“As a matter of fact, you do.”
“How old would you say I looked?”
The boy was silent for a while. Then he said, “I’d say you looked at least fifteen.”
“That old?”
“Easy.”
“This is nice,” the girl said. “Sitting here, I mean.”
“Yeah. Do you like the summer better, or the winter?”
“Summer.”
“Yeah. Me, too. You can’t get out in the winter. I mean, you know, you’re stuck inside all the time.”
“Yeah.” The girl paused. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Red. What’s yours?”
“Yellow. Who’s your favorite singer?”
“Vic Damone.” He paused. “Oh, no, don’t tell me!”
“What?”
“It isn’t the Pretzel, is it?”
“Elvis? Oh, no. He needs a haircut.” The girl giggled. The boy laughed with her. “This is nice,” she said. “Talking like this. Do you find it hard to talk to people?”
“Sometimes. I find it easy to talk to you, though.”
“Well, I enjoy talking to you, too. It’s especially hard with older people, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Talking.”
“Oh, yeah. Man, I hate to talk to old people. They give me the creeps.”
“Well, I didn’t mean real old people. Like people who are ready to die or something.”
“Neither did I. I meant regular old people. You know. Forty, forty-five, like that.”
“Yes. How old are your parents?”
“Too old,” the boy said, and he laughed.
“Mine aren’t so old.” The girl paused. “But it’s awfully hard to talk to them, isn’t it?”
“Boy, I’ll say.”
“Do you tell them things?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I remember once I was telling my father about how I was involved in this three-way deal where we were saving up to buy a car when we were old enough, you know? I mean, it was a very complicated thing because we were going to clean cellars on weekends and sell the junk and like that, you know? So I spent about a half hour explaining it to him, and then he looks up and says, ‘That’s a good boy, Lonnie.’ How do you like that? I knock myself out for a half hour, all excited about the big business deal we worked out, and he tells me I’m a good boy. I don’t even think he was listening to me, you know that? So after that, I figured the hell with this noise, and that was it. Lonnie the Clam, they call me.”
“My mother thinks I tell her things,” the girl said, “but I don’t really.”
“Well, there’s really no percentage in telling parents anything,” the boy said, “because if they understand it they usually raise hell about it; and if they don’t understand it, you might as well have saved your breath to begin with. That’s the way I look at it.”
“I used to talk to my father a lot,” the girl said. “When I was small. We used to have nice talks.”
“Yeah? What about?”
“Oh, everything. We just talked. I remember I was very proud of myself because I could have grown-up conversations with my father.”
“But you don’t talk to him now?”
“Not very much. He’s busy.”
“Oh, boy, are they busy!” the boy said. “Always running someplace.”
“Besides, I... I don’t have anything to say to him,” the girl said.
“Yeah,” the boy agreed. There was a wistful note in his voice.
“I wish I had something to say to him,” the girl said. “But I don’t. I just don’t.”
“Yeah.” The boy paused. “Well, they’re busy. You know.”
“Yes. Yes, I know.”
“I mean, what the hell, they brought us this far. Fed us and clothed us. We’ve got to give them a rest sometime, don’t we?”
“I guess so.”
“It isn’t as if they owed us anything, really. I mean, I don’t go for these guys who are always saying, ‘I didn’t ask to be born.’ All right, who did ask to be born? Does anybody have a choice? I didn’t ask to be born, either. But I’m sure glad I’m here.”
“That’s a very nice thing to say, Lonnie.”
“There’s nothing that beats being alive,” the boy said. “Aren’t you glad you’re alive?”
“Oh, yes, yes.”
“Sure. So they don’t really owe us anything, you see. They brought us into the world. They gave us life. That’s enough for me.”
“Lonnie?”
“Yes?”
“Do... do you love anyone?”
“How do you mean?”
“You know.”
“Like my mother? Or my father?”
“Well...”
“But that isn’t like real love, is it? That’s more like a habit.”
“Yes.”
They were silent for several moments.
Then the boy said, “Jennie?”
“Yes?”
“Jennie, could I kiss you?”
The girl did not answer.
“Jennie?”
She still gave no answer.
“Well, okay,” he said. “I’m sorry. I mean, I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind if I...”
“I wouldn’t mind, Lonnie,” she answered, and there was such a tender innocence in her voice that Hank, lying on the rock, felt like weeping. “But...”
“What, Jennie?”
“Could you... could you...”
“What, Jennie? What?”
“Could you please tell me you love me first?” she said.
Hank’s eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. He lay on the rock in the darkness while his daughter was being kissed, his hand over his face to muffle his sobs. He kept shaking his head over and over again, biting his lip, overwhelmed with his sudden knowledge, feeling small and insignificant and yet strangely powerful with knowledge that raced through his mind.
“I love you, Jennie,” the boy said.
“I love you, Lonnie.”
He listened to the words and suddenly he wanted it to be Monday, suddenly he wanted the trial to begin.
“What time is it, Lonnie?”
“It’s almost twelve.”
“Would you take me home, please? I don’t want them to worry.”
“Could I kiss you once more?”
“Please.”
They were silent, and then Hank heard them getting to their feet, heard them thrashing awkwardly through the bushes and onto the path. In a little while, their footsteps died out.
I don’t owe them anything, he thought.
I don’t owe them anything but the future.
Twelve
It was common knowledge among New York City’s lawyers that Judge Abraham Samalson permitted no nonsense in his courtroom. In General Sessions, Part III, on the Monday that marked the beginning of the Morrez trial, an air of solemnity pervaded the sunswept, wood-paneled room despite the throngs of prospective jurors, spectators, and reporters who packed the court. Seated at the rear of the room, Karin and Jennifer Bell listened to the Honorable Abraham Samalson, impressive in his robes of justice, as he reminded the spectators that this court was concerned with serious business and that any attempts to turn it into a circus would result in his barring all spectators from the trial. With the patience of a kindergarten instructor he explained what his function as a judge would be, and then he asked that the first of the prospective jurors be called.
From all outward appearances, the selection of jurors proceeded in an orderly and totally unsurprising manner. Hank, for the prosecution, asked the questions he was expected to ask. The lawyers for the three defendants — there were twelve appointed by the court — similarly asked the questions expected of them. The process was long and, for the most part, unexciting. Mike Barton, listening to the proceedings with the rest of the reporters, stifled many a yawn as the jurors were either empaneled or excused.