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Authors: Hilary Thayer Hamann
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skateboard and whizzed by me in the street. Jack was handsome, in a seedy and purposeful way, the way a barn in disrepair looks so good in the middle of a lush green field. It was true he had changed over the summer, or maybe it was me who had changed. I said, “I can’t believe we’re finally seniors.”
“I was just thinking that,” he said as he rode up the curb, then popped back off in front of Tony’s Sporting Goods. “Troy’s doing whippets tonight. That’s why he wants to meet later.”
“Isn’t it like breathing into a paper bag?”
“Yeah. It’s so stupid. That’s what makes it fun.” He approached Newtown and Main, and at the corner he twirled smoothly on the rear wheels. His arms were bent at the elbows, his right leg extended, his left leg flexed. His hair windmilled lightly. Then he leapt off, flipping the front end of his board into his ready hand, waiting for me to catch up. We met at the light.
“Your leg ever bother you?” I asked.
“Nah,” he said. “Sometimes.”
Jack was wearing a cast when we met. “The summer of 1978 is a study in bitter irony,” he liked to say. “In the midst of the worst period of a particularly shitty life, I met you.”
Because of his broken leg Jack had had to cancel his annual Outward Bound trip, which meant he was stuck at home with his family. For weeks he wasn’t even able to climb the three flights to his room, so he had to sleep in the den, or, as he said, in the
transverse colon
of the house,
where all the shit sits and ferments before moving through
. Jack was forced to endure the petty mechanics of family life—every dinner and phone conversation, every key jingle and cabinet slam.
Once, he and his dad fought so bad that Mr. Fleming called the police.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I threatened him with a weapon.”
“A gun?”
“No,” he confided, “I couldn’t reach the gun. A knife.”
“A
knife?
Your leg was broken! He couldn’t possibly have been scared.”
Jack shrugged. “What can I say? I have excellent aim.”
I knew Jack from school; everyone did because of Atomic Tangerine. Prior to that he and Kate had had the same piano teacher, Laura Lipton, a songwriter from Sag Harbor whose dog, Max, was a television actor—Ken-L Ration, Chuck Wagon, and so on. Occasionally Kate’s lesson would encroach upon Jack’s, and she would play with the dog just in order to stick around and listen. She would call me after to say how well Jack Fleming played.
We never actually spoke until the day in early summer when he came with his parents to the Lobster Roll, where his older sister, Elizabeth, was a waitress and I was a busgirl. I watched him from across the room. I’d never seen anyone so uncomfortable in my life. As his father talked without pause, Jack stared through the window out onto Napeague Highway, clanking his spoon against his cast, keeping a secret rhythm. He would lower his face to the table to sip his water. His broken leg was propped onto a second chair.
Elizabeth asked me to carry over the drinks. “Please. I can’t deal with them.”
The cocktail tray rested on the flat of my left forearm, and I bent to deposit each drink carefully. I couldn’t help but notice the way the afternoon sun encountered Jack’s face, the glassine glow to his eyes. When I looked into them, I could not look away. They became a beautiful horizon, dominions of clouds and winds of ice and insinuations of birds. I considered sadly the world he saw through those eyes. Probably nothing in real life could match the purity of vision they beheld.
Mr. Fleming asked my name.
I set down his plastic cup of chardonnay. I said, “Eveline.”
“Eveline? Fan
-tas-
tic!” He began to sing.
Eveline, Evangeline
.
I delivered Jack’s Coke, and my breast accidentally grazed his right arm, a little beneath his shoulder. We both kind of froze.
“Which of your parents reads Longfellow?” Mr. Fleming demanded. Jack shifted protectively as
“I was just thinking that,” he said as he rode up the curb, then popped back off in front of Tony’s Sporting Goods. “Troy’s doing whippets tonight. That’s why he wants to meet later.”
“Isn’t it like breathing into a paper bag?”
“Yeah. It’s so stupid. That’s what makes it fun.” He approached Newtown and Main, and at the corner he twirled smoothly on the rear wheels. His arms were bent at the elbows, his right leg extended, his left leg flexed. His hair windmilled lightly. Then he leapt off, flipping the front end of his board into his ready hand, waiting for me to catch up. We met at the light.
“Your leg ever bother you?” I asked.
“Nah,” he said. “Sometimes.”
Jack was wearing a cast when we met. “The summer of 1978 is a study in bitter irony,” he liked to say. “In the midst of the worst period of a particularly shitty life, I met you.”
Because of his broken leg Jack had had to cancel his annual Outward Bound trip, which meant he was stuck at home with his family. For weeks he wasn’t even able to climb the three flights to his room, so he had to sleep in the den, or, as he said, in the
transverse colon
of the house,
where all the shit sits and ferments before moving through
. Jack was forced to endure the petty mechanics of family life—every dinner and phone conversation, every key jingle and cabinet slam.
Once, he and his dad fought so bad that Mr. Fleming called the police.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I threatened him with a weapon.”
“A gun?”
“No,” he confided, “I couldn’t reach the gun. A knife.”
“A
knife?
Your leg was broken! He couldn’t possibly have been scared.”
Jack shrugged. “What can I say? I have excellent aim.”
I knew Jack from school; everyone did because of Atomic Tangerine. Prior to that he and Kate had had the same piano teacher, Laura Lipton, a songwriter from Sag Harbor whose dog, Max, was a television actor—Ken-L Ration, Chuck Wagon, and so on. Occasionally Kate’s lesson would encroach upon Jack’s, and she would play with the dog just in order to stick around and listen. She would call me after to say how well Jack Fleming played.
We never actually spoke until the day in early summer when he came with his parents to the Lobster Roll, where his older sister, Elizabeth, was a waitress and I was a busgirl. I watched him from across the room. I’d never seen anyone so uncomfortable in my life. As his father talked without pause, Jack stared through the window out onto Napeague Highway, clanking his spoon against his cast, keeping a secret rhythm. He would lower his face to the table to sip his water. His broken leg was propped onto a second chair.
Elizabeth asked me to carry over the drinks. “Please. I can’t deal with them.”
The cocktail tray rested on the flat of my left forearm, and I bent to deposit each drink carefully. I couldn’t help but notice the way the afternoon sun encountered Jack’s face, the glassine glow to his eyes. When I looked into them, I could not look away. They became a beautiful horizon, dominions of clouds and winds of ice and insinuations of birds. I considered sadly the world he saw through those eyes. Probably nothing in real life could match the purity of vision they beheld.
Mr. Fleming asked my name.
I set down his plastic cup of chardonnay. I said, “Eveline.”
“Eveline? Fan
-tas-
tic!” He began to sing.
Eveline, Evangeline
.
I delivered Jack’s Coke, and my breast accidentally grazed his right arm, a little beneath his shoulder. We both kind of froze.
“Which of your parents reads Longfellow?” Mr. Fleming demanded. Jack shifted protectively as
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