Desert Discord Page 11

  “You hit him?”

  “I punched the crap out of him on the count of one. If somebody ever does that, says they’re gonna count to whatever and then hit you, you hit them right after they say ‘one.’ As hard as you can, and then keep hitting. So that’s what I did. I nailed Randy Slator right in his stomach, then hit him again about five times in the chest. You know what he did?”

  Andy shakes his head again.

  “He puked. Right there on the ground. It was gross. Then he said, ‘I give up, I give up!’ And you can believe it, he and none of his friends never messed with me again. Nobody never did, because they heard what I did to Randy Slator. That’s the trick. Don’t take no bullcrap from nobody, and nobody’ll mess with you.” Andy is impressed.

  Mama leans out the back door. “Andy! What are you doing outside with no shirt? Get in here and put on a shirt. I swear!”

  As they walk to the house, Punchy says, “One more thing. If somebody says, ‘Hit me in the chin’ or, ‘Punch me in the face, I dare you,’ then don’t do what they say. Go for the body. It’s hard to get somebody in the chin, especially if they’re bigger than you. They’re just trying to throw you off balance. Hit ’em low and hard.”

  “What if they say ‘punch me in the stomach’?” asks Andy.

  Punchy laughs. “Then take ’em up on it, little brother. Take ’em up on it.”

  Andy can’t move, and he can’t take his eyes off the face. It’s above him, looking down at him, and it’s horrible. The face is young but the eyes are old. It is a man who hates Andy and is here to hurt him, and yet Andy can’t move, can’t protect himself, can’t scream.

  Punchy! Mama! Nobody is here. I’m alone and too little to fight back.

  Fucking queer! says a voice. Then there is the boot, sharp and black and decorated, and it’s going to come down on him, and Andy can do nothing to stop it.

  I’m only eight years old, he wants to scream. But he can’t speak, and he can’t cry. All he can do is make a gasping sound. The face is filled with hate.

  Andy rolled onto his side. The light was dim in the room. What happened? Is he gone? I better put on a shirt, he thought. Then he looked down and saw he was wearing a shirt, a pajama shirt. He sat up. I’m not eight years old. I’m … he thought … How old am I? Twenty-three. What time is it?

  He looked for a clock. There was a big one that he could read on the wall, even though the light was dim. A quarter past five. Hmmmm. Must be five in the morning, because outside the window, it’s nighttime.

  Andy needed to go to the bathroom. He knew he was supposed to call somebody and not try to go by himself. That’s what they’d told him, but that was dumb. He could handle this. He swung around and put his feet down on the floor, hesitated a moment to make sure he had balance, and stood up.

  He wobbled, and his arm ached and felt heavy … the one with the cast. There was supposed to be a cloth thing that went over his shoulder to help him hold up his hurt arm. He looked around for it and found it in the bedclothes. It took some doing, but he managed to put it over his head and then feed his arm into it so it sat right and supported the cast.

  He went to the bathroom, washed his left hand, then splashed water on his face. He found a small face towel and dried off.

  It’s early in the morning, but I am awake, he thought.

  The door to his room was cracked open a few inches. He opened it and glanced out. Across the hall was a counter and desks where the … ladies who wear white usually sat, but at the moment there was no one there. He heard two women talking. They seemed to be around the corner in the other hall. He stepped out into the hall and headed in the other direction. He remembered there was a big area at the end of the hall with a couple of couches and comfortable chairs and a big, big window.

  He found the window and looked out at the twinkling lights of the city. What city? … Lubbock. He was in Lubbock. It was mostly dark, but the distant horizon was purple. As he stood, the purple gradually grew brighter and took on a reddish cast. The sun was going to rise. He sat down in one of the cushioned chairs and waited for it.

  If I close my eyes, I can make a sunrise song. Like Grieg’s “Opus 23,” the morning prelude called “Morgenstemning.” Or I can invent my own morning music.

  Andy chuckled. How funny that he had a hard time coming up with a word like “nurse,” but had no trouble with “morgenstemning.” He decided not to try and conjure music, though. If something came spontaneously, he would accept it. He just wanted to watch the sun rise.

  Twenty minutes later, the horizon awash in a bright yellow glow, music did come. It always started with cellos, and he would listen until he heard them clearly, then begin to add structure. After that, he brought in the violins, and slowly a song was built. Piano came next, and sometimes, occasionally, woodwinds. He found he was able to go back and repeat passages if he needed to. He could be the conductor, tweak and improve the sound, until the sound became music and the music became song. A morning mood song. Morgenstemning.

  He heard a voice behind him. “There you are!” It was a nurse. She sounded mad. The song ended abruptly.

  He turned and smiled.

  “Andy, don’t do that!” she said. “If you’re going to wander around, at least tell somebody where you’re going.”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  The nurse turned and called down the hall. “It’s okay, Carolyn! I found him!” She sat in a chair next to Andy. “Did you want to watch the sun come up?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “and listen to it.” He realized immediately that was a nonsensical thing to say, but the nurse didn’t comment. He kept watching the horizon. An especially bright glow on one side of a tall building told him that was the point the sun would burst through. After a few moments, he turned to the nurse. “I want to go home. I feel better.”

  “Well, as it happens, I think you are getting your wish. I saw your discharge paperwork. They’ll probably let you go back to your home today or tomorrow, as soon as the doctor signs the release. They have to work out plans for your treatment when you get back. You still have a lot of work to do to get well.”

  “That’s good.” He went back to watching the horizon. In a few minutes, quite suddenly, a brilliant yellow light popped out right at the skyline and made him blink. The sitting area was bathed in morning light.

  “We’re going to miss you, Andy,” said the nurse. “Everybody’s been pulling for you. We hate to see you leave.” Her voice sounded a bit hoarse. Andy looked at her and was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

  – 20 –

  Things That Must Not Be Said

  “I don’t understand,” said Chris. “Why did we stop?”

  “Because I didn’t make something very clear to you,” said Sam Rhodes.

  “It’s my fault, but now I’m going to fix it.”

  They were at the Duro police station, and Chris had been telling Officer Miller what happened at Murchison Park. Chris was trying to be honest, as straight as he could be under the circumstances. He had dreaded this interview, but it turned out to be more of a casual conversation than an interrogation, as Officer Miller explained. Even though he had a pad and pen, Miller didn’t write much. He was engaging and friendly, not grilling Chris, just encouraging him to talk.

  But when Chris started to tell about how the fight started, Mr. Carr stopped him.

  “Hold on just a minute, Chris,” he said. “Sir, I’m sorry, but may I speak with Chris in private for a few minutes, out in the hall? I need to go over a couple of things for him. I should have done this before, I know.”

  “How long do you need?” asked Officer Miller.

  “Just five minutes.”

  “Okay,” said Miller. “Tell you what, you can sit right here and I’ll be back. I need to check with somebody for a minute. I’ll see you in a little bit.” He rose and left.

  They weren’t in a particularly private location, just the corner of a large room with several desks, a few chairs, and a bench
lining one wall. Clerical people came and went, and an older uniformed officer typed loudly at his desk. Chris, his dad, and Mr. Carr sat on the bench, while the officer sat in a metal folding chair.

  “What’s the problem, Ben?” asked Sam Rhodes.

  “I need to make Chris understand something,” said Carr. “Chris, remember before we came in here, I told you about being respectful and not using coarse language?”

  “Yes, sir, but I didn’t …”

  “You told the officer, ‘We saw these two guys that we thought were queers.’”

  “Yes, sir, but I was just explaining to him how it started …”

  “You can’t say that,” said Carr. “That’s what I meant by coarse language. I know it’s something you and your friends say every day, but it’s not polite. Don’t use the word ‘queer.’ Don’t say ‘queer,’ and don’t say ‘fag’ or ‘fairy’ or ‘fruit,’ any word like that. If you have to describe these men, say you thought they were homosexual.”

  “Can I say they looked like homos?”

  “Homo-sexual. I know it’s a ten-dollar word, but it’s the word you use. And don’t say, ‘We saw these two homosexuals.’ You don’t know what they were. Don’t say anything about what you thought they were unless it’s important to what you’re telling the officer.”

  “Yes, sir, but everybody knows that qu— … I mean that homosexuals hang out in that park. And they were dressed fruity.”

  “What did Mr. Carr just tell you?” said Sam.

  “I meant they were dressed … funny.”

  “Chris, they were playing in the orchestra,” said Carr. “They had on the same clothes all the men in the orchestra wear.”

  “But they were in the park,” said Chris.

  “The park across the street from the auditorium, where the orchestra plays. What I’m trying to get you to say is that you and your friends didn’t go there looking for a fight. That you didn’t have anything against these men. That you weren’t prejudiced. Think about this … what if you told the police, ‘My buddies and I got in a fight in the park with two men because they were colored.’”

  “That’s not the same thing! I’m not prejudiced. I have friends who are Mexicans. These guys in the park were … it just didn’t look right.”

  “Maybe not,” said Carr, “but you need to explain that what happened was an argument, an argument that turned into a fight, and it got out of hand and one guy got accidentally kicked in the head. It was just guys being guys, and it happened.”

  “It wasn’t an accident,” said Chris. “Del Ray kicked him on purpose. I told him to stop.”

  “Don’t say that,” said Carr. “The police are going to question Del Ray. You were across the street.”

  “But I saw it happen,” said Chris. “When I came back.”

  “Let Del Ray explain that. This is important. You were across the street. You can’t be sure what you saw.”

  “But I am sure.”

  Sam Rhodes leaned over to his son and spoke in a low voice. “Son, for once in your life, just shut the fuck up and listen.”

  Chris shut up.

  When they were done, Sam drove Chris home. It had gone as well as he could have hoped. The police seemed to accept that it was just a fight between some teenagers and a couple of young men. The issue wasn’t over, by any means. The other two kids were definitely more culpable than Chris, but he was the one who was recognized, and it was in his truck they had left the scene. That made things sticky. He hoped his son wouldn’t have to testify in court. If they hadn’t hurt the guy so badly, then it would have been only a short police report and a stern talking to. Hell, if they’d just given the queer a bloody nose and some bruises on his face …

  It was Friday, and Chris was off work today. Sam had taken the morning off, which was definitely not convenient. He was an engineer for Palestine Field Services, and the office was busy as hell these days. He needed to go in to work this afternoon, at the very least, and probably put in an appearance tomorrow as well.

  He looked over at Chris, who sat dazed in the passenger seat, lost in thought. Sam hated to be so hard on his son. He was basically a good kid. He was Sam’s only child, and sometimes the boy seemed devoid of anything resembling common sense. But, secretly, Sam was a little bit proud. You have to stand up for the things you believe, not just say them in church or in school assembly with a hand over your heart. Sometimes you have to put on your work gloves and fight.

  In only a couple of years, it seemed, this country was starting to come apart at the seams. Hippies, Yippies, Black Panthers, even regular kids from normal, decent white families turning into radicals, yelling. Disrespect for everything normal and good; disrespect for brave soldiers. Sam had never served in a war, because a childhood accident had left him with three paralyzed fingers on his left hand. But he had been a civilian radar operator for the Coast Guard, so Sam had done his part.

  Mostly, the bad stuff was happening on the coasts, big cities where radicals could have their free love and welfare checks and then go out at night to throw rocks and bottles at the police. But, just lately, things seemed to be fraying even in nice little towns like Duro. Young men and girls turning against law and order made Sam mad. But people spitting on the Bible, rejecting God’s word about the natural roles of men and women—that made him sick.

  “Son, I don’t mean to speak so harshly to you,” Sam said. “You made a mistake. It will all blow over, and you’ll learn from it. That guy will get better, and all will be forgotten.”

  “Dad, he just fought with one hand,” said Chris. “He was pretty tough, actually. If he’d just used both hands, he could have fought Joe and Del Ray off.”

  “Fought with one hand?” said Sam. “Was his other hand messed up?”

  “Not that I could tell. He used both hands to push Joe hard, then throw his fiddle case over the fence. But when he fought, he just punched with his right, with his left hand tucked like this.” Chris demonstrated by folding his left hand and holding it close to his body. “I guess nobody ever learned him how to fight.”

  “I guess not.”

  Dad went back to work. Chris lay down on his bed and picked up a book he’d been reading, a straightforward story about British submarines in World War II. A simple adventure with the Allies against the Nazis. An easy read to relax with and take his mind off things.

  Cops and school officials, parents and lawyers—always making things out to be more complicated than they are. Really, it’s just good guys versus bad guys most of the time. If Del Ray hadn’t gone so crazy and kicked that queer, nothing would have ever happened.

  – 21 –

  A Desert Reverie

  Andy stared out the window of Jesus’s Ford Ranch Wagon. The red soil and cotton fields of the Panhandle went by, giving way gradually to patches of prickly pear and mesquite that marked the boundary between the Great Plains and the arid middle lands where farming was futile and cattle took over. There were a lot of jackrabbits. It had been a relatively wet year, and their population had swelled, especially as their main predators, the coyotes, were being rapidly exterminated by “coyote getters,” exploding cyanide bait sticks.

  Jesus drove and Peggy rode in the front seat, while Pauline and Andy sat in back. In the very back was a small bag with Andy’s things and Peggy’s suitcase from the week she had spent in a Lubbock motel.

  The low hills and fallow fields rolled by, and Andy heard the music of Charles Ives in his mind.

  “Mommy, he’s doing it again!” complained Pauline.

  “It’s all right, honey,” said Peggy from the front seat. “The doctor says we can’t rush him. If he doesn’t want to talk, just leave him alone until he’s ready.”

  “Why can’t he just be like he was? Come on, Andy!”

  Pauline’s frustration was shared by the other Zamaras, but Dr. Faust had sat them all down before Andy’s discharge and explained that his brain was healing slowly, and they should not expect him to respond to conversati
on in the same way, not for a while. When he got back to Duro, they should put him in an outpatient program at St. Cecilia’s, a clinic normally devoted to stroke patients but well-experienced with head trauma cases. Andy would work his way back to normal at his own pace.

  Pauline waited a couple of minutes while Andy stared out the window, away from her. She decided to try again.

  “Andy, I bet you got pretty tired of all that nasty hospital food. I’m gonna make you a peach pie when we get back.”

  No response. From the reflection in the window, Pauline could see that her brother’s eyes were open, but his face was expressionless. His head nodded ever so slightly to the slow rhythm of music only he could hear.

  “Mom says you’re gonna be staying with some people in town, because if you lived in your old room at the house you’d be too far from the clinic. Still, you can come back home on weekends and sleep in your old bed.”

  No response.

  “Andy, please!” said Pauline.

  “Baby, you’ve got to be patient,” said Peggy.

  “I’ve been patient for half an hour!” said Pauline. “Andy!”

  “Listen to your mama,” said Jesus. “The main thing is, we got our Andy back. He’s gonna be himself again. That’s what the doctor said.”

  The Zamara family continued down Highway 87 with no more attempts to break through Andy’s desert reverie. Peggy looked back at her son periodically.

  How different everything was, and how unfair! Her brilliant, beautiful son, delicate and kind. Who would do such a thing? The police had told Peggy they would keep them informed on the investigation, but the last word they had was a small news story in the American-Post about some high school boys being questioned. The authorities were silent, and Peggy hoped that meant they were close to solving the crime and were just waiting to make some arrests. Jesus had called his nephew, who was a patrolman with the Duro Police, but he couldn’t provide any more information than they already knew.