by Wingshooters
“Are you all right, young man? Let me take a look at that,” he said, and the sternness of his voice from a few minutes before was gone, replaced by a tone of concern.
“No!” Kevin cried out, flinching from his touch. “I’m fine! I’m fine! Leave me alone!”
And there was something other than pain in his voice, something more than the irritation that children sometimes feel in the face of unwanted attention. What it sounded like was fear.
Mr. Garrett must have heard it too. He backed off a bit, but still stayed close. “It’s all right, son. I’m only trying to help. Now let me have a look at your arm.”
Kevin’s face was covered with tears. His left hand was holding his sleeve up and cradling his right elbow, exposing his arm to the air. And when Mr. Garrett inched closer, gently curved his hand around Kevin’s elbow and tilted up his forearm, the boy didn’t flinch or pull away. The skin around the wound looked dry and cracked, and the flesh of his fingers was sickly white. Mr. Garrett carefully pulled out a few of the pebbles, and then unfolded his handkerchief, pressing it just below the wound to wipe away the running blood.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said. “It’s just a bad scrape. Now let’s get you up on your feet and we’ll take you inside.”
Kevin nodded. He wasn’t looking at Mr. Garrett, but he wasn’t crying anymore either. Mr. Garrett held out a hand to help him, but Kevin refused it. Since his right arm was still elevated to keep the blood from running down, he turned to his left, pressing his hand to the ground to brace himself as he got his legs set under him. And as he rolled that way, facedown, back end higher than the front, his jacket and shirt edged up his back, exposing ten or twelve inches of skin. There was just a flash of something that shouldn’t have been there, several dark strips of color. Then the clothes came back down, and they were gone. I looked at Mr. Garrett’s face, and saw that he had seen them, too.
“Kevin,” he said, and now his voice sounded different. “Stand here for a second. Let me look.”
And maybe Kevin thought the teacher was still talking about his arm, because he didn’t move away or protest. Maybe he’d forgotten what his clothes concealed, so accustomed was he to carrying his secret. Or maybe he knew exactly what was happening and wanted someone, some adult, just to see. When Mr. Garrett lifted the back of the jacket again, what he uncovered was a network of dark, thin marks, some just an inch or two long, some the entire width of Kevin’s back. Many of them were long-healed, hardened and raised; they looked like a game of Pick up Sticks affixed to his flesh. But some were fresh—scabbed over, or still open, oozing tiny spots of red. I did not see how the blood hadn’t soaked through his shirt. I did not see how he could lean back in his chair.
Kevin had turned away from me, so I couldn’t see his face. But I saw Mr. Garrett’s. When he let go of the jacket and straightened up, he looked like he was going to cry. The muscles in his cheeks were jumping, and his eyes were pained. When he spoke, it was in a heavy voice I hadn’t heard before.
“Kevin, who did this to you?”
Now Kevin twisted away and took hold of his arm again. “No one! Leave me alone!” he said, and then he ran away, back across the playground and toward the building. Mr. Garrett stood and watched him for a moment, and I had a sense, then, that he was taking measure, trying to figure out what to do. He lowered his head and shook it slowly, pressing his lips together. Then he straightened up and walked across the schoolyard.
In the years that have passed since 1974, I’ve often wondered what would have happened if Mr. Garrett had kept his knowledge to himself. He could have let Kevin go home without telling anyone what he had seen. He could have just minded his business and let people go on as they always had. If Mr. Garrett had turned away from what we both saw that morning, it might have stayed a secret forever. For surely I would never have revealed such troubling information. I would never have said a thing.
That evening, after supper, there was the now-familiar knock at the kitchen door. This time, though, it wasn’t Earl or a group of Charlie’s friends. This time it was Ray Davis, by himself. When my grandmother pulled the storm door open, Ray was standing there in the olive pants he always wore on duty, along with his police department jacket. He had taken off his wide-brimmed hat, and he stood holding it against his chest as if apologizing in advance for his visit.
“Good evening, Helen,” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but is Charlie at home? I need to talk to him. It’s important.”
She hesitated—these unannounced visits were wearing on her—but then she stepped out of the way and said, “Sure, Ray. Come on inside.”
He met my grandfather in the dining room—Charlie, drawn by the knock and the voices, had already gotten up. But when Ray responded to his suggestion that they sit down at the table by saying, “No, Charlie, I think it’s best we discussed this in private,” I knew that he was there about Kevin Watson.
My grandfather took a moment to reply. “All right,” he said. “Well, let’s go out on the porch then.”
This was late October, and the temperature was now down in the forties. My grandfather put on his shoes and a barn coat, and Ray kept his jacket on, and after my grandmother had given both of them beers, they stepped through the door off the living room and out onto the porch. The front porch actually led, of course, to the front door of the house, but no one used that door except the mailman and salesmen and sometimes Charlie, who’d stand out front in the evening, stick two fingers in his mouth, and make a sound as loud as a factory whistle to call me home. But as little as the door was used, the porch was used often. For my grandmother, it was a place to let her pies cool. For my grandfather, it was a place to keep an eye on the neighborhood. It also gave him a place to hold private conversations.
In this second function, though, it was probably less effective than he realized. When he didn’t completely shut the inner door, as he didn’t this time, leaving it open a crack for the sake of light or heat; and when I was perched on the very end of his couch, I could, if I concentrated, generally hear the conversation. I had done exactly that just two nights before, when my grandparents had gone out there after supper to talk about my father. Now, with my grandmother in the kitchen washing the dishes, listening was not very difficult. They began by discussing the weather, which had changed from autumn glorious to prewinter gloom, and Charlie must have been sitting in the chair furthest from the door because his voice was harder to follow. Then Ray cleared his throat.
“Steve Baker called from over at the elementary school today. Someone told him about some whipping marks on Earl’s boy, Kevin.” He paused, and I could picture him gripping his beer can more tightly. “It was … well, it was that new teacher, the colored one. He got a look at Kevin’s back on the playground.”
Silence from my grandfather. Then: “That’s what you came over to tell me?”
“Well … Charlie. It could cause Earl a problem. If the teacher officially reported it, we’d have to investigate.”
“Well, did he?” He sounded angry and impatient.
“No,” said Ray. “The teacher told Baker about it, and Baker convinced him to let him handle it. He called me directly instead of going through the department. And now I’m trying to figure out what to do.”
My grandfather took a moment to answer. “Well, what would you do if it was somebody else?”
Ray sighed. “Get the kid looked at, I guess. And if it’s as bad as they say, I’d have my men go and pick up the father.”
“But it’s not someone else.”
“No,” Ray said. “It’s Earl.”
And for the first time his voice seemed to loosen a bit, as if something he was holding tight was slipping free. I thought Ray Davis was generally a decent sort, too uncertain, maybe, too deferential to be the face of the law. And it occurred to me that although Earl was his friend, he wasn’t sure about the best course of action. Maybe he was looking to Charlie for permission to go talk to Kevin and question his f
ather—maybe that would give him the courage he needed. But if so, he didn’t get it, because when Charlie spoke again, he said, “That nosy bastard. I knew those niggers would bring nothing but trouble.”
Ray didn’t respond. Maybe he was still thinking about what to do, but Charlie’s stance on the matter was clear. His voice was more distinct now—he must have been facing Ray, or his anger added volume to his words.
“They got no right to tell a man how to raise his children. Or what he can or can’t do in order to discipline ’em. Hell, I took Stewart over my own knee when he was a boy, and now it looks like I didn’t do it near enough.”
“We all do that, Charlie. But this is different.”
“Earl’s own daddy was tough on him,” Charlie continued. “Too tough, some folks might say. I know Earl had a hard time of it, but it kept him in line. And now he’s just trying to keep his own boys out of trouble.” He paused, and I remembered the scar on Earl’s arm, about the size of the end of a cigar. When Charlie spoke again, his voice had the tone of a command. “Don’t talk to the boy, Raymond. I’m sure it’s all blown out of proportion. Just talk to Earl, and let him know what’s going on.”
When Ray spoke again, he sounded resolved but not happy. “So you think I should just tell him that people are looking out?”
I could almost see Charlie nod. “Yes. That’s what you’d do for me, Ray. That’s what you’d do for any of us. Or else why even bother to call yourself a friend?”
Ray was silent, and I could imagine him looking down the street, the lights coming on in the living rooms all along Dryden Road. “I don’t even know how to bring it up, Charlie,” he said finally. “I mean, how do you tell a man …?”
“Tell him they’re sticking their black noses where they don’t belong. Tell him you know who’s in the right here, and that you’re going to stand by him. This is bullshit, Ray. You know it is. This is bullshit, and you need to put a stop to it.”
But when the men came inside, I wasn’t sure from Ray’s expression that he knew it was bullshit at all. He had the chastened look of a young man given an unpleasant task by his father. He left quickly, maybe to see Earl Watson, and then Charlie went into the kitchen for another beer. My grandfather was angry and preoccupied; he’d been in a sour mood already and this had made things worse. Neither my grandmother nor I dared to approach him. And when he came back to the living room, where she and I had already gone, he lay down on the couch, turned on the TV, and didn’t speak a word to either one of us.
I don’t know what Ray said to Earl, but I know he said something, because the next time I saw Earl he was drawn-in and tense, even more ill-tempered than he’d been all fall. I wouldn’t have chosen to be around him, but my grandfather had taken me with him, as he always did, to run his Saturday-morning errands. After we’d picked up a rake and trash bags at Kmart and a tailpipe at the auto supplies shop, we pulled up in front of Earl’s gun store. Charlie said, “’Lo, Earl,” by way of greeting as we walked through the door, and then he sat down in one of the folding metal chairs that Earl had set up by the counter. He patted the other chair to indicate that I should sit.
“’Lo, Charlie,” Watson answered, not acknowledging me. “Hey Jake,” he yelled, “bring Charlie here some coffee!”
I’d thought Earl was alone, but after a minute or two, Jake Watson came in from the back office and handed my grandfather a Styrofoam cup. At first I wasn’t sure he had noticed me. But then his thin lips curled into a smirk, which gave me a little spasm of fear. Jake sat on a high stool behind the counter and crossed his arms, looking at me, and I thought of the times during the summer when I’d passed him and his friends out near Six Mile Creek, sitting on top of their cars and smoking pot or drinking beer. If they saw me, they’d stir themselves enough to throw rocks, and I’d bike past them as fast as I could. Although Earl didn’t know—I assumed—about the pot and the rock throwing, he had to realize that Jake got into trouble. From what I heard, he’d been suspended from the high school more than once for fighting or for arguing with his teachers. Now, looking back, it’s tempting to explain Jake’s behavior as anxiety over the war, especially since some of his older friends had been drafted; especially since one of them had come home without his legs. But the war had ended more than a year ago, and so his surliness couldn’t be blamed on the threat of the draft.
The gun shop was set up like a jewelry store, with a U-shaped glass counter and wide display cases against the two side walls. Above the cases were advertising posters for some of the store’s best sellers—Remington, Smith & Wesson, Ithaca, and Colt, even one for Italian Berettas. Earl had inherited the store from his father and then expanded the business; he also taught gun safety classes out at the firing range, including a class specifically for kids. I had taken the class myself the previous fall at Charlie’s behest, shooting round after round with a little .22-caliber single-action army revolver. The gun seemed small and insignificant compared to Charlie’s heftier pistols, but I’d liked the feel of it, the warmth of the metal, the sense of contained power. From there I’d graduated to a .410-gauge shotgun to prepare for bird hunting, which was almost easier because I could brace the butt against my shoulder.
There were no customers in the store that day, which was unusual—it was a week before the opening of deer hunting season, one of the busiest times of the year. Earl was cleaning a used Colt 1911, dabbing polish onto a cloth and gently stroking the barrel. He worked with focus and pleasure, not speaking to us yet; then he turned and put the gun back into the display case. The longer-barrel pistols, as well as the rifles and shotguns, were in the cases against the wall. The smaller handguns were in the counter displays in their felt-lined cases, as harmless and still as watches. Earl ran his eyes over his entire inventory almost tenderly, as if the guns were living things that required his care. His eyes were red and the lines in his forehead and cheeks looked deeper than usual. Then he turned toward us and placed his fists on the counter.
“Got a new Browning Citori over and under you might want to look at, Charlie,” he said. “Best wingshooting gun I’ve ever seen.”
My grandfather sat with his hands cupping his knees and his legs spread wide, slouching a bit, totally at ease. “I’m getting too old for wingshooting, Earl. Those birds get smaller every year, and they move too goddamn fast. Deer are better for me now—they’re a bigger target, so I can actually see ’em. You going to make it out with us next weekend?”
Earl nodded. “I hope so. Trying to figure out whether to open next Saturday. I’m usually in the store the first day of the season, but I sure would like to get out there.”
Charlie nodded. “Well, come with us then,” he said. “Pete and I fixed the ladder going up to the stand, so even you could get your big ass up there now.”
“Well, I’ll try to get my new part-time man to come in so I can go. And this season,” he said, pulling himself up straight, “I’m going to take my boy out with me.” I looked at him, and so did my grandfather. It was clear which boy he was talking about, and which one he wasn’t, and his knowledge that we knew how he divided his sons turned his face red, and tightened his fists.
“Kevin’s just too soft for hunting,” he said by way of explanation. “He can’t even put a worm on a hook.”
But the mention of Kevin’s name let something new into the store, like a draft bringing in a foul odor. My grandfather looked down, embarrassed.
Earl said, “Ah, hell,” and turned away in disgust, and slammed the display case shut. When I glanced over at Jake to see his reaction—his face showed nothing—I realized for the first time how much he looked like his brother. He too had lush black hair that was a bit long. He too had a compact body and short, stubby fingers, but he was put together differently, with more strength and ease, and on him the bushy hair and stockiness suggested power, not disarray. No one had ever knocked him over or taken him down a notch. No one had ever looked at him and found him lacking.
As the silence c
ontinued between the two men, I knew that Ray had talked to Earl, but that my grandfather hadn’t. I wondered if they’d speak of Kevin, or if the presence of Jake and me would stop them. Either way, I wanted to be out of there. Earl scared me now, even more than he had before. I kept remembering the scars on Kevin’s back, the oozing of the still-fresh wounds. I couldn’t imagine a person doing that to someone else, especially not a parent to a child. My father had never raised a hand to me, my mother either—something I’d never even thought about before but that now made me think I was lucky. I glanced over at Charlie to see if he was going to say something. But just then, Earl looked out the window and exclaimed, “Well, I’ll be god-damned.”
I turned toward the window, and saw what he saw—Mr. Garrett walking alone on the other side of Buffalo Street. It seemed that he too was out doing Saturday errands—he was carrying a couple of shopping bags—and I wondered why his wife wasn’t with him. I felt my grandfather sit up straight beside me; felt the air sharpen to a fine, dangerous point. Earl’s face contorted into an ugly mask of itself. Never taking his eyes off Mr. Garrett, he stepped out from behind the counter. He walked out through the front door and onto the sidewalk.
Mr. Garrett didn’t see him at first. He was walking leisurely, stopping to look in store windows, swinging his bags in a big, loose arc, like a boy who’d just finished running an errand for his mother and was dallying before he went home. He was dressed more casually than usual, in jeans, a green canvas jacket, and sneakers. But the jeans only drew attention to the length of his legs, and revealed muscles you couldn’t see when he wore dress slacks. Watching him, even from a fifty-foot distance, I thought, what an impressive-looking man.
