ABOUT THE BOOK

NEW YORK. 1977. BE THERE WHEN IT EXPLODES.

It’s New Year’s Eve, 1976, and New York is a city on the edge. As midnight approaches, a blizzard sets in – and amidst the fireworks, an unmistakable sound rings out across Central Park. Gunshots. Two of them.

The search for the shooter will bring together a rich cast of New Yorkers. From the reluctant heirs to one of the city's greatest fortunes, to a couple of Long Island kids drawn to the punk scene downtown. From the newly arrived and enchanted, to those so sick of the city they want to burn it to the ground. All these lives are connected to one another – and to the life that still clings to that body in the park. Whether they know it or not, they are bound up in the same story – a story where history and revolution, love and art, crime and conspiracy are all packed into a single shell, ready to explode.

Then, on July 13th, 1977, the lights go out in New York City.

BOOK I

WE HAVE MET THE ENEMY, AND HE IS US

[  DECEMBER 1976–JANUARY 1977  ]

Life in the hive puckered up my night;

the kiss of death, the embrace of life.

—TELEVISION     

“Marquee Moon”

1

A CHRISTMAS TREE was coming up Eleventh Avenue. Or rather, was trying to come; having tangled itself in a shopping cart someone had abandoned in the crosswalk, it shuddered and bristled and heaved, on the verge of bursting into flame. Or so it seemed to Mercer Goodman as he struggled to salvage the tree’s crown from the battered mesh of the cart. Everything these days was on the verge. Across the street, char-marks marred the loading dock where local bedlamites built fires at night. The hookers who sunned themselves there by day were watching now through dimestore shades, and for a second Mercer was acutely aware of how he must appear: a corduroyed and bespectacled brother doing his best to backpedal, while at the far end of the tree, a bedheaded whiteboy in a motorcycle jacket tried to yank the trunk forward and to hell with the shopping cart. Then the signal switched from DON’T WALK to WALK, and miraculously, through some combination of push-me and pull-you, they were free again.

“I know you’re annoyed,” Mercer said, “but could you try not to flounce?”

“Was I flouncing?” William asked.

“You’re drawing stares.”

As friends or even neighbors, they were an unlikely pair, which may have been why the man who ran the Boy Scout tree lot by the Lincoln Tunnel on-ramp had been so hesitant to touch their cash. It was also why Mercer could never have invited William home to meet his family—and thus why they were having to celebrate Christmas on their own. You knew it just to look at them, the doughy brown bourgeois, the wiry pale punk: What could possibly have yoked these two together, besides the occult power of sex?

It was William who’d chosen the biggest tree left on the lot. Mercer had urged him to consider the already severe overcrowding of the apartment, not to mention the half-dozen blocks between here and there, but this was William’s way of punishing him for wanting a tree in the first place. He’d peeled two tens from the roll he kept in his pocket and announced sardonically, and loud enough for the tree guy to hear, I’ll take bottom. Now, between fogged breaths, he added, “You know … Jesus would’ve cast us both into the fiery pit. That’s in … Leviticus somewhere, I think. I don’t see the point of a Messiah who sends you to hell.” Wrong Testament, Mercer might have objected, besides which we haven’t sinned together in weeks, but it was imperative not to take the bait. The Scoutmaster was only a hundred yards back, the end of a trail of needles.

Gradually, the blocks depopulated. Hell’s Kitchen at this hour was mostly rubbled lots and burnt-out auto chassis and the occasional drifting squeegee man. It was like a bomb had gone off, leaving only outcasts, which must have been the neighborhood’s major selling point for William Hamilton-Sweeney, circa the late ’60s. Actually, a bomb had gone off, a few years before Mercer moved in. A group with one of those gnarly acronyms he could never remember had blown up a truck outside the last working factory, making way for more rattletrap lofts. Their own building, in a previous life, had manufactured Knickerbocker-brand breathmints. In some ways, little had changed: the conversion from commercial to residential had been slapdash, probably illegal, and had left a powdered industrial residue impacted between the floorboards. No matter how you scrubbed, a hint of cloying peppermint remained.

The freight elevator being broken again, or still, it took half an hour to get the tree up five flights of stairs. Sap got all over William’s jacket. His canvases had migrated to his studio up in the Bronx, but somehow the only space for the tree was in front of the living area’s window, where its branches blocked the sun. Mercer, anticipating this, had laid in provisions to cheer things up: lights to tack to the wall, a tree skirt, a carton of nonalcoholic eggnog. He set them out on the counter, but William just sulked on the futon, eating gumdrops from a bowl, with his cat, Eartha K., perched smugly on his chest. “At least you didn’t buy a crèche,” he said. It stung in part because Mercer was at that moment rooting under the sink for the wiseman figurines Mama had enclosed with her care package.

What he found there instead was the mail pile, which he could have sworn he’d left sitting out in plain view on the radiator this morning. Usually, Mercer wouldn’t have stood for it—he couldn’t walk by one of Eartha’s furballs without reaching for the dustpan—but a certain unopened envelope had been festering there for a week among the second and third notices from the Americard Family of Credit Cards, redundancy sic, and he’d hoped today might be the day William finally awoke to its presence. He reshuffled the pile again so that the envelope was on top. He dropped it back onto the radiator. But his lover was already getting up to splash ’nog over the clump of green gumdrops, like some futuristic cereal product. “Breakfast of champions,” he said.

THE THING WAS, William had a kind of genius for not noticing what he didn’t want to notice. Another handy example: today, Christmas Eve 1976, marked the eighteen-month anniversary of Mercer’s arrival in New York from the little town of Altana, Georgia. Oh, I know Atlanta, people used to assure him, with cheery condescension. No, he would correct them—Al-tan-a—but eventually he stopped bothering. Simplicity was easier than precision. As far as anyone back home knew, he’d gone north to teach sophomore English at the Wenceslas-Mockingbird School for Girls in Greenwich Village. Underneath that, of course, there’d been his searing ambition to write the Great American Novel (still searing now, though for different reasons). And underneath that … well, the simplest way to put it would have been that he’d met someone.

Love, as Mercer had heretofore understood it, involved huge gravitational fields of duty and disapproval bearing down on the parties involved, turning even small-talk into a ragged struggle for breath. Now here was this person who might not return his calls for weeks without feeling the slightest need to apologize. A Caucasian who waltzed around 125th Street as if he owned the place. A thirty-three-year-old who still slept until three p.m., even after they started living together. William’s commitment to doing exactly what he wanted, when he wanted, had at first been a revelation. It was possible, suddenly, to separate love from being beholden.

More recently, though, it had started to seem that the price of liberation was a refusal to look back. William would talk in only the vaguest terms about his life pre-Mercer: the period of heroin dependency in the early ’70s that had left him with his insatiable sweet tooth; the stacks of paintings he refused to show either to Mercer or to anyone who might have bought them; the imploded rock band whose name, Ex Post Facto, he’d annealed with a wire hanger into the back of the motorcycle jacket. And his family? Total silence. For a long time, Mercer hadn’t even put together that William was one of those Hamilton-Sweeneys, which was sort of like meeting Frank Tecumseh Sherman and not thinking to inquire about any kinship to the General. William still froze whenever anyone mentioned the Hamilton-Sweeney Company in his presence, as though he’d just found a fingernail in his soup and was trying to remove it without alarming his tablemates. Mercer told himself his feelings wouldn’t have changed one jot if William had been a Doe or a Dinkelfelder. Still, it was hard not to be curious.

And that was before the Lower School’s Interfaith Holiday Pageant earlier this month, which the Dean of Students had stopped just short of requiring all faculty to attend. Forty minutes in, Mercer had been trying to distract himself with the program’s endless cast list when a name had leapt out at him. He ran a finger over the type in the weak auditorium light: . He generally kept to the Upper School—at twenty-four, he was its youngest teacher, and the only Afro-American to boot, and the littler kids seemed to view him as some kind of well-dressed janitor—but after the curtain calls, he sought out a colleague who taught in the kindergarten. She indicated a cluster of ecumenical sprites near the stage door. This “Cate” was apparently one of them. I.e., one of her own. “And do you happen to know if there’s a William in her family?”

“Her brother Will, you mean? He’s in fifth or sixth grade, I think, at a school uptown. It’s coed, I don’t know why they don’t send Cate, too.” The colleague seemed to catch herself. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason,” he said, turning to go. It was just as he’d thought: a mistake, a coincidence, one he was already doing his best to forget.

But was it Faulkner who said that the past was not even past? Last week, on the last day of the semester, after the last dilatory scholarship girl had handed in the final final exam, a nervous-looking white woman had materialized at the door of his classroom. She had that comely young-mother thing—her skirt probably cost more than Mercer’s entire wardrobe—but it was more than that that made her look familiar, though he couldn’t quite pin it down. “May I help you?”

She checked the paper she was carrying against his name on the door. “Mr. Goodman?”

“That’s me.” Or That’s I? Hard to say. He folded his hands on the desk and tried to look non-threatening, as was his habit when dealing with mothers.

“I don’t know how to do this tactfully. Cate Lamplighter’s my daughter. Her teacher mentioned you had some questions after the pageant last week?”

“Oh, geez.” He blushed. “That was a mix-up. But I apologize for any …” Then he saw it: the sharp chin, the startled blue eyes. She could have been a female William, except that her hair was auburn instead of black, and styled in a simple bob. And of course the smart attire.

“You were asking about Cate’s uncle, I think, whom we named her brother after. Not that he’d know that, not ever having met him. My brother, I mean. William Hamilton-Sweeney.” The hand she held out, in contrast to her voice, was steady. “I’m Regan.”

Careful, Mercer thought. Here at Mockingbird, a Y chromosome was already a liability, and no matter what they’d said when they hired him, being black was, too. Steering between the Scylla of too-much and the Charybdis of not-enough, he’d worked hard to project a retiring asexuality. As far as his coworkers knew, he lived with only his books for company. Still, he relished her name in his mouth. “Regan.”

“Can I ask what your interest in my brother is? He doesn’t owe you money or anything, does he?”

“Goodness, no. Nothing like that. He’s a … friend. I just didn’t realize he had a sister.”

“We don’t exactly talk. We haven’t for years. In fact, I have no idea how to find him. I hate to impose, but maybe I could leave this with you?” She approached to place something on the desk, and as she retreated a little pain rippled through him. Out of the great silent sea that was William’s past, a mast had appeared, only to tack back toward the horizon.

Wait, he thought. “I was actually on my way to the lounge for coffee. Can I get you some?”

Disquiet lingered on her face, or sadness, abstract but pervasive. She was really quite striking, if a bit on the thin side. Most adults when they were sad seemed to fold inward and age and become unattractive; perhaps it was some kind of adaptive thing, to gradually breed a master race of emotionally impervious hominids, but if so, the gene had skipped these Hamilton-Sweeneys. “I can’t,” she said finally. “I’ve got to get my kids to their dad’s.” She indicated the envelope. “If you could just, if you see William before New Year’s, give him that, and tell him … tell him I need him there this year.”

“Need him where? Sorry. None of my business, obviously.”

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Goodman.” She paused at the door. “And don’t worry about the circumstances. I’m just happy to know he’s got someone.”

Before he had time to ask her what she was implying, she had withdrawn. He stole out into the hall to watch her go, her heels clicking through the squares of light on the tile. Then he looked down at the sealed envelope in his hands. There was no postmark, just a patch of corrective fluid where the address should have been and the hasty calligraphy that said He hadn’t known there was a Roman numeral.

HE AWOKE CHRISTMAS MORNING feeling guilty. More sleep might have helped, but years of Pavlovian ritual had made this impossible. Mama used to come into their bedrooms when it was still dark and toss stockings engorged with Florida oranges and gewgaws from the five-and-dime onto the feet of his and C.L.’s beds—and then pretend to be surprised when her sons woke up. Now that he was theoretically a grown-up, there were no stockings, and he lay beside his snoring lover for what felt like the longest time, watching light advance across the drywall. William had nailed it up hastily to carve a sleeping nook out of the undivided loft space, and had never gotten around to painting it. Besides the mattress, the only concessions to domesticity were an unfinished self-portrait and a full-length mirror, turned sideways to parallel the bed. Embarrassingly, he sometimes caught William looking at the mirror when they were in flagrante, but it was one of those things Mercer knew he wasn’t supposed to ask about. Why couldn’t he just respect these pockets of reticence? Instead, they pulled him closer and closer, until in order to protect William’s secrets he was, perforce, keeping secrets of his own.

But surely the point of Christmas was to no more turn aside and brood. The temperature had been dropping steadily, and the sturdiest outerwear William owned was the Ex Post Facto jacket, and so Mercer had decided to give him a parka, an envelope of warmth that would surround him wherever he went. He’d saved fifty dollars out of each of his last five paychecks, and had gone into Bloomingdale’s still wearing what William called his teaching costume—necktie, blazer, elbow patches—but it seemed to make no difference in persuading salespeople that he was a legitimate customer. Indeed, a store detective with a rodential little moustache had trailed him from outerwear to menswear to formalwear. But perhaps this was providence; otherwise Mercer might not have discovered the chesterfield coat. It was gorgeous, tawny, as though spun from the fine fur of kittens. Four buttons and three interior pockets, for brushes and pens and sketchpads. Its collar and belt and body were three different shades of shearling wool. It was flamboyant enough that William might wear it, and hellaciously warm. It was also well beyond Mercer’s means, but a kind of enraptured rebellion or rebellious rapture carried him to the register, and thence to the gift-wrapping station, where they swaddled it in paper stamped with swarms of golden B’s. For a week and a half now, it had been hiding underneath the futon. Unable to wait any longer, Mercer staged a coughing fit, and soon enough William was up.

After brewing the coffee and plugging in the tree, Mercer set the box on William’s lap.

“Jesus, that’s heavy.”

Mercer brushed away a dust bunny. “Open it.”

He watched William closely as the lid made its little puff of air and the tissue paper crinkled back. “A coat.” William tried to muster an exclamation point, but stating the name of the gift, everyone knew, was what you did when you were disappointed.

“Try it on.”

“Over my robe?”

“You’re going to have to sooner or later.”

Only then did William begin to say the right things: that he’d needed a coat, that it was beautiful. He disappeared into the sleeping nook and lingered there an inordinate amount of time. Mercer could almost hear him turning in front of the skewed mirror, trying to decide how he felt. Finally, the beaded curtain parted again. “It’s great,” he said.

It looked great, at least. With the collar turned up, it flattered William’s fine features, the natural aristocracy of his cheekbones. “You like it?”

“The Technicolor dreamcoat.” William mimed a series of gestures, patting his pockets, turning for the camera. “It’s like wearing a Jacuzzi. But now it’s your turn, Merce.”

Across the room, drugstore bulbs blinked dimly against the noon light. The tree skirt was bare, save for cat hairs and a few needles; Mercer had opened Mama’s present the night before, while on the phone with her, and he knew from the way she’d signed their names on the tag that C.L. and Pop had forgotten or declined to send separate gifts. He’d steeled himself for the likelihood that William hadn’t gotten him anything, either, but now William squired forth from the sleeping nook a parcel he had wrapped in newspaper, as though drunkenly. “Be gentle,” he said, setting it on the floor.

Had Mercer ever been anything but? A gun-oil smell assaulted him as he removed the paper to reveal a grid of orderly white keys: a typewriter.

“It’s electric. I found it in a pawnshop downtown, like new. It’s supposed to be much faster.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Mercer said.

“Your other one’s such a piece of junk. If it was a horse, you’d shoot it.”

No, he really shouldn’t have. Though Mercer had yet to find the gumption to tell William, his slow progress on his work-in-progress—or rather, lack thereof—had nothing to do with his equipment, at least in any conventional sense. To avoid further dissembling, he put his arms around William. The heat of his body penetrated even through the sumptuous coat. Then William must have caught a glimpse of the oven clock. “Shit. You mind if I turn on the TV?”

“Don’t tell me there’s a game on. It’s a holiday.”

“I knew you’d understand.”

Mercer tried for a few minutes to sit alongside and watch William’s beloved sport, but to him televised football was no more interesting, or even narratively intelligible, than a flea circus, so he got up and went to the kitchenette to do the other stations of the Yuletide cross. While the crowd whooshed and advertisers extolled the virtues of double-bladed razors and Velveeta shells and cheese, Mercer glazed the ham and chopped the sweet potatoes and opened the wine to let it breathe. He didn’t drink, himself—he’d seen what it had done to C.L.’s brain—but he’d thought Chianti might help put William in the spirit.

Heat built over the two-burner stove. He went to crank open the window, startling some pigeons that had settled outside on his winter-bare geranium box. Well, cinderblock, really. They fled down the canyons of old factories, now lost in the shadows, now exploding into light. When he looked over at William, the chesterfield was back in its box on the floor beside the futon, and the jumbo bag of gumdrops was nearly empty. He could feel himself turning into his mother.

They sat down at halftime, plates balanced on knees. Mercer had assumed that because there was a gap in the action William might turn the television off, but he didn’t even turn it down, or look away. “Yams are terrific,” he said. Like reggae music and Amateur Night at the Apollo, soul food was one of William’s elective affinities with negritude. “I wish you wouldn’t stare at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I killed your puppy. I’m sorry if today fell short of whatever was in your head.”

Mercer hadn’t realized he’d been staring. He shifted his gaze to the tree, already desiccating in its aluminum stand. “It’s my first Christmas away from home,” he said. “If trying to preserve a few traditions makes me a fantasist, I guess I’m a fantasist.”

“Does it ever strike you as revealing that you still refer to it as ‘home’?” William dabbed a corner of his mouth with his napkin. His table manners, incongruous, beautiful, should have been an early clue. “We’re grown men, you know, Merce. We make our own traditions. Christmas could be twelve nights at the disco. We could eat oysters every day for lunch, if we wanted.”

Mercer couldn’t tell how much of this was sincere, and how much William was merely caught up in winning the argument. “Honestly, William, oysters?”

“Cards on the table, sweetheart. This is about that envelope you keep trying to shove into my field of vision, isn’t it?”

“Well, aren’t you going to open it?”

“Why would I? There’s nothing inside that’s going to make me feel better than I already do. God damn it!”

It took him a second to realize that William was talking to the football game, where some unpleasantness announced the start of the third quarter.

“Do you know what I think? I think you already know what’s in it.” As Mercer did himself, actually. Or at least he had his suspicions.

He went to pick up the envelope and held it toward the TV; a shadow nested tantalizingly within, like the secret at the heart of an X-ray. “I think it’s from your family,” he said.

“What I want to know is, how did it get here without a postmark?”

“What I want to know is, why is that such a threat?”

“I can’t talk to you when you get like this, Mercer.”

“Why am I not allowed to want things?”

“You know damn well that’s not what I said.”

Now it was Mercer’s turn to wonder how much he meant the words coming out of his mouth, and how much he just wanted to win. He could see in the margins the cookware, the shelf of alphabetized books, the tree, all physical accommodations William had made to him, it was true. But what about emotionally? Anyway, he’d said too much now to back down. “Here is what you want: your life stays just the same, while I twist myself around you like a vine.”

Pale points appeared on William’s cheeks, as they always did when the border between his inner and outer lives was breached. There was a second when he might have come flying across the coffeetable. And there was a second when Mercer might have welcomed it. It might have proven he was more important to William than his self-possession, and from grappling in anger, how easy it would have been to fall into that other, sweeter grappling. Instead, William reached for the new coat. “I’m going out.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“This is another thing we’re allowed to do, Mercer. We’re allowed to have time alone.”

But Solitas radix malorum est, Mercer would think later, looking back. The door closed, leaving him alone with the barely touched food. His appetite, too, had deserted him. There was something eschatological about the weak afternoon light, made weaker by the tree and the layer of soot that coated the window, and about the chill blown in through the crack he’d left open. Every time a truck passed, the frayed ends of the wine’s wicker sleeve trembled like the needles of some exquisite seismometer. Yes, everything, personally, world-historically, was breaking down. He pretended for a while to distract himself with the flux of jerseys onscreen. Really, though, he’d snuck back into his skull with tiny wrenches to make the kinds of adjustments that would allow him to continue living this way, with a boyfriend who would walk out on you on Christmas Day.

2

LATELY CHARLIE WEISBARGER, age seventeen, had been spending a lot of time on appearances. He wasn’t vain, he didn’t think, nor did he particularly dig his own, but the prospect of seeing Sam again kept sucking him back toward the mirror. Which was funny: love was supposed to carry you out beyond your own borders, but somehow his love for her—like the music he’d discovered that summer, or the purposeful derangement of his senses—had only ended up casting him back on the shores of himself. It was as if the universe was trying to teach him some lesson. The challenge, he guessed, was to refuse to learn.

He took an album from the stack by the stereo and put a penny on the stylus to keep it from skipping. The first Ex Post Facto LP, from ’74. Bonus trivia: released only months before the band’s breakup, it had also been the last. As power chords ripped through the speakers, he fetched a round black box from the closet shelf to which he’d banished the getups of his childhood. Dust clung to the lid, like skin on cold soup. Instead of clearing off when he blew on it, it swirled up and got all in his mouth, so he wiped the rest off with the nearest thing to hand, an old batting glove scrunched scrotally against the base of his nightstand.

Though he knew what was inside the box, the sight of Grandpa’s black fur hat never failed to send a jolt of lonesomeness right through him, like stumbling on a nest from which birds have flown. The Old Country Hat, Mom had called it—as in, David, does he have to wear the Old Country Hat again? But for Charlie, it would always be the Manhattan Hat, the one Grandpa had worn a couple Decembers ago when they’d ridden into the City, just the two of them. Their cover story was a Rangers game, but what he’d made Charlie swear to keep his trap shut about was that they were going to the Radio City Christmas Spectacular instead. Brusque as hell, the old Bialystoker had been, shoving through the crowds. Honestly, Charlie didn’t see why all the cloak-and-dagger: no one was going to believe his grandpa would pay to see those shiksa hoofers anyway. Afterward, for an hour, maybe, they’d stood above the rink at Rockefeller Center, watching people skate. Charlie was underdressed for the cold but knew better than to complain. Finally, Grandpa reached over and opened his knobbly fist. Inside, embalmed in wax paper, was a butterscotch candy Charlie had no idea how he’d come by, like the last heirloom smuggled out of a war zone, more precious for having been hidden.

The truth was, Grandpa was feeling sorry for him. Since the miraculous birth of Charlie’s twin brothers, no one was supposed to acknowledge the fact that the older son was being shunted aside, but Grandpa meant to atone—a frankness Charlie appreciated. He’d asked to go to Montreal for Hanukkah this year, but Mom and Grandpa still blamed each other for Dad’s dying. So it was like two deaths, almost. All Charlie was left with was the hat.

He was surprised to find now that Grandpa’s huge head had been no bigger than his own. He posed in his closet-door mirror, three-quarters, right profile. It was hard to tell how he’d look to Sam, because other than the hat, he was wearing only briefs and a tee-shirt, and also because shifting fogs of allure and disgust seemed to interpose themselves between Charlie and the glass. His long white limbs and the goyish down on his cheeks sparked a hormonal flicker, but then these days so could the rumble of a schoolbus seat, the scent of baby oil, certain provocatively shaped items of produce. And his asthma was a problem. His Clamato-red hair was a problem. He tugged the hat down, filled his birdy chest with air. He shifted his stance to conceal the zit sprouting from his right thigh. (Was it even possible to get a zit on your thigh?) He checked himself against the photo on the LP sleeve: three artless men, skinny like himself, and one scary-looking transvestite. He wasn’t sure he could picture the hat on any of them, but no matter; he found it beautiful.

Besides, he had picked it specifically for its violation of the canons of taste. In the broad and average middle of broad and average Long Island, 1976 had been the year of après-ski. The idea was to look like you’d tackled a slalom course on the way to school: acrylic sweaters and knit caps and quilted down jackets with lift-passes clipped to the zippers. These passes, gone a poignant off-season yellow, were the only way Charlie knew the names of the resorts; his tribe, as a rule, did not ski. And Grandpa’s hat … well, he might as well have gone around in a powdered wig. But that was the point of punk, Sam had taught him. To rebel. To overturn. Memories of their illicit summer, those dozen-plus trips to the City before Mom had ruined the whole thing, stirred deliciously inside him, as they had last week when he’d picked up the phone to find Sam on the other end. But how quickly pleasure sank back into the customary slurry of feelings: the mix of nerviness and regret, like something he both was and wasn’t ready to let go of was about to be taken from him.

He flipped to side two, in case there was a riff he’d somehow missed or some nuance of phrasing he’d failed to memorize. Brass Tactics, the record was called. It was Sam’s favorite; she’d been gaga over the singer, the small guy in the leather jacket and Mohawk flashing the middle finger from the sleeve. Now it was Charlie’s favorite, too. This fall he’d listened to it over and over again, assenting to it as he’d assented to nothing since Ziggy Stardust. Yes, he too was lonely. Yes, he too had known pain. Yes, he had lain on his side on the attic floor the afternoon of Dad’s funeral and listened to the hot wind in the trees outside and Yes, he had heard the leaves turning brown and had wondered, really, if there was any point to anything at all. Yes, he had sat that year with one leg out the attic window and watched his skull burst like a waterballoon on the cracked concrete of the drive, but, Yes, he’d held himself back for a reason, and maybe this was the reason. He’d discovered Ex Post Facto too late to see them play live, but now the band had reconstituted itself for a New Year’s show, with some guy Sam knew replacing Billy Three-Sticks on vocals, she’d said, and some kind of pyrotechnics planned for the finale. This “some guy” rankled, but hadn’t she just admitted to needing him—meaning Charlie?

Snow was collecting on the windowsill as he made a last pass through his dresser. Shivering was unmanly, and he was determined not to be cold. On the other hand, his long johns made him look sexless, and when Sam unzipped his pants tonight—when they found themselves alone in the moonlit room of his imaginings (the same eventuality for which he’d pocketed an aging Trojan, sized magnum)—he didn’t want to blow it. He decided, as a compromise, to wear pajama bottoms under his jeans. They’d make the jeans look tighter, like he was the fifth Ramone. He took a long pull on his inhaler, turned off the stereo, and shouldered the bag.

Upstairs, his mother was scrubbing dishes. The twins sat on the curling linoleum near her feet, shuttling a toy back and forth. A Matchbox car, Charlie saw, with an action figure rubber-banded like luggage to the roof. “He sick,” Izzy volunteered. Abe made a “Woo, woo” ambulance sound. Charlie scowled. Mom had now been alerted to his presence, and he couldn’t imagine deceit wouldn’t be written all over him when she turned around. Then he noticed the coil of wire stretching from her head to the wall-mounted phone. “Is that you, honey?” she said. And, into the phone: “He’s just come in.” He would have asked who she was talking to, except he already knew.

“Yeah, I’m off,” he said carefully.

She had pinned the receiver between shoulder and chin. Her arms kept up their ablutions over the sink’s steaming water. “Did you need a ride?”

“It’s just Mickey’s house. It’s walkable.”

“This snow’s supposed to get worse before it gets better.”

“Mom, I’m fine.”

“Guess we’ll see you next year, then.”

The joke baffled him for a moment, as it did annually, like the first girl to pinch him on St. Patrick’s Day. Even after he got it, a bitter liquid seemed to have flooded his throat. What he really wanted was precisely for her to turn and look and try to stop him. But why? He was just sneaking off for the night, and would be back by dawn, and nothing was going to change, because nothing ever changed.

Outside, free from the complex binding charms of the house, his movements came easier. He retrieved his bike from the side of the garage and hid the overnight bag behind the heating unit. It held a decoy wad of dirty laundry harvested from his bedroom floor. The snow was coming thicker now and had begun to stick to the pavement, a textureless sheet of waxed paper. His tires slicked great black arcs behind him. When he passed under a streetlamp, a monster swelled on the earth ahead: spindly at the bottom, huge of shoulder and mane (his lumpy jacket, his furry hat). He rode on, narrowing his eyes against the daggers of snow.

Downtown Flower Hill, despite the Village Council’s best efforts, couldn’t quite outrun what it was. By day, it counterfeited a down-at-heel urbanity—there was a florist, a bridal parlor, a not-very-good record shop—but at night, the lit-up storefronts blazed the coordinates of the town’s real urgencies. Massage. Tattoos. Gun and Pawn. Outside an empty deli, an animatronic Santa pivoted stiffly in time with “Jingle Bells,” its legs chained to a fence. Charlie, unable to feel his hands anymore, stopped and went in to bolt some coffee. It was just hitting him ten minutes later, when he stowed his bike under some bushes at the station. He would really have to remember to get a lock.

He found Sam waiting in a cone of light at the far end of the platform. It had been half a year since he’d seen her, but he could tell from the way she gnawed the thumbnail of her cigarette hand that something was eating her. (Or anyway, he should’ve been able to tell, via their telepathic connection. How many nights since his grounding had he stayed awake talking with her in his head? But when you got right down to it, telepathy, gnosis, and all the other superpowers he’d at various times imagined himself to have did not exist. No one in real life could see through walls. No one (he would think later, after what happened happened) would be able to reverse time’s arrow.) Amazingly, she didn’t see him slip on the snow as he hurried over. Even when he was practically on top of her, she continued to stare up at the lunar face of the station clock and the white flakes vanishing there. He wanted to put an arm around her, but the angle of their bodies being off, he settled for punching her shoulder—which came out weak, not at all the sign of affection it would have been from hands more practiced than his own, so he turned it into a little dance, punching the air, pretending to have only accidentally hit her. ’Ey! ’O! Let’s go! And finally, she turned to him the face that had been withheld for so long: the burning dark eyes, the upturned nose with its hoop of silver, and the mouth made for the movies, slightly too wide, from which her smoke-coarsened voice—her best thing—now came. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve been keeping busy.”

“I thought you were grounded, Charlie.”

“That, too.”

She reached for the fur hat. Charlie’s cheeks burned as she inspected the self-inflicted hair trauma that had led indirectly to his exile. You look like a mental patient, his mother had said. It had grown back, mostly. Meantime, Sam had done a thing to her own hair, chopping it boyishly short and dyeing it from amber to black. She was almost as tall as Charlie, and with a dark blazer hiding her curves, she looked like Patti Smith on the cover of Horses—their second-favorite album. Though who knew what she listened to now that she’d gone off to college in the City. Asked about dorm life, she said it was a drag. He offered the hat. “You wanna wear it? It’s warm.”

“It’s only been fifteen minutes.”

“The road’s pretty slick. And I had to stop for coffee. Sorry no car.” He never mentioned how terrible her chain-smoking was for his asthma, and she, reciprocally, now pretended not to notice him suck down a chemical lungful from the dorky inhaler. “My mom thinks I’m staying at Mickey Sullivan’s, which tells you what planet she’s on.” But Sam had already turned to where the track curved into darkness. A light glided toward them like a cool white slider homing in on the plate. The 8:33 to Penn Station. In a few hours the ball would drop over Times Square and men and women all over New York would turn to whoever was nearest for an innocent kiss, or a not-so-innocent. He pretended the tightness in his chest as they boarded was just caffeine. “Like I care what Mickey thinks anyway. That jerk won’t even like nod at me in the lunchroom anymore.” The three of them—Mickey, Charlie, and Samantha—should have been in the same class at the high school. But Sam’s terrifying dad, the fireworks genius, had sent her to the nuns for elementary, and then to private school in New York proper. It must have worked; Sam was only six months older, but had been smart enough to skip sixth grade, and was now at NYU. Whereas he and Mickey were C students, and no longer friends. Maybe he should have found someone more willing to serve as tonight’s alibi, actually, because if Mom called the Sullivans in the a.m. to thank them (not that she would remember, but if), he’d be in big trouble, a ripe steaming mound of it. And what if she found out where he’d gotten the money to cover two round-trips into the City? He’d be locked in his room till like 1980. “You got the tickets?”

“I thought you were buying,” she said.

“I mean for Ex Post Facto.”

She pulled a crumpled flier from her pocket. “It’s Ex Nihilo now. Different frontman, different name.” For a moment, her mood seemed to darken. “But anyway, this isn’t the opera. It’s not like a ticketed event.”

He followed her down the aisle, under fluttery lights, waiting as long as possible before reminding her that he couldn’t sit backward, on account of his stomach. Again, her face grew pinched; he worried for a second he’d already jinxed their (he couldn’t help thinking) date. But she’d pushed the door open and was leading him toward the next car.

The LIRR belonged to kids that night. Even the grown-ups were kids. There were few enough of them that each little band of revelers could leave several rows of Bicentennial red-and-blue seats on each side as a buffer. They talked much louder than adults would have, and you could tell it was meant to be overheard, as a means of preemption, a way of saying, I am not afraid of you. Charlie wondered how many Nassau County moms tonight had no idea where their kids were—how many mothers had simply granted them their freedom. As soon as the conductor had passed through, beers began to circulate. Someone had a transistor radio, but the speaker was cruddy, and at that volume all you could hear was a voice moaning hornily. Probably Led Zeppelin, whose Tolkienish noodlings had been the soundtrack of the carwash where Charlie had worked freshman year, but which he’d renounced last summer after Sam dismissed Robert Plant as a crypto-misogynist show pony.