Archive of Our Own

Art Baker woke. The monstrous hurt rattled around in his head, roaring for a good long minute, so loudly he was deafened, choked, until his brain caught up with his body and told him: stop it, stupid. You ain’t walking no more. Actually, when he looked around, he was sitting in the back seat of a car, and when he looked down, his boots, which had been going to scrap, were new (he had never realized there had been blood on his shirt, but for the record, that was gone, too). His head felt at once cleared, and he blinked. Squinted out the window. The car was rolling past miles of sun-drenched desert. Art had never seen a landscape like this before in his life. It was brown and flat and uninteresting, forever. The sky was so blue it hurt. 

He leaned forward to see who was driving, glancing over the upholstered bench seat. There was nobody there.

He watched as the wheel nudged back and forth under invisible hands, sunlight glinting off the wrapped leather. It was a nice car, nicer than any besides the one he had ridden in for two hours during the Walkers parade that had rolled down Main Street. That had been real exciting. Streamers and chrome. 

Art stared at the wheel. Mmmhm. He understood now, what he had already suspected. He went to clutch his rosary to peel off a Hail Mary, an instinctive twitch, but it was gone. He remembered, as if through the veil of a dream, removing it from his neck and handing it to Ray Garraty. 

He was comforted by that thought, that good ol’ Garraty had it. Maybe he’d even get it back to his grandma. All the same, he wished mightily to have it now. 

He checked his packsack, which was sitting on the bench next to him. All that was inside was his Bible and the pack of Pete’s cigarettes from— before. A shiver went through him; a symbol if he ever saw one. The Lord was testing him, offering him two paths. He tucked both objects back carefully inside the bag. 

The white dashed divider line of the road fed effortlessly under the hood of the car. He leaned back obediently and let it take him to wherever it was they were going. He was nervous about the whole heaven thing. There were people there waiting for him, people to greet and to talk to. People who may give him a whooping, but also a loving, just as easily. His Ma, for one. He’d been waiting to see her again a good long time. She was only a smear of a green dress, the chemical smell of hair relaxers.

He had a sudden bolt of fear that she wouldn’t know him. Maybe he had changed too much. Or, worse: he was destined for somewhere she wasn’t. Because his Ma had surely gone to heaven, no questions there. He rested his long-fingered hands over his eyes and briefly prayed. 

Dear God. Please let me go to wherever Ma is. I am sorry for the things I’ve done. I am thankful to have a rest, at least. And that my head don’t hurt no more.

“Thank you,” he repeated out loud, in case that counted. 

—

After an unknowable amount of time, a speck appeared on the endless horizon. As the car drew closer, Art began to make out what it was: a building. This was not exactly what Art had been looking out for— diabolical torture pits or spun sugar clouds were both possibilities— and he was caught off guard. It was enormous. As the car drew closer, he saw that it was a motel. One with dozens and dozens of rooms stacked up on top of each other, white terra cotta walls and red tile roofs. A sign hung with black letters stood tall out front: V A C A N C Y. No cars in the motorcourt. That was damn strange. There were dark figures milling around in the shadows of the covered walkways when the car pulled in. People he couldn’t see. A small one stood nearby on the first story, leaned against a post. 

The car swung smoothly around the enormous, dry fountain that stood in the middle of the asphalt. The latch on the car door popped open of its own accord, swinging on its heavy hinges. It should have been creepy but Art wasn’t creeped, not by that part, at least. He was a Catholic. He knew these sorts of things unfolded before you. He unbent out of the car, dragging his packsack. There was shockingly little pain. None, in fact. The door slammed closed behind him. 

“Baker! Hey, man!” shouted Harkness, dashing over from the shade. Baker couldn’t remember his first name. The boy was grinning, so excited he’d jarred his glasses and had to push them back up his nose. He was still holding that corny little notebook, which he swapped to his left hand so he could reach out and shake Art’s with his right. He pumped it up and down real good while Art stood there like a gobsmacked idiot. 

“Hey,” Art croaked. He felt– confused, still. This boy was an awful strange St. Peter, he thought. He glanced down, still handshaking, then gratefully flicked away the nauseous memory of the jacked-up foot, which had stuck with him a good, long time, if he was honest. Harkness’ ankles looked like normal guy ankles in his sneakers. 

This place couldn’t be all bad, then, if Harkness had a normal ankle.

Art was tall enough that his chin rested pretty much on top of Harkness’ head when they embraced. He wasn’t sure who did it first. It was something he would have had no reason to do on the Walk but it felt important to do so now. Harkness’ hair was short and spiked like a bristle brush. Art had only really ever known the feeling of Garraty and Pete’s shoulders, the brush of Pete’s warm fingers around the cigarette. The warm, small slump of Hank’s body in his arms; he hadn’t thought of how any of the others would feel to the touch, before. 

“I know, right? Helluva thing,” Harkness was saying when he stepped back, still smiling, shaking his head. “Helluva thing.”

“Can’t, uh, wrap my head around it.” 

“Check your pocket.”

Art stuffed his hand inside his right pocket. Dust bunnies. Left one, then. When he withdrew his hand, inside his open palm was a fat, fresh silver dollar. He marveled at it in the harsh sun.

“Yep,” Harkness said, nodding, scribbling down something in his notebook. “Thought so.” 

“Where’d this come from?”

“We all have one.” 

“We?”

“The boys.”

Art’s heart lurched. The boys– were they here? He wrinkled his brow. 

“All of us?”

“I counted fifty rooms. And now forty seven silver dollars.” 

“What’re they for?” he asked, finally, once he’d recovered his constitution a bit. Hank Olson. Tressler. That kid Rank– and Gary Barkovitch. He was reeling.
“Still working on that. Have some theories. Actually, we were kind of all waiting for you to show up because we thought you might know, y’know, what was going on.”

Art considered this a moment. “Purgatory, or there abouts,” was all he could offer. He felt like a bad Christian. His grandma would have pinched him. She was probably perched on one of the rattling old kneelers at church on Fifth right now, her thick knuckles like marbles, hands clasped, muttering masses for his soul as they spoke. Offering alms. Delivering him as quickly as she was able. The thought made Art’s throat close right up for a second. 

Harkness made another note, nose in his book. He tapped the butt of his pencil against the side of his head. 

“I actually have a few questions for you, if you have a minute,” he asked, as if he was holding Art up at the lunch counter. “Did you wake up in the car, or did you–” 

“Hey, man, no hard feelings or nothin’,” Art croaked, “but I need to find Hank Olson.” 

Suddenly there was nothing more important in this world than finding Hank Olson. 

“Oh, sorry, sorry. Yeah. Room number nineteen. Second story.”

“Another time, okay?” Art said. 

“Yeah, another time,” agreed Harkness. But he was already back to writing.  

—

The building was so staggeringly tall Art had to crane his head back to take it all in. He saw into all kinds of rooms as he walked past. Ajar doors, some with voices inside. He didn’t dare pry. He tried the sixth room on a whim, the six a brassy, tacked-on curl, and found it opened to his touch. The room was tidy and dim, shades drawn. It smelled like dust and nothing else. It had a bed, console, television, desk, and private bathroom when he poked open the door.

Somewhere else, a boy was weeping. A low, thready reed of a sound.  

Quietly, Art moved on. 

Room number nineteen was full of boys, crammed in, worse than even Art’s four-to-a-bed childhood. There were boys sitting on the floor, at the little provided desk, piled on the bed, mostly watching something on the TV, which had been flipped on, providing the only sound. There were three figures walking on the screen, cutting slowly through the haze. So slowly. It was hard to make out much at this distance but Art was smart enough to figure it out. 

They were watching the Walk. 

“Baker!” someone cried. 

Art recognized each guy right away: Parker and Pearson and Curley and Tressler and Rank and even others like Gribble and Larson. A big, handsome boy named Scramm was leaned against the wall, shimmering, almost hard to look at. Had they walked together? Art couldn’t remember, but knew his name all the same. 

Sitting on the ground with his back against the side of the bed like a forgotten member of the Brady Bunch was Hank Olson, also. Hank had already locked eyes on him. 

Actually— everyone had turned to stare. 

Hank got up to his full not-very-tall height and came over to him. “Cadillac or Coupe-de-ville?” he interrogated. He’d reached out and had grabbed Art by the bicep, as if trying to make sure he was real. The feeling was mutual. Art had never heard anyone in his life who talked like Hank. He could recognize that honk anywhere, he thought. 

“Huh?” he asked. 

“I said, what kind of car you come here in, man?” 

“Uh.” He thought back. “Cadillac. I think.” 

Hank smiled a sly smile. “Goddamn, Baker, you’re one fat cat.” 

Art fell apart as he was hugged. Hank hugged real hard. He clung, he groaned, he cried, he was wet with his own blood and Art couldn’t do a damn thing to help– 

Arthur Ignatius Baker you make things right with that boy right now! 

It was his grandma’s voice, careening right through the bad memory like a hot knife through butter. Art shook his head. He figured your most dear ones had tin cans and string right into purgatory just for this reason. 

“You alright, Baker?” Pearson asked. 

“Come walk with me a minute, would you, Olson?” Art asked. He had to make things right. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know what God was telling him to do. But this wasn’t even God. Not even his grandma, really. This was just this boy he’d met. 

The idea of walking got a general guffaw. 

“Olson said he was so upset he got out of the car and walked all the way here, could you believe it?” Curley yelped. 

“Don’t let the Major get ya,” said Larson.  

“What a fucking idiot. More walking! Hah! I never want to walk again. Wheel me from room to room, goddamn,” big Collie Parker spat. He was laying down on one of the beds with his boots still on, arms crossed over his chest, watching the TV from down his nose. 

“Look out for Barkovitch,” he added as they left. “Wandering the halls crying like a fucking ghoul–” but then his voice was snipped in half as the door clicked shut behind them. 

—

There were blue mountains lumping along in the distance. Art and Hank strode side by side, parallel to them, doing slow laps around the motel. Occasionally, Hank would slow to a stop before picking up again, like he just wanted to prove he was able do it. Art kept pace with him, moving his legs slowly. 

“Y’know,” he said, staring out at the mountains, “the highest point in Louisiana is only five hundred feet. Real flat.”

“Flat as fuck,” Hank agreed. 

“The tallest thing I ever seen with my two eyes was Monkey Hill at the Audubon Zoo, and guess what? It’s made out of trash! Garbage! They put dirt right on top of it. Then the monkeys, I guess.” He patted his hands on an invisible mound to demonstrate.  

“Zoos always make Clem depressed. Ain’t been since I was little.” 

The thought of Clementine made Art sad. suddenly. He thought about offering Hank one of the cigarettes he had in his packsack but it didn’t feel right. He was still frightfully afraid of anything sinnish here– better to be careful. He could feel his grandma’s eyes on him and also God’s. 

“Listen,” he sighed. “I don’t know how long we’ll be here or nothin’. Or where here even is, really. But I’m M’ sorry, Olson. Real sorry.” 

Hank stopped again. “Sorry for what?” he asked.

Art’s long legs kept him striding along, rushing past. The stucco wall went right into the stucco ground. There were little cactuses that looked like pincushions in a gravel trough that went around the whole building. He heard fast, crunching footsteps as Hank caught up with him. He grabbed Art by the elbow and spun him around, easily. 

“Baker! Shit, man, sorry for what?”

“I dunno,” Art shrugged. He could feel the tears hot inside his face, in his tight cheeks, trying to spill out. “I just– I wasn’t there, you know? When you called.”

Hank shook his head. “Nothing to be sorry about. I’m allergic to fucking Spam, Baker. Goddamn allergic to Spam.”  He paused suddenly. “Do you think swearing is–” 

Baker said he didn’t think so. And anyhow, it was too late. The swears had been sworn. 

They walked in silence for a bit longer. It was an easy thing to do. They had spent much of the days previous to this doing this exact thing and it was oddly comfortable. 

“Y’mean it?” Art asked in a quiet voice. “Do you really?” 

It was Hank’s’ turn to shrug. “Yeah. I had pretty much a one way ticket to stay in this motel soon as I signed up. I knew it. We all probably knew it. But why not try, you know?” 

“Why’d you do it?”

“Clem’s pregnant. Needed the money.”

“Oh.” This made Art feel mournful all over again.

“Why’d you do it?’ Hank asked, before he could ask any more questions. 

“It’s a bit of a story,” Art said. 

“I got time.”

“Well, y’ see, back home, I used to apply to anything. I mean, anything. Sweepstakes... Scholarships…. Coupons…. Used to take those grocery magazines— y’ know the ones with the pulpy paper, yeah?— that were going out to the dump anyhow, n’ clip em up, if the dates was still good. There was always a car, or somethin’. Some nice new dinner plates. Ever since I was small, I did it. Grandma said she thought that was how I learned to read and write. Grandpa said I was a fool. He was prolly correct.” Art pointed his index finger straight up. “However! Got something for my grandma one time. All twenty five volumes of the ‘Around the World Stellar Encyclopedia Set Sponsored by Sherwin-Williams.’ She just about had a fit when they showed up at the front door. Still keeps ‘em on her shelf under her lace doilies..!” 

Art trailed off. Hank had started crying, tears like tiny diamonds in his dark and dusty eyelashes. He pawed at them. They hadn’t stopped walking. 

“Hank?” Art asked, carefully. 

“Why’d you have to go and put in for the god damn Long Walk, Baker? Why’d you have to do it? You, of all the fuckin’ people? I can’t stand it.” 

Art was struck by how much Hank suddenly reminded him of Lottie. His younger sister had begged him, of course. Begged him til her lips turned from pink to blue, then begged some more. 

“Hank….”

“No, I know. It’s dumb. I know. We all did. But you’re just so fuckin’..... nice.” 

“Ain’t all nice.” He thought of all the mistakes he’d made. The things he’d done he’d wished he hadn’t. 

“Sure. And I ain’t from Queens. Hey, why’re you goddamn smiling?” 

“I feel happy. Maybe that’s bad. But I feel like I made some friends on the Walk. Why not try, you know?” he echoed, reached out and squeezed Hank’s shoulder. Hank patted his hand. Eventually, Art let it drop, once he was sure Hank had stopped crying. 

They were quiet for a while, just the crunch of their footsteps, Hank still slowing down occasionally, Art holding back his stride until Hank caught up again. 

“Scramm, is he….?” Art wondered aloud. 

This got Hank going as normal, which was a relief. “A real jerk is what he is!” he shouted. “Came on to me strong saying I stole his wife when I first showed up, which, isn’t that some fuckin’ shit? Clem was a virgin when I met her. Never had nobody else. Never. Thought I was going to have to kick his ass. Finally figured out we just have two wives with the same name.” Olson paused. “He’s alright. And, uh, real, far as I can tell.”

“Huh.” 

Just then, someone waved their arms from the balcony. They’d made their way all the way back around to the front of the motel again. Looked like Tressler. 

“Stebbins is flagging!” he shouted with all the vigor of a nosy newsie. 

Art and Olson climbed back up to the room. Art settled in beside Olson to watch the television, shoulder touching shoulder. 

Someone joked, someone farted, someone started a conversation about the Red Sox that went on on a low drone in the background the whole time as they watched the boys who were still alive cross a very long, very dark bridge. 

Whatever devil’s spell had made him feel nervous and uneasy when he first came to this place was lessening, somehow, Art thought. Losing hold. 

—

Harkness burst in in an excited flurry while Garraty and McVries were ambling their way up towards the big city, arms around each other. The road hadn’t changed much. Art wondered mightily what they were talking about. He’d been idly chatting with Rank about his four older brothers (hated) and his mother (beloved). He was a nice enough guy. 

“Barkovitch is gone!” Harkness shouted, notebook clutched to his chest.

This caused general nervousness and confusion, but also fascinated intrigue. Rank made a twisted face next to Art. Harkness started to babble but nobody could make out what the hell he was saying— gone, gone, gone. 

“Gone? What the fuck do you mean, gone?” Parker asked. 

“Tell us again, real slow,” Hank commanded, taking Harkness by his shoulders. Something goofy about two real small guys locked together like that, thought Art, and giggled. Hank shot him a look.  

Harkness blinked big blinks. “He hucked his coin in the fountain– and poof! Blammo! Straight disappeared!”

“Where’d he go?” Curley asked in a small voice. He was a sweet and stupid kid, Art thought. Stupid because he was a kid. He didn’t deserve to be dead. 

“I don’t know. Somewhere that isn’t here,” said Harkness.  

Everyone looked to Art, just then, so he puffed up his chest.

“Up or down, I figure.” He gestured. “Or, whatever’s after this, ‘least,” he added, less confidently. 

Hank thought about it a minute. The TV was still hissing in the background. He looked around: 

“Any guy that wants to go right now, goes. No hard feelings.”

The boys all looked at each other, then back to the screen as if he hadn’t even said anything. Nobody moved a muscle. 

—

When Stebbins arrived, he looked like he’d been doing his share of screaming and crying on the drive over but had now stopped, so he still had red eyes and the sniffles. 

“Hello, boys,” he said, standing by the door. “I expect we’re really in it, now.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Get over here,” said Olson, gesturing. When Olson said over it sounded like ovah. 

—

Ray Garraty caused a real upset, of course. Art hugged him good, and when he stepped back, he saw the bags had fallen away from Ray’s eyes but had been replaced by something much worse. 

“Baker,” he’d croaked. “Oh, Baker.”

“S’ alright, now, Ray,” he’d said, because in a sense, it was. The TV was just static. Snowed-in fuzz. Flipped as soon as the Major’s gun had landed a bullet in Ray’s forehead. There was no more Walk. Pete had won and lived and it was over. 

There wasn’t much to say, really. A lot of shaking of hands, patting of backs, some ‘that’s just too bad, man’s and a few ‘real shame’s. 

“Nah, nah, how it’s supposed to be,” Ray simply said to each boy. “How I wanted it.” Art knew that none of this was how it was supposed to be, or how he wanted it at all, but it was what it was. Ray’s shoulders looked more rounded and slumped than he thought possible, sitting there at the foot of the motel room bed. Rank was number nineteen. This was his room. Art was struck all over again by the strangeness of seeing these boys not moving. 

Larson was fiddling with the TV, crouched down, trying to see if they could intercept a different channel. He smacked it on top with the flat of his palm, three sharp raps. Art hadn’t grown up with a television but he expected that’s what everyone’s fathers did to their sets. 

“Any luck?” asked Hank. 

“Nosiree. Program’s over, fellas,” said Larson. 

Art wasn’t sure quite who went first, but, silently, they all began to file down to the fountain like sheep down a hillside. Like they’d walked on the road. Going without even thinking about going. 

Harkness ran around to all the other rooms, sneakers slapping on the concrete, knocking on doors, murmuring about the fountain. Word spread quick, like it had from up and down the column of walking boys. It’s over. Bring your coin. Doors creaked tentatively open and slammed shut. Art recognized the boy who’d shit himself to death. The boy who had been struck so hard by the soldier’s hollow point bullets he’d been thrown through the glass store front of that no-name store in that no-name town. The one hundred mile marker was an unthinkably long time ago, Art thought. All of their clothes had been patched and mended. There was no longer any blood or red-raw skin. The boy whose legs had been ground into paste by the halftrack brushed past Art’s elbow as he took steps two at a time, bounding down towards the ground floor. Art thought– he didn’t know what he thought. There was no thinking. They were all just surging, together, forward. 

In the end, they were boys about it, though; once they actually arrived, everyone pussyfooted awkwardly around the fountain like they were at a school dance waiting by the punchbowl for a date. It was just a concrete circle, basically, dry and empty as the desert. Art could see the rubber black pipes in the bottom like snakes, ready to pipe water that had long since vacated up the flourish-y spout in the middle. One single silver dollar sat in the bottom, staring up at them like a blazing eye. Nobody dared say anything. 

Curley went first, pushing up through the crowd to the concrete lip, shockingly brave. Then again, Art figured he’d been stuck in this motel the longest. Probably made him plumb crazy to leave.

He watched as Curley stuffed his hand into his pocket, brought out his coin, looked down, then flashed. It was like a camera flash without the camera. Art hadn’t even seen the coin drop from his hand it was so quick. 

He was gone. 

A sharp ripple went through the crowd. Art gasped.

“I’ll be fucked,” swore Hank. 

“Goddamn. He just disappeared. Goddamn, shit!” That was Parker.  

“Told ya!” Harkness shouted excitedly. “Whoosh!” 

From then on it was pretty methodical. Art expected pushing and shoving and elbows like the aunties getting up front at church for Easter, but there wasn’t. Just plain old methodical, yup, as easily as they’d fallen into groups of ten to start the Walk. Then again, maybe there was nothing to hurry about, now, really. 

Some just went. For others, there were hugs, even some wet goodbyes, all the things they didn’t get to have on the road– things they hadn’t even allowed themselves in the motel room as they’d watched the television. 

Art watched distantly as the boys dwindled like peanuts poured down a paper funnel. He thought he caught a whiff of chemical hair relaxer. But the smell wasn’t a comfort. Suddenly, he was filled with another panic: that he’d missed one of his boys. That they’d already gone and hadn’t taken the time to say goodbye. When he jerked his head around, he found Ray and Hank waiting in the shade some ways away. Art ambled over. Ray simply tipped his chin up when he saw him, still watching the spectacle at the fountain.

“Don’t tell me y’all just lettin’ ‘em go up front to be nice,” Art said. 

“Ray’s got a plan, see,” said Hank. 

“I’m going to wait,” Ray explained. He had that look on his face. The one he’d had when he was talking about serious things. “You all go on ahead.” 

Art thought about Pete McVries. 

“Y’ sure?” he asked. 

“Yeah, Art, I’m sure. You go on ahead, now,” repeated Ray.  

“Stupid-ass plan, right?” bitched Hank. “Absolutely fuckin’ not. We’ve been doin’ that, Garraty. Now, we can wait a little.” He turned to Art. “Tell him, won’t ya? He won’t listen to me.” 

Art looked at their faces. 

“We the right number of musketeers now, ain’t we?” he said, finally. He watched as Garraty’s eyes fell into a soft, sad look, but he was smiling. 

“You ever read the book?” he asked. 

“No way,” said Art. 

“There’s a book?” asked Hank. 

Ray just shook his head and laughed.

Harkness was attracted by the laugh, wondering what they were up to, Stebbins behind him like a shadow. Tressler and Pearson, too. There were few boys left, most of them having moved on by then. Hank explained: they were waiting with Garraty. 

Parker wandered over, his strong arms wrapped around himself, hands tucked under his armpits. He kicked a rock. 

“No offense,” he mumbled, “but I’m fucking going.” Art thought of his angry, homesick tears. He had people to see, too. 

“None taken,” said Ray. Art said nothing more but embraced him, two hard thumps on the back. Parker waved and hiked out into wherever he was headed.  

Art looked around at the boys who remained.

“Not enough for a baseball team,” said Hank. “But it’ll do.” 

—

Harkness told them all about his book he had wanted to publish one day. He liked paperback adventures even though he knew they were silly and thought the Walk would have made a mighty fine one. He’d have liked to have written more of them, too. A series of adventures. He told them a few of his ideas, all the boys sat around in a circle like little kids in primary school. 

Hank had the notebook spread out above his head, perusing. They’d moved to Ray’s room, number forty seven up near the very tippy top. 

“Man, the drama you’ve got here, this ain’t half bad. Missed the part where McVries made Garraty cream his jeans, though.” 

Garraty blushed; the boys laughed in a friendly way. Nothing seemed to matter here that was cruel or unkind, anymore. Not really. 

Harkness seemed to like to have people to talk to, Art thought, not meanly. The boy stayed right on talking about his stories until his action hero motor mind had ground to a halt and they were just listening to the breeze. His jaw just suddenly wore out, stopped pumping, like Wile E. Coyote’s legs over a ravine. 

“I think— I think that’s all I’ve got, boys,” he muttered, eventually. Rank stood up, nodded, then went down to the fountain. Stebbins had slipped away some time before with a squeeze to Ray’s shoulder and nothing more. 

Ray patted him on the back. “That was some fuckin’ story, man.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Uh huh.” 

“Thanks, Garraty.” 

Before Harkness left, he left Ray his notebook and a pencil. “I th-think there are a few blank pages left in the back, just in case, you know,” he shrugged, then waved, then stepped away into nothing. 

—

Art and Hank stayed the longest. It could have been hours or days or decades or perhaps even hundreds of years. They never hungered nor thirsted, which Art found a mighty kindness. There was no need for sleep, no night, even, only periods of talking followed by periods of not talking.

First, they occupied themselves by turning the place upside down. Checked every single television in every single room on every single possible range of reception. Ransacked every drawer in each of the identical bureaus (each had a plain black bound Bible in drawer second from top, though when Art opened it to flip through, the pages were blank, like someone had forgotten to put words in there. He checked all fifty, to make certain). They rearranged the furniture, crazily. Tried the landlines for anything other than a dial tone. At some point, at Hank’s suggestion, they walked miles in each direction until the motel was only a speck on the horizon, though all that was to be found was dirt. Whatever they did, they always did it together, all three, somehow worried that without eyes on each other they might not be real. 

Finally, all there was to do was talk. They shot the breeze with Garraty about whatever they could think of. Jokes. Their families. Cartoon plots, school yard tall tales, politics, fuck the Major, fuck the Long Walk, anything, any story ever told. They learned all about how Hank got Clementine pregnant their senior year of high school back in upstate New York and how he felt about it— guilty, but excited. They’d been living in her father’s basement. 

Art cracked open. He confessed he’d sucked speed from the inhalers they sold down at the Five n’ Dime, a few times. His cousin down in Gentilly got him to do it. Art’d liked how it made him feel. Confident. Clear-headed. He’d bought a girl one time, too– not for much. But he’d paid her. There were other vices, things he’d carried the shame of like cold little stones in his stomach for many years. He felt embarrassed to mention but now suddenly didn’t. Seeing as there was no priest around to take the burden, his friends nodded their heads in understanding when he told them. It helped him feel a little better. Maybe even lighter. 

Ray talked about his mom. Eventually, he talked about his dad. Then he talked about Pete. Art had seen love only a handful of times he thought. Maybe two or three. Which was to say, he knew it when he saw it. 

They listened to the radio Tressler had left behind, long ago, which played only banned, crooning music Art had never heard save for picked on the strings of drunk old buskers back home. Go figure. 

A cloud crawled past in the overbig sky. They’d moved outside to look through the slats of the bannister, long ago, backs propped against the wall. It was nicer this way. 

“Say, Garraty, what did you talk about at the end, when it was just you two?” Art asked, smoothing his thumb along the frayed bottom of his pants. It felt soft, like fur, or eyelashes. 

“Just that I loved you boys,” Garraty said sheepishly. “And that he helped me see that. And it calmed me.” 

—

They waited as long as they could, like that, just the three of them. Longer than was humanly possible. Art knew Ginnie Garraty and Bill Garraty as well as their son knew them. He knew Hank’s older sister Janet and his mother and father, Mary and George, and their other private names they had taken from back home and only told the people in the States they cared for. Both of them knew Lottie and Lil Bit and Johnny and Ezekiel, who had died young— waiting for Art already— and all the Fifth Street kids whose aunts and uncles had as much as raised Art on their own stoops as Art had been raised on his own.

He looked at Hank and Ray, who he had now known longer than the nineteen years he had known Earth. It was a peaceful thing, to look at their familiar faces, which had smoothed out, completely placid, except for the faintly sorrowful line between Ray’s brows. Art knew that would never go away. At least, not for them. 

—

Eventually, even Olson went. 

They’d been quiet for a long time, right before. A peaceful kind of quiet. Hank’s head was resting on Art’s leg because nothing really mattered anymore. He reached one hand up like he was trying to grab the sun that never set or shade his eyes. 

“Well, boys. Clem’s got a whole ass life ahead ‘a her. I hope she’ll find someone. And I feel like— as long as I’m here, she ain’t gonna move on, somehow. She ain’t gonna get better. And she deserves a whole lot better.” 

“You’re a good man, Olson,” said Art. Ray agreed. 

Very slowly, Art stood, knees creaking as they unfolded. It had been a very long time since he stood. They ambled down to the fountain. Hank got right to it; they’d said all there was to say. He flipped them the finger, tossed his coin, and went. The wind whistled real hollow, now that Hank was gone.  

“Now you, Art,” said Ray.  

“Huh?”

“Get outta here.” 

“But— You’ll be on your lonesome, man,” Art protested, though he already knew it was forfeit. He could feel it too– the call in his chest, the way he felt wound down like a clock. The fear had left him long ago and it made him feel light, vapor-like. 

Ray licked his dry, cracked lips. “If there’s one thing I truly regret in my life, Baker, if there’s just one thing, it’s that I left my mom all alone in the world. I don’t— I don’t know how I’ll face her.” 

“You will, when it comes to it.” 

He shook his head. “If it comes to it.”

“When it comes to it. Go see your Ma, Baker.” 

Yeah. It was about time for him to find his Ma, he thought. He had many people to see and to talk to. Perhaps there was a chance he was going to go to hell but he felt as if heaven was also likely. He didn’t know. But it felt important to go there.  

He let his chin drop to his chest and said another prayer. 

When he was done, he looked back over his shoulder, up towards the highest floor, where room number forty seven was. An easy number to remember; Art was reassured by the idea that if he could remember it, McVries might also. Ray Garraty waved one big, pale hand from the bannister, looking down, cheek resting on his arm. Pete’s cigarettes stood beside his elbow, where they belonged. The uncertainty was still there, but the fear,  it was less, now. Gone, as the pain had been gone.

He waved back, turned, and flipped his coin into the fountain. 

Sping! it went against his thumbnail.