The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(16)

“Why are you not in class, Sister Kathleen?” Sister Beatrice asked.

“I’ve asked Sister Reagan to watch my class for the moment.”

“Sister Reagan has her own class and students to care for.”

“Yes, Sister, but I thought it important you hear what happened on the playground.”

“I don’t need to hear what happened, Sister. I saw it with my own two eyes.”

“Begging your pardon, Sister, but I don’t think you saw everything that happened.”

“I saw enough, Sister.”

“I believe there are extenuating circumstances,” Sister Kathleen persisted.

“I am not about to get into a debate between two first-grade boys about who started what. I have no doubt Mr. Hill would have quite the story to tell, were I to allow him to do so.”

“You’re implying my son would lie?” my mother asked. “Samuel does not lie.”

“Nor does he fight or cause disturbances, I presume?” Mrs. Bateman said.

“He does not,” Sister Kathleen said, regaining everyone’s attention.

Sister Beatrice said, “The circumstances would suggest otherwise.”

“Sam has been a model student in my classroom; he keeps to himself and does not bother any of the other students. In fact, he rarely speaks.”

This revelation caused my mother to glance down at me.

“Be that as it may,” Sister Beatrice said with a smoldering glare, “we’re not talking about your classroom.”

“We’re certainly not,” Mrs. Bateman said.

“We’re talking about the playground. Were you on the playground, Sister Kathleen?” Sister Beatrice asked.

“Not at the time, Sister.”

Mrs. Bateman waved a hand in the air. “So, she couldn’t possibly have seen what happened.”

“I did not.”

Mrs. Bateman looked to Sister Beatrice. “I think that just about—”

“But there is someone who was on the playground and did see what happened.”

Without prompting, Sister Kathleen motioned to whoever waited in the hall. I was astonished to see Ernie Cantwell step forward, his hair still splattered with bits of white Twinkie cream. “This is Ernie Cantwell,” Sister Kathleen said.

“I saw the whole thing,” Ernie said. He pointed at Bateman. “That kid started it. Sam was trying to keep him from killing me.”

Mrs. Bateman bristled. “Not likely. These boys are clearly friends and are ganging up on my David.”

Sister Kathleen’s voice remained even. “Also not likely. This is Ernie’s first day at school. He arrived late from Detroit. He and Sam have never met before today.”

“I think we should end this discussion now,” Sister Beatrice said.

“I think we should hear what Ernie has to say,” my mother said. “Ernie, can you tell us how this started?”

“Sam was eating his Twinkie, and that kid threw the ball and hit him in the face.”

“Clearly an accident,” Mrs. Bateman said.

“No, it wasn’t,” Ernie said. “He said he did it on purpose. He said he did it so ‘the devil boy could have a red face to go with his red eyes.’”

Ernie recounted every detail of the confrontation—the red ball smacking the side of my face and exploding the Twinkie, David Bateman’s less than brilliant admission that it had been no accident, the kidney punch that dropped Ernie from the bleachers, and the second punch Bateman had been prepared to throw had I not hurled myself onto his back. Sister Beatrice stood throughout the recounting with the pinched face of someone who had just detected an awful smell. The smell was about to get a whole lot worse.

“He called me a darkie,” Ernie said.

Sister Beatrice flinched. A palpable silence filled the room and Ernie seemed to use it for dramatic effect.

“And then he called me a nigger.”

Sister Beatrice’s eyes widened. Mrs. Bateman’s head began to swivel. “I . . . I . . . I . . . I have no . . . no . . . no idea where he could have heard such a word. We would never use such a word in our house. Never. It’s the television. They hear it on the television.” She yanked David forward by his wrist. “Did you call that boy a nigger?”

“No,” he wailed.

She shook him, the flab of her arm jiggling. “Did you call that boy a nigger?”

Each time she said the word, it cut through the room like a hot knife. She said it with such ease, there was little doubt where David had heard it.

“You’re hurting me.”

“What have I told you about using that word?”

“Dad says it,” Bateman cried.

Mrs. Bateman flushed. “Never,” she said to the rest of us. Then, “What have I told you about lying?” And with that Mrs. Bateman swatted David across the back of the head. The force certainly would have caused him to pitch over had she not also maintained her grip on his wrist.

“I didn’t,” he shouted, his face beet red, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Don’t hit me again.”

Mrs. Bateman raised her hand. “Did you call that boy a nigger?”

“Yes. Okay. Okay. I threw the ball and I called him the devil boy.”