That Was Then, This Is Now

  "Hey, Cathy," I said, while we were on the way home. "If I got a ring, would you wear it?"

  "Yeah," she said. That's how we started going steady.

  *

  After I dropped Cathy off at her house, I headed for Terry Jones's place. I was supposed to pick up Mark there, but when I got to the house, nobody was home. Terry's parents were out of town for the weekend, which normally meant it was party-and-poker time at the Joneses'. I figured everybody had gone out scouting for booze and broads, so I sat down on the front steps to wait.

  It was a cool night, but not too cool. It was getting to be spring. It had been a real weird winter. Last fall Mark and me had thought just alike, as one person; now we couldn't even talk. Charlie had been alive and griping about our Coke bill. I had been a hustler, both with pool and chicks. M&M had been reading Newsweek and getting his kicks baby-sitting. Now everything was different.

  While I was sitting there, smoking and thinking, a car pulled up. I thought it was some guys coming to party and so forth, so I didn't pay any attention. The four guys were standing right in front of me before I came to and realized that two of them were Tim and Curly Shepard.

  "I thought you guys were in the cooler," I said pleasantly, just like I didn't know they were here for the sole purpose of stomping out my guts.

  "We're out now," Tim said. He scared me. He was what I would call a rough guy. Curly was mostly mouth, but Tim backed up anything he said. He really was a hood. I know most people call any kid from over here on the East Side a hood, but Tim really was.

  "I guess so," I said, still smoking, not blowing my cool. If I kept them talking long enough, maybe Mark and Terry and God knows who else would show up.

  "Seen Angela lately?" Tim said. Curly was keeping his mouth shut--even he was awed by his big brother. There was something about Tim Shepard--his scarred face, his fighter's slouch, the flickering of his black eyes--that really let you know he meant business.

  "Yeah, as a matter of fact, I saw her over on the Ribbon last night, and she went for a drive with me." I decided I didn't need to drag Mark into this--it was plain they weren't worried about him.

  "No kidding? Did you know Angel got her hair cut this morning? At least that's what people say. She told me something different."

  I was sweating. I could feel it running down my back and wetting my palms, and my cigarette was shaking, so I ground it out on the porch. But I sounded calm as I said, "What's she telling you?"

  "She says you got her drunk and cut her hair off. That the truth?"

  "Yeah, that's the truth, and I'm sorry it happened." I decided to tell it straight for once, without all this hedging and playing the game. "It was a rotten thing to do and I'm sorry."

  "You ain't half as sorry as you're going to be," Tim said, and the two guys I didn't know rushed me, pinned my arms, and held me while Tim and Curly took turns punching me.

  I passed out finally, but not as soon as I had hoped I would.

  *

  When I came to, Mark was wiping my face off with a wet rag.

  "Bryon, you O.K.? Don't move, man."

  I bit back a groan because I could tell there were other guys in the room. Normally I wouldn't have to knock myself out playing the tough guy for just Mark, but I did have a rep to keep.

  "What happened? Who did this to you?"

  "Shepards," I said finally, but it hurt to draw the breath to say it. Something was stabbing me in the sides. My whole face was throbbing and I couldn't open my eyes. They were swollen shut. There was a funny taste in my mouth--I guessed it was blood.

  "You want to go to the hospital?" Mark asked. He sounded so worried that I felt sorry for him.

  "No," I said. I didn't want to go anywhere. I felt that if I moved I'd fall apart. "Can I stay here?" I figured I was in Terry's house somewhere. I could tell I was lying on a bed.

  "Sure, man, you stay here." I recognized Terry's voice. "Brother, you look like you been through a meat grinder."

  "That's what it feels like too," I said, even though this witticism cost me more stabbing pains in my sides. A reputation is one hell of a thing to have; you got to kill yourself to keep it.

  "I'll call the old lady," Mark said. "Then we'll go look up the Shepards."

  "Mark!" I said. "I want to talk to you, personal-like."

  "Sure, buddy. Clear out, you guys." And because he was Mark, they obeyed him.

  "Listen, it hurts like hell to talk, so I'm only goin' to say it once, an' I don't want to argue."

  "Sure." Mark's voice sounded puzzled. I wished I could see him; I knew he wasn't going to dig what I had to say. I could tell he was sitting on the edge of the bed, and I reached for where his hand should have been and caught it. "I don't want anybody to fight the Shepards."

  "What?"

  "I don't want to keep this up, this getting-even jazz. It's stupid and I'm sick of it and it keeps going in circles. I have had it--so if you're planning any get-even mugging, forget it." I was trying to keep my voice from trembling with pain, but not only did talking hurt my sides, it was killing my face.

  "I got you, Bryon," Mark said after a silence. "You just take it easy." He left to call Mom, and I heard him yelling at the rest of the guys to keep the record player down. He stayed all night on the other side of the bed, guarding me.

  9

  Mark drove me to the hospital the next day and I got fifteen stitches in my face and had my ribs taped. As luck would have it I got the same doctor that had sewed up Mark a few months before when he had been busted with a bottle. He remembered Mark all right; most people did. He gave us a disgusted look and said, "Don't you punks ever do anything besides fight?"

  Mark growled something real cute, but I couldn't get mad. I felt sick, ashamed of myself, even though I hadn't done anything. All I could think about was Mike's getting beat up for driving a black girl home. I kept remembering him saying he didn't hate the guys who did it. Well, I didn't hate the Shepards either. I tried to explain this to Mark as we drove home. I was so wrapped up in what I was trying to get across to him that I was startled when Mark suddenly burst out, "Whatdaya tryin' to do to me, Bryon?"

  "What?" I said, confused. Mark had turned white and his voice was shaking as if he was about to cry. I couldn't believe that; I had never seen Mark cry except from physical pain.

  "How do you think I feel, man? You won't let me get the Shepards for you, and here you go givin' me this song and dance about how you don't feel bad about gettin' beat up. You think I don't know they beat you up for something I did? And here you are, practically sayin' you had it comin', when it was me who cut Angela's hair, it was me who planned it, and me who did it--and it's you who gets beat up for it. Like that damn fool, Mike, he feels like he had it coming, feels guilty for something somebody else did. Man, that is sick! How do you think I felt, finding you lying there in the yard? I knew it was the Shepards. If they had killed you it woulda been my fault. That is eating me up, Bryon, and you won't even let me get even for you."

  He was crying. I just went sick inside. "Mark, it ain't your fault. It's just that I'm sick of fighting. I'm sick of this circle of beating up people and getting beat up. It's stupid." I reached over and gave him an easy punch on the shoulder. "I ain't dead, man; there's nothing to worry about."

  Mark took a deep breath, and, even though his voice was normal, he was gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles were white. "I don't know what's the matter with me. I never worry about 'what if?' I never did until me and Terry came home and found you lyin' there smashed up. Then I think, 'what if?' and look what happens to me." He shrugged. "You don't want to get even with the Shepards, that's your business."

  We just couldn't get through to each other. He didn't understand why I didn't dig fights any more; I didn't understand how he could accept everything that came along without question, without wanting to change it.

  Mom nearly had a fit when she saw me. She was well by then, back at her job. I almost gave her a relapse. I had n
ever been so messed up. A black eye she could take, stitches in my lip she could take, smashed ribs she could take, but not all at the same time. I was feeling so lousy that I didn't mind her fussing at me. I pretended that it was her who made me go to bed, but I was glad to be there.

  "You want me to call Cathy?" Mark asked after I had been put to bed.

  "Yeah--you mind?" He could get to a pay phone and I couldn't.

  "Sure, I mind. Beating up the Shepards would be easier. But for you, buddy, I'll do it." He gave me his famous Mark grin. "I know she'll be glad to hear from me."

  I tried to grin back at him, but it was difficult. It's pretty lousy to have the two people you care about most hate each other.

  I must have dozed off after Mark left. I felt pretty bad--the painkiller shots had worn off and I was running a fever. I don't know how long I was asleep, but when I came to, Cathy was sitting next to the bed.

  "Hi, Bryon," she said, and her voice and her face were so serious that for a dazed second I couldn't figure out if it was Cathy or M&M. I really felt dizzy and drunk and confused.

  "How do you feel?" she asked, when I couldn't say anything; I just lay there and looked at her stupid-like.

  "Oh, all right," I said, which made a lot of sense "I'm glad you're here."

  "Are you?" she said, and she was crying. There, I had both her and Mark crying within twenty-four hours. I must be really something.

  "Cathy, I am really glad you are here," I said. "I love you."

  "O.K.," she sobbed. "O.K." Then she reached over and held my hand. I took a quivering breath and looked at the ceiling. That hadn't been so hard after all. If I could do that, maybe there were a few other things I could take care of.

  "Well," Cathy said finally, gulping back her tears, "your mother says you'll be all right in a couple of days." She sort of half-laughed. "You just look so awful, Bryon."

  "You look great," I said. She didn't really, I guess, because you never do see a girl who looks good while she's crying except in the movies, but to me she looked good.

  "I'll be fine in a day or two; then we can go find M&M. I got a lead on him," I said. My mind was clearing up.

  "Really?" Like I hoped, this took her mind off me for a little while, and like I hoped, not much.

  "Yeah. Mark says he's seen him at this hippie commune-house."

  Cathy looked shocked. "One of those free-love places?"

  "I don't think that's the right word for it." I couldn't help grinning. "Anyway, he's been staying there. I went over to look for him yesterday, I think"--I was still a little confused as to what day it was, or what time. "He wasn't there then, but maybe we can find him. Don't worry, the place wasn't that bad. He could have been in worse places."

  "All right." She smiled at me like I knew everything on earth, like whatever I said went, and it really made me feel good. "We'll go look for him when you get better."

  She reached over and gave me a quick, light kiss. Because of the stitches in my lip, this hurt. But not much.

  *

  I took a couple of days' sick leave from work--I didn't want to go to work looking like some prize fighter. But as soon as I was able I took the car and went for a drive by myself. I had been thinking about a lot of things. Cathy, Mark, M&M, and Charlie. I drove around for two hours before I finally made up my mind.

  I drove out to the cemetery, the cheap cemetery where people who don't have money get buried. I hadn't gone to Charlie's funeral, but I knew where he was buried.

  I finally found his grave. This was not easy since there wasn't much of a marker. There weren't any big headstones in the whole place. I went and stood in front of his barren grave. No flowers, no nothing. Just the place where what was left of Charlie lay. I said out loud, "Thanks for letting me use your car, Charlie. Thanks for saving my life."

  This wasn't hard to do. I wished I'd done it when he could have heard me. I don't know, maybe it was a dumb thing to do, but I sure felt better.

  I picked up Cathy two nights later and we went looking for M&M. Mark had gone out somewhere; he was spending more and more time away from home. Mom was worried about him, I could tell. By now she was also bugged about where he was getting the money he kept bringing home. I still figured he was doing some serious poker playing, but I didn't want to tell Mom that, as she didn't have too high an opinion of poker, or gambling in general. Me getting mixed up in that pool-hustling business hadn't done much to glorify gambling, either.

  "I just love your mother," Cathy said as we left the house. She and Mom were getting along pretty good. This was fine with me, as I dug her parents O.K., too. Right now Cathy was hacked off at her old man; she blamed him for M&M's running away. But I liked the guy.

  "Most people do," I said. "She knows everybody within twenty miles of here. The mailman brings her all the stray kittens he finds, and the neighborhood grocer gives her free cat food."

  We were feeling real good driving to the hippie house. We laughed and kidded and horsed around all the way. I figured we had a pretty good chance of coming home with M&M this time.

  There were two Volkswagen buses parked in the driveway of the old house; I knew they belonged to the hippies because of the flowers and slogans painted on them. One read "War Is Unhealthy for Children and Other Living Things." Really bright.

  "This is where he is?" Cathy sighed. "I still can hardly believe that baby is living in a place like this."

  I guess big sisters always think of little brothers as babies, no matter how old they are. "Maybe it was good for him," I said. "Maybe being on his own made him grow up a little." I only half-believed this; I had always had a good opinion of M&M's mind, but being smart ain't being mature, as I have often proved. "Anyway, we can't be sure he even wants to come home with us."

  "If he doesn't, Daddy is going to call the cops and have them bring him home. He doesn't want to, but he keeps saying M&M has had his fling, and it's time he came home. This is my only chance to get him home without dragging the police into it."

  "I didn't know that. Well, let's hope he comes with us. Maybe I could slug him and carry him home."

  Cathy laughed. "No, let the cops do it if it comes to that. I'd rather have him hate the police than you."

  We walked up to the house. There were kids on the porch, just watching the street. I stopped to talk with a Biblical-looking guy.

  "I'm lookin' for Baby Freak. He around?"

  "Yeah, he is." The guy was staring directly into my eyes. He had friendly, trusting eyes. "Are you a friend of his?"

  "Yeah, a good friend. This is his sister."

  Cathy gave him the big smile she won me with. The guy smiled back.

  "He's upstairs, I think." Suddenly the guy looked worried. "He's been floating for a couple of days now."

  "Oh, no kiddin'," I said, keeping my cool, and Cathy followed my example.

  "Talk to his travel agent," the hippie said. "He's the cat with the red hair, inside."

  "Travel agent? What's that?" Cathy whispered as we went in. I didn't want to tell her, didn't want her to feel the sudden cold waves of fear that I was feeling, so I said, "I don't know."

  We found who we were looking for--a big, heavy guy with fire-colored hair, beard, and mustache.

  "We're looking for Baby Freak," I said. I was beginning to see why M&M had acquired this other nickname: most of the kids there were at least seventeen or eighteen, with a lot of college-age kids. It was a real crowded place, but now I can't remember what everyone was doing. At least some of the kids were smoking grass; you could tell that by the smell. I was hoping the place didn't get raided while we were there. You can get busted just for being at a place where people are smoking pot.

  "Yeah?" Red said. "Man, that kid is on a bad trip."

  Cathy made a funny, yelping little sound.

  "Some of these freaks have been dropping acid. Baby wanted to try it, so I sat with him. Bad trip, man, really bad. He's calmed down a little now, but all day today me and some of these other cats been holdi
ng him, keeping him from jumping out the window."

  I felt like I was going to throw up. Cathy was as white as a sheet. "Can we see him?" she said, in a tiny, expressionless voice.

  "Sure."

  We followed him up the stairs. He led us to the same room Mark and I had gone to the last time we were there. This time no one was there except the blond chick, who was curled up on the bed asleep, and someone huddled in the corner. To my surprise, Red walked over to the huddle. "Hey, man, there's people here to see you," he said softly.

  "Are they spiders?" The person didn't raise his head, but the voice was M&M's.

  "No, man." Red laughed gently. "They're squares."

  M&M looked up, and I hardly recognized him. His hair was to his shoulders, he was a lot thinner, he was dirty, and the expression on his face was one I had never seen on him before--suspicion.

  "M&M, baby, it's me--Cathy." Cathy kneeled down in front of him. He was staring at her, not seeing her.

  "Square spiders?" he said, and his face was contorted in fear. "I don't want to see any spiders."

  "It's me, Cathy," she said again. "Your sister. Don't you want to go home?"

  "I went to my stomach," M&M said in a high, unnatural voice. He was talking too fast. "I went down into my stomach and all these spiders came out. I never knew there were spiders in my stomach. I was there ten years, and all that time these spiders kept chewing on me. They were big spiders."

  Cathy choked back a sob. "Baby, what have you done to yourself?" she said in a whisper.

  He seemed to see her. "Cathy? I screamed and screamed and screamed, but nobody came to help me." He was shaking. He didn't look right. He looked sick. "I kept trying to get back, but the spiders held me down. Held me down and chewed on me and the colors went in and out. I listened to the colors and they were screaming too. Red and yellow screamed loudest. The spiders were eating them too."

  "He kept trying to jump out the window," Red said. "All day. We took turns holding him down."

  What did the guy want, a medal? He had given him the stuff in the first place.

  "Cathy," I said. "We ought to take him to the hospital."

  She looked at me quickly. "Hospital?" Then she nodded. "Let me call Daddy first." She looked at Red. "Do you have a phone I can use?" She followed him out of the room.