The Great Santini (55 page)

Ben was placed in a dark cell on the white man's side of the jailhouse. Black offenders resided in the east wing with the offices of the sheriff and his deputies in between. As Palmer locked the cell, Ben asked, his voice so tremulous as to make speech nearly impossible," Why am I in here, sir? Don't you have to charge me with something?"

"Red told me some bad shit about you, Marine brat. I don't know what I'm holding you for right now, but when I think about it you're gonna go along with it or I'm gonna double the number of your bellybuttons. I'll be back a little later to tell you what crime you committed."

Sitting on a small, rancid cot at the side of the cell, Ben moved his hand along the wool blanket waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. His hand grabbed something involuntarily. Wings flared and rabidly desperate insect legs dug into Ben's palm for leverage. He threw the roach across the cell to the opposite wall where its back clicked against the cement. Other roaches scratched along the floor in wild countless battalions as Ben lifted his feet off the floor and prayed that his pilgrimage and exile among the roaches would be brief. He lay still and the smell of mildew and decay overpowered him, contributing an odor to his despair and his fear. Lying on his back, staring at a ceiling he could not see, Ben felt discarnate, a voiceless body buried accidentally, smelling the top of the coffin for the first time. For an hour he lay without moving, listening to the sprint of roaches beneath him.

Then a light went on in the anteroom leading to the cell block. There were voices, unidentifiable whispers. A key worked into a lock and a huge silhouette came through the door followed by Deputy Palmer. The figure was wearing a flight jacket.

"Dad," Ben called, rushing to the front of the cell nearly crying with relief, with the single joy that he had a family and a father who would always be a buffer between Ben and the malignant men of the world. "Dad, over here."

Bull charged at Ben's cell, his hands reaching through the bars clutching at Ben's sweater. Before Ben could protest or pull back, Bull had hit him beneath the eye with a closed fist. Ben's head snapped back, but not far enough to avoid the backhand that sent him staggering backward out of control with his head cracked against the far wall. Ben slowly slid down the length of the wall. Stunned, he sat there vaguely aware that roaches were fleeing across his hand and over his body.

"If you ever hit an officer of the law again, I'll beat you so goddam bad even your mother won't want you," Bull roared.

"You better lock him up good, Sheriff, because if he gets out of here too soon I'm liable to kill him."

"I'm sorry to have to disturb you like this, Colonel," Palmer said. "But I thought a father ought to know right away. The boy didn't mean no harm. He'd just been drinking a little too much."

"If he gives you any lip while he's here, you just let me know about it," Bull said, his voice fading now. The light went out in the anteroom. Ben was alone again, his eye swelling in the dark.

The light went on again and Palmer came to Ben's cell laughing. Fear engulfed Ben, its talons sliding down the tissues of his belly. Palmer clicked on a flashlight and pointed it at Ben's eyes. The light tortured him and Ben turned his head toward the lit-up back wall where he saw the grotesque silhouette of his head. The light, his head, and the wall, he thought, as though he were an initiate or some perverted eclipse created without the consent of nature.

"I like your daddy real fine," Palmer said. "I liked the way he just slapped you down and didn't ask no embarrassing questions."

"If you think my father was rough on me tonight," Ben said," just wait till he finds out you were lying to him. You'll be wearing the badge in your asshole."

"Now watch your mouth, sonny. I know you're mad now, but you still ain't in no position to be mouthin' off to Daddy Junior here. You're in bad trouble, boy, and you just made it worse by runnin' off at the mouth. Now, here's what happened tonight and you listen good, Marine brat. You was driving Sammy's daddy's big ol' Cadillac and I pulled you over because I saw you weaving down the highway. You were liquored up pretty bad and when I told you I was gonna have to take you in, you started throwing punches at me. Does that sound good to you, boy?"

"No, sir."

Palmer tapped a large, ugly-mouthed hunting knife against the bars of the cell. Ben turned and saw the blade glint with a pale, slim hunger as Palmer twisted it back and forth in the light.

"You're getting smart with me, boy, and that's not smart. Let me tell you what I've done with this knife. I've slaughtered me a couple of hogs. Skinned a few rattlers. A few deer. But that ain't the true beauty of this here knife. When I was a young stud, before I took up with the law, I cut the nuts off a few niggers who been fuckin' with the wrong white folks. Now you ain't never heard a man scream until you hear one with a knife ripping into his balls. Them niggers would a died of bleeding to death or pain if we hadn't taken human pity on 'em and lynched 'em."

"You're gonna wish you were lynched when my father gets back to you," Ben shouted.

"Now, boy, you started making me uneasy. You can get out of this mess without no one really gettin' too riled up and no one asking too many questions. But I'm gonna have to convince you one way or the other that I picked you up for drunk driving and you took a swing at me. Now, I don't want to have to come in that cell and rubber hose you until you're so broke up inside that blood's pourin' out of every openin' you got, but if I have to . . ."

"Good evening, Junior," a voice said from the doorway.

The deputy pivoted in the direction of the doorway and shouted at a featureless face broken up in equidistant penumbras by four bars, "Who's there?"

"It's just me, Junior, your old football coach."

"Mr. Dacus," Ben said.

"You come back tomorrow, Mr. Dacus. You have no business here tonight. The trusty will show you how to get out."

"I know how to get out," Mr. Dacus said in a soothing yet ironic tone. "I want to get in where you are.

"I said you ain't got no business at this jail, Dacus."

"Yes, Junior. I reckon you're right. I guess the only place I got any business at all is over at Wolf Bowditch's house. It's probably too late for this week's paper. No, what am I saying? I still got two days to get it in. You'd think I'd know that since I've been calling in school news for so many years. But Wolf might be interested to know that a married man like yourself, with a wife and two sweet kids, an usher at the Baptist Church and a deputy sheriff to boot, was out copulating with a colored woman on taxpayers time in the taxpayer's squad car. Yep, that's what I call headline news. But you're right, Junior, I don't have any business bothering you at this time of night. I'll be seeing you around. Good night, Ben."

"Wait a goddam minute, Dacus," Palmer ordered, unlocking the outer door, then he said in a voice that had lost its power to intimidate, to bully, in a voice that was nearing hysteria," That fuckin' lyin'-ass Jew."

Mr. Dacus walked into the cell block and faced Junior Palmer nose to nose. They stared at each other in a long, hostile silence. Finally Mr. Dacus spoke.

"Junior, did I ever tell you that you were a pussy football player?"

"I don't want no trouble with you, Dacus. But if you want trouble, I can give it to you in spades, clubs, hearts, and diamonds. Any way you want it," Palmer said, still holding the knife in his right hand.

"This town sure has a thing about knives, Junior. My suggestion to you, and it's only a suggestion and should not be interpreted as a threat, is for you to put that knife away right now."

"And what if I don't take the suggestion. What'll happen then, Dacus?"

"Oh, nothing serious, I don't think," Mr. Dacus answered. "I think the only thing that could happen of any concern to you is that I am thinking about breaking both your arms. And the funny thing about it is that I'm really getting a lot of pleasure from the thought."

"You are?" Palmer hissed.

"I am," Dacus said in a voice bled of emotion.

"You know who you're talking to, Dacus? You, sir, are talking to the law."

"And I happen to know for a fact that the law was the biggest pussy football player I ever coached. The law was afraid of human contact. The law was afraid to block, to tackle, to run, or to bump heads. I also know that the law was afraid of his football coach and still is."

"I ain't afraid of nothin', Dacus."

"I know of two things you're afraid of, Junior," Dacus said, rolling up the sleeves of his sweater, slowly, deliberately. The muscles on his forearm were defined in brutal knots. "You are afraid of these two hands, Junior. I want you to look at these two hands and study them. These are mean hands, Junior. They're much larger than yours. Much faster. These are boxer's hands. Boxer's hands are also called killer hands because they can break up a face. You've never seen me use these hands, Junior. But you've heard. You've heard about how I can use them."

"You get out of here, Dacus."

"Sure, Junior. Unlock the boy. He's not going to say anything about what he saw. You aren't going to say anything about his being here tonight. No one's going to get hurt by all this. I'll talk to Ben's father and tell him it was all a case of mistaken identity. I'm not going to say a word. Nothing happened. This affair is over. Just unlock the door, Junior."

As Palmer was releasing Ben, Mr. Dacus said," If I ever hear you talking to a kid from my high school like I heard you talking to Ben, I am going to leave my size eleven footprints on your scrotum. Do you understand me, Junior?"

"Don't you ever come back to this jail, Dacus. Don't you ever come near me," Palmer spat in the half light of the anteroom, a wantonness twisting his face.

"I hope I never have to, Junior."

"Move, boy!" Palmer screamed at Ben. "Don't you open your fucking mouth! This could hurt me bad if it gets out, Dacus."

"Then why are you still talking about it, Junior?"

The cold night air outside the jail entered Ben's lungs like the fires of resurrection. He screamed out his freedom. Then he got in step with Mr. Dacus as the principal walked toward River Street. "Anything," Ben said. "Anything at all I can do for you, Mr. Dacus. You just let me know. If you want you can use my body as a doormat and wipe your feet on my back when you go in and out of your house. You can hang me by my feet from your ceiling, put candles in my nose, ears, and mouth, and use me as a chandelier. What I'm trying to say, Mr. Dacus, is thanks for coming to get me."

The principal was walking with long, rapid strides. His blond hair was brushed straight back and his face shone with a ruddy health in the February air. "It's a funny thing, Ben. The power old coaches have over their former ballplayers. Once you've played for someone, sweated blood for them, won and lost games for them, then that person is transformed forever in your eyes. He simply isn't human anymore. He's something better than human, something stern and demanding. He tries to extract performances from your body that exceed your talent. He makes you more than you really are. He gives you a uniform, an identity, a feeling of brotherhood like you have never known before and most likely will never know again. He includes you. Because he chooses you, selects you from the scrawny bunch of boys who come out for the first day's practice, you owe him something. All you can do for the rest of your life is feel gratitude that he let you taste the small dose of glory, a dose that really means nothing, but means absolutely everything to a boy growing up. What I'm saying, Ben, is that the reason I could get you tonight was because I used to coach Junior in football."

"Was he as bad as you said he was?" Ben asked.

"Hell, no," Mr. Dacus chuckled," he wasn't bad. God knows there were some poor pissants a hell of a lot worse off than he was. He was a little afraid, that's all. Just like a lot of kids are. Just like I was the first time I put on a uniform in high school. A lot of times fear is a good healthy thing. Fear made me get out of boxing."

"You went to the Olympics. You couldn't have been too afraid."

"I didn't go to the Olympics, Ben. I went to the Olympic trials. Before I die this town will have it that I beat hell out of Joe Louis at Madison Square Garden. The boy who beat me in the trials nearly killed me, Ben. He beat me all over the ring for three rounds. I was blinded by my own blood when the referee stopped the fight. I had come to the limits of my skill as a boxer. The boy that beat me was knocked out cold thirty seconds after the first round began by the best boxer I ever laid my eyes on. That boxer went on to win the Olympic bronze medal, then lose his first five fights as a pro. Athletics is a strange world. You climb to your peak, but often that is not very impressive unless there are very small peaks around you."

"Then why play sports at all?"

"It's very important, Ben. Sports show you your limits. Sports teach humility. Sooner or later the athlete becomes humble no matter how good he is. But he plays until he has reached as high as he can."

"I play basketball because I have to win a scholarship," Ben announced.

"No, that's not true," Mr. Dacus disagreed, turning down River Street and walking down the sidewalk beneath the massive wind-sculpted water oaks that paralleled the river. 'That's not even close to the truth. You play basketball because you love your father."

"I hate my father," Ben said darkly.

"No, you love him and he loves you. I've seen a lot of Marine fathers since I've been at the high school, Ben. Hundreds upon hundreds of them, year after year. They're a tight-assed lot and your father is as tight-assed as any of them. They love their families with their hearts and souls and they wage war against them to prove it. All your dad is doing is loving you by trying to live his life over again through you. He makes bad mistakes, but he makes them because he is part of an organization that does not tolerate substandard performance. He just sometimes forgets there's a difference between a Marine and a son. Did he give you that shiner?"