A
Fistful of Lies
1959
Things
happen! Events over which you thought you were in control sometimes
years later reveal themselves to you in something like a dream. Upon
remembering events that happened in your youth that seemed allowable,
innocuous, maybe in some way deliberate, are redefined to you as you
grow older and you re-examine them from an adult's viewpoint. They
play over and over in your mind in the middle of the night when you
are trying to sleep. The whys and the motivations are unanswerable
but still you lay there in the dark pondering the questions. Things
you had neatly tucked away suddenly and unexpectedly float to the
surface and confront you again. Why did you do what you did? In your
head you can’t explain it in any reasonable way.
One
such event that I have wrestled with on and off for 53 years have
been waking me up recently at night for the past few months. It was a
lie I told. I was one of two witnesses to a terrible traffic
accident. This lie I told was in collaboration with someone I
thought was a friend. No one in my immediate circle of friends
would have understood why I lied to protect a black woman who was at
fault in what most certainly a serious crime. Certainly no one
in my family would have understood my actions. The fact that I
lied to protect a stranger whom I had never seen before or since
would never have been accepted or even believed in my family. "We
raised him better better than that!" I am sure they would have
declared.
Only
recently I had turned 16. It was a Thursday afternoon and having
nothing to do I drove my father’s car over to a friend’s house to
see what he was up to. The thing to do on the many sultry summer
afternoons in small town south Alabama was to go to a drug store/soda
shop called Northcuts’s about 5 blocks from my home and get a
fountain drink. Red Northcut was the owner and proprietor of
the store and was an adamant Auburn fan. He was inevitable in the
store, a heavy man who always had the juicy wilted stub of a
cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth. The favorite drink
of the time was something called a lemon sour. It consisted of an ice
filled cup with soda water and lemon juice added. When it was served
you salted it with a provided shaker. The cherry cokes were a close
second in popularity. Rarely did you go to Northcut’s by yourself.
It just was not the thing to do. You always took a friend if one was
available and had curb service in the relative steamy comfort of your
car. This particular afternoon the friend I took was a boy named
Milton. He was an only child who was a master manipulator even at
such an early age. I knew this because I had seen him driving around
with a guy that was well known to be a homosexual. Milton was
anything but! Why did he ride around with this boy? Because he had a
car and offered free transportation. He used people to his own
personal ends and did it callously. His father was mayor of the town
and he was a year or two younger than I was. I had a driver’s
license and almost always had a car available, either my mother’s
or my father’s. This made me a very popular boy in the small town I
was from. Most of the boys had no license and those who did, had no
available car. Milton was one of those boys. He singled me out
because he was younger and had no transportation. We became friends,
sort of. I was between fifteen and sixteen, younger when we
first met. He befriended me and we were frequent companions.
Milton was a handsome boy that had already, at age 15 begun to lose
his hair. That in no way diminished his charm. Even though he was
younger and less experienced than me, he was very popular with the
girls.
After
picking him up we headed for the soda shop. We came to the
intersection of Burdeshaw Street and Oceola just above his house when
a car sped past in front of us going really fast, maybe 70 or 80.
This was, of course an approximation as we were stopped at the corner
for the stop sign. The speed limit there was 35 mph. Milton upon
seeing the speeding car, a two toned green colored older Chevrolet
driven by a black woman racing down the street. He immediately said,
“Quick chase her down! She can’t drive that fast in a white
neighborhood! She must have been doing 90 miles an hour of more! “He
exclaimed, “Chase her down and pass her. We’ll show her!” I
pulled out into the intersection and pressed the accelerator to the
floorboard in pursuit of the car. “Hurry, hurry,” he shouted,
“She’s getting away!” We raced after her! She was flying and
had already gone out of sight over a small distant hill in the road.
The
old ford, I was driving was not a fast car. In fact it was pretty
slow and smelled like a cigar. My dad bought the car from his half
brother who worked at a Ford dealership in a small town 15 miles
away. The uncle always had a cigar in his mouth (like Mr. Northcut)
and had used this particular ford as his personal car to drive around
the small town in. It had been a demonstrator car and was lower
priced because of the high mileage as well as the cigar stink that
permeated the interior of the vehicle. It was likely purchased by my
dad with me in mind. I needed a car to learn to drive in and since it
was likely I would have a number of fender benders and other assorted
accidents; why not get something that was not so high priced. This
car was my principal mode of transportation except on the rare
occasions when I drove my mother’s Cadillac.
Milton
and I raced down the street at a prohibited speed and passed over the
gentle rise in the road. Upon topping the rise we witnessed an
unthinkable scene. The woman’s green Chevrolet was
stopped still, at a slant in the middle of the road. The smell
of hot motor oil and the smell of heated rubber from the tires filled
the air when we came to a stop. She was down on one knee beside her
car crying! “Oh my God” she screamed!” Oh my god they will kill
me, they’ll kill me for sure!” At first we had no idea what had
happened until I noticed a crumpled form on the side of the asphalt
road. A child who looked to be about 8 or 9 years old lay perfectly
still with his legs strangely splayed against the curb. His head was
oddly asymmetrical. Immediately I saw that the front right headlight
had a head sized indentation just back from the front bumper on the
side of the car before the wheel well. The woman kept screaming.
A running man broke through the privet hedge surrounding the yard on
the immediate side of the road. A look of horror appeared on his face
and he turned and raced back towards his house. As he raced through
the hedge he called back over his shoulder, “I’ll call the police
and an ambulance!” the woman’s screams took on a pitiful
whimpering sound as she sat down on the hot asphalt with her flowered
dress splayed out around her. The little boy lay perfectly still and
silent, adjacent the woman’s car. Except for the woman's crying it
was very quiet.
In
what seemed an eternity we heard a siren in the distance. The man had
returned to the scene after calling the ambulance and said, as I
neared the little boy wanting to get a better look, “Don’t
touch him!” Of course I had no intention of touching what I thought
was maybe a dead child but I intently looked at his sad crumpled
little body. Many years before I had seen the corpse of a woman who
was killed in an accident in front of my parents home at a very
dangerous intersection. She was very still, like this child. The
police came as did the ambulance. After some examining of the child
they carefully loaded him into the emergency vehicle and exited with
the sirens screaming in the steamy afternoon heat. The police helped
the woman to her feet and to the shade of a nearby pine tree. They
began to question her as to what had happened. She answered through
sobs and hysterical pleadings as tears streamed down her face. Milton
and I stood there as the only witnesses to the scene. Although we had
not actually seen the collision; what had happened was pretty clear.
The little boy, playing in his neighbor’s back yard had burst
through the privet hedge running directly out into the path of the
speeding vehicle. The woman had not had time to brake at
all until the damage had already been done. She had
stopped.
In
years afterwards I wished she had sped away from the scene because it
would have made her an obvious villain and things would have been
more clearly defined. It would have been so easy to say, “Yes
officer I saw her! She was hauling ass and killed the little boy and
raced away not even stopping for a second look. Not caring about him
at all!” Then I would have added, “Throw the book at that bitch,
she deserves it.” But she stopped. She did not leave the scene
which she easily could have. Eventually the police came over to my
friend and me and asked, “Did you see the accident?” We
responded, “No but we were following her.” “Was she speeding?
“He questioned first. Milton looked at me the very instant I looked
at him. The black woman was partially lying across the hood of her
car but jerked her head up to stare intently in our direction with a
pleading look. Tears and sweat covered her face. I saw something like
a shadow pass across Milton’s face. I shook my head and we both
responded simultaneously saying, “No, she was not speeding.” The
woman seemed to go limp across the hood of her car as a small moan
came out of the side of her mouth, “Oh God, oh God!”
Milton
and I drove away after everything calmed down and the police officers
said we could leave. “What the Hell did you say she was not
speeding for?” he asked me. “She just looked so sad,” I
responded. “Besides there was nothing it would have changed and
little she could have done to prevent hitting the little boy no
matter what”, I responded. “Anyway”, I insisted “You said the
same thing that I did! Only because you said I first,” he returned!
“OK, we both lied to the police and what the Hell difference would
it have made to send that poor black woman to prison where she
certainly would have gone for killing a white boy while breaking the
speed limit?” I countered. “Who was that boy anyway?” He asked.
I told him I had no idea and felt a drop of perspiration run from the
back of my hair line down through the collar of my shirt tracing the
contours of my spine as it trickled down my back. “Man is it hot!”
Milton muttered.
Later
that night on the evening news the woman who announced for the local
television station channel 4, was not there for the evening news. A
different person came on and said that the regular announcer’s son
had been hit by a car and was in the hospital in critical condition.
He said that there would be more information later in the broadcast.
I chilled right down to my socks. I immediately ran to the phone and
called Milton and said,” That little boy that was run over this
afternoon was the newscaster’s son on channel 4!” He
responded with, “Oh no! We’re in some deep shit man!” We agreed
that although we had lied, there was nothing we could do about it at
that point and we had best keep it a secret for the rest of our
lives; no matter what! We did just that. At dinner that night my
mother looked at me and asked, “Did you hear anything about the
child that got run over just up the street, Tommy?” I said, “No!
I haven't heard anything.” David, my brother responded
with, “That’s funny because I passed by in the car this afternoon
and saw the police talking to you and Milton on the side of the road.
I guess that didn't happen either?”
Thirty
or more years later when Milton’s father died I took his mother a
pot of flowers. She was very sweet and appreciative. I didn't see
Milton and hadn't seen him for all that time. That was all right with
me because as it turned out he was no real friend to me. This I
suppose is unsympathetic of me to think this way of Milton after all
the time we spent together growing up in Dothan, Alabama.
It must have been very hard to start getting bald before you even
turned 20 and being an only child, used to having your own way no
matter what. Likely it is just that I no longer had anything he
wanted or needed. He had by that point gotten a car. I can’t help
but wonder what he looks like now? His father was bald and chubby and
always wore a little hat; probably Milton does the same thing. I too
am so like my father in so many ways. If I had only been more like
him in the more positive attributes of his personality and not only
the bad ones. Genetics after all do rule. Funny how that
works.
I
heard recently that there are two kinds of friends, those who inspire
you and those who just use you. It is sure that a wise person can
tell the difference but for some reason I never seemed to be able to.