At my place, car tracks led up the fifty-foot drive. They weren’t ours. We hadn’t been home. Two pairs of footsteps from the driver’s and passenger’s side led from the car around the house. The outside lights weren’t bright enough to reveal many clues. The alarm system hadn’t been tripped. It could have been cops, or those who’d been following us, or maybe itinerant Bible salesmen, or perhaps someone totally innocent.
We examined the footsteps as best we could.
“Large work boots?” Scott said.
“Sherlock Holmes read volumes from things like this,” I said.
“Was he freezing his ass off in forty-five-below wind chill?” Scott’s teeth chattered.
Moments later, we devoured sandwiches and beer at the kitchen table.
Scott dressed in his charcoal gray suit for the speech. He looks incredibly sexy in so many different ways. Sometimes it’s when he’s totally naked, other times when he’s in white jockey shorts and white gym socks, or sometimes in his baseball uniform, or his tight jeans and muscle T-shirt, or a business suit —or when I see him fully dressed in front of a crowd and know I’ve made love to the beautiful body and person underneath. I enjoy starting lovemaking fully clothed. There’s something about unzipping a man’s pants, a sense of power and permission that you don’t have unless intimately given or violently taken, that makes it especially sexy. Maybe it’s just him, and that I love him so very much.
Before Scott left, I called Kurt Campbell. We’d talked about my stopping by earlier in the week, and after a final check with his wife, Beth, Kurt said it’d be a perfect night to pick up more packets for the union-negotiations team’s meeting and for a visit. I wanted to go over information with him about the kids and teachers involved. Even with the alarm system, we didn’t want to take chances with one of us alone in the house. Kurt invited us both over, but Scott was late, so he dropped me off without going in. He could visit when he came by to pick me up. In the car, I kissed him hard.
“Be careful,” I warned as I got out. I’d offered to ride with him to the Harvey Holiday Inn, but he’d said not to worry. It was expressway all the way, and he’d be in a crowd.
Kurt and Beth lived in an all-brick two-story home off 143rd Street in Orland Park. They greeted me at the door. It was just past seven-thirty. We sat in front of a glassed-in fireplace. We propped ourselves up with cushions against the couch. Over the years, I’d become almost as close a friend to Beth as I was to Kurt. I explained what we’d been up to.
Beth said, “I’ve met George and Pete’s wives at faculty parties, but I’ve never felt I had much in common with them. They hang around together. They’re harmless enough, I’ve always thought, but you might want to talk to them.” Beth was a thin, plain woman whose warm good humor I’d enjoyed from the first time I’d met her. While we talked, the noise from their kids drifted up from a family room. Unable to have kids of their own, they’d adopted five, who now ranged in age from six months to seven years old. Occasionally, pairs of eyes peeked around corners, followed by silly giggles. A toddler or two would drift in, bury his or her head shyly in a parental lap, and then retreat to the playroom. In the middle of the conversation, Kurt brought the baby down for a bottle, after which the child slept peacefully on his chest.
“I’ve know those guys for years,” Kurt said. “I’ve found them a total pain in the ass. As athletic director, I work with them pretty closely. They push themselves hard as coaches, sometimes to little effect.”
“Why keep them on?”
“Politics, length of service to the district, inertia. It would be a tremendous pain to get rid of them, and it might not work. They have factions that support them strongly.”
Certain power centers exist in every school district. These seldom correspond to who is nominally in charge. In some districts, it’s the athletic boosters, in others, a cabal of teachers who’ve taught there since the year one. I knew one district where a new math teacher came in and criticized the band program. The man was out of a job before January. Of course, there are also the old standby power centers of the janitors and secretaries. A new teacher crosses either of these at his peril, an old teacher with great discretion. I knew one teacher, new to the district—back in the days when the custodians handed out all supplies—who needed chalk. She asked for some and got two pieces. She explained that this wasn’t adequate. She got two more. In frustration, after weeks of this, she went and bought her own supply. The janitor never forgave her. Fortunately, he quit within the same year.
Beth said, “Don’t waste time talking about that sports crap, get to the good stuff. They both cheat on their wives.”
“We only have conjecture, no real proof,” Kurt said.
“Stop being so damn rational and fair,” Beth said with a smile.
“That’s what makes him a good union president,” I said. Beth sniffed. “It’s fairly well documented by those of us in the gossip grapevine that those two fuck anything in a skirt. They go on these long hunting trips and catch far more than a few dead birds.”
“Beyond cheap gossip,” Kurt said, “there’s the incessant bitching and moaning they do about every little thing. The inability to accept responsibility for themselves, their inability to think before they speak. They both have to take stupid pills in the morning. Nobody could be that dumb all by themselves.”
“Personally,” Beth said, “from the few times I’ve been around those two, I presume their stupidity is a congenital defect.”
“The odd thing,” Kurt said, “is George is good with kids. The boys on the teams respond to him, and I’ve heard the girls in class do, too. He understands teenagers and their problems. Now, Pete is incredibly intense. He has to win at everything. I’ve played poker with him. He slams the cards on the table if he loses even a small pot. He’s the same at sports, even pickup games among the coaches at school. He’d knock you over if you got in his way.”
“I’m not sure I could say what makes them tick,” I said. “I may have saved their asses from the administration, but they’ll never make sense to me.”
Kurt talked about the attitude of the two coaches. As athletic director, he wanted the kids to learn fundamental skills, understand teamwork and sportsmanship, and have a little fun. Montini and Windham had the mania that so many high school coaches had. When they looked out on the field, they saw NFL football or NCAA basketball, not kids. Kurt found, and I agreed, that the tremendous pressure this put on kids at an age and with a set of emotions most of them couldn’t handle was unconscionable on the part of adults.
Then again, I was strange. In high school, I wanted it to be fun, a game. I was also too much of a smart mouth. I sat out football my junior year because of my “bad attitude.” In college, it was worse. They ran it like a big business. Bullshit. So I lost my student deferment and wound up in the Marines in Vietnam.
Kurt said, “You’ve seen those two at the games. They scream and bellow at the kids from tip-off to final buzzer. Montini’s coached the team out of several wins this year. He pressures the kids into paralysis.
“But like I said, they’re good with kids. I’ve heard they’ve helped a couple out in tough spots. Of course, there’s some who hate them. Remember the time Montini turned the kid in for drinking?”
I nodded. Grover Cleveland had a strict policy. Any athlete caught drinking alcohol or doing drugs got thrown off the team—no questions, no appeal. The incident to which Kurt referred was when a kid had drunk a beer in his parents’ house with their permission and with them present. Somebody told Montini. He reported it to the administration. They threw the kid off the team the next day. This could easily be the center of Paul’s fears.
Scott bustled in around ten, stomping snow from his shoes. We heard whispering from the top of the stairs. Little voices that should have been asleep noted that Uncle Scott was here. Immediately thereafter, a little girl, maybe all of three, materialized at Scott’s elbow. Within five minutes, Scott sat on the floor amid a mountain of
toys, with children laughing, squealing, and climbing all over him. He’s a natural with kids. Then again, he doesn’t have to live with them twenty-four hours a day.
I can’t stand little kids. I know that might sound odd from a teacher, but if they’re under five, I am klutz personified. Plus, I’ve always resented the mothers who thrust their couple-month-old creature at you, as if holding them was a test.
Minutes later, Scott sprawled in a corduroy overstuffed easy chair with the two-year-old’s head resting on his shoulder. In two minutes, her eyes began to droop shut. The three-year-old rested her head against Scott’s side, snuggled between him and the chair arm.
Beth shook her head. “You have that effect on them every time you’re here.”
Scott plucked a small red fire truck from the floor and handed it to the three-year-old. The kid drove around Scott’s kneecap contentedly.
“How’d you learn to do that?” Kurt asked.
“With my sister’s kids when they were little,” Scott replied.
It was late, but youthful demands resulted in Uncle Scott giving readings from several favorite stories before we could leave.
As we got our coats, I asked Scott whether he’d seen anybody following him. He’d checked carefully—nothing.
We hurried into the brutal cold. “Guy on the radio on my way back said the weather’s supposed to break this weekend,” Scott said as we walked to the car. We were in the street. Behind us, the lights in Kurt’s house went out.
Car doors slammed. I glanced down the street. Five guys ran toward us. Too late for a dash to the car or back to the house.
9
Only two attacked me and I held them off fairly easily. In the bulk of winter clothes, it was hard to get or receive a clear hit. The two of them and I grappled in the middle of the street. I glanced for a second or two where three of them surrounded Scott. A knife gleamed in the hand of the one nearest to him. I called out a warning to watch the knife. I’d been distracted too long, however. My attackers moved in, each now with his own knife out.
For several minutes, I concentrated on defending myself. I breathed deeply while they circled warily. I’d thrown my coat off to get better leverage. I shot another look at the other group.
I saw Scott fall and one of them raise his knife. I went berserk. Every fiber of jungle training to hurt, maim, kill, and destroy awoke in me beyond unreasoning fury. The insatiable rage, the freedom of blind insanity unleashed to crush a human being hurled me to rescue my fallen lover. I heard bones breaking as I freed Scott from their grasp. They backed and dragged away as I quickly checked Scott. He was alive but bleeding and unconscious.
They stumbled to their car. It started with a roar, but it spun and stuck in the snow and ice. I ran toward them and tried to pry a door open. There’d be no escape and no mercy if I got hold of them. Two of the shits lay heaped on the backseat. A third, also in the back, and a fourth from the front passenger side screamed at the driver to make the car go. With my first blow, I shattered the windshield. Through my glove, I felt the numbness beyond pain spread up my arm. The second blow with my other hand scattered the glass. I could see and hear them clearly now. I tried to grab the driver or the steering wheel.
Then the tires finally caught. The car spurted away, yanking my arm with hideous pain. My arms and left shoulder felt dead, but I hurried to Scott. He lay unconscious and losing blood. I rushed to the house. Kurt answered, saw me, and yelled to Beth to call the police. He grabbed his coat and followed me out. I was beyond caring about the cold or any pain. They and whoever sent them would pay for how badly my lover was hurt. They would feel it ten times for every ache, bruise, and cut. If he died, I would hunt them down and kill them.
By the time the police and the ambulance showed up, we’d gotten Scott inside. His breathing seemed okay and the bleeding had slowed, but nothing we did brought him around. I accompanied him in the ambulance. Kurt drove his car, and Beth followed in mine.
The emergency-room personnel buzzed around Scott, his celebrity status ensuring instant and more than adequate attention. We waited less than half an hour. Kurt and Beth accompanied me to Scott’s room. The doctor told us that with the exception of a mild concussion and broken left arm, he was fine. Fortunately, he pitched right-handed. They wanted to keep him overnight for observation. When the doctor left the room, it was after two. Scott slept.
Beth said, “There’s nothing more for you to do. If you’re afraid to go home, come with us. We’ll put you up.” Kurt echoed her sentiments.
“I want to sit with him for a while,” I said.
They repeated their offer, then left.
The night sounds of the hospital crept into the room. Soft-soled shoes padded by. A murmured conversation rose and faded. I placed my overcoat on the empty bed next to Scott’s. I smelled clean hospital sheets. I sat next to him and took his right hand in both of mine. I watched his chest rise and fall peacefully. The new white plaster of his cast shone dully. I saw anew the freckles under his chin. I reached over and smoothed his mussed blond hair into familiar patterns. An ugly scrape stretched across his forehead. The doctor said there would be no scar. I observed carefully the outline of his legs, the mound of his genitals, the flat stomach and powerful chest and shoulders, all his six-foot-four muscle and strength at total rest. I had a horrible vision of life without him. With my fingertips, I caressed his forehead, stroked his eyebrows, nose, lips, cheeks, felt the tender skin, all that the vast crowds could see every fifth day in the summer, every bit that I saw each night. “I love you,” I told his sleeping form.
He stirred momentarily, then resumed his rest. I stayed next to him a long time. The nurse came in on her rounds at one point. She smiled uncertainly and left us.
Eventually, I moved to the chair. Next thing I knew, I was awake. Winter dawn peeked around the curtains into the room. Scott slept on. I found the hospital cafeteria for some breakfast. When I got back, reporters hovered in the corridors by the nurses station. In the room, Scott lay awake, charming the nurse.
He greeted me breezily. The nurse looked disapproving. I wanted to see Windham and Montini for a direct and brutal confrontation. I presumed, while they hadn’t been present the night before, that they were behind the attack. They were the adults most threatened. I couldn’t see Becky as head of some vast drug conspiracy with power to order attacks. I explained this to Scott. He told me to go ahead. He’d wait for the doctor’s approval to let him go. I said I’d be back to pick him up. I hadn’t the slightest worry about being attacked. Tired and sore as I was, maybe a massed attack of jungle snipers might be able to slow me down. I doubted it.
First, I drove to the Montinis’. They lived in the old part of Tinley Park, just off Oak Park Avenue and 173rd Street. I’d spent hours there last year with Pete when he’d been in trouble with the administration for the twin infractions of telling a kid to fuck off and then belting him up-side the head. The kid certainly deserved it, but Pete was stupid enough to do it in front of a whole class of witnesses. Trying to convince someone that he is an asshole when he thinks he is nobly fighting the war against recalcitrant kids and weak-willed administrators is tough, especially when you’re like me and trying to do it diplomatically.
Pete wasn’t home. His wife, Maria, invited me in. Pete had gone out earlier with George to the hardware store and then supposedly to George’s house to fix shower tiles in the basement bath. Then they were going to watch basketball and football games all afternoon.
I liked Maria. Every time I’d been to the house, she’d stayed and quickly caught on to what I kept trying to convince Pete to do. She’d always been cheerful, offering to help in any way. Underneath her cheery exterior, she struck me as lonely and forlorn—someone who needed a friend to whom to talk. I think she was grateful to me for helping save Pete’s job.
She asked me whether I wanted a cup of coffee. In her kitchen, I explained about trying to help Jeff.
“I doubt if Pete knows anything,” she s
aid. “I can’t picture him being the least help in an investigation.” She laughed. “Once in a while, he tries to lurk around here furtively, but he’s so transparent. Men think they’re so clever. He’s been on the phone with George all week. He thinks I haven’t noticed. Those two are up to something.”
“Do they cook things up often?” I asked.
“Usually when they want to go on one of their weekend hunting trips. Sarah, George’s wife, and I laugh about them. The men don’t know how obvious they are. Every four months, they begin plotting and scheming. I shouldn’t tell you this, but we have it planned too, so we can extort the most out of them when they ask permission. Actually, it’s an enormous relief to get them out of the house. This trip is a little odd in that they just got back two weeks ago from their latest. They might be trying for a fifth one this year. They tried last year, but we put our feet down.”
She explained that they usually went to several places in Minnesota. While pouring coffee, she told me that Pete didn’t realize that being a teacher and having a family, he’d need to work so many extra jobs. She rarely saw him. She said, “I shouldn’t tell you my problems, but those two! And George is the one that pushes them. I’d never say this in front of Sarah, but that man has to be cheating on her. He’s come on to me a number of times. I slapped him hard once. Since then, he hasn’t dared touch me.”
I didn’t blame her for not telling Sarah. The woman had six kids. She didn’t need more worries.
“I don’t trust him,” Maria went on. “Sometimes when he looks at me, he gives me the creeps. I bet he keeps a girlfriend on the side, and that takes money, too. How any woman could want him is beyond me. He may be young and slightly handsome, but he is slime.”
I thought that for some people, young and slightly handsome is enough to justify a few moments of warmth.
I decided to give George’s place a try, although I suspected it would be futile.
Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead? Page 14