He looked at me with those flat gray eyes. There was no expression on his face, but his skin grew a little paler, just a little, and I could hear him suck his breath between his teeth. “Yes,” he said finally. “Thank God all that’s over. For good, I hope.”
“For better, anyway,” I said. And I would have let him go then. But he took it up.
“John…” He gave a little carefully calculated hesitation—I could almost hear him count the beats. “I want you to know this: I hated like the dickens to send boys off to fight. I hated to send your brother. It would have been hard not to send him—God knows he was a healthy specimen, and everybody knew it. And your mother’s working here would have made everybody suspicious if we hadn’t called him at all. But I would have gotten him out of it somehow, if only he had trusted me. But he insisted on taking matters into his own hands. He defied the law. Openly. This is not a liberal community, John, we both know that, and after he wrote that letter to the paper telling everybody he was running off to Canada—I never understood why he did that—”
“He said why,” I said. “In the letter. ‘I want others like me to know they have a choice.’ That was the part they didn’t print.”
Scott looked at me blankly. “Well,” he said, “maybe so. And maybe that’s what he wanted. But that’s not the way things work in the County, John. You know that. We like to do things…quietly. And after people learned that he had started to run to Canada…well, we did well just to keep him out of jail. By that time, going was the only chance he had to be able to come back here and live a normal life. And surely it was the only thing that would let your mother hold her head up. I think he realized that. I think that’s why, in the end, he agreed to go quietly—”
He was interrupted by the girl bringing his coffee, in a bright red plastic cup that matched his flowerpots. “Judge Scott called, Mr. Scott,” she said. She gave me a quick sideways glance. “About the—”
“I know what he called about,” Scott snapped.
“Yes, sir. He said to tell you he’d be in about noon.”
“Call him back,” Scott said. “Right away. Tell him that it isn’t necessary that he come in. Tell him I can handle everything. And here…” He swept the papers together into an untidy pile and shoved them into a large manila envelope, then loaded the folders and the envelope onto her thin arms, like cordword. “Take this and put it in my car.” He fumbled in his pants pocket for the keys, laid them on top of the envelope. “Put it in the trunk.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, turning ponderously towards the door.
“And close the door, Betty.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And hold all my calls.”
“Yes, sir.”
We watched as she somehow maneuvered through the door and managed to close it with her foot without dropping a file or even the keys. When it was done, Scott leaned back and sighed. “Now, John,” he said. “I know this isn’t the best of times for you. Your mother’s told me how close you were to Jack, and I understand how you might feel…resentful about somebody…well, helping out. But you have to understand, John, that old man was an institution in this community. We all loved him. And maybe you want to be responsible, but…” He looked to see how he was getting across. I gave him nothing but a stony glare. “Look, John. I guess you know my father hasn’t been well these last few years. He’s not sick, but you know how people are when they’re getting on. It’s a terrible thing to watch a man you’ve loved and respected just slowly deteriorate—”
“I know,” I said. “It must be terrible for you.”
“Yes, John, it is, especially—”
“Especially the drooling.”
He gave me a sharp look. “The what?”
“The drooling,” I said. “That’s what would get to me. I mean, the incontinence isn’t really so bad. If you have to take them out, you can always put them in diapers and rubber pants and nobody will notice a thing—expect for the smell, of course, and people are usually too polite to mention that. But there’s just no way to cover up the drooling.”
Scott was suddenly paler, and it seemed that there was a flicker of green in the flat gray of his eyes, but otherwise he didn’t react. He was starting to puzzle me. “Well, John,” he said, “I thank God things aren’t like that. It’s just that he’s a little forgetful. Doesn’t have a real grasp of reality sometimes. It’s partly that his mind isn’t as it once was, and partly that times have just…passed him by a little. There isn’t much you can do about it, except try to understand. But what I was getting at was this: whenever something happens to him I want to be the one to handle it. So I know how you feel about letting people help with Jack. But you know, John, I’ve come to realize that for me to try to do everything just isn’t right. It’s draining, of course, but basically it just isn’t fair. There’s my wife, for example. She loves Dad as much as I do and she wants to be involved with seeing to his needs. And then there’s Mariam—”
“Ah, yes,” I said. “How is good old Mariam?” I realized that I was losing it. I had just about had him and now I was letting him get away, and I wanted to stop myself, but there was something else going on, something I didn’t have control over.
“She’s fine, John, fine. Now, about Jack—”
I should have let him go on. I tried to. But there was something inside me, some part of me that just wouldn’t let it be. It was almost as if I were watching someone else who looked just like me sit there and say: “You know, Randall, I often think about Mariam, being the same age as Bill and all. The reason I think about it is, if Mariam had been a boy, they could have been real good friends, up to a point. They could have played ball together. Maybe even hunted together, although Bill never did care too much for hunting. Who knows? They might have joined up together. Maybe been in the same outfit. Why, maybe one of those boys he brought out of that ambush would have been Mariam. Or maybe they would have done it together, maybe Mariam would have gotten a medal too. Maybe they’d have stepped on the same Goddamned land mine—that would have been integration with a bang.”
I wanted to stop then, but I couldn’t. Scott just sat there looking—not reacting at all, just looking.
“Well,” I said, “all that’s just speculation. Unlikely too. You being on the draft board and all, I guess Mariam wouldn’t have been in anybody’s outfit. She’d have been 4-F. A quiet 4-F. People still would have had something to say about it, I bet. A lot of people don’t know how things are done in this County, including most of the folks that live in it. So all things considered, I guess it’s just as well you never had a son. And Mariam’s a fine-looking girl—I’m sure she’s roped herself a man and settled down….” I stopped. Scott was reacting. He looked uncomfortable, and turned visibly paler.
“Why, yes, John,” he said. “She seems quite happy.”
“Really? Well, that’s fine.” I should have let him go then. But I smelled blood. “Tell me, Randall,” I said, “how long have they been married?”
He didn’t say anything.
“Good Lord!” I said. “Randall, you don’t mean…” I shook my head sadly. “And she was such a nice girl too. But it’s a new day. Any children?”
He just looked at me.
“No? Well, don’t let it worry you, Randall. Mariam’s a healthy girl. I’m sure she’ll present you with a grandson before too long. A man ought to have a grandson. Especially if he can’t have a son.”
Scott’s eyes weren’t flat anymore; they were sharp and icy. And his flesh was so pale I could see the hair follicles showing blue against it, even after his close shave. It was Old Jack’s “fishbelly” look, and it was every bit as scary as he had said it was. But when Scott spoke, his voice was still calm and even, if a bit forced. “You’re right about that, John. I just hope she marries first.” He managed a chuckle. “I guess I’m a little conventional about such things. But as I was saying…” and he went on, pressing his argument. But I wasn’t listening; something was wrong. Terribly w
rong. I had come to play a little vengeful game—not a deadly game, or even an important one, just a little exercise in exacting payment—and like a fool I had let old angers and festered bitterness carry me beyond the boundaries of even a radical strategy; beyond the limits, even, of good taste. That meant that I was losing control of myself. But the frightening thing was that even though I had lost control I had not lost my game. That was perhaps a matter of luck. But I thought not; I had just never been that lucky. No, it was simply that my little game did not matter, for somewhere there was a larger game in progress. Perhaps it was Scott’s, perhaps not. In any case, it had hidden players, unknown rules, and no discernible objective.
“…what professors make,” Scott was saying, “but I don’t imagine it leaves you with money to throw away…”
I didn’t like it.
“…be willing to cover all expenses….?
Whichever way it was, I didn’t like it.
“…realize what Jack meant to this town. Now, I can’t guarantee it personally, but I’m sure the Town Council…”
Suddenly I recalled one of Old Jack’s interminable hunting tales, this one about stalking a bear through the North County woods for a night and a day and another night, only to turn, on the dawn of the second day, and see the bear circling in from the rear.
“…suitable inscription. Anything you’d feel appropriate. Now, what do you say to that?”
“Why?” I said.
“What?”
“Why. Basic question. Why do you want to do all this?”
“Well, I thought I just explained…”
“You explained all the wonderful things you were going to pay for, and you explained why I should let you, but you never said why you wanted to do them in the first place.”
He didn’t answer right away. He thought a minute, then made a sucking sound with tongue and teeth. “Isn’t it enough that I want to?”
“Woulda been,” I said. “Twenty years ago everybody would have been just thrilled at the charity. But some of us have learned to be a little more…careful now.” I looked at him hard. “What’s in it for you, Randall? And don’t give me crap about civic duty.”
He looked at me for a minute, then shook his head. He stood up and came from behind the desk and went to look out the window. His fingers toyed idly with the plastic rod that controlled the blinds, opening and closing the slats, making bars of darkness alternately widen and narrow on his face. He sighed deeply. “These are hard times. First, I suppose, it was the deaths of the Kennedys. Then Vietnam. Then Watergate. Next? God knows. A man gets tired speculating. I guess we’ve all grown a little cynical. I know I have. I guess it’s too much to expect that younger people would not have grown even more cynical.” He sighed again, and turned to face me. “I don’t blame you, John. I don’t. And I’m not offended; I know you feel you have reason not to believe me; perhaps you do. You feel that I treated your brother badly, that I was…involved in his death. I believe I was doing my duty as a duly appointed public official. I may have been wrong. But I was trying to do the right thing; it was a dirty, tawdry, confusing little war, and the only clearly honorable course of action was obedience. Or maybe I’m just ‘copping out’ on that. But I say this, and I want you to believe it….” He turned quickly and fixed me with his gaze. “I have come to understand and value and cherish the contribution that col…Afro-Americans have made to this country, this state, this County, this Town. And what I want to do now is just a small step towards demonstrating that understanding.”
That made me feel a lot better. I smiled at him. “Not bad, Randall. Not bad at all. For a while there you actually had me worried. Silly me, I forgot it was an election year. But I didn’t know the opposition was that strong.”
“I’m not running for anything,” he snapped.
“Of course you aren’t. You guys never are. But just in case you find yourself giving that little speech to some collection of dumb niggers somewhere, remember it’s ‘black’ this season. Afro-American was so damn cumbersome even Whitney Young couldn’t say it.”
Scott sighed.
“Oh, it’s all right, Randall. Don’t worry. You can buy the funeral. The plaque too. Any nigger who’s fool enough to vote Republican on account of a couple of slabs of rock and a piece of brass probably votes that way anyway on account of he thinks Mr. Lincoln freed the slaves.”
He looked at me, and I found myself feeling uneasy again, because he looked positively grateful. “John, I—” he began, but the buzzing of the phone interrupted him. He stopped and gave me an apologetic, man-to-man smile. “I’m sorry, John. This must be important. It had better be. Excuse me, please.” And he actually waited until I had nodded before he picked up the phone. “Betty, I told you…I see.” He glanced at me, then away. “Well, tell him I’m in conference…. He what?…How… Never mind.” He looked at me, shook his head. “All right, Betty, thank you. Tell him Dr. Washington and I will be in in a moment.” He hung up and gave me a rueful look. “John, I’m sorry. My father has decided to come in today. There’s really nothing for him to do, but he likes to feel needed, and when he does come in we try to…keep him busy.” He smiled. “Well, it seems that he found out you were here and he’s heard your mother rave about you, and he’d like to see you. If it’s a bother, I’ll make some excuse.”
And I was back to being puzzled. Something was still wrong. But I wasn’t going to find out what it was trading insults with Scott. “Not at all, Randall, not at all. I think it’s wonderful that you let the useless old fart think he’s still worth something. I’ll be glad to humor him. So long as he doesn’t start to drool.”
His eyes were angry again, but he stayed polite. “Thank you, John. You’re very kind. Now, I don’t want you to take up all your time with this; you don’t have to stay more than a minute. This way.”
He led me out the door and on down the corridor, past the entrance to a spacious and crammed library, to a set of double doors. He knocked twice and pulled them open.
The room was large, subdued, solid; rich…deep. There was no way to compare it with Scott’s office; there was simply no comparison. The air itself was different; it seemed thicker, almost as if it were dust-laden. But it was impossible to be sure, for the sunlight was blocked out by heavy drapes; the only light came from an odd ugly Edwardian floor lamp that sat in a far corner and from a simpler green-shaded lamp which sat on the desk. The desk itself was old—not an antique, just an old oak desk that had been made with care and kept with love. There were nicks and scores in the wood, but years of oil and tender rubbing had healed the wounds, until now they were only fading keloid scars. Behind it sat the Judge.
I had seen him before, of course. Many times. Even if he had not been my mother’s employer, I would have known him. It would have been impossible to grow up in that town and not know him. He was a local legend, a regional projection of an American political phenomenon, the local boy who had risen by means both fair and foul to become a minor dictator, loved by some, hated by many, feared—and, if the truth were to be told, needed—by all. He had been born of Scotch-Irish yeomen who had farmed land near Mount Dallas, an area noted for its independent peasant stock, but which was neatly owned and handily dominated by the Hartley family, whose history included having come over on the Hyder Ali, the French bottom which had brought to America the final version of the peace treaty between England and the Colonies, and having quartered President Washington when he had come west to supervise the putting down of the Whiskey Rebellion. By the time the Judge was born, the Hartleys were firmly ensconced as local aristocracy, having purchased the farm at Mount Dallas from the original peasant settlers, and were doing a formidable business in freight and iron. There had been, so the tales would have it, a constant friction between the Norman-English Hartleys and the Scotch-Irish peasants; not a feud exactly, but…at one point three of the younger Hartley boys had been found beaten senseless in a ditch, and before the day was done the Judge had left the local s
choolhouse, where he seemed to be perpetually assigned to the fourth grade, and had started walking east. In two days he crossed a hundred miles of mountains and made it to the state capital. He was thirteen.
For the next five years he ran “errands” for the state legislators, making himself indispensable and acquiring the reputation of performing delicate tasks with great success, total discretion, and no comeback. He could have stayed there forever, a sort of backwoods Bobby Baker, but he was also a restless young man, and he left Harrisburg in 1914, took passage for France, and was a veteran of the trenches long before Pershing and the AEF came into the Line. He was decorated several times and probably would have risen rapidly through the ranks had it not been for his propensity towards brawling; he was demoted twice and he was scheduled for court-martial on charges of striking an officer—of beating him bloody, in fact—when a wisp of gas weakened his lungs and left him open and vulnerable to the influenza that killed more soldiers than the gas and bombs and bullets combined. He spent a year on his back in hospitals. That was where—so he claimed in his frequent speeches—he changed. Saw the same light that had blinded Saul of Tarsus. Lost his fascination with flesh and the Devil, and the terrible anger that had made him hate instead of love. It was there, he said, that he read his first book, the New Testament, of course, and read it in French too, thereby acquiring a skill, a language, and a faith, all at one time. When he was discharged he thought to enter the ministry, but, he admitted candidly, while he was no longer preoccupied by the pleasures of the flesh, he was much too fond of them to be an effective pastor. And so he returned to the state capital and spoke to his old cronies, and somehow, without benefit of high school diploma or money for tuition, managed to be admitted to Dickinson College. That, he always claimed, was the only favor he ever took from his old friends and employers, the politicians. For the next five years he turned his back on pleasure, living on study and scraps, graduating at the end of it with a Phi Beta Kappa key, a bachelor’s in Latin, and a degree in law. And then he came home, walking in order to keep the few dollars he had saved to rent a decrepit office at the east end of town.
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