A Matter of Conviction

“I’m only quoting him, Dad.” She paused. “But he wasn’t in on the beating. He isn’t even one of the Thunderbirds, and he has an alibi for the night you were beat up. I talked to Mommy on the phone before I came over here. She said they’ll release him as soon as someone puts up the bail for him.”

“How much?”

“Two thousand dollars. Daddy, will this sound strange?”

“What, Jennie?”

“If I had two thousand dollars, I’d put it up for bail. Because, Daddy, he looked so sad. He looked so damn sad.” She paused. “Does that make any sense to you?”

“A little,” he said.

Jennie nodded. “Will they be letting you out of here soon?”

“A week,” he said. “Maybe a little longer.”

“They hurt you pretty badly, didn’t they?”

“Yes.”

“How does it feel? To get beat up, I mean.”

“Well, it doesn’t feel good,” he said, and he attempted a smile.

“Daddy, whichever way this case works out, isn’t... isn’t there the possibility that you may be beaten up again?”

“I suppose there’s that possibility.”

“Are you afraid?”

He met her eyes with his own, and he saw that she was seeking honesty, but he lied nonetheless. “No,” he said, “I’m not afraid,” and he knew instantly he’d made a mistake by lying.

Jennie turned her head away from him. “Well,” she said, “I guess I ought to be scramming. Mommy said to tell you she’ll be here tonight.”

“Will you come again, Jennie?” he asked.

“Do you want me to?” she said, and again her eyes met his.

“Yes, I’d like you to.”

“I’ll try,” she said.

“Maybe... maybe we’ll be able to talk.”

“Maybe.”

“I meant without nurses or anything interrupting.”

“Yes. I know what you meant. The way we used to talk when I was a little girl.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe,” she said again. “But it’ll have to be after next week sometime. Mommy’s sending me to Rockaway to stay with the Andersons.”

“Oh? When was this decided?”

“Last night.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“A week.” Jennie hesitated. “I think Mommy’s afraid something might happen to me if I stay in the city.”

“I see,” Hank said.

“Do you think something might happen to me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well...” Jennie shrugged. “I’ll be going now, Dad.” She bent over the bed and kissed him hastily. “Take good care of yourself.”

She walked to the door, and he watched it close gently behind her. And then she was gone.

The next week went by very slowly, despite Karin’s daily visits. He thought of the attack often during that long, lonely week, and he wondered if he would ever be well enough to forget that Wednesday night, ever be well enough to forget the silent savagery of the boys who had attacked him. He had learned quite a bit from the beating. He had learned, to begin with, that a beating reduced a man to nothing more and nothing less than an open wound shrieking its pain to the night. A man was powerless when attacked by a gang intent on administering a merciless, methodical beating. The gang was a cold jury, a harsh judge, an emotionless hangman. And, lacking emotional content, the beating took on even more horrifying meaning. A man who’d been beaten, Hank knew, would never forget the pain, and the humiliation, and the empty terror of his helplessness.

And yet, the gangs in Harlem conducted warfare on a regular basis. Didn’t each gang skirmish have, by simple logic, a winning side and a losing side? And hadn’t each gang member experienced at one time or another the pain of defeat in battle? A battle, he reminded himself, is not a beating. But still, didn’t they enter each fight with fear? How could they face guns, and knives, and broken bottles — and tire chains — without fear? How could they rationalize the knowledge that if they fell they would surely be stomped into the pavement? Were they fearless heroes, men of steel, nerveless men of action?

No.

They were afraid. He knew they were afraid. And yet they fought. For what?

For what?

He did not know the answer. The question plagued him all that week. On the day before his release, the question still echoed in his mind. He wondered if this last day would ever pass, if he would ever truly leave this damned clean, sterile, antiseptic isolation booth. He was thankful for the respite from his thoughts and his loneliness when, at two that afternoon, his nurse, a woman in her fifties, walked into the room.

“Do you feel like talking to someone, Mr. Bell?” she asked.

“Any time,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, not me,” she said. “There’s a visitor outside.”

“Oh? Who?”

“A man named John Di Pace.”

“And he wants to talk to me?”

“Yes.”

“Send him in, won’t you?”

“Provided you don’t get all excited,” the nurse said.

“Dear,” he told her, “I’m getting out of here tomorrow. How are you ever going to survive without me to fuss over?”

The nurse smiled. “We’ll miss you sorely,” she said. “You’re the nastiest patient we ever had on this floor. I guess the beating didn’t teach you anything.”

“It taught me the pleasures of an alcohol rub,” he said, and he winked lewdly.

“You’re impossible. I’ll send in Mr. Di Pace.”