Chapter 20
WHEN HIGH EXPECTATIONS AND LOW EXPECTATIONS ARE DEVASTATINGLY UNMET
Before we realized it, evening had drifted in from the east. “Let’s start thinkin bout food,” Buzzy said after the sun disappeared somewhere over Missouri. We climbed down the rocks into the cool of the Telling Cave. I had taken a large bag of Doritos from Pops’ pantry and Buzzy pulled out four hot dogs, some mustard, and bread. He built a fire. I cut two roasting sticks from what was left of the willow branch.
The smoke from the expanding flames rose to the top of the room and conveyed out an unseen opening at the ceiling. I laced the dogs onto the sticks and we cooked them to tar and ate them thick with mustard. The light of the fire and Buzzy’s kerosene lamp was enough to give the dark cave a warming glow. It actually wasn’t such a gloomy place after all, Rebah Deal notwithstanding.
We finished the hot dogs and chips and lay down on our sleeping bags, watching the circle of coals as the fire died to a single flame. The blue evening light at the cave mouth bruised to purple, then black, as night extended. Mr. Paul and the alley hung in the air with smoke from the fire, but both of us seemed reluctant to bring it up. Instead we talked about Petunia Wickle’s breasts, my friends back in Indiana, his friends at Missiwatchiwie High School. After a while we floated into a comfortable silence, which great friends seem to share so easily. But I could tell his mind was roiling, as it had been since the alley. Finally, his smile vanished and he looked into the fire as if searching for the right words to match his thoughts.
He knocked some dirt into the flames with his heel, then turned and looked at me, face in a half grimace.
“I know who done Mr. Paul,” he said to the dying coals in a voice barely above a whisper.
I popped up off my elbow and turned to face him. “How do you know? Was it that Budget man?”
He shook his head, plowed more dirt and ash with his heel. “I seen it—seen it all.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I felt a little betrayed that he’d been carrying this secret for so many days and it took the Telling Cave to wrestle it free. “Have you told anybody? Told the sheriff?”
Buzzy shook his head violently. “Ain’t tellin no sheriff. No way.”
“You gotta tell me, Buzzy,” I implored. “You know I won’t tell anyone.”
The dirt and ash he had been heeling now formed a small wall between him and the flame, either to keep the fire out or to keep the truth in.
After a few minutes of silence, punctured occasionally by a popping coal, he spoke. “I was walkin down Green like I tole you, when I saw a man run out the back a Miss Janey’s, then some others. I thought they was robbin the place, so I hid behind the Dumpster to watch em. Then I see it’s Mr. Paul an someone comes out an throws him down on the pavement an they all start laughin. It was Tilroy fuckin Budget, smilin like he’s the king shit.”
“What? It was Tilroy? Jesus Christ, I can’t believe it.” I knew Tilroy was a punk and a bully, but I couldn’t believe he had it in him to kill.
Buzzy just kept staring into the fire and continued. “And the others are all laughin an sayin stuff to Mr. Paul. Rude stuff. An Mr. Paul starts to get up, he’s up on his knees facin Tilroy an says, ‘Tilroy, leave me be or I’m gonna tell your father.’
“An someone says, ‘Oh, Tilroy, what’s he gonna tell your daddy?’ An everybody cracks up. Someone else says, ‘Yeah, we all been hearin you two was special friends.’ The boys all laugh an Tilroy gets this look about him like I never seen. Then he jus runs at Mr. Paul an kicks him square in the face. You know he’s got them boots he wears, an Mr. Paul’s face jus crumbles an he falls back an hits his head on the pavement. An the others are all laughin an sayin, ‘Ohoooooo, look at Tilroy the badass,’ an stuff. An Tilroy’s jus heavin an puffin an standin over Mr. Paul, who’s got blood comin out his nose like a gusher. Finally Mr. Paul sits up, blood down his shirt, nose all broken, an says, ‘Tilroy, I won’t tell. I promise I won’t tell.’ He starts to say it a third time, an before he can even get the words out, Tilroy is on him, this time kickin him square in the mouth, an Mr. Paul goes down, an Tilroy keeps kickin an stompin, an I close my eyes cause I can’t even watch at this point. But it was the sound, man. The sound a that boot hittin his head an hittin his head. I close my eyes but I can’t stop the sound a that boot hittin his head.
“An all the others go silent, mouths hangin open, while Tilroy jus keeps kickin him, until one a them screams ‘Stop it!’ an tackles Tilroy, who starts to fight him, so he pounds him good an calls him a fuckin idiot an stuff. Then the one that stopped it all goes up to Mr. Paul an tries to help him, but I guess he got scared an says, ‘Let’s get the fuck outta here,’ an they all run off.
“Then I go up to Mr. Paul, he’s still breathin, but jus barely, so I run as fast as I can to your house to get your Pops.”
Remembering the scene in the alley, the blood and broken teeth, made me want to vomit. Buzzy sat staring into the fire, arms wrapped around his knees. Finally, after a few minutes of silence, I said gently, “Buzz, man, you gotta tell. You can’t let that prick get away with this.”
He shook his head.
“Dude, you have to tell.”
“No way.” Tears started streaming down his cheeks, and he started rocking back and forth. He made no attempt to wipe the tears away and soon they mixed with the ash on his face from fire building to form streaky gray lines.
“He killed Mr. Paul!” My voice broke with grief as I said it, as much for Buzzy’s pain as for Paitsel’s.
“Cleo was one a them,” he said softly.
“What? He hates Tilroy!” I replied, almost shouting. Buzzy winced on my volume.
“I can’t be tellin.”
Like some valley fog lifting with the sun, it all became clear why Buzzy had been so different since the alley—I finally understood the crushing load he had been carrying all these weeks. I sat back, stunned. “Damn, Buzz,” was all I could think of to say.
The fire was popping and the black walls of the cave were slick with sweat. I could hear the trickle of water from somewhere down in the crag opening. After some more time—it could have been two minutes, could have been thirty—I was finally able to speak. “Does Cleo know you know?”
Buzzy shook his head.
“You’ve got to talk to Cleo about it. You’ve got to tell him you know.”
Buzzy was silent still.
“Why would Cleo beat up Mr. Paul?” I wondered out loud. “Was it the fag thing?”
“Cleo dint do nuthin,” Buzzy retorted. “He’s the one that pulled Tilroy offa him… had to beat on him to make him stop.”
“Then all the more reason to talk to him. He probably didn’t know that Tilroy was gonna do that. Get him to go to the sheriff.”
“That ain’t gonna happen.”
“Just talk to him—see what he says.”
“He’s got senior year comin up. By the end a last season he had Kentucky, North Carolina, and Notre Dame comin to his games. This is his ticket year; I ain’t gonna fuck that up.”
“What do you mean?”
“His ticket outta here. He does well this year, he’ll get a full ride somewheres. Get the fuck out the hollow.”
I gave Buzzy a quizzical look, for I truly didn’t understand. For me Medgar was sanctuary; I had never felt more at home—or more loved. “Why does he want to leave…? This place is awesome; I could live here forever.”
Buzzy laughed and just shook his head. “Kevin, you’re the smartest kid I know, but sometimes you’re so frickin stupid.” He looked at me now and smiled. The tears on his face had dried with the ashes and given him the look of a half-ready circus clown.
I laughed and told him to wipe his face. “Why am I being stupid? I don’t get it.”
“You love it here cause you don’t live here. You can leave anytime you want. Where’s Cleo gonna go?” His face became pained. “Where am I gonna go?” he said as a whisper.
“To college, man! Do good in school, get good grades.” I just couldn’t grasp why this was a difficult plan for him, for Cleo.
“I ain’t like you, Kevin. It don’t come easy for me.”
“You think it’s easy for me? I study my ass off. My father kills me if I bring home a C. And if I get an A he bitches because it wasn’t an A-plus.”
“Maybe he jus wants you to do your best. That ain’t a bad thing.”
Now it was my turn with silence. Buzzy had no idea what it was like to live in Redhill with my father.
“I got an A once,” he said sadly. “Know what my daddy did?”
“What?”
“He laughed. Jus laughed an walked around the holler for a week, sayin, ‘Buzzy the Brain, gonna live above his rearin.’ ” He shook his head and said again, this time in a bitter hush, “Gonna live above his rearin.”
Now we both went silent, staring into the fire at the dancing light of the single flame and at the flame’s reflection on the sweating walls; listening to the slow drip of water somewhere down in the cave and the irregular popping of dying coals; fresh friends from completely different worlds faced with the hard shapings of truth and deceit, of right and wrong, and of the equivalent damage when high expectations and low expectations are devastatingly unmet.