Sutton (7 page)

They pretend there are offenses. Crimes. They stage little mock trials. One brother holds Willie while the other states the charge. Showing Disrespect. Being Weak. Kissing Up to Father. Then they debate. Should we punish him? Should we let him go? They make Willie plead his case. One day Willie tells them to just get it over with. The waiting is the real torture. Big Brother shrugs, sets his feet, rotates his hips to maximize the power. A straight right to Willie’s midsection, the punch lands with a surprisingly loud
whump
. Willie feels all the wind rush from him, like the bellows in Father’s shop. He drops to his knees.

When Willie is ten he tries to fight back. Bad idea. The beatings escalate. The brothers get Willie on the ground, kick their hard shoes into his kidneys, ribs, groin. One time they kick him so hard in the back of the head that he suffers nosebleeds for a week. Another time they twist his head until he passes out.

His parents don’t know. They don’t want to know. Father, after a twelve-hour day, can’t think about anything but supper and bed. Even if he knew, he wouldn’t say anything. Boys are boys. Willie used to admire Father’s silence. Now he resents it. He no longer thinks Father a hero. He goes one last time to Father’s shop, sees it all differently. With every unthinking swing of the hammer, with every metallic clank, Willie vows never to be like Father, though he fears that in some inescapable way he’ll always be just like him. He suspects himself of the same capacity for boundless silence.

And Mother? She sees nothing but her own grief. Three years after Agnes’s death she still wears black, still broods over the Bible, reading aloud, interrogating Jesus. Or else she simply sits with the Bible open in her lap, staring and murmuring into space. It’s a house of sadness and muteness and blindness, and yet it’s Willie’s only refuge, the only place his brothers won’t attack, because there are witnesses. So Willie clings to the kitchen table, doing his homework, using the rest of the family as unwitting bodyguards, while his brothers glide through the rooms, watching, waiting.

Their chance comes when Father is at work, Mother is paying the iceman, Older Sister is studying with a friend. Big Brother pounces first. He takes Willie’s schoolbook, tears out the pages. Bigger Brother stuffs the pages into Willie’s mouth. Stop, Willie tries to say, stop, please, stop. But he has a mouthful of paper.

Ten feet away Daddo stares above their heads. Here now, what’s happening?

Reporter catches Sutton just before he hits the ground. Photographer rushes to Sutton’s other side. Together they guide Sutton to the stoop
.

Willie, Photographer says. What is it, man?

Mr. Sutton, Reporter says, you’re shaking
.

They ease Sutton onto the stoop. Reporter takes off his trench coat, wraps it around Sutton’s shoulders
.

Thanks kid. Thanks
.

Photographer offers Sutton his barber pole scarf. Sutton shakes his head, pulls the fur collar of Reporter’s trench coat around his neck. He sits quietly, trying to catch his breath, clear his head. Reporter and Photographer loom over him
.

After a few minutes Sutton looks up at Reporter. Do you have siblings?

No. Only child
.

Sutton nods, looks at Photographer. You?

Three older brothers
.

Were you picked on?

All the time, brother. Toughened me up
.

Sutton stares into space
.

You, Mr. Sutton?

I had an older sister, two older brothers
.

Did they pick on you?

Nah. I was a tough little monkey
.

Somehow he does well in school. He earns all A’s, one B. He doesn’t want to show his report card to anyone, but the school requires a parent’s signature. He cringes as Mother hugs him, as Father gives a proud nod in front of the whole family. He sees his brothers fuming, conspiring. He knows what’s coming.

Three days later they catch him coming out of a candy store. He manages to escape, runs home, but the house is empty. His brothers burst through the door right behind him, tackle him, hold him down, drag him into the foyer. He sees what they have in mind. No, he begs. No no no, not that.

They push him into the closet. It’s pitch dark. No, he begs, please. They lock him in. I can’t breathe, he says, let me out! He rattles the knob, pleading. He pounds the door until his knuckles and nailbeds bleed. Not this, anything but this. He scratches until a fingernail comes clean off.

He weeps. He chokes. He buries his face in the dirty coats and scarves that smell like his family, that bear the distinctive Fels-cabbage-potatoes-wool scent of the Sutton Clan, and he prays for death. Ten years old, he asks God to take him.

Hours later the door opens. Mother.

Jesus Mary and Joseph, what do you think you’re doing?

Mr. Sutton, do you feel up to continuing?

Yeah. I think so
.

Reporter helps Sutton to his feet, guides him to the Polara. Photographer walks a few paces behind. Sutton eases into the backseat, lifts his bad leg in after him. Reporter gently shuts the door. Photographer gets behind the wheel, looks at Sutton in the rearview. How about a donut, Willie?

God no kid
.

I think I’ll have one. Could you pass them forward?

Sutton hands the pink box across the seat
.

Photographer picks a Bavarian cream, passes the box back. Reporter gets in, turns up the heater. The only sounds are the heater blowing, the radio crackling, Photographer smacking his lips
.

Now Reporter unfolds Sutton’s map, leans toward Photographer. They whisper. Sutton can’t hear them over the heater and radio, but he imagines what they’re saying
.

What are we gonna do with him?

What can we do, brother? We’re stuck with him
.

FOUR

Willie comes home to find Mother in the parlor, reading the Bible to Daddo. His brothers are out. For the moment they’re someone else’s problem. With a sigh of relief Willie pulls a chair next to Mother, rests his head on her shoulder. The Fels smell. It makes him feel safe and sad at the same time.

The late fall of 1911.

Mother skips back and forth from Old Testament to New, slapping at the crinkly pages, murmuring, demanding an answer. The answer. Each pause gives Daddo a chance to tap his cane and offer commentary on the sublime wisdom of Jesus. Now she lands on Genesis, the story of Joseph and his brothers. Willie’s mind floats on the lilt of her voice, the soughing of the potato sack curtains.
And when they saw him afar off, even before he came near unto them, they conspired against him to slay him. And they said one to another, Behold, this dreamer cometh. Come now therefore, and let us slay him, and cast him into some pit, and we will say, Some evil beast hath devoured him: and we shall see what will become of his dreams
.

Willie lifts his head from Mother’s shoulder.

And it came to pass, when Joseph was come unto his brethren, that they stript Joseph out of his coat, his coat of many colours that was on him; And they took him, and cast him into a pit: and the pit was empty, there was no water in it
.

Willie puts his hands over his face, shakes with sobs. Mother stops reading. Daddo tilts his head. The boy, he says, is moved by the Holy Spirit.

Maybe he’ll be a priest, Mother says.

The next day she pulls him from P.S. 5 and enrolls him at St. Ann’s.

Photographer is peeking in the rearview, driving fast. Peeking faster, driving faster. Reporter, trying to make notes, can’t keep his pen steady. He turns to Photographer. Why are you driving like someone is chasing us?

Because someone is chasing us
.

Reporter looks out the back window, sees a TV news van riding their bumper. How the hell did they find us?

We haven’t exactly been inconspicuous. Maybe somebody witnessed a certain bank robber fainting in the middle of the street … ?

Photographer mashes the gas, runs a red light. He spins the wheel to the left, swerves to avoid a double-parked truck. Sutton, tossed around the backseat like a sock in a dryer, tastes this morning’s champagne, last night’s whiskey. He realizes that he hasn’t eaten solid food since yesterday’s lunch at Attica—beef stew. Now he tastes that too. He puts a hand on his stomach, knows what’s coming. He tries to roll down a window. Stuck. Or locked. Converted cop car. He looks around. On the seat beside him are Photographer’s camera bag and cloth purse. He opens the camera bag. Expensive lenses. He opens the cloth purse. Notebooks, paperbacks
, The Autobiography of Malcolm X,
Norman Mailer’s
The Armies of the Night,
a plastic baggie full of joints—and a billfold. Sutton touches the billfold
.

He sees the pink box of donuts. He lifts the lid, feels the contents of his stomach gathering on the launchpad. He shuts his eyes, swallows, gradually fights back the rising wave of nausea
.

Photographer makes a hard right, steers toward the curb. The Polara fishtails. Squealing brakes, shrieking tires. They screech to a stop. The smell of scorched Firestone fills the car. Reporter kneels on the front seat, looks out the back. They’re gone, he says to Photographer. Nice job
.

I guess it pays to watch
Mod Squad,
Photographer says
.

They sit for a moment, all three of them breathing hard. Even the Polara is panting. Now Photographer eases back into traffic. Tell me again—what’s our next stop?

Corner of Sands and Gold. Right, Mr. Sutton?

Sutton grunts
.

Sands and Gold? Christ, that’s a block from where we just were
.

Sorry. Mr. Sutton’s map is kind of tough to read
.

I was hitting the champagne pretty hard when I made it, Sutton says
.

The Polara hits a pothole. Sutton’s head hits the roof, his ass hits the seat
.

You don’t need to drive like a maniac anymore, Reporter says
.

It’s not me, Photographer says, it’s these roads. And I think this Polara is shot
.

Willie is shot, Sutton rasps
.

The Polara hits another pothole
.

One-sixth gravity, Sutton mumbles
.

We’re almost there, Mr. Sutton. You okay?

Just realized something kid
.

What’s that, Mr. Sutton?

I’m in the back of a radio car without handcuffs. I think that’s part of what’s got me on my heels this morning. That’s why I don’t feel like myself. I feel—naked
.

Handcuffs?

We used to call them bracelets. The neighbors would say, Did you hear, they dragged poor Eddie Wilson away in bracelets?

Sutton holds up his wrists, stares at them from different angles. The purple veins, bubbled and wormy
.

Photographer grins at Sutton in the rearview. If you want handcuffs, brother, we can get you some handcuffs
.

Two classmates at St. Ann’s become Willie’s friends. William Happy Johnston and Edward Buster Wilson. That’s how newspapers will most often refer to them. Everyone in Irish Town knows, Willie is the smart one, Happy is the handsome one, Eddie is the dangerous one. Everyone in Irish Town knows, you better watch your step around Eddie Wilson.

He used to be such a sweet kid, Irish Towners say. Then his aunt and uncle took ill. The lung sickness. They had to move in with Eddie’s family—it was either that or a pesthouse. In no time their doctor bills wiped out Eddie’s family. This was just after the Panic of 1907, the country spiraling into a Depression. Irish Town passed the hat, saved Eddie’s family from being put on the street, but Eddie felt more embarrassed than relieved. Next, Eddie’s old man lost his job as a driller. Again the neighborhood passed the hat, again Eddie cringed. Finally Eddie’s mother got the lung sickness, and there was no money left for a doctor. She and Eddie were especially close, neighbors whispered at the funeral.

Overnight, everyone agrees, Eddie changed. His royal blue eyes turned stormy. His eyebrows drew together into a permanent V. He looked wounded all the time, ready to fight. When the Italians started to encroach on Irish Town, Eddie decided it was his job to hold them off. He was forever muttering about
them Eye-ties, them fuckin Dagos
. Every other week he was in another hellish battle.

The first time they meet, Willie sees only Eddie’s courage, not his pain. Something about Eddie reminds Willie of polished, martial steel. Also, he seems equally loyal and lethal. And Eddie sees Willie through the same rosy lens. Assuming Willie’s many bruises are from street brawls, not his brothers, Eddie grants Willie his deepest respect. Willie, in need of a friend, doesn’t set Eddie straight.

Happy never had to earn Eddie’s respect. They’ve been friends since birth. Their families live across the street from each other, their fathers are thick. That’s why Happy is always laughing at Eddie’s bad temper, because he remembers the old Eddie. To Willie, laughing at Eddie seems like asking for trouble, like the lion tamers at the street circus putting their heads between those pink dripping jaws. But Eddie never snaps at Happy. Happy is so
happy
, so damn good looking, it’s hard to be mad at him.

Some say Happy was born happy. Others say he’s happy about the way he looks. Unbearably handsome. Unfairly handsome. Most agree that some percentage of his constant cheerfulness is traceable to his family’s nest egg. The Johnstons aren’t rich, but they’re among the few Irish Towners who don’t live on the rusty razor’s edge. Happy’s father got hit by a trolley years ago and the family won a settlement. Moreover, they were smart enough not to put their windfall in a bank, hundreds of which have gone bust.