The way he continues to stare tells me he needs a better answer.
'Put it like this,' I tell him. 'I was a kid when Flamingo happened. All of twelve years old. I was a student at the Hayes School. Mr. Jessup was my French teacher. I played soccer, and he was assistant coach of the lower- school soccer squad. I also knew the Fulraine boys. Mark Fulraine was in my class. Me and all my friends read about the case. The following autumn, we could talk of nothing else. It was morbid and romantic, and I guess you could say some of us got obsessed. In a weird way, considering the career I've had, I think for me those killings were a defining event. They haunted me. So now, twenty-six years later, I find myself back in Calista. With that in the background, how can I not make time to give the case my best professional look?'
Mace nods casually as if to say he's willing to accept my explanation, though he's still not completely satisfied.
We shake hands.
'If you come up with more questions, give me a call.' He smiles. 'Flamingo's one case I'm always happy to talk about.'
5
The Hayes School: Standing now before its gracious Georgian facade, I'm suffused with melancholy. It was here that I, like all children at their schools, learned some of the awful lessons of life: that human beings compete; that competition can be ruthless; that those we love best may turn upon us and betray us; that those we respect most may show themselves to be flawed.
It's summer now. School is out of session. But the campus is open for two summer programs, a day camp for soccer players, and a high school theater workshop. When I arrive, the soccer players are practicing on the school's lush green athletic fields, while the theater students are in the midst of a dress rehearsal. I stop by the school auditorium, watch a couple of scenes from Shakespeare's As You Like It, then wander off.
The smells here bring back memories: polished stone, freshly waxed wood floors, the lingering odor of bad school food. ‘Fish eyes and glue’ and ‘mystery meat’ were among our gleeful descriptions of Hayes specialties.
Off the main foyer, lined by glass cases filled with sports trophies, is the corridor that leads in one direction to the Headmaster's office, in the other to the school Common Room. I walk through, then enter the gym, immediately noticing several unfamiliar features – new Plexiglas basketball backboards and differently colored markings on the floor. Most of all, I'm impressed by the volume of the space. It used to seem so vast. Now it strikes me as small, almost intimate.
I've come to revisit the site of a boxing match I fought here under Athletic Department auspices. In fact, it was a mean, ferocious battle waged to settle a bitter personal feud.
Tom Jessup, acting that day as coach and referee, appeared to view it as simply another fair if particularly combative bout. Perhaps, as I and my opponent were being bloodied as we flailed away, he was daydreaming about his new socially prominent paramour. Or perhaps, as I believed at the time, he unfairly refereed the bout so I would lose, my opponent, after all, being Mark Fulraine, scion of a founder of the school.
I walk to the end of the gym where the boxing ring was set up. Mats, perhaps the very ones we trod upon that day, are piled neatly in a corner. The vaulting horses are in their niche; the climbing ropes are hoisted to the ceiling. Taking a seat on the bench in front of the radiators, I feel the grid against my back, the same grid I leaned so hard against that day while my friend, Jerry Glickman, laced up my gloves.
Funny how many things come back when you revisit the scene of a traumatic event, details I would not remember were I not now at the site. As the memories flood in, I set my sketchbook on my knees and begin to draw, working to recapture the awful drama of that day.
There'd been much anticipation surrounding our fight. People knew we hated one another, that Mark, president of the Lower School Student Council, had deeply offended me, calling me ‘Jewboy’ because he didn't like a caricature I'd drawn of him for the school paper. After he spat out the epithet, we stared at one another, me incredulous, he, perhaps, equally shocked that he'd uttered such a vicious affront. Then I swore I'd knock his fucking block off.
Just as we were about to come to blows, a teacher intervened, which led to our being called separately into the Head of Lower School's office. Mr. Leonard, who owned that kingly title, decided that since our rancor was high and we were approximately the same weight, we should settle our differences in the ring.
An idiotic solution. Had I been Head of Lower School, I'd have suspended Mark till he issued a public apology. But the Fulraine family was a major benefactor of Hayes, people felt sorry for Mark because his sister had been kidnapped, and, anyway, in those days, genteel anti-Semitic remarks were not uncommon in the homes of Calista's social and financial elite.
Since our feud erupted on a Monday morning, Mark and I had five full days to look forward to our bout, scheduled to follow regular optional boxing practice on Friday afternoon. In that time, we carefully kept our distance so as to avoid exchanging further words.
My friends, all two of them, Tim Hawthorn and Jerry Glickman, assured me I'd win if I kept my head.
'Make him fight your fight,' Jerry coached me.
'Sucker punch the creep, then sock him,' Tim advised, smacking his fist into his palm.
Both pieces of advice seemed valid enough, though I had no clear idea what they meant. All I knew was that I was facing the fight of my life, and, unlike other student fights, it was being sanctioned by the school. Though participation in a grudge match was a fearful prospect, at least I could count on it being fairly refereed. Mr. Jessup, who had boxed as an undergraduate at State, was, I knew, not only an honorable guy but was also a favorite teacher, and, I then believed, my friend.
Friday, 2 P.M., the day of the match: I enter the Lower School locker room. Mark's already there wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts, one foot on the bench tying up his sneakers. We glare at one another as we suit up side by side.
'It's going to be fun whipping you ass,' he taunts.
'There's an ambulance outside waiting for you,' I respond.
Every student, upon admittance to Hayes, is assigned one of two teams, Eagles or Mustangs. Thereafter, no matter the sport, all intramural teams are demarcated this way. Mark Fulraine was a Mustang, thus the tanktop he pulled over his head was a vivid fighting scarlet. Since I was an Eagle, mine was but a muted blue.
Together we strode into the gym to receive our gloves, headguards, and mouthpieces. Another match was in progress with at least a hundred boys seated about the ring. Normally less than twenty spectators attended Friday practice, but that afternoon interest was high as word of our impending battle had spread through Lower School.
Mark was popular; I was not. He was a star athlete, a football player, graceful and handsome with manly features and a head of unruly golden locks. I, dark-haired, skinny, sometimes gawky, was not particularly good at sports. Moreover, I was disliked on account of my sarcastic manner and for being one of the smartest kids in sixth grade.
As we walked forward, I could sense the waves of approval washing over him and feel the disdain directed at me.
'Give it to him, Mark!'
'Beat the crap out of him!' yelled Mark's brother, Robin, who would be acting as Mark's second.
I think I might have choked out of sheer loneliness if Jerry Glickman hadn't come forward then to encourage me and help me with my gloves. Since psychology is half of any battle, choking up would have doomed me for sure. But thanks to Jerry, despite the favoritism of the crowd, I managed to keep my head.
'He's too cocky,' Jerry whispered. 'He's riding for a fall.'
Filled with gratitude, I looked around for Tim, my other friend. Appalled to find him in Mark's corner whispering encouragement, I heard mumbling in the audience: 'Hawthorn's turned. Hawthorn's rooting for Fulraine!'
You will be betrayed.
That was the first lesson I learned that Friday afternoon. But strangely instead of eroding my confidence, Tim's betrayal gave me strength. I'll show him! I remember thinking. And at that I focused my anger on my
