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And there was one that said:
Don't be upset. My mother will be back very soon. There are other women here. Would you like to see them?
It was in this period that Garp took to wearing a sport jacket again, not out of nostalgia for his days at Steering, or in Vienna--and certainly not out of any necessity to be well dressed at Dog's Head Harbor, where Roberta seemed the only woman who was concerned with what she wore--but only because of his need for pockets; he carried so many notes.
He tried running on the beach but he had to give it up; it jarred his jaw and jangled his tongue against his teeth. But he walked for miles along the sand. He was returning from a walk the day the police car brought the young man to Jenny's house; arm in arm, the policemen helped him up the big front porch.
"Mr. Garp?" one of the policemen asked.
Garp dressed in running gear for his walks; he didn't have any notes on him, but he nodded, yes, he was Mr. Garp.
"You know this kid?" the policeman asked.
"Of course he does," the young man said. "You cops don't ever believe anybody. You don't know how to relax."
It was the kid in the purple caftan, the boy Garp had escorted from the boudoir of Mrs. Ralph--what seemed to Garp like years ago. Garp considered not recognizing him, but h
e nodded.
"The kid's got no money," the policeman explained. "He doesn't live around here, and he's got no job. He's not in school anywhere and when we called his folks, they said they didn't even know where he was--and they didn't sound very interested to find out. But he says he's staying with you--and you'll speak up for him."
Garp, of course, couldn't speak. He pointed to his wire mesh and imitated the act of writing a note on his palm.
"When'd you get the braces?" the kid asked. "Most people have them when they're younger. They're the craziest-looking braces I ever saw."
Garp wrote out a note on the back of a traffic violation form that the policeman handed him.
Yes, I'll take responsibility for him. But I can't speak up for him because I have a broken jaw.
The kid read the note over the policeman's shoulder.
"Wow," he said, grinning. "What happened to the other guy?"
He lost three quarters of his prick, Garp thought, but he did not write this on a traffic violation form, or on anything else. Ever.
The boy turned out to have read Garp's novels while he was in jail.
"If I'd known you were the author of those books," the kid said, "I would never have been so disrespectful." His name was Randy and he had become an ardent Garp fan. Garp was convinced that the mainstream of his fans consisted of waifs, lonely children, retarded grownups, cranks, and only occasional members of the citizenry who were not afflicted with perverted taste. But Randy had come to Garp as if Garp were now the only guru Randy obeyed. In the spirit of his mother's home at Dog's Head Harbor, Garp couldn't very well turn the boy away.
Roberta Muldoon took on the task of briefing Randy on the accident to Garp and his family.
"Who's the great big lovely chick?" Randy asked Garp in an awed whisper.
Don't you recognize her?
Garp wrote.
She was a tight end for the Philadelphia Eagles.
But even Garp's sourness could not dim Randy's likable enthusiasm; not right away. The boy entertained Duncan for hours.
God knows how,
Garp complained to Helen.
He probably tells Duncan about all his drug experiences.
"The boy's not on anything," Helen assured Garp. "Your mother asked him."
