Angry Management (17 page)

Matt Miller

A boat prop coming up your back at thirty-five miles an hour will put three-to-five inch cuts all the way up. If it doesn’t cut your spine in two, you’ll bleed to death before anyone can close you up. I hope Marcus James didn’t feel it. I hope the boat hit him and it was done. I can’t close my eyes, because I keep seeing it, and I keep hearing his grandfather: “Where’s the flag?”

It’s too late in the year for there to have been anyone at the lake at that time of day. No witnesses will show; I know they won’t. There are a few cabins along the shore, but most are summer homes; maybe two or three are year-round. Nobody came out of those two or three to watch when the ambulance came. If anyone had seen anything, they’d have come forth.

Man, what do you do when you know the truth, when it’s stretched out in front of you, silent? I’ve been here in my room with my Bible all night long, reading passages, trying to find the answer. Saying the truth, searching for the truth, finding the truth are all over in this book. But I can’t find anything that tells me what
to do for myself when the truth taunts me.
Here I am in plain sight, and no one will (or wants to) see me.

I’m sure this will end up in the “strange and mysterious ways” category where unanswerable questions go, but I can’t accept that. If Mr. Simet is right, if those guys were suspended from the team because Coach Steensland thought they hung the noose, then they ran over Marcus to get even. Simple as that. Marshall’s grandfather and his great-grandfather were both mayors of this town back in the sundown town days. They still have that stupid rebel flag on their barn. There is no one in their family who has even the slightest chance of stopping that nasty shit from rolling through their generations.

Roger Marshall is smart; he knew there were no other boats on the lake, so his had to be the one that hit Marcus, but he claimed it was an accident. Jesus, what was Marcus doing swimming without that flag? Wait a minute…

Mr. S

This is one of those days no teacher wants to live through. A school of nine hundred kids, and one of them is gone. Everyone feels mortal on this day. No way to explain it. A morning assembly. Bean and Nethercutt talk to the students; don’t say anything more than that it happened. Tragic accident. A promising life cut short. Moment of silence. A couple of counselors from town have made themselves available in the office if anyone wants to stop by. After that, business as usual.

I went out to the James place late last night, after I talked with Matt, and sat with Wallace till morning; didn’t see an ounce of bitterness toward the guys who did it. He was willing to accept they didn’t see Marcus. Take them at their word. No point in ruining more lives than have already been ruined. “Don’t know what to do,” he said over and over. “Don’t know if I can stay in this house without him coming home. I was preparin’ myself for when he went to college, but then, see, he’d be comin’ for Thanksgivin’ and Christmas. I’d look forward to seein’ him. Knew I was gonna be sad, but my
grandson would be at
Stanford.
I got through eighth grade, Mr. Simet. Eighth grade, and my grandson was goin’ to Stanford.” Then he just slowly shook his head and stared.

“I know, Wallace. He was going to set the world on fire.”

“Them cuts went deep, teacher man. Shoulda seen ’em. Damned boat sliced my boy open.”

“I know, Wallace. I can’t imagine.”

“I seen it an’ I can’t imagine,” he said back.

We must have gone through that conversation ten times. It all ended in the same place. He fell asleep on the tattered couch just before sunrise. I covered him with a blanket and came to school.

“Hey, Mr. Simet.”

“Matthew Miller. Come in. Sit.”

He sits at the desk directly in front of mine.

“Hear anything on the grapevine?”

He says, “Strickland found out Marcus and his brother were, like, boyfriends.”

“What?”

“Yeah, when little bro got the news about the ‘accident,’ he broke down and spilled the beans. I guess he went psycho on Aaron, accused him of killing
Marcus on purpose. Ended up in the psych ward.”

“Maybe some information will come out of that. Keep your ears open. Most people who commit a crime don’t think of half the ways they can get caught. Bottom line will come when one or the other of them feels safer and starts talking.”

“I don’t even know if that would do it,” Matt says. “I stopped by city hall on my way to school this morning. I know I shouldn’t have, but I did. That Randy dude, the cop that questioned those guys at the lake, was just coming on duty. I flat told him I thought they ran over Marcus intentionally. He looked at me like I’d slept with his daughter and told me I’d best keep thoughts like that to myself. I asked him what would happen if I had proof. He grabs both my shoulders and stares me down; says, “Even if you think you have proof, you stay healthy keeping it to yourself.”

“He said that?”

“Exact words.”

“Sundown town, huh?”

Matt shakes his head. “You can take down the sign, but it’s not as easy to take down the attitude.”

Man, I wish I had this kid in my class. He’s sharper than half the faculty, present company included. Sundown towns. Who’d a thought it?

The ache in my chest for Marcus won’t go away. That kid was loaded with talent and personality. How far could he have gone? And how is Wallace going to survive? How do you put everything into your kid—or your kid’s kid—and then watch it all bleed out through the cuts in his back? I’ve been a teacher all my adult life; a teacher and a coach. I’ve taught kids I’ve loved and I’ve taught kids I couldn’t stand, but I’ve always been fair, I think, and I’ve always believed I treated them such that they got the benefit of the doubt from me. But that ended yesterday. I believe Marshall and Strickland and Stone ran over Marcus James intentionally, and I can’t find any doubt to give them the benefit of. I want them caught, and I want them punished. We are coming to a place in this world where there is simply no more room for bigotry. We don’t get any more chances, where we learn the lesson or we fail. No more retakes. No extra credit. It’s one thing for a family like the Marshalls or the Stricklands to be ignorant and hold on to hate that goes back generations for whatever reason. But when Matt said the
cop
told him to shut up; well, that institutionalizes the bigotry. Sundown towns be damned, it ain’t gonna happen on my watch.

Matt Miller

It’s after eight o’clock. Dark. The time of day I like best to run. I’ll have to start dropping major poundage soon, and I want to be in the best shape I can when the time comes. Plus, these runs are where I get right with the world. Something about the rhythm of my running shoes on the pavement or the hard dirt, the breathing in and breathing out, that sends power to my legs, makes me feel closer to my God. I talk to Him here. No church; no middleman. There’s a time and place for that, a time for celebration in a crowd; but if I’m going to get it
right,
I get it right here, with the cold bright moon lighting my way.

I’m looking for some capacity for forgiveness that I can’t find. Maybe I don’t even know what it is. I have to find a way to forgive Marshall and his buddies. It’s easy to want revenge, easy to go for it. It’s easy to hate their stupidity and ignorance, their arrogance. See, forgiveness is easy when someone has wronged you by accident, when you’re accommodating a mistake. That’s no sweat, no test. The test comes when you find no redeeming qualities, when you know you’re looking into the face of malice and
in the end there will be nothing returned by the forgiven. You do it because it cleanses your heart. I have to forgive them so I can be clean in bringing them down.

I know what Mr. Simet said has to be right, that if you commit a crime a thousand things you never think of can go wrong. Smart guys
might
think of a third of these. That means the Marshall gang won’t think of any. I run and let the pictures float through my head, like snapshots from the moment I crested the hill by the lake: the ambulance, the boat, Marshall and Strickland and Stone talking to the cop. Strickland pacing, looking all distraught, and maybe he was. He was pretty good at it. Stone’s expression living up to his name. Something was off. It was Stone’s wet hair. What was that about? His clothes weren’t wet, but his hair was. Almost dripping.

“I remember that, I think,” Mr. Simet says in the library before school. He’s recording grades. “I’m not sure I put it together with anything, but you’re right, it doesn’t make sense.

“Yeah, he would have had to stick his head overboard, or get on his stomach and get it wet from the dock. What would be the point?”

“Keep asking yourself that until you get an answer,” Mr. Simet says.

“I’ve got a detective’s brain,” I tell him. “When you read the Bible as much as I do, you have to ask yourself how some of that stuff got in there; like who put it, and what was the reason. If you don’t get that down, you lose every argument with every nonbeliever, and that’s a lot of arguments.”

“Well, we’re not dealing with intelligence of biblical proportions,” he says. “So I’ll give you a day to figure it out. And keep your head down.”

In the hall, Darcy catches me by the arm. “I heard you were up at the lake when they brought Marcus James out.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“We’re having a vigil out on the lawn to pray for him,” she says. “It would be nice if you came.”

I’m hesitant. From what I know of Marcus James, he probably wasn’t all that religious, but I guess there’s less need to pray for someone who is; they’ve prayed plenty for themselves. The idea of a prayer vigil for him feels good, even though I’m not on message with these guys. Very possibly the fact that Darcy asked is the reason I’m going.

Just off the lawn at the side of the street, nearly twenty of us stand in a circle and join hands. Walt Johns leads the prayer. “Dear Lord, please take Marcus James into Your wondrous care. Most of us didn’t know him
that well, but he was on the precipice of his life, and it seems so surreal, so unjust that he’s gone. But we know You work in ways we weren’t meant to understand, and that his death has meaning, though it may not be clear to us. Forgive him, Lord, for his choice to go to the dark side with his sexual preferences, and forgive us for not being strong enough to help him find his way back. Had he stayed, we’d have found a way.”

“And forgive Walt, Lord, for being left-handed,” I say. “And forgive his parents for not tying his left hand behind his back, when he was making the decision to favor that evil hand.” Everyone looks up as I drop the hand of the people on either side. “And forgive Darcy for her blue eyes, Lord. There
has
to be some way she could have made them brown.” I turn to walk away.

Darcy says, “Matt, wait.”

I raise my hands and keep walking, then turn. “One of you idiots go find a dictionary,” I say through clenched teeth, “and look up the definition of bigotry. You all are giving this Christian thing a bad, bad name.”

Christ. A kid eats it for seventeen years, gets mowed down by a motorboat full of thugs, then gets blamed. I just hope those people don’t turn eighteen and vote.

But,
it wasn’t the rhythm of the road under my
running shoes that I needed to kick my detection attributes into gear. It was
temper.
In the middle of my anger at those jerks, it came clear. Stone’s hair was wet because he was in the water. His clothes
weren’t
wet because he took them off. But
why?
I suppose Marcus could have still been thrashing around and he got in to finish him off, but that sounds way out there even for one of those guys. It’s one thing to run over a guy; it’s another to deliver the final blow. That can’t be it.

“Come in, Matt.” Bean signals me into his office. “What can I do for you?”

“I need to go home.”

He looks at me sympathetically. “I understand,” he says. “It has to be tough. I hope you’re not blaming yourself.”

“Sir?”

“For your actions day before yesterday morning during the assembly.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I just hope you’re not thinking that set this all in motion.”

I sit watching him. He
means
it. Just to be sure…“Set what in motion?”

“You know,” he says. “Had Roger and his friends
been on the football field, they wouldn’t have been at the lake and this awful accident would never have happened. They’d been suspended from the team. I thought you knew that.”

“Yes, sir, I did know that, I just never thought to blame myself. Look, I just feel bad and I’m going home.”

The Bean stiffens. “You mean you’re here to ask permission.”

“No, I’m leaving. I’ll bring an excuse from home.” I walk out.

In my mind I’m staring at a stone tablet.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL.
Man, give me any one of those commandments and I’ll give you a godly reason to break it. I’d kill to stop loved ones from being killed, or probably in a righteous war. I’d bear false witness in a second if it would keep someone I cared about out of harm’s way. And on and on. I’m on private property and I’m about to break and enter, and I’ll bet you I come out with some truth. See, that’s what Jesus would do: go for truth.

I circle the house twice, finally get the courage to knock. I’ve got three Hershey bars with me, and if Mr. Marshall answers I’ll try to sell them to him for a school
fundraiser. I can guarantee he won’t buy them, but I’ll know whether or not he’s at home.

No answer. Rang the bell twice and knocked once, hard. Unless he’s in an upstairs bedroom with a rifle pointed at my temple, I’m pretty sure he’s not here.

I circle the barn. The double front doors are locked by padlock, but I can see what I’m looking for through the crack between them. Several windows are broken and boarded over on the side of the barn that sports the Confederate flag, probably so the continuity of the image isn’t broken up. Those Marshalls are picky when it comes to the images of their bigotry. I think I can knock a couple of boards loose to get in. I don’t like being exposed to the road while committing my crime, but if I’m quick, no one will see me.

Inside, I see a rusty sign leaning against the far wall.
NIGGER DON’T LET THE SUN SET ON YOUR ASS IN CUTTER
. Nice. I move quickly to the boat, and on the floor just under the outboard motor, I find what I came for.

“Mr. Miller. I thought you went home for the day.”

“I did, sir, but I’m suddenly feeling better.”

Mr. Simet looks at his watch. “Might that have something to do with the fact that the school day has ended?”

He’s pretty funny. So am I. “Actually I’m known as an eager student who values his education and knowledge in general. Wanna come out to my car and see what I found home-schooling myself today?”

“Love to.”

At the car, I open the trunk.

“What is it?”

“The flag Marcus had around his waist in the water.”

“Where did you get this?”

“Roger Marshall’s boat. That’s why Strickland’s hair was wet. He had to get in and take the flag off Marcus. That’s a cold-blooded son of a bitch.”

He stares hard.
“How
did you get it?”

“I had to break a commandment; two, if you consider Marshall my neighbor. I coveted it, and I stole it.”

He turns it over in his hands. “How do we prove it was there?”

“I took a picture on my cell phone. It has a time marker, which proves I took it before I brought it to you.

He says, “Let’s go.”

“I’d like to talk to whoever is investigating the Marcus James death,” Mr. Simet says at the front desk.

“The black boy run over by the boat?”

You can see Mr. Simet’s irritation. “Yeah, the black boy run over by the boat.”

“I don’t believe anyone’s
investigating
it,” the sergeant says. “There’s no investigating an accident.”

“What if there were evidence to the contrary?” Mr. Simet says.

“Depending on what it was, we’d take it under advisement. What do you have?”

“Pretty good evidence that the kids that hit him were lying about his visibility.” Mr. Simet holds up the broken remains of the flag, with the piece of belt still attached. The sergeant reaches for it, and Mr. Simet hands it over. “Marcus wore it around his waist when he swam alone,” I say, “so people could see him. The guys in the boat said Marcus wasn’t wearing it when they hit him, that he was almost invisible. I was at the lake when they said it. They said it to an officer named Randy.”

“Randy Mix,” the sergeant says.

“That’s him,” Mr. Simet says.

“Randy’s on duty right now. I’ll give him a call on the radio. If he’s busy I’ll show it to him when he gets in. Let me mark it.” The sergeant disappears down a hallway. In several minutes he returns, gets our names, addresses, and numbers. “We’ll be in touch soon,” he says. “Thank you both.”