Bread Upon the Waters

by Irwin Shaw

  “You’ve had a busy morning,” Strand said.

  “I’ve had worse,” Babcock said. “There was the morning eighty boys woke up vomiting and with extreme cases of diarrhea. We thought it was typhoid. It turned out to be the pastry we had for dessert the night before. The theory is that schoolmasters live to a ripe old age.” He laughed softly. “Outdated wisdom.”

  “What do you expect you’ll have to do?” Strand asked.

  “I’m afraid the first thing we’ll have to do is expel the boy. Romero. If we don’t we’ll probably lose half the enrollment of the school.”

  Strand nodded. “He brought it on himself.”

  “It’s a tragedy just the same,” Babcock said. “The next thing I hope to do is keep him out of jail some way. Try for a probationary period, at least. I’ve called the school lawyer and he’s already seen Romero and is meeting us at the courthouse. I had hoped to avoid it. That’s why I tried to get in touch with Mr. Hazen to see if he knew somebody else around here. If the parents—especially the ones like Mr. Hitz—get wind of the fact that we’re paying the school’s money for Romero’s defense…” He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished. “How is Leslie taking it all?”

  Strand had been waiting for the question, although he had hoped it wouldn’t be asked. “Rather hard, I’m afraid. She’s taken advantage of your kind offer of a sick leave and will be gone for a couple of weeks.”

  “She’s left already?” Babcock’s eyebrows went up in surprise.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t blame her. If I could, I’d leave too.” Babcock smiled wearily. He maneuvered the car into a parking place in front of the pillared, white clapboard courthouse. “A handsome building,” he said. “Built in 1820. What woe has paraded through its corridors.”

  The lawyer for the school was named Hollingsbee. He was waiting for them at the door to the courtroom. He was fat and florid, in a beautiful dark suit. His voice matched his appearance, round and actorish. “They’ll be bringing the boy in shortly,” he said after acknowledging Babcock’s introduction to Strand with a courtly nod. “I’ve spoken to him and I fear we have a difficult case on our hands. Romero won’t cooperate at all. He’s not going to testify. He told me he won’t open his mouth. In court he says he won’t even say why he did what he did, even though he told the police Hitz stole his money. Let ’em do their worst, he told me, what good would it do to talk? He says I’m the talker in the operation, I can say whatever I want. He seems to know more than is good for him about the law. He says he can’t be forced to incriminate himself and he’s not going to do it. He’s sorry he talked as much as he did to the police. His attitude is sullen—perhaps understandably so—but it won’t win sympathy in court. A little sign of contrition would be useful.” The lawyer shrugged. “But that doesn’t seem to be within his range. He says Mr. Strand here saw him running after Hitz with a knife and that he admitted both to Mr. Strand and the police that he used the knife on Hitz. He says everybody in the courtroom would laugh at him if he pretended he didn’t cut Hitz. In fact, if you want to know what I think, he’s proud of it and wants everybody to know he did it. He refuses to tell me why he suspects Hitz of being the thief. He says he’s always known he’d wind up in jail one day and he has lots of friends who’ve been there and he’s not afraid of it. His attitude, I have to tell you, will not sit kindly with the judge. Or with the jury, if it comes to that. He’s over eighteen and he’ll be tried as an adult. And we’re pleading in a small town in Connecticut, not New York or Chicago, where knifings of this kind, obviously not with the intent to kill, are considered an almost normal part of everyday life. I’ll do my best, of course…” The lawyer’s voice sank to a melancholy register. “But I’m not optimistic.”

  “What are you able to do?” Babcock asked.

  “Play on the boy’s background. Brought up in a slum, with a broken and poverty-stricken family, etcetera, etcetera. The usual. Destruction of a promising career in a moment of emotional imbalance, that sort of thing. Not much.”

  “What can we do to help?” Babcock asked.

  The lawyer made a small, helpless gesture with his hands. “Act as character witnesses for the accused. Bring up whatever you think might be useful. Remember you will be under oath.”

  Whatever he said about Romero’s character, Strand knew, would never be the truth. Would he mention the stolen volumes of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire? Not if he wanted to keep the boy out of jail.

  As they were standing there, Hitz came down the hall. The big bandage on his cheek made a dramatic pattern on one side of his face. He bulged out of his clothes. Strand saw that his fly was open. Hitz looked at the three men resentfully, but stopped and said, “Good morning, Mr. Babcock.” He ostentatiously ignored Strand. “My father said he was going to get in touch with you, sir. Did he reach you?”

  “He reached me,” Babcock said.

  “He was very upset when I told him what happened,” Hitz said.

  “So it seemed,” Babcock said. “Well, shall we go in?”

  “Don’t think I’m going to make things easy for Romero,” Hitz said. “Or you, Mr. Strand.”

  “Thank you for the warning,” Strand said. “And zip up your fly. You don’t want to be held in contempt of court, do you?”

  Hitz’s face went red and he was struggling with the zipper as Strand led the way into the courtroom, where Sergeant Leary was waiting to testify. Among the few spectators Strand noticed a young woman whom he recognized as a reporter for the town newspaper seated in the first row, a writing pad on her lap and a pencil in her hand. Babcock saw her, too, and whispered, “The news has spread fast, I’m afraid. She’s not here to watch the judge handle parking tickets.”

  Romero came in with the policeman who had arrested him. At least, Strand thought, he’s not in handcuffs. He looked small and frail in the dark sweater Strand had bought him at Brooks Brothers. He smiled as he passed Hitz and said good morning to the headmaster and Strand. The lawyer accompanied him to a table set in front of the judge’s bench.

  The judge entered from his chambers and they all stood up. The bailiff declared the court open and they all sat down, except for the lawyer and Romero and the two policemen, who stood in front of the bench.

  The district attorney read the charge in a monotonous drone. Romero looked around the courtroom curiously, as though he was not interested in what the man was saying but was intrigued by the architecture of the old hall.

  The district attorney finished and the judge asked, “How does the defendant plead?”

  “Not guilty, Your Honor,” the lawyer said quickly.

  Romero looked at the judge sardonically. The judge peered down at him over the steel rims of his reading glasses.

  “I don’t recognize the jurisdiction of this court,” Romero said.

  Strand groaned. TV, he thought, a thousand hours of TV lawyers.

  The judge sighed. “We will not go into that at the present time, Mr. Romero. I remand you for trial in custody of the court. I set bail at ten thousand dollars.”

  Strand heard Babcock gasp. He only half listened as the lawyer argued for a reduction in bail and the acting district attorney emphasized the gravity of the case and the danger to the plaintiff if the defendant, who had admitted his act of violence and showed no remorse for it, was allowed to roam free.

  “The bail stands at ten thousand dollars,” the judge said. “Next case, please.”

  The reporter was scribbling busily as Romero, between the policeman and the lawyer, walked down the aisle toward the door. As the trio passed Hitz, Hitz raised his middle finger in a derisive, obscene gesture. Romero stopped walking and for a moment Strand was afraid he was going to leap at Hitz. But Romero merely said, loudly enough for the whole court to hear, “Your time will come, fat boy.” Then he allowed the policeman to lead him out of the room.

  “Oh, my God,” Babcock said. He shook his head sadly. “I dread to think of what that youn
g lady is going to write for tomorrow morning’s paper.” He took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief, as though he was trying to erase what the glasses had witnessed in the courtroom. “Well,” he said, “we’d better be getting back to the school.”

  On the way back in the car he said, “Allen, do you think Mr. Hazen would be willing to put up the bail money?”

  “Ten thousand dollars?” Strand said. “I wouldn’t like to hazard a guess.”

  When he got back to the campus it was the lunch hour and Strand was grateful that he wouldn’t have to face any of the students or faculty as Babcock dropped him off in front of the Malson house. Getting out of the car, he felt as though his legs were giving way under him and he was afraid he would not be able to make it to the door. “If you don’t mind,” he said to the headmaster, “I would like to skip meals and classes for a day or two.”

  “I understand,” Babcock said. “If I could, I’d skip meals and classes for a year.”

  “I’ll try to get in touch with Mr. Hazen. If I do, I’ll let you know what he says.”

  Babcock nodded and drove off. Strand went into the house. Mrs. Schiller was down on her knees, with a brush and a bucket of soapy water, scrubbing at the couch. She stood up when Strand came in. “What a business,” she said. Her plump, maternal face, which always seemed to be flushed from standing in front of some invisible oven, was pained. “In twenty years here, there’s never been anything like this.” She looked around, as though she was afraid of being overheard. “I have to tell you something, Mr. Strand. But you have to promise that it won’t go any further.”

  “Is it about what happened last night?”

  “About last night. Yes.”

  “I promise.”

  “Can we go into the apartment?” She spoke in whispers. “I haven’t been upstairs and one of the boys might’ve decided not to go to lunch and I wouldn’t want anybody to hear.”

  “Of course,” Strand said and led her down the hallway and unlocked the door and opened it. She followed him into the living room.

  “Mr. Strand,” she said, “I don’t know how to say this, but I’m afraid it was my fault.” She was near tears.

  “What was your fault?”

  “Romero stabbing the Hitz boy.”

  “How could that be?” Strand asked sharply.

  “When I came in last night to turn down your beds, it was during the supper hour and the boys were all out of the house, I thought. I heard a radiator knocking and I went upstairs to turn it off. It was in the hall, right at the head of the stairs. The valve was stuck and I was working at it when I saw a boy coming out of Romero’s room. It was young Mr. Hitz. I asked him why he wasn’t at supper. He said he wasn’t hungry, he’d had some hot dogs on the road on the way back to school. And he went downstairs to his room. I thought nothing of it. The older boys are allowed to miss supper at the end of holiday nights. I went home, we have a little house just off campus, and Mr. Schiller and I were watching television and we were just about to go to bed when there was a knock on the door. Jesus Romero was there. It must have been after eleven o’clock. He seemed calm enough. He’s a cool boy at all times, mature for his age, if you know what I mean. At least I used to think so…until all this happened…” Her lips and double chins quivered.

  “What did he want?”

  “He said he’d just come in. He’d been on a trip, he said, for the weekend, and he’d missed connections getting back to Dunberry. He said something was missing from his room, a book he needed for his first class in the morning. He didn’t seem overly concerned, except I should have guessed it was something important, his coming to my house so late at night. Only what with the holiday and the television and all, I just wasn’t thinking.” She shook her head sadly. “He wanted to know if I knew anything about the book. Well, Mr. Strand…If I’d dreamed what was in his mind I’d have kept my peace till doomsday. But the boys have a habit of going into each other’s rooms and borrowing things—books, ties, a sweater…So I said I’d seen Mr. Hitz coming out of his room at supper time. Now I could cut my tongue out for being so foolish.” She was weeping now.

  “Don’t blame yourself, Mrs. Schiller,” Strand said.

  “I’ve been partial to Jesus since the beginning, Mr. Strand. He’s such a gentleman with me and he’s so neat and the other boys—at least most of them—treat him like a stray dog and I thought I was being helpful. He asked me if Mr. Hitz was carrying anything and I tried to remember, but I couldn’t and I told him.”

  “How did he react to that?”

  “Very calm, Mr. Strand. Not a hint of anything really wrong. He just said thank you and that he hoped he hadn’t disturbed me and Mr. Schiller and went away and I thought nothing of it until this morning when I heard…” The tears were pouring now down her full cheeks.

  Strand put his arms around her broad shoulders. He could feel her trembling. “There, there,” he said helplessly. “It’s not your fault.”

  “I don’t know if Jesus has told anybody that I was the one who told him that Mr. Hitz was…” She couldn’t go on.

  “He hasn’t told anyone. Not me or Mr. Babcock or the police or his lawyer or anyone else. In fact, he made a point with me about its being confidential.”

  “If young Mr. Hitz hears that I was the one who set Jesus on him and he tells his father…Mr. Schiller and myself love it here and my husband would be a lost man if the father used his influence…he’s a powerful man, Mr. Strand, and he’s on the Board of Trustees…”

  “I’m sure Mr. Babcock would never let it get that far,” Strand said. “I don’t think you have to worry about it. I won’t say anything and young Romero seems determined to keep your name out of it and even if he reported what you said you saw, it wouldn’t be any kind of evidence in court…”

  “It’s not the evidence I’m afraid of.” She wiped at her eyes with both hands. “It’s Mr. Hitz and the Board of Trustees. Oh, well—” She tried to smile. “Crying won’t take back the words I said, will it?” She picked up her apron and scrubbed at her damp face with its hem. “I should be ashamed of myself. Making such a fuss, when you and Mrs. Strand’ve gone through so much, it’s a blessing you didn’t get stabbed coming between them the way you did. I guess I made a mistake about the Romero boy. You can’t get the leopard to change his spots, can you?”

  “He’s not a leopard, Mrs. Schiller,” Strand said.

  “A figure of speech, sir,” she said hastily. She looked at him warily. “There’s another thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was cleaning out the trash bin for papers in the basement this morning,” she said, “and I found some letters. In a girl’s handwriting. I’d heard already that Hitz said Romero accused him of stealing some letters and I took a look at them. They were addressed to Jesus. They were love letters, very frank, very explicit, very physical, if I may take the liberty to say so, Mr. Strand—girls these days use language that we never even knew existed when we were young. There’s something you ought to know—” She hesitated, as though making a decision, looked uneasily at Strand. “They were signed Caroline. Of course there are many Carolines these days, it’s a very popular name, but I know your daughter is named Caroline.”

  “What did you do with them? The letters?”

  “I put them in the incinerator, Mr. Strand,” Mrs. Schiller said. “I didn’t think you or Mrs. Strand would want to read them.”

  “Thank you,” Strand said. “It was thoughtful of you. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  Mrs. Schiller shook her head. “Just to tell Jesus that I appreciate his keeping my name out of it all.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “I understand Mrs. Strand has gone,” Mrs. Schiller said. “Her bags aren’t in the apartment. If I could fix you a bite to eat.”

  “That’s kind of you. It isn’t necessary, though. I can take care of myself.”

  “If you change your mind, just call me,” Mrs. Schiller sa
id. “Now I better be getting back to work and see if I can’t scrub the blood off the couch.”

  She made a fat little bow, adjusted her apron and went out of the apartment.

  For the first time since he had read the note on the dressing table in the bedroom, Strand was glad that Leslie wasn’t there.

  4

  HE WAS AWAKENED BY the ringing of the telephone. He had lain down to nap with his clothes on just after his talk with Mrs. Schiller. As he got off the bed and stiffly started in toward the living room, he saw that it was already dark. He had slept away the afternoon, his dreams confused and menacing. He fumbled in the darkness for the telephone. It was Leslie. “How are you, darling?” she said. “How is everything?” She sounded calm, normal.

  “As good as can be expected,” he said. “How are you? I tried to call this morning.”