Chinese Handcuffs (19 page)

He looked a little startled to see me, and I walked right up to him and asked if I could have a few minutes of his time, and he was cordial like he always is but said he was real busy right now and could I come back later. I said, “Nope.”

He looked at the tape case in my hand and back in my eyes, and I was scared as hell; but I held the tape up and said, “I have something you should see.”

So we went in, and I asked if he had something we could
take a look at the tape on, and he called to his secretary, and she whipped right in and set it up.

I almost stopped right there, Pres. I almost stopped because I couldn't imagine watching it again, and I was really afraid what would happen if he saw my reaction—like he'd think he had me—but then I remembered how Jen told me that when he came into her room at night, she just went away. I figured if it was good enough for her, it was good enough for me. So old T.B. Martin, that pillar of our community, that president-elect of
FUTURE THREE FORKS,
slid the tape right into his thousand-dollar machine, cranked up his twenty-seven-inch stereo Sony TV set, and he and I watched us some serious video.

I took his pulse from the veins in his forehead and said, “This is your copy. I have several more.”

He watched awhile and took a deep breath, straightened his tie. Then he smiled and said, “What do you want?”

I said, “I want you gone.”

He said, “I'm afraid that's not possible.”

I nodded toward the video. “This shit's gonna be pretty hard to explain.”

He put a finger up to his lip and watched some more, nodding, measured me, then glanced over to his desk.

“You could do that,” I said, fantasizing a gun in the top middle drawer, “but anything happens to me and one copy
goes to each of the TV channels, one to the newspaper, one to the cops, and one to the prosecutor's office. I took the time to write a clear narrative. You have to know I wouldn't be here if I weren't covered. And you must know I
know
what you're like, or I'd be at the police station. There's no bluff. I'm not stupid.”

He nodded again. “And if I go along?”

“I leave the tapes where they are.”

He said, “What do I have to do to get them?”

I said, “Die.”

“How do I know you won't make them public?”

“I wouldn't do that to Jen. She knows nothing about this. She's suffered enough; I won't add to that unless I have to. I hate you a lot, but I love her more. But if anything happens, like to a family pet, you asshole, or to her sister or her or her mom, and I mean
anything,
these things will be prime time.”

He stared straight ahead, seemingly scanning the possibilities, and my stomach rolled. What if I'd left some hole open? What if I'd missed just one little piece? “Accidents count,” I said.

“What?”

“Accidents,” I said. “They count. If someone in Jen's family has an accident, or if I do, or if her little sister's pet gerbil does, that counts. Tapes hit the mail trail.”

“That's not something I can control.”

“Then you better hope you're lucky.”

Then I saw just a
little
crack, a tic at the corner of his mouth. He said, “You know, you little faggot, I could beat this in court. You may not know who you're dealing with.”

I shrugged. “Be my guest. I've got good people behind me if I need them. Not public defenders with caseloads backed up into the alley. Good people. Smart ones. Some maybe as smart as you.”

He thought another minute and took a deep breath, again unflappable. “How long?” he asked. “How long will you give me to get things squared away.”

“Five, maybe ten minutes,” I said. “When we walk out of here, you go home and get your shit, leave a note that says you have to go out of town for a week, and you're gone. Communication with these people is over. Jen said once that you told her you could be set up three thousand miles away in three months. That sounds like a distance I could tolerate.”

The son of a bitch wouldn't let me see him sweat, Pres. He's hard core.
Really
hard core. He just nodded and said, “You got me.”

I followed him to his house, and he packed a suitcase and took some boxes of things, and at the car I told him, “It's automatic. Anything happens to anyone remotely
involved in this, and the VCR express opens its gates.”

He said, “I said you got me. Okay?”

I said, “We'll see.”

 

I thought that would do it, Pres. I thought I had covered all my bases and now he'd just disappear and no one would know what happened to him and life could go on like it was designed to do. But it was too easy. I went to bed that night thinking what a genius I'd turned out to be, and by the time I'd lain in the dark for about thirty minutes I was in complete and utter panic. He was just too smart and too mean to go out without a whimper. I didn't know for sure what I'd missed; but I knew it had to be something major, and I had probably assured my part as an accessory in a family bloodbath. So I went down and woke up Dad and told him.

He listened, and after he passed through pure astonishment, he said, “I tell you, son, I don't know enough about that kind of man to give you any help at all. Sounds like you covered all the bases to me, but who knows?” He decided the man who did know would be Dr. Newcomb, so we gave him a call at his home, and next thing I knew Dad was driving us out there.

The good doctor said it was entirely possible that he was gone, but that I'd been crazy to try to take a guy like
T.B. Martin on alone. He said, “If there's a hole, he'll find it. I think you need to warn his family.”

Well, hell, by then it was nearly midnight, but Dad drove me back home to get your van—I didn't want Jen to know anyone else knew—and I went over there and banged on the door until a light came on upstairs, and pretty soon Jen answered.

I thought she would rip my head off. She screamed at me and hammered on my chest and actually knocked me down into the snow. No one has ever said as vicious things as that to me—ever. She told me that I'd betrayed her and I was like everyone else in her life and that she could see why you'd want to kill yourself because of me and that she hoped every day of my life from now on would feel just exactly like it did the minute you pulled the trigger. And she said that she hated my guts and that I would rot in hell.

I couldn't understand it, Pres, I just couldn't. But then it got crystal clear. Jen knelt beside my head in the snow—I'd been afraid to get up—and she grabbed my face in her hands and she said, “Do you know the one thing in the world worse than having that bastard on me all the time? Inside me?” and all I could do was shake my head no, and she said, “It's having someone
watch
it. It's having someone see it. And
know
it. Do you understand that?” Do you
understand that?” and she shoved my head back into the snow and stomped into the house. I lay there in the snow, stunned, and I did understand. Not in the way Jen knew it, but in the best way I could without having gone through it, I think.

When she went back inside, I pulled myself up and dug around in the snow for my crutches, made it to my car, and drove off; but I came back and parked on the other side of the street, where I could see both the front and back of her house, so I could be sure she wouldn't head out for a bridge or a water tower or some damn thing. God, I felt awful.

It was a week before she would even acknowledge my existence. She wouldn't let me touch her all during the state tournament, even to wrap her leg. I finally had to tell Coach about it, and she took care of Jen's training needs. On the night of the state final over in Seattle—we won it, by the way, in the anticlimactic event of the decade—she touched me on the arm. Didn't say anything, mind you, but she touched my arm.

Who knows what her mind went through in that time, but on the bus ride back, she came over and asked the girl sitting next to me to move, and she sat down and said, “Do you have the copies of those tapes?”

I said I did.

She said, “Can I have them?”

I told her of course she could have them.

“I'm taking them to the police.” Pres, I'll tell you, sometimes I think this whole part of my life was orchestrated by some amateur spirit rehearsing to be a minor god in charge of keeping people off-balance. I said, “What?”

Jen said, “If T.B.'s out there somewhere, then it won't be long before some girl is in the same boat as I've been in. I don't know who she is, but I can't let that happen to anyone if I have a chance to stop it. I talked to that Dr. Newcomb guy long distance on the phone this morning before we left, and he said he could help me with the legal part. He said he could probably see to it that I never have to watch the tape.”

I looked into her eyes. “What if you do?”

She grimaced. “Then I do.”

We rode along in silence for a while. Then she said, “I'm still mad at you, Dillon. But at least I know why you did it.”

 

I still don't know how all this will turn out. Jen went to the police and the prosecutor with Dr. Newcomb, and he's going to do some therapy with her. They promised to run
the investigation without any publicity, and unless T.B. turns up, Jen won't have to worry.

Jen and Stacy have become good friends; they spend an incredible amount of time together. Jen is totally transfixed by Ryan, and sometimes I think the little mucous factory has two mothers. Two eighteen-year-olds. Does that make one thirty-six? I'm pretty sure Jen told Stacy all about her stepdad; they're really tight now, and I don't think you can become that close without sharing the tough stuff. Part of me is jealous, I mean—you should see them together—but another part is relieved. It's kind of nice not being the one who knows all and can't tell.

I've backed way off anything romantic. I ain't the smartest guy in the world; but I'm smart enough to know what Dr. Newcomb said about Jen has to be true, and it's going to be a long time before she's ready to be with anyone, and even if she did get better, I have this deep feeling—so deep it's almost like
knowledge
—that she wouldn't even be able to be with me, me having seen that tape and all.

But whatever Jen is or isn't, she's one hell of a round-baller. I swear, the harder things got for her in the world, the tougher she was on the court. I want to tell you she tore them
up
at state. If this all ever settles
down, I think she'll be real proud.

It looks like Jen's mom will give her baby up for adoption. The day after she found out what I'd done, Jen went right to her and said that she was going to tell everything if her mom didn't give it up, that she didn't have idea number one how to protect it and Jen was living proof of that, and that she was by God going to see it didn't go one step farther. It's amazing to me that the only way to get anything done in that family is through blackmail. I guess Mrs. Martin cried and begged for another chance, but Jen laid down her ultimatum and walked out of the room.

You'd like my new tooth, the one I got to replace the hole Jen left in my face. I found this bizarre dentist with a sense of humor that matches mine pretty closely, and for a few extra bucks—actually a
lot
of extra bucks—he puts metallic and ceramic inlays into his bridgework. Now I have a gold star right in the middle of my front tooth, and every time he sees me smile, Caldwell nearly craps his drawers with indignation. I guess he doesn't remember Gus Johnson of the old Baltimore Bullets in the NBA. I'm saving my money for a ceramic inlay of the Tasmanian Devil.

Well, bro, I guess that about wraps it. No more homework for you. I've got better things to do with my life than spend it with a pen in my hand, writing to a man who
never reads his mail. My struggle with you is finished. I'm going to let you go, push my finger in and release us from these crazy Chinese handcuffs.

I wish you'd stayed, though.

God, how I wish you'd stayed.

Your brother,

Dillon

Dillon stood in Coach Sherman's office, folding the girls' uniforms for the final time, his stint as trainer for the State Champion Chief Joseph Braves officially at an end.

“Do I get a girls' letter jacket?” he asked.

“Do you want one?”

“Sure. The managers and trainers of all the boys' sports get them.”

“It's okay with me,” Coach said. “You can fill out one of those order forms on the desk.”

Dillon smiled. “I think it will be a spiritual challenge for Caldwell to see me in a girls' letter jacket with a gold star in my smile every day from now till the end of school.” He seemed to consider something a minute,
then: “Coach, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“What's it feel like knowing you're always going to be alone?”

Coach smiled. “I guess it's like being free. Being alone isn't bad at all when it's a choice.”

“But what's it
like?”

She put down the shorts she was folding and sat against the desk. “It's like being tall, or blond, or quick. It's just what I am. It's what is.”

Dillon squinted and grimaced a little, obviously hoping for something more revealing.

“Dillon, the so-called American Dream isn't for everyone. It's particularly not for a lot of women. See, we get to be dreamed about, but we don't often get to do the dreaming. We become part of the collection of artifacts that make up that dream for men. At its worst, it turns into what happened in Jen's family. Some women can pull it off, some even pull it off well, but it's a standard to measure against, rather than one to aspire to.” She smiled. “Because I live by myself doesn't mean I'm alone. It just means I have the choice. And I like that.”

Dillon nodded.

Coach said, “Are you worried about being alone?”

He smiled. “A little, I guess.”

“Just remember it's a choice. Like everything else, it's a choice.”

 

Dillon drove his brother's van through town toward his old neighborhood, where he and Preston had grown up together, across the back alley from Mrs. Crummet, and Charlie the Cat. He pulled into the alley and parked up close to the side of the old garage, next to a box of rusty car parts, placed there years ago to mark the site of a savage killing. He got out of the van and stood staring at the box, wondering if his memory of the events on that long-ago summer evening connected him in any way to T.B. Martin. He imagined it did.

He crossed the alley, approached the back porch, then knocked lightly on the screen door. When no one answered, he rang the bell, and a small, pretty woman, probably in her mid-thirties, appeared. “Yes?”

“Hi,” he said. “My name is Dillon Hemingway, and I used to live in that house next door. There was an old woman living here then. Her name was Mrs. Crummet. Do you by any chance know what happened to her?”

“Sure,” the woman said, opening the screen door. “She lives right here with us.” She put out her hand.
“I'm Betty. She's my mother.”

Dillon nodded and smiled. “Do you suppose I could see her?”

The woman motioned him in. “Certainly,” she said. “She'd love to see you, I'm sure. To tell you the truth, she doesn't get many visitors.”

The woman led Dillon into the living room, where an ancient lady sat rocking in her chair. She didn't look up as they entered the room, and the woman walked directly in front of her, bent down, and raised her voice gently. “Mom,” she said, “this is Dillon Hemingway. He used to live next door. He came to see you.”

Mrs. Crummet looked around the room, seemingly startled when her eyes came to rest on Dillon, who stood before her, his hands folded in front of him. “Hi, Mrs. Crummet. Do you remember me?”

Mrs. Crummet stared back as if she hadn't the foggiest notion who this boy was. Her daughter stood and whispered in his ear, “She gets confused, Dillon. She's pretty old. Eighty-three last month.”

Dillon knelt down to her eye level. “I used to live next door,” he said, and Mrs. Crummet nodded, still without any recognition whatever. “Hemingway,” he said.

Mrs. Crummet said, “Hemingway,” then started
with recognition. “You used to live next door,” she said. “Daddy's a mailman or a truck driver or something.”

“Yeah,” Dillon said. “That's me. Do you remember a cat you used to have? A cat named Charlie?”

“Charlie,” Mrs. Crummet said with a faraway look. “Charlie. Oh, yes. Charlie. He's out back. In the woodpile.”

“No,” Dillon said. “This was a three-legged cat you had about ten years ago. He disappeared.”

“Three legs?” she said. “Oh, yes. Three legs. Had to chop one of 'em off. It was just hanging there. Charlie. Yes. He's out back in the woodpile.”

Dillon closed his eyes. “He's not out there, Mrs. Crummet. My brother and I—we killed him.”

“Well, you boys should be ashamed,” she said. “The very idea. . . . What were you doing out there?”

“No,” Dillon said. “I mean, it was ten years ago. We killed Charlie. It was stupid. He hurt our dog.”

“He hurt your dog?” Mrs. Crummet was indignant. “I'll have a word with Charlie this afternoon. Is your dog all right?”

“Our dog's fine,” Dillon said. “I mean, he's old now. He's gone. But I came to tell you about your cat. I came to say I'm sorry.”

Mrs. Crummet's eyes went soft and faraway. “Well,
that's nice,” she said. “More people should say that. More people should say they're sorry.”

Tears welled in Dillon's eyes. He ran his fingers softly over her wrist, and she placed her other hand over them as he stared into her face and she gazed out beyond the kitchen doorway, across the alley to an old box full of rusty car parts.

Her daughter put a hand on Dillon's shoulder. “She doesn't understand,” she said. “I do, though. Let yourself off the hook, Dillon. You were a little boy.”

He stood, staring sadly at Mrs. Crummet before her daughter walked him back toward the kitchen door, where he thanked her and said, “I guess some things just can't be fixed.”

 

In late summer a police detective in Orlando, Florida, walked into a plush law office in a tall office building only a few minutes' drive from Disney World. Without identifying himself he approached a handsome, tanned middle-aged lawyer standing in the waiting room, talking with his secretary. “Are you Terrence Martin?” he asked.

“Why, yes, I am,” T.B. said, extending his hand.

“I have a warrant for your arrest,” the detective said. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

 

Three days later Dillon Hemingway entered his first triathlon in more than a year and placed third in his age-group, eighteenth overall, with a time more than twenty minutes faster than he'd projected.

His former high school principal, John Caldwell, was heard to say, “What a waste. It's a real shame I could never teach that kid any respect.”