I Know This Much Is True

by Wally Lamb

  “Hey, look, Dominick. I did what I had to do. Okay? Why don’t you just shut your mouth and play a fucking tape and don’t worry about it. We’re both out here driving around instead of at the friggin’ state police barracks, aren’t we? They didn’t bust us, did they? I did what I had to do, and I’m not taking any shit from you about it, either.”

  I said nothing for a mile or more. Heard Balchunas asking me all those embarrassing questions again. Saw him chomp that pen of his, snapping-turtle style.

  “You smeared me while you were in there, too. Didn’t you?” I said.

  “No, Dominick, I didn’t smear you. I got you out of that mess is what I did. But, hey, thanks a lot for the accusation. You’re a real pal. You’re—”

  “You sure? Because one of the things they wanted to know was if I’d ever let Ralph get funny with me for some hash. Why’d they want to know that, Leo? What’d you do—bag all three of us? Thomas, Ralph, and me? Fuck over three guys for the price of one?”

  “Look, Birdsey, you ought to be thanking me right now instead of accusing me of all this shit. That’s all I got to say. As far as I’m concerned, the subject’s closed.” He turned on the radio, punched several stations, snapped it off again. “And anyways, it’s not my fault if the cops took what I said and twisted it around. They were just fucking with your head, you idiot. Trying to get you pissed off. It’s a technique, asshole. Don’t blame me. Cops do it all the time. Ask my mother.”

  “So what did you say then? What’d you tell them about this supposed hash deal?”

  “All’s I said was. . . . I told them Ralph made us this offer that he’d, you know, give us some hash if we’d let him go down on us. And that we both told him to take a flying leap. I’m telling you, Birdseed, cops hate queers, and they’re not exactly in love with blacks, either—especially groups like the Panthers. So I stretched the truth a little and—”

  “Those are total fucking lies!”

  “Yeah, and they worked, too, didn’t they? You want me to turn around, drop you back off at the barracks so you can tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God? Well, sorry, Dominick. I guess I ain’t as much of a saint as you. I’d rather be out here than inside that station.”

  I stared up at the moon. Didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to think.

  “Look, Birdsey, I had to think of something fast, okay? And on top of that, I was wrecked out of my mind. Remember? It was the best I could come up with. What was I supposed to do—sit around and wait for you to get us out of this mess?”

  He had a point. If it was me handling it, we’d probably still be back at Barracks J, getting fingerprinted, having our mug shots taken. Not that I was willing to admit that.

  “Well, I just gotta hand it to you, Leo, that’s all,” I said. “When you decide to slander your friends, you can be pretty goddamned merciless.”

  “I wasn’t trying to ‘slander’ anybody, Dominick. It was just . . . survival of the fittest. So just do me a favor and shut up about it, will you? Let’s just go eat.”

  Survival of the fittest: I let that hang in the air for a mile or more. Let it good and goddamn piss me off. Leo fished a tape from the box and shoved it into the player. Started singing along. I’m your captain. Yeah yeah yeah yeah. . . .

  I reached over and yanked the fucker out of the machine. Yanked out two or three yards of tape and chucked the whole pile of spaghetti out the window. “Hey!” Leo protested. He braked hard enough to throw us both toward the dashboard. Then he changed his mind and gunned it. “What’d you do that for?”

  “Because I wanted to, asshole.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re the asshole, Birdsey. You owe me a tape.”

  “Survival of the fittest?” I said. “You frame the guy because he’s black, or because you think he’s queer, but it’s okay because it’s just the fucking law of the jungle?”

  “Yeah, that’s right, Dominick. It was Ralph or us, so I chose us. You mind?”

  “So the big, bad, black dope peddler tries to get us poor innocent college kids to deal for him. Right? That was your bright idea, Leo. Remember? Not Ralph’s. Yours. You were going to see if he’d sell us some shit and then we’d jack up the price and make a profit. Remember?”

  “Did you tell them that? The cops? That it was my idea?”

  “Geez, I don’t know, Leo. Did I? I was talking so fast—I was so wrecked—I don’t remember what I told them.”

  “Cut it out, Birdsey. Did you tell ’em it was my idea or not?”

  “Tell them the truth, Leo? No, I didn’t. And you know why I didn’t? Because I don’t bag my friends. Maybe I should have, though. Practiced ‘survival of the fittest.’”

  “Hey, how do you know he’s not dealing, Birdsey? All that grass we smoked all summer. That’s probably exactly what he was doing—getting us interested so he could use us in his little drug operation.”

  “Yeah, right, Leo. I think I saw that episode on The Mod Squad, too. Real life’s just like TV, isn’t it?”

  “No shit. Think about it. We worked with the guy all summer long and we didn’t even know until tonight that he lives over at Dell’s. That he’s a fucking fruitcake. How do we know he’s not a dealer?”

  “Who’s Roland?” I said. “Where’d Roland come from?”

  “Roland? Roland’s nobody. Roland’s my great-uncle from New Rochelle. I was just giving them a false lead.”

  “Yeah, and it’s probably going to backfire in your stupid face, too. In both our faces since I—”

  “Since you what?”

  “Since I covered for you, asshole. Since I said I might have heard Ralph say something about this imaginary pusher friend of his. Said he might have been interested in having us sell for him.”

  “Oh, so you ain’t Saint Dominick after all, huh? You bagged Ralph, too.”

  “Because you’d backed me into a corner, that’s why. What the fuck was I supposed to do—tell the truth and let the cops nail you for possession and false information? I guess I just don’t know how to play bag-a-buddy as good as you do, Leo. Shit, man, you’re the big pro at that. You could give Judas a few pointers.”

  He spat out the window. Turned back to me. “Hey, maybe Ralph’s your buddy, Birdsey. Maybe he’s your big pal. But to me he’s just some guy I worked with. Smoked a few jays with. Because, personally, I don’t hang around with fags. Okay?”

  “No? How about that drama teacher of yours? That guy you made out with?”

  “Fuck you, Birdsey! I didn’t ‘make out’ with anyone. Besides, I told you that in confidence. You just shut your mouth about that.”

  “What do you have to do to get the lead, Leo—to play Hamlet in that play this semester? You got to let this guy fuck you in the ass or something? Or is that already a done deal? Are you already the fuckin’ prince of Denmark?”

  “Shut up, Birdsey. You better shut your fucking mouth before you’re sorry.”

  “Oh, big man. You don’t like it, do you? When someone makes up shit about you? Asshole!”

  “Don’t call me an asshole, Birdsey. You’re the asshole!”

  “Yeah, and you’re a fucking liar! You’re a fucking snake in the grass!” I grabbed his box of eight-tracks, threw the whole bunch of them out the window.

  He slammed on the brakes. Shoved me against the car door. I shoved him back.

  “What are you, nuts? You turning mental like that mental case brother of yours?”

  I was on him instantly—choking him, letting my fist fly. I grabbed his head in both hands—was ready to smash it into the steering wheel. Knock his teeth out. Bust his nose.

  “Stop it!” he screamed. “Stop it, Dominick! What’s the matter with you?”

  It was the fear in his voice that stopped me—the way he suddenly sounded like Dessa out in the parking lot the night before. I saw blood dripping from his nose. Saw my raised fist opening, closing, opening.

  “Don’t you ever . . . !” I was out of breath. My heart was pounding so h
ard, it hurt. “Don’t you ever call me crazy. Me or him, understand? Understand?”

  “Okay. All right. Jesus.”

  I got out. Slammed the car door hard as I could and started walking, kicking his eight-tracks out of my way. When I turned back at about fifty yards, he was out of the car, bending over to pick up his tapes. I grabbed a rock and chucked it at his stupid Skylark. It rang out as it hit the bumper. “You dent this car, you’re paying for it!” he shouted back. “My tapes, too. I’m going to play every single one of ’em tomorrow, and whatever ones don’t play anymore, you’re paying for! I mean it!” I heard his door slam. Heard him peel out, drive off.

  Fuck him, I thought. Asshole. Cool Jerk. Good riddance. . . .

  I walked along the dark road, my head filling up with sounds and pictures of things I didn’t want to think about: Thomas, sobbing and yanking down his drawers for Dell. Dessa beneath me, crying, pushing me away. Balchunas’s big face. . . .

  I walked for hours—for eight or nine miles. And by the time I reached Hollyhock Avenue, my arms and neck were scabby with mosquito bites. My feet burned like I’d been walking on hot coals.

  I just stood there, looking up at our house—the house my grandfather had built. I couldn’t go in, no matter how exhausted I was. Couldn’t bring myself to go up the front stairs, unlock the door, climb the inside stairs, go down the hall to mine and my brother’s room. Couldn’t go in there and see my sleeping brother. Something was wrong with him, whether I wanted to admit it or not.

  I couldn’t do it.

  So I kept walking. Up the rest of Hollyhock Hill, then out through the pine grove and down to the clearing, to Rosemark’s Pond.

  You know what I did? I shucked off all my clothes, waded into the water, and swam. Swam until my limbs were numb, leaden. Until they couldn’t kick or push aside any more water. I guess . . . I guess I was trying to wash myself clean of everything: the stink of sweat and marijuana, the stink of what we’d done to Ralph—of what I’d done to Dessa out in that parking lot. What kind of a person was I? If my brother was cracking, maybe I’d helped cause it. Ray wasn’t the only bully at our house. . . . Survival of the fittest, I thought: whack whoever’s vulnerable, show ’em who’s in charge.

  It didn’t work, that swim. You can’t swim away your sins, I learned that much. I came out of the pond feeling just as dirty as when I’d gone in. I remember standing there on the shore, naked still, panting like a bastard. Just looking at my reflection in the water.

  Not looking away. Not lying to myself for once in my life.

  Facing what I really was.

  “And what was that?”

  “What?”

  “You said you stood there at the pond that morning and faced what you really were. I’m wondering what that was. What was your conclusion?”

  “My conclusion? That I was a son of a bitch.”

  “Explain, please.”

  “A bastard. A bully. I think it was the first time I’d actually ever admitted it to myself. . . . At least that’s how I remember it, anyway. I never know, during these sessions, whether I’m rehashing history or reinventing it.”

  “Well, yes, memory is selective, Dominick. An interpretation of the facts as we recall them, accurate or not. But what we select to remember can be very instructive. Don’t you think?”

  “He works over there, you know. At Hatch.”

  “Who?”

  “Ralph Drinkwater. He’s on the maintenance staff.”

  “Is he?”

  “I’ve run into him down there. The night Thomas was admitted. He had an accident, pissed himself. And guess who shows up with the mop?”

  “How did you feel when you saw Ralph?”

  “How did I feel? Oh, I guess I felt . . . like a good, red-blooded American.”

  “Yes? Explain, please.”

  “Keep them damn minorities down, boys. Put ’em on the cleanup crew. Survival of the fittest.”

  “You’re being ironic, yes?”

  “You know much about American history, Doc? What we did to the Indians? The slaves?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not grasping your point, Dominick.”

  “My point is: who the hell do you think those three white cops were going to believe that night—a couple of white kids or the dope-peddling black Indian? The radical queer? I mean, you got to hand it to Leo. It was a little over the top, maybe, but it worked. Right? I mean, stoned or not, it was a brilliant defense.”

  “And so, when you saw Ralph here at Hatch, you felt . . . ?”

  “I don’t know. There was a lot going on that night. . . . I felt bad, I guess.”

  “Can you be more specific, please? What does ‘bad’ mean?”

  “Guilty. I felt guilty as sin. . . . We just fed him to the cops.”

  “Ah. Interesting.”

  “What is?”

  “That’s the second time you’ve used that word today.”

  “What word? ‘Guilty’?”

  “’Sin.’”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “Do you recall the context of your other reference to sin?”

  “No.”

  “You said that when you emerged from the pond, you realized that one cannot swim away from one’s sins.”

  “Yeah? And?”

  “I merely note that you described your swim almost as an attempt at purification. And now, this second reference to guilt and sin. I’m just struck by your religious—”

  “It’s just a figure of speech. ‘Guilty of sin’: people say it all the time.”

  “Are you angry?”

  “No, I just . . . I think you’re confusing me with the other Birdsey brother.”

  “No, no. I assure you. I know the difference between—”

  “Look, Ma! Two hands!”

  “Dominick, sit down, please.”

  “I don’t want to sit down! I just . . . You know something? Let me clue you in to something. When you go to lift your kid—your beautiful little baby girl—out of the bassinet some morning and . . . and she’s . . . Well, never mind. Just don’t start confusing me with my one-handed Holy-Roller brother. I don’t do religion, okay? I gave up on God a long time ago. . . . I was just some stupid, mixed-up kid up there at that pond that morning. I was hot and tired and . . . “

  “Take my hands, please, Dominick. That’s it. Now, look at me. That’s right. Good. I want to assure you, my friend, that I do not confuse you and your brother. I am quite aware of the distinctions between you. All right?”

  “I—”

  “I only ask this: that, during this process, you try not to disown your insights.”

  “My insights? Have I had any insights yet?”

  “Yes! And more will come in time. Be patient, Dominick. They’re coming. Do you, by any chance, know who Bhagirath was? In Hindu legend?”

  “Who?”

  “Bhagirath. He brought the Ganges from heaven to earth.”

  “Yeah? Neat trick. What was he—a civil engineer?”

  “Of sorts, I suppose. You see, Bhagirath had a mission. He needed to cleanse the honor of his ancestors because they had been cursed. Burned to cinders. So he routed the river from the feet of Brahma, the Creator, through the tangled locks of Shiva, the Destroyer, and thus to earth. It was his gift. The holy river. And that is why orthodox Hindus bathe there: to cleanse themselves of their imperfections. To wash away their ancestors’ sins.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Keep thinking back, Dominick. Keep remembering.”

  “I just . . . It’s painful. I don’t see the point.”

  “The point is this: that the stream of memory may lead you to the river of understanding. And understanding, in turn, may be a tributary to the river of forgiveness. Perhaps, Dominick, you have yet to emerge fully from the pond where you swam that morning so long ago. And perhaps, when you do, you will no longer look into the water and see the reflection of a son of a bitch.”

  24

  1969–1970

  The next
day, Dessa and I drove out to the Falls to talk. We made up. Made love.

  On Monday morning, I quit the Public Works so I wouldn’t have to face Ralph. Walked into Lou Clukey’s office and told him I needed to leave earlier than I’d figured because of school. Leo had quit, too, Lou said. At least I’d come in and told him in person. On the way out of the yard, I ran right into Ralph. He acted embarrassed, not angry. If the cops were going to haul him in for questioning, they hadn’t done it yet.

  “Well,” I said. “It’s been real.” I held out my hand for him to shake.

  “It’s been real,” Ralph repeated. And he grasped and shook the dirty hand of betrayal. The white boy’s hand.

  The weekend before school started, Dessa came over to the house with her sister. Thomas and I were out on the front porch, shucking corn for supper. Angie plopped herself down next to my brother and started teasing him. Flirting with him. Then and forever engaged in a one-sided competition with her big sister, Angie had decided on the spot that if Dessa wanted me, what she wanted was the closest facsimile. It was Angie who suggested the four of us drive down to Ocean Beach to play miniature golf. On the way home, Angie and Thomas started making out in the backseat. In a way, it was kind of funny: Thomas getting the moves slapped on him. And, if the rearview mirror didn’t lie, responding. Acting normal for once in his life. Acting human. . . . It was funny, but it wasn’t funny, either. Thomas’s behavior was always a wild card. And Dessa’s little sister was just plain wild.

  Angie and Thomas went out the next night, and then the next. The morning before we were due back at school, I stepped out of the shower and saw Thomas standing in front of the medicine cabinet mirror, shirtless, touching the hickeys Angie Constantine had sucked into his chest and neck. “Hey, listen, loverboy,” I said. “You do anything stupid—anything to mess up Dessa and me—and you’re a dead man. Understand?” Thomas just stared at me, bewildered, as if sex and girls and fratricide weren’t options on the planet where he came from. Then he went back to the mirror—touched his chest again, passed his fingers over his rose-colored bruises.

  That night, I dreamed I was screwing Angie. “Don’t tell Dessa,” I kept begging her, mid-fuck. When she told me she wouldn’t, I hooked my chin over her shoulder and closed my eyes and we went at it something fierce. And when I opened my eyes again, there was my brother, watching us.