‘Why are you all here?’
‘It’s too late to ask questions.’
As Frank walks between the two rows, he is struck on the face, the back, the chest, and he is kicked. When he is hit, the hands are always open, and the slapping, from a distance, might even look like a celebration, but by the end of the line, he is in pain.
And these are the names of those who beat him: Dessick, Berberian, Dennis Donoghue, Bettina Welch, Ed Dockery, Lowell Gale, Leon Gale, Ethel Gale, Peter Klauber, Margot Klauber, Barbara Klauber, Teresa Walter, Dale Beltran, Chris, Kelly. And others, too, are also there, to beat him.
At the end of the line, after passing the last of the people in the two rows, he sees clearly to the top of the road, and a little cabin in the woods. He turns to say something to the crowd, but they are already leaving. His father and mother and brother go with him up the hill.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Frank. ‘The letter was never supposed to be published. She was supposed to have read it in Mexico. It was private. I think it’s against the law to open someone’s mail. I think we can sue.’
No one says anything, and he is ashamed of himself for suggesting a lawsuit now, when he has been so diffident about joining the other suit. But he can explain that, he wants to say, he isn’t so much against a lawsuit, he only wants to know whose suit to join.
‘Someone will bring you food,’ says Lowell.
‘You have been a disgrace to us,’ says his father.
His back and shoulders hurt, but he thinks, with some pride in himself, that he really wasn’t so badly damaged by the gauntlet. The hell with them, he thinks, and would have turned to say this, but then the word prudence comes to him. So he goes into the cabin without saying goodbye to anyone.
It would be a good place to bring a child, when the child is ready for camping. There is a simple metal frame bed with a grey blanket. Next to the door is a small stove, and a refrigerator. The room smells vaguely of horses.
He lies down on the bed and looks up at the ceiling. Someone has nailed a piece of wood to the beam over his head, perhaps the same person who has carved, ‘This is more than you deserve.’
Among the Dead Page 29