Favorite Sons (13 page)

Nobody said a word. Some parishioners stared at the minister; others looked down at their hands. It was uncomfortably silent. The school superintendent, a retired army colonel named Cletus T. Brubaker, and three members of the school board were sitting in the congregation. Amidst them were steel workers, coal miners, a few railroaders, and a steam turbine operator from the electric generating plant, all parents who had fumed all week and craved
the opportunity to dispense their own form of justice upon Jack Vukovich. They were angry. Their kids were attending the junior high or had passed through its halls. Why would the superintendent, the principal, and the school board put their children in harm's way, allowing them to walk the same halls as that predator, a convicted child molester?

At first, the townspeople were surprised and saddened when they heard the news about Jack Vukovich. But after a while, after they had time to think and allow the potential ramifications to settle in, an anger began to climb through their spines and ribs. They wanted revenge, but Jack Vukovich was in jail and there was no way it could be exacted. Instead, they turned their venom on the superintendent and the principal, lambasting them for allowing One-Eyed Jack to work at the school. Didn't they know he had been convicted of sodomy? No? Why the hell not? Didn't they do criminal background checks on employees? No? Well, they damn well better start. They were just lucky he never touched
their
kids. They were sorry that Deak's grandfather was in the hospital, but he certainly knew his son's sordid past. Why in God's name did he bring him back to Crystalton and near their children?

Beyond being scared, the people also were embarrassed for Crystalton. They loved their town and they loved their school, and now they had to live with this humiliation. Petey's death, sad though it was, did not reflect poorly on Crystalton. This, however, was an indictment of the entire community. The
Town Talk Bread Show
on the AM radio station in Steubenville was overwhelmed with callers wanting to know why the people of Crystalton allowed a pedophile not only to work in the school, but actually to live in the basement. The
Herald-Star
wrote an editorial stating that allowing Jack Vukovich to live in a junior high school was like allowing a fox to take up residence in the henhouse, and then acting outraged when all the chickens had been eaten. There had been no shortage of finger-pointing, and old friendships were being sorely tested. It had been a long week.

After what had to have been a full minute of silence, Reverend Timlinson asked, “No one has anything to say?”

Nellie Jones was the first to stand. He was an iron worker at the Wheeling-Pittsburgh Steel Plant in Yorkville and had forearms that looked like twisted rope. He was wearing a maroon sport coat that stretched taut across his shoulders, a white shirt, and a black clip-on tie. “You're right, preacher, I'm doggone mad about this. I've had three boys go through that school in the past five years, and now I find out that Jack Vukovich is a child molester. I never thought he should be living in the school anyway. As far as I'm concerned, Mr. Brubaker and the whole school board should resign.”

He sat back down. I looked over at Mr. Brubaker; blotches of red were populating his neck and cheeks, though he remained impassive. Nick Carwell got up next and reiterated Nellie Jones's thoughts. And then another stood, and another. The tones were civil, but no less hurtful. When six people had stood and said their piece, and sentiments fell just short of lynching Mr. Brubaker and the board members, Reverend Timlinson asked, “Did any of you hear the whispers?” Again, no one spoke. “Did you? Any of you? Did you hear the whispers? Nellie? Nick?” He gave them pause, but the sanctuary was silent. “I heard them. I heard them before Jack Vukovich ever got back to Crystalton. In fact, a man in the congregation today first told me about it, must have been seven, maybe eight years ago. He whispered it to me, even though there was no one else around. He said, ‘Jack Vukovich got arrested for having sexual relations with a teenage boy. That's why he went to prison in Texas.' So, if the preacher is hearing these things . . .” He winked. “My guess is you all heard the whispers, too, but chose to ignore them. Perhaps you wanted to give Jack the benefit of the doubt, or perhaps, being good Christians, you wanted to give him another chance. But you heard the whispers. They were like a mysterious noise under the hood of a car that you try to ignore, maybe even turn up the radio, and hope it will fix itself, which it rarely does.”

I had never heard such whispers. But I was young and it was the kind of talk reserved for low-speaking adults. Jack's dad, Deak's grandfather, Roy Vukovich, was an elder in the church. He had been president of the Little League and mayor of Crystalton for three terms. It was he who lobbied for the state and federal grants that enabled Crystalton to build a public swimming pool. He was much
beloved and it was out of respect for him that much of the talk about his son had been muted.

Nellie Jones stood again, took a breath, and exhaled. “Yep, I heard ‘em, I heard ‘em before he came back to town.”

The preacher nodded. “Can I ask you, Mr. Jones, why you didn't say something about it then?”

“I did. Nellie Junior was going into the seventh grade. So I went over to Jack and I said, ‘I don't know if the rumors I've been hearing are true, but I want you to know this, Jack, if you lay a hand on any of my boys, I'll kill you where you stand.'” He lowered his head and chewed on his lip. “That probably isn't the kind of story I should be telling in God's house, but I was concerned. I also didn't want to make a big deal out of it out of respect for Roy.”

“I appreciate your honesty, Nellie,” Reverend Timlinson said. He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up, stepped down off the riser, and stood between the first sets of pews. “My friends, it is going to do no good to point fingers at your friends and neighbors. We all heard the whispers, but we did nothing about it, and the consequence has been a terrible wrong against a young boy, a boy with many problems who we were supposed to protect. But what's done is done. We can only hope that there are no other children out there who have suffered because we—all of us who heard the whispers—didn't speak up, didn't take action.” He took a minute to scan his flock, seemingly trying to make eye contact with everyone in the church. “You will notice that the Vukovich and Coultas families are not here today. I asked them not to attend the service because I planned to talk about their son and brother and uncle. It would not be an easy thing to hear. We cannot change what has been done. They are our brothers and our sisters, and they are hurting mightily this day. If you are embarrassed as a community, think of how they must feel as a family. They knew the whispers to be true, but this was their son and brother. He promised he would change and they believed him. They wanted desperately to believe him. So their hurt runs deep. If we feel betrayed, imagine their pain. It has been a dagger to the heart of people we care deeply about. Embrace them. Love
them. We could all stay home and pray by ourselves. But we don't. We come together in worship because we need one other, we rely on one other. So, when you leave today, remember that we all heard the whispers, and point no more fingers.”

He took the chair in his massive hands and returned it to the altar. People in the congregation were crying, trying to muffle their staccato bursts of breath with handkerchiefs. Reverend Timlinson returned to the pulpit, led us in prayer, then smiled at the congregation and said, “That's all for today. Let's all be good to each other.”

They weren't upset about Petey's death. It had never been about Petey. They all believed he had brought about his own death, even if it was at the hands of Jack Vukovich. The anger was over what could have happened to their own kids. They were angry with the school and angry with themselves for not acting when Vukovich was first hired. They had left a loaded revolver in the silverware drawer and were fortunate that their kids hadn't found it. If Petey hadn't been murdered, they reasoned, it was only a matter of time until one of their kids became a victim. The very thought paralyzed them with waves of fear and the anger followed.

The next morning, the janitors from the high school were at the junior high, moving One-Eyed Jack's apartment furnishings to the trash bin.

*    *    *

I was committed to silence. At least I was until five o'clock the following afternoon. I was putting the finishing touches on a fresh coat of slate gray enamel on the floor of the back porch, and Mom was sitting on a little wooden stool at the edge of the porch, husking corn and waiting for the charcoal to heat before placing some chicken breasts on the grill. I could hear the AM radio station out of Steubenville through the screen door. The musical intro to the news came on, followed by the baritone voice of the reporter.

A man charged with sexually molesting a seventeen-year-old Crystalton
youth has now been indicted for his murder
.

My mother and I looked up, staring at the screen door as though it were a television.

Just an hour ago, a Jefferson County grand jury indicted Jack C. Vukovich, a thirty-five-year-old junior high school janitor, for the murder of Peter Eugene Sanchez, who was found slain on a hillside west of Crystalton on June fifteenth. Jefferson County Prosecutor Alfred Botticelli said Vukovich was indicted on a charge of first-degree murder with death penalty specifications. Vukovich was charged with rape and gross sexual imposition last week. While admitting he had sexual relations with the teen, Vukovich has steadfastly denied that he was responsible for Sanchez's murder
.

The tightness returned to my gut, the fire to my chest. My mother looked at me and asked, “He never tried any funny business with you, did he?”

“Never.”

“Good damn thing.”

I ate, forcing down every bite. She was going to be devastated when she learned the truth. It was best that she hear it from me, but not just yet. It would take me a while to summon the courage. I wouldn't get to play football for the Royals. I would always be looked upon with suspicion. People would talk. Decades from now, when my name came up in simple conversation around Crystalton, they would say, “Wasn't he with that bunch of boys who killed that retarded Sanchez kid?” I would stand before Juvenile Court Judge Rayford P. Simmons, a dour man with bushy eyebrows and a reputation for harsh penalties, and he would make me apologize to the Sanchezes, Earl without his fingers and Lila with those huge stitches running across her neck, then he would body slam me for my cowardice in not coming forward immediately.

After I had helped clear the table and dried the dishes, I told Mom that I was going over to Deak's to see how he was doing. She said that was a good idea. She was going bowling with Walter and would be home late. When I got to Deak's, he was sitting on the railing of his back porch, picking at his fingernails. He had just returned from three days working at church camp, which was becoming his refuge.
He nodded when he saw me walking across the yard. “My mother is hysterical,” he said. “She and Dad took the girls down to Aunt Sissy's. They're on their way to Pittsburgh to tell my grandpa. How'd you like to have that job?”

“No thanks.” I leaned against the rail to Deak's right. “If you're ready to go to the sheriff, I'll go with you,” I said. “And, if you want, I'll talk with the Sanchezes, too.”

Deak's eyebrows knotted up in the middle of his forehead. “What? No. Absolutely not.”

The stabbing pain in my heart, which had been like an electric shock with each beat since hearing the radio news report, subsided a bit. I stared at Deak for a long moment, then asked, “Aren't you the same guy who said . . .”

“The guy's a deviant, a pervert,” he said. “He deserves to burn in hell, but if the state of Ohio would like to fry his ass in the meantime, all the better.”

“You remember that he didn't really kill Petey, right?”

Deak's eyes were ablaze, his jaw stretched taut and a dozen tiny dimples covered his chin. “He put his own father in the hospital. If the poor guy ever gets out, he'll never be the same. My uncle might as well have put a gun to his father's head and pulled the trigger. He's embarrassed my mother and our family. He was molesting a retarded kid. He's a pedophile. It's a sin against God and it is so friggin' embarrassing that I don't ever want to show my face in this town again. The Sanchezes have an answer. It's not the right one, but they don't know that. They'll believe it's true and it will give them some peace of mind.”

I blinked. “This, uh, this is a bit of a turnaround in your attitude.”

“What he did to Petey is worse than murder.”

“I'm not sure I agree with that.”

“He's not your uncle.”

“So, just so I'm clear, now you don't want to go to the sheriff?”

“Jack Vukovich should be put away so he can never hurt another kid.”

“What's the Bible say about this?”

“The Bible is open to interpretation.”

I
t was just after dark when I left Deak's house. I didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved. I had mentally girded myself for a meeting with Sheriff Sky Kelso. I was ready for him to stare me down with those icy blue eyes and shake his head in disgust, but I would stand tall, accept responsibility for my part in the cover-up, and take my punishment without complaint. As Coach McHugh said before every big game, it was time to “man up.”

I needed time to think. I walked down Labelle Avenue to where it emptied into the parking lot at Community Park. To the south the red warning lights blinked on the smokestacks at the power plant. Between the two stacks, a hazy full moon appeared to rest atop the West Virginia hills. A Pennsylvania Railroad coal train sent vibrations across the earth. I stretched out on a picnic table, interlocked my fingers behind my head, and stared at a starry sky. I smelled of nervous sweat, which soaked the pits of my gray T-shirt.