Page 55 of Playworld

“You want to wrestle off for the honor, you get the opportunity once a week.”

“But—”

“No more buts. This comes from on high.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning your mother.”

Now, of course, I realize what had happened. It was the same thing that was happening at schools like Horace Mann and Saint George’s and Choate. The offending teachers and coaches were simply handed off to other institutions, out of sight and out of mind, while we—the school’s charges—were abandoned to silence. Maybe this was the shift I had felt, the continent on which my friends and I had been cast away. Maybe that isn’t the right figure. Because Kepplemen’s departure left a hole. Strangely, at the time, his leaving us felt like a betrayal. As for my mother, she thought I was just starving to death.

Walking home from the bus that evening, I spotted Naomi’s car. The interior light was on. It shined brightly, almost unforgivingly, on Naomi’s head. It made her hair’s part resemble a field’s furrow, revealing the white of her scalp, which disgusted me. She was reading the paper, glancing up to track, I noticed, pedestrians across the street and then checking her side mirror. I banged my fist on the window. I pulled the door closed with all my strength and stared straight forward, bear-hugging my book bag. I felt her staring at me, and then she sighed. “I guess I better put on my seat belt,” she said, and then started the car.

After she’d parked, she cut the ignition so slowly and gently it was as if she were trying to silently unlock a door. She let go of the wheel with her palms out and eased back into her seat, whose leather creaked. Then she turned to face me.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“I didn’t think I had a choice.”

“My season is over. I’m done, understand? Because of you.” And then I was crying, which I hated myself for.

“He was hurting you,” Naomi said. Now she was crying too.

“No, he wasn’t.”

“You were hurting yourself. You were in danger.”

“I washandlingit.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I can’t—I can’t not protect you.”

Naomi took off her glasses to wipe her eyes. It occurred to me that I’d almost never seen her face without them, that their gold frames and blue lenses hid her features’ plainness.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Sometimes I think that you need a friend. Other times I think thatIdo. That I’m lonely, and that listening—” She shook her head now and grimaced. “That listening to you and being with you is my way of ignoring that.”

“Why are you talking about this?”

In response, she cried more freely. She closed her eyes and began to nod.

I couldn’t stop myself. I put my book bag down and took Naomi’s hand in mine and kissed her palm. I pressed her palm to my cheek, so that with it I wiped my tears until she wiped them, and I clutched her and said, “Please don’t cry.”

She gripped me very hard. We sat in the car like that for a time. She whispered, “Every day I look forward to seeing you. Every day I wake up and wonder if you’ll come walking by. I dress for you in the morning. I look forward to hearing about your day. I think about how we’re alike. That you might be the loneliest person I know. But this,” she said, and then sat back against the door, “this is ending.”

I waited.

“My daughters are done for the season. There are no more performances. And they’ve decided to leave the program. I don’t know when I’ll be seeing you again.” She paused to cry more freely and wiped her eyes. “Which is probably for the best.”

She said this almost like a question.

“I did what I did because you needed help. It’s what grown-ups have to do sometimes for kids, even if they don’t understand. So maybe one day you will. Maybe one day I will. Understand all of this, I mean.”

Then she smiled, weakly, and started the car. As we approached West End Avenue, she indicated my building and asked, “Do you want to get out here?”

I shook my head. “I’d like to drive for a while,” I said.

She was pleased by this, and when I said, “Uptown,” she turned left, north. When she passed the familiar facade of my former building, she tapped the window with her nail and said, “There’s where you used to live.” I asked her to turn west, to Riverside Drive, and she did. “There’s the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument,” she said at the light, “where you and your brother would roller-skate.” She asked, “Where to next?” and I said, “Go right.” We continued north for several blocks. We continued to Ninety-Sixth Street, which I suggested we take east. We rose up the steep hill. “Keep going?” she asked, as we crossed Broadway. I nodded. We were approaching Central Park West now, and when Boyd Prep came into view, I thought about our first drive together, how I was in command this time.

“Crosstown?” she asked.