The Fall of the Year (19 page)

“I'll explain, all right,” I said. But when I walked into the courthouse five minutes later, I discovered that Inspector P.W. Bull and five selectmen were already there, along with the bailiff, a couple of local lawyers, and the usual town ne'er-do-wells waiting to answer charges at that morning's court proceedings—all looking from the blackboard with the letter printed on it to Abel Feinstein, sitting in the front row with a massive padlocked logging chain fastening his right leg to the metal foot of the bench.

Apparently the tailor had been there all night; a gray stubble had appeared on his face, the only time I'd ever seen him in need of a shave. “Here sits Abel, Mr. Frank,” he said apologetically. “The chain I borrowed from Mr. French LaMott.”

“What's this all about, Bennett?” P.W. Bull said.

I thrust the letter from the selectmen at him just as Farlow Blake, the bailiff, said, “Please rise. The Honorable Judge Forrest Allen.”

I helped Abel Feinstein to his feet. P.W. Bull stood on the other side of me, still looking at the letter and frowning. The selectmen were gathered across the aisle.

Entering from his chambers at the rear, Judge Allen barely glanced at the scene in front of him before sitting down and opening the folder containing the day's docket, which he read with attention. When he finished, he looked up again, a man well past seventy with sharp eyes and a commanding presence. Over his dime-store reading glasses he looked at Abel Feinstein and the logging chain, at the knot of town fathers, at me and Inspector P. W. Bull, and finally at the blackboard by the bailiff's desk.

“Farlow, please swing that slate around so I can read what's on it,” he said.

The bailiff complied and the judge read the letter carefully. Then he looked past the blackboard and out the window down onto the common.

“That ragtag circus that set up out there on the green a month ago?” he said. “I've always wondered where they went next when they folded their tent and left here. Now I know. They've moved their scene of operations to my courtroom.”

Abel Feinstein began to tremble.

“Well?” the judge said. “Perhaps someone can shed some light on this—situation.”

I stood up. “Your Honor, I have here a letter that I think—”

I felt a hand, a very strong hand, grasping my arm. Beside me, Mr. Feinstein rose and took the letter.

“Abel Feinstein, tailor, shoemaker, jack of all trades, your honor. Please. I wish to speak.”

“By all means,” the judge said. “And Abel. I know who you are. I've done business with you for years.”

Putting one foot in front of the other, dragging the slack in the chain across the polished hardwood floor, Abel hitched his way forward past the defense table to the two steps leading up to the judge's dais.

“Please,” he said, holding out the letter to Farlow Blake. “Take to judge.”

As Judge Allen read the letter, he began to scowl. Still scowling, he looked again at the letter on the blackboard, then back at Abel.

“Please, Your Honor,” Abel said. “Meaning no disrespect. But rights we have too.” He gestured toward our letter on the blackboard. “I ask you, Your Honor. On behalf of our night class. Is true? These rights we have?”

The judge looked out over the courtroom. “Gentlemen,” he said, staring at the selectmen. “Mr. Abel Feinstein seems to feel that you want to deprive him and the citizenship class of their basic freedoms under the Bill of Rights. That's a fairly serious charge, wouldn't you say?”

Roy Quinn rose. “Forrest—Your Honor—we don't want to deprive anybody of anything. But these folks in the citizenship class aren't Americans yet, so they don't really have any rights. And the selectmen are in charge of renting out space in the courthouse and keeping it up. We figure we have the right to direct young Frank here to take these people elsewhere.”

Outside the window, the elm trees shimmered in the heat of the summer morning. But the judge's voice was as icy as the Kingdom River in January when he said, “Is that all you have to say?”

Roy looked at the other selectmen, then nodded.

“Good,” the judge said, “Because I think someone else here has something to say now. George?”

Judge Allen seemed to be looking just over my shoulder. When I whirled around, I was astonished to see my ailing adoptive father standing in the center aisle two rows back.

“Now, goddamn it, Forrest,” roared the unorthodox priest and greatest scholar and third baseman in the history of Kingdom Common, “I've just got one question for our estimable town fathers. Have Frank and his class done anything to forfeit their rights under the Constitution of the Kingdom Republic?”

Father George pointed angrily at the framed Constitution behind the judge's bench. Then, with his face as red as I'd ever seen it, he shouted out, “For those of you who have scales over your eyes, it says, ‘All citizens of the Kingdom Republic will enjoy complete personal freedom so long as their actions and beliefs do not encroach on the freedom of other Republic citizens.'”

“Thank you, George, you can sit down now,” Judge Allen said mildly. “Your face is you-know-what.”

He looked at Roy Quinn. “Well, Roy?”

Again Roy glanced around at the other selectmen. Then he repeated, lamely, “It's just that we're in charge of the courthouse, Forrest—”

“Fine,” the judge said, quite pleasantly now. “And I assume that perhaps at this time I might secure your permission to say a few short words myself in your courthouse?”

“You're the judge, Forrest.”

“That's so,” Judge Allen said. “I'd nearly forgotten that for a moment. But yes, Roy, I am the judge. And have been the judge for—” He looked at Farlow Blake.

“Thirty-two years,” the bailiff said.

“Thirty-two years. So, presuming on the strength of having been the judge for thirty-two years, I will, with your permission, make one small ruling. While you gentlemen may determine the use of your courthouse, I, thank you kindly, will determine who may use my courtroom. Therefore, it is my ruling that in accordance with the Constitution of the Kingdom Republic, Mr. Abel Feinstein and his classmates may stay here until they graduate and become full-fledged citizens.”

To my astonishment, P. W. Bull gave me the thumbs-up sign. But when Judge Allen asked Abel if he felt he could unlock his chain now and go back to his tailor's shop, Abel shifted his feet so that the chain clanked, and shook his head. “Better I stay here, Your Honor. Until next Tuesday. When comes graduation.”

The judge sighed and looked out the window. “Well, Abel, that's an unusual decision. But if you can make arrangements with Frank to provide for your—necessities—that's fine with me. After all, it's a free country.” He looked at Roy and the flabbergasted town officials. “Isn't it, gentlemen?”

 

That afternoon after court let out, I brought Abel a few things from his apartment over the tailor's shop. A couple of changes of clothes, a blanket, a wash basin, soap and a razor, a chamber pot. A few tins of sardines and a loaf of bread from the local grocery store, which Abel insisted on paying for. When I promised to bring him a hot supper from the hotel, he shook his head emphatically. “Please, Mr. Frank. No. I will be here only for one week. Class day after tomorrow night, examination Monday, then one night later graduation when we become citizens. Is not long.”

“Abel, for God's sake, now that the judge has ruled we can hold class here, why not go home? You can trust Judge Allen.”

“Of course. But is time to speak out, Mr. Frank. Abel will stay here and make sure no one erases what we have spoken. When we become citizens next week? Then I will unlock. In front of town.”

“You think the whole town's going to come to the ceremony? Come on, Abel. The town doesn't give a damn. That's the point.”

“Come they will. Reason number one, curiosity. Never underestimate. Number two, guilt. Guilt is powerful. More even than curiosity. Attending ceremony is a way for town to get rid of. Come and see new citizens sworn in, make as if nothing has happened, no hard feelings. You must put when, the time and place, in the newspaper. Also would be good a few posters.”

What could I say? I agreed to the newspaper notice, even to the posters.

 

Thursday was the last class of night school. By then all the students had heard about Mr. Feinstein's chain and had arrived early to see the man who had manacled himself to the courtroom bench in protest of the way they had been treated. As for Abel, a new confidence seemed to possess him. Though he'd eaten nothing all day but a sardine sandwich and an apple, he was more intense than ever. “Teach, Mr. Frank,” he exhorted. “One last time we review. Monday we take and pass test. All with one hundred percent.”

Tonight the class sailed through the questions, whose answers Mr. Feinstein wrote on the back side of the blackboard inscribed with the now famous letter, our declaration of independence. Everyone seemed ready. At Father George's suggestion, I had printed up new sample question sheets in the format of the exam, and the class spent the second hour writing out the answers, then correcting one another's sheets. Everyone scored well above 90 percent.

“Well, folks, you're all ready for Monday,” I said at the end of the evening. “Just remember. If you come to a question on the test and don't know the answer, go right on to the next one. You can always come back later.”

“Remember we will, Mr. Frank. One hundred percent!”

“Yes, Mr. Feinstein. I'm sure. The swearing-in ceremony is Tuesday evening at eight o'clock, here in the courtroom. You can invite all your friends and family.”

“I have a question,” Louvia said. “Will there be a valedictorian?”

“Speak English, Fortuneteller,” Frenchy said. “What you talking about? Val what?”

“A graduation speaker,” I said. “To sum up the class's time together in a farewell speech.”

“Who gives?” Mr. Feinstein said. “You, Mr. Frank?”

“Usually a student gives it. The student who graduates first in the class. Or the class can vote for valedictorian.”

“We're all going to finish first,” Ed Handsome Lake said. “So let's vote. I nominate Mr. Abel Feinstein.”

I gave the class paper ballots torn from my notebook. There were two votes for Louvia, one for Frenchy (his own, no doubt), and eight for Mr. Feinstein. Louvia exercised her constitutional right to abstain.

But Mr. Feinstein was mortified. “Class is a democracy, Mr. Frank. All equal. How can Abel be first?”

“You'll be giving the speech for the rest of the class,” I said.

“That's right, Feinstein,” Frenchy said. “You tell 'em for us. Same way you did old judge yesterday.”

“Well, then. On behalf of class.” Abel thought a moment, then smiled. “Between now and Tuesday plenty of time I will have to prepare, eh? But now in five minutes remaining, we finish preparing for test. Yes? Question seventy-two. Who is the current president of the United States?”

“You ought to be, Feinstein,” Frenchy said. “Probably find a way to, before you through.”

 

Monday, the day of the test, was the first fall-like day of the year. Though it was only mid-August, there was a dusting of snow on top of Jay Peak. A few leaves on the village elms had turned yellow, and some of the swamp maples along the river road had started to redden.

I was concerned that not everyone would arrive on time that morning, but they all did. The class took their written test at ten, and that afternoon Bull called me at the Big House with the results. “I can't believe this, Bennett, but your students didn't miss a question. How do you account for it?”

“Mr. Abel Feinstein,” I said. “And pride. And spite.”

From the other end of the line, silence.

“Listen, Inspector. The class voted for Abel to say a few words at the ceremony tomorrow night. I'm assuming that's okay with you.”

“I have no objection. As long as your buddy LaMott leaves his gun home.”

I laughed. This was the closest to making a joke I'd heard P. W. Bull come.

“Bennett?”

“I'm still here.”

“You want to do it again in the spring?”

“I appreciate that, Inspector. But I don't have any idea where I'll be in the spring. I know somebody who'd take you up on the offer in a minute, though, and do it better than I could. So do you. Abel Feinstein.”

“Yeah, well,” P.W. Bull said. “I'll see you tomorrow night.”

 

Over the weekend Abel Feinstein had worked frantically on his speech. By Monday afternoon he'd written several long drafts on the lined yellow tablets I'd brought him, then thrown them all away. He ate only enough to keep himself going, nibbling at a few crackers, sipping a little water. He refused to tell me what he was planning to say or to accept any assistance. “This must be Abel's story and the class's story. In ten minutes or less it must all be said. It must be from the heart, yes? And for the whole town to hear. After all, work here and live here we all have to do together.”

“One possibility, Mr. Feinstein—”

“Abel will find his voice. For the class. Now I must write. Thank you for taking care of, Mr. Frank. Not to worry. I will make you a new suit, very stylish.” He grinned slyly. “To get married in.”

“Jesus, Abel! What the hell are you talking about?”

“Please, Mr. Frank. Rule number four. No profanity!”

 

The cold snap held. Tuesday the sky over the mountains was a sharper blue, Canadian-looking, and on the courthouse cupola, high above the room where Abel Feinstein labored on his speech straight through the morning's hearings, Blackhawk turned his nose straight into the north, signifying more clear, cool weather to come.

That evening the crowd began to arrive around 7:30. Abel had been right. The turnout was astonishing, though whether people were coming from curiosity or guilt or genuine pleasure in seeing their fellow townspeople become citizens, I had no idea. Everyone in the village seemed to be there. Roy Quinn and Reverend Johnstone and the other selectmen, Father George, Editor Kinneson, and Judge Allen, who would administer the citizenship oath. By five of eight the courtroom was packed. To me, the room seemed entirely different from the place where I'd taught classes for the past three weeks.