The Great Santini Part 41

Both Ben and Sammy were breathing hard now. Ben felt a slight quivering in his thighs as though sinew had turned to gelatin; his knees felt vulnerable, even collapsible, the higher up the ladder he went. His wrists began to ache from grasping each rung too tightly. His hands were slick and untrustworthy. Looking down and to his left, he saw Ravenel shimmering across the river, the white yachts gleaming under marina lights, and shrimp boats ghostly below their nets. The higher he climbed, the more subject to delusion Ben became. He was teased only slightly by the phantoms of vertigo, but slightly nevertheless. All was delusory. The steel ladder was made of paper, of silk, of quicksilver, of air. Sammy would disappear. The ladder would climb toward infinitude. Ben would feel himself falling. Then he would stop climbing and look up at Sammy. He would set his bearings on Sammy's behind like a pilot would fix his eye on the horizon. Then he could resume climbing.

"Why couldn't you have had him tape the money at the bottom of the railroad trestle or leave it beneath the bridge, Sammy?" Ben said, anxious to begin a dialogue again.

"No challenge in that. This was the most romantic place I could think of."

"If you wanted a challenge, you could have had him tape it on Coach Spinks's left t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e," Ben said.

"Now there's a challenge," Sammy agreed.

"How was your date with Emma Lee last night?" Ben asked. "You haven't told me a thing about it."

"I think it's love, son. I think she's absolutely out of her mind in love with that suave, latin Romeo, Sammy Wertzberger."

"Well, she's only human. Even if she is a preacher's daughter."

"She talked about books the whole night. I felt like I was out with you and Mary Anne. But later on the old mover sprang into action. She was inexperienced, but Casanova was very gentle."

"Did you kiss her good night?"

"Kiss her good night! Are you kidding? Sometimes you are such an innocent, Ben. No I didn't kiss her good night. But it will all come in good time. You don't use the Bohemian Mountain Approach on a girl like Emma Lee."

"G.o.d, it's high up here. I can see the runway at the G.o.ddam air station."

"We're almost to the top," Sammy's voice said above him. "Almost to the end of the rain ..." Then Sammy's voice stopped abruptly. And Sammy stopped.

"What's wrong, Sammy?" Ben asked. "Is something wrong?"

A boy with a shotgun stuck against Sammy's throat said, "Yeah, boy. Something's bad wrong." Ben recognized the voice. It belonged to Red Pettus.

Far below him, Ben saw the revolving light of a police car spinning in a slow, malevolent circle.

The county jail was a windowless, antiquated structure that had served as an armory in the decade before the Civil War. It was located on the edge of Paradise, backing up against Joe Louis Lane, a dirt path that snaked through the back alleys of the black community. Inside the jail, Ben and Sammy could hear the semisweet, candently primitive rhythms of jukebox blues diffusing out of unseen nightclubs. The music, the anthem of Sat.u.r.day night debauch, filtered to them through the jail stones that now enveloped them, isolated them with Junior Palmer.

They stood in a bare room, handcuffed together, as Palmer unloaded sh.e.l.ls from his automatic shotgun. He had paid Red Pettus ten dollars and sent him home as soon as the patrol car had pulled within sight of the jail. The only thing Sammy had been able to say to Ben since their capture was that "Red and Junior are third cousins." Ben had said, "How many million cousins does Red have?" but the opportunity for speech had died a swift death.

Now Junior Palmer stared at the two boys, a reptilian coldness in his eyes that reminded Ben of his mother's warnings. She had always told him to beware the law behind closed doors, the yellow-toothed men behind silver badges who had been betrayed by their chromosomes and their birth. She would talk of power as a yeast that could activate a malevolence that no force on earth could overcome once it had begun. Beware the feral, washed-out, hare-lipped genes that sculpted the occasional unfathomable barbarisms of the poor white South. Beware of the men I have protected you from knowing, she had said. And would say again, Ben knew, after this night.

"You boys got me between a stone and a hard place," Palmer said, his voice a whine.

"It was just a joke, Junior," Sammy said. "Honest, it was just a joke."

"Then how come I don't see nothin' funny in it, Sammy? How come I ain't f.u.c.kin' laughin' one tiny little bit."

"O.K., it was a lousy joke," Sammy said.

"Now, Sammy, I got me a big problem. Your daddy's been in this town too long and knows too many people and might just run his mouth in too many of the wrong places. You understand me? I can't afford n.o.body asking no questions about tonight because even though you boys falsely accused me of doin' somethin' I would never do, just the mention of this kind of trash can kill a man in this town. This town's all mouth sometime. You boys see what I mean?"

"Yes, sir," they both said.

"Now, what did you boys see out there at the beach?"

"Nothing; we didn't see a thing, Junior," Sammy said.

"Nothing, sir," Ben answered.

"Now what makes you think I was spending time with some blue-gummed n.i.g.g.e.r girl?"

"It must have been my imagination, Junior," Sammy said.

Walking slowly around the table, Junior lit himself a cigarette, inhaled deeply, blew smoke into Sammy's face, then drove a fist into the boy's solar plexus. Sammy went to his knees, emitting desperate sounds of strangulation as he tried to catch his breath.

"Don't you ever call me 'Junior,' Jew. You call me 'Mr. Deputy.' Or you call me 'sir' but don't you ever call me by my name again," he hissed, walking back toward the desk where he sat down and threw a leg over the arm of his chair. "Now my big problem, the way I figure it, is this. I can only keep one of you boys because I'll have to answer too many questions if I keep both of you in here. Now Red don't know nothin' because I didn't tell him nothin'. The only people in the world that knows about this alleged incident is us three. Or have you told anybody else?"

"We haven't told anybody, sir," Ben said.

"Well that's mighty kind of you, Mr.------. What's your name again, boy?"

"Meecham, sir. Ben Meecham."

"That's mighty thoughty of you, Mr. Meecham," he grinned, showing his yellow teeth. He gazed down at Sammy who had just begun breathing with some degree of regularity again.

"Sammy, I been shoppin' at your father's Jewstore for a long time, now haven't I?"

"Yes, Mr. Deputy."

"And me and Suzie still go to the Jewstore for a lot of stuff even though it's a lot cheaper at the Piggly-Wiggly, ain't that right?"

"Yes, Mr. Deputy."

"Now I don't want to hear no talk around the Jewstore of you ever being here. I don't want your daddy to know or your mama or n.o.body else. I don't want your daddy calling up no councilman or no sheriff asking no questions. You understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Deputy."

"Fine. That's nice. Now you get your Jew a.s.s out this door and if I ever hear about you talking about me and a n.i.g.g.e.r at the beach, I'm gonna circ.u.mcise you just one more time for good measure. You understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Deputy."

"I mean do you understand?" Palmer screamed, coming across the table and pulling Sammy by the collar until they were nose to nose.

"Yes, Mr. Deputy. But you got to know this was all my fault. Ben just came along for the ride."

"That's too f.u.c.kin' bad. He came. Now you get out of this jail."

Unlocking the handcuffs, Palmer began pushing Sammy toward the front door of the jail. When he reached the outer office beyond the interrogation room where Ben now stood in a despairing paralysis, the deputy kicked Sammy in the b.u.t.tocks and sent him sprawling down the front steps. "Not a word to anyone, Jew."

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 s.h.i.t 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 belly-b.u.t.tons. 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 G.o.ddam 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 embarra.s.sing 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 a.s.shole."

"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 n.i.g.g.e.rs who been f.u.c.kin' with the wrong white folks. Now you ain't never heard a man scream until you hear one with a knife ripping into his b.a.l.l.s. Them n.i.g.g.e.rs 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 taxpayer's 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 G.o.ddam 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 f.u.c.kin' lyin'-a.s.s 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 p.u.s.s.y 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 p.u.s.s.y football player I ever coached. The law was afraid of human contact. The law was afraid to block, to tackle, to run, or to b.u.mp 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 ident.i.ty. 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 s.c.r.o.t.u.m. 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 f.u.c.king 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 princ.i.p.al walked toward Raver 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 princ.i.p.al 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 ident.i.ty, 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 grat.i.tude 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.

"h.e.l.l, no," Mr. Dacus chuckled, "he wasn't bad. G.o.d knows there were some poor p.i.s.sants a h.e.l.l 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."