The Year the Lights Came On

  We waited, subdued and anxious, for Judge Harris. The room was silent, awesomely silent. Dupree popped his knuckles and tried to appear calm, though his hand trembled. Sonny sat back in his chair, his shoulders slumped forward. His face was as white as milk glass. Sonny was frightened. Freeman was amused. He leaned forward in his chair and rolled his pocket knife from hand to hand. A smile was pressed on his face. Alvin and R. J. and Otis and Jack sat perfectly still, uncomfortable, each wondering why he was there and each seriously doubting the advisability of having Freeman as a friend.

  A side door opened suddenly and Judge Harris entered his office and walked briskly to a raised swivel chair behind his desk. He was a short man with a head that extended abnormally forward from his neck, giving him an appearance of someone who had spent too many hours leaning over a desk deliberating the fate of others. His face had two terraces of flesh running off the corners of his nose and into his jowls. His eyes were close-set and steady and I knew instantly that he could freeze water with a stare.

  Judge Harris did not say Hello, thank you for coming, or It’s a nice day. He sat, surveyed the room, and began. “I’ve been in a meeting all morning with Jackson Whitmire, who’s representing Freeman Boyd in this matter, and with Rayford Callagan, who’s representing A. G. Hixon, and I’m telling everybody in here that it seems to me there’s a lot of smoke for such a little fire. Now, I aim to ask some questions and see if we can clear the air a little.”

  Judge Harris paused, shuffled through some papers on his desk, and continued. “There’s not the first thing about this session today that’s one-hundred percent legal, but it seems to me the spirit of the law might best be served by bringing you people together and saying straight out what everybody thinks. Things get settled that way that don’t do nothing but bog down when everything’s all legal.

  “Now, who’s Freeman Boyd?” he asked.

  Freeman raised his hand. “Me, Your Honor, sir,” he said. Jackson Whitmire had coached Freeman well.

  “Who’s Dupree Hixon?” Judge Harris asked.

  Dupree half stood. “Me—uh—sir.”

  “That’s good enough. Now, the rest of you stand as I call your name.”

  As our names were sounded, we stood, silently, then sat again. Judge Harris studied us with his never-blinking gaze. He asked our parents to stand and introduce themselves, though he knew each by first name. Judge Harris was remarkably official.

  “From what I’ve been able to piece together,” the Judge said, swiveling in his chair, “there’s two things here: an alleged theft of twenty dollars, and some old-fashioned disagreements. Whitmire tells me he’s got information about a threat Dupree Hixon made against Freeman Boyd, and then along comes Dupree Hixon later on and accuses Freeman Boyd of stealing twenty dollars from his daddy’s store. Now, A. G.—” he turned to A. G. Hixon “—I know it’s not the twenty dollars that makes the difference to you; it’s the principle of the matter, and I can appreciate that. But if all this comes down to a case of spite and revenge, then you know as well as I do, A. G., that it’s a matter for the people involved to settle and has no business whatsoever in a courtroom.” Judge Harris studied A. G. Hixon. “Is that right, A. G.?”

  “Yessir, that’s right,” A. G. Hixon replied meekly.

  “All right, now let’s get to some questions,” rumbled Judge Harris. “I want everybody to know why there’s no lawyers in this room. This is not a court. It’s not a trial. And I’m not about to have somebody objecting every minute, and over nothing. Now…” He read something from the paper in front of him. “Now, it seems there’s more to this than stealing money, like I said. Seems like there’s been bad feelings going on over there in Emery for some time now, and that’s what I want to know about.” He paused and looked at Freeman.

  “From what I’ve been able to find out,” the Judge continued, “there was a big fight over at the school, and it got out of hand. Says on this piece of paper that Jackson Whitmire gave me, that a little while after that fight, Dupree Hixon made his threat against Freeman Boyd, after Freeman Boyd accused Dupree of questionable behavior. Now, who’s going to tell me about that?”

  No one answered. No one even moved.

  “Well, there’s no need to be afraid. I don’t plan on sending anybody to jail. Anybody can speak up and say whatever he wants to. Dupree Hixon, why don’t you tell me about that?”

  Dupree struggled to his feet. He looked at his father. A. G. Hixon was nervous.

  “Go ahead, son, and just tell it in your own words,” urged Judge Harris.

  “Well, sir,” Dupree began, “I—I never threatened nobody. No sir, I wouldn’t do that. That’s not right.”

  Judge Harris flipped a page of the paper before him. “You didn’t say something like, ‘I swear to God and Jesus I’ll get you, if it’s the last thing I ever do.’ You didn’t say that to Freeman Boyd?”

  “Uh—no, sir. I—I can’t remember sayin’ nothin’ like that. I may’ve got mad. Freeman Boyd’s always pickin’ on people, makin’ people mad.”

  “Did Freeman Boyd accuse you of doing something and you didn’t like it?” asked Judge Harris sharply.

  Dupree cut his eyes to Freeman. Freeman glared at him.

  “He—he’s always doin’ things like that, sir,” answered Dupree. “He’s always tryin’ to make people mad.”

  Judge Harris nodded and turned in his chair. “But he didn’t say anything that would make you want to pay him back?”

  “Uh—no, sir.”

  “All right, son. Sit down. Freeman Boyd, you tell me about all of this.”

  Freeman stood, dramatically pulling himself up on the crutch he used, but no longer needed. Jackson Whitmire had not missed a trick.

  “You don’t have to stand,” advised the Judge.

  “Yessir,” replied Freeman, sitting.

  “Now, just tell it in your words.”

  “Well, sir, Your Honor, sir, it was this way, sir…”

  “You don’t have to say sir all the time.”

  “Yessir. Well, anyway, Dupree and Sonny and Wayne—Wayne’s not here, sir—and some of them got to kiddin’ Colin Wynn one day—Colin’s the littlest one on Our Side, sir, and he’s right here—and they kidded him somethin’ bad, and Colin wanted to fight them, but he’s too little, so some of us, me and Otis and Paul and R. J. and Alvin—they’re sittin’ here, sir—well, we just took up for Colin, and…”

  “I can appreciate wanting to help out a friend,” said Judge Harris, “but it don’t seem to me that any of this has anything to do with the question. Did you, or did you not, accuse Dupree Hixon of something, and did Dupree Hixon make a threat against you?” The Judge was irritated.

  “Yessir. He sure did. That’s what I was gettin’ to,” replied Freeman.

  “Well, get to it. You been around Jackson Whitmire too much, boy. He’s rubbed off on you.”

  “Yessir,” Freeman said, fighting a smile. “Well, anyhow, when we started in to helpin’ Colin, they got nasty and started callin’ him names and things, and I just said something about Dupree down on his granddaddy’s farm—I just made it up, sir—and, well, sir, that made Dupree awful mad and he swore he’d see I lived to regret it, and I guess that’s what the problem’s all about, sir, if you ask me.”

  Freeman’s explanation had bewildered everyone, including Judge Harris. Dover would have loved it, but Dover was working with the REA.

  “Well, that’s clear as mud, young man,” grumbled the Judge. “How did you feel about being threatened?”

  It was a sensible question, but Freeman regarded it as foolishly unnecessary. He smiled and looked around the room. I knew he was about to laugh aloud.

  “Well,” thundered Judge Harris. “What’s so funny about that?”

  Freeman turned angrily toward the Judge. He met the narrow-eyed gaze and challenged it. There was a long silence as the two combatants struggled.

  “Well,” repeated Judge Harris.

  “Sir,” Freeman
said simply, “I been threatened lots of times. What’s one more?”

  It was an honest answer. Completely honest. Freeman had never been so honest. And Judge Harris knew it.

  “All right, young man,” the Judge said quietly.

  “Yessir.”

  No one in the room moved. Rachel Boyd coughed painfully. Freeman looked at his mother, then turned back and began to cross and uncross his fingers. Judge Harris leaned forward. He picked up a pencil and began to drum the eraser on the table. Finally, he said, “Who else was there?”

  Otis and Paul and Alvin and R. J. and Jack and Sonny raised their hands. Wesley nudged me. “You was there,” he whispered. I raised my hand.

  Judge Harris looked at each of us. His eyes stopped on me. “You Colin Wynn?” he asked.

  I tried to speak, but nothing happened.

  “Tell him yes,” whispered Wesley.

  “Ye—yessir,” I answered softly.

  “Is that what happened, what Freeman Boyd said?” asked the Judge.

  “Uh—uh—uh…”

  Wesley nudged me again.

  “Ye—yessir.”

  Judge Harris looked at Otis. “Is that what happened?”

  Otis nodded. A girlish “Yessir” squeaked out from his dry throat.

  Alvin and Paul and R. J. and Jack all confirmed Dupree’s threat, and Judge Harris turned his deadly stare to Sonny. “Is that what happened?” he asked again.

  Sonny was paralyzed. He was deaf and dumb. His head was cocked to one side and he could not move it. The Judge repeated his question. Sonny looked pleadingly to Dupree, then back to Wesley. He was remembering what I had said that day on the railroad track.

  “Well?” Judge Harris asked curtly.

  “Ye—ye—yes—yessir,” stammered Sonny.

  Judge Harris glared at Dupree. His face inched forward, unlocking from his neck. “That’s enough of that,” he said evenly. “Now, did you see Freeman Boyd take twenty dollars from your daddy’s store and put it in his shirt pocket, young man?”

  Dupree nodded hesitantly.

  “You did, for sure?”

  Dupree nodded again.

  “Why would he go and leave something he’d stolen in a shirt pocket, right there for anybody to find?” pried Judge Harris. “That don’t make much sense, if you ask me.”

  Dupree was barely audible. “I—I don’t—don’t know, sir.”

  Judge Harris shifted his gaze to Sonny. “Did you see him take that twenty dollars, young man?”

  Sonny’s eyes were watering. He tried to look away, to avoid the question.

  “I’m waiting,” said Judge Harris in a surprisingly gentle voice. “Just tell me the truth, son, that’s what we’re after. The truth, and that’s all. Did you see him?”

  There was a long, terrible pause, an eternity of quietness. The fan above our heads made a low fluttering sound as it churned the air.

  Sonny’s head was down. It was a posture of defeat.

  “No, sir,” Sonny answered in a hushed, breaking voice. “No—no, sir. Du—Dupree said—said he—he did. I was—was up in the front of—of the store.”

  “That’s all we need, son,” the Judge said quietly. “If that’s the truth, that’s all we need.”

  A. G. Hixon stood abruptly. “Foster,” he said to Judge Harris, “let me ask my boy.”

  Judge Harris nodded. “Go ahead, A. G.” He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers.

  A. G. Hixon walked to Dupree and put his hand on Dupree’s shoulder. “Son, I’m not mad. I just want the truth, and I want it now. Right now. You tell me the truth and everything will be all right. Now, these people are our neighbors and our friends. They won’t hold nothing against you. These boys won’t hold nothing against you. You tell me, and I’ll believe what you say. But, son, if you ever do anything right, do it now. Tell me the truth.”

  Dupree could not look at his father. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them. He buried his face in his hands and began to sob.

  “You made it all up, didn’t you, son?” asked A. G. Hixon in a sad voice.

  Dupree nodded his head slowly and cried openly.

  “It’s all right, son. It’s all right,” his father said, stroking Dupree’s neck. “It’s over and that’s what matters.”

  “Dupree made me say it, Mr. Hixon,” whimpered Sonny. “He made me.” Sonny searched the audience for his father.

  “I know, Sonny. I know,” counseled A. G. Hixon. “You were just trying to help out a friend.”

  “Are you satisfied about what happened, A. G.?” asked Judge Harris.

  “I’m satisfied, Foster. I’ll take care of it, and I’m sorry about this. Sorry about all of it. I apologize to Freeman and to everybody here. This whole thing just got out of hand. The boy’s sorry, too, and I know it.”

  “Well, I’m dismissing this meeting and I hope it’s been a good lesson for everybody here,” the Judge announced. “It just goes to show you what can happen when good people let little things get in the way. And I hope you boys understand that there’s more than enough arguing going on—people fighting and killing. If you ever have to fight—and you will soon enough—make sure it’s not among yourselves. There’s just no call to fight your own kind. Now, all you boys get up and shake hands.”

  It was an imperial order, and we obeyed. We shook hands with everyone, even Sonny and Dupree.

  Otis whispered, “You mean Sonny’s my own kind?”

  “Shuttup, Otis,” commanded Alvin.

  And it was over. The matter of Freeman Boyd, alleged thief, was over.

  That night my father said, “Boys, remember what happened today. Remember it.”

  18

  NO ONE EVER KNEW all the facts of the Freeman Boyd case.

  But no one cared to know.

  It was best to leave some things unanswered. If there was an excuse for speculation, even the tiniest excuse, the story would last, and lasting, to the people of Emery, was more important than the fact that it had even happened.

  Freeman and Wesley and I made an oath never to tell of Willie Lee and Baptist and what they had done. We could not betray them, even to praise them. Willie Lee and Baptist were our friends. We would not be half-brave with them.

  There were several versions of Dupree’s behavior on his grandfather’s farm, though Dupree continued to protest his innocence. The story I enjoyed, the one I believed, had Dupree luring a girl named April, one of his cousins, into his grandfather’s barn one night. The girl followed Dupree, pretending interest. In the barn, she stripped Dupree of his pants and threw them into a mule stable with a wild mule, and then she left Dupree in the hay. Dupree was covered with mites before he mustered the courage to slip, half-nude, into his grandfather’s house.

  And there was the argument, appropriately conducted at night, about the Snake Spell and who had effected it on Freeman’s behalf. None of us told anyone of what we had seen, and what had happened; we knew no one would believe us, and we would be accused of inventing fantasies. Oddly, though, we never learned the truth of the Snake Spell. Freeman reluctantly continued to deny performing the ritual. Dover was certain it was Granny Woman, in collusion with the spirit world. Otis thought it was a visiting witch. Alvin believed it was Wesley, because Wesley had insisted we search Freeman’s tree. I believed it was Little Annie. Little Annie had liquid brown eyes and I could not forget an afternoon when Willie Lee told Wesley and me—in a casual way—that Little Annie had the gift of going into the woods and feeding wild animals from her hands.

  *

  But even if we had confessed everything, it would have been accepted only as the blithering of young boys with absurd notions, for in the days following Dupree’s tearful admission of guilt, two truths developed concerning Freeman Boyd—the True Truth and the Truth of Distortion.

  People preferred the Truth of Distortion.

  The Truth of Distortion had a peculiar influence on adults, and was woefully naive. In its telling: A Thing happened to a Boy and tha
t Boy, being boyish, ran away, got into trouble, and required the unified effort of able men doing an able duty. The Truth of Distortion failed to recognize the threat of The Doom, the intervention of the spirits, the genius of Freeman’s dominance in Black Pool Swamp, or any of the other realities that were clearly evident, except to adults.

  There was Dover, of course, and Dover was an adult, but Dover had had the good sense to resist adulthood. He was not ridiculous, as people said; he simply was not willing to accept becoming a man under terms of surrender. Dover did not separate Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow. He was all of Yesterday, all of Today, all of Tomorrow, bits and pieces of all he had been, all he was, all he would ever be. Dover knew the True Truth of Freeman (except for the part about Willie Lee and Baptist), but he refused to compromise his childhood-manhood freedom by arguing the point. Let the players of the Truth of Distortion strut their worth. It puffed them up to take the credit, and, for a time, relieved the oppression of their own surrender to adulthood. Dover knew we didn’t care. He knew we looked upon it as humorous raving. One afternoon, he even said it: “To hear people tell it, there’s more heroes in Emery than they had at the Alamo, but, boys, we don’t have the time to think about it. There’s too much goin’ on, goin’ on everywhere you look.”

  And he was right.

  *

  On Saturday night, Emery Methodist Church had its annual hayride and hot dog roast at Wind’s Mill. Megan was there. She nudged her hot dog near me on her clothes-hanger spit and managed to touch me several times—accidentally, of course—as the heat of the fire forced her to silly wiggling. And when our Sunday school teacher decided to teach us the Virginia Reel, or one of those awkward, stumbling dances, Megan managed to be my partner. The giggling was sickening.

  *

  A baseball scout from the Atlanta Crackers appeared at Harrison baseball field on Sunday to check the feats of Alvin. William Pruitte had mailed weekly reports to the Crackers, with aggravating little notes, such as “Any team in fifth place in the Southern needs help.” The scout could not believe what he saw. He wanted to sign Alvin on the spot, but Alvin did not tarry after the game to discuss the offer: he had pitched a no-hitter, and Delores was waiting.