In the Still of the Night (15 page)

He was shocked at the scratches on the fender and the door when he first saw the car in daylight. It must have happened going down or coming up from the water’s edge. Going down he’d been concentrating on Sally’s hand getting nearer and nearer his thigh. And then the Sheriff’s Patrol had stopped the three cars and confiscated the beer. The cops had made them get out of the cars, and they asked each one if they had any joints or other dope. They hadn’t searched anybody. Sally said afterward that if the deputy had laid a finger on her, her father would have had his badge by morning. Some of the other boys went to St. Mary’s too, which had turned coeducational recently. Like him they were day students, but they were upperclassmen. One of the deputies had flashed his torch in David’s face and then asked to see his driver’s license. He couldn’t believe David was a college student. Sally tittered. She didn’t say it then, but later—mother’s boy. He took a chamois to the scratches and turned up the local station on the radio. The only traffic incident reported was a three-car crash on the interstate. He’d bet no one ran away from that one.

The macadam was still silvery from the overnight frost when he turned onto County Road. Tire tracks crisscrossed and then disappeared where the sun’s first rays skimmed the surface. The temptation to turn back was getting to him. He made himself go on, one road sign to the next. He reached the underpass beneath the suburban railway. Then he lost his nerve. He turned around beneath the arch and headed for school.

It was too late to go to his first class. In the library he asked at the desk if he could see the
County Sentinel,
not yet on the shelf. The librarian wanted to know if he had a hot number. The lottery. “Look, you never know,” David said.

He went through the paper column by column. “Crime Watch”: “The Sheriff’s Patrol reported no arrests, significant crimes or serious accidents.” He was disappointed. Crazy, but that was how he felt. He returned the paper and headed for his second class. It struck him then: the accident on the interstate had not been reported either. It was too soon. But not for it to have been on the radio. Could that mean that nothing very serious had happened on County Road? But something had happened. Suppose he never found out. He didn’t think he’d forget it. But say that woman wasn’t supposed to be where she was, it was a stolen car maybe, and say that by a miracle she wasn’t hurt, or suppose there was someone in the car she wasn’t supposed to be with, say someone dragged her into the car afterward. Maybe she
was
hurt. Or dead. If she had banged her head, say, on her own car, he wouldn’t have heard that, would he? Just because he hadn’t heard anything didn’t mean nothing happened. All morning he kept turning over in his mind different possibilities, knowing that only one of them, or maybe none, was so. His imagination would not let go. He was such a good liar, why couldn’t he lie to himself? He ought to keep track of the lies he told. A priest once said to him about confession, “Don’t simply pick a number as though it’s a lottery.” Which was exactly what he used to do.

Lying was his big problem from when he was a little kid. It always surprised him that people, his mother for example, took for granted he was telling the truth. Or did they pretend, too? Pretend they believed him. During his first session with the St. Mary’s student advisor they’d had a long talk on why people lied, even professional liars like spies, and what it did to a man’s character to lie habitually. Women did it for fun, the advisor said, and then added quickly that he was making a joke. David wasn’t sure. But he wound up taking as his elective the Christian Ethics course the advisor recommended. His mother was pleased. Someone told her Father Moran would be supportive. Of a student with a father absent from home David supposed, though nobody said it to him.

He kept making up excuses to himself to skip ethics class that afternoon. He didn’t want to blurt out something he couldn’t explain. The kids taking the class were hound dogs on the scent for heresy. Some of them had flunked out of seminary and were going through a kind of rehab. Father Moran paid them special attention. The Church needed more priests and nuns to make up for the dropouts. Father Moran was one of the few religious on the faculty and probably wouldn’t have lasted at St. Mary’s till now if there wasn’t the shortage.

David kept returning to his car all morning to catch the local news on the radio. He was nauseous, and in the mirror he looked as pale as a boiled potato. In the mirror, behind his own face, was the image of a man approaching, looking, David thought, at the license numbers of the cars as he worked his way through the parking lot. David felt in his bones the man was looking for him. He switched off the radio.

The stranger wore an out-of-date polo coat that was too big for him and a slouch hat that made his face look small, his features pinched, mean. He stooped to look in at David and took a quick survey of the inside of the car at the same time. He pushed his hat back and gestured that he wanted David to roll his window down. Reluctantly David obliged.

The man couldn’t smile. The attempt was like a nervous tic. “You’re David Crowley, right? I’m Dennis McGraw.” He handed David his business card:

DENNIS HENRY MCGRAW

ATTORNEY-AT-LAW

“I’m an associate of Deputy Sheriff Addy Muller’s. Deputy Muller was on the welcoming committee when you and your friends went down to the beach last night.” He gave the tic of a smile. “He could have hauled you in—you know, a public beach. Do you mind if I get in the car with you? It’s cold out here.”

“I have a class in twenty minutes, Mr. McGraw.”

But the man was already lurching around to the passenger side. He took notice of the scratches and pursed his lips to show his awareness. He eased into the seat alongside David. His coat overflowed it. “They say it’s going to rain. Feels more like snow. It’s a funny time of year for a beach party. Coming up Halloween, I suppose. And privacy’s no problem on the beach in October, is it?” Again, the smirk. “Relax, David. We’ll get you to your class on time. Addy said it was a long shot, but he remembered you lived in Oak Forest and could have been driving on the County Road last night….”

Once again the lie seemed safer to David. He shook his head.

“The interstate?”

“That’s right,” David said.

“Well, Addy said it was a long shot. I don’t know why anyone would take the County Road unless the interstate was shut down … or they had some mischief in mind. About what time was it when you got home?”

David took alarm. He ought not to have lied. He pumped himself up and said, “It’s none of your business, mister, and if you don’t get out of this car, I’m going to turn you over to the security police.”

McGraw spread his hands. “What did I say?”

“I want to know why you’re asking me these questions.”

“You aren’t giving me a chance to tell you.”

If David could have stopped his ears, he would have, rather than hear the very thing he wanted to know.

“But there’s no point to it if you didn’t take the County Road,” McGraw went on. “The reason I asked about the time: there was an accident that shut down the interstate for a couple of hours after midnight. Nobody got through going your direction.”

David was about to say that he must have got through just ahead, but he bit his tongue. He might be able to back out now before he got in deeper. “Could I see your identification, Mr. McGraw? Anybody could pick up that business card you showed me.”

“Smart boy. I’m like Abe Lincoln, David. I have an office but mostly I carry my business in my hat. All you got to do is call up the Sheriff’s Office and speak to Deputy Addy Muller. He’ll tell you who I am.”

David drew a deep breath, and tried to lie himself out of the lie. “I didn’t want to get involved in anything. I mean you’re a lawyer and that generally means trouble.”

“I can’t argue with you on that, David. I’m the first person my clients call when they get in trouble.”

“I did go home by the County Road, but I don’t know what time it was. I was supposed to be in by midnight.”

“Driving alone, were you?”

“I didn’t know many kids at the party. My girlfriend invited me.”

“Didn’t you take the young lady home?”

“She got a ride from one of the other guys. I don’t know what you want from me, but I’ve got to go now and I want to lock the car.”

“Five minutes more?” McGraw said.

“No, sir. I don’t know you and I don’t see why I should talk to you.”

“Then I’ll tell you what you should do, David. First chance, drive over to the Sheriff’s Office. You know where that is. Ask for Deputy Muller. He’s investigating an incident on the County Road last night. He’s looking for witnesses.”

And there it was: something
had
happened. He’d run away from something real. “Okay, I’ll do that,” David muttered, his voice shaky. Then, realizing what hadn’t been said: “Witness to what?”

“If you don’t know, you better ask Deputy Muller.” McGraw stuck out his hand as though expecting David to shake it. He withdrew it before David had a chance to take or refuse it. “Unless you’d like me to represent you? I’m well thought of in the County Building. It’s never a mistake to have legal counsel, David, always a mistake to go it on your own. You told me you went home on the interstate. Why did you tell that little lie? Addy’s going to want to know.”

David turned the key in the ignition. He wasn’t sure what to do—one security guard for the whole campus. He had to get rid of this guy. He was a crook, an ambulance chaser. But he knew something.

“No hard feelings,” McGraw said. He opened the car door and slipped out, pulling his coat after him. It clung to the seat and he had to yank it free. David wanted to laugh. And cry. McGraw stood wriggling, trying to straighten himself inside the oversize garment. David revved the motor and circled fast. There was a terrible familiarity to the whirr of the tires. He did not look back.

The whole class jumped on him when he said he thought Judas Iscariot wasn’t as bad as the Christians made him out to be. Maybe he thought of himself as a whistle-blower, that Jesus wasn’t good for the Jewish people—“Too much forgiveness—you know, like the woman who committed adultery.”

“Money, money, money,” students in the back of the room chanted. “He did it for money.” It was their way of breaking into David’s tirade.

“But he didn’t want the money. Look what he did with it!” David didn’t know what was happening to him to be shooting off like this. He didn’t even know how long he’d been on his feet. Father Moran had settled his backside on the edge of the desk and folded his arms like a fat Buddha. He was enjoying himself. He loved it when his boys got their adrenaline flowing. Always his boys—he hadn’t yet got used to the presence of girls in the class. “I don’t think Jesus himself was fair to him,” David went on. “He knew Judas was in trouble. He was the one who said the disciples should pray ‘Lead us not into temptation.’ Man, did Judas ever get led into temptation. What I’m saying is, Jesus knew. He knew what was going to happen to Judas. Look what he said to Saint Peter: ‘Before the cock crows, you’ll deny me three times.’ And Peter did. And he cried. So did Judas. He went out and wept bitterly.” David lost his train of thought. Actually, it was Peter who went out and wept bitterly.

Father Moran took over. “Well, Crowley. You certainly got our adrenaline flowing. Watch out the devil doesn’t catch up with you. He’s always on the lookout for a good advocate.” The priest shifted his weight, one buttock to the other. “Tell me, what do you understand to be Iscariot’s greater sin—that he betrayed the Lord or that he despaired of being forgiven?”

“Despair is the greatest sin.” It was an answer out of his childhood catechism.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Father.” He did not want to be quizzed like a ten-year-old. His moment of self-assurance was going down the drain.

The priest nodded to one of the volunteers. The back row all had their hands up.

Then David caught hold of another idea. “But despair is a sin against yourself, isn’t it? Being your own judge. Betraying somebody is worse, it seems to me. You’re hurting somebody else.”

“Mitchell, you’re on,” the priest said to the volunteer, ignoring David’s attempted postscript, except to say, “Thank you, Crowley.”

David tried to listen to Mitchell’s definition of despair as a sin against hope, and his denunciation of Judas because he had given up hope. It went on and on. David could have put it in one sentence. Somebody had done that, he realized, which was how it came into his mind: Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. Meaning hell.

It looked like the class wasn’t going to get back on track until everybody had their say on why Judas was so despicable—the kiss, the pieces of silver; somebody said he was jealous of John, the disciple whom Jesus loved. “I know! He was gay!” one of the girls put in. She covered her mouth and giggled. The giggle was infectious and those around her laughed. David pretended to be amused, but he wasn’t. He felt he’d been on to something important and had been cut off before he got to the heart of it. He’d had a question he wanted to ask that he felt would shake up even Father Moran. Now he couldn’t remember it.

Between Christian Ethics and his last class, he copied a friend’s notes for Twentieth Century French Literature, the class he had missed that morning, but his mind kept going back to Dennis McGraw and what he called “the incident” the sheriff’s deputy was investigating. You wouldn’t call anything serious an incident, would you? Suppose he found out tomorrow that the screaming person had not been hurt, not the least bit hurt, that the scream was an act, would that mean he was not guilty of anything? Look now: was guilt a matter of luck? Getting caught was, maybe. Wasn’t that why he was in ethics, to learn why getting caught was not part of the moral issue? And wasn’t getting caught what he was really afraid of? He didn’t care about that woman at all. Not for her own sake. The person he cared about was David Crowley.

He tried to focus on the Valéry poem in which he was supposed to trace the Symbolist influence, but he couldn’t concentrate. It was hopeless, and he was supposed to be good in French. David felt as though something inside him was writhing, a stomachful of snakes. The school day was almost over, but terrible as it had been he dreaded for it to end. He didn’t want to go home. He had to talk to someone. For just a minute he wondered if he should have been such a smart-ass with Dennis McGraw. McGraw wanted to talk to him. McGraw knew something. He didn’t.