The Story of Beautiful Girl (23 page)

By midday, they were doing something they hadn’t done before. Sam, map on his lap, was directing Homan with purpose.

Over the next day and a half, Homan drove. At first they were on long roads with nothing except tan-and-brown desert, occasional small towns with trailers for houses, and cities where colored lights glowed like jewels. In days past they would have gone to see the sights. This time they drove on, even when they entered thick woods, wound through mountains of white rock speckled with black, and sped along on a road hugging a cliff, where they saw a lake so far below, it seemed like the bottom of the world. Except for breaking late at night in a campground, they stayed on their course. They
had
a course. If only Homan knew what it was.

But he did know, as soon as they’d left Strawberry and Beaded Circles behind, why Sam had changed. The night before, at the party, after the Tingling and some food, they’d all gone into the room with the bed that wiggled to the touch. Strawberry got on the bed, and Sam wanted to be there, too, so Homan helped him from the chair. Beaded Circles set a blanket on the floor, and then she and Homan lay down, their bodies far apart. Finally he was in a rich man’s house, lying beside a woman so close, he could smell night clinging to her skin. He glanced to the bed. Strawberry was
on her side, Sam’s arm was on her hip, and she was moving her head as if they were kissing. He turned back to Beaded Circles and felt a charge go through him. Though he did nothing and Beaded Circles did nothing, and he was relieved.

A little later he woke up, the way he always did with Sam. Sam couldn’t turn himself over, so Homan had gotten used to waking in the middle of the night to roll his friend to the other side. With Beaded Circles asleep, Homan sat up in the dark and looked to the bed.

Sam was lying down. Strawberry was sitting at the foot of the bed, her back to Sam, throwing her arms in the air, and Homan could see her lips moving. Her face seemed angry or sad, and she kept turning back to Sam, then away. Only when she stood up did Homan realize she was in her underthings. She grabbed her clothes and hurried out of the room.

Homan pulled himself up and crossed the room to the bed. Sam was on his side, turned away.
Good,
Homan thought;
at least he not on his back.
He walked around to see if his friend was awake. Yes, his eyes were open, but he was staring ahead, his cheeks glistening. He made a motion with his hands, only it wasn’t a motion that was speaking to Homan; it was reaching for his own face. But his elbow didn’t bend to do what he needed, so Homan did it for him. He sat on the edge of the bed, pressed his hand to his friend’s cheek, and wiped away the tears.

He wondered where he and Sam were going now, on their long drive away from Strawberry and Beaded Circles. North, he understood, and then, as they left the road around the cliff and entered a long, flat marsh, west. He drove and drove, trying not to fetch forward in his mind with questions, or back to his waking this morning, when he went up to the dream window with Beautiful Girl. She was tickling a giggling Little One on her stomach, and they never looked up to the glass. Now he kept his own gaze
straight so Sam could be alone with his thoughts, and Homan, though he didn’t want to, could be alone with his. At some point Homan saw planes in the air, flying in formation. Later came houses, then towns, each larger than the last. He wished he could ask where they were going. He wished Sam could read all his signs. He wished he truly believed there was a Big Artist in the sky. Then it could tell him why Beautiful Girl hadn’t turned to him, though he’d thumped and thumped on the dream window.

It was sunny when they reached the bridge to the hilly city.

It was a double-decker bridge, and they were on the top, and as he drove, he looked out to the sides. Sparkling water spread far and wide, with cargo ships leaving the port behind them and two islands to one side. Was this the sea Beautiful Girl had drawn for him in the picture he’d left in the barn? He looked at Sam, but he was doing what he’d been doing for almost two days: staring out his window, eyebrows tight, mouth in a frown. Homan turned back to the road, longing for Sam’s spirits to lift. They passed through a tunnel, and when they came out the other side, he understood they were crossing the water to reach a city. No, it couldn’t be the sea, not with a city so close by. And it was a city like none he’d ever seen, a city of hills and fog and brightly colored houses running up and down the crests like candy.

They left the bridge and headed onto crowded streets. Sam pointed right, and Homan drove. Past office buildings, then houses and apartments. Past people of all kinds on the sidewalks: white, brown, Chinese, children, middle-agers, old folks, ladies in short dresses, men in suits, soldiers in uniform. Then, in among the crowd, he saw Beautiful Girl. How was that possible? He slowed down, looking close. Sam gestured for him to keep on, but he had to see. There she was, moving along. He slowed the van and was just about to stop when he realized: This person was too
short, her hair too dark—she didn’t look like Beautiful Girl at all. He sped back up, freshly filled with sorrow. They rose up a hill so steep, at the very top he wondered if there could possibly be a bottom. Then they went down, passing right into mist. Homan glanced over at Sam, thinking,
You gotta come back to me. You all I got now.
Sam tapped his thumb against his armrest.

Then they pulled onto a street of houses that ran along a steep hill. The houses resembled the most eye-catching houses in Edgeville, the ones where the richest white people lived. Only these were even nicer and painted livelier colors—blue and purple and white. Some had small trees in small front yards. Each had a huge set of stairs rising up from the sidewalk.

Sam pointed to one house, and Homan stopped in front of it. He turned just in time to see Sam take a deep breath.

Homan took a breath, too. It would be a chore getting up those steps. For starters, the ramp wouldn’t sit straight with the sidewalk at such a tilt. Also, it didn’t seem right that Homan should go through such a haul for someone who hadn’t been meeting his eyes. But Homan knew how it felt to be swallowed by unhappiness, and how, when it did, you needed someone at your side. The way, after the fever, Blue had been at his. The way Homan wanted Sam to come back to him now.

So he figured out how to set the ramp to reach the sidewalk. Then he helped Sam out, locked the van, and heaved Sam’s chair up from the back. One step. Two. Three.

They were going to have a devil of a time getting back down, he thought as they rose higher. The steps were making him sweat so hard, he hoped they’d stay there a long time, relaxing, sleeping on nice beds—and looking out at the view. From behind the chair, he could see it, as the land dropped down from where they were: a sheet of silvery water that seemed to have no end. Sailboats floated on the surface. Birds flew above. Was
this
the sea? He
could not know unless he could taste it. But it was beautiful. He shook his head at himself for thinking the word. Then he closed his eyes and remembered her sitting in the office, drawing that picture. There it was: the tower to one side, the sea to the other. Yes. His word was right.
Beautiful.

Finally: the last step.

Breathless, his skin sticky with sweat, Homan turned Sam around to the door. Sam had a grim look on his face, and Homan suddenly got a bad feeling.

Sam pointed to the lock, then to Homan’s pocket, where he’d put the keys. Homan removed the key chain, and Sam indicated the one they needed.

The key fit easily, and he felt the bolt give way. He reached for the knob—but it was already turning. Someone inside knew they were there.

The door opened.

A tall man with glasses stood before them. He looked suspicious for a split second, as if he had no idea who’d be unlocking his door. Then his eyes took in Sam, and his face melted with relief. He opened his mouth, and inside the house Homan caught movement. Past the fancy-looking chairs, white rug, and paintings on the walls raced a woman, tears streaming down her cheeks. Both of them looked frightened and angry and delighted all at once—the same mix of moods he now saw on Sam’s face. As the woman rushed to the doorway and threw her arms around Sam, Homan recognized her as one of the women who’d been with Sam at the church.

The man was now staring at Homan, and by the time the woman stopped hugging Sam, the man was looking at Sam and wearing a Yell Face. Sam seemed to be shouting something back, but the man kept on, and the woman started in, too. They were all going at once. They must have tagged him as the man who
ran Sam off from the church. The woman was red-faced now, and the man was stepping outside, and even though Sam was doing his best to flail his arms and keep the man away, the man seized the back of the wheelchair, spun Sam around, and began heaving the chair over the threshold. Sam was facing Homan then, and he was also wearing a Yell Face, only it wasn’t meant for Homan. It was a face of fury and resistance. The man pulled hard, and then Sam was in the house.

Sam spun himself around and confronted the man and the woman, gesturing to Homan, then himself. The man and woman didn’t pay him any mind. The man was pulling the key from the front-door lock and shoving the key chain into his pocket. The woman was shaking her head no. Sam was pleading. Tears were everywhere.

Then the man dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took all the money he had into his hand and waved it for Sam to see. Sam shook his head no, but the man just stepped into the doorway, said something to Homan, and shoved the money into Homan’s jacket pocket.

It all happened so fast.

The man was backing away now. Homan looked past him to Sam, trying to understand.

Sam’s eyes were spilling over. But when his gaze met Homan’s, he got a new look. One that was stronger than anger, more powerful than pleas. A look that said,
I’m sorry.

Then the door closed in Homan’s face.

He stood there a long time. He couldn’t truly be standing there with his one friend gone.

Finally he stumbled down to the van, looking back at the house every few steps. The door stayed shut.

On the sidewalk he stared at the van. Everything he owned was locked inside. The new clothes. The sleeping bag. Food.

He went up to the van and punched it in the side, over and over. There was no way in. There was no hope for him. He howled out without knowing or caring if the police finally found him. He punched the van until his knuckles got bloody.

Then he ran.
Homing pigeon,
he thought with disgust, running up the hill onto a busy street. He ran without seeing traffic lights or cars. He crashed into a man walking a dog. He picked himself up and ran without caring.
You ain’t no more than a ghost.

And then, when he could bear it no more, he stopped right where he was, at the edge of a gas station, and lowered himself to the ground. He could not talk himself out of pain any longer. He had no one to be strong for. So finally, he cried. He cried with deep sobs, head bent to the ground, palms pressed to his eyes. He cried so hard that sorrow rushed out of his face. He cried until he felt like the sea.

1973

L
ook, Grammy! I found a Y!” Julia said, pointing to the sidewalk.

Martha glanced at her friend Pete, who was walking in front of them on a brisk Cape Cod morning in Harwich Port, his golden retriever at his side. Pete glanced back, giving Martha a curious look as if to say,
What’s she talking about?
Martha smiled, then scanned the street before them, with its clapboard houses and tall elm trees. Sure enough, in a driveway not fifty feet away was the twig that had caught Julia’s almost-five-year-old eye. “She likes looking for letters,” Martha said. Although Pete was a grandfather in his seventies, his expression made clear that he didn’t follow. Why should he? Except for bringing them dinner when they returned to Landon’s summer house last week, Pete hadn’t seen them since they’d left the Cape two and a half years ago. He didn’t know that this past summer, when Martha was renting an apartment near Philadelphia from her student John-Michael, she had taught Julia the alphabet. Now, in mid-September, Julia saw letters everywhere.

“Can I have it for my collection?” Julia asked, looking up at Martha. The light brought out the blond in Julia’s brown curls, which Martha thought the finest hair she’d ever seen. Julia preferred the straight hair she saw on TV, calling hers “frizzy.” Mar
tha said she could have both by wearing a hair band: The top would look straight, and a cascade of curls would remain. To this, like almost everything else, Julia agreed.

Martha said, “Let’s take a look at it.”

She let go of Julia’s hand. Julia bounded ahead, her green dress, white suede jacket, and patent-leather Mary Janes making her more stylish than most people on the Cape, who preferred blue jeans and light jackets. Pete and Martha also dressed casually. Although retired, Pete wore the flannel shirts and tan pants that had served him well as a carpenter; and Martha wore what had become her usual ensemble: slacks, corduroy jacket, and tennis shoes.

Holding her prize aloft, Julia returned to Martha’s side and clasped her hand again.

“It’s not a very big Y,” Martha said, looking at the twig.

“But it’s a capital,” Julia announced. “And capitals are so much better than little letters.”