“Sorry, Steve”
by Michael McGovern
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| ROW 1: Michael McGovern, Steve Marshall, Harold Lindsey. ROW 2: Alan Kruse, Dickey Coghlan, Guy Hoover. TEACHER: Mr. Herbert Hawkins. |
Herbert Hawkins commanded respect among us sixth graders. He
wasn't a large, imposing man, or mean, or scary. He was of medium height and
build, affable and frequently had a smile. Maybe it was because he called us
Mr. or Miss which was foreign. Maybe it was because he captured a bat at the
school with his hands thus saving everyone from getting rabies. After talking
to my friend Guy Hoover we agreed that Mr. Hawkins gained respect because of
the book in which he kept black marks. Black marks were a method of maintaining
discipline because every mark represented a reduction in our citizenship grade
and that cause problems at home. Ten marks meant that you could not attend the
graduation swim and barbecue at Stewart's pool in June. That was serious stuff.
It was difficult not to accumulate black marks as an active
sixth grader. The world of Topanga was full of enticements that Mr. Hawkins
considered "black markable.” Topanga Creek was one of the best and it was
worth two black marks if you were found there during school hours. It, however,
beckoned relentlessly on warm spring days after a wet winter and it was only a
few quick leaps down the hill to enter its cool, exciting environment.
All of us guys in the sixth grade seemed to get at least one
black mark during the year. All were well deserved with the exception of Steve
Marshall's. Steve was one of the nicest and gentlest people that I have ever
known. I remember a number of things about Steve but a few stand out significantly.
He liked history, which was weird. Steve was so tall that it seemed as though
he had descended directly from basketball players. In addition, he approached
everything with a slow, deliberate format. He talked slowly and walked slowly
so that, at times, I worried about his safety in the event of a real fire
drill. This casual demeanor of Steve's may account for his unfortunate
incident.
The morning fog burned off unusually early producing a hot
spring day. Just such days are not meant for staying in a classroom and they
are torturous to those having to stay on the playground. Harold Lindsey (5
marks), Alan Kruse (6 marks), Dickey Coghlan (5 marks), Guy Hoover (too many
marks), and I (won't say) stood at the fence of the playground during recess
gazing at the canyon below. We didn't mean for it to happen but as we stood at
that fence and peered into the cool canyon something indescribable reached out
and dragged Dickey swiftly down the hill. The rest of us looked in dismay at
each other momentarily before realizing what we had to do. We had to help! We
leaped down the hill quickly and quietly as a heard of buffalo.
As we gathered under the cool sycamores and oaks we
nervously looked at one another. We were silent for a time as we watched the
stream and reflected on what we had done.
"What if we get caught?" I said.
Alan looked at me and laughed, "Who cares, stupid?” He
reached beneath the placid pond at his feet to bring up a hand full of stringy,
green algae.
"You'd better not,” I warned.
With that I did the same to defend myself. We smiled at each
other in a challenge. It was contagious. Harold filled his hands with mud and
pretended to throw it at Guy who immediately picked up a large rock. Dickey
also reached below the green water and armed himself with two hands full of
slippery algae. Here we were, the Topanga version of the cold war. But who
would throw first and at whom? We stood around the lazy creek nervously
laughing at one another, calling challenges, and faking a throw now and then.
None of us wanted to start anything but no one wanted to back down and be
chicken either. We sensed that no one wanted to be first, but if there were a
first there would be four other seconds and it would escalate. It had happened
too many times before, but never at school. We could be looking at history!
The laughs and taunts continued. We periodically augmented
our organic arsenals by scooping more mud or algae from the creek. It was an
exciting stalemate until a voice slowly rasped, "What are you doing?"
We turned in unison to see Steve and his affable smile step where no man should
have stepped. What was he doing here? The next moment the signal to return to
class sounded. We had been here all recess bluffing at one another. We were on
edge. How could any full-blooded Topangan, a sixth grader no less, be expected
not to make proper use of the algae and mud in hand. It was downright
unpatriotic! Our minds raced and unified in thought. Or maybe it was that our
minds all stopped thinking simultaneously. Nevertheless, the command
"fire" possessed us. Guy reacted first by throwing his rock into the
water at Steve’s feet thus causing a wave of water to leap at his faded jeans.
It was difficult to say in what order we unloaded our five-fingered weapons
with their organic missiles at Steve because the moment was frantic. No sooner
had we fired than we were running up the hill to Mr. Hawkins’s class to avoid
those dreaded black marks. If we were quick enough there would be no problem.
The scramble up the steep, grassy hill was chaotic as each
of us tried to go faster than the next. We pushed, pulled, and shoved each
other as we powered our way upward. The playground fence raced towards us. A
short dash past the fence put us all panting and red-faced at the heavy wooden door
of the classroom. No time for composure. Dickey pulled the stout knob and we
burst as one into the room out of breath and disheveled. It aroused no
suspicion because we of the Canyon were mostly in that state, but my conscience
haunted me so that I felt conspicuous. We slid into our desk chairs just as Mr.
Hawkins got up from his desk. Safe! I looked at Guy who was looking at Dickey
who was scanning the room also. Guy, Dickey, Alan, Harold, and... Steve! Where
is Marshall? My stomach immediately sank and churned. Where is Steve?
Mr. Hawkins was now standing at the podium looking over the
class. He had closed the book that he had with him and his brow furrowed as he
craned his neck toward the conspicuously vacant chair that contained Steve
before recess.
"Where is Mr. Marshall?"
All heads turned towards Steve's empty chair. The usual low
murmur of suspicion and speculation spilled through the room as Mr. Hawkins
stepped back to his desk and pulled open the drawer with the dreaded book of
black marks.
"Has anyone seen Mr. Marshall?" came the ominous
question. Everyone but the five of us said no.
No sooner had the question been answered than the door
slowly opened and Steve carefully plodded to his seat with his eyes to the
floor. He took his seat as though nothing were wrong. I was sick with guilt and
fear.
"Mr. Marshall!" Mr. Hawkins said inquisitively. It
could have been Mr. McGovern because the question pierced my conscience. I
couldn't look at Steve, Mr. Hawkins, or my accomplices. I only could focus on my
collection of baseball cards that I kept in my desk. I focused on my favorite
and most treasured card of Duke Snider. My idol, my honest idol. Maybe by doing
that I thought this whole thing will blow over and all will be well.
"Mr. Marshall?" Mr. Hawkins said again, and again
the spears of guilt stabbed me.
"Yeah?" Steve replied in a raspy voice.
"Mr. Marshall, why were you late?"
"I dunno."
"Mr. Marshall," Mr. Hawkins continued as though he
were Perry Mason, "were you in the creek?"
Here it was, Armageddon was approaching. I took a peek at
Guy and then at Alan. It was a good thing that they had baseball cards too.
Were they feeling this suppressing Catholic-like guilt too?
"No." Steve boldly but foolishly replied.
I had seen Steve when he came through the door. It was only
a glance because I couldn't bear to look him in the eye, but I will never
forget it. He had wisps of algae draped delicately from his right ear down to
his chin. It gave him the appearance of having a green beard. Algae was in his
hair also, and his white T-shirt was stained from the barrage of algae and mud.
His clothes were wet and when he walked to his seat one tennis shoe was so wet
that it sloshed with each step. I didn't know if we were good shots or if Steve
had fallen into the creek. For him to answer no was contrary to visible
evidence. A long silence followed Steve's reply until Mr. Hawkins broke it.
"Tell me, Mr. Marshall, how did you get so wet and
muddy?"
Steve was silent for a long time. I couldn't take it so I
turned to look at him. He was sitting motionless, staring at his hands that
were folded on his desk. But I knew that inside he was putting a great story
together. Something that would settle this for all and then we would get on with
class. At least I hoped that this is what was happening. Steve looked at his
desk top, then at Mr. Hawkins, and then at me. I quickly turned away but had to
look at him again. Steve was getting a little unsettled especially when Mr.
Hawkins again called his name questioningly. But I had faith in Steve coming up
with a convincing story to get him off the hook. Or would he tell on us? God!
That thought began to bury me into the hard wooden seat.
"Were you in the creek?" came the question again.
Steve looked up to speak. I was full of anticipation because
I knew that Steve had been thinking a long time and that he usually told a
protracted story. This would be our salvation and I was eager to hear every
word.
"Yeah...,” came the reply followed by an unbearably
long silence.
I waited for more. Is that it? After all of that were we to
be betrayed by a simple yeah? My life was in his hands and he said yeah. I was
very disappointed but more, I was frightened that we would be named and marked.
Then Steve began to say more.
"But I.... It wasn't my fault.... I... I..." was
about all that he could stammer. I could tell that Steve was frustrated. I
almost passed out under fear of possible discovery. The fearless five were now
exchanging nervous glances except for Harold who was at his desk smiling as
though he were enjoying this torture. What did he know that I didn't? His smile
made my fears all the worse.
"No buts, Mr. Marshall. That's two big ones." Mr.
Hawkins smiled as he opened his book in a deliberate manner and wet his number
2 pencil with his tongue before putting two big ones after Steve's name.
Steve stopped stammering and began to boil inside. These
were his first black marks and they weren't completely his fault although he
was in the creek too. I imagine that he was most angry because we didn't get
caught and because we gave him proof to present to Mr. Hawkins that he was in
the creek as opposed to being late getting back from the restroom. It often
gave us pleasure to see a fellow student attain the distinction of elevating
him, or sometimes her, to the club of black marks. But this one hurt. It seemed
unfair but none of us wanted to defend Steve. We preferred to bathe in the
misery of our conscience.
Steve glared at me and the other four. He didn't speak to us
for quite some time afterwards. But, as it should be, this incident was
forgotten, things returned to normal, and we again talked of all the things
that twelve-year-old boys talk about. But we never said, “Sorry, Steve.” So
with this I say... sorry, Steve, I'll give you my Duke Snider.
