Painting the Black (20 page)

I sat on one of the picnic benches that looks down on the playground. A few young mothers were there, pushing their toddlers on the swings, helping them climb the monkey bars. They glanced up at me suspiciously, wondering what I was doing.

As I watched the little kids play, I thought about the words Josh had used to describe what he had done.
A prank. A joke.
They were the wrong words. They described harmless things, childish things—things that are quickly done and quickly forgotten. But Monica wouldn't forget what Josh had done to her, not ever. And I wouldn't forget either, not for as long as I lived. Then I realized what he was really telling me: that he
could
forget about it, and that he would.

I thought back over the year, over things Josh had said and done. What had happened in the music portable—it fit. It was like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle. The picture had been there all along. But I'd been so close to it, I hadn't been able to see it. Or maybe I hadn't wanted to see it.

I suddenly felt cold. I looked up at the sky and saw that clouds had covered the sun. Pretty soon the poplars were tossing back and forth, and the mothers on the playground were herding their children home.

I would have loved a downpour—thunder and lightning and torrential rain. I would have let it drench me to the bone, the way Monica had during that storm in fifth grade. But it was May, not February, and instead of a winter storm it was the briefest of spring showers, over almost before it had started.

I walked back to school. I sat through Mrs. Beck's class and had just begun to read in Mr. Woodruff's when the classroom phone rang.

Mr. Woodruff picked it up. “Yes, he's here . . . Okay. I'll send him right down.” He hung up, turned toward me. “Ryan, Mr. Haskin wants to see you in his office.”

Kids around me
oohhed
and
aahhed
mockingly.

“Should I bring my books?” I asked.

Mr. Woodruff nodded. “You'd better.”

When I reached the office Mrs. Bruch had me sit. “He's got some parents in there now,” she said, smiling. “I don't suppose you mind missing a few minutes of class while he finishes up.”

“I'll try to survive,” I answered, trying to join in her joke.

But a moment later the phone on her desk rang. She put her hand over the receiver. “He wants you to go right in,” she said.

I walked to Haskin's door, tapped on it.

“Come in,” I heard from within.

Haskin was behind his big oak desk, leaning back in his swivel chair. Facing him were a man and a woman. The man stood as soon as I entered—a short, balding man. He stuck out his hand. “I'm John Roby,” he said. My mouth went dry as I shook his hand. “This is my wife, Christine.”

She smiled up at me. Looking at her was like looking at Monica in thirty years. The same strong face, only a little wrinkled. The same shining eyes, only somehow sadder.

Haskin motioned for me to take the remaining seat as Mr. Roby sat down again. For an awkward twenty seconds or so, no one spoke. Then Mr. Roby cleared his throat.

“I asked Mr. Haskin to have you come down here so that my wife and I could thank you personally for what you did for our daughter. It was very brave of you.”

I wanted to shrink away, to disappear. “All I did was open the door,” I said softly.

“I thank God you did open the door,” Mrs. Roby put in, reaching out to take my hand in hers. “I can't even think what might have happened if you hadn't.”

I couldn't look at her, so I fixed my eyes on a bit of white on the carpet. No one said anything for a long time.

Finally Mr. Roby stood. “I guess that about does it for today,” he said to Mr. Haskin.

Haskin nodded. “I'll get in touch with you as soon as we learn anything.”

“Good. I'll be waiting for your call.”

Mr. Roby shook my hand again. So did Mrs. Roby. Then he opened the door for his wife and the two of them were gone.

I stood and looked at Haskin, who was sitting in his big chair again. “Should I go back to class now?”

He shook his head. “Sit down, Ryan. I'd like to talk to you for a minute.”

He rocked back and forth in his chair, rocked and chewed on the end of his pen and stared at me. I felt more and more uncomfortable as the seconds ticked by. Finally he stopped rocking, leaned forward, tapped his pen on his desk, and then pointed it at me. “Who did it, Ryan?”

I felt my face flush. “I don't know,” I stammered. “They were wearing masks.”

“I know all about the masks,” he answered. “But there are other ways to know people than by seeing their faces. So I'll ask you again. Who did it?”

“I told you. I don't know.”

“No idea at all.”

“None,” I said.

He ran his fingertips over his lips. “You did a good thing, Ryan, saving that girl. A very good thing. Don't undo it by lying. The police have been called. A detective will be talking to you. Think about what you're going to say. This wasn't somebody's homework that got copied. This was a criminal assault.”

I waited for the bell ending school, then headed over toward the gym to change for practice. My mind was still back with Haskin, so when I felt the hand on my shoulder, I jumped.

It was Josh. He grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me behind some bushes along the side of the gym.

“What happened?”

I told him about Monica's parents and the police.

“Did my name come up?”

I shook my head.

“Good, good.”

“Josh, what am I going to say to the police?”

His eyes widened. “What do you mean,
What are you going to say?
You're not going to say anything.”

“It's not that simp—”

Right then David Reule's face peered in at us, stopping me midsentence. “Hey, what are you guys doing in there?” he called.

“Nothing,” Josh answered, and as we stepped out a big smile covered his face.

“I don't know about this,” Reule razzed. “Two guys alone in the bushes together . . .”

Josh playfully got Reule in a headlock. “You keep quiet, David. Don't tell anybody our little secret!” The two of them went into the locker room side by side, both of them laughing.

I was terrible at practice. In the batting cage I missed just about everything, and during infield practice I bob-bled throws to the plate I normally would have caught no sweat. The only good thing was that Wheatley was in his office poring over the stats on Chehalis, our next opponent.

Around five o'clock Coach Cliff blew his whistle and we headed to the lockers. The shower area is shaped like a T. When I saw Josh at one end, I turned and went down as far as I could away from him.

I got a good shower nozzle, not one that feels like a thousand needles are pricking your body. I soaped up, closed my eyes, and let the water pour over me.

Carlos Hernandes came in about a minute later. As I was rinsing off, he asked if I knew Monica Roby.

“Sure,” I said. “Everybody knows her.”

He grinned. “Some guys stripped her yesterday up in the music portable. Word is they got her good.”

“Where did you hear that?” I asked, trying to sound calm.

“My girlfriend is an office assistant. She heard Haskin talking to Monica's parents.” He snorted. “Monica thought they were going to rape her, and maybe they were, though I can't imagine anybody wanting to have sex with her. Anyway, my girlfriend says Monica's so flipped out she's not coming back to school.”

“Really,” I said.

Hernandes opened his mouth and let water fill it. Then he spit it all out. “I never liked that Monica,” he said. “She thinks she's so great. It's about time somebody put her in her place.”

Mike Nelson came up then. “Put who in her place?” he asked.

I didn't stick around to hear Hernandes's answer. I had to get away from there, away from the steam and the heat and the talk. I shut off my shower, hustled to my locker, dressed quickly, and walked straight home.

As I headed up the walkway to my house, I sensed something was different. I didn't know what, but something. I opened the front door, and Grandpa Kevin was sitting on the sofa. He stood, a big smile on his face. “Hey, Ryan, good to see you.”

I felt a surge of joy. I stuck out my hand, but he pulled me to him and gave me a big hug. “Maybe you're too old for hugs, but I'm not,” he said.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, once he let go.

“What am I doing here? You think my grandson is going to play for the state title and I'd miss it? And no sooner do I arrive than a lady detective comes to the door and tells us you're a hero.”

He looked to my mother and father, who were both beaming at me. All the excitement drained out of me as my mother began speaking.

“She told us what you did. She's coming back later to talk to you personally.” She paused. “Ryan, why didn't you say something yesterday? Weren't you ever going to tell us?”

“There's nothing to tell,” I muttered.

“What do you mean, there's nothing to tell?” my father put in. “You were very brave.”

The three of them stood there gaping at me as if I was a hero. I wanted to disappear, to go back outside and not come in until it was midnight and they were asleep. I couldn't think of one thing to say, but it seemed we were going to stand there until I came up with something. Grandpa Kevin rescued me.

“I'm hungry, Caroline,” he said. “And I bet Ryan is hungry, too. How about if we eat some of that lasagna you've been cooking, before the detective comes back.”

That was an awful dinner. I tried to talk baseball with Grandpa Kevin, and he tried to talk it with me. We both tried to be excited about the tournament coming up. But it was no good. Monica Roby might as well have been sitting at the table.

We were finishing our cake when the knock on the door came. “I'll get it,” my father said excitedly. I heard him talking at the front door, heard a woman's voice answer him.

“Ryan,” he called to me. “Can you come out here now?”

In the front room stood a young blondish woman. She looked more like a teacher than a detective. But when we shook hands, I was surprised by the strength of her grip. “I'm Detective Denise Langford,” she said.

“Ryan Ward,” I answered.

“Sit down, please,” my mother said, coming in from the kitchen. “Would you like coffee or cake or anything?”

“If you've got coffee made, I'll drink it,” Detective Langford answered.

There was a little polite chitchat. I kept waiting for my parents to leave, for Grandpa Kevin to leave. I think Detective Langford was waiting for them to go. I don't know when it hit me that they weren't leaving, but when it did, I went cold all over.

“Well,” Detective Langford said, taking out a little yellow notebook, “shall we get started?” My mother smiled at me, and my father gave me a nod of encouragement. They were so proud they were just about bursting.

I began by telling her about my home run, and how Wilsey had said what he'd said, and how I'd gone into a little trance. Then I told the rest of it. As I spoke, she scribbled away.

“You were a good citizen,” she said when I finished. “The kind of citizen every community needs.”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

She made a tent with her hands and tapped her fingers together. “Now I'm going to ask you to be an even better citizen. I'm going to ask you to give me the names of the boys who attacked Miss Roby.”

I felt my palms go clammy. “I told you. I didn't recognize them.”

She flipped through her notebook. “And I heard you. You said you didn't recognize them when you first saw them. You said you didn't recognize them when they ran up toward the portable. You said you didn't recognize them when they were in the portable. You said you didn't recognize them as they ran away.” She smiled bitingly. “In fact, you said you didn't recognize them so many times that I'm sure you did. What do you think about that?”

My father rose out of his chair. First there was a look of shock on his face, then anger. “Wait a second here! Wait one second! Are you accusing my son of lying?”

Waves of heat were moving up and down my body.

Detective Langford kept her eyes on me. “Your son is telling the truth, but he's not telling all of it.”

My father turned to me. “Do you know anything else, Ryan? Anything you haven't told Detective Langford?”

I shook my head. “They were wearing masks, Dad. How could I recognize them?”

Detective Langford kept her eyes on me. “Maybe you didn't have to recognize them,” she said.

“Now what's that supposed to mean?” my father asked.

“It means that maybe Ryan was in on it. Maybe he was the lookout but changed his mind when things got a little too rough.” She looked back to me. “Is that what happened, Ryan?”

“That's enough!” my father said, jumping to his feet. “My boy saves a girl from maybe being raped, and you accuse him of being a criminal! I think it's time for you to leave our house.”

Detective Langford still kept her eyes on me. “You shape your own world, young man. If you tell the truth, justice will be done. If you don't, it won't be.” She stood, handed me a card with her name and telephone number on it, nodded curtly to my parents, and left.

Once she was gone, my father and mother spent about fifteen minutes taking turns saying how outrageous she was to have insinuated I was a liar. “I want you to know,” my dad said, and I could see his love for me in his eyes, “I want you to know that your mother and I believe you, one hundred percent. We know you, and we know that you would never hold back the truth in a matter of importance. Never. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

I nodded. My mom hugged me then, and when I started to pull away she pulled me even tighter. Finally she let me go.