Welcome to Braggsville (20 page)

It was too soon to know if a classmate would be president, but one of them, Alexander, the starting quarterback for three years, was the son of the third generation of Golds in Hoffman, Gold, and Sons. He was also the great-nephew of the original Hoffman. This was no accident, and Alexander's father, who wore that same school tie, never neglected to remind his son and his son's friends how lucky they were to grow up in the Midwest. The coast is good for some
things, but a successful man must have values, and those start here, in the heartland.

Alexander heard about the Incident at Braggsville, as the media was referring to it the morning after, and next thing they knew, the now 3 Little Indians were seated at the Davenport kitchen table with a man whose tailored suit cost more than the refrigerator and who may have been the one to keep Lindsay Lohan and Robert Downey Jr. on the road for so long, on the studio's behalf, of course.

Here sat Daron in the same kitchen where he'd once made homemade costumes under his mother's tutelage: a knight, a crusader, an astronaut. On the side of the refrigerator hung one crayon pig wearing the blue Nikes D'aron so treasured in elementary school. That was the first pig he ever drew, and it had been in that same spot for years, protected by plastic wrap. The magnet that now held it was from a photo booth at the California State Fair: Daron, Candice, Charlie, and Louis wearing face paint and feathers costing ten dollars a go, but the money was for charity, and the opportunity too good to pass up. Beside that was a photo of Big Quint, his uncle who had died in Desert Storm, making two Vs with his hands. Beneath that was a photo of D'aron geared up for his first hunt, age eight, making the same Vs that his uncle, and, he realized, his roommate used to. Louis had only been there for a day, but the house already felt haunted by his absence, and the presence of the lawyer who filled the room, who—Daron at last figured out—had the manner not of a superhero, but of an undertaker, one possessing that rare and certain confidence in the inevitable necessity of his services.

Daron, his parents, and his friends sat at the table stirring cold coffee. Hirschfield had declined a beverage. Occasionally, Candice moaned and readjusted her position. Her foot kept falling asleep, and she couldn't scratch or flex it, poor thing.

Hirschfield paced the room, scanning the transcripts, running his finger along the page until he found what he was looking for.
Ah, here it is. He read slowly, Ten kids in white suits with red dots on their butts run through communion. No. Just, no. He looked at each of them in turn. I am charged with advising all of you until you secure individual representation. That comes from the top, so for efficiency's sake, we're holding this joint meeting. And Charlie, Mister-Race-Is-a-Performance, Mister-Sir-Every-Other-Minute? Adaptive testing transforms the examination into an assessment of strategy? Fortifies enduring social asymmetry? Enactments of concretized ideologies? That's a no-no. Open wide—let me see your teeth. Hirschfield enacted a dentist, continued speaking only when satisfied all enamel was present and accounted for. Charlie, your mom wanted you home if there was any uppity-Plessy, so you're flying out tomorrow with me. Daron, you better well figure out what this performative intervention is because whether you were there or not, you're the mastermind based on the
sole
fact that this is your hometown. Hirschfield paused, apparently waiting for Daron to indicate his understanding.

He reminded Daron of his professors who liked to hear themselves talk, the type who stopped midsentence to relish the sound of their voice. Daron nodded.

Candice, as the witness, the only witness here, you tried damned hard to do the right thing, but don't talk to anyone else without representation. This could be manslaughter, murder, or a hate crime, which is a federal offense. And it's definitely a hot mess as they say out your way, up in Norcal, that is. The papers are on it, the bloggers, and the news media will be here next. Candice, the town wants you to vindicate them for having rendered aid in an attempt to rescue you and the deceased from the ill-fated performative intervention being manipulated from offstage by this one here—he pointed to Daron. So, talk to no one else.

Louis.

Excuse me?

His name was Louis.

Of course, Louis.

Deceased makes him sound sick. He was murdered.

She's right. His father flashed him a look and Daron immediately regretted saying it, but she'd sounded so mournful, so true.

The attorney rubbed his hands together like he was washing them. I am sensitive to the issues at hand, but I will not abide some Left-Coast, hyperliberal deconstruction from a child who aided her good friend in hanging himself. I am here to help you. God has spoken. Not exactly God, but close—Gold, of Hoffman and Gold, has spoken, and I am here, in the South, which is actually a model for civil reform compared to the Bay Area, marked as it is by savagely persistent inequities amidst unimaginably abundant resources. You do not lecture me. He pointed at Candice. You do not know where you are. He pointed again, palm facing Candice, fingers curled, index and thumb up, like a Shaolin monk. This is not Berkeley, everyone does not have a voice, and in my informed opinion, you wouldn't be in trouble if you'd attended a school with a more traditional political climate, instead of a university that prides itself on being a hotbed of liberal activity and the center of free speech and progressive values, when, in actuality, their minority recruitment is abysmal as of late—excepting athletes—and what they have mostly given the world is an abundance of advancements in the sciences, most of which have been used for weapons. I know all about it. My brother attended Cal, until my father saved him from himself. Oppenheimer was at Berkeley, as were some of his other cronies. Keep up. Since 1943, a UC-managed weapons lab has overseen the design of every single nuclear weapon built for our national arsenal. I live in L.A., and I vote Democrat, but I pick my teeth with liberals after breakfast. So, you do not lecture me. May I continue?

Everyone nodded, Daron most vigorously, now aware that the senior citizens always protesting at the campus's West Gate had a
legitimate complaint. Hirschfield certainly had some kung fu. Very strong.

Thank you. It's necessary to understand who is in charge. You need to work on these descriptions, especially of the man with the cross tattoo. Keep a notebook. Of course the entire town will render assistance, and necessarily so, when the entire town has convened on the site where said incident occurred. There is also the question of the bearded officer you mentioned, but he was off duty that day. I suspect, though, that had a crime, such as a robbery, happened to have occurred elsewhere, or perhaps a fire, or an automobile collision or other life-threatening medical emergency, there would have been a significant, perhaps life-altering delay, because the individuals in charge of providing the necessary services were all in costume, ardent adherents as they are to the cult of Southern victimization. The public safety officials were derelict in their responsibilities if they—and I suspect they had—indeed abandoned all public posts to participate in a role-playing game. He paused. Was mail delivered that day?

Daron's dad whistled long and low. Excuse me, but you're making it sound like a conspiracy. Do you want to know where I was? And my wife as well?

Forgive me, Mr. Davenport, if you took that to be a broad accusation of the entire town. Understand, though, that if firemen, local law enforcement, paramedics, and the rest were indeed present, they would be bound to intervene. If that is the case, it means that the sheriff's questions about who helped and who did what may be little more than an attempt to conceal an abject dereliction of duty. If they intend to put pressure on your son, you need to have something to come back with. Fire with fire, sir, you must understand that. This is like a boxing match, and the bell has sounded. The fight is under way and we may have lost the first round. If nothing else, we are against the ropes.

Daron looked at his father, who looked at his wife.

Janice, we get any mail yesterday?

She shook her head. I don't know. I don't think so.

One last piece of advice: the Internet is your enemy. Your Facebook pages can be introduced as evidence in court, as can your tweets. Even your e-mails can be subpoenaed. There is no privacy in the digital age, so type with caution.

Expect also to hear from the FBI, if you haven't already. They'll want to look into this lashing as a hate crime. It will be tough to prove because the muscle suit absorbed the force of the whip, meaning that the . . . Louis . . . alas . . . shows no sign of being beaten. I regret our meeting under these circumstances. Charlie, I'll pick you up at eight
A.M
. Good night.

T
HAT EVENING AFTER
H
IRSCHFIELD'S VISIT
, when Candice called dinner their Last Supper, no one laughed, not even her. That evening after Hirschfield's visit, when Charlie called the front yard their Trail of Tears, no one laughed, not even him. Daron didn't even attempt a joke. In the hours since Charlie's departure was announced, their jokes were failed benedictions. After Charlie packed, they sat again in the backyard. For a long time, there were more fireflies than words between them. Daron counted. Doing so took his mind from the more disturbing question of why it was so hard to talk. At moments he felt the words pressing against his throat like sprinters neatly arranged at the starting block waiting only for him to fire the pistol. And when he didn't they would stand, stretch their legs, and cloud about in frustration as his thoughts went rogue, nebular. Again he would gather them together, line them up, but still couldn't even draw the starter, let alone fire it.

Candice's parents were professors. Was that like having an English teacher for a mother, but twice as bad? Did that make it impossible to talk about anything without being constantly corrected?
Louis was a natural. Charlie, though, was even more of an outsider than Daron. Why was it so easy for him to speak his piece, to share his mind? When they walked home after the dot party, Charlie had told Daron's life story, or may as well have. His mother wanted him to go to Howard or Morehouse or Tuskegee, he fled instead as far west as Greyhound traveled. And, like Daron, he also had what Mrs. Brooks called survivor's guilt, but Charlie's was more tangible, as Daron learned that evening under the gazebo.

I slept with many women, many women in Chicago, naturally. It's expected. But I'm still a virgin. My school had a Coming Out Day, and an LGBT club and student support group, but it was a collection of outcasts. Perhaps collectively their torments were lessened by being shared, but they continued nonetheless. Why join them if one wasn't even an outsider? In fact, to make it worse, I joined the football team in taunting and teasing the gay students, especially Tyler Ridges, the cherubic flutist. The band conductor would say, And now, our cherubic flutist. We kissed once in middle school summer camp, western Mass, snowy even in summer was my father's bad joke, never thought I'd see him again. But there he was when I got that scholarship, wearing the same tie. One day in the middle of gym class he broke down, crying out, He kissed me, but now he hates me! Dropped out soon after that. I mean, how could he live with those posters? Some guys put up posters of Chuck Norris with the slogan, I finger-fucked Tyler Ridges nka [
n
ow
k
nown
a
s] the Colostomy King, and he's ruined for life. They scribbled his name and number on bathroom stalls and placed a personals ad in the local paper and on Craigslist in which he promoted himself as a cub in search of a bear, a puppy in search of a big dog, and a small pot looking for a tree to plant in itself to make it useful. There were hundreds of calls, not to mention the picture someone managed to shoot in the locker room of him in his undies bending over to pull off his sock. Out of context it did look like a weird boudoir shot. It was kind of funny and sexy at the same time,
like a picture of a real fat lady in a bikini. Wasn't too funny though when Tyler hanged himself at his grandparents' home that summer, after his father put him out of the house, refusing to believe that anyone else would take the trouble to open an e-mail account listing themselves as [email protected]. It was too elaborate to be considered a hoax. Charlie paused. I'd thought only poor people were that homophobic. To be bullied into suicide. I think of it now as a lynching from a distance.

Candice reached across the table and took Charlie's hands between her own.

I told everyone I was going to Berkeley to try out for the team, but I just wanted to be near San Fran. It was only after the first year at Berkeley that I realized I could possibly be open about what I was, but I still wasn't ready. I'm not now. I am scared to do it and wanted to do it with someone who hadn't done it yet either. Look at me, do I look gay? He stood and extended his arms, a solid shadow. They would say that's why I didn't make the football team. He sat back down.

There are plenty of gay athletes now. Candice stroked his arm. Someone famous comes out every week.

Famous. Precisely. If you try to walk on gay, forget it.

Wait a minute, this does not mean you're gay, Daron whispered, looking around.

Does anyone know? asked Candice.

Weights, boxing, karate, football. My father suspected, which was why he was worried about the all-boys boarding school. My mother doesn't know. It would kill her. My father made me promise that even if I decide to get into that life, I must never tell her. Her brother, my uncle, died of AIDS.

It just sounds like you might be confused. That doesn't make you gay, argued Daron. I don't like guys in their underwear but that vampire movie dude is handsome. That doesn't make me gay. They had
learned about this in school, about how not even gay sex makes you gay, like in prison, where it was merely situational sexual behavior. Prison sex, vo-technically speaking, was not homosexuality.