Silent Witness (15 page)

Perhaps that was it. Perhaps it was Ernie Nixon, or what had happened to Tony himself. All Tony knew, to his surprise, was that he did not belong here anymore.

He pulled the cloth off the salad bowl, stood, and emptied his bag of marbles. They rattled, bouncing around the bowl and out onto the floor. ‘I'd better start watching Ernie,' he said. ‘Expect to hear from me next year.'

Ignoring their astonishment, he headed for the basement steps, then thought of Dave Suggs. Turning, he said, ‘I'll walk real slow, Dave. In case you want to follow me.'

Even as he reached the steps, a part of Tony wondered at his anger. But a second part told him he had not quite said enough. When he turned again, it was to Doug Barker.

‘By the way,' he said to Doug, ‘you're the biggest asshole in this room. I thought I ought to let you know, as one Lancer brother to another. 'Cause nobody here is even close.'

With that, Tony realized that he could never say enough, and left.

‘Tony!'

It was Sam, following him out of the Suggses' house. Tony stopped by his car.

Sam's face was filled with worry and surprise. ‘Come on, man. Ernie Nixon's not worth it. You're walking out on friends.'

Tony felt the energy seep out of him. His solitude was more than a matter of anger, or even of Alison; at some point he could not identify, Tony had stopped being like the others, and now he did not wish to try. He leaned against the lamppost, arms crossed. ‘What am I supposed to do?' he asked. ‘Go back and apologize? Would you?'

Sam stared at the ground. ‘No,' he said finally. ‘Not me.'

‘Not me, either.' Tony dug in his pocket for his car keys. ‘Look, get back in there. This isn't about you –'

‘It's about
you
.' Sam put his hands on his hips. ‘You're my best friend, and I've stopped even trying to figure out what the fuck you're doing.'

Tony sat on the hood of his car, not looking at Sam. ‘I'm not
doing
anything,' he said at last. ‘One night I found my girlfriend strangled to death, the next day most people think I killed her, and now my whole goddamned life is blown apart. Don't try to understand what that's doing to me, because
I
can't. All I know is that even when I'm with you and Sue, I'm alone.'

‘That's
your
fault, Tony.'

Tony turned to him. Softly, he said, ‘Go back there, all right?'

Sam was silent for a while. ‘No,' he answered with quiet stubbornness. ‘I'm coming with you. You're still my best friend, and I've got some whiskey in the car.'

Through the fog of his emotions, Tony realized that he felt grateful. ‘Okay,' he said. ‘If I'm going to be alone, it'll be better if you're there too.'

They sat on the edge of the Lake City pier, passing the bottle between them. Tony caught himself imagining what this would be like if their lives, from the moment of the winning touchdown until now, were the same as before. Then Sam said, ‘It's been a long time, pal,' and Tony knew he was thinking this too.

The night was a riot of stars. Tony leaned back on his elbows, looking up, feeling the lake breeze on his face. The more he drank and watched the stars, the more the world seemed as it had been. He would have been happy to stay here, suspended in this moment, and have the morning never come.

‘After we get out,' Tony asked, ‘what are you going to do?'

Sam considered this. ‘Go to college around here. Stick with Sue.' He paused for a moment. ‘Know something? What happened to Alison changed me too. I just want normal. I want to be where people know who I am. Where they already know what to think about me.'

Never had Tony heard Sam express his insecurity this openly, and the wish for convention conflicted with his wilder side. But somehow this seemed more than whiskey-soaked musings on a warm spring night. For a long time, lying stretched out on the pier with the bottle between them, they said nothing else. Then Sam asked quietly, ‘Are you ever getting over her?'

There was something tentative in the question, as if Sam feared the answer. In a flat voice, Tony answered, ‘Not if I go to jail.'

‘I mean
inside
, Tony.'

For Tony, the stars vanished. He saw Alison lying beneath him, then Alison as he had found her, the Alison of the photographs. ‘No,' he answered. ‘I'm not getting over her.'

Sam rose to his elbows. ‘
I
could, Tony. I mean, I'd have to treat it like something that happened to somebody else.' He turned to Tony, as if to reach him. ‘
You're
not any different now – you're still the same guy, you can have the same life. What's different is how you
feel
. For your own good, you've got to find some way to change that. Or all you'll be is the guy that some people think killed Alison Taylor.'

Tony put down the bottle. ‘You weren't there, Sam. Don't talk about what you'll never get on the smartest day of your life.'

Sam lay back. ‘You don't think I even miss her, do you? Sure I gave her shit sometimes, because she thought she was special. But she was. I knew it, and so did everyone else. I still think about her. . . .'

‘When
you
think about her,' Tony snapped, ‘you're a fucking volunteer. She was
my
girlfriend, not yours. . . .'

‘She
was
your girlfriend.' There was a new tone in Sam's voice, somewhere between regret and bitterness. ‘Because of that, you and I aren't the same. I don't want it that way.'

Tony still felt taut. ‘I don't, either. . . .'

‘So why has it made
us
different? If it happened to me, whatever else, I'd be damn sure it didn't change us. Because you're important to me, all right? No matter what happens, or what you do, you're
important
.'

Tony felt the whiskey in him; the conversation had taken on too many shades and tones. He righted himself, sitting cross-legged as Sam stretched on his elbow. ‘Sam,' he said, ‘you're the closest friend I've got. But I'm not sure I know what the fuck you're talking about.'

Sam gazed at the railroad ties beneath them. ‘Don't you?'

‘I don't think so.'

Tony watched Sam search for words. ‘It's like those other guys back there – the Lancers. They know you, you know them. But not really. I mean, one of them could die, or you could die, and everyone's sad and then gets over it.' Stopping, he glanced at Tony, hoping to see comprehension.

Coolly, Tony asked, ‘Are you talking about Alison?'

Sam sat up. ‘For once can you get off Alison? This is about our friendship and what it means –'

Cutting himself off, Sam stood abruptly and walked to the end of the dock, watching the black lake swirl below as it smacked against the iron legs of the pier. Tony still sat cross-legged, sorting through his emotions – confusion, anger, the fierce desire not to lose this friend, so much a part of him. The next swig of whiskey felt raw in his throat; watching Sam, a solitary figure on a pier projecting into dark water, he felt they were alone at the end of the world.

Sam turned to him. ‘This is wrong, Tony. Because it doesn't matter.'

‘What doesn't matter?'

Sam walked slowly back to where Tony sat and lay next to him, looking up at the stars with his hands behind his head; something about this made Sam seem open, vulnerable. ‘Nothing matters,' Sam repeated softly. ‘It wouldn't matter to me if you'd killed her.'

Suddenly Tony felt cold. ‘“Wouldn't”? Or “doesn't”?'

For a moment, Sam was quiet. ‘Wouldn't. Doesn't. It's all the same to me.'

‘Are you asking if I killed her, Sam?'

Sam turned to him now. ‘Did you?'

Tony stared at him. It took all his effort just to say, ‘What do
you
think?'

Sam's gaze was silent, fearless. ‘I've stopped thinking about it.'

All at once, Tony felt the months of pain and anger cut loose. He grabbed the neck of Sam's T-shirt and jerked him upright, his right fist cocked in the air. He could feel Sam's breath on his face. ‘What do you fucking
think
, Sam?'

Sam made no move to defend himself. His eyes looked into Tony's with an odd calm. ‘That they don't have anyone else yet. And that it doesn't matter to me.'

Blood pounded in Tony's head. Hoarsely, he said, ‘It matters to
me
,' and let go of Sam's T-shirt.

The back of Sam's head struck the wooden pier. He lay there, squinting from the pain, still looking up at Tony.

Tony almost whispered, ‘You should have stayed with the people you're going through your fucking life with.'

Standing, he walked quickly down the long, narrow pier. The echo of his own footsteps followed him.

The next afternoon was unseasonably warm. Tony sprawled on the chaise longue in back, wearing gym shorts and no shirt. He had no desire to go anywhere, to do anything, to see anyone. The one phone call he had made was to leave a message with Saul Ravin's answering service, to ask Saul where things stood. He did not go to the mailbox because, today, he could not stand to lose the hope of Harvard; for the last five months, he had lived in fear that nothing – his grades, athletics, references, last summer's strong interview – would matter if the admissions committee in Cambridge learned of a murder in a small Ohio town. If he could have stayed in this house until the next change happened to him – going to some college, or through a murder trial – he would have. On waking that morning, he had discovered what it meant to be truly alone.

‘Tony?'

Startled, he realized that he had not heard Sue walk across the lawn. He moved his feet, and she sat on the corner of the chaise longue. She did not say anything; at first, it seemed that she had merely come to sit with him.

‘I guess you heard,' Tony said.

Sue turned to him, eyes filled with questions. ‘Just that you were drinking and fought – sometimes it's hard for Sam to explain himself. But I know he was embarrassed by whatever happened.'

Tony felt his anger return. ‘I don't see why. All he did was ask me what everyone else wants to know.'

Sue's pretty face was unusually grave. ‘If Sam asked you that, it was stupid. He knows you better.'

Tony lay back on the chaise; though the person he saw was Sue Cash, the girl he had always liked, some perverse desire to break all ties pushed him on. ‘So you came to clean up his mess.'

The first trace of resentment crossed Sue's face; he watched as she recaptured her patience. ‘If you give Sam time, he'll apologize. I don't think he wants to be without you.'

‘Fine,' Tony said caustically. ‘Then tell him I didn't kill Alison, and that if he tells me where
he
was that night, we can just go right on like the whole thing never happened.'

Sue flushed and then gazed at him. ‘Sam was with
me
that night, remember? We wish you had been too, not just for Alison. Maybe Sam more than anyone.'

‘Sorry, I forgot. It's just that Sam's missed out on so much already, like wondering which person is worrying about who he'll murder next. At least having his “best friend” ask if he strangled Alison would give him the flavor of the thing.' Tony paused, then finished in a tone more indifferent than he felt: ‘I'll even tell him that the answer doesn't matter.'

Sue regarded him for a moment, quiet. ‘Sam has a lot of feelings, Tony – for you more than almost anyone. But he gets confused about how to say that.'

Tony felt his surge of temper become something that, as far as Sam was concerned, felt colder and more certain. ‘It's no good,' he said at last. ‘I can't help how I feel about what Sam asked me, or what it means that he did.'

‘Then who will you talk to?'

Tony shrugged. ‘Who cares?'

‘I do.'

She said this simply. As if it were obvious, a commonplace.

‘You're Sam's girlfriend,' Tony said.

Sue looked disconcerted, then annoyed. ‘That was stupid too. How about “You're my friend, Sue.” How about “I know you miss Alison too.” Or maybe just “I don't blame you for whatever dumb thing your boyfriend says. . . .”' She stopped herself. ‘I know you didn't kill Alison. You never could have.'

Tony looked at her. She had never said this to him directly: to Tony, the way she said it now bespoke a deep feminine conviction that was neither about fact nor about raising his morale – that he was innocent was simply something Sue Cash
knew
.

For the first time, she was smiling a little. ‘You don't have to fight with me too, all right? I'm just me.'

Tony studied her face, so familiar and suddenly so welcome. ‘How long have I known you?' he asked after a time.

Sue looked skyward. ‘Three years, anyhow. Since sometime in ninth grade . . .'

‘Actually, I remember seeing you my first day at high school. You were wearing a pink-striped dress.'

Sue nodded. ‘It was my favorite. The night before, I made my mom iron it.' She smiled at him, dimples showing. ‘I was waiting for someone to say how pretty I looked.'

Tony imagined the fourteen-year-old Sue, filled with anxiety and anticipation, watching her mother iron a pink-striped dress. ‘You
were
pretty,' he said.

Sue looked down – still half smiling, eyes serious now – and then gave Tony's hand a squeeze. It was an impulsive, affectionate gesture, Tony thought, so typical of Sue. Sam was luckier than he deserved.