Summitt

Chapter Twenty-Seven

She was light-skinned with oddly flecked brown eyes and kinky red hair cut short above a broad face. Her expression was wearily impassive, but it suggested to Selby a childish petulance rather than mature reserve. The roots of Emma Green’s bronze-colored hair were dark when the light touched them. A scar on her upper lip tended to pull her mouth into a grimace. Two of her upper front teeth were missing. She kept a hand close to her face when she talked.

An eight-year-old daughter, Libby, was studying at a table in the kitchen off the living room, but her agile little body was twisted around to watch Selby.

Emma Green wore jeans that were tight across her stomach, and a blue T-shirt with the words “Country Gal” stitched in white on the front. She was thirty-two and didn’t want to talk about Earl Thomson.

“I had my fill of that big honky shit with his uniform and all. He fucked me over good. And no real cause for it, if you’d like to know the truth. But it was a long time back, mister, days long gone.”

A church bell rang somewhere down the block. Emma Green lived in a white frame house on a dirt lot outside of Jefferson, New Jersey.

Rockland Military College — Selby had driven by there earlier — was twenty miles away, sprawled across neatly tended acres, with playing fields marked by white goal posts, tennis courts, an enclosed skating rink and a half-dozen fieldstone buildings standing about a rectangular quad — dormitories, classrooms and administration offices.

The entrance to Rockland was marked by stone columns topped by a rounded arch. On the face of this span, the school’s motto was carved in Roman capitals: THY COUNTRY IS THINE HONOR.

“That Earl boy was such a mean fucker, he got up early and stayed up late just to work at it.”

“Momma, don’t you talk that way,” her daughter called from the kitchen.

“Never you mind, Libby. Just study them books.”

Libby came to the door between the two rooms. She wore a blue blouse and a tartan skirt. Her black hair was pulled into side braids and tied with white ribbons.

“She’s busing now,” Emma Green told Selby, and smiled derisively at her daughter.

Libby was embarrassed. She frowned and put her hands on her hips. “You keep your mouth off me, momma. Miss Keener says that kind of talk is common. She says it’s how drunk women talk.”

“Listen to her, mister. She’s got little white friends and they go to their houses after school and cook things in the kitchen and make candy. They don’t think nothing of the mess, them white mommies.”

“You say his name when you asleep,” Libby said. She looked seriously at Selby. “I’m not lying, mister. She used to say his name out, call out near all of ’em that she had... that’s the truth.”

“You a sweet child, Libby, but it’s days long gone. Miss Keener, she’s your friend. You listen to her. I love you, baby.”

“You want something, you don’t fool me.”

“Just a touch, honey. It’s my day off.” Her voice was easy. “Don’t be mad. I used to be pretty like you.” She smiled at Selby, but hard defensive lines had formed around her mouth.

Libby went into the kitchen and brought back a pint of gin and a glass half-filled with water. “You sweet, you really are,” her mother said, and smoothed the child’s hair.

Emma Green was only an inch or so above five feet with wide hips and large, firmly molded breasts. Her lips were full and handsome, even with the scar that pulled the mouth up into an expression of sly skeptical anger. Her skin was clear and smooth, and Selby could easily imagine how pretty she must have been.

Libby closed the door. Emma Green poured a little gin into the glass and sipped from it. “I do the check-out at Safeway market all week so a little drink on my day off don’t hurt. I surely am sorry for your kid, mister, but I ain’t writin’ nothing down about what they done to me.

“They showed me I was still a nigger wench, that’s what they did. Never mind Martin and JFK and that shit people got so excited about. I believed it, too, I guess.” She covered her mouth and laughed, “ ‘I do believe...’ Thought black was beautiful, the colleges and good jobs and everything gonna bust wide open for us. You honky bastards shouldn’t lie and fool us, ’cause we’re so damned dumb...” She laughed and tapped her forehead. “—solid bone up here, solid ivory from Africa. What’s the fun of it? But I was pretty and had me a nice-sounding laugh, if I say so myself. Low and easy, not like some dumb-ass darky screeching and showin’ off. I could show you pictures of me laughing. You’d see how it was. How people liked to hear me laugh.”

She sipped the gin and water. “I worked at a bar over near the college. The bar was named The Letter Drop. We was off limits, the soldier boys, they’d sneak in at night and go upstairs with the gals.

“The name Letter Drop, you see, was a joke. Let ’er drop... see? Get out of them drawers, boy. Earl, he was a boss man, the others minded him ’cause he could be wild and mean, see. One night a new soldier boy came for the first time. They called him AC-DC, he didn’t want to go upstairs with any of us. They got on him, Earl mostly, yelling and teasing him. They was a kind of bet with him and Earl. They made him go up with me, ’cause they said I was the prettiest and laughed the most and if he couldn’t make it with me, he’d better start looking for somethin’ scusin’ gash.”

Shielding her mouth, Emma Green drank again and ran her tongue around her lips. “But the soldier boy couldn’t do it. He got undressed and I could tell he was scared. It was all shriveled up, hiding from me. I was mad at first, I was so pretty, and I was clean, so what was he afraid of? What’d he come upstairs for anyway? I started touching him, rubbing him nice, but nothing could make that little thing of his stand up and look around. He was a nice built boy, too, strong and brown, kind of. He started crying when I told him we better go downstairs. I was still working see, and needed some more tricks, but he begged me not to. He was kind of nice. Said it wasn’t because I was colored or anything. I felt good about him saying that, so I asked if there was anything he wanted me to do. Something he was ashamed to tell me... but he said no and went on crying, saying he couldn’t do it with girls. They was calling him AC-DC, Ace for short, because they thought he could go two ways, but he couldn’t go no way with me... I told him to shush crying. We’d dunce Earl. I told him to start laughing and pretending like we was carrying on. So that’s what we did. Drank some wine and I started shrieking and making goosey noises and giggles. I’m calling him sweet names and moaning like he was driving me wild. We was standing close to the door so they’d hear us downstairs. I yelled — ‘slow down, boy, you’re passing my heart.’ And I called out real loud, ‘My, my, you so big, you could lean over and give your own self a blow job, honey.’ ”

Emma Green sighed and drank some gin. “Didn’t mean no harm, mister, just thought to help the kid. He was payin’ good money. When we went down to the bar, well, lordy, they treated that hombre like a hero, pounding him on the back and buying him beers. Everybody was happy but Earl, ’cause he didn’t like us fussing over AC-DC and having to pay off the bet.”

The church bells sounded again. The small room was quiet. Small white paper napkins were spread on the arms and headrests of chairs. The tables and windowsills were clean and shiny with furniture polish; a lemon fragrance mingled with the tart, wild berry smell of the watered gin.

“All this busin’ gonna lead to heartbreak, you watch.” Emma Green’s eyes were sad. She drank again, but didn’t bother covering her mouth. She put the glass down and let her hands rest palms up in her lap, a weary gesture that reminded him of Lori Gideen.

“I thought nothing bad could happen to me because I was pretty. Men would just about die to get me in bed. They couldn’t get enough of me. My waist was so tiny, they could put their hands all the way around it. I got pictures I could show you, mister, but it don’t matter no more.”

Sighing, she picked up her glass. “I’ll tell you about Earl, and that fucker from over in Pennsylvania, a cop, Slocum, his name was. But I ain’t writing it down or signing it, see. One of the other girls heard me and that little ole AC-DC cadet talking about foolin’ Earl. Girl called Rocio, she was part Mex. Heard us goin’ on about pretending to screw up a storm. She told Earl. Don’t know why. She’s dead now, poor baby, got a cold and died of it. So one night a couple days later, I was walking home and it was dark. I lived with my daddy and he helped out with Libby. Earl stopped me in a car, almost ran me down. He had some of the other soldier boys with him. They pulled me into the car and Earl told me he knew about what me and the queer had done. I tried to pretend it was a joke, but Earl was in a crazy mood, said nobody could make a fool of him. Driving through the dark with them soldier boys holding me, I thought all right, gal, you gotta take your whippin’. You asked for it, you gonna get it. They drove me to an old place with a basement. Couldn’t see too clear ’cause the only light was little bitty candles in bottles. They had that boy down there, three of them holding him down on a mattress. He was buck naked, all little goose pimples, and crying. The soldier boys was teasing him. They hollered when Earl brought me in. He made me take my clothes off and get on top of the boy. I could feel how scared he was. Then they rolled him on top of me and pulled my legs open. I don’t know how long it went on, they shouting he’d better fuck me if he knew what was good for him.

“They pulled him off me. Earl made him watch while be fucked me. I was bleeding. It wasn’t my time, but I started anyway. They rubbed it on that boy, on his stomach and chest, and made me watch while they messed around with him, played with him and teased him till his cock got stiff. He was crying and begging them to let him loose but they kept messing with him. He laid there real quiet after a bit, whimpering like a puppy. They all laughed like crazy folks then and jerked him off. After he came, they messed his jizz with my body blood and smeared it on his face, said maybe that would make a man out of him. They let him up then but they made him sign a long paper saying he couldn’t fuck girls, that he was a queer and all. Everybody signed it, and Earl promised that he’d get everybody a copy...” Selby remembered that a priest at St. Ambrose had once expounded the proposition to him that “the existence of hell was irrefutable proof of the compassionate nature of mankind’s Heavenly Father.” Earl Thomson could have been his disciple.

“There’s not any more to tell,” Emma said, “except what that fucker Earl did then. He tied me up and he beat me like he was afraid to stop. He kept telling me how bad I was. That sounds crazy, I know, mister, but it’s true.

“I remember bein’ in a car, and then a field. It was cold. Half my clothes was off and my hands was still tied. A white man and woman found me, took me to a hospital. I don’t remember that part of it. Some doctor hadda pull my teeth out.

“The cops came and went to the school. But all them soldier boys was asleep in their bunks, nobody been anywhere that night. There was a little fuss. My daddy and the people who found me, the white folks, they thought something ought to be done. That’s when Slocum came over to the house and talked to me. He had a little wop fucker with him... I think Dom something. They showed me how beautiful black was, mister. They said I better be careful. My boss at The Letter Drop, he told me to listen to ’em. That Slocum, he says Earl was just funnin’ with me, nothing to cause trouble about. I wouldn’t sign a paper they wanted me to. I told that bastard Slocum and that dago prick to fuck off. So I lost my job. Boss said nobody’d want to look at me no more. My daddy, he was a welder, his boss got the word to him. Slocum said if I didn’t drop the charges, it would happen again, and my daddy would be watching. So then I signed what they wanted. Nobody cared I was pretty, I got pictures proving it, but that didn’t matter. Nobody cared about this little nigger. You don’t care, mister. What you doing here there, you big honky fucker, staring at me—?”

“Momma, stop. Please stop.”

Emma Green had been shouting. She took a deep breath and smiled shakily at Selby. “She is sweet, my Libby. No real daddy, but they set a store by her at school. This ain’t helping you, mister. That Earl’s crazy. He wanted to mess up daddy’s boss and the man owned The Letter Drop, never mind they lied and helped him. Tried to get that wop fucker to hurt them. You better go, hear?”

Selby nodded. He smiled a goodbye at Libby and turned to the door.

Emma Green said, “You ain’t gonna ask to look at my picture? See I wasn’t just braggin’?”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You ain’t no hustler, are you, man? You kind of dumb too.”

“Momma, stop talking that way.”

“Well, it’s the truth.” Emma Green was near tears. “He know if he looks at the picture and says how nice I look that I’ll be foolish crazy and write anything he wants. Don’t you know that, mister?”

“I’m not going to add to your problems, Emma.”

“Hey, I ain’t got only a few teeth left to get knocked loose anyway. Sit down, go ahead, sit, you and Libby can look at ’em together while I write it down.”

There were photographs of Emma Green and her friends in a pickup truck at a beach. A sheet was spread on the sand, held down at the corners by six-packs of beer. Others were of Emma in the stands of a highschool stadium, in backyards and porches, one of a teenage Emma standing with a laughing group in an arcade of pinball machines. Libby hung over the back of the chair, pointing over Selby’s shoulder, identifying her mother, naming friends she remembered hearing about.

Emma’s hair was black then. She was small and slim and pretty, with a direct, confident smile. Her daughter pointed to those pictures with particular pride, the ones where her mother was smiling and showing her perfect white teeth.

While Selby looked through the album, Emma Green put her drink aside and covered page after page in her daughter’s notebook with childishly round handwriting. She then told Libby to leave off studying the old pictures and go down to the church and get the minister and his wife.

Emma Green smiled tensely at Selby, not bothering to cover her damaged mouth. “I told you you shouldn’t fool us, mister. We too dumb for good fun. Look what I’m doing. I’m writing it all down about that fucker Earl. See what I mean about dumb?”

Selby turned off the highway at an exchange near Camden and called home from a pay phone at a gas station.

It was late afternoon and overcast; it had taken the Reverend Elmer Davis, an efficient but simmeringly angry black man, almost two hours to type up Emma Green’s deposition and to have the documents duplicated, witnessed by his wife and Selby and notarized by a local bank officer.

At the end of the block was a small meadow covered with shallow water, natural terrain enclosed by industrial grime. Birds swam and fed among the stubby weed patches. Currents moved in sluggish waves over the sheaths of dirty ice. Fine for ducks, Casper would complain, if there weren’t so many cars and gas pumps and people around. But nothing would look very cheerful now, Selby knew, with the memories of her broken smile and the daughter’s shy goodbyes.

Mrs. Cranston answered his ring and told him she was glad he’d called. Not that anything was wrong. Davey was home from school and Miss Brett was driving Shana back from East Chester.

But a Sergeant Wilger phoned and wanted Mr. Selby to call him as soon as he could. She gave him a number Selby didn’t recognize. It wasn’t the Detective Division or Wilger s apartment.

He dialed and waited. From the booth he could see gas pumps, a littered street, rows of auto body and repair shops.

A phone was lifted. Wilger said, “Selby?”

“That’s right.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“I’m in a pay booth.”

“Okay, so am I. I didn’t want to use the office or my place. How’d it go?”

“She’s gun-shy, like you said. But I’ve got it in writing, witnessed and notarized. What good it will do is something else.”

“I called her place trying to get you but you’d left. Then I left a message at your home. I picked up something at the Hall you should know. Another of them funny links. Word is, the defense is bringing in a witness from Germany who’ll blow Brett’s case out of court. Also I heard the psychiatrist is testifying for Davic tomorrow and Brett told me it could be rough. So I had a double Scotch and thought screw Slocum. I’m going to the airport to see who else is interested in the GI from Frankfurt.”

“So you know who it is? Do you know his name?”

“Sure. He’s Derek Taggart, Ace Taggart from Rockland, General Adam Taggart’s son.”

The shore birds had settled in for the night; the cold, gray meadow was quiet.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Selby said. “I mean that.”

It was almost dark when he left the phone booth. A glare of traffic rose from the Camden Pike. A last fading light lay across the stretch of marshland, which spread like a cracked and smudged mirror under the gently drifting birds and frost-white weeds.