Four Years from Home Page 16

  Well, that wasn’t happening since I had never been his student, but it looked like I had a chance at one of the balls he had dislodged. Fat chance. It would require a lucky bank shot and I hated bank shots. I bent over the table under the overhanging light, lining it up, and looked up at him. “Do I seem any different to you? Or look different? Or anything?”

  He considered me for a minute. “Nope. You been sick?”

  “Do I look sick?”

  “No. I just never figured out why you stopped coming around. Mrs. Hoople seems to think it’s because you’ve been busy finishing up things. Me? I thought we were buddies. Seemed like a funny thing to do to a buddy — leave him high and dry like that.”

  Homespun ethics — something I never understood. I eyed up the shot. No way I’d ever make it, but I didn’t have much choice. “I’ve had something… going on.” A smooth stroke — the cue ball banked off the side and tapped the thirteen perfectly. We both watched it roll slowly into the corner pocket. I smiled and put my hand on his shoulder. “Did you miss me?”

  Sometimes, it’s better to be lucky than good, but not this time. I missed my next shot miserably and he ran the table. I looked up at the clock and whistled softly. It was noon and I was hungry.

  He racked them up again. “You ain’t giving up already, are you? I’m not done with your whupping. Three in the corner,” he said, tapping the pocket three times with the cue. Potsy sunk the one ball in the corner, dislodging several others. Maybe he wasn’t as good as he seemed. I moved to the table to respot the ball he had mistakenly sunk, but he was bending over to line up another. “What are you up to there, sonny? I’m not done yet.”

  “You sunk the wrong ball.”

  “I called one in the corner and I sank the one in the corner.”

  “You called the three ball.”

  He stood up, tapping the soft rubber of the cue on the floor thoughtfully. “There is something different about you, boy. You don’t remember how to play pool.”

  “You said ‘three.’” Old man or no old man, I was going to slug him. He was a bigger cheater than me. But that wasn’t why I was here.

  “Three taps, three in a row, same pocket. Even you should know there’s only one ball that can go that way from where I was. What’s wrong with you, anyway?” He bent over and proceeded to sink the next two balls into the same corner pocket.

  “Oh.” I supposed that was possible. I had gotten bored during the second half of The Hustler. I sat on the stool, thinking, while he proceeded to run the rest of the rack. “Let’s say that I have forgotten how to play pool; that I’ve forgotten a lot of things. Let’s pretend that I’m someone else who has no idea what’s been going on here for the last four years.”

  Potsy was watching me, an odd look on his face, like fear but not quite. I got up and put my hands on his bony shoulders, looking him squarely in the eye.

  “Let’s pretend for a minute that I don’t even remember you. You know, like amnesia?” I was that guy in the Alfred Hitchcock movie with amnesia and a fear of heights.

  Potsy wasn’t biting. “You’re not getting your dollar back.” He laid his cue on the table, signaling the end of the match, and snatched up the money. He walked over to the Coke machine and took out a bottle without depositing a dime. “So you don’t remember things; is that what you’re saying?”

  “Right, like the fact that the Coke is free to players, you old skinflint.” I laughed. The old fart had snookered me on that. I liked him a lot, but I couldn’t see how he could have liked Harry. Now him and me? We could have done pretty well together. “I don’t remember much about myself at all. Hell, I’m not even sure I’m even me anymore.”

  I didn’t want to give him a heart attack, especially having already calculated that the Mount Vernon ambulance would never get here in time to save the famous John Crowe Ransom, let alone a nobody pool hall proprietor named Potsy, but I really needed to ask him some questions without blowing my cover. So I told my story, starting with the Pancake House, embellishing it as needed to suit this situation, (but keeping it consistent with things I’d said earlier in case the police questioned him, too) and ending it all with a plea for him to keep it all under his hat. After all, we didn’t want to scare anyone, especially Mrs. Hoople. It was one of my best performances. He watched me the entire time, his expression changing from fear and uncertainty to concern. This was art — not that crap that Harry had put together for his classes.

  “So you don’t remember me?” He seemed disappointed.

  “I remembered that you’re my friend. That’s why I came back.”

  Potsy and I spent an hour or so talking. It turned out he was what they called a “townie,” which was the looking-at-you-down-my-nose kind of term that the college students and staff used to refer to the local population. It was something he and most of the other townspeople resented and had complained to the school officials about, but couldn’t do much to stop. I would definitely need several planks to accommodate all the idiots who would be walking them when the time came. Potsy knew Mrs. Hoople from church and it was there that he had met Harry during his freshman year. From what I could tell, Harry had almost immediately taken up residence with the old lady, making him the ideal in absentia roommate for any student who really wanted a single but couldn’t afford it. He and Potsy had struck up an immediate friendship and that’s when Harry started playing pool once or twice a week, spending the afternoon with Potsy drinking free Coke and talking about the world’s troubles as seen from Ohioland.

  Not many students came to the pool hall any more, and it was scheduled to be closed permanently after the current school year to make room for more dorm space — a financial decision, nothing personal. I jotted that down to make sure I didn’t forget to add it to one of Soup Edwards’ walls. “It’s a personal decision, nothing financial.” Potsy was doing this basically for free so it wasn’t like he would be out of a paying job, but it was clear he would have pretty much nothing to do with himself once the Brunswicks were hauled away. They weren’t even going to let him have his favorite table, not that it would have fit in his apartment. They were being sold as antiques. I doubted there was a gold watch in it for him either. I felt sorry for the guy. It was a strange feeling, one I didn’t often have to deal with because it usually meant I liked the person, and that always complicated things.

  About a month ago Harry had stopped coming to the pool hall for no apparent reason. Harry had also stopped going to church so Potsy wasn’t able to ask him directly what was going on, and Mrs. Hoople would only say that she hadn’t seen him and was worried but thought that he must have been busy finishing up schoolwork. Potsy didn’t see it that way at all. People came first, always did, and there was no changing that. Funny, I would have thought Harry would see it that way, too, making it all the more crazy that he should just abandon his friends for nearly a month and then turn up dead; not that a body had been found yet, but it all seemed to be heading in that direction. I really needed to find Beth.

  After promising that I would be back in a couple of days, I headed downstairs to the dining hall to get something to eat. I would have gone back to visit the old guy again, really. It was one of those things you mean to do, want to do, but know you will never do. Once I left Kenyon, I was never coming back.

  I entered the Great Hall. It wasn’t so great, just a big, noisy room filled with the clinking of aluminumware on cheap food service dishes. I waited an appropriate amount of time in the doorway for people to notice me, but everyone’s attention was either on their food or their friends at the table. A couple students looked up briefly but none apparently recognized me. Well, they would get their chance to pay their respects to me someday, just not today. The cordoned-off Captain’s table was empty. Just as well — I wasn’t ready for them yet. I took my place at the end of the food line and waited with the common folk for my shot at a lunch of mystery meat and overcooked vegetables, swimming in gravy that was probably more a cover-up than a flavor e
nhancement.

  It was actually comforting to know that not everyone at Kenyon knew and worshipped Harry. Not one person in the Great Hall had so much as smiled at me. The conclusion was obvious — either Harry ranked lower on their rating scale than this god-awful food or Harry wasn’t on their list at all. In either case, it was a winner and helped to erase the emerging complex I was getting that somehow Harry had become more popular, and hence more powerful, than me. He had done a lot of things in his four years at Kenyon, things that Mom and Dad would be proud of; not the least of which was that he had become a regular churchgoer again. I’d have to remember to tell them that when I called later. Even I was impressed. He’d come a long way back from the division cellar and was a definite threat to my league-leading position with so few games left in the season. He was like the guy in the movie who commits suicide to save his family because he is worth more dead than alive. I’d have to do something about that. I’d have to make sure they knew all the bad things, too. I made a note to make sure I uncovered a few of them before heading out. So far that page was empty.

  Someone touched my arm. It wasn’t the casual touch of a friend. It was something else. I turned and it was a really cute girl — light brown hair, blue eyes, tanned skin, a few inches shorter than me, and a killer smile.

  “Hey,” I said, smiling back. This was Beth. It had to be her.

  There is a code among guys, an unwritten code that even I usually follow. Guys keep it simple. You don’t squeal on a buddy, you never mess with his car, and you absolutely never, ever steal his girl. You follow these rules and your buddy is your buddy for life. You break the rules and you end up like Frankie Marx with your head glued to the school bus seat. I considered whether Harry was covered under the code. After all, he was only my brother, not my buddy. All that hanging out we had done together as kids didn’t really count. I only kept him around to have someone convenient to beat up if the need arose. And he had squealed on me many times, which I was certain should disqualify him. And, most importantly, he was dead, or at least gone. The jury was deadlocked.

  “You’re back,” she said softly, taking my hand and squeezing it. There was an electricity between us that I found myself unable to resist. I squeezed back. She kissed me lightly on the lips. “I was worried about you. Why have you been gone so long?”

  Evasive maneuvers, evasive maneuvers, dive, dive… “Just got in. How was the sun and surf?” It wasn’t hard to guess that she had been somewhere warm and sunny. She was way too tanned for Ohioland in winter, and there were sun-bleached streaks in her hair.

  I heard a giggle in the line behind us. It was that blonde from art class. “Hi, Harry. Hi, Beth,” she waved. “I see you two have finally found each other.” She crossed her hands over her chest and batted her eyelashes. There was no buddy rule protecting her, but I wasn’t the least bit interested — too many girly mind games that I had no inclination to play. I looked at Beth and rolled my eyes.

  She laughed a laugh I could have gotten used to easily. “Kerry likes you, you know,” she whispered to me.

  “That makes one of us.”

  Her look became earnest again. “Where have you been?” I gave her a regrettable, sheepish grin and shrugged. I may have been the best sergeant the army had to offer, but when it came right down to it I knew nothing about women. I checked my scorecard. Most of my battlefield victories were typical — recon, search and destroy, frontal assault, things I understood. The loss column was littered with failed missions involving women I had known. I put the card away.

  Beth and I didn’t sit in the Great Hall. She led me through the line and to a smaller dining hall called Dempsey that was more my speed — far less pretentious and a nice view of the side of the hill on which Philander Chase had said a prayer so long ago to launch his pirate fleet into the uncharted seas of education. I wondered if the building had been named for Jack Dempsey, the boxer. I hadn’t remembered seeing his portrait in Ransom Hall, but I probably wouldn’t have recognized him in a suit. I had only ever seen him in Everlast trunks with blood all over his beat-up face. It didn’t matter. All of the Ransom Hall portraits would look like Jack Dempsey soon enough. We sat by a window next to each other. It was more or less the tail end of lunchtime, so there were only scattered students in the hall, affording us some degree of privacy. Beth inched closer and I could feel the warmth of her leg through her jeans. Harry was a lucky guy.

  I took a bite of the mystery meat and almost choked. “What is this? Deflated footballs?”

  She laughed and I used the moment to slide away a bit on the bench, then angle sideways to face her. I saw her look down at my leg. I had pulled it up on the bench and tucked it under my other, blocking her from getting too close. She looked up and into my eyes questioningly. The jig was up. She had to know I wasn’t Harry. Pushing the plate away, I cleared my throat, trying to think of the best way to approach this.

  I had originally planned on continuing the impersonation to see if she would be fooled like the others. It hadn’t seemed likely, though no one else seemed to see any difference between us. But this was his girlfriend. Surely she would know the difference between her lover and someone who just looked like him. And if she kissed me, really kissed me, not just a peck on the lips; that would be the giveaway. There was just no way Harry was a good a kisser as me. After all, I had learned the fine art from Bonnie Shoedel in sixth grade. Granted, I was doing it on a dare and for money, but I had gotten plenty of practice after that while Harry was still wallowing in the celibacy of his calling to the priesthood.

  Beth asked, “What’s wrong? You seem different. Did everything go okay at home? You left without even saying good-bye. I was so worried.” She took my hand again. She wasn’t going to make this easy.

  “Home? Sure, it was fine.” The amnesia story was probably a good place to start. I could delay any intimate contact with her for the time being, and by the time she finally did figure out that I was not Harry, I would have another lie ready to explain why I had deceived her. I had just gotten out the words, “Do I look…” when she said,

  “What did your parents say when you told them we were engaged?”

  “Unexpected” is defined in The Book of Tom as a barrage of water balloons raining down on you while you are trying to make out in your car on Lover’s Lane. I know because I wrote that definition and carried out the strategy many times during high school. Ask Frankie Marx. And I had never seen anything to cause me to even think about redefining that term… until now. Harry had become an artist, a writer, a local celebrity, deeply religious again, an all-around good guy on campus, and now, I found out, he was going to do the one thing that would carry him to the top of the parental-approval charts. He would be the one to carry on the Ryan family name. I was glad he was dead. The bastard had royally screwed me… after all I had done for him. But somewhere in the black depths of my heart I believed he was still alive. He had to be alive or I wouldn’t be able to undo all his good deeds.

  “Harry?” Beth’s eyes were tearing.

  I stood up, pulling her up with me. A fine mess Harry had gotten me into. I hugged her. I didn’t know what to say. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Beth and I wandered silently down the hill, finding a path through the woods. The day was fading fast, clouds were rolling in, and Ohioland was in for another storm. I should have been a weatherman. It’s a lot easier to look up at the sky and tell what is going to happen with the weather than to understand or predict people. In four years, Harry had filled his crappy little existence with everything I had tried my best to deny him at home. He had taken all those things the nuns and Christian brothers had told him were possible for him and had actually done them. I hated and loved him. I loved him and wanted to kill him. I hadn’t yet decided what I would do first once I found him, but it would be fitting, even if it meant digging him up and killing him again. But that was not for me to figure out now. That was a future episode of Combat! Today’s episode had Sergeant Saunders an
d a female French resistance operative following the tracks of a German spy into the dark woods of France where danger lurked around every turn. She was an exotic beauty from the hills of Alsace, and he a simple American falling in love during the worst war in human history. This was not the time; this was not the place. There was a war to be won and this had to be a simple matter of using the Frogs to get to the Krauts… nothing more.

  There was a crackling nose — the sound of someone stepping on a branch and it breaking under their weight. It had to be the enemy — only the enemy was stupid enough to give their position away like that. We both stopped and looked in the direction of the sound. Something was there.

  “Did you see that?” I asked in a whisper.

  “It looked like a man,” Beth replied. I could feel her trembling. Was it from the cold?

  A shadow seemed to move in the distance and fade into the trees. I had no idea how safe these woods were and it had probably been a stupid idea to wander off like this — after all, Harry had wandered off and was never seen again.

  “Hey! Who’s there?” I yelled, the logic being that if it was an animal I would scare it off, and if it was a person, they would either identify themselves or we would run like hell. My yell died without echo or response and the woods became quiet again. I quickly flipped to the notebook page marked Really stupid things to do and added this boneheaded idea to that list, right below Telling the truth when there are other options. Beth and I waited and heard another, more distant cracking sound.

  I exhaled slowly. “It must be an animal or something. I guess I scared it off.”

  She looked up at me but said nothing.

  The path switched back several times down a steep, slippery slope. Holding hands wasn’t my idea — I didn’t like getting help from a girl — but it did steady us both. When we finally reached the bottom, I tried to let go, but she was having none of that, so I led her along the nearly frozen-over river toward a railroad bridge upstream.