for some clothes. Maybe I'll even buy something more
up-to-date and get Rachel off my back," she added. "If you do, I will," I challenged.
"It's a deal. Let's get all this back first, and on
our way we can see how it's going at the cafe." We started for home. About two miles out of
the village, we saw the boy who had been in the cafe.
He was walking with his head down. He carried that
same notebook and--speaking of clothes--wore what
looked like the exact same things he had worn the day
before.
"That looks like Duncan Winning," Aunt
Zipporah said and slowed down.
He looked up when we pulled alongside him. "Hi, Duncan," she said. "Would you like a ride
into town?"
He looked at me, then shook his head. "No, thanks. I'm in no rush to get there," he
said, lowered his head and kept walking.
"He's a strange duck," Aunt Zipporah said, "but
I can't help feeling sorry for him. He looks so lost all
the time."
"I'm sure people back home thought the same
of me," I said.
"The difference is you really do have family
who cares, Alice."
"I know."
Aunt Zipporah looked at Duncan. "Someone told me he writes poetry. Maybe it was Cassie who
told me."
"Is that what he does sitting in the cafe?" "I guess so. I just equaled all the words I've
ever said to him and he's said to me," she told me. "Doesn't he have any friends?"
"I've never seen him with anyone when I've
seen him, but I don't know much more about him. His
mother and he live out on what was once a chicken
farm. Again, according to Mrs. Mallen, who knows a
little about everyone's business, Duncan's mother had
a little money after his father took off, and she does a
mail out business from her home. Mostly religious
material. They also sold off some of their land for development." She smiled. "Little cities, lots of gossip." We started off again. I glanced at him as we
passed him by. He kept his head down, but when we
were well beyond him, he looked up to watch us
disappear around a turn.
"Does he get a job during the summer?" "I don't know, honey. I don't imagine he would
be easy to employ. Even Tyler, the master guru,
would have trouble dealing with someone so
introverted," she said, smiling.
I didn't smile. I thought to myself,
If it weren't for my uncle and aunt, I'd probably not have a job for
the summer either.
For some reason, the cafe wasn't as jammed for
lunch as it had been the day before, so we were able to
continue home to bring everything into my bedroom.
After we put on the new bedding and set out the area
rugs, hung the new curtains and placed the lamp, we
stood back together and considered.
"You know what else you might think of
doing?"
"What?"
"Painting these walls a happier color. Or
papering them. Something. Maybe," she added, "if
you brighten up the room, you'll brighten up yourself
inside."
"Maybe." I relented, and we planned on when
we would go look for some paint or wallpaper. After we made ourselves some lunch and ate
and talked, I revealed that I had brought along one of
the more fashionable skirts and blouses I had bought
during our shopping spree before the prom. After we
ate, I put them on and she smiled.
"Now go fix your hair and put on a little
lipstick, Alice."
I did, and then we left for the cafe to help with the after-lunch cleanup and preparations for the evening dinner. The crowd had thinned out to where there were just two tables of four. It was Missy's turn to stay on. Cassie had left, and Mrs. Mallen had gone to the bank to make a deposit for Uncle Tyler. As soon as we entered, I looked over at the corner table and sure enough, there he was, Duncan Winning, his head down, scribbling in his notebook, a cup of coffee
on the table.
Aunt Zipporah raised her eyebrows and looked
at me.
"He doesn't usually come in two days in a row,"
she said.
I pitched in with the cleanup and preparations
but looked at him periodically. Aunt Zipporah again
muttered something about feeling sorry for him.
Finally, I approached him. I knew he saw me coming,
but he didn't look up.
"What are you writing so intently?" I asked. I thought he wasn't going to answer, but I didn't
move. I wasn't going to let him ignore me.
He looked up slowly.
"I'm keeping a sort of journal," he said, "but I'm
writing it in poetry."
"Really?"
"No, I'm making it up because I'm really a spy
from another planet taking notes on human behavior.
Which would you rather believe?"
"Very funny. How come you wouldn't accept
my aunt's offer for a ride today?"
"I don't like being indebted to anyone for anything."
"A ride? What's the big deal?"
"You give in on the little things and before you
know it . . ."
"What?"
"You give away your soul," he said. I know I
was smirking. He shrugged. "You asked, so I told
you. Since you're being so nosy, I'll ask you some
questions."
"Go ahead."
"What did you mean when you said you don't
have any parents to take care of you? Are they dead or
not?"
"No, they're not dead," I replied but didn't add
anything.
"I guess you're not going to tell me. That's all
right. I'll live without the information," he said and
turned a page in his notebook.
"My parents never married," I said. I wasn't sure why I should want to tell him anything, but I suddenly felt the need to do so. He was infuriating me, and it was like releasing some of the built-up
steam. It was either do that or explode in his face. "Ali, an unexpected bundle of joy, huh? How
old were they?"
"In their teens."
"So who did you live with before you came
here?" "My father's parents."
"Oh. They took on the great responsibility.
What, are they getting too old to handle you?" "No, they're still very young."
"So why do you want to go to school here?" "I need a change," I said. "Do you like going to
school here?"
"I don't think about it. I just go."
"Do you have a job for the summer?" "I do everything around our house. Maintain
the grounds, fix stuff. That keeps me busy. It's just my
mother and me."
"What happened to your father?" I asked. I
remembered what Aunt Zipporah had told me, but I
wanted to see what he would say.
"I don't know. Maybe he was kidnaped by
aliens."
"Very funny."
"Hysterical."
"Do you want any more coffee?"
"No." He closed his notebook and looked out
the window. "So won't your boyfriend miss you?" "I don't have a boyfriend, and before you ask, I
don't have any friends who will miss me either."Why
not?"
"I don't speak the same language," I said, and
he finally smiled. He had a very nice smile, I thought.
It was like a dash of light and warmth. I understood
why my aunt wanted me to smile more.
"You working here tonight?"
"Yes."
"I'm fixing up my scooter. It's not much, but it
gets me around. I'm going home with some parts, and
I think it should be in working order in a few hours. If
you need a ride home afterward . . ."
"You want me to accept a ride and risk giving
away my soul?"
He actually laughed and then stood up. "Okay," he said. "Touche." He started away. "I'll tell you what," I said, and he paused and
turned hack to me.
"What?"
"I'll let you take me home if you'll let me read
some of your poetry."
He considered.
"That way we're both taking a risk," I added,
and he nodded.
"Okay. I'll be back about . . ."
"Nine-thirty," I said.
He nodded and walked out. Aunt Zipporah
stepped up beside me quickly.
"Looks like you made something of a
breakthrough. I don't recall anyone talking to him that
long."
"He's not bad," I said. "Sorta interesting in a
strange way."
"Strange?"
"Different." I looked at her. "Like me." She smiled.
"He wants to give me a ride home later. I said
he could come by at nine-thirty, okay?"
"He's got his own car? Why is he always
walking everywhere?"
"He said he had a scooter he was fixing and it
would be ready to go tonight."
She looked worried.
"If he goes fast, I'll make him stop and walk," I
promised.
"Something happens to you here and I'm dog
food," she said.
"Nothing will happen. Bad, that is."
"Okay. I guess I had better get used to having a
teenager under my wing. Just like your grandfather
warned." "It'll be all right, Zipporah."
She hugged me.
"I know it will. Let's get back to work," she
said.
I did, and with a new spurt of energy that
surprised me the most.
Because we weren't that busy and I had time to
loiter, I kept looking to see if Duncan had arrived
early. I probably would have been thinking about him
anyway. Aunt Zipporah caught me watching the front
of the cafe and smiled to herself. Both she and Tyler
had already discussed Duncan bringing me home, I
was sure.
Just after nine, I saw him pull up on his scooter
and park it outside the cafe, but he didn't come right
in. He sat on it and folded his arms, looking off in the
opposite direction as if he had no special reason to be
here and couldn't care less if I came out or not. "You can go now, Alice," Aunt Zipporah told me. "There's not much left to do. We'll be along in a
couple of hours," she added.
"Okay."
"Please be careful," she said and then laughed.
"Like I ever paid attention to that when my parents
said it."
"I will," I told her with firmness.
"Unfortunately, know what it means not to be." . She nodded, "I guess you do."
I took off my apron and headed out. I knew he
was watching for me out of the corner of his eye no
matter how coolly indifferent he tried to look, because
the moment I emerged, he turned.
"Released early for good behavior?"
"Something like that," I said. "You sure this
thing is safe?"
It was a well-dented black scooter with some
rust.
"It has a top speed of thirty-five miles an hour
downhill. Don't worry," he said and sat. He waited. I
looked back through the cafe window and saw my
aunt watching with worry scribbled all over her face.
Then I got behind Duncan on the scooter.
"You can hold on by putting your arms around
me," he said and kicked the engine on. It sputtered. He turned back, smiling. "Look at that, you're making
it stutter."
"Very funny."
We started away.
"How do you know where I live?" I asked as he
headed out of the city.
"You're with your aunt and uncle, right?" "Yes."
"Everyone knows that house. It's one of a kind
around here."
Although we weren't going fast, the breeze
slapped at my face enough for me to rest the left side
of my head against his back. We were silent, moving
through the darkness with just the rather dim
illumination of the scooter's weak front light clearing
away the night. There was no moonlight, and a mostly
cloudy sky hid whatever starlight the celestial ceiling
was willing to offer.
We didn't speak until we reached my aunt's
home and he pulled into the driveway and stopped. I got off. He remained seated, the engine
running. "I did my end of the bargain," I said. "Where
are your poems?"
"You really want to read them?" he asked, his
voice full of skepticism.
"That was the deal. Well?"
He shut off the engine and reached into his
jacket to pull out the notebook.
"You might as well come inside," I said. "I can't
read them in the dark."
He looked at the house as if something about it
terrified him, and he did not make any effort to get off
the scooter.
"What?"
"That's all right. I've got to get home." "Really?"
"You can hold onto the notebook until
tomorrow. I'll come by the cafe and pick them up." He kick-started the scooter.
"I didn't mean to scare you off," I said dryly. "You're not scaring me off. I just don't want to
watch you reading my poems," he added with a note
of belligerence.
I almost threw the notebook hack at him. "If I'm sitting there, you'll feel obligated to say
nice things," he added with a little less anger in his
voice. "I would not. I would say what I believe." "Fine. I'll hear it tomorrow then," he said and
turned the scooter around.
He didn't even say good night. He shot off into the night, the tiny rear light of the scooter looking like a red eye that closed and was gone, leaving me
fuming on the driveway.
He had to be the most infuriating, impolite,
arrogant and annoying boy on the face of the planet, I
thought, not to mention confusing. Why was it
important to him to take me home and then ignore
me?
Aunt Zipporah was right. I didn't need someone
with just as many, if not more, emotional and psychological problems, I told myself. I'm dangling on my
own high wire.
And yet it was just that danger and the danger
that hovered about him that filled me with
disappointment and frustration at his leaving me
standing in the dark driveway.
I gazed at his notebook. No matter how he had
behaved, I was filled with curiosity and interest in
what he had written.
I'm no better than that perennial moth hovering
about the candle flame, toying with setting myself on
fire and going up in smoke,
I told myself and went
into the house to read his poetry.
I took the notebook to my room and lay back on my bed. It was like opening a treasure chest and not knowing what you would find. His name, address and telephone number were on the inside of the front cover. Duncan's handwriting wasn't easy to decipher, but after a while, I understood how he made his letters and I was easily able to read what he had written.
Under his name, address and phone number, he wrote,
In the event that this book is found, please call or return. A substantial reward will be given. If you don't call or return, a substantial curse will fall on you and your family.
I laughed to myself, turned the page and began to read.
Duncan hadn't been kidding when he had first told me that this notebook was his journal. It wasn't a day- to-day recording of his life as such, but it was about all his observations and things that happened to and around him. There were times when I had thought I would keep a journal, too, but not like this. He really was a poet. He didn't write verse. Nothing rhymed, but it was still very thoughtful poetry full of surprising ideas and thoughts and imagery. At times he sounded like someone who couldn't hate himself more, and then at times, he sounded like someone who thought he was above everyone else; everyone else was inferior. He compared most people around him to worker ants or drones, mindlessly doing their chores every day and never questioning why. He was especially critical of his fellow students, who, he said, had mirrors for faces.
I liked a lot of his ideas, but some things were disturbing, especially his views of his own parents. He never referred to them as
my mother
and
my father,
but it was obvious whom he meant.
On the first page, in fact, he wrote:
Like a bird she spreads her wings over me. She wants to protect me from evil,
But she doesn't realize she is keeping me in the dark,
And she is smothering me with too much love. Can I die happy that way?
Some of what he wrote nearly brought me to tears, but there were a few poems that brought smiles and laughter, too, like the one I assumed was about his English teacher.
Up and down the aisle she parades,
Unfolding her vowels and consonants So sharply she cuts her own tongue.
If she could, she'd march us out before a firing squad.
For misplacing a modifier or using the wrong tense. I imagine the walls in her house are covered with her husband's punishments. A thousand times he wrote:
I will not use ain't again.
And then about himself he wrote:
Too many nights I see stars backing into the darkness
And disappearing
The birds keep their distance, too.
Even the rain drops avoid falling on me.
I live in my own shadow
And whenever I turn to see where I have been,
I discover I have not moved.
I'm caught in the web I spun around myself,
Trapped in my own name.
Was it possible to read someone's thoughts and feel as if you've known him all your life? Some of the things he wrote I had felt and thought, but not as strongly and as vividly. What I had whispered to myself, he was shouting at the world.
I was still reading when my uncle and aunt returned from the cafe. Aunt Zipporah stopped in to see me. "I half expected to find Duncan here," she said. "He is."
"What? Where?"
"Here," I said and held up the notebook.
"Is that the notebook he's always writing in at the cafe? His poetry?"
"Yes." "Well, where is he?"
"He dropped me off and went home, I guess." "I'm surprised he gave you that."
"We had a deal. I'd let him take me here if he let me read his poetry."
"That was it? All he wanted was to take you home?" she asked suspiciously:
I nodded and then shrugged, and she laughed. "So how is his poetry?"
"Interesting."
She raised her eyebrows. "uh-huh."
"No, I'm not trying to avoid saying whether it's good or bad. It really is interesting."
"Okay. Do you want me to read any?"
"No," I said quickly. "I don't think it would be right without his permission."
She smiled:
"You're right, Alice. See you in the morning when your uncle wakes you and me up again," she said and went upstairs, laughing to herself.
I finished his notebook before I went to sleep. At the end it left me feeling sad and depressed. I didn't think it possible to discover anyone who was sadder about his life, his family and his future than I was, but Duncan Winning took first prize when it came to that. A part of me wanted me to hand the notebook back to him and run as fast as I could in the opposite direction. In the state of mind I was in, someone as dark and depressing as he was could just push me over the edge. I should be surrounding myself with happy, contented people, young people my age who were more like Zipporah and Tyler. After all, this was supposed to be that time of our lives when we thought ourselves capable of doing anything and living forever, not dwelling on death, failure and
disappointment.
But then I thought that giving up on him was surely the same as giving up on myself. Maybe the blind could lead the blind. Maybe we were allies fighting similar demons. Maybe I should be kinder, more understanding, and, in doing that, I would get him to treat me in a similar way.
I quickly learned that wasn't the way to win his confidence and friendship.
He showed up at the restaurant right after the lunch rush the next day and took his seat at what was rapidly becoming known as Duncan's table to Cassie and Missy. I went to the back of the restaurant, where I had hidden his notebook, and brought it to him.
"Some of this is truly wonderful," I said, handing it to him.
He took it without saying anything.
"A lot of it is sad," I continued. "There's funny stuff, but most of it is sad. I can understand why, but--"
"But there's a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? Sunnier days are just ahead? There's always a silver lining? Which one are you going to give me?" he asked with a wry smile. "I've stored all the lines the way a squirrel stores acorns."
"I wasn't going to give you any line," I said. "I was just going to say that even though it's sad, it's good." "Right, it's good."
"It is! Have you ever shown any of it to your teachers?"
He looked at me as if I was saying the dumbest thing. "What for?"
"I just think some of it should be published." "It is. Right here," he said, holding up the notebook.
"But that's not publishing it. Publishing it is getting other people to read it."
"And get their dumb opinions? No thanks." "Not everyone is dumb, Duncan."
"When it comes to me, they are," he said.
He put the notebook down and turned the pages slowly, inspecting every one.
"You don't have to worry. I didn't write in it or tear out any pages."
He continued to check. "A cup of coffee," he said without looking up at me. "Black."
I glared at him, then turned and went to the counter. Aunt Zipporah looked up from the counter in the kitchen. She watched me pour the cup of coffee.
"Something wrong?"
"No," I said, obviously too quickly. "Not with me," I added.
I brought the cup of coffee to him and slapped it down so hard on the table that some spilled into the saucer. He looked up.
"You're not the only one who feels these things," I said, "and expresses them in some artistic form or another."
"Oh really?"
"That's right, really. I'm not a poet, but I happen to paint, and that's where my feelings and deeper thoughts go. My grandparents are coming up this weekend and my grandfather is bringing my art supplies. I'm setting up the studio behind my aunt and uncle's house, the one the sculptor created."
His face softened with interest.
"Really?"
"Yes, really, Duncan, really. Maybe if you opened a window, some fresh air would go into your head," I told him and walked away to fume on the other side of the restaurant.
"How come you're spending so much time with him?" Missy asked me.
"I'm doing penance."
"What?"
"Penance. Don't you know what that means? I'm punishing myself to make up for my sins."
"Huh?"
The confusion twisted her face, making her lips look like thin pieces of rubber. I had to smile, which calmed me.
"Despite the way he talks to other people, he's an interesting boy, Missy. He's written some great poetry."
"You read it?"
"How else would I know it's good, Missy?" She looked at him and then at me.
"But why bother with someone like him? Why spend the time'?"
"I inherited a ton of it. I have lots to spend," I told her, and she gave me that quizzical look again.
"You sound nuttier than he is."
"So there you are. You've answered your own question. We're two peas in a pod. You want to come in, too?"
"No thanks. I'll stay in the sane world," she said.
"It's your loss," I called to her as she started away. She turned and smirked back at me before tending to a new table of customers.
Another half dozen customers sauntered in, and I took their orders and stayed busy for a while. I never noticed that Duncan had left, but when I did, I didn't have much time to think about it, because we started to prepare for the dinner crowd. It was Missy's night off, so she was gone after the lunch rush, and Cassie was off as well. Aunt Zipporah and 1 took on the full waitress responsibilities with Mrs. Mallen standing by to jump in if need be.
According to Tyler, we had a lively crowd for midweek. He was very happy about it. He had done a minimum of print advertising, so the cafe was building its following through the best way possible-- word of mouth. When it came to food and where to go to eat, most people were heavily influenced by the opinions of others, even people they didn't really know.
"A satisfied customer is worth a ton of advertising," Tyler chanted periodically to his employees. "Keep that smile and give them good service. Make them feel special. The food will do the rest," he promised, and from what I could see during the few days I had returned, he was right. It felt good to be part of something successful.
I was pretty tired by the time the dinner crowd thinned out and we were dealing only with some stragglers. Everyone pitched in to help with the cleanup. Finally, close to nine-thirty, I had a chance to stand back and catch my breath. I didn't want to mention it, but my bad hip was aching. If my aunt and uncle weren't so busy, they surely would have seen how much more pronounced my limp had become.
However, from the look on Aunt Zipporah's face as she approached me sitting at the counter, I thought maybe she had noticed and was waiting until now to say something I was preparing myself for her telling me I couldn't work this hard again.
"You didn't tell me he would be here again tonight, Alice?"
"What? Who?"
She nodded toward the front of the cafe. Sitting on his scooter and looking as nonchalant as he had the night before was Duncan Winning.
"I didn't know myself," I said.
"You sure you didn't agree to a few more trips on that thing in order to read his poems?" she asked, smiling.
"Yes," I said. "I'm sure. Believe me, I'm more surprised than you are, Zipporah."
"Well, you'd better see what that's about then," she added and returned to the kitchen.
I slid off the stool and walked out.
"What are you doing out here?" I asked him.
"Just hanging out to see if you needed another ride."
"You didn't tell me you would be back."
"I didn't know I would myself," he said. "It wasn't so bad last night, was it? I'm not reckless or anything."
"I didn't say you were,"
"So?"
I looked back into the cafe. Although they were working at the cleanup, my uncle and aunt were watching us.
"I have to ask them if it's all right."
"If it was all right last night, why wouldn't it be tonight?"
"I'm not saying it won't be," I replied as sharply as he spoke to me. "I just said I have to ask. They are responsible for me now."
He shrugged and looked away.
Was I crazy? I should simply tell him to make like the wind and blow, but I didn't. I went inside and spoke to my aunt and uncle.
"And what are you getting for the ride this time?" Aunt Zipporah teased.
"A week's supply of single-syllable words," I told her, and she laughed.
"Be--"
"Careful. I know, I
.
know," l said, taking off my apron. "See you later."
"Thanks, Alice. You did great work tonight," Uncle Tyler told me.
"I made more than seventy-five dollars," I bragged.
Duncan waited confidently on his scooter, never doubting I'd be out to ride with him. His shifting from arrogance to self-pity was driving me crazy.
"Do you have to be brought straight home?" he asked when I stepped out.
"Not straight home, but soon. Why?"
"I'd like to show you one of my favorite places around here. It's sort of on the way anyway."
"Okay," I said and got on behind him. He kickstarted the engine and we took off.
Just as before, we didn't speak to each other much until he made a turn off the road I knew and followed another, more narrow road that eventually turned into pure gravel. After a dozen or so more yards, he stopped the scooter.
"Let's walk the rest of the way. It's safer than negotiating the gravel. It's just off to the left here," he said.
He shut off the engine and stabilized the scooter. Then he reached into his pocket and produced a small flashlight to show me how to move through some brush until we came out to a little clearing on the river. It was running so softly and silently that it was almost still.
"What river is this?"
"The Walkill. It meets up with the Rondout Creek and flows into the Hudson River at Kingston," he explained. "There are a number of spots like this around here, but this one is my private place. I actually came in here and cleared it and keep it cleared. I bring a blanket on summer nights and sprawl out. sometimes with something to drink. My mother doesn't know about that," he added quickly. "Years ago, I found where my father stashed his bottles in the basement of our house. The good thing about the whiskey is it's better when it's aged."
"Why do you need to drink anything? It's enough to look at this scenery," I said.
"Maybe. If you're not alone," he added. "A few times I caught some couples at it just down the bank a little ways," he said.
"At it?"
"Making love," he said with an underlying tone of disapproval, even disgust.
"How did you know that was what they were doing?"
"I saw them!"
"So you spied on them, invaded their privacy?" "Not really. They invaded my privacy and silence with their laughter and moans. I threw some rocks into the water to spook them. Sometimes it worked and they left; sometimes they were so involved, I could have set off a bomb and they couldn't care less."
"I'd care," I said, "especially if I knew someone was watching."
"I wasn't exactly watching. I don't need to be watching," he said sharply. "When I saw what was going on, I turned away, in fact."
"Good," I said.
He looked at me, and for a while we stood there in silence, listening to the faint ripple of the water as it flowed over some rocks.
"What I like about the river is . . . ," he began. "I know," I said quickly.
"Oh yeah? What?"
"The river's power comes from its movement. It never repeats. itself. Like they say, you can't step into the same river twice. That's the way I wish our lives would be."