by Rob Rufus
“Just curious,” I lied. I was afraid saying more would upset him.
“Oh . . . well, whatever. Come on, let’s go see what’s what.”
I kept my arm around him as we walked into the house.
Milo’s room looked like the production tent of an underfunded movie—the floor and bed were littered with notes, storyboards, and ideas for his documentary. It was a bedroom in name only, and I had to wonder where he actually slept.
His projector was a tiny, shoebox-sized thing called a Kodak Brownie. It faced a white sheet tacked to a bare wall. I handed him the spool of film. He fastened it onto the roller, and then carefully fed the filmstrip into the Brownie.
Then he stopped.
“I hate this,” he sighed. “Fuck. My favorite thing about movies is seeing the world through different eyes. It’s such a drag that this is what you see when you look through mine.” He stayed still another moment, then got up and killed the lights.
We sat next to each other on the floor and faced the blank, white sheet.
“There won’t be any audio,” he said.
“Can you narrate for me? Just so I know what’s happening?”
“I can try. But you’ve gotta brace yourself, Ronnie. If the camera stayed in focus, this won’t be easy to watch.”
He switched the Brownie on. The small device was surprisingly loud, and it taptaptaptaptaptaptap’ed like one of those cheapo card shufflers, ticking madly as the gears wound the film into place. The Brownie ticked along like that for nearly a minute, projecting nothing but white light.
But then . . .
FADE IN:
EXT. ALLEYWAY—DAY
HANA stands at the end of the hopscotch game. Our P.O.V. is the final chalk block. She pretends to hold a jump rope as she springs from one square to the next, one foot and then the other then four hops then two hops with both feet—on and on, until she reaches the end.
She laughs, and we get the impression the cameraman is laughing, too. But then she looks beyond the camera, and her smile disintegrates. Her eyes glow with rage and fear.
Turn as a blue Camaro BLAZES into the alley. MARTY HOUSTON and BILL MARGARET exit the car. They look identical in their letterman jackets and khaki slacks. They GRAB for the camera. The picture blurs.
“Now we’ll see what we got,” Milo said, leaning in.
I watched the silent chaos of the camera spinning through the air. Finally, the picture steadied. The focus was a little off, but I could plainly see Franklin Buckley holding Hana in a chokehold.
EXT. ALLEYWAY—DAY (RESUMING)
At first, STINK WILSON is just a smudge. All that’s clear is his letterman jacket . . . until he pulls a knife from the back pocket of his jeans. The knife, that vicious metal, is clearly visible through the blur. Stink points the blade at Hana’s mouth as he speaks to her in silence.
“He was accusing her of being a spy,” Milo mumbled. “He said he, he said . . . he said he was gonna make sure everyone in town knew she was Viet Cong.”
EXT. ALLEYWAY—DAY (RESUMING)
Hana spits in Stink’s face. Stink grabs her by the hair and snaps her head down. He brings the knife to her scalp, and his arm moves with an unfathomable amount of violence. He doesn’t cut her hair, he saws it like a maniacal carpenter.
In the corner of the frame, MILO drops to the ground. Stink continues sawing until there’s nothing left of her hair but stringy, uneven patches, like a botched Wild West scalping. Blood drips onto the concrete. Then Stink punches Hana in the gut, and she goes down. She curls into a ball on the dusty concrete as Stink walks out of frame, toward the Camaro.
Hana tries to stand. FRANKLIN BUCKLEY kicks her in the ribs, and then looks at her with something close to pity. Stink walks back into frame carrying A SILVER TIN.
“What is that?” I gasped. “What is that, man?”
“Gasoline,” Milo said flatly.
“No, no, no, no!” I screamed, but it was no use. Tears blurred my vision as I watched Stink douse my friend in gasoline. Her silent cries were like invisible shrapnel that blew straight through my heart.
I turned to Milo. He was crying, too. But he wouldn’t look away.
I forced myself look back at the screen. Then I felt his broken hand reach out in the dark for mine. I took it and squeezed. We held hands like horrified children as the filmstrip flickered on.
EXT. ALLEYWAY—DAY (RESUMING)
Hana lies broken on the pavement, soaked in gasoline. Her few remaining strands of hair are stuck to her face. Stink tosses the gas can aside. He is laughing. He leans over her and says something undoubtedly cruel. His hand slides into his pocket.
“What did he say,” I whispered, my voice an incorporeal shutter.
“He said . . . You wanna make a statement, bitch? Here’s your chance.”
EXT. ALLEYWAY—DAY (RESUMING)
Stink pulls a matchbook from his pocket. Hana screams a silent scream as he takes a match out. He lights the match . . . but then, after a horrifying moment, he blows the flame out and throws the matchbook at Hana’s face.
Then Stink drunkenly stumbles away. A beat later, his friends follow. Hana lies still.
FADE TO BLACK
We sat there for I don’t know how long. Finally, Milo let go of my hand and flipped off the projector. The room turned gray. A lone sliver of sunlight snuck through the covered window. I was thankful for the shadows—I was shaking badly, crying messy tears. I felt like I had to use the bathroom. I tried to get under control.
Milo looked a little better than me. He’d stopped sobbing, anyway.
“I blacked out,” he said. “When I woke up, she was still on the ground. I wasn’t in a lot of pain. The doctors said it was shock. But I got to my feet and flagged down this geezer mowin’ his lawn across the street. Then I think I passed out again.”
When I looked over at him, he turned his eyes away.
“If she swallowed that gas she coulda died,” I said. “You saved her life, man.”
“All I did was run for help,” he mumbled. “And she was still in danger from inhaling the fumes and absorbing the gas through her skin. Lassie coulda done a better job.”
I let out a sad, soggy chuckle. Milo stood up and turned on the lights.
“So what do we do now?” I asked.
“Take the film to the sheriff.”
“OK. I’ll call Lewis and see if he can meet us there.”
“Good thinkin’.” Milo nodded. “A little star power can’t hurt! I’ll get this shit together, you can use the phone downstairs.”
I nodded and went downstairs. I had to stop in the hallway to take a breath before I could talk to anyone. I was still utterly overwhelmed by what I’d seen.
“Jesus,” I whispered to myself. “Come on, man. Come on.” I pushed off the wall and cut into the kitchen. I yanked the plastic phone off the cradle and dialed.
“Hello?” Lewis answered.
“Hey, it’s Ronnie. You busy? Milo and I could use your help.”
“Then say no more. Your one-man cavalry’s on the way.”
―
Milo and I walked downtown. I had the film in my pocket, and carried his Brownie projector in case the sheriff didn’t have one. I’d crammed the Cordelia High School 1966–1967 Yearbook under Milo’s left armpit so we could identify Stink and his supporting cast.
The sheriff’s station was a single-story building on Main Street, catty-corner to the courthouse. Lewis was waiting on us, reclining on a bench in front. I hadn’t told him much about the film—there was just no way to accurately describe the horror. He needed to see it for himself to understand.
His biceps stretched the sleeves of his letterman jacket as he waved us over. His smile faltered when we crossed the street, and he took stock of Milo’s injuries.
“They did this?”
he asked softly. “Our teammates really did this to you?”
Milo replied with a single nod.
Ramrod nodded back. His fists clenched. His eyes hardened.
“Come on guys,” I said, “lets stick it to ʼem the right way.”
Lewis took a calming breath. His shoulders eased slightly. He turned to the station and focused back on the task at hand. He grabbed the yearbook from Milo and the projector from me, and then he set off across the street. I wiped sweat from my brow and followed. Milo tripped walking up the curb, but I caught him.
Lewis held the door. I helped Milo inside.
The interior of the sheriff’s station reminded me of the Andy Griffith Show—the reception area led into a big, open room filled with desks and a holding cell. A door in the corner opened into a hallway. Three deputies stood around idly, drinking coffee and chatting comfortably with one another.
We approached the receptionist, a gray woman with a gray expression. She seemed to take all her arthritic aggression out on the keys of her typewriter.
“Excuse me, my name’s Milo Novak. I have somethin’ to show the sheriff pertaining to my case.”
“Case number?” she asked without looking up.
“Um, I don’t remember the number.”
She stopped typing and raised her hands as if to say Then why are ya wasting my time? Ramrod stepped in front of Milo.
“Go get the damn sheriff,” he snapped.
She scowled at him. Lewis didn’t look away.
Finally, she turned to the deputies. “Wilcox!”
The youngest-looking deputy jogged over. He had a sunken leanness about him, and a sun-bleached mustache covering his upper lip.
“Seems these boys have information regardin’ the Hitchens case.”
The deputy gave an airless chuckle at the mention of Hana’s name.
Then he nodded, still grinning, and disappeared into the hall.
“Waitin’ area’s over there,” she said, pointing to a bench.
She went back to typing. The three of us took a seat.
“Young Mr. Novak!” a voice thundered a moment later. A dinosaur of a man came into the room. His skin was blotchy and red. Something about his smile tied my stomach in knots. The star on his chest bounced as he moved toward us.
“Sheriff Milton,” Milo said, “I have somethin’ you’ve gotta see.”
“Of course,” he said, and then he turned to Lewis. “And looky who you brought with ya! Ramrod Gibbons! Hell, boy, it’s an honor to meet you.”
He extended his hand and Lewis shook it.
“What’re you doin’ with this bunch? Workin’ security?”
“No, sir,” Lewis said, “just hangin’ out with my friends.”
“I didn’t catch your name,” Sheriff Milton said to me.
“Ronnie Bingham, sir,” I mumbled.
Sheriff Milton stuck out his meaty palm. I shook it, too.
“Is there a projection screen here?” Milo asked.
“Yes siree! Just follow me, boys. We’ll get y’all set up.”
We followed Sheriff Milton into the hallway, which led to a small conference room in the back of the building. Deputy Wilcox joined us. Lewis sat the Brownie on the end of the conference table and the deputy pulled a projection screen down from over the blackboard. He and I sat on one side of the table. The Man sat on the other. Milo stayed standing so he could run the projector. He loaded the film, then switched the Brownie on.
“This is a film of what happened,” he said, “and it proves the guys who attacked us were Adam Wilson, Franklin Buckley, Ernest Thorogood, Marty Houston, and Bill Margaret—just like I told ya when you came to the hospital.”
Milo spoke clearly and evenly, and a sense of pride swelled in my throat.
Lewis flipped the yearbook to Stink’s photo and slid it across the table. Sheriff Milton looked it over. Milo turned off the lights.
The reel began to spin.
I couldn’t stand to watch it a second time. I turned my gaze to the sheriff as the film flickered in his eyes. Milo narrated, and even paused the film at one point to highlight a crystal-clear image of Stink’s face.
Lewis moved his chair up to the screen. I could see his muscles tensing, his jaw tightening, and his eyes narrowing. At one point I thought he might flip the table over, or tear down the screen, or just straight up explode.
Milo’s voice broke near the end of the film. I was thankful when it ended.
The deputy turned the lights back on. Milo leaned on the projector, emotionally exhausted. Lewis stayed hunched toward the now-blank screen.
I hated that Milo had to rewatch his own sad movie. I hated that he had to retraumatize himself. But it was gonna be worth it. Because the sad ones were the truth, as Hana liked to say, and now that the sheriff knew this, justice would demand to be served.
Sheriff Milton yawned. He leaned back in his chair.
“That was quite a picture,” he finally said.
“It was,” Deputy Wilcox agreed. “But I gotta be honest, Sheriff. I ain’t so sure them boys in the movie are the same boys in that yearbook, there.”
“It did leave a lot to the imagination,” Sheriff Milton nodded.
“Come on,” I stammered, “that’s Adam Wilson! Stink—I mean Adam—he’s threatened Hana in public a bunch of times! The entire school can vouch for that!”
“Half the town has threatened the Hitchens family,” Sheriff Milton said. “All that filmstrip showed me are a few boys in varsity jackets. Coulda just as well been Mr. Gibbons, here.”
“What?” Lewis yelled. When he stood up, he towered over the table. “I ain’t like them! I ain’t one’a them! Goddammit, I ain’t like them!”
“Sit down big boy, ʼfore I put ya in cage to cool off,” Sheriff Milton sneered.
Ramrod shuddered, enraged. Then he stormed out of the room.
“Don’t you think I know who did this to me?” Milo asked. But all hope had been drained from his voice. His four eyes were fixed on the floor.
Sheriff Milton stood up slowly to adjust the crotch of his ill-fitting kakis.
“What I think,” he said, “is trauma makes an unreliable witness. We need hard evidence for charges to stick, and I’m sorry boys, but this film ain’t it. It coulda been tampered with, coulda been edited. It’s damn near impossible to say.”
“But Super 8 cameras don’t work that way,” Milo pleaded. “I’ll show you—”
Sheriff Milton interrupted Milo by clearing the phlegm from his throat.
“Tell ya what, son. I’ll ship the film and this yearbook here to the FBI office in Jax. They got fancy thing-a-ma-do’s that can match these pictures to the boys in that movie. If they are who ya say they are, we’ll bring ʼem in and put ʼem down.”
“We aren’t leaving that film,” I snapped.
“I’m afraid ya have to. It’s evidence in an active investigation. But don’t fret fellas, this case is our top priority. Iʼve got my best man on it, right Wilcox?”
Deputy Wilcox burped loudly, then walked into the hall.
―
I left the station with my head hung in defeat. When I looked up, I saw Lewis seething near the crosswalk. His T-shirt was damp with perspiration. I could see the cuff of his letterman jacket sticking out from the corner trash can he’d stuffed it in.
Milo noticed it, too. He was nearly in tears again.
When Lewis walked over, neither of us said a word about it.
“I think I need a drink,” he groaned.
“I think I’m too nauseous,” Milo replied.
I looked down the street, in the direction of the ocean.
“Come on,” I said, “I know what’ll make us feel better than that.”
―
My strawberry cone was melting by the time we got under
the boardwalk. It was low tide, and the shadow of the pier stretched a thousand feet. I put the projector on a rock to keep it from getting wet. I was sticky with sweat and sugar, and had to admit to myself that the ice cream didn’t help me a bit.
But at least Ramrod had cooled off a little. He chomped down the last of his sugar cone, and then wiped his dirty hands on his pants before placing them on Milo’s shoulders.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t more help.”
“It’s OK, man,” Milo said. He even forced a smile.
“Nah,” Lewis mumbled, “it ain’t. I’m supposed to be the head of the team. I’m supposed to keep those guys in line. I’m supposed to . . . I was supposed to look out for you, man. I shoulda at least been more help in there, but I freaked. I’m sorry.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway,” I sighed. “I shoulda seen it sooner. The millworkers voted Sheriff Milton into office, so no way he’ll crusade for the daughter of the guy that laid them off. Even if the evidence is right in front of him.”
“But they can’t ignore it,” Lewis said. “They can’t pretend it didn’t happen!”
“Sure they can,” Milo said. “Everyone ignores what’s happening in ʼNam, in Memphis, in D. C. This won’t be any different. No one cares.”
“Piss on that,” Lewis growled. “I wanna hear Marty make fun of your glasses after I rip out his eyes. I wanna hear Stink talk his racist shit once I turn his fuckin’ skin inside out.”
I hate to admit that part of me was excited by his threats. Part of me wanted blood. But the softer, saner, side of my brain knew what I wanted didn’t matter.
“No,” Milo said, as if reading my mind. “That’s not what Hana would want. She’d say revenge is for assholes, or somethin’ like that.”
Ramrod deflated. He knew Milo was right.
“But we’ve gotta do something,” I said.
Milo tossed his cone. He knew I was right.
The three of us stood silent. I leaned against a barnacle-covered post. Milo winced as he sat down beside the projector. Lewis peered into the horizon. The question of what to do drifted between us in the rhythm of the waves. I shut my eyes and let my mind roll with the tide. I thought of the weeks I spent walking that shoreline, waiting for my ears to heal . . .
