One Sunday afternoon, after the snow had melted and the early spring flowers and grass were pushing up all over the place, Jeff picked Bethany up and drove to Colts Drive in Bristol, Rhode Island. It’s a long walk built along the ocean, and it is pretty amazing and pretty beautiful. People from all over like to stroll around and look out to sea. It’s nice to see people like that. Looking. Thinking. Jeff looked out to sea, too. He stuttered, tried to say something, stopped, looked out to sea again, and stuttered.
“What, honey?” Bethany said, squeezing his arm. She had on a turtleneck Irish fisherman’s sweater and a Red Sox baseball cap.
“I was wondering. . . .”
“What?”
Poor Jeff Greene. There’s this good guy not being able to speak.
“You know. . . .” He reached into his pocket and handed her a small blue snap box. There was a ring inside, and inside the ring he’d had a jeweler write BETHANY AND JEFF, 1972. Bethany held the ring in her hand and stared at it with her mouth open.
“I love you, and I want to marry you,” Jeff said, nice and stupidly.
“Oh, Jeffrey,” said Bethany, a waterfall bobbing out of her eyes.
“Will you?”
“Oh, yes. Oh, I will. I love you, too.”
45
Okay. Be me. You’re speaking to Norma from a phone booth, and you have to tell this story. Tell me how I tell this story. Oh, and it’s cold. It’s got to be cold enough so that if it starts to rain, you know it will be snow.
The story.
Kansas spoiled me. Even though I understand there was a gradual incline and the altitude was always rising, the key word was “gradual.” Colorado, after the high-plains part, from where I entered at Holly, still on U.S. 50, through Rocky Ford, where I got off 50 and onto Colorado Route 10, and on into Walsenburg, was fine—until I slipped onto Route 160 and up into the mountains. I felt like I was just starting. If there was enough air, it surely hadn’t settled around me. I wasn’t putting in twelve hours, or ten, or, after Walsenburg, even eight. I biked and walked like a snail, six or seven hours a day, and barely had the energy to pitch my tent, which I had to do because it was now seriously cold.
The stretch between Fort Garland and Alamosa across that high valley took me two whole days, and it probably was only forty miles. I was pretty discouraged, although I did tour Fort Garland, where Kit Carson used to be the commander. I was the only one on the tour. A little old guy in a cowboy hat gave the tour and spoke for maybe twenty-five straight minutes and didn’t look at me once, except when I raised my hand.
“Question there?” he said looking at me.
“Where did he get killed?”
“Carson?”
“Yes.”
“No idea.”
Alamosa was a kind of old and new American town, with the new outskirts and the heavy old main street. I liked it, but I was too cold to enjoy it. I stopped at Wal-Mart and got ready for the Rocky Mountains. Wool socks, longjohns, a space age alpaca sweater, good gloves, jeans with a red flannel lining, a blue wool cap, and insulated work boots. I had to pay just over a hundred dollars. After I stopped at the grocery store for bananas and water and oatmeal cookies, I had less than fifty dollars left. I put my other clothes, except the shorts and sweatsuit and sneakers, in a Goodwill bin.
I slept that night at the most beautiful rest area I had ever seen. It was in Del Norte, and it was maybe a half mile off 160. It had a clean bathroom and a neat mowed field where I could set my tent over soft grass. I slept great, and in the morning the sun blazed down on that valley so bright you’d have thought it was August. What a day! It had to be around sixty degrees. I started riding in my sweats, but after an hour or so, I switched to shorts and a T-shirt. It was that warm. Really.
Route 160 outside Del Norte takes a dip into South Fork, making the ride easy, and the mountains, near and far, made it beautiful. I was so mesmerized by the beauty of it I took the wrong turnoff. Instead of staying on 160 for the climb into Durango, Colorado, I veered right across the clear headwaters of the Rio Grande River and into Mineral County.
I followed fifteen miles of wide fly-fishing water on a narrow road that cut through rock slides, lava flows, and cottonwoods. The road grew narrower and narrower until it came to a small settlement called Wagon Wheel Gap, then immediately opened into a long, curving valley of river and grass bordered by amazing mountains and foothills.
I was, I guess, reenergized. By now I had figured out that the road I was on was not Colorado 160, but the ride was level and warm, and fishermen were throwing flies at every other bend. At a point where the road was closest to the river, I pulled off onto a dirt jeep trail and rode down to the riverbank.
I had seen pictures of rivers like this. You know, long, grassy banks easing gently down into crystal-clear, pebble-bottomed water, rapid and powerful, then settling into perfect deep holes and pools, each one holding hundreds of river trout and rainbow trout and, just maybe, cutthroat trout. I had assumed that the pictures I had seen had to be some sort of trick photography. But sitting on the bank of the Upper Rio Grande eating a banana, the sun falling on me, I have to say that there are rivers like this. True.
I spread my map on the dry grass. Here was South Fork, and here, right here, was where I’d screwed up. I went right. If I stayed on this road for about eight or nine miles, I would come to Creede, Colorado. From there this new road simply disappeared into the mountains. I was not discouraged. I would relax a little, have another good banana, and go back to 160. I suppose I could have felt stupid about missing the road. It’s not like I’m a bus or a car or something traveling so fast it’s understandable not to see a sign. But I didn’t feel stupid. Actually I felt wonderful to have spent a moment with this river. The water over stones made a kind of hum. I lay back on the grass and closed my eyes. I fell asleep.
It must have been hiding just over the mountains behind me. Friendly-looking mountains with a narrow tree line and rounded tops. Soft-looking mountains, really, but behind them was a storm ready to get me. The temperature must have fallen quickly—but not so quickly that it woke me. The snow, too. It must have been just a puff of snow at first, because when I finally opened my eyes, I was lightly covered with wet snow, and a swirl was just beginning. It came unbelievably quick. I could see nothing, and my body felt stiff and, I suppose, like frozen food.
I felt for my bike. I reached out in every direction, not daring to stand up, because I honestly felt that the wind, the power of the snowstorm, could have lifted me into the river. The bike! I felt down to the saddlebags. It seemed incredibly stupid to do, a waste of time, maybe impossible, but I pulled the tent out, felt for the metal stakes, staked it, and pushed up the fiberglass poles until they mounded the nylon. I unsnapped the saddlebags from the metal bike frame and pushed them into the tent. It rocked into a right angle. It would rip out the stakes unless I added my weight. Inside was dark and cold. I sat huddled in the center of the tent concentrating on holding it to the earth. That’s when I heard the cry.
At first it was a small sound, like an angry crow in the distance, but as I listened, I heard this little voice yelling “Help,” yelling “Help me.” And the squeak of tears. I knew that frightened sound. My heart was pounding in the high, cold air. I crawled out of the tent.
“Oh, please don’t blow away,” I said out loud.
I am not brave. I don’t have to tell you that. Not by now. I would always like to help, but there’s a lot of, I guess, unsure stuff working in me.
I stood in front of the tent and leaned into the wind for balance. I listened hard. The wet snow pinched at my face, and then I heard it again. The cry for help. A sob.
“Stand still and keep talking!” I screamed.
“I’m afraid!” it screamed.
“Stand still and keep talking! I’m coming!”
“My name is Kenny. My name is Kenny. My name . . .”
“Don’t stop!” I screamed. I was closer now. I wanted to go in a pretty constan
t line, so I had at least a chance to get back to the tent.
“My . . . my name . . .” He started crying. Great, huge cries. Louder than he could talk. I sensed him directly in front of me and grabbed at air until my fingers closed on his T-shirt. He was small, and I picked him up and slung him over my shoulder.
“My name is Kenny! My name is Kenny!”
“You can stop now.”
“My name is Kenny!”
I walked in what I prayed was the direction I had come in. I walked until I was at the river’s edge. I had missed the tent. Panic started in my feet and knees. It always starts there for me. Panic weighted me into the already calf-deep plop of snow. I moved away from the bank and, in a side-slide sort of way, I felt in every direction with each slide of my freezing feet. I hit something and reached down hopefully. My tent. I ran my hand around it, feeling for the entrance. When I extended my arms, I couldn’t see my hands. Snow like that seems beyond belief. A waterfall of snow. Cold. Whipping. The tent flap.
I fell on my knees, folded Kenny inside the tent, and crawled in after him. He was whimpering a little and shivering. I couldn’t tell for sure if he was shivering because of the cold or from fright, but he was wearing only sneakers, T-shirt, and shorts, so cold was a good bet. It was black inside the snow-piled tent. I took my flashlight and pulled out my sleeping bag.
“Take off all your wet clothes,” I told Kenny.
He was nervous about taking off any clothes in front of someone.
“I’ll turn my back. Take off the sneaks and stuff and get in the bag.”
I counted to fifty, so he had a lot of time. When I turned around, there was a little square head with a blond crew cut, maybe ten years old, sticking out of my bag.
I pulled my longjohns, wool socks, and lined jeans out of the pack.
“Your turn to turn around,” I told him.
I changed into the heavy, warm clothes and shoved the others back into my knapsack. Outside, the wind made sounds like a lot of rockets taking off. I imagined the trees shooting out of the ground. The tent rocked but held. Snow weighted it like a little igloo.
“You’re Kenny, huh?”
“Uh-huh.”
Suddenly I had an image of more Kennys out there.
“Were you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m Smithy.”
I held my hand out for a shake. He took it. His teeth chattered. He put his hand back into the bag and lay on his side facing me. I put the saddlebags at the end of the tent and laid my head against it. We listened to the wind.
“Are you hurt anywhere?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good.”
“I live in Creede. I skipped school.”
“You skipped school? That’s not good.”
“I went fishing.”
The wind and the snow rocked us hard for a second but subsided, and for the first time since I woke to the snow, I could hear the rush of the river.
“Catch anything?”
46
The weeks following Bethany’s engagement to Jeff Greene were happy ones for the Ides and, I have to say, especially for Mom. It was so sweet to see her sitting at the kitchen table with my sister, planning and laughing and even talking about her own wedding, although it had been sort of different, as Pop was getting ready to ship out for the war and they didn’t even have a honeymoon—but, of course, a bride’s memories are always shining. I think. I hope so.
Bethany and Jeff’s plans were roughly this:
A June 11 wedding in an ecumenical setting with one of the Episcopal priests from Grace Church and Jeff ’s rabbi, who he hadn’t seen since he was thirteen but who he liked. They were going to honeymoon for one week in Nags Head, North Carolina, on the beach and then live in Attleboro, where Bethany could work at the Benny’s Home and Auto with Jeff, until they felt the time was right for little Greenes.
This was the sort of news I loved. There was order to it. I mean, you knew the old ABCs of what was happening, and the chance of you getting all screwed up was pretty limited. You make the plans, write it down, easy. Mrs. Alivera, who was a friend of Mom’s from the neighborhood, took Mom’s wedding dress and altered it to exactly the style and fit Bethany wanted. So that was perfect, too. Mom’s only daughter would be married in her heirloom, fixed up though it may be. It was a good time. It was one of the really good times. Getting ready and all.
47
Roger eased my bike into the back of his pickup, and Kenny hopped into the middle of the front seat.
“We’ll be back fiveish,” Roger said to his wife, Kate.
“You drive safe.”
“I will.”
Kate kissed me on the cheek and gave a hard hug that lasted as long as a little prayer. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“Thank you, Kate. And Roger and Kenny. Thanks for everything.”
Roger and I got into the truck, crossed Bachelor Creek, and rolled out of Creede toward Durango. I had stayed with Kenny and his folks for two days. They wanted to do something nice for me because of getting Kenny out of the storm. It was all a little embarrassing, that I would be rewarded for doing what a human being should do, but I suppose it was good for them to say a loud thank-you.
The storm had lasted into the night, slowing down, then driving forward, so that by early morning twenty-six inches of snow had fallen, and the drifts on either side of the tent formed a natural sound barrier.
Kenny was sleeping—snoring, really—when I pushed out from the tent opening. The snow seemed packed, and my hands got wet from the water content. It was a heavy snow, and there was great difficulty in reaching the top, but I did, one hand first, then the other, until slowly I had created a sort of tunnel opening. I stood. The snow in drift came easily to my waist. For a moment the reflection of the first light blinded me, and I had to close my eyes until the sensation of red went away. When I opened them again, I saw one of those sights almost too beautiful to be real. A valley as utterly white as a cotton ball and through it a zigzag of river so blue it seemed to be ink. It was warm, and I was sweating under the heavy clothes I had put on. Then I heard the engines. I looked to the road, but no plows had been through to open the valley. The engines grew louder. I concentrated on the sound, but in the valley it bounced off trees and hills and seemed to come from everywhere. I looked out over an amazingly loud field of white.
I saw them all at the same time. Three skimobiles, white and orange, zooming in a wide parallel through the valley. One on the road, one in the center of the field, and one on the ridge above the river. I waved and shouted. They all got to me at about the same time. There was a pretty young woman and a fat-faced redheaded guy both wearing green police jackets, and a man with a red checkered jacket and camouflage pants. Red Check was frantic.
“Seen a kid? Seen a kid?” he screamed as he drove up.
“In the tent!” I yelled over the engine.
“What tent?” the redheaded cop asked.
I looked at the snow behind me. The tent was totally buried.
“In there,” I said, pointing to the hole I had crawled out of. Red Check dove in headfirst and emerged pulling my sleeping bag with Kenny inside it.
The policewoman stepped through the waist-high snow to Kenny. The other policeman kept his eyes on me.
“How long you had the boy?”
“I’m not sure. You know . . . how long did it snow?”
“Don’t be a wise-ass. Answer the question.”
“I’m not sure how long he was in the tent.”
“Where’d you take him from? Where’d you get him? What’d you do to the boy?”
You know how when you get so angry it kind of gets beyond anger and you want to kill the thing that makes you angry? I don’t get like that. I drop them. It’s as if I can’t see them or hear them anymore. Especially after Dr. Georgina Glass. I turned away and looked at Kenny, his little head looking at the other two, his living, unfrozen, going-on little head. br />
“Answer me, shithead!”
I high-stepped to Kenny and the others. Red Check was crying, and it was relief I heard in his sobs. I spoke to the young woman in the police uniform.
“I was on my bike, and I pulled off for a nap by the river. When I woke up, it was snowing, so even though I thought it was stupid, I set up my tent. Now I’m glad I did, because it got worse and worse, and then I heard Kenny. I was just lucky to even get him. He was wearing these summer clothes, and they were wet, so I got him into the bag, and I got my warm stuff on. We were lucky.”
“What’s that son of a bitch saying?” the other policeman roared from ten feet away.
“Thank you! Thank you!” cried Red Check.
“He’s a lucky boy,” the young woman said.
“I asked that pervert a question! I asked him a goddamn question!” screamed the other one over the roar of his skimobile.
“Kenny says you saved him. Thank you,” the weeping Red Check said again.
The young woman smiled at me. She tried to take a step forward but stumbled and began to fall. I reached for her quickly, for her waist to stop her from tumbling into the tent, and the fat-faced, redheaded guy shot me.
48
With Bethany’s wedding about a month away, Jeff Greene was spending an awful lot of time at our little house in East Providence. May was a great time in Rhode Island. Everything pretty much blooms and blossoms, and people take walks, and old Italian men sit in their tiny backyards—stuff like that. It was an easy time, and the Ides felt easy.
One of those evenings I remember, I came over from my apartment near Goddard Toys for dinner. Mom had made codfish cakes and boiled potatoes and a salad with ice cubes in it. It was European, I guess, to put ice cubes on your lettuce and cucumbers, but it was wonderful. After dinner Bethany and Mom stayed giggling in the kitchen, cleaning up, and me, Jeff Greene, and my pop went into the parlor to watch Curt Gowdy call a Red Sox game. I never knew for sure, but I think Jeff hated baseball. Hated the whole activity, but he knew we believed it could save you, so he’d watch and sort of try to get excited.