Grif Stockley: Illegal Motion

“If the girl had been black, it would have been next to the funnies.”

I look up to see a black woman standing in the door way.

“Hello, Gideon,” she greets me warmly.

“How’re you doin’?” James’s wife smiles as if I were their best friend.

Glad for the interruption, I stand up and speak, relieved I can call her name.

“Gloria, how are you?” My neighbor’s wife is an attractive woman. Her almond colored eyes are always smiling, and ever since I’ve lived in the neighborhood she has maintained a willowy, svelte figure. She is a conscientious gardener, and her long, magnificent legs have piqued my interest every spring while she tends the roses, azaleas, pansies, and violets that bloom in the front yard. Today, her legs are hidden by baggy blue slacks. Rosa had always commented on her flowers and if she knew Woogie had shit on them, she’d be livid at me. She only allowed him to defecate in our backyard and handled his turds as casually as if they were leftover breakfast sausages. I gag if they are the least bit soft, but as a registered nurse, she dealt with far worse on a daily basis.

“I’m doing fine,” Gloria says, putting her hands in her pockets.

“How’s Sarah? She’s a sophomore, isn’t she?”

I marvel at how much she knows. I can’t even come close to remembering the names of their children. I used to try harder at this sort of thing. We had deliberately chosen to live in a mixed neighborhood that the block busters hadn’t finished off. As a former Peace Corps volunteer in Colombia back in Arkansas with a wife of mixed blood, I was going to make the old sixties dream of racial harmony come true in Blackwell County, the socalled “civilized center” of Arkansas. Had I been mat naive? Obviously so.

“She’s staying busy. In addition to cheerleading for the jayvees, she lucked into a good job at the university this summer working for a sociology professor who’s got a big grant, and she’s still working part-time for him some this fall.” I wonder at this arrangement. Sarah is gorgeous and friendly and utterly unqualified to do more than run a copy machine. Dr.

Birdseed, or whatever his name is, probably hasn’t employed a male in years.

James clears his throat. His wife has interrupted for long enough.

“How much longer are you going to be?”

she says to him, her voice now businesslike, even cold.

Husbands and wives. He mumbles something I don’t pick up. She nods and smiles at me.

“Tell Sarah hello for me.”

“Sure,” I say, sitting down as she leaves the room.

Whatever transpired, I’m apparently not being invited for dinner. I’ve forgotten that couples develop their own code. Rosa could give an entire lecture on almost empty leftover food containers by raising her eyebrow and sighing in her dramatic Latin way. I’m surprised that Gloria is not included in this conversation. She works in the federal district clerk’s office and knows more lawyers than I do. Yet, she didn’t even acknowledge her brother-in-law.

Maybe they don’t get along. The message I got was that she’s spent years civilizing James; Roy and his family are a lost cause, and she’s not real crazy about her husband putting up the bond. But that’s reading a lot into it. Family dynamics are usually unresolved mysteries. I think of my only sister, Marty, who lives less than an hour north of here: we haven’t seen each other but one time in the last year. History alone ought to bind us, but somehow it always ends up getting in the way.

I continue to ask questions, but I don’t get much more information about the incident. Roy got up there too late to have a normal visit. He mostly tells me about Dade and can’t keep the pride from his voice as he describes his son’s athletic ability.

“A recruiter from Michigan told me when Dade was in high school there were wide receivers in the pros who didn’t have his speed and hands. I should have sent him up there, goddamn it. There would have been enough women there to keep him happy.”

Black women, he means, I realize. The Ozarks are good for chickens but not cotton, with the result that historically few blacks have resided in the northwest corner of the state, a fact that rival recruiters probably don’t overlook in their pitch to young men in their sexual prime. At six feet two and two hundred pounds, Dade has always gotten his share of attention from white girls, his father assures me.

“I told him to leave ‘em alone,” he repeats, shaking his head.

“With the shit that’s happened up there, that’s just looking for trouble.”

I know what he means. Every few years there seems to be a major incident involving Razorback athletics. Yet Roy must know that as important as the Razorbacks are in the scheme of things in this state, you can’t expect them just to stay cooped up in their rooms all year and only be let out on game days.

“Was he home this past summer, or did he stay in Fayetteville?” I ask, wondering again how well Dade might have known the girl. Despite his father’s injunction, this might have been a lovers’ quarrel that got out of hand.

“I had him home working in the store,” Roy says, edging forward on the couch.

“He didn’t want to be there though.”

I can understand why a twenty year old spoiled rotten by the special life of the big-time college athlete wouldn’t want to go home to share a room for the summer with his siblings in one of the poorest counties in the Delta. Sarah didn’t want to come home either. My feelings were a little hurt, but I tell myself I understand.

She’s got her own life to lead, and it doesn’t include pre tending she’s fourteen again, which is the age she claims I treat her as if she’s home longer than a weekend.

“He sounds like a real good kid,” I say, meaning it. What did the other lawyers promise him? I don’t know enough about this case to talk about it. I would brag about my success in rape trials, but I don’t have but a couple of out right acquittals in this area. Most of these cases plead out without going to court.

“He’s a hell of a good boy,” Roy says, his voice flat, as he looks down at his watch. He has at least a two-hour drive ahead of him. Outside, he has a Ford pickup that looks ten years old.

“Is he doing okay in school?”

“Right on schedule,” his father informs me in a mono tone. He seems about to stand up.

“He’s not just up there to play football. We want him to graduate.”

I’ve got to say something quick or I’m going to lose him.

“I can see the possibility of getting this worked out,” I say, more decisively than I feel.

“The plain truth is that the Razorbacks need Dade more than he needs them.

This is our best start since Ken Hatfield took them to back-to-back Cotton Bowls when they were still in the Southwest Conference. Dade is too important to the offense simply to kiss off the rest of the year without a very good reason, and the football program has been down too long to pretend this year isn’t crucial. My recollection is that when the incident occurred in ninety-one involving the basketball team, it was right before the NCAA tournament and none of the players got punished until after it was over. That was a year we thought we had an excel lent chance to go to the “Final Four.” He hasn’t been kicked off the team yet, has he?” I ask, recalling that the article in the paper said neither the university nor Coach Carter had any comment, but the matter was being investigated.

“If Carter has the discretion to keep him on the team, maybe he can finish the season. If we can talk the girl into dropping the charge or, in the worst-case scenario, get the prosecutor to allow us to plead to a reduced charge and get probation, all he’d have to worry about is any disciplinary action by the university. And then he could threaten to turn pro and skip his senior year. That ought to keep any punishment by the school to something reasonable. All that really happened the next year to the players in the ninety-one incident was that they had to sit out a few games at the start of the next season.”