Favorite Sons (14 page)

How in God's name did this get so screwed up? How? I awoke that fateful morning a virtually carefree fifteen-year-old. My biggest worry was whether I would get enough time on the field to earn a varsity letter in football. Before noon, I was involved in covering up the murder of a retarded kid who mimicked raptors. I wasn't so naïve as to say that some of the mess wasn't of my own devising, but it still seemed like a heavy load to throw on the shoulders of a fifteen-year-old.

I couldn't believe that Deak didn't jump at the opportunity to go to the sheriff with an ally. I had kept quiet to protect Adrian—to protect all of us. Deak had stayed quiet because he was terrified of the ramifications. His reticence in approaching the sheriff stemmed only from the potential fallout. He would not be hailed as a hero who told the truth, who did what was right, but as a pariah who took down the starting quarterback. Deak was not a mentally tough kid, and he knew that ratting out Adrian would cause a backlash that he was ill equipped to handle. If Deak thought the pressure from the community was intense just because his uncle was accused of molesting and murdering a seventeen-year-old retarded boy, wait until it became known that he was the one who cost Crystalton a chance for a state championship because he went to the sheriff and our quarterback went to juvenile hall.

In spite of Deak's silence, I didn't feel I had been given a reprieve. I had vowed silence to keep the true identity of Petey's killer a secret. I couldn't, wouldn't, stand back and let someone go to the electric chair for a crime he didn't commit. I would be the pariah, but at least I wouldn't be burdened with that terrible secret. Somewhere in my future, there was going to be a meeting with Sky Kelso. I didn't know when, but eventually I was going to have to man up and make that trip.

*    *    *

As I walked back up Second Street toward the house, I spotted the red 1964 Buick Wildcat parked across from our house. There were only two cars like that in Crystalton. Carson Nash owned one and Dan Benton owned the other. But Dan didn't smoke cigars, and through the open driver's side window I could see the bright, orange ember of Mr. Nash's cigar and in the cast of the yellow streetlight I watched the gray smoke snake out of the window. The harsh aroma of the tobacco wafted across the street.

The gas lamp in front of our house stretched my shadow across the red bricks of Second Street. Adrian got out when he saw me approaching. “What's up?” I asked.

“I need to talk to you for a minute.”

“Is your dad coming in?”

“No.” He put a hand on my spine and nudged me between the overgrown and sagging spirea bushes that guarded the entry to our front porch.

“Is something wrong?”

“Is your mom home?”

“No.”

“Let's talk inside.”

I turned the key and pushed open the door to the sunroom. Before I could get the key out of the lock, Adrian grabbed me by the tender deltoid muscle and squeezed, pushing me inside. A streak of fire raced up my neck; the pain was nearly paralyzing. I whirled on a heel, knocking his hand away with a forearm. My fists went up, ready to protect myself. “What the hell's your problem?”

The streetlight cast a faint glow into the room, and Adrian's imposing silhouette was outlined against the windows of the sunroom. “You're going to the sheriff?”

He made no attempt to move closer and I slowly lowered my fists. “Who told you that?” Of course, I knew, but it was one of those questions you instinctively ask in a tight situation.

“Deak. Who do you think?”

“He called you and said I was going to the sheriff?”

“No, I heard about his uncle getting charged and I stopped by to see how he was doing. He told me you had been there and were talking about going to the sheriff.”

My eyes narrowed. That was a lie. Adrian didn't concern himself with the difficulties of others unless they directly involved him. “That's bullshit, Adrian. You went to see if
he
was going to the sheriff and he told you I offered to go with him. Since it's not Deak's style to run his mouth, I assume you put the squeeze on him, too.”

He pointed at me and said, “We're in this together, or did you forget?”

“What I haven't forgotten, Adrian, is that one of us is in a lot deeper than the rest.”

He wanted to knock me out; I could see it in the way his nostrils flared. “So, are you going to the sheriff, or not?” Adrian barked, angry at the accuracy of my assessment.

“I haven't decided.”

“What the fuck! I thought you were supposed to be my friend.”

“Are you kidding me, Adrian? I am your friend, which is why I've been protecting your ass.”

“It doesn't sound like you're protecting me now. If you go to the sheriff, I'm screwed. I'll be sitting in juvenile hall instead of playing football. You can't say anything, Hutch. We had a deal.”

I put my hands on my hips and took a long breath. “Look, Adrian, our agreement was to keep quiet about what happened to Petey. It didn't involve sending Jack Vukovich to the electric chair. We can't allow that to happen to an innocent guy!”

“Innocent? He's not innocent. He's already admitted that he's a child molester.”

“Yeah, he's a child molester, but he didn't kill Petey, remember? And now, that's what everyone thinks.”

“They ought to put him in the electric chair. In my book, child molesters are worse than killers.”

“You're not going to get much of an argument from me there, but Ohio doesn't give child molesters the electric chair.”

“Oh, but it would be okay if I went to juvenile hall, huh?”

“There's a big difference between juvie hall and the electric chair, Adrian. The electric chair is a little more permanent. You know, I would very much like not to have this on my conscience for the rest of my life. It's already eating a hole in my stomach.” I looked outside. The ember on Mr. Nash's cigar still glowed. “Does your dad know why you're here?”

“No. I told him I needed to talk to you for a minute. Hutch, look, you can't go to the sheriff. Jack's not going to get the death penalty.”

“How do you know?”

“My dad was talking about it. He's big with the Republican Party and he talks to all those guys up at the courthouse. He said they'll probably give him some kind of plea deal.”

“What's that mean?”

“If he pleads guilty to something else, they won't give him the death penalty.”

“I don't know, Adrian, this is making me really nervous.”

“Look, if you go to the sheriff, it'll be in all the papers. I'll be screwed. I'll never get a scholarship to play football.”

“This might surprise you, but the entire universe does not revolve around Adrian Nash.”

“I can't play football if I'm sitting in juvie hall. What about the team? Are you willing to sacrifice a shot at a state championship?”

“That's not fair, Adrian. You can't compare someone's life to football.”

“Even if he did get the death penalty, which he won't, it's not going to happen tomorrow. Just don't call the sheriff.”

There was a modicum of relief in agreeing not to call the sheriff. I nodded. “Okay, I won't.”

“Promise?”

“I said I wouldn't, Adrian.”

He nodded. “Okay, good. Sorry for the . . .” His voice trailed off. Adrian Nash wasn't used to apologizing or being sorry for anything.

“No problem.”

After the door shut, I sat in the wicker chair and watched the Wildcat's headlights come on as it started down the brick-lined street. I sat for several more minutes, staring into my reflection in a sunroom window. I wasn't completely happy with the young man looking back at me. Coach McHugh always talked about the man in the mirror. “You can never fool the man in the mirror,” he said, usually talking about our adherence to an off-season conditioning program, but it seemed appropriate now. I could not fool myself. I was protecting Adrian while another man sat accused of Petey's murder, and yet I was doing nothing to change what I knew to be a terrible wrong.

W
e played the Cadiz Colts on the last Wednesday in July for the championship of the Eastern Ohio Hot Stove League. Adrian was magnificent. He threw a two-hitter; I hit a three-run homer in the first inning, and we won six to nothing.

In the instant after we won, I saw the dichotomy between the brothers Nash. It has remained etched in my brain, a snapshot lost to time to everyone but me. When the final strike, a fastball on the outside corner, snapped into my mitt, Pepper leapt and threw both arms up, his glove sailing off his hand. At that same instant, as Pepper reached the apex of his jump, his mouth and eyes wide, Adrian bent at the waist, his gloved hand and left palm resting on bent knees. He sucked air like a distance runner trying to catch his breath after crossing the finish line.

While that mental image remains firm in my memory, more tangible proof rests in a wooden frame on a shelf in my office. It is a black-and-white team photo taken after the game by one of the parents. Pepper is in the front row on one knee, smiling broadly, his arms draped around the shoulders of two teammates, a trophy in one hand and the index finger of the other held in the air. Adrian is standing next to me in the back row, impassive, staring at the camera with a tired look in his eyes.

I treasure that photograph, not because of the championship, but because I enjoy the memory of being a gritty ballplayer, playing on skinned infields with hard-nosed sons of steel workers, coal miners,
and railroaders. We were a tough bunch of kids who did not enjoy lives of privilege. Our status was not determined by the clothes we wore, but by our accomplishments on the athletic field. Most of our mothers stayed home and the dads toiled in jobs that both dirtied and blistered their hands.

The exception was Carson Nash. Other dads came to our games right from work, salt stains on their shirts and dirt under their fingernails. Carson was always freshly scrubbed, usually dressed in Bermuda shorts, sockless with oxblood penny loafers, and a golf shirt. Other dads smelled of sweat and dust; Carson smelled heavily of aftershave and suntan lotion. Carson was a little heavy through the girth, but he had broad, solid shoulders. If you shook his hand and didn't give it a firm grip and look him in the eye, he would reprimand you and make you practice until you performed it to his satisfaction.

Carson was, by far, the wealthiest and most influential man in Crystalton, a member of the Masonic Lodge and the unapologetic chairman of the Jefferson County Republican Party in a Democrat-dominated, blue-collar valley. He was a shrewd businessman and it was commonly said that if you angered him, he would put your head on a stake, go eat breakfast, and never give it a second thought. If he saw a bank customer with a new automobile, obviously having secured a loan from somewhere other than the Glass Works Bank and Trust Company, he would patiently wait for their next visit to the bank. He would invite them into his office and deliver a standard speech that evoked the memory of our founding fathers and their collective interest in banking. Why, did they know that George Washington himself, the father of our country, signed the charter for America's first bank? It was a fact. The founding fathers understood that if our country was to grow, we needed strong banks. Well, the same principle applies for communities. Small, locally owned banks are the economic bedrock of every community in this great country. Did they know why? Because small banks cared about the community and its citizens. After all, would a bank president sitting in Cleveland or Columbus give a hoot in hell if little Johnny needed braces or if the Joneses needed a new addition for their new
addition? Of course he wouldn't. By God, I bet he couldn't even find Crystalton on a map.

By the time most of those people walked out of his office they believed it was their civic and patriotic duty to do all their banking at the Glass Works Bank and Trust Company. It was a soft-spoken talk, but the message was implicit. He would forgive them that one transgression, but if they did it a second time, they better hope they never needed money for a life-saving operation, because if it depended on a loan from the Glass Works Bank and Trust Company, they would just have to die.

While we milled around and accepted congratulations from our parents and friends after the game, I spotted Carson Nash talking to my mother near the concession stand. He was all smiles and animated as, I assumed, he recounted one of Adrian's highlights. Adrian, Deak, Pepper, and I posed for a photo for Deak's dad. After the shutter clicked, Mr. Nash placed a hand on my shoulder, the other on Deak's. “We're going to have a cookout at the house to celebrate and I want you two boys to come on up.” He gave our shoulders a jiggle. It sounded more like an order than an invitation.

“I'll need to check with my mom,” I said.

“It's already taken care of. I talked to both of your moms, and they're good with it.”

We changed out of our cleats and tied the shoestrings together so they would drape over our shoulders and headed out with the Nashes. It was a two-block hike up Hudson Hill to the Georgian colonial that sat behind a manicured lawn and a semicircular driveway that arced in front of the house. As we walked, Pepper and Mr. Nash recounted the game. Adrian walked without comment, and Mrs. Nash wheezed, straining to get her ample behind up the grade.

The Nashes had a housekeeper, a Lithuanian woman named Ella who was all of about four-foot-nine, kept her hair wrapped in a red bandana that she tied in a tiny bow at the hairline, and ran in high gear all the time. When we arrived at the house, the charcoal in the brick barbeque pit was lit and the picnic table on the patio was set with china nicer than the plates we used only on Christmas and Easter Sunday. Ella brought Carson a tumbler of ice and whiskey and a platter piled high with T-bone steaks. Mrs. Nash and Ella carted
out large bowls of tossed salad, potato salad, steaming corn on the cob, and a carrot cake.