The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [98]
So, okay, maybe there were a hundred, a thousand shirts like this around. Still, he leaned down and picked it up. His mother’s bathing suit, nubby, the color of flesh and unmistakable, fell out of the sleeve. Paul stood still, unable to move, as if he’d been caught stealing, as if a camera had flashed and pinned him. He dropped the shirt, but he still couldn’t move. Finally, he started walking, and then he was running back to their own cottage as if seeking sanctuary. He stood in the doorway, trying to pull himself together. His father had moved the bowl of oranges to the counter. He was arranging photos on the big wooden table. What’s wrong? he asked, looking up, but Paul couldn’t say. He went to his room and slammed the door and didn’t look up, not even when his father came and knocked on the door.
His mother was back two hours later, humming, the flamingo shirt tucked neatly into her tan shorts. “I thought I’d take a swim before lunch,” she said, as if everything might still be normal. “Want to come?” He shook his head and that was that, the secret, his secret, hers and now his, between them like a veil.
His father had secrets too, a life that happened at work or in the darkroom, and Paul had figured it was all normal, just the way families were, until he started hanging out with Duke, an awesome piano player he’d met in the band room one afternoon. The Madisons didn’t have much money, and the trains were so close the house shook and the windows rattled in their frames every time they passed, and Duke’s mom had never been on an airplane in her life. Paul knew he ought to feel sorry for her, his parents would; she had five kids and a husband who worked at the GE plant and wouldn’t ever make much money. But Duke’s dad liked to play ball with his boys, and he came home every night at six when the shift was over, and even though he didn’t talk any more than Paul’s own father did he was right there, and when he wasn’t they always knew where to find him.
“So whaddaya want to do?” Duke asked him.
“Dunno,” Paul said. “How about you?” The metal rails were still humming. Paul wondered where the train would finally stop. Wondered if anyone had seen him standing at the edge of the track, so close he could have reached out and touched a moving car, the wind slicing through his hair, stinging his eyes. And if they had seen him, what had they thought? Images moving past the train windows like a series of still photographs: one and another; a tree, yes; a rock, yes; a cloud, yes; and none the same. And then a boy, himself, with his head flung back, laughing. And then gone. A bush, electric lines, the flash of road.
“We could shoot some hoops.”
“Nah.”
They walked along the tracks. When they had crossed Rosemont Garden and were surrounded by tall grass, Duke stopped, fishing in the pockets of his leather jacket. His eyes were green, flecked with blue. Like the world, Paul thought. That’s how Duke’s eyes were. Like the view of the earth from the moon.
“Look here,” he was saying. “I got this last week from my cousin Danny.”
It was a small plastic bag full of dried green clippings.
“What is it,” Paul asked, “a bunch of dead grass?” As he spoke he understood, and he flushed, embarrassed, at what a geeky dork he was.
Duke laughed, his voice loud in the silence, the rustle of weeds.
“That’s right, man, grass. You ever get high?”
Paul shook his head, shocked despite himself.
“You don’t get hooked, if that’s what’s scaring you. I’ve done it twice. It’s totally amazing. I’m telling you.”
The sky was still gray, and the wind was moving in the leaves, and far away another train whistle sounded.
“I’m not scared,” Paul said.
“Sure. Nothing to be scared of,” Duke said. “You wanna try it?”
“Sure.” He looked around. “But not here.”
Duke laughed. “Who do you think is going to catch us out here?”
“Listen,” Paul said. They did, and then the train was visible, approaching from the opposite direction, a small dot