A Horse Named Sorrow

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146 32 The frat had a pay phone, and it was as good a place as any to call my mom. I made a point to call her at home in­ stead of at her of­ fice, so I ­ wouldn’t have to talk to her. All she ­ wanted was to know I ­ wasn’t dead any­ way. What was the point of talk­ ing? Which made me feel sad, until I re­ mem­ bered that just last night I’d re­ al­ ized it was shar­ ing si­ lence with her that was best. Si­ lence and a song. I ­ oughta just call her and sing. No more talk­ ing. I heard the beep, and her ­ faux-cheerful voice. “Hi. This is Karen Blake. Leave a mes­ sage at the beep and I’ll call you back.” “Hi, Mom. It’s me, Sea­ mus. ­ Everything’s great. I’m in Eu­ gene” (and he’s in me). “Today I head east. Don’t worry—I’m great.” Then I sang to her: “La, la, la, la, la; la, la, la, la, la; la, la, la, la, la, la, Bobby McGee . . .” I kept hum­ ming the rest of it till I ran out of ­ breath and then ­ signed off—“Love ya, Mom. Bye.” I gath­ ered up my ­ things and, after throw­ ing a per­ func­ tory ­ thanks at a few of the frat boys (one of whom ­ looked at me ­ askance, hav­ ing wit­ nessed the im­ promptu tele­ phonic sere­ nade as well as my ­ kitchen query), I set out, de­ ter­ mined not to go any­ where near the or­ ganic co-op. But the morn­ ing was all misty and I got ­ turned ­ around, and the only way I knew to get re­ oriented was to find the river, and doing that, I ended up right back at the mar­ ket like I was liv­ ing out some Greek play. I ­ couldn’t not go in. But I hes­ i­ tated. 147 A kid out front, strad­ dling his lit­ tle sting­ ray bi­ cy­ cle, ­ watched me cu­ ri­ ously. I like kids and I hate being ­ stared at, so I made up my mind and dis­ mounted. “How you doing there, part­ ner?” I said to the kid. “Okay,” he said ­ rather se­ ri­ ously, like a lit­ tle man. “Glad to hear it. Will you watch my bike?” “Sure,” he an­ swered, as if to say why ­ wouldn’t I? And ­ through the door I went. I ­ needed some­ thing to eat any­ way. And I fig­ ured if he were there, I’d say thank you and good­ bye, but not with words. I’d kiss him on the fore­ head and give him ben­ e­ dic­ tion be­ cause what we’d ­ shared was holy. As it ­ turned out he ­ wasn’t there, but the stock girl was, and she said: “You’re back look­ ing for Eu­ gene?” “Yeah.” “Well, you just ­ missed him,” she ­ blurted as she ­ hefted a box of­ canned beans onto her cart. “Is he work­ ing today?” “Eu­ gene? Nah. Yes­ ter­ day was his last day,” she said as she ran a ra­ zor­ blade ­ around the edge of the box. “He came shop­ ping first thing this morn­ ing.” “His last day? He quit?” I must have ­ looked a bit ­ alarmed. “Yeah, he left town.” My face a ques­ tion. “Where’d he go?” She ­ stopped and ­ looked at me. “I think to some In­ dian res­ er­ va­ tion. I don’t know. Like I said yes­ ter­ day, he ­ doesn’t say much—bein’ mute and all,” she wise­ cracked. Then she re­ con­ sid­ ered, prob­ ably re­ mem­ ber­ ing my frag­ ile state from yes­ ter­ day and see­ ing it now re­ turn­ ing to my face. “I’m sorry, that was rude. I wish I knew, but I don’t.” “Yeah,” I said, a bit star­ tled and think­ ing to ask her where the Kla­ math Res­ er­ va­ tion was, re­ mem­ ber­ ing Cher­ rie Kee’s men­ tion­ ing it yes­ ter­ day. “How was the date?” she said coyly then, but I just ­ looked at her. “Good, huh?” And she gave me that sweet, sad smile again from 148 yes­ ter­ day. “You gay guys put your­ selves ­ through...