vodka. I didn't know much about mixing, and it was pretty strong. There was no particular reason for drinking; I was just bored. But as I drank, Jo Riggs came more and more into my head. 
	I’d about given up on cleaning. Mostly I lay back on my bed thinking about this and that and coming back to Jo. I mixed another drink and then decided that there was no reason I couldn't visit her myself. I thought about Glenn and me and Jo that night and felt myself get hard. Now that I’d given up on Marlene, so to speak, I really needed someone else. Maybe it was time for a return visit.
	I wasn't watching how I mixed the drinks. That was usually Glenn's job. They were all pretty strong, but after the first one, I didn't notice. When I got up, though, the floor was a little tricky, not quite flat, a little mushy in some places. I found the navy jacket, which had become my trademark, and got it on.
	When I got outside I saw a heavy fog had settled in. It was hard to see even to the corner, and my head wasn't cooperating much with directions.  Still, I managed to find Jo’s street and, although I missed it once, finally even found her house. I knocked, maybe too loudly, and almost at once the door flew open. It was Jo's brother, Ted. I recognized him from school.
	"Yeah?" he drawled.
	He was a big guy - bigger than I thought - which maybe explained why Glenn didn't mess around there.  Just then I saw Jo crossing the hall from the kitchen to the stairs. When she saw me she looked a little panicked and hurried to get up the stairs. Her brother caught her movement and looked back suspiciously.
	"I know you," he said. "You go to Hoover, don't you? You hang around with little Potter."
	"Yeah," I said, trying to get my brain into some kind of functioning gear. But a green haze was settling between me and the controls.
	"Well, whadaya want?"
	"I, uh, well, I was looking for Mike Van Ark's house," I lied, using the usual dodge.
	"Van Ark," he almost screamed. "He doesn't live around here. You don't hang around with him, do you?"
	"Well, not much, but we do have this class together, uh, geography, that's it, and we have this project we're doing together, and I thought he lived around here."
	I was slurring and he seemed to smell something on my breath. I stepped back a little. He advanced into the doorway.
	"Right! You're doing a school project with Van Ark on Saturday night.  I wonder why I never knew he was such a scholar. I always thought he was sort of a hood.”
	I moved a little more out of the circle of light that poured from the door and hung in the fog.
	"You sure you didn't have something else in mind?" he went on. "You sure you haven't been around here before, maybe with your buddy Glenn?"
	He looked back at the rapidly retreating form of his sister on the stairs.
	"Been here before? Me? How would I know where you lived? I mean, if I knew who you were, right? Me, I'm just an ol' stranger in the night. Well, listen, good seein' ya. Say hi to Glenn's brother when you see him."
	"Yeah, say hi to Johnny Walker. Say hi to Commander Whitehead."
	The door slammed me back into the haze. I could hear him screaming something at Jo, like this was nothing new. Maybe that was why they had her in a Catholic school. Maybe that was why she was so horny.
	Now the spongy clamp of the alcohol locked down for good. The haze poured from my brain and joined its sister outside. I had no idea where I was. I thought I was going uphill, but maybe it was down. I could have been floating in space or sleeping. From time to time I passed into a field of light around a street lamp and then back into the grey.
	At one point everything lit up. Two bright lights passed by me fast and then there was a terrific screech and someone swearing. All I could see was two dots of red in the haze. I still had enough sense to find a hedge and throw myself behind it. Some people were saying something about almost hitting a kid in the street, but when they didn't find anyone, the red lights were sucked into the haze like everything else.
	Panic began to pierce my stupor. I was still connected enough to realize the horrible possibilities of being lost in a blinding fog. I might stumble all the way to Burbank and disappear forever. How many people have you ever heard of who came from Burbank?  Or I might get down to the L.A. River and fall in and die of thirst. As I staggered on, the horrors awaiting me became more terrifying by the minute. It seemed I'd been walking for hours from one island of lamplight to the next, trying in vain to make some logic of the street signs I could manage to read.
	At last I gave it up and threw myself down on a damp lawn to sleep it off. Let the monsters of the night have me! I couldn't go on. But as I lay there, something penetrated the haze. There was an upside-down door in my dreams and a porch light that I thought I knew. If I could just turn it around I might make some sense of it. I struggled with the image and finally rolled to my stomach. I was looking straight at Marlene's wide oak plank front door. I was on her front lawn.
	Unsteadily, I got to my feet and made it to the porch were I flopped down again. Maybe I slept for some time. Finally I gathered myself and, without considering the possibility of facing her father instead of Marlene, rang the bell and then pounded on the door. 
	With the chain on, it opened a crack.
	"What do you want?" she said coldly.
	"I'm lost."
	"You're three blocks from your house."
	"I don't seem to be able to think too clearly."
	She slid the chain from the latch and opened the door enough to see me more clearly.
	"You're drunk'
	"How can you tell? Vodka is supposed to keep your secret secret."
 	"I can tell you're drunk because you look terrible and because you just told me." 		"Very intui...intui...very smart." 
	"Go home." 
	"I just told you: I'm lost." 
	"Go home." 
	She slammed the door. That made me mad. She was just too damn snotty. No one should get away with treating her fellow man so shabbily. I began ringing and pounding along with some yelling and maybe a few obscenities. The door opened again.
	"Get the hell out of here. You'll wake up all the neighbors." 
	"To hell with your neighbors. TO HELL WITH ALL THE OLD LADIES IN THE WHOLE FUCKIN' WORLD!!!" 
	She grabbed me by the sleeve and pulled me into the entrance hall. 
	"Listen. You knock it off or I'll call the cops right now.”
	"I just need a moment's respite, kind lady, before I continue my noble quest."
	Her eyes searched the ceiling for something.
	"You need some coffee and then a quick trip home. I'll make some for you."
	"I don't like coffee."
	"Well, that's tough shit. You're not going to spend the night here."
	"I guess you don't talk to Ronnie Robertson like that," I said in a voice somewhere between petulant and stupid.
	"What do you know about Ronnie Robertson, and what business is it of yours, anyway?"
	"I saw him at your Christmas Party. You were both standing in the front window."
	 "You creep. When are you going to stop spying on me and everyone else
in the neighborhood?"
	"I told you, I don't spy. Anyway I was just bringing you a Christmas present which I threw away and wouldn't give to you anyway, even if I had it."
	"Who cares? Who wants your presents? And you didn't have any present. Who knows how many nights you've been lurking around outside? It gives me the creeps."
	That really hurt.
	"That really hurts. I ought to leave just for that.”
	I thought about the fog.
	"But you offered me coffee and I'll take it."
	I lurched into the kitchen. She followed me and began to make a pot of coffee. I tried to remember how the kitchen had been before. It was hard to concentrate. Everything seemed the same, but I was sure they'd changed the doors of the cabinets. Now they were mahogany like the rest of the downstairs.
	"Look, Andy, I don't know why you came by here tonight, and I don't know why you're drinking. But there's no reason for you to come here again. I don't want you. I don't want your presents. And I don't want you hanging around my house.
	The alcohol was definitely bringing me down now, and that, together with Marlene's nice speech, had the tears pushing against the back of my eyes. I really didn't want to turn sloppy. The coffee was beginning to perk and smelled good, but I wheeled around and headed for the front door.
	"Hey, I didn't mean you couldn't drink your coffee. Wait a minute."
	I'd reached the door and she still stood in the kitchen. The mist on the other side of the door held a real terror for me, but, drunk or not, I was furious. I turned again to face her. I guess my emotions were hanging all over my face.
	"Ever since I’ve known you you've been shitty to me,” I drawled.  “I'm not any of the things you called me, and there's nothing so damn wunnerful about you, either. Don't worry about seein’ me again; you won't."
	With that I turned and swung open the heavy door and jammed my fists down into the jacket pockets. There was a ripping sound as my right fist found a little tear in the bottom of the pocket, opened it and followed on into the lining where it touched a small object wrapped in paper. For a minute I stood with my back to Marlene fumbling for the thing in the lining, and then I turned in triumph with the little jewelry box in its red wrapping in my hand.
	"Look," I said, immediately forgetting the emotions of the previous minute, "the gift. That's what happened to it. I had it in the pocket of the jacket and it dropped through into the lining."
	Then I came back to myself, darkened, and turned for the door. Marlene crossed the entrance hall and stood in the door as I reached the steps.
	"What did you find?"
	"I found your Christmas gift, which I'd lost and which I will now throw away or give to someone else. No, I'll take it back to the old lady and get my money back, that's what."
	"What is it?"
	I stopped on the lower step.
	"What do you care? Or do you take presents from creeps and perverts."
	"I was just curious. Look, I didn't know it was so foggy out here. Come back, sit down and drink some coffee before you go home.”
	The fog seemed to have gotten heavier still. Beyond the circle of light from the lamp on Marlene's front porch I could see nothing, not even the jacaranda trees. Drops were falling from the roof. I considered the alternatives for a moment and then turned.
	''I'll only come back if you let me sit down and drink some coffee."
	Marlene's eyes searched the ceiling again, but she moved to let me pass.
	"Sit down in the living room. It's warmer there. I'll bring the drinks."
	I threw myself down on the super-long, super-soft sofa and was partially digested by it. Marlene returned with a large mug of coffee which she set on the coffee table in front of me. Next to it she put sugar.
	“Do you use cream?'
	"Yeah. Milk's OK."
	She went out to get some milk and I tried to reach forward to put sugar in the coffee, but the maws of the monster sofa held me firm. It seemed to have my butt already swallowed and was working on my right leg. I struggled to free myself as Marlene came back with a small pitcher of milk. I hid my battle behind a smile but could still not move enough to reach the coffee.
	"Well,” she said, much nicer than before, "drink your coffee."
	She moved it closer to me so that I managed to load it with milk and sugar without moving more. I grinned weakly, covering my fear of being cannibalized and took a few sips.
	“Well, aren't you going to show it to me?
	“What ?”
	"The gift."
	"Why would you be interested in something from a creep?
	"OK, if you're going to be snotty."
	"Look who's talking about snotty. Well take a look if you want, but don't mess it up. I want to get my money back on it."
	She gave me a dirty look and took the box. I tried to stand again, but the sofa had begun on my left leg. I gave up the fight for a minute and watched as she unwrapped the blue velvet box and lifted the little lid. Her expression, which had been very condescending, changed a lot. At first she looked surprised, then confused, then very curious. I could barely see the jumble of delicate vines around the locket, but it looked the same as I'd remembered it. After studying it carefully and looking at it from different angles, she reached to take it out of the box. As she touched it, she drew back her hand quickly. Perhaps she pricked herself on one of the vines, but I remembered the warm sensation I'd felt when I first touched it. Finally she took it out of the box and stood holding it up, dangling in front of her.
	"You stole it from your mother."
	This time I put my heart into the fight and sprang up beside her as the monster, finally tiring of an indigestible butt, spit me out.
	"God damn you. I don't know why I would ever want to give you anything."
	I grabbed the locket as she backed away amazed.
	"I'm no thief. I'm no creep. I'm no pervert. You're a..... Oh, no!"
	Maybe it was the sudden change of altitude or maybe it was the supersweet coffee, but my rage suddenly changed to something else. I managed to get to the front door and down the steps before everything that had entered my mouth for the last three weeks came up, and when that was done the stomach started working on the next three. I'd never felt so rotten.
	After several minutes of that I was exhausted. I looked like some weird dog, down on all fours, making strange barking sounds, my little puddle in front of me. Marlene stood watching from her front porch. When she felt it was safe, she came down to the lawn, passed by me, knelt down and picked up the locket, which had flown out of my hand and buried itself in the grass. For a minute she studied it again. Then she returned to me, approaching carefully from behind and, putting her hands under my arms, lifted me and guided me back into the house. She took me into the kitchen where she told me to wash my face and mouth.
	"That was disgusting," she said.
	"Really!"
	"I suppose I should thank you for at least getting out of the house."
	"Oh, anytime. Don't mention it."
	"Don't worry."
	She took me back into the living room where she tried to get me to lie down and rest on the sofa. I chose the rug instead. It was also super-soft, and I hated to think what would happen to someone who fell asleep on that damned furniture. I drifted quickly into a drugged sleep.
	Some time later - it must have been about midnight - I woke up to someone prodding me in my side. She stood above me, nudging me with her foot. She'd put on jeans and a heavy jacket.
	"You'd better get up. I'll help you get home. My father'll be coming home any time now."
	"It's OK. I can make it myself. I feel better now."
	The drunkenness had left me, but in its place was a weakness and the beginnings of a tremendous headache. I tried to stand up, and sat right back down, bumping my side on the coffee table.
	"Yeah, you're in great shape. C'mon, I'll help you. It's still foggy. You'll get lost again - if you really were lost."
	I started to say something back, but let it go. There wasn't much fight left in me.
	We made it over to our street and down the hill. At the back door I told her that I could make it in OK, but she insisted on getting me into my room, like she was all maternal now or something. No one was home. My mother's "meeting" had apparently gone into extra innings.
	Marlene went into the bathroom and got me some aspirin and water while I got down to my shorts and T-shirt and sat down on the edge of the bed. She gave me the aspirin, then sat next to me, waiting. When I finished drinking she said,
	"You forgot something."
	She produced the locket from her pocket. I tried to look into her eyes to get some sign of her emotions, but there was hardly light in the room. I'd left it off because it hurt my eyes.
	"I didn't forget it. It's yours,” I said in a flat tone.  “It's not for anyone else."
	Even in the dim light I could make out her smile. It wasn't big, but it looked happier that I'd ever seen on her. She kissed me on the cheek. I tried to put my arms around her, but at that moment the headache returned with a few of its friends. She slipped away easily.
	"I've no intention of listening to your springs again," she said.
	"I'll get the oil can," I suggested, squinting at her against the pain.
	Her voice wasn't exactly loving, but kinder that I'd heard before.
	"Just get some sleep. You can't even walk, much less...I'll see you tomorrow."
	I dropped back on the bed and waved weakly as she let herself out. In a few minutes I was into a deep sleep.

TAPE SEVEN									11/9/85

	After that night Marlene and I became...well, I don't know if there is a good word for what we became to each other. Boyfriend and girlfriend is pretty innocent. We certainly weren't engaged, but "going steady" - which was supposed to describe something between those two - didn't really cover us either. A guy who was going steady usually bought a huge chrome ring which looked like a truck lug nut and gave it to his girl who wore it around her neck on a chain.  If the guy was one of the leather jacket crew or belonged to a car club, the lucky girl had to wear his pitty jacket around school all day, too.
	I didn't think Marlene would put up with any of that stuff, and I was right. Although she'd been pretty tender the night I gave her the locket, on the next school day, as soon as she saw me coming down the hall, she turned her back and started talking with one of the motorcycle girls that she always hung around with there.
	Avoiding her in school wasn't difficult. Like I said before, because we were in different grades we didn't have any classes together, except at the start of second semester she was transferred into my art class. She made sure to sit way across the large room from me, and if our eyes did accidentally meet, we quickly glanced away.
	I guess the only word to describe us was lovers, but I certainly wouldn't have used that word then, and even now I think it's way too sophisticated. Maybe you could say we were friends whose main bond was sex. That pretty well said it for me - at least at first. What Marlene felt I'm still not so sure.
	Don't get the idea from this that life was some great orgy. In the first place there were only certain days I could see her. On Sundays and even pretty early on Monday afternoons the big black Cadillac was in the carport beside the house. I never went near there on those days. On Wednesdays Marlene was always out in the afternoon and didn't seem very happy to see me if I stopped by in the evening. From what I know now, I guess she was seeing her doctor - probably a shrink - and was usually in a rotten mood afterwards. On Fridays she often went out.
	Although I didn't like to spy on her - in spite of what she thought - I did once. She walked a few blocks away from her house and was picked up on a dark corner by a car with a couple of guys in it.  I thought I recognized Leo Frank.  That pissed hell out of me, but there wasn't much I could do about it except shut up or risk another blowup with her. She still ate lunch with those guys. I didn't even go into the cafeteria anymore unless it was raining.
	Anyway, that left Tuesday, Thursday, and sometimes Saturday for me to go over to her house. Even then, most of the time we just spent doing homework or talking about problems in general or listening to music. She listened to my bitching sympathetically but never said much about herself. That was alright with me because her mood could get pretty bad if she got on personal things, and I would usually have to look for an excuse to leave if that happened.
	To my surprise, though, I learned a lot of things from Marlene that spring. Like I said before, I usually got grades without too much sweat, and that year I remember I was getting pretty interested in science, especially astronomy.  Marlene knew a hell of a lot about that stuff, and she was great in math, too.  It shocked me at first, but then I really took advantage of it, and my grades were never better.  She knew a lot about  art and even politics and philosophy and could really get hot if something she considered an injustice had happened.  Then she would rave on, and I would soak it all up so I could look good later in social studies class. You've got to remember that all this was a little unusual in the know-nothing fifties. Students didn't get very involved in social issues for another ten years, especially high school students.
	Sometimes those conversations got a little off track, though.  I remember one day when there was a thing in the news about the police hiring some lady who claimed to have extra-sensory perception.  They wanted her to use her ESP to help solve some really gory crime that had everyone upset at the time.  Marlene started talking about ESP all serious, and I thought it might be a good time to mention the stuff about visions, because the truth was the vision still bothered me and I really wanted to talk to someone about it. 	
	I started off all impersonal, like it wasn’t really me.
	“I know a guy,” I said, “who says he can see things that happened in the past - I mean stuff he never saw, himself, but that happened in a particular place or to someone he knew.”
	Marlene’s eyes narrowed - which I should have recognized right there as a bad sign, but I went on,
	“This guy says he can really see that stuff, like it’s happening right in front of him.”
	“You’re saying he can see into the past whenever he wants to?”
	“I don’t think he can do it whenever he wants to.  I think it’s more like the visions happen to him whenever they want to.”
	“And you believe that.”
	“Well, he sounded pretty convincing.”
	Then she really blew up.
	“Well, tell your friend that he’s either a con man or a bullshitter.  He’s either trying to get something from you, or he’s just jerkin’ you off.  In either case, that’s just the kind of crap I can’t stand, and, believe me, I’ve seen plenty of it.”
	I began to get really pissed off.  Here I’d sorta opened up to her about something I really needed to talk about, and she blows me off completely.  The best I could do was to keep control and look for some way to get out of there before I blew it completely.  I decided to just keep that stuff to myself, like I always had.
	Then there were the moments when that old smoldering feeling would settle over the dining room or the kitchen, wherever we were studying. I would look up and see that thing in her eye. We would work on in silence for a while, but my groin would begin to throb. She would just get up and touch my shoulder, and I would follow her upstairs.
	In those days you didn't hear so much about sexual abuse. There was enough of it around, I suppose, but it wasn't on TV every day, and you didn't hear teachers talking about it in class. About the only one who talked about it was Marlene when she'd get in one of her snits, and then I'd be headed for the door.
	Usually when you hear about stuff like that you think of some old guy forcing little kids to do things they don't know about and don't want to do. That didn't really apply. Marlene was a little older than I was, and she did trick me the first time, but once I knew what it was, there was no doubt I wanted it.
	But maybe abuse can also mean using another person for your own needs without considering what he or she needs. In that sense maybe what went on between us was abusive. I could be smart and say that it was a form of abuse for which I had a good tolerance, but I won't.
	Even though I had no way to compare, I guess I knew that our sex was not exactly normal. In the first place, I don't think that most kids my age would even keep something like that going for so long. I mean, there was so much talk about sex, but I don't think many guys really wanted to settle into something like that with just one girl.
	And then there was Marlene's attitude during sex. It could take two forms. The first one wasn't really nasty, but it wasn't really not. Sometimes when we were into it she’d get that look she had that day in her father's bathroom when she’d tried all that kinky stuff with me. Then she'd do things like getting on top and gyrating around and leaning way back. Now, maybe you don't see much in that, but at that age bending back was a thing my cock just didn't do well when it was hard. Hell, it was sometimes tough just to pry it off my stomach, and she knew it. Still, she'd keep on. It wasn't pain so bad that I'd lose it, but it did keep me scootching all over the bed to relieve the pressure.
	Her other attitude was even stranger, though. She'd only go so far with semi-sadistic stuff, and then something else would take over. She'd get sort of dreamy, almost like hypnotized, and just lie back and let me do my stuff, run my race. It wasn't that she wasn't enjoying it. She seemed to, and she responded to me, but at the same time she seemed removed, like a voyeur watching herself and me. Sometimes I would try to take it a little slower, but I could tell she was getting tired so I'd finish off. I didn't think much about it at the time. I thought that was just the way it was.
	Actually, if you want to know, I didn't think about it too much at all, because the truth was that - more and more - I really needed it, regardless of what she felt. These were moments when I could lose my mind - just shut it off for a while without the agony of running or the nausea of alcohol. In many ways they were the only sane times in a world that grew a little stupider every day. And maybe it was coincidence, but during that spring I had no more premonitions and no visions.
	What did strike me a little strange was that she usually fell into a very deep sleep afterward. I was just the opposite. Sex gave me energy, and I could probably have done it a couple more times. But I didn't push it. I'd cover her and try to doze off, myself, but  would end up staring at the ceiling or out the window until she woke up, usually after about a half hour.
	Then one day I made a change in the routine.  Feeling very awake and very thirsty, I decided to sneak out and explore a little.  I got on my shorts and went down the long upstairs hall to the back stairs.  I went down to the kitchen and picked up a soda from the refrigerator.  Then I gave in to my usual desire to investigate houses and snooped around a little.
	I already knew the downstairs pretty well, although I hadn’t really studied the den that connected the large kitchen with the living room and formal dining room.  That day, though, I went back upstairs and, after looking in on Marlene, who was still asleep, went through the other upstairs rooms.  Marlene’s room was on the front of the house while the other bedrooms - there were five more- were on the sides.
	Next to her room, in the front west corner of the house, was an area I’d seen briefly the other times.  It was sort of an upstairs living room full of couches and overstuffed chairs.  There was a bar on one side, and sliding glass doors led out onto the balcony.  It was a place for entertaining, and it had been all lit up the night of the Christmas party.
	Compared to the subtlety of the decoration downstairs, the design of this room was a little gross.  It was supposed to look Hawaiian or South Pacific or something like that.  The wallpaper looked like it was hand painted and probably pretty expensive.  It had lots of palm fronds and tropical flowers and vines, but it seemed out of place with the rest of the house.  There was a semi-jungle of potted plants with big leaves, and all the furniture was bamboo or rattan.  The upholstery was mostly dark green, but some of the cushions were in bright flower colors.  On the floor the rugs were like squares of woven straw.  When I was a kid, bright stuff like that usually turned me on, but there was something there I didn't like.  It was a little depressing, although I'm sure the intention was just the opposite.  It was like her father's bedroom: it sort of grabbed you by the throat and beat hell out of you trying to make its point.
	That day I skipped her father's room. There were four other doors on the hall, and I wanted to discover what was behind them. They all turned out to be bedrooms - guest rooms, I guess, as Marlene and her father were the only permanent residents. Each was done in a different pastel color - one blue, one green and one yellow. All of the furniture, all of the fabrics, all of the trimming were done in the same tone of the same color. They all seemed mutants of Marlene's room and they all had that same impersonal feeling. They were far from cheap. Everything was the best quality and painfully coordinated in style and color, but they didn't belong to anyone. They were hotel rooms in a house. They screamed to be messed up, to have someone make his mark.
	I said that all the doors led to bedrooms, but that isn't quite right, or at least I couldn't have said so that day. The last door on the east side - the one across from the back staircase - was locked then and every day I tried it.  In the bedroom next to that locked room there was a door joining the two rooms, but a heavy dresser had been placed over it - which was kind of strange considering the effort at perfect arrangement in the other bedrooms.  One day I moved the dresser enough to try the door, but, while the handle turned, there was some sort of latch on the other side that prevented it from opening.
	You might ask what right I had to stick my nose into every room in that house. The answer, of course, is that I had none. It was a kind of addiction, a drive to know everything I could about that place. But, like you come to accept that even your best friend has personal places closed off from you, so I accepted that that room wasn't to be known by me. Maybe that was the reason I stopped trying to get in it, or maybe it was something I felt when I got near that door. Instead I concentrated on knowing the downstairs.
	I can still remember so many details of that place that I could go on and on and bore hell out of you, so I won't do that. But just to give you an idea, I'll tell you about the den. Maybe den isn't the right word. It was like a study or small library. It was between the dining room and the kitchen. The dining room was in the west front corner of the house, right under the tropical paradise room, but it was separated from the kitchen by this small study. Actually, the wall between the dining room and study could disappear I found out one day be leaning on it just right. Instead of a wall, it was really three beautifully carved wood panels balanced so that if you put a little pressure on the edge of any one of them they each swiveled on a middle hinge, and the two rooms became one. There were even runners on the floor and ceiling so that the panels could be pushed to one side - for a bigger dining room, I guess.
	The den itself was paneled with a light-colored wood. There was a small bar in one corner. It wasn't real dark, like some libraries, but it gave a warm feeling that made you want to sit in one of the comfortable chairs with a book you'd picked from the shelves that covered two walls. There were all kinds of good books, especially about architecture, and I often found myself reading away almost too long. There was always a danger I wouldn't get back upstairs before Marlene woke up.
	The turning wall was not the only deceptive thing about that room. In what appeared to be the outside wall there was a sliding glass door covered with a curtain made of heavy threads loosely woven so that you could see through it into a rose garden on the other side. The only thing was, that side of the house had a driveway outside, not a rose garden. When that finally occurred to me, I pulled the curtain and opened the doors only to find myself in a small room, not more than four feet deep, that had a terrific painting on the opposite wall that looked like a garden stretching away from me. It was really a kind of greenhouse with several real roses growing in artificial humidity and light that changed at different hours of the day, and, I guess, went dark at night. By just stepping a few feet back into the den you would swear you were looking out onto the formal garden of some great estate.
	That was only one of the tricks and illusions that filled that place. The downstairs rooms were full of them. For example, the kitchen had a dumb waiter. One day, goofing around with it, I figured out that it went down to something in addition to going upstairs. That started me exploring, looking for some entrance to whatever was in the basement. Finally, once while I was looking for an interesting book in the study, I noticed a crack between the bookcase and the wall that I hadn't seen there before. Then I noticed a small latch, barely visible, in the back of the bookcase. Pulling it, the whole section of the bookcase gently swiveled away revealing a small landing with steps leading down. There was another door on the landing, but it was locked.
	I turned on a light switch and went down into an underground area that had several rooms. First there was a wine cellar that seemed pretty complete. The walls were covered with angled shelves holding hundreds of bottles of what I guessed was good wine. I could see that this was where the dumb waiter from the kitchen opened. A door at the other side of the wine cellar led to another room filled with exercise equipment.  Doors from the exercise room opened to a plain room with only a built in bench in it. It was a steam room, I guess. Next to that was a large bathroom with a tub that was really a small swimming pool. It looked like it had water jets and was probably a 50's model hot tub, although I never got to see it in action. I tried out some of the weights and stuff, but I was afraid to stay there too long.
	When I got back to the den, the other door on the landing made me curious, but I left that for another day and made sure that the bookcase/door was tightly latched. It was the day I discovered where the other door led that I almost lost Marlene for good.
	Wandering about and exploring the house had almost become as great a passion with me as having sex with Marlene. I was in that house two or three times a week, but we were only in the living room or the kitchen unless we went upstairs. I always took care not to pay attention to anything but my schoolwork or Marlene when we were together, although all around me the damned place was screaming like a siren on the rocks.
	Without realizing it, an idea had begun to crystallize out of my thoughts. I don't know if it was something that was just in me - maybe the cause of all that house watching when I was younger - or maybe it came from my father, something he said or some attitude he had about the nature of things. I knew that some places had special vibrations and that some were stronger than others. More and more I came to believe that there would be some place so special that you could see really deep things, really great things, a place where maybe you could feel the meaning of the whole universe or something like that. And then I got the idea that if a special enclosure, like a really great house, were built over a place like that, it might concentrate the powers there into something tremendous.
	Well, I know it sounds crazy, but that was what I thought, and after wandering around the Barzani’s house so much, I began to wonder if maybe there just might be such a place right there, if only I had the time to really look. When I think back about it, though, what was really crazy was that I didn't even realize that by chasing after that idea I was sliding toward the very thing I'd been trying to avoid by being with Marlene.
	During the months we'd been together that spring, she'd gradually been changing, and I couldn't really say if that was good or bad. The way she dressed in school was changing, and I thought that was good. She still was a long way from the "nice" girls, but she wore a few pounds less makeup and didn't rat her hair quite so much, and her clothes had changed to rather simple blacks and greys now, as though some family member had died. Still, it wasn't too depressing or anything.
	Her personality was also going through some kind of metamorphosis. She wasn't suddenly all reasonable or anything, but her highs seemed less manic and her depressions not quite so low. There was this kind of background nervousness, though, like she was always anticipating something.
	On one particular day that spring she'd seemed pretty happy, and so I didn't think we'd go upstairs because she was usually a little more somber before that happened. But without even that old feeling coming over us, she touched me on the shoulder, and I knew what that meant.
	The way we usually did things I didn't waste much time getting my clothes off, and I didn't that day either. But she was not in a rush. While I lay on the bed she sat at her dressing table and brushed out her hair, like ignoring me, but she really wasn't because next she undressed in full view, very slowly, very deliberately removing each article, leaving only the panties. She sat down again and brushed some more because she'd messed her hair undressing.
	Finally she came over to me, her brown hair almost golden from the brushing. By that point I was really throbbing. She paid no attention. She wanted to kiss. That was something we rarely did. She gave me that slow, soft kiss, not only on my mouth, but all over my body.
	It was late April, I guess. The window was open, and warm gusts with aromas from the garden below shivered the tree leaves and traced over our bodies like little feathers. I passed into a kind of dreamy feeling, not even wanting to go on to anything else, content as a fat cat being stroked just right.
	I know now that Marlene was reaching for something new, but I wasn't ready for it. That didn't affect her. She brought her breasts to my face and I felt them and kissed them while she got hotter and hotter. Then she made it pretty clear what she wanted from me next.
	I wasn't any crazier about it than I had been the first time, but after so much taking, there had to be a giving. I got myself between her legs and gradually found the spot with my tongue. It really wasn't bad - there was only a little salty taste - it was just the thought. As soon as I made contact I could feel her stiffen and lean back. Then she began to sway and groan a little and to work her body back and forth, like we were really doing it. We went on like that for several minutes. My jaw was beginning to hurt a little when her legs closed tight around my ears and I felt soft, fluttery movements on my shoulders as her fingers moved involuntarily over them. Then she arched back and shuddered hard. It seemed the same as what I felt during an orgasm, but, because she'd been my only experience, I didn't know girls could go through it the same way. It seemed like a pretty complicated way to get there. Finally she pulled me up to her and kissed me deeply.
	It was pretty amazing that I hadn't come, too. I felt like it was going to explode. But she seemed to want something more, like she was afraid to let me get a little relief, like this might be a last chance at something. I could sense a feeling in her like a desperation or a controlled panic now that she'd opened up so much, but I didn't know how to - or didn't want to - go deeper with her, to move it on to some other plane.
	Finally she seemed to resign herself to something, and she let me finish. Even then it wasn't like before. I didn't think she was going to sleep. She went to the bathroom, and I rolled to look out the window so my back would be toward her when she came back. Still, she lay down again instead of dressing. I knew I should talk to her, that she was waiting for me, but I faked sleep until I could hear her soft, even breathing beside me.
	I know those were stupid days. I was too young for what I was into, too young and too full of all the egotism and insensitivity of fifteen, but I wasn't completely dense. Maybe I couldn't put it in words, but I could feel what I was doing. While Marlene was groping toward something real, I was using her to chase a fantasy. Maybe I told myself that she was just using me, too, but I guess I knew who was being honest and who wasn't.
	I waited several minutes, because it seemed like she'd wake up at any moment. Even with my back to her I could tell she wasn't in the same drugged sleep as before. Finally my eagerness pulled me up and out of the room. I didn't bother to put on my shorts, partly from laziness, partly because it turned me on to walk around the house like that. Part of it was the danger of being found nude in someone else's house; part of it was the sensuality of feeling those plush rugs and rich fabrics and suedes and leathers against my body. It was like soaking the place up in every way, not just with my eyes and fingers. I'd become a house junkie, and that day I knew I was headed toward the ultimate high: the secret room in the center of the house.
	Even before I'd seen the door that opened onto the basement landing, I knew there had to be another room downstairs. Part of it was logical. Like a living thing, the house had everything but a headquarters, a brain center. There had to be some thinking center in that place whose every detail showed thought, and I wanted to know all its secrets. Anyway, it didn't take a genius to notice that some space wasn't accounted for. On the west side of the house the dining room and den connected to the kitchen. The entrance hall, stairs and maid's room took up the east side. But the living room, although wider than the dining room, just didn't reach the kitchen wall. There was a space between the two.
	Several times I'd looked for some kind of entrance, but hadn't found it. I hadn't pushed the search too hard because there were so many other things to explore, but that day I was up for it. I could have tried to open the door on the basement landing, but I knew it was locked, and I was no lock picker. Besides, it might just be a closet door. Somehow I felt there was another entrance.
	On other days I'd checked out the living room wall. In the center, opposite the great window in the front of the house, was the huge fireplace. I couldn't imagine that someone would figure out a way to move a fireplace that size just to hide a door, but I'd checked out all the flagstones that made up its facade. On either side of the fireplace were cases that held books and art objects, as well as photos of people who looked important to someone. Although I searched carefully, I couldn't find a latch like the one in the den.
	That left the entrance hall and the passageway to the kitchen. This area was all covered with rich mahogany paneling - not sheets of plywood with a glued-onveneer, of course - but mahogany boards with raised frames every few feet, the whole thing polished to a low sheen. I searched this wall in vain for any indication of a button or a hinge hidden in some recess. Finally, feeling very frustrated, I leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the passageway and heard a faint click. As I lifted my body from the wall, a pressure latch, activated by my leaning, opened, and a door swung out, revealing a closet under the stairs. As I pushed, the door closed; the magnetic latch caught it and held it with another firm click.
	Now, with my heart really pounding, I returned to the opposite wall, and, starting at the living room entrance, worked my way toward the kitchen door, pushing on each panel. At the third panel there was another click, and the panel swung away, uncovering a regular door. Nervously, I touched the handle, and it opened.
	The room was in total darkness. With no outside walls, there were no windows. The dim light from the hall showed nothing. I stepped inside and ran my hands over the walls, but could not immediately find a switch. Finally, about three feet from the door I found one behind a metal cabinet I'd crunched into. I flicked it on in great anticipation. A table lamp on the file cabinet came on and revealed - a room.
	It was just a room. It was painted tan or grey - I can't remember. It had no rug and was very sparsely furnished. There were a couple of steel tube kitchen chairs with padded plastic backs and seats. There was a drawing board and floor lamp in one corner. There was the dented grey two-drawer file and lamp by the door and two four-drawer files on the other side of the room. In the center of the room was a large old wooden desk that looked like it had crossed the plains dragged behind a covered wagon. It was covered with with blueprints and large plan sheets. An empty feeling of deception was taking me over, but I went to the desk and began to look at the plans without any real purpose other than a feeling that the effort I'd made deserved at least a little reward.
	The plans appeared to be of some large building, but before I could make out any more of them, I heard the voice of a man. It seemed to come from directly behind me. I jumped and wheeled around. No one was in the room, but the voice continued, coming now from the hall. Like a fiend, I sprang for the door and turned off the light, expecting someone to enter at any moment. When no one did, I peeked around the corner. The door was wide open, but the covering panel had swung almost closed. Pushing it slightly, I could see no one through the crack. Pushing a little more I could see the front door and the heads of two men through the arched glass in the middle of the door. One had wavy black hair and the other wore a workman's cap. The one in the front, with the wavy hair, was saying he'd like to know who the hell took his keys. He began to ring the bell and to call out for Marlene. Without thinking about it, I knew he was her father, and I knew I was in deep, deep shit. If I was depressed a second before, my heart was screaming now. Marlene's father said something like Marlene should be home, but there was a key in the garage. When I squeezed another look only the man with the cap was at the front door.
	I pulled the panel to me. I could feel the click as the latch caught. Carefully,  I closed the door and stood in the dark. Now a cold sweat soaked me, and I gave in to a total panic. For several minutes I was incapable of action. I was doomed. Marlene's father had lost his keys and had come home to look for another set. Of course the first place he would come was to his office. Even if he didn't, even if he got the keys and left without finding me, Marlene would kill me. Probably at that moment - suddenly wakened she was finding my clothes and wondering where the hell I was. If she found me in the office, it would be the end. She'd know that I'd been spying all along. She hated spies. She'd hate me.
	Although the thoughts were terrible, the thinking calmed me down. One thing was clear: I had to get out of that room. I switched on the light for a moment. There was nothing in the room big enough even to hide behind. I decided to open the door and make a dash for the stairs, hoping the man on the porch wouldn't be staring through the small window and wouldn't notice me. Just then I heard the voice of Marlene's father again and the sound of a key in a lock. Swearing to myself, I was about to turn off the light when I noticed the obvious: the other door.
	The door that led to the basement was in the opposite corner from me, behind the easel drawing board. Memorizing the route I had to follow around the chairs and desk, I turned off the light and made my way smoothly, only gashing my side on the aluminum frame of the drawing board. Swearing, I found the knob,It had a push-button lock which I made sure to press again as I let myself into the passageway. I could smell the mustiness of the wine cellar and thought of hiding down there, but I had to get out of all those secret passages and back upstairs before Marlene found me.
	I heard the voices again, definitely in the house now. Searching the back of the den bookcase with my hands, I quickly found the latch and pressed it down. The bookcase's bulk swiveled effortlessly away from me, and I was in the den. The voices were clear even though they were on the other side of the house. The acoustics in that place were so great.  Marlene's father was thanking the other one for bringing him home and telling him he'd get the keys in a minute and they'd go back. He told the man to go to the kitchen and get something from the refrigerator. It was pretty clear from his tone that this was someone who worked for him.
	Now I had to get through the kitchen before the workman came in. Without thinking more, I dashed through the door and across the kitchen, making sure to keep low behind cabinets and the big stove in the center of the room. The last ten feet had no cover, but I shot across and squirreled around the door frame onto the service porch just as I heard the swinging door from the hallway open. For a second I caught my breath, then crawled below the windows that separated the porch from the kitchen until I got to the stairs. Creeping into the stairwell, I sprinted up the carpeted steps, keeping to the side so not to make them creak.
	At the top I'd started the dash to Marlene's door when her father's voice from the front stairs froze me in mid-stride. Marlene answered something back from her room. Any second he would step into the hallway and she would open her door. And there I was to complete that little triangle.
	I was beyond invention or thought. Instinctively my hand shot out to the nearest doorknob, the one for the room that was always locked. This time it opened, and I disappeared into it.
	I guess I closed the door quietly. I guess no one was aware of my presence. I really wasn't thinking about it. I felt like I'd just run ten miles. I lay against the door, hand still on the knob, eyes closed, heart ready to break out of its blocks.
	I was still leaning on the door like that without opening my eyes when visions began to form. They weren't exactly pictures in my mind like the last time, but more like moods or colors. Visions were the last thing I was looking for. I was happy just to be out of harm's way, but things kept trying to come up in my mind. They were trying to form pictures - and nasty pictures at that.
	I opened my eyes and looked around to see what was causing it. It wasn't easy to see much in the room. The two windows had shades pulled down. The sun was setting on the other side of the house, and only a little light filtered through. Although it was dangerous, those sensations scared me so much that, without thinking about it, I switched on the light.
	It was a dingy, messy room, and the contrast with the rest of the house made it seem even worse. I think the wall paper was original with the house, maybe forty years before. It was all washed out, and the colors had turned tan or brown. There was an old braided rug in the middle of the room and some stained tulle curtains at the windows. In one corner was a tarnished brass bed, unmade, and I guess there were some dressers or shelves. A lot of childish drawings of houses and rooms had been stuck on the walls near the bed. A closet door stood open, and another door led to a bathroom that hadn't been renovated; all the old fixtures were still there. The whole room looked like it had never been cleaned since the house was built.
	But what was really awful about that place were the dolls. There must have been over a hundred dolls there - all sizes, all styles, new, old, on the bed, on the floor, on shelves - dolls everywhere. Some were still in boxes,like they had just been bought. Others were as old and crummy as the room. There were two old, dirty ones that were really bad. I mean, they just looked like regular old dolls - one didn't have any eyes, just sockets that stared out - but somehow they were the ones that were projecting all the shit into my mind.
	I didn't want any of it. This day had gotten way out of hand. First Marlene was all weird, and then nothing about the house worked out right, then Marlene's father, and now this. I couldn't stand the stares of all those little glassy eyes taking me in in every detail. I'd never felt so naked anywhere. And the shit those two were trying to unload on me was way too much.
	Even though I could still hear Marlene and her father talking somewhere upstairs, I almost opened the door and went back back into the hall, but then I remembered the door into the adjoining bedroom. I turned off the light and went over to it, avoiding touching any of the dolls - like you might walk through a tank of crabs. A spring lock was mounted near the top of the door, and I unlatched it. When I opened the door I remembered the dresser that covered the other side. It seemed heavier than the last time I tried to move it, but I finally got it over enough to get through. I made sure the door was locked again and that the legs of the dresser were back in the holes they'd made in the carpet.
	For a while I paced around the room. It sounded like Marlene and her father were downstairs then. Gradually I calmed down. That other room really had me agitated, but the bad feelings didn't seem to get through the door. I was exhausted, and at some point I must have layed down on the bed, because the next thing I remember was waking up to Marlene's screaming,
	"What the hell are you doing in here?"
	It took me a minute to come back to myself, and she just kept on howling.
	"What are you doing in here? What are you doing walking around our house with no clothes on?"
	Her tone told me that I was definitely not included in the "our." Finally I managed to get out,
	"I was thirsty."
	"Thirsty? "
	"Yeah. Like I wanted to get something to drink. So I was going down to the kitchen when..."
	"Like that?"
	"Like what?"
	"Like that - no clothes."
	"You've never seen me with no clothes?"
	"You could have put on your shorts."
	"That would have made a difference? Who was that - your father?"
	"Yeah."
	"And it would be better if he found me in his house just in my shorts?"
	"Well, you nearly got us both fucked up. Can you imagine what I felt? First my father screaming at me from downstairs. Then all your clothes in my room, but you're not. I could barely get my own clothes on in time. Even he noticed how nervous I was."
	"I was going to get a drink when I heard someone in the kitchen," I explained with exaggerated patience. "When I ran back up I heard your father coming up the front stairs, so I just ducked in here and waited. I guess I fell asleep."
	"You didn't go in any other rooms?" she asked with a strange edge to her voice. Involuntarily she glanced at the dresser.	 
	"I tried next door. It was locked. This was the first one I found open.”
	"And how many other times have you gone down to the kitchen when I was asleep?"
	"I never have. I usually go to the bathroom if I have to, but this time I wanted a coke. I didn't think you'd mind."
	You could only tell she didn't believe me, but she said,
	"Well, get your clothes on. You've got to get out of here."

 TAPE EIGHT									12/10/85

	After that happened, things didn't get any better. In fact, in the weeks that followed I almost never saw Marlene. We never talked at school, anyway, but now if she saw me coming she'd duck behind someone or go around a corner or hide in the girls' head. In art class she seemed panicked all the time and never looked over at me. Then she began to cut art class, and finally I guess she was cutting school altogether.
	When I went to her house she never answered, if she was even there. I had a feeling a lot of the time that she wasn't.  I took to spying in serious this time, but I never caught her going in or out.
	It worried me a lot, and that was a time when I didn't need distractions. The track season was coming to an end, and there was a good chance that the varsity and maybe the bee team would go on to post-league play. I'd been doing pretty well, and I should've been really excited and practicing hard, but this thing with Marlene really had me depressed.  I missed her - not just the sex and not the goddamned house - but seeing and talking and just being with her. I hadn't realized how much she'd come to mean to me, and I really hurt.
	If I couldn't talk to her, I needed to talk to someone, but that only made clear to me how alone I was again. My mother had her usual bullshit of supposed meetings and appointments, and if we did happen to find ourselves together and she wasn't nagging me about something, there was no way to get started.  Anyway, if I told her the whole thing...there was no way!
	I could have talked to my brother, but then Danny was Danny. I came to see him like some two-ton rock you had in the back yard. Either you accepted it or you got pissed off at it, but what the hell could you do with it? Blow it up, maybe, but I had the feeling that this was a rock that might blow up by itself sometime. Danny always seemed super-calm, but he had this thing.  I wasn't sure if it was just with me or with everyone. I used to talk to him a lot when I was a little kid. He was several years older than me, but he always took care to talk to me so that I could understand.  But ever since...for a long time that had changed.
	As far as friends went, I really had only Glenn and Al. I saw Glenn as the kind of guy you messed around with and had good times, but I couldn't imagine serious conversations with him, so that left only Al.  But Al and I'd been coming apart that whole year, and then this very stupid thing happened.
	It was the week of our meet with Pasadena High, which was usually a pretty good track power. If the bee team could beat them - and then Glendale High the next week - we would win the league, and there was a good chance we could do it. The varsity seemed sure to win and if both teams won league championships it would be the first time in our school's history. Everyone was saying good things about Soz and his creative techniques and how he had made the sport so popular around school. A double championship would look really great for him, and I really wanted us to get it.
	On the day of the meet everyone was nervous as hell, as usual.  I skipped lunch, because once I didn't and ended up throwing up the whole thing just before my start. Of course, the most popular place in the gym before a meet was the head. No one went there for conversation, and the smell sent you out as fast as you could manage. Funny how your body takes care of getting rid of excess baggage when it knows something heavy is coming. I tried to avoid that place if I could, but even with no lunch I felt the call as I was changing into my uniform, and there was no way to argue about it. I was already half-stripped, so I left the locker closed - but not locked - and dashed across the gym. On the way I waved to Al who was just going to his locker, next to mine.
	When I came back Al was already suited out and leaving the locker row. In his hand he had a can which he tried to hide behind him as I approached. It looked like the wintergreen ointment from the whirlpool bath.  If you had a strained muscle or something, Coach often sent you to the whirlpool to relax it.  If you rubbed on the ointment, too, it made the muscle area very hot and helped relax it more, but you had to be careful not to put it on the wrong places, because you could really give yourself a hell of a burn. It was usually locked up.
	Al had the key to the whirlpool because of a strain he'd gotten during the week, but I was surprised he'd use it just before a meet.  When he saw me he seemed nervous.
	"What'cha got that for?" I asked.
	“Coach told me to warm up my leg a little."
	"Before a meet?"
	'That's what he said."
	"He's the coach."
	Al left, and I went back to changing. I guess I daydreamed a little, thinking about my troubles and about him and me. I'd thought things between us had been improving during the track season, but he always seemed a little sarcastic, like he resented that I was friends with anyone else or that I didn't spend much time with him.  I wanted to explain about Marlene, but I didn't know how or if he would understand it right.  I remembered how easy it used to be with Al.
	The summer after eighth grade his family took a small vacation house at Sunset Beach. It surprised me when his mother called mine and invited me for a week. Al's family had never included me in their stuff.  It was the first time I'd even spent time at the beach.  It was like a new world.
	During the mornings we'd explore the mud beds on the tidal flats behind their house, catching crabs and starting crab wars, looking for anything interesting in the shallows. In the afternoons, when the fog had burned off, we'd swim in the bay or cross the highway to the ocean where we'd walk for hours or run with wet mattress covers until they filled with air then use them for surfing pontoons. Sometimes we'd just read comic books and sneak cigarettes.  Even the cloudy days seemed bright and full of new discoveries or great ideas.
	At night we'd join some campfire or scare ourselves talking to the bums that stayed on Tin Can Beach or watch as millions of little organisms in the surf bashed themselves into phosphorescent glow or just sit and see the lights of Long Beach shining like some magic island floating in the distance. By the end of that week we were friends for life.  Or so it seemed then.
	Suddenly I realized that no one else was left in the locker room. I rushed to finish dressing. I barely noticed the smell of wintergreen by our lockers or that it got stronger when I opened mine. I stripped off my pants and shorts and got into my jock, uniform and sweats. I grabbed my spikes and headed for the track where Coach had already begun warmups.
	When I joined the group Coach gave me a sort of dry look for getting there late. 
I took my place and began the stretching exercise the others were doing. Somehow the smell of wintergreen had followed me out on the field.  Al must have put a lot on his leg, I thought, but he was on the other side of the group, quite a way from me.  I looked over at him, and he was watching me.
	Then I knew why. The warmup was warming up way too fast, especially between my legs. "Great Balls of Fire" suddenly had deep, personal meaning. Some asshole had put wintergreen on my jock, and I knew who it was.  The fire was everywhere. My legs and balls were flaming as the heat of the sweats mixed with the ointment. I jumped up in agony. The coach looked over in disbelief as I did an impromptu watusi, shedding my sweats in the process.  As I looked across at Al his back was to me - probably laughing, the son of a bitch.
	"Thomas, what...what's wrong with you?" Coach yelled.
	"Sorry, Coach, gotta go," I screamed as I bolted across the field toward the stands and the locker room below.
	As I crossed the track I was out of my running shorts and the team was howling. The parents who'd arrived early at the stands were amazed, too, I guess. At the entrance to the tunnel that led to the locker room the jock was off. I screamed straight into the showers and started washing furiously. By the time Coach Soz arrived the pain was down a lot, and I was letting cold water run over me.
	"Thomas, I want to know right now what's going on," he said, all serious, like accusing me.
	"Sorry, Coach, something got into my pants. Burns like hell.”
	He'd picked up my shorts and jock, and now he, too, could recognize the smell.
	"Who did this? This kind of screwing around can be dangerous." 
	"You're telling me!  You know I didn't do it, Coach." 
	"Do you know who did?" 
	"I'd rather not say." 
	"Well, I think I know, and we're going to get this starightened out after the meet. This kind of stuff isn't going to get started here. You OK now?" 
	"Yeah, I guess."
	"Have you got something else to wear?" 
	"I can put on my Jockey shorts."
	"OK."
	He threw me the running shorts, but kept the jock as evidence. Back at my locker as I dried and dressed again I thought about Al.  I'd never realized how much he resented me. Why? He was strong-willed, but usually fair. We always used to talk man-to-man when he was mad. What'd I done to get him so pissed off that he would do this?
	I was fast going beyond giving a shit. There was only so much you could take. First Marlene and then this. I was building up a tremendous desire to get even with someone. How much shit were you supposed to handle?
	It's funny how when you're really wrong about something your chance to prove it to the world comes along so fast.  Mine showed up that very afternoon in the form of the Frog.
	One of Soz's innovations was the use of an announcer at the track meets. His idea was that some track events were a little complicated for people who didn't run. That is, running is simple enough, but all the different events are confusing. He thought more kids would come to meets if they knew what was going on and who was doing what. His idea was to have a public address system and an announcer to let people know what event was up next, a little about it, and, of course, the results. At this point Soz turned to Froggy.
	Fred Kroll was one of those little kids you love to hate. Everyone called him Froggy because he was small and a little green, and he looked like the frog they used to use in Buster Brown shoe ads. He was one of the track managers - or Soz's Slaves - and he was also very big on the audio-visual crew, so he knew how to hook up PA systems and stuff like that.
	Coach Soz had typed up information about each event on the 6 by 9 salmon-colored index cards that he used for everything. Froggy would read these before the event. In addition, Soz would jot down results of races and other neat facts which he would send over to be read off. As the meet progressed I'd watched this happen several times, and suddenly my revenge was clear in my mind.
	The meet was very tight. About half of the events had been held, and the varsity was ahead by 10 points while the bee's margin was only three. I'd gone through my warm-ups. My event, the 1320 yard run, followed the 660 relay, which would be run in about five minutes.  Already Al and the three other guys on the relay team were practicing hand-offs and limbering up. I'd stayed on opposite sides of the field from Al during the meet, so we'd had no chance to talk.
	Now I walked slowly over to the kit that Soz always used at meets. In it he kept stop watches, bandages, first-aid, and other odd stuff, as well as the salmon index cards. Soz was near the finish line talking to one of the runners. Quickly, I slipped out a card and a marker. With my back to Soz, I wrote out the message then dropped the marker back into the kit. Next, I crossed to Froggy's master control booth - a chair and table with a microphone on it - and handed him the card.
	"Read this announcement, Froggy, it's important."
	"Don't rush me, Thomas. I'm trying to get this wiring straightened out."
	"How much wiring can you have on one microphone?"
	"Don't be wise, Thomas, this is technical. You wouldn't understand it"
	"How would you understand a spike in the ass, shithead?"
	"Is this from Coach Soz?"
	"What do you think?"
	"I'll read it after this race ends. I'm not supposed to announce during the races."	
	“Just do it."
	I walked back and sat on a bench not far from the announcer's table. The varsity 880 run ended. Now was the perfect time for the announcement, but complications set in in the form - or lack of form - of Froggy's girlfriend. I know she had a name, but it doesn't come back to me. Being Froggy's girlfriend, of course she was just Frogette to all of us. At that moment she appeared on the field and began directing her amphibian charms at the poor Frog. Instead of reading the card, he shoved it aside as love filled his beady eyes. He and Frogette whispered sweet nothings about tadpoles and swamps as the wind whipped the card off the table.
	The 660 relay was setting up to begin. It was run in two 110 and two 220 yard sprints around the track and started on the side of the track opposite the usual finish line. The race totaled a lap and a half, so it ended in front of the stands.
	Dave DiGaetano was already on the track for the start, and Al stood on the grass next to him ready to move onto the track for the anchor leg. On my side of the field Jack Marshall was ready for the second hand-off. Dick Williams was in position on the curve.
	Meanwhile I was having second thoughts about the announcement and had come to the conclusion that it was lucky Froggy'd said nothing. I got up to pick up the card when Frogette broke away from her lover and picked it up first.  Immediately she began to lecture him on letting their great love blind him to duty.  That left me well-nauseated, but Froggy was struck deeply, for if he was one thing beside froggish it was dutiful.  He began to search around for his glasses which he'd taken off in order to look more sexy. On the track the starter had raised his pistol, set and fired, and DiGaetano was off on the first leg of the relay.
	Although the relay was run in lanes for the first lap, and the runners were staggered at the start, you could see that Williams was opening a lead after just the first handoff. As the runners rounded the curve, the lead grew so that as Willliams bore down on Marshall, he'd opened up about seven yards between the two teams. Marshall was already in his crouch, looking back over his right shoulder, his right hand back, palm down, to receive the upward thrust of the baton. The handoff was perfect, and Marshall blasted away, increasing the lead as the Pasadena pair muffed their handoff a little.
	I looked back to see what Froggy was doing, and to my horror it appeared that he was going to make the announcement during the race. Apparently he was so upset that he'd forgotten Coach's instructions.  I started to make a jump for the microphone, but it was too late.  Surprisingly, the Frog had a very clear speaking voice over the PA system.  As Marshall began to round the second curve, this professional-sounding voice declared,
	"A special announcement from Coach Sosky: Will Master Allen Bates please report to the announcement stand at once. Repeat: Master Bates, come immediately!"
	The effect was electric. There was a great roar from the stands.  A group of guys began to cheer, "Master Bates - Master Bates - Master Bates," before they realized what fools they were and shut up. The principal, who was officiating at the finish line turned sort of purple. Soz, a few steps away, turned red.
	The real disaster was forming across the field. Al had already begun his crouch on the track as Marshall rounded the curve and began to bear down on him, a good ten yards ahead of his opponent. Upon hearing the announcement, Al lifted his head and turned toward the stands to see if it was really a message from Soz.  Coach, meanwhile, had reached midfield, running and waving and screaming, "No! No!," only adding to Al's confusion.
	It was too late. Marshall had already begun the upswing of the baton for the handoff.  By mere inches he missed giving Al a permanent rectal implant.  As it was, he gave him a terrific swat, then climbed up his back, and the two went sprawling on the track. By a miracle, neither was spiked, either by themselves or by the Pasadena men who'd made a good handoff. Their man was fast opening space. Soz had nearly reached the other side of the field by then, yelling, 'Go! Go!," and waving after the other runner. Al, being a great competitor, quickly understood.  He spotted the baton on the track and got it and then tore after the other racer in spite of his painful scrapes.
	By the curve, he'd closed the gap to fifteen yards.  As they entered the straightaway leading to the finish he continued to close on the other - probably his best sprint to date - but it was no use. Pasadena picked up all five points.
	By now Coach had pretty well sized up what was going on. But he just walked slowly to the announcement table and pocketed the card that still lay by the microphone. Through it all sat Froggy with his strange froggy smile, oblivious to the chaos around him or to the fact that he'd set it all off.  He had done his duty.
	If Soz's strategy called for me to win points in the 1320, it was no good. By the time the race began, I was so demoralized I could barely drag myself to the start. I did manage some sort of run, but came in a poor fifth out of six. Harold Jones, who I always beat, finished second with Pasadena runners in first and third. The bee team lost by five points. Even a second on my part could have won the meet for us. In my mind I designed the new Andrew Thomas crest: a turkey rampant on a field of chicken shit with the motto, "Semper Asshole," emblazoned on the bottom.
	After he'd said a little to the other coach, Soz signaled that he wanted Al and me in his office. As usual, he could make you feel shittier with a few of his quiet words than most teachers could with a lot of screaming and yelling. When he told us that between the two of us we'd managed to lose the whole meet for the bee team, I never saw Al closer to tears. For someone as nuts about sports as he was, that was about the worst thing you could tell him.
	With that card in my handwriting sitting there on Soz's desk, there wasn't much I could deny, but Al did deny that he'd used the wintergreen. I could feel his eyes boring into the side of my head after he saw the card, and I was ready to say a few choice things to him, but that shut me up.  I knew he'd never lie just to protect himself.
	Because Al wouldn't tell who did it, Soz said that he'd have to take the guilty person's punishment, too. We were suspended for the Glendale meet and maybe for the league meet, too, depending on whether we finished the rest of the punishment. We had one week to do 25 miles around the track. That broke down to twenty laps a day after the regular workout. We had to stay on opposite sides of the track from each other all the time, and as a nice ironic touch, Coach put the Frog in charge of supervising the whole thing.
	Froggy Truimphant!  It was a very frightening thing.  The slimy little salamander took a seat well up in the stands, like a warty little king on a huge throne. He even found a cheerleader's megaphone so that he could croak out orders to us. Every day after practice Al and I started on opposite sides of the track while the Frog kept count of the laps and screamed if we slowed down.
	At first Al and I played shitty little games with each other. He was a much better sprinter than I was, so just when I'd get tired and start to walk he'd go into a sprint and close distance between us. I'd have to start running to get back on the other side of the track. The understanding was to follow the rules exactly or get off the team. You could bet that the Frog would tell Soz every little detail.
	In the long run, though, Al had to knock it off. I was better at distances than he was, and I could just keep jogging and jogging long after he was wiped out.  If he wanted any rest, he had to cooperate, and I guess that was the point of it all, straight from the mind of Soz.  You couldn't help but love the guy.
	By Thursday we were exhausted, and even Froggy was letting down his guard. After about fifteen laps I noticed that Frogette had stopped by for a few croaks with her toad, so I just crashed on the infield, figuring Al would do the same. After a few minutes I heard Al's voice above me.
	"I didn't do that shit to you, y'know."
	I rolled over, surprised.	
	"I know."
	"How?"
	"You said so." I paused. "I suppose it was sweet Billy?"
	Al didn't say anything.
	"Y'know, even with your protection he's gonna get the shit kicked out of him some day. Why'd he do it?"
	"Same as always.  Jealous of you.  He found my key and got the stuff, but I thought I'd got it back before he used it.  He's a little fucked up."
	"He's a big fucked up. Aw, forget it. I should’ve known better. I'm sorry about that name shit."
	"No big deal. I've gotten that stuff all my life. Ree Bates, Dee Bates, Fish Bates, lots of funny stuff. Never heard yours, though."
	That made me feel bad, so I figured we had to stop the apologizing and get on to something new. I told him we weren't communicating much anymore and that was my fault because I'd gotten sort of tied up with Marlene.  It was the first time I’d ever mentioned her to him. He said he knew.
	"How?"
	"Billy spotted you going into her house a couple of times. My other aunt lives on that street, and he goes over there sometimes to help her clean her place. She's older and lives alone. I guess she sorta spies on the neighbors, too. She told Billy you go there all the time. That's another reason he's pissed at you. He's hated that girl since the first day of school."
	"Well, that's tough shit."
	I thought I really ought to settle with Finley, but I felt so bad about the thing with Al that I just decided to let it go.
	"You really got the hots for her?"
	His question brought me back.
	"Oh, we do homework together. She helps me a lot."
	"I never knew you needed help with homework."
	"Well, maybe with other things, too."
	Just then Froggy came running across the field, screaming,
	"OK, now you guys are really gonna get it. Wait 'til Coach hears about this. I knew you guys couldn't keep it up. Now we'll see who has the last laugh, Mr. Wise-ass Thomas."
	"Shove it, Frog, or I'll eat your legs for dinner tonight," I said, rolling over.
	"Yeah, Frog, why don't you come over by my house?" Al joined in. "There's a vacant lot with lots of mosquitoes that bother us.  I bet you could zap up a couple pounds of 'em with that tongue."
	"Oh, sure. You guys are supposed to hate each other, but naturally you can get together to pick on me.”
	"Aw, come on, Froggy, don't get blue - I mean green,” said Al.  “Where”s Frogette? Why don't you go off behind the gym and plunk her with your magic twanger a few times?”
	“Obscene! Obscene!” I screamed.  “Talking about frog twangers in public!”
	I grabbed At by the leg and flipped him on his back. Then he pulled me over, and like nothing had happened we were wrestling and laughing just like old times as the Frog stomped off in disgust.
	For a while it did seem like old times, but it really wasn't. I still needed Marlene, and I still couldn't tell Al much about her. I guess he knew most everything, but you could tell he didn't like it.  I don't know if he was being very moralistic or maybe just jealous.  Maybe he really thought she was a bad person; but I guess he hadn't done it yet, and that just added to the space between us.
	And then there was another slow poison at work. I'd apologized about "Master Bates.”  He'd said it was nothing.  But my revenge turned out to be much worse than the provocation. In two days the burn on my crotch was gone, but as fate would have it - like "Bubbles" - ''Master” caught and stuck.  More and more kids started calling him that. He had a sense of humor, but he also had his father's stubborn pride. Each time someone made a Master joke he smiled while I cringed, but each time there was a little more tooth in the smile. Under his breath one day I heard him say to someone that some guys were stuck beating off, but maybe that was better than being a real mother-fucker.
 	It was about that time - I guess in my English class - that I read the line from Shakespeare about, “he who steals my purse steals trash, but he who screws with my name is an asshole,” or something to that effect.  It was too bad, but it made sense.
	So Al and I came back together only to blow farther apart. I knew then that the one I had to work things out with was Marlene. Every day I passed by her house.  I knocked and called.  I cared less what neighbors including Al's nosy aunt - might think. Once or twice I noticed her father's car and seriously thought about introducing myself and asking about Marlene. I'd become that desperate.
	Then one night it happened again. I thought I’d been sucked into some time warp.  I was out jogging about eight o'clock when, as usual, I just happened to pass by her house. It looked like it was Christmas again. There were no decorations, but it seemed like all the same cars were back, and there was a party going on.  Music and laughter sounded from the open windows, only this time the front drapes were closed. But there - sure as hell - was Ronnie Robertson's shiny '49 Ford.
	I was crazy. I paced back and forth. Two or three times I marched up to the door, only to chicken out. I babbled to myself, and then, as stupid as it sounds, what I did was I sat down on the hood of Robertson’s car and began to grind my jogging shoes slowly up and down over that 2-inch thick dark blue metallic paint job. I guess I went into kind of a trance. I don't know how much time passed - a couple of hours, probably. And all that time I sat on the hood, knees up, arms over knees, feet slowly sanding back and forth.
	It was almost eleven when the front door opened, and some people began to come out. The first couples barely noticed me, but then there was a choked scream from the front porch.
	“Hey! What the fuck’re you doin’ on my car? Get down from there you jerk."
	He raced out to the curb.
	“Son of a bitch Look what you've done to the paint job! You fucker!  I'm gonna beat shit out of you. Get the hell down from there.”
	By that time Marlene - looking just great in a strapless dark green cocktail dress - and some others had gotten down to the street and were trying to hold Robertson off. Not that I cared. Slowly I got down from the car. There was only shiny metal - no paint - where my feet had been.  Marlene looked a little pissed, but a little ashamed at the same time. Robertson was white in the face and way beyond speech. He lunged at me but missed and sprawled across the car. He was bigger than me and could probably have done me some damage, but I wasn't thinking much about that. I couldn't get my eyes off Marlene. I really wanted to say something to her, but it wasn't a real good time for a conversation.
	I don't know what would have happened between Robertson and me. I'd have gotten the shit kicked out, I guess. I didn't know much about fighting, having had only one. I don't even know if I would have defended myself.  Anyway, I didn't find out right then.
	At the corner of the street red lights began flashing on a police car that gunned like crazy then screeched to a stop next to us. Out stepped Officer Chiabotti, who’d been a good friend of my father. He listened patiently to Robertson and the others, then made like he was arresting me and made me get into the back of the police car. He told Robertson that he could make an official complaint if he wanted to as this looked like what they called willful destruction of property.  Robertson, acting all greasy now that he had calmed down, said that he certainly would and thanked the officer.
	Officer Chiabotti drove me off down the street, then turned toward the downtown area, like he was hauling me in. But after only a block or so he pulled over and stopped.
	“What the hell did you do something stupid like that for? You'll end up paying a lot for a new paint job. I never picked you for that kind of kid.”
	"Maybe that's the kind of kid I am."
	"Or maybe it had something to do with the girl in the green dress? She looks like she might be worth a fight or two."
	"It was something like that," I said, admiring his instincts.
	I was beginning to get a little more rational. I asked him how he happened to be in the area at that moment.
	“One of the old ladies in the neighborhood called about the noise from the party. These old biddies around here are on top of everything. I'd just turned the corner when I saw the group forming around you and the other kid. Listen, I've got other things that need doing. We're only a couple blocks from your place, right?"
	“Yeah.”
	“If I let you out now, will you promise me to go right home and not back to the party?"
	I promised him I would. I was sort of mentally beat out, in any case. I really wanted to talk to Marlene, but I knew there wasn't any chance of that, so I went home.
	The next day it occurred to me that there might be some trouble at school, so I took the high route and varied it a little through side streets so that I arrived at the back of the school just in case Robertson was waiting for me in front. I told myself I wasn't being chickenshit, but you know. I didn't see his car in the upper parking lot, but just as I turned the corner by the auto shop, there it was, along with Robertson and about ten of his big-deal junior friends.
	They all saw me at once and started saying shitty things to Robertson. He looked over and started in my direction. There wasn't much for it, but I just kept on walking ahead.
	"Hey, asshole, I want to talk to you," he called.
	Not wanting to acknowledge that, I just kept walking. He stepped in my way.
	"I said I want to talk to you."
	"My name isn't asshole."
	"Oh, listen to that. He wipes out my car and then wants formal introductions.”  The others snickered at that.  “You're asshole to me, kid. Why did you fuck with my car?"
	"Maybe I didn't like where it was parked."
	I was nervous as hell, but I sensed that he wasn't too good at this either. I wondered how things would be if his friends weren't watching.  In any case, I didn't want to make anything up with him. All I had to do was think about him and Marlene and I felt blood pushing against my eyes.
	“And maybe I don't like you hanging your sleazy self around Marlene," I added.
	Now all the others gave a big, "Ooooooooo." Robertson took a step closer and said,
	"What's that slut to you?"
	I went sort of blank, like the night before. I threw my books down. Unfortunately, I threw them down right on my foot. At the same time, Robertson started to swing on me, but as I jumped back from the books I somehow raised my left arm so that he missed me but caught the elbow in his right eye with all the force of his drive. He staggered back, and I lunged at him and took him down while the others screamed. The rest of the fight was pretty much a rolling tour of the shop parking lot. We both got our clothes ripped up and oily. I was really taller than he was, but he was heavier and a pretty good puncher. He worked over my stomach and the side of my head pretty well before a teacher finally showed up. I didn't think I got in any very good hits.
	Of course, we got hauled to the office, and of course the principal got a lot of pleasure giving me the mandatory five-day suspension for fighting in school. It was something he'd wanted to do since the Catholic school incident and especially after the thing at the Pasadena track meet, he said, adding that he thought Soz was far too lenient with his runners. He just went on and on, seeming smaller and smaller to me - like some naggy old lady.
	I was told to wait in the office until they called my mother and she could come get me. I wasn't allowed just to leave school, but when the secretary turned her back I took off out the side door sprinting and didn't stop until I was at Marlene's house.
	When I got there, I didn't waste time. When she didn't answer my knocking and ringing I took a little kick at the door. Then it all came out. All the shit that had been building up the last few weeks came out in a fit of kicking and punching and pounding on that thick old oak door. It didn't make much impression on the door, but there wasn't much skin left on the backs of my hands. I screamed every obscenity I could think of and yelled that if she didn't open I would go right in through that big front window.  I guess my eyes were a little messed up, too, because I didn't notice when she did open the door, and I half fell into the entrance hall.
	She was standing there very casually, pinning up her hair, not particularly disturbed by all the pounding and screaming - like it happened every day.
	"What happened to you?"
	"Your new boyfriend was waiting for me at school"
	"My new boyfriend."
	"Yeah, the one who thinks you're a slut."
	At that she darkened, but it wasn't like she was shocked or anything.
	"Why does he think you're a slut, Marlene?"
	"Did he say that?"
	"Nah, I'm just tryin' ya. Why'd he say that, huh? Did you give him some consolation because I messed up his poor car?"
	'What do you think? And is it any business of yours anyway?"
	I just stared. I didn't know what to do or say. I felt exhausted, like everyone was beating on me. I sat down on a hall bench and put my head in my hands. I was hoping to hell that I wouldn't bust out crying, but it really felt like that.
	"Look, you'd better get back to school or go home. I don't want you here."
	"I can't go back to school. Suspended for fighting."
	"Well, I'm sorry about that, but you can't stay here."
	"Who are you expecting, Ronnie?"
	"No. That's none of your business."
	"How can you just kick me out and refuse to see me after all these months. Why? What did I do to you?"
	"Nothing. I just don't want to see you anymore."
	“Nothing.  I just don’t want to see you anymore.   You can’t do it.  You owe me something."
	"What do I owe you? If I'm a slut maybe you owe me. Shall I figure it out for you?  Shall I send you the bill? I'll give you a special rate for disadvantaged youth."
	"Don't talk to me like that. Goddamn it!  You know what I mean.  All that time together. We... We..."
	"We what? We loved each other? Do you love me, Andy? 'Cause I don't love you, and I want you the hell out of here!"
	There's something about arguing like that that just keeps itself going until you've said all the stupid things you can think of. But this time I didn't go that road. I stopped. Her question was more important than the argument.
	"I think...I do love you," I said quietly.
	But for some stupid reason that made her madder than ever. Now she started really uncontrolled screaming. I mean, I'd seen her mad, but never like that.
	"Don't say that to me. You have absolutely no right. Oh man! You're just an ignorant bastard. Son of a bitch!  Get out!  Get out!  Just get out of my house."
	"What did I ever do to you that you treat me like this?
	"What did you do? You spy and snoop and sneak around like some kid in a stupid game of hide and seek. I offer you...I give you...You don't know shit. How many times did you do that anyway?"
	"Do what?"
	"Leave me like that to go snooping around here."
	"Never."
	"Liar!  Goddamned liar!  Son of a bitch liar!  Get out!"
	I was standing now. Trying to calm her, I grabbed at anything.
	"Alright. Alright. What I said about not looking around before was the truth," I lied. "But that day maybe I did see something. I had to get out of the hall. The door was open. I swear it was unlocked. I didn't think about it. It was just the first door I grabbed without thinking, and it was unlocked that day, and I just ducked in there. What was I gonna do? Your father was just about in the hall. I was only in there a second and then let myself into the other bedroom."
	I knew that somehow I'd just fucked up worse. Her eyes narrowed.
	"But that room was locked all the other days you tried it, wasn't it?"
	I was stopped. I just stared at her. Her voice dropped to the low hiss I remembered from the cafeteria.
	"I knew you went in there. I knew I left it unlocked. And it wasn't the first time you tried. How could you? It's one thing you use my body with no thought; how could you try to get into my mind like that?  Why do you think you can just go any goddamned place you want?  Like no one else matters.  Like no one else has any needs or feelings."
	"What the hell do you mean?"
	"If you don't get out I'll call the cops. If I ever see you here I'll call the cops. I hate you more than all of them. I hate you!"
	She began pounding on my chest like crazy, trying to push me back to the door. I was panicked trying to figure some way out when the whole thing just sort of opened up. First came the smells again - coffee grounds from the kitchen, yesterday's garbage, the aromas of teak and mahogany and furniture polish and wax and fresh paint from somewhere. Then, just like that day on Rossmoyne, things began to fly apart.
	There's probably a better way to express it than that, but that's what it seemed like to me. So much was happening that I just lost control. I got that sick feeling in my stomach, but there was no way to stop it. I sort of split apart. Part of me was in the entrance hall with Marlene. Part of me was on the staircase watching her pounding on me. But a third part was on a street in a grimy part of some city. It didn't look like LA, and the weather was gray and colder than it gets in LA, even in winter. I was really out on that street. I could hear the cars and trucks, smell their exhaust, feel the people in their overcoats and knit caps passing on either side of me.
	The me on the street was looking up at an ugly brick building. And what I was looking at was a girl at a window on about the fifth floor. She seemed to be trying to open the window, but it was stuck. Then my stomach got even worse. My body flew up until I was just outside the window and could see the little girl clearly. She was about twelve and had a pretty face, but it was dirty and her long, dark brown hair hung in uncombed knots and strands.
	Suddenly she began to pound furiously on the window. It was a large casement window, dirty, with chipping dark green paint on the splintered wood. The glass was thin, shaking, and as she screamed - silently to me on the outside - I was sure the window would break and she would come flying through and fall. But what was even more frightening to me was that I thought I knew her.
	"Who is she?" I wondered out loud.
	The me on the stairs noticed the change in Marlene. Maybe it was my tone or something in my face. Or maybe she was thinking about it, too. She stopped hammering on me; her eyes widened.
	"What do you mean?" She sounded afraid.
	"Who's the little girl pounding on the window? I know her."
	This time the image came back more intensely. The girl seemed even more frantic, and I could see a shape behind her; a man's form appeared indistinctly, and I could sense a smile I hated. My nausea grew.
	"She's going to hurt herself if she doesn't stop. Keep him away," I yelled.
	"What little girl? What little girl?" Marlene was screaming, her eyes darting wildly around the hall and the living room.
	I tried to be calm, to enunciate each word.
	"The little girl is in a room with someone bad. She's trying to get out. If she breaks the glass she'll cut herself. She'll fall out the window."
	"Get out. Get out of the house. Get out now. I don't want you here any more."
	And then as quickly as it had come on me it stopped. All the parts came back inside. I knew the answer.
	"I know who she is."
	But if I was coming together, Marlene was falling apart.
	"What are you talking about?" she shrieked at me as her eyes darted around the room hysterically. She couldn't fool me though. I knew she was seeing the same thing.
	"She's the little girl who lives upstairs in the back bedroom. The one with all the dolls and drawings."
	Something was clearly happening to Marlene now. She was passing beyond hysteria into something else. She was breaking up. I could sense it almost like seeing an explosion in slow motion in which parts shot out from her and drifted off. She searched around the room again as if looking for something that would give her support. Then her eyes rolled back, and she crumpled.
	I got over to her before her head hit anything and managed to carry her over to the sofa. I laid her down carefully, and listened for her breathing and felt for her pulse, which seemed strong. After a few minutes I got a little worried and wondered if I should try slapping her face lightly or throwing cold water on her, like you see in the movies. But she began to move; she opened her eyes for a few seconds and looked at me like she was studying my face. Then she drifted off again.
	It surprised me that I seemed to take what was happening as natural, as though I'd been through it before.  It didn't panic me that she was lying there unconscious.  I could feel that something right had happened, even though I couldn't understand it.
	After a long time she came to. She sat up, but didn't say anything. Then she went to drink some water. We just sat quietly for a while. At last she told me she had something important to do and that I should go home. She said she would be alright and that she would call me, and I believed her.

TAPE NINE									
1/15/86

	A couple of weeks went by. I’d tried to call her but didn't push it when no one answered.  Even though the rumor was that Marlene had dropped out of school, something made me sure that we would be back together better than ever, and I just relaxed. Then one afternoon she called me - something she'd never done - and asked me to come over. When I got to her house she met me at the door. Right away she asked,
	"Would you go to a dance with me?"
	That was about the last thing I expected. She didn't say anything about what had happened or where she'd been. Just did I want to go to a dance? It really amazed me. Since I'd known her I'd always assumed that she didn't want to be seen with me, and we’d never gone out together.
	"I don't know much about dancing," I replied. 
	"How much?" 
	"Nothing." 
	"You've never danced?" 
	"No." I followed her into the living room. 
	"I can teach you. Mainly, you just stay on your feet, not mine." 
	"What kind of dance is it?" 
	She hesitated. 
	"Oh, it's just something my father's got me into. It has to do with his business." 		That really didn't help convince me at all. I'd never thought much about her father's business, but I guessed it had something to do with the underworld - like that's what Italians did or something. Of course, it never occurred to me just to ask her straight out what he did. Now I'd have to meet him, and at a dance, where I'd probably be tripping all over myself.  Still, I didn't really want to say no the first time she'd ever asked me to go anywhere with her.
	"Sure. I guess it's OK."
	“Such enthusiasm. Well, I guess guys don't react well to being asked out; that ‘s supposed to be the boy’s job. It's next Friday night...and you'll have to wear a tuxedo."
	"Tuxedo? Who has a tuxedo? I haven't even gone to a dance before, and I'm supposed to have a tuxedo?"
	"Don't get so excited. There are lots of places that rent them. I'll pay for it."
	"Never mind. I can pay for my own things. Is there anything else that has to be paid for - you know - like to get into the dance?"
	"No, just the gas to get there."
	Just the gas to get there, I thought.  And what do we ride, the gas can?
	"Can't your father drive?"
	"My father?"
	"Right. If it's his dance he'll be going, right? He could take us."
	"Well...he has to leave early. He's one of the organizers, you know. I couldn't be ready that early, and who wants to sit around for hours waiting for a dance? Can't you get a car somewhere?"
	Oh hell yes. Just walk up to someone and ask for a car. I'd turned sixteen in March and could've gotten my license, but between track and Marlene I hadn't squeezed it in. I'd pretty well taught myself how to drive by sneaking out my mother's car when she'd gone places with someone else or by using one of the old junkers Danny usually had behind his house.
	I don't know where Danny's old cars came from or where they eventually ended up, but there was a constant parade of rejects in back of his house. He was good with his hands, like our dad had been, and he would tinker around with the old cars until he had them running well and then get rid of them.
	Without a license there was no chance my mother would loan me her car, but it happened that Dan had an old '39 Cadillac about that time, and I made a deal with him to let me use it in exchange for cleaning it up and polishing it. It was really a mess. I didn't have much hope for it, but after a couple of washings and about two full cans of wax it looked pretty good.
	The inside was another story. It looked and smelled like someone had been transporting horse manure. I just ripped out the rugs and made new ones from some old brown living room rug I found in the garage. I couldn't do much with the seats, so I covered them with blankets. Then I poured a bottle of Airwick over the whole thing and left the doors open for a few days.
	By the day of the dance everything was ready. The car was a ridiculous exaggeration - a great black hearse - but it was OK. My rented tuxedo looked alright, too. I had picked out one with a white jacket and a red plaid tie and cummerbund. The whole thing seemed pretty stupid to me, but I had to admit it looked pretty sharp. I hadn't told my mother I was going to a dance, and, as I guessed, she wasn't even home as I got ready.
	Danny's wife, Dede’d shown me some basic dance steps and we'd practiced a few times with the radio. She told me that you were supposed to take flowers to your date when you went to a nice dance, so I bought a red carnation corsage without even thinking to ask Marlene what color dress she'd be wearing.
	And so, flowers in hand, looking like a reject from a James Cagney mobster movie in that car, I showed up on time at Marlene's house. It took several minutes of knocking and ringing before she answered, but finally she opened her window upstairs and called down that the door was unlocked and that I should go and wait in the living room. Once I was inside she called down the stairs that she'd be a little while, so I could get a drink and watch TV or whatever I felt like.
	It took her over a half-hour more. I didn't feel like watching TV, so I sat around and half-read some magazines. For some reason I was getting a little nervous. I didn't know why I should have been nervous. I mean, it wasn't my dance that we'd be late to, but there was this anticipation. I put on some music and paced around. Finally I sensed some movement at the top of the stairs.
	Slowly she came down the great curving staircase. It was like an entrance of one of those old movie stars. All that was missing was the camera and the director. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
	Her silver strap shoes were the first things in view. Next came a floor length white evening dress that I can still see. It was very simple - sort of like a Roman toga that looped around her neck. Her shoulders were bare. The only word for it was elegant. Really like majestic. The dress was made out of some soft, silky material that just floated around her. It was very formal, but left no doubt about that great body it covered. The only jewelry she wore was a thin chain with my locket. She had very little makeup, but her hair was all swept up and piled loosely, and she'd woven daisies through it. She was perfect.
	Maybe not everybody would have reacted like I did. Maybe she was just my fixation. But I think a hell of a lot of guys would have been just stopped cold like I was if they'd seen anyone like that coming toward them. You could only tell she liked my reaction. She played it to the maximum.
	"Put your tongue back in. It's not that wonderful."
	"That's because you're looking at me, not at you.”
	"Oh, please.”
	"It's true. It's really true. This time you've got to believe something nice about yourself. I've never seen anyone as beautiful as you, not anywhere."
	For a minute she was silent and then a little sad look crossed her face.
	"What's the matter. I'm serious. You've got to know I really mean it."
	"I know. You're being very sweet. I just wish..."
	"Wish what?"
	“Oh, nothing. Maybe just that someone from my family - my father - someone - you know - could be here to see us off. Parents are supposed to be all mushy when their kids go to a big dance."
	"Well, your father will see you at the dance, won't he?
	"Oh...oh, sure, sure he will. Never mind. Lets go."
	"No one was home at my house either. No one saw me in my first tuxedo."
	"Well, it's different for a boy."
	"Maybe."
	She looked at me for a minute.
	"Who told you to get a tuxedo with a red tie...and a red cummerbund?"
	"It doesn't look good?"
	She considered me for a moment.
	"No, it's fine. In fact, just right for this dance. Is that flower for me?"
	Over my shoulder she'd spotted the corsage on the coffee table.
	"Yeah. But it's red, too. Not much imagination. I should have called you and asked what you were wearing. Anyway, you shouldn't wear a flower with that dress. It would just screw it up. It looks great just like it is. Leave the corsage here."
	"Right. And have everyone say that my date didn't even bring me flowers. They're fine. Is it alright if I just clip them on my evening bag? I can carry them like that."
	I was glad she handled it that way. I really didn't want to see that big drippy bunch of red carnations messing up that dress.
	When we went out to the car she had a lot of sarcastic stuff to say about it, but I could tell that she didn't think I'd done too badly. Thank God the stink was pretty much out of it.
	I headed through the downtown section and south toward LA. She'd said her father worked there. Something else she'd said had gotten through to me, and, in spite of the occasion, I felt a little moody. I hardly paid attention when she told me to go right on Los Feliz Road in the direction of Hollywood.
	"Your father doesn't treat you very well, does he?"
	"Why do you say that?"
	"Oh, you got sort of sad back at the house when you were talking about him. I'm not so sure that I want to meet him. He's got to be a little strange."
	I don't know why I got into that when we were supposed to be headed out for a good time. I guess the thought of finally meeting her father had me nervous. And then there was the thing about the guy in the vision, the guy standing behind the little girl and smiling that lizardy smile. I guess I wondered if that had anything to do with her father. She didn't seem to like the way I was talking, so I shut up for a while. Finally, feeling all defensive I blurted out,
	"Well, it's not right that he should make you sad on a big night."
	"He's alright. He does his best. I can say that now. He doesn't make me feel sad, really. I think he really cares for me. It's just that we've always had a messed-up home life. He works too much. It's how he escapes from things. Some people seem to need escapes."
	She said this flatly, with no particular direction. I looked over at her, but she was watching the street. She went on,
	“I still don’t like it, but I've got to live with it, at least a little while more.”
	"What do you mean, 'a little while more?’"
	"Well, you know, I'm a senior now, or I should be. I won't graduate with this class, but I should finish up my credits next year. Then I'll have to decide about college or something."
	That should have warned me about what might be coming, but in those days "next year" sounded so far off that it eased my mind.
	"You said it's different for a guy," I went on, "but even a guy likes to get some attention from his family. I honestly don't think my mother gives a shit about me. She'll be damn glad when I'm out of her way."
	"I've learned you've got to take it a little easy on your parents. They're not really much worse people than we are."
	"Parents who are there and don't care. Parents who care and aren't there. Which are better?" I asked.
	I looked over at her, but she was concentrating on the street. The way the conversation was going, there probably wouldn't be much evening left in a few more minutes. It was about the most honest talk we'd ever had, but that just wasn't the night for it. I decided to drop it. Also, it had finally occurred to me that we weren't headed for downtown LA, but over toward the west side. Now she wanted me to turn on Riverside Drive which would take us around Griffith Park and out toward the San Fernando Valley.
	"Are you nuts?" I asked. "This goes out to the valley, not to LA."
	"Whose dance is this anyway? I know how to get there. Maybe I just don't know the names of all the cities around here."
	"Well, we're going to use up all the gas just driving around in circles."
	"What...did you put in a whole dollar's worth?"
	"No, wise-o. I filled the tank. It cost almost four dollars."
	By then I had the feeling that I was being put on, and, sure enough, when we got around the park she told me to turn again on Western which would take us over the L.A. River and back up toward the foothills. This time I kept my mouth shut, because to tell the truth, I was getting a little pissed off, and I really didn't want to start a fight with her. When we got up to Kenneth Road, which skirts along the base of the foothills, she had me turn right again. At that point it was only a couple miles right back to her house. I know I must have really been white in the face, I was getting so mad, and what made me even madder was that I could tell, even without looking at her, that she was smiling. I couldn't believe she'd put me through all that just for some stupid joke.
	I was so pissed that I hadn't noticed that she'd told me to turn again and that I'd done it. Suddenly I stopped the car. We were right behind the high school. It must have been about nine-thirty or ten, but all the lights in the girls' gym were on. It was the night of the senior prom.
	"You didn't think I'd do all this just to be nasty, did you?"
	I looked over at her. She was still smiling, but her eyes showed something else. I was still mad enough to say,
	"Well, it isn’t like you've never been nasty before."
	Now the laughter went from her face, and that sadness came over her again. I wanted to take the words back, but they were out, and I was still mad anyway.
	"Why didn't you just tell me that you wanted to go to the senior prom?" I asked.
	"Would you have said yes?"
	"Maybe. Probably not. Well, shit, I've never been to a dance before, and now I'm supposed to make a fool of myself in front of the whole school? No. Even better. In front of all the juniors and seniors."
	"Don't swear. And don't think about yourself all the time. Most of the kids you know won't be there anyway."
	She was probably right about that. A few sophomore girls might be there with juniors or seniors they were dating, but I didn't know any other guys who were dating girls from the upper classes.
	"Oh, you're right. It's me being stupid again," she said. "I should have told you. I should have been honest. Let's just go home. I know it's not fair to you."
	I studied her. It was strange how beautiful she'd become. It was as though her face had suddenly opened in some spectacular bloom of beauty. It was a total reversal. Now soft shades of her natural glow replaced the painted clown's cheeks, and smoldering fires, hidden before,  flashed through eyes that had usually been turned away. Was I the only one who saw it, or would others feel it, too? Would they have the chance?
	"Sure, just go home. Do you have any idea how hard I had to scrub this tank to get it to look like this? Do you know how much this stupid suit set me back? Just go home. You're nuts."
	I stomped on the gas and wheeled down the hill toward the parking lots.  Out of the corner of my eye I could see that she was smiling again.
	The upper lot was full so I had to keep going down to the faculty lot where I finally found a place. As we walked back to the gym we could hear a voice inside announcing something over a loudspeaker. Then there was clapping, and the band played a short piece.
	"They're announcing the prom court," Marlene said. "First they tell the princes and princesses and then the king and queen."
	Now that was a part of school I have to admit I've never understood. You figure there were 1,500 kids in that school. That meant there were about 500 kids in each class. Logic would tell you that around 250 of those were girls, and yet, ever since junior high, whenever they had to choose a girl for song leader or some court, there were only about ten that ever got picked. That's a pretty rotten dog/doll ratio. I guess it was lucky that we had some queens, at least, but it seemed like it would've been nice for some of the others if they passed the goodies around a little more.
	When we arrived at the front door of the gym there was no one there. Inside was a small lobby, and then you had to go up more steps to the doors that actually opened into the gym itself. A table and chair had been drawn up to the front door. There was a box of ticket stubs on the table, but no one was there to take our tickets. Once we were inside, I could see a girl in a lacy formal dress standing at the top of the stairs peeking through the gym doors.
	"Excuse me," I called.
	She turned around looking a little annoyed. It was Thelma Pritchert, a junior girl who was always involved in planning activities. She'd probably worked harder than anyone else getting ready for this dance. She always worked harder than anyone else. And her reward was that she didn't even have a date. She got to put on her formal and come over to take tickets. Why didn't they pick someone like her to be queen? It would have done her a lot of good.
	She came quickly down the stairs, talking very excitedly.
	"I guess I should have stayed by the door. But I didn't think anyone else was coming, and it's so thrilling. They're just ready to announce the last princess, and then everyone will know who the queen is. It's down to Lynn French and Carole Davala. It'll probably be Lynn - she's always the queen - but I'd just die if Carole could win. She's so nice.
	During all this she hadn't looked to see who we were. Now she recognized me, mainly because she was a member of Mercury's Maidens, a club Soz had organized to do a lot of slave work for the track team. I always saw her out by the track painting signs or decorating the stands or working her little heart out on some typical Soz project. She smiled at me and then looked at Marlene. Her jaw dropped to a good fly-catching position, and it was a few seconds more before her brain began to rumble again. Even then she didn't recognize Marlene. 
	"Andy, you're a sophomore, aren't you?" she asked. 
	"Yeah." 
	"You know the prom is only for juniors and seniors and their dates?" 
	"Sure, Marlene is a senior." 
	Now Thelma looked carefully at Marlene. Finally it clicked. Her jaw dropped down about to her chest. I wondered if it unhinged for really big meals.
	"Oh, you're Marlene Bertini. I see you in the cafeteria." 
	"Barzani." 
	“Oh, sure, Marlene Barzani. Well, I didn't recognize you. You don't have...You look... different."
	"Thanks. '
	Just then the band stopped playing and the loudspeaker voice started again.
	"Oh, they're announcing the last princess," she squealed, dropping our tickets into the box. "Excuse me, I've just got to see who she is." She bounded up the stairs to her crack in the door.
	I took Marlene's coat and evening bag with the big red corsage over to a room where one of the lady custodians was checking things, and then Marlene and I went up to the gym door. Thelma was about ready to pee herself completely, formal and all.
	"They picked Lynn for princess," she yelped. "That means Carole is the queen. Oh, that's so neat. Carole is such a neat girl, don't you think. Oh, I'm so happy
	Marlene and I stared at each other unable to believe Thelma. The band stopped and the voice started it's final announcement.
	"And now ladies and gentlemen the moment we have all been waiting for, the crowning of the queen of the 1956 Senior Prom. By now you all know who she is: a young lady whose beauty, personality and talent have charmed us all during our years at Hoover High. Here she is, Miss Carole Davala."
	Although it was no big secret, everyone went crazy clapping and cheering. The band began some romantic song of the time, and I imagined that Carole and her date were going up to wherever she would get crowned. I couldn't see anything because Thelma was not about to pry her nose out of the crack in the double doors. I figured Marlene and I would wait until everything quieted down and then slip unnoticed into the gym, but that was not the plan.
	To Thelma's shock - she almost lost a nose - and to my amazement, Marlene opened the left half of the double doors and proceeded into the gym. Although every emotion told me to stay planted, obviously that wouldn't work. Swallowing hard, I followed her through.
	The door was about twelve feet above the gym floor. When the seats along the wall were pulled out it was at the level of the top row of seats. For the dance the seats were pushed back and folded against the wall like sets of large flat wooden boxes. So we were above the crowd on a landing, a sort of platform, from which steps led down to the gym floor.
	On the floor, a red carpet had been rolled down the center of the basketball court to a dais built under the the raised basketball backboard on our right. A large crown had been hung under the backboard and streamers led from the crown down to the dais where the four pairs of princes and princesses stood. Carole Davala had just finished the walk up the carpet to where the king, Dick Rustin, was standing next to the throne, and she was getting ready to take her seat.
	As she sat down the president of the senior class came up behind her and said something corny, but just as the crown was placed on her head, Carole happened to look up and spot us standing at the top of the stairs. She kept looking at us - or at Marlene - and, as if on her command, the kids in the crowd around the dais followed her stare up to us in a sort of rolling eyes-right. The wave of turning heads washed over the group until they were all looking up at us, and from their expressions it seemed like they were witnessing the Second Coming rather than the arrival of two kids late to a dance. Some of them recognized me. I heard my name whispered in different places, but obviously the great fascination was Marlene. The way the girls were shaking their heads you could tell they hadn't figured her out yet.
	Talk about mixed emotions! Man, what a screwed-up headful I had at that moment. The first was terror; I mean gut-wrenching, jelly-spine, stark terror. My kidneys ached like they'd been massaged by the old baseball bat again. A surge of nausea started at my toenails and rolled right up me. Only a panicked glance at Marlene saved me. There she stood, serene, majestic, granting a bemused half-smile to her bewildered subjects. She slipped her arm through mine, and the touch of her calmed me. There was nothing for it but to start down.
	As we reached the steps I looked over at Carole Davala. A second emotion came over me - something between guilt and sympathy. She really was a nice person. If I passed her on the stairs between classes she always said hi, even though I didn't really know her. And it wasn't a phony, vapid little hi either, but a friendly one. Her winning that night was a triumph of personality over beauty. That's why girls like Thelma were so excited by it. It held out the illusion, at least, that if personality wasn't as genetically determined as looks, there might be some hope for them all.
	Carole wasn't bad-looking by any means. She just wasn't the perky little beauty that usually won this kind of thing. She already looked a little motherly. You could imagine that in a few years she would have some kids and be the greatest looking mother in the world. For three years of being nice, nice, nice this was her reward, and at literally the crowning moment we showed up to take the edge off it all. It wasn't fair by most measures. But then I looked back at Marlene.
	There was no doubt about it, she was the most beautiful girl in the room. It wasn't just my fixation. She was leagues beyond anyone else. And it was something she'd achieved by herself over the last year. Of course, her beauty was natural, an accident, a trick of nature. But one year before it shone only in the recesses of her house. That it should break through the darkness and be seen by all was a cause for celebration. Maybe it was right. Maybe it was better this way: a celebration for some who needed celebrating, not the usual crew of perkies. As we came down, gasps of recognition could be heard around the room as word of who she was began to spread like ripples from a skipping stone.
	And then suspicion coiled itself inside me and struck. Was there something a little strange about the timing of all this? Suddenly all the time she took dressing and the long trip around town made sense. When we arrived at the gym she'd been almost like an actress pacing backstage, listening to the other actors' lines before making her entrance. I narrowed my gaze at her, but she was still doing her Mona Lisa thing.
	We reached the floor of the gym, and the trance evaporated. The music started, and the announcer said that Queen Carole and King Dick, would begin the coronation dance. The two went to the center of the room where they danced for a while by themselves, receiving the congratulations of the others. Gradually more dancers joined in, and soon the floor was full.
	Marlene and I stood by the side of the stairs during that dance - which seemed to last twice as long as normal - a receiving line of two, receiving the inquisitive stares of the swirling crowd. As the next dance started, she said,
	"Clubfoot or not, you've got to dance. I can't take standing here any longer."
	"Me neither, but you brought it on yourself."
	"How was I to know we'd get here just at that moment?"
	I gave her a "How stupid do you think I am?" look and led her onto the floor. The band was playing a fast dance - some early rock and roll. I did the two-step that Dede'd showed me. I did the two-step to everything we danced. Marlene couldn't complain too much. I didn't step on her toes the whole night.
	I was surprised that several girls had things to say to Marlene. I'd guessed that everyone would just stand back and give us strange looks. Even Queen Carole, who was in art class with Marlene, told her how good she looked and, of course, said hi to me. Her date, John Richards,  looked over my head while they were talking. He was one of the football types - pretty good-looking and supposedly pretty good with the girls. I didn't know he dated Carole, but maybe he saw that she was going to win something and figured it would be a good deal. Then again, maybe it was true love, but he managed to sneak in several good looks at Marlene when Carole's back was turned. In fact, that was the response Marlene got from most of the guys. I wasn't sure I liked that at all.
	Thank God we were on the downhill side of the evening. That was one advantage of coming in late. After the next set of dances you could see that some of the kids were leaving to restaurants and parties and other things. I was hoping for a signal from Marlene that we could do the same when the final lowlight of the evening occurred: we ran into Leo Frank and his date the ever-beautiful "Horizontal" Helen Hartung, so-named because, reputedly, she was often found in that position.
	Actually, with his duck-tail trimmed back he didn't look too bad in his black tuxedo. You might not realize you were dealing with the local Mafia rep. Horizontal (you stressed the first syllable) was pretty presentable, too. Her dress was low-cut as hell, but within reason, and her hair was only ratted up to one story instead of the usual two. Right away, Leo got familiar as hell.
	"Well, Marlene, you're looking great, but isn't it late for the little kids to be out?" he said glancing at me.
	After all the shit I'd been through that evening that was too much. Marlene and her friends were cutting back my life expectancy, but I got all white again and took a step forward.
	"Leo, for Christ's sake, don't be such a horse's ass," Marlene said.
	To my surprise he went red in the face. Helen smiled graciously.
	"Hey, babe, you know I'm just kidding. Ol' Thomas and me are good buddies from auto shop. How you doin' Andy?" He slapped me on the shoulder.  "Did I ever tell you you remind me of a guy I know who runs a pool hall?"
	I knew he was just trying to bring me down, but I mumbled,
	"That's my brother."
	"You’re kidding!  Really?  Come on, I was just raggin' ya. Your brother doesn't really work at a pool hall. A classy kid like you?"
	"Yeah, my brother Dan. Dan works at Tiny's Pool Hall on Colorado. What's so big about that?"
	"You're right. Danny. He said his name was Danny Thomas. Sure, just like the TV guy. He's a hell of a pool player. Well, I'll be damned. Hey, Marlene, you've got better taste than I thought."
	There was an example of great tough-guy logic. How did being the son of a glorified carpenter and a pushy bank teller make me a classy kid? And how did having a brother who worked in a pool hall suddenly make me cool? 
	Now Leo started off on a buddy-buddy routine, which, given his usual eat-shit personality, didn't suit him at all. He drew me aside, and in a stage whisper that could be heard halfway downtown said,
	"Man, you've got some chick in Marlene. I don't know how you managed it. I didn't think she went out on dates or you can bet yours truly would have asked her to this bash. Don't say nothin' to Helen, of course. I've always known Marlene was a doll under all that shit she puts on."
	You could tell from his tone that this was not just brotherly congratulations I was getting. There was definitely an undertone of something menacing, like, maybe, jealousy. Again Helen smiled munificently.
	After a little more of that stimulating conversation I managed to edge away from the group, using the punch table as an excuse. I was not only pissed off at the situation but a little worried that Leo - and maybe Marlene - was beginning to notice my preoccupation with Helen's tits which were, next to her brain, her most remarkable features and which seemed to be winning a struggle to get over the top of that low-cut dress.
	When I got back I was happy to see that Leo and Helen were just leaving Marlene. I handed her a cup of punch, and we stood quietly for a while watching the dance which was down to about thirty couples.
	"Leo has invited us to go out to a night club after the dance."
	"With him?" I exploded, nearly spraying punch across the room.
	"Of course with him. How else do you make an invitation? We should go there by ourselves?"
	"Marlene, come on. How much do you want from me? You trick me into coming to the senior prom, and then you accept an invitation from the king of the tough guys. Don't I get any say in all this?"
	"I didn't accept any invitation. I just told you what he said. Anyway, I don't think you're suffering that much. If you got to know Leo a little, you 'd find out that he isn't what he seems. You find that about a lot of people if you take the time and don’t just put them in boxes, like everyone does around here. Knowing him might do you some good. Anyway, it's just for something to eat.  We’ll be back in two or three hours at the most."
	I could hardly see how knowing Leo better could lead to anything but early death. I'd planned on taking Marlene to the Tam O' Shanter, a quiet English pub-style restaurant on the other side of town that Danny always talked about. Now she told me that Leo wanted to go to the Coconut Grove in Hollywood. I didn't even know where it was, but it had to be expensive as hell. I thumbed my wallet and wondered if my very last twenty-five dollars (after paying off Robertson's paint job) would be enough.
	Actually, it didn't work out that bad. Leo drove his chopped Mercury that was so low you almost needed a ladder down to get in. He really had reservations, and he wouldn't take my money.  Said we'd settle it later. That was strange enough, but after so many coincidences that evening, I'd stopped wondering about them. Nat King Cole was singing and he was great. Leo was pretty quiet - for Leo - but he had a flask and kept "sweetening" the soft drinks they gave us for five bucks a shot. I didn't drink much, and Marlene wouldn't touch it. It was about two o'clock before we were back at the school. After very few fond good-byes I managed to get the old tank started and back to Marlene's house.
	I thought sure that her father would be home and that we'd just say good-night in the front, but she told me to come in. She made some coffee, and we talked a little in the kitchen, then went upstairs. I was surprised when she passed her room and went down the long hall to the last door on the left. When I saw where she was headed I was more than surprised; my stomach began to turn.
	She waited for me at the door; I wasn't moving too fast. I really didn't want to face what had been there before. As she opened the door, though, I couldn't sense the mess I'd found that other day.
	I looked in cautiously. She seemed to understand why. The room had been cleared out. That is, the dolls were gone. The walls had been stripped and whitewashed. The furniture seemed the same, but cleaner and neatly arranged. The brass bed shone near the window and was made up with crisp white sheets and a linen cover which was turned down. The floor was bare except for a tan woven rug near the bed.
	She went right into the bathroom, and I stood for a while in the middle of the room, waiting. When nothing happened, I took off the tux, and draped it over a maple rocking chair. I left on my shorts and sat on the bed. Marlene was taking her time again.
	A wind was moving the curtains, and I thought to close the window, but it wasn't too cold, so I didn’t. After a while I lay back and must have dozed. A light pressure on the bed woke me. Marlene was sitting on the edge, her back to me, her hair loose, falling over a thin white chemise. She'd turned out the lights, but the room had a glow, maybe from the moon, and it outlined her face and breasts as she turned to me. I pulled her down, and we kissed softly, almost timidly, for a long time. Finally, I took off her gown and my shorts.
	When I tried to go on, though, it was not the same. I went at it slowly, touching and kissing her and building gradually, but she was changed. It was like things had reversed. The self-assurance of the dance was gone, but gone too were the veiled hostility and the almost hypnotic state she disappeared into most of the times we had sex. Now she sensed and felt everything as if for the first time, and she cried each time I tried to start. The pain there seemed more than physical.
	The early morning wind began to flow off the mountain. It was a cascade full of sage and night jasmine and chaparral smells that poured through the window, lifting the lace curtain over the bed like a wedding canopy. The hour and the efforts of the day pulled me down. I stopped trying and fell back on the pillow. She lay over me. Somehow, after all those months we were back to virginity. And yet, in some ways, our joining that night was more perfect than ever.
	In the cool glow of the room I could see clearly: her head by my shoulder, her body entwined around mine, her night-ebony hair fanned over my arm. Her face in sleep was toward mine, and it was the face of a twelve-year-old girl I'd seen through an apartment window. Now it was calm and innocent. She sank into me; I rose into her. We were two children locked together against the world; more now than friends, we were one.

TAPE TEN										1/23/86

	This next part’s really had for me to deal with, Wolly, but I’m gonna try my best.  I haven’t let myself think about this stuff for a really long time.  I guess whenever I picture my mother's living room, I see it as it looked one morning in late June, 1956. That's the image I have locked in my head, although later she may have had it painted or carpeted or put in new furniture. I've heard about people who are standing someplace when some great disaster happens, like a bomb going off in a store or a terrific earthquake. They say they remember such fantastic little details about the place, like car license numbers or the clothes some mannequins had on. Maybe that's why I remember so many details about that room on that morning.
	I'd been bumming around that day pretty much like I'd been bumming around every day since school let out. I said to myself that I needed a vacation, but I knew that I really needed to get out and get a job and some money. The last year had wiped out my savings, and I was thinking about all the good things Marlene and I could do during the summer if Danny could get me a cheap car and I could make a little spending money.
	Since the night of the dance I'd only been in touch with her by phone, that is, she'd called me about three times. She talked differently then, different from all the months I'd known her, like someone really close to me, like someone who really loved me. We would talk for a long time when she called, and I would ask when I could come over, but she always said she was in some kind of clinic and she'd let me know as soon as she got out. I just knew whatever was bothering her - that if we could only get out together travel around, go to the beach or the mountains - I could get her through it all and we'd really be together, just us and no one else to mess us up. I really thought about that a lot, maybe too much, because I wasn't getting anything else done.
	About ten o'clock the doorbell rang. I was by myself, still in bed. I got on a T shirt and some pants and went to see who it was. Through the window in the door I could see a man on the porch. Something about him was familiar. He was sort of sizing up the house and the yard, and I guessed he was a real estate agent, because my mother was always groaning about taxes and payments and threatening to sell the place.
	He was nicely dressed for a real estate agent. He wore a silky black suit, a white-on-white shirt, and a shiny pearl grey tie. He had a lot of wavy black hair, very neatly trimmed and brushed, and his manner, just standing there, was very self-assured and a little impatient. Despite his good looks, something told me not to open, but it was too late: he'd spotted me looking through the little window. I unlatched the door. It wasn't until then that I noticed the big black Cadillac at the curb.
	"Is Mr. Thomas at home?"
	"You must mean Mrs. Thomas. She's working. There's no Mr. Thomas."
	"I'm looking for a Mr. Andrew Thomas. My name is Frank Barzani."
	I don't know what my face registered, but my body took a tremendous electric jolt down the spine.
	"I'm Andy Thomas," I said, my voice covering about four octaves in three words.
	"I'd like to talk to you. May I come in?"
	"Well, my mother's not home right now, like I said."
	Shit! Shit! Shit! I still cringe when I think about saying that. After what Marlene and I had been - were - to each other. After what he probably knew about us, I could only hide behind my mother's skirts. I dropped my eyes to hide my burning face, got a lock on my voice and said,
	"Come in."
	As he passed me an aroma of good cologne followed. I'd only smelled it once before. An image of his fantasyland bathroom crossed my mind as I examined his suit for pistol-shaped bulges. Everything draped perfectly, and he wasn't carrying a violin case.
	I showed him a chair near the door, then I sat down across the room, which he noted with a sarcastic look. He didn't say anything, though. I just wanted to be out of range in case he produced knives or anything. I guess I'd seen too many Robert Mitchum movies.
	"Mr. Thomas," he began, "I believe that you know my daughter, Marlene."
	"Oh, Marlene...Marlene...Marlene Barzani...oh, sure. Oh, so you're her father, Mr. Barzani," I gibbered.  “Well, yes, Marlene and I do have one class together. Well, not exactly together, you see, we're in the art wing of school at the same hour. Sometimes we talk to each other in the clean-up."
	"Mr. Thomas," his voice said, "I believe you know my daughter better than that!  His tone and the look he shot me said even more clearly, "Let's you and I stop bullshitting."
	I dropped my head and studied the Persian carpet, looking for some guidance in its faded geometry. This was getting miserable, and I really hated his calling me "Mr. Thomas" all the time.
	"You can call me Andy, if you like," I said.
	"Mr. Thomas, you have taken the role of a man in this, and so I will address you as a man. You know, in the culture in which I was raised the relationship between a man and a woman is taken very seriously. Casual relationships don't occur between men and women of good families. If a man likes a young lady he must take great care to be very formal with her family. Where family honor is offended some very bad things may result. You have heard of vendettas perhaps - family wars. Sometimes there are killings or such things as castrations. It is not a matter to be taken lightly."
	I continued to study the carpet. You can imagine I was getting really fond of good old Mr. Barzani as visions of shotguns and castrating knives danced through my head. I was surprised, though, that he didn't say anything more. I looked up to see him studying me, and then he, too, dropped his gaze to the floor. For a while we just sat there like two born-agains at meditation. Finally he broke the silence.
	"You'll have to forgive me. That was not the tone I wished to begin with. I have been told that there are many things for which I should be grateful to you, but because my daughter is involved, I am the victim of very mixed emotions. As much as I need to know you, I probably would never have come if my daughter hadn't insisted - made me promise - to do so. Under the circumstances I couldn't refuse her, but it's difficult to know how to start."
	Now I was really confused. Why had Marlene been so crazy as to send her father to my house? Under what circumstances had he come?  Had something really bad happened? Then he said,
	"Mr. Thomas, I believe that you genuinely care for my daughter?"
	It was said somewhere between a statement and a question. I put an iron clamp on my voice and said very quietly, my head still down,
	"I love her."
	Again we sat in silence, but now he seemed more composed, more sure of his direction. After a while he started again.
	"Yes, I think you do love her, and I think that she is capable of being loved because of you. And she is once more my beautiful daughter, more beautiful than I ever hoped to see her again."
	He seemed shaken as he said that, but his voice was dry. He went on,
	"She has explained to me a lot of what happened between you two. I've talked more to her in the last few weeks than in the last several years. You know that she's been in a sort of sanitarium for the last few weeks?"
	"Yes, she called me a couple of times. She said she'd be home in a week or two."
	"She's been under a doctor's care really since we moved to California, but in the last two months wonderful changes have taken place. It's like finding a daughter I'd thought was dead. There's a program in Philadelphia that she and her doctor feel she should take part in. I don't know much about psychiatry, but everyone thinks that because she's made such progress she should go there. It may take somewhat longer than a few weeks, however."
	The look on my face made him hurry on with what he was saying.
	"Mr. Thomas, Marlene honestly didn't know how to tell you that, and to avoid upsetting her too much, I promised her I would come to you myself.  She agreed on the condition that I would explain everything to you, and if you will be patient, I'll do so, even though it means telling you things that I've never told another person.'
	"I don't know why she couldn't have just called me or something."
	"Maybe you'll understand better after I'm finished. I said that Marlene is beautiful, and she is, but there's good reason for that. You would understand if you could have seen her mother twenty years ago. I, myself, have not seen her for several years, and even by that time she'd changed greatly. But when I first knew her she was absolutely the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Where Marlene is dark and sultry, her mother was the most dazzling blond you could imagine. Don't ever doubt that love at first sight exists. I loved her madly the first minute I saw her."
	I was starting to get that sick feeling you get when you know something rotten is coming even before you hear it. And I really did not give a shit about his wife or why he married her or anything. Still he droned on about how they'd met when he was in college in Chicago and about how his parents didn't like her because they were Sicilian or something, and she was Polish, but he was nuts about her, and when he graduated they got married and lived in Chicago where they didn't have to see his parents much, because they lived in Philadelphia.
	Things were OK at first. He got his degree in architecture. (Why hadn't I known that instead of thinking he majored in Mafia. Later I figured out that was why Ronnie Robertson was always invited to their parties. His father had an architect's office downtown.)  Mr. Barzani went on that he went to work for a Chicago firm. Marlene was born and things looked good, but his wife began to have some funny changes. At times she would get all irrationally jealous without any cause, according to him. Other times she would hit him or kick furniture or break things. More and more he stayed away from the house. He worried about Marlene, but his work had him all busy, and he said he never saw signs of physical abuse or any indication she was not being treated well.
	From his arrival I'd only been hoping he would finish whatever he felt he had to do and get out, but the word abuse was the rotten thing I'd been waiting for. For some reason now that it was out it calmed me. I felt the nausea go down, and I focused all my senses on this very neat,very controlled man trying so hard to do something he obviously hated. He searched for words as though circling something too hot to touch. Yet this very thing he feared seemed slowly to be drawing him into its flame.
	Almost imperceptibly his passion began to rise, giving a slight edge to his voice. His face flushed a little, and a light sweat formed at his temples. His story began to take on the sound of self-justification.  When the war started his firm got contracts on military projects somewhere, and so he was away from Chicago for long periods. Then he was drafted and sent to Europe where he was wounded after being brave as hell (he intimated) in Italy. After that he spent several months in a hospital in the U.S. where his wife began to visit him pretty regularly. He decided things might be better now that they were older. Marlene was almost eight by then.
	Everything seemed pretty good at first. He thought he still loved his wife, and she seemed to love him. Marlene was very shy, though, where before she'd been a real outgoing little girl. She wouldn't talk much to him, which worried him, but he figured that would change in time.
	He said he guessed it was his fault that he didn't recognize mental illness in his wife. He'd never been around people with that problem, and it didn't occur to him. After he'd been home about six months, problems began again. His wife would get into fits of jealous rage over some stupid little thing. He'd try to reason with her calmly, and she'd get more insulting til they were both going at it pretty strong. A couple of times he hit her, which he said he really hated. Finally, like before, he'd just leave the house when she got like that, because she knew just what to say to get him going, and he didn't want to take a chance on getting violent.
	Sometimes after a session like that, he'd come back to find her all depressed, and for a couple of days maybe she wouldn't even get her clothes on, just staying in the bedroom, calling for Marlene when she needed something. He finally decided that there was no way they could make it, but being a Catholic, divorce was a hard thing for him.
	After the war there was a lot of work in the reconstruction of Europe. When the U.S. got into financing it, his company got projects in France and Italy. Because he spoke some Italian they wanted him to go. He thought it would be a great chance to study more architecture and work at the same time - and to get out of a shitty home situation. His wife got really hysterical when he told her. She threatened all sorts of mayhem if he left.  He went anyway.
	It was supposed to be for a year, but he got involved in this and that and stayed three. Every month, he said, he sent a large check to his wife to pay her and Marlene's expenses. He thought that her family helped her, too, because they had money, and that she'd probably gotten some sort of job. He usually enclosed a letter to Marlene, but they were never answered. He really knew nothing of what was going on with them.
	He'd always called and talked to Marlene on her birthday. They never said much, but at least he called. Then, in 1949, when he tried to call, the phone had been disconnected. He called the lady who owned the apartment. She said Marlene and her mother had moved out months before. The landlady also indicated some things were wrong, but wouldn't say much on the telephone. He flew back to the U.S. that same week.
	He found that his wife's only forwarding address was general delivery. When he went to the apartment, the landlady's story was bad.
	Mr. Barzani was getting more tense. His voice strained like his throat was dry. I offered to get him something to drink partly as an excuse to get out of there; I was getting very bad feelings - but he said no. He was driven now - almost like in a trance - as the story poured out. As much as I hated it, the pictures slowly formed for me.
	"I asked the landlady why she hadn't notified me of what had happened, but she felt it was not her business. It was her way of saying why hadn't I been interested enough to find out for myself, and I guess she was right.
	"She told me that it was she who finally asked my wife to leave. She'd tried for months to reason with her, but she finally decided my wife was just crazy. The problem was more and more parties and men at all hours. I couldn't believe that because whatever else had been wrong with her, she'd never been forward with men - she didn't have to be.
	"I went to my wife's parents' house, but that wasn't much help. From the time I got there her mother was on edge. Her father tried to talk to me. He said he heard my wife was living someplace near Evanston, but they hadn't seen her for almost a year. Then her mother started screaming that the whole thing was my fault, that I'd destroyed her daughter and granddaughter. I asked how she knew they were destroyed if she hadn't seen them for a year, but that only infuriated her more. For my career, she screamed, for my career. I had sacrificed my family for my career and had brought her all this suffering. The longer I stayed the worse she got, so I left.
	"As I was getting into my car I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was my father-in-law. I'd never respected him much. He seemed weak; he couldn't stand up to his wife. He said he knew what I was going through; his wife was 'difficult,' too. Perhaps it was hereditary.
	"Then he said, 'Sometimes, you know, the difficult ones can make it, if there is patience, if they can be protected.' Then he turned and glanced nervously at the house. He looked back perplexedly, as though putting it in words was almost too hard. He waited, like he needed something from me, but I didn't know what to say to that. Then he shook his head slightly and walked back to the house.
	"I looked up a Chicago policeman I knew. I'd done him some favors getting security jobs on projects we were doing. I asked him if he could quietly get any information on my wife. Two days later he called me back; he seemed nervous. My wife had been picked up a couple of time in drug busts, he said, but there hadn't been enough evidence to charge her. Then he said there was something else. When I asked what, he didn't answer. Finally I convinced him. He said she'd also been picked up for prostitution. This time I was the one who couldn't say anything. He mumbled an address and hung up.
	"The place was an older apartment building on the north side. It was built when they put stone fronts on all the buildings and looked like a brown sandstone fort."
	As Mr. Barzani described the place, I could picture it clearly. I'd seen it before, the day I had the vision in Marlene's house. I wanted to ask him about the green-trimmed windows but figured it would just open another can of worms. Anyway, for the last ten minutes he'd been going on like he was on autopilot. It seemed wrong to break in on him. Mainly, I just wanted him to be done and be gone.
	"I couldn't find her name on the mailboxes," he went on, "and the door was locked. All afternoon I sat across the street at a bus stop watching people come and go, but I didn't recognize anyone.
	"The next day I went there before seven. There was a bitter cold wind off the lake, but I waited. About eight a girl came out. I couldn't make out if it was Marlene, but she seemed the right age. She was poorly dressed for the cold and looked dirty. I followed her. She appeared to walk aimlessly, but ended up at a little grocery where she bought a few things. Then she walked slowly back, like she was on a summer stroll. I almost reached her as she came to the apartment, but she turned into the doorway before I could catch up with her. When I got to the entrance, though, the door had stuck open on some trash.
	"The hallway was dark and smelled of decades of cooking and worse. There
was no way to tell which was their apartment, but I went along listening for anything that might give a clue. Then I heard a sound on the stairs. Above me I could see a movement, like the edge of a skirt between the bannister posts. I started up, keeping back and watching her go up. On the fourth floor I couldn't see anything moving above me, but no one was on the hall. When I came out on the fifth, there she was, sitting on the floor by a door, eating a candy bar.
	“I walked over to her and stood. She continued eating, paying no attention. Finally, she looked up, and I knew it was Marlene. She recognized me, but only put her head down and said nothing.
	“I asked her where her mother was, and all she could do was indicate with her head the door next to her. I went in. It was a two-room apartment with a kitchenette off the small living room. There was almost no furniture - just an old table and a few chairs. The kitchen was a mess. When I went into the bedroom, a man was sitting on the edge of the bed putting his shoe on. His hat and coat lay in a chair by the bed. He asked me why the hell I couldn't wait my turn, and I asked him where the hell my wife was. He was out of there very fast. There were noises from the bathroom, so I sat on the chair and waited.
	"When she came out I just stared. Her face was dead, just dead. Her hair looked almost grey, the same color as the skin. Her eyes were opaque.
	"'Haven't you got anything else to do today?' she said. 'You show up at seven-thirty, and you're not satisfied yet? C'mon, get movin' I got things to do, too, ya know.'
	"I said nothing. Finally she looked at me. A low flare came into the dead eyes. 'Well, look who's here,' she said. 'Back from the continental tour. Back to his mansion and loving family.'
	"'I'd ask what the hell's goin' on, but it's pretty clear.'
	"'Aw, come on, please. No kisses? I get to hear some more of your holy-holy speeches?'
	"'How could you do this? I sent you money. You didn't have to...'
	"'You sent me shit. Did you think I could get by on that little bit?'
	“On that you could get by a hell of a lot better than this. You could get by without becoming a fuckin' whore. Nothing required that. Nothing.'
	"'Don't preach to me.' Then she hesitated. 'Oh, but you haven't met my expensive little friend, have you? He's no cheapie, very top drawer. He's around here somewhere. He moved in right after you left.'
	"'If you mean that asshole that was just here, he took off fast enough.'
	"'You mean you told him you were my loving husband?'
	"She came toward me with an attempt at a sexy walk. She didn't smell clean. She seemed drunk.
	"'What's the matter? You don't want you husbandly rights? I don't turn you on any more?'
	"I just looked at her with disgust.
	"'Well, my little friend likes me. He's around here somewhere, my little friend. My little monkey."
	"'Look, I'll take you to a hospital or something. I'll pay for it. You don't look good. You look sick.'
	"'I'm not goin' anywhere with you. Comin' in here all holy after three years, tellin' me I'm sick.'
	"'You can do what you want. I'm not starting up all that shit again. But I'm taking Marlene with me.'
	"I walked back to get Marlene from the hall, but she was already in the living room, sitting on one of the wooden chairs, staring at me.
	"'Get your things together. I'm getting you out of here,' I told her.
	"I turned back to her mother, but she was sitting on the bed, knotting a rubber tube around her arm. From a box by the bed she produced a hypodermic needle already loaded with some white liquid. She was trying to find a vein. I crossed the room and slapped it out of her hand. It flew across and smashed against the radiator. She jumped from the bed and ran across after it. She kneeled on the floor trying to scrape up the liquid. Then she turned on me.
	“You goddamned bastard. What right did you have to do that? You want to kill me now. All this is your fault, and now you want to kill me.'
	"I could see Marlene in the living room, still sitting.
	"'Get your things, I said, goddamn it. We're getting out of here.'
	"'She's not going anywhere with you. You show up and think you can order everyone around. She has to work. She has to work even harder now that you broke that. She has to make it up to me.'
	"'What do you mean she has to work? She's only twelve.'
	"'If I have to work, she has to work. And it's not really so hard. Just lie on your back a little. Not really hard at all. And the men - some of the men - really prefer her, you know? Young and tight. Remember how it was? Some of them don't really like me so much anymore. But they're crazy about Marlene. She's big and strong. She's gotta work. My little monkey's very expensive."'
	He stopped. After that the silence was like a loud noise. I was about paralyzed. My throat was parched. I looked over at him. It was like he was alone in the room. Then his eyes caught mine, grasping, reaching out for some hold so he wouldn't sink farther.
	"You know," he said in a very quiet voice, "horror is a color - a dark shade, a filter that drops over everything. I saw it in the war when bombs fell among men and tanks, and dirt and machine parts and human parts flew everywhere, and all you could do was search for some lump of rock to protect you from five hundred pound bombs. I saw it again in that apartment. I saw a world I'd taken for granted, that I didn't even know I needed, blown apart in an instant. I looked back and forth between them. Marlene had an almost stupid expression, like some idiot child. Her mother was smiling.
	“’You filthy bitch,' I screamed.
	“I lunged at her, had her down on the floor choking her when Marlene fell on my back. I saw what I was doing then and tried to get up, but I had to fight off Marlene, too. I grabbed her and headed for the door, but she tripped over something, and I fell over her. On the floor, Marlene was smiling at something behind me. As I half turned I caught the flash of the knife and pulled aside enough that it cut through my jacket and into my arm.
	"'Here's your homecoming present,' my wife screamed, 'I've been saving it for you.'
	"What followed was a hell of a mess. When the police got there, blood was everywhere, but, miraculously, no one was dead or even very badly cut.
	"What followed that was even more of a mess, but after a few months I'd divorced my wife, she was in a hospital, hopelessly psychotic - may still be there for all I know - and I had custody of Marlene.
	"My idea was to leave Chicago and start fresh. I was incredibly stupid in that. I did have plenty of doubts about Marlene - I actually thought she wanted her mother to kill me when we were in the apartment - but I thought that was due to the filth her mother had told her about me. I thought a new place, new school, new friends would bring her back to me. I couldn't even begin to accept what her mother had said about her, but maybe some part of me knew.
	 "I moved to Philadelphia. That's where I was raised. I didn’t have many ties to Chicago, and I thought that was a way to make a new start. My work in Europe had been well regarded, and I landed a very good job with an excellent firm. For the first time, I bought a house. I bought Marlene lots of new clothes, toys, anything she wanted - especially dolls. She always wanted more dolls, as though she might find her childhood that way. I worried. She seemed so immature emotionally.
	"She'd missed a lot of school, but with tutoring they accepted her in junior high. She was really too developed for her age to go back to elementary. My work was taking a lot of time, as usual, but I had a housekeeper, and things seemed to fall into place - for a few months.
	"Then I got a call from the vice-principal at Marlene's school. He said he had a serious matter to discuss. When we met, he had trouble getting to the point but finally said that they'd been having problems with a group of boys cutting school. Then, the week before, some pictures had been found circulating in the yard during break. One of the teachers picked them up.
	"The vice-principal took them from his desk and slid them over to me. I felt sick, but continued to deny to myself what I knew was coming. They were Polaroid pornography done at someone's home. There were two or three boys and one girl. She had dark hair, but her back was turned.  I said that it couldn't be Marlene, but we both knew the truth. I explained to him a little of our situation.
	“We left it that he would call me any time Marlene was not in school, and I arranged to have her picked up immediately after class and taken home. Still, I had her transferred to a school closer to my work after the semester. In five years she went through five public schools, two private ones and a succession of shrinks.
	"My life at that point was about as miserable as I thought it could be, but I was wrong about that. There was worse. I'd reached a point of no confidence in Marlene or in her ability to change. I felt she was probably as mad as her mother. There were times when we seemed to relate well, and I knew she was very bright, but as soon as I began to see some little hope, she would destroy it. I knew she did it on purpose.
	"The worst came one night about a week before Christmas two years ago. I was working on some plans in my study when I heard shouting from the front of the house. It was a two story house, and I was upstairs. I went to one of the front rooms and looked out on the yard. There must have been thirty young men there all screaming for Marlene to come out. Apparently they were from a fraternity at a college that was near us.
	"There was a movement near me. It was Marlene in her robe. She'd been asleep. I listened again to the filth those scum were screaming, and something just broke. There was a closet where I kept some guns. I went there and took a bird gun and loaded it. I went back to the window, opened it and aimed. Some of the boys saw me and began to point. Then they saw the gun. I had it aimed in the middle of them and was pulling the trigger when the barrel was pushed up from behind me, and the shot flew over their heads.
	“Marlene was trying to get hold of the gun, but I calmly opened the chamber, put in another shell and began to aim again. Everyone in the yard was scattering. There was a police siren far away. Again Marlene wrestled for the gun. I broke away from her and aimed it right at her. She stood waiting, as if it was what she wanted. Then I just broke down."
	He seemed close to breaking down again. I swear he was sucking me dry. I should have cried or screamed or something, but I had this feeling that there was not a bit of juice left in me. Why couldn't he just get the hell out? Why did he have to revenge himself on me so badly? 
	"I all but kicked her out that night. Then the next day I almost had her committed. Then I took one more chance. My company had designed a large building complex here on Wilshire Boulevard, and they needed someone to oversee construction. I asked Marlene if she wanted to give it one more try in California, with the understanding that I wouldn't take any more if it failed. She agreed. We moved in February last year. I didn't want her to enroll in any school. Instead I bought that old house, and the two of us took on the project of remodeling it. She got very interested in it and showed real design talent. For months it absorbed her totally. I let her do whole sections of the house herself."
	I knew which ones they were.
	"But when September came around I could feel that she wanted more than living with me and her doctor. She wanted to try school again. I took the greatest chance of my life and said OK, and that chance seemed to be working out beyond my wildest hopes. Of course, I didn't know about you."
	He said this last a little strangely. You could tell he still wasn't easy with me, but he'd changed his tone some. Now for the first time he sounded like he wasn't just talking to himself. He paused. Finally he said,
	"I know this has been hard on you. I know because it's been nearly impossible for me. But I'm beginning to see why Marlene insisted I do it. She almost told me word for word what to say.
	"You know, knowing a thing is different from accepting it. You saw that when I came in - acting like some Sicilian don protecting his daughter's virtue, still pretending all of this didn't happen.
	"By telling you these things, I've come a little closer to accepting them - something I could never do before. So it was like a test she set up for me. If she could finally accept the truth, I must also."
	I guess I should have felt good, or something, that Marlene and her father were having such a good time with their little tests and all, but I didn't.
	"I guess I appreciate your telling me all this," I said, "but I would really like to see Marlene. Could I at least talk to her on the phone?"
	"Son, I'm afraid she left for Philadelphia two days ago."
	What registered on my face then made him get up and come across the room to me. He put his hand on my shoulder.
	"I know it seems like she's testing you, too, and I know that's probably unfair after all you've been through with her, but if you can have patience, if you can give her the time she needs to work things through, I think it may just work out for the two of you." He hesitated. "I didn't mention that one of the reasons she wanted to go east was to see her mother."
	"Her mother?" I almost laughed.
	"That was my reaction, too, but she seems to think it's necessary, and I don't intend to try to stop her."
	"But she's coming back to live here?"
	“I don't know. My job is really done here, and I have work in Philadelphia. I'm selling the house and will probably go back east in a week or two."
	He moved away and I thought he was going to leave, but he sat down instead, this time on the sofa, closer to me.
	"Mr....Andy, there is one thing I would appreciate your telling me."
	"Yes?"
	"I asked Marlene what it was that brought about her breakthrough, that helped her to finally begin seeing things differently. She told me that one day you had a vision, or something of the sort, that you actually saw into her past and what had happened to her, and that when you did, she saw it again, too. For the first time she realized that she was only a child, that what happened was beyond her control, that she didn't cause it; she hadn’t somehow willed it to happen.  Imagine, all these years she had been carrying that guilt!  She said it was you who let her see the truth and finally accept it."
	"Maybe it was just time for it to happen."
	"I think it was more. Did you really see? I mean, did you actually have a vision of what happened to her?"
	For a minute I weighed what to tell him. Then I said,
	"It wasn't anything I saw; it was just a feeling."
	"A feeling."
	"Yeah, from things she'd said from time to time. Just a lucky guess. I'm glad it worked, though. I guess I'm glad. Well, I'm really glad she's better and all; it's just that..."
	"I know...I know."
	He didn't seem satisfied with what I'd said, though.  For a while he was quiet.  Then he said,
	“I guess...if a person had the ability to see into the past it would be a wonderful gift.”  
	He paused.  I nodded but said nothing.  He went on,
	“Wonderful but frightening, depending on how it was used.”   
	This time when I didn’t respond he finally got up to leave. I followed him to the door. Just as his hand was on the knob he turned and said,
	"I know you want to be with her, but if you can just hang on...She'll write to you in a few days. Is there anything I can do for you?"
	"No. I don't think so."
	Then, for the first time, what looked like affection showed on his face. Very fast he said,
	"Son, whatever you may think now, remember she gave you a beautiful gift, the most beautiful that a woman can give to a man. I hope it will always mean that to you."
	And then - at last - he was gone.
	After that, things didn't go very well at all. I don't remember all I did, but a lot of it was very stupid. Marlene did write a letter, very bland, with a lot of stuff she was doing in Philadelphia. She did say she loved me, but the whole thing sounded very friendly instead.
	I wrote back a lot of impassioned, disconnected stuff, and I guess between the two letters you'd think I was the crazy one. The thing was, I really needed her. Her next letter was more personal - and more pained. She explained how she needed time and a little quiet to work through things, how she was taking some classes to get her diploma and might get into an architectural program at a college if she was strong enough. She swore we would be together again, but I had to give her this time.
	I answered with a letter worse than the first - demanding, insisting, accusing. A week went by with no answer. I wrote again. That letter came back "Return to Sender - Address Unknown.”
	I don't remember much else that happened at that time, but it didn't get better. I couldn't get up energy to run anymore. When I went out I walked nowhere. Sometimes I'd get angry as hell, and I almost broke my hand hitting trees and walls and things. Al stopped by once, but left pretty quickly. His father had him working almost day and night. I mean, family loyalty is OK up to a point, but Ol' Al should have spoken up a little more. Maybe I said that to him; maybe that's why he left.
	I could tell things had hit bottom when my mother sent Danny over to talk to me again. He managed to take things a little lower yet, and the result was that we almost got into our first fist fight.
	Finally, one Saturday morning a few weeks after Mr. Barzani's visit, I woke up to my mother pulling me out of bed by my ear. She almost had me in the kitchen before she let me go back and put some clothes on. She told me to sit down at the table and offered to cook me some breakfast. I didn't want any, so she dropped that pose and got to it.
	"I want to know what's wrong," she declared.
	"Nothing's wrong."
	"Who would have thought you'd turn out like this?" she groaned in her best deceived-parent tone. "You used to be so pleasant, and now you're like some monster in my house. No one can stand you. No one can understand you."
	"Maybe if you were around a little more you'd have some idea of what's goin' on."
	I thought that would distract her into her 'If You Think It's Easy for a Single Woman to Support a Family" speech, but it didn't work.
	"Well, maybe we don't communicate enough, but it happens I do know what's going on here."
	"What do you mean?"
	"Yesterday I had a call at my office from a Mr. Barzani."
	I didn't know what to say to that so I just sat, but my face must have gone white, I was so pissed.
	"He said that he was very concerned about you. That he had a conversation with you a few weeks ago about your relationship with his daughter and that apparently you were taking it very badly."
	"What else did Mr. Barzani say?"
	"It was what he didn't say that concerns me."
	"What?"
	"It was what his silences intimated about your relationship with this girl."
 	"She's not 'this girl.' Her name's Marlene."
	"Well, maybe you will tell me now about how this all started. About what has gotten you this way."
	"What, you want all the lewd details?"
	Now the anger showed in her eyes, too.
	"I'm not after cheap thrills from you, but I want to know what has happened. Were you intimate with this girl?"
	"Intimate? "
	"Sexually intimate!"
	"Yes, we were sexually intimate, if that's any of your business. We were - are - in love."
	"Love! What does that have to do with this? What do you know about that kind of love? Oh, Andy, how could you? A boy your age."
	"I'm sixteen."
	"Barely. You're just too young to get into this kind of thing."
	"The equipment seems to be in working condition."
	Her eyes flared at that, then locked down on mine.
	"Don't be foul-mouthed with me. Because you have the equipment between your legs doesn't mean you have it between your ears."
	I wondered how she would like to hear about my ears between Marlene's legs, but let it go.
	"What I am saying, if it has escaped you completely, is that there are morals involved here. You don't do things just because you can. You can steal and kill, too. You were raised in a Christian home, and this is not the way Christians act. What you did is reserved for marriage, an act of love between husband and wife. Your grandfather was a minister. If he weren't already gone, this would have killed him."
	"I didn't do anything to hurt Grandpa."
	"Of course you did. Like everything else, you did it without thinking. And what about me? How do you think I feel receiving calls like that from a man I don't even know, who knows more about my own son than I do?"
	This time I spared her the cheap shot. I just wanted it over. For a while she raved on like that. It was just the typical stuff parents say when they can't say the truth to their children. Then she said,
	"Well, I can tell you things are not going to continue like this. You're not going to spend the summer mooning around here. Last night I called Frank Harmon. He has a place for you at the lake, and that's where you're going this afternoon. Maybe some hard work can use up that misplaced energy."
	That was just great! First she says we don't communicate, then she raves to herself, then she sends me away for the summer. It was just such such typical shit. The rage in me built until something blew open and from deep in there a voice screamed out through my mouth,
	"God damn you! Now I know how you killed my father!"
	Where it came from I didn't know. It hung in the air inches from me, sounding and sounding, but unable to be called back. It was almost visible between us, and my mother's hand, appearing also from nowhere to strike down the abomination, caught me hard on the cheek instead. Since I’d been a child she hadn't struck me, and never on the face. I dug my nails almost through the side board of the table, but wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
	Her eyes shrank down to steely points, and she hissed back,
	"The bus leaves from downtown at four o'clock, and you will be on it."

TAPE ELEVEN									2/22/86

	About twenty minutes before the bus got to Breezeswept Point I woke up. It was a good thing, because it wasn't a regular stop. You had to tell the driver where to stop. But then, the way things turned out maybe it would have been better if I'd just stayed on the bus.
	I'd slept almost from the time we hit the desert the afternoon before. I remembered stopping in Mojave for dinner, and I noticed they pulled over in Minden for breakfast, but otherwise I slept like I was drugged. I hated to admit that my mother could have been right about shipping me off, but the thing was, even though I'd spent a lot of time in bed the last few weeks, I hadn't really rested my mind at all. When things get like that, almost any decision is a relief. It would have been better to go somewhere besides the lake, but it felt pretty normal for that time of year. Maybe part of me really wanted to be there, but it raised other problems.
	I should explain that we had a house at Lake Tahoe.  It was built on a piece of land that jutted out into the lake.  The place was called Breezeswept Point and was part of a conference grounds owned by a church. The manager of the grounds was Frank Harmon who'd been a friend of my parents and my grandparents for years, so I guess my mother’d used some personal pressure to get him to take me on. I was very sure he wouldn't have given me a job otherwise.
	The bus stopped between the groups of upright logs that formed the entrance gate; the driver got my suitcase out of the compartment, and I walked down the slope to the office. No one was there, but I knew that at 9:30 on Sunday morning everyone was down the hill getting ready for church.
	"The hill" was something you had to contend with all over the grounds. There really wasn't much flat land there. The whole place was built over a spur of the Sierra Nevada that ran right down into the lake. On either side there were really nice wide beaches at Zephyr Cove and Marla Bay, but like Grandpa used to say, the church mice got what was left over: mostly rocks. The compensation was the view. From almost every point on the hill there were views of the lake and the mountains that left people just standing and looking, like they'd been hit in the head.
	To get from where I was to the dorms and other conference buildings was about two hundred feet straight down. There was a switchback road for cars and trucks, but a few years before, some great person had donated money to build a flight of granite stairs. They'd turned out pretty well and were broken up by ponds and flower planters and places to sit.
	The people who came for conferences left their suitcases at the top and one of the crew guys hauled them down in a truck. I'd have to wrestle mine down by myself. As I reached the top of the stairs I looked out over the lake for the first time.
	When I was a kid coming to the lake with my parents, Danny and I always used to have a contest to see who could be the first one to see it. As we dropped over the mountain crest we'd strain to see the sparkling blue through a V in the hills and scream, "I spy," when we did. I really loved coming to the lake.
	Now that seemed like another life, but no matter what else was pressing, there was always something very moving about first seeing it. Tahoe wasn't a moody lake - never grey or green like some - and it wasn't merely picturesque, like a footnote to some mountain or forest. It was a lake of power, and there was a lot of power out there. It was the power of concentration: concentrated beauty, concentrated color, concentrated brilliance. That day - that early in the day - the air itself shone, like the lake was pulling in more than its share of the sun.
	But then there was another side I'd come to know. When I was ten, my best friend had been found floating face down near the breakwater. No one knew why it happened. He could swim, but the lake took him anyway. They said the true bottom of the lake had never been located, it was so deep. In World War II an army plane had disappeared into it and had never been found, but people claimed the pilot's body had turned up floating in a flooded mine near Virginia City. Was it possible that all great beauty had to have dark secrets underneath? That thought started to pull in others behind it, and I'd had enough of that. I started down.
	Maybe I was just hungry, but by the time I'd gotten about halfway down I felt more exhausted than if I'd been climbing with a full pack. I stopped at a landing and flopped on the stone bench. I wondered if it really wouldn't be better to get out of there - just go somewhere else. Then, as I looked back up the hill, I noticed the flowers for the first time. The planters overflowed with pansies, petunias, snapdragons and tiger lilies in a wild cascade of color pouring down the hill. I knew it was the work of Owen Savage, who'd been gardener there since before I was born. He'd really gone crazy that year.
	What was stranger, though, was that the slopes on either side of the stairs seemed to be competing with him. Orange-red Indian paintbrush, blue lupine and fields of green and white clover carpeted the areas below the Jeffrey pines. Their tops were just beginning to bend in an early breeze, and the sun, breaking over them, sent down shafts that split the shadows and lit the flowers like from inside.
	Emotions really came over me, and for a while I felt like I was going to get all out of control and stupid again. The mountains can be like that, and after all I'd been through, I felt like I was coming apart. I cast around in my head,looking for some relief. Then I thought about Frank Harmon and felt worse yet.
	When I say that, it's not like I mean Frank was a bad man. On the contrary, to me he was always one of the best. Maybe that's why I felt so bad about what happened the summer before. I guess it wouldn't really sound like all that much to anyone else. That was the first time I'd worked on the crew. Usually crew kids were around eighteen, so I was the youngest one there. Frank must have thought I was like my father, who he knew very well, and maybe that's why he gave me a job. Instead of putting me in the kitchen, like I'd hoped, he put me on the outside crew which meant trimming trees, cleaning the grounds, hauling garbage and - that summer - digging two monster septic tanks for the dorms.
	I didn't think I was lazy, but I'd never had to work very hard. Maybe I was just being stupid, but I felt like he was pushing me harder than the rest, maybe because no one had ever really pushed me before. One day things just weren't going well at all, and I got pissed and told Frank - in front of some of the other crew guys - what I thought about garbage and septic tanks and other things.
	Frank's discipline usually consisted of very clever sarcasm, but that was about the loudest he ever got. I learned that summer, though, that his silence could be tougher than other men's screams, especially when the other guys pulled the same shit. The last few weeks of summer were very quiet. I couldn't get away fast enough and planned never to work there again.
	The memory of all that was pretty depressing, but then I began to think about Frank himself. In a lot of ways he was like my father. A tall, straight man, he must have been raised with plenty of hard work, and ultimately, that was how he - and my father - judged other men, by their ability to withstand hard work and to do it well.
 	Unlike my father, Frank liked to talk, and his sense of humor was the sharpest I'd come up against. He rarely answered a question straight - shooting instead for the double meaning - and his eyes gave off sparks when he had a good joke. Even as a little kid, I'd searched him out. He always did me the best favor any adult can: he talked to me like someone who could understand, and I usually did.
	That was why it was so tough to remember what happened between us. Still - I began to think - still, if there was a way around last year, maybe Frank was the one who could save me. With that thin hope, I grabbed up my things and started down again.
	At the base of the stairs, just to the left, was the chapel. I stepped into it for a moment. Some of the crew kids were cleaning and putting out hymnals. It was a large building, covered outside with rounded pine planks that gave the appearance of logs and lined inside with knotty pine. The walls were filled with windows, and their plain glass was more beautiful than any stained because of the view they let in. Frank and my father had worked for over a year finishing that building, just the two of them. During one winter my mother and father had made the ten wood and frosted glass chandeliers that hung from the cavernous roof.
	One family story had it that when I was about two Grandpa was delivering a sermon there one Sunday morning, and somehow I squirmed away from my mother and ran to him right in the middle of a real pulpit-thumping part of his delivery. Without losing a beat, Grandpa, who doted on Danny and me, reached down, picked me up, and continued on. Of course, I soaked up the attention and behaved myself during the rest of the sermon and later, sitting next to Grandpa in one of the large chairs behind the pulpit.
	There was really no place I could go on those grounds that my past - short as it was - didn't come flying out at me. I'd run through every building, hidden behind every rock, fished every inch of the waterfront and swum everywhere, although it still gave me bad feelings to swim over the huge boulders that lined most of the shore of that rocky point.
	Church services would start soon. I turned back and continued on to the dining hall. I climbed to the porch and looked through the double screen doors. I could see Frank sitting on the other side of the hall, nursing a cup of coffee and talking with the cook.
	At best, I expected to hear a few civil words from him and then be packed off to my room or put to work. I was totally unprepared for what happened. Spotting me through the door, he crossed the room in a few of his big strides, came through the door before I could open it, and, to my amazement, gave me a strong hug. It was the first close human contact I'd had since Marlene left. I could feel the tears pushing against the back of my eyes, but masked them with a broad smile. I can still see Frank at that moment and feel his strong arm on my shoulder. I can't explain his doing something that seemed so right for the moment, but so out of character for him. Maybe it was something my mother had said to him. Maybe I reminded him of his old friends. Or maybe he simply knew I needed help.
	We went into the dining room. The cook remembered me from the year before and was nice the way he welcomed me, too. What was more important, he got me some food. The altitude always made me hungry, and, anyway, I hadn't eaten for almost a day.
	Frank didn't say anything special, except that I should take it easy that day, but it was his attitude that was a big relief to me. Then someone came in with a problem and he told me to go ahead and put my things away. I headed for the back door of the kitchen, as usual, but he reminded me the new crew dorm was finished. I was glad about that. The year before six of us had bunked in an old storage shed behind the kitchen.
	Going to the crew dorm meant that I had to haul the suitcase about halfway up the hill again, but it was worth it. The rooms were really nice and there were only two kids to a room. The girls had a separate floor, but before that they were in a separate building. What I liked best was that these rooms had twin beds, rather than the old steel bunkbeds. I didn't have any illusions about getting crew girls into bed, of course. Half of them were ugly, and all of them were religious. It would be a dry summer in that regard.
	Frank had told me two room numbers where there was only one guy to the room. He said I could pick. It was an easy choice. One room looked out over the lake, and the other one had a view of the base of a cliff about six feet away. But as I was unpacking in the lake-side room, I found out why I should have picked the other one. There was a smack on my shoulder, and as I turned around I was nose to nose with a grinning Jim Eisenman.
	I suppose there are worse things to find at the end of your nose, but I couldn't think of one at that moment. Actually Jim was a pleasant-looking guy, and everyone thought he was some kind of superboy, but I was not delighted to see him. In the first place, he'd been on the crew the year before, and I hoped there weren't many of those still around. But mainly Jim was a kind of guy I just found hard to take.
	The year before he'd convinced everyone that the crew needed a president, although there'd never been one, and had gotten himself elected. He organized the weekly prayer meetings and the special meetings when some important church leader was there for a conference and wanted to meet the fine young people of the crew. He was the son of a minister from Sacramento - like most of the crew members were related to ministers in some way. His family had a cabin on the grounds, too.
	Eisenman was always organizing shit like Quarterbacks for Christ or Cheerleaders for Christ or Student Hot-Shots for Christ. He was in his second year at college and was going to be - guess what - a minister. I could just picture his church. You'd probably have to bring a school yearbook and prove that you were some level of hero just to get in the door.
	What was hardest to take was the smugness that was almost concealed under the friendliness. There was a lot of that around that place. It seemed to go with certainty of calling and destiny. I sure as hell didn't want to room with it all summer, but I slapped on a damn-great-to-see-ya smile, punched him on the arm in return, and started to plan like crazy how to get the hell out of there.
	As it turned out, we roomed together all summer. The next day they pulled the extra bed out of the other room for some conference. There was no way for me to change rooms without making a stink, and that was the last thing I wanted.
	During lunch I met the rest of the crew kids. I was relieved that there weren't many from the year before. The burnout rate was high there. The work was hard and the pay stunk. Even religious inspiration only cuts so far. Everyone seemed friendly, though, and my confidence was beginning to build for the first time in weeks.
	There wasn't much going on that afternoon. The next conference wouldn't be in until the next day. Some of the kids invited me to go swimming at the Cove, but I felt a little urge to walk around the place. It was something I usually did when I first got up there, although there wasn't much reason for it. Nothing changed there from year to year.
	I started out along the lakefront trail. Between the trail and the boulders that formed the shoreline was a row of cabins, and some of them were pretty fancy for a church grounds. I guess there was a lot of competition to get right on the lake, although I didn't care for it, to tell you the truth. I'd been in some of those houses, and the constant sound of the lake lapping against the boulders was not something I liked very much.
	Between the cabins you could make out the rock shore curving away to the point, where the crest of the hill thrust down into the lake. Just below where I was standing was the local beach, although it was not really a beach. That is, that rock pile hillside was not a natural place for a beach, but the cabin owners and the people who came for conferences had bitched loud and long enough that the trustees finally dynamited boulders and bulldozed and dumped in dirt until they'd cleared out a flat place at the edge of the lake and built a breakwater to protect it. Still, dirt is not sand, and for years when anyone stepped into the water there, creamy clouds oozed up as if the gash in the rocks were still leaking its white blood into the lake.
	The hill protested even more by dropping dirt and boulders and trees onto that imposed beach whenever it felt like it. Finally a big retaining wall had to be built not so much to keep the hill back as to keep the humans away. That day, though, the place didn't look so bad. The water was perfectly clear so you could see rocks and plants on the bottom. Only a few kids were there, mostly tanning themselves on the breakwater.
	After going a little way on the trail, I cut up the hillside on a path only I used. It wasn't much of a path, and it went almost straight up, but I knew how to weave through the juniper and manzanita so I didn't get all ripped up. The altitude had me panting, though, before I got to the upper trail. Even it wasn't much. In places it went directly over huge boulders. Yet after years of tread, they hardly showed any trace of the feet that moved over them constantly. Maybe if humans hung around for a million years or so, they might make some ruts.
	While I was thinking about deep stuff like that I realized that I'd come up right behind our cabin. It seemed to be in pretty good shape, but, anyway, I went around the west and south sides checking the boards, like I remembered my father doing when he first got to the lake each year. Those sides took the worst beating from winter storms, and some of the boards were beginning to show it. My mother wasn't spending anything to keep that place up. Finally I walked up to the east side, which looked smaller than the rest because it was the uphill side. I sat down on the same boulder I'd seen myself on when I had the vision on Rossmoyne Drive and waited quietly for a while to see what would happen.
	Nothing happened, but it didn't really surprise me. I didn't know much about visions, but if they were like the other feelings I'd had, I knew there wasn't much you could do to cause them or stop them. When they happened, they just happened. I looked around. In front of me was the cabin and beyond it the lake. On my right was a small clearing. It was covered mostly with wispy, silvery grasses and some Indian paintbrush, but bushes were edging in, and a few fir sprouts had taken hold. When I was a kid it was a lot emptier. It was where my grandfather's cabin had been. That was really the start of the whole thing.
	The story of the cabin was an old one in our family. What I hadn't heard or overheard I'd pretty well guessed. Maybe you've heard of my grandfather. In his time he was pretty well-known, at least in northern California.  I guess he was about the smartest man I ever met. His name was Arthur Hughes Morris, but you never saw it written like that. It was always Arthur Hughes Morris, Ph.D., Th.D., D.D. Someone finally explained to me what that all meant, but the letters still didn't tell the whole story. If my grandfather had gotten university credit for every subject he mastered in his life, he could have added a few more Ds to the list. But I guess he never did learn a lot about architecture or carpentry to judge from the cabin he built for his family.
	I've seen some photos of it. It was really just one room with a living area in front and a kitchenette behind. Over the kitchen was a small loft where my mother slept when she was a girl. Grandma and Grandpa slept on a fold-down sofa in the front area. Grandpa built his little mountain shack in the early 1920s and was happy with it for several years. But about the time the grounds were getting organized in the thirties he felt that he should expand it some. My mother, his only child, was grown by then, and when they vacationed together, or when he might have guests, he felt there should be a separate room.
	About this same time he met my father, who - to be honest - I guess you could call an itinerant carpenter. He'd taken a liking to the Tahoe area and was trying to find enough work to settle there. One summer my father was doing some work repairing and remodeling one of the local cabins. Grandpa and Grandma were taking a walk one evening past where he was working and stopped in for a chat. That cabin had always been more like a barn than a house, but my father was redesigning the inside to make it more suitable for humans. He didn't have much formal training or anything, but he had a feeling for materials and for space that took his work beyond plain carpentry. Even though he was pretty young, his ability was already clear, and Grandpa wasn't slow to appreciate it. Before walking on he'd invited my father to give an estimate on enlarging the shack.
	A few days later my father came by and looked over the cabin. He was diplomatic enough to say little about the design. Grandpa pressed him about some ideas for remodeling, buy my father was noncommittal. Instead, he turned from the house to the lake. The shack sat on a rise just behind an outcropping of rocks. From the rocks it was possible to see over two-thirds of the lake, from Stateline in the south all the way to parts of the north shore. Even the inlet to Emerald Bay was visible below Mount Talac. Grandpa had put his cabin so that almost none of the view could be seen. Where there was something to see, there was no window.
	My father walked out over the boulders and stood for several minutes watching the changing colors of the lake at evening. Finally, when pressed, he said that he couldn't do anything for several weeks because of the other project. That would take it into September, and Grandpa wasn't sure that he wanted to start anything when he would have to devote full time to his church in San Jose and couldn't supervise the construction. It was left at that. My father left, and Grandpa was "miffed," like Grandma always used to say.
	In late October, Grandpa, then in San Jose, called up Frank Harmon about some church business. In the course of the conversation, Frank mentioned that my father had begun construction on Grandpa's cabin. Grandpa was struck dumb, which was pretty rare. He was the kind of person who liked to have a hand in everything, especially things that concerned him personally. He couldn't believe that someone would begin work on his house without consulting him first.
	So, anyway, the story went that even though he had sermons to plan and meetings to attend, Grandpa couldn't rest until he could see for himself what my father had done. The next morning he jumped in the car - despite Grandma's protests - and drove the two hundred miles to the lake in bad weather. When he arrived at the cabin site he was amazed; my father had erected a large platform out over the rocks. The original shack had faced due south, but the new platform was set on a southwest angle. Because of the slope of the hill, the far edge of the platform reached ten feet off the ground.
	For a while Grandpa just sat on a rock staring at the large deck stretched out before him. Then my father appeared carrying some boards. When Grandpa spotted him, he attacked. How dare my father begin a project without approval? Who had given him permission to build by the rocks? It wasn't even Grandpa's land. How could he buy materials in Grandpa's name without his signature? And on and on.
	In his usual measured tones my father explained that he'd studied the leasehold map carefully and that the rocks and the space below did indeed belong to Grandpa's land. In fact, building behind the shack would take him off the parcel. The materials, Dad said, had cost him nothing. He avoided the question of approval.
	Grandpa couldn't believe, even in those days, that someone would give all that lumber at no charge, and then, for the first time since arriving, he turned toward the shack. It wasn't there. My father had used every board to build the platform.
	Now Grandpa was almost literally beside himself. He was talking so fast he could have been two people. Never in his life had a person treated him in this way: destroying his property and making off with all his belongings.  The belongings, my father said, were stored in one of the buildings at the other end of the grounds. And who gave him permission to do that, Grandpa wanted to know. My father replied that Frank had helped him, but only because he thought that Grandpa had approved the plans.
	Grandpa stormed off to confront Frank, but he should have known what Frank's reply would be. In the mountains people usually didn't rely on contracts and lawyers. A man's word was his contract. Frank couldn't imagine that my father didn't have permission to begin work, and given that, of course he'd helped when it was requested. Grandpa knew that Frank was right and was wise enough not to insist on seeing the belongings of the shack. Frank, in his turn, was perceptive enough to show them to Grandpa, who calmed down some and returned to the cabin site.
	By that time in the afternoon, it was turning cold. The squalls over the lake were threatening to turn into the first winter storm. Grandpa found my father sitting on the deck staring out at the troubled lake. On hearing Grandpa's steps he turned to face him, and Grandpa was drawn up by the dejection he read on my father's face. My father confessed he'd done a terrible thing. He'd never before undertaken to destroy a man’s property and move his things in that way. He let his enthusiasm blind him to another's rights. He said that he would begin work immediately taking down the deck and rebuilding the shack just as it was. In addition, he would add on the extra room at no charge, if that was what Grandpa wanted.
	Grandpa was perplexed. He paced the deck trying to organize things and get a handle on them. Finally, he simply asked my father why.
	In response, my father walked over to the area where the shack had been, where he was keeping his equipment. He returned with a twelve-foot ladder which he took to the far edge of the platform and set up. He motioned Grandpa to climb up. Grandpa was more than a little reluctant to put himself over twenty feet up in the air on a blustery day in the presence of a man whose sanity left him in doubt, but with urging he climbed while my father steadied the ladder. After he got his head over the top of the ladder, he looked back on quizzically.
	"Look, man look!" my father yelled.
	What happened then was what I'd seen in the vision. Grandpa himself was never too clear on what he'd seen except to say that it was one of the most fantastic sights imaginable. From that point almost the whole lake leapt into view. He felt, he said, that for a moment he was floating over the lake itself and could almost touch the wind-tossed grey water. Then vertigo overcame him, and he started to fall. My father rushed up the ladder to steady him, but at that moment the sun broke from behind the clouds on the other side of the lake, and immediately the water was transformed to a dazzling pink-gold. The waters calmed, and for the next moments the men were transfixed by what Grandpa called the most awe-inspiring sight of his life. He could do nothing else but interpret it as a message. For years he'd hiked all around this lake and many others, but no sight had touched his soul like this one. After a while they came down the ladder and sat on the deck watching the sun set.
	Grandpa returned to San Jose leaving instructions that absolutely nothing was to be done. My father worried that if he didn't take down the platform or reinforce it, the winter snow might crush it, destroying the boards. Grandpa said then so be it; he needed time for meditation and prayer.
	By late spring Grandma's curiosity was so great that she insisted that Grandpa drive her to the grounds. The winter had been light that year, and when they arrived, even the dirt roads had been cleared of snow almost to the cabin site. The platform was still standing, and, although Grandpa was leery of it, Grandma and my mother ventured out onto it. They were thrilled both at the proposed size of the cabin and at the magnificent view. Grandma felt it was an inspiration that God had given to my father. Grandpa was not so sure of the source.
	My father had moved to Stateline for the winter and had stayed alive with odd jobs and repair work here and there. As summer approached he was to begin some major work for one of the casinos there. Grandpa looked him up .
	I've always wondered about how my grandfather and my father really got along. I mean, it always seemed very family-like from the outside, but I have the feeling it didn't begin very well. In fact, from what I've heard, it looks like Grandpa started out by trying to set my father up. Maybe that was because he didn't like the way their business relationship had started off, and he wanted to put my father in his place. Or maybe it was that he really didn't like my father.
	I think part of it was that, basically, he always preferred his little mountain outhouse. He always seemed to do his best thinking in places that were small, comfortable and dark; it was like by enclosing himself he let his mind expand. On the other hand, he truly loved the mountains and was deeply moved by his experience on the ladder. He couldn't believe, he often said, that a revelation of such great beauty could be from any source other than God. But somehow I guess he found it hard to think of my father as God's messenger.
	So, anyway, first he demanded that if my father was going to rebuild the cabin he'd have to have a detailed plan. Maybe he thought that my father couldn’t do blueprints, but the plans were in his hands so quickly that he became even more suspicious. They called for a two bedroom cabin with a large living and dining area, a bay window overlooking the lake, a kitchen and an indoor bathroom. There would also be plenty of room for a second floor under the high-pitched roof.
	Then Grandpa said he could only afford the amount he set aside for the original room addition. That could have killed the whole thing right there, because, even though my father was pretty good at scrounging things, there was no way he could pay for a whole cabin with the price of one room. But at this point Grandma stepped in. I guess she wasn't exactly your happy camper, and, after years of roughing it in the shack, the idea of a real house with plumbing was too much to give up. She knew where the money was, and it didn't take very long for her to flush Grandpa out of that corner.
	So things went ahead. By summer the framing and roofing were completed,
which amazed everyone. In July the walls and windows were all in place, and by October the interior walls were completed, and the bedrooms were livable. Actually, it didn't end up costing all that much either. My father had a great talent for producing a lot from very little when he was inspired. He'd made friends quickly in the mountains, where respect rested not on a fast mouth and a glad hand, but on sincerity and ability. His word was always his bond, and he was a very hard worker, as well as being pretty impressive physically. His sense of design and feeling for locations were gaining him a good reputation, and through his growing friendships he knew where materials could be found cheaply or even free. Sometimes he would go as far as Sacramento or San Francisco to pick up windows or doors from buildings that were being demolished. That's the way he got all the windows and stairs for the cabin, as well as complete hardwood flooring.
	The funny thing was: if my father was such a whiz of a carpenter, why did it take him so long to finish the cabin? Even after I'd come on the scene there were still unlined walls in the bedrooms, and I was about eight when the second floor was finally added.
	The answer was probably Grandpa again. At first maybe he dragged his feet because he was a little tight with his money. Then again, maybe he hoped that after my father had gotten the basic work done he might get tired of the delays and take off. Someone else could finish it. If that was Grandpa's plan, he obviously didn't take my mother into account, and, speaking of that, I wonder how he felt about what developed between her and my father. Considering their differences, I don't guess he was too happy about that at all.
	Actually, it does seem a little strange that my parents ever got together. I suppose that a lot of women were attracted to my father. His quiet virility, his physical strength and the touch of artistic imbalance would be hard to resist. But why he should go after my mother still isn't real clear to me. It's not to put her down or anything, but I've seen pictures of her at that time, and she was not all that beautiful. It's too bad she didn't take after her mother more. Grandma was what you'd call handsome when I knew her, and she'd probably been pretty beautiful in her youth, but my mother took all her looks from Grandpa; she had his sandy red hair, freckles, and slightly pugged nose. I mean, there was nothing physically wrong with her; she was sound and healthy and all that, but I bet my father could've had his choice of a lot of others.
	I don't even know if they had that much in common. In the early thirties my mother would still have been in college. And, like I said, my father didn't really have all that much formal education. Then, too, if her present personality is any guide, she probably wasn't all that easy to get along with either.
	Still, whatever the reasons, they fell in love, I guess. I suppose I shouldn't complain too much about that. I understand that Grandpa did, though, but it didn't do much good. He finally gave in, and they got married in 1932. Danny was born the next year, and I came along seven years after that.
	Even after there was little hope that Grandpa could get rid of my father, he still resisted any changes in the cabin. Grandma said it had to do with a Puritan streak in Grandpa. He couldn't stand to be thought pretentious. The cabin already had the luxury of its view, and Grandpa didn't want visitors making comments about a fancy cabin on top of that. At least he couldn't be blamed for nature's excesses.
	Around the grounds the cabin was famous for its view, and people were always stopping by to see it. That part didn't really bother Grandpa. He was happy enough to have visitors, for there was nothing he loved more than conversation. I can't picture that cabin empty. Evenings were always filled with politics, or religion, or sports or construction talk. There were card games or Chinese checkers and hot chocolate and cookies until I was finally forced into bed, although I always stayed listening through the thin walls as long as I could manage.
	There was something a little fanatic, though, in the way Grandpa resisted the installation of a second floor. Everyone told him it would give more room and help insulate the downstairs. My father already had a set of stairs stored under the cabin, but Grandpa refused everything. He seemed especially nervous if he ever found my father climbing around on the rafters, where he sometimes stored things, especially if my father was near the dormer window that overlooked the lake. Finally, the subject of the second floor just became taboo.
	By the mid-1940s Grandpa's hold on things began to weaken. Grandma'd been sick for several years and died in 1945. After that Grandpa kept coming up to the lake with us, but it was like the cabin was ours now, not his.  Finally, he asked my father if he would enclose the space under the cabin and make a room that he could use just for himself. My father poured a concrete floor and built a block retaining wall against the boulders. He installed a small bathroom with a shower and paneled the whole thing with knotty pine. When it was finished Grandpa was delighted and from then on spent most of his time down there. I think it reminded him of his shack. There was barely room for his large desk, a bed, a dresser and an overstuffed chair, but he loved it. A couple of years later my father finally did floor over the attic, and right away Danny and I hauled our beds up there and claimed it for ourselves. From time to time my father came up there and sat smoking his pipe and watching the lake through the dormer window, but there was certainly nothing strange or fanatic about that. It was when he seemed his calmest and most natural.
	I began to get uncomfortable on the rock. The sun was at its zenith. Even in the crisp air it was burning my skin, and the rock wasn't getting softer. The manzanita bushes around me crackled in the heat, and you could almost see the sap running from the pines whose needles swiveled and shimmered in the gentle midday breeze. Sounds of voices and motors came from the lake, sometimes faint, sometimes magnified by the breeze, as though echoing through a long tube.
	My head began to hurt. I got up and walked around the front and west sides of the house.  My mother hadn't given me a key to the cabin, although I’d mentioned it to her. She said Frank could let me in if I needed something. I guess she was afraid of providing unsupervised beds for her pervert son. What she didn't know was that Grandpa had shown me where he kept a key to his room.
	I walked to the back of the cabin and went under the back porch. I found the space under the porch floor where he used to leave the key. Even after all those years it was still there on a small ring with some others, and I let myself into the room. It appeared clean in the dim light. Shutters were still over the windows, but cracks let in enough light to see. I turned the light switch, but nothing came on. I saw there was no bulb, so I went to the bathroom and tried there. The light over the sink came on. I tried the water, and it worked. Frank must have turned the utilities on, because no one had stayed there so far that year. I looked around the room for a minute. It seemed the same as when Grandpa was there. My mother had brought down some boxes for storage and had filled the dresser with our old clothes, but this room was never rented.
	I sat on the bed and then lay back. My mind seemed blank after all the remem-bering; I don't recall feeling emotions of any kind. I sort of passed out of myself and floated around the house seeing old corners and views. It wasn’t a vision, just a clear memory likeI have of some things, the way I said.  But I don’t let myself think about things that way partly because of what happened that afternoon.  
	In the memoryI saw Grandpa sitting in the old leather rocker in the living room arguing about some new evangelist with anyone who would listen. My father was putting in a new window in the bedroom where he'd made a desk for my mother. She was baking brownies for some friends who were coming over after dinner. Danny and I were roaming around and over the boulders in front of the house looking for a good place to set our chipmunk trap. Then I was back in Grandpa's room, watching myself lying peacefully on the bed in the dark. I seemed so calm, and that was why it was so strange when I saw the first tear roll out of my right eye and onto the blue bedspread. Soon another fell from the other eye. For some reason I was really crying. It was just the loneliness, I guess, or mainly that, but there was something else I saw, or couldn't quite see, that scared me.
	I got up and went to the bathroom and stuck my whole face under the faucet, but still it continued. I got out of that room damn fast and began crashing my way along the path, scraping myself on trees, falling over rocks, running like hell from something I couldn't even see. Finally I found myself at the crest of the hill. I tripped over an exposed root and sprawled between two great boulders. Gradually, whatever it was left me. The sun seemed a warm, soothing hand on my back, the exhaustion of the past weeks and all their emotions closed over me, and I fell asleep in the sand.
	It was mid-afternoon when I woke up. I felt the terror returning, so I got to my knees, pressed my forehead against one of the boulders and began praying like crazy. Deliver me from this, I prayed, don't let me fall into it. I'll become pure, pure, pure. I'll just eat, sleep and work. My whole life will be dedicated to good. I'll help everyone. I'll go to anything religious that comes along. I'll learn; you'll see. Only Jesus will be a better Christian. I'll be celibate. Lust won't come near me. I'll save myself for Marlene when we're married. All my energy will go into good works. Just keep that darkness away. You'll see. You'll see.
	And in the days that followed I was as good as my word, even better. I was up before six every morning.  I set out a cross country course with the same amount of flat areas and hills as the one at home. I ran it every morning and then ran down to the waterfront, jumped in and swam five laps from the beach to the breakwater. Then I went back to the dorm, dried and dressed and was the first for breakfast. I even helped the cook set up the tables.
	I did anything Frank assigned me and more. He had to tell me to slow it down some or he'd have to send some of the others home, but I still took on the hardest, dirtiest jobs and did them with passion. As my mind changed to purity, my body responded, too. With all the exercise and work my chest and shoulders began to thicken and become harder, like my legs. I measured myself on a board we used for that outside the cabin, and during the last year I'd grown taller, too.
	I stayed a little apart from the rest of the crew and avoided any situations where I might get paired up with one of the girls. I knew how that happened as the summer wore on, and I wasn't going to be tempted. I joined in for volleyball or basketball, but never went along when the group went to dances around the lake. I wouldn't even play ping-pong with one of the girls. I was developing a reputation as a work freak, or a fitness freak, or maybe just a queer, but I didn't care. It was better like that.
	I dove into religion with real fervor. If there were two church services at the chapel on Sunday, I attended both. Most of the conferences were religious, and if they permitted outsiders at evening meetings, I went. Instead of socializing, I read the Bible every night. Well, sometimes I dozed off while reading - like, maybe after about two minutes.
	Sexually I was a saint. I didn't even beat off. Well, maybe only once in a while, but not for fun. You know; better that than a messy bed. But I did it passionlessly, clearing my mind of all thoughts. It was like milking a cow, like pissing or taking a dump. It was just the passage of another troublesome secretion.
	Frank sometimes seemed a little concerned. He'd worked with enough young people to know this change was exaggerated, even for a teenager, but I assured him I was OK. I felt really great: clean, active, learning, helping, fulfilled spiritually. And yet...And yet...
	You remember my idea that maybe kids who knew about sex smell each other out, like dogs in heat? I've never done any scientific experiments to prove that, but if there's anything to it, it's in the eyes, not the nose. I found that out one evening at a prayer meeting.
	Jim Eisenman had gotten to know one of the visiting evangelists and had made a few points with him by organizing an attempt to save the souls of the crew, which were always in danger of sinking into perdition, being so close to the fleshpots and casinos at Stateline. Jim and I had become great friends - so he thought - due to my fervent pursuit of religious enlightenment. He often came into our room as I was sleeping over the Bible and got me into "conversations" about the glories of being saved. This night he did me the honor of introducing me to the speaker, a well-known pulpit pounder and Bible beater, and I did my best to look all impressed, humble and pious. I took a seat on the right side of the room and tried to prepare my soul for the upcoming rapture, which had somehow eluded me so far.
	As the meeting progressed the speaker tried to keep it low-keyed and cool, an approach he maybe thought would be better accepted by teenagers. It had the same effect on me as reading the Bible: I started to doze off. In an effort to avoid that, I began studying the details of the dining room where we were meeting. A notched board about six feet up the wall ran its length and had been lined with bright-colored plates. I began to count them and then to divide them into colors and design types - anything to keep my mind going after a hard day.
	Suddenly I realized that someone was studying me. Brigitta Lindstrom, an exchange student from Norway, was looking straight at me. At first I looked away like I'd done with the girls all summer. Besides, she was going around with Eisenman, and I really didn't need that complication. But somehow I couldn't stay away from her eyes. What was it she wanted from me? We'd barely talked during the time I'd been there. What could she...? And then I looked directly into her eyes, and I knew she knew about me, sexually, that is. And what's more I knew she knew I knew...well, you know.
	We were both sitting toward the back of the group on opposite sides, so I guess no one was aware of what passed between us. I couldn't believe it, though, and exploded into a laugh that I tried to disguise as a cough. She dropped a hymnal and bent over to pick it up. The evangelist had lost his cool and was starting to foam at the mouth, so the rest of the crew was distracted and didn't notice us.
	The effect of this new knowledge on me was to make me more careful than ever. It was interesting to know that messages could pass that way, but I now made a great point to let myself be nowhere near Brigitta. It almost worked.
	One Saturday, though, the work was going late. A conference was to arrive any moment, but the laundry hadn't been delivered. Sheets and towels that were usually in on Friday hadn't arrived by noon, Saturday. The girls hadn't been able to finish the women's dorm, and Frank was in a panic. The laundry called to say that the truck would be there any minute, so he asked me to stay at the top of the hill during lunchtime and to run the sheets to the dorm as soon as they got there.
	When the truck arrived I loaded the large bundles into the jeep and shot down the hill to the dorm. The area was deserted. All the girls were eating. I was hungry, too, and quickly made the trips into the dorm lobby, leaving the stuff on the large split-log table there. Just as I was carrying in the last of the sheets, I had the feeling there was some movement in the long hall that stretched to the back of the building. It appeared like someone had moved quickly from one room to another. No one should have been there at that time, but I knew from experience how the local brats sometimes got in and messed around.
	Slowly I walked down the hall glancing into each room until I got to the one where I thought I'd seen the movement. I looked in but could see no one. I stepped into the room and crossed to the window. For a minute I stood looking over the gleaming blue lake. The colors at noon were so vivid after the greys of L.A.  A large cone from a sugar pine in front of the dorm had fallen on a boulder and broken open a little. A bluejay, very military in his blue and grey uniform and cocked cap, was busy picking at the nuts or bugs or whatever it is that jays like about pine cones. On the waterfront the life guard was yelling at some of the kids who were running on the long pier. Other boys sat fishing in the bright sun, although anyone could tell them it was better after five o'clock.
	I thought about the virtues of being a kid and what it might cost to be one again. I'm not really a very ascetic person, and the routine I'd lived the last few weeks was beginning to tell. Being a kid had a lot to say for it. There was order and usually calm and a warm bed. There were laps and hands on shoulders and games and long summers. Even school wasn't all that bad. And, for me, there'd been a lively, warm family, respected and honored, that had brought me acceptance and security. It was all gone - had been gone for years - but the realization of the loss had only come to me that summer when I really needed some help.
	I hadn't let myself think about it since that day in Grandpa's room, but I'd seen something besides the way our family used to be. When I saw myself crying on the bed, I also saw another thing, but it scared me so much I wouldn't let myself see it. Behind the bed the block wall was gone, and there was just...nothing. It was just a big hole, a void, like a huge chasm. Now I made myself think about it.
	Maybe chasms had bad press. I mean, maybe they had reputations they didn't deserve. They were always being pictured as jagged and dark and full of bad breath and things. And you were supposed to fall endlessly, bouncing around on sharp rocks or spears of ice or whatever else was down there. Maybe chasms could be mauve and tan and burgundy with decorator designs and walls that turned into doors and outdoors indoors and spaces for shelves full of leather bound books and objects d'art. Maybe as you fell down the chasm it was like falling between the pages of your life, and you could get a big eraser and erase the parts you didn't like, so many letters per foot of freefall per second per second. And when you reached the last page and erased the last letter, what happened to you? Did you start on something new, or did you just disappear - poof - and the big eraser keep on falling through empty pages?
	I forced myself to pull back. I focused again on the lake, sparkling confidently in midday light. Things were pulling apart too fast. It was like that space in the wall - a hole opening faster than it could be filled. All the control, all the planning just weren't doing it. What the hell was I doing thinking about chasms in favorable terms? I knew where that came from. It was my father. And I knew that I couldn't go his way. Even when I was only eleven, caught up in all the noise that surrounded his death, I'd vowed to myself never to go that route. Regardless of where my life would take me, I swore I would see it through til life wore itself out.
	But why was this happening now? Why was he pulling at me? Who the hell was he? Why did he and I have visions? What were his secrets? Where did he come from? Who were his people? He never said.
	If I was afraid of my father's way, though, what was the alternative - my mother’s? My mother whose banker's soul filled her house with "heirlooms?"  It was like you could fill up the void if you just saved enough old junk. From the monster high boy in the dining room with all my grandmother's china to the re-re-reupholstered sofas in the front room to the linen closet. The linen closet, my God!  What if my brain ended up like that? Who knew where those ghoulish rags came from? What dead ancestor wiped his ass with that towel? Who died under that blanket? Who screwed over those sheets? Did I want a head full of fucked up, ragtag ideas - or dreams of ideas - hallowed and followed generation to generation til only echoes and shadows of their substances remained?
	I could see a little reflection of my face in the window. What the hell was I? Was I crazy? Was I just another part of my parents' battleground? Or was I only some accident of shadows dancing on the edge of the void?
	I couldn't stand it. I had to get away from those thoughts. I turned, and in front of me, partly hidden behind the open door, was Brigitta watching me. Maybe I'd known she was there all along. We stared at each other for a few seconds. Then I walked over to her, put my arms around her and kissed her. When she kissed me back, I got very passionate.
	What's there to say? We were in a bedroom. I locked the door and we fucked.

TAPE TWELVE									3/2/86

	The next day Brigitta found me at a quiet place and made our situation clear.  She asked my age and then said that I knew more and said less than most sixteen-year-olds she’d met in the U.S.  I told her doing was better than talking.  She said that in her country it was not so unusual for couples, if they were serious, to have sex.  She was in love with a boy from there and had been true to him during the year she’d been a high school exchange student.  Her grades had been so good she’d won a scholarship to U.C. Berkeley in her field, some kind of engineering.  It was such an opportunity she’d decided
to stay on, but was still true to her boyfriend.  Here she made an interesting distinction between mind and body that I didn’t really follow.
	By that point I guess I was changing my attitude toward Marlene.  I felt I still loved her, but the way she’d cut me off hurt a lot.  Letters I’d written to her from the lake continued to be returned, so I’d stopped writing.  They gave out letters at lunch in the dining room, and it was embarrassing to receive only returned ones.  I began to see some good points in Brigitta’s idea that you could remain true in spirit, if not in body.  Anyway, she told me that any continued activity would depend on me.  She had no worry about infection, as I didn’t seem promiscuous, but she had no intention of returning home a mother.  I would have to find protection and a safe place.
	With Marlene this had never been a concern of mine.  I guess maybe she used a diaphragm or something.  But now I became very motivated in this area, because it was clear that without the help of Brigitta’s body I wasn’t going to make it through the summer.  
	I knew what rubbers were and how they worked.  In ninth grade Al had seen one in the gutter when we riding our bikes home.  We both laughed at it, but when we considered what was in it and where it had been, we were properly disgusted. I knew you could buy them at drug stores, but getting inconspicuously to a Stateline drug store and then getting nerve to ask for them were definitely problems.
	Then one evening a group of the crew boys decided to maraud around Stateline. There really wasn't much we could do there. We were all too young to gamble or drink, and no one on the crew drank anyway - or said so if they did. Still, it was some entertainment just to walk around and watch. Some of the guys slipped dimes in the slot machines until they were caught and driven out. This time I decided to go along, and in the back of my mind was the idea that there might be a chance to slip into a drug store unnoticed.
	About a mile before Stateline there was a group of small casinos that were ragged looking compared to the middle class glitz that was invading Stateline by the mid '50s. These casinos still looked rough and ready like the ones of the thirties, but their time was passing. Already one near the small air strip had been closed down for some delinquency and never reopened. 
	As always, the driver that night was Dino, the cook, who was in his thirties and the only one on the crew with a car.  For some reason he decided to give the closed casino a closer look. The place looked like a very big log cabin. No trespassing signs were posted on all the doors.  The bunch of us circled around the building, then, finding a weak-looking back door, pried it open with a jack handle. We found ourselves in a small kitchen and proceeded through it to the main gaming room. Everything was still there. Chairs, tables, games, and bar stood dusty but ready for the next high roller. Only the slot machines had been taken out. Despite their saintly backgrounds, several of the guys were ready to pillage and loot. They found empty boxes and began filling them with gaming chips, bar glasses, even wall hangings showing cowboys doing dirty deeds.
	From the main room the raid continued into the offices and other rooms which were mostly empty. Then a big whoop sounded from the women's head. Someone had discovered the Kotex machine, and they figured a dispensing machine meant a coin box. Funny how much room there was for larceny in those saintly hearts. Sure enough, after producing the jack handle and prying the dispenser from the wall, quarters rolled to the floor followed by a grabbing mob that looked like kids at a piñata party.
	The men's head was next, and two treasures were found there: a cologne dispenser and - you guessed it - a condom machine. The cologne machine didn't produce much change, but lots of ammunition for a cologne war that progressed down the hall and through the main room until everyone was stinking. We returned to the men's room, and I watched intently as the rubber machine fell next. It was well fastened to the wall, but as it finally gave way to a chorus of cheers and a flood of change and silvery little packets, I stayed back while the other dived again for the money and quietly stuffed my pockets with the rubbers, unnoticed in the dim light.
	If getting protection looked like a tough problem whose solution turned out to be easy, finding a place for us to meet seemed to have an obvious solution that proved to be a little tricky. Grandpa's room had all that we needed, but when to use it was not so easy to work out.
	It couldn't be after work, because in a small place like the grounds everyone seemed to know what the other guy was doing almost before he did it. Anyway, like I said, in the pairing that took place during the summer, my roommate, Jim Eisenman, had ended up with Brigitta. He would be sure to notice if both of us were missing for any period of time.
	During the summer my mother usually used the cabin for only a couple of weeks. The rest of the time she let the grounds use it for conference people on a commission basis. When they did that, they usually paid one of the crew girls extra to clean it on Saturday afternoon. I told Brigitta to be sure to get that job, and she did.
	Once a week was not really enough for me the way I felt. I could have been with her every day and not have had enough, but I had to be satisfied. The rest of the week I tried to keep the thoughts at a distance by knocking myself out with work and waiting for Saturday when I could knock myself out with Brigitta.
	Sometimes the two things conflicted, like one Saturday when Frank was all upset because work wasn't going fast enough on a new drain field for the large septic tank below the boys' dormitory. The next Monday two hundred people were scheduled to arrive there for a conference, and Frank could picture sewer water rolling down the hill into the lake while state inspectors closed the whole place down for the rest of the summer.
	Because I'd become such a glutton for work, he grabbed me and two others who hadn't managed to escape for the weekend and set us to work digging out the trenches for the rest of the lines. It was hard work because that part of the hill was mostly boulders and tree roots, so that digging a three foot deep trench often involved digging a lot more just to get rid of the rocks. Also, even in the mountains, the sun in mid-July can be damn hot.
	The others were bitching that we'd be at it all weekend, but there was no way I'd let that happen. They just didn't have my inspiration. I took off my shirt and settled in with the old breathing and pacing. Sometimes the others just sat back and watched me. I knew they thought I was a maniac, but that didn't bother me. My whole attitude toward work had changed in one year. Now I felt almost hungry for it, both because it was an escape and
because it was building me up. My chest and shoulders were really thickening out.
	By two-thirty the trench was done, and we'd even laid out the orangeburg pipes in it. Frank was delighted and told us to knock off. The covering-over would be an easy job for Monday morning.
	I made like I was headed for the crew dorm, but once I was out of sight I doubled back on a trail that took me below the front of our cabin. The front door was open. Brigitta was probably inside.
	Even then I didn't go right to Grandpa's room but continued on a little way to be sure no one else was around. Finally I circled, slipped under the back porch and into the basement room. I was filthy and my clothes were worse. I took them off and showered in the tiny bathroom. I figured that the sound of the water running would also let Brigitta know I was there.
	The only clothes I could find were some my mother had stored away in Grandpa's dresser. They should have been thrown, but this time I was lucky she hadn't. I came up with a pair of my father's swim trunks and a cut-off sweatshirt of Dan's. I still wasn't up to Dan's size, even after all the work. The sweatshirt sort of hung on me, but my father's shorts fit me exactly. In his fifties he still had the waist of a sixteen-year-old.
	I was glad I had a few minutes to rest and get some strength back before Brigitta came down. I stretched back on Grandpa's solid old double bed. There was no way I could be in that house without thoughts pouring over me, but now that I had Brigitta, it didn't bother me so much to feel them coming.
	I remembered the room the way it had been when I was a little kid. Then it was my father's shop. It had a dirt floor, and you could see all the boulders under the house. There were a couple of small windows that were always dirty and a big work bench made out of pine planks. Along the walls were an assortment of oddball cabinets and even an old wooden ice box where my father kept some tools.
	I could clearly see the old shop with its bench as I lay there. It wasn't a vision or anything - just a memory - but it was a memory that had come to me often since entered Grandpa's room that first day. I could see my father seated there in the late afternoon working on some piece. In that little area, using pretty simple tools, he worked on detailed pieces for construction projects he was doing. Fine moldings, cornices, door frames and bannisters flowed out from his lathe and chisel.
	When he'd let me, I'd sit and watch his hands caress and guide the wood into its forms as though forcing it to follow silent commands it couldn't resist. Sometimes he finished really difficult things at amazing speed, but when he worked like that I watched his hands, not his eyes, because sometimes there was something there that scared me. There were times when he sent me out and wouldn't let me watch him at all.
	Sometimes - often, in fact - when my father was in that mood of explosive concentration - some inner genius producing external wonders - Grandpa would come to the shop and sit with him. If I could, I'd sneak back in to listen, and, even though I was only a kid, the conversation would amaze me.
	Time after time it would be the same thing. My father driving on like a fiend, seemingly oblivious to anyone else there, my grandfather sniffing around like a friendly dog, and then the questions would start. They always had the same quality - really dumb.
	"What's this tool? (for the hundredth time) Why are you cutting that there? Why didn't you use that wood instead of this?"
	And my father - always a silent man, but totally out of contact to most humans when he was in that state - would struggle to form the words, would actually have to concentrate on the tool to form its name. Then, no sooner had he fought through the answer, another stupidity would be waiting, and, out of respect for his father-in-law, he would struggle through the response. Even at my age it infuriated me that Grandpa could be so insensitive to my father's creativity. Once I even yelled out, "It's an awl, Grandpa," only to be nailed to the wall by my grandfather's large hazel eyes suddenly turned to death rays.
	Every time that scene played, the end would be the same. After forcing his way through the litany - painfully at first, then, gradually, like a child reciting his verses with more calm - my father would lose the thing in his eyes. He would put down his work and go out, or the two of them would go fishing, with me tagging behind.
	Somewhere I read that no behavior is without motive, and I suppose that stupidity is a pretty good motive for stupid behavior. But that was what was so irritating about the way my grandfather sometimes treated my father. Like I said before, Grandpa was not a stupid man. He'd founded several churches. He helped start the conference grounds. He had charge of one of the biggest churches in San Jose. These are not the accomplishments of a stupid man.
	When I think of Grandpa I remember how he loved hiking and fishing. About as soon as I could walk he had me all over the Tahoe basin behind him. It was like hiking with a talking encyclopedia. I was always being treated to lectures on history, or geology, or chipmunks, or lizards to the point where maybe I got a little impatient with his genius. He was pretty good about that, though. I guess he knew most people couldn't keep up with him. You would have thought that at the age when I knew him he wouldn't still be trying to learn stuff, but he always had some book he was studying, and when he saw my eyes glazing over he'd go back to that or to writing some sermon.
	If Grandpa was tremendously verbal, my father was the opposite. He had no trouble talking if he wanted to, but what I learned from him came more from quiet example. He never told us much about his life or his family before he came to California. I think he once said he came from Kansas - or maybe I heard that from someone else - and that his parents both died or disappeared when he was young. He never said who raised him, and I was never aware that he communicated with anyone from Kansas. In his teens he picked up carpentry by working with a carpenter as a helper. How many years of formal education he had, he never told me.
	If he wasn't formally educated, no one could tell it. When he spoke it was simple and clear and to the point. But I know it was his example that convinced me that silence, rather than speech, can more easily be taken - or mistaken - for intelligence.
	What really spoke loudest about my father was simply his physical presence. Like I said, he was tall and good-looking and very strong in the upper body. Physically, Danny takes after him more than I do. But more than his appearance, he had a kind of confidence in things - like he knew more about really important things than anyone else did - that always impressed people and drew them to him when he would let them. Of course, as far as Danny and I were concerned, we worshipped him. That is, we did up to a certain time.
	As we got older, he began to change. Whether it was just with us, I'm not sure. It was more with Danny than with me, probably because he was older. One day it got really bad.
	I don't remember the exact cause of it. Danny was always a little hardheaded, and I guess, like most kids, it got worse when he was fourteen or fifteen. That day my father wanted him to do something or to stop doing something, and Danny didn't move very fast. Finally, my father took out his belt, but he'd never hit either of us with anything more than his hand on our butts - and hardly ever even that - so Danny didn't take it very seriously. When my father hit him, Danny got furious and more hardheaded than ever, and that only got my father going worse. I saw that thing come into his eyes like when he was working with his pieces, but there was no way he was going to turn Danny like a piece of knotty pine. I got petrified, and if I hadn't finally broken out of it, I really think Dan would've ended up dead or maimed. I got our mother, and she got between them, but not before my father almost whipped her, too. I've never seen fury like that in her eyes. She didn't say much, but my father sure stopped cold. No one ever said anything about it afterwards, but I think Danny's problems probably started from that time.
	The thought of all that was getting me upset. I got up and went to the alcove where Grandpa's monster mahogany desk still sat and opened up the curtains behind it. The afternoon sun was full over Marla Bay. The afternoon wind had set up a strong chop on the lake, and the flashing silver reflected into the room and danced on the ceiling. A cone broke from one of the trees next to the house, rolled down the roof two floors above and dropped by the window.
	These great windows were another part of the mystery between my father and Grandpa. When my father had finished this basement room there were almost no windows in it. The alcove was really a five-sided bay that on the floor above was filled with windows and was the glory of the cabin. Guests always went nuts about the view it gave of the lake from the south end almost to the north end. On the ground level, though, the bay used to be covered with planks and batting like the rest of the basement.
	Grandpa once commented that he was running up the electric bill because he had to have his light on all the time, but I'm sure he wasn't prepared for what that comment produced.
	On a trip to Carson City, my father had spotted a Victorian mansion being demolished. He knew the guy doing the work, and for very little he drove away with three huge windows. They were of very heavy plate glass, beveled on the edges and surrounded by borders of diamond-shaped pieces of crystal leaded in. They barely fit in the walls, and when they were installed they filled the whole room with mountain brilliance.
	My grandfather's response was what was really amazing. He couldn't stop raving about them. He made sure they were cleaned regularly and wouldn't think of leaving the lake in the fall until special shutters were carefully installed over them to protect from winter drifts. Then he had heavy drapes hung inside and almost never opened them. I asked him about that once, and the told me he could do his best thinking like that, in dark places. It's a wonder he didn't write all his sermons in the bathroom.
	Then for some reason I thought about Jim Eisenman, and that really pissed me off. Why he should come into thoughts about my family, I couldn't figure. There was no way the emotions I felt for them extended to him. In a summer full of control and abstention, the thing that required greatest control was having him for a roommate.
	I'd known Eisenman since we were kinds. His family always brought him to the lake, too, but I never cared to play with him much. He was the kind of kid who knew, certain as hell, what he wanted to be. Of course, it was a minister; that was sort of like a virus around there. He would even play with girls and their dolls just so he could perform doll weddings. If some little animal was found dead, you could be damn sure he'd do a funeral.
	Once I caught him with a pellet gun up by the big rocks at the crest of the hill. He claimed he was just practicing with pine cones, but I wondered why there was always such a good supply of dead lizards and birds in need of funerals when he was at the lake. It was just the kind of hypocritical shit I always worry about with ministers - not that I think they're all hypocrites. It's just that there are such a lot of good opportunities for it.
	Take that stuff about him and Brigitta going together, for instance. Why the hell was he attracted to her? He was such an all-American hero and she was so foreign. Even though I made that crack about the crew girls, some of them were pretty tolerable-looking and would have been really happy to get paired up with ol' Jim.  Brigitta wasn't even all that beautiful. She wasn't one of those tall blonde Scandinavians. She was sort of round and brown and earthy, like a good peasant.
	What the hell did they talk about so endlessly by the lake or in the back of the dining hall? She never told me, but then we didn't talk much at all. Was he laboring to save her decadent European soul, or was he just expanding on his favorite topic: himself? I was sure he wasn't screwing her. He wasn't that good a hypocrite yet.
	And why did she go with him? Was it to cover her other activities? I sure as hell hoped there weren't any other activities than me.
	If it was hypocrisy that linked Eisenman and Grandpa in my mind - if Grandpa was hypocritical in the way he treated my father - maybe, in the end, Grandpa got fed up with it himself. In 1948, old, tired and sick, he accepted a "call" from a small church in Pasadena. Everyone raved and screamed against it; he was supposed to be retired. But he sold his house, got rid of a lot of his things and took an apartment in Pasadena.
	The crazy thing was that within a few months my father got out of a very good position with a San Jose construction company and moved us down there, too. My mother was really pissed, but he claimed there were great opportunities in post-war construction projects in the south. He rented us a house in the Eagle Rock section of L.A., not far from Grandpa. About a year later, though, the old man died.
	Two years after that, while driving back from a project he had started near Fontana, my father hit a concrete post under a bridge and was killed. It was a clear night. He never drank and was not drunk then. He never drove over fifty, but the police said he must have been doing eight-five or ninety. That was when people who knew about it began to talk about the other thing.
	There was a faint tapping at the door. Quickly I closed the drapes and crossed the room. I surely was in need of a good fucking. And the fact that it would be with Jim Eisenman's girl made it all the sweeter.

	Around the end of August my mother came up to spend the last couple weeks of the summer. Her staying at the cabin didn't make much difference to Brigitta and me. That was about over, anyway; she had to leave the crew early for college orientation. We had one last sandy screw under the big rocks at the top of the hill. It wasn't much of an ending, but then there wasn't much there to begin with.
	One afternoon my mother stopped by where I was cleaning up one of the campgrounds and told me she wanted me to come by the cabin the next day. I figured she was getting ready to leave and wanted me to drive to L.A. with her. I had something different I wanted to suggest.
	The next morning was pretty quiet, so I told Frank I needed to take off for a while. When I got to the cabin, the door was open. I let myself in the screen door. It was the first time I'd been in the main part of the house all summer. My mother was clinking around in the kitchen. The place hadn't changed much at all since I saw it last. It could have been ten years earlier. The smell of bacon and coffee filled the rooms. She used to cook a lot before things changed. She came out of the kitchen for something and was surprised to see me. Then she smiled in a friendly way that seemed different than the way she usually was with me.
	It's funny how you see some people a lot, but don't really see them. I mean, you see them the way they were or the way you want them, but not how they've become. When I was old enough to make comparisons I guess I knew my mother was plain compared to other women. It wasn't something I cared much about, just an observation. But as she'd gotten older, she'd changed. Maybe it was because of her job. Maybe it was just the way some people are, like life develops their faces.
	That morning she was wearing a light summer dress with no sleeves. She would have been forty-six then, but her body was still trim. Her arms were firm, with no sign of saggies. Her reddish hair had a little grey which made it look sandy. She had it cut in a neat, short style that suited her. Her freckles were covered with makeup, and for the first time I realized she'd become pretty good-looking. I bet that a lot of people would feel good about opening a bank account with a lady who looked like that.
	She asked me if I wanted breakfast. I wasn't hungry, but for the first time in a long time I did want just to sit and talk with her, so I said yes. For some reason she'd cooked up a lot of food, and it didn't take her long to get it ready. While she set the table and brought out the food I studied the front room carefully. During the time I'd spent in Grandpa's room I'd had this kind of foreboding feeling about the upper parts of the house, like something was calling me, but repelling me at the same time. Now it seemed just as innocent and homelike as it always had when I was younger.
	We talked a little as we sat in the sunlit bay, eating at the huge old, round oak table that almost filled it. She mentioned that she'd met an antique dealer from Stateline who might stop by to look at the table later that day. That surprised me. It was an ugly old thing, but it seemed like one of the fixtures of the place, and my mother never got rid of much of anything. Still I couldn't think of much to say to defend it.
	She talked about stuff happening in Glendale. I wanted to tell her about my plan, but couldn't find a good opening. More and more it had come to me that I should stay in the mountains for the winter. I couldn't face going back to that school with all those snobby kids and their social games and without Marlene. The real mountain people - not the summer tourists - were a little clannish, or in some cases just plain strange, but they were easier for me to deal with.
	My idea was that I could work part time for Frank for room and board and go to the new high school at Bijou on the California side. It had just come to me in the last couple of weeks, and I hadn't tried it out on anyone, but I figured if I could bring it up at the right time, it might work.
	I was thinking about that when my mother said,
	"The last time we talked - before you came up here - you said some things, some things we should talk about."
	That really broke up my thoughts. My mind was thrown off at the sudden switch of topic and raced around for some way to head it off. Considering all the questions I'd thought about during the summer, what she wanted should have seemed like a good idea, but I was afraid I'd put my foot in it like the last time. I didn't want to lose the mood of the moment by letting that happen.
	"Look, Ma," I began, "what I said - you know how I was then - I didn't mean - I mean, you did the right thing, telling me to come up here. I've had a lot of time to think things through, and I don't think..."
	"I'm not bringing it up to get us upset again," she cut in. "I just think there are many things that you and I have never talked about - about your father and other things - and that maybe now is a good time."
	Her voice was calm. The friendly smile was still there. The iron visor she was always wearing when we were together didn’t seem to be there, or at least it was opened. Even the day was bright and crisp and optimistic. Maybe then was the time to talk some things out. There didn't seem to be much way to avoid it.
	"I guess you need to know some things about your father," she went on. "You were only eleven when he...After his death it was - still is - hard for me to talk much about it. It came as such a shock...But maybe it shouldn't have. You said I killed him."
	"Ma, you know I didn't..."
	"I know. I know. But I'll always wonder if it was something I didn't do, something I wasn't capable of doing, that could have saved him."
	"Then you think it's true that he killed himself."
	"What? No! I've never thought that. Whoever told you that? I think it was an accident, but...maybe he wasn't...maybe he wasn't...taking care. Maybe he was concentrating too hard on his work...on other things."
	"Concentrating?"
	"Even at your age, you must have known that there were times when he wasn't exactly there."
	"You mean, like crazy?"
	"No, I don't mean crazy." A note of tenseness entered her voice. "I mean he was a man who could concentrate on things so hard that at times it was like he blocked out the rest of the world. It was part of his genius, but it could be dangerous. It was like he disappeared into himself, into his thoughts.  I've always believed that was what happened to him when he had the accident. Maybe he was concentrating like that when it happened. He must have blacked out and lost control."
	"But why would he let that happen when he was driving? You drove with him a lot. Did that ever happen before?"
	"No. I only noticed that sort of thing when he was working or sometimes when he was watching the lake or the mountains. In the city I rarely saw it, but then I got so I usually didn't stay around him when he was working."
	"Why not?"
	"Well, it seemed to irritate him some."
	"That's all?"
	She didn't answer, but I had the feeling that those memories still scared he a little.
	"But if he didn't usually get like that in the city, why would it have happened to him the day of the accident?"
	"I don't know. We had a lot of problems after we moved to Los Angeles, mostly economic. He thought it would be better there, but he had such a good job in San Jose. It was never the same. Finally, he had to drive clear to Fontana for work. It got him down."
	"Then you think he might have done it on purpose?"
	"I told you no!"
	This time her nerves were clearly up, and a hard edge had begun in her voice. I should have backed off, but I couldn't.
	"Why did we have to move to L.A., anyway?"
	"Your father said there were better opportunities there in construction, but the unions were strong, and it was hard for him to get in. It had something to do with your grandfather, too, I'm sure. I pleaded with him not to take that church in Pasadena. He just wasn't up to it, and it killed him. I'm sure your father felt responsible for him, that he had to be near him, to help him in case of trouble." She paused, then continued in a more bitter tone. "If there was ever anyone who didn't need anyone else's help, it was my father.
	"I always thought Grandpa and my father got along pretty well."
	"Yes, to you it would seem that way. You weren't around when..."
	She hesitated. I think she was sorry she'd got the whole thing going. To bring out so many of her private thoughts was really against her character. Finally she went on, as though it was something nasty that had to be gotten through.
	"Your grandfather hated your father, at least at one time. I don't think he ever came to like him much. He never understood him. My father did everything he could to keep us from marrying, and afterward I always had the feeling he looked down on us - down on your father because he wasn’t formally educated and down on me for marrying him. Sometimes he could be so patronizing, it was infuriating."
	I couldn't believe I was hearing all this - that my mother resented her own father like that, that this had gone on all the time I was a kid, and I'd never felt it. She had to be wrong, but who was I to say that? She seemed to be running on automatic now, words pouring out of her, not all of it stuff I wanted to hear.
	"When I first met your father it was here at the lake. I don't think he even noticed me; he was so busy with my father, explaining his plans for the cabin. Sometimes during that first summer I would come and sit on a boulder and watch him working. Even then, when he was so young, he could lose himself for hours in his world of wood and tools, ignoring me totally. It wasn't really all that flattering.
	"It's not that I was used to all that much attention. I was never Miss Popularity. Oh, I had enough friends in high school and college, but by the time I met your father I was in my twenties. Any pretenders I'd had were out of the picture then. Still, he seemed rude and antisocial. Actually, I think it was that he just didn't know how to be very social. In the years since, from little things he said, I decided that he must have had a very hard childhood, and it was work that let him forget those memories.
	"At the time, though, it hurt me to be ignored, especially because, for the first time in my life, I just couldn't walk away unaffected. Sometimes, when the day was hot, he would take off his shirt and work like that. I know he didn't do it to impress me; it seemed to make no difference if I were there or not. But the feelings he set off in me, seeing him like that, were exciting and frightening. He was very different from the boys I knew. They were all so white and bony and sincere. He was, well, you remember what he looked like - like some natural being, a graceful animal."
	I'd never heard my mother talk anything like that. It was a little uncomfortable, but fascinating. Still, the thought of her and my father feeling all sexy didn't please me much at all. She went on,
	"It's a strange thing to admit, but I don't know if your father loved me right at first, I mean deeply, romantically, the way you always hear about. I don't know if he was capable of that kind of love. Maybe it's too intellectual. Perhaps he just came to accept me.
	"I don't know if he had been with other women before we married; I suppose so. That was the kind of life he'd led up to that point, and neither of us was that young. I was a virgin, of course, and he was very tender with me for such a big, physical man. He always seemed to have such insight about my moods and could bring me around, so that sex was wonderful with him, right from the first time. He was always patient and calm with me, at least in that regard."
	This was getting really obnoxious.  Maybe she thought that since I’d had the experience she could open up to me, but I wasn’t ready for that.   Almost involuntarily I got up and turned toward the windows. The trees around the cabin had grown taller, but the view over the lake was still open and spectacular. Behind me, my mother's voice continued for a while, then trailed off.
	I turned back. She watched me with a strange expression - something between hurt and embarrassment. I sat again. It was quiet for a while. Then I said,
	"I think you're wrong about Grandpa."
	''What?”
	"When I was a kid, sometimes it made me mad the way Grandpa talked to Pa, like he was a little kid or something."
	"Well, there, that's just what I was saying."
	"But lately I've thought a lot about that. I think it was some kind of code between them, some way that Grandpa brought Pa back when he'd gone too far. After Grandpa died I guess no one could do that for him."
	Her face darkened at that.
	"A code? Well, of course, you might see it like that. Children play code games, but we're talking about adults, and I lived with my husband and my father much longer than you did. I guess I knew them well enough."
	"Did Pa ever talk to you about seeing things?"
	"What do you mean?"
	"About seeing things, like things from the past or things that hadn't happened yet. I don't mean remembering or imagining; I mean seeing, like the things were really happening, were really there." I could see this made her nervous.
	"I've told you what I think about that. Your father had a very bad childhood, I'm sure. His work was his escape from those memories, but he was capable of such concentration that sometimes he'd lose track of time or things around him."
	"Or people around him?"
	"Or people. A person might think he was in some kind of trance."
	"But did he ever try to talk to you about what I said - about...about... visions?"
	She studied me with pained eyes, afraid to ask the question that was forming, about how I knew about that. Finally she blurted,
	"Maybe he did, maybe he did," then stronger, "I just don't want to think about that. It belongs to things that are beyond humans - things that men shouldn't get involved in."
	"But if it's something a person can't help - if it's something that just happens to you because of who you are?"
	"Then it should be resisted with every strength that person has."
	"You mean you should deny your own self?"
	A shadow formed over her brow. It was the visor, still open, but poised. She looked older than before.
	"Andy, my life the last ten years has been like one long punishment. One by one my family has been taken from me until you are the only one left.  I don't want our life to be one long fight. I just hoped we could still talk like we used to - like the times we were all happy together."
	"I'm the only one left? What about Danny? You talk like he was dead, too."
	"Danny's like your father - we just don't communicate."
	Things were very quiet as that sank in for both of us. Finally, I said,
	"I thought you said you really knew Pa."
	Outside the day had grown brighter, but a cool wind, at times gusting up, whistled through the screen door, foretelling the changing season. Inside, the shadow moved lower over my mother's face.
	"Maybe I knew my mother better," she said. "She's the only one in this family I could really talk to - who gave me the words I needed. Do you want to know what she told me?"
	I waited.
	"She told me that no matter what horrors or sadness life brings you, if you concentrate on it, you can put anything out of your mind."
	I sat back even more amazed.
	"That's it? You can forget anything? That's your formula for happiness?"
	"Andy."
	The image of the great eraser falling endlessly through the pages formed itself to me. And I thought it had come from my father. A rage built. Here was a woman who never threw out things but who could vacuum her mind whenever it suited her.
	"You spend your life learning things so you can forget them? What happens if you wipe out your whole mind before it's time to die? Does your head slowly disappear from the inside out? These are words for life? You're telling me how to die!"
	“Andy!”
	I stopped. She looked as though she'd been slapped hard, but covered it quickly. Carefully she collected the dirty plates and silver and arranged them neatly before her.
	“I had hoped that there was still some way for us...but I guess not. I'm leaving for Glendale tomorrow morning. I want you to go with me.”
	“I want to stay here.”
	“The summer's over. I'm sure they can manage without you. You could help me drive. You don't want to take the bus, do you?”
	“I don't want to go to Glendale at all. I can't stand that school again - or those kids.”
	“And what will you do here?”
	"I'll go to school - work for Frank.”
	"You've told him this?" 
	“No, but I will.”
	“He'll be delighted, I'm sure.”
	Now the visor descended and closed firmly and finally with a precise little clink. When she looked up her manner was totally changed.
	“Now I will tell you this only once,” she said. “Tomorrow morning I will leave at 9:30. That gives you plenty of time to arrange things. If you don't go with me, do not consider my house to be your home anymore."
	There was nothing more for it. I got up and went to the door. Then I turned. She still sat at the table, her face drained, calm, passionless - the banker at her desk after her latest foreclosure.
	"I know one thing you've definitely got wrong," I said. "Danny's like you; I'm like my father."

TAPE THIRTEEN									3/9/86
	
	After my mother told me all that, what I did was I went back to the dorm and told everyone that I'd have to take off the next day very unexpectedly. Frank seemed like he already knew. I packed all my things and said the usual stuff and everyone put on the usual sad face. The next morning I took off in the direction of the cabin, but when I was out of sight I went up to the top of the hill instead.
	There were some boulders there that had spaces between them, sort of like caves. I shoved my suitcase into one of them and covered it with some pine needles. Then I crawled down into another one. For the rest of the day I did a kind of self-hypnosis against the hunger and the wait and the cramped position and sort of dozed away the time.
	When it got dark I crawled out. I was stiff as hell, but managed to work my way very carefully over to the cabin. I was worried my mother'd told Frank and that he'd set a watch for me, but as it turned out, she hadn't.  What she had done was to have a hinged hasp and a big padlock installed on the front door. I went down to Grandpa's room to think about that for a while, but I knew I couldn't stay there. What I wanted was upstairs, if it was there at all.
	Then I remembered my father had built a small cabinet under the back porch where he left some emergency tools. My mother 'd forgotten to clean them out, so what I did was I took a big old rock hammer, went back to the front door and just beat hell out of the lock. It never broke, but the hasp finally fell off. I waited under the porch for a while to see if anyone would come check about the noise. When they didn't, I went in.
	I was hungry. The night before I'd raided the main kitchen for a few things I thought wouldn't be missed. In my hurry I only got some Oreo cookies and a few canned things. Now I saw that the cans were all fruit cocktail. Still, it tasted good at the time.
	After my forced rest all day, I didn't want to go to bed, but I couldn't take a chance on putting on lights. So I turned on the big old radio console very low, lay down on the coiled rope rug in the living room and eventually fell asleep listening to mountain news and country ballads.
	The next day I really started to search that place. My idea was that somehow my father, using his special skills had tapped into some kind of hole in the universe, a place where you could see not only through space but through time forever - a place where you could know everything.
	I remembered pretty well where I'd seen the ladder on the platform in my vision. It was close to the edge on the lake side, where the three bay windows were now. But my father and grandfather were standing on the ladder, pretty high up, when they saw whatever it was. I figured that would put their heads about the height of the present ceiling, or maybe above it.
	For the next couple days I tried moving a chair all around the first floor, standing on it a different heights, but nothing happened. Then I tried crawling all around the floor on the west side of the attic, but although there was a window there, it was much higher than a ladder could reach from the first floor, and the only visions I got staring at the base of the wall were of dust balls.
	One day when it was pretty cloudy and blustery with the feel of fall and a hint of snows to come, I even crawled out the window and, half-panicked, braced myself on the steep, five-sided roof that covered the bay end of the living room. I felt a few twinges of something, but that could have been plain terror at hanging thirty feet above scrub oaks and boulders. I got back in quick.
	One thing I did notice during those days was the construction of the cabin. My father was well-known for what he could do with wood, especially knotty pine, the major construction material of the mountains. Some of the most ornate buildings in the area had been done by him and filled with fancy moldings or gingerbread - whatever the owner wanted. Yet when he did his own cabin, although he could have scrounged all the luxury he wanted, he did it with the greatest simplicity. There wasn't an extra line in the place; everything had its function. In stark contrast to the disciplined opulence of Barzani's place, simplicity seemed all, but was it? Or was there another purpose?		
	In the year after Grandpa's death my father had finished all the paneling of the cabin. The selection of boards for the lining was immaculate. I studied everything. Although the boards stood vertically, their grains blended perfectly across the rooms - dark bands swirling into light, knots dancing abstractly to some hidden rhythm, the walls tied invisibly into the ceiling, and the whole almost hermetically sealed against other elements so that only the strongest blasts of wind or storm could be heard when all the doors and windows were closed.
	Lines gradually caught my attention, lines of grain, knots, paneling. They carried the eye to a convergence. Where? It seemed to be in the bay windows, but for all my staring and probing and wishing beyond what any kid ever wished for happiness lost or glory to be found, there was nothing. No feelings or emotions or even twinges, certainly no visions. I only thought of one thing, only one idea moved me. When I slept, I didn't dream. I was becoming as closed and void and sealed off as the cabin itself.
	A couple of times I left the house in the evening to buy some goods at a little store on the main highway. I stayed off paths, but no one who knew me saw me. I'd been in the cabin about a week, and a lot of the summer crew had gone home during that time. The girl at the store didn't know me because I hadn't gone in there much.
	I guess I didn't buy very good food - nothing that had to be cooked and I was losing some weight. Still I stayed at the cabin. I didn't know what else to do. I'd given up looking much. I was sleeping a lot, and I started to have dreams. There was one of a comet or some burning ball that streaked through space and then exploded against something. I saw that one several times.
	Then early one morning I woke up in a dead sweat. I'd seen the flaming ball again, but this time it turned slightly; the comet's tail shifted behind the ball, and it came straight at me until I could see it had a face: my father's. Before it reached me, though, a huge concrete post loomed up, and the fireball crashed into it.
	Gradually I calmed down. I pulled off my T-shirt and mopped my face and arms. I'd been sleeping in the attic, and through the window I could see tree tops against the first light of dawn. Going down to the kitchen, I poured some cereal and sat at a little table that was there in the corner.
	I was still shaken by the dream, but the fear was being replaced by a growing anger. We'd always eaten at the big round oak table in the bay, but my mother's one contribution that summer was to sell it to that asshole antique dealer who you knew just sanded it and varnished it a little and sold it for ten times what he paid my mother. Fuckin' scavenger. Ransoming one generation to the next. Bloodsucker!
	I raged around the kitchen screaming at the cupboards, insulting the stove, pounding the refrigerator. Finally I grabbed the little table and carried it into the living room and installed us both square in the middle of the bay. Gradually, the fear driven out, the rage drained away. I returned to the corn flakes which tasted a little better for all that
	For some reason, though, there was a smell of burnt firecrackers in the front room. I thought maybe it came from the old wood stove that needed cleaning. Then I began to hear something, a shimmery, shattery sort of thing, like slivers of glass sliding down a polished plane and piling up at the bottom. I'd closed all the curtains, sick of searching for nothing, but through a slight crack in the one on the left third of the bay there appeared to be some strange light. I got up and pulled it open. Only the lake showed black in the gathering greys of dawn.
	I went back to the table, but again the sound came. This time, still seated, when I looked out the window the sun had broken over the hills behind the house. Its rays were falling on the lake, but they were actually moving down in a stream, like I could see the photons moving in slow motion drop by drop - millions of small suns moving as dewdrops down spider silk into the lake which soaked all up in its shining mass, more mercury than water. There were no mountains holding in the lake now. It flowed out to the horizon, and there a huge red moon, covering half the black sky, was slowly setting.
	I guess it was over an hour that I sat there watching the scene develop - maybe it was longer. All the walls faded, and I floated alone over a world never seen by man. Then, gradually, the walls came back until I was at the table again. Outside it was mid-morning on a bright, late-summer day.
	At first I was disappointed to be back. I jumped up and ran to the window trying to recapture the vision. Finally I calmed down, but the next second I was up again, this time on a total high. Everything I'd always felt inside about my father was vindicated. It was all true.  I jumped around. I rolled around. I giggled. I cried. I hugged myself. I hugged the ugly little table. And then I just sat, drained and delighted.
	When finally I could think again, my first thought was how it could have been so simple and never have been discovered before. I began to measure with an old yardstick. I figured out that if you made a line at right angles from the center of each of the three large windows, the three lines crossed at an apex exactly where I'd put my chair. But why had it never been noticed? Even if I were the only one with the ability, I'd sat in that bay plenty of times.
	Then I remembered the old oak table. Grandpa had found it at some sale and had installed it there almost as soon as the cabin was finished, even though Grandma had always said it was too homely and too big. It took up most all of the bay and stuck out into the living room. With it there it was impossible to sit at the apex of the windows' triangle. I'd sat around that table countless times and had no idea.
	I wondered why, though, I could see the visions sitting down when Grandpa and my father had clearly been on a ladder, at least in my vision. Then one night, as I was coming back from a run to the market, I saw the reason. In my vision, there had been a large boulder between me and the platform of the house. The floor, as my father first built it, was farther down the slope of the hill. During that winter he must have torn the whole thing down and rebuilt it over the boulder, at least six feet higher.
	Slowly I realized that all the details of the house's construction were driven at one goal, the one purpose I was using it for now. It was a huge collector of images, a camera on the universe, a viewing station through time and space. The solid construction contained it all, and the bay windows were its lenses.
	For the next few days I hardly slept unless I passed out for a while over the table. I couldn't take the chance of missing something. But there was no way to force the visions. I knew that. They happened or they didn't.
	The next one came the day after the first, but-a little after noon instead of at daybreak. And it came through the right window instead of the left. I was leaving all the curtains open at all times now and hoping no one would notice.
	This vision came like the other. First the sulfury smell, then a low sound - this time a humming - then a view through the window, then a fading away of the house so that I floated into and through the thing itself. It wasn't as thrilling as the first. I moved over a dead planet, only rocks except for areas of tremendous volcanoes and lava flows, no water, no plants, only burning heat from the planet itself and from its sun.
	When it finally ended and I came back to myself I was drenched, and the parts of my arms and legs that weren't covered by my T-shirt or shorts were badly sunburned. I stripped and showered and rubbed cream on the burns and decided I'd dress better the next time.
	A pattern developed. The visions never happened at night, so I brought a bed into the living room and slept more. The rest of the day was pretty boring for a kid - just sitting and waiting, but when the visions came they were worth it. There was no set time when they happened and some days went by with nothing. The visions never came from the middle window, and I came to believe it wasn't one of the lenses. For the other two windows, though, I began to sense a rhythm. The one on the left was growing more and more chaotic to the point where it scared me to see something start there. The trips through that lens were always cosmic - giant slides through space with no time evident. The places were unbelievable, and at times the violence of star collisions and explosions was so wild, so far beyond anything conceived on earth that I always felt, when I found myself in the chair once again, that I'd returned from death itself.
	The right window was different. It seemed to be an opening on the earth. Maybe it was a view of the same place where I was, but as it had been at different times. As I traveled over it, gradually the burned rocks rose and fell and softened and water appeared, then life forms - small plants, then trees, then animals. Each time the life was more complex and more varied. There were jungles and enormous flowers and animals I'd never seen.
	Finally one day, about three weeks after it had all started, I could feel something forming on that side. There was a lake. I could see it was Tahoe, but there were no roads or houses or casinos. It was all wild and natural, but recognizeable. I moved over the lake to a little cove I knew. It was about two miles north of us and had about the clearest water I'd ever seen. If you were in a boat you seemed to float in air above the lake bottom. Sometimes a bunch of us boys would take a motorboat there and skinny dip or fish or explore an old camp no one used anymore.
	In the vision an Indian couple came down to the cove and sat for a while talking. Then they took off their leather clothes and swam. The man was thin, but strong looking. The woman reminded me a little of Marlene. They looked so graceful turning and circling around each other and playing. They moved together and had sex in the water and then again on the beach, and then I was back in the room.
	One the one hand it was really beautiful and all. On the other, I didn't feel very good. In fact, I felt like crying, and I couldn't say why. For some reason what I'd seen was almost worse than the chaos of the other window.
	For the first time I left the house during the.daytime and spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the woods.
	The next day was bad from the start. During the night, winds howled around the cabin, and I slept fitfully. The morning never saw sun, and the overcast grew gloomier by midday. Apprehensive, I didn't sit at the table all morning, but sometime in the afternoon I made a sandwich and sat there to eat it.
	The storm was growing. A couple of times lightning hit the lake. The wind whipped up large waves and whitecaps covered everything. The room darkened. Then through the middle window I noticed something strange. There were a couple of two-story houses on the point, right next to the lake, but I could only see their top floors; the lake was rising. As I watched, the water covered the houses completely, swallowed up huge pines and began rising up the hill, claiming cabins below ours, showing no sign of peaking out.
	Panicked, I broke out of the apex and ran to the window hoping it was just a vision and that my movement would stop it. But it was really happening; the house was completely surrounded by water. Only a few tree tops from the hill below us still showed. Then I noticed something that chilled me totally. The boulders that lay under the water around the point were also rising with the lake. But, as I had feared as a kid, they weren't exactly rocks. They seemed to be the slimy backs of animals: great ponderous bifurcated globes that roiled and bumbled and bumped against each other. Their scrawny, naked necks were visible, rising from below, writhing like snakes, striving to break the water. Finally, there in the depths, among the awakening, monstrous forms, a yellow eye opened and looked back at me, and I could see the reptile grin.
	The waves broke now around the base of our cabin. I could feel their pounding shake the place. I could hear the moans and shrieks of the beasts. Terrified, I backed from the window. Somehow I got to the curtain cords and closed them all. Still the pounding continued, still the groans and roars, and then the screech of batting boards being wrenched from the outside wall of the basement, the trembling of the floorboards as the huge bodies crowded in and pounded with their stiffening necks, trying to break through. Any minute the floor boards would give.
	I turned and turned, but there was no way out. Even my insides wanted escape, and in my helplessness everything rose up. I vomited all over. Still the floor buckled up from the pressure below. I ran to my mother's room and crawled under the blankets to the bottom of the bed, as I had when I was a little kid. Then she'd told me I'd suffocate. Now I wanted to. Still the pounding - now muffled - continued. Still I hid in terror.
	It went on for hours. Maybe I passed out. When I came out, the living room was dark. I found the light and saw that everything was still there. Everything was calm. Timidly I cracked the front door. A waning moon hung over the forest, and there was the wet cardboardy smell of pine trees and granite sand after rain. I went out on the porch a while. It scared me to look at the lake, but it was in the same place as always and very calm now.
	When I went back, I could smell the mess I'd made and started to get something to clean it up. Then I realized most of the smell was from me. My T-shirt was vomited, my jeans were soaked, and I could feel that I'd shit my shorts totally. In a rage I tore them all off.
	"You mad bastard!" I screamed. "You crazy son of a bitch! So this is your window on the universe! Your great time camera! It's just another fuckin' house of mirrors. That's all you bastards can do. All your science. All your fuckin’ genius. Just mirror tricks. It's all reflections. You cocksuckin' bastard. Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch! God damn you! God damn your fuckin' ass! At least Barzani's mirrors just showed me my skin. You miserable, miserable, miserable asshole! I hope you rot. I hope you burn forever! Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!"
	And then, to my horror, a ripple passed across the closed curtains, as though something was moving behind them, and there came a low, hopeless moan. Everything that had ever thought of being a hair on my body stood up and began shooting electric charges at all the others. My skin crackled and burned. I broke from the house and ran as hard as I could. I fell over some boulders and landed in a pile of scrub oak. It cut my legs up pretty badly, but I got up and just kept going. Finally I found myself at the top of the hill between the same two boulders as the first day. I fell between them and prayed every formula I could remember, but when I stopped, there was no absolution. There was only a vast black lake and two dead rocks sending out streamers of cold to bind me to them.
	I stumbled back to the house and fumbled under the back porch until I found Grandpa's keys. To my amazement his room really had withstood the beasts. It was still warm. His shower cleaned me. His bed folded me in.
	When I woke up the next morning I was hungry. The problem was that all the food and money were upstairs. I thought about that quite a while. At last I figured I had to try. My clothes were all upstairs, but I made do with some more of Danny's old stuff. I went to the back door, planning to get in and out fast. Even from the kitchen the smell was bad. There seemed to be some buzzing from the living room, like flies, and - worse -something in there was pulling at me, trying to draw me in. Very fast, I grabbed what food I could and got out.
	After eating, I thought a lot about what to do; then I slept some more.
	When I woke up, I still didn't have a plan. I guessed I'd have to talk to Frank, but then he'd probably check the house, and that would be hard to explain.
	A glint caught my eye. Sun, shining through a crack in the curtains, was reflecting off Grandpa's keys, which I'd thrown on the desk. In particular, it was shining off a little gold key I'd never noticed before.
	When I checked it out, it looked like something that would fit a desk, and when I tried it on Grandpa's desk, the drawers opened. I guess the desk hadn't been opened since Grandpa died. Some drawers were empty, and there was the usual desk stuff. But laid neatly on top of everything in the top drawer was a group of papers stapled together. It was one of his sermons. The date was when I was eight years old. When I began to read it, I even remembered him giving it.
	It started with a story. Grandpa usually did that. He called his jokes or stories "hookers," because they hooked the audience and made them listen. This was a story taken from some Spanish fables, he said. It was about an old couple who helped a guy who turned out to be a wizard. The wizard gave them three wishes (of course), one for him, one for her, and one to be wished together.
	They were really poor people and had never thought much about things outside their daily routine. The old lady finally came up with the idea that she could wish for a sewing machine to earn some extra money. The old man pointed out that they didn't have electricity to run the machine. Then he thought that if he wished for a mule he could get more work done, but the old lady said they didn't have anything to feed an animal.
	After sitting quiet for a while, the old man finally took the mental leap of his life. "Why are we talking about sewing machines and mules," he cried. "We could know the secrets of the universe, we could see it all, we could be masters of everything." Then he fell back in his chair, exhausted and suffering a monster headache he usually got when he thought for any length of time.
	He remembered that food usually helped his headaches, and, without thinking, he said, "I wish I had a big chorizo right now." Immediately a thick, beautiful chorizo (which is a Spanish sausage) was on the table in front of him.
	His wife was pissed as hell that he could be so selfish with his wish, and she screamed, "I wish that damned thing was stuck up your nose." So the chorizo started flying around the room after the old man who was trying like crazy to escape out the door, his hands over his nose. He tripped, and the monster chorizo stuck itself halfway up his right nostril.
	Grandpa went on about the moral predicament in all this, plus the fact that an embedded chorizo is damned painful. Finally, of course, they had to accept that they were what they'd always been - bound to each other and they had to use the last wish to get rid of the thing.
	The way Grandpa told all this was a little racy, and I remember people looking around like someone had farted, like this wasn't such a good church story. It had embarrassed me a little, but he went on about life selecting life, rather than material things or unachievable dreams. He said God was known best by man if he was met in his creations, especially in other humans, even though this was often very frustrating because humans were so imperfect, like the story showed. Then he threw in some Bible passages to make it all sound respectable.
	There was a lot in there about the beauty of the relationship between a man and a woman and how if this holds on and matures it comes out to more than just one plus one equal two. I thought about the Indian couple and what I could sense between them and how it was a lot more than I could ever feel about Brigitta but maybe could have found with Marlene.
	Then I began to wonder why that particular sermon happened to be right there, like it had been waiting for me for eight years. It wasn't Grandpa's last sermon - like he just put it down and died. And why had I never noticed that desk key before then? The cabin had become a den of spirits fighting for my head. I didn't like it.
	I suppose Grandpa could lecture me if he felt like it. He'd let me use his room all summer for immoral purposes, and he was protecting me now. It was a pretty good sermon, but I guess what I wondered about Grandpa - about all ministers - was whether he really knew what the alternatives were to his remedies.
	And then it hit me. Then I knew what was really wrong about my vision of him and my father. It wasn't that my father went and jacked up the floor; it was that Grandpa hadn't looked. Most of the time they were on the ladder Grandpa was looking back - in my direction - rather than toward the lake. He'd looked quickly, then, almost immediately, had turned away. My father had never noticed, he was so excited.
	"Oh, Grandpa, don't you see that what you say would mean so much more if it matched what you did? How do you overcome temptation if you never face it? If you'd faced it, if you just knew what it was and could still preach to me - that would mean everything. I know you were loyal to my father; you took care of him, but you didn't know him. He was your burden, but did you love him? He may have been mad, but he was human, too. Why did you carry that cross if you didn't love it - just for the world to see?
	"I did face it, Grandpa. I know what it is, and I know its price, and I may have to pay it."
	I looked around that little room - a box already halfway under the hillside. Only a few more feet down lay the end of the trip. I looked at the food - some soggy vanilla wafers, a few cans, no can opener. I went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Danny's clothes hung on me more than ever. I took them off. All that summer of building up, and in a few weeks I was down to bones. A few pounds less, a few feet down, what was the alternative - to go like my father did? I turned off the lights and got back in bed.

	Sometime later the bed moved a little. How much later, I don't know. I'd been drifting in and out of dreams for a long time - probably a couple of days. I tried to lift my head, but it was hard to do. Finally, I looked around. Frank was sitting on the foot of the bed. I smiled a little.
	"Hey, Frank," I thought, "old friend come to lighten my day. Tell me something happy, Frank, a joke about Grandpa, a story about the old days. Whatcha say, Frank?"
But he said nothing. He just sat there with eyes that showed he'd seen it before. I didn't have time for that, so I rolled back to the wall.
	Somehow he got me to his house - picked me up, blankets and all, and carried me, I guess. His wife squawked and screamed and insisted Frank call the doctor, but he said no, no hospital. He brought a cot into their front room, which was right over the lake, put me down on it and began to force me to drink tea and soup and stuff like that.
	For the first few days he watched me pretty carefully, so I wouldn't do weird things, I guess, but then he left me more to his wife and went back to his jobs of getting the grounds ready for winter. Helen Harmon was short, which always looked funny next to Frank's height, and she was nervous next to his calm, but she was as tough as he was. When she told me to eat, I ate.
	I stayed with them a few weeks. Helen made about every kind of fattening food she could think of, and I ate most of it. After a few days I felt stronger and began to walk around. Mainly, I was sick of the noise of the lake so close to the house, and I didn't like being so near the rocks.
	After a week or so, Frank let me help him on some projects, but I could sense him watching me closely. Sometimes it seemed he was watching a ghost. It wasn't like we'd been during the summer. I wondered if there was some hope for my idea of going to school in Bijou, but I didn't find a good time to bring it up.
	Then one day I found my suitcase in the spare bedroom they'd let me use once they were convinced I wouldn't slit my throat with the silverware. Frank said that Helen had washed and folded all my clothes. He said it was time to go home and get on with school and the rest of my life. He would call the bus to stop the next day, and I should pack. All my things were there. We never talked about how he got them.
TAPE FOURTEEN								4/1/86

	When I got to Glendale, no one was at the bus station. I guess Frank had called my mother, but it didn't surprise me much that she wasn't there. I'd never called a taxi before, so I just carried my stuff the mile or so to the house. The key was in its usual place, and there was food. And that was about how it was the rest of the time I lived there. There was a roof and a bed and food if I cooked it. Anything else I needed I had to ask for or get for myself. I never asked for anything.
	Going back to school was strange.  You know how, when you go back to a place after a long time, you expect it to be the same? I guess schools don't change much, but it really did seem like I'd gone back a year in time. Kids were still standing around the flagpole before the first bell, and there was my old group by the front door, plus or minus a few. I almost expected Marlene to come out the door any minute in her red pants.
	But it wasn't the same. It wasn't the first day of school, for one thing. It was almost the end of October. And this time as I approached the group, I wasn't ignored. They made such a deal of it, it was almost stupid. At first they didn't recognize me. Helen's food had gotten me big again, and I guess my face had changed a lot. Everyone had some question or comment, but you could see that they were mostly amazed as hell. Al was there, but we couldn't say much. Finally, the bell rang, but that kind of reaction continued all day, and from a lot of kids I hardly knew.
	It turned out that Marlene was there, after all, at least in a way. Almost everyone who talked to me brought her up. A lot of them thought we'd run away together. It seemed that her big appearance at the prom was still being chewed over. A lot of guys had this conspiratorial look, like I was really clever to figure out what a babe she was. And you knew they were aching to ask more.
	I just said she was going to art school in Philadelphia and that I'd lived for a while with my relatives in the mountains. They could believe what they wanted - and they did.
	Then about a week later Marlene came up again. We were eating lunch, and someone said something about Pop-tarts for breakfast. Right away asshole Billy Finley mouthed off that I preferred to eat wop-tarts.
	My fist just launched itself and pulled me after it across the lunch table and all over Finley. After they got us apart I was suspended again for a week, and Finley was missing a tooth which they never found. I guess he swallowed it.
	A couple of days later I was lying in the back yard, catching some sun and reading when I heard the gate open. It was Al. I was really glad to see him. There was a lot that I wanted to talk to someone about, and he'd always been my best friend. He'd been working so much I'd hardly seen him since I got back, but right off I could sense something different about him.
	He said hi and then got right into what was on his mind before I could say anything.
	"Look, my aunt asked me if I'd talk to you."
	"Your aunt?"
	"Yeah, it seems like someone's going after Billy and her pretty hard. They took a shot through his bedroom window, and the next day the tires on her car were slit."
	"And you think I'm doing that shit?"
	"Nah, nah, it's nothing like that. I already found out it's Leo Frank or some of his buddies. I just wondered if you'd say something to him. Kids say you know him pretty well."
	"Know him pretty well?"
	"Well they say you double dated with him to the prom last year and that he was dating that girl before you did."
	"Man, Al, I don't know what they had going, but there's no way he and I are friends. I don't even know where he lives."
	"Well, that's another thing. He always hangs around that pool hall where your brother works."
	We talked a while more, and Al tried to put a good face on it. You could tell he didn't like to be asking me for things. It wasn't at all like it used to be between us. In the end I said I'd try to do something if I could. 
	I told Dan about it, and he called the next afternoon to say that Leo was at the pool hall. I went over and found him there shooting eight ball by himself. No one else was there except Dan who waved to me from behind the bar. I walked over to the pool table.
	"Hi, Leo."
	"Hey, little Thomas. Whadaya say? I haven't seen you around in a while. Of course, I don't run in those circles lately. Whatcha been doing?"
	"Oh, not much. The usual. I was up north for a few months, and you know how school is."
	"I can't say I spend much time thinking about it."
	"What've you been doing now that you're out of it?"
	I thought about asking him if he was going to college, but that would be rubbing his nose in it too much. After all, I'd come to ask something from him.
	"Oh, I'm just what you'd call hanging around between things. I do little jobs here and there."
	Yeah, like terrorizing kids and slitting ladies' tires.
	"You want to shoot a game?" he asked. "Don't tell me you shoot like your brother."
	"No, I've never practiced too much. I'm really not too hot at it."
	"Well, then what brings you to this lovely establishment? I can't say I've seen you around here much. Just come to say hello to your brother?"
	"No, actually, I was looking for you."
	Tenseness was breaking my voice, so I just got right to the point.
	"It's about Billy Finley. That is, someone in his family thinks I asked you to give him some trouble, and they came to me to ask you to stop. I told them I didn't tell you what to do, but they asked me anyway."
	"You're damn right you don't tell me what to do. No one tells me what to do. You hear that?"
	"Yeah, Leo, right. That's what I told them."
	"What's this 'them?' You mean Finley's cousin, Al Bates, don't you? He's your big buddy, isn't he?"
	"Well, yeah, Al did say something to me."
	"Well, why doesn't he come to me then? I know him."
	"It's got to do with this fight Finley and I had. I got suspended, and Al came by and brought it up. It sort of pissed me off, too, that he'd come to me, but I said I'd talk to you. It's Finley's mother, really. She's having nervous attacks and calling the cops and all."
	I said the word "cops" pretty pointedly.
	"So you came here to threaten me with the cops?"
	"No, no. Me threaten you? No way. But, I mean, if you were giving Finley trouble on my account - I mean as a favor to me - it really isn't necessary. He's an asshole, but he's mostly all mouth. I think he'll knock it off now, after all this."
	At that Leo really heated up.
	"And who the hell d'ya think you are? As a favor to you? I'm not saying I'm doin' anything to anybody, but if something unfortunate happened to this particular little shithead, it wouldn't have a goddam fuckin' thing to do with you. Someone says something to you, and you come running down here like you're pulling my strings. Like some angel of mercy come to straighten me out. Well, I'll tell you, buddy, this is my thing, and if I'm doing something it's because you haven't got the guts to do it for yourself."
	"Do what for myself?"
	"You should have killed the little shit for what he said. Or at least left him so he wouldn't talk again, or walk again or something so that he'd know what it is to take people's names in vain. Her name should never be fouled by his mouth. When I get done, it won't ever be again."
	Leo's force really caught me off guard. Even Danny looked over to see what was going on. I had really been on the wrong track. I'd been stupid enough to think that Leo had formed some protective attachment to me. Now I knew it was Marlene, love of Marlene, that was driving him, even to kill. Something really began to churn inside me. It was a mix of jealousy of what he and Marlene might have done together combined with some desire to separate my feelings for her from whatever a pig like Leo might feel. I studied him for a minute. He was heavier than the year before, and his hair had gotten shaggy, not all greased back like in high school. That someone like that could feel he had a right even to her memory was more than I could stand. But he raved on.
	"The trouble with all you classy assholes is you're weak as hell. You think being cool, being smooth, is the way to handle things. And what happens to you? Some little creep, some foulmouthed little shit can say whatever he likes, even about someone like her."
	This last was said in a tone like some priest talking about Mary.
	"Hey, well, man, Leo," I sputtered, "I stand up for what I believe in. I've had some fights, and Finley didn't even get the words out of his mouth when I jumped in."
	"Yeah, I know about your fights. Wimp against wimp. And even then you were lucky you didn't get your ass creamed. Let me tell you something. Guys like you - at the same time you're swinging at a guy you're praying it's all over. While you're fighting you're dreaming about shaking hands and making up. You think fights are some interruption of your coolness."  He drew out the "cool."
	"Buddy," he went on, "fights never stop. As long as you're alive you're in some fight, and the second you let up they know you're weak. I never let up, and that's the big difference between you and me. You're weak and what's worse, you show it. She was strong, about the strongest I've ever seen; I never could see why she let you come around her."
	That really got to me. Now the poison shot all through my brain and drove out the fear. Quietly, deliberately, insinuating as hell, I said,
	"Leo, just what was your relationship with Marlene?"
	His face went deep red.
	"What do you mean, 'my relationship?"'
	"I mean, what were you to each other?"
	Then amazingly, his control went altogether. In a cracked voice he stammered,
	"You mean, was I screwing her like you were?"
	Danny looked up again.
	"Did she tell you that?"
	"Tell, hell, who didn't know that?"
	"Who knew it? I've never said anything like that to anyone."
	"Oh, no, not you. Not a word. Cool as a cucumber. Not a word to anyone, and everyone knows everything. A real temple of virtue, but you just want ass like the rest of the cats. You'll even come down to the gutter for that."
	But I wasn't distracted by all that. I pushed deeper.
	"Well, were you - screwing her?"
	Leo came back to himself, and his rage began to spill out, betraying him again.
	"Mr. Clean, Mr. Classy-ass wants to know about my 'relationship' with Marlene. Well, figure it out for yourself, buddy; figure it out for yourself. You saw us together. You saw the time she spent with me. You think a guy like me hangs around a gal just to talk?" he screamed. "Figure it out for yourself."
	I had.
	The last thing I'd gone there for was to pick a fight with Leo Frank. And yet there he was making all the noises of a man who'd just lost. Without taking a swing, without a blow landing, I'd beaten him on his own ground. I watched as all of this filtered through to him, as the realization of what he'd admitted made itself clear.
	Now a steely calm encased his fury. Slowly he moved around the pool table toward me, holding the cue with the thick end up. Danny was all eyes now, and I saw him reach under the bar for something. Maybe Leo noticed that movement, too. For some reason, I felt tremendously calm as I nonchalantly circled the table myself, keeping slightly out of Leo's reach.
	"Take it easy, Leo. I know what a stud you are. How could anyone doubt it?"
	"You worthless little shit I'm going to beat in that pretty face, I'm going to drive this thing right through that great brain, that wise-ass, know-it-all brain."
	"Marlene often told me what a great man you were. She said maybe I could learn some things from you.  Maybe she thought we could be buddies," I said, twisting the blade.
	He stopped his advance and stared at me like he was dizzied by this sudden reversal. He glanced at Danny, whose hand was still under the bar, and then back at me like some great beast caught in a trap he couldn't figure out. Then his shoulders sagged; he lay the cue on the table and stared at his hands for a while. When he looked back at me the light from the green-shaded lamp hanging between us just caught the tear that was forming.
	"She was just a piece of ass to you," his voice cracked. "Why didn't you just ask me? I could have gotten you as much ass as you wanted, any way you wanted. But instead you just used her and drove her out. She was - she was..."
	He couldn't finish.
	I suppose that, if I couldn't feel any sympathy, at least the shock of what had just happened should have slowed me up. Danny was leaning on the bar looking like he'd just seen a train wreck. But something in me that I'd only felt once in a while - like when I won a race or sometimes after sex - rose up and took me over. I just wanted to finish Leo off. Any emotion left my eyes. In the same dry, measured tone as before I said to him,
	"What went on between Marlene and me is none of your goddam business. Naturally, a guy like you'd only see it in terms of ass. Did she tell you she was going? Did she write to you? How much do you think you meant to her? I'm going to Philadelphia next summer to be with her. We'll probably get married in a couple of years."
	Leo looked up at me sharply, knowingly. I waited for him to say something like that was all bullshit, but instead, unconsciously, in the ancient homage of the tough guys to the smart guys, he dropped his eyes slightly and hesitated. He wasn't quite sure. Instead he said,
	"You'll never see her again. You don't even want to."
	God how I hated the asshole! It was just too much. After all the shit I'd gone through that summer, for him to say I didn't love Marlene was more than I could take. I wanted to jump up on the table, grab the cue and beat the living shit out of him. I wanted to decapitate him, to disembowel him, to dismember him, to grab his limbs and spray his blood all over the pool hall. But then...that would be giving up my only advantage over him. Very dryly, very condescendingly, I came back,
	"I'll see her before you will, Leo."
	He turned and walked over to the bar where he threw himself down on a stool and dropped his head on his arms. Danny went to get him a beer and signaled me with his head to get the hell out of there. I waved at Dan as I left, but he just shook his head.
	I didn't know what to feel after all that. I guess I should have felt pretty good, but mainly I was just tired. Life put you through such shit. So you screwed someone like Leo Frank into the ground. What did it get you? And then there was that shitty little something that nagged around the edges. What was it? I put it out of my mind then, but now that I think back about it, I wonder. Could it have been doubt? Did I think Leo might have been right? Or worse, was I really sure who loved Marlene better?
	I expected nothing but trouble the way that school year started, but then things began to turn up. A year before I'd been so worried about popularity, but after all I'd been through, I didn't give a damn about that anymore. And yet popularity of a sort - or at least notoriety plus a certain respect - did come along. It really had more to do with illusion than anything else.
	Take toughness, for example. I'd developed a little reputation there, especially after the thing with Robertson the year before. When we came back from suspension, he still had a hell of a black eye. He told everyone it was from bumping my elbow - which was true - but it seemed like not many believed him. And I really had whipped Finley’s ass, but he was mostly just all mouth.  Leo was right about me, though: I wasn't a fighter. A bad temper had gotten me into fights and luck had gotten me out. I knew it couldn't last, so I decided to avoid situations like that as much as I could. Still, the illusion of toughness was there.
	Then there was my supposed friendship with Leo. One day after I got off suspension Al came up to me while I was eating lunch on the lawn behind the school. He thanked me for talking to Leo. I told him again that I hadn't had anything to do with it before or after, but he thanked me again and then walked away with a sarcastic little smile. God damn! I hated that shit-eating little smile. It was like it erased four years of friendship just a stupid-ass smile. I never talked much to Al again after that.
	It was funny, though, that the trouble with Finley did stop. The thing was that Leo just disappeared. Dan wasn't sure what happened to him, but he told me that Leo'd been getting crazier ever since he got out of school the year before, or about the time Marlene left. His hassle with Finley was just the latest thing; the cops had been around the pool hall looking for him for some other stuff also. Dan heard that he'd decided to visit some relatives in San Francisco. At school, though, a lot of kids thought I had something to do with it. I just kept quiet.
	That same week, Ron Holmer, one of the most popular kids in our class, stopped me on the stairs to tell me he thought the principal had been really unfair suspending me and that it was about time someone put Finley down. He invited me to a party at his place that weekend. Stuff like that went on all week. Guys who'd barely talked to me the year before all wanted to get in the good word.
	Sports went pretty well, too. When I got back it was already late in the cross country season, but Soz wanted me to go out anyway. Right off, I won two meets. All the working out at high altitude really paid off. But the truth was my heart wasn't in it, not like the year before. I stayed with running that year and the next, but I never achieved what I could have if I'd really worked at it.
	Soz knew it. At first he tried a lot with me, but gradually he just let off til we really had very little to say to each other. Still, the kids on the track team picked me for captain my senior year, and I even got elected to the student council as athletics commissioner. Such was the power of illusion.
	And then there was sex. The stories about Marlene and me were still going around. After what happened with Finley, anyone who mentioned her to me was pretty careful how he phrased it, but a lot couldn't resist trying to get me to say something. I just kept quiet and let the mystery grow.
	The truth was that by that time I'd developed a pretty fair appetite for sex. I tried to be cool and discreet about it and to only get involved with girls I liked, but I found that the range of girls I could get to like was pretty wide. Of course, things were a lot more uptight those days than now, but that's where the value of a little mystery came in. If it helped my popularity, it was dynamite with the sex life. Nothing attracts like a little danger, and even in those days there were quite a few young ladies who appreciated a man with experience, a closed mouth, and some protection, which I never failed to carry in my wallet. Strangely enough, the more I got, the more the mystery grew, and the easier it was to get more. I never talked about any of them, but somehow they all knew.
	When I think about it, though, I suppose that the main reason why I was pretty successful at getting it while others weren't was that, basically, I needed it, and maybe, despite all their groaning, they didn't. You see, ever since that summer I would get these feelings. It was hard for me to go into dark rooms, and stormy days really got me on edge. It wasn't like I ever thought about...about what I thought about in Grandpa's room. It was funny how Frank watched me those weeks I spent with them, like I might try it again.
	 Like I said, I never intended to do something like that, but I just couldn't seem to see any other way out of that room. When Frank got me out, I never went that way again. Still, whenever I got to feeling nervous after that, it wasn't very long before I'd be looking for a girl. At least for those moments I could drive the darkness away and be a kid a little while longer.
	Generally, though, things went pretty well through the rest of high school. I guess you could say I was successful. I guess you could say I was pretty happy. Gradually I stopped thinking very much about Marlene at all.
	That is, until one day after school, when I found a letter on my dresser. I was a little surprised my mother had brought it all the way back to my room, but then I recognized the handwriting. I guess she knew who it was from, too. Maybe she thought - hoped - I'd run away for good this time.
	I turned the envelope over quickly, before I could see the return address. My head filled up so fast I really couldn't think about things right then. I'd bought some used weights and an old bench which I'd put in the corner of my room. For about half an hour I worked out while my head worked things over. Then I went to the dresser and stared at the back of the envelope again.
	Finally I took it into the kitchen, turned on a stove burner, and set the letter, face down, over the fire. It was sort of thick and took several minutes to burn completely. It was a stupid way to get rid of it because it made a lot of smoke and ashes. I opened a window, but it was hard to see for a while. My eyes seemed very messed up. Still, I managed to get most of the ashes cleaned out of the stove.
	Since summer I'd never really thought seriously about what I'd do if I ever heard from Marlene again. She'd become a little unreal in my mind, like the star of some movie you'd really liked, but hadn't seen for a long time. Actually, a lot of things that had happened before that last summer were looking that way to me. It was getting difficult to think about some things or even remember them.
	And then there was Marlene, herself. It wasn't that I thought she was...what Robertson had said, but she did have problems. And at that point problems were something I definitely did not need more of.
	But the truth is it was really something else that made me burn that letter. It was something her father had said when he came to our house.  It wasn’t that stuff about what happened to Marlene in Chicago.  I didn’t need all the details, but I’d already figured she’d been through something pretty bad.  No, what bothered me was what he’d said about my “gift.”  In the last letter Marlene had written before summer she'd said some stuff like I had this really great gift and that I should learn about it and try to use it for people's good and all that.  I don’t know if that was her idea or if she got it from her father, but I guess one reason I never wrote back to her was that I was afraid she might start up with more stuff like that. I never heard from her or saw her again.

LAST TAPE 									5/21/91

	I’d forgotten that I brought this old tape recorder up here to the lake.  All the tapes are here, too, right where I stuck them under the eaves behind a bunch of old magazines.  I guess no one’s listened to them, or I’d probably have heard about it.  It’s hard to believe it was really five years ago that I recorded all that stuff.  I listened to it all once.  I can't say it really did me that much good. It’s not like things have gotten any better since then.
	When I started all that taping I thought just talking about those things might give them some rest, take some of the pressure off. It did seem to stop the visions. I haven't had another one since Marlene popped up in bed with us that time. But then I haven't been doing much in bed except sleeping. My affliction seems about total now.
	It's not that I haven't tried all kinds of other stuff to cure it. I went to a couple of doctors and even to a shrink. The doctors said there's no physical problem. One of them even had me putting paper tapes around my cock at night to see if I got erections. The idea was that the paper would break. I'll tell you it's not that easy to get to sleep like that, but by morning those little strips were confetti. I could have told him that without all the tape shit just to make it look scientific. Hell, some nights I have trouble sleeping, the thing's hard so much. I just can't fuck.
	The asshole shrink was even worse. I finally told him I'd recorded all this stuff and would he like to listen to it. He said certainly - for $150.00 an hour. Let's just say we didn't get very far.  The price was right with you, Wolly, and you didn’t spout off all that pretentious psychobabble.
	One thing has changed. My wife left me. Actually, I don't know why she stayed so long. I guess she's known about my extramarital stuff for a long time. Hell, she knew what I was when she married me. The thing is, she can't accept that I'm totally impotent. She thinks I'm still getting it on the side and that it's just with her I can't get it up. What can I say? I mean, it's not a hell of a defense to tell your wife, "Don't worry, honey, I can't get it up with anyone else, either." It's billed as a trial separation, but I heard her say that the separation is a success; it's the marriage that was a trial, which I thought was rather clever - for her.
	I finally ended up here at the lake for the first time in about twenty years. There's nothing sentimental about it, really. It's just the only place I can afford, considering it's free. I figured my wife deserved the house after all she's put up with, and it gives the kids a place to come home to when they're in town. I know they'd never stay in the house if I was there.
	I hadn't been working much, anyway, so I took a little money I'd saved up and traveled around and finally ended up here. Actually, it's really Danny's cabin now. My mother left it to him in her will, along with instructions that I was never to come here. But Dan doesn't give a shit. He never uses it 'cause he moved to Florida a few years ago.
	Not many other people are around. The whole place looks pretty run down compared to when Frank was here. They haven't even had conferences for the last few years. The story is that the church plans to sell the whole thing to developers, anyway. They'll probably bulldoze it into condos or casinos, which, God knows, the world needs more of.
	I've pretty much calmed down about the situation now - about being impotent, I mean. There was a while, though, when I went a little crazy. Basically, it was just an exercise in embarrassment. It was like I couldn't just accept it with some grace. No, I had to demonstrate to every woman within reach what a really limp dick looked like.
	In some ways it's a relief all that's over. Most of the ladies I'd been seeing were getting a little long in the tooth, anyway. While I still had it, I tried going with some younger ones, but most of them expect an older guy to flash a lot of money, which I had less and less of. Last year I went with one that reminded me of my daughter, who's 21 now. That definitely put me off.
	At least I never ended up with prostitutes. I suppose morally I'm no better than they are, but if all this is ultimately about the death of illusion, going to whores would really be nailing the coffin.
	And, of course, I tried porno films, thinking that watching others do it might make my cock jealous. No way. I mean, have you ever seen those movies? They have about as little to do with fucking as a course in auto mechanics. 
	First there's about an hour of giving head. If a guy really ate that much pussy he'd have a hell of a dislocated jaw. I mean, just try sticking your tongue out that long.  When the asshole of a director finally does let them go to it, the guy has to fight the camera lens to get in there. Just what is the point of all those organ shots, anyway? If you're hooked up, you're hooked up; so let them get on with it. Why the great fascination with pubic hair?
	If the guy finally does manage to beat out the cameraman, what good does it do him? First he has to lift his leg like a dog pissing on a fire hydrant so that the camera won't miss a stroke; then he has to lean back or do it on his side or dog style or just about any anti-fucking position you can think of.
	The amazing thing is that some of these guys actually make it through to orgasm. Of course, no one comes inside - hell no! The audience has paid their five bucks and are entitled to the full shot, so he pulls out in mid stroke, beats off like mad 'cause he's losing it fast, then at least four cameras close in from different angles and in slow motion as he shoots. One ejaculation lasts about ten minutes and looks like Niagara Falls. Naturally, the lady looks thrilled as hell to get come sprayed all over her. Her mouth is saying something like, "not in my face, asshole," but you hear, "Ooooo, shoot it to me, baby!"
	Watching all that usually got my cock up about as much as eating saltpeter. I do remember one film, though, that was different. The guy just didn't follow the rules. Not only that, the cameraman hadn't gotten all his practice filming auto parts catalogs. I don't even think there was a "director" screwing everyone up. There was a live mike, and you couldn't hear anyone giving directions. The sounds were like what you really would hear. The bed creaked, and they mumbled some stuff I couldn't make out, but, except for some camera noise, it was mostly just the breathing and groaning you'd expect.
	There were some preliminaries, but it seemed like this couple really knew, and maybe liked, each other. They kissed and all, but didn't spend hours giving head before he got in the saddle. The camera drifted around for a closeup, just to let you know they weren't faking it, then moved around to their faces to show they were getting a little glassy-eyed, and then slipped back to a middle distance for the rest of the film. The whole effect was like something you might see it you were peeking out of a closet.
	The thing that really held my attention during the film was that the guy was really fucking. Y'see, what everybody misses is that fucking, I mean really fucking, is an irrational state. You can talk all you want about the beauty of communication and mutual orgasms and the importance of caring for the person you're with, but while you can take somebody with you, they can only get into it by themselves, and in the end, really fucking is about as mindless and careless as you can get. It's really about as lonely as anything else.
	Now you could tell the guy was really into it. He got lower over the gal and drove his knees into the mattress. She wrapped her arms around his back, then he dropped his head onto the pillow, rode up on his forehead and arched his back a little. I would say that he was well over the first wave, but not letting himself move on. In other words, he was riding a high. I knew just what he was doing - concentrating his whole being, everything about him, into that one small point of his body, that little connection that might let him blow himself through completely into oblivion.
	I guess the gal was doing pretty well, too. Sometimes it's not so easy to tell what a woman's feeling, but a clue might be that, in addition to her arms around his back, she had her legs clamped over his butt. He could've gotten up and made a few phone calls without her missing a beat. Also, she was making a sound like, "uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh."
	Eventually, of course, he had to blow through the high. That's the big catch. In order to stay high, you have to keep getting higher, but the higher you get, the closer you bring the end. Now he was right in that bind. He wanted to keep going forever, but he was already pitching like a bronco. I've never seen pelvic action like that. I wish I was up to it. Finally he shot it, but no one made him jump back and beat off. Hell, only a fool could doubt that he really came. Nothing could stop a guy with a high like that unless he finally blew it.
	Needless to say, all that left me with a raving hardon and no place to put it. Of course, I could beat off, but that was hardly the point, and, besides, I was in a theater. 
	Not that no one ever beats off in a theater. Christ, in some of those places you should wear hip boots with non-slip soles. But that was really the last thing I wanted to be reduced to: sitting in porn flicks pounding it like the sleazy old shits in the back row. I left with my balls aching and never went back. Ninety percent of porn is ridiculous, but when it works, it's even worse.

	Thinking back about what I said on the tapes, a couple of things aren't quite right. For one thing, I said I never saw Marlene again. Technically, I guess that's correct, but I did see her picture once. It was about four or five years ago when Time did a cover story on architecture in the U.S. I think they had I.M. Pei on the cover.
	Inside there was an article about him and some project he was developing, but there were also stories of other architects who were making it big. And right there in the middle of one page was Marlene. She was sitting on a drafting stool in front of a drawing board.  Two men were standing next to the board, one on each side. At first I didn't recognize her father; his hair had turned all white, but he still looked pretty studly. The article said the other guy was Tom Schraeger, and it called her Marlene Barzani-Schraeger. That made the connection pretty clear.
	The story said they had one of the hot firms in Philadelphia. They'd just finished some library that was winning all kinds of awards. It said that Marlene handled all the interior design and was in great demand because of the sensitive way she could bring even large spaces into intimate contact with the individual. I could see she'd changed a lot since Glendale.
	What caught my attention, though, was a pendant she was wearing on a gold chain. It was partly covered by her blouse, but I could swear it was the locket I gave her. I really felt like calling her up and at least congratulating her, but I put it off, and then I never did it. I figured I'd made my choices, and, obviously, she'd made hers.
	And then there's the thing I said about listening to the tapes hadn't done me much good, like I didn't learn anything from them. Actually, my situation is very clear to me now. I understand it all. What's wrong is that I don't feel anything about what's happened.
	I understand why I can't have sex now. The conditions under which I was using sex just don't exist anymore. The deal was I used sex to keep the craziness away. Well, that just isn't there now, so sex isn't necessary. That is, I suppose the chaos, the craziness, is still everywhere, but I can't feel it - or anything much - anymore.
	I know that's true because I've been up here over a week now. I haven't made any real effort to have visions or anything, but I know they're not there. I've left all the curtains open and have been all other the cabin, but it's just like any ordinary old place. I don't feel anything, and I know nothing's going to happen, and I know why.
	Y'see, your brain follows physical laws like the rest of your body. If you systematically shut off some part - isolate it, refuse to use it - it will wither and die. If it's like an arm or leg, you've got to get it cut off then or it'll poison the rest of the body. But when you do that to a part of your mind, no one can cut out that part, and over the years it just rots away everything around it til no thought, no feeling, no sensation is left.
	Now that I see what I've done to myself, to my life, I keep waiting to go all crazy, to rant and rave around and get all stupid. But nothing happens, and I know it never will. The falling eraser has done its job. My mind is clear.

	I set up a cross country course like the one I ran that summer - the last summer I was here. I haven't done that stuff for years, but I got right back into it like I'd never stopped. I made it all the way around, including the hills, and only had to walk a couple of times. I did have some pretty heavy pains across my chest after I stopped, but they cleared up.
	For some reason I've been thinking a lot about Grandpa lately. I guess this place is his again, now that the evil spirits are resting. Toward the end of his life I think Grandpa thought a lot about evil.  That was about the time all the shit Hitler and his guys did in Europe was really sinking it.  I remember the first time I heard much about Hitler was in his sermons.  I don’t know if he was fascinated by Hitler’s evil or if he just seized on it to make his point.  I mean, that was part of his job and all - know the enemy so you can defeat him when he comes at you. 
	I suppose that's the way he would have seen evil - as the enemy to be vanquished in battle. Onward Christian Soldiers!  He was always so strong; he had strength for everyone, even for those who didn't want it. His would've been an active, destructive, violent evil - easy to spot, hard to defeat, but vincible in the end.
	I wonder, though, what he knew about the evil of weakness - the daily betrayals, the procrastinations that slowly kill, the little deaths that make the final one anticlimactic. Hitler's evil was Grandpa's kind: palpable, huge, violent, stinking, stalking the earth with cloven hooves and scourging tail. But what about the little Nazis or the good, respectable burghers who voted for the Nazis, or - worse - who didn't vote at all? What about the solid country folk who tended their gardens down the road from Dachau or Bergen-Belsen and rationalized away that sweet stench from the crematory towers?
	Not that I'm trying to lay this on the Germans.  There's enough evil around for us all. There's the slow death of the spirit of a little kid who's been brutalized. There are the emotions that dry up waiting for a mother's hug or a father's hand on the shoulder. There are the people who save their sanity by killing their memories, the only things they can truly leave to their kids. There are those who use other's bodies and laugh at their souls. And there are the ones who do to their own kids as bad as was ever done to them, and the shit of it is they - I - can't tell you how to do it any different.

	OK, so much for maudlin rambling. What I need is something physical, so I guess I'll go out and try the cross-country course again. I suppose if something were to happen to me in the woods it'd be a long time before anyone found me, but I'm feeling pretty good. I don't think there's much danger of that. Besides, it doesn't worry me. I can see what's gone and what's left, and, aside from clarity, probably the only virtue left to me at this point is that of a quiet exit.