Chapter 23
THE AIR AROUND AN EMPTY PEDESTAL
I stayed in bed most of the next day; the tellings pulled at me from so many different directions, I needed time to brood it all out. Finally talking about Josh’s death seemed to ease my mind in ways I could not have imagined. It was as if admitting it all opened a pressure valve in my head to bleed off much of the guilt and sorrow I’d been carrying for so many months. Not all of it, but just enough so I could actually imagine a future without the smother of what happened. My telling seemed to give me a new outlook on my prospects, but the revelation that it was Tilroy who killed Mr. Paul chipped at me. I just couldn’t understand how someone could turn on a friend so quickly, so viciously. Maybe Tilroy really was crazy. I feigned illness through dinner and took potato soup in my room to further ponder Tilroy and Cleo and the burden Buzzy carried. I fell asleep still pondering.
The following day, Pops had office hours in the morning, so I walked with him from Chisold down Main Street to his clinic across from Biddle’s. After a quiet morning of filing and bookkeeping, we went over to Hivey’s for coffee and conversation. Since Paul’s funeral, the town seemed to be in a state of absolute denial, talking awkwardly about feed prices, corn crops, tractor wheels, anything but the horror of Paul Pierce’s murder.
Bump, Bobby, Lo, and several others were by the old woodstove at the back. Grubby Mitchell was standing outside the circle, waiting for an excuse to join the group.
“Who else was Cleo waitin on? I heard Tide an Gators were takin a good look,” Bump said, broom in hand, foot up on the seat of a wooden stool.
“Them two, plus Dogs an Michigan, I think,” Grubby replied. “Paitsel would know.” He took two tentative steps into the group and sat down quickly before anyone could object.
At the mention of Paitsel, everyone went quiet. It was generally acknowledged that he had “discovered” Cleo Fink when the boy had distinguished himself in a snowball fight at the 1978 Christmas tree lighting ceremony in downtown Medgar. Four inches of early snow hit the Saturday after Thanksgiving and Paitsel spotted Cleo whipping snowballs at the heads of other boys with dangerous speed and uncommon accuracy. Paitsel saw it as his duty to be vigilant in spotting middle school football and baseball talent. “Fink boy can throw a snowball,” he said to the boys at the back of Hivey’s a few days after the tree lighting. “Gonna call Ned for a look.”
Ned Pike, the high school’s athletic director; basketball, football, and baseball coach; and history, social studies, and gym teacher drove with him and Jesper to Fink’s Hollow on a warming Saturday. The Finks didn’t have a football in the hollow (or many balls of any kind), so Ned brought his own. He tossed it to Cleo, who caught it easily but held it in his hands like an unfamiliar rock. His throw back was wobbly but blew through Ned’s open hands, hitting him square in the chest. He smiled at Paitsel and rubbed at the pain.
Ned came out to the hollow every Saturday thereafter to work with Cleo on passing mechanics, arm strength, and footwork. Two years later, by eighth grade, Cleo was practicing with Ned’s varsity squad and set the Kentucky single-season high school passing record his freshman year. Sophomore year brought another record and the Class 1A state championship; by junior year he had broken every passing and scoring record on the Kentucky books.
“He was never serious bout Michigan,” Bump sniffed. “Wrong offense for him is what Paitsel says.”
“Do we know if he’s gonna sign with Notre Dame? Once the others hear he got an offer, theys all gonna come courtin,” Lo said. “I think signin early is a mistake.”
Bump cut in. “I think it’s decided. Esmer was in yesterday—man was cock walkin. ‘My granson’s goin to Notre Dame,’ he tells me. Showed me the letter an everthin. I think he’s gonna sign.”
“Already did,” said Jesper, who had just come in the front door. “Talked to Esmer this morning. Folks from the Indiana papers comin down tomorra. Lexington, Louisville too.”
I wanted to blurt out what I knew about Cleo, about Mr. Paul, but held my tongue out of respect for Buzzy. The obvious pain he was feeling from carrying the secret around these past weeks was palpable, and I didn’t want to add to his burden.
We filled our coffee cups, then went over to the back stove. Pops cleared his throat and the men all looked over at once, then went silent in the face of complicit guilt and assumed reproach. Bump began to sweep at the immaculate floor; Jesper started working at a piece of breakfast bacon that had lodged in his teeth; Bobby Clinch tested the play of the blade on his utility knife.
“Morning, boys,” Pops said in a tone as ordinary as the circumstances allowed. There were muted “mornin”s back, then awkward silence. “Sounds like Cleo has signed with the Irish. That’s a piece of good news for this town.”
“That’s right,” said Jesper. “We was jus talkin bout that. Great day for this town, I say.” Nods all around.
“Great day,” Bump agreed.
“Certainly is,” Bobby Clinch said. “Banner day for Medgar.”
“Tis,” someone else added.
“I think we should all plan a big ole party for him,” Pops said. “Lord knows we need a reason to celebrate, don’t you think?”
“Celebration is a great idea,” Jesper replied with unnecessary enthusiasm. He was just happy not to be talking about the Paul Pierce tragedy.
“We’re gonna need someone to honcho the project. Someone with planning experience… Jesper, I think you should head up the planning committee,” Pops said with a slight smile.
Jesper puffed up, nodded, and leaned back, self-satisfied. “Well, I did help Paitsel discover the boy, after all.”
“That you did. You have an eye for football talent.”
“Well, it ain’t an easy thing,” he admitted. “Lots a kids got it raw. Did I ever tell you boys bout when I first saw Cleo?”
“Tell it again, Jesper,” someone said.
“It’s a fine story.”
“Tis a good story. Go on an tell, Jesp.”
“Well, it was a terribly cold November that year…”
Pops put his hand on the back of my neck and steered me toward the door. “That’ll keep em busy for the next few weeks,” he whispered.
“Okay if I walk over to Buzzy’s house? I want to see what’s going on with his brother.”
“Just be back in time for supper.” Pops turned and stepped into the street for the cross over to his office. I raced down Green Street and up the trail to the tree house. It was empty, so I walked down the hill and into Fink’s Hollow, which was abuzz with activity. A white van with WGZ TV12 emblazoned on the side was parked in the circle. Cleo was standing on the Giggins Hoo porch flanked by his parents and a toothless, smiling Esmer Fink. A TV lady had thrust a microphone in Cleo’s face as he described the college selection process in copious detail. Clumps of Finks and other kin were watching from the gravel driveway. Buzzy was off to the side, picking up stones and throwing them at a plastic pail.
“Heard about Cleo and Notre Dame,” I whispered, but didn’t know what else to say.
“Yep, he finally got what he wanted. Been his dream to play there, an ain’t nuthin gonna stop him.”
“Did you tell him you know?”
A flash of anger came to him. “Don’t be talkin bout that round here. Don’t want none a that trouble.” He picked up another stone, went to throw it, then dropped it on the driveway. “Come on,” he said, and ran up the hill to the barn. We went inside and settled on two hay bales by the half-open sliding wood door. “Man, I jus don’t know what to do. I jus can’t screw this up for him.”
“Buzzy, you gotta tell him you know. You gotta try to get him to go to the sheriff on his own.”
“You think he’s gonna confess with Notre Dame wantin him? No fuckin way, Kevin. He ain’t confessin to nothin.”
“From what you said, he didn’t do anything.”
“It don’t matter. Him an his friends is what caused it.”
“I thought you said Tilroy did it.”