One Mississippi (35 page)

“Timmy. That’s crazy. You killed him, isn’t that what you said? You can’t get any more revenge than that.”

“Sure you can. His family will find out what he was. They’ll have to live with it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wrote ’em a letter. Told ’em every last cruel, horrible thing their beloved Dudley ever did to us. Mailed it this morning. I wrote you one too.”

My eye caught a movement outside, his glance followed mine — he raised the shotgun and fired
blam!
It nearly knocked him off his feet.

A canister sailed in from the front of the school on a tail of whitish smoke. It went way wide of our window and landed in the courtyard, clattering across the pavement to a stop beneath the library windows, where it promptly burst in a cloud of white smoke.

“Holy shit, they’re shooting tear gas!” Tim’s face lit up. “Durwood, this is the big time! You know what this means, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Remember Kent State. They always shoot the tear gas right before they storm the location. You better take one of these guns and keep an eye on door number two there where the lovely Carol Merrill is standing.”

The smoke cloud swelled and blew away from us, through the open windows of the library and into the cafeteria. A few seconds went by — here came a boy coughing staggering into the courtyard, then two girls and three boys, gagging blind groping out into the air, grabbing at their faces.

Tim steadied his wrist with his other hand and braced the revolver against the window frame.

I couldn’t let him do this anymore. I leaned over the desk and picked up the German spy pistol by the grip. The cold metal sent a chill throughout my body. I began to shiver.

“Tim, I’m not gonna let you.” I tried to sound firm, but the tremor in my voice was fatal.

He turned to see me pointing the pistol at him. His face broke into a goofy grin. “Oh my God, it’s Don Knotts! The shakiest gun in the West! Careful there, Barney, you might shoot yourself.”

“I’m not kidding. Put the gun down.”

“Oh please,” Tim said. “Don’t make me laugh. You know you’re not gonna shoot that thing.”

“I will if I have to. You’re not killing anybody else.”

He was laughing, shaking his head.

I poked the gun into his ribs. “I swear to God. Put it down. It’s over.”

He pushed it away. “Durwood, I am so disappointed. The other day in Vicksburg, you said you would die for me.”

“This is not what I meant!”

“Well, it is what
I
meant. We’re in this together now, son. Your prints are all over that gun. You’re in here with me. Nobody’s gonna know I was the only one shooting.”

“Tim. You’re not killing anybody else.” I wanted to keep him talking. From the corner of my eye I saw people fleeing through the courtyard while I argued with him.

And here came Mrs. Passworth, grabbing the hand of a ninth-grader, yelling, “What are you doing? Don’t you know there’s somebody shooting out here? Get your heinie back inside that school!”

Tim cut his eyes back at me. “Heinie,” he said with a smirk.

Mrs. Passworth put herself between us and the girl — she had the girl by the arm and was dragging her back to the door.

Tim followed their struggle through his telescopic sight.

“Tim. Please don’t. Please.”

“You’d think somebody out there would have tried to stop me by now,” he said. “These cops are such pussies.”

Passworth came out into the courtyard again. She walked to the middle of the open space and cupped her hands over her eyes, squinting across the courtyard at us.

At first I had thought she could see us, but she was in bright sun and we were in the shadows of Mr. Hamm’s shot-out office. She began edging toward us.

I said, “She’s coming over. Don’t hurt her.”

Tim swung his gun. “Stop where you are!” he yelled. He fired over her head. The sound hammered my ears.

She stopped. “Who is that in there? Is that Tim?”

“Go back in or I’ll kill you, I swear!”

“Well I heard you on the PA, but I didn’t want to believe it. Would it be all right if I come in there and talk to you? Just for a minute?”

“No! Get out of here! I mean it! I’ll do it!” He turned to me. “Get her out of here!”

“Now, Tim,” Passworth said, “you know that what happened to Eddie was not your fault. I never told a soul that was you in that room. Eddie was the one who did wrong. You were a child.”

His face twisted into a smirk. “She’s out of her mind. Listen to her making shit up.”

Passworth peered into the mouth of our cave. “Who’s in there with you?”

“Daniel,” said Tim.

I tightened my grip on the gun. “I’m trying to get him to stop,” I called. “Go on out of here before you get hurt!”

“Now, boys, listen to me — both of you —”

“I tell you something, Skippy.” Tim put down the revolver and picked up the rifle. “For once, I know a way to shut her up that is one hundred percent effective.”

“No — Tim —”

He hefted the gun to his shoulder and looked into the sight. He shot her as if she meant nothing. He squeezed the trigger.
BLAM!
Mrs. Passworth crumpled to the pavement.

I moved forward swiftly, placed the pistol muzzle against the base of his skull. “I’ll blow your brains out, Timmy, I swear to God I will. Put it down. Put the gun down.” Ten seconds ago I had been absolutely sure I could never shoot anybody. Now I could do it in an instant.

Tim closed his eyes. He tilted his head toward me. “Okay.” A little smile curved up the right side of his mouth. “I’m turning around now. No sudden moves, Skippy.” The rifle clattered to the floor.

The turning of his head dragged the mouth of the barrel across his cheek. When it was almost to his nose he seized my wrist with both hands.

His grip was enormously strong. I thought he might break my arm. He managed to get the pistol barrel turned away from his face. He leaned down and kissed me, hard, on the mouth. “I love you,” he said. He forced my hand back the other way. I thought he was trying to shoot me, but he got his mouth around the barrel, got his thumb in between my finger and the trigger, and pushed it.

He blew all over the principal’s wall.

2
9

T
IM SLUMPED LEFT
and thudded to the floor.

I placed the pistol on the desk beside the revolver. My hand and forearm were spattered with blood. I screamed to the police he was dead, somebody please come help me.

All at once cops were everywhere, pouring in the door behind me and the broken windows in front. One of them jumped on me hard, twisting my right arm behind my back as he tackled me.

I felt the bones in my right arm snap in two places,
snap snap
.

I screamed
Oh you broke my arm!
and the guy on top of me said
Shut up shithead I hope I break your goddamn skull too!

I can’t blame him for thinking I was the shooter. He didn’t know what Tim looked like. I was the one still alive in Mr. Hamm’s office. Naturally he assumed.

He didn’t even seem sorry when he finally got off me and stood me up and saw my arm flopping over at that odd angle. He spread-eagled me against the wall and groped me all over without any gentleness, looking for weapons, my arm shrieking hurting so bad I thought I might puke on the wall.

I tried to tell him I wasn’t Tim, that’s Tim over there he shot himself, Tim Cousins, it was him doing the shooting, not me, for God’s sake you gotta believe me. I was the one who stopped him! I think I was crying. The man kept shouting
Shut up! Shut up!

“Watch out, Arthur,” the second cop said when the first one tried to put my arms behind me. “Look, you did break his arm. Jesus, man, get off him.”

The first cop tugged me up by my good arm. “Sonofabitch shoots up the whole school and you want me to wipe his nose for him?”

“I didn’t shoot anybody! It was him! I came in here to stop him. He was my friend. Call Jeff Magill, he’s a detective — in Jackson, the sheriff’s office. I told him about Tim. I swear, please! You gotta believe me.”

I kept stammering all the way from Hamm’s office through the cluster of cops at the front entrance, into the patrol car, and on to the emergency room. The doctor gave me a shot straight into the arm between the bones that I thought was the worst pain I would ever endure, until a few minutes later he came back in, grabbed my arm with two hands, and twisted the bones back into place. That crunch scraped the edge of my soul.

One deputy stood on each side of me throughout the procedure. When my arm was encased in hardening plaster and the pain was fading to a dull throb, they put me back in their car and drove me downtown.

I was numb. Not from the shot.

Tim said he loved me. He killed all those people. He wanted to die. But he couldn’t bring himself to kill himself. He made me do it. I did not want to think about what this could possibly mean.

They took me up from the parking garage in an elevator that smelled of bleach and piss. They put me in a room with two chairs facing across a square table, a mirrored window set into one wall.

My arm barely hurt anymore, but my whole brain was aching. I rested the cast on my knee and lowered my face into the crook of my other arm.

I couldn’t make it unhappen.

It began to dawn on me that those minutes in the library stacks, lost in the broad pages of those architecture books, were to be my last peaceful happy minutes for a long time.

A key clicked in the lock. Jeff Magill came in with an unlit cigarette in his hand, his hair slicked to his head. He looked like someone who had just spent the last hour being screamed at. “Hey, Dan. How’s your arm?”

“Okay.”

“Does it hurt bad?” His voice was hoarse.

“No.”

“I’m sorry they broke it,” he said. “They didn’t have to do that.”

“He thought I was Tim.”

He nodded. “That’s exactly what he thought.”

I didn’t remember that little gold cross around his neck. Maybe he’d worn it tucked inside his shirt before.

I said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“I’m the one asking questions today,” he said, but then, “Go ahead.”

“Tim said he shot Red first, and then — Arnita?”

“That’s right.”

“Are they both dead?”

He watched me closely. “Yes.”

All the air went out of me. I sagged back against the chair. I hadn’t known how much I was hoping. I whispered the word “fuck” without thinking it. “Did you see her? I mean — are you sure?”

“Yes,” Magill said. “He killed her father too. Why would he want to do that?”

I shook my head.

“Daniel. I know you’ve got answers for me.”

“But I don’t know why. He didn’t say why. He was just shooting. He said it was fun.”

“Fun?”

“Yeah.”

“Did that fit y’all’s usual definition of fun?”

“No.”

“Were you there while Tim was shooting people, Dan?”

He asked it casually, but I sensed that was his most important question so far.

“Only Mrs. Passworth,” I said. “He shot the others before I got there. She came out of the cafeteria. To get this kid to go back inside. He just grabbed up the rifle and he — shot her. And I loved her. I mean, she was crazy but — well, you had to know her. And it was just for no reason. She was only trying to talk to him. I put the gun by his head. I told him to stop. That’s when he . . .” I ran out of breath.

Magill lit the cigarette. “What?”

“He grabbed the gun. And killed himself.”

“Just like that, he just —” He pointed a finger at his mouth and pulled the trigger.

I felt my face heating up. I would rather die than tell him what happened. But I couldn’t lie anymore. Tim had blasted away any urge I ever had to lie. Lies were what brought me to this place where I found myself, this room with two chairs, a table, Jeff Magill.

“He kissed me,” I said. “And he said, um —”

“What?”

“He said he loved me.”

Magill gazed at me evenly. “He ever kissed you before?”

“No.”

“Had you two ever —”

“No.”

He kept his gaze steady on me. “That’s the truth? I don’t care if you did or not. A lot of boys do things. Just tell me the truth.”

“But I’m not like that. I never even knew he was, until like a week ago.”

Magill said, “You think he could have been jealous of the Beecham girl?”

“Why would he be jealous?”

“If he had this attraction to you, maybe he was jealous of her, wanted her dead. Maybe that was the real reason for this thing, more than Red Martin.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But that’s not what he said.”

Jeff Magill asked questions, hour after hour. The same questions over and over with new ones thrown in to keep me off balance. I told him the story many times. I tried to remember every last detail.

He never asked if I wanted to speak to a lawyer or go to the bathroom or have a drink of water, or if I minded him blowing smoke in my face. He never said I had the right to remain silent, but I had watched enough
Dragnet
to know that.

Behind the one-way mirror I could sense people coming and going. The sound wasn’t masked very well and I could hear the murmur of voices in there.

Every so often Magill went out of the room, and I rested my head on my good arm. I felt so weak. If anyone had asked me to stand up and walk out of there I could not have done it.

He returned with a bulky cassette tape recorder in a brown leather case, like the one Eddie Smock’s brother played at the funeral. “Here’s what I don’t understand,” he said. “What if every kid who got picked on by some bully decided to do like Tim? What kind of a screwed-up world would it be? I mean, I believe what you’re saying, son, but most of this stuff is just so much bullshit. It’s just high school — bullies, and grudges, and crushes, and stupid vendettas, and arguments nobody can even remember how they started. There’s not one thing you’ve told me that’s anywhere close to enough to make that boy do all this. You don’t go shoot five people and yourself because some asshole picked on you. Maybe you go shoot the asshole. But not five people.”

“But if the asshole just ruined your life?” I said. “If he put that report in everybody’s locker, so everybody would know what you did? That might do it. If you thought you didn’t have anything to lose.” How could I explain? I didn’t half understand it myself. “His mother thought he was getting better,” I said. “I did too.”

“Yeah, she’s here now. That’s what she said.”

The idea of Patsy Cousins in this building was vaguely alarming. Poor woman, imagine the state she must be in. Tim used to say one glimpse of a cockroach could put her in bed for a week. How would she ever get through this?

“Who else is here?”

“Your folks. And every reporter in town.”

“My mother’s here?”

“Yeah, and your father, and your sister.”

Wow, Mom, that was fast. She had managed to make it all the way back from Alabama before Jeff Magill ran out of questions to ask.

Oh God what I had done to them.

What Dad would do to me.

It would be bad. I knew that. But his reaction just didn’t matter that much to me now. He couldn’t hurt me. I couldn’t be hurt anymore. He might hit me. I would hit him back. He might kick me out of the house. I would gladly go.

I was exhausted and hollow and my mouth was dry, but I could not bring myself to ask Jeff Magill for even a drink of water. I felt so ashamed. I felt like a criminal in my heart. I hadn’t done anything to stop Tim, which meant I’d helped him. I felt enough shame for both of us.

I said, “My father is pissed off, I bet.”

“That’s not how I’d put it,” said Magill. “Okay Dan, I want you to focus. Now you’re gonna tell me one more time, from the beginning, just exactly everything you can remember. I want every detail. And I’m going to put it on this tape here, so I want this to be just as full and complete a statement as you can possibly make. You understand?”

“You want me to tell the whole thing again?”

“Absolutely. Every word. Don’t leave anything out.”

We went over my story, around it, behind and under it, we came out the other side of it. The good thing about not lying is, you don’t have to think twice before speaking. All you have to tell is the truth.

At last he pushed
STOP
on the tape recorder and carried the machine out of the room.

When he came back, he brought Dad with him.

“Son.”

“Hey Dad.”

“How are you, son?” Of course Dad would show fatherly concern in front of the other man. He would wait to get me alone for the punishment.

“I’m okay,” I said.

“Come on, then. Let’s go home.”

I couldn’t believe it. I turned to Magill. “I can go?”

“We need to talk more, but yeah, we’ve both had enough for one night.”

“I’m not under arrest?”

“Son,” Dad said. “Will you ever learn to quit while you’re ahead?”

Jeff Magill almost smiled. He said, “Listen to your father.”

That was exactly what I had trained myself not to do. For the sake of getting out of there I said, “Yes sir. I will.”

Mom burst into tears at the sight of me. Janie directed a furious stare at the floor. I could tell she didn’t like Mom crying in front of all these strangers.

Jeff Magill led us back through the maze of hallways to the piss-smelling elevator. “Don’t go out through the lobby. Go to G-3 and tell the officer on duty you want the Pearl Street door.”

“Thank you, officer.” Dad shook his hand. “We owe you for your kindness.”

“Y’all get some sleep,” said Magill. “I’ll be out there to see you in the morning. Don’t be going anywhere, understand?”

“I understand,” Dad said.

The elevator doors slid shut. We rode down six floors without a word from anyone. We stepped out into the dim parking garage. The officer on duty pointed to a door that put us out on the street.

I was surprised to find it so dark outside, so late. Dad had his arm around Mom’s shoulders. She wasn’t crying now. I lagged a few paces behind, and Janie trailed me. I was wondering if my life would always feel this sad from now on.

We walked up to the corner of Pearl and State. Mom’s green station wagon was parked just around the corner. Leaned against the hood was Ella Beecham, all in black, with a wide-brimmed black hat.

Mom said, “Aren’t you Arnita’s mother?”

“Yes,” she said. “I saw your car. I was waiting for you.”

“Oh my goodness, you poor thing,” Mom said, opening her arms and moving to embrace her.

“Better not to touch me.” Mrs. Beecham raised her hands. “Don’t take offense. Just — I don’t want to be touched.”

Mom drew back. “Oh, I am sorry. I understand. I feel so awful for you. She was a lovely girl.”

“Yes she was,” Ella said. “Musgrove, I see you there hiding behind your mama’s skirts.”

“I’m not hiding. I’m standing right here.”

“The police say they can’t tell me anything till they’re done investigating,” she said. “You got to tell me how my baby died.”

I took a deep breath. “I didn’t see it. I don’t know for sure. But it’s all my fault, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Dad gave a snort of disgust, as if I’d just given away the whole game. “Son,” he said as a warning.

“Sorry, Dad. It’s true. He wouldn’t have hurt her if it wasn’t for me.” I turned to Mrs. Beecham. “They were in the gym. Arnita and Red. He shot Red first, and she tried to stop him. To take his gun away from him. He said she almost did, too. She was strong. So he shot her.”

“She was trying to defend that worthless boy?”

“That’s what Tim said.”

“Why weren’t you there looking after her, Musgrove? Where were you? You told me you cared about her.”

“I do,” I said. “But she didn’t like me anymore. She hated me. With good reason. I lied to her the whole time, about the accident. It was us she ran into when she hurt her head. Our car, not Red’s. We were the ones who drove off and left her. Not Red. Tim was driving, but it was just as much me as him.”

“I know all that,” Mrs. Beecham said. “She didn’t hate you for that.”

That stunned me. “She didn’t?”

“No,” she said. “But I did. I still do. I got no use for you at all.”

“I don’t blame you,” I said.

“What about Beecham? How did he die? They wouldn’t tell me that either.”