Her beefy arms thumped the side of the chair. “This was before I divorced that son of a bitch. He was out that night with the boys buying an ice cream. Paul came to our house still in his baseball uniform, dirty streaks of tears on his face. He didn’t say anything. We sat on the front porch. I held him as he cried. What kind of parents make a twelve-year-old that miserable? They’ve pressured those kids every minute for years with this sports junk.” She shuddered. “I don’t mean to insult you, Mr. Carpenter, you being a sports person and all, but really.”
Scott told her that he understood. I know he did. We’d talked before about the pressure from coaches and parents. Mine had been okay, fortunately, but his dad had been among the worst of the ranters and ravers. One time, he’d beaten up Scott’s Little League coach for what Scott’s dad considered to be a wrong choice for his boy.
Mrs. Trask continued, “And poor Becky Twitchell.” This I sat up for. Nobody had ever expressed even the slightest positive feeling for Becky and here was someone feeling sorry for her. “The girl is sick,” Mrs. Trask said. That sounded more like everybody else. “I tried for years to keep her away from these boys. She’s smarter and cleverer than me. I’ve tried and tried.” She shook her head. “I guess I do hate her, although I know that’s wrong. I’ll have to go to confession about that, but it’s true. When the boys told lies, lots of times it was to cover for Becky. If the kids were unhappy, it was because Becky got her way.”
Roger she found funny. Doris was a delightfully helpful girl.
We talked a while longer, but we’d learned all we could from her. As we retrieved our coats from the hall closet, she said, “You’re not the only teacher that cares at that school; that coach, Mr. Windham, called to talk to Eric. He told me how sorry he was about everything. It’s nice to know people at the school care.”
Maybe George did care, but I hadn’t noticed anything in him besides selfish irresponsibility. And why talk to Eric? Maybe I’d find out tomorrow.
Before we left, I assured her I’d talk to the lawyer in the morning about bail for Jeff. As we stood at the door her eyes filled with tears. She took my hand. “You’ve got to help,” she pleaded. “You’re my boy’s only hope.”
I assured her as best I could.
The bitter cold driven by a twenty-mile-an-hour east wind tore through us as we hurried to the car. Rubbing gloved hands together as the car warmed up, I asked, “Have we got time to get to the hospital to see Neil before visiting hours close?”
“It’s supposed to start snowing anytime, but yeah, we’ve probably got time,” Scott said.
We took LaGrange Road to the Stevenson Expressway and drove to Northwestern Memorial Hospital. I’d called earlier in the day, but Neil’d been asleep. A quick visit would be enough. He’s been a leading gay activist for years. We’d worked on several committees together in the early eighties to get the police to stop harassing gay bars and to get the Gay Rights Ordinance passed in Chicago and Illinois. Neil could have a vicious tongue. When I first introduced him to Scott, Neil used to condescend cruelly to him—Neil tended to look down on anyone who didn’t have an advanced degree from a prestigious university. Today, they existed in an uneasy truce with each other.
By luck, we found a parking place on Chicago Avenue, in front of the National Guard Armory, about a block from the hospital. We made a short dash through the cold down Fairbanks and into the hospital a half hour before visiting hours ended. We found his room on the fourth floor, having left a gentle stir behind us when one of the nurses on duty recognized Scott.
We found Neil awake, alone, and bitchy as hell. “Salvation, take me away,” he commanded when he saw us. “They’re poisoning me.” One leg lay in traction. He had a private room, of course. His wealth earned him that much.
I looked at the still uncleared remnants of dinner—swirls of muck awash between green lumps. “It’s just hospital food,” I offered.
He rolled his eyes. He complained for the better part of ten minutes about life, the world, the lack of cute male nurses, the harridans who did take care of him, the demeaning hospital gowns, the awful schedule, waking up too early.
“You can’t be that badly hurt,” I said.
This provoked an extensive listing of a variety of aches, pains, bumps, and bruises. Besides the leg, his only obvious wounds were nasty bruises deepening to ugly black eyes.
“What happened?” I asked.
He gave us each an angry look. “Fag bashers. Those fucking heterosexual straight teenagers who need to take out their macho instincts as a large herd against lonely gay men. Fucking little bastards.” I got the actual story with only a few more tirades thrown in. It wasn’t much different from any other fag-bashing story. Four or five kids—he still wasn’t sure how many—had attacked him outside a gay bar. He’d blown his police whistle, tried to run, fought like mad, all to no avail. “I managed to land a few punches.” He licked his lips. “I nearly twisted the dick and balls off one of the little motherfuckers. I think that’s when they broke my leg. I gave descriptions to the cops, but I’m sure they’ll never catch the little no-neck monsters. They never do.” He sighed dramatically. Ever the martyr, he’d milk this for as much sympathy as he could get.
Scott and I seldom get hassled by fag bashers. I suspect it’s because we’re big enough to give pause to all but the stupidest attackers. We talked for a while, found that his pride was hurt more than his physical self.
Before retracing our steps to my place, we cruised up Michigan Avenue. With the newly fallen snow, the thousands of lights strung on the trees along the avenue took on a glow beyond their usual magnificence. We could have stayed at Scott’s in the city, but I had work the next day, and I didn’t have a car for the drive to the suburbs. He had an engagement at noon at the Palmer House to speak to a Boys’ Club. While we’d been talking to Neil, the snow had started. They’d predicted around two inches.
As we drove past Orland Square Mall, I saw Scott staring fixedly into the rearview mirror. “We’re being followed,” he said.
I sat up and looked back. “You sure?”
“Those same headlights have been behind us since One Hundred Eleventh Street, maybe before. They slow down and speed up when I do.”
“Maybe they’re following your tracks to keep on the road. They don’t look like they’ve been plowed.”
While there wasn’t much snow, the wind was up, and drifts formed quickly in racing swirls on the roadway.
Through the rear window, I watched a semi-truck barreling toward us from the distance. It rushed past our follower, came up fast, and rocketed past us, raising new swirls of whiteness. “Stupid son of a bitch is going to end up in a ditch,” Scott said.
I watched the headlights behind us. They followed sedately. “This is ridiculous,” I said. “We don’t do car chases. A blazing rush down the highway in the middle of winter is not something I want to try.” I looked back again. “I’d like to find out who it is, though. Let’s pull into Gas City on One Hundred Ninety-first Street. They’ll have to make a choice by then. They can’t hide with all that light.”
They made their decision before then, however. As we neared Interstate 80, the other car sped up. They pulled even with us as we crossed over the expressway. I saw dim figures in a dark car but nothing else. They swerved toward us. Scott only tapped the brakes; still we hit an icy patch. Our car swung toward the bridge railing. Scott twisted the wheel. I grabbed on to the dashboard. The other car was now ahead of us. Its own acceleration and swerve toward us caused its driver to fight for control. I watched it swing over both lanes. Scott had the Porsche righted, continuing to tap the brakes. For a few seconds, we did a three-hundred-horsepower ballet. The brakes responded for a moment, then we began another skid. We traveled sideways for fifty feet toward the other car. I watched as its driver righted his car and sped off. Scott pulled the Porsche under control three feet from the brink of hurtling over the bridge onto the highway below.
We sat in silence
a moment. “Thank Christ the idiot in the semi isn’t around,” Scott said. He U-turned at 191st Street and drove back toward my place. When I looked, no one followed us. I hadn’t recognized anyone in the other car, nor was I able to make out the license-plate number.
I leaned my head back against the top of the seat. I let the furry cushion comfort me. “Let’s go home,” I said. “I need a long workout and a hot shower.”
Working out is one of the sexiest turn-ons for both of us. I still fit into the gym shorts I wore when I played sports in high school. Scott’s in great shape by profession.
When we started, the irons felt cold to the touch. In ten minutes, the chill wore off. In twenty minutes, the sweat flowed pleasingly. In half an hour, Scott’s sweat pants clung to his crotch in warm, sensuous folds. The basement was too cool to linger in, however. After showers, we reclined on the couch in the living room in T-shirts, jockey shorts, and white gym socks. He’s one of the few men I’ve seen whose briefs fit snugly around his ass.
I turned one lamp on low, inserted a Judy Collins CD, and lay down with my head in his lap. He smelled damp and clean and sexy. I caressed the hairs on the arm he draped over my chest. I left the curtains on the picture window open so we could watch the storm howl to its heart’s content. Judy sang sweet and soft. I still go to her concerts every time she comes to Chicago.
Scott said, “I was afraid we’d lose it for a minute there.”
“I had absolute faith in you and the car.”
“I’m also glad we’ve got the security system here. I’d be even more glad if we were staying at my place.”
“I guess we should have. I didn’t think there’d be danger. Besides, we don’t know if it’s connected to the murder. It could have been some idiot teenager getting a few kicks.
“I hope that’s all it was,” he said.
He ran his fingers under the waistband of my shorts. I rubbed my face against the blond down on his stomach.
5
Scott promised to call the public defender to see whether his status or prestige or name recognition might get them to act more quickly in getting bail for Jeff.
The bitter cold ripped through my clothes as I ran from my car to the school. Another day when the high temperature might not get above zero.
Carolyn Blackburn met me at the school door.
“We’ve got a problem,” she said. She walked me to my classroom. The door lay splintered in the hallway. A blizzard of chaos covered every inch of the room.
“The janitors discovered the break-in first thing this morning. They called the police and me. Someone vandalized your room and my office. The custodians started cleaning my office when the police left a half hour ago. They’ll start in here next.”
I had the same feeling of loss and vulnerability you get when your home is broken into. Carolyn stood in the doorway as I toured the wreckage. On the blackboard, someone had written, “What happened to Susan Warren can happen to you.”
I touched the slashed and torn bulletin boards. I straightened the one desk still whole and standing. The spines had been ripped off all the books on the shelves. The famous-authors posters for which I’d paid ten dollars a piece lay in tattered ruins. Every drawer of every file cabinet lay exposed and empty, the contents tossed tornadically around the room.
Only a fool isn’t frightened at the right moment, but I’d be goddamned if I’d be scared off. At first, it was helping Jeff and Mrs. Trask, one a student, the other a friend, but now it was personal; somebody was after me. That shit I would never put up with. Two janitors carried out the largest remnant of my desk. Carolyn and I were alone in the room.
She said, “I’m going to tell you this, but if you repeat it or say it came from me, I’ll deny it and call you a liar.”
I gave her a brief smile and nod that I understood.
She walked to the window and looked out. She began speaking with her back to me. “I’ve taught for years. I know how school systems work, how parents and boards put pressure on us. I don’t think I’m naive.”
She turned around. “But in my twenty years as an administrator, I’ve never had an experience like I’ve had here with the Twitchells.” She shook her head. “Dad is not rational when it comes to his daughter. From him, I get angry ravings. From the mother, I get that if I don’t let up on her kid, I’ll be in trouble.”
She sat in the one desk, looked up at me, and pounded her hand softly on the fake wood surface. “That girl needs help. As much as I’ve ever seen in all these years.”
She explained that when she’d come to Grover Cleveland, she’d watched carefully for potential problems. Early on, she’d discovered Becky was one of them. She talked to people. Those who would talk told her incredible stories. In seventh grade, in front of a whole class, Becky’d ripped all her textbooks to shreds after receiving an F for one quiz. The girl expressed no regret or remorse for this. The next day, her parents sent her with the money for an entire new set of books. Becky’s cruelties at lunchtime were legendary—picking on the most unpopular boys or girls, humiliating them, reducing them to tears.
Earlier this year, a teacher tried to lead her by the elbow out of his classroom. It was after school and he had tried to counsel her on her irrational behavior. He claims it was a harmless, caring gesture. At the instant of contact, she screamed rape and began sobbing.
Carolyn shook her head. “Luckily, I’d been patrolling a nearby hall, and I got there before a crowd could gather. I’ll never forget that first talk with her. A thirty-year-old hooker might talk like she did. Still, I detected a kid’s vulnerability not far below the surface. I managed to defuse the situation for the unfortunate teacher. Becky is poison.”
Carolyn had tried to check up on rumors and accusations that had followed Becky for years. “The few who dared confront her with this behavior,” Carolyn said, “report that she seemed totally unconcerned about punishment or repercussions. Remorse seems to be the farthest thing from her mind. If a teacher did confront her, something would happen to them within twenty-four hours: car windows broken, materials stolen from their classrooms. Up to about eighth grade, the threat of telling her father usually had an effect.” She shut her eyes and rubbed a hand across her chin, then shot me a look. “My guess would be some kind of abuse from the father, physical or mental, something. But she comes back with Mom’s protection. She’s got the game of playing one parent off against the other perfected beyond any art—she’s the Picasso of manipulative kids. Something is very odd and very wrong there.” She drummed her fingers on the desktop. “I’m stumped about what to do.” She eyed me carefully, judging me on how much I could be trusted, I guessed. “Then, at ten o’clock last night, I got a call from the superintendent telling me to lay off Becky Twitchell. The warning from the superintendent was clear and genuine: Leave Becky alone. And I can’t possibly prove abuse. No one anywhere has reported bruises, markings. Certainly, I’ve never seen such a thing.”
In Illinois, teachers are required to report any case of suspected child abuse. Numerous times, I’d reported my suspicions, to see nothing come of them. The system here clanks along with as many inadequacies as anywhere else.
Carolyn said, “I’ve got a friend in the Department of Children and Family Services who I’ll talk to about this, but I don’t hold out much hope.” She stood up. “And it’s my first year on this job. I’d like to keep it to retirement. I don’t know how far I’m willing to go with this.” She gave me a wintry smile. “I’ve read your record, evaluations. You care about kids a great deal. In my limited way, I’ll help you, but don’t expect much. I know you don’t trust me yet; no administrator could expect that.”
We discussed possible ramifications of my involvement. She neither encouraged nor discouraged my talking to people, saying it was my decision. She explained that her goal was to help the kid if at all possible.
At least she’d been honest, a rare and valued commodity, something you didn’t see in administrators very often. I t
old her I appreciated it.
Before she left, I got her to agree to take Roger Daniels and Doris Bradford out of their classes so I could talk to them during my first-period planning time. I met them in a blank-walled, gray-painted, cheerless room near the main office. The furniture consisted of a dull metal desk, matching dull metal chairs, and a black couch covered in cheap vinyl.
Doris came in first. She had long black hair to her waist—a slender cheerleader who’d been elected junior prom queen the year before. She wore tight blue jeans and a letterman’s sweater. I’d never had her in class. I explained to her about helping Jeff.
Doris wouldn’t give me even the benefit of nods and shakes of the head. I got monosyllabic mutterings and no information. After I finished with her, I might have been able to swear she’d been at Sunday’s party, but not with any certainty. After ten minutes of fruitless questioning, I asked her who she thought might have a reason to kill Susan. She finally came to life, looked at me for the first and only time during the conversation.
“I don’t have to answer your questions. You’re not a lawyer. This isn’t a court. You can’t make me answer.”
I took a stab in the dark. “Is that what Becky told you?”
After that, she clamped her mouth firmly shut, and I didn’t get even monosyllables.
Roger shuffled in next. Almost as wide as he was tall, he moved awkwardly. He played starting left tackle on offense and defense on the football team. His brush-cut red hair glistened. I’d taught him freshman English. Back then, Roger’d been a shorter, squatter version of his present self. I told him what I was trying to do.
He squirmed in his seat, gazed at the barren gray walls, and looked over my shoulder to the parking lot outside. Finally, his eyes rested on me. He giggled. I’d never seen a six-foot block of teenage muscle omit such an incongruous sound. I asked him what he remembered about Sunday.
Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead? Page 6