Public School 38 was on fire. No it wasn’t.

If. If Mingus Rude could be kept in this place, kept somehow in Dylan’s pocket, in his stinging, smudgy hands, then summer wouldn’t give way to whatever came after. If. If. Fat chance. Summer on Dean Street had lasted one day and that day was over, it was dark out, had been for hours. The Williamsburg Savings Bank tower clock read nine-thirty in red-and-blue neon. Final score, a million to nothing. The million-dollar kid.

Your school wasn’t on fire, you were.

– and now Major Amberson was engaged in the profoundest thinking of his life she found herself quoting in her hospital bed at Long Island College Hospital on Henry Street, where the television bolted to the ceiling showing Ryan’s Hope and The Gong Show had to stand for a hearth, brutally angry and brutally fat Jamaican nurses for her lonely company, her vigil. She’d die in Brooklyn Heights instead of Boerum Hill because Boerum Hill had a jail instead of a hospital- and Major Amberson realized that everything which had worried or delighted him during this lifetime, all this buying and building -and not in her bed beneath her parlor ceiling because the oar had dented her, crushed her, folded her like a letter into the envelope of herself, unread for fifty-two years. Unreadable medically now, at the end: she’d watched the interns puzzling at her X rays-how can this be nestled beside this? How can old Vendle fit into herself, how’d she do it, all these years? Her body was Boerum Hill, just as King Arthur’s body had been England. She was all of Boerum Hill’s contradictions crushed together: she was the Schlitz can in the brown paper sack sitting in the plaster-and-marble nook for turning coffins in the curve of stairwell in the nineteenth-century town house. She was a jail in the shadow of which boys frolicked. Everything which had delighted him, all this buying and building, that it was all trifling and wasted, for the Major knew-

Two visitors had come. Croft, of course, who’d stayed a week in her basement room and visited the hospital every day, plaguing her with small packages of inedible curative food, ferrying in Temporary Kings and Hearing Secret Harmonies, the last volumes of the Powell, drawing glares from the furious Jamaicans for rinsing her bedpan in the bathroom and for his earnest, pointless questions regarding her care. Then, at her request, he’d taken the orange cat with him to Indiana. She wished the orange cat luck. It might perhaps serve as conscience for the rural commune, its missing moral center. Croft had shaven or grown a beard-Isabel couldn’t focus except on her own irritation, centering somewhere around his mouth. Croft would get the house. He’d sell it, she didn’t want to conjecture to whom. Isabel found she couldn’t read the Powell now, couldn’t make it work, couldn’t operate the sentences. She watched The Gong Show instead. There was an act, a comic with a paper bag on his head, whom she rather liked: Take that, Anthony Powell!

Isabel’s second visitor, Rachel Ebdus, had also brought a book, which Isabel regarded in astonishment: Woman on the Edge of Time. Really, imagine calling oneself “Marge Piercy”! Isabel had smiled and turned her wrist as she was learning to do-that small slackening, that relinquishing, rehearsal for the deeper operation-turned her wrist and let the book drop to the floor, then whispered more faintly than was required that Rachel should put it on the bedside table. She enjoyed playing at dying while she was dying. You fool, she’d wanted to say, I don’t read women authors.

Rachel Ebdus had been crying. She and her recluse filmmaker were surely fighting again. The woman had something she wanted to say but Isabel Vendle decided to invoke the petty majesty of the near-dead and prevent her saying it. It’s enough that you’ll inherit my Dean Street, beatnik child. Don’t come here to inter your woes in my dying heart.

Rachel Ebdus was talking but it was as distant to Isabel Vendle as footprints on the moon.

“I might go,” she heard the young woman say.

“Yes,” Isabel said. “That’s best. Go.” If Rachel Ebdus were on television singing this song of woe Isabel would have long since “gonged” her- the Major knew that now he had to plan how to enter an unknown country, one where he was not even sure of being recognized as an Amberson -

Then she was alone, Rachel Ebdus discouraged, Croft scooted back to Indiana. Boerum Hill was what it was-partial, recalcitrant, corrupt-and whatever it would next become it could manage without Isabel Vendle’s help. Let it be carved up, let it be forgotten, let it be forgiven. We must be of the sun, she thought, irritated at herself for continuing to quote, so late in the game, there wasn’t anything here but the sun in the first place, the earth came out of the sun, we came out of the earth -in her last dream Simon Boerum, the old drunk, came to her and rowed her to the shore of Vendle’s Hard, both oars secure in his hand, so whatever we are, we must come from the sun -

Gong!

Fifth grade was fourth grade with something wrong. Nothing changed outright. Instead it teetered. You’d pushed futility at Public School 38 so long by then you expected the building itself would be embarrassed and quit. The ones who couldn’t read still couldn’t, the teachers were teaching the same thing for the fifth time now and refusing to meet your eyes, some kids had been left back twice and were the size of janitors. The place was a cage for growing, nothing else. School lunch turned out to be the five-year plan, the going concern. You couldn’t be left back from fish sticks and sloppy joes. You’d retain at the least two thousand half-pint containers of vitamin D-enriched chocolate milk.

Two black guys from the projects, twins, were actually named Ronald and Donald MacDonald. The twins themselves only shrugged, couldn’t be made to agree it was incredible.

Chinese kids wouldn’t go to the bathroom all day, they lived that much in their own world.

At home, Rachel Ebdus’s telephone was ringing unanswered.

You met zones everywhere. The schoolyard was neighborhoods: black, black girl, Puerto Rican, basketball, handball, left behind. Through the Cyclone fence someone had brushed the word FLAMBOYAN in white paint on the stone wall, along with a square box for a strike zone.

Bruce Lee was famous now that he was dead.

A game of tap-it-in took place above the ground, in moments. Between jumps you weren’t playing. You were inert, copping an attitude.

Black girls had a language of partial words, chants harder to learn than anything in class. There was a general noise at the edges you’d begun to detect, akin to indecipherable ballpoint desktop-gougings. A scribbled voice.

The first few times someone said Hey, white boy it sounded like a mistake. You had to be guided into the new relation by the girls, the boys were actually a little shy about it.

Wrong sneakers, wrong shoes, wrong length of pants. Highwaters.

Where’s the flood?

What you laughin’ at, fool?

Dang. Boy’s laughin’ at his own self.

From I.S. 293 or from nowhere, from the projects, older kids bunched at the school entrances and in corners of the yard. Previous fifth graders had been a layer between. Now you were the layer. Robert Woolfolk was among one of those regular bunches, the precocious paper-bag drinkers. Even standing in one place Robert Woolfolk moved like a sprained knee, like he was forever angling a too-small bike around the corner of Nevins. He flashed a smile like a torn photograph, his voice crept around corners in the air. Dylan Ebdus saw in Robert Woolfolk’s eyes that same scribbled quality.