And I stood there, scholars, listening and listening, trying to get a handle on what needed settling first, til finally I judged that none of it did. These arguers didn’t care about what they were arguing. They were all just afraid. In my absence, as before, they’d all grown afraid, and to combat their fears, they argued with each other. It shouldn’t have surprised me. In war it’s necessary to fill up with enmity—it’s even good—but when under siege, you feel out of control, you become afraid, and you wedge that enmity between yourself and your brothers, who you see before you, who you can reach out and strike: if you can’t attack the one you want to, you attack the one you’re with. It’s a way to forget the siege a little, a way to regain some sense of control. It’s the wrong way, true, one of the wrongest, but it’s still an act of hope, at least inasmuch as it isn’t surrender, and these soldiers before me—they weren’t surrendering. I saw they had hope yet.
I sirened the megaphone. Their mouths stopped moving.
Brothers, I said, you are wasting your enmity, wasting your strength. You’re all just afraid of what might happen next, not in the school, but outside the school; not between one another, but between now and then; us in here and them out—
“It’s them!” someone shouted from the edge of the mob. “Look! Come quick! It’s them! It’s them!”
June grabbed my hand as the mob dispersed. I led her to a spot before the eastern bleachers. Ex-Shovers low-voiced some hey’s and what-the’s. I sat us on the floor to unblock their sightlines, not even thinking to address them directly.
Emmanuel Liebman was live on TV.
The cameraman was shooting from the side of Rand Road, so Emmanuel, in profile, as he pressed forward, was moving from the right of our screens toward the left. Behind him, in columns, scholars were emerging from the edge of the frame. Their pennyguns were drawn, but pointed at the ground. Their columns spanned the asphalt between the road’s shoulders.
At the screen’s extreme left were a pair of squadcars, parked nose-to-nose to block both lanes, their blue lights rotating lazily. Three of four cops who’d been leaning on the doors straightened their postures and crossed their arms. The fourth reached inside of the car he’d been leaning on, grabbed the PA mike and said, “STAND DOWN.” It sounded fizzy.
Emmanuel stopped moving. The scholars stopped moving.
The soldiers in the gym stifled groans, then didn’t.
Samuel was heading the centermost column. Emmanuel revolved, said something in his ear. Samuel said something back to Emmanuel. Emmanuel nodded, revolved, went forward. The rest of the scholars followed his lead.
When the gap between Emmanuel and the cross-armed cops, which was roughly forty yards at the sound of “STAND DOWN,” shrunk to thirty-five, another order came.
“HALT,” said the cop on the microphone.
The scholars pressed forward, filling more of the frame. Nine columns eight-deep to the edge of the screen; now nine-, now ten-, now eleven-deep.
“CEASE. HALT. STAND DOWN,” squawked the mike-cop. The others unholstered batons.
As the scholars closed in, not missing a beat, the PA continued to fizzily squawk. Fifteen yards from the cops, they were all onscreen; another couple yards and Emmanuel stopped them. Soldiers in the gym started groaning a little. I tried to count the rows but the camera zoomed in. I’d counted almost halfway and gotten to twenty. Nine columns by forty-odd rows plus flankers (there were flankers picking rocks from the gravel shoulders, handing them in to be passed across the rows) = roughly four hundred scholars in all. Zoomed-in, I was able to make out more faces: the columns switched off between Schechter and Northside, five of the former and four of the latter.
Emmanuel revolved, said something to Samuel. Samuel said something back to Emmanuel.
How far away are they? I said to the soldiers.
“I think those houses are, like, six blocks away.” “More like two.” “They’re nowhere near us.” “There’s that one with the Santa, though. The year-round Santa one.” “The year-round Santa one’s minutes away.” “Minutes exactly.” “Minutes by bus, dude.” “Two minutes by bus when you catch all the reds.” “Where is it you think you see a Santa, anyway?” “There at the edge.” “That isn’t a Santa.” “It’s the side of a Santa.” “It’s the side of a whatsit—the water thing.” “A hydrant.” “You’re crazy.” “You’re blind. That Santa’s a hydrant.”
“Why don’t you call them?” asked Ally Kravitz.
NoJacks, I said.
Onscreen, Emmanuel was addressing the scholars. He pointed east, then pointed north. Samuel leaned, seeming to protest. Emmanuel shrugged. The cops hadn’t moved.
“They’ve all got NoJacks?” Josh Berman said.
The ones who I know, I said.
“I fucken hate NoJacks.” “I hate NoJacks, too.” In the gym, we cursed NoJacks til Emmanuel revolved again.
Hands cupped at his mouthsides, he hollered to the cops. The mike on the camera barely picked it up; what it did get got garbled into frying sounds.
“STAND DOWN,” said the mike-cop, when Emmanuel finished.
Emmanuel hollered: more hisses and hums. This time the cops, when Emmanuel was finished, started to argue among themselves.
Emmanuel raised his hand, waiting for something.
The cameraman started to speak in a whisper: “The studio’s telling us that our microphone’s failing. The network apologizes… To catch you up: The boy at the front yelled out to officers that he intended to ‘lead his friends to the two-hill field’ and he asked that the officers please get out of his way so that ‘we won’t have to walk on your cars and dent them.’ Some ten seconds later, he seemed to change his mind, and he told the officers that because they ‘seem like nice men who probably have families and need to keep your jobs, which maybe you’ll lose if you don’t stand your ground, we’ll just walk around you while you stand your ground, and your cars won’t get—’ There they go.”
Emmanuel turned right and the scholars turned with him, and as all of them headed toward the top of the screen, away from the camera. The cops stayed still, slouching in the street, and one of them was actually scratching his head. They continued like that for about twenty seconds, til the cop who’d manned the mike turned and looked in the camera, then pointed it out for the others to see, and they all came charging, batons still gripped, bigger and bigger.
The camera angled downward, 90 degrees, and evergreen needles, tinily icicled, filled the whole frame before the screen blacked.
Cut to newsroom.
The pursed-lipped anchor, caught offguard, eyes squinted to papercuts, straightened his face out and started to talk. Who knows what he said? The scholars beat the cops, we were cheering our heads off, jumping up and down, cheering so loud that I could barely feel Botha’s celly vibrate, let alone hear it. Its screen read: UNKNOWN.
I hit the green button, shouted, Hold on!
I ran out to B-Hall to pretend to negotiate.
Persphere? I said.
“This is Roth,” said a man.
Really, I said.
“We exchanged letters, you and I, a little over a year ago.”
What did mine say? I said.
“Yours?” he said. He said, “Mostly, it talked about Operation Shylock—nice things—and then went on to tell a story about some boys who were sexually obsessed with Natalie Portman.”
What else did it say?
“Is this how you want to spend our three minutes? Verifying?”
I wrote an essay for class once where I talked about our letters, I said. Maybe the cops got hold of it and read it. And don’t sweat the three minutes: I’m the one who decides how long we talk—not the cops.
“No,” Roth said, “I decide. Two more minutes, I’m hanging up.”
You sure you’re Roth? You sound a little more patrician—a lot more patrician than—
“Patrician, he says, the boy who thinks cops want to read his essays.”
I didn’t mean it m
ean.
“Boychic, we’ve got very little time here, and what I want to tell you is you should let these kids go. This stunt you’re pulling’s sealed fame for you forever, or at least a few years, and now it’s time to give up peacefully. Everyone knows someone else killed the gym teacher—they’re playing that video left and right—so you won’t get pegged for anyone’s murder, and on top of that, they’re telling me you have ADHD, and I’m sure a good lawyer like your father can spin that into something bigger—temporary insanity, something like that; maybe the school nurse forgot to give you your meds, who knows? You’re not a hard case, though, not by any means, so even if they lock you up, it’ll be somewhere safe, and you’ll write your books, and hopefully they’ll outshine this moment and you’ll live it down. If you can’t live it down, you can always grow a beard and use a pseudonym. It’ll all work out if you end this now.”
Do you think you’re bad for the Jews? I said.
“This conversation? Really? This one?”
Okay, I said.
“Okay what?”
I’m starting to think you’re actually Roth.
“So what do you want from me?”
Nothing, I said.
“So why’d you want to talk to me? Surely not just to hear what you already know, let alone in so dismayingly patrician a baritone. There must be something you’d like to discuss in the remaining ten seconds you’ve been alotted. Unless maybe you’re a stalker? I hope you’re not. I didn’t take you for a stalker when you sent me that letter—I wouldn’t have responded if I—”
I said, I’m really sorry I bothered you, Mr. Roth. I didn’t want to talk to you. I like your books too much to want to talk to you, and you have my word that I’ll do everything I can to forget what you sound like when you’re speaking.
“You didn’t want to talk to me.”
You’re hard to get a hold of. You bought me fifty-something minutes.
“You’re being serious, now.”
If I didn’t have a girlfriend who might have taken it wrong, I’d have asked them to get Natalie Portman on the phone.
“So I bought you some time. So what happens next?”
We’re past three minutes.
“Don’t be a wiseass. What happens next?”
Next I’ll talk to Persphere, or whatever he’s calling himself. Do you think his accent’s real?
“You’re asking the patrician-sounding Jew about accents?”
That was just an observation I made—I didn’t mean it mean.
“You said that already.”
Well it’s true, I said. I just thought you’d sound different, like…
“Like?”
It’s hard to describe now. Like Groucho Marx, I guess, but not as fast.
“Like a first-generation American Jew. Not shtetl, but tenement.”
Maybe, I said.
“Like my parents instead of ‘what’ said ‘vot.’”
That’s taking it too far. Forget Groucho Marx. I thought you’d sound hairier.
“Hairier?”
Much, much hairier. And more verklempt. Less amused and more willing to attack, less concerned about what he sounds like than what he says—like those guys with hairy shoulders who wear U-shirts cause it’s hot out and function trumps form.
“U-shirts,” he said.
Dago-T’s, I said.
“I know what a U-shirt is.”
Please stop being offended, Mr. Roth. You’re my favorite writer and what I’m telling you is I thought you’d sound like my father, who doesn’t, by the way, have hairy shoulders, but does wear U-shirts when it’s really muggy, and would wear them when it was muggy if he did have hairy shoulders. I thought you’d sound like my father, who I love, is what I’m saying.
“This being the lawyer, Judah Maccabee, goes to bat for civil liberties.”
Him.
“Who I don’t in fact—you’re telling me now—sound like.”
Not on the phone, but who cares, Mr. Roth? Who cares what you sound like on the phone? Who cares about anything you do off the page? You’re a writer.
“You’re a writer, too. Obviously you want us to care what you’re doing. The taking of hostages, if nothing else, demands that others care about what you’re doing.”
I write scripture, I said. It’s different than fiction. You have to read it different. It matters what I do.
“And what will you do now? Will you do the right thing?”
What disappointing questions, Mr. Roth. Really.
“Disappointing how?”
You’re not taking me seriously. You were faking umbrage to get information.
“I was faking umbrage to get information, but only because I do take you seriously. Everyone does. The question was serious. Will you do the right thing?”
Whatever seems proper in my eyes is right. There’s no king in Israel. Thanks for your time. Good Shabbos, Philip Roth.
“Wait,” Roth said. “Let’s not end like this. Let’s not end with ugliness.”
I told you ‘Good Shabbos.’
“You said ‘Good Shabbos.’ You told me ‘Fuck you.’”
Good Shabbos, fuck you, but good Shabbos nonetheless because you wrote all those books. Good Shabbos, really. Okay? Good Shabbos.
“Backatcha, I guess.”
Some silence. I waited. I looked at the screen; the call hadn’t ended.
Persphere, I said, I know you’re listening.
“I’m here,” said Persphere.
The prisoners are safe.
“Prove it,” he said.
When my friends get here, you let them inside. I’ll come out with the prisoners and surrender myself.
“Can’t do it,” said Persphere. “I can’t let civilians—kid civilians… You’ve gotta be kidding me. No fucken way, kid.”
I’m not asking, I said, and you’re suck at bluffing—probably you should have kept that accent for cover. You’ll let them in, we’ll come out and surrender.
“Have you looked outside?”
Have I what? I said.
I said it to stall, and raced up toward the junction.
“Have you looked outside?”
A line of cops in riotgear were standing the perimeter.
I said, A line of cops in riotgear are standing the perimeter.
“A line of a hundred,” he said. “Now listen.”
I listened; heard chopping.
A helicopter? You brought in a helicopter? You’re cracking me up.
“Come again?” said Persphere.
This is overkill, Persphere. Too asymmetrical. You’ve got an advantage that’s too big to use. To tell you the truth, I’ve been a little scared of what you might do, but now? A hundred cops in riotgear—them just out front—and a helicopter? You’re stuck. You could’ve, thirty minutes ago, raided the school with five or six cops and hurt us a little in the process of saving us, maybe gotten some of the prisoners killed while saving the others—true—and then later made a convincing argument that it was crazy in here, that I was crazy, and that you did the only thing you could have. It would’ve been hinky, but you probably could’ve managed it. Now, though, you’re live on television everywhere, a helicopter chopping and plexiglass shields, not to mention, I’m sure, the requisite snipers and reinforced vehicles, and even if your cops are willing to shoot at or teargas or beat on some kids—and probably some are, but certainly not most of them… You know what a Chow is? Chow’s a big, mean guard-dog from China that a fascist I know’s mother keeps as a pet. You’re a Chow and we’re a lapdog. One offhanded swipe on your part and we’re dead, no doubt about it, but as soon as you kill us, every neighbor on the block’ll demand you put down. And there’s lots of good neighbors in that parking lot, there. Lots of good parents behind that cordon who might want to put you down themselves, so listen up: I appreciate the complexity of your position—I’m the one, after all, who put you in your position—and even knowing that you’ve got nothing, I’m telling you that all you
have to do is let my friends in when they get here, and this will all end without any more bloodshed. I’m telling you I’m your only hope.
“So you’re saying you’re angry at Philip Roth for the way he spoke to you, and now—”
What? I said.
“You’re saying you’re angry at Philip Roth for the way he spoke to you, and now you’re gonna start executing hostages, one every five minutes, til we get you a plane with a pilot you’re saying, like in—what did you say? Like in Dog Day Afternoon? Your parents let you watch that? I’m expressing surprise here. You want a plane like Pacino, except you also want a Nintendo on board? And Natalie Portman? Is that what I heard you say? You want Portman to do you ‘favors’ on the plane? If that’s what I heard you say, please say it again so that I can record it in order to justify the raid we’re about to bring down on your arrogant, terrorist head, because I just realized that—check this out—I just realized that, all along, though I thought I was recording this conversation, what I was actually doing was erasing our earlier conversation, and no one except you and I’s ever gonna know what got said here.”
You’ve got that gluggy Biggie Smalls thing in your voice, I said. You’re obese, right? You’re a fatguy with facial flush, drymouth, and perpetually sweaty nosewings, and the one thing you’re not gonna do, Wayne, after threatening such an over-the-top deception, is use that deception. Nice last desperate try, though. Goodbye now, to you, and to all you good neighbors listening in, as—