Whereas the Japanese had been bamboozled and overwhelmed so quickly that their telephone lines were cut and their radio was smashed before they could get in touch with anyone.
There was a full moon that night, but its rays could not reach the floor of the National Forest.
The Japanese were not hurt. The Jamaicans disarmed them and sent them up the moonlit road to the head of the lake. They told them not to stop running until they got all the way back to Tokyo.
Most of them had never seen Tokyo.
And they did not arrive at the head of the lake hollering bloody murder and flagging down passing cars. They hid up there. If the United States was against them, who could be for them?
I had no gun.
If a few convicts had broken out and were still at large, I thought, and they came down into our ghost town, they would know me and think well of me. I
would give them whatever they wanted, food, money, bandages, clothes, the Mercedes.
No matter what I gave them, I thought, since they were color-coded, they would never escape from this valley, from this lily-white cul-de-sac.
There was nothing but White people all the way to Rochesters city-limits sign.
I went to my rowboat, which I had turned upside down for the wintertime. I sat down astride its slick and glossy bow, which was aimed at the old barge terminal of Scipio.
They still had lights over in Scipio, which was a nice boost for my complacency.
There wasnt any excitement over there, despite the noise at the prison. The lights in several houses went off. None went on. Only 1 car was moving. It was going slowly down Clinton Street. It stopped and turned off its lights in the parking lot behind the Black Cat Caf?.
The little red light atop the water tower on the summit of Musket Mountain winked off and on, off and on. It became a sort of mantra for me, so that I sank even deeper into thoughtless meditation, as though scuba diving in lukewarm bouillon.
Off and on that little light winked, off and on, off and
on.
How long did it give me rapture from so far away? Three minutes? Ten minutes? Hard to say.
I was brought back to full wakefulness by a strange transformation in the appearance of the frozen lake to the north of me. It had come alive somehow, but noiselessly.
And then I realized that I was watching lOOs of men
engaged in a sort of project which I myself had planned and led many times in Vietnam, which was a surprise attack.
It was I who broke the silence. A name tore itself from my lips before I could stop it.
The name? Muriel!¨
35
M
uriel Peck wasnt a barmaid anymore. She was a Full Professor of English at Tarkington, making good use of her Swarthmore education. She was asleep at the time of the surprise attack, all alone in faculty housing, a vine-covered cottage at the top of Clinton Street. Like me, she had sent her 2 kids to expensive boarding schools.
I asked her one time if she ever thought of marrying again. She said, Didnt you notice? I married you.¨
She wouldnt have gotten a job at Tarkington if the Trustees hadnt fired me. An English teacher named Dwight Casey hated the head of his department so much that he asked for my old job just to get away from him. So that created a vacancy for Muriel.
If they hadnt fired me, she probably would have left this valley, and would be alive today.
If they hadnt fired me, I would probably be lying where she is, next to the stable, in the shadow of Musket Mountain when the Sun goes down.
Dwight Casey is still alive, I think. His wife caine into a great deal of money soon after he replaced me. He quit at the end of the academic year and moved to the south of France.
His wifes family was big in the Mafia. She could have taught but didnt. She had a Masters Degree in Political Science from Rutgers. All he had was a BS in Hotel Management from Cornell.
The Battle of Scipio lasted 5 days. It lasted 2 days longer than the Battle of Gettysburg, at which Elias Tarkington was shot by a Confederate soldier who mistook him for Abraham Lincoln.
On the night of the prison break, I was as helpless a voyeur, once the attack had begun, as Robert E. Lee at Gettysburg or Napoleon Bonaparte at Waterloo.
There was 1 shot fired by someone in Scipio. I will never know who did it. It was some night owl with a loaded gun in easy reach. Whoever did it must have been killed soon afterward, otherwise he would have bragged about what he had done so early in the game.
Those were good soldiers who crossed the ice. Several of them had been in Vietnam, and so, like me, had had lessons in Military Science on full scholarships from the Government. Others had had plenty of experience with shooting and being shot at, often from early childhood on, and so found a single shot unremarkable. They saved their ammunition until they could see clearly what they were shooting at.
When those seasoned troops went ashore, that was when they commenced firing. They were stingy with their bullets. There would be a bang, and then silence
for several minutes, and then, when another target appeared, maybe a bleary-eyed householder coming out his front door or peering out a window, with or without a weapon, there would be another bang or 2 or 3 bangs, and then silence again. The escaped convicts, or Freedom Fighters as they would soon call themselves, had to assume, after all, that many if not most households had firearms, and that their owners had long daydreamed of using them with deadly effect should precisely what was happening happen. The Freedom Fighters had no choice. I would have done the same thing, had I been in their situation.
Bang. Somebody else would jerk backward and downward, like a professional actor on a TV show.
The biggest flurry of shots came from what I guessed from afar to be the parking lot in back of the Black Cat Caf?, where the prostitutes parked their vans. The men who visited the vans that late at night had handguns with them, just in case. Better safe than sorry.
And then I could tell from the sporadic firing that the Freedom Fighters had begun to climb the hill to the college, which was brightly lit all night every night to discourage anybody who might be tempted to do harm up here. From my point of view across the lake, larkington might have been mistaken for an emerald-studded Oz or City of God or Camelot.
You can bet I did not go back to sleep that night. I listened and listened for sirens, for helicopters, for the rumble of armored vehicles, for proofs that the forces of law and order would soon put a stop to the violence in the valley with even greater violence. At dawn the valley
was as quiet as ever, and the red light on top of the water tower on the summit of Musket Mountain, as though nothing remarkable had happened over there, winked off and on, off and on.
I went next door to the Wardens house. I woke up his 3 servants. They had gone back to bed after the Warden charged up the hill in his Isuzu. These were old, old men, sentenced to life in prison without hope of parole, back when I was a little boy in Midland City. I hadnt even learned to read and write, probably, when they ruined some lives, or were accused of doing so, and were forced to lead lives not worth living as a consequence.
That would certainly teach them a lesson.
At least they hadnt been put into that great invention by a dentist, the electric chair.
Where there is life there is hope.¨ So says John Gay in the Atheists Bible. What a starry-eyed optimist!
These 3 old geezers hadnt had a visitor or a phone call or a letter for decades. Under the circumstances, they had no vivid ideas of what they would like to do next, so they were glad to take orders from almost anybody. Other peoples ideas of what to do next were like brain transplants. All of a sudden they were full of pep.
So I had them drink a lot of black coffee. Since I was worried about what might have happened to the Warden, they acted worried, too. Otherwise, they wouldnt have. I did not tell them that there had been a mass prison break and that Scipio had been overrun by criminals. Such information would have been useless to them, would have been like more TV. They were sup-