SEA OF TRANQUILLITY

1961

James Griffon sat astride his Indian Chief motorcycle, a lit cigarette clamped between his lips, his gloved hand cranking the throttle. Through the black lenses of his sunglasses the asphalt road looked almost invisible, as though he sped across a strip of interstellar space. The evening was warm, but he’d snapped his leather jacket up to his throat, giving his already bulky body an extra layer of heft.

James turned left onto Elm Street, his broad tires hugging the pavement. He’d cut through this neighborhood dozens of times—and so was astonished to find himself barreling down the route of a children’s tricycle race. He noticed too late that a few of the orange cones placed at the intersection were already skipping and tumbling away behind him. Fortunately, the crowd must have heard him coming because the children, pedaling frantically, swerved left and right off the route, urged on by their parents who lined the grassy curbs shrieking, hopping, and flailing their arms. By the time James had hit the brakes, skidded his bike to a halt, and brought the engine down to a grumbling idle, a few onlookers had recovered from their initial shock and now turned angry faces on him.

James rose to his feet, held up his hand, and addressed the assembled citizens.

“Friends!” he cried. “Neighbors! Fellow Aikenites!”

The crowd halted, frozen in place. For a long moment no one stirred. Then a tricycle dropped crashing out of a tree and somersaulted into the street. The people flinched, turned to regard the fallen toy, then brought their eyes back to James.

“Allow me to express my deepest regret for barging in on your little game,” James continued, chuckling. “You see I had no idea—”

“Bullshit!” croaked a voice from the same tree that had dislodged the tricycle. Again all heads turned in unison.

“Darryl!” cried a man in powder blue slacks. “I told you not to use that kind of language. Get down from there, son, before I tan your sorry hide.”

The leaves rustled, then parted, revealing a skinny teenager crouched on a sagging limb. He wore snug-fitting pajamas, a propeller cap, and cradled an air rifle in one arm. The crowd gasped.

“Don’t you talk to me that way, Daddy!” he shouted. “No more! No more!”

The man turned back to James, smiled sheepishly. “Darryl’s a mite confused,” he said sadly. “Time was, he’d ride in this race himself. A darn good tricyclist he was, too, by God, and that’s a fact. Won every year he entered. But, hell, you can’t live out your glory days forever. Ever since he aged himself out of competition he’s watched from up there in that tree. First time he’s ever brought a gun with him, though.”

“No more! No more! No more! No more!” the boy chanted—then unleashed a horrendous screech, bounced gleefully up and down on the limb, and began firing into the crowd.

“Run!” everyone shouted. “Take cover! Run for your lives!”

Too stunned to move, James stood straddling his bike in the middle of the street and watched as the whole block emptied in a matter of seconds. When the last door had slammed and the only sounds remaining were the rattle of window glass and the rustling of the leaves, James turned once more to Darryl. The boy’s rifle pointed straight at James’ head.

“You’re next, hot shot,” Darryl sneered, then giggled and pulled the trigger.

James ducked, heard the pellet ping off his footpeg, then cranked the throttle anew. His tires squealed. In his rearview mirror he saw Darryl hop to the ground, brandish the rifle over his head, then spin on his heel and lope away toward one of the houses.

A few minutes later James pulled to the curb of Evelyn’s front yard. He managed to thrust the kickstand down without toppling the bike, then dismounted and stepped up onto the grass.

He looked at the house. The yellow clapboard gleamed, as did the red door and shutters, and the window boxes and border gardens exploded with vivid blossoms. Ivy leaves bristled on the trellis. In a tall pine nearby, a hunching blue jay delivered its distinctive cry: “Whongee, whongee! Jay! Jay! Jay! Hit ’m a lick! Hit ’m a lick!”

James knocked three times on the door, then coughed and rubbed his brow. He removed his sunglasses. Then the door swung suddenly inward.

The strangest looking man he’d ever seen loomed before him in the entrance. Alarmingly tall, his head tipped forward to clear the frame, he resembled a fairy tale giant set down in the wrong story. James dropped his eyes to the man’s shoes—elaborately tooled cowboy boots with gleaming silver toe rands—then cautiously brought them back up. The man wore high-waisted blue jeans, a white shirt, and a braided Texas string tie.

When at last James spoke, he addressed the silver tie slide—a miniature longhorn steer skull with red jewels mounted in the sockets—glowering at him from the man’s collar. “Hello, sir,” he said. “I’m here to pick up Evelyn.”

The man frowned. “Enter, boy,” he said in a deep, rough voice. “Let’s have a look at you.”

James stepped through the door and into the cluttered living room. Bookcases lined the walls, stuffed with imposing volumes of history and science, as well as scattered stacks of National Geographics. A mammoth rolltop stood open in one corner. At the far end of the room, just above an archway leading into the kitchen, a grotesque wooden mask hung from a nail, its features frozen in an expression of ecstatic horror. Its few teeth, streaked and discolored, were clearly carved from authentic ivory.

The man sat James in a straight chair, then circled around and lowered himself onto the sofa directly opposite. On the coffee table between them stood a Newton’s Cradle—a small rectangular frame with a row of silver balls inside, dangling on slender threads. The man reached forward, took the first ball in line between his fingers, pulled it back, and dropped it. The ball swung down and struck the next, causing the one on the far end to jump, setting in motion a chain reaction. As the balls clicked back and forth, the man, now grinning faintly, leveled his gaze at James.

“Um,” James said at last. “Will Evelyn be ready soon?”

“Haste, boy,” said the man, “is the enemy of good manners.”

“Yes, sir.”

Again they lapsed into silence. James fidgeted under the man’s unblinking stare. He tried half-heartedly to smile.

“There’s a wind!” the man shouted, so suddenly that James flinched. “A wind, boy, in which the balance of positive and negative ions is dangerously upset. A man caught in such a wind, it’s said, grows vulnerable to all manner of irrational behavior. A witches’ wind—”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of that,” James said. “In California—”

“This wind,” said the man, sweeping the air with his palm, “is found all over the world.”

A woman appeared in the archway bearing a tray of teacups. James sprang to his feet, bowed awkwardly.

“Why, hello,” the woman said, her eyes twinkling. “You must be James.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m Claire, Evelyn’s mother. Tea?”

“Thank you.”

She turned and lowered the tray in her husband’s direction. “I declare, Richard, if you boys didn’t make such a thunderous racket, I mightn’t have known he’d arrived!”

“We’ve got company,” Richard muttered.

Claire sighed. “Don’t mind him, James. He’s about as civilized as Long John Silver.”

James laughed, then caught Richard glaring at him and choked it off. He sat down and sipped his tea.

“I’ll leave you two to get further acquainted,” Claire said. “Evelyn won’t be another minute, James. She simply can’t tear herself away from the mirror!”

James nodded. “The tea’s delicious, Mrs. Stokes. Thanks again.”

When Claire had returned to the kitchen, Richard slurped down his tea, placed the cup on an end table, and resumed sizing up James. “So what is it you do, exactly?” he said.

“I go to high school, sir.”

Richard grunted. “But surely you have some profession in mind? For the future?”

“Yes, sir. Poetry. I guess I’m a poet.”

Richard’s face assumed the hardened look of one stridently unamused. “Good Lord,” he said.

At that moment, Evelyn came bounding into the room dressed in a white blouse, pleated skirt, bobby socks, and saddle shoes. She wore a pink ribbon in her hair and carried a matching pink cardigan sweater. Richard looked up as she swooped in behind James and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Hi there, handsome,” she said, giggling. “Isn’t he handsome, Daddy? Doesn’t he look exactly like Robert Mitchum?”

Richard gazed steadily into James’ eyes. “The Night of the Hunter,” he said, grinning eerily again. “That’s a good one.”

Claire reappeared in the archway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “You kids have fun!” she cried. “Don’t stay out too late.”

“Midnight,” Richard said. “Not a minute after.”

James nodded, rose from the straight chair, and held out his arm for Evelyn.

Evelyn clutched him tightly by the sleeve. “So dashing,” she said, and blew her parents a kiss.

As soon as they were safely through the door and walking across the yard toward his bike, James turned to Evelyn and sighed. “No offense,” he said, “but I think your old man’s got a couple of screws loose.”

Evelyn swatted him on the shoulder. “You’re one to talk,” she said. “Anyhow, you’ve got it all wrong. He’s just a big teddy bear once you get to know him.”

“Grizzly or Kodiak?”

Evelyn unsnapped her purse, drew out a checkered scarf, and wrapped it snugly around her head. She knotted the corners beneath her chin. “Take it easy, big boy,” she said. “You don’t want to lose me before we’ve even left the house.”

“No, no. Of course not. Hey, you look terrific.”

Evelyn gestured toward the bike. “Why don’t you crank this baby up and show me what it can do?”

James grinned. “Brace yourself,” he said.

Soon they were rocketing through the neighborhood, Evelyn pressed against James’ back, hugging him around the waist. Now and then, over the roar of the engine and the hissing of the wind, she let out sharp cries of delight. James, naturally, found the whole arrangement utterly intoxicating.

He cranked the throttle to full power.

The ride ended when he saw the movie theater approaching and felt Evelyn pounding him on the spine.

“James!” she cried. “For God’s sake!”

He leaned hard into the parking lot, swerved in and out through several rows of cars, then stopped short on a rough strip of pavement alongside the building’s brick wall. He cut the engine.

“Well!” Evelyn exclaimed, leaping sideways off the bike and stumbling to regain her balance. “I believe you just broke every law in the book!”

James rubbed his brow with the back of his wrist. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I got distracted. That happens to me sometimes.”

Evelyn glared at him, hands on her hips. “From now on, would you please not let it happen when our lives are at stake?”

“Absolutely.”

Evelyn sighed. “Come on,” she said, tugging his sleeve. “Let’s go inside.”

Rounding the corner, they found the facade ablaze with flickering lights. Red neon bordered panels of bulbs arranged in fanciful, swirling patterns. A vertical sign above, in letters that switched on one at a time, then flashed quickly in unison, read: The GASLIGHT. On the marquee overhanging the box office ran the words:

HALLOWEEN IN APRIL
“BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN”
ONE NITE ONLY! BEWARE!

After buying their tickets, James swung the front door back with a flourish and guided Evelyn into the atrium. Towering columns supported a vaulted ceiling festooned with cherubs and gargoyles. Two grand staircases, padded with crimson carpet, ascended along each side wall. Between these, a line of brass double doors led into the auditorium beyond. A massive chandelier, suspended from the center of the dome overhead, flooded the room with light.

Evelyn sighed, her eyes glittering. “I never quite get over this place,” she said.

“They don’t make ’em like they used to,” James agreed. “We live in an age of vertiginous decline.”

Beneath a sheet of glass in a framed wall display, a promotional poster for the film hung pinned on corkboard. Karloff’s head floated in a burning stream of the Bride’s hair while Mary Shelley hovered nearby. The tagline read: “THE MONSTER DEMANDS A MATE!”

They turned and mounted the staircase to the balcony.

From their seats in the front row, they enjoyed a panoramic view of the theater—luxury boxes, vast stage, orchestra pit, proscenium. The people filing in, dressed in T-shirts and blue jeans, looked scruffy and out of place by comparison. But it was the ceiling, dome-shaped to match the atrium and meticulously painted with swarms of children orbiting a radiant sunburst, that most commanded their attention.

Then the lights dimmed and a clicking whir sounded from the projection booth.

The movie rolled. Mad scientists plotted, damsels screamed, and the Monster lumbered inexorably to his doom.

Later, as the lights came back up, cheers erupted from the crowd.

When they emerged again onto the sidewalk, evening had turned into night. A flock of pale stars speckled the sky above their heads. Arm in arm, they made their way back to the bike, climbed aboard, and roared away toward the high school.

James took care this time to keep his eyes on the road, to give Evelyn a smooth and pleasant ride.

The streets and fields surrounding the gymnasium swarmed with students. Rich boys glided their fathers’ Studebakers through the crowd, greasers dragged their girlfriends out from beneath the stadium seats, and a fat man in a tweed suit stood waving his clipboard near the brightly-lit entrance. Engines and radios blared. Everyone moved like shadows through a haze of pungent exhaust.

James parked at one corner of the building. As he and Evelyn walked toward the door, a tall boy in a varsity letter jacket stepped in front of them, blocking their path.

“Hey, Griffon,” he said, poking James on the collarbone. “Didn’t figure you’d show up here. How’d a freak show like you manage to find a date, huh?”

“Buzz off, Louis.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. I just assumed you’d rather be here with me, that’s all. All the other girls do.” He turned to Evelyn. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Evelyn grinned. “No,” she said. “I prefer a man with a brain in his head—not in his pants.”

Louis’ face grew red and contorted with anger. He seized James by the coat. “You’d better learn to keep your piece in line!” he shouted. Then he slammed James against the wall, pinned him there with one hand, and with the other slugged him square in the face. As James crumpled to the ground, Louis squatted and made an obscene sucking sound with his mouth. Then he stood up, laughing, and strutted away.

When James came to a few seconds later, his head rested in Evelyn’s lap. She knelt over him, stroking his hair. He waved her off and sat up.

Deeply woozy, he blinked several times, took a deep breath, then gingerly touched his burning left eye. “Ugh,” he said.

“Oh, James. Are you all right?”

“I’m not sure. How do I look?”

“You’re going to have one heck of a shiner.”

He sighed, then managed a chuckle. “Well, maybe in some cosmic sense I deserved it,” he said.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

He shrugged. “Just trying to take a broader view.”

They gathered themselves, rose to their feet, and set off once more toward the entrance.

Inside, the gymnasium—decked out to illustrate the theme “Dancing to the Moon”—glowed with blue and purple light. Tinfoil stars dangled from the rafters, as did an enormous medicine ball coated with silver glitter. Cotton clouds partially enveloped the basketball goals.

At the far end of the room, the makeshift stage stood empty except for three guitars mounted upright on stands, a stack of amplifiers, a single microphone, and a drum kit. Across the skin of the bass drum, in elegant cursive, ran the words: “The Canaries.”

Clumps of students moved restlessly about, shuffling and murmuring.

“Looks like the band’s taking five,” said James.

“I’m going back to the kitchen to find you some ice,” Evelyn said. “Your eye’s swelling up something awful.”

“Don’t be silly.” He led her over to a row of folding chairs beside the retractable bleachers. “Just have a seat here and wait while I get us some punch.”

“I do believe you’ve already had enough punch.”

James grinned ruefully. “Rapier wit,” he said.

He made his way through the crowd. His eye throbbed mercilessly, but he’d determined to behave as though nothing had happened. The startled double-takes and occasional gasps, therefore, did not penetrate his steely resolve.

He reached the refreshment table. There behind the cut-glass bowl, a crystal ladle in her hand, stood Joan Armstrong.

Everyone knew Joan’s story. Once a beautiful young girl, she’d been persuaded at age thirteen by a clutch of older boys to smoke a lit firecracker like a cigarette. Now her face looked like a crater. Her mouth wouldn’t close properly, making speech awkward. She’d lost some teeth. Her nose lay flat and whistled as she breathed. Her scar-lined skin, which had been stretched tight to close over the wounds, gave her eyes an expression of permanent alarm.

“Quite a night, isn’t it, James?”

A fresh stab of pain shot through his eye. “It is,” he said.

Joan handed him a glass of punch, then smiled. “Are you here with anyone?” she asked.

“Um, yes. Evelyn Stokes.”

“Oh,” said Joan, pouring a second glass. “She sure is pretty.”

“That’s true. Thank you, Joan.”

“You’re a lucky man, James Griffon.”

He nodded. “I feel lucky,” he said.

But when he returned to Evelyn and sat down beside her, his mood had shifted. He hunched glumly in his chair, sipping his punch.

“Are you all right?” Evelyn asked.

James shrugged.

“Is it your eye?”

He shrugged again.

“Oh, James, you’re not going to act like a boob, are you?”

He was saved by the appearance of the band. Four youths in lemon blazers and wrap-around sunglasses stepped onto the stage, their bulbous pompadours shellacked with gleaming pomade. They took up their instruments and launched into a funky, ethereal, jazz-inflected version of a tune he couldn’t quite place until the three guitarists leaned into the microphone and crooned in startling but perfect harmony:

“It was an itsy bitsy teenie weenie
Yellow polka-dot bikini
That she wore for the first time today.”

“Ooh, I love this song,” Evelyn cried, jumping up from her chair. “Come on!”

“I’m not much of a dancer.”

“I don’t care. Come on anyway.”

James sighed, followed Evelyn out onto the floor, squeezed his eyes shut, and, with gathering fury, lurched himself around like a puppet.