Whitechurch (21 page)

he didn’t even walk her home,

which I think is what made me maddest.

Four thirty, I gave up,

went out looking,

found him

just out buzzin’ around town,

like he ain’t even satisfied yet

and he’s lookin’ for more.

With a snap of his head, Pauly’s now looking at

his

lifelong friend

who is me.

He found it, though,

didn’t he, boy?

He was lookin’ for
more
,

and he sure got that,

didn’t he,

Oakley-doakley?

My eyes are closing,

on their own,

and I can feel the roots of my hairs

letting go of the scalp.

I wonder if Lilly will even ever know. Sure she

will,

sometime,

but probably not today or this week because

she is gone,

was gone,

before Pauly even came to get me,

I imagine.

Already packed up and hitched, most likely. South to Boston

would be the thinking,

what with the college visit and her having made

up her mind and

not likely to change just like that.

That would be the thinking,

but I’m thinking

probably otherwise.

I’m thinking she points west.

I’m thinking she never really did mean

to go to Boston,

but meant to do it

more or less exactly

the way she did it,

leaving no tracks,

and when she’s ready,

if she is ready,

she’ll take a look back over her shoulder and

maybe be in touch.

And maybe

not.

And I wonder

if Pauly will ever even know

but then do we really wonder

for one second that Pauly ever
didn’t
know? Pauly knew before it was even true.

They will want to talk to me,

but nobody is going to ask

me about me

because I am Oakley

and Pauly is Pauly

and who cares

in the end?

They will be looking into the Red-Headed

Stranger

and finding out

RHS was really John Wesley Harding

and he had a whole set of his own things

to be running from,

from his own place

which brought him to

our place,

which was

his loss.

His

loss.

His. Funny, no?

How one person’s grave misfortune

which should have been mine

can mean

almost nothing,

to me.

I feel

almost nothing.

Funny, no.

Sentenced to Whitechurch,

he calls out the Dodge Ram window, heading up over the southern rim

of the Whitechurch bowl,

past the prison.

The town is still sleeping.

The train station

won’t open

till tomorrow,

so he’ll get a good jump.

Before they catch him

in Boston.

He never even asked me to go with him.

And when they bring him back they will want

to talk.

But I don’t want to talk

about poets

and the muck that’s inside us

anymore.

So I will be gone

finally

over the northern rim of the bowl

to say

nothing,

to do

something,

and to feel

like feeling.

Give us the kiss

make it all

better

better

yet

give us the smile.

Chris Lynch (b. 1962) was born in Boston, Massachusetts, the fifth of seven children. His father, Edward J. Lynch, was a Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority bus and trolley driver, and his mother, Dorothy, was a stay-at-home mom. Lynch’s father passed away in 1967, when Lynch was just five years old. Along with her children, Dorothy was left with an old, black Rambler American car and no driver’s license. She eventually got her license, and raised her children as a single mother.

Lynch grew up in the Jamaica Plain neighborhood, and recalls his childhood ambitions to become a hockey player (magically, without learning to ice skate properly), president of the United States, and/or a “rock and roll god.” He attended Catholic Memorial School in West Roxbury, before heading off to Boston University, neglecting to first earn his high school diploma. He later transferred to Suffolk University, where he majored in journalism, and eventually received an MA from the writing program at Emerson College. Before becoming a writer, Lynch worked as a furniture mover, truck driver, house painter, and proofreader. He began writing fiction around 1989, and his first book,
Shadow Boxer
, was published in 1993. “I could not have a more perfect job for me than writer,” he says. “Other than not managing to voluntarily read a work of fiction until I was at university, this gig and I were made for each other. One might say I was a reluctant reader, which surely informs my work still.”

In 1989, Lynch married, and later had two children, Sophia and Walker. The family moved to Roslindale, Massachusetts, where they lived for seven years. In 1996, Lynch moved his family to Ireland, his father’s birthplace, where Lynch has dual citizenship. After a few years in Ireland, he separated from his wife and met his current partner, Jules. In 1998, Jules and her son, Dylan, joined in the adventure when Lynch, Sophia, and Walker sailed to southwest Scotland, which remains the family’s base to this day. In 2010, Sophia had a son, Jackson, Lynch’s first grandchild.

When his children were very young, Lynch would work at home, catching odd bits of available time to write. Now that his children are grown, he leaves the house to work, often writing in local libraries and “acting more like I have a regular nine-to-five(ish) job.”

Lynch has written more than twenty-five books for young readers, including
Inexcusable
(2005), a National Book Award finalist;
Freewill
(2001), which won a Michael L. Printz Honor; and several novels cited as ALA Best Books for Young Adults, including
Gold Dust
(2000) and
Slot Machine
(1995).

Lynch’s books are known for capturing the reality of teen life and experiences, and often center on adolescent male protagonists. “In voice and outlook,” Lynch says, “Elvin Bishop [in the novels
Slot Machine
;
Extreme Elvin
; and
Me, Dead Dad, and Alcatraz
] is the closest I have come to representing myself in a character.” Many of Lynch’s stories deal with intense, coming-of-age subject matters. The Blue-Eyed Son trilogy was particularly hard for him to write, because it explores an urban world riddled with race, fear, hate, violence, and small-mindedness. He describes the series as “critical of humanity in a lot of ways that I’m still not terribly comfortable thinking about. But that’s what novelists are supposed to do: get uncomfortable and still be able to find hope. I think the books do that. I hope they do.”

Lynch’s He-Man Women Haters Club series takes a more lighthearted tone. These books were inspired by the club of the same name in the
Little Rascals
film and TV show. Just as in the Little Rascals’ club, says Lynch, “membership is really about classic male lunkheadedness, inadequacy in dealing with girls, and with many subjects almost always hiding behind the more macho word
hate
when we cannot admit that it’s
fear.
”

Today, Lynch splits his time between Scotland and the US, where he teaches in the MFA creative writing program at Lesley University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. His life motto continues to be “shut up and write.”

Lynch, age twenty, wearing a soccer shirt from a team he played with while living in Jamaica Plain, Boston.

Lynch with his daughter, Sophia, and son, Walker, in Scotland’s Cairngorm Mountains in 2002.

Lynch at the National Book Awards in 2005. From left to right: Lynch’s brother Brian; his mother, Dot; Lynch; and his brother E.J.

Lynch with his family at Edinburgh’s Salisbury Crags at Hollyrood Park in 2005. From left to right: Lynch’s daughter, Sophia; niece Kim; Lynch; his son, Walker; his partner, Jules, and her son, Dylan; and Lynch’s brother E.J.

In 2009, Lynch spoke at a Massachusetts grade school and told the story of Sister Elizabeth of Blessed Sacrament School in Jamaica Plain, the only teacher he had who would “encourage a proper, liberating, creative approach to writing.” A serious boy came up to Lynch after his talk, handed him this paper origami nun, and said, “I thought you should have a nun. Her name is Sister Elizabeth.” Sister Elizabeth hangs in Lynch’s car to this day.