Crusader (35 page)

The man in the white shirt pointed to the traffic on Route 27. He spoke in a flat, legal voice to Hawg's stepfather. "The boy's parameters end right here." He tried to include Hawg in the conversation. "This is the end of the earth for you, son. At least until we take off the monitor. If you attempt to cross Route Twenty-seven, an electronic signal will go off. If I am in the car, I will hear a loud buzzer."

The man opened his car door and leaned in. "It sounds like this." He pushed a button and turned up the volume until it made an earsplitting sound, like the sound of the banshees of hell from Vampire's Feast.

The man turned it off and explained, "If I am in my office, I will receive a signal on a beeper. I will dispatch a sheriff's deputy to come and get you immediately. Your probation period will then be over, and you will be locked up in a cell. Do you understand?"

Hawg still wasn't listening. He was again staring off, like a statue. Staring north, up Route 27.

The man turned back to the stepfather. "That's what the judge stipulated, sir. Your son is not to—"

"Stepson."

"Pardon me."

"My stepson. He's my ex-wife's boy."

"I see. Well, your stepson was released by the judge with the stipulation that he not go within one hundred yards of Mr. Samir Samad. That means the West End Mall is out of bounds. That means that this spot right here is the end of the earth for him. I hope he understands that."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the statue move. Hawg had suddenly snapped out of his trance. He called over to me, in a clear and loud voice. "Hey, Roberta. Do you remember the power-I?"

I still didn't know what to say. Or do. He turned to Ironman. "How about you, I. M.? You remember how she goes?" He moved toward us, along the edge of the road, until he had formed the three of us into a loose triangle. He bent forward, his hands on his knees, and called out, "The center breaks the huddle." He slapped his hands, gave a little jump, and turned in the air. "He leads them up to the line." Hawg strode quickly to a spot exactly between Ironman and me. I suddenly became aware of the roar of the traffic. My heart started to rise up in my throat.

Hawg crouched down, in a football stance. He yelled out, "He sets. He snaps the ball. And he fires out!" I saw the whites of Hawg's eyes roll up as he sprinted forward, at full speed.

I opened my mouth and yelled, but I couldn't hear the sound. All I could hear was a horrible shrieking, like the banshees of hell, as Hawg tripped off the buzzer in the white car.

Hawg sprinted quickly across the northbound, outside lane, but a red car in the inside lane hit him with a sickening slap. The blow knocked him up into the air, all the way into the first southbound lane, in front of a black van. The van smacked him back in the other direction, twisting his body in a way that a human being cannot be twisted. The driver mashed on his brakes, swerved to the right, and skidded for twenty yards. All the cars around him swerved and braked and blared their horns, trying to avoid a pileup.

I watched Hawg's body fly through the air. But I knew, already, that he was no longer in it. I knew by the way he landed on his face and skidded across the asphalt, finally stopping with his backside stuck up in the air. It was undignified. It was nothing Hawg would have ever done. We all remained rooted in our spots. Finally, the Juvenile Justice guy stepped cautiously across the northbound lanes.

I looked over at Ironman. He was staring at Hawg's body. He had that awful grin on his face. The buzzer in the white car
continued to blare its horrific sound. The traffic had now skidded to a halt in every direction.

The Juvenile Justice guy worked his way between two diagonal cars. He reached the bloody spot and looked down. He said something to the body. But, of course, he got no answer. He got no answer because Hawg was no longer in there.

Mr. Herman was already in the guidance office this morning when I arrived. I could tell right away that he had heard the news about Hawg. He looked guilty. As soon as I got near him, he asked, "Did you hear about any funeral arrangements for that boy?"

I thought about making him use Hawg's name, but I didn't. I answered, "It was in the paper yesterday. In the obituary section. There's a service tonight at the Eternal Rest Chapel."

After that, Mr. Herman and I waited in silence for the morning announcements. Mr. Archer walked out of his office with some white index cards in his hand. He waved them at us and said, "I've got a few words to say. Wheel that camera into my office."

Mr. Archer sat behind the desk and looked into the camera lens. When he saw the red light, he started to speak. "Good morning, students." He glanced down at the white cards. "I want to say ... we lost a fine young man in a tragic automobile accident on Saturday morning, right out on Route Twenty-seven. Hugh Mason. A fine young man. A member of the football team. A member of the journalism class."

I shot a look at Mr. Herman. He was staring down, with no expression.

"I ask you all to be extra-careful when you're walking and when you're driving around here. And I ask you to remember Hugh and his family in your prayers." He looked past the lens at me and said, "That's it. Run that first."

"Yes, sir." I rewound the tape and wheeled the tripod back to its spot. When the second bell rang, I inserted Mr. Archer's tape and played it through. Then I ejected it and popped in the Pledge and Banner tape.

I didn't see Mr. Herman again until fifth period. He just handed out worksheets from the
Journalism Today
textbook. He never looked up for the entire class. He appeared to be studying the
Atlantic Times.
In a way he was. I could see from my seat that he was reading the want ads.

The phone was ringing as I let myself in the kitchen door. I didn't want to answer it, but I thought it might be Dad calling about the funeral service. It wasn't. It was Mr. Lewis from Arcane, in Antioch, Illinois. He said, "Hello. Is Robert Ritter there?"

"Who's calling?"

He growled, "You know who this is."

"I'm afraid I can't give out any information."

There was a long pause. Then Mr. Lewis said, "Listen, miss. I need to speak to your father tonight. Not tomorrow, tonight. I will call back at eight
P.M.
eastern time. If he wishes to keep his franchise, he needs to be there to take that phone call. Understand?"

"He won't be here at eight. We have to go to a funeral."

"Right."

I held the phone out from me and looked at it. Then I asked him, "What do you mean, 'Right'?"

"It means I've heard enough lies from you, miss."

"It's not a lie."

"Look, I know what your father is doing. And your uncle, the colonel, too—"

I held the phone out again and yelled into it, "There is too a funeral!" Then I hung up on him.

I got to Arcane at four o'clock. I walked behind the counter and said, to no one in particular, "Are any of you going to Hawg's service?"

Kristin seemed insulted by the question. "Of course we are."

"Well, can I have a ride?"

"Of course you can."

Ironman was listening, but then he slunk away. I pinned on my name tag and followed him. I caught up with him next to Viking Raid. "Aren't you going?"

"No. I don't think so."

"You can get a ride with us."

"No. I'll get a ride with my mom if I go."

At seven-thirty, Uncle Frank came out of the back and told us, "If any of you want to go to that funeral thing, you can go now. I'll close up."

We all hurried outside immediately and got into the banged up Volkswagen. Kristin asked Karl, "Do you think Dad's coming?"

"He told me he was."

"But the service is over at nine."

"He told me he was, that's all I know."

No one said anything else all the way to Seventy-second Street. We followed the cemetery road around, past the Jewish section, past the angel, past my mom's wall, until we saw a small building and a parking lot. The lot had a sign,
CHAPEL PARKING,
so we pulled in. A minute later the three of us walked into a room containing Hawg's body.

I don't know about the others, but I had never been to a funeral service. The only person I ever knew who died was my
mom. I don't remember her having a viewing, but I suppose she did. I suppose I got left with a sitter. Anyway, I didn't know what to expect.

A few people were standing around in a small room about the size of my living room. Hawg's body was lying in a casket to the left, over against a wall. He had a harsh spotlight shining down on him. Nobody was anywhere near him until I wandered over to take a look.

I peered down at him quietly, like I was afraid he would wake up. Hawg's face had makeup on it to cover the scrapes and bruises from his skid across Route 27.

I heard a low commotion outside. Then Archie came in with about ten guys from the football team. They were a mixed group of white guys and black guys. They all had big necks—big white necks and big black necks. They went straight up to Hawg's body, approaching the casket nervously, reverently. Archie knelt down and prayed, so the others bowed their heads and prayed with him.

I kept my distance, but I stayed close enough to hear what they were saying. It was football talk, stuff Hawg used to say, like, "Yeah, he'd put a hurtin' on you."

One guy asked them all, "What's that thing he said? 'Whompin' on ya.' He'd start to whompin' on ya." The others remembered that and smiled.

I spotted Sam as he entered the room. He turned to the right and stood in a short line of people who were waiting to meet Hawg's stepfather. I went over and did the same.

I had only seen Hawg's stepfather that one time—last Saturday, standing out on the highway median strip. I got a closer look at him now. He looked like a regular guy, like a guy who'd come and fix your air conditioner. He certainly didn't look a thing like Hawg. But then again, they were not really related.

When the people in front of us moved on, Sam and I approached him. He asked Sam, "Are you Mr. Samad?"

Sam answered with something peculiar. "No, sir. I am here representing Mr. Samad. Mr. Samad is my father."

Hawg's stepfather looked confused. He muttered, "I see. Well, all right."

Sam walked over to join Karl and Kristin by the casket wall. I found myself in a group with two new arrivals, Mr. Archer and Mrs. Biddulph.

Mrs. Biddulph said, "Our sincere condolences to you and your wife, sir."

Hawg's stepfather looked confused again. He said, "Well, my wife's at home with her two girls. She didn't want them comin', them being so young and all."

Mrs. Biddulph agreed. "No. Of course not."

"And his real mama, well, there ain't much chance of her showin' up. Not as destitute as she is."

"I see." Mrs. Biddulph looked really sorry she had brought up the topic.

Hawg's stepfather explained to Mr. Archer and Mrs. Biddulph, "His mama's still up in Georgia. We were only married for two years. She'd already had him back when she was sixteen. But she got so messed up on the drugs and the liquor that I finally had to kick her out of the house, for everybody's sake. No way we could go on like that. I let her boy stay behind with me. He wasn't even mine, you understand, but I let him stay. He was a sure sight better off with me than with her."

Mr. Archer and Mrs. Biddulph had stopped nodding. Now they were just staring at him. He summed up: "I guess we have to accept that it was God's will. We don't always understand it, but we have to accept it."

Mr. Archer asked, "Where is Hugh to be buried?"

"Georgia, sir. Up in west Georgia, where he came from."

Mr. Archer's big face expressed surprise. He said, "Well, we were planning on attending the funeral. A delegation of us. Mrs. Biddulph and me and some student leaders."

Hawg's stepfather told them, "Well, sir. Here's what happened. I got a call yesterday from the man at the funeral parlor here. He said they had a benefactor who was gonna pay for the boy to go back home to Georgia, if it was all the same to me. I said it was. I don't have the money to do that myself. His mama certainly don't. And his real father ain't about to show his face now, after all these years—even if he's still alive."

Mr. Archer looked amazed. "May I ask ... Who is this benefactor?"

"He gave the name of some Arab gentleman, a Mr. Samad. He said that this Mr. Samad wanted to take care of the whole thing."

"Why?"

"Mr. Samad said it's 'cause the boy worked at that mall, out at Route Twenty-seven there."

"I see."

"So I said to the man, 'That's all right, so long as he gets a decent Christian burial. Don't want no Arab burial for him.' He said, 'No, it'd be a Christian burial.'"

Mr. Archer nodded cautiously.

As soon as I could get away, I joined the others by the wall. Kristin was telling Karl, like he was a little kid, "Do you see what Roberta just did? That's the right thing to do. We have to go talk to that man."

Karl looked sick at the prospect, but he said, "Okay," and followed Kristin toward Hawg's stepfather.

I was glad to get Sam alone so I could ask him about that "Arab gentleman" story. I said, "Is your father paying for Hawg's funeral? Up in Georgia?"

Sam swallowed hard. He spoke softly, "Yes, he is."

I looked over at Hawg's stepfather. "Is that why he asked if you were Mr. Samad?"

"That's right."

I didn't know what to say next. I tried, "Your father is very generous."

That made Sam smile, a sad smile. He said, "It's not easy getting money out of my old man. He makes my brother and me work for everything we have. But I told him what happened here, you know, over the past two months, and he insisted on doing this. To him, it was a matter of family honor."

"Why?"

"I accused a man falsely. I set events in motion, and he wound up dead. I'm responsible for that."

"You're not responsible for what Hawg did. He did that to himself."

"No. But I'm responsible for what I did. I accused him, and I was wrong." Sam struggled with the explanation. "I accused him because I had stereotyped him. To me he was a dumb, prejudiced redneck. I assumed that he had stereotyped me, too—because of the color of my skin, because of the sound of my name."