Rush - The light years: a memoir

ITS AUGUST.

Were in the basement, hiding from the heat. Im in a sweaty heap with my little brothers, Mike and Steve, and two neighbor kids, Becky and Jimmy. We lie on the floor, silent, just the sound of our breathing.

Then I say it: Lets play poison.

The game is my invention and Im prepared. From my shorts I produce a roll of Life Savers, carefully unspooling the foil wrapper. Slipping a cherry into my mouth, I hand out sublime flavors to my companions: watermelon, pineapple, orange, lime. They suck their candy, serious as cyanide.

We all wait for the inevitableit wont be long.

Its the summer of 67 and Ive just turned eleven. Thin as a matchstick, with a big dollop of blond hair across my brow, I close my eyes, preparing to die. As usual, Becky will be the first to feel the symptoms. Becky is excitable. Shes twelve and a half, with flaming red hair and new boobs.

Becky doesnt know how to whisper. In perfect agony, she calls out, Help me! Somethings terribly wrong!

I say, What is it, my darling?

She places my hand on her chest. Can you feel it? Im burning up! she screams. And its true: her breasts are surprisingly warm. I-I cant breathe, she stutters. Our food was poisoned!

Taking my hand back from her hot bra, I tremble. I feel strange, too. But who would do such an awful thing?

The Russians, Mike says.

Or the Red Chinese! Steven cries.

My brothers are endearingly bad actorsIm proud of them for remembering their lines. In the half-light of the basement, I watch them grimace and grin.

There must be an antidote! I call out, as I clank through my fathers liquor cabinet.

Its too late for that. Uhhhhh! Becky becomes hysterical. Its contagious. The five of us drool and twitch and run about, each suffering in our own special way. Steven, at eight, perishes in a torrent of blubbery tears. Michael, a brute at ten, keels over with a maximum of movie violence, convulsing and kicking the table as if drilled by machine-gun fire. Beckys little brother, Jimmy (strawberry curls and good manners), is wistful and understated. He coughs once and joins my brothers on the floor.

Becky and I are the final act. I embrace her as she goes limp in my arms.

My darling. Please dont leave me!

But Becky gurgles and spits and collapses in slow motion. With her last bit of strength, she grabs my Bermuda shorts and pulls them down. In one grand gesture, buxom Becky is gone.

Standing in my underwear, I consider my audience. They sprawl on the floor, eyes pretend-closed, awaiting my soliloquy. Since Im already half-dead, I decide to risk a Calvary motif (Im a good Catholic boy and know my New Testament). Stretching out my skinny arms, I ask, Lord, Lord, why hast Thou forsaken us?

My high voice echoes against the concrete. I improvise: Dear God, why would You poison Your own children? Standing in my underwear, beseeching heaven, I get a baby boner. Before I can pull up my shorts, the lights flick on and, instantly, my parents materialize, their mouths open in horror. Somehow Father Dempsey, pastor of our church, is standing between them. He turns a redder shade than usual.

Dad says, For Christs sake, Chris, pull up your pants.

We were just playing.

At what?

Dying.

Dad says, Oh, I can help you with that.

Father Dempsey winks at me as I tug up my shorts.

Mom sighsshe understands the nature of drama.

Mother is very dramatic. Her clothes often veer toward costume. Today, shes wearing her gold I Dream of Jeannie slippers and a chiffon blouse that blooms like a giant orchid. Her hair flips upward, defying gravityher lips pout, a shade of pumpkin pie.

As the other kids scurry upstairs, Mom pulls me aside.

Fainting not enough?

Im thrilled she remembers.

ID BEEN TEACHING myself how to faintdeeming it, in addition to dying, an important life skill. The trick was getting the little sigh right just before your knees gave out. After perfecting my technique, Id run to show Mom, the one person whod understand. She was in the kitchen, cooking dinner, and when I asked if she wanted to see me faint, she put down her wooden spoon and said, Fainting is not a joke. Do you know I fainted in Spain once from too much garlic? I had to be hospitalized. If your father hadnt caught me, who knows what would have happened?

Moms story went on for quite a while. There was a handsome doctor (I considered running away with him) and smelling salts (a diabolic invention!). My mother was famous for her monologues. I waited patiently, and when she was finished, I said, So can I faint now?

Im busy. Go faint for your brothers. And then: We have guests coming tonight. She pointed a lacquered fingernail at me. I dont want you fainting for any of them.

THE HOUSE OF RUSH was booming.

My parents cocktail parties careened through the fifties and sixties like a great drunken circus. The whole town came and went. I remember a pastel sea of summer dresses; waiters flying by in black and white, carrying trays of martinis, ten at a time. Booze filled the world with excitement. Everyone danced and laughed, fell over and got up. If ladies landed in the pool, the men jumped in after them. There were sing-alongs and fistfights, bloody noses and slow cigars. And at the end of the night, as Dad helped the last of the guests out to their cars, Mom would get a flashlight and sweep the yard for bodies.

Sometimes, members of the fallen were local priestsmen I respected and looked up toso it was odd to find a cleric facedown in the daffodils. I knew that priests werent like cops, they were never off duty, but in our house they could let their hair down, as my mother liked to say.

And their balls, as my father once added.

OF THE SEVEN Rush children, I was in the middle. I grew up when my parents were most fabulousand most happy. They still believed that the past was firmly behind them. The past was always referred to with some suspicionand I associated it with a phrase my mother often used: good riddance to bad rubbish