knew it, but like a lot of academics I had met she kept chewing at it. She was so used to manipulating meaning with language that both became relative. As if you could make falsehood true by richly said restatement. Academics are not first rate at saying I was wrong.
"What are the other aspects of his boy-ness?" I said, finally.
Madelaine opened her mouth, closed it, took a long breath. "This is pointless," she said. "I do not have the time to sit here and argue with some redneck detective."
"We're not arguing, Dr. Roth. I'm trying to educate you, and you're resisting. We can't just let Dwayne's illiteracy go," I said, "because we think he won't need to be able to read or because we think he can't or won't learn. Those assumptions, Doc, are racist, and it's what's wrong with this whole deal. This kid has gone through sixteen years of education, public and private, and he can't read, and no one has bothered about that."
"You just called him a kid," Madelaine said. She was sullen now.
"He is a kid. He hasn't got the shrewdness or the strength to admit he can't read and get help so that he can. He thinks he's going to make so much dough playing basketball that he won't ever have to read. He'll get a smart agent. And he'll be entirely dependent on him. And when Dwayne's about thirty-four, thirty-five, he won't be making any more money playing basketball, and so he won't have an agent and then what's he going to do? Manage his affairs?"
"But you were dreadful to me when I called him a boy."
"Dreadful's a little strong," I said.
"I'm not a racist," she said.
"What's in a name," I said. "But when I came in here, I wasn't sure what to do with Dwayne. Now I am. And it's you that showed me. I'm going to treat him like a man."
"Does that mean you're going to turn him in?" Madelaine said.
"I don't know," I said. "But whatever I do I'm going to treat him like he's responsible for himself and his life."
"And what about me?" she said.
"What about you?"
"Are you going to tell that he can't read?"
I stared at her.
"It would be very hurtful to my professional standing," she said.
She was leaning forward in her chair now, her hands resting on the edge of her desk. Her mouth was open and her tongue moved rapidly back and forth over her lower lip.
I was still staring. "Holy Christ," I said.
15
HAWK and I tried to have dinner together once a week or so just as if we were regular people. After a session with Madelaine Roth, Hawk looked a lot more regular to me than he used to. We had a table against the wall in a storefront place called the East Coast Grill in Inman Square, where all the cooking was done over an open barbecue pit in the back, by a guy in a red baseball cap. I ordered the ribs, Hawk asked for grilled tuna.
"Don't dare order the ribs, do you?" I said.
"Heard it came with a wedge of watermelon," Hawk said.
"Your national cuisine," I said.
We were drinking Lone Star beer, in respect to the barbecue, and the first one went quickly. As we drank, people glanced covertly at Hawk. He was wearing white leather pants and a black silk shirt. His shaved head gleamed, and his movements were almost balletic: economical and surgically exact. He never moved for no reason. He never spoke to make conversation. His white leather jacket hung on the back of the chair, and if you paid attention to stuff like that, you could see where it hung a little lopsided from the weight of the gun in the right hand pocket. When he brought the beer glass to his lips you could see the muscles in his upper arm swell, stretching the silk of his shirt sleeve. The waitress brought us a second beer.
Hawk said, "Guy named Bobby Deegan came by to see me."
"Bobby gets around," I said.
"You know him?" Hawk said.
"Came by my office this morning," I said. "Urged me to lay off a thing I was looking into."
"S'pose you said, 'sho nuff, Bobby,"' Hawk said.
"I was going to," I said. "But my chin was trembling so bad it was hard to talk."
"Ah," Hawk said.
"What are the other aspects of his boy-ness?" I said, finally.
Madelaine opened her mouth, closed it, took a long breath. "This is pointless," she said. "I do not have the time to sit here and argue with some redneck detective."
"We're not arguing, Dr. Roth. I'm trying to educate you, and you're resisting. We can't just let Dwayne's illiteracy go," I said, "because we think he won't need to be able to read or because we think he can't or won't learn. Those assumptions, Doc, are racist, and it's what's wrong with this whole deal. This kid has gone through sixteen years of education, public and private, and he can't read, and no one has bothered about that."
"You just called him a kid," Madelaine said. She was sullen now.
"He is a kid. He hasn't got the shrewdness or the strength to admit he can't read and get help so that he can. He thinks he's going to make so much dough playing basketball that he won't ever have to read. He'll get a smart agent. And he'll be entirely dependent on him. And when Dwayne's about thirty-four, thirty-five, he won't be making any more money playing basketball, and so he won't have an agent and then what's he going to do? Manage his affairs?"
"But you were dreadful to me when I called him a boy."
"Dreadful's a little strong," I said.
"I'm not a racist," she said.
"What's in a name," I said. "But when I came in here, I wasn't sure what to do with Dwayne. Now I am. And it's you that showed me. I'm going to treat him like a man."
"Does that mean you're going to turn him in?" Madelaine said.
"I don't know," I said. "But whatever I do I'm going to treat him like he's responsible for himself and his life."
"And what about me?" she said.
"What about you?"
"Are you going to tell that he can't read?"
I stared at her.
"It would be very hurtful to my professional standing," she said.
She was leaning forward in her chair now, her hands resting on the edge of her desk. Her mouth was open and her tongue moved rapidly back and forth over her lower lip.
I was still staring. "Holy Christ," I said.
15
HAWK and I tried to have dinner together once a week or so just as if we were regular people. After a session with Madelaine Roth, Hawk looked a lot more regular to me than he used to. We had a table against the wall in a storefront place called the East Coast Grill in Inman Square, where all the cooking was done over an open barbecue pit in the back, by a guy in a red baseball cap. I ordered the ribs, Hawk asked for grilled tuna.
"Don't dare order the ribs, do you?" I said.
"Heard it came with a wedge of watermelon," Hawk said.
"Your national cuisine," I said.
We were drinking Lone Star beer, in respect to the barbecue, and the first one went quickly. As we drank, people glanced covertly at Hawk. He was wearing white leather pants and a black silk shirt. His shaved head gleamed, and his movements were almost balletic: economical and surgically exact. He never moved for no reason. He never spoke to make conversation. His white leather jacket hung on the back of the chair, and if you paid attention to stuff like that, you could see where it hung a little lopsided from the weight of the gun in the right hand pocket. When he brought the beer glass to his lips you could see the muscles in his upper arm swell, stretching the silk of his shirt sleeve. The waitress brought us a second beer.
Hawk said, "Guy named Bobby Deegan came by to see me."
"Bobby gets around," I said.
"You know him?" Hawk said.
"Came by my office this morning," I said. "Urged me to lay off a thing I was looking into."
"S'pose you said, 'sho nuff, Bobby,"' Hawk said.
"I was going to," I said. "But my chin was trembling so bad it was hard to talk."
"Ah," Hawk said.
Similar Books
