“Are the allegations true?” he asked. “Of course not but the issue is not resolved by this answer. The problem is not innocence or guilt but the poison of suspicion. We, the lifeblood of this institution, have been poisoned by faceless, voiceless charges. This is terrible but not a permanent problem because there is a three-pronged cure: cold logic, bright hope and personal truth.
“I slept most of the day on the hard floor behind my desk after a long night of preparing for this address. When I woke up I walked here. The campus was empty because everyone was already here or sitting in front of a screen somewhere. On the way I saw hundreds of confessions penned by students learning humility by revealing their own truths and failings. Rather than leave the indictments to stand alone they put up their own confessions and shortcomings because this juxtaposition is the closest we will ever come to forgiveness.
“We cannot know, understand or, ultimately, judge history. In the same vein we cannot know, understand or judge another human being’s soul. We can never be sure of what went before. Certainly we must strive for truth; but that’s all we can do — strive. And even though these accusations are baseless we do know that we have done things that we’re not proud of, that might be seen as wrong. We recognize guilt because we are all guilty. That’s what the Bible tells us; the Old Testament that is the foundation for many of the warring religions of today.”
John exhaled and didn’t take a breath for a few seconds.
“That said,” he continued, “this event is a good thing. We do not naturally seek truth in ourselves. We don’t want to be faced with our mortality, limited awareness or inferiority, or God’s wrath. We’d much rather inebriate ourselves and condemn, get high on carnal pleasures, hone our fears and guilt into barbs and arrows aimed at our fellows. But every now and then we see our reflections in some glass. At that moment we see that we are the enemy. This is the only truth that abides. Those yellow posters are that glass. These baseless claims echo in our lives.
“Poisoned by suspicion we see ourselves, and if we take the time to work through this convoluted and spiny reaction we might see the hope of building a community of conscience and character.
“We know the charges against us. We know that if the truth came out it would take us along with it. We know about silence. That’s what the broadsides are telling us. And so if we wait a moment before condemning others we might find absolution and breathe easier.”
John took in a great draft of air. He was ready to continue the oration but found that there were no more words to say. For a moment he was confused by this unexpected dead end.
Finally he nodded slightly and made his way down to the first row of seats.
“Thank you, Professor Woman,” Theron James said over the microphone. Somehow he had made it to the stage. “We appreciate your hard work and good words. We will take your talk with us through this difficult time.”
There was some applause and then the hushed rustle of people rising and filing out.
A few people shook his hand muttering words he didn’t understand. He was thinking about the sudden loss of language and the feeling of release that came with it.
“John,” someone said stridently.
Ira Carmody was standing before him, his bearing assertive, even aggressive. John remembered that Ira was a black belt in something. Looking to the left he saw Pepperdine watching closely.
The angry professor’s hand jutted out and John took it. They shook, nodded and then released. Before John could say any more Annette Eubanks rushed forward and took him by both hands.
“That was beautiful,” she said. “And true.”
19
Walking up the stairs to his apartment John wondered if Carlinda would be waiting there. When he came in she was sitting at the small kitchen table.
Feeling a wrenching spasm in his chest John said, “Mom?”
At first she just looked at him with equal measures of mirth, wonder and something triumphant. No longer youthful, Lucia Napoli still maintained an aura of beauty. She wore a brown dress with images of violet ribbons writhing upon it. When she stood her breast expanded with an emotion they shared.
She was barefoot: at home in her son’s desert hideout.
Tears flooded her eyes. They came together kissing each other’s faces. Then, gently pushing him away, she said, “I have to get a Kleenex.”
She lifted a green purse from the kitchen table taking out a tissue and lowered into the chair, dabbing her nose and eyes.
“Sit, CC. Sit.”
“Mom?”
“That was the first word you ever said. You were eighteen months and followed me everywhere. If you turned around and couldn’t see me you would holler.”
“You’re really here?” her grown son asked.
“And then one day instead of crying you said, ‘Mom,’ and then a whole lotta baby talk. Your father called it gabbling.”
“I don’t understand,” John said, thinking of his mother and his father together.
“Sit.”
“I saw you in Parsonsville but I knew it wasn’t really you. I wanted it to be so bad but, but... you have the same red hair.”
“Sit, CC.”
Overwhelmed by the impossible appearance of Lucia his mind recoiled toward Herman. He tried to imagine what history would say about his mother’s magical reentry into his life.
History, he wrote later that day, is what is left after all living memory is erased... A living, breathing datum — like my mother for instance — is outside history: an undigested record, a preformed fact...
“Sit,” Lucia said again.
John nodded, moving to the chair opposite her.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“I can’t tell you that. I mean I was staying in Phoenix for a while before coming here. I was in town one day.”
“You can’t tell me because of the gangster?”
“Filo and I got married six years ago. He’s really a very wonderful man, CC. He was only in with those terrible men because that was all he knew. But that life is behind him now.” With these words she was finished talking about her secret life. “How are you?”
“How am I? I’ve lived my entire life trying to figure out how I got here.”
Lucia took in a deep breath, then she began to speak. “I know it’s been hard, baby. I wasn’t a good wife or mother. That’s why I’m here... to try and make up for some of it.”
“How did you even know to come here?”
“I been living in Venice Beach, California, with Filo the last eleven years. He doesn’t sleep much and watches the TV in the living room pretty late: all these crazy cable-access shows. He says that he likes to see regular people saying things they really believe. I don’t know when he ever started talking like that... Anyway, one night he sees this show with you and an older man. He said that you were a teacher but with a new name and you made mincemeat outta that other guy.”
“He recognized me?”
“I know, right?” Lucia Napoli said. “He only seen you a few times but the minute the camera hit your face Filo knew it was you.”
“That was a year ago. When did he see it?”
“About then. I wanted to come right here but Filo said that we had to be careful because the FBI was lookin’ for him and if they knew you and I were related then maybe they’d have some kinda eye on you. Not like surveillance or anything but just a look now and then.”
“So you’re a fugitive?”
“We live a good life. We got friends, go on vacations. It’s not like me and Jimmy Grimaldi.”