and a couple more, and I knocked the shit outa my boy. One of ’em others started coming at me and he wound up falling through that plastic partition there; that’s why it’s gashed open now. I grabbed Billy by the head—he had long hair, plenty to hold on to—and I took him into the bathroom and made him flush that dope down the drain. It was a baggie, what they call a lid. Not real good marijuana; I myse’f seen better. I slapped him, and we had some words, and he kicked at me, so I hauled off and hit him again. It hurt me, having to manhandle my own son like that.”
For a time, the chastened boy stayed out of trouble. He contracted to buy a ten-speed bicycle for a hundred and five dollars and worked hard to make the payments. He spent more evenings working with his father and sometimes his older brother, and he found a steady girl friend, a woman of twenty. His father said, “I coulda gone for her myse’f! One time I said, ‘Son, dirty old men need loving too!’” Sitting in his empty house telling the story, Jimmy Lawrence broke into an asthmatic laugh at his own cherished mot.
“But purty soon he begin having trouble at school,” the fatherwent on. “It was the black kids to blame. He’d come home with his face cut, but he didn’t want to talk about it. One day him and another boy was riding their bicycles, and two nigger youths approached ’em with a gun and stole the bikes. Never seen ’em again, and Billy still had to pay off the contract.”
The boy began playing hooky. “I went to school to try to help him out once in a while, but it wasn’t much use. I could see he was slipping away. But still a mighty fine son, a mighty fine boy, big and good-looking, a hundred and sixty pounds, almost too big to give a licking anymore.”
On Monday, June 4, 1973, two years after the first disappearance in the old neighborhood, father and son were at home together in the afternoon. Jimmy zipped up his one-piece work suit, and Billy said, “How about giving me a lift down to the corner, Daddy?”
“Why, sure, son,” Jimmy said. “Let’s go.”
They drove slowly along the narrow street flanked by wide expanses of dark-green lawn on both sides, and Billy said, “Daddy, you’ll be having a birthday next month. What do you want me to git you?”
“Well, son, whatever you want, whatever your little heart desires,” Jimmy said. “It’s not the gift, but the thought.”
At the corner of Thirty-first and Yale, Billy began running up the street. “I love you!” Jimmy shouted. “See you in the morning.” It was his habit, ever since his sons had lost their mother, to remind them of his love at every opportunity.
Around ten that night, busy running the big Cutler machine in the mailroom of the Post, Jimmy was summoned to the phone. “Daddy,” Billy pleaded, “could I please go fishin’ up at Lake Sam Rayburn?”
“Well, it sounds okay to me,” Jimmy said. “Who with?”
“Oh, just some friends.”
Jimmy was tempted to ask for a name or two, but he had vivid memories of earlier arguments with his son about prying. The boy hated to be interrogated about friends and friendships. Jimmy said, “When’ll you be back, son?”
“Oh, two, three days,” Billy said. “Maybe Thursday.”
“Well, enjoy yourse’f, son,” Jimmy said, “and remember, I love you.”
“I love you too, Daddy,” Billy said.
Thursday came and went, and there was no sign of the boy. Jimmy fretted, but he accepted the mobility of the younger generation, and he was not seriously upset. On the morning of Saturday, June 9, five days after his last conversation with Billy, the father opened a letter postmarked in Austin the day before. In familiar handwriting, Billy had written:
Dear Daddy,
I have decided to go to Austin because I have a good job offier, I am sorry that I decided to leave but I just had to go.
P.S. I will be back in late Aug. Hope you understand, but I had to go. Daddy, I hope you know I love you.
For a time, the chastened boy stayed out of trouble. He contracted to buy a ten-speed bicycle for a hundred and five dollars and worked hard to make the payments. He spent more evenings working with his father and sometimes his older brother, and he found a steady girl friend, a woman of twenty. His father said, “I coulda gone for her myse’f! One time I said, ‘Son, dirty old men need loving too!’” Sitting in his empty house telling the story, Jimmy Lawrence broke into an asthmatic laugh at his own cherished mot.
“But purty soon he begin having trouble at school,” the fatherwent on. “It was the black kids to blame. He’d come home with his face cut, but he didn’t want to talk about it. One day him and another boy was riding their bicycles, and two nigger youths approached ’em with a gun and stole the bikes. Never seen ’em again, and Billy still had to pay off the contract.”
The boy began playing hooky. “I went to school to try to help him out once in a while, but it wasn’t much use. I could see he was slipping away. But still a mighty fine son, a mighty fine boy, big and good-looking, a hundred and sixty pounds, almost too big to give a licking anymore.”
On Monday, June 4, 1973, two years after the first disappearance in the old neighborhood, father and son were at home together in the afternoon. Jimmy zipped up his one-piece work suit, and Billy said, “How about giving me a lift down to the corner, Daddy?”
“Why, sure, son,” Jimmy said. “Let’s go.”
They drove slowly along the narrow street flanked by wide expanses of dark-green lawn on both sides, and Billy said, “Daddy, you’ll be having a birthday next month. What do you want me to git you?”
“Well, son, whatever you want, whatever your little heart desires,” Jimmy said. “It’s not the gift, but the thought.”
At the corner of Thirty-first and Yale, Billy began running up the street. “I love you!” Jimmy shouted. “See you in the morning.” It was his habit, ever since his sons had lost their mother, to remind them of his love at every opportunity.
Around ten that night, busy running the big Cutler machine in the mailroom of the Post, Jimmy was summoned to the phone. “Daddy,” Billy pleaded, “could I please go fishin’ up at Lake Sam Rayburn?”
“Well, it sounds okay to me,” Jimmy said. “Who with?”
“Oh, just some friends.”
Jimmy was tempted to ask for a name or two, but he had vivid memories of earlier arguments with his son about prying. The boy hated to be interrogated about friends and friendships. Jimmy said, “When’ll you be back, son?”
“Oh, two, three days,” Billy said. “Maybe Thursday.”
“Well, enjoy yourse’f, son,” Jimmy said, “and remember, I love you.”
“I love you too, Daddy,” Billy said.
Thursday came and went, and there was no sign of the boy. Jimmy fretted, but he accepted the mobility of the younger generation, and he was not seriously upset. On the morning of Saturday, June 9, five days after his last conversation with Billy, the father opened a letter postmarked in Austin the day before. In familiar handwriting, Billy had written:
Dear Daddy,
I have decided to go to Austin because I have a good job offier, I am sorry that I decided to leave but I just had to go.
P.S. I will be back in late Aug. Hope you understand, but I had to go. Daddy, I hope you know I love you.
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