mansions with fortunes made on the backs of unorganized sawyers and lumberjacks.
It was in one of these Victorians—which like many of the great manors of the previous century had by that time been carved
into a baroque and unheatable boardinghouse—that a half century after the last log spun down the Penobscot, the two boys came
to know each other.
They made an obvious pair, Tom and Henry, if for no other reason than because of their fathers, or rather, their lack of fathers.
Tom lost his in the mud of Amiens, and knew nothing of the man but the single gaiter that had been shipped home and sat in
the place of honor on the mantelpiece, right beneath the crucifix. Henry's father wasn't dead, but Old Renny McGlaughlin had
been in a threshing accident, and spent his days on a stool in the Whig & Courier, silently sipping black beer, with his stump
propped on the neighboring stool so folks knew to stay away.
Tom and Henry walked to school together; they played ball together and fished together and made lists of the things they would
buy with the money they made robbing banks together; they used a pulley system to send notes back and forth between Tom's
second-floor window and Henry's first-floor window; and after they filled the gaiter on the mantelpiece with daffodils and
cattails, when Mrs. Hellweg came home, the two boys were marched out into the yard together, and ordered to break off each
other's switches.
In other words, they were the kind of boys—the kind of friends—who looked out at the great, ice-sheathed roller coaster of
Drummond Street Hill one Sunday morning in February, and both saw that it wasn't road at all, but an enormous, shiny black
tongue, na-na-nah- nah-ing at them, like a bully.
They lugged their two-man toboggan out into the freezing rain and along the sidewalk until they came to the crest of the hill.
A half inch of black ice coated the road, and the cutbacks and swoops glittered all the way down to Valley Avenue.
For a minute, they sat in the chute, their hands on the cold ground beside the runners, taking in the massive drop. It was
a mile to the bottom, maybe two miles, maybe ten. At the foot of the hill, a hundred yards beyond the road's end, the Penobscot
River poured between the snowy banks, streaming dark and bobbing with slabs of ice.
"You know, this is how my dad really lost his leg," said Henry, and slapped the blade of one of the toboggan's runners.
Tom turned to look at him.
"Cut him clean off at the knee."
Tom bit his lip. He scratched his forehead.
Henry cackled.
"You bastard," said Tom, and kicked off.
Henry clutched Tom around the waist, expecting the rush of speed that carried them the first few yards, but not the takeoff
that ripped the toboggan clean from its rails. His mouth opened in a scream and he was thrown forward. His teeth sank into
the back of Tom's head. The dark green on the pine trees streaked across the slate gray of the sky and he tasted his friend's
hair and his sweat and his blood. Wind shot through his clothes; his jacket ballooned with air; he flew.
At the bottom, in a snowbank more than a hundred feet beyond the crossing of Drummond and Valley, they came to rest in a pile
of tinder. Tom's right leg had twisted with Henry's left; blood speckled the snow; the icy drizzle fell on their bare heads,
their caps torn away or maybe disintegrated.
"We were a mile from home, and it was below zero, and we both had the same fracture, a clean break at the shin, and did it
hurt? It goddamn hurt." Addressing me in the rearview mirror, Papa opened his mouth and pointed at a discolored incisor. "And
this, too. I lost the tooth, and he had it sticking in the back of his head. You think that hurt a little?"
And the first thing Tom said was, "Do you think we can put the toboggan back together again? It won't be this good for long."
To which Henry said, "I don't think we can put it back together again, but I bet we can borrow one."
And the two boys leaned against
It was in one of these Victorians—which like many of the great manors of the previous century had by that time been carved
into a baroque and unheatable boardinghouse—that a half century after the last log spun down the Penobscot, the two boys came
to know each other.
They made an obvious pair, Tom and Henry, if for no other reason than because of their fathers, or rather, their lack of fathers.
Tom lost his in the mud of Amiens, and knew nothing of the man but the single gaiter that had been shipped home and sat in
the place of honor on the mantelpiece, right beneath the crucifix. Henry's father wasn't dead, but Old Renny McGlaughlin had
been in a threshing accident, and spent his days on a stool in the Whig & Courier, silently sipping black beer, with his stump
propped on the neighboring stool so folks knew to stay away.
Tom and Henry walked to school together; they played ball together and fished together and made lists of the things they would
buy with the money they made robbing banks together; they used a pulley system to send notes back and forth between Tom's
second-floor window and Henry's first-floor window; and after they filled the gaiter on the mantelpiece with daffodils and
cattails, when Mrs. Hellweg came home, the two boys were marched out into the yard together, and ordered to break off each
other's switches.
In other words, they were the kind of boys—the kind of friends—who looked out at the great, ice-sheathed roller coaster of
Drummond Street Hill one Sunday morning in February, and both saw that it wasn't road at all, but an enormous, shiny black
tongue, na-na-nah- nah-ing at them, like a bully.
They lugged their two-man toboggan out into the freezing rain and along the sidewalk until they came to the crest of the hill.
A half inch of black ice coated the road, and the cutbacks and swoops glittered all the way down to Valley Avenue.
For a minute, they sat in the chute, their hands on the cold ground beside the runners, taking in the massive drop. It was
a mile to the bottom, maybe two miles, maybe ten. At the foot of the hill, a hundred yards beyond the road's end, the Penobscot
River poured between the snowy banks, streaming dark and bobbing with slabs of ice.
"You know, this is how my dad really lost his leg," said Henry, and slapped the blade of one of the toboggan's runners.
Tom turned to look at him.
"Cut him clean off at the knee."
Tom bit his lip. He scratched his forehead.
Henry cackled.
"You bastard," said Tom, and kicked off.
Henry clutched Tom around the waist, expecting the rush of speed that carried them the first few yards, but not the takeoff
that ripped the toboggan clean from its rails. His mouth opened in a scream and he was thrown forward. His teeth sank into
the back of Tom's head. The dark green on the pine trees streaked across the slate gray of the sky and he tasted his friend's
hair and his sweat and his blood. Wind shot through his clothes; his jacket ballooned with air; he flew.
At the bottom, in a snowbank more than a hundred feet beyond the crossing of Drummond and Valley, they came to rest in a pile
of tinder. Tom's right leg had twisted with Henry's left; blood speckled the snow; the icy drizzle fell on their bare heads,
their caps torn away or maybe disintegrated.
"We were a mile from home, and it was below zero, and we both had the same fracture, a clean break at the shin, and did it
hurt? It goddamn hurt." Addressing me in the rearview mirror, Papa opened his mouth and pointed at a discolored incisor. "And
this, too. I lost the tooth, and he had it sticking in the back of his head. You think that hurt a little?"
And the first thing Tom said was, "Do you think we can put the toboggan back together again? It won't be this good for long."
To which Henry said, "I don't think we can put it back together again, but I bet we can borrow one."
And the two boys leaned against
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