Blue Hills

Roy Montgomery liked to introduce himself as RM — Rare Man, he would boast to his friends when he was younger. He always considered himself lucky, not because of the way girls used to flock around him at parties, but for drawing number 365 in the Vietnam draft lottery and not having to run away to Canada or, worse, coming back home in a body bag. This fortunate turn of events made him confident he could jump over any of life’s pitfalls. By the time he’d graduated from college, the war was over, Nixon had resigned, and the young men and women of his generation were happily riding the last wave of the counterculture.

The sense he’d had of coasting through life made RM nostalgic and often led him to seek out old friends with whom he could “exchange stories,” as he would put it. Now clean-shaven, his hair no longer long and blond but short and brownish-gray, he had packed up his old red Toyota, put his guitar on the backseat, and spent two weeks traveling from Georgia, stopping along the way to visit friends and ending up, one pleasant fall afternoon, at Nelson and Hazel’s, in a small town outside Boston.

When he walked up to the house, he was met by their son, Tracy, who said his parents were still at work. The boy had slack hair that came down to his shoulders and a soft fluffy shadow on his upper lip. RM glanced at the blazing guitar on his T-shirt, then shook hands and introduced himself. The boy nodded and held open the door. RM walked in, carrying his duffle bag and guitar, and followed him to the extra bedroom. When RM said he’d met him years ago when he was only five, the boy nodded sheepishly and left the room. RM had unpacked and lay down on the bed to rest when he heard the sound of music from below him. After listening for a while, he followed the sound down to the basement where Tracy and his friends were playing and was pleased when they asked him to bring his guitar and join them.

After an early dinner, RM told Nelson and Hazel how good a time he’d had jamming with Tracy and his friends and how impressed he was with Tracy’s playing. They wouldn’t believe, he said, how the boys bombarded him with questions about the ’60s — whether he’d been at Woodstock, if he’d ever heard Jimi Hendrix, and so on.

“Yes, we would,” Hazel said. “He asks us, too.”

“I hope you didn’t tell them about . . .” Nelson hesitated.

“About what?” RM asked.

“Oh, you know — sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll.”

“Nelson!” Hazel said.

“Well, that’s what it was like, wasn’t it, RM?” Nelson said, running his fingers through his thinning hair with a look in his eyes as if he were trying to remember the old days.

“I guess so — it was the times,” RM said.

“Don’t judge by the way he looks now,” Nelson said, turning to Hazel. “You should have seen him when he had long hair and a beard and was always playing his guitar and throwing parties.”

“I can imagine,” Hazel said, tilting her head and looking at RM. “Nelson sometimes talks about those days, but I think he censors what he tells me.”

“Censors?” Nelson protested. “There’s nothing to censor. Tell her, Roy.”

RM stayed quiet, the way he often did when put on the spot. He had promised himself he wouldn’t bring up something that would be embarrassing or lead to an argument. He smiled at Hazel, taking in the way her chestnut hair fell loose down to her shoulders and how her pale-green shirt brought out the color of her eyes. Again he wondered how Nelson, as shy as he used to be with girls, had managed it. Especially since Hazel was so much younger.

“That’s true, there’s nothing to censor,” RM said. “Well, if we’re talking about having a good time, yes, we...