Boys & Girls Together (41 page)

The boy was on fire. His head would not stop burning. He moved quickly across the crowded beach toward Lake Michigan. Stripping down to his bathing suit, he slipped into the water and, when it was deep enough, fell head down into a dead man’s float. The waves washed over him, cooling his body, but his head was still on fire. He held his breath and sank under water. When his breath was gone, he surfaced and floated on his back for a while, staring up at the totally blue sky. Then he ducked his body and sank under water again, his hands gently rubbing the top of his bald head. Surfacing, he stroked until he could touch bottom, and then he hurried up the beach to his clothes. Gathering them, he turned around in a circle several times before running north, north where it was cool. He ran for half an hour, cutting in and around, avoiding the others, and then he stopped, dropping his clothes, swimming out, floating, ducking, surfacing, then back, running again. The beach emptied with the falling of the sun and he walked north, throwing on his shirt, donning his pants and shoes, and when he was dressed he started to run again, running along the edge of the lake, running easily, running, running north. He swam twice more before he slept, falling instantly asleep in the warm night, his body curled between two rocks, safe from the wind. At dawn he was off, walking quickly, staring at the sun as it inched up over the horizon of the lake. The day was hot, and before the morning ended he began having hunger pangs, his stomach sounding fiercely, but he did not give in to them and by late afternoon they were gone. The second night he went to sleep shortly after sundown, again curling between warm rocks, and he slept deeply until the rain started, and then he rose and moved north through it, head down, hands in his pockets, eyes half closed. The rain stopped by midmorning and by noon the sun was strong, and he was beyond Chicago now, running up the North Shore running past Evanston, entering Wilmette, leaving it, starting into Winnetka. He swam more often than before, and for longer periods of time, trying to get cool, since his head was more on fire now than it had ever been. His forehead felt hot when he touched it, and his eyes hurt him. As he swam, he stared up over the bluff that paralleled the lake, looking at the giant houses. He stared until his eyes required closing, and then he would close them and sink under the water, rubbing them with the tips of his fingers. That afternoon he commenced to shiver, even though the sun was strong, and he was unable to run fast or far. The sun had not yet disappeared when he crept a few feet up the bluff and made a place for himself beneath some bushes and closed his eyes. But he could not sleep. He was very tired and his eyes felt as if they were swelling but the shivering was more distinct than ever, so he lay there, body foetal, awake. The moon came, accompanied by the early stars. Suddenly it was very cool and he was perspiring, the shaking almost painful, the swelling of his eyes most severe. The boy took off his shirt and pants, keeping them off until the chills began, and then he put them back on and scurried down to the beach, frantically digging a hole in the warm sand, crawling into the depression, covering his cold body. The effort exhausted him and his head dropped back at an uncomfortable angle but he was too dizzy to right it. When the perspiring returned, he managed to roll clear of the depression. He lay quietly, stretched out beside it, and as the chills began, he rolled back into the tiny hole, scraping a few handfuls of sand over him. His head was swelling now and his ears heard strange sounds, sharp whistles, muted cries. The boy put his hands over his ears and writhed. The chills increased and he could no longer stop his teeth from chattering, so he lunged away from the hole and pushed himself to his feet, starting a jagged run along the sand, running until he was on fire again, and then he ripped at his shirt, dropping to his knees, cradling his head in his elbows. At the next sign of freezing he was up, trying to run, panting, slapping his arms across his body. As his body began heating, he made for the lake, submerging in the cool water until the chill returned, worse now than before. He continued on like that, running when cold, bathing when hot, for as long as he could. But eventually he lacked the strength to reach the lake, so he slipped noiselessly onto the sand and, after a time of quiet breathing, slept.

The next day he began falling down.

The morning was perfect, warm and blue, and although the fever was stronger, he was used to it, knew its limits, was able to cope. He jogged north, stopping from time to time to gaze up at the great houses dotting the bluff rim. At noon the sun was hot, so the chilling times were easier to bear, although the periods of perspiring were probably less comfortable than ever. He swam a good deal during those periods, and it was after a particularly long swim, as he reached for his clothes, that he first fell. His face reflected surprise, but that left, and then he had his clothes in his arms and was running again until he fell. This time he paused on the sand, shaking his head weakly. His stomach rumbled and his eyes burned and the crazy sounds were back in his ears, so he lay still until he could rise. Then he walked north until he fell again. This time he stretched out full on his back, his hands shielding his hot eyes. After a while he rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself into a kneeling position. From there he made it to his feet and began walking. He tried moving straight ahead but he kept veering off, first one way, then the other. Dropping his clothes, he lunged for the lake, falling into the water, resting there. He sat in the water, the waves washing him rhythmically, the sounds in his ears growing louder. He tried to rise but slipped back into the water. Again he tried but he could not make it to his feet, so he stopped trying and lay in the water, waiting for his strength. When it came he got to his feet and broke into a wild run up the beach. There was nothing around him, nothing near, so he closed his eyes and ran. He ran faster than he had ever run before and this time when he fell he got up immediately and ran some more. He fell again and now it was harder to rise but he fought his way off his knees and ran, slower now but as fast as he could. He kept his eyes closed until he felt the lake around his legs and then he turned, because he had veered again, and he left the lake behind him, bolting for the bluff, but he never made it. He fell hard, and now there was no strength left. He tried to rise but his body hugged the sand, and all his kicking did was to move him around in a circle, around and around, his head the center of the circle, his footprints a jagged circumference. He kicked until he stopped. After that he knew nothing, not the week, the year, the time of day. Eventually he became aware of the hospital room, but how he got there he never remembered. In the hospital, however, several things became clear. He had lost eleven pounds. He had a fever of a hundred and five.

And he was deaf.

“I didn’t do it!” Sid said. “You can’t blame me.”

“No one is blaming you, Mr. Miller,” Dr. Weiss said. “Please.”

Sid glanced down the hospital corridor toward Esther, who sat slumped in a wooden chair. “I love that boy. It’s not my fault. I love him. I would give up my life for that boy.”

“Please,” Dr. Weiss repeated. “Try to get control, Mr. Miller.”

“Why did it happen? What?”

“The boy showed signs of being beaten severely when he was brought in. Particularly around the head and face.”

“I never touched him. Ask anybody. I have never laid a hand on Rudy.”

“Undoubtedly he was beaten on the beach. Or someplace nearby. At any rate, he was beaten. And then the infection set in. He was not in good shape when they brought him in, Mr. Miller.”

“Poor Rudy—God.”

“The hearing loss isn’t complete. Almost, but not quite. Perhaps, with the use of a hearing aid, plus lip reading—”

“God,” Sid said. “Why wasn’t it me? Why Rudy?”

“Would you like to see him?”

“More than anything.”

“He’s looking quite well now. May I ask you a question, Mr. Miller?”

“Yes, yes.”

“I understand the boy’s reluctance to give his name. But why didn’t you notify the police about the boy’s disappearance sooner? Two weeks is a long time to wait.”

“I wanted to. My wife, she was against it. She kept saying he’d come back. We love the boy. He never ran away before. Every night Esther prayed for his return. It wasn’t the police’s affair, she said. A family business only. We have never liked washing our dirty linen in public.”

“Yes,” Dr. Weiss said. He gestured down the corridor. “Your son is in the last room. Don’t stay long. I’ll stop in after a few minutes. When I come, that will be your signal to leave.”

“Bless you, Doctor,” Sid said, and he turned, hurrying to Esther. “Come,” he said. “Come quick. We can see Rudy now.”

“Why didn’t you let me call the police? Two weeks he’s been alone. All by himself. We should have been with him. I should have been.”

“Come,” Sid said. “Every minute is precious.”

Esther stood. “Rudy,” she said. “Rudy.”

“The last room. This way.”

“What did the doctor say to you?”

“He looks fine, the doctor said.”

“Then he’s all right.”

“Perfect. Except maybe for a little trouble with the ears.”

Esther stopped. “What? What trouble?”

“Nothing. Some infection he caught.”

“He can hear?”

“Of course he can hear. He’ll be perfect.” Sid pulled at her, but she would not move.

“Tell me.”

“A hearing aid. Maybe. Now come.”

“Tell me.”

“He will be perfect with a hearing aid and maybe some lip reading. Come.”

“You beat him deaf.”

“The infection. It was the infection. Ask the doctor. Ask anybody. Don’t get excited. He will be fine.”

“You beat him deaf!”

“I hardly touched him. You know that.”

“
Rudy!
”

“Esther—Esther, stop!” Sid chased after her down the corridor.

“
Rudy! Rudy!
” and she ran into his room.

Sid entered a moment later, standing in the doorway, watching as she cradled the boy, rocking back and forth, muttering in Yiddish. “
Weh ist mir. Weh ist mir
.”

Sid smiled. “Hello, Rudy,” he said.

The boy said nothing.

“You look good, kid. I mean it. Fine.”

The boy looked at him.

“
Shondeh. Weh ist mir
.”

“They treating you O.K.?”

Slowly the boy’s eyes widened.

“Can you hear me, Rudy? At all?”

“
Shondeh. Shondeh
.”

“The doctor told me it isn’t so bad, Rudy. Don’t mind your mother. The point is it’s not so bad. That infection, it could have been a lot worse. With a little help, you’ll hear perfect.”

Still the boy’s eyes widened.

“
Oy. Oygewalt
.”

Sid hesitated, then approached the end of the bed. “You really look wonderful. Never better, so help me God.”

The wide eyes watched.

“Rudy, look, I’m so happy you’re all right, I’m crying. See, Rudy? See the tears?” Sid pointed to his face. “See? That’s how happy I am we found you. You had us awful worried, Rudy. Running away like that.”

“
Shondeh. Shondeh. Weh ist mir
.”

“I’ll make it up to you, Rudy. I swear. Look at my tears. Can you hear me? Look at my tears, Rudy. I’ll make it up to you. As God is my witness, you’ll never have another unhappy day. You hear that? That’s a promise. I promise it to you. You’re my son and I made you a solemn promise. Please, Rudy, close your eyes. Didn’t you hear my promise? Close your eyes. Oh, Rudy, God, please, I’ll make it all up to you. We’ll be so happy. Everyone will envy us. That’s how happy we’re gonna be.”

The eyes did not stop staring.

“
Weh ist mir. Weh ist mir. Weh ist mir
”

“So happy. Oh, yes, so happy, Rudy. Yes. Please don’t look. No more. The infection. It wasn’t me. It was the infection. Ask the doctor. He’ll tell you. He never mentioned the spanking I gave. That’s all it was. A little spanking. It was the infection did it. On my word of honor, Rudy, my sacred word of honor, it wasn’t the spanking, it wasn’t me.” He looked down at the floor, then up quickly, then away.

The eyes stared.

Sid made a smile. “All right, all the water is over the dam. We’re just like we used to be. Can I get you something, Rudy? Anything. You just name it.” Sid glanced around the room. “I’ll write it down. That way we can talk. I could shout but they don’t like that in hospitals. I’ll write it down. Can I do something for you? Here.” And he grabbed a crumpled piece of paper from Esther’s purse. He rummaged through some more until he found a pencil. “See, Rudy?” and he waved the pencil. “Now we can talk. Here. Can I do something for you? I’m writing it down.” Slowly, Sid printed the words then gave the paper to the boy. As the boy read the words, Sid said them again. “Can I do something for you?”

“Die.”

S
LEEPING WITH SHELLY BINGHAM
was, for Aaron, a watershed event, since it forced him at last to face without flinching the one unendurable question: was there “something the matter with him”? That possibility had existed for quite some time, first, primarily in his subconscious, a weightless fear lying suspended inside him, a tiny spider floating darkly across his mind. Occasionally it would catch the light, but not often, and when it did he would quickly brush it back into the shadows again, praying for the darkness to kill it, kill it, make it die. It festered.

One spring night when Aaron was sixteen the fear had exploded, shredding his subconscious. He had left the movies early that spring night, by the side entrance, and he hurried to his home via back streets, moving through tree shadows, avoiding light. Arriving at his house, he crept in through the rear door, turning the knob noiselessly, stepping inside, shutting the door without a sound. Aaron paused. From the living room he could hear talking, and he took advantage of that sound, moving a step at a time toward it. When he had moved as close as he dared he stopped, waiting, waiting.

The lights in the living room went off. Then Aaron heard his sister’s voice. Deborah was saying, “Jamie Wakefield, you win the blue ribbon for stupidity. The world’s championship.”