Selby said, “You boys live hereabouts?”
They nudged one another at that, and pressed their lips together to keep from laughing.
“No, sir, I mean we don’t know, mister,” the larger boy said. “Stop making like such a fool,” he said to his giggling companion, and shook his arm roughly. “Cut it out, Dookey. He’s my brother, mister. His name’s Dookey. Me, I’m Spencer Barrow and can we please have our ball, mister? It was loose and by itself.”
“Well, sure,” Selby said. “Either of you want to go out for a pass?”
Their nervousness disappeared; they nodded eagerly.
Selby told them to head for the diamond and run a pattern toward the pitcher’s mound. They raced off together, arms pumping and legs flying, and when they reached the field, Selby cocked his arm and pumped twice as if to fake out charging linemen, shadowy phantoms from a thousand distant games, and then let the ball fly in a high arc into the blue dusk. The cold leather against his hand and the sight of the spiraling football brought a rush of memories, priests at St. Ambrose, cassocks dusty with chalk, but then the past dissolved suddenly and satisfactorily into the present as the boy named Spencer went up high, then higher and higher and caught the ball surely in both hands, tucking it away as he landed and broke toward an imaginary goal line, his brother, Dookey, after him, cheering and shaking both clenched fists in triumph above his head.
A security guard walked from a trail in the woods and looked after them with a smile. “Six points, for sure,” he said. “They’ll have a story tonight about winning the big game, I can tell you. I’m Sergeant Ledge, Hank Ledge. You’re Jarrell Selby’s brother, I suppose.”
“That’s right.” They shook hands and Selby felt the testing strength in the sergeant’s grip, the fingers cool and hard.
“Picked a good view here, Mr. Selby. Colors and weather changes every month or so.” He released Selby’s hand and put a stubby black pipe in his mouth. “The wife and I always come down here after supper in the summer. Light lasts till about ten. There’s a nice shine on the water even then.”
Selby looked after the Barrow brothers and had a glimpse of them running behind a screen of oleanders.
“Was it my imagination, Sergeant, or is something bothering those boys?”
Sergeant Ledge stared at Selby. “What gave you that notion?”
“I thought they seemed a little frightened.”
“Mr. Selby, were you shocked to find black kids here at Summitt?”
“It’s not my reaction I was talking about,” Selby said.
“Could be they’re a little scared at that.” The sergeant took the pipe from his mouth and smiled. “They found that pigskin out in front of the gym, and ’stead of turning it in like they’re supposed to, they went off larking with it. They’re good boys, though. Their aunt’s in Purchasing. Their own folks are dead.”
“I asked them if they lived here, but they said they didn’t know.”
Sergeant Ledge shrugged. “What they meant, I expect, is they’re not sure where their aunt lives. She’s moving into a bigger place now they’re with her.” He put the pipe back in his mouth. “It’ll take a while for them to get used to Summitt. They’ve only been here a week or so.”
In a gesture that surprised Selby, Sergeant Ledge drew his automatic from its holster and hefted it in a calloused hand. With an appraising smile, he said, “You know this weapon?”
“It’s a Colt .45.”
“Then you know it kicks like an uphill mule.” The sergeant pulled back the receiver and removed the magazine from the butt-stock. “Which is beside the point I was gonna make, Mr. Selby.” He nodded at the gun’s magazine and chamber. “They’re both empty, you see. That’s the story of Summitt, Mr. Selby. This Colt .45 isn’t loaded because there’s no need for a guard here to carry a loaded gun. That’s what them boys aren’t used to.”
Sergeant Ledge dropped the Colt into his holster. “Maybe you find this hard to believe. You thought them black kids was scared of you. Everybody grows up with fears like that. But here it’s different. The people walk the streets night or day in complete safety. Young girls, old folks, they picnic on the grass, sleep out by the lake if they want to. No muggings or burglaries, here. Most of us don’t even lock our doors at night.
“I carry a single round of ammo in my belt, and a whistle in case of emergency. To be frank with you, I had to make some adjustments when I first came to Summitt. I didn’t put much store in the talk about equal rights for everybody, regardless of their beliefs or color.”
Sergeant Ledge picked up a fiat stone and flipped it out over the lake, a whipping sidearm motion that sent it skimming across the water and raising miniature swells. “If my grandfather was alive, Mr. Selby, he’d reach for his cane if I told him I was living in the same block with colored and Puertos. I remember him clear, in a big chair with a spittoon beside him, telling me and my sisters, ‘A nigger buck can only go so far down to evil, God help his poor lost soul, but beware the nigger bitch — when they go bad there’s no bottom deep enough for them to touch.’
“That’s all behind me now, Mr. Selby. A man or woman at Summitt is good as they want to be, can make any kind of life for themselves they’re willing to work for. We’ve had our labor organizers come around here and lawyers for civil liberties outfits; even some big shots from the NAACP rolling up in their Caddies, claiming they could do something better for us, or looking for what they called ‘invisible or closet discrimination,’ for Christ’s sake, or tokenism or exploitation or what some of those assholes called ‘prejudice by quota,’ whatever in hell they thought that meant.
“But Mr. Thomson told them to get lost, to go on about their business, if they had any. So don’t worry about them Barrow boys, Mr. Selby. They’ll find Summitt a decent place to grow up in, and learn the right values.”
The sergeant’s eyes narrowed in his deeply tanned face. His cheekbones were high and sharp and prominent. There was a stillness about him, a stoic strength in his powerful frame.
With a sigh he picked up another stone and pitched it onto the water. It skipped a few times before settling within its own spreading ripples. “Well, I’ve enjoyed our talk. I expect I’ll see you around.”
Selby said, “Sergeant, do you know how long my brother’s been at Summitt?”
“Well, about ten or eleven months, I think. Why?”
“Are you friendly with him?”
“I like to think so. We’ve spent some times together, playing cards, that sort of thing. We live just across the street from him, my wife and me. He came over to tell us when you called him that first time a few weeks ago. He was real excited, looking forward to seeing you.”
Selby said, “Did Jarrell ever talk to you about our father?”
“I seem to recollect a casual comment now and then. But just in passing, like the fellow says.”
“What did he tell you about him?”
“Nothing much in particular. Just that he and his father lived out west, northern California, I think. Jarrell told me his father liked fishing, owned a little property — things like that.”
“Did he talk to you about the night our father was shot and killed?”
“That was a topic he steered clear of. I knew about it, of course, it wasn’t no secret, but he didn’t want to talk about it.” The sergeant looked thoughtfully at him. “Has he opened up to you about what happened that night?”
“No, and I don’t want to press him.”
“That’s considerate. It was a sad business, prowlers or drunken fool kids. Maybe he wants to put it behind him.”
The sergeant’s profile was rigidly outlined against the dusk, the jutting nose and high, bronzed cheekbones shadowed in dying light, again the stillness in his expression.