Mrs. Mendelson, slow-stepping up the sidewalk, paused and smiled. “Gut, gut,” she squeaked.

We walked into Arch’s. It was early and only a few people were there. One of them was Amy. She was sitting alone in a back booth, writing a letter.

Carter called to her, “Hey, Amy.”

She looked up, first to Carter, then to me. She saw the girls and a shudder of surprise touched on her face. She tried to smile, but the smile faded quickly. She got up and walked past us and out of Arch’s. She did not speak.

“Look, girls, why don’t you grab that booth back there?” Carter said. “We’ll get some Cokes and be right there with you.”

The girls dipped their heads in agreement and walked away. Carter whispered, “I think you just screwed up, Bobo.”

“What?”

“With Amy. She was pissed. I could tell.”

“Why?”

“I was wrong, Bobo. I hate to say it, but I was,” Carter sighed. “She’s got a thing for you.”

“Me?”

We were at the counter of the soda fountain. Carter said to Jeannie Ellis, who was Arch’s daughter and occasional counter girl, “Four Cokes, Jeannie, and a pack of Marlboros. Put it on Harry Burger’s bill.”

“Sure,” Jeannie replied. “He was in earlier. Said to give you whatever you wanted.”

“Make it a carton of Marlboros,” Carter said, “but, Jeannie, do me a favor: make it show up as sandwiches or something.”

Jeannie smiled. “Sure.” She reached for the glasses on a rack behind her.

“What do you mean, she has a thing for me?” I said to Carter.

Carter looked at me sadly. “You stupid, dumb redneck hick. The most beautiful woman you’ll ever see is dragging around like she’s got lead in her ass because of you, and you’re out with Miss Ugly of Nineteen Fifty-five.”

“It was your idea, not mine,” I reminded him.

“So, I was wrong again,” Carter said. “Sue me. Jesus, Bobo, it’s been a year since I saw them. I thought they might improve.” He took the carton of cigarettes from Jeannie and tucked them under his arm and then he picked up two of the Cokes. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

It was a night I remember only in pain. In a private whisper as we were getting into his car to drive to Margaretville, Carter offered me his twenty dollars to kiss Charlotte—fifty if I would touch her breasts. I told him. “If there’s any kissing going on, you can do it, and you know where you can start.” He laughed maniacally.

We attended a movie in Margaretville, then drove to the base of the ski lift at Belleayre Mountain and walked in the cool air under a full moon that was like a lamp dimmed for sleeping. Carter told absurd stories about me—that Harry had almost persuaded me to convert to Judaism, that I was a great-grandson of a Confederate general who had fought at Gettysburg and lost his leg, and that my ambition in life was to be a country music star like the great Little Jimmy Dickens. He begged me to sing for them. I refused. “He’s shy,” Carter explained to the girls. “He knows nobody can understand him, so he doesn’t say much.” He looked at me and winked and he added, “You’d think his mind was somewhere else, wouldn’t you?”