Chaneysville Incident (28 page)

But he had fooled me. He had lost weight, a lot of it, and his clothes hung on him. Now he moved with a sort of deliberate dignity rather than with the popinjay bounce that had once told anyone who saw him that here was a small man trying to look important. I wondered at the reason for the change. Perhaps he had seen the same lines of development that I had seen and had not liked where they led. Or perhaps he had been sick. Probably the latter, because the changes did not seem positive. Before, at least, he had seemed healthy. Now his skin was an unholy gray. But even if all that had changed, his eyes had not. They were just as they had always been, chilly and distracted, icy and flat, gray as winter fog.

He pumped my hand. “We hear good things about you, John,” he said.

“Who from?” I said.

His smile slipped for a moment, but he slapped it back. “Why, from your mother, of course. She’s just proud as the dickens of you, John. And I know your granddad would be proud of you too. Two professors in three generations. Quite an accomplishment.”

“Oh, hell,
Randall
,” I said, putting a little push on the first name, “I don’t know. Why, look at your family; two lawyers in
two
generations. Why, when my grandfather was getting his Ph.D., your grandfather was busting sod out in the North County. You’re the ones with the accomplishment.”

The grin didn’t even slip. “Well, John, I guess we can both be proud. Now let’s not stand out here. Come on into my office. Would you like some coffee? Betty, get us some coffee. How do you take—”

“I don’t drink coffee,” I said.

He looked at me blankly, then turned to the receptionist, but she had already gone scurrying away. Scott turned back to me. “Ten cups a day,” he said, ruefully. “I’m supposed to cut down.” He took hold of my elbow and ushered me through the door and down a short corridor past the closed door that, I knew, led to my mother’s small office, and on into his own fluorescently lit little “environment.”

“Have a chair, John,” he said bouncily. “Have a chair.” He indicated an uncomfortable ultramodernistic armchair, settled himself behind a plastic table of a desk that was loaded with phone, in-box, out-box, clock, desk calendar, pen set, frames holding pictures of wife and pictures of daughter, all sired by Du Pont out of Design Research, and with six or seven bulging file folders and stacks of loose papers.

Scott noticed the direction of my gaze. “I’m sorry about this
darned
clutter, John.” He ran a finger around the inside of his collar, smiled ruefully. “Sometimes these litigations get so doggoned complicated that you have to go all the way back to the year one to figure out what’s going on, let alone whose fault it is. You might not believe it, but this”—he slapped the pile of papers, sending a troupe of dust motes dancing upward—“is a simple piece of business that only goes back to a year or so before the war. And it still has all—”

“Which war?” I said.

“What? Oh. The Second World War.”

“Oh,” I said. “
That
war.” He looked at me warily, and I tried to stop myself, to shut myself up. I had a strategy, and I wanted to stick to it. But I couldn’t. The temptation was too strong, and the opening was there. “Well,” I went on, “I’m glad you have these old cases laying around to keep you busy. Things must be pretty slow down at the draft board these days.”

He looked at me with those flat gray eyes. There was no expression on his face, but his skin grew a little paler, just a little, and I could hear him suck his breath between his teeth. “Yes,” he said finally. “Thank God all that’s over. For good, I hope.”

“For better, anyway,” I said. And I would have let him go then. But he took it up.

“John…” He gave a little carefully calculated hesitation—I could almost hear him count the beats. “I want you to know this: I hated like the dickens to send boys off to fight. I hated to send your brother. It would have been hard not to send him—God knows he was a healthy specimen, and everybody knew it. And your mother’s working here would have made everybody suspicious if we hadn’t called him at all. But I would have gotten him out of it somehow, if only he had trusted me. But he insisted on taking matters into his own hands. He defied the law. Openly. This is not a liberal community, John, we both know that, and after he wrote that letter to the paper telling everybody he was running off to Canada—I never understood why he did that—”

“He said why,” I said. “In the letter. ‘I want others like me to know they have a choice.’ That was the part they didn’t print.”

Scott looked at me blankly. “Well,” he said, “maybe so. And maybe that’s what he wanted. But that’s not the way things work in the County, John. You know that. We like to do things…quietly. And after people learned that he had started to run to Canada…well, we did well just to keep him out of jail. By that time, going was the only chance he had to be able to come back here and live a normal life. And surely it was the only thing that would let your mother hold her head up. I think he realized that. I think that’s why, in the end, he agreed to go quietly—”

He was interrupted by the girl bringing his coffee, in a bright red plastic cup that matched his flowerpots. “Judge Scott called, Mr. Scott,” she said. She gave me a quick sideways glance. “About the—”

“I know what he called about,” Scott snapped.

“Yes, sir. He said to tell you he’d be in about noon.”

“Call him back,” Scott said. “Right away. Tell him that it isn’t necessary that he come in. Tell him I can handle everything. And here…” He swept the papers together into an untidy pile and shoved them into a large manila envelope, then loaded the folders and the envelope onto her thin arms, like cordword. “Take this and put it in my car.” He fumbled in his pants pocket for the keys, laid them on top of the envelope. “Put it in the trunk.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, turning ponderously towards the door.

“And close the door, Betty.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And hold all my calls.”

“Yes, sir.”

We watched as she somehow maneuvered through the door and managed to close it with her foot without dropping a file or even the keys. When it was done, Scott leaned back and sighed. “Now, John,” he said. “I know this isn’t the best of times for you. Your mother’s told me how close you were to Jack, and I understand how you might feel…resentful about somebody…well, helping out. But you have to understand, John, that old man was an institution in this community. We all loved him. And maybe you want to be responsible, but…” He looked to see how he was getting across. I gave him nothing but a stony glare. “Look, John. I guess you know my father hasn’t been well these last few years. He’s not
sick
, but you know how people are when they’re getting on. It’s a terrible thing to watch a man you’ve loved and respected just slowly deteriorate—”

“I
know
,” I said. “It must be terrible for you.”

“Yes, John, it is, especially—”

“Especially the drooling.”

He gave me a sharp look. “The what?”

“The drooling,” I said. “That’s what would get to me. I mean, the incontinence isn’t really so bad. If you have to take them out, you can always put them in diapers and rubber pants and nobody will notice a thing—expect for the smell, of course, and people are usually too polite to mention
that.
But there’s just no way to cover up the drooling.”

Scott was suddenly paler, and it seemed that there was a flicker of green in the flat gray of his eyes, but otherwise he didn’t react. He was starting to puzzle me. “Well, John,” he said, “I thank God things aren’t like that. It’s just that he’s a little forgetful. Doesn’t have a real grasp of reality sometimes. It’s partly that his mind isn’t as it once was, and partly that times have just…passed him by a little. There isn’t much you can do about it, except try to understand. But what I was getting at was this: whenever something happens to him I want to be the one to handle it. So I know how you feel about letting people help with Jack. But you know, John, I’ve come to realize that for me to try to do everything just isn’t right. It’s draining, of course, but basically it just isn’t fair. There’s my wife, for example. She loves Dad as much as I do and she wants to be involved with seeing to his needs. And then there’s Mariam—”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “How is good old Mariam?” I realized that I was losing it. I had just about had him and now I was letting him get away, and I wanted to stop myself, but there was something else going on, something I didn’t have control over.

“She’s fine, John, fine. Now, about Jack—”

I should have let him go on. I tried to. But there was something inside me, some part of me that just wouldn’t let it be. It was almost as if I were watching someone else who looked just like me sit there and say: “You know, Randall, I often think about Mariam, being the same age as Bill and all. The reason I think about it is, if Mariam had been a boy, they could have been real good friends, up to a point. They could have played ball together. Maybe even hunted together, although Bill never did care too much for hunting. Who knows? They might have joined up together. Maybe been in the same outfit. Why, maybe one of those boys he brought out of that ambush would have been Mariam. Or maybe they would have done it together, maybe Mariam would have gotten a medal too. Maybe they’d have stepped on the same Goddamned land mine—that would have been integration with a bang.”

I wanted to stop then, but I couldn’t. Scott just sat there looking—not reacting at all, just looking.

“Well,” I said, “all that’s just speculation. Unlikely too. You being on the draft board and all, I guess Mariam wouldn’t have been in anybody’s outfit. She’d have been 4-F. A quiet 4-F. People still would have had something to say about it, I bet. A lot of people don’t know how things are done in this County, including most of the folks that live in it. So all things considered, I guess it’s just as well you never had a son. And Mariam’s a fine-looking girl—I’m sure she’s roped herself a man and settled down….” I stopped. Scott was reacting. He looked uncomfortable, and turned visibly paler.

“Why, yes, John,” he said. “She seems quite happy.”

“Really? Well, that’s fine.” I should have let him go then. But I smelled blood. “Tell me, Randall,” I said, “how long have they been married?”

He didn’t say anything.

“Good Lord!” I said. “Randall, you don’t mean…” I shook my head sadly. “And she was such a
nice
girl too. But it’s a new day. Any children?”

He just looked at me.

“No? Well, don’t let it worry you, Randall. Mariam’s a healthy girl. I’m sure she’ll present you with a grandson before too long. A man ought to have a grandson. Especially if he can’t have a son.”

Scott’s eyes weren’t flat anymore; they were sharp and icy. And his flesh was so pale I could see the hair follicles showing blue against it, even after his close shave. It was Old Jack’s “fishbelly” look, and it was every bit as scary as he had said it was. But when Scott spoke, his voice was still calm and even, if a bit forced. “You’re right about that, John. I just hope she marries first.” He managed a chuckle. “I guess I’m a little conventional about such things. But as I was saying…” and he went on, pressing his argument. But I wasn’t listening; something was wrong. Terribly wrong. I had come to play a little vengeful game—not a deadly game, or even an important one, just a little exercise in exacting payment—and like a fool I had let old angers and festered bitterness carry me beyond the boundaries of even a radical strategy; beyond the limits, even, of good taste. That meant that I was losing control of myself. But the frightening thing was that even though I had lost control I had not lost my game. That was perhaps a matter of luck. But I thought not; I had just never been that lucky. No, it was simply that my little game did not matter, for somewhere there was a larger game in progress. Perhaps it was Scott’s, perhaps not. In any case, it had hidden players, unknown rules, and no discernible objective.

“…what professors make,” Scott was saying, “but I don’t imagine it leaves you with money to throw away…”

I didn’t like it.

“…be willing to cover all expenses….?

Whichever way it was, I didn’t like it.

“…realize what Jack meant to this town. Now, I can’t guarantee it personally, but I’m sure the Town Council…”

Suddenly I recalled one of Old Jack’s interminable hunting tales, this one about stalking a bear through the North County woods for a night and a day and another night, only to turn, on the dawn of the second day, and see the bear circling in from the rear.

“…suitable inscription. Anything you’d feel appropriate. Now, what do you say to that?”

“Why?” I said.

“What?”

“Why. Basic question. Why do you want to do all this?”

“Well, I thought I just explained…”

“You explained all the wonderful things you were going to pay for, and you explained why I should let you, but you never said why you wanted to do them in the first place.”

He didn’t answer right away. He thought a minute, then made a sucking sound with tongue and teeth. “Isn’t it enough that I want to?”

“Woulda been,” I said. “Twenty years ago everybody would have been just thrilled at the charity. But some of us have learned to be a little more…careful now.” I looked at him hard. “What’s in it for
you
, Randall? And don’t give me crap about civic duty.”

He looked at me for a minute, then shook his head. He stood up and came from behind the desk and went to look out the window. His fingers toyed idly with the plastic rod that controlled the blinds, opening and closing the slats, making bars of darkness alternately widen and narrow on his face. He sighed deeply. “These are hard times. First, I suppose, it was the deaths of the Kennedys. Then Vietnam. Then Watergate. Next? God knows. A man gets tired speculating. I guess we’ve all grown a little cynical. I know I have. I guess it’s too much to expect that younger people would not have grown even more cynical.” He sighed again, and turned to face me. “I don’t blame you, John. I don’t. And I’m not offended; I know you feel you have reason not to believe me; perhaps you do. You feel that I treated your brother badly, that I was…involved in his death. I believe I was doing my duty as a duly appointed public official. I may have been wrong. But I was trying to do the right thing; it was a dirty, tawdry, confusing little war, and the only clearly honorable course of action was obedience. Or maybe I’m just ‘copping out’ on that. But I say this, and I want you to believe it….” He turned quickly and fixed me with his gaze. “I have come to understand and value and
cherish
the contribution that col…Afro-Americans have made to this country, this state, this County, this Town. And what I want to do now is just a small step towards demonstrating that understanding.”