BECOMING
(continued)
Chris Sawyer Lauçanno
Chapter 35: I Become a Caddie
Around the end of May, 1964, my uncle and Ray returned from their prospecting sojourn in Northern Mexico. They were both quite excited, as they had found what they considered the perfect mine to exploit in the state of Zacatecas. It was an old mercury mine that had been worked in the 1940s and ‘50s, but according to Ray it was still rich in mercury deposits. I was of course ecstatic, as I knew that meant that we would be returning to Mexico. I was more than ready. That Spring I’d gotten a job as a caddie. It had not worked out very well. |
About the only white kid I knew in school was a fellow named Paul. I didn’t particularly like him but since we were in most of the same classes, I spent a fair amount of time with him, and occasionally went to his house. Paul’s father, an overweight, red-faced, balding insurance salesman, fancied himself a golfer. Every Saturday morning, around 8:00, he’d deck himself out in lime-green trousers and a pink polo shirt and head for Ascarate Golf Course. There, he’d while away a good part of the day driving golf balls into trees and sand and the lake and occasionally even into the hole.
How I became his caddie is unclear to me now. I suppose he just offered me the job one day when I was visiting his son. As money was tight, trotting around after him as he waddled on the green didn’t seem too bad a way to earn a few bucks. I had absolutely no interest in golf but quickly got the hang of it, and once I figured out how to adjust the strap so that the bag was snug against my back, and make sure that the load was balanced so it didn’t pull to one side, I could carry his irons without too much strain. I also quickly learned how the game worked, and was soon able to hand him the right club at the right time, chase balls, keep the stroke count, and disingenuously congratulate him on finally managing to get the ball into the hole. I got paid $3.00 for my efforts. Sometimes he played with other men, equally poor golfers, but who took the game less seriously. I was always pleased when this occurred. Not only was Dooley’s running commentary less effusive, but less abusive. Instead of “What the fuck are you handing me a nine-iron for, you goddamn lunkhead?” I’d get, “Hand me the fucking nine-iron.”
Paul never caddied for his father, nor as far as I know, ever played. The stated reason was that, unlike me, Paul had to attend catechism classes on Saturday mornings. The truth, of course, as I soon realized, was that Dooley thought his own son far above the menial task of hefting a golf bag. Because Dooley was such a lousy golfer, his playing would take up a fair amount of the day. And then the outing would go one even longer as he always needed to toss back a few frosties at the snack and beer shack that he called the 19th hole. I’d wait outside.
Usually, I read a book in the shade of a giant tree next to the lake. That Spring I had discovered Hemingway and devoured The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms. The Old Man and the Sea didn’t do as much for me but Hem redeemed himself with For Whom the Bell Tolls. Occasionally I’d talk to the other caddies. Unlike the golfers, most of whom were white, all the caddies were Chicanos or Mexicans. A few had worked once for Dooley; none would ever do so again. “Es un pinche pendejo,” noted Enrique, a tall weightlifter, about 17, who practiced flexing when he stood idly awaiting a client. It was from Enrique that I learned I was being paid less than half the going rate. I wasn’t sure what to do with this information, so, at first, I just tucked it away. But the knowledge of my exploitation gnawed at me. I finally decided to mention it to Dooley a couple of weeks later while we on our way home from the course. He was in a fairly jolly mood, a little drunk, pleased with himself for breaking 90.
“What the fuck?” he yelled.
“Maybe we could compromise,” I said. “How about five bucks a game?”
“I can’t fucking believe what I’m hearing. You aren’t worth fifty cents, you little greedy, gold-digging shit.”
I sat silently in the car for a while.
“Find somebody else, then,” I said quietly. And then with more gusto: “Maybe Paul wouldn’t mind toting your bag for you.”
Dooley grimaced, his face tomato red, the veins in his fat neck bulging. He then spewed a volley of bile in my general direction: “You little ungrateful son-of-a-bitch. Don’t tell me how to raise my fucking son. I’m doing you a fucking favor and this is what I fucking get? You are fucking fired! Fucking fired! Fucking fired! Out of the goddamn car, now!”
He slammed on the brakes, and I flew against the dashboard, banging my arm and chest, nearly knocking the wind out of me. I exited as quickly as I could, straining to get my breathing back, and then stood on the sidewalk in the sun watching the red Chrysler speed down the street.
It was a long walk home but I didn’t mind. I sang a couple of verses that my grandfather had taught me from The Little Red Songbook:
Workers of the world, awaken.
Break your chains, demand your rights. All the wealth you make is taken by exploiting parasites. Workers of the world, awaken. Rise in all your splendid might. Take the wealth that you are making, it belongs to you by right. |
Chapter 36: I Again Become a Brother
I wasn’t unemployed for too long. Within a couple of weeks of bidding Dooley adieu, I got a job as a dishwasher at a nearby hotel restaurant. I don’t remember working a lot of hours but I do recall I found the work less than engaging. It was a busy place, the dish room was very hot and always shrouded in a steam fog, and I struggled to keep the dishwasher loaded and unloaded. But the cooks and waiters and busboys were fairly nice to me, and I found many ways to squander the dollar an hour I earned from my labor.
I far preferred spending my time talking to Ray about the mine and about the kiln and condenser unit he was designing to heat the ore so that the mercury would flow. While I can’t say I understood much of Ray’s metallurgical inventions, I did get the gist: Ore and coal got fed into the furnace and set ablaze. The ore cracked from the heat and released the mercury vapors which got collected at the top of the kiln and were then passed through a series of condenser tubes to cool so the gas could be turned into shiny liquid mercury.
A moment of pride came when under Ray’s guidance I got to do drawings of the condenser. Ray got me a prism-shaped architectural scale ruler, a compass, calipers, an adjustable triangle, an eraser, a set of French curves as well as mechanical pencils. He taught me how to scale the drawings and how to use the French curves and triangle. The rest I sort of figured out on my own. I followed his rough sketch, learned how important the eraser was, and after probably a dozen botched starts, I finally managed to get usable drawings. He supplied the necessary enumerations in Spanish.
“Now, Chico,” said Ray, after he had approved the drawings, “Print your name on each drawing in the title block you created on the right. And underneath, write ‘Delineante.’ A draftsman or architect always has to take credit for his work.”
I carefully printed my name, and wrote “Delineante,” doing my best to keep my hand steady, despite the emotion and pride that I could feel coursing through my veins.
A few days later, with a roll of construction drawings in hand, Ray set off again for Mexico to meet a contractor to turn our drawings into built forms. I so much wanted to go, and since it was summer, I pressed hard but to no avail. I was to keep my pregnant mother company, assist with taking care of one-year-old Cesar, and perform my dishwasher duties at the restaurant.
I frankly don’t remember a great deal more about most of the summer until the end of it. I know Ray was back and forth to Mexico. I kept washing dishes and spent a fair amount of time eating taquitos with my friend Jaime in Juárez.
The major event for me of that hot summer occurred one afternoon, on August 31, 1964, when my mother gave birth to María Elena. She was healthy, incredibly alert, and even as a newborn, extraordinarily beautiful. I stayed at the hospital in the afternoon, gazing at her through the glass partition. Unlike when Cesar was born, María Elena was confined to the nursery. I eventually persuaded one of the attendants to permit me to hold her for a moment, but a nurse came quickly, and seizing her, replaced the baby in the bassinet. Also, in contrast to when my brother was born, I was not Ray’s sole companion. Everyone—Nela, aunts and uncles and cousins, various friends and acquaintances—descended on the hospital. By evening, my mother’s room and the corridor outside the nursery were overflowing with well-wishers and gawkers. I beat a retreat, volunteering to babysit Cesar so that Ray’s Aunt Josefina could visit. I didn’t mind: I wasn’t up for the big scene.
After my 15-month-old charge, unfazed by the arrival of his sister, fell asleep, I went outside. It was a hot night. Cicadas buzzed and crickets chirped. The wind blew off the desert, rustling leaves. A thousand stars, framing a full moon, twinkled overhead. The air conditioner in the window hummed. I stood in the dark for a while, heedless of the gnats and mosquitoes that swirled around me.
“Hey world,” I said to the night, “You have a new resident: María Elena. Be kind to her. Make some room for. Let her grow up to be strong and smart and healthy and gorgeous and gracious and graceful. Keep her out of big troubles but let her get into little ones. Show your best side to her. That way she will know that you like her and respect her and care about her. I know she’ll like you if you do that. And let her grow up in Mexico instead of El Paso. This place is not for her. And please be good to Cesar, too. He’ll need your help a little more than he has, since he now must share the world with her. And please be good to mom and Ray and grandma and grandpa and Uncle John and his family, and to me. And help me be a good brother to the little guys. I’ll try but I’d like your cooperation. Thanks. You have been pretty good to all of us so far. Hope you don’t change your mind.”
I probably rambled on for a while more, praying to my special animist gods, the only gods I could convince myself might be real. I don’t know what I expected but I guess I felt a birth announcement, coupled with a wish list, was appropriate for the occasion. When I went back inside, Cesar was still sleeping soundly. I sat by his crib for a half hour or so, speaking under my breath to him, telling him all about his new sister.
Everything, I decided, was perfect
I wasn’t unemployed for too long. Within a couple of weeks of bidding Dooley adieu, I got a job as a dishwasher at a nearby hotel restaurant. I don’t remember working a lot of hours but I do recall I found the work less than engaging. It was a busy place, the dish room was very hot and always shrouded in a steam fog, and I struggled to keep the dishwasher loaded and unloaded. But the cooks and waiters and busboys were fairly nice to me, and I found many ways to squander the dollar an hour I earned from my labor.
I far preferred spending my time talking to Ray about the mine and about the kiln and condenser unit he was designing to heat the ore so that the mercury would flow. While I can’t say I understood much of Ray’s metallurgical inventions, I did get the gist: Ore and coal got fed into the furnace and set ablaze. The ore cracked from the heat and released the mercury vapors which got collected at the top of the kiln and were then passed through a series of condenser tubes to cool so the gas could be turned into shiny liquid mercury.
A moment of pride came when under Ray’s guidance I got to do drawings of the condenser. Ray got me a prism-shaped architectural scale ruler, a compass, calipers, an adjustable triangle, an eraser, a set of French curves as well as mechanical pencils. He taught me how to scale the drawings and how to use the French curves and triangle. The rest I sort of figured out on my own. I followed his rough sketch, learned how important the eraser was, and after probably a dozen botched starts, I finally managed to get usable drawings. He supplied the necessary enumerations in Spanish.
“Now, Chico,” said Ray, after he had approved the drawings, “Print your name on each drawing in the title block you created on the right. And underneath, write ‘Delineante.’ A draftsman or architect always has to take credit for his work.”
I carefully printed my name, and wrote “Delineante,” doing my best to keep my hand steady, despite the emotion and pride that I could feel coursing through my veins.
A few days later, with a roll of construction drawings in hand, Ray set off again for Mexico to meet a contractor to turn our drawings into built forms. I so much wanted to go, and since it was summer, I pressed hard but to no avail. I was to keep my pregnant mother company, assist with taking care of one-year-old Cesar, and perform my dishwasher duties at the restaurant.
I frankly don’t remember a great deal more about most of the summer until the end of it. I know Ray was back and forth to Mexico. I kept washing dishes and spent a fair amount of time eating taquitos with my friend Jaime in Juárez.
The major event for me of that hot summer occurred one afternoon, on August 31, 1964, when my mother gave birth to María Elena. She was healthy, incredibly alert, and even as a newborn, extraordinarily beautiful. I stayed at the hospital in the afternoon, gazing at her through the glass partition. Unlike when Cesar was born, María Elena was confined to the nursery. I eventually persuaded one of the attendants to permit me to hold her for a moment, but a nurse came quickly, and seizing her, replaced the baby in the bassinet. Also, in contrast to when my brother was born, I was not Ray’s sole companion. Everyone—Nela, aunts and uncles and cousins, various friends and acquaintances—descended on the hospital. By evening, my mother’s room and the corridor outside the nursery were overflowing with well-wishers and gawkers. I beat a retreat, volunteering to babysit Cesar so that Ray’s Aunt Josefina could visit. I didn’t mind: I wasn’t up for the big scene.
After my 15-month-old charge, unfazed by the arrival of his sister, fell asleep, I went outside. It was a hot night. Cicadas buzzed and crickets chirped. The wind blew off the desert, rustling leaves. A thousand stars, framing a full moon, twinkled overhead. The air conditioner in the window hummed. I stood in the dark for a while, heedless of the gnats and mosquitoes that swirled around me.
“Hey world,” I said to the night, “You have a new resident: María Elena. Be kind to her. Make some room for. Let her grow up to be strong and smart and healthy and gorgeous and gracious and graceful. Keep her out of big troubles but let her get into little ones. Show your best side to her. That way she will know that you like her and respect her and care about her. I know she’ll like you if you do that. And let her grow up in Mexico instead of El Paso. This place is not for her. And please be good to Cesar, too. He’ll need your help a little more than he has, since he now must share the world with her. And please be good to mom and Ray and grandma and grandpa and Uncle John and his family, and to me. And help me be a good brother to the little guys. I’ll try but I’d like your cooperation. Thanks. You have been pretty good to all of us so far. Hope you don’t change your mind.”
I probably rambled on for a while more, praying to my special animist gods, the only gods I could convince myself might be real. I don’t know what I expected but I guess I felt a birth announcement, coupled with a wish list, was appropriate for the occasion. When I went back inside, Cesar was still sleeping soundly. I sat by his crib for a half hour or so, speaking under my breath to him, telling him all about his new sister.
Everything, I decided, was perfect
Chapter 37: I Become a Resident of Durango
Not long after María Elena’s birth, Ray announced that we would soon be moving to Mexico. The kiln and condenser were near completion, miners hired, and the mine in the tiny town of Sain Alto, Zacatecas, ready again to be worked. As Sain Alto had only a couple of short streets, no running water and no electricity, Ray had decided that we would live about a hundred kilometers to the west of the village, in Durango, a bustling city, with even a suitable school for me to attend. I was ecstatic. I detested El Paso, my life was uninteresting at best, boring, and even somewhat tedious, at worst. The plan was for the whole family to be ensconced in Durango by Christmas; in reality we ended up spending Christmas in dreary El Paso. That fall, Ray was back and forth quite a bit. I managed to start ninth grade at El Paso High but without a great deal of enthusiasm. The baby was thriving, Cesar was doing well, and my mother did not seem particularly unhappy staying at home looking after the two little ones. The day after Christmas, Ray returned to Durango, arranging that we would follow in a few days so that we could take in the new city where we would be living. |
A day or so after Ray’s departure, Smitty, my uncle’s partner in the new mining venture, a tall, lean, balding man with a fringe of red hair, arrived to pick up my mother, siblings and I. Smitty had never visited the mine, nor even Mexico, and decided that he should take a look at what it was his investment had acquired. He had a big station wagon, and we all piled in and took off for Durango.
Ray met us at the Hotel Casablanca on New Year’s Eve, and announced that he had rented us an unfurnished house in the center of town. My mother was furious. She had specifically told her husband that she wanted to be in on the choosing of the new abode. Ray shrugged off her rancor, saying that he was certain she would like the place, and that any rate we couldn’t move in right away since we had no furniture. Later that day we went around to see our new residence, a large second-floor place right across the street from the fire station on Calle Victoria Sur. Perhaps a century or so before, the edifice had been a grand Colonial house but was now chopped up so that the first floor was given over to offices. It was a typical traditional Mexican house, with a central patio. All eight rooms opened onto a tiled walkway surrounding the railed opening to the courtyard. Though somewhat shabby, I rather liked it. The light streaming in through the French doors on the outside perimeter was beautiful, causing the old pink tiled floors to glow.
As we entered one spacious room after another, my mother eyed the apartment suspiciously; my baby sister decided to cry; Cesar ran ahead of us from room to room screaming with delight at his voice reverberating through the desolate structure; Ray attempted to point out interesting details. We did two sweeps through the house, re-arriving in the room that was supposed to be the kitchen. It was there that my mother joined María Elena and Cesar in alternately screaming and crying. Not only was the kitchen space quite grungy and devoid of appliances or even cupboards, my mother quickly discovered that the hot water heater was wood fired.
Our inspection didn’t last long. My mother quickly exited with the kids in tow, and at a fast clip walked back to the hotel a few blocks away. I lingered a bit with Ray, then the two of us followed her down the street. It was a clear, rather cold day, the sun weak, with a stiff wind, whipping around the towering cathedral. In a photograph, it would have seemed a beautiful day, just as the house, once furnished, would have appeared differently. Though Ray said nothing directly to me, it was evident that my job was to persuade my mother that Calle Victoria Sur could be made habitable. It was not, I felt, going to be an easy task. And indeed, it wasn’t. My mother again asserted that she would not return to move in until the apartment was fully furnished and appliances installed, including a modern water heater. I don’t recall any celebration that night of the new year.
I do remember that on New Year’s Day, Ray and Smitty took off for the mine, and my mom, the kids and I walked around a largely empty post-celebration downtown. Durango was a rather pretty city, the architecture old and impressive, the central plaza inviting. My mother actually rather liked the city but was still distressed about the new house. A day or so later, Smitty and Ray returned, and as planned, she and the kids hitched a ride with Smitty back to El Paso. A bit to my surprise, my mother and Ray decided that I should stay, since I was already enrolled at the Colegio Americano de Durango, and they agreed I needed to start the semester on schedule. At least a bed had been delivered.
The day I turned 14, the fourth of January, a Monday, Ray and I drove a few blocks to the school. Housed in a decrepit, two-story villa, surrounded by a high grayish-white wall, pierced by a rusting wrought-iron gate, the Colegio did not seem terribly welcoming. Its setting, however, across the street from the tree-shrouded banks of the Río Tunal, saved it, in my mind, from being totally abysmal.
The interior didn’t do much to dispel the inhospitableness: crumbling whitewashed plaster walls, cracked tiles, and a warren of rooms, all with closed doors. A cleaning lady ushered us into the headmaster’s office, a tiny, disorderly room with a desk piled high with papers and books. Diplomas and official-looking certificates in cheap frames, hung, somewhat askew, on the light-blue walls. Mr. Benz greeted us with firm handshakes, and told Ray that all was in order with my tuition for the term. He was a tall, stooped middle-aged man with a bulbous nose, beady brown eyes, wearing an ill-fitting black suit. He did seem affable enough, though I don’t recall much of what he had to say aside from stating that I would need to purchase uniforms: gray trousers, white shirts, a black tie and blue blazer. I vaguely remember him describing my class schedule, and that while English and algebra would be taught in English, all the others would be in Spanish. The idea, he explained, was to prepare students to matriculate into either Mexican or American universities. It was clear, however, that not a single student had entered a U.S. college, or probably ever would. Not one word of English was spoken during the meeting.
I suppose I must have been informed of the rules and regulations but I have no recollection of anything except that the school day ran from 8:45 until 1, and then from 3:00 until 5:00. Siesta was honored. I had a day to prepare before classes commenced. I outfitted myself, got school supplies, and on the morning of January 6, 1965 Ray and I checked out of the hotel and he dropped me at the school gate. He was heading back to Sain Alto, where he had rented a house that also served as an office. He muttered he’d try to get back in a few days. Meanwhile, I would move into the apartment after school got over at five.
I don’t think that until that morning, standing in my crisp uniform outside the Colegio, that it had penetrated my consciousness that I would be starting a new school in a strange city and living, strangely, all by myself in a strange house. I didn’t protest. It wouldn't have made any difference, and besides, in advance, it didn’t seem such an awful arrangement.
I stood in front of the school entrance for a while, watching the taillights of Ray’s Chevy Impala disappear around the corner. It was cold and drizzling a little. I swallowed hard, then followed a few girls, dressed in green and blue plaid dresses, with blue sweaters, and a couple of younger boys, dressed identically to me, into the old building.
Ray met us at the Hotel Casablanca on New Year’s Eve, and announced that he had rented us an unfurnished house in the center of town. My mother was furious. She had specifically told her husband that she wanted to be in on the choosing of the new abode. Ray shrugged off her rancor, saying that he was certain she would like the place, and that any rate we couldn’t move in right away since we had no furniture. Later that day we went around to see our new residence, a large second-floor place right across the street from the fire station on Calle Victoria Sur. Perhaps a century or so before, the edifice had been a grand Colonial house but was now chopped up so that the first floor was given over to offices. It was a typical traditional Mexican house, with a central patio. All eight rooms opened onto a tiled walkway surrounding the railed opening to the courtyard. Though somewhat shabby, I rather liked it. The light streaming in through the French doors on the outside perimeter was beautiful, causing the old pink tiled floors to glow.
As we entered one spacious room after another, my mother eyed the apartment suspiciously; my baby sister decided to cry; Cesar ran ahead of us from room to room screaming with delight at his voice reverberating through the desolate structure; Ray attempted to point out interesting details. We did two sweeps through the house, re-arriving in the room that was supposed to be the kitchen. It was there that my mother joined María Elena and Cesar in alternately screaming and crying. Not only was the kitchen space quite grungy and devoid of appliances or even cupboards, my mother quickly discovered that the hot water heater was wood fired.
Our inspection didn’t last long. My mother quickly exited with the kids in tow, and at a fast clip walked back to the hotel a few blocks away. I lingered a bit with Ray, then the two of us followed her down the street. It was a clear, rather cold day, the sun weak, with a stiff wind, whipping around the towering cathedral. In a photograph, it would have seemed a beautiful day, just as the house, once furnished, would have appeared differently. Though Ray said nothing directly to me, it was evident that my job was to persuade my mother that Calle Victoria Sur could be made habitable. It was not, I felt, going to be an easy task. And indeed, it wasn’t. My mother again asserted that she would not return to move in until the apartment was fully furnished and appliances installed, including a modern water heater. I don’t recall any celebration that night of the new year.
I do remember that on New Year’s Day, Ray and Smitty took off for the mine, and my mom, the kids and I walked around a largely empty post-celebration downtown. Durango was a rather pretty city, the architecture old and impressive, the central plaza inviting. My mother actually rather liked the city but was still distressed about the new house. A day or so later, Smitty and Ray returned, and as planned, she and the kids hitched a ride with Smitty back to El Paso. A bit to my surprise, my mother and Ray decided that I should stay, since I was already enrolled at the Colegio Americano de Durango, and they agreed I needed to start the semester on schedule. At least a bed had been delivered.
The day I turned 14, the fourth of January, a Monday, Ray and I drove a few blocks to the school. Housed in a decrepit, two-story villa, surrounded by a high grayish-white wall, pierced by a rusting wrought-iron gate, the Colegio did not seem terribly welcoming. Its setting, however, across the street from the tree-shrouded banks of the Río Tunal, saved it, in my mind, from being totally abysmal.
The interior didn’t do much to dispel the inhospitableness: crumbling whitewashed plaster walls, cracked tiles, and a warren of rooms, all with closed doors. A cleaning lady ushered us into the headmaster’s office, a tiny, disorderly room with a desk piled high with papers and books. Diplomas and official-looking certificates in cheap frames, hung, somewhat askew, on the light-blue walls. Mr. Benz greeted us with firm handshakes, and told Ray that all was in order with my tuition for the term. He was a tall, stooped middle-aged man with a bulbous nose, beady brown eyes, wearing an ill-fitting black suit. He did seem affable enough, though I don’t recall much of what he had to say aside from stating that I would need to purchase uniforms: gray trousers, white shirts, a black tie and blue blazer. I vaguely remember him describing my class schedule, and that while English and algebra would be taught in English, all the others would be in Spanish. The idea, he explained, was to prepare students to matriculate into either Mexican or American universities. It was clear, however, that not a single student had entered a U.S. college, or probably ever would. Not one word of English was spoken during the meeting.
I suppose I must have been informed of the rules and regulations but I have no recollection of anything except that the school day ran from 8:45 until 1, and then from 3:00 until 5:00. Siesta was honored. I had a day to prepare before classes commenced. I outfitted myself, got school supplies, and on the morning of January 6, 1965 Ray and I checked out of the hotel and he dropped me at the school gate. He was heading back to Sain Alto, where he had rented a house that also served as an office. He muttered he’d try to get back in a few days. Meanwhile, I would move into the apartment after school got over at five.
I don’t think that until that morning, standing in my crisp uniform outside the Colegio, that it had penetrated my consciousness that I would be starting a new school in a strange city and living, strangely, all by myself in a strange house. I didn’t protest. It wouldn't have made any difference, and besides, in advance, it didn’t seem such an awful arrangement.
I stood in front of the school entrance for a while, watching the taillights of Ray’s Chevy Impala disappear around the corner. It was cold and drizzling a little. I swallowed hard, then followed a few girls, dressed in green and blue plaid dresses, with blue sweaters, and a couple of younger boys, dressed identically to me, into the old building.
I don’t think that until that morning, standing in my crisp uniform outside the Colegio, that it had penetrated my consciousness that I would be starting a new school in a strange city and living, strangely, all by myself in a strange house. I didn’t protest. It wouldn't have made any difference, and besides, in advance, it didn’t seem such an awful arrangement.
I stood in front of the school entrance for a while, watching the taillights of Ray’s Chevy Impala disappear around the corner. It was cold and drizzling a little. I swallowed hard, then followed a few girls, dressed in green and blue plaid dresses, with blue sweaters, and a couple of younger boys, dressed identically to me, into the old building. |