He was aware of his surroundings—the bleachers filled with spectators; the factory-like high school to one side; the backstop and foul screen behind Johnny D’Abruzzi; the green wire fence behind the outfield—in the same way an actor might be aware of the artificial backdrop of a play. Then, at the edge of his vision, he saw someone move. He did not need to look to know it was Doug Dana.
As the first hitter stepped into the batter’s box, Dana appeared behind Johnny D’Abruzzi on the other side of the foul screen. For Tony, it was like double vision—Johnny, the means of his escape; Dana, the symbol of his fears. And then Alison’s father was standing next to Dana.
Together, they watched Tony through the screen. They must already know the county prosecutor’s decision, Tony was certain. Only Tony, unable to reach his lawyer, did not.
The home plate umpire crouched behind Johnny D’Abruzzi, ready to call balls and strikes. Like an automaton, Tony focused again, threw his first pitch.
“Ball one,” the umpire called. Turning, Dana said something to John Taylor.
Tony walked the batter on four pitches, then walked the next.
“Come on, Tony. Just get it over.”
Sam’s voice.
Fuck them. Fuck them all.
Tony’s third pitch, a slow curve, fooled the batter so completely that he did not swing until the pitch was by him.
“Strike three.”
Tony kept staring at Johnny D’Abruzzi’s mitt, his salvation. The next batter swung at the first pitch, a low fastball.
The ground ball bounced toward Tony. It surprised him; so total was his focus on pitching that he had forgotten to crouch for grounders. He snagged the ball off balance, looked back at the runners, and threw the batter out at first.
One more out.
“Killer…”
The Stratford crowd was small, the catcall ragged, with no gym to echo it. But Tony flinched; against his will, he looked through the foul screen at John Taylor.
Silent, Alison’s father nodded. Not at Tony, but at the word, repeating now.
“Killer…”
Her father must be here to watch Dana take him in.
Clayton Pell, the Stratford clean-up hitter, stepped up to the plate.
“Tony!” Sam shouted.
Startled, he turned and saw that the Stratford runners were stealing second and third. Tony started to throw toward second. Years of practice stopped him; all that he could do was risk a wild throw—the runners were almost there. Tony had forgotten them.
From the Stratford stands came jeers and laughter. “Time out,” Tony heard Sam call.
Sam came running up to him, his eyes filled with disbelief. “What the fuck are you doing, man? We’ve got a one-run lead.”
Tony put his hand on Sam’s shoulder, trying to control his voice. “Just tell me it doesn’t matter to you. That would help a lot.”
Sam’s face became suffused with blood. His voice was tight when he spoke. “This does matter. I’d still like to have some respect for you.”
He turned his back abruptly and trotted back to first.
“Play ball,” the umpire shouted. Across the diamond, Tony stared at Sam; when he willed himself to face the plate, Dana and Alison’s father were studying him, with their arms folded, as if watching his conscience reveal itself at last.
“Killer…”
At the plate, Clayton Pell waggled his bat in a left-handed stance, a study in controlled impatience. Tony’s head pounded with fury.
When Johnny called for a curve ball, his mitt held low and inside, Tony shook his head in defiance.
Through the catcher’s mask, Johnny gave a look of bewilderment. Then he signaled for a fastball, away from Pell’s strength.
Tony reached back and threw the ball as hard as he could down the middle of the plate.
Clayton Pell’s swing had a strange beauty. Uncoiling smoothly, his arms extended, it caught the ball on the fat part of the bat. Tony did not have to watch it. Only at the last minute did he turn, see Ernie Nixon in right field sprinting to the fence, then watching as the ball bounced twenty feet beyond his reach. A full-throated cry rose from the Stratford stands.
The rest was fragments: the last Stratford batter, out on a streaking liner that Sam Robb speared as it headed for right field; the silence on the bench during the last half inning no one had wanted, Tony Lord’s unwelcome gift; the desperate two-out rally, when Ernie Nixon and Johnny D’Abruzzi scratched out hits. Then, in a haze, Tony struck out on four pitches.
It was over. Tony sat hunched on the bench, waiting for Dana. A few teammates came by; Tony was faintly aware of Sam, looking back at him as the rest of their team left the field.
When Tony turned at last, Dana and John Taylor were gone.
* * *
Tony was still there, a half hour later, when Ernie Nixon wandered out in street clothes.
Ernie sat down next to him. “Tough luck,” he said.
Tony turned to him. He could not remember ever talking to Ernie alone, or even studying him for the simple purpose of doing that. Now it struck him that Ernie had a somewhat pensive, philosophical appearance: his one remarkable feature—startling green eyes—suggested genetic ironies that Tony had never contemplated. “I tried to do something I can’t,” he answered at length. “Blow the ball by the other team’s best hitter. No luck about that.”
Ernie did not answer. Together, they watched the baseball field; without players, it had the stillness of a photograph. After a time, Ernie said, “I heard about the fraternity. You didn’t need to do that.”
Tony felt surprised, then uncomfortable. “It was more about me than you. I just couldn’t stand how stupid it was.”
“It’s how they are, man. It’s just how they are.”
The sentence held a certain bitter fatalism. For reasons that Tony did not fully understand, it made him want to talk. “You know what really happened today?” he said. “I thought Dana had come to arrest me.”
Ernie turned to him, watching his face.
“I didn’t do it, Ernie. Someone else was there that night.”
Ernie cocked his head, green eyes narrowing. “Did you see anyone?”
“No. But I heard him.”
Ernie propped his chin on folded hands, gazing at the field. “Lots of people in that park. Lots of places to hide. I probably know most of them.”
The offhand comment surprised Tony, then disturbed him. He had never explored the park; since Alison’s murder, he had not gone near it.
“Can you show me?” he asked.
* * *
The two of them stood in the park, looking through the grove of trees at the Taylors’ Gothic roofline. It was late afternoon; for a moment, he imagined Alison’s mother, preparing to serve dinner to three people and an empty chair. A dull sickness settled on him.
By unspoken consent, they turned and walked from the grove.
For the first time in Tony’s memory, the park seemed exotic, haunted—clusters of oak trees crowding each other where their seeds once had fallen close together; a hedge of vines and thistles, taller than both of them, extending from the grove that marked the Taylors’ lot to circle the front of the park. As they approached, Tony saw that the hedges were thickets—twisted, tangled, green with new spring growth.
Silent, Ernie reached out and pulled back a clump of vines.
Behind it was a hollow space hidden amongst the vines and branches—a matted patch of grass, sunless and dark, like a cave. On the grass were an empty cigarette pack, cigarette butts stained by dampness, the torn foil from a condom. Ernie gave a soft laugh.
The furtive traces of a human presence unsettled Tony. “How did you know to find this?”
“My brother showed me, when I was fourteen. Summers, we’d sneak out of the house at night, pretend to be commandos, and go different places. Some nights we’d sleep in the old graveyard, other nights we’d come here.” He paused, remembering. “Pretty soon, we figured out we weren’t the
only people out here late at night. There were bums, people fucking—lately even a few guys selling marijuana. Lot more folks hitching through town these days, it seems like, college-age kids a lot of them. The cops know all that—they come through in patrol cars at two, three in the morning, sometimes sniffing around with flashlights. Ducking the cops was the best part of it. That, and wondering who else was out there.”
Tony found himself staring at the crushed cigarette pack; though Saul had mentioned transients, this evidence of a second, nocturnal park, which had once surrounded him and Alison, disturbed him deeply. “There are a lot of places like this,” Ernie said. “But people don’t know to find them.”
Tony turned to him. “Ever come out here alone?”
“Now and then. Until she died.” Ernie let go of the vines in his hand, covering the hiding place. “It was lonelier when my brother left. But some nights it was like being the secret king of Lake City. For a few hours, no one could see me, and I could do any damn thing I wanted.” He gave a final ironic smile. “Midnight to five, it was the one country club in town that let in blacks. But it wasn’t exclusive—there are a lot of people in this park who could’ve killed her. The cops know that part too. She must have known it.”
“Alison?”
“Sure. Even when I was a kid, and my folks would bring Gerald and me here for picnics, I’d see her playing here all the time.” Ernie’s voice grew softer. “You know, with her friends.”
The last phrase, Tony felt certain, carried a secret, perhaps unconscious meaning—that it had not then been in the order of things, social or racial, that Alison Taylor and a black boy be friends.
“I miss her a lot,” Tony said simply.
After a time, Ernie nodded; the gesture was oddly reluctant. “She seemed nice. But if you’re me, you never really know what that means. I mean, are you supposed to think she wants to go out with you?”
Tony knew the answer. He had seldom imagined Ernie Nixon other than as a teammate or a social curiosity; now he sensed what lay behind Ernie’s reserve—some people were nice, others weren’t, but all of them saw you for what, in their minds, you were and would always be.
Against his will, Tony once more gazed at the Taylors’ backyard, thought of what he had found there, and turned away.
Silent, they walked across the grass to Tony’s car. The park was unpeopled, quieter than Tony had remembered. Only when they got to the car did Tony speak again. “I’m sorry about the Lancers. But it really is stupid.”
Ernie did not answer for a while. “Maybe. But ‘stupid’ is something other people get to decide.”
Tony turned to look at him, and then curiosity overcame self-consciousness. “Why did your parents ever come here?”
Ernie’s green-eyed gaze combined irony with a certain tolerance. “Probably for the same reason your parents did,” he answered. “Lake City’s a great place to raise kids.”
* * *
“What happened?” Tony asked. He held the telephone tightly, wishing that he could see Saul Ravin’s face.
“I’ll put it this way, Tony. From what Morelli tells me, John Taylor went away mad. So did the police.”
“They’re not charging me?”
“Not yet. Morelli’s still against it. He’s a smart and principled man, educated by your friends the Jesuits, and capable of placing justice above politics.”
“Then what was this ‘new’ evidence?”
“I’m not sure, except that it’s something they found on the body which squares with your blood type—whether it’s blood different from Alison’s type, or hair, or something else altogether, they won’t say. But I did point out to Morelli that sixty percent of the populace has the same blood type as yours, so that all he could say is that you weren’t ruled out.”
“Did you talk about anything else?”
“I told him I thought you were innocent. It seemed to leave him speechless.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” Tony heard the first trace of humor in Saul’s voice. “I guess because I’ve never said that to him before.”
For a moment, Tony himself did not know what to say. “Thanks, Saul…”
“Don’t thank me. Morelli knows what a prosecution would do to you. He’s got the rest of your life to put together a case.”
Tony felt himself slump, torn between relief and this seemingly endless shadow. “At the baseball game,” he said, “Dana and Alison’s father were there, watching me. I spent the whole game thinking Dana would arrest me once it was over.”
For a moment, Saul was quiet. “Then I’m sure that’s why they did it—to make you stew in your own guilt. As I say, they’re frustrated.” His voice turned apologetic. “I should have told you, Tony. What would happen is Morelli would call me, and I’d take you in myself. This is bad enough without your having to see ghosts.”
“Jesus…”
“So that’s it. You’re not going to be busted tomorrow, or the next day.” Saul sounded tired now. “We can all go back to watching television.”
Tony gave a short laugh. “Not me. I’m catching up on my sleep.…”
“Haven’t you heard?”
“What?”
“Martin Luther King’s been shot, Tony. He’s dead.”
Tony was stunned. “God, I’m sorry.…”
“So am I. There’ll be hell to pay for this, and for years. It’s a loss for every decent person in this country.” With that, Saul got off.
Tony went to the basement, turning on the television. He did not tell his parents what had happened.
On the screen, Robert Kennedy, campaigning for President in Indianapolis, stood before a silent crowd in a black neighborhood. Many in the crowd seemed to be weeping; Kennedy spoke spontaneously, near tears himself:
“Martin Luther King dedicated his life to love and to justice for his fellow human beings, and he died because of that effort.…
“What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence or lawlessness, but love and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer in our country, whether they be white or they be black.…
“So I ask you to return home, to say a prayer for the family of Martin Luther King, Jr., that’s true, but also to say a prayer for our own country, which all of us love, a prayer for understanding and compassion.…”
Listening, Tony discovered that he, like Robert Kennedy, was deeply shaken. For a moment, he thought to call Ernie Nixon, to say that he was sorry for what happened. But that would have been presumptuous, Tony thought, even foolish. Ernie Nixon lived in Lake City; his life tomorrow would be much like his life yesterday. Martin Luther King had little to do with Ernie Nixon.
FIFTEEN
Fumbling with the studs to his rented tuxedo, Tony had steeled himself for a senior prom that, a week before, he had sworn not to attend.
“At least think about it.” Sue’s brown eyes were serious. “It’s like you’re running away.…”
“As fast as I can. From all the extra chaperons they’d need to make sure the girls make it home alive.” His voice rose in irritation. “Sue, you’re the homecoming queen. I’m a murderer.”
Sue looked down. Quietly, she said, “Only if you act like one. If you go, people will respect that.” She gazed up at him again. “How are you going to feel that night, watching TV by yourself? Any better?”
Despite himself, Tony was suddenly touched by her hope, forlorn as it was, that at least this moment of his senior year would be a little like the yearbook picture she might once have imagined for the four of them. More gently, he said, “I can’t bring a date, Sue. While you’re with Sam, getting your prom picture taken, I’ll be alone in a corner—”
“I’ll dance with you, Tony.”
For the first time, Tony smiled. “Do you plan on sedating Sam? He hasn’t dropped by to encourage me to go—”
> “But he’ll support you.” Sue’s voice took on an unwonted firmness. “We’ve all been friends too long. It’s time for both of you to grow up.”
Tony felt this strike his deep vein of resentment toward Sam: he sensed that neither the prom, nor watching Tony dance with Sue, was a likely occasion for Sam to bury his own grievances. Then, perversely, Tony decided to put Sam to the test. “Maybe,” he said, “for a little while…”
Which is how it was that, after suffering through his parents’ picture-taking session, Tony found himself holding Sue Cash as the band played “The Way You Look Tonight.”
The Lake City Country Club was theirs for this one occasion, the first time Tony had set foot inside, and swirls of paper and makeshift balls of glass hung from the ceiling. Tony found the effort somewhat short of magical: the band was a compromise with faculty and parents—its singer was much better at “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” than “A Hard Day’s Night,” and Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” was entirely beyond him—and the Casino Night theme, featuring roulette wheels and blackjack tables where one could gamble for stuffed dolls and drink pink lemonade from champagne glasses, was the parents’ wan attempt to prevent satellite drinking parties on the golf course. Nor, Tony thought, could the alchemy of black tie and evening dresses turn a bunch of teenagers into Cary Grant and Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief: too many guys wore their ties askew, and others looked so stiff that they resembled the protagonist of an open-casket funeral. There was the usual prom-night complement of awful pairings, social noncombatants fixed up by a committee of teachers so that everyone would have a partner. Spotting Ernie Nixon trying to extract conversation from his date, an unattractive blonde who occupied a folding chair in a state of mortification that seemed almost otherworldly, Tony regretted that he had hardly spoken to Ernie since the night Martin Luther King was shot. But a look at Sue Cash tonight, Tony admitted to himself, was nothing to regret.
She had a light tan—by May the first sunny days had come—and that and her makeup went so well with her pink satin gown that the effect was one of great naturalness. The gown itself had been sewn by her mother, and it fit Sue’s round curves without seeming to make a point of them. For Tony, the effect was both touching and a little awesome: it was as though Sue Cash, his friend, had graduated to womanhood with such ease and assurance that the Sue in his arms was someone new to him. Yet she felt warm, relaxed; though they had never before danced together, from the first few notes it seemed quite effortless. The touch of her hair against his face carried the scent of perfume.
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