Bread Upon the Waters (44 page)

The judge entered from his chambers and they all stood up. The bailiff declared the court open and they all sat down, except for the lawyer and Romero and the two policemen, who stood in front of the bench.

The district attorney read the charge in a monotonous drone. Romero looked around the courtroom curiously, as though he was not interested in what the man was saying but was intrigued by the architecture of the old hall.

The district attorney finished and the judge asked, “How does the defendant plead?”

“Not guilty, Your Honor,” the lawyer said quickly.

Romero looked at the judge sardonically. The judge peered down at him over the steel rims of his reading glasses.

“I don’t recognize the jurisdiction of this court,” Romero said.

Strand groaned. TV, he thought, a thousand hours of TV lawyers.

The judge sighed. “We will not go into that at the present time, Mr. Romero. I remand you for trial in custody of the court. I set bail at ten thousand dollars.”

Strand heard Babcock gasp. He only half listened as the lawyer argued for a reduction in bail and the acting district attorney emphasized the gravity of the case and the danger to the plaintiff if the defendant, who had admitted his act of violence and showed no remorse for it, was allowed to roam free.

“The bail stands at ten thousand dollars,” the judge said. “Next case, please.”

The reporter was scribbling busily as Romero, between the policeman and the lawyer, walked down the aisle toward the door. As the trio passed Hitz, Hitz raised his middle finger in a derisive, obscene gesture. Romero stopped walking and for a moment Strand was afraid he was going to leap at Hitz. But Romero merely said, loudly enough for the whole court to hear, “Your time will come, fat boy.” Then he allowed the policeman to lead him out of the room.

“Oh, my God,” Babcock said. He shook his head sadly. “I dread to think of what that young lady is going to write for tomorrow morning’s paper.” He took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief, as though he was trying to erase what the glasses had witnessed in the courtroom. “Well,” he said, “we’d better be getting back to the school.”

On the way back in the car he said, “Allen, do you think Mr. Hazen would be willing to put up the bail money?”

“Ten thousand dollars?” Strand said. “I wouldn’t like to hazard a guess.”

When he got back to the campus it was the lunch hour and Strand was grateful that he wouldn’t have to face any of the students or faculty as Babcock dropped him off in front of the Malson house. Getting out of the car, he felt as though his legs were giving way under him and he was afraid he would not be able to make it to the door. “If you don’t mind,” he said to the headmaster, “I would like to skip meals and classes for a day or two.”

“I understand,” Babcock said. “If I could, I’d skip meals and classes for a year.”

“I’ll try to get in touch with Mr. Hazen. If I do, I’ll let you know what he says.”

Babcock nodded and drove off. Strand went into the house. Mrs. Schiller was down on her knees, with a brush and a bucket of soapy water, scrubbing at the couch. She stood up when Strand came in. “What a business,” she said. Her plump, maternal face, which always seemed to be flushed from standing in front of some invisible oven, was pained. “In twenty years here, there’s never been anything like this.” She looked around, as though she was afraid of being overheard. “I have to tell you something, Mr. Strand. But you have to promise that it won’t go any further.”

“Is it about what happened last night?”

“About last night. Yes.”

“I promise.”

“Can we go into the apartment?” She spoke in whispers. “I haven’t been upstairs and one of the boys might’ve decided not to go to lunch and I wouldn’t want anybody to hear.”

“Of course,” Strand said and led her down the hallway and unlocked the door and opened it. She followed him into the living room.

“Mr. Strand,” she said, “I don’t know how to say this, but I’m afraid it was my fault.” She was near tears.

“What was your fault?”

“Romero stabbing the Hitz boy.”

“How could that be?” Strand asked sharply.

“When I came in last night to turn down your beds, it was during the supper hour and the boys were all out of the house, I thought. I heard a radiator knocking and I went upstairs to turn it off. It was in the hall, right at the head of the stairs. The valve was stuck and I was working at it when I saw a boy coming out of Romero’s room. It was young Mr. Hitz. I asked him why he wasn’t at supper. He said he wasn’t hungry, he’d had some hot dogs on the road on the way back to school. And he went downstairs to his room. I thought nothing of it. The older boys are allowed to miss supper at the end of holiday nights. I went home, we have a little house just off campus, and Mr. Schiller and I were watching television and we were just about to go to bed when there was a knock on the door. Jesus Romero was there. It must have been after eleven o’clock. He seemed calm enough. He’s a cool boy at all times, mature for his age, if you know what I mean. At least I used to think so…until all this happened…” Her lips and double chins quivered.

“What did he want?”

“He said he’d just come in. He’d been on a trip, he said, for the weekend, and he’d missed connections getting back to Dunberry. He said something was missing from his room, a book he needed for his first class in the morning. He didn’t seem overly concerned, except I should have guessed it was something important, his coming to my house so late at night. Only what with the holiday and the television and all, I just wasn’t thinking.” She shook her head sadly. “He wanted to know if I knew anything about the book. Well, Mr. Strand…If I’d dreamed what was in his mind I’d have kept my peace till doomsday. But the boys have a habit of going into each other’s rooms and borrowing things—books, ties, a sweater…So I said I’d seen Mr. Hitz coming out of his room at supper time. Now I could cut my tongue out for being so foolish.” She was weeping now.

“Don’t blame yourself, Mrs. Schiller,” Strand said.

“I’ve been partial to Jesus since the beginning, Mr. Strand. He’s such a gentleman with me and he’s so neat and the other boys—at least most of them—treat him like a stray dog and I thought I was being helpful. He asked me if Mr. Hitz was carrying anything and I tried to remember, but I couldn’t and I told him.”

“How did he react to that?”

“Very calm, Mr. Strand. Not a hint of anything really wrong. He just said thank you and that he hoped he hadn’t disturbed me and Mr. Schiller and went away and I thought nothing of it until this morning when I heard…” The tears were pouring now down her full cheeks.

Strand put his arms around her broad shoulders. He could feel her trembling. “There, there,” he said helplessly. “It’s not your fault.”

“I don’t know if Jesus has told anybody that I was the one who told him that Mr. Hitz was…” She couldn’t go on.

“He hasn’t told anyone. Not me or Mr. Babcock or the police or his lawyer or anyone else. In fact, he made a point with me about its being confidential.”

“If young Mr. Hitz hears that I was the one who set Jesus on him and he tells his father…Mr. Schiller and myself love it here and my husband would be a lost man if the father used his influence…he’s a powerful man, Mr. Strand, and he’s on the Board of Trustees…”

“I’m sure Mr. Babcock would never let it get that far,” Strand said. “I don’t think you have to worry about it. I won’t say anything and young Romero seems determined to keep your name out of it and even if he reported what you said you saw, it wouldn’t be any kind of evidence in court…”

“It’s not the evidence I’m afraid of.” She wiped at her eyes with both hands. “It’s Mr. Hitz and the Board of Trustees. Oh, well—” She tried to smile. “Crying won’t take back the words I said, will it?” She picked up her apron and scrubbed at her damp face with its hem. “I should be ashamed of myself. Making such a fuss, when you and Mrs. Strand’ve gone through so much, it’s a blessing
you
didn’t get stabbed coming between them the way you did. I guess I made a mistake about the Romero boy. You can’t get the leopard to change his spots, can you?”

“He’s not a leopard, Mrs. Schiller,” Strand said.

“A figure of speech, sir,” she said hastily. She looked at him warily. “There’s another thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I was cleaning out the trash bin for papers in the basement this morning,” she said, “and I found some letters. In a girl’s handwriting. I’d heard already that Hitz said Romero accused him of stealing some letters and I took a look at them. They were addressed to Jesus. They were love letters, very frank, very explicit, very physical, if I may take the liberty to say so, Mr. Strand—girls these days use language that we never even knew existed when we were young. There’s something you ought to know—” She hesitated, as though making a decision, looked uneasily at Strand. “They were signed Caroline. Of course there are many Carolines these days, it’s a very popular name, but I know your daughter is named Caroline.”

“What did you do with them? The letters?”

“I put them in the incinerator, Mr. Strand,” Mrs. Schiller said. “I didn’t think you or Mrs. Strand would want to read them.”

“Thank you,” Strand said. “It was thoughtful of you. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

Mrs. Schiller shook her head. “Just to tell Jesus that I appreciate his keeping my name out of it all.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“I understand Mrs. Strand has gone,” Mrs. Schiller said. “Her bags aren’t in the apartment. If I could fix you a bite to eat.”

“That’s kind of you. It isn’t necessary, though. I can take care of myself.”

“If you change your mind, just call me,” Mrs. Schiller said. “Now I better be getting back to work and see if I can’t scrub the blood off the couch.”

She made a fat little bow, adjusted her apron and went out of the apartment.

For the first time since he had read the note on the dressing table in the bedroom, Strand was glad that Leslie wasn’t there.

H
E WAS AWAKENED BY
the ringing of the telephone. He had lain down to nap with his clothes on just after his talk with Mrs. Schiller. As he got off the bed and stiffly started in toward the living room, he saw that it was already dark. He had slept away the afternoon, his dreams confused and menacing. He fumbled in the darkness for the telephone. It was Leslie. “How are you, darling?” she said. “How is everything?” She sounded calm, normal.

“As good as can be expected,” he said. “How are
you?
I tried to call this morning.”

“We had some last-minute shopping to do for the trip. We were out all day. We’re leaving from Kennedy tomorrow.” She paused. He heard her take a deep breath. “That is, unless you need me back at the school.”

“No, darling,” he said. “You come back when everything has blown over here.”

“Is it bad?”

“It’s well…complicated.”

“Is Romero there? In the house, I mean.”

“He’s in jail.”

“That’s good. At least for the time being. I don’t want to sound vindictive, but I wouldn’t like him to be roaming around the house in his state.”

“The judge set bail at ten thousand dollars.”

“Is that a lot?”

“It is if you don’t have it. I’ll write you all about it. Where will you be staying in Paris?”

“At the Plaza Athenée. The gallery made the reservations. Linda’s decided we’re going to travel in style.” She laughed a little nervously. Then she became serious again. “Have you spoken to Russell?”

“I couldn’t reach him.”

“Do you think he’ll put up the money?”

“I imagine so. He’s bound to feel responsible.”

“I hope
you’re
not feeling responsible.”

“I’m feeling numb,” he said. “By the way, what time is it? I fell asleep right after noon. Last night was exhausting. I probably would have slept through until morning if you hadn’t called.”

“It’s after six. I’m sorry I woke you up. Darling, are you sure you don’t want me to get in the car and drive back?”

“I’m sure,” he said. “I doubt that I’ll be such good company for the next few weeks. You stay as long as you like.”

“I wish I could do something to help.”

“Knowing that you’re out of this business and having a good time will help me more than anything else.”

“If you talk like that, I’m afraid I’ll break down and cry,” Leslie said. “You’re the kindest man in the world, Allen, and everybody takes advantage of it. Including me. Most of all, me.”

“Nonsense,” Strand said brusquely. “How’s Linda?”

“Twittering. You know how she is about France. Maybe she has a lover hidden away on a side street.”

“Give her my regards. And have a great time. The two of you.”

“What do you want me to bring you back from Paris?”

“You.”

Leslie laughed, a low, warm sound a hundred miles away. “I knew you’d say that. That’s why I asked.
Je t’embrasse.
I’m working on my French.”

“I love you. Just don’t forget that in any language.”

“I won’t,” Leslie whispered. “Good night.”

“Good night, my dearest.” Strand put down the phone, reassured that all was well, at least with Leslie. He put on the lights, then went back to the telephone and considered it. Should he call Hazen now? He leaned over to pick up the instrument, then let his hand drop. He felt too tired to answer the questions he knew Hazen would put to him. He knew he should go into the common room and see what the boys were up to and answer their questions, too, but decided to let it wait until the morning. If he had to face Hitz again that day, he had the feeling that he would finally hit him.

He heard the peals of the chapel bell for dinner and suddenly realized he had eaten nothing all day.

He went into the kitchen and looked into the refrigerator. There was nothing much in there, just some eggs and bacon and a half container of milk. But it would have to do. Dinner at a table full of boys in the crowded dining hall was an ordeal to be avoided, even if it meant going to bed hungry. And he was not up to the long walk into town, where he might be recognized by someone who had been in the courtroom that morning. He was frying the bacon when the telephone rang again. He took the pan off the fire and trudged back into the living room and picked up the phone.