Someone Comes to Town, Someone Leaves Town

your girlfriend. I mean, if she was good enough for*you*, well, she had to be the epitome of sophistication andsexiness. Back then, you were like a god to me, so she was like agoddess. I imprinted on her, like the baby ducks in Bio. It's amazinghow much of who I am today I can trace back to those days. Who knew thatit was all so important?"

  He was a smart kid, introspective without beingmoody. Integrated. Always popping off these fine little observations inbetween his easy jokes. The girls adored him, the boys admired him, theteachers were grateful for him and the way he bridged the gap betweenscholarship and athleticism.

  "I must have been a weird kid," he said. "All that quiet."

  "You were a great kid," Alan said. "It was a lot of fun back then,mostly."

  "Mostly," he said.

  They both stared at the girl, who noticed them now, and blushed andlooked confused. Bradley looked away, but Alvin held his gaze on her,and she whispered to a friend, who looked at him, and they both laughed,and then Alan looked away, too, sorry that he'd inadvertently interactedwith his fellow students. He was supposed to watch, not participate.

  "He was real," Bradley said, and Alan knew he meant Davey.

  "Yeah," Alan said.

  "I don't think the little ones really remember him -- he's more like abad dream to them. But he was real, wasn't he?"

  "Yeah," Alan said. "But he's gone now."

  "Was it right?"

  "What do you mean?" Alan said. He felt a sear of anger arc along hisspine.

  "It's nothing," Billy said, mumbling into his tray.

  "What do you mean, Brad?" Alan said. "What else should we have done? Howcan you have any doubts?"

  "I don't," Brad said. "It's okay."

  Alan looked down at his hands, which appeared to belong to someone else:white lumps of dough clenched into hard fists, knuckles white. He madehimself unclench them. "No, it's *not* okay. Tell me about this. Youremember what he was like. What he...did."

  "I remember it," Bryan said. "Of course I remember it." He was staringthrough the table now, the look he got when he was contemplating afuture the rest of them couldn't see. "But."

  Alan waited. He was trembling inside. He'd done the right thing. He'dsaved his family. He knew that. But for six years, he'd found himselfturning in his memory to the little boy on the ground, holding the loopsof intestine in through slippery red fingers. For six years, wheneverhe'd been somewhere quiet long enough that his own inner voices fellstill, he'd remember the hair in his fist, the knife's thirsty draughtas it drew forth the hot splash of blood from Davey's throat. He'dremembered the ragged fissure that opened down Clarence's length and theway that Davey fell down it, so light and desiccated he was almostweightless.

  "If you remember it, then you know I did the right thing. I did the onlything."

  "*We* did the only thing," Brian said, and covered Alan's hand with his.

  Alan nodded and stared at his cheeseburger. "You'd better go catch upwith your friends," he said.

  "I love you, Adam," he said.

  "I love you, too."

  Billy crossed the room, nodding to the people who greeted him from everytable, geeks and jocks and band and all the meaningless tribes of thehigh school universe. The cute redhead sprinkled a wiggle-finger wave athim, and he nodded at her, the tips of his ears going pink.

  #

  The snow stopped by three p.m., and the sun came out and melted it away,so that by the time the game started at five-thirty, its only remnantwas the soggy ground around the bleachers with the new grass growing outof the ragged brown memory of last summer's lawn.

  Alan took the little ones for dinner at the diner after school, lettingthem order double chocolate-chip pancakes. At 13, they'd settled into afatness that made him think of a foam-rubber toy, the rolls and dimplesat their wrists and elbows and knees like the seams on a doll.

  "You're starting high school next year?" Alan said, as they were pouringsyrup on their second helping. He was startled by this -- how had theygotten so old so quickly?

  "Uh-huh," Eli said. "I guess."

  "So you're graduating from elementary school this spring?"

  "Yeah." Eli grinned a chocolate smile at him. "It's no big deal. There'sa party, though."

  "Where?"

  "At some kid's house."

  "It's okay," Alan said. "We can celebrate at home. Don't let them get toyou."

  "We can't go?" Ed suddenly looked a little panicked.

  "You're invited?" He blurted it out and then wished he hadn't.

  "Of course we're invited," Fred said from inside Ed's throat. "There'sgoing to be dancing."

  "You can dance?" Alan asked.

  "We can!" Ed said.

  "We learned in gym," Greg said, with the softest, proudest voice, deepwithin them.

  "Well," Alan said. He didn't know what to say. Highschool. Dancing. Invited to parties. No one had invited him to partieswhen he'd graduated from elementary school, and he'd been too busy withthe little ones to go in any event. He felt a little jealous, but mostlyproud. "Want a milkshake?" he asked, mentally totting up the cash in hispocket and thinking that he should probably send Brad to dicker with theassayer again soon.

  "No, thank you," Ed said. "We're watching our weight."

  Alan laughed, then saw they weren't joking and tried to turn it into acough, but it was too late. Their shy, chocolate smile turned into arubber-lipped pout.

  #

  The game started bang on time at six p.m., just as the sun wassetting. The diamond lights flicked on with an audible click and made aspot of glare that cast out the twilight.

  Benny was already on the mound, he'd been warming up with the catcher,tossing them in fast and exuberant and confident and controlled. Helooked good on the mound. The ump called the start, and the batterstepped up to the plate, and Benny struck him out in three pitches, andthe little ones went nuts, cheering their brother on along with theother fans in the bleachers, a crowd as big as any you'd ever seeoutside of school, thirty or forty people.

  The second batter stepped up and Benny pitched a strike, another strike,and then a wild pitch that nearly beaned the batter in the head. Thecatcher cocked his mask quizzically, and Benny kicked the dirt andwindmilled his arm a little and shook his head.

  He tossed another wild one, this one coming in so low that itpractically rolled across the plate. His teammates were standing up intheir box now, watching him carefully.

  "Stop kidding around," Alan heard one of them say. "Just strike himout."

  Benny smiled, spat, caught the ball, and shrugged his shoulders. Hewound up, made ready to pitch, and then dropped the ball and fell to hisknees, crying out as though he'd been struck.

  Alan grabbed the little ones' hand and pushed onto the diamond beforeBenny's knees hit the ground. He caught up with Benny as he keeled oversideways, bringing his knees up to his chest, eyes open and staring andempty.

  Alan caught his head and cradled it on his lap and was dimly aware thata crowd had formed round them. He felt Barry's heart thundering in hischest, and his arms were stuck straight out to his sides, one hand inhis pitcher's glove, the other clenched tightly around the ball.

  "It's a seizure," someone said from the crowd. "Is he an epileptic? It'sa seizure."

  Someone tried to prize Alan's fingers from around Barry's head and hegrunted and hissed at them, and they withdrew.

  "Barry?" Alan said, looking into Barry's face. That faraway look in hiseyes, a million miles away. Alan knew he'd seen it before, but not inyears.

  The eyes came back into focus, closed, opened. "Davey's back," Barrysaid.

  Alan's skin went cold and he realized that he was squeezing Barry's headlike a melon. He relaxed his grip and helped him to his feet, gotBarry's arm around his shoulders, and helped him off the diamond.

  "You okay?" one of the players asked as they walked past him, but Barrydidn't answer. The little ones were walking beside them now, clutchingBarry's hand, and they turned their back on the town as a family andwalked toward the mou
ntain.

  #

  George had come to visit him once before, not long after Alan'd moved toToronto. He couldn't come without bringing down Elliot and Ferdinand, ofcourse, but it was George's idea to visit, that was clear from themoment they rang the bell of the slightly grotty apartment he'd movedinto in the Annex, near the students who were barely older than him butseemed to belong to a different species.

  They were about 16 by then, and