I suppose that it's a sign of incipent middle age that I lapse into nostalgic reveries more and more often these days. More and more, when I am out driving my path path veers from the place I live now and heads toward the old neighborhood. It is as though the car were on autopilot.

It is my doing, but I don't know what I am seeking.

I pass the house in which I grew up, and the sight of it triggers so many memories. I compare the images of yesteryear to the way the house looks now, sadly noting the changes that time and a succession of owners have wrought.

A little further on, I pass a shining new condominium complex. Cracker box houses, each with the antiseptic appeal of a hospital.

Once upon a time, when I was a child, the plot of land that now played host to condominiums was a vacant lot.

Canesburg had no park or playground for my playmates and I. Our only alternative to playing in the street was to use the vacant lot. That weed-grown patch of earth rang out with the cries and shouts of innumerable games of kick ball and soft ball.

For one week of the summer each year, though, the lot magically assumed a different persona. It became the center of drab little Canesburg. For the volunteer fire company transformed it into the site of the carnival.

There would be a merry-go-round and a Ferris wheel. The Ladies' Auxiliary would set up booths where they cheerfully peddled all manner of crocheted items and home-made candies, cookies, and cakes. There would be a myriad of stands, mostly offering games of chance. Members of the Canesburg Emergency Rescue Squad would shrilly extoll one and all to step right up and win a prize. You could throw baseballs at stuffed cats, three for a quarter. If luck was with you, you could win a glassy-eyed teddy bear. If you tired of battering the cats, you could throw darts at balloons and perhaps win a ceramic ash tray.

Every year during the carnival, my mother and her best friend, Sue Costello, would take me and Sue's boy, Little Tony, to the carnival. We were each given a handful of change and told to enjoy ourselves.

And we did. Little Tony was my best friend - probably because he was my only friend. I was an introverted child, and I didn't fit into Canesburg.

Little Tony never made fun of me. Unlike the other kids, he accepted my quiet ways as normal. We would walk around and look at everything, while my mother and Sue sat sipping lemonade and chattering about their care-free days before marriage and motherhood.

We never told the adults that we were going to marry each other when we grew up. We'd taken a blood vow in the Costello's back yard. Little Tony had swiped his father's Swiss Army knife, and, just like on television, we'd cut our palms until they bled, then pressed our hands together. We swore to love each other forever. We were both ten years old.

That summer was the first time I became aware of Sue Costello having any problems. There was small ventilation shaft in the floor of my room. It connected with the ceiling of the kitchen below. I had learned that by very quietly opening the shaft and positioning myself next to it I could hear everything my parents said in the kitchen. One night their conversation took a strange turn.

"I saw Sue Costello's husband down at the Paradise Bar tonight. It was my last stop," - my father drove a delivery van for a liquor distributor - "and I had gotten balled up in the traffic because of that damn accident on Route 25. So it was late when I got there."

My mother said, "Maybe there was another fight." Tony's father was a patrolman with the Canesburg police.

"Naw, it wasn't no fight. He was taking stuff from the kitchen out back and loadin' it into the trunk of his patrol car."

"Why would he be doing that?"

My father snorted. "Come on Marie, all them cops are on the take."

"Even Tony Costello?"

"Especially Tony Costello! You remember how your friend had to go to that doctor - you know, the head shrinker? And you was wondering how they could afford that?"

"You mean he took bribes so Sue could go to the doctor?"

"Naw, he always took bribes! I mean, that's how come they can afford it and everything else - them vacations and the new car. How do you think Sue can buy all them new clothes?"

"Does Sue know about this - thing that Tony's doing?"

"Oh yeah, Tony is gonna go home and say 'Guess what, I got another payoff today!'"

"You know what I mean. You don't have to be sarcastic."

Then they started arguing about other things, so I stopped listening and went to bed. I laid there wondering what a "payoff" was.

A few weeks later I heard the sounds of another late-night argument downstairs. I positioned myself at the grill.

"Damn it Marie! Where do you get these crazy ideas? Have you been talking to Sue Costello again? She been putting half-baked ideas in your head? Why do you listen to her? She's some kind of mental case!"

"Go to hell! Leave my friend out of this! Sue was depressed because she had all those miscarriages - a woman can't lose three babies and not get depressed about it! She's not crazy! You shut your mouth - you don't know what you're talking about - as usual!"

They continued arguing long into the night. I wasn't too sure about what "miscarriage" meant, but I kept hearing my mom talking about Sue losing babies. So maybe a "miscarriage" meant that Little Tony was supposed to have brothers and sisters.

For Christmas that year, I received a brand new bike. It was the latest thing - a three-speed. The day after Christmas, my mother and I went to see Sue and Little Tony.

Little Tony dragged a red metal box out from underneath the tree. He smiled. Whenever he smiled, his freckles seemed stretch.

"What is it?" I asked, curious.

He opened the box. Inside were a miniature saw and hammer and wrench and screwdriver and measuring stick and other things. It was a child's toolbox.

"My Dad said he would teach me how to use everything."

I tried to appear impressed. Secretly, I thought that Tony had been gypped. A three-speed was obviously much better than a toolbox.

Time passed, and it was summer again. Shortly after my eleventh birthday, something happened.

Sue Costello came to see my mother one day. Her face was blotchy - even with her face averted from me I could see that she had been crying.

My mother banished me from the kitchen. I scampered to my room, and opened the air shaft grill.

"Marie, I'm so sorry, but I don't know what to do, I - I think I'm going crazy, I can't help myself!"

"It's alright, Sue, everything will be alright. I'm your friend. Tell me what happened."

"Tony - oh my God, Marie, I came back from my mother's yesterday, and there he was - with that woman! In our house, in - in - our bed!"

"Oh Sue, I don't know what to say-"

"They got dressed and he walked her out - Marie, he said it's about time I knew the truth, it's been going on for a year - Marie, he wants a divorce!"

"A divorce? What did you say?"

"Never! We're Catholics! Never! But he said he would get one whether I like it or not. So I told him that I could make real trouble for him!"

"What did he say then?"

"He said a lot of guys on the force are divorced - it's no big deal any more, it's so common."

Sue paused and took a breath, then spoke quietly to my mother.

"Marie, I never told you this but - he does some things - some illegal things - things a policeman isn't supposed to do. I was so upset that I told him I would tell every one about them. I said I would call the newspapers and tell them."

"Sue, you shouldn't say something like that. You might get yourself in trouble."

"Well, it worked! He said that if I felt so strongly, maybe we can see a marriage counselor."

"Then why are you so upset now?"

"Because I don't trust him! After I calmed down I started thinking, and as soon as I threatened to tell on him he got a real sneaky look on his face - I don't know what to do next."

My mother soothed her friend, pointed out that maybe Tony just needed time to think. Unfortunately, she was right.

Two days later, I came downstairs for breakfast in the morning. Little Tony and I had planned to ride our bikes down to Idyll Beach, about a quarter mile from my house. We often spent the day there, walking along beside the surf, picking up shells and skipping stones. Sometimes we even stayed until sun down. We would race along with the sandpipers, tiny birds who trot beside the water's edge.

That morning, my mother's face frightened me.

"Sit down, I have something to tell you."

I sat down at the table.

"Tony's mother - she's dead."

I was numb. We used to play a game called "Statue". When you were tagged as "it," you had to stay immobile until someone unfroze you. I wished someone would unfreeze me.

"Sue went down to her car last night. She sat in the garage with the car running. The fumes killed her. Do you understand?"

I nodded, too shocked to speak.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. I rode my bike down to Idyll Beach. I wanted to walk by the water. I didn't want to stay home.

Once there, I sat,alone. There weren't too many tourists on this part of the beach. The summer people usually stayed more near the refreshment stand.

A lone figure walked towards me. I looked up. It was Little Tony. He stopped when he was near. I stood up, and walked to him.

He was crying. His gawky frame, already beginning to change, folded around me. I held him close. My tears mixed with his, as the orange streaks of sunset painted the sky and the sand pipers ran beside the waves.

That night, as I listened at the ventilation grill to my parents below, I suddenly encountered something ugly, something that burned into my heart forever.

"I have to tell somebody! Sue would never kill herself! Never! She loved her son too much! She went to Mass every Goddamn day! Catholics don't commit suicide!"

"Marie, you got no proof! Don't you understand? Tony Costello has some pull around here. He could get us in deep trouble. Leave it alone!"

"I have to tell somebody!"

"Who ya gonna tell? The police? Tony Costello is the police! They're all like him! They all stick together!"

"She was my best friend! She wasn't crazy!"

"Marie, she's dead. It won't matter, anyway. You'll never bring her back."

I felt sick. I understood what my mother had implied. And I would never forget it - and never forget that my parents did nothing about it.

Time passed.

Sue Costello was quietly buried. I stared at her husband standing impassively over her grave, tossing the first handful of earth as a gentle rain fell into the freshly turned-up soil. The official explanation was that she had succumbed to the depression for which she'd received psychiatric help years earler. This time, she simply didn't get help in time.

No one asked why she was depressed.

I was not allowed to see Little Tony any more. My mother's explanations for this were vague.

Patrolman Costello remarried seven months after Sue's funeral. His second wife was younger and quite a bit prettier than the first.

Five years later, I sat in the living room and watched television. The phone rang in the kitchen. I blithely chewed my apple, intent on the screen. I looked up when I realized my mother was standing in the doorway, looking at me. Her face was a little shaken.

"What is it?"

"There's a phone call for you. It's ... Little Tony."

I stood up in a hurry. My mother put a restraining hand on my arm.

"Don't talk about - you know, about what happened."

"Alright ... I won't."

I picked up the phone.

"Hi, Tony?"

"Yeah, it's me. I missed you. I snuck out of the house. I'm calling from a pay phone. Listen, are you busy?"

"No, not really."

"Can you meet me at the vacant lot? In about ten minutes?"

I looked at my mother. She was mashing potatoes for dinner. I knew she was listening to every word I said.

"Oh, okay, that's fine. I'll talk to you then."

"I'll see ya in ten. Bye."

"Bye,Tony. It's been nice talking to you."

I hung up. I looked at my mother.

"He wants to go bowling Saturday."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Well, I do. I'm going."

My mother was silent. I knew that on Saturday she would find a way to prevent my going anywhere. I loved my mother, but as I grew older, it became necessary to lie to her.

I slipped outside and pedaled my bike as hard as I could. I reached the vacant lot in record time.

He was standing in the far end of the lot. He was so tall now. As I approached, I could see that the freckles had all but faded away.

I parked the bike. I ran to him. He took me in his arms and hugged me until I was breathless.

"I was afraid I'd never see you again."

"My mother said I couldn't call you or go over the house. I don't know why - she would never tell me. But my father said it's because your father doesn't like us."

"My father won't let me see anybody. Not even my Grandma, or my aunts. He says they're all just jealous of Sherry."

"What Is Sherry?"

"My step-mother."

"Oh."

"I don't believe it."

"Believe what?"

"That it's cause they're jealous of Sherry."

I suddenly realized that the sky was overcast. In my haste to reach the vacant lot, I had not noticed the weather.

Tony stood, looking down at me. He gently reached down and caressed my cheek. I looked into his eyes.

"What did your mother tell you about my mother?"

I tried to look away. I couldn't. I took a deep breath."

"She said that your father - your father arranged things."

"Go on." His voice was quiet and soft.

The wind rustled the leaves of the trees around us. A faded poster of last year's carnival blew past us. Leaves dropped.

"Your mother didn't want a divorce, Tony. She was going to tell people about something illegal that your Dad did - that's all I know."

His hand caressed me, from my throat down to where two buds protruded. His hand slipped into mine, palm meeting palm, fingers lacing, and I thought suddenly of the oath we had sworn in blood those years ago.

He leaned in and touched his lips softly to mine, then over and over again on my throat. My body tingled in ways it never had before. I trembled all over.

His voice was very soft. "Why did my father want a divorce?"

His hands were so insistent, wandering lower and lower. His lips resumed their intricate dance on my throat.

"Because of Sherry - your mother found out about her -"

He pulled his head back. His eyes suddenly blazed.

The first drops of a warm spring rain hit my face. His eyes met mine when I looked down from the sky, and they were strange and deep.

Our eyes held one another as his lips met mine again and gently slid mine apart, his tongue entering my mouth softly.

At sixteen, I was still shy. I was an unlovely teenager, with few friends and no lovers. Tony had kissed my cheek when we were younger, but no one had ever done the things his mouth and his voice were doing to me now.

Time ceased to exist for us as the rain fell on our bodies and our hands rose and fell on each other's bodies through our clothes.

When the time came and we both had to go back home, Tony looked deep into my eyes and said just one word: "remember."

I rode home in the rain, drenched to the skin, in a state of euphoria.

A few weeks it was on the front page of the Canesburg Gazette.

Tragedy strikes a Canesburg family again ... Lieutenant Costello and his wife ... a rainy night on Route 25 ... a high rate of speed ... a brake line failed ... both of them DOA at the County Medical Center ... coroner found no sign of drinking ... a burial for Lieutenant Costello was planned with full honors ... Mrs Costello - his second wife - to rest by his side ...

I heard that Tony went to live out of state with his grandmother after the funeral. I never saw him again.

A few days after the funeral, when I came home from school, I found a bouquet of shore flowers tied together with a piece of twine at the door, with a folded-up slip of paper.

I opened the paper. The writing on it said:

"I won't forget our promise. One day, we will see each other again."

I have since found out that it is possible to bend a car's brake line in such a way that it would be difficult to detect after a wreck.

I have dreams sometimes. I see Little Tony's play toolbox over and over. I see him that last time in the vacant lot, the expression in his eyes when I confirmed what he had already known in his heart.

When I was very young, I was sent to Bible School every Sunday. They told us about God, and showed us gaily colored pictures of Baby Jesus.

I stopped thinking about God and Jesus as I grew up. Maybe religion was something I'd outgrown. Maybe I'd stored it away in some mental attic, along with dolls and skates.

I used to understand what was right, what was wrong - or I thought I did. As I've grown older, I'm not sure.

How would I feel if I knew my father had engineered my mother's death? How would I feel knowing that my father would never be punished for his crime, simply because he had connections?

What was right? What was wrong? Where are the boundaries of right and wrong? What are the boundaries of childhood and adulthood.

What are the boundaries of justice and revenge?

I wonder every now and then if we will ever see one another again, and if we even should. And I shake a bit to realize that we swore not one oath in blood - but two.

date unknown - possibly early 1980s

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