Absent Friends

BOYS' OWN BOOK

Chapter 11

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Sutter's Mill

September 1, 1979

Jimmy leaves Flanagan's, walking slowly. The late summer day has faded to that purple hour when a mist seems to hang in the air, clouding vision, though this is an illusion: the day has been fine, and the night will continue clear.

Jimmy's heading home, to the basement apartment he rents from the Cooleys. He stops at the deli for a roast beef on rye, picks up a box of Milk Bones for the Cooleys' yellow mutt. (The funny black dog they used to have, he died years ago.) But when he leaves the deli, sipping coffee, he turns left, not right, heads for the firehouse.

When he gets there, the door's up, the floor's wet and puddled: they've just washed down the truck, and it gleams. Jimmy could swear he sees the damn thing grin: it's ready, man. He grins back at it.

Owen McCardle, one of the senior men, sits out front, tipped back in a chair. He's watching the street from half-closed eyes. Hey, Superman, he says, nods as Jimmy walks up. Like Jimmy, Owen's not a talker. Owen's seen it all, lived through it all, could tell you all the stories but he doesn't. Probably he knows it won't do you any good.

Owen, says Jimmy. He squats down beside the chair, leans on the firehouse wall. Jimmy helps Owen watch the street.

You hungry? Vinny made spaghetti, Owen says.

Yeah? That one with the sausages?

Owen grunts. Enough to feed the Polish army.

Yeah, well, says Jimmy, and he doesn't get up.

Two pretty girls, their legs long and their skirts short, walk down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. A whistle cuts their way from inside the firehouse. One girl smiles, one girl laughs, but they don't turn and they don't stop.

Guy asked me to do something for him, Jimmy says to Owen.

Owen asks, You gonna do it?

Thinking about it.

The girls round the corner, stroll out of sight.

Superman. Owen's voice is even quieter than usual. Jimmy looks up at him.

Stay out of trouble.

I don't think, Jimmy says, I don't think this is trouble.



It's not illegal, what Mike the Bear wants. Not Jimmy's part. It's not even a lie: Big Mike wants Jimmy to tell the truth. Sat Jimmy down in Flanagan's to ask for this big favor: Jimmy, do this for me, tell the truth.

But the truth, Mike the Bear says, the truth can't come from just anyone. Some guys, you want them to know what's what, you want them to do something about it, it's got to be done a certain way, he says. It's got to be handled.

Jimmy can see the sense in this. When you're a kid, you don't tell your mom you don't want to go to school because you want to watch the Batman marathon on TV. You say your throat hurts. And it does; but if today were a game day, if you had to go out on the field in front of the whole school and be a hero, slam the ball out of the park, tag the guy sliding spikes-first toward home, if that were today, would your throat matter? But it's not today, so you tell your mom about your throat, and she worries about you so she lets you stay home.

It's the same here. Mike the Bear's worried about Jack. Jack's mom, she's worried even more.



Nine years old: Jimmy sees her, Mrs. Molloy, watching out the window while Tom calms Jack down, Jack all snarly because the kids don't want to climb the tree in Mr. Conley's yard, see if they can jump to the roof of his house from there. They won't do it even on Jack's dare: For Christ's sake, you fairies, the old fart's not even home!

Jack's going to do it himself, but Marian runs up to him and whispers. Jack stops, answers her. Jimmy hears Marian laugh. Jack says a swearword, but now, it's not like he's mad, it's like a joke, and Jack laughs with Marian. Next thing, Tom's calling, Hey, Jim, you coming or what? and Jack's pounding a fist into his mitt, and they're going off to play some ball. But Jimmy catches a look between Tom and Mrs. Molloy, something he doesn't understand, but he knows it's about Jack. And Mrs. Molloy keeps watching them out the window until the kids turn the corner and Jimmy can't see her anymore.



And back in Flanagan's, this is what Mike the Bear says to Jimmy: Trouble's coming. The cops're fed up, they're ready to jump on Jack and his crew. If Jack doesn't back off, he's going down.

Jimmy frowns. You sure? he asks Mike the Bear. I mean, maybe it's not true. You know, rumors, you hear stuff.

From where I heard it, Mike says, it's a safe bet.

Jimmy doesn't ask where that is. Firemen and cops, there's no love lost. A cop would rather bust on you than help you, rather knock you down than pick you up, because he figures probably you deserve it, anything bad you didn't do you just didn't get a chance yet.

That's what the firehouse says, and Jimmy knows some cops like that. But still, mostly they're straight. Mostly they want to fight crime and stop the bad guys, and mostly they want to be Superman just like he does. He thinks what happens, after a year or two on the street, they still want the same thing, but they forget how to tell who they're for and who they're against.

Bent cops, cops on the take—that's something else. They're against everybody, even their brother cops. Everything's for themselves, and thinking about them makes Jimmy feel like he did when the kids found a dead dog once down under the bridge, its skinny legs tied together, someone threw it in the water and made it drown on purpose. Jimmy remembers how mad he was, how he didn't know who to be mad at, how he wanted to do something and the dog was already dead and there was nothing he could do. So when Mike the Bear says what he hears about Jack, where he hears it from it's a safe bet, Jimmy just drinks some beer and waits.

I can't just tell Jack, Big Mike says. Sure, yeah, I can, but it's what I've been telling him all his life. Jimmy, you know him, he's always been like this.

Jimmy nods. He knows.

I can't say, kid, this time it's real, this time you have to back off, because I can't do anything about it, this time. He won't believe me, Jimmy. He'll think I can fix it, like I always have.

Mike the Bear's talking to Jimmy, but he isn't looking at him, he's looking across the room at the pictures on the walls, racing pictures, trotters winning and losing. Jimmy wonders how many guys have ever heard Big Mike Molloy say this, that there's something he can't do anything about.

Big Mike says, Jimmy, if your father, he worries about you, he worries about your mother worrying about you, he told you to stay out of burning buildings, what would you do?

Jimmy's thinking about Mrs. Molloy's eyes; but when Mike the Bear asks him this, he has to laugh, because his father almost did say exactly this, Jimmy's first week at the Academy. He said, It's not me, son, it's your mother, she's thinking she'll be worried every day when you go to work.

He tells Big Mike, and Mike asks, And what did you do?

I took my mom to the firehouse, Jimmy says. I showed her the salamanders over the door. They always come back after a fire, I told her. Then I gave her flowers, chocolates, too, a really big box, shaped like a heart. I told her she was lucky. I told her, Not every pretty woman gets presents from a fireman.

Big Mikes smiles. Tom's right about you, he says.

Jimmy smiles, too. He's thinking about his mom, how the day after he gave her the flowers she gave him a present, too, a St. Florian medal, said, Jimmy, keep this with you, I'll feel better if you keep this with you. It's in his pocket now.

Big Mike says, And you kept going to fires.

Yes, sir, says Jimmy.

Yes. Because Jimmy, this is you. And what Jack was like, since he was a kid, he's still like that, too. That's why I've been digging Jack out of holes all his life. Because it's not his fault he gets in them. You know what I mean?

Yes, says Jimmy.

But this one, it's too deep, says Mike the Bear. Jack's gonna have to climb out himself. But he'll never do it, he won't believe it, if it's me who tells him.

Jimmy sips his beer. He's thinking two things. One is, if Jack were just some guy, maybe the cops rolling him up wouldn't be a bad thing, maybe Jimmy'd just stand back and watch.

But the other thing he's thinking is, it's Jack.

And it's Big Mike, asking him for help, saying somebody needs to tell Jack.

But even if somebody does: just Jimmy, just like that?

Uh-uh, no.

If Jimmy tries, Jack's not going to listen.

If Jimmy tries, it'll go like this: First, Jack'll laugh. Jimmy, man, you're a worrier, you always were. I got it covered. Have a brew, man.

And if Jimmy keeps on? If he says, No, Jack, it's true, I heard it?

Then Jack will mutter, Jimmy, what the f*ck? This something Tom told you? I don't need this, I don't need my little brother looking out for me, you can tell Tom that, you're such good buddies. I'm cool, Jimmy, and my guys are cool, no way I'm crapping out on them. Tom and you, get off my back.

Because this is something Jimmy hasn't told Mike the Bear, but he knows: He's been getting on the wrong side of Jack lately.



Last week: Jesus, Jimmy, when'd you get to be such a straight arrow, you got that arrow stuck right up your ass. This when Jimmy orders a Coke at the Bird, because he's on duty in a couple hours. Jack says, One beer's gonna matter? Jimmy shrugs, nothing to say. Ah, Christ, Jack says, his face hard, as if Jimmy did say something and what he said pissed Jack off.

Or back in July, Jimmy on duty on the Fourth, he and the guys bring the rig to the pig roast so the kids can climb on it, play with the wheel, and make the siren scream; but they'll be leaving early, before the fireworks. Like the cops who close the street, have a quick sausage and pepper sandwich with Mike the Bear, and then have to go someplace important, the firemen will be out of here before the first fuse is lit.

What the f*ck, Jimmy, says Jack, you used to like fireworks, all that shit exploding in the sky. He shoots Tom a glance. Tom shakes his head; he doesn't care, the firemen can go or they can stay, same thing to him. Used to be, when they were kids, Tom didn't care about something, Jack would say aw, f*ck it and walk away. Now he glares. Tom glares back; this happens more and more these days, this silent war between Tom and Jack.



So Jimmy knows when Mike the Bear says it's got to be handled, he's right. But what Mike the Bear's thinking, that Jimmy can do it, it won't work that way.

So he tells Big Mike he gets it, he tells Big Mike he'll think. And Big Mike, Mike the Bear, he says, Thanks, Jimmy. Mike the Bear says, That's great, I knew I could count on you.

So Jimmy thinks. He thinks how to do it: like this, like that. And now there's a way he can see.

He doesn't really like it. It's not his way, more like Tom's kind of way, something smart, almost sneaky.

But, Jimmy thinks: there's a good part of it, too, this way he sees. It solves another problem, at least it could help out.

Jimmy's spending more time at the firehouse these days, less hanging with the guys. This is one of the things that burns Jack up, though Jimmy's not sure why. But it's not Jack who's been on Jimmy's mind lately, weighing him down: it's Markie.

Mike the Bear, Tom, Jack, what they do, it's what they were born for. Like Jimmy was born for the truck, the ax, the flames. But not Markie. Those cars: engines and axles, filters and fuel gauges, grease and the smell of gasoline, Markie was born for those. You tell Markie your engine coughs, your steering pulls, maybe you even took the car three other places already but you leave it with Markie, you come back tomorrow and it's fixed. That's what Markie does, that's what's his.

That, and be a father to his son. You'd think Kevin was the first kid ever born, you saw Markie's eyes glow watching him, heard the excitement in his voice when he tells you Kevin said Mama, Kevin went backwards down the stairs, figured that out by himself! Yeah, that's the other thing Markie can do, be Kevin's dad.

But not be what Tom and Jack and Mr. Molloy are.

Jimmy and Tom, they talk about it sometimes, Jimmy worried about Markie, Jimmy knowing Tom and Big Mike won't let Markie in but Jack, he always got a kick out of Markie, always liked him hanging around. Tom knows, too, he tries to get Jack to cool it, but Jack's always saying Hey, Markie can think for himself.

Jimmy's seen the look on Markie, from the time they were kids he's seen Markie watching Jack, watching Tom.

Now, Jimmy knows it's not just Markie. In his earliest memories most of the kids want to be like Tom, want to know what to do, what to say, want to not feel stupid—or instantly, indisputably guilty—when a grown-up asks a question. It's not just that Tom can con the grown-ups when that's called for. It's more than that: it's that Tom feels entitled to try.

Another thing about Tom, he looks out for his friends and always did.

Not the way Jimmy looks out for Markie. That's a different thing. Jimmy doesn't remember how that started, just from the beginning Markie's always there, and somebody has to keep him from running into the street, has to help him climb down out of trees he's stuck in. Always, Markie's up for anything but he doesn't think ahead.



Ten years old, a Saturday at Jones Beach: some of the kids splashing on the shore, some swimming. Jack runs down the sand, dives into the waves. Jimmy's right behind. Markie laughs and runs after, though he can't swim. An extra big wave crashes over them. Jimmy's had swimming lessons at the Y; he tumbles, rolls, feels great, like when he's flying in his dreams. Bursts up through the water, shakes his head, and looks around. What he sees: Markie slipping under, Markie's arms waving, then gone.

Jimmy stares where Markie was, but it's just water, Markie doesn't come up. Jimmy dives. He doesn't have time to think any thoughts, but one comes anyway: Oh, wow. That's not about looking for Markie. It's about the fire Jimmy suddenly feels under his own skin.

Jimmy gropes for Markie in the gray-green murk. He can't find him. But he's not scared. Every beam of sunlight that pushes through the water, every tug of the waves, they're all there to help him, he knows how to read them and use them. Left, turn left, turn left. He does, moves his arms through the water, Markie's there.

Then the waves, they're not helping anymore, like they're teasing, like it was a joke. But it's not funny, because Jimmy can't breathe. Straining, heart slamming, he swims with the arm that's not holding Markie, kicks his legs. He breaks the surface, gulps air. He swims more, more, then here's the beach. He half hauls, half throws Markie onto the sand, stumbles and falls down next to him. Both of them panting, they can't move. The ocean curls up around their ankles. There's sand in Jimmy's mouth, he coughs and chokes.

He hears a noise, turns his head: Markie's laughing. Jimmy stares: he can't believe this. But he feels a smile spreading on his own face. Above him, a seagull and an airplane, funny how they're the same size. The sun's hot and the sand's scratchy and his mom's over there on a big striped towel with sandwiches and Cokes and damn. And Jimmy's laughing, too, cracking up with Markie.

Back on the towels, Markie starts telling everyone what happened, what a big hero Jimmy is. The moms and dads look at Jimmy in a funny way.

Jimmy, he's thinking about the laughing part, about the waves tickling his feet and how amazing it is that seagulls are so white when the sky's so blue. And about how cold it was under the water, but how he felt heat: the fire under his own skin. It's fading but he still feels it now. He wishes it would stay.

Markie's mom starts to say something to Jimmy, some big thank-you, and Jimmy feels weird, like he's about to get a Christmas present that belongs to somebody else.

Markie, man, he says, you gotta be nuts, you think that's what happened. Jimmy pops the top on a Coke, slurps the foam that jumps out of the can. What really happened, he says, I just sort of bumped into you. You think I'd risk my ass saving yours, you got another think coming. Jimmy's using a word the kids aren't supposed to use, and the moms and dads frown. Markie's about to say something else, but he stops. He grins, shrugs, throws Jimmy a Twinkie. Jimmy bites it hard so the cream comes squirting out the end. His mom says, Oh, Jimmy! and races a napkin to him. Suddenly everyone's eating and talking and that's the end of that.

Except Jimmy, gulping his Coke, catches Tom looking at him, just for a second. How Jimmy feels from this look of Tom's is different from how he felt when all the moms and dads were staring at him like he was the only one the sun was shining on. How he feels, it makes him think of a Mets game his dad took him to, when he caught a rookie lefthander with a scorching fastball getting a nod from a veteran reliever, a guy you could count on to close out a game but you never saw newspaper stories about. Jimmy'd seen the rookie smile a little, and nod back, and it made him wonder how the rookie felt. Now, Tom looking at him this way, Jimmy thinks maybe he knows.



About Jimmy and Markie: that's how it was then, that's how it's been. Jimmy just supposes some people are like that, born with no sense. No point in getting mad at them, it's like getting mad at people who're born deaf. It's just, if you know someone like that, you have to look out for them.

And what Jimmy's thinking now, the way he sees to do what Mike the Bear wants—the way that's like something Tom would do—maybe this is a way he can do this thing for Mike the Bear, and look out for Markie, too.