Tietam Brown (9 page)

November 6, 1985 / Afternoon

“Great, Peterson, just great. I'm sure you realize that without the Emancipation Proclamation, you guys wouldn't be making millions of dollars in the NBA.”

Hanrahan had struck again, somehow managing to give both a compliment and a racist insult within the same twenty-five words. “Thank you,” Peterson said, but his words were lost amid the roar of Hanrahan's players' raucous laughter as the great coach and historian pretended to shoot jumpers at the front of the class.

After sinking a buzzer-beater with a three . . . two . . . one, swish, he turned his attention to me. “Annie Brown, Annie Brown, would you care to share your report with the class?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Hanrahan.”

Which I proceeded to do, and with each passing sentence, I could feel Hanrahan's hatred growing around me in a steroid-filled haze. He took his feet off his desk and got up from his seat, glaring at me as I went into the homestretch, the really good meat at the end of Tietam Brown's thesis. I knew that I shouldn't but I just couldn't stop, and while Hanrahan hovered over me, just three feet to my left, I called Abraham Lincoln a cocksucker in a tone of voice that bordered on joy.

A hush filled the air of room 325, and I looked back at Terri, who was looking at me, a sly little grin on her face to let me know she was proud. Not at the words, but for having the guts to say them.

The rest of the class looked at Hanrahan as if he were the outlaw in an old western flick, the music having just stopped when he entered the saloon.

“Annie Brown,” the coach said, “I've been teaching this class, as well as coaching this school to sectional championships, for the last eleven years, and that is the most vile, racist garbage that I've ever heard.”

“Then, sir, it's a good thing that I live in America, where I'm entitled to say it.”

Hanrahan seethed and yelled, “Not in this class you're not, because tomorrow morning I meet with the principal, and your name will come up, and I can guaran-damn-tee you that with just a snap of my fingers”—and he snapped them for emphasis—“you'll be out of this class. Out of this class and out of this school, so you can go back down to Georgia or wherever you came from, and you and your southern fag friends can all reminisce about how Abraham Lincoln kicked the asses of your gay southern granddaddies!”

The speech earned him a standing ovation from his team, and even applause from some other lost souls who thought that kissing his ass might save them their turn at Hanrahan's gallows.

I raised my hand until the laughter died down, at which point a content Hanrahan said, “Yes, Annie Brown, and make this one good, because it's your very last words as a part of this class.”

“Mr. Hanrahan, I just wanted to point out that my grandfather, or great-great-great-grandfather, fought on the side of the Union.”

“The hell do you mean?” Hanrahan snorted.

“Well yeah, he did, otherwise my name would be Sharpsburg, wouldn't it?”

“The hell do you mean?” Hanrahan said again, obviously fond of those distinguished five words, although he spoke them this time with just a touch of befuddlement.

“He was killed in the battle of Antietam, the bloodiest day of the whole Civil War. It's where I got my name. The North always referred to the battlefields according to the closest body of water, in this case Antietam Creek.” My voice was picking up steam. “The South used the names of the towns they fought near, which is why I am Antietam, and not Sharpsburg, Brown.” I then measured up Hanrahan, who now glared directly over me, looked up at his fuming face, and let my final words fly. “Look it up in your book—it's called history. You. Dumb. Ignorant. Jerk!”

For just one single second, I owned that whole class. I heard quick sudden laughs, and I even heard cheers, undoubtedly from some who had just moments earlier been kissing some ass. Even the silence of Hanrahan's goons was like the sweet sound of vengeance, and I savored its ring. And Terri Johnson, whose laugh had first paved the way for our friendship, laughed hardest of all. And then a sickening thud replaced all of those sounds, and I went down like a shot from a crushing blow to my cheek, delivered from the closest of ranges by the strongest of men.

“Andy,” Terri yelled, and she dove from her desk and cradled my head, which began streaming blood all over her hands. “Andy!”

The rest of the class just stared, even the football players, who seemed momentarily stunned by what had just transpired.

It was Hanrahan himself who broke the silence. “You little bastard, get out of this class. Take that redheaded bitch and get out of the class.” I looked up through my fast-closing eye, through the blood and the goofy glow that exists along that fine line between incoherence and consciousness. I briefly pictured Vinnie DelGratto as Hanrahan went to his knees, but it was Hanrahan's voice that shook me out of my trance. “You son of a bitch, you get to your feet. You walk out of that door, and you don't say a word!” Then he stood and admonished the class, “Not one of you will say a single word. Not a word. Understood? Because I run this school, and if I get a report that one of you, just one, saw a thing, I will personally guarantee that you will know pain. Got it?” The class did.

I staggered down the hall and outside, with only Terri's arm and a good deal of guts to keep me up. “I'm okay, I'm okay,” I just kept repeating, as if sheer repetition would make me believe my own words. My eye was now swollen shut, and it throbbed with pain with each beat of my heart. Terri, I saw through my one decent eye, was streaked with blood; her white cashmere sweater had turned a soft pink. But the sight of her face in all its concern made me feel that my eye was an awfully small price to pay for all her attention.

“Andy,” she said, “I'm taking you home,” and we walked to her car, our two bodies as one. We stopped at her car and she opened the door. She helped me climb in, then it was out of the lot and down Broadhurst Road until the school's visage was history, although the afternoon's memories were still open and raw.

She weaved her way toward Elm, holding my hand between the shifting of gears. I watched her drive, a vision of loveliness with a look of concern. Like the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat all wrapped up in one beautiful package. And that thought made me wonder. If I could take it all back, would I? The whole lousy day. The wake-up, the report, the reading-out-loud, the punch. Would I take it all back? Not on your life. Not if it meant missing the chance to bond with my dad, to stick it to Hanrahan, and, most of all, not if it meant missing this drive. I looked once again at her ivory hand, the drying blood turning to rust, and then looked up to see her passing my street.

“Terri,” I said, “you just missed my house.”

“I know,” she replied, then she turned with a smile, let go of my hand, and shifted to fourth.

“But I thought that you were taking me home.”

“I am taking you home—my home.”

We pulled into her drive, to the estatelike manor with its lawn decked out in shrubs and bright vibrant mums of brilliant oranges and yellows. And pumpkins galore, all over the yard. I briefly thought of my father in all of his glory, and wondered if he thought the pumpkins were here just to screw with ol' Tietam.

“Andy, one of these days I want you to meet my parents,” she said. “And one of these days, I want to meet your dad.”

“That would be awesome,” I said, although I instantly knew that “awesome” was probably not the best way of describing my feelings on the inevitable first meeting of Tietam and Terri.

I said, “Is your father home now?” and secretly thought, Oh please say no, oh please say no.

“Not today, no, both of them are at a meeting in Syracuse for the day.” She opened the door, grabbed my arm, and said, “That's part of the reason that I brought you here now, big boy.”

Her house was immaculate, and seemed to ooze money. The kitchen was spotless. Gleaming white countertops and real marble floors. The luxurious living room stood in bold contrast to mine. A real Persian rug. The finest of furniture. And though I'm not a connoisseur of fine art, the paintings I knew must have cost a nice buck. Especially the black velvet Elvis that hung over the mantel. (Just kidding about that one.)

All of a sudden she became Florence Nightingale and cleaned up my wounds with sensitive hands, her mothering instincts clearly taking command. Next she went to the freezer and emptied two trays of ice cubes into a towel, which she put gently on my eye, telling me softly, “Just keep it there.” She declared me “all healed,” and then walked down the hall and emerged with a sweatshirt and a simple request. “Take that shirt off, Andy.”

Oh man, this was embarrassing. I wasn't real big about changing in public, a fact that almost made me feel blessed that my hand exempted me from phys ed and those post-workout showers that allowed pecker-checkers to size up the competition. I thought of a Kinks song where Ray Davies looks in the mirror at his pigeon chest and has to put on his clothes because it makes him depressed. I didn't really know what a pigeon chest was, but I was pretty sure I had one.

Thinking quickly, I said, “But it's your dad's shirt, won't he miss it?”

She laughed, “It's Winnie the Pooh. I got it three years ago for him, and he hasn't worn it yet. Go ahead, put it on.”

I looked at Terri, who must have either read my mind or seen the fear written all over my face, and she said, “All right, all right, I'll turn around. But one of these days you're going to have to stop being so shy.” A pause, and then, “Come on, I'll show you my room.”

“But won't you be late for cheerleading practice?” I said. Yeah, thataway, Andy. Add to your league-leading average in the “bone-headed plays” category.

“No,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“How come?”

“Because I just quit.”

“You did . . .? When?”

“When I walked to the car with you, Andy.”

A sudden chill raced up my spine, and my legs nearly collapsed.

“You did that for me?”

“Yes, Andy, I did, for you and me both. That whole stupid team has given me nothing to cheer about. I'm just sorry I didn't decide on it sooner.” She paused for a second, looking a bit sad, then looked up, gave a smile, and playfully said, “So my parents aren't here, I have nowhere to go, I'm alone in my house with nothing to do . . . Andy . . . why don't you . . . come to my room?”

Her room was a mixture of little-girl dreams and a teenager's tastes, as if she'd gone to bed at five and woken up at seventeen, with no record of the years in between.

But the room's centerpiece was the man in her life. No, not me, but Jesus himself, who was well represented throughout the whole Johnson house, but particularly here, where his presence was known in several ways. Not least of which was a cross over her bed, where it hung so the Savior was staring at me, as if to say, Don't even think about it.

While I stared at the cross, Terri rummaged through her top dresser drawer and came out with a book that she handed to me.

“This is my diary, Andy. It's got all of my thoughts. I write things in here that I would never say in school, or even to my parents. No one's ever seen it, except for you now. I want you to look at just this one page that I wrote as soon as I got home from the big dance. You remember that dance?”

“Not all that well. I wasn't there long.”

“But I bet you could tell me all about
Rambo,
couldn't you, Andy?” she said, and I put my head down and just shook it in shame.

“Andy?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm going to jump into the shower so I can clean off your blood—no offense—and while I'm in there, I want you to read what I wrote. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“But just that one page.”

“You got it.”

“I'll be right out. Now ready, set, read.”

But I didn't read then, at least not right away. Instead I thought of her saying “so I can clean off your blood” without even the slightest sign of revulsion. The shower turned on, and I heard her lightly step in and draw the curtain closed. I thought of that blood swirling around the drain—how absurd it was that Hanrahan's hatred had yielded this special time. Then I looked at the diary.

Dear Diary,

What a disaster this whole evening was. The Superdance
was a Superdud, and I spent most of my time dodging the football team and wishing Andy was here.

Andy, oh my Andy. Such a nice boy, but such a pain in the
neck. I had such high hopes for this night, but Andy went to
see
Rambo
and then I chased him away. Right at the end,
before he walked out the door, I thought he might kiss me, like
I wanted him to, but he just turned away and walked out that
door.

It made me so sad, and for a second I thought that maybe
it would be best if we didn't go out anymore, because he cannot deal with the attention I bring, and he cannot understand
that I'm not a big deal. I'm just a girl that wants to be kissed.
By him.

But now as I write, I've never been so sure about anything
as I am about him. He just needs some help, and I'm willing to
give it. I may be the only one who really knows how.

And I have a gift that I want to give Andy. I think that
he'll love it, but he won't get it for free. He'll have to give up
something of his own. Something he's had all of his life.

Until tomorrow,
Terri.

I read that last part three or four times, until I felt like Burt Ward's Robin in the old
Batman
show, trying to figure out riddles that Frank Gorshin's Riddler had left. Then I smiled and thought back to my third Halloween when Auntie M had walked Johnny and Rachel and me, for that one night doubling as Batman, Batgirl, and Robin. How she'd yelled “Pow!” and “Bam!” at each opened door while us kids showed off our batfighting skills. “Pow!” “Bam!” “Boom!”