A Delusional Odyssey Through New York's Tunnels

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John Wray

hide captionChosen in 2007 as one of Granta's Best Young American Novelists, John Wray is the author of three books. His first novel, The Right Hand of Sleep, won a Whiting Award.

Amber De Vos

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Note: The following audio contains language that some listeners may find offensive.

Book Tour is a Web feature and podcast hosted by NPR's Lynn Neary. Each week, we present leading authors of fiction and nonfiction as they read from and discuss their work.

Two years ago, Granta magazine named John Wray one of the best American novelists under the age of 35. He has also been called "America's most original young writer."

Wray is an adventurous guy. He's been a cab driver in Alaska and spent a year climbing mountains in South America. To promote his last book, Canaan's Tongue, he traveled down the Mississippi on a homemade raft. More recently, he wrote much of his new novel, Lowboy, while riding on the New York subway. Wray says it was like being "an overeager '70s method actor," but the experience certainly helped him get into the mind-set of the hero of the novel, a paranoid schizophrenic teenager.

As the story begins, Lowboy — as 16-year-old Will Heller calls himself — is getting on the B train after escaping from a mental hospital. Lowboy has a mission: He believes the world is coming to an end because of global warming, but he thinks he can save it. All he has to do to cool down the earth is lose his virginity. And that's exactly what he sets out to do.

Lowboy has been described as a "riveting and disturbing ride" with a "thriller pace" and "brilliant hallucinatory visuals." Kirkus Reviews said the reader may be reminded of both Salinger and Dostoevski.

Lowboy is Wray's third novel, but it is nothing like his earlier books, which were both works of historical fiction. Wray says he always wanted to be like film director Stanley Kubrick, who could move deftly from one genre to another, creating something "new and strange" each time. The idea for Lowboy came when he read an article about a manhunt for a prisoner whose anti-psychotic medicine was wearing off. The author had always been interested in mental illness and was drawn to the story right away, fascinated by the idea of writing about a person with schizophrenia. But Wray says it was one of the most difficult things he ever tried to do.

John Wray and his editor Eric Chinski discussed Lowboy on March 18 at the McNally Jackson bookstore in New York.

Excerpt: 'Lowboy'

John Wray's 'Lowboy.' Cover art by Adrian Tomine.
Cover art by Adrian Tomine
Lowboy
By John Wray
Hardcover, 272 pages
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
List price: $25.00

On November 11 Lowboy ran to catch a train. People were in his way but he was careful not to touch them. He ran up the platform's corrugated yellow lip and kept his eyes on the train's cab, commanding it to wait. The doors had closed already but they opened when he kicked them. He couldn't help but take that as a sign.

He got on board the train and laughed. Signs and tells were all around him. The floor was shivering and ticking beneath his feet and the bricktiled arches above the train beat the murmurings of the crowd into copper and aluminum foil. Every seat in the car had a person in it. Notes of music rang out as the doors closed behind him: C# first, then A. Sharp against both ears, like the tip of a pencil. He turned and pressed his face against the glass.

Skull & Bones, his state-appointed enemies, were forcing their way headfirst up the platform. Skull was a skinny milkfaced man, not much to look at, but Bones was the size of a MetroCard booth. They moved like policemen in a silent movie, as though their shoes were too big for their feet. No one stood aside for them. Lowboy smiled as he watched them stumbling toward him: he felt his fear falling away with each ridiculous step they took. I'll have to think of something else to call them now, he thought. Short & Sweet. Before & After. Bridge & Tunnel.

Bones saw him first and started pounding on the doors. Spit flew noiselessly from his mouth against the scuffed and greasy glass. The train lurched then stopped then lurched forward again. Lowboy gave Bones his village idiot smile, puckering his lips and blinking, and solemnly held up his middle finger. Skull was running now, struggling to keep even with the doors, moving his arms in slow emphatic circles. Bones was shouting something at the conductor. Lowboy whistled the door-closing theme at them and shrugged. C# to A, C# to A. The simplest, sweetest melody in the world.

Everyone in the car would later agree that the boy seemed in very high spirits. He was late for something, by the look of him, but he carried himself with authority and calm. He was making an effort to seem older than he was. His clothes fit him badly, hanging apologetically from his body, but because he was blue-eyed and unassuming he caused nobody concern. They watched him for a while, glancing at him whenever his back was turned, the way people look at one another on the subway. What's a boy like that doing, a few of them wondered, dressed in such hideous clothes?

The train fit into the tunnel perfectly. It slipped into the tunnel like a hand into a pocket and closed over Lowboy's body and held him still. He kept his right cheek pressed against the glass and felt the air3 and guttered bedrock passing. I'm on a train, he thought. Skull & Bones aren't on it. I'm taking the local uptown.

The climate in the car was temperate as always, hovering comfortably between 62 and 68 degrees. Its vulcanized rubber doorjambs allowed no draft to enter. Its suspension system, ribbonpressed butterfly shocks manufactured in St. Louis, Missouri, kept the pitching and the jarring to a minimum. Lowboy listened to the sound of the wheels, to the squealing of the housings at the railheads and the bends, to the train's manifold and particulate elements functioning effortlessly in concert. Welcoming, familiar, almost sentimental sounds. His thoughts fell slackly into place. Even his cramped and claustrophobic brain felt a measure of affection for the tunnel. It was his skull that held him captive, after all, not the tunnel or the passengers or the train. I'm a prisoner of my own brainpan, he thought. Hostage of my limbic system. There's no way out for me but through my nose.

I can make jokes again, Lowboy thought. Stupid jokes but never mind. I never could have made jokes yesterday.

Lowboy was five foot ten and weighed 150 pounds exactly. His hair was parted on the left. Most things that happened didn't bother him at all, but others got inside of him and stuck: nothing to do then but cough them up. He had a list of favorite things that he took out whenever there was a setback, ticking them off in order like charms on a bracelet. He recited the first eight from memory:

Obelisks.
Invisible ink.
Violet Heller.
Snowboarding.
The Brooklyn Botanic Garden.
Jacques Cousteau.
Bix Beiderbecke.
The tunnel.

His father had taken him snowboarding once, in the Poconos. The Poconos and the beach at Breezy Point were items nine and ten. His skin turned dark brown in the summer, like an Indian's or a surfer's, but now it was white as a dead body's from all the time he'd spent away.

Lowboy stared down at his deadlooking arms. He pressed his right palm hard against the glass. He came from a long line of soldiers, and was secretly a soldier himself, but he'd sworn on his father's grave that he would never go to war. Once he'd almost killed someone with just his two bare hands.

The tunnel straightened itself without any sign of effort and the rails and wheels and couplings went quiet. Lowboy decided to think about his mother. His mother was blond, like a girl on a billboard, but she was already over thirty-eight years old. She painted eyes and lips on mannequins for Saks and Bergdorf Goodman. She painted things on mannequins no one would ever see. Once he'd asked about the nipples and she'd laughed into her fist and changed the subject. On April 15 she would turn thirty-nine unless the rules changed or he'd miscounted or she died. He was closer to her house now than he'd been in eighteen months. He had these directions: transfer at Columbus Circle, wait, then six stops close together on the C. That's all it was. But he would never see his mother's house again.

....

Slowly and carefully, with studied precision, he shifted his attention toward the train. Trains were easier to consider. There were thousands of them in the tunnel, pushing ghost trains of compressed air ahead of them, and every single one of them had a purpose. The train he was on was bound for Bedford Park Boulevard. Its coat-ofarms was a B in Helvetica type, rampant against a bright orange escutcheon. The train to his grandfather's house had that same color: the color of wax fruit, of sunsets painted on velvet, of light through half-closed eyelids at the beach. William of Orange, he thought, giving himself over to the dream of it. William of Orange is my name. He closed his eyes and passed a hand over his face and pictured himself strolling the grounds of Windsor Castle. It was pleasantly cool there under the boxcut trees. He saw dark, paneled corridors and dustcovered paintings, high ruffled collars and canopied beds. He saw a portrait of himself in a mink pillbox hat. He saw his mother in the kitchen, frying onions and garlic in butter. Her face was the color of soap. He bit down hard on his lip and forced his eyes back open.

A self-conscious silence prevailed in the car. Lowboy noticed it at once. The passengers were studying him closely, taking note of his scuffed Velcro sneakers, his corduroy pants, his misbuttoned shirt, and his immaculately parted yellow hair. In the glass he saw their puzzled looks reflected. They think I'm on a date, he thought. They think I'm on a field trip. If they only knew.

"I'm William of Orange," said Lowboy. He turned around so he could see them better. "Has anybody got a cigarette?"

The silence got thicker. Lowboy wondered whether anyone had heard him. Sometimes it happened that he spoke perfectly clearly, taking pains with each word, and no one paid him any mind at all. In fact it happened often. But on that day, on that particular morning, he was undeniable. On that particular morning he was at his best.

....

A man to his left sat up and cleared his throat. "Truant," the man said, as if in answer to a question.

"Excuse me?" said Lowboy.

"You're a truant?" the man said.

He spoke the sentence like a piece of music. Lowboy squinted at him. A dignified man with an elegant wedgeshaped beard and polished shoes. His face and his beard were exactly the same color. He sat very correctly, with his knees pressed together and his hands in his lap. His pants were white and sharply creased and his green leather jacket had a row of tiny footballs where its buttons should have been. His hair was bound up in an orange turban. He looked stately and unflappable and wise.

"I can't be a truant," said Lowboy. "They've already kicked me out of school."

"Is that so," the man said severely. "What for?"

Lowboy took his time answering. "It was a special sort of school," he said finally. "Progressive. They sent me home for good behavior."

"I can't hear you," said the man. He shook his head thoughtfully, letting his thin mouth hang open, then patted the seat next to him. "What did you say?"

Lowboy stared down at the empty seat. It had happened again, he decided. He'd been moving his lips without actually speaking. He stepped forward and repeated himself.

"Is that so," said the man. He heaved a gracious sigh. "You aren't coming out of prison?"

"You're a Sikh," Lowboy said.

The man's eyes opened wide, as though the Sikhs were a forgotten race. "It must be a very good school, to teach you that!"

Lowboy took hold of the crosspole and let himself hang forward. There was something melodramatic about the Sikh. Something contrived. His skin lightened slightly where his face met his turban, and the hair behind his ears was platinum blond. "I read about you in the library," Lowboy said. "I know all about you Sikhs."

They were coming up to the next station. First came the slight falling back of the tunnel, then the lights, then the noise, then the change in his body. His left side got light and his right side got heavy and he had to hold on to the pole with all his strength. The fact that he'd met a Sikh first, out of everyone in the tunnel, signified something without question but its meaning refused to come clear to him. I'll think about him when we stop, Lowboy said to himself. In a little while I'll think about him. Then I'll know.

The platform when it came was narrow and neglected-looking and much less crowded than the one before had been. He'd expected to find everyone waiting for him—his mother, Dr. Kopeck, Dr. Prekopp, Skull & Bones—but there was no one on the platform that he knew. The doors slid open and closed on nothing.

"The capital of the Sikhs is the city of Amritsar," Lowboy said as the C# and A sounded. His head was clear again but he still wanted to smoke.

"Amritsar is in Punjab. Sikhs believe in reincarnation, like Hindus, but in a single god, like Muslims. A baptized Sikh never cuts his hair or beard."

"A fine school." The Sikh smiled and nodded. "An extraordinary school."

"I need a cigarette. Let me have a cigarette, please."

The Sikh shook his brown face merrily.

"The hell with this," said Lowboy.

The train gave a lazy twitch and started rolling. Both seats on the Sikh's right side were empty. Lowboy sat down in the farther one, mindful of the Sikh's bony elbow and his legs in their pressed linen pants. He took a deep breath. It was reckless to get close to another body just then, when everything was so new and overwhelming, but the empty seat between them made it possible. It was all right to sit down and have a talk.

He checked to see who else was listening. No one was.

....

"The Sikh religion is less than seventy years old," Lowboy said. His words fluttered before him in the air.

The Sikh pursed his lips and bunched his face together. "That is not so," he said, enunciating each word very clearly. "That is not so. I'm sorry."

Lowboy put his hand on the seat between them, where the Sikh's hand had just been. It was still slightly warm. "Can you say definitely that it's older than that?" he said. He drummed against the plastic with his fingers. "You're not seventy years old."

"I can say so," the Sikh said. "I can say so absolutely." Why does he have to say everything twice, thought Lowboy. I'm not deaf. It was enough to put him in mind of the school. The way the Sikh was looking at him now, trying hard not to seem too curious, was exactly the way the doctors did it there. He forced his eyes away, fighting back his disappointment, and found himself staring down at the Sikh's feet. They were the smallest feet he'd ever seen on a grown man. Those look like shoes a doll would wear, he thought. Sikhs are supposed to be the tallest men in Asia. He looked from the shoes to the Sikh's face, flat and pleasant and unnatural as a cake. As he did so he began to have his doubts.

Here they come, Lowboy thought, forcing his mouth and eyes shut. His throat went dry the way it always did when the first doubts hit. The train braked hard and shuddered through a junction. The air grew warmer by exactly six degrees.

"All right, then," he said cheerfully. But it wasn't all right. His voice sounded wrong to him, precious and stilted, the voice of a spoiled English lord.

"All right," he said, feeling his skin start to prickle. "It's perfectly all right, you see."

....

When he let his eyes open they were back inside the tunnel. There was only one tunnel in the city but it was wound and snarled together like telephone wire, threaded back on itself so it seemed to have no beginning and no end. Ouroboros was the name of the dragon that ate its own tail and the tunnel was Ouroboros also. He called it that. It seemed self-contained, a closed system, but in fact it was the opposite of closed. There were openings spaced out along its length like gills along the body of an eel, just big enough for a person to slip through. Right now the train was under Fifty-third Street. You could get off at the next station, ease your body through the turnstile, and the tunnel would carry on exactly as before. The trains would run without a single person in them.

Two men got off at the next station, glancing back over their shoulders, and a third man moved ahead to the next car. Lowboy could see the man in question through the pockmarked junction doors, a middle-aged commuter in a rumpled madras jacket, Jewish or possibly Lebanese, flipping nervously through a giltedged leather datebook. Soon the Sikh would switch cars too and that was perfectly all right. That was how you managed in the tunnel. That was how you got by. You came and sat in a row and touched arms and knees and shoes and held your breath and after a few minutes, half an hour at the most, you separated from each other for all time. It would be a mistake to take that as an insult. He'd done the same a thousand times himself.

Lowboy patted himself on the knee and reminded himself that he hadn't gotten on the train to talk to little grandfatherly men about religion. He'd gotten on the train for a reason and he knew in his heart that his reason was the best one that anyone could have. He'd been given a calling: that was what it was called. It was a matter of consequence, a matter of urgency, a matter possibly of life and death. It was as sharp and light and transparent as a syringe. If he got careless now he might lose track of his calling or confuse it with something else or even forget his calling altogether. Worst of all he might begin to have his doubts.

He turned toward the Sikh and nodded sadly.

"I get off at the next stop," he said. He coughed into his sleeve and looked around him until the people who'd been watching looked away. "Next stop!" he repeated, for the benefit of all present.

"So soon?" said the Sikh. "I haven't even asked—"

"William," said Lowboy. He gave him his bankteller's smile. "William Amritsar."

"William?" the Sikh said quaveringly. He pronounced it Well-yoom. "But people call me Lowboy. They prefer it."

A long moment went by. "Pleased to meet you, William. My name is—"

"Because I get moody," Lowboy said, raising his voice. "Also because I like trains."

The Sikh said nothing. He looked Lowboy over and ran two birdlike fingers through his beard. Trying to make sense of me, Lowboy decided. The idea made him feel like a hermit at the top of a cliff.

"Underground trains," he said. "Subways. Low in the ground." He felt his voice go quiet. "Does that make sense to you?"

The train started braking and Lowboy got to his feet, still keeping his eyes on the Sikh. The Sikh kept motionless, propped up straight in his seat like a nearsighted little old lady on a bus.

"You're not a doctor, are you?" Lowboy said, squinting down at him. "An MD? A PhD? A DDS?"

The Sikh looked surprised. "A doctor, William? Why on earth—"

"Can you prove to me that you're not with the school?"

The Sikh gave a dry laugh. "I'm past eighty, William. I once was an electrical engineer."

"Bullshit," Lowboy said, shaking his head. "Balls."

Everyone in the car was looking at him now. There were times when he was practically invisible, monochrome and flat, and there were others when he gave off a faint greenish glow, like teeth held up to a blacklight. When that happened his voice got very loud very fast and the only thing he could do was keep his mouth shut. The air outside the glass got darker. There were things he wanted to explain to the Sikh, to apprise him of, but he held his breath and pressed his lips together. He could keep himself from talking when he had to. It was one of the first things that he'd learned to do at school.

"Who was that chasing you?" said the Sikh, propping his elbows on his beautiful sticklike legs. "Were they truancy officers?"

Lowboy shook his head fiercely. "Not sent by the school. Sent by—" He caught himself at the last moment. "By a federal agency. To frighten me. To try and make me follow their itinerary." He looked at the place on his wrist where his watch should have been, but there was nothing there, not even a paleness. He wondered if he'd ever had a watch.

"You'll have to excuse me," he said. He turned measuredly around to face the doors. It was too warm in the car for sudden movements.

The train seemed to hesitate as it came into the light. Its ventilators went quiet and its mercury striplights flickered and it rolled into the station at a crawl. The station was a main junction: six lines came together there. Its tiles were square and unbeveled, lacquered and white, like the tiles on a urinal wall. The only person on the platform was a transit guard who looked ready to fall down and die of boredom any minute. Lowboy frowned and bit down on the knuckle of his thumb. There was no good reason for the platform to be empty at 8:30 on a Tuesday morning.

The guard watched the train pull in out of his left eyecorner, careful not to seem too interested. The old school trick. Lowboy thought of the last glimpse he'd had of Bones, pounding on the glass and shouting at the conductor. He thought about Skull running alongside the train and making panicked circles with his arms. He looked at the transit guard again. Something was clipped to the inside of his collar and he held his head cocked toward it, moving his lips absently, like someone reading from a complicated book. Watching him made Lowboy want to lie down on the floor.

"I made a mistake," he said, turning back to the Sikh. "This isn't my stop."

The Sikh seemed happy to hear it. "I suppose, then, that you ought to take a seat."

"I'll tell you why they expelled me," Lowboy said, sitting back down. "Do you want to know?"

"Here comes the policeman," said the Sikh.

Lowboy turned his head and saw the transit guard hauling himself up the platform and glancing sideways into each car and mumbling into his collar. The doors remained open. No announcement was given. If the guard looked bored it was only because he knew about each event before it happened. Lowboy let his head rest against the window for a moment, gathering his strength, then eased his body sideways until his cheek touched the Sikh's shoulder. The collar of the Sikh's shirt smelled faintly of anise. Lowboy's eyes started to water.

"Can I borrow your turban?" he whispered.

"You should go back to school," the Sikh said through his teeth.

"I wish I could," said Lowboy. His left hand gave a jerk. The rest of the car was looking from the transit guard to Lowboy to the Sikh. Some of them were starting to get restless.

"Do you have a family?" the Sikh said. He shifted in his seat. "Do you have anyone—"

"Give me a hug," said Lowboy. He took the Sikh's arm and ducked underneath it. He'd seen the trick in the movies but he had no way of knowing if it worked. The anise smell got stronger. He saw the transit guard reflected in the windows and in the doors and in every set of eyeballs on the train. He buried his face in the Sikh's leather jacket. The Sikh sucked in a breath but that was all.

"Hello, Officer," said the Sikh.

As soon as the guard was gone Lowboy retched and leaned forward. The Sikh pulled his arm free as matter-of-factly as a nurse and smoothed out a crease in his pantleg. "I have a grandson in Lahore, in Pakistan," he said. "You put me in mind of that boy."

"Was he a truant?"

The Sikh smiled and nodded. "His name is Sateesh. A bad boy like you are. When he was sixteen—"

"I'm not ready yet," Lowboy said, tapping out a rhythm against his chest. "They never should have kicked me out of school."

The train began rolling and the niceties of life resumed, the breathing and the coughing and the whispering and the singing out of key. The singing especially seemed strange to him after the long awful silence but he was overjoyed to hear it. He hummed to himself for a little while, grateful for the rocking of the train, then took a breath and made his face go flat. What he had to say next was solemn and imperative and meant for the Sikh's ears alone. He had nothing else to offer, either as a gesture or a covenant or a gift: only his one small discovery. But lesser gifts than that had saved men's lives.

"Your religion values sacrifice above all things," he said. He caught his breath and held it. "Sacrifice is important. Am I right?"

The Sikh didn't answer. Lowboy had expected him to react in some way, to cry out or throw up his hands or give a laugh, but instead he kept his sallow face composed. He wasn't looking at Lowboy anymore but at a girl across the aisle who was fussing with a pair of silver headphones. He no longer seemed wise or elegant or even clever. The longer Lowboy stared at him the more lifeless he became. It was like watching a piece of bread dry out and become inedible.

"You're drying out," said Lowboy. "Are you listening?"

It's because of the heat, Lowboy thought. We're all baking in it. The Sikh stared straight ahead like someone sitting for a portrait. He's preparing himself, Lowboy thought. Mustering his resources. The Sikh would get out at the next station and move to another car, or transfer to a different train, or call the police, or even send a message to the school: Lowboy knew he'd do one of these things. But it was terrible that the Sikh would act in ignorance, without waiting until he'd received his gift. A worse setback could not have been imagined.

All at once, without moving, without turning his head or taking in a breath, the Sikh said quietly and clearly: "What is your reason, William?"

"My reason?" Lowboy said. He could hardly believe it. "My reason for running away, you mean?"

The Sikh blinked his eyes idly, like a kitten sitting in a patch of sun.

"I'll tell you why," Lowboy said. "Since you ask." He leaned over. "The world won't make it past this afternoon."

....

The Sikh turned his head and regarded him now, though only his watery close-set eyes had life. Lowboy couldn't be sure that he was listening, since he hadn't yet said a word, but it seemed extremely likely that he was. The moment of revelation made a leisurely circuit of the car, glittering dimly in the air, then passed away without the slightest sound. Lowboy paid it no mind. The Sikh sat bent stiffly forward, bobbing his head impatiently, digging the heels of his pennyloafers into the floor. Fidgeting like the girl across the aisle. Why was everybody so impatient? It was true of course that time was running out. There were two transfers at the next station: an orange and a blue. Choices would have to be made. They were being made already.

A hissing came off the rails as the train crossed a switch and the noise cut straight up through the car, hanging in sheets down the length of the aisle, as if to offer them a kind of shelter. Lowboy blinked and took a breath and said it. "The world's going to die in ten hours," he said. He shoved his fist against this teeth so he could finish.

"Ten hours exactly, Grandfather. By fire."

The look on the Sikh's face was impossible to make sense of. His body was the body of a somnambulist or a corpse. Lowboy closed his mouth and crossed his arms and nodded. It was difficult, even painful, to keep his eyes on the Sikh, to sit there and wait for the least show of feeling, to smile and keep nodding and hope for the one true reply. He decided to look at the girl with the headphones instead.

She was sitting straight up in her seat, the perfect mirror image of the Sikh, as poised and geometric as a painting. The longer Lowboy looked at her the less he understood. His take on the girl, on the Sikh, on everything in the car refused to hold still any longer. His thoughts slid like mercury from one possibility to another. The spaces between events got even wider. They were empty and white. He forced himself to focus on the surface of things and on the surface only. There's more than enough there, he said to himself. He let his eyes rest flatly on the girl.

The girl's hair was colored a dull shade of red, the shade dyed-black hair turns in the summer. It was cut in a way he'd never seen before, with long feathered bangs hanging over her eyes. When she leaned forward her face disappeared completely. Lowboy pictured a city of identical girls, all of their faces hidden, silver headphones plugging up their ears. He'd been a cosmonaut for eighteen months, a castaway, an amnesiac, the veteran of an arbitrary war. The world had gotten older while he'd been away. Away at school, regressing. He studied the girl's hands, cupped protectively in her lap, hiding whatever the headphones were attached to. She seemed ashamed of her hands, of her lap, of her intentionally torn crocheted stockings. She'd hide her whole body if she could, he thought. He felt a rush of recognition. So would I.

Her hands were chapped and pink, with short, ungraceful fingers, but there was something about her fingers that he liked. Only when she brought one to her mouth did he notice that the nails were bitten down to the cuticles, torn and unpainted, the nails of a girl half her age. Something worked itself loose in his memory. I've seen hands like that before, he thought. A backlit picture came to him then, a body reclining in midair, a sound that wasn't quite a woman's name. A few seconds more and he'd have remembered the name, even said it out loud, but before that could happen he made a discovery. The name and the backlit picture fell away.

The girl across the aisle was smiling. She was smiling without question, blushing and parting her bangs, but the meaning of her smile kept itself hidden. "It's the music," Lowboy murmured to the Sikh. "There's music in those headphones that she likes." But even as the Sikh nodded back—blankly, disaffectedly—Lowboy saw he was wrong. The girl's smile wasn't private; it was unabashed and open. And she was smiling it at nobody but him.

That made Lowboy remember why he'd left the school.

Cautiously, as an experiment, he tried to smile back at the girl. He kept his eyes wide open and made sure to show her his teeth. The strangeness of what he was attempting made the roof of his mouth go numb. There'd been no girls at the school, at least not in his wing, and he hadn't cared about girls before he'd been enrolled. But now he did care about them. Now they made him feel wide awake.

"Don't leer at her that way," said the Sikh.

"I'm not leering," Lowboy said. "I'm being sexy."

"You're frightening her, William."

Lowboy waved at the girl and opened his eyes wider and pointed at his mouth. Her smile went blank and stiffened at its corners and he adjusted his own smile accordingly. The girl jerked her backpack open and tilted her face forward, lowering her bangs like a shutter across a storefront. She gaped down into her backpack like a baby looking into a well.

"Why won't she take those fucking headphones off? I want to tell her something. I'll sing it to her if she wants. I want to—"

"The world will end?" the Sikh said. "Why is that?"

Lowboy stopped smiling at once. What magnetism he might have had was neatly and resourcefully sucked away. The question had been meant as a distraction, nothing more: to keep him from establishing contact. To disarm him. The girl with the backpack receded and the Sikh slid quietly forward to take her place. He wasn't the man that he had been before. The rest of the car went dark as though the Sikh were in a spotlight. There was no curiosity in his expression, no humanity, no love. He spoke in a completely different voice.

"Your voice has changed," said Lowboy. "I don't think I can hear you anymore."

"Don't trouble that poor girl any longer, William." Behind his sparse discolored beard the Sikh was grinning. He raised his head and coughed and gave a wink. "Why not trouble me instead?"

It was then that Lowboy saw the danger clearly. The fact of it hit him in the middle of his chest and spread out in all directions like a cramp. "No trouble," he said. He said it effortfully and slowly, biting his breath back after every word. "No trouble at all, Grandfather. Go away."

The Sikh flashed his teeth again. "Grandfather?" he said at the top of his voice. He said it to the rest of the car, not to Lowboy. He was making a public announcement. He looked up and down the car, the consummate entertainer, and brought a shriveled hand to rest on Lowboy's shoulder. "If I was your grandfather, boy—"

His voice was still booming up and down the car like the voice of a master of ceremonies as Lowboy slid his hands under the Sikh's beard and pushed. The Sikh lifted out of his seat like a windtossed paper bag. Who'd have guessed he was as light as that, thought Lowboy. The Sikh arched his back as he fell and opened his mouth in a garish slackjawed parody of surprise. A standpole caught him just below the shoulder and spun him counterclockwise toward the door. The booming was coming not from the Sikh anymore but from an intercom in the middle of the ceiling. "Columbus Circle," Lowboy shouted. "Transfer to the A, C, D, 1, and 9." No jokes anymore, he thought, laughing. No part of this is funny. A woman halfway down the car stood gasping in the middle of the aisle. He turned to face her and she shut her mouth.

"Boy," the Sikh said breathlessly. He was sputtering like the intercom above him. "Boy—"

Lowboy got down on his knees next to the Sikh. "Sacrifice makes sense," he said. "Would you agree with that?"

The Sikh flashed his teeth and made thin meaningless noises and brought his hands together at his throat.

"You're worried about me," Lowboy said. He shook his head. "Don't worry about me, Doctor. Worry about the world."

The Sikh slid gradually backward until his head came to rest against the graphite-colored crease between the doors. His eyes transcribed a lazy mournful circle. His turban sat next to his elbow like an ornamental basket, still immaculately wrapped and cinched and folded. So that's how they do it, Lowboy said to himself. They put it on and take it off just like a hat.

"Boy," the Sikh said again, forcing the word out with his tongue. It seemed to be the only word he knew.

Lowboy bent down and took hold of the Sikh's jacket. He could feel the little footballs grind together under his fingers. "It's all right, Grandfather," he said. "I've got something in mind."

Excerpted from Lowboy by John Wray, published this month by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. Copyright © 2009 by John Wray. All rights reserved.

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