The Ravine

by Paul Quarrington

  His role in life was immediately apparent—he accompanied the blond, better-looking boy wherever he went, echoing his words and emulating his actions. “Yeah,” he said now, “what’ve you got there?”

  “What have I got where?” asked Jay quietly.

  The blond boy took a step forward. “There. In your hands.”

  I answered, “Just a tadpole.”

  “It’s almost a frog,” said Jay, “except it has a tail. And it has a bump on its head.”

  “No kidding. Let me see.”

  “I was just about to let him go.”

  “Him?” said the blond boy. “How do you know it’s a him?”

  “He doesn’t know,” I said.

  “Did I ask you?” snapped the blond boy, and all of a sudden I understood that I had found a little more adventure than I had bargained for.

  He addressed himself to my brother once again. “Does it have a little dick or something?”

  “No. Maybe it’s a girl.”

  “Bring it here,” demanded the boy. “Let me see it.”

  “Yeah,” said his companion. “Let’s see it.”

  “I was just about to let it go,” Jay insisted.

  “Come on, little buddy. Let me see that thing.”

  Norman Kitchen spoke now, and he spoke at a normal volume. I realized that he was petrified. “Show it to them, Jay.”

  “J? Is that your name, J?”

  “Yeah, it’s his name. Jay,” I answered.

  The blond boy shook his head with mock puzzlement. “But it’s only one letter long. Hey, Terry.”

  “What, Ted?”

  “What kind of name is only one letter long?”

  Don’t think it was lost upon me that they’d used each other’s names. This signalled a reckless disregard—at least it always did on television, the cannier criminals wincing when their foolish henchman identified them. That neither of these kids winced had a double implication: 1) they were both kind of stupid and 2) they would probably have to kill us.

  Ted looked us over, Norman and me. “What’s you guys’ names? Hey, you. What’s your name?”

  “My name is Norman!”

  “That’s a nice name. And you, with the glasses?”

  “Phil.”

  “Jay, Norman and Phil.” Ted drew ever closer, so close that the toes of his black running shoes stuck into the pond’s watery muck. He extended his hand toward my brother. “So let me see the froggy thing, Jay.”

  Jay thought about this for a moment and then started toward the shore. “Look at it and let it go,” he said quietly. Jay put the creature into Ted’s extended hand and backed away.

  Ted was, for a moment, startled by the sight of the little monster, possibly even terrified. But he managed to squelch this emotion; I suppose, given adult retrospection, that this was how Ted dealt with all of his emotions. He squelched them, and let them fester and infect somewhere down deep. “This thing,” said Ted gravely, “is a freak. This thing should never have been born.”

  Terry picked up the cue. “Put it out of its misery.”

  “Good idea,” nodded Ted. “I’m going to put it out of its misery.” Ted curled his hand into a fist and tightened. We heard little bubbly sounds and a long kind of whistle, like a teakettle or something. Ted threw the remains over his shoulder and wiped his hand off on the backside of his blue jeans.

  My brother said, “That was a bad thing to do.”

  “That?” Ted gestured with his head toward where he’d thrown the little corpse. “That was nothing.”

  Our bicycles lay a few feet away. Ted now wandered toward them, pointing a finger. “These your bikes, huh?” He saw the saddlebag behind my seat, noticed the bulging and asked, “What’s in there?”

  “Just some Cub stuff,” I answered. “Nothing interesting.”

  Ted looked at me with those strange eyes. “Nothing interesting, huh?”

  “Cub stuff,” I repeated.

  “Why don’t you go away and leave us alone?” asked Jay, somewhat brazenly, I thought.

  “But we’re not doing anything,” explained Ted with exaggerated patience. “We’re just asking questions. We’re being friendly.”

  “We’re not doing anything,” seconded Terry, although he couldn’t contain a certain measure of malice.

  “Let me see the Cub stuff,” said Ted, bending over and unbuckling the saddlebag. He pulled out a piece of rope, about four feet long. “What’s this for?”

  None of us said anything. Ted found Norman Kitchen with his milky eyes. “Norman, I asked a question. What’s this for?”

  “It’s for tying knots!”

  “No kidding. Come here and show me how to tie a knot.”

  “I didn’t get my badge yet!”

  Ted turned his head toward me. “I bet you know how to tie knots, don’t you, Phil?”

  “He’s good at it,” said Jay. “He’s the best in the whole pack.” I’m not sure if he said this out of fraternal pride or if he was hoping that my mastery of knot-tying would somehow impress and alarm these guys and make them go away.

  “Hey, Phil,” said Terry. “Come here and tie a knot.”

  My mind was frantically trying to come up with some sort of plan, and in desperation it latched onto one.

  “Okay,” I agreed, “I’ll tie a knot.” I made a motion with my shoulder and waded up onto the bank. I turned around and saw that my shoulder-motion had been to no avail. “Guys,” I said to my brother and Norman Kitchen, “let me show you this new one I’ve been working on.”

  They hesitated. I knew I could afford only so much encouragement, so I ventured one more sentence, evenly modulated and filled with enough big words to confuse Ted and Terry. “I’m going to do an ornamental knot, called the Four-Strand Sinnet.”

  “Okay!” Norman waddled out of the pond in a very ducklike fashion. I think he truly wanted to see me tie a Four-Strand Sinnet. Jay followed reluctantly. That kid should have watched more television.

  “Okay,” I said as they clustered near me. “Now, to do a Four-Strand Sinnet, I need four strands.” I had plenty of rope in my saddlebag. I pulled out three more lengths and handed one to Jay, one to Norman. “You hold this one, you hold this one, I’ve got these two, right?”

  “Right!”

  “Right,” agreed my brother.

  “Now watch closely what I do.” This was the hard part. Ted and Terry were standing some feet distant, so I turned to them and, quelling the urge to barf, said, “I thought you guys wanted to see this.”

  Terry came forward first, used to doing what he was told. Ted hung back momentarily, trying to size up the situation, but I think I’d befuddled him with that word “ornamental.” He moved, and I immediately put my plan into action, because if I had waited even a moment I would have chickened out. As Ted came at me, I brought the rope up and gave it a snap. I had timed things perfectly; the end of the rope licked a welt across his cheek. It was painful enough that Ted covered his face with both hands and doubled over, and he howled as though mourning many deaths. Jay snapped his rope, too—we’d acquired the knack after bath times, using towels to cover each other with welts—but it didn’t quite catch Terry. Terry grabbed Jay’s sleeve, but luckily I was able to flick Terry on the ear, and he shrieked and let loose his grip and busied himself with self-inspection, reassuring himself that I hadn’t flicked his ear clean off.

  Norman Kitchen appeared to be still waiting for me to tie a Four-Strand Sinnet.

  “Run!” I screamed, and we bolted for the pathway up above. But I should have known that pain, even intense pain, would incapacitate Ted and Terry for only the shortest of whiles. They were used to it, after all. They’d probably lived with it every day of their miserable lives.

  They got Norman first, of course, and then they got Jay, and even though I had just about made it to the pathway, I had no choice but to turn around and go suffer with my brother.

  “Okay,” Ted said, staring at the three of us huddled together like
tremulous sheep. Terry had acquired, almost magically, a stick perfectly shaped to serve as a truncheon, its only imperfection being a set of sharp nodes that increased its potency for rendering pain. He had not yet used this to strike any of us, but he let us know he was eager to, swinging the thing near us with such force that the air whistled.

  “Okay,” said Ted, “here’s what’s going to happen. Philly Four-Eyes is going to tie up Jay to that tree right there.”

  We stood in a small circular clearing, surrounded by trees. Ted had chosen one at random, but its selection seemed to please him. He went over and caressed the bark almost lovingly. “This tree.”

  Terry poked me in the stomach with his club. “Go, Four-Eyes.”

  “Our father is up there waiting for us,” I lied desperately.

  “That’s not how it goes,” said Ted. “It goes, Our father who art in heaven. Now, tie Jay to that tree or so help me I’ll—”

  “Norman,” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “I’ll tie Norman to that tree.”

  Ted considered this briefly. “Okay.”

  “No, tie me to the tree,” said Jay, but no one seemed to hear him. Terry was already shepherding Norman to the chosen tree, digging the stick into the small of his back. Ted looked on with a half-smile upon his pale lips.

  Norman immediately embraced the tree, an act that looked like cowardice and made both Ted and Terry snicker cruelly.

  “No,” said Ted, “move the Piggy around to the other side.” Terry prodded Norman unnecessarily, as he was moving willingly, hugging the tree as though it were a lover, or mother. “Okay, Philly Four-Eyes, tie him up.”

  I took the length of rope and wrapped it around Norman’s wrists. I looked at Norman with significance, and I remember noticing—with far more clarity than I remember anything else about the scene—that although his cheeks were red, his eyes were rimmed with tears and snot poured out of his nose, his beautiful golden hair was unaffected by the ordeal. “I’m going to tie an Irish Sheepshank,” I said quietly. Because I’d already done so, I trusted that Ted and Terry would think that announcing the name of the knot was an intrinsic part of the process.

  Norman Kitchen looked at me sadly. “I didn’t get my badge yet,” he whispered.

  “An Irish Sheepshank,” I repeated, and I executed the knot, throwing in a series of slipknots for the sake of appearance.

  “Good,” judged Ted. “Now Jay.”

  “No,” I said, but Ted ignored me. He selected another tree. “There.”

  Terry lifted his cudgel to strike Jay and I said, “Okay, okay.”

  Jay put his arms around the tree, and I tied his hands together, and when Jay whispered, “What kind of knot?” I gave no answer.

  “What kind of knot?” he whispered again. “Is it an Irish Sheepshank?”

  “Hey, Terry,” shouted Ted when I was done. “We better check that knot. Philly Four-Eyes is a tricky little bastard.”

  Terry took hold of the ropes and tugged at them with such force that Jay’s wrists reddened and the skin ripped a little. “Seems good,” he judged.

  “Now what we want to do is tie Philly up to that tree there,” announced Ted. His selection was based on triangulation. As Terry wrapped rope around my hand, and fortuitously managed a sound connection, I saw that if I moved my head to the right (the tree’s bark tearing skin off that cheek) I could see Norman’s tree; if I moved my head to the left, I could see Jay’s.

  Ted was breathing quietly but heavily, each inhalation ballooning his bony chest. “Okay. Let’s see who’s got the cutest bum.”

  Terry threw away his cudgel with evident irritation.

  “Try Philly Four-Eyes first,” Ted said, perhaps because of the alliterative quality of the sentence, perhaps because he knew I wouldn’t have. I think Ted knew right from the get-go who had the cutest bum, but he wasn’t about to let either me or my brother off the hook.

  Terry came up behind me and yanked down my Cub shorts and my underwear in one motion. This was because I was a stocky lad, and my shorts were too tight, and when they popped away from my belly, my gotchies got caught by the suction. Terry caressed one of my cheeks, fleetingly, and said, “Philly Four-Eyes has an ugly butt.”

  And then he flicked the spectacles away from my face. Because they were held on by idiot hooks (curved half-bracelets of wire that wrapped around the back of the ear) this hurt quite a bit, and I hardly noticed as Ted came forward to do his own inspection.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” said Ted. “That’s a fucking ugly butt. Try the little guy.”

  Without my glasses, the world washed together. It looked like the mess in the big kindergarten sink after a spirited session of fingerpainting. I can only imagine: Jay’s shorts fell to his ankles with just a slight tug from Terry; his underwear remained clinging to his waist the way a mountaineer clings to a rock face; and with another slight tug it joined the pile around his feet. I could hear Ted and Terry speak, mostly because they spoke loudly enough to ensure that I could.

  “This one’s not bad,” said Ted.

  “Not too bad.”

  “A little too bony, maybe.”

  “Yeah, yeah. A little too bony.”

  “Let’s try Norman.”

  I can’t imagine them pulling Norman’s pants down. I mean, I’m incapable of it. I’ve used my imagination to fill in all the blank spots in the narrative so far, the holes in my memory drilled by time or corroded by alcohol. But this one is as black as pitch, although sometimes, late at night, I can hear Norman softly wailing.

  Then Ted and Terry disappeared, wordlessly.

  I listened as Norman’s whimpering died away.

  “Norman? Are you all right?”

  He didn’t answer, not until I’d called out his name two more times.

  “What?”

  “You can push your hands together, Norman. Push your hands together and grab the ropes. You can pull them off.”

  “Hey!” Norman shouted. “That’s a good knot!” Then, very quietly, he said again: “I didn’t get my badge yet.”

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Norman Kitchen?”

  “Yes?”

  “Norman Kitchen?”

  “Is this, um, Philip?”

  “Yes! Yes, it’s Phil. Philly Four-Eyes! How the fuck are you?”

  “Well, I’m fine. I get the impression I’m decidedly better than you, Philip. You seem to be intoxicated. I am merely sleep-muzzied, because I was sleeping.”

  “I am not intoxicated. I have been working. Working on my novel.”

  “Mmm.”

  “But I need to know, I need to know, Norman, what did they do to you?”

  “Yes. I know that’s what you need to know, Philip. And I really wish I could help. You are not at peace.”

  “Well, fuck. I got a lot of problems, man. Ronnie, that’s my wife, has thrown me out of the house, and I miss my kids, although I’m getting them tomorrow for the next three days, which will be great… Where was I?”

  “Enumerating your problems.”

  “Right. And you probably heard about Edward Milligan, the star of Padre.”

  “I read about it in the newspapers.”

  “I was the executive producer of that show. I wrote that episode, that was my script …”

  “It is a great loss. He was a very attractive man.”

  “I’m not saying you can save my life, I don’t want to put that kind of pressure on you, Norm, but it would really help me—I’m pretty sure it would help me—if I just knew what the hell they did to you.”

  “I understand. But, Philip, we’ve been through this. I do not know.”

  “Like, your memory is a blank? You blacked out, kind of thing?”

  “No. That is not what I mean. What I mean is—and I’d ask you kindly to remember this in future—I am not that Norman Kitchen.”

  “What?”

  “You should make an annotation in your telephone directory. ‘Not the right No
rman.’ Something along those lines.”

  “You mean, your name is Norman Kitchen, but you’re not really Norman Kitchen?”

  “That is exactly what I mean.”

  “Are you related to Norman Kitchen?”

  “Look, Philip. It’s three-thirty in the morning. You told me that your children are coming to stay with you tomorrow. Wouldn’t it be wise to get a little sleep?”

  “It sure would be, Norman. I have to pick them up at seven-thirty.”

  “So then.”

  “Okay. You’re probably right.”

  “Probably.”

  “You … you’re a nice guy, Norman Kitchen.”

  “So you say. Every time you telephone.”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night, Philip. Sweet dreams.”

  2 | THE MEMORY

  YOU KNOW, THE MEMORY IS A FUNNY THING. I KNOW THAT’S A FAIRLY glib statement, but it’s four o’clock in the morning, and if one can’t be glib in the dead of night, when exactly can one? So I’ll persist in my ruminations re the memory and its funniness. Here’s how funny it is: I didn’t really remember the incident down in the ravine until I was in my mid-twenties.

  One night away back when, my brother and I met for a drink. Jay was having trouble with his first wife, Leora. (He has had two since.) The trouble he was having was that he suspected her of infidelity, even though she was to my mind incapable of such a thing. (Jay had the same problem with his subsequent wives, although they were both more capable.) Leora was utterly devoted to Jay and greeted even my most innocent, imbecilic grins as unwanted advances. I know what you’re thinking, maybe she found other men more attractive, but I will tell you exactly what I told Jay…