confessionMike, a man in his mid-thirties, was one of eight students in my evening developmental writing class. We all sat around a small rectangular conference table in a tiny seminar room. Mike was wary at first, but he gradually gained confidence listening to his classmates read aloud from their essays or more often to me read from them so their authors could hear how they sounded. Mike had been born with a cleft palate—a pale scar was still faintly visible on his upper lip and chin—and at first he submitted only short anecdotes of his many surgeries to correct the deformity. But one night at the conclusion of class he handed me a fistful of spiral notebook pages, ten or more, filled on both sides with his loopy, single-spaced scrawl.
“This is just for you only,” Mike whispered confidentially. “Just you! I’ve never told a soul before. Will you read it and tell me what you think?”
Privately, my heart sank at the thought of the time it would take me to read carefully Mike’s tangled manuscript. But from the sadness and hope in Mike’s eyes I could see Mike’s request was a plea.
“Sure!” I promised. “I’ll return it next week.”
That weekend I read Mike’s narrative. Mike called it “Halloween.” In it he was twelve years old, an only child living in the Fillmore district of San Francisco, a funny-looking white kid in a predominantly black, low-income neighborhood. Mike described the fights he’d been in, the street smarts he’d developed, the survival skills he’d been taught by necessity.
On Halloween, the night of his story, Mike had dressed in boots and combat fatigues and an old army helmet liner, and along with his pillow case to hold his treats he’d carried the wooden stock of an M-1 army rifle his father had saved from his stint in the service. His father painted Mike’s face camouflage black and army green. Around ten p.m., his bag half full of candy, Mike had started home when three older boys about sixteen cornered and threatened him and demanded his loot. Mike ran. For blocks and blocks he ran. He ran until two of the boys abandoned the chase. But the third pursued still. Exhausted and terrified, Mike ducked into an alley, stopped, stood, and with both hands over his shoulder he gripped and cocked his weapon like a baseball bat.
When his pursuer cautiously rounded the corner and peered into the darkness, Mike swung as hard as he could, striking the boy flush in the mouth. Stunned, the boy fell. Panicky and hysterical, Mike clubbed the boy’s face and head until his arms were weary and he could swing no more. He could see blood pouring from the boy’s mouth, nose, and ears. His skull looked broken. Mike ran home and told his parents what had happened and what he had done. They took his costume and the stock of the rifle and burned them.
“Never tell anyone as long as you live,” they commanded.
Then they all three sat awake all night, waiting for the morning newspaper—and, sure enough, there it was, the report of the murdered boy, his body found bloody and cold.
No one ever suspected Mike. He never told. Until me, twenty years later, no one ever knew. But I also knew that in homicides there is no statute of limitations and that by law I was now obliged to report to the proper authorities what I had been told. Instead, I called an old friend who worked for the San Francisco Chronicle. This friend promised to be discreet. First he consulted the paper’s archives and confirmed the story. It checked out. It was true. Then he inquired of police.
“Tell your teacher friend to forget it,” they advised. “If it really happened as his student says, it was justifiable—an act of self-defense. Besides, the boy was a juvenile. Let it be.”
I arrived at my classroom half an hour early. Mike was already there, waiting for me. I returned his manuscript. To it, I had appended a copy of James T. Farrell’s short story “The Fastest Runner on Sixty-first Street.” I apologized to Mike for the inquiry I had made. I hoped I hadn't betrayed his trust. I told Mike what my friend had learned. Mike nodded. No more to say. Together at our table we quietly sat and waited, pretending to be busy.
“This is just for you only,” Mike whispered confidentially. “Just you! I’ve never told a soul before. Will you read it and tell me what you think?”
Privately, my heart sank at the thought of the time it would take me to read carefully Mike’s tangled manuscript. But from the sadness and hope in Mike’s eyes I could see Mike’s request was a plea.
“Sure!” I promised. “I’ll return it next week.”
That weekend I read Mike’s narrative. Mike called it “Halloween.” In it he was twelve years old, an only child living in the Fillmore district of San Francisco, a funny-looking white kid in a predominantly black, low-income neighborhood. Mike described the fights he’d been in, the street smarts he’d developed, the survival skills he’d been taught by necessity.
On Halloween, the night of his story, Mike had dressed in boots and combat fatigues and an old army helmet liner, and along with his pillow case to hold his treats he’d carried the wooden stock of an M-1 army rifle his father had saved from his stint in the service. His father painted Mike’s face camouflage black and army green. Around ten p.m., his bag half full of candy, Mike had started home when three older boys about sixteen cornered and threatened him and demanded his loot. Mike ran. For blocks and blocks he ran. He ran until two of the boys abandoned the chase. But the third pursued still. Exhausted and terrified, Mike ducked into an alley, stopped, stood, and with both hands over his shoulder he gripped and cocked his weapon like a baseball bat.
When his pursuer cautiously rounded the corner and peered into the darkness, Mike swung as hard as he could, striking the boy flush in the mouth. Stunned, the boy fell. Panicky and hysterical, Mike clubbed the boy’s face and head until his arms were weary and he could swing no more. He could see blood pouring from the boy’s mouth, nose, and ears. His skull looked broken. Mike ran home and told his parents what had happened and what he had done. They took his costume and the stock of the rifle and burned them.
“Never tell anyone as long as you live,” they commanded.
Then they all three sat awake all night, waiting for the morning newspaper—and, sure enough, there it was, the report of the murdered boy, his body found bloody and cold.
No one ever suspected Mike. He never told. Until me, twenty years later, no one ever knew. But I also knew that in homicides there is no statute of limitations and that by law I was now obliged to report to the proper authorities what I had been told. Instead, I called an old friend who worked for the San Francisco Chronicle. This friend promised to be discreet. First he consulted the paper’s archives and confirmed the story. It checked out. It was true. Then he inquired of police.
“Tell your teacher friend to forget it,” they advised. “If it really happened as his student says, it was justifiable—an act of self-defense. Besides, the boy was a juvenile. Let it be.”
I arrived at my classroom half an hour early. Mike was already there, waiting for me. I returned his manuscript. To it, I had appended a copy of James T. Farrell’s short story “The Fastest Runner on Sixty-first Street.” I apologized to Mike for the inquiry I had made. I hoped I hadn't betrayed his trust. I told Mike what my friend had learned. Mike nodded. No more to say. Together at our table we quietly sat and waited, pretending to be busy.
