Exley, p.9
Exley, page 9
Finally, just when the light turned green, the guy stopped — right in the middle of the intersection. He reached down and picked a cigarette butt up off the street and put it between his lips. I could see the little twisted, burnt nub of it sticking out. Then he started patting himself down, turning his sweatpant pockets inside out. He was still in the middle of the street. Mother reached over to the steering wheel and beeped at the guy. He glared at us and for a second I was scared. I pictured him whipping off one of his sneakers and beating our car with it. I figured maybe that’s why he wore them without laces.
Anyway, he didn’t do that. The guy tipped his imaginary hat at us and then kept walking, around and around the Square, as we drove on.
“It’s so depressing,” Mother said.
“It’s not so bad,” my dad said. He said that because he’d read Exley. I didn’t know if Mother had read Exley or not, but if she had, she’d read him wrong. I knew that now. This was how my plan would work; I knew that once I found Exley, he would make my dad feel better, because his book already had.
LIKE I SAID earlier, the Crystal was my dad’s favorite place in Watertown. And it was my dad’s favorite place because it was one of Exley’s. I knew that after reading his book. According to his book, Exley went to the Crystal on Sunday, and only on Sunday. But I didn’t think I could wait a whole six days to look for him there, and I didn’t think my dad could wait that long, either. I know it’s Monday, I told Exley in my head. But please be at the Crystal.
I crossed the Square and walked up to the Crystal, but I didn’t go in right away. Because there was a guy sitting on the sidewalk, his back up against the empty building just to the right of the Crystal. His arms were crossed over his chest the way I’d seen the girls in my class do when they were underdressed. Maybe because he was underdressed, too: just a thin flannel shirt and paint-spattered white jeans with loops at the hips to hang your tools on and unlaced work boots and no hat and no jacket. His eyes were open a little, not enough to tell if he was actually seeing me with them, but enough to see how red and runny they were. There was a green army backpack on the ground next to him, and on the other side of him was a bottle of vodka. Its red label said Popov. The guy had a gray beard and messy gray hair, just like S., the guy at the New Parrot; and just like S., he looked old and used up. He looked like he could have been Exley, in other words. He also looked like he could have been half the guys in Watertown. I was trying to be smart. I was trying to be realistic. I was trying to use my head. And my head was telling me, Miller, remember what happened with S. You can’t just draft the first or second guy you meet and expect him to be Exley. But then I told my head, What if I don’t draft him? What if he volunteers?
“Who the fuck are you supposed to be?” the guy asked after he apparently noticed me standing there, looking at him. His voice was faraway and wet and rattling, like he was talking from the bottom of a deep, phlegmy hole. I didn’t answer him, and so he asked the question several more times, using several of the same class of swear words, the same sort of swear words Exley used in his book. This went on for a while, I don’t know how long exactly, because I was still having the argument with myself, in my head and with my head, and my head was saying, Another drunk bum? Why do you think Exley has to be another drunk bum? Why couldn’t he turn out to be that guy? Then my head pointed at the guy walking past us, a tubby, clean-shaven guy with slicked-back black hair who was wearing a shiny blue suit and obviously worked in a bank. Because Exley would never turn out to be that guy, I said back.
Why not? my head wanted to know. Your dad would never turn out to be that guy who joined the army, either, except he did. He was.
I didn’t have an answer for that. I just stood there and let the white noise of the guy’s swearing wash over me, until my head argued, This is ridiculous. You might as well call him Popov. He’s as likely to be the guy they named the vodka after as he is to be Exley.
But my dad doesn’t need a guy named Popov, I argued back. He needs Exley. And after that, my head was quiet for a while.
By now, Exley had stopped swearing and started hacking, hacking and hacking. I leaned over, picked up the half-full bottle of vodka, handed it to him. He drank straight out of the bottle, drank until the vodka was gone. By the time he’d finished it, Exley was pretty much gone himself. He gave one of those satisfied, all-over body shivers, then slumped down against the wall, his pale, spotted hand still strangling the neck of the now empty bottle. I crouched in front of him. His eyes were slits, barely opened, but he wasn’t sleeping, not yet; I could see his pupils in there, lazily moving from side to side, like a searchlight.
“Are you Exley?” I said, and shook him a little. His eyes opened a little wider, and his mouth opened, too, I guessed in an attempt to say something. Except no words came out, only a sweet, rotting smell, like a cow that’d died from eating too much cotton candy. I moved back from Exley and held my nose, hoping he’d take the hint. He didn’t, just lay there with his mouth hanging wide open. Still holding my nose, I took a couple of steps toward Exley, and with my free hand I closed his mouth for him. He let me, too. He watched my hand move toward his mouth, felt my thumb under his lower lip, my fingers over his upper. But he didn’t do anything to stop me. It occurred to me, despite his swearing, that Exley was a sweet, passive guy. He was looking at me, lips pursed, head cocked to the side, as though to say, What next?
“Why don’t we get you something to eat?” I suggested. Exley nodded. But he didn’t move. He just lay with this moony look on his face. I grabbed his left hand, the hand that wasn’t holding the vodka bottle, and tried to pull him onto his feet, but I only managed to drag him out of his slump and face-first onto the sidewalk, where he lay, not making a sound, not a peep. His arms were at his sides, like a ski jumper’s.
“Who is that guy?” said Harold’s voice. It scared me and I let go of Exley’s hands and fell backward, then scrambled to my feet. Harold was on the sidewalk behind me. He must have run all the way from school. He was gulping for air. His Adam’s apple looked like it was trying to bust out of his throat.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I followed you,” Harold said. He moved a little closer to me and to Exley. Harold had a grossed-out look on his face, like Exley was a meal that Harold couldn’t believe he was supposed to eat. “Who is this guy?” he asked.
“Frederick Exley,” I said.
“The guy you talked about in class today,” Harold said.
“Yes,” I said. “Here’s his book.” I took a copy out of my backpack and handed it to him. Harold looked at Exley’s picture on the back cover and then bent over to look at the left side of Exley’s face, the side that was up.
“That’s not the same guy,” he said. He was still bent over, and I had to stop myself from kicking him.
“Shut up, Harold,” I said. Because this was the way you talked to Harold. Because this was the way Harold talked, about anything: in the negative. For instance, in gym class just the week before, during our wrestling unit, Coach B. was demonstrating on Harold (Harold was also the kind of kid coaches demonstrated on) how to get your opponent to the mat, flip him on his back, and then pin him. After doing all this, Coach B. counted to three and said, “Pin.”
“That,” Harold said, a little breathless from being manhandled, “ — that wasn’t a pin.”
“It wasn’t?” Coach B. said. His teeth were gritted. He knew Harold, which was why he demonstrated on him and not on someone else.
“You didn’t keep me down for the full three seconds,” Harold said. “It wasn’t a pin.”
“OK. Why don’t we try it again,” Coach B. said, his voice heavy with fate. He rested his big barrel chest on Harold’s cavelike one, hooked one of Harold’s sticklike legs with one of his meaty arms, and stayed there for three seconds. He stayed there for longer than three seconds, much longer than three seconds. I started getting a little panicky, the way you feel when you watch someone being held underwater for what might be too long. So I got down on my knees, yelled, “Pin!” and slapped the mat. Coach B. did what he’d taught us to do once he yelled “Pin!” and slapped the mat. He pushed himself up off Harold. Coach B. rubbed his eyes with his fists, removed the fists, blinked once, twice, three times. Then he looked at us waiting for him to order us around. “Pair off,” he said. I paired off with Harold, who was pretty much up from the mat by this time but who still managed to gasp, “But Coach B. didn’t pin me the first time.”
“Shut up, Harold,” I said then, and I said it now, too, when he told me that the Exley on the back of the book and the Exley on the sidewalk weren’t the same Exley. “That picture was taken __________ years ago.”
“Why did you just say ‘ __________ ‘?” Harold asked.
“Because that’s the way you’re supposed to say it,” I said. “Besides, it doesn’t matter how many years it’s been. He’s a lot older, that’s what’s important.”
“He looks like he’s dead,” Harold said.
“Well, he’s not,” I said. “Help me get him up.”
After a lot of pulling and grunting, we managed to get Exley propped up against the wall again. All the commotion woke him up, kind of; his head kept snapping back and hitting the wall, and then snapping forward. As it did, his eyes seemed to focus on us for a moment before completing their forward progress and snapping back again. I figured that sooner or later this head snapping would totally wake him up, so I stepped behind Harold so that when it happened, Harold would take the full brunt of Exley’s swearing. Because this was another reason Harold and I were friends: he was the kind of kid who would take the brunt of someone’s something. Harold didn’t do it on purpose, I’m pretty sure. He just couldn’t help getting between you and whatever might give you serious trouble. I watched Exley over Harold’s shoulder, waiting for the moment when Exley would spring to life and let Harold have it and then let me take over afterward.
“What does he like?” Harold finally asked.
“He likes football.”
“To play?” Harold asked dubiously.
“To watch,” I said. “He likes to watch the Giants.”
“They’re called the New York Giants even though they play in New Jersey,” Harold said.
“Good for them,” I said.
“They should be called the New Jersey Giants.”
“Harold,” I said, “can you please just help me bring Exley into the Crystal?”
“I don’t think he wants to go to the Crystal,” Harold said. “I don’t think he wants to go anywhere.” He had a point. Exley’s chin was tucked against his chest now. His eyes were closed, and he was snoring again. He looked content. I could think of only one thing to do. I said, “It’s Sunday!” Before Harold could correct me, I whispered, “He probably doesn’t know it’s not Sunday.” And then to Exley: “C’mon, c’mon, we’re missing the Giants game!” This was what Exley’s brother-in-law said to Exley in A Fan’s Notes after Exley didn’t have a heart attack. “Jesus, yes,” Exley said back, in the book. But he didn’t say anything outside the Crystal. He kept snoring. And I was out of ideas.
“Don’t worry,” Harold said. He patted me on the shoulder. Harold liked to treat me like a little brother, and sometimes I let him. “I’ll take care of it.” He leaned over and pinched Exley’s nose shut. I knew Harold had learned this from his older brother, who’d practiced this move on Harold himself many a time — in the middle of the night, when Harold had fallen asleep in front of the television, pretty much anytime Harold slept even for a second while his brother was around. But I know Harold never reacted to his brother the way Exley reacted to Harold. Exley’s eyes sprung open and then he punched Harold, right in the mouth. It made that sick, thick sound of knuckle on tooth. Harold staggered back with his hand over his mouth; his eyes went really wide for a second and then he started to whimper. Then my head finally piped up again and said to me, I told you he wasn’t Exley. But I argued back, Exley punched people in his book. Although I didn’t exactly want to argue this, because two of the people whom Exley punched in the book were a black guy and a white guy, because they were walking together, and other people he thought about punching were beautiful women he saw on TV and in the newspaper. I guessed this was why Mother hated his book so much, and I also guessed my head would make me regret my argument. But it didn’t. Yes, my head said, but none of them were kids. Exley wouldn’t hit a kid. Exley wouldn’t hit a Harold. And then I started to whimper a little, too. Because if that wasn’t true, and if Exley was the kind of guy who would hit kids, then I wasn’t sure he was the kind of guy who could also help my dad. And if it was true, and if Exley wasn’t the kind of guy who would hit kids, then this wasn’t Exley.
“Harold, wait,” I said. But Harold wasn’t waiting: he was running away, in the direction of our school. The guy was slumped against the wall again. His body looked like he was asleep or passed out, but his eyes were open and looking at me. His face was about at foot level. I wanted to do something terrible to him. I wanted to kick him in the face and then keep kicking him until my leg got tired. Not just because he’d done what he’d done to Harold, but also because he wouldn’t tell me whether he was Exley. But then I stopped myself from kicking the guy in the face — not because I was scared of him or anything like that, but because I wasn’t sure if my dad would want me to kick the guy, even if the guy had punched Harold. And more than anything else, I wanted to know what my dad wanted me to do, and then do that. So I just decided not to kick the guy in the face and gave him a wide berth as I walked around him and into the Crystal.
Doctor’s Notes (Entry 14)
After “licking my wound” (the wound was literal — the guards gave me quite an ache in my left arch while dumping me on the sidewalk — although, of course, I did not actually attempt to lick it) received at the Veterans Affairs hospital, I am standing on the sidewalk, trying to decide my next course of action, when I see M. hurtling down Washington Street on his bicycle. A few seconds later, I see a boy running in the same direction. I decide to follow, but at a walk, because one never knows when one will run into one’s patient, and because running can appear most undignified if one is a mental health professional. But before I can even make it to our Public Square, I see the boy running back toward me. Running is perhaps the wrong verb; perambulating awkwardly at a speed somewhat faster than a walk while flapping one’s hands like a panicked duck might be more fitting. Odd: the boy is moving forward, but his head appears to be straining in the opposite direction, while at the same time something seems to be struggling to escape from his throat. I can see a tennis-ball-sized and -shaped lump strain at the skin, then withdraw, strain, then withdraw. The boy comes closer and I recognize the lump as perhaps the most enormous — enormous and, indeed, gargantuan — Adam’s apple I have ever witnessed. And when I recognize the Adam’s apple, I recognize the boy, from M.’s description: it is his friend, H.
“Whoa there, young man,” I say, grabbing H.’s elbow as he attempts to pass by. I believe H. to be moving as quickly as his physique would allow, but halting his forward progress is no more difficult than stopping a tissue floating in the breeze. “Are you, by any chance, M.’s friend?”
H. nods. “M.,” he pants, his Adam’s apple bobbing furiously. H. has a fresh cut on his lip; I know it’s fresh because there’s a trickle of blood proceeding from it, down his chin. I make a move to wipe it off, but H. flinches and takes a step back.
“Who are you?” H. asks.
“I’m” — and I nearly introduce myself as M.’s mental health professional. But it occurs to me that perhaps M.’s friends don’t know that M. has an MHP and I don’t want to blow his cover — “Horatio Pahnee,” I finally say. “I’m M.’s friend.” It feels surprisingly good to say that, and I wonder why I’ve always been so hesitant to utter those words about M. or anyone else, until H. reminds me by saying, “I’m M.’s friend and I’ve never even heard of you.”
“I’m a new friend,” I say. “Did I just see M. biking in the direction of our Public Square?”
“I guess.” H. looks back and touches his lip, and I deduce that H. received his wound in the vicinity of the Square, and I also deduce that M. is still there. I hurriedly reach into my jacket pocket, take out my wallet, open the wallet, extract my business card, and hand it to H. “I would greatly appreciate it if you’d ‘keep an eye on’ M.”
