Silas Dillon of Cary County

by Clifford Schrage

  “I swear, Mom. I just dried my hands and this happened.”

  Silence. A blend of disbelief, and what looked to me like delight, arrested Mommy’s face.

  “I had to wash my hands, and then I just dried my hands,” he said again, sounding somewhat more convincing.

  But this was even funny to me, because Justin never voluntarily washed his hands.

  Mommy Lucinda’s expression of astonishment, bewilderment, and rage thawed remarkably into a trifling smile, which erupted into a tremendous grin, which then softened into giggling, and then just sweepingly liquefied into bursting laughter that kept running, and running. She slapped her thighs, bowing her torso up and down, covering her mouth, roaring with laughter, dripping with tears of laughter. Then I began laughing my usual, nervous, confused, fake laughing. Justin allowed himself to smile—at Mommy. Mommy really tried to control this because she didn’t want Justin to make light of any “embellishment” which basically amounted to lying—on his part; but she couldn’t. The absurdity, the preposterousness of the wall of tiles collapsing because of a simple customary act of drying hands was just too much for her on this day. This was medicine. This produced part of the medicinal joy of life for my Mommy Lucinda on this day. How we must’ve looked—our juvenile expressions—Justin’s bright black face and my blue-eyed, bronze, innocent look beside a pile of mischief ’s evidence and destruction! By the sound of the sudden crash she’d feared meant blood, she must’ve found this relieving! “I just dried my hands! I swear!” These words will be forever clear in my memory’s ear. Justin really was a good big brother to me.

  A couple months ago in June, we were at the docks fishing for flounder (Justin showed me how to cast and use a reel too), and two older boys who were about eleven or twelve—one black, thin, and wiry and the other white, chunky, and sloppy—came over on their bikes looking at our four flounders in our bucket. “Hey Sparks, what’s up?” Lamar the black one said.

  “Nothin’,” Justin said. Justin gazed at Lamar once quickly, then stared back at the water where his taut line sank with hook, sinker, and bait.

  “Caught a few ha?”

  “Yep.”

  “What are ya usin’?”

  “Sandworms.”

  This Lamar had his intruding hands in our bucket, handling our fish, pulling them out, helping himself audaciously. Two seagulls cried directly above us. His friend Lee, who also went to the public school with Justin, remained on his bike without a shirt on, in shorts, and with his bare feet flat on the loose blue stone. They were both in sixth grade, while Justin was in fifth.

  “Look here Lee. Look at the little flounders these guys are keepin’!”

  Lee got off his bike, letting it fall, clattering on the stones. Without cringing in pain, he walked on the stones like he had shoes, and he squatted beside me, bumping me boorishly, obtruding. I stepped aside with my line in the water, looking at him, at how dirty he was, at both of them hovering over our bucket like the gulls overhead, looking at Justin, at them, then back at Justin again. The afternoon sun suddenly slid behind a high spread of cloud, became shadowed, removing the squinting from our eyes. The smell of salt in the air, seaweed and mud from the low tide, and putrid fish from the nearby fishing boats continued floating into our nostrils.

  Justin looked at me. I could tell he sort of evaded Lamar particularly. He was not pleased they’d arrived, and wished they’d leave. He remained quiet. Everything had been so nice and calm five minutes earlier. Now there was a bad, thick, pernicious feeling in the atmosphere.

  This kid Lee got up with his hardened, dirty feet, insolently approaching Justin. “Hey, let me try your pole, Sparks,” he said, placing his hand above the reel, grabbing.

  Reluctant, irritated, yet not wanting a confrontation, Justin released, but with a bit of hesitant authority in his voice, he said, “Okay sure, but just for a couple a minutes.”

  “How long ya been fishin’?”

  “Hour,” Justin said.

  “And ya only got four?”

  “Caught two crabs and an eel too.”

  “Threw ’em back?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What ya throw ’em back for?”

  “Don’t want ’em.”

  This other kid Lamar looked at me. “Who’s this little kid?” he said to Justin, rather than straightly talking to me.

  The sun slid back out from behind the cloud. Brightness immediately gleamed. My brows lowered. I didn’t like this attention drawn toward me from this kid.

  “My brother. Silas.”

  “I didn’t know ya had a brother.”

  “So.”

  “Don’t look like ya.”

  “Well he is.”

  Lee centered his attention on his line in the water. We could hear gentle slaps and splashes as the small choppy waves hit the tarred bulkhead beneath us. I could see a gray striped tabby cat on one of the fishing boats seated on the gunwale looking at the gulls overhead.

  Lamar reached his long, black, wiry arm toward my fishing pole, and with an uncertain, testy daring said, “Let me see your pole kid.”

  My brows lowered further. I was quite a bit shorter than he. “No!” I said firmly, briskly stepping a few feet away. I stared out, stiffly boring my eyes and head straight out at my line, at the fishing boats, at this cat.

  “What do ya mean no?” Lamar remarked with a bit of a startled giggle, with a manner that inquired from me who that I thought I was. It seemed the gulls laughed too. One landed on top of a wharf post nearby, as though to see.

  “No!” I said simply. This grasping, self-willed bully made me mad.

  Lamar’s hand clutched my pole, pulling a little. I tried to jerk away from him.

  “What’s your brother’s name, Sparks?” He pulled my pole.

  “Silas. His name’s Silas. What are ya keep askin me for? He can talk.”

  “Silas!” I shouted.

  “Sparks. Hey Sparks, your brother Silas won’t let me use his pole.” He wanted Justin to take care of this. He felt he had some power over Justin—a kid a year younger than himself whom he knew, whom he felt would probably comply. There was this understanding of reputation, position, and hierarchy from school, and perhaps in my foster family as well.

  “So, it’s his pole. Maybe he don’t want ya usin’ it.”

  Though there was a detected uncertainty in his voice, I could hear a recognizable exasperation from Justin. I felt I had his support at this moment. “It’s my pole!” I said, without looking at Lamar, pulling. Lamar would not let go. He had a sick kind of grin on his face. “It’s mine!” I screeched. This kid was obviously stronger than I, at this point having only one hand on the pole. I tried prying his fingers from it, but they were rigid, unmovable.

  He then placed his horrible skinny fingers and palm across my face and pushed. I resisted. We both became angrier. “Let go, kid!” he grunted, demanding; and then he smacked me.

  While Lee kept fishing, looking over at us, Justin stepped over and he too grabbed my fishing pole. “Just leave him alone Lamar. He doesn’t want you to use his pole, so leave him. You think you’re a tough guy hittin’ a five-year-old. Big tough guy! Hittin’ a kindergarten kid!”

  “What are you goin’ to do about it, Sparks, ya twerp!”

  “Nothin’. Just leave him, come on.” Justin was not that much smaller than Lamar. He was trying to make peace here, pleading, but he was angry too. No one would let go of this pole. Six hands now—four black and my two brown—clasped tightly. At once, there was a flounder on the line. Justin could tell first. “He’s got one. He’s got one! Come on, let go Lamar. Let him reel it in. He’s got one!” I still wonder why this timing worked this way, what the reason in the heavens was that this fish now took the bait. There was something humorous about this, even though I was just slapped by a big kid.

  This only made Lamar more persistent. He looked at the two of us, angered that seizing this pole didn’t come as easily as it had with Lee, angered that h
e wasn’t having his way and that a mere fifth-grader and his little brother hindered that, and all that before the eyes of his partner Lee. He would not surrender. There was silence and stillness a moment. It seemed all three waited for someone to yield. The flounder pulled and tugged. It was a big one. Lamar kept staring down at me, at my face, at my hair. “Hey Lee,” he called. “Look at this little imp. What is he anyway? Is he a nigga or a white boy?” He laughed. His anger over this struggle brought him to flinging these insults. “Hey, it’s a white nigger. Look at him. He’s got light hair!”

  Lee giggled.

  Who’s ya daddy, kid? You wanna be black or white? Your momma’s a whore!” I didn’t know what this meant, but Justin did, and this made him even madder.

  “Shut your mouth, Lamar! Let go! Why you have to do this?”

  Lamar began to thrash, walloping his elbows violently. Finally he had pole to himself. I let go first, as I began to cry—and then Justin, not because Justin surrendered, but rather because he was ready to fight, unafraid. He launched a hard punch at Lamar’s face, hitting him squarely in the nose. This angry courage from Justin so surprised Lamar that at first he just stared at Justin, aghast. Then, to save face before Lee, he had no choice but to drop my pole to retaliate. I quickly retrieved and began reeling in my tears. By now Lamar’s nose was bleeding, dripping over his white shirt, splashing on Justin as they wrestled, upright. Suddenly Lamar, trying to free from the grapple so he could punch Justin, swung Justin around, tossing him wildly against a huge, iron trash can. The can toppled, spilling trash, and Justin fell into it—ants, fish guts, and all. This was quite a stage.

  Justin stopped a moment. Lamar wiped his face. “Give?” he said.

  Irate, breathing heavily. “Leave us alone!”

  They were both breathing hard.

  Lamar stood there thinking what to say. He kept wiping his nose, looking at his finger, wiping across his sleeve, bloody, nervous, feeling defeated.

  By now I excitedly pulled up my flounder. “I got ’im! I got ’im, Justin! Look, I got ’im! It’s a big one!” I’d completely disregarded the tension of the fighting now. It wasn’t until later that day that I thought about how proud and secure I felt with Justin as a big brother. It was a nice fish—twenty-two inches—still the biggest flounder I can recall ever seeing. I let it hang from my line, feeling its weighty sensation as it flopped and curled itself with strained life, shining white and glistening brown and flat, bending my rod.

  In his defeat, Lamar advanced. He wanted my pole again. I scurried, with my back to him, with the pole pointing toward the gulls, with this fish dangling, swinging like a tetherball. Catching me, he reached around, trying to grab the handle. I could tell he wanted to mangle my fish, pole, or both. We circled around together some, beneath the circling gulls—around and around—grappling. I burst into a raging scream, but somehow freed myself. As I turned, before Justin could seize him again, the huge flounder swung circuitously—from my jostling and jolting—with momentum, with speed and springy heaviness, around, colliding with a perfect smashing slap onto the side of Lamar’s head. For seconds there was silence. Then Lee began to laugh, loudly. Then Justin started laughing, and I laughed too. We couldn’t stop laughing. Wiping his face of his own blood and all this fish slime, unable at this instant to wipe away this humiliation, frustrated and disgusted he lifted our bucket and tossed our other four fish into the bay.

  As I was ecstatic about this big fish, the sudden loss of those small ones really wasn’t too despoiling.

  By now Lee was waiting on his bike. Justin caught Lamar by the tail of his bloody shirt and furiously wrestled him down again. Lamar was at an emotional disadvantage now, as he was shocked by Justin’s bravery, as he bled, and as Justin, replenished with fuming adrenaline, held him down, climbed onto him, sat on his midsection, and pinned his wrists to the stony floor, shouting: “Why’d ya have to come here? Why can’t ya just leave us alone? Why can’t ya leave my brother alone, ha?”

  Lamar was clearly beaten. Lee watched, but that was all. Kids at school surely heard about this one. These things didn’t matter to Justin; he never wanted to fight, but he fought for me, to protect me. He loved me and I’ll never forget him for it.

  One block from the church down the shadowy street in the theater parking lot a group of boys—eight-, nine-, ten-, eleven-year-olds—often assembled to play stickball. Justin’s leadership flair was evident there. Being ten, vocal, and the best player—he was esteemed. Judging fair or foul balls, close plays, balls and strikes were, as a rule, yielded to Justin: he played fair. Justin was always a team captain, and Eddy or Tyrone—eleven-year-olds—were captains too. The game began with flipping a coin, and the winner chose a player first, and they’d alternate until scrubs—Clyde or Joey—eight-year-olds—were left standing quarantined alone. I certainly should have been one of those; but even though I was six, the worst and a hindrance, Justin always mandate that I was permitted to play. He picked good players first to win, then me third so I wouldn’t feel left out, so he could—with his shepherd’s heart like Daddy’s—watch out for me and coach me.

  One sunny spring Saturday morning before the matinee cars entered, we had a game going in the cool shadow from the high west side of the theater building. We’d played six innings—a close score, tight, tense. One inning we were winning, the next losing. It was like that. As the morning crested into noon, and that great shadow shrank, and the sun strengthened, Justin said, “Last inning!” as we took our positions in the lot between innings. Now the other team scored two runs, putting them ahead by one. I was out in the out-field—the fourth outfielder—behind the centerfielder against the fence. My job was to chase the ones that really got away. Justin was the pitcher—almost always. A white chalked square on the red brick wall was the strike zone, even for little guys like me.

  Now we had last licks. Needing two runs to win, bottom of the order, Justin offered us deficient hitters a pep talk: “Now just concentrate! Keep your eye on the ball! Don’t look away when you swing! Hear me, Silas? Don’t look away! Okay?”

  I nodded, wide-eyed.

  Jamal got a double. Then Pauly and Clyde struck out. The last batter—I was up. At age six I understood the game. I didn’t want this pressure. I usually struck out. Sure, I’d have loved to be the hero, but everyone knew that would be unlikely. I clutched the sawed end of the broom handle without choking up.

  “Don’t be throwin’ him no curve balls, Eddy! Just fast balls! He’s only six. It’s not fair.”

  “If he wants to play, he’s gotta take it! What do you want—me to let him hit it?” Eddy kept turning his hat, fixing it, keeping it backward, wiping sweat, nervous, aggressive, dog-eat-dog, mimicking some favorite Yankee or Met pitcher of his, as though on the mound. His bright blonde hair and brows appeared blonder in the sun beside his navy-blue Yankee cap.

  “Yeah,” agreed Tony from deep at short stop. With his hat down over his brows and head tilted back I couldn’t see his shadowed eyes. His tone was clear though: he was agitated. He wanted to win.

  “He’s just a little kid, Eddy,” Sammy shouted. Sammy was seated with his back against the brick wall, knees up beside his cheek bones, brown hands clasped over brown shins.

  “Aright, aright, aright!” Eddy consented. “Just fastballs, but I’m makin’ sure they’re fast!”

  I stepped up to hit. The bottom of the strike zone was up—a little below my waist; the top of the box was over my head. My participation really was a bit ludicrous. Eddy went through his professional wind-up. The pink Spalding came darting unimpeded. I let it go, looking at the box. Sure enough—outside the box by two inches. Ball one.

  “Come on, put it in there, Eddy,” one of the guys out by the fence said.

  Eddy pitched again. The pink sphere ripped forward. I swung, missing. I looked at Justin with my eyes wide. “Was that a strike, Justin?” I wondered if I should have swung.

  “Right down the pike! Come on, you can hit it, Silas! Watch
it close!”

  Eddy pitched again, and the pink blur came zinging by—right at me—and I stepped back, looking. It was two inches in the box. Either I was too close, or he did curve it. I looked again to Justin for support, saying nothing. He just stared, arms folded, kicking the wall gently—frustrated—letting his rubber sneaker bounce back delicately. Strike two.

  For the fourth time, I moved into the box and prepared myself. I felt myself beginning to wheeze a little. Eddy’s wind-up began, finished. He released. The pink globe came speeding, inside. I focused, stepped, swung, connected, pulling—pulling so much that the stinging pinkness of the rubber ball surged with as much speed at Marty—a tall, skinny Italian kid on our team standing a few feet from third base. I initially felt so good about the way I met that fast ball, but soon the instant ego breathed its last when that hard rubber orb smacked the side of Martin’s face with a ping, boomeranging back into the lot, making most of the kids laugh. Half of these laughers tried to conceal it, snickering; but a few—including Justin—ran to his aid when he grabbed his face and fell to his knees. He was okay. It was just a stinging spank as the ball was soft enough to be innocuous.

  When Martin recovered, I stepped up again. I noticed Jamal on second base, his black skin shining in the bright sunlight. He squatted with his hands on his knees, eager to dash to third. Eddy wound up, impressed with himself. Again, a fifth time, the pink ball came shooting forward. It seemed this little sphere was the entire earth—the whole world, a world of importance—and hitting it, in my mind, meant pleasing Justin, which was my whole world. Unsure, then decisive—I felt I should swing, and as I did, I turned slightly, watching as the ball—a soundless pink line—passed me. Strike three.

  A few fielders cheered. “Yeah! We win!” Justin and our guys just sat, stood, picked up their gloves and sticks, looking with expressions that seemed to have braced for this. I felt lost, under, and I wondered what Justin would say. I’d seen him mad before, and I didn’t like it. I hated letting him down. I didn’t approach him.

  “Why’d ya turn your head? Why’d ya take your eye off the ball?” I heard his sudden voice. I could tell he restrained himself, as though there were this infinitesimal, controlling governor inside of him, cautious, restraining. Irritated, disappointed, he continued to force his baseball coach voice: “Why in the world ya turn your head when ya swung, Silas?” He tried his best to keep this—all this, this game—in the right perspective.