by Packer, Vin
“Yes, I understand.”
“Start with picture Number 1.”
“That’s a common wood nymph. From the South and Southwestern parts of the United States.”
“That’s correct for Number 1.”
“I’m sorry,” said Reggie Whittier to his wife. “Maybe you don’t talk about it all the time.”
“You’re nice, Reggie. Do you know that?”
“I don’t like to pick on you all the time, Laura.”
“I don’t mind. When you apologize like that, I want to cry or something.”
“This kid knows plenty, doesn’t he?”
“I mean it, Reggie. I think you’re a swell husband.”
“Thanks.”
“Picture Number 4, now, Chuck. Do you have it?”
“Yes.”
“Take as much time as you can, Chuck.”
“Number 4 is a blue. A pigmy blue. Common to the West.”
“Right again, Chuck. Now, Number 5.”
“Oh, oh, someone wants their check. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay, Laur.”
“Don’t go away,” she said. “I’ll only be a sec.”
“Would you repeat that, Chuck. Number 5 is what?”
“He’s a tiger swallowtail.”
“Chuck—Chuck, I’m sorry fellow. I’m sorry, Chuck. Gee, this is too bad, fellow. It says here on my card that Number 5 is a zebra swallowtail, fellow.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Gosh, Chuck, I’m the guy who’s sorry. All perfect answers but Number 5. I guess that’s it, Chuck. You want to step out of the Contemplation Chamber, please?”
Some of the people at the counter groaned.
The studio audience applauded wildly as the eight-year-old on the television screen came out of the booth.
A woman in front of Reginald Whittier said, “That doesn’t seem fair! He knew all but one!”
Another woman shushed her.
“Well, Chuck, you don’t go home empty-handed. You still get all 32 volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That was a rough deal, wasn’t it, Chuck. But now there’ll be more time for baseball.”
“Yes, there will be.”
“Still going to be a ballplayer when you grow up?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, Chuck, no one here doubts that whatever you decide to be, you’ll be good at it.”
“Thank you.”
“How about that, folks?”
The studio audience applauded a second time. So did the lady sitting at the booth in front of Reggie Whittier.
Now the quizmaster was welcoming another contestant. A minister, whose category was famous hymns.
“I just have to get my apron off, Reg,” Laura said as she passed by. “I’ll only be a sec.”
It was beginning to get on his nerves the way she always said “a sec.” He wondered why he was sitting there kidding himself. It would never work out. Nothing ever had. Everything he had tried to do on his own, from the Boy Scout Jamboree when he was thirteen to this, had been a huge flop. He thought of the way he had cut his face shaving that morning. He had been standing there in the room at the tourist home looking into the mirror, and in the mirror’s reflection, he had seen Laura’s things again, hanging up all over the place; hanging up to dry—stockings and the panties she had bought yesterday from her advance in salary, and the slip. She had gone to work.
“I just won’t wear a slip,” she had said before she left. “I’m not going to spend good money on a new slip, and this one’s not dry. I have to buy a new garter belt, though. The elastic’s gone on the one I’m wearing.”
He hadn’t wanted to hear all that. Why did she have to talk about it all the time? Through all the years of living with his mother, he had never once heard her mention anything about her underclothing.
He stood there shaving, thinking about it, and he cut his upper lip.
Now, he was smoking all the time too. One right after the other. He ground out his cigarette and finished his coffee.
“All right, Reverend Handson, for $44,000 answer this question. A famous hymn will play in just one second. You are to give me the name of the hymn, the name of the man who wrote words of the hymn, the year he wrote the hymn, the name of a novel he wrote, and the name of the man who wrote the music of this hymn.”
“I’m ready, Mr. Paul.”
“Listen carefully to this famous hymn!”
When the music began, the woman in the booth in front of Reggie said, “Why, that’s easy! Who doesn’t know that hymn?”
“Sure, but who wrote it, smarty?” another woman in the diner said, “and what year? Hah?”
The sound of the martial music filled the diner.
Reggie began to tremble. He noticed his hands shake as he reached for the cup of coffee in front of him. The cup was empty.
He wanted to get out of there suddenly, away from the sound of the music. He sat frozen, wanting to go, unable to move.
Then he heard Laura’s voice behind him. “Hey, Reggie. Your mother wants you!”
He whirled around, “What? What?”
She was laughing at him. “That’s her signal, isn’t it, honey?”
He wanted to hit her. He wanted to slap her face for saying that. He got up and stood there, facing her.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
People were watching them. Reggie could feel their eyes on him.
His face was hot and red. He wanted to shout at her to be quiet.
“I was making a joke,” she said, “You know how your mother always played that—”
He raised his fist. He shook it at her. “You just sh-sh-sh-sh—” He couldn’t get the words out. Again, he tried, “Sh-sh-sh—”
Laura simply stood there with that hurt expression in her eyes.
Then someone else said the words he couldn’t say. The woman in front of Reggie. He stared at her.
“You shut up,” she said. “You just shut up and listen!”
Reginald Whittier sat back down in the booth. He put his head in the cradle of his arms, on the table. Goose bumps came out all over him. He began to shake, without crying.
Sabine Baring-Gould wrote that hymn, Mr. Paul, in the year 1865. Sir Arthur Sullivan set it to music. Sabine Baring-Gould also wrote a novel called The Broom Squire. I guess there’s not a living soul who doesn’t know that the name of that hymn is “Onward, Christian Soldiers.”
Then there were bells ringing and there was the thunder of applause. Reggie looked up at the television set while the drums beat, and the lights on the Contemplation Chamber blinked on and off.
“Sh-sh-sh-shut up!” Reggie Whittier whispered, and the tears started streaming down his face.
Chapter Twelve
CHARLES BERREY
Before they got into the elevator at International Broadcasting Company, Evelyn Berrey said: “Leave him alone, Howard!”
“I’d just like an answer to my question, Evelyn. This is one question the boy can answer. Now how about it, Chuck?”
“The elevator’s here now. Ask him, later.”
“Chuck?” said Howard Berrey, “Are you going to answer me?”
“Here, dad?” Did his father want him to say it right in front of his mother?
“Yes, here.”
“All right, dad. I was spoofing.”
“I knew it! I knew it!”
“Chuckles, are you serious?”
The elevator boy shouted: “Down! Down car!”
“Anyone knows a zebra swallowtail,” said Charles Berrey.
He looked up at his father and smiled broadly.
“You damn little brat!” said his father between his teeth, “You goddam little brat!” He caught a hold of the boy’s collar and shoved him toward the elevator.
“Be careful, Howard!” said Evelyn Berrey. “Don’t lose your temper here. Don’t talk in the elevator!”
The elevator boy touc
hed his finger to his cap.
“Hi, folks. Tough luck, Chuck. Better luck next time.”
“Thank you,” said Charles Berrey.
His father looked down at him with angry eyes. Under his breath, he said: “Only there won’t be a next time.”
“I thought it would be all right, dad. I thought—”
“Chuckles,” his mother interrupted him. “Button up your coat, and wait until we’re in the car if you have anything to tell your father.”
“Yes, Chuckles,” said his father, with that mocking tone of mimicry, “button up your lip too, for now!”
Charles Berrey saw his mother shove her elbow in his father’s side. The elevator was zooming down to the first floor of I.B.C. Charles could feel it in his ears. They felt as though they would pop. He stood between his parents nervously, while no one said another thing.
On one, the elevator doors shot open.
“Goodnight, folks.”
Charles turned around to wave at the elevator boy, but his mother grabbed his hand, and yanked him along a few steps ahead of his father.
“Chuckles, your father is very, very angry!”
“I thought it would be all right. I thought he—”
“Don’t hang to your mother’s skirts,” said Howard Berrey as he caught up with them. “We’ll just have a little ‘confab’ about this, mister! Later!”
“It was a silly thing to do, Chuckles. All that money.”
“I have to work ten years to make that much money!” said his father, “and you just throw it away!”
As they approached the entranceway of I.B.C., half-a-dozen reporters stood waiting.
“Give us a big smile, Chuck!” said one, as the flash bulb on his Graflex sparked.
Howard Berrey said, “We have no comment.”
“How about that, Chuck?” another reporter asked.
“Please,” said Mrs. Berrey, “Chuckles is tired.”
“Is that your pet name for him, Mrs. Berrey?”
“Did the boy have a temporary lapse of memory, or was it a real miss?”
“Mr. Berrey, are you glad the ordeal is over?”
The reporters stood in a circle around the Berrey’s. More flash bulbs exploded, and more questions were fired at the trio.
Suddenly, Howard Berrey shoved his son in front of him.
“Go ahead, Chuck. Tell them.”
Charles Berrey said, “I knew it was a zebra swallowtail.”
“He knew the answer,” said Evelyn Berrey.
The reporter with the Graflex said, “Didn’t they give you enough time, Chuck? Did you feel pressed for time?”
“No,” said Charles Berrey. “I knew instantly.”
“Tell them, Chuck,” said Howard Berrey.
Charles Berrey’s lips were trembling now.
“What do you mean you knew instantly?” said another reporter. “Were you just nervous?”
“Answer them, Chuck!” his father demanded.
“Howard! After all—” said Evelyn Berrey.
“Chuck, did you hear me?”
“I was—I was spoofing,” said Charles Berrey.
“You mean that you knew the answer, and gave the wrong answer?”
“Yes, sir,” he told the reporter. “Anyone knows a zebra swallowtail.”
Another flash bulb exploded.
“Why?” said a reporter.
“Why did you give the wrong answer, Chuck?”
“Are you spoofing now, Chuck?” said the man with the Graflex.
“Why?” the first reporter repeated his question.
Charles Berrey stood there in front of his father, biting his lip and staring up at them.
“Do you know why you did it, Chuck?”
“Why, Chuck?”
“Did anyone tell you to do it, Chuck? Was it fixed?”
“Why, Chuck?”
“Why, boy?”
Howard Berrey grabbed his son’s arm. “No comment,” he said.
“We just want some peace,” said Evelyn Berrey.
“Do you believe your son?” asked the man with the Graflex. “Mr. Berrey, do you believe your son was spoofing?”
Howard Berrey turned and glared at the reporter. “You’re goddam right I believe him!” he said.
Then he yanked Charles by the arm and pushed his way through the revolving door.
Momentarily, Evelyn Berrey lingered before the reporters.
“What about it, Mrs. Berrey?”
“Do you believe him too, Mrs. Berrey?”
“Chuckles didn’t mean to do it. I don’t even think he realized what he was doing,” she mumbled. “You see, it was sort of a game to him.”
“Are you mad at him, Mrs. Berrey? Are you and your husband mad at him?”
But she didn’t answer. She pushed her way through the revolving door with the dazed expression of somebody who had just lost a fortune and wasn’t yet able to quite believe it.
PART FIVE
Chapter Thirteen
BROCK BROWN
SHOOK-UP YOUTH, 16, HELD IN BRUTAL SLAYING OF SCHOOLGIRL
Body Left on Country Road
Her body stabbed 13 times and her neck choked, 16-year-old Caroline Bates of Sykes, New York, was discovered by farmhand Homer Gilchrist Memorial Day eve, on a back country road seven miles from her home.
Sixteen-year-old Brock Brown, son of Robert Brown and the late Edith Brock Brown, stunned police with his confession to Kantogee County Prosecutor Elliot C. Markham and state police.
Seized within three hours of the bludgeoning, after State Police traced the license number of a Chevrolet convertible deserted only 200 yards from the scene of the crime, Brock Brown of 209 Marvin Avenue is being held for investigation of first degree murder, and is undergoing further questioning today.
A petition asking the juvenile court for a waiver to try the youth as an adult was filed shortly after 10 a.m. today, Markham told the Press.
In 30 minutes last night the youth, who was described by classmates as a shy, quiet boy who was never in any trouble before, blurted out his statement with little apparent emotion.
He faced police and reporters, calmly relating how earlier he had repeatedly stabbed the beautiful girl and left her knife-punctured, strangled body on a muddy, rain-washed road near Eastern Highway and Simon Point.
Caroline, who was planning to visit an uncle in Rochester, New York, over the Memorial Day weekend, had never been seen in the company of the Brown boy before yesterday.
But yesterday afternoon, several of her classmates observed her as she left Murray’s Luncheonette, a popular hangout for Sykes teenagers, to go for a drive in the Brown boy’s car.
In his statement to Markham, Brock said he offered to take the Bates girl for a ride “on a whim.”
Ironically, the boy claimed they had quarreled over the fact that he did not want to drive her home from the spot on the lonely country road where he had parked because it was after six o’clock, and therefore illegal for a Junior Operator to take the controls of an automobile.
“She wanted me to break the law,” the boy told Markham, “and I’m not that kind.”
Brown said the girl put mud “all over me.”
He said this angered him. “I’ve always been careful about my clothes,” he said, “so I went crazy when she did this to me. I ran after her and knocked her down. I began to choke her. Something came over me. I wanted to do something awful to her, but she would not stay still. I pressed her neck hard. When she was still, I did the terrible crime.”
After the rape, the girl was apparently still alive.
The Brown boy said he was afraid she would tell on him. He told Markham he got out his jackknife and repeatedly plunged the short blade into her body.
“I don’t remember her saying anything. I think she groaned once or twice,” he said.
He told Markham he left her limp body in the mud. He walked to Eastern Highway, where he found a gasoline station.
“I did my best to clea
n up,” he said, “but it was hard to get all that mud off me. I washed my hands and face, and then I hitched a ride into Sykes on a truck. I walked to Marvin Avenue from Tunston Street, where the truck had dropped me. I told the driver of the truck I was in an automobile accident. I’m sorry about that lie, but I didn’t want to go into the whole thing with him.”
Meanwhile, when the girl failed to return home by 7 p.m., Mrs. Bates began to call classmates of the girl in an attempt to locate her. None of the boys and girls called were able to tell her of her daughter’s “ride” with Brown.
“He was the last boy I would ever imagine Carrie was with,” said Lenora Bates. “He was never in our house. Many years back he delivered our newspaper, but even then, he was never actually inside our house. I never once heard Carrie speak of him. I never even thought of the Brown boy. I didn’t even know his first name. During my childhood, I knew his mother only vaguely, but I never knew the boy or his father.”
During the time the body was found and the license number of the Chevrolet convertible was being traced, Brock Brown fixed his own dinner and watched television.
“My father and my stepmother were off on vacation,” he told Markham. “I watched Cash-Answer and waited for the police to come and get me. I felt sorry for that little genius who missed his question on Cash-Answer. Otherwise, I guess I didn’t think of anything in particular. I put on my best suit while I waited. I didn’t want to go to jail in those dirty clothes I was wearing when I got home.”
When the police and Markham arrived at the Brown home, the boy was in the midst of watching the television show. While he was being questioned in a state police auto outside, other Kantogee County police and Sykes police searched the house. His blood-stained shoes and clothes were found on the bed in his room. Newspapers had been placed over the bedspread to keep it clean.
The boy readily admitted the slaying and gave as his reason that he was “shook up.”
“I’ve been ‘shook up’ for quite some time,” he told Markham, “but I never thought it would come to this.”
He has lived with his family on Marvin Avenue throughout his 16 years. His father, a mechanic at the Blue Star Garage on Court Street, married the former Clara Lewis, six years after his wife, Edith Brown, nee Brock, died in 1949.
