Color the postcard to do justice to Nettie Halversham’s beauty: eyes the color of bruises, hair like the shining black of old classic automobiles, lips like crushed strawberries. Ridiculous? Maybe. But, God, Nettie Halversham was—is—beautiful. And her heart was also black like the color of those classic cars. Edge the postcard with guilt because guilt whistles through the tunnel in my chest. Guilt of all shades and colors plus the guilt that sends me to Brimmler’s Bridge when I should be directing snowballs at Martingale and Donateli or contemplating the amber brew in the township of Pompey. The guilt, however, really starts with Nettie Halversham. Because. Because, all during the time of the seizure of the bus, when those kids were being held as hostages and the television stations were giving out all kinds of bulletins, and Fort Delta was in a state of emergency—a bodyguard was even assigned to me and Jackie Brenner and other kids whose fathers were in positions of authority at Delta—anyway, during all that time, the headlines and the sirens screaming, I could think only of myself and how miserable I was, and I’d sit and stare at the telephone for hours.
