Paul Theroux: The Lower River

So he did not send the message. He deleted it, then considered one to Chicky, and heard in his mind, “Great, giving yourself a vacation while Dougie and I stay home. Ever occur to you that we could use a vacation? You never took one when Ma and I went to the Cape year after year. Ever occur to you…?”

He did not even start a message to Chicky.

He wanted someone to be interested. More than that, he wanted someone to know where he was going — someone who’d still be here when he returned, someone to tell his stories to, someone to look at his pictures. He could not go without someone knowing. Leaving without a farewell was too depressing, too spooky, like a ghost dissolving, vanishing into the woodwork. Who?

Royal Junkins — Roy — he had known since grade school. Not an intimate friend — he had none — but a close friend, a bright boy in elementary school, a standout runner in junior high, a track star in high school. He was someone who actually owned a car, at a time when Hock’s father said it was something they couldn’t afford to give him. And Roy Junkins had given Hock rides whenever he’d seen him waiting for the bus. Hock’s house in the Lawrence Estates was not far from Roy’s on Jerome Street, but it was years before they visited each other’s house. Anyone from Medford would have understood this immediately. Jerome Street was black, the Lawrence Estates white. It was not unthinkable, just awkward for a white person to stroll down Jerome, just as awkward and unlikely as a black face in the Lawrence Estates. But they were friends on the neutral ground of school, and it was Roy’s car they used for the senior prom.

Roy had gone to college on a track scholarship in Rhode Island, and after that he had disappeared, reemerging in the 1970s with stories of California and foreign travel and hints of having made and lost a lot of money on drugs. In the way that Roy had turned up at school, always with a good story, he then visited Hock at the store. He too had been to Africa, he said, purely on a whim, in one of his flush years; and he was one of the few people to whom Hock had confided his happiness on the Lower River.

After years of roaming in the wider world, of travel, of marriage, of fatherhood, Roy had returned to Jerome Street, where he lived with his sister. He was a teacher, a drug counselor, an adviser in agencies that dealt with at-risk youths — Roy’s description of the restless boys — and right up to the end he had stopped into the store, sometimes to buy a shirt or a sweater, but more often to while away the time, talking with Hock about high school, the countries he’d been to, whatever was on his mind. Roy could see that business was terrible, and it seemed to Hock that Roy was taking pity on him. Roy knew about failure — he could see that Hock was facing the end. But Roy had grace, and an easy, forgiving manner, and always a smile, and he’d never hid his admiration for Hock in having been a teacher in Africa, something Roy wished he’d done.

In the final weeks of the store, Roy Junkins was one of the more frequent visitors, though in that period, which was also the period of Teya and the snake, Hock never mentioned the python. The snake was his secret satisfaction. But casting his mind over people in Medford who might be interested in his going to Africa, Hock realized that Roy was perfect. Roy would listen to his plans, Roy would take an interest, Roy might even miss him a little — or, at least, Roy would welcome him back. Hock was able to picture that evening in the future, the dinner on his return from Africa, how Roy would sit and smile, hearing the stories.

Hock and Roy had no other friends in common, so each would give the other his full attention. In the chance encounters with Jerry Frezza, all Jerry wanted to talk about was Teya, speculating on her wild life: Witch Camp, the Mud Ritual, massages. Hock did not have the heart to tell Jerry that she was a rather sad, lonely person, with an angry daughter, struggling to make ends meet.

“Royal is watching the football game in the front room,” said the woman who answered — his sister Mae, Hock guessed. “I’ll bring him the phone.”

Then Hock heard rustling and Roy’s “Yuh?” and Hock greeted him. Roy said, “Hey, man, how you doing?” speaking very slowly and giving weight to each word with a breath of enthusiasm.

Hock was moved by the response. Here was a friendly voice, glad to hear his.

“I need to talk to you.” As soon as he spoke, Hock regretted his urgent tone.

“Go ahead, my brother. I’m listening.”

“It’s better if I see you.”

“That’s cool,” Roy said in his easygoing way, as though used to hearing desperate requests. His history of drug use, and his subsequent sobriety and study after that, had qualified him to become a drug counselor. And Hock had the feeling now that Roy, with his heightened sense, had him pegged as a person with a problem.

“Roy, I want to share some good news with you.”

“Man, that is just great.”

They agreed to meet the next day at the Chinese restaurant in West Medford. It had replaced the shoe repair shop that had stood on the corner since Hock and Roy had been in school. Roy remarked on this when they met, how he’d gotten his shoes resoled here.

“Suede shoes — very cool,” Roy said.

“Wingtips,” Hock said.

“You got it,” Roy said, agreeable as ever.

“Thanks for meeting me at short notice,” Hock said after they’d ordered their food — noodles for Hock, fried rice for Roy, some spring rolls to share.

“Ellis, I couldn’t wait. I want to hear this good news.”

Roy was smiling — the weary smile of someone who’d been through hard times, determined not to be brought low, a resolute smile that said, No matter what you say, you cannot bring me down. It was also a smile of encouragement and gratitude, and it had the effect of lighting Roy’s face with something like love — friendship, anyway, which seemed purer for being more passive.

“I’m going back to Africa.”

Roy turned his hand and tapped his knuckles on the table. “That’s great, Ellis.”

“I wanted to you to know.”

“I been there,” Roy said. “It was fine.”

“That’s why I knew you’d be interested.”

“I am beyond interested. I am down with it.” And Roy smiled again. “Ghana. I had some contacts there. I just went on an impulse — well, you know. I told you all about it. It was the 1970s. And I just”—Roy straightened, threw his head back, exaggerating a posture of confidence—“I walked tall. I had my head up. Looked people in the eye. It was so great. I had never done that here.”

“I always tell people, ‘Africa was my Eden,’” Hock said. “I was really happy there — young, in a country that was just becoming independent. I ran a school. Really good students. I had a girlfriend.”

Roy had begun to laugh. “Now you’re talking. Those women were so fine.”

The food was served and the two men continued to reminisce, Hock about Malawi, Roy about Ghana — though, as Roy said, he’d been there only three weeks. Yet those three weeks stood out in his mind as brighter and happier, more memorable and with more meaning, than years he’d spent elsewhere, years that had yielded no memories at all.

“I know what you’re saying. Ellis, my man.”

And Hock was relieved, because Roy’s smile spared him from going into further detail. This was the right man to share his secret with, someone who understood.

“You’re lucky,” Roy said, and continued to eat, but holding his head, cocking it slightly, in a manner that indicated he had something more to say. “Wish I could do it, but I’ve got—” He laughed, and his laugh indicated a weight of problems so enormous they could only be laughed at.