When the men walked past in the evening they could see that the grave had been tampered with. “Where is the dog who has done this?” they demanded in big voices. “Mad dog.” “Animal control.” “Rabies,” they called out.
And the incident rose up, its bones strung together, its half-rotten flesh even harder to identify. The buried incident rose up, crawled out of its grave and waved its arms at them.
Bullet returned the paper to Cheryl as she went into the lunchroom. She looked surprised to have it put back into her hands. “Thanks,” he said. She added it to the pile she was carrying to pass out. As he went by the table where Tommy sat, Bullet stopped to say, “Not bad.”
Tommy smiled happily up at him. “You’re just jealous.” He looked pleased with himself. Somebody called Tommy’s name and Bullet moved on, to sit with the wimps. He watched the groups by Tommy’s table, all during lunch. People, both black and white, came by to say things that made Tommy smile.
* * *
That afternoon, Bullet ran a couple of times around the course beside Tamer, keeping his own pace easy but stretching Tamer’s. Tamer ran it twice more on his own while Bullet worked over the hurdles. Tamer watched the end of that. “You want some advice?” he offered, as Bullet finished a round.
Bullet shook his head: he was concentrating on trying to feel down his muscles what was wrong; he was getting too much height and not enough forward movement in the jumps.
“Come off it, Tillerman.” Tamer faced him. “Is it that important to you always to be in top position?”
“Hunh?”
“I do know something about hurdling,” Tamer said.
Coloreds, always thinking you were putting them down.
“I won’t tell anybody,” Tamer said, sarcastic.
“Can it,” Bullet said, not angry for a wonder. “It doesn’t work for me that way. I do it. Until it feels right.”
“Nobody can teach you, is that it?”
“Yeah.” That’s it exactly.
The heavy eyebrows lowered.
“You can get steamed if you want to, if you want to take it personally. For the record, though, I don’t care what position I’m in. I have never worried myself about that.”
Tamer just stared at him. “I think you’re straight,” he finally said.
Of course I am.
“Then what if I ran a few? My technique is pretty good—I had some good coaching before. You want me to do that?”
Bullet nodded. Tamer chuckled, shrugged, loped onto the track and ran the hurdles slowly, easily. Bullet watched his approach to the jumps, how he distanced himself to take off, the forward angle of his torso as he went over it. Bullet could feel that, that leaning forward into the landing. He hadn’t been doing that. Before Tamer finished, he went back to the start. Get off sooner than you think, he told himself. He took down a couple of hurdles at the beginning, but he held the picture of Tamer’s jumps in his mind and he could feel how that worked.
“Yeah,” he said to the big colored guy.
“You’re welcome,” Tamer answered, sarcastic again. “Are you going to be running the hurdles? Frankly, I hope not,” he added.
“Naw,” Bullet told him. “Running on a track—I don’t like it. You know?”
“No, I don’t. But, as I see it, that’s your problem.”
“You got it,” Bullet agreed. “You’re looking better over the hurdles,” he remarked.
“Yeah, I am. It feels better too. After cross-country, the hurdles is a breeze. I like that. You know, I originally planned, when we moved down here—I was going to play football. It’s what I played before. It’s easier to look good for scholarship money with football. College,” he explained to Bullet’s expression. “You’ve heard the phrase, going to college.”
“I seem to remember it from somewhere.”
“But I’m not playing football. . . .”
“I heard.”
“And I was burned about that. But being burned doesn’t do any good, so I figured track was my next best bet. A real second-rater though, I thought. Now, I don’t know. I’ve been thinking, like Hamlet says, there’s a divinity that shapes our ends. You know? It’s Shakespeare.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Bullet told Tamer. “My father used to quote him at me—when he used to speak to me. ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child,’” he proved.
“My old man quoted the racing form, when he wasn’t too strung out to do more than dribble where he sat,” Tamer said. “Tough luck, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“The way I see it now, track’ll do me as well as football. Maybe better. I’m pretty good. Not like you, not in your class, not anywhere near your class. But better than most, which is good enough. Much better than most.”
“What does that matter?” Bullet wondered.
“Brother, I can hold down two jobs and still get through high school with no trouble and top grades. But I doubt that I can do that in college, not with a family to support. Not the kind of jobs I can get. I need a good scholarship.”
“What jobs you do?”
“This year? I wash dishes at a place on the road up to Salisbury, a truck stop. And pump gas up to Route Fifty on weekends, the night shifts. Both minimum wage, which is very minimum, let me tell you. The time’s no big hassle now, but I’m hoping the academic standards at college will be a little higher.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“And don’t intend to find out, if I’m right. Am I right?”
“So what?”
“Hey—so nothing. It’s none of my business. I’m not even much interested.”
He meant that, Bullet could see; he knew how to leave people alone. Coloreds grow up faster, he thought.
“Say it.”
“You’re grown up,” Bullet said.
“My guess is I always was,” Tamer told him. “But not because I’m black, don’t kid yourself about that.”
Colored, Bullet corrected.
* * *
An all-school meeting was called for the next morning, first period. The students filed into the auditorium by homerooms, the youngest nearest the front and seniors at the back. Jackson, who was in Bullet’s homeroom, slouched down in his chair next to Bullet and leaned over to remark, “The shit has truly hit the fan. Just what we expected, right?”
Bullet didn’t answer.
“This’ll be fun,” Jackson decided.
Once the students were settled, the administrative officers filed onto the stage and took their seats in a long row at the center of the stage, behind the podium where a microphone had been set up. The principal stood at the microphone, with the three assistant principals behind him, as well as the school supervisor, and the heads of departments with their blue gradebooks and gray attendance books on their laps. The rest of the teachers sat at the end-row seats. A few stood by the two sets of doors leading into the auditorium. The adults watched the students, their eyes roving over the noisy auditorium, looking for signs of trouble, keeping guard.
The principal cleared his throat, waited for silence to fall and started to speak. His voice, magnified by the microphone, came at them from speakers mounted along the wall. “Boys and girls,” he said.
Bullet settled back. He might as well get a little sleep, or try to.
“I am sure that you have a good idea about why I’ve called this assembly. I hope you will forgive me for making it impossible for you to get to your first-period classes. . . .” He waited for a ripple of laughter that did not appear. Bullet opened his eyes: It might be interesting after all.
“I have decided that the best way to deal with a problem we all face—do you hear that? We all face it, it is a problem for all of us. The best way to deal with it is in a public hearing. That is the purpose for which we are gathered here this morning. Let me begin by calling up to the stage Thomas Leeds. Thomas?”
Tommy got up from a seat in the front row among the eighth-graders. He looked clean and n
eat and composed; he’d known this was going to happen. Beside Bullet, Jackson clapped his hands, loudly and slowly, all the time Tommy was getting up on stage. Nobody else made any sound.
Tommy stopped a few feet away from the podium and the principal. Jackson stopped clapping. Tommy let his arms hang at his sides for a few seconds. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his khakis. He took them out and put them behind his back. The principal waited. Tommy shifted his weight from leg to leg.
Finally the principal turned back to the microphone. “Most of you already know Thomas, but at the risk of being repetitive, I’ll introduce him. Thomas is the editor of our school newspaper, The Crimson Blade. He was elected last spring to this position, elected by you. The faculty approved the election. The faculty felt, as you obviously did, that Thomas was worthy of the responsibility his position gave him. We all felt we could trust Thomas to represent all of our opinions fairly to the public.
“Do you think I’m being foolish to mention the public? Remember, boys and girls, that at this time in history, any public school is in everyone’s eyes. We are all responsible, especially at this time, responsible not only to ourselves and every high school student across the entire country, but also responsible to future generations. The hard fact is that what we do today will determine how the future generation of school children—black and white—will find the institutions we leave to them. It is no small decision you will make here today, boys and girls.”
So they were going to try to get him voted out. Well, it was a bold enough move, and pretty smart. Tommy had struck out at them and this was the counterattack. It made sense.
“This is America, a democracy, and Thomas has been duly elected to his position of responsibility. We”—he turned to make a gesture that included the adults sitting in a quiet row behind him—“are seriously concerned about Thomas’s use of this position. We are also, however, serious in our respect for anyone whom you have voted into office. We respect your votes. Therefore, we have decided we all need a hearing, where each side can present its case. At the end of this, we will ask you to vote again, in your homerooms. The decision will be announced at lunchtime and we pledge ourselves to stand by it, whatever it is.”
The audience shifted in its seats. Bullet wondered if Tommy had figured that they would be so clever in their response.
“Thomas? You should, I think, be allowed to speak first. Are you ready to present your views?”
That surprised Tommy. He hadn’t expected that. But he stepped up to the podium. “My views are pretty simple,” he said. Magnified, the nervousness in his voice made him sound much less believable than the more practiced speaker beside him. “First, I think I have told the truth.” He hesitated, waiting for some other words to come to him. “I think that’s important, to tell the truth. Really important. The truth is important.” He stopped himself. “Okay, second, I believe in freedom of the press, because”—he looked down, looked around—“without that, they can tell us anything and we don’t have any way of finding out the real truth.” He studied his hands for a minute. “I mean, if there is no freedom of the press, then there’s no way for the truth to come out. If it is being kept hidden.” He waited for a few awkward seconds then said, “I guess that’s all I have to say. But I really mean it.”
Jackson groaned softly. Tommy stepped aside again. He started to leave the stage, but the principal told him to stay, so he stood there, a few feet back, his hands behind his back.
“Is that everything you wanted to say?” the principal asked. Tommy’s flushed face nodded. “Are you sure? I don’t want anyone to think we have cut you off short.” Tommy nodded again.
The principal turned back to the auditorium. “It seems to us that there are some important principles involved here that have not yet been mentioned. The first is the idea of playing by the rules. For all the years I can remember, there has been a well-known rule that all articles for the paper are reviewed and approved by a faculty advisor. Since the school is ultimately held responsible for everything that appears in the newspaper—and by school in this case I mean the school officials—it seems only fair that this rule should be respected. Your editor has not done this, which constitutes a serious breach of faith. The editorial in question was deliberately not shown to the advisor. In fact a false editorial was given to her for her approval. That isn’t a misrepresentation of the facts, is it, Thomas?”
Tommy shook his head.
“Now, whatever my personal feelings about such underhanded methods, or about dealing with someone who is deliberately hypocritical—such a breach of trust of the position, trust placed by you, should not go unnoted.
“Second, we are, as you well know, at a critical time in our nation’s history. It is all too easy to destroy, in the unconsidered heat of the moment, what it has taken generations to build. We must, especially at this difficult time, be able to take the long view. We must, all of us, think not about our immediate needs or feelings, but about the greater good, the higher purpose. The greater good is peaceful and full integration of the colors, so that each man and woman can be genuinely equal among his fellows. The higher purpose—well, education is our purpose here, to give you the tools you will need to be able to become self-supporting as well as to function as responsible citizens of the democracy that nourishes us all.
“It is easy—too easy—to inflame an already dangerous situation. Nothing is easier. It is easy to take advantage of the feelings of others, to stir others up to fever pitch. It is especially easy for a young man of talent to do so—and Thomas is a young man of talent, or else you would not have honored him with the position he holds. But how has he used his talent and position?
“I am personally saddened by this, because unlike some of our unfortunate neighbors to the west, this high school has been spared much of the destructive effects of what is going on around the country.”
Tommy seemed to wake up and become agitated. “Hey, hang on,” he said.
“Excuse me, Thomas, you have had your time to speak. I would prefer not to be interrupted.”
Helpless, Tommy withdrew into silence.
“I will mention only one example. The hallways at Anne Arundel County schools have police guards stationed in them. Is this what you want to happen here? Policemen with trained attack dogs are put on duty at all sporting events. Do you want that to happen to your school? Teachers are leaving their jobs, without notice, twenty-five percent of them since school opened in the fall. They cannot be replaced by able people. Is that the kind of education you want for yourselves?”
But that has nothing to do with it.
“Do you want to come to school every day, not knowing whether or not violence will erupt? That has not been the case here, and that is a credit to you, to all of you, and to your teachers. When I read the newspapers, I am proud of us all, because we are achieving what many say cannot be achieved. I think that achievement is now being threatened. This saddens me and frightens me.”
Bullet could feel the ripples of fear going around the auditorium—everybody knew that schools in many places were not safe, for teachers or students.
Tommy looked like he wanted to say something, but the principal silenced him with a glance.
“Finally, there is one more point. Like it or not, you are not adults. You do not carry adult responsibilities. You are not expected to. Students are not drafted—which is a clear statement. The adults of your community—however imperfect they may be—do their best to make your lives safe and useful.”
Bullet saw now what the man was doing. He was using the assembly to make sure Tommy got voted out of his job. He had put Tommy up there on stage where he’d be nervous and not look good. He had let Tommy talk first because people would remember most clearly whatever was said last; then he had taken out all of his heavy ammunition to attack with. This was supposed to be a hearing, but it was more like a seige. At first, the army outside had been the adults on stage, surrounding the students with their authorit
y. Now, as the principal talked, everybody but Tommy was in the army outside, lying in wait to get through the walls. Tommy seemed to have figured out the position, but he couldn’t do anything about it.
Well, Tommy had brought it all about by his own choice, Bullet thought. On the other hand, the principal hadn’t ever talked about the truth of the editorial. He had talked about other things, using fear and patriotism, and even pride, to get people thinking his way. He was obscuring the supposed cause, which was whether or not they had done a cover-up on the incident, whether or not things were as peaceful and safe as they said. It was nothing more than a seige, and it was going to be one of the shortest seiges on record, Bullet thought, because Tommy didn’t seem to realize where his best defense lay.
“You must be careful not to react like children in a tantrum, screaming and biting. A truly mature young person understands that when wiser heads than his cannot reduce a problem to simplicity, he must respect the difficulty of the problem. It is that maturity, so essential to an editor—”
Bullet stood up and pushed his way over the knees of the people in his row toward the center aisle. He would have gone for the side aisle, which was less obtrusive, but the teacher sitting there would have stopped him. He turned to walk up and out.
“Samuel Tillerman.” The name echoed from all the loudspeakers. Bullet turned around. “May I ask what you are doing?”
The principal was trying to set it up, the way he had set up Tommy. Bullet met his eyes but didn’t answer. He figured what he was doing was self-evident.
“You’re leaving?” the man finally asked.
Bullet nodded. You could see the guy trying to figure out how to handle this.
“Why are you leaving?”
The guy was scared everybody would get up and follow Bullet out. Bullet didn’t give two hoots about everybody. Or even about Tommy. He just wasn’t about to stay there any longer and be lied at. “You said this was a hearing,” he called back, down the broad aisle and up onto the stage. “It isn’t,” he said.
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