26

Mr. Mcknight led me into his study. “What happened?”

I panted, sweating, leaning on a desk.

He turned to his daughter. “What’s wrong with Peter?”

Lani herself was tearstained, and could not speak at once. “Something terrible.”

“Here,” he said, taking me by the arm. “Sit down.”

I found myself in a leather chair.

“Tell him,” said Lani. “Tell him everything.”

I nodded, but I couldn’t talk. Civilization itself, in the person of a tall black man in a sweater, took its seat across from me and leaned forward.

“It’s probably best,” he suggested gently, “to begin at the beginning.”

“It’s very difficult for Peter to talk about this,” said Lani. “It’s a very terrible thing.”

I gripped the arms of the chair. I forced myself to speak. “I killed Mead.”

“How do you mean—you killed him?”

“With my fist.”

“You killed Mead,” he repeated, as though he had to say the words himself to understand them. “With your fist,” he breathed. He stood and walked to a bookshelf and leaned against it for a moment. Then he turned, and I could sense him working to keep his voice steady. “Tell me what happened.”

“I killed him. I punched him, and he died.”

“Were you fighting?”

To put it into words was impossible. “He dropped the cognac. I hit him.”

“When did this happen?”

“Eight weeks ago.”

“He’s been dead for eight weeks?”

“I know where the body is.”

“Holy Christ,” he said, not like someone swearing at all, but like someone praying, or at least wanting to pray. He paced slowly, shaking his head. “You know where the body is. You’ve been going to school, and coming over here, and all the while you knew where Mead’s body was.”

I had known how disgusted he would be. And he was right to be disgusted.

“He called on the telephone, imitating Mead so Mead’s parents wouldn’t worry,” said Lani.

“So his parents wouldn’t worry,” he said, in disbelief.

“Mr. Litton is sick from his injury,” said Lani. “And from his heart. Peter was trying to do the right thing.”

Mr. McKnight fell into his chair. “The right thing,” he said, “would not have been so difficult.”

I said nothing, but sat like someone listening to a television in the next room.

“Talk to me, Peter,” he said.

I said nothing. I did not merely keep silent. Nothingness radiated from me. I did not feel like a human being, but like a mineral, a spill of quartz, a splinter of granite. But not entirely stone. Inside was a flame, and it seared me.

“You have a lot of talking to do, Peter,” said Mr. McKnight. “A lot of communicating. I know it’ll be hard. I see how knotted up you are. You must think the world is a very strange and terrible place to keep silent all this time. But unless you talk, there is no hope for you.”

It was absurd to speak of hope.

And as I sat there, I was Mead again, for a heartbeat. I felt my face take on Mead’s expression. My muscles quickened, and I was back again from the cold cellar.

I was alive.

“Please, Mead,” I whispered.

Mr. McKnight dragged his chair before mine. “Listen to me. I’m your friend, Peter. I want to listen to you, and I want to help you. Tell me what happened.”

I opened my mouth, but I could make no sound.

“It’s time,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Tell me.”

I told him what had happened. I talked about things I had never imagined I could discuss. I described Mead on the last evening, the broken bottle, the candlelight. Somehow the candlelight seemed important, the sight of Mead looking golden when he was last alive. I described the single punch. The sole, perfect, lethal blow that now made me wish I had been born with no arms.

“I had to keep it secret. I didn’t want Mead’s dad to die,” I said, weeping. “I didn’t want any more people to die. And I was afraid. I was afraid of what would happen to me. I tried to keep Mead alive by pretending to be him. But today I thought I was turning into Mead—like Mead’s spirit was coming back, and that scared me even more.”

I turned to Lani. “I’m sorry,” I said, unable to look at her. “I destroyed everybody’s best friend.”

“It was an accident,” she said. “You’d been drinking,”

“I meant to hit him.”

“But you didn’t mean to kill him,” said Lani. “It was an accident.”

“No, I didn’t mean to kill him. But I did. Now, all I want to do is die. Mead’s parents will both die because of this.”

“Peter, try to be calm,” said Mr. McKnight. He looked into my eyes as he spoke. “Listen to me—don’t look away. I understand that you would like to punish yourself for what has happened. But that would be a terrible thing to do, and I don’t want you to do that. I care about you, Peter. I’ve always thought you were a serious, intelligent young man. I want to help you.”

“There’s nothing to do.”

“There are many things to do. Many things that will not bring Mead back to life, but which will help Mead’s parents realize the truth. Don’t you think it’s wrong to go on lying to them? Lying about something like this is a very bad thing. Let’s not lie to them anymore. And let’s tell the police that they can stop searching for Mead. Let’s tell everybody everything. It’ll take courage, Peter. I believe in you—you can do it.”

He believed in me. I didn’t know if he was a fool, but I had to trust him. I needed his faith in me, and Lani’s faith in me.

“You will need an attorney,” he said. “Legal help. Do you want me to represent you?”

I looked away.

“You can’t turn away. You can’t not decide. The time for that is over. You have to take a deep breath, and claim your life. Right now, Peter. Decide.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“I want you to be my lawyer.”

“I have to tell your mother.”

I shook my head, shuddering. “It’ll be horrible for her. And for my dad, too. It’ll be horrible for everyone.”

He put his hand on my shoulder again. His grip was hard, and it hurt. “It will be hard on everyone, including you. Trust them to be able to endure it. And trust Mead’s parents, too. People are sometimes stronger than you think.”

“I want it all to be over with.”

“I’ll help you.”

I experienced a strange feeling—a feeling of gratitude. It was a strong feeling, a sense of thankfulness that I had fallen into the hands of a wise man.

I also felt that I did not deserve this understanding.

“I’ll call your mother, with your permission, and then, with her permission, I’ll take you down to see one of the district attorneys. And I want you to see a doctor.”

“I’m not sick.”

“I want to be sure of that.”

“I want to do everything I have to. They can put me in jail forever.”

“Forever,” said Mr. McKnight, “is a long time.”

“It’ll be all right, Peter,” said Lani. “Just have a little faith.”

“Right,” said Mr. McKnight. “A little faith. Lani, get Peter a glass of water.”

I drank the water, and I sat there trembling like a very old, or very sick, person while there were phone calls, and while Mr. McKnight’s voice spoke in the next room, the sound of intelligence and kindness I knew I did not deserve.

And then my mother arrived.