A Brilliant Death (31 page)

As the families of the graduates came together after the ceremony, two figures slipped unnoticed out the back of the auditorium. They were pulling away from the high school parking lot before any of the others left the auditorium. At the foot of the stage, where graduates posed with teachers and relatives, Big Frank Baron stood until he caught his son’s eye. “I gotta go,” he mouthed, tapping his wristwatch. Travis nodded.

Earlier in the evening, as Big Frank dressed for the graduation, he had complained that it would make him late for his run to Buffalo. As Big Frank left the auditorium without so much as a congratulations directed toward his son, Travis walked over and joined my family. I wrapped my arm around his shoulder and we mugged for the school photographer. “We made it, buddy,” I said.

“We sure did.” He kept his arm wrapped around my waist and squeezed.

Travis posed for my mom with his honors diploma and his salutatorian trophy. Urb, Snookie, Johnny Liberti, and Brad Nantz came over for more group photos. My parents had a small open house after graduation, and I had to spend a few hours there doing face time with my relatives and family friends. My cousins Duke and Johnny were there. Duke planned to attend college and play basketball. Arrogant Johnny had signed a minor league contract with the Baltimore Orioles and, following his graduation, would be heading to one of their rookie league teams. He was there with Dena Marie Conchek, whose eyes were all red and watery from her crying over Johnny leaving. I stood and wondered what it would be like to have a woman as gorgeous as Dena Marie cry over me. Meanwhile, Johnny was scoping out every girl in the house and talking incessantly about someday making it to the major leagues with the Orioles, which made her cry even more.

Meanwhile, Urb, Snookie, Travis, Johnny, and Brad ducked out and hit the party trail. I wanted to be with them, but there was college money waiting in white envelopes in hands that had to be shaken. I told them I would catch up with them later at Dwayne Robinson’s house.

It was 1971, and the cops in Brilliant gave all seniors an unofficial drinking waiver for graduation night. There was to be no drinking and driving, but drinking at the graduation parties was perfectly acceptable. Parents, too, went along with this. For many of my fellow graduates, it was truly a night to celebrate, as it ended a journey of twelve years, or, in the case of Johnny Liberti, thirteen. For several of my classmates, high school graduation must have seemed the educational equivalent of space travel to the ancient Greeks. For some, the right to receive their diploma hinged upon their final six-week grading period. Johnny Liberti, I believe, was passed along more out of pity than academic achievement.

The Robinsons were hosting a graduation party that was, in a sense, more of a celebration for them than their son Dwayne, who was the last of nine Robinson siblings to graduate from Brilliant High School. The Robinsons lived at the foot of Simpson Ridge, just up from the United Methodist Church. As I left my open house, my dad lectured me on the evils of drink and automobiles, and I promised both parents that I would not do anything that would enhance the possibility that I would become a statistic.

The Robinson party was held in their side yard, which sloped dramatically from the side of the hill toward Grant Avenue. Paper Chinese lanterns were strung across the yard. Lawn chairs and spent beer bottles were lined up around a makeshift volleyball court. Mr. Robinson was manning a grill full of burgers, brats, and hot dogs, which he offered to anyone who passed. “Mitchell, brat? Burger? Dog?” I wasn’t hungry, but Mr. Robinson was looking a little hurt that no one was eating, so I took a burger and a scoop of potato salad just to be polite.

Dwayne Robinson was a freckled redhead with a bad overbite and a perpetual smile. He was one of the most well-liked kids in our graduating class. He played three sports—football, basketball, and track—but none well. He just loved being part of the team and was the most upbeat kid I had ever known. He had enlisted in the Navy and was scheduled to leave for basic training in early July. Those of us who had grown up fearing we would be drafted and shipped to Vietnam thought Dwayne had completely lost his marbles. We were stretched out on a pair of chaise lounge chairs in the front yard—me with an RC Cola, Dwayne with an Iron City longneck. To the north I could see the tops of the few homes still lining Shaft Row, and then the river and the expanse of West Virginia hills beyond. Dwayne and I talked about the future, and there was an almost Christmas-like feeling to the day. There had been so much anticipation about graduation day, so much build-up, and here we were, sitting in the gloaming, the sun fading over the ridge. In an instant, it seemed, the big day had passed.

I had been accepted into the journalism program at Indiana University and offered a chance to walk on to the baseball team. I was excited about my prospects. While I harbored no fears of the academic challenges before me, I did question my ability to hit a Big Ten-caliber curveball. I was equally concerned about Travis. The sentimental part of me hoped that Travis and I would always be close friends. But I was enough of a realist to know that this night represented a change in our friendship. It was from this point that our paths would diverge. Our relationship, precious as it was to me, would never be the same. It couldn’t be.

Whatever Travis’s future held, it certainly would not involve me. It was sad to see it all coming to such an abrupt end. Operation Amanda had brought us so close that I felt as though I was losing a brother. I was privy to his most intimate feelings. Together, we shared an enormous secret. Now, it was over.

It was a warm, clear night, the amber glow of the mill lighting the sky far to the north. Our fellow graduates came and went, taking turns sitting in a semicircle of folding chairs and talking of the future and the past. At a few minutes before eleven, a brown Ford station wagon with dealer plates pulled to the curb just down from the Robinsons’ and out poured Urb Keltenecker, Snookie McGruder, Brad Nantz, Johnny Liberti, and Travis.

Urb, having been given use of the car for the evening, part of his dad’s plan to keep sobriety at the front of his son’s consciousness, was sober. Brad Nantz, too, was sober. The other three were in various stages of alcoholic stupor, and Travis was virtually falling-down drunk. “Malone!” he yelled, waving a can of Iron City in his right hand. “It’s the beer drinker’s beer,” he yelled. “When you’re really ready to pour it on, pour on the Iron!”

Brad walked past me and said, “He’s absolutely trashed.”

Everyone within earshot turned to see Travis struggling to negotiate the steep concrete steps leading to the sidewalk that sloped up toward the Robinsons’ front porch. I stood to help him make the last three steps. “Whoa, I didn’t know if I could make it up,” he said, staggering forward into my arms. “Thanks, pal.” But he was dead weight and I couldn’t hold him; he fell sideways into the yard, and rolled onto his back, laughing.

“How ’bout you babysit him for a while?” Urb said. “He’s an obnoxious drunk. I’ve never seen him like this.”

“I don’t think he’s all that bad,” Johnny Liberti said, trying valiantly to help Travis to his feet.

“That’s because you’re almost as hammered as he is,” Urb said, heading toward the side yard where Mr. Robinson was pleadingly waving a brat in his direction.

“Johnny, go get yourself something to eat. I’ll help him,” I said.

Johnny staggered off, and Dwayne and I rolled Travis upright as he giggled at his drunkenness. “I’ve got to get me a fresh beer,” he slurred. “Whatta ya serving, Du-wayne?”

Dwayne looked at me and whispered, “No way my dad’s going to let him have another beer.”

“Trav, buddy, don’t you think you’ve had enough?” I asked.

Travis’s eyes closed to slits, and the corner of his lip curled. “You’re not my father, Malone. Don’t tell me what to do with my life,
Mister College Boy
.” There was an uncommon, hateful tone to his voice.

“Come on, Trav, don’t talk like that.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve been drinking and you don’t want to say something that you’re going to regret later.”

“Screw you. I won’t regret anything. Go on off to college, big man. Mister big man at Indiana University. Mister Hoosier. Come on back and visit your old buddies once in a while, okay? Grace us with your magnificent presence, Mister Joe Fuckin’ College.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Oh, you think? Very perceptive. Did you learn that at
college
?”

I put my hand on his shoulder and tried to lead him toward the steps. “Come on, let’s get you home so you can sleep this off.”

“Get your fuckin’ hands off me,” he said, jerking away.

“Very nice, Travis.” My voice was rising, and I reached for the can of beer he still held in his left hand. “Give me the beer. You’re acting like a jerk.”

Travis dropped the beer from his left hand as he fired his right fist into my nose. I reeled back several steps but didn’t fall. Everyone who had been sitting in the grass jumped up to get away from the commotion, and Dwayne stepped between us as I lunged back at Travis. “Mitchell, don’t. You’re only going to make it worse,” Dwayne said.

“Come on, Malone, you fuckin’ pussy,” Travis goaded. “Come on, let’s see what you’ve got, college boy.”

I charged through Dwayne, knocking him to the left, and took two more steps, driving my right shoulder into Travis’s ribs. I wrapped him up, and we fell into a heap in one of Mrs. Robinson’s peony bushes. He shoved both hands into my face and my only punch was an errant one, which glanced off his cheek. Snookie and Urb pulled me off of him. A small amount of blood trickled from my left nostril. I said, “I’ll kick your scrawny ass, Travis.”

“Yeah, you and what Marine?”

This all brought Mr. Robinson down from his post at the grill. Urb handed me a paper napkin, and I dabbed my bloody nose. Travis was laughing. No one said anything. Everyone knew how close Travis and I were, and they were shocked that we would fight, even if he was sloppy drunk. Mr. Robinson said, “Travis, I think it’s time for you to go home.”

Travis squinted at Mr. Robinson. His jaw tensed, and he started toward the steps. “Fine. It’s a shitty party, anyway.”

“Dwayne, help him down the steps,” Mr. Robinson said.

Dwayne tried to hold Travis’s arm, but he shook free. “Get your paws off me. I don’t need your help; I don’t need anyone’s help.” He was yelling again. “I’ve made it eighteen years without anyone’s help, why would I need it now? Enjoy your stinkin’ party. Screw all of ya.”

Mrs. Robinson came out of the house and handed me a damp washcloth and everyone watched Travis as he ran, wobbling, across Grant Avenue and over the hill toward the United Methodist Church. “Don’t you think someone should go with him to make sure he gets home all right?” Mrs. Robinson asked.

No one responded or offered to escort Travis.

“What a jerk,” Urb said.

“He’ll be okay once he sleeps it off,” I said.

“I shouldn’t have pulled you off him. I should have let you pound him,” Snookie said.

I didn’t respond. There was nothing to say. I sat down in the chair and pinched the bridge of my nose until the bleeding stopped, then thanked the Robinsons for the invitation and started toward my car.

“Are you okay to drive?” Mr. Robinson asked, assuming that I, too, had been a drunken participant.

“I’m fine, sir. I’ve just been drinking RC.”

“Okay,” he said, not convinced. “Are you heading home?”

“I’m going to swing out to the Hatchers’ for a little while. If I know the Hatchers, things will just get hummin’ around midnight.”

He shook my hand, said congratulations, thanked me for stopping by, and asked me to please be careful.

My timing was good.

From what I was told later, I hadn’t been gone fifteen minutes when the rumbling made its way up Grant Avenue, causing everyone at the party to freeze and peer down the road. Aside from the train horns, the barge whistles, and the high-pitched siren that summoned Brilliant’s volunteer firemen, the single most recognizable sound in Brilliant, Ohio, was the rumble of the engine within the 1957 Chevy Bel Air hardtop owned by Francis Martino Baron. Before the car crested the knoll on Grant Avenue, Urb looked at Snookie and asked, “He wouldn’t do something that stupid, would he?”

But he had.

The tires squealed when he crossed the railroad tracks at the bottom of the hill, and a pair of headlights headed up Grant Avenue. He burned rubber twice as he shifted up the hill, slowing the car at the last minute in front of the Robinson home. The black lacquered finish gleamed under the streetlights; the reverberation of the engine shook the asphalt. Urb and Snookie hustled down the steps, hoping to talk Travis out of the car. He laughed at them through the open passenger-side window. “How do ya like my new ride, boys? Better than the Rambler, huh? Big Frank gave it to me for a graduation present.”

“Really?” Urb asked.

Snookie winced at Urb’s naiveté. “Bullshit, Travis. Get out of the car,” Snookie said. “When Big Frank finds out you took it from the garage he’s gonna hang your balls from the rearview mirror.”