Russell Banks - The Sweet Hereafter

“Oh. Well, I guess it’s not really all that important,” he said, and he took a quick swig from his bottle and kept looking at it while he talked. “I mean, it’s not old news, actually. But any kind of news travels fast in this town, so I thought you knew. But I guess you folks’ve been out of touch.”

“Pretty much,” I said, still waiting.

“Yeah. Well, what it is, Nichole Burnell was s’posed to help this big-time New York lawyer sue the town and the state for negligence. She was like a witness.” He paused for a second. “I thought you knew all about this.”

We shook our heads again.

“Yeah, well, when she refused to help him, when she wouldn’t tell the judge or whoever what they expected, this lawyer, a guy that Sam and Mary and the Ottos and who knows how many other people in town had hired, he had to drop the case. And then everyone else who was going to sue, they’ve been dropping out too. The Ottos went first. I don’t think they were ever that serious and were probably happy for the excuse. It just got too … it got too complicated, I guess. People just said the hell with it, the Burnells are off the case, the Ottos are gone, it’s a big mess, so the hell with it, let’s just get on with our lives. You know.”

I told him that a lawyer had come out to the house and had tried to get us to sue too, but I didn’t remember the man’s name. “Tall guy. Drove a big Mercedes-Benz sedan. Abbott sent him packing, though. Probably the same lawyer as you’re speaking of,” I said.

“Yeah. Probably was.”

The men who had carried Nichole up the stairs to the top of the grandstand had set her down in the aisle there, in the same manner that Billy and I had situated Abbott over here, and the Burnell family had found seats for themselves at the farther end of the same topmost bench. The derby was about to start, and people had turned their attention back to the track now, where a batch of old cars were lining up in single file, making a big racket as they positioned themselves to enter the derby area for the first heat.

Abbott said, “What … did … Nichole … witness?”

“How’s that?”

“Abbott asked what did Nichole witness.”

“Oh.” Billy was watching the cars now. Out in the shadowy track beyond the fire trucks, the half-wrecked cars shuddered and rocked on their wheels, their engines hammering like kettledrums. That’s part of the fun of it — the huge uncontrolled noise of it. All sixteen drivers in the heat sit out there and race their motors as loudly as they can, and clouds of exhaust and sparks fly out, and everyone cheers wildly with excitement. The announcer, a short balding fellow in a green satin jacket, stood on the stage facing the grandstand, and you could barely hear him, despite the excellent loudspeaker system, as he singled out individual drivers to comment on and make fun of, since most of the drivers are local and there are inside jokes that everyone knows.

Then down on the track one of the green-jacketed referees waved a small yellow flag, and one after the other, four of the gaudy battered old junkers came roaring into the derby area, which is more like an arena, a large rectangular muddy pit, than the finish-line section of a racetrack. The four crossed in front of us, spinning wheels and cutting reckless half circles, lurching forward and then suddenly stopping, until all four of them were lined up at the right, side by side and facing away from the direction they’d come. At a signal, a second line of four cars sped into the arena, digging up the dirt with their tires as they abruptly stopped, turned around, and backed up to the first set, rear bumpers, or what was left of them, against rear bumpers. A third row of cars charged out and slapped on their brakes, and as soon as their front grilles faced the grilles of the second bunch, the last set roared in, swiftly spun and whipped around, reversing direction, and backed their rear bumpers up against the rear bumpers of the previous four. And then they were ready — four rows with four cars in each row, all squared off like sixteen gladiators, armored and breathing fire and exhaling smoke, snarling and growling into each other’s faces. The helmeted drivers were young men and boys, most of them grinning fiercely and punching the air with fists or waving out the windshield opening at the cheering crowd. It was a thrilling spectacle, even to me.

I glanced off to my left, to see how Abbott was enjoying his favorite aspect of the fair, but to my surprise, he was ignoring the cars altogether. Instead, he looked intently past me and straight at Billy Ansel, and I realized that he was waiting for an answer to his question. What did Nichole witness?

I didn’t know whether to say anything or not, which is unusual for me, as I’m rarely undecided. I hate that state, so I made a decision not to say a word. Leave it to the men to settle, was my decision. I was aware that somehow I was at the center of this, my honor, perhaps, but I was not sure how. I just trusted my husband to know.

Billy was hunched over, pretending to be engrossed in the scene down below, but I could tell that he knew Abbott was watching him. The girl, Stacey Gale, was off on her own planet.

Finally, Billy chanced a self-conscious glance at Abbott and got caught at it. “Pretty good, eh, Abbott?” he said. “The ol’ demolition derby.”

Abbott didn’t say anything. When he chooses, his gaze alone makes a powerful statement. Without a word, just by sitting there and putting on a hard look, he can set me or Reginald or William to jabbering elaborate apologies and explanations, until finally he smiles and we can stop. Sometimes I think that’s why Reginald moved to Pittsburgh and William joined the army, just to get away from their father’s gaze. For privacy. Me, of course, I never really thought I needed that kind of privacy.

Billy said, “You’re still wondering about that Nichole Burnell business, I suppose. Well, I don’t know what to tell you. There’s not much more to it than what I already said.

Their lawyer, this guy Mitchell Stephens, he couldn’t get Nichole to testify the way he wanted her to, that’s all. And then I guess he didn’t feel he had a strong negligence case anymore, so he went home. Since then, other folks have heard about it, and they’ve started having second thoughts themselves, and their lawyers, too, have started dropping out, one by one. So now it looks like we won’t be seeing any lawsuits, after all. Which is fast bringing this town back together,” he said. “The girl has done us all, every single person in town, a valuable service. Even you, Abbott. Even you, Dolores, believe it or not.”

Abbott said, “Why … us?” Billy looked like he understood him fine, so I didn’t translate.

What he did, though, was stammer a bit and then say something to the effect that what was good for the town was good for everyone in it, which, by my lights, seemed to evade the question somewhat. Also, he still hadn’t answered Abbott’s earlier question, What did Nichole witness? Down below, the first heat was well under way, and the cars were slamming against one another, making an incredible noise as they roared back and forth in the mud and struggled to smash each other into submission. There were only about half the original sixteen still moving, crawling like huge wounded beasts in the mud to get away or, if they could, lining up to get one more good bash in before giving out themselves. Stacey Gale was hollering along with everyone else in the crowd, shrieking every time one of the remaining cars got in a good loud hit and the car it hit got stopped and couldn’t move again, eliminated.

Billy put his bottle down on the bench next to him and started wringing his hands, and I felt a wave of sympathy for the man. I already knew what he would say next, and Abbott surely did too. Billy was the messenger bringing bad news, and no one wants that job. In a low, uncertain voice, Billy said, “You ought to know, I guess. Somebody’s got to tell you.”