Afterward, Saul took Tony to Lake City’s only bar. They sat in a dark corner, half listening to the jukebox, half watching two retired truckers shoot pool. The stocky owner, George Corby, gave Tony a Coke without asking what he wanted; George let the high school boys shoot pool here but, respecting their parents, did not serve beer to minors. The police knew not to worry about George Corby, just as George Corby knew to stifle his surprise at seeing Tony Lord tonight.
To Tony, the trip from near expulsion to the Alibi Room was surreal. “You saved my ass,” he said to Saul.
Saul sipped his double whiskey slowly, like a man conserving his last glass of water. Finally, he said, “True. But I may not have done you any favor.”
“I wasn’t expelled—”
“I didn’t expect you to be. But stripped of hearts and flowers, our argument was, ‘Wait for the prosecutor to indict him.’ ” Pausing, Saul locked his eyes on Tony’s. “That was all I had. But it’s like a road map for John Taylor. Tonight he asked the board to give him a reason to believe that you’re paying some sort of price. They didn’t. Pressing the CP to indict you is the one thing he’s got left. And you’re all the CP seems to have.”
When another Coke arrived, Tony did not touch it.
“Sorry,” Saul finished softly. “You’ve had too few good nights for me to ruin this one. But I want you to be every bit as careful as you have been. Because my guess is this is nowhere close to over. And, in some ways, it may never be.”
That night, Tony’s nightmare began—the moment he found Alison dead, in terrible slow motion. In the dream, as in his life, Tony could do nothing.
TWELVE
By a seven-year tradition—its entire history—the annual membership meeting of the secret Lake City High School fraternity, the Lancers, took place in late March. It was held in Dave Suggs’s basement: Dave’s dad, Jack, as a thirty-second-degree Mason, had such a great respect for secret societies that he had helped Dave’s older brother draw up the rules. At first, it had occurred to Tony that if the Masons were all that secret, no one would know what degree Jack Suggs was, or even that he was a Mason at all. But then he realized that, just as keeping Catholics out of the country club was a means of defining status for the Taylors and their friends, a secret society was no good unless those who were excluded were allowed to envy those selected. That the Lancers were discouraged by the school administration only made the honor of the thing more exciting, the pleasure of breaching secrecy a little greater. There was little the school could do.
The greatest honor was to be tapped as a sophomore. This had happened to both Sam and Tony. Distinction in sports and the consumption of alcohol were the Lancers’ highest values: Tony excelled in one, and Sam was already a standout at both. At fifteen, Tony was pleased: it meant that the older boys thought he would be a star athlete and, as wise stewards, were securing the future prestige of the Lancers. But Sam was elated. It was another sign of the recognition he craved, and that he was worthy of his older brother, who had helped found the Lancers and whose memory now, as a dead war hero, was revered.
The induction ceremony consisted of reciting a secret oath and then igniting shots of whiskey with a Zippo lighter and drinking them until you barfed. Someone purported to know that Joe Robb had consumed eight shots; Sam drank nine, counting each one aloud, and then passed out from near alcohol poisoning. The fact that he had never vomited was still the subject of admiration.
Now, as seniors, Tony and Sam sat cross-legged on the basement rug with fourteen other members, eight seniors and eight juniors, the seniors nearest the ceremonial white porcelain bowl, which Dave’s mother sometimes used for salads and which now was set amidst them. Each boy held a bag of marbles, ten white, ten black, of the type used for Chinese checkers. But here each marble had a talismanic power: with every candidate brought up for a vote, each Lancer went to the bowl with a marble in one closed fist, reached beneath the cloth, and dropped a marble in the bowl with a fateful plunk. This helped secure the sanctity of a process whereby a single black marble meant rejection—no Lancer could be pressured to approve someone whom he, after thinking on his obligations, deemed unworthy. Though the members were drinking, the dropping of marbles had such gravity that it proceeded in relative silence. That it was a Friday night, and thus the members’ absence from the high school social scene would be duly noted by the envious and the hopeful, added to the sense of moment. The Suggses’ basement lights were turned down low.
The first hour of the meeting was cordial. Though the Lake City Weekly had renewed its call for his indictment, the fact that Tony Lord was believed by many to have strangled Alison Taylor, while it made some boys uncomfortable, went unremarked: he was a Lancer, after all, and they had taken an oath of loyalty. Tony found this comforting—it was the closest he had come to understanding why adult males gather in clubs. And then Johnny D’Abruzzi brought Ernie Nixon up for membership.
Johnny was no politician. It was Tony who watched the guys in back—Bobby Strob; Charlie Moore; Larry Saddler; Steve Sawback—and noticed brows furrowing in consternation, faces seeming to close. Glancing at Sam, Tony saw that he read this too.
Toward the end of his speech, Johnny seemed to feel it. He looked around him, his guileless brown eyes filling with resentment. Tony knew from playing football with him that Johnny was a simple mechanism; his emotional range included good cheer and great anger, but not subtlety. His voice gained timbre.
“All right,” he said. “Ernie’s a Negro. But I don’t look at him that way. To me, he’s a guy I play with, the one who cut down that linebacker in the Riverwood game. He plays hard, he’s a nice guy, and this would mean the world to him. Besides, next year he may be the best jock Lake City has. Just like Tony Lord is now—or Sam.”
“Doesn’t look much like Tony,” Charlie Moore retorted, and pretended to scrutinize Sam. “Doesn’t even look like Sam. Well, the lips, maybe.”
There were a few chuckles; Sam, whose full mouth girls remarked on favorably, gave a rueful smile. For Tony, this confirmed two things he had already guessed: that Ernie Nixon was in trouble, and that even the other Lancers were afraid to joke with Tony himself.
Johnny D’Abruzzi flushed. “That’s why Ernie keeps to himself so much—he knows what people think.” Around the circle, some looked receptive, and a few even nodded. “That’s another reason to take him. To prove we’re better than that.”
In front, Terry Clark spoke up. “Ernie’s got a good sense of humor, you get to know him. I don’t know whether it’s good enough to want to spend time with this pack of assholes. But if he’s that crazy, it’s okay with me—”
“You won’t be here,” Steve Sawback shot back. “But eight of us will. It should be up to the juniors if we want to take a Negro.…”
“So what’s the problem with Ernie?” Johnny D’Abruzzi demanded.
Steve Sawback looked defensive. “I just don’t believe in it, that’s all.”
For the first time, Sam spoke up. “No one’s asking your sister to marry him, Steve. At least not until the initiation ceremony.”
There were widespread chuckles; the effect of Sam’s wisecrack, Tony saw, was to bring the guys closer by holding Steve’s stubbornness up to mild ridicule. It struck Tony that Sam was becoming cleverer than Tony had noticed.
“Look, Steve,” Sam went on, shooting a look at Charlie Moore, “just send your sister to Sue. She can explain everything.”
Now Charlie Moore joined the laughter; without speaking on Ernie’s behalf, Sam seemed to be defusing things. But the way Sam went about it made Tony think about what it must be like for Ernie just to walk into the cafeteria.
He had never considered this much and, now, pondered his position. It was, he decided, fairly simple: Ernie was no worse than the rest of them, and perhaps better than many. Helen and Stanley Lord considered Negroes en masse a pernicious nuisance—he recalled his mother viewing Martin Luther King’s March on Washington primarily as a littering problem
caused by people too lazy to pick up after themselves. But that had nothing to do with Ernie Nixon, the only black kid in Lake City High School. As Tony wondered whether it would do Ernie more good if he spoke or remained quiet, the unwelcome thought struck him that they had more in common than before.
The debate went on around him. “This is a free country,” Dave Suggs was saying. He took a quick shot of whiskey. “What that means is we can associate with anyone we want to and keep out groups we don’t want to. Like at the country club.”
Like Catholics, Tony said to himself. He had considered himself fortunate that the Lancers overlooked religion; now, on the inside, he found himself uncomfortable. “What if some of us want to associate with Ernie Nixon?” he asked mildly. “Should people keep him out because he’s a member of a group?”
Dave Suggs frowned. “I don’t like Negroes.”
“But did Ernie ever do anything to you?”
“No.” From his scowl, Dave did not appreciate being questioned about articles of faith. “This isn’t personal with Ernie. It’s about Negroes.”
“How many other Negroes do you know?”
Dave Suggs looked nettled now. “That’s none of your business.”
Tony shrugged. “I just hadn’t seen any others around here lately. I’m sort of surprised I missed them.”
Dave Suggs looked angry now; to Tony’s left, Sam shot him a look of warning. Tony backed off.
There was a momentary silence. Tony found himself thinking not of Ernie but of himself. His life remained a no-man’s-land—waiting for the police to indict him, hoping for Harvard to accept him, trying to get through each day, thinking of Alison at night. He did not know where he would be next year, in college or on trial, and the town did not know, either. The company of the Lancers meant more to him than he had known.
“Nigger,” Steve Sawback said sotto voce.
When heads turned, Steve looked both spiteful and confused. “There,” he snapped. “Somebody finally fucking said it: ‘Nigger.’ I want to be able to call them that anytime I want to. Why are we being such pussies about it—”
“Because I don’t want you saying that around me.” Johnny D’Abruzzi rose to his knees. “I think you oughta stay a pussy, man. I might get pissed off.”
“All right.” For the first time, Doug Barker spoke up. “Let’s settle down here and talk like Lancer brothers.”
Still staring at each other, Johnny D’Abruzzi and Steve Sawback fell silent. The others turned to Doug Barker, some taking the time to bolt a shot of whiskey, and the room calmed a little.
Doug Barker was their president. He was self-confident and serious, and knew his role. Owner of the town’s insurance agency, his father was past president of the junior chamber of commerce, and it was the town consensus that Doug himself was marked for leadership in Lake City, perhaps even in the state. Among the Lancers he was an anomaly, selected for his soundness: Doug seldom joked, but he listened well and spoke with a measured gravity unusual in one so young. Each word carried its own weight; even Doug Barker’s appearance—blondish crew cut, square face, sincere blue eyes—inspired trust. He leaned forward, ready to share his thoughts.
“I’ve been reading a book,” he said. “About Branch Rickey. You know, the guy who integrated baseball by signing Jackie Robinson. I think it’s something we can learn from.”
As Doug Barker had grown to expect, the others listened. Tony felt hopeful: as he had always understood it, the lesson of Jackie Robinson was that baseball got over it, so perhaps Doug Barker would throw Ernie Nixon a life raft. “I don’t think we’re that far apart,” Doug went on. “What we’re talking about is whether we want to associate with Ernie Nixon as a person, and some of our brothers also aren’t comfortable about a Negro member.
“Here’s what Branch Rickey did. Before he ever signed Jackie Robinson, he had a detective follow him around for six months. After the detective came back and gave Jackie a clean report, Branch Rickey signed him up.
“Just like the Dodgers, this is a first for us. So what we can do is take turns keeping an eye on Ernie Nixon, see how he acts when he knows we’re watching him. If he measures up, then we can bring him up for a special vote next January.”
There was silence; taking in the proposal, people drank a little more. After a while, Dave Suggs nodded sagely. “That’s good, Doug. It gives the brotherhood time to think.”
Tony turned to Doug Barker. “I don’t know how I’d feel,” he said, “having people follow me around.”
Doug looked vaguely displeased. “Maybe we should have,” Dave Suggs snapped at Tony.
It took Tony a moment to catch the meaning of this. In the stricken silence, he turned to Dave Suggs. Softly, Tony answered, “Maybe you were, Dave.”
“Jesus…,” someone murmured.
Tony and Dave Suggs stared at each other until Dave looked away. Still watching Dave, Tony said, “This lets people who don’t like Negroes say they’re just being careful. But whenever Ernie comes up for his four long months of Lancer brotherhood, he’ll still be a Negro. We ought to face that now.”
“I think that’s right,” Johnny D’Abruzzi said quickly. “What good does Ernie get out of four months? Why treat him different than anyone else…?”
“Because he is,” Steve Sawback snapped.
“That’s just it,” Doug Barker said to Tony in a tone of great patience. “There’s a real division in the brotherhood. This lets us look Ernie Nixon over and keep ourselves together.”
He said this with such calm assurance that it deadened the room. To no one in particular, Sam Robb murmured, “Too bad Jackie Robinson isn’t with us. He could tell us what to do.”
Watching Doug Barker try to ignore this, Tony smiled a little. Then Dave Suggs said, “I move to adopt Brother Barker’s motion,” and Doug Barker looked pleased again.
“Second,” Charlie Moore put in.
The motion would carry, Tony knew. The quickest way to put this behind him was to vote yes. But, he supposed, the way to serve his conscience was to vote no and let consensus take its course.
“All in favor?” Doug Barker asked, and eleven hands followed, including all of those who had spoken against Ernie Nixon.
“All opposed?”
Five hands came up, including Sam, Tony, and Johnny D’Abruzzi. Ernie Nixon’s friend Johnny gazed at the floor; Johnny was learning a lesson, Tony supposed, in Lancer brotherhood.
“Carried,” Doug Barker said.
There was a stirring, a little disappointment, mostly relief. Tony still watched Johnny D’Abruzzi, who could not seem to look at anyone. Johnny seemed like a second victim; suddenly Tony felt dirty, complicit.
“The important thing,” Doug Barker told them, “is to preserve the unity of the brotherhood when times aren’t easy. Regardless of how we feel as individuals, I think as brothers we can all be proud of what we’ve done.”
There were a few nods, a token nod from Johnny D’Abruzzi, still staring at the floor.
Perhaps that was it. Perhaps it was Ernie Nixon, or what had happened to Tony himself. All Tony knew, to his surprise, was that he did not belong here anymore.
He pulled the cloth off the salad bowl, stood, and emptied his bag of marbles. They rattled, bouncing around the bowl and out onto the floor. “I’d better start watching Ernie,” he said. “Expect to hear from me next year.”
Ignoring their astonishment, he headed for the basement steps, then thought of Dave Suggs. Turning, he said, “I’ll walk real slow, Dave. In case you want to follow me.”
Even as he reached the steps, a part of Tony wondered at his anger. But a second part told him he had not quite said enough. When he turned again, it was to Doug Barker.
“By the way,” he said to Doug, “you’re the biggest asshole in this room. I thought I ought to let you know, as one Lancer brother to another. ’Cause nobody here is even close.”
With that, Tony realized that he could never say enough, and left.
; THIRTEEN
“Tony!”
It was Sam, following him out of the Suggses’ house. Tony stopped by his car.
Sam’s face was filled with worry and surprise. “Come on, man. Ernie Nixon’s not worth it. You’re walking out on friends.”
Tony felt the energy seep out of him. His solitude was more than a matter of anger, or even of Alison; at some point he could not identify, Tony had stopped being like the others, and now he did not wish to try. He leaned against the lamppost, arms crossed. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked. “Go back and apologize? Would you?”
Sam stared at the ground. “No,” he said finally. “Not me.”
“Not me, either.” Tony dug in his pocket for his car keys. “Look, get back in there. This isn’t about you—”
“It’s about you.” Sam put his hands on his hips. “You’re my best friend, and I’ve stopped even trying to figure out what the fuck you’re doing.”
Tony sat on the hood of his car, not looking at Sam. “I’m not doing anything,” he said at last. “One night I found my girlfriend strangled to death, the next day most people think I killed her, and now my whole goddamned life is blown apart. Don’t try to understand what that’s doing to me, because I can’t. All I know is that even when I’m with you and Sue, I’m alone.”
“That’s your fault, Tony.”
Tony turned to him. Softly, he said, “Go back there, all right?”
Sam was silent for a while. “No,” he answered with quiet stubbornness. “I’m coming with you. You’re still my best friend, and I’ve got some whiskey in the car.”
Through the fog of his emotions, Tony realized that he felt grateful. “Okay,” he said. “If I’m going to be alone, it’ll be better if you’re there too.”
* * *
They sat on the edge of the Lake City pier, passing the bottle between them. Tony caught himself imagining what this would be like if their lives, from the moment of the winning touchdown until now, were the same as before. Then Sam said, “It’s been a long time, pal,” and Tony knew he was thinking this too.
Silent Witness Page 10
