Three Boys Like You

By William M. Gould

Robert, Tony, and Philip thought their friendships would last forever; they were tragically wrong. In 1949, the three high school boys engaged in a harmless prank that unexpectedly deteriorated into a crime. An innocent man was blamed for their indiscretions, and the boys various moral qualms tore their relationships apart. It would be over twenty years before the teens would cross paths againthis time above the backdrop of Guatemalas civil war.

In 1983, Robert is a successful physician. Tony has become a war correspondent and novelist, and Philip thrives as an expatriate art dealer in the heart of Guatemala. The three are drawn together as the small country begins to experience the most dangerous year of its civil war.

The three old friends cannot avoid one another in the midst of the conflict. Relationships are reformed, each man working toward his own agenda. The past inevitably intrudes upon the present as their personal valuesand wills to liveclash amid the violence of uprising. The past cannot be changed, the present is what we make it, and the future has yet to be written. But will Robert, Tony, and Philip move beyond their haunted memories? And will they live through the present long enough to have futures at all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450284219

William M. Gould

William M. Gould is a creature of habit with a short attention span. He lives in Northern California where he practices medicine, plays jazz, and messes around with words. Loss and Other Stories is his fourth book.

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Copyright © 2011 by William M. Gould

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-8420-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-8422-6 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-8421-9 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 01/12/2011

Contents

1949

Fire

1983

Favor

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

2006

Friends

THANKS

For my children and grandchildren

"When shall we three meet again

In thunder, lightning, or in rain?"

— From William Shakespeare’s Macbeth

1949

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Fire

Long Island is not noted for its hills, but in 1949, close by the town of Middleport, there was a large open field atop a wooded rise that commanded an inspiring view of the Sound. It was due to the land around being so flat that the low hill assumed significance. When approached from a distance, only the trees and a gentle rounding of the earth could be seen, but if one had ascended the trail through the woods that led to the field’s edge it would have been natural to stop and admire the long stretch north toward blue water. The gray clouds running down to the horizon made the sky seem immense. Here, in late October, especially when a hint of smoke from carefully raked piles of burning leaves on local streets spiced the chill, crisp air, a boy could not avoid feeling that life, stretching into the glorious future, was good and full of possibilities. To be young and out-of-doors in that place was to live in poetry, and in an adventure.

Three high school friends hiked up through ankle-deep shoals of dry maple leaves toward the edge of the field. Dressed in windbreakers, corduroy pants and baseball caps, they came slowly, stopping to punch and wrestle as boys will do. When they reached the broad expanse of the field they stood, leaning together with arms around each other’s shoulders, and gazing out toward the Sound. A sliver of white moon hung in the eastern sky and the waning daylight touched objects with hues of lilac and orange.

On the opposite edge of the open area, perhaps two football field lengths away, stood a row of modest two story houses. A few of these were set off neatly by small oblong patches of green lawn, but the wild grass of the field had a more vigorous seed and had invaded most of the yards, going right up to the houses and obliterating any separation between town and nature. By October, the wild grass was dry and tawny, and it grew as high as the boys’ knees. The late afternoon wind moved it in rushed waves that flowed over the field.

A dog was barking and the boys ran toward it. The young cocker spaniel, whose owner kept it chained to a tree, was frisky, and the boys had gone over many times to play with it. The man knew and disliked this, but the boys persisted. As they crouched down to pet the yelping dog, he came out of the house and stood watching from the back step, barefoot and dressed in a shabby bathrobe.

Hey! The man took a cigarette from his lips and spit.

One of the boys, ruddy and red-haired, stood up slowly. We were just playing with her, he said gently.

Beat it! The man came toward the boys. I’ve told you before. Go back where you come from and stay away from my dog! The shortest boy, thin and dark haired, stood nearest and the man grabbed his arm.

What’s your name, kid?

The boy, his chin jutting forward, looked up into the man’s face, but said nothing.

What’s your name?

The boy remained silent, fearless, and he seemed to be trying to discover some clue to the man’s anger.

Are you deaf, kid?

The boy’s eyes narrowed, giving a faintly Asian cast to his face. Finally, he answered, Buddy.

The man shook him, then pushed him away. Scram!

Robert, the tallest boy, gestured to the others. Let’s go, he said. You heard what the old fart said.

The man jumped forward, but stubbed his toe on a rake lying in the grass. Sonofabitch! He picked up the rake and threw it at the boys, but they had skipped out into the field. Little kikes!

The man stood, barefoot and fuming in the dusk. He hobbled over to the porch railing and leaned against it, gripping the sore toe in his fist. The boys were half way across the field by now, and the man turned and limped back into his house. Where the woods began on the far side of the field the boys stopped and turned to look back. A star could be seen as the cloud cover drifted toward the east. The air was becoming cold and sharp, and the moon’s sliver rose a little higher in the sky. In the distance the roar and rush of the Saturday afternoon train could be heard. Halloween was only nine days off and the scent of autumn smoke seemed stronger now.

What a bastard! said Tony, the red-haired boy. They looked across and could see the dog on her chain nosing around in the grass.

It’s too early to go home, Robert said. We could still have some fun.

We could sneak up and put a few rocks through his windows, Tony suggested.

"Hey, Buddy, Robert joked. Buddy? How’d you think that up?"

Philip, the short dark-haired boy, broke off a blade of dry grass and put it between his lips. It just came to me, he said. And anyway, what was he so sore about? I wonder what he does. I mean, what sort of work.

Who cares? Tony put in. I’d like to shoot him.

Robert hunkered down on his heels and made lines in the dirt with a piece of stick. He began sneezing and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. A box of wooden matches fell on the ground. Tony picked it up and threw it in Robert’s direction.

"Gesundheit," Philip said. Robert wiped his nose and took a match out of the box. He lit it and held it in his fingers for a moment. Then he cocked his wrist and tossed it away, the flame making a little arc as it dropped down into the dirt. He lit another and threw it a little higher.

Bombs, he said. Watch.

The others grabbed the matchbox and did the same, flipping the little flares into the air at first, and then aiming them at each other. One dared the others to stand still, but they moved quickly and dodged the tiny incendiaries. Small, scattered smoke furies began curling up from the grass.

Why do they always have to say that? Philip said.

"Jealousy, Buddy. Robert answered. We’re smarter than they are."

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A neighbor heard the dog yelping and the quick metallic sounds of her chain dragging over the dirt, back and forth, back and forth. He wished the owner would take it inside, but decided not to complain. If anyone in the houses had looked toward the field they would have seen the faint glow, and if they had stepped outside would have heard small crackling sounds, but it was nearly time for dinner. Only the dog knew. Its owner had gone down into the basement where he kept his whiskey, and he had decided to sit there awhile with his bottle.

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The smoke blew about, thicker and more acrid now, and the boys ducked and turned away to wipe their eyes.

It’s hot, Robert called. He went to a little patch of flame and stomped on it. Come here and help me.

They jumped around, stamping out little circles of flame, but the wind kept blowing smoke in their eyes and they had to race from one spot to another. Philip had a surprised look on his face. We can control it, can’t we?

The other two were silent, but continued running here and there, stepping on the flames. Tony looked over at Robert. They were both red-faced and sweating.

Shit, Robert said. I don’t think we can put it out. He wiped his face with the handkerchief. Some of the flames were a foot high now. We’d better take off.

We can’t just leave, Philip said. He was hitting at the flames with his jacket, but it only fanned them and made them higher.

Tony realized it was too late to do anything. Robert’s right, he said. We can go and call the fire department.

You’re crazy, Robert said. What are we going to tell them? Let’s just go. He waved his arm at them. C’mon.

Philip! Tony called. Are you coming?

They looked at each other and moved off toward the woods. Jesus, Philip said. We’re going to be in some trouble.

Hurry up, Robert yelled. He was running now.

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They tore down through the woods, and then for a dozen blocks along Middleport Road. At the bridge that went over the railroad tracks they stopped, breathless and scared, and leaned against the parapet. To the west, smoke billowed up from the burning field, and tongues of orange flame shot into the darkening sky. They heard the blare of sirens and saw cars pulling over as several fire engines raced along Northern Boulevard.

No one saw us, Robert, the tallest boy, said. He looked at the other two, awaiting a response. You’re not scared, are you?

No, of course not, said Philip. He was taking off his windbreaker and tying it around his waist. Now what do we do?

We don’t have to do anything, Tony said. We’re just watching the fire, like anyone else.

What a dumb thing to do, Philip muttered.

Robert grabbed him by the arm. We didn’t start the fire, Philip. We saw it, but we didn’t start it. We keep our mouths shut.

Philip winced, and Robert let him go.

Tony felt his mind crowding with worries.

The police: We’re taking you for a little ride, Sonny. Get those handcuffs on him!

His parents: What did we do to deserve this? How many times have we told you?

His teachers: Lazy. Smug. No stick-to-it-ive-ness.

How abruptly, how drastically things had changed. An afternoon of horsing around and easy freedom was now turned into a confusion of terrible possibilities.

Shit, Tony said. Why did he have to say that to us? Prick!

Hey, that has nothing to do with it, said Robert. We go home, we go to school Monday morning. Nothing happened, right? He looked at Philip and put out his hand.

Shake? he offered.

Philip took the hand, a nervous smile on his face. Cool, he said. I’m shaking the hand of a fucking arsonist.

Robert squeezed hard and pushed Philip away. Shut your mouth.

Cool, said Tony. Cool, cool, co-o-o-o-l.

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Two days later the local paper had the story.

10/24/49 THE MIDDLEPORT RECORD

FIRE DAMAGES HOME, KILLS DOG

A grass fire swept quickly across the vacant field east of the Bayview neighborhood Saturday, setting one house ablaze and forcing the evacuation of several residents to the County shelter. A pet cocker spaniel chained to a tree suffered smoke inhalation and did not survive. The conflagration, sending a plume of black smoke skyward which was clearly visible in Middleport Village two miles away, began shortly after 5 P.M. Fire engines from as far away as Douglaston were on the scene within minutes of being called, but the dwelling at 14 Thomas Street sustained significant damage. Only charred timbers and muddy ground mark the site of the house’s sun porch today. Houses at 16 and 20 Thomas Street were spared by the efforts of firemen, although each had a small amount of water damage.

Several observers reported that flames were first seen in the vacant field. The cause of the fire has not been determined, but Fire Chief George Wilchuk, when asked, agreed that arson had not been completely ruled out. The north edge of the field lies along the railroad track and vagrants have occasionally used the adjacent wooded area as a campsite.

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A week later there was an arrest.

10/31/49 THE MIDDLEPORT RECORD

SUSPECT HELD IN BAYVIEW FIRE CASE

Cleophus ‘Cheerful’ Blaney, 68, was arrested Friday on suspicion of arson in a Bayview fire. One house was damaged in the fire and a dog was killed. Blaney, a Negro, was identified by residents of Thomas Street as having been seen frequently in the woods at the edge of the field, which burned on October 22. Police said that an investigation was still under way, but that evidence pointing to Blaney was substantial. He is being held without bail.

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Shouldn’t someone be punished? Tony asked a few days later.

They had climbed the ladder and emerged into their clubhouse, the dusty garret over Robert’s garage. Beyond the trap door was a large square space, but because the roof sloped they could stand erect only in the center. They crouched down on the wooden boxes that served as chairs and argued about what they should do.

Look, do you feel bad about it? Robert said.

Sure.

Do you?

Philip nodded.

Well, I do, too. So, that’s all. We’re punished. We’re all sorry.

There was silence for a moment.

Don’t you see? Philip said. He’s a black man. This is the way it always happens. They get blamed.

We’re not blaming him, Robert said.

But he’s our scapegoat, Tony put in.

Exactly.

Okay, okay, said Robert. So what?

I think we ought to admit it, said Philip.

To the police? Tony asked.

Yes.

You’re nuts, Robert decided.

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Later, they went over to Tony’s and hung around in his basement. There was a ping-pong table, but no one wanted to play. The walls of the room were wood paneled and there was a bar at one end with tall chrome stools. On the bar was an electric sign advertising Carstair’s Gin. It was a circus seal balancing a large revolving red ball on its nose. Where’s your mother? Robert asked.

Shopping.

We better shut the door anyway, said Philip.

Tony said, Christ, I never thought I’d be in this kind of trouble.

We’re not in trouble, said Robert. We just lie low, that’s all.

What if one of us feels strongly enough to admit it? Philip asked.

Like you, you mean? Robert said.

What if I do?

Tony and I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’ll deny it, won’t we, Tony?

Shit, Philip, said Tony. We feel just as bad as you.

Look, that sonofabitch called us kikes, didn’t he? said Robert. We were just mad. I’m sorry about the dog, but that’s all.

And Cleophus Blaney? Philip looked at the others, but they wouldn’t meet his eyes. We just let him go to jail? Just because he’s black? And will you ever be able to live with that? How will you feel knowing that an innocent man has suffered on your account?

"Not my account, Philip. Ours. We’re in this together."

It seems to me you were the one lighting the matches.

Is that so? Robert muttered. He reached out to grab Philip, who made a quick sidestep and charged in, socking the taller and stronger Robert in the chest with both fists. Robert tripped and fell, and Philip dropped down on him, pummeling him in the face and stomach.

Robert was on his back, but with an abrupt twisting motion he gave a ferocious push and Philip fell away. You little shit, Robert growled, landing a hard punch on Philip’s nose. There was an audible crunching sound. Philip touched his face and looked down at wet blood all over his fingers. Robert sprang forward, hitting Philip in the face again, then falling on him and pinning him easily. There was blood on both their hands and faces.

Asshole! Philip shouted. You broke my nose. Stupid fucking asshole!

Robert wrenched Philip’s arm back into a painful hold. We’re in this together, Robert spit out again, giving the arm an extra twist. Philip yelled, and then Robert released him, jumping away, but maintaining a boxer’s stance with clenched bloody fists.

I’m telling you, smart-ass, he said. You go to the cops and we’re through as friends. I’ll deny everything. This bullshit adventure is not appearing on my record.

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The next afternoon Tony was sitting at the kitchen table doing his Latin homework when the doorbell rang. His mother was ironing down in the basement and she called to him. Tony, will you get it, please?

He looked up from his notebook and then wrote a few more words. The bell rang again. Okay, okay, he said.

He looked out through the curtained window beside the front door. A large man wearing a camel’s hair coat was standing there. A stranger.

Hi, there, the man said, grinning. Tony Dorfman?

Yes.

Is your mother home?

Tony nodded. Ma! he yelled. It’s for you. He could hear her step on the wooden stairs. She’s coming.

His mother pulled a strand of hair back from her brow and smoothed her apron. Yes?

Detective Simpkins, Mrs. Dorfman, the man said, flashing a wallet with a shiny badge. Middleport Police Department.

Tony put out his hand to steady himself on the doorjamb.

I’m just checking on a few things, Mrs. Dorfman. I’m sure you know we had a pretty bad fire a few days ago over in Bayview.

She looked at Tony.

Oh, yeah, I remember, Tony said.

Someone saw some boys down there at the field near the railroad tracks, the detective went on. Do you remember that, young man? Where were you on Saturday afternoon, the twenty-second?

I was with my friends. Playing ball. We were at the schoolyard, Tony mumbled.

With Robert and Philip? his mother asked.

Tony nodded. Yeah, we were shooting baskets. Then we went for a walk.

Where did you walk?

Nowhere special. Around. Around town.

Detective Simpkins wrote something in a little notebook. Someone saw three boys—one with red hair—down at that field, he said.

It wasn’t us, Tony protested. We never go near there.

Simpkins waited for Tony to say more, but Tony was just shaking his head. We never go there, he repeated.

I see. Well, maybe it was kids from Little Neck, Simpkins allowed. That’s really closer to their neighborhood. Would you be willing to make a sworn statement that you weren’t down there?

Oh, yeah. No problem. You can ask my friends, too. We weren’t down there. We never go there. He cast a quick look at his mother. She was searching his face hard, a little disbelievingly. Honest, Ma, why would we go down there? We never have before.

Mr. Simpkins, I’m sure Tony is telling the truth.

The detective smiled. We’re obliged to check any lead in this sort of matter, Mrs. Dorfman. Arson is a serious business. Luckily no one was hurt. Except a dog. Burned up.

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A week later, the boys were relieved to read the next report

11/7/49 THE MIDDLEPORT RECORD

MAN QUESTIONED IN FIRE CASE RELEASED, HOSPITALIZED

Cleophus ‘Cheerful’ Blaney, the man held by Town Police for questioning in the recent Bayview fire, was hospitalized with a heart seizure today. Police were completing their inquiry and were about to release Blaney, when he complained of chest pains. A hospital spokesman said that the man was responding to treatment. Several citizens had reported that Blaney, a Negro, had been noted from time to time to frequent the woods near the vacant field that was the site of the conflagration. The fire, which damaged one house and killed a small dog, is still under police investigation.

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Two weeks later, the boys read another report.

11/21/49 THE MIDDLEPORT RECORD

CLEOPHUS ‘CHEERFUL’ BLANEY, 68

Cleophus ‘Cheerful’ Blaney, 68, died last night at his home of an apparent heart attack. Several people reported hearing him call from his window, but by the time neighbors arrived he was dead.

Blaney, a native of South Carolina, was a long-time resident of Middleport. For many years he was employed by the Hempstead Garbage Company. He served in France with the AEF in 1917-18. He was a member of the AMZ Baptist Church. Blaney leaves no known family.

Maybe things worked out for the best.

1983

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Favor

CHAPTER ONE

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After the unexpected phone call, Tony and Lily sat in his apartment, talking quietly.

We were inseparable, he told her, explaining a friendship of long ago. When I think about it I feel a special warmth in here.

Hand on chest, he smiled, remembering how the bond had been substantially reinforced by a particular school punishment. No, he’d never had another friendship like it. For Miss Biggs, on the other hand, it had been an exasperating moment, and afterwards she had growled that ‘three boys like you’ sorely tested her life as a teacher. Still, what a creative educator! It was she who had promptly come up with the idea of requiring them to read an entire book about real friendship, and so it was that The Three Musketeers—‘all for one and one for all’—had gloriously sparked continuing flights of fancy.

The phone call had caused this stirring of memory, and the shift in tone of the November afternoon was a move from fretful tristesse to puzzlement and expectancy.

Earlier, Tony Dorfman and Lily Kemp had gone to the Guggenheim, taking Lily’s baby with them, and they had come back to his place the long way, pushing the stroller across the park and around the reservoir, up Central Park West, and then over to West End Avenue. Before the call, Tony had been rather wistful.

What a strange, sweet, sad day it is, he had said slowly.

The baby, exhausted by their outing, was sleeping on a quilt in a shadowed corner of the living room. Sections of The Times lay scattered about on the floor after they’d both read the stories about the recent Beirut barracks bombing which killed two hundred forty-one Marines, the U.S. invasion of Grenada, and Reverend Jesse Jackson announcing his candidacy for the Democratic nomination for President.

From out on the river came three impatient hoots of a ship’s horn. That sound affected Tony, and he sighed, leaning back in his chair and feeling the effect of a Budweiser thirstily downed. The Hudson, only a short block away, held the promise of the great world he had known as a newspaperman. One could smell the river, even if not able to see it from this old-fashioned, rent-controlled, spacious apartment, but even a good apartment didn’t take away the yearning. He knew he wanted to move on, to see something new. I’ve lived here eight years, he said, turning to look at Lily. For me, it’s a record.

Sundays are like that, Lily said. They make me philosophical, too. And introspective. She was half-reclining on the sofa, turning pages of a catalog she’d bought at the museum. Tony wanted to go over and kiss her fair autumn-flushed cheeks, but he waited, savoring a little the lazy feeling the beer had given him. He had known Lily just six months, but lately he had come to feel that meeting her had been the only good thing to happen to him for a long while.

She lived just two blocks further uptown and they had met at a laundromat where she had actually helped him open a tricky washing machine door.

Medium of height, ruddy and bearish, Tony was round-faced, with a thin ring of sparse hair circling his bald cranium, but his sideburns were full, almost mutton chop, and this curling facial fringe was still mostly red with only touches of gray. There were crinkles beside his somewhat sad brown eyes and, with a noticeable gap between his two top front teeth, he had a wide, endearing, and even cheery smile. People expected him to be good-natured.

It wasn’t the city, Tony knew, that caused his Sunday gloom. It was the drying up of imagination—to a writer, death. For years Tony had been much sought after, and writing had brought him modest success. Reporter and foreign correspondent; three novels of adventure (which the public liked, although the critics had not); a dozen or so short stories (one an O. Henry selection); lots of travel pieces from exotic places. The name Tony Dorfman wouldn’t fade into oblivion, not for a while at least, but there had been nothing really good for a year.

Perhaps there wouldn’t be a fourth book. Was his career as a writer over? These days he worked for Columbia University’s news bureau and in four days he would fly to San Francisco to cover the trial of one Richard Coombes, a doctor in Berkeley. Coombes, a graduate of Columbia’s medical school, was on trial for injecting a fatal dose of an opiate into his comatose ninety-eight year old mother-in-law’s feeding tube. Tony looked forward to seeing San Francisco again and he felt he had an open mind about what Dr. Coombes had done. Life is always precious; but so is human dignity. Everything hangs on what the patient wants, Tony knew. Did the family know her wishes? That would come out at the trial.

Meanwhile, creativity lay fallow, and although he accepted that, it didn’t soothe Tony. Damn it! He was still a writer, barely fifty, and yet here he was, creating only a quantity of self-pity. In an odd moment of pride, he had once imagined a legacy, The Collected Works, but now he dwelled continually on the very troubling question of whether he had anything left to say. Was he washed up? Finished?

Sometimes he thought that Vietnam could have been the high point of his life. The danger, the adrenalin, the sheer physicality of jungle heat, gunfire and the stink of death, the battles, not just on the ground but with the newspaper’s management and with the military brass—he had lived those years on a high plain of excitement. Okay, there had been terrible moments. He’d never be rid of the image of a GI tortured by the VC and lying face up in a swamp. And he had been present at the edge of a village when the American lieutenant gave the command to open fire on a school even while kids were in the building. But, there were also flashes of pride when he remembered moments of courage. And there had been enormous creative energy. His stories from the field had shown the stupidity and futility of