1969
When my stepfather warned me not to trust the Leo Bloods of the world any further than I could throw them, I dismissed the advice as Ray’s usual warm view of humanity. But that night, in the interrogation room of the Connecticut State Police Department, Barracks J, I saw what he meant.
Within the first minute of their examination of Leo’s Skylark out at the trestle bridge, Officers Avery and Overcash had discovered both the unsmoked joint and the burning one that Leo had chucked under the seat. “Hey, how’d that get in there?” Leo asked stupidly about the smoldering roach. “Birdsey, you know anything about this?”
They drove us to the station in the cruiser, explaining that they’d have Leo’s car towed back there, too. Riding through downtown Three Rivers, I slumped low and listed all the things our little fishing trip was probably going to cost me: my girlfriend, my tuition loan from Ray, my future teaching career. What school was going to hire a teacher with a drug charge on his record? I’d probably end up in Nam in a body bag after all. Stupid, I kept saying to myself. Stupid, stupid.
At the station, they had us sit on wooden benches with the other losers and lawbreakers they’d netted that night: an old immigrant guy who’d shot his neighbor’s dog, a speed freak who’d head-butted his arresting officer. They wouldn’t let Leo and me sit together. They parked him across the room and me next to this real scuzzed-out woman who was so loaded, she didn’t even realize that the crotch of her pantyhose was hanging below her dress. She kept mumbling about some guy named Buddy. Behind me and Crotch Lady, a noisy air conditioner pushed out a nonstop column of damp breeze. I was scared. I was freezing. I had to take a leak.
Leo stretched, got up, and strolled over to the water fountain: Mr. Nonchalance. Did I look as stoned as he did? It dawned on me that my brother had been right when he’d told me we weren’t fooling anyone at work—that anybody could just look at us and tell we’d been smoking weed on the job. Hanging around with Leo was going to get me in trouble, Thomas had warned me, and here I was at the goddamned police barracks. Stupid asshole, I thought. Loser. Jerk.
Passing by, Leo stopped in front of me and squatted. Untying and then retying his shoe, he said something ventriloquist-style which I couldn’t catch because of the noise from the air conditioner and because of Crotch Lady’s mumbling. “What?” I whispered.
“I said, when we go in there, let me do the talking. Agree with whatever I say.”
“Why?” I whispered. “What are you going to say?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m still thinking. Just back me up.”
“Do you know a guy named Buddy Paquette?” Crotch Lady asked Leo.
“What? Yeah, sure,” Leo said. “Buddy and I go way back.”
“Did he ever mention me?”
“You? What’s your name?”
“Marie. Marie Skeets.”
“Oh, yeah. Marie Skeets. He mentioned you plenty of times.” The cop at the front desk yelled at Leo to go sit down.
This was the catch: they questioned Leo and me separately. He went first. How was I supposed to corroborate whatever bullshit story he’d cooked up when I didn’t even know what it was? A headache had begun to gnaw at the edges of the buzz I’d been enjoying out at the bridge. When I got up and asked the desk sergeant if I could use the bathroom, he told me to wait and ask the officers who’d be talking to me.
“How does that guy know Buddy?” Crotch Lady asked me.
“He doesn’t,” I said.
“He said he did.”
“Well, he doesn’t. Not that I know of, anyway.”
“Oh. It’s chilly in here, ain’t it?”
“Yup.”
“Is it January?”
I told her no—that it was August. Late August.
“Oh,” she said. “Got any gum?”
Half an hour later, I passed Leo in the hallway. He looked panicked—tried mouthing something I didn’t catch. “This door here,” Officer Overcash said.
I got my wish: a visit to a cracked toilet in an adjoining bathroom/supply closet just off the interrogation room. The only thing was, I had to keep the door open. Had to have Officer Avery stand there while I took a wiz, aiming a sample into this plastic cup about the size of a shot glass. At first, in my nervousness, I got “stage fright.” Avery and I waited and waited. Then, when I finally got past that little problem, I managed to piss all over my jeans and onto the floor. I cleaned it up with paper towels, apologizing like I’d just committed murder.
When we stepped back into the interrogation room, another cop was sitting at this enamel-topped table. He told me his name was Captain Balchunas and that I should have a seat. Balchunas was older than Avery and Overcash—grayish crewcut, red face, Santa Claus twinkle in his eye. I sat down, folding my arms across my chest. The enamel had worn off the tabletop at the exact points where I rested my elbows.
They’d decided not to bother with the formality of a tape recorder, Balchunas said. Avery and Overcash sat on either side of him, a pair of stone-faced bookends. Overcash took out a pen and a legal pad. Did I have any questions before they started?
“Should I . . . do I need a lawyer or anything?” I said.
“For what?” Captain Balchunas asked. “You a bigtime drug lord or something?”
“No. I just—”
“You think these officers and I are going to step on your rights? Is that it? You one of those kids who thinks all cops are fascist pigs?” He was smiling as he said it.
“No.”
“What is it then?” He gave my paperwork a quick scan. “Tell me why you think you need a lawyer, Dom.”
“I just . . . Never mind. Go ahead.”
“See, what we’re thinking is, if you cooperate with us the way your buddy just did, we can streamline this process. Probably be able to get you out of here before a lawyer even had time to get in his car and get down here. See what I’m saying?”
I didn’t really see, but it sounded good. I nodded.
Captain Balchunas said he noticed I lived on Hollyhock Avenue. When he was a kid, he said, he used to hike up that road on his way to Rosemark’s Pond. He and his brothers used to catch snapping turtles up there. “That pond was lousy with them—ornery sons of bitches,” he said. “Some good-sized ones, too. You’d poke a stick at them and they’d latch on for dear life. Break a good-sized branch in half sometimes, neat as a pair of lopping shears.” He grabbed Officer Overcash’s pen and stuck it in his mouth, imitating the way the snapping turtle bit the stick. He had those really fake-looking false teeth—those grayish-green jobs. It struck me kind of funny, in spite of my nervousness. Or because of it, maybe: him chomping on that pen, shaking it back and forth, his jowls flapping. There was a tingling in my toes and fingertips. I was maybe 25 percent still stoned.
Balchunas stopped. Stared at me. Kept staring. “Why you shaking, Dom?” he asked. I looked over at Officer Avery. Shrugged. I was a little nervous, I told him.
“Nervous? Yeah?” He said they’d done a preliminary check on me and that my record was clean as a whistle. “Everyone makes mistakes, Dom,” he said. “Has lapses in judgment. You just talk straight with us and we’ll talk straight with you. All right?”
“All right,” I said.
“Because your buddy Leon—he was very candid with us just now, and we were equally candid with him. And things went well. Didn’t they, fellas?”
Very well, the other two agreed. I recalled the look on Leo’s face in the hallway a few minutes before. If he’d been so candid and straight with them, why was he trying so hard to tell me something?
“Leon says he and you are both in college, right?” Balchunas said. “Gonna be roommates this coming year? Up at the university?”
“Yes.”
“You ever have to do any research, Dom? For any of your college courses? Do some research on a subject, and then write a paper about it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s what this is like, see? These officers and I are just doing some research, that’s all. You see, Dom, you might need a lawyer if protecting your rights was an issue. Which isn’t really applicable in this ‘sitchy-ation.’ At least we don’t think it is. That urine we took on you isn’t going to show us any surprises, is it?”
“Surprises?”
“Like that you’re a heroin addict or an LSD freak or something?”
“No.”
“Good,” he said. “That’s good. Cryst-o-mint?”
A blur waved in front of my face. A roll of Life Savers. “Uh, no . . . no thanks.”
“No? You sure? Gee, your buddy Leon had three or four of these things. Said he had dry mouth. I guess being stoned affects different people different, right? One guy gets dry mouth, the other doesn’t. Course, he talks a lot, too, that pal of yours. He’s got quite the gift of gab.”
I sat there. Said nothing. The less I said, the less likely I’d be to contradict whatever Leo had told them.
“Jesus Christ, Dom, you’re shaking like a leaf,” Balchunas said. “What’s the matter? You got Saint Vitus’ dance or something? We scaring you?”
Trying not to shake with them looking at me was futile. “I’m just . . . I’m all right.”
“Well, just relax. I could be wrong, Dom, but I don’t think you’re going to get the chair on this one.” He said it deadpan, then smiled.
I smiled back.
He popped himself a Life Saver.
“Gave up smoking three weeks ago, and I been sucking on these things ever since,” he said. “I was a two-and-a-half-packs-a-day man. How about you, Dom? You smoke?”
I looked over at Officer Avery. Looked back. Didn’t answer.
“Tobacco, I mean? Cigarettes?”
I shook my head.
“No? Good. Take my advice and don’t start. I quit over two weeks ago and I’m still bringing up phlegm.”
“Um . . . are you . . . are you going to arrest us?”
“Who? You guys? You and Leon? Well, let’s put it this way. We’re going to try not to. See, frankly, Dom, you and your buddy are more trouble than you’re worth. Couple of gnats on the windshield, you know? To us, I mean. To the justice system. Not, I’m sure, to your parents. Or your girlfriend. You got a girlfriend, Dom?”
“Yes, sir.” Had one, anyway, before this weird weekend. I saw Dessa, beneath me on the backseat of her mother’s car. Punching me, pushing me away.
“I bet you do. Good-looking fella like you. She pretty?”
What did he care? What did Dessa have to do with anything?
“Yes.”
“Hell, I bet she is.” He leaned forward and smiled. “She big-busted, Dom? You get to bury your face in some good-sized tittie, do you?”
I looked over at Officer Avery. No expression. “Uh . . .”
“None of my business, right? Okay, Dom. I withdraw the question. Consider it withdrawn. I envy you young guys these days, though. All this ‘sexual revolution’ stuff I read about in the papers. When I was your age, a guy used to have to stand on his head and spit nickels just to cop a feel, and nowadays you young fellas say, ‘Open your legs up,’ and all she wants to know is, ‘How wide, honey?’ Right, Dom?”
I told myself he was just trying to piss me off—get me mad enough to incriminate myself. If I said I wanted a lawyer, didn’t they have to let me call one? Except getting a lawyer probably meant having to call Ma and Ray. Shit, if Ray found out . . .
“But like I was saying, Dom, you guys are small potatoes,” Balchunas said. “You and . . . what’s his name, again? Your fishing buddy? Motormouth, there?”
“Leo,” I said.
“That’s right. Leo. We might be able to clean this up pretty quick is what I’m saying. Your parents nice people, Dom?”
Oh, fuck. “Yes.”
“That’s what I figured. Bet they’d be a little upset if they knew about what was going on down here. Right? Here. Last chance.” He was holding out the goddamned Life Savers again. “Humor an old geezer, will you? Take one.”
I reached across and took one of his fucking mints. Put it in my mouth. Chewed it.
“How ’bout you, fellas?” he asked the other officers. “Cryst-o-mint?”
“No thanks, Captain.”
“I’m good, Captain.”
“Okeydoke.” He turned to Overcash. “Where was I, Clayton?”
Overcash consulted his pad: cross-hatchings in the margins, a single word or two. “Small potatoes,” he said.
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. You see, Dom, with all the stuff going on in this town, you and Leon are what we classify as ‘nuisance cases.’ Frankly, prosecuting you guys is a waste of police time and resources. You see what I’m saying? Not that we couldn’t make the charges stick if we had to. I mean, come on, Dom. These officers here caught you two dead to rights.” He stopped, sniffed the air. “I can still smell the sweet stuff on you, for Christ’s sake. You reek of it. So what we look for in ‘sitchy-ations’ like this is some kind of trade-off. Something that makes hauling you two guys in worth our while. See, what we’re interested in is where you got the stuff. We want to know who’s selling to guys like you and Leon, and who’s selling to them, and so on and so forth all the way up the food chain. Capisce?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That’s good. So tell us about this Ralph Drinkwater character.”
“Ralph?” I said. “Uh . . . what do you want to know?”
“Whatever you want to tell us.”
For some reason, I started talking about Penny Ann Drinkwater’s long-ago murder out at the Falls. About the tree-planting in her honor. About Ralph’s showing up in my history class years later and then, again, on the work crew. I told them about graveball—how far Ralph could clobber a Wiffle ball. I was in the middle of explaining our rules on ghost runners when Balchunas interrupted me. “What’s the most grass you ever saw in Ralph’s possession at any one given time? What’s the max?”
“Uh . . . let me think. Couple of joints, maybe? Three joints?”
“You sure? Because Leon says he’s seen him with a hell of a lot more than that. Tonight, in fact. You two were over Ralph’s house tonight, right? You and Leon? You’re sure all you’ve ever seen on him was a couple of joints?”
Agree with whatever I tell them, Leo had said. But this? Frame the guy. “I’m . . . I’m not sure what Leo saw. All I ever saw was a couple of joints.”
“How ’bout hash? Ralph ever try and sell you any hash?”
“No.”
“Uppers? ‘Ludes? Acid?”
“No. He never—”
“Okay. Let’s change the subject. What do you recall hearing about the guy Ralph works for?”
“You mean Dell? Our foreman?”
“I mean the guy he sells for.”
“He doesn’t sell for anybody,” I said. “Not that I know of, anyway.”
Balchunas chuckled. “Oh, come on, now, Dom. Where you been all this time—never-never land? If Ralph’s dealing, then he’s getting it from someplace. Right? I thought we were going to talk straight with each other. Let’s cut the bullshit. Shall we?”
How was I supposed to walk this particular tightrope—not bag Ralph and not bag Leo, either? Not end up bagging myself?
“We . . . we were over there looking at a car, okay? Ralph lives at our foreman’s house, and our foreman has this car that he might sell. And . . . and I was out there looking at the car. And for a little while, a few minutes, Ralph and Leo were in the house, so maybe Leo saw something then. But I didn’t. . . . He never sold us anything. Ralph. All’s we did was get high a couple of times at work together, that’s all. At lunchtime or whatever. He just, you know, lit up a joint and passed it around a couple of times.”
“Just passed the joint, eh? How many times is ‘a couple of times,’ Dom?”
“I don’t know. . . . Six or seven, maybe? Eight?”
Balchunas turned to Overcash. “You hear that, Clayton? This must be that new math they teach in school nowadays. ‘A couple of times’ is eight times.” He turned back to me. “You remember Ralph saying anything about a guy named Roland?”
“Roland? No. Who’s Roland?”
“Leon says Ralph talked to you two once about a guy named Roland. Thinks he comes from New York, maybe? Thinks he might be Ralph’s connection? What do you remember about that conversation, Dom? Your buddy says you were there that time when Ralph was talking about Roland.”
Leo could get in deep shit for lying to the cops like this. Could get us both in trouble. “I don’t remember anything about any Roland. Maybe Ralph said something to Leo—I don’t know. Not to me.”
“You got some reason to protect this guy, Dom?”
“No? You sure? Because your story’s not matching up that good with your buddy’s. Which leads me to the conclusion that one of you guys isn’t being 100 percent honest.”
I said nothing. This was just great: they thought I was bullshitting them, not Leo. Let me do the talking, he’d said. If I ended up having to call Ray, I was really fucked.
“You getting dry mouth, Dom? You keep swallowing. Want another mint?”
“No, thank you.” Fuckin’ pig bastard. He could shove his mints.
“So this Ralph never sold you anything, right? Just ‘passed the joint.’ Generous guy, huh? Just brings his stash to work and shares it.” He smiled. Leaned forward—close enough for me to smell his peppermint breath, see the little pockmarks on his nose. He whispered his next question. “And how about you, Dom? You ever share anything of yours with Ralph?”
“What . . . what do you mean?”
“Well, how can I put this delicately? Your friend Leon says this Ralph’s of the persuasion where—where he likes the fellas better than he likes the girls. Leon says Ralph and this foreman over on Bickel Road might have a little something funny going on. A little something more than a boss-and-worker relationship. See what I’m saying? So I guess I was just wondering out loud if you and Ralph ever made any kind of private deal. You know. He gives you something you want and you give him something he wants.”
What was he asking—if Ralph and me had ever gotten queer together? Had Leo told him something like that? If he had, I’d beat the shit out of him. But he wouldn’t say that. Would he? “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, then no. No way. Never!”
“It’s interesting, though. How you and Leon like to go over to their house, hang out with these guys on the weekend. Unusual for two normal, red-blooded American guys to want to do that. I’m not making any accusations, Dom. I’m just making an observation.”
“We don’t ‘hang out’ there. I was just looking at a car. Dell’s wife’s car.” I turned to Overcash. “The guy’s got a wife.” I addressed Avery next. “They’re selling her car because she’s got multiple sclerosis. . . . Look, I want a lawyer. Okay?”
“What do you want a lawyer for?” Overcash asked. “Captain already told you we’re just doing some research. Asking a few questions, seeing what we can eliminate.”
“Yeah, well, you can give me a lie detector test if you think—”
“Hey, you want a lawyer, Dom?” Balchunas said. “We’ll be glad to let you call a lawyer. But like I said, all we’re trying to do is streamline this thing. Get you and your buddy out of here nice and easy. All we gotta do is iron out a few discrepancies, that’s all. A few inconsistencies between what you’re telling us and what Leon told us. Like this business about Ralph’s contact, for instance. This Roland dude from New York.”
Fuck ’em—Ralph and Leo both. I wasn’t going to let any stupid cop sit there and call me a fag—I didn’t care what kind of bullshit story Leo had given them. “He just . . . Ralph grows his own, okay? That’s what he told us, anyway. He said he has a few plants out in a field someplace. Out in the woods. . . . I swear to God. That’s all I know.”
“Must be damn good plants, eh?” Balchunas said. “Must have a pretty high yield. Because Leo says he’s seen pounds of the stuff. Now you’re saying Ralph gets pounds of the stuff from ‘a few plants’? I mean, even if ‘a few’ is nine or ten, that’s still quite a yield. Wouldn’t you say, Dom? This Ralph must have one hell of a green thumb.”
“I never saw pounds of it. Maybe Leo did, but all I saw was a couple of joints.”
“This Ralph’s a Negro fella. Right?”
“What?”
“He’s black? Of the Negroid persuasion?”
“I guess.”
“You guess? Jesus, you can’t even give me a straight answer about that?”
“He’s . . . I think he’s part Indian, too.”
“Yeah? American Indian or India Indian?”
“American Indian. Wequonnoc, I think.”
“That right? Half-black, half-Indian, huh?” Balchunas turned to Officer Overcash. “Poor guy. Probably doesn’t know whether to go out and scalp his next meal or let welfare pay for it.” He turned back to me. “You know what Leon says, Dom? He says Ralph reads a lot of radical literature. Black Panther stuff. Overthrow-the-government kind of stuff. You know anything about that?”
I shook my head. Was this Leo’s whole big plan to get us off the hook? Trash Ralph? Slander the guy? Slander me, too, maybe, while he was at it?
“You ever seen Ralph with guns? Firearms of any kind?”
“No.”
“No, huh? You sure?”
“He read . . . he’s read this one book called Soul on Ice. That’s all I ever heard him say anything about black power or power to the people or whatever.”
“Soul on Ice, eh? I heard about that book. Right on, brother! Who wrote that one, anyway, Dom? I forget.”
“Eldridge Cleaver.”
“Eldridge Cleaver. Any good—that book? Would you recommend it?”
I told him I’d never read it.
“No? How about Roland? The guy from New York? He’s a colored boy, too, right? Black Panther, maybe?”
“I already told you. I don’t know anything about any Roland.”
“You got a brother works on this work crew, too. Right?”
What was he dragging Thomas into it for? What had Leo said about Thomas? “My brother doesn’t have anything to do with any of this,” I said.
“No? Leo says your faggoty foreman takes a little bit of a special interest in him. You and your brother are twins, right?”
I nodded. Felt my heartbeat revving up. “He just likes to tease Thomas, that’s all. Pick on him. He’s a bully. . . . He knows he can get a rise out of him.”
“Get a rise out of him, huh? Interesting way to put it. You guys identical twins?”
I swallowed. “Yes.”
“Your brother expose himself at work last Friday, Dom? The queers on that crew get him to play show-and-tell for them, did they?”
I was going to nail Leo when we got out of there. What right did he have to feed Thomas’s humiliation to the cops? And why? For what purpose?
“Look, you’re jumping to the wrong conclusions. My brother just—”
“What’d they do—trade him a couple of joints for a look-see?”
“It was nothing like that!” I felt close to tears. I knew they were busting my balls—toying with me the way a cat bats around a mouse before he bites his fucking head off. But why my brother? Why did Leo have to drag Thomas into it? “Dell’s been harassing my brother all summer,” I said. “Bullying him. Calling him names. And he just . . . my brother’s a little high-strung and he just . . . he freaked. They goaded him into it.”
“Who goaded him into it? Ralph?”
“Dell. Really. You’ve got the wrong idea. He was just bullying him. Just jerking him around.”
“Just jerking him around,” Balchunas said.
“God, you’re twisting everything I say. My brother’s—”
“Look at his ears, Clayton,” Balchunas said. “You’re blushing, Dom. Why you covering for Ralph?”
“I’m not covering for him.”
“He’s just a generous guy who likes to bring his dope to work and share it, right?”
“I don’t know what kind of a guy he is. We just work together. He’s very private.”
“Uh-huh. You ever let him get private with you? In exchange for some hash?”
“No!” Leo was going to pay for this, big time.
“Take it easy, Dom. This is off the record now. This is just research.”
“I don’t care what it is. I would never . . . me or my brother!”
“Relax, Dom. Relax. We know you’re okay. We know all about that girlfriend of yours.” He cupped his hands in front of his chest, fondled a pair of imaginary breasts.
“Leave my girlfriend out of this,” I said. “And my brother, too. My brother never even took one stupid toke all summer long.” I was fighting back tears.
“Okay, take it easy,” Avery said. “Suppose we change the subject.”
Balchunas’s fist whacked down hard on the table. “No, let’s not change the subject,” he said. “Let’s just end the subject and let this little twerp get his lawyer like he goddamn wants to. Because you know what?” He turned to Overcash. “You know what, Clayton? I’m starting to get a little tired of wasting our time while this little shit here keeps talking around in circles. I’m starting to think maybe this arrogant little son of a bitch might need to call a lawyer after all. Or call his mommy and daddy, or his buddies over on Bickel Road, or someone. Because Leon’s telling us one thing and this guy’s telling us another, and all we’re trying to do is get the two of them out of here tonight.”
“I’m telling the truth,” I said. Turned to Avery. “I am.”
“You know what?” Balchunas said. “Send the other one home. I got no beef with him; he cooperated with us. That’s what this little shit doesn’t seem to understand.”
“I am cooperating!” I said. “What am I supposed to do—lie about it? If I didn’t hear him say anything about some Roland guy, am I supposed to just . . . ? You accuse me and my brother of all this perverted stuff we didn’t even do, and I’m supposed to just—”
“Okay, okay. Let’s lower the volume, all right?” Officer Avery suggested. “No sense getting all excited. How about if we put it a different way? You listening to me?”
“Yes.”
“Is it possible Ralph might have talked to you guys about this Roland and maybe you just don’t remember as much detail about it as Leo does? Maybe you were high at the time or thinking about your girlfriend or something? Or maybe Leo just has a better memory than you do? But maybe you remember something—even something vague—about Roland? Is that possible?”
“I don’t . . . I’m all mixed up. . . . It’s possible, I guess. Anything’s possible.”
“But you’re still saying Ralph never sold you any marijuana, right?” Overcash said. “Just passed the stuff, let you take some hits off it?”
“Yes.”
“How about that stuff you two had tonight, then? Out at the bridge? Ralph wasn’t passing the joint tonight. He wasn’t even there.”
“I don’t . . . I guess he just gave Leo a couple of joints.”
“Gave them or sold them?”
“Gave them. As far as I know. Leo never said anything about buying them.”
“Was Ralph planning to sell you some?” Avery asked. “You know—in quantity? Talking to you guys about the possibility? Was this stuff a sample?”
It had been Leo’s big idea that we should sell dope at school, not Ralph’s. But what was I supposed to do—whack him the way he’d probably whacked me? Or had he? I didn’t know anything anymore. I shook my head. “Not that I know of.”
“Not that you know of, not that you know of,” Balchunas mimicked. “That stuff you were smoking tonight: potent stuff, right? Little more kick to it than the stuff you guys were smoking at work. Right?”
“Look, what about my rights?” I said. “I have rights, don’t I?”
He shot out of his seat. Started jabbing his finger at me. “You know who’s always concerned about their rights, wiseguy? When they get backed into a corner? I’ll tell you who. The guys who are lying between their teeth, that’s who. The guys who are trying to cover something up.”
“I’m not trying to cover anything up. I just—” He waved his hands at me in disgust. Sat back down.
“Look, Dominick,” Officer Avery said. “We’d advise you of your rights if we were planning to arrest you. Which we’re trying like hell not to do, if we can help it. Now Leon says that stuff you guys were smoking tonight was a sample. Right? That Ralph wanted you to try it and if you liked it, you guys and he might make a little arrangement? Sell for him at school?”
“I’m . . . he never said anything like that to me.”
“You never heard Ralph say he wanted you guys to buy a couple of pounds from him and then turn around and—”
“I didn’t hear him say that. No.”
“But maybe he said it to your buddy Leon?” Balchunas asked. “Maybe he offered Leon that deal to the both of you? Leon ever mention any arrangement like that to you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe.”
“That’s an imprecise word, Dom. ‘Maybe.’ In your estimation, would you classify ‘maybe’ as ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”
“How much longer do I have to stay here?”
“Well, that’s up to you, Dom. If ‘maybe’ is ‘yes,’ Radical Ralph was trying to put together a deal with you guys to sell his dope up there at the university, then you could probably get up and walk out of here in about three to five minutes. And if ‘maybe’ is ‘no,’ he wasn’t, then this might take a while longer. You see what I’m saying? Gets a little more complicated if ‘maybe’ means ‘no.’ Because then we’ve got this discrepancy between what you say and what your buddy Leon says. If ‘maybe’ is ‘no,’ then I guess we ought to have you call yourself a lawyer after all, or call your father, or call someone. Because, hey, let’s face it—between what we found out in that car and what’s going to show up in your urine sample, we got the goods on you, pal. And frankly, my friend, I’ve cooperated with you about as much as I’m willing to cooperate. We got other fish to fry out there in that waiting room. So you tell us, Dom, and you better be quick about it, too. What’s ‘maybe’? Is ‘maybe’ yes, you were aware that Ralph offered you guys a deal to sell for him? Or is ‘maybe’ no, he didn’t?”
I just wanted to get out of there. Not get arrested. Not cry in front of them.
“Yes.”
It was after midnight by the time they let us go. The benches out front where we’d been waiting were almost empty. Crotch Lady was still there, snoring open-mouthed. Avery took us around in back to where Leo’s car had been towed. Unlocked the gate. Waved us off.
At first, neither of us spoke. We just rode through Three Rivers with the windows down, the radio off. Leo kept checking the rearview mirror. It was one of the few times I’d ever seen him speechless—not running his mouth.
“What the fuck did you tell them, anyway?” I finally said.
He started singing to himself, pounding out a tune on the steering wheel. “Who? The cops? I don’t know. I told them a bunch of shit.”
“Like what?”
“Why? What’d they ask you about?”
Part of me didn’t even want to get into it. Didn’t want to find out just how much of a weasel he could be—how low he’d go to get himself off the hook. Why had he dragged my stupid brother into it? Or told them Ralph was a queer? A radical with weapons?
“Birdsey, look back,” he said. “Is that anyone?”
I turned around. “What?”
He was watching the rearview mirror as much as he was the road in front of him. “You think they’re following us? The cops?” In the sideview mirror, I saw the car behind us take a right.
“Nope, false alarm,” he said, exhaling. “Man, my mother would’ve shit a brick if she found out about this. . . . Hey, Birdsey, reach in back and get that box of eight-tracks on the seat, will you? I don’t feel like talking. I just feel like mellowing out, listening to some tunes. Too bad they took that last joint Ralph gave us, right? I could go for a couple hits off of that thing. I’m all nervous still.”
I reached around and got the box of tapes. Put them on the seat between us. We were riding out of Three Rivers, down Route 22. I didn’t know where he was taking us. Didn’t really care. I felt more pissed than nervous.
“Hey, I know,” Leo said. “Let’s get some eggs. That’s what I could use right now. Some eggs and toast and home fries. And coffee, too. About two gallons of coffee. Enough coffee so I can piss this whole experience right out of my system.”
I kept staring out the sideview mirror. “What’d you tell them?” I asked him again.
“The cops? I don’t know. I partly told them the truth and partly bullshitted them a little. Mixed it up, you know? Something would come to me and I’d just . . . use it. Hey, not to change the subject, but you got any money on you? All’s I got is three bucks. The Oh Boy’s open all night, isn’t it? I’ll pay you back.”
We rode on in silence, half a mile’s worth or more. “And they bought it, too, you know?” Leo said. “That’s the funny part. I knew they would. Cops are so fucking stupid.” He patted his box of eight-tracks. “Put a tape in. Go ahead, Birdsey. Ladies’ choice.”
“What’d you say about my brother?” I said.
“What? I didn’t say anything about him.”
“You must have. They knew all about him pulling his pants down at work.”
“Oh, yeah, that. I forgot. I was talking so fast, you know? Talking a blue streak. They were asking me all about the work crew and—”
“What did that have to do with anything? Why’d you drag Thomas into it? They made it sound like we were all sitting around getting queer with each other.”
“I was just—okay, look. Cops hate queers, Birdsey. Ask my mother. Ask anyone in law enforcement. So, what I did was, I created this smoke screen, okay? Made it sound like Dell and Ralph were, you know, trying to get funny with us and Thomas just . . . It was a smoke screen, Dominick. Something to draw attention away from us getting wrecked out there by the bridge.”
“So you just bag my brother—slander Ralph—so that we can weasel out of—”
“I didn’t slander either of them. How’d I slander them, Dominick? Your brother started crying and he yanked his drawers down, didn’t he? Did I imagine that? . . . You saw those queer magazines they had out there. What, did those things just fall out of the sky and land there? Wake up, man. Ralph’s a flit and so’s Dell, and all I did was tell them.”
“So what if they are? That doesn’t mean you can just—?”
“Hey, look, Dominick. I did what I had to do. Okay? Why don’t you just shut your mouth and play a fucking tape and don’t worry about it. We’re both out here driving around instead of at the friggin’ state police barracks, aren’t we? They didn’t bust us, did they? I did what I had to do, and I’m not taking any shit from you about it, either.”
I said nothing for a mile or more. Heard Balchunas asking me all those embarrassing questions again. Saw him chomp that pen of his, snapping-turtle style.
“You smeared me while you were in there, too. Didn’t you?” I said.
“No, Dominick, I didn’t smear you. I got you out of that mess is what I did. But, hey, thanks a lot for the accusation. You’re a real pal. You’re—”
“You sure? Because one of the things they wanted to know was if I’d ever let Ralph get funny with me for some hash. Why’d they want to know that, Leo? What’d you do—bag all three of us? Thomas, Ralph, and me? Fuck over three guys for the price of one?”
“Look, Birdsey, you ought to be thanking me right now instead of accusing me of all this shit. That’s all I got to say. As far as I’m concerned, the subject’s closed.” He turned on the radio, punched several stations, snapped it off again. “And anyways, it’s not my fault if the cops took what I said and twisted it around. They were just fucking with your head, you idiot. Trying to get you pissed off. It’s a technique, asshole. Don’t blame me. Cops do it all the time. Ask my mother.”
“So what did you say then? What’d you tell them about this supposed hash deal?”
“All’s I said was. . . . I told them Ralph made us this offer that he’d, you know, give us some hash if we’d let him go down on us. And that we both told him to take a flying leap. I’m telling you, Birdseed, cops hate queers, and they’re not exactly in love with blacks, either—especially groups like the Panthers. So I stretched the truth a little and—”
“Those are total fucking lies!”
“Yeah, and they worked, too, didn’t they? You want me to turn around, drop you back off at the barracks so you can tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God? Well, sorry, Dominick. I guess I ain’t as much of a saint as you. I’d rather be out here than inside that station.”
I stared up at the moon. Didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to think.
“Look, Birdsey, I had to think of something fast, okay? And on top of that, I was wrecked out of my mind. Remember? It was the best I could come up with. What was I supposed to do—sit around and wait for you to get us out of this mess?”
He had a point. If it was me handling it, we’d probably still be back at Barracks J, getting fingerprinted, having our mug shots taken. Not that I was willing to admit that.
“Well, I just gotta hand it to you, Leo, that’s all,” I said. “When you decide to slander your friends, you can be pretty goddamned merciless.”
“I wasn’t trying to ‘slander’ anybody, Dominick. It was just . . . survival of the fittest. So just do me a favor and shut up about it, will you? Let’s just go eat.”
Survival of the fittest: I let that hang in the air for a mile or more. Let it good and goddamn piss me off. Leo fished a tape from the box and shoved it into the player. Started singing along. I’m your captain. Yeah yeah yeah yeah. . . .
I reached over and yanked the fucker out of the machine. Yanked out two or three yards of tape and chucked the whole pile of spaghetti out the window. “Hey!” Leo protested. He braked hard enough to throw us both toward the dashboard. Then he changed his mind and gunned it. “What’d you do that for?”
“Because I wanted to, asshole.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the asshole, Birdsey. You owe me a tape.”
“Survival of the fittest?” I said. “You frame the guy because he’s black, or because you think he’s queer, but it’s okay because it’s just the fucking law of the jungle?”
“Yeah, that’s right, Dominick. It was Ralph or us, so I chose us. You mind?”
“So the big, bad, black dope peddler tries to get us poor innocent college kids to deal for him. Right? That was your bright idea, Leo. Remember? Not Ralph’s. Yours. You were going to see if he’d sell us some shit and then we’d jack up the price and make a profit. Remember?”
“Did you tell them that? The cops? That it was my idea?”
“Geez, I don’t know, Leo. Did I? I was talking so fast—I was so wrecked—I don’t remember what I told them.”
“Cut it out, Birdsey. Did you tell ’em it was my idea or not?”
“Tell them the truth, Leo? No, I didn’t. And you know why I didn’t? Because I don’t bag my friends. Maybe I should have, though. Practiced ‘survival of the fittest.’”
“Hey, how do you know he’s not dealing, Birdsey? All that grass we smoked all summer. That’s probably exactly what he was doing—getting us interested so he could use us in his little drug operation.”
“Yeah, right, Leo. I think I saw that episode on The Mod Squad, too. Real life’s just like TV, isn’t it?”
“No shit. Think about it. We worked with the guy all summer long and we didn’t even know until tonight that he lives over at Dell’s. That he’s a fucking fruitcake. How do we know he’s not a dealer?”
“Who’s Roland?” I said. “Where’d Roland come from?”
“Roland? Roland’s nobody. Roland’s my great-uncle from New Rochelle. I was just giving them a false lead.”
“Yeah, and it’s probably going to backfire in your stupid face, too. In both our faces since I—”
“Since you what?”
“Since I covered for you, asshole. Since I said I might have heard Ralph say something about this imaginary pusher friend of his. Said he might have been interested in having us sell for him.”
“Oh, so you ain’t Saint Dominick after all, huh? You bagged Ralph, too.”
“Because you’d backed me into a corner, that’s why. What the fuck was I supposed to do—tell the truth and let the cops nail you for possession and false information? I guess I just don’t know how to play bag-a-buddy as good as you do, Leo. Shit, man, you’re the big pro at that. You could give Judas a few pointers.”
He spat out the window. Turned back to me. “Hey, maybe Ralph’s your buddy, Birdsey. Maybe he’s your big pal. But to me he’s just some guy I worked with. Smoked a few jays with. Because, personally, I don’t hang around with fags. Okay?”
“No? How about that drama teacher of yours? That guy you made out with?”
“Fuck you, Birdsey! I didn’t ‘make out’ with anyone. Besides, I told you that in confidence. You just shut your mouth about that.”
“What do you have to do to get the lead, Leo—to play Hamlet in that play this semester? You got to let this guy fuck you in the ass or something? Or is that already a done deal? Are you already the fuckin’ prince of Denmark?”
“Shut up, Birdsey. You better shut your fucking mouth before you’re sorry.”
“Oh, big man. You don’t like it, do you? When someone makes up shit about you? Asshole!”
“Don’t call me an asshole, Birdsey. You’re the asshole!”
“Yeah, and you’re a fucking liar! You’re a fucking snake in the grass!” I grabbed his box of eight-tracks, threw the whole bunch of them out the window.
He slammed on the brakes. Shoved me against the car door. I shoved him back.
“What are you, nuts? You turning mental like that mental case brother of yours?”
I was on him instantly—choking him, letting my fist fly. I grabbed his head in both hands—was ready to smash it into the steering wheel. Knock his teeth out. Bust his nose.
“Stop it!” he screamed. “Stop it, Dominick! What’s the matter with you?”
It was the fear in his voice that stopped me—the way he suddenly sounded like Dessa out in the parking lot the night before. I saw blood dripping from his nose. Saw my raised fist opening, closing, opening.
“Don’t you ever . . . !” I was out of breath. My heart was pounding so hard, it hurt. “Don’t you ever call me crazy. Me or him, understand? Understand?”
“Okay. All right. Jesus.”
I got out. Slammed the car door hard as I could and started walking, kicking his eight-tracks out of my way. When I turned back at about fifty yards, he was out of the car, bending over to pick up his tapes. I grabbed a rock and chucked it at his stupid Skylark. It rang out as it hit the bumper. “You dent this car, you’re paying for it!” he shouted back. “My tapes, too. I’m going to play every single one of ’em tomorrow, and whatever ones don’t play anymore, you’re paying for! I mean it!” I heard his door slam. Heard him peel out, drive off.
Fuck him, I thought. Asshole. Cool Jerk. Good riddance. . . .
I walked along the dark road, my head filling up with sounds and pictures of things I didn’t want to think about: Thomas, sobbing and yanking down his drawers for Dell. Dessa beneath me, crying, pushing me away. Balchunas’s big face. . . .
I walked for hours—for eight or nine miles. And by the time I reached Hollyhock Avenue, my arms and neck were scabby with mosquito bites. My feet burned like I’d been walking on hot coals.
I just stood there, looking up at our house—the house my grandfather had built. I couldn’t go in, no matter how exhausted I was. Couldn’t bring myself to go up the front stairs, unlock the door, climb the inside stairs, go down the hall to mine and my brother’s room. Couldn’t go in there and see my sleeping brother. Something was wrong with him, whether I wanted to admit it or not.
I couldn’t do it.
So I kept walking. Up the rest of Hollyhock Hill, then out through the pine grove and down to the clearing, to Rosemark’s Pond.
You know what I did? I shucked off all my clothes, waded into the water, and swam. Swam until my limbs were numb, leaden. Until they couldn’t kick or push aside any more water. I guess . . . I guess I was trying to wash myself clean of everything: the stink of sweat and marijuana, the stink of what we’d done to Ralph—of what I’d done to Dessa out in that parking lot. What kind of a person was I? If my brother was cracking, maybe I’d helped cause it. Ray wasn’t the only bully at our house. . . . Survival of the fittest, I thought: whack whoever’s vulnerable, show ’em who’s in charge.
It didn’t work, that swim. You can’t swim away your sins, I learned that much. I came out of the pond feeling just as dirty as when I’d gone in. I remember standing there on the shore, naked still, panting like a bastard. Just looking at my reflection in the water.
Not looking away. Not lying to myself for once in my life.
Facing what I really was.
“And what was that?”
“What?”
“You said you stood there at the pond that morning and faced what you really were. I’m wondering what that was. What was your conclusion?”
“My conclusion? That I was a son of a bitch.”
“Explain, please.”
“A bastard. A bully. I think it was the first time I’d actually ever admitted it to myself. . . . At least that’s how I remember it, anyway. I never know, during these sessions, whether I’m rehashing history or reinventing it.”
“Well, yes, memory is selective, Dominick. An interpretation of the facts as we recall them, accurate or not. But what we select to remember can be very instructive. Don’t you think?”
“He works over there, you know. At Hatch.”
“Who?”
“Ralph Drinkwater. He’s on the maintenance staff.”
“Is he?”
“I’ve run into him down there. The night Thomas was admitted. He had an accident, pissed himself. And guess who shows up with the mop?”
“How did you feel when you saw Ralph?”
“How did I feel? Oh, I guess I felt . . . like a good, red-blooded American.”
“Yes? Explain, please.”
“Keep them damn minorities down, boys. Put ’em on the cleanup crew. Survival of the fittest.”
“You’re being ironic, yes?”
“You know much about American history, Doc? What we did to the Indians? The slaves?”
“I’m afraid I’m not grasping your point, Dominick.”
“My point is: who the hell do you think those three white cops were going to believe that night—a couple of white kids or the dope-peddling black Indian? The radical queer? I mean, you got to hand it to Leo. It was a little over the top, maybe, but it worked. Right? I mean, stoned or not, it was a brilliant defense.”
“And so, when you saw Ralph here at Hatch, you felt . . . ?”
“I don’t know. There was a lot going on that night. . . . I felt bad, I guess.”
“Can you be more specific, please? What does ‘bad’ mean?”
“Guilty. I felt guilty as sin. . . . We just fed him to the cops.”
“Ah. Interesting.”
“What is?”
“That’s the second time you’ve used that word today.”
“What word? ‘Guilty’?”
“’Sin.’”
“Yeah? So?”
“Do you recall the context of your other reference to sin?”
“No.”
“You said that when you emerged from the pond, you realized that one cannot swim away from one’s sins.”
“Yeah? And?”
“I merely note that you described your swim almost as an attempt at purification. And now, this second reference to guilt and sin. I’m just struck by your religious—”
“It’s just a figure of speech. ‘Guilty of sin’: people say it all the time.”
“No, I just . . . I think you’re confusing me with the other Birdsey brother.”
“No, no. I assure you. I know the difference between—”
“Look, Ma! Two hands!”
“Dominick, sit down, please.”
“I don’t want to sit down! I just . . . You know something? Let me clue you in to something. When you go to lift your kid—your beautiful little baby girl—out of the bassinet some morning and . . . and she’s . . . Well, never mind. Just don’t start confusing me with my one-handed Holy-Roller brother. I don’t do religion, okay? I gave up on God a long time ago. . . . I was just some stupid, mixed-up kid up there at that pond that morning. I was hot and tired and . . . “
“Take my hands, please, Dominick. That’s it. Now, look at me. That’s right. Good. I want to assure you, my friend, that I do not confuse you and your brother. I am quite aware of the distinctions between you. All right?”
“I—”
“I only ask this: that, during this process, you try not to disown your insights.”
“My insights? Have I had any insights yet?”
“Yes! And more will come in time. Be patient, Dominick. They’re coming. Do you, by any chance, know who Bhagirath was? In Hindu legend?”
“Who?”
“Bhagirath. He brought the Ganges from heaven to earth.”
“Yeah? Neat trick. What was he—a civil engineer?”
“Of sorts, I suppose. You see, Bhagirath had a mission. He needed to cleanse the honor of his ancestors because they had been cursed. Burned to cinders. So he routed the river from the feet of Brahma, the Creator, through the tangled locks of Shiva, the Destroyer, and thus to earth. It was his gift. The holy river. And that is why orthodox Hindus bathe there: to cleanse themselves of their imperfections. To wash away their ancestors’ sins.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Keep thinking back, Dominick. Keep remembering.”
“I just . . . It’s painful. I don’t see the point.”
“The point is this: that the stream of memory may lead you to the river of understanding. And understanding, in turn, may be a tributary to the river of forgiveness. Perhaps, Dominick, you have yet to emerge fully from the pond where you swam that morning so long ago. And perhaps, when you do, you will no longer look into the water and see the reflection of a son of a bitch.”