Testimony Page 4

  When the kettle whistled, Owen Quinney walked in, as if he had been summoned. Mike stood and introduced himself.

  “Oh, I know who you are,” Quinney said, hanging a thick plaid jacket on a hook in the hallway. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of a meal.

  He had the body of a farmer. His legs and arms were strong, but there was a hint of softness around the belly. The skin of his face and hands had long ago reddened and cracked, but beneath that baked exterior lay a handsome man. He had a full head of dark-brown hair that any man might envy, and Mike liked his eyes at once. They were a smudged brown, surrounded by wrinkles that suggested a no-nonsense manner with perhaps a slight hint of the mischievous.

  Owen Quinney pulled a chair away from the table and straddled it, crossing his arms over its back. Anna was spooning cocoa powder into one of three cups. Mike guessed the cocoa was for Owen.

  “We thought you was a goner,” he said, his smile revealing a slight gap between his two front teeth. He seemed about the same age as his wife and smelled like animal, cold air, and, oddly, bacon. “Silas and me, we run out, and you was lying there upside down, and we thought you was dead or as good as, and I said to Silas, you go in the house and call nine one one. And Gary, bless his heart, he come out in a flash and got you out of the car.” He gave a slight whistle. “That was some car.” He paused. “Nothin’ worse than black ice. Nothin’. Now that you’re OK, I can say this, it was a good lesson for Silas. Scared the bejesus out of him. In a year or two, he’ll be getting his learner’s permit, and you have to scare ’em good before they go off half-cocked and kill theirselves. Gary’ll tell you. Two years ago, we lost five kids from the high school. They were up to Poultney, partying. Slid themselves all the way down the hill here and into a telephone pole. They found one of the kids, a girl, in a tree about a hundred feet away. You got to scare ’em. Best lesson there was, seeing you helpless in that car.”

  “I’m glad I could be of service,” Mike said, wondering if he would have been a better lesson had he died on impact. But he agreed with Owen Quinney. At Avery, the staff worried about the day students — the only ones allowed cars — all the time.

  “I’d like to pay for the damages,” Mike said, getting to the point of his visit. “For the mailbox and the fence.”

  “Weren’t your fault,” Owen said.

  “Well, yes and no,” Mike said. “No fault in the usual sense, yet I did cause the damage.”

  “Silas’ll fix it,” Owen said, and there was finality in his statement. “I’ll pay him a little for the work. He’ll be happy to do it.”

  “Well,” Mike said, “that’s very kind. If you change your mind, however, here’s my phone number.” He slid a small white card across the table.

  Owen picked it up, held it at arm’s length, and studied it. “Yeah, Gary said you was at the school. Headmaster, is it?” There was neither disdain nor respect in his pronouncement. He might have been saying milkman. Owen set the card down with a snap and took a sip of the cocoa. Anna had put a dollop of whipped cream on top. Mike picked up his mug and sipped and immediately burned his tongue. There was a smell in the room that he’d been trying to identify since he had walked in — something nutty, with a hint of cinnamon. Anna Quinney bent over the oven, opened it, and checked a tray of what looked like granola. That it should be, of all things, granola struck Mike as almost comically perfect. He had a sudden and urgent craving for a cereal he rarely ate.

  Anna stood. “I’ve been trying to get Silas to visit your school,” she volunteered.

  “Really?” Mike said, much surprised.

  “He’s good at art,” she added.

  Owen snorted. “He’s good at basketball,” he said, correcting her.

  “They did away with all the art programs at the high school,” Anna explained.

  Anna seemed nervous, and Mike wondered at the source of her fear: Mike as headmaster? Owen as disapproving husband?

  “And the music programs,” she added. “Some schools, you have to pay now for classes in the arts, but at the high school you can’t even pay. They don’t have any teachers.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I know you have a good arts program at Avery,” Anna said. “I’ve heard your studios are among the best in the state.” She gave a quick glance at Owen and stopped herself.

  “He’ll play varsity up at the high school next year as a freshman,” Owen announced, as if he hadn’t been listening. “Coach already called around to say so. Silas doesn’t have much height, but he’s fast. He can drive to the basket like no one you ever saw.”

  “I’d like to see him play,” Mike said.

  “They play Avery Academy,” Anna offered.

  “And beat the crap out of them every year,” Owen said with a chuckle.

  “I’ll bet they do,” Mike agreed.

  “Anyway,” Owen said, “your school is a great school. I just don’t think it’s right for Silas.”

  There was a long silence at the table that Anna finally broke. “I’ve personally always wanted to see the school,” she said.

  “You can come visit anytime,” Mike said.

  “Do you give scholarships?” she asked.

  “Thirty-eight percent of our students are on scholarships of one sort or another,” Mike said. His statistics weren’t entirely true. In that figure, he had included a large number of students who had jobs on campus that provided them with modest pocket money, most of which went not toward tuition but toward pizza and cigarettes.

  “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink,” Owen said, slightly off point.

  Mike wasn’t as disinterested as he sounded. If Owen’s son was as good as the father had said, Mike would have to have a talk with Vince Blount, Avery’s varsity basketball coach. Perhaps Blount had scouted Silas already. But there was, too, a potential political payoff in having local students attend the academy. The more people in town who felt connected to Avery, the better the school’s chances for land purchases or zoning proposals. There was, in fact, one such proposal in committee at that very moment: the school wanted to annex a portion of an abandoned park for a second baseball diamond. Having the nephew of Gary Quinney, chief of police, at the school might be no bad thing.

  “Is Silas a good student?” Mike asked casually, daring a second sip of his tea. He’d been blowing on its surface since he’d burned his tongue.

  Anna hesitated and glanced over at her husband, who was studying the floor. “He’s good,” she said in a soft voice.

  “Well, let’s do this,” Mike suggested. “Talk to Silas, see if he has any interest in touring the school. I’ll call in a couple of days. What we do is, we have students give the tours. Puts the kids at ease, and they’re more likely to ask questions. Of course, you would come, too,” Mike added. “It’s essential that the parents see the school as well.”

  Mike already had the particular student and itinerary selected. The best guide would start by taking Silas over to the art studios, where Mike would make sure student work was being exhibited. Silas and his family would swing around by the sports complex, talk to Vince Blount, and then visit Orpin Hall, the most appealing of the various academic buildings. Mike would have the Quinneys meet not only with the dean of admissions, Sarah Grace, but also with Coggeshall, dean of students. The tour would finish with lunch in the dining hall — usually the most persuasive selling point for a fourteen-year-old boy. Avery’s dining hall was set up much like a college cafeteria, with several stations and many options. Students could go back for seconds, thirds, and even fourths if they had the appetite. The promise of ribs and tacos and mac-and-cheese with six glasses of milk and four pieces of chocolate cake for dessert usually sealed the deal for any adolescent boy.

  Owen glanced up at his wife and then looked away. Anna’s face didn’t change. Mike caught then a hint of struggle between husband and wife, a battle that had perhaps been waged for many months, this but a small part of a possibly
larger marital struggle, or, rather, the marital struggle, the same for all couples, different only in its particulars. Seen from Anna Quinney’s point of view, Mike’s sudden skid across their front yard had been a stroke of unimaginable good fortune.

  Silas

  I didn’t, I didn’t want. But I did, I did want, it is the truth. For those minutes, it was, I wanted. I was drunk. The room was spinning, and there was music, and I can never, I can never. You are gone. You will be gone, and I have ruined. There were six of us and two left and why didn’t I? Why didn’t I say your name or think your name? Instead I just heard the music and the anger. There was you, there was always you, how did I let what you and I were? The best I ever felt. You are the one. We should have run away. And they were taping, and you will see the tape, and you will be so hurt, and that I can’t stand. No, you can’t ever see the tape. I will have to talk to you and you will have to promise me that you will never, but why would you promise me? I am to blame. I was there. I wanted. And now there is nothing I can ever say or do. And you will be so sad, and I can’t stand it.

  J. Dot

  I’m not straight with this at all. Not at all. I just don’t get it. This happens all the time, right? I mean, this happens all the time. Kids get drunk and do stupid things. To take the hit for it. It just . . . it just sucks, man. Sucks.

  The crap thing is, I can’t get into college now. I took a year off and now I’m doing the PG year all over again, and I feel like the fucking oldest man on earth. I was headed for Gonzaga. For basketball.

  The basketball was sick, man. Sick.

  For a long time, I couldn’t talk about any of this.

  I don’t know if you should have your life ruined over just one little time. They called me the ringleader in the press. That’s insane shit. If anyone was a ringleader, it was her. I know it sounds crazy to say that, and my lawyer wouldn’t let me go near it, but the whole thing was her idea. Sure, we were older and should have known better, but we were drunk, and . . . shit . . . what’s the point? Why am I even answering your fucking questions? To save the next guy? I got news for you. The next guy can’t be saved.

  And Coach being fired? That was pure insanity. None of this was his fault. Just because we all happened to be on the basketball team? Like there was some evil streak running through the team that he was responsible for? Jesus Christ, give me a break.

  I just don’t get it. You take all those other days of the year — 364 of them. And all that pressure to get into a good college. And three hours a night of homework, plus all those hours of practice and games and Saturday school. . . . So you take all those hours and you put them up against one hour of getting wasted and acting like a jerk, and that one hour defines your life? Forever?

  My picture was everywhere — every newspaper, CNN, the local news. I can’t go anywhere without people giving me a second glance. Sometimes, the men will shake their heads like they’re sorry, and once in a while someone will come up to me and actually say, Hey, sorry, man. But the women? The women look at me like I’m scum. Pure scum.

  You think that’s fair?

  I didn’t even know her. That’s the crap thing.

  I understand you have to pay. I get that part. My question is this: For how long?

  Matthew

  The whole thing just frosted Matthew’s ass. The whole charade had ruined his son’s life. Had any good come of it? Was Avery Academy better off? From what Matthew had learned, the school was about to go under. Were the individual boys better off for having been singled out? No one in his right mind would say yes to that. One of them, from what Matthew had heard, couldn’t get off the couch. Another one, his own son, was stuck in a hellish quagmire between secondary school and college.

  James was twenty-one now. Before the fiasco, he’d been on his way to play basketball for Gonzaga University. He’d been recruited by a number of schools. The packages that were promised! Both Matthew and his wife worked for Middlebury College — Matthew was in advancement, and Michelle was a math professor — and, naturally, money was always tight. The prospect of such a bright future was a dream come true. That dream was over now. That opportunity had disappeared. Something outstanding that was going to happen to his son would never take place. Even normal things that should have happened for his boy — they would never take place now.

  Matthew believed the event should have been adjudicated between the school and the boys. Quietly. There had been no need — never any need — to go public with it, and for that, Matthew blamed the girl. They said she changed her name and moved to a school in Houston. When he thought about her, he could just spit nails.

  For James’s PG year, Matthew and Michelle had decided to send their son to Avery because it was close to Middlebury, where they worked — only an hour’s drive away. Previously, James had been at Easton, and though he’d done well athletically, he’d had trouble academically. Matthew and Michelle knew that James would still have to be a boarder at Avery, but they’d be able to see him on weekends. And they did. Christ, Matthew had rearranged his entire class schedule around being able to get to the Wednesday and Saturday afternoon basketball games. He’d barely missed a one. The whole incident had been extremely difficult on Matthew, and Michelle as well. Their reputations had been tarnished. No one would ever say so to their faces, but Matthew knew it to be true. Overnight, they’d become social question marks. Some of that had eased up, but Matthew knew there were people on campus who would not have them to their houses for dinner. That had been particularly hard on Michelle. People were eager to blame the mothers. As if they hadn’t taught their sons the right values. Matthew had never known a better mother than Michelle.

  Matthew believed the entire fiasco happened simply so the girl could do some star-fucking. She wanted to prove to herself and to others that she could get a star. Why else would the incident have been taped? In that environment, James was already a star. All three boys were.

  The girl and the person behind the camera had a lot to answer for, as far as Matthew was concerned.

  Matthew didn’t know who had been behind the camera. James had never said, and Matthew respected him for that.

  When Matthew thought about all the bullshit that had been written in the press — about how the whole thing was Shakespearean in nature — he wanted to puke. How was what happened at Avery Shakespearean? Rise to greatness, fatal flaw, blah, blah, blah?

  Matthew and Michelle had known that James had experimented with drinking and drugs at Easton. It had been a bit of a problem there, and James had been expelled for selling marijuana. So he and Michelle had wanted their son closer to home. Avery had seemed perfect for James. They’d been advised that one more year would only better prepare James for Gonzaga — a plan that, had it not been hopelessly derailed, would have unfolded beautifully.

  In Matthew’s view, nineteen-year-old young men needed to blow off steam. One hoped it happened on the basketball court, but the pressures on these children were enormous, and one had to forgive them the occasional lapse. And after what Matthew had seen at the college level, the private-school incident seemed tame in comparison. No, it didn’t make the boys candidates for sainthood, but Matthew believed it should have remained a private matter. James’s lawyer made a good case for the boys’ not even knowing the incident was being taped. That, in fact, they’d been set up. Did Matthew believe it? He didn’t know.

  The irony was that if a few kids had done something similar at the college, they’d be calling it an art film.

  The girl wasn’t like any fourteen-year-old Matthew had ever seen. The word vixen came to mind. That suggested a seductress, and Matthew didn’t care who knew his feelings on this subject.

  James and his friends had had nothing to prove. They’d already proved themselves on the basketball court.

  James didn’t touch basketballs anymore. It killed Matthew to see this. James had loved basketball. He’d lived for it.

  Michelle had shown Matthew the letter from the researcher at t
he University of Vermont. He didn’t know if they should talk to her or not. Matthew had a lot to say, and he was fed to the teeth with lawyers.

  Michelle

  If anything I say can help another mother, then some good will have come of this horrendous time in our lives.

  I’d known for years that something bad was going to happen to James. I didn’t imagine the Avery incident — who could have predicted that? — but afterward, I understood that I’d always been afraid.

  Sometimes I think I could have stopped it. At other times, I know I could not have. Occasionally, I used to wonder, Is something wrong with James?

  The thing was, James could lie. Even as early as thirteen or fourteen, he could lie brilliantly. He was sweet and charming and very funny, but he could lie so well that even I wouldn’t be able to detect it until much later. I would sometimes suspect only because of the illogic of his statements. Young teenagers can’t fake logic very well. But he was so good at lying, I often doubted my own perceptions and intelligence. My son would look me in the eye and make a statement that contradicted everything I knew to be true. I would doubt myself, and then I would have to let it go.

  I often wonder now, Should I have been more strict? Should I have been less strict? It’s hard to know in retrospect. Should I have been with him every minute when he was a young child? Should I not have worked?