WOLFY

Since Wolfy’s younger sister Mary was my brother’s friend, we were liable to make mischief as a foursome. Winter evenings we sat around telling spooky stories in my dark, starry bedroom. We’d turn out the lights and put a flashlight under an overturned wicker laundry basket, projecting constellations all over the ceiling, like at the planetarium. Weekends we went sledding down the steep slope in College Park and skating on the ice rink—a flooded the tennis court—where we staged races, tearing across the ice and plunging headlong into a snowbank to brake our speed. Or we skated to music at the Langford Park rink, which had a warming house that smelled of wet wool. Summers we played kickball in my neighbor Alvin’s front yard, where the trees were perfectly spaced to serve as bases. Evenings, drenched in mosquito repellent, we played Moonlight, Starlight—a nighttime version of hide-and-seek—until long after dark.

On one of Wolfy’s birthdays, I remember, I rashly climbed into his tree house in the party dress my mom had just made me. The skirt caught on one of the wooden steps and tore. When my mom saw the rip, she cried.

Another time I dashed into the street to catch up with Wolfy on our way to the Congregational Church fair—and got hit by a car. Though my arm ached and turned black-and-blue, I hid the injury from my parents, wearing long sleeves for weeks on end, afraid they would punish me for my recklessness.

And then there was the time Wolfy and I were climbing up near the top of his maple tree. The branch under me broke, and Wolfy, who was hanging onto the trunk, grabbed my hand before I could fall—and saved my life.