The stubble-faced man had patterned the bus-station floor in dirty whorls and laid the mop aside. Now he sat behind the ticket counter, studying a magazine called HOT! HOT! HOT! He looked up as Eddie approached, spreading his hands over a picture of people having sex while watching a big-screen TV where people were having sex.
“When’s the next bus to New York?” Eddie asked.
“Seven twenty-two, A.M.”
“You mean tomorrow?”
“A.M.,” the stubble-faced man repeated, his fingers stirring impatiently on the magazine.
“Where can I get something to eat?”
“Search me.”
“But you live here.”
The stubble-faced man snorted.
Eddie didn’t like that. He leaned on the counter. The stubble-faced man drew away, dragging HOT! HOT! HOT! with him. Eddie laid his hand on the magazine; a page tore through a fat thigh. “Let’s put it this way,” he said. “Where do you go when you’re hungry?”
The bus-station door opened and a cop came in, stamping snow off his boots; the same cop who had stopped Eddie on the bridge. The stubble-faced man smiled. “I go home, asshole,” he said to Eddie.
“Everything okay, Murray?” asked the cop, looking hard at Eddie.
Eddie backed away from the counter.
“Best day of my life,” said the stubble-faced man. “I just love this job.”
The cop went over to the coffee machine, fed it change, pressed the button. Nothing happened. He slapped the machine with his palm.
“This thing on the fritz, Murray?”
“Guess so.”
“I want my money back.”
“Got no key,” said Murray. “There’s a number to call on the back.”
The cop slapped the machine once more, then turned and walked out the door. Eddie and Murray stared at each other. Murray’s lips twitched, as though he was fighting back a grin. Eddie didn’t like that either. He grabbed HOT! HOT! HOT! and ripped it in half before leaving.
“Asshole,” said Murray, but not too aggressively.
Outside it was colder, windier, snowier. Eddie walked up Main Street to the end, passing two diners on the way, both closed, and stopped where the state highway began. A car approached. Eddie stuck out his thumb. It kept going.
So did others. Time passed. Eddie didn’t know how much time because he’d given his watch to Prof: part of his plan to take nothing with him. He got more tired, more hungry, colder. He wanted a cigarette, to fill his lungs with warmth, to hold a little fire in his hand. No cigarette: that was prong two of his three-pronged plan. But it was better than being inside.
“I’m free,” he said to nobody.
There wasn’t much traffic. After a while Eddie realized he was just watching it go by, without bothering to stick out his thumb. He stuck it out. A white car, pocked with rust, pulled over. Eddie opened the passenger door.
“Destination?” said the driver.
The driver was dressed in white: white trousers and a white tunic that came almost to his knees. Eddie noticed this in passing; his immediate attention was drawn to the man’s head, shaved bald like his.
“New York,” Eddie said.
“You’ve got good karma.”
Eddie paused, his hand on the door, wondering if the man in white was gay and this was a come-on. His mind flashed images of Louie, the Ozark boys; and the man in white, lying by the side of the road while Eddie drove off in the pockmarked car.
The man spoke. “I mean you’re in luck-that’s where I’m going.”
Eddie got in.
The man held out his hand. “Ram Pontoppidan.”
“Nai-Ed Nye.”
Ram checked the rearview mirror-a laminated photograph of an old Indian at a spinning wheel hung from it-and pulled onto the road. “Mind fastening your seat belt, Ed? It’s the law.”
Music played on the sound system, tinkling music full of rests. “Cold out there,” said Ram. “Waiting long?”
“No.”
“Nice and warm in here.”
“Yeah.”
Nice and warm; and smelling of food. The food smell came from an open plastic bag lying in the storage box between the seats. “Holesome Trail Mix,” read the label: “Shiva amp; Co., Burlington, Vt.”
“Try some,” said Ram.
“No, thanks.”
“Really. I’d like your opinion.”
“About what?”
“The product. I’m the New York-New England distributor.”
Eddie hadn’t heard of trail mix, and was sure wholesome was spelled with a w, but he hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before his release, and now the swim had left him ravenous. He dipped into the bag: nuts, and dried fruit in various colors. He tried it.
“Well?”
“Not bad.”
In truth, better than not bad, much better. Eddie hadn’t tasted anything so good since … when? In his case, he could fix the date: the night of spiny lobsters and champagne at Galleon Beach.
“Have some more,” said Ram.
Eddie had another handful-“Don’t be shy”-and another.
“That’s what makes it all so gratifying,” said Ram, handing him the bag: “customer satisfaction.”
Eddie sat there with the bag on his lap.
“It’s a sample,” said Ram. “Enjoy and be blessed.”
Eddie finished the bag.
After that he felt sleepy; his body came down from the swimming high. Outside it was bleak and raw, inside warm, the music soothing sound, with no rhythm or melody that Eddie could hear. He glanced at Ram. His eyes were on the road. Eddie let himself relax a little. He kept his eyes open but began to drift off, drawing out that time between wakefulness and sleep in a way he hadn’t in fifteen years. In his cell, he’d always rushed to unconsciousness at night.
Ram spoke softly: “Have you tried spirituality, Ed?”
Eddie sat up. Ram was watching him from the corner of his eye. “What do you mean?”
“Love, to put it simply.” Again Eddie’s mind flashed images of Louie, the Ozarks, Ram by the side of the road. “The love that impels and compels the universe. The love that stands behind the food you just ate.”
“It wasn’t that good.”
Ram smiled. “I’m talking about the spiritual power of Krishna consciousness, Ed. The path to inner peace and calm. Can you honestly say you are full of inner peace and calm?”
Eddie remembered his state of mind in the pool. “Sometimes.”
The answer surprised Ram. “Then you’ve studied meditation?”
“I tried the F-Block system for a while.”
Ram frowned. He had clear, unwrinkled skin, but suddenly appeared older. “I don’t know that one. I’ve heard of beta blockers, of course.”
“No drugs allowed on F-Block.”
“Good,” said Ram. “Although anything that leads to inner peace can’t be rejected out of hand. It’s so … hard, Ed. I know. I fooled myself into thinking I was at peace for many years. I had a wife, kids, tenure at SUNY, house, car, et cetera. All a sham. I simply wasn’t very evolved at the time.”
“You were a teacher?”
“Tenured professor of English literature. It wasn’t the way.”
Ram talked on, describing his spiritual crisis, how he’d left wife, kids, job, house, car, et cetera and found Shiva amp; Co. and inner peace.
Eddie waited till he finished and said: “What poems did you teach?”
“At SUNY?”
“Yeah.”
“You name it.”
“ ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’?”
Ram wrinkled his brow, looked older; surprised again. “ ‘The Mariner’? Never taught it, per se-wanting to avoid the straitjacket of the dead white male thing-but I know it, naturally. Are you taking an English course?”
“No.”
A mile or two of windblown white scenery went by. Eddie took a chance. “And now there came both mist and snow / And it grew wondrous cold.” He spoke aloud, but quiet, and to his ears dull and insipid too. Maybe it was a lousy poem after all.
“I’m impressed,” said Ram. “You’re not a poet yourself, by any chance?”
“No.”
“What do you do, then, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I’m looking for work,” Eddie replied, wondering if there was any truth in that reply.
“What kind?”
Eddie thought about that. Another white mile or two went by.
“None of my business,” Ram said.
Eddie turned to him. “Tell me something.”
“I’ll try.”
“Why did the albatross get shot in the first place?”
Ram’s eyes shifted. Eddie realized that this man who’d evolved his way into an Indian outfit and a junk-heap car was beginning to fear he’d picked up a nut. He should have set up the question a little better.
“ ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ ’s just a trifle, Eddie-like ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee,’ ” Ram said. “I wouldn’t get into it too deeply. Whatever you’re searching for isn’t there. That doesn’t mean it isn’t somewhere.” Ram glanced at him to make sure he was listening. “What do you know about Krishna consciousness?”
Eddie didn’t know much about Krishna consciousness and didn’t want to. He wanted to know about “The Mariner,” and here was someone who probably had the knowledge but wasn’t going to tell. The image of Ram lying by the side of the road rose in his mind again. He made it go away.
They crossed a frozen river. Eddie drifted toward sleep once more. This time he didn’t prolong the drifting but went quickly, like an inmate.
The walls of the visitor’s room were gray and covered with signs. “Wearing of denim clothing by visitors is forbidden,” “Female visitors must wear underwear,” “No sitting on laps,” “No loud talk,” “Removal of any clothing prohibited,” “Violators will be arrested and prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”
There were two steel doors, both guarded by C.O.s. The first led to a strip-search area, a metal detector, and the cell blocks; the second led to a strip-search area, a metal detector, and the outside. Eddie was waiting on a bench when the second door opened and Jack came in.
Eddie hadn’t seen Jack since the trial. He looked good: trim and tanned in a polo shirt and chinos. There were sweat stains under his arms, but that was understandable. Eddie was nervous too. He got up. Jack came to him, eyes filling with emotion. They embraced.
“Jesus, Eddie, you’ve lost weight.”
“The food-” Eddie began, but knew he couldn’t continue in a steady voice. He wouldn’t break down, not in front of Jack, not in front of the four C.O.s sitting in the corners of the room.
They sat on the bench. Jack glanced around, took in the signs, the guards, the prisoner sitting on the other bench with a toothless old woman. He licked his lips. “Is everything okay?”
“Okay?”
“Besides the food, I mean. You’re not being … mistreated, or anything?”
“I’m in jail for something I didn’t do. Is that okay?”
“It’s horrible-worse than horrible,” Jack said, laying a hand on Eddie’s knee. “But aside from that.”
A C.O. got up. “Knock off the fag shit.”
“We’re brothers,” Eddie said, raising his voice slightly, within the acceptable limit.
“So?”
There was no use arguing: Eddie had learned that in the first few weeks. Jack had already removed his hand anyway. He didn’t look quite so good now, and the sweat stains were spreading.
The other prisoner was watching them. Eddie had seen him playing cards in the rec room. His name was Louie. He smiled at Eddie. Eddie ignored him.
Eddie and Jack lost the thread of the conversation, fell silent despite the wall clock ticking away the time they had together. After a while Jack licked his lips again and said: “There’s nothing new, Eddie. I’m sorry.”
Eddie had known that the moment Jack came in the room. Nothing new meant that JFK still hadn’t been found. And finding him was only step one. Without a confession from JFK, without some statement that he was responsible and that Eddie had had nothing to do with the dope on Fearless, there was no hope of a retrial.
“Mandy?”
“Disappeared.” Jack stared at the unpainted cement floor. “We still don’t know if she was in on it anyway.”
“Why else would she go overboard?”
“Maybe she just knew the load was there and took off when she saw trouble coming.”
Without warning me, Eddie thought. The implication of that was clear, had been clear from the beginning, although it meant less and less as time went by.
“We’ve had this discussion,” Jack went on, glancing at the toothless old woman and the prisoner named Louie before looking again at Eddie. “Mandy doesn’t matter. What matters is JFK. No one saw him leave the island. Brice hasn’t even been able to find out what his real name is, if he has one.”
“Why did he try to raise us on the radio?”
“Because you were running off with his investment. We’ve been through this too.”
“But he got cut off.”
“Maybe he changed his mind.”
“Why would he do that?”
Jack shrugged.
“The radio was in the bar. Someone must have seen him. The question is who.”
Jack sighed. “The question is where did he go.”
“Maybe he went to France.”
“France?”
“He speaks French.”
Silence. One of the C.O.s removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes hard. “Brice charges two hundred a day,” Jack said.
“Borrow,” Eddie said, his voice rising over the acceptable limit. “Borrow on your seven and a half percent.”
The C.O. put his glasses back on, gave Eddie a red-eyed glare.
Jack’s voice rose too. “Seven and a half percent of what?”
“Fucking can it,” said the red-eyed C.O.
“Galleon Beach,” Eddie said, more quietly.
Jack shot Eddie a quick and angry glance. “The bank foreclosed last week.” He looked away. “Packer’s finished. Trimble, with his pious little scruples, finished him.”
“He’s a good man.” Trimble had given Jack a thousand dollars to retain Brice.
“He fucked us,” Jack said. “All because …” He went silent.
Eddie leaned forward. Their faces were very close. “Are you blaming me?” he said.
Jack didn’t answer. The prisoner named Louie smiled at Eddie again.
“Are you?”
“Let’s not argue,” Jack said. Eddie smelled alcohol on his brother’s breath.
“Get me out of here,” he said.
“I’m trying, Eddie.” Jack’s voice broke.
They sat together on the bench while the hands on the wall clock circled toward the end of the visiting period. Jack shook his head. “Everything went to shit so fast.”
The C.O.s rose the instant the minute hand touched twelve for the second time. “What’s happening?” Jack asked.
“You have to go.”
“God.”
They got up, embraced again. “Hang on,” Jack said. “At the very worst …”
“Say bye-bye,” said a C.O., coming closer.
“At the very worst what?” Eddie said.
“Please take this the right way, Eddie. Five to fifteen, but at the very worst it means you’ll be out in less than four, with time off for good behavior. It’s bad, I know. But you’ll only be-”
Eddie squeezed his brother’s arm as hard as he could. “Get me out of here.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
Jack hadn’t known the meaning of the very worst. Brice couldn’t find JFK and sent his letter informing Eddie of the closing of the investigation a month or two later. By that time it didn’t matter. Louie and the Ozark brothers got Eddie in the showers a week after Jack’s visit. Less than four swelled to the full fifteen. Jack never returned to the visitor’s room. He sent food packages at Christmas and Eddie’s birthday for a few years, then just at Christmas, then not at all. That was understandable too.
“Where can I drop you?”
Eddie opened his eyes. Ram was looking at him. They were on a bridge, stuck in traffic. Ahead lay Manhattan. Eddie had never been there, but it couldn’t be anything else. The tops of the towers were hidden in the clouds. The snow had turned to rain, steaming the windows of the cars.
“Two-twenty-two Park Avenue,” Eddie said.
“You live on Park Avenue?”
“That’s where you can drop me.”
“I’m not going uptown.”
“Anywhere’s fine.”
“Washington Square?”
“Sure,” Eddie said, although he had no idea where it was.
Ram drove across the bridge, got stuck in more traffic by a river. “It’s funny,” Ram said, “when I saw you shaved your head and all, I got the idea you’d been with us, maybe not too long ago.”
“With you?”
“A convert.”
“It’s ringworm,” Eddie said.
There was no further discussion until Ram stopped by a grassless park and said, “Okay?”
“Thanks.”
Eddie got out. “Take this,” said Ram, handing him another bag of Holesome Trail Mix. He drove away. There were two bumper stickers on the back of his car. One read: “Krishna amp; Co.-Food for the Soul.” The other: “This car climbed Mt. Washington.”
Rain fell, cold and hard. Eddie crossed the street. A woman was sitting on a scrap of cardboard with a baby and a sign: “Homeless and hungry. Please help.” Eddie handed her the trail mix.
He had walked twenty or thirty blocks and was soaked to the skin before he realized that the description on the cardboard sign applied to him too. The thought had an odd effect: it filled him with a sense of well-being, made him smile. Everything was going to be all right-unlike the woman and her baby, he could always win money in swimming pools.