T. Boyle - World's End

It was 7:00 A.M. Hesh and Lola were in the kitchen, their voices soft and murmurous. The house ticked with the small comfortable sounds he’d missed in the hospital — water trickling through the pipes, the hum of dishwasher and refrigerator. Outside, the sun slanted through elms and maples and spilled across the lawn and into the garden. Walter stood at the window a moment to collect himself. He saw corn. Tomatoes. Pumpkins, cucumbers, squash. Hesh had planted them. In May. Before Walter had gone to work at Depeyster Manufacturing, before he’d reconditioned the Norton and discovered a ghost in the scent of a pancake. And now here they were, rooted in the ground.

In the kitchen, he braced his crutches against the wall and sat down at the table across from Hesh. Lola stood at the gas range, flipping pancakes. “I made your favorite, Walter,” she said.

The smell was intolerable. It was death. He’d rather have snuffed the fumes of burning plastic, nerve gas, blood and offal and shit. A glass of milk stood beside his plate. He took a sip. It was warm. “I’m not hungry,” he said.

“Not hungry?” Hesh echoed. He was perched over his muffin like an eagle masking its kill. His forearms swelled against the edge of the table. “Come on, kid, snap out of it. You lost your foot. Okay. It’s not the end of the world.”

Walter set down the glass of milk. “Please, Lola,” he said, craning his neck to look over his shoulder, “not now. I just can’t eat.” And then, turning back to Hesh, who was licking butter from the tips of his fingers and chewing with a rhythmic roll of his great, clean-shaven jaws, he said, “It’s not that. Really. It’s”—he didn’t know how to tell him—“I’ve been thinking about my father lately.”

Hesh had stopped chewing. “Your father?” he repeated, as if he hadn’t heard properly. He picked up the butter knife and laid it down again. “You know how I feel about your father.”

Walter knew. But whatever had gone wrong with him had its roots here — in the riots, on the ghost ships, in the conundrum of the marker and the burden of heredity. “Yeah, I know. But things are different now and I have a right to know what he did to you and Lola and my mother that was so awful, and I have a right to know where he is now. I have a right to ask him myself.”

Hesh’s eyes had changed. They were open — fixed on Walter’s — but they might as well have been shut fast. He’d begun chewing again, but more slowly, and, it seemed, without relish. “Sure,” he said finally, while Lola rattled pans at the stove. “You’ve got all the right in the world. But your mother made us your legal guardians, not him. He deserted you, Walter. And even after he came back, those summers, you think he was about to take on the responsibility of raising a kid even though he caused a big stink all the time? Huh? Do you?”

Walter shrugged. The pancakes were killing him. He felt as if he were about to cry.

“Look him up, go ahead. Where you’ll look, God only knows. But as far as I’m concerned, he’s a bum. A Judas. Persona non grata. As far as I’m concerned, the book is closed.”

But the book is never closed.

Hesh went off to his glazier’s shop on Houston Street and Lola sat at the table and told Walter the story of the riots for the thousandth time. He knew every nuance, anticipated her every pause and change of inflection as if he were speaking himself, but he listened now as if he’d never heard the story before, listened as he had the day after his eleventh birthday when Lola sat him down and tried to explain why Hesh and his father had nearly come to blows over so marvelous and inoffensive a thing as an Italian motorbike with red fenders and chrome-plated handlebars. He listened.

She hadn’t been able to get near the place — the concert grounds, that is. But Hesh had. And Walter’s father and mother too. The organizing committee had asked them to come early to set up the chairs and see to the lights and loudspeakers. After that, Christina would be in charge of programs and literature, and Hesh and Truman were supposed to mingle with the crowd and keep an eye out for trouble. It was going to be quite a night: the warmth of the summer evening like a big communal blanket, the stars overhead, a thousand voices joined in song. They’d talked about nothing else for weeks.

Will Connell was going to be there, to strum his guitar and sing his songs about the working people of America (later, when the whole country had caught the sickness of the riots, he would be blacklisted by every record company, every music publisher, booking agent and theater owner from Maine to California). A woman from the New York stage was going to sing too. And there were two speakers, one from the Garment Workers’ Union, the other a party member who’d fought in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade. The big attraction, though — the man everyone was coming to see — was Paul Robeson. Paul Robeson was a Negro and a Communist, he was an actor and a civil libertarian, he was a great huge lion of a man who could sing the old spirituals till you could feel them in the marrow of your bones.

Lola had seen him at the pavilion in Kitchawank Colony just the year before. Two hundred or so had turned out to hear him that time, local people from the Colony mostly, the graying Anarchists and Socialists who’d founded the community back in the twenties because they wanted to free themselves from the diseases of city life and give their children a libertarian education, and the party-line Communists who’d begun to supplant them. People brought sandwiches and sat on the grass — old couples, children, pregnant women. There was no trouble. Just a nice time for everyone. A little culture in the hinterlands.

But the following year — in August, late August — it was a different story. Lola was working then, a half-day shift at the counter in the old van der Meulen bakeshop in Peterskill, and so she couldn’t go in early with Hesh and Truman. Walter’s mother went, though. Christina made up some sandwiches and a thermos of iced tea, dropped Walter at his grandmother’s — he’d just turned three, did he remember? — and then climbed into Hesh’s 1940 Plymouth with her husband and his buddy Piet.

Lola tilted her head back and glanced around the room. A cup of black coffee sat before her on the table, going cold. She lit a cigarette, shook out the match and exhaled. “He was quite a character, Piet,” she said. “Short little guy, no higher than my chin. And always playing practical jokes — you know, your father was a great one for jokes.” She took a sip of cold coffee. “The two of them were always at it. Silly stuff. Palm buzzers and squirting carnations and whatnot. I wonder what ever became of him? — Piet, I mean. Your father thought he was really something else.”

There were no jokes that night. Hesh drove. Christina sat up front, with the thermos and sandwiches and the box of programs and party literature; Truman and Piet were in back, boxed in by sound equipment. Lola was planning to join them later, as soon as she got out of work. There’d be plenty of time — she got off at seven and the concert wasn’t scheduled to start until seven-thirty. She hoped they’d save her a seat.

Anyway, they were going to hold the concert down near the river, just off Van Wart Road, on some property owned by Peletiah Crane, who was then superintendent of the Peterskill schools. (Yes, that’s right, Lola had said when she’d first told him the story, Tom’s grandpa. ) Peletiah wasn’t a party member himself, but he was sympathetic to the cause and he’d been a supporter of cultural events in the Colony for years. When it became apparent that the concert and rally would be much bigger than the last — a show of solidarity for progressives that would attract perhaps two and a half thousand from the City — the Kitchawank Colony Association realized it wouldn’t have the space or facilities to handle such a crowd and dropped its sponsorship of the event. That’s when Peletiah stepped in. He offered the Robeson people the use of his property for nothing, and this encouraged one of the trade unions to put up the money to rent chairs, sound equipment and floodlights. Sasha Freeman, the novelist, and Morton Blum, the builder, were the chief organizers. They didn’t expect any trouble, but you never knew. They asked Hesh and Truman, both of them party members and big men, toughened by war and adversity, to be in charge of security.