Bread Upon the Waters

by Irwin Shaw

  “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 policeman 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 ser
geant’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.

  The room was small and, aside from the blood on the rug and the unmade bed, eerily neat. Strand and Babcock stood at the door because there wasn’t enough space in the room for them all as the policeman methodically opened drawers, looked under the bed, threw back the blanket, turned over the rug, went through the pockets of Hitz’s clothes hanging in the closet.

  “Nothing,” he said, after ten minutes.

  “I told you,” Hitz said. He had been ashen in the infirmary and at the police station, except for the streaks of blood on his cheek and along his neck, but now the color had returned to his face. “You could’ve saved yourself the trip. I told you I didn’t take his money.”

  “I think you better get into bed and get some rest, sonny,” the policeman said. “I’ll be going now.”

  They left Hitz in his room, calm now and triumphant, and descended the stairs together. Strand said good night to the policeman and Babcock in the common room. Alone, he let himself drop into a chair for a few minutes. He felt too exhausted to face Leslie without some interval of quiet.

  He closed his eyes and tried to recall the exact movements of the policeman as he searched Hitz’s room, going over the possibilities that the man might have overlooked just the one place that the money could be hidden. If he had found it, it would not have proven that Romero was innocent of a crime, but it would have been a mitigating circumstance, would have made Romero’s attack on Hitz less senseless, less savage and inexcusable. But as he ticked off from memory the places the policeman had looked, Strand could think of no corner that had been missed. He sighed, opened his eyes, stood up, looked for a long time at the bloodstain on the common room couch where Hitz had lain with Strand’s handkerchief pressed against his cheek. The handkerchief was still on the floor where the doctor had dropped it to look at the wound. The blood was dry now, a dark rust color, the cloth stiff. Strand bent and picked it up.

  He turned off the light and went down the dar
k hall toward the door to the apartment. He remembered that Leslie had locked the door and fumbled in his pocket for the key. But when he put it in the door he found that the lock was open. He pushed open the door and went into the living room. All the lights were on.

  “Leslie,” he called. “Leslie!” He went into her bedroom. The lights were on there, too. The door to her closet was wide open. He saw that most of her clothes were missing. Then he saw the note on her dressing table.

  He picked it up, his hand trembling, stared at it. The handwriting was hasty, not like Leslie’s usual fine script at all.

  Dearest,

  Forgive me. I just couldn’t stand staying here another night. I’ve called Linda and asked her if she really meant that she would take me along with her to Paris. She said she did and I told her I’d drive into New York right away and be ready to leave with her tomorrow. Please don’t worry about me, my darling. And please, please take care of yourself. And above all, don’t blame yourself for anything. I love you with all my heart,

  Leslie

  He put the note down carefully, smoothed it out with his hand. Then he closed the closet door, put out the lights, and went into his room, undressed and got into bed. He did not set the alarm. Babcock would understand that he could not face a class that day.

  “Of course, the whole school is talking about it,” Babcock was saying. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and they were driving in Babcock’s car toward the courthouse. Strand had awakened early, but had stayed in the apartment, disregarding the bell for breakfast and the ringing for the change of classes. He had tried to call Linda’s apartment, but the line had been busy each time he had dialed and he had finally given up. Leslie had not called him and he had sent a telegram to Linda asking her to phone him. He knew it was foolish to worry that Leslie might have had an accident on the way into the city. If anything had happened, somebody would have gotten in touch with him. But he could not get over the vision of Leslie, agitated and distraught, wandering off the road and crashing into a tree and lying bleeding in a ditch. He had also called Hazen’s office but had been told by a secretary that Mr. Hazen had left early that morning for Washington. Conroy had driven him to the airport, the secretary had said, and she did not know where Mr. Hazen could be reached or when he would be back. “Naturally,” Babcock said, driving slowly and carefully, “the Hitz boy spread the news as soon as he woke up this morning. With some lurid exaggerations, I would imagine, from what has come back to me. And he telephoned his father and his father got me on the phone and was most—ah—emphatic with me. What he actually said was that if I tried to whitewash the scandal—that’s the word he used, scandal—he’d have my job. He also threatened to sue the school for criminal negligence for ignoring a known danger—that’s Romero, of course—and to close us down. And to make sure that I knew that he was not—ah—absolutely happy, he said that if his son was forced to answer to a charge of theft he would name us as codefendants in a criminal libel suit. It’s not the most obliging of families.” Babcock smiled wanly. His face was gray and strained, his eyes red-rimmed and watery. His hands clenched the wheel so tightly that his knuckles showed white.