Snow Globes and Hand Grenades (19 page)

By noon they had a stringer of catfish, which they draped between the handlebars of Patrick's bike. On the way home, a carload of teenaged boys rode past them. A guy leaned out the window and threw a Styrofoam to-go
cup of piping hot Kentucky Fried Chicken gravy on Patrick. It exploded on the right side of his face and he crashed his bike. Catfish skidded on the asphalt, wide-eyed, with gills still moving. He couldn't ride, so Tony let him sit on his seat while he pedaled home. After that, Patrick loved Tony. When Patrick later got them fired as altar boys, they both loved each other.

“Have a seat Mr. Vivamano,” Detective Kurtz said, as Tony entered the interrogation room.

He sat down and looked around. This time the overhead lights were on, no spot light in the face. Father Ernst was sitting on the sofa bench again with a file folder in his hand. It was the Tony Vivamano file.

“Where were you Saturday night?” Detective Kurtz asked.

Tony thought of climbing in the bathroom window, running through the school, and hiding in Miss Kleinschmidt's class. “Me? I was at home, I think. Yeah, I was watching TV.”

“What was on?”

Tony tried to remember the Saturday night shows. “I watch TV a lot, probably too much, so let me think. This Saturday, it was probably
Love, American Style
.”

“That's on Friday nights, isn't it?” Detective Kurtz said looking over at Father Ernst.

“I don't know. I've never seen it.”

“Yeah, you're right,” Tony said, “I got mixed up. Saturday night it was
Mary Tyler Moore
and then
The Bob Newhart Show
.”

“What happened on the Mary Tyler Moore show?”

Tony knew he couldn't make up something specific, so he kept it vague. “Well, this week's show began with her throwing her hat up in the air and catching it.”

“She does that every show,” Detective Kurtz said. “Can you remember anything about the plot?”

“Sure, it was about Mary working in a newsroom with her boss, Mr. Grant. He yelled at her some and then this other guy, the anchorman Ted Baxter, he kinda walked around saying some stupid things.” Tony fake laughed like it was a really good show. “That Ted.”

“Look, as you know, some kids busted into the school over the weekend,” Detective Kurtz said, “Just tell us what you stole and it will go a lot easier on you later.”

Tony shook his head innocently and shrugged. “I'm sorry, I don't know anything about that. This is the first I've heard. That's terrible.”

Detective Kurtz knew he was lying, but that was OK. He had Tony nervous now and that was part of the interrogation strategy. “You're pretty close friends with Patrick Cantwell aren't you?”

Tony treaded carefully. “Oh, he's a good guy. We hang out some.”

Father Ernst reached out with a gentle gesture to gain Tony's confidence. “Tony? May I call you Tony?”

He nodded OK.

“Tony, I understand from what Patrick told us that you and he used to be altar boys together.”

Tony saw the image of Father Maligan swinging open the Mens room door, as Patrick fake glugged the wine. “Yes, that's right. We served together.”

“Are you no longer an altar boy?” Father Ernst asked.

“No.”

“Tell me, how was it that you stopped serving Mass?”

Tony knew that they knew something, so he played a trick on them. He told them the truth. Hell, he thought, he was already fired. They couldn't fire him twice. “Well, the truth is, Father, I'm ashamed to admit it, but Father Maligan caught me one day with Patrick, when I was drinking the wine.”

Father Ernst opened his file and glanced at his notes from his conversation with Father Maligan. “
You
were drinking the wine?”

“Yeah, that's right.”

“I had understood it was Patrick who was drinking the wine.”

“Is that what you've got,” Tony said looking at the file upside down, “Well, it was so long ago, I can't remember everything. He might've been thirsty, too.”

Detective Kurtz moved in for the kill. “I can tell you like this Patrick a lot.”

Tony didn't answer him. He watched Detective Kurtz and waited.

“You cover for him on the wine story. Maybe you're covering for him on a lot of other things. Are you sure about this guy Patrick, that he's really your friend?”

Tony nodded.

Detective Kurtz looked over at Father Ernst who opened the file and held up the photograph he had taken of Patrick kissing Mimi.

The room was quiet. Tony was cut in half. His feet started pumping with blood ready to run a thousand miles.

“Don't be so quiet, kid,” Detective Ernst said. “Tell us what you think of this Patrick guy now. I mean, doesn't he know that you love Mimi? If you told us you loved her, you must've told him. And here he is stealing a kiss from her when you're not looking. Is he you're friend now? Do you really want to cover for a guy like that and get yourself in deeper shit?”

Tony thought of his dad's copy of the book
The Godfather
, how when a guy was getting grilled the only thing to do was not crack, not say anything, even right up to the point of getting shot.

Detective Kurtz stood up and shouted. “SAY SOMETHING, KID, OR YOU AND PATRICK AND MIMI WILL ALL BE IN THE SAME SHIT TOGETHER, ONLY PATRICK'LL BE KISSING MIMI AND YOU'LL BE LEFT WITH NOTHING BUT THE SHIT.”

Tony took a very dignified breath and flexed his eyebrows like a man of many romances. “Did I say I loved Mimi? I can't remember. I've been in love before, and I'll be in love again. Let's not get all upset about it.”

Detective Kurtz sat down and smiled. “I'm not upset,” he said softly, “We're just both trying to help you. Right, Father?”

Tony looked over at Father Ernst who closed the file. “That's right. We just want you to consider telling the truth, if there's anything you haven't told us. Think about it now, and thank you for your time.”

“You're welcome,” Tony said. He stood up like a man whose horse had just won, then he closed the door, walked down the hallway alone, and wept.

PRESIDENT NIXON BOWLED in his underwear on sublevel sixteen of the White House basement. Riding the elevator down to find him, Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, wearing a dark suit, which he buttoned against the chill of the room, entered the super secret bowling alley designed to survive a direct nuclear blast. Nixon had cranked up the air conditioner all the way and was listening to an Elvis Presley record playing loudly.

“Mr. President, it's freezing down here,” Kissinger said.

Nixon nodded, his face flinty with concentration, as he laid down another ball that scorched toward a strike.

“Very good, sir,” Kissinger said as the pins scattered and fell.

“Henry, I've been thinking,” the president said, standing with his chest out and hands on his hips.

“Yes?”

“This Watergate stuff is trivial.”

Elvis started singing “Love Me Tender.”

“But Mr. President, John Dean is scheduled to testify. What if he links you to the cover-up?”

The automatic pinsetter rose up, leaving another batch of pins ready for the next ball. The president put some talcum powder on his hands, and patted the extra on his chest. “You ever think about destiny, Henry?”

“Not extensively, sir. I believe that each of us—”

“Destiny,” Nixon said grabbing a fresh ball, “is the idea that this ball, in the hands of the right bowler, is going to accomplish something great.”

“That's true to a point, sir, but there are variables.”

Nixon wound up, but held the ball against his chest and turned to Kissinger.

“Variables exist, but in the larger scheme of things, they must yield to the flow of history, the flow of destiny.”

Kissinger got out a piece of paper from the breast pocket of his suit coat. “I have the draft of the statement on the Watergate situation for your approval.”

Nixon took one hand off the bowling ball to wave off the document. “Now, I want to make this crystal clear. Think about this, Henry.”

“Yes, sir?”

“God wouldn't have let me win re-election just to blow me out of the water with this Watergate trivia. I still feel I'm destined for something great.”

“Yes, of course, but we must make sure the statement answers all the concerns of the American—”

“The American public? Hell, it was a landslide. The people have spoken.”

Kissinger paused. “Yes, sir, they have. But the Senate Watergate Committee—”

“Nobody in Boise cares about that.”

“Perhaps not yet, but they might. Is there anything more you want to say in the statement, other than what we discussed at the pool?” Kissinger asked.

“I don't know … just deny any involvement in the cover-up and throw in a lot of national security shit to distract them.”

Kissinger got out his pen. “National security stuff?”

“You know, mention the Pentagon Papers and say we're damned concerned American lives are in danger. Brave young men in harm's way because of these criminal leaks. Tell them we were doing a lot of wiretapping and intelligence for national security purposes.”

“I see,” Kissinger said taking notes.

“Do that and this Watergate break-in will seem like a trivial side show. The American people … they'll give me the benefit of the doubt.”

“OK.”

“Can you do it, Henry, I mean can you get right on it?”

Kissinger looked at his watch. “I'll have to break a … an appointment.”

Nixon took his stance and concentrated on the pins. “Henry, even if you have to miss a date, God's will be done.”

“Yes, Mister President.”

Nixon skipped down the alley, flinging the ball like an atomic bomb aimed right at
The Washington Post
. It shot down the lane and knocked over all but two pins.

“Damn, it's Woodward and Bernstein again,” Nixon mumbled.

“Pardon me, sir?”

“Nothing, I'll take care of these last two. You just put together that statement and the rest we'll leave up to destiny.”

“Yes, sir.” Kissinger left to prepare the president's first official statement on Watergate for release the next day. Nixon hurled another ball down the lane toward the last two pins.

PATRICK SPENT RECESS playing horse at the basketball net with a third grader. He had never met the kid, but wanted to have something to do in a corner of the playground where he could spot Tony right away when he came out from his interrogation. Patrick was terrible at basketball. The suspense of the investigation and wondering what Tony was saying made him miss even more shots. The third grader was an expert. He could dribble in elaborate figure eight patterns and then make perfect layups that Patrick had to duplicate to keep up. “You lose again,” the kid said.

“Maybe I'm letting you win,” Patrick said double-dribbling.

“I don't think so. You wanna play for money?”

“No thanks, I'm just waiting for somebody to come out.”

“You in that class that put the snow globe up there in Mary's hand?”

Patrick stopped dribbling and looked at him. “How'd you know about that?”

“Everybody in the whole school knows. Whoever did that is going to hell. Was it you?”

Patrick took a shot at the basket and missed.

After recess, Patrick filed inside the school, walking up the same old steps to the top floor and into Miss Kleinschmidt's class. She was seated behind her desk, and Tony was already at his desk with his back to the students returning from recess. Patrick wanted to hear all the news on how
the interrogation went, but Tony never looked back, not even for a wink. Something was up.

Father Ernst walked in. He was by himself. All the students tensed up, wondering who would be called for more questioning. Patrick slouched down a little.

Miss Kleinschmidt saw him and stood up.

“Today for religion I thought it might be helpful if Father Ernst gave you all a little lesson.” She nodded to him and took her pack of cigarettes and walked out to go to the teacher's lounge.

Father Ernst sat on the front edge of her desk with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Everyone waited. Tony kept his head down. Patrick began to doodle a picture of a freight train going across a long, flat farm field with hay bails and a barn nearby. It was the kind of barn he and Tony would soon be sleeping in on their escape from the future.

“I was thinking on this lovely May day how the Blessed Mother has appeared to children, children just like you, to reveal some special message.” Patrick relaxed a little. At least he wasn't talking about the investigation. Obviously, Father Ernst was trying to make them all feel guilty again for not telling the truth about whoever put the snow globe in Mary's hand. He talked about shepherd children and little girls going about their business when suddenly Mary would appear in bright clothing telling them how she was praying for their village and something bad was going to happen if they didn't get right.