by Rob Rufus
A moment later, he blinked his eyes into focus.
“R . . . Ronnie?”
“Man,” I said, forcing a smile, “I’d hate to see the other guy.”
“Shit,” he croaked, “you mean the five other guys?”
“What happened?”
“Help me sit up,” he groaned.
I adjusted the bed into an upright position. As he situated himself, he tried not to move his cast, which was nearly impossible. I grabbed a chair from the corner of the room and moved it next to the bed.
“Ya know,” he said, “I’d say those dipshits did me a favor, if it wasn’t for Hana. The doc says my arm is royally fucked. I need months of physical therapy. He swears this will get me a 4-F stamp.”
I waited for him to tell his story. He readjusted his arm. Then he cleared his throat and began. “We were walkin’ home from school. I had my camera out, like usual. When we got to the corner of Magazine Street, I saw a hopscotch game in the alley. I asked Hana to let me film her playin’ hopscotch. I thought it’d be funny, you know? They were probably already looking for her, by then.”
“Who? Who was lookin’ for her?”
“Stink,” he mumbled. He winced when he said it. ”Stink and Marty and Bill and Franklin—and that little prick, Ernest. All five of their dads work at the mill.”
“Oh, Christ,” I whispered. I was beginning to understand.
“Hana and me were sittin’ ducks, man. But we didn’t know it until Marty’s Camaro peeled into the alley. He almost ran me over. Seriously. I thought I was roadkill. Then Marty and Bill jumped out of the car and charged me before I even knew what was what. Marty got me in an arm bar, and I dropped my camera. Then Ernest and Franklin went after Hana, caught her before she could . . .”
Milo stopped talking. The red neon light reflected on his lenses, and thin streams of tears flowed from beneath the glowing frames. I hunched closer.
“Stink got out of the car last. He was drunk. All of ʼem were drunk, but he was on another planet. He stumbled over to Hana, and he, he pulled a blade out of his back pocket. A switchblade.”
My jaw clenched.
“Marty had me stuck, man. I couldn’t do anything when . . . shit. Stink held that blade and said ‘If you make a sound, I’ll cut your yellow fucking throat.’ I’ll never get those words outta my head, man. I’ll never . . . I . . . Jesus . . . I tried . . . I tried to—” His voice broke. The words crumbled into a single incoherent sob.
“Everything’s OK,” I said, trying to reassure him. “Everything’s cool.”
He let out a heartbreaking laugh. “Are you dense? What part of this is OK?”
That’s when I finally hugged him.
“Ronnie, shit!” he cried, wincing.
“Shhhhh, shut up,” I whispered, “shut up, shut up, shut up—”
He groaned, but hugged me back as best he could. I held him as tight as I dared to. Then he fell into a coughing fit, so I finally let him go. I got him a cup of water from the sink. I held the paper cup to his lips. He drank without comment.
“Is Hana here, too?” I asked.
“Jacksonville. They’ve got a poison control unit there.”
“Poison?” I gasped.
“I’m sorry,” he groaned, “I just can’t handle thinking about it right now—”
“OK,” I said, afraid to push too hard, “you can tell me when you’re ready. I’m just glad you’re, well, not OK, but not dead.”
“Definitely probably not dead. I don’t think I’d be in so much pain if I was.”
I got him another cup of water. He sipped it feebly and motioned me closer.
“Go to the corner of Twelfth and Magazine,” he said. “You’ll see a hopscotch course in the alley, in purple chalk. It should be somewhere around there, on the left-hand side.”
“What should be?”
“My camera,” he said.
“Wait, your—“
“Camera,” he repeated. “It flew outta my hands when they tackled me, but I think it landed right-side up, and I know it was still rolling.”
“Holy shit.”
“I think I got it on film. All of it. I think we can nail those guys.”
The prospect jolted me outta the chair like a live wire.
“I’ll go right now!”
“Good,” he croaked. “Take it to Schwartzman Camera first thing tomorrow. Tell them I’m in the hospital. Beg ʼem to get the spool developed by Sunday.”
“You’re stuck here until Sunday?”
“Don’t worry about that. Just get that film developed. We’ll watch the footage together once I’m sprung from this joint.”
“OK,” I nodded, “I’ll get the film developed in the morning.”
“And you’ll bring it over Sunday?”
“Yeah, man, I’ll be there.”
“Or be squarer than square,” he said. His lips cracked into a painful grin and he bounced his eyebrows up and down in that annoying way of his. Then he shut his eyes and drifted into unconsciousness.
I removed his glasses. I sat them on the sink.
I looked back at my buddy, snoring through a painful sleep, and I smiled.
In spite of everything, I smiled.
Because in 1968, “definitely probably not dead” was a best-case diagnosis.
eighteen
Suicide by Quagmire
I woke craving a cigarette, even though I wasn’t much of a smoker. My nerves were so raw my hands shook when I rubbed the goop from my eyeballs. I tossed the sheets off the bed to stop myself from curling back up in them.
Wolfie barked. I rolled over in time to see him sulk from beneath the avalanche of blankets. He looked as annoyed as I was to be back in the waking world. Both of us groaned and got up. I stretched my neck out, and then put on a clean shirt. The sun caught the lens of Milo’s camera, which now sat on the edge of my dresser. The exaggerated handle was toy-like, something you might expect to see on a gag camera that was actually a water gun. But the complicated focus and exposure knobs made it clear this was more than a toy—it was an instrument of creation that required a level of dedication to use.
I’d gotten it in the night, as soon as we left the hospital. The camera was exactly where he said it’d be, just to the left of the hopscotch course. The batteries were dead, but the power switch was flipped ON.
It was hard not to tell Dad what might be on the filmstrip curled inside. But Dad could only discipline them through the school, and suspension wasn’t good enough. If the camera caught those creeps on film, we might be able to put them in jail.
The possibility of justice fired me up. I threw on some jeans, brushed down my cowlick, and then went downstairs for a quick breakfast before taking the film to the camera shop.
The smell of biscuits cleared my mind as I walked into the kitchen.
“Momma,” I said, “those smell so good.”
I maneuvered directly to the basket of biscuits cooling on the stove. I reached for one, but she slapped my hand away. Roy giggled from his high chair
“Don’t pick at those,” she scolded. “They’re for the Hitchens across the street. I’ve been meanin’ to send somethin’ over, but it kept slippin’ my mind.”
I nodded and sat down. The gesture was obviously because of yesterday—Momma didn’t bake biscuits for any ol’ reason. It was a process, those biscuits, and she took it as seriously as any expert craftsman would. She used cake flour instead of all-purpose, and threw in an extra half-glob of lard per batch.
“Would you mind runnin’ them across the street for me?”
“Sure, Momma. But can I go ahead and eat?”
“Of course”—she smiled—“when you get back.”
I rolled my eyes. She wrapped the biscuits in a blue-checkered napkin and kissed me on the cheek as I stood.
Then I headed outside with the wicker basket saddling my hip.
I crossed the street beneath the cloudless sky, but slowed as I reached the house. I had no idea what really happened to Hana, and no clue what I was walking into. My nerves jittered as I strode onto the porch. I told myself to act normal, no matter what. Then I knocked on the front door.
No answer.
“She’s still in Jacksonville,” a voice rasped. It was almost as gravelly as mine.
I turned, startled. A thin man lazed in one of the rocking chairs at the end of the porch. He held a coffee cup in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I could tell he was Hana’s father by the defiant tilt of his jawline.
“Sorry for jumpin’.” I laughed nervously. “You startled me. I’m Ronnie Bingham, from across the way. I just came by to give ya these biscuits my momma baked.”
“Finally! A little of that Southern hospitality I’d heard about.”
He flicked his cigarette into the yard as he stood up to approach me.
“Oliver Hitchens,” he said, extending his hand.
“Really nice to meet you, sir,” I said, and shook.
Mr. Hitchens could’ve been twenty years older than my dad, or maybe five years younger—his smile had retained its youth, though I could tell by the lines around his eyes that this man was no virgin of life. His dark hair was slicked back, and he sported a righteously hip goatee that was entirely white. He wore a black polo shirt tucked into brown chinos. He was barefoot.
He held the basket to his face, and breathed in.
“These smell incredible. Please tell your mother we appreciate it.”
“I will.”
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” he asked. “It’s been days since I’ve chatted with someone who isn’t cursing or threatening me.”
“Uh, yeah, sure. That sounds good.”
“Great.” He smiled.
He took the biscuits and his coffee cup into the house.
He was back a moment later, holding two fresh mugs.
He handed me a cup. I sat down beside him.
“So,” I mumbled, “how, uh, how’s she doing?”
“How much do you already know?” he asked, looking over at me.
“Not a lot. I talked to Milo last night. He’s the boy that was with her. He was too doped up to say much. But I saw how bad off he was, and I expect she got it even worse.”
“Yes,” he sighed. “They had to pump her stomach, and do two chemical scrubs. She has some internal bruising, but nothing’s broken. Except maybe her spirit. She’s a hard girl, but this . . . this was something else. She had to be sedated once she fully grasped what they did to her hair.”
“Her hair?”
“Her hair is gone,” he said flatly. “Those boys, those scum, they told her that they were going to make her look like Ho Chi Minh.”
“I don’t understand—”
“They scalped her. They sawed off her hair with a switchblade.”
I spilt coffee onto my jeans. My hand was shaking. I hunched over and put the cup down. He fished a pack of Lucky Strikes from his pocket. He offered me one, but I declined. It felt weird taking smokes from an adult.
He shrugged and slid one between his lips. He lit up and took a contemplative drag.
“Have you lived here long?” he asked, exhaling.
“Yes, sir, all my life.”
“Has it always been such a hateful place?”
“I never used to think so. But lately, I’ve been wonderin’ if maybe I just never noticed.”
“Ah, the power to not notice,” he mused. “A luxury those like you and I have. But it’s lazy, as all luxuries are, so I’m glad to hear you’re avoiding the urge.”
“Hana doesn’t give me much of a choice.”
“No,” he grinned, “she’s not a fan of staying out of the fray, is she?”
I shook my head, and picked up my cup. The coffee tasted bitter and right.
“Did you know I only took the job here to get her out of Chicago?”
“Really?”
“Oh yes,” he nodded. “No one wants these hatchet jobs. Restructuring always means layoffs; they’re horrible things to be a part of. But Chicago had gotten too dangerous for Hana, and we had to get her out of the city. She was getting into too much trouble—serious trouble. We’ve always encouraged her to speak her mind, but the groups she was getting mixed up with were dangerous.”
He took another drag. He cleared his throat.
“We thought a small town would do her good. Keep her out of trouble. I knew the mill evaluation would take six months, at least. So we figured that would be a nice little cooling-off period for her. Life’s a gas, huh, kid?”
“You couldn’t have known what would happen,” I said.
“No,” he scoffed, “I should have. And if Iʼd done a better evaluation, I would have. Christ, what was I thinking, bringing her to a place like this?”
I felt silly trying to comfort a grown man, but I stammered on.
“I’m gonna try my best to get justice for her, sir.”
He let out a deflated chuckled, and my words trailed off.
“Did Hana tell you I served in World War II?” he asked, leaning back.
“Yes, sir, she’s mentioned it.”
“I was as young as you,” he mused, “maybe younger. The war was coming to a head, but I was still eager to fight. I still believed in the fight. I’d just made it to the front when the Krauts surrendered. I’d barely fired a shot, but I still went along with the other troops to get liquored-up and celebrate. We walked to a town called Troyes, near Paris, expecting a party.
“We found everyone gathered in the town square. I thought it was a celebration, but as we got closer, I realized it was a mob. They had four local girls strung up, with nooses around their necks. An onlooker said they’d been accused of having relations with Nazi soldiers. The oldest looked fifteen, if that. Do you know what they did to those children?”
I shook my head—no.
“Well, first they stripped them naked. Then, they sheared off their hair to make sure the girls were properly humiliated. After that, they threw the ropes over the archway of a church, and lynched them from it. And I just stood there, with the others. I just stood there and watched.”
I kept my eyes locked forward. I didn’t know what to say.
Mr. Hitchens took a drag. “That was justice to the town of Troyes.” He exhaled. “I suspect there’s a similarly skewed definition of the word down here.”
“Maybe so,” I mumbled, “but I have to try.”
“Well, I wish you luck.” He nodded. “I appreciate what a friend you are to my girl, you and the other boy, Milo. I imagine she’s really going to miss you two.”
“Miss us?” I asked. “Where’s she going?”
“She hasn’t told you? She must be waiting until it’s official.”
“Until what’s official, sir?”
“Her writing career,” he said. “My college roommate was just promoted to foreign bureau chief at the Chicago Tribune. I sent him some of her recent Vietnam articles. Have you read her work?”
I shook my head.
“It’s damn good,” he continued. “Her focus has shifted to exposé-type articles; there’s real depth to them. My buddy at the Tribune thought so, too. He threw her name in the hat for an internship with their foreign correspondents.”
My head started to hurt. I tried to focus on what this meant.
“Foreign correspondents . . . like, does that mean war correspondents?”
“It depends. Do you consider this suicide-by-quagmire in Vietnam a war?”
―
I picked up the film on Sunday. The developer looked troubled when he handed me the reel—I took it as a good sign; maybe it meant we had enough to nail those asshol
es to the wall for good.
When I got home, I saw Hana’s mother struggling with a load of groceries. I jogged across the street to help, eager to hear about Hana. Her mom said she’d just been released from the hospital and was resting in her bedroom. She made it clear no visitors were allowed. It pained me not to see her, but what could I do?
Pace my porch aimlessly.
Back and forth, back and forth, looking from her window to Milo’s driveway, then back to her window again. The film felt heavy in my pocket. I was excited to have it. I was nervous to watch it. I waded in that ambivalence until Gladys Novak’s Impala cruised down our street.
I stopped pacing and smiled.
I rushed down the steps and crossed into their yard as Milo labored out of the car. His cast seemed to throw him off balance. I wrapped my arm around him until he got his footing. I shut the car door for him and tousled his increasingly shaggy hair.
“Missed ya, man. How do you feel?”
“Like one of Ramrod’s tackle dummies,” he said.
I believed it. His face wasn’t as swollen, but purple bruises had replaced the puffiness. His cast was almost comical—the damn thing was bigger than him!
“That’s enough, Ronnie,” his mother said. “Milo needs to rest.”
“Mom,” he whined, “I’ve been stuck in bed for two days! I need some human interaction or I swear to God I’m gonna go nutso.”
“Spare me,” she scoffed, but her eyes softened. “Promise you’ll be careful.”
“Always,” he said, and smiled.
As soon as she was inside, Milo turned to me. “Did you find the camera?”
“I found it.”
“Did they develop it?”
“Picked it up this morning,” I said.
“OK.” He nodded. “Let’s watch it in my room.”
“OK.”
He looked over at Hana’s house. “Is she back yet?”
“Yeah,” I said, “she got home earlier. I tried to see her, but her mom said she’s resting.”
“Oh,” he said. His eyes looked troubled.
“Hey, has she ever mentioned an internship with the Chicago Tribune?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
