Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  “Nonsense,” the doctor said. “Get up on your feet. It’s just superficial. Your beauty won’t be marred.”

  Hitz made a show of dizziness as he pushed himself off the couch. The doctor helped him on with the overcoat and buttoned it up. Romero, his head bent, watched through lowered eyelids, his eyes dark and scornful. “Maybe he needs morphine,” he said. “So he can bear the awful pain.”

  “That’s enough out of you, young man,” Babcock said. It was the first time Strand had heard a note of severity in the headmaster’s voice.

  “Babcock,” the doctor said, stopping at the door, his hand lightly on Hitz’s arm, “I suggest you call the police.”

  “The police,” Babcock said distractedly. “Oh, dear. Do you really think it’s necessary?”

  “If I want to keep my license to practice,” the doctor said, “and if you want to keep your school, it’s necessary.”

  “Of course,” Babcock said. “It’s just that…Nothing like this has ever come up before. Of course. I’ll call.”

  “Tell them to meet us all at the infirmary. There’ll certainly have to be an inquiry. In the meantime, young man—” He stopped and stared at Romero. “I know you, don’t I? From the football team?”

  “Yes,” Romero said. “You told me I was crazy to play.”

  “What’s your name…?”

  “Romero,” the boy said.

  “Consider yourself under a citizen’s arrest. And I’m the citizen. I’ll see you all at the infirmary.”

  There was silence for a moment as the doctor and Hitz went out. Strand was glad that he no longer had to look at Hitz’s bloody face. Babcock sighed and stared down at the couch and raised his glasses to his forehead then pulled them down again. Strand noticed that Babcock wasn’t wearing a tie. It was the first time he had seen him tieless. He probably had been in bed with his stout wife when Leslie’s call came and had dressed hurriedly.

  “The couch will have to be cleaned,” Babcock said. “It’s all bloody. What should I say to the police?” He sounded helpless. “I have no idea of what happened. Is there a phone here?”

  “There’s a pay phone in the basement,” Romero said.

  “Thank you,” Babcock said. He started toward the staircase leading to the basement level, then stopped. “Oh, dear,” he said, patting his pockets, “I left all my money on the dresser. I was in bed and…Allen, do you…?”

  Strand dug into his pocket. There were only bills. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You can call the police emergency number,” Romero said. Strand had the feeling that Romero was enjoying himself. “They’ll come in three minutes, sirens and lights, the whole business.”

  “They’ll wake everybody up,” Babcock said. “I don’t think we need…”

  “I’ll go into the apartment and make the call from there,” Strand said.

  “I wish I knew what this is all about,” Babcock said plaintively.

  “I’ll fill you in later.” Strand went down the hall and into his own living room. Leslie was sitting at the piano bench, but not playing. She turned when she heard Strand come into the room. “Well?” she said.

  “It’s a mess. I haven’t time to tell you now. Nothing really serious.” As he said it he wished he could believe it. “I have to call the police.” He looked up the number in the directory on the table next to the phone and dialed. The man on duty said his name was Leary, Sergeant Leary. “Sergeant,” Strand said, “could you send somebody over to the Dunberry infirmary as soon as possible?”

  “What is the nature of the incident?” Sergeant Leary asked.

  “There’s been a…a dispute…a scuffle, between two of the boys. One of them has been hurt…”

  “Does it require an ambulance?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. The doctor’s examined him. A superficial wound. A cut.” He cleared his throat; “One of the boys had a knife.”

  “At Dunberry?” Leary sounded shocked. The crime rate in the village and its environs was not rich in midnight stabbings.

  “It was the end of the holiday.” For the honor of the school, Strand thought that he had to make some sort of apology. “None of the staff was on duty. Can you send someone?”

  “There’ll be a man down there—the infirmary, you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “What side of the campus is that on? East? West?”

  Strand felt confused. He closed his eyes and tried to remember on which side of the campus the sun rose. He said, “East,” to Sergeant Leary and the sergeant said, “Okay. Is the perpetrator in custody?”

  For a moment, Strand didn’t associate the word with the events of the evening. Then he remembered Romero. “Yes,” he said, “we are holding the perpetrator.”

  As he hung up, Leslie laughed. The laugh had a little crack in it. “You sound like a detective in a movie,” she said.

  “Darling,” Strand said, “I think you’d better not wait up. I have to go to the infirmary with Romero and Babcock, and the police’ll be there and God knows how long it’s going to take. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

  “Perpetrator,” Leslie said. “I wonder how many perpetrators we have on the campus. I wish I could see the alumni bulletin of the year 2000 and see how many graduates of Dunberry are behind bars at that time.”

  “I’m sorry, dear, that you…”

  “It’s not your fault,” she said. “Try not to stay up too late. You have to get up early in the morning.”

  He kissed her and went back into the common room. Behind him he heard Leslie locking the door.

  3

  WHEN THEY GOT TO the infirmary, with Romero walking between the two men, the doctor had just finished cleaning out the wound along Hitz’s cheek and was injecting a local anesthetic, preparatory to taking stitches. Hitz was moaning and shedding tears. Romero looked at him scornfully, but said nothing. He sat down on a stool and took out a package of cigarettes and lit one and began blowing smoke rings. The doctor was too busy with Hitz to notice it at first, but when he did, he glared at Romero and said, “No smoking allowed in here, young man.”

  “Sorry,” Romero said as he stubbed out his cigarette. “And thanks. You’ve probably just saved me from cancer, Doc.”

  “Save your jokes for the police,” the doctor said and started threading a needle. Hitz watched him fearfully. “You allergic to penicillin?” the doctor asked him.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, we’ll take the chance.” The doctor dusted the wound with the powder. “Your cheek numb yet?” He pushed his forefinger in its rubber glove hard against the cheek, above the wound. “You feel that?”

  “I guess not.”

  Strand had to turn away as the doctor stitched at the long gash with swift little jabs of the needle and deftly tied the first knots. He was ashamed of himself for being squeamish, especially since Babcock and Romero followed the operation with interest.

  As Dr. Philips was finishing up and taping a bandage on Hitz’s cheek, the door opened and a policeman came in. He looked as though he had just gotten reluctantly out of bed. “The sergeant says there’s been an offense committed,” he said. “What is the nature of the offense?”

  “I’m the nature of the offense,” Romero said. “I cut him.”

  “You’re under arrest. It is my duty,” the policeman said formally, “to tell you that anything you say may be used against you and that you have the right to call a lawyer.”

  “That’s what I want, a lawyer,” Romero said. “Do you know a good one? The nearest one I know is on 137th Street in New York.”

  The policeman ignored him. “Has the weapon been recovered?”

  Strand took the knife out of his pocket and handed it to the policeman.

  “Thank you,” the policeman said. “It’ll be needed for evidence. You finished, Doc?”

  “Yes,” the doctor said, stripping off his rubber gloves.

  “We’d better be getting down to the station,” the polic
eman said. “Put out your hands, kid.”

  Romero smiled and put out his hands. “Afraid I’ll jump you in the squad car, officer?”

  “Felonious assault with a deadly weapon,” the policeman said. “You better start taking it serious.”

  “Junior size, please,” Romero said as the policeman brought out a pair of handcuffs.

  “Do you think it’s absolutely necessary, officer?” Babcock said. “I’m sure he’ll behave…”

  “S.O.P., sir,” the policeman said. “Standard operating procedure. It’s in the manual.”

  “Oh,” Babcock said. “In the manual.” He sighed.

  “March, kid.” The policeman jerked at the handcuffs and Romero got off the stool.

  “You don’t need me, do you?” Dr. Philips asked.

  “Did you witness the offense?”

  The doctor shook his head.

  “Okay. Later on, you may have to describe the wound. But we won’t be needing you anymore tonight.”

  Babcock, Strand and Hitz, the tears still streaming down his face, followed the policeman, who kept his hand on Romero’s elbow as they went toward the door.

  “Romero,” the doctor said, “from now on I advise you to stick to football for your exercise.”

  “I’ll get my car, officer,” Babcock said, “and we’ll meet you at the station.”

  They watched as the policeman pushed Romero into the back of the squad car and locked the door. There was a metal mesh between the front and rear seats, and Romero looked like a small caged animal blinking at the light over his head. The policeman got behind the wheel and drove off. Babcock sighed. “I’ll go get my car,” he said. “I’ll just be a minute. I don’t think Hitz ought to do much walking in his condition.” He started off across the campus.

  Strand was left alone with Hitz. “Stop sniffling,” Strand said, annoyed at the boy.

  “He’d’ve killed me. I’d’ve been dead now if you hadn’t happened to come along.”

  “If he was trying to kill you,” Strand said, “I think he could have picked up something a little more dangerous than a pocketknife with a two and a half inch blade.”

  “You wouldn’t think that little knife was so undangerous if he’d come at you with it—or at your wife. Or that stuck-up daughter of yours who was at the football game,” Hitz said, wiping his streaming nose with the back of his hand. “You’d be screaming bloody murder about protecting society from the spics and niggers.”

  “I’m afraid your vocabulary and mine don’t contain the same words.” Strand wished that he could get Hitz into a dark corner and slap the teary face.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Hitz said, “they better put him away for a good long time or they’ll hear from my father…”

  “I don’t think the judge will be worried about your father. Tell me, Hitz,” Strand said, “did you take the money and the letters?”

  “I never touched them. I don’t know anything about them. You don’t have to believe me. Go search my room and see if I’m telling the truth. He just came into the room and started yelling. I didn’t even know what he was yelling about. I know he’s your pet, you think he’s so damn smart, the ghetto genius. Everybody knows about him. You want to hear what the other fellows call him? ‘Jojo, the Jungle Boy. The Great Experiment!’ Trying to turn a baby gorilla into a human being. Now you see how your experiment turned out, Mr. Strand?” Hitz’s voice went shrill, in a hurried crescendo. “And who’s paying for it? Me! You got any more noble experiments you want to play around with, I advise you to do them someplace else. And stick to test tubes.”

  “I don’t need any advice from you, Hitz,” Strand said. “I’m sorry it happened and very sorry you were hurt. But I’m not sorry enough to stand here and listen to any more lectures about society from you. Just keep quiet now and get ready to tell the police just how it happened, without any philosophical observations.”

  “He could’ve killed me,” Hitz muttered, getting in the last word.

  The lights of Babcock’s car swept over them as the car pulled up. Hitz got into the back and Strand into the front beside Babcock.

  When they got to the police station, Romero was standing in front of the sergeant’s desk, the handcuffs off, the young policeman next to him. “I’m not saying anything until I get a lawyer,” Romero repeated over and over again. “I don’t even have to tell you my name.”

  “We know your name,” the sergeant said patiently.

  “There’s the criminal.” Romero pointed at Hitz. “He’s a thief. I want him charged. Grand larceny.”

  “We’ll come to that in due time,” the sergeant said calmly. “You have the right to make one telephone call. To your lawyer if you want.”

  “I can’t afford a lawyer. That sonofabitch stole all my money. I got six dollars on me. You know where I can find myself a lawyer in the middle of the night for six bucks?”

  The sergeant played with the pocketknife which was on the desk before him, opening it and snapping it shut. “We’ll get you a public defender tomorrow. Meanwhile, Jack,” he said to the policeman, “put him in a cell. I’ll get the story from these three gentlemen here and we’ll book the kid in the morning.”

  “All right, friend.” The policeman gripped Romero’s arm and escorted him toward the back, where Strand could see two cells, both empty.

  “Now, young man,” the sergeant said to Hitz, “you begin…”

  It was nearly three in the morning before the sergeant had finished quizzing them, making them retell their stories over and over again as he noted down their answers on a form he had taken from a file against the wall behind him. “All right, gentlemen, thank you and good night,” he said finally. “You can go now. There’s a session at the courthouse tomorrow and the boy can go before the judge and he’ll appoint a lawyer for his defense.”

  “I’ll get the school lawyer for him,” Babcock said. “But now can’t we take him back to the school with us? If you release him in my custody? I’ll stand responsible for getting him here in the morning.”

  “I’m afraid not, sir,” the sergeant said. “It’ll be up to the judge to set bail. And Jack,” he said to the policeman, “will you escort Hitz back to the school and search his room? I’d appreciate it if you two gentlemen went along and witnessed the search. Sorry, Hitz—we have to see if there’s any evidence to back up Romero’s charge against you. Of course, if you refuse to let the officer in your room, you’re within your rights. We’ll have to get a search warrant. But we can’t get that till morning and we’d have to keep you here overnight.”

  Strand thought he detected a gleam of malicious pleasure in Sergeant’s Leary’s eyes as he said this. The sergeant had not been amused by Hitz’s whining version of the events of the night and had stared thoughtfully at the boy when Hitz referred to his father’s influence in Washington.

  “Anybody who wants can search my room,” Hitz said loudly. “And me. Anytime they want. I got nothing to hide.” He began turning out his pockets, strewing loose change and dollar bills on the desk and banging down his wallet with a flourish.

  “That’s fine,” the sergeant said when Hitz had finished. “You can pick up your money. I’ll type all this up and you can all sign your names to it in the morning.”

  Hitz got into the car with the policeman, and Strand and Babcock followed in Babcock’s car. “What a dreadful night,” Babcock said wearily, at the wheel. “Nothing like this has ever happened at Dunberry before. We’ve had some petty pilfering, of course, but violence like this…” He shuddered. “It’s a mercy you and your wife came along when you did. Otherwise, the good Lord alone knows what might have happened. I hope Leslie wasn’t too upset, although I must say she seemed admirably calm when she called me on the phone.”

  “She rises to the occasion,” Strand said.

  “What do you really think are the rights and wrongs of all this?” Babcock said. “I don’t mean the knife part. With all the charity in the world I can’t forgive a boy
using a weapon against a classmate. But what do you think—was it a hideous misunderstanding or what? Did Romero tell you why he thought that it was Hitz who stole the money? Did you ask him?”

  “I asked him,” Strand said.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said it was confidential. Whatever that may mean.”

  “You must be terribly disappointed,” Babcock said. “Romero was coming along so well.”

  “I don’t feel disappointed,” Strand said flatly. “I feel guilty. Guilty as hell. It was a case of faith overcoming judgment, I’m afraid. He belongs on the streets, not at a school like this. I confused raw intelligence with civilized behavior.”

  “You mustn’t take it on yourself. Or Mr. Hazen, either.” Babcock took a hand off the wheel to touch Strand gently on the arm. “It was just an unfortunate combination of circumstances. Nobody could have foreseen it. Frankly, when the term began I didn’t think the boy would last out the year. But not for anything like this. I thought he might be bored, maybe insubordinate, unable to respond to discipline…Never anything like this. Do you think they’ll put him in jail?”

  “I hope so,” Strand said bitterly. “I would, if I were the judge.”

  “There, there, Allen,” Babcock said softly. “Why don’t we suspend judgment until we know all the facts in the case?”

  “I stopped suspending judgment when I saw Romero running after Hitz with a knife in his hand.”

  They drove in silence for a few moments and then Strand said, “The trustees are bound to give you a rough time. If they demand a sacrificial offering, you can put the blame on me and you’ll have my resignation the same day.”

  “I doubt that it will go that far,” Babcock said, but he didn’t sound convincing as he said it.

  The policeman was waiting in his car with Hitz in front of the Malson house as they drove up. They all went through the empty common room and up the stairs to the first floor together. Strand was surprised that none of the other boys were up. The struggle in Hitz’s room and his flight downstairs and out onto the campus must have been silent, deadly silent. Hitz had the room to himself. Whether it was due to his father’s influence or to the fact that none of the boys would share quarters with him, Strand didn’t know.